Hard-On Parade

You mutter under your breath, voice barely audible over the pounding in your ears: “Filthy bitch… one day I won’t need this shitty job anymore. I’ll get the fuck out and leave all these futas behind.” You hawk and spit onto the floor—trying to purge the lingering taste of Bety’s smegma and cum from your mouth. A fresh glob lands in the already-filthy carpet. One more stain? Who cares. This room’s a biohazard anyway.

You straighten your skirt, tuck your sticky panties back into place, and drop the reports on Bety’s desk. Task complete. Now the real dread hits.

“Next up: delivering to Lisa,” you think, stomach twisting. You hate her office. Visits are rare, but every time ends the same—your balls tortured until they’re purple, swollen, and throbbing for days. Last report drop-off left you limping for a week.

Lisa Char:

Height: 5'5"

Age: 28

Build: Slim

Tits: Medium

Hair: Petroleum-blue, short

Cock: 6.3–7.1 inches

Daily cum load: 6.8–13.5 oz

Hates: Boys, futas, women, coworkers, work itself

Loves: Femboys, latex, high heels

Fetishes: CBT, chastity, urethral sounding, femdom, humiliation, pet-play, premature ejaculation control

You drag yourself out of Bety’s office, no enthusiasm left. Constant rapes are bad enough, but Lisa’s sessions? Pure, targeted ball-breaking sadism.

You head straight for the elevator—alone this time, thank fuck—and hit the button for the 3rd floor. Doors close. Quiet. Peaceful for once.

When they open, Lisa’s door is cracked, light dim inside. Your heart leaps.

“Please don’t be there… please just let me drop the papers and leave…”

You creep in, scanning the dark room. Empty. No sign of her.

“YES! Holy shit, luck for once!”

You hurry to her desk. Boxes everywhere—vibrators the size of your forearm (45 cm+ monsters, definitely meant for your ass someday), CBT tools, paddles, sounding rods, clamps. Your balls clench just looking at them.

“Better get the hell out before she shows up.”

You slap the report on the desk and turn for the door.

It flies open.

“Gotcha!”

Clara—redhead, 6'0", a little thick, pants and blouse—bursts in, grinning like she just won the lottery.

“Oh, Clara, d-do you need something?” Your voice cracks.

She doesn’t answer. Just steps close, flips up your skirt, and wraps her hand around your pathetic 3.1-inch cock—stroking fast, rough.

“Hey—!”

You don’t fight. You can’t. But this is weird. Futas never touch your dick—unwritten rule. Your cock’s for **** only, not pleasure. They hate seeing you enjoy anything that isn’t their cocks or your ass getting wrecked.

“Hmmm! Come on, get that worthless little thing hard!” Clara pumps faster, thumb circling the head.

You squirm, trying to will it down. No luck. Your body betrays you—cock stiffening against your will, throbbing in her grip.

“THERE we go!” Clara stops abruptly. “We need to head to the auditorium RIGHT NOW. You’re the main event on the program. Let’s go…”

Main event? You’ve never been “called” for anything. You’re background noise—the office cum rag, not a featured attraction.

“I-I can’t go like this, Clara. Let me calm down first—” you plead desperately. Walking into a room full of futas with a raging hard-on? Instant punishment. They’ll say “work isn’t for your pleasure,” even though they jerk off in you daily.

“Hm? Oh right…” Clara glances down at your throbbing dick, then pulls a blue pill from her pocket.

“OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND SWALLOW!”

She pops it on your tongue.

“Water, Mrs. Clara—”

She grabs your jaw, forces your mouth open wider, and spits a thick glob inside.

“There! Now swallow, bitch!”

You gulp. Heat floods your groin almost instantly. Your cock goes rock-hard—painfully stiff, veins bulging, pre-cum beading at the tip. No going soft now.

“Let’s move.” Clara grabs your dick like a leash and yanks. You stumble after her—heels clacking, documents clutched to your chest, trying to hide the obvious erection tenting your skirt.

She’s in a hurry—fast strides forcing you to trot awkwardly. Every step makes your cock bounce painfully.

“Eww, gross. Can’t stand the smell of this useless thing on my hand.” She shoves her palm in your face. “Lick it clean, slut. Get your stink off me.”

“Y-yes, Mistress.” You lap at her fingers—salty skin, faint pre-cum residue—while she drags you to the elevator.

Doors open. She hits the auditorium floor. You follow, dick still throbbing, mind racing.

When you step into the auditorium, Clara releases you with a smirk and walks off.

“Look who finally showed up—the main event!”

Three employees at the door spot you instantly.

You freeze. The room is packed—every futa in the company, hundreds of eyes on you. You clutch the folders to your crotch like a shield, trying to hide the **** erection.

“COME ON, SLUT—UP ON STAGE NOW!”

They grab your arms, drag you forward, shove you across the threshold.

Spotlights hit you—blinding. Your vision clears slowly.

The entire company is here. Rows of futas, smirking, whispering, cocks visibly tenting pants. Phones out, recording. Applause erupts—whistles, catcalls, laughter.

“FUCK!! Why is the whole company here?! Oh god, this can’t get worse… I’m still hard…”

Panic surges. You try to angle the folders lower, cover the obvious bulge, but it’s useless. The crowd sees. They cheer louder.

You’re on stage. Exposed. Hard. Humiliated.

The “main event” is about to begin—and you have no idea what it is.