Bathroom Crisis Averted The New World of SwapTech chapter 10 by bodyswapbabe

The pressure was building. He could feel it pressing down, threatening to explode. His hips swayed as he wrestled with the suit, one leg popping as he tried to kick off a boot. He got it halfway down—just past the butt—before dropping hard onto the toilet seat, breathing like he’d just sprinted a mile in heels.

Just in time.

His thighs automatically spread wide—way wider than he ever remembered—and he leaned forward instinctively, bracing against the stall wall. His stomach was churning, gurgling like a blender full of chili. The floodgates opened in a sudden, humiliating wave. His thighs trembled. His toes curled inside the stupid red boots. He couldn’t help it—his mouth actually dropped open in silent, horrified relief.

This wasn’t dainty. This wasn’t gentle. This was the biological equivalent of a gendered betrayal.

Power Girl was taking the worst dump of her life.

It went on. And on. He clutched the stall wall like it was a lifeline. The smell hit him next and almost knocked him out. It was hot. It was awful. It was so bad he considered teleporting out of the body just to escape it.

When it was finally over, he sat there, shell-shocked, sweating. He’d never felt more drained. More betrayed by his own intestines. Power Girl’s ripped abs were clenching like they’d just done a workout.

After a long silence, he mumbled, “So that’s what girl poops are like.”

Then he laughed.

Like, actually laughed. It started small, then bubbled into wheezing giggles that bounced his bare tits with every breath. The situation was so dumb, so gross, so him—even in this fantasy-perfect body, he still somehow ended up stuck in a bathroom stall farting like a trucker and nearly crapping himself in spandex. Some things never changed.

Eventually, he cleaned up, stood slowly, and reached for the suit. Getting it back on wasn’t easy—especially around the hips and chest—but he finally wrangled everything back into place. The cape, the zipper, the bust window.

He stepped out of the stall. No one else in the bathroom.

Jonas walked to the mirror. Looked at his reflection.

Power Girl looked back—flushed, sweaty, chest rising and falling. Still stacked. Still sexy. Still ridiculous.

Jonas pointed at the mirror. “You,” he muttered, “are filthy.”

He grinned. Then checked his teeth. Fixed his hair. Gave himself a wink.

Then his stomach grumbled again.

“Oh hell no,” he said, backing toward the door. “Not round two. Nuh-uh. I got autographs to fake.”