Forced By The Photocopier Read online

  “Fifteen minutes early?!” He exclaimed, “You da man, dawg!”

  He held out his clenched fist, clearly expecting me to fist-bump him. My nostrils flared and I pretended that hadn’t just happened so that I could refrain from punching him in the throat. He had this sort of awkward glee frozen on his face as I walked straight past him to the MegaPrint 3000. I tapped the clipboard icon on the touch screen and frowned slightly; according to the photocopier itself, there were no images saved on the communal clipboard. It was only when I scanned the copier app on my phone that the dreaded dick pic appeared, listed specifically under “Rhys Cooper’s Clipboard”. I breathed a sigh of relief; it seemed, thankfully, that the image had never been available to view publicly. Glancing hurriedly behind me to make sure no one was watching, I finally managed to delete the photo. I sighed deeply, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders; I felt a stupid grin spread across my face as I sat down and turned on my computer, naively assuming it was all over. What a fucking numpty…

  The morning proceeded as usual for the first hour or so; me and Andy had a laugh, DeAngela was annoying, and Graham tried too hard to make us like him. It was when I was out back having a smoke break that everything flipped. It all started with a text message from a private number; all I saw was a photo icon and the text, “So you really thought you could just delete this?” Just the very idea of what a message like that could contain was enough to really fuck me up. When I opened up the message with trembling hands to see my dick pic, in all its HD glory, shit got really real, really fast. I just stared at my phone in horror for several seconds, so shocked that my cigarette nearly fell out of my mouth. I hadn’t even begun to think about what to reply before another message came; “So? Are you going to do as I say or what?”

  “Who is this?” I typed back.

  “Never you mind.”

  “Who?” I repeated, “DeAngela?”

  “Who I am isn’t important yet,” came the response, “what’s important right now is that you do as I say.”

  “Or what?” I typed back with shaking hands.

  “Or this lovely little cock of yours get emailed round to the whole office.”

  I froze; who the fuck was this? And how far would I have to go to stop the image getting leaked? Also, little? Fuck off, man.

  “Little?” I texted.

  “Well, it’s not big, is it, mate?” Came the response, with one of those crying-while-laughing emojis. Rude prick.

  “Fuck off,” I typed back, “it’s above average.”

  “Whatever,” the Mysterious Texter wrote back, “go back to your desk and retrieve the package there. Then to go the toilets. Tell me when you’re there.”

  I stood there for a moment in silent panic; I was starting to get really freaked out, but I needed to do whatever they wanted if I didn’t want the picture getting out. And trust me, I really, really didn’t want that picture getting out.

  I stamped out my fag and went back inside as calmly as I could, sat down at my desk and frowned at the parcel laying there next to my keyboard; the package was small, soft and in a padded brown envelope. The office address and my name was printed on it, so presumably it had been posted here to reception, and then DeAngela had put it on my desk when she distributed the mail like she did every day. There was no sender address on it, and no clue to where it had come from; whoever it was had clearly planned how to cover their tracks so that I wouldn’t discover who they were. Chances were it was someone in the office; but who?

  My phone buzzed and caught me off guard.

  “Do you have the package?”

  “Yes,” I typed back.

  “Then go to the toilet and open it. Hurry up.”

  I got up and made my way to the toilets with baited breath; once there, I checked I was alone, locked myself in a cubicle and tentatively opened the package. I gazed in awe at what the envelope contained, confused and a little uncomfortable.

  “I don’t understand,” I texted, “why did you send me a jockstrap?”

  “Because you’re going be a good boy and put it on for me,” came the reply, “and then you’re going to take some more pictures for me, wearing your nice new jockstrap and nothing else.”

  I felt slightly grossed out but also… weirdly intrigued. This was an unexpected turn of events; whoever had got hold of my dick pic had clearly liked what they had seen… and wanted to see more.

  “Who is this?” I texted again.

  “You don’t need to know yet,” came the reply, “but for now, you can call me Sir.”

  Sir?! Fuck… this was turning very quickly into some BDSM shit that I wasn’t sure I was ready for. It also seemed the Mysterious Texter was a man. And although I was freaked out by it all, in a weird, twisted way, I was starting to almost enjoy feeling so exposed and powerless.

  I took a deep breath and stripped off, took out the jock and put it on; I’d never worn one before, and it was surprisingly comfortable. I felt my cock stiffen slightly as I admired the jock from every angle; I also fucking loved how it made my bum look.

  “Right, it’s on,” I typed.

  “It’s on?” Came the response, “It’s on, what?”

  I frowned for a moment, before realising what he was getting at.

  “It’s on, Sir,” I typed.

  “That’s better,” he replied, “Good boy. Now take some pictures of it.”

  I got a weird kick out of being called a “good boy” that really surprised me; I never thought something like that would get me off, but weirdly, it sort of did. I took a few snaps of myself in the jock from a few different angles (shit, my arse really did look great in this) and sent them.

  “Very nice,” he messaged back within seconds, “Good boy. I see you’ve left your face out of all of them. That simply will not do.”

  I frowned.

  “No,” I texted, “I’m not an idiot. You’ve already got dirt on me. I’m not giving you more.”

  “You’re going to have to do as I say without question if you don’t want to be exposed as the dirty little pervert that you are,” he replied.

  “No,” I typed, “fuck off.”

  I put my phone on silent, put the rest of my clothes on and went back to my desk, trying to push all this fucked up filth to the back of my mind. To my surprise, there was another package on my desk; I groaned inwardly, hoping this wasn’t a dildo or something that the Mystery Texter wanted me to put in my mouth and pose with.

  “Ah, you’re back,” said Andy, popping up over the partition, “open up your headset, mate. They’re well nice.”

  Oh, right; the bluetooth headsets Graham had been going on about. He wanted to move away from traditional phones and “into the future”. Fucking twat. Ugh… what if Mystery Texter was Graham? That’d be so cringe. I opened up the box and took out my headset; they were actually really nice. Small, compact and modern. It was actually more of an earset than a headset; it was the sort that just clips round the back of your ear and was only around the size of a USB stick. I put it on, half expecting something to happen; nothing did.

  “How do I make it work?” I called through the partition to Andy.

  “You have to set up the software,” he replied, “Graham’s sent us all an email. Have a look.”

  It only took a few clicks and five minutes to set up the software, but almost as soon I had done so, an unfamiliar and unwelcome voice sounded in my ear.

  “Hello, Rhys. Things are about to get even more fun.”

  The voice was electronic; it sounded similar to the feature in many word processors where you can have your document read out to you. It also sounded a bit like someone speaking through voice disguising software, which naturally seemed like the more plausible of the two options; I mean, it wasn’t like an actual computer of some sort was doing all this, was it?

  “Who is this?” I asked, frozen in horror.

  “Not this again, for fuck’s sake,” replied the voice, “I’ve already told you to a
ddress me as Sir.”

  “What do you want from me?” I asked incredulously.

  He didn’t reply.

  “What do you want?” I repeated.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question,” he replied.

  I frowned; that was a weird thing to say. It was what the voice recognition software on my phone said when I asked it something and it hadn’t heard me properly. I eventually realised he was just being a twat because I hadn’t called him Sir.

  “What do you want from me, Sir?” I sighed heavily.

  “That’s better,” he replied blankly, “well, as you know, I did want some more pictures of you in that sexy jockstrap. But it seems you aren’t willing to comply. All available data suggests that you wanted to be a bad boy.”

  All available data? What?!

  He said all of this completely on one level; flat and expressionless. The more I heard him speak, actually, the more he did just sound like a computer. There was no emotion or feeling with any of it; it was entirely robotic and monotone. Maybe it was DeAngela, after all?

  “Look, just leave me alone,” I hissed under my breath, “I’m done with this.”

  “Well, I’m not,” he said, “you might want to check the photocopier before someone else does.”

  I turned to the MegaPrint 3000 with a frown; it had started printing repeatedly. I got up and walked quickly over to it, my stomach twisting with anxiety; to my horror, it was churning out an endless stream of my dick pics. There were probably ten copies already and more being printed every second.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” I pleaded, grabbing the prints from the machine and crumpling them up as quickly and as surreptitiously as I could, “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll go and take more pictures for you; I’ll do it right now.”

  “It’s too late, Rhys,” came the cold, mechanical response, “you’ve upset me. You’ll have to do more than just take a few pictures for me now.”

  “Fine,” I begged earnestly, “I’ll do anything, Sir. I’ll do whatever you want, just please stop printing these pictures, Sir! Please!”

  The printing stopped. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

  “Good boy,” he commented, “but the fun I have in mind can’t happen here. I’ll give you your instructions after work.”

  I paused for a moment.

  “I mean… I have plans after work,” I frowned, “I’m watching the football with Andy.”

  “I know,” he replied blankly, “I have access to everything on your phone and computer.”

  Fuck… that was excessive. What had I got myself into?

  “You have?!” I exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  “Yes, boy.” Despite being electronic and monotone, the voice sounded faintly amused. “There are very few limits to what I’m capable of.”

  I gulped.

  The rest of the work day was a strange, confusing blur; try as I might, I couldn’t push what the voice in my ear had said to me to the back of my mind. It didn’t take long for Andy to notice and say something; and after I’d said I was fine but acted like I wasn’t fine more than a few times, he started to get suspicious.

  “Are you sure you’re alright, mate?” He frowned, as the clock finally reached five o’clock and we prepared to leave, “you’ve been acting well funny.”

  “Piss off, Chinatown,” I laughed, trying to sound as genuine as I could, “stop being soft. I just need a beer in me.”

  “You’d better still be coming t’ pub then, Ginge.”

  “Course I am, mate! City are playing. What do you take me for?” I smirked.

  Andy grinned and fist-bumped me. We both changed into our football shirts (we’d brought them into work with us, obviously, like the proper fans we were) and headed to the pub. Once we were inside and I had a pint in my hand, things did finally feel better; I felt, at last, that I could relax a little. How wrong I was…

  It wasn’t long after kick-off that I realised Andy was still gave me these funny little sideways glances every now and again; I decided not to comment or act like I’d noticed, in the hopes of avoiding another conversation about whether or not I was alright, but before long he started the conversation himself.

  “Is this because I saw your dick?”

  The question seemingly came out of nowhere and completely threw me.

  “What, mate?” I was so surprised I didn’t even think to try and tone down my reaction.

  “Well, I just mean…” he shrugged, “obviously, you’re not used to other blokes seeing your cock. Sometimes straight lads are a bit funny with stuff like this. Didn’t want you to think I fancied you or summat.”

  “I don’t think that,” I laughed, “why would you be after me? You’ve got a fella.”

  “Yeah, but we’re open, ain’t we?” He said this very casually, as if it was nothing.

  “What do you mean?” I frowned.

  “It’s an open relationship,” he said, as if I knew exactly what he was talking about, “we shag other lads, don’t we?”

  “Do you?” I exclaimed in surprise, not quite sure if he was joking or not. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed, “it’s the twenty-first century, Coops. We live in modern times.”

  “I don’t know, mate,” I smirked, “seems like an elaborate lie to tell just so you can justify fancying me.”

  “Piss off, Ginge,” he chuckled, “I don’t fancy you.”

  I paused for a moment; he’d said this like he meant it.

  “Why not?” I asked with a short laugh, “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Well, obviously, I think you’re fit,” he shrugged, rolling his eyes with a small, sideways smile, “of course I do. You’re a good looking lad.”

  “Yeah?” I smirked, “Alright. Keep going.”

  “What?” He sipped his beer and tried to look nonchalant.

  “Keep saying stuff about how fit I am,” I teased with a grin.

  “Fine,” he laughed, “that new septum ring is hot. Your haircut is hot. Your beard is hot. You’re cheeky, and you’re a proper lad, which I like. And you’re especially fit dressed like that.”

  I glanced down at the football shirt, tracksuit bottoms and trainers I’d changed into before leaving work, a little confused.

  “Trackies and trainers,” he added, sensing my confusion, “and football kit. You look like a scally. I like that.”

  “Well, I am a bit of a scally,” I laughed.

  “Yeah, and you act like one and all,” he nodded, “I like that too.”

  He seemed a little embarrassed, but didn’t seem to regret sharing this information with me. I was intrigued; I’d always felt a bit laddish and sexy wearing football shirts and trackies, but I’d assumed that was just me. If Andy was anything to go by, however, it seemed some of the gays liked it too. Then again, he’d always been very masculine and straight acting. He was definitely a proper lad, so it made sense that chavs, footie fans and laddy types were the sort of blokes he’d go for. It seemed it was official; I was Andrew Wong’s type.

  “Right,” I nodded with a smirk, taking a sip of my pint thoughtfully, “good to know.”

  “Piss off, Ginge,” he chuckled, shaking his head with a grin.

  I grinned too, but my smile soon fell when the voice in my ear sounded again.

  “Now’s the time, boy,” he said, “you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to.”

  I gulped, cursing myself slightly for not thinking to take off the earpiece or turn off my phone, even though doing either of those things would have surely caused the MegaPrint 3000 to churn out a hundred or so photos of my dick.

  “What do you want me to do, Sir?” I asked softly, feeling sure already that I really didn’t want to know the answer.

  “You’re going to tell your friend Andy that he’s seen your cock; now you want to see his.”

  My eyes widened.

  “What?” I whispered as surreptitiously as I could, glancing at Andy in my peripheral vision to make sure he hadn’
t noticed me seemingly talking to myself like a crazy person, “I can’t do that!”

  “Of course you can,” he said, his electronic voice seeming to sneer slightly, “because if you don’t, that email you drafted will get sent straight to him.”

  What the fuck was he talking about? What email? I took out my phone, confused, to find the email app open, with an email drafted and ready to send; it consisted of the photocopied dick pic, along with two of the pictures of me wearing the jockstrap. The email’s text read, “Can’t stop getting horny over the fact that you’ve seen my dick. Please show me yours. I want it inside me so bad.”

  I stared at my phone in horror.

  “Rather enticing, isn’t it?” Said the voice, “I’m sure Andy would be thrilled to know what a slutty little gay you are.”

  “Except I’m not!” I hissed, as softly as I could.

  “Oh, Rhys,” sighed the voice (okay, it was definitely starting to be less monotone now), “I have access to everything on your phone and computer. You are “single” and “interested in women” according to your social media accounts, but your internet search history suggests that you’ve been watching a large amount of gay pornography.”

  I froze, and felt quite sick. My heart was racing by this point. Also, that was a fucking weird way to phrase that sentence. Whoever he was, he really spoke like a fucking computer sometimes.

  “And slightly niche porn, for that matter. Quite a few fetish sites as well,” he murmured smugly in my ear, “based on the contents of your recent search history, it’s probable that you quite enjoyed hearing Andy say that he thought you looked hot in your football shirt and trackies. This theory has been formulated based on the amount of times str8chavs.com and ladsinkit.co.uk have appeared on your search history in the last thirty days. Tell Andy you want to see his dick. You won’t even have to lie, as all available data suggests that you’re likely to have been thinking about it.”