ROYAL RESIDENCE 8 ================================================================= THE ROYAL RESIDENCE ================================================================= 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. =================================================================