All characters are of age. Do not attempt any of these acts in real life, you sicko. Get informed consent, keep it safe and do some wholesome stuff too
In the next room is a girl, lounging on a table. She’s either unconscious or drugged, or just doesn’t care enough to respond as you enter. She’s naked, of course. Slim, blonde, she could be any of your co-stars. Once upon a time, you were a little sick of always being given blonde bimbos, but then you decided you didn’t care if you were being objectified like that, as long as she was objectified more. So you made sure she was, with your cock and your words and your spittle and your piss, treating your colleagues like your audience wish they could. Subhuman, no dignity, no rights, it’s all about you, as if you wouldn’t have a job without them. Indeed, most of them never came back, to work with you or anyone else. More than once there were casting changes each day of a multi-day shoot, not that anyone noticed, or cared. It’s not about their faces, after all. Before long, the studios had a spare girl or two ready for such occasions. In a back room, so the one you were fucking didn’t realise she could try and run at any point without consequences. They wouldn’t get paid if they weren’t needed, they’d just be wasting a day naked in a back room being perved at by all the backstage team. If they sucked off a few of the crew, they’d go to the top of the list for next time, but they didn’t need to know that, it would be just as easy to post on Craigslist, or cruise the streets, or simply buy a girl from the right brothels. You had a reputation among your audience, and your reputation in the industry isn’t much better. Fresh, green girls are the only ones who’ll work with you, except for the occasional woman who thinks she wants what you’re dishing out. Some of them even enjoy it, but apparently those kinds of girls are “dangerous” and “bad for business”. You don’t care if they like it or not, and you can see why your fans would rather see their pain. As they say, that’s showbiz!
The woman in the robe speaks: “You have victimised girls, tainting their experiences of sex and love for the rest of their lives. Porn creates unreasonable expectations for coitus duration, and you’re among the worst: no healthy man can fuck for more than an hour or so, and breaks are an important part of any session; water, feedback and a change of pace make all the difference. Your current record is four hours, and your partner that day still gets occasional bleeding. She told me all about it, and if she hadn’t been gagged she would’ve been screaming and cursing, begging and crying. I suppose you already knew that; it’s not hard to guess, even for you. But I am not cruel, if you want this test to end, just ask. Besides, you might just enjoy this one: you have to set a new record, fuck this girl for twelve hours straight. Your time starts when you first enter her, and if you stop moving, you fail.
If you fail, your balls will be crushed in a vice until they pop. If you pass out, the vice will be loosened, we will wait for you to wake up, and we shall start again. If you don’t have any questions about this ridiculously simple challenge, approach the table and begin.”
So you do. As you get closer, you see clamps for wrists and ankles attached to the table. They are bulky and metallic, but refuse to lock shut around her. Eventually you give up and drag her hips to the edge of the table and mentally prepare yourself. Idly, you notice that the table is the perfect height for this. With all the stress and pressure, it takes you longer than usual to get hard, but once up, you’re easily as hard as you’ve ever been.
You lift her ankles up around your shoulders and ease your dick inside the girl. You’re not stupid, you know this is going to be a marathon, not a sprint, so you go nice and slowly. She’s a good fuck, tight and not wet, exactly, but definitely smooth. Her pussy is gripping your cock, she clearly knows what men like, and knows how to provide. And she hasn’t yet said a word – why didn’t any of your producers find this girl? You would actually have enjoyed working with this one.
The first hour is good. Well within your comfort zone, more so since you’re saving your energy. The temptation to go whole hog is always right there, pushing your hips just a little faster or harder than strictly necessary. But you’re a professional; if there’s one thing you know how to do, it’s fuck.
The second hour is a little harder. You finally cum, once, but you keep moving and don’t drop out. Within a few seconds, you’re back to normal, with a little extra lubrication. Idly you wonder if this girl has any kind of protection, but then you lean forward into missionary, the rhythm fills your head and you tune everything else out.
The third hour is easy, easier than you expected. Most girls go dry about now, they’re not built for long-term fucking like men are, but this girl is still just as wet as when you started.
The fourth hour is, in a word, exciting. You’re coming up to your record, with an explicit expectation to beat it, you’re fucking a great piece of meat, you’re enjoying this
The next three hours slowly go downhill. You’re starting to tire and your sweat is glistening all over your body. It’s even dripping down, splattering her face and chest when you have the strength to do more than just lie on top. The monster on your back shoving your hips forward, harder and faster, is getting stronger, but you’re resisting for now. She’s still hot, slippery, and weirdly silent, but you’re doing well
The next two hours really start to fuck your ass, though. You start cramping, in your buttocks, your back and your shoulders. You’ve cum twice more, and each time the head of your dick gets more sensitive, and takes longer to recover. But you can’t stop, even if you’re enjoying it less and less.
Somewhere near the end of the ninth hour, you look at the timer are realise that you’ve more than doubled your old record. But you realise that you’re getting no enjoyment from that realisation, and the instructions come back to you, that you can stop at any time. You glance over at the woman in the gown; she’s barely moved since you started, except to sit down. She’s watching but doesn’t seem aroused, or even interested. Maybe she’s as bored with this as you are. You decide to tap out.
“Alright, I’m done. What’s next?”
The next few seconds are a blur. Suddenly, the blonde bitch is on top, you’re lying prone on the table, and the woman in the gown is helping press your limbs into the shackles that wouldn’t close earlier. They close now, sealing you in. Your captor leans in: “Did you not understand the consequences? You have failed. So after this is done, balls are going to turn to mush.”
“When this is done? You said this would end when I said so.”
“Your test has ended. 9 hours, 10 minutes and a few seconds. A new record, but nowhere near enough. So now it’s Clarabelle’s turn. We made a deal, you see. In exchange for a contribution toward her surgery, and being your “victim” for the first part, she gets to be in control until your time is up.”
That name starts digging through your memory, trying to find the connection, but then you see the look in her eyes..
“Do you even know what you did to me? You jackhammered away at my pussy for four whole hours, like that’s an actual achievement, and you never saw me again. You didn’t notice the blood on your cock, or didn’t you care? Do all your girls come away bleeding? Do they all need reconstructive surgery? Do they all want revenge? They gave me a kevlar pussy, mine was so ruined. But you can’t hurt me anymore – that’s why you’re the victim – I can do twelve hours, easy, especially when I only have to lie there. Apparently you can’t. How pathetic.
I think he needs some kind of forfeit, for y’know, forfeiting. Three hours?”
The woman in the gown didn’t respond for a moment, then groaned and bent over, as if in sudden pain. Then she raised her head and nodded, and your fate was sealed. The clock ticked backward all the way back to six hours. Before you could protest your treatment, Clarabelle slammed herself down onto your dick. Apart from a few periods of oversensitivity, your cock had been treated relatively lightly so far, but all that was about to change. The next six hours were all about your meat pole, and she was already bending it in all kinds of unusual ways. Good ways, but you think if a normal sausage was treated this way it’d burst before too long. Having said that, you were almost ready to cum again, thirty seconds into your six hour ordeal.
You don’t know exactly when the little blonde bitch got off you, and you don’t know where she went, but when you come to, you know that it’s over. You lost track of how many times you came, you lost track of the time, the pain, your self. But now it’s over. You’re still stuck on the table, but you’re fine with just lying there for a while.
You doze off for a while, and when you come to, it’s because something cold and hard is going over your cock. A chastity cage, administered by the gown bitch. As it locked in place, it began to hum, and she says
“This is for your own good, it will help you heal. If you get hard again, you’ll damage all the blood vessels in your magnificent member, and undo any healing. You’re going to need your cock again, and there will be plenty to arouse you; you’d thank me if you knew what’s in store. Plus, that frequency of sound will help the healing process, much like cats’ purring.
“This, however, won’t heal.”
She brings a heavy metal vice into view, almost dropping it on your head. Nothing more is said, nothing more is needed. You simply burst into tears, even before the jaws met either side of your testicles. As they start to squeeze, you think it might not be too bad, until the pain caught up and swept over you like a tsunami. Your entire world became that pain, red hot and somehow cold. It sent tentacles chilling up and down your spine, crawling out your eyes. It’s all too much, you’re screaming, you’re straining against your bonds, you’re burning, melting, dying.
And then you’re sitting up, dazed and still hurting, but not being hurt at the moment. You cradle your ballsack, and a little voice in the back of your head points out that without balls, it’s just a sack. An empty sack, full of regret and pain.
And then your wife walks in, and you know you’re in hell