Chapter 6: Bathroom Domination
The fluorescent buzz in the bathroom was a higher, sharper pitch than the stockroom’s drone. It felt clinical, exposing. Chad’s back hit the stall door with a cheap rattle, the lock engaging with a click that sounded far too loud. His glasses were crooked, the world a blur of cracked white tile and Maddie’s determined, hungry face.
She didn’t say a word. Her breathing was shallow, frantic. The vanilla-citrus scent from her skin warred with the bleach in the air. Her hands, usually so careful with circuit boards, were brutal as they shoved his shoulders down.
“Maddie, wait—” he gasped, his voice echoing off the porcelain.
“No more waiting,” she breathed, her voice a tight wire of need. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her work khakis and her underwear, shoving them down past her thick thighs in one urgent motion. The tan swell of her ass filled his blurred vision. “You opened the door in the stockroom. You swallowed it. You fucking loved it.”
He had. The memory was a hot, shameful coil in his gut. The weight, the heat, the overwhelming, musky reality of her. His protest died. He looked up at her, at the fierce, shy, terrifying need in her eyes, and gave a single, jerky nod.
A smile, fleeting and real, touched her lips. Then she turned, presenting herself. “Good. Now get that mouth open. I’ve been holding it since my last coffee.”
She didn’t gently sit. She backed up, her thighs already beginning to swell, that impossible, thrilling expansion he’d felt before. The soft, ample cheeks pressed against his face, smothering him in her warmth and that distinct, heady scent. His nose was buried in the cleft. His mouth, obedient, opened.
“Lick,” she commanded, a shaky gasp in her voice. “Get it wet. Get me ready.”
His tongue moved on instinct, tracing the tight, wrinkled furl of her asshole. It was salt and skin and pure Maddie. She shuddered, a low moan escaping her as her thighs pushed wider against the stall walls, her growth accelerating. She was ballooning, the soft flesh becoming a heavy, encapsulating weight that pinned his head perfectly in place.
“Yeah… just like that,” she panted. “Fuck, Chad… your tongue…”
He worked it, the intimacy of the act crashing over him. This wasn’t the stockroom’s frenzied explosion. This was deliberate, a service. He probed deeper, feeling her clench and flutter around his tongue, tasting the clean, musky hint of what was to come. Her fingers dug into his hair, holding him firm, guiding him.
“Deeper,” she gritted out. “Make me come. I wanna come just from your tongue in my shithole before I even let go.”
The filthy words, so unlike her usual shy mutters, sent a jolt straight to his cock. He obeyed, spearing his tongue as far as it would go, lapping at her. Her moans grew louder, bouncing off the tile. Her hips rocked against his face, fucking herself on his mouth. The pressure around his head increased as she grew heavier, wider, a perfect, smothering throne of flesh.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” Her voice hitched. Her whole body tightened. A guttural, broken cry tore from her throat as she climaxed, her asshole spasming wildly around his penetrating tongue. He drank in her pleasure, feeling her juices smear his chin.
Before the tremors subsided, the dynamic shifted. The pressure in his mouth changed. Her internal muscles, still fluttering from her orgasm, began a different, more profound clenching. Her breathing became focused, a series of sharp, controlled grunts.
“It’s coming,” she warned, her voice thick with release and anticipation. “Open wide, you eager little fuckpig. Take your lunch.”
A low, visceral rumble vibrated through the flesh pressed against his lips. Then, with a wet, parting sigh, her asshole gaped open against his mouth.
The first surge was hot and soft, a thick, pasty load that plastered his tongue and coated the back of his throat. It was bitter, earthy, profoundly organic. He gagged instinctively, but her weight was absolute, holding him in place. He had no choice but to swallow. The act was primal, submissive.
“That’s it,” she crooned, pushing. “Swallow it. Every fucking bit.”
The second wave was more liquid, a hot, sour rush that filled his mouth to overflowing. It trickled from the corners of his lips, dripped onto his TechPortal polo. The smell bloomed in the confined space—feces, yes, but underscored with her unique scent, making it somehow hers, a possessive, degrading mark.
She began to fuck his face with her output, rhythmic pulses matching her harsh breaths. “You like that, don’t you? My shy, nice coworker Chad, gulping down my nasty shit in a fucking bathroom stall. Tell me you like it.”
He couldn’t speak. He could only manage a choked, affirmative groan as another thick log deposited itself on his tongue. He swallowed convulsively, the heat spreading through his chest.
“Say it!” she demanded, bearing down harder.
He forced the words through the filth. “I… I like it.”
“What do you like?”
“I like… eating your shit, Maddie.” The admission, spoken aloud in the bright, sterile light, shattered something. A final barrier.
“Good pig,” she sighed, her body relaxing into the release. The flow slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She remained there, perched on his face, his mouth a messy, used receptacle. She was immense, a warm, living monument of satisfaction.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant drip of a faucet. Slowly, carefully, she lifted herself off him. Cool air hit his soiled face. He blinked up, his vision clearing.
She stood, pulling up her clothes, her body returned to its normal, lush proportions. She looked down at him—a mess on the floor, shit smeared across his cheeks and chin, his eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. Her shyness came flooding back, a blush creeping up her neck.
“Oh, god,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. “Chad, I’m….”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at the residue. A strange, serene clarity filled him. He pushed himself up, bracing against the cold wall.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm. “Don’t apologize.” He reached out, his cleanish hand finding hers. Her fingers were trembling. “I liked it. I like… this. I like you.”
Tears welled in her eyes, magnified by the fluorescent light. Not tears of shame, but of relief. A secret, held so tightly for so long, now shared.
From the main bathroom door, they heard the jiggle of a handle, then a muttered curse. A voice called out, “Occupied!”
The spell broke. Reality, with its schedules and managers and time clocks, slammed back into the tiny stall. Maddie’s eyes went wide with panic. Chad’s mind, ever the problem-solver, clicked into gear. He put a finger to his lips, then pointed silently to the gap under the stall. No feet visible. They waited, frozen, listening as the person outside lingered for another moment before walking away.
The crisis passed, but the world was now on the other side of the door. They had to move. Chad looked at the sink, then back at the evidence on his face and shirt. A wild, goofy grin, the one he used with customers, spread across his stained features.
“So,” he whispered, “you got any tips for getting shit out of polyester? The store brand isn’t very stain-resistant.”
She stared at him. Then a laugh bubbled out of her, quiet, incredulous, and utterly free. It was the first real laugh he’d ever heard from her. In that sound, amidst the mess and the risk and the overwhelming intimacy, something new was born. Not just understanding, but a pact.
They had a lot to clean up.
They had a lot to clean up. Chad’s polo was a ruin of brown streaks, his chin glistening. Maddie watched, her breathing still uneven, as he silently assessed the damage. The giggles had faded, leaving the stark reality of fluorescent light and filth.
“Okay,” he said, his voice practical. He shrugged out of the stained shirt, balling it up. “Sacrificed to the cause.” His torso was pale, surprisingly lean. He wet paper towels under the tap, the sound loud in the quiet room.
He offered her a damp clump first. “For your hands.”
She took it, their fingers brushing. The simple kindness undid her. “You’re not… disgusted?”
“Maddie,” he said, wiping his face with a rough, efficient motion. “I just ate your shit. Disgust is kinda off the menu.” He peered into the mirror, cleaning his glasses with a clean corner of a towel. “I’m something else. I don’t have the word for it yet.”
He said it so plainly. She found her own towel and started scrubbing her thighs, the hot water and crude soap failing to erase the smell entirely. It clung to them, a secret parchment. “Intrigued?” she ventured, her voice small.
“That’s part of it.” He rinsed his mouth, spitting brown-tinged water into the sink. “It’s like… I saw a different operating system. One you keep hidden behind a real pretty interface.” He turned, leaning against the sink. “I want to see the code.”
A shudder ran through her, part fear, part exhilaration. No one had ever wanted that. They’d either fled or demanded only the fetish, not her. “It’s messy code.”
“I work in a fucking computer store, Maddie. I deal with messy code all day.” He gestured to his ruined shirt on the floor. “This is just a different kind of spill.”
He pulled his spare TechPortal polo from his backpack, the one he kept for printer cartridge leaks.
He pulled it on, the clean, stiff fabric smelling faintly of warehouse dust. It was a reset button. He looked almost presentable, except for the raw look in his eyes and the faint, musky scent that would cling to his skin no matter how much he scrubbed. Maddie watched the transformation, her own nerves settling as he became the Chad she recognized from the sales floor.
“There,” he said, adjusting the collar. “Good as new. Mostly.” He knelt to stuff the soiled shirt into a plastic bag from his pack, sealing the evidence away. The act was so mundane, so practical, it made the last twenty minutes feel like a surreal dream. When he stood, he didn’t move toward the door. He leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms. “So.”
“So,” she echoed, bracing herself.
“My tongue is kinda tired,” he said, and that goofy grin was back, a ghost of it. “But other parts of me are… curious. You said face-sitting, analingus, scat, and foot worship. That’s quite a list.”
Her throat tightened. Listing it in the stockroom was one thing. Having him stand there, cleaned up and asking, was another. She nodded, unable to form words.
“We covered the first three pretty thoroughly,” he continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing motherboard specs. “The last one seems like it might be… slower. Less explosive. Maybe even relaxing.” He uncrossed his arms and gestured to the floor between them. “My knees are already dirty.”
Her heart hammered against her ribs. FOOT RUB TIME. The thought screamed in her head, a want so specific and deep it shamed her. It wasn’t about humiliation, not like the other acts. It was about devotion, about a focus so complete it felt like worship. She’d never dared to ask, never dreamed of receiving.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said softly. “I want to. Show me what you like.”
The simplicity of it undid her. She slid down the tiled wall until she was sitting on the cool linoleum, her back against the stall door. She toed off her worn sneakers, peeling away her socks. Her feet were bare, slightly damp from sweat, the nails painted a chipped, forgotten burgundy. They were wide, with high arches and long toes. She thought they were ugly.
Chad didn’t hesitate. He sank to his knees before her, the wet spots on the floor soaking into his jeans. He didn’t grab. He just looked, his gaze thoughtful. “Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
He reached out, his hands warmer than she expected. He didn’t start with a rub. He simply cradled her right foot, his thumbs resting on the ball. His touch was inspecting, almost reverent. He turned it slightly, looking at the curve of her arch, the callus on her heel from standing all day. The silence was thick, charged.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice low.
“Kiss them,” she breathed, the words barely audible. “Please.”
He bent his head. His lips pressed against the knob of her ankle, a dry, soft kiss. Then he dragged his mouth slowly down the slope of her arch. His stubble scraped delicately against her skin, a sharp counterpoint to the softness of his lips. A shuddering sigh escaped her. Her head thudded back against the door.
“Yeah?” he asked, his breath hot on her instep.
“Yes. More.”
He opened his mouth. His tongue, the same tongue that had just been buried inside her, licked a broad, wet stripe from her heel to the base of her toes. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pure filth and tenderness that made her toes curl. He made a sound, a low hum of concentration, as he took her big toe into his mouth.
“Fuck,” she whimpered. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue swirling around the digit. He sucked, gently at first, then with more pressure. It was obscene. It was perfect. He released it with a pop and moved to the next toe, repeating the process, bathing each one in saliva, nibbling the soft flesh between them with his teeth.
“They taste like leather and salt,” he muttered, his voice garbled as he sucked on her third toe. “Like you’ve been working all day. It’s good.” The endorsement, crude and honest, sent a flush of heat through her whole body.
He worked his way through all five toes on her right foot, his attention methodical, complete. Then his hands began to knead, his thumbs digging into the tight muscles of her sole. He found a knot and pressed, hard.
A groan ripped from her throat, part pain, part profound relief. “Right there. God, don’t stop.”
He worked the spot relentlessly, his fingers strong from building PCs and hauling monitors. The pain melted into a deep, unlocking pleasure. He switched feet, his mouth and hands never still, worshipping her with a focused intensity that left her dizzy. He licked between her toes, inhaling her scent, kissing the rough skin of her heel.
“You love this,” she said, not asking. She could see it in the set of his shoulders, the quiet intent on his face.
“I love seeing you come apart,” he corrected, his voice rough. He slid two fingers between her toes, rubbing them together. “I love that your feet make you make that sound.” He leaned down and bit the pad of her foot, not hard, but enough to make her jump. “I love that I’m the only one who knows.”
His words were a brand. She reached down, her fingers tangling in his short brown hair. She didn’t push, just held on, an anchor in the storm of sensation. He took the hint, lowering his head further, nuzzling his nose against her sole before laying a final, open-mouthed kiss there.
He sat back on his haunches, looking up at her. Her feet, glistening with his saliva, rested in his lap. Her chest was heaving. The sterile bathroom was filled with the sound of her ragged breath and the memory of his tongue.
From the world beyond the door, a walkie-talkie crackled to life, a distorted voice calling for a price check on aisle three. The spell didn’t break, but it thinned. They were still at work. The clock was still ticking.
Chad gently lifted her feet, placing them back on the bag containing his ruined shirt. “We should probably get back before someone notices we’ve been co-piloting the same bathroom for half an hour.”
He stood, offering her a hand. She took it, letting him pull her up. Her legs felt like water. She looked at her bare feet on the plastic, then at him. The hierarchy of the stockroom, of the bathroom stall, was gone. Something else hummed between them, complex and new.
He handed her her socks and shoes. “Come on. We’ve got monitors to sell.”
She dressed her feet slowly, the fabric feeling alien against her sensitized skin. As she tied her last lace, she looked at him. “Chad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” It was utterly inadequate.
He understood. He nodded, his glasses catching the fluorescent light. “Anytime.” He opened the stall door, the main bathroom empty. “But maybe next time, my place. The floor’s cleaner.”
The floor’s cleaner.” The words hung between them, a practical promise that felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the stockroom or the bathroom. The drive to his apartment was a silent, humming thing. The stale coffee and ozone scent of TechPortal was replaced by the night air blowing through his car’s partial window, doing little to erase the deeper, muskier truth that clung to their skin. Maddie watched streetlights paint stripes across his focused profile, his hands at ten and two on the wheel. She’d never seen him drive.
His place was a second-floor walk-up that smelled of old carpet and instant noodles. The living room was dominated by a giant monitor glowing with a paused game, an empire of empty energy drink cans on the floor. “Home sweet home,” he said, flipping a light switch that illuminated a sober, beige couch. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you… need it.”
She shook her head, the shyness returning in this new, private space. “I’m good. Still… empty.” The admission made her face warm.
He nodded, shoving a pile of laundry off the couch with his foot. “Make yourself… I don’t know. At home feels weird to say.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You want a drink? I have water. Probably some flat soda.”
“Water’s good.”
He disappeared into the small kitchen. She stood in the center of the room, feeling colossal and awkward. Her secret had been exposed, consumed, yet here, in the normality of his messy life, she felt more naked than ever. He returned with two glasses of tap water, handing her one. Their fingers brushed. The casual touch sparked a current.
“So,” he said after a long sip.
“So.”
“My knees are grateful for the carpet.”
A faint smile touched her lips. She looked past him, to the hallway. “You said the floor was cleaner. Not the couch.”
He followed her gaze, then looked back at her. The friendly, average guy was still there, but beneath the surface something else had been unlocked—a keen, patient curiosity. “The bedroom floor is even cleaner. Just laminate. Easier to… manage.”
She put her glass down on a wobbly side table. The clink was decisive. “Show me.”
The bedroom was sparse: a mattress on the floor, neatly made with a navy blue comforter, more servers humming quietly in the corner acting as a nightstand. It was intensely, uniquely him. He closed the door behind them, the click a gentle finality. The only light came from a faint blue LED strip under his bed.
She turned to face him. The bravery she’d found in the stockroom, fueled by adrenaline and secrecy, had ebbed. What remained was a vulnerable need. “Chad, I… I don’t know how to do this part. The normal part. After.”
“There is no normal part.” He stepped closer, not touching her, his voice low. “We blew past normal. We’re in the custom-built system now.” He reached up and slowly took off his glasses, folding them with a careful click and placing them on a server tower. His eyes, without the barrier, were darker, more intense. “You don’t have to perform. Just tell me what you want right now.”
She inhaled, the air tasting of him. “I want to not think. I want you to make me not think.” Her eyes drifted down his body, to the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I want that. But I want my weight on you first. I want to just… be on you. And have you take it.”
He understood. He always seemed to understand now. He nodded, walking to the center of the clean, cool laminate floor. He lowered himself, lying flat on his back, his arms at his sides. He looked up at her, his expression open, accepting. “Then be on me.”
The permission was a floodgate. Her fingers went to the button of her khakis. She pushed them down, along with her underwear, letting the fabric pool around her ankles. She stepped out, standing over him in just her TechPortal polo. The blue light from under the bed etched the curves of her thighs in pale cobalt.
She knelt, straddling his chest, her knees on the floor beside his ribs. She could feel the heat of him through his shirt, hear the quickening of his breath. She placed her hands on his shoulders for balance, then began to shift backwards, her body obscuring his view of the ceiling, then of anything at all.
Her thighs, thick and powerful, framed his head. The familiar, musky scent of her, deepened by their earlier act, filled his universe. She lowered herself slowly, the soft, generous flesh of her ass making first contact with his chin, then his mouth. He opened for her without instruction, his tongue seeking the familiar, wrinkled terrain it had worshipped in the bathroom.
But this was different. This was not a frantic, seated release. This was a settling. She rested her full weight onto his face, a gradual, smothering descent until his entire world was the dark, hot pressure of her. His nose was compressed against her perineum. His mouth was forced wide, his tongue flattened. The oxygen thinned. Every inhale was her.
She moaned, a sound of deep, grinding satisfaction, and began to rock. Not violently, but with a slow, claiming rhythm. Her hips rolled, grinding her soaked cunt and her tightening asshole against the landscape of his face. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak. He could only exist beneath her, his hands coming up to grip her thighs, holding on as she used him.
“Yeah,” she sighed, her voice muffled by her own body. “Just like that. Your mouth… fuck…” She bore down harder, and he felt her asshole pulse against the tip of his nose. She was climaxing from this alone, from the sheer, dominating act of suffocating him with her sex. Her juices slicked his chin, her muscles fluttered, and her movements became more urgent, more possessive.
She sat on his face.
The full, claiming finality of it anchored her to the earth. All her shyness, her fear, her secret shame, was compressed into this one point of contact and obliterated by his willing submission. He was hers here, utterly. His muffled groans vibrated through her core. His grip on her thighs was desperate and anchoring. She could feel his cock, rock-hard, straining against his jeans beneath her.
When the last waves of her orgasm subsided, she didn’t rise. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his thighs, changing the angle. The pressure on his mouth became absolute. “You’re mine now,” she breathed, the words a hot secret in the dark room. “My fucking chair. My toilet. You understand?”
A strangled, affirmative groan vibrated against her.
“Good.” She lifted herself, just an inch, allowing a gasp of cooler air to hit his soaked skin. Then she sank back down, sealing him in again. This time, her body began its internal, preparatory clench. He knew the signal. His body went taut beneath her.
“I’m not empty anymore,” she whispered.
The first release was not explosive, but a slow, thick pour. It was warmer than before, a soft, solid load that filled the cavern of his mouth with a profound, earthy weight. He swallowed convulsively, his throat working against the underside of her. She sighed, a sound of pure, uncomplicated relief, and pushed out more.
It flooded over his tongue, a continuous, hot stream. He drank it down, each swallow a conscious, submissive act. It was richer, denser than in the bathroom. A meal she’d made for him. The smell, deeply organic and intimately hers, rose in the still air of the bedroom.
“Swallow it all, Chad,” she murmured, rocking gently as she fed him. “Take every bit of me inside you.”
He did. He had no choice, and he no longer wanted one. This was the code. This was the hidden operating system, raw and uncompiled. He was a vessel for her most private function. The humiliation was a phantom; what remained was a staggering intimacy, a belonging in filth.
When she finished, she stayed seated for a long moment, feeling the final, subtle tremors pass through her and into him. Then, with a soft, wet sound, she raised herself. Cool air rushed between them. She shifted down his body, her own skin gleaming in the low light. Her hands went to his belt, undoing it with clumsy urgency, then yanking his jeans and boxers down past his hips.
His cock sprang free, angry red and leaking. She didn’t stroke it. She lowered herself onto it in one smooth, sinking motion, sheathing him fully inside her wet, soiled cunt. The feeling made them both cry out—a shared, ragged sound of completion.
She began to ride him, her thick thighs driving her up and down his length. Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back. “You’re inside me,” she chanted, her voice broken. “You’re in me and I’m all over you. We’re mixed. We’re fucking mixed.”
He could only grip her hips, his fingers pressing into her soft flesh, and thrust upward to meet her. His orgasm built, a tight coil at the base of his spine, inextricably linked to the taste of her in his mouth and the smell of her on his skin. It wasn’t pretty. It was grinding, sweaty, and profoundly real.
“Come in me,” she demanded, slamming down onto him. “Fill me up. I want to feel it.”
The command shattered his control. With a guttural shout that was her name, he did, pulsing deep inside her as her own walls clenched around him, milking him dry. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her face buried in his neck, their bodies joined and trembling. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the relentless hum of the computer servers in the corner.
After a small eternity, she slid off him, lying on her side on the laminate. He turned his head to look at her. There was shit smeared across his cheeks, her juices slick on his stomach, the smell a permanent record in the room. She looked back, her eyes wide, clear, and sated.
“So,” he croaked, his throat raw. “The floor’s cleaner. But it’s gonna need a wipe.”