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Michael embraced the air of the night as its refreshing cool flowed over his face from one side to the other. Resting his arms on the railings in front of him, he leaned, relaxing, tired from the faded party in the house behind him. He stared out down the long garden and thought of nothing.For a while he stood there. The wind gradually stopped, and everything became still and quiet. Looking at his watch, Michael turned towards the large sliding glass doors and quietly walked into the warm, spacious dining room, gutted of all furnature and littered with cans and half empty beer bottles.Most had already left. Michael lightly stepped across the hardwood floor, checking every surface for his missing phone. He moved through a doorway into the hall, and carefully opened the wooden door into the living room and crept in, leaving the door ajar behind him. He looked to the sofa at his right, and saw a young woman lying on her side, her long, dark hair drapped over the arm of the sofa closest. I was not allowed to fraternize with any of the staff, lest they become interested in my condition, and wanted to lend me a hand. The doctors all agreed that I had to find a way through this myself. That is, all the doctors except one.Every evening around 9pm I would have a visit from one of the clinic doctors, Dr. Elizabeth Redford. She would take my pulse and blood pressure, and examine my eyes and ears. She would check my penis to ensure that I had not created any lesions from my mastuirbating (basically ensuring that the industrial stength lube that they gave me was doing its job). She would also measure the length and girth of my erect member and take measurements on the size of my testicles.Every evening was pretty much the same. Very clinical. Until one day I sensed a growing dissatisfaction with Dr. Redford. Over the coming weeks, I began to observe more and more that she was annoyed with this situation. At first, I thought she was just pissed at having to measure.
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