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Marshall laid in bed, nonconsensually awake, for 17 minutes before the supposedly pleasant wake-up tone tinkled out of his phone. He didn't turn it off right away. He thought about it. He thought for a whole 33 seconds of cheaply synthesized chimes about setting it on snooze and rolling back over but in the end he reached out into the gray-black predawn and flipped his phone. The assault of blue light was just as unpleasant as the ringtone but at least the light meant he could shut off the sound.

Bad news started before he could roll his feet to the floor. The economy was still in freefall, political turmoil continued to escalate, spoilers from last night's episode of "Malice". The doomscroll was mercifully short, but he knew it would resume as soon as he sat on the toilet.

He stumbled blindly into the bathroom and winced at the full power white light that filled the cramped space. A grimace lingered on his face as he caught a glance of the dog on the other side of the mirror. He didn't even look particularly out of the ordinary. A bit disheveled, maybe, heavyset and a little round in the middle but that was common for mastiffs. The image of his slouched posture and throbbing erection in the mirror, however, was too much to bear this early in the morning.

It made him feel like some sort of degenerate beast to see his body in such carnal detail. Even so, there wasn't anything to be done about his back or his leaking cock yet; they would have to warm up and cool down, respectively, on their own. So, he hurried past to relieve himself of dinner and finished scrolling through his morning social media feed. He went through the rituals of washing and waking, ignoring his 9 inches waving vigorously back and forth at him in his reflection as he brushed his teeth and the weight of his balls slapping haphazardly against his thighs.

The mastiff did his best to ignore the four apple-sized weights as he moved on to the shower. They always ached. It was different from his back, though. They never hurt as much as they made themselves very present in his awareness. Seemingly at random, they would churn in his lap like a hot tub made of his own jizz. And reliably at the worst possible time.

Even at 36, he felt like a teenager getting erections at nothing. He didn't have time for all this carnality. In his youth, though, he had been a prolific masturbator; especially spending summers roaming his grandfather's farm. Marshall was an early bloomer and, despite his mother's protests, Grandpa did everything he could to encourage it without blatantly showing him how.

A pang of guilt struck Marshall halfway through scrubbing his fur back to its cobalt-gray luster. The old dog had died when Marshall was still in middle school, then suddenly everything was church mixers and prep courses and jobs and post secondary education and now work. Quite by accident, he'd become celibate.

Not that Marshall had had much luck beforehand: in middle school locker rooms bullies teased him ruthlessly about his extra numerary testicles and the one time he hooked up in high school led to his nudes getting leaked. His mother convinced him that sex was a distraction anyway. No one could make him feel bad about his balls if no one knew about them. Even now, he scrubbed them quick and rough; a purely mechanistic task to get them clean, then wrangled them into his slacks with his still-hard penis pulsing against his thigh.

There wasn't time for breakfast so he drove to work with the polite but distracting sound of podcasts to keep his own thoughts from creeping through his skull. It was just doomscrolling by another name but at least the dull drone of 'facts' was nominally educational. Marshall had learned a lot from his list of essayists and analysts discussing no end of practical, very grown up subjects for surviving in the modern age.

He had scraped his way up to the very bottom of what he felt was a stable, middle-class lifestyle. Stable might have been too generous a term since he was still managing old debts and paying too much for his phone plan and not enough for all the maintenance his car required. But he had his own place, he had a start on a modest emergency fund, and his own transportation. Now he was starting on the long road of making it all permanent. Downsizing was a major undermining force however.

The office was sparsely populated so soon before sunrise, but the tension was already thick enough to cut. After a series of legal blunders, a failed merger, then a hostile takeover, no one felt secure. Coworkers sniped covertly at each other, worked overtime to get noticed, and whispered treacherously about other firms and their benefits programs.

Marshall kept his head down. He forced small talk when he had to and kept an earbud hidden under his folded ear to keep his mind from wandering from the task at hand. Even so, his balls ached and his cock, although finally soft, was sore from just shy of two hours of petulant, unsatisfied arousal. It kept drawing him away from the melodies of Chopin and Vivaldi and back to the real world. Too aware of his body to ignore the sounds of anxious clerks and managers.

After only an hour at his desk, an aging gorilla in a neatly pressed but poorly fitted pantsuit stopped by. Cynthia was a hard ass but seemed to genuinely have everyone's best interests at heart somewhere buried under the weight of company loyalty.

"Marshall," she said confidently. "I've gotta do your one-on-one before the day's over. Come see me at 2:30 and we'll go over everything. Shouldn't be long."

As easily as that: no closeness of nose and grindstone, no amount of classical music could keep anxiety from leaking into Marshall's mind. The next round of downsizing was going to begin. The rumors were true and he was obviously first on the chopping block. The thought of coasting through the next four hours flitted between worries, but every time he tried to slack off some minute detail stood out in his work and he pulled that thread instead. It quieted his mind for a little while but every few minutes the pressure to plan out his next few days without a job came back like waves on a shore.

Even in the bathroom, with the busy casino flash of dopaminergic phone games, his thoughts were mired in the future. A finance guru explained in his ear that leaving a job every few years was statistically the best way to make money but now, in the midst of worldwide instability, is not the time to chase marginal gains unless you have guarantees.

"Keep your job and invest in long term bonds if you can," she said solemnly.

Would be nice, Marshall replied in his mind. He didn't notice he had left his pants open by the time he washed his paws and checked the time.

2:27.

He surrendered to fate with a sigh and weaved out through the cubicle farm to Cynthia's office. It was a cramped space, barely any bigger than his own cube after it was stuffed with file cabinets and a potted plant struggling to survive in fluorescent lighting.

"Still wanna do this one-on-one, Miss Cynthia?" Marshall asked from the door at the sight of her typing at her grossly out of date computer.

"Yeah, yeah. Take a seat, this shouldn't take long," she answered without stopping her furious tapping. "Two shakes."

The dog tried his best to look neutral despite the anxious whirlwind whipping through his skull. Looking at the flat affect of the room as indifferently as he knew how. Counting the ceiling tiles and identifying the misaligned drawers on the file cabinets. He had almost gotten comfortable with this sort of anxiety, although 'adjusted' might have been the more accurate term. There was always some kind of tension: pressure to perform, to be polite and inoffensive, what marxists called 'alienation'. The whole world was like a weight and he was finally starting to feel like he had been completely flattened by it, so waiting while she finished was no different than the underlying dread of the last four hours.

"Okay, now, Marshall: I like you," Cynthia finally said, seeming to genuinely mean it. "You're easy to work with, obedient, unambitious, you only act as smart as you actually are. You come in, you do your work, you do it right. You've been here a long time and haven't made a single wave."

She had a special talent for phrasing compliments in the least complimentary way, Marshall reminded himself as the pit in his stomach continued to twist.

She continued obliviously, "I'm sure you heard about the rumors. It's all anyone's talking about, after all. Unfortunately, it's true. I hate having to slash the roster but the money just isn't available anymore. There are only a few positions they're gonna keep the old staff for and there's just not enough room in the lifeboats for everybody."

He ignored his clenched balls and quieted the bile in his gut but having his fears confirmed was almost a relief for Marshall. "Yeah, and I'm sure they've drawn it out to get people to quit on their own. Cheaper than paying severance and all that."

Cynthia nodded sympathetically. "Lucky for me, I have a few favors in my back pocket and I could save my key players. So keep it under your hat but after the first round I'm gonna need someone to take Larry's spot. It won't be official at first so it'll be more work for the same money but after the shake up you're gonna be the only real candidate. So just keep quiet about it and you shouldn't have to worry about getting out in that awful job market."

Marshall was confused at first, scratching at the inside of his leg out of reflex but the circumstance settled slowly in his mind. He was safe. The satisfaction he'd mistaken for relief before melted into actual relief. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to thank Cynthia but something strange happened instead. He groaned as cum gushed out into his lap.

His balls pulsed against his thighs as they emptied themselves right there in her office. The heat of his thick cream building as it seeped onto the seat and into his pant legs. He hadn't even gotten hard but each spurt of his cum was growing anyway. He could even feel his asshole winking as emotional release turned into sexual release, escalating to a proper orgasm about three blasts in. He couldn't move to pull his hand from between his legs or turn and run once the climax properly hit him.

Instead he just came like a fountain, gushing through his briefs as they tented out from his carelessly open fly. He had been a prodigious cummer as long as he'd had the ability, but he had dodged the chore for so long he was amazed by own production in this spontaneous emission. As a spark shot down his spine and into his loins, his hips thrust forward of their own accord and a loose strand of jism landed on Cynthia's desk

"WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!?" she shouted, appalled.

Marshall didn't have an answer, even if he did he was still cumming his brains out. His shame finally raced to match the pleasure of pouring a pint of spooge into his khakis and he bolted. The chair toppled as he scrambled for any escape route, spilling him onto the floor and spreading his goo even further but quickly enough he was back on his feet, hands covering his crotch and racing to the exit.