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The Firm Handshake: Chapter 4.
By OfficeAnon

Chapter 4, Office Politics
“Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
H. L. Mencken

The work day ends, and you decide to do a little bit of shopping. Previously, clothing was something you bought for lounging around in, for some private couch-potato time, or the occasional new white-collar shirt when you had turned the old one grey with wear. However, even without whatever the bonuses would end up being, your new job still paid handsomely. You currently didn’t have the sort of funds that Blackthorn clearly had, but you weren’t living paycheque to paycheque. Your life was so unremarkable before this point you didn’t even have that as a talking point. Not poor, not rich.

As you stroll down the glass roofed cathedral to commerce that was the large shopping centre, you ponder how the law firm would have snagged you if you were homeless and in rags. They’d probably contrive a method, to them money was just “numbers” on a screen. You could brute force many solutions when you viewed resources in that manner. It dehumanized things quickly.

You’re already viewing clothing outlets with a different perspective. Sure, an expensive suit was an expensive suit, but now it seemed, well, not beneath you but more of a side-grade. A uniform for customers to see you on the street with, no different from any other. Your clothing on the other hand needed to be comfortable, in the same way you needed steel capped boots for a construction site. You probably couldn’t get away with whatever the hyena wore yet, but you didn’t need a collar for a tie to go around, that was for sure. You select a few somethings, not going overboard with style or money just yet, just in case this entire day had been an elaborate prank or something.

You turn the name badge over in your pocket, to remind yourself it was there. Like a talisman. A key to the most important gate of your life. If all else fails, at least you had some nice new clothes to go dating with.

The next thing to do was to visit some other stores. The ones staffed by either bored women in their early twenties or the most scandalous old ladies society can provide. You needed Things. Things made of silicone, rubber, faux-leather, or chromed steel. The sort of Things that airport security dreaded finding more than explosives or bottles of water. You briefly consider getting a few items that needed batteries, after all, you could get those from the office stationery cupboard…

Again, Anon, pace yourself. Play your cards right and you’d be filling the next 30 years with all this.

Your taxi home is a nice sharp cutoff point from the day. The human driving the taxi is a different one who picked you up this morning. Ever the source of political wisdom, the driver rambles on about their opinions about the demographic of the individuals in the area. You nod along obligingly, omitting the fact you were going to get to know them a whole lot more tomorrow, while the driver was merely “Just asking questions.”

You return to your apartment. You had only just recently moved into it, so everything was presently clean and fresh still. With your paycheque you could easily hire a cleaner now and keep it that way indefinitely. Probably a bad idea, on brief reflection. What if one of them was an anthro? They wouldn’t steal your phone, they’d pilfer your pants. Better now to instead proceed as normal before devolving into a life of hedonistic debauchery. You make dinner, partake in your hobbies, and decide not to mention to any of the friends you chat to about your current medical situation.

The next day has a gloomy drizzling rain, but you hardly notice it. In one hand you have a briefcase, simple and assuming. It would not have looked out of place amongst all the others. You nod politely at Mrs Silverton as you pass her on your way up to your office. Two anthros join you in the elevator.

“Morning mister Anon.” they say, almost in unison. One of them, a youngish woman, was snow leopard in a fairly nondescript attire. The other was a ram in a pinstripe suit with a flash of colour from a folded pocket square in his breast pocket.

“Morning both. Although I just started, I am intending on working here for a while.” You grin back, patting the briefcase. You allow the contents to rattle slightly, to allow their imaginations to ponder what exactly made sounds like that.

The snow leopard makes eye contact with you and adjusts her blouse unnecessarily. The ram flexed a hand, before holding it with the other to steady himself. “Well, that’s great news. Always nice to have another specialist onboard.” The leopard offers.

The lift began to ascend. You put your briefcase down next to you, allowing another small noise to bounce off the metal walls. “So, where do you both work?” you ask, pretending as if you didn’t have a case full of tantalising mystery in your possession.

“Actually, we both work in accounts-“ the ram begins.

You spread your arms out behind them both, and pull them closer with a hand on their sides like the good buddies you were about to become. Neither did, nor wanted, to resist.

“I’ll have to stop by over my break.” You allow your hands to travel down to their backsides.
“Yes-“
“Sure-”
“Absolutely!” they said over each other, voices tripping and tangling as your give their posteriors a light squeeze each.

The lift doors slid open on your floor, and you lifted the suitcase from the ground before stepping out. “Do excuse me, this is my floor,” you said, watching them leave with foolish grins. For a moment, you almost envied them. Almost. Still, taking charge remained the greater reward, followed only by the satisfaction of a pleased companion.

A few others see you stepping out, but they also see the leopard and ram’s faces. Morning fatigue lifted from them in moments. You enter your office and boot up your computer. While that was going on, you begin filing the contents of your briefcase into your drawers. The pencils were pointless, the ink insignificant. The desk detritus was pushed to one side to allow the real tools of the trade to take their place.

A long shadow stepped through the door. It’s hand close the briefcase obscuring your view.

“Theodore.” You acknowledge Blackthorn politely. After all, he was your manager. He was still dressed in all black, it was just a whole different three-piece-suit-combo that also happened to be black. He probably had one for each day of the week. “Why don’t you come around here and take a seat?”

He didn’t close the blinds. Why would he? It was good for morale. Instead, he puts his blazer on the hook on the reverse of the door and sauntered over. He’s looming over you now, a fiendish mastermind about to gloat to the protagonist about his scheme to take over the world with a giant death laser.

As he stands next to you, he swings a leg over your lap to straddle. Lithe arms reach over your head to hold the back of the chair for support. He’s mostly supporting his own weight with his own immaculate physique, but has enough weight on you to let you know he’s there. His curly hair cascades down from his shoulders to block out the light between the two of you as he looks down into your eyes.

“Silverton informs me he’s quite pleased with your first day’s performance.” His voice wasn’t honey. It was molasses: dark and deliberate, like everything about him. But soft at this close proximity.

“Performances. Plural.” You smugly reply. Sure, you hadn’t gone all day without pause, but you like to think that kept it special.

“Very funny, Anon. I hope you’ll save some for these daily one-to-one’s.” he grinds your thighs a little, teasingly. It’s working.

“This is a bit better than yesterday.” You put your hands on his waist.

“My boyfriend was very willing to teach me last night. More so than ever before.” He traces a finger down your chest.

“How nice that my manager is willing to learn new things for me.” You continue guiding his waist back and forth. You had never paid for a lap dance and supposed that now you would never would need to. Besides, minimum wage truckers could pay for dancers, but you suspect very few people could afford Theodore Blackthorn.

He grinds some more, clearly hoping you’ll let him do something beyond this mere friction. You pull him closer, his curvy legs fully around your waist. You give him a playful nibble on his neck. He was still very attractive, after all. His knees wobble. Not from the strain of the position, he could probably hold this for hours, but instead from the pleasure warming him through where your lips make contact.

“There is also the matter of…ngh…the spreadsheets you submitted. You may find yourself promoted on your work merits, r-regardless of your innate abilities.”

You’re enjoying the cologne he has on today, it’s got a hint of wood shavings to it. Your mouth moves down to the buttons on his shirt and you begin to pop them open. You can see on the other side of the glass the occasional anthro try and casually sneak a glance into the world within. No doubt told by another and having to see it for themselves. If they missed you yesterday, they didn’t want to today, just in case you were no more than an excited rumour.

“Have our other colleagues ever seen you like this before?” you ask, as you expose his shiny manicured chest to your mouth.

“Never. But I do enjoy it now-” that ‘now’ was stretched into a pleased sound as you allow your mouth to dance over his chest.

You stop and look up at him again. He’s maintaining his composure more than yesterday, but you can make his eye twitch just with some pressure on his hips with your hands. The serene intimacy offered by his hair draping over you is held for a little while longer before you jiggle your legs to signal him to dismount you.

“I’m going to do a few things. Check on a few departments. I met two from accounting on my way up.” You say, as the horse untangled himself from you and the chair.
He gave you another award-winning smile. “I shall let you loose then, though do join me for lunch.”

It was a bit awkward that you didn’t exactly know where accounting was situated per se, but you had functionally unlimited time to figure it out. The building was a finite space. You closed your office door, after all, you didn’t want to spoil the surprises you had in your drawers. Or, at least, not those pairs.

You select the next floor down on the elevator. It was much like the one for your floor, except you didn’t recognise the abbreviations which separated the cubicle fiefdoms under their banner. You incline your head to people as you pass. It is easy to project confidence when acting confident was all that was needed. It was self-reinforcing.

You spot a gaggle of suits standing around something. Your arch-nemesis, a large printer. Bane of offices everywhere, no creature could smell fear and resisted pleading better in the animal kingdom. You never showed weakness to a printer; they could tell when you were in a hurry. The collected pack that had formed around the device were bemoaning a lack of yellow ink, a most dire plight.

“Morning all.” You interject. “Shall I get this for you?”

The tides part around you. The various anthros watch in awe as you look and read the error message, then follow its simple commands. You slide the spent yellow ink cartridge out and slot the new one in within moments. Internally, you’re sighing. Human, anthro, it didn’t matter. People didn’t read error messages. Outwardly, you put on your P.R face. A gentleman is never rude on accident.

There was always a risk with being associated with “computer knowledge”, because then people would come to you for every little trivial problem. Here, however, with your HDG status, it was as if an angel had come down from the sky to solve the issue themselves.

“I’ll go downstairs and get a fresh cartridge.” You say, as if it was no trouble. It wasn’t, but to their busy schedules, it appeared otherwise. Being occasionally nice was a superpower everyone had. You could get a lot done if you were. It’s how you sometimes were able to slack off.

But also, you needed to be social. Normally, associating with coworkers was low on your list of priorities. They rarely shared your hobbies or interests, amongst other many nameless little incompatibilities. Office jobs can very easily squash the soul out of someone and render each of you into anti-social globs, despite sitting next to each other all day. They could become adversarial, delays and mistakes blamed on each other, reporting each other to HR and in turn fearing retribution in turn. Humans frequently hatched Machiavellian plots in these microcosms against each other. Here, however, your presence was always assumed to be the best intentions. Even if those intentions were to do unspeakable acts to their posteriors. It wasn’t mind control, but it did disarm negative thoughts in such a way that it may as well have been.

The elevator dinged and opened to a room with lower light levels. Screened illuminated faces of intense concentration. Great minds were gathered here to answer the even greater questions of “My PC won’t turn on,” and “What is my password?” and the ever popular “It’s not working,” with no additional context needed.

You select a face. It belonged to someone with a snout and glasses. “What’s a guy gotta do around here to get some fresh yellow ink?”

The snout stuttered something, cleared its throat and tried again. “I need to ask my manager.” The timid voice said. You’re adjusting to the darkness now and can see you’re speaking to rotund porcine fellow of the pig persuasion. The way he said it implied his manager wouldn’t be happy with this.
“Well, let’s go see them, shall we? Come on,” you say it with a jovial tone that implied he was never going to say no. And, let’s be honest, he wouldn’t have. Especially when you put an affirming hand on his shoulder.

The pig informed you his name was Borchi as his wrung his little hands together. He was a head shorter than you, but he no doubt weighed more.
Borchi’s manager, on the other hand, was a very stern-faced dog of a shorthaired type you couldn’t identify. The dynamic was obvious immediately. The ink robber-baron of the helpdesk department world. A little power could go a long way in some people’s heads and inflate their ego like this pig’s waistline.

“Little Borchi here says you have the replacement ink I need?” you say with a voice as if you’re all good friends here, and that you couldn’t imagine a world without you giving it to me.

“Did he now?” came the response, with the tone that implied punishment as soon as you were out of line of sight. You have had this type of manager before; in an office they were practically inevitable. Like mould.

“Please show me where you keep the spares.” You insist, earnestly. “It’s my second day of the job, it’ll probably help if I know where they were.” You locate a name tag. “Mr. P. Briggs”.

You could tell at a glance where they would be, in the small supply room to the back of this space. The small, cramped, supply room. Briggs stood up and began to walk towards it. He was about to tell Borchi to stay put, but you instead cut him off before he can start and ask him to follow before either could object.

The room had been made narrow by the various supplies on either side that have been stacked and shelved as space permitted. It was mostly stationery, a few laminators, paper guillotines, that sort of thing. Briggs went in first, then Borchi, then you. The light click on, the door clicked shut behind you.
“Just the one yellow, please, for one of the larger printers.” You cheerfully nod towards a promising looking box. You just needed to keep them talking for a bit. They couldn’t get past you here. Borchi looked like he was going to fold up into himself as his manager grumbled and selected a fresh box.

“Something the matter?” you ask, leaning forward over the pig.

Briggs gave a dry little cough. “You know,” he said, inspecting the label as if it might be contraband, “these are meant to be signed out properly. There’s a form for it. Wouldn’t do to have people thinking they can just take things.”

He’d fallen into your trap. You pick up something vaguely form-like and wave it in front of you. “One of these, you mean?”

He turned around, the paper wafted air around the room. Briggs was having trouble focusing on it. “No? No.” he grunted. He probably wanted to say something else, but you were standing behind the pig like some temple guardian and the idea petered out.

“I’m sure Borchi here would have issued me the right form.”

“I’m sure he would have,” the dog grumbled again.

Borchi gave out a little “Ah” as you touched him again. He was certainly heavier than Briggs, so they were probably both primed and ready...

Your voice switches from telephone friendly to drill sergeant. “Heel,” You lace the word with the authority granted to you by virtue of him being a dog, and you being a human. Tens of thousands of years of shared history causes Briggs to freeze, expression like a teenager caught sneaking back in by his parents.

“Drop it,” the cardboard box with the ink cartridge is hastily put on the side. “Sit,” his legs fold up under him without the permission or paperwork from his brain. “Don’t give me that look, Mr Briggs. I’ve seen your kind before. You should look after your subordinates, not whip them at every perceived infraction.”

Borchi is slack jawed in amazement. His face shows even more bewilderment when you say that Briggs should apologise to him. Much more softly you say “Go on, Borchi. Tell him.”

“S-say you’re sorry,” he fumbles the words out, without any bite to it.

A sound mumbles from Briggs that only the most charitable of nuns would be inclined to suggest resembled the word “Sorry.”

“Bad dog,” came the authority. Briggs flinched as if struck. “Sorry.” He said, meekly but clearly.

You snap your fingers and point to the ground in front of Borchi. “Here. Beg for a treat.”

Briggs shuffles over on his knees before the two of you. He has his hands closely flopped in front of his chest.

You lift up one of the pig’s ears to softly speak into it, you voice sending goosebumps up his pink skin. “Now Borchi, I want you to order him to give you the best blowjob he can manage.”

Borchi still seemed uncertain. Your reach down and cup his man boobs and fondle them. “Do it, for me and yourself.”

“Do it. Suck me off,” he almost said it without his voice quavering.

“You heard, dog.”

Briggs’ paws located the top of the pig’s jeans under his gut and undid the fly. Borchi really didn’t set himself up for success, those tighty-whiteys were supremely unfashionable. The dog’s lip trembled as his mouth received the command to open. Paws lowered the fabric and the tongue found itself approaching the appendage revealed there. It wasn’t big, fat maybe, but short. If the owner lost weight, it would probably would be a smidge above average.

You guide Borchi’s hands to the dog’s head. “Set the pace.”

The tongue begins working. “Lick my balls,” those words hadn’t come from your mouth. Borchi was learning.

Dogs notoriously had a good sense of smell. So as the dog began to pop each of the pigs nuts into his mouth and moisten them with his tongue, you wonder just how reluctant Briggs was if his nose was burying itself into each nook and cranny it could find.

“Both. Both.”

The dog’s tongue snatches both of them up and pulls them inside, working every wrinkle flat with his tongue. You continue to explore the man boobs. The pig should have been a sow, then he would have produced an impressive pair. As it was now, they didn’t quite fill your hands. You fondle them, looking down at the scene below. Briggs didn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hold onto something? Balance himself? He soon found the answer when the pig’s dick was pressed against his face and was forced to steady himself against the grip.

Briggs’ tongue snaked out to work what you later would learn was called the perineal raphe, and beyond to the tight gap between the thighs. Drool ran down his chin with each ragged thrust. No style or rhythm, it seemed.

Borchi was running off instinct at this point, utterly careless of what his manager was experiencing. Each thrust and pull of the head was only for his own pleasure. Briggs’ nose was repeatedly squished into his pubic mound, leaving little wet marks in return. When they weren’t being attended to, his ball thwacked into the dog’s chin, sticking occasionally with the saliva dribbling down it.

Both of them had their eyes shut. You order them both to look at each other. A moment later, Borchi slows his pace as the two lock eyes. He doesn’t stop fucking Briggs muzzle as deep as he can go, but at least it has a bit more control.

“Ask him where he wants it.” You say down to Briggs, maintaining the authority.

“Where do you want to cum?” Briggs has no fight in him, it’s all been replaced with bodily fluids.

“Open your mouth-” the pig pulls back suddenly, grabbing his dick to aim. Briggs opens his mouth wide, expecting to catch what comes next, but Borchi has such a sex-addled aim that most of it strikes his face at random.

You let go of the tits you were playing around with and pick up the cartridge box. “Now you two, kiss and make up. You better be good friends by the time I come back for the cyan.”

You only half meant it, but as you go to leave suddenly Briggs dives on top of Borchi and within moments they’re forcing their tongues into each other’s mouths with reckless abandon. They’re completely oblivious to you or anything else for that matter. They probably had a lot to sort out between the two of them, you suppose. You yank the door open, two other staff members tumble in, hands down pants.

Part 5 https://rentry.co/ffunmpxf