Officer Swift – Part 3

By straitjacketkwf2

Part Three — This One Gets the Full Treatment

The two orderlies who “escorted” me to the treatment room did not speak as we moved through the corridors and down the elevator. These were large men, not overweight, mind you, but they had tremendous muscle bulk and, based on how easily they forced me along, were quite strong.

As the elevator descended to the basement level, I looked at the name tags of the “goons” who held me prisoner. On my right was Mr. Johnson, who was about six feet tall, had the build of a prize-winning body builder, with his white shirt stretched across his massive, chiseled chest. The white pants had a loose fit, but his thigh muscles were clearly visible through the fabric. His short cut blond hair and piercing blue eyes gave credence to my belief that many blond men had “attitude” problems. To my left was Mr. Nelson, almost a twin of Johnson, but with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

The elevator doors opened in front of the door labeled “Hydrotherapy Level Five,” which opened into a large room with cinderblock walls that had been painted institutional green with steel doors along the right and left walls. I was dragged from the elevator to the counter window of the nurses’ station in the middle of the room. Johnson handed a folder, my “medical chart,” to the male nurse inside the work area. The nurse looked familiar; it was Nurse Reynolds from the clinic. He looked at the chart, entered some information into his computer terminal and then looked at Mr. Johnson.

“This one gets the full treatment,” Nurse Reynolds said to Johnson. “Better give him a mild sedative and put him in seclusion until we are ready to process him.” He handed Johnson a metal tray with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball and syringe.

I twisted and turned my body trying to avoid the injection that was coming, but my efforts were futile. Nelson bent me over at the waist and Johnson pulled down my uniform pants, exposing my jock-strapped butt. I felt the coolness of the alcohol as it evaporated off my skin and then the sting of the needle. My pants were pulled up, and I felt a tingling at the site of the injection and then a weakness through my body as the mild sedative took hold. The drug did not put me to sleep (although, in retrospect, I would have preferred that) but reduced my ability to control my body, slowed my reactions and fogged my mind.

“That should keep him calm for the next three hours,” Reynolds said to Nelson and Johnson, “more than enough time to prepare him for the wet sheet pack.”

I was moved to a small room that had sound-reducing acoustical tiles on the walls and ceiling. The waist belt, attached leather cuffs and ankle cuffs were removed and I was stripped out of my “patient-prisoner” uniform. Nude, I was then guided to a stretcher with a vinyl-covered mattress with ankle and wrist restraints. I was lifted up and placed prone on the gurney and then secured to the stretcher, the cuffs locked around my limbs (four-point restraint). A light-weight blanket was thrown over my inert body, and my two keepers left the room, closed the door, and the lights went out, leaving me in the dark with no sound to stimulate me. How long I was left like that I am not sure, as I drifted in and out of sleep.

I next remember waking up as the stretcher was being moved from the soundproof room to a “treatment prep” room with ceramic tiled walls and floor. Except for a steel cart, sink and drain in the floor, the room was empty. Once Johnson had moved the stretcher inside, Nelson closed and locked the door.

Nelson went to the cart and wheeled it next to the gurney I was on. He removed a cloth covering it, to reveal a steel bowl with hot water, shaving gel and several safety razors. The blanket was pulled off, and I felt the coolness of the air in this sterile room. Both orderlies, one on each side, proceeded to shave my body hair from my arms, chest, crotch and legs. When they finished, the arm and leg restraints were released and I was turned over. Once again, the cuffs were locked on my wrists and ankles, and they proceeded to shave my back, ass, and legs. Except for my head, I was hairless as a newborn.

After the cuffs were unlocked, I was pulled to a standing position. Nelson stood behind me with his right arm around my neck and his left arm across my chest, partially to restrain me and partially to keep me from falling to the floor as the sedation had left me weak and listless. My head flopped to the right and rested on his elbow. Johnson opened the door, and I was moved to the next room that contained a toilet and shower. I was forced to sit on the commode seat, and leather straps were used to secure my chest, arms and legs so that I could neither stand up nor fight back.

Without warning, Nelson removed the gag by tearing it off my face.

“Mr. Swift, you must drink this medication,” Nelson insisted. I resisted opening my mouth, but as before, when I was drugged back at the clinic, my nose was pinched and when I took a breath through my mouth the strange liquid was poured down my throat. It took several “forced feedings” to get the quart of solution in me, but within a minute or two I felt a churning in my stomach as the enema started to clean me out. As my bowels were being emptied, Nelson shaved my face and then used barber clippers to give me a boot camp haircut.

It took almost an hour for the enema to work its way through my system. I was then un-strapped from the toilet, cleaned, and moved to the shower. My hands were locked above my head and the shower was turned on. I was washed down with an antiseptic degreasing solution that removed the majority of my skin oil and was rinsed off with warm water that actually felt good. Nelson dried me off with an oversized heavy cotton towel as the restraint stretcher was wheeled into the room. I was again strapped down, and, after he finished checking the straps for tightness, Nelson placed a rubber muzzle on my face that sealed my mouth closed once again.

I was taken back to the treatment room where the nurse was waiting for us. A sterile sheet was placed over my body with a hole in the center that left my penis and balls exposed. Much to my horror, a catheter was inserted up my urinary canal and my bladder was cleaned out. The long hose of the catheter was then connected to a urine collection bag attached to the stretcher. An IV was inserted in my left arm just above the wrist “to provide for intravenous saline and nutrient solutions for the time I would be in treatment,” the nurse told me as he taped the needle in place. Next, a waterproof tape was wrapped over the rubber muzzle and around my head, adding pressure to the gag. Nostril tubes were placed in my nose and sealed in place with more tape.

While the nurse was finishing my prep for the treatment, Nelson and Johnson had left the room only to reappear in boxer-style swimming trunks.

“He’s ready for the next step,” Reynolds said to Nelson. “Take him to the pool, and I will change and meet you there.”

I was wheeled to another room, the restraints holding me to the stretcher were removed and I was moved into a hydro tank with warm water. Cloth ties were placed around my wrists and ankles and attached to the corners of the tank, holding me in a spread-eagle position, and the catheter tube was disconnected from the collection bag on the stretcher. The small pool was about eight feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep, leaving room for Reynolds to hold my head so that it did not go below the water, with Nelson on my left and Johnson on my right. Within arm’s reach of Johnson was a tub filled with folded sheets soaking in water.

“Mr. Swift,” Reynolds said, “you about to be placed into a wet sheet pack. First your arms and legs will be wrapped in white sheets and tied in place with cloth. These are cotton sheets that will retain the maximum amount of water without providing insulation. Then bandages will be wrapped over the wet sheets, keeping them tight with uniform pressure. The same will be done with your trunk and then your head.”

If I had not been drugged, I would have struggled to avoid the coming punishment. But the sedation did its job and all I could do was moan.

After my arms and legs had been wrapped, they pushed my penis back toward my buttocks. It was held in place with wet sheets applied in the style of a diaper pushing the catheter tube between my cheeks. A canvas waist belt was strapped tightly in place, holding the sheets in place, and the catheter tube was threaded to a new external collection bag. Working quickly, Johnson and Nelson completed wrapping my torso.

Next, noise plugs were placed in each ear and cotton pads were placed over my eyes before they wrapped my head and neck. I could feel the ankle cuffs being removed and my legs forced together. Several sheets were placed between my legs and then more sheets were wrapped around both legs and included my feet, locking them to each other.

I felt a board of some sort placed below my legs supporting my body as my arms were moved against my body almost as if I was at attention and secured with more sheets. Next a splint was secured to my legs, body and head. I later learned that a splint was a canvas corset-like device with rust-free metal rods that, once secured, held the body rigid. This device was strapped to my head, down my body and the soles of my feet. I could not move — not at all.

Blind, deaf, unable to speak, I felt my body being lifted by a mechanical hoist and moved a short distance. I was aware of being lowered into another tank of water. Slowly at first, I felt ice-cold water being absorbed by the sheets. The shock as the coldness spread over my body was horrifying. My muscles contracted and expanded in an effort to lessen the freezing as it spread over my being. I moaned with pain, but my body continued in its downward trip into the ice and water, numbing my skin. The water and ice surrounded me, and now I understood the breathing tubes in my nose. How long I was left in that freezing torture chamber I do not know.

Eventually I was lifted up and moved to the stretcher. I was strapped in place and continued to shiver from the cold. While being held immobile, my muscle contractions were extremely painful as my body tried to create heat. And eventually I started to get warm only to have the moist heat trapped by the drying sheets intensify to the point of unbearable heat. I later learned that a rubber sheet had been thrown over my body to increase the temperature.

This “treatment” was repeated three times while I was in the pack, freezing cold followed by stifling heat. I suffered repeated cramps followed by fear of going back into the ice tank. I was unable to sleep, and the monotony of nothing tortured my mind. When would this cycle of cold and hot end? How long could I stand the pain of the muscle contractions in a cotton cocoon so tight that I could not move, not my eyelids, nor my fingers and toes, let alone my head or limbs? I lost all sense of time in my blind and deaf world.

Even though the sedation had worn off during the “treatment,” when I was finally released from the pack I was weak and helpless. The gag, ear plugs and eye pads were removed, but I did not have the strength to move or talk. The catheter was pulled from my penis in a swift motion, and I was only able to moan softly to the pain. It took Nelson and Johnson only a few moments to get my floppy body into a plastic disposable diaper and canvas slippers and to move the IV to my leg. I was quickly placed back into a canvas straitjacket with the leather straps pulled snug but not overly tight. I was placed in a wheelchair and taken back to my cell.

I was placed on the green vinyl mattress, and leather ankle cuffs, attached to the bunk with a canvas strap, were locked on my legs. Additional straps were placed across my waist and over my chest and crossed arms. I was covered with a thick blanket from my feet to my neck.

Nurse Reynolds came into the cell as Nelson and Johnson finished securing me to the bunk. “Mr. Swift, not following directions here at the asylum has consequences,” he said as he looked down at me. “You will learn eventually not to question, challenge or disagree with your doctor. Until then you may expect additional therapies each time you act out. We will leave you restrained for the rest of the day, and the blanket should keep you warm. That is the reason for the IV and diaper.”

Nurse Reynolds, Nelson and Johnson left the cell, and I heard the door slide closed and being locked. For a moment I thought about Dave and what type of treatment he was receiving, but exhaustion took over and I drifted off to a deep, natural sleep.

When I woke up I needed to piss, bad. I called out for an orderly or guard.

“What is it, Mr. Swift?” Nelson said.

“I need to urinate,” I replied. Please let me up so that…”

Nelson interrupted me, “Mr. Swift, you have the diaper. Use it.” And with that I heard him walk away.

In the jail I did not knowingly use the diaper, but now I was being forced to use it. I waited for a few minutes before the urge to go overpowered me and a strong stream flowed over my balls and down between my ass crack before the liquid was absorbed by the diaper. I felt humiliated by the circumstances, but the worst was yet to come.

It was about this time that they brought Dave back to the cell. He was dressed in his hospital whites and, much to my surprise, he was not in restraints. But he had a strange, blank look on his face. He was left standing at the cell door as it was closed. He just stood there, staring into blank space. Then over the intercom I heard the voice of Dr. Erickson.

“Dave, do you hear me?” Dr. Erickson’s voice over the intercom asked.

“Yes,” he replied with a slow, slightly slurred, weak speech.

Dr. Erickson continued. “Dave, you are to change Jim’s wet diaper just as you have been shown. You will find the necessary supplies next to the toilet in your cell. You will not release him from the straitjacket but may remove his other restraints. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Dave replied.

“Good, Dave. When you have finished you will climb into your bunk, close your eyes and enjoy the wonderful deep relaxation that I have found for you. You will then drift into a natural sleep. Now go over to Jim and check his diaper. Tell me if it is wet,” Dr. Erickson ordered.

Dave came over to my bunk and removed the blanket, throwing it on the floor. He released the straps holding me to the bunk and pulled me to a standing position. Then Dave moved behind me and undid the crotch strap of my camisole as well as the lowest back buckle. Then Dave felt the bottom part of the diaper.

“It is wet,” he said in a drowsy quiet voice.

“Proceed, Dave, and then you may sleep,” Dr. Erickson said.

“What have you done to him?” I called out at the intercom box.

“Jim,” Dr. Erickson answered, “I see you still have not learned proper respect. I have done nothing to Dave but help him relax and obey. Eventually you will find deep relaxation, but you need to be ready to accept it. Tomorrow you will receive your next treatment.” And the intercom went silent.

I was getting ready to answer back when suddenly Dave taped my mouth closed with medical white tape. He was under their control. Without saying a word, Dave put on latex gloves that were in the supplies bag, undid the tapes holding the diaper around my hips and put the wet mess into a plastic bag. He then cleaned my penis and balls with a damp cloth, sprinkled baby powder over my privates and rear end, and taped on another plastic disposable diaper. He pulled the lower back strap of the straitjacket closed and did the same with the crotch strap. Dave cleaned up the floor of the cell, put the supplies back next to the steel combination toilet/sink and then climbed into his bunk and closed his eyes.

There I was, standing in the cell in a straitjacket and diaper, my mouth taped shut, an IV in my left leg and feeling totally helpless. And what “treatment” would I be facing?

With effort I got back into my bunk and fell asleep. Sometime during my sleep period the IV was removed from my leg. During the past few days I had lost all track of time. I did not know if it was day or night. I woke up to the sound of Dave pissing into the toilet. When he finished he came over to me and removed the tape.

“Please get me out of this jacket, Dave,” I pleaded.

“I can’t,” he replied. “I don’t know why, but I can’t. But I may change the diaper. Are you wet?”

“No,” I answered. “Let me use the toilet.”

“You must use the diaper,” he responded with a blank look on his face. “Then I may change it. They will bring our breakfast and I will feed you.”

I suddenly realized that I was totally dependent on Dave. He had been conditioned to be my caretaker while I was held in restraint. What I didn’t know, nor did Dave, was that he would have an active role in my next “treatment.”

To be continued …

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