Chapter 75: The Practice Session
The soft, persistent thrum of the record player did little to mask the silence that had settled over Becca’s bedroom. It was a thick, uncomfortable quiet, broken only by the occasional sniffle from the pile of pillows on the bed where Becca had buried herself. The vanilla candle, usually so comforting, smelled cloying now.
Chloe exchanged a look with Zoe, then Maya. Their hyped-up pledges of support from a week ago felt cheap, hollow echoes in the face of Becca’s raw, hiccupping misery. She’d texted them a single, devastating sentence: She laughed at me.
Now, they were here.
“Okay,” Chloe finally said, her voice softer than usual. She perched on the edge of the bed, a stark contrast to her typical boldness. “Enough wallowing. We’re past the wallowing phase.”
A muffled groan came from the pillow pile.
“She’s right, Bec,” Maya said, gently pulling a cushion away to reveal Becca’s puffy, hazel eyes. “What happened was shitty. That girl was a shallow, trash human. But you curling up and dying in here isn’t the solution.”
“What is?” Becca’s voice was hoarse. “Try again? Get laughed at again? I’m a walking joke, guys. A cute face with a… a novelty act underneath.”
Zoe winced, her hand unconsciously drifting to her own sweatpants. They all felt the ghost of that particular phantom limb, the vague, frustrating ache where a different kind of function used to be. But Becca still had something. To them, it was everything.
“No,” Chloe stated, a plan solidifying in her mind. It was a practical plan. A helpful plan. It absolutely was not born from the confusing, hot twist of envy and desire she felt every time she thought about Becca’s unique predicament. “You’re not a joke. You’re just… unskilled. You got stage fright because you’ve never performed.”
Becca blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve never… you know. With someone else. You have the equipment, more or less, but zero practical experience. So when the moment came, you panicked. You went straight to going down on her because it was safe, it was something you understood conceptually.” Chloe’s logic was clinical, a shield for her own tangled feelings. “We need to train you.”
“Train me?” Becca pushed herself up on her elbows. “How? You guys can’t even…”
She trailed off, but the meaning hung in the air. You guys can’t even get hard.
“Exactly,” Maya caught on, her eyes lighting up with the intellectual puzzle of it. It was easier to frame it this way. A project. Not a desperate, secret longing to feel that tiny bit of stiffness against their own numb flesh. “We know the theory. We’ve consumed, like, a terabyte of porn. We know what’s supposed to happen. And we have the same… general architecture. We can be your practice dolls. No pressure. No judgment.”
“And we’re horny all the time anyway,” Zoe blurted out, then flushed a deep crimson. “I mean… it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get confidence. We get… stimulation. Of a sort.”
The room felt suddenly smaller, warmer. The golden string lights seemed to pulse. Becca looked at her three friends, their voluptuous bodies clothed in loose tanks and soft shorts, their faces a mixture of forced nonchalance and poorly concealed hope. They were offering her a sanctuary. A way to translate her vanilla fantasy into a muscle memory that wouldn’t fail her next time.
The logic was flimsy and they all knew it. It was a pretext, thin as tissue paper, masking the trio’s own unexplored yearnings and Becca’s desperate need to feel wanted.
“Okay,” Becca whispered, a flicker of her old enthusiasm cutting through the gloom. “Okay, yeah. Training.”
It started awkwardly, as a clinical demonstration. Chloe, ever the leader, lay back against Becca’s ruffled pillows. “Right. So. Foreplay is key. You rushed it.”
Becca knelt beside her, hands hovering. Chloe took one and guided it to her own breast, over her thin cotton tank. “See? Just… touch. Not everything is about the main event.”
Becca’s touch was hesitant, then firmer. Chloe’s breath hitched. It was just Becca, her friend. But it was also touch, a focused, intentional touch she hadn’t felt since the change. A warmth bloomed low in her belly, a familiar ache with no clear path to resolution.
“Good,” Chloe managed, her voice tighter. “Now, like, kissing. Down there. You said you did that. Show me what you did.”
Becca flushed. “On you?”
“We’re training, remember? No judgments.” Chloe’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was for Becca. Only for Becca.
Becca bent her head, her brown hair falling like a curtain. When her mouth pressed against Chloe through her shorts, a sharp, electric jolt shot through Chloe’s system. It was muted, filtered through layers of fabric and neural confusion, but it was there. A live wire in a field of numbness.
“Uh, Bec?” Zoe’s voice was small. “Maybe… maybe we should all practice? Like, simultaneously? For efficiency?”
The pretext was crumbling faster now. Maya was already pulling her own top off, her full breasts swaying. “She’s right. We all have the same… hardware limitations. We can compare notes.”
What followed was not clinical. It was a slow, hot unraveling. They arranged themselves in a tangle of limbs on the soft rug, the record player stuck in a loop. Becca, emboldened, would turn from kissing Chloe’s stomach to lapping at Zoe’s tiny, sensitive nub, then to taking Maya’s into her mouth, her tongue swirling with a focus that made Maya cry out.
They were, as promised, her practice dolls. But they were coming alive under her attention in ways they hadn’t anticipated.
“My turn,” Chloe breathed, pushing Becca onto her back. “The main event. You need to get used to… being touched there. When you’re… you know.”
Becca was already half-hard, her 7cm length a modest but undeniable presence against her stomach. To the trio, it looked like a monument. Chloe’s mouth watered with a hunger she refused to name. She bent down, her lips parting.
The feeling of Chloe’s warm, unskilled mouth enveloping her was so profoundly different from her own hand that Becca gasped, back arching. It was acceptance. It was reverence. It was everything the girl from the bar had not been.
Zoe and Maya watched, transfixed, their own hands moving between each other’s legs, rubbing and circling over their own tiny, unresponsive flesh, trying to mimic the feedback loop they saw in Becca’s trembling thighs. They were mapping pleasure onto a new geography, one where penetration was a memory and climax a mysterious, distant country.
Chloe pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lip to Becca’s glistening tip. “See?” she said, her voice ragged. “No laughing. Just… feeling. Your job is to stay hard. To not panic. Can you do that?”
Becca could only nod, her eyes dark. Maya slithered up beside her, taking Becca’s hand and guiding it between her own thighs, pressing Becca’s fingers against the smooth, empty space where her own shaft had retracted to a mere bud. “And our job,” Maya whispered, “is to learn how to feel good like this. With what we have. Teach us?”
The line between trainer and trainee dissolved. It became a desperate, collaborative exploration. Becca would stroke herself to full, straining hardness while Zoe, braver now, would grind against Becca’s thigh, seeking friction, her soft moans a counterpoint to Becca’s. Chloe would kiss Becca deeply, tasting herself on Becca’s tongue, while Maya’s clever fingers found the hidden, hyper-sensitive spot just beneath Becca’s shaft, making her sob with a new kind of pleasure.
They were a circuit of frustrated, yearning energy, closing loops where they could. The training was real—Becca was learning endurance, learning the rhythm of another person’s breathing against her skin. But the unacknowledged truth hummed beneath every touch: the trio was starved for the possibility Becca represented, and Becca was starved for validation only they could give.
It was Zoe who broke first. Humping against Becca’s hip, her face buried in Becca’s neck, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “I think… I think something’s…” she choked out. Her body stiffened, not with the sharp, linear peak of old, but with a deep, radiating tremble that washed through her in prolonged, shuddering waves. She cried out, a sound of pure surprise, then collapsed, breathing heavily.
They all froze, looking at her.
“Did you…?” Becca asked, awed.
Zoe’s eyes were wide. “I don’t know. But it was… it was something. It wasn’t nothing.” A slow, dazed smile spread across her face. “Your turn, Bec. Don’t think. Just feel.”
Chloe’s mouth found Becca again, and Maya’s fingers worked their magic below, and Zoe’s hand cupped Becca’s breast, and the combined sensation, the sheer overwhelming wantedness of it all, crashed over Becca. Her climax was smaller than her solitary ones, a quiet, pulsing release rather than a thunderous event, but it was soaked in a profound emotional relief that left her tearful.
In the spent, quiet aftermath, limbs still interlaced on the floor, the reality seeped back in. They had trained. They had learned. Becca’s confidence, nestled now in the crook of Chloe’s arm, felt less fragile.
But as they lay there in the vanilla-scented dark, the other truth, the unspoken one, remained. They had touched the possibility in Becca, had worshipped it with their mouths and hands, and in doing so, had felt the ghost of their own stolen potential. The training was for Becca’s future, with some faceless, lucky girl. Yet here, now, they were all horribly, secretly in love with the trainer.