John peered into the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief to find it empty. Going into the men's was nerve-wracking enough, but having other men in there made it almost unbearable. He was pretty sure he passed well; men's haircut from a good barber, baggy suit pants, even baggier sweater to hide the bulge he just couldn't completely cover up from his chest, compressed as tightly as safely possible with a binder, but the one thing he couldn't pass with was his penis. He had a good bulge in these pants - all men's suit pants really, along with a cute little silicone packer - but no real cock to speak of. He only had the beginnings of his clit becoming more sensitive, having actually only been on T for a few weeks. But here, in the empty men's bathroom, would be his chance to try out the urinal, along with a little funnel he'd been hoping to try out soon. This bathroom was out of the way, down on the bottom floor of the building, and he had never noticed it himself before, so surely he wouldn't be disturbed.
He began to unzip, and finagled the little funnel so that it was like holding a real dick in his hands. He had to hold up his pants with the other, so his packer wouldn't pull them down, but otherwise, it was an okay setup. He just hoped he didn't piss all over his hands.
John tried to release, and took a deep breath as the first few drops of pee ran down the funnel and into the urinal. It was working! He was becoming more confident, and his stream stronger, and was so focused on making sure it didn't go everywhere. That might have been why he didn't notice someone else enter the bathroom.
The door slammed shut, and John fumbled. His left hand left go of his pants, and they went down to the floor, his packer bouncing and coming to a miserable thud at the new man's feet. He had thankfully managed to empty his bladder, but shook the funnel, shoving his hands around his underwear and dashing to pick his pants back up, but the man was quicker.
"What do we have here?" The man's booming voice echoed off the tiles. He was a mammoth of a man, easily 6'6" and towering over John, who was admittedly already on the shorter side. He was thick too, legs like tree-trunks and a barrel of a chest, almost resembling a shot-putter or a lumberjack. He had picked up John's blue, silicone packer off of the ground, and held it in the palm of his hand, where it looked embarrassingly tiny.
"I'm- I... Sorry, I just must have the wrong room," squeaked John, hoping that by misgendering himself, the man might just brush it off.
"Oh no, little one. You're a little man, right?" He held up the packer. "That's what this is for? For pretending to be a little man?"
John gulped, hot tears coming to his eyes. He attempted to walk past the man, to leave, but a hand on his chest stopped him.
"You wanted to see the men's room, right? I can show you the men's room."
The man had a tight grip on John's sweater, steering him into one of the stalls beside them. It was easy for him, John thought. It's like John weighed nothing to him. The man closed the lid, and sat John on top of the toilet, locking the stall behind them. It was a tight fit, and John saw no way out.
"What's your name, little one?" Asked the man, running his hands up John's sweater.
John choked back a sob as he answered. "John. Just please, leave me alone!"
He chuckled, pulling John's sweater off as if he hadn't even heard him. "You don't look like a John. This," he poked at John's binder, "seems to be hiding something from me."
John tried crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively, but the man grabbed both his wrists in one hand, pulling them up above his head in a movement that made John cry out. "Come on now," he said, lifting John's binder. "What's your real name, sweetheart?"
John's tits bounded free, aching from the tight confinements. He closed his eyes in shame as the man clicked his tongue appreciatively. John's tits were, admittedly, huge. Easily G cups, but he preferred not to know the exact size, especially since he started binding. Even when he was younger, he was embarrassed by them, the way they'd strain every shirt he wore, the way people would stare.
John felt a warm, huge hand grabbing and playing with one tit like a stress-ball, making him involuntarily moan. He flushed. He couldn't help it, okay? They were sensitive from binding.
