My Butt’s a Public Servant

A week passed in the quiet, grinding monotony of ordinary days.

Carson woke each morning to the same gray light through the blinds and the same dull weight in his chest. He dragged himself to class, sat through lectures that slid off him like water, and walked home with his headphones in so he would not have to listen to anyone. The house waited for him the same way it always did. His sister, Maya, had a talent for finding the exact second he wanted silence. She left dishes stacked in the sink he had just cleaned. She blasted music through the thin walls while he tried to study. She walked into his room without knocking, phone in hand, and asked if he had actually done anything useful with his day. He snapped back more than once. She rolled her eyes, called him dramatic, and left the door open on purpose when she walked out. Their arguments never lasted long, but the irritation clung to him through dinner like static.

Their mother noticed none of it. She only saw that Carson still lived under her roof and somehow had money coming in. One evening she wiped the counter and smiled at him with genuine pride. “I’m so proud of you for keeping that job. Remote work suits you. You never even have to leave the house.” Carson nodded and kept eating. He never corrected her. There was nothing useful he could say.

Days bled into each other. Classes. Maya’s needling. Their mother’s quiet, misplaced praise. Sleep that never felt deep enough. Repeat.

Then, on the seventh night, his phone lit up on the nightstand with a single clean notification.

Endpoint attached.

Carson stared at the screen. No further message. No sender. Just those two words glowing in the dark of his room.

Far from the quiet suburb where Carson lived, the Futa Dominion held its first public demonstration of the new system.

The town hall square was packed under soft evening lights. Hundreds of futas filled the open space, some standing close, others perched on low walls or the wide stone steps of the building. The air carried the mixed scent of perfume, clean skin, and restless heat. Skirts and leggings strained over heavy bulges. Soft fabric stretched tight across thick shafts that shifted whenever someone adjusted her stance. Many more futas were not present. They were still at home, legs spread on couches or beds, fists wrapped around their cocks while they watched the livestream. This was only a pop-up gathering. The real schedule would open later.

A slim, elegant futa stepped up onto the temporary platform. Her name was Elara. She wore a fitted long-sleeve blouse in deep green that hugged her narrow waist and the soft curve of her C-cup breasts. A tailored black skirt fell to mid-thigh, the fabric pulled taut over a heavy, thick cock that hung halfway down her thigh even soft. Her ass was round and firm, the kind that filled the back of the skirt without looking exaggerated. She moved with calm authority, dark hair pulled into a clean low knot, and her voice carried easily over the crowd.

“Listen carefully. This is the first operational SFRT. Sexual Frustration Release Tool. Mobile. Permanent. Already live.”

A low murmur moved through the assembly. Several futas shifted their weight, the outlines of their cocks flexing against leggings and skirt fabric.

“The device has been installed in a secured room inside this town hall. One access point. One body. Because the endpoint is brand new, it requires a full day of cooldown after every use. That means one of us per day. No exceptions. No stacking. No sharing the same cycle.”

Elara let the words settle. She rested one hand lightly against her hip, the motion making the thick shape under her skirt shift.

“Today we select the first user by lottery. After that, the schedule will open by application and ranking. But right now, we draw.”

A sealed box was carried forward. Names had already been entered. Elara reached in without looking and pulled a single slip of paper.

She read the name aloud.

The winner was twenty-one years old. Her name was Kira. She was a social media influencer with a fit, camera-ready body that looked like it belonged on short-form video. Tight long-sleeve crop top in soft lavender clung to her perky B-cup breasts and the flat plane of her stomach. High-waisted black leggings stretched obscenely around the long, heavy cock that ran down the inside of her left thigh, the thick head clearly outlined against the fabric. Her ass was firm and round, the kind of bubble shape that filled out the back of the leggings with every step. She had already been filming when her name was called. The moment the announcement landed she turned the phone toward her own face, bright eyes wide, the heavy bulge in her leggings twitching as she grinned.

“Oh my god,” she said into the lens, voice pitched perfectly for the feed. “I just got first. First. You guys are not ready for this.”

Around her the crowd reacted with cheers, groans, and good-natured cursing. A few slim futas with larger breasts clapped lightly. One curvier girl in a pleated skirt adjusted the thick shaft that pushed the front of the fabric outward and muttered about the wait. Others simply watched Kira with open hunger, already calculating how many days they would have to wait for their own turn.

Kira kept recording as she was led toward the town hall doors. She narrated the entire walk in that bright, breathless tone her followers loved, describing the building, the guards, the restricted corridor that led to the newly installed room. She told her audience she would stream as much of the experience as the rules allowed. She promised details. She promised footage if it was permitted. She promised that the first use of the new SFRT would be documented properly.

Inside the building the room waited. Clean. Private. Equipped with the interface that would open the connection to the endpoint.

Outside, the remaining futas began to disperse or linger in smaller groups. Some talked about the next lottery. Others discussed the ranking system that would follow. A few simply stood with hands resting over the heavy shapes under their skirts and leggings, already restless for the days ahead.

Carson, still sitting on the edge of his bed with the phone in his hand, had no idea any of this was happening.

The notification simply sat there on his screen.

Endpoint attached.