Nexus Facility 5: Nurse Pump's first rounds

Hi studs and sluts,

Next part of nexus - hope you enjoy!

There will be another 2 submissions this month, middle and end. 

XXX

‘Well, you've shown everything you needed to in order to convince me that it's worth taking a chance and throwing you in the deep end,’ Brooke said, instantly hoping she wouldn’t regret the accommodation. Demi seemed like a handful but a handful that was also another pair of hands.

That was all she cared about at the moment.

‘Oh my god thank you Brooke I'm so excited!!!’ Demi squealed, clapping her hands together excitedly.

‘However,’ Brooke said, ‘you are on probation, so stick close to me, do exactly as I say, and absolutely no wandering off alone.'

‘Yes sir!’ said Demi with a mock Stern Face, firing off a practice salute.

‘Alright,’ Brooke said, not entirely sure if her huge-titted charge was being serious or not, ‘well, fall out… dismissed… look, you're not in the army now, get it? We're now in the business of saving lives. Actually, that’s not strictly true either. What are we doing. How to explain.’

Brooke sat back and looked as serious as she could.

‘I mean, look, what we've got here... These guys... This is a mixture of a nursing home, remand centre, treatment facility, research Institute and... Well, see for yourself. Whatever experiences you’ve had so far babe… well, I promise you, this will be different.’

Demi saluted again, this time seriously.

‘And up until now, it's all been run by yours truly,’ Brooke continued, ‘which, when you start to get an idea of the amount of inmates - I mean - residents, here, is no small achievement believe you me.’

‘But nurse Fuckey, this place is enormous!’ Brooke said, ‘how have you been managing to run it all on your own?’

‘With incredible skill.’ Brooke said. ‘Now come on.’

***

‘Now,’ Brooke said, as a Demi closed the door behind them in what looked to her to be a locker, changing room and shower area, ‘appropriate dress...’

‘Oh my god I know this!!!’ Demi interjected excitedly, ‘this is the part where we get dressed up really slutty so that we can tease the shit out of all the hot guys!!!’

‘Wrong,’ said Brooke, ‘this is the part where we get dressed up really safely so we can treat the hell out of all the sick guys.’

Demi’s face fell.

‘Sick and old,’ Brooke corrected herself.

‘Urgh… That is so not hot.’

‘I thought you were from a military background?’ Brooke cocked an eyebrow. ‘do-or-die, blood and thunder, res non verba style thing?’

‘Totally,’ Demi said, ‘I’m used to guys with a little more… spunk.’

Brooke was tempted to make an incredibly good pun, but instead decided to push her head inside the locker and poke around: ‘I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Now. How about this?’

Brooke withdrew a costume from the locker and presented it to the newly-eighteen-year-old girl.

‘It’s made for me but I think it’ll fit.’

Brooke brandished the outfit on a hanger. Several articles dangled off it in white stretchy latex. There was a rubber cap with a red ‘X’ on the front of it, a matching white tiny latex rubber apron designed to be tied around her waists, fingerless latex white skintight matching gloves and stockings… and that was it.

‘Like I said, it’s both safe and practical. Obviously latex is wipe-clean. So easy with messes and stains. The apron won’t cover your pussy but if you’re worried about modesty I’ve got some matching red tape somewhere and we can stick some X’s over your nipples.’

Demi slapped a hand over her mouth.

‘I personally won’t wear anything less than an eight inch heel, but you may have your own preferences. It’s either thigh length boots or stripper sandals though. We’re underfunded so it’s either one or the other.’

Demi took her hand from over her mouth.

‘I think I’m gonna like it here.’

XXX

The events of the day had pushed Ian into as close as he'd ever been to the doldrums. He was never ever actually going to get into the doldrums while he was working at the school. That was impossible. Life was just too good. However, Mr Cross’s somewhat bizarre seizure earlier in the day had prompted a series of somewhat gloomy thoughts which intruded upon Ian's normally sunny disposition.

There was the business about melons. There was the odd, cryptic, unusually vivid imagery that Mr Cross had employed in order to communicate his plight. And even though his older colleague had been both raucous and ebullient in his spirited exclamation of the word melons, there was at the same time, the disturbing instant of lucidity with which the classics teacher had imparted his singular truth.

They’re taking our brains out with a melon baller.

One scoop at a time.

Ian reflected on Mr Cross’s mysterious pronouncement. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have paid that much heed to what the old kook was cackling on about. Quite often, male staff at the school spouted an enormous amount of incoherent nonsense, for incredibly obvious reasons. Once you got past some of the most self-evident ones - Diamond Gazongas is a fucking cheap bimbo whore, Diamond Gazongas is a perfect slut, is a fuck puppet, blew me like Vesuvius (to use one of the erstwhile Classics teacher’s exact epithets) - things rarely needed decoding.

Ian didn't know who ‘they’ were. He didn't know what the reference to brains and melon ballers signified. But that was immaterial. The look of total sincerity on Mr Cross's face was seared into his mind. Something was up.

It had put him off his stride all day. He was uncommonly discombobulated. Most of all, his absurdly attractive, bimbo whore girlfriend with absolutely huge cans Laura Hart had noticed it.

He'd been out of sorts in the meetings that had been scheduled for the early afternoon. While Ian's teaching responsibilities had grown as more and more of his male colleagues had been taken ill, gone on Sabbatical or become otherwise indisposed, he was still expected to fulfil his duties in terms of attending more of the public facing events.

He was, usual, a victim of his own unusual success and talent. Almost instantly, following his arrival at the school as a supply teacher, the school’s marketing department had issued a special commemorative issue of the alumni magazine. Lovingly rendered, on gorgeous glossy paper, the edition had the school's masthead, the massive, creamy, dripping words: ‘Finally - 18 inches!!!’ in vivid headline script, and had the single image, Ian's vast, hugely hard dick pointing straight upwards, printed with a specially embossed type of paper so that the contours of the veins that traced across the surface of his immense, ragingly hard and glistening fuck pipe were in relief and could be stroked by running one’s finger across it. Either side of the dick were Miss Hart and Miss Taylor’s faces, Miss Hart licking the tip and Miss Taylor gasping performatively with her hand over her mouth.

It was a rather crude marketing gambit, but it worked. Ian's pussy-crushing, ass annihilating, record breaking fuckstick had every ex-student of the school cursing their luck that no male member (of staff) had ever sported a foot and a half long schlong while they were in attendance. Understandably, a good amount of these class-A fuckdolls, that the school had honed into a breed of super-whorish cock-engulfing vixens felt need to revisit their alma mater to see how the old place was holding up in their absence.

Old girls were flooding back to catch a glimpse of, and hopefully get a ride on, Ian's dick. And while he was only too keen and obliging to accommodate the desires of these gorgeous, bimbo tarts to relive the old school days by bouncing on an 18-and-a half-inch penile fuck-cannon, there was an economic imperative that accompanied the whole thing. Alumni made donations. They created endowments. They funded scholarships. The contributions funded leaky roofs. More than that, they had funded The Annex, the Luvitt facility, and most important the means for doctor Sinclair’s ever-more advanced, expensive, and experimental explorations into male anatomical enhancement.

A lot was riding on him, and it wasn't just teenage girls. And it all pointed to one person.

Ian didn't know much about Doctor Sinclair. He knew all about her, admittedly, as one of the prime bimbo fuckdolls in the entire school apparatus. She was scaldingly gorgeous, haughty, absurdly stacked, with tits a big as his girlfriend’s, each twice the width of her slender, sculptured waist and four times the size of her head. And she was a little bit of a domme. He couldn’t quite work her out. Did she like him or not?

Ian had, of course, over the course of his tenure, mercilessly pulverized every single one of her more than willing orifices on numerous occasions. In their first encounter she had used him as a human prop to a class of exclusively female science students as an example of the prodigious sexual potency that her own patented invention had created. That had been quite the lesson. On his first day as well. By the end of it, Dr Sinclair had been so thoroughly hosed down with his voluminous and copious emanations of thick male goo that she had to be levered off the front desk of the classroom, lab coats and all after having been firmly glued to it. Ian vividly remembered what she looked like at the end of that lesson, recumbent, hand idly exploring her clit as ejaculate sloshed of her vagina like in up turned milk churn. He could still hear the sucking sound her PVC lab coat made as she was levered off it.

Dr Sinclair was undoubtedly thrilled with Ian – she was his greatest triumph – but at the same time he felt she kept him at a discreet arm’s length. He had no idea why. Possibly it was some kind of alpha-female contest with Laura that she would sooner avoid, but that didn’t really make sense as Laura was gregarious with her own affections and begrudged Ian nothing in the way of alternate companionship.

Then there was the business with the administration of the pills. Vixen was a perfectionist, a stickler, scientific and exact, but she let Nurse Pennyweather float through the school like a latter-day Lady Godiva cramming pills down everyone’s throat like nuts at Christmas. There was absolutely no way Ian credited Nurse Pennyweather with any sort of well-thought out schedule, record keeping, or observational protocol. All he knew what that Nurse Pennyweather gave him pills and he ate them. Sometimes quite a lot of pills. Sometimes while saying things like ‘you look a little peaky so I’m double dosing you,’ or ‘here’s another couple of pills before you take on Cookie and Fuckey’s class this afternoon, you’ll need it,’ or ‘I literally treble your recommended dose and if the day ends in a ‘Y’ I give you an extra helping, also, I spike every drink you ever have with it, and my storeroom is frequently broken into by female students that do exactly the same thing all the time, in fact I’ve just stopped locking up the cabinets at this point, because I want them to do more of it.’

For the first time he wondered if it was good for him to ingest all these drugs created by these cock-crazed women.

The alarm he had set on his phone disturbed his thoughts. It was time for coffee with some ex-students and benefactors. He sighed, took his trousers off, and went out of his office to the hospitality rooms.

XXX

‘Ok, ready?’

‘Ready.’

The two latex nurses gave each other a thumbs-up and then fistbumped. Their rubber gloves squished together.

‘Your first rounds, soldier girl.’

‘It’s Nurse Pump now, Nurse Fuckey.’

Their heels clicked on the corridor as they went, pushing a trolley each. Both of them were bare-titted. Demi had the apron on and Brooke a cutaway corset. Their absolutely gigantic spherical breasts jutted out in front of them.

‘Going to start you off easy, Demi. Most of the patients are in wards, but we sometimes are able to give them their own rooms based on their affliction and needs.’

They stopped outside a room.

‘This is Mr Payne. He’s one of our oldest patients. In fact he’s been here a few years, before I arrived. He’s a bit out of it.’

Brooke pushed open the door. It looked in every sense a totally normal hospital room. There was a gurney bed, a television, a cupboard, and the windows were open to let a breeze blow in from the lawn outside.

In a wheelchair next to the window was a man who appeared to be sleeping. He was wearing slippers and a hospital gown. An IV drip was threaded into his arm.

‘Good afternoon Mr Payne,’ Brooke said, after she had got her trolley through the door, ‘lunch time, amongst – uh, other things…’

Demi smiled at the man and licked her lips saucily as she approached. No response. She got closer.

‘Mr Payne? Hi, I’m new, I’m nurse Pump!’

Nothing.

Brooke was fiddling with the hot food service compartment on the trolley behind. ‘Not going to get anything out of him. He’s non-verbal. Been that way since he got here. Best we can do is make him comfortable. And take the samples.’

‘The samples?’

‘Yeah, the samples. Like I said. Research… observation… treatment…’

Demi peered over the recumbent man. He wasn’t asleep, she noticed, as she got closer. His eyes were open. They registered nothing. His hands clasped the arms of the wheelchair. There was no expression on his face.

‘So what happened to him?’

Brooke pulled a plate over and stood next to Demi. She passed it to her along with a fork. ‘Same thing that happened to all of them, one way or another. Overwork. It’s a very demanding job. If you want to do it correctly, put your heart and soul into it…’

‘Poor guy,’ Demi said. She stood over him and loaded a fork, then extended it towards his mouth, ‘come on Mr Payne, open wide, here comes the AEROPLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!’

At the sound, Brooke turned around, smiled, and hefted a sample bucket and a measuring tape that she’d pulled from the trolley.