Bety's Morning "Meeting" – The Filthy Cleanup

It’s only 8:30… “You can make it through the day without too much trouble,” you tell yourself, catching your breath after the elevator spanking. “I’ve had worse mornings…” Normally by now you’d already have been gang-**** by five futas at once or used as a human urinal while coworkers emptied their bladders straight down your throat.

You limp toward Bety’s office, heels announcing every pathetic step. No stealth possible—your ass is still burning from Clarice’s ****, the plug grinding deeper with every movement. Anxiety knots your stomach. Finally: “Bety’s Office.” You knock, waiting for permission or an order.

No answer. But you know Bety’s games. She loves making you beg.

You knock again, louder, and announce yourself like she trained you: “Public restroom at your service! Please, Mistress Bety, let me in so I can **** on your huge cock!”

“Eee! Early today, slut! Come in, bitch!”

You push the door open slowly. A wave of musk hits you—thick, heavy, like a public bathroom mixed with weeks-old sweat and cum. It makes you recoil, but you **** yourself forward.

The room is dim, main lights off. Only slivers of sunlight through the blinds and the open door illuminate the chaos. This isn’t an office—it’s a teenage boy’s disaster zone crossed with a gloryhole booth. Clothes, socks, panties, shoes scattered everywhere. Empty food wrappers, crumpled paper balls, used tissues (some yellowed and crusty, others still damp) litter the floor and desk.

“Close the door, you filthy tramp!” Bety calls from somewhere inside.

You shut it behind you. Now you see her: slouched in her office chair behind the desk, legs spread wide, pants and shoes gone—just her blazer and blouse. The chair’s turned sideways, but the rocking motion and her heavy breathing tell you everything. She’s stroking herself, eyes glued to her monitor.

You approach from the right. The screen shows security footage of you—bent over desks, face-fucked in hallways, ass stretched by multiple cocks. She doesn’t even glance at you; she’s too busy edging to your humiliation reel.

“FUCK!!” Bety bucks, cumming hard. Thick white ropes coat her hand in sticky globs.

“Come here, tramp.”

You obey. She doesn’t stand—just extends her cum-covered hand toward your mouth.

“Clean it. Now.”

Hands behind your back, you lean in and start licking. Salty, bitter, slightly sour—just like the toothbrush from this morning. You lap every drop, tongue dragging over her fingers until they’re spotless.

“Good boy! Haha, best employee in the company,” Bety coos, patting your head like a pet.

You try to hand her the reports. “H-here they—”

She pinches your nipples hard through the blouse, twisting until you gasp and freeze.

“You forgetting something, slut? Another spot needs cleaning.”

“Y-yes, Mistress!”

She swivels the chair to face you fully. Legs wide, her thick, hairy cock springs free—30 cm of veiny green meat, foreskin half-retracted over a purple head caked in yellow-white smegma. Sweat glistens on her heavy balls; the musk is overwhelming, fishy and rotten.

She smirks, finger in her mouth, eyes hungry.

You drop to your knees. The carpet squelches under you—hardened cum from who-knows-when sticking to your skin. You reach to stroke her first—your usual trick: jerk her off to scrape away as much filth as possible before the inevitable blowjob.

Her hand cracks across your face—sharp, stinging.

“Cut that shit out, bitch! Mouth only!”

You flinch, cheek burning. Inside, rage boils: “You disgusting whore—I hate being **** to suck your nasty cock. You’re so lazy you don’t even shower. I FUCKING HATE THIS!!!” But the thought stays locked in your head. Your only safe space.

Hands clasped behind your back (visible, so she doesn’t hit again), you open wide and lean in. The smell intensifies—rotten cheese, old piss, musk. You take the head in your mouth. Smegma scrapes off in chunks, coating your tongue. You suck, swirl, clean every ridge and fold, fighting the gag reflex.

“That’s it, slut! Let me help you.”

Bety locks her legs around your head in a scissor hold—immobilizing you. Your face slams into her pubes; nose buried in sweaty curls, chin resting on her slick balls. She starts thrusting—frantic, brutal. Every pump buries all 30 cm down your throat. Your eyes water; throat burns.

“FUCK!!!” She cums again—hot, thick ropes shooting straight down your gullet. You swallow convulsively, ****.

“Never getting tired of this mouth, haha!” she pants. “But… I’ve still got time for that other hole. Turn around!”

You spin on your knees, presenting your plugged ass. Bety strokes herself lazily, never stopping.

She grips the plug, yanks it out with a wet pop—your hole gaping, empty, twitching. Then her cockhead presses against you. Pressure builds—slow, insistent. You feel yourself stretching around her filthy shaft…

A knock at the door.

It swings open without waiting. Another employee pokes their head in.

Bety freezes, cock half-buried in you, glaring.

“HANM! What the fuck?! Can’t you see I’m busy?!”

“Sorry, but everyone’s being called to the meeting. They need you there now.”

Bety rolls her eyes, annoyed. Without warning, she shoves you off—hard. You lose balance and crash forward into a puddle of old cum on the floor—sticky, warm, soaking your blouse and knees.

“Great! Must be important to interrupt the best part of my day!”

She stands, pulls up her skirt, slips on her heels. As she walks past, she plants one foot in front of your face.

You know the drill.

“THANK YOU FOR USING ME, MISTRESS BETY!” you shout, voice cracking with **** gratitude.

“Later, slut! There’s a box of used condoms I need you to deal with, haha.”

She points to a cardboard box in the corner—overflowing with tied-off rubbers, swollen with milky-white and yellow fluids, stray pubes floating inside. Then she’s gone, door slamming behind her.

You’re alone in the mess—on all fours in a puddle of cum, throat raw, ass gaping and sore, face smeared with her scent.

Just another “morning errand” at Futa-Corp.