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The Firm Handshake: Chapter 6.
By OfficeAnon

Chapter 6, Deskwork
“The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.”
George Carlin

You walk into your office the next day with a smug expression on your face. Having spent yesterday afternoon furiously typing, checking and rechecking, you had managed to submit the work back to the people in the email before you had left for the day. You aren’t amazing at mathematics, but then again you did not have to be, that’s what the computer and internet searches were for.

Right on cue, Blackthorn arrives on the scene. You swivel the screen around to face him and his face is drawn to it like a moth. The emails you’d received this morning were part of the long chain from before, but now they were a mixture of relieved thanks and admiration for the speed it had been sent back. It all seemed like what you had submitted was the solution.

Blackthorn’s eyes scanned it all twice, his mouth moving slightly as he did so. “Mister Anon here is more than just a pretty face it seems.”

“I traded my chance at an artistic career to be good at spreadsheets. It’s about my one and only truly marketable skill.”

“You have a lot of time to learn another. You would be amazed to learn what my clients learned behind bars.” Blackthorn scooted around to your side of the desk, spinning the monitor and taking the other chair with him. He leans over and breathes in the smell of your hair. “Better than coffee,” he remarks and steals your keyboard out from under your hands. He begins typing an email, equine fingers make the keys click oddly as he goes. You’re about to object to this, but he types faster than your mind can come up with something to say.

You decide to let him finish. What he has produced is essentially an offer to attend the meeting to explain what you had done. It was written differently to how you would have done it, mentioning people by their department titles instead of their names. It was outside your normal pay grade. There were a lot of acronyms in there you had never seen before, fictional or otherwise.

“Before I send this Anon, you may decline. But, I think it would be a very important step for you. It normally means more work comes in, but I think given your circumstances that won’t be too much of a concern.” Blackthorn had put on a serious mentoring tone. The meeting would be this afternoon, clearly advanced by a week.

“Theodore, I couldn’t possibly begin to explain what half of these acronyms even mean! I just know how to put the numbers together and make them look pretty.”

This only served for him to make a few minor edits. “There.” A solid chunk of the fearsome capital letters had been escorted off the premises. “Just tell them the truth, you’re new and that you are unfamiliar with the acronyms. They probably won’t even ask about them. Go on, for me?”

He arched his back and wiggled his butt. It was like he could move his ego around with his centre of gravity. He could make you look at his eyes or his ass at will. It was too early to say no to either, especially since you had decided to not even bother dealing with your morning wood.

“Send it.” You command, like a captain of a space ship.

Blackthorn presses two buttons. One on the keyboard, one on his trousers. He flicks his cascading hair over one shoulder and reality gives him a slow-mo straight from a shampoo commercial.

“I’m not sure if I deserve an award or if you deserve to be punished.”

Blackthorn puts on a sultry tone. “A good manager rewards hard work. And, some positive reinforcement,” he gives you a half-lidded expression as he runs a finger across his body “will help you remember what’s important.”

You are willing to let this clear attempt at dominance slide.

“Get under the desk. We have work to do.”

You had invented a fun game by the time someone else knocked on the door and you called them in. There were few games that weren’t fun with your pants around your ankles. You were preparing for the meeting by working through memorizing the definitions of the remaining acronyms. Blackthorn was helping, head between your thighs, pleasuring you as you recited them back. This time his skill had been much improved.

The door knocker was another dog, something chocolate labrador-ish. Only rich families were purebred enough to truly say they were one sub-species. It was a whole mini-culture in of itself. “Your email about the meeting with Mr Blackthorn? Here’s the files you asked for me to drop off for you, Mr Anon.” He is holding a few freshly printed sheets of paper bearing the spreadsheets you had worked on.

Blackthorn made a noise through the cock in his mouth which tickled you nicely. A morning protein shake, indeed.

“Theodore is a little busy at the moment, mister…?”

“Bewick, Luke Bewick. I’m his P.A.” he extended a paw.

You lean forward to shake it. He can see your groin, and by extension, Blackthorn nose deep in it. They make eye contact. You guess Luke had been informed, but still didn’t quite grasp, the reality of the situation before now. The charming demeanour that all of his kind shared put up a good façade, but you can tell there’s some awe behind it. He had probably never seen his boss this compromised before. The mental image had not matched reality.

“Who’s a good boy?” you beckon him to lean in. This sets his tail going. You then ruffle his hair and scratch him behind the ears briefly. This causes him to function as a desk fan all by himself. “I have to get back to this. But if you’re his P.A, then I’m sure we’ll be working together again soon.”

It was probably pretty great to be Blackthorn’s personal assistant and also be a dog right now. For the past three days the horse had been hotboxing himself in your scent and then sitting next to him all day. Blackthorn certainly had a dominant personality, so it no doubt extended the gene’s reach even more. Maybe that’s why you were working under him specifically?

One of Luke’s feet twitched and thumped the floor until you stopped petting him. Man’s best friend for sure. You had a friend like him when you were young, the sort of friend everyone liked because he liked everyone else. You had only known them for a year before they moved, too pure to exist in your world. You were too young at the time to know what unconditional love was, but you saw it for a brief moment in Luke’s eyes here and now. Sure, the adult world had taken the shine off it, but a little elbow grease and it would come back.

“Theodore is helping me name fingers and point names.”

The horse came up for air. “Luke, if you like you can assist Anon here until the meeting starts. Once Anon is satisfied with my help, of course.”
He dove down again, head bobbing up and down. He was really getting the hang of it now.

“If it’s no trouble,” you offer “and you feel comfortable with it.” Many paws make light work.

It was likely Luke had acclimated somewhat to your gene’s effects by his proximity to Blackthorn, because he wasn’t a drooling love-struck nincompoop like Briggs had rapidly turned into. But, he still wasn’t immune. It took a lot to become properly resistant in much the same way it took a lot to dislike your favourite smell.

Luke wasn’t about to turn down his new favourite scent. He took your other seat and flipped through the numbers on the papers front of him.

You, on the other hand, felt Blackthorn was becoming a little too big for his britches. You hold his head in place and then pin it by wrapping one leg behind the back of his head, trapping him in place like a set of medieval stocks. Up until now, the horse had been setting the pace. It would be good for his P.A to see him like this.

You flex your leg, causing the horse to be thrown off rhythm and you keep him that way for the next minute as you press the head of your dick into every part of his mouth, ensuring no part of it was missed out as you paint the walls white. You’re not mean, you still signal to him when you’re about to cum. And you ensure it strikes the whole length of his tongue. You had been drinking a bit of pineapple juice recently.

You gently stroke the horse’s long muzzle as he swallows and recovers. You can see he’s pleasantly surprised at the taste, because he gives the rest of your shaft a few extra licks to confirm the improved flavour. “Maybe I’ll spend a day drinking apple juice and give you a real surprise.”

It still impressive how Blackthorn could reset himself from these little trysts. Your leg had messed up his mane, his curly hair had been tussled about and he had spittle around his mouth from when you decided to take over. Yet, it all seemed to reset itself almost on its own. His hands would vaguely participate to keep up the illusion but he was like Teflon, shit just didn’t stick to him. Even his exit from the room was graceful, like you had just been in a play you had all rehearsed and now he simply Exited: Stage Left.

“Has he ever worn anything other than black?” you ask, zipping up your flies.

“Not since I’ve worked here.” Luke’s nose had a life of its own getting the scent in the room. “And that’s at least 7 years.”

Like nearly everyone else who worked here, Luke Bewick had a two-piece suit. This one was a few shades of royal blue, though he had a tie with matching cufflinks with cartoonish bone motifs. You could never hope to have that much joy in your clothing, but the labrador would be missing a piece without it. You compliment him as such, and he grins widely in return.

“You end up getting all sorts of them gifted to you. I’ve got one I break out over summer which is covered in pink hambone joints.”
You could envy having the demeanour to do something like that. They say fashion is simply confidence, and you had a few types of confidence to draw from, but just not that type. You couldn’t win them all, let someone else have the whackiest tie in the office. You couldn’t pin a butterfly beneath glass and expect it to remain beautiful.

You watch his nose continue to explore the air as he starts to go over the upcoming meeting. You feel a tinge of guilt. “I’m sorry for the…smell.” You find yourself apologising. “If it’s too much we can go somewhere more aired out.” Luke wasn’t suave or mean, nor timid or reserved. It felt almost wrong to subject him to the HDG coming off you.

“No, no! It’s fine. It’s quite nice, actually. Sorry, was I being rude?”

Was he being rude? You’re looking at this wholesome bundle of help, heart purer than undriven snow, and he was asking you if he had been in the wrong.

This was clearly divine retribution, punishment for the past few days of wicked, sinful, unmarried butt-fucking. Even the idea of holding hands with Luke felt like you’d taint him by association.

You can’t see any overt signs of the gene affecting him however. He didn’t look at you distantly through half-lidded bedroom eyes, or pant and drool over your crotch like the others had. There was a lot of eye contact though and his smile was infectious.

Body language. Words. Actions. Use them, Anon.

“No, not at all. I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.” You let some of his smile in, there was a lot of it going spare. “And I maybe should have asked before petting you. I feel that was rude of me.”

The smile on the dog’s mouth continued earnestly, but the cheer spread to his eyes as well now and somehow enriched them. You would have done anything if it meant it stayed there forever.

“Actually, I found it very relaxing,” He paused for a moment and continued “maybe don’t go straight for the weak spot next time?”
You find it relaxing too. Lots of humans enjoyed petting non-human things. A human would pack-bond with a cinderblock if you stuck googly eyes and felt on it.

You slowly extend a hand towards the underside of his chin, testing for permission. When he didn’t pull away or say anything, you gently give it a few moments of playful attention. Just a little to make up for it.

Luke allowed his head to rest on your palm, and continued to talk about the meeting at the strange angle. He seemed to have a knack for names, because the amount of them he references over the next hour seems endless.

He transitions slowly from sitting next to you, pointing at the screen and occasionally poking at the keyboard, to reclining with his head on your shoulder, eyes closed as he talks. He had such contentment about him. More so now you were cradling him this way.

It felt so nice to make him happy. The way he tilted his head to guide your hand, a small murmur of relaxation beneath his breath, made something inside you unclench. You found the rhythm of his breathing, steady and slow, until your own matched it without meaning to. His tail thudded lazily against your leg. Not in excitement, but in comfort. The sound was oddly domestic. He simply enjoyed being here, being useful, being near. He radiated warmth and faint peace, eventually turning your lap into a pillow as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

He had fallen asleep on you by the time lunch rolled around.

You watch as Blackthorn appears outside the window, his reflection sliding across the glass before the real figure followed. You pressed a finger to your lips and nodded towards the sleeping form beside you.

Blackthorn’s expression softened into a theatrical pout. He clasped his hands together in mock sentiment and mouthed, “Such a baby.”

The door opened with barely a sound; he moved as though the air itself parted for him, his dark suit blending into its own shadow.

He crouched beside Luke, placing a large hand on the labrador’s shoulder and giving it the gentlest of nudges.

Luke stirred, eyes blinking open in slow confusion. It took him a moment to orient himself. His ears flicked once, twice, as if searching for context, and then he looked up at you. His expression cycled through a few modes. First with alarm, then dawning realisation. After which followed embarrassment and fondness all at once.

“Did I-? Oh, I’m so sorry, I must’ve-” He rubbed at his eyes, sitting upright. “I didn’t mean to…fall asleep.”

“On the contrary,” Blackthorn said softly, straightening to his full height. “It seems you found the most comfortable seat in the office.”

Lunch was a more sophisticated affair this time around. You are all eating something that will sustain you for the upcoming trial. Here you observe a small insight into why the anthro-human world would not come together by tomorrow.

The reason was the contents of Luke’s sandwich. Perfectly formed from the alchemy of modern science was a slice of ‽meat. Colloquially called Bang Protein it was 99% the same in all regards as regular meat from animals. The vast majority of humans would not surrender that last 1%. You had to shamefully admit that you could sense the absence too.

You struggle to articulate exactly what it lacked. The only word that seemed to fit was sin.

Would you give everything up just to taste that lost corruption again? Hopefully not.

Aside from that, the quick quizzing from the two of them suggested you had managed to absorb enough of the social side of things to get through the meeting hopefully unscathed. You haven’t revised this much since you were in cramming for exams in school. You force down the inevitable feelings that simmered inside you that you’ve made a mistake somewhere and are about to embarrass yourself in front of The Important People.

There are meetings to plan action, and meetings to document inaction. Luckily, this one was the former, for the latter marked you as the enemy. Standing on the shoulders of giants was a perilous prospect if they were intent on shaking you off.

Meetings, as a whole, are terrible writing material. They were dull affairs, full of dull people, talking about dull things. This is a shame because you wish someone was writing about this one.

Your first easily identifiable face is spotted immediately, because of her spots. Ms Bellini, a jaguar lady of advanced years, was sitting at the head of the table inside the conference room already. Fresh from the 1980’s, her already striking fur had been accentuated further by some high blue jeans and a salmon-hued blazer sporting some shoulder pads. She had a set of horned-rimmed spectacles on a thin beaded chain.

There were others too, from the posters and marketing material as well, but they were situated at the back of those and hadn’t been classified as a threat. They were mostly milling about with the arcane seating arrangements that had rules as complex as a medieval monarchy’s succession laws. Since you had the numbers, you’d be situated at the head of the table with the computer, bypassing the byzantine process entirely. Next to Ms Bellini.

She wasn’t disarmingly charming, or overtly hostile. She was a secret 3rd option: Patronising.

“Oh, so you’re the new one?” she would say with a jovial tone that continued on into “When I was your age we didn’t faff around with computers!” which in turn devolved into “Are you sure you know how this all works?”

All of it had the same “You’re too young for this and you clearly know nothing,” edge that had probably sapped all morale around her for years. She had given up meat to hunt another prey known as “self-worth”.

The numbers acted a shield when they came on the big screen. The bright primary colours had the same effect on the upper management as it did on people aged 0 to 3. The horse and his P.A left, having other duties to attend too, and left you alone amongst your new acquaintances.

You try to follow along as best you can. You had a few meaningless phrases to act as ablative armour in times like this, such as the ever reliable “It’s all a matter of balance,” which could be inserted as a response to nearly anything in times like this. But eventually, the spotlight turned upon you.

In reality, the change you had made to the data was fairly simple. Too much had been attempted all in one go, things had got lost somewhere amongst it all and things which should have indicated green or yellow had turned orange or red and no-one knew what had gone wrong. You point to a major culprit on the screen.

Someone raised a paw. You didn’t recognise them immediately. It was another dog, a slab of a rottweiler. An impressive specimen of one too. He had been standing next to the printer you fixed.

“The way you’ve done all this means it doesn’t fit on the paper anymore.” This was really shorthand for “We’ve always done it this way, why did you change it?” he had a version which showed all your workings, which did look ugly, admittedly. You had prepared for this and slid him your copy across the table, in front of everyone. Aside from the correct numbers, it was indistinguishable from the original.

This started the verbal fencing match for the next hour. At first, the rottweiler was grumpy and stubborn. But with each rebuttal the grouchy attitude was replaced with something you were failing to name. The questions became more technical as well, he was really trying to find a fault with it, and you’re spending more time on ripostes than you thought you’d need. He goes in for the coup de grâce, and you respond by making the numbers dance in front of you both before the live studio audience.

Two samurai swing
Their blades are numbers flashing
A slain dog grins blood

Was that…was he happy to be told he was wrong? The room had the air conditioning on and was pretty large, it can’t have been the human domestication effect on him making him subtly adjust his suit.

The brief moment pushed all the others to sides, it was just you and him. He had this appeal to him, the same way a steep hill on a hike did. It wanted you to climb it, it wanted to be conquered. It wasn’t going to let it happen, but it wishes that it does.

You can’t tell what he’s seeing in you, the one second you spend in this moment isn’t long enough to know. Admiration, whispers something inside you.

The rest of the meeting continued on as you sat back down. You are having to control your breathing, that duel had taken it out of you.

You nod along at the appropriate times, but your focus is on the rottweiler. You watch his broad shoulder roll when he leant forward to read the papers in front of him, the flash of brown amongst his black fur when he turned his paw over, or scratched his chin. He still had this outward frown, but now it had been tinted with that certain something.

When the meeting broke and he rose with the others, what the table and the tailoring had concealed was suddenly revealed. The suit had done its best to disguise it, but his build was impossible to ignore once he moved.

He was a meaty hound. Arms, legs, thighs, waist, neck, everything, it was all built with substance. Not fat, but marbled, like the forbidden steaks back home. The strength was streaked with softness, dense but unpretentious. It was the sort of strength that you normally associated with timber beams. The muscles didn’t strain against the bulk, they were bolstered by it, a weight they were comfortable living in. You hang back purely to watch his glutes work, which carried him without effort, down to his thighs which could shatter watermelons. There were triceps you could swing from. A belly with credentials. There was even a cute stubby tail to tie it all together.

It's too late to ask his name now, that was the price of this victory.

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Pub: 09 Nov 2025 23:38 UTC

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