Mara’s hand settles on the smooth pink plastic cage.

She lifts it from the table, turning the small device in the lamplight. The material looks almost delicate, translucent in places, the internal ring and shaft tube clearly sized for something far smaller than what you currently carry. She glances at the open notes still tucked beneath the cask lid, reads the short description once, then looks at you with a slow, deliberate smile.

“This one,” she says. “On you.”

You do not argue. The Shared Heat is still warm between you, carrying the residual sensitivity from the purple-gummy hour upstairs and the fresh curiosity now blooming in her. Mara steps close, unbuttons what remains of your open pants, and draws your cock out into the cool cellar air. You are already half-hard from watching her examine the items. She wraps her fingers around the shaft and gives it two slow, assessing strokes, thumb brushing the head until a clear bead of precum wells up.

“Still average,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Not for long.”

She fits the pink cage over you with careful, practiced motions. The plastic is cool at first. The ring slides behind your balls; the tube engulfs the shaft. The moment the small lock clicks shut the effect begins.

Heat floods your groin like a sudden fever. Your cock tries to swell inside the unyielding tube and finds nowhere to go. The pressure is immediate and intense. A thick pulse of precum forces its way out the tip slit and drips onto the stone floor. Mara watches, eyes bright, and wraps her hand around the cage itself, squeezing lightly.

“Already leaking,” she says. “Good.”

The first real orgasm hits before she finishes the sentence.

It is not a normal climax. Your balls draw up hard and a heavy rope of cum rockets out the end of the cage, splattering across her bare thigh and the edge of the table. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure sharpened to the point of pain, every nerve ending firing at once. You double over with a broken sound. Mara only tightens her grip on the plastic and keeps squeezing in slow, deliberate pulses.

“Keep going,” she orders softly. “The note said it converts. I want to see how much.”

The second orgasm follows the first by less than ten seconds. Another thick stream jets out, then another. Your cock is locked rigid inside the tiny tube, twitching and pulsing without any room to expand. Cum pours from the tip in continuous, rhythmic spurts that quickly turn into a steady faucet-like flow. White ropes arc onto the floor, onto her hand, onto the open cask. The Shared Heat feeds every sensation back to her; you feel her own cunt growing wetter with each ruined climax she forces from you.

Mara drops to her knees in front of you so she can watch at eye level. She holds the cage in both hands now, thumbs rubbing the underside of the plastic while her fingers squeeze and release in a relentless milking rhythm. Every compression forces another heavy pulse of cum out of you. Your legs shake. Your hands fist at your sides. The floor between her knees is already puddled with sterile white fluid that keeps coming and coming.

“Look at that,” she whispers, voice thick with arousal. “You’re a fucking faucet. Keep going. I want every drop of size and stamina and whatever else this thing is stealing.”

You cannot stop. The pink cage has locked your body into a continuous conversion cycle. Each orgasm is longer and wetter than the last. Thick streams of cum pour from the tip without pause—long, unbroken ropes that splash across Mara’s tits when she leans in close, that coat her fingers, that drip from her chin when she opens her mouth and lets the next pulse land on her tongue. She swallows, moans, and keeps milking the cage harder.

Your cock is already shrinking inside the tube. You can feel the mass leaving with every spurt. The shaft that once filled the plastic comfortably now rattles loosely for a moment before the cage itself contracts, staying tight, always tight. Your balls draw up tighter, smaller, the heavy fullness draining away into the endless stream of cum. The pleasure is so constant it borders on agony. Your vision blurs. Your knees threaten to buckle. Mara simply follows you down when you sink to the floor, keeping the cage locked in her hands, never letting the milking rhythm falter.

She straddles your thighs so the continuous fountain of cum sprays directly against her bare cunt and lower stomach. The Shared Heat turns the contact into pure feedback; every pulse that leaves you makes her cunt clench and drip. She grinds the wet folds of her sex against the outside of the cage, smearing your endless cum over herself while she keeps squeezing and stroking the plastic.

“More,” she demands, hips rolling. “I can feel it taking everything. Keep squirting for me.”

You do. The faucet does not stop. Thick white fluid pours out of you in waves that soak her thighs, her cunt, the floor, your own stomach. Your cock is visibly shorter now inside the translucent tube—half its original length already gone, the girth thinning. Your balls have shrunk to the size of large grapes and are still reducing. The orgasms no longer feel like separate events; they have become one long, continuous climax that empties you without mercy.

Mara reaches down with one hand and spreads her own folds, rubbing her clit in tight circles while the other hand never stops working the cage. She comes with a sharp cry, cunt fluttering, more of your cum forced out by the sympathetic clench of the Shared Heat. She does not pause. She simply keeps milking you through her own orgasm and into the next, and the next.

Time blurs. You lose count of how many times the cage forces another heavy pulse from what is left of your cock. The floor is a shallow white lake. Mara’s body is painted with it—tits, stomach, thighs, the soft dark hair above her cunt all glistening. Your own body is shaking, covered in cooling cum, the pink plastic still locked tight around the dwindling shaft.

Finally the flow begins to slow. The last few spurts are thinner, weaker. Your cock inside the cage is almost gone—reduced to a tiny, soft nub that no longer even reaches the end of the tube. Your balls are the size of lima beans, tight and empty against your body. The continuous orgasm fades into a deep, bone-level exhaustion and a strange, floating lightness where your former size and confidence used to live.

Mara feels the change through the Shared Heat. She stops the milking strokes and simply holds the cage for a long moment, watching the final weak dribbles leave the tip. Then she finds the small key that came with the device, slides it into the lock, and turns.

The pink plastic opens.

What remains of your cock slips free: seven-eighths of an inch long, half an inch in girth, soft and pink and almost doll-like. Your balls are two tiny, smooth lima-bean shapes nestled beneath it. The contrast with the massive puddle of cum on the floor is obscene.

Mara stares.

Then she laughs—soft, delighted, thoroughly aroused—and wraps her thumb and forefinger around the tiny shaft. It disappears completely between them.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Look at that. That’s all that’s left.”

She gives the little nub a gentle squeeze. A final weak bead of cum wells up and rolls over her fingertip. The Shared Heat carries the oversensitive spark straight into her cunt; she shivers and presses her thighs together.

“You’re a faucet of cum and now you’re this,” she murmurs, rubbing the tiny head with her thumb in slow circles. “Seven-eighths of an inch. Half-inch thick. Balls like little beans. I can feel how empty you are. How soft. How completely ruined.”

She leans down and takes the entire small package into her mouth without effort—cock, balls, everything—sucking gently while her tongue works the hypersensitive flesh. The sensation is overwhelming after the continuous conversion. You jerk and make a broken sound. She only hums and keeps sucking, one hand sliding between her own legs to rub her clit while she nurses on what is left of you.

When she finally pulls off, a thin string of spit connects her lip to the tiny head. She looks up at you with bright, hungry eyes.

“The cage did exactly what the note said,” she says. “Converted everything into that lake of cum on the floor. And now you’re mine to play with like this.”

She stands, pulls you up by the wrist, and leads you back toward the stairs, the pink cage dangling from her other hand. Your tiny cock and lima-bean balls sway with every step, still dripping the last weak traces of the conversion. The Shared Heat throbs between you—her arousal sharp and dominant, yours reduced to a constant, needy ache centered on the ruined little package between your legs.

Behind you the rest of the cask’s items wait on the table, still unchosen.

But for now Mara has what she wanted.

And you are left with seven-eighths of an inch and the memory of coming like a faucet until there was almost nothing left.