The Live "Stress Test"

The auditorium lights dim slightly as the CEO steps forward again, cane tapping the stage like a conductor’s baton. The crowd—hundreds of futas from every floor—settles into eager silence, phones still raised, recording every second.

“Now, ladies… time for the live stress test! We need to verify our new toy holds up under real office conditions. No shortcuts. Full participation encouraged.”

The cheers explode again—raw, hungry. You’re still on your knees center-stage, the spiked cage locked tight, barbs already digging into your urethra and cockhead with every tiny twitch. Blood-tinged pre leaks from the center hole, but nothing else. Your balls throb purple from Bety’s earlier crush. The catheter feels like a burning rod inside you.

“First test: Arousal Resistance.”

Clara volunteers instantly—strutting up with that same shit-eating grin, latex gloves snapping on her hands. The crowd whoops.

“On all fours, slut. Ass up, face down. Let’s see if that fancy cage stops you from getting hard.”

You drop forward, skirt flipped up, plug yanked out roughly by Bety (who tosses it into the crowd like a souvenir). Your hole gapes for a second before Clara kneels behind you. She grabs your caged cock from below—gloved fingers cold—and starts stroking fast, rough, thumb circling the exposed tip through the center hole.

“Come on, pathetic little clit… get hard for the company.”

Pain flares instantly. The spikes bite deeper as blood rushes in—urethra stretching around the barbs, glans crushed against the screw-lined plate. You scream, body jerking.

“Th-thank you, Mistress Clara… for testing the cage…”

She laughs, pumping harder. Your cock tries to swell—impossible. The cage holds firm, spikes piercing skin, fresh blood mixing with pre. The crowd chants:

“Harder! Make him leak!”

“Rip that useless thing apart!”

You cum—but ruined. No spurts, just a pathetic dribble **** through the hole, trapped pressure making everything burn worse. Semen backs up, swelling your urethra against the spikes. You sob openly.

CEO nods approvingly. “Excellent containment. No unauthorized ejaculation. Moving on.”

“Second test: CBT Endurance.”

Bety drags a rolling cart onstage—loaded with paddles, ball crushers, weights, clamps. The crowd roars.

“Hands behind your back. Legs spread.”

You obey. Bety clamps a weighted ball stretcher around your already-bruised nuts—heavy steel pulling them down. Then the paddle: leather-wrapped wood. She swings.

CRACK!

Fire explodes across your sack. Weights swing, yanking harder. The catheter shifts with every impact—barbs scraping inside.

CRACK! CRACK!

You scream, knees buckling. The CEO’s cane taps your ass warningly.

“Posture, whore. Or we add more weight.”

You straighten, tears streaming. Bety alternates—paddle on balls, then hand-squeezes, twisting until you see white. The crowd counts along:

“One! Two! Three!”

By twenty, your nuts are swollen black, skin tight and shiny. You’re shaking, vision blurring.

“Test passed,” the CEO declares. “No breakage. Resilient little toy.”

“Final test: Public Use Demo.”

Lisa finally appears—petroleum-blue hair, slim frame, latex gloves and heels clicking. She’s joined by four volunteers from the crowd. All climb onstage.

“Throat first,” Lisa says coldly.

They circle you. One grabs your ponytail, forces your mouth open. Her cock—average but thick—rams down your throat. Another takes your ass—no lube, just spit. Every thrust jolts the catheter—spikes tearing inside. Your caged cock bounces uselessly, spikes grinding with every movement.

“Thank you… Mistresses… for using me… for testing the cage…”

They rotate—face-fuck, ass-pound, handjobs on your useless prison. Cum floods your throat, your guts. The cage prevents any pleasure—only pain. Spikes draw more blood; you feel it trickling down your thighs.

The crowd films, cheers, throws insults:

“Worthless locked bitch!”

“Bleed for us, cum rag!”

After the fifth load, they step back. You collapse forward—gasping, covered in cum, ass gaping, balls ruined, urethra on fire.

CEO steps up, key dangling from her finger.

“Test complete. Our cum dump is now 100% secure—no erections, no leaks, no cheating. Back to your desks, ladies.”

The auditorium empties slowly, futas slapping high-fives, still laughing. The CEO crouches beside you.

“Great performance, receptacle. Now clean every drop on this stage—tongue only. Missed spots mean we rerun the test tomorrow… with double weights.”

She drops the key into her pocket and walks off.

You’re left alone under the dimming lights—kneeling in a growing puddle of cum, blood, and your own ruined seed. The spiked cage throbs constantly. No relief. No escape.

Another “successful” team-building day at Futa-Corp.