>Over the course of a short conversation you learn a few things about "IRyS"—you're not sure how she can tell that you're 'saying it wrong' when you don't pronounce it according the capitalization on her info sheet, but she can—namely that she's a 'nephilim', which is like a mix between a demon and an angel. It explains the horns, at least—and the pointed ears. She also calls herself an embodiment of hope, which… isn't the *weirdest* thing you've heard, but it's up there.
>You also grasp a bit more about her personality—which is essential if you're going to provide proper relief therapy. She's bubbly, excitable, even in the face of this cold clinical environment. And she keeps trying to ask questions about *you*—what it's like working here, how you're doing personally, et cetera. Geetting a read off of her was easy. She cared, about everybody—you were no exception.
>You always hated patients who 'cared'. Hopefully, this one would be different. Ha. Hopefully.
>"Alright," you tell her, setting the clipboard aside. "I think it's about time we get to the treatment part of our session." You give her a smile you don't feel—the first night is always the hardest. Nothing to play off of, no knowledge of where to touch or what kind of kinks she enjoyed. Still, you were a professional.
>"Ah. Okay!" She hesistates for just a second, but pushes through it, a blush rising on her face. "If, uh, if you're ready." You sigh internally, showing another smile. She returns it, sharp canines glistening. Probably liked biting, given the other girls with sharp teeth you'd treated. "I don't want to rush."
>"It's fine," you tell her truthfully. This was your first session of the night—while you knew that a lot of your patients got a bit pent up if they missed a couple sessions, this girl couldn't drain you on her own. Not with the stamina boosters, at least.
>"If you say so!" She believes you without pressing for more, brushing hair from her shoulder. You begin to unbutton your jacket, and her blush rises a few degrees, suddenly impressed with the fact that this was *real*.
>To her credit, she doesn't balk—and you think you catch a hint of her licking her lips, hunger in her eyes. Then you turn away—giving the nephilim space to do things at her own pace. You'd seen a lot of naked people in your career, and a lot of people had seen you naked. Shame was beyond you, now, but this was just to make her feel less uncomfortable.
>Her outfit was… complicated, and didn't come off easily, it seemed. You weren't looking, but you could hear the telltale sound of struggle and frustration. You set your jacket aside, pulling off your shirt, and a few hissed whispers add flavor to the situation the woman likely having trouble thanks to her nerves.
>Still, eventually she gets it off as you turn, folding the dress up along with a pair of long gloves and stockings set atop it—sitting there in her underwear, a white push up bra and plain panties. Interesting choice, you think to yourself—a lot of the girls choose to dress up, at least for the first night, to ease their own nerves. To try to seem more confident, sexier, in control.
>Objectively, she had a nice body—tanned skin and tight curves, hints of muscluature poking through at times, but still soft enough to provide a feast for the eyes.
>IRyS herself still seemed a a mite nervous—well, sort of. Her expression warred between embarrassed and horny—not unusual, honestly, but it still made your job harder.
>"You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with," you tell her softly, as you sit down on the edge of the cot. "If you want to leave, you always can—you're not being held here. If you don't want to go through with this, you can tell me to leave, and I will. Nobody will judge you—you won't be punished." Company policy, of course, as you grab her hand—she was oddly warm, her sharp nails digging into your fingers. ""But be aware that this is a prescribed treatment. I am a professional, trained to give relief to you and others suffering from similar issues. These acts do *not* represent a romantic relationship between us. I am not your boyfriend, or your lover. I am a specialist, and this is my job."
>She swallows, her eyes running down your body. You kept in shape, of course—a certain level of fitness was required, to perform at such a high level. And, well… you had your vanity, too, of course. Still—you snap your fingers, bringing her to attention.
>"Do you understand?" you ask—a final countermeasure, after… well, everybody missed Clark. He was a great guy, and it was a rotten way to go. "I need you to respond before we continue."
>"Huh? Oh, right! Yeah, duh, of course." She laughs nervously, as if she hadn't thought of anything like that before now. Most of them didn't—but a few caught feelings anyway, after a few weeks. That was always awkward..
>"Great. Then we're ready to begin," you tell her, giving her a beaming smile. You'd gotten… depressingly good at faking those.
