Time for your real punishment.

The feeling of everybody looking down at you and Doinkette towering over you fills you with a strange feeling of arousal. Your erection stands tall despite the torment and harassment. Doinkette grabs you by the throat, wrapping her strong hands around your neck, and shoves you into the corner. Feathers fly off of you when you impact the corner.

Doinkette lifts up your legs, draping them over the second rope, and forcing your legs to remain widespread. Your manhood is left completely unprotected and you can already see where this is going. From her oversized front pocket, Doinkette pulls out a croquet mallet and swings it about. As she tests her weapon of choice, you begin to shift nervously. You feel yourself break out into a cold sweat, which mixes poorly with the syrup and feathers that adorn your person. You close your eyes shut in anticipation for what’s to come.

“Batter up!” Doinkette belts out, croquet mallet in hand. You tense up your body, expecting the worse. “No no, that’s not right... Fore!?” You tense up again, awaiting your demise. “No that can’t be it. What do croquet players say?” You angrily groan as you open your eyes, sick of waiting. And the moment you do... BAM! The mallet is swung into your balls, nearly driving them back into your body. You unleash another soundless scream, while your balls unleash a stream of cum. A powerful eruption of cum shoots out of your dick, splattering Doinkette’s overalls in your juices. Spit flies out of your mouth and drool fall from your lips. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you feel yourself begin to fade. You fall face first onto the mat, in a puddle of your own jizz, cradling your balls tenderly. You feel on the verge of vomiting, but nothing comes. The mistreatment of your junk has rendered you unable to even stand. Doinkette takes a bow, your balls having been thoroughly busted, as the crowd gives her a standing ovation.

Two LEWD employees bring you to the back on a stretcher, placing a pack of ice on your trampled man parts. They sloppily dump you onto a bench in the locker room, leaving you to recover on your own. You lay there, covered in syrup and feathers, balls swollen and sore, head throbbing, and dignity smashed into a million pieces. The promoter barges in, a smile on his face, with a clipboard in hand. “Great show out there.” He begins barking obnoxiously. “You two would make a great comedy duo. Maybe we oughta rename you to; John the Clown, or John the Fool, or John the Hapless Helpless Hopeless Idiot. Or something like that. I dunno!” You roll your eyes in response, even though you know he’s not looking at you. “Either way, you two put on a great act. Maybe we should put you in a tag team. Hm? Anyway, sleep on it.” He starts walking away, but turns back at you, “And I’m glad you took my advice. But you didn’t need to bust both nuts. Gahahaha!” That nearly made you wretch up your lunch more than the ball-busting.