Who the Hell is Beating Off Bob?
Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3
Editorial Comment: This story was written at a time when the pen name the author used was "Beating Off Bob". Some of you may remember that name. For others, it will seem odd, or foreign. But that's the name he started writing under. That name caused a lot of ... sensation ... among readers. The name is integral to the story, and was left in, when Beating Off Bob began writing under a different name.
While this is a fictional story, it is also a social statement of the author's feelings about the value of erotica, and how it may be used for positive purposes.
Author's Note: One day I received an email notifying me that I had a fan club of sorts, made up of nine or so women who all work in the same company, and who gather at breaks to read aloud, to each other, my stories. They call themselves, it is said, "The Dirty Girls".
Even if it's not true, it's a good tale, and what author could pass up a chance to write a story like that? It would give me a chance to write about myself in the process, which is hard because I'm so humble, and I could pass along some of the criticism I've received from dissatisfied readers.
And so, I wrote this story, and it is dedicated to ... The Dirty Girls ... whoever and wherever you are.
They were at it again.
I was walking down the hall, heading for the shipping dock, when I heard giggling. I work at the Falkenville Community Hospital, on the night shift, in the receiving department.
Sounds special, doesn't it?
But in all actuality, we get maybe three or four deliveries a night, and most of those are partial loads on common carriers, a pallet here, three or four pallets there, sometimes just a few boxes. Then, of course, we have to unpack everything and put it all away on the shelves.
Many nights it takes maybe three or four hours. The rest of the time we nap, or read, or watch TV.
Or surf the net.
My name's Dirk, and I work with three women. It doesn't take all of us to do the job, but the hospital got a grant to hire some people to improve efficiency. Before us there was one old guy who took in the stuff and the nurses had to come down and unpack and distribute it.
So when I heard giggling, I knew they were at it again. Julie is the oldest. She's probably in her late thirties, divorced, no kids, and bitter about it. She had the dream marriage, with the nightmare husband who couldn't keep it in his pants.
Jill is the intern, a college kid with glasses and short dark hair that barely goes down past her ears. She always looks so intense, like the world could come to an end any minute and she's trying to be ready for it. She works hard at being all grown up, which is a shame cause she's really just a kid who's throwing away her youth.
Then there's Linda. She's about my age, in her late twenties or early thirties. She's got a little girl and she never talks about the father. All she's ever said is, "He's not in our lives."
Technically I'm the supervisor. But there isn't really anything to supervise. I sign documents and take the heat if we accept the wrong stuff, or the right stuff, but in the wrong quantities - that drives accounts payable crazy. By mid shift we're pretty much done, most nights.
That's when they usually gather around the computer and the giggling starts. It was Linda who got them all started. One night I heard her call Julie over to the computer. "Jules, come here. You aren't going to believe this!" Julie went over and there was some low voiced exchange and then quiet as Julie read something. About a minute into it she pushed Linda out of the chair and sat down, staring intently at the screen like she was reading about how they just found the fountain of youth, and were telling people where it was.
Then she leaned forward and actually moaned! Linda burst out giggling and said "See what I mean? Is that hot, or is that hot!"
I stood up from where I was sitting reading an old paperback copy of Heinlein's 'Stranger In A Strange Land' and said, "What's up?"
Linda turned around and held up one hand in the classic "STOP" signal. "Sit back down big guy," she said. "This is female stuff. Not for you."
I lost interest, but as I sat down I saw that Julie hadn't even looked away from the screen even once during the whole thing. About five minutes later she rolled the chair back, stood up and said, "I gotta go to the bathroom."
For some reason that made Linda cackle with laughter and she called out, "I used the left stall!"
I wouldn't have thought anything about it, except that it happened again the next night. After we got all done with work Linda sat down at the computer and started clicking the mouse. Pretty soon she called out "Julie, he posted another one!" Julie almost ran over to the computer and they stared at the screen together this time. I could see the screen and it was all just text on the screen. Then they got in an argument about how fast to scroll the screen. Both of them were gasping and making little sounds in their throats.
Jill wandered over and started reading over their shoulders. They were both so involved in their reading that they didn't even notice her.
Until she said, "Oh my gosh! What in the world are you guys reading?"
Julie looked up and said "Sweetie, you're a little young for this kind of stuff."
Of course that was like throwing down the gauntlet to Jill, and the next thing I knew there were three chairs crowded in front of the screen. Jill demanded they start over, which they did. Then it got quiet and they were all breathing heavily, staring and reading the slowly scrolling words.
I tried to read, but it was too quiet. Finally they were done. Jill said, "Wow, I've never seen anything like that."
Linda grinned. "His stuff is so hot I just have to ... " She glanced at me to see if I was listening. I pretended to be deep in my book. She continued in a whisper, "I have to go rub off after I read it."
Hysterical giggling and squealing, like a bunch of girls at a slumber party, broke out. Julie gasped "Me, too! Last night ... me too!"
Jill was confused. "You read that last night too?"
Linda laughed and said, "Hell no, girl, he's got maybe fifty stories posted."
Then there was this scramble to get the three chairs back in front of the screen and Linda went to work. A new page came up and there was a muffled conference as Linda's long-nailed finger slid down the screen, apparently down a list or something. They agreed on something and the screen changed again.
This time it took them fifteen minutes to read whatever it was they were reading. I mean it was as quiet as a tomb in there, except for these little noises they made in their throats. Then, when they were done, they all three went their separate ways and I didn't see hide nor hair of them for another half hour.
They were all smiles and giggles when they got back together though.
The next night the same thing happened. And the night after that.
Finally I couldn't take it any more. I just had to find out what was going on.
The next night I let them get started reading and stood up quietly. I drifted over behind them. At the top of the page were the words: Lucky Sister by Beating Off Bob.
It was some sort of story or something.
"Who the hell is Beating Off Bob?" I blurted out.
All three women looked up at me. Julie said, quite calmly, "I told you Dirk, this is woman stuff. You need to go over there and read, or sit quietly or something. When we're done we'll let you know.
She always thought that because she was older than me I should have to do whatever she said. Normally it didn't bother me. That night I got hot under the collar.
"What the hell kind of name is that anyway?" I growled. "What's going on?"
Linda stood up and turned around to face me. "Dirk, honey, (she flirted with me a lot) we're kind of busy right now. Please, just go sit down and be a good boy. We'll explain it to you later. Okay?"
I suddenly realized she smelled really good. So I went and sat.
I felt like I was a pussy or something.
They read steadily for fifteen minutes, making those sounds again. Linda sat back in her chair. "I have a brother, and he's cute and all, but I could never do that with him."
Julie's head turned and she said "Of course not you silly girl. You're not supposed to think about him. You're supposed to think about somebody else ... somebody you wish was your brother, and how you'd do it with him if he was your brother."
Jill was breathing hard. "I don't understand. This stuff is perverted, but it makes me feel so hot! Why would I want to think about actually doing any of this?"
Julie sighed, the sound of a woman who is making it obvious she's being very patient. "Look, I read his profile, and I read between the lines. He's not saying you should go out and do this stuff. Okay, think about it like this." She turned to Linda. "Linda, you have Cynthia. She's your daughter and you love her, right?"
"Okay, now Cynthia has a father right?"
Linda went frosty. "I don't want to talk about him."
Julie put her hands up. "We're not going to talk about him. But you had something once upon a time that was so good that you had Cynthia because of it. Is that right? Or was she an accident?"
Linda bristled "No! She wasn't an accident. I wanted her. I love her!"
Julie had her hands up again. "Yes, we know that. And it's that feeling that I wanted to identify, not the pain. See, in reality there is all this pain. I was madly in love with Jack and he cheated on me and ruined it all, but I remember the feeling of being in love. So the reality was shitty, but when I read this guy's stories, everything always works out and everybody's always happy and it just beats the shit out of real life."
Jill was shaking her head. "Yes, but you can't just dream and fantasize all day long. You can't live a fantasy."
Julie nodded. "Yes, that's right. We have to deal with our lives and whatever goes on in them, but ... every once in a while ... this man gives us something we can dream about long enough to pretend it's about us, with some guy we'd like to be with, but probably never will, and have some excitement that turns out ... nice."
I had been listening to all this and I couldn't take it any more. "Come on Julie. You can't be serious. This guy writes about ... doing your sister or something and you want to have a fantasy about that?"
Julie stood up and walked over to me. "Dirk, have you ever whacked off while looking at a Playboy?"
Man she knew how to put me on the defensive. "I don't have to answer that question," I said defensively.
"Cut the shit Dirk, you wanted into this conversation. Now, do your part. Have you ever masturbated to Playboy? Yes or No Dirk."
I darted a look at the other two women, thoughts of a sexual harassment complaint looming over this situation. But I wanted to know where she was going with it. And they looked ... interested, not mad. "Let's just say it's common knowledge that guys jerk off and that's why Playboy is so popular. So what?"
"What are the chances, Dirk, that you, or any other gujy who buys that magazine will ever get together with one of the women in it?"
I laughed. "None! I know that. That's not the point. It's just fun thinking about it."
Julie turned around and bowed to her two coworkers. "I rest my case," she said.
I realized I had just bolstered her argument. I wasn't happy about it. I decided to take another path at knocking this Bob guy down.
"OK, but what kind of pervert uses a name like 'Beating Off Bob'? I mean that's just disgusting. Who wants that image in their mind?"
Julie came to his defense. "But don't you see? That's the whole point. He doesn't want the reader to try to actually do any of this stuff. So he reminds you with every story, that he writes fantasies to masturbate to, but not take seriously. Who could take a guy who calls himself 'Beating Off Bob' seriously? It's perfect!"
I wasn't doing all that well, so I changed tacks again. "I think I need to read one of these stories."
The girls all put their head together and eventually nodded. Julie went to the computer, pushed some buttons and pulled up a story. It was called "Uncle's Fashion Sense".
I started reading. It was a story about a girl about to get married who got a bunch of lingerie at a shower and tried it on for her uncle, in theory to figure out which one she should wear on her wedding night. Then he ... well he did a bunch of things to her. I noticed two things. His description of the girl made me think of Tiffany Watkins, who worked up in the ER and who I had had a letch for for months. She wouldn't give me the time of day, but I saw her in that story. The other thing I noticed was that by the time I had ... er I mean Uncle Bob had put his hands all over Tiffany ... er I mean Beth ... I had a hardon. And it was the kind of hardon that needed attention.
I was in trouble and I knew it. Then something caught my eye. "Hah!" I crowed triumphantly. "I knew the guy was a hack."
"What?" asked Julie, worried now.
"This guy doesn't know anything!" I said as I adjusted my cock to where it wouldn't be so noticeable and stood up. "He says the crotchless panties she's wearing came from Victoria's Secret. Anybody knows that Victoria’s Secret doesn't sell crotchless panties!. You get that kind of thing from Fredericks of Hollywood, and not Victoria's Secret. The guy's a fraud."
Linda said, "Dirk, what's that in your pants? Is that a pistol in your pocket, or did maybe Beating Off Bob give you a stiffy?"
"That's nothing!" I barked. "Maybe I was a little titillated ... at first ... but he ruined it with that obvious mistake. I couldn't possibly enjoy a story that had such a glaring error in it."
Julie had been peering at the front of my pants. She grinned. "Of course not Dirk, after all, that's a pivotal part of the story. It's not important what she's wearing. It's only important that he correctly names the store where she got it. I'll make sure to write to him and tell him he lost a reader because of that very very serious mistake."
"You can actually write to this guy?" I asked.
"Sure, I've sent him a couple of notes telling him he made me all wet and was very naughty."
I goggled at this woman I thought I knew, this bitter divorced woman who didn't seem to have any fun, and who was always pissed off about something.
"But he's a pervert!" I yelled. "If you write to him he'll write back and try to get you to meet him and then he'll probably try to rape you or something or you'll be murdered in your sleep!"
She actually laughed at me. Me!
"Dirk, honey, I'd never meet with him. He's happily married and I have no interest in him. I just like his fantasies!"
"He's married?" I croaked.
"Yes, and he's old enough to be my ... uncle." There was a brief pause as she let that sink in and then three women were laughing their asses off at me.
Linda was still looking interestedly at my pants, which were still full of hard dick because, like I said, this was the kind of boner that had to be dealt with. He really did write a pretty hot story. I jusat didn't want to admit it.
"Dirk?" Linda said in a sweet voice that I knew boded no good for Dirk Hoffman. "Who did you think of when he described Beth?"
Now I was under a lot of pressure here, so it's understandable that I didn't think too hard before I answered the question. It was, after all, a pretty innocent question, right?
"Maybe Tiffany, up in the Emergency Room, crossed my mind," I said. Then, as men quite often do, I realized I'd just made a terrible mistake. "But only for a second. Then I forgot all about it. I mean I saw that mistake about the underwear and it was all over."
I'd like to say it was a nice try, but ... I still had a boner, you know?
Linda was cool as a cucumber. "Well, why don't you toddle off to the bathroom and ... think about Tiff ... I mean Beth a little while. Maybe that would help your ... situation."
"I have work to do," I said, with as much dignity as I could.
Which wasn't much.
Half an hour later, when I thought they might have forgotten about it, I went to the bathroom. I was annoyed because that boner was still there. Actually, I was annoyed because I kept thinking about that stupid story. I must have shot a quart, thinking about Tiffany trying stuff on for me, her loving Uncle. After that I went to the computer to track a shipment. I just sort of accidentally looked at the browser history and saw the address they had been reading the stories on.
Even I could remember that.
I had my two days off. I own a computer. I read ten or twelve of his stories. I had to admit it. Other than the occasional spelling error, and some physical acts that were flat impossible if I remembered my biology and sex ed classes correctly, the plots he came up with, and the descriptions of the girls almost always made me think of somebody I knew and lusted after, or something from my youth that was close to what the story was about. I mean none of that stuff ever happened to me, but there were things I remembered that, if you plugged in some of his stuff here, and maybe a little bit there, you could pretend it had happened to you.
And, I am thoroughly ashamed to say, I about wore my poor peter out. And you know what? I have a sister, and three nieces, and several cousins, and I never once thought about them while I was abusing myself. I always seemed to be thinking about a girl or woman who, if she was my sister, or niece or cousin, I'd gladly commit incest with.
You know what pissed me off the most? That what Julie had said started making sense.
Well, I went back to work and I swear they all knew what I'd been doing on my days off.
Oh, they didn't say anything outright. It was just looks. And giggles. And lines from his stories that they couldn't know I'd read and remembered, but they said them, trying to get a rise out of me. And the trouble was ... they always did.
And every night, when the work was done, they gathered around that screen and wiggled and moaned and sighed.
It got so I got a hardon and wasn't even reading the damn stories!
Then, one night, they invited me to sit in with them.
It was a longer story, called "Family Boot Camp".
Have you ever sat with three horny women who smell good, and are reading about pricks spurting in wet pussies, and who make these little sounds in their throats that are like what you always wished a woman would sound like while you were making love to her?
Guys I'm telling you it's a rough situation. The only guy I feel sorrier for is the guy who takes all the pictures of all those Playboy Bunnies, but who isn't allowed to ever touch one, or say anything "inappropriate", or even let them know he sees their beauty for fear they'll get offended and take off and Hugh won't get his dick wet because of it.
Night after night I sat there, prick poking a tent in my pants, smelling excited pussy all around me. And Fucking Beating Off Fucking Bob kept writing new fucking stories.
And I mean they were literally fucking stories.
In the mornings I usually just went home and went to bed. Then, whenever I woke up I ate something and went about whatever chores I had to do. Grocery shopping, laundry, you know the drill.
One morning I was down to my skivvies, getting ready to drop them - I sleep in the raw - and the doorbell rang. I have this sign by the bell that says "Day Sleeper. Do not ring", so naturally I figure it's some salesman. It pissed me off when they ignored my sign, so I went to the door, dressed in my boxers, and opened it. I hoped it was a sales woman, cause I wanted to shock the shit out of her.
It was Julie.
She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and pushed past me, as if I'd just invited her in.
"Aren't you going to close the door?" she asked, putting down her purse on the coffee table.
So I closed the door. I wasn't really prepared for this. A lot of scenarios had gone through my mind in the past when I'd heard that bell ring. Not one of them had me opening the door to find Julie standing there. Especially not with me in my shorts.
"Uh ... I'll just go put something on." I mumbled.
"Just sit down. I need to talk to you. Never mind the pants. I've seen men in their shorts before." she ordered. Why did she always think she could just run roughshod over me?
But I sat down. It was easier that way, I guess. I tried to give her an expectant look.
She looked at me and bit her lip. She looked ... nervous. "Look, Dirk ..." she started.
I tried to look suave, relaxed, at ease. Sitting there in my underwear.
"Dirk, do you like me?" she asked suddenly.
Now how in the nine hells does a guy answer a question like that? I thought I was a pretty cool kind of guy, so I went for the frivolous nice answer.
"Well, you're awfully bossy, and you act like you're my mother half the time. You're down on men, mostly, which I'm one of. But all things considered, if I was stuck on a desert island, I doubt I'd vote you off of it."
While I was feeling proud of myself I saw the look come on her face and I knew I'd made a serious mistake. I finally understood her question hadn't been frivolous at all. I saw her muscles tense, and I knew she was about to get up and walk out.
"Yes!" I blurted. "I like you."
Her eyebrows went up again, and then, after a few more seconds, she relaxed.
"Do you think I'm ... pretty?" She looked down.
Now this was an interesting question, all of a sudden. I realized that she was here on serious business, and that I needed to take her seriously. I knew she was on the cusp of hating men forever, and I thought that would be a shame, because she was a nice woman, with a great personality, her take-charge attitude notwithstanding. And I had the opportunity to respond to her as a friend, and maybe make her less likely to hate all men.
"Look Jules" I started, and she flinched. It was clear she was expecting the worst. Man, that husband of hers should be found and shot. "I'm going to answer that question, but I'm going to answer it honestly, okay? I mean I don't want you to get pissed off, or file a sexual harassment complaint or any of that stuff. I'm just going to tell it the way I see it, okay?"
She winced when she said it, but she said "Okay."
"Okay, first off, 'pretty' includes several things. One is your appearance. You're in good shape, with a little meat on your bones, but you don't look anywhere near your age. You don't wear much makeup, but you have a good face. You'd look good in a pony tail, but you think you're too old to wear it that way. The clothes you wear cover up your body, but it looks good ... to me. You should be dating. There are lots of men out there who would love to get you in the sac.... I mean they'd love to get to know you." I corrected myself.
She smiled. It was a little smile, but I rarely saw her smile at all.
"Now 'pretty' also has a personality component. You can have a brick shithouse kind of girl, but nobody can stand to be around her because everything is about her, if you know what I mean. But your personality isn't like that. You're kind of a mother hen type, who likes to help people, and is always willing to give of herself, but doesn't really ask all the much in return. Except you boss people around, and I really think that's just a face you put on to keep people at a distance. But I can see through that. You're just a nice woman Jules. And that's attractive.
Now her smile was real, but her eyes were all glisteny, like she was getting ready to cry. She stood up. "Someone once told me that, when a man looks at a woman - any woman - there's a part of his brain that immediately sizes her up as either being either a potential mate, or not a potential mate. Then, depending on which of those things it is, he makes decisions about what to do about it. Is that true Dirk? Do men really do that?"
She was talking basic sociology 101. Women did the same thing, but in the woman's case she's checking out his genetics. Shoulders, legs, muscles, height and all that. Then that part of her brain decides whether or not she'd accept his sperm. Of course civilization has put all kinds of layers of decision making on top of all of that. Cavemen could see a woman, want her, and take her, but it isn't that way these days. But I knew what she was talking about. I just didn't know why she was talking about it.
"Sure" I said. "I do that all the time."
I felt all the guys out there wincing as they read that last line. There's an unwritten rule about admitting that to a woman.
"So, what did you decide when you looked at me?" she asked.
Which is precisely why there is an unwritten rule about admitting that to a woman.
So how does a guy answer that one?
"I'm sure I decided that you'd make beautiful babies." I said.
Then I realized what I'd said. Shit! I needed to turn things around.
"So, what's this all about, Jules?" I figured if I started asking the questions, maybe I could get out of the trouble I was probably in.
She stood up. There was a look in her eyes I'd never seen before. It was a sort of ... I don't know ... soft look? She was fiddling with the top button of her blouse.
"You're a good man Dirk" she said, stepping even closer to me. "I've been thinking about that story that Bob wrote. The one about the kid that was sent to his Aunt and Uncle for punishment and his Aunt ... took care of his needs? And her own needs too?"
I remembered and nodded, not sure where this was going.
"And I have a nephew, but he's like a little prick, like those girls you were talking about who don't care about anybody except themselves."
She was so close now she was almost touching me.
"And then it occurred to me that, at your age, it wouldn't be impossible for you to be my nephew."
Now what the hell did that have to do with the price of tea in China?
"And if you were my nephew, I think I'd like to spend time with you." She stepped even closer. I felt the tips of her breasts touch my chest.
And I began to get an idea of what was actually going on here. And I have to admit I did not find the idea repugnant. I hadn't lied. When I first met her I put her in the "I might do that" category. Other than it's never a good idea to have office romances, of course.
But I hadn't had a girlfriend for over eight months, and Julie was a good looking woman.
"I don't have an aunt," I said, trying to sound sad. "But if I did, I'd wish she was like you." I took it a step further to see how serious she was. "Except that a nephew shouldn't think about his aunt like I'd think about you."
Her eyes sparkled and she took a deep breath. She looked around. "Could you please get your poor old aunt something to drink? I'm just parched."
OK, that threw me. But I played along and went to the kitchen and got her a glass of water. She didn't so much try to drink it as pour it on her face. It all ran down on her blouse.
"Oh no!" she yipped, brushing at the stains. "How clumsy of me. I can't go out looking like this. Can I just throw this in your dryer for a few minutes?" She started unbuttoning that blouse, and all I could see was skin. She wasn't wearing a bra. Julie always wore a bra.
So now I knew beyond doubt that she'd planned to come over here and was hoping that something like this would happen.
I'd like to say that I put my hands on her breasts, offering to keep them warm, or something witty like that.
What I did was go back to the kitchen, get more water, and then I came back out and threw it on her pants.
I'll never forget the joy in her laughter.
Then it was clothing flying everywhere, and her tugging me to the wrong door, which went to a closet, and me dragging her to my bedroom. She started up about how she couldn't let her nephew do this to her, because it just wasn't right, and she plopped down on the bed and held her arms out to me. I climbed on and she insisted that I stop, while her hand went to my rock hard prick and pulled it to her opening. And then it was push, pull, slap, slap, kiss, kiss and the sweet agony of release, and I never even thought to ask her if it was okay to shoot off in her. I think we were both too giddy to think about birth control. We were talking aunt and nephew, but we were acting like seventeen-year-olds.
Later I lay there on my side, just looking at her. She was gorgeous under those frumpy clothes she always wore. I told her so too, and she beamed.
"You already had your way with me. You don't have to compliment me any more," she said, her eyes wary.
"I have to set up having my way with you again, don't I?" I cupped one of her beautiful heavy breasts.
"We'll see," she said. Then, quite seriously, she said, "I don't want this to affect what happens at work. I like my job, and I like my supervisor. I don't want my supervisor to change."
I responded quite seriously too. "I only have one aunt, and she never ever shows up at work."
And at work we did manage to act more or less normal, though there were some glances and winks. She told me she didn't want to have 'too much of a good thing' so we only got together every couple of weeks or so.
But I digress. That's actually in the future.
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