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Heath Care Reform School, Part Two
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Health Care Reform School
By Stroker Al
Part two of four
Ben, the tall black biker walked over to the bedside trash can
and pulled a strip of black leather "Well look at this. Looks familiar,
don't it, boys?"
"It's Buck's jacket! Hell, what did you guys do to it?" cried
one of the others, joining Ben to lift more leather tatters from the can.
"That's standard procedure for patients with possible spinal
fractures." Said Tim calmly. " We couldn't risk moving him to undress him,
so we cut them off."
Myra muttered something, so Ben turned toward her. "What did you
say?" he asked.
"I said he was cleared for C-spine down at x-ray." Myra
replied. TIm glared at her, and she looked back without expression.
The bikers looked at one another grimly and walked toward Tim as
a group. "That was a $600 jacket, buddy. How difficult would it have
been for you to carefully take it off him instead of cutting it to
shreds?" said one.
Ben stood in front of Tim looking down at him, while Joe, a
skinny pale man with black straight bangs in his face came up close
behind Tim. The nurse moved his eyes back and forth between them, trying
to keep aware of their positions at all times.
Ben smiled. "You should have asked us for some help,
nurse....Holstein," he said, tweaking Tim's nametag. "Something tells
me we have more experience than you do getting clothes off 'a people."
The bikers laughed heartily and for a minute seemed to be in such
a good mood that Tim's heart stopped pounding quite so loudly in his
trembling chest. Then Ben reached down to Tim's waist and picked up one
of the dangling ends of the braided nylon draw string of the nurse's
white scrub pants.
"Speaking of clothing, whatcha got on under these things,
Holstein?" he teased, twisting the nylon cord between two fingers.
Behind Tim Jerry gufawed. "Hell, ya can see right through em
plain as day, Ben. He's got on some cute lil' black skivies"
"Good. Then you won't mind so much if we demonstrate one of our
techniques on you?"
Tim became livid. "You're not demonstrating anything on me you
fucking - "
At that moment Ben yanked the drawstring and dropped down to a
squatting position, in which he grabbed Tim's ankles. At the same moment
Jerry and thrust his arms around TIm from behind and grabbed the front of
TIm's scrub shirt at the waist, locking Tim's arms at his side He pulled
Tim's Torso back against his chest while Ben quickly rose to a standing
position and deposited TIm's ankles onto his shoulders with his head
between them, so that the startled nurse was being held horizontally
between the two men more than five feet above the floor. As soon as
Jerry saw that Ben was in a standing position, he pulled hard on the
scrub shirt waist in one swift, continuous movement, pulling it up over
Tim's chest,shoulders and head, at which point he had stripped it
completely from Tim's torso. Simultaneously, Ben had grabbed the waist
of Tim's scrub bottoms and pulled hard and swiftly in the opposite
direction, so that Tim was instantly de-pantsed.
Thus, the nearly naked nurse flailed in space for a few
fragments of a second before being caught in the arms of Charlie, a third
biker. It this position, with nothing left on but his black bikini
briefs and black leather sport shoes Tim looked like the dying figure in
an s&m version of the Pieta.
"Voila!" cried Ben, grinning with his twin rows of big,
brilliantly white teeth as he and Jerry held up and waved Tim's empty but
intact scrubs around the room for all to see.
"It's easy, folks! And not a single cut or tear," he added,
tossing the scrubs aside. Ben then went to the aid of the biker holding
the struggling Tim and the two of them held tightly onto all four of his
hairy, naked limbs.
Jerry went to the nearest empty bed side and switched on the
overhead light. Ben and Charlie began swinging Tim back and forth by his
arms and legs, in an increasing arc until finally letting go and sending
the yelling, stripped nurse flying across the room and onto the empty
bed. Jerry and the other bikers quickly stretched Tim out in spread
eagle formation and lashed him to the bed railings with leather
restraints. Finally, they yanked off his shoes and socks.
Tim howled cried and screamed in protest, but the rest of the
staff just looked on, frozen, with a mixture of terror and fascination.
His scandalized coworkers were embarassed for Tim, whose tiny black
breifs could not conceal the sizable hard on that he was now sporting
between his forcibly spread legs. By the time the bikers had secured his
thrashing limbs, Tim's dickhead had emerged, glistening, from beneath the
waistband of his bikinis. Like so many single men, Tim had one of those
pricks that was always ready to party, regardless of the appropriateness
of the moment - sort of like the guy in the dorm back at college who used
to stick his head in through Tim's door at the sound of a bottle - any
bottle - being opened.
Meanwhile, the staff in neighboring intensive care wards went on
with their work, ignoring Tim's protesting cries coming from the neuro
ward. Sadly, they were all so used to half-drugged patients making all
such kinds of noise, that they thought nothing out of the unusual was
happening.
Jerry walked over to the adjoining empty bed and turned on its
overhead light. Stan's stomach dropped inside him and he made a bolt for
the door. Ben had been momentarily occupied with Tim, so Stan might have
escaped, if it hadn't been for the three other bikers, one of whom
managed to grab him by the tie as he shot past and dragged him back like
a roped steer.
"Let me go, you dumb country fucks!" Stan cried as the biker
named Spike hoisted him over his shoulder and hauled him, butt in the air
and thrashing, over to the other empty bed that awaited him. "Myra!
Where's security!"
She hesitated out of fear, but grabbed the phone again and dialed
Michael, once again with no one attempting to stop her.
"Who is this?" she asked, when Lenny answered instead of Michael.
"Where's Michael?"
"He's busy right now," Lenny said, stroking the back of the
cocksucking receptionist's neck. "Can I take a message?"
"We need every security officer in the place up here, NOW" she
cried.
"Oh, that would ruin everything," purred Lenny. "I'm afraid
you'll have to do without them. And don't bother trying to call them
yourself - even if you could manage to remember the number - because
we've routed all the ward phones through the desk." and he hung up.
"It's no use. They've taken control of the phones," Myra said,
but Stan wasn't listening. He was being tied down into the bed with
restraints and swearing up a blue streak of profanity at his attackers.
"You'll spend the rest of your useless fucking lives in prison
when this is over," he sputtered impotently at them.
"You're the one's in prison," Ben said to him. "and we're gonna
help you free your mind, hot shot." He turned to two of his
companions.
"Jerry, I got some business to talk over with the staff here. Why
don't you and Danny get doc here out of his duds and into some proper
atire for his hospital stay. Let's show some respect though, this time,
and do things THEIR way," he chuckled.
Jerry and Danny nodded and shortly appeared at Stan's bedside,
each with a pair of shears from the equipment cart.
"Wait!" cried Stan as they moved toward him. "Untie me! Let me
take them off, please! Don't cut up my....oh, shit," he trailed off
uselessly as Jerry severed his hundred-dollar Milano silk tie just below
the knot at Stan's heaving collar. The biker let the mutilated symbol of
the doctors dominant position in the hospital hierarchy drop underfoot
onto the bacteria-laden floor under the hospital bed, where it lay as
dormant as the unlucky man's lost authority.
Shears cut a jagged path up one leg and then the other of Stan's
gray virgin wool Vercino slacks ($170 - on sale!). "This is gorgeous
material," quipped Jerry.
With the other shears Danny hacked first through Stan's
hospital-issued jacket, and once it was removed in shreds, began
dismantling the doctor's brand new, pure linen Barbarini shirt ($350).
Stan was silent during this, with his eyes clamped shut, and looking as
though he were going to burst into tears any second.
The other nurses, in spite of themselves, could not help gawking
at Stan's involuntary unclothing any more than they had been able to turn
away from the provocative sight of Tim's helpless exposure in the next
bed. Even Carl and Frank, who, under Ben's threatening direction, were
busy at the nurse's station writing out physician's orders for these two
'surprise' admissions to the unit, could not help looking up occasionally
to watch the progress of their superior's humiliation.
Within minutes Stan's trim, light brown legs, well-formed arms
and smooth, bronzed chest were on display against the white bedsheets,
and his expensive threads were lining the bedside trash can, weighted
down by his discarded Neri loafers. Weeks later, when he would spot
those shoes being worn by one of the shipping dock workers, he'd be too
embarrassed to demand them back.
There was nothing now but his loose navy blue silk boxers
standing between Stan and jay-bird nakedness. And standing, indeed, his
boxers were, because like Tim before him, Stan had sprung a
crotch-tenting erection amid all his struggling.
"What the fuck are you gonna do,?" roared Stan, his eyes open
again. "What the hell do you think you're doing writing those orders,
Carl! Don't let these bastards get away with this terrorist shit!"
Tim started up again as well. "Somebody make a run for it, Damn
it! Get help! They can't catch all of you! Do something!"
But no one moved. None of them were sure why, but it didn't
seem yet like anyone was in a life threatening situation. It would have
taken more of a sense of loyalty, comradship and mutual respect among the
staff of the neuro unit for them to have unquestioningly jumped to take
the kinds of risks that might have brought immediate aid to their
helpless coworkers.
Ben's brow furrowed at these shouts and he turned toward Stan and
Tim. "Now you boys are disturbing us over here. We're trying to work
out a plan your care and all you do is keep interrupting us. Now stay
quiet or we'll have to sedate you."
"Fuck you, you goddamned ape!" hissed Stan. "Myra! Frank! Run!
Get help!"
"Shut up, asshole! " said Tim to Stan. "You're making it worse."
"Who are you calling asshole, you little bikini-wearing,
lounge-lizard loser! " Stan snapped back. "This is your fucking fault,
cutting up that goddamn leather jacket!"
"Hey, back off, fratboy. Cool your jets, or you're gonna get us
in more trouble," Tim hissed.
Ben snapped his fingers. "Shut 'em up, boys. Now"
Jerry and Danny each went to a bedside, snapping their shears
open and closed in front of the terrified captives. Then they went to
work on them.
One snip up each side of Tim's hips allowed Jerry to peel away
the nurse's black cotton breifs and expose his hairy nuts and stiffened
cock to the room. His light brown bush and the adjacent abdominal and
thigh hair were revealed to have no delineating lines of transition.
Below his scrotum, which was quickly tightening and drawing back in the
open air of the room, another virtual forrest of fur was revealed,
receding back between his ass cheeks to his rectum.
"Happy now, faggot?" sneered Tim defiently to Jerry. The biker
responded by cramming the shredded black bikini into Tim's mouth to shut
him up. "NOW I'm happy, big guy!" winked Jerry.
Likewise, Danny cut deftly through the silk and elastic of
Stan's boxers and released the surgeon's jutting, erect penis and
smooth, low-hanging balls to the air. His compact, dense black bush
framed his prick closely, contrasting sharply with his smoothness
elsewhere, and giving an appearance of manicured neatness that fit in
with the rest of his grooming habits.
"I'll be quiet," pleaded Stan, as Danny bunched his destroyed
boxers into a ball and approached him. "Don't gag me with those, please!
I'll be quiet."
"Okay," smiled Danny. "I'll gag you with THESE instead." The
biker reached over and with a couple of calloused fingers dug Tim's black
breifs out of the nurse's mouth and transfered them into Stan's
protesting mouth. Tim in turn was gagged Stan's boxers, and the room was
finally silent for the first moment in quite a while.
"That's better," said Ben, and continued his instructions to the
hastily scrawling Carl and Frank.
While the orders where being written, and while being observed by
the other bikers, the other nurses,in turn, discretely observed Tim and
Stan in while continuing treating their own patients in the ward.
Laid out like a perverse human smorgasboard, the terrible
"testosterone twins" of neuro could be visually sampled (and subsequently
ignored) by their coworkers without consequence. This was a rare
opportunity for any of them to satisfy whatever remaining curiosity they
had about either man.
It would have been hard to say which of the two men looked more
appealing stripped bare and tied down on his back in bed. Both, after
all, had a number of appetizing physical attributes. But whatever
mystique or mystery either man had held in the minds of their coworkers
quickly vanished under the sterilizing overhead lights of the hospital
ward. Displayed in their nakedness and arrousal, Stan Lager and Tim
Holstein were open books now and were being read - and then mentally
tossed aside - by everyone.
Only these two, for whom image and appearance had always been
everything, could the rest of the staff have looked upon in this way
without feeling overwhelming remorse and shame. As badly as it may have
reflected on their professionalism to have admitted it, it seemed to most
of them that Tim and Stan were receiving some kind of justice or karmaic
retribution.
What no one seemed to notice, however, was that Stan and Tim were
sneaking looks at each other too, out of curiosity as well as
competitivness, if not for other motives. Once both of their erections
had subsided they felt more comfortable looking around. And while both
of them might have in other circumstances had good reason for taking
pride in their physiques, all they felt today was envy and frustration.
While like most any men who enjoy a harmless opportunity now and then to
show off their stuff to receptive onlookers, Tim and Stan lost whatever
potential gratification they might have gotten out of their situation,
each out of fear of being unfavorably appraised in comparison to the
other - the same man whose scrotal sweat, piss stains and loose pubes
were even now disolving on the other's tongue, no less!
"Oh, Myra?" said Ben, to the dark-haired nurse, who froze to the
spot upon hearing her name. "I'll need you to order some registration
bands for our new patients here so we can get them admitted and into the
system for treatment."
She stared at him wide eyed for a moment, then nodded and phoned
the reception desk once again. This time no one answered. As Myra put
down the phone to try to explain to Ben that she couldn't get through,
the intercom suddenly kicked on overhead, capturing everyone's
attention.
"Oh yes, yes," a man's voice was saying. There were loud
slurping sounds as well. "Come on, suck it. Make me come, Mikey, my man.
You can do it. Oh yes, that's it. I'm gonna come in your mouth, baby.
Right now. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Myra was the only one who recognized the voice as that of the man
who had answered before, but it was obvious to everyone what was
apparently going on at the reception desk now.
As they all listened to the broadcast moans of orgasm,
swallowing, slurping and gagging sounds, Jerry came up to Ben.
"How about if I relieve Lenny next, okay? I think I'd like to
get a little of what he's getting."
Ben nodded. "Okay. But make sure one o' you orders those name
bands before you get too busy, eh?."
Hearing this exchange Tim and Stan began to sweat bullets. They
suspected (rightly) that that poor Michael was only getting a taste of
the treatment that was in store for the two of them.
As it happened, it took five successive 'replacements' at the
reception desk, Ben included, before all of the paperwork and preliminary
treatments for Stan and Tim had been completed. Poor sore throated,
sore-kneed Michael, however, was not allowed a break during this two hour
period, but was instead merely guided by the scruff of his neck from one
biker's cock to the next. It often took as long for the rank,smeggy
taste to dilute as it did for the previous imposter receptionist to
orient the next to the proper operation of the switchboard. It was
agreed, though, that for the benefit of the other patients' rest, that
none of the others would repeat Lenny's "gag" of turning on the speaker
phone during their orgasms.
Meanwhile, Stan and Tim had been registered under the names "John
Doe #1" and "John Doe #2" and put under the nursing care of two members
of the invading group of bikers, who were now calling themselves the
"Emergency Intervention Team" (E.I.T.).
Added to the schedule as "float nurses," Danny and Spike donned
sets of scrubs from the locker room that were barely large enough for
their huge frames. Danny's old grey jockstrap could be seen clearly
through the tight white cotton, the straps cutting deeply into the beefy
cheeks of his ample ass. Spike, who never wore anything under his
leathers, was quite a sight himself, with his huge namesake equipment
swinging as freely as the stethoscope around his neck. Dressed for the
part at last, they set to work on Stan and Tim.
In addition, the two men took over the nursing care of their
injured friend, Buck, since his original nurse was in no condition to
help him.
Though they were constantly seeking advice from the staff nurses,
all agreed that it was amazing how much nursing the pair already knew how
to do. Still, their greenness showed, such as during the numerous
procedures they performed out in the open, which ideally should have been
done behind privacy curtains. The regular staff came to feel, however,
that it would not do to be overly critical of the volunteers' nursing
style, since they were trying so hard.
After being sedated just enough to make them docile, Tim and Stan
were first relieved of their saliva-saturated boxer and breif gags, and
then catheterized with the same large gauge of tubing that had been used
on Buck. Having the underlubricated tubes shoved all the way up their
dicks to their bladders was an experience neither man would soon forget.
In turn, their verbal protestations during this procedure was an
experience the rest of the staff would never forget as well.
The doctors orders, as dictated by Ben and written out and signed
by Carl, proved to be exceptionally creative and innovative.
The catheter tubes, for example, emerged as they ordinarily did from each
patients' penis, but instead of leading to the usual graduated bedside
reservoir bags, were strung across the intervening space between the beds
of the twin "John Doe"s and taped down in the corner of the opposite
patient's mouth. This unorthodox procedure admittedly made it next to
impossible for the nurses to accurately chart the volume of urine output
for either patient, but the "E.I.T" argued that this disadvantage was
more than offset by this opportuniy for Stan and Tim to replenish the
electrolytes they were expelling. This was not to mention the healthy,
stimulating side effect of their constantly tasting the rich, pungent
elixir of each other's piss. This latter benefit, of course, would have
been dismissed as irelevant had either patient not remained fully awake
and conscious of everything they were experiencing, too weak though they
were to comment.
Being old fashioned guys, Spike and Danny didn't automatically
take advantage of the latest technologies available for their tasks. For
example, when taking Tim's temperature, Spike passed up the electronic
ear canal thermometers that the other nurses used in favor of the
traditional mercury-filled glass rod, two of which were still kept at
each bedside in the ward, but rarely used.
Danny, unfortunately, dropped and broke his thermometer before he
could administer it to Stan.
"Damn, lookit all those silver balls rolling around on the floor!
What am I gonna do now?" he asked Spike.
"Here, I'm just about done with mine," replied Spike, who with
latex gloves on pulled the thermometer out of Tim's rectum, took the
reading, and handed it to Danny. As the biker 'nurse' carefully shook
down the themometer to clear the reading, he asked his colleague, "Did
you notice what color this was before you used it?"
"Yeah, sure. Blue. Why?" asked Spike.
"Blue is for oral. This is an oral thermometer. The red ones
are rectal."
"Ohhh!" cried Spike, seeing the unused red thermometer still at
his bedside. "I didn't know that. Sorry, Holstein," he said to Tim, who
just glared at him.
"Well pay attention next time, or you'll get reported!" Spike
said as he inserted the unwiped thermometer into Stan's sputtering mouth,
holding it there until the doctor stopped resisting. "Things coulda been
worse, doc," Spike told Stan. "You coulda had HIM for a nurse," he said,
indicating Danny. "He don't know which end is which!"
Throughout the weekend, both "nurses" had plenty of opportunities
to become fully acquainted with each one of their patitients' orifaces.
During this short hospital stay, for example, an unprecedented 15 enemas
each were administered to Tim and Stan, complete with a stinging alcohol
additive to the solution, which the doctor's orders claimed would
invigorate the men's intestinal and rectal passages.
"There you are, sport," announced Spike upon completion of the
wearily moaning Tim's third successive high-volume anal irrigation.
"Clean as a whistle!"
The bed-bound nurse felt like he'd had the Mississippi river
rerouted through his guts. Stan would have said, if he'd felt like
talking, that it was more like more like the Amazon, stocked with
pirahnas.
Another frequent procedure the burly 'nurses' performed on Stan
and Tim were the special neuro checks, which they administered according
to strict guidelines detailed in the written orders.
"How many fingers am I holding up? I mean, up your ass, that is."
Nurse Danny asked Stan repeatedly, until the digitally penetrated doctor
was compelled to answer correctly, though not very articulately. The
nurses worked hard with both Tim and Stan on the neuro checks throughout
the weekend until both of these stubborn, resistant patients were able to
identify as many as five fingers and an accompanying fist up their asses.
Early on that Friday night, however, the E.I.T. decided to allow
Carl and Frank to finish the work required of them in the ward in case
they might be needed elsewhere in the hospital. The resident and medical
student scrubbed up and gowned nervously, afraid they might not be able
to perform the ordered procedure correctly, due to lack of experience.
And who could blame them? Drilling holes in Stan and Tim's skulls and
inserting bolts would have been a daunting procedure for anyone to
perform.
Stan whimpered as Danny dragged the electric clippers back from
his forehead all the way down to the nape of his neck in progessive rows
until all of the vain doctor's thick black hair had fluttered to the
floor in tufts. Even bald he was still a remarkably attractive man, but
less so at that moment, with his face red and puckering with sobs. Soon
Tim's head was equally hairless, which made the companions in adversity
begin to look all the more alike.
Mercifully, they were drugged to sleep before the drilling
commenced. Carl and Frank, scrubbed, gowned, gloved, masked and hatted,
worked on Stan and Tim respectively, with Carl who had at least assisted
in the procedure a number of times, supervising. By the time all four
holes had been drilled in each patients' skull, Ben had returned from a
short abscence with the special "haloes" that the orders had dictated.
They looked suspiciously like ordinary motorcycle helmets, but neither
Carl nor Frank voiced any objection.
Half an hour later, the helmets were in place and bolted to the
paitients' heads. The final stage of the procedure involved the
unprecedented step of soldering the bolts permanently to the helmets.
Stan and Tim could now, if they chose, serve as walking advertisements
for future motorcycle helmets legislation.
Near the end of this procedure, Michael was brought staggering
into the ward, with semen dripping from his lips.
"He's sick," said Georgie, the current receptionist (whose fly
was still open) who was assisting Michael in walking. "I think he needs
his stomach pumped."
The bikers prepared a third bed and ordered Michael to strip,
which he woozily managed. The E.I.T. nurses noted with amusement that,
like Spike, he wasn't wearing any underwear at all.
"Didn't your mother ever warn you about being prepared in case
you got into an accident?" one of them laughed.
"I never listen to my mother," Michael mumbled as the crowd
around his bedside prepared him for a stomach evacuation.
Having eaten nothing else the entire afternoon and evening,
Michael's stomach yielded nearly a pint of viscous fluid: half saliva and
half spermy biker semen. The E.I.T. team, recording the output on
Michael's chart, argued over the proper terminology to use: spunk, Jizz,
cum, dick cream, spooge, etc. But finally agreed on the clinical term of
semen.
It was decided that although the precious, protein-packed fluid
taken from Michael should definitely not be reintroduced to his system,
it might have beneficial effects as supplementary feedings for both Stan
and Tim. And so, they divided it and diluted with one part Isocal
feeding formula, and hung it up in oral feeding bags for Stan and Tim.
The feedings, though satisfactory, didn't last long, so
subsequent doses of full strength semen were administered around the
clock to "John Doe I # and 2#" via direct "tube" feedings given by
whichever male dietary employees happened to innocently appear in the
ward on other business. These young men in gold jackets, who were easily
coerced by the E.I.T. into climbing up onto Stan and Tim's beds to fuck
their faces, behaved true to their reputations as gossips, and quickly
spread the word among their colleagues, insuring the John Does a steady,
protein-packed diet all weekend. Every one of these budding professionals
was delighted, however, to find Stan and Tim so cooperative and
non-confrontational compared with past interactions, in which the surly
health professionals had browbeaten them or been extremely rude. Few of
them noticed, though, that both patients' cooperation was being
facilitated by the nurses grip on their testicles.
One young dietician, who had always admired Stan's looks, even
offered Spike $50 to allow him to feed off of the good doctor's 'tube',
but of course Stan's catheter precluded such a treatment and the offer
was denied.
Physical therapy was more difficult, but produced amazing results
in all three patients. The method was as follows: the therapist would
climb onto the patient's bed in a sitting position and raise the bedside
rails to full height. He would then bring the patient forward, also in a
sitting position, until the patient was straddling his groin. From this
position, with loosened restraints and one hand on each bed rail, the
patient was encouraged to raise himself up and down repeatedly. After
one or two repetitions, the therapist would produce from inside his pants
a rigid motivational tool that he would lubricate and introduce to the
patient.
Because healing is so often dependent on the relationship between
the caretaker and patient, it was felt that rather than to prescribe in
advance some cold, arbitrary specific number of repetitions for the
exercise, that the endpoint of each physical therapy session would simply
coincide with the culmination of the therapist's natural physiological
response to his patient's progress. In other words, once each therapist
shot his hot juicy wad up Michael, Stan or Tim's prick-engulfing
assholes, the session ended.
This approach made assisting with our bedeviled boys' physical
therapy much easier for the numerous professional and non-professional
hospital staff that the E.I.T persuaded throughout the weekend to stand
in dozens of times for the scarce Physical Therapy staff available.
Janitors, Maintenance men, Pharmacists, hospital administrators (!), and
even a Pizza delivery guy or two: all of these easily and happily
grasped the concept that when THEY were "finished," it meant the patient
was, too.
The obsessive weight lifting habits of both Tim and Stan was a
contributing factor to the therapy's success, since much of it depended
on arm strength, but it could never be underestimated how much of both
mens's effort and energy was due to a lifetime's socialized aversion to
being penetrated. Both acted out of the drug induced delusion that if
they raised themselves up high enough off the bed they could escape this
posterior probing. But in their doped, weakened state, they were never
able to stay up there long, and inevitably had to lower their asses down
to be impaled right down to the root of the therapist's hard cock time
after time after time again. How different this was from working out at
the health club both of them belonged to! There, Tim and Stan loved to
be on display, but here, were wishing that no one could watch them
perform THESE exercises.
Michael, who was not into pumping iron, received his physical
therapy while positioned alternatively on his back, stomach and knees in
bed. Recovering nicely from his stomach problems, he began to accept
semen feedings again (on a reduced frequency basis, of course).
Furthermore, he showed no aversion to being penetrated per se, and in
fact, grew increasingly enthusiastic about his treatments, which his
'nurses' eventually rewarded by undoing one of his restraints so he could
jack himself off while getting 'therapeutically' fucked. Ultimately,
hours of nursing care were saved by scheduling his physical therapy and
feeding sessions simultaneously (the ward's high tech beds fortunately
proving strong enough to hold the weight of three men at once).
Michael's cooperation with therapy, and its subsequent 'rewards'
did not go unnoticed by Stan and Tim. While they chose to remain
defiant to the end, their dicks and balls increasingly craved the release
that was not granted them, even as other men were ecstatically
ejaculating into their mouths and asses dozens of times each day.
Appalled as they were by Michael's collaboration with the enemy, they
couldn't help envying the obvious pleasure he was getting out of it.
(end part two of four)
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