Meeting with the Boss
#1 of The Boss
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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"No..." the jackal said as he backed against the desk, his eyes immediately diverted to the floor, his mind racing with a million thoughts he tried desperately, and failed miserably, to put down.
"Yes!" the tiger demanded instead, closing the gap between them quickly, his confidence in this issue clearly swelling just as fast as the jackal's was deflating. "In fact, I've never been so sure. Don't complain so much, most guys in your league would be stripping themselves to be with someone like me." His paws grabbed at the pressed shirt, picking at the tiny buttons with his large fingers. The stunned jackal simply looked down in a numb sense of disbelief. He was backed up against his boss's desk, with only solid wood behind him and a solid body in front. He felt he could have sooner passed through the desk like an apparition than actually force himself past the domineering tiger to the safety of the door only ten feet away. Each button came off like another thread snapping from his lifeline, the tiger taking an extreme pleasure in doing it so slowly, so deliberately, the satisfaction on his face palpable. The tiger impatiently slipped his paw into the half-open shirt, making the jackal moan as immediately as if there was a button there meant to do it. He finished the rest of the job one-handed while he squeezed and prodded, searching for the other buttons to make the jackal groan, yip, tremble, and anything else the tiger wanted him to do.
"C'mon now, you think I don't see you staring me down? See, the other guys stare at me and their eyebrows do that thing where you can tell they're thinking about killing me. Yours don't do that. Also, you're staring at my crotch, it's a dead giveaway. Now, you see..." the tiger continued his monologue, the shirt peeled back now to allow both paws their fill of groping, "It's getting a little distracting. So either I'm going to get you to stop staring at me, or make it so that when you do I don't have to feel the least bit guilty pulling you by your tie into my office. Got it?"
To all this the jackal could only manage a measly "no" that trailed off without ringing true of any kind of conviction. His paws trembled at his sides as he tried to bid them to grab his shirt, close it, and push the tiger away. They only shook, nothing more. Not a single part of him obeyed his instinct to get to the door, and even his eyes forced him to look up into the menacing grin driving down on him from what seemed like miles above. "I'm- I'm not gay, I don't want this!" The words didn't even sound sincere in his own mouth, no matter how clear his mind screamed them, he couldn't get his tongue to move with that level of conviction. Every syllable a stammer.
His shirt hung off his shoulders, open and inviting, his tie only a scrap of cloth that draped over his slight chest. He hated his weak little body, the same body that lured the tiger in with its almost effete little curves, strong enough to pull him in and too weak to push him back. The tiger's paws wrapped around his arm; the jackal nearly collapsed with a groan of belabored lust, feeling the strong paw holding him. He winced at the cutting words of the tiger's wit like a dull saw - unrefined but hell it'll do the job.
He held onto his belt, the front of his slacks bulging slightly. He didn't let go when the tiger's meaty fingers began working on the slacks' button, they didn't let go when the zipper came down like the sound of the last of his confidence ripping. He gritted his teeth. He'd hold onto his pants til the day he die, he thought, if only to keep the tiger from seeing his shame, only imagining the words he'd have when he saw. The jackal could already see the tiger's bulge, like a watermelon growing inside of a pillowcase. He was hot with embarrassment, he was boiling with indefatigable feelings of inadequacy that had momentarily replaced the unrelenting doubts that had plagued his mind before. With the slightest of a huff, the tiger yanked the slacks from the jackal's grip.
His pants came down. His dick popped out. The tiger snickered.
"You should be glad to be gay," the tiger said immediately as he took the pecker in his fingers, "Men don't need 'em as big to get them off. Well, other men than me, but you're not quite the type I'd let bend me over, if you don't mind my putting it nicely." The tiger spoke slowly, assuredly, with the gravity of certainty as if he were reeling off scientific formulas. He turned the jackal around and let out a whistle. "Ah see, now here we go. You got an ass for fucking. I can forgive anyone with a thing like that between their legs if they can show me an ass like this. You'll make a great bottom boy, now don't say I never complimented you." A grin didn't break onto the jackal's muzzle. "Awww, did I sting ya? Poor little fellow, all confused and all, but hey, I'm not being mean I'm just not shy about my opinions. Your dick sucks, your ass is great. That can work for you, you just need to be the one getting fucked, is all. No big deal." The tiger had his paws on the two cheeks, indulging himself in rough squeezes, kneading them, the jackal wincing a little from the firm grip. He tried to shut out the tiger's words, he could deny his dick was all that bad, but he couldn't deny it was stiff and leaking.
The jackal found himself still for the first time, as if the motor inside him had finally broken. His words articulated themselves once more.
"I'm not gay."
The tiger laughed and gave the bare rump a slap. He said with the dismissive assurance he only remembered from his mother. "Yes you are."
And that was the end of that. It was almost a breath later that he was face first on the cool wood of the desk, a dick slick with KY pressed against his hole. Suddenly he found the strength in him to whine. Wordless, hopeless moans that anyone with their ear pressed up to the door could hear clearly, a sound filled with every doubt and worry in the jackal's mind. The dick threatened his hole mockingly, pressed between his cheeks, spreading them with its fantastic girth, all the while the tiger drew his paws over the jackal's body in mock sensuality, if only to drive home the point that he'd pound the jackal's ass only when he was ready, and until then, he'd enjoy himself. Each touch lit up another insecurity in the jackal's subconscious. They caressed his shoulders and he felt small and weak. They squeezed his sides and he felt lazy and fat. They slapped his ass and he felt objectified and abused. They palmed his dick and he felt effete. Finally, they squeezed his shoulders, and he felt pretty goddamn gay as that dick split him open an ear-splitting yelp that might have shook the tiger's trophies from the shelves.
"Well now I don't know if I need to be telling you to stop alerting the media, or if I need to," he punctuated this with a hard slap on the ass, "fuck you till you're too weak to scream like a bitch." The jackal tried to shut himself up, heeding a sudden compulsion to listen to the tiger's demands, but his lips couldn't stay sealed. "Goddamn," the tiger continued, "you'd think having your ass broken for the first time was the worst thing in the world listening to you. I can't imagine the sound you'll make when I'm filling your sore ass up with my cum."
The jackal's almost singularly focused moaning made it seem like he didn't hear a word the tiger said, but he heard it all. And every word was like a slap on his balls, the grunts and blushes from the words indistinguishable from the grunts and blushes from the fucking.
"C'mon now, say something, I know you play the good Silent Slut type, but I wanna hear you say something that isn't guttural." The jackal could only let his muzzle flap open and closed dumbly in an abortive attempt to say "Stop." The jackal didn't aspire to anything more than that one word, but every thrust cut him off before he could even make a sound. "Well alright, I might have gone a little easier if you wanted to ask, but I guess instead I'll just fuck you like I've always been too nice to fuck a guy. I'm gonna tear this lovely, lovely little ass open. I'm gonna brand this ass, and when I pull out you'll feel like you were missing something that was always there. Ten more minutes you won't even be able to imagine a world where I'm not fucking you and you're not whining like a bitch."
And he did whine like a bitch. Whined and moaned and groaned and shrieked and cried and made everyone around, including himself, pretty well aware that he was a bitch. He couldn't stop. Each heavy thrust was a different vocalization, a new collection of thoughts, each long pump like pulling the lever of a slots machine in his head. Each smack against his ass rearranged his thoughts, and every time one more piece fell into place. Each time his hole was spread open, every thought found just a little bit more order. With every squeeze of his shoulders, with every nip of his neck, with every snide comment the picture of his mind became a little more clear. Now he moaned with a fervor as if to drown it out. He shouted and cursed in a vain attempt to shake it off, knowing full well the entire time it was hopeless. He could see it forming from far off, but he fought it long and hard, even when it became like a torrent of realization, an inexorable flow towards the obvious conclusion. Soon, the yelps were just a hobby. It was undeniable.
"Th-" he stammered.
"Tha-" he tried again.
"Thank you," he finally managed, every muscle going limp, drained of energy from the effort.
The tiger snickered. He held his dick deep inside the spread ass, feeling the hole tighten reflexively around it as it struggled to contain the meat.
"Well if that's not an invitation to start getting rough, nothing is."
He drew his hips back like raising a sword above a wounded opponent, and drove his cock in with an almost senseless force. The desk moved. The feet screeched against the floor. He lifted his ass high and drove forward again, the squeal of the jackal's throat almost matching the scratching of the moving desk. The opening shots fired, he fucked every word into that jackal. He took advantage of every inch he owned with long strides and fucked the jackal like a bitch. He lifted the jackal onto the desk, ass in the air and nose to the ground, and fucked him like a slut. He slapped his massive hangers against the jackal's more meager orbs and fucked him like a whore. The stretched asshole stood testament to the jackal's dominance every time the tiger pulled out for no reason more than the pleasure of shoving it back in.
"Count down," the tiger said.
"Uh ugh mmf," the jackal managed. A few moments later, he pushed a "Why?" from his trembling lips.
"Just count down. Start at three." The tiger ordered, the desk still screeching across the floor, the lovely ass jiggling with each smack of the hips against it.
"Th-" the jackal moaned.
"Th" the jackal squealed.
"Three!" the jackal spat out, and the thrusts got suddenly heavier, quicker, making the "eee" of his three become a shrill shriek.
"T-" the jackal grunted.
"T-" the jackal huffed.
"Two!" the jackal crowed, and the tiger bent over him, the built chest grazing against his back, the hot breath on his neck, the low growl in his ears.
"Wuh-" the jackal wailed.
"Wuh-" the jackal screamed.
"One!" the jackal finally shouted as clear as a church bell, his chest shaking with the energy of it, and the tiger buried his bone and groaned with the satisfaction of a massive load shot. The jackal could feel the dick tensing inside him, could imagine the warm load soaking his insides so well he thought he could feel himself filling up, could hear his own cries only like a distant shout of relief from someone who wasn't him he was so concentrated on the feeling in his ass his own head seemed miles away.
A paw wrapped around his dick, almost like charity really, and stroked him patiently, gently even, as if the tiger was showing his appreciation or even respect. The massive dick inside him still grinded against his newfound spots, still squirmed in his ass, and at once the brick wall of reality hit him:
He'd been pulled aside.
He'd been undressed.
He'd been demeaned.
He'd been fucked.
He'd been filled with another man's cum.
He shot a load he could have collapsed into and drowned. His whole body racked with it, as if expelling whatever remnant of energy he had, his slight balls outperforming themselves with thick jets that hit with such force on the hardwood desk, they splashed. He nearly felt empty when he shot two more strings, a few drips, and then collapsed, the dick slipping out of his stretched asshole.
A sticky paw fed him his own seed. He'd get used to the taste.