Lunch Break

You decide fuck it—you’re heading to your locker room while the entire company is still packed in the auditorium. No one’s around to grope, slap, or “assign” you extra duties. You grab your few belongings (a crumpled spare blouse, your phone with the cursed task app, nothing else worth taking) and hurry out. The sharp clack-clack of your 15 cm platforms echoes through the empty corridors—once you tried to tiptoe to avoid attention; now you don’t even care. Let them hear. You’re done pretending.

Halfway down the hall, a shrill chime rings from the device locked around your cock. The screen lights up: Lunch Break – Proceed to Cafeteria Immediately. Task Priority: High.

You freeze. The app knows exactly where you are—GPS, motion sensors, the works. They didn’t just cage your dick; they turned it into a fucking ankle monitor. Every “free” second is tracked, every deviation punished.

“Fuck this company. I’m out. I’m done.”

You turn toward the exit instead.

Instantly—ZZZAP!

A sharp electric jolt shoots through your urethra, right where the barbed catheter sits. It feels like a taser frying your insides. Your knees buckle; you drop hard to the floor, screaming.

“FUCK!!”

The pain fades slowly, leaving your cock throbbing against the spiked plate, fresh blood-tinged pre leaking from the center hole. The app vibrates again: Deviation detected. Return to scheduled task or escalate punishment.

****. You drag yourself up, legs shaking, and limp toward the cafeteria.

The double doors swing open. The room is packed—every futa in the building, laughing, eating, chatting in their little cliques like it’s a normal corporate lunch. No one pays you immediate attention; you’re background noise here.

You head straight for your “personal” fridge—tucked right next to the main one, labeled with a permanent marker sign: Cum Dump Only – Do Not Touch. It’s ancient, rusted, yellowed, dented. Covered in dick-shaped magnets and lewd stickers: cartoon futas railing twinks, “Cum Here” arrows pointing at your photo.

Photos are stuck everywhere—printed stills from security cams: you on your knees, mouth stretched around multiple cocks; one with your face covered in fresh loads, eyes wide; another mid-throat-fuck, tears streaming. All timestamped, all public property now.

You open the door.

Inside: a nightmare fridge.

Used condoms ballooned with thick white and yellow cum, dangling from shelves like grotesque ornaments—some leaking slowly onto the racks. Rubber dicks of every size and color, slick with old lube and seed. Plastic cups filled with cloudy fluids—piss, cum, mixtures you don’t want to identify. Stray pubes float in some. The smell hits you like a wall: sour rot, salt, musk, decay.

And in the exact center, on its own little shelf like a sad trophy: your “lunch.”

A large plastic container labeled Daily Ration – Cum Dump. Inside: a thick, congealed sludge of mixed futa cum from the day’s “contributions.” Chunks of smegma float in it. A few stray pubes. It’s still warm in places. A spoon is taped to the lid with a note:

“Eat every bite, bitch. No wasting company property. – Management <3”

You grab it without flinching. This is routine now. You close the fridge, turn, and walk to your exclusive seat: a single stool right in the dead center of the cafeteria—elevated slightly, no backrest, impossible to hide. Every eye can see you from any angle. You sit. The spiked cage digs in painfully as your ass meets the hard surface.

You open the container. The smell intensifies—rotten cheese, old salt, faint piss.

Before you can take the first spoonful, a hand from behind shoves the container away with a clatter.

“Hey—!”

You stammer, but it’s too late. A futa steps up—tall, confident, skirt already hiked. She climbs onto the table right where your food was, spreads her legs wide, and plants herself so your face is directly between her thighs. Her cock springs free—easily 25 cm, thick, veiny, completely unshaved. A dense bush of dark pubes frames it; the head is half-covered in foreskin, yellow smegma visible even from here.

She grabs your ponytail in a vise grip, holding you steady. Her other hand strokes furiously, aiming the tip straight at your face.

You freeze. No point fighting. You wait.

The smell hits harder—musky sweat, old cum, unwashed skin. She moans, pace quickening.

“FUCK!!”

A hot, powerful jet blasts straight into your right eye—thick, sticky, yellowish-white cum. It splatters across your face, drips down your cheeks, coats your lips. Wave after wave hits you—ropes landing on your forehead, nose, chin. Your blouse soaks through instantly.

“Aaaah! What a relief. I was going crazy during that presentation—I really needed to blow off some steam!”

She releases your hair, sighing contentedly.

You blink through the mess in your eye. “Th-thank you, Mistress,” you reply automatically—the scripted gratitude drilled into you over two years.

“No need to thank me, haha.” She pats your head like a dog. “Now clean the rest off my cock. Don’t want it getting dirty!”

You open wide and take the head in your mouth. A fresh mix of cum and smegma floods your tongue—bitter, salty, cheesy. You suck, swirl, clean every ridge while she watches with satisfaction.

“Let me help you!”

She grabs your head again and rams in—five long, deep thrusts straight down your throat. You gag, ****, but she doesn’t stop until every last trace is gone, transferred to your stomach.

She pulls out with a wet pop, stands, and hops off the table. “Good boy.”

You don’t wipe the drying cum from your face—most futas consider it disrespectful to waste their “gifts.” It crusts naturally as you reach for your container again.

Two more hands stop you.

“Wait up—let us add some special sauce!”

Three futas crowd behind you now, cocks already hard and leaking. Two start stroking, aiming directly at your open container. Thick ropes shoot in—splattering the sludge, turning it into a white soup. The third grabs a cup from the table, hikes her skirt, and pisses straight into it—filling it to the brim with dark yellow, pungent urine. The smell is overwhelming: concentrated ammonia, stale sweat, barely diluted.

“Nothing better than a nice drink to wash down a meal like this, haha.”

She sets the cup beside your container.

You stare at it. The “food” is now a cum-thickened mess; the “drink” reeks like someone who hasn’t had water in days.

The three laugh, stepping back.

“Enjoy your lunch, slut.”

Now every eye in the cafeteria is on you. Phones up. Waiting.

You know what happens if you refuse anything from any futa. Punishment doubles. Always.

You swallow what’s left of your pride—or whatever scraps remain. Without hesitation, you scoop a spoonful of the cum-soup and bring it to your lips. Thick, slimy, chunky. You swallow. The taste coats everything—bitter, musky, rotten. Another spoonful. And another.

You lift the piss-cup. The smell makes your eyes water. You drink—slow, **** gulps. Warm, salty, acrid. It burns going down.

The cafeteria fills with laughter, catcalls, applause.

“Look at the cum pig chowing down!”

“Drink it all, bitch—don’t spill a drop!”

“Best lunch in the building!”

You keep eating. Keep drinking. The container empties. The cup drains. Your stomach sloshes—full of company “generosity.” The spiked cage throbs with every swallow, a constant reminder.

You stand, face and blouse crusted with drying cum, belly bloated, throat raw.

Another break over. Back to work.