The Spreadsheet Distraction

Babar stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor, the numbers blurring together as his phone buzzed against the wooden desk. He glanced down. A WhatsApp notification from Uzma. He smirked, already knowing that whatever she had sent would be far more interesting than quarterly projections.

"You look so bored in that meeting earlier," she had written, referring to the video call she'd caught a glimpse of when he'd briefly turned his camera on. "I could see you trying not to yawn."

He typed back quickly. "Bored out of my mind. Save me."

The three dots appeared and disappeared. Then appeared again. He waited, his thumb hovering over the screen.

"What if I told you I'm lying on our bed right now wearing nothing but your favorite black shirt? The one that smells like your cologne?"

Babar shifted in his office chair. The room was empty—his two colleagues had stepped out for lunch—but he still felt a jolt of adrenaline. He typed back: "I'd say you're trying to get me in trouble at work."

"Maybe I am."

He could picture her perfectly. Uzma stretched across the cream-colored bedsheets, her tall, slim frame draped in his oversized shirt, the fabric barely covering her brown thighs. She had this way of toying with the buttons when she was in a teasing mood, popping one open at a time as if each button was a small surrender.

They had been married for only four months, and the sexual tension between them hadn't even begun to settle. If anything, it was getting more intense, more creative. Uzma had a way of pushing boundaries that surprised him every single time. She was uninhibited in ways he hadn't expected, and she loved—absolutely loved—teasing him about his body, his cock, his everything. And the strange part was, he loved it too.

"Prove it," he typed.

A photo arrived. Uzma on the bed, the black shirt unbuttoned halfway, her 32B breasts visible in the gap, her long legs crossed at the ankles. Her face was cut off at the top, but her smile was unmistakable—wide, wicked, knowing exactly what she was doing to him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

"Your turn," she wrote. "I want to see what you're working with under that desk."

Babar looked around the empty office. The door was open. He could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of traffic outside. His cock was already half-hard, pressing against the fabric of his dress pants. He adjusted himself and typed: "You want me to take a picture here? At work?"

"That's exactly what I want. Go to the bathroom. Lock the door. And show me."

He didn't hesitate. He stood up, tucked his phone into his pocket, and walked down the hallway to the single-staff bathroom at the far end of the corridor. The lock clicked shut behind him. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a cold, flat glow across the small space. He faced the mirror, his heart thumping.

"Okay," he typed. "I'm in. What do you want?"

"Everything. Start with soft. I want to see it resting. No cheating."

He unzipped his pants and let them drop to his knees. He pulled his boxers down, and his cock sat there, soft, resting against his balls. He'd shaved around the base and his balls completely smooth that morning, but he kept the thick patch of dark hair above his cock, trimmed short in a neat strip—porn star style, Uzma called it. He angled the phone downward and snapped the photo. Sent it.

A moment passed. Then her reply: "7/10. Nice grooming. I like the bush on top. Makes it look like a little present waiting to be unwrapped. But it looks so small like this, Babar. Like a little sleeping worm."

He laughed despite himself. She never missed an opportunity to remind him that his cock was the smallest she'd ever had. She'd told him about her ex-husband—nine inches, thick, the kind of cock that made her jaw ache just thinking about it. And here was Babar, six inches on his best day, two inches around, standing in an office bathroom getting rated on WhatsApp.

He was already getting harder.

"Now semi," she commanded.

He waited a moment, stroking himself lightly with his thumb, feeling the shift—the gradual thickening, the way his cock lifted away from his balls and started to point outward. Not fully hard, but engorged. He could see the veins starting to surface along the shaft. He took the photo from the side this time, so she could see the curve. Sent it.

"6.5/10. Getting there. I can see it waking up. It's cute, Babar. Really cute. My ex used to go from soft to hard in like ten seconds. You take your time, don't you? Like a gentleman."

He groaned. She was relentless.

"Hard now. I want the full picture."

He wrapped his hand around his shaft and stroked steadily, thinking about her on the bed, thinking about the black shirt sliding off her shoulders, thinking about the way she looked at him when she compared him to her exes—those dark eyes gleaming with amusement. His cock hardened completely, the head flushed and smooth, the shaft rigid. He held the phone above and snapped downward, capturing the full view—his hard cock jutting out from his body, the trimmed bush above it, his smooth balls below, the faint scar from his pancreas surgery visible on his belly.

Sent.

Silence. Then: "8/10. That's the best one yet. The angle is good. I can see everything—the hair, the scar, the way it stands up. It's actually kind of sexy, Babar. Small but determined."

"Small but determined? That's what you're going with?"

"Would you prefer 'compact but efficient'?"

"I'd prefer you stop comparing me to your ex."

"Where's the fun in that?"

He could hear her voice in every text—that playful, teasing lilt she used when she knew she was getting under his skin. He loved it. He hated it. He couldn't get enough of it.

"Now I want something specific," she wrote. "Arms above your head. I want to see your armpits. You shaved them this morning, right? I want to check the growth. And I want your dick fully exposed in the same frame."

He stared at the message. "You're serious."

"Dead serious. CFNM rules, Babar. I'm fully dressed in your shirt and you're naked and hard in a bathroom at work sending me photos. That's the dynamic. Now do what I said."

He raised his left arm above his head, holding the phone with his right hand, angling it to capture both his armpit and his cock in the same shot. His armpit was smooth—he'd shaved it that morning in the shower—though he could feel the faintest prickle of stubble forming. His cock stood out below, hard and pink against the backdrop of his hairy belly. He snapped. Sent.

"7.5/10. Good stubble. It's been what, eight hours? I can see the shadow coming in. And your dick looks good from this angle. The hair on top frames it nicely. Like a little crown for a little king."

"You're impossible."

"You're hard in a bathroom because of me. Who's really winning here?"

He couldn't argue with that.

"Send me one more. From below. Like I'm lying under you and looking up."

He crouched slightly, angling the phone upward. His cock looked different from this angle—thicker, the head prominent, the shaft casting a shadow across his balls. His belly was visible above, the surgery scar running down the middle like a vertical line. He sent it.

"9/10. That's the winner. I can almost feel it. Almost. If it were a bit bigger, I'd give it a ten, but we work with what we have."

He laughed again, his hand still wrapped around his shaft. "You're a cruel woman, Uzma."

"And you're touching yourself in a bathroom at work. We're both terrible people. Now—tell me what you're doing."

He hesitated, then typed: "Stroking. Slow. Thinking about you in that shirt."

"Describe it. Tell me exactly what you're doing to that little dick."

He swallowed. His cock twitched in his hand. He typed: "I'm holding it with two fingers and my thumb. That's all it takes. Moving up and down, slow. The head is wet already."

"Two fingers? God, Babar. My ex needed his whole hand. Both hands, actually. I used to wrap both my hands around him and there was still cock left over. You just need two little fingers."

He moaned softly, his hand moving faster. This was the thing about Uzma—she knew exactly how to twist the knife, and she knew that every comparison, every teasing remark about his size, sent a bolt of electricity straight through him. It was humiliation and arousal braided together so tightly he couldn't separate them.

"Are you wet?" he typed.

"Soaking. I've been touching myself since the first photo. I'm two fingers deep right now, thinking about your cock. Even though it's small, I want it. I want to feel it push inside me."

He quickened his pace. The bathroom was silent except for his breathing. He braced one hand against the wall, his phone in the other, his hips moving slightly into his grip.

"Tell me about your ex again," he typed. "The nine-inch one."

She didn't hesitate. "Thick. Uncut. The first time I saw it I actually laughed because I didn't believe it was real. He used to slap it against my stomach, and it would reach my belly button. Yours would barely reach my pubic hair, Babar."

"Fuck."

"But you know what? He didn't know how to use it. Half the time he'd cum in two minutes and fall asleep. You may be small, but you try. You actually put in effort. That has to count for something."

He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or another dig. Probably both. That was Uzma.

"I'm close," he typed.

"Not yet. Don't you dare. I want you to drive home first."

"What?"

"You heard me. Put that little dick away. Zip up. Drive home. I'll be waiting."

He stared at the screen. His cock was throbbing, the head slick with precum, his balls tight. He wanted to finish right here, standing in this bathroom with the fluorescent light humming above him. But Uzma's instructions were clear, and there was something thrilling about obeying her, about carrying this aching hardness all the way home.

"Fine," he typed. "Ten minutes."

"Make it seven."

He tucked himself back into his boxers with difficulty—his cock was still fully hard, pressing against the fabric uncomfortably—and zipped up. He washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed. His pupils were dilated. He looked like a man who had been doing exactly what he'd been doing.

He walked back to his desk, grabbed his laptop bag, and typed a quick message to his team: "Feeling unwell. Heading home." It wasn't entirely a lie.

The drive home took six minutes. He ran two red lights.

When he opened the front door, the apartment was quiet. The curtains were drawn. The bedroom door was open, and light spilled out into the hallway in a warm, amber strip.

He walked in.

Uzma was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his black shirt, but now it was completely unbuttoned, hanging open, her small brown breasts visible, her long legs crossed. She was fully dressed from the waist down—jeans, bare feet—while he was about to strip completely. CFNM. The dynamic they both loved.

"Well?" she said, tilting her head. "Let me see it in person. Photos are one thing. I want the live show."

He dropped his bag. Kicked off his shoes. Unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, revealing his hairy chest, the surgery scar running down the middle of his stomach. He unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and pushed his pants and boxers down together. His cock sprang free, still hard, still wet at the tip.

Uzma leaned back on her palms and looked at him. Slowly. Deliberately. The way someone inspects a painting in a gallery.

"Turn around," she said.

He turned. He could feel her eyes on his ass, his back, the hair on his shoulders.

"Now face me again."

He turned back. His cock bobbed with the movement, and she smiled.

"Stand right here," she said, patting the space directly in front of her.

He stepped forward. She reached out and wrapped her hand around his shaft. Her fingers enclosed it completely—her hand was long and slender, and his cock disappeared inside her grip.

"So this is what I've been rating all afternoon," she murmured, squeezing gently. "It's different in person. The photos don't capture the warmth."

She ran her thumb over the head, spreading the precum in slow circles. Babar's hips jerked forward involuntarily.

"Easy," she said, looking up at him. "I'm not done inspecting."

She cupped his balls with her other hand, rolling them gently between her fingers. They were smooth—freshly shaved—and she hummed approvingly. "Nice. I like them like this. No hair getting in the way."

She leaned forward and blew lightly on the head of his cock. He shuddered.

"Uzma—"

"Shh. I'm comparing. In my head. Right now." She held his cock up, examining it from different angles, the way she'd examined the photos. "The length is about what I expected. Six inches, maybe six and a quarter on a good day. The girth is—let me check—" She wrapped her thumb and middle finger around it. They touched easily. "Two inches, maybe a little less. My ex's cock was so thick my fingers couldn't meet. I used to measure the gap. Three fingers wide. You're—what—two fingers wide?"

"Are you actually measuring me right now?"

"I measured you the first night we were together. I just never told you." She grinned. "I have a very good memory for these things."

She stroked him slowly, her grip firm but gentle, her thumb tracing the vein along the underside. "But here's the thing, Babar. This cock—" she gave it a light squeeze, "—this cock gets hard for me. It leaks for me. It's standing at attention in the middle of the afternoon because I told it to. That's worth something."

"Everything," he said, his voice rough. "It's worth everything."

She smiled. "Good answer."

She pulled the black shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the bed. Her breasts were small and firm, her nipples dark brown, already hard. She unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her long legs, stepping out of them. No underwear. She'd been naked under those jeans the entire time.

"Lie down," she said.

He lay on the bed, his cock pointing straight up, the trimmed bush framing it like a dark crown. She climbed over him, straddling his thighs, his cock resting against her stomach. She looked down between them.

"See that?" she said. "It barely reaches past my pubic bone. My ex used to press against me and I could feel his cock all the way up to my ribs. Yours just—" she shifted her hips, letting his cock slide between her wet folds, "—just fits. Like a key in a small lock."

"Stop comparing," he groaned, even though he didn't want her to stop.

"Never." She ground against him, her wetness coating his shaft, her clit pressing against the head. She reached down and held him in place, sliding back and forth, using his cock like a toy.

"You know what I was doing while you were driving home?" she asked, her breath coming faster now.

"Touching yourself?"

"I came. Twice. Thinking about you standing in that bathroom, two fingers on your little dick, following my instructions like a good boy."

He grabbed her hips, thrusting upward, trying to push inside her. She lifted herself just out of reach.

"Not yet. I want to watch you first. I want to see how you do it when you're really desperate."

She moved off him and sat beside him on the bed, her hand resting on his thigh. "Show me."

He wrapped his hand around his cock—the same two-finger grip he'd described in his texts—and began stroking. She watched, her eyes fixed on his hand, on the head appearing and disappearing from his grip, on the precum leaking down his shaft.

"Faster," she said.

He obeyed. His hips lifted off the bed, his belly tightening, the scar on his stomach stretching as his muscles tensed. His other hand gripped the bedsheets.

"You're close, aren't you?"

"Yes—"

"Where do you want to cum?"

"On you. On your tits. Please."

She smiled and leaned forward, positioning her chest above his cock. "Here?"

"Yes—fuck—yes—"

"Go ahead, Babar. Show me what that little dick can do."

He stroked faster, his wrist a blur, his cock so hard it ached. She cupped her small breasts from below, offering them, her nipples inches from his cock head. The first spurt hit her left breast, a thick white rope that splattered across her brown skin. The second hit her collarbone. The third landed on her right nipple, dripping down slowly.

He groaned through each one, his body convulsing, his hand milking every last drop. When he finally stopped, his cock softening in his grip, Uzma was covered—streaks of cum across both breasts, a pool forming in the hollow of her collarbone.

She looked down at herself, then at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"Not bad for a small dick," she said.

He collapsed back onto the pillow, breathless, laughing. "I'll take that compliment."

"It was a 7/10 performance. The photo from below was still your highest score."

He threw an arm over his eyes. "You're going to rate everything, aren't you?"

"Everything." She wiped a drop of cum from her nipple with her finger and held it up to the light, examining it. "The lighting in this room is terrible, by the way. Next time, send photos from the bathroom at home. Better angles."

He pulled her down beside him, nuzzling into her neck. "Next time?"

She kissed his forehead. "Babar, there's always a next time. Now go wash your hands. You used the office bathroom. I know where those fingers have been."