Previous chapter: https://rentry.org/h8656xnd
The Firm Handshake: Chapters 2 and 3.
By OfficeAnon

Chapter 2, Security.
“Sex and power go together. Those who have the most power are often the least able to enjoy it.”
Erica Jong

Within a minute Blackthorn had reset himself, with everything neatly back where it should be. You both make eye contact. He can see by your expression you have a few choice words to say. “So, Mr Blackthorn, what was the plan if Mr Silverton was wrong?”

“Please Anon, we’re good colleagues, call me Theodore. But to give you an insight into things, let me put it like this. A human comes in, we tell him this office is just temporary for the day. He goes about his business and slowly but surely fades into the wider workforce as the token human hire. This office returns to being a conference room. He still gets to keep the taxi, however. It is such a small amount to pay extra that it is the most miniscule of rounding errors to the accounting teams. Then he gets conveniently ignored for promotions until he leaves, and we find a new HDG carrier.”

You knew about this sort of practice. You couldn’t fire someone out of hand, but you could make them leave in other ways, and who were you to win a legal case against a building full of lawyers? There were enough power dynamics in play here you could use them to run a microwave.

“And what if your prize refuses? Am I supposed to fuck on command?” That idea doesn’t appeal to you at all. It would be like being a something akin to a lewd kitchen appliance.

Theodore Blackthorn smiles. It is a flash of white in stark contrast to the rest of him. “Anon, please. You are thinking of this in such human terms. Do you think just having some genetic trait is how it works? That we’re going to bottle your sweat and pass it around in a spray can? It doesn’t work like that.” He glides himself into one of the chairs and crosses one curved leg over the other so that it can be used as a platform to steeple his fingers over. “It’s less about the gene, it’s the more the way you use it. Body language, confidence, words. Catalysts are needed which have to align. We can’t force it out of you, so it is in our interests to encourage you to…roam freely. You’ll find the reason IT hasn’t set up your account yet is because they’re waiting to see whether you’re going to be given the ‘light’ workload or the ‘regular’ one.”

Smoke and mirrors behind the scenes. “Why give someone software they’re not going to use, right. But I get the feeling you lot, that is to say, this law firm, seems to know a lot more about this gene than science officially does.”

“Oh yes. Every major business of this calibre has their own HDG carrier in one form or another. It’s good for business.” The way the horse says it makes it sound like it’s an open secret. He licks his lip, getting a tiny quantity of you that managed to escape.

“What, for me to go around screwing random anthros? What if they’re not into it? What if, I don’t know, they’re married or something?” you throw your arms up into the air at the notion. You can see it now, a very bashful man in your office and a very angry wife threatening who knows what.

“Again, very human of you. See it from the lonely office worker’s point of view. He comes into work, sad and tired from a long week of whatever. But then, you pass by. Everything smells just so fucking good to him. He spends a day getting covered in prime HD gene. Every client he meets that day seems to get along with him just fantastically, they agree with everything he says and don’t even try to haggle. He then goes home to his wife and tells her of his success, who for the first time maybe in years leaps on him just like when they were teens.” He smiles again with another brilliant white flash. He’s clearly thinking about what happens when he goes home today and gets to experience it all for himself. “You still need to actually do some work however, we can’t have you lounging about on the clock. You’ll just find it to be very easy to drop at any moment.”

“So I choose when and who?”

“And pretty much wherever. Obviously, we can’t have you ploughing people on the front reception desk, but the cubicles provide enough cover and the others nearby will enjoy whatever they hear or smell. Just be reasonable.”

“No fucking while on the phone.” You nod your head.

“No fucking while on the phone.” He nods his own head in a teasing mimic. “Anything else?”

“Won’t they get jealous of who I pick? I can’t fuck all of you, this building must contain hundreds of people.” You recall the droopy dog from the lift and shudder slightly. Not your type.

“No?” the perfect look of suave intellect on Theodores face was briefly replaced with a quizzical look as if you had just asked why the sky sometimes turned white with pink polka dots. He didn’t seem to be elaborating further as if the answer was obvious. “Any other questions before I leave you to it?”

“About the receptionist…” you begin.

“No, they’re not related.”

You call the IT department. The voice on the other end clearly had been primed for you, specifically. They essentially ask you which software you needed, full or basic. What would have been a straightforward question you now know is in fact a code for whether you’ll play ball or not. “Basic.” You say. After all, you now have much more important tasks to attend to. You can hear a stifled noise on the other end and you suspect the other staff nearby were also listening in with rapt attention. Obviously, they were very pleased to know the company had acquired a carrier. “If you have any faults, or need…anything. Keyboards, monitors, other hardware, we’re on the second floor.” The voice on the other end was trying to keep it together. You couldn’t tell what species they were, but they all sounded eager at least. Is that tittering in the background? Maybe you’d pay them a visit, those sorts of teams usually had their own private office space to handle equipment. IT staff are like mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed bullshit.

You need to wait for it to install, so you decide to get your bearings. You open the blinds and the light from the rest of the floor filters in. Anthros were mostly at their desks, some moving back and forth with paperwork in gaggles around some central figure like a prophet amongst acolytes. You step out into the main space and close your door behind you. A thought occurs to you and instead you fling it open as far as it will go, wedging the doorstop to keep it that way. A few minutes of built-up smell from there can just be dumped into the unprepared crowd beyond. How delightfully devilish, Anon. You decide you want a mug of something hot and caffeinated.

You can tell you’re turning heads as you head towards a break room. You can see from the corners of your vision the spectrum of subtly; from those who don’t turn their own heads, to those who are standing and craning their necks over the partitions to gawk. You never got this much attention on dating apps, but then again, every day it was only bots who matched and messaged. There were so few anthros in the town where you worked previously that you supposed that any who would have sensed the HD gene on you had never been in an enclosed space with you for long enough. It’s not like you sat down in restaurants to eat by yourself and when you were dating another human you had even less reason to do so. Such a missed opportunity. The attention you are receiving is already threatening intoxication; you can see it on the horizon. Your mind conjures an image of a drug dealer handing you a baggy labelled “POSITIVE SOCIAL INTERACTIONS” and you just snorting it up your nose like the devil’s nose candy. Pace yourself, Anon.

You locate the break room. It is small, little more than a countertop with a few appliances and two vending machines on either end. You could tell this was a high-end corporate sort of gig by the way the machines spat out the exact same incredibly terrible tea and coffee assortment as their regular counterparts, except you didn’t have to pay for the privilege. The thin plastic cups also assisted in scalding your hands for the added bonus. Truly, a wonder of modern technology. However, all of this was blocked by the singular individual taking up the majority of the space.

He was built like a brick shithouse. Arms like sacks of beachballs, a body that didn’t have a 6-pack, but instead an entire beer keg. Theodore went to the gym for vanity. Whoever this was went to the gym went out of necessity. When you think of a strongman, you sometimes incorrectly think of bodybuilders with their sculpted bodies designed for looks but not actual functional work. But the sort of people who could actually lift you with one arm without a fuss looked like this. When he turned around, you realised he was a bull. As he turned around the dark grey shirt he was wearing had “SECURITY” in a no-nonsense thick white font scroll over your vision. You believed it. He could stand in the doorframe and block anyone from passing by sheer virtue of filling it with muscle and fat. His brown furred brow furrowed to look down at you. Like his long-furred fetlocks, his hair had a bit of a highland look to him. More impressive were his horns, which were uncharacteristically long and sharp. Most species with horns had them trimmed and rounded, lest they poke holes in their clothes every morning. There were even fashionable rubber caps you could get. A lot of places applied laws to their length and such much like there were laws about openly wielding knuckledusters. They were, after all, weapons. You never really considered the permits around this problem, but you were also trying to spot a name badge.

Your eyes manage to find it, comically small and nestled upon the mountainous peak of one pectoral akin to some intrepid explorer. “Excuse me, Mr Harrisson, I just need to slip by.” You say, simply. You still wanted that crappy cup of caffeine. The bovid makes a token gesture of vaguely leaning to one side. This place probably didn’t get robbed enough for him to have much to do all day, but his grumpy attitude still was a bit much. He already had something in his hand, which he sipped to make some kind of point. The mug in his grip looked comically tiny by comparison.

“You’re Anon.” he rumbles down at you. It isn’t a question, just a statement of fact. You guess he was told the new hire might be very valuable. He was probably told that about all the new high-end lawyers he encountered and it has long since lost its novelty.

Your eyes flit down from his eyes to the big “SECURITY” text on his chest, then continue their journey over his musclegut, past the dark jeans and down to his hooves, which were scuffed and unpolished. A practical soul, it seemed.

“That’s right. That’s me.” You lightly slap the name badge for some reason. Harrisson didn’t respond. Not much of a talker then. You prod a button on the vending machine. It gurgles, the bull sips again from his mug. You think of something to say other than “You work in security, huh?” because you have a slight suspicion that would go down like a lead balloon. “How about that sportsball game last night?” also didn’t seem like a winning strategy because you didn’t watch any and didn’t know if any had been on last night to begin with. Mercifully, your drink dispenses. You have to turn so your back leans against the machine to face Harrisson in this close-quarters social combat. “So, who did they hire to do your security then?” you ask, attempting humour.

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he rumbles back gruffly with each syllable being dumped out one after another. “No-one. It is just me.” He finishes his drink and the mug is shoved unceremoniously to the corner. Brilliant really, he couldn’t have disarmed a budding conversation any more skilfully. You feel almost sad for him, if he wasn’t being so standoffish. You realise that in order for him to get out of this alcove the two of you would need to do a sort of Mexican dance routine.

Obviously, he should be attempting to do so and return to his empty patrol. However, what you also just realised is that you’re in a very cramped space and he no longer has his coffee shielding his nose from you. “Just you?” You ask, wryly. “No-one else to protect the big guy at work?” it sounds so corny coming from your own mouth.

In response, Harrisson makes a dismissive harrumph. Which causes another unprotected breath in. How long would it take him? While Blackthorn had presence, this bull had mass. Everywhere. Would it take longer? He attempts to step out then, but you pretend to have mistaken it for your turn to leave, so neither of you end up leaving. His hip squishes against your hip three stooges’ style in the doorframe. He rotates to the side uncomfortably, the growing bulge in his pants being the obvious reason for this awkward manoeuvre. His imposing frame spreads wide as he tries to find a pose where he can adjust himself discretely in the rapidly shrinking room. You discard your own drink and step behind him as he faces away from you fumbling at his groin.

“What’s the matter, big softy got a little hard-on?” you ask over his broad shoulder. He ponderously turns around to face you with an indignant expression at the comment. One of his hands is covering the bulge, the other is trapped by the tight confines behind his back. You also have a hand on your cock, covering it in a bit of whatever stuck to the inside of your underwear and the fresh stuff too. “You need to smile more.” You say, smearing your hand over his nose and pressing the palm of your hand against his lips. You don’t need to look too far down to see he’s rapidly approaching full mast, stiff as a board. “Very tight in here, isn’t it?”

He nods, mouth quivering with the urge to lick your hand whilst also fighting his inhibitions. You can hear his heart thumping as you take your hand away and place them on the top button of his jeans. To his credit, he keeps his mouth shut in defiance of the overwhelming urge to taste, but it also prevents him from voicing protest. You pop the button open. Two more to go. You’re starting to feel the excitement too, now. You slowly reach back down into your own trousers and get a fresh bead of pre onto your fingertip.
The slick dot glistens in the bull’s eyes as you raise it up to his face. “For you.” You smear it between his nostrils. You watch as his tongue forces it way out and quickly, shamefully, gets the whole drop in one long pink swoop.
Another button pops open at your behest. “Just one more drop, for me?” you ask, as if he’s doing you a favour. Harrisson closes his eyes tight, so he can’t see you getting your index finger coated in your own precum, and so when it touches his lips he is unable to stop you from invading and finger fucking his tongue. It’s hot, soft and moist in there in a way that hits all the right buttons. His breath is washing over your digit like sea waves in a storm and needs a small bit of effort to fight the suction as he tries to stop it from leaving. Even so, you undo the last button with a pop like a champagne cork.

A tent of white fabric bursts forth from the break in the dam. It jumps in time with his heartbeat with the raging hard-on pressed firmly up inside it. In a pinch you think it could have worked as a coat hook with how stiff it was. It seemed the bull took his sports seriously, because the jockstrap let you see everything. His fat nuts, each one the size of a plum. His huge uncut penis, which only the head was obscured by the stretched fabric. It was so girthy it would fill the palm of your hand entirely, in fact, as you touch it, it did. It jumped with a life of its own on the contact, and you watch as his nuts clench upwards and drop with it. His happy trail which merged into the unkempt pubic mound gave it a lion’s mane.

“I-I h-have a wife!” he protests weakly. “I don’t d-do this, no-one has.” His voice is still deep, but the quavering edge gives it this meek undertone uniquely his own.

“What, she’s never touched your junk before big guy?” You exert a little pressure to point it downwards and then let it twang back up again. “Oh, I get it. You’ve always had to take the initiative? The big scary bull has to do all the work for others.” You tease him with your tone of voice, somehow talking down at a guy who could have tossed you down the corridor with a single hand.

“No!” he protests. It’s reflexive, a deflection with no bite to it.

“Ah, I understand. You touch her tits, but she,” you stroke a pec through his shirt to emphasise the point “doesn’t play with yours!” you find the nipple, not yet brought out to join in the fun. You squeeze the pec like a woman’s breast. “That’s so unfair of her, I bet they look very good. And your shirt is very tight.”

“My shirt…” he trailed off. You move back slightly, nudging his trapped arm to help him put two together.

“Wouldn’t want it to get coffee on it.” You say, helpfully.

“N-no…” he reaches down and begins to lift it up. His rounded belly is a plush playground, a smooth expanse with sides of stacked muscles, and it is revealed from the bottom up like a fluffy sunrise. You observe with amusement the technique of navigating a head of sharp horns as he bares his chest for you. You see his nipples, two pink islands amongst the brown fur.

“I bet you start off slow, like this…” you begin circling each one with a thumb. Harrisson buries his face in his hands to hide his expression. “But I think she likes it a little harder.” He nods almost imperceptibly. The perky buds of his nipples have come out from your ministrations and you pinch gently at them between thumb and forefinger, rolling back and forth. His cock is now thumping with his heartbeat much more, but still not enough for your liking. A big guy like this needed to be guided through each new step. You grab a swath of chest and do broad strokes with your thumb, bouncing them off his nipples with each sweep. “Then, you want to show her how good they look.” You come in close, his height means that his chest is in line with your head. You breath in, then move your mouth as close as possible without touching and gently release a slow hot breath over one. A finger moves away from his eye, the bull needs to see, to make sure that you’re as close as he feels you are.

“How do you show her, Harrison?”

His voice is little more than a whisper. “I…suck…them.”

“I bet you’re very gentle, despite your size.” You offer. He can’t utter another word for now, those last three probably felt herculean to force out. He nods again, head still in hands. You plant a kiss around the first one, and sensually coat it with your tongue around the bead-shaped flesh. Then, you gently apply pressure and pull your head back slowly, the skin follows your mouth as you suck. With a loud, lewd pop it escapes your mouth. “But I know you’re a strong bull, you can take a bit more than her.” You go in again and repeat, but sucking harder this time. You pull back, and the second and louder noise fills the confined space. The bull reacts as if he was just punched and shakes from the feeling. You look down, his white jockstrap has a growing dark patch causing it to become see-through. The head of his dick is straining to get out. Harrisons shovel-like hand comes down to rest upon your head. Not to guide you, or force you, but to feel the comfort from your hair. The other hand is steadying him on the countertop. “And you make sure they both get equal attention.” You travel across the expanse of his chest, his hand follows your head, cupping the back of it now, a single thumb stroking you. You give the second nipple what it needs. By the time you pull away a single strand of precum has forced its way through the white fibres and begun rolling down the tent.

“Ego ipsos custodio.” You say gently to him, hoping you had the grammar right. “I can see the depths within you. You fear them seeing more than just the muscle, but you’re safe here.”

That got more of a reaction out of him than anything physical you had done so far, he instinctively pulls you tight to his chest, pressing your head between the pillows of his pecs. His heart thumps like a mortar battery against your ear, even through the fuzz of his fur. You let him recover for a bit, enjoying the warmth yourself. He would probably hold you there all day if he could, or at least for the hour or two it would take for lunch to arrive. There is a quiet drip as his pre strikes the floor.

“You love your wife’s ass.” You tilt your head to look up at his, the fluorescent tube lamp above is obscured by his silhouette, giving him an unintended halo. He looks down at you then, eyes open. “It wasn’t a question.” You say to him. “She wants to show it off, just for you.” You give him a firm look. You’re fully in charge now. You extract yourself from fluffy heaven and expectantly make a motion with your finger. Turn around.

Harrisson could have escape there, and a part of him probably still wanted to if only out of habit. But if getting out of the alcove was tricky before, it may as well have been an eye of a needle to him now. His eyes move over the exit as he turns, and then they continue on as his body comes about, powerless to stop him. “You like it when she lowers them herself, slowly all the way to the floor.” You put a bit of authority in the voice. You know the bull has never been this sensual in his life, but as he allows his jeans to slide over his ass and to the floor, he steps out of them without even prompting. To him, a jockstrap was just a practical choice. To you, the white straps only acted as a picture frame for the prize. It takes a lot of ass to hold up this much bull. You gently lay an open palm over one, getting him used to the idea of being touched there. Even then, it came as a pleasant shock to him. Few people he encountered were soft with him, that much was clear.

Both hands were upon him now. Softly, softly. Gently, gently. You play with the straps that almost vanish into his flanks. His round thighs yielded for his sizable nuts, cradled in their magnitude by the fabric which now was damp with the constant light discharge. “You want to show me, don’t you? The part of you no-one else sees.” You guide an unresisting hand to a cheek. “Show me your soft side, big guy.” You encourage him. The other hand joins in and the bovine begins to yield.

The brown fur lightens as more is shown, until you can see what you knew he was hiding all along. The tides part to reveal a fat, thick, puffy pink donut of perfectly unblemished flesh. He probably had no clue. There were porn actors who would have killed for this asset. This close, you let you breath play over it, to watch it flutter in response. Then the lightest touch with a finger, circling the hole slowly. You know he is beginning to suspect the inevitable as you make the circles ever smaller with each loop, spiralling ever closer towards the hole not even he has played with before. Whilst you hadn’t been issued lube (yet), there was a much closer source at hand to work with anyway.
You reach around his side, hand always in contact with his hide and raking the fur as it went. It caught in his happy trail, over the tangle at the base of his penis and down the length in one fluid motion. He was solid as a rock and covered in his own hot leavings that matted his fur. Your palm now finds itself against the head on the inside of his underwear and he pushes forward guiltily into it. You let him do it a few times, if only so that when you hand comes out from escaping where his dick cannot, it is covered in him.

You slather his hole with it, the slick sensation a contrast to the soft touching of your earlier ministrations. You’ve given him enough time to come to terms with what is coming next. “I’ve never…” he trails off, not sure of which emotion he wants to convey. Fear? Shame? Excitement? Guilt? They all mix together then are replaced with surprise as you let your pinkie finger press in. He fights at first, as all first timers do, the powerful ring of muscle working to keep you out. But you wait, let him relax, and move in further. You work him up in sequence, each finger progressively larger until your thumb intrudes. Each time one goes in, his nuts slap up with tension, then release back down slowly as he relaxes. He’s stoic, that’s for sure.

You renew the lube on his hole, allowing him to fuck your hand some more. You’d need both hands spread wide to cover the circumference, but just one was enough to stimulate his urethra. That really sent him, like a nervous twitch he stamps a hoof, causing every mug and cup on the countertop to jump in fright. At this point, his jockstrap is soaked through, it is dribbling down both legs and on the floor without pause now.

Two fingers now, enough to find the real prize. You probe the heat and slickness, but with testicles like this it does not take long to find the spot. You know you’ve found it, not just by feel, but by sound. Harrisson is groaning, his deep rumbling voice an instrument you can play on request and you keep going back for another act. His huge hands are white-knuckled spreading himself open for you. You go for the encore performance and this time press down hard on his prostate, rubbing it with both fingertips and smushing it back and forth. Another hoof stomp and the crockery dances with him once more. Everything in him tenses, but you pull your fingers free before the climax can strike. A very heavy splat of precum hits the floor. He desperately wants to finish, but much like before you have his arms blocked, just in a different way now and he doesn’t want to move and lose this moment.

You ask him if his wife liked getting fingered. Of course she did, he admits. You tell him she likes getting fucked too, and line your own cock up against his violated hole.
You don’t press in, but you gently tug on an arm to let him know who gets to decide. It doesn’t take more than a moment for his hips to spear himself upon you. His prostate stands no chance, it is taken and ridden like a cheap stolen car. His rhythm is terrible with his mind clouded this much and in such an unfamiliar pose, but you make it work. You make him work. Wet slaps fill the alcove, grunts and sighs mingle as one. His ass clenches around you, taking from you what he gives up in equal measure. Cum ruins his jockstrap, forces it way through the fabric and onto the floor without a single hand involved. His balls churn and empty themselves uselessly and each pulse only milks your own junk in turn.

All the strength leaves him with it, and a modern-day Samson falls before you, landing on his knees. Harrisson is panting, he forces an arm forward to finally let his dick free and it dribbles a little more semen onto the floor. He and every (mercifully wipeable) surface around him has not been spared. He didn’t care, too busy mentally resetting as his erection maintained full mast, finding still yet more reserves to bring to bear, if only a little.
You put your hands on his broad shoulders and gently massage him. He was on a journey right now, travelled through sub-space. He could probably smell sounds and taste light after all that stimulation just now.

It’s a long minute before he finally rises upon his hooves, now just that little bit more scuffed. The bull looks around, as if finally seeing for the first time. He locates his shirt, navigates his head through it and smooths it down over his rotund frame. His breath hitches as the cloth brushes his sensitive pecs, but only the once. Facing you now, he drops his sticky jockstrap and steps out of it. It’ll need a very thorough rinsing in the bathroom sink before even the cheapest of prostitutes would consider putting them back on. He looks at you differently now. The same expression a child gives to a treasured blanket, but hidden behind a thin veneer of shaggy fur and bulk. Something to hold in case the day becomes too much. Found at last.
“You okay, Harrisson?” you ask. He’s still nude from the waist down. Even flaccid he would embarrass a soup can.

“Yeah.” His voice is a bit distant still. He leans down and hugs you unexpectedly, rubbing his muzzle into the crook of your neck. His velvet ear provides a soft contrast to the flashing off-white of the flesh gouging potential from the horn right next to it. You hug him back, caught off guard. You could not hope to make your hands meet on the other side of him.
You assume you’re being lifted off your feet, because you can’t see the floor and you feel closer to the ceiling lights. There’s a moment where you wonder if this guy was going to come down from his high grumpy again and you’re about to become a whole lot thinner, but the squeeze doesn’t come and instead you are ignobly dumped on the countertop like an unruly child.

“You’re going to be in the way.” Harrisson states, now having enough room to put himself into his jeans. “This place is a mess.”

It was, but that was what the roll of kitchen towel was for. You lean over and re-order the drink you originally intended to have from the machine. At this rate, by days end you’ll be dry as a prune if you’re not careful. You watch as the guy gets back down on his knees and begins to mop up his mess. You decide to not speak for this. Let the brief period of manual labour allow him to sort and file the encounter in his own way. When the last piece of paper is crumpled into the bin, you are lifted and placed back on your feet, firmly on the ground.

“You can call me Ghaid.” The bull’s voice had returned to normal now. But he then quietly added “Like my wife does.”

Chapter 3, Creative Accounting
“Sex is kicking death in the ass while singing.”
Charles Bukowski

Hot liquid caffeine suspension in hand, you return to your office. As you approach a corner you spot one of the staff leaning against the wall a little too casually. She is a white long furred cat in a business dress which forced her neck fur into something resembling an Elizabethan ruff. That was fairly typical, cats were like that, but the moment she caught sight of you she coughed conspicuously to someone out of sight and you hear the unmistakable sound of tens of people all hurrying back to their seats all at once. You slow your pace to give them a chance and smile in mock ignorance at her as you round the corner. It was just like you had left it, door wide open, activity going on just outside. The bin nearest your door stopped wobbling from whatever had disturbed it and came to a rest as the only indicator that the whole room hadn’t just been hotboxing itself on your scent moments before.

Humans were adaptable, you had already adapted to this new role within the first few minutes of entering the building. You nod politely at whoever makes eye contact with you, many of them are finding their shirt collars a little tight and golly, wasn’t it hot in here? You remark about how chilly you found the bosses office when you arrived and you’re sure he can spare you a desk fan. You unwedge the door and allow it to click shut under its own power. Your chair had been moved, an image of a queue of anthros forming to press their noses into it comes to mind. But, it also seems that something had been left behind in your drawers when you investigate them. There was the usually expected paraphernalia; pens, paper, stapler, ammo for said stapler, and so on. The tissue box had been returned in another one, but was now accompanied by a bottle of “hand sanitizer” which giving it a quick investigation revealed it to be unsurprisingly very lubricating for its supposed function, but again you consider appearances.

As you log into the computer, you wonder if despite what Theodore had said that the work would in fact also be fake or even disguised as something else. Would there be just some poor schmuck being paid to produce nonsense that at a glance looked acceptable to the outside layman, just for you to process it and send it off to be discarded to keep you busy? Then you remember every other admin position you had ever done and have a quick chuckle. There wouldn’t be a lot of work on the first day anyway, usually HR things, well AR in this case. Your email inbox has some welcome package stuff, an internal memo asking if anyone owned the car keys in the reception, some labyrinthine organisational charts, that sort of thing. Blackthorn has sent you an email also, asking to respond once you’ve settled in. All manageable so far. However, as soon as you’ve sent back your response, the computer issues a little ding from the internal instant messenger software.

A friend request. Well, that was a strong word. Colleague request more like. It isn’t from Blackthorn, or either of the two Silvertons. It’s from Ghaid Harrisson. That made sense, unlike the next three requests that fired off rapidly after that from people you definitely don’t know the name of. In the time it takes you to mute that part of the application, another four different requests have sprung up.

“This is what it must feel like to be a model on a dating site.” You mutter to yourself.

While it naturally had never happened to you, you’d seen enough short clips from the internet to know it was useless to even attempt to keep on top of it, it would be like trying to mop the sea up with a dish sponge. You just let the number increment and say to yourself that you won’t let it go to your head. It would get worse throughout the day, you know that much. The only thing that travels faster than light is gossip. It would spread through each floor like a virus, until even the dust mites in the basement could RSVP a letter from you.

You attend to the Human-Anthro-Resources packages, promising not lift cardboard boxes with your back and that you won’t stand in a burning building to find your phone. The training segments were almost a parody of themselves with an anthro doing each one instead of the humans you were used to. It wasn’t tailored to your species at all, but it was funny seeing the forced balance of herbivores to carnivores to reptiles to mammals and so on. It was a riot of colour blended with corporate double-speak. It still had that tedious tone to it and it still lasted for far longer than it should.

You look at the requests in their multitudes. Blessed be the bounty that which you reap. You almost immediately discard the idea of just trying to go through it before you consider instead not viewing it as a communication system, but instead a catalogue.

You have a look at some of the profile images that stand out. The entire building, from every walk of life and department, no matter how big or small, was represented here. Being a lawyer, or working in the multitude of ancillary roles needed to support them, did not discriminate on race, class or creed. Right now, the only thing that would set them apart was if they had a little checkmark next to your name on their computer monitor. “Friend Status” would be a badge of honour. From what you can tell, there is a sizable crop to be harvested from the potential applicants. Being in the friendzone, as it were, would become a byword as being part of an elite cadre.

Lunch was approaching. A quick message pinged back and forth across to Blackthorn told you the building had a canteen on the second floor, where he would meet you there.

Thankfully, despite the undercurrent of commotion, everyone in the building was an adult which meant that there wasn’t going to drama over the popular kid’s table. That is not to say there wasn’t one, but the power dynamic would be so imbalanced whilst you were in the room it was effectively rendered moot. Only Theodore Blackthorn, dressed in his light swallowing set of clothing worth more than a brand-new car, would be able to act normally around you anyway. Sure, the lunch room was like a café with corporate-flavour filling, but it was open air enough to disperse the effects of the Human Domestication Gene hormone on you to ‘safe’ levels.

You slide into the plastic seat opposite him and bite into your pastry. You swallow, an unamused look on your face. “An apple, really?”

“I do actually enjoy them. But I also enjoy the aesthetic it cultivates.” The way he said it all felt out of place without the giant death laser in the background. “Who did you get to first?”

“Word gets around fast then.” You answer, as if your inbox didn’t hit triple digits within the first 10 minutes. “I bumped into the security guard inside the small break room.”

Theodore’s eyes make contact with the ceiling as he attempts to remember the bull’s name, his tongue pokes out from the corner of his mouth. “Harrisson?” he says, tasting the word, having clearly rarely if ever having said it aloud before.

“Did you know he spoke latin?”

“This is a law firm, Anon. You use it all the time. You end up picking up a phrase or two eventually. Did you habeas his corpus?” he snickered at his own joke in the way that only a horse could. You gave him a withering frown back. That one you did know, every piece of media with a courtroom scene in it used it. You think it was a little more than him parroting back the phrase, but decide not to pursue the topic. The two were worlds apart enough as it is. Ghaid, it seemed, probably had a reason to be gruff with coworkers.

Over the next hour Blackthorn attempted to give you a crash course in what you were doing in relation to his work. Being a lawyer, you end up thinking, wasn’t so different from playing a children’s collectible card game. Two sides face off, each clutching their own stack of overpriced letterheaded paper, having spent weeks shuffling it all in preparation. Then you meet up, dump your pile on the table, one side declares victory, and the rest of the day is spent arguing about it in front of a judge who will loathe to see them next week. When you offer the horse this observation, he throws back his head and slumps back in his seat with exasperation.

It had sounded like a lot of work however. “But at least you’re being paid more than me, how much do you make a year?” you ask, curious just how easily Blackthorn could afford his lavish lifestyle.

“Actually, you’ll earn more than me after your bonuses.” With an expression and tone that indicated he didn’t see that as a problem.

“What bonuses? That wasn’t mentioned anywhere.”

“Mister Anon,” Blackthorn smirked “HDG carriers are worth more than their weight in gold and we certainly want to incentivise ours to stay and work hard. Your salary is competitive for an admin clerk, but when other businesses learn about you, well, they’ll want to snipe you out from under our hooves. Anyone who pulls our salary records will immediately see an over-paid human on the books. Instead, you’ll find there are a lot of ‘weekly bonuses’ that you qualify for, that just so happen to match up with how many colleagues you get acquainted to.”

“Is that tax legal?”

Black furred fingers steeple before the horse. “We’re lawyers, Anon. We make it legal.”

It was weird taking a lunch as long as this. For you, you were so used to having the pitiable amount most other businesses gave you that time seemed to have stretched strangely. Blackthorn on the other hand took a long lunch because how else would he cultivate his public image if he wasn’t constantly in public? You also supposed that being visible in public was also, in a way, now part of your job too. Across the room you could see fur, skin and scale discretely looking at you, but in a way you had never experienced previously. Every seat nearby you had been occupied. When they got used to you they would probably simply end up treating you like some walking good luck charm or benevolent upper management.

Blackthorn had a schedule to keep to, but you did not. Even so, you needed the bathroom. There was quite the variety. Architecture could be averaged out, but individual biological functions could not. This fell by the wayside however because you also learned that anthros did not respect the traditional unspoken arrangement of men’s urinal spacing, midway through your own standing ovation.

“’Ey, ‘ey, ‘ey!” came a voice straight out of the Street and probably from at least one alternative CD cover flogged from the back of a van. “Wassup, big A?”

Physics dictates that for every force there’s an equal and opposite reaction, and as part of some cosmic joke, it had made sure that principle held true in this building.

The spotted hyena embodied everything the workplace dress code explicitly forbade. He wore a T-shirt advertising a punk band no one had ever heard of, piercings glittered from his ears, nose, and lower lip. His hair, a shock of hyper-pink fading into lurid acid green, was cut at an aggressive and asymmetrical angle. Every piece of clothing was torn, some deliberately, some from use, save for the spiked leather collar tight around his thick neck. His eyes hid behind a pair of utterly pointless pink-lensed glasses. The sheer concentration of colour radiating from him would likely have felled Blackthorn at ten paces.

You were still mid flow and didn’t want to move too much, but you couldn’t see a name tag on him.

“Already everyone knows me, but I didn’t catch your name?” you venture. Piss faster, man!

“’s Jake. Jake from graphics.” He beamed. He pronounced graphics with a hard F wedged in the middle. “You prob’s saw my stuff when you came in. ‘s mostly airbrushin’ most of the time, old farts wanna look nice on the front door, ya know?” he giggled at his own remark. You watch his sharp canines as he does so. “Fryin’ some bacon on your own?” he nods down at your junk, still in your hand and leans against the wall to face you side on.

You hadn’t been in here long enough to saturate the room nearly well enough for the gene to be doing this. You’re about to say something but the hyena’s tongue dances over his teeth again and he gives you a the least subtle wink and nod of the head he could manage.

You turn to face him, cock still out and spread your palms wide in invitation. You could respect front and centre eagerness sometimes.

Jake’s knees hit the floor and his mouth engulfs your flaccid penis in one fell swoop. His tongue immediately rasps against your urethra to get the salty essence therein. There was no other way to say it, your brain council had reached a unanimous verdict instantly: Jake was nasty. He was also revealed to be a seasoned cock-sucker too, once he had cleaned you off first. Before you knew it, one paw was cupping your balls while the other worked the base of your shaft. 0 to 100 in mere moments.

True, he didn’t have a long muzzle to aid him in deepthroating you but as far as you could make out he didn’t have a gag reflex at all. His whole head just moves back and forth, making a lot of wet noises as he goes. What noise does the hyena make? ”Schleck, schleck, schleck.” Apparently.

He comes up for air and nods down to his shirt, which he didn’t seem to care that he was getting bodily fluids on. “Ever heard of ‘em?” he asks while slapping your wet erection against the side of his muzzle.

You admit you hadn’t. You’d secretly wager only ten people had.

“Seem ‘em live a few times. This one’s my fave.” He dives down your length again and begins humming something like a tune. Sure, it was probably being ruined by the dick in his mouth, but you had to admit it was…stimulating. He’s also working everything outside of his mouth in tune to the beat too, pumping and fondling like he’s having the time of his life.

Well, he was. His tail was puffed out and curling up his back. Canines need to put a lot of mental effort into hiding their body language and Jake was pretty expressive.

He comes up for air again. His tongue is pierced with a simple silver stud which he is using to great effect to stimulate the underside of your glans. “’oo in ‘an ‘urry?” he asks, slobbering on both you and himself. “If ‘oo wan’ I ‘an ‘ick up der ‘ace a ‘ittle?”

“Don’t you have a job to get back to?” you ask back, scratching the space between his ears where the dyed hair wasn’t to signal you could hang around for a bit.

“’O.” he gives the head a little smooch and winks at you. “I’ve been here long enough I can slack off sometimes. What do you do? Lawyer?”

Wait, did he not know you were the corporate universal catnip gene carrier? Did he just hang around the men’s toilets and suck off anyone he could make eye contact with?

“I do admin.” You say as he does spiralling loops with his tongue around your penis again. “I’m also the corporate’s HDG carrier.”

“Wussat?” He asks, idle curiosity in his voice. He switches up technique, planting sucking kisses over the head and slowly drawing back with wet loud pops.

Good grief, was this guy was just like this? All the time? No wonder his manager didn’t mind if he left the room, he was a menace to polite society and anyone with a remotely dry dick!

“It’s like anthro’s think I smell good enough to hire.” You offer, a tad lamely. You were going to say “It’s a medical condition.” But then he might have misunderstood and stopped the things he was doing with his mouth. It was a little tricky to be eloquent at the moment.

“Ha-ha, dude, no way! That’s a thing?”

Holy shit. This guy literally is just sucking you off, during work hours, in the staff toilets, for the hell of it. When the gene catches up to him he’d suck your soul straight out of you. He’s already really giving it a solid attempt too, if you hadn’t already busted twice today already this would have been over much sooner. The hyena must have jaw muscles like piano wires, because he wasn’t slowing.

He runs his mouth up and down your shaft like a fleshy harmonica, allowing the tongue to prepare it so that when the tip meets the inside of his cheek it’s just one continuous slick slide. He constantly adjusting the angle and the pressure, getting closer to perfect. He makes eye contact with you, putting a lot of mischievous thoughts into the look you’re getting. With both hands free, he pulls the loose shirt collar down so that he can show you one of his many pierced nipples. This one has a simple bar through it.

Your junk pops free again. “Twist ‘em when you get close, suit.” He says and licks his teeth again.

Well, it was only fair. Your hand disappears in and finds the metal bar. Jake goes in for the kill: sucking, slurping, licking, pumping, jerking and teasing with commendable aptitude. You can feel your nuts clenching in preparation not soon after. You twiddle the bar, the light pain only pleasure for the hyena. He shoves your length down his throat and swallows to milk it in place. You twist harder, involuntarily, but this pain only makes him double hand grope your nuts in response.

He really was a bit zesty. The spikey collar around his neck was tight, but the proportions of his neck meant that if he presented his Adam’s apple to you, it constricts the fit so that his throat becomes even more pleasantly tighter. He does so now, with a proficiency that speaks volumes all on its own.
You can feel the orgasm coming now, and he can too with your testes rising in his paws. He puffs his chest out so you have better leverage to punish his nipple as you pulse down his throat. Hyena? More like throat goat. Even when you’re finished he keeps you in there for a while longer, mostly to show off his ability to hold his breath.

You eventually pull out of him. He keeps his whole mouth open to show you through the strands of saliva that no semen escaped and makes an exaggerated swallow to dispel any possible doubt. The spiked leather around his neck creaks in response.

“You taste good, suit.” Jake gets off his knees so that he can get off into a urinal. He takes out his cock and starts working it towards completion.

“Do you just hang out in the corridor to give out blowies to anyone who walks in?” You ask, running a finger along the blunted spikes around his neck.

“Pretty much, ain’t I a rascal?” he flexes his wide neck so your hand slips onto the shaggy fur there. “Do you just walk around getting random blowjobs then?” he retorts, cumming as you scratch around his ears and tittering at his own humour again.

“Well, this morning when I walked in, I thought it would be mostly spreadsheets. But this building has already sucked me dry three times so I am starting to suspect otherwise.”

“Fuck, man, that’s wild.” He shoves his dick into a set of very loud underwear and did up the broad belt around his waist. “Next time you’re in here don’t shake, I like a bit of salt.” He produces his beige name badge from a pocket and pins it in place. The letters “Mr. J. Carter.” Are printed there, immediately surrounded by the splashes of colour which seemed to be ready to mug it for spare change. 

You walk out together, you going one way, him going the other. You look over your shoulder before you take a turn and lose sight of him. His tail was still fully raised and fluffed out as far as it could go. You almost wonder if encouraging him like this was a bad idea…

You return to your office, this time the rest of the staff nearby had got their fix, so there wasn’t a mad scramble like before. The rest of the day involves actual work. The regular kind, with numbers and formatting errors. For you, spreadsheets aren’t difficult and no matter where you work, all that the upper management truly wants is bright primary colours on bar graphs.

However, you receive an email from Theodore Blackthorn which before today you would have interpreted very differently. You shake your head, even his profile image was a studio staged photoshoot product of perfect lighting and angles. “Do you remember the names of the people you’ve had meetings today with?”

Oh yes, you certainly did. You wonder what they’re going to do with the list. It couldn’t be anything sinister, because anything you’d disapprove of would mean you’d stop. You weren’t some body language savant, but you’re fairly sure you’d be able to tell if they were all upset about something they couldn’t speak about.

You consult your internal committee, ever ready to provide answers (just not necessarily the correct ones). Inside your mind, at the infinitely long conference table manned by various versions of you, you all speculated wildly.

The first stands up and proclaims that it could be just a simple and innocent question relating to your first day on the job. This was quickly shouted down by everyone else, because your first day so far had been entirely anything but innocent.

The second group stand up and have a whiteboard on standby. Preference analysis. Sure, you have your preferred types. Personalities, shared interests, body types. Who doesn’t? In order to get you to hump more non-humans, the workforce could be instructed on your ideal tastes. A thought comes unbidden to the fore. What if you only fucked fat people, would you come in next day to the sound of creaking chairs? The idea was dismissed. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. Hundreds of gossiping employees in one building? Not a chance. It would ruin the study instantly.

Group three offered the most likely scenario. They were going to be monitoring not you, but those you have encounters with. With a Human Domestication Gene carrier roaming the building, whose mere contact with spread happiness with the ease of breathing, what was the impact? Would lawyers win more cases? Security guards more likely to jump in front of bullets? Graphics designers…stop roaming the men’s stalls...?

Maybe. You’d only need a small analytical team to run numbers and compare notes.

Well, you think to yourself. Tomorrow you’ll help gather some more data.

Part 4. https://rentry.co/tvv5tmz8