Bens Wet Sheet Treatment Part 1

Author: symbiot
Title: Ben's Wet Sheet Treatment Part 1
Date: 19 May 2009

"Are you sure he’s ready for this?" Dr. Bond asks, for perhaps the third time. "It’s quite severe. Almost a traumatic experience, for the wrong kind of patient."

Oh yes he’s quite obsessed about it. You know how he is."

"Oh, I do," he agrees. Privately thinking that this was one of his craziest patients. And if you’re a shrink in California, that’s a serious challenge. Ben is intensely masochistic, a thrillseeker with little common sense, but one who plans elaborate and complex ordeals for himself, often at great expense. Matt, his business manager, and longtime lover, is the one who gets to do most of the dirty work setting things up.

He’s happy doing business with Dr. Bond. He’s a tall, graying distinguished generalist who specializes in patients with socially neutral sexual disfunctions. Ben makes a nice break from the endless parade of penis anxieties, erection problems and tubby men with a guilt syndrome.
He says: "Just for the record, let me make it clear then. I don’t think that this treatment has any therapeutic value at all. It’s been used as a kind of shock treatment for psychotics, but then, what hasn’t. I think it’s a pure piece of medical mischief. Something from the Middle Ages."

"And so?"

"So, uh yes, since you’re paying, I’ll do it for him."

Matt nods his approval. "Here? Or at the clinic?"

"Oh, no. They don’t allow that kind of thing there! And I'm not equipped at the office, of course. Let me call around, do a web search. I think there are some old-fashioned places in like New Jersey or Viginia, that will do it, if I refer him, and attend."
"Uh oh! I think I hear the signs of ‘getting pricy’!"

"Oh, not really. And anyway, he can afford it. Don’t tell me he won’t film the whole damn thing, anyway, and sell it to people . . ."

What is the intensely masochistic Ben up to now? He had read this account on the Internet, and his fascination had been piqued:

"As many as 30 wet cotton sheets are individually wrapped about the limbs and body—as tightly as possible, so that only the breathing tube from the inflatable gag remains exposed. The sheets are then compacted and bound paralyzingly tight using several long roller towels. Once these have been wrapped and pulled very tightly round the patient, worm-fashion from head to toe, it is quite impossible to move—not even to blink or twitch a toe (unless a foot has been left exposed so that it can be tickled, or if electrodes have been attached, ‘below the waist’). Often panic has already set in, but the worst has yet to come.

"Since the patient is now rigid he can be picked up in an invalid hoist and lowered into a long water tank containing water, crushed ice—just as cold as I can make it. You probably cannot imagine the shock or agony as this ice-cold water seeps through the bindings and numbs the skin.

It is of no consolation that I hoist him out and strap him very tightly to a hospital type bed when he has been sufficiently soaked. The muscle contractions due to struggling can reduce the cold but this soon results in unbearable heat, especially if the patient is further wrapped in heavy rubber sheets. The patient can be immersed and the cycle repeated whenever my assistant or I feel like it. By the morning, after a sleepless night and only cramp and the fear of immersion to break the monotony, the patient’s power to resist is often broken (often, or always?)"

He’d masturbated to this text many times, and over the next few weeks had made Matt’s life a misery, trying to set it up. "We could use it for some psychological thriller," he’d argued. "And dammit, I just want to do it, that’s why!"

Ben arrives a little early from the scruffy motel, hoping to be shown round the grim hospital. He was happy to be out, after two days in isolation in the ratty single room, preparing himself. His camera crew is already in position, but they have been asked to be subtle, to avoid over-exciting the inmates.

They’re in a rural part of Virginia, it’s November. Soon, it will snow.

Where he is, is grimmer still. A treatment wing for unfashionable hydro treatments. Not for burn therapy. No, just for schizophrenia, paranoid delusions, disorders of that sort. It’s restricted to patients rejected by other hospitals, from coast to coast. The buildings are run down, the staff is bored, surly.

Everywhere, the smell of chlorine, an absence of people, a quietness you associate with closed factories. He’s given a form to fill in—yet another waiver, another signing away of the right to sue. They just keep him sitting alone in the waiting room. The magazines are from over a year ago.

After fifteen minutes or so an unsmiling male nurse appears and says, in strongly accented
English: "Ready? Zis vay please." Slouching along in bored fashion, he leads Ben to a tiny changing room. On the way, he observes the green gloss paint, the tiles, the overhead fluorescents. Unappealing, like a morgue. A hospital from the 1930s.

"Everything off, please," Ben is told, with just a hint of a snaggletoothed smile. "Put your clothes in ze basket, and come out here when you’re ready."

Ben has not overdressed, and quickly strips. Naked he touches his nipples and hardening penis in a last regretful act. It might be a while. Then he steps shyly out, into the hallway. The nurse looks him up and down, expressionless, as though pretty tanned athletic men were an everyday sight here, at a place you could use as a set for a Planet Of The Frumps movie.

"The vatch and ring in zis box, please. And is there anything else ve need to know about? Ben just shakes his head.

Then the nurse motions: "You’re ready, then. Come zis vay, please."

Ben had expected to be given a hospital gown. But there wasn’t one in the cubicle, and he’s not offered one now. He’s led down another brightly lit corridor, naked and barefoot, padding along behind. Ben is quite extrovert, an exhibitionist even, but is looking around anxiously.
He’s led into a large room, like a hospital laundryroom, where two other grim-faced nurses are waiting. Fortyish, but not, unattractive, just like the first. They look at him with dour faces.
"Over here," he’s told by one. "Sit down."

There’s a clipboard, which starts off saying ‘Patient Preparation/Hydro/Salle Reservee: Mr Anderson.’ He can’t read what else it says, but most of the boxes on the form are checked.
The nurse who led him takes up an electric razor. He begins running it over Ben, making sure he shaves all his bodily hair including legs, crotch and armpits. There’s a lot to do, his trimmed pubic bush, was quickly removed with clippers. A cutthroat razor finishes this job. Another of the nurses ruffles Ben’s hair.

"This too?"

"Well, that’s what this sheet says."

They shrug. Ben is shaved, bald.

The nurse with the clippers stares for a moment when he’s done, debating whether or not to leave his eyebrows. No, off they come too.

Then Ben is led to an old-fashioned pedestal toilet. It’s rather stained and dirty, with an old-fashioned wooden seat. It’s sitting forlorn in the middle of the room, with no screens around it. Next to it, there’s a deep sink with tubes, hoses, nozzles. One of the nurses has been busy, running taps, testing temperatures.

"Enema," he’s told with a fish-like stare. "It’s not a book by Jane Austen here. Stand just here. Good. Bend over, please."

Ben gives a start as a cold brass nozzle is pressed to his butt, then pushed into his rectum. They squirt him full, more than a half-gallon of liquid from a big bag of soapy water.
"Now, jump up and down. Good."

Then they make his squat, watching with detachment as he empties his bowels. This cycle is repeated, a half-dozen times, until he’s getting dizzy, feeling a little sick, and his stomach is aching from being pumped and let down. He’s used to enemas and purges, but not so many or so big.

They have him squat over the sink and irrigate him 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 been on a two-day fast, and only taking liquids anyway.

Ben is shivering, looking anxiously at them. There are private grins being traded. They’ve done their work well, and like to see their patients recognize it. They prod him across the room to a big bathtub, already filled to the brim with warm, greenish water, steaming in the cool air. The three tie on big full-length rubber aprons and tug on elbow-length industrial gloves in a dull maroon color. They pick up rough dish scourers, sponges, one 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 his skin minimizes insulation. His nipples are scrubbed, hard. Then he’s made to stand, and they scour his genitals with equal fervor. He’s glowing pink, sore in many places. But they’re not through. "Open your crack," he’s told. A nurse produces a huge bristle brush, one you might clean bottles with. It’s dipped in detergent powder, tipped into a saucer.
"In we go," he’s told, as the brush is prodded between his thighs, then slid into him and pulled in and out vigorously.

One says, gratuitously, "This is the cleanest you’ll ever have been hey, you stinky-slut whore?"
Another frowns. "he’s a voluntary patient, Clive."

They notice his stigmata, his faint whip scars. There’s lots of headshaking.

A new, younger nurse appears. He’s very professional and pleasant to Ben. One of the Doctors own staff. He sits Ben down, swabs, and inserts intravenous saline and nutrient drip taps in both arms. Several small silver plated electrodes are applied, with superglue: penis, nipples, undersurface of his chest, his underarms, between his ass cheeks. He’s also dotted with little sensors, and all the loose leads, color-coded, are gathered up in a bundle and taped together.
"Now it’s time for ear plugs," it’s explained. A pair of big molded things are produced, like an oldster’s hearing aid.

The first nurse holds up an inflatable gag, says "Ready?" He slips it in, sealing Ben’s mouth with waterproof tape. The younger nurse carefully inserts nostril tubes, and tapes them in place and caulks the seal with some thick gel. Ben is breathing noisily through them, though it’s noisiest to him.

The gag has another small tube built in so they can let him breathe through it if he gets congested.

He’s led into another room, like a workshop, carrying his bundle of cables and tubes like an astronaut going to the takeoff. Now it’s time to strap Ben to the corners of his frame. It’s a strong rectangular aluminum frame about 11 feet by three feet. He’s held by waterproof cuffs at ankles and wrists. They pull on the straps, attaching the cuffs to the frame, as tightly as possible. He is spread-eagled, and his arms are drawn straight above his head.

Two fortyish, fat porters appear, and smirk down at the naked man. He’s showing everything. They could do anything with him. And with non-volunteer patients, they often do. Huge erections. Inches from him. He’s sure he’d be able to smell them, they look the unwashed type. But with tubes in his nose he’s only smelling neoprene rubber now. The two porters tweak his nipples. A hand roughly squeezes his shaved balls, and the two are laughing, nudging each other. He’s suddenly terrified. They won’t, will they? No, they lift the frame on to a trolley, and roll him out.
It’s a long trip, down hundreds of yards of corridors, lots of peering faces, because they are not at all bothered about his modesty. There’s even a stop for coffee refills in the cafeteria, and at one point he finds himself surrounded by grinning Asians in face masks.
Finally, they arrive. He sees a sign—Hydro Room #7 -- as the trolley turns, and beneath it a notice: ‘Reserved. Mr Anderson.’

He knows this is the notorious ‘tank.’ There’s a glass-windowed control room, like you see in big labs and recording studios, overlooking the room. It’s at the far end, on a mezzanine level.
At the center of the drab room, there’s a pair of hydro baths. Just huge flat-bottomed tubs lined with thick black rubber, and quite functional. Both about 12 feet by four, and four feet deep. One’s filled already, with lukewarm water at about 70 F. Various adjustments are made and they tilt the frame, hook it onto a hoist, and slowly hoist the frame and Ben into the water filled tank. Matt steps in at this point, and there’s just a hint of a smile as he stares into his frantic, blinking eyes as the water closes over him. A restrained little airport goodbye wave, mocking him.