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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: Judith's Wet Pack Pt.1, by MrSpraycan


Disclaimer:  Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. If you don't like nasty, yet consensual stories, this
isn't for you.
	This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are
imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No
illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the
idea.

	*Copyright* is claimed, subject to the amendments below (c)1997 by
Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to
be 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial use is warranted
without permission.  Do not repost. Store only with this notice intact.

	I was inspired to write this by reading a guide to "Hospital
Restraints" filed in Jan 1997 to various newsgroups by
<lemut@premier.co.uk.> Material on wetpack techniques used with permission
of the author of that file, aka Graham.
	This is a sequel to the two stories "Judith On The Cross" and "The
Handsome Cabin Boy." Further Judith adventures are in various stages of
completion, at which point I may tidy up the chronology. This is,
relatively speaking, a self-contained story.

This is MrSpraycan Story No. 46.

JUDITH'S WET PACK, Pt.1

	"Are you sure she's ready for this?" Dr. Fraunhoffer asks, for
perhaps the third time. "It's quite severe. Almost a traumatic experience,
for the wrong kind of patient."
	"Quite sure. She insists," Pia tells him. "She's quite obsessed
about it. You know how she is."
	"Oh, I do," he agrees. Privately thinking that Judith Martinelli
was one of his craziest patients. And if you're a shrink in California,
that's a serious challenge. Judith is intensely masochistic, a thrillseeker
with little common sense, but one who plans elaborate and complex ordeals
for herself, often at great expense. Pia, her business manager, and
sometime lover, is the one who gets to do most of the dirty work setting
things up.
	She's happy doing business with Dr. Fraunhoffer. He's a tall,
greying distinguished generalist who specializes in patients with socially
neutral sexual disfunctions. Judith makes a nice break from the endless
parade of penis anxieties, erection problems and tubby women with 'he won't
fuck me' 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 her."
	Pia nods her approval. "Here? Or I mean, at the La Estrella 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 Wyoming, or Canada, that
will do it, if I refer her, and attend."
	"Uh oh! I think I hear the signs of 'getting pricy'!"
	"Oh, not really. And anyway, she can afford it. Don't tell me she
won't film the whole damn thing, anyway, and sell it to people . . ."

	What is the intensely masochistic Judith up to now? She had read
this account on the Internet, and her 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, mummy-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 or she 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 or her out and strap him or
her very tightly to a hospital type bed when he or she 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?)"
	She'd masturbated to this text many times, and over the next few
weeks had made Pia's life a misery, trying to set it up. "We could use it
for some psychological thriller," she'd argued. "And dammit, I just want to
do it, that's why!"

	Judith arrives a little early from the scruffy motel, hoping to be
shown round the grim hospital. She was happy to be out, after two days in
isolation in the ratty single room, preparing herself. Her camera crew is
already in position, but they have been asked to be subtle, to avoiding
over-exciting the inmates. They're in a rural part of Quebec, it's
November. Soon, it will snow.
	Where she 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. Loyts from south of the
border, from doctors seeking a last resort. Out of favor, the buildings are
run down, the staff is bored, surly.
	Everywhere, the smell of chlorine, an absence of people, a
quietness you assocaite with closed factories.
	She's given a form to fill in -- yet another waiver, another
signing away of the right to sue. They just keep her sitting alone in the
waiting room. The magazines are from over a year ago. After fifteen minutes
or so an unsmiling dowdy nurse appears and says, in strongly accented
English: "Ready? Zis way please." Slouching along in bored fashion, she
leads her to a tiny changing room.
	On the way, Judy observes the green gloss paint, the tiles, the
overhead fluorescents. Unappealing, like a morgue. A hospital from the
1930s.
	"Everything off, please," Judith is told, with just a hint of a
snaggletoothed smile. "Put your clothes in the basket, and come out here
when you're ready."
	Judith has not overdressed, and quickly strips. Naked, she touches
her breasts, her belly, in a last regretful act. It might be a while. Then
she steps shyly out, into the hallway. The nurse looks her up and down,
expressionless, as though pretty tanned athletic women were an everyday
sight here, at a place you could use as a set for a Planet Of The Frumps
movie.
	"The rings and earrings in this box, please. And is there anything
else we need to know about? A diaphragm, for example?"
	Judith shakes her head.
	Then the nurse motions: "You're ready, then. Come this way, please."
	Judith had expected to be given a hospital gown. But there wasn't
one in the cubicle, and she's not offered one now. She's led down another
brightly lit corridor, naked and barefoot, padding along behind. Judith is
quite extrovert, an exhibitionist even, but is looking around anxiously.
	She's led into a large room, like a hospital laundryroom,where two
other grim-faced nurses are waiting. Fortyish, dumpy, unattractive, just
like the first. They look at her with dour faces. "Over here," she's told
by one. "Sit down."
	There's a clipboard, which starts off saying 'Patient
Preparation/Hydro/Salle Reservee: Judith Martinelli.' She can't read what
else it says, but most of the boxes on the form are checked.
	The nurse who led her takes up an electric razor. She begins
running it over Judith, making sure she shaves all her bodily hair
including legs, crotch and armpits. There's not much to do, just her
trimmed pubic bush, which is quickly removed with clippers. A cutthroat
razor finishes this job. Another of the nurses ruffles Judith's hair.
	"This too?"
	"Well, that's what this sheet says."
	"But we are told, 'Men must be cropped, but do not shave a woman's
head unless specifically ordered to do so.'"
	"No, do it," Judith whispers, to stop them bickering.
	They shrug. Judith is shaved, bald.
	The nurse with the clippers stares for a moment when she's done,
debating whether or not to leave her eyebrows. No, off they come too.
	Then Judith 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," she's told with a fish-like stare. "It's not a book by
Jane Austen here. Stand just here. Good. Bend over, please."
	Judith gives a start as a cold brass nozzle is pressed to her anus,
then pushed into her rectum. They squirt her full, more than a half-gallon
of liquid from a big bag of soapy water. "Now, jump up and down. Good."
Then they make her squat, watching with detachment as she empties her
bowels. This cycle is repeated, a half-dozen times, until she's getting
dizzy, feeling a little sick, and her stomach is aching from being pumped
up to eight-months pregnant size and let down. She's used to enemas and
purges, but not as many or as big. They have her squat over the sink and
irrigate her with a powerful jet of warm water, pushing the tube deep into
her until they're sure they've really cleaned her out. She's been on a
two-day fast, and only taking liquids anyway.
	Judith 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 her 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," she's
told. "Kneel down."
	They thoroughly wash her body using an undiluted liquid detergent.
Why? Because degreasing her skin minimizes insulation. Her breasts are
scrubbed, hard. Then she's made to stand, and they scour her genitals with
equal fervor. She's glowing pink, sore in many places. But they're not
through. "Open your crack," she'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," she's told, as the brush is prodded
between her thighs, then slid into her vagina and pulled in and out
vigorously.
	One says, gratuitously, "This is the cleanest you'll ever have been
hey, you stinky-cunted whore?"
	 Another frowns. "She's a voluntary patient, Claudette."
	"Ah! Now, that's vraiment folle!"
	 They notice her stigmata, her faint whip scars. There's lots of
headshaking.

	A new, younger nurse appears. She's very professional and pleasant
to Judy. One of Fraunhoffer's own staff. She sits Judy down, swabs, and
inserts intravenous saline and nutrient drip taps in both arms. Several
small silver plated electrodes are applied, with superglue: pussy lips,
nipples, undersurface of her breasts, her underarms, between her ass
cheeks. She'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?" She slips
it in, sealing Judy'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. Judy is breathing noisily through them, though
it's noisiest to her. The gag has another small tube built in so they can
let her breathe through it if she gets congested.
	She's led into another room, like a workshop, carrying her bundle
of cables and tubes like an astronaut going to the takeoff. Now it's time
to strap Judy to the corners of her frame. It's a strong rectangular
aluminum frame about 11 feet by three feet. She's held by waterproof cuffs
at ankles and wrists. They pull on the straps, attaching the cuffs to the
frame, as tightly as possible. She is spreadeagled, and her arms are drawn
straight above her head.
	Two fortyish, fat male porters appear, and smirk down at the naked
woman. She's showing everything. They could do anything with her. And with
non-volunteer patients, they often do. Huge erections. Inches from her,
offensively male. She's sure she'd be able to smell them, they look the
unwashed type. But with tubes in her nose she's only smelling neoprene
rubber now. The two porters tweak her nipples. A hand roughly squeezes her
shaved mons, and the two are laughing, nudging each other. She's suddenly
terrified. They won't, will they? No, they lift the frame on to a trolley,
and roll her out.
	It's a long trip, down hundreds of yards of corridors, lots of
peering faces, because they are not at all bothered about her modesty.
There's even a stop for coffee refills in the cafeteria, and at one point
she finds herself surrounded by grinning Asians in face masks.
	Finally, they arrive. She sees a sign -- Hydro Room #7 -- as the
trolley turns, and beneath it a notice: 'Reserved. Fraunhoffer/Martinelli.'

	She 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 mezzinine 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 Judith into the water filled tank. Fraunhoffer steps in at this point,
and there's just a hint of a smile as he stares into her frantic, blinking
eyes as the water closes over her. A restrained little airport goodbye
wave, mocking her.

 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 Judith 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 Judith is breathing
properly through the tubes provided and that they will remain kink-free and
open during the next procedure. Through the rippling water, Judith sees
Fraunhoffer looking down at her. He's speaking to someone, but if she's
good she'll be able to lip read: "Voluntary . . . Crazy . . . Maximum
severity . . . Who knows?"

/continued in Pt.2/

This story is based on extracts from a guide to "Hospital Restraints" filed
in Jan 1997 by <lemut@premier.co.uk.> Used with permission.



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