The nurse approached with the orange tube, about one and a half centimetres in diameter. She smothered the rounded end with gel and did the same to the head of his penis. The penny dropped. “Wait!” he shrieked. “Is there no other way to do this?” he implored. “Ben... non,” replied the nurse succinctly as she made a grab for his penis. The thought of this enormous insertion into his narrow tube had shrunk his member to near invisibility. It seemed as though it were attempting to internalise itself, as any self-respecting penis would do when faced with a catheter. “Relax,” she ordered. “I cannot proceed if you do not relax.” She tugged at the little worm and hauled it out to meet its orange doom. Jean-Marc watched frozen and incredulous as she urged the enormous tube by degrees into his urethra. Within the space of six seconds, she had the catheter a good twenty centimetres inside of him, and despite a mild stinging sensation, he could not say that it had been too traumatic an experience. When she felt, she had inserted the tube to the required depth; she produced a hypodermic, which she inserted into the open end of the tube, about ten centimetres from the engorged head of his penis. “The tube is divided into three sections,” she explained. “One takes the rinsing fluid into your bladder, another brings it and the debris out, and the third will inflate a small balloon in your bladder like... so.” He felt the balloon blowing up inside him, which served to prevent the apparatus from falling out. “Eh, voilà!” She slapped him heartily on the thigh and fetched his personal drip trolley. This looked like a hat stand on wheels. At the base were two large empty demijohns, and at the top a groaning plastic sack of clear liquid. She efficiently attached a clear forked tube to the sack, the other tongue of the fork led into the demijohn. The liquid sent a mild frisson through his stomach and immediately blood, washed out from his bladder, poured into the waiting receptacle. Manacled as effectively as a ball and chain, he was now a prisoner and could no longer escape. The nurse brought him his inmate’s uniform, a limpid pale yellow gown, which buttoned up at the back. In two effective motions, she peeled the remainder of his clothes off, shaved his pubic hair close, and the ignominy was complete. At this point he resigned himself, gave up his pride, identity and self-respect—he was incarcerated. Ch 1.4 Jean Marc Anuseme - The Floors of Memory.
Posted on: Fri, 06 Sep 2013 07:17:59 +0000