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It wasn't often that George Maxwell allowed himself a cigar. He didn't much care for the taste of them, and certainly not for the stench they left in his office, clinging to the upholstery and his tweed longer than any sweaty musk he could hope to put out. No, he didn't like cigars, but it all came down to nostalgia. When he had first become CEO of his grandfather's whiskey company, they'd celebrated with fat, hand-rolled Cubans. The cigars had tasted like shit. The fifty-cent cigar he was puffing on now tasted just as foul, but it reminded him of good old times.

Young and sweet Miss Dixie poked her head into the office. Her nose wrinkled against the assault of the smoke, but she pushed on like a trooper. "Mr. Maxwell, sir," she cooed, "the Lankett boy's here to see you."

"Why thank you, Miss Dixie," said George, shooting a friendly smile at the poodle. He loved her gentle southern belle voice and the exotic Frenchness of her lineage. There were intercoms on their desks, but she always click-clicked in her heels up to his door to deliver news. He liked that initiative, and it was why Miss Dixie had been his secretary for the last eight years. "Won't you send the lad in?"

By the time Mr. Lankett knocked on his door, George had already put out his stogie and pointed his small metal desk fan towards the window, gradually drawing the haze out in a way the air conditioning just wasn't cutting.

George personally opened the door and there was a pause full of mutual appreciation. George drank in the girlish face, long blonde hair and svelte lines of the foxcoon faggot before him; Desmond Lankett perused the Akita's powerful but obese body dressed in a tweed suit of exquisite quality, making him appear both successful and as sleazy as a used car salesman.

"Well hello, young man," said George, and his smile was wide and coy. "Very nice to meet my newest employee. I do love to get to know all of my workers. Please, son, step on inside."

"Oh, Mr. Maxwell, sir, you're just too kind," Desmond cooed, as southern-fried as the Akita but so sissified as to be in danger of spontaneous combustion. He swished in in his little department store suit, a combination of style and starkness which reminded George at once of up-north city folks. City fucks, as Grampa Maxwell liked to call them with a toothless grin.

Softly into the outer office where Dixie the dark-skinned poodle was just retaking her seat, George said: "Oh Miss Dixie, would you be so kind as to put my appointments and calls on hold until further notice?"

"Of course, Mr. Maxwell," replied Dixie, cadence syrupy and sweet.

George shut the door, shut the window, dropped the blinds, killed the fan. He turned around to face Lankett, standing petitely before his desk. His southern gentleman smile kicked in with full force, as ready to offer the boy a glass of sweet tea as he was to dispense with the expected sleaze. "Now accordin' to that res-uh-may of yours," the Akita started, closing the gap and putting his paws on Desmond's shoulders (and the boy in turn laid paws on his belly), "you seem awfully over-qualified for this position, son."

"Well that's why I'm here, isn't it, sir?" cooed Desmond. His smile wasn't as mature as George's; he smiled with his mouth only, letting his sly eyes give away everything. George understood it to be, in the parlance of grampa, a shit-eatin' grin. "To negotiate for a better position."

The dog rumbled as if in thought, but it was a sound of lust - nothing more or less. His slowly wagging tail betrayed that, much as Lankett's eyes broadcast his every intention. "Oh, I see... you're a what-now, a twenty-four-year-old?"

"Twenty-three," Desmond softly corrected. He smiled. "Twenty-four in a week."

"Still just a lil' one to me," George retorted with a laugh. It was a deep, good-natured sound, and it reverberated in his gut. Desmond thought of Santa Claus and his jolly ho-ho-ho. George did indeed have a sack of goodies, and he probably enjoyed a cookie or ten, if his size was anything to go by.

"I know," the fox chuckled. "I'm still young and beautiful, Mr. Maxwell, sir." His foppish drawl made the honorific come across as sah.

George droned a dreamy, affirmative "Mmmhmm." He squeezed the boy's shoulders and leaned near, tilting down his broad snout. His cool blue eyes bored into Desmond's green gaze and he saw the intent in the foxcoon's eyes melting away into something more pliant. George slid his paws down to Desmond's biceps and pulled him nearer, eliminating personal space. The handsome twink slipped his arms around George, and the dog returned the gesture, albeit with arm length to spare unlike his employee. "And just what kinda position are you lookin' for, Mr. Lankett?"

With his pert ear on George's chest, Desmond better felt the Akita's words than heard them. His blush soon matched his smile and he squeezed the dog's fat body. "You mean with your company, sir, or across your desk?"

"Now that's the kind of initiative I like in my company, boy." George smooched Desmond between the ears, finding himself appreciating the softness and the scent of the fox's hair. He liked such pretty hair on pretty boys. "Lemme give ya' a little test here, son," he said slyly, easing Desmond out of the hug, holding him by the biceps again. Desmond's face was devoid of all its vulpine coyness.

"Yessir, Mr. Maxwell, sir," he puffed, touching the dog's gut.

Grampa always told me good things'd come my way if I ran the business well, thought George with pride. He leaned low and pecked Desmond's cheek. "If'n I sat on back in that comfy leather chair of mine and letcha do your thing, just what might you do, son?"

Mischief filled Desmond's face, coexisting cutely with his fluster. "Well, sir, I've never been one for spoiling a good surprise."

"Oh, I like you, Lankett," growled the Akita, eyes narrowing. He patted the boy on the shoulder and stepped around his desk. His wood and leather office chair - the most modern thing in his office by far - creaked under his considerable weight. He turned away from the desk and stretched his legs, dragging his dress shoes on the floor.

Desmond followed George a few paces behind. The long, banded brush of his tail swished, showing more subtly the interest which was plastered on his hungry face. "You look like such a well-fed man, Mr. Maxwell, sir," he crooned. Gracefully he knelt between the dog's thick, strong legs, putting both paws on the thighs of his new boss. "And I love a well-fed man."

"Well, why shouldn't I be of a healthy size?" George asked, winking.

They chuckled together - then Desmond nuzzled into George's package, presently a regularly throbbing bulge in his trousers. He pushed his nose into what he guessed was the dog's cockhead and sucked his musk through the fabric. Like a socialite tasting fine wine, Desmond savored the rich smell with a thoughtful coo, and then he exhaled. "You smell as wonderful as you look, sir."

"Mighty nice of you to say, Mr. Lankett." He petted the back of the boy's head gently. He didn't pull Desmond in like some sex fiend; there was no need to when the boy was so eager already. "Is this all you'd do in this situation, now...?"

"Why, Mr. Maxwell," Desmond admonished, like a mother addressing her son by his full name. "Do you really think a down-home sissy fox like yours truly is only going to sniff such a handsome man?" He reached for the button of the dog's fly, working it out of its eyelet, and then came the zipper. Even as George's precum-stained boxers came into view, he tutted: "I mean, really."

George watched, smiling like an imp, as Desmond tugged down his boxers. Desmond didn't see the expression, for as coy and sexually worldly as the boy seemed to be, George's big southern dong was still quite a sight. It was thick and sturdy, some eleven throat- or butt-reaming inches of uncircumcised, greasy meat, and the foxcoon deeply appreciated this endowment. He intended to fuck with his boss for a promotion one way or another, but a beautifully fat (and intact) cock turned work into passion.

Desmond took the Akita's half-mast cock in both paws. His pink pads, kept soft by office work and moisturizer, glided easily on the dog's sweaty shaft. "Well, goodness me," Desmond breathed, lifting it to his lips. He smooched the head, presently hidden by the pucker of his foreskin. "Do you appreciate honesty, Mr. Maxwell? Or do you like your employees to, and do pardon my French, bullshit you?"

The Akita chuckled, folding his paws over his heavy, jolly gut. "Be honest with me, Mr. Lankett. Oh, can I call you Desmond, please? I like to dispense with the formal nonsense once a person's lips touch my johnson."

"Please," the foxcoon invited, smearing his cheek along George's cock. It stiffened against his girly snout, its glans slowly exposing itself. Precum oozed from it, leaving irregular stripes in Desmond's soft fur. "And if I may be honest, I was expecting I might have to go searching for this." He added with a giggle, "That you might have trouble seeing more than just your toes, sir."

George shook his head, laughing under his breath. "It may be true I can't tell if the shoe shine boy ripped me off, yes, but I can usually see what you've got your pretty lil' face up against." He tickled the foxcoon under the chin, leading into a warm, but brief scratching which left the fox shivering and nuzzling his fingers. "You're just about the cutest lil' thing that's ever walked through my door. Tell ya' what, Desmond, how's about we forget this little game and just get to the good part?"

The fox was still blushing, still bearing splayed ears, when the dog made his offer. Desmond smiled dreamily and said as he stood, "But suckin' a dick is the good part for me, Mr. Maxwell. George, I'm sorry - it's a habit."

"Not a bad one to be in," George murmured. He licked his black jowls and pushed up from his chair, suddenly towering above the fox, his presence making the boy flinch back a step. His cock wagged briefly, almost standing high enough to butt against his stomach. "All right, you pretty little boy. Here's where we decide if you get an air conditioned office or not," he teased. "Let's see what kinda behind y'got."

Desmond started to unbutton and unzip. He giggled flirtatiously. "Well, I'm afraid it's broken in the middle, sir. Split right in half." He dropped his slacks, standing before George in briefs only. The dog took inventory of the boy's very mild bulge; it occurred to George that Desmond, with his nonexistent belly, might not be able to see his own dick. The thought made him grin.

Mistaking the Akita's countenance as one of lust, Desmond gingerly stroked George's cock. "D'you like whatcha see, handsome?"

It would have been dreadfully impolite to make fun of the boy's size. George's grin mellowed to a smile. He nodded and brushed Desmond's hair from his eyes with a loving touch. "Sure do, boy. Now ho-o-ow's about we finally see what's going on under them shorts?"

The fox's blush deepened as his smile widened. His ears splayed again in a show of submission. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and down they came, inverting at his crotch before coming loose and dropping. George got to see exactly why his briefs stuck to him: he was wet. There was no equipment there he expected to see but a fat, black vulva better suited to a four-legged doggy than a slim and perfect foxcoon fuckpet. George thoughtfully hummed.

"Well. That's a surprise."

Evidently it wasn't to Desmond, who glanced down as if expecting to see something extraordinary. To him, it wasn't.

"No, no, there's nothin' wrong with ya', boy. Mm, actually," he rubbed his chin, "you sure you're really a boy? I mean, your name's Desmond, innit?"

The fox smiled with patience George found eerily resonant of grampa whenever he explained things which were perfectly sensible but alien without context. "I'm a lil' bit of an in-between, sir. I'm a boy every other way. Glands and bones and what-have-ya." He slipped those warm, pink-padded fingers down George's belly and purred. "And my pussy - oh, pardon the language, please - is just as slick 'n warm as any you're gonna find on a girl."

George was curious - but he was very, very gay, too. He rubbed Desmond's chin again, finding it irresistible for little pets. "Well, sugarpie, I'm sure it is, but ya' know, I just like boys. Y'think we can, uh...?"

Desmond snickered. There was some of that vulpine wickedness, and George was quite pleased to hear it. "You want my behind? Oh, you can have that, handsome. I'll letcha have that all day long."

It brought the Akita nothing but delight when Desmond wigged his foot out of his bottoms and put a knee up on the desk. He draped himself over it, his bushy tail going high as his breast went low, and he reached back and tugged aside an ass cheek. His pink pucker winked, pretty and perfect just as George expected it to be. The black muff under it was inconsequential. "Pardon me for winking, sir," he said with mischief. "It's always a little swollen up the day after I play with it."

Like flipping up the hood of a car, George pulled up Desmond's shirt and grabbed his tail. He took a good, long look at what he had to work with, and he let out an attentive murmur. "Gorgeous lil' rump on ya', son. Your hole's lookin' mighty well-trained, too. I'm gonna tentatively say you've got a good line of work ahead of you with assets like this."

"Do I really, Mr. Maxwell, sir?" the boy with the cunt purred, neither he nor George noticing he'd slipped back into honorifics. "Even with this pretty little pussy 'tween my thighs?"

George reached into his desk. A bottle of lube sat sideways on a stack of boring forms and he squirted a line of it along his finger like mustard on a hotdog. "I wouldn't do much touchin' on it even if it was a pecker, boy," he plainly answered, but with that dadlike joviality which disarmed his clients and made his secretary giggle and flush.

He rubbed his lubed finger against Desmond's soft, winking anus, smearing around the lubrication before he started to work the finger in. As he did, he watched with reserved pleasure as Desmond pushed himself up further on the desk, grinding his black box against the rounded lip. He heard papers shuffle and his NOT A DAD, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME THAT mug with his pens in it rattle as the boy swam up the desk. He stopped when his leg on the floor gave him no more leverage.

The Akita's knuckles hit Desmond's ass cheek, middle finger buried in the boy's ass partly for its length, but mostly just because he liked the implicit vulgarity which came with using it. He curled the lubed digit, rubbing firmly the soft walls of Desmond's ass. Inner flesh like velvet squirmed around his finger; the boy groaned. George heard soft, measured huffs, and that long and bushy fox tail swished near his face with a mesmerizing quality.

"You're not playin' this up for the sake of your job, are you, Desmond?" George dryly asked. He could smell the foxcoon's cunt - he wasn't interested, but his keen nose was aware - and he had a feeling the young man wasn't acting.

"Nnno sir," puffed the fox, shoving his muff against the desk, awkwardly dry-humping it. A gleaming runner of vaginal juices beaded on the bottom point of his vulva and fell to the floor in steady drips like the lonely tune of a leaky tap. "Mmm. Good lo-o-ord. You have such big fingers, Mr. Maxwell."

"So big they don't make rings that'll fit around 'em," George chuckled, thinking then and there just how much he loved spending his middle age with boys walking in and out of his office nonstop. He eased his finger back out of the fox, unclenching his fist as room permitted. A quick visual appraisal of the foxcoon's pucker was all he took, and then he started smearing more lube on his dense penis.

Desmond watched over his shoulder, a wry smile on his lips. The sight alone of George's uncircumcised cock made him wet; his muff felt like a swamp inside.

When the handsome Akita took his meat and pushed it head-first into the Desmond's asshole, the fox crooned and straightened out. His girly fingers played with the far edge of the desk as his cunt rubbed against the back. "Mmm... mmm-mmm, that's some good dick," he said with a drawn-out sigh. "You don't have to be gentle with me at all, sir. Why, I pride myself on my readiness."

George guided his fat, long prick with his paw, the bottom of his mitt against his loins. He didn't let it stand on its own until the top of his fist touched the cheeks of Desmond's ass, and when it did, he smeared the lube off on his wide ass and hip and grabbed the foxcoon by his flanks. "Ve-e-ery nice to know, Mr. Lankett," said the dog. His hips pressed flush to Desmond's rear, slightly flattening the bubble of his butt. He stroked up Desmond's sides, under his armpits. The feeling of that bitch muff against his balls was odd, but not at all off-putting.

Although he was heavy, in fact obese, George was a strong man with grace and energy. His meaty paws slid down Desmond's featureless body and clutched his hips at the same moment he drew back his own. The boy tried to push back, but George held him against the desk. "I got what you're tryin' to get, son," he growled, a wickedly toothy smile stretching from ear to ear. He bucked, mashing it into Desmond's gay little ass. His balls spanked the boy's cunt and his hips smashed those thick cheeks into pancakes briefly. Over the foxcoon's gasp, he rumbled, "Oh, gawd. I'll find a good place for you, boy. You're gonna work real close to me."

"Oh, Mr. Maxwell, sir," Desmond gushed, grinning idiotically in pleasure. His tail swished all over the dog's gut and breast, tickling his chin with its dipstick tip. "Good gawd, sir... w-would you mind if I did a little diggin' while you're doin' your thing?"

George had to think about what the fox even meant, but when it clicked a few seconds later, he laughed. "Well, boy, how 'bout I do you one better'n that?" he drawled, grabbing Desmond by the shoulders. Hips flush to that perfect ass, he pulled the boy upright and fell back into his chair, making it squeak.

Suddenly in George's lap and feeling like a helpless boy in a very dirty Mall Santa's lap, Desmond grabbed the armrests and his blush's hue hit a new peak. Overhead and right into Desmond's ears, George said: "Ride me, son. Go on'n buck like a bronco. I'll take care of the rest."

"Aw, yessir, Mr. Maxwell, sir," spoke sweet little Desmond Lankett, riding his new boss using his arms alone to pump up and down. His lubed, snug bottom gripped the dog's meat, tugging down its foreskin on the descents and puckering it back up with the rises, all inside of the fox.

George appreciated the textures and warmth as much as he enjoyed the boy's gymnastics. He liked any young man who could do all the work if necessary, because although George was a hands-on kind of lay, he still cashed in on his age and status now and then when it came to sex. But although most of his body was passive, his paws were not. He looped his arms around Desmond, taking great care not to interfere with the ride. He closed his thumbs and forefingers around the boy's protruding muff, making its lips deform and squish mildly in his touch. Desmond huffed and cooed, but his rhythm remained steady.

"Ooh, gosh," Desmond purred. "I thought you didn't like girl parts, sir."

Like he'd fingered the boy's ass but with much less composure and care, George hooked two fingers into that cunt and pinched deep with them. To his delight, Desmond squeaked. His ass clenched and his arms trembled at the peak of a bounce. When the boy fell into his lap, George squeezed him into his gut with his free arm and pumped that pussy, digging into it with purpose. "Not my favorite thing. I don't care much for eatin' Chinese food - doesn't mean seeing it and pickin' through it a little bit makes me ill..."

Desmond gnawed his jowl. He grabbed George's wrists, holding them desperately in small paws. "G-good point, sir... very good point, good analogy, Mr. Maxwell, sir."

The Akita laughed. He licked Desmond's ear and reached under the muff, tickling Desmond's taint with his claws; that particular touch made the boy shudder and squirm, his anal and vaginal walls clenching against the invading objects. "You're awful cute, even with this big, puffy pussy on ya'. I might even say it suits you, son."

Dumb, dreamy pleasure left Desmond's expression quite placid. He stroked up George's arms, soon reaching behind and above himself to rub the dog's neck and head. "Tha-a-ank you, sir. Mmm. If I could--, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. Maxwell..."

"Go on, cutie - what's on your mind?" he growled, albeit gently, even sweetly. He nibbled the tip of Desmond's ear and made a point of pushing his thumb pad into the foxcoon's clitoris.

George pressing Desmond's button made the fox hiss and arch his spine, pulling himself away from the dog, but not far. He gripped George's thick neck, holding onto the coarse fluff for a moment. George hardly noticed through all his blubbery flesh. "If you'd just play with my poor little pussy a lil bit harder, I might just find it very gratifying, sir..."

A warm laugh shook George's belly. His unencumbered paw petted along the boy's breast, fondling his nigh featureless body through his suit jacket. "Now if that's not the purdiest way I've ever heard a boy ask if he can squirt." Suddenly enough that it made Desmond gasp, George hunched over him, squeezing him close around the chest. His fingers, once two but now three buried in that box, pumped like pistons in and out of the peculiar fox's big, black cunt. A wet sucking sound filled the room, not unlike what George sounded like with his favorite treat in his mouth (Tootsie Pops, which were always on the desk in another, sadly plain mug). But where that was an innocent and cute noise, the sound of George fingerfucking his new employee's box as hard as he could was a heinously lewd one.

It didn't bother the dog that Desmond was only sitting idle on his cock. He was still loving the grip of the boy's ass and the heat of a warm body to rest in. He felt like his pads were starting to prune inside of that cunt, and it was as true as his name was George Maxwell that he didn't much like pussy, but he adored how the boy was acting. Every whimper and gasp and especially the soft-spoken pleas for more, oh please a little more Mr. Maxwell sah made his tail wag through the open back of the chair and his dick throb deep inside of that sissy ass. The honey from Desmond's girl parts ran down, dripping off the bottom edge of his vulva; it fell onto George's balls and got caught in the plush pile of his fur.

"Ooh--, oooohmigawd, sir," Desmond squeaked. His face was drawn, ears flat and brow sweaty. Crescents of sweat grew in the armpits of his suit. "You-u-u are gonna make me bust, I'm so close..."

George, resting his chin between the boy's ears, reached down with the free paw and tweaked the dark flesh of the fox's cunt. His right fingers stayed deep inside, digging and pumping and beckoning, doing the dirty work while his left ones toyed with the surface. He found in that moment that he liked how it felt, and thought - with a couple fingers of Jack Daniels in him - that he could see himself dipping his wick in there. It was a notion he kept to himself.

"Well squirt for me, little fox," George rumbled, spreading his three fingers inside of the twink, pulling them back and taking a look at how webbed with Desmond's juices they were. He stuffed them back in and reached down with the other paw, grabbing his new boy by the hip. With some awkward, rough gestures, he managed to lift Desmond up and dropped him.

"Ah--, ah! Sorry, so sorry, sir. I'm slacking here," Desmond said, nearly out of breath. He didn't grab the armrests like a gymnast; that was too strenuous, and with his body on the verge of climax, his muscles were like jelly anyway. Biting his lip, the foxcoon thrust his elbows into the armrests and pushed himself up, bouncing on George with quick, effective strokes. The feeling of the dog's cock slipping in and out, even by a few inches each way, added immeasurably to the pleasure of those fat and fuzzy fingers. It was unbearable.

A warbling but happy noise squeaked past Desmond's jowls. He bounced still, but his already rough motions became yet more mechanical. Both ass and muff clenched savagely on the dog, milking with the former but simply restricting with the latter, and he squirted for his boss like a champ. Around George's fingers, his lady-spunk gushed and ran down the dog's ballbag. George fingerfucked him even as he came, making incredible pleasure nearly pain as his walls grew oversensitive. He whimpered, slamming into the dog's lap and shoving his back against that heavy, warm gut. His toes curled inches from the floor, legs bending inward like those of a girl about to piss her panties.

George chewed his jowl as his boy came. He was stricken by the stink that was his rush of pheromones. It was a scent not quite one gender nor the other, but it made the Akita's keen nose very happy. It wasn't so much the scent or the spectacle, however, as the clenching which had him close to the edge and about to pop just like the foxcoon had with such explosive results. He yanked his sticky fingers out, feeling like a bear with claws dipped in fresh honey. Hugging Desmond fast, neither noticing or caring that he was ruining a pricey jacket (it wouldn't be the first piece of clothing he'd replaced on his employees), he groaned and shuddered all through his rotund body.

Like Desmond's pigeon toes in the wake of his climax, George's feet twisted inward where they ordinarily pointed outward from his weight. His heels scraped on the floor and his belt buckle clanked on the floor, all drowned out by his low orgasmic moan. He shot into Desmond, dumping his fawn nuts deep inside of the handsome young foxcoon. He licked Desmond's ear, nibbled its rim, panted across its twin before he could give it the same treatment. Just like Desmond had sweat through his jacket, George's ass was swampy in the chair and his brow dripped.

Slowly, George sat back and pulled Desmond along with him. They sat together, Desmond happy in the lap of the obese dog, safe and loved in his massive arms.

"Ah... Mr. Maxwell, sah," he cooed. "Would you say I can expected a quick promotion now?"

George laughed blithely. He patted Desmond's belly with his sticky fingers. Oh, yes - the boy was going to be a permanent and valued part of Maxwell Sour Mash, but did he need to know that just yet?

"Well," George said thoughtfully, his poker face and tone honed by years of deals, "it's lookin' quite promising, Mr. Lankett. But how willing are you to kiss ass to get ahead?"

The fox chuckled awkwardly. "Wha--? I mean... sir, haven't I kissed quite a lot of ass?"

Folding his arms behind his head, George let the stink of his armpits - which had partly overwhelmed his antiperspirant - flow freely. "You have, son, you sure have. But you see, I want that kinda boy who goes the extra mile to make his boss happy." He licked his lips. "I mean kiss some ass literally, woefully abused though that word may be in these illiterate times."

Realization swept across Desmond's face, yet instead of shock of revulsion, it manifested as that vulpine evilness George had first fallen for. He twisted around, George's flaccid cock slipping out of his ass without protest, and gave the dog a look at his wicked countenance. "Why didn't you just say so, Mr. Maxwell? Kissing asses just so happens to be what I do best."

As young Mr. Lankett went to work slobbering and smooching the musky, sweat-smeared pucker of his anus, George hoped sweet Miss Dixie would mind sharing her office with the boy. It wouldn't do to keep such a versatile employee more than a shout away.

"You're gonna have yourself a nice, long career here, son," George coolly said as he lit up a cigar; fat and Cuban, saved for only the big celebrations. He drew a deep puff, blew out his clumsy attempt at a ring. He hardly minded it. "Ve-e-ery long in-deed."