Day three

Day Three

The queues were longer. The government had started offering payment for high-volume donors and “premium genetics.” Some men were already showing up voluntarily, **** for the meagre cash and the legal release.

Mary’s room saw a parade of them. Young. Old. Fit. Overweight. Shy boys who came in seconds. Arrogant ones who tried to chat her up through the wall. One elderly gentleman thanked her profusely afterwards and called her a saint.

Sally had taken to wearing even shorter skirts and brighter lipstick. She’d been moved to the “VIP suite” where wealthy or high-value donors received more personal attention—sometimes two nurses, sometimes more direct

[stimulation.

In](http://stimulation.In) the afternoon, Donor 47 returned.

This time Mary was ready. She used more lube. She talked to him—low, filthy instructions. “That’s it… give me all of it. Big load for the NHS, yeah?”

He came even

[harder.

By](http://harder.By) the end of the week, Mary had a reputation. Efficient. Thorough. Unflappable. Some donors specifically requested “the older nurse with the big tits.”

Tom grew quieter at home. The enforced chastity was wearing on him. He watched her change out of the uniform each evening with naked hunger and growing resentment.

One night he snapped.

“I can’t even touch my own wife now without risking arrest. Meanwhile you’re spending eight hours a day with your hands on other men’s cocks.”

Mary rounded on him. “You think I enjoy it? You think I wanted this?”

But part of her—the part she refused to acknowledge—was starting to feel a dark, guilty thrill. The power. The variety. The knowledge that dozens of men were thinking about her when they closed their eyes.

Week Three

The government rolled out the first national advertising campaign.

Posters appeared: smiling, attractive nurses in the new uniforms with the slogan “Your Contribution Matters – Serve Britain Today.”

Reality TV crews began filming inside select centres. Sally became a minor celebrity overnight.

Mary received her first “premium” assignment: a private room with a real bed and a high-value donor who had paid for extended service. No glory hole. Full visual.

The man who walked in was tall, early forties, ex-military by the look of him. Broad shoulders, calm eyes. Donor 47 in the flesh.

“Hello, Nurse Thompson,” he said, voice exactly as she remembered. “I asked for you specifically.”

Mary’s pulse hammered.

The door locked behind him.