Monday, Jane answered the ad. Tuesday, she got an email that she had been selected for an interview. The Lilly Cummins Institute for Reproductive Health would like to meet with you to discuss the opening it has for an assistant fertility coordinator.
It sounded like she'd be some kind of counselor, or maybe a public-facing representative, or someone in marketing? Public relations? Because while Jane, 53, did have a background in the pharmaceutical industry, she didn't have any medical training. The speed of the application process, and the fact they asked for a current headshot, kind of set off alarm bells in a too-good-to-be-true way. Why would they be so interested in me? she wondered.
It had been four months since she was laid off from her job, and the severance they gave her had almost run out. And besides, it’s a sperm donor clinic. Sounds … kinda fun! Jane thought, taking another long sip of chardonnay. When the wine hit her bloodstream, she decided what the fuck. Go for it..
The next morning she showed up to the clinic, a nondescript, postmodern, run-of-the-mill commercial real estate office park out by the freeway, that actually had no signage out front, to interview for this position. A receptionist at the intake desk noted her arrival and motioned Jane to sit in the waiting room, where they had a coffee machine. As she watched a house-flipping show on the waiting room TV, she was suddenly aware of a man's muffled cries beyond the thin drywall of the cheap and shabbily arranged office.
“Oh God, oh yes, just like that! Fuck!" he gasped. It sounded like he was being tortured. "Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!!!! Ohhhhhhh God yes!”
The sound of male orgasm made Jane flush red, purse her lips, cross her legs and then pick up a fashion magazine off the waiting room table to pretend to be interested in its gossip. Well, someone’s having a good time, she thought. Then the receptionist stepped out from behind her desk, clipboard in hand, and said — so cheerfully, as if she was deliberately oblivious to the sex sounds coming from the back of the clinic — “Mr. Owen will see you now.”
Mister. Jane thought, suspiciously. Not doctor.
She opened the door to usher Jane into the back of the dark, windowless facility, where she was immediately met with an asphyxiating aroma of lube, sweat, and cum. It didn't make Jane gag; rather it made her nostrils flare. It was like being hit in the face with a cloud of sex pheromones. There was a row of what basically looked like dressing room stalls along the right side of the clinic. Two nurses were at a central desk, talking on the phone and tippity-tapping on their computer keyboards. Except they were not dressed like real nurses, in blue scrubs. They were wearing what looks like the kind of sexy nurse costume you'd find from one of those spice-up-your marriage lingerie catalogs. Further, their makeup and hair was so provocative to the point of unprofessional.
They looked like strippers in nurse costumes, in other words.
The clinic director, was standing opposite the desk with the door to his office open. At first Jane thought he was wearing a doctor's white lab coat. After a double-take, she realized it was actually a linen mid-thigh bathrobe; the stethoscope around his neck was just a prop worn for effect.
“Jane?” he said solicitously, offering an insincere handshake. “You’re Jane, right? Welcome, we’ve heard so much about you.”
Well, now that doesn't scan, Jane thought, because she'd had no contact with this clinic before yesterday when she answered the job ad online.
Frankly, none of it felt safe. But the intrigue was too intense. She had to know more. What the fuck is this place is really about?
As Jane tried to walk professionally over to Owen's office, she caught a glimpse out of the corner of her right eye of a nude, hairy, but very fit and toned college-age boy, shuddering and walking out of one of the stalls. He had his back to her, but for a brief instant she saw the tip of his dangling, limp cock drooling out the remnants of some kind of post-orgasm mixture of lube and cum. A nurse was walking with him, her hand placed very tenderly on his back, ushering him to what looked like the shower area at Jane's fitness center, where he was probably going to clean up and recover from his donation session.
Jane's mind was now almost at war with itself.
Get the FUCK out of here.
NO, YOU HAVE TO SEE MORE.
This is a goddamn brothel, Jane, not a medical clinic.
I KNOW, AND THAT’S SO FUCKING HOT.
“Please,” Owen said, gesturing to his door, again cheerfully oblivious to what was taking place in the back of the clinic. Almost robotically, Jane walked over to him to extend a courteous handshake, passing by the central nurse desk as she did so. On the corner of the desk was one of those aromatherapy diffusers belching an aggressive fragrance into the sweaty, cum-filled air of the clinic. The smell of peppermint and cheap stripper perfume mixed with pubic sweat and musky body hair hit her again. It smelled like a guy had jizzed into the bottom of her aunt's pocketbook. Hell, the whole place smelled like the set of an X-rated fuck movie.
Owen closed the office door behind Jane and motioned her to a brown naugahyde couch opposite his cheap particle board desk. Behind it, however, was a bank of black and white monitors, like something out of Scarface. Except on those monitors Jane could see what was going on in every one of the donor rooms.
Some guys were jerking off to a porn magazine. One guy was simply dozing on a gurney, hands folded across his chest. And then in Stall 4, there was just no pretense about what was going on. Seen from the overhead corner of the room, the security camera showed a nurse just straight-up fucking the patient, riding him cowgirl-style, one of her hands interlaced into his as she ground her ass and pussy along his waist, while the other held on to her little stripper-costume nurse bonnet with almost comical effect.
“May I make you a drink?” Owen said. Jane was so stunned by what she had seen that only now did she realize this sleazebag actually has a fucking wet bar in his office. The counter was lined with glass handles of top shelf liquor, but it even had an old-fashioned seltzer bottle next to an ice bucket with tongs.
“Vodka tonic,” Jane mumbled cautiously. Owen mixed the drink. Before walking over to Jane, he turned to her and looked her in the eye as he held a small pink pill over the glass, nodding as if to ask for her consent to add it to her cocktail. “This is something our in-house pharmacy compounds," he said. "It’s just a mood enhancer.”
Jane nodded. What the fuck, she thought.
After he handed over the fizzy drink, Jane took a big, deep gulp with both hands around the cocktail glass. Almost immediately a wave of total pleasure and release hit her. She was so totally relaxed and into the thrill of the moment. I am interviewing for a $90,000-a-year job where I’m going to jerk off hot boys 30 years younger than me, she thought. And all those college-girl sluts out there are going to hear me fucking this total 1970s pornstar quack on his cheap couch.
Owen sat down next to Jane on the interview couch, and while she expected him to put his arm around her, instead he propped up his head while looking dreamily into her eyes. The drink and the “mood enhancer” had absolutely convinced this was now actually romantic. Jane caught her breath. She was, actually, now completely aroused. She felt the unmistakable tingle of vaginal wetness — and she was 54! — weeping from her pussy, which had opened like a flower in the morning dew underneath her polite, white, cotton panties. All she wanted to do in this moment was get herself off.
“So, we’re very interested in bringing you to our professional staff,” Owen said, “we think you have a lot to offer.”
“Uh huh,” Jane mumbled, almost robotically.
“Why do you want to work for this clinic?” he asked.
“I like helping … men … achieve their … goals?” she said, covering her mouth and snorting in disbelief at the words she'd actually spoken aloud.
“Good girl!” he giggled. Now he was tracing his index finger over Jane's knee. “We have lots of goal-oriented people at our clinic. We’re goal driven, and we do have a bonus arrangement for nurses who can hit performance targets.”
“What are those targets?” she said nervously.
“Volume, mostly,” he said. “The specimens also need to be a certain temperature, and can’t be contaminated by lubrication or … saliva.”
As the implication of that last word — saliva — hits Jane, Owen casually opened his losely belted robe, exposing a hairy chest and treasure trail down from his navel that stopped at a completely, baby smooth shaved pubic area, whose tumescent penis was starting to point straight out at Jane.
“I need to see a demonstration of your technique, Jane,” he said, stroking the nape of her neck with the back of his fingernails and leaning in to plant a very exploitive, and very unsolicited, but very deep kiss.
Jane almost instinctively reached down to softly grasp his dick, and began stroking it very gently. She was trying to remember the last time she actually gave a man a handjob. The divorce was more than 20 years ago. Was it college? Under the bleachers in high school? Doesn’t matter. Handjobs are easy, she thought. Men are dogs. Just play with their dick, they’ll cum in like two minutes.
“Our donors are carefully screened,” Owen said as Jane jostled his cock and balls. “They come in weekly. If they have three successful donations in a row, their fourth visit is purely recreational, with one of our clinicians attending.”
His dick had fully surged to life inside the palm of Jane's tender hand.
“Is that OK with you?” he asked. Jane nodded.
“Look at that,” he said, casting his gaze down to his cock slithering in and out of Jane's hand, accented by a lacquered, burgundy manicure she got only two days before.
“Oh, Jane, that feels very good.” he said. As she continued stroking, he pushed her hair out from behind her ear and leaned in to take in Jane's girly-girl perfume (Givenchy, for the record) and nibbled on her earlobe. Her pumping continued rhythmically, like one of those oil derricks out in the valley. Owen reached up underneath Jane's blouse, between her heaving breasts, and then clasping her at the collarbone by her throat, She was now gasping as Owen closed in like Count Fucking Dracula or something, but her wrist continued its pace as her hand traveled the length of his penis. He started kissing along her neck and jawline and then surrounded her mouth with his own. Their tongues slithered over and underneath each other as Jane's mind reeled and she struggled to comprehend what she was actually doing.
“This is very good technique,” Owen panted softly into her ear, rolling his hips to thrust further into Jane's hand. “I’m sure you can help all of our donors reach their performance goals.”
That did it. Jane was now fully committed to bringing Owen to an explosive finish. If this was really a job interview, well, she came here to see what he had to offer, too. Owen leaned back with both hands behind his head to watch her work. She stroked him faster and harder, now with both hands, twisting and wringing his cock with a furious sneer creasing her glossy red lips. Then she leaned over to surround his cock with the wonderful, warm, wetness of her mouth, and felt his palm on the back of her head, gently pushing her down to take the whole of her shaft inside her throat.
"That's very good technique," Owen sighed. "I think we are prepared to offer you this position."
Jane murmured something that sounded like thank you as she felt Owen's balls tighten, now receding almost inside his abdomen. It had been a while but she knew what a man feels like when he is about to cum. But then, remembering that the sperm samples must be preserved uncontaminated, she pulled her mouth away, coughing as a trail of drool connected her ruby lips to the purple tip of Owen's throbbing member.
He nonchalantly reached over to the end table for a tissue and handed it to Jane, which she used to wipe her mouth and his cock. Then he handed her a specimen cup with a kind of latex cap over it. She fit that over his penis with one hand while working his baby-soft balls and the bottom of his shaft with the other.
“Cum for me, baby,” Jane said, coaxingly. “You can do it! Yes you can! Cum. Cum for me, honey! let me see that load. I know you can do it.”
In an instant, Owen had filled the plastic specimen cup with a fertile, sticky sex syrup. Jane felt his shaft pulsing, one … two … three … four? five? Oh my God, six? times. When she finally, carefully, removed the specimen cup from his cock so as not to spill any of his deposit, she held it upright and saw that it was filled to the 10 milliliter line with his nasty, pervert quack-doctor cum.
Owen's chest was heaving. Now he was the one utterly at mercy. Jane smoothed her hand over his hairy chest and stomach and leaned in. This time, she initiated a deep and probing kiss.
“I want $150,000,” she said confidently. “When do I start?”
“Today,” he gasped, returning her embrace.
