1 Name: Anonymous : 2009-01-13 09:04
The last appointment of the day is Joshua – one of my favorite patients. I've had him since he contracted the virus at 15. Now he's 20, a strapping young man, handsome, athletic, strong and limber – captain of his football team. He has every reason to want to keep his balls.
He won't though. In another year, just as he's reaching graduation, they'll have to go. I can't have him moving away and getting treatment from another doctor, after all. Right now he has too much pride to complain, and no reason to think what I do is any different from any other Virility Clinic out there.
I'm debating making the change a few months early. I want to be the one to treat his inevitable penile cancer. I want to be the one to remove both his testicles and penis. I want to take on his aftercare. So long as I play my cards right, I could subject him to my attentions for years. He'd never know how much was necessary, and how much of what I do is purely for my own titillation.
Right now however I'm in no hurry to the next stage. As long as I make sure things aren't so bad that Joshua elects for castration, everything will be fine. Personally, I think if he were thinking clearly, he'd have opted for castration long ago.
Whoever engineered this virus must be as warped as me – it is utterly insidious. Although it infects everyone, it only affects men. The virus concentrates in the testes, where it combines with sperm to cause fast moving, extremely painful cancers of the urinary tract. The penis is usually affected first, swelling and becoming extremely tender to the touch. Within a week, urination becomes difficult and agonizing. If allowed to progress, the urethra is completely blocked, and the cancer will spread to the bladder, driving the patient absolutely insane with pain and the need to urinate. At that point, even if the penis is completely removed, the bladder itself will be problematic. Removal of the bladder is necessary. Sometimes the kidneys need to go as well.
Oddly enough the testicles are nearly the last thing become cancerous under usual circumstances, even though the infected sperm is the problem. The reason for that is the prostatic fluid has a remarkable ameliorating effect. So long as the testes are bathed in pre-cum on a regular basis, they remain healthy. Unfortunately vasectomies are not a solution. Testicular cancer develops usually within a week after one of them.
There is no sure fire way of avoiding cancer except through castration. No sperm, no cancer. Simple as that. Most men went that way, electing to freeze their last spunk for when they wish to start their families. Their only complaint is that they seldom get as much supplemental testosterone as they'd like. The government likes them passive and soft. Most have resigned themselves to servicing their wives with their mouths in hopes of a reciprocal, limp, usually unsatisfying bj.
Some, like Joshua, have resisted this solution. They are holding out for the day that a cure for the virus is found, thinking they'll get out of this with their junk intact and functioning. They will be waiting a long, long time. The government more than adequately funds these clinics, but it is tight about research into the cure. The sharp decline in crime and civil unrest is too tempting.
I went with castration myself. As a doctor I can proscribe as much testosterone as I want. My sex life is quite satisfying, thank you.
Through the various cameras hidden in the examination room, I watch as my assistant has Joshua undress and straps him to the table. The straps are not one of my inventions. I'm far too subtle for that. All clinics tie down the patient because the temptation to masturbate can be too much for them otherwise. It's vital that they allow the machines to do the job. The less skin exposed to sperm the better.
The straps are thick – as they need to be. One around each of his wrists, more around his ankles, holding them to the stirrups, and another set holding his thighs widely apart, leaving his ass and groin exposed and accessible. After placing leads on his chest to monitor heart rate (therapy is stressful, and the last thing I want is the investigation into a heart attack), the assistant finally moves to his groin.
Joshua's groin is hairless. The first preliminary therapy sessions included electrolysis. The excuse was to prevent irritation of his genitals during therapy, but the truth is I like the clean look of a smooth cock and balls. It makes his 8 inch cock look larger, and his hens-egg sized balls seem larger.
He is not going to like losing that large cock and those wonderful balls, but come hell or high water, 15 months from now, they will both be gone. I've vowed that the only sexual relief he will ever have is at my hands.
The assistant starts to fiddle with the chastity sleeve. It is clear and very flexible – allowing Joshua as many erections as he'd like. However the plastic is thick enough to keep any stimulation of the shaft down to a minimum. It is designed to breathe, and allow some airflow, just not friction – at least not enough. The head is hidden under a thicker dome of plastic. No sensation gets through that. At the very tip is a plug that diverts any effluence down into a small collection bag at his thigh. The plug can be opened to allow normal urination as well.
The assistant checks the bag, and notes how much precum has filled it over the last week. I can tell from the other room it isn't nearly as much as there should be, and I frown. The assistant takes the bag and its contents down to the lab to check for traces of sperm. I take that as my cue to walk into the room.
Joshua is looking up at the ceiling stoically when I walk in. I notice that his nipples have peaked up in the chilly air. It's deliberate, I like the look, but I pretend it is a surprise.
"Good morning, Joshua. Are you cold? Should I heat the table a bit more?"
"Yes, please." Joshua is always polite to me. I think I intimidate him.
I reach over and turn up the temperature. Almost immediately Joshua relaxes a bit. His scrotum begin to stretch out a bit. His fists are no longer balled.
I take the electronic key and press it against the sensor on the chastity sleeve. I then pull the band free from around his scrotum. The sleeve comes off his cock like a glove. Joshua is already hard in anticipation. After years of therapy, his body knows exactly what's coming. I resist the temptation to touch his penis. There might be traces of sperm in the fluid beading freely up at the tip. He's an armed weapon.
I pull the first machine over. It's my least favorite part of the process, mostly because I can't see a damn thing. It slides over his groin and pours soapy water over the exterior to clean it, then, with something like a vacuum takes up the water again. It takes only 15 seconds, and it shouldn't be enough to tip him off, but I always worry. When I pull the first machine away, Joshua's cock is still a bit damp, but completely clean. From the size of his twitching erection, he hasn't ejaculated yet. Good.
I put the chastity sleeve into the reader, to both clean and take the information off it's chip. I use the moment to talk to Joshua, even though I really don't need to hear the information from his lips. "So have you been having regular erections?"
"At least twenty a day?"
"I don't keep count." Joshua is frowning. I suspect he's holding something back.
I check the read out and sure enough, he had 15 today, but the days before he only reached 10. This went along with the lack of prostatic fluid collected. Joshua has been a bad boy.
"Have you been using your plug properly?" I reach down and feel between his buttocks, the flared end of a size 7 prostate stimulator is there. With a gloved finger I touch it to see if it's properly placed and producing the proper amount of vibration. It seems to be working properly.
"I've been practicing a lot this week," he says. Ah the excuse. "I can't run with that in."
"It's not necessary you keep it in while you practice, but you must remember to put in afterwards. Perhaps you should leave it in while you sleep."
He shakes his head. "I – I can't. I can't sleep with it in."
I shrug. "Some other time then. It needs to remain in and active at least 10 hours a day. I want those erections. They are what keep you healthy."
He's not going to do it, I can tell. He's reached the breaking point of frustration. All patients reach it, not just mine. They hate having all those unsatisfying erections. They hate the constant distracting buzz against their prostate glands even though it's scientifically designed to encourage the production of prostatic fluid. It has a side effect of stirring their libidos with a constant itch. Patients hate being brought to near orgasm, but never reaching it. They hate having near constant blue balls. But all these things are vital. Prostatic fluid keeps the virus inactive, and only a lot of it bathing his testicles and tubes will keep him from developing the cancer.
"No ejaculations?" I ask him. The rig is too well designed to allow that, but I ask anyway.
"No." His face is flushed. He wants me to get on with it and let him cum, but he's too embarrassed to say so.
Instead I pull the plug out. It's skin is a high grade flexible plastic, designed to feel slippery without the use of oil. Most doctors don't put it in dry, but I've never used anything on Joshua, and he apparently hasn't figured out that he can use extra lubrication. It takes a little effort to pull it out, despite it being on the small side. Joshua has never considered sodomy. He is, in fact, a virgin.
I put it in the cleaner and read the output. Not surprisingly, he has barely worn it. It's only had five hours of use put on its battery – all but one hour done today. I'm vaguely amused that Joshua was able to have 10 natural daily erections without any internal or external stimulation. His balls are quite productive.
I could call him out on his behavior, and give him the lecture that he needs this for his own sake. But I decide to go a different route instead. "I'm concerned that you aren't getting enough stimulation with the current probe." Reaching into a drawer I pull out a size 14 prostate stimulator. It's designed for use in people who are used to sodomy – the thickest part is twice as wide as the one I removed.
Joshua's eyes bulge. "No. This one works fine. Let me just keep it in. Let me try one more week!"
I shake my head sadly. "I'm afraid not. This one is obviously not working. The amount of fluid collected is far too small." I take off the packaging and begin to work it into his ass. His face twists and he whimpers a little. It hurts, I know, but that doesn't stop me. Suddenly, Joshua reaches a breaking point and actually fights his restraints. It's pointless.
"Please, it's not fitting."
"It will if you relax," I assure him, meanwhile making no effort whatsoever to relax him.
He bears down, actually attempting to help me, and at last the widest part passes through his sphincter. It is quickly sucked into place. I twist it around a few unnecessary times to position it. Then I start up the motor.
This probe uses both vibration and small shocks. Normally it senses imminent orgasm and gives a quick more painful shock to temporarily paralyze the smooth muscles and stop the process of ejaculation in its tracks. There is then a refractory period of about fifteen to twenty minutes before it starts the process again.
I use a tool to reprogram it to keep it working past orgasm and to stop the refractory periods. I'll program it back to normal again after the milking is over.
Joshua has a bit of wetness in the corner of his eyes. He's staring at the ceiling again – embarrassed and sore. The thickness of the prostate stimulator is tough for him to deal with, and he's doubtless trying to figure out how he can attend his class and work with it in.
But soon the pain gives way to the pleasure and he starts twitching his hips. Even with all this, he is desperate to come. But before he does, I carefully feel his testicles, weighing them in my hands before measuring them with a caliper. They are full of sperm and fluid and very heavy. He's thoroughly blue-balled at this point. I take my time, feeling for lumps in his scrotum and penis, being thorough to the point of redundancy. Usually this part of the exam takes only second or two, but I'm enjoying the feel of his hot skin under my fingers. I'm officially dragging my heels.
"Please," he says finally. "Can we hurry?"
"Oh, my, do you need to come?" I grin at him. "Well, let's get on with it."
The milking machine has a clear sleeve. I snug it down over his glans and shaft and press a button. The plastic suddenly puffs, then goes to work spraying a lubricant, and massaging his dick with fine, nearly invisible hairs, and long smooth strokes. I've used the machine on myself. It feels like an exquisite blow job. Right now Joshua is in heaven.
I leave him there, helpless hooked up to the machine and return to the observation room. I do this for two reasons. Firstly, it gives Joshua the illusion of privacy for this most intimate act, and that is part of what I need to do to secure his willingness to continue on with me. He doesn't know about the cameras. They are everywhere, and I can switch feeds to watch the best angle. Right now I have it split between his penis, his face and a wide shot of his entire body. He's squirming in his restraints. He grits his teeth and gives out a breathy scream as he achieves his first, mind blowingly strong orgasm.
I'm hard at this point, but I'm careful not to touch myself. The best part hasn't even started yet. I'll edit and watch the video later. That's when my real pleasure comes. I may not have balls, but I'll have several orgasms tonight, I can feel it.
The second reason for being out of the room is so I don't have to respond when Joshua suddenly calls out that he's done. I know he's done. The machine has already calculated the amount of ejaculate, the sperm count, and the ratio of prostatic fluid to sperm. All are in the satisfactory range. Normally, the machine would be stopped for a while to allow the patient to recover, but I've never bothered with that part.
The machine keeps sucking on him, even though he's in that ultra-sensitive refractory period. Joshua writhes now in a futile attempt to free himself. For me, this is more entertaining than his pleasure a few minutes ago. I let it continue until the refractory period is over and he's ready to go again. I wait and watch the process repeat until Joshua has his first dry ejaculation. Then I go back and stop the machine.
"Excellent. Now it's time to get you clean."
Joshua groans. This is his least favorite part – therefore my favorite. This is also the part of the exam most likely to get me in trouble with the review board if Joshua ever squeals.
Of course, cleaning is necessary. There is deadly sperm in his urethra, and the distinct possibility that some of it may have backwashed into his bladder. The only solution for this is a rinsing with a special fluid. The fluid is totally artificial but it has the same qualities as prostatic fluid. It's not so much the wash that is a problem, as my insistence on how much and long its retained. Both are a bit extreme.
Joshua doesn't know better.
Every year we do a measure of his bladder, which he utterly loathes. I always do it at the end of the day, so there is no other patients for him to compare notes with. Most doctors only require that the patient drink water, but I've insisted that Joshua drink a beverage of my own devising. Joshua hates the flavor. It's too salty. He has never drunk urine, or he'd certainly object stronger. He doesn't know that the bulk of it, in fact, is piss– my own, collected up over the day. I add a harmless inert chemical to disguise the smell and a little blue dye to change the color and he never catches on. The flavor however is identical to what I usually deposit in the toilet. I wouldn't nearly enjoy this process if it didn't. It never fails to make me hard thinking of my piss running over his unappreciative tongue and down his gullet, later to cause him extreme distress.
He drinks it in the waiting area. I watch him grimace his way through it, and delight knowing that he will still be savoring the flavor of my pee while aching to pee himself. He informs the receptionist as soon as he's choked his way through the bottle. He's not allowed water to rinse, instead he's lead back to the table, undressed and strapped down as normal.
He is taken out of his chastity sheath, not because it's necessary. I simply enjoy seeing his penis when the opportunity can be had. I sometimes fondle him a bit as I push in a catheter. I'm sure he finds it confusing and humiliating. The catheter fills immediately with his urine, but I have the valve shut off so it doesn't flow far. With a syringe I inflate the little balloon holding it into his bladder. Then the wait begins.
He complains of needing to pee almost immediately, but I make him wait until he starts sweating. Then I fuss about slowly, knowing how desperate he is. He claims he's going to burst. He begs freely, but I'm not hurried. That's my recycled pee filling his bladder. It seems wonderfully fitting. Sometimes I can't resist and have to excuse myself to the bathroom, not to urinate (though that's what I lead him to believe) but rather the quickly masturbate. I always come hardest on his bladder measuring days.
Finally, I dare not put it off anymore. I don't want to damage his kidneys. I go in and flip the switch, allowing his bladder to drain into a bag. His relief is palpable, sometimes he laughs, sometimes he cries, but I'm always a little let down. Eventually his bag is filled as much as it will be. I mark the amount down and send the nurse in to unstrap him and send him home.
I don't need to measure him again today, unfortunately. There is no excuse to have him drink my urine. But as I fill the bag for his wash I make sure there is ten to twenty milliliters more than he was measured for. I want his bladder to be excruciatingly full. That part is required for my satisfaction.
I use a little lube on the tip of the catheter and slide it in. It seems counterintuitive, being that the urethra needs cleansing too, but that's the way it's done. I attach the bag and hang it high above his head, at full drip. Gravity fills his bladder over the next few minutes. I watch, with pretend clinical interest as his expression goes from anxious, to uncomfortable, to full on distress. He always complains before we reach the end of the drip.
"It's too much. You filled the bag too much again. God why do you do that."
"Don't be silly, it's the proper amount." It is in fact considerably more than recommended. "Here I'll make this go faster for you."
"No!" he cries and stains against his bonds again, but I ignore him and squeeze the bag to get the last bit in. He starts weeping.
Then we wait. The book says five minutes is sufficient. I make him wait for twenty. He writhes as much as he can within his bonds. He sweats, he sometimes seems to gag. His new larger prostate stimulator is still going. I forgot to shut it off. Now in addition to teasing his libido, it shakes his bladder and causes it further distress.
I'm getting hard thinking about this. The cameras are running, I won't really miss anything. Instead I took myself to the bathroom. "Something about watching this procedure just makes me need to piss," I informed him and noted how his writhing increased. He'd like to piss. I won't let him.
It took me a bit longer than usual to come. I admit, didn't try to rush it. Joshua had to wait twenty-two minutes for relief today. Oh well.
The final part was to deflate the balloon and pull the catheter. Joshua didn't wait to start peeing. I barely had time to aim him into the table's built-in urinal. The flow was fast and hard, flushing whatever remains of his sperm out of his urethra. He sobs like a child. He's twenty years old, the captain of a football team. I wonder what his teammates would think to see him like this.
He is now completely cleared, so there is no further reason for me to be there. I open the door and call for my assistant to release Joshua and help him arrange his next appointment.
"I'm thinking of just getting rid of my balls," Joshua says as I start to leave. "Should I? Is it really worth this?"
I feel a thrill of panic. It's too soon. I'm not done enjoying him this way. "Think of your career," I admonished. "Next visit won't be as bad, I promise. I'll take extra care."
He nods but he doesn't look convinced. I leave before my fear can betray me.
I go back to the observation room and start assembling the footage, editing it into a more reasonable length masturbation tape. It's great material. I'd like more of it, but I might not be able to get it. Joshua worries me. If he insists and gets castrated that will throw my future plans for him in the toilet.
Perhaps I can't wait that other year. Or even a few months.
Next visit I'll go easy on him. Too easy. He'll eat it up and not complain. I won't complain about the lack of fluid, I'll give him a shorter, smaller wash. It will be terribly unsatisfying, but knowing what will be coming will sustain me. I'll wait until his chastity sleeve is on again and inject a little of his own sperm back into his urethra, making up some bullshit reason for it. I know he's not going to use the larger stimulator nearly as much as he should. The virus laden sperm will dig in before Joshua's frustrated erections have a chance to beat it off. It wouldn't take long, a week or two after that for the first symptoms.
Sheathed as it is, he won't notice when his penis becomes more sensitive. It will doubtless be the painful urination that brings him in. I will have to do many washes to save his bladder, which he'll accept gratefully, no matter how large or how long I force him to hold them. He'll be panicking. I might even be able to convince him that the special drink is needed. The idea of that makes me hard again and I come a second time thinking of him sucking my hot fresh urine out of a bottle (could I arrange that?) while I fill him past full with an ice cold wash (this is pure fantasy, but something I've longed to try). It might be pressing my luck, but now that I've thought of it, I intend on doing it.
Of course, his large, hen-egg sized balls will have to go immediately, but I'll put off the penectomy as long as I can, so that he can savor the agony of his cancer fully. It will be excruciating, far worse than anything I have ever done to him. The cancer will feel like fire and thorns shoved down his piss slit, night and day, without relief. Even morphine will hardly put a dent in it, though I doubt I will offer much of that. I don't want his mind too foggy, after all.
I'm pretty sure I can extend his agony for at least three days, a week isn't too unrealistic. With twice daily washes -- iced, I've decided! I will claim it will be more soothing to his penis, and who knows I might be right -- he might go a fortnight without risking his bladder, but people will start questioning what I'm doing. No better leave it a single week. After that, I'll have to be satisfied with the tapes. I will, of course, be filming this endless sweet climax of pain.
Then the penis, too, will have to go. All 8 inches, plus root, into the trash. The thought is disappointing, it's a beautiful cock, but I bolster myself with the knowledge that he's never had an opportunity to use it. I've been in complete control of it. He'll never fuck a woman. He'll never even masturbate to a naughty picture. But he'll want to. I'll make sure he receives plenty of testosterone – perhaps he can still compete athletically. His body will stay firm and beautiful. He will certainly retain his healthy libido, even if he loses any ability to satiate it.
His prostate of course will stay. It will need frequent milking to remain healthy. Soon that size 14 won't seem so bad to him. I might even work him up to a 20. It will be quite enjoyable to see him strapped to my table, with a freezing, full-to-bursting bladder and a stimulator the size of my fist in vibrating in his well-stretched ass.
Or perhaps I will go another route. I wonder how much it will take to convince him the best tool for the job is my perfectly functioning penis.
Probably not a lot. Joshua is pretty trusting. That's one of his charms.
4 Name: Anonymous : 2009-01-15 11:36
Some more, this time more guro, though still as gay.
When the review board was done with me, I honestly expected to be put in prison, not to be offered a job by one. Life sometimes works in mysterious ways, and apparently I got lucky. As it turned out, Joshua never squealed on me – even if he blamed me, I think he'd be too ashamed he'd been taken in by me for so long. However, even without his complaining, his cancer was enough to trigger an inspection of my facilities. The inspector had keener eyes than my patients. He found my cameras and video collection most intriguing.
It was an uncomfortable couple of weeks for me. Not that I regret anything I did, but I could have taken some better precautions. In the end it didn't matter because apparently the inspector had a rather tricky agenda that needed a morally questionable person like me to achieve.
He liked the fact that I was able to run a complete, self-contained facility. Unlike most clinics, mine allowed me to perform surgery and house patients overnight. My record (aside from Joshua) is pristine – the cancers I dealt with either came from other clinics that were not equipped to do surgery or from men who thought they could manage their own treatment using a home kit. Ironically enough, my sexual perversion meant that my patients were much more diligent in their self-care, and my rate of cancer was pretty much nil. On paper, I looked great – one of the best in the field.
He asked if I was willing to give up standard clinical care and go into research to find a cure for the virus. At first I was doubtful. Test-tubes and microscopes are a poor substitute for a living, squirming, suffering patient. But then he assured me that I wouldn't be put to lab work. My job was to conduct experiments on selected patients. Experiments that I would be given great latitude in designing.
This intrigued me. "What timetable are they expecting results from me."
"Internal reports every quarter," he replied. "To my office."
"And the cure?"
He smiled at me. "There's no hurry on that."
And I understood. What he needed was something that looked on paper like research – that could even be inspected if necessary, but in fact was no more than medical wheel-spinning. He was offering me a chance to indulge my fetishes if I in turn help cover up the government's collusion in keeping the population hormonally pacified. Castrated and dependent on government clinics for their meager allotment of testosterone, men have good reason not to rock the boat. For the first time in human history, the prison population of women is slightly more than that of men.
What's more the population rate is kept in check – with in vitro fertilization being the only way these days to get pregnant, there are no unwanted babies, no burgeoning population of the poor, undereducated, or genetically infirm for government to support. All this has taken an enormous financial strain off the government coffers.
Even so, a normal doctor would be upset to know there would be nothing to show for his labors at the end of his career. But a pervert like me wouldn't mind, would I? No, not at all. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.
Following my agreement, there was a down period of several months, while my new building, adjacent to the prison, was refitted with all the equipment it needed. I had to soothe my sexual frustration by watching and rewatching old recordings I'd made. Although enjoyable, it's not nearly as pleasurable as the fresh memory and the anticipation of a new victim in the morning.
Today however, I begin my new job. I have only three hand-chosen patients but they will keep me more than occupied. I did the best I could to find the most attractive of the rather narrow group of candidates available. None are as pretty as Joshua, sadly.
Martin is the oldest at 28. He's a murderer (all of my patients are, even with things as they are, murder has not completely gone away). He is muscular, having opted to keep his balls and undergo weekly treatment rather than suffer castration. He came to prison 4 years ago after beating his wife and their two year old to death. He suspected that she was cheating on him with a castrated ex-boyfriend. She probably was – although castrated men often have difficulty achieving erections, when they can, they are perfectly capable of satisfying a female companion. Ironically, by remaining "a real man," Martin couldn't have sex. Like all intact men, he was fitted with a chastity sleeve. He could look all he wanted at his wife, but he got no satisfaction from her. The frustration apparently drove him crazy.
In the next room over is Louis, 22. He elected to be castrated like most men – and the effect is rather pronounced on him. Though he works out as much as he can (an appearance of toughness is still necessary in the prison community) his muscles are considerably less pronounced than Martin. There is a slight femininity to him, particularly in the upper arms and the broad nipples on his chest. He is one of those truly unfortunate men who, while utterly impotent, have just enough testosterone to maintain a normal libido. He'd strong-armed his girlfriend into giving him bj's – according to the trial, she'd tried her best, sucking on his flaccid cock for hours every day. But he couldn't cum. She managed to convince him to try one of her dildos, and apparently he achieved his first orgasm since his castration while she violently fucked his ass from behind. Terrified that she'd made him gay, he'd stabbed her to death. And now he's in the unkind hands of a true homosexual. How ironic.
The last is Carl, 19, a small time punk who got in over his head and apparently shot a cop to death. He was recommended to me. No one loves this guy. Like Martin, he's intact, with a nice handful in his bag, and good sized cock shoved into a chastity sleeve. He's the prettiest of the bunch, to my eye, with the lean muscles of youth and perfect skin. Apparently the prison population thought so too. My initial examination of his anus showed that some well-endowed member of the castrated prison community was helping him to achieve his daily required erections. Probably one of the guards. Maybe several.
I bring Martin into the examination room first. He's not particularly cooperative, attempting to free himself from the guards grip and walk on his own (a slow, shuffling walk to be sure -- he's hobbled by the cuffs around his ankles.) He has no idea what's going on with him. He's used to weekly treatments though, and probably suspects that this will be more of the same, just in a separate building. Part of his painful walk is due to being blue-balled after a week of enforced abstinence. Part is because I insisted he wear a plug. The prison community doesn't insist on prostate stimulators the way I did for my patients, and it shows in the unacceptably high number of cancers among inmates.
We get him undressed and strapped onto the table before I reveal anything of what I plan for him.
"How much has he drunk," I asked one of the guards.
"Two liters, he just finished it." I'd have dearly loved to have forced Martin to drink my urine as a prelude, but instead I gave him only water. I'm not completely sure of the guards and how they will react to some of my perversions. Better introduce them slowly. My experiment with Martin will be shocking enough.
Experience tells me his bladder will be telling him he needs to go, but Martin is a tough guy and refuses to let it show on his face. I don't like that. I'm getting nothing useful on camera at the moment. I hope the other two give a better show.
I go through the preliminaries silently. The chastity sleeve comes off, and I check to see that his erections are in the 5 – 10 range which is apparently what the prison staff seems to think perfectly acceptable. The collection of prostatic fluid was well under what I'd like in my normal patients. Even his cock wasn't that great. A bit under average in size and not terribly thick. I have my assistant work on shaving off his pubic hair, which makes him grunt with surprise. That brings my first smile. Perhaps he won't be so hard to crack after all.
I then go through the usual motions of having him milked. Unlike my previous patients, I don't leave the room. Martin watches me uncomfortably while the machine laves up his hard cock. "Getting your jollies," he gasps out at one point.
"Yes," I reply with a smile.
Oh, he doesn't like that. He doesn't like it more when I let the machine continue to work him through the refractory period after his orgasm. He swears at me and vows to make me choke on my dick. I think he means it, too. He gets quiet through his second orgasm, and incoherent through the period after that. Finally, I've gotten all the sperm I'm going to get out of him. Its actually quite a bit, he must have been pretty needy.
Very carefully (this stuff is dangerous) I inject the collection into a 30 ml IV bag of sterile water. The contents go cloudy. Martin is watching me with some confusion. None of his other doctors have ever done this before and he's not sure what to make of it.
I thought long and hard about when I was going to break his fate to him, so it was while I made a show of lubing up the catheter that I begin to talk to him.
"As you know, I am doing research into curing the virus." He didn't know this. His nostrils flare and for the first time he seems a bit apprehensive. "I'm conducting a number of studies to better help our scientists understand how it works. Before we can create a cure, we need a baseline to compare with various treatments to see how effective they are at slowing the cancer or ameliorating the pain. You will help us create that baseline."
Martin is a bit on the dim side. It takes him a moment to realize what this means. When he does, he goes completely apeshit. Although this is the most sturdy table built for this purpose, and the straps are larger and thicker than standard grade, both creak frighteningly under the strain of his efforts. I'm actually afraid he'll break his own bones for a moment, but then he seems to calm down and get a very wary, animal look in his eyes.
That's when I decide I really don't need his input. I need him to listen and understand, and most of all feel, not talk. I have the guard gag him.
While he does that, I start sliding the catheter up into Martin's bladder. He's not as still as he should be for this, and it probably is more uncomfortable than it needs to be. That's okay by me, though I'd rather not cause him any more damage at this point. It might mess up my results.
"I've always been curious to see what the cancer would look like if it was allowed to progress to completion," I continue. "The standard treatment is to remove the affected part immediately, but what happens if we don't? How long does it take to go from infection to first symptom? From first symptom to loss of function? And from there to death? Up to now, we've been able to do autopsies, and see the destruction after the fact, and we've been able to halt it mid way along with surgery, but we've never done a day by day analysis of what happens."
Martin's eyes are bugged out. He can't believe what he's hearing. He knows now that I plan to torture him to death, but he can't really comprehend it.
"For you, the experiment will be to see how the virus effects the bladder in isolation." I flip the valve and allow Martin's bladder to drain out. It's a good amount, but not huge. No where near the two liters he's drunk. That's actually, good. It means in another hour or so he'll be the way I prefer my victims: full to the point of pain.
"In every case so far, the penis has been effected first. We have never seen how the bladder reacts without that distraction."
Martin is completely empty. I remove the bag of urine, and attach the bag containing his sperm to the end of the tube. He fights hard, bruising himself. His eyes are frozen on the bag which I hold up high and squeeze. The cloudy fluid races down the line, into his piss slit, and all the way to his bladder.
"To make this work," I inform him, "You are going to have to keep this sperm in your bladder as long as possible, so it has ample time to wiggle around an seep into all the crevices, delivering the virus to your nerves. I'd like a complete infection of all parts of the organ rather than a piecemeal one. I'm going to leave this catheter in so you won't be able to pass out the infected material for a while. When you do, it won't effect your urethra. Your penis should remain unaffected."
This doesn't reassure him. He's stopped fighting though. The damage is done. He's had the mother of all backwashes. Although it's entirely psychosomatic, he probably already feels the virus at work.
Once I've gotten as much of the bag into his bladder as I can, I shut the valve and detach it. I then leave the room. The guard remains and the cameras (many of them from just about every conceivable angle) keep watch. I go and get lunch. By the time I return the rest of that two liters have made themselves known. Martin is moaning with the need to piss and I'm thankful to see I've broken through his macho side and he is behaving like a proper victim.
I palpitate his lower abdomen and sure enough his bladder is solid as a rock. I reach down and check the stimulator in his ass. It's going full tilt, vibrating the bladder to make it just a bit more difficult to endure. This must be excruciating. "Ten more minutes" I pronounce. Ordinarily I wouldn't make him hold it so long, due to the danger of urine backing up the ureters into the kidneys, but this time, I want precisely that. This man is going to die in a couple of weeks in utter misery.
Martin moans around his gag. He's never felt this kind of agony before. I wait it out with him savoring his expressions. It's important to establish trust, so then true to my word, precisely 10 minutes later I release the valve and allow the fluid to drain. There's the slightest pinkish tint to it. Blood. Martin's infection should be swift.
I put his chastity sleeve back on over the end of the catheter, which is closed and tucked down where he won't be able to reach it. I leave instructions that he be allowed to drink as much as he likes, but only to pass urine once before bedtime, and not at all in the morning until I've had time to check him. He'll try not to drink much – the memory of that overfilled bladder is too fresh for him to risk that happening again. He'll be very thirsty tomorrow.
The fight is almost entirely taken out of him as he's led, hobbled, back to his room.
Louis is brought in a few minutes later. He is confused. Castrated as he is there is no need for him to visit one of these clinics. Nonetheless I get him strapped down on the table without too much work.
From what I've been able to garner the last orgasm he had was when he killed his girlfriend. He really should have appreciated her more. Certainly no one in jail has been particularly willing to help him achieve another one.
He yipes the moment I bring out a prostate stimulator. Seeing as he was able to come from being sodomized I decide there is no reason to be delicate. I use a medium size – probably similar to the size of dildo that his dead girlfriend tried on him. This one is equipped with both vibration and a small shocks to encourage erections and a larger more painful shock to paralyze his muscles and stop ejaculation. I want him hard but there's absolutely no point in having him cum. He has no sperm to offer up for the project.
I notice the testosterone patch on his hip. It's a strong one – the kind I use myself. About 4 times the dose he's used to. His libido is normal even with the smaller amount. Now it would be going through the roof.
On goes the milking machine. Louis probably thinks he's hit the jackpot. He knows what the machine does, he may have fantasized about it, while trying to masturbate his limp noodle, but there is no reason to use them on the castrated inmates. Unlike Martin, he doesn't seem to care about me watching.
"I'm sure you'll find this much better than your hand," I assure him.
I split my time between watching his enraptured face while he gets the long slow wet deep-throating his girlfriend could never provide him and keeping abreast of the monitors which track the level of rigidity in his cock and the state of his prostate. It takes a surprisingly long time for him to get hard, but not long after that his prostate signals his orgasm is imminent.
I wait until the last moment, then shut the machine down just as the stimulator jolts his prostate into flaccidity. Crisis averted. I wrap a band around the base of his cock to keep it from detumescing and not-incidentally closing his urethra off from his bladder and prostate.
Louis looks confused and betrayed at being denied his orgasm. For the first time he asks what the hell I'm up to. I delight in telling him.
Martin's experiment was for his bladder. Louis will be his cock. He is a little prick, so I think it's fitting. I wish I had some of Martin's sperm left over to do him with, but I have to make due with what my assistant runs over from the regular clinic. It's more than enough. It's almost alarmingly copious, in fact. Apparently there are a lot of inmates who have elected to keep their balls even at the price of chastity.
My hands are double gloved while I pour a generous amount of fresh spunk down into the reservoir of a condom. I then roll it carefully down his prick. At first the thing bends over like a water balloon at the end, but then I tip it up and ever so gently squeeze until it's become noticeably deflated. When I figure about half of the contents have poured down poor Louis's piss slit, I then begin working the condom around the shaft, stretching it outwards, ever so carefully, to allow the contents to fill up around the head of the penis, and then around the shaft.
I leave him there with the condom on, looking like he'd just had the come of his life. A thought occurs to me, and with a syringe, I collect up more of the fresh spunk. While he watches, absolutely horrified, I inject some into each of his tits. His areolas are huge for a man. I use several pricks and leave small mounds under the nipples and the colored area around it.
My final decision was to go into his ass and get his prostate. For this, I used a speculum to stretch him wide open. I work it slowly, but inexorably until it's wide enough that I think I could fit my fist in there. My ears are ringing from Louis's screams. Normally the prostate wouldn't be affected – there's so much fluid in there to keep the virus at bay – but perhaps that can be overcome.
I fill up my largest syringe with spunk. I have plenty. I feel around for his prostate, and then pierce it with the needle, emptying the contents. I go back and refill and repeat. Again. Again. By this time his prostate feels enormous.
Through all this, Louis begs me to stop. It's really quite pathetic. The man who killed his ridiculously accommodating girlfriend over concerns she made him gay, now offers me a blowjob. I'm not even trying to disguise my hard on, but I politely refuse the offer. He offers up his ass next, but though I'm marginally tempted, I refuse. I don't want to chance that the stimulation will tip him over to orgasm. Not only would it be messy to have him ejaculate all that sperm, I've already decided he will carry his sexual frustration to the grave.
I keep Louis on the table for a couple of hours before reluctantly cleaning him up. The spunk has become gluey and dried, and I don't think the machine was able to get it all off. I sent him back to his room with a laugh and a joking warning to the guard not to give him a bj.
The guard looks at me funny but takes him back.
The last is young Carl. He looks depressed as walks in. The chicken has flown the coop with him – the guards couldn't keep their damn traps shut and already informed him that his stay here will be a short, but permanent one. Carl doesn't know exactly how I will dispose of him, but he knows it will be something nasty done in the name of medical research.
I almost feel sorry for him, but my urge to torment him is greater than my sympathy. He is breathtaking, in his own way. He wears his victimhood on his sleeve, every emotion clearly spelled out on his face. He doesn't even attempt to hide his discomfort, and when he cries (which he does frequently) he does so silently without that ugly braying sound that many men make.
He's had ample reason to cry. He knows he's screwed up his life beyond any redemption. The system absolutely abhors cop-killers. I'm sure the guards have been doing there utmost to make prison a living hell for him. Perhaps he is hoping that I will be more merciful in killing him than the guards have been in keeping him alive. There is little chance of that.
Life does like to throw me curve balls. Of my three victims, his was the most beautiful prick. I would have loved to have seen it milked. But my experiment requires that he be blue-balled. I'm going to torture his testicles with a vasectomy.
Although he doesn't require it, I have given him a testosterone patch as well. Hopefully it will encourage his body to produce more spunk. Without the prostatic fluid to keep the virus in check, it will attack the nerves of the testes. There is some debate over whether testicular cancer caused by the a vasectomy will actually kill on its own. Heart attacks from the stress of pain have happened, as have suicides, but no one has let it go to the point where the cancer actually metastasized to a part of the body needed to survive. I believe the record for going without treatment was 32 days from the time of first symptom.
Carl seems young and strong enough to endure quite some time. Perhaps I will be the first doctor to see the cancer finally break through and spread beyond the sack.
I strap him to the table and prep him for surgery. I let him stare at the scalpels and retractors while I scrub the antiseptic over his scrotum. I think he thinks I'm going to castrate him. Too late for that, young man.
"I don't suppose I'm going to get a local," he asks.
"I'm afraid not. Part of the experiment is to record how cope with pain."
"Don't give me B.S. about this being useful research," he says. "You are going to torture me."
I nod. "Exactly."
He starts to cry. God, does he know how beautiful that makes him? "Will it take long for me to die?"
"Yes, a very long time. Months perhaps. It will be extremely painful."
He is not ready for that idea. Not even close. "I don't deserve this, you know. It was an accident."
"No one deserves this," I respond sympathetically. "I'm not punishing you because you've wronged me. I'm punishing you because it gives me intense orgasms." There really isn't anything he can say about that.
I begin the surgery. He screams as soon as I cut in. It's very distracting. Worse he wiggles making it difficult to do my job. I end up having to get the guards to hold him still. It's awkward have two large men leaning over me while I delicately sever and sear shut his cords, but I eventually do it. I then sew him shut.
I've been hard nearly all day, but have resisted masturbation with almost saintlike self-control. Abruptly I decide that I can't take it anymore. I dismiss the guards briefly to stand outside the door and then use the buttons to alter the table.
Carl stops crying long enough to wonder what the hell I'm doing. Then as his legs spread further apart I think he understands. I don't know what other diseases these guards have been pumping into his rectum, so I take the precaution of using a condom. I'm generous with the lube more for my own sake than for his. I then fuck the shit out of the punk, pounding his ass as hard as I can without causing myself pain. I have the best come of my entire life while listening to him beg me stop smashing his tender, post-op balls.
When I'm done, I inspect him to make sure I didn't damage his testicles too badly. They look positively gruesome – swollen twice normal size and roughly the color of an eggplant. His incision seeps blood. Nonetheless I determine this isn't going to kill him, and I send the guards in to take him back to his room. He can barely walk – he has this hilarious waddle like he's carrying a basketball between his thighs. I flip on the monitors to watch his progress. Once he arrives at his room, the guards take turns raping him over his toilet.
I don't interrupt. It's been a long day, I think the men deserve it.
The next days are somewhat boring. Martin amuses me the most, but only because I've decided to introduce him to the joys of piss drinking. He was a tough guy in the cell block and he doesn't take the humiliation well – but with his own bladder activity strictly monitored, he soon realizes he doesn't get any relief until I've had my jollys.
I begin easy – for me, not for him. While he is strapped down to the table (there is no way I'd be in the room with him unrestrained) I whip out my cock and urinate into a clear plastic urinal. It's a deep golden color because I'm more interested in quality over quantity at this point. Martin hasn't peed since the night before, and even though he rationed his fluids, he's pretty needy. A quick press with the palm of my hand confirms the presence of a hard, expanded bladder. He watches me fill the urinal up with mixture of disgust and envy.
He is utterly confused by my next move, which is to screw on, of all things, a rubber nipple to the end of the vessel. It's the latex type, used for infants everywhere. Three holes for maximum flow. Since he can't hold it, and I don't particularly want to, I rig an armature to upend it over his mouth.
"What the fuck?"
"I want you to nurse on it." I told him. "Drink all of it and I'll give you relief. Refuse to nurse and I'll let it drip over your lips and face and send you back to your cell full."
Martin is absolutely disgusted, but the idea isn't as foreign to him as I thought it might be. I hear that in prison drinking one another's urine is often used in dominance games to spell out the pecking order. The victims are almost inevitably the softer castrated men. Perhaps Martin has done this to someone else, but he's never been on the receiving end.
He reluctantly takes the nipple in his mouth. I'm torn between amusement at the picture of a grown man sucking on a urinal, and being utterly turned on by the sheer power I have over him. The nipple prevents him from simply chugging and getting it done. He has to work it, drawing it in with his cheeks and tongue, getting it in squirts or dribbles, allowing him to slowly savor the full flavor. It is good to finally be able to give it to someone fresh and hot, when the taste is strongest.
When he is done, I release the valve on his catheter and allow him to piss. His relief holds no interest for me so I leave him to the guards while I see to my own needs by sodomizing Carl.
Unlike Martin, the fight is out of poor Carl, he pretty much lets me do what I want. Although his ass is near perfect, his compliance is close enough to consent to frustrate my libido. In order to make it interesting, I have to squeeze his testicles, which are so tender at this point that he nearly faints. A pleasant side effect of the pain has him tightening and loosening his anus around my cock, like a natural milking machine.
After I've had my satisfaction, and my head is clear again, I realize I need to actually do some palliative care for Carl or else risk undermining my objectives. His scrotum is now the size of a softball, and I'm starting to worry about infection – ordinary infection, not the kind made by the virus. I order some leeches to reduce the hematoma and an IV drip of antibiotics. Hopefully I can get him back to looking normal in a few days, so I'll be able to see the difference when the virus finally kicks in. There is nothing more embarrassing than having to report the effects of his cancer were obscured by an ordinary botched vasectomy. I'm too good a doctor to let that happen.
I visit Louis last. Nothing much is happening to him, other than he's getting more scared and paranoid by the day. His noodle is as flaccid as ever, showing no signs of swelling or discoloration yet – any pain he feels is purely psychosomatic. A check of his prostate shows that it's still grossly enlarged. He complains that he's having difficulty urinating, and that's probably the reason. I've taken him entirely off of testosterone. There is no particular need for it anymore.
As it happens he is the first to show symptoms, 5 days after being infected. He wakes with a rash on his glans that spreads down his shaft in lacy manner. The rash is reddish purple and slightly raised to the touch. He is slightly tumescent despite not being aroused a fact that fascinates me. Once I have tied to the table, I spend a great deal of time stroking his cock with my bare fingers. It's not contagious to me at this point. Without the vehicle of sperm the only one bothered is Louis.
It turns out the red areas are very tender to the touch – and my fondling shifts from pleasurable to painful for him, similar I think to the refractory sensitivity. I take a scalpel and slice a narrow sliver of skin off one of the areas, which causes him to scream. Under the microscope I can see that there is enormous abnormal nerve growth. There are normally a lot of nerve endings in the glans, but in the effected areas there is signs of three to six times as many endings, all apparently hair triggered.
I poke about his prostate with my fingers. It's as swollen as ever and even a gentle rubbing produces a huge response in him. I ask if it's pleasurable, and he assures me it hurts.
"It feels like I got a porcupine in my prostate and that my cock is shoved in a prickly wool sock."
I decide to explore that feeling more by putting a stimulator in him. It's a small one – a size 7. Nonetheless, it has him in tears in seconds, so I'm sure it was excruciating. I leave it in and simply revel his pain. I was too caught up to really notice the significance when his cock twitched. Then, for no reason I could discern, he suddenly shrieked and ejaculated a huge dollup of bright orange scum. I moved my hand only just in time. Well there's a warning for me, I really should be wearing my gloves for this.
I'm a little put out that he actually orgasmed until I realized that he was unconscious. I then decided that it didn't count if there was no pleasure or relief had and I'm pretty sure he had neither. I collect up part of the mess for study and carefully washed away the rest. Under the microscope it was a mixture of pus, dead sperm, blood and prostatic fluid. It seems his prostate is fully involved in the cancer after all.
By the next day, Louis's penis is much more involved. It's turned a remarkable shade of purple and swollen like a polish sausage. It looks hard, and somewhat shiny. Louis can't bear to have anything touch it. I decide to give him another session with the milking machine. What a week ago he had fantasized about, now he faces with dread. I'm pretty sure Martin and Carl can hear his screams through the floor.
While his torture is going on I notice that his nipples have finally become involved as well. I'd been wondering if the virus confined itself to the urogenital tract or if it was effective elsewhere. I figured it probably was, and now it was confirmed. His areolas are a dark angry red, and his tits have swollen up into small, surprisingly feminine breasts. I gathered one up in my palm and ran my thumb over the erect nipple. Despite the overwhelming pain of his penis, he also reacts to this, attempting to twist away despite the restraints. I continue to squeeze and pinch at them until Louis once again deposits a load of tainted cum, and passes out.
While he was unconscious I do a bit of rummaging around and find some clips for securing large stacks of paper together. I put one of these on each of his nipples, then ordered that he be returned to his room and his hands cuffed behind his back. When he regains consciousness he will have the choice of enduring pain of his sensitive tits being crushed, or he can roll around on his mattress until he is able to scrape and tug them off, briefly making them hurt worse in the process.
Later that afternoon, Martin starts showing his first signs that the virus had dug its heels in. I'd been playing with his bladder all week, insisting he drink, sometimes water, sometimes pee, then waiting until he sobbed and begged and demeaned himself before allowing him to urinate. So I didn't think there was anything unusual when he moaned out that there were hot worms in his bladder.
However, when I let him pee, I am surprised to find out that it doesn't actually relieve him. Then I start really paying attention to his descriptions, which are both vivid and creative. Apparently he could feel the virus squirming about inside him, like snakes or something, biting and writhing and poking at the lining of his bladder. The idea was so intriguing that I actually to inflate his bladder with CO2, then send a laparoscope up his catheter to check it out.
I find a lot of pus, and some bands of erosion, but no worms. There was that dark lacy looking rash that I now recognized as being areas of abnormal dense nerve growth. I probe about a bit and notice that the bladder muscle tends to spasm in an uncoordinated way and wondered if this is were the worm sensation was coming from.
From then on I send a camera up into him daily to investigate. The nerve growth grows denser each day, and it gets to be that any pressure at all on his bladder triggers a powerful desire to urinate from him. I soon was letting him simply pee into a bag all the time and still getting the same level of discomfort as my washes once produced. I still occasionally had him fill up to see if there was any difference in the intensity of his pain, but it seems like he's reached a point where he simply can't experience any more and stops even being aware of me.
Other than a constant dull ache, Carl is still not showing much signs of cancer a full two weeks after his vasectomy, so I searched around for other ways that he could amuse me. On day 15 I hit upon the idea of him helping me torment Louis. I was putting the latter on the table three times a day for various experiments. Weights dangled off his tits and set to swing like little pendulums. Various sizes of stimulators in his ass. Sounds, sometimes heated or chilled, rubbed against the inside of his urethra. Iced washes forced up into his bladder, then peed out. Louis usually faints once or twice a session. I've gotten used to that.
Louis looks terrible. The pain is taking its toll. He's barely been eating and he is starting to look a bit skeletal. His prick looks utterly diseased: it's become nearly black with abnormal nerve endings just beneath the thinest layer of skin. The nasty organ bulges out from his body, a full priapic erection, twice as thick as used to be. Occasional drizzles of noxious fluid come out the slit and make their way down the outside, causing him a ridiculous amount of agony. Nonetheless I bring Carl in and insist he give the poor man a blowjob.
Carl has been giving the guards blowjobs on and off ever since his arrest and from what I've heard he is pretty good at them. Nonetheless he balked at putting Louis' diseased cock in his mouth. It took some threats and some strong-arming to finally get him down on his knees, sliding that ugly sausage between his lips and licking at the sour effluence with his tongue.
Louis bellows out his distress. I am in heaven, masturbating through my clothes while I watch the two of them go at it. I don't let them stop until Louis has one of his pain orgasms and Carl is forced to contend with a sudden mouthful of the foulest crud ever to come out of a prostate. Revolted, Carl turns and spits the curdled fluid out. He almost spits again, but I intervene and tell him to swallow what he can. This turns me on so strongly that I end up fucking Carl while he licks up the mess he let drop on the floor.
"Don't waste a drop," I insist as I come. "Not a drop."
His reward for this disgusting act is a small amount of morphine. It isn't enough to fully take away his pain, but it's enough to ebb it back from an 8 to a 3 on the pain scale. I'm honestly not doing it for Carl's sake. Louis, watches me give Carl the shot with utter jealousy. His pain is greater than anything he's experienced before in his life – certainly much greater than Carl's, but I've never offered him any relief.
From then on Carl gives Louis bj's daily. He even learns to hold the crud in his mouth until I've finished sodomizing him. Then afterwards I have him describe in great detail any day to day changes to the flavor or texture and mull over their significance. I'm actually getting some useful scientific data out of this, even it is by accident.
Martin dies on the 20th day, a full two weeks after showing the first signs of cancer. I'm honestly just as happy that he's gone, he really wasn't that much fun for the last week. It was as if he'd reached some sort of pain plateau, after which nothing I did particularly affected him. Worse, his mental faculties seemed to shut down, he stopped speaking entirely and didn't seem properly aware of me. For the last two days he's produced no urine at all. He spent all yesterday in a coma. I'd honestly lost a lot of interest in him after he stopped being able to articulate his torment.
An autopsy reveals that he died of ureic poisoning, which is hardly a surprise. Once his kidneys stopped working correctly, his blood had turned into piss. If he hadn't been so completely phobic of drinking, I'm pretty sure his death would have come a whole lot faster. Nonetheless, I was a bit taken aback by how much brain damage he'd accrued before his death. The alterations to his bladder were far more in line with what I expected. Nerve tissue had invaded the muscle, causing it to break down in places. Where once was a firm muscle, capable of stretching and squeezing was now a black, somewhat brittle ball about the size of a hollow grapefruit.
I'm jotting this one down as a partial success, but I'd like to take another baseline. I think with the next patient, I'll look into renting a dialysis machine, so I can have the opportunity to observe the destruction of his bladder without the collateral damage to his brain and other organs. My hypothesis is that if Martin hadn't died, ultimately his bladder would have cracked and burst, but I won't know now until I've had a chance to run the experiment again.
Louis continued another week, still begging for that morphine that I refused to give him. He's offered me money, women (as if that would motivate me), sexual acts. He's begged to drink my urine, which by now he knows to be one of my bigger fetishes. Some of the degradations he's offered to perform are things I've never heard of before. Some of them are quite interesting – but I'd rather have Carl perform them.
Carl is getting rather annoyed with Louis's imagination, but he can't think of any revenge more cruel than the one I'm already dishing up.
By day 28, Louis claims his piss feels like lava, so I make sure he gets plenty of fluids, even going so far as to put in an IV when he tries to go Martin's route and dehydrate himself. Despite his excruciating pain, he never goes inarticulate. If anything he tends to babble.
His breasts then begin to do something more interesting than simply hurt when I twist them. They are sizable now, the nipples twice as large as when he'd arrived and firm like black cherries. The tissue around them would fill a C cup, I'm sure. I am getting ready for another session of shocking Louis's prostate when he moans and I look up and see a trickle of milk sliding down one of those firm dusky breasts. I have my assistant run out and purchase breast pump. I manage to get four ounces of milk streaked with dark blood out him. Carl finds the milk unpalatable. Louis isn't a fan of it either.
Then finally, his urethra swells up to the point where I can't even get the smallest sized catheter in to relieve him. This is the end, but I'd rather he go out with more of a bang than Martin's pathetic coma.
I finally promise him some pain medication if he will drink my urine and that of Carl, and the guards. Louis, the one-time gay hater, eagerly agrees. I have Carl go first, and though he looks guilty about what he's doing, he wouldn't dream of objecting. I watch as Louis wraps his lips around the head of Carl's cock, and start sucking, as if trying to get Carl to pee faster. When Carl lets go, Louis's mouth floods and he chokes. I end up having to coach the two. Soon they have a regular give and take going. It requires a lot of control on Carl's part, but at least almost nothing ended up on the floor.
Louis turns out to be a trooper. He sucks it all down, straight from our cocks a truly prodigious amount. His stomach is bulging by the end. But then I renege on the medication, because there doesn't seem much point. It's the first time I've ever broken trust with any of them, but I figure there won't be much damage. His pain is going to be ended soon anyway, but I really don't want to cheat myself out of his final hurrah.
At that point I simply watch him go. Over the next hour, his bladder swells until it looks like he's pregnant. I shove my largest sized stimulator into his ass and set it to vibrate, although at this point he can no longer actually ejaculate. Carl huddles in a corner while Louis begs and screams. After about half an hour Louis's bladder actually ruptures, releasing its contents into his abdominal cavity. For a moment there's a look of intense relief on his face, and then he faints for the last time. Ten minutes after that he is gone. Bang indeed.
My autopsy finds Louis prostate swollen to about four times its usual size. It's black with nerves, and completely filled with a substance that is roughly the color and texture of tapioca though not the smell. I remove it from the corpse, and, in keeping with earlier experiments, I have Carl help me by eating this cream out of the organ. Although he vomits twice during the task, eventually he has licked his way down to the dead walls of the gland, and is able to give me a separate report of the prostates texture and flavor.
What am I to do with Carl? He's cancerous – but not really showing much sign of dying any time soon. He's had symptoms now for 15 days. His testicles are starting to swell again and his pain is creeping up to the point where he barely functions unless I give him a solid dose of morphine. He's losing weight, and I can see where a month or so down the line that might come to be a problem. But I'm on the fence about him. He really is quite a handsome young man, good with his mouth, and at this point willing to do anything I have him do, no matter how disgusting or painful. He makes an interesting assistant. So I'm thinking about keeping him somewhat medicated – when I'm not fucking him or torturing him on the table.
If I don't let my sadism overrule my head, I'm pretty sure I can keep him a suffering and humiliated fuck toy for a long, long time.