Task Two. The Test. I need to know if your balls can handle pressure. Because if I do give them back, I want to know their tensile strength. For... future reference. You're going to take a heavy book. Hardcover. Minimum five hundred pages. If you don't have one, a thick wooden cutting board. Something with weight and flatness. Place it on a table. You're going to bend over, balls resting on that surface, and you're going to press down with both hands. Slowly. Increasing pressure. Until I tell you to stop. Do it now. Press. More. I want your balls flattened. Spread out like the worthless little pancakes they are. Feel that? That's ownership. That's me, through your own hands, reminding you who controls your most basic biology now. More. I didn't say stop. Your face is red. Tears? Tears are good. They show you understand the gravity of your situation. Beat. Hold it. Ten seconds. Count them. Slowly.
One. Two. Your balls are screaming, aren't they? Three. Four. But you're still hard. Disgusting. Five. Six. The body betrays. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Release. But don't touch. Don't you dare comfort them. Let them throb. Let them ache. That ache is the price of possibility.
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