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The Table - Part 1
🕑 Added 2023-06-26 10:01:00 +0000 UTC
The table sat in the center of the room. Had it been a person, it would have been a woman, beaconing softly toward me with her index finger softly outstretched.
Or maybe, just maybe it would have been a man, with a sly smile on his face, grinning in my direction, telling me that if I just took one more step, I’d be right where he wanted me. Or right where I wanted to be. Who knows?
The table didn’t just sit. It stood there. As if waiting.
“Mr. Matthews?”
My mind jerked back to the rest of the room at the professor's sharp words. I glanced around the room and remembered my place for a second. I was in the practicum room with the other class of first-year medical students, learning about all the tools that were in the room. And evidently, I had been asked a question.
“Sorry professor,” I said quietly. “I don’t really know the answer.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Matthews,” the professor said again, pursing her lips. “I will ask it again. What is the purpose of this room?”
I nodded, regaining my bearings. “It’s an observation room. This is…” I paused, looking around at my fellow classmates. “This is where we practice to become good doctors.”
“No, Mr. Matthews. This is where we practice to be excellent doctors.” The professor grinned and returned to the front of the room. “I know not all of you care about this room, but this is where we will practice and it’s how you will be graded. Please remember when you’re in this room, you will be as close to a doctor as possible.”
The room nodded as the professor turned to the whiteboard and began writing down some things. The class responded by taking notes and falling into a deafening silence.
But I was still distracted.
For some reason, that table, the one that sat in the center of the room, had stolen my attention. It wasn’t just any old table. It was high enough that it was just above my waist. The wooden legs stood sturdy on the floor, where there were shelves and drawers stacked beneath the table. But what perked my interest was the top.
The top of the table was made with light pink, soft cushioning, a cushioning that appeared to be made for someone to lie on it for an extended period of time. But it wasn’t the cushioning that caused my mind to wander deliciously, it was the restraints that called to me.
I didn’t have kinky desires, but these restraints seemed to wake up something deep inside of me. I wanted to know what they felt around my wrists, legs, and torso. I wanted to be strapped down in them and struggle to get out. I wanted them to hold me.
The class continued to rotate around the room to the different stations proving their skills on different objects. The point of this class was to simulate as many different medical situations as possible. But it was curious how exactly the professor was supposed to observe us if he wasn’t in the room.
The observation was probably just a scare tactic, I figured while filling out the clipboard I had in my hands. Besides, I have an A in this class already. I’m not worried.
I put the clipboard down and tried to focus on the CPR dummy that was in front of me, only every time I did a chest compression, the table stayed in my peripheral vision, grinning at me, winking at me. The table kept calling my name in a soft whisper that sent chills up my spine and caused the hair on my arms to stand at attention.
Finally, the room gathered around the table.
It was time to learn how to safely restrain a patient.
Before I knew what was happening, the teacher had placed a practice dummy on the table and was placing the straps on the torso, the arms, the legs. Each pull and twist caused me to squirm slightly.
I had never wished to be a dummy before, but I couldn’t help but feel jealous.
The teacher went on about safety, about some sort of mechanism that prevented self-release, and then told us that we could practice later if we needed to. “This will be on the test.”
And with that, the class was over.
***
That night, I sat in the library thinking back to the table in the room and decided that I needed to go back. I needed to see for myself what it felt like to be on that table—tied to the table. Trapped on the table. So I grabbed my backpack, walked to the science center, and checked out the room key.
“How long will you need the key for?’ The bored kid at the front desk asked. “We close in about an hour.”
“Oh not long,” I said casually. ‘Do I need to bring the key back to you when I’m done?”
“No,” the kid said. “I can scan you in instead. That way the door will lock on your way out. Just make sure you don’t leave anything in the room, otherwise, security will have to let you back in.”
I nodded.
“They usually come every few hours or so. I think…” the kid looked at his phone, “Farah is working tonight.”
I nodded understanding. I only needed half an hour. My mind was already relishing the idea of being strapped to the table, just for a few moments. The kid nodded, walked me back to the science lab, and left me standing alone in the room with the table.
Up close, the table looked menacing. Not as playful and gentle as earlier. For a moment, I was nervous standing there in my jeans and tee shirt. I felt like a prisoner standing in front of a gallows, waiting for the executioner to help me up the stairs to my death. The table felt larger than life, it felt imposing.
But I took off my backpack and hopped on the table. I decided that I’d tie my legs to the table and then my left arm. I could always simulate the right arm being tied down. But before that, I strapped down my torso. As I pulled the straps tight, I felt the tension in my body release. I felt like I was being hugged by the nylon ropes. I felt safe.
After loosely tying down an arm, I got the other in the last restraint and smiled. This was the feeling I was searching for. This was the feeling I was craving.
I yanked the restraints once and was surprised to feel the arm strap on the arms tighten. Panicking slightly, I realized that they had an anti-freedom device that caused them to tighten when a patient struggled. I trashed back and forth for a moment, trying to escape.
But it was hopeless.
I was trapped for real.
I tried to twist my arm to the side, but the wrist strap just got tighter and tighter. I was stuck.
***
Yes. I spent the first half an hour panicking. My heart was pounding faster than ever as I realized with a sinking feeling that there was no one in here to let me out. I considered yelling for help for a moment, trying to alert someone that I was strapped to the medical table, but my ego was getting the best of me.
I didn’t want anyone to know I was stuck on the table. How was I supposed to explain this to anyone who came by?
My brain raced and I tried to reason with myself.
I could always say I had come in here to practice and ended up getting stuck. That seemed reasonable enough. I was a medical student after all. I had permission to be in here.
I resolved that I was going to try yelling for help when I heard the automatic sound of the auto lock opening to the door outside and the door swung open.
My stomach felt like it was going to boil over when I remembered: the security guard.
I craned my neck and saw a group of women walk in the room giggling and laughing with one another. Each of them was wearing the uniform of the college, indicating they were medical students. Behind them was an older-looking woman who was pushing a cart.
The women laughed at some joke and didn’t notice me until they were right next to the table.
“Oh,” one of them said, looking at me. “You got started without us.”
I was puzzled. I hadn’t gotten started without anyone. Was she expecting me to be here? During my confusion, one of the other women spoke up.
“Thanks for volunteering for this. I know it’s an odd assignment, but we must get this right first. We have the test tomorrow.”
“Wait what are you…” I started to ask, but the woman ignored me and began the process of unpacking the cart they had brought into the room. “Guys, what’s going on?”
But the women were determined.
The older woman stood at the foot of the table and tapped my foot. “We are going to get started now, okay? So we won’t stop until the scenario is over. So feel free to make it as difficult for us as possible.”
“What are you talking about? I’m trapped on the table here, it was an honest mistake,” I was doing my best to stay calm and explain.
But the woman nodded and smiled. “You’re very convincing.” Then, turning to the other women in the room, “Okay, I’m timing you. Get the patient ready.”
The girls all nodded, and the next thing I knew, one of them had pulled off my shoes and started working on my socks.
One of the girls, the dark-haired one with thick black glasses, stood on a stool next to the table. “Mr. Westing, my name is Dr. Handelson and we’ll be administering your daily cleaning today.” She had a warm look in her eyes as she spoke. Clearly, she’d been practicing her bedside manner.
“Wait a second, I think there’s some sort of mistake-“ I tugged against the restraints as my socks were removed.
“Sometimes the patient will be confused, that’s perfectly normal,” the woman at the front of the table said, jotting down notes on a clipboard. “You just need to keep going.”
Glasses nodded and looked back at my face. She touched my hand with hers causing a warmth to radiate from her fingers to mine. But it did little to calm me down. My heart was pumping in overdrive.
“I know you’re confused sir, but we’ll get you in your briefs soon okay?”
Briefs?
But the women kept working. One of them undid the torso straps and rolled up my tee shirt. They undid one arm and lifted it over my head. I struggled hard, but they were experts. When one arm was out, another woman held down my chest while tightening the straps on the other side. I protested.
This is a mistake.
I’m not your volunteer.
Stop this at once.
But the woman at the head of the table just grinned at me until my boxers were peeled off and removed completely.
The woman with the glasses looked down at me and observed my rapidly shrinking manhood under her eyes.
“Theresa, it’s not polite to stare. All patients need their dignity to be respected.”
Theresa, as the woman with the black glasses was called, nodded and instructed the other students to bring over the buckets of warm water. Each of them began dabbing my body with the water, sponging me off in an effort to get me clean. I had to admit, getting a sponge bath from these beautiful women was quite nice.
My mind began to wander during this process. Here I was, strapped down to the table hardly able to move and these beautiful women were having their way with me. I couldn’t make this up. While not ideal, it wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me.
As my mind wandered, my penis began to stir and grow.
“Sometimes that happens,” the older woman said, giving me a sympathetic look. “Just ignore it. He can’t control it.”
I blushed as the women giggled to themselves at my penis as it bobbed up and down as my brain betrayed my body.
“How are we supposed to put a diaper on him with his penis like that?” One of the women asked.
Wait, diaper?
“Hold on a second…” I demanded, snapping out of my daydream. “What’s going on here? Diaper?”
“Yes diapers. Why else would you be on this table?” The older woman, who I realized was the professor, said. “We will put you in diapers tonight, and you’ll get the full patient experience.”
I swallowed hard. No fucking way.
