Attack of the Wolf/Cat: “Escape = Hard”

wolf cat

In this week’s episode of wolf-cat-hybrid fiction, Peter, confined to bed in the mysterious Benedict J. Laird Medical Center, attempts to pull off a rather risky and daring escape plan.

Attack of the Wolf/Cat Hybrid, Part 8: “Escape = Hard” [read part 1!]

Peter tried to writhe, tried to squirm. The Frankenstraps straps held tight and firm.  He tried to twist, tried to nudge. The Frankenstraps just wouldn’t budge. He tried to flex, tried to scoot. The Frankenstraps din’ give a hoot.  -Traditional

Nurse Pitfall dunked the pink sponge in the hot soapy water, gave it a farty bubbly squeeze to drain most of it back into the plastic beach bucket, then pressed it along Peter’s thigh.

Shivers. Peter felt the sponge move up up up towards the crotch region. Ground zero. Did Nurse Pitfall notice the very natural and not-embarrassing process taking place beneath his green Hanes boxer shorts?

If she did, she was damn professional about it. Her patient blue eyes never once—today or during any previous sponge bath—trespassed in that most naughty and inappropriate of directions. She kept her focus strictly on the task at hand, as much to save herself embarrassment than to do same for Peter. She executed her nursley tasks like a champ, never skipping a beat. That’s why it had taken Peter four days of intense scheming to arrive at a workable escape plan.

Now she lifted the sponge, dunked it again, dribble dribble ploop, got to work on Peter’s boney arms, making sure to avoid getting soapy water on the strap associated with Peter’s hands/waist, which she always left in place during the washing.

Peter clucked his tongue, relieved the nurse was finally moving on to his upper body. He felt like a tea kettle about to start whistling. The key here was to keep it together. Pacing, pacing.

“Thatta boy,” Pitfall said, making a face as if he were her very own son. She carefully unstrapped the mega strap responsible for Peter’s upper arms/chest.

As the chest strap fell loose Peter took a deep full breath. Ah! Air! The chest strap was always the tightest of the four straps, tight enough to leave him no possibility of wriggling loose, though not so tight as to crush his healing ribs. This central strap was the real bitch. The key to his imprisonment. Its placement and tightness and sturdiness were enough to hold Peter to the bed all by itself—never mind the ones at his waist and thighs and shins. Pitfall never failed to tighten that sucker to full tightness. She knew how important it was.

“We’re nearly done,” she continued in her breathy voice, and she got to works sponging Peter’s pale, hairless, un-athletic chest. Another area of sensitivity. Her sponge-strokes were clockwise and gentle and warm. The sponge ran along his right nipple, which had assumed the consistency of a brass-tack.

Peter cringed, bit his lips.

Nurse Pitfall paused to give him a look of sympathy. “Listen kid. I know you’re eager to get out of this room. But we can’t risk letting you wander the premises unless you’re 100%. I’m sorry, but this comes from the very top.”

“Believe me, I get it,” said Peter. He flashed her a grateful smile. “I appreciate the Frankenstein straps. They protect me from myself and all that.”

“That’s very mature of you.”

“Well I’m growing.”

But, truth was, after all this conversation Peter’s bulge had reduced in girth a good, say, 11%. Think of a clown-crafted poodle-shaped balloon two whole days after the birthday party. It hadn’t shriveled completely—Nurse Pitfall was an attractive woman with warm hands and a bosom that gleamed hard and shiny inside her crisp white nurse’s outfit which smelled of peach misty neck-spray. But the Hanes bulge was no longer as obvious to an outside observer. And this wouldn’t do at all. Not if Peter’s plan was going to succeed.

He decided he needed to risk a corrective maneuver.

“I think you missed a spot on my inner leg,” he said through a long yawn, as if it were no big deal either way. “Feels crusty there. Unclean.”

Nurse Pitfall pulled back, gave him a doubtful look. Was he kidding? Jeez. No. He wasn’t. Then she readjusted how she was standing so as to alleviated the hardness of her shirt-squeezed breasts. Looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone in the room. When she turned back to Peter, she briefly flicked her eyes down to his thigh and then back to his face.

“Please, nurse,” Peter said, his tone frustrated, pleading. “I just like to feel as clean as possible. Seeing as how I can’t exactly do it myself, ya know?”

As Peter knew it would, his helpless entreaty appealed to Nurse Pitfall’s maternal instincts. She really wasn’t such a bad person. Far from it. In many ways, over the years, she had become a surrogate mother for him. Made him birthday cakes and helped him with dad-assigned algebra homework and told him he was handsome whenever he put gel in his hair. All of which made Peter’s plan all the more awkward and risqué.

Finally Pitfall gave an uncertain shrug of her narrow shoulders, dunked the sponge once more into the steaming water, squeezed it, dribble dribble dribble, and then she pressed it against Peter’s inner thigh. She moved it up and down and up. The trickling water, still hot, soaked into the bottom rim of his boxers. Soaked towards Peter’s Ground Zero and—

Flooop! His manhood achieved its full potential. His boxers drew taut, all crinkles and wrinkles smoothing out. Even someone over there in the doorway would give a double-take now. Whatchu been feedin’ that kid? Horse oats or what?

Determinedly oblivious to Peter’s crotch developments—so professional was she!—Nurse Pitfall withdrew the sponge, dropped it into the bucket. Plunnk! Some hot water splashed onto Peter’s shin.

He trembled at the micro impacts, his entire body having grown extra sensitive after the sensual sponge bath. His every nerve afire, eager to perform. Nurse Pitfall’s ministrations had whipped his hormones into a bouncy froth.

Ah! Game time. Nurse Pitfall leaned over to refasten the dreaded upper arm/chest belt, intending to lock Peter once more against the bed. She ran the male end through the big square buckle and began to put her full weight into tightening the thing. The timing here, Peter knew, would be everything. He waited. She tightened the strap to the third notch, the fourth, the fifth. He felt it close around him, choke into his chest and upper arms.

But not yet! Not yet! You must wait! But not too long! Tighter. Tighter. Tigh—

And then he could wait no longer. He dropped the bomb.

“Nurse?”

“Yes Peter.”

“How come I’m hard like a nail?”

Nurse Pitfall gave a violent start. Leapt backwards, her eyes big and wide and full of scandal. She just totally wasn’t ready for such a thing, is the thing. It was a real sidewinder. Perfect delivery. Perfect boyish chirpy timbre! She froze her hands, suspended her belt-tightening operation as if afraid to subject Peter to any more sensory stimulation than absolutely necessary. The kid was radioactive. For the fraction of a second her eyes careened off Peter’s crotch region. Yep. It looked like he was wearing a too-large, narrow, scoop-shaped athletic cup beneath his soggy boxers.

“Um. Um. Hmm. Well, I mean, it’s totally nat…” she started. Her lips moved in and out of a kindly, supportive smile. What do you possibly say to something like that? Especially when the kid was already 16? Haha. Not like he was a little kid who didn’t know how the body worked. What do you do with that?

“You know what?” said Peter, who simply couldn’t stand to see Nurse Pitfall under such duress. “I don’t even want to know.”

Nurse Pitfall nodded with fervid agreement. Yes you don’t want to know. Having dodged a major bullet, or perhaps a Soviet nuclear-tipped ballistic missile, she quickly reached down and fastened Peter’s chest buckle and, grabbing the beach bucket by its plastic strap, stepped away from the bed.

But in her haste she’d buckled the buckle exactly where she’d left it during her initial recoil: two notches below where she typically buckled it! Success! This was more wiggle room than Peter dared hope for while planning his risqué boner escape maneuver.

“Goodnight Peter,” she said, having forgotten even to towel-dry him (a bonus!). She hustled to the door, her low-top nurse shoes squeaking the tiles, the water bucket glugging and spilling all the way. Clearly she just wanted to get the hell out of there. At the doorway she reached over and switched off the lights—it was nearly 11 o’ the clock—and she was out of there, door clonking shut behind her.

Peter wasted no time. A series of aggressive zulu writhing movements advanced him along the bed until his feet pulled clear of his ankle restraints. Squeak squeak went the bed. Then, able to use his feet to push, he shoved himself forward through the waist-strap. With the chest-strap two notches looser than normal, there was really nothing substantial holding him to the bed. The only difficulty came with his overly alert manhood caught for a moment on the chest strap (LOL).

And then—thwump!—he was on the cold hard floor. A free man. Mostly. Over the course of two or so weeks of near-total immobility, his muscles had turned to Jello. He was like a placental newborn Bambi climbing to his feet. Wobbling. Stumbling. Teetering. And much like Bambi, he soon found his balance and stride.

Hyper alert now, his heart racing, he considered searching the room for a proper pair of pants and a shirt. No. Nurse Pitfall could return at any moment, having realized she’d, in her frazzled frame of mind, left Peter strapped to a bed completely wet. So, still in his boxers, he rushed to the door, creaked it out, and snaked quietly into the dark hallway and into the next chapter.

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