by Joey McVie
with thanks to whoever wrote the original story on which this is based
“Are you sure he’s ready for this?” Dr. McCann asks, for perhaps the third time. “It’s more than severe. A traumatic experience, for the wrong kind of patient. Well, even for the right, potentially.”
“Oh I’m sure, all right. In fact, I insist,” Jones tells him. “I’m quite determined. No going back for Joey now. He knows the deal; go along with the programme or he’ll never see me again. True, soon he’ll probably wish to never see me again, but at the moment he is besotted. By the time he realises what he’s got himself into, it will be far too late.”
“Oh, I’m only asking as a formality, you understand,” the Doctor smiles. “It will be fascinating to impose the procedure as we have planned. The boy should be grateful; we’ve both given this a lot of thought and the team I have put together to deliver it have worked hard. We have had several test runs over the last week alone. First with a mannequin, and then with a nervous volunteer from the med team. He was in there for 24 hours.”
“How did he find it?”
“Let me think. How did he describe it? Oh yes. A living hell!”
Jones licks his lips. He’s handsome, a tall, lean man in his late 30s, with jet black eyes which match his glossy, well-cut hair; and his cold, cold heart. His dark blue suit is discreetly expensive. Jones (he spurns his Christian name, even for close friends) is a very wealthy man.
“But this volunteer only had to deal with the pack, right?” asks Jones. “None of the extras we’ve planned for Joey?”
“Some of them. Not all. Dr Lawson needed to test the electrodes.”
“I bet he did!”
Lawson is McCann’s head of research and development, with a specialism in the use of electricity. Jones has met him many times during the planning and is impressed with the zeal and thoroughness he brings to his work.
Dr. McCann takes a sip of water from a tumbler on his desk.
“You made sure he signed all the necessary consent documents?”
Jones nods and produces a neat leather folder with the contracts. “All present and correct. Including the adjusted pages with the all-important small print. I made sure that came right at the end, like you said, when he was tired and overwhelmed by all the detail. I’m pretty sure he didn’t read it, or at least, he didn’t take it in.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he didn’t ask any questions. There have been so many questions as I’ve moved him closer and closer to where we are today.”
“He trusts you,” smiles McCann. “Trust is such a powerful weapon.”
“It’s all legally binding, of course, “ says Jones, as he hands over the folder. “Not that he will ever be in any position to sue, even should he feel so inclined. Or ask any more questions, for that matter!”
“He’s had the required tattoo, as instructed?” asked the Doctor.
Jones nods. The tattoo is emblazoned in obscenely bold black lettering 4 inches high right across Joey’s chest; it reads LTP5018 – meaningless to anyone outside this institution. To those working here, it’s familiar code. Joey’s treatment type and patient admission number.
“Remind me what it stands for?” asks Jones.
“Oh, it’s very simple,” replies McCann. “LT is Long Term, P for patient, or perhaps in his case prisoner might be more appropriate. The 5 indicates that he is going to be receiving the Level Five treatment, which is the harshest we can devise, and 018 is the year of admission. He’s the first patient to have his admission number permanently tattooed on him in this way. But then none of my other regulars is facing a procedure quite so long-lasting or challenging.”
“I had the lettering done like you said, as bold as the man could make it,” says Jones. “There was a substantial bonus involved. He used a special ink. No amount of lazering will remove it. Joey doesn’t know that, naturally. Just getting him to agree to the tattooing was probably the biggest hurdle. He hates tattoos. I had to let him think about it for days. And this one is not exactly subtle. He’s marked for life. I still wonder why you insisted on it? I mean, I approve but it’s not like any one will be able to see it for long, after all.”
“True,” Dr. McCann allows, “but I think you’ll agree it is a clear statement of intent. A sign of his commitment and the start of him fully surrendering to what’s in store for him. The first step to where he is now, even as we speak, waiting, doubtless with some trepidation, for my team to begin work on him. Of course, he really has no idea how powerful genuine anxiety can be, or how it can spiral. But he will.”
Jones is happy doing business with Dr. McCann. McCann is a tall, good-looking, greying distinguished generalist who specializes in rich patients with sexual dysfunction. He has his own private facility here, hidden away in the middle of bleak countryside that doesn’t encourage visitors or receive much curiosity from the outside world. He only hires staff who pass a selection process of his own devising, designed to give priority to those displaying the correct mind set to work here; this ensures that McCann’s team are as ruthlessly unethical as he is. But, until Joey’s admission, they haven’t truly had the opportunity to indulge themselves.
Unlike McCann’s routine patients, Joey will be a ‘subject’ in the truest form of the word. McCann will impose on him a formidable clinical treatment, the inspiration for which – the wet pack – hasn’t been used (at least not with this stringency) in decades. Technology will add the rest. Without the pressure of any potential consequences, McCann feels liberated. He can free his mind and apply his skill to stimulating and promoting the high level of suffering Jones has requested without troubling his conscience. He glances at a copy of the agreement on the desk in front of him, picking out the words, “maximum severity”, and momentarily, despite the water he has been drinking, his mouth feels quite dry with excitement.
“Just for the record,” he says, “let me make it quite clear; I don’t think that this treatment has any therapeutic value whatsoever. It’s a total betrayal of the creed held dear by most doctors. I am not most doctors. You’re fortunate that neither myself, nor any of my medical staff, feel the need to respect such a pious barrier to our skill.”
“That’s precisely why I sought you out,” Jones grins wolfishly. “All that medical expertise and painstaking professional effort just to create abject suffering in an otherwise perfectly healthy young man. My so-called boyfriend and your first long-term patient. Joey.”
“LTP5018,” corrects Dr McCann. “I don’t see the relevance of using names for test subjects. It can be distracting, unhelpful.”
He notices the bulge visible in Jones’s well-cut trousers and laughs. “You don’t need to convince me, Mr Jones. This is a wonderful opportunity. Since not only are you paying me so handsomely for work I relish…” and then he indicates his own bulge, “…we also happen to share an additional motivation which can only enhance the experience.”
***
While the final details are being agreed between Jones and the not so good Doctor, downstairs in a secure area tucked away behind the main reception, the subject of all this scrutiny and anticipation waits nervously. For the time being, Joey is left on his own. He shivers slightly. Everything about this building is old and the heating is clearly inefficient for the time of year; it’s way colder than he’s used to.
On arrival, a couple of hours back, Jones was led off by McCann (who had merely glanced coldly in Joey’s direction, as if he wasn’t of interest) while Joey was escorted forcefully in the other direction by two tough-looking male nurses. They propelled him by either arm into this bleak room (which they refer to as “holding area one”) barely speaking to him other than to state the obvious: “You’re coming with us”. When they next speak to him, it is merely to order him to strip.
As Joey removes his clothing, it is unceremoniously tossed into a large plastic sack labelled ‘incinerator’. Soon he is standing in front of them, quite naked, feeling goose bumps. They stare at his massive, outsize tattoo. LTP5018. It completely dominates his chest. One of them whistles. It’s a neat piece of work, each letter and number four inches high, and the ink of the deepest black. Joey feels himself blushing under their gaze.
“Know what this is boy?” one of them asks him, without pausing for an answer. “It’s your number. And that’s what you are now. A number.”
They make him say it out loud a few times. The other nurse produces a camera and starts taking photographs, just like they do in prison. Front, back, each side. And a big close-up of his permanently marked chest.
This done, the other one produces an item which Joey recognises from watching old soaps and asylum movies; a heavily stained but solidly sturdy canvas and leather straitjacket. It’s so thick he bets it could stand up on its own. Like a five-year-old who hasn’t learnt to dress himself, Joey is steered into the jacket and then pushed this way and that between the two men as they take their time to tightly secure it around him. It seems at least a size too small. When they are done, he’s fighting to get full breaths.
“Quiet that noise down!” he’s instructed sharply. He does as he is told, trying to control his battle for air.
Between them, they check and re-check the multitude of straps. The tan-coloured leather is old but supple and strong. All but one are methodically re-tightened, and Joey can see the veins in their arms pulsing from the effort of achieving the extra notches. It’s a neat job. Each strap is passed through a double retainer so there’s nothing loose or dangling. It feels to Joey as if they’ve fused him into the jacket.
From somewhere out of his line of sight, an asylum wheelchair is produced, more straps dangling from all sides and one squeaking wheel crying out for some oil. Joey is carefully positioned in the chair and then it’s the same procedure to get everything as tight as they can. Finally, they seem satisified.
“What now?” he blurts out despite himself. He aims the question at the one who seems to be in charge; a solidly muscled, unsmiling man of around 30, maybe. His name badge says Garrett.
Garrett looks surprised to be asked. “You wait,” he says, and then leans forward, suddenly taking a firm grip either side of Joey’s mouth, like a playground bully. His hands smell of antiseptic. “Don’t ask no more fucking questions. You’re a number, remember. Just a number. What is your number?”
And he keeps his grip on Joey’s face as the boy struggles to parrot out his number.
Garrett lets go abruptly and Joey shivers, as much at the man’s tone as the chilly temperature in the tiled room. Garrett’s colleague, whose badge carries the name Rhys, is younger, and not bad-looking in a preppy kind of way. He has a lock of brown hair which keeps falling down over one eye. Rhys notices Joey shivering, and smirks, nudging Garrett.
“He thinks this is cold! Boy, he has no idea…” and then he lets out a low whistle.
The two nurses make for the door but just before they disappear through it, Rhys turns back.
“No more questions, remember. It’s way too late for that. Besides, you won’t even be able to speak for much longer. Round here, silence is always best Got that?”
Joey nods and they leave him with a whirlwind of thoughts. The only sound is the occasional distant bang of a door, the hum of the overhead lighting and the loud creaking he makes every time he shifts, even slightly, and meets with the unyielding resistance of multiple leather straps. His eyes take in the presence of a security camera, set high on a wall, trained right on him, its little red light unflinching.
He has no way of tracking time and his mind races. He’s nervous but excited. This has been a long time coming. He knows how much it means to Jones, and Jones is the love of his life. Some of what’s been outlined is scary, but his boyfriend, older, wiser, has given him plenty of reassurance too; explaining how he will have an entire team of dedicated medical professionals overseeing the whole programme and making sure that, whatever he has to go through along the way, he won’t come to any permanent harm. Joey knows he is going to suffer, probably more than he can imagine. But it’s only pain, right? He is used to that and it excites him, most of the time. Besides, Jones will surely love him all the more for willingly making such a major sacrifice. That’s Joey’s major motivation for signing all those closely typed pages of legal speak.
The heavy pass door swings open again and the two nurses are back. They have changed into what look like surgical scrubs, their hair tucked under latex caps exactly like the ones worn in old school operating theatres.
“Ready?” says Garrett, unsmiling. He leads the way as Rhys pushes Joey’s chair from behind. On the way into the main building, Joey takes in the green gloss paint, the floor to ceiling tiles, the pale blue floor, the burning overhead fluorescents, not all of them working properly. Cameras are set high up, at intervals, the whole route. An unappealing, oppressive atmosphere, like a morgue or a hospital from the 1930s. A few corridors into the complex and they take a sudden turn into a room marked ‘Hydro Prep’. More security cameras here, all with their red lights on, recording what is about to happen.
Joey is unstrapped from both chair and jacket. Some of the straps prove as difficult to dislodge as they were to fasten. But they manage it in the end and Joey is back to shivering naked in the cold.
“For the next few hours, we need you to do as your told,” says Garrett, flatly. “If you don’t, it will all still happen anyway. And you don’t want to piss us off. Understand? What’s your number?”
Joey mumbles it.
“Louder.”
Obediently, he repeats it, less hesitantly. Rhys comes closer, standing so close Joey can smell the surprising sweetness of his breath. The lock of hair strays once more as Rhys’s hand closes firmly round Joey’s dick, which cannot help but respond to the man’s sure touch.
“Remember. You wanted this. We are gonna make sure you get it. We do a good job and we enjoy our work.”
He releases Joey’s member so abruptly that it swings in the air and Joey feels a rush of frustrated sexual adrenalin course through his system.
Garrett motions to the middle of the room, where a cross is marked out on the floor directly under a spotlight. “Over here. Arms up above your head.”
Quickly Rhys locks Joey’s wrists into thick leather cuffs which dangle from a couple of iron rings attached to the ceiling by lengths of adjustable chain. This means they can get his arms as high as they need, or maybe a bit higher. Rhys gives a final extra tug and Joey finds himself almost on tiptoes.
“Stay still,” commands Rhys. “Get used to the stretch in your calves.”
“Flexible, aren’t you?” he remarks. “That’s gonna help us later.”
Garrett nods. He’s holding a clipboard, on which Joey can just make out the words: ‘Patient Preparation/Hydro/Level Five: Joey Martin.’ He can’t read what else it says, but most of the boxes on the form are checked.
Garrett takes up an chunky electric razor and begins running it all over Joey’s body, making sure he shaves off all bodily hair including legs, crotch and armpits. Joey’s face is already quite smooth. In the weeks which have led to this day, he has already undergone a programme of intensive electrolysis to destroy all the follicles in his face and neck. It was painful but he’ll never have to shave again. A bonus as he hates shaving. Anyway, Jones told him it was one of the conditions of admission.
“They can’t have you sprouting a beard under all that packing,” he says, reasonably. “Could cause problems and wouldn’t feel good.”
Even without his face and neck, there’s a fair bit to do, as both nurses strive for absolute perfection, and total smoothness. His pubic hair takes the longest and is completely removed, first with clippers, and then an old fashioned cut-throat razor. Rhys steps up from finishing the job and ruffles Joey’s hair. It feels almost affectionate.
“This too?” he asks Garrett.
“That’s what it says on here.”
Rhys shrugs as Garrett hands him the clippers. Joey’s head is shaved quite bald. Again, a razor is used to complete the job. Rhys stares at him for a moment, looking, thinks Joey, like he’s checking to see if he’s missed a bit. Almost like a tender moment as the other young man’s deep brown eyes make searching contact with his own. But it turns out that Rhys is merely debating whether or not to leave his eyebrows alone. No, off they come too, in steady, sure sweeps of the clippers, backwards and forwards to be quite sure.
“They ain’t going to grow back in a hurry,” mutters Rhys, with a grin.
“Here buddy, finish up” says Garrett, handing his colleague a small but sharp looking pair of scissors. To Joey, he merely drawls. “What’s your number?” and then, when Joey has complied, the curt instruction. “Shut your eyes.”
Joey feels the scissors accidentally graze the skin just under his right eye. “Sorry, slipped,” says Rhys, “Keep ’em closed.”
He uses the scissors to remove Joey’s eyelashes. Joey isn’t very happy about it. He didn’t think ‘removal of hair’ meant this. But what did Jones say to him when they arrived and were sitting in the car out front? He’d kissed him first, long and hard, Joey remembers that, and how it made him feel. Then Jones had stroked his hair, telling him softly.
“Never forget that these guys are the experts, Joey. They know exactly what they are doing. You’ll be in their hands, but they’ll be safe hands.”
And Joey had nodded, eager to please, wishing Jones would kiss him again. He always wanted to please Jones and so he doesn’t start whining about the loss of his eyebrows and eyelashes. But he’s glad there’s no mirror to show what a freak he must look, totally without hair of any kind.
They clip his finger and toe nails as short as they can get and then he is led to an old-fashioned pedestal toilet. It’s rather stained and dirty, with a heavy wooden seat. It’s sitting forlorn in the middle of the room, with no screens around it to offer any privacy. Next to it, there’s a deep sink fitted with tubes, hoses, nozzles. While Rhys has been shaving Joey, Garrett has been busy running taps, testing temperatures, ensuring the correct mixture of soap, oil and water is ready for the next stage. He catches Joey taking it all in.
“What’s your number?”
Joey rattles it out.
“Never had an enema before?”
Joey shakes his head.
“Just remember to keep breathing good and steady. The cramps are going to be real bad. You need to ride ’em and, whatever you do, don’t let go until we tell you. Stand just here. Legs apart. Bend over.”
Joey gives a start as a cold brass nozzle, thickly lubricated, is pressed firmly to his anus, then pushed deep into his rectum. The nozzle leads to a heavy two quart rubber enema bag, attached to a pole on wheels.
“I’m opening it up,” instructs Garrett. “Nice and slowly. Hold that position. Remember what I said. This is going to hurt some but you need to fight the urge to void till I tell you. If you can’t manage it, we’ll plug you.”
It’s a slow release, like he says, so that at first Joey doesn’t feel too bad. The sensation is unfamiliar rather than unpleasant. But he’s getting more than a gallon of McCann’s special solution, a thick, viscous mixture of medicated soap, castor oil, blackstrap molasses and water. The intention is to empty and rigorously purge Joey’s insides so that absolutely nothing is left in there. He is made to squat deeply, to help drive the solution as deep as possible. It is retained for upwards of fifteen minutes, and this gets tougher to manage with each passing minute. Just as Garrett promised, the cramps are noisy and epic, far worse than anything Joey could have imagined. He’s no longer shivering in the chill air but sweating and biting his lip, trying to control his breathing, letting out little mewing noises and focusing on not letting go and disgracing himself. He just manages to make it through the allotted time and they give him the go ahead to void. The two men watch, arms crossed, amused by the sight of Joey’s desperate relief as he empties his bowels noisily and for what seems like forever.
He thinks he’s done but he’s mistaken. The punishing cycle is repeated a half-dozen times, and after only the second, they have to plug him to make sure he doesn’t void before the allotted time is up. The plug inflates either side of his opening, so there’s not even the tiniest leak.
“Since you couldn’t manage without the plug,” says Garrett, “you get to retain each enema for a whole extra five minutes. Round here, failure to comply has consequences. What’s your number?”
By the end of the sixth cycle, Joey is sweating hard and feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. They have him squat over the sink so they can irrigate him thoroughly with a powerful jet of warm water, pushing the tube deep into him until they’re sure they’ve really cleaned him out. He’s already been on a two-day fast, and, for the week before that, only taking liquids. There’s a good reason such care is being taken to thoroughly clean out Joey’s insides. It’s to eliminate the potentially fatal consequences should he give in to the urge to vomit while he’s in the pack. This way, should he do so, the effects will merely be unpleasant, rather than life-threatening.
Joey is shivering again, looking anxiously from one nurse to the other. He notices that, as they work, Garrett and Rhys often trade private grins. The procedures they are subjecting him to are routinely humiliating and that’s obviously amusing both of them. Maybe he would feel the same if he was in their shoes, instead of standing barefoot, shaved, tattooed and purged, on the way to undergoing what Jones calls “the ultimate bondage experience.”
It’s funny how Jones keeps stressing how lucky Joey is, and, when he thinks about how much Jones cares about him and what all this must have cost, Joey believes him. But now, immersed in grim reality, he is less sure. He doesn’t want to fail, or let down the man he loves. He’s got no one else, so he needs to make this work, pass the test, prove he is worthy.
Garrett ticks another box on the form. They may be enjoying their work but both nurses are systematic about it too. Nothing is missed or done half-heartedly.
They prod Joey across the room to a big bathtub, already filled to the brim with warm, greenish water, steaming in the cool air. The now familiar medicated smell is heavy in the air. Garrett and Rhys tie on big full-length rubber aprons and tug on elbow-length industrial gloves in a dull maroon colour. They pick up rough dish scourers, one of which has a bristle brush of the sort you’d use on a stone floor.
“Get in,” he’s told. “Kneel down.”
They thoroughly wash his body using an undiluted liquid detergent. Why? Because degreasing the skin minimizes insulation and that’s going to be important. Every part of him is scrubbed, hard. Then he’s made to stand, legs apart, while they scour his genitals with equal fervour. He’s glowing pink by now, his skin sore in most places. But still they’re not through.
“Bend over and open your crack,” he’s told firmly.
Rhys produces a huge bristle brush, one you might clean bottles with. It’s dipped into some kind of strong detergent powder, so that its length is thickly coated with the stuff.
“In we go,” says Rhys, cheerfully, as the brush is prodded between his thighs, slid deep into his arse and pulled in and out vigorously. Joey can feel the grittiness of the excess powder lodging in his arse crack, irritating the soft tissue and burning fiercely. Rhys looks over to Garrett and remarks.
“This is the cleanest he’ll ever have been right?”
“Inside and out,” sneers Garrett. He strides over and presses a buzzer set in the wall.
A few moments later, a new, younger man appears, wearing a crisp white lab coat, and carrying a briefcase and a folder of papers. He’s tall and very well built, and, in marked contrast to the nurses, he is extremely pleasant to Joey. He introduces himself with a firm handshake and a broad smile, which shows off his excellent teeth.
“Hello, young man. Now according to protocol, and this paperwork here, I’m only supposed to refer to you (and he casts a quick look down at the check sheet)…as patient LTP5018. But you know what? I think I can relax that rule for a moment and just call you Joey. That sound good?”
Again, he smiles encouragingly and Joey responds, smiling in return. He likes this man already.
“So, Joey, it’s real good to see you here today. I’m Dr Lawson. Billy Lawson. I’m the head of Dr McCann’s research and development team.”
If Joey could but know it, Dr Lawson has an interesting career history. His medical knowledge belies his boyish good looks. It’s no exaggeration to say that Lawson possesses a brilliant mind and first class qualifications. The army sponsored his initial training, and he quickly specialised in researching ground-breaking interrogation techniques. But then a young recruit died while volunteering for one of Lawson’s controversial experimental programmes. Following the inevitable enquiry, he was obliged to resign. Lawson’s subsequent career was blighted by further ethical confrontations and disputes over his methodology. He’s an ambitious man, and for some time was deeply frustrated by having to play the game and keep his head down. This research and development position changed all this. For the past 18 months, Lawson has been happy, working for a man he quickly recognised as a kindred spirit. And when McCann first outlined this particular project, Lawson felt the rush of raw excitement for the first time since he’d got the green light for that military experimental programme.
“I think this is going to play uniquely to your skill set,” McCann had told him. “It’s also going to be good for your bank balance. I want you to impress me, right?”
Lawson needed no second bidding. He has put a phenomenal amount of work into devising Joey’s forthcoming ordeal. He’s curious to finally meet the subject he’ll be working on; the prime specimen of masculinity now sitting in front of him. A first cursory glance backs up what the notes have told him; Joey is pretty much the perfect age; just turned 22, obviously fit and strong, and, according to his medical history, with zero episodes of illness, broken bones or any ailment other than the very occasional cold. No history of depression or any mental health concerns either.
Over the last few weeks, Lawson has periodically masturbated over his building body of research for this project; the last time was just fifteen minutes ago, though this was more practical than pleasurable; he doesn’t want any distraction from what he’s about to do.
“Today,” he tells Joey, pleasantly, “it’s basically my job to finish preparing you for the treatment you’ve been assigned. But I want to start by congratulating you. I’ve seen the results of your test papers; both the psychometric and physical examinations we put you through. You scored very highly in all departments.”
Joey feels obscurely flattered. He knows his own mind, that’s for sure, and his body too; he’s proud of his musculature, low body fat, impressive strength and sheer resilience. He has always pushed himself hard in the gym. Sport was about the only thing he excelled at in school, but brains aren’t everything. He’s basically a happy and confident young man, too, with an independent nature forged by the lack of any close family. Nothing much gets to him and he believes the best in people. It’s good to hear all these qualities confirmed by such an expert.
“In fact, you’re just about the perfect candidate for what we’ve come up,” smiles Dr Lawson. “I don’t want to alarm you, but as the old saying goes, it isn’t for the faint hearted! Not many would have signed on the dotted line.”
Joey feels a sudden surge of panic. He has a vivid flashback to laboriously scrawling his signature on page after page of the closely typed agreement. He can’t dispute that it’s his name on the contract and release forms – but maybe it is not too late to ask for a pause, and a little time to think and ask a few more questions. Emboldened by the Doctor’s warm and friendly manner, he finds his voice.
“Listen, Billy,…er…Doctor. I’d really appreciate taking a moment here. You know, like a time out or something.”
He looks in appeal at the fresh-faced young doctor, who is nodding in apparent concern.
“I’m…,” and here his voice drops to a whisper, “…getting a bit psyched, if I’m honest. Having some second thoughts…not about everything. I’m not a total pussy. But if we could just take a break, maybe grab a coffee, and see my boyfriend to talk stuff through…”
Dr Lawson nods one last time, then extends a hand and gives Joey’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Don’t sweat it, Joey,” he says, with a grin. “It’s perfectly normal to express a few doubts and fears. You’re only human. It would be kind of strange if you didn’t. I mean, let’s make no bones about it. You’ve signed up for one of the most rigorous medical treatments I’ve ever come across. By contemporary care giving standards, it’s totally off the hook. Everyone here is pretty stoked to be part of it. I was actually one of the first to volunteer to work on it. For all of us, I really should take this chance to say thank you for volunteering.”
This isn’t going the way Joey expected.
“But that’s the point,” he stammers. “I’m not sure I can go through with it. Not today anyway. I’m worried I’ve made a mistake. Not asked enough questions.”
The doctor actually chuckles.
“Forgive me, Joey, I shouldn’t laugh. Only think about it. See yourself as I see you right now. Shaved totally bald, with only your patient number tattoo to tell us who you are. I don’t think it’s helping calling you Joey. So let’s start over. You’re LTP5018, OK? Just like it says right here across your chest.”
He leans forward and runs a finger, hard, under the line of the massive tattoo. Then he whispers, as if sharing a secret.
“I do understand how you must be feeling. Really, I do. But you have to understand that it’s much too late to call a halt now. It’s more than my job is worth and besides, you’re committed. In every sense of the word. You did read and signed the contract, right?”
Joey nods, miserably, feeling stupid. “There was a lot to take in. I should have studied it more.”
“Well, I happen to have read it too. So let me remind you that it’s very clear on one point in particular. Once admitted, the process happens with or without your co-operation. You’re here. We’ve started. You can’t possibly back out or escape. But please don’t make us use force. I’d really hate that, you know, because then I’d lose the chance to talk you through everything, explain the how’s and why’s. So if you’re a good boy, I promise I’ll be with you every step of the way. Will you do that? For me?”
Again, the winning smile. Ordinarily, this guy would be a total heartbreaker, with his clean cut looks and beautiful smile. Joey takes a breath, forces himself to relax.
“OK, yes, I’m sorry, Doctor. You explaining. That would help. I guess I’m just finding it all kind of overwhelming.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everyone is allowed a few nerves, that’s perfectly natural. You’re a pioneer, you know. A brave young man. You just need to channel that pioneer spirit. And you know what? I don’t think sitting here chatting is really helping you. So how about we get you good to go?
Joey nods. He’s really grateful for Lawson’s sympathy and understanding. This is such a big deal. It’s dominated his life for weeks already; just a couple of weeks back, Joey had visited the centre to allow McCann to fit him with a set of what McCann referred to as ‘subcutaneous sensors’. Jones told him that the basic technology was similar to chipping a household pet.
“Hey, what’s that frown all about?” he’d teased, amused by Joey’s anxious expression. “Just means the doctors can take real good care of you; easily monitor all your vitals; heart, pulse, body temperature, even any attempted vocal activity. The sensors are tucked away inside you where they can’t be tampered with or dislodged.”
“You’ll scarcely feel a thing,” chimes in McCann, and he is as good as his word.
Now Dr Lawson is leafing through the check sheets, humming and hah-ing here and there. “I see that, like all your other tests, the results on the performance and reliability of the sensors are equally excellent. So let’s see how we’re doing right now.”
He activates an app on his phone. “All the staff have access to this,” he explains. “Means we can monitor you no matter where we happen to be.”
He scrutinises the various readings and then beams. “Yep, you sure have a good strong heart rate, Joey. A fine healthy pulse too. Excellent body fat stats. Your skin temperature is a little below normal, apologies for that, it is chilly in here, even for those of us with clothes on. But I have to say, buddy, everything’s looking text book.”
Lawson’s pleasant, conversational manner really helps Joey to relax, and to feel more normal. He’s in safe hands, just like Jones promised him.
“The first thing I’m going to do is take care of this,” says the Doctor, reaching out and tapping Joey’s penis, which has been tenting up and down ever since he arrived here. Currently it is half hard, and that’s because of this doctor, with his sharp, clean smell, handsome face and charming manner. For a few seconds, the Doctor manipulates Joey’s penis like a pro, as though this is a standard medical procedure, his hands cool and dry. Joey cannot help but respond to such expert touch and his erection is immediate and almost painful. Under the expert stimulation, he quickly reaches the point of no return. Just as he is about to surrender to the sensation, Lawson’s hands let go and move so quickly that Joey, distracted by his imminent release, doesn’t see exactly what he does, but there’s a sudden horrible sharp pain in his shaft and balls, and though he ejaculates, the orgasm is ruined. Lawson neatly catches great thick spurts of cum in a petri dish.
“Impressive,” murmurs the Doctor. “Well done. That’s obviously all in great working order. Sorry to spoil the fun bit, but it’s a routine test, not R ‘n’ R. Let’s get a record of its fine natural state, shall we, before it starts to deflate and we deal with it once and for all?”
He takes some measurements and photographs, labels up the contents of the petrie dish in a specimen bottle, and then ushers Rhys to hand him a small bag of ice, which he uses to shrink Joey’s once proud erection to nothing.
“As you’ll find out later, ice is a pretty efficient tool. Even on this small scale.”
He inspects the results. Joey’s equipment is reduced to a shadow of its former self and his testicles have shrivelled up in retreat from the cold.
“Good. So now we’re ready for this I think…”
He produces a bespoke chastity device made from gleaming jointed surgical steel. Joey vividly remembers all the precise measurements taken so this could be made just for him. The doctor holds it up for a moment in his hand, admiring it.
“Look at the craftsmanship,” he sighs. “It’s a work of art as well as a fine piece of engineering. But you’ll discover just how well it does its job for yourself.”
In his skilled hands, fitting the device takes a matter of minutes. Lawson uses a special little screwdriver, first tightening up the locking screws and then securing them with a brisk turn of the wrist while Joey tries to get used to the unfamiliar and intense sensation of the built-in urethral tube. This extends deep into his tamed and inert penis. The device itself forces the penis back downwards between his firmly separated and tightly encircled testicles.
When he is done, Lawson checks another of the boxes on the list and gives the device one last appraising inspection. Using his index finger, he taps Joey’s trapped and controlled penis.
“Going nowhere,” he says. “You may or may not get used to the device. “Personally, I think it’s unlikely. It’s not designed to feel unobtrusive. The important thing is that we have eliminated any possibility of you ever obtaining erection, still less enjoying any sexual excitement. I mean, that’s to say you may sense that excitement, emotionally, hormonally, whatever, but your penis will be quite unable to respond to it, and if it tries, well…..you’ll find out what that feels like soon enough.”
“Early on, we did think about catheterising you but the urethral tube is a much neater touch and more straightforward; your urine can flow whenever it needs and it doesn’t interfere with the fact that your penis is now completely contained. I’d look at it this way. From this moment on, you’re without normal male sexual function. There’s no practical reason why this beauty ever has to come off. It is expressly designed for permanency. Your sponsor, Mr Jones, wanted this to come as a little surprise. An admission gift, I think he called it. ”
Joey is trying to make sense of the words. What is he talking about? Permanency?
Meanwhile, the Doctor motions to Garrett, who, without delay, hands him a clear container filled with what looks like water. In one deft movement, Lawson takes the special screwdriver he used to secure Joey’s chastity device and drops it into the container. Immediately the liquid starts to hiss and bubble and the locking tool disintegrates in front of them.
“Acid,” remarks the Doctor. “You don’t mess around with this stuff. There. All gone. Mr Jones tells me that there’s no duplicate but I suppose he could be teasing you. You know him better than me.”
Joey is trying to take in what has just happened. But he does knows Jones better than most and certainly well enough to be sure that he isn’t likely to be teasing. Not his style. If he says there is no duplicate, he means it. As it’s sinking in, Joey’s hands unthinkingly stray to test the compact cage now holding his genitals.
“The steel they used is the highest possible grade,” says Lawson. “Cost as much as a family car. No expense spared. Mr Jones wanted to be sure it couldn’t be cut off or compromised, even by me or Dr McCann.”
Joey feels its unfamiliar weight and notes the smoothness of the surfaces where the many locking screws have been so perfectly aligned.
Dr Lawson smiles at the worried frown on Joey’s face.
“Maybe a permanent change was needed in that department? Being horny isn’t everything. The little sabbatical you’ve got coming up will give you time to get used to the idea. Lots of time. You’ll have days and days to go over it in your head. Sad to think that was your last full erection but at least we took some photos, right? And I promise that there will be plenty of other distractions once you’re all packed away.”
He checks his watch. Maybe they are running behind schedule, as Joey notices a brisker tone enter the Doctor’s voice.
“You can’t have failed to notice that your penis control is also fitted with several minute built in electrodes. Check out these two embedded so they sit right under each of your testicles. I shouldn’t boast about my own invention but they are truly brilliant, these babies. No wires getting in the way – it all works by a series of remote signal transmissions either from a central control or one of these…”
He holds up what to Joey looks like a standard TV remote.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to try it out. I wouldn’t want to spoil the effect by giving you a preview.”
“Will it work though?” asks Joey, intrigued despite himself. “I mean, from what I understand the pack is going be many layers thick. My remotes don’t always work even when you’re standing right in front of the TV.”
Lawson laughs. “Mine too, and it’s annoying, right? Obviously, there was no way I could allow such a flaw in this design. No, trust me, they’ll function just fine through all the layers of your pack. That’s been extensively tested. Oh, and don’t be concerned that the batteries built into them will wear out, either. Each one has enough power to last a month, even with fairly heavy use.”
Dr. Lawson gives Joey a wink.
“Anyway, I don’t suppose we’ll leave you as long as a month eh? Not that you’ll find it easy to tell the time in there. But the electro will certainly help to break up the boredom.”
He puts on a head torch and switches it on, the sudden bright light making Joey squint.
“Right, could I ask you to bend over please?
Joey does as he is told.
“This will be a little uncomfortable at first,” says Lawson. “But we need to keep your anal passage open as wide as practically possible. You’ll only be passing liquids from either end, but just like with your penis, we want to avoid any potential for blockage. This tube has also got my electrodes embedded, three each side, so it’s a neat piece of multi-skilling.”
Joey feels the chill of cold steel as the implement steadily enters his anal passage. Rather like a speculum, it is adjusted to open up the area and keep it that way. Lawson doesn’t hurry the process. He wants the opening to be set just right. At last, he pats Joey on the arse and tells him to sit down again. It feels odd with the new appliance in place and his anus gaping wide open.
“Kind of weird, right?” says Lawson. “But don’t fight it. You can’t anyway, because I’ve locked it at that setting, so it’s not going anywhere, but you’ll save yourself more discomfort if you just try to relax with it. Good rule for all of today, when you think about it.”
The Doctor reaches down into his briefcase.
“So – my next job is to fit the other electrodes which need to be in place according to this chart here, which again is my handiwork.”
He indicates a detailed sheet specifying various sites for the remaining electrodes to be positioned on an detailed outline diagram of the male body.
“This presented some interesting challenges,” explains Lawson. “You see, we were worried that the usual electrodes which stick on with adhesives would quickly be compromised by the constant presence of so much water. So we had to come up with a different plan. That’s where my surgical expertise came in handy. Not very pleasant for you, I’m sorry to say, but we think it’s going to work.”
He holds up a sizeable needle and surgical thread.
“Not the modern kind of stitches these. The ones which melt away,” he says. “Some times the old ways are the best. These are really heavy duty. Tough as iron.”
Joey is looking at the needle in trepidation. He’s hated the sight of them ever since he was a kid, which is kind of irrational given he’s never had to have stitches before.
“I should just say,” Lawson says apologetically, “that in any other circumstances, I would have used a local anaesthetic but I’m afraid that for you, all medications are off limits. I’m sure you’ll be a brave boy for me and I promise I’ll get everything fitted just as fast as I can.”
He is as good as his word but he isn’t lying when he said the process isn’t pleasant. Each electrode is situated not just where Joey might have expected, but actually within the area itself; using a technique combining piercing (to insert and precisely position the electrode) and then suturing (to secure it firmly in place).
He is soon peppered with them; breathing deeply to cope with the pain. He’s doing well. In some obscure way he doesn’t want to let this nice, kind doctor down. As well as in both nipples, others are sited at the base of each buttock, deep in both arm pits, tucked into his belly button, under the arches of his feet, with a pair in the palm of each hand, and behind each knee. Another set are positioned either side of his groin. Joey really struggles with the fitting of these last two, so, for the final electrode, the Doctor beckons for Garrett and Rhys’s assistance.
First they fit Joey’s mouth with a surgical device which simultaneously keeps his mouth fixed wide open and stretches his tongue as far as possible out of his mouth. It is clamped off so it is prevented from moving about. Secured in such a way, Joey can’t prevent himself drooling but Lawson tells him not to worry about that.
“A little bit of spit never hurt anyone,” he says. “Not like this baby.”
Lawson produces another of his formidable needles, which he holds up close so that Joey can see exactly what he’s using. “They have to be this big,” he says, apologetically, “as I’m using a heavier grade of suture to make certain there’s absolutely no way any of the electrodes can become detached. You’ve done very well, but I’m sorry to say that this last one really is going to hurt quite a lot, and I need you to stay absolutely still.”
Garrett and Rhys firmly strap Joey’s head to the back of his chair and then hold him by each shoulder so hard that, despite his fear of what’s to come, he’s glad he’s decided to co-operate. The tensile grip of their huge hands is a reminder that he really wouldn’t like to piss them off.
“Ready?” says Lawson, cheerfully.
He gets to work and takes his time, and Joey feels the needle pierce his quivering tongue over and over again and the tugging sensation of the suture tightening round the tiny flat electrode. He can hear a tapping noise from somewhere and suddenly realises that it is his feet, drumming the floor, as he tries to channel the pain and fight the instinct to scream and struggle. He can’t prevent tears from filling his eyes.”
“There, there, “ says Lawson, soothingly, as he finishes up. “All done. You should be proud of yourself. The next job is a walk in the park by comparison. I’m going to fit you with a special drip, running from here in the back of your hand. This is how we will keep key nutrients flowing into your system, as well as allowing a steady supply of blood thinning agents to counter act the risk of any clots from all the extended immobility. We can also use the drip to give you a boost of adrenalin when the going gets tough. And finally, we must make sure you stay hydrated. Sounds stupid when you consider you’ll be staying underwater pretty much all the time but, well, you won’t be drinking it, will you?”
It’s a joke, maybe a little feeble, but Joey really appreciates the doctor’s efforts to reassure him as they go.
The doctor goes on to explain that the tube leading to the drip needs to remain kink free at all times. The tube is made from a lightweight but super-resilient high-density plastic. It runs up his right arm from the canula rooted in the back of his hand, where it is fed into a external connector which will be shared with Joey’s nostril tubes. This connector, which will protect the tubes allowing his oxygen and nutrients to flow in and out of the pack, is also designed to flexible, slimline and yet ultra tough. Dr Lawson explains that it is crucial that these tubes aren’t compromised at any point.
“It’s the part we tested the most,” says the Doctor and he holds up the connector into which he has finished fixing the drip line. “The tubes need to withstand the intense pressure which is going to be generated by your pack. While you’re undergoing treatment, they’ll be your lifeline, literally your only link to the outside world. Of course, it’s not a two-way system so you won’t be able to tell us how you’re feeling or if you’re thirsty or anything like that. Once you’re all packed away, just about the only independent action you’ll be capable of is breathing but at least the tubes and sensors will mean we can make sure you’re getting what you need to stay sealed away a good long time. After all, that’s what you’ve signed up for.”
Joey nods weakly. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“Take my advice,” says the Doctor. “Try not to over-think it. There’s been a lot of highly specialised knowledge and expertise invested in your treatment. Of course it’s going to be a challenge for you, but I can already tell from the procedures we’ve completed so far that you’ve got the guts to face it out.”
“Sounds like it’s all gonna be pretty painful,” says Joey.
He is thankful to be blessed with a decent pain threshold. Hell, he even enjoys pain; but this is so out of his experience or control. What’s that slogan he once saw on the wall of his gym: “Pain is weakness leaving the body.”
“Take my advice,” says Lawson. “When it gets really rough, you need to remember that when you’re feeling pain, even really, really bad pain, it doesn’t follow that you’re going be injured or damaged or, God forbid, die. However much it hurts, none of those seriously bad, permanent things are going to happen to you in there. I promise you that and I’m a good doctor. OK?”
Again, Joey is reassured. “Nothing lasts forever, right?” he says, managing a smile and reminding himself that it’s only five days. Anyone can survive five days, even if it’s as edgy as the stuff he’s agreed to undergo here.
“You got it,” says Lawson, encouragingly. “What’s that saying? ‘If you’re going through hell, keep going’. Remember that. I’m looking forward to seeing you on the other side and shaking your hand. It’s going to be quite an achievement for you. But for now, I feel like I’ve talked enough. Which is just as well because it’s time for me to fit your ear plugs. The purpose of removing your hearing is to help focus your mind on what you’ll be experiencing.”
Almost as an afterthought, Lawson adds. “Oh and just so you know, both of these have tiny little electrodes fitted in them, too. I have to admit I’m insanely proud of them. It was a last-minute brainwave I had. We worked through the night, two days running, to get them ready in time, just for you.”
Joey hears himself say “thank you”. He’s been brought up to be polite and respectful always, especially to authority figures.
A pair of big moulded shapes are produced. Like the chastity device they have been made to fit Joey perfectly. They each extend deep into either ear canal and once they are lodged in to the doctor’s satisfaction, he uses some kind of quick setting medical putty to provide an extra seal to keep them in place.
“Impervious to water.”
Joey can tell he is shouting but he can only just make out the words. Seconds later, the putty hardens and eliminates even that possibility. Utter crushing silence descends and he is in a world of silent movies now. It’s instantly disorientating and he misses the soothing sound of the doctor’s voice.
Instead, he sees Lawson nod to Rhys, who hands over an inflatable rubber gag constructed around a kind of double gum shield. Lawson gently slides this into Joey’s mouth, and Joey feels his teeth wedged in place top and bottom behind the custom-made shield. His mouth feels full even before Lawson slowly starts to pumps up the gag, which steadily inflates around and either side of the gum shield until Joey’s entire mouth is crammed solid with rubber. He can feel the tongue electrode compressed by the weight of the gag and realises that his cheeks must be bulging out to either side, making him look even more ridiculous than he already does.
Dr Lawson reaches for a pad, scribbles and holds it up so Joey can see.
“Try to talk to me,” he has written, so Joey obeys and does his best but forming actual words is quite impossible. Even basic noises are incomprehensible. His mouth has been rendered useless as a form of communication. Still, Lawson clearly isn’t quite satisfied and pumps the gag up a tiny bit more. It might feel subtle to the doctor but Joey’s eyes water in protest at the extra pressure. He looks at Lawson resentfully but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice, merely writing on the pad and holding it up so Joey reads:
“Level Five = Mandatory elimination of all communication.”
Finally satisfied with the unyielding pressure of the gag, and Joey’s total inability to make even slight noises past it, the Doctor removes the pump attachment. The entry port into which it fitted is covered with more of the quick-hardening medical putty. There’s one further finishing touch. Rhys hands the doctor a thick roll of 3 inch wide waterproof tape, which he wraps several times round the full circumference of Joey’s head. He uses the entire roll, taking his time, working carefully to ensure the tape stays smooth and kink free. It’s pulled tight every inch of the way and the sheer amount he has used means it’s not coming off in a hurry or without help.
Joey can only breathe through his nose now, and in fact it’s time to fit the nostril tubes which will keep his airways secure. Lawson looms over him with the tubes chosen to do the job; both wide and strong, they snake deeper and deeper inside each nasal passage. The fitting process is pretty excruciating, despite the care with which the tubes have been lubricated. Joey feels a surging panic in his chest and starts to struggle, his eyes darting wildly from side to side. Surely someone will help him if he loses it altogether?
But then he catches Lawson’s expression. For the first time it’s as cold as ice. There’s something terrifying in his expression and it quells Joey in an instant. The nurses have got their hands back on his shoulders. Lawson shakes his head emphatically and his lips form the single recognisable command, “Stop.”
Joey forces himself to calm the fuck down. Then and only then does the Doctor crane forward and continue his work. Nostril tubes sited to his apparent satisfaction, they are caulked and sealed using more of the thick putty. Joey remembers those last words he heard before his hearing was eliminated for good.
“Impervious to water.”
He is now breathing noisily but freely through the tubes, though it’s noisiest to him of course.
Dr Lawson stands up, wipes his hands, ticks his last box, and, his usual charming smile restored, shakes Joey’s hand briskly, as if they’ve just closed on some important business deal. He turns and says something to Garrett and Rhys, which of course Joey can’t hear. Then, without a backward glance, the doctor strides out of the room and Joey is left back in the hands of the two unsmiling nurses.
To be continued …
Metal would like to thank the author, Joey McVie, for this story!
