Use the sink to clean yourself minimally as Kamiko ordered

Futanari Fortress, Barracks Cell Three, at 11:43 AM on Monday March 13th, 2024.

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You shuffle toward the rust-stained sink, your legs unsteady beneath you. The metal fixture is industrial—cold steel with separate hot and cold taps that squeak when you turn them. Only cold water flows, trickling weakly from the corroded faucet.

Cupping your hands beneath the stream, you splash the icy water against your face first. It shocks your system, cutting through some of the fog clouding your thoughts. Rivulets run down your neck, dripping between your massive tits and mixing with the dried cum coating your skin.

You wet your hands again and reach between your thighs, wincing as your fingers brush your hypersensitive pussy lips. Even that gentle contact sends sparks through your modified nervous system. Carefully, you clean away the worst of the mixed fluids—your juices, Maya's cum, the evidence of your repeated violations. Fresh seed continues leaking from inside your stretched channel, your permanently-opened cervix unable to contain it all.

The water runs milky white as you rinse, swirling down the drain in lazy spirals.

Reaching behind yourself awkwardly, you clean your gaped asshole next. Rei's load has mostly seeped out already, but sticky residue clings to your inner cheeks. You work methodically, your broken mind accepting the degrading task without protest.

There's no towel. You shake your hands dry and use your palms to squeegee excess water from your skin. Your massive tits still glisten wetly, nipples erect and aching in the cool air. The glowing violet womb tattoo pulses steadily above your cleaned but still-swollen pussy.

You catch your reflection in the tarnished metal panel above the sink—a distorted image of yourself. Lavender hair plastered to your skull, enormous breasts hanging heavily, belly already showing the faintest suggestion of roundness where Maya's child grows.

You look like exactly what you've become: garrison property. A breeding slut. A fucktoy.

The metal door remains closed. You glance at the digital clock: 11:49 AM. Seventy-one minutes until Kamiko returns. Seventy-one minutes until seventy-five futanari soldiers begin their rotation through your body.

Your legs tremble as exhaustion threatens to drag you down again. The thin mattress beckons from the corner, but you're not sure Kamiko would approve of you lying down before she retrieves you. Her orders were to clean yourself and remain in the cell—she didn't explicitly say you could rest.

So you stand there, dripping and naked, staring at your distorted reflection and waiting for whatever comes next.