You arrived fifteen minutes early.
The address was a professional building on the east side of town — the kind with a shared lobby and a directory of tenants behind glass. Dentists. Accountants. A physiotherapy clinic.
And on the third floor: BTA — Suite 301.
No signage in the elevator. No signage in the hallway. Just a plain door with a small keypad. Your phone buzzed as you approached:
Welcome, Candidate 3187. Your appointment is confirmed. Please enter the code: 4418.
You typed it in. The lock clicked.
The waiting room was small, clean, and empty. Two chairs. A water cooler. A single magazine on the side table — something about wellness, the cover too generic to remember. A frosted glass partition separated you from whatever was behind it.
A woman's voice from a speaker near the ceiling: "Please take a seat. Your panel will be ready shortly."
You sat. Your phone was in your pocket. Your cock was half-hard — had been since you'd woken up.
Two days without touching yourself. The longest you'd gone since you were thirteen. The system had told you not to, and you hadn't, and you didn't want to think about what that obedience meant.
The frosted glass slid open.
"Candidate 3187? We're ready for you."
The room behind the glass was larger than you expected.
Bright. Clinical. White walls, good lighting, a conference table where three women sat on one side with tablets and notebooks and water glasses and a mounted screen on the wall behind them. A single chair on the other side — yours.
And mounted to a frame beside the chair, at roughly waist height, something you didn't understand yet.
A metal apparatus. Two horizontal cords stretched taut between adjustable posts, and suspended between them — a ring. Small. Polished steel. Floating in the air like a strange piece of modern art.
You looked at it. Looked away. Sat down.
"Good afternoon, Candidate." The woman in the center spoke first. Mid-thirties. Dark hair pulled back. Glasses. She reached for a tablet in front of her, tapped the screen, and your profile loaded — you could see the pink classification badge from across the table.
"Thank you for coming in. We've reviewed your application and your assessment data. Very thorough responses. The system flagged your honesty metrics as above average."
"Thank you," you said, though you weren't sure what you were being thanked for.
"Before we begin the in-person assessment, we need to sync your device to our system. This was outlined in your consent agreement — Section 4, paragraph 2." She extended her hand. "Please unlock your phone and hand it to me."
Your phone. With everything on it. Everything.
"We'll connect it to our server for the duration of the session. The system will compile a comprehensive candidate profile from your device data — browsing history, media library, application usage, communications. This allows us to cross-reference your self-reported profile with your actual behavioral patterns."
The woman on the left leaned forward. Warm eyes. Cream jacket. The kind of face that made you want to explain yourself.
"I can see you're nervous. That's okay — most candidates are at this stage. But sweetie, you're here because someone who loves you thought you were ready. Your mother wants you to succeed. You want to succeed. And to get the most out of this process, you need to trust it."
"You want to do that don't you? To trust the process?"
You nodded. Took your phone out of your pocket. Unlocked it. Handed it over.
The woman with glasses took it and connected it to a cable that ran to a port beneath the mounted screen. A progress bar appeared on the wall:
Syncing Candidate Device… 4%… 11%… 23%…
You watched your life upload.
At 47%, the first images appeared.
Not on a small tablet. On the wall screen. Five feet wide. Every pixel of your private life projected in a bright room while three women watched.
And then the woman with glasses started narrating your life without inflection. Reading from her tablet as the system organized your data into categories.
"Candidate's device contains 3,214 images. The system has identified 611 as adult content. Sorting by category."
The screen populated. Thumbnails. Hundreds of them. Organized into clusters with labels generated by the AI:
Female Authority — 314 images (51%)
Size Comparison — 127 images (21%)
Female-Led Intercourse — 88 images (14%)
Clothed Female / Exposed Male — 52 images (8%)
Other — 30 images (5%)
"Just over half your saved content involves women in positions of authority," she noted. "Teachers. Bosses. Older women. Women giving instructions." She tapped her tablet. A selection of thumbnails enlarged on the wall. Your favorites. The ones you'd saved. The ones you'd gone back to again and again.
You stared at the floor. Your face was on fire.
The woman on the left tilted her head. "You're embarrassed?"
You weren't sure if it was a question or a note.
"Most candidates are. At this stage."
The woman on the right wrote something in her notebook without looking up.
At 68%, the browser history loaded.
969 visits to adult content sites in past 90 days.
Average session duration: 6 minutes, 14 seconds.
Most frequent search terms:
They appeared on the wall one by one. Your search terms. The things you'd typed into a browser at 2am in your mother's basement thinking no one would ever know.
"is 4.4 inches small"
"average penis size"
"do women care about size"
"small penis humiliation"
"woman measures boyfriend"
"caught masturbating by roommate"
"good boy praise audio"
The last one hung on the screen. Good boy praise audio. You'd searched for it eleven times in the past month.
The woman with glasses made a note. As did the woman on the right. The woman on the left looked at you with an expression that was somehow worse than judgment — it was understanding.
At 89%, the measurement photo appeared.
The image you'd taken during the application. Your erect cock in your childhood bedroom, captured by the app's measurement protocol. The targeting overlay still visible. The system's scan lines. Your 4.4 inches centered on a wall screen in a professional office while three women looked at it the way doctors look at an X-ray.
"The self-reported measurement," said the woman with glasses. "We'll verify this shortly."
Sync complete. Candidate device profile compiled.
She disconnected your phone but didn't return it. She set it on the table beside her, face down.
"Thank you, Candidate. Your behavioral data is consistent with your self-reported profile. The system has identified no significant discrepancies in your browsing patterns."
"There is one notation. Your search history shows eleven searches for 'good boy praise audio' in the past thirty days. The system has flagged this as a primary reinforcement trigger. We'll incorporate that into your assessment."
She said it like it was a line item. A data point. Not a secret. Not a shame. Just a fact about your wiring that the system had extracted from your phone and filed in the appropriate column.
"Now," she said. "The physical verification and visual arousal and projection assessment."
She stood. Walked to the metal apparatus beside your chair — the ring on its two suspended cords.
"During your application, you self-reported your measurements. This stage verifies those numbers under observed conditions and assesses your arousal and projection to controlled stimuli."
She adjusted the height of the frame — raising it slightly, checking a measurement on the post.
"Please stand, push down your pants and underwear to your ankles, and step forward to the assessment station."
The room was bright. The screen behind the panel still showed your device summary — categories, search terms, the measurement photo. You were going to undress in front of all of it. In front of them.
The woman on the left smiled. "Take your time. There's no rush."
You stood. Unbuckled your belt. Your fingers were trembling. You pushed your jeans down. Your boxers — plain, dark blue, the kind your mother bought in packs of six.
"Everything below the waist, Candidate."
You pushed your boxers down. Left them there bunched around your ankles. You stood there half-naked. Your cock already hardening — two days of abstinence and three women's attention working on you simultaneously.
"Step forward to the ring, please."
You shuffled forward. The ring was at hip height — almost, but not quite. You'd have to rise slightly. Adjust.
"This ring was calibrated to your reported girth measurement," the woman with glasses said. "3.8 inches. It's designed to maintain consistent contact with the penile shaft during the visual arousal and projection protocol. You'll need to insert your penis fully."
She said insert your penis the way someone might say sign here.
You looked at the ring. Small. Polished. Suspended between its cords, perfectly still. Waiting for you. Machined for you. Built to your specifications — your inadequacy made into an instrument.
"You may need to rise onto your toes slightly to achieve the correct angle," she added, consulting her tablet. "The frame is set for optimal sensor alignment."
You rose onto your toes. Guided yourself forward. The head of your cock touched the ring — cool steel, precise, snug. You pushed through.
The ring gripped your cock. Not painfully — perfectly. Custom-fitted to your girth, holding you with the exact pressure of a hand that knows your measurements and doesn't need to guess.
A small light on the ring's housing pulsed green.
Candidate's penis seated. Ring calibrated. Beginning verification.
"Hold still," she said. "The ring is taking baseline measurements."
You stood there. On your toes. Your cock through a steel ring in a bright room. The woman with glasses checking data. The woman on the left watching your face. The one on your right, making a note, seemingly uninterested in your cock.
Verified erect length: 4.2 inches.
Verified erect girth: 3.7 inches.
The numbers appeared on the wall screen beside your application numbers.
Self-reported: 4.4 / 3.8
Verified: 4.2 / 3.7
"Minor discrepancy," the woman with glasses noted. "Self-reported measurements were optimistic by approximately five percent. This is within the normal range for candidates. The system has updated your profile."
Five percent. You'd been generous with yourself in the dark and the system had caught it in the light. Your cock was now officially smaller than you'd told it you were.
The woman on the right wrote something in her notebook.
"Now the visual arousal and projection assessment," the woman with glasses said.
She returned to her seat. Tapped her tablet. The wall screen cleared — your search history, your photos, your measurement comparison all disappeared, replaced by a neutral grey.
"You'll be shown a series of images. Each image will display for ten seconds. During those ten seconds, remain still — the ring will record your passive response. After ten seconds, you'll hear a series of five chimes. On each chime, you are to thrust your penis forward through the ring once and withdraw. One hump per chime."
She looked at you over her glasses.
"The chimes are not evenly spaced. Do not anticipate them. Respond only when you hear them. The purpose of the thrusting motion is to reset your arousal baseline between images — think of it as a palate cleanser. The ring reads your tumescence on each pass, giving us a response curve for every stimulus."
"You are not to ejaculate during this assessment. If you feel yourself losing control, stop moving and inform us immediately. Premature discharge during the visual protocol will not disqualify you, but it will be recorded and factored into your classification. Do you understand?"
"Yes," you said. On your toes. Your cock in a ring. Three women watching.
A woman in a charcoal blazer. Seated behind a desk. Looking directly at the camera. Her expression: patient, expectant, as though she'd asked a question and was waiting for an answer she already knew.
Ten seconds. You looked at her. The ring registered. You felt your cock thicken slightly — not dramatically, but the ring felt it. The ring felt everything.
The first chime — a clear, bell-like tone. You thrust forward. The ring slid along your shaft, snug, reading you. You withdrew.
Silence. Two seconds. Three.
The second chime — lower, longer. You thrust. Withdrew. Your cock slick with the precum that had been building since you'd undressed.
A pause. Longer this time. You waited on your toes, trembling slightly, not knowing when—
Third chime. Thrust. The ring gripped you and released. Your thighs were already starting to burn from the tiptoe position.
Fourth chime — quick, almost overlapping with the third. You barely withdrew before pushing forward again.
Silence. A long silence. Five seconds. Six. You were about to—
Fifth chime. Thrust. Withdraw.
Image 1 complete. Passive response: moderate. Active response: stable. Baseline reset confirmed.
The screen went grey. You stood in the ring, breathing. The neutral screen lasted five seconds. Long enough for your heartbeat to settle. Not long enough for your cock to soften.
A man on his knees. Scrubbing a hardwood floor. He was shirtless. At the edge of the frame — a woman's bare feet. Just her feet. She was standing. Watching him work.
You felt it happen — felt the ring tighten around you as you thickened, felt the steel register the change before your mind had fully processed what it was responding to. Not the man. Not the floor. The feet. The standing. The geometry of a woman upright and a man below her.
Ten seconds. The ring reading your passive response the entire time. You couldn't hide it. You couldn't think it away. The steel was snug around you and your cock was telling it everything.
First chime. You thrust. Harder than image one — your cock wanted to move now, wanted friction, wanted the ring to grip you.
Second chime. Thrust. A sound escaped your throat. Not a moan — a breath that had too much voice in it.
The woman on the right looked up from her notebook. Looked at your face. Wrote something.
Third chime. Thrust. You were leaking steadily now, the ring slick, the slide smoother with each pass.
Fourth chime. You thrust and almost didn't stop — almost kept going, almost chased the friction one stroke too many. You caught yourself. Withdrew. Stood trembling.
Fifth chime. Thrust. Withdraw. The effort of stopping left your legs shaking.
Image 2 complete. Passive response: elevated. Active response: escalating. Candidate advised to monitor ejaculatory proximity.
The grey screen returned. You were breathing hard. Your cock was throbbing in the ring. The palate cleanser wasn't cleansing — it was building.
"You're doing well," said the woman on the left. Soft. Warm. "Just breathe."
A close-up of a woman's hand. She was holding something small and metallic between her thumb and forefinger. The object was out of focus — it could have been a ring, a key, a clasp. Something that locked or unlocked or contained.
Your cock pulsed. Not because you knew what it was. Because you knew what it could be. The ambiguity was the test — your cock was filling in the blank, projecting its own fear, its own desire, onto a blurred piece of metal in a woman's hand.
The chimes. Five thrusts. Each one registering how your cock interpreted an image your mind couldn't resolve.
Passive response: moderate-high. Interpretive arousal detected. Candidate's penis assigned meaning to ambiguous stimulus.
Two people in bed. The woman on top. Riding. Her back arched. The man beneath her was almost invisible — just a shape, a surface, a thing being used. Her hands were on his chest, pressing him down. His face wasn't in the frame.
You remembered your browser history on the wall behind them. Female-Led Intercourse — 88 images (14%). They knew this was your category before they showed it to you.
The chimes came. You thrust. Each pass through the ring was harder to control now — your cock was four images into a protocol designed to escalate you and you were standing on your toes with your cock in a custom-fitted ring and a woman was telling you to breathe and you were trying, you were trying so hard—
"Candidate," said the woman with glasses. "Your ejaculatory proximity is at 78%. Do you need a pause?"
"No," you said. "I'm fine."
You weren't fine. You were nowhere near fine. But the system had told you that premature discharge would be recorded and factored and you couldn't — you couldn't be the candidate who came during calibration.
Passive response: high. Active response: near-threshold. Ejaculatory proximity flagged.
A woman looking at a phone screen. Smiling. Not at the camera — at whatever was on the screen. She was sitting on a couch, casual, comfortable, her face lit by the phone's glow. Amused. Delighted, even. The way someone looks when they've been shown something unexpectedly funny.
She was looking at your photos. That's what your cock decided. She was looking at your photos. Your measurement. Your mugshots. Your 4.2 inches on a screen in her hand and she was smiling the way you smile when something is smaller than you expected and more endearing because of it.
The ring registered a spike that made the woman with glasses tap her tablet twice.
The chimes. Five thrusts. Each one a negotiation between your cock's need to release and your mind's terror of releasing. The ring was slick. Your legs were trembling. The woman on the right was writing steadily.
Passive response: very high. Candidate demonstrates elevated arousal to perceived female evaluation of his own data. Narcissistic-inadequacy feedback loop confirmed.
A pair of panties. Laid flat on a white surface. Photographed from above. Bikini cut. Pale pink. A small bow at the front. Simple. Pretty. The kind of underwear that wasn't trying to be sexy and was devastating because of it.
Like your classification. Like the badge on your profile. Like the word that had been glowing on your phone screen for two days.
Your cock didn't just respond. It answered. A full, aching throb that the ring transmitted instantly to whatever system was reading you. Your whole body tightened — balls drawing up, stomach clenching, the orgasm you'd been fighting building from the base of your spine.
"Candidate." The woman with glasses. Her voice was firm. "Your proximity is at 91%. Do you need to stop?"
"No — I — give me a second—"
"Take a breath," said the woman on the left. "You're doing so well. Just hold it."
The chimes began before you were ready. First chime. You thrust forward and the ring slid and the friction was almost enough, almost, the slick steel gripping you perfectly—
You stopped. Mid-thrust. Held yourself inside the ring. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"Good," said the woman with glasses. "Hold there."
You stood. On your toes. Your cock buried in a ring. The image of pink panties on the wall. Three women watching you not come.
Second chime. You withdrew. Thrust. Withdrew. Shaking.
Third. Fourth. Fifth. Each one a cliff edge. Each one survived by the thinnest margin of control you'd ever exercised in your life.
Image 6 complete. Passive response: maximum recorded. Active response: near-ejaculatory. Candidate maintained control. Flagged for elevated response to feminization-adjacent stimuli — color association pathway confirmed.
The grey screen. You stood in the ring. Panting. Your cock furious. Your legs barely holding you.
A man standing in front of a mirror. Shirtless. Looking at himself. Not flexing. Not performing. Just looking. Assessing. Seeing what was there and what wasn't.
Your cock softened. Not fully — but noticeably. The ring registered the retreat. After six images of women and authority and service and panties, the image of a man alone with his reflection was the thing that cooled you. Not because it wasn't arousing. Because it was too honest.
The chimes. Five thrusts. Each one easier than the last. The ring reading your diminished response, your cock's quiet recognition that the man in the mirror was you and the mirror didn't flatter.
Passive response: decreased. Self-recognition response consistent with inadequacy awareness. Candidate's arousal is externally organized — requires female stimulus to activate.
Two women. Close together. One whispering in the other's ear. Both looking at the camera. Both smiling. Not cruelly — conspiratorially. The way women smile when they share a secret about a man who doesn't know he's been discussed.
Your cock slammed back to full hardness.
The ring gripped you and the data spiked and the woman on the right looked up from her notebook and looked at your cock in the ring and then at the woman with glasses and then wrote something and underlined it.
The chimes. You thrust and the sound you made on the second chime was audible and the woman on the left said "You're okay, you're almost done" and you thrust again on the third chime and the ring was so slick and your cock was so hard and they were watching, all three of them watching, the way the women in the image were watching, the way every woman who'd ever discussed you without your knowledge was watching—
Fourth chime. Fifth chime. You thrust. Withdrew. Stood trembling in the ring. Didn't come. Barely didn't come. Your cock pulsing, leaking, twitching in the steel, but holding. Holding because the system told you to hold and you held.
Image 8 complete. Passive response: maximum recorded. Active response: near-ejaculatory. Candidate demonstrates primary arousal to female conspiracy — being discussed, evaluated, and found amusing by women in private. Highest response of entire protocol.
Visual Arousal and Projection Assessment: COMPLETE.
The woman with glasses tapped her tablet. The screen went dark.
"You can step back from the ring now, Candidate."
You withdrew. Your cock slid free of the steel — wet, hard, aching, furious at being denied for eight images and forty chimes.
You sat. Naked. Your pants and boxers still bunched at your ankles. Your cock pointing at the ceiling. She turned the screen back on.
Your response profile filled the wall.
A heat map. Eight columns — one per image. Each column shaded from blue (minimal response) through green and yellow to deep red (maximum). Your passive response. Your active response. Your proximity readings. Your tumescence curves on each pass through the ring.
Image 1 — Authority: warm orange.
Image 2 — Service/Domestic: deep red.
Image 3 — Ambiguous Object: yellow-orange.
Image 4 — Female-Led Sex: red.
Image 5 — Female Evaluation: deep red.
Image 6 — Panties/Color: deepest red. Maximum recorded.
Image 7 — Self-Recognition: blue-green.
Image 8 — Female Conspiracy: deepest red. Maximum recorded. Tied with Image 6.
Two peaks. Pink panties and women whispering. Your cock had given the same maximum response to a pair of underwear and the idea of being discussed.
"Your projection pattern is highly consistent," she said. "Primary triggers: feminization-adjacent stimuli and perceived female evaluation. Secondary triggers: domestic service positioning and female-led authority. Minimal response to self-image. This is a textbook Pink profile."
"Your self-reported classification from the application phase was accurate. The system has now verified it through observed physiological response. Your profile has been updated."
The screen shifted. Your candidate card appeared — the one that had been building since the application. But fuller now. More complete.
Candidate 3187 — VERIFIED PROFILE
Classification: PINK — Responsive / Unpartnered (Confirmed)
Verified length: 4.2 in
Verified girth: 3.7 in
Application latency: 38 sec
Primary response: Feminization-adjacent / Female conspiracy
Secondary response: Service-domestic / Female authority
Compliance orientation: Primary
Praise trigger: Confirmed ("good boy" — 11 search instances)
Ejaculatory control under observation: Adequate (maintained through 8-image protocol)
Self-reported accuracy: 95% (minor measurement inflation)
The woman on the left smiled at you. Warm. Real.
"You did really well. The eight-image protocol is difficult — most candidates can't maintain control past image five. The fact that you held through all eight tells us a lot about your suitability."
The woman with glasses closed her tablet. "You're advancing to the challenge phase, Candidate. There will be a series of tasks — practical, psychological, social — designed to assess your readiness for the program. You'll receive instructions through the app."
She picked up your phone. Held it out to you.
"Your device has been returned to its original state. The data we've collected is stored on our system, not your phone."
You took it. The screen felt different in your hand now. Not heavier — known. The phone that knew your search history and your measurement and your response to pink panties was back in your pocket, and somewhere on a server, three women had a file that contained everything it had confessed.
The woman on the right spoke for the first time.
"Image six," she said. "The panties. You almost lost control."
It wasn't a question. You nodded.
She wrote one final note. Closed her notebook. Looked at you — not unkindly, not warmly, just precisely.
The woman with glasses held the door open and you shuffled out with your jeans and underwear around your ankles and your cock still hard. And only after the door closed were you permitted to pull up your pants and underwear. Standing in the corridor of a professional building between a dentist's office and an accounting firm.
The elevator. The lobby. The parking lot. The daylight hitting you like a slap.
Interview: COMPLETE
Visual Arousal and Projection Assessment Profile: RECORDED
Classification: PINK — Verified
Challenge Phase: ACTIVE
Your first challenge will be issued within 72 hours. Please maintain abstinence protocols. The system is monitoring your activity.
Congratulations, Candidate 3187. Your penis was very honest today.
You sat in your car. Hands on the wheel. You thought about the ring — its impression still faintly visible around your shaft. A thin line where the steel had held you for twenty minutes while three women watched your cock confess things your mouth never would have.
"How did it go, sweetie?"
"Good, Mom. I think I passed."
"Oh, wonderful! Mrs. Harmon will be so pleased. She said Tyler's interview was the hardest part — she said after that, everything just falls into place."
"I'm so proud of you, sweetie. I really am."
You sat in the parking lot. Engine off. Your mother's voice in your ear. The word PINK on your phone screen. A thin red line around your cock where a custom-fitted ring had read you like a book.
Everything just falls into place.
This is the second in our Beta Training Academy series — on interviews, algorithms, and what happens when a quiet boy plugs his phone into a system that already knows everything about him.
Previously: BTA 01 — The Application
If you'd like to read more of my work, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.
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