Augustus Tulare: Painful paradise

"Later, Jonas," Paul interrupted. "Let's get her inside and settled down before she starts to come out of it." Stillwell gave a grunt, then helped his partner lift the limp form out of the coffin-like compartment. They carried her in through the swinging doors, down a hallway past surgical-looking rooms, and to a large elevator at the center of the hall.

They put her down on a padded, sheeted cart which stood by the elevator, then wheeled it into the car, closed the door, and took their patient to the floor below.

The basement of the building was not quite like the other floors. It did not resemble a hospital in any manner. Anyone operating the elevator – other than Paul Harshman or Jonas Stillwell – would discover no control to move the elevator below the ground floor.

They wheeled Pal into a room where she was slid on the cart onto a hospital bed – the only clinical item in the room. She was secured to the bed by safety straps, and a cord ending in a push-button switch was placed under her hand.

Then they left the room, closing the door behind them.

Pal struggled for several minutes until she began to realize she was restrained by some kind of straps. She had a mild headache, a cramp in her left calf that was threatening to become a real problem, and the urgent pressure of a full bladder.

She was able to determine that she was on a hospital bed, but the room didn't look as if it belonged in a hospital. Could it be an emergency setup in some doctor's home? And why was she here? – and how…

She felt the cord under her fingers, recognized the standard feel of the push-button. She wished she had a dime for every trip she had made to answer the summons of such a device. She pressed it firmly, holding it down for several seconds before releasing it.

She couldn't see the door, so she didn't know when he came in, but suddenly a face hovered over hers. The man had a round, smooth face with a small goatee that seemed to have been recently grown as an experiment. It didn't look as if it belonged to the rest of the face. The mustache was okay. Both matched the salt-and-pepper of his short-cut hair.

"I'm Dr. Stillwell," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Miserable! I'm getting a cramp in my left leg, and if I don't get up in a hurry I'm afraid I'm going to soak the sheet." She blushed pinkly at the embarrassing admission that she couldn't hold her water.

"We can take care of both problems in a few seconds," he said. He reached under the bed or beside it – she couldn't tell which – and came up with a bedpan, which he placed on the bed while he gave the operating cranks a few fast turns.

When she was in a sort of sitting position, he flung back the covers, and she realized she was completely nude. They hadn't even put a hospital gown on her. She felt the cool metal of the pan as it was shoved against her bare buttocks.

"Why can't I get up and go to the bathroom like a big girl?" she wanted to know. Then a thought hit her with a sudden chill. "That cramp in my leg – is it… do I have something… was there an acci…"

"No, no, nothing serious. But you aren't allowed out of bed as yet. And we want a specimen, anyhow. Paul tells me you're a nurse, so you can understand it's just as easy if we use the pan routine."

"Paul?" she tried to remember. But the cool pan and the relief it promised from the achingly full feeling made her decide to postpone any further questions. "Very well, Doctor. I won't be difficult." She waited for him to leave her in privacy so she could perform the very personal function, but he stood there, looking at her, and there was an unusual expression on his face.

"Doctor? Will you release my arms so I can handle this pan?"

"That won't be necessary," he told her. He slipped his hand under her buttocks, raised her with the ease of his muscular strength, and slid the pan under her. Then he stood there, eyes riveted on her exposed crotch. She couldn't even hide her genitals with her feet, because of the pan which protruded too far. It was getting more and more difficult to hold back the pressure every second.

"Aren't I allowed privacy for this, Doctor?" she asked.

"No, I'm afraid not. I have to watch," he said. She wondered what was supposed to be wrong with her, but then she noted the extreme fascination on his face, and the greedy gleam in his eyes. It hit her so quickly – the obvious answer – that she spoke before she thought to silence herself.

"Urolagnia!" The doctor flushed slightly, then smiled, but he didn't take his eyes off her crotch.

"That's right, my dear. I have a consuming desire to watch your little pisser at work. You do have an extremely exciting body, you know. Especially your pink little cunny with that golden fleece. I can hardly wait to see that warm little slit part so you can pee."

"Where am I? What kind of place is this?" Pal felt a deep, shuddering chill go over her. This man must be mad! And she was apparently completely at his mercy.

"Later, my lovely. Later. Let's take things as they come. And it's about time for that hot little stream to come, isn't it?" He stepped closer, slipped a hand in her crotch, and parted her slit with his fingers. She tried to back her hips away from his prying invasion, but the almost-vertical tilt of the upper bed section gave her no room to retreat.

Then she could hold back no longer. The nervous tension of the moment was the last straw. She felt her sphincter give way, and the warm stream poured from her in nervous spasms. It made metallic tinkling sounds in the pan, at first, then splashing noises like a filling lavatory. She gave up and let it flow in earnest.

Dr. Stillwell had his face down there, trying to see all the action he could, and there was a pleased expression on his face. When she had finished, making the tiny, squeezed-off squirts and the dribbling droplets that finalized the function for her, he slid the pan from under her and set it on the stand she could now just glimpse from the corner of her eye.

Then he moved to place his hands on her thighs, forcing them into a more abducted position. He buried his face in her crotch, and she could hear him making sniffing sounds, then felt the tickle of his tongue as he licked at her cunt-lips avidly. He moved to lap up the droplets that clung to her pinkly gleaming vulva, then gave her an extra series of lickings around the lips of her sensitive pussy.

He sucked greedily at the butterfly opening of her vagina, and she felt an odd excitement. In spite of her fear and the mixture of disgust and anger at his actions, she was beginning to feel a definite sexual arousal.

Then Paul Harshman was standing at the foot of the bed, a dark look on his face. His frown was directed at her, but he spoke to Stillwell.

"I'll take over, now, Doctor." The harsh tone was one Pal had not heard in previous conversations. This was a different Paul Harshman than she had known. Or was it? She recalled the strange look he wore as an observer in the surgery, and the gossip she had overheard Sick Jack promoting.

Was it Paul who was responsible for her being here? Was she in the hands of a bunch of mad-men? The old chill returned, chasing out the brief stirrings of sexual nature. Her eyes were delicate blue pools of fearful wonder as they gazed up into the gray-steel orbs he was aiming at her.

Stillwell's mouth left her crotch, and she brought her knees together to conceal her vulnerable womanhood. Stillwell headed for the floor, speaking as he walked away.

"Sorry, Paul. Lost my head." Then he was gone from the room.

"Paul? What is this? What's going on here? Why are my arms tied? And what am I doing were? For that matter, where am I, anyway? Paul?"

She kept trying to make him say something yet she kept talking as if she feared to hear any answers he might give. But she fell silent as he moved around to sit beside her on the bed. He released the restraining straps, and she massaged her upper arms, then carefully smoothed the area below her breasts where the strap had held her immobile for so long.