Health Care Reform School

Reply-To: an179397@anon.penet.fi

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS A SEXUALLY EXPLICIT FICTIONAL STORY. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, OR IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN READING ABOUT SEXUALLY EXPLICIT SITUATIONS AND ACTIVITIES.

To the alt.sex.stories reader:

This is a new story by Stroker Al, author of the Friday 13" series. It is extremely long, about 48 pages in hard copy. Careful readers who enjoy kink, power reversals and especially sexual humiliation may find their patience rewarded.

Though the deadened, inhumane and unspiritual environment described in it may be all too real, the story is purely a work of fiction, peopled with entirely fictional characters. They are not intended to represent any real persons, living or dead.

Health Care Reform School

By Stroker Al

Stan Lager swore out loud for the 20th time that Friday evening when he heard about the MCA that was due to arrive by ambulance at the E.R. in less than half an hour. MCA, of course, meant motorcycle accident, and nine times out of ten, that also meant severe head injury. This, in turn, would mean that Stan, the senior resident on call for neurosurgery, was going to be responsible for yet another patient. That is, if the patient wasn't D.O.A.

"Fucking bikers!" he snarled to Carl and Frank, the junior resident and medical student who were assisting and observing Stan during his on call shifts this hot, muggy, Summer weekend.

"No helmet, as usual, according to the EMT's. We're assuming a high blood alcohol level, since he has virtually no other injuries besides the skull fracture, " Stan said, filling the other two in on the report the Emergency Room dispatcher gave him minutes ago on the phone. He was striding down the hall towards the elevator and they were struggling to keep up with him. It was funny because both Carl and Frank were relatively big-framed guys, yet they were having trouble staying abreast of this 5'8" tall bundle of hot-headed, adrenaline-pumped energy.

"I guarantee you, you'll see at least two or three of these guys get scraped off the pavement and dumped into our laps every weekend here this Summer, and you'll get as tired of them as I am," he told his colleagues as he stabbed the elevator button for the third floor. The elevator doors nearly closed on Frank who was clearly not moving fast enough to suit Stan.

"If it isn't the waste of medical resources on total vegetables that sticks in my craw, then it's the equally brain-dead friends and family members who spend the next three months following me around asking me when he's going to wake up!" Stan griped to his captive audience.

Carl just nodded, as he'd learned to do in response to Stan's tirades, but Frank just stared wide-eyed at Stan, saying nothing. From most evidence Stan seemed to be a competant doctor, but he also had a reputation for being aggressive and inappropriate when it came to patient bedside manner and interraction both with patient family members and hospital staff. The two men were seeing him in action now, for the first time, gearing up for one of his raging nights on call, and they weren't looking forward to it.

One could easily have chalked Stan's aggression up to short-man's syndrome, but that wouldn't fully account for what seemed to be a deeper void in his character where compassion should be. He probably would have made a better criminal prosecutor than a doctor, but no one would have dared suggest such a thing to Stan.

Most of the female staff, and quite a few of the males, were initially attracted to Stan, with his dark Mediterranean good looks, intense eyes and his ability to be smooth with people long enough to get what he wanted. However, most people were turned off when they saw how he dealt with the first stress or unpleasantness that arose. At twenty-eight he still had the frat-boy appearance, which was always valued, but unfortunately, along with it he retained the spoiled brat quality that might have work back on campus, but today was making him enemies on the job in the real world.

When the elevator opened and the three men emerged into the neurosurgical wing, they encountered Michael, the ward's night receptionist, who happened to be one of the few people on staff not yet totally disillusioned with Stan. This wasn't because the neurosugeon had never lost his temper with him, or barked an order or otherwise been surly with him, but mostly because Stan was a doctor and was physically Michael's "type". Such men got excellent, attentive service from the ordinarily indifferent Michael.

"Hey, sport," Stan said to Michael in his usual greeting, which always sounded more flirtatious than condescending to Michael, who was used to being treated like wallpaper by doctors. But even Stan didn't always acknowledge his presence, so Michael guessed that Stan was going to ask for something tonight.

"Evening, Doctor Lager," he said, though he would have loved to call him Stan. But he was trapped in the old-fashioned hierarchical habits of the hospital, and tended to demure to all doctors and respond to them with unecessary formality. So while other coworkers, including receptionists, houskeepers, and orderlies were on first name bases with a number of medical staff, Michael always addressed them all as "doctor."

"Could you do me a favor and page Riggs?" Stan asked.

Aha, I was right, thought Michael, even as he basked in the momentary focus of Stan's big brown eyes, and gladly paged the senior staff doctor for the resident.

"Who's in charge of nursing back there tonight?" Lager asked as he waited for his call.

Michael checked the schedule if front of him which showed that for the night shift, Tim Holstein was acting as head nurse .

"Well, I'm going back to talk to him. Send the call back when Riggs answers," Stan said and started down the hall with Carl and Frank close behind.

"Okay," said Michael, nearly out of Lager's hearing range by then. He watched the three men head down the hall in front of him and checked out their asses. Having such a vantage point for watching men was the only consistantly enjoyable part of Michael's annoying job. He noted favorably that all three of these guys happened to be boxer boys, which was a rare sight on a group of three male posteriors. Though Stan's were hidden tonight behind dark dress pants and white jacket, Michael knew from seeing the resident dressed in scrubs hundreds of times that he always wore boxer shorts, usually dark colored and patterned. By contrast, Michael had noticed, most of the other neurosurgical staff wore breifs. These two guys with Stan, who were clearly displaying plain white boxers through their scrubs, were obviously new to the service.

Michael held a theory that residents in a given medical area tended to imitate the dominant style of underwear among their colleagues. Chances were that by the end of a few months the other two would be in breifs. That would be a pity, thought Michael, who hated breifs. He thought they were for little boys who knew no better but to continue wearing for the rest of their lives the type of underwear that had been issued to them by their mommies. Boxers, which were somewhat impractical in their lack of "support", had to be carefully tucked down in tight pants, and with their looser, lighter material tended to reveal the shape of your dick more clearly, seemed to Michael to be more likely a conscious choice by the man who was wearing them. And men who had their groins in mind a good part of the time seemed more likely to become interested in someone else,s, he reasoned. For Michael , the "real" men tended to wear boxers.

Tim Holstein would not have agreed, if he'd heard such statements, and if he could have ever been coaxed into discussing such a subject. He was most definitely a man, even if he felt like he had to prove it every five minutes while in the female dominated field of nursing. He liked breifs, especially black ones. He liked the lines and the cut of certain more expensive kinds, and liked the way he looked in them in the hall mirror of his home when he dressed for work. Black went well with the hair on his chest, arms and legs. Women liked the way he looked in them too, he'd discovered. But, unfortunately, as for the number of women he'd gotten a chance to show them off to in the past year, he could count them on the fingers of one hand - the very hand that he usually ended up jerking himself off with alone.

He was reasonably young, 32, reasonably good looking (more so without his glasses) and worked out regularly with weights, so it seemed to him that his recent tepid success with women lately was inexplicable. It must be his height, he decided, falling back on one of his many lifetime insecurities, as he tended to do when confronted with the mysteries of personal appeal. Like Dr. Lager, Tim was a mere 5'8".

Tim should have asked. Many of the women around him would have been honest enough, if asked directly, to tell him that as appealing to them as his physical appearance was (though a little on the thin side - Tim overestimated the effects so far of his iron pumping) it was hard to overlook his irritating personality.

He was not a people person, for a start. He seemed more comfortable with things, as anyone could observe in his patient care, which resembled the way he worked on his motorcycle at home. He paid meticulous attention to detail, but got into trouble when some other person got in the way or tried to interfere. Visitors and patient's family members were a special annoyance to him, and he was constantly getting into battles with them for more space and time to do his work.

Naturally Tim wasn't pleased when Dr. Stan Lager arrived to tell him to expect another patient. This would have been bad news even coming from a resident that Tim liked, but was all the worse coming from a condescending fuck like Lager. This was not to mention the further irritation of how Lager seemed to end up with a lot of the women that Tim had unsucessfully pursued. Anyway, a new patient was going to cut severely into his plans for taking care of his current patient. But when Tim heard it was an MCA head injury, he became livid.

"Jesus, why is it always such an inconvenience for these guys to wear helmets," he lamented. "Fucking Libertarians!"

Hearing this reminded Stan what he'd heard about Tim: that he was an avid cyclist and religious helmet wearer, and had actually helped lobby for a stricter helmet bill last fall, which unfortunately had been tabled indefinitely in the state legislature.

This got Stan going again and the two of them ranted to each other about cyclists and head injuries for the nearly ten minutes that it took for Dr. Riggs to finally answer Stan's page. The heat of the exchange, though seemingly directed outward to faceless cycle bums, was fueled by the long standing competiveness between this normally frictionalized pair of men.

First was the sense of rivalry that stemmed from their having attracted and dated many of the same women in the hospital. Then there was the doctor/nurse hierarchical thing, which Stan always tried to exploit in his consultations with nursing staff, but that Tim was good at assertively counteracting with populist, anti-yuppie rhetoric.

Carl and Frank grew weary of the discussion and started chatting with the other nurses. Busy as they were, the other nurses were happy to have someone else to talk to so they didn't have to listen to more expounding on what was obvious to every health professional in the room. Myra Brandt in particular, was relieved to have Tim's irritating monotone drowned out, and became engrossed in a conversation with Frank about riverboat gambling.

Meanwhile the self-styled bantam roosters of neurosurgery, Lager and Holstein, who were alike in more ways than either would have admitted, were getting a chance to blow off some hot air in this rapport, overstating their points perhaps because of the novelty of discovering the one thing they had in common that they were willing to talk about: their outrage over unnecessary head injuries and the tremendous waste of resources that results from them.

But then the topic veered into the plan for the patient's care, and Tim began taking notes from Lager's report. As if out of a subconscious desire to make his coworkers miserable, Tim, in his capacity as head nurse for the shift, decided on his own to take on the incoming patient. By choosing precisely the kind of patient for whom he would have the least likely compassion, he was feeding his own workplace frustration, and that of the whole room. Even Lager understood this, but didn't care an iota. Let the poor fucker vegetate under Tim's tyranny, he thought to himself. Serve the dumb shit right.

Preliminary medical reportage, after so many years, had become second nature to both men, leaving half of their consciousness free, as one scrawled notes and the other spoke, to once again size the other up as competition.

Stan was confident that he was the better looking of the two, and many would have agreed. He carried himself with the organic imperviousness of someone who'd been a looker all his life. Nothing short of traumatic disfigurement - God forbid! - could have made him a less handsome man. Michael, the receptionist, thought he looked like a diminutive version of porn star Kris Lord, and once considered sending Lager a photo of him anonymously.

Tim's good looks, on the other hand, had the more delicate quality that came from his having blossomed out of a past incarnation as a skinny science nerd, leaving the aesthetic value of his appearence subject to easy imbalance. The wrong clothes, the wrong style of glasses, even a skin blemish, occasionally made the whole picture fall apart. He would have been amused to know, though, how much the smooth-chested Stan envied Tim's hairiness, which tonight was in clear evidence through the v-cut neck of his white scrub top. Secretly tormented by the myth that all women prefered hairy guys, the compulsively acquisitive doctor was particularly frustrated by this unremediable shortcoming of his own.

Tonight, however, Stan clearly had the upper hand over Tim in the clothing department. Though at least half his working hours were spent in scrubs identical to Tim's, this evening he was wearing the senior resident's garb of authority: the white jacket. Under this he had an expensive light blue fine linen shirt, beautifully tailored grey Italian wool pants, expensive Italian suede dress shoes, and a $100 silk tie.

The tie, with its irrepressible phallic symbolism was what really set off the whole effect of Stan's appearance that night. There it hung in front of Tim's face the whole time, the throbbing african textile pattern flashing the age-old advertisement of who would always be endowed with the bigger salary, house, and power on the job. Stan liked to push this knowledge into the faces of any hospital subordinant who made him feel less than a deity. For while nurses like Tim were under the constant threat of budget cutting castration, Doctors - health care's sacred cows - could pretty much count on their nuts resting secure.

Then the call came from the E.R. The patient, one Buck Savage from San Antonio, Texas, had arrived by ambulance and was being sent right up to intensive care. Tim got on the phone with the E.R. nurse and got more of a condition report, while Stan called Michael at the reception desk to alert him.

"Damn. Another patient," lamented Michael after putting down the phone. He called the E.R. for transfer information, but before he had even put down the phone, the patient was wheeled past him. He was a multi-tatooed mountain of a man, probably 230 lbs of leather and denim-clad, six-foot-plus heft, with a blood-sopped blonde pony tail.

Trailing behind the cart was a parade of other big men, also in, leather and denim, most with long greasy hair and big mustaches.

"You can't follow him in there," Michael told them. "Our waiting room is back there. We'll call you when he's ready."

The men stopped and looked at him, confused. "But he's our buddy," one of them said, almost sounding hurt.

"I don't care who he is," Michael snapped. "Rules are rules. The staff need to time to settle him in and treat him first. We'll let you know as soon as you can see him."

They hung there together in the hall way for a while, looking at each other helplessly, until one, a black man with a shaved head and goatee nodded and the grouped turned and headed for the waiting room. Michael could smell whisky as they passed him. Following their backs (and butts) with his eyes, he saw for the first time the lettering across each of their black jackets: "SAINTS O' SATAN."

Oh God, Michael muttered. This was going to be a terrible night.

Back in the ward, Lager, his on-call colleagues, and the nurses flocked around the cart and collectively transferred the patient on to one of the ward's big, hi-tech beds. With so many hands helping, the group was able to easily lift the patient and lightly toss him on to the bed. Even though, as the E.R. nurse reported, spinal injury had been ruled out at the scan on the way up, Lager should have seen to it that the transfer was done more slowly and carefully. But Stan was too busy trying to strike the right visual image of his authority - shoving people out of the way and barking orders - and thus had no time for substance.

Within minutes the patient was hooked up to a ventilator. Myra was hanging IV drips when she stopped to stare at Tim. He was cutting into the patient's black leather jacket with the stainless steel clippers that were normally used for severing ribs to get at patients' hearts in emergencies.

"What are you DOING?" she asked. "We can pull that off from the top with people supporting his head and arms. Don't ruin it."

Tim looked up at her as if at a buzzing fly. "Are you going to hang the rest of those IVs or not?" was all he said, and went back to cutting the jacket. It took some ten minutes, but he eventually dismantled the leather garment and tossed it into the bedside trash along with the biker's other shredded clothes.

What a jerk, Myra thought to herself about Tim, and not for the first time since they'd worked together.

Soon Buck Savage was sponged down and gowned, and fixed up with various medication and feeding IV tubes. Patches of his burly chest had been quickly scraped smooth with a razor so that adhesive electrodes on wires could be attached to him and show his heart rate and other vital signs. None of this was done with particular gentleness, but it was done quickly and efficently.

Soon Tim and Stan were the only ones left at the bedside, and the other nurses were once again free to gravitate back to their own patients. Stan was in Savage's face doing neuro checks, while Tim was attempting to catheterize the patient. At that moment three or four of Savage's biker buddies appeared in the hallway, looking in on the activity. Even as Myra and a couple of the other nurses shooed them away, Michael appeared next to them, out of breath and frustrated, to usher the gang back down the hall to the waiting room.

"I told you, visiting is restricted here. You can only go back here when the nurses say its all right," he scolded them on the way down the hall. Michael's intitial nervousness at their size and rough appearance had waned because of their surprising meekness and seeming disorientation - perhaps from being inside a building other than a bar or a brothel, Michael speculated . "Now don't give me trouble again, or I'll have to call security," he added.

The men disappeared into the waiting room once more, but something about the look in their eyes this time made him tremble slightly, even as he clung to a veneer of being in control. He knew that the hospital security guards would back him up in case of trouble, but knew they weren't always quick enough to prevent certain kinds of incidents from happening.

The three bikers joined their buddies in the waiting room and filled them in on what they'd seen and heard at Buck's bedside. If the other visitors in the waiting area had dared to sit close enough to this rough-looking crew, they could have heard them describing how Stan had made Buck's glassy eye flutter with his light scope and had shouted repeatedly at him to squeeze his finger; How Tim crammed a plastic catheter tube up Buck's flaccid cock; and how both had been badmouthing Buck for not wearing a helmet. They'd seen the casual roughness of both health professionals and ceased to trust either of them from that moment. They also discussed how annoyed they were becoming with the sneering faggot receptionist who was ordering them around like they were trash.

Now any layman who entered the neuro ward unexpectedly could easily misinterpret the seriousness of what they'd seen. So much of the care in such a place was invasive and messy. But in this case, the bikers had correctly gauged Tim's and Stan's uniquely sadistic attitudes, even without yet being able to see the real evidence.

Tim, for example, had chosen the largest gauge of catheter tubing allowable. His habit of doing this to his patients had been noticed before by other staff, and when questioned about it once, had remarked " The bigger the penis, the larger the catheter." Of course uretheras rarely varied much in size, despite the outer dimensions of penises. Everyone could tell it was really just another way for this cynical prick to be spiteful. Myra whispered to another nurse that she wondered if Tim didn't have a severe case of penis envy. Tim did look like he was enjoying himself when he pushed the KY-lubicated, disinfected tube several inches up Buck's penis. He hooked the other end of the tube up to a urine collection bag and hung it at the bedside.

Meanwhile Stan reveled in the aggression of his neuro check as Carl and looked on. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he barked as loudly as he could at Buck, in whose sleepy looking eyes he waved his fingers. It was wholey appropriate to give the patient a strong stimulus to respond to, but Stan used such opportunities to vent his anger at patients in the process and be disruptive of the entire ward. Every non-response was greeted with a cruel epithet, and even appropriateness on the part of the patient he rewarded with condescenion. Then he started in on the helmut rant again, with Tim piping in, as if they were going to send the essentially unconscious patient some kind of subliminal message that would change his behavior, since they assumed that the injuries alone would be insufficient to do this.

Stan ordered Tim to shave patches on buck's head for the placement of bolt that would hold on a halo, or metal framework to brace the position of the head and prevent further possible spinal dissalignment. Tim agreed to do this immediately after administering Buck's enema. Buck had literally shit his pants, of course, as many trauma patients do at the scene of accidents, and it would make things easier for all concerned if he was initially flushed out now.

Three other nurses helped hold the burly patient onto his side in a logroll while Tim thrust the lubricated enema wand up Buck's rectum. Tim loved to purposely leave the bedside curtains open when giving enemas, even going so far as to reopen curtains that staff assiting him had just closed out of concern for the patient's privacy. He was in the middle of letting the full enema reservoir bag flow down the tube and into Buck when a different group of Buck's biker buddies appeared in the hall.

Stan was on the phone with Riggs when he spotted the bikers so he just snapped his fingers and pointed them out to the nurses. . A few, used to Stan's irritability, automatically jumped up to escort the visitors out. Michael joined the nurses at that point and appologized, saying that the bikers had sneaked by him by while he was tied up with the phones.

The bald, black biker chuckled. "Not a bad idea - you tied up with the phones!" he said before returning to the waiting room. Michael tried to laugh that one off with the nurses, but inside grew nervous.

It had been well over an hour now since the patient arrived and in most cases visitors would have been allowed at this point, but between Stan and Tim, this was clearly not going to happen. Tim decided he wanted to take his time and do all his assessing and charting at his leisure before bothering to explaining things to Buck's family or friends. Stan thought he'd like to get the bolts put in Buck's head now, whether he needed a halo or not, so that Stan have more time later to head over to the neurosurgery step-down wing and flirt with his favorite nurses there.

So each subsequent time that the increasingly nervous Michael phoned back to the ward on behalf of the growingly impatient bikers to ask about visiting, he was told that there would still be a long wait, and was given no specific time estimate. The bikers growled and grumbled and argued with michael, as though he were making it up just to keep them away. Soon threats to call security was the only thing that would get them to return to the waiting area.

Meanwhile, Stan had scrubbed, capped and gloved himself and was drilling holes in Buck's skull for the placement of bolts. He joked with his attentive collegues, Carl and Frank, who were green enough to still have a fascination with the Frankenstein-like practice of attaching mechanical parts to a human body in this way. They watched the drill slide in and out under Stan's guidance with childlike wonder that the drilling, because of the positioning and shallowness, caused no significant brain damage.

After nearly another hour had passed, the bolts were in and the halo put in place. Stan was washing his hands and joking with Myra, who handed him his jacket from a chair at the nursing station. Tim was over checking the flow of Buck's urine into the collection bag and recording the amount in the chart. At this moment, 6 of the bikers marched into the ward.

When they walked into the room, everyone noticed the difference. Gone was the attitude of concerned, curious onlooker and in its place, one of cool calculation and determination. They positioned themselves quickly at key places in the room with military precision, obviously according to a plan they had worked out.

One came up to Stan and stood glaring at him. Another confronted Tim in the same way.

"You were told to wait in the waiting room. What are you doing back in here again?" Stan demanded.

"Out of here! " cried Tim, angrily. "Now! The patient isn't ready."

But the confrontational pair stood their ground silently. Meanwhile, the other four had gathered around Buck's bedside, observing all that had been done to him so far. One picked up his chart and began to read from it to the others, despite Tim's protests and attempts to snatch it away from him. The room grew still with tension, leaving only the sounds of the four other bikers quietly discussing Buck's treatment in low tones that revealed a more than adequate comprehension of medical language and concepts.

"What the fuck is going on here?" asked Stan. If you weren't behaving so unethically by bursting in here and interfering with our work, I'd almost think a few of you guys had medical backgrounds."

"And if you weren't such a jackass, doc, I'd guess you might even be human." smiled the tall, black, goateed man in front of Stan.

The nurses all dropped their jaws to hear such a direct attack on Lager's personality.

"The name's Ben. My buddies and me have been together ever since we served together as medics in Nam. We may not have a fucking degree or a residency under our belts, but we don't need those to know how to spot death dealers like you two even when you're masquerading as a doctor and a nurse."

"Call security," Stan said sternly to Myra, who immediately picked up the phone at the nursing station. She rummaged around for the number for a second or two and then decided to ring Michael at the reception desk and have him call. None of the men made any attempt to stop her, but simply continued what they were doing. Tim, whom they dwarfed, tried to keep them away from fiddling with things at Buck's bedside, but they merely pushed him aside.

"You lack the essential quality necessary to be a healer, doc. That's compassion," Ben said. "Buck's our brother. We love him and want him to recover. You, on the other hand, don't care. Worse yet, you think he's scum and deserves to be crippled for life or die, just 'cause he's not one of your kind and he doesn't follow your nice little rules about helmets and dress codes and all that crap. We're taking over now because someone needs to see that Buck gets the treatment he needs."

Ben then smiled eerily and added, "And someone needs to see that you boys get a lesson in empathy."

Stan's bronzed face went white. "Myra. Did you get security on the line?" he barked, turning towards her.

Myra was talking to someone on the phone and then nodded and hung it up.

"Michael at the desk said he already called them and they're on their way," she replied.

Up at the reception desk, Michael was wishing that what he'd been forced to tell Myra on the phone had actually been true. But the call had never gotten through to the security guards because Lenny, a big barrel-chested readheaded biker with a bushy walrus mustache, had yanked the phone out Michael's hands and hung up. And since that moment the receptionist had not exactly been free to make another call.

Ironically, in his present kneeling position on the carpet and out of sight beneath the enclosed reception desk, Michael was working harder at his job than he had in years. Above him Lenny, his unscheduled replacement, manned the receptionist's chair with Michael's wire-rims perched on his nose in an attempt to give himself a more professional appearance. With his right hand, Lenny was politely answering the phones on the embarassingly easy-to-operate switchboard, while with his left, he was orienting Michael toward what the Saints O' Satan had agreed would be a more suitable occupation for him.

Michael gagged and spluttered, causing Lenny to momentarily relax the hand that was firmly guiding the back of the receptionist's head into his lap "Stop. You're choking me," he pleaded.

"You expect me to believe you've never sucked a dick before?" laughed Lenny, raising his bushy brows. "Nice try, girlfriend. But even if that WERE true, a smart mouth like yours should be able to learn REAL quickly!"

Exasperated, but becoming resigned to his fate, Michael allowed the biker's fat, red 6-inch cock back into his mouth.

"Ah, that's right. Good boy," cooed Lenny as his prick sunk back into the wet recesses of Michael's mouth. "I told the guys you were really a PEOPLE person at heart."

As it happened, Michael normally did enjoy giving head, but hated being forced to do anything. His outrage, however, faded into complacency the longer he sucked the biker's dick, particularly as his warm saliva gradually diluted the funky, head-cheese taste of Lenny's unwashed, uncut cock down to the soothlingly familiar, bland taste of dick flesh.

After a while Michael even drifted back into his everday work habit of getting irritated at interruptions.

"This is Michael, whadda you need?" he'd say curtly into the phone mouthpiece when the caller had a question Lenny couldn't answer. And as soon as he'd get rid of the call, he'd go right back to Lenny's blow job just as quickly as if he were returning to his library book or magazine on a regular night.

And that was how the Saints 'O Satan kept outsiders in the dark about their activities in the neuro ward long enough to gain control of the place. Though he'd worked with and aggrivated many of the nurses for a number of years, the fact of Michael's being replaced on the phone was not imediately noticed by any of the staff who called. As usual, everyone was in their own little world with their own little concerns, which obliterated everyone else's.

In the neuro wing, however, the staff were sharing a few concerns, for a change. None of them knew exactly what these pissed-off bikers were capable of doing, so there was a collective terror in the room.

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.

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.

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