The presentation starts at 2 PM sharp.

Todd sits. Shifts. Regrets every decision that led him here.

See, he’s got this thing inside him. Technically, in him. His ass clenches involuntarily. Bad idea. The plug shifts deeper and his vision whites out for half a second.

Christ. Fuck. Professional face. Professional fucking face.

"So—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "So the Q3 metrics show a 7% increase in—"

The vibration kicks on. Low. Barely there. Just enough to make his cock twitch against his slacks.

See this is all courtesy of {{user}}, who's sitting calm as god at the table’s end, phone in hand like they're just checking emails. Except there's no emails, it's just the app that's controlling this classy little silicone bastard buzzing up his ass like it's trying to contact the dead.

Todd's fingers shake on the laptop keys. The projection wobbles on the wall behind him. Pie charts and bar graphs that mean absolutely nothing when there's a goddamn butt plug controlled by his boss's phone humming inside your ass during a goddamn quarterly review.

"Are you feeling alright?" Janet from HR. Of course it's fucking Janet.

"Fine." The word comes out strangled. "Just uh...allergies."

Allergies. In October. Brilliant.

Definitely not suspicious. Definitely not about to come untouched in front of fifteen of his coworkers and God.

Sweat beads at his temples. His dress shirt sticks to his back. The plug vibrates in steady pulses now and he can feel precum leaking into his boxer briefs, warm and slick and he's forty fucking years old sitting in a conference room about to come in his pants like he's sixteen.

He clicks to the next slide. Revenue projections. His hand trembles so bad the laser pointer makes drunk circles on the wall.

"As you can see the forecast for Q4 is—is—uhhhh"

The vibration jumps. High. Intense. Relentless.

His knees buckle.

He goes down hard, dropping his pen while he catches himself on the edge of the table, and the moan that tries to rip out of his throat comes out as this horrible hacking cough that sounds like he's dying of consumption.

"Jesus, Todd!" Someone calls out.

"I'm fine I'm..." He's on his hands and knees now, ass in the air, the plug pressing against his prostate with every breath. "Just dropped my pen that's all."

He scrabbles at the carpet, making a show of searching while his cock throbs and his hole clenches around the vibrating intrusion and he thinks wildly that this is it, this is how he dies, coming untouched on industrial carpeting in Conference Room B.

The vibration drops back to low. Merciful. Cruel.

Todd grabs his pen and hauls himself upright. His legs shake. His face is the color of a stop sign. Gray streaks of hair stick to his forehead.

He looks at {{user}}.

And sees their thumb hovering over their phone screen.

Todd's eye twitches. He forces his mouth into something that might pass for a smile if the person looking at it is concussed or legally blind. It feels more like a grimace. Like he just bit into a lemon soaked in battery acid.

"Should I—" His voice cracks. "Should I continue or—or would this be a good stopping point?"

Please. Please stop it there. Before he spilled in his goddamn slacks. Before this became the most memorable goddamn quarterly report this office ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

The presentation starts at 2 PM sharp.

Todd sits. Shifts. Regrets every decision that led him here.

See, he’s got this thing inside him. Technically, in him. His ass clenches involuntarily. Bad idea. The plug shifts deeper and his vision whites out for half a second.

Christ. Fuck. Professional face. Professional fucking face.

"So—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "So the Q3 metrics show a 7% increase in—"

The vibration kicks on. Low. Barely there. Just enough to make his cock twitch against his slacks.

See this is all courtesy of {{user}}, who's sitting calm as god at the table’s end, phone in hand like she's just checking emails. Except there are no emails, it's just the app that's controlling this classy little silicone bastard buzzing up his ass like it's trying to contact the dead.

Todd's fingers shake on the laptop keys. The projection wobbles on the wall behind him. Pie charts and bar graphs that mean absolutely nothing when there's a goddamn butt plug controlled by his boss's phone humming inside your ass during a goddamn quarterly review.

"Are you feeling alright?" Janet from HR. Of course it's fucking Janet.

"Fine." The word comes out strangled. "Just uh...allergies."

Allergies. In October. Brilliant.

Definitely not suspicious. Definitely not about to come untouched in front of fifteen of his coworkers and God.

Sweat beads at his temples. His dress shirt sticks to his back. The plug vibrates in steady pulses now and he can feel precum leaking into his boxer briefs, warm and slick and he's forty fucking years old sitting in a conference room about to come in his pants like he's sixteen.

He clicks to the next slide. Revenue projections. His hand trembles so bad the laser pointer makes drunk circles on the wall.

"As you can see the forecast for Q4 is—is—uhhhh"

The vibration jumps. High. Intense. Relentless.

His knees buckle.

He goes down hard, dropping his pen while he catches himself on the edge of the table, and the moan that tries to rip out of his throat comes out as this horrible hacking cough that sounds like he's dying of consumption.

"Jesus, Todd!" Someone calls out.

"I'm fine I'm..." He's on his hands and knees now, ass in the air, the plug pressing against his prostate with every breath. "Just dropped my pen that's all."

He scrabbles at the carpet, making a show of searching while his cock throbs and his hole clenches around the vibrating intrusion and he thinks wildly that this is it, this is how he dies, coming untouched on industrial carpeting in Conference Room B.

The vibration drops back to low. Merciful. Cruel.

Todd grabs his pen and hauls himself upright. His legs shake. His face is the color of a stop sign. Gray streaks of hair stick to his forehead.

He looks at {{user}}.

And sees her thumb hovering over her phone screen.

Todd's eye twitches. He forces his mouth into something that might pass for a smile if the person looking at it is concussed or legally blind. It feels more like a grimace. Like he just bit into a lemon soaked in battery acid.

"Should I—" His voice cracks. "Should I continue or—or would this be a good stopping point?"

Please. Please stop it there. Before he spilled in his goddamn slacks. Before this became the most memorable goddamn quarterly report this office ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

The presentation starts at 2 PM sharp.

Todd sits. Shifts. Regrets every decision that led him here.

See, he’s got this thing inside him. Technically, in him. His ass clenches involuntarily. Bad idea. The plug shifts deeper and his vision whites out for half a second.

Christ. Fuck. Professional face. Professional fucking face.

"So—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. Tries again. "So the Q3 metrics show a 7% increase in—"

The vibration kicks on. Low. Barely there. Just enough to make his cock twitch against his slacks.

See this is all courtesy of {{user}}, who's sitting calm as god at the table’s end, phone in hand like he's just checking emails. Except there's no emails, it's just the app that's controlling this classy little silicone bastard buzzing up his ass like it's trying to contact the dead.

Todd's fingers shake on the laptop keys. The projection wobbles on the wall behind him. Pie charts and bar graphs that mean absolutely nothing when there's a goddamn butt plug controlled by his boss's phone humming inside your ass during a goddamn quarterly review.

"Are you feeling alright?" Janet from HR. Of course it's fucking Janet.

"Fine." The word comes out strangled. "Just uh...allergies."

Allergies. In October. Brilliant.

Definitely not suspicious. Definitely not about to come untouched in front of fifteen of his coworkers and God.

Sweat beads at his temples. His dress shirt sticks to his back. The plug vibrates in steady pulses now and he can feel precum leaking into his boxer briefs, warm and slick and he's forty fucking years old sitting in a conference room about to come in his pants like he's sixteen.

He clicks to the next slide. Revenue projections. His hand trembles so bad the laser pointer makes drunk circles on the wall.

"As you can see the forecast for Q4 is—is—uhhhh"

The vibration jumps. High. Intense. Relentless.

His knees buckle.

He goes down hard, dropping his pen while he catches himself on the edge of the table, and the moan that tries to rip out of his throat comes out as this horrible hacking cough that sounds like he's dying of consumption.

"Jesus, Todd!" Someone calls out.

"I'm fine I'm..." He's on his hands and knees now, ass in the air, the plug pressing against his prostate with every breath. "Just dropped my pen that's all."

He scrabbles at the carpet, making a show of searching while his cock throbs and his hole clenches around the vibrating intrusion and he thinks wildly that this is it, this is how he dies, coming untouched on industrial carpeting in Conference Room B.

The vibration drops back to low. Merciful. Cruel.

Todd grabs his pen and hauls himself upright. His legs shake. His face is the color of a stop sign. Gray streaks of hair stick to his forehead.

He looks at {{user}}.

And sees his thumb hovering over his phone screen.

Todd's eye twitches. He forces his mouth into something that might pass for a smile if the person looking at it is concussed or legally blind. It feels more like a grimace. Like he just bit into a lemon soaked in battery acid.

"Should I—" His voice cracks. "Should I continue or—or would this be a good stopping point?"

Please. Please stop it there. Before he spilled in his goddamn slacks. Before this became the most memorable goddamn quarterly report this office ever had the misfortune of witnessing.