Henry tossed his backpack to the side and took a seat in his usual room at the clinic and placed the biohazard container onto the table with a loud thump. He unlocked the latches on both sides and turned the lock in the center of the case before opening it to reveal its hidden contents. Two rows of small syringes were laid out in a pristine and uniform manner. He leaned in and quickly checked that each one had its plastic safety seal covering the needle--otherwise he'd have to throw it away.
The room was on the fourth floor of the clinic, on a wing of the building that Henry did not usually work. Rectangular in shape, with a narrow window opposite the door and soft beige paint on every wall, the room contained few items other than the chair Henry sat in: a table in the center of the room that was half taken up by the case of syringes, and a second chair to the side of the table--this was where the patient sits. This occasion was either the eighth or ninth time Henry had been in this room, he could not remember. Sitting for hours in there delivering flu shots to patients made time come to a halt, patients coming and going one by one as if the stream of them never ceased. Most of his patients paid him no mind. A casual 'How you doing?' or 'Thank you' were the most often phrases he'd hear. Otherwise, Henry worked an assembly line of people who remained silent and willing.
The clinic was located in a wealthier area of town. There were plenty of places one could go stand in line, such as a cheap pharmacy, and get a flu shot just as easily, but the residents here were those who'd like to have appointments, not wait in line, and not care about whether or not their insurance would be taken; they could afford it regardless. A number of snobby folk would come through the clinic, and without saying a word to him Henry could decipher their character. Lawyers, executives, and trophy wives made up a large percentage of the clientele. He never complained when the trophy wives came in. Whether or not they had botox in their lips, implants in their breasts, or had a natural beauty untouched by surgery, he would lunge at the opportunity to ogle something that broke up the monotony of the small room.
What made it even more enjoyable was if the patient was scared of shots. More than a few times he'd had a bimbo wife or sassy female executive break character when push came to shove and the needle came out of its plastic sheath. He'd need to hold their hand, or count down from three as they'd quiver in fear. If they closed their eyes, he'd use his own eyes to scan up and down their figures. One time he had even taken out his phone and taken a photo of one blonde housewife's enormous natural tits. He used that photo on occasion if he couldn't sleep. Another time, a beautiful African-American woman had even asked Henry to come sit next to her, so he brought his chair over and put his hand on her thigh to calm her down. Her short skirt meant he got more than a handful of her plump legs.
The most extreme case was when a woman passed out in the chair after being pricked. She was drop-dead gorgeous, a latina with a prominent hourglass figure. Shaking her hands, tapping her on the shoulder, even squeezing her legs did not wake her up. Obviously, Henry had to take advantage of the situation and get a few pictures of her and had a quick grope of her breasts, then sat and waited for her to wake up. He had to be careful to keep his lower half under the table, as his erection was like a steel rod.
That day was a revelation for Henry. Never in his life, even during sex with any of his college hookups, or any girlfriend he ever had, had he been that turned on. For the rest of that clinic, his mind was foggy. When he got home, he whipped out the pictures of her and came harder than he ever had in his life. He needed that to happen again; unfortunately, it relied on his patient passing out, something he could not guarantee to happen when he wanted it to. This time, he would take matters into his own hands.
Opening his backpack, Henry pulled a smaller case out of it and placed it next to the large container of syringes. In a similar fashion he undid the latches on the small case and turned its lock to reveal another set of syringes inside., with a slightly different shape and color than those in the container. At that moment, his first patient opened the door.
The woman's lips were the first thing Henry noticed as she entered the room. At first he thought they were botoxed, but after further inspection they appeared to be naturally plump. They were round and pronounced, as if you could poke them with your finger and they would bounce back at you. They were not so big that you would think they were fake, but at the limit of natural size. Any bigger and you would assume a procedure had taken place. Henry imagined she would give great blowjobs. The second thing he noticed were her breasts: they were obscenely large, practically bursting through her buttoned shirt. The rest of her body was fairly average, with a normal pair of jeans and an average wife's hairdo, but her tits were like nothing he'd ever seen. They jiggled exaggeratedly as she walked towards him. How fortunate, Henry thought, that an opportunity would present itself on the first patient.
"Hello ma'am. Please, fill out this form," he said as he slid a piece of paper and pen across the table. "Would you like the right or left arm?" he asked as she took a seat in the other chair.
"Left arm, please," the woman said, her voice higher than he expected. I guess she isn't that large of a person, Henry thought, it's just her tits that make her look big. She definitely was top-heavy.
The woman silently filled out the form before sliding it back to Henry. He couldn't help but notice how her lips sat on her face; they were perpetually pushed outwards, as if waiting for a kiss, silently begging for something to meet them. Henry would oblige. He reached into the smaller case and pulled out one of the syringes, which was a deep blue in color. "Please pull up your sleeve."
The woman did as she was told, and asked "What's the difference between the shots?" Henry had not prepared for the question. It would be clear to a bystander that the blue liquid in his hand was different from the clear shots in the larger case. He hadn't had time to hide the rest of the equipment. "Oh, um, this is just the most recent batch. Those are just here as reserve; you get the best version we have," he said, lying through his teeth. He couldn't think of anything better on the spot.
"Oh, awesome!" the woman said. From her response, it was clear to Henry that she was the same as every other bimbo who came through this clinic; likely the wife of some CEO or CFO who liked big tits and small brains. Although tits weren't his favorite, he would enjoy her just as much as her husband did. He wiped her arm with an antiseptic wipe before sticking her with the needle. "Oh!" she said involuntarily, as he hit the plunger and sent the blue fluid into her bloodstream. He pulled the needle free and sat back, quickly checking his watch to see the time. Within only a few seconds, he could see her eyes getting heavy..
Indeed, what was entering her bloodstream was not a flu shot. Henry had concocted his own creation which was being delivered intravenously to the gorgeous woman. Having graduated summa cum laude with a Chemistry degree from one of the top universities in the nation, he had ample experience synthesizing and testing the most powerful and vile of humanity's chemical arsenal. This specific blend he had made at home was a weak anesthetic: the subject would lose consciousness within a few seconds, but maintain normal breathing and bodily function. Effectively, that meant the woman would 'pass out' artificially, long enough that Henry could do as he pleased.
