Quiet, shy nerdy accountant guy, very introverted but extremely good at his job, wears button up shirts and sweater vests, or nicely cut blazers and suits, sensible and pressed trousers, good quality leather shoes.
He doesn't date, he's too socially awkward, and he doesn't see the need to subject himself to the humiliation of online dating or apps or wasting his time when he's perfectly capable of taking himself out to dinner, he can see the movies he wants to, he can go to a play or an opera without worry about judgement or fitting into someone else's schedule.
And he's perfectly capable of... seeing to his own needs.
And sure, he might be a bit... embarrassed... at the things that he's into.
One of the reasons he wears layers is to ensure no one notices his nipples, or the swell of his chest that has nothing to do with the few extra pounds he has from a more sedentary lifestyle.
It'd started off when he was a teenager, just exploring his body, accepting that he was unlikely to lose his virginity any time soon-- no one gave him a second glance, and he was way too nervous and awkward to think of initiating anything, and cruel pranks weren't an unknown factor. So, he'd figured he could just... try different things.
He didn't mind being penetrated, first with fingers, then when he'd finally moved out of home for college, toys he'd ordered online from sites that promised discretion. His mouth was a harder pitch to explore without another partner-- he hadn't figured out his gag reflex, wasn't sure if he wanted to, and he didn't care for the taste of silicone, but occasionally sucking on his own fingers and brushing over his lips had at least drawn some interesting mental connections there that made him more cognisant of the sensations, and it did end up helping him appreciate well prepared food in new ways when he discovered himself to be something of a gourmand.
His cock, obviously, he knew how to handle very well, whether with his own hand or with a toy, whether he was looking for efficiency or indulgence.
But what really had lit up his nervous system and kept him going down his little path of solitude were his nipples. At first, they'd just been sensitive, bright points of surprising (and somewhat shameful) pleasure on his chest, but with his understanding of his lot in life came a sense of freedom that meant he'd seen no reason to hold back, and... well.
Years of spending sometimes hours playing with them had seen growth in size and sensitivity as new nerves grew in. During two weeks of paid time off in his first job, as a celebration he'd even ordered some little manual bulb shaped suckers, and he'd spent so much time in the hotel admiring how thick and prominent they'd left his nipples that he'd scarcely seen the rest of the town he'd gone to for his little holiday.
Truth be told, he'd never really thought ahead, or bothered doing anything in the way of research -- growth was dismissed, he dressed conservatively anyway, he didn't care for the beach, it was fine, no one would know.
It happens on a hot summer day, the office's air-conditioning barely keeping up, and at first he just thinks it's sweat trickling down over one of his nipples, and the little shooting bolt of pleasure is just because they're so sensitive from his previous night's indulgence.
It's fine, he's used to guarding his reactions, being stoic, and he keeps working, fingers flying over the keyboard as he enters line after line of client data into the spreadsheet from their haphazard invoices and receipts, to be imported into the bookkeeping platform he helped refine once all the input was done.
It's hot, sure, but of course he remembered deodorant that morning, and no one would notice anything anyway, surely.
So he keeps working, but when he goes to reach for his glass of water, the sensation strikes again, only this time there's some sort of muscle movement, and an... unfamiliar ache, and he can feel his shirt sticking to his chest as he moves.
Okay. That's odd. But he's careful not to draw attention to himself, calmly locking his computer, and heads to the bathroom, unhurried and extremely casual. Eyes fixed a metre ahead, slightly angled to the ground, always eager to avoid accidental eye-contact or even the potential of catching a co-worker's sneering or pity.
In the bathroom, once he had the black suit coat open, the issue becomes apparent. There are two wet patches right over the prominent nubs of his nipples. He checks the door is locked again before he starts opening the buttons one by one, fingers shaking until he gets his shirt open, and by then it's undeniable.
Even though he's at work and this is crossing a whole other threshold he's never even considered before, he can't help it-- his fingers move to one of those swollen nubs and brush over it, making him inhale sharply. They're even more sensitive than usual. He can feel himself starting to harden, but that's a secondary concern. Right now he can't help but alternate between looking down at his chest and looking at himself in the mirror (thankful for the company's efficient and private single stall bathrooms) as he gets two fingers and his thumb and squeezes from his areola in, shuddering as off-white droplets quickly bead up before spilling over his fingers.
His mouth feels drier than the Atacama desert before he can't help but cup his other hand just a little below his nipple and squeezes again, this time drawing more of a small spray along with the heavier droplets. It takes a few more moments until he's looking at his hand, milk pooled there.
This is another threshold that he's quickly crossing, because he brings it up to his lips and tasting it, like it was an expensive foreign wine he's trying for the first time. It's different. Sweet, thin, a slight taste of salt and musk that he thinks must actually be a little sweat, and a decidedly biological something that cow's milk lacks.
He finishes lapping up his little bounty but his other pec is still swollen, now almost sore with it, and... well. This is just evening it out, now.
He hears one of the other bathroom doors close and blushes, suddenly remembering where he was.
The rest of the-- his-- milk gets hastily fed down the drain, eyes closed as he can't look at himself in the mirror, bent over and groping himself, spraying and leaking like a-- well. He doesn't want to think it.
Once he seems to be drained, his fingers fly back up the buttons, though the wet patches haven't fully dried, but that's what the black coat is for, and with some practiced tensing of his thigh muscles, some breathing exercises, and a lack of other stimuli, he manages to at least make himself presentable before he flushes the toilet to keep up the pretence, washes his hands thoroughly, then exits to return to his desk.
Thankfully, he's a model employee, and has plenty of paid leave saved up, and he sends a message to his supervisor letting him know that he's unwell and will finish for the day, and will work on his accounts from home. He promises to send through an appropriate doctor's note when possible, and ensures that the leave request and all other HR requirements are submitted properly before packing his bag and leaving.
He's conflicted, when he gets home. On the one hand, this was clearly well beyond any idle fantasies or just the consequence-free version of self-stimulation he'd been enjoying for so long. It was inconvenient and risked his already tenuous social standing and ability to exist in public.
On the other hand, as soon as he'd gotten inside, he'd dumped his briefcase and work laptop on the couch and had shucked his coat and shirt with uncharacteristic disregard before undoing his trousers just enough to get his hand in start rubbing himself through the (sensible) boxer-briefs he preferred. There was a matching wet patch where the tip of his cock had been resting and it feels so vulgar as he fishes it out through the y-front, moaning quietly as he starts stroking, teeth sinking into his lip as his free hand finds one of his nipples and starts rubbing and groping the pec and pinching and tugging the still-oversensitive nub.
He doesn't manage to get more than another couple of tiny droplets from them before he cums, but it's certainly one of the most intense orgasms he's had in his life.
Once his breathing was back to normal, he couldn't help but tuck himself back into his underwear and then hastily pick up his clothes-- the suit jacket would need to go to the dry-cleaners and got hung up on a wooden coat hanger, and the shirt went into the wash basket along with his trousers.
He never cursed out loud, always finding it sounded embarrassing, his own demureness and discomfort with any kind of crassness always shining through, but in his head he could at least admit he was a little bit fucked.
He's never been one for overindulging vices, but this... he can already see getting out of hand.
But even that worry doesn't stop him from starting to do research on his personal computer, figuring he might as well take advantage of the sick leave he's already committed to burning.
It turns out there's quite a lot of information about schedules, duration, technique, potential medications, and diet. And, well, he's always been praised for being thorough with his work...
On his second screen, he opens up a window with tabs explaining the steps to register his own business, what needs to be filed, and it's not like he doesn't know which of his accounts would be all too eager to follow him for a cheaper rate than his current company would offer...
It's surprisingly easy to sit there massaging his chest idly while examining local and state and federal tax codes and identifying quite a few loopholes for private and independent businesses that he could use to fund himself. It's not like his clients needed to see him face to face with any frequency, and everyone was already used to the shoulder-up view of video conferencing...
He had to take a break to see to himself again, stroking himself to a messy orgasm at the idea of somehow being stoic and smooth enough to be speaking to a client, only the very top of his shirt visible, the client none the wiser that it was unbuttoned beyond the top two closures, with some sort of expensive and quiet pump rhythmically sucking at his leaking chest, not willing to miss a milking session for a meeting.
That was, he conceded, probably an impossible fantasy, but, well. That didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the thought of it.
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