The Firm Handshake: Part 1.
By OfficeAnon

You wince at the sunlight as it splits the skyline in cheerfully harsh rays. The warm radiance filters through the taxi cab’s windows directly into your eyes, forcing you awake and making this first day at the office seem an even more daunting prospect. You have never been a morning person; it always takes you hours to wake up, no matter what time you go to bed. Still, you had woken earlier than usual, put on your most neutral, inoffensive office apparel, eaten a responsible breakfast as a functioning adult should, and waited for the taxi to collect you. You'd had a number of similar jobs before, you know what to expect.

The driver was another human, which did not surprise you. This city was predominantly anthro-dominated, so the few lower-rung positions tended to be staffed by humans instead. The only reason you moved here was because the paycheque they offered was so good that even the higher rent was easily offset. That had seemed suspicious at first. You had sent out so many job applications that you could hardly recall them all, and the market for office jobs was poor even in the best of times. But all the paperwork was in order, and the start date was today. You had checked, of course. No one could expect you to remember every position you applied for, and you barely remembered applying to this law firm at all. You knew next to nothing about Law with a capital “L” – the sort of thing that media skips over for being too dull or specialised. Because of that, you had spent a little time probing cautiously around the edges of the offer: checking websites, search engines, public records. They were real, and fairly high-end, from what you could tell. Even the few words exchanged with the taxi driver suggested you were very lucky to have been hired.

You watch as the inner city closes in around you. The tall shards of glass and steel rise like artificial mountains; a concrete river cuts through them, stitched together by bridges of varied architectural styles. Anthros, it seems, do not build much differently than humans. You know this from passive learning – documentaries, articles, the background noise of modern life. Some can fly, but most cannot, so pavements are necessary. Pavements bring roads, roads bring shops, benches, and eventually the familiar chaos of human-like urban design. The only real difference is colour choice, stemming from the fact that many anthros have different levels of colour-blindness. Humans like to call themselves the baseline, but their main advantages are endurance and colour perception. Maybe that explains why anthros have less of a television industry. Perhaps they simply don’t enjoy the colours?

Your head jerks forward as the taxi comes to a stop outside the office, snapping you out of your groggy thoughts. You could avoid walking entirely if you wished – one of the job’s perks is that the taxi service is included. They clearly wanted you here, despite your very average application. Stepping out onto the pavement, you take in the building’s façade: a sleek, unassuming rectangle of glass, with the law firm’s name etched in professional lettering. Anthros in suits, and their probable clients without, moved in and out with purpose. If this was an elaborate scam, they would be sorely disappointed by your bank account, so you decide there is little to fret about and walk inside.

The receptionist spots you immediately, clearly expecting your arrival. Even as a fox, she is a stereotype. Everything about her screams “receptionist” from the business dress and painted claws to the precise styling of her fur. She looks like she has been typecast straight out of a film. Before you even cross the threshold, she clicks on a small desk fan and angles it not towards herself or you, but somewhere in between. As you approach, you notice the beige name badge on her blazer: Mrs. T. Silverton. She smiles with just the right amount of fang showing. Probably years of practice of customer service, right there.

“Anon?” she asks. Aside from the taxi driver, you are the only human you have seen all day; it would have been impossible to mistake you but pleasantries must be observed.
“Yes, that’s me.” You try to inflect the response with emotion, but whatever you manage is swept away by the fan’s steady breeze. She’s using it almost like a shield. You hold your expression. Do not complain. Do not ruin the best-paying job you’ll ever get. Perhaps it’s just a fox thing. Probably. Mercifully, she hands you a beige name badge and a plastic card on a lanyard. Good grief your photograph on it is dreadful.

“Your orientation will be handled by your floor manager, Mr Blackthorn,” she says, “but Mr Silverton wishes to greet you in his office first. Head on up to the large doors at the top.”

You smile, but under the surface you’re swearing and panicking. Were these names ones you should know? Mr Silverton? The committee of mini-me’s inside your mind begins frantically rifling through filing cabinets of proper nouns, discarding useless ones from your hobbies as they go. One of them eventually locates the right folder: his name was on the front door logo. One of the partners. The rest of your mental committee immediately starts debating whether the receptionist is his daughter or granddaughter as the elevator doors close behind you, leaving you in merciful solitude. You use the brief quiet to process the fact that you’re about to meet, quite possibly, the most important person you’ll ever have a conversation with.

You try to recall his face. Was he on the company posters? Was his face on the front of the building in one of those generic guy-in-suit-shaking-hands-with-other-guy-in-suit posters? You draw a blank. Instead, you look down at your name badge: Mr A. Anon. It sounds almost professional. The elevator stops early. A loose-jowled canine in an ill-fitting but expensive suit meets your eyes, mutters something about “getting the other one going the other way,” and closes the doors again a little too hastily. You can tell you’re both mildly embarrassed. At least anthros make social slip-ups too, you think.

Mr Silverton’s office is freezing. All the windows are open as far as safety permits, the air conditioning hums quietly at full blast, and a desk fan sits between you and the elderly fox behind a very expansive, very expensive desk. Mr Silverton has been shrunk by age; his chair is raised to its highest setting. You immediately realise that the receptionist can’t have been his wife or daughter. Granddaughter seems more plausible. His orange fur has faded to a dignified white at the edges, expertly groomed by what must be a very well-paid barber. He smiled in the way that only those who have the money to run an inner-city law firm and keep a bottle of expensive liqueur on the desk nearby could.

“Please, Mr Anon, take a seat. Unless you prefer just Anon?” he asks.

“Just Anon for now, please,” you reply, hoping that nothing you say in the next five minutes gets you fired.

“I can see you’ve got the first-day jitters, sport. Don’t worry! You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t want your talents.” His tone is disarmingly genial, the practiced warmth of a forgetful grandfather. No wonder he’s successful. You mentally check your list of “talents” to ensure none have escaped: spreadsheets, emails, telephone voice, basic IT. Yes, all present. Boring but practical – the sort of skills that strangled every creative career prospect years ago.

“I’m s-sure I’ll s-settle in,” you manage through chattering teeth. The room is still icy. Mr Silverton either hasn’t noticed or is too polite to mention it. “I’ve worked in a few offices before.”

“But never one with anthros?” he asks casually.

You admit that you haven’t. That’s normal enough, society here has long since separated along those lines. Like oil and water, the two groups can mix if stirred, but they always settle apart again. Mr Silverton nods sagely, as if confirming a universal truth.
“Well,” he says, “I looked over your files myself, and I know you’ll fit in perfectly. Go at your own pace. Your office should have your details by now. No doubt Mr Blackthorn will poke his head in soon.”
The tone makes it clear the conversation is over. You incline your head and take your leave. Yet, as the door closes behind you, you are fairly certain you hear the faint click of a desk fan being turned off.

Your surprise at having your own office is immense…in that you have one at all. Not a cubicle, not a desk lost in an open-plan wasteland, but a single, modest room with your name on it. You know this isn’t the norm, having walked past the cubicle farms on the way in. You made brief eye contact with others. But here, you could close the blinds and enjoy privacy. A fake potted plant sits in the corner, your computer hums quietly, and a sticky note on the monitor lists your login details. The fantasy falters slightly when you realise that, as always, IT administration never changes, regardless of species, and you still need to handle tedious software setup work yourself. Typical.

Blackthorn, as you learn around 10 minutes later of settling in, is a horse. And it seemed that he took his name very seriously. He had a polished black hide, a tight black suit with a tighter black waistcoat. Heck, even a black shirt camouflaged a black tie. He easily stood taller than you, broader too. He clearly ate all his cereal each morning and went to the gym every evening. He had this weight to him that caused all the good parts of him to ripple and the clothing to cling onto the cords of muscles they covered. He looked like every waking moment he was grinding. High powered. Highly strung. Rich. Powerful. Successful. When he spoke, his voice was deep, and probably sugar-glazed too for that glossy edge. Lawyers like him were probably poured from moulds at the “successful businessman factory” and purchased as a premium display model.

He was saying something, but you are too busy trying to see any part of his appearance that wasn’t some shade of sleek professional black. You found yourself incredible envious of the mirror he got dressed in front of every morning, which got to see everything, the lucky bastard.
“I’ll need to speak to your IT staff.” Wait, who gave your mouth authority to speak without your say so? What question were even were you responding to?

“I’ll write their number down for you.” He responds, with that great voice again. He could easily have made it as a voice actor for suave cartoon villains, that much was certain. His eyes flit away and searched for a pen. You do a full body scan of him now, because he needs to be studied in detail. He leans forward and you feel pity for his suit’s trousers as they valiantly struggle to contain his posterior. He must do squats. You reckon you could have bounced a coin off them. The distance between you closes, you are suddenly acutely aware of his breathing. Are his nostrils flaring? Your eyes suddenly snap to the number he wrote but in doing so you become convinced he wasn’t looking at it himself this whole time. Was he watching your eyes this whole time? Get a grip on yourself, it’s just your first day in the office and now you have to speak to their IT department. Escape, reset, come back normal.
“I’ll get right on that, Mr Blackthorn.” You say. Blackthorn straightens himself and adjusted his waistcoat. Then he slowly turns and walks towards the door.

You look at the number, then suddenly back at Blackthorn because he has dropped your pen on the floor. You are uncertain if it is your mind is doing this, or if he really is doing it as slowly as it appears, because no-one picks up a pen that slowly and in that way. Legs straight, back at 90 degrees, but 100 percent of the cake on show. His tail is combed and tied into a tight bind and it does not cover a single inch of his ass. Silence has filled the room and only the slight squeak of the fabric is present as it stretches over the globes therein. Then it is punctuated by the plastic sounds of him turning the blinds shut, isolating both of you from the outside world. His nose flairs again and you hear the deep inhalation very clearly this time. He’s rolling your pen between his equine fingers like an expensive cigar. It’s the only island of colour amongst the sea of black. With his other hand, eyes still on you, he clicks the door lock to “Do Not Disturb”.

You consider your options. Number one: Yell. While offices like this dampen sound by design, someone would still notice the muffled noise immediately. Of course, if you’re wrong about what you think is happening then this major embarrassment would end your career within the 30 minutes it took for it to start. Even if you had attended the gym every day, his height and reach alone means forcing your way past him is also not an option for a dignified exit.
Number two: Feign confidence and/or ignorance. Act like nothing is amiss and maybe you can control the situation or diffuse whatever is building in the mood of the room. You’re an adult, lie for pity’s sake! Ask for where the coffee machine was or something.
Number three: Consider-

“You like what you see?” Blackthorn asks, taking a step closer. The weight on his hoof means his whole flank rippled when it made contact with the cheap carpet tile. Your brief glance at it betrays the fact that you do. With option one out of the question, and nothing beyond option two formulated, you go with Feign Confidence as your only tactic.

“I can see you put a lot of effort into it.” You respond firmly. “Did you come in here to fish for compliments?” Nice. Solid riposte, you think to yourself. Blackthorn takes another step, his long legs and the small office means he’s closed the gap to the other side of the desk already. He’s looking down at you as you continue to sit in the swivel chair on the other side and your head is now tilted too far back. Exposing too much of your throat! yells a mental committee member unhelpfully from the backlines. Blackthorn’s posture leans forward, both manicured hands on your desk. “I can see why they hired you,” he sniffs again, breathing in something he is clearly savouring. You can smell his expensive cologne, subtly applied because it too was probably very expensive and came in small bottles. “Silverton really did-”

You pushing your chair back to stand up had caused the distance between you two to expand just slightly. You watch in sudden bemusement as he overbalances trying to chase whatever smell he’s getting from you and then pretend he hadn’t done it. Your hand shoots out like a striking snake and snatches his necktie from his craning neck. You’re amazed you didn’t fumble and miss, but you can now tell that whatever reaction speed advantage the horse had over you had been replaced by whatever he’s been scenting. You’re also amazed you even laid hands on him in the first place, but you’d seen it work in a movie once and your brain committee has already proven what calibre of thought it operates with, so it just sort of happened.

“Mr Silverton really did what?” You ask, keeping his barely resisting head now lower than yours.

“Did his research.” Blackthorn answers, a little dreamily. “I can smell it on you, that…human smell.” His face has change expressions now, from Serious Businessman to Cock-Sure Authority Abuse and now Needy and Drooling.

You had heard about this sort of thing before. The rare and elusive Human Domestication Gene, which science had largely been unable to figure out. It was attributed to why humanity was able to transition from hunter-gatherers and maintain it without constantly having to retrain animals. It mostly showed itself as a slight increase in perceived charisma between animals and humans. Sometimes you saw people in documentaries that no matter where they were, even the wildest animals seemed to find their presence agreeable. Occasionally you’d see a human dating some celebrity anthro and wonder how they managed to score a catch like that and nearly every time the media would speculate it was just the HD gene. You didn’t think it was actually real!

You have but one life raft here, so you tighten your grip on Blackthorn’s tie and pull a little harder. His breath hitches. “How much research?”

“Everything. Employment, medical, dating apps. Anything publicly available. He paid top dollar. He wanted a HDG carrier, who was willing to change jobs and who ‘liked’ anthros.”

You are stunned. Amazed even. You had been hired to be walking universal catnip. “So that’s why he had every window open in his office?”

“If you stay in a room too long, well…” his eyes were half-lidded at this point. “Let’s just say normally admin officers don’t usually get their own personal desk space.”

It all made sense now. Outside the office, amongst the city, unless someone brushed up against you, neither of you would ever know it. The taxi driver had been a human for a reason, because otherwise you’d never be able to arrive to work at all. It wasn’t a perk, it was insurance. The receptionist probably hadn’t wanted to take any chances with you either. You wonder if the other staff members were fighting to get into the elevator you had stepped out of.

“And what do you want, exactly?” you ask the horse pulled against your desk. You can tell he’s fighting with himself to utter the phrase he’s about to say. Mister super lawyer here clearly wasn’t used to asking nicely for things.

“I want you to…touch me.” The sudden feeling of authority floods your veins like a high-octane fuel. You wrap the tie around your wrist to shorten the leash you now perceive it as. You go all in.

“Say please.”

There was a moment of hesitation from him, he wanted to think of his request as an order. To touch him, in his own mind, was a privilege he was granting you, the lowly employee. But Silverton had indeed spared no expense finding you. Your preferences were exactly what this equine needed, someone who would put him in his place. You tighten your grip, bringing him closer still so that his muzzle now touched your own shirt. “Please.” He says, quietly, but not too quietly.

“Stay there.” Bent over your desk this way, his ass was level with your sternum when you stand up and walk around to him. His eyes track you the whole way, but he doesn’t move for fear of missing out. From here, you can see how his mane of luscious black silken locks neatly run from his head down into the collar of his shirt, fading into his upper back. He shifts his weight and flexes his ass in doing so.

“Remove your blazer.” You order him. From this position, it is awkward, but he manages to do it without raising himself too much. Even through the shirt and waistcoat you can tell his back wouldn’t have looked out of place on a classical nude marble statue. You slide a hand from his lower back to under the waistcoat and enjoy the expensive fabric of the shirt compress to your touch as it takes on the contours underneath. The heat he’s giving off is impressive too. Already hot and bothered. You press your fingers in, feeling the thick cords of muscles like a giant guitar you’re about to play. You move higher, the points of the shoulder blades quiver as you reach them. He’s too tall to stand directly behind and reach, so your off to his side slightly. You forcefully nudge his polished hooves with a foot to widen his stance, dropping his ass in line with your crotch.

Despite the muscles, he had this lithe, almost feminine, proportion about him from this angle. He was the low-fat option, you could tell that much as your hand returns to his waist to slide up and under his dress shirt. He gasps at the direct skin contact you now share. Human hands were amongst the more dexterous and precise manipulators in the animal kingdom and domestic and anthro alike enjoyed attention from them one way or another. You allow your nails to work his spine. At this point, Blackthorn was like putty in your hands. You can tell he’s trying to hide the fact he’s enjoying this from the partially stifled sounds he was making. His rich voice was rendering the sighs, hisses and hitches into very pleasing notes.

You enjoy giving massages and know enough about anthro anatomy from various adult sources to know where to apply the pressure. You couldn’t hope to achieve this level of muscularity without being an equine, it was a simple biological fact. But right now, it was yours to dig knuckles and thumbs into. He really was highly strung, but wherever your hands roam, he relaxes. Even your limited massage experience doesn’t seem to be a hinderance, because Blackthorn is leaning into every bit of it as the heat of his body spreads across his back.

Your hands withdraw from the heat building inside his shirt and slide down to return to his posterior. There is a single button at the top of his trousers to remove and free his tail. With his shirt shoved up, you pop the button off tug his trousers down in a single jerk as far as his spread legs would allow. Even his goddamn underwear was black. They were fighting the good fight containing his backside, but the fact they did not have a single crease showed they were stretched to their limit. You could see through the expensive material at the subtly different shiny black hide underneath. You flex your fingers before grabbing a large handful and squeeze, both to feel the resistance and to give just a small amount of pain to remind him who was now in charge. “Aah.” Blackthorn’s head thumps softly onto the table surface, forehead down to focus on the sensation. You squeeze and knead each cheek with both hands. He wanted touching? Fine by you.

You increase the pressure to see what responses you can elicit from your future manager. One hand moves lower to the curve of his thigh and the more tender flesh there and your touch is rewarded with a soft moan. He tries to shuffle backwards to grind against your groin, but you’re the one setting the pace here, so you give him a sharp smack across the rump, sending a ripple through the black boxer briefs and releasing a fresh tang of cologne into the air to a hiss and an arching back. His feminine legs and ass need a little something to complete their look, you think. You snake both hands up the leg holes of the underwear, fingers going against the grain of his fur, thumbs pushing the hems higher until they sink into the cleft and make it seem like he’s wearing a thong. Like a good mare should. You tell him as much. You can’t see his face or make out the response he gives you, but if he was human his flushed face would have stuck out like a freshly spanked ass.
You spank his now exposed ass cheeks again.

It was like manhandling two huge squeezy stress balls and you’re enjoying watching his ass flex a lot. Your continued massaging is complimented by him purposefully tensing his muscles to make them dance for you. In turn, his thong only becomes more pronounced and tighter, bringing the prize between his legs into view. You glide your hands into his inner thighs, further widening his stance and presenting his nuts more. You are temporarily tempted to seize and squeeze, but opt instead to cup and feel their heft. They have a respectable heft to them and the heat from your palm is outmatched by their own. They longed for freedom, you can tell. Maybe if their owner behaves.

With Blackthorn clearly enjoying himself like a pillow princess, it's only fair you do just as much as him. Despite the fact your actual job here was significantly different from what you were expecting, you doubted your desk drawer would have any lube. That would have been a bit too on-the-nose. There needed to be just enough plausible deniability in case you hadn’t been carrying the HD gene strongly enough. “On the desk.” You grip his improvised thong and hoist him forward, the fabric biting into his tender flesh. As he pulls himself forward, you stride around to his face, perfectly now level with your own crotch. The button and zipper on your own trousers act like a hypnotists watch as you undo them, but the smell of your genitals is truly irresistible to Blackthorn, who buries his nose into your pubes to inhale directly from the source. His arms reach out and pull your waist closer, tighter. “Suck it.” You order him, kicking aside the last mental barrier the horse had against performing the act.

This is why you liked equines. Their longer muzzles meant they could always take your length down the base with little effort, no matter the skill. However, Blackthorn’s technique could use some work. Not perfect at everything, it seemed. His tongue was too hesitant in its licks and his teeth occasionally tickled your flesh, so you reach forward to pull his mane for a firm correction.

"You’re supposed to be enjoying this." He does seem to relax after that. "Good…" You stroke the top of his head gently before gripping him by his mane again and slowly pulling your cock back out. "Now do that more." He pulls away momentarily with a gasp, tongue hanging out to catch its breath from under the long muzzle. His eyes are half lidded as he looks up at you, still clearly in a haze of pleasure just from having so much of the scent in his mouth and nose. You bring your cock back into position between those his almost protesting lips. "Now be my good little mare." He moans softly and closes around your cock in agreement, swallowing as much of your length as he could manage.

Had he never sucked a dick before? Anyone could tell he was attractive, surely he must have had a boyfriend before? Unless…unless he didn’t normally swing this way. Was the hormone that potent it would make any anthro disregard their preference entirely, just to get more of it? You draw back your hips against the suction, then slowly push forward again to fuck his mouth at your own pace. His hands are still around you like a swimmer clinging to a life preserver and the wet noises he was making only added to the effect. Your hands are delicately stroking his ears, which seemed to twitch involuntarily at irregular intervals. That, it seemed, he genuinely enjoyed and had made no effort to shake you off. He also seemed to be enjoying the taste of your pre, because as soon as a drop formed your hole was assailed by his long tongue to prevent it escaping down his chin with the saliva. You feel your orgasm drawing close, which had messaged you in advance ever since he bent down for the pen. “Almost there…” you encourage him, no way either of you are going to allow your cum anywhere but on his tongue. You drive his nose into your pubes again, hot air washes over them and fresh semen floods his mouth in return. You allow him to get every bit out of you, before drawing back to scrape your dick across the entire length of his tongue and pop out of his lips.

There is a moment of silence between the two of you. You’re partially astonished at yourself for just going along with this idea. Just beyond the door and blinds was the entire rest of the office and you are still not entirely sure what you just did was “road legal” for this business. Blackthorn has to peel himself off the desk, his pressed black clothes now slightly creased and his underwear now has a prominent darker patch where he very obviously came in them. His slowly fading erection easily outsizes yours, which is hardly surprising, but you can see every bit of it contained inside the fabric prison as he adjusts it and the associated material crammed into his ass. Maybe next time you’ll have a better look, if you aren’t about to be fired.
“Bottom drawer, pass me one?” Blackthorn says, his voice becoming surer and smoother with each syllable. The hormone’s spell over him had broken with his own orgasm and you decide to oblige him, finding a box of tissues and just handing him the box instead. You smirk to yourself. Very clever. Very clean. Plausible deniability and utility all in one. No one would question a fresh box inside your desk. To his credit, he makes wiping his veiny monster from his awkward position seem easy, almost as if the roles had been reversed all along. You conclude at that point you probably weren’t about to be fired, at least not yet. But you did want a few more answers.

Part 2 and 3 https://rentry.co/r5567mpv

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Pub: 11 Oct 2025 19:14 UTC

Edit: 20 Oct 2025 17:06 UTC

Views: 358