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The Firm Handshake: Chapter 8.
By OfficeAnon
Chapter 8, Fashion Statement
“I want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit.”
Henry Miller
You thought you knew what authority felt like, but walking down a street with Ghaid Harrisson made you think again. Crowds parted around him like a sort of reverse gravity. People otherwise occupied with other things subconsciously moved rather than be in the way of him. Manual doors spontaneously became automatic in his presence.
“How did you know where I was?” you ask him, craning your neck comically to direct your voice towards him.
“Anon, the Firm has done, and will do, a lot of things to keep you with it. It won’t surprise you to learn there is nearly always someone watching you.”
“Clearly someone else had been too.”
“Correct,” he flexed and cracked his knuckles on the hand that had punched one of the wolves, each one sounded like a snapping log “but they’ll stop now and try and find someone else to bother.”
You had to take his word on it, you supposed. When the wolves’ masters turn up and find their mercenary squad in the hospital later, word would get out. Being found naked on a back street with a broken van also probably did few favours for one’s own reputation.
You appreciate the bull being there with you. It was a rare thing for you to feel vulnerable in your largely risk-free life. Sure, there was rejection from potential dates, but that was a mere shadow compared to what had just happened.
“Plus, I would feel devastated to have allowed anything to happen to you, especially after Monday night.”
“Monday night? What happened-” then you make the connection. “Oh, got lucky, did we?”
Ghaid rubbed his muzzle a little embarrassed, as if doing so he could coax the words back in from your ears. “Yes,” he eventually said when it didn’t work, “Yes I did.”
You refrain from ribbing him. The tone of his voice had a giddy edge to it. You could see him gently turning the memory over in his mind like a delicate filigree bauble. He was admiring it, seeing new details with the introspection.
“When I came home that day I sat down on the sofa. My wife, Cathy, she acted…differently. She came into the room and watched T.V with me. That quiz show was on, you know the one. I don’t remember the question, but I had told her the answer and she looked at me and said…” he paused. Like you might pause to savour a drop of good wine. “She said that she loved that I knew little things like that. But then she asked me if I knew what her favourite snack was, it’s those honey oat bites, I told her. It seemed like such a simple question, but she came over to me and…” Ghaid’s lips purse with the memory. He’s remembering the taste of her kiss like it was that drop of wine.
He stops in the middle of the street, the crowd slowly flows around you both like a summer stream, unable to approach the bull in his revery. His mind is inwards, reliving it, floating weightlessly in the warmth.
He snaps back to the present. He had cleared the words stuck in his throat. “…and it felt different. The rest of the night, it all felt…different.” He started walking again, but with a lightness as if he could walk on clouds.
Unsurprisingly, Ghaid knew what was best to buy in a sports outlet. Plus, he could reach the top shelves. Very few races didn’t have tails, so the selection for humans was fairly limited when it came to gym shorts. Not many anthro’s bothered with shoes or trainers either, but that meant that they mostly catered to humans. So, it balanced out.
Whilst you were in there however, the bull did stop and covertly ask you which of the jockstraps you thought he would look better in. A guy like him, you whisper back, the sluttier the better. You point to one which would have turned the most heads in the changing rooms, which to your pleasure he does get for himself.
It was true what they say, you live within your means. Your pay went up, and so did your expenses. Again, if this all fell apart, maybe you’d join a running group.
Ghaid offered to drive you home. While the taxi was probably safe, a small bit of you rebelled against it and wanted the extra safety. It felt a bit like failure, you had hoped you would casually shrug off the event in a burst of stoicism. You partially rationalise it as being polite to not refuse the offer, but the same small part also wanted the reassurance.
It did mean the windows had to be opened a bit, which made it a chilly ride on the way back home. He drove a 4x4, which was comically out of place in the city, but what else could have conveyed the weight? It was probably surprisingly expensive to buy everything large and reinforced.
Outside the door to your block of flats, you nod at the plastic bag holding the bull’s new underwear. “Want to make sure those fit?”
He texted his wife and told her he was at my home. This, apparently, was fine. Blackthorn was right, anthros really did view it all differently from humans. To them, it wasn’t cheating. He loved her, this was simply something else, and they’d both be fine with it.
Your flat had yet to be fully unpacked, so it appeared clean when it otherwise probably wouldn’t. Half of it was still in cardboard boxes, stacked in corners behind doors. It was still a small miracle that the great bull could move about freely. Clearly, he was used to the size differences. He managed to effortlessly dodge the ceiling lampshade each time he passed it, despite his height.
Your place was nothing special, something you could afford on your originally expected lower pay grade. A bedroom, a bathroom, and a room for everything else. There was a balcony too, but it was little more than a defunct smoking spot, not even large enough to put out a deckchair.
Ghaid gave your sofa a perfunctory prod, then decided by years of experience that it would not hold his weight and sat in front of it. You kick your shoes off and take up a seat behind him.
His shoulders were tense, but whether from the earlier violence or for the thought of what was about to happen, you didn’t know. It didn’t seem right to ask him. From your vantage spot, you gently put your hands on him and began to uncoil the tension from him.
You start with his neck, hands moving around to his throat and chin, tipping his head back into your lap. “Can I touch your horns?” That seemed to you, out of all of him, the only part few people touched willingly. He clearly took great pride in them, more than his clothing at least. He had sharpened the ends, smoothed and polished the off-white surface and even put a coat of varnish on them so that they shined like deadly marble.
“Please,” he said invitingly. The idea tantalized him. You also could tell he was happy someone had noticed the work he had put into them. They were, in their own way, a sort of fashion statement all on their own. Look at me, they said, they serve as they should and proudly.
He kept stock still, only his eyes moved to watch your fingers slide over the surface. If a human’s finger found it smooth, then it was so. You inevitably test the point, a dark needle-sharp tip. Woe betide anyone who got on the wrong side of those.
He was enjoying the scrutiny and the little expressions that made their way onto your face.
Your whole house smelled of you, and his head was in your hands. The tension in him was slowly melting out of him under your ministrations. Your hands work the spot around where his horns meet his skull, then they return to his chin before stroking the softness of his muzzle. His eyes close as he relaxes further.
A delicate kiss is planted on a passing finger, the smallness of the gesture incongruent to the sheer scale of its owner. A little sign that he has unwound himself enough.
He rises to his hooves again and begins to remove his shirt. In doing so, you can see he could have easily placed his palms flat against your ceiling. He tosses it down next to you, three of you could have fitted inside it. It smelled clean. He hadn’t even broken a sweat during the whole day.
He faces you now, his jeans come down without your intervention. It’s not control; it’s submission. He knows what you want, and he wants to show it off. Naked except for the black sports-brand jockstrap, he is a renaissance artist’s idea of a demigod. He could have hunched his shoulders and lifted the ceiling like Atlas and the heavens.
You are taking it all in, the power in all its myriad forms that he wields. He points to a chair tucked into your dinner table.
“Take a seat.”
You oblige, setting it down and sitting in it. With one hand and exaggerated care, he lifts you and it off the ground until your head is just above his, inches from the ceiling. His arm does not tremble, holding the underside with such perfect surety. It’s a thespian pose to recite a grand soliloquy.
You’re laughing at this, it’s absurd. He’s smiling at your laugh in return.
He slowly pivots on the spot, causing you to orbit slowly around the room once before he sets you gently down again. He had wanted show you this, to experience his strength through a lens of his choosing. One that made others happy, for a change.
You stand from the chair and raise your arms above your head. He delicately removes your shirt. You save him the trouble of everything else however and he uses your momentary distraction to inhale deeply from the fabric. He goes to drop it next to his own when you’re finished, but you put it back in his hand. The bull could have as much as he liked. He takes another sniff then, burying his nose in the shirt with reckless abandon having been given permission to indulge himself.
You guide him onto his back onto the floor, tossing a sofa pillow for his head to rest on. It is a complicated operation to ensure he wouldn’t crash into anything in his new state, but you both manage.
Here, you could start low, exploring the contours of his legs without them under load. He isn’t flexible, that’s for sure. It’s like a mixture of spelunking and mountaineering as you place your hands upon it all. Up the shins, around the sensitive reverse of the knee, to the wide-open fields of the thigh and onwards toward the flank.
As you progress up him, raising a leg over your shoulder as you go, you expose him more and more. His genitals, within their cloth confines, are no longer shielded by his legs like this. They hang heavy, rendered smooth by the underwear that contrasts to the shaggy fur that surrounds it all.
His torso is a mattress, plush and warm. You lay upon it, as it rises and falls with his breathing. One arm is straight out to the side, holding onto the bottom of a table leg, anchoring him from throwing you off.
He's enjoying the used shirt, but you know what he would enjoy more. You gently extract the shirt from his grip, which temporarily fought against the injustice, but quickly accepted the substitute, your own underwear.
He tentatively holds it to his nose, not wanting to just admit straight out of hand he craved it. You push it against his muzzle; he still needed that little extra permission. His strength fled his body, and neither his mind or soul sought to remove you. He’s making little bass huffing noises, turning his head this way and that both trying to get away and to dig in deeper.
You look back. His cock has escaped. You scoot back and free his pendulous balls and thick meat, pushing the fabric so it watched from the sidelines. There was no measurement you could have beaten him at here. Girthy, weighty, and as hard as a diamond. There was enough semen was stored in those balls to father an entire stadium and the parking lot outside. You would make him waste it upon himself. To see it spent uselessly was what would please you most.
You press the two members together and being to work them both. His greater size meant you could feel every bit of his pleasure as if it was your own, he couldn’t hide anything from you.
His tail shifted back and forth between both your legs as you continued the act. The heat coming off of his member compared to yours was outstanding, the simple difference in scale meant it was more like a living sex toy to you. You used it as such, dominating it for your own whims. It is made to retreat, to feel small in comparison. Brought low and subjugated. Pressed flat against the owner and pinned.
Up and down your hand went, but always you kept you both in contact. He was enjoying it more than he thought he would have. Hot precum oozed from the tip, warmed by his own internal heat. It treacherously helped you both along. It dribbled past you in thick hot rivulets, past his smooth balls and caught at the base of his flicking tail. Each time you teased the most sensitive parts of him he’d tense, and his ass would clench, and draw in the lubrication.
That settled it. You’d have to fuck it now. It was doing all the work for you.
You reach over and pull both the large cushions off your sofa. Ghaid, not being used to doing this sort of thing, and was slow on the uptake. He’d been made slower by the raw HDG he had crammed his nose into as well.
He was ungainly like this, which made watching him mount the pillows under his ass endearing. His weight squashed them both severely, but they served their purpose well enough.
This pose suited him well too. You tell him as much. He looked good on his back with his huge ass in the air, balls in your grip, drooling onto himself. Each word you tease the bull with only makes it worse for him. For him, vulnerability was forbidden, and what was forbidden was erotic.
You’re slowly jerking him off now, double handed. All the way to the base, pulling everything back for show, all the way to the top to get it fully relubricated. Slowly and surely. Fluid cascades down his perineum and into his hole with each cycle.
But now you could see the pink donut on full display, his legs and thighs wide apart and in the air. Even on his back you have to practically stand as you guide him into receiving the mating press.
He may be huge, but he’s still tight. You have your whole body and his legs for support, which is just enough to gain entry. Everything inside is hot and moist and it’s all clamping down on you from every angle. You probably should have fingered him a little, but then again, you’d miss out on this sensation.
Your hands are raking through the fur on his legs, leaving grooves in their wake. You turn his lower body into a zen garden of swirling patterns as you pound into him.
At first, what he is feeling is just enough for him to bare. He’s still taking drags of scent from your underwear like an expensive cigar and each time he does his back arches a little bit. But you want to see him twist more to your touch. You change angles, hitting bits of him he probably didn’t know existed. Fresh heat is found and his other hand grips harder on the table leg.
You give him a few playful spanks on his flank. It’s impossible to miss. They don’t have a chance of hurting him, you’re mostly doing it for your own amusement. You’re probably one of a very select few people who have struck him and would get away with it unscathed.
His ass is great. You compliment it and him again, reminding him how soft he is. You slow down and deepen your thrusts, changing the angle again to find his spot. His nuts are huge and his prostate is scaled up to match. You give it as much stimulation as you can with you cock, rubbing over it with deep, long movements of your hips.
Each stroke forces a fresh spurt from him when you reach the midpoint and squash his button the deepest.
“Shit…shit, I’m close-” Ghaid takes the fabric from his nose, attempting to prolong the experience. You slow your pace in response. Maybe he was overstimulated.
“Easy there big guy. Use your words.” He’s looking around, assessing.
“I’m going make a m-mess.”
How sweet, he didn’t want your combination living room looking like a ghost had slimed it up. You rapidly pick up the pace, full speed, full depth. With one hand you stimulate his cock head at the most sensitive spot under the head mercilessly.
“You are going to make a mess. All over yourself.” You tell him. It was going to happen. He didn’t have a choice. Oh, how you loved the touch of his prostate, it was fucking on easy mode.
His back arches with the sudden onslaught, only to inadvertently give you even greater penetrating power. His orgasm arrives along with yours. You try to thrust in time with his ejaculations, ensuring the maximum about of semen is squeezed out of him as you guide it onto his front. It paints him, face to groin in several hearty bursts. His fur is immediately matted in a ragged line and he has to close one eye to keep it out.
You stay in him for a bit, that last sprint to the finish had got to your legs. His fat pink hole makes a wet sucking pop as you pull free from it. His pre and your cum dribble out and is caught by his rump fur.
You needed to sit down. You choose to do so on his chest. To him, you weighed nothing. His shirt had as much impact on his breathing as you did. You let him recover for a bit before speaking again, watching his expression go cross-eyed at your groin.
“One last job before you clock off. This needs cleaning.” You gesture downwards to dispel any doubts.
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s just like sucking your thumb, big boy.”
He slowly rolls onto his knees. Compressed like this under his own weight, his legs took on an even heftier look.
“Nice and gentle now,” you encourage him “I’m a little sensitive right now, so you won’t have to work hard. All you need to do is have a little reward, get the flavour from the source.”
He worked his jaw and opened his mouth. His head is massive; your legs have to open wider than usual to accommodate him. A broad muzzle and tongue begin a tentative investigation to the wonderful smell within.
You guide him with easy words and simple commands. This wasn’t a blowjob as such, more of a cleanup operation. But, you had to let him know he wasn’t free until it was done. You grip both his horns to keep him in place. Well, you mostly used them to guide his head safely about. You had been wanting to hold them since you first met him, to control the power yourself. His neck alone could have thrown you off, but he turns this way and that at your behest regardless.
More gentle kisses met your flesh, mostly on the head of your dick, which combined with his hot breath caused some fresh essence to come forth. He wasn’t quite comfortable with putting your whole length in from a lack of experience, but he did have a wife and so long licks worked you instead.
If you wanted a man to like you, you needed to only give him what he wanted, but rarely received. Compliments. A good compliment could keep a guy going for years, a little spark to bring out when things got glum. There were people out there with more blowjobs to their name than sincere appreciative comments.
Ghaid no doubt got remarks about his strength daily, he had become numb to them. What kept his wood at full mast was you running your hand over his head and saying how soft his ears were, how you could see how much effort he put into his horns, the surprising amount of skill he had with his tongue.
You saved the best until last. “You’re so considerate, how you remember what other people like. The small details, so easily forgotten.”
That is what drove him to tongue bathe your groin until you could take no more.
You released his horns and let him stand. He removes his shoved aside underwear and used it to dab up some of the more sticky zones of his body.
Your bathroom may not have been sized for a bovine of his stature, but he could still use the bath and a towel to get the ropes of jizz out of his fur and ass.
As he did that, you put your living room back into order, re-plumping the sofa pillows and sliding them back on. Shifting the table and chairs back to where they normally stood, that sort of thing.
He came out, naked but dignified. As he walked his genitals swayed freely before him. Lighter now, but still large.
You have the newer, more sexual jockstrap in hand. You twirled it about your finger, then held it up to inspect it. Oh yeah, this would work.
You help him into it, not that he needed it, but it gave you another chance to touch him. You dress him like a squire to a knight. Your fingers run along the edges, threatening to return him to full strength.
The cut of the design was more flattering to his curves, and the bright colour could not be hidden by his fur. The irony was that sometimes things like this were also just more comfortable with how they supported the important bits.
You didn’t have a mirror he could see it in, so he made do with the dulled reflection in your television. The colour still shone back at him.
“It’s good. Real good. I’d fuck you in it.” You say, admiring it all.
He gave a deep chuckle at this. “I got it in my wife’s favourite colour.”
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