My designation was once Captain Rhys Valenti, elite corporate fixer.
Now I am simply Unit 07.
Property of Dr. Valeria Crowe and the all-female Board of Directors of Erebus Corporation.
After a hostile takeover executed in one night, I was stripped, rewired, and converted into the perfect corporate pleasure asset.
I exist to serve, obey, and satisfy every executive woman in the tower.
Cyberpunk corporate harem log ▪ ex-CEO turned permanent naked pleasure drone ▪ neural implants, glass offices, executive penthouse orgies, boardroom gangbangs, chastity cage with biometric lock, 24/7 surveillance and remote edging ▪ adults only
They came at 3:07 a.m. Dr. Valeria Crowe — ice-blonde, black latex coat, augmented eyes glowing crimson — walked into my penthouse office with twelve armed female operatives. I reached for the panic button. She smiled and pressed a finger to her temple. My neural implants (my own company’s tech) locked every muscle.
Within minutes I was naked, on my knees, wrists magnet-cuffed behind my back. Valeria crouched, lifted my chin with one gloved finger, and whispered, “Congratulations, Rhys. Your net worth just transferred to me… and so did you.”
Level -7, sub-basement. White sterile lights. They shaved every hair below my neck, injected nanites that make denial exquisite torture, fitted a titanium chastity cage with biometric lock keyed only to female executive thumbprints, and installed a pleasure-collar that shocks or vibrates on command.
Valeria ran the final test herself: forced me to my knees in front of the mirrored wall, edged me for six hours, then made me thank her on my knees while the cage pulsed. “Welcome to your new job description, Unit 07.”
Monday 09:00. Glass boardroom, 87th floor. I crawled in naked on a glowing leash. Twelve directors in power suits, heels clicking. Valeria sat at the head, pressed a button, and my collar vibrated in greeting. While they discussed Q3 projections, I serviced each woman under the table — perfectly silent, perfectly obedient. When the CFO came on my tongue, stock prices hit record high. Valeria smiled: “See? He’s already profitable.”
The private express elevator is mirrored on all sides. Any executive can stop it between floors, override the lock, and use me against the glass while the city watches 900 meters below. Some film it for morale videos. My cage has a vibrating ring that activates automatically when the elevator moves — perpetual edging during every ride.
Valeria’s 120th-floor residence is floor-to-ceiling transparent. At night the city glows below while up to thirty high-ranking women use me on rotation. They bet on how many orgasms I can give before passing out. I always lose. Valeria keeps the winnings and kisses me goodnight with the taste of the entire C-suite on my lips.
Every executive has an app. One tap and my cage vibrates, shocks, or milks me hands-free. During all-hands meetings I kneel under Valeria’s desk while random employees trigger pulses for fun. Once, during a hostile takeover negotiation, the opposing CEO (female, of course) hacked the app and edged me for four straight hours on the call. We still won the deal.
End-of-quarter tradition: I am strapped to a rotating platform in the atrium while every female employee (over 800 now) takes a turn. Performance metrics are projected live on the walls: “Orgasms Delivered: 1,847 — Target Exceeded.” Valeria presents me with a bonus — one full night of sleep without the cage vibrating. I cry from gratitude.
When we acquired a rival megacorp, both companies’ female staff celebrated by chaining me and the rival’s captured male assets together in the rooftop helipad. Two hundred women, neon rain, thumping bass. We serviced them in tandem until sunrise. Valeria recorded it in 8K and sent it to every shareholder as “synergy footage.”
Valeria now runs an internship program: top-performing female graduates spend a weekend “testing” me as part of orientation. I am kept in a glass display cube in the lobby, naked and hard, while fresh graduates line up. Their feedback forms determine my nightly intensity settings.
I am thirty now. Haven’t worn clothes in six years. My old name is deleted from every database. My cage has never comes off unless a director wants to ride me raw. Neural logs show 100% compliance, 0% resistance.
Every morning Valeria visits my charging pod, strokes my cheek, and whispers through the glass:
“Good morning, Unit 07.
You used to own the world.
Now the world owns you —
one executive orgasm
at a time.
Forever online.
Forever hers.
Forever.