The Sunday of Greg's terrible, no-good, very bad weekend. This is a sequel to "Seven Stages" and tells the story of Greg's first 16 days at PPTH as a slave. On his first Sunday at the hospital he got locked in a small room for hours with nothing to eat: will this Sunday be an improvement? Warnings? Do you need them at this point? Cuddy makes waffles.
Day Ten (Sunday)
1. Kev
Kev had come to have a lot of respect for Jon, over the years. When Jon and the Peach both asked him to lay off Greg during Sunday morning cleaning, because they were going to straighten him out, Kev agreed.
He stayed out of Greg's way when they were cleaning up the dorm and the hall outside, even when Jon and Rob were lugging everyone's dirty clothes to the laundry, and later on when the supervisor picked Greg out to strip off and go under the counters and the stove in the kitchen to scrape up the dirt and mop the tiles, Kev didn't say a thing: Greg was a bigger guy than they usually chose to do that job, he had to squeeze to get in, but Greg was obviously still on punishment detail - the supervisor was carrying a cane - and it was one of the dirtiest jobs on Sunday morning. The dirtiest job was going through the garbage chute with a mop, but Greg was too big to do that. Kev didn't - though he could have - spill his dirty water on Greg's clothes folded by the door.
A lot of the cleaning work on Sunday morning was pretty much unsupervised. Greg turned out to be not that bad a worker, and after a while the supervisor got bored with following him about with a cane and went out by the loading bay to have a cigarette. Jon hadn't spoken all morning, but he nodded to Kev and tapped Greg on the arm. "In here."
The Peach was already waiting in the grooming room: she'd wiped down the chairs and mopped the floor. Kev stepped out into the hall and began to make like he was cleaning the floor out here. He could still hear them talking, though at first Jon and the Peach were speaking in low voices.
"You don't get it," Greg said, quite loudly. He didn't sound aggressive about it: if anything he sounded scared. "You haven't got anything I want and I'm not going to lose this."
"No one wants you to lose out," the Peach said. She had a mild, strong voice. "It's not just about being willing to trade when you can. You got a lot of people's backs up. Maybe that's mostly not your fault, you're new. You can't help it if Doctor Cuddy favors you, but you don't need to act like having her as your supervisor makes you any better than anyone else."
"Won't last," Jon said. He spoke tersely. "Never does, I've seen it before. She hasn't even tagged you, but even if she did, no one tags a slave for ever. You could be here for a long time, for a lot longer than Doctor Cuddy's going to want you."
"It's not like that," Greg said.
"Everyone who gets tagged always says that," Jon said. "And she hasn't even tagged you."
There was a pause. Greg said, suddenly, "Why did you leave the door open?" Kev jerked himself back from the door as it was yanked wide. Greg stood in the doorway looking down at him.
"Right, this isn't all about the 'trading'", Greg said. He spoke very quietly most of the time. It startled Kev to hear him raise his voice. "I am a Board-qualified physician with a double speciality in nephrology and infectious diseases. From next Monday when my medical license is reactivated I'll be working in the free clinic as a doctor, and I'll be running the Diagnostics Department in this hospital. Doctor Cuddy didn't buy me because she 'wants' me, because she 'favors' me. I get treated differently from you because I am different from you. I'm better." He kicked at Kev's bucket, and it went over, spilling dirty water over the hall. "Clean that up," he said, and went.
Kev stood up. He stared at Jon and the Peach. "The guy's a wacko," he said.
The Peach opened one of the cupboards, pulled out a pack of paper towels, and threw it at Jon. She knelt down - she was rearranging the cupboard quickly so it wouln't look as if anything had been taken - and said, crossly, "Use those, fast - we have to get them into the garbage before they finish clean-up."
With two people mopping, the spill didn't take long. Jon stood up when they were done, with the bag of wet towels, and said, still mildly, "I'll get rid of these. Kev, you just remember - " He hesitated.
Kev looked back at him. He'd only once killed another slave, and that one had been crazy-dangerous, if Kev hadn't done for him he'd have done for a lot more people than just Kev. Jon had no reason to look at him like that. Mrs Foster would look into it if Greg looked like he had been beaten. So any bruises just wouldn't look like a beating. Lots of slaves fell down and hurt themselves when they were cleaning the basement. Or other times.
"Soften him up," the Peach said, with a shrug. She was kneeling to finish the cleanup of the room. "He'll listen better next time."
"Thanks for the towels," Kev said, and picked up his cleaning kit. He'd find a few of his friends, and they'd take Greg down. Not to hurt him. Not the first time. Just make it clear to him that he had to learn how to get along.
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2. Blood
Lauren stood watching, instructing the slave to squeeze and compress the little hand grip, as a pint of O-negative blood trickled into the collection bag. She was about to withdraw the needle and apply sticking-plaster when she heard the door open and felt all the slave's muscles freeze up.
"Calm down and relax, no one's going to hurt you," Lauren said, patting the slave's arm. She looked up then: June was dealing with it. Two guards were bringing a new slave in, cuffed and shackled, and from the look of things no one had bothered to tell him where he was going or even that he was definitely coming back. The phlebotomists took turns doing the slave collection on Sundays, but they were all in agreement that it was just easier if the slaves were relaxed about it.
Sometimes this was difficult, when a slave was new and panicky. In general, the worst thing about collecting blood from slaves was the body odor. They were quite stinky and their clothes were dirty - there was a supply of antiseptic wipes on hand to clean a slave's hand and arm, because they quite often showed up just too grubby. Apparently they got fresh clothes on Sunday night: it was a shame they couldn't be clean for Sundays, but Lauren had worked in hospitals long enough to know that it was easier to build a new wing than to change the laundry schedule.
The two guards had got a gag into the slave's mouth the first time he opened it: he was hanging limp between their hands now, not fighting, strange muffled grunts coming out. They put him down on the other couch and the rarely-used manacles were locked on to him before they took the cuffs off: they didn't remove the shackles. Lauren kept petting the O-negative slave's arm and telling her to relax, but she stayed tense until the guards had gone.
"You'll be okay?" June asked. "I have to get someone - "
"Sure," Lauren said. She got the needle out of the O-negative slave, and praised her as the blood went into the storage unit: they'd test it for viruses at the end of the session. She glanced at the other slave. She wasn't allowed to leave him alone if he was gagged. She got up and petted his arm. "Now if you'll be quiet, I can take that out. No one here's going to hurt you." She waited till he had stopped twisting his head and grunting, and unbuckled the gag and slipped it out. "You just lie there and calm down. I have to get this girl her cookie and orange juice."
She helped the O-negative slave out to the line of chairs, and popped a lemon cookie into her mouth. "You can sit there for fifteen minutes. Give me your hand." She made a circle on the back of the slave's right hand with her red marker pen: all the supervisors knew that meant the slave got light work for the rest of the day, no heavy labor allowed till after they'd had a meal and a sleep. She poured her a cup of orange juice from the jug. "Drink this slowly, all of it."
The next slave - an old hand, a good B-positive - was coming in, nicely timed for his appointment except for the brand-new slave on the other couch. Well, he could be a good example.
"You come on in," Lauren said cheerfully. "We're all ready for you." The new slave was lying still, silent, though he didn't seem exactly relaxed. The B-positive slave looked a bit worried at the sight of the new slave,` shackled and manacled, but Lauren got him to lie down on the couch. "Relax," she told him. "That slave panicked, but you know this is nothing to worry about. Now just lie still and relax. First I have to take just a little bit of your blood to test your iron levels." She was used to talking tense slaves through the process, and she made sure the other slave could hear her. "Now I put the needle in your arm, it'll hurt a little bit, but it's nothing to worry about. You can just lie there and hold on to this. Grip your fist and relax it, good." She went over to the new slave.
"A bit happier now? We might only take a little of your blood today. I'm just going to prick your finger, just a little sting - there! That didn't really hurt, did it? Now just lie there and relax, I'll be back in a few minutes."
The new slave was AB-positive. Lauren looked up as June came back in, an ER intern in tow. "June, he's a rare!"
"He was brought in to get his head stitched," June said, a bit grumpily. "We need to get him turned over."
"No, I can get at it from here," the intern said, moving a chair so he could sit down to it.
"He's an injury?" Lauren was disappointed. "But he's AB-positive, I just checked. I'm going to put him into the system now."
The intern had switched on the bright overhead light and was cleaning the ragged wound.
"Will that need antibiotics?" June asked. They couldn't take blood right now if it did.
The intern shook his head. "He hasn't lost much blood, he's okay for another pint if you want it."
June found the code number on the collar, and read it off digit by digit to Lauren, so she could put it down on the new file card. She handed the card to June, to get the new slave's fingerprints, and went to finish off her B-positive. Once he was settled with a cookie and juice, she brought the next slave in and settled him. This one was B-positive again. The intern finished stitching, reminded the slave he should tell someone right away if the wound felt hot or seemed to be swelling, and went away, yawning.
"Are you going to be good if we take the shackles off?" June said.
The slave swallowed, nodded. He hadn't struggled or tried to cry out in a little while.
"You see we don't usually manacle slaves," Lauren explained. "We don't hurt you, except a little sting when the needle goes in. You just lie there and relax, and then you get a cookie and a drink of juice before you go back to work. That sounds good, doesn't it?"
June was looking the number up on the mainframe terminal. "We can't," she said, annoyed. "He was only bought last week." By policy, the hospital didn't take blood until the slave had been owned by the hospital at least three months.
"Oh," Lauren said, disappointed. "Well, let's get him on the bone marrow register." The hospital didn't own many AB slaves, and they were very useful. She helped the slave stand up and walked him out to the hall: the next slave was already waiting, an A-negative, and she sent her in to June. "You might as well get your cookie and juice," she said conspiratorily. "Give me your hand." She drew the red circle on his hand, and popped a raspberry cookie into his mouth. "We'll see you again in three months."
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3. Supervisor
Cuddy was woken at nearly noon by the sound of a buzzing phone. Luckily she sounded awake enough: it was Doctor Bryant, head of Nephrology, Board member.
"No, no, I'd been up for hours," she lied. "How can I help you?"
"I've been reading your Diagnostics papers," Doctor Bryant said. "Very interesting, very good work. Not yours, I think?"
"No," Cuddy said. "The Diagnostics slave wrote them, last week."
"Hm," Bryant said. "Will you be able to prove that?"
"I have the notebooks he was using," Cuddy said, after a bump of the heart when she wondered briefly if she could prove it. Maybe she should have let Greg write the papers in the secretary's office, or somewhere else with proper witnesses. "Also, I suppose the Board could suggest another topic for him to write a paper about, this week, which he could present at the Board meeting."
"Hm, I'm not sure that would suffice..." Doctor Bryant trailed off. "I'm looking at your proposal now. You want to hire a fellow to work for the department? Who do you plan to supervise this fellowship?"
"I'll provide management supervision," Cuddy said gamely. "The Diagnostics slave is Board-qualified in two specialities and has written a paper on Diagnostics as a speciality."
"Are you suggesting you think a slave could supervise a fellowship?"
Cuddy had another heart-bump. This was exactly what she'd doubted herself. "I advocated that the hospital buy this particular slave because of his abilities and qualifications. I certainly wouldn't suggest that any slave could. But I think this slave will be able to."
"Hm," Doctor Bryant said again. "Well, Doctor Cuddy, this is certainly a very interesting project, a very interesting idea. Having a medically-qualified slave on our premises who can write papers like these - if he did, of course - "
Cuddy said nothing, but it took an effort.
"...if he can do all you claim for him, he could certainly be a very useful item of equipment, well worth buying, very much justifying the expense. But the idea of a Diagnostics Department, with a fellowship doctor being supervised by a slave, that's going to be a harder sell. Hm."
Cuddy lay still and closed her eyes. Of course it would. Brenda had called her Saturday afternoon to say Greg had coped just fine with his first day in the clinic, but "coping" and being able to teach, to direct, to give orders to free people...
"A word to the wise," Bryant was saying. "Hm? If you're determined to keep on with this, amend your proposal to a six month trial only, propose internal recruitment. If we're not committed to a three-year fellowship salary, your budget costs fall."
"Thank you very much," Cuddy said. She'd opened her eyes again to stare at the ceiling, juggling budget costs in her head. Yes, that could work, if they could find someone from inside the hospital willing to take on the job. She'd thought it would be easier to advertise, to have a complete stranger come in who didn't even know at the interview that Greg was a slave. "Thank you for taking the time to call me on Sunday, Doctor."
"Very welcome," Bryant said. "These are very good papers. Enjoy your weekend."
Cuddy got up and made coffee and Sunday morning waffles. She tried not to go into the hospital on Sundays: but it was tempting today.
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4. Light Duty
There was a settled tradition that if a slave was supposed to be on punishment detail all weekend, and got handed an afternoon of "light duties" because they got taken to the blood bank, they should be used for pick-up duty out somewhere like the loading bay.
Barnes wasn't even sure what Greg was supposed to be being punished for: he wasn't lazy. Eight fading cane marks across his butt said he had been punished, but he was new: new slaves got caned, learned the rules, didn't get caned again. A lazy slave after a Saturday and Sunday morning on close supervision would have a few new cane marks decorating his behind.
But whatever. Greg must have done something. Barnes walked him out to the loading bay, and told him to pick up the litter - candy wrappers, fast food boxes, cigarette butts. The slave looked kind of dazed - first time at the blood bank, maybe.
"No rush, boy," Barnes said. "If you get thirsty, go get a drink from that tap. If you need to sit down for five, sit down. You've got all day to do this."
At noon Barnes took a break for lunch: he leashed the slave near enough to the tap that he could reach it for a drink if he wanted. "Back in half an hour. Rest up." The slave had kept moving, hadn't indulged himself with too many sit-down breaks. Barnes sat down with a sandwich and coffee, and learned a couple of interesting facts about the slave: he was Doctor Cuddy's personal slave, though not tagged, and he had spent a large part of Saturday when he was supposed to be being punished, sitting at the reception desk in the free clinic. "Wearing a roll-top and a white coat and getting called 'Doctor', if you can believe it."
Barnes didn't. Okay maybe the roll-top, a slave who was sitting reception desk would likely wear one. But who in their right minds would give a slave a white coat and call him "Doctor" - except in a porn movie maybe. Yeah, that would work.
Back at work, Barnes released the slave and told him to get back to work. The slave was pretty dirty, cleaned up only where he'd been examined by ER, but he had a nice body. Barnes lit a cigarette - okay, he was on duty, but the bay was deserted, no one was going to see - and watched the slave move. It was sheltered and warm in the bay. Barnes got a kinky idea: he could tell the slave to strip off. Make him do his work naked. He palmed himself through his pants, thinking about it, running the fantasy through his head: the slave naked except for his white coat and crawling about, a naked woman holding him on his leash, calling him 'Doctor'.
PPTH were pretty strict about staff taking unauthorized breaks from their work to screw the slaves. Barnes was due to finish at five, and he was supposed to take the slave back in and turn him over to the weekend overseer, but who the fucking hell would care if he was a few minutes late? Other staff did it all the time.
He called the slave over when it was a few minutes to five. The slave was pretty dirty all over, but somehow that just added to the appeal. "Come here," Barnes told him. "Down on your knees. Mouth open wide, that's it - " He fed the slave his dick, hard already from his fantasies. "Now suck it, 'Doctor', good boy - " He worked his hands into the slave's short hair, jerking his head closer. "Nice," he muttered breathlessly. "Suck it, 'Doctor'..."
The slave gave a pretty good blowjob, though he had to be told to swallow - Barnes wasn't having any spit-out cum left there for Monday morning. Barnes petted his head and fumbled in his pockets for a treat. He couldn't find anything. "Okay. Good boy, on your feet, let's go back inside. You did a pretty good job today."
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5. Jon
Crazy slaves tended not to live very long. Jon wasn't sure yet if Greg was actually crazy, or if he'd just heard what he wanted to hear when Doctor Cuddy talked to him. It didn't make a lot of difference either way, Jon decided: the poor bastard was going to blow up when the real world kicked him in the face, and when he blew up, the main thing was to make sure he didn't take anyone else with him.
Jon tried to explain this to the Peach, much later that Sunday. When he finally managed to get out what he meant, the Peach looked as puzzled as before.
"We can't stop him from blowing up," she pointed out.
"We can steer clear," Jon said. He'd been thinking about this as hard as he'd ever thought about anything. "We don't talk to him. We don't ask him for anything. We don't take anything he offers, if he comes round to that. We don't try to keep him out of trouble with security."
"You're the only one who tries that," the Peach said.
Jon shrugged. Greg had nightmares. Loud ones. Jon had woken him up and got him to be quiet, more than once: he wasn't even sure if Greg remembered it, the guy was always pretty deep asleep. It scared Jon, it scared the shit out of him, to think of just lying there awake and letting any slave scream till the guards unlocked the dorm and came in.
"I don't like trouble," he said, as mildly as he could. "But the more trouble Greg has with security, the faster he goes."
The Peach nodded. "I'll talk to people."
People would listen to her. Jon nodded, satisfied.
"We need to talk to Kev," the Peach said. "He'll listen to you."
Later, Jon watched Greg in the showers, disturbed despite himself at what they planned to do. He wondered if Greg realized he wasn't getting jostled, he wouldn't be shoved or tripped, if he would understand what had happened to him.
But they had to do it. Crazy slaves were dangerous. Greg could do a lot of damage if they let him.
tba
Tailkinker will post Greg's Story about Sunday tomorrow. Hope you're enjoying it: you're all a bit silent out there in the dark...