"Are you sure he’s ready for this?" DOC 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 BOI was one of his craziest patients. And if you’re a shrink in Germany, that’s a serious challenge. BOI is intensely masochistic, a thrill seeker with little common sense, but one who plans elaborate and complex ordeals for himself, often at great expense. SARGE D, his business partner, and longtime master, is the one who gets to do most of the dirty work setting things up.
He’s happy doing business with DOC BOND. He’s a tall, graying distinguished generalist who specializes in patients with sexual dysfunctions. BOI 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."
SARGE D 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 Switzerland or America, that will do it, if I refer him, and attend."
"Uh oh! I think I hear the signs of ‘getting pricy’!"
No, not really. And anyway, he can afford it. Don’t tell me he won’t film the whole damn thing, anyway, and sell it on the Web . . ."
What is the intensely masochistic BOI 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 SARGE D’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!"
BOI arrives a little early from the scruffy inn, 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 northern Germany, 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 heavyset male nurse appears and says, in strongly accented English: "Ready? Zis vay please."
Slouching along in bored fashion, he leads BOI 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," BOI is told, with just a hint of a snaggletoothed smile. "Put your clothes in ze basket, and come out here when you’re ready."
BOI 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 overweight nurse looks him up and down, expressionless, as though pretty tanned athletic men were an everyday sight here.
"Ze vatch and ring in zis box, please. And is there anything else ve need to know about?" BOI just shakes his head.
Then the nurse motions: "You’re ready, then. Come zis vay, please."
BOI 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. BOI is quite extrovert, an exhibitionist even, but is looking around anxiously.
He’s led into a large room, like a hospital laundry room, where two other grim-faced male nurses are waiting. 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: SARGE D's BOI.’ 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 BOI, 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 straight razor finishes this job. Another of the nurses ruffles BOI’s hair.
"This too?"
"Well, that’s what the sheet says."
They shrug. BOI 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 BOI 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."
BOI 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 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 dumped. 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.
BOI 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
A new, hotter-looking nurse appears. He’s very professional and pleasant to BOI. One of DOCTOR BOND's own staff. He sits BOI 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," he explained. A pair of big molded things are produced, like an oldster’s hearing aid.
The first nurse holds up an inflatable gag. "Ready?" He slips it in, sealing BOI’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. BOI 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 BOI 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, out of shape 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. SARGE D's BOI.’
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 BOI into the water filled tank. SARGE D 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.
Each end of the frame has a stubby axle at its center which slots into a corresponding teflon-lined bearing socket inside the tank. This arrangement allows the frame, and BOI with it, to be rotated about the long axis like a barbecue spit. They disconnect the hoist. The frame is now free to rotate beneath the surface of the water. They ensure BOI is breathing properly through the tubes provided and that they will remain kink-free and open during the next procedure. Through the rippling water, BOI sees Bud looking down at him. He’s speaking to someone, but if he’s good he’ll be able to lip read: "Voluntary . . . Crazy . . . Maximum severity . . . Who knows?"
There are several more nurses here now. Fresh faces, in white trouser outfits, masks. A more purposeful crowd than the reception committee. They take folded sheets from the soak tub and refold them to match their purpose. Each sheet goes through rollers to expel any trapped air.
The idea of preparing the sheets in this way, and applying the pack with BOI submerged is to see all air is excluded from the pack: Air acts as an insulator.
Applying the pack in the tank is easier because BOI is relatively buoyant. They carefully wrap the sheets around each limb as tightly and smoothly as possible. Cloth tapes tightly tie each sheet in place prior to bandaging. Bandaging the thickest part of the limb first tends to force the flesh to the thinner parts and make the limb more uniform in thickness . Each turn of the bandage overlaps the preceding one.
Pressure is applied as evenly as possible to reduce the probability of pressure sores. A lot of bandages are used, too. It seems extravagant, but no amount of wriggling can loosen this binding.
It may seem like a lot of work but, face it, BOI isn’t going to be unpacked for a while. To aid the wrapping operation, they rotate the frame and BOI like a spit. A great improvement over manhandling the enormous combined weight of BOI and his wet pack on a table.
They include his hands and feet in the wrapping process, removing and replacing the cuffs one at a time. To help speed the process several hydro attendants work at the same time on different body areas. The supervising nurse ensures that all the bindings are tight enough and that the pressure is uniform. When binding the head, they use pads over the eyes to minimize any gaps in the packing.
After a couple of sheets have been wrapped around the torso, a short corset compresses the waist and controls respiration. He’s getting the harshest treatment they carry out here, known as a Code Eight. They have folded his penis back toward his buttocks and holding it in position with pack sheets applied in the style of a diaper. They hold the sheets in place with a tightly strapped canvas waist belt and attached crotch straps designed to prevent erection.
He feels them fitting his butt with short stubs of plastic tube, over an inch in diameter, to hold the orifice wide open. Various extra electrodes are attached to his nipples, armpits, penis, butt. Once his limbs, trunk, crotch, neck and head are satisfactorily wrapped, then the next stage begins.
They hoist the support-frame from the bottom of the tank so that BOI is supported by it. They remove the ankle cuffs and place sheets between his legs to fill any gaps. Securely, they wrap additional sheets around the legs and the trunk and fasten them in place with bandages. At this stage stronger bandages are used, made out of cotton sheeting.
As the thickness increase, it is no longer necessary to bandage after every sheet. They splint his legs and body. The splint is an off-white canvas corset-like device, with stainless steel stays. It laces up the back and extends from the ankles to beneath the armpits with adjustable shoulder straps. Fittings are provided for a head-harness and shoulder brace to be attached. They lace up the splint as tightly as possible, using heavy-duty buttonhook devices and temporary straps.
Once properly applied, BOI is held in absolute rigidity. His feet are going to be held en pointe, but for now, the splint is anchored by a strap across the soles of the feet.
They release the wrist cuffs and remove the original frame altogether, leaving a waterlogged BOI bobbing, nearly all of him underwater.
They put each arm into a splint. Each splint has a mitt for the hand. They tightly lace each arm splint from wrist to armpit. They strap the arms securely to the side of the body using the special canvas straps built into the side of the body splint, passing the straps through the loops in the arm splints. Then, extra-large sheets wrap his entire body, from the crown of the head to the tips of the toes, as a single unit. As with any other wrapping operation, they pass each sheet at least 3 complete times around BOI to ensure that it cannot be unwrapped. After the last sheets are added they again bandage BOI from head to toe. The sheets are 100% cotton, they absorb and retain the maximum amount of water and provide the minimum insulation.
Now, BOI is bound with canvas cinch straps and slid into a heavy canvas security-bag. Remember, BOI is still immersed in the tank. The staff fiddle around to make sure there is no air trapped in the bag. They tightly lace and strap the security bag and then perform a final heavy bandaging to prevent any possibility of air entering the bag when BOI is raised out of the tank. BOI is then securely refastened to the support frame with a number of canvas straps. His feet are forced into an exaggerated en pointe position using a ballet strap.
BOI and his frame are hoisted out of the tank, and the excess body-heated water drains off. As the water drains out of the pack no air can pass back through the pack-sheets to fill the voids previously filled by the water. BOI not only feels the oppressive weight of the wet sheets, but also feels the pack draw tighter as the sheets ‘shrink’ to fill gaps previously filled with water. It is rather similar to being vacuum packed, BOI has told SARGE D. The canvas straps used to secure BOI to the frame are retightened as any excess water drains from the pack.
Now they lift the hoisted frame and BOI clear of the tank. Slowly, it’s moved to the cold tank.
It’s right alongside, but this one has just been filled with cold water, and will be kept that way by a continuous stream of ice from a dispenser, and a recycle through a refrigeration loop. In winter, it just gets fed from melt water off the roof, but now they need a little help. There’s ice on the surface, which breaks as they gradually lower BOI into the tank.
So all the warm water is removed from the pack, they hoist him out and allow the pack to drain again, before re-immersing. This is done several times in quick succession. As the freezing water gradually passes through the pack they hear BOI desperately trying to inhale more air through the breathing tubes. The seeping cold water is making his oxygen requirement shoot up.
He’s making a pitiful moaning sound, but DOC BOND shrugs off SARGE D’s worried glance.
"We could give him a little shot of anaesthetic in the neck and stop that noise you know, numb his vocal cords," a beefy male nurse suggests helpfully.
"No, let him sing." BOI is trying to inhale all the air he can as his metabolism increases to combat the cold. Seeing this, and aiming to make him suffer, DOC BOND has a nurse fiddle with the air tubes, attaching a clamp squeezing them partly shut. As his air supply is reduced, it forces him to stop wasting effort on making a sound, and reduces his breathing to an asthmatic wheeze.
"He’ll think he’s asphyxiating," he says.
After the initial immersion, BOI is left to soak in the tank.
"Now the auto-immersion cycle starts," DOC BOND explains. "We use a timer to determine when BOI will be hoisted out of the tank or immersed. It’s automatic. The timer has a random setting so he cannot anticipate the next hoisting or immersion."
"That’s mean," SARGE D says with a little smile.
"The period between immersions may be long enough for BOI to become uncomfortably hot," he adds. "But, maybe not. The various sensors will tell us everything we need to know. We can make sure he doesn’t die, but I think he’ll come close a few times."
SARGE D is pleased, because BOI will be too. They can make him suffer more this way. BOI will be left without any contact with the outside world. How long? Maybe for as much as a week. They’ve left it vague with the hospital so no one will be asking questions.
The hell endured by BOI is hard to imagine. Itching, cramps and fear of immersion are his only companions. The timer switch also activates the white-noise speakers in the hydro room, which effectively masks any outside noise that BOI might otherwise hear. Since the white noise is very loud, the staff wear hearing protectors while in the room. BOI is protected by the ear plugs and layers of pack.
The next day. DOC BOND is talking to a group of German pre med students, SARGE D is there too. He’s shown a video, explained the wrapping process.
He says: "A wet-sheet-pack is clearly a fearsome method of discipline. Our patient, BOI, has been transformed into an absolutely helpless and rigid worm, without even the slightest hope of escape. Even his fingers, toes, jaw and eyelids are immobilized. Even shivering is reduced to a minimal level. I’m sure he has been reduced to a state of blind panic, but is of course not able to communicate that panic to anyone or get any form of comfort."
"Why?" a young male student asks, wide-eyed.
"Because he longs to endure the extremes of human sensation. This man has been locked into a gimp suit for 46 hours. Mummified and tubed for 72. He loves it!"
"Oh." The student is stunned, but licks his lips, and looks around to see if anyone can tell that this excites him. They don’t, but SARGE D does. He makes a mental note to find out the potential boi's name later.
"Eventually all he’ll feel here is the intense restriction, and his thoughts. This is the torture that breaks the strongest, and produces religious visions, acid trip nightmares, and even normality in loonies."
The students chuckle uneasily. Many know that their governments want them to learn this technique.
BOI is alone! He is being crushed and needs to move to relieve the screaming cramps in his limbs and body.
BOI cannot possibly lie still any longer - but will!
BOI has no idea when he will be released or how much time has passed.
BOI knows beyond doubt that he has entered a living hell - if this can be called living.
BOI is not catheterized, so the question of urination soon arises, since they are keeping his fluids in balance.
He’s thinking, "Can I hold back until I am released?"
"How long will I have to wait - just a few minutes, more?"
Eventually BOI succumbs to the urge and is forced to urinate.
"See all the yellow in the water? Check the monitor. Yeah, he’s pissing. Okay, I guess we need to turn up the recycle," an operator says, looking up from an X-Men comic book.
Later the issue will become defecation. They gave him some glycerin suppositories. Oh, BOI will eventually be forced to succumb to this, too, though he’ll merely be leaking after all the enemas, the earlier low-solids regime, and the saline and liquid drips. In addition to the shame of fouling himself—he’ll have visions of lying in his own waste, even if he isn’t—he’ll be concerned about what "treatment" may be meted out to him if he messes the tank so horribly. Something to worry about.
"How much longer?" SARGE D asks.
"Up to you."
"Well, it could be days, you know. He’d want that."
"Um. But I’m new to this and I want to avoid the possibility of serious mental imbalance. Watch those dials. See how he’s REMing? And watch the heart rate, see how it’s been zooming up and down. The temperature, skin, deep body? He’ll have some vivid memories of things that never even happened, his dreams will be so real."
"You sound like you’ve overcome your dislike of this technique, doctor." SARGE D observes. "In fact, you’re almost enthusiastic."
"Well, under certain circumstances it might have its uses, yes . . ."
"Such as?"
"Oh, training a submissive man for his master. With the right subliminal messages masked in the white noise in the tank, kind of post hypnotic stuff. Yes, this could have potential . . ."
"Wasn’t there a lot of trouble the last time doctors liked playing games with cold and helpless people?"
"Ahem, yes, so I’m not going to make a big thing of it. I don’t think I’ll publish this."
Don’t panic, Doc. You’re safe with me. I’m as unethical as you, and just as self-centered as him, so don’t worry."
"But if either of you have any patients you’d like to refer. People who call you about the film? Well hey, a euro is a euro. . ."
"When is this going to end?"
"I must have been here for hours!"
"Is it night or is it day?"
"Have I been in here for 6 hours or 24 hours or 2 days or a week?"
"Nobody told me how long this treatment would last - they implied it would only be a couple of hours, but I know it s been longer than that!"
"Are they ever going to release me?"
"The cramps keep getting worse and my muscles feel as if they are being torn apart."
"Are my arms turning blue?"
"Oh god, please let me out."
But BOI is not released—the treatment continues. Life remains a living hell of alternating heat, cold, immersion, fear of drowning, claustrophobia, suffocation, cramps and unimaginable boredom. Nothing to do but lie there, nothing to hear, smell, control or feel except the cycles of immense cold. And every now and then, piercing pain in his penis or ass. Hell, on earth. There is no way to know when the next immersion will come, or if it will come, and no way to judge the passing of time.
BOI dreams on, his visions and fantasies becoming more bizarre with each minute. It’s late on the third day, but he doesn’t know that. In the control room, SARGE D dumps his takeout Vietnamese food in a wastebasket, drops his pants, and begins to gently stroke himself, reading a novel as he samples the wetness of his dick. DOC BOND is down on the floor of the room, fiddling with leads, administering shocks, his erect prick in his hand. They wave to each other. He’ll be up soon, and in the mood for SARGE D.
And BOI? He dreams on.
(A version of this story has as been available on the Internet since the earliest days of the web. Original authorship is unknown and it is reposted here with minor modifications and no claim of authorship. Sarge D.)
CELLBLOCK DUTY DESK.
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