Leave
"Morning, Sheila!"
"Morning," the flustered marmot said without looking. She was moving through the office purposefully, eyes fixed forwards.
"You alright?"
"N-yeah," she corrected at the last moment. "Just fine."
She didn't linger. She had to get to Mr. Flint's office, and soon.
She hesitated with her hand on his doorknob. She knew this might not go well. She knew she really ought to head home and deal with the consequences later. Mr. Flint wouldn't approve of her just ducking out on her job, but she could call in from the safety of her home.
Except she knew all-too-well that Mr. Flint harped on face-to-face contact. He wasn't charismatic, exactly, but he had a sort of presence, a magnetism, which people reacted to when they were around him. It served him to great advantage. Sheila had seen it firsthand many a time.
So he insisted on important business being done face-to-face. If she tried to deal with this over the phone, he would not approve. She would not risk his displeasure.
"You can do this," she murmured to herself. "In, and out--no problems."
It was the wrong thing to say. She shook her head, knocked twice, then opened the door.
Her nose twitched immediately. The room always smelled of him, but today--of course--it seemed particularly pronounced. Or was her brain just reacting to it more?
Sight took a while to catch up, and to take in his surprised visage. Mr. Flint was a middle-aged wolf, larger than average, with gray-on-gray fur streaked with white. He was wearing business casual, with a neatly-pressed shirt and pants. No tie, but several already-knotted candidates were sitting on a stand nearby in case he needed them.
He hadn't gone to seed, exactly, but he also wasn't the imposing specimen he appeared to be in some of the pictures hanging around the room. It was like he had condensed over the years, like he'd let go of fronts and postures and personae, and was more himself than ever.
This fact struck Sheila like a blunt object. She swayed slightly as she looked at him. Already his presence was affecting her. It took a few more seconds for hearing to engage. Yes--he was talking to her. "Sorry, what?" she flubbed.
"I said, you're very early," he repeated patiently. He checked his wristwatch. "You're not supposed to bring me my schedule for another twenty minutes."
"It's not about that," she said.
He cocked his head curiously at her. She burned under his gaze. She didn't feel she was anything special. She was a marmot, and like most of her breed was plain and drab. She had a potato-like build that no amount of exercise or dieting could change, and she was far too self-conscious to take solace that her extra pounds were flatteringly distributed. She'd gotten good-not-great grades in school, fallen in and out of a few dead-end jobs, half-heartedly tried a few relationships, and basically resigned herself to a life in the background.
She wasn't quite sure how she'd landed the job as Mr. Flint's secretary. She definitely wasn't the prettiest applicant (she'd seen the others and even the memory made her jealous). She couldn't have been the most experienced, since her other jobs hadn't really been this kind. How or why Mr. Flint had picked her was beyond her reckoning.
She felt an immense debt of gratitude towards him. It was the undercurrent of every interaction.
It was buzzing in her mind right then.
"Well, what is it, then?" he said, turning his chair to face her. "Come in, don't stand there in the doorway. Tell me--how can I help?"
She flinched as the idea of how he could 'help' sprung right to the forefront of her mind. She was in the room and had closed the door behind her while she was dealing with that--and gasped. She'd promised herself she wouldn't do this. She'd told herself she wouldn't go in the room. Too dangerous, but here she was. Damn.
"You are distractible today," he said when she didn't reply. "What's wrong?"
His concern was almost too much to take. She turned her head to avoid looking at him. "I need to talk to you about the company leave policy."
"In general, or in your specific case?"
"In my case."
"Hm." He frowned. "If I recall, you don't have much left at the moment. Not your fault, of course--the drunk driver that totaled your car takes the blame there. But, add it all up, and the crash ate most of your leave balance."
"I know," she said in a strained voice. Already she was panting, already her desperation was rising. "I was... I was thinking about... well, what if I tapped a different source of leave? One of the other policies?"
Mr. Flint was too sharp to let that slide. "This isn't for fun, then. Tell me what's wrong," he said, in tones that brooked no disagreement.
She closed her eyes. "It seems I've... I've developed a resistance to my meds."
She heard him suck in a small breath. Every part of her was burning, but it was particularly hot in a few places--her cheeks, from embarrassment, and her nethers, from need. She was not supposed to be feeling this way. This wasn't the plan, dammit!
"Which meds?" The words came slowly, as though each cost effort.
Her face screwed up. "The heat moderator," she said, shame coursing through her. "It's uncommon, but it does happen... to a fraction of a percent of the population..."
"That would explain it," he said.
She was too busy taking deep breaths and not-looking at him to ask what "it" he meant. The deep breaths were supposed to calm her. They seemed like they might be having the opposite effect. Or was she already that far gone?
"Soooo," she said, trying to regain her faculties, refocus. She even went so far as to force herself to look at him. "I need to go on leave. Rather badly. Right now."
"Do you?" he asked.
She ground her teeth together in frustration. "Yes! Sir," she added hastily. She dare not snap at him, not when she was already asking him a favor and needing his approval. But it was hard to tell if he was making fun of her or not, and that galled her. "And I know my normal paid leave is used up, so I was thinking... well, there's an account for maternity leave, isn't there?"
"You can't be pregnant, you're in heat," he said drily.
Again she couldn't tell if he was mocking her. She forced herself to decide he wasn't. His face gave no clues; his expression was totally impassive, a mask of self-control. "That's just it," she said, trying her best to be patient. Her temperature seemed to be rising every moment. "If I... can't go home and... and deal with this... I will be pregnant. Soon. Then I'll go on maternity leave from needing it, and be entitled to the full allowance."
She shook her head as if that would clear it. "Think of it like car maintenance. It's pricey, but compared to replacing all those expensive bits, it's cheap. So..." She screwed up her courage and looked him in the eyes. It was a mistake; she almost lost her train of thought. Swallowing hard, she continued. "So if you want to keep me from taking the full maternity leave, advance me ten days of it. I'll go home, and... and s-s-soothe myself."
It was a grim prospect to her in that moment. The moderator kept a mammal's hormone levels from raging out of control during her heat. She would still be fertile, but not overwhelmed with need. She could manage her normal life with only mild mood and behavior effects. Sheila herself had gone through several heats while working for Mr. Flint, without incident or embarrassment. If he'd noticed any change in her during those times, he'd never mentioned it.
All of that was gone now. It was well-known that a femme going off the moderator would enter a heat more intense than those pre-moderator--as if her body were paying her back for the tampering. Couples trying to get pregnant sometimes did it deliberately, moderating one heat to spike the next and supercharge the femme's libido and fertility. That exact effect was seizing hold of Sheila, moment by moment. She was having to try ever harder not to drool, not to rub her legs together, not to...
...to openly ogle her studly boss.
It was such an out-of-character thought she was able to recognize it as such, and retreat from it. No. No, she didn't think of Mr. Flint like that--she couldn't, he was her boss, he could have her fired... not that he'd need to, he could physically throw her out if he wanted, he could handle her however he desired and she would...
Again she shook her head. She'd never allowed herself to think of Mr. Flint in a sexual way. Even during her heats--why, in those past fertile times, she'd been extra diligent to self-police and keep her thoughts strictly on business.
She was physically incapable of keeping her mind on business. Not with him staring at her. Not in his place, his lair, soaked in the scent of male.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said breathlessly. "Sorry for my vulgar... talk. I just... I need to go. I need to leave, soon, but I've got to work this out, and I know you prefer face-to-face, and maybe that was a mistake with me like this, but I'm trying to do what you want, because what you want is important to me, and now... now..."
She bit her lip. Despite how her body was burning up, her nipples were as erect as if she was shivering cold. She was painfully aware of their tightness, just like she could feel the sweat that was causing her blouse to droop and cling, and the arousal that was causing her panties to dampen. She hadn't been in these clothes two hours and they were already soiled. They'd have to come off--the sooner, the better.
Oh, not a good thing to think about. Not good.
"I should... I think I should... go. Yes." She nodded. "Do I have permission to charge maternity leave for this?"
Mr. Flint turned his chair to the side. He rose, like he was unfolding himself, in slow, steady movements. She couldn't look away. Was he larger than usual today? More masculine? More... sexy?
She didn't mean to stare, but she couldn't stop.
"Is that really why you came?" he said, his voice a low rumble.
Her breath hitched. She felt instantly like she'd said or done something wrong. "Yes?" she said.
"You sure about that?" he said keenly. "Because you could have had this conversation over the phone."
"Except... except you prefer face-to-face," she managed. "That's a rule of yours. We have to conduct key business in person. It's important to you."
He nodded solemnly. "There are things that can only be done in person," he agreed, and Shiela found his tone most ominous. He rounded his desk and--
...oh, fuck.
She could see the bulge in his pants. It couldn't be comfortable for him. She could practically see the outline of his--fuck, now her mouth was watering, it was like her body was craving cock all the more now that she'd seen one, now she was staring and now she wanted to die because she couldn't tear her eyes away and that was embarrassing but she couldn't--
He took a step towards her. Her attention snapped back to his face. His face was still controlled, mask-like, except for his nostrils, which were twitching and flaring. She was having to look up at him; he loomed. His presence seemed to envelop her.
"I should go," she murmured.
"Yes," he agreed, and stepped forwards.
"I should go."
"Yes," he said, though it seemed to take him more effort.
"I should..." she swallowed. "I should go."
He didn't reply. He took another step, laboriously, as if each one was being torn out of him.
He seemed to be filling her whole vision, her whole world. She stepped backwards, stumbling, inadvertently pressing the door shut in the process. She was trapped in here with him now. Even as part of her mind wailed at her that she was touching the door, that she could grab it and escape now--she couldn't. She couldn't move. He was everywhere.
He wouldn't approve.
And she craved his approval, now more than ever.
"I should go," she whispered, as if trying to remind herself.
"Is that so?"
She trembled.
He stopped just inside arm's reach. His gaze was intense. She was frozen in it. His face twitched. The mask of control cracked.
She should not have seen him in person, and she did. She should not have entered his office, and she did. She should not have shut the door, and she did. This was all a mistake.
As she saw his face twitch again--saw those nostrils flare, sucking up her scent--she knew he'd made mistakes too. He should have dismissed her immediately, and he hadn't. He should have stayed seated, and he hadn't.
Now she was here, and he was here, and the air between them crackled.
Her brain was mush. She couldn't think--couldn't move.
"I should go," she mouthed.
"Yet here you are," he answered.
And--slowly--to her horror--he began to move. To kneel down. She couldn't shrink back against the wall anymore; nowhere to run or hide. His sniffing was audible. Sniffing her. Her scent.
The scent that was screaming to any functioning mammalian brain, "I'm fertile and available, come knock me up!"
On his knees, he leaned in, leading with his nose. Under her skirt. Her breaths came in empty pants. She didn't move. His face began to disappear under her skirt, but now she felt him--felt his hot breath on her thighs, felt his cold nose prodding her as it went for her core.
She felt horribly vulnerable, embarrassed at her wanton body. She put her hands on to his head to try and pull him away, but she had no strength. Her hands refused to get the firm grip required for the task. His ears slipped between her fingers. His head bobbed forward. His muzzle bumped against her panty-clad nethers, even as those panties were soaked to uselessness.
His tongue dragged against them.
She gasped, sucked in air, as her hips bucked. He gave her no respite. His tongue dragged again along the panties, and again, the sides of his tongue running against her thighs in the bargain. Her back arched into him, her head pushing off of the wall behind her. Her body temperature seemed to have risen yet again; her breaths were open-mouthed gasps.
The tongue stopped moving.
Slumping against the wall, she tried to gather what remained of her wits, even through the heat and the haze and the musk and the trembling. This was not the plan. This was not why she'd come here.
"I need to go home," she said, her hand patting along the wall, trying in vain to find the doorknob. "I need to... leave..."
"You keep saying that," he rumbled back. Oh, no--now his hands were rising up under her skirt, too. What could they be--
Fingers hooked into the band of her panties.
Her hands responded, tried to go to the same place, but her hands were outside her skirt and his were inside and, before she knew it, his breath was washing across her exposed and drooling pussy lips, already engorged with blood and pouting and slightly parted.
Inviting.
"I didn't come here for this," she protested feebly.
"Are you sure?"
The connection between brain and mouth never got established. Before she could work it out, his tongue returned again--now lapping up her pheromone-laden nectar straight from the tap.
Her lungs tried to suck in a breath at the same time that she wanted to shout. The result was paralysis. He was fanning the fire inside her, driving her further and further out of her mind. Further and further from being able to say or do anything but take it--whatever 'it' turned out to be.
As if there could be more than one outcome.
Without direction her hips rolled into his tongue, encouraging it, pushing it further towards its goal. At the same time her head lolled back against the wall; her unseeing eyes rolled even further back. Her hands continued to tug at his ears, though what she was trying to accomplish was unclear. She was either failing badly at pulling him away, or succeeding at spurring him on.
Her knees buckled as pleasure coursed through her. There was no doubt her body was on board with whatever this was; her pussy was quivering and contracting beneath the onslaught, and her juices were flowing freely, rewarding him for his efforts. She'd known about post-moderator heats only by report and repute. The reality was crashing down on her, as her vengeful hormones and her boss' tongue wreaked havoc on everything else.
She felt empty. Fucking empty. She was as turned on as she'd ever been and she was receiving pleasure more than she'd ever imagined and it was both the best ever and not enough at the same time and that was fucking unfair!
The mere idea of running home and stuffing her dildo between her legs was pathetic to her now. Laughable. As if that could give her the satisfaction she craved! But the alternative was equally impossible. How could she let him continue, let him take the dildo's place and sate her heat and put all the fires out and fucking impregnate her?
She shivered at the thought and his touch alike. It was getting harder and harder to hold on to her thoughts; his tongue was blasting them away with each lap against her pussy. Maybe this would do it, she thought. Maybe a good oral orgasm would give her enough relief that she could collect herself and retreat. Maybe this--just this--was okay.
For a moment, she relaxed. She let that thick, muscular canine tongue please her. She scratched his head deliberately rather than incidentally. She even cooed in relief and pleasure, rolling her hips into his attentions and encouraging him.
Zzziiip.
"No," she gasped. She looked down, past her bunched-up skirt. One of his hands was at his waist, fishing in his pants. He didn't need to do that to lick her to orgasm. He'd only do that if he intended...
"Nooo," she said again, but it was a mewl, a whine, because he'd stopped licking her. His head pulled away, came out from under her skirt. His muzzle glistened with her juices. His mask of control was gone. In its place was a wild, ecstatic look. His eyes were ablaze. He was drunk on her hormones. How could he not be, having gotten such a direct, undiluted dose?
"So you do want this, after all," he said, voice at the very bottom of his range, thick with promise.
Before she could pull together any sort of response he was upon her, pressing against her, pinning her to the wall with his bulk. She squeaked in surprise; he cut it off almost instantly with a hard, desperate kiss. She trembled against it.
He was so hard, so hot, so all-over-her. She felt helpless.
A voice cried out inside her, bleating in panic: how much of this did she want? How much was her body betraying her, how much his charisma, how much unthinking chemicals that couldn't see or tell what would happen if he--
It was screaming into the abyss. The moment his cock grazed her cunnie she couldn't hear it anymore.
"I wanted to stop," he professed, breaking the kiss long enough to speak. Hot breath washed over her; it felt cool compared to the fire inside. "I would've stopped... maybe... right up until..."
He didn't complete the sentence. Maybe he couldn't. Sheila sure as hell couldn't form complete sentences. She had trouble forming complete thoughts.
Which is why she didn't move, took no discernible action, as he gripped one of her legs. Raised it, up and to the side, spreading her open, and occupying the created space with his hips.
"This... isn't..." she said blearily, only half-seeing his face even though it was right in front of her.
"I know," he said, and for a moment his voice was pained. For a moment, something almost like regret flickered across his features. For a moment, he was still.
The moment passed.
He pressed in.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her body tensed all over. But she did nothing to stop him as he took his sweet liberties with her. Her petals were already splayed open for him; it took little effort for him to wedge his cockhead in and begin slipping inside.
He was so hard, so hot inside her, just as his body was hard and hot as it pressed her to the wall. There was nowhere she was that he wasn't, not even inside her.
Her body trembled. Relief, blessed relief, and a rewarding surge of pleasure as he opened her up. She thought 'no' and 'finally' at the same time. And while she quivered with indecision, he pushed in further.
Inch after pleasurable inch his cock delved into her, and her body welcomed it in, as if inviting it home, slathering it with her juices in the process. He stopped, reversed for just a moment to spread the fuckjuice liberally, then resumed.
She couldn't breathe. He was pushing in, and pushing in, and there was no end to him, and she couldn't rise any more on her tiptoes, even with him supporting most of her weight. She was suspended there, pinned in place by his body and his hand on her leg and his cock stuffed inside her.
It was so sweet, and so wrong, and so right, and so...
She finally managed a gasping breath. Her eyes fluttered; she caught a glimpse of his face, contorted in rapture. Then he withdrew and thrust in yet further, and her vision blacked out.
This was heat-fucking, she thought dimly. His cock was buried in her now; his crotch was grinding against hers, applying a dull pressure to her clit on top of the steady heartbeat-driven throbs of his cock. It felt so good she thought she could stay suspended in that moment forever.
He disagreed, because he moved. He moved, and she could do nothing one way or another to stop him or help him.
Out he withdrew. She moaned in loss. She moaned in relief.
He didn't get too far. As if dreading the idea of losing contact he was coming in again, stuffing her full. She gasped in joy. She gasped in dread.
He was deeper than she'd ever ventured with her fingers, and bigger too. He was hotter and more satisfying than any toy. There was, she realized now, no substitute for this. No substitute her body would accept.
Which was the whole problem.
Because the fucking did feel so good. It did fill her up in ways that sent pleasure shooting down her spine. It did excite her in ways that set off explosions behind her eyes.
Which meant she wouldn't stop him. He damn well wouldn't stop himself. Not until he was done with her.
And he wouldn't be done with her until he'd filled her up, well and truly. Her body would demand it of him; he wouldn't resist. Wouldn't, if he'd ever been able to, if he'd ever wanted to.
Fuck...
Her toes curled as he brushed against her tender insides. Her frame shook as his body hit sensitive spots again... and again... and again. She was turning to mush--hot, sweaty, addled, well-fucked mush.
With a grunt he hefted her up. Her legs instinctively wrapped around him. Part of her attention rose up through the haze, trying to figure out what was happening. He'd turned around and was bringing her to his desk, but without disengaging. He was grunting and grimacing. Either this was a new and intense pleasure, or she was heavier than he'd hoped. It only lasted for a moment. He all but threw her onto the desk. Knickknacks and office debris were knocked to the floor.
He took a moment to catch his breath, though he never really stopped moving; he just switched to shorter, shallower strokes. Each was still enough to get her body jiggling with the impacts. He really was so powerful, so in-control. Even when he wasn't in control of himself, he was still in control of her.
She felt helpless beneath him.
Her pussy quivered.
His stokes lengthened as he regained his breath and his footing. With every jolt, she realized he hadn't even been giving her his all before. So much of his effort had gone into pinning her to the wall that he'd only been able to give her a modest fucking.
Now, with her on her back at a convenient height, he could really let himself loose.
She didn't stand a chance.
She started to whimper. Even in her pleasure-induced delirium, she held on to enough presence to know that making too much noise would be bad. To muffle herself she bit down on her lip. The tinge of pain did nothing to numb the pleasure.
Her pussy was embracing that cock like an old friend, reluctant to let go, eager to reunite. Her body craved this, craved a level of ecstasy her gray life to date had never offered it. She couldn't even manage enough coherence to be mad at it for betraying her. It had swept her away.
He had swept her away.
How much was him and how much her?
She didn't have anywhere near enough focus to ponder that question. She didn't even have enough to keep her mouth shut properly. Mewls and desperate wheezes were starting to escape her. She felt him shift his arm, searching for something. Then, without a break in his thrusts, he pushed something smooth against her muzzle.
Bleary eyes opened and resolved the image--one of his ties, still in its ready-to-wear knot. He was shoving it against her muzzle, trying to pry her mouth open. She allowed it and bit down on the offered cloth. It didn't taste good, but taste was way down the list of useable senses at that moment.
His muzzle came down towards her neck, licking, nibbling, adding another layer of stimulation. As if another were needed! But this exploration had no effect on his lower body; if anything his thrusts picked up in tempo. Again and again he pushed into her, longing and searching, as if there was some part of him that wasn't yet...
Fucking canines.
There was pressure all over her outer labia now in addition to the delicious feeling of his cock inside her. She'd only heard about this in whispers and gossip. The knot. The extra canine bit that sealed a femme in place, giving his semen nowhere to go but right to where it could do the most damage.
If that thing got inside her--and she huffed desperately as his thrusts became more urgent, more frantic; he was trying with all his might to get it in her...
If that thing got inside her, she'd be pregnant for sure. There'd be no escaping it at that point.
It mashed at her again. Mr. Flint was fucking her so hard the desk groaned. She was padded and built for this and deep in her heat; she took it and it felt great. And with every slap of his hips the knot pushed her a little more, molded her a little more, shaped her to it a little more.
For her to get out of this without being bred, she needed to keep that from getting in.
But she couldn't see it, she didn't know what she was up against, she could only feel, the rest of him was in the way, nibbling at her neck in a way that made her feel oh-so-vulnerable but oh-so-possessed and that was just wrong and fuck!
She could feel herself giving way.
She reached a hand down. It got caught between his mashing knot and her labia.
She would never know whether, during those last moments, her hand had tried to block the knot, or spread her lips to invite it in.
Then, indecision was moot.
She screamed into her gag. Her body was convulsing, writhing. She had no command. No sense. No purpose. She was a live wire of pleasure and instinct and sensation.
She distantly felt him jerk, rapidly and erratically. Then he was cumming. Filling her. Breeding her.
Her legs were locked behind him--when had that happened?--as if to ensure the deed would be done. She shuddered as aftershocks of pleasure washed through her, toes to nose, nose to toes. She was, ever so briefly, not living in her own head... just blank, passive, as her body rewarded her with a flood of endorphins.
It matched the flood of seed being dumped inside her, making her feel impossibly full. It was scalding hot, and there was so much of it, and it had nowhere to go.
Nowhere to go except into her womb, where it could serve its purpose.
She was well and truly fucked now, in every sense of the word.
She knew, in an abstract way, that she'd feel nervous and regretful and conflicted about it... any moment now. For a few seconds, at least, she floated on the high. What was done was done. Whether she'd wanted it or not, whether she'd rue this day or not, in that moment the tension was gone. Her horrible itch was gone. She'd been taken care of. She felt...
Content was too strong a word, wasn't it?
The hell if she knew.
His upper body pulled away from hers, though the motion gave a tug on the knot that still sealed them together. "Mmph," she said, noticing--from a distance--that the impromptu gag was still in her muzzle.
He nodded at her gravely. His expression was inscrutable. Conflict and terror surged through her. Fuck, what would he think of her now? What was he thinking? Here he was, balls-deep in her, and she had no idea what was on his mind, and what if he thought she was a gold-digger or a slut or just someone with no self-control which, come to think of it, might have been the case, at least right that morning and...
She cleared the tie from her mouth. "I'm sorry," she blurted.
He nodded again, no less solemn. He reached across her and picked up the phone. She couldn't see what he was dialing. She was doing her best to stay stock-still, lest she upset him. It wasn't going well. Every shift he made, every motion, ground that knot against her; it was impossibly tight, her anatomy not made to hold such a thing. It tugged against her, warning her of sore hours in her future, but delivering jolts of pleasure in her present. Aftershocks raced through her, each one more mortifying than the last.
He'd dumped enough cum in her now that she'd almost gone beyond feeling full to feeling bloated. Every corner of her womb was submerged in sperm now; any eggs she'd been harboring were as good as--
"Hey, George? Yes, it's Mr. Flint, good morning. Listen, Sheila is on leave this week, and I'm going to have to take some vacation myself--something came up I've got to deal with." His cock throbbed indecently at the words. "It's just the Haverton account today, and I'll send in some instructions for the rest of the week when I get a minute. You can handle it, right? ...That's what I thought, good. Make me proud, George, and I'll see you next week."
He hung up. When his gaze returned to her, she found herself quailing beneath it. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but the intensity to his eyes was something to behold. She felt metaphorically exposed, far more than she felt physically exposed, even still impaled on his cock.
"I will not be advancing you any maternity leave," he pronounced. Sheila's mind reeled as she tried to pick up the conversation they'd been having right before everything went to hell. "You'll need the full allowance available to you later this year."
He leaned over, looming above her, piercing her with his eyes. She trembled, which caused her walls to clench on the knot again, making her gasp in shamed pleasure.
"I'll spend the next week making sure of it."