The Ring

I’d been grinning like an idiot all morning. First day at a big multinational, IT department, working on their next-generation AI project. To me it sounded like a dream, futuristic, cutting-edge, exactly the kind of thing that would make my parents’ neighbours green with envy.

The interview process had been strange from the start. Everything online, no faces, no video. Just a blank screen reflecting me back at myself while a clipped, genderless voice fired questions: my childhood, my habits, whether I was “sexually active” or “anticipating a relationship in the next twelve months.” When I asked if they wanted to know about my programming experience, the voice cut me off “We already know.”

I’d convinced myself it was a psych test. Some corporate quirk. If they already had my CV, fine, let them dig inside my head instead.

So there I was: fresh out of uni at twenty-four, shiny new badge clipped to my blazer like I’d won a prize. I thought I was stepping into the real world at last.

The receptionist’s plastic smile didn’t flicker as she pointed me down a corridor the colour of old chewing gum. “Medical induction, room six.”

Medical induction. I pictured a blood-pressure cuff, maybe a urine sample. Instead, room six was a bare white box that reeked of disinfectant. Three men in lab coats sat behind a metal desk. They didn’t even look at me as I came in.

“Jane Scott,” one of them said flatly. “Strip.”

The grin froze on my face. Part of me wanted to laugh, but the other part, the one that had spent too many nights scrolling conspiracy threads about corporations testing their staff like livestock, told me to shut up and obey.

So I did. I peeled off my blouse, bra, skirt, knickers, folding them into a pathetic pile that suddenly looked like all the protection I’d ever had. In thirty seconds I was naked in front of strangers for the first time in my life. They didn’t blink. No jokes, no comfort. Just silence, as if I was a piece of equipment being unboxed.

One circled me with a clipboard. “Height: five-six. Medium frame. Unconventional facial symmetry. Excessive pubic growth. Glasses. Breasts larger than expected, nipples clearly responsive” Each word clipped, sharp, stripping me down further than my clothes already had. I felt a moment of shame at hearing the word nipples and tried to will them into being less stiff.

Another snapped on gloves. “Sit.”

The padded chair was cold and unforgiving. The exam that followed was brisk, invasive, and completely devoid of dignity. Instruments pressed, pulled, and prodded. I was opened and my most private area exposed. My cheeks burned. I wanted to cover myself but I couldn’t move without being shoved back into position. Their questions were as blunt as their hands, scribbled notes reducing me to numbers and checkmarks.

Then the door opened. A nurse walked in, carrying a tray. She was beautiful, striking, but her smile was unsettling. Blissed-out, vacant, as if she’d been **** or brainwashed.

She lowered the tray with reverence. On it lay a single golden ring with a clasp, gleaming like something holy. She sighed dreamily: “It’s wonderful. It will make everything in the facility respond to you. Doors, systems, the AI itself. Automatic. Seamless.”

The men nodded. One lifted the ring with tweezers.

“This is mandatory.”

Before I could ask, gloved hands pushed me back. A sharp pinch. My eyes screwed shut. When I dared to open them again, the ring was there, locked into me, clamped through the hood of my clitoris.

My breath tore from my throat. “What the fuck—”

“Company property now,” the man cut in, already writing. “The device enforces compliance. Lies will trigger pain. Truth and obedience bring reward, I was part of the contract you signed. You’ll adapt.”

I sat frozen, humiliated, raw. The nurse’s hand stroked my shoulder. Her voice was soft, almost maternal. “It’s all right, honey. Everyone has one. The men wear silicone versions around their cocks. Flesh-coloured. You’d never know.”

I couldn’t answer. I stared down at the obscene little glint of gold in my pubic hair. The first time anyone had ever seen me naked, ever touched me and they’d left me tagged like inventory in a warehouse.

“Why here?” I croaked. “Why not… somewhere else?”

One of the men snorted. “You’re not going to lose it there, are you? Sensors are waist-level. Put it on your ear and half the doors wouldn’t see you. Toe’s too low. Practicality, Miss Scott.”

I muttered, “Sure. Makes sense.”

But nothing about it made sense.

When they finally told me to get dressed, my hands shook. Every button felt clumsy. My eyes kept dragging downwards to the flash of gold hidden in my hair, mocking me with its quiet promise that I was no longer just me.

The rest of the day went through the motions. They showed me my booth, a sealed egg-like pod with a terminal and chair. The chair **** me back, legs parted, posture locked open. “Ergonomics,” they called it. Alone in the pod, it felt more like conditioning.

By the time orientation ended, no one had spoken to me except to issue orders. The doors slid open as I approached them, as if the building itself was watching me.

On the bus home I sat numb, my bag heavy on my lap, my thighs pressed together. I couldn’t feel the ring. No pain, no irritation. Almost as if it wasn’t there at all.

But I knew better.