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Heath Care Reform School, Part Three
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 three of four
Throughout the weekend, Buck Savage's health improved with a
rapidity that astonished everyone. Spike,Danny and the others proved to
be uncannily nurturing when they chose to be, and within 16 hours had
Buck speaking and responding appropriately to treatment. After 36 hours,
he was taking steps across the floor with their support. As his strength
increased, they marked his walking progress on the floor with masking
tape marks that approached closer and closer to Stan's and Tim's beds
before he would tire and need to turn back.
A few hours after his catheter was removed, Buck was encouraged
by his buddies to celebrate the event by making a special walking trip to
go relieve himself. This time not only did the recuperating biker make
it all the way over to Tim's bedside, but he also aimed his dick
carefully and expelled a healthy quart or so of urine all over his former
nurse, whose bed had been accomodatingly been adjusted to its lowest
height.
"You are SO inconsiderate to let him do that to my patient,"
snapped Danny to Spike with mock indigation. "I still have my 4 o'clock
assesments to do. I don't have time to do a bath!" Fortunately for Tim,
Charlie the E.I.T. nurse on the next shift managed to squeeze a bath in
for him several hours later.
Later, before an unusually large audience of cheering onlookers, Stan
had the dubious honor of swallowing Buck's copius first post-accident
ejaculation, though the biker had no trouble producing another, equally
large wad of jizz by the time he was strong enough to take Michael up the
ass.
By Sunday evening a mere seven eight-hour nursing shifts had
passed since Buck's admission to the ward, yet in the E.I.T.'s opinion,
he was now well enough to be discharged. Amazingly, though a number of
neuro staff had come and gone from the hospital at the change of these
shifts, no word of the situation ever got out to the public in general.
A meeting of hospital administrators in the know (including a few
men who had that weekend come to 'know' either Stan or Tim intimately )
decided that the reputation of the hospital depended on keeping the
incident quiet, and that the best option would be to quiet the injured
parties with financial payoffs. They also decided to make the payments
annonymous, and individually deny any knowledge of the incidents in order
to protect themselves from criminal charges.
While Ben and the others packed up Buck's belongings and prepared
to take him out, the E.I.T. 'nurses' for his final shift engineered the
timely "demise" of their other patients, the John Does.
"Oh my, look at his vital signs," cried Lenny as watched the
bedside monitor react to his ripping a handful of the electrode wires off
of Tim's chest, pulling out tufts of the writhing nurse's brown chest
hair where they remained clinging to the five round adhesive pads. "He
has no heart rate, no pulse, no blood pressure, no nothing! Doctor, will
you pronounce him for us please?" he asked, turning to Stan.
"Whaaa?" Stan groaned , trying to focus his blurry vison at the
equally confused, but perfectly healthy Tim. Though Stan never did
completely understand what they wanted of him, with some verbal coaching
and some well-placed pressure on the good doctor's sore balls, the
E.I.T. was able to get him to pronounce John Doe #1 dead at 2038 military
time that evening.
Minutes later, after Stan's monitor was disconnected in a like
fashion (leaving his fine, smooth chest unscathed, Michael noticed from
his bed) the E.I.T. took the unprecedented step of encouraging the doctor
to prounounce himself dead (at 2042).
"Both of them gone within 5 minutes! " cried Charlie. "My god,
what a tragic shame!"
"And they were even wearing helmets!" added Lenny.
Stan and Tim just lay there looking around, perplexed. The
E.I.T. then began to prepare them for their journey to the final
destination of patients of their kind: the morgue.
First, the biker nurses removed all of the patients' tubing. For
the first time in three days, the flow of golden urine between Stan and
Tim's dicks and mouths was halted, and the catheters were unceremoniously
yanked out of their pricks, each in a single, powerful effort.
"Good lung sounds," Charlie muttered about the men's vocal
reactions to their swift decatheterization. "I don't remember these boys
sounding that healthy when they were alive."
Then, the restraints were removed so that both patient's arms and
legs could be crossed and bound in place with cloth strips and safety
pins. Of course both Tim and Stan recognized the procedure with horror
and began to plead with their caretakers to not go through with it. But
Lenny and Charlie, who just went on behaving as though the men were dead,
in no time at all had their twin nude 'corpses' neatly wrapped in
sheets. Finally, having helped each other transfer the bodies to flat,
stainless steel morgue carts, the nurses were ready to go.
"We did the best we could with these boys," announced Ben to the
room full of nurses. "Now they're in the hands of the Good Lord. May he
have mercy on their souls."
The ungagged modern-day mummies on the carts blubbered for mercy
as Lenny and Charlie wheeled them out of the ward and down the hall
towards the elevators. Whenever they passed a person in the hall, the
'nurses' pretended they were using ventriloquism on their corpses. This
was, of course, in extremely bad taste, and thus, utterly convincing to
everyone they encountered along the way down, down, down to the morgue.
"Take me with you," said Michael suddenly as the bikers walked
Buck to the door of the ward. They stopped to regard the receptionist,
sitting up in bed (dressed in a hospital gown for a change, though it
barely reached down enough to cover his nuts).
"Please," Michael pleaded. "I want to be with you guys. Don't
leave me here. I don't belong in this dump."
The group of bikers, with Buck in his stolen maintenance
overalls, looked at each other uncertainly. Michael was an excellent
cocksucker and an enthusiastic fuck, they all knew, but should they take
him with along them?
"I belong on the open road with the wind in my hair and my arms
around a nice set of abs." Michael added, looking longingly at Ben. The
handsome bald black biker's trimmed goatee cracked into a big smile,
making Michael's heart flutter with hope.
"I'll cook for you, clean for you," he begged. "I'll answer the
telephone! Just take me away from here with you, please."
The bikers conversed for a second or two and then Ben said,
"Okay. Get your ass into your clothes, then, and hurry up."
In a minute or two he had joined them walking Buck slowly down
the hall, having left behind the condescending sneers and cruel remarks
of the nurses, whom he was convinced were just jealous of him.
"We gonna work you for your living now, bitch," Ben whispered in
Michael's ear and fondled the former receptionist's ass.
Downstairs, outside the hospital, Michael waited nervously with
the others for Lenny and Charlie to come back from the morgue. Sitting
behind Ben on his cycle, he felt afraid, but convinced he was making the
right choice. He'd wanted to leave the tedious job and his tedious life
in this city for ages, but had not been able to bring himself to do it.
If he didn't go now, when would he ever go?
Lenny and Charlie returned in their denim and leathers, having
disposed of their patients' "corpses," and the bikers were on their way.
Michael clung to Ben as the Saints o' Satan roared out of town and westward.
The next few weeks on the road were so exhilarating that Michael
didn't even particularly mind having to continue servicing the sexual
needs of the men who had raped him. He knew somehow that things would
change for the better when the chance arose, and that helped him get
through the indignities. It didn't hurt things, furthermore, that he'd
always been a bit of a slut in the first place.
His chance came in Reno, Nevada, shortly after he and some of the
other bikers had spotted a newspaper story reporting a midwestern
hospital employee's suspected "abduction" by a motorcycle gang. Michaels
friends and family had obviously reported him missing, but the hospital
must have been keeping most of the facts from the police.
That evening, Joe won a classic Triumph from a member of another
biker gang in a crap game, and after much hushed but intense discussion,
was persuaded by his buddies to present the bike to Michael as a gift.
And although Joe offered Michael nothing but legitimate-sounding reasons
for his generosity ( the cycle as a token of their appreciation for
Michael's "companionship," the opportunity for Ben to travel more lightly
again, a first step towards initiation to the group, etc.) the "abductee"
saw through the whole thing. The Saints were scared.
With Michael riding his own cycle, the Saints could either ditch
him or be ditched by him at any time in case of trouble. And ever if
they were caught, they could always claim that Michael was a whore, who
had solicited sex from the bikers and been paid handsomely in full with
the sparkling, beautifully-conditioned Triumph. It was not, after all,
so far from the truth.
But what clinched it for Michael was Ben's behavior late that
night and early the next day, in which he detected a distinct attempt by
his darkest master to reach some kind of closure with him.
"You feel my dick inside you?" Ben asked, kneeling behind him in
bed in their motel room, two other bikers passed in the other bed.
"Ahh. Of course I do Ben, it feels terrific," gasped Michael.
"Feel it good, baby, feel it good. I don't wan't you to ever
forget how it feels when I'm dickin' your ass," whispered Ben, so
passionately, yet so gently. "Move on it, baby. Move on it."
"Mmmm, yes Ben. Yes," Michael purred as he braced himself on the
bed with both hands flat and pushed his ass back to take Ben's cock
deeper inside him and feel the black biker's low-hanging balls bump
against his own. And when Ben finally cried out and pumped his seed into
his hungry white ass, Michael knew it was for the last time.
Ben spent hours with him in the motel parking lot the next
morning, patiently showing him everything he'd need to know about riding
and trouble-shooting the Triumph. They even went a few miles up and down
the road, with Michael in front for the first time and Ben's large hands
around his waist, and his dexterous fingers occasionally straying to the
tender nipples under Michael's half-unbuttoned shirt. Michael took
everything in effortlessly, having already learned by observation, yet
wanting to bask in the loving attention he was getting from a man who
clearly was not going to be around much longer.
It was Michael, amazingly, who made the break, though, at the
next fuel stop. He realized that he still had at least half a tank in
his new bike while they were all dangerously close to being empty. He
simply took off again as soon as they'd all stopped and gotten off their
bikes, deciding to risk any of them taking off after him. He heard an
outcry behind him, but never looked back.
Only Joe, who'd really wanted that Triumph after all, was jumping
up and down and shouting to the others about Michael's escape.
"Let the twink go, Joseph." said Ben calmly. "It's better this
way. We'll get you another Triumph. A better one."
"But what about my blowjobs?" whined Joe.
Ben laughed, shook his head and put his arm around Joe's drooping
shoulders.
"Well, man, we'll see what we can do, but I'll tell you now there
ain't NOBODY we're gonna find who'll be able to suck dick better than
that boy did."
Inside the morgue cooler, in the dark, both Stan and Tim
struggled with their bonds. "Are you getting yours?" called Tim.
"I think so. They're getting looser," replied Stan.
They could hear each other thrashing about on the squeaking
stainless steel carts. It only took a few minutes before Tim had
completely freed himself from the wrapped cloth strips and safety pins.
They were intended, after all, to hold the dead in place, not keep the
living imprisoned. But no sooner was Tim free then he fell off the cart
and landed smack on the terracotta tile floor of the cooler.
"Are you all right?" called Stan, still untangling himself.
"Yeah," groaned Tim. "Damned carts. Lucky I was wearing my
helmet," he added in his usual, monotone deadpan.
Stan laughed in spite of himself, and was surprised that he would
find anything funny right now. He was aware then of Tim beside him,
feeling for his bonds and helping him loosen them. In a minute he was
untied and off the cart and on his feet for the first time in three days.
The two Lazaruses shivered, wrapping themselves in the sheets,
which were the only protection they had from the cold, unless they wanted
to unwrap one or two of the corpses to get additional sheets. Neither man
felt like doing that.
"I suppose we should try the door, just in case," said Stan,
"though I have a sneaking feeling its locked." They crept carefully to
the door and tried it, and found that it was indeed locked. They were
going to be trapped in there until the mortician arrived for work or
until the next dead body was delivered from a hospital floor.
"Well, guy. Let's huddle here till someone comes." suggested
Stan. "After all we've been through, I'd rather not die of exposure."
Tim consented and the two of them huddled side by side on the
floor against the door. How many times had Tim brought and Stan sent
deceased patients down here, into this cold death cooler, never
suspecting that they'd ever experience (alive, no less) what it was like
from inside? After a while they looped their arms around each other and
leaned in as close as their helmets would allow, but it was still pretty
uncomfortably cool for them.
"You know heat rises," said Stan.
"No I didn't know that," replied Tim sarcastically.
"Well, what I'm thinking is that we'd be better off sitting up on
one of the carts, off this freezing floor. Don't you think?" Stan said.
Tim agreed and they got up and felt around for one of the carts.
After tripping the wheel brakes, the sheet-enshrouded men climbed up and
sat huddled together on the edge. "Better." grunted Tim.
An hour or so passed, and they began to get groggy from the cold
and also from their essentially sleepless ordeal of the weekend.
"Can we lie down?" Tim suggested.
"Sure." Stan said, and the two carefully stretched out on the
flat surface of the cart, careful not to knock each other off. It was a
tangle with the sheets, however, and more than once they had to get up
and rearrange themselves.
After a few trials and errors, they settled on what seemed the
most comfortable arrangement. They put one sheet down, doubled over to
protect their bare skin from the cold metal of the cart, and then lay
pressed together, parrallel on their sides like nesting spoons, with the
second sheet pulled over them.
In this position, Stan felt a hairy chest against his back for
the first time in his life It wasn't unpleasant, he admitted to himself,
and it seemed to make Tim's body heat feel all the more warm. Lower
down, his ass was pressed against Tim's genitals, but neither man was
really registering any sexual sensation in their primary desire to be
physically warmer. Only the bulky, awkwardly clacking helmets, prevented
them from pressing together as close as their bodies wanted.
Later, more and more comfortable with their bodies together, they
tried facing forward, to see if it was an improvement. They were able to
bring their heads closer, they found, due to the face openings on the
helmets. They felt their breath on each other's faces, warm and wettish
from condensation in the cool air. At first they kept their bodies a
little farther apart in this position, but gradually pressed together to
regain comfort. Now their genitals and chests were together, innocently
but warmly.
Conversing softly, speculating about the possible circumstances
of their rescue, each man heard and felt the unique character of the
other's voice resonating in his head, providing, in the dark, the only
real reminder that he was sharing the space with a long time rival. When
silent, they were simply aware of the other's warm body being present.
But because their former animosity had collapsed under the ordeal
they'd been through, they were able now to get actual pleasure from the
amazing, intimate sensations of experiencing another man's vocal sounds
and vibrations at such a close range. With every swallow, smack of
saliva on a tongue, cracking of a jaw, etc., the line between listening
and feeling speech blurred soothingly, causing both to speak slower, more
relaxed and languidly. Inevitably, their slightly parted lips brushed
one another and both pulled back a little in reaction.
"Sorry," said Stan, instinctively.
"It's okay," replied Tim. "I mean after drinking each other's
piss all weekend, I'ts hard for me to get all bothered about a kiss."
"Shit!" Stan said, but he was grinning, Tim could tell. He could
feel it, they were so close together.
"You'll call that a kiss?" Stan said. "What do you call
this?" He opened his mouth, pushed forward and parted Tim's lips with
his tongue. The nurse tasted the doctors's invading tongue with his own,
then closed his lips and pulled back.
"That's a French kiss," he said, matter-of-factly. "Now you'll
be bragging that you've kissed EVERY nurse in the neurosurgery ward,
won't you Stan?"
"Ha!" Stan huffed. "Right. That'll especially impress the women
who watched me either getting fucked up the ass or having to suck off
half the goddamn janitorial staff,"
"Hey, I know, I know. I had it done to me too, remember?" Tim.
"They raped us. We didn't choose to do any of that. People are going to
understand."
"Nobody is going to fucking understand," hissed Stan, agitated by
the dawning realization of how he was going to have to face his coworkers
after being released. "I'll be a laughing stock among all the
residents," he said.
Tim almost said, "So what else is new?" but decided against it.
He wanted Stan to calm down and relax, or else he would start getting
upset as well. Tim figured he'd have plenty of other time to mentally
deal with the marathon assault on his own body, but for now just wanted
to rest quietly, keep warm, and calmly wait for rescue. "No you won't,"
Tim said, putting his hands on Stan's shoulders. "They're all gonna
understand. And even if they don't, I do. We're better than those
losers, and we're gonna get through this."
Stan was crying. "You know that's shit, " he sobbed. "You know
we're not better than anybody, man, because right now we are worth SHIT."
Tim just went on rubbing Stan's shoulders and let him get it
out. "They humiliated us, Tim, in front of everyone. They dicked our
asses two dozen times, fisted us another half a dozen, made us blow the
dick of every dumb fucker who wandered into the ward, and made us drink
each other's goddamned piss!'' he cried. " And you know what the worst
thing is? Knowing we DESERVED it! DESERVED it!"
"The hell we did," said Tim. "We were doing the best job we..."
"You know that's not true, damn it. We've been acting like
shits. I was worse than you, but damn it, not by much! Admit it." Stan
insisted.
"Okay, we've done some lousy things, behaved callously, but no
one deserves what we got." replied Tim, rubbing and patting Stan's
back.
"Well, maybe not getting raped, but you know, YOU KNOW, that
everything they did to us we've done something as bad to patients and
not thought another thing of it."
"I know, I know." said Tim hugging the still sobbing Stan as
close as he could with the helmets on.
"My poor ass is so damn sore! It hurts like hell," whimpered Stan
as he hugged Tim back in his distress. "My penis feels like it's on
fire, its so inflamed after they ripped that catheter out. Oh, those
fuckers, those fuckers. I'm so fucking sorry."
"MIne too. My ass hurts too, and my dick. It'll go away. We
can take some pain drugs when we get out."
"Oh, yeah," said Stan. "We're so fucking generous with the pain
killers up here, aren't we?"
Then he just continued sobbing into Tim's shoulder. "I'll make
it better. I'll make it better," Tim said. Then he got up and
reversed his position on the cart so that his helmeted head was at the
opposite end from Stan's. Before he even realized what he was doing, he
had Stan's penis cupped in one palm and was stroking it gently with the
other hand. "Poor pee-pee. I'll make him feel better. You just relax.
"
Stan didn't say anything, but Tim could hear his heavy breathing
continue. Gently, Tim drew the distressed doctor's flacid penis into
his warm, wet mouth and held it there, against his tongue and the inside
of his cheek, Stan's testicles, drawn up from the cold of the morgue
cooler, remained clear of Tim's face, allowing him more freedom of
movement. Tim wasn't thinking of his act as extraordinary, but like
something as simple as kissing a child's skinned knee or something. It
was an act of tenderness in which the sexual aspect only entered his
consciousness a few minutes later, when Stan unexpectedly began to get an
erection.
(end part three of four)
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