Maggie Elden wasn’t sweating, at least not visibly; her trademark pastel pink starched skirt-suit was as crisp as a bite of Granny Smith apple. Everything about her screamed “professional grandmother,” from her white Daisy Dukes to her perfect denturework. Every time she flashed that pearly smile at the audience, I could feel my approval rating drop another two points. She waved like the Queen of England and addressed every questioner as “dear.” She fought fire with marshmallows, answering every policy question with a personal anecdote. She was old enough to have seen it all, too old to worry about petty things, and wise enough to know just what was best for the 44th Congressional District.

The only part of her that didn’t look like somebody’s great-aunt were her eyes; they glittered like rock candy above her gently amused smile, and they bored into my forehead whenever the cameras turned to me. The instant I started to speak, I felt like she was just waiting for the excuse to wash my mouth out with soap on prime time television. I wasn’t normally a stutterer, but every complete sentence without a stammer was a minor success and every “um” sent a fresh rivulet of sweat down my back.

Sam Walters, KMOD’s evening anchor and one of my supporters until fifty-eight minutes ago, turned to the audience and nodded slowly, his face solemn and sincere; he wasn’t sweating either. “Well, the race for the State Senate certainly has been a campaign of opposites so far,” he intoned. “We’ve got time for one more question in this debate, this one from an online submitter.” Across the bottom of the monitor showing the live feed, text scrolled across the ticker, which he read aloud. “Have you had a Malthus Exam, and if so, what was the result?” As he spoke, he turned to face me. “Let’s start with the incumbent. Congressman White?”

Maggie Elden’s rock-candy eyes drilled into my skull as I took a deep breath to buy time while I composed my thoughts. “That’s a… well, it’s a very personal question,” I started, staring at a point just to the left of Walters’ head, while the red light of the camera glared in my peripheral vision. “It touches on issues of personal liberty and privacy, both of which I consider very important.”

Sam’s eyebrows snapped upwards, but he nodded slowly, as if I’d actually just answered the question. “So, you’re saying that you haven’t been tested, then?”

His gently rising question was a lifeline and I grabbed for it. “No,” I said too quickly. “No, not yet. I….” I started to say something else, but then I caught Maggie Elden’s uncomfortably warm smile and I snapped my mouth closed. “No.”

“I… see.” Sam sounded as convinced as I felt, but he turned to Maggie Elden to give her a chance. “Ms. Elden, have you been tested?”

“Oh, my, yes, dear,” Maggie Elden said, beaming gently as the stage lights made a halo around her face for the camera. “When poor Tom, my husband, died—God rest his soul—I made it a point to find out how I would go, so I could make sure my family was protected. My children are very important to me, you know!” She waggled a finger at the screen. “I’m going to die of lung cancer, which only makes sense since I smoke. So, I get screened every year, but there’s been no sign of it yet!” She laughed. “You know I wouldn’t run if I thought my health were something to worry about!”

Sam Walters chuckled back at his new candidate-of-choice. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Then, to the audience, he smiled. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have at tonight’s debate; join us next week for Round Two.” He counted off three breaths, and said, “And… cut. Thank you all for coming.”

Even before he’d finished talking, the audience was up and filing out of the auditorium, murmuring to itself. Maggie rose from her seat and walked up to me, one white-gloved hand extended. “A pleasure, Congressman. Thank you for indulging me.”

A moment too late, I gave her hand a light squeeze, not quite a handshake. “The pleasure was mine, Ms. Elden, I’m sure.”

Maggie laughed at that. “The way you looked like you’d eaten a frog, I wouldn’t say so!” Then she immediately brushed aside the snipe. “Oh, don’t mind me, dear.” Her rock candy eyes glittered under the harsh stage lights. “I’m just saying you looked nervous, that’s all! You’re the incumbent! I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure,” I replied automatically. “Thank you. Please excuse me; I need to go.” Then, without another word, I turned and walked as calmly as I could behind the curtain, looking for a towel to wipe away all the sweat.

I let out a breath, my shoulders deflating. “Spent. How’d I do?”

She held out one hand and waggled it in front of her, then slowly tipped her thumb downward. “Details later. Coffee?”

“Love to. Let me phone Rick.” She passed me back my smartphone, and I thumbed it open, then scrolled through for my husband’s number. “Hey, hon,” I said as soon as it clicked. “I’m gonna grab coffee with Beth. Want to meet us downtown?”

Behind him, I could hear the television, probably talking heads predicting my eminent downfall. “I’ll pass, thanks; I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow. Bring me home a brownie, though?”

I closed my eyes. “Of course. Be home soon. Love you!” We made kissy noises at each other, and then I dumped the device back in my pocket. “All set.”

The cool air outside sent a welcome shiver down my spine. I stood for several seconds on the concrete walkway just letting the heat leach out of my skin. The sky was overcast, the clouds a burnt sienna reflecting the city lights downtown. A light mist drifted down from the sky, further soaking my already-damp shirt. “So,” I started as we walked towards the parking garage. “How’d I do, really?”

Beth shrugged as she pulled the car fob from her pocket. Her headlights blinked at us, and we got inside. “It wasn’t your worst showing ever,” she offered as she turned over the engine.

“Faint praise,” I retorted as I fumbled with the buckle. “Seriously, is she ex-Psyops or something?” I leaned against the door, resting my head in one hand. “I swear, she was utterly unflappable.”

“She got under your skin about halfway through the debate,” My manager observed casually as she maneuvered out of the garage. “She played every factor to her advantage, you saw her doing it, and she knew you knew it. Still, you held your own for the most part, up until the end. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

I looked at Beth, but her eyes were strictly on the road, and her hands held the wheel lightly, no sign of white knuckles. “Go ahead.” I tried to put a shrug in my voice, but it ended up coming out like a swallow.

Beth chuckled softly to herself. “What’d your Malthus test say?”

I took another deep breath. “It’s not really—”

“Bullshit it’s not, Alan.” Her rebuke was near-instant, but her voice never changed pitch. “Everyone in the audience with one ear on the screen heard the stammer in your voice. You spent the whole night talking facts and figures while Miss Manners rambled about her grandkids, and then suddenly on that question, you went all personal-privacy.” She took her eyes off the road to look directly at me. “Margaret Elden pulled ahead of you by six points in two minutes; you have to address this.”

I grimaced, both at the statistics and the accusation. “Fine. You want to know?” I wasn’t trying to spit the words at her, but after an hour of interrogation, I was in no mood for more. “It said DRUG OVERDOSE. There.”

Beth went silent for several seconds while the drizzle turned to a proper spatter, drumming steadily off the windshield and roof of the car. “I can see why you tried to dodge,” she finally offered, pitching her voice up over the rain.

“Yeah, no kidding,” I grumped. “Never mind that I don’t even drink!”

Light from a passing streetlamp reflected Beth’s smirk in the glass. “So what are you on?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing.”

Beth looked at me again. “No, seriously, Alan, what is it? Is it just pot, or something worse?”

“It’s nothing, Beth.” I could feel my voice getting away from me, so I pinched the bridge of my nose and took another deep breath and held it while I tried to get the pounding of my veins under control. “No pot, no tobacco, not even beer. I’m on cimetidine as needed for acid reflux, but the worst that’s ever done to me is give me a headache. I’m guessing at some point down the line, it reacts with something else I’m taking, but I swear I’m clean.”

Beth’s frown glinted off the window. “If you say so.”

I groaned and thumped the dashboard. “You see? This is exactly why I didn’t say anything. Getting the damned Malthus Exam was a mistake in the first place. Two little words, and you’re ready to assume I’m some kind of stoner.”

Beth pulled one hand off the wheel. “Okay, you’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” The sienna clouds flickered gold and thunder boomed in the distance. “So why did you get tested, then?”

I shrugged. “It was Rick’s idea. Remember when his mom had that heart attack, three years ago? He wanted to find out if she’d recover, and while we were there, well, he figured we should all know.” I sighed. “Poor bastard got STARVATION. He’s put on thirty pounds since then.”

“I wondered. Shit, I’m sorry.” We both fell quiet at that, but then Beth hammered on the wheel with one hand. “No, wait. That’s it.”

I tilted my head to the side as I looked at her, trying to make sense of her outburst. “What’s it?”

She gripped the wheel in both hands and sat up in her seat. “That’s how to beat Maggie Elden. First, though, I need a commitment from you. Are you ready to come clean?”

I chewed on my lip and wiped one clammy hand on my slacks. “I think that’s a bad idea, but if you think I can still win this—”

“You can,” my campaign manager asserted. “You’re great with policy, Alan; you always have been. You’re an engineer and you’re great with numbers, but narrative’s your weak suit. Last time you ran, it didn’t matter so much, but that’s where Maggie shines. So, here’s how we’re going to spin this….”

“Mr. White?” I looked up at Maggie Elden, beaming down at me and clutching her purse before her like she needed directions to the library. “I just wanted to wish you good luck, dear.”

I smiled back and nodded, not putting down my glass. “Good luck to you, Maggie.” Her eyes hardened slightly and, for a moment, her smile looked like it would slip, but she headed over to seat and folded her hands in her lap, her head bowed. I looked again at the time, then over to Sam Walters. “I’m ready when you are.”

Our host nodded and motioned to the cameraman, who held up his hand. “Places, everyone! In five, four, three….” He fell silent, ticked down the last two seconds, then dropped his arm.

“Good evening from Jefferson State University auditorium.” Sam peered into the camera as he spoke. “I’m Sam Walters of KMOD, and I’ll be your host for the evening. Welcome to the second round of congressional debates being held for the 44th District. Tonight as before, we have Margaret Elden, wife of the late Senator Tom Elden, running against incumbent congressman Alan White. We ended the last round on a question from the internet regarding the disclosure of Malthus results, so I’d like to pick up with where we left off with a question about medical testing in general.” He turned to me and gave me his best stern nod. “Congressman White, do you think that people’s Malthus results should be a matter of public record? ‘The more you know,’ and all that?”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well, Sam, that’s a fascinating question, and there’s a lot of ways I could take that, but before I do, I’d just like to address one holdover point from the last round, if I may?” He nodded, and I continued. “The question stuck in my craw after I left, so Monday, I went and got myself tested. Didn’t take long, just a few drops of blood. The results were interesting, to say the least.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up; he wasn’t expecting this tack. “Drug overdose, it said.” I held up one hand. “It was a shock to me, too. I don’t even drink! Believe me, I had a long talk with my pharmacy about it.”

Gliding past any chance at interruption, I quickly continued. “The first person I told was Rick, of course. That’s one of those phrases that could mean anything. I’m probably a medical malpractice suit waiting to happen, but we’ll come to that when we get there. What’s more important is that this whole process of finding out how you’re going to die….” I paused and leaned back in my chair. “Well, it puts you in a mind to wonder about how everyone is going to go, and what we’re doing to make that as painless as possible for everybody.” I turned suddenly to Maggie Elden and leaned on the arm of my chair. “Margaret, you said that you’ll get lung cancer, didn’t you?”

When the red light on the camera aimed at Maggie Elden went live, her eyes were glassy and confused. “Well, yes, but I, that is, I don’t see what—“

I put on my best sympathetic face. “Your husband, Tom… is that insurance policy of yours something special he got for you before your test?”

“Well, I… I don’t know, really.” Maggie Elden blinked, glancing quickly between me and the camera. “I’d have to go check my records. Tom took very good care of me, you see!”

“Of course he did, Maggie,” I said, nodded slowly and deliberately back at her, exaggerating for the camera. “But I have to wonder how many other families out there will never get that chance. How many people’s parents tested them at birth to try to protect them, but now can’t get coverage because that result’s a pre-existing condition? How many children go hungry because Mom and Dad both drew ‘auto accident’ but can’t take public transit to work? What happens to all the hard-working people who can’t get hired because the test said ‘workplace accident’? How many people have to suffer just because they’re not going to get a lucky throw on the last roll?”

I turned back to Sam and steepled my fingers in front of my face. “We like to believe in the American Dream, that if you work hard you’ll get ahead. Senator White, God rest his soul, was a prime example of that, but not everybody gets to be in the right place at the right time with the right skills like he was, and that’s nobody’s fault. If we don’t build a government that understands and accounts for that, then what message are we sending? How can anybody feel good about getting ahead at the expense of everybody else?” I couldn’t hold the grin in any longer. “To answer your question, Sam, I think that until we have that kind of government, that kind of society… well, it’s guilty until proven innocent. That’s not the American way.”

Sam smiled at me and shifted in his seat. “Well, I don’t think I can ask anything more, Congressman. Ms. Elden, anything to add?” As the camera shifted off of me and back to Maggie, I lifted my glass and stole a glance at her. She blinked, caught in the stage lights like a deer. As I watched, a bead of sweat dripped down her temple.

I could hear breathing in the room beyond. I tugged at my tie, then pulled it out from around my neck as I stepped into the main room. Lounging on the bed, propped against the wall, was a white tigress casually reading something on a smartphone. Her red velvet sleeveless evening gown strained between her expansive chest, and her fur gleamed where the light touched it. At her waist was a wide black belt to emphasize her figure, and a golden chain choker sat close to her neck, with a familiar agate bauble at the hollow of her throat. I’d seen all of Ms. Teozen’s girls wear something like it somewhere, probably a gift from the madam herself.

I coughed once to try to get her attention, but her eyes remained deliberately on her screen. I waited several seconds, then spoke into the silence, my voice seeming too loud for the small space. “Ms. Teozen sent you?”

“She did, yes,” the tigress confirmed, still not turning her head. “My name is… well, call me Bianca.”

“Bianca, that’s very pretty. I… well, I brought you something.” I pulled a second envelope from my pocket, unmarked, and held it out to her. “A gift, not part of the deal.”

Finally, Bianca turned her head; her eyes were pale blue, like a cloudless summer sky. “Thank you, Reggie.” She sat up and took the check from me, then slid it into a pouch of a duffel bag on the floor beside the bed.

I winced at the shorthand. “Please, call me Reginald. I haven’t been called Reggie since high school.”

She chuffed softly, the tip of her tail flicking in amusement behind her. “Funny, that. First things first, though.” She held up a small cut crystal vial, about the length of my finger, stoppered at one end with a cork wrapped in wax. Inside swirled a dark amber liquid. “I’ll need three drops of your blood, to finish this.”

I watched Bianca roll the prism around in her fingers, the fluid inside shifting about. “Is that…?” I wiped my hands on my slacks; no matter how many times I did this, confronting the moment always made me nervous.

Bianca laughed again, a deeper rumble in the back of her throat. “Oh, poor boy. It’s more than you could imagine, that’s what it is.” She held out a paw. “Your hand, please… Reginald.”

With quickening pulse, I offered Bianca my hand, and she took it in hers, then closed her fingers around mine. An ivory claw slid out of her thumb, and she scratched my palm with it. Instantly, blood welled up in the cut, the salty sweat making it sting. I hissed against pursed lips, but I couldn’t look away as she broke the seal on the vial in her other paw, then counted off the crimson drops that she dribbled into the crystal. As each hit the amber within, the fluids reacted, mixing in rainbow hues. “One… two… three.” She let go of my hand and corked the small tube again. “That will take about five minutes to settle. Go run that under cold water for a bit.”

I nodded. “Yes, Bianca.” That familiar constriction returned as I held my hand under the faucet, watching drops of blood wash down the drain. My fingers and toes had started to go numb again. “Ms. Teozen never has told me where she gets her potions. They’ve got to eat up most of what I’m paying.”

“Ms. Teozen doesn’t encourage us to discuss finances,” the tigress called from the other room. “It ruins the mood.”

“I’m just wondering,” I responded over the running water, rubbing at the cut with my palm. “I’m fascinated by all this, really.”

Bianca chuckled again, and then I saw her in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the doorframe. She’d slid out of her dress, revealing a hunter green satin corset laced with white cord, accompanied by a matching thong below. “And you get so little opportunity to study it, I’m sure.” Her pale blue eyes burned into my reflection.

I shrugged and looked down at the sink quickly. “Let’s say it doesn’t come up much in my line of work.”

Bianca smiled tightly. “I’m sure it doesn’t.” She nodded, then slid back out of the doorframe, beckoning with her tail as she returned to the bed. “Has it stopped?”

I pulled my hand out of the water; the line of red was still visible, and as I watched, it slowly darkened, but it was mostly sealed. “Pretty much, yes.”

“Good,” the tigress responded. “Join me.”

When I stepped back into the bedroom, Bianca was busily shaking the vial in one paw, her other arm across her chest. She held it up before her eyes; the fluid within had gone completely clear. “It’s ready.” She tossed it to me. “Drink.”

I studied the crystal vial carefully; rainbows danced in its depths. “All of it?”

She nodded again, smiling with that hint of fang again. “One gulp.”

A shudder ran through me, but I nodded and pulled the stopper from the vial. The scents of jasmine and copper hit my nose and I sneezed, but before I could lose my nerve, I tossed back the contents like a shot. It was oily and tangy and it burned down my throat like liquid fire, then settled into a warm tingle in my stomach. I grunted and sat heavily on the bed. “It’s like an itch,” I muttered, not really thinking about it.

“Those sensations will fade soon,” Bianca soothed. “You should go ahead and strip.”

I shook my head, but I started fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. “I know. No, I—” The words caught in my throat, then tumbled out of me. “It’s like an itch. If you try to scratch it, it only itches worse.”

Bianca’s tail hooked behind her. “You’re not talking about your palm, or the potion.” That half-smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How do you feel?”

I shuddered again; far from fading, the tingle was starting to spread, a faint burning like acid reflux, but deep in my gut. “Not good,” I admitted. “It wasn’t like this last time.”

Bianca’s smile spread, but her eyes grew harder. “You met with Selina last time. You asked Ms. Teozen to up the tension. We seek to please.”

The pain was starting to spread; every brush of my clothes made my skin crawl, and I struggled with the buttons, trying to get the clothing off. “I know what I—” A wave of nausea washed up my throat, making me gag. “Oh fuck….”

The tigress folded her arms beneath her ample chest. “Oh, poor boy. Is this too much for you?”

With a rising groan, I tore my starched shirt off my chest and threw it on the floor; beneath it, fire crawled beneath my flesh, turning it dark and coarse. Stiff brown fur forced itself through the leathery hide, and I desperately rubbed at the skin, trying to scrape away with the pain with palsied, agony-riddled fingers. Something ripped behind me, and for a moment I thought I had torn a hole in my skin, but when I reached back, the rear seam of my slacks had given way, the shivering nub of a tail forcing itself through the fabric. I dropped to my knees, a sob cracking up my throat, breaking over parched lips.

Softly, Bianca tsked behind me. “You should be careful who you ask to make things harder on you, Reggie.” Her voice was surprisingly soft, her whiskers a maddening tickle against my ear. “Somebody might take it as a challenge.”

I whined again, more at the burning than the name. I tried rolling onto my back, but the carpet burned against my fur. I thrashed up into my rump, but that just ground my boxers into my ass. “Oh fuck,” I panted again, putting my head in my muzzle. “M-make it stop, make it stop make it stop, please….” Another sob broke out of me, and the tears started to roll freely down my muzzle, stopped short by a bleating cry when Bianca’s needle-sharp teeth clamped down on my ear.

“That’s enough out of you,” she growled. “You wanted this. You wanted it rough, so Ms. Teozen sent me, and I take my job seriously.” She tugged at my ear, then let go, the hot blood running down my cheek a fresh spark of pain mixing with the mounting burn of the fabric touching me everywhere. “You want it to stop?” I nodded mutely and she held out her paw. “Stand up.”

I took her paw in my hand and forced myself to my hinds, then struggled out of the last of my clothing and tossed it aside. Nude, the pain finally began to abate, and the end of so much agony was so intense that I moved to latch onto my tormentor, to weep my relief into her breast. As my chest brushed against her corset, though, pain seared itself across my chest and I stumbled backwards with another cry, landing on the bed. Instantly, my back was a field of flames, and a fresh scream tore itself from my mouth as I thrashed back upright.

“Enough!” Bianca gripped my shoulders in her paws. “Hold still.” I froze, and again the pain vanished, as if it had never been. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I looked down at myself. At the end of my legs, hooves insulated me from the carpet, and understanding dawned. “Those are the only things keeping me upright, aren’t they?” I whispered. My heart pounded in my chest, my blood pulsing in my ears. I felt nauseous, giddy, ready to throw up, and I realized only seconds later that my cock was jutting upright and a thin stream of pre was pouring down my shaft.

The tigress chuckled again. “He learns fast.”

Cautiously, I brushed my hand against Bianca’s corset, then jerked it back as if I’d just pressed it against a hot stovetop. I looked at my hands; the fingertips were hard and black, glittering slightly. I tapped one tip against her chest, but nothing happened. I held my breath, then pressed one fingertip into the fabric, but nothing happened. I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay, okay… I can handle this, but… um… how can we…?” I blushed, suddenly; I’d been so distracted by the effects of the potion that I’d almost forgotten that part of the bargain.

“You won’t like it,” Bianca chuckled, then nipped my other ear, making me whimper. She knelt beside the bed, then reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a small stack of something white. She set the pile on the nightstand, and then plastic rustled as she unfolded one and approached.

My ears reflexively folded back against my head as I realized what it was. “You can’t be—” My protest died in my throat at Bianca’s calculating smile.

“I am, in fact,” the tigress growled deep in her throat. “And until that potion wears off, it’s these or…” She glanced meaningfully at the bed.

I swallowed heavily at that. “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered, crossing my arms behind my back. I didn’t mean to say it, but the word slipped out along with my cock, aching in front of me.

“Good boy,” Bianca smirked. “But this won’t be enough. Only water can cool that fire. I hope you can relieve yourself through that.” I winced as she flicked a claw against my throbbing erection. “Otherwise, when this goes on, it’s going to hurt. Think you can manage that, Reggie?”

“I… don’t know, ma’am.” I swallowed hard, chest tightening from humiliation. “I… I can try.”

The tigress chuckled again. “You’d better do more than try, or you’re going to be in a lot of pain until you manage.” Then, without further ado, she pressed the adult diaper into my crotch, sending a blistering ache over my groin. I immediately let out a fresh cry and my knees started to tremble, but I grabbed Bianca’s fur and pushed, and the white padding started to yellow and soften. Almost at once, the fire gave way to a soothing warmth, the relief and the pleasure making me groan.

“Hold that here,” Bianca directed, moving my hands to the front of my padding. I gingerly took the waistband in between my fingers, and while I supported my end, her fingers moved quickly to the sides and behind, pulling up the rear and taping everything into place. The plastic rustled every time my short tail flicked against it, reminding me of its presence and making me blush anew. “There we go, little Reggie.”

I whimpered and folded my arms behind my back, my cock pulsing against the wet padding. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The tigress grinned and massaged me through my diaper, and I started to grind against her capable fingers, but after a few seconds of teasing, she put her other paw on my shoulder and pushed me down. “Kneel, little boy.”

I winced but nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Ginger, I sank to my knees, but true to her word, the only sting when I knelt was the normal carpet burn. I let out the breath I hadn’t meant to hold as Bianca stepped up in front of me, her legs spread, the front of her sodden panties before her.

Hungrily, I threw myself at her, muzzle pressed against her thatch. The satin was soaked with her juices and the faint sour tinge of urine, but I lapped like a parched dog at an oasis. She growled and moaned, moving her paw to the back of my head, holding me against her crotch. I sucked her nectar from the fabric and traced her folds with my tongue through the thin material, frantically rubbing myself through the front of my own soggy undergarment, squishing the wet padding against my shaft and grinding against my hand.

“If you come before I do, I’m taking half that stack with me when I leave,” Bianca growled, and I forced my hand away from my crotch. I groaned into her sex, whimpering with need, trying to ignore the throbbing of my cock as I poured my energies into the tigress’ cunt. After what felt like hours of worshiping her through her panties, she pulled aside the sheer fabric, bearing her folds to me directly. “Now, little boy,” she whispered hoarsely. “Get me off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I grunted in response, my tongue already starting to go numb. I was no expert, but she wasn’t my first, and she was as turned on by what she’d been doing as I was. She was already growling by the time she bared herself to me, and her clit was already throbbing when I touched my tonguetip to it. She let out a yowl and sunk her claws into my shoulders, but the pain was only an encouragement. I traced her netherlips and circled her clit, then dragged my tongue over it, and her whole body tightened and shook under me, tailtip batting at my chest.

When the moment passed, she pulled her paws off of my shoulder and retrieved her dress from her bag. “If you can get off through that, you’re welcome to do so.” She patted the stack of diapers on the nightstand. “Water will work as well as urine; the spell only cares about moisture. Just be careful; I’m leaving you six, and they have to last until the potion fades.”

I swallowed heavily, but my hand was already back on the front of my diaper, rubbing frantically against myself through the wet padding. Within seconds, I was groaning, and then a fresh burst of spunk added to the mess. I sank gratefully against the carpet, letting it tickle my chest. “How long… how long until it wears off?”

Bianca grinned and pulled the dress on over her head. “Long enough to make six diapers a challenge. The room is reserved through the end of the week.” She carefully tugged the velvet into place, then buckled her belt. “You have Ms. Teozen’s number if anything too disastrous happens.” With that, she retrieved her bag and slung it incongruously over her shoulder. “Enjoy your weekend, Reginald.”

I rolled onto my back and smiled up at the departing tigress. “I will, Bianca.” As the door opened and closed behind her, I sighed happily and soaked the diaper further, hoping that this would scratch the itch, at least for a while.

I broke the gaze and looked down at my computer, which was busily installing update four of fifteen. I shrugged. “Sure. What’s up?”

Steven didn’t move, and the smile on his face tightened slightly. “In my office?”

I shrugged again. “Sure.” I dragged out the vowel, trying to project nonchalance, but the timing of the request sent a shiver down my spine. He turned, and I followed behind, running down the litany of possible gaps in my performance. No matter how many times he pulled me aside to deliver an attagirl or just ask my opinion on something, I could never shake the sense that this time, we were going to have the Big Talk.

Steven’s office looked more like a nest than an office. His whiteboard was an intricate multi-colored disaster, an attempt to drag some amount of order out of chaos, and that theme seemed to carry across the rest of his space. Every available flat surface had something on it, from notepads to magnetic paperclip sculptures to printouts of presentations. As I stepped across the threshold into Steven’s office, he nodded at me. “Close the door?” Despite the rise in his voice, it wasn’t a request.

I bit back the resigned sigh as I did so. “Did you need my help with something?”

He dropped into his chair and leaned back, then waved towards one of the cheap lobby chairs opposite his desk. “Have a seat?”

I grimaced. “I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.” My chair had been uncomfortable enough; the lumbar support jammed into my spine and the memory foam cushion seemed to have developed amnesia. Those rigid metal-and-plastic frames looked downright torturous. “I’m about to head to the doctor’s office anyway. I e-mailed you about that this morning.”

He nodded again. “I saw, which is why I wanted to catch you. I wanted to ask if the visit had anything to do with your meeting this morning.”

I held very still, gazing into my manager’s eyes, trying unsuccessfully to measure his mood. “This morning?”

He sat upright and tapped on his keyboard, exposing the desktop completely covered in icons. “Amanda emailed me afterwards, asking if you were okay. She said you took her roles-and-responsibilities meeting and tried to turn it into a turf war.”

The sigh forced itself out of me, along with the breath I’d been holding. “I’ll apologize to Amanda later; I’m really not feeling well.”

“You don’t look well, I’ll give you that,” Steven agreed, brushing his mustache away from his mouth with his fingers. “I’ve noticed you’ve had a lot more sick days the last few months.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk on top of a stack of color printouts. “I just wanted to find out if everything’s alright.”

Honesty warred with caution behind the scenes inside my head. “I think everything’s going to be alright,” I replied cautiously, carefully measuring the stress in my words. “I’ve been having some medical problems, but they’re nothing that ought to hurt my job performance.”

Steven chuckled grimly. “I think ‘ought’ and ‘is’ are pretty far apart here.” He held up a hand, palm outstretched, and shook his head. “I’m not trying to scare you, but I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anybody else. Amanda’s not happy, and she’s not being quiet about it. I’ve already told her you’re sick, and that’s taken some of the heat off of things, but whatever it is, try to get it sorted out quickly if you can, okay?”

My gut twisted in response, but I inhaled sharply and swallowed my snarl. “Sometimes these things can take time to sort out, but I’ll do the best I can.”

Steven stood up and held out a hand. “I don’t want to lose you, Rhee. You’re one of my best people. Are you sure you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

I took his hand in my own, fighting down the grimace at my own clammy touch. “I wish I could, but it’s really nothing you ought to worry about. I’ll be back after my appointment, but I have to head down south, so I’ll be in late.”

My manager pumped once, then let go and waved me off. “Go ahead and take the rest of the day. I got your reports from this morning. Try to get things fixed, okay?”

I closed my eyes and nodded, my chest tight. “I will.” Then I was out the door, grabbing my laptop and scurrying for the exit like I was dodging a runaway train.

I turned my head so I didn’t have to watch the needle going into my arm. “That’d be pretty accurate. I bit somebody’s head off in a meeting today. Figuratively,” I added after a moment’s pause.

“Just checking,” my doctor quipped. “You never can be sure. Ready?” I nodded and held my breath. The needle burned as it entered, a bright spark of pain just inside my elbow that always made me grit my teeth. “There. Hold still.”

I nodded again. “Holding,” I grimaced through clenched teeth. It was ludicrous, I knew, being afraid of something so tiny, but fears didn’t have to be rational to have power, and were usually stronger when they weren’t. Seconds ticked past while I focused on the padded table under my butt and the itch at the base of my spine. I wanted to think of anything but the needle jammed into my arm and that burning, stinging sensation around the puncture wound and vial after vial of blood pumping out through the hole and—

“Done!” he exclaimed, sliding the tiny butterfly needle out of the hole. A whimper escaped me, but Dr. Bernardi just clucked his tongue in response. “I’ve been doing this every three months for four years.” A wad of gauze and a strip of vet wrap later, he was holding my elbow bent to stop the bleeding. “You’re going to get used to it eventually.”

He said that every time, and the familiarity was comforting, even if the reason for it wasn’t. I held my injured elbow in my good hand, smiling despite the lingering pain. “Not if it hurts worse every time you do it!”

Dr. Bernardi put his free hand on his chest over his silk tie and raised his eyebrows in mock-surprise. “You wound me, Mrs. List. I am a professional.”

I grinned at that. “A professional what, though?”

Dr. Bernardi set down the vials on his counter, then waggled his hand, turning towards his desk. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that, very little of that.” He pulled out a full syringe, then stuck it through the rubber stopper on one of the vials. “Speaking of, are you going to be at the gathering two weekends from now? My oldest’s going to be presenting himself.” He pulled a testing strip from a jar, then set it on the counter beside the sink. “I’d like a few supporting voices to be there.”

“I’d love to,” I replied. “We can talk politics later, though. What’s the word?”

My doctor clucked his tongue again as he let a drop of blood fall onto the testing strip. “I don’t have to send these off to the lab to tell you what’s going on, but I will just so I have exact numbers.” He kept his head down over the desk, watching the paper change color. “At a minimum, your expressin is low, and I can guess that your serum teratonase levels are off the scale.” He turned around and looked down the length of his nose at me. “Let me guess; you’re not taking your pills over the weekend.”

I sighed. “I was hoping I could get by without doing so. If I skip Friday morning, by Friday night I’m able to change again, and then I start taking them Sunday morning and by Monday I’m fine for work.”

Jerome Bernardi, MD, DVM, scowled and walked over to the exam table, putting one hand on my knee. “Did you remember to take your pills on Sunday?”

I nodded urgently. “I swear, I did. Morning and evening dose, both.”

He patted my leg lightly. “And I bet I’m not going to be able to talk you into taking your pills every day like a good little bear, am I?”

I sighed. “I really don’t want to lose that. It’s the one chance I have to feel sane during the week.”

Dr. Bernardi rubbed his chin with his free hand, then squeezed my knee. “You know, we can try putting you back on the adhominol.”

I shook my head quickly. “The last time I tried it, I broke out in hives all over.”

Dr. Bernardi clucked his tongue, then took a seat at his desk, two fingers flying over his keyboard. “Fine. I’m upping your expressin to two-hundred grams, twice a day, but that’s as high as I can safely push it. Take half a pill every morning and night over the weekend, then double up on Sunday night to try to get your serum levels back where they should be. If you feel the least bit off next Monday, call me, okay?”

I let out a chuff of relief and nodded slowly. “I can do that. Thanks, doc.”

My doctor shook his head and grinned lopsidedly at me. “Don’t thank me until it works, Rhee. Which… who knows? It’s worth a shot.” He stabbed the keyboard with one fingertip. “Sent. Take care, and I’ll see you a week from Saturday.”

The words stopped me in my tracks, one paw on the edge of the door, the other tugging at the buttons of my polo shirt, my eyes trapped by my girlfriend. Despite being tall for a raccoon, she was usually a study in curves: wide hips, a gentle tummy that made her giggle when I tickled it, and ample breasts that my paws longed to caress. Today, though, she was all red leather angles, severe and imposing. The platform boots she wore brought her almost eye to eye with me and tilted her onto her toes, making her look like she was looming. Her corset accentuated her already-generous figure, pushing out her chest and drawing her waist into a sharp line. Elbow-length fingerless gloves covered her forearms, and in one paw, she lazily twirled a slim rattan cane.

In the other, she held my collar, its small gems glittered against the powder-blue leather. Her deep blue eyes were cold and unreadable, bright against the black band of fur. She held my gaze for several seconds, until I had to force myself to look away. My ears flattened against my head and my tail drooped, and I could feel its tip flicking nervously to spite me. I glanced back, cautiously, and forced a smile to my muzzle. “Sorry, love. I got stuck in a meeting and couldn’t—”

My voice froze when the switch in my mate’s fingers stopped. “I said you’re late, kitty.” My chest froze as Mistress invoked scene. “And by over two hours, I should note. Kneel, paws behind your back, and they had better stay there.”

I swallowed heavily but did as she asked, lacing my fingers together, the backs of my paws pressed against the small of my back. As I sunk to my knees and bowed my head, the tip of her cane tapped my shoulder, and I heard the door close behind me with an ominous thunk. “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do if you’re going to be late?”

I winced, my muzzle suddenly dry. I licked my lips nervously and swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

I heard Mistress’ boots step closer, and her short claws gripped the scruff of my neck. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

The tug at the sensitive fur sent a ripple of heat down my spine even as my cheeks burned. “I’m to call if I can, text if I can’t, before our meeting.” My voice came out a lot smaller than before. “And I’m to either tell you when I’ll be there, or when I’ll next contact you, ma’am.”

“So why didn’t you message me, pet?” Mistress’ tone was far too light, too casual. “I’m curious. How long did you plan on making me wait?”

I swallowed heavily again. My knees were starting to hurt, but I didn’t dare move. My chest felt tight and my paws were sweating, but my cock was already starting to twitch. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” The words started to spill out of me. “Paul and some of the other guys in the office invited me to join them for drinks. I tried to tell them I had a date, but they started cracking jokes about me being whipped. I had to go! I had to save face!”

Mistress was quiet for a few seconds after that, though her claws never stopped their teasing. Then I felt her breath on my ear, her words a murmur. “Are you embarrassed by our relationship, kitty?”

“Are you sure?” She drew out the last word, rising in gentle mockery. “You’re such a big, strong, buff tiger.” A tap from Mistress’ cane emphasized every word, sending a fresh rush of warmth to my cheeks. “And I’m just a meek little raccoon. Everybody thinks you’re the alpha and I’m the omega, but…” She paused and nipped my eartip, making me mewl. Her voice fell to a husky whisper. “We both remember rule number one, don’t we, kitty?”

“You own me, ma’am, and I’m glad to be owned.” The words were a mantra of arousal; just saying it was enough to make my shaft throb in its sheath.

Mistress’ claws suddenly dug into the scruff of my neck, though her voice never rose in pitch or volume. “So why don’t your coworkers know when your mistress expects you to be home, hmm?”

The strength of her grip in such a sensitive location made me whimper. “I… I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Oh, not yet you aren’t,” Mistress hissed in my ear, “but you will be.” The cane left my shoulder, and then I felt her paws at my neck, fastening my collar in place, followed by the click of a lock behind me. “Rise, strip, and follow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I got up off of my knees. I wanted to take a minute to rub some blood flow back into them, but I knew better than to delay any longer. I shed my pants and shirt, then my underwear, bundling it all under my arm as I followed Mistress back into our bedroom. Inside, the room smelled of her musk, velvety and warm. Red lights in the lamps on the nightstands made the room seem a few degrees warmer, and a pile of nylon strapping and leather cuffs sat in the middle of the bed.

Mistress took my clothes from me as I entered. “On the bed, kitty. All fours.” Once I was in position, she pulled the restraints from under me, then quickly tied my ankles to the foot of the bed, forcing me to spread my legs. She balled my paws into fists, then tucked them into a pair of mitts, which she then fixed to the bedsides. I heard her climb up beside me, and then the room went dark as she put a padded blindfold over my eyes. My shaft bobbed out of its sheath, but with my arms tied, I couldn’t do anything about it. Not that I would have dared without her permission.

The cane bounced lightly against my back, but I quickly bit my tongue. “That was just a warmup, kitty,” Mistress said from behind me, her voice still tight. “Seven strokes, one for every fifteen minutes you made me wait. Count out loud.” Then the air whistled, and the slim rattan rod landed squarely across my rump with a crack.

“One!” I yelped, jumping slightly. The blow sounded worse than it felt, but the sting it left still hurt. The cane whistled again, and the second stroke fell just below the first. “Two!” My cheeks burned a bit more with each number, my ears pulling more tightly against my head. Tears welled up behind the blindfold, as much from shame as from pain. Every lash made my cock jump, spattering a few more drops of precum against the sheets.

I tried to imagine how the scene had to look from the outside, the apex predator whipped, figuratively and literally. The next stripe of pain caught me off-guard, landing just above the first. “Three!” My voice broke. Not even halfway and you’re crying. Sissy. The imagined words sent a wave of warmth and embarrassment down my back and made my balls twitch, like I was going to cum just from the thought. Another whistle, and the backs of my thighs lit up. “Four!” I drew in a ragged breath, tensing all over.

“Oh, poor kitten.” Mistress’ voice poured like honey into my ears, rich with her amusement and arousal. The smell of her had thickened with every blow, rolling around in my nostrils. “I’m pulling my punches, and I’m not even that strong.” She pressed her paw gently against one abused rump cheek and rubbed, warmth overriding the pain. “I’d better stop, or I might actually hurt you.”

“I… I’m sorry, ma’am.” My voice cracked again.

I felt her moving in front of me, her tail briefly brushing against my muzzle, and then her fingers were at the back of my head. “It’s okay, pet. I have a better way you can work off those strokes.” The fur of her thighs brushed against my cheeks, and then her scent was full and rich below me. “Lick, kitty,” Mistress hissed as she tugged my collar. “Back of tongue only.” I mewled softly, squirming against my bonds, but I did as she ordered, careful to keep my tongue curled. Blind, I worked by feel and taste, caressing her labia, then dipping down to circle the opening of her tunnel, before rising to carefully glide around her clit.

The lingering sting in my rump and the burning in my cheeks had me almost in a trance. I poured my arousal and shame into my servitude, letting Mistress’ moans guide my tongue. As her breath rose and fell, I followed her gasps, hoping to make her cum, but the sudden chime of the doorbell snapped me sharply of the reverie. She groaned in response, and then I felt her pull away from me. “And that’s the rest of your lesson.” I heard her boots hit the floor, and then steps as she left the room. She closed the door behind her, and then I was alone with the scent of her arousal lingering in my muzzle.

It felt like several minutes passed while I squirmed against my ropes. I had a little slack, but only enough to shift my weight from one side to the other. I started to think that making me wonder what she was doing was part of my punishment. Before long, though, the bedroom door opened, and Mistress’ voice came through. “—n here. I was just getting him warmed up.” I caught whiff of a second scent, male, canine, and very earthy, but I couldn’t place it.

Then I heard his voice, faintly accented, and recognition flared. “I have to tell you, I’ve been—”

“Paul?” The name was out of me before I could stop it. The thought of any of my coworkers seeing me like this was enough to freeze my blood. Imagining his expression as he stared at me, naked and bound, made me thrash against my restraints. “Sarah, what’s—”

Mistress’ cane landed sharply on my hip, an echo of the earlier stripes. “Did I tell you to speak, pet?”

Her words cut across my panic. “No, ma’am,” I whimpered in response. My head was swimming, my heart pounding in my chest.

“He’s usually much better behaved.” The switch bounced lightly against my side, emphasizing her words.

“No worries,” Paul drawled casually. “How should we handle this?” One of his paws rested on my back, his claws drumming against my spine like I were a piece of furniture. The thought and the touch made my cock jump and a moan escaped my muzzle.

The bed rustled, and then Mistress’ paw slowly brushed down my shoulder and back. “There’s lube and some condoms in the drawer by my bed. Take your time getting ready; he’s not going anywhere.” Her breath was suddenly warm against my ear, her voice that heady whisper. “I can hear your heart pounding, kitty, so let’s talk. Lemon-drop.”

Hearing her use my safeword, I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I wasn’t ready to run, but my heart was still racing. “Okay, but… that’s Paul. From work. I—”

“I’ve already talked with him,” Mistress said quietly, still brushing my back with her paw. Behind her I could hear my coworker muttering to himself. “You said you thought you’d be okay if he knew, so I reached out to him and he’s fine with everything. Around six o’clock, I asked him if he knew where you were. He said you were out with your team, and I explained where I thought you were supposed to be. He offered to help. I told him to wait ten minutes after you left, then come over. Okay?”

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded. My chest was still pounding, but I was breathing easier, and I couldn’t deny being turned on by the exposure; my cock was drooling precum onto the bed and every touch sent a fresh shiver down my spine. “So, kitty,” Mistress continued as she sat back, restoring scene. “We’re going to clear up a few misconceptions. One, when I say you’re going to let me know when you’re going to be late, you will let me know. Is that understood, pet?”

Paul groaned loudly behind me, punctuating Mistress’ words. “Yes, ma’am,” I moaned into the mattress, lifting my rump in the air.

“Two.” She gripped my scruff around my collar, and a second pair of paws landed on my back. “When somebody teases you about being whipped, kitten, you’re to remember rule number one, which is…?”

I blushed hard, ears flattening against my head, knowing that Paul would hear me, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You own me, ma’am, and I’m glad to be owned.”

“Three.” The bed shifted as Paul knelt behind me, and I felt his paws spread my rumpcheeks. “I don’t ask you what you do with your time, kitten, but mine isn’t yours to waste.” A cold dollop of lube fell on my pucker, making me wince, but it warmed quickly as my coworker positioned the head of his shaft against it. “So, we’re going to play hurry-up-and-wait. Paul?”

Paul’s response was a grunt and groan as he pushed himself into me, forcing me open. I’d been pegged before, Mistress riding me with a strap-on, but it had been some time and I was out of practice, so there was a lot of pain mixed with the pleasure of his cock filling me. His paws moved to my hips, and then he began to ride me, long slow strokes in and out. I did my best to match his movements, but he was bigger than I was expecting, and my heart was still thumping in my chest. All I could really manage was to squirm against my bonds and whimper into the mattress while my cock bounced under me with every one of his thrusts.

All the while Paul rode me, I could feel Mistress sitting beside me, her finger lightly rubbing my scruff and stroking the backs of my ears. You’re being fucked by your coworker, I heard in my head, my shaft throbbing at the thought. Everybody’s going to smell him on you on Monday. They’ll know your secret. You’re the sissy. You’re the slave. Was she saying it? Was I just imagining it? I started to grind back against the wolf, losing myself into the embarrassment, the exposure.

Something sharp and hard rammed into my pucker, and I heard Paul whine. His muttering got louder and growls started punctuating his words. His thrusts started coming shorter, harder, faster. Another stab ran up from under my tail, and I realized what he was trying to do. “Ma’am?” I managed to whimper. Despite my arousal, I knew what was coming. “He’s… he’s trying…” His hips ground urgently against my rump. “Oh, gods… too much…”

Mistress’ paw tugged at my collar. “What’s rule number one, kitty?”

I tried to respond, but Paul’s insistence made it hard to focus. “You o-own me, ma’am, and… and I’m….” My chest was starting to feel tight again, my voice shaking. “I’m glad to… to be owned.”

“That means your tailhole is mine, too,” Mistress cooed, kneading my neck. “To use or give away, doesn’t it? That means that—unless you safeword—Paul’s going to tie with you. He says it’s about… oh… two hours or so for that to go down enough to get free.”

“T-tie?” My voice cracked. “Bu-but…” Paul’s knot slammed against my pucker again, grinding more urgently against me. “Oh gods…”

“I’m getting close,” Paul huffed behind me, his claws digging into my hips. “Say it or take it, kitty.”

I bit my lip, whimpering into the mattress. “I… I…” For an instant, I thought about safewording, but then I clamped down on my tongue, and agony blossomed behind me, followed a moment later by a wave of pure bliss as I clamped down on Paul’s knot. My coworker bent over me, whining, and then let out a howl as he jammed himself deep into me. Heat rippled up from my guts, and I shot my own load into the mattress, collapsing with a groan into the puddle a few seconds later.

Mistress’ paw brushed my cheek. “Status, kitten,” she murmured in the suddenly still room.

I shook my head to try to clear it. “I… hurt, ma’am, but… feels so good. Paul’s heavy. Arms starting to tingle. Ashamed. Loved.”

I could feel Mistress’ smile in the brush of her lips against mine. “Good kitty.” She shifted off the mattress, and I heard her fussing with the straps. Then the tension in my arms and legs vanished, and I felt her paw at my hip. “Let’s get you two on your sides.” He groaned his assent, and we managed to roll over, with the wolf’s arm under my head. “Paul, do you need anything?”

“Towel might be nice,” Paul groaned behind me. “And some water.” I heard Mistress’ steps head into the bathroom, then come back, and something soft fell on my hip. “Other than that….” He moved behind me and pain spasmed up my spine, dragging a hiss out of me. “Nothing for it. We’ll have to wait.”

Mistress’ gloved paw brushed my cheek again. “Then I’ll get you some water, and I’ll be back in a few hours. If you’re free before then, kitty, come get me. I’ll be in the living room.” I vaguely nodded, and the world drifted around me.

A light jostle at my shoulder brought me back to attention. “Status, kitten?”

I squirmed against the wolf behind me. “Still sore, ma’am. Warm.”

“Paul?”

“Oh, fine. Just about…” Paul shifted, making me spasm again, but I felt his paw at my hip. “Yeah, I think… ready?” Without waiting for an answer, he shifted away, slowly but insistently pulling his knot out of me.

A last spasm of pain ran up my spine, followed by a wave of relief as he withdrew from my stretched tailhole. My pucker burned from the abuse. “Ow.” I put a paw against my rump, rubbing the bruises to distract myself from the ache. “Oh… oh gods.”

One of Mistress’ bare paws carefully removed the blindfold, the other resting on my shoulder. “How’s the condom, Paul?”

“Feels intact; the tip’s still full.” Paul sat up, and my back was suddenly cold. “Care to check it?”

Mistress’ shook her head. “No, go ahead. Robert?”

I drew in a sharp breath and let it out with a smile, sliding back out of scene. “Yes, Sarah?”

Sarah gently gripped my shoulder. “Seriously, full status.” Her blue eyes, set in her black-furred mask, were wide and shimmering. “I just pushed a lot of boundaries. I want to know how you feel.”

I rolled onto my back, staring up to the ceiling. “I’m…” I put my paws behind my head. “Hearing Paul’s voice was a shock; I was terrified you’d outed me to the whole office. The knot was more than I was ready for, but not more than I could handle. That was two hours?”

“About… thirty minutes,” Paul said from the edge of the bed.

“It felt like days,” I replied, shaking my head. “I hurt, but it’s a really good hurt.”

Sarah lay down beside me; she’d taken off the rest of her clothes and curled up naked against my side. “I told you when we started this that I would test your limits. You said you were afraid of exposure, and you were scared of being seen as weak. I figure my job as your mistress, as well as your mate, is to help you get over those fears.”

I nodded and tugged at my collar, looking towards my coworker; the wolf sat with his elbows on his knees, wiping at his fur with the towel. “I’m still afraid of what happens on Monday.”

Paul barked a laugh. “You tell folks you and Sarah kissed and made up, and I tell folks about the sweet bit of tail I found after I left the bar. Nobody has to know more than that.”

I shook my head. “I…” I drew in a deep breath, then sighed. “I don’t want to be afraid any more.”

Sarah put her arm around my waist and hugged herself to me. “Bobby, I’m not asking you to bare every detail of what we do, but I think you have a lot of reasons to be proud of who you are, and I don’t think that pride will hurt your career.”

I nodded, but my attention was still on Paul. “What do you think will happen if I… if I wear my collar to work?”

Paul shrugged. “Assuming anybody even notices, they’ll think it’s a nice piece of jewelry. The ones who know what it means probably won’t say anything. The ones who do, you can tell ‘em to take it up with her.”

“Then…” I held still for a moment, then turned to my mate and mistress. “With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to start wearing it out more.”

Mistress smiled at that and kissed my shoulder. “Of course, kitty. You remember rule number one, don’t you?”

I smiled. “You own me, ma’am, and I’m glad to be owned.”

Passing through a Confederacy immigration control point in the Transponder line, even in full human form, is going to set off somebody’s private alarm somewhere. Sure, there’re metal detectors and stripsearches and ten kinds of security to keep weapons out of transit areas, but there are ways around those sorts of things, not limited to bribery and nepotism. Most authorities report catching high numbers of smugglers into and out of secured areas, but never as a percentage of the total number of people suspected of bringing contraband goods through a restricted-access point. The fact is, a person as high-profile as I am is going to get recognised by somebody almost anywhere he goes, whether it’s by sight, voice or ID code. Being partly responsible for the system that allows such easy recognition, it’s little wonder I had someone waiting to greet me with open arms and a double-barrel welcome mat. Not everybody appreciates becoming just another number in an international database.

I don’t even think I was tailed; my senses were jacked up high enough that the only good means of following me would’ve been using the ever-present security cameras that come as a natural function of life inside a technopolis. The best that a physical being could have hoped was to duplicate what the electronics already knew, and in so doing they’d almost certainly have set off my paranoia and whatever advantage they could’ve gained by knowing where I was would’ve been lost by my awareness that I was being traced.

My best reconstruction of the event goes something like this: I walked through the Transponder gate at the inbound immigration checkpoint. A complex series of interactions between the transceiver in the archway, the Universal Identity Transponder implanted at the base of my neck, and the nearest International Identification Registry system led to the conclusion that I was, in fact, listed in the IIR database. The computer back-ending the transceiver proudly displayed the results of its queries about my country of citizenship (Cascadia), legal adult status (yes), outstanding criminal warrants (none in any IIR member nation or Interpol database) and permission to travel within the Confederacy (seven-day transit pass, work permitted within Confederate borders). Nothing suggesting anything out of the ordinary came up, so the green light flashed and a small bell toned to pass me through the gate. At that same instant, a second signal, most likely from a trojan wired up by the gunman’s accomplice in the Monitor booth, caused the gunman’s beeper to buzz, alerting him that the target had just passed through immigration and would be clear of customs momentarily. Assuming he was stationed near the exit gate, this would’ve given him ample time to set up for the shot.

Travelling as a full human, with no visibly abnormal traits, I had carelessly assumed that I would go unrecognised by the vast majority. Purists strike me as being such luddites when it comes to certain aspects of technology that I forget how sophisticated they can really be when not dealing with areas of modern science that they think violate their religious beliefs. So, my guard was down. That gave the gunman all the opportunity he needed to fire off three connecting shots. One went straight through my abdomen, missing my spine but removing a large chunk of my liver. The second connected with my upper chest, probably rupturing both lungs and doing unpleasant things to my cardiac rhythm. The third took out my right shoulder and probably disconnected my arm from the rest of my body.

I didn’t even have time to scream before I went into shock. The part of my brain responsible for processing pain went into overdrive, then got deactivated two milliseconds later by an override circuit designed for just such an occasion; with the crosscurrent flooding out all the meaningful signals, I was literally incapable of feeling the aftereffects of the shots. Call me old-fashioned but drugs designed to prevent a patient from waking up scare the hell out of me, as does the idea of any chemical that stops me from being able to remember anything that happened under its influence. I’d rather rely on a few microamps cutting off access to the synapses and be wide awake when somebody tampers with my body than trust any surgeon, no matter how skilled, to do what I want without me being right there to point out corrections while zie works. It activates itself automatically when it detects an excessive rate of signal is coming through that area of the brain; this means I can still feel minor injuries, but anything more serious than a bad sunburn or a papercut and I’ll only notice a quick twinge and then numbness.

Falling back onto the tile in shock and confusion, I was dimly aware of difficulty breathing, more gunshots, screams and general confusion. One unfortunate side effect of the override circuit is that it tends to throw my other sensory perceptions out of whack. I saw sparkles in front of my eyes, the overhead lights started humming loudly in my ears and then hundreds of hands lifted me and started carrying me along the corridor. I felt a deep pressure in my left arm, one that I had long ago learned to identify as the prick of a needle while under the influence, and then everything faded to a uniform grey static and white noise in my ears.

When I came around, more recognizable by the fact that I knew when I blinked than anything else, I was flat on my back staring up at the ceiling. Fluorescent white strips overhead stared down at me. I saw tiny rainbows around the edges of the lights, telling me the pain inhibitor was still active.

A voice startled me out of complacent comptemplation. “Awake, I see.”

I tried to turn my head but found I had all the muscle-tone of a wet tea towel. My brain put together the commands to string together a sentence but rather than words coming out of my mouth, a synthesiser near the bed picked up on the signals approaching my vocal cords and intercepted them, translating them into speech, albeit much less emotional and flatter than my own: “Doc, is that you?”

Doctor Richard Sanford, the man who had overseen every one of my major Transitions and most of my minor ones, chuckled and leaned over into my field of vision. Light reflected off the top of his balding head and into my eyes. “Don’t bother trying to move anything below your lips; you’re on a motor-control inhibitor to stop you from pulling apart any of the innumerable stitches currently holding you together. That includes your vocal cords.”

A mechanical laugh echoed out of the speechbox. “Your mother would be proud; all those sewing lessons paid off.”

Sanford smiled, showing his almost-perfect even white teeth. “We had to grow you a liver, two lungs, several meters of small intestine, a stomach and several kilos of muscle, bone, nerve and skin to put you back the way you were when you left. You want to tell me how my handiwork got so badly damaged?”

After a moment of pondering and two false starts, I managed to get the synthesizer to say, “A man with a shotgun wanted more than a few words with me. Where am I?” The last was a question but, as usual, the confounded mechanical contraption delivered it all in a flat monologue. I might as well have been reading a grocery list.

The doctor clucked his tongue and then leaned back out of my field of vision. “Pity,” he said, ignoring my question. “I was so hoping that for once, you’d manage to not damage my artwork while showing it off to the world.”

I swore to myself that one day I was going to figure out how to tell from his voice when Sanford was being funny and when he was being serious. However, it wasn’t going to be today. “Couldn’t let that happen. Besides, human is boring.”

He laughed. “It’s familiar, though. I’ll stick to my form for now. I can embrace some areas of new technology and support others without practicing them all on myself. What were you doing in the Confederacy, anyway?”

I tried to sigh but it came out as a quiet hum on the speaker. “Private installation. Details classified.”

Sanford clucked his tongue again. “Well, I’ll leave you to recover, then. Try to stay comfortable; you’ll have plenty of time to mull over what to do from here.” I closed my eyes, reducing the world to blackness. I heard footsteps and then the quiet click of a doorlatch falling into place. Unable to do anything else, I lay back and listened to the sound of my own heartbeat and the silent hum of machines as they lulled me into oblivion.

After a week of being turned this way and that by a rotating schedule of nurses who showed all the personal interest of a blind date, Doc Sanford came in, looked me over, pronounced me fit to move under my own power and removed the motor inhibitor. It took an hour for everyone to pull out the lengths of tubing that had kept me tied into the machines that acted as life-support. The first thing I did under my own manpower was walk to the toilet; it was probably my most rewarding physical experience to date. Solid food followed closely behind, if you can call warm oatmeal solid. I was still dazed and lightheaded from the override circuit being active constantly, but ignoring that, I felt as good as I did before the “incident.”

The incident. After attending to all my relevant bodily functions, I found a terminal and started scanning for news reports from the Confederacy. It wasn’t hard. The network returned several reports published over a span of hours, from two minutes after the first shot to morning-after, all accompanied by high-quality full-color-and-stereo security camera feeds of three solid impacts slamming into my chest, picking me up and flinging me gracefully in a close-to-parabolic arc, coming to rest splayed out on the tile floor, the shotgun-wielder standing over me for all of two seconds, savoring the moment.

Ignoring the bulk of the story for the moment, I focused my attention first on the video footage. Several full-speed passes through the graphic display of violence made the hair on the back of my neck rise; I felt as if I were attending my own funeral. I halted the flow of images and pulled a close-up of my assailant’s face. Smoke curling away from the barrels gave him a halo effect. He was bald but probably hadn’t shaved his head in a few days. His eyes were sunken, as were the rest of his features to some degree; he looked like someone had punched a bowl of bread dough, stuck the man’s face on the indented surface and then let it rise. He was overweight but not fat, or at least not disproportionately so. His lips were curled back in an animal’s snarl, but his eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. Studying him, I couldn’t help but think that he was getting some kind of twisted kick out of doing his deity’s dirty work. Zooming back out, I got a look at his clothes. His jacket and pants were an unbleached off-white and around his neck I caught the flash of polished metal, the golden stylized flame-and-world pendant showing membership in, or at least some affiliation with, the Purist movement.

I sighed and saved a few images extracted from the datastream for my personal files, then called up the associated texts. Thomas Elijah Westborough, born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi, was in custody eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds after shooting “Kolya Jensen, self-appointed architect of the Brave New World”. A few reports from more conservative news services went into wild speculation behind the reason for the co-inventor of the so-called Identity Chip to be in a place so opposed to his very existence, with claims ranging from conversion to several different One True Ways to secret meetings with subversives in government planning to make the Confederacy a puppet-signatory to the Reunified Northam talks. Those that chose not to guess why I was there did go so far as to wonder openly about it.

I had to laugh at the title bestowed upon me. It wasn’t my fault that religion couldn’t keep pace with technology; that particular race had been lost so many times on so many tracks over the years that it hardly seemed worth the effort to run it again. The right to die, the origin of life, the rising of the sun, and the shape of the earth—to pick a select few choice contests—had all come under attack as being against the whims or wishes of some Invisible Pink Unicorn or Magical Sky-Daddy over the years. All of them had eventually forced the devout and the devoted to come to grips with the fact that, a few glitches in quantum physics aside, the universe didn’t really care what they wanted to be true.

It also wasn’t my fault that Transponder technology had had become so ubiquitous. Transition technology had made almost every form of physical identification useless; given a month and enough money, you could become anyone or anything, within certain limits. Want to be an elephant for your kid’s jungle-themed birthday this fall? Two months and fifty-grand, give or take two weeks of physical therapy. Want to look like Chartreuse or Rocco Carboni? Twenty-thousand and two weeks. Sure, people have died in the tanks, but have died on surgical tables for as long as we’ve been lifting people out of the dirt to keep their incision sites clean, and I don’t hear a lot of clamoring for going back to the leeches-and-emetics theory of medicine. So, even if most people still operate under the very comforting delusion that they still look like their old Northam Identicards, the truth is that you couldn’t trust them to match, assuming they were still valid.

It wasn’t even my fault that Transponder technology existed. Officially, the Cascadia government owned all rights to the technology when it was developed, and they chose to release the technical specs into the field. I happened to be on the team that developed it, and yes I was the geek that put forward the technical design that became the framework for the UIT network, but I wasn’t any of the hundreds of people who recognized the need for identity confirmation that existed outside of physical constraints, allocated resources to solve the problem, hired my company as a research partner, and then pushed for results. I certainly wasn’t the millions of people who voted those politicians into office because of a facejacking operation that exposed three celebrities as criminals and put seven people in jail for conspiracy to commit murder. I was one person who happened to be at the right place at the right time to serve as a capstone on a much larger effort.

Getting in front of a camera at the Portland Techxpo and bragging about having made possible the Mark of the Beast… okay, yes, that was my fault. It certainly didn’t endear me to a bunch of religious psychotics like Brother William Washburn’s Purist Movement, but it was so hard to take them seriously. Their press releases read like half a dozen holy books and a double fistful of dollar bills with kook rants written on them passed through a Markov chain generator, and their policy statements showed they collectively had a creative—to be generous—understanding of both religious scripture and the scientific method. They had some two-dozen “official” factions, all split from the main group based on some minor nitpick involving just how many angels could dance on what sized pin, but on peeling back all the social niceties and hairsplitting, they were a bunch of people who’d decided that the best way to deal with the pace of technology was to ban anything that made them feel icky inside. They couldn’t get most of their members elected in either Tejas or the Confederacy because they were too conservative, and if that didn’t put them squarely beyond the realm of reason, nothing would.

I shut down the newsfeed and stared blankly at the terminal for about a minute, putting my thoughts in some semblance of order. Then I shook my head and punched in the callcode for my office. Three buzzes later, the speaker popped, heralding the audio pickup on the other side. “Identicorp Portland.”

I recognised the voice. Breathing a sigh of relief, I punched a request for video. “Trace, it’s Kolya.”

I counted off three seconds subvocally before Trace Morgan, my nominal vice-president and one of my closest friends, sent back a denial for my video request and a request for authentication. “Identify on secure channel, please.”

“Oh, for the love of…” I bit my tongue, then chuckled at my response. The override circuit must be affecting me, I thought. The terminal was an Astra 320, not exactly cutting-edge but still equipped with a UIT transceiver as part of its stardard peripheral list. I put my hand over the receiver and waited for the thing to beep at me and tell me it had read my transponder. When it did, I spoke back into the terminal. “Authentification on its way. And send your own while you’re at it.”

“Already in progress. Stand by.” I fidgeted in my chair while my terminal and his talked to each other, then the IIR database, finally transmitting a little message backing my claims to Trace. A request for video pickup came through on my end, which I quickly accepted. A few seconds later, a window on the terminal opened up, Trace’s muzzle staring out of it at me. He’d Transitioned shortly after I did, partially to help prove that the UIT could replace any conventional form of identification, partially to indulge himself. He looked like a labrat, a six-foot-two white rat, right down to the tip of his pink tail. His figure was still mostly human-proportioned, but the fur and skull
were unmistakabily rodentine.

His black eyes blinked at the screen. “Kolya?” His voice registered surprise.

I grimaced. “Hi.”

“You look…” He paused, not directly look into the pickup.

“The word is ‘bad’, Trace.”

“I’ll go with that,” he agreed quickly, trying to fill the previous gap. “I heard the news. Sanford putting you back together alright?”

I made a face at the screen. “I itch.”

Trace chuckled, a high-pitched chitter that sounded like it should be coming from a cartoon chipmunk. “Just don’t gouge yourself this time.” I rolled my eyes at his comment. I’d had the override circuit installed at the same time as my first major Transition: leopard, with a heavy emphasis on the animal traits. When I woke up, of course I didn’t feel any pain because of the neural block, but I did itch from all the fur. I wasn’t used to my body and I’d forgotten about my claws, so I managed to carve four good-sized slices in my chest before the slick feel of blood on my pawpads made me hit the panic button. It took nearly twice as long to recover as it should have. Needless to say, most of the office found this hilarious.

I rolled my shoulders in a shrug. “Have I missed anything important?”

Trace gave a non-committal shrug. “We’ve had Confederacy officials on the phone off and on for the past nine days alternatively demanding to know if we want to press charges and meekly asking if you’re alive and wanting to know if-slash-when someone will be coming back. There’ve also been roughly half a dozen messages left, all in different synthesised voices, taking credit for your death and proclaiming you to be the first to fall. There’ve been over two-dozen additional calls we presume from the same sources, but they’ve been hang-ups, possibly automated. Tracking the calls led to public phone booths in Cascadia, Tejas and the Confederacy. All calls were purchased with anonymous cashcards. Cascadia police and Interpol have both been notified.” He paused a moment, looked around the edge of the pickup. “That seems to be everything.”

I nodded. “Sounds like the shop’s under control, then. I should be out of here in a week and on my way back to Atlanta in ten days.”

Trace stared into the video pickup, tapping his front teeth with a claw; it was a nervous gesture me made when he was thinking. Then he leaned back and shook his head once. “This place can run for a month without you in a pinch and the Confederates can wait. I’d suggest Transitioning. Something new and different.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I missed something somewhere. I thought we were out to prove to them that Transponders could defeat any conventional disguise tactic. Perhaps I’m mistaken somewhere?”

The rat clicked his tongue and let out a high-pitched squeaking sigh. “The Confederacy has assured me that no report of your survival has yet hit their news wire, and also that they found their security leak and have patched it. Going back in the same body you took last time is just going to tell the Purists to try harder next time. Thus, I think it’s a dangerous idea, but going in another form should be safer, especially if you take along a bodyguard.” The like-I-told-you-to-do-last-time was implicit.

I thought, scratched my ear—carefully—and finally shrugged in mock defeat. “Alright, you win. I Transition before I go back.”

“And you take a bodyguard.” His pink eyes glittered with determination.

I sighed. “Alright, and I take a bodyguard. Call Dom and have her meet me here in a week; I should be coherent by then.”

Trace smirked, a feat I still found amazing giving his facial structure. “I already paged her; she should be there in the next half hour.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re a real piece of work.”

Trace’s muzzle split a little further. “That’s what Sanford said when he finished with me. Now get back in bed; Dom will be there soon and you’ll need your strength to deal with her.”

I waved a hand dismissively, even though my vision was getting blurry. “Fine, fine. See you in a month, give or take.”

Trace waved a paw at the video pickup and then the window shut itself down, the speaker crackling once to signify the end of the conversation. I hauled myself off the terminal and just about fell over my own feet getting back into bed. I sighed, realising I’d pushed myself too far for my first day under my own power. From the comfort of the mattress, I requested some classical music and lay back, eyes open but unfocused. I lost track of the time staring at the rainbows flickering around the fluorescent lights in time to Holst and Dvorak. I cut back into reality, though, when the music cut out and a voice came through the terminal speakers. “Kolya?”

It was Sanford’s receptionist, Terry Moreno, one of the only people on the staff with more skill at rebuilding computers than organics. I tilted my head and called out towards the terminal, “Yes?”

I had trouble telling if the distortions in Terry’s voice were the result of the transmission medium or just the override circuit messing with my senses again. “You’ve got a visitor.. Dom Herschell?”

I sighed and struggled to sit up in bed, regretting it as soon as I was semi-vertical. “I’m awake. Send her in.”

“On her way.” The music snapped back to life, picking up where it had been interrupted.

I canned the playback and waited. Around a minute later, the door opened and Dominique Herschell strolled into the room. She wore a tan fitted jumpsuit, far too crisp for it to have seen any real use. She was clearly between jobs; she’d obviously recently shaved her head, and the black tribal tribal tattoos on her head stood out sharply against her brown skin. She kicked the door shut with the heel of one foot, detoured by the terminal to grab the chair and dragged it over next to the bed. Rather than say anything, though, she just spun it around backward and sat facing me, her arms folded over the back.

I held her gaze for all of about thirty seconds before sighing. “What?”

Dom smirked. “I was just thinking of all the times you told me you didn’t like my line of work. Now Trace calls me and says you want to hire me. I’m just enjoying the moment.”

I snorted. “I still don’t like your line of work. Gun-for-hire never struck me as a career with good retirement options.”

Her smirk slipped into a playfully mocking sneer. “I’m a courier, not a mercenary. My combat training is for self-defense and the protection of valuables, which occasionally means people like you. And with that kind of crack, maybe I won’t take your job.”

It was my turn to grin. “Yes you will. You’ll have time to rub my nose in it all the way to the Confederacy and back.”

Dom gave me a look somewhere between incredulous and patronizing, then pulled a piece of gum out of one of her many pockets. “Confederacy?” She popped the stick in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

I sighed. “Yes, Confederacy. Okay, jokes aside, Dom. You’re the best person I know for this sort of business and one of the only ones I can probably trust to tag along. I got shot the last time I went and I have a vested interest in seeing that that doesn’t happen again. I’m a thinker, not a fighter. I had skywired senses and I still took three shotgun slugs from someone I should’ve seen five miles away.” I paused and shrugged, ignoring the discomfort from my right shoulderblade. “I need your help.”

I ran out of steam there and left the silence hanging while Dom blew bubbles. After a minute or so of consideration, she snapped her gum and nodded. “Alright. Two ground rules.”

Time to negotiate. “Number one?”

She held up a finger. “If the bullets start flying, I get hazard pay.”

I sighed but didn’t bother arguing that one. “Done. Number two?”

She grinned and raised a second. “If I say ‘duck’, you duck. When I say it, not after asking me why.”

I rolled my eyes. “Contrary to Trace’s claims, I am not the most inquisitive person on the planet and I do not have a problem with authority figures.”

She only snapped another bubble in response. When I said nothing further, she shrugged and stood, walking towards the door. “I’ll get the travel details from Trace. When do we leave?”

That reminded me. “Five weeks.”

Dom gave me that look again from the doorway. “Any reason for the delay?”

I nodded. “Trace wants me to Transition before I go. Bring a pocket scanner with you to the tube station.”

She grinned; I could just make out the wad of gum between her teeth. “What’re you going to be?”

I shrugged again, this time wincing at my shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll have something figured out by the time Sanford starts cutting. Trace suggested ‘new and different’ so it’ll probably be anthropomorphic.”

Dom paused, one hand on the doorjamb. “Try female.”

I snickered. “That’d certainly be new and different.”

“It’ll also be something the Purists won’t consider,” she said pointedly, tapping a finger on the frame.

My eyes narrowed. “You read the news?”

Dom’s grin broadened. “I didn’t have to.”

I raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “I don’t get it.”

A look of consternation passed over Dominique’s face, then she sighed. “Trace said he’d have my head if I told you, but he had me follow you from a discreet distance on your last trip. I couldn’t get to you in time to keep you from getting shot, but I did get you evacked back to Angeles. Trace covered the slingshot fare and I paid Medifast to keep your lungs attached to your neck while Sanford prepped an emergency suite for your arrival.” She grinned, leaning against the doorway. “Doc complained about their stitchwork.”

I sat, shocked, for what may very well have been the first time in my life. I honestly didn’t know whether to be angry or pleased that my ex-girlfriend and my best friend for the past twenty years had simultaneously conspired behind my back and saved my hide. I slumped against the head of the bed and looked back into Dom’s eyes. “Thanks.”

She brightened somewhat, a ghost of her smirk echoing on her face. “See you in five weeks. Try not to be late.” Then she exited the door while I slid back down into bed and let the Beethoven swell as I tried to decide on my next face.

Underneath his freshly-pressed shirt and the rest of his calm exterior, though, the Dalmatian was struggling not to tremble, rehearsing in his mind what he would say to his boss when she called him into the room. He’d been the one to ask for the meeting, something already out of the ordinary. Usually she was the one to summon her minions, most often to rub their noses in some mistake she’d found in their work. Arianna Harrington had exacting standards of her staff, and they were expected to meet them, if they didn’t want to find themselves looking for work.

He’d never been dragged into her office before, so he felt safe there, but it was what went unsaid from the above that really made him nervous. Harrington and Associates could demand such precision and talent from its staff because it was one of the top design companies in the city, if not the country, and it paid very well to ensure it got the best. Getting an offer was proof of talent. Keeping it was something else entirely. Allen had kept his job for four years now by throwing himself one-hundred percent into his work, and so far it had handsomely rewarded him.

This, however, was the moment of truth. In all his time at the company, he’d never raised a complaint when his annual raise showed only the cost of living increase, and while the money was good, he knew he was worth more. Just the fact that he’d lasted as long as he had under a slave-driver like Arianna Harrington for four years would be worth gold to any number of other graphics houses, and he could practically name his salary. Before he went anywhere else, though, he wanted to see if he couldn’t get his boss to acknowledge that fact.

Now he only had to survive the meeting.

The phone on the secretary’s desk buzzed suddenly in the office, startling him out of his reverie, his head popping up from the magazine. The raucous sound carried for a few seconds, then snapped back to silence, followed by a voice, distorted slightly by the staticky speaker. “Send in my two-o’clock, Linda.”

The secretary, a bright-eyed beagle with a professionally-groomed coat of tans and browns, pressed a small button on the phone with a freshly-filed clawtip and leaned forward slightly in her chair. “Yes, Ms. Harrington.” She then sat back upright and turned to Allen, nodding once. “Ms. Harrington will see you now,” She motioned toward the heavy wooden door leading from the antechamber to the inner lair, where the principle partner of Harrington and Associates sat waiting.

Allen rose, his mask of calm still intact—he hoped—and tossed the unread magazine casually back onto the stack covering the glass end-table next to the couch. He nodded back to Linda and walked towards the entrance to Ms. Harrington’s office, his paw resting a moment on the brass letters that spelled out his boss’ name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Linda press some button on her desk, and a small chime somewhere rang merrily, a lock unlatching with an audible thunk. Thus invited, Allen swallowed heavily and pushed the door open carefully, stepping into Ms. Harrington’s office.

The office itself sat on the outside corner of the building, and smoke-tinted windows overlooking the city dominated made up two of the walls, providing him with a panoramic view of the downtown district. An overstuffed black leather sofa and a matching chair clustered around a glass-topped coffee table near the corner between the windows. His hindpaws sank into the thick cadet blue shag as he stepped within, his eyes drawn to the cityscape.

“May I help you?” The voice, from behind and to his left, caught Allen off-guard, and he jerked around to face the speaker. Against the left wall, the one not covered in glass, sat a deep cherry desk, atop which rested a computer monitor, two paper-trays, a number of pens, a black leather business folder, and a phone. Two high-backed leather chairs sat in front of it, obviously intended for guests of far more prominence than most of Ms. Harrington’s humble staff. Obviously whoever had laid out the office not only wanted the primary occupant to have the best view in the room, but also intended to keep out of sight when anyone entered, giving the element of surprise to the occupant.

Even more startling than the voice, though, was the sight that greeted Allen when he turned his head. Behind her desk sat a well-groomed vixen, her forest-green eyes fixed on him, the corners of her muzzle and her ears perked in a half-smile. She sat upright in a high-backed, black leather executive chair, leaning with her elbows against the desk, her muzzle resting lightly on her steepled forepaws. Her blouse was obviously silk, a deep green that matched her eyes and emphasized the sheen of the russet fur surrounding them. At her throat was a silver necklace, set with emeralds that sparkled out from against the white fur of her neck. She held her thickly-furred tail high, currently free of the slot at the back of her chair, the tip tied with a dark green satin ribbon that matched her top.

The vixen’s smile deepened when Allen’s eyes met hers, and he got the distinct impression of looking into the eyes of a predator, one who’d been sizing him up from the minute he walked through her office door. Before he could recover gracefully, though, she sat back slightly in her chair, motioning towards one of the chairs in front of her. “Mister Ritchie? Please, take a seat.”

Allen gave his best interview smile and pulled back the chair after a moment’s fumbling; the guest seats were heavier than they looked. “I do appreciate you taking time out of your day to see me, Ms. Harrington.”

“Please,” she cooed with disarming ease. “Call me Arianna. I took the time before you arrived to review your history with the company. Four years is an impressive lifespan at Harrington and Associates.” Her ears flicked bemusedly, apparently aware of her own morbid joke. “You do excellent work, if I say so myself.”

Allen’s ears grew warm, and he knew they had to be reddening from the unexpected praise. “I’m glad that you’re pleased with the quality of my performance. Actually,” he added quickly, “that’s why I’m here.”

“Oh?” Arianna’s eyes didn’t register the response projected in her voice, locked on his intently. “Do tell.”

It took the Dalmatian several seconds to find his tongue again, all the composure he had carefully rehearsed in the antechamber evaporating under the scrutinizing stare of his manager. “I came to ask for a raise,” he finally managed to say into the oppressive void.

Arianna’s expression didn’t change a bit from before his statement to after, but she did shift in her seat, her paws steepled in front of her muzzle, elbows balanced on the arms of her chair. “Do you believe that Harrington and Associates made a poor offer to you when you accepted your position? Do you think the annual increases were out of line with the cost of living?”

Allen shook his head quickly, hoping to avoid insulting his boss. “Not at all. Far from it, actually.”

Arianna’s smile broadened, her eyes narrowing. “Then why ask for a raise?”

In two quick ripostes, she had talked him into a corner. “Because….” Her gaze never wavered, her eyes holding his captive, the smug smile fixed on her muzzle. He took a deep breath through his muzzle and took his chance. “Frankly, I know I’m worth more than that.”

His manager leaned forward, her elbows again resting on her desk, her arms folded now in front of her. “What makes you say that?”

Allen smiled nervously himself. She hadn’t kicked him out of her office yet, so he must be doing something right. Either that or she was taking her time, playing with him before delivering the killing blow to his career. “The salary you offered me was in line with my skills of four years ago. I’ve gotten better since then, both in skill and in presentation. You yourself admitted that four years at Harrington and Associates is a long time for someone to survive under your standards. I’ve met and exceeded them consistently. With that kind of credential, I could name my price at any other shop.”

Arianna’s eyes opened wide in mock-surprise, the smug grin still fixed to her muzzle. “Is your loyalty to Harrington and Associates so low that you would just walk out the door like that, Mister Ritchie?”

The Dalmatian’s chest froze, his eartips cold. His tail tried suddenly to retreat between his legs, catching on the seat of the chair. He’d meant it as an honest evaluation of his abilities, but he’d pushed himself over the line. The threat of quitting was on the table, though, and now he had to cover for it. “No, I’d rather stay,” he said earnestly, trying to project as much regret as he could. “I really would. I just know that if I offered my skills somewhere else, they’d offer me a salary based on what I’m worth now, not what I was worth four years ago.”

Arianna nodded, leaning back into the cool leather of her seatback. “Just how much would you like to stay? Suppose I said no. Would you be ready to walk out of that door, past the receptionist, and right out the front door, only to return for your last check and your personal effects?”

The fact that her voice never wavered from its even temperament made Allen sit very still in his seat, the chill in his ears spreading down to his muzzle. His tail tried to crawl down between his legs, but the construction of his seat prevented it. He’d blown his chance, and he knew it. He’d pushed his luck too far. “I would really rather not have to do that, if I can avoid it. I just… I think I’m worth more than you’re paying me, and I think you know it too.”

The vixen chuckled quietly to herself. “Oh, I believe I know exactly what you’re worth, Mr. Ritchie, but let’s find out? I’ll make you the following deal.” She stopped, glanced towards her office door, then stabbed the speaker button on the phone. “Linda, would you please go down to the break room and bring Mister Ritchie and myself some fresh coffee, thanks,” she said quickly into the unit, releasing the button without waiting for a reply. Then she lifted her head back to Allen’s, her smile taking on a definite predatory tone. “You’ve got about ten minutes. If you can make me climax before she gets back, you’ve got your raise. If not… maybe you’ll be able to get it from one of our competitors.”

Allen’s eyes went wide, even moreso than normal. “You can’t be serious!” he shouted hoarsely. “This is harassment!”

“It’s your word against mine, Mister Ritchie,” Arianna cooed, obviously enjoying the situation. “You came asking for a raise, I told you no, you stormed out of the building, and then made up this story about sexual harassment to try to get back the job you quit. You’d better hurry; if the coffee’s already made, you’ve got less time than you think.”

Allen rose indignantly, knocking his chair backwards. His paws balled into fists, and for a brief moment he considered doing just as she said, storming out of the office and calling the police, when he realized just what a bind he really was in. At this point, he’d become just another throw-away employee, one more victim of Arianna Harrington’s exacting standards. It really was his word against hers, and she had history on her side. Any leverage he had when he’d entered was gone now. When Linda returned with his coffee, his job was gone.

Unless… no, she couldn’t be serious, he thought. His cock, though, throbbed once in anticipation, the situation appealing to his baser instincts even as his brain rejected it as absurd. He looked down at her, staring smugly back up from her seat with a knowing grin. As he watched, she parted her muzzle and let the tip of her tongue run over her lips, and he felt his body responding. She really was attractive, the cut of her blouse emphasizing and showing off her cleavage without exposing anything, and with her chair pushed away from the desk he could see the black skirt she wore, covering just enough of her thighs to follow the convention of modesty. Even in the midst of his turmoil, a part of his mind wondered what lay just out of sight.

Arianna was hot, she knew it, and she knew he knew it too.

Allen walked quickly around to stand in front of her, his paws at his neck, slipping his tie from around his throat, letting it drop to the floor. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, then knelt, the solid cherry desk blocking his view of the front door to her office. His knees sank into the thick carpeting, and he leaned forward, his paws resting on Arianna’s knees, her deep red fur warm against his pads. Slowly he slid them along her thighs, ruffling the fur against the grain, still watching her for some sign of disapproval or hesitation, but her look offered only amusement and her own obvious arousal at the situation.

“You’d better hurry, Mister Ritchie,” the vixen said huskily, her voice low. “You’re already down a minute.”

The Dalmatian’s fingers slid beneath the edge of the skirt, riding it up against her legs, slowly exposing more of her well-toned legs, then the white shimmer of satin panties. He pressed his muzzle against them, burying himself in her scent, his own cock twitching in its sheath as he engrossed himself in her arousal. He parted his jaws, his tongue darting out to lick over the sheer fabric, tasting her musk, dampening the material that covered her sex.

Arianna’s paws clenched against the armrests of her chair, her muzzle half-open in an expression of eager anticipation, breathing heavily now as Allen nuzzled into her crotch. Her juices started to soak the satin as well as her saliva, her scent deepening, thickening as he caressed her through the delicate fabric. A soft whine escape her as she lifted herself briefly, letting the skirt gather behind her, beneath her tail, allowing her to expose more of herself to his questing muzzle.

Allen’s tongue poked into the fabric, denting it as he explored her cleft through the satin, learning the flavor of her musk, savoring the tastes of her arousal as he encouraged her, licking hungrily against the white satin. His paws slid up to her waist, clawtips hooking into the waistband of her panties and sliding them down, exposing her sex. The fur there was white, short and already darkened and slick from her juices and his licking. Her labia were already a bit swollen from arousal, parted slightly to expose the tender inner lips, the entrance to her tunnel visible just behind them.

He let the panties drop around her ankles and put his paws back on her knees, parting them firmly, forcing Arianna to slide forward on her chair to open herself up to him. He pressed his muzzle into her snatch, tongue caressing her outer lips, then darting between them to tease the inner ones, coaxing a series of moans out of her as he licked her. Her fingers moved from the arms of the chair to the back of his head, holding him against her crotch.

Arianna panted, her eyes closed now, muzzle open as she panted, each touch of his tongue to her netherlips bringing a fresh gasp out of her as he lapped at her, exploring her sex. She felt him press himself further between her legs, and then she squealed as he curled his tongue up into her tunnel, fucking her with his muzzle, thrusting that wet organ over and over into her. She shuddered, tensing against him, gripping the fur on the back of his head tightly as she neared her release.

Allen withdrew from her canal slowly, his tongue slipping free of its gentle grip, but then he drew it up between her lips without breaking contact with the skin, her moan shifting into a high-pitched keen. His paws moved between her legs now, fingerpads to either side of her netherlips, gently pulling them apart, exposing her swollen pearl, the hood withdrawn to bare her nubbin. He caressed it with his tongue, sending another shiver through her body, her fingers moving from just holding his head to cupping his ears, guiding him to her secret spot, urging him onwards, and he obeyed, tongue slowly swirling around her clit and then dragging slowly across it, teasing her sensitive flesh, pushing her towards climax.

Arianna began to shake, biting her lip now as Allen lapped directly at her button, her body quivering beneath his touch. She tensed, tailtip quivering, her body nearing the release she demanded, her breath coming in short, heaving gasps. Her black claws entwined into the short white fur on the back of Allen’s head as he drove her onwards, nearing the point of inevitability. She inhaled sharply, eyes closed, so close to release. His tongue lapped eagerly at her clit, caressing it directly, and she responded, her body tightening and then suddenly spasming as she climaxed, crying out from the strength of her orgasm. Her body shook, spasms running through it as she rode out the wave of her release, grinding herself against Allen’s muzzle.

Allen continued to lick at her nubbin until the last aftershocks passed from her body, then pulled himself away from her, her grip on his head gone slack in her release. The fur of his muzzle was soaked in her juices, and he licked at himself, savoring her taste. He withdrew from her crotch, rising from the floor after retrieving his tie. “So, do I keep my job?” he asked with a smirk of his own.

Arianna nodded weakly, then motioned towards the far end of the room. “Washroom, on this wall.”

Allen nodded and walked to the far side of the office, noticing the door set flush with the wall near the panoramic window. Inside was a small bathroom complete with shower and sink, decorated in the same cadet blue as the office beyond, trimmed in silver. He looked at himself in the mirror, then set about scrubbing the traces of his sins from his fur. He gave a quick blowdry to his wet fur, then retied his tie and checked himself again with a grimace. The scent of her sex still lingered in his nostrils, and everyone he passed would probably suspect what he’d been doing, but at least didn’t quite look the part now.

When he came back, Arianna was sitting at her desk, chatting happily away with her secretary, three mugs of coffee on a cafeteria tray nearby. Her secretary was occupying one of the chairs across from her, taking notes. The vixen looked over at him and motioned him over with a grin, a genuinely friendly smile. “Allen! Please, have a seat. I was just discussing your promotion with Linda, working out the details to have her pass them to HR.”

Allen’s ears shot upwards, his eyes going wide again. “Promotion?”

Arianna nodded, a hint of her mischevious smirk crossing her muzzle. “As we discussed? Personal project lead. I need someone who from time to time can handle special assignments from me that I just can’t trust to someone of lesser standards and skill, and I think you’ve amply demonstrated your ability to handle the position in your time here.” She winked when she finished her statement, her ears flicking in amusement.

Allen laughed. “I think I can handle the job. I’m flattered that you’d trust me with such a high-profile position.”

“Oh, believe me, you’ve earned it.” Arianna responded as Allen made a grab for his coffee. “I think you’ve got quite a future ahead of you at Harrington and Associates.”