The Spiked Final Lock

“Well, everyone—look who finally made it! Our main event has arrived… Don’t be shy, come closer.”

The CEO’s voice booms over the speakers, waving you forward like a prized exhibit. You stumble toward her on shaking legs, hands clutching folders in front of your crotch like a pathetic shield. The auditorium erupts—futas screaming, clapping, stomping like it’s a goddamn sports stadium instead of a corporate meeting. Phones flash everywhere; recordings rolling. Your face burns hotter than your ass ever did.

You reach the CEO’s side, staring out at the sea of faces: hundreds of futas, some openly stroking their cocks through pants, others shouting filthy encouragements.

“Take that skirt off, slut!”

“Look at the little office whore—hard as a rock already!”

“CBT time! Crush those worthless nuts!”

Your mind blanks. The noise fades to a dull roar. You can’t think, can’t breathe—just stand there trembling while the crowd devours you.

Then you glance behind you. A massive screen dominates the back wall, looping a highlight reel of your two years here: you bent over desks getting gangbanged, face buried in sweaty crotches, ass gaping after marathon sessions, tears streaming while futas laugh and film. Every humiliation, every ****, every “task”—compiled and projected for the entire company to see.

A hand clamps your shoulder, yanking you back to reality.

“Well… haha, glad everyone enjoyed the presentation,” the CEO chuckles into the mic. The crowd’s energy explodes—cheers ten times louder, whistles piercing.

“Bety, bring out the device for our favorite cum dump.”

Your blood turns to ice. Bety’s name in the same sentence as yours never ends well. She struts up, holding a sleek black box, opens it with dramatic flair, and lifts the contents high for the crowd to see.

“As promised, we’re installing the most advanced, high-tech chastity cage on our company cum receptacle—right here, live!”

The auditorium loses it—screams of approval, fists pumping.

Bety snaps her fingers. “Arms behind your back, bitch. Show the company what you’re working with.”

You obey on autopilot. Folders drop. Your skirt tents obscenely—your **** erection on full display. A deafening wave of boos and insults crashes over you.

“Pathetic little clit!”

“CBT! CBT! CBT!”

“Smash those balls!”

They chant like a cult. You’ve been punished for every unauthorized hard-on since day one—whips, kicks, punches, slaps until your nuts were black and blue. In front of the whole company? You can’t even imagine the carnage.

“Hahaha… what a delicate situation,” the CEO laughs into the mic. “No need for punishment today. This is the perfect demo for our new toy’s capabilities.”

The crowd quiets slightly, anticipation thick. You spot Clara in the front row—grinning like a demon.

That fucking bitch… she planned this from the start. That pill, dragging me here hard… CURSE HER!!

Bety approaches with a metal ring. She grabs your cock roughly—two fingers, like it disgusts her—and forces it through the base ring. Then your balls—one by one. When she squeezes your left nut to “fit” it, pain explodes. You groan, knees buckling.

The CEO taps your ass with her wooden cane—hard enough to sting.

“Posture, filthy whore!”

The crowd cheers the correction.

Bety steps back to the podium, holding up three cages for voting.

“Alright, folks! Which one does our slut get today?”

First: a standard 4-inch cage—roomy, simple. Crickets from the crowd.

Second: a tiny 1-inch nub cage with a center hole. Some murmurs, a few claps—not enough.

Third: a flat metal plate with a center hole. The back (where your cockhead presses) lined with inward-pointing screws. A secondary ring between base and plate has three razor-sharp spikes aimed straight at your shaft.

The auditorium detonates—screams, applause, stomping feet. Unanimous.

“Hahaha! Looks like we have a winner!” the CEO beams. “Bety, fetch the catheter.”

Bety holds up the device: a barbed sleeve, spikes angled backward like fish hooks. The crowd roars louder.

“This bad boy goes straight into our number-one whore’s urethra. Unlike standard cages with open slots, this one locks with a key—deploying the spikes on command. No cheating, no removal… unless he wants to sacrifice a little flesh, haha!”

Laughter ripples through the room.

“Bety—proceed!”

Bety snaps the spiked ring around your base, then clamps the flat plate over your cockhead—screws immediately pressing into sensitive skin. You hiss, but hold still.

Then the catheter: she lines it up and pushes—slow, deliberate. Burning stretches your piss slit as barbs scrape inward. Every centimeter feels like fire.

“AAAARHK!”

You double over instinctively. The CEO’s cane cracks across your ass—harder this time.

“Posture! Or I castrate you myself!”

You snap straight, tears streaming. Bety keeps pushing—deeper, until it hits your bladder. Then she starts pumping it—short, vicious thrusts—while her other hand clamps your balls in a vise grip, crushing.

Pain whites out your vision. Your cock is being **** from the inside; balls feel like they’re going to pop.

“AAHAHAHA! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CUMMING, OR I’LL RIP THESE USELESS NUTS OFF, HAHA!”

Bety’s eyes gleam with sadistic joy, biting her lip as she works you over. You scream, body shaking, but you don’t break posture. You can’t. The CEO’s cane hovers.

Finally—mercifully—she stops. The catheter seats fully. Bety twists the lock.

Click.

The internal spikes deploy—piercing delicate urethral walls. Fresh agony rips through you. You shriek, knees buckling, but the CEO’s glare keeps you upright.

Bety hands the key to the CEO with a flourish.

“There we go—permanently locked, spiked, and company-approved. No more unauthorized boners, no more pathetic little erections. Our cum dump is officially upgraded!”

The crowd explodes again—cheers, whistles, phones flashing.

The CEO leans into the mic, smiling sweetly.

“Now… who wants to test how well it holds up during today’s team-building exercises?”

Your stomach drops. The “main event” isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.