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Heath Care Reform School, Part Four
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 four of four
As the doctor's penis expanded in his mouth (just as Tim knew it
had expanded dozens of times in the vaginas of women Tim had craved but
failed to win), Tim couldn't bring himself to remove Stan's cock, but
instead allowed it's thickening, lengthening bulk to fill his mouth and
upper throat. He could have claimed later, if questioned, that his
sucking Stan's cock was a traumatic 'hangover' response from the repeated
forced oral rape he'd experienced that weekend, but the truth was that he
genuinely wanted to make his former rival feel better for a change, and
that he was happy it was working.
Tim had been in agony as well over the lack of sexual release
throughout those three days his body had been used as a sexual receptical
for others. This made him especially empathetic toward's Stan'
circumstances, and he was determined to give Stan the release he craved.
As he gently, carefully fellated the trembling doctor's now fully erect
prick, Tim heard him moan with pleasure. Ejaculation was probably going
to hurt once the semen started shooting up Stan's catheter-whipped
urethra, but his present condition of 'blue balls,' Tim knew, was surely
as painful, so he proceded. Stan parted his thighs and wrapped them
around Tim's helmet as the nurse sucked his dick .
Stan cried grateful tears and without thinking burrowed his
helmeted head between Tim's slim, furry thighs. In the dark, his probing
tongue found Tim's asshole pucker beneath a forrest of hair and began a
wet, gentle massage of the nurse's traumatized outer sphincter.
"Ah!" Tim gasped, suprised but pleased at Stan's reciprocation of
his nurturing.
For his first man to man rim job, Stan was counting on the
likelyhood that he was tongueing one of the two cleanest assholes in the
western hemisphere, the other being his own (thanks to countless
enemas). But it occurred to him as he tasted the nutty flavor of Tim's
twitching pucker that even had it still been oozing some of the spunky
biker semen that had been deposited there, Stan would have continued
licking, just to soothe the ache in Tim's rectum. After a few minutes,
he turned his attention to Tim's cock, also now fully erect and prodding
Stan at his breastbone.
The 'testosterone twins' were now, amazingly, laying together
like this, intertwined, alternated like Piscean fish or Gemini, naked
under a sheet, each man streaming tears of gratitude for the gentleness,
caring, and empathy he was at last was being shown:
empathy of the doctor for the nurse, and the nurse for the doctor;
empathy of the tortured, humiliated skirt chaser for another of his kind;
empathy of two would-be saviours for all the corpses they'd ever sent to
the morgue.
Finally Tim and Stan reached the inevitable, ultimate empathetic
expression in the form of a mutual, orally-stimulated orgasm. Their
shattering, voluminous ejaculations were as painful as they were
pleasurable, though each man's pain was lessened by soothing suplication
of the other. They swallowed each other's highly-viscous, warm semen,
its slightly bitter taste alerting them to the animosity and pride they
were finally swallowing along with it.
In the climactic throes of this sweet sixty nine, Stan and Tim
also received a spontaneous star-spangled vision from another
'sixty-nine: the year that Buck Savage and his buddies had done their
tour of duty in Viet Nam.
It was a flash of a short-haired, 18 year old version of Buck,
barely recognizible but for his blondness and already hulking, but
awkward, lanky frame. He was dragging his wounded buddies to safety, one
by one, down a muddy path in the tangled jungle, away from the site of a
Viet Cong ambush. There was Ben, then Lenny, then Spike, then Joe, then
the others. Each time Buck returned down the path for another member of
his platoon, he put himself in graver danger, dodging bullets and
exploding shells, but refusing to stop. Only after all of his young,
frightened, wounded buddies had been dragged to safety and tended to did
Buck's adrenalin give out and leave him to collapse in a heap.
Then they saw Buck spending 6 weeks in a Saigon Hospital, several
weeks longer than any of his similarly traumatized (and now inseperable)
buddies, who all recovered, thanks to his heroism. He was never the same
after that. The severe shell-shock and physical exhaustion that had
resulted from the incident never really left him entirely. He was
eventually returned to his platoon, but was sent stateside within 6
months. However, he found it impossible to adjust to civilian life, and
took to traveling all over the continent on his chopper. He was
frequently jailed for violent behavior, and frequently hospitalized for a
number of mental conditions relating to his unrelenting, intense
flashbacks from vietnam.
All of this was contained in Buck Savage's medical chart, which
had been immediately available to the neuro staff, since Buck had been
born in this very hospital. Both Stan and Tim had skimmed the charts but
had not really understood until now. The 25-year-old, blue-inked
doctor's notes, with their dry prose, had merely given them the facts.
But then three days of pain and humiliation, followed by unexpected
gentleness and pleasure had given them the reality. And though the
reality came to them in the form of an Oliver Stoneish cinematic mutual
hallucination, it made an indelible impression. For that moment (at
least) neither Tim nor Stan held any ill will for Buck Savage or his friends.
"Buck never wears a helmet on his bike," Ben had said to Tim and
Stan at one point, somewhere in the middle of their ordeal, "because he's
tired of dodging the onslaught of death. When it comes, he will welcome it."
This was not in the medical chart, at least not until it occurred
to Stan to add it three weeks later. What was also not in the chart was
how eight of Buck's buddies also eventually became disillusioned enough
with civilian life to join him on the road. It was their idea, finally,
not Buck's, to form the Saints o' Satan, as an excuse to keep together,
and to keep up with him, as he was always going on ahead of them and
forcing them to work to catch up. The morning of his accident he had
gone on ahead of them and hit a nasty oily patch on the highway a few
hours away from the city where Stan and Tim did their daily grind.
"You're the only one in the world who understands what I've been
through," Stan said finally, though as soon as he heard his voice
resonate inside the metal cooler, he knew that his speech was gratuitous,
and that Tim already understood.
As the pair drifted of to sleep, they kept each other's softened
penis in their mouths, like a security thumb, and contentedly sucked out
the intermittent slow dribble of urine as it flowed, their breath through
their nostrils warming each other's tightly contracted scrotums.
With the arrival of the hospital morticians first thing Monday
morning, the tenderly suckling 'testosterone twins' had to endure a
humiliating delivery from the cold womb of the cooler. From the moment
their deliverers smirkingly but discretely extracted Stan and Tim's soft
cocks from each other's sleepy mouths, our boys in birthday suits felt
like bawling. Both felt a deprivation that neither the forthcoming half
dozen cups of hot coffee nor the warm blankets could satisfy.
In fact, it was rather more a kind of grief than embarassment
that prevented Stan or Tim from being able to so much as look each other
in the eye for the next three days. Oh, they saw each other's helmets
being hacksawed and blowtorched off, and heard each other's voices
answering the hospital lawyer's questions about their now seemingly
distant ordeal, but what both men felt primarily was the frightening
prospect of having lost access to something vital between them. It was a
surprise then for Tim and Stan to discover, by the end of those next
three days of physical recovery, that each was as present in one
another's consciousness as he'd been during the throbbing moments of
their greatest intimacy.
Their first chance meeting in the hall back at the hospital
confirmed everything. Neither Stan nor Tim could conceal or fail to
observe the involuntary rush that coursed through their bodies upon
spotting each other, though their brief "how are you doing?" conversation
that ensued belied the deep significance it held for them. Indeed, real
conversation only began between them after Stan phoned Tim up and they
went out for a beer together.
These outings, which soon increased in frequency, also increased
in intensity after the first warm and friendly but non-sexual reunion
they had in a dark, sparsely populated pub near the tracks. Conversley,
the accompanying and initially enabling alcohol consumption decreased the
more often they got together. The meetings always began with shop talk,
but gradually metamorphosed into whispered, detailed rehashings of the
humiliation and sexual abuse they had suffered at the hands of the
bikers.
In these sessions, Stan and Tim spontaneously developed their
own unique style of sharing, in which one man did most of the telling and
the other the listening on any given night, not in the way of taking
rigidly automatic turns, but depending on who seemed to need to talk the
most. Stan ended up in tears nearly every time, regardless of if he was
talking or listening, and even Tim broke down a number of times when
bringing himself to confront the reality of having been repeatedly
raped.
Talk of the rapes usually stimulated the unearthing of at least
one or two barely-remembered childhood traumas experienced by either
man. These disclosures made Stan and Tim all the more amazed at how many
experiences and feelings they had in common. And no matter how late
their discussions ran, they always finished with elaborate, careful yet
heartfelt expressions of gratitude for each other's support in working
out their traumas. At the end of the their third time out, they embraced
warmly in the darkened parking lot and drove off in opposite directions,
perplexed at the hard ons they were sporting.
As their sexual feelings in each others' presence grew, most
noticible as they were when it was time for the men to part, they began
to cope by drinking more and falling back on old-style macho banter about
attractive women in the bar. A turning point was reached one night when
Stan "jokingly" suggested they pick up a woman to share between them and
take her home to his place. To Stan's relief Tim agreed immediately,
though he also downplayed his enthusiasm. Weeks had passed since the
incidents without either having had sex, and both were nervous about
their performance, so on a conscious level, they welcomed the chance to
not have to be "alone" with a woman the first time.
Their hidden motivations surfaced once the blonde "babe" they'd
brought home fell asleep, leaving Stan and Tim wide awake and freshly
erect, regarding each other's nakedness approvingly in the semi-darkness
across the female form that now separated them. No wonder they'd had so
little trouble persuading this horny lady to come home with them, looking
as fine as they did to each other, even with their military-short
haircuts and bolt scars! And if sneaking looks at each other's
sex-contorted faces during orgasm (while fucking her on her hands and
knees from opposite ends) had given an extra boost to their sexual
performances, well, what of it?
The doctor and nurse reached for each other across the sleeping
woman they'd used and now wished was somewhere else. They slowy stroked
each another's dick shaft and they attempted to hold each other's gaze
without flinching in embarassment or shame. They had just begun to relax
and feel comfortable when the woman shifted in her sleep, causing them to
start and withdraw their hands and avert their eyes. After a moment, Tim
started to get up.
"I have to take a piss," he said, getting out of bed and walking
down the carpeted hall.
He found Stan's bathroom in the dark, but turned on the light to
make sure that he could aim into the toilet bowl without his glasses.
Standing naked in front of the ceramic receptical he directed his
semi-hard penis downward with two fingers and released a powerful, noisy
stream of yellow urine into the water. But suddenly a blurry form
appeared next to the toilet and a hand closed around Tim's dick and
directed the stream of his piss off to his left, where he saw the blurred
vision of a gaping mouth drinking in the golden liquid arc. The flow of
the startled Tim's piss involuntarily stopped as he defensively shoved
the figure backwards away from his cock.
"Ow!" cried Stan as he slammed against the bathroom wall tiles,
warm piss dribbling down his chin.
"What are you DOING, man?" hissed Tim in a low voice. " Are you crazy?"
"Please..." muttered Stan, starting to rise. Instinctively, Tim
reached out and slapped the nude neurosurgeon across the face, then
jumped backward, horrified at himself.
"Please, Tim," Stan said again, slumping back to the floor.
"She'll see us," Tim said, turning to shut and lock the door
behind them.
Looking into Stan's eyes again he saw the need and the desire and
felt his own rising all the more, but found it unexpectedly mixed with
the aggressive, competitive impulses that he used to feel all the time
when he was around Stan before they had become friends. They'd become so
close, so supportive of each other that he'd assumed those feelings had
disappeared for good. But now he realized that they were there still and
would always be, as an integral part of the dynamics of their
relationship. They would have to be dealt with just as surely as the men
were dealing with their feelings about the rapes. For a second or two he
was disappointed at the discovery, but then the beauty of the whole thing
dawned on him, and he broke into a knowing smile, that an innnocent
outsider might have thought of as cruel.
"You want my piss, Stan?" he asked, fondling his own now fully
erect penis.
Stan looked at him uncertainly and then nodded.
"I'm gonna need a verbal order on that one, doc," Tim said in a
seductive, mildly taunting voice. "I want to hear you say it. Tell me
what you want and where you want it, Stan."
The doctor's breathing sped up and became audible as he knelt
there next to the toilet. "I want you to piss on me, Tim, buddy. I want
you to piss down my throat," he said, his big brown eyes wider than Tim
had ever seen them before.
Tim took a step toward Stan and pushed down on his erection with
his fingers until he could finally feel the urine forcing its way up his
dick shaft once more. "Buddy?" he taunted, bouncing his penis just out
of Stan's reach. "Is that all I am to you, with you kneeling in front of
me begging for my dick?"
"Please, Sir. Please." pleaded Stan, until Tim, satisfied with the
level of Stan's submission,
resumed pissing all over the doctor's face and smooth, tanned chest.
Then Stan opened his jaws and thirstily guzzled Tim's piss. Tim moved
closer and inserted his pissing dick right into the doctor's mouth and
thrust forward until he could feel his dickhead nudge against the back of
Stan's throat. When Tim's piss had been finally all guzzled by Stan,
the doctor continued sucking off the nurse, who stroked the darkening
carpet of his slowly regrowing scalp hair.
"What was that I saw in your garage, Stan?" Tim said suddenly,
pulling out of Stan's mouth.
"My M.G ?"
"No, under the dropcloth."
"That's my Harley Davidsen," Stan replied, and the two looked at
each other.
The men finished up the night's sexual engagement in the cool
confines of Stan's garage (it was September now), where Tim fucked Stan
on the big leather seat of his spotless, seldom used yuppie toy. In
fact, it was only the fifth time Stan had ever set his ass on the thing -
and those times he'd been facing the opposite direction. Once they
managed to secure the Harley in an upright position and had each strapped
on one of the helmets hanging on the wall, Stan laid back onto the handle
bars and draped his knees over Tim's shoulders, leaving the cocky nurse
free to work his stiff prick up the doctor's ass with the help of a dab
or two of motor oil.
In this position, wearing a contented expression similar to the
one he had earlier while being orally serviced by the pick-up, Stan
leisurely jacked himself off, while the ever hard-working Tim plowed his
ass with twice the vigor that he'd shown back in bed taking the woman's
pussy from behind. When both of them reached the verge of climax, Tim
started the bike's ignition and gunned the machine, causing them both to
release their wads amid the sudden heat, noise, mechanical vibrations and
blue smoke of the roaring Harley. Tim lapped at Stan's come-splattered
pecs and hard, brown nipples before sealing their first fuck with a
spermy kiss on his buddy's lips.
"Hey, where are you going without m--oh!" cried a female voice
from the door to Stan's house. The two men turned to look at their
startled blonde pick-up, who'd obviously been awakened by the bike engine
and wrapped a sheet around her self to go investigate.
"Nowhere, baby," replied Tim, his moving lips breaking the string
of semen and saliva that stretched between his mouth and Stan's. "Need a
ride home?" he asked her, winking at Stan and revving the Harley again.
And so began Stan and Tim's mutual exorcism of emotional
scarring. By replacing the sense of wounded helplessness that had
resulted from their ordeal in the hospital with a carefully controlled,
power-exchanging exploration of the twin coin faces of pleasure and pain,
the pair eventually came to feel far better off than they'd been before
the incident.
Taking each other through elaborate rituals of bondage, role
playing, sado-masochism and kink, the men did everything in their power
to heal theirs minds, bodies and souls. Because both possessed a will
toward domination as well as a will toward submission, they were well
suited to perform as each other's master or slave as needed.
Stan, who had always been such a driven, domineering acheiver in
his public life, was as expected, convincingly cavalier when acting as
Tim's brutal and demanding master. But the doctor would prove to
experience far more numerous ecstatic epiphanies himsef while submitting
to the wishes and caprices of Tim, his social and institutional inferior,
whose very (hairy) asshole, Stan secretly feared, at bottom, he wasn't
worthy to lick.
Tim, on the other (studded leather-gloved) hand, having always
felt like the underdog, devalued both in his work and his social life,
found serving under Stan's casual cruelty to be effortless and
comfortable as an old shoe. But what he really began to thrive upon was
the regular opportunity, whether in bedroom or garage, to usurp power,
and, by crushing the balls of its darkly handsome ambassador, bend it's
sniveling yuppie ass to his will.
Our boys pissed on and into each other, hungrily sucked and
brutally fucked, stripped, whipped, tied, cuffed, chained, fisted, and
enemaed each other, until each act became a come-splattering, definitive
experience that made the incidents in the hospital seem pedestrian and
insignificant in perspective. Very quickly their own personalities and
relative dynamics became the primary focus of their sexual adventuring,
and the traumas were left behind.
One of their favorite games to play together was "date
reinactment." in which, for example, Tim would play the role of a
selected woman that Stan had gone out with, while Stan, playing himself,
would give the envious nurse blow by blow instructions for him to
physically reinact what her responses had been to the doctor's sexual
advances. Both men found this to be a major turn on, because all at the
same time, it stroked their vanity, their voyeuristic and exhibitionistic
streaks and their long-standing competitiveness (which turned out to be
deeply homoerotic).
Did that gorgeous Deborah in Othopedics put out, Tim had always
wondered? Stan enjoyed keeping the nurse in suspense right up til the
moment that he described Deborah unzipping his fly and pulling out his
dick. And it wasn't until Tim had sucked a mouthful of Stan's semen from
his cock and was looking up to him for final instructions that the good
doctor informed the nurse that Deborah had swallowed as well.
The amazing thing, though was how much detail of these previously
private events had already been masturbatorily fantasized by the odd man
out back in their rival days.
Of course both were prone to harmless lies and exaggerations, but
that made the game all the more fun, if only for the one to watch the
other turn positively green.
The extent of the role playing varied as opportunity (and
anatomy!) allowed, sometimes involving the pair going to the very
restaurant or theatre or park where the date had taken place, such as The
Crow Bar and Grill, where Tim had to duplicate Kathy the OR nurse's
reported grope of Stan's crotch under the table.
Lacking pendulous breasts and a true pussy, it became mandatory
for the man in the female role to wear a bra and panties under his
clothes as an approximation, humiliation, and a reminder, even during the
men's most public and innocent looking "dates," of the private sexual
consumation to come.
Home dates were less potentially embarassing and easier to pull
off, and also allowed for more acurate detail for realism's sake. For
instance, when Diana, the dietician, asked Tim to house sit for her
during a weekend out of town, He made Stan come over and dress in the
very clothes she'd worn on their last date, and even put on full
make-up. Stan, who'd fucked the daylights out of Diana himself last
year, found his own panty-clad crack becoming wet with anticipation of
Tim having scored with her in a similar way. Imagine his frustration
then, when Tim's on call beeper went off just as the hairy fucker was
mounting him on the bed. In seconds, Tim had grabbed his clothes,
appologized and had taken off, supposedly, for the hospital.
Like Diana had before him, Stan became livid at being left there
alone with legs spread and an aching, abandoned "twat." Worse yet was
Stan's dawning realization that, at least in his case, Tim was not really
on call and had staged the whole thing in order to leave him flat.
After all, Stan had done it himself to a few girls he'd wanted to ditch,
though he never imagined what it would feel like, until now, as he
furiously jacked himself off into Diana's panties. The crowning blow
came when he eventually spotted Tim watching him from outside her bedroom
window. Stan at first pretended he hadn't seen Tim in order to hold on to
his dignity as tightly as his cock, but finally gave in and smiled back
at the pleased face in the window (behaving so like he would have that it
could have been a mirror reflection) as he brought his not-so-solitary
act of compensation to its spermy, smacking, panty-soiling
conclusion.
The truly amazing development, however, was how their new dynamic
affected the men's working lives. They no longer saw treating pain as
something to handle arbitrarily or grudgingly or magnimanously with a
mask of false morality to be donned whenever it might further one's image
in the medical world. Pain was controllable, and therefore, should be
controlled always. Period. Unnecessary pain had no meaning, so they
refused to cause it or tolerate it.
Pain, they now understood, was an intimate gift reserved for the
healthy, to be administered lovingly and therapeutically only to someone
who craved it and could tolerate it.
Aggression, irritability and unfettered egotism, likewise, they'd
learned, had no place in a public healing evironment. Such attributes
only made sense in the private theatrical realm of the Master and slave,
and were otherwise disruptive and destructive in a civilized democracy.
Stan began to cooperate with hospital personnel he encountered on every
level, and stopped trying to dominate them. Assured that there would
always be one man who would lick his boots any time he ordered him to,
Stan found it easy to let go of his need to control the others.
Tim, meanwhile, stopped arguing with his patients' families and
started allowing them more room and time. He also got into the habit of
protecting his patients' privacy during procedures. But he was only able
to do this thanks to his newly acquired scapegoat for verbal abuse, Stan,
whose physique Tim also violated so thoroughly and regularly so as to
elimate the very concept of privacy for the doctor.
Shame disappeared as well. Stan and Tim were soon able to meet
unflinchingly, if not to welcome, the gaze of any man they met in the
hall, and no longer worried or cared if he'd been one of the dozens who'd
pumped their loads of Jizz into them on the neuro ward. If anything , the
assorted hospital boys were the ones who grew uncomfortable with Stan's
and Tim's lack of embarassment.
After all, both were now getting regular intoxicating doses of
the most total, personalized and generous humiliation imaginable from
each other, so what significance could those past impersonal,
partially-coerced violations of their bodies retain? How could the
momentary discomfort of some pimply faced kid getting his rocks off in
your mouth compare with, say, Tim's recent exquisite experience of having
his entire body carefully shaved hairless by an envious (and naturally
hairless) rival with electric clippers, who then triumphantly shoved the
whole pile of hair clippings up Tim's ass before fucking him, then
inserted a butt plug and made him walk around with the sticky, itchy mess
inside him for a whole day? There was simply no contest.
They continued to date women and both eventually got married and
had children. Both had good, mutually respectful relationships with
their wives, but guarded assertively their right to have regular "nights
out with the boys" (as they refered to their sessions) and took the
occassional faux Robert Bly weekend in the woods together.
Though their curious wives attempted inquiries at first, they
eventually gave up and allowed the men their privacy, since no evidence
of any threat to the marriage bond ever presented itself to them. Of
what importance, after all, were the occasional red welts all over his
ass or rope burns on his wrists when your husband consistantly came
through for you as a clean, healthy and loving partner and dedicated father?
The End (of western civilization, no doubt)
Look for further tales from Stroker Al
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