The Downstairs Bathroom
A Fictional Story by limpshrimp83.
Let me back up.
Her name is Robin. She sits three desks over from mine in the marketing department, and she’s the kind of woman you notice but feel guilty about noticing. Quiet. Keeps to herself. Does her work, eats lunch at her desk most days, headphones in—the kind of person who fades into the background of an office full of louder personalities.
But once you actually pay attention to her, it’s impossible to stop.
Robin is gorgeous. Not in that loud, obvious way where everyone in the room knows it. In a softer way. She has a round face and big brown eyes that light up when she’s amused, but she tries not to show it. She wears her dark hair past her shoulders, usually straight, sometimes in a loose ponytail when she’s focused. She dresses modestly for the office—blouses that button up, cardigans, skirts that hit below the knee—but her body doesn’t cooperate with the modesty. Her breasts are huge. The kind of huge that stretches out every blouse she wears, the fabric pulling slightly between the buttons, showing just a sliver of skin when she reaches for something. And her ass is just as generous. Wide, round, heavy in a way that makes her skirts ride up when she sits down. She’s always tugging at the hem, which honestly just draws more attention to it.
I’m not proud of how often I’ve thought about her. But I’m being honest.
We weren’t close for the first few months I worked there. She’d been there longer than me, and she had her routine. We’d exchange pleasantries in the break room. I’d hold the door for her in the mornings. She’d do that little closed-mouth smile and say thanks, and I’d go back to my desk and try not to think about the way her cardigan pulled across her chest.
Then, slowly, we started talking. It started with work stuff—projects, deadlines, complaints about management. Then it got more personal. She had this dry sense of humor that caught me off guard the first time I heard it. Someone in the office commented that the coffee tasted like dirt, and Robin, without looking up from her monitor, said, “That’s generous. Dirt has flavor.” I laughed harder than I should have, and she glanced at me with this little smirk, and something shifted.
After that, we’d chat more. Little conversations that stretched from five to fifteen to thirty minutes. She’d stop by my desk on her way to get water. I’d linger by hers on my way to a meeting. We’d text occasionally about non-work stuff. She sent me a meme once about a cat judging its owner, and I don’t know why, but it made my whole week.
The day before everything changed, she told me she was trans.
We were sitting in the break room, just the two of us, and she said it kind of casually, like she was telling me she had a dentist appointment. “I should probably mention something,” she said, stirring her tea. “I’m trans.”
And I—being the absolute genius that I am—said, “Oh, so you’re transitioning to… a man?”
She looked at me. Blinked once. Then she laughed. Not a mean laugh. A genuine, surprised laugh that made her whole face crinkle up. “No,” she said. “I’m a woman. I’ve always been a woman. I was assigned male at birth.”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. Yeah. That makes way more sense.”
She was still laughing. “What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know. I just—” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I guess I didn’t think about it too hard.”
“You clearly didn’t.”
She was smiling at me, and it was the most open expression I’d ever seen on her. Warm. Trusting. Like she’d handed me something fragile and was watching to see if I’d drop it. I didn’t. I told her it didn’t change anything, which was true. She was still Robin. Still quiet, still funny, still the woman I couldn’t stop staring at when she bent over the printer.
We talked a bit more about it. She told me she’d been on hormones for a couple of years, that she’d been living as herself well before she started at this company, that most people here didn’t know. She said she was telling me because she’d started to feel comfortable with me and wanted to be honest. I told her I appreciated it. We finished our break and went back to work, and everything felt normal. Better than normal, actually. Closer.
Then the next day happened.
It was a Thursday. Mid-afternoon. I’d been at my desk for hours, deep in a spreadsheet that was melting my brain, and I needed to piss. I got up and walked to the main bathroom—the one everyone uses, the one right off the main floor—but the door was locked. I could hear the faucet running inside. Someone was taking their sweet time.
I waited for about thirty seconds, doing that awkward little dance, then decided to go downstairs. We have a second bathroom in the far corner of the lower level. It’s barely used. The downstairs area is mostly storage and old files, and it’s dim and a little musty, and most people forget it exists. I’ve used it maybe three times in the entire time I’ve worked here.
I walked down the stairs, turned the corner, and the bathroom door was slightly ajar. Not wide open, but not closed either. Maybe an inch or two of gap. I didn’t think anything of it. I pushed the door open without knocking—because who would be down here?—and stepped inside.
Robin was standing in front of the mirror.
She was mid-change. Her shirt was off, folded on the small counter next to the sink. She was wearing a white bra—simple, no lace, just clean white cotton that cradled her breasts, which were spilling slightly over the tops of the cups from the angle she was standing. Her boobs were enormous. I’d imagined them before, more times than I’d admit, but seeing them like this, barely contained, the soft flesh pressing against the fabric, the slight shadow of cleavage between the cups—it was like every fantasy I’d had didn’t do the real thing justice.
Her skirt was bunched around her ankles. Her panties too—simple white cotton, pulled down to join the skirt in a pile around her feet. She was stepping out of them, one foot already free, the other still caught in the waistband.
And between her legs, completely uncovered, was her cock.
I knew she was trans. I knew, logically, that she’d have one. But knowing something in the abstract and seeing it in front of you are two entirely different things. And what I was seeing was… big.
She was flaccid. Completely soft. Just hanging there between her thighs, thick and heavy, resting against her leg. It was the kind of cock that looked like it belonged on someone twice my size. Thick even when soft, with a foreskin that partially covered the head, the shaft a shade darker than the rest of her skin, smooth and veined. It just hung there, weighty and substantial, and my brain immediately made the comparison I didn’t want it to.
I’m three and a half inches hard. I know this. I’ve measured. I’ve measured more than once, hoping for a different result, like the number might change if I checked enough times. It never did. Three point five inches, and that’s on a good day, fully aroused, optimal conditions. My dick is small. I’ve known this my entire adult life. I’ve lived with it. I’ve been humiliated about it. I’ve had partners who were kind about it and partners who weren’t. I’ve made peace with it, mostly, in the way that you make peace with something that still stings every time you think about it.
And here was Robin, not even hard, with a cock that was easily twice the size of mine at full mast. Maybe more than twice. It was the kind of size difference that shouldn’t matter, that has nothing to do with me, that exists completely independent of my own body. But standing there, seeing it, my brain did the math instantly. The visual comparison was automatic. Her soft cock dwarfed my hard one. There was no contest. It wasn’t even close.
I stood there. I don’t know how long. A second. Two seconds. Three. Long enough for my eyes to travel from her breasts—those incredible, bra-straining breasts—to her cock, then back to her breasts, then back down to her cock. My mouth was open. I’m sure of that because I remember feeling the air on my tongue. I was gawking. There’s no other word for it. I was a pervert standing in an open doorway staring at a half-naked woman, and I couldn’t seem to make my body move.
Robin looked up and saw me.
There was a beat of silence. A fraction of a second where her eyes went wide, and her hands started to move toward her chest in an instinctive cover-up gesture. Then she stopped. She looked at me. She looked at where my eyes were pointed. And she smiled.
“Are you bi or something?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Amused. “I couldn’t tell which you were staring harder at—my boobs or my cock.”
The sound that came out of me was not a word. It was something between a gasp, a stutter, and a cough. I stepped back. “I’m—sorry, I—the door was open, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” she said. She didn’t cover up. She just stood there, one hand on her hip, the other reaching for her shirt. “I should’ve locked it. I never think anyone comes down here.”
“I usually don’t,” I said. My voice was too high. I could hear it. “The main bathroom was—I’ll just—”
I turned around. I was going to leave. I was going to walk away, die of embarrassment in the stairwell, and never make eye contact with her again. But then she said my name, and I stopped.
“Hey.”
I turned back, just my head. She’d pulled her shirt on but was still holding it against her chest, her bra still visible underneath. She was smiling. That little closed-mouth smile that I’d come to love.
“It’s really fine,” she said. “I’m not mad.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” She tilted her head. “Were you staring at my cock?”
My face burned. I could feel the heat radiating off my cheeks, down my neck, into my ears. “I—”
“Because if you were, that’s okay. It’s kind of flattering, actually.”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I was, but I didn’t mean to—”
She laughed—that same full, genuine laugh from yesterday. “You’re cute when you’re flustered. You know that?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I just stood there, my face on fire, my brain trying to process the fact that she’d called me cute while half-naked in a bathroom with a cock that was bigger than mine by a factor I didn’t want to calculate.
“Go pee,” she said, nodding toward the toilet. “That’s what you came for, right?”
“I can wait—”
“You’ve been doing the pee dance since you walked in. Go.”
So I did. I turned around and used the bathroom while she finished changing behind me. I could hear her moving, the rustle of fabric, the click of a belt. I stared at the wall and tried to think about anything other than what I’d just seen. It didn’t work. Every time I closed my eyes, there it was. Her breasts in that white bra. The curve of her hips. And her cock, hanging thick and soft and enormous between her thighs, making mine look like a joke.
When I turned around, she was dressed again. Blouse buttoned, skirt straightened, hair tucked behind her ears. She looked exactly like she always did at her desk. Put together. Modest. Like nothing had happened.
Except she was grinning.
“So,” she said, leaning against the sink. “Bi? Straight? Still figuring it out?”
“I’m straight,” I said. Then, because my mouth apparently had no filter left, “I just—you’re really big.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Oh?”
“I didn’t mean—I wasn’t trying to—”
“Relax.” She was enjoying this. I could tell. Her eyes were bright, and that secret smile was playing at the corners of her lips. “I know I’m big. It’s kind of hard to hide sometimes.”
“I bet,” I said, and then immediately wanted to die.
She laughed again. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?”
“At what?”
“At talking to women who just showed you their dick.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The absurdity of the whole situation hit me all at once—standing in a downstairs bathroom with my coworker who I’d been crushing on for months, who had a cock bigger than mine by several inches, who was taking the whole thing in stride while I was falling apart. I laughed until my stomach hurt, and she laughed with me, and for a moment it wasn’t awkward at all. It was just funny.
We walked back upstairs together. She went to her desk. I went to mine. I spent the rest of the afternoon staring at my spreadsheet and seeing nothing.
That was last week. Since then, we’ve been talking more than ever. She texts me memes. I stop by her desk. We took our lunch break together yesterday, sitting outside on a bench, and she told me about her transition, about the things that were hard and the easy things, about the parts of her body she loves now and the parts she’s still making peace with. I listened. She listened when I talked about my own stuff—the insecurities I carry, the things I don’t say out loud. We sat close enough that our shoulders touched, and neither of us moved away.
I haven’t told her about my size. I haven’t said the words “three and a half inches” out loud to her. But she saw my face in that bathroom. She saw the way I looked at her, the way my eyes went wide, the way my mouth fell open. She’s smart. She’s perceptive. I think she knows.
Yesterday, she sent me a text after work. Just a message that said: “For the record, you can stare at my boobs anytime. The cock thing too, if you ask nicely.”
I stared at my phone for five minutes before I could type a response. I settled on: “Asking nicely: can I stare at your cock?”
She replied instantly: “Yes. But next time I get to stare at something too.”
I don’t know what she meant. I think I do. And the fact that she knows —that she’s seen enough to know — and she’s still talking to me, still flirting with me, still sitting close enough to touch—that’s something I don’t have words for yet.
But I’m figuring it out. We both are.
The End.
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