SPH Experiences: Team Building
By CantaloupeChoice9648.
We were all having a riot from the jump: cracking open cold beers around a fire pit, splashing into the chilly lake water, and spiking volleyballs on the sandy shore. I’d packed my new bikini just to stir things up—a skimpy red number that hugged my curves and turned heads. The guys couldn’t keep their eyes off me, and I soaked it in, flipping my hair and arching my back a little extra during swims. It was harmless fun, the kind that made the office monotony fade away.
As the sun dipped low and the alcohol kicked in, everyone got loose and tipsy. That’s when my coworker Jack started making his move. Poor guy’s always been the quiet type—timid, awkward, the one who stammers through meetings—but I could tell he was starving for a shot with me. Every dude in the office probably fantasized about bending me over a desk, but Jack? He’d never had the guts to try. Tonight, though, with a few beers buzzing in his veins, he got chatty. Leaning in too close during volleyball, brushing my arm ‘accidentally,’ dropping lame compliments about my swimsuit. I played along because, hey, I’m a flirt at heart. Teasing him was too easy; watching his cheeks flush as he tried to play it cool had me smirking the whole time.
After a couple of hours of that, I felt the lake grime on my skin and grabbed my towel. “Heading to the showers,” I told one of the girls, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Jack perking up, snatching his toiletries like he’d been waiting for the cue. He bolted ahead, practically jogging down the path lined with those private shower cabins. I rolled my eyes but didn’t think twice—everyone else was still whooping it up by the water, so the path was empty.
Strolling past the row of wooden stalls, I noticed one door ajar, steam billowing out as the roar of running water filled the air. Curiosity got me. I peeked inside. There stood Jack, buck-ass naked under the spray, water streaming down his lanky frame. He froze like a deer in headlights, then yelped and slapped both hands over his crotch, his face turning beet red.
I couldn’t help the sly, mocking smile that tugged at my lips. Yeah, right—like this wasn’t staged. “Caught you,” my expression basically screamed. Nudity’s never fazed me. I’ve changed in locker rooms, hooked up at parties, seen it all. So I just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed under my bikini top, giving him a slow once-over from his wet hair down to his toes. My gaze zeroed in on those frantic hands shielding his goods.
The booze made me bold. “Show me,” I said, my voice light and teasing, half-drunk and not really expecting compliance.
It was just to mess with him, see how far the liquid courage would stretch.
Jack’s eyes went wide, like he’d been slapped with permission he never dreamed of. He hesitated, swallowing hard, then—slow as hell—dropped his hands to his sides.
My eyebrows shot up, and a grin split my face before I could stop it. Holy shit, it was minuscule. His dick stood straight out, rigid and quivering from the cold or nerves or whatever, but it barely cleared four inches, and that was stretching it. What really killed me was the girth—or lack of it. Skinny as a pinky finger, veiny but so damn narrow it looked like it could snap in a stiff breeze. The head was flushed pink, already glistening at the tip, but the whole package screamed ‘adorable disappointment.’
“Well, that’s… cute,” I said, letting out a bubbly giggle that echoed off the tiles.
I bit my lip to stifle more laughter, but it bubbled up anyway.
He didn’t say a word—just stared at me with this mix of desperation and defeat, then wrapped his fingers around that twiggy shaft. His fingers engulfed it, thumb and pinky nearly touching as he gave it a tentative pump.
I lost it, bursting into full-on laughter. “Oh my god, you’re seriously just gonna jerk your little dick right here in front of me?”
The words tumbled out between snorts, my hand flying to my mouth. He looked so utterly pathetic, standing there under the water, fingers sliding up and down that pathetic rod with frantic little jerks. His balls were tight and small, drawn up as if bracing for impact.
It was over in seconds—maybe five, tops. His knees buckled, a pathetic whimper escaped his throat, and his dick pulsed wildly. Thin ropes of cum splattered the shower floor, mixing with the water and swirling down the drain. He gasped, eyes squeezed shut, still stroking through the aftershocks like he couldn’t stop.
By then, I was howling, doubled over with my towel clutched to my chest to muffle the noise. The last thing we needed was the whole team wandering over. Tears pricked my eyes from laughing so hard. The image of that quick, sad explosion was burned in my brain. God, if I’d actually let him inside me? He’d have popped off before the tip even breached.
Finally catching my breath, I straightened up, wiping my face. “Wow,” I sighed, shaking my head with exaggerated pity. “That was… something.”
I reached over and tugged the door shut with a click, leaving him to his soggy shame.
We never talked about it outright, but that moment sealed our weird dynamic. For the next few months back at the office, Jack would ping me out of nowhere—discreet texts with pics of his tiny erection popped up on my phone during boring meetings or slow afternoons. Close-ups of that skinny four-incher straining against his fingers, or soft and shriveled in his underwear. I’d scroll through them in the break room, stifling giggles behind my coffee mug. They were the perfect pick-me-up, a private joke that kept the thrill alive. Who knew teambuilding could deliver such gold?
The End.
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