Coworker Complications Pt. 04

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.

Ten Minutes Earlier: Megan had been down to her blouse and a skimpy black g-string--one of Carson's picks from last night--her skirt tossed in the wash after Raj pointed out a "mystery stain" on the back, yet again. She didn't know how it kept happening--grease, maybe? "Happens all the time, busy girl like you," he'd said, his thick Indian accent lilting as he hovered by her machine, his 300-pound frame sweating through a stained polo. She'd bought it, just like every time before, peeling the skirt off without a second thought. This time was special, Raj was able to guide the situation that culminated with Megan bent over the dryer in just her thong, ass high as she reached deep inside.

"Something's stuck back there," Raj had insisted, leaning over her, his gut pressing into her back, his breath hot on her neck. "See it? Way in the back--your sock or somethin'." She'd squinted into the drum, half her torso wedged inside, the metal cool against her skin, oblivious to the bulge in his pants grinding against her bare ass. His hands braced the machine's edge, "helping" her look, and she'd felt the hard nudge--innocent, she told herself, just a guy thing when a girl's bent over like that. "Don't see anything," she'd mumbled, wriggling out, Raj stepping back with a sheepish grin, admiring the string splitting the wrinkled circle of her asshole one last time while muttering, "Guess it's, I don't know, maybe I'm getting old." She'd shrugged, too trusting to clock the trick, and pulled her skirt on once the cycle beeped, the warmth a small comfort as she gathered her stuff.

Now, walking home, her phone buzzed--Kevin's texts lighting up the screen. Night shift tonight... time and a half... Dr. Johnson said you're a star... bring the contract. Her stomach sank--another shift, ugh--but the praise hit her like a shot of adrenaline. Dr. Johnson himself? She grinned, texting back fast: Count on me, Kevin! I'll be there tonight with the contract--promise! She tucked the phone away, buzzing with pride, already mentally signing that paper she hadn't even read.

As she reached her apartment's dull façade, a voice cut through her thoughts--"Hey, miss, got a sec?"--and she jolted, spinning to face a cop, mid-thirties, broad-shouldered in a crisp NYPD uniform, his badge glinting under the streetlamp. His dark hair was buzzed short, a faint smirk tugging his lips as his blue eyes flicked over her, lingering a beat too long on her curves. "You know a guy named Tyrone? Lives in this alley here?"

Megan's heart skipped, last night's drunken haze flashing up--Carson's punch, Tyrone's crumpled fall. "Oh, uh, yeah--I do," she said, her voice pitching up, nerves tingling. She'd heard horror stories from a nurse friend--disciplinary boards cracking down over dumb stuff--and her license was her lifeline. Lying crossed her mind, but her gullible streak won out; she couldn't think fast enough to dodge. "He's, like, always out there."

The cop--Officer Delaney, his tag read--nodded, pulling a notepad from his pocket, his tone casual, almost bored. "Yeah, figured. Found him this morning, 5 a. m., banged up in the alley--head cut, bruised jaw, looks like someone clocked him. You see anything last night?"

She shifted, skirt swishing, her cheeks warming as his flirty gaze held her. He didn't care much--another drunk homeless guy, a dime a dozen--but he had to ask. "Um, yeah, I did," she admitted, biting her lip. "I was coming home late with a friend, and Tyrone got... handsy. He's done it before, but last night he went too far, and my friend punched him."

Delaney's smirk widened, pen scratching the pad. "Friend, huh? Male or female?"

"Male," she said, nodding quick.

"Boyfriend? Husband?"

"Just a friend," she chirped, honest to a fault.

"Name?" he pressed, eyebrow cocked.

"Carson," she replied, then hesitated. "Uh, I don't remember his last name--sorry."

Delaney chuckled, jotting it down. "No biggie. So, Carson warns him, Tyrone gets grabby anyway, and bam--fist to the face?"

"Yeah, exactly," she said, relaxing a bit, his easy vibe calming her. "I was kinda drunk, having fun, and Tyrone just... overdid it."

He scribbled, muttering as he wrote, "Punched in defense of sexual assault--good enough." He flipped the pad shut, slipping it back into his pocket. "Thanks, doll--got what I need. Would've done the same for a pretty thing like you." His wink was lazy, playful, and she blushed, flattered despite herself.

"Um, what happens to him now?" she asked, worry creeping in, picturing Tyrone's wild grin. "Is he okay?"

Delaney shrugged, leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed. "He's banged up--fell hard, cracked his head on the concrete. Docs patched him up, but he's a mess--concussion, probably. DA won't bother charging him; he's just another lowlife. They'll ship him to a care home--government dime, soft bed, pretty nurses wiping his ass. Better than that piss-soaked alley, so don't sweat it. He'll be fine."

Megan nodded, relief washing over her, a small smile tugging her lips. "Okay, good--thanks, Officer." She turned, skirt flaring, and headed for the apartment, her mind already drifting to tonight's shift, the contract she'd promised to sign, and then back to Tyrone. "Oh, poor guy, all that time watching girls walk by, being so alone and finally getting some attention. I was putting on quite the show, well for Ryan, but still, a poor man like that doesn't have the restraint as someone like Ryan, I feel terrible for how this turned out. I hope he does find himself in a better place."

---

Carson's office stretched wide, a polished slab of real estate on the 14th floor of Melvin Marvin Maxwell's glass-and-steel tower, dwarfing Ryan's modest cubby two doors down. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a gray slice of Manhattan, the late March drizzle smearing the skyline into a watercolor blur. His desk gleamed--mahogany, not some particleboard shit--its surface bare save for a single legal pad, a Montblanc pen, and a steaming espresso in a white ceramic cup, no rings or stains to mar the finish. The HVAC purred softly, a whisper against the leather creak of his chair as he leaned back, legs propped on the edge, polished loafers catching the light. At 9:15 a. m., the clock's tick was a metronome to the chaos brewing outside, the hallway humming with the firm's quiet panic as the 10:00 a. m. meeting with Ken loomed--an hour until the senior partner would flay them alive over the Home Away From Home case's slow bleed-out. But Carson's lips curled into a smug half-smile, his calm a stark fuck-you to the storm JP and Cory were whipping up in his pristine space.

JP paced the hardwood, sweat blooming dark under his pits, his dress shirt untucked and wrinkled like he'd slept in it. His voice cracked, high and ragged, as he waved a hand at nothing. "We're fucked, Carson--fucked. Six months of busting our asses, and the judge spikes our key evidence over some procedural horseshit? Chain-of-custody error--our error, man! Junior associates' screw-up! Ken's gonna crucify us in there--I've been here two years, clawing for a shot, and now I'm back to ramen if this tanks. My lease is up next month--I can't eat another deposition transcript!"

Cory slumped against the window, his lanky frame twitching, thumbnail gnawed to a bloody stub. His reflection jittered in the glass as he muttered, half to himself, "It's not just you, JP--my loans are fucking me good. If this case implodes, Ken won't hesitate--he'll cut us loose and have us replaced with the next batch for the meat grinder. Two years of 80-hour weeks, and I'm toast 'cause we couldn't dot some goddamn i right."

Carson watched them, his hazel eyes glinting with cool amusement, fingers steepled under his chin. Their voices blurred into a drone as his mind drifted--Tuesday night, Megan's blonde hair tangled in his grip, her lips stretched around him in that changing room, cum streaking her new dress as she giggled, drunk and pliant. Then the jackpot: that contract she'd waved at him, bleary-eyed, spilling Home Away From Home's dirty laundry--"testicular health assessments," "exposure integral to duties," a legal wet dream of coercion and cover-up. It sat now in his desk's main drawer, locked tight under a brass key, a loaded gun he could aim at Dr. Johnson's head. JP and Cory's panic was white noise; he had the fix, and it felt like foreplay.

JP stopped mid-stride, whirling on him, his face flushed red. "Why the hell aren't you freaking out, man? You're just sitting there like it's fucking casual Friday! We're all on the chopping block--you're a junior associate too! What's with the smug-ass grin?"

Cory straightened, wiping his thumb on his slacks, his voice sharp with desperation. "Yeah, Carson--spill it. You've been chill all morning while we're losing our minds."

Carson's grin widened, slow and deliberate, as he swung his legs off the desk, the leather soles tapping the floor with a soft thud. He leaned forward, elbows on the polished wood, his tone smooth as silk. "Relax, boys--I've got something. A lifeline. You'll see it in the meeting, but I'm not tipping my hand yet. Trust me, we're not going down."

JP barked a laugh, bitter and short, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "Trust you? That's rich. I can't help but worry when you're playing cryptic asshole while our careers circle the drain. What is it? A witness?"

Cory crossed his arms, skepticism etched deep. "Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it, man. Ken's not gonna buy vague promises when he's got our balls in a vise."

Carson shrugged, leaning back again, the chair creaking under his easy weight. "Suit yourselves--wring your hands 'til they bleed. I've got it handled. Meeting's at ten; you'll thank me then." His voice carried a razor's edge of confidence, unshaken, as he waved them off. "Now get out--I need to think. Close the door behind you."

JP glared, muttering, "Prick," under his breath, but he shuffled toward the door, Cory trailing with a last doubtful glance. The glass door shut with a click, sealing Carson in silence, the hum of the firm fading to a distant buzz. He exhaled, sharp and slow, his fingers drumming the desk as he glanced at the clock--9:17 a. m. Forty-three minutes to game time. His mind kicked into gear, the contract's weight a phantom heat against his thigh, locked in that drawer like a coiled snake.

He could play it straight--march into the meeting, slap the contract on the table, and watch Ken's eyes light up. It was dynamite: Home Away From Home's own paper trail, greenlighting sexual exploitation under a veneer of "patient care." Amend the complaint, tack on a harassment angle--hell, it'd tie Johnson's malpractice to a pattern of depravity. The defense would buckle, settle fast, maybe even admit the original negligence to dodge the PR nightmare of top-down orders of nearly contractual sexual acts going public. Victory, clean and sweet--partner track locked, his name inked on the door by year's end. He'd be the golden boy who turned a dying case into a slaughter.

But then the flip side hit, cold and hard, souring the fantasy. Handing it over meant scrutiny--discovery would crack Megan open like an egg. Also, Megan being megan... Defense counsel, those sharks at Johnson's firm, would dig into her, cross-examine every dirty detail of her "job." She was dumb as a brick, to see any of their tricks coming--"Oh, Carson told me to," or worse, "Ryan liked watching." And Ryan--fuck, that sanctimonious prick--if they subpoenaed him, put him on the stand with a Bible under his palm, his religious guilt could snap. "Yes, I handed Megan over to Carson; yes, he filmed it; but, I was blackmailed." The whole house of cards--Carson's fucked up tangle with them--would collapse. Fired? Maybe. Disbarred? Possibly. Jail, if they spun it into coercion or blackmail? Not out of the question.

He leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk, fingers raking through his dark hair as the gears turned. Option one: play the hero, drop the contract, win big--but risk Megan's loose lips and Ryan's straight edge torching him. Option two: hold it back, keep it his ace, and find a slyer angle--one that didn't drag his ass into the spotlight. The case was floundering, sure, but he could stall, cook up something that used the contract's leverage without waving it in Ken's face. Maybe leak it to Johnson's camp anonymously, spook them into a quiet settlement without a paper trail back to him. Or lean on Megan harder--get her to cough up more dirt he could filter through, keep his hands clean while the firm reaped the reward.

His jaw tightened, a slow smirk creeping back as he weighed it. Straight-up handing it over was too hot--too many eyes on Megan, too much heat on him. He'd lose her, lose the game he'd built with her and Ryan, that delicious corruption he wasn't ready to ditch. She was his toy, pliant and clueless, and Ryan's tortured hard-ons were half the fun--why blow that up for a quick win? No, he'd play it clever, buy time, twist the contract into a shadow move. The case needed saving, and he'd save it--partner was still in reach--but not at the cost of his own skin.

He unlocked the drawer, sliding it open with a soft click, the contract's crisp edges staring up at him--black ink on white, a bomb begging to detonate. He traced a finger along the header--"Home Away From Home Employee Agreement"--and chuckled low, the sound swallowed by the office's hush. "Not yet, sweetheart," he muttered, shutting it back in, the lock snapping shut. He'd sit through Ken's tirade, let JP and Cory sweat, then drop just enough to keep them afloat--some vague tease about "new leverage" he was "verifying." Buy a day, maybe two, to scheme it right.

The clock hit 9:45 a. m. He grabbed his espresso, the bitter heat scalding his tongue as he swallowed, eyes narrowing on the skyline. Thinking of Megan, he would love another get-together to satisfy his twisted kinks, but he needs Megan in another way, he needs a bit more help to put a plan together so he can get all that his heart desires--Megan's pussy, and partnership with the firm.

---

The main conference room was a fortress of glass and power, its soundproof walls soaring two stories high, encasing the heart of Melvin Marvin Maxwell & Associates like a goddamn cathedral. Beyond the panes, the 14th-floor bullpen buzzed with muted panic, but inside, the air was thick, heavy with the musk of fear and leather polish. At the room's core sprawled the pride of the firm: a 40-foot black walnut table, a single slab craned in through a window during the build-out, its deep stains amplifying the wood's wild grain into a mirror-smooth finish that reflected the grim faces hunched around it. Half a million bucks of custom craftsmanship, it was the war table where careers were forged or torched, and today, it groaned under the weight of a case bleeding out.

Ken Maxwell stood at the head, all 6'2" of him radiating cold menace, his silver hair swept back, suit sharp as a blade--black Brioni, no tie, top button undone like he'd just rolled out of a boardroom brawl. At 58, he was the last name in Melvin Marvin Maxwell, the senior partner who'd clawed his way from Queens to this tower, and he ran his junior associates like a general breaking green recruits. His gray eyes swept the room, cutting through the dozen bodies packed around the table: Carson, JP, and Cory, the junior associates who'd fucked the pooch; Kendall, the paralegal with her tight blouse and nervous pen-twirling (the one who'd blown Ryan months back); Mark Brenan, the freshly minted partner, Carson's boss, fidgeting in his new Tom Ford jacket; a handful of other juniors--Simmons, Patel, and Nguyen--plus three legal secretaries clutching notepads like lifelines. The vibe was raw, desperate--generals and grunts staring down a lost war, the Home Away From Home malpractice suit crumbling after the judge tossed their key evidence on a chain-of-custody fuck-up. Everyone looked ready to puke, except Carson, lounging in his chair, legs crossed, a smug grin splitting his face like he'd already won.

Ken slammed a fist on the table, the walnut shuddering, reflections warping as his voice sliced the silence. "You stupid fucking junior associates--how the hell do you let our linchpin get tossed? Chain-of-custody error? That's first-year shit, and you clowns botched it!" His words were succinct, a guillotine drop--no need to repeat when the blood's already pooling. He straightened, hands braced on the table, leaning in like a predator sniffing carrion. "You're all tied to this case--every last one of you. And since you're apparently fucking idiots after a mistake like that, let me paint it crystal fucking clear: if this fails, you're fired. I'll make damn sure you don't work in NYC again--go chase tax law in some shithole like Raleigh, stressing over your kid's shitty state tuition while your wife bangs the sharp-dressed men you used to be. Please, someone, tell me you've got something!"

The room froze, breaths held, eyes darting. Mark Brenan cleared his throat, rising halfway, his 38-year-old frame stiff in that pristine jacket, dark hair gelled to perfection--a senior associate turned partner last month, Carson's direct boss, still kissing Ken's ring. "Sir, we could push the judge to reconsider the evidence ruling--file a motion, argue prejudice--"

Ken's head snapped to him, eyes blazing, cutting him off like a gunshot. "That's a loser's plan, Mark--only a fucking loser thinks that's possible. The judge laughed us out last week; you wanna grovel again? Who here's not a goddamn loser--who's got something?"

JP and Cory, slouched across from Carson, traded a glance, their faces slick with sweat--JP's shirt a crumpled mess, Cory's thumb bleeding from gnawing. They both flicked their eyes to Carson, sensing the moment, his cool radiating like a beacon in the shitstorm. Carson raised a hand, one finger lifting lazily, drawing Ken's gaze like a magnet. Those gray eyes locked on him, hard and unblinking, and the room pivoted--every head turning, chairs creaking, Kendall's pen stalling mid-twirl.

"Carson, speak," Ken barked, voice booming off the glass, a command that vibrated the table.

Carson leaned back, his hazel eyes glinting, confidence dripping like honey. "Has anyone tried Lou's Lounge on 5th?"

A shockwave rippled through the room--gasps, widened eyes, a collective lurch toward disbelief. JP's jaw dropped, Cory blinked like he'd been slapped, and Kendall's pen clattered to the table. Simmons muttered, "What the fuck?" under his breath, and one of the secretaries choked on her coffee. They thought he'd lost it--self-destructing, mocking the carnage as their careers burned. Mark's face flushed red, panic flashing as he saw his subordinate about to tank them both.

But Ken--Ken smirked. He saw himself in Carson, that cocky glint mirroring his own younger days. If he were in Carson's shoes, holding a silver bullet in a room of corpses, he'd damn well open with a smug, stupid question too--set the stage, savor the squirm before the kill shot. His lips twitched, a predator recognizing kin, knowing Carson had the fix even if the specifics were a blank.

Mark didn't catch it, though--he leapt up, chair scraping, voice cracking as he barked, "Carson, what the fuck are you doing? Shut the fuck up if you don't--" All heads swiveled to him, a frantic blur of motion.

"Mark, quiet," Ken snapped, loud and firm, the words a steel wall. Mark froze mid-sentence, mouth open, then sank back down, hands gripping the table's edge, chastened like a kicked dog. Heads swung back to Carson, the room a pendulum of tension.

"Carson, speak," Ken said again, calmer now, his smug grin spreading, feeding off Carson's vibe like a dance they'd rehearsed.

Carson tilted his head, savoring the spotlight, his voice smooth as velvet. "Well, you should try it. I had a hell of a dinner there last night--Wagyu, medium-rare, and they even had my favorite, a '96 Dom Pérignon." He paused, letting the absurdity hang, watching their faces twist--JP's brow furrowing, Cory's mouth twitching, Kendall whispering to Patel, "Is he serious?"

Everyone was still reeling, grasping for sense, but Ken leaned in, elbows on the table, playing along with glee. He knew the punchline was coming--didn't know what, just that it'd save their asses. "I pair my Wagyu with an Oakville Cab, but to each his own," he said, voice low, conspiratorial. "Tell me, you must've been celebrating something--I'd be interested to hear what."

A murmur rippled--Simmons nudged Nguyen, "He's got something," and the secretaries leaned forward, pens poised. Carson's grin sharpened, dramatic as hell, and he let the pause stretch before dropping it. "Yes, I was indeed. I was celebrating the victory of this lawsuit."

The room held its breath, Ken's eyes locked on him, unyielding faith in Carson's delivery--no falter, no crack. Mark squinted, suspicious as hell but too cowed to interrupt. The muttering swelled--JP hissed to Cory, "He's bluffing, right?"--until Ken's voice cut through, sharp and electric. "And with whom were you sharing this celebration?"

Carson leaned forward now, matching Ken's energy, their cryptic tango peaking. "Great question. I was celebrating with a disgruntled employee of Home Away From Home who'll be handing us our victory on a silver platter."

A gasp tore through the room--Kendall's hand flew to her mouth, JP jolted upright, Cory's eyes bugged out. All heads whipped to Ken, who stared at Carson like he'd birthed a goddamn legend, his favorite firstborn storming the gates. Ken's smile broke wide, a rare flash of teeth, and he said, simple and sure, "Now, I'd like to hear more." Then, turning to the rest, his voice dropped to a growl, "All of you--get the fuck out."

The glass walls of the main conference room gleamed under the recessed lights, sealing Ken Maxwell and Carson in a bubble of smug victory as the last stragglers--JP, Cory, Mark, and the rest--shuffled out, their whispers fading into the 14th-floor hum. Ken leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed, his black Brioni jacket open, exuding the calm of a general who'd seen the tide shift. Carson mirrored him, elbows on the table, fingers steepled, his hazel eyes glinting with the secret weight of Megan's contract--locked in his desk, his ace still unplayed, but at the forefront of the discussion.

They'd been at it a few minutes, Ken probing, Carson dodging, a dance of half-truths wrapping up. From outside, through the glass, it looked like a coach and his star player savoring a post-game cigar--Ken's rare smile, Carson's easy nod. Ryan passed by then, tie crooked, his scrawny frame pausing mid-step as he peered in. Office buzz had already hit him--Carson's got something big. The doubtful speculation circling the office does not match Ryan's observation of Ken's approving gaze locked on Carson, causing Ryan's gut twist. That look meant Carson wasn't bluffing; he'd save the case, maybe snag partner, leaving Ryan in the dust. He lingered a beat, then trudged off, jealousy simmering.

Inside, Ken's voice cut the air, low and deliberate. "So, this 'disgruntled employee'--you're fucking her, I take it?"

Carson chuckled, leaning back, his tone smooth as silk. "Yeah, kind of. She's got no clue what's what--lives in some fairy-tale haze, head in the clouds. Malleable as the gold she's sitting on. But give me 'til Saturday--I've got the gold, and I'm prying a different door open with it. She's too loose a cannon to put front and center."

Ken's gray eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging his lips. He liked this--Carson's calculated sidestep, the echo of his own younger, ruthless self. "She's that dumb, huh? Defense could spin her into a fucking pretzel--have her swearing she's a Black single mom from Johannesburg?"

"Exactly," Carson said, grin sharpening. "She'd trip over her own tongue and hand 'em whatever they want. But the gold I've got--it's undeniable. Opens paths that don't need her flapping her lips on the stand. More doors will lead to the right guy to take the stand, if you let me make that happen, they won't even have to, Johnson will write a check by weeks end."

Ken nodded, slow and sure, his faith in Carson's play rock-solid. He leaned forward, voice dropping, heavy with intent. "As long as that gold stays locked here--" he tapped the table hard, "--I won't ask questions. Except one: how do we know it's 24-karat, not some fool's gold?" The word fool landed like a brick, a reminder--blank check or not, Carson's ass was still on the line, and Ken held the whip.

Carson caught the edge, their shared language crystal clear. He met Ken's gaze, unflinching. "They say it's the signature that gives it value--and this one reads Dr. Anil Johnson."

Ken's smile broke wide, a rare flash of teeth as he stood, hand extended. The only name that mattered--Johnson's ink was a confession on paper, their main target's neck in a noose. "Get it done. Let me know--personally--if you need anything."

Carson gripped his hand, firm and quick, then watched Ken stride out, the glass door swinging shut. Alone, he exhaled, the contract's phantom heat pulsing in his mind. Saturday was his deadline--time to spring the trap, sideline Megan, and cash in.

---

Ryan pushed through the apartment door, the alley below mercifully empty--no Tyrone, no ghosts of last night's chaos. The stairwell's stale air clung to his suit, but relief hit as he stepped inside, the familiar hum of home washing over him. Megan was there, bubbly as ever, her blonde waves bouncing as she flitted from the couch to the bedroom, a whirlwind in a tight tank top and shorts. He hadn't seen her since Monday night--before her Tuesday shift and date with Carson--passed out when she'd stumbled in past midnight, gone to work before she woke today. The sight of her, all smiles and light, eased the knot in his chest.

"Hey, babe!" she chirped, darting over to hug him, her arms warm around his neck. "Missed you!"

"Missed you too," he mumbled, kissing her forehead, her scent--vanilla and a hint of laundry--grounding him. "Been a hell of a day."

"Same!" she giggled, pulling back. "I'll fill you in later--tons to tell you--but I gotta get ready. Last-minute night shift--boss called, needs me in. Big stuff, you'll see!"

Ryan's face fell, dismay creeping in. "Another shift? We barely get time anymore."

"I know, I know," she said, pouting playfully, already halfway to the bedroom. "Promise I'll make it up!"

He sighed, trudging to the kitchen, the living room catching his eye--those bags from yesterday, the Vixen Vibe haul Carson had bankrolled, gone, tucked away. He'd peeked that morning--dresses, heels, a $3,000 tag on one pair that made his dick twitch and his wallet scream. $10k total, he'd guessed, panic gnawing 'til now. On the counter, a receipt lay crumpled--$18,342.87, but the four credit card digits at the bottom were not his. Carson's. Relief surged, hot and sharp, washing out the dread. Not his debt--thank fuck, but why?

Then it clicked--Carson's smug play at the office is as real as the smirk on his face, the buzz about his "fix," Ken's grin through the glass. Ryan's gut twisted again, darker now. Carson was riding high, maybe to partner, while Ryan rotted in the junior associate mire, and that is if he is lucky. He wanted him to crash, burn out--but that look from Ken said he wouldn't.

From the bedroom, Megan's voice rose, frantic. "Ugh, where is it? I need that thing for work!" She rifled drawers, muttering, "No, no, no..."

"What's missing?" Ryan called, leaning in the doorway, watching her dig.

She froze, glancing back, cheeks pink. "Oh, uh--just something for work. Can't say yet--big surprise!" She flashed a grin, deflecting, and he let it slide, too tired to push.

She emerged minutes later, scrubs on--navy, skin-tight, more yoga pants than nurse gear, hugging her ass like a second skin. No panty line, unlike her, just smooth curves, and Ryan's eyes locked--fuck, that g-string, or another, from Carson, maybe the black lace, flossing her perfect cheeks. His dick stirred, instant and hard, imagining her bent over, flashing some old geezer at work. The thought twisted--arousal crashing into shame, his mind a traitor. "You look... uh, good," he managed, voice thick.

"Thanks!" she chirped, oblivious, grabbing her bag. "Gotta head out early--need to call Carson about something. Back late, love you!" She pecked his cheek and bolted, leaving him reeling, horny, and concerned at the name she just muttered.

---

Megan hustled down the block, the late March chill nipping her bare arms, those tight scrubs clinging as she dialed Carson. Her phone lit up--his contact pic, a blurry shot of his thick cock, half-hard, from some late-night text weeks back. She smirked, a little flush creeping up--damn, he was hung, and she liked that he knew it. It rang once, twice, then his voice slid through, smooth and low.

"Hey, gorgeous," Carson purred. "Miss me already?"

"Carson!" she laughed, breath puffing in the dusk. "Where's my contract? I can't find it anywhere!"

A beat, then he chuckled. "Oh, that? Fell out of your bag in the cab last night--I grabbed it. The scuffle with that homeless prick, it slipped my mind to hand it back."

Her brow furrowed, pace slowing. "I need it now--got called in tonight, and they said bring it. Wasn't even supposed to leave with it!"

Carson's gears turned fast--Kevin and Johnson, scrambling to cover their asses, her dumbass ass was probably not supposed to leave with it and their clawing it back, pushing her to sign quick. Time to spring it, twist the screws. "Well, since you're my favorite set of lips ever wrapped around my cock, I'll bring it to you now. Maybe catch a peek of one of those private shows you give your patients?"

She giggled, flustered but flirty. "Thanks, you perv--Ryan'll love this chat, you talking about my lips on your dick. He's so into it, all you men are such perverts," She paused, grinning, playing along under the assumption he'd see the texts later. "Maybe I will end up with my lips on some wrinkly old guy's giant cock--me being the breadwinner for our future fam after I sign this contract. A long career locked in here with these old men to keep them from troubling others."

Carson's grin widened, unseen, his dick twitching at the thought of Megan's lips on some geezer's cock, Ryan jerking off to it in the dark. "Oh, Ryan'd fucking love that," he said, voice smooth but edged with a thrill. "What time do night baths start?"

Megan chewed her lip, her pace slowing on the cracked sidewalk, streetlights flickering on above. "Only a few take 'em late--depends who's up tonight. Usually after first rounds, like 8:30?" She paused, then her voice softened, guilt creeping in. "Oh, and I just remembered--poor Tyrone. You might've hurt him bad, Carson. I feel awful--he's such a mess, and it's kinda my fault."

Carson's pulse quickened, his calm mask slipping for a split second. Tyrone--fuck, the homeless dude, the alley punch. What did she mean, hurt bad? "Wait, what about Tyrone?" he said, keeping his tone light, but a thread of steel wove through it.

She sighed, kicking a pebble as she walked. "Cops swung by when I got home today--caught me right outside my building, asking about him. Said they found him banged up this morning, head all messed up. I feel so bad--he's just a lonely guy, y'know?"

Carson's grip tightened on the phone, his mind racing. Cops sniffing around, Megan's big mouth--assault and battery could stick if she'd blabbed. He forced the calm back, but his voice turned stern, a whip-crack under the velvet. "Tell me exactly what you said to them. Now."

Megan blinked, startled by the shift, but rattled it off, her recall sharp despite her ditz. "They asked what happened, and I said Tyrone gets handsy sometimes--they nodded, said they get calls about him a lot for that kinda thing. Then I told 'em last night I was with a male friend--you--and he got too grabby, so my friend hit him. I felt dumb 'cause I don't even know your last name--just said 'Carson.' Can you believe I've had a guy's dick in my mouth and don't know his--"

"Hold up," Carson cut in, sharp, not giving a fuck about her ramble. "What'd the cops say after that?"

She huffed, like it was no big deal. "They said it was self defense--wrote it down, and the cop was all, 'I'd have done the same for a pretty girl like you.' Kinda flirty, actually. Then he said Tyrone's a lowlife, wasn't even worth pressing charges, and they're shipping him to some care home--government dime, soft bed, and stuff. They said he'd be happier there, but I still feel so bad, I feel like I caused it."

Relief hit Carson like a shot of bourbon, his shoulders easing, the stern edge melting back to silk. "Okay, great job, Meg--you handled it perfect. See you soon."

"Wait!" she chirped, worry flaring again. "I'm concerned about him--he's going into rehab for his injury, and I--"

"Hey, real quick," Carson interrupted, voice firm, dodging her guilt trip. "I've gotta go, but what's the name of your boss again--the guy with that video of you sucking off the old bastard?"

Megan paused, thrown by the pivot. "Kevin. Why?"

"See you in a bit," Carson said, hanging up fast, tunnel vision locking in. He was still at the office--14th floor, lights dim, working late after Ken's green light. The call had jolted him, but now he had a thread--Kevin, the video, the contract. He spun his chair to the file cabinet, yanked open the drawer labeled "Home Away From Home Lawsuit," and hauled out a stack of folders--depositions, medical reports, discovery logs. Nothing jumped out, just the same old shit they'd lost on.

He tossed them aside, grabbed the "Employee Emails" folder--admin stuff turned over in discovery, Dr. Johnson, Kevin, the whole crew. He flipped through, scanning headers, found some harsh criticism of this Kevin, from the big man himself, interesting, but then froze--a chain from Kevin to Johnson, dated last week, subject: "New Nurse Assignment." He skimmed it--vague, coded, but one line stuck: "She's on the hard cases now--cams catch it all." Carson's lips curled into a slow, wicked smile. All of it was good, but now was the time to focus on this Kevin fella. He packaged up the warm paper stack, and almost forgot the most important thing. He unlocked his desk drawer, slid out Megan's contract--crisp, black ink glaring up at him, Johnson's signature scrawled at the bottom. He photocopied it twice, careful not to smudge, locked the original back in, and pocketed the copies with the emails. By 7:45 p. m., he was out the door, the trap taking shape in his head.

---

Megan clocked in at Home Away From Home, the sterile stink of bleach and piss hitting her as she stashed her bag in the break room. Her tight scrubs--navy, ass-hugging--shifted with each step, the g-string underneath a secret thrill she barely clocked. She started her rounds, clipboard in hand, when Sarah--the wiry admin chick from Kevin's office earlier--caught her in the hall, clipboard tucked under her arm, frown etched deep.

"Hey, Megan," Sarah said, voice clipped. "Kevin's tied up--meeting 'til maybe 9, then he's headed home at 10. He's looking for you--check in before he bolts."

"Got it," Megan chirped, nodding, her mind ticking--hoping Carson'd show with the contract before then. She flashed a smile, and Sarah shuffled off, muttering about paperwork.

Megan headed for the secure wing, the double doors creaking as she pushed through, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. She aimed for Crazy Carl's room--12-A--when a commotion erupted next door, 12-B. A slurred yell--"I don't need no bath, you fuckin' bithhh!"--followed by a crash. Two nurses stormed out: a big guy, burly and pissed, and a petite brunette, her scrub collar torn, clutching it with a scowl.

"He's a violent asshole," the big guy growled, flexing his meaty hands. "Brain swelling or not, he doesn't get to chuck a bedpan at us."

The girl nodded, fuming. "Ripped my damn top trying to grope me--I'm telling Kevin to yank him off my list. Fuck that guy. Fuck my patient reviews."

Megan frowned--12-B was empty last shift. New patient? She shrugged it off, slipping into Carl's room. He was sprawled on the bed, stark naked, his wiry frame splayed like a starfish, balls dangling--way smaller than their peak but larger than how she left him the other day, more walnut than grapefruit now. She smirked; the less swollen they were, the sweeter he got, a puppy instead of a perv. "Hey, Carl," she said, checking his chart. He mumbled something incoherent, eyes glassy, and she marked him stable, heading out and back to the main nurses' station.

In the hall, Kevin rounded the corner, hustling, his bulk straining his polo, sweat beading on his brow. "Megan--thank fuck you're here," he rasped, catching his breath. "Got something to wrap up, but you've got a new patient--12-B, next to Carl. Needs a bath. Other nurse ditched him--he's feisty. We'll talk contract after." He shoved a chart at her, a sticky note scrawled in his blocky hand: "Bit of a handful--won't bathe. Needs your magic touch, maybe even those magic lips." He bolted before she could reply.

She glanced at the chart--didn't read past the note, just tucked it under her arm and headed for 12-B. Her phone buzzed as she neared the door--8:25 p. m., Carson's name and giant cock flashing on her screen. She answered, pausing outside, voice low. "Hey!"

"Hey, sexy," Carson drawled, the hum of his car in the background. "I'm here--by the nursing station. Where you at?"

"Secure wing," she whispered, glancing down the hall. "Down the main hall, right side, through the big double doors. Keep going 'til you hit 12-B. Oh--if someone stops you, say you're visiting a patient in 12-B."

"Got it," he said, a grin in his voice. "See you in five."

She hung up, pocketing the phone, and pushed into 12-B. The room was dim, antiseptic sharp in the air, and Tyrone--wild-haired, bruised jaw--sat propped in bed, hospital gown half-off. He snarled, "Get the fuck out!" then froze, eyes widening as he clocked her. "Megan? Shit--you?" His scowl flipped to a crooked grin, excitement sparking despite the bandages wrapping his head.

"Tyrone!" she gasped, hand to her mouth, guilt flooding back. "Oh, wow, you ended up here? You poor thing!"

He blinked, confused, then leaned forward, wincing. "What the fuck happened? Last thing I remember's you out in some slutty dress--then lights out."

Megan bit her lip, shifting awkwardly, chart clutched tight. "Well, long story short, you approached us, and I was... I ended up putting on a show for you--well, for Ryan, y'know, his thing--but you went too far."

"Too far how?" Tyrone pressed, eyes glinting, voice rough with curiosity.

She flushed, glancing at the door. "I was on my knees, letting you cum in my mouth--but only if you didn't touch. You promised, but when you started, you shoved it down my throat."

Tyrone's grin split wide, a raspy laugh bubbling up, his dick stirring under the thin gown. "You let me cum in your mouth, Dayum, my dick was in your throat!? Fuck, girl--and I don't even remember? That's bullshit!" He paused, then frowned. "Wait--fuckin Ryan knocked my ass out? What the fuck?"

"No, no," she said quick, waving a hand. "My friend did--a guy Ryan's having me play with, for his kink. Not Ryan."

"Huh," Tyrone grunted, scratching his bandaged head, processing slow, brain still mushy. "Some friend."

Tyrone leaned back against the headboard, his bandaged head cocked, gown slipping off one shoulder, a crooked grin splitting his bruised face. "Man, I don't know shit about this place," he rasped, voice still rough from the concussion, "but if you're here, Megan, I might settle in. They feed me good, right? Ain't starvin'?"

Megan giggled, clutching his chart, her tight scrubs shifting as she nodded. "Oh, they feed you plenty--most the guys I deal with are proof of that. Big ol' boys, every one of 'em."

Tyrone chuckled, scratching his chin. "Yeah? Well, that nurse chick was alright 'til that big asshole got rough--shovin' me around like I'm some punk. Dickhead."

Her eyes lit up, bubbly as ever. "Guess what? I'm your new nurse now--no more big guy, just us two!"

"No shit?" Tyrone's grin widened, a spark flaring in his foggy gaze. "Not so bad then..."

"Well," Megan said, stepping closer, voice dipping to a playful lilt, "first we gotta get you a bath. I'm scrubbin' you down--top to bottom."

Tyrone's laugh was a low, gravelly bark. "No shit? Damn, maybe I died and went to heaven--this place kicks ass!"

She giggled harder, picturing Kevin's jaw dropping when she tamed this "feisty" one too--divine powers, he'd say. "C'mon, I'll take you to the bathroom across the hall in a sec," she chirped, turning toward the door.

It swung open then, Carson striding in, his polished loafers clicking on the linoleum. His face was forced calm, but his hazel eyes burned--overstimulated, a dog locked on a bone, pupils dilated with the rush of his scheme snapping into place, but then confusing and then interest spread over his face as he noticed who Megan's patient was. Tyrone squinted, no flicker of recognition, his memory still mush from the alley punch. Megan spun, blonde waves bouncing, and threw her arms around Carson's neck. "Oh my God, thank you for coming so late--you're the best!"

Carson hugged her back, one hand sliding low on her waist, but his gaze darted up, scanning the ceiling corners for cameras. "No problem, Meg," he said, voice smooth but distracted. He pulled back, nodding at the room. "Cameras in here?"

She blinked, thrown, then shook her head. "Nah, always been in the hallways, not patient rooms. But they put new ones in the patient bathing areas a few months back--fancy ones."

"Good," Carson muttered, a grin tugging his lips--perfect, 4K bait for his trap. He fished a folded paper from his jacket--the contract copy, crisp and official-looking, passing it off as the original. "This thing's iffy--some shady clauses. I'll help you negotiate a better deal."

Megan's eyes widened, perking up. "Oh, okay--you're a lawyer, sure!" Her brain ticked--no conflict of interest, not like with Ryan, her partner; Carson was just a friend. "That'd be perfect!"

He turned to Tyrone, extending a hand, all polished manners. "Carson--good to see you again. Honestly, I'm surprised to see you, but happy you ended up here, we were worried about you."

Tyrone gripped it, weak but firm, sizing him up. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Just here for Megan," Carson said, smooth as silk. She beamed, oblivious, and piped up, "I've gotta bathe him, can you believe he is my new patient? What are the odds? Oh and right after, I meet Kevin--contract stuff."

Carson's mind purred--fucking perfect. Kevin right after, him here now, Tyrone in play with the bath. "Hey, Meg," he said, casual but pointed, "why don't you go fill the tub? I owe Tyrone an apology--man to man."

Her face softened, gratitude glowing. "Oh, wow--that's so sweet, Carson! Didn't think you'd be the type." She squeezed his arm, then bounced out, leaving the door ajar, her sneakers squeaking down the hall.

Tyrone's brow furrowed, watching her go, then turned to Carson, suspicion creeping in. "Apology? For what, man?" The dots connected slow, his bruised jaw tightening. "Wait--you're the big motherfucker who clocked me?"

Carson's mask dropped, his grin turning brutish, a dickish edge baring teeth. "Yeah, and I'll do it again if you don't fucking listen."

Tyrone flinched, stepping back, hands up, yielding fast--Carson's size and that one-punch KO still fresh in his battered skull. "Chill, man, chill! She told me what I did--us guys, y'know, pussy blinds us sometimes. I'll cool it, I swear."

Carson's grin sharpened, predatory. "No, man--you're gonna do something else. But first, you listen, or as Megan's 'attorney,' I'll get her to press charges. Sexual battery, and I'll throw in a fresh concussion, then off to the state pen instead of this cushy bed. Your cellmate won't be as pretty."

Tyrone's eyes widened, full attention locked. "Alright, alright--what's up?"

Carson leaned in, voice low, conspiratorial. "What I want you to do is get your dick sucked. How's that sound?"

Tyrone blinked, then grinned, wary but hooked. "You for real? Or you settin' me up?"

"I'm setting someone up, but it ain't you," Carson said, pulling a small 4K video recorder from his pocket--sleek, pilfered from the office supply closet--and pressing it into Tyrone's shaky hand. "Do this right, you get Megan bathing you three times a week 'til you're outta here. Fuck it up, it's showers with the Russian mob and Aryan Brotherhood til you fucking die of old age or get shanked on the shitter."

Tyrone clutched the device, nodding quick. "Okay, no problem--dick sucked, that's great. What do I do?"

Carson's eyes glinted, laying it out. "Place this camera at the tub's edge, facing out--low, subtle. Megan's an air head, she won't even ask, trust me. When she's in there, say something like, 'Come to think of it, Ryan was talking to me about gettin' head from you.' If Ryan green lit it before, then you still gettin' hit will make her feel extra bad. Play it sad, guilt her about the blowjob--she'll bite, suggest replaying it to make up for your trouble. When she starts--and this is key--ask if it's okay, if she'll get in trouble since there are cameras in there. She'll spill something about her boss saying it's her job."

Tyrone's jaw dropped, a raspy laugh escaping. "They makin' her suck wrinkly dick for bath time? Damn, that's wild!"

"Just get her to fucking talk about it," Carson snapped, low and fierce. "And enjoy the best head you'll ever get--milk it. Hand the tape back to me when you're done, on the way to your room."

Tyrone grinned, cradling the camera like gold. "Alright, man, I got it. I might be a fuck-up, but I ain't fuckin' up gettin' my dick sucked--'specially by a girl like Megan. This shit's crazy."

Carson clapped his shoulder, hard, then stepped back as Megan's voice echoed from the hall--"Tub's ready!" He nodded at Tyrone, a silent go, and slipped out, lingering in the corridor, eyes on the ceiling cams tracking his exit.

Megan poked her head into 12-B, her blonde waves spilling loose, a bright smile cutting through the antiseptic gloom. "C'mon, Tyrone--bath time!" She gestured across the hall, where steam curled from the open bathroom door, the tub gurgling as it filled.

Tyrone shuffled out, gown flapping, the 4K recorder tucked in his palm, his grin half-nervous, half-giddy. "Heaven's callin', huh?" he rasped, following her lead. The bathroom was tight--white tile, a shallow tub, new cameras blinking in the corner.

"Sit," she said, patting the tub's edge. Tyrone eased in, water sloshing, and as she turned to adjust the faucet, he set the recorder low, lens angled out, just like Carson said. He settled back, gown ditched, his battered frame sinking into the warmth.

Megan knelt beside him, sponge in hand, oblivious to the setup. "Gotta get you clean--Kevin'll be thrilled I tamed you," she chirped, scrubbing his shoulders.

Tyrone leaned into it, then played his card, voice dropping low, mournful. "Y'know, come to think of it, Ryan was talkin' to me about gettin' head from you--back in the alley. I don't know how I feel about gettin' hit and all."

Her hands paused, sponge dripping, guilt flashing across her face. "Oh, Tyrone--I'm so sorry! You didn't deserve that. I was just... y'know, putting on a show, and it went sideways. Had I known Ryan was wanting that, like specifically that, I guess it would have been different," She bit her lip, then brightened, leaning closer. "How about we replay it? Make it up to you--right here?"

Tyrone's dick twitched under the water, his grin creeping back. "For real?" He played it cautious, like Carson ordered. "That okay? You won't get in trouble or nothin', looks like they got a camera in every corner?"

Megan waved a hand, suds flicking off. "Oh, no--it's fine! Kevin, my boss, says it's part of my job--'patient care,' y'know? Keeps the tough ones happy, plus Ryan loves the stories, and I am even getting a huge raise from it," She giggled, oblivious to the weight of her words, the recorder catching every syllable.

Tyrone's eyes widened, a low whistle escaping. "Damn, they got you on that? Shit, girl--go for it then." He spread his legs wider, water lapping, as she set the sponge aside, her hands sliding lower, that naive focus kicking in.

The shallow tub sloshing as Tyrone sank deeper, his battered frame half-submerged, water lapping at his hairy chest. Megan knelt beside him, her tight navy scrubs damp from splashing, suds dripping off the sponge in her hand. The 4K recorder sat low at the tub's edge, lens glinting through the haze, catching every move as she scrubbed his shoulders, her blonde waves sticking to her neck. Tyrone's dick twitched under the sudsy water, already half-hard from her "patient care" spiel, his bruised grin locked on her.

She perked up suddenly, eyes wide like she'd forgotten a line in a play. "Oh, wait--I forgot!" She dropped the sponge with a wet plop, grabbed the hem of her scrub top, and yanked it over her head, tossing it to the tile. Her bra followed--black lace, a Vixen Vibe score--unhooked in a flick, landing in a heap beside it. Her perfect C-cups bounced free, nipples stiffening in the humid air, pale skin glistening with a sheen of sweat and stray droplets.

Tyrone's jaw dropped, a raspy laugh rumbling out. "Fuck me--I really am in heaven now. Look at them titties, girl!"

Megan giggled, her hands dipping back into the tub. She lathered his chest, then slid lower, fingers wrapping around his thick shaft--nine inches, veiny and dark, soap slicking her grip. She pumped slow, steady, water rippling with each stroke, her focus naive but intent. Tyrone groaned, head tipping back, the pain meds dulling his edges but not the heat building in his gut.

"Gotta rinse this off," she chirped, splashing water over his dick, soap swirling away in cloudy streaks. She leaned closer, breath hot on his skin. "I'm gonna suck it now--but go easy, okay?"

Tyrone's eyes glinted, a lazy smirk tugging his lips. "You do you, but lick my balls real good too--I fuckin' love that shit."

She blinked, tilting her head, sponge forgotten on the floor. "Lick your balls? That's... weird. Nobody's asked me that." Her mind flicked to Ryan--would he like it, her tongue rolling over some old homeless man's sack? Curiosity sparked, and she shrugged. "Okay, I'll try--tell me how."

"Fuck yeah," Tyrone rasped, spreading his legs wider, water sloshing over the tub's edge. "Get down low--slow, wet, like you're tastin' somethin' sweet. Roll 'em around a bit."

Megan nodded, eager to please, and ducked her head, blonde hair brushing his thighs. Her tongue flicked out, tentative at first, tracing the wrinkled skin of his balls--heavy, sagging from the heat. She lapped slow, wet streaks, following his gruff coaching--"Yeah, like that, swirl it"--and he groaned louder, hips shifting, the meds stretching his stamina into a slow burn.

She pulled back, lips shiny, and wrapped them around his cock, only 5 inches down, her mouth stretching wide, cheeks hollowing as she sucked. Her jaw ached quick, the girth testing her, and after a few minutes, she popped off, rubbing her chin. "Ugh, you're lasting longer than the other night--must be those pain meds. I gotta meet my boss soon, so we're speeding this up."

Tyrone chuckled, water dripping from his chin. "You said I got it all down your throat that night--'fore your boy clocked me. Do that shit again."

Megan paused, considering, her hand still on his shaft. She'd need a push to get there--something to fire her up. Standing, she hooked her thumbs into her scrub bottoms, inching them down her hips, the navy fabric peeling off slow, revealing the black g-string underneath--Carson's pick, lace cutting a sharp line across her ass.

Tyrone's eyes bugged, locked on her. "Why stop there, girl? Take it all off--thong too."

She hesitated, then shrugged--why not? She slid the bottoms to her ankles, kicked them aside, then tugged the g-string down, stepping out with a little stumble. Naked now, her body glowed in the steam--pale skin flushed pink from the heat, blonde curls matted to her shoulders, C-cups swaying as she moved. Her ass was round, firm, dimpled at the hips, a faint tan line tracing where her bikini had been last summer. Her pussy was permanently bare, lips puffy and glistening already, a slick sheen catching the light as she shifted. She stood there a beat, water pooling at her feet, then sank back to her knees beside the tub, one hand slipping between her thighs.

Her fingers found her clit, rubbing slow circles, a soft moan escaping as she settled in. "Play with my tits," she said, voice breathy, glancing up at Tyrone. "Found out it helps get me... y'know, to that place." She doesn't even have the word horny in her vocabulary yet--just knew the feeling as an itch that needed to be scratched.

Tyrone's meaty hand shot out, rough fingers pinching her left nipple, a sharp twist that yanked a yelp from her throat. He froze, hand hovering. "Too hard?"

She gasped, then grinned, a flush creeping up her neck. "No--I kinda liked it. Keep going."

"Fuckin' A," he muttered, diving back in, pinching both nipples now--hard, deliberate tugs, rolling them between his thumbs, fingers and sometimes nail tips. She cooed, a needy hum, her clit-rubbing picking up speed, slick sounds mixing with the tub's slosh. She leaned in, breasts hanging over the water, lips parting, and took his cock again--pushing deeper this time, seven inches, her throat flexing as she gagged softly. Tyrone groaned, watching her stretch, her eyes watering but locked on his.

"Gettin' there," he rasped, his orgasm simmering slow, meds dragging it out. "Ain't balls deep yet--close, though." His hand landed on her head, fingers tangling in her damp hair, and he shoved down--hard, burying the last two inches, her nose smashing into his wet pubes. She didn't recoil; her free hand gripped his thigh, grateful for the push, her throat clamping tight around him.

He took over then, yanking her hair up, slamming her back down--face-fucking her with a steady rhythm, water splashing as his hips bucked. Her gags turned wet, sloppy, spit drooling down her chin, mixing with the suds on his balls. Her fingers flew on her clit, frantic now, the sharp pinch of his fingers on her nipples sending jolts straight to her core. She was close--fuck, so close--her coos muffled by his cock, thighs trembling.

Tyrone bridged up, spine arching like a bow, his ass lifting clear off the tub's bottom, water cascading off his thighs as he humped into her face with brutal, desperate force--each thrust a hard slam, his hips pistoning like a jackhammer, driving his cock deeper into her throat. Megan went limp under him, her body slack, surrendering as her throat opened wide, a wet, yielding tunnel for his need. He gripped her hair tighter, yanking her head up by the roots 'til her lips cleared his tip, her gasp a ragged wheeze, then recoiled back, ass splashing into the water with a heavy slap. He fucked his hips upward again--ferocious, unrestrained--slamming her face down in sync, her nose crashing into his swollen nuts instead of his hip bone, a lucky angle sparing her a shattered snout. The impact jolted her, spit and suds smearing her cheeks, but something about this--his control, her submission, handing her mouth over like a toy for a man to use, all for Ryan's twisted kink--ignited her. She'd never cum this hard, her mind blanking white, lost in the filthy thrill of being a vessel, a stand-in for a jerk-off hand.

"Fuck--here it comes," Tyrone growled, his thrusts turning wild, erratic, water surging over the tub's edge in waves. Megan's eyes rolled back, her own edge slamming into her--her pussy clamped tight, slick gushing over her fingers as she shuddered, a choked, guttural moan vibrating around his shaft, her throat milking him. Tyrone's orgasm erupted then, perfectly timed with hers--thick, hot ropes blasting down her gullet, bitter and relentless, his hand locking her balls-deep as he pumped every drop. She spasmed harder, clit pulsing like a live wire, her climax stretching longer, fiercer than ever 'til her fingers faltered, slipping from her drenched pussy to flop limp against the tile, her body a trembling wreck under his grip. "Shit," he panted, grinning wide. "I could get used to this."

Megan pulled off with a wet, ragged pop, cum and spit drooling from her swollen lips, a sticky thread dangling as she coughed, her throat raw and pulsing. She swayed a little, dazed, her head swimming from the brutal pounding, blonde hair a tangled mess framing her flushed face. She fumbled for her phone on the shelf, nearly dropping it, then thrust it at Tyrone with shaky hands, a sloppy giggle bubbling up through the fog. "W-wait, wait, I forgot! I need a picture--hurry, before it gets soft!" she slurred, eyes glassy but bright, blinking rapidly to clear the gag-induced tears and redness in her eyes. "First, take a pic of your dick, I'll pose with it--then one with me all the way down! It's for Ryan. He really loves this stuff."

Tyrone snatched it, still hard and very confused, the meds and her mouth keeping him stiff. "White folks, when ya think you got 'em figured, you find out ya don't. Alright, uh, smile bitch," he said with an entertained look on his face, aiming the camera--first shot, his cock jutting proud, glistening with her spit and water, framed against the tub's edge. Then he gripped her hair firmly, amusing himself, he slams her down, nose mashing into his soapy balls. Her eyes flicked up, wide and teary, cheeks flushed red, a hint of strain in her gaze as she held it. He snapped it--her blonde hair fisted in his hand, throat bulging, a perfect, wrecked trophy.

"Goddamn," he muttered, handing the phone back, dick still twitching as she pulled off, gasping. After grabbing the phone from awestruck Tyrone, she grinned while swiping through the pics.

--

Just 150 feet away from a still naked Megan--grinning wide, swiping through pics of Tyrone's cock on her phone--Kevin sat slumped in his locked office. The monitor's cold glow lit his shocked, bearded face, his faded polo rucked up over his gut, khakis unzipped, a sticky splatter of cum coating the surface of his pants. He'd blown it carelessly minutes ago--no tissue grabbed in time--caught off guard by the unexpected brutal face-fucking scene he'd watched on the live 4K feed from the patient bathing area. Now, limp and reeling, he stared at the screen in post-nut clarity, breath heavy, a hurried plan rushing into his mind. The feed showed her now--fully nude, giggling as she messed with her phone, Tyrone's "Goddamn" having just come through his speakers.

His pulse jumped. He'd always pop into her bath sessions before, catching her tits out, a sly perk of the job, but this? Naked from head to toe, pussy bare and glistening--he'd been dying to see it in person, not just on the screen, 4k or not. If he hustled, he could catch her before she dressed, spin some bullshit excuse to linger. "Fuck," he rasped, zipping up quick, the damp stain more apparent than he'd hoped. Regret gnawed, caught off guard by that face-fucking, and now he couldn't wait to clean it, not if he wanted to see Megan nude before she dressed. Surely no one'd think I jerked off in here, he told himself, though he'd made a habit of it since her tits started coming out. He had to move--down the hall, through the double doors. No time to waste.

He lumbered out, boots pounding the linoleum, his bulk heaving. The hall stretched long and dim--Carl's room silent, Tyrone's door ajar, the bathroom's steam curling out like a beacon. He hit the doorway panting--he'd made it. He stepped in, feigning casual, like he hadn't just seen it all on the live feed.

Megan stood by the tub, stark naked, her blonde hair a wet tangle, skin flushed pink from the heat and the face-fucking. The text just released, heading to poor Ryan's unsuspecting phone, read--"Guess who my new patient is? Tyrone! I guess he won't be bugging us anymore at the apartment :-P" with pics attached: one smiling next to his cock, another balls-deep, throat stuffed, buldging eyes. Kevin caught a flash of her pussy--puffy, slick, lips parted--as she typed, but then she dropped both hands, one clutching her phone, to cover her crotch, leaving her C-cups bare, nipples stiff. She'd clocked him, her gaze flickering with unease--Kevin staring too hard, not like his usual confident check-ins.

Tyrone lounged in the tub, his bruised grin lazy as he watched Kevin. Kevin didn't glance his way, eyes locked on Megan, but he tossed out a cover, voice rough and forced. "You must be the new guy--welcome to Home Away From Home." He waved a meaty hand, still only glancing at Tyrone. "I can see you've already enjoyed some of our, uh, amenities. Be sure to leave us a good review--just, haha, y'know, don't get too specific." His laugh was awkward, eyes boring into Megan, hoping her hands would shift.

Tyrone chuckled, water lapping as he shifted. "Yeah, y'all got a good thing goin' here. I'll be sure to not give you a reason to boot me."

"That's the idea," Kevin said, another strained laugh, his stare unwavering. Megan wasn't budging--hands glued to her crotch, tits out but guarded. He needed more, so he pivoted, voice oily. "Speaking of amenities, Megan, why don't you give him a peek from the back? Motivate him to follow through on that good behavior promise."

She blinked, staring dumbly 'til he clarified, "C'mon, you know--bend over a bit, maybe spread 'em so he can get a good view." Her brow furrowed, shy and used, but she hesitated only for a thought--Well, at least this'll spice up the story for Ryan even more, she thought. Setting her phone on the tub's ledge, next Tyrone's resting hand, she turned slow, wobbly on bare feet, then bent over, ass jutting toward Tyrone. Her hands reached back, imperceptibly trembling as she gripped her cheeks and spread them wide--pussy lips parting, slick and puffy, a faint drip trailing down her thigh, her asshole winking, yawning from the tension.

Kevin repositioned fast, stepping to the tub's side--right beside Tyrone now--his bulk looming as he soaked in the view, her holes framed in the steam. Tyrone stared too, whistling low. "Goddamn, had I known I coulda ended up in a place like this, I'da tried to get knocked out a long time ago. What the fuck I been doin' in my rat-filled alley?"

Kevin nodded, accomplishing his goal. "Great work, Megan--wrap it up here, settle Tyrone back in his room, and I'll be waiting in my office for your big career moment." He lingered a moment more, savoring her spread form.

Her phone chirped then, vibrating on the tub's edge--Ryan's response popping up. The three of them--Kevin and Tyrone turning to look, reading the first text to pop up: "Jesus Christ Megan." A pause, then another: "Wow, I mean, I guess that's pretty hot, thanks." Humor breaching the tense, sexual, and predatory air, as Tyrone and Kevin shared a smirk at the twisted concept that poor Ryan's responses revealed, both men totally unaware of his position in this grand scheme.

--

Carson sat in Tyrone's room, phone in hand, watching the 4K recorder's live stream--crisp, auto-saving every frame. He'd seen it all: Megan stripping, sucking Tyrone, the brutal face-fucking, all of it. His dick was hard, but he saved it for Megan. Divine intervention clearly at play, stumbling upon the contract, keeping Megan from being deposed, handing Kevin over, and now Kevin even on camera incriminating himself: "Bend over, spread 'em." Fucking perfect.

The door creaked. Tyrone shuffled in, gown loose, Megan yapping behind. Tyrone slipped the recorder to Carson, subtle. "Hope you had a great time," Carson said, pocketing it.

Megan beamed. "Kevin's impressed again--he happened to show up right in the act! Just my luck, seeing my hard work first hand--I bet I can, with the help of my handsome lawyer, get more than 25%."

Carson grinned. "As your handsome, big dicked, lawyer, I'll chat with him, man to man for you--gender issues, women's pay gap, I'll beat him at his own game. Wait here; I'll text you when I got him bent over."

"Great idea!" she chirped. To Tyrone: "Sorry again for how you got here--hope you're happy to stay." Leaving Tyrone to nap, she grabbed her clipboard for her rounds. With Carson in tow, she walked together back to the main wing, pointing out Kevin's door--two down from the nurse station--then split off. Carson went off alone.

As the door creaked open, Kevin faced his monitor, replaying Megan spreading on the security feed. "Come in, girl--you're the sexiest, hardest-working nurse I've ever hired," he said, not looking up, then turned. Carson stood there, not Megan. He'd edged along the walls careful to avoid something overhead, phone up, recording Kevin and the footage on-screen--forced sexual acts on a work computer. His eyes flicked between Kevin to the ceiling, clearly looking for something.

Kevin froze, confused, staring at this stranger, phone in hand, scoping his walls. Trouble loomed. Carson spotted it--a camera poking from a ceiling tile--yanked it out, severing the wire. Kevin gaped. Who the fuck are you, and what is that? Still clueless but sensing his demise, waiting for what comes next.

Carson tossed the device on Kevin's desk, pocketing his phone. No handshake, only a verbal introduction. "Hello, Kevin. Nice to meet you. I'm Carson--Megan's attorney, and Tyrone's as well, your new patient. I work for Melvin Marvin Maxwell--surely that rings a bell?"

Realization hit Kevin like a truck--face paling, jaw tightening. I am fucked. Carson smirked. "I'd shake your hand, but with that footage up on your screen, the stench in the air, and that splatter on your pants, I don't want to touch your hand, it's probably dirty--in more ways than one. Let's talk about that." He sat across, spreading out his torture devices to what his target squirm, Megan's contract, discovery docs, emails from Dr. Johnson, even his phone hit the desk, replaying Kevin's "Bend over" speech.

Kevin's eyes flashed anger, picking up the severed camera from his ceiling. "Did you fucking bug my office?"

"No, your boss did," Carson said. "I'll get to that."

Dread sank in. "What do you want?" Kevin rasped.

Carson leaned back, smiling. "Not you."

Kevin eased a fraction, still tense. "Then what?"

"First, so we're clear--I could fuck you, hard. National news, federal prison--no titties, just inmate cock for twenty years. Are we clear?"

Kevin slumped deeper into his chair, the weight crushing him, eyes down, submissive.

"Or," Carson continued, "I tweak Megan's contract in your favor, get her to sign, keep you here, maybe even with a raise--while I fuck the guy who bugged your office. Did you know that you were going to be his fall guy?"

Kevin shifted, predatory gears clicking past fear. "Ya, and how do I know you're not full of shit?"

Carson slid an email from the stack--discovery file, Dr. Johnson to the board chairman: "Oh Pete, don't get all high and mighty now, you enjoy it too. Don't you worry, I got a bug in fat fuck Kevin's office. I made sure that he had the cameras installed, saves the footage, and reviews it. And, how 'thoroughly' he does, behind locked door. If it blows up, eyes stay off us." More emails followed--Johnson mocking Kevin, legit with Bates stamps, lawyer certifications.

Kevin scanned them, Johnson's set-up clicking. His verbal camera orders, no paper trail, the ceiling bug to frame him, while doing all of his dirty work. He liked Carson's play--stay, keep Megan, under contract for his enjoyment. "Fine, I'll do whatever you want," he said, perking up. "At your service."

"Great," Carson replied. "Lots to do. If I sense even the slightest waver, I will bury you under Rikers Island."