Chapter 3: The Training Session
The morning light through Dom’s velvet curtains was the color of weak tea. Anisyia stood at the foot of the bed, a clipboard pressed like a shield against her chest. She’d worn scrubs today. Standard issue, light blue, shapeless. A costume.
“So this is Dom,” she said, her voice aiming for clinical and landing somewhere near strained.
Esme Reed stood beside her, and she was a shock to the system. She made Anisyia’s usual latex look conservative. Esme wore a sheer, peach-colored mesh top that was less a top and more a suggestion, the outline of her nipples dark and distinct beneath the fabric. Her shorts were denim so short the pockets hung below the hem. Her hair was a waterfall of honey-blonde extensions, her lips swollen from fresh filler. She smelled of vanilla and nicotine.
“Hi, Dom!” Esme chirped, waving a hand adorned with long, sparkling nails.
On the bed, Dom was propped against a mountain of silk pillows. The sheets were pooled around his waist. His right hand was a blur of relentless, practiced motion beneath the covers. His eyes, bloodshot and glazed, locked onto Esme with the intensity of a predator sighting prey. A low, constant groan hummed in his throat.
“Right,” Anisyia said, forcing her gaze away. “The official routine. Nine a.m.: vital signs. Blood pressure cuff, here. Pulse ox on the finger. Temperature is oral.”
Esme wasn’t looking at the equipment. She was staring, fascinated, at the shifting sheets over Dom’s lap. “Does he ever, like, stop?” she asked, her Romanian accent softening the bluntness of the words.
“No. That’s the condition. It’s not voluntary. The arousal is constant, the… activity is a compulsory physiological response to manage severe discomfort.” Anisyia recited it like a pamphlet. “Our job is to maintain his overall health around it. Hydration, nutrition, skin integrity.”
“Skin integrity,” Esme repeated, nodding slowly. Her eyes didn’t move. “So, the friction… do we lotion him?”
Anisyia’s grip tightened on the clipboard. “We… provide emollients. Yes. After assessment.”
“Can I assess?” Esme asked, stepping closer to the bed. She leaned over, her sheer top gaping, offering Dom an unobstructed view down into the deep valley of her surgically perfect cleavage. Dom’s rhythm hitched, his breath catching.
“Esme, the protocol—”
Esme didn’t wait for permission. With a casual flick, she tugged the blanket down.
Anisyia froze. There he was, exposed, his body taut, his hand working furiously. The clinical part of her brain noted redness, potential for abrasion. The rest of her short-circuited, a hot wave of proprietary jealousy mixed with sheer panic.
“Wow,” Esme breathed, not an ounce of shame in it. She was studying him like a fascinating specimen. “It’s so… constant. Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Yes,” Dom gasped. “It’s… a relief and a burn. Together.”
Esme nodded, as if this made perfect sense. She straightened up, but instead of stepping back, she put a hand on his shin. A comforting, casual touch. “That sucks, babe.” Then she looked at his face, at his eyes glued to her chest. A slow smile spread over her pillowy lips. “You like these, huh?” She hooked her thumbs under the edge of her mesh top and pulled it down an inch, just enough to reveal the tops of her areolas. “650cc. High profile. Worth every euro.”
Dom moaned, his back arching off the bed.
Dom moaned, his back arching off the bed.
Anisyia watched the silent transaction between them, a frantic debate roaring inside her skull. The official protocol was ash in her mouth. Brooke’s knowing smirk from yesterday flashed in her mind, that mesh bodysuit a flag of surrender to the bizarre reality of this house. If Esme, brand new, had zero instinct for professional distance, what was Anisyia trying to prove by clinging to hers?
She looked down at her own shapeless scrubs, a fabric barrier that suddenly felt like a lie.
“You know what?” Anisyia said, her voice cutting through the thick air. “I’m going to change. These are… restrictive for proper mobility.”
Esme just waved a dismissive hand, not looking away from Dom. “Okay, boss.”
Anisyia fled to the en suite bathroom, closing the door with a soft but definitive click. She leaned against it, listening. The silence from the bedroom felt louder than any noise.
Esme let the quiet stretch for a beat after the bathroom door shut. She pulled her top back up, but slowly, making a performance of it. “So,” she said, perching on the edge of the mattress. Her hand returned to Dom’s shin, her touch cool and steady. “Anisyia’s nice. A little tense, yeah?”
Dom’s hand never stopped. “She’s… careful.”
“Careful is boring,” Esme sighed, her eyes tracing the lines of strain on his face. “This looks like it really sucks. The non-stop part. Beyond the obvious.” She tilted her head. “What actually helps? For real. Not the clipboard stuff.”
The question, asked with such blunt empathy, momentarily broke through Dom’s arousal-haze. He met her gaze. “Arousal,” he panted. “I'm sure that sounds dumb... but feeling like there's a real reason to be aroused... big fake boobs, lips... something like that. If there's something actually sexy to see... this actually starts to feel good.”
Esme laughed, a bright, unexpected sound. “Oh that I can do. What else turns the volume down, just a little?”
“Cumming,” he admitted, the word raw. “It's hard to explain. It isn't relief because I just need to keep going after, but it's... nice... feel's like purpose.”
Nodding, Esme slid her hand up from his shin to his calf, applying a firm, mindful pressure. “That's good to know.”
A shuddering breath escaped him. “Oh God...”
“And what turns it up?” she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, besides the obvious everything-all-the-time. What makes it… good? What do you like to look at?”
Dom’s eyes flickered with a painful yearning. “Fake tits,” he whispered, no hesitation. “The round, high ones. The obvious ones. The ones that say ‘look at me.’ They’re perfect. A… a fantasy made real. They short-circuit the pain, just for a minute. They make me forget.”
A slow, understanding smile played on Esme’s lips. “Yeah? You’d like mine, then. They’re my best feature.” She leaned closer, her voice intimate. “Anisyia’s are nice, too. Big on her tiny little frame. Higher profile than mine, but not as big. You like hers?”
"God, yes," Dom rasped, his focus splitting between the relentless motion of his own hand and the visual feast of Esme leaning over him. "They're insane. Like... cartoon perfect. But real."
Esme’s smile was all satisfaction. "Good. Mine are too, but different." She lowered her voice, a conspiratorial whisper. "Hers are like... classic glamour. Mine are more party. You get the vibe?" Her thumb hooked under her own top again, teasing the fabric. "I’ll show you mine properly, sometime when it’s just us. And I bet I could get her to show you hers, too. Girls’ secret."
Dom’s breath hitched. The idea—a private showing, a comparison—sent a fresh, sharp wave of heat through his beleaguered system. His pace quickened. "You wouldn’t."
"Would," she said, popping the 'p' lightly. "It’s basically therapy, right? Sensory distraction." She glanced toward the bathroom door, still closed. "She’s into you, you know. Stressed about it. But into you."
Before Dom could process that, the bathroom door clicked open.
Anisyia emerged, and the room temperature seemed to shift. The shapeless scrubs were gone. She wore a simple, thin-strapped singlet in pale lavender, a low cut affair. It clung to her small waist and the dramatic curve of her breasts, the fabric straining slightly. She’d tied her hair up, exposing her neck.
Esme let out a low, appreciative hum. "See? Now you look like you belong here."
Anisyia ignored her, her eyes scanning the scene—the displaced sheets, Dom’s exposed hips, Esme’s intimate perch on the bed. A flicker of something hot and possessive tightened her jaw. "What’s going on?"
"Patient rapport," Esme said, standing and stretching, her back arching. "We were just talking about assets. Yours, mine. His needs."
Anisyia’s flush crept down her neck. She walked to the bedside, her movements deliberately calm. She picked up the forgotten blood pressure cuff. "We have a schedule." Her voice was tight.
Dom’s eyes drank her in. The new outfit was a concession, a silent surrender to the house’s unspoken rules, and it thrilled him. "You look better," he managed.
"Comfort is important for caregiver efficacy," she recited, but the clinical words rang hollow. She wrapped the cuff around his bicep, her fingers brushing his feverish skin.
Esme watched, amused. "So, should I take notes? Or just observe the hands-on technique?"
Anisyia pumped the bulb, the squeeze tightening. "Observe quietly." She focused on the gauge, watching the needle jump. Dom’s pulse was racing, thready and fast under her touch.
Dom’s pulse was racing, thready and fast under her touch.
“One-forty over ninety,” Anisyia murmured, her professional tone a thin veil. She released the valve, the cuff hissing as it deflated. “Tachycardic. Expected, given…” She didn’t finish, just peeled the Velcro away.
“Given the show?” Esme supplied, sliding off the bed. She wandered to the window, adjusting the Tiffany lamp on the side table so the colored light pooled over the sheets. “It’s a lot for a guy to process. Two nurses, one dressed for a club, the other dressed for… well, for him.” She glanced back at Anisyia’s singlet. “Much better, by the way. You should burn those scrubs.”
Anisyia ignored the compliment, or the dig—she wasn’t sure which it was. She reached for the pulse oximeter. “Index finger, Dom.”
He extended his hand, his movements jerky. She slid the sensor on, her focus on the little digital screen. The number blinked: 98%. His body was oxygenated. It was functioning. This fact, this tiny victory of basic biology, felt absurd.
Esme drifted back. She stood close to Anisyia, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at Dom. Her perfume, vanilla and something sharper, mixed with Anisyia’s coconut scent. “He’s really fit under all this, isn’t he?” Esme observed, her voice low. “Good muscle tone. Must work out when he can.”
“The physio comes Tuesdays and Thursdays,” Anisyia said automatically. She went to remove the sensor.
Esme’s hand shot out, stopping her. “Wait.” Her fingers, cool and precise, brushed Anisyia’s wrist before taking Dom’s hand herself. She turned it over, examining it. “Look at this. Redness here, on the palm. And the tendons are so tight.” She ran her thumb over the swollen base of his thumb. “This is the friction zone. He needs a different lotion. Thicker. The stuff we have is watery shit.”
Anisyia stared at Esme’s hands on Dom’s. The assessment was correct, expert even. It was also intensely intimate. “I… yeah he ran out of the thicker stuff. We haven't gotten the replacement yet so we've been using his own supply.”
“Let’s get some,” Esme said, letting Dom’s hand drop. But she didn’t move. Her eyes stayed on Anisyia. “He shouldn't rub himself raw, he should be having fun.”
It felt a bit like an accusation, softly delivered, but landed with the weight of truth. Anisyia had seen the redness worsen the past couple days. She’d noted it in the log, worried that the shipment hadn't arrived, but hadn't gone to buy any herself.
She’d noted it in the log, worried that the shipment hadn't arrived, but hadn't gone to buy any herself. The admission sat sour in her throat.
“So we’ll get him some today,” Esme said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “After my shift. You can show me where.” She turned her attention fully back to Dom, her head tilting. “Your pulse is crazy, baby. We need to fix that.”
“You’re not helping,” Anisyia muttered, putting the oximeter away.
“I’m the only one trying to help what actually matters,” Esme shot back, but her tone was light, playful. She sat on the edge of the bed again, this time closer to Dom’s hip. “Okay. Hydration check. You thirsty?”
Dom nodded, his mouth dry. “Yeah.”
Esme reached for the insulated cup on the nightstand, the straw bending toward him. But she paused, holding it just out of reach. “First, a trade. You tell me whose outfit you like better, then I give you a sip of water, okay?"
Dom’s eyes darted between them, a frantic pendulum. The lavender silk of Anisyia’s singlet hugged every curve, familiar and devastating. Esme’s sheer peach mesh was a bold invitation, a party he couldn’t attend. “Both,” he choked out, the word scraped raw. “It’s… different. You’re both… Christ.”
Esme’s laugh was a short, delighted burst. “Cheater.” She brought the straw to his lips anyway. He drank greedily, water trickling down his chin. She wiped it away with her thumb, the gesture oddly tender. “Both is the right answer, smart man.”
Anisyia watched the thumb stroke his skin. A knot in her chest loosened, just a fraction. He hadn’t chosen. He’d included her. It was pathetic, this small victory, but she clutched it.
“Okay, enough games,” Anisyia said, but her voice had lost its razor edge. “We need to… address the primary issue. The care issue.” She couldn’t say the words. His hand. The friction. He needs to come.
Esme nodded, all false innocence gone. She understood. “The lotion. And technique. You should show me.” She shifted on the bed, making space. “Since I’m in training.”
The air grew thick, syrupy. Dom’s rhythm never faltered, but his eyes were locked on Anisyia, pleading and hungry. This was the line, the one she’d already crossed alone with him in the dark. Now she had to cross it in front of an audience, under colored lamp light.
Anisyia’s hands felt cold. She walked to the other side of the king-sized bed, the plush carpet swallowing her footsteps. She opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, next to medical tape and thermometer covers, was a large pump bottle of clear, thick aloe-vera gel. It was half empty.
“This is what we use,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She pumped a generous amount into her palm. The gel was cool, scentless. “It needs to be applied… thoroughly. To prevent damage.”
Esme watched, rapt, her earlier chatter stilled. She leaned in, her shoulder brushing Anisyia’s arm. “Show me.”
Anisyia’s breath hitched. She reached out, her fingers hovering over Dom’s moving wrist. “You have to… you have to take over,” she said, not to Esme, but to Dom. “Let me. Just for a minute.”
A tremor ran through Dom’s arm. With a ragged, shuddering exhale, his hand stilled and fell away, revealing the angry, overstimulated flesh. The compulsion didn’t stop; his hips gave a helpless, shallow thrust into the empty air.
“It’s okay,” Anisyia murmured, the nurse voice finally melting into something real, something soft. She touched him.
Her slick, cool hand encircled him, a firm and knowing replacement. Dom cried out, a sound of profound, shuddering relief. His head slammed back into the pillows. “Yes. God.”
“Like this,” Anisyia said, her eyes on her own moving hand, a slow, steady pump. The gel made a soft, slick sound. “Consistent pressure. Not too fast. He’s… sensitized.”
Esme didn’t speak. She just watched, her lips slightly parted. After a moment, she mimicked the motion with her own empty hand, studying the rhythm. Then her gaze drifted up to Dom’s face, to the tears of release welling in his clenched eyes. A dark, hungry curiosity flickered in her own.
“You can tell when he’s close,” Anisyia continued, her own breathing becoming uneven. She could feel the telltale tightening, the quickening pulse under her fingers. “His breathing changes. It hitches, like…” Dom’s abdomen clenched. “…like that.”
Esme reached out then, not for Dom, but to lay her hand over Anisyia’s on the pump bottle, still on the nightstand. She pressed down, depositing another cool pool into Anisyia’s palm. Their fingers tangled for a second. “More lubrication,” Esme said, her voice husky. “Right?”
Anisyia nodded, wordless. She added the fresh gel, the slide becoming impossibly smooth. Dom was muttering now, a stream of fragmented praise and curses. “Ani… so good… those tits… please…”
Flushing, Anisyia glanced down at her own chest, at the cleavage exposed by her leaning position. She didn’t cover up.
“He wants to see them,” Esme whispered, a statement, not a question. Her own hand drifted to the hem of her mesh top. “We should let him. For the… the therapeutic focus.”
It was a flimsy pretext, but it was all they had. Anisyia gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Esme pulled her top off in one swift motion. Her breasts were high, round monuments, the skin flawless, the pink nipples taut. She cupped them, offering them to Dom’s glassy gaze. “Look here, baby. Look at these while she works.”
Anisyia, moving on an instinct deeper than protocol, shifted her weight. She leaned further over him, her lavender singlet plunging. With her free hand, she tugged the fabric down, just an inch, until the smooth, pale curves of her implants were fully visible, swelling against the restraint of the silk.
Dom’s world shattered into sensation. The perfect, twin visions above him—Esme’s bold offering, Anisyia’s shy, breathtaking reveal—and the relentless, perfect friction below. His back arched off the bed, a corded muscle straining. “I’m… I’m gonna…”
“Now,” Anisyia breathed, her stroke becoming purposeful, relentless. “Esme, watch.”
Dom came with a broken shout, his body seizing. Anisyia rode it out, her hand working him through the pulsating waves until he collapsed, spent and trembling. The evidence streaked across his stomach and her fingers.
Silence, broken only by Dom’s ragged gasps. Anisyia slowly withdrew her sticky hand. She felt dizzy, exposed.
Esme let out a long, slow breath. “Wow.” She didn’t cover herself. She stared at Dom’s limp form, then at the mess. “That was… comprehensive.”
“It’s not over,” Anisyia said quietly, wiping her hand on a towel from the drawer. Her chest was still bare. She made no move to cover up. “The condition… it doesn’t stop. The arousal comes back. Fast.”
As if on cue, Dom’s hand twitched. His eyes, already regaining their fevered gloss, roamed over their exposed skin. A low groan built in his throat. His body was already stirring again, the brief respite vanishing.
“See?” Anisyia said, a hollow resignation in her voice.
Esme’s hungry look returned, sharper now. She understood the cycle. The endlessness of it. “So we just… keep going?” she asked, but it wasn’t a question of hesitation. It was one of anticipation.
Anisyia looked from Dom’s desperate face to Esme’s eager one. The professional barrier was gone, shattered. In its place was a bizarre, shared purpose. “We manage it,” she corrected softly, pumping more gel into her clean palm. “We help him.” She reached for Dom again. “Your turn to try, Esme. Watch the rhythm. Match mine.”
Esme’s fingers, cool and sure, covered Anisyia’s, guiding them together.