What's the etiquette here??

I've always been discomforted by the idea of workplace **** and until today, I had never shot a snotty load of viscous ball string inside my place of employment. I always associated this activity with office low-lives, cretins with bloodshot eyes and greasy palms. Oily tech-wizards in smegma smeared hoodies who breathe heavily through ulcerated mouths, leaving gluey fingerprints on the gorilla glass of their ugly Chinese made phones, and dusty globs of dried semen in the headphone sockets and plastic seams of their portable CD players. But something about reading through the experiences of the other gentleman on this website must have weakened my resolve.

I dropped a grainy mound of thick orange suet pitted with seeds and husks about 11.30 today. Very pungent aroma of prune juice, pan-fried pigeon breast, something sweet like treacle, rotten cabbage, dead squirrels or roadkill, and advanced gangrene. Kind of smell you love to get deep up in your nostrils when it comes from within your own body, but that drives you to suicide in short order when it comes from someone else. So I was wiping my hole trying to watch for any stray seeds or kernels dropping to the floor, when I became aware that my ‘piece’ was rather distended, not erect, but thick and mean looking, “taking up space”, making shapes so to speak, swinging left to right like an imposing piece of old knotted rope, the kind you’d use to moor a medium sized tugboat. I think we’ve all been there, when the awl lad is looking especially threatening, and you wouldn’t mind being a bit deceptive and leaving the door unlocked so that one of your uppity colleagues might wander into the trap by mistake only to be confronted by the sight of your swollen trunk of still flaccid, freckled free range meat. Who’s the boss now Graham you pudgy wet-brained waste of oxygen? Who’s laughing now Mark you sh1t-eyed subhuman?

Got a musky smell from my balls next, and became aware of a sweaty slipstream either side of my testicle sack where the pouch sits flush with my thighs. Funny how the human mind works, I’d been thinking about CJ Stander wrestling on the floor with English second row Itoje in the game last weekend, when my mind started to wander to yer wan Christina Anderson who stabbed that fellah to death over poor driving, and then I got to thinking how I’d like to stab her a few times too with a lathered-up section of my pink and purple quarterstaff.

So up I stood as straight as one of her majesty’s royal soldiers and started pumping my baton fiercely with a moist hairy hand, only pausing to put my boot up on the seat and spit a long silvery trail of saliva down onto my glans head as advised by another poster here, trying my best to angle the coolant hole down into the bowl, but there was serious upwards pressure and my hot pipe was desperate to be facing heavenwards. You’d have needed to tie a few lead fishing weights to keep him down.

Anyway I had one hand on my pipe, and the other clutching my arse, and soon enough he starts spurting watery and translucent two-to three second blasts of sticky whitebait all over the toilet seat and undercarriage, into the plastic hinges, onto the toilet brush, the back wall, and two- part flush mechanism. I'd absolutely dosed the jumbo sized toilet rolls and probably shot right through to the cardboard interior. Again and again clear hot ball juice shot out at lightning speed from my blow-hole and I simply couldn’t keep the muzzel downward facing. Wiped away as much as I could but to give you a picture, If I’d gone for a piss after ten pints I’d say I couldn’t have soaked the place any more than I did.

Twenty seconds of two-to-three second blasts of hot, pressurized crystal clear fish-odoured sperm with enough force to shave the rust and grime off an antique coin. If you threw two buoys and a life-ring in an ornamental pond you'd have some idea how my face must have looked for that half-minute. After the last blast I slapped my ball sack to see if I’d any ‘ammo’ left in the extended magazine, but alas, it was fully drained. Realised then that there'd been several visitors in the trap next door while I was pulling off and that my hi-vis jacket had fallen off the clothes hanger on the back of the door and could easily identify me. Flushed away the fudge next, which had gone even more gamey in odour, and made a quick exit as the cubicle had started to smell like someone had half-heated three or four tubs of Cully and Skully Seafood chowder.