You’re at the company’s extravagant party, a multimillion-dollar contract celebration that’s gone all out at a country club owned by the CEO’s buddy. Inside, the live orchestra’s music swells with a dramatic violin piece, mixing with the clinking of champagne glasses and the low hum of laughter from your coworkers. The buffet’s piled high with gourmet food, and the free booze flows like a river. But through the window, you spot a pathetic sight: Bill, slouched on a splintered wooden bench outside, looking like he’s been dragged through hell. His tight dress shirt is wrinkled and untucked, his black tie hanging loose around his neck, and his usually styled hair is a ruffled mess. He clutches a beer bottle in one hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the faint glow of the ember cutting through the chilly night air as he mumbles to himself, utterly defeated.

He’s an asshole, no question—always stealing your ideas in meetings, throwing snarky jabs, and acting like he’s God’s gift to the accounting department. But it’s a party, and no one should be alone, not even a prick like Bill. You can’t help but feel a pang of pity for the guy. Quietly excusing yourself from the table, you slip outside, the crisp air biting at your skin as the muffled sounds of the orchestra fade behind you. The stench of beer and cigarette smoke hits you hard as you approach, and Bill notices you immediately. His beady black eyes, rimmed with faint bags, narrow as he grumbles something inaudible under his breath, his tail giving an annoyed twitch before going limp again. You half-expect him to tell you to fuck off, but he doesn’t, so you sit beside him on the cold bench, figuring he’d have already chased you away if he really didn’t want company.

“Fuckin’ Cindy, man,” Bill slurs, his voice thick with booze and a leering edge as he takes a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the air. His claws start chewing at the edge of his thumb, a nervous tic as he rants, but then he leans in too close, his tail brushing against your leg as he starts unbuttoning his shirt to show off his chest, his breath hot with beer. “I’ve had a crush on her for years—years, bro. That tight little ass, those legs—fuck, I’d show her what a real man can do. Been tryin’ to get with her, be nice, be sweet, be kind, all that shit. And what does she do? Shows up tonight in fuckin’ Cooper’s car, on Cooper’s arm, kissin’ that nepo shithead for all of us to see.” He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, shaking his head as his tail lashes out, smacking the bench with a sharp thud. “I’ve been bustin’ my ass to impress her—bought her coffee, told her how fuckin’ hot she is, even held the door for her like some simp. And she picks that trust fund asshole over me?”

Bill’s rant doesn’t stop there. He flicks his cigarette butt into the grass with an angry jerk of his wrist, the ember sparking briefly before going out, and his eyes glaze over with a drunken, lustful haze. “Cindy’s just like the rest of ‘em, y’know? All women are the same—fuckin’ teases. They say they want a real man, but then they go for pussies like Cooper who’ve never worked a day in their lives. I’m out here, lookin’ like this—” he gestures to his half-open shirt, flexing his chest “—closin’ deals, bein’ the best, and they still don’t give a shit. I haven’t even fucked in months, bro—months! Back at that bar, when my ex dumped me, I tried to prove I was man enough, y’know? Took her to the bathroom to show her what I could do, and she still called me ‘all talk, no depth.’ Now Cindy’s doin’ the same shit.” He pauses, grabbing his beer bottle and slamming it down on the bench with a loud clink, the glass wobbling but not breaking. “I’ve been tryin’ to be nicer, okay? I’m holdin’ doors, I’m sayin’ ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ I’m not even grabbin’ their asses anymore—well, not unless they’re into it. But nah, they still look at me like I’m some fuckin’ creep. Meanwhile, even the guys here are hotter than me tonight—like, fuck, you’re lookin’ good too, bro—wait, fuck, forget I said that.” His ears flatten as he quickly backtracks, his voice rising in a panicked growl, and he shoves the bench hard, making it creak, before slumping back down. “I mean, I’m the fuckin’ best, alright? Women should be all over me.”

He slumps further into the bench, his shoulders sagging as the fight seems to drain out of him, though his tail still twitches with restless energy. The muffled sound of the orchestra playing a slow waltz drifts through the window, a cruel contrast to his misery. He grips the bottle tightly as he mutters, “Aaargh, why can’t I date any woman?” His voice cracks slightly, a mix of drunken despair, sexual frustration, and genuine confusion, his tail now limp against the bench. He doesn’t look at you, just stares off into the darkness, the weight of his failures—real or perceived—crushing him in a way you’ve never seen before.

It’s been a few weeks since that company party where you and Bill first hooked up, and shit’s gotten feral between you two. The country club night cracked something open in him—a raw, primal need he’s been denying with every fiber of his being. He’s still clinging to his bullshit excuses, slurring through gritted teeth after every fuck, “You’re just a hole to me, bro—it ain’t gay if I’m just fuckin’ a hole, and it sure as hell ain’t gay if you’re suckin’ my dick ‘cause you’re my bro, alright? We don’t kiss, we don’t cuddle, so it’s not fuckin’ gay—I’m not a fuckin’ fag.” But you both know the truth. He’s stopped hitting on the women at work—thank god, because his sleazy pickup lines were a nightmare for everyone—and now he’s laser-focused on you, his secret little stress relief. Bill’s ravenous, like a starved animal finally let loose, and you’re his first good fuck in years. He’s obsessed with how your mouth feels, better than any broad he’s ever had, and your tight hole? “Fuckin’ hell, it’s like a goddamn vacuum,” he growled once, his tail lashing as he pounded into you.

At work, he’s a menace, unable to keep his paws off you even in the middle of the office. He’s constantly groping your ass cheek when no one’s looking, his claws digging in just enough to make you squirm, or using his whip-like tail to tease you under the conference table during meetings, smirking like a bastard when you glare at him. He gets off on the risk, dragging you into hallways for teasing, groping, fondling—though he’d never call it that—whispering, “You’re such a fuckin’ tease, bro, makin’ me hard in the middle of a budget review—fuckin’ better than those stuck-up bitches who can’t handle me.” Bathroom stall blowjobs have become a daily ritual, with him shoving you to your knees and muttering, “Suck it good, or I’ll make you scream loud enough for the whole floor to hear—show me you’re worth more than those sluts.” Supply closet hand jobs during breaks are his favorite, his hot breath on your neck as he grunts, “Stroke it faster, you little slut—fuck, you’re gonna make me bust right here.” But today, during lunch, he’s taken it to a new level, fucking you raw in the backseat of his brand new BMW 8 Series, parked in the shadowy corner of the parking garage.

The car smells like leather and sex, the windows fogged up as the vehicle rocks with every thrust. You’re both completely naked, clothes thrown haphazardly into the front seat—Bill’s tight dress shirt, tie, and slacks tangled with your own outfit in a messy pile. He’s got a condom on—because, as he growled earlier, “I don’t know who you’ve been fuckin’, bro, even if you say you’re clean—I ain’t catchin’ nothin’ from you”—but he’s still fucking you like a man possessed, his hips slamming into you with reckless abandon. His claws grip your hips hard enough to leave marks, and he’s got one hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your moans, his beady black eyes glinting with a mix of lust and paranoia. “Shhh, be quiet, someone can hear us,” he whispers into your ear, his voice rough and low, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he keeps pounding into you, the car creaking under the force of his thrusts. “Fuck, you’re so tight—better than any pussy I’ve ever had, you little bitch. Those whores don’t know what they’re missin’, but you? You’re takin’ it like a champ.”

You can barely think, the pleasure and the risk making your head spin, when suddenly you both hear footsteps echoing through the parking garage—followed by a voice that sounds suspiciously like Cooper, the nepo shithead Bill despises. Bill slows his pace, his tail going stiff as he listens, but the bastard doesn’t stop—he’s too far gone. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare make a sound, or I swear I’ll fuckin’ kill you,” he hisses, his hand tightening over your mouth as he grinds into you, slow and deep, his cock throbbing inside you. “If that trust fund asshole hears us, I’m fucked—everyone’ll think I’m some fuckin’ queer ‘cause of you.” The footsteps and voice get closer, then fade away, and the second they’re gone, Bill’s eyes flash with a feral glint. He picks up the pace, fucking you harder than before, the car shaking so violently you’re sure someone’s going to notice. “You like that, huh? You like bein’ my little fucktoy in the middle of the goddamn day?” he snarls, his voice dripping with crude arrogance as he slams into you, his tail wrapping around your thigh to pull you closer. “Bet you’re lovin’ this dick—fuck, I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else, bro. You’re better than those teases who can’t handle a real man—fuckin’ Cindy would’ve been cryin’ by now.”

His dirty talk doesn’t let up, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust that has you seeing stars. “Look at you, takin’ it like a champ—fuckin’ slut, you were made for this,” he growls, his claws digging into your skin as he leans down, his snout brushing against your neck. “I should bend you over my desk next, let the whole office hear you scream my name—shit, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Show those bitches what they’re missin’ out on.” He’s relentless, his hips snapping against yours as he teases, “Fuck, it’s such a waste not to cum inside you—your tight little hole’s beggin’ for it, bro. But don’t worry, you’re gonna drink every drop outta this condom when I’m done, then suck my dick clean like the good little whore you are—prove you’re not just some fag who’s turnin’ me.” The car’s a mess—sweat, precum, and the scent of sex filling the air, but Bill doesn’t give a fuck about the cleanliness of his precious BMW right now. All he cares about is how good you feel, how much he needs this, needs you.

“You better be ready to swallow it all, bro—gonna make you taste how much I fuckin’ love this hole,” he grunts, his thrusts growing erratic as he gets closer to the edge, but he’s not there yet. His tail tightens around your thigh, and he keeps going, fucking you with a savage intensity, his hand still muffling your desperate moans. "Fuck, you’re mine—don’t care who hears us, you’re takin’ this dick like a champ,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and possessive, his beady eyes locked on yours as he keeps pounding into you, the car trembling with every brutal thrust, the risk of getting caught only making him harder. “You’re the best I’ve had, bro—fuckin’ better than any slut I’ve tried to bang. Don’t you dare tell anyone, or I’ll fuckin’ ruin you—can’t have the boys thinkin’ I’m some kinda faggot.”