Chapter 41: The Boardroom Betrayal
The reports were a new kind of torture.
They lived in a shared digital document, a running ledger of his shame accessible to all nine women. Every morning, before coffee, he had to detail any nocturnal emissions, any morning wood, any unbidden fantasy that flickered through his sleep-addled brain. Throughout the day, any flicker of arousal—a glimpse of a colleague’s neckline, the brush of fabric against his still-tender cock, a memory of Samantha’s voice—had to be logged with a timestamp and a brief description. The document was a stark, clinical dissection of his own subconscious, laid bare for their analysis and commentary.
Their responses varied. Conzi’s were terse, analytical footnotes: ‘Note the correlation between stress and inappropriate erection. Pathetic.’ Sophia’s were more emoji than text: fire and eggplants and laughing tears. Annika’s were speculative, threatening future scenarios based on his entries. Samantha rarely commented, but her silence was the heaviest weight.
Three days after the breaking, he was at work, facing the most important client presentation of his career. His suit was crisp, his slides polished, but his mind was a fractured pane of glass. Every jolt of caffeine felt like it was pumping directly into his already-strung-tight nerves. As he stood in the conference room waiting for the clients, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Not a call. A text. From Conzi.
‘Check the shared doc.’
A cold trickle of dread traced his spine. He excused himself, muttering about needing a copy of the quarterly report, and slipped into the hallway. Leaning against the cool wall, he opened the document. A new entry, not from him, from Conzi, logged five minutes ago.
‘Observation: Subject is presenting to senior clients today. High-stakes professional environment. Hypothesis: The juxtaposition of professional authority and his inherent submissive state will create significant cognitive dissonance and acute physical arousal. Test: He will provide a report, with photographic evidence, from the men’s room within the next ten minutes detailing current physical state.’
A second text buzzed in his hand: ‘Clock’s ticking. Executive bathroom on the 14th floor. Now. Don’t make me tell Samantha you hesitated.’
He moved. His legs, stiff and uncooperative, carried him to the elevators. The ride to the 14th floor was an eternity of mirrored walls reflecting a man he no longer recognized. The executive bathroom was empty, a temple of polished granite and chrome. He locked the main door, his heart hammering against his ribs. He fumbled his phone out.
Another text. ‘Video call. Now.’
He accepted. Conzi’s face filled the screen. She was in her home office, but dressed differently—a tight black tank top, her glasses perched on her head. Behind her, he could see Sophia lounging on a sofa, sipping from a wine glass, giving a little wave.
“Right on time,” Conzi said, her voice flat. “The clients are in the conference room. Your team is looking for you. Let’s not keep them waiting. Take your phone into a stall. Prop it up.”
He did as he was told, the cold porcelain of the toilet lid biting through his suit pants. He angled the phone so it showed him from the waist up.
“Good. Now, open your pants. Let’s see the dissonance.”
His fingers trembled on his belt buckle, on his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the sterile silence. He pushed his pants and boxers down to his thighs.
He was already hard. A full, thick, unforgiving erection that curved up against his stomach, the head flushed a dark, angry red. The denial, the constant edge, had rewired him. Anxiety, fear, the adrenaline of almost being caught—it all fed the beast now.
“Look at that,” Sophia murmured off-screen. “Professional on top, a desperate fucking dog underneath. It’s poetic.”
“Describe it,” Conzi commanded. “For the report. Current physical state.”
His voice was a dry rasp. “I’m… fully erect. It’s… throbbing. The skin is tight. There’s pre-cum leaking. A lot.” As he said it, a clear, viscous drop swelled from his slit and slid down the shaft.
“I want you to stroke it,” Conzi said. “But you don’t get to come. You don’t get to ruin. You just get to stand there, in your executive bathroom, with your dick in your hand, and listen.”
He wrapped his hand around himself. The heat was startling. He gave a slow, tentative pull.
“Faster,” Sophia ordered. “You have a presentation to give. Get to the point.”
He sped up, the slick sound of his own desperation filling the stall. His breathing grew ragged. The peak approached, a terrifying, beautiful wave threatening to crash over him.
“Stop,” Conzi’s voice was a whip-crack.
He froze, his hand a tight ring at the base, squeezing viciously. The edge was a physical pain, a blade buried deep in his gut.
“Now listen,” she said, her tone shifting to a low, conversational venom. “I was thinking about your boss. Mr. Henderson. The one with the silver hair and the patronizing smile. Does he know what his star associate is doing right now? Does he know you’re in here, jerking your denied cock while he shakes hands with the C-suite?”
Chris whimpered, the sound echoing off the tile.
“I was thinking,” Conzi continued, leaning closer to her camera, “about how I’d fuck him. I’d have him bend me over that big oak desk of his. I wouldn’t let him use his pathetic, soft, old-man dick. I’d make him use a strap-on. A big, black, fake one. And I’d make you watch. I’d make you kneel in the corner with that massive, useless cock of yours throbbing, and I’d make you watch as I screamed and came on a piece of silicone while he grunted behind me.”
The imagery was so specific, so degrading. His cock twitched violently in his own grip, a fresh pulse of pre-cum spilling over his fingers.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sophia purred. “You’d get so fucking hard watching your boss fail to please a woman. Knowing you could, but you’re not allowed. Knowing your real job is to just leak on the floor like a broken faucet.”
“Stroke,” Conzi commanded. “Five strokes. Then stop.”
He obeyed, five rough, brutal tugs that sent him spiraling back toward the edge.
“Stop.”
He stopped, panting, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Now,” Conzi said, her voice cold and final. “I want you to ruin. I want you to ruin for the image of your boss fucking me with a fake cock while you watch. But I don’t want you to touch yourself. Take your hand away.”
It was impossible. The precipice was right there. To fall without being pushed…
“Do it,” Sophia hissed. “Let go, you pathetic piece of shit. Cream your own pants.”
He lifted his trembling hand from his shaft. The sensation of release, of surrender, triggered it. His body convulsed. His abs clenched in a brutal cramp. His cock kicked, and a thick, ragged spurt of semen arced through the air, followed by two weaker pulses, splattering across the front of his white dress shirt and the fine wool of his suit pants.
The orgasm was a hollow, wrenching collapse. Nothing pleasurable, just a violent, mechanical expulsion.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft drip on the floor.
“Photograph the evidence,” Conzi said, her voice devoid of any triumph. It was just a clinical order. “Then clean yourself up as best you can. You have a presentation to give.”
The screen went black.
He stared at the mess. Globs of white stark against the starched white cotton. The dark stain on his grey trousers. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. He took the picture, his hand shaking so badly the image was blurred. He uploaded it to the shared document.
He used damp paper towels to wipe the worst of it off his shirt, but the wet patch remained, translucent and damning. The stain on his pants was darker, obvious. There was no hiding it.
He zipped up, his spent cock a sore, shrunken weight. He looked in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes haunted. A stranger in a ruined suit.
He walked back to the conference room. Every step felt like a march to the gallows. He pushed the door open. All eyes turned to him. His boss, Mr. Henderson, with his silver hair and polite smile, frowned slightly at his disheveled state.
“Everything alright, Chris? You missed the introductions.”
“Sorry,” Chris murmured, his voice rough. “I… spilled coffee. All over myself.”
A younger associate sniffed the air discreetly, a faint, confused look crossing his face. He caught the scent. Metallic, salty, unmistakable to anyone who knew it.
Chris took his place, the damp, sticky fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin. He clicked to his first slide, his mind blank, the words on the screen swimming before his eyes. As he began to speak, his voice a hollow monotone, he saw Sophia’s comment pop up on his smartwatch, mirrored from the shared document.
‘Evidence logged and verified. Hypothesis confirmed. The dissonance is delicious. Proceed with presentation, dog. 🍆💦😉
He spoke for twenty minutes. He didn’t remember a single word. All he felt was the cooling stain on his thigh, the phantom vibration of his phone in his pocket, and the yawning, infinite depth of the cage he now lived in. The presentation was a failure. The clients were unimpressed. His boss was displeased. None of it mattered. The only review that mattered was the one being written in the shared document, in real time, by the women who owned him.