Chapter 3: The Night Shift Surprise
The cafeteria’s warm, cum-thick haze clung to Bambi like a second skin as she stumbled back into the main hallway. Her uniform blouse was misbuttoned. A stray, pearly strand had dried in her platinum hair, cracking when she touched it. She felt spectacularly used, and a giddy smile refused to leave her lips.
The hallway, in contrast, was a tunnel of quiet decay. Flickering fluorescent bulbs cast a sickly pallor over the linoleum, worn to a dull sheen in a path down the center. The air was cooler, carrying the scent of industrial disinfectant that failed to mask the underlying notes of mothballs, stale urine, and that ever-present, sweet musk. Faded photographs of stern-looking women in bygone fashions lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow her.
Her clipboard, suddenly thrust into her hands by a passing nurse with a bored expression, listed her evening duties: “Medication Round - West Wing. 50 Rooms.” A simple checklist.
Room 101 was first. The door was already ajar. Inside, propped up in a floral armchair, was a woman so thin she seemed folded from parchment. “Come in, dear,” she wheezed, her voice like rustling leaves. “My arthritis is acting up. Can’t reach my… slippers.”
Bambi stepped in, the door clicking shut behind her. There were no slippers. The woman’s robe fell open. What sprung forth was not a limb, but a long, thin member, dark and pulsing. It slapped against the faded chintz of the chair. “Special attention for the new girl,” the woman whispered, grinning with grey gums.
Bambi didn’t hesitate. She sank to her knees, the linoleum cool through her stockings. She took the old woman in her mouth, working with a diligent, slurping rhythm. The woman sighed, fingers carding through Bambi’s hair. “Good… good girl. Just like the cafeteria. Heard you were a trouper.”
A hot, thin stream hit the back of Bambi’s throat. She swallowed dutifully.
Before she could even stand, a gnarled hand had her by the wrist. “My turn,” a voice cackled from the connecting bathroom. Another resident, naked and hunched, her skin a map of brown spots. She was bent over the sink. “Backdoor’s open for business, sweetcheeks. Been backed up for days.”
Bambi, still tasting the first, was pulled forward. The smell here was intensely, overwhelmingly fecal. She didn’t flinch. She pressed her face into the wrinkled, presented flesh, her tongue probing. A long, rumbling fart greeted her, warm and moist against her cheeks. She lapped harder. The woman groaned, a sound of profound relief. “Oh, that’s the spot. You’re a plumber’s dream.”
Room 102. The door opened as she approached. A television blared a game show. “Mute that, would you, honey?” A massive woman, easily three hundred pounds, lay supine on the bed, a mammoth stomach rising and falling. Between her swollen legs, a thick, stubby cock lay against her thigh like a resting sausage. “Can’t bend. You’ll have to do all the work.”
Bambi climbed onto the bed, the springs screaming. She lowered her mouth. It was like trying to swallow a doorknob. The woman’s hips bucked upward with shocking force, ramming the thickness deep. Bambi gagged, tears streaming. The release was sudden and volcanic, filling her mouth to overflowing. She choked, pulling back, and a cascade of hot, bitter seed splashed onto the woman’s stomach and the floral bedspread.
“Oops,” the woman chuckled, not sounding sorry at all. “Clean that up, now. Don’t be wasteful.”
Dazed, Bambi licked the spillage from the woman’s folds and the stiff fabric.
Room 103. Room 104. Room 105.
It became a blur of opening doors and parting robes. A gauntlet of grotesque generosity. One woman demanded Bambi catch her ejaculation in a china teacup, then drink it like fine brew. Another, smelling of liniment and decay, farted directly into Bambi’s open, panting mouth as she orgasmed, the dual gusts making Bambi’s eyes water.
The fluids piled up inside her. By Room 118, her stomach, stretched and sloshing, rebelled. In the middle of servicing a twinset-wearing matron whose member was oddly knotted, Bambi felt a violent surge. She turned her head and vomited a torrent of half-digested cum and cafeteria green beans onto the shag carpet.
The matron looked down, nonplussed. “Ungrateful little thing,” she tutted. “That was Eunice’s from 107. She’ll be hurt.” She yanked Bambi back by her hair. “Finish what you started.”
Bambi did, the taste of bile and salt mingling.
The hallway seemed to stretch, to warp. Doors creaked open ahead of her, beckoning. Whispers followed her. “New girl’s here…” “Heard she takes it all…” “My bowels need a good roto-rootering…”
She lost count. Her body was a vessel, endlessly filled and overfilled. Her jaw ached. Her throat was raw. A constant drip leaked from her lips. She moved on autopilot, from one damp, scented room to the next, from one gasping, grateful elder to another. The clipboard, forgotten, dragged on the floor.
She was in Room 149, ass-up on a plastic-covered recliner, her face buried deep in a woman’s behind, when a sharp click echoed in the hallway. A door at the very end, marked “ADMINISTRATOR,” swung open.
The relentless creak of doors ceased. A hush fell.
A new figure stood silhouetted in the bright light of the office. Tall, severe, with a steel-grey bun and a spine straight as a ruler. She held a pristine clipboard.
“Miss Rae,” the woman’s voice cut through the moist, heavy air, sharp as a scalpel. “Your rounds appear to have lacked… systematic documentation. My office. Now. We need to discuss your performance review.”
The woman in the recliner beneath Bambi gave her rump a parting slap. “You’re in for it now, sugar. That’s The Warden.”
Bambi pulled herself free, shakily standing. She wiped her mouth with the back of a soiled hand, a fresh, nervous thrill cutting through the stupor. A performance review. She wobbled toward the stark light, a trail of unspeakable fluids glistening on the linoleum behind her.