We Live in a World where Size Really Matters 1
By Pindickpro.
Today.
The word pressed against his chest like a weight. Today is the examination day.
He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, trying to calm the tightness in his stomach. This is supposed to be routine. Every man goes through it. His family treats it like a formality—an inevitable confirmation of what they already believe. His father and grandfather have been ranked as Alphas. “You’ll make us proud,” this is what his mother tells him, and there are big hopes from his father that he will get his Alpha rank to work with him in his supermarket.
Wade swings his legs off the bed and stands, catching his reflection in the mirror. Slightly chubby. Tired eyes. A smile that usually comes easily—missing this morning. He looks like himself. Ordinary. Safe. He exhales, straightens his shoulders, and gets dressed.
Outside, the city is already awake. Screens glow with morning announcements. The NSDP building looms in the distance—clean, white, efficient. A place designed to feel neutral, like a hospital or a courthouse, Wade looks at the building. Here is where men get classified. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.
At the plaza entrance, a massive bronze statue of the First Alpha stands proudly, his exaggerated anatomy polished to a golden shine by the reverent touches of passersby. The air here is colder than the rest of the city, carrying a sterile scent of industrial cleaner mixed with the faint, metallic tang of ozone. Wade can feel the weight of your father’s expectations pressing down on Wade’s shoulders, heavier than the humidity, as he watches other young men trudging toward the revolving doors—some swaggering with unearned confidence, others trembling so violently their knees knock together.)
“Identification, please. Keep the line moving, we have a lot of potential disappointments to process today.”
The security guard, a stout woman with a severe bob cut and eyes that scan you with predatory boredom, holds out a gloved hand without looking up from her screen. Inside the lobby, the atmosphere shifts from cold to oppressive. The walls are plastered with high-definition propaganda posters: a muscular Alpha lounging on a throne surrounded by adoring women, contrasted with a gray, blurry image of a Beta hunched over a desk, a censorship bar obscuring his entire lower half. Wade hands over his ID, your fingers slightly slick with sweat, and as she scans it, a red light washes over your face. The sound of weeping echoes from a distant corridor—the distinctive, broken sob of a man who has just realized his life is effectively over—causing the hair on the back of Wade’s neck to stand up.
“Wade… son of a Tier-1 Alpha family. High pedigree. Let’s hope the genetics didn’t skip a generation, for your mother’s sake. Take this bracelet and proceed to Waiting Room B. Do not remove your clothes until instructed.”
Wade snapped the plastic bracelet onto his wrist, the cool material chafing against his skin as he walked down the long, pristine hallway. To his left, a glass wall reveals the Beta Processing wing; he catches a glimpse of men in gray jumpsuits being lined up, nurses preparing the syringes filled with the censorship serum that will dull their urges and blur their existence. You quickly look away, your stomach churning with nausea.
Wade entered Waiting Room B, a space filled with twenty other candidates sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs. The tension is so thick you can choke on it. A large screen on the wall displays a live feed of the Alpha Lounge on the top floor—champagne, velvet couches, and beautiful women attending to the needs of the proven elite.
A woman appears on-screen, smiling widely, standing against a backdrop of blue skies and white text. She’s wearing a bikini styled to look ‘professional,’ the kind of outfit that pretends confidence and sexuality are the same. Her posture is relaxed, her tone playful, her enthusiasm rehearsed.
“Men ranked Alpha enjoy higher compatibility outcomes, increased career confidence, and stronger social alignment,” she says. “Alpha classification opens doors—professionally, socially, romantically,” she said. “Men ranked Beta may experience… different outcomes.” She laughs lightly, like she’s sharing an inside joke. “Lower compatibility. Reduced visibility. And yes,” she adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “sometimes that includes biological limitations.”
She brings her fingers together briefly, making the small penis unmistakable gesture. The smile never leaves her face. A few men in the room shift in their seats.
Wade feels his ears burn. His chest tightens. He stares at the floor, then back at the screen, unable to look away. “Remember,” the woman concludes, hands clasped cheerfully, “This isn’t about judgment. It’s about fit.”
The screen fades to the NSDP logo.
“Next, Candidate Wade. Room 3. The Examiners are ready for you. Don’t keep the ladies waiting.”
Wade stands, legs stiff, heart pounding. For the first time in his life, he understands something with terrifying clarity. This place doesn’t just measure bodies. It teaches people how to look at themselves afterward.
Wade enters the room and sees a woman who appears to be a nurse. Her name was Sara. She looked at Wade with a professional smile and said, “Okay mr Wade, let’s just make the process so fast we can take off everything and come near me.”
Her tone was direct. Wade was so nervous, but he had no other choice. This is the world he lives in, so he stripped off naked and revealed his small penis. The sterile white light of the examination room reflects harshly off the tiled floor, leaving no shadow for Wade to hide in. The air conditioning is set to freezing, raising goosebumps on his exposed, slightly chubby flesh. Sara stands before him, her posture rigid and imposing in her pristine white lab coat.
He snaps a pair of blue latex gloves onto her hands, the sharp sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. Her gaze drifts from Wade’s handsome, charming face down to his midsection, watching his soft belly and thighs jiggle slightly as he shifts his weight nervously. Then, her eyes lock onto his groin. There is no pity in her expression, only a clinical, scientific disgust mixed with amusement.
She steps closer, the smell of antiseptic wafting off her clothes, and uses a gloved finger to flick the tiny, one-inch mound of flesh nestled between your thighs.
“Oh, wow. I had to squint to find it. You weren’t kidding about the size, were you? It’s almost inverted. Your file says your father is a Tier-1 Alpha… genetics can be so cruel, can’t they? It looks like a little pink button stuck on a marshmallow,” Sara said, her voice balancing sarcasm and professionalism.
Wade didn’t know what to respond. He was just silent, but his face was so red seeing this woman flickering his small penis and looking directly at it.
She walks around him slowly, her heels clicking rhythmically on the floor, inspecting his body like livestock at an auction. She picks up a cold metal caliper from a tray, the steel gleaming menacingly. Without warning, she grabs his soft love handles, squeezing the fat casually before slapping your rear, watching the flesh ripple. The humiliation burns hotter than the cold air on his skin. She returns to his front and roughly grabs his tiny flaccid penis, pulling on it slightly to see if there is any hidden length. There isn’t. It snaps back against his pubic bone like a rubber band when she lets go. She doesn’t even bother writing anything down yet; the verdict is practically written on her face.
“This is tragic. A face that could have been on billboards, attached to… this. You are definitely in the Beta range, Wade. Honestly, you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel even for Betas. But protocol is protocol. We have to measure you at ‘maximum capacity’ to finalize your caste assignment. Though I doubt this little worm can grow enough to save you from the censorship serum,” she said, looking at Wade’s tiny penis.
Wade thought that the worst thing that would happen was being ranked a Beta, but being injected with the serum was the nightmare he was panicking about. He knew that his penis had to grow to three inches, so he passed the test.
She moves to a console on the wall and presses a button. A robotic arm extends from the ceiling, equipped with a suction device and electrodes. The machine hums to life, descending until it hovers right in front of Wade’s groin. Sara crosses her arms, leaning back against her desk with a smirk, clearly enjoying the spectacle of his imminent social demise. The device clamps onto Wade’s tiny member, the cold suction cup consuming it entirely. Wade can see his reflection in the glass of the observation booth—naked, vulnerable, and about to be officially branded as the lowest of the low. The realization that his mother’s pride and father’s legacy are about to be shattered weighs heavily on his chest.
“Test Number 1: Artificial Stimulation. Let’s see if we can get a response from you, ‘Candidate.’ Try not to cry. Tears are terribly unattractive on a Beta. If you don’t hit at least 4 inches hard—which is the absolute minimum for a restricted low-tier Beta—you’ll be classified as a ‘Sub-Beta’. That implies immediate, heavy-grade censorship and… other public service duties. Relax your hips,” she said with a smile on her face and an excited tone.
Wade relaxed his hips, but his small penis couldn’t fit into the hole of the machine. He was embarrassed when Sara asked what was wrong. He said to her, so she decided to direct the machine on the wall and to press his butt so his tiny penis doesn’t slip out Wades body shook when she touched his butt. Then, after about 17 seconds of the stimulation Wades moans hard, and he cums. The humiliation of Wade’s premature release still lingers in the air, a sticky, metallic tang blending with the sterile scent of the room. His tiny, one-inch pink nub shrivels further, retreating into the sparse pubic hair that frames it. He remained splayed on the cold examination bed, legs akimbo, under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights.
Shame burns through him, hotter than any fever, as Sara’s professional demeanor barely conceals the pathetic disgust flickering in her eyes. Her fingers, still encased in blue latex, absently knead your minuscule, deflated testicles—a gesture so devoid of warmth, it feels like she’s checking a forgotten piece of meat. You avert your gaze, fixating instead on a faint water stain on the ceiling, anywhere but her cold, judging stare.
“Attempting to avoid eye contact won’t change your genetic disposition, Beta. This isn’t a game of hide-and-seek. Your biology is laid bare, and it speaks volumes. Your premature ejaculation, your… size… it all confirms your destined place. But protocol demands thoroughness. We leave no doubt. Even for a Beta-S, there are standards of… responsiveness,” she said to him while Wade’s legs were wide open and she was messaging his small balls.
She steps away from the bed, her heels clicking crisply on the tiled floor, and heads towards a complex array of medical equipment. Her movements are efficient, methodical, and utterly devoid of any personal interest in you beyond your function as a test subject. She returns with a long, slender, almost serpentine device, its tip glowing with a dull, red light. The air around it seems to shimmer faintly, and a low, nearly imperceptible hum emanates from its length. Wade’s breath catches in his throat, a sudden, primal dread seizing his gut as he watches her prepare for Test Number 2. This device is clearly designed for penetration, and Wade’s tiny member won’t even register against its size.)
“Test Number 2: Depth and Cavity Exploration. Since your external response is so… minimal, we need to assess the internal landscape. We’re looking for any remnants, any underdeveloped potential that might have been hidden. It’s rare, especially with such a poor external presentation, but necessary for a full classification. This device will gently probe your internal urethral access, and we’ll monitor your physiological responses on the screen.”
She motions towards a small monitor on a stand beside the bed, its blank screen flickering to life, displaying a complex series of graphs and numbers. Her voice remains perfectly level, clinical, as she explains the procedure, yet he can feel the undertone of condescending amusement, a subtle edge that sharpens his humiliation. With a gloved hand, she reaches down and cups Wade’s tiny testicles once more, pinning them firmly against his body.
The red-glowing tip of the serpentine device hovers menacingly over your minuscule urethral opening, radiating a warmth that feels entirely invasive and wrong. The sheer scale of the device compared to his small, pink button of a penis makes your stomach clench. He closes his eyes, bracing for the inevitable, the invasion that will further categorize and brand his pathetic existence.
“Just relax, Beta. It’ll be over before you’ve even had another chance to disappoint,” she said with a disgusted face.
She was done with the second test and saw how Wade’s small balls reacted with her touches, so she decided to measure Wade. Wade was really stressed. If he were under 3 inches, that means he would get the serum. He tries to extend his little nub. Sara was frustrated by his pathetic tries. She held his penis with two fingers and measured it.
“You can close your legs,” Sara said after finishing the tests and noting everything. Then she sat in front of the laptop and didn’t even look at Wade; she was talking to him as if he didn’t deserve a glance from her. “So, you are lucky your small penis still works, and it reaches 3.1 inches, which means you don’t have to take the serum, but your rank will be Beta-S, which mean its just one rank higher than the serum, and any actions you do, the government will report it and lower your rank and here you have your Beta-S identification. Good luck with your life as a Beta. You can leave now.”
She threw the ID at him while he was still wearing his clothes. Wade nodded and just went out of the room so fast.
He walks to his car, collapses into the driver’s seat, and the panic hits all at once. His hands shake, his breath stutters, and tears come before he can stop them. He sees his mother’s hopeful smile, already dreaming of his future, his father’s quiet certainty that Wade would carry the family after him. His sister’s trust, his brother’s admiration. All of it was built on something he no longer has. He presses his forehead to the steering wheel, chest aching, one thought tearing through him again and again—what happens when they find out that I am a Beta?
To be Continued…?
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