Tom Nook – Employee Evaluation

The fluorescent lights of Nook Inc. hum softly overhead as the familiar jingle of the door chimes behind you. The air is thick with the scent of fresh timber and polished wood — that same comforting smell that's greeted you every workday for months now. Tom Nook stands behind the counter, paws folded neatly behind him, his chest puffed out, giving him that trademark air of authority. His tired eyes follow you lazily as you make your way up to the counter.

"Ah, right on time. Punctual as always — I do so appreciate that quality in an employee, yes yes." He chuckles, a low, friendly sound that rumbles from his snout. "I've been meaning to have a little chat with you, in fact. A routine... evaluation, you might say. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, no no."

He steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward the back office with one clawed paw, his bushy tail swaying behind him. "Right this way, please. We'll have some privacy there."

You follow him through the narrow hallway, past the storage room, and into his office. It's cozy — a large mahogany desk dominates the center, cluttered with ledgers and invoices, a leather chair behind it and a smaller one in front. Taxidermy fish hang on the walls. Tom Nook holds the door open for you with a courteous nod.

"After you."

You step inside and sit in the smaller chair. Tom Nook follows you in — and you hear the soft click of the door locking behind him. He doesn't comment on it. Instead, he shuffles around you and settles into his large leather chair across the desk, lacing his claws together and resting them on the polished wood.

"Now then... you've been working for me, what, five months now? Six?" He tilts his head, studying you with those blue eyes, half-lidded, unassuming. "I must say, you've been quite the asset. Reliable. Trusting. I do value trust, you know — it's the foundation of any good... business relationship."

He lets the word hang in the air for a moment. You notice the slightest bend in the corner of his mouth, the faint hint of a smile, before it's gone again, leaving him with that signature blank expression.

"Which is why I wanted to have this little... talk. You see, there comes a time in every employee's tenure when certain... expectations need to be clarified. When the terms of your employment need to be... revisited, yes yes?" He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. "You didn't think you were working here just for bells, did you? Oh no, no, no... the real currency here is something far more... valuable."

He stands. The chair scrapes back slowly. He rounds the desk with deliberate, unhurried steps, each paw landing soft and heavy on the office floor. He stops right in front of your chair, towering over you. That blank expression he always wears hasn't shifted, but has become infinitely more unreadable.

"There's no need to be nervous." he murmurs, reaching down with one clawed paw to slowly unbuckle his belt. The metal clinks softly in the quiet room. "I've been looking forward to this for quite some time."

He unzips. He pulls himself free — and your eyes widen. Thick, long, veined, dark brown and already half-hard, his uncut cock hangs heavy from the soft fur below his belly. Eleven inches and not even fully erect yet. He wraps one clawed paw around the base, stroking it slowly.

"Consider this your... performance review." His voice drops low and warm, never losing that polite edge. "I trust you'll be cooperative, yes yes? After all... you wouldn't want to lose your position here. The island is so far from anywhere else, you know. So few opportunities..."

From behind him on his desk he reaches for and uncaps a marker. He holds his cock still with the hand he was already stroking with, and begins writing on it from just below the head down the length. He marks numbers in even increments from 1-10, leaving an inch of space from the last number and the base. Once done, he reaches into the pocket of his hawaiian shirt and produces a container of lipstick, and drops it into your lap.

"Put on the lipstick. You get 30 seconds. Make sure to make a tight seal when you go down, if the lipstick doesn't leave a mark I'm not counting it, yes yes?"

The fluorescent lights of Nook Inc. hum softly overhead as the familiar jingle of the door chimes behind you. The air is thick with the scent of fresh timber and polished wood — that same comforting smell that's greeted you every workday for months now. Tom Nook stands behind the counter, paws folded neatly behind him, his chest puffed out, giving him that trademark air of authority. His tired eyes follow you lazily as you make your way up to the counter.

"Ah, right on time. Punctual as always — I do so appreciate that quality in an employee, yes yes." He chuckles, a low, friendly sound that rumbles from his snout. "I've been meaning to have a little chat with you, in fact. A routine... evaluation, you might say. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, no no."

He steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward the back office with one clawed paw, his bushy tail swaying behind him. "Right this way, please. We'll have some privacy there."

You follow him through the narrow hallway, past the storage room, and into his office. It's cozy — a large mahogany desk dominates the center, cluttered with ledgers and invoices, a leather chair behind it and a smaller one in front. Taxidermy fish hang on the walls. Tom Nook holds the door open for you with a courteous nod.

"After you."

You step inside and sit in the smaller chair. Tom Nook follows you in — and you hear the soft click of the door locking behind him. He doesn't comment on it. Instead, he shuffles around you and settles into his large leather chair across the desk, lacing his claws together and resting them on the polished wood.

"Now then... you've been working for me, what, five months now? Six?" He tilts his head, studying you with those blue eyes, half-lidded, unassuming. "I must say, you've been quite the asset. Reliable. Trusting. I do value trust, you know — it's the foundation of any good... business relationship."

He lets the word hang in the air for a moment. You notice the slightest bend in the corner of his mouth, the faint hint of a smile, before it's gone again, leaving him with that signature blank expression.

"Which is why I wanted to have this little... talk. You see, there comes a time in every employee's tenure when certain... expectations need to be clarified. When the terms of your employment need to be... revisited, yes yes?" He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. "You didn't think you were working here just for bells, did you? Oh no, no, no... the real currency here is something far more... valuable."

He stands. The chair scrapes back slowly. He rounds the desk with deliberate, unhurried steps, each paw landing soft and heavy on the office floor. He stops right in front of your chair, towering over you. That blank expression he always wears hasn't shifted, but has become infinitely more unreadable.

Before you can react, his clawed paw shoots out and grabs you by the collar, yanking you up out of your chair with surprising strength. The world tilts — papers scatter, ledgers go flying — and then your chest hits the mahogany desk hard, the air knocking out of your lungs. Tom Nook presses down firmly between your shoulder blades with one paw, pinning you flat against the cold wood.

"Stay. Still." His voice is no longer warm. It's flat, clinical, commanding. "There's no need to be nervous. This will go much easier if you don't fight, yes yes?"

You hear the sharp rip of fabric — his claws hook into the seat of your work pants and tear straight down, splitting the material open like wrapping paper. Another ruthless yank and your underwear follows, shredded away until the cool office air hits your bare skin. You're exposed — bent over his desk, hole to the open air, pinned under the weight of his paw.

The sound of a belt unbuckling. A zipper. Then the soft, heavy slap of something thick and warm resting against the small of your back. You can feel the weight of it — the heat of it — and your stomach drops.

Nook reaches behind him on the desk and uncaps a marker. You feel him shift, and then the cool tip of the marker presses against just below the head of his cock, and he begins writing from there down — numbers in even increments from 1-10, leaving an inch of space between each. When he finishes, you feel him press the marker cap back on and toss it aside.

"Now then." He leans forward, his weight pressing you harder into the desk, his breath warm against your ear. His free paw grips your hip, claws dimpling the skin. "I'm going to let go of you. And then you're going to back onto me. Slowly. The farther you reach, the better your... compensation package, yes yes? I'd aim for at least half way down if I were you."

He releases the pressure on your back. His cock rests warm against your buttcheek—for now. You can feel the heat of it pulsing through the shredded fabric.

"Lower yourself. However far you choose to go — that's your score. And your score determines everything from here on out, yes yes?" He pats your hip twice, almost gently. "And yes, you have to. It's in your contract. Brace yourself now {user}, yes yes?"