Stripped naked and burning up with fever, I lay face down on the bed while the lactation consultant pinned my legs beneath him. His face was twisted with raw, predatory hunger.
He'd promised a professional massage to relieve my engorgement—but this? This wasn't therapy. It was shameful. Thrilling.
Stripped bare and fever-hot, I lay on my stomach as the lactation consultant held my legs trapped under his weight. His expression was wild, almost feral.
He was supposed to be here for a simple massage to ease the painful swelling. But this position? It was degrading. And electrifying.
Sophia Laurent had just given birth to a baby girl.
Everyone was offering congratulations, but only I knew the real agony I was going through.
My milk wasn't flowing right.
Every time my daughter tried to nurse, pain shot through me like live wires.
Sometimes, there was even blood.
When my best friend heard what I was going through, she insisted I see a lactation consultant.
She swore by him—said he'd worked miracles for her when she was in the same situation.
She sent over his contact, and I booked a home appointment immediately.
Why? Because engorgement is torture.
The clogged ducts throbbed constantly. Even the softest touch against my skin made me flinch.
Getting dressed had turned into a special kind of hell.
Two days later, the consultant showed up right on time at 3 PM.
When I opened the door, I froze.
I hadn't expected a man.
Julian Roscente stood there—early thirties, sharp features, dressed in clean white linen. Much younger than I'd pictured.
Doubt hit me hard. Could someone this young—and male—really know what he was doing?
Then there was the… intimacy of it all. Letting a stranger, a man, touch me there? The thought alone was humiliating.
He must have sensed my hesitation. With a calm, easy smile, he said, "Mrs. Laurent, I'm fully certified. Trained under masters for over twenty years. Your relief is guaranteed."
"If you're uncomfortable, I understand completely. Though the deposit is non-refundable."
I clenched my jaw and let him in.
Private lactation consultants don't come cheap. That deposit alone was a chunk of money.
But my engorgement was unbearable. I'd already seen countless specialists. Nothing worked.
My friend couldn't stop raving about Julian's skills—talked about him like he was some kind of miracle worker.
If he were dangerous, she would never have sent me his way.
I relaxed a little. Just a little.
Motherhood had turned me paranoid. No wonder my husband said I'd been so on edge lately.
Julian stepped inside and slipped on disposable shoe covers without me even asking.
Then he turned. "Mrs. Laurent, where would you prefer—?"
He didn't finish, but I knew what he meant.
Logically, I'd already decided to trust him. But now, faced with the reality, fear prickled under my skin.
My husband was at work. Only my newborn daughter was home, asleep.
I hesitated between the bedroom and the living room—and went with the living room.
Julian might not look dangerous, but I wasn't taking any chances.
If something felt off, I could run straight out the front door.
He just nodded, calm as ever, and laid a sterile pad on the couch. After washing his hands, he gestured toward it.
"Please lie down."
I took a deep breath, slipped off my shoes, and slowly lowered myself onto the pad.
My best friend's male lactation consultant said he was here to help.
But was this really professional care—or something much, much darker?