The "Femboy" Bathroom

You finish your “meal,” but there are still thirty minutes left on your lunch break. You stand up from the central stool—slowly, carefully—drawing every eye in the cafeteria again. Your stomach gurgles violently, churning with the thick sludge of cum, piss, smegma, and pubes you just **** down. It’s not sitting right. It never does. The daily routine of sucking off your “colleagues,” letting them unload straight into your gut, is slowly poisoning you.

You place a hand on the wall for support, the other clutching your visibly bloated belly—like you’re six months pregnant with company seed. Your head spins; reflux rises hot and bitter. You clamp a hand over your mouth, holding back the wave of cum, piss, smegma, and stray hairs trying to come back up. The taste floods you again—rotten, salty, acrid. But you don’t dare vomit on the floor. Everyone’s watching. One mess, and the punishments triple.

You swallow hard—everything slides back down in a burning lump. Pathetic. You back away toward the exit, shuffling, trying to disappear while every futa stares and smirks.

Laughter follows you.

“Hahaha, look at the loser—can’t even handle a thick cock.”

“Yeah, haha, gotta go easy on the bitch. Look at the state she’s in.”

“That’s what happens when you don’t invest in a proper office assistant… now we’re stuck with this trash.”

Rage boils inside you. You’re the hardest worker in this goddamn building—running errands, taking loads, cleaning up their messes—while these lazy futas do nothing but jerk off and delegate. But you keep walking. Fifty meters to the bathroom feels like fifty miles. Your legs tremble in the 15 cm heels; cum and piss stains crust your blouse and skirt; your once-perfect ponytail is a matted disaster.

Two futas by the water fountain spot you. They whisper, eyes gleaming with malice.

Please, God, don’t **** me right now. Not now. I’ll puke if they fuck me now, you think, face twisted in misery.

You’re almost at the bathroom doors when one grabs your arm—hard.

“Hey, slut!”

The grip stops you cold. You turn.

Lisa. 6'4", blonde, white, standard uniform stretched over her athletic frame. A plastic water bottle dangles from her hand. Her skirt tents visibly—cock already half-hard.

Your stomach lurches again.

“No… no… not now,” you beg silently.

“My lunch break’s almost over, and I still haven’t used that hole of yours. You think that’s fair?” Her tone is aggressive, fingers digging into your arm. The other futa beside her snickers.

“Y-yes, Mistress,” you stammer, voice small and broken. “My job here is to relieve the cocks of superior futas.”

She smirks. “I don’t have time to fuck you right now… but I do need a favor. Throw this away for me.”

Before you can react, she forces you to bend forward—ass up, skirt flipping to expose everything. Your thong does nothing to hide the spiked cage or the bruises on your balls.

“Wow! That cage is tiny as fuck, haha. Couldn’t see it clearly in the auditorium. Look at all those spikes—damn.”

She grabs your entire caged cock and shakes it violently—barbs digging deeper into skin, urethra burning as the catheter shifts.

“AAARHC!”

You scream, doubling over in agony. The two futas laugh hysterically.

“Hahahaha!”

Lisa stops shaking and—without warning—shoves her empty plastic water bottle straight into your ass like a makeshift plug. It’s cold, hard, wide enough to stretch you uncomfortably.

“Throw this in the trash for me, would you? I’m too lazy to carry it. See ya later, bitch. Gotta empty these balls…”

She slaps your balls once—hard—sending fresh pain through your groin, then walks off with her friend, laughing.

“Aaarch—y-yes, Mistress!”

You stay bent, bottle lodged deep, ass clenching around it. They didn’t do this because the trash was far—the bin is right there by the fountain. They did it to humiliate you more.

Shit… you think, straightening slowly. Not only is your stomach rebelling, threatening to puke everything back up, now you have to walk with a fucking bottle stuffed inside you.

You hobble the last few steps to the bathroom doors. Two options:

White door on the left: pristine, with a futa silhouette sign—Employees Only.

Dirty, neglected door on the right: covered in graffiti. Names of every futa who’s ever **** you scratched into the paint. Phrases like “Our Bathroom is the Bathroom,” “Femboy Use Only,” and a scoreboard listing five names—updated daily—with tallies of “uses.”

You know which one is yours.

You push the right door open.

The smell hits first—piss, cum, bleach that doesn’t quite cover the rot. Dim fluorescent lights flicker. Stalls with broken locks. Sinks stained yellow. A mirror cracked in the corner. And on the wall: a permanent marker tally board with today’s “scores” already started.

You stumble to the nearest stall, slam the door (it doesn’t lock), drop to your knees, and finally let it out.

Vomit surges—thick ropes of cum, piss, smegma, and half-digested sludge splatter the toilet bowl. Your stomach convulses; tears stream. The bottle in your ass shifts with every heave, pressing painfully.

When it’s over, you slump against the stall wall—panting, shaking, face and hair dripping sweat and vomit residue.