Can't Stay Here Forever The New World of SwapTech chapter 11 by bodyswapbabe

Jonas didn’t move.

He stood in the stall, frozen like a deer in headlights. Power Girl’s suit—once pristine, snow-white, and tight as a drum—was now ruined. There was no salvaging this. Not after the foul, wet eruption he’d just let loose. It had soaked through everything. The ass of the suit clung damply to his thighs. It was warm. Too warm.

His cheeks flushed hot. His stomach gurgled again.

“…If I walk out,” he whispered, “I’m dead.”

But he couldn’t stay in here forever. He reached behind, peeled at the suit—and gagged. The stench hit him like a truck. He coughed, nearly tripped trying to yank the sticky fabric down, and almost knocked himself over as he wrestled the ruined spandex down past his knees.

Everything below his waist was coated. It clung to the insides of his thighs, to his cheeks, to folds and creases he hadn’t even known Power Girl had. His whole lower half looked like a food poisoning crime scene.

“Jesus Christ,” he wheezed, voice shrill. “I shat in the Cadillac of bodies.”

He stripped the suit down, rolled it into a disgusting, sopping bundle, and stared at it in dismay. There was no fixing this. No hiding it. The only option now was damage control.

Still completely naked, Jonas cracked open the stall door.

The coast was clear.

He crept toward the sinks, hips swaying, trying not to let his thighs touch anything. He dumped the suit in the trash with a wet slap, turned on the tap, and began the most humiliating cleanup of his life.

Water. Paper towels. Soap. Scrubbing. More scrubbing. So much scrubbing. And that’s when the door opened.

He froze.

Footsteps clicked inside. A gasp. A strangled little noise—part surprise, part confusion, part secondhand horror.

Jonas looked up.

A girl—mid-twenties, dressed as Zatanna—stood at the doorway. Pale, blinking. Her mouth hung open slightly. She was looking directly at him. At her. At the fully naked, tall, muscle-packed, massively-breasted woman standing in front of the mirror—soapy, dripping, covered in shit from the waist down.

They made eye contact.

Silence.

Then the girl blinked and blurted, “Are… are you okay?”

Jonas hesitated. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

He gestured vaguely to his lower half. “You ever eat convention nachos?” he asked, weakly.

The girl nodded slowly, still stunned. “They’re… pretty bad, yeah.”

Jonas gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah. Yeah.”

A beat passed. Then the girl turned, wordlessly, and walked out.

The door closed.

Jonas stared at his reflection.

Then, at last, he muttered, “I’m never showing my face in this state again.”