If you've sent an e-mail to me and haven't started getting MIKE HUNT stories yet, one of two things has happened.
1) You didn't certify that you are over 18. By "certify" I mean tell me some interesting fact that proves you were born before the 80's. Like "I have a white leisure suit in the attic" would do it. I'll know. They stopped making that shit in '77. Garment industry in Minnesota collapsed. Or,
2) I fucked up.
If the reason is #2, I apologize. It's been hectic around here, and it's tough to keep up with the correspondence, maintain the list, and churn out these filthy stories. But I'm trying.
Luckily, the MIKE HUNT offices are expanding. We just hired a secretary, in fact. Not a woman, of course. Couldn't find one who'd even stop by for an interview. But we found a good guy, by coincidence also named Mike. Mike Lit. He started Monday. It's nice having Mike Lit working along with MIKE HUNT, don't you think?
Actually we only had one other applicant, a Mr. Richard Almy from Hartford. Ivy League guy. Insisted we call him by his nickname. Weird. But when I went to the lobby to meet him I stuck out my arm for a handshake. "So," I heard myself say, "You're Dickie. MIKE HUNT." I knew right then it wouldn't work.
We're not giving little Mike an e-mail address, just yet. I'm afraid he'll spend the whole day reading dirty messages from people. Maybe even from guys! I'm afraid he might be a fag. I watched him read two of my stories, and I didn't see him get a boner. Of course I couldn't watch him too closely, you know. I don't want him to think I'm a fag.
We had a whole bunch of disclaimers here somewhere, if I could remember where I put them. I thought I left them by the copier. Maybe they're out by the front door. Damn. Well, if you're under 18, go away until I find them.
Mike! Have you seen the disclaimer file?
I was a senior at Bradford. A bunch of my college buddies and I decided to skip school and go to Great Slopes, a ski area in New Hampshire. We cut Friday classes and pooled enough money to rent a chalet for a night. We figured we'd have some fun, maybe get drunk, possibly even get laid. You know, big college man plans.
The nine of us drove the hour or so in two cars. Some had their own skis, but most of us planned on renting once we got to the resort. I did; I was a novice and didn't have any of my own gear.
We got to Great Slopes by about 11AM, parked, bought our lift tickets, got outfitted and went to stand in the lift line. I made two uneventful runs down a beginners' slope and moved over to the line for a medium run. One of my buddies was in line for a more advanced run, and waved me over. I went.
As soon as I reached the top, I knew I was in trouble. There were steep hills and sharp twists and turns, but I did my best to take it slow and work my way down. Even though I fell down a couple of times, I was fine... until I was about half-way down. Some jerk came whizzing by me, knocking me off balance. Before I could get control back, I was shooting down one of the steepest slopes, off the edge of the run, and into the trees.
"Two broken arms, one multiple, one a mild fracture; a cracked collarbone; and a fractured leg. Multiple cuts and contusions, abrasions, and possible internal injuries," I heard the doctor say into the telephone. I guess the Ski Patrol had done a great job of bringing me down and transporting me to the hospital. I must have been out of it, because I don't really remember the ambulance ride at all.
The doctor was speaking to my mother, who I could hear shrieking through the ear piece. "Put the phone up here," I said. An orderly carried the handset over to me and positioned it for me to talk. My arms were pretty much useless, so he held it. "Ma, ma, it's OK. I'm all right. Everything's fine. Don't worry." Sure. She told me she'd be on the next plane.
She was, and came to the hospital the next day. As I said, I wasn't in any life threatening danger. I was just in traction, with one arm suspended above me in some sort of pulley and gear arrangement, the other in a soft cast, and one of my legs in a hard cast that ended about mid-thigh. Mom tsk, tsk, tsked her way through two days, making sure to let the nurses know she was there and insisting on full attention for her boy. I couldn't wait for her to leave.
Eventually she did, but I had at least another week, maybe more in the hospital before I was released. That was going to be a drag. With my right arm in traction, I couldn't write, I could barely hold a book. And because of the mass of ropes and pulleys, I couldn't even leave the bed. Basically I could watch TV, eat, sort of, and have somebody stick a bed-pan under me twice a day. What a life.
Most of the nurses were older, I guessed in their 40's and even 50's. Most were married, though I wondered how, they were so ugly. And most of them had a bad attitude, I supposed from having a lot of demanding shithead patients, like I might well become. I quickly realized how dependent I was. After all, I was used to pissing when I wanted to, not when someone had the time to stick a bowl under me.
But there was one pretty young nurse named Carole Anne. She was on the evening shift, a result of her lack of seniority, she said. She liked it because most of the doctors were gone and there was generally less activity, and fewer people looking over her shoulder and hassling her. We spent a fair amount of time talking to each other; she told me I was the only young person on her floor.
In fact, I was one of the few patients on her floor at all. I was in a semi-private room, but except for the first day, there wasn't anyone in the other bed. Or in the room across the hall. I don't know when a hospital's busy season is, but this wasn't it.
But I'm getting ahead of my story. Carole Anne had been on her "weekend" (even though that was Friday and Saturday) when I was admitted. I had been attended to by Rita on those days; old, cranky, wrinkled Rita, I called her. Mom flew back home on Sunday afternoon, confident that I wasn't going to die or something.
On Sunday about 4PM, I met Carole Anne. She came in to see if I needed anything, and to tell me that she was going to bathe me after dinner. Giving a bath to someone in traction is more like quickly wiping them down with a washcloth. That would have been fine, but I realized that it also meant she would be my bedpan service for the next 8 hours. I vowed to hold it in.
Now Carole Anne was about 5'4" with a short perm that perfectly framed her cute face. She had only been a nurse for about 6 months, which I guessed made her maybe a year or two older than me. Early 20's for sure. She had a very attractive figure, which her starchy little nurse outfit neither complimented nor hid. Still, she was a cutie, and in different circumstances I would have been trying to figure out how to get a date with her.
Dinner came and went; an aide took to the task of feeding me and then cleaning me up. I felt like a baby, unable to do even the simplest job for myself. With the soft cast off, eating with my left hand and stiff elbow was uncomfortable, at best. A little after 7:00 Carole Anne came in for my "bath." She pulled the circle of curtains around the bed, an unnecessary action because there was no one else in the room. I figured it was just SOP. She undid my hospital gown; simple because it wasn't even tied behind me. It was a special one that just tied onto my arms and legs and was draped over me. She folded the gown down, until it was in a small pile over my crotch. She did the same thing working from the bottom up. When she was done, I had a pile of neatly folded hospital gown covering my dick, and not much else.
She dipped the washcloth in warm water, then squirted some liquid soap onto it, and began to wash my chest. It felt great, if only because I was a greasy mess, and it felt good to get clean. The washcloth scurried about, up and down. As she leaned over me to reach the far side of my torso, I tried to look between the buttons of her uniform. Even though the buttons were widely spaced, they rarely gapped, and I got hardly a flash of her lacy white bra. Still, I could sit there and stare at her chest as she ministered to me, since she was preoccupied with her task.
And stare I did. I had nothing else to do. She washed my shoulders, and gently brushed at my face, making sure not to get any soap in my eyes. Then she moved down to my feet, and washed them. One of my legs, of course, was in a cast, which covered part of the foot to which it was attached. She washed the toes and the heel, then moved to the "good leg."
As she washed my foot, I complained. "That tickles." I kicked my leg a little. She moved up and wiped off my lower leg, then my thigh. As she did so I continued looking at her cute face and even cuter body. I began to have a natural male reaction. I got an erection. It came on suddenly, springing forth like a newly watered flower. She saw it and quickly picked up the folded gown from it. My partly erect dick waved in the air.
She looked completely professional as her fingers encircled my swollen member; I thought I was in for a wonderful time. I was about to be surprised. Because instead of stroking it as I expected, she took her other hand, extended two fingers in a "Brownie-scout" salute, and whapped the head of my dick with them. Hard. Really hard.
"OW!" I shouted. "SHIT, what was that? OH SHIT, THAT HURT," I yelled. "OW."
She was taken aback, and stepped away from me. As the pain in my groin subsided slightly I looked at her. She was beet red.
.... There is more of this story ...