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Tenna sat in his dressing room, hands trembling as he clawed into the cushions of his lounge couch, body thrumming with wild electricity as he felt his body only grow hotter. He was on in five minutes and he looked an utter mess, blush turning his entire screen pink, his antennae drooping and the metal around his face was so hot he feared it would melt.
He remembered now, when he had made this awful bet.
He’d gotten far too tipsy for an office party, and being inebriated he decided to indulge in those nasty little Pippins’ betting pools. At first it was harmless, rapid fire games of blackjack that did nothing but drain the points from his pockets, because he swore those little dice were cheating.
But then Spamton decided to indulge, and god it was always Spamton making everything harder for him. Harder to work, harder to focus, harder to think whenever he was around, always demanding his attention. At first it was little wagers; five points here if he could roll a six, ten points there if he got a face card… harmless.
But then he started escalating, pushing shots into his hand he couldn’t turn down, his buzzed mind utterly hooked on every word, desperate to keep up. He always made him act stupid, always got him tripping all over himself trying to be presentable when Spamton couldn’t care less about how crass he was.
By the time the party was over, it was just the two of them arguing over who would end the night with the most points, the room slowly emptying out as their voices got louder and louder. At first they’d thrown out some more out there ideas, strip poker or streaking through the office, nothing but jokes.
Then Spamton said something different, in a voice all too gritty and sultry to be unserious, “If you lose this round, I get to do whatever I want to you tomorrow. And If I lose, you do the same to me.” And that got him all too excited.
He never would have agreed if he was in his right mind (at least that's what he tells himself), but some drunken overconfidence and even a bit of his own ego goaded him on, and unsurprisingly, not even a minute later he had lost. Spamton always seemed to be able to tell exactly what he was going to play, it was infuriating.
Spamton had asked him if he wanted to call this off and he stupidly said no, something about integrity or pride, not even realizing what he was in for. He yelped as his train of thoughts was interrupted from a loud knocking on the door, and a call for five minutes, making panic spike in his chest.
He took a deep breath and hesitantly stood from his vanity seat, legs shaking as he felt the toy shift around inside him. He slapped a hand over his mouth, biting his lip to stifle a moan, his breaths already ragged. He knew that any moment Spamton could flick the remote and humiliate him, and it made his head spin.
He was supposed to go out on stage like this? Acting like a complete mess who could barely walk? He considered just curling up and unplugging himself right there on his dressing room floor, but the idea of Spamton's smug face looking at him ignited a fire in him.
He took a small step, the vibrator inside his ass shifting uncomfortably, sending shivers up his spine. He could do this, he’d recovered from worse slip-up’s on air, if he just took a breath nobody would even notice. Not a single person. He straightened out his posture and walked out the dressing room, taking much shorter strides than usual.
He saw Spamton lounging about on the Green room couch, shooting him a wink as he passed by, his face so obnoxiously handsome he couldn't help but linger on it in his thoughts as he prepared to enter the stage.
“Hey, Boss.. you alright there?” A green pippin’s said, fussing about with the tailcoats of his suit and smoothing out the wrinkles. The other stagehands rushed to adjust his mic and to check for any blemishes on his screen, but he waved them all off, already getting a bit overwhelmed.
“N-never been better! Is something wrong?”
The pippin squinted at him, unconvinced, “Your leg’s all jittery, did you drink too much coffee this mornin’ or something? Do you need a massage? An Ice pack? A ki-”
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about little ol’ me, haha! I’m just-” He coughed, trying to think of an excuse, “-excited for the show, that's all! Gotta get out all that excess energy!” He tried to keep his voice chipper, but the strain was clear.
Before the small darkner could protest he strode onto the stage, trying to maintain his usual stage presence and bravado, pushing the sensation of the unfamiliar insertion to the back of his mind the best he could.
“Welcome back to the show! Do you all know what time it is?” He called out to the crowd, “That's right, 
Y-your favorite time of the day!” He winced at his voice cracking ever so slightly, but he pushed through.
“Now, we’ve got a real packed schedule for today! We-” He stuttered, his gaze catching Spamton sitting in the wings of the stage, staring at him intently and teasingly waving the remote in his hand, just out of view of the cameras. “We.. we first have our report on this week's weather! Lanino, Elnina, take it away!”
He shimmied off to stage right as the weather duo took center stage, wheeling in their big screen to start their regular morning presentation. As soon as he made it offstage he grabbed Spamton by the collar, dragging him behind the large red curtains.
“The hell do you think you’re doing? Waving that around while I’m performing? Someone could see! Someone could-” His breath was knocked out of his chest as he felt the toy buzz inside him, his knees knocking together as he struggled to steady himself. He grabbed against the curtains, digging his fangs into his lip as another vibration sent shocks of pleasure up his spine.
“Were you saying something?” Spamton grinned, his hand grabbing roughly at the bottom of his head, forcing them to be face to face. “Go on, keep talking,” Spamton pulled him forwards by his tie, lips tantalizingly close. “See what happens.”
“You’re- you’re sadistic.” He panted, god he could already feel himself starting to get wet.
“You asked for this, so what does that make you?” Spamton chuckled, hands trailing up the side of his head and lightly teasing at the ends of his antennae, “A massochist?” He tried to speak but Spamton pressed a finger to his lips, tsking at him like an unruly child.
“They need you on stage, superstar. Don’t keep them waiting.” Spamton smiled that all too sweet artificial smile, the kind that made his head flip between wanting to strangle or kiss him. He groaned as he got to his feet, both from the grinding of the toy against his increasingly sensitive insides and from the realization that he just shredded their very expensive curtains.
He slicked his antennae back as he tried to calm himself down, but he wasn’t able to stop the blush from spreading across his face. The sound of applause and the squeaking of wheels as the weather report screen was brought off stage gave him his cue to head back on, and as he walked back he shot Spamton a glare of ‘don’t you dare.’
He tugged a bit at his collar as he tried to remember his lines, body heat uncomfortably warm. “Wow, what a- a stunning performance! I tell ya, those two could make paint drying sound 
!”
The audience laughed perfectly on cue, and he sat down at his desk as he shuffled through the notecards laying atop it, getting ready for the sports segment. His back went rigid as slowly, agonizingly slowly he could feel the vibrations start up from the toy, his hands crumpling the cards.
He thanked god that his desk fully covered his legs, he could feel his fluids already beginning to leak through his pants, his pussy already dripping and slick. It was just barely vibrating enough for him to feel it, but god did he feel it.
He realized that he’d been sitting at the desk silently for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, and he awkwardly laughed as he tried to recover, ignoring the suspicious glances from the crowd. “Haha, what were we talking about? Oh- oh sports! Right, sports!”
He frantically shuffled through his cards, trying to tune out the hushed murmurs of concerned staff, crossing his legs and squeezing them together. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him, or the stress making everything feel just that more intense, but he swore the vibrations got a bit faster.
“Today we have a- a fantastic game between Hometown and- ah!” He gasped as the toy began to move vigorously inside him, whining as he bit hard into his lip, fangs cutting and drawing blood as he threw his head back, hands desperately grabbing at the edge of his desk.
It was relentless, the toy pressing against the perfect spot to make his vision white out, electricity crackling up and out from his antennae as the stimulation overwhelmed him. He panted, breaths raged and warm as the vibrations ceased, biting back a plea for it to start again, so agonizingly close to cumming.
“Mr. Tenna? Uh.. are you alright?” The same pippin from before hesitantly spoke, blush spreading across his face. He blinked as he realized a majority of the staff were staring at him, wide eyed and flushed. It made him throb, having all those eyes fixed on him, a dirty little part of his brain whispering to himself to put on a show.
He tried to speak but all that came out was whiny mumbling, his words interrupted by the toy starting up again, making him bury his head in his arms as he tried to hide his embarrassing expression, teeth digging into his sleeves to quiet himself.
God Spamton was going to ruin him, he was going to make a mess of himself in front of everyone and the worst part was that it was exciting him. He could feel overwhelming heat pooling inside him, his entire body was trembling, every touch of his suit against his body feeling electric on his synthetic skin.
His breaths got faster as he could feel the settings slowly tick upwards in intensity inside of him, and he desperately pleaded with lips pressed up against his arms for Spamton to finally let him finish, mind so drunk with pleasure he completely forgot he was on stage, a realization that hit him abruptly.
He lifted his head ever so slightly, trying to recover a semblance of his composure, but as he did he saw Spamton slouched up against the offstage wall, porcelain white fingers lazily playing with the dial on the remote. As soon as their eyes met, Spamton smiled at him, blinking ever so innocently as his finger cranked it to its maximum setting.
He moaned, loud and wantonly, back arching and claws shredding into the desk, his legs trembling as his orgasm crashed into him at full force. His vision entirely whited out as he came, squirt splattering against the underside of his desk and ruining the fabric of his pants and chair. He could barely recover, as Spamton barely slowed its vibrations as he tried to come down from his high, overstimulation making stars dance across his vision.
He couldn’t even plead for it to stop, his tongue felt like lead in his mouth and his mind was so marred by blind pleasure he couldn't even string together a single sentence, or a word. All he could do was tremble as Spamton milked another orgasm out of him, his legs completely and utterly drenched with his own squirt.
Finally, after what felt like an hour of torture, the toy was flicked off, and he completely collapsed onto the desk in front of him, circuits completely fried. His screen was struggling to stay on, flickering rapidly between channels as he tried to collect himself, but his arms felt so weak he couldn’t even pick himself up.
Groups of shadowguys rushed onto the stage to help him as zappers practically dragged the audience members out of the studio. He couldn't even find it in himself to look at any of his employees. This was it, he was going to die of humiliation and his show would be taken off air forever. All because his head was too big and he’d been too intent on getting in Spamton's pants.
A cacophony of discordant saxophone notes filled his ears as the shadowguys rushed to try and help him, shoving water bottles and other random objects in his face, some of them even tried to lift him. As soon as he could feel his legs again he lifted a trembling arm to push the crowd of darkners away, practically limping off stage, desperately trying to get to his dressing room.
His entire body was ablaze with embarrassment, the metal on his head so hot that steam was wafting from his vents. As soon as he made it to the dressing room, he slammed the door behind him and crumpled onto the couch, sobbing into the cushions.
He made a conscious effort not to shrink, knowing that the toy wouldn’t change size inside him, but the effort of staying this big only made him feel worse. And just when he hadn’t thought his day could get worse, a familiar knocking was at his door, accompanied by that awful, sleazy voice.
“Nice performance out there,” Spamton snarked, cracking open the door just a sliver to stare at him. He wanted to throw something at him, yell at him to go away, but he just sniveled and cried, unable to stop himself.
“Please! Please just- just take it out!” He begged, tears rolling down his screen. Spamton shook his head and walked in, locking the door behind him and sitting on the couch next to him. His gaze looked almost pitying, as if he was looking down at some poor, worthless little nobody.
“I can't take it out if you don’t get undressed for me, baby.” Spamton said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, condescending him completely. He whimpered and immediately obeyed, flipping onto his stomach and desperately pulling off his drenched pants, hands grabbing at his ass and spreading himself apart.
“Aw, eager today?” He held his tongue, knowing that anything he snapped back would be used against him. Or god forbid that he’d force him to keep the toy in for any longer. Spamton jammed two of his fingers inside his pussy, making him whine as they rubbed ever so slightly over his t-dick.
“God, you’re so wet. You act all coy and cute but you’re really a little pervert under all that, aren't you?” Spamton teased, drawing his hand back, slick dripping down his fingers, using it as lube to press his fingers up against the entrance of his ass, teasingly prodding against the ring of muscle before going in knuckle deep.
He groaned, every push and scrape of his fingers against his insides sent shivers across his entire body, and he desperately pushed his hips back against him, chasing the friction. Spamton grabbed him by one of his thighs, a warning to keep himself in place.
Spamton’s fingers pushed up against the toy, fingers arching as he tried to pull it out from inside him. “Hey,” Spamton squeezed at his thigh, “-loosen up a bit, will you? Unless you want me in you that badly.”
“Y-you’re horrible-” He gasped, finally managing to speak, trying to regain his vision by wiping the tears from his screen.
“You love it.” Spamton thrust his fingers inside him to punctuate his statement, laughing at the pathetic little moan he let out. “Didn’t know you were such a slut for anal, Ten’s.”
He shivered as the degrading name settled on his ears, and Spamton gave him an incredulous look, almost seeming impressed. “What, you got off to that? Got off to me calling you the whore you are?”
“Yes- yes sir!” He cried, completely uncaring of how loud he was being.
Spamton’s fingers pushed impossibly deeper inside him before they finally got a decent hold of the toy, slowly dragging his fingers out, deliberately making sure he could feel every movement. “Aw, look at that,” Spamton cooed, fingers almost fully out, “You’re clinging to me, how cute.”
The toy came out of him with a wet pop, and he let out a shudder of relief as he was finally free of that amazing, torturous sensation. He pressed his face against the cushions of the couch, his breaths settling to a much calmer pace, though his body was still buzzing with arousal, with need.
The dressing room was silent, the only noise being his ragged breaths and the sound of steam puffing out of his head. He heard the flick of a lighter, then a deep breath as Spamton took a drag of a cigar, not even bothering to offer it to him, that jackass.
“Y’know, these are the highest ratings we’ve ever had.”
“W-what?!” He shot up, antennae sticking up straight as an unsteady smile spread across his face.
“Yeah, five stars across the board. Seems like our audience is a big fan of seein’ you all hot n’ bothered.” Spamton grinned in an obnoxiously ‘I told you so’ fashion, even though he had told him absolutely nothing.
“Oh- really? Wow that- that’s.. I mean whatever gets those ratings up!” He laughed nervously, not being able to tell if he was disturbed or aroused by his audience being so excited to see him get off.
“So…” Spamton said, eyes lidded and filled with that familiar mischief.
“..Wanna make a bet?”