She strode into the room, eyes fixed straight ahead in an attempt to exert some power and disguise the nauseating fear that balled up inside her stomach. The PVC nurse’s uniform felt more like a torn bin liner than clothing, a place for human debris to be recycled.
She scanned the room, sixteen middle aged men on black plastic moulded chairs that put her in mind of her old school canteen. The strip lights on the ceiling rebounded fiercely off the tops of the handful of bald heads that peppered the room. All eyes were fixed on her, a breathy silence only punctuated by sniveling, making the room feel damp.
Her mind withdrew to her childhood and the kindly grandfather whose house she would often escape to when the arguments at home were too much for her cope with. Her grandfather’s place was still, only the dust swirling in the afternoon’s sunlight gave any clue to life. It made her feel as if the world had stopped and that was just fine by her.
Her consciousness snapped back to the strip lit room of the present day and she cleared her throat. “Nurse Voracious is hungry and here to take care of all your needs.” The PVC skirt rode up to the top of her thigh as she stood in the way only women trading sex and men feigning machismo do. Her voice was deep and raspy, a selling point in an industry such as this.
When she was seven she had a habit of sucking the butter off bread, leading her to choke on a lump that became dislodged. Her grandfather reached his fingers down her throat and pulled it out, saving her life and damaging her vocal chords. It felt as if she was fated to be stood in this room ever since.
She took a deep breath and searched for the ripest looking man in the room. She hadn’t been given much advice considering it was her first time, apart from “Go for the most excited looking one first, he’ll be quick. This allows the marathon men to become unblocked as they watch.”
She spotted a nervous one in the corner, his flushed face and runny nose making him look child-like. She walked over to him and stood, legs astride his knee, feeling it nervously twitch against the inside of her thigh.
Her hand slowly unzipped her top half way, the zip not as smooth to open as she would have liked, and slid her hand inside the newly revealed lace black bra and her small cleavage.
She paused a moment, imagining this boyish man could only reach her breast with his mouth if they were standing. The sickening mix of maternity and sex made her shiver.
The room began to gasp audibly, turning into the odd moan in anticipation. She threw her head back in mock pleasure, her long black hair obscuring her hips as she pulled a packet of disposable tissues from her breast.
The groaning became uncontrolled exclamations of religiosity as her audience squirmed at the thought of filling her tissue.
Violently she pushed the tissue into the man’s face, her voice becoming harsh and uncompromising. “You worthless little boy, BLOW!” She purposely held his nostrils together, prohibiting her own command. “Aren’t you man enough?” She ridiculed as he made suffocated noises of delight. “Fill my tissue, cover me in it,” she implored, releasing her grip a little, allowing his nose to explode with force, making the tissue limp and heavy.
She stroked the back of his head, his breathlessness slowing in relief. Balling the tissue up, she placed it under the elastic of her stockings.
Pulling a clean one from the packet between her long red fingernails, she shifted her stance, pushing her hip to one side. “Which one of you is man enough to fill my tissue then?” The response was rabid, arms out stretched, voices pleading for attention. “Me Nurse Voracious,” – “My nose is full for you Nurse Voracious.”
It was all too much for one man, the mucus freely running down his facial hair he rose to his feet, as if in two minds his legs did not follow, his hands cloying at her from a distance. “Sit down!” Demanded a voice from the cheap speakers in the corner but his legs had now joined the mutiny and he was on her before she could repel him.
She could feel his wet nose all over her neck, up her cheek then over her lips. It tasted salty, becoming more viscose as he pressed himself against her. Managing to free an arm above his head she brought down her elbow on to the bridge of his nose and he fell to the floor. Blood and snot spilt through his fingers, exploding into crowns as it hit the white tiled floor. Before she could drive a stiletto heel into his thigh, security lifted him by his throat and out the door.
For a few seconds she stared at the blood on her white patent leather shoes, wiping the snail’s trail he had left on her face and neck. The men were silent and nervously awaited her next move. She had little choice. “Right, which one of you maggots is next?” The noise erupted louder than ever.
Again and again they twisted themselves into a frenzy, filled her hand and tissue, then fell back exhausted and limp. The bulge of tissues becoming larger with each moist addition, their discharge slowly kissing the outside of her thigh as it dripped gradually downwards.
Eventually stillness swept through the room, the various slouched and satisfied shapes draped across the unforgiving plastic chairs like discarded clothing. The men looked at each other, searching to see if all had been served. Clear breathing became excited once more as they realised she had collected all of them in the bulge of her hip. “Do it, do it, do it,” the chant rose. Shifting to the front of their chairs, their eyes were widening at the excitement of the evening’s crescendo.
Nurse Voracious took to the middle of the room, lifting her skirt over the knot of tissues and pulled it from the elastic of her stockings with a snap. She squeezed them together, the slime lubricating the insides of her fingers; there was no way she was splitting this into several servings. Holding the ball above her head the audience cheered, most of their faces were now replaced by cameras from which the chant of “Money shot, money shot,” increased in volume.
She tilted her head back like a sword swallower, giving the whole room full view of it disappearing over her velvet red lips.
Her stomach retched at its sogginess, her tongue quickly coated in the salty mixture of tissue and mucus. She brought her head forward and began to chew, shivering violently as the tissue squeaked over the enamel of her teeth. She closed her eyes and thought back to childhood Sunday afternoons and succulent roast dinners she shared with her grandfather.
“Open your eyes bitch, we want to look into them as you swallow us.” Reluctantly she obeyed although her eyes watered so heavily she saw very little. They owned her, even the shows of strength were for their benefit and she felt shame as she derived a dark pleasure from the state of uncontrol.
Over and over her jaws attempted to make this paper and waste into something she could consume but it refused to break down and she heaved visibly. A cheer filled the room as cameras clicked and flashed busily. “If you throw us up you will have to eat it from the floor you ungrateful slag.”
“Swallow, swallow, swallow,” the chant filled her head until she could no longer resist the urge to empty her mouth of the foul mush. She swallowed the fragmented pieces first but the ball had become too solid and dense to be ingested. She opened her throat as far as she could but still her body refused. The chant became venomous, insults interspersed with commands and threats until a gasp pulled it to the back of her throat where it lodged.
Despite the thick layer of pale foundation, her face reddened as her eyes bulged in panic. “She’s choking! Yeah she’s choking on us, choke on us you dirty slag, all the way down your throat.” Despite the hatred she held her hand out for mercy, she could not believe they would let her die.
“Yeah choke on us you cunt.”
The security team burst in, scattering the men like skittles and lifting her from the floor, one of them plunging his fingers down her throat. She could see her grandfather once more, their dark uniforms merging into the brown cardigan he always wore. The room peeled away, it was just the two of them, the old clock ticking monotonously on the wall and the stillness of the room as she gave herself away to uncontrol and waited to become, as he was now, dust in the sunlight.
© Copyright Dean Stephenson 2014