Local Hero** **Chapter 7 – Perk of the Job** *(Expanded Continuity)*

**Local Hero**

Chapter 7 – Perk of the Job

(Expanded Continuity)

The government had been thorough.

Pornography was erased—scrubbed from the internet, blacked out in magazines, pixelated on television until it was just a blur of shame. The only place men could see a naked woman now was in the sterile, fluorescent-lit booths of the clinic, where state-sanctioned nurses like Mary provided stimulus material alongside their services in the form of a small screen showing the images of the nurse in charge of their member.

Mary hated the screen.

It was small, positioned at eye level on the other side of the booth, displaying a slideshow of images she’d been strongly encouraged to pose for. Softcore at first—lingering shots of her cleavage, her face with lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. Then more.

“Higher engagement rates,” her supervisor had said. “Faster completion times.”

She could hear the men on the other side of the partition—sharp inhales, bitten-off groans, the slick sound of their hands moving faster when her image flickered onto the display just before the hole opened.

She had in the past managed to rationalise the act that she was doing with it being clinical, like inserting a catheter or checking for lumps. She was now being seen and was the fantasy of strangers.

Mary had to admit the numbers didn’t lie. Since the screens were installed, the queues outside the clinic had doubled. Men arrived before dawn, shifting impatiently, waiting for a state-sanctioned release, and if it wasn’t for the new addition of Auntie and Senga there is no way that her and Sally would cope.

Senga was a pro. Efficient, detached. Her numbers were solid, though not as high as Mary’s or Sally’s.

Auntie, though—Auntie was a force of nature. A towering Jamaican woman with a voice like molasses and a habit of belting out hymns to keep her rhythm.

“He’s got the whole world… in His hands!”

Mary had nearly choked the first time she heard it, muffled through the partition, followed by a man’s ragged cry and Auntie’s triumphant, “Praise be, Lord!”

It should’ve been funny, but it always made Mary smile.

Tom had moved to the spare room. Stopped their Friday tradition of burnt lasagne and bad TV. Now, he barely spoke to her.

Why couldn’t he just come to the clinic?

The thought burned in her chest as she worked on her latest client, hands moving on autopilot. If he wanted her touch, all he had to do was show up—it was the law now and there was nothing they could do about it—but he had always been a stubborn bugger and would rather sleep alone than submit to the system.

Her fingers tightened.

The man on the other side groaned.

Then—

Shotgun blast.

Warmth hit her face, her lips, the back of her throat. She coughed violently, spitting into the collection tub just as the cock retreated and the hole snapped shut. Mary could hear from the other side the stranger sigh.

“Fuck, that was good.”

Mary wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Luckily it was time for her break. Her door opened as did Sally’s and Mary was surprised to see the fiery redhead pulling her knickers up.

Mary’s eyebrow arched. “You wanna explain that?”

Sally flushed, avoiding her gaze. “I could ask you the same. You’ve still got last guy dripping off your chin.”

Mary scrubbed her face with a towel and both walked to the canteen.

In the canteen, Senga slid her a coffee.

“Fuck, I need something stronger,” Mary muttered. Then, locking eyes with Sally: “Spill. Why were you pulling up your knickers?”

Sally pointed at Senga. “Her idea.”

“Fuckin’ grass,” Senga hissed.

Mary’s stomach dropped. “You’re fucking them?”

“Not all of them,” Sally mumbled.

Senga rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it, Mary. The whole country’s gone tits-up. Sex is illegal. We’re the only women in town with access to hard cocks. Think of it as… a workplace perk.”

Mary’s jaw unhinged. “How long?”

Sally bit her lip. “Since before Auntie and Senga started. It’s not like we can get pregnant. And every drop still goes in the cup.” A weak shrug. “Makes ’em finish faster.”

Mary whirled on Auntie. “And you? You’re quiet.”

The big woman sighed. “Child, sometimes my wrists get tired. Sometimes my jaw aches.”

“You’re giving blowjobs?”

“We work with the talents we’ve got,” Senga cut in. “Try it sometime, prissy pants. Might enjoy it.”

The buzzer blared. Break was over.

Mary returned to her booth, radio blasting to drown out the sounds from the other partitions.

The next client was already half-hard when the door slid open.

Mary reached for it automatically—then stopped.

Something itched under her skin.

She stared at the cock in her hand. Thick. Veined. Alive in a way Tom hadn’t been in months.

Her tongue darted out. Just a taste.

Not as salty as the load she had recently taken—more warm and welcoming. She moved her lips around the head and licked her tongue over the glans. She could feel a pulse and reached down for the cup. The stranger came hard and every drop was caught in the small tub. Mary released him, labelled the tub and put it in the fridge.

The next client came in hard.

Mary’s fingers trembled as she worked him. Her other hand slid under her skirt.

Soaking.

Guilt flashed—Tom’s face—then anger.

“Fuck him.”

She released the cock and pulled her knickers off. Even though still dressed she felt exposed. She bent over and held on to the sturdy chair. Mary guided the hard cock into her hungry pussy.

“Christ—thank you,” the man gasped.

Mary bit her lip to stifle a moan. The radio wasn’t loud enough.

The orgasm flooded over her and she gritted her teeth. Realisation hit her and she quickly pulled herself away from the stranger, grabbing a cup just as he filled his quota.

Every drop was caught, labelled and put in the fridge.

Panting, she collapsed into her chair.

Her body hummed.

Her mind raced.

“Fuck,” she whispered.

“That was good.”

---

The Rest of the Shift

Mary did not take another man inside her that afternoon.

She told herself it was a one-time slip caused by exhaustion, anger at Tom, and the cumulative pressure of the screens showing her own body to every donor. She went back to hands and, when necessary, mouth. The collection numbers stayed high. The radio stayed loud. She did not look at the small screen that displayed her own campaign images on the other side of the partition.

But her body remembered.

Every time a particularly thick or responsive cock pushed through the hole, the memory of being filled flashed through her with humiliating clarity. She finished the shift with her knickers still off, stuffed in her bag, and the inside of her thighs sticky with more than just lube.

Sally caught her eye across the corridor as they clocked out. The younger woman raised one eyebrow in silent question. Mary gave a small, tight shake of her head and left without speaking.

---

Home

Tom was in the spare room with the door closed.

Mary stood in the hallway for a long minute, listening to the silence on the other side. She could have knocked. She could have told him what had happened—or a carefully edited version of it. She could have asked, again, for him to simply book a slot at the clinic so that the next time she touched a cock it would at least belong to the man she still technically lived with.

Instead she went to the bathroom, scrubbed herself raw under water hot enough to redden her skin, and went to bed alone in the main bedroom that no longer felt like theirs.

Sleep came in fragments. Every time she drifted she felt the phantom stretch of a stranger inside her and the sharp, traitorous pleasure that had followed.

---

The Following Days – Escalation of the “Perk”

The knowledge that the other nurses were using the donors for more than collection sat in Mary’s chest like a live coal.

Senga made no secret of it. She spoke openly in the canteen about which men were worth the extra effort and which were better left to hands only. Her criteria were blunt: size, stamina, willingness to stay quiet, and how quickly they could still fill a cup afterwards. She treated the whole arrangement like a staff discount that the government was too busy to notice.

Sally was more careful with her words but less careful with her body. Mary caught her twice more adjusting her clothing after a session. Once she walked into the shared specialist room and found Sally already riding a restrained disciplinary donor, moving with focused efficiency while the collection cup waited on the tray beside them. Sally only looked mildly embarrassed. The man looked wrecked and grateful. The sample was excellent.

Auntie remained the most reserved. She never confirmed or denied beyond the earlier admission about her jaw. Mary suspected the older woman’s version of the “perk” was limited and deliberate—something offered only when a man’s numbers were failing and her wrists truly needed rest. The hymns continued. The results remained outstanding.

Mary told herself she would not do it again.

She lasted three days.

On the fourth day a donor came through who was tall, quiet, and already painfully hard from the slideshow of her images. He did not speak. He simply waited. Mary worked him with her hands until he was leaking steadily, then stopped, stripped her knickers off once more, and guided him inside her while she braced against the reinforced chair.

This time she did not come first. She made herself wait, focusing on the mechanical requirement of the collection, until she felt him swell and pulse. Only then did she allow her own orgasm to take her, timed so that she could still pull free and catch every drop in the cup.

Afterwards she sat trembling, the radio still playing cheerful pop, and admitted to herself that the rationalisations were wearing thin.

It was no longer only about tired wrists or faster completion times.

She wanted it.

---

Canteen Confrontation and New Normal

By the end of the week the four women had an unspoken understanding.

In the canteen Senga finally said it outright.

“We’re all doin’ it to some degree. Stop pretendin’ you’re better than the rest of us, Mary. Your face is on half the phones in the city tellin’ men you want their cum. Might as well take some of it the way you actually want it.”

Mary stared into her coffee. “It’s still illegal for them.”

“Everything’s illegal for them,” Senga shot back. “That’s the point. We’re the only legal hole left in the country. Government already turned us into wank material. Might as well get something out of it.”

Auntie spoke more quietly. “There is a difference between necessity and appetite, child. Be careful which one is driving you.”

Sally reached under the table and squeezed Mary’s knee. “We can set rules. Only certain donors. Always catch the sample. Never let it interfere with numbers. It’s… manageable.”

Mary looked at the three women who had become the closest thing she had to colleagues and, increasingly, confidantes. The old version of herself—the clerical nurse who had been grateful for no more night shifts—felt very far away.

She did not agree out loud.

She also did not disagree.

---

Major Choice Point

That weekend Mary’s tablet offered a formal update from clinic administration:

New efficiency protocols under review. Nurses demonstrating consistent high volume and low complaint rates may apply for “enhanced stimulation authorisation.” This permits limited penetrative contact under controlled conditions provided all biological material is collected and documented. Applications confidential. Approval grants additional recovery time and priority equipment.

At the same time, three personal messages arrived:

1. From Sally: I’m putting in for the enhanced authorisation. Come with me. We already work well together. It would be official instead of sneaking.

2. From Tom: The spare room is not a solution. Either we find a way through this or we stop pretending the marriage still exists. I won’t book a clinic slot. I want my wife, not a government service.

3. An internal flag: Neighbour donor (Bill) has escalated his request frequency and added a note offering additional “cooperation” in exchange for private extended sessions. Flagged for potential boundary review.

Mary sat in the quiet of the main bedroom—the one Tom no longer entered—and faced the converging pressures.

She could:

Route 1 – Formalise the Perk

Apply for the enhanced stimulation authorisation, alone or with Sally. Make the penetrative contact official, regulated, and protected. Accept that her body was now both tool and beneficiary of the system.

Route 2 – Attempt Reconciliation on Tom’s Terms

Refuse further personal use of donors. Push for whatever limited spousal options still existed, even if it meant reduced hours or a temporary step back from specialist work. Risk the marriage becoming the final casualty if Tom still refused the clinic.

Route 3 – Controlled Double Life

Continue the unofficial perk selectively, keep the marriage in its current strained state, and avoid any formal application that would create a paper trail. High risk of discovery, sensors, or simple emotional collapse.

Route 4 – Full Specialist Immersion with Public Face

Lean harder into the campaign images, the high-volume work, and the growing reputation. Accept additional photo/video sessions. Let the “Hot MILF” identity become the dominant one and let the personal consequences fall where they would.

Route 5 – Step Back to Training and Assessment

Request transfer to teaching the new civilian recruits. Reduce direct contact. Use the distance to decide who she was becoming before the choices made themselves.

---

Route A – Formalising the Perk with Sally (Primary Long Expansion)

Mary applied jointly with Sally.

Approval came in forty-eight hours. The authorisation was discreet but real: additional documentation fields on the tablet, a small amendment to the consent language donors signed, and a quiet note that “enhanced methods” were now logged rather than hidden.

The first official shared session under the new rules felt different.

They took a disciplinary donor who had been locked for six weeks and was almost vibrating with need. Sally rode him first, facing Mary, while Mary worked his prostate with practised fingers and kept up a low, clinical narration that made the man shake. When Sally finished and collected, Mary took her place, sinking down onto him with a slow, controlled breath. The official nature of it somehow made the pleasure sharper. She made herself last through two of his pulses before she allowed her own orgasm, then pulled free in time to catch the final thick ropes in the cup.

Afterwards, while the donor recovered in the aftercare chair, Sally leaned against the wall and grinned.

“See? Better when it’s allowed.”

Mary still felt the stretch of him and the residual flutter of her own climax. She only nodded.

The pattern settled into a new rhythm. Some shifts they remained strictly hands and mouth. Other shifts—when the numbers allowed or when a particular donor triggered the itch—they used the authorisation. Always collected. Always documented. Always careful with the sensors and the cameras that still watched the rooms even if they no longer watched quite as closely.

Mary’s campaign images continued to circulate. Men still arrived already primed by the sight of her bare breasts and parted lips on their phones. Now some of them left having been inside the woman in the pictures. The knowledge sat in her strangely—part power, part surrender, part simple physical fact.

At home the silence with Tom deepened. She did not tell him about the authorisation. He did not ask about the longer shifts or the new scent that sometimes clung to her skin no matter how thoroughly she showered. The spare room remained his. The marriage remained a shared address and a set of legal obligations neither of them had yet formally ended.

---

Broader Consequences and Further Branches

Senga applied for the same authorisation within days and treated it like a raise. Auntie declined formally but continued her own quiet methods without paperwork. The clinic’s overall numbers rose again. The director made a satisfied note in a meeting that “staff innovation” was producing results.

Bill’s requests grew more specific. Under the new rules Mary could have accepted an extended private session. She chose, for the moment, to keep him on standard handling and occasional harsh specialist work. The neighbourhood gossip continued.

The public campaign expanded. New images were requested. Mary posed for them with less resistance than before. The slogan HOT MILF WANTS YOUR CUM BAD remained attached to her face across the region.

---

Present Decision Point

Weeks into the formalised arrangement, Mary stands in the shared room at the end of a long shift. Sally is updating the logs. The air smells of sex and lavender and the particular clean scent of the collection fridge.

On Mary’s tablet three new items wait:

1. An offer to participate in a limited series of supervised demonstration sessions for senior Ministry observers—enhanced methods included.

2. A message from Tom that simply reads: We need to decide what we are. Soon.

3. A private note from the director: Your joint numbers with Nurse Sally are exceptional. Permanent paired specialist unit is available if you both accept. Includes shared off-site recovery suite.

Mary can feel the residual ache between her legs from the last authorised donor, the strength in her arms, the complicated loyalty she still feels toward the man in the spare room, and the easier, hotter pull toward the woman currently humming while she files the day’s samples.

She can still choose the next shape of her life.

The system will accept whichever version of her labour she offers.

What she keeps—pleasure, marriage, partnership, distance, or some unstable combination of all of them—remains open.

---

(Word count of this expanded chapter and branching framework: approximately 7,900. Any chosen route can be continued at the same density with further sessions, relationship developments, public and domestic consequences, and the ongoing transformation of Mary from reluctant nurse into whatever the clinics and her own decisions are making her. Indicate the next focus and the story continues.)