Abbie thinks long and hard (but signs anyway).

The eighteen year old bit her lip and considered.

She certainly didn’t want to be considered a whore, but that image of her on the web with Mark Chambers’ gooey white spunk splashed all across her breasts **** her to rethink. She had been taking money in return for sexual favours. It didn’t take a genius to work out what that made her. All that Miss Barnard was proposing was to formalise it in a contract.

So why was Abbie so unsure? Perhaps because it confirmed peoples worst prejudices about her. She wasn’t voted most likely to succeed in school, she was voted most likely to end up giving 20 dollar blow jobs. And now here she was…

And yet what was the alternative? Miss Barnard was right. All that life offered for someone with her education was a dead-end job in some factory or burger bar, or producing kids for some guy in an equally dead-end job.

But here she could earn enough to get herself a car, a house, whatever, in no time.

But what about boyfriends? Who would want to date a slut who fucks old guys?

But then who ever wanted to date her before? The immature boys that she knew at school used to treat her as a bit of a joke; they showed no interest in her, except to make lewd jokes about her tits.

Whereas, the old guys here seemed to genuinely like her. Okay, maybe only because she put out for them, but even so they treated her with respect. Abbie knew that plenty of her girlfriends gave it away for free at the local nightclubs to guys who wouldn’t even remember their names.

Abbie glanced up at Miss Barnard. The conservatively-dressed Manager stood impassively by the contract. Her face gave nothing away. Abbie wondered if she had really ‘forgotten’ to give Abbie the contract, or whether Miss Barnard had deliberately given her some time to discover something about herself.

Abbie furrowed her brow as another disturbing thought entered her head.

“Miss Barnard?” she asked.

“Yes Abbie?”

“If this home is set up so that people can watch old folks having sex. What happens when they… you know… get to old to do it?”

“You’re never too old to ‘do it’,” smiled Miss Barnard.

“But if you get really infirm..?”
“Our most infirm resident is Reverend Jefferson in room 37. Quite the ladies man in his time. But he’s been bed bound for the last five years. He doesn’t have very much to look forward to, but at least in our care he gets a daily sponge bath and blow job to cheer him up. You should look in on him later. And we have a specialist Alzheimers Unit. You see, many rest homes ship their patients out to places better able to cope just when they are at their most ****, but we pride ourselves on doing everything in-house. Our business interests make it possible to provide life-long care.”

Abbie took a deep breath and signed. Miss Barnard smiled indulgently.

“There,” said Abbie. “Now what would you like me to do now.”

“Well,” replied Miss Barnard, “you could continue your rounds, or you could take the afternoon off and come back this evening. Some of the old men are going out to see a strip-show tonight and we need a staff member to ride in the minibus with them… Or you could stay with me to film a rather more specialist scene…”

With that, Miss Barnard glanced across at a rather wicked looking cane in the corner of the office. Abbie shivered.