Sissy Boi

"Yeah," you say. "It was — yeah."

"Good." She sets down a package. Studies you. That quick, appraising look — not at your face, but lower. At your crotch. Reading you the way someone reads a gauge.

"He's been quiet today, hasn't he?" she says. "I kept him nice and soft for you. I thought you could use the rest."

Your cock. She's talking about your cock. He's been quiet. Like your cock is a pet she put in a crate for the afternoon.

"I — yes. He's been —"

"Good." She steps around the counter. "But I think it's time we put your little guy in service mode."

You blink.

"Service — what?"

"Service mode," she repeats. Casual. Like she's telling you about a phone setting. Like your penis is a device that can be toggled between configurations.

She watches your confusion. That warm smile. She doesn't explain right away. She lets the not-knowing sit in you, lets it fizz, lets your face burn.

Then she reaches out and takes your hand. Pulls you closer to the counter. Her voice drops — not to a whisper, but to that register she uses when she's teaching you something. When she's peeling back a layer.

"The Ring-Ring network is for women, buttercup," she says. "The alphas provide the sex. The betas provide the service."

You don't know what she means. Not yet. But the word alpha lands somewhere in your chest and you feel something tighten.

"Each woman who has a subscription in the network is issued a gold coin."

She reaches into her pocket. Produces a small coin — gold, smooth, about the size of a quarter.

She holds it up between her fingers. "The coin delivers beta bucks to betas who perform service."

She taps the coin against your pants. Right over the Ring.

Beep.

And then — something. Not in the Ring itself. Deeper. A signal, a pulse, a warmth that spreads through your groin and settles in your testicles.

A low, gentle hum. Like a massage. Like someone cupping your balls in a warm hand and squeezing, just slightly, just enough.

"Mmmh —" The sound comes out of you before you can stop it.

Robin smiles. Pleased. Delighted.

"There," she says. "You see? You're like a little piggy bank now. You collect beta bucks and the Ring fills up your tiny testicles."

Tiny testicles. The words land. Your face burns. But the warmth in your balls is spreading, settling, and it feels — it feels good. It feels like something you didn't know you wanted.

"So in service mode," she continues, "your job is to serve the women in the network. Fill your piggy bank. And the Ring fills your balls."

She pauses. Lets the economics of it settle.

"And if you earn enough beta bucks — like a little boy who has saved his money — you can ask your female if you can spend your beta bucks on some humpy time."

She's beaming. She's genuinely delighted by the elegance of the system. Like she's explaining a business model she's proud of.

"As my beta, you'll empty your piggy bank to empty your balls. And on it goes." She laughs. Soft. "It took a bit of trial and error, but now the system runs wonderfully."

You're standing there with a warm hum in your testicles and your face burning and you don't know what to say. You don't know what to do.

She's talking about you like you're a product. Like you're a vending machine that takes service and dispenses arousal.

"So," she says. Brisk. Warm. "I'm putting your little guy in service mode. If you want any more humpy time, you're going to have to find those beta bucks."

She looks past you.

"Speaking of which —"

A man is approaching. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, clean jaw, the kind of man you see in cologne ads. He's wearing a fitted shirt and he moves through the aisle like the aisle was built for him.

"Mike," Robin says. Warm. Genuine. The way she says your name is different — she says Mike with a note of anticipation that she never uses with you.

She turns to you. "Buttercup, this is Mike. Mike is an alpha."

Alpha. The word lands again. Harder this time. Because Mike is standing right there, and he's everything you're not — tall, confident, easy in his body, easy in the world.

Mike looks at you. Nods. Not unkind. Just — uninterested. The way someone nods at a doorman.

"Hey," he says.

"Mike and I are off to dinner," Robin says. She picks up her purse from behind the counter. Slings it over her shoulder. Steps toward Mike. Her hand finds his arm.

She turns back to you. That warm smile.

"If you want any more humpy time, buttercup, you better be a good service beta and collect some beta bucks."

She pats your arm. Light. The way you'd pat a dog on the head.

And then she's gone. She and Mike walk away through the aisle, her hand on his arm, her head tilted up toward him, and you're standing there at her empty booth with the products on the counter and the warmth still humming in your balls and the word alpha still ringing in your ears.

You stand there for a long moment.

No.

No way. There is no way you are going to demean yourself by running around collecting beta bucks. That's ridiculous. That's — you're a man.

You're twenty-eight years old. You have a job. You have a college degree. You're not going to scurry around a convention center doing errands for women so your balls can fill up with — with whatever this is.

You turn. You walk away from the booth. Your feet carry you toward the exit, toward the hotel, toward your room where you can close the door and lie on the bed and think about —

The hum in your balls. It's still there. Low. Warm. Gentle. Like a hand cupping you from the inside. Like a slow, patient massage.

It feels good.

You keep walking.

You're almost to the hotel lobby when the voice comes from your left.

"Hey — excuse me?"

You turn.

She's standing by a pillar. Red hair, green eyes, a sundress with a floral print. She's pretty. Not Robin-pretty, but pretty in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"Hi," she says. She smiles. "You're in the network, right? The Ring-Ring network? I can see your profile on my app."

Your stomach drops.

"I — what?"

She holds up her phone. You can see the screen — your profile. Your stats. Your measurements. Under Management — Robin M. Ring. And below that, a status line: Service Mode — Active.

"My name's Amber," she says. "My boyfriend and I — we were planning on having some fun tonight, but Nick forgot the condoms." She laughs. Rolls her eyes. "Men, right?"

She looks at you. Expectant.

"Could you grab some for us? I think there's a drugstore somewhere in the convention center. But I don't have time to find it. We'll be at the Post — it's the bar in the hotel lobby. Just bring them to us there."

She says it like it's obvious. Like of course you'll do it. Like this is what you're for.

"I — you want me to —"

"Go get condoms for us. Yeah." She smiles. "Please? We'd really appreciate it."

Something in you wants to say no. Something in you wants to turn and walk away and not look back.

But there's something else — something smaller, something quieter, something that lives in the warm hum of your balls and the memory of Robin's voice saying good boy — and that something can't stop itself.

"Okay," you say.

Amber smiles. "Thank you. We'll be at the Post. Hurry, okay?"

She disappears into the crowd.

You stand there. You just agreed to go buy condoms for a woman you've never met so she can have sex with her boyfriend. You just agreed to be an errand boy.

Your face is burning. Your balls are humming. You start walking toward the drugstore.

You're halfway there when the second voice catches you.

"Hey — wait up."

Another woman. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. She's wearing a blazer over a fitted top, convention lanyard around her neck. She's walking toward you with purpose.

"I'm Erika," she says. "I'm in the network. I can see Amber tagged you for a condom run." She holds up her phone. Your profile again. A new notification: Service Request — Condoms — Amber.

"Listen, my boyfriend and I are in the same situation. Could you grab some for me too? I'm in room 412 at the hotel."

"I — I'm already —"

"Please? It would be so helpful." She tilts her head. "And my friend Chrissy — she's up in the room with me — she needs some tampons. Could you grab those too?"

You're standing in the middle of the convention floor and two women you've never met have just asked you to go to a drugstore and buy condoms and tampons for them using your own money and you're going to do it.

You know you're going to do it.

"I — okay. Fine."

Erika smiles. "Room 412. Thank you. You're a doll."

She walks away.

You find the drugstore. Second floor. A small shop tucked between a coffee place and a phone charging station.

You walk in and the fluorescent lights are too bright and the aisles are narrow and you're a twenty-eight-year-old man standing in a drugstore at a tech convention buying two boxes of condoms and a box of tampons.

You pick up the condoms. Trojan. Magnum. The box is bigger than your hand. You stare at it. The word Magnum sits on the packaging in bold letters and you think about

Robin holding the dildo in her booth yesterday, the one your fingers couldn't close around, and your face burns.

You pick up the tampons. You don't know what kind. You stand in the aisle staring at the options — regular, super, super plus — and you don't know what any of it means and a woman walks past and sees you standing there holding a box of Magnum condoms and a box of tampons and she smiles.

You grab the first box of tampons you see and you go to the register and you pay with your own money. Twenty-three dollars. You're spending twenty-three dollars of your own money on condoms and tampons for women you've never met.

You walk back to the hotel.

The Post is busy. A hotel bar — dark wood, low lighting, a crowd of convention-goers with drinks and laughter.

You scan the room. Amber is at a table near the back, sitting with a man — Nick, presumably. He's big. Not tall like Mike, but thick. Muscular. The kind of man who takes up space.

There are other people at the table. Men and women. A group of six or seven, drinks in hand, mid-conversation.

You walk up. Amber sees you. She smiles.

"Hey, there he is." She takes the bag from your hand. Peeks inside. "Perfect. Thank you so much."

She turns to the table. Casual. Like she's introducing a colleague.

"This is a service beta," she says.

The table goes quiet. Eyes on you. Men and women, looking at you with curiosity, with amusement, with the mild interest of people encountering something novel.

Amber reaches into her pocket. Produces a gold coin. She taps it against your pants, right over the Ring.

Beep.

And the hum in your balls shifts. Increases. The warmth spreads, deepens, and you can feel your testicles tighten — not painfully, not sharply, but with a slow, gentle pressure. Like something is filling. Like a balloon being inflated by degrees.

"Mmmh —" You can't help it. The sound comes out of you.

Amber smiles. "There we go. One beta buck for the piggy bank."

Nick looks at you. Looks at Amber. Shrugs. Goes back to his drink.

You stand there. You're being tipped. You're being given a digital token that fills your testicles with warmth and you're standing in a bar full of people and a woman just paid you in beta bucks for buying her condoms and you can feel your balls filling and your face is on fire.

"Thank you," Amber says. Dismissive. Warm. The way you'd thank a delivery driver.

You walk away.

Room 412. Fourth floor. You take the elevator and your balls are humming and the Ring is warm and you're carrying a bag with condoms and tampons and you're going to deliver them to two women in their hotel room.

You knock.

The door opens.

Erika. She's in a bra and panties. Just a bra and panties. Black lace. Her body is — she's — you can't — your brain stutters.

"Hey," she says. "Come in."

You step inside. The room is like yours — two beds, white sheets, a lamp on the nightstand.

Chrissy is on the far bed. Also in a bra and panties. Pale pink. She's shorter than Erika, softer, curves that fill the cotton.

They're getting ready to go out. That's what this is. They're in their underwear because they're getting dressed and you knocked on the door and now you're standing in their room with condoms and tampons and they're half-naked.

You can feel your cock trying to respond. Straining against the Ring. But the Ring holds — the neural signal intercepting the vasodilation — and your cock stays soft, locked, sleeping in your pants.

You can feel the wanting but you can't feel the hardness. You're aroused and soft at the same time and it's a kind of torture you didn't know existed.

"Did you get everything?" Erika takes the bag. Looks inside. "Oh, perfect. You're a lifesaver."

Chrissy slides off the bed. Walks over. She's looking at you with that appraising look — the one you're starting to recognize. The look of a woman who has your profile on her phone.

"Can you show him to us? Can we see him?" she says.

"What —"

"Your little guy. We want to see him."

Erika giggles. "Come on. We know he's locked. We just want to see."

Your hands move. They move because women tell them to move and they obey. You unbutton your pants. Push them down. Push your underwear down.

Your cock. Soft. Small. The Ring gleaming at the base, silver against your skin. Your balls hang above it, full and warm from the beta bucks.

"Oh," Chrissy says. Soft. Warm. "Look at him. He's so cute."

"He's adorable," Erika says. She crouches down. Eye-level with your cock. The way Robin did in the hotel room. "Hi, little guy. You're a sweet one, aren't you?"

She's talking to your cock. Directly. Like it's a person. Like it can answer.

Your cock twitches. Tries to respond. The Ring holds it soft.

"Aww, he's trying to get hard," Chrissy says. She's crouching next to Erika. Two women, in their bras and panties, crouching in front of your cock, studying it the way someone studies a specimen.

"He can't," Erika says. "His female has him locked. Isn't that right?"

"I — yes."

"Say it."

"She — Robin — she has me — my penis is — locked."

"Good boy," Chrissy says. She reaches out. Her finger extends. She taps the Ring with her gold coin.

Beep.

Your balls tighten. The warmth surges. You can feel them filling — heavier, fuller, the pressure building. Not painful. Pleasurable. Like a slow, deep ache that radiates through your groin.

Erika taps her coin.

Beep.

More. Tighter. Fuller.

"Mmmhh —"

"Look at that," Erika says. She's looking at your balls. "Look how full he's getting. His little piggy bank is filling up."

She holds up her phone. The app is open. You can see the screen — a cartoon piggy bank icon, pink, with a number next to it. Beta Piggy Bank: 4.

"That's what the account is called in the app," she says. She shows you the screen. "Beta Piggy Bank. That's you."

Chrissy giggles. "You're a piggy. A little service piggy with full little balls."

She taps her coin again.

Beep.

Your balls tighten further. The warmth is deep now, radiating, spreading through your groin, your stomach, your thighs.

You can feel the fullness — the physical sensation of your testicles swelling with whatever the Ring is doing, the beta bucks translating into something real and warm and heavy between your legs.

"Nnnh —"

"His balls must be getting so full," Erika says. She's delighted. She looks at Chrissy. "Should we give him another one?"

"Definitely."

They both tap. Together.

Beep. Beep.

Your balls pull up tight against your body. The Ring hums. The warmth is almost overwhelming now — a deep, resonant pleasure that sits right behind your cock, right in the center of you, and your cock is still soft, still locked, still small, and your balls are full and heavy and aching.

"Oh god —" Your voice breaks.

Chrissy stands. She walks to the bed. Sits on the edge. Spreads her legs slightly. Her hand traces up her thigh, over the cotton of her panties, and her fingers rest on her pussy. She runs them along the seam. Slow.

"Hey, little piggy," she says. "Would you like to eat us out?"

Your brain whites out.

"I — what?"

Erika stands too. Sits next to Chrissy. Her hand finds Chrissy's thigh. She runs her fingers over Chrissy's skin, up to the edge of her panties, and she traces the line of fabric.

"Your penis is locked," Erika says. "So you can't fuck us. But your mouth works, doesn't it?"

They're touching each other. Chrissy's fingers are running over her pussy through her panties. Erika's hand is on Chrissy's thigh. They're looking at you with warm, teasing smiles.

"Come on," Chrissy says. "We won't tell your female. Robin doesn't have to know."

Your cock is straining. Desperately, hopelessly straining against the Ring.

You can feel the arousal — it's enormous, it's overwhelming, it's filling your whole body — and your cock is soft and small and locked and you can't get hard and you can't come and these two women are sitting in front of you in their bras and panties with their legs open and their fingers on their pussies and they're asking you to —

You want to. God, you want to. You want to kneel down and press your face between Chrissy's thighs and taste her and feel her and you want it so badly your whole body is shaking.

But.

Robin.

Your female. That's what they called her. Your female. And something in you — something small and quiet and certain, something that lives in the warm hum of the Ring and the memory of her voice saying good boy — something won't let you.

"I — I can't," you say. "I — she's my — I shouldn't."

Erika tilts her head. "You're sure? We could make it worth your while." She holds up her coin. "More beta bucks. More full balls."

"I — no. I — I'm sorry. I can't."

Silence.

And then — clapping.

Both of them. Sitting on the bed in their bras and panties, clapping. Genuinely clapping. Their faces are bright with delight.

"Oh, he's a good boy," Chrissy says. "He's such a good boy."

"He said no for her," Erika says. She's looking at her phone. Tapping. "He said no because of his female. That's — that's adorable."

They both tap their coins.

Beep. Beep.

Your balls clench. The warmth floods through you and you gasp and your knees almost buckle. The piggy bank is filling. The number on their phones is climbing.

"I'm going to message Robin right now," Chrissy says. She's typing on her phone. "Through the app. I'm going to let her know you were a good boy."

"Me too," Erika says. She's tapping. "Service report: excellent. Declined unauthorized sexual contact. Remained loyal to his female."

You're standing there with your pants around your ankles and your cock soft and your balls full and two women in their underwear are typing reports about your behavior on an app that sends them directly to Robin.

"Good boy," Chrissy says. She looks up from her phone. Smiles. "You can pull your pants up now."

You pull your pants up. Your hands are shaking. Your balls are heavy and warm and full and you can feel every beta buck like a small, warm stone sitting inside you.

Erika stands. Walks to you. She reaches up and pats your cheek. Light. Warm. The way Robin does.

"Thank you for the condoms and tampons," she says. "You're a doll."

She opens the door. You walk out. The door closes behind you.

You walk down the hallway. Your balls are humming. The Ring is warm. Your cock is soft, locked, sleeping in your pants.

You take the elevator to your floor. Walk to your room. Open the door. Fred isn't there — he's probably at the bar, or the gaming pavilion, or somewhere being a normal person at a convention.

You lie on the bed. You stare at the ceiling.

You can feel your balls. Full. Heavy. Warm. The beta bucks sitting inside you like a savings account. Like a piggy bank. Like a little boy's piggy bank, filling up one coin at a time.

You think about Robin. Out to dinner with Mike. An alpha. A real man. A man who doesn't need a Ring because his cock does what it's supposed to do.

You think about tomorrow. About the convention floor. About the women on the Ring-Ring network who might see your profile and tap their coins and fill your balls one beta buck at a time.

You think about humpy time. About spending your beta bucks. About asking Robin — your female — if you can empty your piggy bank.

Your cock is soft. Your balls are full. The Ring hums.

You can't wait for tomorrow.

This is the fourth in a series about a man, a convention, a sex engineer, and the Ring that will position him — one beep, one profile, one whispered 'good boy' at a time.

Previously: Convention Part I | Convention Part II | Convention Part III