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Long time, no see Mr Diary!

I should probably apologise for having left it so long to put an entry down in you; I've been utterly swamped with work and with something I've taken my time to. You see, after going to that hotel and getting filmed by that absolute creep, I sort had to take a step back from my life. People like him viewed me as sex objects, and in a way he was well within his rights to do so - I'm exactly that, in most cases - but it got my thinking. When I first started out in the clubbing business, I hadn't expected it to go this far. Sure I'd dance on stage, flex my muscles and grease myself up as though I've escaped from a deep fat fryer, but what I wasn't envisioning for myself was the side effects. It had started with a touchy customer, whom I happened to fancy the look of, and we had ended up going back to where he was staying for a night of romping sex. From there it spiralled, going from extreme to extreme. First I started sleeping with more and more people, making connections; then it became orgies, threesomes, just meaningless sex, flesh against flesh... Then somebody noticed me, approached me and asked if I'd like to earn some easy cash for doing something I clearly enjoyed and was good at. I then starred as a model, posing for the catalogues until like most dim stars I went into the porn industry. Up to now, I've featured, even endorsed, so many films that I dared not look back on my history.

You've got to understand, I was young and reckless, and I'd come from a less than supportive family. I had wanted away from the confines ever since day one. Then I did, and suddenly I was a free agent, and I spent my time using up all the remaining years of my youth in one fell swoop. Problem is, I forgot to save some of that energy and good times for when I grew older, for when I matured and realised how stupid I'd been. It was miraculous I still lived today, as clean and as well as I did, but it unnerved me nonetheless...

So it's time to face facts. Number one; I'm not getting any younger. As much as I may cringe to myself saying this it's pretty much true. No matter how hard I stay at the peak of physical fitness, no matter how long I try and prolong my erections, my body's not going to be strong, resilient and drop dead gorgeous forever. Number two; my job is pretty much going nowhere. From what I currently have I can live comfortably, but that's only if I strip down and expose myself each night to get the crowds going. It's not really a job I can be truly satisfied with. Sadly though, I dropped out of college, making me a no-go to almost every employer out there. Number three; I was still single, and as each day went on and each shift I worked, I was becoming less and less appealing. My buddy Jared proved that enough to me; he was struggling with his own relationship on account of his career as a porn star. If I were to ever find someone, I'd need it to be soon, and I'd need to find myself another occupation so I can regain what little normality I can.

I know this seems all mopey and sombre, but it's going somewhere, just bear with me... I've been looking into getting some interviews. You know, looking to restart my career. Naturally, I couldn't just give up my work at 'The Watering Hole', I loved that place too damn much just to up and leave, plus the pay would still cover most of my expenses, and it just meant I'd be a little more tired from the working week. But there was this one interview that stuck out most from the rest... and it threw me a little.

I was sitting outside this bland looking conference room. Inside you could hear the murmur of voices barely buffeted by the walls that enclosed them. Down the corridor you could hear the idle taps and sighs of the secretary as he worked his way through a stack of files beside him. I stuck out like a sore thumb, sitting somewhat warily on this plastic seat that felt like it had been designed for a garden gnome alongside several other potential candidates for the job. I'd turned up late - the buses had been running slow and I can't be bothered messing around with insurance and all that for a car - so I was the last in a row of three. When I first got here, it had been about a dozen or so. Now all that remained between me and yet another unrewarding interview was a posh looking Schnauzer who kept flicking his hair in a decidedly camp manner, and a nervous looking otter who seemed fervently interested in polishing her jam-jar spectacles.

I myself was dressed in a suit that had probably seen better days, but it was the only one I had, and you know me; I'm not the sort to have 'fancy work clothes' or my 'Sunday best'. It took about twenty minutes for the one being interviewed to come out, and when they did they had a smug look of satisfaction on their faces that screamed 'nailed it'. I watched her strutting away on high heels that were far too slutty for business wear and wondered if she truly had 'nailed it' or if she'd been nailing someone who already works here to get her the job. Judging by the lusty gaze of the secretary as she walked past, I think I could gather enough for myself. The flitting otter was called in next, and she jumped at the shout of her name. It was enough to make her hesitate at the door, turn tail and then bolt down the corridor and away before anyone had the chance to stop her. Poor girl. She must have been terrified.

The Schnauzer went in with an air of disinterest, not even waiting for him to be called, and I could barely hear them chatting behind the closed door of the office. I was left to my own devices for a while, anxiously running my hooves backwards and forwards along the floor, and my fingers rolling up the sheet of paper that was my resume. It was my copy; they already had one for themselves. I had decided to go with brutal honesty, though it might not have been the best bet, but I remained calm and told myself I could pull it off. I took my clothes off down and fucked for a living - I could handle a simple critical interview.

It was about fifteen minutes before the door was flung open abruptly, and the effeminate Schnauzer trotted his way down the corridor with a sense of purpose on his face, mixed with barely concealed anger. Looks like it hadn't gone well for him. I started to question whether I might actually have a shot now, or not.

"Clark Junior Hammerston?" I rose to the sound of my name, my full name, and I cautiously stepped into the office. It was nothing terribly exciting, and certainly exuded a sense of austerity. The potted plant was plastic, the chairs were tacky and cheap, two mismatched filing cabinets stood side by side with a fan that had turned yellow through sun bleach over time was perched in one corner, absently blowing a lukewarm draft about the room over and over. It rotated this way and that unfeelingly as I took a seat, the one that was gestured to me by the panther that now stood before him. Dressed in an equally drab looking attire, he took his seat in the office chair, already picking up a file and dropping it down in front of himself. I read his placard: he went by the name of a 'Mr W Fisher'. He was the head of human resources, and why he was giving one to one interviews I'll never know, but here he was now in all his dreary glory. His eyes were astonishingly bright, a true trait of his species; they were like these big orbs of gold, and they had this pinprick black dots in them that were probably his pupils as he took in the sorry sight of me. The rest of his fur was, naturally, a deep glossy black, and he maintained a short coat much like the rest of his feline species. His features were indiscriminate, and he left everything to the imagination. Perhaps only just reaching six foot, and maybe with an athlete's build with a bit of a paunch - it was something I'd grown to expect from the office types.

He opened my file and scoured its contents, shuffling in his seat and coughing awkwardly, much like the rest had. He left me in a moment's silence before finally swivelling his piercing gaze up to me,

"So... Mr Hammerston," he said with his voice slow and calculated, "Do you really think that this..." He held up my resume. I recognised the layout, and the font, "...is truly appropriate to hand to your future employer?" I gave him an apologetic shrug,

"I assume you're referring to my references," I said in a dismissive manner, "My resume is supposed to tell you where I've last been working. I've been working at a strip club for the past few years, and have free lanced in the porn industry." He quirked an eyebrow as he kept himself from fidgeting in his seat like you knew he wanted to.

"As if that requires any skill..." He rolled his eyes and snorted, the fucking dick, "We have a strict policy about our employees not... how can I put this delicately? Employees must not screw their co-workers. It's bad for business. So tell me, Mr Hammerston; what exactly do you think you're proving by putting this down, other than you're an arrogant man whom is far from hireable?" I sucked in a breath, readying the same spiel I'd told every other interviewer who thought they were more clever or better than me in some shape or form. I set my eyes on him, and stared fixedly at those stupid gold eyes of his,

"Frankly, stripping would have to be the worst job someone can take on. Not by moral standards, but by standards of a career. Most jobs ask you to sit at a desk, fill in paperwork, do as you're told, and then go home only to return the next day for the same thing. Stripping, fuck even filming porn, takes a hell of a lot of skill; strippers must be in tip top condition, both mentally and physically hardened..." I gave a subtle wink, making him bristle, "They are also required to interact with customers on a highly intimate level, and so have to retain professionalism at all times, not just when people are mulling about. What they do takes bravery and courage, and demands a lot of creative thought on their part. If you don't do well, you feel the burn of it. You're forced to perform at your best or else you don't get your sufficient cut, and so you can't afford perhaps to pay the heating bills, or to stop the electricity company from shutting you off." I stood up, preparing for a speedy exit so as to avoid the fireworks, "If you, as an employer, are going to discriminate between everyday men and women simply because at one point in their lives they've taken their clothes off for money, then I think that's pretty shitty, and I'll keep my scraps of integrity and refuse to work her. Had I not put down I stripped, you would have been none the wiser, so I wish you good day, Mr Fisher, and thank you for the opportunity."

I turned to leave, a sly grin curling at my mouth as I made for the door. I was just reaching for the handle when I heard a bitter sigh sound out behind me. Normally I'd have ignored it and carried on going, but I looked over my shoulder to see the panther standing up himself.

"Sit back down, Mr Hammerston..."

I moved back towards the desk, but I didn't sit down. I wasn't going to give this prick any satisfaction. He shook his head with another eye roll, and he folded his arms in that snooty way I hated,

"Mr Hammerston, if you really feel that... stripping is something that is a credit to your career and that you can in some way bring your unique talents to add to the OmniTech family, then I think you should at the very least prove your ability." It was my turn to raise an eyebrow,

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting I come visit you at the..." He took a fleeting glance down at resume, reading the name in artificial words, "The... Watering Hole, and I see how skilled you claim to be. If you prove yourself capable of putting on an astounding show, then I'll consider you for the job with my personal recommendation."

I looked at him steadily, gauging whether he was sincere to his word. It seemed to be a genuine offer, and I couldn't really decipher whether or not to trust him. I didn't have much to lose, I guessed. If he didn't show, so what? At least then I wouldn't be working at some crappy little cubicle office block, waking at six in the morning and working until five, only to then put on a show for horny perverts for a further seven hours or so... I'd be dead. If he turned up, then I'd have a job on my paws - guaranteed. I never disappointed with my shows.

"You're on."

Tonight was probably the best night possible for the lovely Mr Fisher to pop round to see my show; tonight was packed full, a recent gay parade event had made sure the club was stuffed full to the rafters. Heck, most of the guys were already just hooking up even as the show went on. I merely provided the additional entertainment for them to help charm their trouser snakes.

I'd been allocated with the fireman theme, and so my name was 'Hot Stuff' for the evening. High unimaginative as usual, but it got the job done. I donned my speedo-slacks. A horrific combination between the typical underwear I had to wear for work bred with those trousers the firefighters had to wear that had become an iconic thing. So... speedo-slacks; they were yellow, with these black straps that hooked over my shoulders. Combined with the cheap fire-hat I had to wear, I looked like I'd just walked out of a sexy calendar. I was all oiled up, my body glistening in the dim glow of the backstage lights, awaiting the stupid DJ to announce my entry. Peeking out between the curtains, I looked for that snotty little Mr Fisher. I wanted to see the look on his face when I stood out on stage in all my glory, giving myself a firm squeeze to test the look of my bulge. But I didn't have much chance to scope out the audience - I heard the terrible clichés that came with the show. I was a hunky fireman who came with his own fire hose, but be careful not to get splashed; he'll turn the heat up, blah, blah...

I strutted my way out onto the catwalk, swaggering with my hips. The crowd went ballistic, cheering and hollering for the sexy fireman they all wanted to sleep with. In a way, it was a sense of power. They all threw their cash at me, and all I had to do was jiggle my junk and bare it all for their hungry eyes. I swiped off my hat, using it to cover my crotch up as I shook my ass about on stage. It was part choreographed, mostly improvised. So long as I didn't overdo it and go completely wacky with my moves it didn't matter much. All I had to do was last for the full time and keep them all entertained.

I spotted Mr Fisher finally. He was hanging out near to the back of the club, pressed against the wall with what looked like a bottle of beer in one paw. He was watching the stage, his stare fixed dead centre on me, and just for some laughs I gave him a few good pelvic thrusts in his direction and made my cock throb within its confines. That sent everyone into a wild frenzy, and I left with them roaring, catcalling out my stage name for the night and begging for my sweet ass to get back to them.

I sauntered away, thinking that would be the last I'd ever hear from him, and headed back to the dressing room. I tossed the hat aside and shook off the useless straps that hooked over my shoulders. They really did dig into my fur too much... I might have to see about having the club order in a few new pairs. I was getting bigger in size, it would seem. Flopping down onto one of the stools in front of a mirror framed by bare cheap ass bulbs, I caught myself in the reflection. I admired myself for a while, still finding myself to retain a youthful look. Problem was, how long would it last? How long could men find me attractive before the business I was in chewed me up and spat me out? I mean, I was one of the fortunate few; I had the flexibility to take on whatever role was necessary. If I chose to stay on, then I could probably move more towards the older stud, the muscled hunk instead of the youthful brute. I could maybe push myself to the limits of thuggish and build up my body - I certainly had genetics on my side - but I think I feared too much the consequences of then living with that. After that, I'd maybe start to veer into grandfather territory. I'd be greying, sure, but some twinks dug that, and they loved a man with experience and authority; who had more authority than a father figure?

Thing is... This was never the plan. You know, most people just thought I was the college jock who was going to get by on his looks, and they were all right. But that wasn't my choice. I merely slipped and fell too hard to get back up, so I did what was best and made the most out of a terrible situation. But I still had a plan. I had always had a plan. I just thought that by now it'd be impossible to realise it. You see... I'd always loved journalism. The travelling, the meeting new people, seeing first hand things normal people would never see... The backstage world of the gritty parts for life was thrilling to me, and I had aimed high, hoping to become an anchor-man or something one day. But that would never happen now. I had too much of a horrific reputation. No respectable person would look at me and listen to me talking about some worldwide disaster or about a poor child that was run down in a car accident... As morbid as this sounded, they'd probably be too busy trying to push off the pictures of me naked and fucking random furs out of their heads. But I had found some solace in the fact that I could still perhaps write for a newspaper. That's where I wanted to go from an office job, to go work at somewhere like a publishing firm. OmniTech offered great training schemes to help new employees find a role that suits them, so I was gonna try and take a writing class and move up the ladder. I could become an agony aunt - I did give good advice, given my years of depressive experience - though I'd have to firmly rename myself the agony 'uncle'.

In the reflection of the mirror, something moved. Slinking in the shadows, I saw two golden eyes watching me from behind, the pupils just mere slits. I could feel my fur standing on end, knowing I was being stalked like some kind of prey.

"Glad you could make it, Mr Fisher..." I said casually, grabbing a towel and wiping off some of the oil from my torso, "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"My name's Warren," the cat hissed, strolling out from the darkness. He had been dressed in the same suit as the interview before when I'd seen him from the stage, but since having probably snuck backstage with his feline prowess, he seemed to have lost a blazer, tie, and belt. His paws rubbed over my shoulders and coiled around my torso, the claws extending and scraping across the flesh of my chest ever so tenderly. He pulled his paws backwards, leaving thin red angry lines that I couldn't help but stare at in the mirror. I could smell the arousal on him. "That was quite a performance... I think we can work something out..."

"Hey!" I protested, launching up from where I was sat. I whirled around onto him, standing a few inches taller with an angry snarl on my face, "We had a deal! You come to the show, decide for yourself if I'm good enough for the job. I don't know what you're thinking, but it ain't happening."

"Then I guess I'll just have to give the position to the lovely Schnauzer you saw who was more appreciable to my methods than you." Warren examined his claws idly, one arm folded across his chest. Only then did I figure out what was truly going on. This wasn't just a one off thing the panther was doing; he'd been doing this for some time. Goodness knows how many furs he's lured into the trap of needing a job and so were willing to do anything... and now I was one of them.

Now, what I really would love to say right now is that I refused him, that I kept my integrity and kicked his ass and sent him packing. But I didn't. I needed that job. I wanted to be normal, even though I'd miss this sordid little world. If this job was my best ticket out of here, then I'd take it.

"What do you want me to do...?" I don't know whether he caught onto the deflated tone of my voice because he didn't react to it, instead he just shed his clothing as though it were a second layer of skin. He stepped out of the clothes, exposing himself to me. Another dressing room romp - where would it end?

"I want you to use this..." He grabbed my package roughly, giving it a good, hard grope, "On this..." He took my heavy paw in his, and he slapped it down on that bottom of his. Now, he was a reasonably okay guy. His looks were tolerable, and he had a fine shape to him, but his butt was rotund and bouncy. In a way, it was quite a turn on, and was his only redeeming feature. Before I had a chance to do anything though, to fetch some lube to get this over and done with or to pick him up and bend him over something, he was down on the floor with his muzzle pressing into my ball sack through the fabric of the speedos. He was good, and I let my eyes clench shut as I felt that rasping tongue beg for a taste of my balls. I just let Warren go at it, pulling aside the thin fabric and allowed him to breathe in and behold the sight of my infamous cock. The monster slapped across his cheek, and the big cat just purred in delight, continuing to suckle on my orbs. His oral work gave me a chance to just stand there and watch him, watch him as he moved from my nuts to my flared head, groaning as he took me into his warm, wet mouth. He was a slut by all means, but he was clever. He'd set up a sure-fire system whereby he could have anybody he wanted. He, like me, held power over others. I could understand from where his attitude was coming from, that he could take what he want and get away with it, but unlike me I still retained my integrity. Inside this horny little panther that was trying his best to deepthroat my length and only succeeding in gagging himself was a gross individual, a tiny man who had lost every shred of respect from those around him and was now just ticking off the days until he was caught or retired alone.

I took his head between my paws and shoved the meat down into him, getting past that gag reflex easily enough. He seemed surprised for a moment, panicking almost as his eyes went wide, but he soon relaxed when he felt me begin to hold his head in place, thrusting my hips backwards and forwards much like I had done on stage, only with his muzzle mashing into my crotch. It felt good to reassert myself, even if it were only in a physical way. My cock was massaged by the throbbing contours of his throat, and I'm sure I spilt a few dregs of pre down his gullet before he pulled off me, gasping for air. I just stood there, my dick hanging free and dribbling a thin strand of spit from the head as he coughed and spluttered. I was his play thing for tonight, so I wasn't going to try and cover up if he didn't want it. Gradually he calmed down enough to lick up the mess he'd made along my shaft, and he continued to inhale my thick aroma. I could feel the rush of air around my junk, and it felt good to once more get back into the saddle.

Warren got up to his feet, and he bent himself over the countertop of my dresser. He pulled apart his cheeks and presented that pink pucker to me. Naturally I knelt down, running my tongue along his crack; he tasted sweet, strangely, and well groomed. Convinced he was hiding any nasty surprises for me, I pressed deeper, working my tongue gently into his hole as it opened up to my intruding muscle. I probed it once or twice, pushing harder and harder until I felt the resistance give and the panther finally got the hint to relax. The muskiness of his ass was washing over my mouth, and I grunted at its taste. The heat swathed my face from all sides, and my snout was now buried between his big cheeks. His purring was an almost constant accompaniment to any groans or moans I might have given, my paws reaching up to grope at his thighs for support and purchase whilst I stroked that barbed cock of his with an evil flourish. I squeezed and rolled the firm flesh between my fingers, going from tip to base with a languid movement that seemed to take an age. Each time I completed the action, his manhood would throb a little harder, and his hole would clench down involuntarily for a split second. I soon had him humping my face and paw, pre slick over my fingers and his hole pushing back onto my tongue for a good portion. He was panting hard, nearly about to cum as I felt his whole body grow tense. I thought this would be it, and so I increased my vigour, jacking him off as I ate out his hole good. With a loud yowl and with his claws scraping grooves through the wood, he very nearly sat back onto my face, shooting off a stream of jizz across the floor and into my paw. Once he was properly finished, I carefully extracted myself from his ass, and released his member from my grip, licking off the watery cum that he produced. It was tasteless, quite frankly, and somewhat disappointing. His growl of discontent rang out in the room though, not drowned by the thumping of the club that still raged on,

"What do you think you're doing, you ain't done yet!" He tackled me to the floor abruptly, straddling my hips as I fell with a heavy thud. I groaned, unused to the brutality at such a sudden and unexpected pace. The bloody stamina of the feline race was both sometimes a blessing and a curse. One time I remember fucking a cat for so long we went nearly forty-eight hours until our balls gave up. Even then, whilst I was resting, the hungry bugger had rimmed and massaged me, waiting until I was ready again.

But Warren... Warren was that curse. He wanted more, and he was going to take it. It seemed like I wouldn't get away with a nice thrifty hand and rim job. I'd have to go for the full Monty. Fortunately, it looked like all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride; Warren took a hold of my cock, those claws grazing against my sensitive member and making me shudder. He took it as a good sign, and lined up that flat head of mine with his loose and spit-slick hole.

I groaned, the noise grumbling from my chest as the panther leant back, sitting onto my mighty cock. I felt the hole try to give in, eventually succumbing to Warren's own sheer tenacity to have what he wanted. His tight insides clung to my cock like a vice, and I could feel myself pushing deeper into the territory where even my tongue could not reach. He carried on leaning back, right up until his rim made contact with the rougher fur of my pubes. Once he bottomed out though, that's when the fireworks started. Warren didn't ease himself into it, like I expected, he just went full steam ahead like no tomorrow. It took me aback, his intensity. It was somewhat frightening too, but I just rested my paws on his thighs again and gave him encouraging strokes. I moaned as his rough fucking stroked me in ways unimaginable to me, and indescribable on paper, and he only heightened the pleasure by grabbing my nipples between his dastardly fingers and tweaking them roughly. The metal piercings through them ached in that blissfully good way I liked, so I allowed him to continue, sometimes bucking up to meet his downwards slam. It was interesting to watch him bounce himself atop of me, knowing I was burrowing deep into his gut, to depths where no man normally dared reach. My head continued to ram and slide past a small bump that I assumed to be his prostate, because each time I felt it, his cock would lurch and spurt another spatter of pre across my stomach. It was embarrassing how hard he was again - he must have been what, nearing his thirties? Even now he was sporting another erection and was readying himself for a second orgasm within minutes of the first one. I myself could feel mine building, but I was certain I would blow first. I tried to warn him, to get him off me so I could cream over his face or something, but he just plonked himself down on my lap and he gyrated his hips, working over my entire length inside his ass. It was too much to bear; I came then, hard and fast, like the fire hydrant I might have pretended to attend to back up on stage. It gushed out of my tip and bloated his abdomen out, spurting around the rim and plastering my crotch in my own sticky seed. I could feel its warmth seeping into my fur, and I could smell the rich musk that it brought with it.

Warren didn't take much to cum. A few spurts more of my jizz in his ass sent him over the edge, and he gave another mewl before emptying his nuts over my chest and stomach. Thankfully though I'd knocked the second wind right out of him, and he collapsed forward, head lolling against my chest. He was panting heavily, purring in absolute content. Precariously, I began to slide out my cock from his cum-covered hole, wiping myself clean on his cheeks. He'd be washing them anyway, so what's the harm!

But something strange took over me... I was disappointed with his load; it had been less than satisfying, and I needed the taste of man on my tongue if I was to walk away taking some happy thought about what had just happened. I spied his hole nestled between his cheeks, winking obscenely and drooling with my cum... It was too good an opportunity to pass up on; I knelt down between his legs, prising apart those buttocks once more before burying my face into his hole. My tongue rolled out, curling and gliding in my creamy mess, basking in the glow of my sex - I tasted glorious, and I cleaned up every last drop I could find. It was bitter, potent, earthy, but most of all it was thick and slid down my throat like a warm soup. I dug in for more, savouring every mouthful I could get, the heady scent mixed with the panther's ass's sweetness. As I continued to gobble and devour his ravaged hole, he groaned and mumbled back to consciousness, spreading himself apart for my better access. The night was over for sure, as I didn't think I had it in me for a second load and I was more than content to just eat up my own seed, but I had to clarify,

"So... Do I get the job?" Warren purred, eyes lidded in mixture of sated pleasure and lust,

"Sure... But one thing..." The cocky bastard gave me this malicious smile, "We're gonna have to rethink this 'don't fuck the co-workers' rule..."

Thing is, Mr Diary... Whilst I normally might have enjoyed fucking somebody as I worked, but this was sour. It was wrong. My job was conditional so long as I kept Warren satisfied, and that panther was demanding. The next few months of my life were going to be hell...