the beginning

You’re in the tiny locker room of Futa-Corp, already dreading another “shift” as the receptionist. Two years in this hellhole, and the job still feels worse than any back-breaking labor. Your tasks sound innocent on paper—carrying documents, running errands—but the reality is pure degradation. You’re the only receptionist in the entire building, and your “exclusive” locker room is basically a converted janitor’s closet: cramped, dingy, and reeking of stale sweat and musk.

You open your locker. There’s your uniform, waiting like a cruel joke:

A yellowed, threadbare white blouse covered in mysterious stains

A micro-miniskirt that barely covers your ass

Ripped fishnet stockings

15 cm black platform heels that **** you to teeter like a slut on display

A thick leather dog collar

Hand and ankle cuffs

Everything’s changed since you started. Your hair’s grown long, now tied in a high ponytail. Your body softened into feminine curves—wide hips, soft skin, perky little tits—thanks to whatever “supplements” they slipped into your coffee. It’s why they hired you in the first place. You’re their perfect little office femboy toy.

You reach for your underwear. Gone. Again. You can’t start your shift without being “fully uniformed,” and the clock reads 7:45. Tardiness means punishment—usually public, always humiliating. You start rummaging through the locker room.

There—by the sink. Your panties are soaking in a mug filled with thick, white futa cum. A sadistic “prank” from your coworkers. The smell hits you: salty, musky, slightly sour. You fish them out, wring them half-dry, and slide the sticky fabric up your legs. It clings cold and wet against your skin.

You finish dressing and catch your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Long ponytail, flushed cheeks, collar snug around your neck, skirt riding up to show the curve of your ass, heels making your legs look endless. You look exactly like what they turned you into: a corporate fucktoy. Shame burns in your chest.

You open the medicine cabinet for your toothbrush and toothpaste. Instead:

Your toothbrush: soaked, bristles matted with coarse pubes and dried white crust

A glass filled with a cloudy yellow-white mix—piss and cum

A note stuck to the shelf

“Good morning, loser! :P

Borrowed your toothbrush last night to scrub my cock clean. Got rid of all that nasty smegma buildup. Hope you don’t mind~

XOXO, Bety — your favorite futa <3”

You flip the note. There’s more on the back:

“P.S.: Used your mouthwash too, but as a good friend I bought you a new one, hahaha. See you later in my office, loser!! hahaha”

Rage bubbles up, but what can you do? Bills don’t pay themselves. You hear the faint whir of the locker room camera zooming in—always watching, always recording. No escape. Routine is law.

Sighing, you squeeze toothpaste onto the filthy brush and start scrubbing. The taste explodes: bitter smegma, old cum, faint piss residue. You gag, but keep going. You have to be “presentable.”

Finally ready, you stand at the door, muttering under your breath: “I just hope this day ends soon…”

A red light above the door flashes on. Your shift starts. Official title: “Reception Auxiliary.”

You push the door open and step into the corridor. Fifty meters to the dispatch room. Fifty meters of walking through meeting rooms and open-plan offices packed with sadistic futas. You want to be invisible, keep your head down, attract zero attention.

Impossible.

As the only femboy in the building, you’re basically public property. Heads turn the second you appear. Whistles, catcalls, crude comments follow you like a soundtrack:

“Look at the little office slut strutting in those heels.”

“Morning, cum rag! Ready to make copies… or take loads?”

“Skirt’s riding up again—nice view, bitch.”

You keep your eyes on the floor, heels clicking, skirt swishing, collar jingling faintly. Every step reminds you: you’re not an employee here. You’re entertainment. A toy. A hole on legs.

The dispatch room door looms ahead. Inside, those same sadistic bitches are waiting—ready to make your “simple” tasks as miserable and humiliating as possible.

Another day at Futa-Corp begins.