Local Hero** **Chapter 5 – Practical Demonstration** *(Expanded Continuity)*

**Local Hero**

Chapter 5 – Practical Demonstration

(Expanded Continuity)

Several weeks later.

Mary had grown accustomed to the rhythm of it: the click of the door locking behind each man, the sterile scent of lube, the way every cock had its own quirks. Some were quick, twitching to life under a few practiced strokes. Others required patience, like coaxing a stubborn engine to turn over. But the ending was always the same—a cup filled, a barcode slapped on, another number added to the tally.

And yet, no matter how fast she worked, the line outside her clinic room never shrank. Only grew.

Then, inevitably, the shouting started.

It was a Friday afternoon, seconds from shift’s end, when the first fist flew. Mary barely registered the commotion outside; her focus was on the cock in her hand, its owner panting as she swiped her thumb over the slit. A thick glob spilled into the cup. She sealed it, labelled it, slid it into the fridge.

The partition snapped shut.

“What the fuck?! I’ve been here since noon!”

“That prick took twenty minutes—I’m not waiting till Monday!”

“I want to speak to a manager or someone in charge!”

Mary barely had time to wipe her hands before Sally burst in, her cheeks flushed. “Did you hear that?” she hissed. “They’re gonna kill each other out there!”

Mary opened her mouth to reply—then froze.

Sally was licking her fingers.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mary hissed.

Sally blinked, mid-lick. “Oh. Uh.” She shrugged. “Sorry. Habit. I do it when I’m nervous. Or bored. Or…” A slow grin. “Horny.”

Mary rolled her eyes just as a crash echoed from the hallway. “Forget it. The police’ll handle it. What we need is more workers.”

---

That Evening

Mary was home with Tom.

The riots made the news.

She sat across from Tom at their cramped kitchen table, the TV flickering between footage of clinic brawls and the NHS Director’s strained plea for “patience” and “volunteers.”

Tom pushed his food around his plate. “They’re drafting more nurses, then?”

Mary nodded, avoiding his eyes. She hadn’t touched him in weeks. Not since the clinics started.

The guilt sat between them, cold and unspoken.

---

The Next Morning – Recruitment Drive

Mary arrived early, tugging at the hem of her “uniform”—a white minidress that barely covered her thighs, paired with stockings and heels, her large breasts oozing out. The dress code was “encouraged” by management. “Donors respond better to visual stimulation,” they’d said. Mary still wondered who the uniform was really for when half her work happened behind a partition.

Sally’s car pulled up beside her. The redhead practically bounced out, her own uniform modified—tighter, shorter, the neckline plunging almost to her navel. As she stepped out, Mary caught a flash of fiery red between her thighs.

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Forget your knickers?”

Sally smirked. “Stopped wearing ’em weeks ago. What’s the point?”

They entered the training centre and Mary’s stomach dropped.

The hall was packed with women. Normal women. In normal clothes. Jeans. Sweaters. No thigh-high stockings, no plunging necklines. Just… civilians.

Mary grabbed Sally’s arm. “What the fuck?”

Sally shrugged.

A middle-aged man in a too-tight suit took the stage. “Ladies! Thank you for answering the call! Together, we’ll save our species!” Polite applause. Then—“Please welcome our star nurses, Mary and Sally!”

A spotlight hit them. Mary’s skin prickled.

“These women collect hundreds of samples weekly! Thanks to them, babies will be born! Give them a hand!”

The applause was lukewarm. Mary forced a smile as they were ushered onto the stage. Sally, meanwhile, revelled in it—adjusting her top, swaying her hips.

Two chairs were placed back-to-back. A tray of supplies between them: gloves, lube, cups.

Mary’s throat tightened. Oh god. They’re making us do a live demo.

The speaker beamed. “We’ve brought volunteers to demonstrate proper technique!”

A loud snort cut through the room. A Jamaican woman in vibrant traditional dress stood, her nails like talons. “Honey, I’ve been jerkin’ men off since before these girls were born. What they gonna teach me?”

Laughter. The speaker wiped his brow.

Then a Glaswegian voice barked: “Aye, get tae fuck! I’m only here ’cause that wanker PM banned shaggin’! So either show us somethin’ or bring out the cocks!”

The crowd roared approval. The speaker leaned toward Mary and Sally. “Good luck. You better take your seats.”

Two naked men were led out from behind the stage.

The first was middle-aged, Black, well-built. His eyes darted to the Jamaican woman—his wife, Mary realised. The woman smirked. “Don’t go with the little redheaded slut. Take the older one with the fat tits.”

Mary’s face burned.

The second man was younger, already half-hard at the sight of Sally. She winked. He blushed.

The speaker clapped. “Observe their technique! First three rows—might get wet!”

The Glaswegian woman cackled. “Too late, doll. Already am!”

Mary sat, lube slick between her fingers. The man before her exhaled shakily. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You got this.”

She swallowed hard, trying to drown out the noise of the audience. How many cocks have I serviced? Why am I so nervous? The Black man looked down at her with kind eyes. Behind her she could already hear Sally working—wet sounds, soft encouragement, the unmistakable rhythm of someone who treated this like sport.

Mary applied lube and wrapped both hands around the thick shaft. The speaker’s voice floated from the back: “You will note that both nurses are going barehanded. This is not encouraged but at the same time not discouraged.”

She began to work him. The eyes of the audience bored into her. The hall had gone quiet except for a few low whispers commenting on her technique. She looked up. The man was clearly enjoying himself, but every so often he glanced toward his wife in the audience as if seeking approval.

Realisation hit Mary hard. She was used to staring at a white wall and a single cock. Seeing the full body, the face, the quiet dignity of the man made it different. She thought of Tom at home in his cage and felt a sharp spike of shame. She had neglected him for weeks. Without a doubt this was a form of cheating, and what worried her most was how excited her own body was becoming.

A low grunt brought her back. She grabbed a cup just in time. The creamy white liquid almost filled it. The man sighed with relief, patted the top of her head gently, and said “Thank you” before walking away. His wife called out, “Ok, so the old one has some skills.”

Mary looked down and saw two already-sealed cups beside Sally, and another man already in position. How the fuck did she do three to my one? Sally cleaned her hands, applied more lube, and the next man came quickly. Then the next. Sally appeared to hit a wall with a donor who clearly wanted the experience to last longer.

The speaker called out, “Ladies, it looks like we’re close to a tie. I forgot to mention that the one with the most samples will win a dinner at the local steakhouse!”

Mary’s competitive instinct kicked in hard.

The next man appeared in front of her. Sally’s current donor finished. Mary glanced back and saw that Sally had her legs open, skirt riding high, giving the audience and the man a clear view. That’s why they’re coming so fast.

Clink. One cup.

The speaker grinned. “We’ve got a tie! Next two men—winner gets the steak dinner!”

Mary’s competitive streak flared hotter.

The next man was young, eager. Mary locked eyes with him, licked her lips slowly, and let one nipple slip free of the cheap uniform. He came almost instantly, hips jerking, a surprised shout leaving his mouth.

Sally countered by uncrossing her legs further and letting the skirt ride all the way up. Her man lasted six seconds.

Then—

Mary’s stomach dropped.

Bill. Her neighbour.

His beady eyes locked onto her exposed chest. She tried to pull the top back into place but only succeeded in smearing lube across already sweaty skin. The cheap fabric betrayed her; the other breast sprang free.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he breathed. “I come to your clinic every day.”

The crowd snickered.

“Look at that wee thing!”

“I thought there would be minimum sizes?”

“Fuck’s sake, put it away!”

Bill’s face crumpled. His already modest cock wilted under the laughter.

Mary grabbed it anyway. “Listen, creep,” she hissed under her breath so only he could hear. “You better come fast. Look at my big tits while I wank your pathetic cock.”

She yanked hard and fast. Bill squeaked. His hips jerked. Mary’s hand became a blur, her heavy breasts bouncing freely, sweat glistening under the stage lights. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder; she recoiled but did not break rhythm. When he came it was as much a surprise to him as to her—a weak, almost apologetic spurt that still managed to stripe her mouth, her chin, and both exposed breasts.

Mary released him with a shove, scraped the mess into a cup with two fingers, and looked at the little man with open disgust.

“You’re nothing but a tiny cock and cum. Pathetic.”

Bill turned toward the crowd of women who were whooping and cheering. Tears filled his eyes as he ran from the stage, one hand trying to shield himself.

The speaker announced, voice bright with forced cheer: “Mary wins!”

Sally’s final man finished moments later. She stood, faced Mary, and offered her sticky hand. Mary shook it. Sally smiled and whispered, “Nice.”

The steakhouse voucher burned in Mary’s pocket like a brand.

Outside, Sally walked toward her car. “You did really well. I’m proud.”

Mary thought for a second, then said, “We should share it. Celebrate.”

Sally hesitated. Then nodded.

“Fuck it. Why not? After all, aren’t we saving the human race?”

---

The Steakhouse – That Night

The restaurant was quiet, mid-week, the kind of place that still used cloth napkins and real candles. Mary and Sally sat across from each other in a corner booth. Both had changed out of the clinic uniforms, though Mary still felt the ghost of dried cum on her skin despite two showers.

Sally ordered the largest steak on the menu and a bottle of red without looking at the prices. Mary ordered the same. The voucher covered it with room to spare.

For a while they ate in relative silence. Then Sally set her knife down.

“You’re getting good at it,” she said. “The performance side. The way you handled Bill was… inspired.”

Mary took a long drink of wine. “I hated every second of it.”

“Did you?” Sally’s eyes were knowing. “Because your nipples were hard the whole time he was on stage, and not just from the air conditioning.”

Mary’s face heated. She didn’t deny it.

Sally leaned forward. “There’s a private after-hours session next week. Disciplinary list only. No cameras. No quotas. Just the nurses who want to push further and the men who signed the extra consent forms. Vesper’s running it. Strap-ons, prolonged prostate work, full verbal. I put both our names down.”

Mary stared at her.

CHOICE 1: Accept the private disciplinary session

Higher intensity. No official record beyond the samples. Opportunity to explore the power that had been growing inside her since the specialist track began.

CHOICE 2: Decline and request a standard rota for the next fortnight

Pull back. Reclaim some distance. Focus on the marriage that was quietly dying at home.

CHOICE 3: Propose a different celebration

Invite Sally back to the house. Let Tom see (or not see) whatever happens. Extremely risky with the sensors.

CHOICE 4: Use the win to request a temporary transfer to training only

Step away from direct extraction for a while. Teach the new civilian recruits instead.

Mary looked at the remains of her steak, at Sally’s open, hungry expression, and at the faint reflection of her own face in the dark window. She made her choice.

---

Route A – Private Disciplinary Session (Primary Expansion)

She accepted.

The following Thursday the clinic was closed to the regular public after 18:00. Only a handful of nurses and a carefully selected list of donors remained. The main lights were dimmed. The lavender burners were turned up. Vesper moved through the rooms like a shadow, offering quiet corrections and the occasional approving nod.

Mary’s assigned room had been rearranged. The chair faced a full-length mirror. Restraints were already open and waiting. A selection of toys and two different strap-on harnesses lay on a steel tray.

Her first donor of the night was a man in his forties who had signed every extra consent form available. He was already naked, already hard, and already on his knees when she entered. Mary locked the door, took her time selecting a harness, and stepped into it. The weight of the silicone cock settled against her hips with a strange sense of rightness.

She did not speak at first. She simply pointed at the bench. He bent. She coated the toy, pressed the head against him, and pushed in with the same steady control Vesper had taught. The sound he made was raw. Mary set a rhythm that was deliberately slower than he wanted and kept it there while one hand reached around to stroke him in time with her thrusts.

She made him wait through two full edges before she allowed him to come. When he did it was with his forehead pressed to the padding and her name—her actual name—falling from his mouth like a prayer he was ashamed of.

Mary collected the sample, cleaned him, and sent him out the rear door without a single soft word.

The second donor was locked and defiant. She spent nearly an hour on him—fingers, toy, strap-on, calm verbal breakdown of every failed private attempt that had earned him the cage. By the time she finished he was shaking and apologising to the floor. The volume was excellent.

Sally appeared in the doorway during the cleanup, flushed and bright-eyed, a smear of lube still on her cheek.

“You’re a natural at this part too,” she said. “Vesper’s watching the feeds. She likes you.”

Mary wiped her hands and said nothing. The heat low in her belly had not faded.

---

Home – Aftermath

Tom was still awake when she returned after midnight. The cage glinted under his clothes. He took one look at her—deeper exhaustion, the faint scent of leather and heavy lube that no shower fully erased—and simply asked, “Bad night or good night?”

Mary sat on the opposite end of the sofa.

“I don’t know anymore.”

They sat in silence for a long time. Eventually Tom reached across the gap and took her hand. His fingers were careful, almost tentative.

“I saw the recruitment footage,” he said quietly. “Someone recorded the demo and it leaked onto the street groups. Bill’s humiliation is already a meme. You’re… very public now.”

Mary closed her eyes. “I know.”

“I’m still proud of you,” Tom said. “Even when it hurts.”

The honesty in his voice made something in her chest crack. She almost told him everything—the private session, the way the power felt, the guilt that sat beside the excitement. Instead she squeezed his hand once and went upstairs alone.

---

The Following Weeks – Escalation and New Pressures

The private sessions became a weekly fixture for the specialist nurses. Mary attended most of them. Her technique sharpened. Her ability to hold a man’s orgasm just out of reach for long minutes became something close to art. Vesper began requesting her specifically for the more difficult cases.

Public recognition intensified. The Fertility Heroes app now listed her in the national top fifty. Strangers still thanked her in shops, but some of the looks had changed—curiosity edged with something hungrier or more resentful. A local radio station asked for an interview. Mary declined.

Bill continued to request her. Sometimes she accepted and used the sessions to systematically dismantle whatever fantasy he still clung to. Sometimes she refused and let another nurse take him. The neighbourhood WhatsApp group had grown viciously amused by his ongoing public failures.

At home the cage cycle continued. Tom’s lock periods lengthened whenever the sensors detected elevated stress or heart-rate patterns that the algorithm flagged as suspicious. On the rare nights the device unlocked, Mary found herself handling him with clinic efficiency. The intimacy that had once existed between them felt further away each time.

Sally, by contrast, seemed to be blooming. She spoke openly about how wet the work made her, how she had started wearing remote-controlled toys under her uniform on quiet shifts, how she was considering applying for the permanent live-in specialist housing the government was quietly offering high performers.

---

Major Choice Point – Six Weeks After the Demonstration

Mary’s tablet chimed with three significant notifications on the same morning:

1. Offer of Permanent Specialist Status

   Full disciplinary and demonstration duties. Significantly higher salary. Priority housing. Requirement to participate in at least two public or semi-public events per month. Bill’s standing request would be automatically prioritised.

2. Request from Tom

   A carefully worded message asking whether they should apply for one of the rare “spousal extraction exemption” trials being quietly tested in a few regions—essentially allowing limited legal relief at home under strict monitoring. Approval rates were low and the scrutiny intense.

3. Internal Flag – Sally

   Sally had nominated Mary as her preferred partner for a new dual-nurse intensive programme. Longer sessions. Shared donors. Higher volume targets. The note from Sally was simple: We work well together. Let’s see how far this goes.

Mary sat in her specialist room before the first donor of the day arrived, the mirror reflecting a woman who looked stronger, harder, and less like the clerical nurse who had once been grateful for no more night shifts.

She could:

• Accept permanent specialist status and lean fully into the power, the public role, and the escalating techniques.

• Pursue the spousal exemption route and attempt to salvage or reinvent the marriage under the system’s eye.

• Accept Sally’s dual-nurse proposal and explore the work as a shared, increasingly intimate partnership.

• Request a temporary step-back to training and assessment duties only, buying time to decide who she was becoming.

• Do none of the above and simply continue the current rota while the pressure built from every direction.

The door indicator light turned green. A restrained donor was being escorted in.

Mary stood, selected her tools for the morning, and made her choice.

---

Continuing Routes Summary

If Permanent Specialist:

Mary’s life becomes the clinic. Public demonstrations grow more elaborate. She develops a reputation that precedes her. Home becomes a place she returns to rather than lives in. The power is real and addictive. The cost is measured in the increasing distance from the woman she used to be and the man still waiting in a cage.

If Spousal Exemption Attempt:

The application process is invasive and humiliating for both of them. Sensors are upgraded. Scheduled home sessions are monitored. Success is partial at best. The marriage is tested in new and unpredictable ways.

If Dual-Nurse with Sally:

Sessions become collaborative. Boundaries blur. What begins as professional efficiency drifts into something neither woman names aloud. The work intensifies. So does everything else.

If Step-Back:

Mary spends months teaching civilian recruits the techniques she once found unthinkable. Watching other women discover the same complicated mix of duty, power, and unwanted arousal forces her to confront her own path more clearly.

---

Present Moment

Mary stands in the specialist room, tools laid out, the next restrained man waiting. Outside the clinic the queues are longer than ever. The news still speaks of record collection day