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“You’re telling me to be a HOOKER!” I’m whisper yelling at my husband while the interviewer looks on, obviously bored. “Because that’s what this job amounts to.” I’m livid. He should support my decision to walk out. I shake my head in disbelief, “And… and how are you okay with that? Letting other men fuck me. How is that a good thing for our marriage?” He holds up the contract, pointing at the salary. I had to admit, it was more money than I had ever hoped to make in my life, let alone less than a year out of college. I stood my ground though.

I should have known something was up when I applied. Who asks for vital statistics, and clothing sizes, on an application? I even rationalized the Sexual History section away. It was a great opportunity to get a foot in the door of a Fortune 500 company, so I ignored all the red flags. I didn’t even question why they wanted me to bring my husband along for the final interview. Now that I knew exactly what “Executive Liaison” meant though, I was ready to leave.

“Riyah,” he whined, “Think of everything we could do with this money. All the things we could do now, instead of later. Think of your student loans, and how quick this money could pay them off.” He flashes a hopeful smile, “And you would still be coming home to me every night, so nothing would change.”

“Except I’m getting passed around at work like a cheap bottle of liquor,” I hiss. “And what if I get pregnant, Einstein? How would we know whose kid it is?” My husband glances at the interviewer, then back to me with a know-it-all look. The interviewer is a Anthro Tapir, whose enlarged nose raises up as he smiles. “Okay,” I snort, “we would know whose kid it was, but would you want to raise another man’s kid?”

“Uh,” the interviewer clears his throat, “She would be home most nights, barring overtime, or company functions, or trips and conferences.” He smiles, “And we insist on birth control, pay for it ourselves even, as a requirement of the job.” He puts his elbows on his desk, “Mrs Dalavi, I’ve received hundreds of applications for this position since we posted it, and you are the only one to make it this far. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and our retirement package will leave you set for life.”

“See,” My husband grins, eyes full of dollar signs.

“I would also like to point out,” the interviewer continues, “that is the base salary. You are compensated for each use of the, ahem, Executive Privilege clause, and receive bonuses for various tasks, and demands, made of you.”

“But,” I glare at both of them, “I have to be ready to put out at anytime, anywhere, to any member of management at this company. Correct?”

“And the occasional client.”

And it just keeps getting better. I want to walk out, and not just on the interview, but I think of the pit of debt I’m trying to climb out of. Student loans, car payment, the honeymoon, the apartment, and more. Could I do this? Would my marriage survive it? Would I be able to look at myself in the mirror anymore? Could I fool the beastmen running the company into believing I was enjoying it? I sigh in resignation, only one way to find out. “So, what is the next step?”

The interviewer slaps a folder, and a stack of papers in front of me. “Here’s all the information about the job. Pay scales, insurance, holidays, and everything else you might have questions about. These papers are various consent forms, and such we need you to sign so we can add you to the payroll.” He puts a paper in front of my husband. “And this is a form for you to sign stating you know what your wife does for us, and aren’t going to sue, get violent, or cause a scene, any of which would be cause for her immediate termination.” He smiles, “Once you’re done, please get undressed.”

“For…” I raise a curious eyebrow.

His smile turns into a leering grin. “For the final part of the interview.”

I fill out the paperwork, then strip, folding my clothes and placing them on the chair. The interviewer motions towards the wall. He takes pictures of me standing in front of his bookcase, says it’s for my personnel file. He gets me from every angle, standing, sitting, kneeling, you name it. Then come the close ups of my face, my tits, pussy, ass, even my feet! Through it all my husband just smiles, already spending my first paycheck in his head. The interviewer sets the camera down, then removes his pants, revealing a long, pinkish grey cock, with a flared, hoof shaped head. It’s not like any cock I’ve ever seen before, and bigger than my husband’s, by a lot! My husband stands to leave. The interviewer stops him. “Nope, this is the final test. You have to stay, to prove you’re okay with this.” He chuckles, “And to get her ready for me. I don’t eat pussy.”

My eyes widen in horror. Surely this will be the breaking point! This will be when my husband comes to his senses, and we leave this den of iniquity, right? Wrong. My husband uses fingers, and tongue, on my clit until my silken folds are wet, and ready. The interviewer smiles, “Some of our Upper Management aren’t as young as they think they are, so you’ll be doing the work.” He shakes his stiff cock at me, “Come sit on my lap. Show me those problem solving skills.” I climb onto his lap, guiding the fat head of his prick towards my pussy lips. Biting my lips against the intrusion, being spread wider than I thought possible, until he is buried between my thighs. “Fuck, you’re tight.” He licks my breasts, “Never had a beast dick in you before, have you?” A quick shake of my head makes him laugh. I’m too full to speak. “You’ll get used to it, even learn to love it. You all do, eventually.” A loud pop fills the room, as he smacks my naked ass. “Get to it.”

I obey, sliding his dick in and out of my dripping snatch. Slowly at first, until I get used to it. He grips my ass in strong hands, holding me steady. Teeth on my hard nipples make me gasp in surprise, and surrender. No wonder so many women fuck Anthros, this is… No! This is a job. This is my job. I’m not enjoying this. Only my husband can make me orgasm. Ignore how good his short, woolly fur feels rubbing against your smooth flesh. Oh God, the way his cock hits areas no human dick has ever touched is driving me crazy. I moan, driving my hips into him with wanton abandon. My nipples are so stiff they ache, and he bites them, hard, making me squeal with joy. Too soon I throw my head back with a throaty scream, lost in waves of pleasure while my cunt spasms around his thick rod. I grip his shoulders tight enough to make him grunt in pain. After the sensations die away I stay in his lap, sweat running down my body, smiling, his still hard member inside me. “How’s that?”

“Good,” he smiles, “but we’re not done yet.” He lifts me up, then lays me across the desk with his dick still inside me. “Panties,” he barks. I’m confused for a second, then remember my husband is sitting three feet away, watching all this. “Some of our Executives are a little,” he clears his throat, “intense when it comes to doing projects with our assistants, so I’m going to see how comfortable you are with that, okay?” I nod, trying to hide my eagerness from my husband. The interviewer stuffs my panties into my mouth, holding them there with thick fingers. He brutally fucks my pussy with quick, powerful thrusts, his balls slapping against my ass. I arch my back, an animal like groan escaping my full mouth. He shifts, standing to throw one leg over his shoulder. “Choke her,” he demands. I feel my husband’s hands on my throat. “No, you idiot. Use the panties!” My husband gives me an apologetic look while wrapping my wet underwear around my neck. He pulls hard, making me gasp. “Not too much,” the interviewer grimaces at him, “I don’t want her to black out.” It’s too much for me, I pound the desk with my fists overtaken by another orgasm ripping through my traitorous body. The interviewer has both my feet on his shoulders while he pounds my dripping slit with feral vigor. I feel his giant cock swell inside me, his breathing becoming quick and shallow, while his cum shoots into me. My belly swells with his load, until he pulls out spraying my belly, and breasts with warm spunk. I even take a couple of hits to the face! Then he collapses back into his chair with a satisfied smile.

My husband finally lets go of my panties, and I sit up. I’m breathing hard, sweaty, and sore from getting the best fuck of my life! I mean, not that I enjoyed it more than my husband fucking me. It’s just that the interviewer is the, uh, best beastman fuck I’ve ever had, and the only one, so far. Yeah, that’s what I meant. I shake my head to clear it. I look down at the ropes of jizz clinging to my body, and wince. “Uhm, do you have somewhere I can clean up?”

He throws me a key. “Executive washroom is down the hall. Your job grants you access to it.” I give him a questioning, slightly horrified look. He shrugs, “No one cares. They see it all the time.” He leans forward with a wicked grin, “Unless you don’t want the job, in which case I can let you use my private bathroom.”

The Executive Washroom is all the way on the other side of the building! I walk, naked, passed a cubicle farm, and a dozen offices to reach it. No one even looks up. I’m not sure whether I’m relieved, or offended, by that. My husband follows me into the bathroom, offering to help clean me up. Before I can respond, he’s pinned me to the door, and started licking the interviewer’s cum from my body. I just watch, fascinated by this turn of events. He then drops his pants, and fucks my dripping pussy until he cums. He won’t look at me while he pulls his pants up, just mumbles, “I’ll be outside,” then leaving. I take a few minutes to process all this. My job, my marriage, and the incredible, uh, filthy, unappealing, amazing sex I had… with, with my husband, just now, yeah, that sex. I take a deep breath. The working world is a lot different than I thought it would be.