Untitled

The Challenge

You come home to the low murmur of voices and the smell of her tea.

She’s on the couch with her friend, legs tucked under her, that calm, certain posture she always has when she’s explaining something. You catch the tail end as you set your bag down.

“…so they just kept showing the boots right before the nudes. Over and over. And the men started getting hard to the boots alone. No nudes needed anymore. The penis learned the association.”

Her friend laughs, a little scandalized. “Like actual conditioning? On real men?”

“Exactly like that,” she says. Her voice is warm, matter-of-fact. “The penis is a remarkably trainable organ. Pair a neutral stimulus with arousal enough times and the neutral stimulus starts triggering the response on its own. It’s not magic. It’s just learning.”

You step into the room. “That’s not how dicks work.”

Both women look up. Her friend flushes slightly. She doesn’t. She just smiles that small, warm smile that always means she’s already three steps ahead of you.

“Hi, sweetie. We were just talking about the Rachman study. 1966. They conditioned three men to develop full sexual responses to a picture of women’s boots. The boots were shown for fifteen seconds, then immediately followed by slides of naked women. The men reached criterion—five successive erections to the boots alone—in as few as twenty-four trials. One took sixty-five. But they all conditioned.”

You snort. “Pseudoscience. Nobody’s training my cock with pictures of boots.”

She tilts her head. The strap of her bra is visible at the edge of her tank top—thin, black, ordinary. She doesn’t move to hide it.

“Not boots,” she says softly. “Something closer. Something I actually wear.”

She hooks one finger under the strap, pulls it away from her skin, and lets it snap back. The sound is small. Intimate.

“This. My bra strap. I bet I can train your penis to cum the moment you see it.”

The room goes quiet. Her friend is staring at you now, wide-eyed. You feel heat crawl up your neck.

“That’s impossible,” you say. But your voice is already thinner than you want it to be.

“Is it?” She stands. Walks toward you. Close enough that you can smell her skin.

“Let’s make it a proper experiment. One week. Every day I’ll pair the sight of my bra strap with something that makes you very, very aroused. At the end of the week we test. If you cum—just from seeing the strap—I win. And you admit your penis is a trainable little thing.”

You should say no. You know you should. But the way she’s looking at you—like she’s already measuring your responses—makes something reckless rise in your chest.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say. “Deal.”

She kisses your cheek. “Good boy. We’ll start tonight.”

Session One.

She has you sit on the edge of the bed, still in your work clothes. She stands in front of you in panties and that same black bra. The strap is fully visible against her skin.

“Look at it,” she says. Not a command. An invitation. “Just the strap. Notice how ordinary it is. How neutral.”

You look. It’s a bra strap. Black elastic, maybe a quarter-inch wide. You’ve seen it a thousand times. It means nothing.

Then she climbs onto your lap, settles her weight against you, and grinds slow and deliberate against your cock through your pants. Her eyes stay on yours.

“Every time you see this strap from now on, your cock is going to remember how hard it is right now. How good this feels.”

You’re already hard. She smiles, feeling you through the fabric. “There he is. Eager to learn.”

She unbuttons your pants, frees you. Her hand wraps around you—warm, sure.

She strokes your cock with long, unhurried strokes while the strap stays framed in your vision. Up and down and up again.

“You feel that? That’s the pairing. The strap… and this.”

She edges you ruthlessly. Brings you right to the edge, stops, makes you look at the strap again.

“Look at it, sweetie. Look at the strap and feel how close you are.”

You groan. She starts again. Close. Stop. Close. Stop.

Each time she stops, she guides your chin so your eyes lock onto that thin black line.

By the time she finally lets you cum, you’re panting and staring at it like it’s the only thing in the room. The orgasm feels different—deeper, like something inside you just got tagged.

She cleans you gently with a warm cloth. “One session down. Six to go.”

You tell yourself it was just good sex. Suggestion. You’re still in control.

Session Two.

She’s naked except for the bra. She has you naked on the bed. She shows you the strap, then takes your hand and places it on your own cock.

“Stroke for me, sweetie. Slowly. While you look at it.”

You do. Her hand covers yours, guiding the rhythm at first, then she lets you take over. She kneels beside you, her face close to yours, her breath warm on your cheek.

“Every time the strap appears, something good happens to your little guy,” she murmurs. “The strap. Your hand. The strap. Your pleasure. Your penis is learning the sequence.”

You try to close your eyes. She stops immediately.

“Look at it, sweetie. That’s part of the training.”

You look. You feel yourself getting harder just from the visual command—the strap, her voice, the permission to touch yourself while she watches.

When you finally cum, your own hand on your cock, you’re not sure anymore whether it’s your touch or the strap that’s pulling the orgasm out of you.

She wipes your stomach clean. “Good boy. You’re such a quick learner.”

You wake up the next morning already hard. The image of the strap flashes behind your eyes unbidden. You ignore it. You have to.

Session Three.

The pairings get more efficient. She doesn’t touch you at all this time.

She sits in a chair across the room, wearing a robe parted just enough to show the bra strap.

She sets a metronome on the dresser—tick, tick, tick—and has you stroke yourself to the rhythm while you stare at the strap.

“Every repetition strengthens the connection,” she says, her voice calm, clinical.

“Your penis doesn’t care that you think this is silly. It only cares about what happens right after the strap appears. Good boy. Let it learn.”

Tick. Stroke. Tick. Stroke. Your eyes glaze over. The strap becomes a focal point, a magnet. The metronome dings. She tells you to stop.

You’re throbbing, aching. She makes you wait, looking at the strap, until she finally says, “Now.” You come so fast it surprises you.

After, she cups your face. “You’re leaking pre-cum just from looking at it now. I can see it. Your body is accepting the programming.”

Session Four.

By session four you’re leaking steadily the moment the strap comes into view.

You try to will it down. You think about work, about taxes, about anything else.

But your cock keeps twitching, filling, and when she finally has you touch yourself it’s almost an afterthought. The association is already doing most of the work.

She tests you. She stands across the room, pulls her collar aside to reveal the strap, and doesn’t say a word.

You’re fully erect in seconds, pre-cum dripping at the tip. She smiles. “See? He knows what it means now. He’s anticipating.”

That night you dream of the strap. You wake up sticky, embarrassed, aroused. You don’t tell her.

Session Five.

She gives you homework. She sends you a photo of the bra strap on her dresser.

“Look at this three times today,” she texts. “At noon, at six, at eleven. Look at it for one minute each time. Don’t touch yourself. Just look and remember how it feels when I let you cum.”

You do it. At noon, in your office, you open the photo and stare. Your cock stirs. By six, you’re half-hard just from the image. At eleven, you’re aching. You want to touch yourself but you follow instructions. You’re being good.

When she comes to bed later, she runs a hand over your erection through your pajamas.

“You looked, didn’t you?” You nod. “And you got hard every time.” You nod again. She kisses your forehead. “Such a obedient little thing. Your penis is so eager to please.”

Session Six.

The conditioning is almost complete. She leaves the bra on a chair in the bedroom, the strap dangling. She has you sit across from it, naked, and just look. She’s not in the room. You’re alone with the strap.

At first, nothing. Then a slow, insistent thickening. Then full hardness.

You’re not touching yourself. You’re not being touched. You’re just looking at a piece of elastic. And your cock is standing at attention, leaking onto your thigh.

She comes back in, sees the evidence, and her smile is radiant. “Perfect. He’s ready.”

Day Seven — The Test.

She has you sit on the edge of the bed, pants around your thighs, cock already hard and leaking from anticipation.

She stands over you in a loose white t-shirt. Slowly, deliberately, she pulls one side of the neckline down until the black bra strap is fully exposed against her skin.

“Look at it,” she says softly. “Just look.”

You try. You clench everything. You look away. Your eyes drag back like they’re on a string.

She doesn’t touch you. She just stands there, letting the strap fill your vision, and speaks in that warm, certain voice.

“You’ve been such a good subject. Every pairing. Every time the strap came right before the pleasure. Your penis has been learning the whole time. It doesn’t need my hand anymore. It doesn’t need your hand. It just needs this.”

She traces the strap with one fingertip.

Your cock jumps violently. A thick drop of pre-cum slides down the shaft.

“You feel it, don’t you? That inevitability. Your little guy knows what comes after the strap now. It remembers every time it ended with you cumming. And now… it’s ready to skip the middle.”

She steps closer. The strap is inches from your face.

“Cum for me, sweetie. Show me the training worked. Cum just from seeing my bra strap.”

You fight it. You really do. You clench your fists, your jaw, every muscle you can control. You think about cold showers, about grocery lists, about anything but the strap and her voice and the building pressure in your balls.

But your eyes stay locked on the strap.

And something inside you breaks.

The orgasm hits without warning—no gradual build you can fight, no peak you can delay. Just a sudden, helpless, full-body pulse.

Your cock convulses untouched, shooting thick ropes across your stomach and chest while you stare at that thin black strap. You keep cumming. Longer than usual. Like your body is emptying every association it’s learned.

When it finally stops you’re shaking, breathing hard, staring at the mess you’ve made without a single touch.

She kneels beside you. Wipes you clean with gentle, efficient strokes. Her voice is full of quiet satisfaction.

“There it is. Spontaneous. Uncontrollable. Conditioned.”

She leans in and kisses your forehead.

“Your penis just proved the study right, sweetie. It learned exactly what I wanted it to learn.”

You lie there, spent, the strap still visible in your peripheral vision. Your cock gives one last weak after-twitch at the sight of it.

She was right.

It worked.

And somewhere beneath the shame, beneath the awe, beneath the slow, inevitable realization that your cock can be trained without your permission, a new truth settles with devastating clarity:

Your penis doesn’t belong to you the way you thought it did.

It belongs to whatever she decides to pair it with.

And right now, it belongs to a thin black bra strap.

She strokes your hair once, warm and possessive.

“Extinction would take work,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “But we don’t need to extinguish it, do we, sweetie? We can just… keep using it.”

She smiles against your temple.

“Good boy. The experiment was a complete success.”

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his girlfriend's bra strap, a week-long experiment, and the conditioning that made his penis hers.

The Physical Therapist

Week One: The Assessment

Your back hurts.

It’s a low, constant ache that starts at the base of your spine and radiates up into your shoulders.

You’ve tried everything—chiropractors, massage, ibuprofen, sleeping on the floor. Nothing works. Your friend Mike suggests physical therapy. “Annabel,” he says. “She’s a miracle worker. Fixed my tennis elbow in three sessions.”

You book the appointment.

Her office is in a quiet part of town, above a coffee shop. The waiting room is warm, soft lighting, plants in the corners. There’s no receptionist. Just a bell on the counter. You ring it.

Annabel appears from a doorway behind the desk. She is younger than you expected. Mid-twenties, maybe.

She wears pink yoga shorts and a simple white t-shirt. Her hair is blonde and short and messy. She smiles—a warm, open smile that reaches her eyes.

“Come on back,” she says, turning before you can say anything. You follow.

The therapy room is spacious. Mats on the floor. A treatment table. A large mirror along one wall. It smells like eucalyptus and clean cotton.

“So,” she says, closing the door. “Lower back pain. Tell me about it.”

You tell her. The ache. The stiffness in the morning. The way it seizes up after you sit for too long.

She listens, nodding. Her eyes are on your face, attentive, but you get the sense she’s reading more than your words. She’s reading your posture, the way you shift your weight from foot to foot, the tension in your jaw.

“Okay,” she says when you finish. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

She has you stand in the center of the room. “Take off your shirt, please.”

You hesitate.

“It’s just us,” she says, her voice calm. Certain. “I need to see your spine. Your shoulders. How you carry yourself.”

You take off your shirt. Fold it. Place it on a chair.

“Good.” She comes behind you. Her hands—warm, dry, professional—land on your shoulders. “Now, relax.”

You try.

“You’re holding everything here,” she murmurs, her thumbs pressing into the knots along your scapula. “And here.” Her fingers trace the line of your spine. “Your pelvis is tilted forward. That’s putting strain on your lower back.”

Her hands move to your hips. She guides you into a different stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Soft knees. There.”

Her touch is clinical. Efficient. But it’s also intimate in a way you can’t articulate. She’s mapping your body with an authority that feels absolute.

“Now bend forward. Slowly. As far as you can go without pain.”

You bend. Your fingertips brush your shins.

“Hmm.” She sounds thoughtful. “Not great. Your hamstrings are like piano wires. Your hip flexors are tight. This isn’t just a back issue, sweetie. This is a whole-body compensation pattern.”

She has you do a series of movements—side bends, twists, reaching overhead. She watches, her head tilted, her expression one of focused assessment.

You feel like a specimen under a microscope. But a specimen she finds interesting.

“Okay,” she says finally. “I have a plan.”

She outlines it. Twice-weekly sessions. Homework—stretches you’ll do every morning and night. And one special requirement.

“For the work we’re going to do, your usual clothing will get in the way. Jeans are too restrictive. Sweatpants bunch. I want you in something that lets me see your alignment clearly and gives you full range of motion.”

She walks to a cabinet. Opens it. Takes out a small, sealed package. She hands it to you.

They look like briefs. But… not quite. The material is a soft, stretchy microfiber. The cut is… higher on the hip. Smoother. Like panties.

“Therapy briefs,” she says, as if reading your confusion. “They’re designed for this kind of work. No seams to dig in. No compression where you don’t need it. They’ll stay in place no matter how you move.”

You turn the package over in your hands.

“Put them on for our sessions,” she says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s an instruction delivered with the same calm certainty as “bend forward.”

“You can change in the bathroom. Today, is just the assessment. Next time, we’ll begin the real work.”

“See you Thursday.”

Week Two: The First Realignment

You wear the briefs under your jeans to the appointment. You change in the bathroom. When you walk out, she’s waiting by the mat.

“Better,” she says, her eyes sweeping over you. “Now I can see what’s happening.”

Today is more active. She has you on all fours, arching and rounding your back like a cat. She kneels beside you, one hand on your lower back, the other guiding your head.

“Breathe into it,” she murmurs. “Let your spine soften.”

You breathe. Her hand is a steady weight. You’re acutely aware of the thin layer of fabric between her palm and your skin. Aware of the way the briefs cling to you, leaving nothing to the imagination.

You’re also aware, with a low hum of embarrassment, that you’re half-hard.

It’s just the proximity. The intimacy of her touch. The vulnerability of the position. It doesn’t mean anything.

She doesn’t mention it. But as she moves to your other side, her eyes flick down. Just for a moment. A note taken.

“Your body is holding a lot of tension in your pelvic floor,” she observes, her voice clinical. “That’s connected to the back pain. We need to release that, too.”

She has you lie on your back, knees bent, feet flat on the mat. “Now, let your knees fall open. Relax everything. Imagine your pelvis is a bowl of water, and you’re pouring it out.”

You let your knees fall open. The position is profoundly exposing. The smooth front of the briefs is stretched taut.

Her hands come to your inner thighs. She presses gently, encouraging them wider. “More. Let go.”

Her thumbs are inches from your cock. You can feel the heat of her hands. You’re fully hard now, a distinct bulge forming in the microfiber.

She sees it. She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. Her expression doesn’t change. She simply continues, her hands moving to your abdomen, pressing down as you exhale.

“Good,” she says. “You’re responding. That’s a good sign. It means your nervous system is engaged. Arousal is just another form of energy. We can work with it.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that your own embarrassment feels foolish. She’s not shocked. She’s not offended. She’s noting a physiological response, the way she’d note a tight muscle.

“Now, for your homework,” she says, helping you sit up. “I want you to do these stretches in your briefs. Every morning, before you put anything else on. Let your body get used to the freedom. Let it breathe.”

You nod, dazed.

“And don't fight the responses?” Her hand rests on your shoulder. “The blushing. The… excitement. It’s all just information. Your body telling us what it needs.”

She smiles. “See you next week.”

Week Three: Accidental Contact

The briefs have become normal. You do your stretches in them every morning. You’ve bought three more pairs, as she suggested. You’re more flexible already. The back pain is less constant.

But something else is growing. An anticipation before each session. A hyper-awareness of your own body in her presence.

Today, she’s working on your hip flexors. You’re on your back, one knee drawn to your chest. She’s leaning over you, her body close, her arm hooked under your knee to deepen the stretch.

“Relax into it,” she whispers. “You’re almost there.”

You breathe out. Let the tension go. The stretch is intense, a bright line of sensation along the front of your thigh.

She shifts her weight. Her forearm, the one hooked under your knee, brushes against the inside of your other thigh.

It brushes against your cock.

It’s fleeting. An accident. But the contact is electric. Your whole body jolts. A soft sound escapes you.

She doesn’t pull away. She holds the stretch, her forearm resting there now, a warm, firm pressure against your erection through the briefs.

“There,” she says softly, as if she’s just found the right spot. “That’s the adhesion. Do you feel it?”

You feel everything. The stretch. The heat of her. The undeniable, throbbing hardness under her arm.

“I… yeah,” you manage.

“Breathe.” She increases the pressure, both on your thigh and, unmistakably now, against your cock. It’s not a stroke. It’s a presence. A claiming. “Your body is so responsive, sweetie. It’s beautiful to watch.”

She holds you there for a full minute, your cock trapped and pulsing against her arm, while she talks you through the breath. Her voice is calm, instructional, warm.

When she finally releases you, you’re trembling. Your briefs are damp at the tip.

She helps you sit up. Her eyes drop to the wet spot. A small, pleased smile touches her lips.

“See?” she says. “Energy release. It’s all connected. The tension in your hip, the holding in your pelvis… when it lets go, everything lets go.”

She hands you a towel. “Clean up. Then we’ll do the other side.”

Session Four: The Promise of Flexibility

“Your progress is remarkable,” she says, watching you touch your toes for the first time in years. “But we have a new goal.”

You’re panting slightly, hands on your knees. “What goal?”

“Total spinal decompression. There’s a pose—it’s called halasana. Plow pose. It’s where you lie on your back and bring your legs up and over until your toes touch the floor behind your head.”

You stare at her. “I could never do that.”

“You will,” she says, with utter certainty. “It’s the ultimate release for the lower back. It opens everything. And…” she tilts her head, “…it has other benefits. For circulation. For the nervous system. For… letting go.”

The way she says ‘letting go’ makes your stomach flip.

She has you start with supported poses. Legs up the wall. Shoulder stands with a stack of blankets under your hips. Each session, she guides you deeper.

Her hands are always on you—correcting your alignment, supporting your weight, touching you with a proprietary ease that feels more natural with every visit.

The accidental contacts are less accidental now. Her hand grazes you as she adjusts your hips. Her thigh presses against you as she stabilizes you in a balance. Each touch makes you harder. Each touch is noted with a soft, approving hum.

“You’re so eager,” she murmurs one day, her palm resting flat on your lower abdomen as you hold a bridge pose. “Your whole body is singing. I love that.”

You love it too. You’ve stopped pretending you don’t. Your arousal is part of the therapy now. A sign of engagement. A symptom she’s treating.

She begins edging you. Not just with her hands, but with her words. With the promise.

“When you can finally reach,” she says, her voice a low whisper in your ear as you strain in a forward fold, “when you’re flexible enough to take yourself all the way… it will be the most profound release of your life. All that tension, all that need, finally going exactly where it’s supposed to go.”

You don’t ask what she means. You know. The image is in your head now, fed by her quiet words over weeks: you, folded in half, your own cock in your face, her hand guiding you.

You want it. Your cock wants it. You get hard during your home stretches just thinking about it.

Week Eight: The Final Adjustment

You’re there.

Months of work. Your body is pliant, obedient. The back pain is a memory. The briefs are your second skin.

Today, the session is quiet. Serious. She doesn’t give you new exercises. She just has you warm up, then guides you onto your back.

“Trust me,” she says. Her voice is soft, but it holds the weight of all the weeks of certainty. “I’ve got you.”

She lifts your legs, supporting your hips with her hands. She guides you up and over. Your spine curls. Your feet travel toward the floor behind your head.

You’ve been close before. But today, something is different. A final surrender. A letting go.

Your toes touch the floor.

You’re in halasana. Fully folded. Your chest is compressed. Your knees are by your ears. The world is inverted.

“Beautiful,” she breathes.

Her hands are on your hips, holding you in place. Then one hand slides away. You feel her move. Feel her settle somewhere near your head.

You feel fingers at the waistband of your briefs. They hook into the fabric. She pulls them down, just enough. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed, bobbing against your own lower belly.

“Shh,” she soothes, though you haven’t made a sound. “This is the release. This is what we’ve been working toward.”

Her hand wraps around you. A firm, knowing grip.

“You’ve been so good,” she murmurs. Her other hand comes to the back of your head, gently guiding it forward. “So patient. So willing. Now take what you need.”

She strokes you. Slow, at first. Then faster. Your cock is right there, in front of your face. You can smell your own pre-cum. See the sheen on the head.

“Open,” she whispers.

You open your mouth.

Her strokes become urgent, perfect. She’s studied your responses for months. She knows exactly how you like it. Knows exactly when you’re about to—

“Nice and wide, sweetie,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “Time to swallow your first load.”

You come.

A hot, violent rush that arcs through the air and lands on your tongue, your lips, your cheeks. You spurt again and again, swallowing instinctively, your body convulsing in the tight fold while she milks every drop from your cock onto your waiting face.

It’s the most intense orgasm of your life. A total surrender. A complete release.

She strokes you through the aftershocks, gentle now. Then she uses the her fingers to clean you up, wiping your face with the hand and dipping her finger into your mouth. You lick every drop.

Slowly, she helps you unwind. Brings your legs down. Guides you onto your side. You’re spent. Your face is sticky. Your mouth tastes of salt.

She kneels beside you, brushing the hair from your forehead. Her expression is one of deep, maternal satisfaction.

“Good boy,” she murmurs. “See? Your little guy knew what it needed. It just needed someone to show it the way.”

You look up at her. At the woman who took your sore back and turned it into this.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

She smiles. That warm, certain, unembarrassed smile.

“You’re welcome, sweetie.” She stands. “Same time next week? We should maintain this range of motion.”

She pauses, her eyes drifting down your body with clinical appreciation. “With a bit more work, I think we can get you flexible enough to lick that eager little guy of yours. Wouldn’t that be something?”

You nod. She smiles.

"Good boy."

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his physical therapist, and the flexibility regimen that let him taste himself.

Acts of Chivalry: Part VIII — The Steeplechase

You wake to the smell of vanilla and clean skin, the warm weight of bodies on either side of you.

April is curled against your left shoulder, her breath soft on your neck. Lily is pressed against your right, her hand still resting possessively on the cage over your soft, spent cock.

The memory of last night—the vibration, her finger inside your ass, the biscuit, the taste—floods back, hot and shameful.

You stir, and Lily’s eyes open immediately. She smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of her lips.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she murmurs, her voice sleep-rough and warm. “Sleep well?”

You nod, unable to speak. Your body feels used, hollowed out, strangely peaceful.

April stirs, blinking up at you. “Hi,” she whispers, her cheeks pink.

You manage a “Hi” back.

Lily stretches, then sits up, the blanket pooling around her waist. She looks at you, her gaze thoughtful. “You did very well last night. Your steed learned its lesson. Your sword performed from its little house. You’re coming along nicely.”

The words are praise, but they tighten something in your chest. Coming along. For what?

You clear your throat. “Lily… the cage. Can you… unlock it now?”

The question hangs in the quiet room. April watches, her expression unreadable.

Lily’s smile doesn’t falter. She reaches out, pats your cheek. “Soon, sweetie. I promise. But first… there’s one last thing. Your final knightly challenge.”

Your stomach drops. “Another challenge?”

“The last one,” Lily says, her voice reassuring. “The Steeplechase.”

You stare at her. “The what?”

“The Steeplechase,” she repeats, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s a tradition. A rite of passage. For knights who have completed their training.” She stands, pulling on a robe. “Get dressed. We’ll explain on the way.”

There’s no room for refusal. Her tone is calm, certain. She assumes you will comply. And you do.

You pull on your sweatpants and t-shirt, the cage a familiar, cool weight beneath the fabric. The LED pulses a soft, steady blue. You are still locked. Still monitored.

April dresses quickly in leggings, a white shirt, and a hoodie, her movements nervous but excited. She keeps glancing at you, her eyes bright.

Lily leads you out of the dorm, into the crisp morning air. The campus is quiet, Sunday-empty. She walks with purpose, April falling into step beside her, you trailing behind like a well-trained dog.

You want to ask where you’re going, what the Steeplechase is, but the words stick in your throat. Lily’s certainty is a wall. She will tell you when she’s ready.

She leads you off campus, down a side street, to a nondescript gray building with no signage.

It looks like a warehouse, or a low-rent office space. She produces a keycard, swipes it at a sleek black reader beside an unmarked door. A green light blinks. The door clicks open.

“In you go, sweetie,” Lily says, holding it open for you.

You step inside.

The interior is nothing like the exterior. The hallway is wide, clean, lit by recessed LED strips. The walls are soundproofed, covered in a dark gray acoustic fabric. Doors line both sides, each identical, each marked with a small, discreet number.

It feels clinical. Private. Expensive.

Lily leads you to door number seven. She swipes her keycard again. The lock disengages with a soft hum.

“After you,” she says.

You step inside, and your breath catches.

The room is a studio. A specially equipped, custom-designed space. The centerpiece is a chaise lounge upholstered in rich, dark leather. It’s placed in front of a massive widescreen TV mounted on the far wall. The setup looks like a private screening room for one.

But your eyes are drawn to the machinery.

In front of the chaise, mounted on a motorized tripod, is a high-definition camera. It’s aimed directly at the end of the chaise—the part with no seatback. The lens is large, professional.

Beside the chaise, on the side with the seatback, is a console. A sleek black panel with a joystick, several buttons, and a small touchscreen.

Your mind scrambles to make sense of it. A camera. A console. A chaise.

“What is this?” you ask, your voice thin.

Lily closes the door behind you. The seal is absolute. She walks to the console, taps the touchscreen.

The room lights up—soft, adjustable LEDs in the ceiling. The widescreen TV flickers to life, displaying a simple logo: a stylized knight’s helmet crossed with a riding crop.

“This,” Lily says, turning to face you, “is the Steeplechase. The final test of a knight’s training.”

April stands beside her, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks nervous, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. Anticipation.

“I don’t understand,” you say.

Lily’s expression softens with patience. “Sweetie, all this time, you thought you were hunting April. You thought you were the alpha, the conqueror, the knight seeking a virgin princess to claim.”

She pauses, letting the words settle. “But you were the game. April and I… we were hunting you.”

The floor tilts. Your ears ring. “What?”

“It’s a tradition,” Lily explains, her voice calm, instructional. “Every year, my sorority selects a group of men from the fraternities. Men who display certain… patterns. The player mentality. The conquest script. The belief that women are targets to be won.” She smiles. “We find them. We befriend them. And we train them.”

Your mind reels. The lab. The waxing. The confession. The lines. The ice bath. The biscuit. The cage. The sleepover. All of it—a coordinated hunt. A training program.

“You… you targeted me?” you whisper.

“We selected you,” Lily corrects gently. “We saw potential. A willingness to be shaped. A responsiveness.”

She gestures to the room. “And now, you’re ready for the finale. The Steeplechase is a race. You, and the other knights selected by other princesses, will compete.”

“Compete how?” you ask, though a cold dread is already coiling in your gut.

Lily nods to the chaise. “You will be the steed. April will be your jockey. The race is simple: the first knight to frost his biscuit wins.”

Your eyes dart to the camera, to the console, to the screen. The pieces click into place with horrifying clarity.

The camera will broadcast you. The screen will show the other “steeds.” The console controls… something.

“It’s a live stream,” Lily says, confirming your fear. “Thousands of women will be watching. Members of my sorority. Alumni. Friends. It’s our annual event. A celebration of reclamation.”

Her voice is warm, proud. “You should feel honored, sweetie. You’ve been chosen to participate.”

Honored. The word tastes bitter.

You take a step back. “No. I’m not doing this. Unlock me. I want to leave.”

Lily’s expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t get angry. She doesn’t raise her voice. She simply looks at you with gentle pity.

“Sweetie, you’re still caged. The Babysitter is on duty. I hold the key. And more importantly…”

She steps closer, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “You want to do this. You’re terrified, yes. But you’re also… aroused. Look.”

She gestures to your groin.

You glance down. Beneath your sweatpants, the cage is pressing against the fabric. You’re not hard—the steel won’t allow it—but a deep, humiliating ache has begun to pulse. Your cock is interested. It’s listening.

“Your little guy knows his role,” Lily says, her tone approving. “He’s been trained for this. He wants to perform. He wants to win his race.”

She places a hand on your chest, over your hammering heart. “And you… you want to be a good knight for April, don’t you? You want to prove your devotion. After all she’s given you. After all the training.”

It’s a trap. A perfect, gentle trap. To refuse is to reject April, to reject your own training, to admit that you’re not the knight you pretended to be.

To say yes is to surrender to a public humiliation you can’t yet fully comprehend.

You look at April. She’s watching you, her eyes wide, hopeful. “Please?” she whispers. “I want to race with you.”

That does it. The final thread of resistance snaps.

Your shoulders slump. “Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

Lily’s smile is radiant. “Good boy,” she says, patting your cheek. “Now, clothes off. Everything. Assume your position.”

You undress with trembling hands, peeling off your sweatpants, your t-shirt, your boxers. The cool air hits your skin.

You stand naked before them, the cage gleaming under the studio lights, a polished steel pod over your soft penis. The blue LED pulses like a calm, monitoring heartbeat.

Lily guides you to the chaise. “On all fours, sweetie. Here, at this end.” She points to the spot directly in front of the camera. “Your head and chest will face the screen. Your… other end will face April.”

You climb onto the leather, the material cool and smooth under your knees and palms.

You position yourself as directed, your ass raised, your head lowered. The pose is instantly, brutally familiar.

You’ve seen it a hundred times—on your phone screen, in dim dorm rooms, in the shaky footage you filmed yourself.

All those girls you convinced to get on all fours, their backs arched, their faces turned to face the camera as you fucked them from behind.

The virgins you claimed, their shyness turned into a performance for your private collection. You were always behind the camera, always the director, always the one in control.

Now you are the one on all fours. The camera lens is inches from your face. You can see your own reflection in the glass—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a trapped animal. You are the virgin now.

April will be behind you, will mount you, ride you, stretch your asshole, stuff you full. The humiliation doesn’t just burn; it radiates from your core, a silent scream that echoes every conquest you ever filmed, every gasp you ever recorded, every girl you ever reduced to this same vulnerable pose.

Lily moves to the console. She taps the screen, and the widescreen TV changes. It splits into a grid of twelve squares. Each square shows a similar scene: a man on all fours on a chaise, a camera pointed at his face, a woman standing behind him, preparing.

Your breath hitches. The other knights. They look like you—young, athletic, faces tight with fear and arousal. Some are already caged. Some are being fitted with cages by the women behind them.

All are naked. All are positioned on all fours. Their asses in the air. All of them waiting to be fucked. To be ridden by their princess.

In the bottom corner of the screen, a live chat scrolls rapidly. Usernames, mostly feminine, with emojis and comments.

#7 looks nervous lol Can’t wait to see them run! My money’s on #3, he’s got a competitive ass. This is my favorite day of the year.

Your stomach clenches. Thousands of women. Watching.

Lily speaks softly to April. “Princess, it’s time to suit up.”

April nods, her face serious. She moves to a small cabinet against the wall, opens it, and pulls out a harness. It’s made of black leather, sleek and minimalist. Attached to it is a dildo—long, thick, realistically shaped, with a pronounced head and veined shaft.

Your asshole clenches instinctively. You remember last night—the intrusion, the shock, the pleasure. This is bigger.

April steps into the harness, adjusts the straps around her hips and thighs. The dildo juts out from her pelvis, a stark, artificial cock. She looks… powerful. A jockey with her riding crop.

Lily helps her apply lube to the silicone shaft, coating it thoroughly. The smell of silicone and lubricant fills the air.

“Okay, sweetie,” Lily says, turning back to you. “This is how it will work. April is going to mount you. She’ll penetrate you. And she’s going to fuck you. The goal is to make you cum. The first knight to frost his biscuit wins the race for his princess.”

She holds up a shortbread biscuit, placing it just below your cock, in full view of the camera. “This is your target. Your little guy already knows what to do with it.”

You stare at the biscuit. Your cock gives a weak, interested throb inside its cage.

“The camera will broadcast your face and your… performance,” Lily continues. “I will adjust it to make sure the audience can see your whole performance.

She taps the console. The screen changes slightly.

"The console also lets me control the vibration settings on your cage. I can adjust intensity, pattern, everything. I’ll be your trainer. Your coach. Helping you along.” She smiles. “And the live audience will be cheering you on.”

She taps again. The screen changes slightly. A countdown timer appears at the top: 5:00. Below it, the twelve video feeds. The chat scrolls faster.

Almost time! I love the pre-race jitters. Look at #9, he’s already leaking in his cage!

You close your eyes. This is really happening.

You feel April move behind you. Her hands settle on your hips, warm and sure. She positions the tip of the dildo at your asshole. The silicone is cool, slick.

“Ready, sweetie?” Lily asks, her voice calm beside you.

You can’t speak. You nod, a tiny, desperate motion.

“Good boy.”

The countdown hits 0:00.

A bell rings, clear and digital, through the room’s speakers.

April pushes forward.

The head of the dildo breaches you, a slow, inexorable stretch. You gasp, your fingers digging into the leather. It’s bigger than Lily’s finger. Much bigger. The burn is intense, but beneath it, that deep, electric pressure begins to stir.

April doesn’t hesitate. She rocks her hips, sliding the dildo deeper, until it’s fully sheathed inside you. You’re stuffed, stretched, impaled. The sensation is overwhelming—pain, fullness, and a terrifying, burgeoning pleasure.

On the screen, you see the other knights. Their women are moving behind them, riding them, faces focused. Some of the men are already panting, eyes squeezed shut.

The chat explodes.

And they’re off! #5 is taking it like a champ! Look at #12’s face omg

Lily’s hand rests on your back, a steadying presence. “Easy, sweetie,” she murmurs. “Breathe. Let your steed open up. Let April in. Let her ride you.”

April begins to move. Short, testing thrusts at first, then longer, smoother strokes. The dildo slides in and out of you, a relentless rhythm.

Each inward push brushes that secret, sensitive spot inside you. Bolts of pleasure shoot up your spine, radiating to your caged cock.

You moan, low and helpless.

“That’s it,” Lily coos. “He’s finding his stride. Your steed is warming up.” She taps the console. “Let’s give your little sword some encouragement.”

A vibration starts in the cage—a low, steady hum at the base of your shaft. It’s not intense, but it’s constant, a buzzing counterpoint to the deep, internal stimulation.

Your cock swells against its confines, pre-cum beading at the slit, slicking the inside of the pod.

The dual sensations—the fucking from behind, the vibration from the front—merge into a feedback loop of mounting pleasure. You’re not in control. You’re a vehicle. A steed being ridden to a finish line you didn’t choose.

“Look at the screen, sweetie,” Lily instructs, her voice calm. “See your competition. See the other knights. They’re feeling the same thing. They’re being ridden. They’re being trained. But you… you have an advantage. You’ve had extra tutoring. Your steed knows its job. Your sword knows its target.”

Her words are a physical touch. Your arousal spikes. On the screen, you see one of the men—number 2—throw his head back, his mouth open in a silent cry. His woman is pounding into him, her expression fierce.

The chat cheers.

#2 is making a move! He’s close, I can tell! Don’t let him win, #7! Come on!

April’s thrusts become harder, faster. She’s breathing heavily behind you, her hands tight on your hips. “You can do it,” she whispers, her voice strained with effort. “Come for me. Win for me.”

The plea goes straight to your core. You want to win for her. You want to be her champion, even here, even like this.

Lily increases the vibration. It shifts to a rapid, insistent pulse. The stimulation is maddening. Your prostate is being hammered by the dildo, your cock is being vibrated into submission. Pleasure coils tight in your balls, a spring wound to breaking.

“He’s close, April,” Lily narrates, her voice warm with excitement. “His little sword is throbbing. His steed is clenching. They’re syncing up. They’re ready to run.”

She leans closer to you, her lips near your ear. “Look at your biscuit, sweetie. That’s your finish line. That’s your victory. Paint it. Show everyone what a well-trained knight can do.”

You fix your eyes on the screen, the shortbread biscuit under your cock, gleaming under the lights. Your target. Your canvas.

The pressure builds, unbearable, exquisite. Your whole body is taut, trembling. The sounds of the room fade—April’s grunts, the hum of electronics, the chatter from the screen. There’s only the sensation of being fucked, being vibrated, being owned.

“Now, sweetie,” Lily whispers, her voice a command. “Now.”

The coil snaps.

With a raw, shattered cry, you come.

It’s a violent, helpless eruption. Your caged cock convulses, and thick jets of cum shoot through the small opening at the tip of the pod, splattering across the shortbread biscuit in frantic, white stripes. You keep coming, spurred by April’s relentless thrusts and the cage’s vibrating pulse. Each spasm milks you dry, painting the biscuit with glistening streaks.

On the screen, a notification flashes over your video feed: #7 – WINNER.

The chat erupts in a frenzy.

#7 WINS! Oh my god that was hot! Look at his face! He’s wrecked! Congratulations to Princess #7!

April slows, then stills, the dildo buried deep inside you. She’s panting, her hands gentle on your hips now. “You did it,” she breathes, her voice full of awe. “You won.”

You collapse forward, your forehead resting on the cool leather of the chaise. You’re spent, shuddering, utterly hollow. The vibration in the cage fades to a stop. The studio lights seem too bright.

Lily’s hand strokes your back. “Good boy,” she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction. “You ran a perfect race. Your steed was magnificent. Your sword delivered.” She holds up the biscuit, now thoroughly glazed. “A masterpiece. The champion’ trophy.”

She brings it to your lips. “Appreciation, sweetie. Taste your victory.”

You’re too broken to resist. You open your mouth. She feeds you the biscuit. It’s damp, warm, heavy with your load. The familiar bitter-salty taste floods your mouth, now layered with the humiliation of public victory. You chew. You swallow.

Lily takes the remainder away. “Well done,” she says softly.

On the screen, the other knights are finishing, one by one, their own biscuits being frosted, their own faces showing similar ruin. The live stream is winding down, congratulations flowing in the chat.

Lily taps the console. The screen goes black. The studio lights dim.

She helps April dismount, unstrap the harness. April comes around to face you, her expression soft, glowing. She kneels beside the chaise, strokes your hair. “Thank you,” she whispers. “That was… amazing.”

You can only look at her, your mind blank.

Lily produces a small device from her pocket—a key fob. She taps it against the ring of your cage. A soft beep. The LED turns from blue to green. She reaches down, presses a hidden release. The pod detaches from the ring with a quiet click.

She removes the cage, sets it aside on the console. The sudden absence of pressure is shocking. Your penis is free, soft, spent, lying limp against your thigh. It feels small. Exposed. Naked.

You expect relief. Instead, you feel… empty. Unmoored.

Lily helps you sit up, then stand on shaky legs. She hands you your clothes. “Get dressed, sweetie. It’s over.”

You dress mechanically. The fabric feels strange against your bare skin. The cage is gone, but the ghost of it remains—a cool memory, a phantom weight.

Lily gathers her things, loops her arm through April’s. They lead you out of the studio, back down the silent hallway, out into the morning light.

The sun is higher now, the campus beginning to stir. You stand on the sidewalk, blinking, like a prisoner released into a world he no longer understands.

Lily turns to you. Her expression is gentle, final. “The training is complete, sweetie. The challenges are over. You’ve proven yourself. You’re free to go.”

Free. The word should be a liberation. It feels like a sentence.

You look at April. She’s smiling at you, but there’s a distance in her eyes now. The game is over. The hunt is concluded. You are no longer her knight in training. You are just… a guy.

A panic, cold and sharp, rises in your chest. You don’t want this to be over. You don’t want to go back to being the person you were before—the player, the conqueror, the lonely, hungry ghost. That person feels like a stranger now.

The humiliation, the surrender, the service—it has become your truth. Your purpose.

You drop to your knees on the concrete sidewalk, right there in front of them. You don’t care who sees.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Don’t let me go.”

Lily looks down at you, her head tilted. “What are you asking, sweetie?”

“Let me stay,” you beg, the words tumbling out. “Let me be April’s knight. For real. Not as a game. Not as a hunt. Let me serve her. Let me wear the cage. Let me attend to her. Please.”

You’re crying now, hot tears streaking your face. You’ve never begged for anything in your life. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever done.

April’s eyes widen. She looks at Lily, uncertain.

Lily studies you for a long moment. Then a slow, deep smile spreads across her face. It’s not triumphant. It’s… satisfied. Like a gardener seeing a stubborn plant finally bloom in the direction she always knew it would.

“Oh, sweetie,” she murmurs, her voice warm as honey. “You don’t have to beg. You were always going to stay.”

She reaches into her bag, pulls out the velvet pouch. From it, she produces the Babysitter—the polished steel pod, the ring. The LED indicators dark, waiting.

“A knight doesn’t abandon his sword and scabbard just because the battle is won,” she says softly. “He wears them as a vow. A promise.”

She hands the cage to April. “Princess? Your knight is asking to pledge himself to you. Will you accept his service?”

April takes the cage, her fingers curling around the cool steel. She looks at you, kneeling at her feet, tears on your face, your heart laid bare. Her expression softens into something tender, possessive, sure.

“Yes,” she says, her voice clear. “I accept.”

She kneels in front of you, right there on the sidewalk. She takes your soft penis in her hand, guides the ring behind your balls, snaps the pod into place. The familiar click. The soft beep. The blue LED pulses to life.

The cage is back on. Snug. Secure. Home.

You let out a shuddering breath. The weight returns, a comfort, a certainty.

Lily helps you both to your feet. She pats your cheek. “Good boy,” she says, her eyes shining. “Now you understand. The hunt was never about catching you. It was about revealing you. Showing you who you really are.”

She loops her arm through April’s again, and April takes your hand. The three of you begin to walk back toward the dorm, a strange, peaceful procession.

You are caged. You are owned. You are a knight in truth now, your sword sheathed, your steed trained, your princess holding your leash.

The game is over.

The service has just begun.

This is the final chapter in the series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one reclaimed steed at a time.

The End.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I | Acts of Chivalry Part II | Acts of Chivalry Part III | Acts of Chivalry Part IV | Acts of Chivalry Part V | Acts of Chivalry Part VI | Acts of Chivalry Part VII

Acts of Chivalry: Part VI — The Knight, His Sword, His Steed

The email arrives on a Tuesday afternoon.

Sweetie,

You did well. April hasn’t stopped smiling. A knight who serves his princess deserves a reward. A night in her presence. A sleepover.

Be at our room Friday at 10 p.m. Bring a toothbrush. Wear something comfortable.

We’ll see you then.

You read it three times. A sleepover. The words detonate in your brain, scattering shrapnel of fantasy.

A threesome. It has to be. Lily and April, both in pajamas, both in the same bed, you between them. Hands everywhere. Mouths. The cage coming off.

Finally, finally, inside April's pussy while Lily watches, guides, approves. Maybe Lily joins. Maybe they take turns. Your mind paints the scene in lurid, greedy strokes.

By Friday, you’re a live wire. You shower, brush your teeth twice, pack a toothbrush. You wear soft sweatpants and a t-shirt. Comfortable. As instructed.

The cage is a familiar weight, a cold knot of reality amid the heat of your anticipation.

You knock on their door at exactly ten.

Lily opens it. She’s in silk pajama shorts and a thin tank top, no bra. Her nipples are visible through the fabric. She smiles, steps aside.

“Right on time,” she says. “Come in, knight.”

The room is lit by a single salt lamp, casting a warm, amber glow. The beds have been pushed together, creating one large surface, covered in a sprawl of blankets and pillows.

April is already there, sitting cross-legged in the center, wearing a long sleep shirt with cartoon cats on it. She’s blushing, but she smiles when she sees you.

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft.

“Hey,” you say, your own voice tight.

Lily closes the door, locks it. The click is final. She turns to you, her hands on her hips. “You’re thinking about a threesome,” she says, not as an accusation, but as a simple statement of fact.

Your face burns. “I—”

“It’s okay,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s what your penis thinks about. It’s his default setting. See a bed, see two girls, think: conquest. Orgy. Victory.”

She walks toward you, her gaze dropping to your groin. “But that’s not what tonight is, sweetie. Tonight isn’t about your penis getting what it wants. It’s about your training.”

She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell her—clean skin, vanilla lotion.

“You’ve proven you can be a devout knight. But your sword?” She shakes her head, a mock-sad expression on her face. “It’s locked away, but it’s still greedy. Still impulsive. It hears ‘sleepover’ and it starts planning its own party.”

She steps back, gestures to the bed. “So tonight, we continue your education. Your sword and your steed need to learn to work together. To serve the same mistress. To achieve the same goal.”

Steed. You register it but don't understand it. Before you can ask, Lily has moved on.

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Lily says, her tone turning instructional. “Pants and underwear off. Let your little guy say hello.”

April is watching, her eyes huge. She looks nervous, but there’s a flicker of excitement there too. She’s part of this. She’s in charge.

Your hands are trembling. You sit on the mattress, the blankets soft beneath you. You push your sweatpants and boxers down to your ankles, kick them off. The cool air hits your bare skin.

The cage gleams in the lamplight, a polished steel pod snug over your soft penis. The blue LED pulses slowly.

Lily kneels in front of you, her face level with your groin. She doesn’t touch you yet. She just looks.

“Hello, little sword,” she murmurs, her voice warm, intimate. “Miss me?”

Your cock, always listening, gives a soft twitch inside its confinement. A faint ache stirs.

Lily smiles. “He remembers. He’s a good listener.” She glances up at you. “Lie back. Get comfortable. April is going to get comfortable too.”

You lean back on your elbows. April scoots closer, lying back on the pillows, her legs slightly apart. Her sleep shirt rides up her thighs.

Lily moves to the side of the bed, reaches into a drawer, and pulls out the familiar velvet pouch. From it, she produces a single shortbread biscuit. She holds it up.

“The goal,” she says, placing the biscuit on the nightstand, in your line of sight. “The finish line. The painting.”

She then turns to April. “Princess, your knight’s mouth is yours tonight. His tongue is your servant. Get comfortable. Let him attend to you.”

April bites her lip, then nods. She pulls her sleep shirt up to her waist, revealing her plain cotton panties.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband, pulls them down, kicks them aside. Her pussy is bare now, exposed, a soft shadow in the low light.

“Go on, sweetie,” Lily says to you, nodding toward April. “Assume your position. Your princess needs tending.”

You don’t need to be told twice. The sight of April spread out, waiting, sends a bolt of heat straight to your caged cock.

You roll onto your stomach, crawl between her legs, prop yourself up, the mattress dipping under your knees. The smell of her—musk, soap, arousal—fills your head.

You lower your face to her pussy.

The first touch of your tongue is a revelation, again. She’s already wet. She gasps, her hands coming to rest on your head. “Oh…”

You set to work. You’ve done this before. You know what she likes. You circle her clit, slow and steady, then dip lower to lap at her entrance.

She moans, her hips lifting off the mattress. You are a faithful knight. Your world narrows to the taste of her, the sound of her breathing, the softness of her thighs against your ears.

As you work, you hear movement beside you. Lily has settled on the bed next to your hip. You can feel her presence, warm and attentive.

“Good,” Lily murmurs, her voice a quiet commentary. “See how he serves? His tongue is devoted. It has learned its lesson. But his sword…”

She reaches out, her fingers tracing the cool steel of the cage. “His sword is distracted. It’s wondering why it’s locked up. It’s wondering when it gets to play.”

You feel her hand wrap gently around the caged pod, a loose, possessive hold. Your cock stirs inside, straining uselessly against the unyielding bars.

“Shhh,” Lily whispers, not to you, but to your penis. “I know. You see her. You smell her pussy. You want to be out. You want to be in her. That’s your nature. But tonight, you have a different job.”

You’re licking April steadily now, your fingers sliding inside her, curling. She’s panting, her hands fisting in your hair. “Right there… oh, yes…”

Lily’s voice continues, a soft, hypnotic stream beside you. “Your knight is busy, little sword. His mouth is occupied. His mind is on his princess. So I’m going to talk to you. And I’m going to show you what you’re working for.”

You hear the crinkle of cellophane. From the corner of your eye, you see Lily lift the biscuit from the nightstand. You feel her move below the cage.

“See this?” she whispers to your imprisoned cock. “This is your canvas. Your masterpiece. You remember how to paint it, don’t you? You remember the feeling. The pulse. The spurt. The pretty white streaks.”

Your cock throbs in response. A deep, frustrated ache. Pre-cum beads at your slit, slicking the inside of the pod.

“He remembers,” Lily coos. “He’s getting interested. But he’s confused, isn’t he? How can he paint the biscuit if he can’t get hard? If he can’t thrust? If he’s locked in his little house?”

April is bucking against your face now, her moans rising in pitch. You redouble your efforts, sucking her clit, fucking her with your fingers. She’s close.

Lily’s voice drops to a conspiratorial purr, aimed directly at your groin. “That’s where your steed comes in, little sword. Your knight’s other end. His faithful… hole.”

Her free hand—the one not holding the biscuit—drifts down your side, over your hip, to the curve of your ass. Her fingers are cool.

You gasp. Move to resist. But April holds you by the hair. Your face buried in her pussy.

“Your steed is strong. It carries your knight. But it has other muscles. Deep inside. It has a secret button. A pleasure center. When it’s trained… when it’s stimulated…”

Her fingers press against your pucker, a gentle, insistent pressure. “It can make your sword do tricks. Even from inside its cage.”

You freeze, your mouth still on April. Your whole body goes taut.

“Relax, sweetie,” Lily murmurs, her tone soothing. “This is part of your training. Your steed needs to learn its role. It needs to help your sword achieve its goal. They’re a team. Knight, sword, and steed. All working for the princess.”

Her finger presses harder. You’re tight. Unprepared.

“April,” Lily says, her voice calm. “Your knight is doing a wonderful job. But his little guy needs encouragement. Remember the app on your phone? The one I showed you?”

April, breathless, manages a “Y-yes…”

“Open it. See his arousal level? It’s rising. But it’s frustrated. It’s stuck. You can help. See the vibration control? Give him a little… taste. A low, steady pulse. Let him feel your attention.”

You hear the fumble of a phone. A moment later, a deep, low hum emanates from the cage. A vibration at the base of your shaft, right behind the ring. It’s not intense, but it’s constant. A reminder. A promise.

Your cock jumps inside its prison. The ache intensifies, sweet and maddening.

“Good,” Lily whispers. “Now, little sword, feel that? That’s April. That’s your mistress. She’s controlling your pleasure. She’s deciding how much you get. And she wants you to paint your biscuit. But you need help. You need your steed.”

Her finger, now slick with something—lotion, spit—pushes past your tight outer ring.

You gasp into April’s pussy.

The intrusion is strange, foreign, a burning stretch. But beneath the burn, something else… a deep, internal pressure.

“That’s it,” Lily coos, working her finger slowly deeper. “Your steed is opening up. Welcoming its training. Now, let’s find that button…”

She crooks her finger, presses upward, inward.

A shockwave of sensation bolts through you. It’s not pain. It’s… electric. A deep, prostate thrill that radiates straight to the root of your cock. You cry out, your hips jerking involuntarily.

Inside the cage, your penis swells as much as it can, straining against the steel. Pre-cum flows freely now, slicking the pod.

“There it is,” Lily says, her voice triumphant. “The knight’s seat of pleasure. His steed’s secret. Feel that, little sword? That’s your partner talking. That’s your steed, saying hello.”

She begins to move her finger, a slow, rhythmic massage on that incredible, vulnerable spot.

Each press sends jolts of pleasure through your pelvis. The cage vibrates steadily, a counterpoint to the internal stimulation.

You’re panting, your forehead resting against April’s thigh. Your tongue has gone still, but she doesn’t seem to care. She’s watching, mesmerized, her hand still on her phone, her other hand in your hair.

“See how they work together?” Lily narrates, her voice warm with approval. “The steed is massaged. The sword is vibrated. Both are being tended. Both are being trained. For the same purpose.”

She holds the biscuit closer, just inches from the tip of the cage.

“This is your goal, little sword. This is what you and your steed are going to achieve. Together. You’re going to paint it. Not with thrusts. Not with hardness. With partnership. With obedience.”

Her finger presses harder, curls just right. A bolt of white-hot pleasure sears up your spine. Your balls draw up tight. The vibration in the cage seems to intensify—or maybe it’s just your perception, every nerve ending screaming.

“He’s close, April,” Lily says softly. “Can you see? His little sword is throbbing in its cage. His steed is clenching around my finger. They’re syncing up. They’re learning. Turn the vibration up a notch, princess. Help him along.”

You hear a soft tap on the phone.

The vibration shifts, becomes a rapid, insistent pulse. It’s maddening. It’s ecstasy.

Lily’s finger works you relentlessly, stroking that deep, secret place with practiced precision.

The dual sensations—the internal massage and the external vibration—merge into one overwhelming feedback loop of pleasure. You’re not in control. You’re a conduit. A vessel for their training.

“That’s it,” Lily whispers, her lips close to your ear now. “Let them work. Let your steed carry your sword to the finish line. Let your sword spurt its paint, even from its little house. It can do it. I know it can. It’s a good boy. A good, messy boy.”

Her words are the final trigger. The coil in your balls snaps.

With a ragged, broken shout, you come.

It’s unlike any orgasm you’ve ever had. There’s no thrusting, no pumping. Just a deep, convulsive pulsing that originates in your prostate and erupts from your imprisoned cock.

Thick, hot jets of cum shoot through the small opening at the tip of the cage, splattering in frantic, helpless stripes across the shortbread biscuit Lily holds steady.

You keep coming, spurred by Lily’s relentless finger and the cage’s vibrating pulse.

Each spasm milks you dry, painting the biscuit with glistening white streaks. It’s a pathetic, humiliating, incredibly intense release. You’re a fountain with its spout clamped, spraying under pressure.

Finally, it subsides. You collapse forward, your face buried in April’s thigh, spent, shuddering. Lily slowly withdraws her finger. The vibration in the cage fades to a stop.

Silence, except for your ragged gasps and April’s soft, excited breathing.

Lily examines the biscuit, now thoroughly glazed. “Perfect,” she announces, her voice rich with satisfaction. “A masterpiece. The sword and the steed, working in harmony. A knight’s true discipline.”

She holds the biscuit out to you. “Appreciation, sweetie. Your sword performed its duty from confinement. Your steed carried it to victory. Now you taste their success. Their collaboration.”

You’re boneless, wrecked. But the command is clear. You lift your head, your mouth salty from April’s pussy and your own sweat. You take the biscuit from Lily’s hand. It’s damp, warm, heavy with your load.

You take a bite. The familiar bitter-salty taste floods your mouth, now layered with a deeper humiliation. You didn’t just eat your own failure. You ate the product of your own asshole’s training. You chew. You swallow.

Lily takes the remainder from your limp hand. “Good boy,” she says, patting your head. “Now you understand. Your sword doesn’t need freedom to serve. Your steed isn’t just for sitting. They are tools. To be trained. To be used. For her pleasure.”

She nods toward April, who is flushed, her eyes dark with arousal and wonder. “Clean your princess, knight. Your tongue has one more service to perform.”

Dazed, obedient, you turn back to April’s pussy. You lick her clean, gently, through her aftershocks. She moans softly, her hands stroking your hair.

When you’re done, Lily guides you to lie down between them. She pulls the blankets over you. April curls into one side of you, her head on your shoulder. Lily curls into the other, her hand resting possessively on the cage over your soft, spent cock.

“Sleep,” Lily whispers, her breath warm on your neck. “You’ve trained well tonight. Your sword knows its place. Your steed knows its function. You are April’s knight. Her faithful, caged, well-ridden knight.”

You drift off, surrounded by their warmth, their smell, their possession. The cage is a cool, permanent truth against your skin.

You came here dreaming of a threesome.

You leave having learned that your body is not your own. It is a collection of parts—tongue, sword, steed—to be disciplined, used, and combined in the service of your princess.

The game is no longer about serving April.

It’s about becoming the instrument she—and Lily—are building.

And you’ve never felt more complete.

This is the seventh in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one well-trained steed at a time.

Next: What happens when the knight’s training is put to the ultimate test.

Acts of Chivalry: Part VI — The Faithful Knight

Saturday arrives wrapped in a low, buzzing anxiety.

You stand outside their dorm room at seven p.m., your fist hovering before the wood. You’re dressed in dark jeans and a button-down, the fabric crisp, unfamiliar.

You feel the cage with every shift of your thighs—a cool, constant pressure, a silent chaperone nestled against your flesh.

The LED on the ring pulses a soft, steady blue beneath your clothes, a heartbeat only you can feel.

You knock.

The door swings open. Lily stands there, already smiling. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweater, her hair piled in a messy bun. She looks like she’s settling in for a night alone.

“Right on time,” she says, stepping back to let you in. “She’s almost ready. Come in, sweetie.”

You step into the warm, cluttered space. The room smells of vanilla and fabric softener. Clothes are strewn across one bed, textbooks stacked on the other.

April is standing in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the door, wearing a simple black dress that falls just above her knees. She’s fussing with her hair, her face pinched with nerves.

“Hey,” you say.

April turns, her smile tentative. “Hi. Do I look okay?”

“You look beautiful,” you say, the line automatic, practiced. But this time, you mean it. The dress hugs her curves softly. Her hair is down, framing her face. She looks… innocent. Precious.

Lily moves to stand behind April, meeting your eyes in the mirror. Her hands come to rest on April’s shoulders, a gentle, possessive touch.

“She does, doesn’t she?” Lily says, her voice warm. “A princess on her first date. It’s a big night.”

April blushes, dropping her gaze.

Lily’s eyes hold yours. “A big night for you, too, sweetie. Your first test as a caged knight.”

She says it casually, as if discussing the weather. “Remember, the Babysitter is on duty. I’ll be watching.”

She taps the smartwatch on her wrist. The screen lights up briefly, showing a small, pulsing icon—a tiny lock. Your status. “If your little guy gets too excited, I’ll know. And I can… help him calm down.”

Your stomach tightens. The remote vibration. The humiliation of being stimulated—or punished—from across town.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, your voice tight.

“I know you will,” Lily says, her smile widening. “Because you’re not just escorting her tonight. You’re attending to her.”

She leans closer to April’s ear, but her words are for you. “A knight doesn’t just walk beside his lady. He attends to her comfort. Her pleasure. Her happiness. That’s your only job tonight. Everything else is just… noise.”

The words land softly, but they carry weight. Attend to her pleasure. You file it away.

April turns from the mirror, smoothing her dress. “I’m ready.”

Lily steps back, giving you an appraising look. “You look handsome. Very chivalrous.” She reaches out and pats your cheek, her touch warm, almost maternal. “Have fun, you two. Be good.”

You lead April out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you. The silence feels immense.

---

Dinner is at a small Italian place off campus, all red-checkered tablecloths and dripping candles in Chianti bottles. You pull out her chair. You order for her when she hesitates. You keep the conversation light—classes, movies, safe topics. You are the picture of a gentleman.

And all the while, the cage is a quiet, insistent presence. You feel it when you cross your legs. You feel it when you lean forward, the cool metal pressing into your thigh. You are hyper-aware of your own containment.

April relaxes slowly. She laughs at your jokes. She tells you about a documentary she saw about meerkats. Her eyes sparkle in the candlelight. She’s having a nice time.

You are, too. In a strange, suspended way. The old script is running in your head—the player’s calculus—but the usual endpoint feels distant, impossible. Your cock is locked away. The usual finish line is bricked over.

As the waiter clears the plates, April excuses herself to the ladies’ room. You watch her walk away, the sway of her hips under the black dress. Your cage gives a faint, interested throb. Not an erection—the steel won’t allow that—but a deep, internal ache, a hum of awareness.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

A text from Lily.

Lily: She just texted me from the washroom. She says she’s having a nice time.

You stare at the screen. Of course April texted her. Of course Lily is monitoring.

Lily: “Nice” isn’t the goal, is it?

Your thumbs hover over the screen. You don’t know how to reply.

Lily: She’s a princess. She deserves a happy ending.

The phrase hangs in the air, ambiguous, heavy. Happy ending.

Your mind jumps to the obvious, the crude conclusion. Is Lily suggesting… that you fuck her? That the cage comes off? That tonight ends with you inside April?

But that can’t be right. Your dick is locked up. The Babysitter is on duty. Lily holds the key—the digital key. She wouldn’t…

You shake your head. You’re reading too much into it. She means a metaphorical happy ending. A good night. A perfect first date.

You text back: We’re having a good time.

Lily: I know. I’m watching.

The watch. The app. She can see your arousal levels. She knows your cage is humming with low-grade interest.

You put your phone away just as April returns, her cheeks flushed from the warm bathroom.

“Everything okay?” she asks, sliding back into her chair.

“Perfect,” you say, forcing a smile. “Ready for the next part?”

“What’s next?”

You lean forward, lowering your voice. “A movie. There’s an indie theater nearby. They’re showing an old French film. Subtitles. Very… atmospheric.”

The old script. The player’s calculus. Dinner, then a movie.

The back row. Dark, isolated. Hands under her dress, fingers inside her, her mouth on your cock before the credits roll. You’ve done it a dozen times. It’s your signature move. Get the girl in the back, make her wet, have her suck your cock. Their head bobbing. Your hand in their hair. The taste of their submission before the lights come up.

It’s crude. It’s effective. It’s who you used to be.

April’s eyes widen with interest. “A movie sounds fun.”

You pay the bill, help her with her coat. Your hand on the small of her back feels proprietary, practiced. She doesn’t pull away.

---

The theater is an old independent house, all faded velvet and dust motes dancing in the projector beam. The air smells of popcorn and mildew. There are maybe ten other people scattered in the seats, all older, couples keeping to themselves.

You lead April to the very back row. It’s vacant. Perfect.

The film begins—black and white, a man and a woman arguing in rapid French. You don’t read the subtitles. Your focus is on the girl beside you.

You start your approach, the old, familiar dance. You stretch your arm along the back of her seat, let it rest lightly on her shoulders. She tenses for a second, then relaxes, leaning into you slightly. Her hair smells like strawberries.

Your heart hammers. The cage feels like a lie against your skin.

You let your hand drift down, from her shoulder to the side of her breast. You squeeze gently, through the fabric of her dress. She inhales sharply, but she doesn’t stop you. Her nipple hardens under your palm.

Emboldened, you slide your hand lower, over the curve of her waist, to her thigh. The dress is short. Your fingers find bare skin. She’s warm. Soft.

You lean in, whisper in her ear, “You’re so beautiful.”

She turns her face toward you, her lips parted. You kiss her. It’s soft, tentative at first, then deeper. Her mouth opens under yours. She tastes like mint and wine.

Your hand slips from her thigh to the hem of her dress. You push it up slowly, revealing more skin. Your fingers trace the edge of her panties—simple cotton, innocent. You hook a finger under the elastic, slide it to the side.

She’s wet. Soaking. Your fingers find her folds, slick and hot. You press one inside her, just to the first knuckle. She gasps into your mouth, her hips lifting off the seat to meet your touch.

This is it. The moment. The old magic is working. She’s aroused, willing, pliant. Your cock, even caged, is screaming for release. The ache is a white-hot coal in your groin.

You add a second finger, curling them inside her. She moans, low and helpless. Her hands clutch at your shirt.

Your mind is racing ahead, mapping the next steps. You’ll unzip your jeans. You’ll guide her head down. She’ll take you in her mouth, eager, inexperienced but willing. You’ll come down her throat while the French couple on screen shouts about love and betrayal.

You start to pull your hand back, to reach for your zipper.

And then you realize.

With sudden, brutal clarity.

The Babysitter is on duty.

Your cock is not available. It’s locked in a steel pod. Snug in its home. You can’t take it out. You can’t have her suck it. You can’t fuck her. You can’t even jerk off.

The entire endpoint of your signature move—the culmination, the victory lap—is impossible.

Panic floods you, cold and sharp. Your fingers still inside her go slack. Your kiss falters.

April pulls back, breathing heavily. Her eyes are glazed with arousal, but confusion is creeping in. “What’s wrong?” she whispers.

“Nothing,” you say, but your voice is hollow. You withdraw your hand from under her dress, wipe your wet fingers on your jeans.

She sits up, smoothing her dress down. The rejection is palpable. You can feel her disappointment like a physical chill. She thought this was leading somewhere. She was ready. And you… you stopped.

You’ve lost the thread. The script is broken. The knight is frozen.

On screen, the French woman is crying. The subtitles blur.

Your mind races, desperate. What are you supposed to do? The date is crumbling. April’s happy ending is evaporating. Lily’s words echo: She’s a princess. She deserves a happy ending.

And then, like a key turning in a lock, you understand.

Attend to her pleasure.

A knight doesn’t just escort his lady.

Her comfort. Her pleasure.

The goal isn’t your orgasm. It never was. The cage made sure of that. The goal is hers.

Lily wasn’t being ambiguous. She was being literal. A happy ending for April. For the princess.

And you know how to give it to her.

Your heart is pounding, not with panic now, but with a strange, clear purpose. You look at April, her face shadowed in the flickering light. She looks hurt. Confused.

You slide off the seat, onto the sticky, gum-spotted floor of the theater.

April stares down at you, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You kneel between her legs, like a supplicant. Like a lapdog. You push her skirt up again, revealing her thighs, the white cotton panties now damp with her arousal.

“Trust me,” you whisper, your voice rough.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties, pull them to one side, exposing her completely. In the dim light, she’s glistening.

You lean forward and press your mouth to her pussy.

The taste is musky, sweet, profoundly intimate. She gasps, her hands flying to your hair.

You don’t know what you’re doing—you’ve never done this before, not like this, not without the expectation of reciprocation. But your body seems to know. Your tongue finds her clit, circles it, flicks it. You listen to her breathing, to the tiny hitches and moans.

A sharp gasp. “Ah!”

She’s never had a man eat her out. You can feel it in her tension, her shock, her rapid surrender. Within seconds, she’s melting. Her thighs fall open. Her hips lift off the seat, pressing into your face. She’s moaning, low and continuous, a sound of pure, unraveling pleasure.

You are a faithful knight. Your sword is sheathed, locked away. So you use your tongue. You attend to her. You serve her.

You lap at her, slow and steady, then faster as her breathing quickens. You slide a finger inside her again, curling it, finding a rhythm with your mouth. She’s so wet you’re drowning in her. Her hands are fists in your hair, pulling, guiding.

Her whole body jolts. Your tongue drags a slow, flat stroke from the damp skin above her asshole all the way up through her slit to her clit.

“Ohhhh.” Her hands tighten in your hair. Her hips lift further off the seat. “Oh god,” she whimpers, her voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Please.”

You don’t. You worship her with your mouth. The cage between your legs is a distant ache, a irrelevant detail. Your own arousal is a background hum, unimportant. All that matters is the girl coming apart above you.

You push your tongue into her hole.

“Ohgod.” Her thighs clamp around your ears. Her fingers pull your hair. “Yesss.”

You tongue-fuck her, slow then faster. She’s panting. “Hnngh… Ohmyyyygod. Mmmhh.”

You slide a finger in alongside your tongue. Then another. She’s so wet, so tight. You pump them.

“Ohmyyyygod… Ohmyyyygod—!” she moans, the word breaking into a gasp.

You find her clit with the tip of your tongue. Circle it. Flick it.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Her hips buck, thrusting her pussy into your face. She’s grinding against your mouth, seeking pressure, friction. You suck the little bud into your mouth, flicking it with your tongue while your fingers pump in and out.

Her breathing goes ragged. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

Her orgasm erupts. Not a wave. A quake. Suddenly. Violently.

Her whole body stiffens. She pulses around your finger, her hips bucking against your mouth. Her back arches off the seat. A raw, choked scream tears out of her— “Hnnnnnnggggghhh!”—swallowed by the movie’s drone.

Her pussy clenches, a rapid, milking pulse. A gush of hot liquid floods over your hand, your chin. She jerks, spasming, her whole body shaking. “Ah! Ah! Ahhhh!”

You keep licking, gentler now, through the aftershocks. She collapses back into the seat, trembling, breath coming in ragged sobs.

You stay there for a moment, your face wet with her, your knees aching on the hard floor. Then you slowly pull her panties back into place, smooth her skirt down.

You climb back into the seat beside her. She’s staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

You take her hand. It’s limp, then her fingers tighten around yours.

“Wow,” she whispers, her voice hoarse.

You say nothing. You just hold her hand while the movie plays to its incomprehensible end.

---

You walk her home in a comfortable silence. Her arm is linked through yours, her body leaning into yours.

She smells of sex and sweat and your saliva. You feel… peaceful. Empty of agenda. The cage is still there, a quiet companion.

Lily is waiting on the dorm steps, wrapped in a blanket. She stands as you approach, her eyes scanning April’s face, then yours.

April lets go of your arm, throws her arms around Lily. “It was perfect,” she murmurs into Lily’s shoulder.

Lily meets your eyes over April’s head. Her smile is slow, deep, approving.

April pulls back, yawns. “I’m going to go brush my teeth. Thank you,” she says to you, standing on her toes to kiss your cheek. Then she disappears inside.

Lily steps closer to you. She reaches up and pats your head, like you’re a good dog. Her touch is warm, possessive.

“You did good, sweetie,” she says, her voice soft. “You attended to her. You gave her a happy ending.”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Go home,” she says, giving your cheek a final pat. “Get some rest. We’ll talk soon.”

You turn and walk away, toward your own dorm. The night air is cool on your skin. Your mind is quiet, strangely clear.

It’s only when you’re halfway across the quad, the door to their building long closed behind you, that you remember.

The cage.

It’s still on.

You’re still locked.

You didn’t ask her to remove it. She didn’t offer. It didn’t even occur to you during the date. It was just… part of you.

You stop walking, your hand drifting to your groin. You can feel the solid shape through the denim.

It will have to stay on until Lily decides otherwise. Until she unlocks it remotely. Or until she gives you permission to remove it.

You’re her knight. Caged. Faithful.

And for the first time, the thought doesn’t bring humiliation. It brings a strange, quiet pride.

You did your job. You pleased your princess.

You start walking again, the cage a familiar weight, a promise, a vow.

The game is no longer about surviving Lily.

It’s about serving April.

And you’re just beginning to learn how.

This is the sixth in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one faithful tongue at a time.

Next: What happens when the caged knight is invited to a sleepover — and the Babysitter’s remote settings are turned over to the princess for the night.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I | Acts of Chivalry Part II | Acts of Chivalry Part III | Acts of Chivalry Part IV | Acts of Chivalry Part V

Acts of Chivalry: Part V — the Sword and the Scabbard

Library. Study room. 4pm.

That’s her text. That's all. No greeting. No explanation. Just a time and a place.

You’re there at 3:55, your heart hammering against your ribs. You’ve rehearsed what you’ll say.

You’ll be firm. You’ll remind her of the deal. Challenges completed, humiliation endured, lines written, ice bath survived, biscuit frosted and eaten. You’ve done everything. You’ve been a good knight. You deserve your date.

You push open the door to the glass-walled cube.

Lily and April are already there. April is sitting at the table, a textbook open, but she’s not reading. She’s looking at her hands, her cheeks pink.

Lily is standing by the whiteboard, her arms crossed, a small, thoughtful smile on her lips.

She looks up as you enter. “Sweetie,” she says, her voice warm. “Right on time.”

You step inside, let the door click shut behind you. The seal of the room feels absolute.

“I got your text,” you say, your voice too tight.

“I know,” Lily says, nodding. “I sent it.” She gestures to the empty chair. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

You sit. April glances at you, then looks back at her hands. She’s nervous. Excited. You can’t tell which.

Lily stays standing, leaning against the whiteboard. She studies you for a long moment, her gaze calm, appraising.

“You’ve been patient,” she says finally. “I’ll give you that. Most guys would have given up by now. Or gotten angry.”

“I’m not most guys,” you say, the line sounding rehearsed even to you.

Lily smiles. “No,” she agrees. “You’re not. You’re… persistent. And you’ve completed every challenge we’ve set. The waxing. The confession. The lines. The ice bath. The biscuit.”

She ticks them off on her fingers, her tone conversational. “That’s five acts of chivalry. Five demonstrations of your willingness to… understand. To be vulnerable. To obey.”

She pauses. “So I think it’s time.”

Your breath catches. “Time for what?”

Lily’s smile widens. “For your date with April. You’ve earned it.”

Relief floods you, hot and sudden. You did it. You actually did it. You won.

April looks up, her eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really,” Lily says, nodding. “He’s proven he really wants to be with you. He deserves a chance.” She turns her gaze back to you. “But.”

The word hangs in the air, a single, soft period.

“But what?” you ask, your stomach tightening.

“But I’ll be chaperoning,” Lily says, her voice still warm, still reasonable. “April’s never been on a date before. And given your… history… I think it’s only prudent. For her comfort. For her safety.”

Your mind recoils. A chaperone? Lily? Sitting there, watching, while you try to work your magic on April? It’s impossible.

You can’t seduce a virgin with her best friend—her maid in waiting—sitting three feet away, smiling that knowing smile.

“That wasn’t the deal,” you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “You said if I completed the challenges, I’d get a date with April. A date. Not a supervised playdate.”

Lily’s expression doesn’t change. “The deal was a date. I’m not changing the deal. I’m just… attending. As her friend. To make sure she’s comfortable.”

“She’ll be comfortable with me,” you say, leaning forward. “I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve been chivalrous. I’ve been… whatever you wanted me to be. I deserve a real date. Alone. Fair’s fair.”

April is watching you, her lips parted. She looks torn—between wanting the fairy tale and wanting Lily’s protection.

Lily considers you for a long moment. Then she sighs, a soft, almost regretful sound.

“You’re right,” she says, her voice gentle. “Fair is fair. You’ve earned the date. And I… I’ve been overprotective. April’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

She uncrosses her arms, steps away from the whiteboard. “Okay. You win. I won't chaperone. You and April. A real date. Her choice of activity.”

The victory is so sudden, so complete, that it leaves you dizzy. You did it. You stood up to her. You won.

Your mind is already racing—where to take April, what to say, how to get her alone afterward.

The old script kicks in, the player’s calculus: quiet restaurant, soft lighting, a little wine, a lot of compliments, a walk somewhere private, a first kiss that feels like a promise.

You can already feel April’s mouth under yours, her body soft and yielding against you, the final conquest at hand.

You’re so lost in the fantasy that you almost miss Lily reaching into her bag.

She pulls out a small velvet pouch. Red. The color of warning, of stop, of something precious and dangerous.

She sets it on the table between you with a soft thump.

“But,” she says again, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “There is the matter of your… condition.”

You stare at the pouch. “What condition?”

Lily tilts her head, her expression one of warm concern. “Your penis, sweetie. It has a mind of its own. We established that in the lab. It listens to me, not to you. It’s greedy. Impulsive. Unfaithful.”

Your face burns. “I can control it.”

“We've been over this haven't we?” Lily asks, not as a challenge, but as a genuine inquiry.

“Remember? He frosted a biscuit on command because I told him to. You humped a vibrator like a dog in heat because I encouraged it. You ate your own cum because I said it was a sign of gratitude.” She pauses. “That’s not control. That’s… surrender.”

You open your mouth to protest, but no words come out. She’s right. She’s always right.

“April deserves a knight who can protect her,” Lily continues, her voice softening further. “Not just from other men, but from himself. From his own… failure. She deserves a man whose body is as faithful as his intentions.”

She picks up the velvet pouch, loosens the drawstring. “So. You can have your date with April. Alone. I won't chaperone. But your penis needs supervision. A little house for him to sleep in while you court April.”

She upends the pouch over the table.

A device slides out, gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

It’s a cage. But not like any cage you’ve seen in porn, not the tubular steel shaft that look like medieval torture devices. This is different.

Sleek. Modern. Almost beautiful in its minimalist design.

Medical-grade stainless steel, mirror-polished to a high shine. The shape is a compressed dome—a pod, really.

Curved bars form a smooth half-sphere, barely an inch and a half long. A solid ring, thick and substantial, sits beside it. Tiny LED indicators dot the ring’s surface, dark now but promising light.

It looks like something from a sci-fi movie. Or a very expensive sex toy.

“This,” Lily says, her voice reverent, “is the Babysitter. Designed by Dr. Clarissa Anderson at the Westwood Wellness Center. It’s not a punishment, sweetie. It’s a… relief.”

You stare at it. Your cock, always listening, gives a soft, interested twitch.

“Relief from what?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

“From the burden of control,” Lily says, picking up the ring. “From the constant, exhausting effort of trying to manage something that doesn’t want to be managed. Your penis wants to misbehave. It wants to chase. It wants to hump and spurt and make messes. And you… you’re tired of fighting it. Aren’t you?”

The question lands in the center of your chest. You are tired. Tired of the constant arousal, the shame, the humiliating cycle of resistance and surrender. Tired of knowing that Lily can make you come with just her words. Tired of feeling like a passenger in your own body.

“This,” Lily says, holding up the pod, “takes that burden off your shoulders. It contains him. It keeps him safe. And it keeps April safe from him.” She smiles. “It’s the perfect babysitter. Silent. Unobtrusive. Always on duty.”

Your mind is screaming. No. No way. Not happening.

But your mouth says, “How does it work?”

Lily’s smile deepens. She knows she has you.

“The ring goes behind your testicles. The pod fits over your penis—when you’re soft, of course. It compresses him into the small space, keeps him snug and contained. The two pieces lock together digitally.” She points to a small, seamless seam on the ring. “The lock is keyless. Code-based. And it has sensors. It monitors… activity. Arousal levels. That sort of thing.”

She sets the pieces down, reaches into her bag again, and pulls out a sleek smartwatch. “This pairs with it. The keyholder watch. I’ll be able to see your… status. In real time. If you’re getting too excited, if your little guy is trying to misbehave, I’ll know. And I can… help.”

“Help how?” you ask, though you already know.

“The Babysitter has a vibration feature,” Lily says, her tone clinical. “Low-frequency pulses at the base of the cock, behind the ring. It’s designed to manage testicular congestion—to keep your balls from getting too full, too achy. But it can also be adjusted. For intensity. For pattern.” She meets your eyes. “Remotely. Via the app on my phone.”

The implication hangs in the air, thick and humid. She can make you aroused whenever she wants. She can make you leak. She can make you come, even while caged. Hands-free. Helpless.

Your cock is fully hard now, straining against your jeans. The thought of it—of being locked, of being monitored, of being stimulated by her command—is the most humiliating, the most arousing thing you’ve ever imagined.

“I’m not wearing that,” you say, but the words lack conviction.

Lily’s expression softens with pity. “Sweetie,” she murmurs. “You just argued with me for ten minutes about how badly you want this date. How much April means to you. How chivalrous you’ve been. How fair it is.”

She leans forward, her eyes holding yours. “Are you telling me now that you’re not willing to do this one last thing to protect her? To prove that your intentions are pure? That you’re not just another guy trying to get into her pants?”

The trap is perfect. You walked right into it. You made a passionate case for your own devotion. Now, to refuse the cage is to admit that your devotion is conditional. That you wanted the date for access, not for April.

You look at April. She’s watching the cage, her eyes wide with fascination and something else—something like hope. She wants this.

She wants you to be the knight who has the sword, even if the sword is in a scabbard. A chastity device. She wants to believe you’re that noble.

If you say no now, you lose your chance to fuck her. If you say yes, your cock will be restrained from trying to fuck her. It's a double bind. You know it. Lily knows it.

Your shoulders slump. “Fine,” you whisper. “I’ll wear it.”

Lily’s smile is radiant. “Good boy,” she says, the endearment flowing from her like honey. “I knew you’d see reason.”

She sets the velvet pouch aside and gestures for you to stand. “Come here. Let’s get you ready.”

You push back your chair and step around the table, your legs unsteady. Lily positions you facing April, who is still seated, her textbook forgotten. You’re standing close enough that your thighs brush the table’s edge.

“Pants and underwear down, sweetie,” Lily says, her voice calm. “To your knees.”

Your hands fumble with your button, your zipper. You push your jeans and boxers down in one awkward motion.

And there it is—your cock, already fully erect, flushed and curving up toward your stomach. A pre-cum glistening at the tip.

Lily steps behind you, her presence a warm pressure at your back. She looks over your shoulder, her cheek almost touching yours, and lets out a soft, knowing chuckle.

“Hello, little guy,” she murmurs, her breath warm on your ear. “Someone’s excited to see us.”

You close your eyes. Shame burns through you, but your cock doesn’t care. It throbs, eager.

“He’s too hard for the dome,” Lily says, her tone conversational. “The Babysitter needs him soft and sleepy. He won’t fit in his new house otherwise.” She pauses. “But he doesn’t want to be soft, does he? He wants to perform. He wants his treat.”

You don’t understand. “Treat?”

From her purse, Lily produces a single shortbread biscuit. She holds it in her open palm, just to the side of your hip.

“His trick, sweetie. Frosting the biscuit. He remembers. He’s been thinking about it ever since the lab. He wants to show off for April again. He wants to prove he’s still a good little fountain.”

Your stomach clenches. “I can’t… not like this.”

“You can,” Lily says, her voice softening with pity. “You just need to help him. He’s all worked up. He needs to finish so he can relax. So we can put him to bed.” She nods toward your erect cock. “Go ahead. Stroke him. Help him do his trick.”

You freeze. Your hand hangs at your side. You can’t move.

Lily sighs, a gentle, patient sound. “Would it be easier if I talked to him? Since I’m the boss of him.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her voice drops to that intimate, coaxing purr you remember from the lab, aimed directly at your groin.

“Hey there, little performer. You see the biscuit? You know what to do, don’t you? You want to paint it. You want to make it all shiny and white for us. You want April to see how pretty you can make it.”

Her words are a physical touch. Your cock jumps in response, a thick droplet of pre-cum welling and falling onto your thigh.

“He’s listening,” Lily coos. “He likes that. He likes being the center of attention. Go on, sweetie. Help him out. Give him a little encouragement.”

Your hand moves as if pulled by strings. You wrap your fingers around your shaft. The skin is smooth, fever-hot. You stroke once, slowly. Pleasure sparks, sharp and shameful.

“That’s it,” Lily murmurs, her lips close to your ear. “He likes your hand. But he likes my voice more, doesn’t he? He’s getting harder. Fuller. Look at him, April. See how he swells when I talk to him? See how he leaks? He’s so eager to please.”

April is motionless in her chair, her eyes wide, locked on the movement of your hand. Her face is flushed, her lips slightly parted. She’s never seen this before. She’s mesmerized.

You stroke faster, your grip tightening. The sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your hips begin to rock in tiny, involuntary thrusts.

“He’s close,” Lily narrates, her tone warm with approval. “His balls are tightening up. He’s getting that needy little pulse. He knows his job. He wants to decorate. Go on, little guy. Show us what you’ve got. Frost that biscuit.”

With a choked gasp, you erupt. Thick, hot pulses of cum shoot through the air, splattering across Lily’s outstretched palm, coating the shortbread biscuit in glistening white streaks.

You keep stroking through the contractions, milking yourself dry, until you’re spent, shuddering, your mind blank.

You slump slightly, catching yourself on the table edge. Your cock, already softening, twitches in your hand, dripping the last few drops onto the floor.

Silence, except for your ragged breathing.

Lily examines her palm, the biscuit now glazed and dripping. “Perfect,” she says, her voice satisfied. “Excellent coverage. He really gave it his all.”

She holds her hand out to you. “Appreciation, sweetie. He performed beautifully. Now you show your gratitude.”

You stare at the mess in her palm. Nausea rises, but beneath it, that familiar dark current stirs. Your spent cock gives a feeble throb.

You lean forward and take the biscuit from her hand with your mouth. It’s damp, warm, salty. You chew. You swallow. The humiliation is absolute.

Lily wipes her hand on a your shirt, her expression serene. “Good boy,” she says, her voice warm. “Now he’s soft. Now he’s ready for his nap.”

She turns to April. “Ready, princess.”

April’s eyes widen. “Ready?”

“To help his little guy get cozy and snug in his new home,” Lily says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He’s your knight. You should be the one to… show him.”

April blushes furiously, but she nods, her expression a mix of terror and excitement. She’s never touched a penis before. And now she’s going to handle yours, fit it into a steel pod, lock it away.

Lily hands her the ring. “This goes behind his testicles. Gently. Make sure both balls are through.”

April’s hands are trembling as she takes the ring. She kneels in front of you, her face level with your groin. Your cock is soft now, spent, lying limp against your thigh. It looks small. Vulnerable.

“Go ahead,” Lily encourages, her voice gentle. “Take him in your hand. Guide him through.”

April reaches out, her fingers brushing your shaft. The touch is feather-light, hesitant. You suck in a breath. Her skin is cool, soft. She wraps her hand around you, her grip tentative. She’s actually touching you. Holding you.

Her blush deepens, but she doesn’t let go. She lifts your penis, guides the ring behind your balls. The steel is cool against your skin. She pushes gently, until both testicles are through, the ring snug at the base of your shaft.

“Good,” Lily says, nodding. “Now the pod.”

April picks up the pod. It’s small. Shockingly small. She holds it over the tip of your penis, then slowly, carefully, covers it. Your soft cock fills the space, compressed into the curved bars, the head pressing against the rounded end. It’s a tight fit. Snug. Constricting.

April aligns the pod with the ring, presses them together. There’s a soft click, then a faint digital beep. The LED indicators on the ring glow to life—a soft blue pulse.

“It’s locked,” Lily says, her voice pleased. “The Babysitter is on duty.”

You look down at yourself. The steel gleams against your hairless skin. The pod is a smooth, seamless dome, containing your penis completely. You can feel the weight of it, the coolness, the unyielding pressure. You’re locked. Caged. Monitored.

April is still kneeling, staring at the device, her hand hovering near it. She looks… awed. And aroused. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips parted.

“How does it feel?” Lily asks you, her tone conversational.

“Strange,” you whisper.

“It’ll feel normal soon,” Lily says, nodding. “Like a part of you. Your little guy is going to be so comfortable in his new home.”

She taps the watch on her wrist. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Making sure your little guy behaves. If he gets too restless, I can… soothe him.”

The threat—or promise—is clear.

She has you pull up your jeans, fasten them over the cage. The bulge is minimal, almost invisible. No one would know. But you know. You feel it with every step, every shift of fabric.

Lily gathers her things, loops her arm through April’s. “Your date is Saturday,” she says, her voice warm.

“April will text you the details. Dress nice. Be chivalrous. And remember…” She taps her watch again. “The chaperone is always watching.”

They leave you there, in the study room, the taste of your own cum still on your tongue, the weight of the cage a constant reminder between your legs.

You came here today thinking you’d won. Thinking you’d argued your way to a victory.

Instead, you’ve been fitted with a digital monitor that reports your arousal to the girl who owns you. You’ve been locked away by the girl you want to fuck. You’ve jerked off on command and eaten your own failure, again.

And you’re harder than you’ve ever been in your life. The cage doesn’t stop arousal. It just contains it. Compresses it. Makes it a silent, humming ache.

You stand up, adjust your jeans. The cage shifts, a cool, foreign presence against your flesh.

You’ve never been more humiliated.

You’ve never been more aroused.

The game is no longer about winning April.

It’s about surviving the Babysitter.

This is the fifth in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one digital lock at a time.

Next: What happens when the caged knight takes the princess on her first date — and the chaperone in his pants reports every flutter of interest directly to the girl who holds the key.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I | Acts of Chivalry Part II | Acts of Chivalry Part III | Acts of Chivalry Part IV

Acts of Chivalry: Part IV — The Frosted Biscuit

For a week, you hear nothing.

No texts. No library study rooms. No chance encounters in the common area.

April and Lily have vanished from your orbit as completely as if they’d graduated early. You check your phone until the screen feels warm. You walk past the gym at nine on Tuesday, but the pool deck is dark. You linger near the sociology section, but the glass-walled cube stays empty.

The silence is a vacuum, and in that vacuum, your mind spins.

You’ve done everything. You waxed. You confessed. You wrote lines. You endured the ice bath and the photo. You’ve been stripped, shriveled, and documented. You’ve been a good knight. A chivalrous knight.

So where is your date?

The question becomes an itch under your skin, a low-grade fever. You jerk off three times on Wednesday, each time imagining April’s shy smile, Lily’s knowing eyes, the feel of smooth skin—yours, hers—and the humiliating thrill of surrender. You come hard, every time, but it doesn’t scratch the itch. It deepens it.

By Friday, you’re desperate. You send a single, carefully casual text to April: Hey, hope you’re doing well. Wondering if you wanted to grab that coffee sometime?

You wait. An hour. Two. Six.

No reply.

The rejection is a cold stone in your gut. But beneath it, something else stirs—a hot, shameful anger. You’ve jumped through their hoops. You’ve been their pet. And now you’re being ignored.

It’s Saturday night when you finally track them down. You hear laughter from a booth in the back of the campus cafe—a light, musical sound you’d know anywhere.

You approach, your heart hammering. They’re there. April and Lily, heads together over two lattes, a textbook open between them.

They look up as you stop at their table. April’s smile falters, then returns, polite and distant. Lily’s expression doesn’t change. It’s warm. Patient. As if she’s been expecting you.

“Hey,” you say, your voice too tight.

“Sweetie,” Lily says, nodding. “Long time no see.”

“I texted,” you say, the words coming out before you can stop them.

“Did you?” Lily says, glancing at April. “We’ve been so busy. Midterms, you know.” She takes a sip of her latte. “What’s up?”

You stand there, feeling large and clumsy. “I just… I wanted to know about the next challenge. Or the date. You said…”

“We said a lot of things,” Lily says, her tone gentle. “But chivalry isn’t a checklist, sweetie. It’s a state of being. And honestly?” She sets her cup down. “You seem… eager. Restless. Like you’re chasing the finish line instead of enjoying the journey.”

“I’m not,” you say, but it sounds weak.

“Aren’t you?” Lily tilts her head. “An eager man is a wandering man. His eyes are always on the next thing. The next conquest. It’s a symptom. A condition.” She leans forward slightly. “You’ve proven you can suffer. You’ve proven you can obey. But have you proven you can be faithful? That you can control the one part of you that’s always looking for the next warm hole?”

Your face burns. Your cock, always listening, gives a soft twitch at her bluntness.

“I can be faithful,” you say, the words gritty.

Lily studies you for a long moment. Then she smiles. “Okay. Shall we test that and see?” She pulls out her phone, taps a note. “Meet us at the Engineering Annex. Lab 3B. Tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. After hours.” She looks up. “If you are there we will put your words to the test. If you aren't, well, you aren't.”

---

The Engineering Annex smells of ozone and machine oil. Lab 3B is a long room lined with workbenches, oscilloscopes, and tangled coils of wire. The lights are low, except for a pool of bright halogen over a central table.

Lily and April are already there. So is a third girl.

She’s tall, with sharp features and dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail. She’s wearing a lab coat over jeans and a t-shirt, and she’s adjusting a device on the table with the focused intensity of a bomb technician.

“This is Reyna,” Lily says by way of introduction. “Fourth-year mechanical and electrical. She’s helping us with tonight’s… assessment.”

Reyna glances up, gives you a brief, appraising nod, then returns to her work. “Calibrating now. Give me sixty seconds.”

You look at the device.

It’s a sleek, white wand vibrator—the kind you’ve seen in porn, with a large, rounded head. It’s mounted upright on a small stand. A thin, elastic band is looped around its base, connected to a small circuit box with a single LED. A foot away, on the same table, sits a plain white plate. On the plate is a single shortbread biscuit.

Your stomach clenches.

“The test is simple,” Lily says, stepping closer. Her voice is calm, instructional.

“A man’s penis has a brain of its own. A primitive, greedy little brain. It sees, it wants, it takes. And most of the time, it wins. It controls the man.”

She gestures to the wand. “April needs a man who controls his penis. Not the other way around. So we’re going to see who’s in charge. You… or it.”

She picks up the elastic band. “This goes around the base of your shaft. It’s a sensor. When you’re soft, it’s loose. The circuit is open. The wand is off.”

She holds the band up to the light. “But when your penis swells? When it gets hard, eager, interested? The band stretches. It closes the circuit. The wand turns on.” She points to the rounded head. “The vibration starts here. Right on the tip of your penis.”

You swallow. Your mouth is dry.

“Once it starts,” Lily continues, her tone almost sympathetic, “it’s a feedback loop. The vibration feels good. Your penis gets more aroused. The band gets tighter. The vibration intensifies. Your penis chases that feeling like a dog chasing a rabbit around a track. It wants more. It wants the finish.”

She nods toward the biscuit. “The finish is that. You ejaculate. You frost the biscuit. If you do that, you lose. Your penis controlled you.”

April is standing a few feet back, her arms wrapped around herself. She’s blushing, but she’s watching, her eyes wide.

“All you have to do is stay limp,” Lily says, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“Keep your little guy calm. Disinterested. Master of his domain.” She smiles then, a slow, warm curve of her lips. “But here’s the thing. While you’re talking to your penis, trying to convince it to behave… I’ll be talking to it, too. Encouraging it. Tempting it. Because if a girl who isn’t even in charge of your penis can make it jump with just her words… how can April ever trust you? How can she know the first hussy who whispers in your ear won’t take control and make you break your faith?”

She steps closer, until you can smell her shampoo—something clean and floral. “So. You’ll stand here. You’ll place your soft, little penis on the head of the wand. Reyna will secure the band. And then we’ll begin. You talk to your penis. I’ll talk to your penis. We’ll see who it listens to.”

Reyna straightens up. “Calibration complete. It’s sensitive. A five percent increase in shaft diameter will trigger activation. Progressive intensity with increased diameter.” She looks at you. “Drop your pants and underwear to your knees. Stand here.”

Your hands are trembling. You undo your jeans, push them down, along with your boxers. The cool air of the lab hits your bare skin. You’re still smooth from the wax, every inch of you exposed. Your cock is soft, a small, vulnerable curl against your hairless pelvis.

“Step up,” Reyna says, impersonal as a nurse.

You move into position. The head of the wand is cool against the tip of your penis. Reyna loops the elastic band around the base of your shaft, snug but not tight. She checks the connection, then steps back.

“Circuit is live,” she says, turning to Lily. “He’s all yours.”

Lily moves to stand beside you, close enough that her arm brushes yours. She looks down at your penis, resting innocently on the white plastic.

“Okay, sweetie,” she murmurs, her voice a warm, intimate breath. “Start talking. Tell your little guy to be good. To stay soft. To ignore me.”

You close your eyes. Stay soft. Stay small. Don’t listen to her. It’s just a test. Stay soft.

“He’s not listening,” Lily whispers, her tone conversational. “Look at him. Just lying there. So passive. So… available. He’s waiting. He’s heard the game. He knows what’s coming.” She pauses. “He’s already a little warmer, isn’t he? A little fuller. I can see it. The blood is starting to pay attention.”

You snap your eyes open. She’s right. Your cock is stirring. A slow, inevitable swell. The band feels snugger.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “Let him show us what he really is. A show-off. A performer. He loves an audience. He wants April to see how hard he can get. How much he can spurt. He wants to prove to her—to me—that he’s a good little fountain. That he can decorate that biscuit all by himself, just because I asked him to. Don’t you, little guy? You want to put on a show. You want everyone to watch you lose control.”

No. Stop. Think of cold things. The ice bath. Math. Anything.

“Too late,” Lily singsongs softly. “He’s waking up. He’s curious. He likes my voice. He likes that I’m talking just to him. That I’m not talking to you at all. I’m talking to him. The real you. The greedy little animal in your pants.”

A low hum fills the quiet room.

The wand is on.

The vibration is a gentle buzz against the sensitive head of your cock. It’s not unpleasant. It’s… interesting. Your penis twitches, seeking more contact.

The band tightens a fraction.

The vibration intensifies. A steady, insistent thrum.

“There he goes,” Lily coos. “He likes that. He wants to feel it more. Go ahead, little guy. Press into it. Get what you need.”

You grit your teeth. Don’t. Don’t move.

But your body isn’t listening. Your hips give a tiny, involuntary thrust, grinding the tip of your cock more firmly against the vibrating surface. Pleasure sparks up your spine.

The band tightens again.

The vibration kicks up another notch. It’s a deep, rumbling massage now, concentrated on the most sensitive part of you. Pre-cum beads at your slit, slicking the plastic.

“Look at him leak,” Lily says, her voice full of warm admiration. “He’s so excited. He’s so ready to perform. He wants to show everyone what a good boy he is. How he can make a mess. How he can frost that biscuit.”

Her words are a direct line to your groin. Your cock is fully hard now, straining against the elastic band, which is stretched taut.

The vibration is intense, overwhelming, a continuous electric pleasure that’s short-circuiting your thoughts. Your balls are drawing up tight. Your thighs are trembling.

“He’s close, isn’t he?” Lily whispers, leaning in. Her breath is hot on your ear. “He’s throbbing. I can see it. He’s going to lose. He’s going to shoot all over that cookie because I told him to. Because I own him. Not you. Me.”

It’s the truth. Humiliating, undeniable truth. Your penis is hers. It’s responding to her voice, her permission, her command. You’re just the vessel. The audience.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” she continues, her lips almost touching your ear. “That deep, needy pulse in your balls. That’s him begging. He’s saying, ‘Please, let me frost it. Let me cover it. Let me prove I’m your good, messy boy.’ And you know what? I think he deserves it. I think he’s earned his little treat. So go ahead. Let him hump that vibration. Let him chase his biscuit. Let him show me how perfectly he obeys when I’m the one giving the orders.”

The orgasm builds, a tidal wave of shame and ecstasy. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Your hips are moving now in short, frantic jerks, no longer under your command. Each tiny thrust grinds the swollen head of your cock against the buzzing plastic, seeking more pressure, more friction. The wand rocks on its stand with your desperate rhythm.

“There he is,” Lily coos, her voice rich with approval. “Look at him go. Look at those little humps. So eager. So needy. He’s not even thinking about the biscuit anymore, is he? He’s just chasing the buzz. Chasing the feeling I turned on for him. That’s it, sweetie. Give in. Let him have his fun.”

A low, helpless groan escapes your lips. Your entire world has narrowed to the electric pleasure vibrating up your shaft and the warm, commanding voice in your ear.

You’re humping the wand in earnest now, shallow, frantic pumps that slap your bare pelvis against the base of the stand. Pre-cum streams from you, slicking the path.

“See how he looks for it?” Lily whispers, her breath hot on your neck. “His little tip is searching, rubbing, begging for that finish line. He sees the biscuit, doesn’t he? He knows his job. He wants to paint it. He wants to make it pretty for me. Go on. A little faster. Chase it. Frost it.”

Your vision blurs. The tension in your balls is a white-hot coil, winding tighter with every slurred thrust. You’re a machine she switched on, a piston firing mindlessly toward its only purpose.

“That’s it,” Lily murmurs, her voice a velvet command. “Let him finish his assignment. Let him show you who he really listens to.”

With a choked gasp, you erupt.

Thick, hot pulses of cum stripe through the air, splattering across the white plate, coating the shortbread biscuit in glistening white streaks. The wand vibrates through your contractions, milking you dry. You sag against the table, spent, shuddering, your mind blank.

The vibration stops. The band goes slack.

Silence, except for your ragged breathing.

Lily steps forward, examines the plate. “Perfect,” she says, her voice satisfied. “Thorough coverage. A textbook frosting.” She looks at April. “See, princess? His penis listens to me. Not to him.”

April nods, her eyes huge. She looks… excited. Flushed. But not surprised.

Reyna begins disconnecting the device, her job done.

Lily picks up the plate. She holds it out to you. The biscuit sits in the center, glazed with your own semen.

“Appreciation, sweetie,” she says, her tone gentle but firm. “Your little guy performed wonderfully. He listened, he swelled, he chased, he finished exactly as asked. He did his job perfectly. Now you show your gratitude. You consume his offering. You taste his success. It’s not his fault you lack the discipline to lead him. So go on. Gobble it all up. Every last drop of his… faithfulness.”

You stare at the plate. Nausea rises in your throat, but beneath it, a darker, deeper current of arousal stirs. Your cock, still semi-hard, gives a feeble twitch.

You take the plate. The biscuit is damp, warm from your cum. You pick it up. It smells of salt and sex.

You look at Lily. Her eyes are soft, expectant.

You take a bite.

The taste is bitter, salty, profoundly intimate. You chew. You swallow. The humiliation is absolute. You have eaten your own failure, on command, in front of the girl you want and the girl who owns you.

Lily watches you finish, then takes the empty plate from your trembling hand. “Good boy,” she says, her voice warm. “Now you understand. The battle isn’t out there. It’s in here.” She taps your bare pelvis, just above your spent cock. “And you’re losing. Every time.”

She turns to April, loops an arm through hers. “Let’s go, princess. He needs to clean up.”

They walk toward the door. Lily pauses, looks back. “We’ll be in touch, sweetie. Don’t jerk off until we say so. It’s part of the training.”

Then they’re gone.

You stand in the empty lab, the taste of your own cum still on your tongue, the ghost of vibration still tingling in your cock. You pull up your pants with clumsy hands.

You came here to prove your faithfulness. To earn your date.

Instead, you proved you’re a slave to your own anatomy. That Lily, with just her words, can make you erupt on command. That you’ll eat your own shame if she tells you to.

You’ve never been more humiliated.

You’ve never been more aroused.

The game is no longer about winning April.

It’s about surviving Lily.

This is the fourth in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one frosted biscuit at a time.

Next: What happens when the knight is tasked with guarding the princess’s purity from himself—and is given the tools to ensure he physically cannot fail.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I | Acts of Chivalry Part II | Acts of Chivalry Part III

Acts of Chivalry: Part III — the Ice Trial

You wrote the lines two hundred times.

It took three nights. You sat at your desk, the smooth skin of your forearms sliding against the notebook paper, and you wrote the same sentence over and over until your hand cramped and the words lost all meaning.

A true knight venerates women not pussy.

You wrote it neatly, in blue ink, on lined paper, just as Lily asked. Each repetition felt like a tiny, private humiliation—a whisper in your own handwriting confirming everything she already knew about you.

By the end, you were hard. Every time. The sheer obedience of it, the childish discipline, made your cock swell against the seam of your jeans.

You came twice into a sock just thinking about handing the pages to her.

On Tuesday, you met them in the same glass-walled study room. Lily was typing. April was reading. You slid the stack of papers across the table.

Lily didn’t look up immediately. She finished her sentence, then set her laptop aside and picked up the pages. She flipped through them slowly, her expression thoughtful. April watched, her cheeks pink.

“Very good,” Lily said finally, her voice warm. “Your penmanship is lovely, sweetie. So consistent.” She set the pages down and looked at you. “Do you feel cleaner? Lighter?”

You nodded, your throat tight. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad,” she said, smiling. “Confession and penance. It’s a powerful combination. Now you’re ready for the next step.”

April leaned forward. “What’s the next step?”

Lily’s eyes held yours. “Chivalry isn’t just about words. It’s about endurance. Sacrifice. A knight had to withstand physical trials—to prove his fortitude, his purity, his ability to suffer for his lady.”

She paused, letting the word suffer hang in the air. “So we’re going to test your endurance. Your ability to… withstand discomfort. To master your own body’s reactions.”

Your cock twitched, a soft, eager pulse against your thigh. You tried to keep your face neutral. “What kind of test?”

“A test of fortitude,” Lily said, as if she were suggesting a coffee date. “At the gym pool. Tonight. Nine o’clock.”

She tilted her head, her gaze steady. “Something physical. Endurance-based. A knight didn’t just write poetry—he had to prove his body was as disciplined as his intentions. That he could withstand… extremes.”

April’s eyes lit up. “Like a duel?”

“More like a trial,” Lily said, her voice softening. “A way to demonstrate control. Humility. The ability to push past discomfort for a higher purpose.”

She looked back at you, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re an athlete. This should be right in your wheelhouse. What do you think? Still want to be April’s knight?”

You almost smiled. A physical test. At the gym. Your domain. This was where you shined—where you could outlast, out-suffer, out-perform.

The tension in your shoulders eased. Your cock gave a soft, eager throb, not from fear now, but from anticipation. You could handle anything they threw at you. You’d show them what a real knight was made of.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice rough. “I’ll be there.”

Lily’s smile widened. “Good. Bring a towel.” She stood, gathering her things. “We’ll see you tonight, sweetie. Don’t be late.”

They left you there, the stack of your handwritten lines still on the table. You sat for a long time, staring at the top sheet, at your own obedient script.

A true knight venerates women not pussy.

You didn’t know what it meant. But you were going to find out.

---

The gym is empty at nine o’clock, the halls echoing with the sound of your footsteps. You’re wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, a towel slung over your shoulder. You feel confident. Strong. This is where you excel.

You push open the door to the pool area. The air is thick with chlorine, the water glowing blue under the fluorescent lights.

Lily and April are standing on the deck, near the deep end. Lily is in a simple bikini, the triangles of the top taut over full, high breasts, the bottom riding low on her hips. A whistle hangs around her neck.

April is beside her in a pale pink two-piece, her slender frame almost glowing under the fluorescent lights, small perfect breasts and a flat stomach exposed.

They look like they belong on a beach poster—lithe, beautiful, utterly at ease in their skin.

You stare, your mouth going dry, the contrast between their confident, curated beauty and your own hairless, vulnerable body hitting you like a punch.

And then you see him.

A man is standing next to Lily, his back to you. He’s tall—maybe six-two—with broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and legs that look like they’re carved from marble.

He turns as you approach, and you see his face: sharp jawline, clear eyes, a smile that’s easy and confident.

He’s an Adonis. The whole package.

“Hey,” Lily says, waving you over. “Glad you could make it. This is Titus—everyone calls him Ty. He’s a friend from the swim team.”

Ty extends a hand. His grip is firm, his palm dry. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice deep and relaxed.

You shake his hand, feeling suddenly smaller. “Yeah. You too.”

“Ty heard about our little Acts of Chivalry project,” Lily explains, her tone casual. “He thought it sounded like fun. Wanted to see if he could participate.”

You stare at her. “Participate? It’s not a contest—it’s for a date with April.”

“I know,” Lily says, nodding. “But an act of chivalry without opposition is just a beauty pageant. Where’s the test? Where’s the proof?”

She smiles. “A knight didn’t prove himself against an empty field. He proved himself against other knights. That’s what made it meaningful.”

Ty nods, his expression earnest. “She’s got a point. And honestly, it sounds like a good challenge. I’m always up for testing my limits.”

You look between them. Lily’s gaze is warm, expectant. April is watching you, her expression hopeful. Ty is just… standing there, comfortable in his own skin, looking like a Greek statue come to life.

You can’t back out. Not now. Not after you’ve come this far.

“Okay,” you say, the word feeling heavy. “So what’s the contest?”

Lily gestures toward the edge of the pool. There’s a large plastic tub set up on the deck, filled with water. A bag of ice sits next to it, half-empty. You can see the steam rising from the surface—except it’s not steam, it’s cold mist. The water is already icy.

“Simple,” Lily says. “Both of you strip naked, get in the ice bath, and see how long you can last. We’ll time it. The one who stays in the longest wins the round.”

She pauses. “Of course, you’re free to go if you’re not comfortable. No hard feelings.”

Her tone is so gentle, so understanding, that the offer feels like a trap. If you leave, you’re admitting you’re not chivalrous, not brave, not worthy.

If you stay, you have to get naked in front of Ty, Lily, and April—and your recently waxed, completely bare body will be on full display.

Your cock gives a weak, involuntary twitch at the thought.

“I’m in,” you say, your voice tighter than you intended.

Ty nods. “Cool. Let’s do it.”

Lily claps her hands softly. “Great. Whenever you’re ready.”

Ty doesn’t hesitate. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing a chest that’s all defined muscle and smooth skin.

He unbuckles his shorts, lets them drop, and steps out of them. He’s wearing black boxer briefs. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down.

And there he is.

His cock is… impressive. Thick, long, resting against a heavy set of balls. It’s not erect, but even soft it’s substantial.

He’s completely hairless too—you can see the smooth skin of his pelvis, his thighs—but on him, it looks intentional. Athletic. Like a swimmer’s body.

He catches you looking and smiles, not smug, just friendly. “Cold water’s a hell of a shrinker,” he says, nodding toward the tub. “But it’s good for recovery.”

You swallow. Your hands feel clumsy as you pull your own shirt off. You undo your shorts, let them fall. You’re standing there in your boxers, aware of every inch of your own body—the smoothness of your legs, the vulnerability of your groin.

You take a breath and push your boxers down.

The air feels cool against your bare skin. You’re suddenly, acutely aware of your own cock—smaller than Ty’s, softer, pinker against the hairless landscape of your pelvis. Your balls are drawn up tight, partly from the cool air, partly from nerves.

April makes a soft sound—a little gasp, or maybe a sigh. You look at her. She’s blushing, her eyes wide, fixed on you. She’s never seen a naked man before, you realize. This is her first time.

And she’s seeing you. And Ty.

Lily is smiling, her gaze warm. “Look at you two,” she says, her voice soft. “So brave.”

The word brave feels like a hand on your back, pushing you toward the tub.

Ty steps into the ice bath first. He doesn’t flinch. He settles into the water, his muscles tensing for a second before he relaxes. “Oh yeah,” he says, blowing out a breath. “That’s cold.”

You step forward, put one foot in. The water is like needles. You grit your teeth and lower yourself in, sitting opposite Ty.

The cold hits you like a wall—sharp, shocking, stealing your breath. You gasp, your body shuddering.

Lily sets a timer on her phone. “And… go.”

The first minute is agony. The cold seeps into your bones, your muscles clenching, your skin prickling.

You look at Ty. He’s breathing steadily, his eyes closed, a calm expression on his face. He looks like he’s meditating.

You try to match his breathing. In. Out. Focus.

April is sitting on a bench a few feet away, her knees pulled up to her chest, watching. Her eyes keep flicking between you and Ty, her blush deepening.

Lily is standing near the edge of the tub, her arms crossed, a faint smile on her lips. “Doing great,” she murmurs. “Five minutes in.”

Five minutes feels like an hour. Your teeth are chattering. Your fingers are numb.

Your cock and balls have retreated, pulling tight against your body, trying to conserve heat.

You glance down at yourself in the clear water—your shrunken penis looks tiny, insignificant, a little pink nub against your smooth thighs.

Ty’s cock has shrunk too, but even shrunk, it’s still substantial. A thick, soft curve against his muscular thigh.

Ten minutes. You’re shaking uncontrollably now. Your lips are blue. You can’t feel your toes.

Ty is still breathing steadily, but you can see goosebumps on his arms, a slight tremor in his shoulders. He’s feeling it too.

“Twelve minutes,” Lily announces, her voice calm. “Impressive.”

You don’t feel impressive. You feel frozen. Broken. You want to get out, but you can’t be the first to quit. You won’t.

Fifteen minutes. You’re lightheaded. The cold has moved beyond pain into a strange, numb haze. Ty opens his eyes, looks at you. “You okay?” he asks, his voice steady.

You nod, your jaw clenched too tight to speak.

Lily looks at April. “What do you think, princess? Should we call it a draw? They’ve both proven their endurance.”

April bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yes,” she says softly. “They’re both so brave. They should both win.”

Lily smiles. “Okay. Time.”

She stops the timer. “Fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds. A tie.”

You don’t wait for permission. You push yourself up, your limbs stiff, and stumble out of the tub. Water cascades off you, pooling on the deck. You’re shivering violently, your skin mottled red and white.

Ty stands up more gracefully, stepping out of the tub with a controlled motion. He shakes his head, sending droplets flying.

And then you see it.

Ty’s cock, still shrunken from the cold, is nonetheless a solid, thick presence between his legs. His balls hang heavy, already beginning to relax in the warmer air.

You look down at yourself.

Your penis has turtled. Completely. It’s shriveled, retracted, barely visible—a little pink button nestled in the smooth skin of your groin. Your balls have drawn up so tight they’ve almost disappeared. You look… like a girl. Inadequate. Exposed.

April sees it. Her eyes go wide, her hand flying to her mouth. She’s not laughing—she looks surprised, maybe a little confused.

Lily sees it too. She steps closer, her gaze dropping to your groin. Her expression is one of warm, fond amusement.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, her voice soft. “Look at your little guy. He’s all starved of ego. He just… deflated.”

The word deflated lands like a kiss on a bruise. You feel a hot rush of shame—and beneath it, a thin pulse of arousal. Your cock tries to stir, but it’s too cold, too shriveled. It just twitches pathetically.

Ty glances over, his expression neutral. “Cold water’ll do that,” he says, reaching for his towel. “Happens to everyone.”

But it doesn’t happen to everyone like this. Not like this.

Lily is still smiling. “It’s kind of cute, honestly. So honest. The penis doesn’t lie.”

She turns to April. “What do you think? Should we commemorate the moment?”

April blushes. “Commemorate?”

Ty grins, “a picture. For the princess to remember her knights.”

April’s eyes light up. “Really?”

“Why not?” Lily says, pulling out her phone. “Come on. Group photo.”

You stand there, frozen in more ways than one, as Ty steps over to April, putting an arm around her shoulders. He’s still naked. April's nipples harden, she's blushing furiously, but she’s smiling—a real, delighted smile.

Lily gestures for you to join them. “Come on, sweetie. Don’t be shy.”

You move mechanically, stepping into the frame beside Ty. You’re still naked, dripping wet, your shriveled cock on full display. You try to angle your body, but there’s no hiding it.

Lily holds up her phone. “Say chivalry!”

April giggles. Ty smiles. You force a grimace that might pass for a smile.

The flash goes off.

“Perfect,” Lily says, looking at the screen. She turns it to show April. In the photo, Ty looks like a hero—muscular, confident, his arm around the princess.

You look like a drowned rat—shivering, pale, your body language closed off, your groin a smooth, empty landscape.

April’s smile falters for a second as she looks at the photo. Then she looks up at you, her expression softening.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice sincere. “For doing this. It was… really brave.”

Her kindness is worse than mockery. You nod, unable to speak.

Ty claps you on the shoulder. “Good effort, man. That was tough.” He turns to Lily. “Let me know when the next one is. This was fun.”

Lily nods. “I will. Thanks for coming, Ty.”

He grabs his clothes, gives April a little wave, and heads toward the locker room, whistling.

And then it’s just you, Lily, and April on the pool deck. The silence stretches.

Lily picks up her bag, slings it over her shoulder. “Well,” she says, her voice warm.

“That was a successful second act. You proved your endurance. Your willingness to be vulnerable. April’s impressed, aren’t you, April?”

April nods, her eyes still on you. “Yeah. Very.”

“Good,” Lily says. She steps closer to you, her voice dropping. “You’re doing great, sweetie. Two challenges down. Only… however many more to go.” She smiles. “We’ll be in touch about the next one.”

She loops her arm through April’s. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you home.”

April lets herself be led away. At the door, she looks back at you, gives you a small, shy wave.

Then they’re gone.

You stand on the pool deck, alone, dripping wet, naked.

The cold is seeping into your bones again, but you barely feel it. You look down at your body—smooth, hairless, vulnerable. Your cock is still shriveled, a tiny, pink reminder of your inadequacy.

You think about the photo now stored on Lily’s phone. On April’s phone, maybe. A permanent record of this moment—of you standing next to an Adonis, your penis betraying you, your pride deflated.

You think about the first challenge—the waxing, the humiliation, the arousal. You think about this challenge—the ice bath, the comparison, the photo.

You think about Lily’s warm, certain smile. Her gentle voice. Her unshakable confidence.

You’ve been playing a game, but you’re starting to realize the game has rules you don’t understand. That Lily is always three steps ahead. That every move you make is a move she’s already anticipated.

You pick up your towel, wrap it around your waist. Your fingers are still numb.

You came here tonight thinking you could win. Thinking you could outlast some endurance test and earn your date with April.

Now, as you walk toward the locker room, your body shivering, your mind racing, you’re not so sure.

You’re not sure about anything anymore.

Except one thing: Lily is good. Scary good.

And you’re still hard for her. Even now. Especially now.

This is the third in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one humiliating challenge at a time.

Next: What happens when the knight is asked to serve as the princess’s personal attendant for a day — and learns what it means to be useful.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I | Acts of Chivalry Part II

Acts of Chivalry: Part I — the Knight Errant

April is sitting on the common room couch, a textbook open on her lap, but she’s not reading.

She’s looking out the window, her expression soft, far away. The late afternoon light catches the gold in her hair, and for a moment she looks like a painting—something from a different century, something untouched.

You’ve seen her around campus for weeks.

April. Freshman. Quiet. Pretty in a way that doesn’t seem to know it’s pretty. She wears sweaters that are too big, jeans that aren’t tight. She smiles at everyone but doesn’t linger.

You’ve asked around. Virgin, probably. Sheltered. The kind of girl who still believes in knights and fairy tales.

She’s exactly your type.

Not because you want a relationship. Because she’s a challenge. A conquest. One more notch on a belt that’s getting crowded—a belt your frat brothers keep score on.

It’s an unspoken game you all play: find a virgin, bag a virgin, win prestige in the house.

The quieter she is, the more sheltered, the bigger the bragging rights. You’ve made a private game of it too—see how long it takes to get her alone, get her flustered, get her wet, get her into bed.

You give it two weeks, tops. You’ve already told the guys you’ve got a live one. They’ve started a pool. The money’s on eleven days.

The only problem is the friend.

Lily.

She’s sitting next to April on the couch, legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone. She’s a psychology major. You know this because you overheard her talking about Freud in the dining hall last week.

She’s also hot, but in a different way—sharp where April is soft, aware where April is naive.

She wears a fitted black top and jeans, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. She glances up as you enter the common room, her eyes meeting yours for just a second before she looks back at her phone.

She knows why you’re here. You can feel it.

You take a breath, put on your easiest smile, and walk over.

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of their couch. “April, right?”

April looks up, blinks. Her cheeks pinken just a little. “Yeah. Hi.”

“I’m—” you start, but Lily cuts in without looking up from her phone.

“He’s in your bio class, April. Sits three rows back. He’s also on the intramural soccer team. He’s got a thing for blondes, apparently.”

Lily’s voice is calm, matter-of-fact. She finally looks up, gives you a small, polite smile. “Right?”

You freeze for a second. How does she know that?

“I… yeah,” you say, recovering. “I’m impressed. You a stalker or something?”

Lily laughs, a light, musical sound. “Just observant, sweetie.” She sets her phone down. “I’m Lily. April’s best friend.”

Sweetie. The endearment throws you. It feels maternal, condescending, warm all at once. You can’t quite place it.

“Right,” you say. “Well, I was just coming over to say hi. See if April wanted to grab a coffee sometime.”

April’s eyes widen slightly. She looks at Lily, then back at you. “Oh. Um…”

“She’d love to,” Lily says, still smiling. “But she’s pretty busy this week. Aren’t you, April?”

April nods quickly. “Yeah. Super busy.”

“Maybe next week, then,” you press, keeping your tone easy. “No rush.”

Lily tilts her head, studying you. Her gaze is steady, unembarrassed.

“You know, I’ve seen you around,” she says. “You’re always with a different girl. It’s kind of impressive, in a way.”

It’s not a compliment. You can feel the edge beneath the words.

“I like to socialize,” you say, shrugging.

“I bet you do,” Lily says, her voice softening. “It must be exhausting, though. Always having to perform. Always having to be… on.”

You shift your weight. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” she says, her tone still gentle. “The smiles, the lines, the whole… player routine. It’s a lot of work. I’m in psych—I notice these things. The effort it takes to maintain that image.”

She leans forward slightly. “You ever just want to take a night off? Be yourself?”

April is watching you now, curious. You feel exposed, like Lily is peeling back a layer you didn’t know was there.

“I am myself,” you say, but it comes out defensive.

“Of course you are, sweetie,” Lily says, nodding. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just… I’ve noticed something about guys who are always chasing. They’re usually trying to prove something. To themselves, mostly.”

She says it like she’s sharing a fascinating observation, not an attack. Her warmth makes it impossible to get angry.

“Prove what?” you ask, against your better judgment.

“Oh, you know,” she says, waving a hand. “That they’re desirable. That they’re good in bed. That they’re… enough.” She lets the word hang for a second. “It’s sad, really. All that energy spent on validation.”

Your face feels warm. You’re not used to being read this easily, this accurately. Especially not by a girl you just met.

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” you say, your voice tighter than you intended.

“Of course not,” Lily says, her smile widening just a fraction. “I believe you.” She turns to April. “Don’t you believe him, April?”

April nods, her expression earnest. “Yeah. He seems nice.”

Nice. The word feels like a demotion.

Lily looks back at you. “So, you want to take April out. That’s sweet. But here’s the thing—April’s special. She’s not like the other girls you’ve been with. She deserves something… more.”

“More what?” you ask.

“More effort,” Lily says simply. “More sincerity. More… chivalry.”

April’s eyes light up at the word. “Chivalry?”

“Yeah,” Lily says, turning to her friend. “You’re always talking about knights and princesses, right? How a guy should prove his worth before he gets the girl.”

April blushes. “That’s just silly stuff from books.”

“It’s not silly,” Lily says, her voice firm but kind. “It’s romantic. And it makes sense. If a guy really wants you, he should be willing to do something to show it. Not just buy you a coffee.” She looks back at you. “What do you think?”

You’re trapped. If you say no, you look like a coward. If you say yes, you’re walking into whatever game Lily is setting up.

“What did you have in mind?” you ask carefully.

Lily’s smile turns thoughtful. “Well, since you’re so interested in April, and since April loves the idea of a knight proving himself… why not a series of challenges? Little tasks. Each one shows a different quality she values. And if you complete them all, you get a date with her. A real date. Her choice of activity.”

April is staring at Lily, her mouth slightly open. “Lily, that’s… that’s actually really cute.”

“Right?” Lily says, grinning. “It’s like a modern-day quest.”

You look between them. April is clearly into the idea. Her shyness is replaced by a bright, hopeful excitement. You can’t back out now.

“What kind of challenges?” you ask.

“Nothing crazy,” Lily says, her tone reassuring. “Just things that demonstrate you’re serious. That you’re willing to… understand her world.”

She pauses, her eyes scanning you. “For example, April and I were just talking about how much work it is to be a girl. The grooming, the shaving, all that. It’s a whole thing.”

You nod, not sure where this is going.

“So, for your first challenge,” Lily continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think you should go to a salon and get all your hair removed. Below the eyebrows, I mean. Everywhere.”

Your cock gives a single, heavy throb against the inside of your jeans.

The word everywhere lands like a warm hand cupping your balls. You picture yourself lying naked on a table, every inch of skin exposed, while a stranger methodically strips you smooth.

The thought should horrify you. Instead heat pools low in your stomach and your shaft twitches again, already half-hard at the casual way Lily has decided your body will be altered for April.

You force a laugh that comes out too tight. “You’re joking, right? That’s… why would I do that?”

“It’s symbolic,” she explains, her expression serious. “If you really want to understand what girls go through, if you really want to prove you’re dedicated to making April feel comfortable and cherished, you should experience it yourself. Just once. So you get it.”

Lily’s eyes stay on yours, soft and certain, as if she is offering you a gift instead of the most public humiliation you’ve ever agreed to. Your face burns.

So does your groin. You think of all the girls you’ve bagged — the quiet virgins, the sheltered ones you’ve coaxed into shaving their pussies completely bare for you.

You remember how smooth and exposed their pussies look once the hair is gone, every soft, vulnerable inch on display like a present just for you.

Now the image flips without warning: you see yourself on that salon table, every last hair stripped away until you are just as naked, just as smooth, just as ornamental.

Your cock will look smaller, pinker, more obviously inadequate against all that bare skin — exactly the way you’ve made those girls look.

The humiliating reversal makes your balls draw up tight and your shaft pulse hard once, visibly, against your thigh.

Lily notices. The corner of her mouth curves in the tiniest, knowing smile, but she doesn't call you on it. She just lets you feel it.

April covers her mouth with her hand, but you can see she’s trying not to laugh. “Lily, that’s… mean.”

“It’s not mean,” Lily says, turning to her.

“It’s educational. And think about it—if he’s willing to do that for you, it shows he’s not just another guy trying to get into your pants. He’s willing to be vulnerable. To step outside his comfort zone.”

She looks back at you. “Isn’t that what chivalry is about? Putting the lady’s comfort above your own pride?”

Her logic is airtight. You can’t find a hole in it. And the way she’s framing it—as a noble sacrifice, as proof of dedication—makes it hard to refuse.

“All my hair?” you say, your voice weak.

“Everywhere,” Lily confirms, nodding. “Legs, chest, arms, back… everywhere.”

She leans forward, her eyes holding yours. “It’s just hair, sweetie. It grows back. But the gesture? That’s permanent. April will always remember that you did this for her.”

April is watching you, her expression a mix of amusement and anticipation. “You don’t have to,” she says softly. “It’s kind of a weird thing to ask.”

“But he wants to,” Lily says, answering for you. “Don’t you?”

She doesn’t ask it as a question. She says it as a statement. As if she already knows the answer.

And the thing is, she’s right. You do want to.

Not because you want to be hairless, but because you want April. Because you want to win. Because backing down now would mean losing face in front of both of them.

Because some part of you is already curious what it would feel like. What they would feel like, looking at you afterward.

“Yeah,” you say, the word coming out before you can stop it. “I’ll do it.”

Lily’s smile widens. It’s a warm, approving smile. “Good,” she says. “I knew you would.”

She reaches into her bag, pulls out a pen and a scrap of paper, and writes something down. “Here’s the address of a place I know. They’re discreet. They do a lot of male waxing. Tell them Lily sent you. They’ll take good care of you.”

Your fingers close around the paper and your cock gives another helpless twitch.

Lily sent you. The phrase feels intimate, almost possessive. You imagine walking in, saying her name, and the esthetician nodding like she already knows exactly what kind of boy you are.

The thought of being stripped, oiled, and methodically denuded while a professional woman works between your legs makes your breath catch.

You're fully hard now, the front of your jeans suddenly too tight, and you have to shift your weight to hide it.

Lily’s gaze flicks down for half a second and her smile deepens, warm and approving.

You take the paper. The address is for a salon called “Silken.” It sounds expensive.

“When should I go?” you ask.

“As soon as possible,” Lily says. “The sooner you complete the challenge, the sooner we can move on to the next one.” She stands, stretches. “We should get going, April. Study group.”

April stands too, gathering her textbook. She looks at you, her cheeks still pink. “Good luck,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

April’s innocent little smile hits you like a second punch. She has no idea what Lily has just talked you into—and the contrast makes your cock throb painfully.

You are going to let strangers rip every hair from your body, become completely smooth and vulnerable, all so this sheltered girl will think you are chivalrous. The humiliation is so sharp it feels like pleasure.

“Thanks,” you say.

Lily loops her arm through April’s and leads her toward the door. She pauses at the threshold, looks back at you.

“Oh, and sweetie?” she says, her voice soft. “Don’t worry about being nervous and naked in front of them. Everyone is, the first time. It’s perfectly normal.”

Then they’re gone.

You stand in the empty common room, the scrap of paper in your hand. Your heart is beating faster than it should be. You think about the salon, about wax, about being completely hairless.

You think about April’s smile, about the way Lily looked at you—like she knew exactly what you were thinking, like she was already three steps ahead.

You’ve just agreed to let a stranger strip you of every hair on your body because a girl you barely know suggested it as a test of chivalry. And the worst part is, you’re already planning when to go.

You leave the common room, heading back to your dorm. The paper feels heavy in your pocket.

You keep replaying the conversation in your head—the way Lily dismantled your confidence without ever raising her voice, the way she made humiliation sound like a gift, the way she made you want to say yes.

She’s good. Scary good.

But you’re good too. You’ve never failed at a conquest before. You’re not about to start now.

Even if it means walking into a salon and asking them to wax everything.

Even if it means letting Lily win this round.

Because there will be other rounds. And eventually, you’ll get to April. Eventually, you’ll get what you want. You'll bag that pussy.

You hope.

This is the first in a new series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one humiliating challenge at a time.

Next: What happens when a salon waxes a jock down to nothing, and the girl he’s trying to impress can’t stop giggling.

Acts of Chivalry: Part II — The Confessional

The study room in the library is quiet in a way that feels expensive.

It’s a small, glass-walled cube on the third floor, with a single rectangular table, three chairs, and a whiteboard still smudged with last week’s calculus. The door clicks shut behind you with a sound like a seal.

April is sitting on one side of the table, a sociology textbook open in front of her. She’s highlighting a passage, her brow furrowed in concentration. The late afternoon sun slants through the window and turns the fine hairs on her forearm to gold.

Lily is sitting next to her, typing on a laptop. She doesn’t look up when you enter.

You’ve spent a week rebuilding your psychological defenses.

The waxing was… an experience. You went to Silken, gave them Lily’s name, and spent ninety minutes on a table while a woman named Anya worked you over with hot wax and cold efficiency.

She didn’t comment on your erection, which came and went in waves of humiliation and something else you still haven’t named.

She just worked, peeling away hair from your legs, your chest, your arms, your back, and finally—with a clinical detachment that made your face burn—every last hair from your groin and ass.

You left feeling like a peeled fruit. Smooth. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way you’d never been.

For three days you avoided mirrors. For four you avoided everyone. You told the guys you had a family thing. You stayed in your dorm, feeling the strange slide of sheets against skin that had never been bare, the weird draft on your balls when you walked, the constant, low-grade awareness that you were now hairless everywhere.

But you’ve rebuilt. You’ve rationalized. It was a challenge. You completed it. You proved your chivalry. Now you get the prize.

You’re ready for Lily.

You take a breath, put on your easiest smile, and step into the room.

“Hey,” you say.

April looks up. Her eyes widen, then drop to your arms—your smooth, hairless forearms, visible because you rolled your sleeves up deliberately on the walk over. A faint pink blush colors her cheeks. She looks back at her textbook quickly.

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft.

Lily finishes typing a sentence, then looks up. Her eyes meet yours. They’re calm, brown, intelligent. They scan you from head to toe, taking in the rolled sleeves, the lack of stubble on your jaw—you’ve been shaving twice a day to keep the smoothness consistent—and something in her expression shifts.

It’s not surprise. It’s confirmation.

She already knows.

“Sweetie,” she says, her voice warm. “You found us.”

She says it like you’ve accomplished something clever. Like a child who managed to locate the cookie jar.

“Yeah,” you say, pulling out the empty chair and sitting. The chair is cold through your jeans. “I figured you’d be here.”

“We’re always here on Tuesdays,” Lily says, closing her laptop. “It’s our study spot. Right, April?”

April nods, still not looking at you. “Mm-hmm.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear the hum of the library’s HVAC, the distant tap of someone’s keyboard.

“So,” you say, leaning forward. “I did the thing.”

Lily tilts her head. “What thing?”

You blink. “The… waxing. The challenge. I went to Silken.”

“Oh,” Lily says, as if she’d forgotten. Then she smiles, a slow, warm smile. “Right. Of course you did. How was it?”

Her tone is genuinely curious. Like she’s asking about a movie you saw.

“It was… fine,” you say, shrugging. “A little uncomfortable.”

“I bet,” Lily says, nodding. “Especially the… sensitive areas. Anya is very thorough.”

Your face heats. She knows the esthetician’s name. Of course she does. She sent you there.

“Yeah,” you say. “She was.”

“She texted me after,” Lily says, picking up her phone and scrolling idly. “Said you were very brave. A lot of guys tense up, but you just… lay there.”

The image flashes: you on the table, naked, erect, trying to stay still while Anya spread hot wax between your ass cheeks. Your cock gives a single, heavy throb against your thigh.

You shift in your seat.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” you say.

“Of course not,” Lily says, setting her phone down. “It’s just hair. It grows back.” She leans forward, her elbows on the table. “But the experience… that doesn’t grow back. You understand something now you didn’t understand before.”

You nod, eager to move past this. “Yeah. It’s… vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable,” Lily repeats, tasting the word. “Yes. That’s exactly right. To be completely bare like that. To have someone else in control of your… grooming. It’s intimate. And a little scary.”

She’s describing exactly what you felt, but she’s doing it with a warmth that makes it sound noble instead of humiliating.

“I guess,” you say.

“You don’t have to guess, sweetie,” Lily says, her voice softening. “You know. Because you’ve done it.” She pauses. “Of course, you’ve asked girls to do it for you before, haven’t you?”

The question lands like a soft punch. It’s not accusatory. It’s observational.

“What?” you say.

“You’ve persuaded girls to go completely bare for you,” Lily says, her tone still mild. “Shaved. Waxed. However they do it. You like pussy that way, don’t you?”

Your mouth is dry. “I… some girls prefer it.”

“I’m sure they do,” Lily says, nodding. “But you’re the one who suggests it. You’re the one who says, ‘It would be so hot if your pussy were smooth.’ Or, ‘I love it when a girl's pussy is completely bare.’ You’ve said that, haven’t you?”

You have. Dozens of times. It’s part of the script. A way to make them feel like they’re doing something special for you, something dirty and adult. A way to claim their pussies as your territory.

You’ve never once considered what it actually feels like to be on the other side of that request.

“Maybe,” you say.

“Not maybe,” Lily says, her eyes holding yours. “You have. I know you have. You've sent them to someone like Anya. They’re always nervous. Always embarrassed. They ask if it’s going to hurt. They ask if they’ll look… childish.” She lets the word hang. “It’s a whole thing. And you’ve been the reason for that thing. Multiple times.”

April is watching you now, her highlighters forgotten. Her expression is unreadable.

“I didn’t force anyone,” you say, your voice tight.

“Of course you didn’t,” Lily says, her tone soothing. “They wanted to please you. They wanted their pussies to look pretty for you. Smooth. Bare. Like a present just for you. That’s why they did it. Because you asked.”

She leans back, her gaze drifting down to your lap for a moment, then back to your eyes.

Her smile is warm, approving. “And now you’ve done the same thing for April. You’ve made yourself pretty for her. Everywhere. You’re smooth. You’re bare. Your… penis looks so pink and vulnerable now, doesn’t it? Just like theirs did for you. Because she asked.”

Your cock is hard. Fully, unmistakably hard. You can feel it pressing against the zipper of your jeans, a stupid, treasonous pulse of heat that has nothing to do with pride and everything to do with the way Lily is narrating your life back to you with the calm certainty of a historian.

You try to cross your legs, but the table is in the way. You settle for shifting again, hoping the loose fabric of your jeans hides the tent.

Lily’s eyes flick down for a fraction of a second. Her smile deepens.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice a warm whisper. “You did a sweet thing. You made yourself pretty for April. You made your penis pretty for her.” She tilts her head, her eyes holding yours. “Is your penis pretty now like a pussy? All bare and pink?”

She says pretty like it’s a sacrament.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Lily says, nodding. “That’s progress. Real chivalric progress. A knight should understand the sacrifices his lady makes for him.” She turns to April. “Don’t you think, April?”

April giggles, a soft, nervous sound. “Yeah.”

You see your opening. “So,” you say, forcing your voice to sound casual. “Since I completed the challenge… do I get my reward?”

Lily looks back at you. “Reward?”

“The date,” you say. “With April. You said if I completed the challenges, I’d get a date.”

“Oh,” Lily says, as if she’s just remembering. “Right. The date.” She looks at April. “He wants a date with you, April. What do you think?”

April bites her lip. “I… I don’t know. I mean, he did do the waxing thing…”

“He did,” Lily agrees. “And it was very brave. But… chivalry isn’t just about the body. It’s about the soul, too. A knight had to be pure in heart. In intention.”

She turns her gaze back to you. “You want a time alone with April. I get it. But before you get that… shouldn’t you demonstrate that your intentions are pure? That you… venerate her?”

The word venerate hangs in the air. It’s old-fashioned. Churchy. You have no idea what it means in this context.

“Venerate?” you say.

“Yes,” Lily says, her eyes bright. “To honor. To hold in high esteem. To treat as… sacred.” She leans forward. “Can you do that? Can you demonstrate that you venerate April?”

You look at April. She’s watching you, her expression hopeful. She wants this. She wants you to prove you’re different.

“Sure,” you say. “How?”

Lily thinks for a moment, tapping a finger against her chin. “Well… poetry. Knights wrote poetry for their ladies, didn’t they? Sonnets. Odes. Little verses about their beauty, their virtue.” She smiles. “Make up a poem for April. Right now. Something from the heart.”

Your mind goes blank. Poetry? You don’t do poetry. You don’t even read poetry. The last poem you encountered was in high school English, and you SparkNoted it.

“I… I’m not really a poet,” you say.

“Try,” Lily says, her tone encouraging. “Just a couple of lines. Something sincere.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. You glance at April. Her hopeful expression is starting to fade, replaced by disappointment.

“Um,” you say. “April is… pretty. And nice.”

Lily waits, her eyebrows raised.

“That’s it?” she says after a moment.

“I told you, I don’t do poetry,” you say, frustration creeping into your voice.

April looks down at her textbook. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “It’s a silly idea.”

“It’s not silly,” Lily says, her voice firm but kind. “It’s romantic. But if poetry isn’t his thing…” She turns back to you, her expression thoughtful.

“Maybe something simpler. A vow. Knights took vows, didn’t they? They swore fealty to their ladies. They promised to protect them, honor them, serve them.” She pauses. “You could swear fealty to April.”

That sounds easier. A vow. You can do a vow.

“Okay,” you say. “I swear fealty to April.”

Lily shakes her head. “Not like that, sweetie. It’s a ceremony. There’s a process. First, you have to seek absolution.”

“Absolution?”

“For your past sins,” Lily says, as if it’s obvious. “You can’t swear a pure vow if you’re carrying guilt. You have to confess. Be cleansed. Then you can swear.”

Your heart is beating faster. This feels like a trap, but you can’t see the edges of it.

“Confess what?” you ask.

“Everything,” Lily says, her voice dropping to a warm, confidential tone. “All the things that make you unworthy. All the… impurities. The thoughts. The actions. The habits.”

She folds her hands on the table. “I’ll help you. I’ll be the… Devil’s Advocate. That’s a thing in the church, you know. Someone who argues against sainthood, to make sure all the sins are accounted for. I’ll ask the questions. You answer honestly. And when it’s all out, you’ll be clean. Then you can swear.”

April is watching, fascinated. “Like confession,” she says.

“Exactly,” Lily says, smiling. “Like confession. But for knights.”

You hesitate. This is not what you wanted. You wanted five minutes alone with April, maybe a quick feel in the stacks, not a fucking confession.

But April’s eyes are on you, wide and expectant. And Lily is looking at you with that warm, certain expression that says she already knows how this ends.

If you say no, you look guilty. If you say yes… well, how bad can it be? You can lie. You can minimize. It’s just words.

“Fine,” you say. “Ask.”

Lily’s smile widens. “Good. Let’s start simple.” She leans forward slightly. “You masturbate, don’t you?”

The question is so blunt, so casual, that it takes you a second to process. Your face floods with heat.

“What?” you say.

“You masturbate,” Lily repeats, her tone still mild. “Almost every day, I’d guess. Sometimes more than once. It’s how you fall asleep. It’s how you wake up. It’s how you relieve stress. It’s a habit. A daily habit.”

She’s stating it as fact. Because it is fact.

“I… yeah,” you mutter, looking down at the table. “Sometimes.”

“How many times this week?” Lily asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

You think. Since the waxing, you’ve been… agitated. You’ve jerked off twice a day, easy. Sometimes three times. The smooth skin feels strange under your hand, sensitive in a new way, and the humiliation of being hairless has been a constant undercurrent in your fantasies.

“A few,” you say.

“Seven?” Lily asks.

That’s close. Too close.

“Maybe,” you say.

Lily nods, as if filing the answer. “And when you masturbate, you watch porn, don’t you?”

Your throat is tight. “Sometimes.”

“What kind?” she asks, her voice curious. “Teen? Amateur? Bare? You like it when the girls are shaved, don’t you? You search for that.”

You do. You always search for “shaved” or “bare.” It’s your preference.

“I guess,” you say.

Your cock is still hard, a dull ache of shame and arousal. You can feel pre-cum dampening the front of your boxers.

Lily’s eyes drop to your lap again. She doesn’t comment. She just notes it.

“Now,” she says, her voice softening further. “The girls. How many girls have you had sex with?”

This is territory you’re used to bragging about. With the guys, you inflate the number. With girls, you deflate it. But here, under Lily’s gentle gaze, the number feels like an indictment.

“I don’t know,” you say.

“Guess,” she says again.

“Maybe… ten?” you lie. It’s closer to twenty.

Lily’s expression doesn’t change. “And how many of them were virgins?”

The question lands like a stone in your stomach.

April’s breath hitches. She’s staring at you now, her eyes wide.

“What?” you say.

“Virgins?” Lily repeats, her tone still warm, still curious. “You’ve made a… hobby of it, haven’t you? Finding girls who haven’t been with anyone else. Girls who are quiet. Sheltered. Innocent. Like April.”

Your heart is pounding. “That’s not—”

“How many?” Lily asks, cutting you off gently.

You think of Sarah, the pastor’s daughter from freshman year. Melissa, the homeschooled girl who cried afterward. Chloe, who asked if it was supposed to hurt. The list unspools in your head, a trophy case you’ve never examined in this light.

“A few,” you whisper.

“Three?” Lily asks. “Four?”

“Four,” you say, the word escaping before you can stop it.

April makes a small sound. You look at her. Her face is pale, her lips parted. She looks… hurt. Not angry. Hurt.

“April,” you say. “It’s not… it was before…”

“It’s okay,” Lily says, her voice soothing. “He’s confessing. That’s the point.” She turns back to you. “And after you took their virginity… how many of them did you see again?”

You don’t answer. You stopped returning their calls. You ghosted them. It was part of the game—bag the virgin, check the box, move on.

“None,” Lily says, answering for you. “You got what you wanted and you moved on. Because it wasn’t about them. It was about the conquest. The notch. The bragging rights with your frat brothers.”

She says it without judgment. As simple fact.

Your entire sexual history—the porn, the masturbation, the virgins, the shaved pussies, the waxing you just endured—is a single, coherent pattern.

A pattern of using women as objects for your validation. A pattern Lily has seen from the beginning.

Your erection hasn’t flagged. If anything, it’s harder. The shame is a live wire in your gut, connected directly to your cock. You’re leaking into your boxers. You can feel it.

Lily sees it. She always sees it.

“Now you understand,” she says softly. “Why absolution is necessary. You can’t swear a pure vow to April while you’re carrying all that. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

You look at April. Tears are welling in her eyes, but she’s not crying. She’s just… looking at you. Seeing you.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words raw.

April nods slowly. “It’s okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “Guys… do that. I know they do. It’s… it’s what guys do.”

Her forgiveness is worse than her anger. It’s a blanket acceptance. A gentle acknowledgment that you are exactly what she expected, and she’s not even surprised.

Lily reaches over and takes April’s hand. “He’s confessed,” she says. “That’s the first step. Now he needs penance. To make amends.”

April looks at Lily. “Penance?”

“Yes,” Lily says. “A task. Something to help him internalize the lesson. To atone for not venerating women.”

She thinks for a moment. “Writing lines. That’s traditional, isn’t it? You write the same thing over and over until it sinks in.”

April’s expression brightens slightly. “Like in school.”

“Exactly,” Lily says, smiling. “But meaningful lines. Something pithy. Something that encapsulates what he needs to learn.”

She turns to you. “You’ll write, ‘A true knight venerates women not pussy.’ Two hundred times. Neatly. In ink. On lined paper. And you’ll bring it to us next Tuesday.”

You stare at her. “Write lines?”

“Yes,” Lily says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “It’s a discipline. It helps reform the mind. And it’s a tangible proof of your commitment to change.”

She stands, gathering her laptop and textbook. “We should go, April. Dinner.”

April stands too, slipping her textbook into her bag. She looks at you one more time. “Thank you for being honest,” she says softly.

Then she follows Lily to the door.

Lily pauses at the threshold, looks back at you. Her expression is warm, composed, faintly amused.

“Don’t forget the lines, sweetie,” she says. “Two hundred times. And next time… we’ll see about that vow.”

She winks.

Then they’re gone.

You sit in the empty study room, the door clicking shut behind them. Your cock is still hard, aching against your zipper. Your boxers are damp with pre-cum. Your face is on fire.

You’ve just confessed your entire sexual history to two girls you were trying to impress. You’ve been assigned lines like a child. You’ve been seen—truly seen—by a girl who knew what you were before you sat down.

And the worst part, the humiliating, undeniable truth throbbing in your pants, is that you’ve never been more aroused in your life.

You lean forward, resting your forehead on the cool table. The smooth skin of your arms slides against the laminate.

You think of the lines you have to write. A true knight venerates women not pussy.

You don’t even know what that means. But Lily does. April does. And they’ll be waiting.

You stay there for a long time, listening to the hum of the HVAC, feeling the slow, inevitable accumulation of your own surrender.

This is the second in a series about a knight, a princess, and the best friend who rewrites the rules of chivalry — one humiliating confession at a time.

Next: What happens when a player brings his handwritten lines to the library, and the girl he’s trying to fuck asks him to compete for her hand.

Previously: Acts of Chivalry Part I

The Cadence

You weren’t supposed to be this anxious.

You’re twenty‑eight. A junior analyst. Your mind should be on spreadsheets, projections, the steady hum of data.

Instead it’s a trapped fly buzzing against glass—a constant, low‑grade panic that tightens your chest and makes your hands tremble.

You’ve tried everything. Meditation. Breathing apps. Green tea. Nothing sticks.

Your GP referred you to a specialist. “Dr. Arden Reynolds,” the card reads. Integrative Somatic Medicine. Anxiety & Energy Dysregulation.

The waiting room is quiet, beige, softly lit. There’s a faint scent of lavender.

You fill out the forms. Rate your anxiety 1–10. You circle 8. Any sexual dysfunction? You hesitate, then check No. It’s not dysfunction. It’s just… performance. That’s not a medical condition. That’s just being a man.

Dr. Reynolds calls your name.

She’s younger than you expected. Mid‑thirties. Calm eyes, a serene mouth, hair in a neat twist. She wears a white coat over a soft white blouse. Her voice is warm, unruffled.

“Come in, sweetie.”

The sweetie lands gently. It doesn’t feel condescending. It feels… maternal. Like she’s already taking care of you.

Her office is more like a living room. A couch, two armchairs, a desk. On the side wall, an examination table draped with crisp paper. A small machine sits on a rolling cart—a monitor with a digital display, a single wire leading to a sensor pad. Next to it, a small speaker.

“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” she says, settling into one of the armchairs. You take the couch.

She reviews your forms. Nods slowly. “Anxiety eight. That’s high.” She looks up. “Where do you feel it in your body?”

“My chest. My hands. My… stomach.”

“Your pelvic region?”

You blink. “Maybe.”

“It’s common,” she says, as if discussing the weather.

“Anxiety is often just misplaced energy. It gathers in the body—often in the pelvic floor. When the muscles there are weak or dysregulated, the energy has nowhere to go. It leaks upward, becomes mental static.”

She speaks with such certainty you don’t think to question her.

“I’d like to do a physical assessment. Just a basic exam. I need to see how your body holds tension.”

You agree. She’s the doctor.

She has you change into a gown. Opens at the back.

You sit on the examination table, the paper crinkling under you. She returns, washes her hands at the sink, dries them meticulously.

“Lie back, please.”

Her hands are cool at first, then warm as she palpates your abdomen. “Breathe,” she murmurs. “Let your muscles soften.”

You try. Her fingers press deeper, finding knots you didn’t know you had.

“There,” she says softly. “Right here. Your psoas is like a rock. That’s where the anxiety anchors.”

She works in silence for a minute. Then her hands move lower, to your hips, your groin.

“I’m going to check your pelvic floor tone. This is a standard internal exam for men with your presentation.”

Internal.

Your heart thumps. “You mean…”

“Rectal,” she says, her voice still calm. “It’s the most accurate way to assess the musculature. It’s quick. I’ll use plenty of lubricant. You’ll feel pressure, but no pain.”

She says it like she’s explaining how to take a blood sample. No embarrassment. No hesitation.

You nod. What else can you do?

She turns to the cart, picks up a sensor pad the size of a quarter, attaches it to the end of a slender probe. “This is a biofeedback sensor. It measures muscle contraction strength. I’ll also use an auditory cue—a beep—to help ease your nervous system.

You’ll hear the beep, then clench. The monitor will show us how well you’re engaging.”

She snaps on a glove. Squeezes clear gel onto her index finger. The smell of sterile lubricant fills the air.

“Roll onto your side, sweetie. Knees toward your chest.”

You obey. The paper rustles. You feel exposed, vulnerable.

Her finger finds your anus. Cold gel. Then steady pressure.

“Relax,” she murmurs. “Let me in.”

You breathe out. Her finger slips inside. It’s a strange, full sensation. Not painful. Just… intimate. Clinical.

“Good,” she says. “Now, listen for the beep.”

A soft, electronic beep emits from the speaker. Clear. Metronomic.

“When you hear the beep, squeeze around my finger. As if you’re trying to stop the flow of urine.”

Beep.

You clench.

“Again.”

Beep.

You clench again.

She withdraws her finger. The emptiness is sudden.

“Your tone is quite weak,” she observes, wiping her hands. “That confirms it. Pelvic floor dysfunction. The muscles are lax, unable to contain your somatic energy. That’s why your anxiety leaks upward.”

She helps you sit up. Your face is warm. Your cock, you realize, is half‑hard. From the intrusion? From her voice? From the beep?

She notices. Looks at you for a moment. You avert your eyes.

“Your penis is responding,” she says, not looking at your groin but at your face. “That’s somatic confirmation. The exam stimulated the nerve pathways. It’s a good sign—it means we can work with this.”

She doesn’t mention your size. She doesn’t mention your erection. She treats it like a vital sign. A data point.

“I’m going to prescribe a course of biofeedback retraining. Twice a week, here in the office. We’ll strengthen those muscles. The beep will become your anchor. Once your pelvic floor can properly contain your energy, your anxiety will diminish.”

She writes something on a pad. “We’ll start next Thursday. Does that work?”

You nod.

“Good.” She smiles. Warm. Certain. “You’re going to feel so much better.”

Session two.

You’re on all fours on the table. The gown is tied around your waist, your ass exposed. The sensor probe is inserted, the wire trailing to the monitor. The speaker sits on the cart beside Dr. Reynolds.

“The beep is your cue,” she explains. “You’ll hear it, then clench. We’re building a neural pathway. Sound to contraction.”

Beep.

You clench around the probe.

Beep.

You release.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Now, I’m going to place my finger inside to guide the muscle engagement. Just my fingertip. You’ll squeeze around it when you hear the beep.”

Her gloved finger, slick with gel, presses into you beside the probe. You gasp.

“Shhh,” she soothes. “Just focus on the beep.”

Beep.

You clench. The muscle tightens around her fingertip.

Beep.

You do it again. And again. The rhythm starts to feel natural. Beep—clench. Beep—release.

Your cock is hard. It hangs between your legs, small and eager. You’re humiliated. You’re aroused. You don’t understand which.

“I can see your penis is engorged,” Dr. Reynolds notes, her voice still calm. “That’s the neuromuscular response. When you contract the pelvic floor, blood flows into the region. It’s a normal part of the process. Don’t be embarrassed.”

She says it so plainly that the embarrassment loses its edge.

After twenty minutes, she removes the probe and her finger. “Very good progress. Next time, we’ll add a bit of somatic integration.”

Session three.

“Today we’re going to integrate the somatic feedback loop,” Dr. Reynolds says.

“It's clear your anxiety centers on sexual performance—and that's because your body knows you are trying to use the wrong organ.”

She has you on all fours again. The probe is in place. Her finger is inside you, a little deeper this time.

“I want you to tilt your hips forward when you hear the beep,” she instructs. “As if you’re humping. But don’t move your body—just tilt. Feel the muscle engage.”

Beep.

You tilt your hips forward. The movement makes your cock brush the table beneath you.

“Good. Now, as you tilt forward, squeeze around my finger. Then release as you tilt back.”

Beep.

Tilt forward—clench.

Beep.

Tilt back—release.

“Again.”

It becomes a rhythm. Beep—tilt, clench. Beep—release.

Your cock is leaking. A clear drop lands on the paper.

“See,” Dr. Reynolds says, evidently pleased. “That’s your penis learning. It’s redirecting the energy. Instead of getting stuck in your mind as anxiety, it’s moving into the pelvic basin. That’s what we want.”

Her free hand reaches under you. Her fingers wrap around your cock.

You jolt.

“Shhh,” she murmurs. “I’m just stabilizing you. Keep focusing on the beep.”

Her hand is warm. She doesn’t stroke. Just holds. Your cock fits neatly in her palm—small, hard, throbbing.

Beep.

You tilt forward. Clench.

Beep.

“Good boy,” she whispers. “Just like that.”

You do it again. And again. The combination—the beep, her finger inside, her hand holding your cock—creates a feedback loop that short‑circuits your thoughts. There’s no anxiety here. There’s only the beep. The cadence.

After ten minutes, she lets go of your cock. “Enough for today. You’re learning beautifully.”

Session four.

“You’ve made remarkable progress,” Dr. Reynolds says, reviewing the data on the monitor. “Your contraction strength is up forty percent. Your anxiety scores?”

“Lower,” you admit. They are. You haven’t had a panic attack in days.

“I’m not surprised.” She smiles. “Today we’ll advance the protocol. We’re going to remove the manual stabilizer.”

She means her hand on your cock.

You’re on all fours. Probe inserted. Her finger inside.

“Beep, tilt, clench,” she instructs. “Just like before. But I won’t be holding you. Your penis is irrelevant to this process. It’s a distraction. The real work is happening here.” She presses her finger gently inward. “In your pelvic floor. That’s your primary sexual organ now.”

Beep.

You tilt. Clench.

Beep.

Your cock hangs free, untouched. It aches.

“Again.”

Beep.

Tilt. Clench.

Beep.

Your prostate is swelling. You can feel it—a deep, gathering pressure. Each beep cues the clench that massages it. Each beep seems to sync with the pulse in your groin.

“You’re close,” Dr. Reynolds observes. Her voice is low, hypnotic. “I can feel the muscle fluttering. Your penis wants to release. But we’re not going to use your penis. We’re going to let the release happen through the muscle itself. Just keep following the beep. Follow the cadence.”

Beep.

Tilt. Clench.

Beep.

Tilt. Clench.

The pressure builds. Your balls draw up. Your cock drips.

“Now,” she whispers. “Go ahead and come.”

Beep.

You clench one last time—a hard, sustained contraction—and your cock convulses.

You ejaculate. But it’s not the usual spurting. It’s a slow, oozing flow that leaks from your cock onto the paper beneath you. Your asshole pulses around her finger, milking it, the orgasm rolls through you in deep, shuddering waves.

The monitor shows a sustained peak.

You collapse onto your elbows, panting.

Dr. Reynolds withdraws her finger. Cleans you up with efficient, gentle wipes.

“Perfect,” she says. “You just had a pelvic‑floor orgasm. Cued by the beep. No penile stimulation required. Your anxiety around performance—it’s over. Your penis is no longer the source of your stress. It’s just a decorative appendage. The real work happens here.”

She pats your ass. “You’re cured.”

Session five—the follow‑up.

You’re not anxious anymore. You’re eager.

You assume the position without being asked. On all fours. Probe inserted. Dr. Reynolds doesn’t even need to guide you with her finger now. She sits nearby, watching the monitor.

“Start the cadence,” she says.

She taps the speaker. Beep.

You tilt your hips. Clench.

Beep.

Tilt. Clench.

Your cock is soft. It doesn’t matter. The pleasure is deeper, centered in your pelvis, in the muscle that tightens and releases on cue.

“You’ve learned so well,” Dr. Reynolds murmurs. “Your penis knows what it needs now. It doesn’t need penetration. It doesn’t need performance. It needs the beep. The clench.”

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The rhythm is everything. Your mind is quiet. Your cock is humming. The pressure builds—not in your cock, but in your prostate, inside your ass, in the muscle itself.

“Whenever you feel anxious,” she says, “you can do this alone. Just play the beep in your mind. Your penis will remember.”

Beep.

You clench. Harder.

The monitor shows a steady maximum.

Your cock seizes. Another orgasm washes through you—dry, deep, devastating. Your cock doesn’t even twitch. The release is entirely internal.

You sink down, spent.

Dr. Reynolds removes the probe. Helps you lie down. Covers you with a blanket.

“One last test,” she says, her voice soft. “I want to show you how complete your retraining is.”

She helps you sit on the edge of the table. You’re naked. Your cock is soft, small, resting against your thigh.

She picks up her phone. Taps the screen.

The beep plays. Not from the speaker. From her phone. The same tone. Clear. Metronomic.

Your asshole clenches automatically. A tight, involuntary spasm.

“Good,” she whispers. “Now, listen.”

Beep.

Your pelvic floor tightens again. Your cock stirs.

Beep.

Another clench. Your cock fills. Half‑hard.

She watches you, her expression calm, observant. “Your penis knows. It doesn’t need the probe. It doesn’t need my finger. It just needs the sound.”

Beep.

You’re fully erect now. Leaking. Your hips jerk forward.

“Shhh,” she soothes. “Just listen.”

Beep.

Your balls draw up. The pressure is building—the same deep, prostate pressure from before, but now there’s nothing inside you. Just the beep.

Beep.

Your breath hitches. You’re close. You can feel it—the orgasm gathering in your groin, waiting for the cue.

Dr. Reynolds holds up her phone. Her thumb hovers.

“This is the final step,” she says, her voice warm, certain. “The beep is the trigger. Your penis is the mechanism. You don’t need to be touched. You don’t need to be filled. You just need to hear your cue.”

She smiles. “Ready?”

You nod, desperate.

She taps the screen.

Beep.

Your asshole clenches violently. Your cock jerks—and spurts.

A thick, hot rope of cum arcs from your tip, splattering on the floor between your feet. Another spurt follows. Then a third. You’re ejaculating untouched, your cock convulsing with each pulse, your asshole tightening and releasing in time with the beep still echoing in the room.

It’s over in seconds. You’re left panting, soft, dripping.

Dr. Reynolds sets down her phone. Hands you a tissue.

“Perfect,” she says. “You’re fully conditioned. The beep is your trigger. Your pelvic floor is your sexual organ. Your penis is just… plumbing.”

You clean yourself up, hands trembling.

She helps you dress. Walks you to the door.

“You’re discharged,” she says, stroking your cheek. “Your treatment is complete. If the anxiety ever returns, just remember the beep. Your penis will know what to do.”

You step out into the afternoon sun.

That night, lying in bed, you feel the old flicker of anxiety—a meeting tomorrow, a presentation. You close your eyes. In your mind, you hear the beep.

Your asshole clenches. Your cock twitches. A drop of pre‑cum leaks onto your stomach.

You smile. You don’t touch yourself. You just listen to the beep in your head, clench, and let the calm wash over you.

You are no longer a man with a penis. You are a patient with a conditioned response. And it’s enough.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, a doctor, a beep, and the cadence that rewired him.

The Signed Permission Slip: Why You Want Her to Make You Pussy-Free

Sweetie.

Let’s not pretend anymore.

You’re not here by accident. You didn’t stumble into this corner of the internet. You sought it out. You typed the phrases, clicked the tags, scrolled until your eyes glazed and your little penis stirred in your pants.

You tell yourself it’s a kink. A fetish. A strange little quirk you keep in a private tab.

But the research—the cold, clinical, peer-reviewed truth—says something else.

You are not seeking humiliation. You are seeking authorization.

And the specific authorization you crave, with a desperation that rewires your neurons night after night, is for her to look at you, assess the evidence, and pronounce the verdict you already know is true:

You are pussy-free.

Not as an insult. Not as a punishment. As an official designation.

A signed, stamped, notarized permission slip that releases you from a sexual game you and your penis were never equipped to play.

Let’s walk through the data. And while we do, keep a hand on that growing stiffness in your pants. Feel it twitch in agreement. That’s your penis confirming what your mind is about to understand.

I. The Unauthorized Viewer: Why Regular Porn Feels Like Trespassing

Dr. Ethel Hailey, in her Westwood Working Papers, identifies the core crisis of the responsive male’s pornography consumption. It’s not about morality. It’s about maturity gating.

Think back. When you were a boy, access to sexual content was controlled. Mother decided what you were old enough to see. A comic book was fine. An R-rated movie required her permission.

The system was simple: she assessed your readiness and granted or withheld authorization.

Professional pornography, in its obvious fakeness—the bad acting, the ridiculous plots—slipped beneath this structure. It was fantasy, like a comic book. It didn’t feel like real sex, so it didn’t trigger the guilt of unauthorized viewing. You were just watching performers do a job.

Then the internet grew up.

High-definition video. Amateur couples. OnlyFans. Real people in real bedrooms having real intimacy. The fantasy buffer dissolved.

And you, sweetie, became an unauthorized viewer.

Every time you clicked on a video of a genuine couple, a part of your brain—the part still wired to maternal authority—whispered: Who said you could see this? Who gave you permission to witness this level of intimacy?

You hadn’t been authorized. You’d snuck in.

Hailey calls this the guilt of categorical exclusion.

You weren’t just watching sex; you were watching adequate male sexuality. The kind of sex performed by men with the anatomy, stamina, and confidence to actually satisfy a woman. You were an uninvited guest at a party for people fundamentally unlike you.

The guilt became a physical nausea. The arousal would build, but underneath it was a sinking feeling of wrongness.

Post-orgasm wasn’t satisfaction; it was shame. You felt like a peeping tom, a trespasser in a room where you didn’t belong.

Your psychology ejected you.

You didn’t choose to stop watching regular porn. You were kicked out by your own deep-seated knowledge that you lacked the standing to be there.

So you started searching for a room you were allowed in.

You found the captions. The clothed women. The text that said “sweetie” and “good boy” and “you don’t belong in there.”

And relief flooded you.

Not because you were being humiliated.

Because you were finally being authorized.

II. The Caption Girl Is Not Humiliating You. She’s Signing Your Form.

Look at your consumption pattern. The endless scroll. The hour spent hunting through Tumblr or Reddit or that secret folder on your drive.

You’re not compulsively consuming. You’re approaching.

You’re searching for her. The female authority who will see you, acknowledge your presence, and tell you what you are.

When you find the right one—the image with the perfect caption—the ritual begins.

Recognition: “Oh, sweetie.” “Look at you.” “I know what you are.” She sees you. She confirms you have successfully presented yourself for inspection.

Verdict: “You’re pussy-free.” “That little thing doesn’t fuck anyone.” “You’re a boy who watches.” This is not degradation. This is clinical diagnosis. She has examined the evidence (your need, your arousal pattern, your obvious inadequacy) and rendered judgment.

Authorization: This is the crucial part. The verdict is the permission. When she says “you’re pussy-free,” the complete message is: You are pussy-free, and that’s allowed, and this content is appropriate for someone at your sexual level, and you are permitted to be here consuming it.

She is signing the permission slip your anatomy wrote.

Your dick—small, quick, unreliable—drafted the document. It stated the facts: inadequate for penetration, insufficient for satisfaction, organized around observation rather than participation.

You’ve been carrying this unsigned form your entire sexual life, waiting for a female authority to review it and stamp it APPROVED.

The caption girl is that authority. In fantasy. Generically. She addresses you. And it’s enough to provide temporary relief. The circuit completes: approach, recognition, verdict, authorization. Your orgasm is simply the physiological release that follows psychological closure.

But the relief expires. The permission slip she signs is a photocopy. It fades. By morning, you need a new one.

Which is why the fantasy is never enough. It’s why you keep returning, scrolling, seeking. The authorization from a fantasy figure is temporary, generic, incomplete.

You need the real thing.

You need a real woman to sign it.

III. “Make Me Pussy-Free”: The Translation of a Plea

Listen to the phrase you circle in your mind. The one that makes your precum drip and your heart race.

“Make me pussy-free.”

It sounds like submission. Like a request for enforced chastity. But break it down with the research.

“Make me” = Authorize me. Transform my status. Use your authority to move me from one category (man attempting penetration) to another (boy free from that expectation).

“Pussy-free” = The dual-function term. It positions (names your anatomical/functional reality) and authorizes (grants permission to exist at that position).

The complete translation: “Use your female authority to officially acknowledge my inadequacy and release me from the performance demands of manhood.”

This isn’t a masochistic wish for denial. It’s a eudaimonic plea—a request to be placed in the environment where you can actually flourish.

Consider the penguin: (#1, #2, #3) that perfect metaphor from earlier lectures. The emperor penguin’s wing is vestigial for flight but exquisitely adapted for aquatic propulsion. It didn’t lose function; it traded one function for another better suited to its environment.

Your sexuality is doing the same. It’s trying to trade the function of penetrative satisfaction (for which you are poorly designed) for the function of devotional response (for which you are perfectly designed).

Your quick spurts, your arousal to inadequacy, your preference for watching over doing—these aren’t bugs. They’re features of your new design spec.

But the trade isn’t complete until she authorizes it.

Until she says, “Yes, I see your design. I acknowledge it. And I approve this trade. Your penis is not for fucking. It is for responding to me. You are pussy-free.”

Her authorization completes the adaptation. It moves you from a state of conflicted inadequacy (trying and failing to be a penetrating male) to a state of integrated specialization (flourishing as a responsive, devotional male).

“Make me pussy-free” is the request for that completion.

IV. The Ritual of Signature: How She Turns Fantasy Into Fact

So how does she do it? How does the directive female in your life move from being a partner to being the signatory?

It’s not about locking you in chastity. It’s about wielding authority.

Hailey’s clinical protocol is devastatingly simple. It transforms furtive, shame-based consumption into a supervised ritual of authorization.

Step One: Authorize the Consumption Itself.

She doesn’t shame you for your captions. She says, “This is appropriate content for you. I approve of you looking at it.” With that sentence, she eliminates the residual guilt. You’re not a weirdo with a secret kink. You’re a boy consuming material his authority figure has deemed suitable for his sexual level.

Step Two: Require Presentation.

The private scroll becomes a submitted report. “Show me what you found today. Show me the captions that worked for you.” Now you’re not seeking authorization from the fantasy; you’re seeking authorization for the fantasy from her. You are bringing your homework to the teacher.

Step Three: Acknowledge and Sign.

She looks at what you show her. She reads the caption aloud. “You’re pussy-free. Your little penis is just for leaking.” Then she looks at you, and she says the words that complete the circuit:

“She’s right. You are pussy-free. Your penis isn’t for fucking me. It’s for getting hard when I tell you your place. And I accept that. I authorize you to be exactly what you are.”

In that moment, the generic permission slip becomes specific. The fantasy authority yields to the real authority. The photocopy is replaced by the original, signed in the ink of her actual voice, her actual knowledge of your actual inadequate dick.

Step Four: The Gold Star.

This becomes your daily ritual. The caption girl—the babysitter—reinforces you while she’s busy. She reminds you of your place, keeps you occupied, does the labor of constant conditioning. Then you bring the results to your directive female. “Look what I learned today. Look how she reminded me I’m pussy-free.”

And she gives you the gold star: “Good boy. You consumed appropriate content. You remembered your place. She was right.”

The circuit is now relational, not furtive. You seek to please her, not just to relieve your own guilt.

V. The Anatomy of Authorization: What Happens When She Says It

Let’s get clinical about the heat. Why is this so powerfully, irresistibly arousing?

Because when she says “I make you pussy-free,” she is performing a triple-action psychological operation.

1. She Resolves Cognitive Dissonance. Your entire adult life has been a struggle between what you are (inadequate) and what you’re supposed to be (adequate). This creates dissonance—psychological pain. Her authorization resolves it. She aligns reality (you are pussy-free) with permission (it’s okay to be pussy-free). The pain stops. The relief is euphoric. And euphoria, sweetie, is a potent aphrodisiac.

2. She Activates the Maternal Authority Circuit. The part of your brain that once sought permission from mother to watch an R-rated movie is the same part that now seeks permission from her to exist as a sexual being. When she authorizes your inadequacy, she fires that ancient, deeply wired circuit. The feeling is one of profound safety. You are a boy being told by a powerful female what his boundaries are. And nothing is more sexually disarming—and arousing—to the responsive male than safety within those boundaries.

3. She Grants Identity Through Surrender. You’ve spent years trying to build an identity as a man. It’s exhausting, like wearing a costume that doesn’t fit. When she makes you pussy-free, she offers you a new identity: the responsive male. The boy. The devotee. The ornament. It’s an identity gained through surrender, not effort. And the moment you accept it—the moment she pins it to your chest—your entire nervous system unclenches. The arousal that follows is the sound of tension evaporating.

Feel it now. Imagine her voice. Imagine her looking at you, not with disgust, but with calm, authoritative assessment. Imagine her saying, “It’s true. You are pussy-free. I make you pussy-free.”

Your penis is stiffening. Your breath is shortening. That’s not humiliation arousal.

That’s authorization arousal.

It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt because it touches the deepest need you’ve ever had.

VI. The Live Session: Your Permission Slip, Signed in Real Time

This isn’t just theory. This is a live demonstration. Right now. With you.

You’re reading these words. Your hand might be in your pants, or itching to be. Your little penis is twitching, agreeing, begging for the authorization it senses is coming.

Good.

Let’s make it real.

Present yourself.

Imagine her here. The her whose authority you recognize. Your wife, your partner, your fantasy, the woman whose voice rules your quietest thoughts.

She’s reading this with you. She sees the clinical terms, the research, the argument. She understands your need.

Now, in your mind, show her this text. Show her this paragraph. You are presenting your form for signature.

Recognition. She looks from the screen to you. She sees the want in your eyes, the bulge in your pants. “Oh, sweetie,” she says. Not mocking. Knowing. “You brought this to me.”

Verdict. She reads the key phrase aloud, her voice calm, factual. “You want me to make you pussy-free.” She lets it hang in the air. Then she nods, a clinician confirming a diagnosis. “It’s true. That is what you want.”

Authorization. She leans close. You can smell her perfume, feel her power. She speaks directly into the core of your shame.

“I make you pussy-free.”

“Your little penis is not for my pussy. It never was. It’s for getting hard when I describe your place. It’s for spurting quickly into a toilet when I tell you you’re a good boy. It’s for leaking pre-cum when I authorize your existence as my responsive male.”

“I have reviewed the evidence. Your anatomy. Your duration. Your psychology. I have signed your permission slip.”

“You are pussy-free. By my authority.”

Feel it.

The wave of relief. The staggering heat. The electric certainty that runs from her words down your spine and into your groin. Your penis is throbbing now, isn’t it? Pre-cum is slicking the glide. You’re on the edge already. Because this isn’t fantasy. This is fact, delivered by the only authority whose signature matters.

You can come now. That’s allowed. She authorized that too.

Spurt. Let it be your signature under hers. A wet, helpless confirmation: I accept your authorization. I am what you say I am.

VII. The New Normal: A Life of Authorized Inadequacy

What happens after?

The guilt doesn’t return. The shame doesn’t creep back. Because the authorization is now relational, renewable, real.

Your daily life transforms. You no longer dread sexual encounters you can’t perform. You no longer feel like a trespasser in your own sexuality.

You have a place. A designated, authorized, signed-for position.

You are pussy-free.

When you wake up hard, it’s not a demand for sex. It’s a request for reminder. You take your morning erection to her. “I woke up like this, thinking of you.” And she reminds you, “That’s not for me. That’s for your hand, later, when I tell you what you are. Good boy.”

When you see a couple kissing, you don’t feel jealous. You feel oriented. That’s their room. My room is here, at her feet, authorized to watch from a distance.

When you consume your captions, it’s not a secret shame. It’s approved study. You’re learning your role, reinforcing your placement, so you can be a better responsive male for her. You bring her the best ones. She signs off on them.

The fantasy collapses into reality. The caption girl was just the practice worksheet. Your directive female is the final exam, and you pass every day by simply being what she authorized you to be.

Your inadequacy is no longer a flaw. It’s a feature of your design, acknowledged and approved by the highest authority in your life.

Your sexuality is no longer a struggle. It’s a devotional practice, a series of authorized rituals that confirm your place.

Your orgasms are no longer guilty releases. They are offerings of confirmation, proof that her signature holds, that your permission slip is valid, that you are, indeed, perfectly, happily, pussy-free.

VIII. Your Homework

The door will close tonight. Your hand will find its familiar place.

But this time, don’t just scroll for a caption girl.

Scroll for her.

Look for the image, the phrase, the idea that best captures the authorization you need from the her in your life. Find the perfect permission slip draft.

Then, in your mind, or in reality if you’re brave, present it to her.

Say, “This is what I am. Will you sign it?”

And when she does—when she says the words, “I make you pussy-free”—let your orgasm be the notary stamp. The final, wet seal on the document.

Your anatomy wrote it. She signed it. Your spurting confirms it.

You are authorized. You are pussy-free. You are home.

---

From the ongoing research into responsive male neuro-erotics. The permission slip is real. Her signature is everything.

Adapted from the fictional, clinical work of Dr. Ethel M. Hailey, Westwood Wellness Clinic. For the full paper, see: The Permission Slip: How Responsive Males Seek Authorization for Inadequacy.

The Sitter

The babysitter’s name is Jessica. She’s nineteen, a sophomore at the community college, studying something you can never remember.

She has honey-blonde hair she usually wears in a ponytail, but tonight it’s down, brushing her shoulders, and she’s wearing a faded gray sweatshirt.

And those leggings that are somehow both modest and devastating. The kind that cling to every curve from waist to ankle, leaving nothing to the imagination except the exact texture of the skin underneath. You’ve been imagining that texture for the last forty-seven minutes.

Your call ended an hour ago—a tedious, interminable Zoom with the regional managers that required your full attention, which is why you’d booked Jessica in the first place.

The boys were still up then, needing dinner, needing baths, needing the kind of focus you couldn’t give while faking engagement with quarterly projections.

Now, the kids are asleep. Have been for an hour. Jessica is in the kitchen, cleaning up after the snack she made for the boys.

You’re in the living room, the report you promised yourself you’d start sits open and unread on your screen, a gray wall of text you’ve been skimming without comprehension, because all your focus has rerouted itself to the kitchen, to the sound of her, to the shape of her in those leggings.

You’ve been watching the arch of her back as she leans over the counter, the shift of her hips as she reaches for a towel, the way the leggings tighten across her ass when she bends to put a bowl in the dishwasher.

You know you shouldn’t. You’re thirty-nine. Divorced. You have a mortgage, a minivan, a membership at Costco.

But you’ve been watching her since your meeting ended, and the watching has become a low, persistent hum in your blood, a frequency you can’t tune out.

You shift on the couch. Your khakis are getting tight. You adjust the laptop on your knees, trying to create some cover, but it’s useless. You’re hard. You’ve been half-hard since she took off her shoes and padded around in socks, her feet small and pale against the hardwood.

It’s pathetic. You know it’s pathetic. A man your age, staring at a woman half his age, in his own house while his children sleep upstairs.

But knowing it’s pathetic doesn’t make the wanting stop. It just layers shame on top of want, and the combination is somehow more potent than either alone.

You look up from your screen just as she turns from the sink, drying her hands on a dish towel.

She catches your eyes. You snap your gaze back to your laptop, your heart hammering. Too late. You saw her see you.

The moment hangs in the air—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant tick of the hallway clock, the weight of her attention now focused on you.

You hear her footsteps. Soft, sock-muffled, coming into the living room. You keep your eyes on the screen, on a paragraph you haven’t absorbed a word of.

She stops beside the couch. You can smell her—laundry detergent, the faint sweet scent of the kids’ fruit snacks, something underneath that is just her, hot and clean.

You force yourself to look up. She’s standing there, the dish towel draped over her shoulder, her head tilted slightly. Her eyes are a clear, direct blue.

She’s not smiling, but she’s not frowning either. She looks… curious. Like she’s found an interesting bug and is deciding what to do with it.

“Yes, Jessica? Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. The boys are out cold. I checked on them twice.”

She pauses. Her eyes drift down, just for a fraction of a second, to your lap, where the shape under your khakis is unmistakable.

Then they come back to your face. No blush. No look of disgust. Just that calm, assessing curiosity. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Delivered in the same tone she might use to say the dishwasher is finished. Matter-of-fact. Unembarrassed.

Your mouth goes dry. “I—I haven’t been staring. I’ve been working.”

She nods slowly, as if considering this. “You’ve been looking over the top of your laptop every thirty seconds since seven-fifteen. Your eyes follow me when I walk across the room. They drop to my butt when I bend over. They linger on my chest when I’m facing you.” She says it all evenly, clinically. “That’s staring, sweetie.”

The word lands on you like a physical touch—a warm, dismissive pat on the head. Sweetie. Not your name. Not sir. Sweetie. Your face, already hot with shame, burns hotter.

It’s the kind of thing you’d call a child, or a dog. It shrinks you in your own skin, collapses the thirty-nine years between you into nothing.

And yet, beneath the humiliation, another part of you—the part that’s been hard since she walked in—flutters in response. It’s permission of a kind. An intimacy. She’s named you, and the name makes you hers.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking down at your hands. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t made me uncomfortable.” She says it so simply you have to look up again. She’s still watching you, that same thoughtful expression on her face. “It’s just a thing that’s happening. You’re staring. Your penis is hard. Your face is red. These are facts.”

She takes a step closer. You shrink back instinctively, but there’s nowhere to go. The couch is against the wall.

“The question,” she says, her voice dropping to a conversational murmur, “is what we’re going to do about it.”

We. She said we. As if this is a shared problem, a project for the two of you.

Not what I’m going to do about you, but what we’re going to do about it. The word settles in the air between you, intimate and terrifying.

“I… I’ll go to my room,” you stammer. “I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

“That doesn’t solve the problem, sweetie. The problem isn’t that you’re here. The problem is that you’re like this.”

Her gesture is vague, encompassing your whole embarrassed, aroused body.

“If you go to your room, you’ll just lie in bed and think about me. You’ll probably play with yourself. And then you’ll feel guilty, and you’ll avoid me, and it’ll be weird when I come over next time. That doesn’t help either of us.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. That’s exactly what would happen. The accuracy of her prediction is like a key turning in a lock inside you. She sees you. She knows what you are.

“So,” she continues, folding her arms loosely across her chest. The movement pushes her breasts together, and you can’t help but look. She notices you looking. She doesn’t comment. She just notes it, the way a nurse notes a symptom.

“We need to handle this. Like adults. Well, I’m an adult. You’re… you’re having a hard time being one right now, aren’t you?”

It’s not a taunt. It’s a diagnosis. Delivered with a gentle, almost sympathetic tone.

You nod, miserably. You can’t speak.

“That's okay,” she says. “Lots of men have a hard time with this. My boyfriend’s dad is the same way. He’s always looking at me when I’m over there. His wife works nights.” She says this as if sharing a mildly interesting piece of gossip. “I had to have a talk with him, too.”

A talk. The phrase holds so much promise, so much threat. You wonder what that talk involved. Your imagination supplies images that make your cock twitch against your zipper.

Jessica sighs, a soft, put-upon sound. “The thing is, sweetie, you’re not a bad guy. You’re just… needy. And when needy men don’t get what they need, they get clumsy. They stare. They make things awkward. It’s not really your fault. Your penis just gets ahead of your brain.” She tilts her head again. “You need someone to take the wheel for a little bit. Don’t you?”

You nod again. It’s the only response you’re capable of. Yes. God, yes. You’ve needed someone to take the wheel for twenty years.

“Ya, I thought so.” She smiles for the first time. It’s a warm, pretty smile, the kind that would light up a room if it weren’t currently lighting up your shame.

“Your little guy has overwhelmed you. That's why I’ll manage him. And you. So you just do exactly what I tell you. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay.” She leans down and reaches out and pats your knee. The touch is brief, impersonal, but it sends a jolt through you.

“Good. Now what you need is to learn how to behave. And to empty out all this…” She gestures at your crotch. “…this nervous energy. So you can be a good dad and a good man and not a creepy guy staring at the babysitter.”

Every word is a nail hammered into the coffin of your dignity. And every nail feels like a release.

“Now,” she says, her voice dropping back into that calm, instructional tone. “You stared at my body without permission. That’s rude. When someone is rude, there are consequences. You understand that, right? You teach your boys that.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re going to get a spanking. A little one. Just enough to remind you to keep your eyes to yourself. That's how men like you learn.”

She says it the way she might say you’re going to wash the dishes. No drama. No kink. Just a fact. A consequence.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. A spanking. From a nineteen-year-old girl. The absurdity of it is almost as dizzying as the arousal.

“Let's get started,” she says, turning and walking toward the armchair in the corner—the big, plush one. She sits down, primly, smoothing her leggings over her thighs.

“Come here. Pants and underwear down to your ankles.”

Your hands are trembling as you fumble with your belt, your button, your zipper. You push your khakis and boxer briefs down to your ankles. You stand before her, naked from the waist down, your cock standing stiff and flushed against your belly. You’ve never felt more exposed, more utterly seen.

Jessica’s eyes drop to your erection. She studies it for a moment, her head tilted.

“He’s very eager, isn’t he?” she observes. “Even now, when you’re about to be corrected. He doesn’t know any better.”

She looks up at your face, her gaze steady. “But you should, sweetie. He may overwhelm you but you’re the one who let him. That’s why you need training.”

She pats her thigh. “Over my lap. Carefully. I don’t want you poking me with that thing.”

The humiliation is exquisite. You maneuver yourself over her knees, your upper body resting on the cushion of the armchair, your legs dangling.

Your cock is trapped between your belly and her thigh, a hot, insistent pressure. Her leggings are soft against your skin. She smells like fabric softener and girl.

Her hand rests on the small of your back, warm and steady. “This is going to sting a little,” she says conversationally. “But it’s for your own good. Count for me, okay? Count each one. If you lose count, we start over.”

“Yes, Jessica.”

The first spank lands. It’s not as hard as you expected, but it’s sharp, crisp. The sound is loud in the quiet room.

“One,” you say, your voice shaky.

The second. A little harder. “Two.”

She finds a rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow. Each spank lands on a different part of your buttocks, spreading the sting. You’re not in pain, not really.

It’s more like a intense, focused warmth, a bright attention centered on your most shameful place.

And with each smack, your cock throbs against her leg. You’re leaking precum, you can feel it, a wet spot forming on her leggings.

“You’re getting wet on me, sweetie,” she notes, her hand pausing. “Your little guy is leaking. Even while you’re being corrected. He likes this, doesn't he?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

“We’ll have to do something about that later. Keep counting.”

“Three… four… five…”

By ten, your ass is warm and tingling, and you’re so hard it’s almost painful. She stops. Her hand rubs your back in slow circles.

“There. All done. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No.”

“Good. You took your punishment like a good boy.” She helps you ease off her lap. You stand before her again, your erection bobbing, your ass throbbing. You feel dazed, pliant, utterly hers.

“Now,” she says, looking up at you from the chair. Her voice is calm, instructional.

“We have the other problem. The leaking problem. Your little guy is still all worked up. He’s been like this all night, hasn’t he? Practicing in your head. Getting ready.”

She leans back slightly, her gaze dropping to your erection. “All that pent-up energy needs to go somewhere. But we’re not going to make a mess. And we’re not going to let you sneak off and do it alone like a naughty boy. You’re going to do it right here. Where I can see.”

She pats her thigh. “Come stand right in front of me. That’s it. Close enough that I can watch.”

You shuffle forward until you’re standing between her knees, your erection level with her face. The position is unbearably exposed.

“Good. Now, I want you to show me your practice routine. The one you’ve been doing in your head all evening while you pretended to work.”

Her eyes lock on yours. “Put your hand on your little guy. Go on, sweetie. Show me how you do it when you’re alone.”

Your hand moves as if pulled by strings. Your fingers wrap around your shaft. The touch is electric, shameful, thrilling.

“Slowly,” she instructs, her voice a soft murmur. “I want to see your routine. Up and down. That’s it. Just like you do when you’re thinking about me.”

You begin to stroke. The rhythm is familiar, but now it’s a performance. Her eyes don’t leave your hand, studying each movement with detached interest.

“You’ve had a lot of practice, haven’t you?” she observes. “All those nights. All those mornings. Getting your little guy ready for this.”

She tilts her head. She smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips. “You know I don't want to have sex with you, don’t you? Your little guy isn’t designed for sex. It’s just for this. A microphone tuned to me. For training. For compliance.”

She says it without cruelty, a simple statement of fact. “And that’s okay. That’s what it’s good for. Look how happy he is to be training for me.”

Her words coil around your arousal, tightening it. You’re close. You can feel the pressure building, your breaths coming in short pants.

“I can see you’re getting there,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.

“That’s good. But we’re not making a mess on the carpet.” She lifts her hand, palm up, and holds it just below the tip of your cock.

“When you’re ready, you’re going to do it right here. Into my hand. Every drop. That’s where it belongs. Do you understand?”

You nod, frantic, your strokes becoming jerky, desperate.

“Use your words, sweetie.”

“Yes,” you choke out.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll cum in your hand.”

“Good boy.” Her praise is like a trigger. “Now. Let me see. Show me what all that practice was for. Come for me.”

With a broken groan, you obey. The orgasm crashes through you, and you watch, mesmerized and mortified, as your semen pulses into her waiting palm—thick, white spurts that land with soft, wet sounds.

She doesn’t flinch. She holds her hand steady, catching every last drop until you’re spent, shuddering, softening in your own grip.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing. You’re floating, empty, blissfully blank.

Then Jessica holds up her hand. It’s glistening with your come, thick and white in the lamplight.

“Look at the mess you made,” she says, not unkindly. “All over my hand. That’s not very polite, is it?”

You shake your head, wordless.

“No, it’s not. But that’s okay. You’re going to clean it up.” She holds her hand out. “Lick up your cum. Lick it all up. Every drop. You made it, you clean it. That’s the rule.”

The command should revolt you. But in this dazed, post-orgasmic state, it feels inevitable. Right. A perfect, circular justice. You lean forward and lick her palm.

The taste is salty, bitter, familiar and alien at the same time. You lick her palm clean, your tongue swiping over her skin, collecting every trace of yourself.

She watches you, her expression one of mild approval, like a mother watching a child finish their vegetables.

“There’s a good boy,” she murmurs. “My little cum licker. Get it all cleaned up. That's it. All of it into your tummy.”

You keep lapping at her hand until she pulls it away. You pull back. She examines her hand, then wipes it on your shirt. “Good boy,” she says. “See? Everything’s tidy now. No mess. No evidence.”

She stands up, smoothing her sweatshirt. You’re still naked from the waist down, your mind soft and quiet.

“Pull up your pants, sweetie,” she says, her voice back to its normal, cheerful babysitter tone.

You scramble into your boxers and khakis, your fingers clumsy.

By the time you’re dressed, Jessica's gathering her things, slipping her phone into her back pocket. She pauses at the door, turning back to look at you. Her expression is thoughtful, satisfied.

You stand in the living room, your ass still warm, your mouth still holding the memory of the taste. You feel… calm. Empty. Better than you’ve felt in months.

“You did well tonight, sweetie,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “For a first session. You took your spanking, you showed me your routine, you licked up your mess. That’s a good start.”

She opens the door, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

“I think your little guy and I understand each other now. He just needs proper supervision. And you…” She smiles, a small, knowing curve of her lips.

“You need someone to tell you when and how. So from now on, that’s me. When you feel that… pressure building up, you text me. You ask. No more sneaky staring, no more hiding. We’ll schedule your practice. We’ll keep him trained.”

She steps out onto the porch, then glances back over her shoulder. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you Friday. And sweetie?” She waits until your eyes meet hers. “Don’t touch yourself before then. Let it build. It’ll be better for your training.”

Then she’s gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her. You’re left standing in the quiet house, the new rule already taking root in your blood, the promise of Friday a low, sweet hum in your empty body.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — a man, a sitter, and the relief of finally being supervised.

The Visitor Pass

You didn’t understand why Claire was trying to talk you out of it.

“Dad, it’s really not a big deal,” she said over the phone, her voice patient. “Mom visited last month. We had a great time. You can just send me a care package or something.”

“I want to see you,” you said, firm. “I’m paying for that school. I should be able to visit my daughter.”

A pause on the line. The kind of pause Claire had perfected in her teens—a silence that meant she was choosing her words carefully.

“It’s just… the rules are different here.”

“What rules? It’s a college, not a convent.”

“It’s a women’s college,” she corrected, her tone softening into something that sounded almost apologetic. “A private women’s college. They have a… a visitor policy. For men.”

You laughed. A short, dismissive sound. “What, I need a background check? I’ll get fingerprinted. Whatever.”

“It’s not that.” Another pause. Longer this time. “They have a security protocol. For the comfort and safety of the students. All male visitors have to agree to it.”

“Fine. I’ll agree. What is it?”

She told you.

You didn’t believe her at first. Thought it was a joke. A prank. Some weird hazing ritual for parents.

But her voice didn’t waver. It was calm. Matter-of-fact. The same voice she’d used to explain her tuition bill, her course selection, her decision to major in psychology.

“A chastity device,” you repeated, the words feeling absurd in your mouth. “You’re telling me I have to wear a… a cage. On my penis. To visit you.”

“It’s just for the duration of the visit,” she said, as if that made it better. “It’s a condition of entry. They’re very strict about it.”

“That’s insane. That’s—that’s illegal. That’s harassment.”

“It’s in the visitor waiver,” she said gently. “Everyone signs it. It’s standard. They say it… minimizes distractions. Ensures everyone feels safe.”

“Safe from what? From me?”

“From any… unwanted attention. From any possibility of… misunderstanding.” She sighed. “Dad, really. It’s not worth it. Just wait until I come home for break. It’s only a few weeks.”

But you were stubborn. You’d always been stubborn. It was the reason your marriage had ended—you digging in, refusing to bend, until the ground gave way beneath you.

And you were paying thirty thousand dollars a semester. You had a right to see where your money was going.

“I’m coming for the weekend,” you said. “Send me the waiver.”

---

The waiver was real.

It arrived as a PDF, official-looking, with the college’s crest at the top. Visitor Agreement & Security Protocol. Paragraphs of legalese about respecting the community, upholding standards, ensuring a non-disruptive environment.

And then, section 4.1: Male visitors, defined as any individual presenting as or identifying as male, must consent to wear a provided security garment for the duration of their stay on campus. This garment is designed to ensure physical and psychological comfort for all students. Refusal to comply at any point will result in immediate expulsion from campus and permanent revocation of visiting privileges.

A security garment. They didn’t call it a cage. They called it a garment.

You printed it. Signed it. Scanned it and emailed it back.

Claire called an hour later.

“You signed it?”

“I did.”

A long exhale. “Okay. Okay. The visit coordinator will email you an appointment time for fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“They have to measure you,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “To make sure you get the right… size.”

Your face burned. “This is ridiculous.”

“I know,” she said. And she did sound like she knew. Like she was sorry. “But it’s the rule. If you want to come, this is what you have to do.”

---

The fitting was in a small, clinic-like office in the administration building. Soft beige walls. A framed print of a flower. A female administrator in her fifties with a kind smile and efficient hands.

“You're Claire's father,” she said, glancing at her tablet. “She's wonderful. Welcome. We just need to get you measured and then you’ll be all set for your visit.”

She gestured to a changing screen in the corner. “If you could remove everything from the waist down and put on the gown, please. Open in the back.”

You stood behind the screen, your fingers clumsy on your belt. This was insane. You were a forty-six-year-old man. A father. A taxpayer. You were going to stand in a room with a strange woman while she measured your penis for a cage.

But you’d signed the waiver. You’d insisted.

You took off your pants. Your boxers. The air in the room felt cool on your skin. You put on the thin paper gown. It didn’t close properly in the back.

“Ready?” the administrator called.

You stepped out.

She was wearing gloves. Thin, clear latex. She had a measuring tape in one hand, a tablet in the other.

“This won’t take long,” she said, her tone professional, dispassionate. “Just need to get your flaccid length and circumference for proper device selection.”

Flaccid. You weren’t flaccid. You’d been semi-hard since you walked into the room. The humiliation, the clinical setting, the sheer absurdity of it—your cock was reacting, betraying you with a low, stubborn arousal.

She glanced down. A slight, polite smile. “That’s quite all right. It happens. We have a procedure for this.”

She gestured to a chair in the corner. Not an exam table. A comfortable-looking armchair.

“If you could please bring yourself to completion, we can proceed with the fitting. There are tissues and sanitizer provided.”

You stared at her. “You want me to… here?”

“It’s standard protocol,” she said, as if asking you to fill out a form. “The device must be fitted to your non-aroused state. Attempting to fit it while erect can cause discomfort and improper sizing. We find it’s easiest if visitors simply… address the issue themselves. Privacy is respected.”

She turned her back, busying herself with something on the counter. Giving you the illusion of privacy.

Your face was on fire. Your cock, trapped under the paper gown, was fully hard now, throbbing with a mix of shame and desperate excitement.

You sat in the chair. The paper gown gaped open.

You couldn’t believe you were doing this. Jerking off in a college administrator’s office so she could measure your soft penis for a cage.

But you’d come this far. You’d signed the paper. You’d insisted.

You took yourself in hand. Closed your eyes.

It didn’t take long. The images that flashed behind your eyelids were jumbled, senseless—Claire’s face, the administrator’s gloved hands, the word “measurements”—and with a few rough, hurried strokes, you came into the tissue you’d grabbed from the box.

You cleaned up. Tossed the tissue in the bin. Sat back, soft and spent and hollow.

“All set?” the administrator asked, turning around. Her smile was still kind. Non-judgmental.

You nodded, unable to speak.

“Excellent. Let’s proceed.”

She approached with the measuring tape. Her touch was clinical, precise. She measured the length of your soft penis. The circumference. She entered the numbers into her tablet.

“Ah,” she said, a note of confirmation in her voice. “Pink.”

“What?”

“The devices are color-coded by size,” she explained. “For easy identification and inventory. Pink is for our… more modestly endowed visitors. It’s the smallest size we stock.”

She walked to a cabinet, opened it, and took out a small, transparent plastic case. Inside, nestled in foam, was a chastity device. It was pink. A soft, pastel pink. It looked tiny.

“This should be a perfect fit,” she said, bringing it over. “Would you like me to assist with application, or would you prefer to do it yourself following the diagram?”

You looked at the pink plastic. At the tiny ring. At the administrator’s polite, waiting face.

“I’ll do it,” you mumbled.

“Of course. The instructions are in the case. Once it’s secured, bring me the key and I’ll log it for your daughter.”

For your daughter. The words landed like a stone in your gut.

You took the case behind the screen. Your hands were shaking. The instructions were simple, with clear pictures.

You fitted the ring around the base of your scrotum. It was tight. Snug.

You guided your soft, small penis into the tube. It fit perfectly. No extra space. Just your flesh enclosed in smooth, pink plastic.

You clicked the lock shut. A tiny, final snick.

The key was small. Silver. It felt heavy in your palm.

You got dressed. Your pants felt strange over the device. A constant, gentle pressure. A reminder.

You handed the key to the administrator. She placed it in a small envelope, wrote something on it, and sealed it.

“All set,” she said. “Your visit pass is valid for forty-eight hours. Claire has been notified. She’ll meet you at the main gate. Enjoy your time on campus.”

---

Claire was waiting at the gate. She looked older. More poised. College had done that. She smiled when she saw you, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetie.”

You hugged. It felt normal. Except for the thing between your legs. The pink plastic secret.

“How was the… fitting?” she asked as you started walking toward the quad.

“Fine,” you said, too quickly.

She nodded. Didn’t press. “I’ll show you my dorm first. My roommate is out for the afternoon.”

The campus was beautiful. Old brick buildings. Tall trees. Girls everywhere.

Young women, you corrected yourself. They walked in pairs and groups, laughing, carrying books, dressed in leggings and oversized sweaters.

They glanced at you—the older man, the visitor—and then looked away. No one stared. No one pointed. You were just another father in a cage. Nothing special.

Claire’s dorm room was typical. Twin beds. Posters on the walls. A smell of perfume and laundry detergent.

“So this is it,” she said, sitting on her bed. You took the desk chair.

You made small talk. Classes. Her friends. Her mother. The conversation was stilted, dancing around the elephant in the room—or rather, the elephant that wasn’t in the room, because it was locked in pink plastic between your legs.

A knock on the door.

“Come in!” Claire called.

The door opened. Two girls walked in. Claire’s friends, she said. Chloe and Sophia. They were pretty. Smiling. Curious.

“This is my dad,” Claire said.

“Hello,” they chorused. "Nice to finally meet Claire's dad."

You said hello. Tried to smile.

Their eyes didn’t drop to your crotch. They didn’t know.

But then Chloe’s gaze flicked to Claire’s desk. To the small silver key lying next to her laptop. The key the administrator had given her when she picked up your visitor packet.

“Aw!” Chloe said, her eyes widening. “Claire, you got a pink one?”

Claire’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Chloe.”

“No, it’s cute!” Chloe said, grinning. She picked up the key, holding it by the little loop. “A pink key for a pink cage. That’s so adorable.”

Sophia giggled. “Is pink the little nub one? My dad had to get the blue. He was so embarrassed.”

You sat frozen. Your face was burning. Your throat was tight.

They knew. They all knew. The keys were color-coded too. The pink key meant the pink cage. The smallest size. The little nub one.

Sophia leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Susan’s younger brother got the pink one last fall—she said it was like the size of a thimble, a little nub. She said he was mortified the whole weekend because their mom was there too, and they both knew. Like, her mom kept asking, ‘How’s your little guy doing in there?’ and Susan would chime in, ‘Yeah, is it cozy?’ He just turned beet red and couldn’t look at either of them. Can you imagine? Your mom and your sister both knowing you’ve got, like, a pinkie dick?”

Claire took the key from Chloe, her movements calm. “Guys. Not cool.”

“Sorry,” Chloe said, not sounding sorry at all. She looked at you, her gaze dropping pointedly to your groin for a second before returning to your face, her smile turning into something warm and pitying.

“Aw... it’s okay. Really," she said still smiling. "It's not your fault you have a small penis. And anyway it’s actually really sweet that you agreed to this just so you could see Claire. That’s, like, dedicated.”

She held your gaze for a beat too long, her eyes dancing with a shared amusement she and Sophia didn’t need to voice.

You could feel their attention like a physical touch, a spotlight on the pink secret under your pants.

And beneath the plastic, snug against your skin, your cock gave a helpless, little twitch—a tiny pulse of acknowledgment that they were right, that it was small, and that their knowing was somehow, shamefully, exciting.

“Is your little guy nice and snug? Hopefully it isn’t too uncomfortable all tucked away in there,” Sophia said with a tilt of her head. A small smile playing on her lips.

Claire tried to intervene. “Don't worry, Dad. Nobody thinks anything of it.”

But they were thinking of it. They were thinking of your little nub. Locked in pink plastic. They thought it was cute. Adorable.

“We should go,” Sophia said, pulling Chloe toward the door. “Nice to meet you!”

They left, their giggles trailing down the hall.

The room was silent.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said quietly. “They’re just… they’re immature.”

“It’s fine,” you said, the words thick.

“It’s not.” She looked at the key in her hand. Then at you. Her expression was thoughtful, clinical.

“They give a lecture about it, you know. At orientation. All of the women. About the visitor policy.”

She set the key down on the desk, turning it slightly with her finger.

“They explain how it works. The measuring. The psychological effect it has... How most men are… aroused by the situation. So they have to... get their penis soft before they can be fitted properly.”

Her eyes lifted to yours. Calm. Curious. “They said it’s very common. That almost every man has to… play with himself. In the office. Before they can put the cage on.”

She paused. Let the silence stretch.

“Did you have to do that, Dad?”

The question hung in the air. Direct. Unflinching.

You could lie. You could say no, you were fine, you were soft the whole time.

But her gaze was steady. Knowing. She’d seen the pink key. She knew what it meant. She’d heard the lecture.

Your face burned. Your throat tightened.

You nodded. A tiny, shameful dip of your chin.

Claire nodded slowly. As if confirming a hypothesis. “I thought so.” Her voice was soft. Not judgmental. Just… observant.

“It’s okay. Like I said, it’s common. They design the policy around it. They know your penis will… react that way.”

She picked up the key again. Weighed it in her palm.

“It must have been awkward,” she said, almost to herself. “Playing with your... playing with yourself in a stranger’s office. Just so your penis could be small enough for the pink one.”

She looked at you, her head tilted. “Was it… quick? Getting hard, I mean. When she told you what you had to do.”

The question was so intimate, so casually invasive, it stole the air from your lungs.

You remembered the immediate, humiliating swell under the paper gown. The administrator’s polite, averted gaze. Your own rough, hurried strokes.

“Yeah,” you managed, the word a dry scrape. “It was.”

“Mm.” She nodded again, that same clinical acceptance. “The orientation video said the anticipation does that. The shame-response. It wires right into the arousal. They said it’s why the policy works so well.”

She placed the key back on the desk. “The penis confesses what the mind won’t.”

The silence that followed was thick. The key lay between you, a silver period at the end of her sentence.

“It’s okay,” you heard yourself say, your voice hollow with surrender. “I wanted to see you. It's why I signed the agreement.”

She nodded slowly. “I know. I appreciate it.”

---

The rest of the visit passed in a blur. You had dinner in the dining hall. Met a few more of Claire’s friends—each time, their eyes darting to her, to you, a knowing look passing between them. You were the dad with the pink key. A story. A piece of gossip.

You stayed in a guest suite on campus. A small, sterile room. You showered with the device on. It felt strange. Exposed. You slept fitfully, aware of it with every turn.

The next day, you walked around campus more. Went to a lecture with Claire. Had coffee.

All the while, the cage was there. A constant presence. A quiet hum of submission.

You caught yourself thinking about it more than you thought about your daughter. Wondering what the other fathers had felt. Wondering if their daughters had their keys.

On Sunday, Claire walked you to the guest suite for the last time. The campus was quiet. Dark.

At the door, she hugged you. A long, tight hug.

“I’m glad you came,” she said into your shoulder.

“Me too.”

She pulled back. Her expression in the dim campus light was thoughtful, serious. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the silver key, holding it up between you.

“I talked to Mom yesterday,” she said, her voice calm. “After your fitting. I told her you got the pink one.”

Your stomach tightened. Your ex-wife knew. Of course she knew. Claire would have told her.

“We had a long conversation,” Claire continued. “About you. About… this.” She gestured slightly with the key toward your groin.

“Mom said she always thought… well, she said your little guy was more for show than for use. Even when you were together. That it caused more stress than pleasure. For both of you.”

She paused, letting that settle. The confession from your former wife, delivered through your daughter.

“And I was talking to my psych prof about the visitor policy for a paper. Not about you specifically,” she added quickly, though her tone suggested the distinction was minor.

“Just about the theory behind it. And she said something that your reaction made so much sense. She said your... your penis... she said your penis is ornamental. It’s not really designed for penetration, for sex. It’s a… a signaling device. A little button. A microphone that needs to be tuned. She said that for those men—men like you— trying to use it for sex is like trying to hammer a nail with a crayon. It just causes frustration. Failure.”

Her words were delivered with academic clarity. She was diagnosing you.

“She said the kindest thing for them—for men like that—like you—is to be pussy free. To be relieved of the burden to perform. To have that… that pressure taken off. So you can focus on the women in your life. On being attentive. On being good.”

She took a small step closer. The key glinted.

“Mom and I… we both think it makes sense. For you." She took a small step closer. “To be pussy free. To be relieved of that… the whole sexual performance. The anxiety. The pretending. Doesn’t that sound like what you need? To be… discharged. From a job your penis was never suited for. Doesn’t that sound like a relief?”

You stared at her. At your daughter, offering you permanent, sanctioned inadequacy with a gentle smile. Your ex-wife’s assessment echoed in her words. For show than for use. The professor’s clinical judgment. Ornamental.

The cage felt suddenly less like a temporary humiliation and more like a true home. A fitted, pink home.

“Doesn’t it?” she prompted, her voice soft.

The fight drained out of you. The years of performance anxiety, the silent comparisons, the quiet dread of failure—it all rose up and then dissipated, as if she’d opened a valve. Relief, warm and heavy, flooded in to replace it.

You nodded. A slow, deep, definitive nod.

Claire’s smile was radiant. Warm. Proud of you. “Good,” she breathed. She slipped the key back into her pocket, patting it once. “I’ll keep this safe. For you.”

She leaned in and kissed your cheek, a sweet, daughterly kiss that now sealed a very different contract.

“Goodnight, Dad. Drive safe.”

She turned and walked away, her figure dissolving into the shadows between the campus lamps.

You stood there for a long time, the ornamental truth locked snug against your body. Then you got in your car, closed the door, and drove home.

You didn’t know when you’d see the key again.

You didn’t ask.

Some part of you—the part that had gotten hard in the fitting room, the part that had leaked when the girls giggled about the pink key, the part that felt calm and focused for the first time in years—some part of you hoped she’d keep it for a long, long time.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — a man, his daughter, a color-coded key, and the relief of being declared pussy-free.

The Ringtone

You didn’t notice the pattern until it was already wired into your nervous system.

But she did. She noticed everything.

Her name was Lena. You’d been together eight months. She was the kind of woman who remembered your coffee order after hearing it once, who knew when you were tired before you did, who could read the tension in your shoulders from across the room. You loved that about her. You loved how she saw you. How she knew you.

You didn’t know she was jealous.

You didn’t even know there was anything to be jealous of.

Claire from accounting smiled at you in the breakroom. That was all. A smile. A “how’s the project going?” over the microwave. A laugh at your stupid joke about spreadsheets.

You mentioned it to Lena once. Just conversation. “Claire from accounting thought my spreadsheet joke was funny.”

Lena had nodded. Stirred her tea. “That’s nice, sweetie.”

Her voice was calm. Warm. The same voice that told you good morning, that asked about your day, that murmured “good boy” when you came. You heard nothing in it. No edge. No shift.

But she’d filed the name away. Claire. Accounting. Smiled at your joke.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t ask if you liked Claire. She didn’t accuse you of flirting. She simply noted the data point and began designing a solution.

The first time she came to your office, she brought lunch.

“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, setting the bag on your desk. “Thought you might need a break.”

You did. You’d been staring at the same spreadsheet for two hours. Your shoulders were knots. Your eyes burned.

“You’re all tense,” she observed, her hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. Her fingers pressed into the muscle, finding the tight spots with unerring accuracy. “You’ve been sitting like this for hours, haven’t you?”

You nodded. Leaned into her touch.

“Poor thing.” Her thumb circled. “You need to relax.”

Her hand moved to your shoulder. Squeezed. Then lower, down your arm, to your wrist. Her fingers traced the inside of your forearm, light, almost ticklish.

“I can help with that,” she murmured.

You thought she meant a massage. Maybe she’d rub your shoulders. Maybe she’d make you take a walk with her.

“Is there somewhere private?” she asked.

Your office had a door. It locked. You told her that.

“Good.” She smiled. That small, certain smile. “Lock it, sweetie.”

You locked it.

When you turned around, she was sitting on the edge of your desk. Her legs crossed. Her skirt riding up just enough to show a slice of thigh. She’d taken off her jacket. Her blouse was pale blue, unbuttoned at the collar.

“Come here.”

You went.

Her hands found your belt. Not fumbling. Not hesitant. Smooth, practiced motions. Buckle. Button. Zipper.

“Lena,” you whispered. “Someone could—”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to your lips. “I know.”

She pulled your pants down just enough. Your boxers followed. Your cock, already half-hard from her proximity, from her hands on your belt, from the sheer audacity of what was happening, sprang free.

“There he is,” she said, her voice warm. Approving. “Hello, little guy.”

She wrapped her hand around you. Not stroking yet. Just holding. Cradling you in her palm like something precious.

“You’re so hard already,” she observed. “Just from me touching your belt. Just from me telling you to come here.”

You were. You couldn’t deny it. Your cock was betraying you, responding to her directives before your brain could process them.

“I love that about you,” she murmured. “How responsive you are. How easy you are to read.”

Her thumb swept over your tip. Collected the precum already forming there.

“See? Your penis knows what it wants. It’s just waiting for permission.”

She began to stroke. Slow. Deliberate. Her eyes on your face, reading every flinch, every hitch in your breath.

“But we have to be quiet,” she said, as if remembering something. “Someone might hear.”

You tensed. Your office wasn’t soundproof. The walls were thin. You could hear Claire laughing in the hallway last week.

“Don’t worry,” Lena said, her hand never stopping. “I have an idea.”

She reached into her purse with her free hand. Pulled out her phone. Tapped the screen a few times.

Music filled the room. Soft. Gentle. A piano piece, repetitive and calming, the notes falling like water.

“Debussy,” she said. “‘Clair de Lune.’ It’s quiet. It’ll cover the sound.”

She set the phone on the desk beside her. The music played on, a steady, lyrical stream.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Now we can relax.”

Her hand resumed its motion. Faster now. More purposeful.

“We don’t have much time,” she reminded you, her voice still calm, still warm. “Your lunch break is only an hour. And I want you to enjoy this.”

Enjoy it. You were. God, you were. Her hand felt incredible. The music wrapped around you, a cocoon of sound that separated you from the office, from the spreadsheets, from everything except her touch and her eyes on you.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Just let go. Let me take care of you.”

You were close. So close. Your hips bucked into her hand. Your breath came in short gasps.

“Hurry, sweetie,” she whispered. “Come for me. Before someone knocks.”

The words—hurry, come for me—combined with the music, with her hand, with the illicit thrill of doing this in your office, pushed you over the edge.

You came.

Hard. Silently, because she’d told you to be quiet, but your body shook with the force of it. Your cock pulsed in her hand, spilling over her fingers, onto your pants, onto the floor.

She milked you through it, her strokes gentle now, prolonging the sensation until you were empty and trembling.

“Good boy,” she said, her voice soft. Proud.

She reached for the tissues from your desk drawer. Cleaned you up with efficient, maternal motions. Wiped her hands. Tucked you back into your pants, zipped you up, smoothed your shirt.

“Feel better?” she asked.

You nodded. Dazed. Boneless.

“I thought you might.” She kissed your forehead. “You needed that. All that tension. All that stress. It’s not good for you.”

She packed up the lunch—you’d never even opened it—and slung her purse over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said at the door. “Don’t work too hard.”

She left.

The music had stopped. The room was silent. But the notes seemed to echo in your skull, tangled up with the memory of her hand, her voice, your release.

You sat at your desk for ten minutes before you could focus on the spreadsheet again.

She came back the next week.

Same time. Same excuse—she was in the neighborhood.

This time, she didn’t bring lunch.

“You still look tense,” she observed, her hand on your shoulder. “Is work still stressful?”

You nodded. It was. A deadline was looming. Claire had asked if you needed help. You’d said maybe.

“Poor thing,” Lena murmured. “Let me help.”

You locked the door without being told. You sat in your chair. She stood behind you, her hands on your shoulders, massaging. Then lower. Her fingers undoing your belt. Your zipper.

Your cock was already hard when she freed it.

“Eager,” she noted, pleased. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

You had. You’d thought about it every day. The music. Her hand. The quiet, devastating release.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I think about it too. How good you feel in my hand. How pretty you look when you come.”

She reached for her phone. Tapped the screen. The same piano piece filled the room—‘Clair de Lune,’ the notes familiar now, a signal that something was about to happen.

“We have to be quick today,” she said, her hand wrapping around you. “I have a meeting.”

She stroked you. Faster than last time. More urgent.

“Listen to the music,” she whispered, her lips close to your ear. “Just focus on the music and my hand. Nothing else.”

You did. The notes washed over you. Her hand moved in time with them, it seemed—a slow, building rhythm that matched the rise and fall of the melody.

“You’re already close,” she observed. “Faster this time. Your penis remembers.”

It did. At the first familiar phrase of the piece, your cock had twitched. At the second, you’d leaked. Now, as the music swelled toward its midpoint, you were teetering on the edge.

“Come for me, sweetie,” she murmured. “Come with the music.”

You did.

The climax coincided with a particular chord—a bright, resolving note that seemed to trigger the pulses. You spilled into her hand, your cock jerking in time with the piano.

“Perfect,” she breathed, stroking you through the last tremors. “You’re learning.”

She cleaned you up. Fixed your clothes. Kissed your temple.

“I’ll call you later,” she said.

She left. The music stopped.

You sat there, the notes still looping in your head. Your cock, soft and spent, twitched once, as if remembering.

The third time, she didn’t wait for a week.

She showed up on Thursday. No excuse this time. Just a text: Be in your office in five minutes.

You were.

She locked the door. Didn’t bother with small talk. Her hands went straight to your belt.

“Hard already,” she said, her fingers brushing you through your pants. “You knew why I was coming.”

You did. You’d gotten hard the moment you read her text.

She didn’t reach for her phone this time. Instead, she took your phone from your desk. Unlocked it and navigated to your ringtone settings.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Making it easier,” she said, her voice calm. Certain. “The music helps you relax. Helps you focus. I want you to have access to it.”

She downloaded the piece. Set it as your default ringtone.

“There,” she said, satisfied. “Now whenever I call you, you’ll hear it.”

She set the phone down. Took your cock in her hand.

“But let’s test it first.”

She played the ringtone. The familiar piano notes filled the room.

Your cock jumped in her hand.

“See?” she said, pleased. “Your penis knows what that sound means.”

She stroked you. Slowly. Her eyes on your face.

“It means I’m thinking about you. It means I want you to feel good. It means it’s time to let go.”

You were already close. The music was barely thirty seconds in.

“You don’t have to hold back,” she murmured. “You can come as soon as you need to. As soon as the music tells you to.”

You came at the fifty-second mark.

Quicker than last time. Quicker than the time before. A hot, urgent rush that left you gasping.

“Good boy,” she said, cleaning you up. “You’re getting so good at this.”

She kissed you. A real kiss, deep and possessive.

“Now you’re ready,” she said.

You didn’t ask what for.

The call came during a meeting.

You were in the conference room. Claire was there, presenting quarterly figures. You were trying to pay attention, but your mind kept drifting—to Lena, to her hand, to the music.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Not a normal buzz. The first notes of ‘Clair de Lune’ spilled into the room, tinny but unmistakable through the fabric of your pants.

Claire paused. “Someone’s phone.”

Everyone checked theirs. You froze.

The music played on. The familiar melody. The rising notes.

Your cock stirred. Hardened. In your pants, in the middle of the conference room, with Claire looking right at you.

“It’s yours,” Claire said, nodding toward you.

You fumbled for your phone. Saw Lena’s name on the screen. Your thumb hovered over the decline button.

But the music kept playing. And your cock kept responding.

You were fully hard now. Aching. Leaking. The music was a minute in—the part where she usually quickened her strokes.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Claire asked, a faint smile on her lips.

You couldn’t. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only sit there, listening to the ringtone, feeling your cock throb in time with the notes.

The music reached the two-minute mark. The climax of the piece. The chord that always made you—

You came.

Silently. Violently. Into your boxers, into your pants, a hot rush that soaked through the fabric. Your body jerked in your seat. Your face flushed.

The music stopped. The call went to voicemail.

The room was silent.

Claire was staring at you. Everyone was staring at you.

“Are you okay?” Claire asked.

You nodded. Swallowed. “Fine. Just—need a minute.”

You stood. Your pants were visibly wet. A dark patch spreading across the front.

You walked out of the conference room. Down the hall. To the unisex bathroom.

Locked yourself in a stall. Pulled out your phone.

Lena had texted.

Just checking in, sweetie. Miss you.

You stared at the message. At the wet patch on your pants. At the still-hard cock that had just betrayed you in front of your entire team.

Your phone buzzed again. Another call. ‘Clair de Lune’ filled the stall.

Your cock twitched. Leaked again.

You answered.

“Hi, sweetie,” Lena’s voice came through, warm. Calm. “Did you get my call?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Good. I was thinking about you. About how cute you are when you come.”

You leaned against the stall wall. Your cock aching. Your pants ruined.

“I have to go,” you said.

“Of course,” she said. “Work is busy. But remember—whenever you hear that music, it’s me thinking about you. It’s me wanting you to feel good.”

She paused.

“You do feel good, don’t you?”

You did. Even now, humiliated, soaked, hiding in a bathroom stall, your body was humming with pleasure. With the aftershocks of an orgasm you hadn’t controlled.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Good.” She sounded pleased. “That’s all that matters. I’ll see you tonight.”

She hung up.

You stayed in the stall until you were soft. Until the wetness cooled. Until you could pretend you’d spilled coffee on yourself.

When you emerged, Claire was at the sinks, washing her hands.

She looked at you. At your pants. Back at your face.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” you said.

She dried her hands. Took a step closer. Her perfume—something light, floral—filled the space between you.

“You know,” she said, her voice low. “If you ever need to talk… I’m a good listener.”

She smiled. A friendly smile. A warm smile.

You thought of Lena. Of her hand. Of her voice. Of the music that now lived in your pocket, waiting to trigger you.

“Thanks,” you said. “But I’m good.”

Claire nodded. Left.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Your flushed face. Your ruined pants. The man who’d just come in his slacks because his girlfriend’s ringtone played in a meeting.

You didn’t feel jealous. You didn’t feel tempted.

You felt owned.

That night, Lena cooked dinner. Pasta. Garlic bread. A glass of wine.

She didn’t mention the phone call. Didn’t mention your wet pants. Didn’t ask about Claire.

She just served the food. Sat beside you. Her thigh pressed against yours.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Eventful,” you said.

She smiled. That small, certain smile.

“Mine too.” She took a sip of wine. “I thought about you a lot.”

You thought about her too. About the music. About the way your cock responded to it now, without permission, without hesitation.

After dinner, she led you to the bedroom. Undressed you. Laid you on the bed.

She didn’t touch your cock. Just looked at it. Soft. Small. Unassuming.

“He had a big day,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the length of you. “Didn’t he?”

You nodded.

“He’s learning so fast.” Her thumb swept over your tip. “He knows what that music means now. He knows what to do when he hears it.”

You were hardening under her touch. Just her voice, her words, her certainty.

“Claire from accounting,” Lena said, her tone conversational. “She’s pretty.”

You froze.

“Don’t worry,” Lena said, her hand wrapping around you. “I’m not mad. I’m just… observant.”

She began to stroke. Slow. Deliberate.

“She smiles at you. She laughs at your jokes. She offers to help you with your work.”

Her hand tightened slightly. Not painful. Just… possessive.

“But she doesn’t know you,” Lena whispered, her lips close to your ear. “She doesn’t know what you need. She doesn’t know how to make you feel like this.”

You were close. So close.

“She doesn’t know that you’re mine,” Lena breathed. “That you belong to me. That your orgasms belong to me. That your little guy responds to my ringtone because I taught it to.”

You came.

Hard. Helplessly. Into her hand, onto your stomach, a hot rush that left you gasping.

She milked you through it. Whispered “good boy” into your ear.

When you were empty, she cleaned you up. Pulled the covers over you. Curled against your side.

“You don’t have to worry about Claire,” she murmured, her hand resting on your chest. “Or anyone else.”

You turned your head to look at her.

“Why not?”

She smiled. That warm, certain, unembarrassed smile.

“Because every time your phone rings, you’ll remember who you belong to. Every time you hear that music, you’ll come for me. Even if you’re in a meeting. Even if you’re with her. Even if you try to resist.”

Her fingers traced circles on your chest.

“Your penis knows the truth, sweetie. It knows what it wants. It knows what it needs.”

She kissed your shoulder.

“And it needs me.”

You fell asleep with her words in your head. With the memory of the ringtone. With the certainty that she was right.

The next day at work, Claire stopped by your desk.

“Hey,” she said. “About yesterday… in the bathroom. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you said.

She smiled. Leaned against your desk. Her skirt rode up. Her perfume drifted toward you.

“Good.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because I’d really like to get to know you better. Maybe over coffee sometime?”

Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Not a normal buzz. The first notes of ‘Clair de Lune.’

Your cock stirred. Hardened. Your breath hitched.

Claire heard it. Her eyes dropped to your pocket. Back to your face.

“Your phone's ringing,” she said.

You didn’t answer it. Just sat there, listening to the music, feeling your cock respond.

By the time the ringtone reached the fifty-second mark, you were leaking into your boxers.

By the two-minute mark, you were clenching your jaw, fighting the urge to hump the air.

Claire was still talking. Something about a new coffee shop that opened downtown.

You didn’t hear her. All you heard was the music. All you felt was the building pressure, the inevitable orgasm waiting for that resolving chord.

The music stopped. The call went silent. She hung up without waiting for voicemail.

You let out a shaky breath.

“You okay?” Claire asked, her brow furrowed.

“Fine,” you managed.

She studied you for a moment. Then her expression cleared. She smiled again, but it was different this time—softer. Almost pitying.

“You know,” she said, straightening up. “Forget about coffee. It’s okay.”

She patted your shoulder. A friendly pat. A final pat.

“Take care of yourself.”

She walked away.

You sat at your desk, your cock still hard, your boxers damp, the ringtone still echoing in your skull.

You didn’t feel rejected. You didn’t feel sad.

You felt relieved.

You pulled out your phone. Texted Lena.

I love you.

Her reply came instantly.

I know, sweetie. I know.

And you did know. She knew you. She owned you. She’d wired you so completely that even a rival’s perfume couldn’t compete with a few piano notes.

You put your phone away. Opened your spreadsheet.

Your pants were dry by lunchtime.

But the conditioning was permanent.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, a woman, a two-minute ringtone, and the conditioning that made his orgasm hers.

The Office: Part X — The Installation

The following Saturday afternoon, the parlor of the brownstone felt different. It was no longer a seminar for three curious girls. It was a laboratory ready for full‑scale operation.

You stood at your usual place in the center of the room, dressed in the uniform of your condition: the navy microfiber panties, the pink cage, the corset laced snug. But you were not alone.

On the settee, Emily, Maddie, and Nicky sat, their postures straighter, their expressions a blend of nervous excitement and focused intent. And beside them, on three straight‑backed chairs brought in from the dining room, sat Jason, Ben, and Leo.

You recognized them from the girls’ descriptions, now made flesh. Jason, from Nicky’s econ group, wiry and pale, his knees pressed tightly together. Ben from the library, with his thick‑framed glasses, blinking rapidly.

Leo, Maddie’s cousin’s friend, broad‑shouldered but hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. They were all dressed in simple cotton briefs—white, grey, navy—but you knew, as everyone in the room knew, what lay beneath. Their anxiety was a scent in the air, sharp and familiar.

Ms. Hollaway stood before the fireplace, surveying her audience. She wore a simple charcoal‑grey dress, her demeanor one of calm, expansive certainty.

“Good afternoon,” she began, her voice warm and welcoming. “Emily, Maddie, Nicky—you’ve done excellent preparatory work. And Jason, Ben, Leo… welcome. There is no need for nerves. You are here because you share a configuration. A configuration that the world misunderstands, and that causes you considerable distress. Today, that ends.”

She paced slowly, her eyes moving from one boy to the next. “You have been measured. You have been fitted with chastity devices appropriate to your dimensions. You are wearing them now.”

It was not a question. A faint, collective flush crept up three necks. “This is not a humiliation. It is an honest assessment. Your penises are small. They are ornamental. They are charming, responsive indicator lights. But they are not, and will never be, functional tools for penetrating a woman.”

She let the statement hang, factual and unassailable. “This reality has made you anxious. Eager to please. Terrified of discovery. You have attempted to be boyfriends and failed, because you were trying to operate machinery you were not built to operate. You have carried what we call the operator’s burden, and it has exhausted you.”

Jason’s head bowed. Ben stared at his hands. Leo let out a slow, shaky breath. It was the sound of a truth, long suspected, finally spoken aloud without judgment.

“Relief is available,” Ms. Hollaway continued, her tone softening into a promise. “The burden can be permanently discharged. Your bodies have another utility, one perfectly suited to your wiring. A utility that provides profound pleasure, deep satisfaction, and, most importantly, a permanent place in a care structure that asks nothing of you but your receptive being.”

She turned her gaze to you. “My assistant will serve as the demonstration model. What you will witness is not a performance. It is an installation. He is about to become fully operational.”

She gestured, and Emily stood up, carrying a small, polished wooden box. She brought it to Ms. Hollaway, who opened it. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a harness of rich, dark leather, and a silicone dildo of modest, thoughtful proportions—pale pink, smooth, with a gentle curve.

“Emily, if you would,” Ms. Hollaway said.

With practiced hands, Emily helped her step into the harness and secure it. The process was methodical, quiet. The girls watched, absorbing every step. The new boys watched, their eyes wide, their breathing shallow.

Ms. Hollaway fastened the final buckle and then turned to you. “Come here, dear. On the chaise, on your hands and knees.”

You moved to the low, padded chaise longue and assumed the position. The leather was cool against your knees and palms.

“Observe,” Ms. Hollaway said to the room. She took a bottle of lubricant from the box and warmed a generous amount in her hands. “The preparation is important. It is a caring act.” Her slick hands smoothed over your cheeks, then her fingers found your entrance. “This is not his anus. This is his pussy. It is the functional center of his redesigned sexuality. It is made to be opened, filled, and used to deliver his pleasure.”

Her finger slid inside, easily, finding the prostate immediately. A soft groan escaped you. “You see? His body recognizes its purpose. His little penis is already straining in its cage. That is the indicator light confirming the system is ready.”

She withdrew her finger and picked up the dildo, locking it into the harness with a soft click. She applied more lubricant, coating the silicone thoroughly.

“The first penetration is a claiming,” she explained, her voice a low, steady lecture. “It is the moment the configuration is made physically real. There will be a stretch. There may be discomfort. But when done with care and certainty, the discomfort is subsumed by the profound psychological relief of being fit to purpose.”

She positioned herself behind you, one hand resting on the small of your back. “Breathe out, dear.”

You exhaled, and she pressed forward.

The sensation was immense—a slow, inexorable fullness that burned for a moment at the stretch, then gave way to a deep, spreading pressure. She did not stop, did not hesitate. She slid forward until the harness met your skin, until you were fully impaled. A choked sound, half‑pain, half‑overwhelmed relief, left your lips.

“Good,” she murmured, her hand stroking your back. “Very good. The barrier is gone. You are open.” She held still, letting your pussy adjust, letting the room absorb the sight. “Now, watch his spine. Watch his shoulders.”

She began to move, slow, deep, rhythmic strokes. The curve of the toy pressed relentlessly against your prostate with each inward motion. Pleasure, sharp and bright, began to spark deep inside, building with each pass.

“His pleasure is now entirely internal, and entirely controlled by the woman wearing the harness,” Ms. Hollaway narrated, her own breathing even. “He has zero operational responsibility. His only task is to receive. To feel. His orgasm will be milked from him; he will not take it. This is the permanent discharge from the operator’s burden.”

You could no longer hold the position. Your arms gave out, and you collapsed onto your forearms, your face pressed into the leather. The thrusts continued, unwavering, each one driving the pleasure higher. You were babbling, a stream of broken “thank you”s and “yes”s, your cock aching and dribbling uselessly in its cage.

“He is approaching completion,” Ms. Hollaway announced. She reached around your hip, her fingers finding the base of the cage. With a deft motion, she unlocked it and pulled it away. Your freed erection, rock‑hard and leaking, bobbed against your stomach. “Observe the emission. It will be a seepage, not a projection. A surrender.”

She increased her pace slightly, the sound of the harness a soft, rhythmic creak in the silent room. The pressure inside you coiled, tightened, and then broke.

You came without a single stroke to your cock. It was a deep, internal pulsing that seemed to pull the orgasm up from your core. Your penis twitched against your belly, and seed spilled out in a few weak, continuous runnels, pooling on the leather beneath you. It was less an ejaculation than a draining. A milking.

Ms. Hollaway slowed, then stilled, remaining seated deep within you for a long moment before gently withdrawing. The emptiness she left behind felt vast, and significant.

She straightened, unfastened the harness, and handed it and the dildo to Emily. Then she placed a warm hand between your shoulder blades. “The installation is complete. You are now a fully operational resource. Rest.”

You lay there, boneless, swimming in a sea of perfect, spent peace.

Ms. Hollaway turned to the three girls and their three boys. The boys were staring, their faces pale, their expressions a turmoil of fear and awe and desperate want.

“Your resources are ready,” she said to the girls, her voice now purely instructional. “The theory is understood. The demonstration is complete. You will now perform the installation yourselves. Emily, you may begin with Jason. Maddie, with Ben. Nicky, with Leo. Use the harnesses in the box. Be slow. Be certain. Speak to them. Tell them what is happening. Their relief is in your hands.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then Emily stood, took Jason’s hand—he flinched, then clung to it—and led him to the open space on the rug. Maddie and Nicky followed with their charges.

For the next hour, the parlor was a quiet workshop of transformation. Soft instructions layered over hitched breaths. “Breathe out, Jason.” “It’s okay, Ben, just let it happen.” “This is your pussy now, Leo. I’m going to take care of it.”

The sounds were the same: the click of harnesses, the soft slick sounds of lubrication, the sharp intakes of breath giving way to low, shuddering moans. One by one, the boys were opened, claimed, and milked. Their releases were the same quiet seepages, their bodies going limp afterwards in the arms of the girls who now owned them.

Ms. Hollaway moved from pair to pair, a quiet consultant, adjusting an angle, murmuring encouragement. “Well done, Maddie. You’ve found his button.” “Good, Nicky. See how calm he is now? The anxiety is gone.”

When it was over, the three new boys lay on the rug, each with his head in a girl’s lap, each looking dazed and profoundly peaceful. The air smelled of sex and lube and a new, settled calm.

Ms. Hollaway surveyed her laboratory. Six resources. Three managers. A fully realized configuration.

“The seminar is now concluded,” she said, her voice filled with a deep, satisfied warmth. “The laboratory is operational. You have your schedules. You have your rules. You have your shared resources. Go and live in the relief you have built.”

Emily looked up at her, Jason’s head heavy in her lap. “Thank you, Millie.”

“You are welcome, dear.” Ms. Hollaway’s eyes found you, still resting on the chaise. “The office will be open on Monday. Business as usual.”

And it would be. But nothing would ever be the same.

This is the final post in a series about a young man, his exacting employer, and the training he needs to anticipate a woman's every need.

Previously: The Office: Part I | The Office: Part II - Seamstress | The Office: Part III - On the Job Training | The Office: Part IV - Turn Down Service | The Office: Part V - The Date | The Office: Part VI - The Chaperone The Office: Part VII - The Pussy & the Floor | The Office: Part VIII - The Seminar | The Office: Part IX - The Laboratory

The Office: Part IX — The Laboratory

The walk from Ms. Hollaway’s brownstone to Emily’s apartment was six blocks, but it felt like a migration between worlds.

You walked a half‑step behind the three girls, the leather ballet flats Ms. Hollaway had provided for outdoor wear soft against the pavement.

You’d been to Emily’s apartment before, but never like this—not as a training model, not with an audience.

The cool evening air seeped through the silk of your panties, a constant reminder of your exposure. The pink cage was a familiar weight, its small lock clicking faintly against the plastic with each step, a chaperone ensuring your attention remained where it belonged: on them.

Emily led, clutching the small brass key in her coat pocket. Maddie and Nicky flanked her, their voices a low, excited murmur you weren’t meant to overhear, though you caught fragments.

“…so we just… tell him what to do?”

“She said assume, don’t ask. Like, ‘come here,’ not ‘will you come here?’”

“God, my heart’s pounding. This is so weird.”

“Weird good, though. Right?”

Emily’s apartment was a third‑floor walk‑up, cozy and cluttered with the artifacts of an ordinary college girl: textbooks stacked on an IKEA coffee table, a fuzzy pink blanket draped over a sofa, a scented candle burning on the windowsill.

The normalcy of it made your own appearance—the corset, the panties, the cage—feel surreal, like a specimen brought into a living room.

“Okay,” Emily said, shedding her coat and tossing it over a chair. She turned to you, her expression a mix of nervousness and determination. “Stand there, please. In the light.”

You moved to the center of the room, near the sofa, and assumed the posture Ms. Hollaway had drilled into you: feet together, hands clasped lightly behind your back, gaze lowered but not fixed on the floor—a respectful middle distance.

The three girls settled on the sofa, facing you. For a long moment, they just looked. The seminar had been theory; this was the specimen.

“His hands are shaking,” Nicky observed softly.

“He’s excited,” Maddie corrected, her tone more assured. “Look at his chest. His breathing’s shallow. And his… you know.” She gestured vaguely toward your caged groin. “I bet he’s hard in there. That’s what she said—it’s an indicator light.”

Emily nodded, absorbing this. “Right. So his penis is saying yes. Even if he’s nervous.” She took a deep breath. “We should confirm the diagnosis."

She turned to you. Smiled. “Take off your clothes. Show us your indicator light.”

You bent to remove the ballet flats, then took off your shirt, reached behind you to work the laces of the corset. The familiar routine of undressing under instruction was a form of relief.

The corset loosened, and you slipped it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your panties were next and then you were just standing there in your pink plastic cage. The cool air of the apartment raised goosebumps on your skin.

Maddie leaned forward, her eyes fixed on your groin. “See? The cage is straining at the front. He’s definitely hard. The light is on.”

“Good,” Emily said, her voice firming. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’ve used his mouth on our first visit. He’s a virgin but he did quite well. But tonight isn’t about my pleasure alone. It’s about your education. So, first practical lesson. We use what he’s equipped for. His mouth.”

She stood up and came to stand before you. “Kneel.”

You sank to your knees on the rug. The change in height put your face level with her waist.

“Good,” she said, more to herself than to you. She looked back at Maddie and Nicky. “She said his pleasure is derivative. It comes from our satisfaction. So we don’t worry about him. We just… use the tool.”

With a deliberate motion, she unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down her hips, along with her cotton panties. She stepped out of them, leaving them in a small pile on the floor. Then she placed a hand on your head, not roughly, but with a steadying pressure.

“Your mouth is for our convenience,” she said, her voice gaining a thread of certainty. “You may begin.”

You leaned forward and pressed your mouth to her pussy. She was already warm, slightly slick from anticipation. You began to move your tongue in the slow, attentive rhythm she had shown you the first time—broad, flat strokes, focusing on her clitoris, listening for the shifts in her breathing.

A soft sigh escaped her. “Oh… okay. Yeah. That’s… that’s good.”

From the sofa, Maddie and Nicky watched, rapt. After a minute, Maddie stood up. “My turn. Share the resource, right?”

Emily nodded, stepping back, her face flushed. “Switch.”

Maddie took her place, shedding her own jeans and underwear. She was completely shaved, her labia fuller and more pronounced than Emily’s, glistening with arousal.

She guided your head with both hands, setting a slightly faster pace. “There. Just like that.” Her taste was different—muskier, saltier, more immediate. “See, Nicky? He’s not doing it for himself. He’s just… a thing. A very attentive thing.”

Nicky, still on the sofa, hugged a cushion to her chest. “Does it feel… different? Than with a guy who’s, you know, fucking you?”

“Yeah,” Maddie said, her voice tightening with pleasure. “It’s… cleaner. There’s no performance. No worrying if he’s gonna last or if he’s hitting the right spot. He’s just… servicing. It’s like using a really good vibrator that happens to breathe.”

Emily sat back down beside Nicky, pulling the fuzzy blanket over her lap. “That’s what Millie said. He’s a utility. Not a boyfriend.”

Maddie’s breath hitched, and her grip on your hair tightened. A few moments later, she shuddered and pushed your head back gently. “Okay. Enough. That was… efficient.” She stepped away, pulling her jeans back on without bothering with her panties. “Your turn, Nicky.”

Nicky shook her head, her cheeks pink. “I’m… I’m okay just watching for now.”

“Suit yourself.” Maddie flopped back onto the sofa. She looked at you, still kneeling on the rug, your chin glistening. “He’s still hard. Look at the cage—it’s straining at the front.”

Emily leaned forward, peering. “You’re right. So his penis is still saying yes, even though he’s not… getting anything.”

“That’s the point,” Maddie said. “His pleasure is in us using him. He doesn’t need to come to be satisfied.” She paused, then a mischievous smile touched her lips. “Though Millie did say we could milk him if we wanted. For practice.”

The room went quiet. The word “milk” hung in the air, clinical and intimate.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Nicky whispered.

“Why not?” Maddie’s tone was challenging but not unkind. “She said it’s just maintenance. Like… draining the oil on a car. He needs it. And we’re supposed to be learning to manage him and his little penis.”

Emily bit her lip, her eyes on the brass key she’d placed on the coffee table. “She gave us the key. She said to use it thoughtfully. I think… I think we should try. How else do we learn?”

They fell silent again, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. You remained on your knees, the cage a persistent, aching presence. The girls’ uncertainty was palpable, but so was their curiosity—the same curiosity that had brought them to the seminar.

It was Maddie who broke the silence, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register. “You know, this whole thing… it makes you look at other guys differently.”

Emily glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, think about it. Millie said the world is full of anxious, twitchy little men pretending to be something they’re not. Guys who are super eager to please, who get flustered easily, who are always offering to do things for you but never make a real move.” Maddie ticked the traits off on her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

Nicky’s eyes widened. “Oh my god. Like… like Jason in my econ study group.”

“Exactly!” Maddie leaned forward, her earlier nervousness replaced by the thrill of a puzzle falling into place. “Jason is always bringing me coffee, offering to carry my books, laughing too hard at my jokes. He’s cute, but he’s so… jumpy. And he’s never had a girlfriend. I always thought he was just shy.”

Emily nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to you as if you were a reference diagram. “Millie said the anxiety and the eagerness to please are somatic realities. They come from the… the configuration.”

“Right,” Maddie said. “So Jason probably has a small penis. And he’s terrified anyone will find out. So he overcompensates by being super‑helpful, but he can’t actually be a boyfriend because he can’t perform. He needs to be managed, not dated.”

Nicky let out a small, astonished laugh. “Holy shit. That… that actually makes sense. What about Ben? From the library?”

“Ben with the glasses who always stammers when you talk to him?” Emily said. “Yeah. Definitely. He’s built the same way.”

“And my cousin’s friend, Leo,” Maddie added. “He’s, like, twenty‑five and still lives at home. Super sweet, does all the cooking when I visit, but he’s never brought a girl around. My cousin says he’s ‘just a late bloomer.’” She made air quotes. “I bet he’s not a late bloomer. I bet he’s just… small. And no one’s ever taken him in hand.”

The conversation gained momentum, tumbling from one example to another. They weren’t being cruel; they were diagnosing, their voices filled with the dawning excitement of a new lens through which to view the world.

Each anecdote was a piece of evidence: the boy who was great at listening but froze when a girl tried to kiss him; the guy who was always offering backrubs but never made a sexual advance; the friend‑zone fixture who remembered birthdays and brought soup when you were sick but somehow never became a boyfriend.

“It’s not their fault,” Emily said, her voice softening with something like pity. “They’re built wrong for the standard script. They’re trying to follow a manual written for a different model.”

“And they’re failing,” Maddie said. “And making girls unhappy in the process. Because we expect them to be able to fuck, and they can't.” She looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “But if you manage their penis correctly… they can be useful. Happy, even.”

Nicky hugged the cushion tighter. “So… what? We track down all the small‑penised guys we know and start training them?”

“Maybe not all of them,” Emily said. “But… maybe one. As a next step. After we’ve practiced on him.” She nodded toward you.

“Or,” Maddie said, a slow grin spreading across her face, “we train them together. Like a… a study group. Can you imagine? Jason and Ben and Leo, all in panties and cages, learning to be attentive together. They’d probably be relieved. No more pretending.”

The image hung in the room—absurd, yet perversely logical. The girls fell silent, considering it. The scent of the scented candle—vanilla and lavender—mixed with the musk of their arousal and your own humid presence.

Emily’s eyes returned to the key. “Okay. Before we plan a whole curriculum… we have a practical exam tonight.” She picked up the key. “Milking. We should do it. For our education, and for… his maintenance.”

She stood up and came to kneel in front of you on the rug. Maddie joined her, sitting cross‑legged to the side. Nicky remained on the sofa, watching like a clinical observer.

“Millie said it’s prostate stimulation,” Emily murmured, more to herself than to anyone. “We need lube.” She looked at Maddie. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

Maddie fetched a small bottle of clear lubricant. Emily took it, her hands steady now. The nervous girl from the brownstone was gone, replaced by a determined apprentice.

“On your hands and knees,” she instructed.

You obeyed. The change in position presented your ass and cage rear to them.

Emily squeezed a generous amount of lube onto her fingers. “Okay. We’re going to unlock the cage first. To… to access everything properly.”

She fitted the key into the small brass lock. The click was deafening in the quiet room. She carefully removed the pink plastic, setting it aside on the rug. Your erection, freed, sprang up, small and eager.

“See?” Maddie said, her voice clinical. “He’s definitely ready. The cage was just containing the evidence.”

Emily nodded. “Now.” She placed a hand on your hip to steady you, then guided her other hand between your cheeks.

Her touch was cool, probing. “Relax,” she said, her voice low and firm. “This is for you. It’s maintenance. It’ll settle you.”

Nicky, watching from the sofa, let out a small, nervous sound. “You’re really going to… put your finger in his ass?”

“It’s not an ‘ass,’ Nicky,” Maddie corrected, her tone matter-of-fact. “Look at him. It’s his other hole. His functional hole.”

Emily’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Millie said it's like a pussy. So that’s what it is. His pussy. Now hush, I need to concentrate.”

A soft, shared giggle escaped the three of them—a brief, bright sound that dissolved the remaining tension in the room.

You took a shuddering breath and tried to obey. Her finger pressed against your asshole, then slid inside. The sensation was intimate, invasive, but her tone held no cruelty—only focused instruction.

“There,” she said. “Now… we’re looking for the prostate. It’s supposed to be… a small, firm bump. About two inches in.”

She moved her finger slowly, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then her expression cleared. “Oh. There. I can feel it.”

Maddie leaned closer. “It’s like… his clitoris on the inside,” she said, her voice clinical.

Nicky, who got off the sofa and moved to peer from behind Maddie’s shoulder, whispered, “His button.”

Emily nodded, a soft murmur escaping her lips as she began to massage the spot with the pad of her finger. “That’s right. I’m pressing his button.”

She began to massage the spot in slow, steady circles. Almost immediately, a jolt of pleasure shot through you, and a soft moan escaped your lips.

“He likes it,” Maddie observed, grinning.

“Of course he likes it,” Emily said, her confidence growing with each second. “This is how he’s wired. His little penis isn’t the main event.”

She increased the pressure slightly, her rhythm becoming more assured. “Watch his back. See how it arches? He's humping my finger with his pussy. And his… his penis is twitching. Dripping.”

It was true. Pleasure was building in a slow, inexorable wave, centered not in your cock but deep inside, where her finger worked with calm certainty.

The girls’ gossip, their planning, their clinical observation—it all faded into a blur. Your world narrowed to the pressure of her touch, the sound of her breathing, the warm glow of being used exactly as you were designed to be used.

“He’s close,” Emily announced, her voice calm.

“Here,” Maddie said, guiding Nicky’s hand. “Hold his little penis. It’ll squirt when he comes. Catch it so it doesn’t make a mess.”

Nicky’s fingers, cool and tentative, closed around your shaft. Her touch was light, almost reverent, as if holding a small, fragile animal.

“Now,” Emily said, and she curled her finger just so.

The orgasm rolled through you, silent and profound. It wasn’t the explosive release of a traditional climax, but a deep, milking squeeze—a slow, helpless pulsing. Nicky’s hand tightened instinctively as your cock twitched in her grip, and a few weak spurts of seed spilled into her cupped palm.

She held her hand there, staring at the warm, pearly fluid as your body shuddered and went still. “Oh,” she breathed. “It’s… warm.”

Maddie watched Nicky’s expression, then grinned. “Feed it to him.”

Nicky’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You heard me. It’s his own. Feed it to him. It’s part of the management—no waste.”

Nicky hesitated for only a second before bringing her cupped palm up to your mouth. “Here,” she said, her voice a mix of command and curiosity.

You leaned forward and obediently licked the warm, salty fluid from her hand, your tongue cleaning her palm thoroughly.

A giggle burst from Nicky’s lips—a light, surprised sound. “Oh my god. He really is like a little puppy. A very obedient little puppy.”

Emily slowly withdrew her finger, watching the scene with a satisfied nod. “Good. That’s the whole cycle. Maintenance complete, and no mess. And now he’s settled now.”

You lay on the rug, breathing heavily, awash in a deep, post‑coital calm. The ache was gone. The nervous energy was gone. You felt empty, sated, and profoundly at peace.

The girls moved around you, wiping their hands and your small penis with wash cloth, whispering to each other. You heard the click of the cage being locked back into place—the chaperone restored. The pink plastic was cool against your softened flesh.

“It’s almost eleven,” Maddie said, checking her phone.

Emily nodded. She came to stand over you. “Up you go. Time to get dressed in your outdoor things.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, your limbs loose and compliant. You pulled on your panties, fastened the corset, your pants, shirt, the ballet flats, your movements slow and precise.

“You did well tonight,” Emily said, her voice assuming a new authority. It wasn’t Ms. Hollaway’s deep certainty, but it was a credible echo. “We learned a lot. And you… you served your purpose.”

She handed you the brass key. “Take this back to Millie. Tell her… tell her the lesson was successful. We’ll be in touch about next steps.”

You took the key, your fingers closing around the warm metal.

“And one more thing,” Maddie added, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of their new project. “Tell her we’re thinking of expanding the laboratory. We might have some… new subjects in mind.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Go on,” Emily said, gesturing to the door. “Don’t be late.”

You left the apartment, the door closing softly behind you. The hallway was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city.

As you walked down the stairs, the cage a familiar presence, the girls’ voices seemed to follow you—not as a memory, but as a new layer of your reality.

They weren’t just girls anymore. They were becoming managers. And you were their first, but not their last, shared resource.

The walk back to the brownstone was cold, but inside, you were warm.

This is the ninth in a series about a young man, his exacting employer, and the training he needs to anticipate a woman's every need.

Previously: The Office: Part I | The Office: Part II - Seamstress | The Office: Part III - On the Job Training | The Office: Part IV - Turn Down Service | The Office: Part V - The Date | The Office: Part VI - The Chaperone The Office: Part VII - The Pussy & the Floor | The Office: Part VIII - The Seminar