Chapter 4: Claiming Control
The stale scent of toner and cheap carpet cleaner clung to Arthur’s cubicle, a sterile counterpoint to the lingering musk of Fritz that seemed permanently etched into his senses. Spreadsheets blurred before his tired eyes. Columns of numbers swam, refusing to coalesce into meaningful patterns. Every scratch of a pen, every muffled phone conversation from neighboring cubes, grated on nerves still frayed from the morning’s coffee table encounter. The phantom ache in his jaw, the memory of Fritz’s rough tongue spearing him, the shocking power of his own retaliation – it all churned beneath the surface of his accountant’s calm. He shifted in his stiff office chair, the pressure against his groin a constant, unwelcome reminder of Fritz’s parting tease – the furred ass grinding against his cock, the deliberate denial. Make me want it. The words echoed, fueling a low burn of frustrated arousal.
His phone, face-down on the desk beside his lukewarm coffee, vibrated softly. Arthur ignored it. Probably Brenda from payroll, again. Or another automated reminder about the quarterly tax deadline. He rubbed his temples, trying to force concentration onto the quarterly expense report. Numbers. Just numbers. Predictable. Safe.
Another vibration. Sharper this time. Persistent. With a sigh, Arthur flipped the phone over. A notification banner glowed: Fritz: [Image Attached].
Curiosity warred with dread. Fritz rarely messaged during work hours. Arthur tapped the notification.
The image loaded. Arthur froze. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.
It was Fritz. But not the Fritz he knew. Perched on the edge of Arthur’s worn plaid couch, bathed in the afternoon light filtering through dusty blinds. Fritz was wearing… something. Lace. Black lace. A flimsy, feminine babydoll negligee, straps thin as spiderwebs over his sleek black furred shoulders. The sheer fabric barely covered his muscular chest, the dark points of his nipples clearly visible beneath. It ended high on his thighs, showcasing powerful legs. One furred hand rested possessively on his own thick cock, semi-hard against the lace. The other held the phone, taking the selfie. His green eyes stared directly into the camera lens, wide and deliberately innocent, a stark contrast to the sheer, predatory smirk twisting his muzzle. The caption below: Bored. Miss u, Master?
Heat flooded Arthur’s face, rushing down his neck to pool low in his belly. His cock stirred violently against the confines of his trousers. He fumbled, nearly dropping the phone, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He glanced frantically around the cubicle farm. No one seemed to be looking. Brenda was engrossed in her monitor. Dave was on a call, his back turned. Arthur’s thumb trembled as he swiped to the next image.
Fritz again. On his knees now, on the rug Arthur vacuumed every Sunday. The lace negligee was gone. Instead, Fritz wore… stockings? Black, sheer stockings pulled taut over his furred thighs, secured by a flimsy lace garter belt Arthur didn’t even know he owned. Fritz’s muscular ass was arched high, his tail curled provocatively over his back. Between his spread thighs, pressed deep into the rug, was the thick, veined silicone dildo Arthur kept hidden in the back of his nightstand – Fritz’s ‘morning wake-up call’ from weeks ago. Fritz’s head was turned, looking back over his shoulder, green eyes blazing with challenge, his pink tongue licking his lips. The caption: Found a toy. Needs warming up.
A choked sound escaped Arthur’s throat. He slammed the phone face-down again, his knuckles white. His cock was fully hard now, straining painfully against his zipper, demanding attention. Sweat prickled his brow. The numbers on the spreadsheet swam completely, dissolving into meaningless glyphs. All he could see was Fritz: the black lace against black fur, the sheer stockings stretched over powerful haunches, the deliberate, bratty smirk, the thick dildo pressing into the rug. Make me want it. Fritz wasn’t waiting. Fritz was demanding.
The phone vibrated again. And again. Relentless.
Arthur snatched it up, thumb slick with sweat. Another image. Fritz riding the dildo now. Kneeling over it, one hand braced on the floor, the other gripping the base. His head was thrown back, muzzle open in a silent cry of ecstasy Arthur could almost hear. The thick silicone shaft was buried deep inside him, stretching the tight, furred ring of his hole obscenely wide. Pre-cum glistened on the tip of his own cock, bobbing freely. The muscles in his thighs and back were corded with effort and pleasure. Caption: Feels good. Wish it was u.
"Fuck," Arthur hissed under his breath, the word raw and desperate. He shifted violently in his chair, trying to relieve the unbearable pressure. It was torture. Pure, exquisite torture. Fritz knew exactly what he was doing. The images were seared onto Arthur’s retinas: the feminine lace a shocking contrast to Fritz’s raw masculinity, the deliberate submission to the toy, the explicit promise in his eyes. The hollow ache Fritz was supposed to fill was now a raging inferno of need. He wanted to pin that bratty feline against the wall right fucking now. He wanted to tear off the ridiculous stockings and fuck him raw, make him scream, make him beg. He wanted to claim what Fritz had so deliberately offered and then withheld.
His phone buzzed once more. A video this time. Arthur jabbed the play button, unable to resist.
Fritz was sprawled back on the couch cushions, the lace negligee askew, revealing more fur and muscle. He had the dildo in his hand now, slick and glistening. He brought it to his muzzle, his pink tongue snaking out, licking slowly, deliberately up the entire length, swirling around the bulbous head. He locked eyes with the camera, his green gaze heavy-lidded and sultry. Then, slowly, sensually, he lowered the tip to his own hole, pressing it against the tight furl. He pushed. Arthur watched, transfixed, as the thick silicone head slowly, inexorably, breached Fritz. A low, rumbling groan escaped Fritz’s muzzle, vibrating through the phone speaker. He pushed deeper, arching his back, his free hand moving to stroke his own cock in time with the dildo’s penetration. "Mmmph… fuck… yes…" Fritz’s voice, thick with simulated pleasure, purred through the speaker. "Imagine… it’s… you… Master… fucking me… hard…"
Arthur couldn’t take it. A strangled gasp tore from him. He dropped the phone onto the desk as if it had burned him. His erection was a throbbing brand. His palms were slick. His breath came in short, ragged pants. He stared blindly at the spreadsheet, seeing only Fritz’s stretched hole, his writhing body, hearing that filthy purr. Imagine it’s you. He didn’t need to imagine. The need was visceral, primal. He had to get out. He had to get home. Now.
The clock on his computer monitor mocked him. 2:37 PM. Two hours and twenty-three minutes until the end of his shift. An eternity. Every second stretched into agony. He tried to focus. Typed a number. Wrong column. Deleted it. Tried again. His fingers fumbled. Fritz’s image – the lace, the stockings, the dildo plunging deep – flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He shifted again, the friction of his trousers against his cock sending sparks of pain-pleasure through him. He felt lightheaded, desperate. The sterile office air felt suffocating, thick with the phantom scent of Fritz’s musk and sex.
He lasted fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of sweating, shifting, staring at gibberish numbers while Fritz’s bratty, explicit performance played on a loop in his mind. The video. The groan. Imagine it’s you. The control Fritz had wielded earlier, the power Arthur had momentarily seized… it was gone, incinerated by these images. Fritz owned him. Utterly. And Fritz knew it.
Arthur stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the thin carpet. Brenda looked up, startled. "Arthur? Everything okay? You look flushed."
"Fine!" Arthur barked, his voice tight and unnatural. "Just… migraine. Sudden. Bad one. Need air. Going home." He didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed his cheap briefcase, shoving his phone and keys inside, not bothering to shut down his computer. He didn’t look at anyone. He just walked, stiff-legged, towards the exit, the urgent, throbbing need between his legs dictating his pace. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The chatter of his colleagues sounded distant, underwater. All he could hear was the phantom echo of Fritz’s groan, the wet sound of silicone plunging into furred heat. Make me want it. Fritz had won. Arthur was insane with it.
He burst through the glass doors of the accounting firm into the weak afternoon sunlight. The cool air hit his burning face but did nothing to douse the fire inside. He fumbled for his car keys in the briefcase, his hands shaking. He spotted his aging sedan parked halfway down the block. He broke into a run, briefcase banging against his thigh, his polished office shoes slapping awkwardly on the pavement. He didn’t care who saw. He didn’t care about anything except getting to that car, getting home, and taking what Fritz had so deliberately, so brattily, been teasing. The images flashed again: lace on fur, stockings, the dildo hilted deep. He reached the car, yanking the driver’s door open with enough force to make the hinges groan. He threw himself into the worn seat, slamming the door shut behind him. The familiar scent of stale fast food and old upholstery was momentarily drowned out by the overwhelming phantom scent of Fritz’s arousal. Arthur jammed the key into the ignition, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his cock straining painfully against his zipper. The engine coughed to life. He didn’t buckle his seatbelt. He just gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring straight ahead with wild, desperate eyes, ready to tear through the streets towards the apartment, towards the feline brat who had driven him literally insane.
Arthur slammed the accelerator, tires screeching on the asphalt as he tore away from the curb. The city blurred past the windshield, a smear of grey buildings under a heavy sky. Fritz’s images burned behind his eyes: the black lace straining over furred muscle, the sheer stockings, that fucking dildo plunging deep into his tight hole, the mocking caption – Imagine it’s you. Rage and lust coiled, hot and poisonous, in his gut, twisting around the frantic throb of his cock. He wove through traffic, horns blaring, his knuckles bone-white on the steering wheel. Every red light was an eternity, every slow driver a personal insult. He needed to be home. Now. He needed to shut Fritz up. Permanently.
He skidded into his parking space, gravel spraying, and was out of the car before the engine died. He took the apartment stairs two at a time, his briefcase forgotten in the passenger seat. The stale hallway air tasted like dust and fried food. He fumbled his keys, hands shaking with adrenaline and furious need, finally shoving the right one into the lock. He threw the door open with enough force to slam it against the wall.
The scent hit him first: Fritz’s potent, musky aroma, thick with arousal and laced with something floral, probably the cheap air freshener. Then, the sight. Fritz lounged on the worn plaid couch, exactly as in the last photo. The black lace negligee was a scandalous contrast against his sleek black fur, barely containing his powerful chest. The stockings hugged his thick thighs, clipped to the flimsy garter belt. He held the thick, still-glistening silicone dildo loosely in one hand. He looked up as Arthur entered, green eyes wide with exaggerated innocence, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his muzzle.
"Well, hello, Master," Fritz purred, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. He lifted the dildo, giving it a slow, deliberate lick up its length, his eyes locked on Arthur’s flushed face. "You’re home early. Miss me that much? Couldn’t focus on your little numbers?" He chuckled, low and mocking. "I was just keeping myself… entertained. This toy helps, but it’s not quite the real thing, is it? Not like your thick cock splitting me ope—"
Arthur moved. Fast. Years of pent-up frustration, humiliation, and the day's relentless teasing exploded into pure action. He crossed the cramped living room in three strides. Fritz’s smirk faltered, surprise flickering in his eyes as Arthur loomed over him. Arthur didn’t pause, didn’t speak. His hands shot out, clamping onto Fritz’s furry ears, right at the base, fingers digging in hard.
"Ow! Arthur, what the f—" Fritz’s protest turned into a startled yelp as Arthur hauled him bodily off the couch. The dildo clattered to the floor. Fritz stumbled, off-balance, green eyes wide with sudden alarm. "Let go! You’re hurting—"
Arthur didn’t let go. Using his grip on Fritz’s ears like handles, he spun the feline and slammed him face-first against the nearest wall, beside a framed photograph of a misty mountain Arthur had never visited. Fritz grunted as the air whooshed out of him, his cheek pressed against the cool plaster. Arthur kept one hand fisted tightly in the fur at the base of Fritz’s skull, holding his head firmly against the wall. With his other hand, he frantically unzipped his trousers, shoving them and his boxers down past his hips in one violent motion. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed a furious red, already leaking pre-cum. It pulsed with the frantic rhythm of his heart.
"No fucking games," Arthur growled, his voice a guttural rasp he barely recognized. He spat into his palm, a crude lubricant, and slicked his cockhead roughly. Fritz struggled, trying to push back, but Arthur planted a knee between Fritz’s legs, pinning his thighs against the wall. He used the hand on Fritz’s head to wrench it sideways, exposing his muzzle. "Open your fucking mouth, you brat."
Fritz snarled, baring sharp teeth. "Fuck you, you pathetic—"
Arthur didn’t wait. He shoved forward, driving the swollen head of his cock past Fritz’s lips, forcing it between clenched teeth. Fritz choked, gagging violently as the thick crown stretched his jaws wide. Tears sprang to his eyes instantly.
"Swallow it, whore," Arthur snarled, his own breath ragged. He pushed harder, deeper, feeling Fritz’s throat muscles spasm and clench around the invading flesh. He ignored the gagging, the muffled cries. Using his grip on Fritz’s head, he started to fuck his face in brutal, shallow thrusts. Thrust. Fritz choked, saliva drooling down his chin. Withdraw. A gasping, wet inhale. Thrust deeper. The swollen head nudged Fritz’s soft palate, triggering another violent gag reflex. Arthur felt the constriction, the heat, the violation. "Take it! Take my fucking cock down your throat!" He pistoned his hips, setting a punishing rhythm, slamming Fritz’s face into the wall with every forward drive. The wet, choking sounds, the desperate gurgles, the slap of flesh against fur – it was raw, ugly, and Arthur was lost in the fury of it. He felt his orgasm coiling, inevitable, fueled by rage and the degrading tightness of Fritz’s throat. "Gonna fill your fucking mouth! Swallow it all, you cocksucking cat!"
He drove deep one last time, hilting himself completely. Fritz convulsed, a strangled scream muffled around Arthur’s cock. Arthur roared, a wordless sound of triumph and release, as thick, hot pulses of cum erupted directly down Fritz’s throat. He held Fritz impaled, grinding his cockhead deep, feeling the feline’s throat convulse as he tried to swallow the flood. Arthur spilled everything, the frustration, the humiliation, the hours of torment, pumping it straight into Fritz’s gullet until he was spent. He finally pulled out with a wet, sucking pop. Strings of saliva and thick cum connected his glistening cock to Fritz’s bruised, open mouth. Fritz slumped against the wall, coughing violently, tears streaming, ropes of Arthur’s release dripping down his chin and onto the lace negligee.
Arthur didn’t give him a second to recover. He spun Fritz around, shoving him backwards. Fritz stumbled, dazed and gasping, and landed hard on his ass on the worn carpet. Arthur was on him instantly, grabbing Fritz’s furred thighs, yanking them apart and then hauling them up high, bending Fritz almost double. Fritz’s lace-clad ass was fully exposed, his tail lashing weakly. The puckered hole, already slick from the dildo Fritz had used earlier, glistened. Arthur spat again onto his fingers, then rubbed the moisture roughly over Fritz’s entrance and the head of his own cock, still slick with spit and cum.
"No… Arthur… wait…" Fritz gasped, his voice wrecked, eyes wide with something beyond defiance – a flicker of genuine shock, maybe fear.
Arthur ignored him. He lined up. He pressed the thick, blunt head against Fritz’s tight ring. Fritz tensed, trying to clamp down. Arthur shoved forward, brutally, using all his weight. Fritz screamed – a raw, animal sound of pain and violation – as Arthur’s cock breached him, ripping past the tight resistance, forcing its way into the clenching heat within. Arthur groaned, a deep sound torn from his chest, as he buried himself to the hilt in one savage thrust. He held himself there, buried deep in Fritz’s ass, feeling the incredible tightness, the heat, the frantic fluttering around his cock. Fritz writhed beneath him, claws scrabbling uselessly at the carpet, his screams dissolving into choked sobs.
"Tight fucking hole," Arthur rasped, looking down at Fritz’s contorted face. He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then slammed forward again, hard. Fritz arched off the floor with a broken cry. "That’s it. Take it. Take my fucking cock, you teasing bitch." He set a brutal pace, no finesse, just deep, hard drives, pistoning his hips, slamming into Fritz's prostate with every punishing stroke. Fritz’s cock, trapped between their bodies, was rock hard, bouncing obscenely against his stomach, leaking a steady stream of pre-cum onto the lace and fur. His cries became a continuous, high-pitched keening. Arthur kept Fritz pinned, folded nearly in half, the mating press position giving him devastating depth. "Who owns this ass?" Arthur grunted, driving in hard.
"Y-you! You, Master!" Fritz gasped out, the words ragged between sobs.
"Fucking right," Arthur snarled. He fucked harder, faster, the slapping sound of flesh on fur filling the small apartment, mingling with Fritz’s desperate cries and Arthur’s own harsh grunts. He could feel Fritz’s internal muscles fluttering wildly, his body overwhelmed. Fritz’s green eyes were glazed, unfocused, his mouth slack. "Gonna make you cum, you filthy cat. Gonna make you squirt on my cock like a bitch in heat." He reached down, gripping Fritz’s thick cock roughly, squeezing the shaft. Fritz shrieked, his body convulsing.
"P-please! Arthur! Oh fuck! I’m— I’m cumming! GONNA CUM!" Fritz wailed, his voice breaking. His back arched violently, every muscle in his body locking rigid. His cock pulsed in Arthur’s grip, not just spurting, but erupting. Thick, hot jets of cum shot out with shocking force, splattering Fritz’s chest, Arthur’s hand, the carpet. His ass clamped down on Arthur’s cock like a vice, milking it frantically as wave after wave of intense orgasm wracked him, his eyes rolling back, a continuous, breathless scream tearing from his throat. He was cum drunk, completely overwhelmed, lost in violent sensation.
Arthur kept fucking him through it, his thrusts becoming erratic as Fritz’s convulsions triggered his own climax. He slammed deep one last time, roaring as he emptied himself into Fritz’s clenching channel, filling him with another pulse of hot cum. Fritz’s body went utterly limp beneath him, his scream cutting off abruptly. His eyes closed, his head lolled to the side. His cock twitched, the last drips of cum oozing out onto the mess on his stomach. He was out cold.
Arthur collapsed forward, panting raggedly, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Fritz’s furred stomach. He stayed buried inside the feline’s warm, cum-filled ass for a long moment, the only sounds his own harsh breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Slowly, he pulled his softening cock free with a wet sound. Fritz didn’t stir. Arthur rolled off him, landing heavily on his back on the carpet beside the wrecked feline. He stared up at the water-stained ceiling, the scent of sex, sweat, and Fritz’s musk thick in the air. Fritz lay utterly still, lace torn, stockings askew, utterly spent, covered in their mingled release. The silence was absolute.