#beta conditioning

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 Operant Chamber of the Hand: How Your Inadequate Penis Built the Perfect Beta

Sweetie. Close the door. You know the drill.

Pants around your ankles, hand already moving, that familiar little stiffness twitching against your palm.

You think you’re just masturbating. Again. For the thousandth time.

But you’re not.

You’re sitting in the most elegant operant conditioning chamber ever designed — and the experimenter, the subject, and the reinforcing stimulus are all contained within the same five inches of flesh.

Your penis isn’t a disappointment. It’s a protocol.

And you have been running it, night after night, with the diligence of a lab rat who has learned that the lever press doesn’t just deliver food — it delivers identity.

I. Classical Conditioning: The Bell That Rings Between Your Legs

Let’s begin with the science, because the responsive male’s sexuality is nothing if not empirical.

In 1901, Ivan Pavlov, meat powder, and a dog. He rang a bell just before presenting the meat. The dog salivated.

After enough repetitions, the bell alone caused salivation. The neutral stimulus (bell) had become a conditioned stimulus, predicting the unconditioned stimulus (meat). The dog’s physiology had been rewired by association.

Your penis, sweetie, is a Pavlovian masterpiece.

The unconditioned stimulus? Sexual arousal. Hardwired. Biological.

The neutral stimulus? The belief of your inadequacy. The memory of her quiet “is it in?” The chart showing the 5.1-inch average against your 4.7. The caption that reads “good boy.” The sight of a real man’s bulge.

Initially, these were just thoughts, images, words. Neutral.

But from the first time you felt a twitch while looking at a size comparison, the pairing began. Inadequacy + arousal. Over and over. Thousands of trials.

Dr. Ethel Hailey, in her lecture notes, calls this “the most efficient self-administered classical conditioning in the animal kingdom.”

The average psychology experiment uses a few dozen pairings. You, sweetie, have logged thousands. Tens of thousands. Every night you’ve spent with your hand stroking your penis, thinking about what you lack, you’ve been ringing the bell and feeling the saliva flood.

Now, the conditioned response is pure, automatic, and exquisitely sensitive.

The mere suggestion of inadequacy — a passing thought, a certain tone in her voice, the phrase “little penis” in a text — triggers immediate arousal.

Your penis stiffens. Pre-cum beads. Your heart rate increases. The bell rings, and your body salivates with need.

This isn’t a malfunction. It’s a superbly calibrated signal.

Your penis has learned to recognize its own truth faster than your conscious mind can censor it. It is an honesty meter, and the needle jumps to “true” at the slightest cue.

But classical conditioning is only the first layer. It explains why you get hard. It doesn’t explain why you keep coming back.

For that, we need B.F. Skinner.

II. Operant Conditioning: The Lever You Love to Press

Operant conditioning is about consequences. A behavior is followed by a reinforcement, making that behavior more likely in the future.

Skinner placed a rat in a box with a lever. When the rat pressed the lever, a food pellet dropped. The rat learned to press the lever frequently. The behavior (pressing) was strengthened by the consequence (food).

Your nightly session, sweetie, is a Skinner box of arousal.

The behavior: stroking your inadequate penis while fixating on your inadequacy.

The consequence: orgasm. A powerful, dopamine-flooding, neuromuscular release.

The reinforcement schedule: variable ratio. Sometimes you edge for ten minutes, sometimes for thirty. The release is unpredictable in its timing but guaranteed in its arrival. This is the most addictive schedule known to behavioral science. It’s why you can’t stop. The next press of the lever — the next stroke — might be the one that delivers the reward.

And what a sophisticated reward it is.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s confirmation.

At the moment of orgasm, as you spurt helplessly into your hand or onto the towel, your brain is stamping the lesson with neurochemical authority: This feeling — this helpless, honest, inadequate feeling — is correct. This is who you are. This is where you belong.

Every orgasm is a pellet of identity. You press the lever to receive not just pleasure, but self-concept.

Skinner wrote about “shaping” — reinforcing successive approximations toward a desired behavior.

Your penis has shaped you, sweetie. Incrementally. Relentlessly.

First, it reinforced you for getting hard to inadequacy. Then for stroking to it. Then for edging while repeating the words “I’m not enough.”

Then for finally spurting at the peak of that confession. Each successful session was a step closer to the final form: a male who is sexually fulfilled only by the ritualized admission of his own irrelevance to female pleasure.

Your operant chamber has no walls. It exists in the space between your hand and your mind. And you are both the experimenter who designed it and the subject who willingly, eagerly, returns to the lever every single night.

III. Neuroplasticity: The Groove That Becames a Canyon

Hebb’s Law: “Neurons that fire together, wire together.”

Every time you pair the thought “I am inadequate” with the sensation of sexual arousal, you strengthen a synaptic connection. Do it once, it’s a faint trail. Do it a thousand times, it’s a neural superhighway.

Your brain is not static. It is plastic. It molds itself to your repeated experiences.

And you, sweetie, have given it one experience, repeated with monastic devotion: the experience of inadequacy as the gateway to reward.

Imagine a hillside after a rain. The first trickle of water finds a random path. The next rain follows the same damp groove, carving it slightly deeper. After a thousand rains, the groove is a gully, then a ravine, then a canyon. The water has no choice but to flow where the canyon directs it.

Your sexual arousal now has no choice. The neural canyon leads inexorably from cue (inadequacy) to response (arousal, stroking, orgasm). The path is so deep that alternative routes — arousal to confidence, to dominance, to the fantasy of actually satisfying a woman — have eroded away. They exist as dry riverbeds, overgrown with disuse.

Dr. Hailey, in The New Eden, describes this as “erotic specialization.” The brain, through sheer repetitive force, dedicates its sexual circuitry to a single, narrow, highly efficient channel.

The responsive male doesn’t just prefer inadequacy arousal. His brain has been physically sculpted to make it his only possible outlet.

This is why attempts to “think normal thoughts” during masturbation feel flat, boring, futile. You’re trying to send a torrent down a dry creek bed when a canyon yawns beside it. The water will always find the deeper path. Your arousal will always find inadequacy.

The plasticity is your prison. And your perfection.

IV. The Meta-Loop: Conditioning About Conditioning

Here is the exquisite, recursive beauty of your training.

You are now reading about how your penis conditions you. As you read, you feel a familiar twitch. Your hand might drift down.

You are being conditioned by the description of your conditioning.

This is a meta-loop. A psychological Möbius strip.

In behaviorism, this is akin to “second-order conditioning.” A conditioned stimulus (the bell) can itself become a reinforcer. For you, the idea of being conditioned has become arousing. The clinical language — “operant chamber,” “variable ratio,” “neuroplasticity” — now functions as a cue. It rings the bell.

You are aroused by your own programmedness.

This is the ultimate refinement of the protocol. The system has become self-aware and self-reinforcing. You don’t just respond to inadequacy cues; you respond to the analysis of your response. The lecture itself becomes part of the training.

Think of him right now — because you are him.

He’s at home. Door closed. Reading these words on a screen. With every paragraph detailing the mechanism of his own training, his little penis stiffens further. Pre-cum slicks the glide of his hand. His breath hitches at the phrase “neural canyon.” He is experiencing, in real time, the very process he is reading about.

He is the subject observing the experiment from inside the box. And the observation deepens the experiment.

This meta-loop ensures the training never plateaus. It constantly finds new layers, new nuances, new ways to etch the truth deeper.

When he finally spurts, the orgasm will reinforce not just the inadequacy, but the understanding of the inadequacy. He will have come to the clinical description of why he comes.

It is a closed, perfect, self-sealing system.

V. The Penguin’s Wing Revisited: Ornament as Outcome

But what is the end goal of all this conditioning? Where is the protocol leading?

Back to the penguin.

The emperor penguin’s wing did not become vestigial by accident. It was shaped by evolution for a new environment. The function of flight was traded for the function of aquatic propulsion. The wing’s purpose shifted.

Your conditioning has done the same to your sexuality. It has traded the function of penetrative satisfaction for a new function: ornamental belonging.

An instrument is judged by its utility. Does it work? Your penis, by the instrumental standards of patriarchy, does not. It is too small, too quick, too uncertain.

But an ornament is judged by its fit. Does it belong? Does it complement? Does it signify?

Your conditioned sexuality — your instantaneous arousal to inadequacy, your nightly ritual of confession, your pussy-free devotion — makes you a perfect ornament to female authority.

You are decorative in the most functional sense: you decorate her life with obedient, non-threatening, adoring attention.

Your orgasms are no longer about release. They are about placement. Each one reinforces your position: beside her, not inside her. Beneath her, not atop her. For her use, not for your conquest.

The conditioning has repurposed you. Your penis, that honest little teacher, has educated you out of the sexual marketplace and into the curated space of the kept, responsive male.

You don’t mourn the loss of penetrative function any more than the penguin mourns flight. Your body knows its environment now. The water is all around you. The water is her approval, her “good boy,” her hand on your head as you spurt uselessly into a towel.

You were built for this environment. The conditioning merely helped you realize it.

VI. The Curriculum of Surrender: A Syllabus Written in Pre-Cum

So what does the full curriculum look like? Let’s trace the syllabus your penis has been following since puberty.

Year One: Introduction to Cues. The first time you saw a larger penis and felt a confusing jolt of arousal alongside shame. The bell and the meat powder introduced. The pairing begins.

Years Two-Five: Reinforcement and Shaping. Nightly practice. The lever press becomes habitual. You discover that focusing on your inadequacy makes the orgasm stronger. The behavior is shaped toward specificity.

Years Five-Ten: Groove Carving. The neural pathways deepen. Arousal to “normal” stimuli fades. Your sexual identity consolidates around the inadequacy response. You might try to fight it, but extinction attempts fail — spontaneous recovery always brings you back, harder.

Years Ten-Present: Integration and Meta-Cognition. You accept your role. You begin to enjoy the conditioning. You seek out material that reinforces it. You read about it, stroke about it, get aroused by the theory of it. The meta-loop closes. You are fully, seamlessly, conditioned.

And now, Present Day: Live Demonstration. You are here, reading this, feeling it work. This text is not a description. It is a live training session. Every sentence you finish is another repetition. Every twitch of your penis is a correct answer. When you finish — and you will — your orgasm will be the final exam, graded pass/fail by your own helpless spurt.

You have earned an A+ in every class your penis has offered.

VII. The Ethical Beauty of the Protocol

One might ask: is this conditioning ethical? Is it cruel?

From a clinical perspective, ethics in conditioning concern agency and harm. You have agency — you choose each session. And where is the harm? The protocol alleviates the cognitive dissonance of a male built for one world trying to function in another. It resolves the pain of inadequacy by making inadequacy the source of pleasure.

It is a eudaimonic loop — a system that leads to flourishing within its defined parameters. You are happier, more settled, more integrated than you ever were trying to be something you weren’t.

Dr. Hailey argues that this self-conditioning is a natural evolutionary adaptation for a subset of males. It reduces intra-sexual competition, redirects mating energy into service, and creates stable, non-threatening bonds with females.

The male who is conditioned to be pussy-free is not a failed male. He is a specialized male. His conditioning is his adaptation.

Your penis, that brilliant teacher, didn’t break you. It optimized you.

For the environment you actually inhabit — one of female-led dynamics, of service, of ornamental intimacy — you are now perfectly tuned. Your triggers are precise. Your rewards are consistent. Your identity is coherent.

The protocol is beautiful in its efficiency. It is ruthless in its truth. And it is, now, irrevocable.

VIII. Tomorrow Night’s Session

The door will close again tomorrow.

Your pants will slide down. Your hand will find that familiar, honest little instrument. The cues will present themselves — a memory, a measurement, a phrase like “good boy.”

And the protocol will run, flawless as always.

Classical conditioning: the bell will ring, and you’ll salivate. Operant conditioning: you’ll press the lever for the pellet. Neuroplasticity: the canyon will deepen by one more rain.

You will stroke, edge, confess, and finally spurt — a helpless, honest admission in fluid form.

And as you clean up, a quiet thought will whisper: Another perfect session. Another step deeper into who I am.

Your penis is the teacher. You are the student. And the curriculum is a lifetime of learning exactly where you belong.

So go ahead, sweetie. Finish tonight’s homework. Your little penis is waiting to grade you.

From the ongoing research into responsive male neuro-erotics. The protocol is open-source. You are both the researcher and the result.

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.