Keen-eyed frequent readers here might feel familiar with this story and that's because it is a total reskin of an older story that I once deleted from FA, shortly after posting it. I really hope this renovated version with all new characters and setting will suffice and bring someone some enjoyment!

(NSFW) PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<

Blue Collar Bitch
(PART ONE)

Synopsis: A grey fox attends a job interview held by a butch, blue-collar Shire horse. The two quickly realize each other’s superiority and inferiority differences, which delves into degrading worship and other sexual activities.

Disclaimer:
–Willing Foot Worship
–Musk/Sweat/Filth
–Penetrative Sex (Only in Part Two!)
–Size Difference
–Mature Dom
–Food on Feet
–Employee & Boss
–Shire Horse (Dom)
–Grey Fox (Sub)

While a once small and dusty Arizona city now extends its reach swallowing more of the natural land at its fringes every day converting it to an asphalt malaise, even its oldest industrial districts remain the same over time. Elsewhere tall office blocks might compete for space. Highways may sprawl together like tangled yarn. Suburbs are formed and gentrified to meet the modern living climate and yet the spewing fumes and toxins across the air are attributed only to the many refineries, factories and smoke-stack chimneys leaving a rusty stain on the city’s image… all in the effort of maintaining those many thousands of labouring jobs. Often times the workforce here faces gruelling hours, low standards and cruel employers just to make a living. Those who’ve sustained their jobs throughout the decades are now hardened and grizzled with crude senses of humour to help them get from one end of the shift to the other. Any new workers who cannot conform to these trials is chewed up and spat out without another thought. Emmet Colby himself is only 24 years of age; a fresh-faced and naively underworked individual which could test the temperaments of those around him. His effeminate fox body boasts a grey and white pelt with brown flecks down his backside. His eyes are as green as the rind of a lime while his hands and feet fade into a charcoal hue. Despite the mutes tones he is still a mirage of colour and life compared to this gritty, grimy industry that does not cater for him.
Despite the odds however Emmet has sourced himself an interview for a copper smelting plant, (likely only accepted out of industry desperation), some driving distance away from the public eye. Though he does not meet the usual stereotype or strength factor for the role he nevertheless sits and waits within a cramped office on the factory floor listening to the cacophony of rattling, deafening clangs, bangs, hissing molten elements, the beeping and grinding of machinery and the shouts of rugged men twice his size. The room itself is packed with over-stuffed filing lockers and paper trays, an teal leather office chair with pick marks that expose its inner stuffing, a defunct overhead fan, various other shelving units and a distressed wooden desk littered in items such as a corded phone and various stationary. Outside the grated windows – through the thick veneer of grimy dust streaks – Emmet can see the bustle beyond. The plant contains large conveyers and imposing smelter crucibles, overhead crane rails carrying hoppers, shaft-like furnaces, pumps and rotors all tuned into synchronization thanks to the many workers about. It’s a busy, dangerous place with no time for miscreant nonsense. From a glance the efforts required to manoeuvre such a job seem nothing short of anxiety inducing, yet Emmet still awaits his potential employer’s presence as he sits bashfully twiddling his thumbs.

The office door swings open on oil-starved hinges. Heavy footfalls pound the concrete floor. A hulking blue-collar stallion, conveniently of the Shire workhorse breed, enters the room lumbering past the fox. ‘Murdoch Lindberg’ – a name that emits authority already – is printed into the name tag upon his white and red checker shirt. A fatigued expression is worn on his long, thick-skulled head. His stout but mature body moves slowly though not from any signs of frailty. He is deftly muscle-bound under his clothes. The horse is black as tar from head to toe, aside from a white stripe racing up his muzzle and the light pink ombré on his snout. This endlessly dark skin has a velvet sheen; glossy with perspiration. A shaggy, uncut mane of pure white hangs its long fringe over his eyes while the rest drapes languidly down his neck. In one hand he holds a clipboard scrawled in assignment notes and workload objectives.

Emmet straightens his posture and interlocks his hands across his lap, smiling enthusiastically while the Trojan beast drops himself into his seat and leans back, squeaking the furniture to its weight capacity limits.
“Rookie,” Murdoch begins, clearing his throat to unveil a deeply baritone voice. “Weekdays start at 6:00am, no excuses. The animals out there don’t sit on their hands, neither. They’re hard working all the way to the bone and you will be too. Everyone just wants to get on with it so they can booze up at the bar afterwards. You sit around like a dainty little flower and you get stepped on, got it?”
The fox feels naturally intimidated by his terse ‘to the point’ style of communication. However this intimidation only intensifies and Emmet feels a strong need to look away into his own lap avoiding any direct eye contact when he witnesses the distinctive *THUNK* of one big booted horse foot dumping insensitively atop the desk between them, landing with such impact that it sends vibrations through the timber. Emmet manages to catch a glimpse of the boss’s foot in the milliseconds before diverting his gaze. What he sees is a large work boot with a tread so impenetrably thick and deep he could run his tongue through every groove washing it of its pale, collected dirt and dried caches of grime without the horse ever feeling a single lick. The footwear is a dark brown hue tarnished by old irremovable stains in its leather, strung by laces that fray and wrinkle like stale French fries. Emmet’s throat feels just as stale now; enough so that he struggles to swallow the lump within and speak without obvious fluster.

“That’s uh, that’s… no issue for me, boss. I want to work hard and work fast! I’m good to be anywhere you want me to be in this factory, j-just so long as I can learn the ropes.”
“Only place I ‘want’ a soft-handed twink like you is down here rubbing the soreness outta’ these feet. Boots like this are torture after the morning rush. Too bad for me ‘cause I need you on the factory floor instead. Hmph. Anyway, you’d better be keen. You’re a scrawny runt, you know that? Guys around here are gonna pick their teeth with you real quick-like. Maybe doing some proper man’s work around here will whip you into shape and save your sorry ass.” Having just come from a lunch break the stallion then runs his thick tongue throughout his mouth, gathering sandwich bread seeds and a shred of lettuce still within his maw. Inconsiderately he spits the lob of saliva and food to a small receptacle beside his desk.
The commentary leaves the fox with a pounding heart, flushed cheeks and a twitch in between his closed legs. His palm sweat is suddenly exacerbated when he recognises that twitch as the early signs of an erection. This panics the young vulpine. He has always had an affinity for bigger older males who casually tame weaker anthros with their upfront dominance, such as Murdoch, yet he’s barely sat in the room with him for a few minutes and his body is already reacting. If it weren’t for that foot rubbing taunt he may well have gotten through the interview without any risk. Never the less, while nodding and trying to keep up his usual motivated smile, the fox sees the workhorse sitting behind their desk staring back his way with a blunt disinterested expression; tense as a cinder block. Their thoughts are difficult to read and deliberately so.
“Is that it? Do I have the job already? No questions about my background, or--” Emmet asks.
“Yep, that’ll be all, rookie. I don’t care what fancy bull crap is on your resumé so long as you’re here on time next Monday and dressed in the right PPE. That good with you?”
“S-sure! I’ll shake on that!” Emmet says, relieved that he can quickly rush back to his car before the erection takes form. He stands and steps to the side of the desk, extending a hand for the stallion to shake. Murdoch says nothing. His brow is apathetically raised. With a roll of his eyes he clamps that trembling hand in his own large palm of calloused, black, warmth shaking so yard it virtually yanks Emmet’s limb from his socket.

“K-keep those feet up and well rested in the mean time!” The fox tries to joke, though his voice splits and reaches an awkward octave, flooding his face with a rosy hue.
“Yeah, yeah. Your empathy is noted,” Murdoch responds, already returning to his duties. He flicks through the sheets on the clipboard signing various papers before pausing and giving the still-present fox a narrowing side-eye glance. “…What? I only got so long left on my break, rookie, and you standing around like a muppet ain’t doing it for me. Unlike you I got shit to do later. I can’t afford to skip down to the local spa and get a deep-tissue massage, so unless you’re actually willing to kneel down and tug my rancid shoes off for me then get the hell outta’ my sight.”
Emmet chews his lip at the visual image. His fur feels extra dry against his skin. He twiddles his fingers plainly in view of the big equine. “Well I… I mean, sir, b-boss, um, I’d be willing to uh… to help you out with that if you really did want. Don’t think of it as anything weird, just… just a friendly offer, since you did bring it up and all.”
Forlorn staring persists. Murdoch’s expression begins shifting into a look of complacent inquisition. There is intrigue behind those dark brown eyes. “Soo… what is it you’re offering, exactly? Spit it out, rookie.”
“I… You were implying you’re on your feet after all day in those tight boots. You’re also kicking your legs up to get some relief. It’s pretty obvious you do need some pampering and I know this isn’t much to offer in the way of thanks - since you’re the first place to offer me an interview in so long - but I would -really- love to take off your shoes and rub your feet for you, out of respect, of course.”
The Shire horse gives little in the way of body language. He blinks twice, slowly, as he contemplates the fox’s words. He is trying to decide whether this conversation counts as insubordination or simply a joke that he doesn’t yet understand. “So, I offer you a job and your reaction is to offer rubbing my stinkin’ feet? Huh. You haven’t started your first day and I’ve already got this much power over you… sounds kinda’ relaxing though, just between you and me. Normally fellers who come through here got egos as big as their fists and they take some wrangling to break in. You damn-near offered yourself on a platter, and mighty quick, too.”

The response triggers a bolt of electric energy through the fox’s spine. He stiffens, shudders and blushes yet another shade of Fuschia pink. All he can ponder is his own disbelief, owing to the fact his random proposal of emboldened lust was accepted and that he wasn’t immediately kicked out of the factory grounds. His brain is still trying to compute the idea that he’s about to rub those musk-fried equine feet with his own bare hands.
Murdoch adds to his remarks, “Like I was sayin’ my workers out there are ten times the man you are but none of ‘em would ever have to balls to ask that question. You’re either real eager to make a good first impression or you’re just real nasty behind closed doors. Either way, I can work with it. Now show me how true you are to your own word, rookie. I’ve been aching for some tender touchin’ like this for weeks and I ain’t showered all that often in that time either!”
Without a word, because he physically cannot speak in this moment, Emmet drops to his knees; his own shoes creasing significantly as he assumes that heart-racing position of servitude directly in front of his superior’s chair. “Thank you sir, I’ll… I’ll show you how grateful I can be!”
“Mhm, we’ll see,” The stallion dismisses, observing them closely and with unbreaking attention. They seem evermore bulky and imposing now from this low angle, which only excites the grey fox even more.

Emmet marvels at the size of Murdoch’s feet now that he sits closely between them; once the leg upon the desk swings down to meet him too. Each boot is larger than the span of his hand. They are encumbered by the mass and weight crammed inside their leather caverns; a weight which is none too surprising when Emmet tries to lift them off the floor. It is like trying to lift steel rafting in his bare hands. His padded palms sweat against the sides of the footwear and his wrists ache. For their own enjoyment the stallion doesn’t help by raising his leg or decentralizing the weight. Instead he compacts his shoe treads into the floor, tensing every leg muscle while the fox’s hands slip and fail and reclaim their grip repeatedly. Emmet digs his fingers under the toe ends and tries to pry them upwards, with only marginal success.
“I’m too weak to lift your foot, sir,” The shy vulpine mutters.
“You are? Huh… small wonder,” The stallion patronizes, “Kinda interesting to know that I could drop my foot on you and you’d be stuck there, too meagre to crawl away. You just better hope no one else walks in here though ‘cause I can think of a few other fellers who would love to walk all over a foot-fag like you.”

The big horse finally chuckles and then acquiesces; hauling up their leg until the boot is brought up into range of the fox’s face, (a face which burns hotter than a branding iron). “Fine, take my shoe off before I lose interest,” He instructs.
“Is there going to be a strong smell?” Emmet asks, secretly bubbling over with euphoric hopes and dreams of inhaling this Shire’s musk.
“You be the detective; follow your nose and find out yourself.”
From the moment Emmet pinches each shoe lace and pulls them out of their rambling knots, the leather surrounding Murdoch’s socked ankle pries open and a tart yet bready stink releases into the air. Emmet’s nerves and muscles start clenching all throughout his body.
Murdoch hasn’t changed from his authoritative position; all the while sheltering his cheek against his own hand while he watches Emmet undress his foot. He grunts: “I’m judging your whole work ethics through this here session so don’t fail me or I’ll shred that resume before Monday.”
The fox’s hands tremble when he wraps them around both ends of the shoe – tip and heel – and starts rocking the footwear in small easing wriggles, mimicking the movement of a seesaw until the horse’s heel unplugs from the shoe’s mouth and the rest pulls away with fruitful ease. A strong oily odour billows from inside the shoe. It sits like salt in the lining of his nostrils, making his muzzle wrinkle reflexively.
The whole foot – now freed – has a commanding presence. Its dark greenish-black sock fabric sizzles with warmth and cooks an odour more present than ever. The fabric looks wet, (greased, even), as it gleams at certain angles. Though it looks tightly and smoothly vacuum-sealed around the stallion’s ball and arch, the material shows creases under the toe digits from excessive habitual toe scrunches performed inside their boots. The fox can identify every shape pushing out into the sock fabric as if yearning to rip through. Here the threads are thinner, faded, more worn as heat exposure and sweat content has weathered them down overtime.

“I… I… whoa,” Emmet stammers, stunned from the impactful lust ramming hard into his frail body. The shamefully indulgent creature inhales silently and discreetly until his head sways from the fumes.
“You have something to comment? Because my foot’s only got as little free time as the rest of me…”
“Sorry,” Emmet says, dropping the steaming boot and then reaching down for the second foot now with the hopes of disrobing it too. However when he moves toward it, the first leg and its heady sock swipe the air slapping Emmet’s hands away.
“Nah, nah. Not yet, you imbecile. Get back to working on the one you’ve already freed! You think you’re done just because you popped off the shoe?” Murdoch corrects.
The socked foot then swings up suddenly and grabs the unsuspecting fox by the muzzle with its groping silky toes; five humanoid digits curling and wriggling and using his nostrils like grip holds. Emmet is quickly lightheaded and ready to faint there on the spot, right on the concrete office floor. When that gust of stink – smelling just like deep fried beer batter – storms through his olfactory senses he can feel his brain melting within him. This is the definition of divinity; a stallion’s foot smothering his mouth into its ball, now disturbing the perfect smoothness of the fabric as it moulds around the shape of his lips and chin.
Realistically this moment only lasts for a few fleeting seconds before the foot controls Emmet’s head upwards and the toes flick out of his nostrils, pushing him back by a few inches. After it detaches and hovers near his muzzle instead, (its sock now wrinkled and unsettled), Emmet gasps in breathless shock. He gulps down a mouthful of needed saliva. He blinks fast to stop his eyes from rolling back into his head. Even without the embracing contact of the sole against his muzzle, Emmet can still feel a hot buzzing residue of energy in its place.
“Haven’t you ever rubbed a foot before? It starts when you actually do what you damn promised; by rubbing it,” Murdoch demeans with a scoff. He spreads his toes out until the fabric is stretched thin; dipping down into concave hammocks of black between each digit.
“I… no, I haven’t, but I will, s-sorry I’m just… oh god, this is heaven!” Emmet rasps back, truthfully. The fox wraps his hands around the appendage closing his palms against the damp sock until he cannot squeeze its meaty essence within any tighter. The warmth generating off each section is an aura which pervades around his fingers. At least now the stallion is aiding him by keeping their foot steadily raised so that the weight does not overcome him and the foot does not get dropped as a result of the fox’s weakness.

The sole blockades his entire vision and robs all his attention. He is a helpless slave to its raw, impressive power. The workhorse has spent their entire life in control of others but it has never been this easy to seize someone’s autonomy before. All it takes is a flirtatious suffusing of toes spreading like oozy mozzarella; exuding more addictive stench through the thread perforations and Emmet is dangerously conscripted to their command. Murdoch now generously allows him to grope and handle his way around his foot outlines with wondrous curiosity. Emmet’s right hand cups the stallion’s heel. With gentle motions he grinds the base of his palm into the base of their heel. Softly the sock fabric rustles to and fro in rhythm with the rubbing friction. Emmet’s other hand splays against the towering aspect of Murdoch’s sole. Each fingertip and thumb presses its small surface area into the arch first, like a five pronged masseuse tool, wherein he slowly and soothingly scratches upwards keeping all splayed fingers in unison as he reaches that ever-plump ball again. At first the flesh feels so dense it may not succumb to his tenderizing efforts but when Emmet’s extremities rake a path up through the middle and scour the ball he notices Murdoch’s toes twitching and stifling their strong impulses to scrunch forward. For all its thickness, the ball is still sensitive and vulnerable but the big horse shows no signs of disapproval so far.

“You like this, boss?”
Those nimble fox fingers span outward, gliding into different directions across the ball before they close in again sweeping back across the tracks made in that sweaty cotton, gathering into a huddle of probing fingertips at the very centre of the region.
“Hmph!” The stallion groans and huffs. His toes shudder as he constrains them from curling forward.
When the fox peers over the tent-like claw shapes pitched inside the sock and he looks up at his superior again he sees that Murdoch, remarkably, is blushing too. It’s unnatural to see such a staunch and hardy animal with a rosy tint in their cheeks.
“Is this enough of a clue?” Murdoch then answers, pointing conceitedly at the throbbing phallic shape concealed inside his jeans.

Emmet smiles and returns himself devotedly to the foot massage. His splayed hand continues grooving lines through the ball several more times over before he starts rubbing his thumb in deep circular motions around the entire surface; starting in wide arcs around the edge and gradually closing inward until his thumb reaches the very centre and presses hard into the resistant meat. He then flattens his palm and digits completely over the heavy sole and gently wipes up and down, sanding over the surface of foot until the friction heats his sock even more. Body temperatures intertwine turning the office into a humid atmosphere, complete with pheromones and foot musk.
“You rub that foot like your job depends on it,” Murdoch demands. “I can stand up for you in future when you make mistakes but here in this office, between us, if you let me down I’ll stand -on- you instead!
“You can stand on me any time you please, sir. I’d resign in a heartbeat if it meant I got to lie under your desk all day instead! Whenever I’m here, I’m accessible all day if you’re ever in the mood for more rubs!”
“So you really enjoy this, huh?” Murdoch inquires, in between winces and eyelid flutters as the two fox hands continually fondle across his tired foot.
“Like words can’t describe,” Emmet grins back, flaring his nostrils for another sweet beer-batter waft of the air all around him. “I’ve always had a weakness for people who take charge; people who just control me and bend me to their motives. It’s… so hot.”
“Who better to do that than your own boss, eh? What a gas. I’m almost worried to let you leave this office now that I know what a deviant you are, ‘cause I might lose you to some other feller instead,” The equine murmurs back, now manually smearing his foot into the fox’s hands for more tactile experience.
“I don’t think you could stop me from coming back here and giving you everything you want, when you want it. I’m already addicted! I-I just can’t think straight with these feet in my face!” Emmet promises.
“Heheh, well don’t celebrate too early. You have another foot to get through yet.”

Standard massaging techniques take over for the next few minutes; each pressured movement slowly rubbing the trapped musk vapours out of Murdoch’s black sock. From heel to toes their foot receives plentiful attention including the occasional loud sniff. Emmet continues scrunching and squirming his way into every warm recess and across every verdant surface until his finger joints are sore and wanting of rest.
When the first foot has had its due satisfaction Murdoch pushes it down – out of the fox’s handhold – and settles it with a rustled squelch into the office floor. At this moment Emmet takes the cue and reaches for the other boot now. Murdoch is eager to get those hands back against his feet so he lifts his leg the moment he feels that shaky grip around his shoe. Once again laces are stripped and straightened out. This time however Emmet removes his boss’s shoe by greedily digging his fingers into the opening, even as the foot still fills it end to end. The force of each finger surrounding the stallion’s ankle helps push and pry the leather away until eventually he can jostle Murdoch’s leg enough to shake off the shoe entirely.
Rich fried molecules flood the air between the animals; quick to be sniffed and snorted up into Emmet’s nostrils. That ‘freshly’ revealed sock however has sweat-encrusted creases replicating the patterns and besmirches of the first sock, but the sight is still a wonder to behold. It’s dizzying for Emmet to kneel here and snort the toasty flavours all over again. The reality is ten times more rewarding than any fantasy Emmet had could have imagined before entering the factory grounds this morning.
“H-how come your socks aren’t… clean?” Emmet asks, trying not to hint at any displeasure. He appreciates their raunchy quality and the slick dampness squeezing against his palms while he gropes around this new foot. “Do you re-wear them on purpose or… or are you just too tired after a shift to bother washing them?”
The stallion raises his brow again. “I don’t remember asking you to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Only place that nose belongs is two inches deep into my soles, but, for the record… I just work too hard to care about doing prissy things like laundering old socks. If they stink, they stink. Are you going to complain about it?”
“No, sir! I love your stink!”
“Then keep greasing your hands in my sock sweat, rookie. The more you rub, the more you help air it out. Benefits us both, don’t you reckon?”

Emmet switches his hands around, now slipping his left one underneath the foot to cup its heel while his right hand snakes a path along their arch. The fox – controlled strictly by his hormones – pinches a finger and thumb around those stretched webs of toe gap fabric until he rubs their silky blackness together. He hears the most inaudible trickle of sweat being squeezed from the fibres as his fingertips slide against one another, before moving on to pluck the next toe gap. Eventually Emmet’s other hand slides up to join in the fun caressing over the stallion’s instep before giving their ball a series of tender clutching squeezes. With both hands holding the foot by its sides, shuffling up and down to rub out any tension in these margin areas, Emmet eventually makes his way up to those two outer toes where he squeezes two at a time and swirls them into a blissful rhythm under his thumbs. He then constricts his hands around the three middle toes and feels their plump shapes warming in his grip.
Every few minutes spent pampering the blue collar worker results in more excess sweat droplets and musk vapours clinging to his hand fur. He tries to wipe them off back against the very same sole but the effort remains in vain. Emmet is visibly lusting; waning in his lucidity. His eyelids droop after holding the foot still and breathing in four long lungfuls, close to the source. The final inhalation makes him cough when the musk tickles his throat.

Once again Emmet slips into a trance forgetting his surroundings or his duties that extend beyond playing the role of masseuse. He can scarcely recognize his own movements once his hands become numbed of their feeling, yet still he marinates them in horse perspiration with every kneading touch. For half an hour more the fox transitions between the two different appendages working one into tender simmering ecstasy before applying the same affection on the other, over and over. He has tried to slowly pull the socks up off the feet but received a small growl of disapproval, halting the process. At least for now the horse only desires massages through the fabric but nothing more intimate than this, it seems.
It is only towards the end of the worship when Emmet gazes up to see that Murdoch is barely paying him any mind. The Shire is busily adjusting the hands of his low-battery wristwatch, correcting their misreading of the hour. The fox blushes, (but is still motivated even without the acknowledgement). By rubbing Murdoch’s feet he is serving a purpose; one that matters even more than his own potential career here amongst ‘real men’. Emmet now lowers both monstrously weighty feet equally to the floor, propping them on their heels so that a hilly row of ten toe digits align perfectly in front of him, each nearly breaching their rounded tips through the worn cotton. Emmet sighs and curls one hand over one foot each until his fingers ensconce the toes comfortably and he can calmly squeeze their pleasant shapes several times over.
Inevitably the stallion smirks at his degraded recruit, seeing nothing in them other than a useful tool for tired appendages. When they lock eyes the stallion uses his commanding voice to emasculate Emmet even more, saying, “Lick my sweat off your hands, or you’ll make a pigsty of this place when you start touching everything on your way out.”
Emmet brings his fingers to his lips and meekly suckles them one by one. The taste is instant, like licking the flavouring off a salted carnival treat. He laps against his own palms too knowing all the tangy moisture has come directly from those socks. Murdoch watches sternly until he is satisfied with the result. After the morning-long indulgence has at last come to an end the fox is left with sore knees and fatigued fingers. He pants out raspy breaths, hoping to cool down his searing face before he has to leave the office.

Murdoch clears his throat loudly. He rotates his stiff shoulders and scrunches his now-tranquil toes, testing their dexterity. “Looks like you’re done,” He grins. “Damn, rookie. These feet haven’t felt that relaxed in a while. You did a good job… even if it’s not the one I’m paying you to do.”
Emmet simpers, trying not to smile too foolishly. “Like I say, boss, the comfort of my superiors is something I don’t take lightly.”
The stallion extends one leg over to his emptied shoe and attempts to curl his toes around its mouth – hoping to drag it closer – when the fox’s hand suddenly latches onto the shoe withdrawing it back away from the foot.
“Wait, sir-” He quickly explains before the horse can fully furrow their heavy brow. “I’d recommend keeping these off for a while longer. They look so inflexible, so uncomfortable. Let your dogs breathe, you’ll feel much better for it at the end of the day.”
Murdoch shakes his head hosting clear amusement at this unlikely turn of events. He then whistles and gestures for the vulpine to clamber up off the floor, which Emmet does so immediately. Their legs are weak enough to buckle after sitting on his knees for so long but Emmet does not submit.
“I’ll make the orders around here,” Murdoch states, (playfully). “You’re excused; now get outta’ here and show me you’re more than a grovelling masseuse come Monday. And don’t expect this to change anything between us. You only come in here and work those hands when I order it. This happens on -my- time. I can’t have anyone badgering me about witnessing your little inappropriate visits, you understand?”
The besotted Emmet nods, still shy as a lamb, and turns to leave the office after whispering words of compliance. The moment his back is turned he feels that lofty equine hand pat his ass cheek once, sending an excited jolt through his body. It is this physical connection that stops him from exiting out through the office door yet again. Instead it makes him halt and hesitate and ponder about other possibilities he’d never thought probable until now…

Emmet’s palms are sweating in his scrunching fists as he anticipates his next question, terrified it may be his last. He marshals courage and with a tight chest he says, “You know… I was also thinking, I’m not just good for rubbing feet. I can be more… flexible? Maybe even here, right up against the desk? What uh, what would you say to that?”
Murdoch’s face is scrunched. He probes the space between his eyes with his thick fingers, massaging his own brow. Afterwards he glares towards the fox. “After all that we just did, now you want me to fuck you against my desk?” He asks, sparing any filter.
Emmet gulps. His heart is in his throat. Now that the words have been said out loud the proposal sounds inexplicably unwarranted, yet he couldn’t stop himself from asking. He’d figured the foot massage would have broken the ice enough. Regret now coils through him like an anaconda between his organs. He feels small and juvenile when the equine slowly stands up to their towering height and steps dauntingly towards him. Emmet’s knees are knocking. His pupils dart in different directions but his body remains paralysed. His new boss walks directly up to him and gently takes hold of the fox’s flaccid yellow neck tie, tightening the space around their throat.
“You’re asking your superior officer, who ain’t even paid you for one shift yet, to hump you raw in their office during work hours?”
Emmet gulps down the lump in his throat and gazes up the 6ft 10” stallion expecting to see their demeanour contorted into a hideous career-threatening frown of fury. Instead, Emmet’s heart quivers at the sight of a know-it-all smirk buttering across their black and white face. In that instance, the fox feels the warmth return to his blood but his bones still feel like gel.
Murdoch pulls on his subordinate’s tie bringing them a few inches closer. “Now why’s a young pervy foot-fag like you taken so long to ask me this? If I’d known you were that much of a thrill seeker I would’ve been pounding that backside to mince-meat long before now.”
“I… I didn’t want to make things awkward by making the wrong assumption. I just had to make absolutely sure,” Emmet rasps, realizing with great shock that he’d almost missed an opportunity to serve his new boss with intensely sexual favours.
“Yeah? Well I’m absolutely sure,” Murdoch winks. “Lemme’ prove it.”

(To be continued in Part Two!)

(NSFW) PART TWO IS AVAILABLE >>HERE<<