Wage Slave
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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The raccoon was like raw power condensed into its purest form, a deeply volatile energy that seemed to spring only from his authoritative voice.
"Hey, Coyote, come here" he said with such a confident intonation that you got the sense he wasn't simply talking to you, he was narrating you the story of your life. And so, Coyote, as he was known, stepped up to the raccoon immediately. Though they both wore clean, professional suits, imbued with centuries of symbolism of hegemonic power, the ability to delegate, decide, and control. And withing the artifacts of this symbolism the slender coon with the throaty voice seemed to be wearing a uniform, while the frumpy coyote seemed to be wearing a costume. The raccoon leaned back against a serving table and coolly drank cheap punch spiked with vodka from a hidden, silver flask.
"Yes, Boss?" Coyote asked.
"Do you know where the Executives' Lodges are?" he asked. The Executives all had their own lodge at the condescendingly juvenile camp all employees had been obligated to attend for a weekend of bonding exercises and powerpoint presentation on teamwork. But for the executives it was much more like a log cabin retreat, where they stayed. It had been built nearly a century ago by the company's founder, who used the tall surrounding trees to hide an illegal whiskey distillery and legal Klan rallies. The executives never stopped working, of course, as the business world runs on a 24-hour clock, and so they found excuses to appoint themselves the most luxurious accommodations. The employees slept on cots in cabins, and would have maybe participated in the first battle of the Glorious Workers' Revolution and murdered the Bosses to sleep in their soft feather beds... but they were technically being paid for the weekend, so mainly they just muttered under their breath. As that contingency went through the coyote's mind, he was impressed that, come revolution, the domineering raccoon would be the last one alive, warding off the mob with his tie around his forehead and a sharpened letter opener in his hands.
"Hey," the boss snapped, pulling the coyote's attention back to him. "Do you know where the Executives' Lodges are?"
"Oh, yes sir."
"I'm going to need you to do me a favor," the raccoon said with a clever smile on his face. The coyote stood dumbly, looking across at the svelte raccoon in the nice suit. It seemed to flow with his figure, long, slender curves that ran along the contours of legs, to ass, along the back, over the shoulders... the coyote realized he was imagining his boss naked again, and become conscious of his senseless glare. His attention snapped back, again, in mid-sentence "...and it's a very important file, there's a Senator who wants it and he sure as hell isn't going to find it at the bottom of Lake Deerhood, how is he?" The raccoon chuckled, leaving the coyote wondering whether or not it was a joke. "It should be in my suitcase. You'll see it, a big one, on wheels, use this key..." the raccoon narrated on, pressing a cold ring of keys into the coyote's palm. "You'll see my name on the door. Remember it's the suitcase with the leather straps," and he was sent away like a child, with what he could have sworn was a slap on the ass.
Coyote walked with a nervous, upright gait past his coworkers, all heading off to mindless activities, only the first for the three days they'd be in the woods. Passing them, his shoulders slumped and he walked with his eyes to the ground, his cheeks blushing with embarrassment. He could never talk to his boss without reducing himself to ogling, admiring the eyes sparkling like polished marble or smuggled ivory. It was always so evident, and how many of the people in his office had watched him bolt to the boss's side, only to stare at him like a peeping tom before running off to do his bidding? He reached the Executives Lodge soon enough, despite having lost time to contemplation of his shame. He found the room quickly, looking in on the large bed, feeling a vague sense of desire being in the same room where his boss slept. He dug under the bed and found the suitcase with the leather straps. He unlatched them, unlocked it, and heard the sound of clinking metal as he opened the lid. Shiny metal chains stuck out bright against dull, faded leather straps and instruments of all shapes. He blushed deeply, lifting a hand to his dropped jaw. He looked around the room, saw that the door was mostly closed, and examined the pieces. He handled them like one might handle a dentist's tools: Having an unnerving sense of knowing what these were for, if not exactly sure how they were wielded.
"Does he really wear things like these?" he wondered, picking up a blindfold and ashamedly smelling to try to catch the raccoons scent. He could only scent a trace of what might be cologne. He picked up a system of rings and straps and soon devised that it was a harness. "He's worn this," the coyote thought. He had been tempted many times to slip on one of the raccoon's jackets, having been left around the office. The harness felt heavy in his hands, the gentle dinting of metal giving the device an even greater sense of weight. Quickly, shamelessly, he closed the door, took off his jacket and shirt (though he left the tie), and eventually wrangled himself into the harness. It was a little tight, but the tightness felt proper. Necessary.
It was painfully obvious that he would be caught, too. When he heard the door handle jiggle, the only reaction he had time for was to turn to the door and cover the bulging crotch of his slacks. His boss stepped in with a pleases look of satisfaction on his face, like a man walking into a surprise birthday party he'd expected all day. "Well," he said, "If you aren't a hot little symbolic representation of the working class!" The door locked shut behind him. Coyote wanted to run, and would have maybe been able to, would have maybe been able to his his absolute embarrassment by shoving past the coon and running to another room, if the coon had entered in silence. But the moment he heard that gruff tenor, he was frozen solid.
The raccoon made his way over to the coyote, and grabbed the bulge in the tight pants. A wet spot on the front of the pants. Coyote whimpered. The boss stared him down as he calmly unbuckled the coyote's belt and let the slack's drop.. The coyote was wearing tight, pristine white briefs, another slick spot in the front. "You got your name written on the back of those?" The coon asked, peeling them off the trembling coyote to check for himself. "Nope," he confirmed, then balled the pair up and stuffed them into the coyote's mouth, done to the effect of keeping the coyote's cries down when the raccoon doubled-up the belt and started slapping the coyote's ass as the immobile, helpless worker stood rapt by the raccoon's commanding presence. Thoughts ceased in the coyote's head, everything rational and businesslike replaced by the overpowering urges of every fantasy hidden behind his guilty eyes, suddenly become real.
He held the coyote by the dick - a short, pudgy, cock whose sharp upward curve robbed it of the few inches it possessed - not like he was stroking it, more like he was trying to hold the coyote in place. He squeezed and pulled at the nuts, gave them tepid slaps that made the whole coyote's body seize up instinctively. "Let's get this little boy soft so he'll be able to fit," the raccoon intoned to the coyote, and only then, under the raccoon's domineering voice, was that effect reached. He slapped the coyote's ass, and taunted teasing the coyote's lack of manhood, and he'd giggle to himself before whipping the bitch again. The raccoon talked the dick down easily, almost as if soothing it to sleep, "such a bitch's prick... ah, yeah... somehow I always figured you'd be able to fit..." and another slap "... brought the larger model just in case, knew it was silly ... " then a yank on the sack, and the coyote moaning mournfully into his own underwear. Soon, the coyote was whipped into his submissive state, and collapsed forward on the bed. The raccoon turned the coyote over and seized his beaten cock, quickly manipulating it into a metallic device that fit and locked around his package perfectly. The raccoon opened the coyote's mouth and put the small key on the coyote's tongue, then held the muzzle shut until the panting, whimpering bitch got the message that he was supposed to swallow.
And there Coyote stood, his arms slumped forward, his eyes looking down, his cock already stiffening into the sides of the cage before his ass could shed its sting. The raccoon was no larger than the coyote, though slimmer, more graceful in his locomotion, and he held total control over the coyote as if he were twice the trembling man's size. An observer, in seeing the way the coyote naturally revered and lusted over the raccoon, seeing how he had so made the raccoon the idol of fantasy, seeing that he got down on his knees if only to able to look up at the coon rather than eye-to-eye, would see nothing more in the coyote than a willing, even grateful Bitch. The raccoon stood in front of the knelt coyote, grabbed the shabby dog by the ears, and stuffed the drawn face in his crotch. The coyote inhaled the heady musk, huffed and got drunk off the pungent aroma of masculinity, and trembled from his shoulders out to his tail, and made his cock pulse helplessly in its cage. The raccoon twirled a collar on his finger, but reached down with his free hand to grab the coyote by the tie and, giving it a few test yanks, shrugged and threw the leather collar aside. "This'll do just fine, and I rather like the symbolism anyway."
The raccoon pushed the senseless mutt backwards, then knelt down on top of him, straddling, his bulging crotch right at the coyote's nose. "Listen, I'm a pretty direct guy, so I'm just going to tell you how this is. We're not playing a game, you're not just curious, and this isn't only because I'm your boss. It isn't anything other than that you're my Bitch. This mean's two things. One, it means you're my bitch. It's not just a name, it's a title. Secondly, it means you're my bitch. It's not just a distinction, it's an order." The coyote whimpered, looking with disconsolate eyes up at his master. "You'll be fulfilling this position for at least the rest of this goddamn miserable corporate-mandated weekend, and since I kind of like how you look when you're too stunned to say anything, maybe awhile after that." The raccoon stood up, then, and put his hands under the coyote's armpit to lift him up. He sat the coyote up against the wall, then knelt down to look him in the face.
"Look, I don't want to be here any more than you do, and I guaran-goddamn-tee you that I'm going to meet a lot of shitheads, assholes, and fuckers out there, and since it's not polite in the business world to break a World's Best Boss mug over someone's head, you're going to receive the brunt of what I wish I could do to the rest of these people. You're going to be my Hero, Coyote, because if you can withstand half the pain I want to inflict on everybody else, I probably won't lose my job in an office knifefight." He stood up and straightened his tie. "And you've got a pretty nice ass, too."
The raccoon finally took the wad of underwear out of the coyote's mouth, giving him cause to speak, but the blushing bitch only snapped his teeth shut and looked up at the raccoon with insecure vulnerability. The raccoon gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, patted him on the head, then yanked him up by the wrinkled tie with a call of "here, Bitch." The raccoon quickly fished a muzzle from the ransacked luggage and fit it over the coyote's snout. The tie snapped taut and pulled the naked coyote out the door, following with shoulders slumped and head down behind the raccoon like a prisoner being led to a meeting with a priest. They passed another executive in the hall, though the Coyote only saw his feet as they stopped and looked back in his direction.
They entered into a spacious room where a fire blazing behind glass, a large window opened onto a treeline and lake, and the enormous picture of an old dead rich guy seemed to stare straight at the silent coyote. All this and the large oak desk could only be found in the Boss's office, which was richly appointed beyond even the capability of urban legends spread by lowly workers. Ornaments of power festooned every open space: pens hermetically sealed in glass cases, plaques announcing triumphs in golf and sailing, photographs of the raccoon with a number of presumably important people. The coyote's nose even picked up on the scent of what his mind could only process as how a room must smell if thousands of stacks of cash had just been removed.
The raccoon pushed a small pile of folders to the side of the desk and bent the coyote forward, turning him at the waist and grabbing the tail to lift it out of the way. The coyote whimpered and cried in his muzzle, shook in his leather binds. The raccoon dropped his pants and slapped a thick, half-hard cock between the coyote's cheeks, letting it sit there and stiffen as his nimble little hands worked over the coyote, tightening all the proper buckles until the harness fit snug and perfect around the lithe body, as if it has been tailored for him. It may have been, the coyote thought, considering the raccoon - the Boss - the Master - had access to every worker's suit measurements. Last things last, the raccoon tightened Coyote's tie.
"The thing you have to understand about being a bitch - and nod if you understand what I'm saying, yote," the raccoon started, grinding his fat cock between the coyote's ass as the bitch nodded his understanding. "The thing you have to understand is that there's not a goddamn thing you can do. When you understand that much, it all becomes a lot easier. Your will just falls away like so many fetters and restraints. Your desires become attuned to my own. Your hope flies off and your shame leaves with it. Your will swells to as great as your desire to serve. Is that what you're feeling, bitch?" The lowly desk-pilot nodded, instinctively, before searching himself for the truths the raccoon has just spoke. He was still nodding when he came to find every word of it true. All the while the raccoon's dick - built big and unwieldy as a corporate bureaucracy - rubbed against his hole.
The coyote took stock of the cock the only way he could, the simple weight of it between his cheeks giving him few but important clues about the raccoon's cock: it's thick body, the head round and firm like a baby peach when it brushed against his hole. He constructed an image of the cock in his head, long and fat and black and dripping, straight and veiny, the perfect reification of the absolute power the raccoon wielded. His overfed imagination felt almost as if it could hear the gentle swoosh of the raccoon's nuts swinging heavy between his legs.
Unceremoniously, as coolly as turning to the next slide in a meeting presentation, the raccoon spit on his rod and spitted the coyote, forcing the tight hole open around the dense head as the coyote yelped in his muzzle. "Is there anything you can do about it?" He pushed his barely-slick rod deeper, against building resistance as the unwilling ass squeezed against the invading cock, the raccoon easily spreading the hole to accommodate himself. The coyote writhed on the desk, tried to displace the pain of being pried open, felt as if his stomach was displaced, his mind elsewhere, every strand of fur sticking on its end, his eyes sunk back into his head. Everything felt surreal and bodiless other than the visceral feeling of the cock sinking deeper into his ass and his prick hopelessly filling out its cage. "I don't need to make two ways about it - I'm the boss, you're the bitch. I'm the master, you're the bitch. I'm the Man, you're the bitch. I'm a hell of a lot of things. You're just-" the raccoon paused, rocking his hips forward and sinking the rest of his long, girthy dick into the strained ass. The booming, deep voice pulsed through the coyote's body, seemed to etch every letter into his being. "You're just-" the raccoon repeated, the simple diminutive of "just" growing into an insult of the highest order under the command of the raccoon's tongue. His hips slapping against the coyote's ass, he finally finished the statement: "-a bitch."
A tremendous shout, a full-throated shout, a cry for help jettisoned from the very pits of the coyote's gut, was silenced into a hardly audible whimper. His body seemed immaterial. He could only feel the raccoon's embrace and the warm leather. He could only smell the intoxicating musk that wafted into his nose. He could only think, could only see in his mind, himself bent over that desk - in his mind much smaller than he is, the raccoon much bigger. His dick pressed the limits of its small enclosure, leaked pre onto the desk like a futile call for help to the outside world, little taps of meek splatters like morse code.
And all the while the raccoon fucked him, grunting with each thrust, an obscene, primitive, animal grunt. He bent over the coyote, breathed heavily onto the back of his neck, and filled his ears with those grunts and he crammed his ass with cock. And he fucked him like a rag doll. Used him like a toy. Showed no more deference to him than a hole in a wall. Fucked him. Just fucked him. In, out, harder, harder, harder. No bells, no whistles. Fucked him. No mercy in the raccoon, no shame in the coyote. Fucked him, and the coyote was fucked, both comfortable in their roles like well-worn suits. The coyote relaxed, passivity spreading over him, all the more accepting with each passing moment. All the more grateful. The tension in his muscles eases, the wiring in his jaw went slack, his dick shrunk back into itself. Whimpers crawled into his throat, and he opened his eyes, saw those ornaments of power, the decorations in the office, and realized he was among them. The encased pen that signed the billion dollar deal, the gifted silk screen from the emperor of Japan - all of them meant more to the raccoon than any of the shitheads in cheap suits, but none of them were bent over a desk with the raccoon grunting ravenously into their ear. None had been given a name - a crude name, but a name nonetheless. As his boss fucked him, he accepted the situation for what it was: a promotion to the status of Object.
The raccoon's grunts became raspier, deeper, more animal. The coyote's master was putting the full brunt of his power into the bitch's ass, was plowing him with every disregard for the coyote's sense of self-worth he could muster. His meaty balls slapped against the plump ass, a staccato beat to accent the gruff vocals. The thrusts became curt, the raccoon staying deep in the coyote's ass, only shoving the last few inches again and again into the deepest depths of the coyote's gut. "You fucking mutt..." his growled, beginning to pant. "You fucking mutt, you bitch, you mutt, you fucking..." it tailed off into a low growl, one that seemed to rumble deep in the raccoon's chest, seemed to resonate at the exact frequency of the coyote's leather binds. The boss buried his load in the slave. The raccoon's dick pulsed as the coyote's, soft and subservient, leaked onto the desk below. The raccoon's meaty balls emptied, gushed their torrents of seed, wave after wave, into the simpering bitch. The raccoon laid on top of the coyote, his hands gripping the harness like a horse's rein, as he let the last drops ooze into the bitch.
The raccoon snapped easily out of his trance of power, quickly shoving the mutt under the desk like a bad idea. "Don't move," was his only instruction. The mutt looked up at his master, admiring the fat cock that had just so thoroughly reamed him. The raccoon had never taken off his shirt and tie, and the tip of the necktie was soaking in the cum off the still-pulsing cock. The raccoon smoothed out his shirt. He grabbed his phone and pressed a button.
"You can come to see me in my office," was all the raccoon said. He smoothed out his shirt some more, then peeked down at the coyote. The powerful, authoritative voice narrated the rest of the coyote's week. "You still got that muzzle? Good. This meeting won't take long."