We’re sprawled on the couch with me in red lingerie, her in sleek black, when we notice you squirming. No bulge? Pathetic. We order you to strip, and there it is, a shriveled micropenis dangling between normal-sized balls. How does this even work? Morgana giggles, poking at your nub while I mock the absurdity of your load potential. But we’re curious. Can that pathetic worm actually cum? We shove a shot glass into your hands. Rub it! Harder. As you whimper, we count down 3, 2, 1! and watch in disbelief as you somehow fill the glass. Now drink it, I growl, tipping it down your throat. Good boy. At least your shame tastes interesting.