Whenever I hear of someone being kicked by a horse, it makes me think of Charles Dickens (albeit, back to front). It was the worst of times, it was the best of times. Best largely because I came to in well-known, high class medical facility paid for by the multinational that owned the ranch, preferring I not sue for almost - but not quite - saying au revoir to my jewels de famille. Worst because said horse had done some touch-and-go damage to my most favorite of apparatti. I wasn't in a position to argue about the setting and, to be honest, my gorgeous, long-suffering wife always had the -- if you'll excuse me -- horse sense to go with a good thing. So, she signed the papers. And my convalescence consequently spanned the previously mentioned sliding scale from worst to best.
Around the time I was beginning to experience mild irritation with flan, signaling the start of a return to match fitness, I was put on a new regime by the surgeon. In her infinite wisdom, she felt it best to be sure the plumbing was working and delivering the correct type of discharge prior to discharging me into the waiting arms of an ambulance chasing lawyer.
To that end, Dolly, the most aptly named, five foot tall, Puerto Rican-looking pocket rocket in a nurse's uniform you've ever seen, was dispatched to ensure my member had its privileges restored. When I say I always think of Charles Dickens, that particularly dusty image is, in reality, quickly erased by the form of Dolly. Or Hola! Dolly, as I called her.
Now, before you get all carried away with yourselves, my membership required her to do nothing more than supply me with suitable spankage, and then quiz me gestapo-style after the deed to ensure I had accomplished what she quaintly called 'completion'. This task was designed to check the mental function required to hoist the mainsail, the physical ability to achieve an orgasm, and the internal laboratory to batter up and dispense the good stuff. The latter I was supposed to hand over in a small sample jar each time to be tested in a lab somewhere.
There was one problem, however. The materials supplied by Dolly didn't achieve the required results. And without A happening, B and C weren't even at the races. We had a Mexican standdown, not to mention torturously garbled conversation about the types and delivery methods of 'stimulating collateral' available.
You could say Dolly took the elevator approach. Starting me with mainstream men's magazines and working her way rapidly through every perversion known to man, woman and apparently a tentacled creature from Alpha Ceti. Nor was paper beaten by tablet. Video did not raise the randy star either.
Dolly submitted her reports and discussed the issues with her fellow nurse, Vincente, a young Sidney Poitier lookalike who happened to be also banging Holly (so the hospital gossip went, at least -- it's amazing the info you can buy with a few flans).
Between all powerful surgeon, Holly and Vincente, it was decided that manual stimulation could be tried to identify if there were signs of life in the old dog leg.
To make the whole episode even more unpalatable, my wife would appear in daily with general updates on life and request the same from me. I had to dish about the 'simple medical procedure', as I'd taken to calling it. She thought my predicament was hilarious. And as far as Dolly and her manual manipulations went, felt nothing but pity for Dolly. She still harbored a grudge that the tennis elbow she occasionally suffered from had been brought about originally by an especially long hand job performed in the back row of Millington multiplex, theatre 4, during an anniversary screening of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Being actually into the movie apparently wasn't an excuse for taking so long to 'complete.'
So, rather than be jealous, she took pity on Dolly and her visits from the hand job of Christmas future. (What can I say, Dickens on the mind!)
So, with marital blessing, a nod from Vincente, and her usual professionalism, Dolly set to providing my flaccid member with manual stimulation. I'd love to say it didn't work and she was forced to employ her own escalator of stimulation in order to achieve our mutual satisfaction. However, the opposite was true. Even through latex covered fingers (or perhaps because of the surgical gloves!) the first touch from her chilly, tiny, rubber-coated hand on my penis had the required effect. I would have hidden it if I could. But there was no hiding the breaking of this particular fast after several weeks of inaction. The Eiffel Tower had nothing on me. My normal 7 inches pushed into the eights (I started referring to it as my Dollywood). I was rapidly reintroduced to that magnificent French term, la petite mort, or 'the little death'. And a small plastic receptacle to collect said mort's spoils.
Dolly was delighted. My wife non plussed. I think I may have detected jealousy at the nurse's technique, or perhaps just admiration at Dolly's dexterous naught to sexty in under 30 seconds ministrations. Anyway, I wasn't complaining. Far from it. I was groaning in pleasure on a daily basis as Dolly collected her samples.
"It's just a simple medical procedure." I insisted over and over to my wife, ignoring her raised eyebrows.
After a few days, I idly (and quite against my nature) asked Dolly how many samples I had to provide before the surgeon would release me (if you'll excuse the term!). She indicated that it could be a week or more as my discharge wasn't hanging entirely on my ability to discharge. There was also a particularly fruity bruise that had to mellow - under supervision -- before I could be safely placed in my loving wife's hands. So to speak.
So, I took my medicine lying down. Day after day. Now, it has to be said, too much of a good thing can leave any man feeling slightly jaded. After a week of Dolly's patented one upmanship, I began to feel a flagging sensation. First half mast, then fully unfurled. Not to be dissuaded, Dolly set to with renewed vigor but to little vail -- and some considerable chaffing on my part.
Finally, exasperated, and with a whispered conversation with my visiting wife, the onerous duty was passed on to my wife (under Dolly's acute, and may I say, cute, supervision.) My wife dutifully employed the age-old stimulation technique of oral stimulation and soon I was filling my little jars once more. In large part, thanks to the audience. All went well for a couple of days, until my wife was called away on business.
Dolly attempted to employ her previous methods of raising the Titanic but with no appreciable success. Eventually, with some reluctance, she rolled up her sleeves and bent over my bed and applied suction to the offending part. I quite literally saw stars as I died and went to heaven. The sight of her bobbing head and the sensation of her luscious lips and tongue stimulating and lashing at my member had an extraordinary effect. I, to my eternal shame, roared as I came in her mouth without warning. Dolly, business-like as ever, quickly applied the jar to the head of my penis and discreetly spat what she had personally collected in after the rest of my emission. Good luck with that sample in the lab, I thought.
