Wednesday.
The clock on Dr. Anil Johnson's desk blinked 8:12 a.m., its red digits casting a faint glow across the large, but cluttered office at Home Away From Home. The room filled with harsh sterile light, the blinds half-drawn to allow scenes of a bustling city to slice through the haze of cigarette smoke curling from an ashtray perched on the window sill--technically against policy, but Johnson didn't give a shit; he wrote the rules. At 45, the Indian doctor, intentionally Americanized with a home-grown sounding last name, carried the weight of his father's legacy as the aging owner of the Home Away From Home corporation, a dwindling network of nursing facilities that had been bleeding money and lawsuits since Anil took the helm. His dark hair was slicked back, thinning at the temples, and his white coat hung open over a rumpled dress shirt, the top button undone to reveal a patch of chest hair. He leaned back in his creaky chair, one leg propped on a filing cabinet, eyes fixed on the crystal clear security footage flickering across his monitor.
On screen, Megan knelt beside Marvin's tub, her blonde hair spilling loose, her scrub top long discarded, perfect C-cup tits bare and glistening with water as she worked his thick, nine-inch cock with both hands. The 72-year-old Black patient groaned, his 315-pound frame sloshing in the shallow bath, his meaty paw gripping the edge as lower her head to his crotch, suds inches from her face. The timestamp read Tuesday, March 18, 2025--yesterday morning--and the footage caught every second: her naive focus, his shuddering release, thick ropes of cum shooting into her wanting mouth, dripping down her chin as she started to twist from her own orgasm. Her hand increasing in speed between her partial clothed legs. Johnson's lips curled into a smirk, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat as he tapped the ash from his cigarette.
"Fuck me, look at this," he said, his accent clipping the words, his tone a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Dumb as a bag of hammers, this one. Topless, suckin' off a fat old bastard like Marvin--and she just takes it. Christ, Kevin, where'd you find her?"
Kevin, sprawled in the chair across the desk, grinned wide, his bearded face flushed with pride. At 45 and 300 pounds, the nurse shift manager filled the seat like a boulder, his faded polo straining over his gut, a coffee stain blooming on the collar. His rough hands rested on his knees, thick fingers drumming a lazy rhythm as he watched the screen, eyes glinting with a predator's glee. "She's been around, let's just say the incentives have really resonated with her," he rasped, voice gravelly from years of barking orders. "A nurse with a bleeding heart, too stupid to say no. Took a bit to break her in, but once she stopped whining about the gropes? She's opening up quick. Look at her--doesn't even blink when he unloads in her mouth, even getting off to it."
Johnson snorted, pausing the video on a frame of Megan's cum-streaked lips, her bra dangling uselessly in the tub's murky water. "Perfect little slut," he muttered, zooming in, the 4k image sharpening on her flushed cheeks. "Young--twenty-something?--and sexy as hell. Beats the shit outta those uptight bitches who lawyer up every time we don't boot the old geezer who grabs her ass. Smart ones sue us dry; this one? Too dumb to know she's got rights worth a damn."
Kevin nodded and leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. "That's the play, Doc. She's our lightning rod now--keeps the horny old fuckers focused. Marvin, Bart, John, Carl--all the hard-to-handle pervs, secure wing and regular. They're too busy drooling over her to bother the other girls. No more lawsuits from the 'smart' nurses crying harassment. She's a goddamn pressure valve--sucks 'em off, lets 'em cop a feel, and then peace returns to Home Away from Home."
Johnson flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, exhaling a plume of smoke that hung heavy in the dim light. "These new security cams are a fucking blessing with her," he said, tapping the screen. "She didn't even know we had 'em 'til what, last week? Now she's posing like it's porn. Look at that--probably texted her fiancé take pic she just took with Marvin's dick."
Kevin laughed, a sharp bark that echoed off the peeling walls. "Yeah, she even mentioned that her man is into it, she's clueless--told her it's all part of the gig now. 'Patient care,' I said. She ate it up--thinks she's climbing the ladder. Got her slated for the worst of 'em full-time now--sexed-up geezers who'd hump a doorknob if it smiled at 'em. Can't wait to see how far she takes it. And for what, $30k more a year? That's a tenth of a single one of the half a dozen lawsuits we have been pilling up each year."
Johnson's smirk faded, his eyes narrowing as he swiveled to face Kevin fully, the chair squeaking under his shift. "Speaking of climbing the ladder--tell me she signed that contract, Kev. She's already topless, blowing these bastards with your pep talk--she's in deep. I don't want this spiraling before we've got her locked down. Her signature waves her rights to lawsuits, gives us legal cover for her 'duties.' Hell--" he chuckled darkly, leaning back--"I'd love a crack at her myself. Legal blowjob, no disclosure bullshit, 'cause she can't squeal with that ink on paper."
Kevin's grin faltered, just for a beat, his thick fingers pausing mid-drum. "Uh, yeah, about that," he said, scratching his beard, his tone dipping into unease. "She hasn't signed yet. Took it with her--said she'd bring it back signed tomorrow night, her Thursday night shift."
Johnson froze, cigarette halfway to his lips, his dark eyes hardening into slits. "What the fuck did you just say?" His voice dropped, low and venomous, the room's air thickening with his sudden rage. "She took it? Are you fucking retarded, Kevin? What if someone with a brain reads that thing?"
Kevin shrank back slightly, palms up in defense, his bulk shifting awkwardly in the chair. "Whoa, Doc, chill--I fucked up, alright? She caught me off guard. I figured she'd sign right there, but she was all, 'Oh, I'll look it over tonight with my man, he's a lawyer,' and I didn't push 'cause I was too busy staring at her tits on the Carl footage. But, I did tell her she cannot let him peak at it, a conflict of interest, you know--she bought it. She's dumb as shit, trust me, it'll be fine. Worst case scenario, the guy gets a peek, and he's into it, she asks for the Crazy Carl video for him."
"Fine?" Johnson slammed his fist on the desk, the ashtray rattling, ash spilling onto a stack of patient files. "You let a contract--our contract, with all that 'testicular health' and 'exposure integral' bullshit--walk out the door with her? The guy is still a fucking lawyer, blood sucking like all the rest, you moron." Suddenly, his head cocked as a memory popped into his head, muttering loudly, "Oh fuck. Fuck. Fucking Christ. Kevin! You know what she fucking told me this past Christmas party? That scrawny little prick she introduced to me, he works at fucking Melvin Marvin Maxwell! You fucking idiot! The fucking law firm that's been up MY ass with this malpractice suit? I shelled out millions to our sniveling lawyers to get the key evidence tossed, and now you've handed them a goddamn golden ticket!"
Kevin's face paled, his jaw dropping as the dots connected too late. "Shit, Doc, I didn't know--I've never met the guy! She said he's a lawyer, yeah, but she really bought into the crap about conflict of interest, told her not to show him. She nodded like a bobblehead--swear she won't talk."
Johnson stood, towering over the desk, his cigarette crushed into the ashtray with a vicious twist. "You fucking idiot," he roared, veins bulging in his neck. "That firm walked away with their tail between their legs from the last depo--if they get this, we're fucked. Not just civil--criminal. They'll have my ass in cuffs. Fix this, Kevin--now. Get that contract back, signed, or I'll make sure you never work in healthcare again!"
Kevin scrambled to his feet, hands raised, sweat beading on his brow. "I'm sorry, Doc--I'll handle it, I swear. She's too stupid to spill, and I'll get it tomorrow night. Promise."
"Get it sooner! Now, get the fuck outta my office," Johnson snarled, pointing at the door. "Don't talk to me 'til you've got that signature in hand. Go!"
Kevin bolted, the door banging shut behind him, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. He slumped into his own office--a cramped box two doors down, cluttered with charts and half-dead plants--and dropped into his chair, muttering, "Fucking prick." Johnson was the real asshole here, he thought, rubbing his temples. The lawsuit? That was on Anil--prescribing Viagra to geezers with known heart conditions just to watch 'em paw at the nurses, pop boners in the tub, giggling like a perv while Kevin cleaned up the mess. That damn patient he almost killed--some 80-year-old with a weak heart--keeled over from a second heart attack last year after taking his meds, and the hospital docs flagged it as a glaring oversight. The guy's family lawyered up, and now Johnson acted like everyone else is the problem. "If they only knew the half of it," he grumbled, "Anil'd be fucked ten ways to Sunday."
The door creaked open, and Sarah, one of the managerial staff--a wiry woman in her thirties with a clipboard and a permanent frown--poked her head in. "Hey, Kev, got a new intake--hospital dumped him on us, no beds over there. Lowlife, no money, no family, government's footing it at least. It says here, concussion, minor brain swelling, some speech and cognitive glitches, probably temporary from a recent injury. Our care team stationed at the hospital heard from NYC Care that he qualifies for long-term stay here. Where we sticking him?"
Kevin sighed, snatching the chart from her hands, scanning the scribbled intake notes. "Name's Tyrone Williams, 58, male, Black, presumably homeless--found unconscious, head laceration, facial bruise. Likely assaulted, mild impairment for now, recovery likely." He smirked faintly--58, huh, just how Crazy Carl found his way here, fits the profile of one our typical pervs. "Stick him in secure wing, Room 12-B. Don't know what we're dealing with yet--street trash could be a loose cannon."
Sarah nodded, jotting it down. "Got it. Secure wing it is." She ducked out, leaving Kevin alone again. He pulled out his phone with settling nerves, thumbs hovering over the screen. He thought for a brief moment then started typing a text to Megan--first time she would receive such from him, "Hey Megan, need you for a night shift tonight--roster's thin." After a brief thought, he sent another, "Time and a half for you, plus tomorrow's shift. Dr. Johnson himself said you're a star, climbing fast, someone we can count on." Replaying the seriousness of the situation in his head, he fires of the final, and most important one, "Oh, and that contract wasn't supposed to leave--bring it back, please? Signed."
---
Megan trudged down the sidewalk toward her apartment, the late March breeze nipping at her bare legs, her warm skirt--fresh from the dryer--swishing against her thighs. The navy fabric hugged her hips, still toasty from the laundromat's heat, a stark contrast to the damp chill clinging to her blouse from the morning's drizzle. Her blonde waves spilled loose, catching the sunlight filtering through the gray city haze, and she hummed softly, replaying the bizarre scene she'd just left at Raj's rundown laundromat.
