From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Reply-To: an179397@anon.penet.fi
Date: Thu, 24 Aug 1995 11:07:58 UTC
Subject: Health Care Reform School (M/M, humiliation, kink)

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