ROYAL RESIDENCE 8
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode eight. In our last episode, we left me
squawking, Oh, Mizz Scarlett! -- Ah doan know nuffin bout cleanin
no snatches! -- Ah doan evun cleans mah own snatch. This is the
truth. The greater part of what Mr Cheez does for me as my
IHHS -- In-Home Health Service -- provider is cleaning my pussy.
We begin by him getting a very large green tupperesque plastic
bowl full of soapy water which is more often cold than warm. He
throws a wash rag in it and half the time forgets to give me a
towel to go with it. This impromptu lavatory he sets on a butt
doily at the foot of the futon bed. I wash my face, arms and
tits.
By this time he has seated himself in my wheelchair and has
placed another butt doily over his knees. He places my foot and
leg on his lap and removes the plastic bandage strip from my big
toe. If you remember, a quack podiatrist at The ERR cut my
toenails so short my big toe nail and the next nail ingrew. Then
he got to come back and cut them back severely (for another bang
on my insurance) supposedly to make them grow out properly.
Well, it didn't work for my big toe. I have lost the fledgling
nail from it twice and Mr Cheez picked off a remnant of an old
nail about a week ago. This is as good as progress.
All the while I was in St Timmy's the nailbed bled and made pus.
Ming the Merciful prescribed Ampicillin which I wish I had never
heard of. It gave me hives. The marks from this have only
recently disappeared. Mr Cheez has been smearing the tender
place on my toe with Vitamin A & D ointment and covering it with
a plastic bandage strip each morning. The bloodiness and oozing
are mostly gone now. We think the nail is at last going to grow
out and be normal. I do believe many other diabetics have lost a
toe in situations like this.
He messes around between my toes with a cotton swab, digging out
non-existant toejam. This gives me strange sensations somewhere
between tickling and pain because the nerves in my foot are half
asleep until you reach the threshold of pain. The sensation you
have around a blister or burn is about what my whole foot feels
like when someone is touching it. When he gets to probing
between my fourth and last toes, I generally make funny noises
and do the tard thing with my tongue. It's a nervous habit and
it amuses him even though he rants about it whenever I do this.
The payoff is next. After my foot is cleaned and rubbed down
with skin lotion, I get to roll over on the bed so he can get at
all of my stump. Mr Cheez remarked today that the surgeon who
worked on me really butchered what's left of my leg. There are
three main seams in the skin, sort of. We guess he just laid the
whole thing open the last time he cut out infected meat (and
possibly bone) from in there. Through vigilant care, the tucks
and rolls in the uneven repair job no long ooze pinkish water
that smells like the juice left on the styrofoam by stale, warm
meat.
Unfortunately, Mr Cheez has also to face the Royal Pussy,
rearward portion; i.e., The Royal Datehole. I am especially
careful around wash cloths and watches. These are two things the
R.P. dearly enjoys snatching and causing to disappear within. I
had to replace Mr Cheez's Ohio Buckeyes watch because my pussy
snatched it and only returned it the next day after reducing it
to bent-up gears and shards of plastic. I've been quite "good"
lately by not presenting him with deposits of what is most
assurendly not chocolate sauce -- but we have a big roll of paper
towels handy just in case.
The very best part of all this is the back rub. I tell you
truly, I prefer to have my back rubbed than to have sex of any
kind. It is during the official back rub that I make the most
disgusting noises from sheer joy. Mr Cheez is always threatening
to stop if I don't quit expressing such demented happiness. I
happen to have a hollow just above my tailbone, a sort of mini-
smile above and quite separate from the main buttockal smile. Mr
Cheez is fascinated by this and contends it is a sign that I am a
true trollop. He thinks it is another place for nasty men to
fuck me, but I don't think so -- at least I never tried it
there...
Next comes the maintenance of the forward portion of the Royal
Playpen. Neither Mr Cheez nor I understand why I have a such
huge ballsac and so little of consequence in it. He says my
actual balls are the size of grapes. Okay. So what? It gives
him something to talk about incessantly. He also likes to make
fun of my lace curtains which I have in opera length. I hate it
when he goes for the smeg with a swab. Before that rat-bastard
quack urologist cut me to put in an uneeded catheter, I had no
rends in my curtains and no smeg. Now that my curtains can roll
around in the breeze, they collect all sorts of naughty bits.
Yuck.
These necessities taken care of, my general skin gets a look-over
and any red spots get doped with the A & D. It is a cooperative
effort to get my pants on. Mr Cheez puts them on over my leg and
stretches the other side of them over my stumpal ay-rea. Then I
roll over so we can inch up the back to my waist and he can
install today's butt doily to protect my clothes from wet farts
and such. I am sooooo juicy since I got off my feets. He puts
on my sandal and I put on my shirt and then we get me into my
tardchair. The bed is a few inches lower than the chair seat.
This works well for getting into bed because it takes less effort
when I am tired. Mr Cheez holds onto the back of my pants as I
slide into the chair. This keeps my moneymaker decently covered
so that we do not frighten the tourists later. I could do all
this myself except for getting the water and stuff, but it would
take me three times as long to finish.
Once I am up we are generally off to Nunu's next door for coffee
and a roll. If Mr Cheez has been good and has gone to that
really cheap coffee place in Da Kastro and got the freshly ground
stuff, we have coffee before we begin the morning wash and dress
thang. And then I get to rage at him for not turning off the
coffee maker. Even if we have had coffee, we are like to go to
Nunu's for juice and something more, mid-morning. Between ten
and eleven is prime time to letch tourists coming from the youth
hostel around the corner and up a block or so. We also take
delight in watching idiot car drivers play chicken with monster
tour buses.
At least three times a week we end up going down to the cable car
turnaround to gawk at the tourists. It isn't even the high
season yet and Powell Street is just mobbed. I really will need
that portable air horn in July or we will never get through.
This is on our way to normal shopping venues such as the drug
store and the ATM which we call the Wayside Shrine to Our Lady of
the Greenbacks. When I tell Mr Cheez I need to go and pray, he
knows I am out of cash. The Royal Residence is still without
regular grocery shopping and the presence of a refrigerator, so
we have to make many small trips.
I can't wait for my powered wheels to get here. I signed over my
life to the medical supply company saying that as soon as Cruella
Cross flies over and shits, I will endorse the US$6000 check to
them. Then they can bill MediCal, the welfare system, for the
remainder. This will bring the payoff for selling me this piece
of work to some US$8000 which I find to be a complete outrage.
They say they also got authorization from CC to sell me a commode
chair. It will be the usual tubular metal thing with one drop
arm. I wanted both arms to drop so I could play through, dammit.
I think I would prefer to have our token Hettie, Mikey, and his
friend build me the Royal Shitbox I designed. The RS will be
more or less a fully-braced wood cube around twenty inches on a
side. Since there will be space in the corners of the interior
going otherwise to waste, I want a water reservoir and pump
system installed in it with a pump button next the seat. By my
pumping the button, a nozzel will spray the dookey off my ass
thus promoting hygiene and saving bumwad.
When Mr Cheez and I came back from "town" one day last week,
Bessie from the fifth floor collared me and asked if I had any
extra Depends she could borrow til the first when her check came.
I told her I'd be glad to give her a few bargain basement brand
ones that I use for butt doilies, but that I did not want them
back... She laughed and said she would buy me a whole package of
them. She is as good as her word. She left me a note saying to
come get them. I sent Mr Cheez to her room to collect. Bessie
came to the door with only a teeshirt on. Mr Cheez nearly went
blind from seeing her minky. Now we know that Bessie is a loon,
too.
Robin in New Zealand sent tribute to the Royal Residence in the
form of a coffee cup inscribed SAVE THE CHOAD and Alt.Tasteless.
Also present was a refrigerator magnet image of New Zealand.
This will be useful to hold up Mr Cheez's to-do list when I get a
fridge. The piece not to be resisted is the sheep-originated
product which appears to be a furry change purse but I suspect is
something rather more tasteless than that. Mr Cheez seized the
moment and modeled it by stuffing his nads into it and trying to
convince me he's sprouted a minky himself. There will be a GIF
soon. Thank you, Robin.
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