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Disclaimer - The life of a mystically attractive secretary bird bird secretary is not for the faint of heart. If you don't want to be the center of attention in a bizarre workplace, then this story may not be for you. (This is a work of pornographic fiction. Do not read if it would be illegal for you to do so.)

The Beginner's Guide to the Secretarial Dark Arts

How fancy does a convention center need to be to have its own library?

Apparently not all that fancy as there's also a crooked "help wanted" sign hung on the broad oak door.

You enter more out of curiosity than anything else.

The room is nothing like the antiseptic corporate bookroom you were expecting. Instead, there's leatherbound books of maroon and navy strewn haphazardly on the towering, dusty shelves. An old-timey looking chandelier hangs above the desk in front of you, but there's no bulbs or even candles, just a strange glowing blue cube in the middle that almost looks like it's floating.

A raven wearing a worn maroon vest, and only a worn maroon vest, slips two heavy books onto a shelf, causing a trickle of dust to dance in the pale light.

"Ahh, you must be the new help. Wonderful. I'm Reginald, and I'm the manager in charge of this library . . ."

"Ahh, excuse him," Another raven wearing a mossy green waistcoat interrupts. He rolls a rickety cart stacked with moldering tomes up to the front desk. "He means to say that he's the second in command. I'm Ameston, the curator in charge of this library."

Reginald shakes a glossy black feather-like finger in defiance. "You know that as manager I have authority over . . ."

Ameston clacks his beak and begins shouting as well, feathers puffing up around the edges of his waistcoat. "Managerial staff have no authority over the curator!"

Their bickering grows in volume, feathers ruffling as they vie for the position of dominant librarian.

Losing interest, you peer forward at one of the books haphazardly littering the front desk. "The Beginners Guide to the Secretarial Dark Arts" the title reads in curling gold letters set in to the thick navy-blue leather cover. A thrill runs up your arm, hairs prickling up as you touch the tome. The ravens' squawking argument fades as your eyes glow blue briefly, muted voices whispering in the back of your mind about the glorious power of being an arcane secretary.

A Careful Choice of Clothing Will Make your First Impression Count. Wear What They Want to See.

You blink your eyes, words ringing in your ears as you come back to reality.

It feels much colder in here than it did a second ago.

A crash from the deep recesses of the library interrupts the bickering ravens, a plume of dust and loose pages rising into the dim light.

"Ruination!" Reginald curses. "This is all because _you_filed the aggressive fiction next to the section on combative logic!"

"How could this be my fault!" Ameston protests, holding a splayed feathery hand up against his forest green vest with indignation. "I was just temporarily reshelving them from the catastrophe that was your chromatic filing operation!"

Another crash resounds from the depths of the library.

"Fine. I'll fix your mess, just like I always do!" Reginald grabs the book cart and dashes off back into the dimness, talons clacking against the stone floor.

Ameston sighs and smooths down his inky feathers.

"You must forgive my colleague. His heart is in the right place, but he's terribly . . . inefficient," he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"Anyways, you look . . . perfect for this position." He cocks his head to the side. "And very lovely I might add."

You furrow a brow and look down at yourself, following the raven's appraising gaze. Your shirt has been replaced by a tight black vest and your pants are . . . !

You quickly hold a hand over your naked crotch.

"No need to be demure," Ameston simpers. "You have a very good taste in vests! I'm sure you'll be perfect for this job."

There's a purple flash and muted swearing from the back.

"Just watch out for Reginald," the raven continues, taking a step behind you and slowly rubbing your shoulders. "He's always one to give mixed messages. A bit of a touchy feely type. Just feel free to tell him off."

Surprisingly, his warm feather fingers do feel nice after driving all day to get here. He's definitely a little odd, but seems harmless enough. And oddly, the job doesn't seem so bad . . . whatever it is.

You're about to ask him about the book you touched earlier when you're interrupted by a sound like a buzzsaw grinding through a can of pudding, followed by loud twanging snaps.

"Amestooooooon!" Reginald's voice rings out from the back. "The guides on chimerology have gotten hold of your rebinding press, again!"

Ameston sighs and rubs the bridge of his black beak between two fingers. "You must excuse me. I'm afraid the staff here has _no_idea what they're doing . . ." He marches off back towards the commotion while shaking his head.

Shrugging in the silence, your reach towards that book again.

When your fingers make contact, your hair stands on end, eyes flying open but completely blank as strange eldritch symbols embed themselves in your consciousness.

Be Helpful. Be Handy. Positivity Will Help Others See Your Attributes in a The Best Light.

Wisps of arcane energy crackle around your fingers, pouring out from the book. Your hands jerk, digits darkening and splaying out, fingers thickening as pin pricks run up your skin. Snowy white plumes erupt from your arms, suddenly darkening to a jet black as your hands stretch out into feathery appendages that look a lot like the ravens'.

You can feel the comfortable weight of the books in your fingers as you grab the other tomes from the front desk, sliding them back onto the bookshelf behind it. It looks much nicer.

This leaves only "The Beginner's Guide to the Secretarial Dark Arts" lying there.

"Sorry about the fuss."

Reginald's voice draws you back from your organizational trance. You blink and shake the cobwebs from your mind, looking down at your soft black hands and white feathered arms. There's something off about them, but you can't quite place it. Maybe you should have washed them after driving all day. Your long flat fingers do look undoubtably attractive though . . .

"Sadly, Ameston rarely thinks ahead with where he leaves his harebrained projects."

You look up. The raven is missing a few tailfeathers, and smoke drifts up from his maroon vest. He smells like a microwaved bearskin.

"I could most certainly use your help though. You seem_very_ fitting for the job." He looks you up and down, beady black eyes gleaming approvingly in the dim light.

You shake your head and step back from the shelf. You hadn't come in here looking for a job, and so you're not quite sure what compelled you to start reordering everything. You run a black glossy hand over your face, velveteen wing-fingers feeling strange, but undeniably nice: soft and silky.

Reginald walks up next to and peers down at the mostly cleaned desk.

"You're doing a lovely job already, just let me get the last one . . ."

As he reaches towards the blue bound book, you quickly move to intercept, trying to snatch the tome up from the otherwise clean desk, but as your fluffy fingers make contact, time slows to a crawl.

The world condenses into a dark orb around you as the words from the text spider their way over the sphere in golden, glowing characters.

Too Much Attention on Your Duties? Shift The Conversation to Your Body.

Time resumes ticking forwards as you intercept Reginald's hand with your own, pulling it towards your body.

There's a brief silent pause as Reginald's throat feathers floof up in a blush, fingers now pressed against the hardening length of your member.

"Oh, my . . . I didn't think you'd be quite so forward," he stammers. "Not that I'm objecting . . . But, may I?"

You consider for a moment before nodding. It feels somehow right to have his hand between your legs. It's almost as if it gives you some amount of control over him.

You hug yourself tight against him, feathers washing down under your ebony vest, nipples lost in a sea of glossy white.

Reginald's hand slowly slides up and down your shaft as he swallows and croaks with awkward appreciation. You reach forwards, holding his fluffy cheeks between your hands as you lean in and pull his face forwards into a kiss.

Your tongue slides over the polished black of his beak before slipping in and tasting the flesh of his tongue as it twists against your own. Your face feels warm, heat radiating through your jaw and pulsing in your groin.

The sloppy noises of your kiss are soon punctuated by clacks as your lips harden, pressing out into a delicately curved beak. Your tongue slides further forwards into his own beak as the fleshy tip dwindles into a thinner wriggling point.

One of his arms wraps around behind you, following the white feathers cascading down out the bottom of your vest. The feathers suddenly darken to black as they prickle in over your rump. His other hand caresses your cock, silky pinions rubbing in gentle, grasping waves. With every stroke, your cock stiffens, growing more sensitive, but also pulling back smaller and smaller, sensations shifting, resonating inside of you as your ass clenches sympathetically.

You moan out a sultry squawk of pleasure. But it's not enough. You need more . . .

You press his shoulders down, and he looks up at you as he slowly sinks down to his knees, your half-sized member grinding against his cheek. Your hair condenses into wispy black pinions that flare out around you like a gaudy halo. Your lashes lengthen and curl up, bright orange surrounding your dark eyes like brilliant mascara as you look down at him expectantly.

He still has work to do.

He slides his wing-hands down your thighs as they bloom with plush black feathers. His warm breath puffs against you, sending a thrill deep inside of your body before he opens his beak and laps up from your balls to the tip of your dwindling shaft. Your feathers fluff up and quiver, balls tightening, tensing with every lap as they're slowly pulled back inside of you with a faint pop, heat percolating in your insides. Your cock is pulling downwards every time the raven laps and nibbles at it, pulling back smaller and smaller to little more than a fleshy, quivering nub.

Your secretarial revelry is interrupted by Ameston stomping back from the other side of the desk, his green vest missing two buttons and unraveling in the back.

"It wasn't my press that was the problem! It was your boneheaded insistence to shelve the . . ." He stops midsentence. "Reginald. What in the name of the Dewy Decimal system do you think you're doing!? Unhand her!" He demands, taken aback, fingers spread against his chest in indignation.

Reginald pulls his head back to retort, but you tighten your grip, yanking him tighter against yourself and muffling his reply. You suddenly realize how wildly out of your element you are. Your eyes dart up, meeting Ameston's before you reach down once again for the book.

The colors of the library invert around you, flickering into oily iridescence as everything freezes. The surface of the desk glistens, a perfectly flat, glossy plane. As you look down into it, your reflection warps into twisting letters that bubble up and pop on the glassy surface.

Workplace Squabbles? Help Increase Productivity by Encouraging Cooperation.

Confidence fills you as the colors suddenly return to the world. You cock your hips and look back over your shoulder towards Ameston, running a hand down the small of your back, fingers framing your dark, feathery rump.

"Oh, I didn't mean to intrude. I was just . . ." he stammers.

You turn your head to face him, batting your long lashes and making it abundantly clear that he's not intruding.

"But . . . uhh, of course I'd never refuse to help. I just . . . I wouldn't want to let Reginald bother you."

Reginald's protests are muted as your grind against his beak.

Ameston approaches you trepidatiously, smoothing down his ruffled feathers and stammering. You help direct his nervous energy to where he can be more productive, reaching back and guiding him to his knees, grinding your shapely rump against him. He gets the message quickly, feathers fluffing up as he presses his beak in, tongue sliding out, brushing through your dark plumage before sliding around the edges of your bared ass.

You arch your back, pleasure radiating out as his warm, wet tongue slides over your pink ring of clenching muscle. Your spine creaks, pressure building as a nub of flesh swells above Ameston's busy tongue. You run your tongue over the edge of your beak as long black and white feathers erupt from your short tail, straight delicate plumes fanning out as the ravens continue to lap at you from both ends.

Your ass feels strange: wet and hot, pulsing in time with your receding cock. With every prod from their smooth beaks and slippery tongues, you feel the sensations growing closer and closer together, the two loci of pleasure tugging magnetically towards each other.

Their hands slowly slide up and down your legs as they lap. The ravens look further and further beneath you as you grow taller, calves slimming down, skin forming into attractive tan scales. Your feet creak, toes stretching out, curling against the stone floor, scraping back with thickening dark claws. Your new avian talons splay out, dignified and deadly as the ravens continue to press in with desperate affection from both sides of you.

The glistening, quivering patch of flesh that one was your maleness slides closer to your ass every time you clench at Reginald's slick, probing tongue. You clack your beak and whistle out, as slowly, the sensations merge, your asshole growing plumper, glistening with avian lust as it subsumes what was once your member.

Your new avian orifice is tender, quivering, nestled under your smooth dark feathers.

But the ecstasy of this newfound stimulation is cut short when two black beaks clack together below you.

"No, no. You're doing it all wrong. Don't you know anything about how to treat a lady?" Reginald protests from in front of you. "Why don't you go fix the problems you created while I help her get more _comfortable_with her new position?"

"Me!?" Ameston caws in indignation. "I'll have you know that we were getting along perfectly well until you came and stuck your beak where it didn't belong! Wouldn't your efforts be better served destroying_my careful work somewhere else in the library? We're really _quite busy here."

As they continue to squabble, your thrumming avian needs remain woefully unattended. You roll your eyes and sigh, reaching out over their squabbles towards the book on the desk again. Your fingers caress the side of the book almost lovingly as you draw upon the power of The Beginner's Guide to the Secretarial Dark Arts.

Your eyes crackle with arcane energy as your perception elevates to the astral plane.

And Most Importantly, Always Make Sure to Take Time for Yourself.

It all makes sense.

You reach down and grab Reginald's vest, yanking him to his feet.

As Ameston starts to make a snide remark you silence him, stepping over his head and clenching around his beak with your shapely thighs. You grind up the dark length of his beak, leaving a slick trail as your cloaca trembles.

Reginald opens his mouth to speak as well, but you change his words into a garbled squawk as you slide your hand down between his legs and trace around his avian orifice with a plush finger. He crumples against you, breath coming out in jagged wheezes as you pinch in at the plump edges of his twitching bird hole.

They're so much more productive when they're working together.

Reginald's warm breath pants against your nethers, drinking in your alluring feminine scent. You allow him to slide his beak back, polished tip prodding you, tongue sliding out around your tender edges, pleasure rippling out through your body as your tailfeathers perk up.

You toy with Ameston, leaning against him, rubbing two fingers in a spread V against his hot, tensing entrance. His breaths come out as creaking wheezes, claws splayed out and clenching against the floor as you press insistently against his entrance again and again, always pulling back, winding him up and keeping him on the edge. He starts thrusting his hips against you, tail flicking out as he groans.

One of Reginald's hands strokes between his legs as his other frames your glistening cloaca, his tongue dividing his fingers as he grinds in against you. You pull his head roughly forwards, his eyes screwing shut as he laps in harder, your quivering ring tightening, resisting the advance until you relax and his writhing tongue slips inside of you.

It's overwhelming, disparate sensations of bliss ricocheting around inside of you. You raise one taloned foot, clenching it around the edge of the desk, claws digging into the stained oak, giving him unobstructed access as you pull his head in tighter.

The edges of your beak pull up in a coy smile as Ameston leans his head against your shoulder. You flicker your fingers against his taut entrance, feeling it tense and grasp at you. He groans out a garbled, needy caw, his focus now one hundred percent where it should be: on you.

You brace your glossy middle finger, pressing forwards, feeling his muscles clench in writhing waves as you slowly sink inside of his tight, hot body.

Just as you do, Reginald opens his beak wide, tongue drilling into your waiting depths. Your insides crackle, lighting up with electric pleasure. Your feathers all flare out, eyes wide, black pits in fields of attractive orange as your insides wrench around him, clear beads of feminine pleasure dribbling down his beak as you hold him there, feminine climax rocking through your body.

Ameston opens his beak, a dry creaking gasp coming out in halting waves as you tug your finger insistently inside of him, his walls fluttering around you before a gush of pearlescent bird seed drips down and spatters onto the floor. He moans against you as you coax his climax out, your own still raging on as your insides boil with clenching bliss. His own digits twist inside himself as he shudders, joining you in climax, coating his own fingers in molten dollops of thick, pearly raven essence.

You hold them both there until you're finally done, chest heaving, straining against your tight, fashionable vest. Your exhausted hole finally squeezes shut as you allow Reginald to pull back, and you slide your svelte finger out from between Ameston's legs.

Reginald looks down at the spatters of cooling bird pleasure on the floor. "Well, someone needs to clean this up. Ameston, you can deal with it. I'm going to go fix the situation you caused.

"What situation!? I'm the one who was fixing things. You clean up the mess. I'm going to go and rectify the inanity you call a filing system!" Ameston retorts.

You tap one of your talons against the floor, fixing each of them with a withering glare under your immaculate lashes.

They both pause and swallow heavily.

"I'll get the mop." Reginald scurries off.

"I'll get the bucket." Ameston takes off in the opposite direction.

You take to tidying up more of the clutter around the desk as they silently clean the floor, staring occasional daggers at each other when you aren't looking.

Then, as they're stashing away the cleaning supplies, the door creaks open.

"Oh . . . uh, hi?" A short woman in a yellow turtleneck steps in trepedatiously. "I was just kind of overwhelmed, you know, and was looking for something to read during the convention . . ." She tugs at a curl of her auburn hair nervously.

You know just the book to help with her self-confidence . . .