Untitled

The Inheritance

The book was in a cedar chest at the foot of the bed, under a stack of hand-embroidered linens that smelled of lavender and time.

The cedar chest belonged to your wife's late grandmother Ruby along with the cottage you were staying in. Everything was left to Georgia when the old woman finally passed at ninety-four.

You’d spent the first day airing out rooms that smelled of camphor and dried roses, unpacking boxes of china no one would ever use. The cedar chest at the foot of the carved oak bed was the last thing to be opened.

Georgia lifted the book from its nest of yellowed linens. Her fingers brushed the faded cloth cover.

“Look at this,” she said, her voice soft with discovery. She settled onto the old quilt beside you, the mattress shifting under your weight. “It was Grandma Ruby’s. Maybe her mother’s.”

The title was stamped in flaking gilt: A Married Woman’s Guide to Keeping Your Husband Happy. Beneath it: Practical Advice for a Harmonious Home, 1927.

You chuckled. “A real period piece.”

“Mmm.” Georgia opened it carefully. The pages were thick, creamy, the typeface elegant and severe. She read aloud, her voice taking on a mock-serious tone.

“Chapter One: The Nature of the Male Temperament. A man’s happiness is the cornerstone of a successful marriage. His pride, however, is a fragile thing. It is the wife’s duty to nurture the former while gently… managing the latter.”

She looked up, her eyes sparkling. “Managing his pride. I like that.” She snuggled closer, her warmth seeping through your shirt. “Shall we see what other wisdom Ruby left us?”

She turned a few more pages, her finger scanning the dense text. “Here’s a good one,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur.

“On Intimate Terminology. The physician may refer to a woman’s genitalia as the vagina. In polite society, one might say her privates. But within the sanctity of the marital bed, such clinical or coy language creates distance. A wife should encourage her husband to use the plain, honest word: her pussy. This linguistic honesty fosters intimacy and dispels the shame that clings to more formal terms. When he says ‘I want to be inside your pussy,’ he is speaking a truth, not a vulgarity.”

Georgia looked up. Your face felt warm. You were already half-hard, the old-fashioned prose somehow making the word pussy sound both forbidden and holy.

She saw. Of course she saw. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. She closed the book with a soft thump and set it aside. Then she shifted, turning her body fully toward you, one hand coming to rest on your thigh.

“So,” she said, her voice low and playful, but with an undercurrent of something new, unsettling. “My husband. Would you like to stick your penis in my pussy?”

The directness, the echo of the book’s instruction, sent a jolt straight to your groin. You were fully erect now, straining against your jeans. You couldn’t speak, just nodded, a dumb, eager bob of your head.

“Good,” she whispered. She didn’t move to undress you. She just kept her hand on your thigh, her eyes holding yours. “Then let’s. Let’s do what the book says. Let’s be… honest.”

That first week, the book was a joke. A relic. Georgia would read passages at breakfast, her tone dripping with irony.

“A wise wife understands that her husband’s sexual confidence is often a performance. Beneath the bravado lies a tender anxiety. Your role is not to challenge the performance, but to relieve the anxiety beneath it.”

“Relieve the anxiety,” you’d say, rolling your eyes. “How very 1927.”

Georgia would just smile, a slow, thoughtful curve of her lips, and turn the page.

The shift was subtle. The jokes faded, replaced by a curious, attentive silence when she read. She began to mark pages with slips of paper, her neat handwriting in the margins: Note. Or Interesting.

One evening, a week after that first night, you tried to initiate again. The memory of her direct question, the raw honesty of it, had replayed in your head for days.

But since then, she’d been… distracted. By the unpacking, by the book. She’d read passages, marked pages, but hadn’t touched you like that again.

The cottage no longer felt strange, but the space between you in the old bed did. Your hand found her hip, your mouth brushed her ear.

She went still. Then she placed a gentle hand over yours. “Not tonight, sweetie.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t pull away. She just looked at you, her gaze soft and searching.

“You’re trying so hard. I can feel the tension in your hand.” She brought your hand to her lips, kissed your knuckles. “The book says a wife should recognize when her husband is forcing his courage. It creates resentment. In both of you.”

“The book,” you said, a flat note in your voice.

“Yes, the book.” She didn’t sound defensive. She sounded… grateful. “It’s been so helpful. It helped me understand my man better.”

She shifted, turning to face you fully. Her fingers traced the line of your jaw.

“It says that having intercourse is an act of bravery for a man. Because he spends so many years… humping his hand. So when he’s finally faced with a real pussy, he gets a little scared.”

You started to protest. Bravery? Scared?

She placed a soft finger over your lips. “Shh. It’s alright. I’ve noticed it. How sometimes, when I show you my pussy, you freeze up a little. Like you aren’t quite sure what to do with it.”

Her thumb stroked your cheek. “It’s okay. It’s normal. For a man like you, after so many years with just your hand… pussy can be intimidating.”

The words landed, heavy and hot, in your gut. Your cock, which had begun to soften, gave a reluctant twitch.

“The book suggests,” she continued, her voice dropping to a warm, confidential murmur, “that instead of forcing my husband to be brave, I should encourage him to play with himself. To let him show me how good he is at the thing he knows best.”

Her hand drifted from your face, down your chest, coming to rest just above your belt. “So. Would you like that, sweetie?”

You couldn’t speak. Your breath was caught somewhere high in your chest.

“Would you like to show me how good you are at humping your hand?”

You stared at her, the question hanging in the quiet room. Her hand was a warm, still weight on your stomach. Your cock was fully hard now, a thick, aching line against your zipper, betrayed by your own body.

“It’s okay,” she coaxed, her voice a soft lullaby. “There’s no one to be brave for. Just me. And I already know how good you are at it.” Her fingers gave a gentle, encouraging press. “Go on. Show me.”

A flush of heat climbed your neck. It was shame. It was something else, darker and more compelling.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, you undid your belt, unbuttoned your jeans. You pushed them and your underwear down your hips just enough to free yourself. The cool air hit your heated skin. You wrapped your hand around your shaft.

“That’s it,” she breathed. She settled back against the headboard, watching with rapt, approving attention. “Just like that. You don’t have to think. Just do what feels natural.”

You began to stroke. It was awkward at first, under her gaze. But her eyes never left you. They were soft, fascinated.

“You see?” she murmured. “You’re a natural. Look at how your hand knows just what to do. The rhythm. The pressure.” She leaned in slightly, as if studying a fascinating specimen. “All those years of practice. It shows.”

Her words, her calm observation, stoked the fire in your belly. Your strokes grew faster, more sure. The familiar friction, now amplified by her voyeuristic praise, coiled the tension tighter.

“You’re so good at this,” she said, a note of genuine pride in her voice. “So much better than when you’re all anxious and trying to… perform. This is you. This is what you’re made for.”

Her hand reached out and brushed a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. The maternal tenderness of the gesture, juxtaposed with the lewd reality of your pumping fist, pushed you to the edge.

“That’s my good boy,” she whispered. “Let me see. Let me see you finish.”

You came with a choked, shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the mattress. You spurted over your fist and stomach, the orgasm wracking you, intense and strangely hollow at the same time.

“Perfect,” she said, her smile warm and satisfied. She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Just perfect.” She handed you the box of tissues from the nightstand. “Clean yourself up, sweetie.”

You took them numbly, wiping the sticky evidence from your skin with clumsy hands. By the time you were done, she had already turned onto her side, her back to you, pulling the quilt up to her shoulder.

“Goodnight,” she murmured, her voice already thick with sleep.

You lay there in the dark, the smell of sex and lavender in the air, your spent cock already softening against your thigh. The silence of the old house pressed in. You had shown her. And she had been proud.

Making her proud was more addictive, and more corrosive, than any orgasm.

In the days that followed, you found yourself chasing it—not the release, but the warm glow of her approval.

The book was no longer a joke shared over breakfast. It was the source of her newfound understanding, the key that had unlocked this version of you that pleased her so much.

She began to consult it with the quiet focus of a scholar. It lived on the nightstand, then migrated to the kitchen table, always open to a new passage.

Her readings were no longer ironic performances. They were lessons, delivered in that same soft, certain murmur she’d used while watching your hand move.

The book became a third presence in the house, its antique wisdom the quiet authority behind her every glance and suggestion.

Soon, she began to speak in its language.

“The book says a man’s ‘little soldier’ often stands at attention not from desire, but from fear of failing to report for duty.”

She said this one morning as you emerged from the shower, tenting your towel. She was sipping tea, the book open beside her. “Little soldier,” she repeated, tasting the words. “It’s kind of perfect, isn’t it? So eager. So… small.”

Something twitched in your gut. Or lower.

“It’s not small,” you said, the automatic defense weak.

“I didn’t say it was,” she replied, her eyes calm. “The book is talking about its role. Its posture. Always standing up, trying to look brave.”

She stood, came to you, and adjusted the towel with a wifely tidiness. “The point is, it’s trying to do a job it wasn’t designed for. It’s a soldier, not a… general. It takes orders. It doesn’t give them.”

She kissed your chest, just over your heart. “Now, what would you like for breakfast?”

The lessons became practical. “A husband’s release is a necessary maintenance, like bleeding a radiator,” she read one evening. “It should be handled efficiently, with kindness, and without the unnecessary drama of mutual engagement. His satisfaction is in the relief, not in the conquest.”

One evening, she saw you fidgeting on the couch. “You’re wound up, sweetie.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” She put her own book down. “It’s my job as your wife to see to your needs.” She patted the cushion beside her. “Come here. The book has a suggestion for nights like this.”

You moved to her. She unbuttoned your jeans, pushed them down to your thighs, then reached for your cock. Her hand was cool, dry. She didn’t stroke. She simply made a loose fist around you and held it there.

“See?” she whispered. “No performance. No anxiety. Just… maintenance.” She was watching your face, reading you.

“The book says a husband’s ‘little soldier’ needs to feel he is working for his release. That if his wife simply holds him and encourages him to hump, he will finish faster and more completely, having expended his… marital energy.” A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “Shall we try it? Let your little soldier do his drills.”

You hesitated for a second, then began to move your hips, fucking the warm tunnel of her motionless hand. It was absurd. It was wildly arousing.

“That’s it,” she cooed. “Just like that. Hump my hand. Show me how well you can drill.” Her other hand came up to cradle your cheek. “You’re so good at this. So much better than all that fumbling and worrying. This is what you’re for.”

Her words, her stillness, her absolute control, sent a humiliating thrill up your spine that wound tighter and tighter, a spring compressing past its limit. You pistoned your hips, grunting, chasing that feeling of her pride, that devastating approval.

“Good boy,” she breathed. “Now, finish for me. Let your little soldier shoot his load.”

You erupted with a choked cry, pulsing into her clenched fist. It was a raw, frantic, almost angry orgasm.

“Perfect,” she said softly, as you shuddered against her. She reached for a tissue, cleaned you with practical strokes, then tucked you away. “All better. See how much faster that was? The book is always right.” She kissed your forehead. “Now you can relax.”

And you could. A profound, guilty relief washed over you. It became the new routine. She’d have your little soldier muster for duty and let him chase her hand until he shot his load.

By the time she arrived at the book’s final chapters, the premise shed all pretense. She pored over them with a quiet fervor, her underlining and margin notes growing dense, as if she were uncovering the core mechanism of your marriage at last.

Georgia’s readings grew more intense, her voice dropping to a hypnotic murmur.

“The ultimate act of wifely love is to free your husband from the burden of penetration. For many men, the apparatus—his ‘little soldier’—is not suited to the front lines. The constant anxiety of misfit is a poison to his spirit. The remedy is a compassionate retirement. A wise wife helps her husband muster his little soldier out of active service and redesign the marital act around his true, enduring strengths: his grateful mouth, his attentive hands, and, most importantly, his devoted heart."

“This redesign begins with permission. Teach him to ask, ‘May I hump my hand for you?’ His gratification must become a requested gift, not a taken right. When this habit is firm, you may hold one final parade. Stand him at attention, take his little soldier in hand, and guide him to confess his deepest relief—the desire to be permanently pussy-free. His orgasm during this confession will be the seal of his sincerity and his little soldier’s honorable discharge.”

She read this to you in bed, the book propped on her knees. The room was dark, just the one lamp on. You were hard again, had been since she started reading. She knew. She always knew.

She closed the book and set it aside. Turned to you. Her face was all soft shadows and certainty.

“It’s all right here, sweetie,” she said, her hand finding you through the sheets. “Everything we’ve been discovering. It’s not a new idea. It’s… timeless wisdom.”

You swallowed. “It’s a weird old book, Georgia.”

“Is it?” Her hand slipped under the sheet, wrapped around you. She wasn’t stroking. Just holding. Cradling. “Has anything it said been wrong? About your anxiety? About the pressure?”

Her thumb rubbed the head, smearing your precum around. “About how much easier this is? How much better you feel when you’re not trying to… perform?”

You were leaking into her hand. Your cock was screaming yes.

“Would you like that, sweetie? If we held a final parade for your little soldier?” she whispered, her mouth close to your ear.

“You just have to ask me for it. You have to want to be pussy-free. For your own happiness.” Her hand began to move, a slow, devastating pump. “I think you want that. I think your little soldier has been begging for it for weeks.”

You moaned. Your hips bucked.

“I’ve seen it,” she continued, her voice a warm, relentless tide. “How hard you get when I read those passages. How quick you come when I just use my hand. You’re not a penetrating man, sweetie. You’re a… maintenance man. A service man. My good, sweet boy who needs to be emptied so he can think straight.”

It was humiliation. It was truth. It was the most aroused you’d ever been.

“The book says I should help you say it.” Her strokes tightened, accelerated. “So you can feel the relief. So we can both be happy. Just like Ruby and her husband were happy. Just like generations of women in this house have kept their men happy.”

You were on the edge. Teetering. The world had narrowed to her hand, her voice, the pounding of your heart.

“Say it, sweetie,” she coaxed, her breath hot on your neck. “Tell me you want to retire your little soldier from active duty. Say ‘I want you to make me pussy-free.’”

It wasn’t a demand. It was an invitation to the most profound, humiliating relief you could imagine—a cocktail of shame, arousal, and the desperate need to be absolved of the very thing you were about to confess.

“I…” The word was a gasp.

“Yes.”

“I want…” You were so close.

“Tell me.”

“I want you to make me pussy-free.” The words tore out of you, a ragged confession.

“For who, sweetie?” she prompted, her hand a blur. “Say the whole thing.”

“I want to be pussy-free… for you.”

You came. Violently. A raw, choking cry as you pulsed into her fist, your back arching off the bed, your vision whiting out. It was the hardest, most complete orgasm of your life, a seismic release that felt like the shedding of a skin you’d worn for decades.

“Good boy,” she murmured, milking you through the last spasms. “My good, pussy-free boy.”

You collapsed, boneless, gasping. She cleaned you with a damp cloth from the nightstand, her touches gentle, maternal. She rearranged the sheets, then pulled you to her, your head on her chest. You could hear her heart, steady and slow.

“There,” she whispered, kissing your hair. “No more anxiety. No more pressure. Just you and me, and this house, and the truth.” Her hand stroked your back. “Ruby knew what she was talking about, didn’t she?”

You couldn’t speak. You nodded against her.

“It’s going to be so much better now,” she said, her voice already drifting toward sleep. “You’ll see. This is how we keep you happy.”

And as you lay there in the dark of the inherited cottage, the scent of lavender and old paper in the air, you knew she was right. You had asked for it.

You had confessed. And in the devastating, perfect relief that followed, you understood: this was the inheritance. Not the house. Not the linens.

The blueprint. For your happiness.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a husband, his observant wife, a 1927 guide to happiness, and the blueprint for his pussy-free future.

The Cartoon Catchphrase

You agreed to help your best friend Veronica mind her nephew for a week because you owed her a favor.

Also, you were between jobs. Also, you were maybe a little in love with her, but you’d never say that. Not out loud.

The nephew, Leo, was mostly a blur of energy and plastic toys.

On the first afternoon, while he napped, you were tidying the living room and saw a DVD case on the shelf. Scrawny Ronnie's Rocketship Adventure. Your heart did a stupid little skip.

You hadn’t thought about that show in twenty years. It was your obsession when you were six.

The theme song, the cheesy catchphrases, the way Ronnie would always say “Time to jet!” before the credits rolled. You’d worn out the VHS tape.

That evening, after Leo was in bed, Veronica poured two glasses of wine.

“God, I’m wiped. They are tiny terrorists.” She flopped onto the sofa beside you, close enough that her thigh pressed against yours. “What do you want to watch? Something dumb.”

You gestured to the DVD. “I found Leo’s copy of Scrawny Ronnie's Rocketship Adventure. I used to love this.”

Veronica laughed, a warm, rich sound. “Seriously? That’s adorable.”

She took the disc from you, her fingers brushing yours. “Let’s watch it. For nostalgia.”

She put it in. The familiar, tinny theme song filled the room. You felt a flush of embarrassment, but also a weird, warm comfort.

Veronica curled up next to you, pulling a blanket over both of you. She smelled like lavender and baby shampoo.

You were ten minutes in, laughing at a joke you’d forgotten, when her hand settled on your knee. Just resting there. Friendly.

Then her fingers began to trace small circles on your inner thigh.

You froze. The cartoon played on—Scrawny Ronnie was explaining a plan to the Astro-Pals.

“Relax,” Veronica murmured, her voice soft, amused. “You’re so tense. It’s just a cartoon.”

Her warmth seeped into your side. The lavender-and-baby-shampoo scent of her hair filled your space.

Your cock began to respond. Blood pooled, a slow, insistent heat gathering in your groin. You felt yourself thickening, pressing against the soft fabric of your sweatpants.

Veronica’s eyes drifted down. A soft, knowing giggle escaped her. “Oh,” she breathed, her gaze fixed on the obvious tent you were pitching. “Someone’s excited. Is it the cartoon, or is it me?”

Her hand slid higher. Your breath hitched.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Just watch. I’m just… playing.”

Her fingers found the shape of you through the soft fabric. You cock throbbed, aroused by her proximity, her scent, the illicit thrill of her hand on you while a cartoon played.

She didn’t look at you. Her eyes were on the screen. Her hand began to rub. A slow, steady, knowing pressure. Up. Down. A little twist at the top.

“You used to watch this and get all excited, didn’t you?” she mused, her voice low. “Little you, on the floor, in your pajamas. All that energy. All that… anticipation.”

You couldn’t speak. Your hips pushed forward into her hand, a helpless, involuntary thrust.

“That’s it,” Veronica murmured, her voice a warm hum of approval. “Good boy. Just let it happen.”

On screen, Ronnie was cornered by the villain. The music swelled. Ronnie grinned, pushed a button on his wrist, and said his signature line: “Time to jet!”

As he said it, Veronica’s hand tightened. She sped up. Just for three strokes. A firm, decisive rhythm.

Your cock surrendered.

A sharp, choked gasp escaped you as you came, hot and sudden, into your underwear. The orgasm was a shock—a quick, wrenching release that left you trembling. Your cum soaked through the fabric, coating her fingers.

The cartoon credits rolled.

Veronica’s hand stilled. She pulled it back, examined her glistening fingers in the dim light of the TV. Then she smiled. That warm, unembarrassed, best-friend smile.

“Oops,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Guess you really liked that part.”

You sat there, panting, humiliated, incredibly turned on. Your pants were a wet, sticky mess.

“Go clean up,” she said, patting your leg. “I’ll pause it.”

You stumbled to the bathroom. Changed. Washed up. When you returned, she’d fast-forwarded to the next episode.

“Ready for more?” she asked, as if nothing had happened.

You nodded. You sat. She curled up next to you again.

The next night, after Leo was asleep, you were on your phone, trying not to think about the previous evening.

Trying not to remember the feel of her hand, the sound of that catchphrase, the hot rush of shame and pleasure.

Veronica came into the living room. She saw you. Smiled.

“Want to watch your cartoon again?” she asked, her voice gentle.

You felt your face heat. “I… I don’t know.”

“Come on,” she said, sitting beside you. Her knee touched yours. “It’s cute. And you seemed to enjoy it.”

There was a knowing glint in her eye. Not cruel. Amused. Possessive.

She put the disc in. Same episode. She sat closer this time. Her hand went to your knee immediately.

“Just relax, sweetie,” she murmured, her voice a soft, soothing balm. “Don’t be nervous. It’s just us. Just a silly show. We’re still best friends, okay? I’m just… playing. That’s all this is.”

Her fingers found your cock through your pants. You were hard in seconds.

“See?” she whispered. “Your little guy remembers.”

She stroked you. Slowly. Her eyes on the screen. She was waiting.

You weren't sure for what, but your cock did. Her hand had stilled, holding you in a gentle, patient grip.

The show played on, but your entire world had narrowed to the slow, rhythmic pressure of her palm and the frantic thump of your own heart.

You were balanced on a knife’s edge, breath held, waiting for the push that would send you over.

And then there was Ronnie again. Trapped in the asteroid cave. Grinning that stupid, fearless grin. His hand went to his wrist. The music swelled—a rising, synthetic fanfare you knew by heart.

Your heart hammered against your ribs. Your cock throbbed, a desperate, pulsing beat, in the warm cup of her hand.

“Time to jet!”

As the words left the speaker, her hand clenched and sped up—exactly as before.

You came. Again. Quicker this time. A helpless, pulsing spurt into your pants. You whimpered, hips jerking.

She smiled. “So fast,” she breathed, her voice full of warm approval. “You barely made it to the good part.”

She wiped her hand on your shirt, made you clean yourself up. Then she put on another episode.

It became the ritual.

Every night, after Leo was asleep, she’d appear in the doorway and ask, “Cartoon time?” And you’d nod, your cock already stirring, a Pavlovian twitch in your sweatpants.

She’d curl beside you, her hand finding its place. Some nights she’d stroke you slowly, a lazy, teasing rhythm that kept you hovering. Other nights she’d just hold you, still and firm, a silent promise until the moment arrived.

But the pattern was the same: the rising music, Ronnie trapped, the wrist, the grin. The swell. The line.

And every night, you’d break a little sooner.

“Time to jet!”

A gasp. A squirt. A helpless shudder into her hand.

Veronica would giggle, a light, delighted sound. “You jet almost as fast as Ronnie now,” she’d murmur, wiping her fingers on your shirt.

Or, “Look at you, shooting before he even pushes the button. So eager.” Her voice was always warm, always admiring, as if your premature spurts were the cutest party trick she’d ever witnessed.

Your times got faster and faster. You’d come at the phrase without her speeding up. You’d come a second before it, your cock anticipating the cue like a trained reflex.

It began to leak into daylight hours. Once, while you were loading the dishwasher, she walked past, humming the show's theme song under her breath.

Your cock gave a twitch in your jeans. She paused, glanced at the front of your pants, and smiled. "Someone's eager for cartoon time," she murmured, not breaking stride.

It was a throwaway line, but it sent a hot flush of shame—and excitement—straight to your groin. She was keeping score, even when the TV was off.

Then, one night, she didn’t touch you at all. She sat beside you, cuddled close, her thigh pressed to yours. One hand rested on your knee, her thumb making idle circles. The other was in her lap.

Your cock was already a hard, eager line in your sweatpants, tenting the fabric. It twitched, a helpless pulse.

Veronica glanced down and giggled. “Oh, look at him,” she cooed, her voice dripping with affection. “He’s so excited. He knows what’s coming, doesn’t he?”

She leaned a little closer, her breath warm against your ear, and addressed the bulge directly. “You can’t wait to jet, can you, little guy? You’re such a good boy. So ready for me.”

You stared at the screen, your face burning, your entire being focused on the aching throb between your legs.

And then there was Ronnie. Trapped in the comet’s tail. Grinning. His hand went to his wrist. The music swelled—that same synthetic fanfare, a siren song for your nerves.

“Time to jet!” Ronnie cried.

A ragged, choked sound escaped you as your cock convulsed. A hot, sudden rush flooded your boxers, soaking through the sweatpants.

You jerked in your seat, hips stuttering, as you came untouched into the fabric.

Veronica watched, her hand squeezing your knee. “Perfect,” she breathed, her smile wide and satisfied. “Just perfect.”

She cleaned you up that night with a warm washcloth, maternal and gentle. “My good boy,” she whispered, tucking you in before she left.

After that, the phrase began to follow you.

It slipped into her ordinary speech with a casual, offhand ease. Making breakfast: “Pass the syrup, time to jet.” You’d feel a jolt in your groin, a sudden, hot awareness.

On a phone call while you were in the room: “Yeah, gotta go, time to jet!” You’d have to sit down quickly, your face flushing with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

Each time, she’d glance at you afterward. Not a long look. Just a flick of her eyes, a tiny, knowing smile playing on her lips.

She never commented on your reaction. She didn’t have to. Your body was the commentary—a twitch, a hitch in your breath, the inevitable, shameful hardening in your pants.

It was a private joke between the two of you, and only she knew the full punchline.

One afternoon, you were at the grocery store with her and Leo. You were pushing the cart. Veronica was comparing cereal prices, holding two boxes. Leo tugged on her sleeve, whining for candy.

"You have to be patient, Leo," she said, her voice carrying. "We can't just jet out of here." She stressed the word, just slightly. Your breath caught.

She glanced at you, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Then she looked back at the boxes. "Okay, okay," she sighed, as if giving in to Leo. "Let's get this done. Time to jet."

It wasn't the cartoon voice. It was her voice. Casual. Conversational. A mom settling a tedious errand.

Your body didn't consult you.

Your cock jumped against your zipper. A hot, urgent pressure gathered in your balls, swift and undeniable.

You stumbled, grabbing the cart handle as your knees went weak. In the middle of the cereal aisle, surrounded by families debating oat bran, you came.

Silently. Violently. A hot rush flooded your boxers, soaking through your jeans. A dark patch exploded instantly on the denim.

You shuddered, your knuckles white on the cart, riding out the pulses as your face burned.

Veronica placed the chosen cereal in the cart. She glanced at you. Saw your strained face. Saw the unmistakable stain darkening your crotch.

Her smile was a small, private, deeply satisfied thing. No one else would notice.

She walked over, put a cool hand on your warm forearm. "You okay, sweetie?" she asked, her voice all innocent concern. "You look a little flushed. Maybe you're coming down with something."

You nodded, swallowing hard, unable to speak.

"Let's get you home," she murmured, squeezing your arm. "You need to lie down."

That night, in your borrowed room, she came in without knocking. You were lying on the bed, the humiliating, thrilling memory of the cereal aisle playing on a loop in your head, your cock still humming with the aftershocks of ownership.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Looked at you for a long moment, her expression soft.

"You know," she said, her voice a low, warm murmur. "I never have to worry about you, do I?"

You looked at her, unsure.

"Other women… they worry if their man is looking at someone else. If he's thinking about someone else."

She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your forehead. Her touch was gentle.

"But I don't have to worry. Because your cock tells me everything. It tells me when you're happy. When you're nervous. When you're… mine."

She let her hand rest on your chest, over your heart.

"Two words," she whispered. "Anywhere. Anytime. And you're mine again. It's the most honest thing I've ever seen."

She leaned down and kissed your forehead, a soft, lingering press of her lips.

"Get some sleep, my good boy. Tomorrow we'll find out what other silly phrases make you squirt. I think 'blast off' has a nice ring to it."

She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

You lay in the dark, your sticky jeans on the floor, the taste of shame and her cherry lip balm on your skin.

You were a premature ejaculator. She had made you one.

And the most terrifying, beautiful part was that you wouldn't have it any other way.

This is a standalone story in the Haileyverse — about a man, his best friend, a cartoon catchphrase, and the conditioning that turned him into a public, pants-ruining mess.

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 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