Monday, March 16, 2015
Jeremy Holcomb's trembling index finger finally managed to push the doorbell button. Sweat was pouring down his brow. He didn't know why these first meetings made him so nervous. It wasn't the homecoming queen he was calling on, just another run-of-the-mill dying old lady.
Also, he still wasn't used to these solo calls. He usually let his partner do all the talking, but with healthcare reform, they could no longer afford to send two hospice nursing techs on each of these visits. Besides, they really didn't need two sets of eyes. It wasn't as if anyone was going to rape a 107-year-old lady, at least not anybody in their right mind. As for the Kevorkian effect, shit happens. Everybody looks in the other direction. It was the new way of the world. No one should be subjected to eternal pain. Plus, his employer's actuarial calculations indicated that it was both cheaper and easier to treat a dead patient than a living one. Thus, no harm, no foul.
The old biddy finally buzzed Jeremy in. As he opened the door, his nasal sinuses were immediately assaulted by the smells of potpourri and Pine Sol, the undeniable aromas of death. Jeremy stepped into Daisy Watkins' dimly lit parlor/living room, closing the door behind him. She was seated in a wheelchair of some sort in the center of the room, facing Jeremy. It was much too dark to make out her features.
"Ms. Wa-Watkins? I'm J-Jeremy, your new hospice t-tech."
"Well, don't jus' stand there in the dark, sonny! Come over heah so Ah can see you."
Jeremy took a few steps in the direction of the wheelchair-ridden old crone, and accepted the arthritically-gnarled claw she offered him. He even gave the old witch a slight bow and kissed her proffered talon. This was after all the Deep South, and the old lady probably still fancied herself a debutante at an antediluvian ball. She gestured toward the chair beside her wheelchair, and he sat down.
"Well, mah o mah, aren't you the gallant one," she said. "Much bettah than that last tech, Cindy-what's her-name."
Cindy Perlmutter was one prime time sanctimonious bitch, Jeremy thought. However, he just smiled at Ms. Watkins; one had to be a team player.
"You don't need to call me Miss Watkins," the old bitty said. "Daisy will do jus' fine."
"OK, Daisy, may we get st-started?"
"Why mos' certainly, my han'some young beau," she said, holding out her arthritic (but nonetheless painted and bejeweled) index finger to receive the pulse-ox clip. The old lady sure knew the routine. Jeremey took her temperature with an ear probe. When he asked her for her age, she told him 71. Based on the birthdate they had on file, she was a mere 28. Must be a typo, Jeremy thought. He would chase down the error later.
As he helped her to the scale, she wrapped her arm around his like a Southern belle being introduced at the cotillion ball. Her fingers ran up and down Jeremy's bicep in (possibly feigned) admiration of his strength.
When he got her back in the wheelchair, he did a quick blood sugar stick in her left index finger. Her pulse was 93, a little high for a homebound old lady. Then he got out the sphygmometer to measure her blood pressure. She bent down as he put the cuff around her arm. She had the mammoth breasts that many old ladies seem to acquire late in life. She also wore the ruffled low-cut nightgown that such ladies invariably seemed to sport, and her humongous breasts looked as though they were about to spill out of her gown altogether. She leaned against him as he velcroed the cuff in place, and he could feel the softness of those ancient hooters against his arm. A few beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and he could feel the pounding of his heart.
Daisy could feel his admiration, the virgin desire in his eyes as they roved over her gigantic tits. His pulse rate now dwarfed hers, and his fingers were trembling as he removed the cuff from her arms. "150 over 91," he told her. "A little h-high."
You ain't seen nothing yet, kid.
"Go ahead," she told him. "You been starin' at 'em long enough. You can touch 'em. They won't bite cha."
"I could lose my j-job," he told her in a trembling voice.
"Hell kid, yo' a hospice tech, fo' Christ's sake. McDonald's pays more that what y'all make. Have you evah even felt a woman's breast?"
Jeremy shook his head. Never felt a girl up, or kissed one's lips, or held one's hand. His whole body was shaking, and his virgin shaft was already at full salute.
"Ah see that you want to, very much," Daisy said, her eyes indicating the raised flagpole beneath his standard issue hospital blues. "Go ahead, kid. Ah won't tell anyone. Ah need it worse than you do. Go on, you can touch 'em. Ah don't mind. They're smooth and soft. Just like a young girl's, only much biggah. It ain't like our necks, honey. They don't feel like turkey wattle; they're as soft as a baby's skin. And they ain't like our faces. Ain't no liver spots under this gown, honey."
Faced with Jeremy's trembling reluctance, she grabbed his hands and placed them on her boobs. "Now don'cha be such a scaredy-cat. Go on, work 'em, child. Work 'em hard, and work 'em good."
Jeremy grabbed one of Daisy's melons in each hand and squeezed them as hard as he could. He rotated them around, and he could feel Daisy's hand travelling up his leg. He hoped he was not going to come right here and now. He could do better than that. He knew he could, but it wasn't going to be easy. It was worse than a full bladder. The urge took over his whole body. Nothing in the universe was more important right now than pouring his seed deeply within Miss Daisy Watkins. He looked down at her soft white hair as her hand climbed further on his leg, almost reaching his tortured balls.
"Take 'em out," she commanded, "or Ah'll stop this." Her hand went motionless on his thigh, and Jeremy immediately grabbed her boobs and liberated them from the prison of her flannel nightgown. They were luscious, tipped with fully-erect rose-colored nipples and bigger than Jeremy had ever imagined boobs could be.
Her hand resumed its journey up Jeremy's shaking thigh. "Keep movin' 'em, honey. Squeeze 'em and move 'em hard."
Jeremy obliged, squeezing her mega-knockers as hard as he could, grinding them as her hajj-walking fingers reached the mecca of his balls. He gasped as her fingers raked his balls like a kid running a stick along a picket fence. He hoped her hand would go inside his thin hospital pants, but it was not to be. Instead, she ran the fingernails of her right hand up and down the length of his yearning, but clothed shaft, her thumb pausing to torment the sensitive skin that lay just below its hood. This was the moment he had dreamed of, day after day, year after year.
Daisy stroked the hood of his cock, running her fingertips from his phallic eye and down the hood over and over again. Jeremy strained, begging for release, but each time her teasing hands denied him. His boner was like a tent pole in his hospital blues, and she ran her fingers up and down its length, prolonging his agony. He squeezed her boobs as hard as he could, and she whispered, "Suck 'em baby. Suck 'em lahk there is no tomorrow. Drink me, baby."
Jeremy obligingly grabbed her left boob and lowered his mouth upon it. He ran his tongue around her erect nipple, and grabbed and squeezed her right boob with his other hand. She gasped in pleasure and began to rake her fingernails up and down the length of Jeremy's throbbing shaft.
He closed his mouth over her boob and began sucking it as hard as he could. Sucking it as if she were the good mother he had been denied throughout his life. She grabbed his head and pressed it against her as hard as she could, as if he were the last and only connection to this physical world she was leaving. Her right hand closed around Jeremy's tortured cock, still encased in his hospital pants, and she began pumping him in earnest.
