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The Exterminator

Day One: A Doctor And A Disciplinarian

The student peeled off the vinyl gloves and tossed them away, washing his scaled claws for good measure, basking in the relief following a successful surgery, the repair of a broken wing. Of course, such procedures occured often in the course of one week, but for an aspiring surgeon only ankle-deep in his internship, Philip found the operation a rare triumph, a perfect way to end a day's work. The green anole changed into something more casual, a white dress shirt and dark slacks, neither with so much as a slight wrinkle, adjusted his wristwatch, and left the locker room.

"Clocking out early?" said a friend and fellow intern Sai Atzema, a wasp specializing in Invertebrate Medicine, much farther along in his study.

"Don't think too much of it," he chuckled, "Dr. Rowan said I could take off."

"Oh! In that case, do you still have my book? I'll be needing it back."

"Here it is. I can't thank you enough."

"Not a problem," Sai chuckled, flipping through his returned copy of Advanced Insectile Anatomy, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

The lizard grinned, "Oh yes. I'll put the knowledge to good use."

"Hmm? Good use? And here I thought I was satisfying someone's sick curiosity," he laughed, "What the hell are you up to?"

"Depending on how it goes, I'll tell you about it tomorrow," Philip said as he left the lobby, waving goodbye, even blowing a kiss.

Nothing so flighty as mere curiosity, Sai, he thought as he drove home, glancing at the black bag in the back seat of his tidy car. On his passenger seat, a folder full of xeroxed textbook pages and notes held a plan that would span weeks, all intended to teach one Duster Ivins an unforgettable lesson, all intended to settle months of conflict and confusion, fights and frustrations. The very thought of actually carrying it out, in minutes, caused his grip to tighten, his tail to squirm excitedly, and his reptilian lips to curl in a pointed smile.

He parked in front of his apartment and took a deep breath. Philip reached back to that black bag, placed it on his lap, and opened it. With the very same surgical care he did this afternoon, he donned a pair of black rubber gloves. Tight to his scaly flesh, he flexed his fingers, testing the freedom of motion with scientific precision. Next, he pulled out a bundle of cords and stuffed them into his pocket. Lastly, he exhaled, collecting his thoughts, mustering some resolve.

Shoes clicked sharply against the concrete steps and through the many hallways and stairwells leading to his apartment. He maintained wide focused eyes and a steely expression, his heart tense with anticipation as he came to the door of Room 302. The anole opened the door and casually slipped inside, bright lizard eyes assessing the situation and frowning with disgust, reminding him of why he hatched this plan in the first place.

Filthy dishes, empty takeout boxes, and stale, spilled food littered the counter. Piss dried on the toilet seat. Wadded tissues in the wastebasket suggested something vile happened this afternoon. Philip shared this suite with a roommate, more specifically, a dropout, Duster Ivins, quite literally a miserable cockroach. Friends often wondered why such a neat freak put up with the creature, a freeloader and a slob. Philip often wondered the same thing, though in the past weeks, in the suffocating stress of his job and his home, the lizard may have found his answer.

"Duster," Philip said, hands in his pockets, tipping his nose at the roach reclining on the couch, watching TV.. The insect sat up and whipped his drooping feelers, as if to make room on the couch. He changed the channel from porn, it sounded, to something more appropriate for company, his insect eyes gleaming with surprise, "Phil! What're you doing home so early?" If anything, Duster expected his roommate home late and trashed.

"I need your help with something. Got a second?" the lizard said, eyes fixed on the pest, shirtless and greasy, one of those guys who would shower bi-weekly and lounge around the house in a blanket and boxer shorts. Weeks ago, Philip made the mistake of coming home early, to catch Duster in the act, using one pair of spindly arms to beat off and the other to eat a microwave dinner. The mere recollection caused his stomach to churn and retch. Coming to his feet, Duster scratched his antennae, sighing, "What's going on?"

"First things first," Philip said, grabbing the insect by one of his hands, wearing the gloves to avoid as much bodily contact with this creep as possible, shoving the surprised creature into the couch belly-first and wrangling those flailing arms, binding them with cords to his broad-winged back. All the while, the anole sneered as his roommate cursed and kicked, pinned by a knee. He tugged at one of those feelers, chuckling as Duster shrieked beneath him, "Hush or I'll tear this thing out of your head."

The lizard stood up and grabbed one of Duster's kicking legs, dragging the spindly creature to the bathroom and shutting the door, pinning the bug to the tile with a shoe as he'd once done to his ancestors, kneeling down, lifting the oily wretch up and pushing him over the lip of the bathtub. The insect quivered, wings shaking but unable to beat, bound to his back by his tied arms, "What the fuck is this about, man?" Philip did not answer, only looking down with a mixture of contempt and interest, holding a bar of soap, calm and professional. He had far more planned than just a shower, however.

"Let's make one thing clear. You disgust me, bug. Your species is repulsive in every possible way, you haven't held a job in months, and you've made this apartment reek with rot and filth," the anole began, the words rehearsed in his head many times over during the drive home, his gloved hands tugging at the only garment Duster decided to wear today. "I am a doctor. I live by the Hippocratic Oath," he continued, his voice only slightly less derisive, "And kicking you out on the streets is doing far more harm than good. My job is to fix my fellow sentients and..." He grunted and strained, struggling with those flailing legs, eventually pulling the shorts off the ankles and leaving his patient bare-assed and on his knees. Philip leaned down, pulling at one of those frantic antennae once more, "I'm starting with you."

A gloved hand reached forward, grabbing those insect mandibles and forcing them wide, stuffing that mouth with a bar of soap, too wide to spit out, serving as a bitter, impromptu gag. The other hand turned the shower on, sending steamy water raining down on the roach's head. "From now on, you address me as Doctor Bradshaw. In two weeks, I will turn you from this greasy piece of shit into something clean, something healthy, something respectable," the lizard growled, shoving the creature into the tub and leaving him alone for a moment, turning attentions to a cabinet, letting the water bead against that oily, waxy exoskeleton of his.

Duster could only thrash in the tub, kicking and gurgling, saliva mixing with the soap and dripping in suds at his chin, drooling to keep the bitter stuff out of his throat. The spines and claws on his legs and feet scratched at the acrylic, while hot water rolled off his chitin and seeped in the gaps between plates of armor. His lean, ridged belly flexed as he tried to stand, arms tied uncomfortably under his weight, aching and biting. Shining and glistening, completely exposed and vulnerable, the cockroach moaned and whined, arching and squirming, trying everything to right himself and escape, seeming so much like the insects from which he evolved. I'm fine the way I am, he thought, this son of a bitch has no right...!

He froze the moment Philip returned carrying an unlabeled bottle and wearing a slick poncho. Eyes widened and antennae shook; he'd seen enough horror movies to know he had planned something seriously fucked up just for him. Thankfully, the bottle contained only a special soap for creatures of chitin as Philip squirted a few drops on the insect's chest. The anole pulled the trembling bug up by the neck and pressed him up to the wall of the shower, now under the stream of hot water himself, rubber gloves working the thin soap over smooth plates of chitin with a cloth, almost gently. His Doctor, still clothed, wanting to keep as little of his flesh touching this thing as possible, lathered another dollop between slippery gloves, now getting rather fresh with the insect.

The lizard could not hold back a slight chuckle as he scoured and cleaned the roach's thighs, hearing him squeak and hiss, feeling him wriggle and shake in his grip. Philip made sure he was thorough, pulling the filthy bug backward just slightly, lifting one of those spiny legs and scrubbing it at every spur and joint, working suds over his insect friend. Duster began to feel true humilation, hearing the anole mutter insults with each scrub, groping at every nook and cranny, even the little plates of armor that hid his cock, tingling with the soporific oils that cleansed his grimy skeleton, frothy suds escaping the edges of his mouth and dripping down his chest. But despite all signs of indignation, those drooping antennae and outraged eyes, the insect did not fight now, waiting until this asshole finished because, hey, free shower. Only when a soapy cloth worked up the crack of the roach's ass did he struggle once more. Invading claws caused the spindly creature to nearly jump out of his exoskeleton; the roach squeaked loudly as a pair of slippery fingers probed him with all the care and affection of a physician, the anole trying to act both professional and humiliating. Strangely enough for Philip, the roach chuckled slightly at the doctor, waggling his antennae, perhaps to spite him, to defy him, to invite him to exercise stricter punishment. Philip could only sneer and growl as he pulled the fingers out and smacked the roach upside the head, "Of course you'd like that."

Duster fought back, so to speak, leaning back and mocking affection, wiggling his rear and grinding his back against the belly of his captor, eliciting yet another scowl. He managed to force the bar of soap from his mouth, flecks of soapy bubbles covering his mandibles as he spat, "What's wrong, doc? Aren't you gonna give me that prostate exam?" Seizing the opportunity, the insect braced his feet against the wall of the shower and pushed back at the lizard, still teasing, "If you wanted some hot steamy shower sex, you should've asked, Phil! You fucking - aah!" The roach shrieked as Philip yanked his antennae hard and teased something thick at insect's tight asshole, the bar of soap, he guessed, judging from the size and texture, now sliding a couple inches deep and causing him to itch and burn.

At last, the insect relented, his legs scrambling back down to the shower floor, reined in by his antennae and the bar of soap lodged painfully inside him. He had no wise-ass remarks regarding the bulge behind the anole's wet poncho or the slippery gloved hand wrapped around the insect's emerging erection, a clear, dripping shaft once hidden in his shiny red-brown armor. He could only hiss and squeak, wheezing with an unwanted, if sensual, stroking of his slick cock, squirming beneath the hot water as Philip pulled him around, rinsing the creature under the hot shower. "I know what makes you tick, you fucking bug...the only thing that's on your mind is sex, that's all you roaches ever think about." He found the task vulgar, but necessary; it had become all too clear he had to establish dominance, to establish positive reinforcement, just as all the psychology books suggested. Certainly none of his research recommended this, just as none of his research tailored to such sleazy creatures such as Duster.

The lizard only needed to grip the base of those antennae and pull to suppress any dissent from his cowardly insect. As the lizard tugged and squeezed that insectile cock furiously, unleashing months of pent-up frustration and aggression, he'd sometimes yank those feelers again just to hear him squeak. Soon this intimate contact, this sexual assault, this overwhelming humiliation stirred something adrenal in the cockroach's body, something that coerced his shaft to go tumescent and throbbing, caused his spiracles to gasp sharply with a steamy hiss, and coaxed a tiny squeaking moan from his throat. The roach scowled, grudgingly accepting his punishment, never one to turn down a free favor, no matter how degrading, recalling a faint memory of the sordid circle jerks at college, just between fellow roaches, some of them less than sober. Drops of hot water beat over his shiny, clean chest, arching slightly as Philip gripped him tighter, harder, faster, while a deep, reptilian growl told the captive insect, "Don't get used to this, bug."

Hips bucked, pre dribbled, grunting curses murmured, the anole held his roommate in forced rapture, quietly admiring the clean and perfect luster of the insect's exoskeleton, so much more pleasing when it's shining spotlessly, rather than glistening with grease and oils. Philip hissed happily, finding the roach to smell fresh and sweet with soapy oils rather than dank and sour with stale odors, feeling satisfied, as though he fulfilled some duty, a pleasure transcending the sexual, the imposition of order and discipline on this creep, a creep he cared for, but a creep nevertheless. The cockroach remained unaware that his makeover, intended to change him physically and psychologically, had only begun, that where he stood now marked the first of many punishments at the hands of Doctor Bradshaw, not so much a doctor as a disciplinarian.

Clawed insect feet dug into the floor of the tub the moment a few rubbery fingers probed and reached inside, extracting the bar of soap and tossing it aside, one strong lizard claw forcing him to bend while the other reached for the shower head, removable and adjustable for all sorts of tricks. For now, Philip switched it to a narrow, powerful jet and positioned the shower head to rinse the insect out, a dexterous hand still stroking, still fondling all the while, now going at a brisk, steady pace. The bug wriggled, trying to hasten the impending climax, helped along by that pulsing water jet warming his cold-blooded insides, trying to rock into those soapy hands, the indignant grunting becoming a shrill quivering moan all the while, as tense as a bowstring just before coming undone.

Jets of watery insect cum pulsed steadily from Duster's cock, splattering over the acrylic and oozing down toward the drain. The insect chittered and choked back a moan, antennae whipping frantically, his body contracting and squeezing around that bar of soap deep inside him. Sharp reptile eyes watched as the first of the cockroach's weak will chipped away, floating toward that drain with the last of his seed. "That was it, please tell me that was it, let me go," the insect gasped as the gloved hand probed and prodded in him once more, coaxing that bar of soap out from his ass. Duster went limp in those lean arms, now dragging him out of the tub, to dry off now that his body was spotless, not an inch left untouched by those thorough, professional hands.

"No, bug, I've got a lot more planned for you," Philip said, working the bound, aching roach over with a towel.

"Fuck you," he spat, more indignant and spiteful than distraught.

The lizard pinched those cursing mandibles shut. That cold and professional voice posed an interesting question, "If I promised you more than a handjob, would you be quiet?"

The insect swished his antennae, as if seriously considering such a degrading proposition, pulling back to respond, "What do you mean?"

"If you do everything I ask, I promise you will never need hand lotion ever again."

"Phil, what the fuck?"

"First, it's Doctor Bradshaw and second, it's quite simple, I love you but you're a fucking mess." The lizard snipped the cords binding those four spindly arms, even venturing to kiss the cockroach's squeaky-clean shoulder, and continued, "Now get dressed, in some nice clothes, mind you, and help me steam clean the couch."