Keet looks around, puffing on his cigar.
"Don't move," I warn him. He frowns, and holds still.
About fifteen seconds later I press a button, and he hears a long beep.
"Hmmmm," I say quietly.
"What? What's it say?"
"132."
"132? That's a point higher -"
"I know. Don't worry, Keet. Just a blip."
He looks at the ceiling. "Shit."
"I think we'll have to get more aggressive -"
"I knew you were gonna say that."
"What you have to keep in mind," I say patiently, "is that you were at 206 when you were first brought in here."
He takes a puff. "Doc... I can't take any more of this."
"Sure you can."
"A day off... at least -"
"And you could be back up to 175, even 180. I don't think you want that."
"No..." His voice trails off.
"You need this. I know it takes a lot out of you -" He scoffs at that, but I keep on talking. "But we don't have an alternative."
"I'll take my chances -"
"No, you won't. You're not sounding very rational. What year is it?"
"2013," he says, in that tone reserved for answers he's already given me fifty times.
"And what is the inevitable outcome, if I just let you go home right now?"
"Axiotrit...uation."
"Axio-trit-tur-ation. What is it?"
He puffs, looking supremely bored. "Nerve axions. Calcium buildup, grinding 'em away. Permament damage."
"And that's a response to...?"
"Herpes-34."
I pause, and use a kindly tone. "That's right. If we knew a way to knock it out, or tailor another virus to go in and... eat it, we already would have. Best we can do is wear it out."
"You're really sure that works? For the other people?"
"The other - oh. Yes. Four, so far. Two women, two men. Still at zero. There's another guy whose numbers aren't dropping, despite all we can do. So maybe that'll be some consolation for you -"
"I really wanna meet one of 'em, Doc. It would help me put up w-"
I sigh. "I wish you could. But it's contagious. That's why I've been using remotes."
"Haven't seen another person since I got here -"
"I know - and where is that, again?"
"Disease Control Center. In Québec."
"Good. Okay, you're not delirious," I say, chuckling.
"Not yet... Why isn't there a window in here? If I could see you - anybody -"
"Well, Keet, in hindsight... I put you in the room that was best equipped to run the remotes. And I thought you wouldn't want the possibility of, uh, spectators, when you're being stimulated."
"Not then -"
"This was the best choice available. It's quiet - no intercom to distract you. And nobody can hear you... well..."
"I get it."
"How are you feeling?"
"Wide awake. My, uh, hands are throbbing."
"Ah. Probably the new drug."
"Another one?"
"Suggested, by a colleague."
He looks worried. "What does it do?"
I make a throat-clearing noise. "Well. We're stimulating axions all over your body, since the virus can reside anywhere. But we're thinking it might... naturally, uh, concentrate... where the axion density is highest."
Keet smokes, thinking that over.
"So. This drug will... increase your libido -"
"Yeah, that's the other place that's throbbing," he says, sadly.
"I can see that. To put it simply, we think you need to ejaculate more."
He blinks a few times. "You mean... more cum. You mean, more semen. Not more cumshots. Please tell me that's what you mean."
"No, actu-"
"Aw, Doc! C'mon! You're gettin' me off two, three times a day, now!"
"I think we should aim for six."
"You have no idea," he says, squirming around, "how much worse the tic- the stimulation is, after I cum."
"We're going to exhaust this virus, Keet. Wear it out -"
"I don't know why I still have a voice..."
"A steroid compound. Applied, topically, while you sleep."
He exhales a thin cloud. "Sorry I asked."
"Alright. It's the food. Hospital food, and plenty of it." That makes him groan. "You just keep thinking about the others who have recovered from this. Less than two weeks of treatment, for the women."
"I've been here since March," he says, pouting.
"Close," I say, tentatively. It was February. "But not quite. You don't remember that period yet?"
"No," he barks. "I was on vacation, I went to the coast. I think. I don't remember anything, after that! Still don't! Finding the canister, opening it... passing out in the titty bar. The ambulance -"
"Or the helicopter ride?" I prompt him. There wasn't really a 'copter hauling him anywhere, but perhaps he'll invent the memory of it.
"Nah. Not yet," he says, eating smoke. Then he tries to sit up and, of course, he can't. "At least get these fuckin' cuffs off me. I'll just lay here and let you, uh, let the remotes stim-"
"We tried that, a few times," I say drily. "You can't sit still. Nobody blames you for that. The stimulation has to be prolonged. Deep."
"Leather, though. I hate these things."
"You broke the canvas cuffs."
"I know. It just... fuck. Kinky. I don't like it."
"I believe that. The euphoric should help with that."
He tugs on the cuffs again. "I don't want to enjoy this!"
"It's for the best," I say. "We've got a long way to go."
He closes his eyes, and pulls hard on the cigar.
So I continue. "After a few hours, you do seem to be tolerating it better. Well, at least... you smile all the time. It looks like a sincere smile. Until we can come up with an antiviral that's effective here -"
"A long way to go. You actually said, a long way to go?"
"Sorry. Yes."
"And, naturally, you still haven't found that magic fuckin'... bullet."
"Not yet." I pause again. "Maybe this will help. My colleagues are very interested in your treatment. The combinations of drugs and techniques. I know you're suffering... but it's going to pay off for my colleagues. And myself. No telling how many other guys will be, uh, affected, as a result of what we're doing, right here."
"That's a comfort," he spat.
"Yeah, well..." I raise a pair of gloves.
"No, doc. C'mon. Let me smoke for another minute -"
"You're stalling, Keet." I take the cigar from his teeth with one of my latex hands.
"Of course I am -"
"You can have the rest of this cigar, later." I lob it into a trash can behind him.
"Heard that before," he grumbles. "Can I have another one? Later?"
"Of course, Keet. If you've got the energy to smoke it. Sure. I'm not a complete monster."
"I know. It's just... I need a day off, Doc. I'm not kidding. No speed, none of those green pills that make me so fuckin'... sensitive -"
"And no stimulation, I suppose." Two more gloves rise up, while he watches. They crack open a bottle of water.
"Well, yeah..." He drinks up.
"At the risk of sounding egotistical... I'm the doctor. You're the patient. There are times when I have to keep on going, even when the patient is begging me to stop. I know, better than you, what damage a 'day off' would do. So I'm sorry. Now let's get that number down. At least four ejaculations, and... let's say twelve hours of therapy today, with plenty of breaks."
"No!"
"You can do it -"
"I'll pass out," he assures me, eyes on the empty water bottle as it's taken away.
"You always say that. The program is monitoring you all the time, keeping the remotes in check. I won't let you pass out. That's my job."
"Great," Keet says.
"So, where'd we start yesterd-"
"Feet."
"Oh? Well, let me just look... No, sorry. It was the other end. Good try, though." I use the gloves to roll one of the equipment trays down to the end of the rack. More gloves, oils, soft and firm brushes, feathers.
He sees the tools and starts struggling again. "Doc, please, there must be some other way -"
"No other way," I say firmly. "Trust me. I'll have them flip you over at hour... three, then head-up again at hour eight. Ejacuations at hours... four, seven, nine and eleven -"
"What if I refuse?"
I sigh. "Every time. You can't refuse. Due to the risk of contagion, you're here by order of the provincial Disease Control Center until your cranial axion virus load is at zero. I can't let you go, Keet."
"Dammit..."
"Not without getting rid of this virus. Which means, stimulating it to death."
"And me with it -"
"Now, Keet. After all these days, you know how careful I am..." I recline the rack until it's almost flat. "Comfortable?"
"Sure," he says sarcastically. Swallowing hard.
"Alright. Four remotes, to start. With oil." I use two of the surgical gloves to open a large white bottle. As it coats my other gloves, he looks away. At the ceiling. Getting restless...
"Aw, please, Doc. Not the oil."
"Have the drugs kicked in? Do you feel... especially sensitive?"
"And horny," he mutters. "But please, don't t-"
"I think you're all set. Don't you worry about the remotes. They haven't overdone it yet. The program will pause if things get too intense for you -"
"Sure, you say that. But it doesn't! It never... I mean, as soon as I catch my breath, they go again."
"Be glad you're as physically fit as you are -"
"Despite those cigars," he says along with me.
I have to chuckle at that. "Yes. Well, I'll get you started. I have a seminar across town. But I'll look in on you as soon as I can."
"Don't leave me alone with 'em, Doc! Please, don't -"
"They're just equipment, Keet. You sound like you think they enjoy doing this to you."
"But th-"
"Clock starts now," I say cheerfully.
And bring the gloves to his feet. Completely immobilized by the cuffs and straps. Latex bands pulling his toes back just enough...
"Please. Doc -"
"Now relax. Try to go with it. Let's see if we can knock five points off your viral load..."
"No! Don't!"
"Hang in there."
Then I take hold of his twitchy feet. One oiled glove curling over the top side of each set of toes, immobilizing them further, the thumb and fingers ready to press on each side and stroke. I lay three more fingertips on each of his arches, right on the spot that makes him laugh the hardest. And I start today's stimulation right there. Slow, easy kneading to start -
Keet howls, right away. Trying to arch. The four points of his limbs are staying put. No motion he can make will prevent me from another long, knowledgeable session. All over him.
"Doc!" he yells, in between fits of edgy giggling. "Doc... Make it stop... This is a n-n-nightmare."
"No, Keet," I reply, loud but calm. "I assure you... it's quite real."
My gloves trace more heavily, squeezing a little.
He hoots like an excited gorilla, throwing his head around.
I press another button, and the overhead speaker makes a satisfying click - as if a microphone was just turned off.
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