#beta academy

The notification came at 4pm on a Thursday.

Not the usual shift alert. No warehouse address. No grid number. No mark to stand on.

"Candidate 3187. You have been selected for a private client engagement. This is not a standard deployment. Report to the following residential address at 20:00. Full service kit. Assignment uniform. Extended duration — no return car will be scheduled. The client will determine your departure."

A residential address. Not a warehouse. Not an assessment suite. A home.

"This engagement has been arranged by your practicum examiner, Dr. R. Calloway. Treat this as a professional introduction. Your conduct tonight will determine whether this becomes a permanent placement."

The house was in a wealthy part of town. Not a mansion. A craftsman bungalow — well-kept, expensive in that way that taste is expensive when it is applied by a woman who knows what she wants and has arranged her life to have it.

You stood on the porch in your one-piece. Service kit in hand. Mask in its case. The pearls pressing against your perineum with every step. 8:00pm exactly. You rang the bell.

Dr. Calloway opened the door.

Not the examiner. Not the assessor. This time she was a woman at ease, in a cashmere sweater and dark jeans, barefoot, holding a glass of wine. The silver hair loose instead of pulled back. The tablet nowhere in sight.

"Come in," she said. Warm. The warmth of a woman welcoming someone to her family's home, not a proctor initiating an assessment.

The house was beautiful. Clean lines. Art on the walls — real art, not prints. Books everywhere. This was a home that someone lived in, not a soundstage dressed to look like one.

She led you to the living room. Sat in an armchair. Gestured for you to sit across from her. You sat — in a bra and crotchless panties under a one-piece, on a woman's sofa, holding your service kit like a briefcase.

"Before we start," she said, "I need to tell you something. Several things, actually."

She sipped her wine. Looked at you the way she'd looked at you at the practicum — not at your specifications. At you.

"This is my niece's home. Her name is Rebecca. She'll be down in a few minutes." A pause. "You know her."

You didn't understand.

"Rebecca Calloway. She went to Ridgeside. She graduated the same year as you."

The name hit you before the memory did. And then the memory — not a single image but a cascade. Brown hair in a ponytail. Laughing in the hallway with girls who didn't know you existed. The AP English class where you sat two rows behind her and spent an entire semester watching the back of her neck. The way she'd said "excuse me" once when you were blocking the water fountain and the word excuse had lived in your chest for a week.

Rebecca Calloway. The girl you'd orbited for three years without once entering her gravity.

"She remembers you," Dr. Calloway said. Simply. "She noticed you noticing her. Women usually do."

You were still processing. Your hands were gripping the service kit.

"Rebecca and I are close. Closer than most aunts and nieces. She told me what she wanted in a partner — not what she wanted to have, what she wanted to do. She's not interested in being penetrated. She's interested in penetrating. In leading. In having a man who serves her — her home, her body, her life. Not a submissive. A partner who understands that service is his highest function."

She let that settle.

"I told her about the program. She was skeptical — a stranger trained to wash her panties, cook her meals, kneel when told. That's not intimacy. That's staffing." Dr. Calloway smiled. "So I asked her: was there ever a boy? Someone you already knew. Someone who had the right instincts even if he didn't have the skills."

She looked at you.

"She said there was a boy in high school who used to watch her from two rows back in English class. Who looked away every time she turned around. Who was sweet, and quiet, and probably small — she said he had that energy." A pause. "She said she still saw his mother sometimes."

The room was tilting. The program. The card. Mom's friend — Rebecca. Rebecca gave the card to your mother. Rebecca started this.

"I told her to give your mother the enrollment card. I told her I'd handle the rest." Dr. Calloway set down her wine glass. "And I did. I flagged you when you entered the system. I monitored your progress. I took the showcase assignment to evaluate you personally. I ran your practicum myself — including the oral assessment."

She held your gaze.

"I needed to know if your mouth was good enough for the person I love most in this world. It is." She paused. "She knows I tested you personally. She asked me to."

You were breathing. That was about all you were managing.

"Tonight isn't an assessment. There's no score. No system voice. No data being recorded — the watch stays off. Tonight is Rebecca meeting the man her aunt has spent two months training for her. And you meeting the woman you've been trained for without knowing it."

She stood.

"She's nervous, by the way. You should know that. She's been following your progress through my updates and she's been aroused by every single one. But arousal and reality are different things. You know that better than most."

Footsteps on the stairs.

"Be yourself," Dr. Calloway said. "That's the only instruction I'm going to give you."

She picked up her wine glass. Walked to the kitchen. And left you sitting on the sofa as a woman came down the stairs.

She looked like high school and nothing like high school.

The brown hair was shorter now. The ponytail gone — a cut that framed her jaw, deliberate, the kind of hair that said I know what suits me. She was wearing a white t-shirt and grey joggers and no shoes and she was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen and she was looking at you the way you used to look at her — like she'd been caught staring and didn't know whether to commit to it or pretend it wasn't happening.

"Hi," she said.

One syllable. The opening line of a story that had started three years ago in a hallway you thought she'd forgotten.

"Hi," you said. Your voice cracked. Your actual voice — not the click system, not the soother-muffled sounds the program had reduced you to. Your voice, talking to a woman, for the first time in you weren't sure how long.

She came down the last three steps. Stood in the living room. Looked at you — sitting on her sofa in her house, in your one piece, the service kit on the floor beside you. The body the program had shaped. The candidate she'd commissioned.

She looked at you. All of you. Not the way the showcase women had looked — assessing, clinical, entertained. The way a woman looks at something she chose that has finally arrived.

"You used to sit behind me in Hayward's class," she said. "AP English. You thought I didn't notice."

"You didn't."

"I noticed everything." She sat on the arm of the sofa. Close. "I noticed you looking at my neck. I noticed you looking away when I turned around. I noticed you were sweet and you were scared and you never once said a word to me in three years." She paused. "I also knew you probably had a small penis. Didn't matter. I don't need big."

Your cock twitched. Visible. Involuntary. She saw it.

"There it is," she said. Softly. Not mocking. Observing. The way her aunt had observed it at the showcase — with patience, with interest, with the understanding that the twitch was data and the data was confirmation. "Aunt Ruth said you're 4.2 inches and you cum in under a minute. She said it like it was a feature, not a flaw."

"It is a feature," Dr. Calloway called from the kitchen. "In this context."

Rebecca smiled. The first smile. It changed the room.

"My aunt tested your mouth on herself and told me it was the best she'd evaluated this quarter." She looked at you. "She said you made her come and she didn't expect to."

This was the most anyone had ever said to you in the program. Not system prompts. Not clinical instructions. A woman telling you what she knew about you and why it mattered.

"I'm not interested in your cock," she said. Not dismissively. Factually. The way you'd tell a carpenter you didn't need a hammer because the job required a screwdriver. "I'm not interested in being penetrated. I never have been. What I'm interested in is this—"

She reached forward. Touched your jaw. Her fingers light on the bone — the jaw that had held the dildo, that had ached through the practicum, that had burned while her aunt came against your face.

"—and this."

Her hand moved down. Past your chest. Past the bra. Past your cock — she bypassed it entirely, her fingers trailing over it without stopping, a detour around something that wasn't the destination. Her hand reached behind you. Found the pearls. Followed them down between your buttocks. Pressed — gently — against your asshole through the strand.

"Aunt Ruth says you're in the 94th percentile for prostate responsiveness." Her finger pressed slightly harder. The pearls shifted against you. "I want to find out what that means."

Dr. Calloway left at 9:15.

She came into the living room, kissed Rebecca on the forehead, looked at you — still standing in the assignment uniform, still processing — and said: "I'll leave you two. Call me tomorrow."

At the door, she turned. Looked at you one more time.

"You did well in my program," she said. "Do well in hers."

The door closed. A car started outside. Pulled away.

You were alone with Rebecca Calloway in her craftsman bungalow at 9:15 on a Thursday night. No system. No cameras. No earbuds. No score. Just a woman in a white t-shirt who'd engineered your entire transformation from two rows ahead of you and three years away.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

You clicked once. Habit. Then caught yourself. "Yes."

"Me too." She stood. "Come upstairs."

Her bedroom was simple.

A queen bed with white sheets. A reading lamp. A closet with the door open — you could see her clothes, organized, real, the wardrobe of a woman who lived here and slept here and would sleep here tonight after whatever was about to happen.

On the nightstand: a harness. A silicone cock — not pink like the program's equipment. Dark purple. Realistic in shape but not in color. Hers. Not institutional. Chosen.

She saw you looking at it.

"I bought that three weeks ago," she said. "After Aunt Ruth told me about your special assignment. The sex ed class. The six women. She said you accepted penetration like you had been waiting for it." She paused. "I've been thinking about fucking you for three weeks."

The sentence landed in your chest and your cock and your asshole simultaneously.

"But first," she said, "I need you to do something for me."

You waited.

"I need you to take this off." She touched the bra strap. "All of it. The uniform. The pearls. Everything the program put on you. I don't want to fuck a candidate. I want to fuck you."

You reached behind yourself. Unclasped the bra — easy now, automatic, the muscle memory the program had built. Slid it off. The crotchless panties — stepped out. The pearls releasing from between your legs. Everything off. Every layer the system had wrapped around you, removed.

You stood naked in her bedroom. Shaved, trained, 4.2 inches. Without the label. Just skin, your cock, a hole, and a heartbeat.

She looked at you the way no one in the program had ever looked at you.

"Lie on the bed," she said. "On your back."

You lay down. The sheets were soft. Real.

She pulled her t-shirt over her head. No bra underneath. Her breasts — you'd imagined them in Hayward's class, in the hallway, in every late-night session with your hand on your cock in high school. They were so much more than you'd imagined. Better. Real.

She stepped out of the joggers. Black underwear. She left it on. She didn't need to be naked. She was the one doing the fucking.

She picked up the harness. Stepped into it. Pulled it up her thighs. Adjusted it. The purple cock settled into position — jutting from her groin, bobbing slightly as she moved. She looked down at it. Looked at you.

"I've practiced with this," she said. "On a pillow. Which is embarrassing to admit. But I wanted to know how it felt to thrust. To be inside something." She climbed onto the bed. Knelt between your legs. "I've never been this excited about sex."

You hadn't either. Not this way. This was a woman between your legs with a cock she'd bought for you, who'd never used it on anyone, about to enter you for the first time.

Both of you. First times. In a bed that smelled like her shampoo.

"I'm going to go slow," she said. Lube in her hand, slathering her cock. She was thorough. She was nervous. She was Rebecca Calloway and she was about to fuck the boy who'd orbited her in high school and the realization of that was written on her face. "Tell me if it hurts. I want to hear your voice."

Her hand, slick with lube, found your asshole. One finger first. Gentle. Searching. She found your button.

"There it is," she said. The recognition. The confirmation. She pressed. Your cock jumped. She watched it — her finger making your cock respond. "That's really something," she murmured. She pressed again. Watched again. Learning your body. She withdrew her finger. Positioned the cock. The tip of it — silicone, warm from her body heat, slick — pressed against you.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

She pushed forward. Slowly. The head of the cock entering you. Different from the fingers. Bigger. Fuller. And attached to a woman who was watching your face as she did it, her eyes on your eyes, no mask between you.

"Oh God," she breathed. Not from physical sensation — from the act. From the reality of being inside someone. Her hips against your thighs. The cock buried in you. Her hands braced on either side of your chest. Her face above yours, close enough that you could see the flush spreading across her neck.

"Is that okay?" she whispered.

"Yes."

She pulled back. Pushed in again. Finding a rhythm — tentative, careful, the rhythm of someone learning how their body moved when connected to another body. The pillow hadn't prepared her for this. The pillow hadn't groaned.

You groaned. Not from the stretch — from the fullness. From the prostate responding to the angle she'd found. Her cock pressing against the place inside you that the program had identified as your primary sexual organ.

"I can feel you responding," she said. Awed. "Your whole body just — when I push here—"

She thrust. Targeted. And your cock leaked onto your stomach.

"There," she whispered. "Right there. That's you."

She started to move with more confidence. Still slow — this was a woman fucking a man for the first time and discovering that she liked it. That her hips knew what to do. That the harness moved with her body and the cock moved with the harness and the man underneath her was shaking.

And then something changed.

You saw it in her face first. The nervousness didn't leave — it burned off. Like a fuel that had been spent. What replaced it was focus. Hunger. The look of a woman who'd just realized that the cock strapped to her body was hers and the man underneath her was hers and nobody was going to tell her to stop or slow down or be careful.

Her next thrust was deeper. Not tentative. Deliberate. She pulled back further, pushed in harder, and the sound you made — the sound that came out of you — was not the sound of a man being entered. It was the sound of a man being fucked.

She heard it. And it changed her.

Her hand found your hip. Gripped. Pulled you onto her cock as she thrust forward — meeting in the middle, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the wet sound of the lube. Her breathing went ragged. Her rhythm stopped asking and started taking.

"Oh fuck," she whispered. Not to you. To herself. To the discovery. "Oh fuck, this is — I can feel you around me—"

The harness transmitted everything. Your body clenching around her cock, the resistance and the yielding, the way your ass opened for her when she angled her hips right. She couldn't feel it the way a man feels a cock inside someone — but the pressure against her pelvis, the base of the shaft grinding into her clit with every thrust, the sheer physical fact of pushing into another body and watching it respond — it was enough. More than enough. Her mouth was open. Her neck was flushed. She was sweating.

She grabbed your other hip. Both hands now. Holding you in place. Fucking you with a rhythm that was hers — not learned from a pillow, not borrowed from porn, something her body had invented in real time. Short, deep strokes that kept the cock pressed against your prostate. Each one pulling a sound out of you that you couldn't control.

"You're mine," she said. Breathless. Not a question. Not a negotiation. A woman discovering what ownership felt like from the inside. "This ass is mine. This — right here —" thrust, "— is mine."

Your hands were on the sheets. Gripping. Your cock was hard and leaking and untouched between your bodies — pressed between her stomach and yours when she thrust deep enough, the friction accidental and not enough and more than you deserved.

"Look at me," she said.

You looked. Her face above you. The brown hair falling forward. The jaw her aunt had touched in the living room. The eyes of the girl from two rows ahead — except she wasn't ahead anymore. She was above. She was inside.

"I've been thinking about this since the showcase," she said. Her hips moving. Her cock in you. Her voice unsteady. "Aunt Ruth called me after. She said she'd never seen any male with responses like yours."

Thrust. Your prostate singing.

"She sent me your data. All of it. I read your application — the confession. The real measurements. The part where you wrote that you cum too fast and you've never satisfied anyone." Her rhythm steadying. Growing surer. "I read it and I thought: he's perfect."

You were crying. You didn't decide to cry. It happened the way erections happened — involuntary, the body expressing something the mouth couldn't.

"Not perfect because you're small. Not perfect because you cum fast. Perfect because you know it. Because you wrote it down and submitted it and let a program train you to be something better than what your cock could offer." She leaned down. Close. Her mouth near your ear. "Your cock could never fuck me the way I'm fucking you right now. You know that."

"I know."

Your voice. Your actual voice. Saying the truest thing.

"But you — you're not your cock." She thrust deep. Held. Her hips against yours. The cock fully inside you. Her weight on you. Her mouth at your ear. "You're the boy who sat behind me for three years and never said a word because he thought he wasn't enough. And now you're in my bed. And I'm inside you. And you're enough."

The orgasm built from the prostate. Not the cock. The deep place — the 94th percentile, the button the sex ed class had found, the organ the program had identified as your real one. Rebecca's cock pressed against it with every thrust and the orgasm climbed, the wave, building and building.

"Come for me," she said. "Not from your cock. From here. From the place I'm reaching. Come for me because I'm inside your ass and I told you to."

You came.

Not the quick spurt. Not the 58-second latency the program had measured and printed on your uniform. A deep, rolling, full-body orgasm that started in your prostate and moved through your cock and your stomach and your chest and your face.

Your cock pulsed — untouched, ejaculating in weak spurts onto your stomach, the muscles contracting around her cock still inside you. She felt it. Felt your body clenching around her.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's — I can feel that. I can feel you coming."

She held still. Didn't withdraw. Stayed inside you through the orgasm, until it faded.

She pulled out. Gently. Set the harness aside. And then she did something no one in the program had ever done.

She lay down beside you.

Not standing over you. Not walking away to check a tablet. Not climbing off to dress and leave. She lay down on her own bed, in her own home, next to the man she'd spent two months designing, and she put her head on your chest.

"I felt that," she said. Quietly. "When you came. It went through the harness. Through my whole body. Is that what it felt like for you?"

"Better," you said.

She laughed. A real laugh. The first laugh you'd heard in a long time. Nothing clinical about it. Nothing scored.

Her hand found your cock. Not to stimulate — to hold. Soft now. Small in her palm. She held it the way you'd hold something fragile. Something you understood the precise value of.

"This is mine now," she said. "Your cock, your mouth, your ass. All of it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Aunt Ruth is going to file the permanent placement paperwork tomorrow. You'll be assigned here — to me. Officially. The program will stop sending shift notifications. No more warehouse. No more grid. No more anonymous clients." She paused. "You'll still wear the uniform sometimes. I like the uniform. But you'll wear it because I want to see you in it. Not because a system told you to."

She propped herself up on her elbow. Looked at you.

"My aunt said you folded her blouse when you undressed her. Like a reflex."

"I fold everything now."

"Good." She smiled. "You'll do a lot of folding here. And cooking. And cleaning. And kneeling." Her hand still holding your cock. "And this will never go inside me. You understand that. I don't want to be penetrated. I want to penetrate. What happened tonight is what sex looks like in this house."

"I understand."

"Do you want this?"

The question the program had never asked. Dozens of deployments. Thousands of data points. And not once — not a single time — had the system asked whether you wanted what was happening to you. It had measured your compliance. Your arousal. Your responsiveness. It had never measured your desire.

"Yes," you said. "I've wanted this since AP English."

She kissed you. The first kiss. Soft. On the mouth that had earned a 4.9 on her aunt's body. The mouth that had practiced on silicone for a week. The mouth that was, according to your examiner's notes, your primary asset.

"Stay tonight," she said.

You stayed.

You texted your mother at 11pm.

"Hey Mom. Going to be late. Maybe not coming home tonight."

Three dots. Then:

"!!! Is everything okay??"

"Yeah. I think I got my permanent placement."

"OH SWEETIE!!! I'm so happy for you!!! Mrs H is going to be so excited — she said Tyler's placement is going SO well, his client just adores him. I knew you'd get yours too. I just KNEW it. What's she like??"

You looked at Rebecca. Asleep. Her head on the pillow beside you. The harness on the nightstand. The lube. The purple cock that had been inside you an hour ago. Her hand still loosely near your hip, the way a person sleeps near someone they're not afraid of.

"She's perfect, Mom."

"I'm so proud of you sweetie. Get some sleep. Love you!!"

You put the phone down. Lay in the dark. In a woman's bed. In a woman's house. Without the uniform, without the mask, without the system voice or the AR panels or the watch tracking your heartbeat.

For the first time in two months, nothing was being measured.

You slept.

This is the last in our Beta Training Academy series — on placements, reunions, and what happens when a quiet boy finally meets the woman who chose him before the program did.

Previously: BTA 01 — The Application / BTA 02 — The Interview / BTA 03 — The Errand / BTA 04 — The Mannequin, Pt. 1 / BTA 05 — The Mannequin, Pt. 2 / BTA 06 — The Toolkit / BTA 07 — The Special Assignment / BTA 08 — The Practicum

“I wish we knew more about Beta Academy since besides being mentioned we really don't know much about it. We don't even know for sure if the school is a school for fairies only” -Anon

You passed the oral exam at 11:42pm on a Wednesday.

Alone. In your mother's basement. The VR headset on, the truncated fleshlight on your desk, your jaw aching from forty minutes of practice that had followed ninety minutes of practice that had followed four days of practice since your last failed assessment.

The VR woman's breathing changed. The arousal percentage climbed — 54%… 58%… 61%… 63% — and kept climbing.

Your tongue had found the rhythm. The node. The pressure. The thing your mouth couldn't locate a week ago was now a place you could return to, hold, sustain.

"Arousal: 67%. Candidate, you have exceeded the minimum threshold. Maintain technique."

You maintained. The VR woman's hips shifted. Her sounds changed — from patient waiting to something involuntary. Something you'd caused. 71%… 76%… 82%…

"Oral proficiency: PASS. Final arousal: 82%. Certification granted — provisional. A supervised practicum with a live examiner is required to confirm field readiness. Your practicum has been scheduled. Report to Assessment Suite 3, Building C, tomorrow at 19:00. Full service kit. Assignment uniform."

You took the headset off. Looked at the fleshlight. Glistening. 82%.

Your jaw hurt. Your tongue felt thick. Your cock was hard in the one-piece and you hadn't touched it once.

You'd done it. Your mouth could make a simulation come. Tomorrow you'd find out if it could make a woman come.

Assessment Suite 3 was behind a warehouse you hadn't visited before.

Same industrial district. Different building. The car dropped you at a service entrance. You went through a fire door, into a space that looked like a television soundstage.

Modular rooms. Constructed sets — a kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom — built behind warehouse walls like an IKEA showroom designed by someone who understood that the furniture needed to feel real even though the space was manufactured. Each room was lit by overhead rigs. Cameras mounted at multiple angles — visible, not hidden. The system wasn't pretending it wasn't watching.

"Candidate 3187. You are here for your service practicum. You will be assessed across four domains: domestic, culinary, dildo service, and oral service. Each domain is scored by your examiner. You must achieve an average of 4.0 or higher across all four to pass. Failure requires a 72-hour retest."

"Your examiner will arrive shortly."

You stood in the staging area. Assignment uniform — bra, crotchless panties, the pearls resting against your perineum. Your mask in your hand. The system hadn't told you to put it on.

A door opened behind you.

"Good evening, Candidate."

The voice hit you before you turned. Low. Measured. Warm in a way that wasn't institutional. Warm the way a hand on your cock at the charity showcase had been warm — deliberate, specific, belonging to a woman who knew what she'd found and wasn't in a hurry.

You turned.

Silver hair. Elegant. The woman from the showcase. Guest 5.

She was dressed differently — black trousers, a cream blouse, a tablet in her hand. Professional. But her eyes were the same. The eyes that had watched your cock for three minutes while her thumb made slow circles and the leaderboard tracked her patience.

"I'm your examiner tonight." She looked at you. Not at your specifications, not at your cock through the crotchless opening. At you. "You won't remember my name — we weren't introduced at the showcase. I'm Dr. Calloway. I'm a senior assessor with the Academy's education division."

Dr. Calloway. Guest 5 had a name. A title. She wasn't a charity event attendee who'd wandered over to try the slot machine. She was program staff. She'd been evaluating you that night — the slow technique, the forty-five seconds at 95%, the comment on the leaderboard. That one is something special. A professional assessment disguised as a charitable evening.

"I requested you for this practicum," she said. Simply. The way you'd request a specific lab specimen for a study. "Your showcase data was interesting. I wanted to see you in a controlled environment."

She looked at her tablet. Looked at you.

"Let's begin."

DOMAIN 1 — DOMESTIC: 19:12

The kitchen set. Fully stocked — real appliances, real ingredients, real surfaces. Dr. Calloway sat at a small table at the edge of the set with her tablet. Observing.

"Prepare the kitchen for an intimate dinner for one. Thirty minutes. The system has provided ingredients for a simple Mediterranean meal. Presentation matters."

Not pasta with jarred sauce. Not this time. You'd been practicing — YouTube tutorials at 2am in your mother's kitchen, learning knife technique and plating and the difference between minced and diced. The system hadn't told you to practice cooking. You'd done it yourself. Because 3.7 meant nothing special and you never wanted to see those words on your watch again.

You cooked. Chicken with lemon and herbs. Roasted vegetables. A salad with a dressing you'd mixed from scratch. You plated it the way the videos had taught you — neat, composed, the kind of presentation that said someone cared about the person who'd eat it.

You cleaned as you went. The counters gleaming. The dish towel folded. The candle from your toolkit lit beside the place setting.

Dr. Calloway walked the kitchen. Checked the surfaces. Tasted the chicken. Made a note.

"Marked improvement from your certification scores," she said. "The candle is a nice touch. Not standard — personal. That matters."

She set the plate aside. Checked a box on her tablet.

Domain 1: 4.4.

The bathroom was faster. You'd learned. Every surface. Every detail. The towel folded into a shape — not an animal, not yet, but a fan. A bath bomb on the tub's edge. The mirror spotless.

Domain 1 (combined): 4.5.

DOMAIN 2 — DILDO SERVICE: 19:58

"Put on your mask. A service model will enter for dildo assessment. Standard mounted protocol. Five-minute minimum hold. The model's completion will be scored."

The mask went on. Darkness. Then the AR — the room rendered in the heads-up display, camera feeds from multiple angles. Not your own eyes. The system's eyes. Gallery view.

You lay down on the bed. Your service dildo behind your teeth. Clamped. The shaft extended upward — six inches of pink silicone pointing at the ceiling.

A woman entered. Younger. Anonymous. She wore a robe, which she removed without ceremony. She looked at the dildo, at your masked face, at the bra and crotchless panties and the cock hanging through the opening. She'd done this before. This was her job.

She climbed on.

The AR fed the gallery view — wide shot from the corner camera, close-up from above, a side angle that showed your jaw clenched and her body moving.

You were watching yourself service her the way you watched porn. The same framing. The same angles. Except the body onscreen was yours and the dildo in the frame was in your mouth and the woman using it was real and your jaw was burning.

She rode with efficient rhythm. Not the VR woman's simulated responsiveness — real movement, real weight, real adjustments that you had to track with your jaw. The milk arrived. You swallowed. 0.8 seconds. Your jaw held through it.

She came at four minutes, twelve seconds. A short, sharp sound — professional, genuine, the orgasm of a woman who experienced this regularly and didn't perform it but didn't linger in it either. She climbed off. Put her robe back on. Left.

The AR displayed your scores. Stability: 94%. Dynamic tracking: 87%. Duration: sufficient. Model completion: confirmed.

Dr. Calloway's voice from across the room: "Good. Solid technique. Your jaw endurance has improved significantly."

Domain 2: 4.6.

The mask stayed on. You waited for the oral assessment model to enter. The same format — anonymous woman, gallery view, scored completion. Your tongue against real skin for the first time. You were ready. Seventy-two hours of practice. 82% on the simulation. Your jaw was warmed up from the dildo service. You were ready.

"Candidate. Remove your mask."

Not the system. Dr. Calloway. Her voice. From across the room. Getting closer.

"For this part, I want to see your face."

DOMAIN 3 — ORAL SERVICE: 20:24

You pulled the mask off. The room — real now, not mediated. The cameras in the ceiling. The bed. The lights. And Dr. Calloway, standing in front of you.

"The service model has been dismissed," she said. "I'll be conducting the oral assessment myself."

A pause. She set her tablet down on the nightstand. The scoring screen still visible — the rubric, the checkboxes, the timer that hadn't started yet.

"This is within my authority as senior assessor. The practicum requires a live subject. The protocol doesn't specify who." She looked at you. "I'm choosing to be your subject."

The room was quiet. The cameras rolling. The system recording. Everything within protocol — technically, formally, on paper. And completely outside anything the evening had been until this moment.

"Undress me."

Two words. The simplest instruction you'd received in the entire program. No system prompt. No app notification. No AR waypoint. A woman standing in front of you asking you to take her clothes off with your hands.

Your hands were trembling. You reached for her blouse. The buttons — small, fabric-covered. Your fingers found the first one. Worked it through the buttonhole. The second. The third. The blouse parting. Skin beneath — her collarbone, the edge of a black bra, the warmth of her body rising through the gap.

You'd never undressed a woman. You'd clasped your own bra in the back of a car with fumbling fingers. You'd stepped into panties. You'd pulled a one-piece over your shaved body. But you'd never stood in front of a woman and removed what she was wearing because she'd asked you to.

The blouse slipped off her shoulders. You caught it. Folded it — automatic, the textile management training activating absurdly — and set it on the chair. She smiled. Not at the fold. At you.

The trousers. A hook, a zipper. You knelt to lower them. She stepped out. Her legs — bare, close. You were on your knees in a bra and crotchless panties looking up at a woman in her underwear who'd asked you to put her in this position.

"The bra, too."

You stood. Reached behind her. The clasp — the same mechanism you'd fumbled with on your own body, but reversed. Her skin was warm under your fingers. The hooks released. The bra loosened. You drew the straps down her arms.

She was naked from the waist up. Standing in front of you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of her skin. Your cock was hard through the crotchless opening. She glanced down at it.

"That won't be needed tonight," she said. Not unkindly. The way you'd set aside a tool that wasn't required for the current job. "Tonight is about your mouth."

She sat on the edge of the bed. Feet on the floor. Knees together. She looked at you — standing in front of her in a pink bra with no one's breasts in it, crotchless panties with a strand of pearls, your cock exposed and irrelevant, your face uncovered for the first time in front of a woman in the entire program.

"Kneel."

You knelt. Between her legs. The floor was hard against your knees. She was above you — seated, looking down at you with an expression you'd seen once before. At the showcase. When she'd held you at 95% and studied your cock with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world.

That same patience was now directed at your face. Your real face. Without the mask.

She opened her knees. Slowly.

"The timer starts when your mouth makes contact," she said. "But I want you to forget the timer. Forget the cameras. Forget the score." She paused. "You practiced on silicone for a week. This isn't silicone. This is a pussy. My pussy. And I want you to pay attention to the difference."

You leaned forward.

The distance between your mouth and her pussy was six inches. Then four. Then two. You could feel the warmth of her before you touched her — radiant, alive, nothing like the room-temperature silicone of the practice module.

Your lips made contact.

"Oral assessment timer initiated."

The system's voice in your earbuds. Clinical. Brief. And then silence — the system receding, giving the room to the sounds of breathing. Hers. Yours.

She was nothing like the simulation.

The silicone module had been a map. This was the territory. Her body responded to your tongue with micro-adjustments — small shifts in her hips, changes in the tension of her thighs.

She was communicating through her body the way the VR woman had communicated through the display, except there was no percentage overlaid on your vision. No arousal meter. No green-yellow-red threshold. Just her breathing and the subtle movements of a woman's body telling you whether you were close or drifting.

You searched for the clitoris. Not the raised silicone node from the module — the real thing. Smaller than you expected. Softer. Tucked higher. Your tongue found it and she inhaled — a sharp, short sound. The same sound the VR woman had made at first contact. Except this was real and the room registered it and your cock throbbed at the confirmation that your mouth was in the right place.

"There," she breathed. Not a correction. A confirmation. The first word a woman had ever said to you during a sexual act that wasn't instruction or coaching or clinical narration.

You pressed. The way the module had taught you — consistent pressure, rhythmic, the clitoris responding to patience rather than force. The clitoris is not a button, Candidate. Except it was a button. Just one that required the right touch.

Her hand found the back of your head.

No woman had ever touched your head during a sexual act. No woman had ever touched you during a sexual act. And her hand — resting, not pushing, not directing, just present, her fingers in your hair, the weight of her palm against your skull — was the most intimate thing you'd ever felt. More intimate than the ring on your cock. More intimate than six women's fingers in your prostate. A hand on your head while your mouth was on her pussy.

You maintained the rhythm. Press, hold, release. Press, hold, release. The same pattern the instructor had taught the women to use on your prostate. The same patience. The same conversation — your tongue speaking to her clitoris the way fingers had spoken to your prostate, asking the same question: is this right? Is this enough? Am I doing what your body needs?

Her breathing deepened. Her thighs opened wider. Her hand pressed slightly — not directing, just confirming. Stay. You're here. Don't leave.

"That's it," she whispered. "Right there. Don't change anything."

Don't change anything. The words you'd heard the VR woman say when the simulation reached the critical threshold. The words that meant: you found it. Stay.

You stayed. Your tongue holding the rhythm. Your jaw burning — the dildo service had warmed it up and this was different, gentler, less force but more precision, the muscles along your tongue working independently from your jaw in a way the practice module had never required. Real anatomy demanded more than silicone. Real anatomy demanded that you listen with your mouth.

Her sounds were changing. Not the VR woman's programmed escalation — something messier, less predictable. A catch in her throat. A held breath. Her hips moving in small circles that weren't following your rhythm but creating their own, and you had to adjust, had to follow, the way your jaw had followed the dildo model's movements except this was subtler, closer, the adjustments measured in millimeters.

"Oh," she said. Quietly. Not to you. To the sensation. The sound a woman makes when something crosses from good to inevitable.

Her hand tightened in your hair. Not pulling. Holding.

You pressed. Consistent. Patient. Your tongue on her clitoris and your hands on her thighs and your knees on the floor and your cock hard and untouched and irrelevant behind the crotchless panties.

She came.

Not like the VR simulation — not the clean, programmed arc of simulated orgasm. This was real and real was different. Her body seized — a full-body contraction, her thighs pressing against your ears, her hand gripping your hair, her hips lifting off the bed and pushing against your mouth.

The sound she made was not the sound from the simulation. It was rougher. More broken. A sound that came from a body that hadn't expected to feel this — not here, not from you, not from the candidate she'd watched ejaculate into a cup.

The orgasm lasted longer than the simulation's. Waves. Rolling. Her pussy communicating through contractions that your tongue rode — maintaining pressure through the orgasm the way Woman 5 had maintained finger pressure through your prostate orgasm. You held through it. Tongue steady. Jaw burning. Your mouth on her pussy while she came against your face.

She released your hair. Her hand moved to your cheek. Cupped it. Held your face against her for a moment — not for stimulation, the orgasm was subsiding. For contact. For the warmth of your mouth against her skin after the waves had passed.

"Stop," she murmured. Gently. "That's enough."

You pulled back. Looked up at her. Your face wet. Your jaw trembling. Your eyes meeting hers — the first woman you had ever had any kind of sex with.

She looked down at you. Kneeling between her legs. Your mouth glistening. The pink bra on your chest. The crotchless panties. The pearls. The cock, hard, untouched, pointing at nothing.

"Candidate 3187," she said. Formally. The assessor returning. But her hand was still on your cheek. "Oral proficiency assessment: pass."

She picked up her tablet from the nightstand. Checked a box. Her hand left your face.

Domain 3: 4.9.

You remained on your knees. The cameras recording. The system logging. Dr. Calloway dressed — the reverse of what you'd done, each garment returning, the blouse buttoned, the professional restored over the woman who'd just come against your face.

She sat in the chair by the staging area. Tablet in her lap. The examiner again. The assessor. Guest 5 filed back behind the title and the clipboard and the silver hair pulled neatly back.

"Your practicum is complete," she said.

She stood. Walked to you. Still kneeling. She placed her hand on the top of your head — the way she'd held it during the assessment, except now it was benediction, not passion.

"You did well tonight," she said. The same words the sex ed instructor had used. But from Dr. Calloway, they carried the weight of a woman who'd let a candidate's mouth make her come on camera in an assessment suite because she'd seen something in you at a charity showcase and wanted to know if it was real.

"Get dressed. Your car is waiting."

She walked to the door. Stopped. Turned.

"For the record — I don't typically conduct oral assessments personally." A pause. "I made an exception."

She left.

The car. The city. 10:30pm — early, for a shift night. The drive home felt different. Your jaw ached. Your mouth tasted like her. Not like milk. Not like silicone. Like a woman's body. The first woman's body your mouth had ever known.

Your watch displayed the practicum summary:

Practicum: COMPLETE Examiner: Dr. R. Calloway, Senior Assessor Domestic: 4.5 Dildo Service: 4.6 Oral Service: 4.9 Overall: 4.67 — PASS

Menu updated: Oral Service — CERTIFIED

Examiner note: "Candidate demonstrates exceptional oral responsiveness. Recommend priority listing for oral service requests. His mouth is his primary asset — treat accordingly."

Program stipend: $175 credited to referring account.

Your mother's house. Porch light on. You walked the path. Inside. Downstairs. The one-piece back on — you'd changed in the car, the bra and crotchless panties folded into your kit. The mask dark in its case.

You sat on the edge of your bed. The panties from Donna under your pillow. The oral assessment module on your desk — the silicone device you'd practiced on for a week. You picked it up. Looked at it. The thing that had taught your tongue where to go.

It had been enough. The map had been good enough to navigate the territory.

Your phone had a text from Mom:

"Home early! That's great sweetie. Mrs H told me Tyler just passed his practicum last week — she said his examiner gave him the highest score she'd seen all year!! I'm sure you did amazing too. Pot roast in the fridge. Love you!!"

Highest score she'd seen all year. You looked at your watch. 4.9.

You wondered if Tyler's examiner had made an exception too.

You lay in bed. Your jaw aching. Your mouth holding the taste of a woman who'd let you learn on her body because she'd watched you at a charity event and called you something special and spent four weeks waiting to find out if your tongue was as responsive as your cock.

It was. The system had the data. Dr. Calloway had the experience.

And your cock — your 4.2 inches, your 58-second latency, the specifications printed on a one-piece folded in your kit — hadn't been touched once all evening. Hadn't been needed. Hadn't been relevant.

Your mouth had done what your cock never could. And a woman with silver hair and slow hands and a tablet full of scores had come against your face and called it a 4.9 and said she'd made an exception.

You closed your eyes. The taste of her. Not milk. Not silicone. Not your own cum recycled through a rubber cup.

Her. Just her.

You slept.

This is the eighth in our Beta Training Academy series — on practicums, examinations, and what happens when a quiet boy's mouth finally meets the thing it was always being trained for.

Previously: BTA 01 — The Application / BTA 02 — The Interview / BTA 03 — The Errand / BTA 04 — The Mannequin, Pt. 1 / BTA 05 — The Mannequin, Pt. 2 / BTA 06 — The Toolkit / BTA 07 — The Special Assignment

The box arrived at 11am. You signed for it yourself this time.

Your mother was at work. The house was quiet. The delivery driver handed you a matte white box — larger than the last one, heavier — and you carried it to the kitchen table the way you now carried everything from the program: with the careful attention of a man handling something that was about to change the shape of your day.

CANDIDATE 3187 — BTA SERVICE KIT. OPEN IMMEDIATELY.

You opened it.

The first thing you saw was the uniform.

A one-piece. Laid flat in tissue paper. Pink — the same pale pink as your panties, your classification, your lollipop. The same shade the system had decided was yours the night you scanned a QR code that changed your life.

You lifted it out. The fabric was swimsuit material — lycra, stretchy, thin enough to show the shape of everything beneath it. A scoop neck. High-cut legs. The kind of garment you'd see on a woman at the beach and look away from because looking felt like trespassing.

On the left breast: the BTA emblem. Clean. Professional. The same insignia from the box, from the app, from the warehouse door.

On the front, at the pubis — directly over where your cock would sit — printed in clean sans-serif type:

CANDIDATE 3187 PENIS SIZE: 4.2 IN / 3.7 IN 58-SEC AVG LATENCY

Your specifications. Printed on your body. Not hidden in a file. Not displayed on a screen that could be closed. Printed on fabric that would press against your cock and announce to every woman who looked below your waist exactly what was there and exactly how long it lasted.

You held it up. The kitchen light came through the fabric — sheer enough to show the outline of your hand behind it. Everything would be visible. Everything would be read.

Beneath the uniform, the kit.

Each item in its own compartment. Labeled. Numbered.

1. VR Training Headset. Matte black. Compact. No brand — just the BTA insignia on the strap. Lighter than you expected. It looked like a high-end gaming headset stripped of everything except function.

2. Service Dildo (Mouth-Mounted). A double-ended device. On one end: a bulb — smaller than the soother, harder, textured for grip. Designed to sit behind your teeth, clamped by your jaw. On the other end: a shaft. Six inches. Realistic in shape. Pink — the same shade as everything. A small sensor housing at the tip. And inside the bulb, you could feel it when you turned it in your hand — a reservoir. Liquid. The same weight, the same subtle slosh as the soother.

Milk.

3. Oral Assessment Module. A truncated fleshlight. Round. Roughly the size and shape of a mascara case but thicker — four inches deep, the opening shaped with anatomical precision. Silicone. Soft. Sensor-lined. The interior felt textured — ridges, a simulated clitoris at the top, a channel that responded to pressure.

4. Service Toolbox. A smaller box within the box. Inside: scented candles (vanilla, lavender), bath bombs (pink, naturally), a set of cleaning supplies (gloves, spray, cloths — all pink-handled), a small apron (pink, BTA-emblazoned), and a menu card. Blank. To be filled in.

You laid everything on the kitchen table. The one-piece. The VR headset. The mouth dildo. The fleshlight. The candles and cleaning supplies. Arranged on the same surface where your mother plated dinner every night.

Your phone buzzed.

CHALLENGE 3 — SERVICE CERTIFICATION

Candidate 3187. You have received your service kit. The program is now transitioning you from assessment phase to deployment phase.

In assessment phase, you were tested. In deployment phase, you will serve.

Before deployment, you must be certified in the services you wish to offer. Today you will complete a series of aptitude tests to determine your service menu. Each test is pass/fail. Services you pass will be added to your menu. Services you fail may be retested in 72 hours.

Your service uniform is to be worn during all deployment activities. It replaces your formal uniform (bralette, panties, thigh-highs) for field operations. Put on your service uniform now. Nothing beneath it. Your body should be smooth — if any regrowth has occurred since your last preparation, shave before dressing.

Your VR headset will be used during applicable tests. It connects to your earbuds and B2 automatically. The headset provides visual simulation during physical assessments, creating a training environment that approximates live deployment conditions.

Begin when ready.

You went downstairs. Checked your body in the mirror — smooth, still smooth, the depilatory had been thorough and regrowth was minimal. A quick pass with the pink razor on your legs and underarms. The rest held.

You picked up the one-piece. Stepped into it. Pulled it up over your hips, your waist, your chest. The straps settled on your shoulders. The fabric pressed against every inch of you — thighs, stomach, chest, groin. Thin. Conforming. A second skin that hid nothing and covered everything.

You looked in the mirror.

A man in a pink one-piece swimsuit. Shaved. Smooth. The BTA emblem on your left breast. And there, at your pubis, in clean black type:

CANDIDATE 3187 PENIS SIZE: 4.2 IN / 3.7 IN 58-SEC AVG LATENCY

Your cock was already thickening beneath the text. The specifications stretched slightly as you hardened — the numbers distorting, the fabric pulling taut across the shape of you. Anyone looking would see the outline of your erection directly beneath the measurement that described it. The label and the product, together. Inseparable.

"Uniform detected. Fit confirmed. Candidate, your service certification begins now."

TEST 1 — DOMESTIC PROFICIENCY

"The following tests assess your readiness for household service deployment. These are timed. The system is monitoring your efficiency, thoroughness, and composure."

The tests were mundane. That was the point.

Clean a bathroom surface to clinical standard. Time limit: 3 minutes. Your mother's basement bathroom. The counter. The mirror. The toilet. You cleaned in the pink one-piece and the pink gloves from the toolbox and every time you bent over the toilet your specifications were visible in the mirror — a man in a swimsuit scrubbing porcelain with his penis size printed above his cock.

"Surface analysis: acceptable. Missed residue on faucet base. Domestic service: sanitation — PROVISIONAL PASS."

You folded a fitted sheet in 54 seconds. You made pasta with jarred sauce — the only thing you could reliably produce — in your mother's kitchen while the steam dampened the fabric against your chest. The system gave you provisional passes for both and noted that your domestic skills were below the median for candidates at this stage. Most candidates in service phase could fold a fitted sheet in under 30 seconds.

You were below average at folding sheets. You were below average at everything except ejaculating quickly, which was the one area where being below average meant being above average, which was its own kind of punishment.

TEST 2 — ORAL PROFICIENCY

"The following test assesses your readiness for oral service deployment. You will use the Oral Assessment Module provided in your kit. Place the VR headset on now."

You picked up the headset. Put it on. The display activated — darkness at first, then a loading screen with the BTA logo, then:

A room. A bedroom. Warm light. A bed. And on the bed — a woman.

She wasn't real. You knew she wasn't real. But the rendering was — detailed. Present. She was lying back on pillows, looking at you, waiting. Dark hair. Calm eyes. The patience of someone who'd been told a man was coming to try something and she was willing to give him three minutes to prove he could do it.

"Place the Oral Assessment Module on a stable surface at seated height. The VR will synchronize with the module's sensors. When you make contact with the module, the simulation will respond to your technique in real time. Her responses — visual and auditory — will reflect the quality of your performance."

You placed the fleshlight on your desk. Sat in front of it. The VR showed you leaning toward her. The simulation tracked your head movement — as you lowered your mouth to the module, the virtual perspective shifted, her thighs filling your vision, her body responding to the proximity.

"Begin when ready."

You lowered your mouth to the silicone. Your tongue made contact. The VR woman inhaled — a small breath, responsive, calibrated to the pressure you'd applied. The sensors in the module were reading your tongue's position, your pressure, your rhythm.

You moved the way you imagined you were supposed to move. You had no reference. You'd never licked a real pussy before.

You'd watched it in the porn the system had catalogued from your phone — Female Authority, 51% — but watching was not doing, and the module knew the difference immediately.

"Pressure: inconsistent. Rhythm: erratic. Clitoral contact: intermittent — 34% of elapsed time. The simulation subject's arousal is at 12%."

12%. After a minute of trying. The VR woman looked bored — not cruelly, not performatively. Just… waiting. The way a woman waits when a man is doing something to her body that isn't quite working and she's deciding whether to redirect or endure.

You adjusted. Tried to find the simulated clitoris with your tongue — the small raised node at the top of the module. Pressed harder. Too hard. The VR woman flinched.

"Pressure excessive. Reduce by approximately 40%. The clitoris is not a button, Candidate."

You reduced. Found something — a rhythm, a pressure, a spot that made the VR woman's breathing change. Her arousal climbed: 18%… 22%… 24%…

Then you lost it. Your tongue slipped. Your jaw ached — you weren't used to this sustained extension, this focused muscular effort. The arousal dropped: 22%… 19%… 15%…

"Time limit reached. Final arousal: 15%. Minimum threshold for certification: 60%."

15%. You needed 60.

"Oral proficiency: FAIL. Candidate, your technique lacks consistency, pressure management, and spatial awareness. You have not demonstrated the ability to bring a woman to orgasm orally."

A pause. The VR woman looked at you. Not disappointed. Analytical. The way the woman in the white coat had looked at you during inspection. Assessing what you were and what you weren't.

"The Oral Assessment Module will remain in your possession. Practice daily. You may retest in 72 hours. Until you pass, oral service will not appear on your menu."

You took the headset off. Looked at the fleshlight on your desk. The silicone glistened where your mouth had been. 15%. You couldn't bring a simulation to a quarter of an orgasm.

Your cock was rock hard in the one-piece. The fabric strained. A dark spot forming at the tip — precum soaking through the pink lycra, directly below your printed specifications. Your body wanted to come. Your mouth had failed. The two facts existed simultaneously and the system had recorded both.

TEST 3 — DILDO SERVICE PROFICIENCY

"The following test assesses your readiness for mounted dildo service deployment. This is the most physically demanding service in the candidate menu. You will use the Service Dildo provided in your kit. Place the VR headset on."

You put the headset back on. The bedroom reappeared. The woman was still there — but the perspective had changed. You were lying down. Looking up. She was above you. Looking down at you with an expression of concentrated intent, hair falling forward, lips slightly parted. Waiting.

"Take the service dildo. Place the bulb behind your teeth. Clamp your jaw. The shaft should protrude forward from your mouth. Confirm when seated."

You picked up the mouth dildo. Opened your jaw. The bulb slid behind your teeth — smaller than the soother, harder, a dense rubber that your molars gripped with effort. The shaft extended from your lips — six inches of pink silicone pointing outward, jutting from your face like a declaration.

You couldn't speak. Again. Your mouth full, again. But this time it wasn't a pacifier. It was a tool. The soother had been for your compliance. This was for her pleasure.

"Module seated. Jaw pressure: adequate. Milk reservoir active — delivery will occur at intervals. Swallow without releasing jaw pressure."

"Now. Stand. Walk to the corner of your room. Press the tip of the dildo into the corner where two walls meet. The sensor in the tip will measure the pressure you apply and the stability of your hold. Minimum pressure threshold must be maintained for five minutes. If pressure drops below threshold for more than three seconds, the test ends and you fail."

You stood. Walked to the corner. The VR adjusted — the perspective shifted to the view from a bed, looking up at a ceiling. The woman above you now simulating the experience of deployment. As you pressed the dildo tip into the corner, the VR showed her descending. Lowering onto you. The pressure against the wall corresponded to the pressure of her body on the shaft. When you pressed firmly, she settled. When you wavered, she lifted away.

Your mouth was holding a woman in place. Your jaw was the mechanism that kept her there.

"Pressure registered. Threshold met. Five-minute assessment begins now."

A pause.

"One additional instruction, Candidate. During this assessment, you will stimulate yourself through your uniform with your free hand. You are required to maintain arousal between 70% and 90% for the duration of the test. You may not exceed 90%. You may not fall below 70%. And you may not ejaculate."

"In live deployment, your body will be aroused while your mouth works. This test determines whether you can manage both. Your jaw must hold steady regardless of what your hand is doing. Begin."

5:00

Your left hand moved to your cock. Through the fabric of the one-piece — the thin lycra, your specifications printed over your fingers as you wrapped them around yourself. You were already hard. Already leaking. The fabric was warm and slick where the precum had soaked through.

You rubbed. Slowly. Your jaw clamped on the bulb. The dildo pressed into the corner. The VR woman settled above you — her weight, her warmth, the simulation of her body finding its position.

And then she spoke.

Not the system. Her.

A different voice in your earbuds. Softer. Breathier. Warm in a way the system's synthesized tone had never been — warm the way skin is warm, the way a mouth against your ear is warm. The voice of a woman who was feeling something.

"That's it… hold it right there…"

Your cock jumped in your hand. The system registered: AROUSAL: 76%.

She moved above you in the VR. Slow. Rolling. The pressure on the dildo tip fluctuated and your jaw tracked it — adjusting, following, maintaining contact through her rhythm.

"Don't you dare let go…"

4:32

You rubbed yourself through the lycra. Slow. Controlled. Your hand and your jaw operating on different rhythms — your hand finding the pace that kept you between 70 and 90 while your jaw followed the pace she set above you. Two tempos. Two systems. Your body split in half at the waist — everything below serving your arousal, everything above serving hers.

"Mmm… you were made for this, weren't you…"

AROUSAL: 82%.

Your hand slowed. Too high. The system would flag you if you crossed 90. You eased back — kept your fingers around yourself but barely moved them. Holding. Maintaining. Your cock throbbing against the fabric, against the printed numbers, against your own hand that wasn't allowed to finish what it started.

"Your little penis could never do what your mouth is doing right now…"

AROUSAL: 87%. The words hit harder than your hand.

4:01

A tone. Milk delivery. The liquid released from the bulb onto your tongue — warm, salty, familiar. You swallowed. Your jaw maintained lateral pressure while your throat worked vertically. Two axes of muscular effort. The milk went down. The pressure wavered but held. Your hand paused on your cock — too many inputs, too many demands, your body trying to process swallowing and clamping and rubbing and her voice simultaneously.

"Milk delivery accepted. Swallow time: 1.4 seconds."

That was the system. Clinical. Brief. Then her voice returned:

"Good boy… swallow your milk while I ride your face… that's what you're for, sweetie…"

AROUSAL: 89%. One point from the ceiling. Your hand flew off your cock — too close, too fast. You pressed your palm flat against your thigh instead. Breathing hard through your nose. The dildo steady in the corner. The VR woman still moving above you. Your cock pulsing untouched inside the one-piece, straining against the fabric, the wet spot spreading.

"Arousal warning. You are at 89%. Reduce to target range. Maintain jaw pressure."

The system and the woman trading places in your ears. One clinical, one intimate. One measuring you, one using you. Both of them inside your head while your mouth held a dildo in the corner of your childhood bedroom and your cock begged for a hand that wasn't allowed to finish.

3:22

Your arousal dropped to 81%. Safe. You returned your hand. Slower this time. Barely touching — fingertips through the lycra, tracing the outline of yourself, the ridge of your head, the damp patch where your body kept confessing what the test was doing to you.

The VR woman moved faster. Her rhythm building. The pressure demands on the dildo fluctuating — you had to track her, adjust, follow. Your jaw couldn't just clamp. It had to ride with her.

"Oh… right there… don't stop… your mouth is so much better than your little penis would ever be…"

AROUSAL: 84%. Your hand tightened fractionally. The feedback loop was inescapable — her voice telling you your penis was inadequate made you harder, and being harder made it harder to stay below 90, and the effort of staying below 90 while holding your jaw steady while she rode while the milk sat on your tongue was the most complicated thing your body had ever been asked to do.

2:44

Another milk delivery. You swallowed. 1.1 seconds. Faster. Your jaw held through it this time — the muscles learning, decoupling from your throat, two systems operating independently while your hand worked a third.

"Look at you… pussy free and holding steady… this is what you were designed for, sweetie… a small penis and a strong mouth…"

AROUSAL: 86%. The word sweetie — the same word your mother used, the same word the interviewers had used, now in the mouth of a woman riding your face in a simulation while you stroked yourself in the corner of your basement. The word traveled through every context it had ever held and arrived at your cock like a current through a wire.

2:02

The VR woman was close. You could hear it — the change in her breathing, the acceleration, the way her movements became shorter and more focused. She was using your mouth. Using the dildo your jaw held steady. And the closer she got, the harder you got, and your hand was barely moving now — just holding yourself through the fabric, feeling your own pulse against your palm, the throb matching her rhythm above you.

"Don't you dare come… your orgasm is not the point… hold me… hold me right there…"

AROUSAL: 88%. Your hand pulled away again. You pressed your fist against your thigh. Your cock was so hard the fabric was translucent at the tip — the pink lycra stretched thin enough to show the color of your skin beneath it. The specifications distorted. PENIS SIZE: 4.2 IN bending around the curve of your erection like text on a balloon.

1:15

Final milk delivery. You swallowed. 0.9 seconds. Your jaw held. Your hand returned — gently, carefully, the lightest touch through the fabric. Maintaining the 70% floor without approaching the 90% ceiling. A narrow corridor of arousal, policed by your own hand, while your mouth served a woman who was about to come because of what your jaw could do.

"I'm close… don't let go… your mouth, sweetie… your mouth is the only thing keeping me here…"

Your mouth is the only thing keeping her here. Not your cock. Not your body. Not your personality or your income or your car or any of the things men were supposed to offer women. Your mouth. Clamped on a rubber bulb in the corner of a basement.

0:30

She was right there. The simulation trembling at the edge. Your jaw burning. Your cock leaking. Your hand hovering — barely touching yourself, barely not. The milk on your tongue. The taste of everything the system had been training you to swallow.

0:08

"Don't stop don't stop don't stop—"

Your jaw held.

0:00

"Time. Assessment complete."

The VR woman shuddered. A long, rolling release — visual, auditory, a sound that started in her chest and moved through her body and ended somewhere your cock would never reach but your mouth just did. She came because your jaw held. She came because your mouth didn't quit. She came while your cock throbbed untouched at 88% and your hand trembled at your side and your throat was lined with milk.

"Dildo service proficiency: PROVISIONAL PASS. Stability was maintained above threshold for 4 minutes, 47 seconds of 5:00 — two brief dips, both recovered within tolerance. Arousal management: adequate — two ceiling warnings, no violations. Milk integration: improving. Overall: minimum deployment standard met."

"This service has been added to your menu."

You stepped back from the corner. Pulled the mouth dildo free. Your jaw hung open — the muscles unwilling to close after five minutes of sustained clamp. Your chin was wet with saliva. The taste of milk coated your tongue, your throat, the back of your teeth.

You looked down. Your cock was a rigid line behind the pink one-piece. The precum stain had spread to a circle the size of a quarter — dark against the pale fabric, positioned directly below your printed specifications. PENIS SIZE: 4.2 IN / 3.7 IN / 58-SEC AVG LATENCY — and beneath the text, the visible evidence of how aroused the test had made you.

You hadn't been allowed to finish. The system hadn't offered. Your cock had spent five minutes at the edge while your mouth did the thing your cock was never going to do, and now you stood in your mother's basement with your jaw aching and your cock leaking and a provisional pass that said your mouth was deployable.

MENU CONSTRUCTION

"Candidate 3187. Based on your certification results, the following services are available for your deployment menu:

— Domestic: Cleaning (PROVISIONAL PASS) — Domestic: Basic Meal Preparation (PROVISIONAL PASS) — Domestic: Textile Management (PROVISIONAL PASS) — Cuckold Preparation and Turndown Service (PRE-APPROVED — no test required for candidates classified Pink/Responsive) — Dildo Service — Mounted (PROVISIONAL PASS) — Oral Service (FAILED — retest available in 72 hours)

"You must now compose your service listing. In your own words, describe what you offer. This listing will be visible to women who request candidates through the program's service portal. Write it as though you are describing yourself to a woman who has never met you and is deciding whether to select you."

A text field. Blank. On the app. Waiting for your words.

You sat on the edge of your bed. In your pink one-piece. Your cock still hard. Your jaw still aching. The mouth dildo on the nightstand beside the soother — two devices that occupied your mouth for different purposes, side by side, like a before and after.

You typed:

Candidate 3187. Classification: Pink. I am available for domestic cleaning, basic meal preparation, and textile management. I am certified for cuckold preparation and turndown service, including bedroom setup, bath preparation, and post-session cleanup. I am certified for mounted dildo service — I can hold steady for five minutes and I am improving. I am not yet certified for oral service but I am practicing daily and will retest soon.

I am quiet. I follow instructions. I don't take up much space.

My penis is 4.2 inches and I ejaculate in under a minute. I am not suitable for penetrative sex. But my mouth is getting stronger.

You read it. Read it again. It was the most honest thing you'd ever written. More honest than the application. More honest than the consent form. A man describing himself to women who might choose him — not for his body, not for his face, not for anything you'd ever thought made you valuable — but for your willingness to clean a toilet, set up candles for another man's evening, and hold a dildo in your mouth while a woman used your face.

You submitted.

"Service listing received. Your menu is now active on the deployment portal. You will report to the staging warehouse tonight at 20:00 in your service uniform. Bring your full equipment kit. You will be dispatched to service requests as they are received."

"Candidates who fail to achieve a minimum average rating of 4.0 across their first three deployments will be removed from the program. There is no retest for deployment failure."

"Prepare yourself, Candidate. Tonight you work."

You stood in front of the mirror. The one-piece. The specifications. The wet spot that had finally begun to dry — a faint ring of salt on the pink fabric, a watermark left by your cock's response to five minutes of jaw work and a woman's voice telling you that your mouth was the only thing keeping her there.

Your phone buzzed. A text from your mother:

"Working late tonight sweetie. Leftover pot roast in the fridge. How's the program going? Mrs H says Tyler just got promoted to some kind of senior level! So exciting!"

Senior level. Tyler Harmon — the boy from three doors down who went through the program and came back different — had been promoted. To what? To senior toilet cleaner? To advanced dildo services? To a man who folded fitted sheets in under thirty seconds and had a menu of ways women could use him?

You typed back: "Going great Mom. Got my service assignment tonight. First shift."

"Oh wonderful!! So proud of you sweetie. Eat something before you go. Love you."

You ate the leftover pot roast. Washed the plate. Put it away. Checked your kit — toolbox, mouth dildo, soother, B2, earbuds, watch. VR headset stayed home. This was live now.

You looked at the oral assessment module on your desk. The truncated fleshlight. The device you'd failed at. 15%.

You picked it up. Put on the VR headset. Pressed your mouth to the silicone.

Fifteen minutes of practice before your first shift. Your jaw already aching. Your tongue searching for the node. The VR woman looking down at you with patient, analytical expectation — the look of someone who'd wait, but not forever.

"Practice session detected. Current arousal simulation: 8%. Keep going, Candidate. You have work to do."

You kept going.

This is the sixth in our Beta Training Academy series — on toolkits, aptitude tests, and what happens when a quiet boy discovers that his mouth is worth more than his penis.

Previously: BTA 01 — The Application / BTA 02 — The Interview / BTA 03 — The Errand / BTA 04 — The Mannequin, Pt. 1 / BTA 05 — The Mannequin, Pt. 2

The warehouse was different this time.

Same black sedan. Same silent driver. But when you walked through the door in your service uniform — pink one-piece, dance shoes, B2 in your right hand, lollipop in your mouth, earbuds in, watch on — you realized it was a different warehouse.

Unlike the mannequin warehouse, this place was set up like an Amazon delivery space: a grid of numbered marks on the concrete floor, each one a pink square with a candidate number stenciled in white. The marks were spaced evenly across the warehouse — thirty of them, five rows of six. Standing positions. Staging.

And on the far wall: the board.

A bank of screens — the kind you'd see in an airport or a stock exchange — stretching the width of the warehouse, floor to ceiling. The display was divided into sections:

Left panel: A map of the city. Real-time. Dozens of small pink dots moving through streets, converging on addresses, departing. Candidates in transit. Betas deployed across the city like a fleet of rideshare drivers, except the rides were one-way and the passengers were women who needed toilets cleaned or candles lit or a body in the corner while they fucked.

Center panel: A live leaderboard. Candidate numbers ranked by average rating, total deployments, hours served. The top ten glowed brighter. The bottom ten pulsed red — candidates approaching the 4.0 cutoff below which the program swallowed you and spat you out.

Right panel: Incoming requests. A scrolling feed — anonymized, just task types and locations. Domestic — cleaning — Zone 4. Domestic — meal prep — Zone 7. Errand — dry cleaning + dinner pickup — Zone 2. Cuckold preparation — turndown service — Zone 5. Dildo service — mounted — Zone 1.

Requests appearing and disappearing as candidates were dispatched. The board was alive. The system was alive. The city was full of women requesting services and men in pink one-pieces being sent to provide them.

You found your mark. 3187. Pink square. White stencil. You stood on it. Feet together. B2 at your side. Soother in your mouth. Silent. Ready.

Around you, other candidates stood on their marks. Some you recognized from the mannequin lineup — same shaved bodies, same pink uniforms, same specifications printed at the pubis. Some were new. Some had marks that showed wear — scuffed paint, the stencil faded from repeated standing. Veterans. Candidates who'd been doing this for weeks.

You looked at the leaderboard. Your name — your number — appeared near the bottom. 3187: 0 deployments. 0.0 avg rating. NEW.

New. Untested. No woman scrolling through the service portal was going to select a candidate with zero deployments for anything that mattered. You wouldn't be chosen for dildo service — not with no field rating and a failed oral assessment on your record. You were going to get the jobs nobody else wanted.

You were going to clean toilets.

"Candidate 3187. You have been selected for a special assignment. Step off your mark and proceed to the vehicle bay immediately. Your tools are waiting in the car."

Special assignment. Not on the board. Not a standard deployment. The candidates around you didn't react — they couldn't, soothers in, eyes forward — but you felt the shift. Being pulled off the floor before your first deployment of the night. Being sent somewhere the board didn't list.

You walked to the vehicle bay. A black sedan. The driver staring forward. You opened the rear door.

On the back seat: a box.

Smaller than your service kit. Matte white. The BTA insignia. And beside it, a garment bag — pink, naturally — and a compact case you didn't recognize.

"Open the box. Change in the car. Your current service uniform is not appropriate for tonight's assignment. Instructions will follow."

The car pulled away from the warehouse. You opened the box. Inside: lingerie — not your panties and bralette but something new, something that made everything you'd worn before look like a warmup. A compact case beside it. And a garment bag for the uniform you were about to take off.

You changed in the back seat of a moving car.

The one-piece came off first — folded into the garment bag. Naked. Shaved. The city passing outside the tinted windows. The driver's eyes fixed forward.

"Put on the bra first. Then the panties. Then the mask."

The bra. Not a bralette — an actual bra. Underwire. Padded cups. Pink satin with lace trim. You pulled the straps over your shoulders and reached behind your back for the clasp — the small hooks your fingers had never operated from this side. It took three attempts. The underwire settled against your ribs. The cups sat on your chest, empty, shaped, creating contours your body didn't have. You breathed. The wire pressed in. Released. Pressed in. Every breath measured by the cage of satin and steel around your chest.

The panties. Pink lace. Crotchless — the front panel ended where fabric should have continued, an oval of nothing framed by lace, designed to expose everything beneath. And spanning the gap, connecting front to back: a strand of pearls. You stepped into them. Pulled them up. Your cock slipped through the opening — exposed, framed, hanging free. And the pearls settled against your perineum. Smooth. Round. Cool at first, then warming. Each pearl a distinct point of pressure against skin that had never been touched by anything designed to touch it. The strand continued between your buttocks — pressing, nestling, following the line of your body with a gentle, persistent intimacy. You shifted in the seat. The pearls shifted with you. Every movement registered.

The mask. Pink. Full-face. You pulled it over your head — the material stretching, conforming to your skull, your jaw, your chin. Where the eyes should be: AR panels, smooth and dark. The system could show you anything or nothing. Sight as a privilege granted or revoked. The nose: filtered vents. The mouth: an open port, wide enough for your soother, your service dildo, your milk. Your mouth remained accessible. Everything else disappeared. Darkness. Total. Your earbuds chimed. The mask synced.

You placed your soother in your mouth. The pink sphere settled on your tongue. The familiar weight. The familiar silence. Milk ready. Voice gone.

Blind. In a bra and crotchless panties with pearls against your ass, sitting in the back of a car going somewhere you couldn't see.

"You are in assignment uniform. Your designation for tonight is not Candidate 3187. For the duration of this assignment, you are Model One. The women you will meet tonight do not need to know your name, your number, or your history. You are an anatomical teaching aid. You are the body they practice on."

"Estimated arrival: nine minutes. Remain still."

The car stopped.

The AR panels over your eyes activated — a single bright outline in the darkness. A door. Your door. The handle illuminated in green.

"Exit the vehicle. Walk to the building entrance."

You opened the door. Stepped out. The AR lit up the path and nothing else — a glowing line on the ground, the entrance ahead highlighted like a waypoint in a video game. The rest of the world was black. You walked the line. Opened the door. Stepped inside.

The display went dark.

You stood in total blackness. Warm air. The scent of candles. And the low murmur of voices: women.

"You are about to enter the classroom. Your soother stays in. Your B2 is your voice. One click yes, two clicks no. Any questions?"

You clicked twice.

"Follow the path."

The AR flickered — the green line again, leading forward. A door ahead. It opened. You walked through. The display went dark again. You stood in the warm darkness and waited.

"The system will provide visual feed when necessary."

The AR panels flickered. Light — sudden, bright, adjusting. And then you could see.

Six women. Seated in cushioned chairs arranged in a semicircle. Casual clothes — yoga pants, soft sweaters, the comfortable uniform of women at an evening wellness class.

Ages ranging from late twenties to mid-forties. Wine glasses. Notebooks. Some of them smiling nervously. Some studying you with open curiosity.

And you — in their vision: a figure in a pink mask with no eyes and an open mouth, wearing a pink satin bra and crotchless lace panties, cock exposed and hardening through the opening in the lace, a strand of pearls disappearing between your legs, standing in front of them like a mannequin in a shop window that sold something they'd never known they wanted.

To your left: the instructor.

A woman in her early forties. Dark hair pulled back. Fitted black top, tailored pants. She looked like a yoga instructor who'd pivoted to something more specific. Warm face. Professional posture. A shelf behind her with an array of equipment — harnesses, silicone devices of various sizes, bottles of lubricant, anatomical diagrams on an easel.

"Good evening, everyone. Welcome to session four." She smiled at the room. "For those who've been with us from the beginning, you know the first three sessions focused on theory — the anatomy of the male pelvic floor, the prostate as a secondary pleasure center, and the psychological framework for introducing receptive play into your relationship."

She gestured toward you.

"Tonight, we move to practice. This is Model One. He's been provided by the Beta Training Academy's education program. He's a responsive male — his penis is 4.2 inches erect and he has an ejaculatory latency of under sixty seconds. He has a short refractory period and a high compliance rating. He's been selected specifically because his penis will give you real-time, visible feedback on your technique."

She walked to you. Stood beside you. Her hand rested on your shoulder — casual, proprietary. The way a teacher rests her hand on a skeleton in an anatomy class.

"He won't speak — the oral module in his mouth is part of his program. He can hear you. He will respond to what you do. His erection, his breathing, his ejaculation if it occurs — these are your feedback mechanisms. Think of him as a very responsive CPR dummy."

Light laughter from the class.

"Let's begin."

The instructor started with anatomy.

The instructor turned you. Gently. Her hands on your shoulders, rotating you. The AR feed didn't change — you were still looking at the six women, their faces, their expressions shifting from nervous curiosity to something more focused. You thought you were still facing them.

You weren't.

"The first thing to understand is access," the instructor said, and you watched the women's eyes drop — not to your chest, not to your cock. Lower. Behind you. Their gaze landing somewhere you couldn't feel them looking.

But then the AR flickered. The feed cut. A new image replaced it — the room, but from a different angle. A mounted camera. The classroom's own feed. And in the center of the frame: a figure in a pink mask and a pink bra and crotchless panties, facing away from a semicircle of women.

You. From behind. The pearl strand between your buttocks. The lace framing the opening. Your shaved skin. Your exposed ass. You were watching yourself from across the room and you couldn't look away because the image was inside your eyes.

"Bend forward, Candidate. Hands on knees."

The instructor's hand pressed gently on your lower back. You bent. The figure on the feed bent with you — the pink mask tilting forward, the crotchless opening widening, the pearl strand pulling taut.

"Now spread yourself. Both hands."

Your hands moved behind you. Found your own buttocks. Pulled them apart. And the feed zoomed in and showed you what the six women were now seeing — your anus, exposed, framed by pink lace, the pearls brushing against your fingers, the most private part of your body displayed on your own AR screen as though you were watching someone else. Except the hands were yours. The skin was yours. The opening they were all studying was yours.

"The first thing to understand is access," the instructor repeated, and this time you understood what she meant. Not her access to you. Your access to yourself.

The system had made you watch your own body being opened. You weren't just the teaching model. You were a student in your own class. Learning what you looked like from the angle women would see when they took what the system was about to teach them to take.

She traced the pearl strand with one finger. From the small of your back, down, following the line of pearls between your buttocks. Your whole body shivered. The class watched.

"See that response? That's perineal sensitivity. Most women never discover this in their partners because they never access it. The traditional male sexual script — penetration, ejaculation, done — bypasses the entire posterior nerve complex."

She slipped her fingers lower, gently circling your anus.

"The prostate is approximately two to three inches inside the rectum, toward the front of the body. Anterior wall. About the size of a walnut. When stimulated correctly, it produces a qualitatively different orgasm from penile stimulation — deeper, longer, full-body rather than localized."

She turned to the class.

"And here's the part that matters for your relationships: a man does not need an erection to experience a prostate orgasm. He does not need a large penis. He does not need stamina. The inadequacies that have been disappointing you in the bedroom are completely irrelevant to the kind of pleasure you're about to learn to give."

She let that land.

"His 4.2 inches don't matter tonight. What matters is that you learn to use your hands and a strap-on to access the organ that his penis has been distracting you from for your entire sexual life."

The practical instruction began with fingers.

The instructor kept you bent over at the front of the room — face down at first, then adjusted to hands and knees. The panties stayed on. The pearls were moved aside — unclipped from a small clasp you hadn't noticed, the strand hanging free, your anus now fully accessible.

The class gathered closer. Six women in a semicircle around a man on all fours in a pink bra and crotchless panties with a mask over his face and a lollipop in his mouth.

"Lubrication first. Always. Generous." The instructor applied lube — warm, thick, her fingers clinical. "External massage before penetration. The sphincter needs to relax. This isn't something you force. Watch."

Her finger circled your opening. Slow. Steady. The pressure gentle but present — a conversation with a part of your body that had never been spoken to.

Your cock responded before your mind did. Your erection had softened slightly during the anatomy lecture — the clinical tone cooling you. Now it surged back. Fully hard. Hanging below you through the crotchless opening, visible to the entire class, 4.2 inches pointing toward the floor.

"See his erection returning? That's the parasympathetic response. External anal stimulation activates the pudendal nerve, which shares pathways with the erectile tissue. He's not choosing to get hard. His penis is responding to appropriate stimulation."

She pressed. Gently. Her fingertip entering you.

You'd never been penetrated.

The sensation was — not pain. Not pleasure, exactly. Pressure. Fullness. The feeling of something entering a space that had only ever been an exit. Your first instinct was to clench — to resist, to push out — and the instructor narrated this in real time.

"He's clenching. Normal. The external sphincter is under voluntary control — he can relax it if he chooses. The internal sphincter is involuntary. We work with both. Give him a moment."

A moment. You breathed through your nose. The soother sat on your tongue. The milk arrived — a delivery you hadn't triggered, the system feeding you automatically, the warm liquid on your tongue while a woman's finger was inside you for the first time. You swallowed. The class watched your throat work.

"Good. He's accepting the penetration. Now — the prostate." Her finger curved. Forward. Searching. "You'll feel a small, firm, rounded structure on the anterior wall. Like pressing on a ripe grape through a thin cloth. When you find it—"

She found it.

The AR feed was still showing you the classroom camera. Zoomed in on her finger. You watched it disappear inside you — watched your own anus accept it, watched the pink lace stretch around her wrist, watched the ring of muscle you'd never seen close around her knuckle. You were watching yourself be penetrated from ten feet away while feeling it from zero.

The sound that came out of your mouth was not voluntary.

A moan — deep, guttural, vibrating around the soother. Your cock jumped visibly. A bead of precum formed at the tip and stretched toward the floor. The class leaned in.

"There it is." The instructor smiled. Not at you. At the class. "That response — the vocalization, the penile twitch, the pre-ejaculatory fluid — that's how you know you've found it. His penis can't fake that. His penis is telling you exactly what his prostate is feeling."

She pressed again. Rhythmically. A slow massage — press, hold, release. Press, hold, release. Each press produced the same response: a throb of your cock, a pulse of precum, a sound from your throat that the soother couldn't fully contain.

"Now. Who wants to try?"

The first woman was nervous.

Late twenties. Brown hair in a ponytail. She knelt beside you and looked at you — at the mask, the soother, the bra, the cock hanging through the crotchless opening, the instructor's finger still inside you.

"Gloves on. Lubrication. And remember — gentle. You're having a conversation with his body, not giving it orders."

The instructor withdrew. The first woman's gloved finger replaced hers.

Different.

Every hand was different. The instructor's had been precise — a professional touch, calibrated, knowing exactly where to go. This woman's finger was tentative. Exploring. She pressed against the walls of your rectum with the careful curiosity of someone reading Braille for the first time.

"A little more forward," the instructor coached. "Toward his belly. You're on the posterior wall — come forward about an inch."

She adjusted. Her finger moved. And—

"Oh!" The woman gasped. "I felt it. It's like a little bump."

"Press gently. Rhythmic. Watch his penis."

She pressed. Your cock jumped. Precum dripped onto the floor.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "That's… I can feel it responding. His whole… his dick… his dick just—"

"His penis," the instructor corrected. Gently. The way you'd correct a student who used the wrong term in lab. "In this room, we use clinical language. His penis responded. And that's the prostate-penile reflex. Direct neural pathway. What you're feeling with your finger, you're seeing with his penis. They're connected. Now maintain that rhythm and watch what happens."

She maintained. Press, hold, release. Press, hold, release. Your body rocked slightly with each press — involuntary, your body shifting on your knees. The bra pressed against your chest. The pearls swayed between your legs. Your cock dripped steadily now — a thin string of fluid connecting you to the floor.

"How long has she been stimulating him?" the instructor asked the class.

"About ninety seconds?"

"Watch. He's approaching ejaculation. His respiratory rate has increased, his penis is fully engorged, and his pre-ejaculatory output has increased. This model's baseline penile latency is 58 seconds — with a finger in his prostate, he's lasted longer than he normally would during intercourse. The prostate orgasm has a different buildup curve."

She was right. You were close. Not the sharp, localized urgency of a penile orgasm — this was deeper. Wider. A wave building from inside your pelvis, radiating outward, your cock almost secondary to the sensation in your ass.

"I think he's going to—" the woman said.

"Let him. Don't change anything. Same rhythm. Same pressure."

You came.

The orgasm was unlike anything your body had produced before.

It started at the prostate — the exact point where her finger pressed — and expanded. Outward. Through your pelvis, your thighs, your stomach. Your cock pulsed but the ejaculation was almost gentle compared to the internal sensation — a slow, thick release that dripped rather than spurted. Your body shook on the floor. Your knees buckled. The moan through the soother was continuous — a sound you'd never made, from a place you'd never been touched.

"Beautiful," the instructor said. "Look at the difference. His typical penile ejaculation — based on his file — is fast, intense, and localized. What you just saw was a prostate orgasm: slower onset, longer duration, and whole-body engagement. This is what his body can do when you bypass the penis entirely."

She let the class absorb this. Six women looking at a man trembling on the ground, your cock still dribbling, your body still shaking, the orgasm rolling through you in waves that took thirty seconds to subside.

"And here's the important part—" The instructor checked your watch data. "His refractory period after prostate stimulation is significantly shorter than after penile ejaculation. He'll be ready again in four to five minutes. Which means everyone in this room gets a turn tonight."

They took turns.

Each woman approached you on all fours on the floor. Each one gloved, lubricated, coached by the instructor. Each one found the prostate — some quickly, some after searching, all of them eventually locating the small firm structure and pressing it with varying degrees of confidence.

Your AR display showed your own data — heart rate, arousal percentage, prostate stimulation intensity — overlaid on your vision like a fighter pilot's HUD. The system was monitoring everything. Every woman's technique produced different data: different pressure curves, different response times, different qualities of orgasm.

A milk delivery arrived during Woman 3's session. The system feeding you while a stranger's finger was inside your prostate. You swallowed. The instructor noticed.

"His oral module delivers nutrition at intervals. He swallows automatically — trained reflex. Watch his throat. See? Even during prostate stimulation, his swallow reflex functions. That's the level of conditioning these candidates receive."

Woman 4 asked a question before starting: "Can I use two fingers?"

"Excellent question. Yes — two fingers allows for broader prostate coverage. More surface area. Watch."

Two fingers. The stretch was new — wider, fuller, your body adjusting to a volume it hadn't experienced. The two fingers found the prostate and pressed from both sides — a bracketing pressure that made your vision white out behind the AR display. You came in ninety seconds. Thick. Long. The instructor collected your ejaculate in a small cup — clinical, familiar — and showed the class.

"Notice the volume is decreasing with each orgasm. His body is depleting. But the intensity of the prostate orgasm isn't diminishing — if anything, it's increasing. The prostate doesn't fatigue the way the penile reflex does."

Woman 5 was the oldest in the class. Mid-forties. She'd been taking notes the entire evening. When she knelt beside you, she put down her notebook and said: "I've been married for twenty years. He's about this size." She glanced at your cock. "Maybe smaller. I've never once thought about doing this."

"That's exactly why you're here," the instructor said.

The woman's finger entered you slowly. Carefully. With the deliberate attention of someone who was learning something she planned to take home. She found the prostate. Pressed. Your cock responded — a twitch, a bead of fluid.

"Twenty years," she murmured. Not to you. To herself. "Twenty years and I never knew this was in there."

Your orgasm took three minutes. When it arrived, she kept her finger in place — maintained the pressure through the contractions, rode the orgasm with you, her technique already better than the first three women because she was paying attention to your body the way you'd pay attention to something you'd been missing for two decades.

"That was different," she said to the instructor. "He felt different that time. Less clenching. More… flowing."

"Because you held through the orgasm instead of withdrawing. The prostate continues to respond during ejaculation. Most women remove stimulation at the moment of orgasm because that's what they've been taught to do with a penis — stop touching when he comes. But the prostate wants continued pressure through the release. You just gave him a better orgasm than any of the others."

The woman looked at her finger. At you. At her notebook.

"I'm going to need a bigger notebook," she said.

Woman 6 was the last.

By now, you'd come five times. Your body was trembling continuously — a low vibration in your muscles that wouldn't stop. Your cock was still hard but the erections between orgasms were slower to build. Your balls ached. The precum had stopped — your body had nothing left to preview. But the prostate, as the instructor had promised, was undiminished. If anything, it was more sensitive — five orgasms had left the gland swollen and reactive, every touch amplified.

The last woman was quiet. She'd watched every session without speaking. Now she stepped forward, put on gloves, and looked at the instructor.

"Can I talk to him? I know he can hear."

"Of course. He can't respond verbally — the oral module stays in. But his B2 is in his hand. One click yes, two clicks no."

She knelt behind you. Close. You could feel her breath on the small of your back, warm through the lace. She didn't touch you yet. She talked.

"I've been looking at your penis all night." Quiet. Just for you and the six women who were leaning in. "4.2 inches. And I've watched it jump and leak and squirt five times because of what these women did to your ass. Not your cock. Your ass."

A pause. Her gloved finger rested against your opening. Not entering. Resting.

"Your penis is so small. You know that. The program knows that. Every woman in this room can see that. But your asshole — sweetie, your asshole has been the star of the show tonight."

Your cock pulsed. Hard. Despite everything — despite five orgasms, despite the depletion, despite the ache. The word sweetie. The word asshole. Both of them landing in the same sentence, in the same breath, from a woman kneeling behind you.

"This is your real sexual organ." Her finger pressed. Entered. Slid inside with a confidence that wasn't clinical. It was personal. Intimate. The finger of a woman who'd spent an hour watching and learning and deciding what she wanted to say. "Not the little thing hanging between your legs. This. Right here."

She found the prostate. Pressed. Your cock jumped.

"See? Your penis responds to your prostate. Not the other way around. Your penis is a readout. A meter. It tells me what's happening in here—" she pressed again, "—but it's not doing the work. It never was. It never could."

She began the rhythm. Slow. Deliberate. Press, hold, release. Her other hand rested on your lower back — steadying you, grounding you, the casual possession of a woman who understood that the body beneath her hand was hers to use and hers to teach.

"When you go home tonight, I want you to think about something." Press. Your cock throbbed. "Every time you touched your little penis and came in under a minute, you were using the wrong organ. Every time you felt ashamed of your size, you were measuring the wrong thing. You have this button—" press, "—inside you. This has been here your entire life. Waiting. And no one ever found it until tonight."

Your sixth orgasm was building. Deeper than the others. The swollen prostate amplifying everything — her finger, her words, the weight of five previous orgasms pressing down on the sixth like strata in rock.

"I want you to come for me." Not a command. An invitation. "Not from your penis. From here. From your button. From the part of you that actually works."

She pressed. Held. Your body broke.

The sixth orgasm was almost dry. A contraction — deep, seismic, your body clenching around her fingers with nothing left to expel. Your cock pulsed against the air. Your back arched. The bra pressed against the floor. The pearls swayed. The moan through the soother was thin and broken and long — a sound that came from a place no woman had ever reached before tonight and six women had found in the space of two hours.

And she held through it. Pressure maintained. Riding the contractions. Her fingers inside you while your body emptied itself of the last thing it had to give.

"Good boy," she whispered. Her fingers still inside you. Her breath on your back. "Your penis is small and inadequate. But your button — and your asshole aren't. You just needed someone to find it and press it and take you to the right place."

"Session complete. Model One has served six clients tonight. Prostate stimulation sessions: six. Orgasms achieved: six. Average time to orgasm: 2 minutes, 42 seconds. Teaching objectives: met."

The instructor helped you stand up. Your legs barely worked. The mask stayed on — the AR display showing your vitals: heart rate 101, falling. Arousal: 12%, falling. Prostate sensitivity: elevated. Refractory status: depleted.

She removed the soother from your mouth. Your jaw ached. The taste of milk — six deliveries over two hours. She held a glass of water to your lips. You drank.

"You did well tonight," she said. Quietly. Just to you. "Most models can't take six in their first session."

She re-affixed the pearls to your panties. The AR display went dark. Blind again. The hand on your arm — guiding you. Carpet. A door. Night air on your bare legs. The car.

You sat in the back seat. The bra pressing against your ribs. The pearls against your perineum. The crotchless panties framing a cock that had been hard for three hours and produced six orgasms and penetrated nothing.

"Special assignment: complete. Rating from instructor: 4.9. Comment: 'Exceptional responsiveness. Recommend for advanced sessions.' You are being returned home."

4.9. Your highest rating. For lying on a table while six women took turns putting their fingers inside you and learning that your penis was beside the point.

The car delivered you to your mother's street. Porch light on. The driver opened the door. You walked the path — in a bra and crotchless panties and a pink mask, at 11:47pm, on your mother's front walk.

Inside. The mask came off first. Then the bra. Then the panties — the pearls sliding from between your buttocks with a sensation that made your spent body shudder one final time.

You lay in bed. The panties from Donna still under your pillow. The crotchless panties on your desk beside the service dildo, the soother, the B2. Your body aching in places it had never ached before — inside, deep, the ghost sensation of six different fingers.

Your phone had a notification:

Special Assignment Summary: Model One Sessions: 6 Orgasms: 6 Highest client comment: "Twenty years and I never knew this was in there." Instructor note: "Candidate 3187's prostate responsiveness is in the 94th percentile. His penis underperformed his potential for his entire sexual life. His body has more to offer than he knew."

Program stipend: $200 credited to referring account.

$200. More than a regular shift. Because tonight your body taught six women something their husbands never could.

Your mother's text, sent at 9pm:

"Hope work is going well sweetie! Mrs H says Tyler did his first special assignment last month and came home absolutely GLOWING. She said it was a real turning point for him. So proud of you both! Love you!"

Glowing. Tyler came home glowing. Now you understood what Mrs. Harmon meant.

You closed your eyes. The ghost of six fingers. The taste of milk. The sound of a woman saying twenty years and I never knew this was in there. The woman who pressed your button.

Your cock was soft. But something deeper than your cock was still humming.

You slept.

This is the seventh in our Beta Training Academy series — on special assignments, responsive anatomy, and what happens when a quiet boy discovers that the best thing about his body was never between his legs.

Previously: BTA 01 — The Application / BTA 02 — The Interview / BTA 03 — The Errand / BTA 04 — The Mannequin, Pt. 1 / BTA 05 — The Mannequin, Pt. 2 / BTA 06 — The Toolkit

They led you through a corridor behind the warehouse into a space that didn't belong to the same building.

Warm. Softly lit. Hardwood floors. Track lighting angled toward five low platforms arranged in a semicircle at the center of a room that looked like a gallery — white walls, high ceilings, a bar along one wall with wine glasses already set out. The kind of room where you'd launch an art exhibition or host a fundraiser.

Both, it turned out.

The five of you were positioned at your stations. One candidate per platform.

The woman in the white coat directed the placement — spacing, posture, angle. She moved you the way a curator moves a sculpture, adjusting your shoulders with her fingertips, tilting your chin, stepping back to assess.

"Face the room. Feet together. B2 at your side."

You stood on the platform. Six inches above the floor. Elevated. Displayed. Your B2 in your right hand, resting against your thigh — a gunslinger's pose, she called it. The polished wood against your bare skin.

"Candidate. Your soother will remain in your mouth unless you receive specific instructions to remove it. Your B2 remains your only voice. One click: yes. Two clicks: no. The system will guide you through the event."

Then the masks.

One of the women in blazers moved down the line with a box. She stopped at each candidate and produced a mask — half-face, nose up. Eye holes cut clean. Each one different.

The candidate at the far end received Audrey. Delicate brows, wide dark eyes. The next: Grace. Then Marilyn — the arched brows, the beauty mark above the cutout where his mouth would be. Then Rita.

She stopped in front of you. Reached into the box.

Jayne.

The mask went over your face. Cool against your skin. The elastic band behind your head. Your vision narrowed to two oval cutouts. Your mouth and jaw — exposed. The lollipop protruding from your lips, the white stick visible beneath Jayne Mansfield's painted eyes.

You looked down the line. Five men on platforms in bralettes and panties and thigh-highs and dance shoes, each wearing half the face of a golden-age screen goddess. Five pairs of famous eyes above five anonymous mouths. Five lollipops. Five B2s at rest.

Mannequins.

The woman in the white coat walked the line one final time. She stopped at each station and reached for the candidate's waistband.

"Panties down to mid-thigh. Keep your legs together."

She hooked her fingers into the lace of the candidate at the far end and drew the panties down — slowly, clinically — to the midpoint between his knees and his groin. His penis appeared, shaved, exposed, pointing forward. The panties held his thighs together, limiting his movement, presenting him.

She moved down the line. Each man's panties lowered to mid-thigh. Each penis revealed — different sizes, different shapes, all of them hardening or already hard under the fluorescent warmth of the track lighting.

Then you.

Her fingers — cool, precise — hooked into the waistband of your panties. The pale pink lace that Donna had held to the light. The panties you'd bought for a woman who didn't exist. The panties you'd slept with under your pillow.

She drew them down. Your cock appeared — shaved, hard, 4.2 inches pointing forward at a room that didn't exist yet but was about to be full of women.

The panties settled at mid-thigh. Snug. Holding your legs together. Holding you in position. You couldn't step sideways. Couldn't widen your stance. Could only stand, presented, your penis the most forward thing about you.

The woman in the white coat stepped back. Surveyed the line.

"Good. Now the cups."

Another woman appeared with a tray. On it: five small collection cups. Medical-grade. Translucent. Shaped like thimbles — rounded at the end, open at the base, rubber-lined. Each one sized differently.

She fitted yours over your glans. It slid on with a soft, clinical pressure — snug, warm from her hand, the rubber gripping the ridge of your head. Not tight enough to hurt. Tight enough to stay. A small cup seated over the most sensitive part of your body like a cap on a bottle.

"The cup captures ejaculate on release," the woman in the white coat explained. Not to you. To the room, though the room was still empty. Rehearsing. "After each release, the candidate will remove his soother, open his mouth, and the guest who triggered the release will empty the cup into his mouth. He swallows. Soother goes back in. Next guest."

She said it the way a docent explains the rules of an interactive exhibit. Touch this. Press that. Wait for the result. Repeat.

"Candidate. Confirm you understand the protocol. One click for yes."

You clicked. Once. Yes.

Of course yes. Your thumb had stopped asking your brain for permission two hours ago.

The doors opened at 10pm.

Women entered. Not a flood — a steady stream. Twenty, thirty, eventually fifty or more. Dressed for an evening out — dresses, heels, jewelry, the smell of perfume layering into a cloud that settled over the room like weather. Wine was poured. Conversation started. Laughter — immediate, comfortable, the laughter of women in a space designed for them.

They noticed the mannequins almost casually. The way you'd notice art at a gallery — a glance, a pause, a murmur to a friend. "Oh, look at them." "Which one is Marilyn?" "That one's cute — look at his little…" A gesture. A laugh. The word little traveling through the room like a weather front.

A large screen on the wall displayed the event's framing:

BTA CHARITY SHOWCASE

Each station features a BTA candidate in full presentation. Candidates are available for charitable stimulation. Rules:

— Each ejaculation generates a $500 donation to the Women's Resource Alliance — Manual stimulation only (hands) — Time limit: 3 minutes per guest — If the candidate ejaculates on your turn, the donation is credited to your name — After each release, the candidate will consume his own product. Please allow him to complete the cycle before the next guest begins — Candidates cannot speak. They can hear you.

Current leaderboard:

Five columns. Five names — not names, masks. Audrey. Grace. Marilyn. Rita. Jayne. Each column showing: total ejaculations, total donations generated, average time to release, current arousal percentage.

All zeros. The evening hadn't started yet.

Jayne: 0 releases. $0 generated. Avg time: —. Arousal: 74%.

74%. You were already three-quarters of the way there and no one had touched you. Standing on a platform in a half-mask with a cup on your cock and a lollipop in your mouth, watching a room full of women read the rules of a game that used your penis as the lever.

The first woman approached Marilyn.

Mid-thirties. Red dress. Wine glass in her left hand. She read the placard at his station. Looked at him. Looked at the screen — his arousal at 68%.

"Three minutes? That's ages." She set down her wine. Reached for him.

The room shifted. Conversations continued — but with a new undercurrent. Women glanced toward Marilyn's station. Watching. The screen updated in real time: 68%… 73%… 79%…

The woman worked him with a practiced, casual efficiency. Not tenderly. Not cruelly. The way you'd work a mechanism — finding the rhythm, adjusting pressure, reading the feedback. Her eyes flicked between his cock and the screen, calibrating.

81%… 87%… 91%…

"Come on," she murmured. Not to him. To the percentage.

He came at 2 minutes, 14 seconds. The cup caught it. The woman smiled — not at him, at the screen.

Marilyn: 1 release. $500 generated.

A small cheer from the women nearby. Applause. The kind of applause you'd give a raffle winner.

Then the protocol. The candidate behind Marilyn's mask removed his lollipop — the wet pop audible across the quiet that had fallen. He opened his mouth. The woman who'd stroked him lifted the cup from his glans, turned it over, and tipped the contents onto his tongue.

He swallowed. Replaced the lollipop. Eyes forward. The screen reset his arousal to 0%.

The room exhaled. Conversations resumed. Wine was sipped. And the next woman was already walking toward a station — not Marilyn's. Grace's. The game was spreading.

Your first guest arrived four minutes into the event.

A woman in a dark blue dress. Blonde. Early forties. She stood in front of your platform and looked up at you — Jayne's painted eyes above your exposed mouth, the lollipop stick between your lips, your cock hard and cupped below.

"Jayne," she said, reading the mask. "I always liked Jayne." She looked at the screen. Arousal: 78%. "And you're already most of the way there. Lucky me."

She reached for your cock.

Her hand was warm.

Her fingers wrapped around your shaft below the cup — the first human hand other than your own to touch your cock in your entire life. Not a clinical measurement. Not a ring on two cords. A woman's hand. Soft. Certain. Knowing exactly what to do with what she'd found, which wasn't much, and not caring, because this wasn't about what you had. It was about what you'd produce.

She stroked. Slow at first. Finding your rhythm — or rather, telling you what your rhythm was. Her thumb grazed the underside on each upstroke and your knees nearly buckled.

"Guest 1 has initiated contact. Heart rate: 138. Arousal: 84%. Maintain position, Candidate."

The system in your ear. Her hand on your cock. Jayne's eyes on your face. The room full of women and wine and laughter surrounding you like weather you couldn't escape.

88%… 91%… 94%…

"Oh, he's close," someone said. Not the woman stroking you — someone watching. A spectator. A woman with a wine glass who'd wandered over to watch the game at your station. "Look at the screen — he's about to go."

96%… 97%…

The woman's hand moved faster. Not urgent — efficient. She was reading the screen the way you'd read a loading bar. Almost there. Almost done.

You came.

The ejaculation was total — a full-body convulsion that started at the base of your spine and emptied you through your cock into the rubber cup fitted over your glans. Your legs trembled. Your hand tightened on the B2. The lollipop nearly fell from your mouth. A sound escaped your throat — not a word, the lollipop prevented words — just a vibration, a hum, a confession made through a mouthful of pink rubber.

Jayne: 1 release. $500 generated. Time: 47 seconds.

"Forty-seven seconds!" The woman laughed. Delighted. She turned to her friend. "Forty-seven seconds! I barely started!"

Her friend looked at the screen. Looked at you. "That has to be the fastest one tonight."

"It is." The woman who'd stroked you — the first woman to ever touch your cock — was beaming. Not at you. At her accomplishment. At the donation. At the number on the screen that said she'd made a machine perform in under a minute.

The protocol.

"Release captured. Candidate, remove your soother. Open your mouth."

Your left hand rose — the hand that wasn't holding the B2. You pulled the lollipop from your mouth. The pop was soft but the room heard it. Women turned. Watching. The part they'd read about on the rules board. After each release, the candidate will consume his own product.

You opened your mouth.

The woman lifted the cup from your glans — a small tug, the rubber releasing, your cock twitching at the loss of contact. She held the cup in front of your face. You could see the contents — white, thick, still warm. Your own ejaculate, captured and held by a stranger who was about to feed it back to you.

She tipped the cup.

The cum hit your tongue. Warm. Thick. Salty. Unmistakably, undeniably what it was.

And now you knew. The milk. The soother's milk that the system had been feeding you since your mother's basement — warm, salty, slightly sour, biological. This is what it had always been.

Or this is what it had always been training you to accept. The system had been teaching your throat to swallow without hesitating, your tongue to receive without resisting, your reflex to accept without questioning. Every click of the B2, every "good" in your earbuds, had been rehearsal for this moment — a woman tipping a cup of your own cum into your open mouth in a room full of women who thought it was part of a game.

You swallowed. 0.8 seconds.

Faster than ever. Because your body had been practicing.

You replaced the lollipop. The pink sphere settling back onto your tongue. The taste of yourself mixing with the taste of the rubber. Your mouth full. Your voice gone. Your eyes — Jayne's eyes — staring forward.

"Cycle complete. Resetting. Well done, Candidate."

The screen: Jayne: 1 release. $500 generated. Avg time: 47 sec. Arousal: 0%.

But not for long. Your cock was already stirring. The cup was replaced — the woman in the blazer materialized, fitted a clean one over your glans, disappeared. Ready for the next guest.

Your arousal climbed: 12%… 24%… 38%…

The woman in the blue dress was already at the bar, telling her friends. "Forty-seven seconds. I swear. Forty-seven seconds and he swallowed the whole thing."

By 10:45pm, you'd come three times.

Guest 1: the woman in blue. 47 seconds. The first hand that wasn't yours. $500.

Guest 2: a younger woman, late twenties, who approached your station because her friend had pointed at the leaderboard and said "Jayne's the fastest — go try him." She lasted 2 minutes and 11 seconds — not because you held on, but because she kept stopping to check the screen, adjusting her technique based on the percentage, treating your cock like a game she was learning to play. When you came, she pumped her fist. "Yes!" The cup was tipped. You swallowed. Soother back in.

Guest 3: two women. Together. They shared the three-minute window — one stroked while the other watched the screen and called out percentages like a spotter. "Eighty! Eighty-five! He's right there — keep going, don't change anything—" You came at 1 minute, 38 seconds. The woman who'd stroked you held the cup while her friend tipped it. They did it together. Like a toast. You swallowed. They clinked their wine glasses.

Each time: the pop of the soother leaving your mouth. The open jaw. The cup tipped. The swallow. The soother replaced. The cycle.

The women at your station were starting to comment.

"That's three now. How much has he swallowed?"

"Is it less each time? It looked like less."

"His face when he swallows — did you see? He doesn't even hesitate."

"Of course he doesn't. Look at the screen — his swallow time is under a second."

Under a second. Your throat had been optimized. The milk training, the repetition, the reflex conditioning — you swallowed your own cum faster than you could blink. The system had built this. Click by click, delivery by delivery, in your mother's basement while she watched television above you.

By 11:15pm, the leaderboard told the story.

Audrey: 2 releases. $1,000. Avg time: 2:34. Grace: 3 releases. $1,500. Avg time: 1:52. Marilyn: 3 releases. $1,500. Avg time: 1:41. Rita: 2 releases. $1,000. Avg time: 2:08. Jayne: 4 releases. $2,000. Avg time: 58 sec.

You were winning. If winning was the right word for a man who'd ejaculated four times in seventy-five minutes and swallowed every drop while fifty women watched and a leaderboard tracked his output like a stock ticker.

The women had noticed. Jayne was the fast one. Jayne was the slot machine that always paid out. The traffic at your station was steady — a small queue had formed, women waiting their turn, watching the current guest work you, checking the screen, commenting on technique.

"You have to grip tighter near the base. That's what gets him."

"No, watch — it's the thumb thing, under the head. See? Look at the number jump."

They were coaching each other. Sharing strategies. Workshopping the most efficient way to make you cum. Your cock was a collaborative project. A team-building exercise.

"Candidate. Your fifth guest is approaching. Heart rate: 142. Arousal: 67%. Your body is responding efficiently despite repeated stimulation. The system is pleased with your throughput."

Throughput. The system had a word for how many times you could cum in an evening while women lined up.

Guest 5 was different.

Older. Maybe fifty. Silver hair. Elegant. She didn't rush to your station — she stood back first, watching. Watching the queue. Watching the screen. Watching you.

When she stepped onto your platform for her three minutes, she didn't reach for you immediately. She looked at you. At Jayne's eyes. At your mouth — the lollipop, the stick, the lips that had opened four times to receive the contents of a cup.

"How many has he had?" she asked, not to you. To the woman beside her.

"Four. He's the fastest."

The older woman looked at the leaderboard. Looked at your average time. Fifty-eight seconds.

"Fifty-eight seconds," she said. Quietly. The way you'd say it about a wine or a painting. With appraisal. "That's… efficient."

She reached for you. Her hand was different — slower, more deliberate. She didn't grip and stroke. She held you. Felt you. Let her fingers map your shaft, your girth, the cup fitted over your glans. She was reading you with her hand the way the ring had read you with sensors.

"He's small," she said. Matter-of-factly. To the women watching. "But responsive. Very responsive. Feel how hard he gets when I just—" She did something with her thumb. A small circular motion. Your cock jumped. The screen spiked: 78%… 83%…

"See? Like a trigger. He can't help it."

She stroked. Slowly. Each stroke measured. She wasn't racing for the payout. She was studying the machine. Understanding its mechanics.

"Heart rate: 156. Arousal: 91%. Ejaculatory proximity: imminent."

"He's about to go," someone said.

The older woman didn't speed up. She slowed down. Held you at 93%. 94%. Kept you there. On the edge. Her hand moving with a patience that was more devastating than speed.

"Not yet," she murmured. To your cock. To the percentage. To the room.

She held you at 95% for forty-five seconds. Forty-five seconds of not-quite. Your legs shaking. Your jaw clenched around the soother. The B2 slick in your sweating palm.

Then she moved her thumb. Once. The circular thing.

You came so hard the cup nearly dislodged.

The convulsion was violent — your whole body seizing, your cock pulsing into the cup, the orgasm pulled from somewhere deeper than the first four, somewhere the other guests hadn't reached. Your knees buckled. Your hand grabbed the B2 so hard the button clicked — once, involuntarily — yes, yes, yes to something no one had asked.

Jayne: 5 releases. $2,500. Time: 2:47.

The longest you'd lasted all night. And the hardest you'd come.

"Remove your soother, Candidate."

You pulled the lollipop out. Opened your mouth. The older woman lifted the cup. Looked at the contents.

"More than I expected," she said. "For a fifth."

She tipped it. You swallowed. She watched your throat. The bob of your Adam's apple. The muscular contraction that moved her evidence from your tongue to your stomach in 0.7 seconds.

"Good boy," she said.

Not the system. Not the app. Not the synthesized voice in his earbuds. A woman. A real woman. Looking at you with Jayne's eyes and your open mouth and your throat still working around the last of your own cum.

Good boy.

Your cock pulsed. Already. The cup was replaced. The soother went back in. The screen began climbing.

The older woman stepped off the platform. Picked up a wine glass from a passing tray. Took a sip. Turned to the woman beside her.

"That one," she said, tilting her glass toward your station. "That one is something special."

She wasn't talking to you. She was talking about you.

Image 8. Maximum response. Your cock at 34% and climbing.

The event ended at midnight.

The final leaderboard:

Audrey: 3 releases. $1,500. Avg time: 2:22. Grace: 4 releases. $2,000. Avg time: 1:48. Marilyn: 4 releases. $2,000. Avg time: 1:33. Rita: 3 releases. $1,500. Avg time: 2:01. Jayne: 6 releases. $3,000. Avg time: 1:12.

Six. You'd ejaculated six times. Swallowed six times. Generated three thousand dollars for the Women's Resource Alliance through the involuntary contractions of a 4.2-inch penis that fourteen different women had handled like a crank on a charity raffle drum.

The women filed out. Wine glasses collected. Conversations fading. The gallery emptying the way all events empty — gradually, warmly, with promises to do this again.

"Same time next month?"

"Absolutely. I want to try Marilyn next time."

"No — stick with Jayne. He's the best one. Fastest hands-down."

Fastest. Best. The highest-performing machine in a room full of machines. Your inadequacy was your value. Your quick spurt was your feature. The thing that had humiliated you since you'd first timed yourself at forty-seven seconds in your mother's basement was now the thing that made women line up.

The five candidates were cleaned up in a back room.

Masks removed. Cups removed. A warm cloth provided — clinical, efficient. The woman in the white coat moved down the line, collecting equipment, checking watches, downloading data.

She stopped at your station.

"Candidate 3187. Highest throughput of the evening. Six releases, average latency 1:12 under manual stimulation. Swallow compliance: 100%, average reflex time: 0.8 seconds. Guest satisfaction at your station was rated 4.8 out of 5."

She looked at her tablet.

"One guest left a comment." She read it. "'That one is something special.'"

She looked at you. The half-smile from the inspection.

"The program agrees."

"Challenge 2: COMPLETE. Candidate 3187, your performance summary has been logged. You are being returned home. Maintain abstinence protocols. The system will contact you within 72 hours with your next assignment."

Panties up. Soother in. B2 at your side. You were walked to the car. The same black sedan. The same silent driver. The city at 1am through tinted windows.

Your watch displayed your summary in soft green text. Six releases. $3,000 generated. Fastest candidate. Highest throughput.

And at the bottom: Your mother's Visa has been credited $150 as a program participation stipend.

$150. For six ejaculations. For fourteen women's hands. For six cups of your own cum swallowed in a room full of applause.

Twenty-five dollars per orgasm. The system had priced you.

The car stopped at your mother's house. The porch light was on. Of course it was.

You walked the path. The same path. Your dance shoes on the concrete. The lollipop in your mouth. The taste of yourself — layered, accumulated, six deposits of evidence that you'd been productive tonight.

Inside. Downstairs. Your bedroom.

You removed the uniform. Piece by piece. Shoes. Thigh-highs. Bralette. Panties — still warm, still yours, the lace slightly stretched from being pulled to mid-thigh for two hours. You folded them. Placed them under your pillow.

The soother last. You pulled it from your mouth. The pop. Quiet in the empty room. You set it beside your phone on the nightstand.

Your phone had a notification.

Challenge 2: COMPLETE.

Participation stipend: $150 credited to referring account.

Note: Guest 5 has requested to be assigned to your station at the next showcase event. Her request has been logged.

Guest 5. The older woman. The silver hair. The slow hands. The one who'd held you at 95% for forty-five seconds and said "good boy" while you swallowed.

She'd asked for you. Specifically. By station number. She wanted to come back and do it again.

You lay in bed. Your shaved body against sheets that felt different now — every thread registering against skin that had no buffer. The lace of the panties under your pillow against your cheek.

Your mother's house was quiet. The clock ticked. The furnace hummed.

You'd generated $3,000 for charity tonight. You'd swallowed your own cum six times. You'd been touched by fourteen women and not one of them had kissed you or asked your name or seen your face above the nose.

The system had called you productive.

Your mother would see the $150 credit tomorrow. She'd smile. She'd tell Mrs. Harmon. The program was paying her son. The program was working.

You closed your eyes. The taste of milk on your tongue. All six layers of it.

Good boy.

You didn't know if the voice was the system or the woman or your own memory. It didn't matter. It meant the same thing from all three.

This is the fifth in our Beta Training Academy series — on mannequins, slot machines, and what happens when a quiet boy learns that the fastest way to be useful is the thing he was always ashamed of.

Previously: BTA 01 — The Application / BTA 02 — The Interview / BTA 03 — The Errand / BTA 04 — The Mannequin, Pt. 1