Tommy's Attitude Adjustment Chapter 64
by Chadlad

copyright 2007 by Chadlad, all rights reserved
chadlad3@yahoo.com

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 64: The Reverend

Gabriel bent over his desk, his small shoulders hunched, his fingers cramping, working doggedly on his task. His new teacher (he'd already forgotten her name) had ordered that he write the rules for boys out 20 times, just to ensure that he knew them, and he was finally on his 20th iteration of them. A smudged stack of paper had accumulated to one side of him on the desk, where he'd put each sheet as he'd finished it. It was stupid – the rules were so simple that anyone could remember them. They were a bit unfair to the boys, of course, but only a bit.

Gabriel had certainly met enough nasty boys in his short life, mostly in the form of sex-crazed little pervs who wanted to take you up the chute with their horny little peckers or shove said peckers into your mouth and make you lick and suck on them. And the ones who wanted to smash your balls, of course, for no other reason than because they like watching you hunch over and moan in pain. And there'd been the kid who'd shoved the pencil, eraser end first, up his nose while he was asleep, trying so see how far it would go until Gabriel woke up. That one had hinted he'd find the pencil up his butt next time if he told anyone, but telling was something Gabriel had learned never worked out for him. So he couldn't built up much upset over the unfairness of the rules for boys. Besides, Gabriel couldn't remember a time when life had been fair. It wasn't fair that his mother's boyfriends had abused him the way they had, it wasn't fair that foster parents always assumed he was the troublemaker when their own little monsters did things, especially when they did things to him, and it wasn't fair that he'd been forced to suck so many boys' penises already in his young life (Chad's, on Sunday, being the only one he'd ever sucked voluntarily, unless you counted doing things for money being forced to do things. And he hadn't really had to suck Chad's, but in truth he didn't mind much. Not that he was attracted to it either, like queer guys. He just didn't mind. Chad had been good to him, and he was clean, and not hairy or anything, and he was cut so he wasn't dirty under the foreskin, either. He'd sucked Chad just like he'd have scratched Chad's back if asked, or wiped Chad's butt if his arm was broken. It didn't turn him on, it didn't sicken him. And look at the money he'd gotten for something not much different from sucking a guy's finger. Okay, a finger didn't eject slimy liquid when you sucked it, but that had been in the back of Gabriel's throat, and was easily swallowed and forgotten ). It wasn't fair that his new cousin Tommy had fucked him in the butt instead of his squirrelly little friend. But life wasn't fair, he'd learned that long ago, and you had to just enjoy the good stuff when it happened and endure the unpleasant when you had to.

He finished the last sentence and put down his pencil. Chad, now there was a good thing. Chad, his savior, his protector, his cousin, his bigger if not more experienced buddy. He'd needed Chad right then, someone to cling to when his butt had been torn from being raped, someone to hold him and protect him and make him feel that his butt was covered. He'd needed that ever since, and might continue to need that for awhile. Someone to cover his butt, literally – to be a shield on his back side, making sure no one was sneaking up on him to attack him from behind, like Tommy had when he'd thought climbing under his cousin's covers would make him safe. He'd needed Chad's body tight against him to sleep ever since – didn't even mind that Chad's hard penis pressed against his buns at times, because Chad would never take advantage, wouldn't dream of taking him from behind. No, Chad's penis lined up against his butt crack was merely comforting, evidence that his masculine protection was there for Gabriel. And Chad's hand on his own little penis was soothing, relaxing—comforting more than it was sexual. A trust thing. Because he trusted Chad with his butt and with his penis – Chad wouldn't hurt him, Chad would protect him. He didn't think about how irrational that feeling was any more than he'd thought about how in the world stepping on a crack could possibly break his mother's back. He just had put all his trust in Chad, and Chad hadn't disappointed him. Part of it was that he'd opened up to Chad earlier. He'd never told anyone else about the man who'd placed his genitals in the lopper and threatened to cut them off, and laughed when he'd been so frightened he'd peed down onto his own face. But something about Chad's vulnerability made him trust Chad, even like him. Chad was the first blood relative other than his sister that he actually cared about, and who cared about him. And even his sister had been too willing to watch him get spanked, and to laugh at his crying and hopping around the room rubbing his butt afterwards, pointed penis flopping. He intended to keep sleeping with Chad as long as possible, reveling in the warmth he got from Chad both figuratively and literally.

His worries about being spanked in school hadn't abated, not yet. No one had been spanked in his class so far, but it was only early morning. He vowed to follow every one of the rules for boys, now embedded deep in his brain.

There was a knock at the classroom door, and Mrs. Hendricks stepped in, with a tall, man with black hair that was graying at the temples and expertly styled. He was clad in a white suit, white shirt, white shoes, and a blood red tie, all spotless, and he walked with strength and assurance, as well as an air of surety, as if he knew how it was all going to come out and was certain it was coming out as expected. He surveyed the kids with a smile that looked exceedingly phony to Gabriel.

"Class," Mrs. Hendricks said. "This is Reverend Abner Goodbody, from the Redemption in Christ Farm and Children's Sanctuary west of here. You may know him from the Goodbody in Christ Gospel Hour, which I'm sure many of you watch."

Great, a Bible thumper, Gabriel thought to himself. He'd never heard of the Good-whatever Gospel Hour, but he was sure as was a boring as all the other Gospel shows his mother had sometimes watched to make fun of on TV. (Had Chad's friend S. F. been present, he could have filled Gabriel in – Abner Goodbody was a frequent speaker at their church, soliciting money for his huge operation and offering what he called "discipline centered" programs for problem children, treatment for drinkers and drug users, aggression management treatment, and even what were called "innovative programs for juvenile pyromaniacs and homosexuals," a phrase that had made S. F. believe pyromania must be some sort of gay sexual behavior. There were kids S. F. knew who'd gone to "The Farm," as it was called, and had come back different people – slavishly obedient, quiet, subdued. When asked about their experience on the farm, all of them grew white-faced and tight-lipped but said nothing. The only exception was one boy, who murmured, "I can't tell you—they'll hurt me," while unconsciously grabbing his crotch and squeezing his genitals openly through his pants. He then added, after realizing what he was doing and releasing his genitals with a guilty start, "You don't want to know." Thereafter, he also refused to say anything.

Mrs. Hendricks went on. "The Reverend is here because of a new partnership Miriam Webster had just formed with the his organization. As you may be aware, there have been a number of serious discipline problems in recent weeks here at our school, culminating in violence by a 7th grader against another student that resulted in the severe punishment of the gauntlet having to be instituted. Just in the last few days, another egregious incident has occurred, also involving a 7th grader, an incident which will also have to be dealt with by extreme punishment. The board feels that students here need to realize that our commitment to student propriety and obedience is no joke and nothing to be trifled with, so the punishment of young Chad Henson a few weeks ago was quite severe, and so will today's punishment of the more recent culprit. But students also need to realize that more extreme measures are available if needed. Therefore, we have decided to make arrangements with The Reverend to step in and handle the culprit when more punishment is called for than can easily be administered within the confines of the school. It is hoped that knowledge that such an extreme step is available will give future miscreants pause."

She stopped to beam at the children, and The Reverend flashed the class a big, phony smile that was all white, perfectly aligned teeth. "The Reverend is visiting each class, and will give you a hint of what you might expect if you run afoul of our regulations to a degree too egregious for a simply spanking or padding, or even a series of them to suffice." She beamed, scanning the class again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take the diaper cart to the 7th grade."

The Reverend moved to the center of the front of the room and stood, relaxed but straight backed, and scanned across the class, his eyes seemingly fixating each child and looking into his or her soul as he scanned. Gabriel felt cold knife through him as those eyes met his. There was steel behind all that gloss and polish and all those teeth – steel, and barely restrained malice. The eyes stripped him naked, examined his pathetic body, and then released him to grovel like a pathetic animal, ashamed of his lusts and desires and petty wants. These were the eyes of someone who'd casually reach down and grab him by the balls and squeeze as hard as he could, just to point out that he could do it. The eyes reminded him of his mother's boyfriend, the one who'd spanked him repeatedly while ordering him not to cry. Children grew still as that gaze crossed the room. When all was quiet, The Reverend spoke.

"I know the soul of evil," he said in a clear, commanding voice, the kind of voice that makes old ladies reach for their purses and write huge checks from the retirement accounts. "And I know the evil in your souls. And I know the good, too. At the farm, we bleed the evil out, make it pour into the soil, and replace it with good. We do it with hard labor, because labor cleanses the soul. And we do it with simple food, and clean living and clean thinking! You'll find no video games at the farm! No video games, no TV, no IPods or cell phones, none of the electronic gadgetry that breeds devilish thoughts in youngsters. Just hard work to condition the body, and clean thoughts and clean actions to condition the soul. The boys and girls at The Farm sleep untroubled each night, their bodies tired from honest labor in the eyes of God, their minds free of lusts and perversions and focused only on Godly thoughts. It's hard, boys and girls. It's a hard life. But a good one, a life that will draw you up from the dunghill, a life that will turn your faces to the heavens, where you may behold the face of God!"

The room was deadly silent, now, all the kids frozen in place, all eyes turned toward The Reverend's beaming face. The Reverend took a moment to scan the faces turned toward him. He loved children. Children were God's glory, to be protected from the evil and from their own satanic impulses, and to be beheld in all their beauty by the righteous. They were God's creation at its finest, yet most of them had besmirched that greatness, smeared themselves with sin and vice and sloth, the way a toddler might besmirch his perfect, white buttocks with excrement trying to wipe himself. But just as a child's mother might lovingly wash the excrement off the fundament of her child, so he washed the figurative shit off of the souls of these creatures of God.

His mind drifted as he scanned the crowd, analyzing each boy and girl by type, separating the merely sinful from true enemies of God. There, that one – the little dark boy in the front on his right. That one had the guarded look of a deep skeptic, a boy who'd given up on God and man and trusted no one. They were hard to deal with, hard to break, although it could be done and he'd certainly become good breaking children like this. But there would be no excitement in it. Kids like this were too used to maltreatment. They expected nothing but mistreatment, and didn't rail when it came, but simply soldiered on, ready to hamstring you from behind when your back was turned. They weren't terribly interesting because of that lack of concern. They cried when spanked or otherwise disciplined, but reverted back to furtive and wary afterward, not deliciously fearful like most of the others. No, this one would never properly fear either him or God, and he'd never get that rush of excitement, that Godly feeling he got when he properly taught a boy to fear the almighty.

He let his eyes move. Now that boy behind him – there was an interesting possibility. A small kid with dancing eyes – he'd be exuberant to start with, bubbly and mischievous. The kind of kid who craved approval, was petrified of pain, and would wet his pants in fear if handled just right. (The Reverend loved working with children who wet their pants in fear—it prepared them to develop a healthy fear of God.) He smiled at the boy, putting all his white-toothed charisma into that smile. Oh, yes, this one would be stimulating – he'd feel the full glory of God slowly breaking this one. He'd spank this one immediately – no preliminaries, no discussion, not even an explanation or an introduction. Fix his gaze on this one, pin him with his eyes, and then lift him, place him in the humiliating face – down, little boy position, pull those pants down just below the curve of the buttocks, and immediately spank him fast and hard on his white briefs. This one would wear white briefs, he was sure. White, little boy briefs, perhaps with a cartoon character on them. The boy would squeeze his buttocks tightly in surprise at the pain of the first blow, squeeze them so tightly that his buttocks would be perfectly outlined, and then he'd cry and struggle. The Reverend would let him struggle, but pin him with his free arm and methodically continue his spanking until the boy was squealing and hysterical with pain. Then, when they boy had lost control entirely, had lost hope of resistance and was simply lying limply over his lap bawling, he'd stop abruptly and rub those buttocks, feeling the heat he'd created through the thin fabric, rub the boy's buttocks and announce that this was the easiest, least painful, and shortest spanking he would ever receive at The Reverend's hands. And he'd lift the boy to shaky feet, his pants still below his buttocks, and firmly reach down and pull the boy's pants back over his underwear, caressing his generative organs as he did, feeling for any signs of arousal and sinfulness that he might find there. Of course, he'd find none – only rarely were boys so sinful they were aroused after a righteous session with the hand of God. (The Reverend knew his hand was not his own, it was just an instrument of God's wrath in these cases.) And the boy would know terror, and the majesty of God, a terror that would grow with each subsequent trip over The Reverend's lap in the following weeks.

He smiled at the boy. "What is your name, son?" he asked in smooth, well- modulated tones. The boy looked startled to be addressed, but answered bravely. "Quentin," he said, too loudly.

Oh, yes – if he ever got God's hands on this one, training him would be delicious, indeed. H would have to make himself worthy for such a gift of God, and pray God delivered the impudent little rascal into his hands. "Stand up, Quentin," he said smoothly. "I'd like to use you to demonstrate some of the differences between The Farm and your school – some of the things those who are sent to The Farm in the future will be fortunate enough to learn."

Puzzled but game, Quentin stood by his chair, his slight frame seeming smaller by The Reverend's 6 foot 2 frame. The Reverend studied Quentin. The boy clearly had not yet started the devilish sexual awakening that so marred early teens – The Reverend could see at a glance (in part because Quentin's school uniform pants were getting a bit small for him) that the boy still had the small, innocent genitals of a child. He probably didn't yet realize there were things boys did with their small scepters of God other than making water, and probably had no idea at all what the small sack under his spigot containing the jewels of Adam was for. He pointed to Quentin's position. "One of the things we teach at The Farm is pride in posture, and how to stand respectfully before God and adults. Notice this boy's slumped posture, his constant fiddling with his hands, and his failure to meet my eyes. Stand up straight, boy! Shoulders back, back straight, legs slightly apart!" Quentin straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and fixed his nervous legs into a more set positions, staring straight ahead. "Look at me when I'm addressing you! Don't take your eyes off of me!" Quentin, startled, fixed his gaze on the Reverend's eyes, having to tilt his head up to do so.

"Better," The Reverend said. "Now, hands firmly at your sides, palms turned outward, showing you've got nothing to hide!" Quentin tried to comply, quivering like a puppy as he tried to hold still. The Reverend circled him, studying his posture carefully. From the back, he scanned Quentin up and down, appearing to pass quickly over the boy's buttocks but actually examining them closely. The boy's fundament was unusually small, flat, and devoid of padding. The Reverend had seen his type many times before. When finally unveiled, the underpants pulled gently, slowly down to maximize the boy's terror of the upcoming spanking, his buttocks would be white and soft-skinned, almost velvet to the touch, but under that skin would be boyish steel – hard muscle and no padding at all. That velvet skin would blister easily, and the muscles would bruise even more easily without any padding of fat to protect them. And the smallness of this boy's fundament would mean that spankings would be an agony to him – every blow of the Reverend's big hand, calloused by spanking many boys and girls, would cover more than half of one side of this kid's fundament, and 4 blows would cover the whole area with overlaps, setting more neurons ablaze than would ever be possible with a bigger boy. For small-bottomed boys and girls, spankings had a sharp intensity they never experienced again one they grew, and intensity that made them white with fear when sent to his office. Once feared God under those circumstances, and thus such fear was a godly thing, and he was doing God's work in provoking it. He could imagine this boy showing up in his office waiting room a week or so after his first, underpants spanking, his heart thudding in his throat as he sat on the edge of a hard wooden bench contemplating an imminent second trip over The Reverend's lap, a trip that he'd been promised would be on the bare fundament if he were rash enough to earn it. Such a boy's modesty concerns would be overwhelmed by his fear of the righteous pain he would be feeling – he'd be shaking by the time The Reverend summoned him over to his chair by crooking an index finger at him wordlessly, and he wouldn't even notice when The Reverend lowered first his pants and then his underpants to his ankles, baring his meager genitals to casual observation. The boy's small scepter of God would be a tiny nub at that point, shrunken by fright above a tightly scrunched sack of the Jewels of Adam, making him almost sexless and more Godly because of it. (The few boys whose erections were betrayed when their underpants were lowered by The Reverend were treated in differing ways depending on The Reverand's whims and whatever messages he received from the holy spirit, all of those so memorable for the boys that only one or two in the entire history of the Farm had ever shown up hard for subsequent spankings.)

The Reverend savored, for a moment, the picture of hoisting this little boy by his waist and pinning him firmly, bottom up, over his lap and then gently messaging his soft skin, feeling the resiliency of the muscles just under that velvety smoothness, sensitizing the skin with his caresses, calling the boy's attention exclusively to just his bottom. Stopping and raising his hand several times in the process, watching they boy peer fearfully over his shoulders and tense his buttocks each time the hand rose, then lowering the hand again to continue the sensitizing process. By the time he actually landed the first blow to the boy's fundament, he'd be begging The Reverend spank him, please, sir, and get it over with! He loved to tease the boys that way, and make them beg for their righteous sentence. They always regretted it by the second of third blow, as, overwhelmed with pain, they'd begin begging him to stop and swearing they'd be good forever. But he'd continue to apply his hand mercilessly to their soft, bare skin, watching as the wrath of God blistered their delicate skin and colored it with blotches and then bright red, watch with rising religious fervor as the welts began appearing until they covered the boy's entire buttocks. He knew the power of God, then – God entered him through his own scepter of God, making it stiff and throbbing with holy power. Sometimes God's blessing would enter him near the end, making him spill his holy seed in his clothing during the last, transcendent blows to the boy's fundament, the boy's anatomy becoming, by God's blessing, an altar of God. Shuddering throw God's joy, he'd give the boy a final few, extra hard blows to keep him screaming, the stop and let the peace of God that always followed God's blessing flow through him, rubbing the boy's tortured butt and enjoying his transcendent squeals until he settled into incoherent, limp sobbing. Eventually, his strength would return and he'd set the miscreant on his feet, with a warning not to touch his bottom, now blessed by God. He never had to worry about the effects of his holy communion staining his white suits – God, in his wisdom, had, several years ago, led him to a display in Walmart that had solved this little problem. He now wore Depends as undergarments, and could change them multiple times a day if the spirit hit him.

Some of the boys he'd dress himself at this point, enjoying their elaborate wincing as he pulled tight briefs and pants over sore, welted buttocks. He always ran his hands over their genital regions extensively when he did, ensuring that they were not longer capable of genital erection and excitement, the boys always sobbing so hard they barely noticed his touch. On others he would strip off their pants and underpants completely and send them to the corner for hours, where he could contemplate their red, welted buttocks and discomfort while he worked on paperwork. Such boys also served as great examples to the next child to enter his room, and he loved the way they always froze on catching sight of the previous beneficiaries to his instruction. A few were sent immediately to the holy punishment stocks, and those suffered worst of all. That's what he'd do with this one, he knew. On his second visit, he'd be pierced in the scepter of God after his just and Holy chastisement on the buttocks, pierced in that knot of flesh God had left on the bottom of the penis for that purpose if he was cut, or through the ends of his foreskin if uncut, and would join the boys standing against a waist-high wall make of inch thick plywood that was at the front of the lunch room. Not the lunch room in the public building used for show, of course, but in the private lunch room of the secure barracks. With his fresh piercing still bleeding, the howling boy would be stood next to the others. Blocks would be placed under his feet until his scepter of God lined up with the neat hole drilled in the wall, and his scepter would be pulled through, where the piano wire on the other side would be unhooked briefly, so it could be threaded through his new piercing just as it was through the boys already being punished there. The wire would be tied onto the tuning post and tightened again until it played middle C when plucked, this time running through the scepters of all the little and big boys being punished. And there they'd stay, forbidden to touch their buttocks, unable to move for fear of losing portions of their most prized anatomy, to serve as a display for lunch of what could happen, of what would probably happen to all the boys sooner or later.

There was a stock for girls, two, next to the one for boys, with slots through which labia were drawn and a similar wire was threaded, but it seldom had more than one or two girls in it. The one for boys, called "the cock stocks" behind his back, was always nearly full. During lunch, The Reverend often enjoyed taking his feather duster to the projecting organ tips, dusting mercilessly, making the impaled boys thrash uncomfortably while at the same time experiencing the righteous terror that they might, at any point, rip the wire right through their delicate organs. At times he'd made boys lose control doing this, and spill their seed on the ground, and for that they were punished as well.

He focused his eyes back on the boy in front of him. Yes, he'd love to get this one. But if not, he'd get plenty of others – sassy, impudent boys and girls he'd be able to mold with the wrath of God. This new arrangement with this school was a Godsend, no doubt about it. He'd soon have new blood to fill with the holy spirit. Boys and girls, young and old, a steady stream of them. He would be filled with the holy spirit many times over. God was gracious.

"Well," he said. "Notice how much more respectful this boy appears already. And at the farm, he'd also learn to speak respectfully, and in full sentences, and to meet my eyes when he listened." He waved at Quentin, standing at attention. "You can sit down, lad." He walked back to the front of the classroom, looking contemplative. "I know what you're all thinking, that being sentenced to The Farm is a punishment. But it isn't, you know, even if you get there by being so incorrigible that normal punishments aren't enough. It's an opportunity – an opportunity to truly turn your life around and become an instrument of God. So you shouldn't dread our next encounter, if it occurs. Life at The Farm is hard, but fair, and ultimately is the key to redemption."

He scanned the class again, smiling his gleaming, we need money for Jesus smile. Gabriel shivered. The guy looked like a python about to strike – a big, toothy python. No way he was going to earn a trip to this farm – and heaven help anyone who did.

The Reverend finished his survey of their faces and stepped back. "I see Mrs. Hendricks is back and waiting for me," he said. "So I'll bid you all au revoir rather than goodbye. Because I'm sure I'll definitely see some of you again." A child ran through Gabriel at these words. Not me, he thought. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy. Okay, maybe some of them. In fact, he wouldn't mind handing his cousin Tommy over to this man's clutches.

They had just gotten started with studying a social studies chapter and answering questions from it when, from somewhere across the way, in the middle school, there came the distinctive sound of bare hand on soft, bare flesh, a spanking that went on and on and on, endlessly, the loud cracks of the hand accompanied by a piteous moaning that grew in loudness and intensity, but that sounded like someone trying to cry with a mouth full of cotton. The spanking continued for a long, long time – Gabriel was able to complete the entire worksheet in his cramped hand before it stopped, and even then, the moaning continued for a long time afterward, only dying away while they were handing the papers in.

Straining his ears, now, Gabriel could only hear the shuffle of feet and chairs in his own classroom, and the distant murmur of teachers' voices in other classrooms. No spankings happening now, nobody crying or screaming. He raised his hand, catching the teacher's attention. "Yes, Gabriel," she said pleasantly.

"Ma'am?" he asked earnestly, trying to appear innocent and respectful. He had learned that women in general tended to like it when he called them ma'am. "Can I go to the bathroom?"

"May I go to the bathroom," the teacher corrected.

Gabriel looked puzzled. "What?" he asked. "You want to go too?"

"It's, 'May I go to the bathroom,'" she said a bit impatiently. "We all know you can go to the bathroom – even toddlers can do that. The question is whether you may be allowed to go."

"Oh," Gabriel said, letting his eyes go downcast in what he hoped was a winning fashion. "May I go to the bathroom, then?"

The teacher looked at the clock. "I hope you don't have a wetting problem like your cousin Chad," she said musingly. "I'd hate to have to break out the diapers for you on your first day."

Gabriel got up quietly, Quentin noisily, and the two of them met up in the row and trooped out into the hall. "The boys' pisser is just down here," Quentin said, leading Gabriel down the hall. Gabriel giggled. "Pisser?" he said.

"Shhhhh," Quentin whispered. "That's what we boys all call it in the 4th grade. 'Cause it's where you go to take a piss. Nobody poops in there unless they have to – they took all the stalls out because some kid got caught smoking in there, so the toilets just sit in the open and everyone can see you if you sit down to take a poop. 'Course, it's funny when some kid can't stand it had has to go anyway – they have to sit there with their booty out grunting away in front of everyone!"

"Doesn't sound like a big deal to me," Gabriel whispered back as they approached the bathroom door. "All the toilets were like that in the orphanage I stayed at. And all the boys had to be naked in the showers together, too. You had to take your underpants off in the morning and put them in the wash hamper, then you had to walk naked to the bathroom and pee, or poop if you had to, and then walk to the showers, and it was all open. You didn't get a towel until the matron watching the showers had seen that you'd washed your hair and body."

"You mean you don't care if people see you naked?" Quentin said, almost not whispering in his surprise. "Even if they see your weenie? Even girls?"

"Girls are just girls," Gabriel said. "They all have cunts. And we boys aren't any different from each other, either. We all have dicks."

Quentin grinned at the naughtiness of this comment. "Yeah," he said. "But some's bigger than others. You're must be pretty big if you don't care who sees it." He turned toward the bathroom door, then stopped short. An orange cone was standing in the doorway of the boys' bathroom. "Uh, oh," he said. "That means the bathroom's closed – we can't go in."

Gabriel looked distressed. "But I gotta pee," he said. "I wasn't faking, I really did have a lot of juice with breakfast."

"That's okay. This happens all the time. We're just supposed to go across the way to the boys' bathroom where the big kids go." Quentin grimaced. "I hate going there – the big kids sometimes give you a hard time. You know, act like they're going to hit you and stuff, make fun of your weenie, that sort of thing. They stole my friend's pants once and threw them out the window. He had to go out after them in his undies." Then he brightened. "But no one will be in there right now – they're all in class. And besides, they don't bug you so much if you aren't alone." He put an arm around Gabriel's shoulders. "We just have to tell the teacher where we're going."

They stepped back into the fifth grade and stood there until the teacher looked at them, then explained the boys' room was closed and that they'd have to go to the other building. Then the two of them trooped across the space between the classrooms and into the middle school front door. They found their way into the upper hall, past the office, finally arriving at a room marked "Boys" over the door. Quentin opened it. "After you," he said. "Age before beauty."

"Like you're beautiful," Gabriel snickered. He stepped into the bathroom and then stopped dead, so quickly that Quentin bumped into him hard, striking his nose on the back of Gabriel's head.

"Hey!" Quentin protested, reaching for his nose. "Watch what you're doing!" Then he, too, stopped short as he saw the scene before him.

On the floor of the bathroom three figures were sprawled, one across the room, clothed and writhing in a fetal position, clutching his crotch. The other two were naked, or mostly naked – one had shoes on but no other clothing, the other was as mother naked as a boy could be. The one with shoes on had shockingly white skin and was deathly thin – his vertebrae stuck out his arched back, and he, too, was in a fetal position and clutching his genitals. As Gabriel studied the scene, he realized that this boy had something crammed in his mouth – in fact, his mouth was crammed so full that his cheeks bulged, and he was moaning into whatever was in there, twisting his head from side to side in apparent agony. Gabriel squatted behind the boy, realizing as he did that the boy's butt was black and blue with old welts, and that the welts and blisters went all the way into his butt crack – all the way in! All the way to his butt hole.

And then Gabriel froze, froze with heart pounding fear overwhelming him. Because blood was oozing from the boy's swollen butt hole – oozing out of a cut on the tightly pursed ring itself and trickling down his left bun slowly. As he watched, the trickle reached where the boy's butt was pressed to the floor and began to puddle there as the slow red ooze of it continued. Images of his recent raping at the hands of Tommy came back to Gabriel – his blood had trickled down his thighs like that – dark red and oozing. He remembered, with the same terror he'd felt at the time, Tommy's threat to pull his balls off, the weight of the older boy pinning his body, and seeming hugeness of the hard pole that had invaded him, brought the stabs of pain with each thrust, and ended with the blood dripping, just like this. With his full bladder, Gabriel almost pissed himself before regaining control. He couldn't sit here like a little kid – this guy needed help! He almost sounded like he was chocking. He leaned over the boy's face and was struck with sudden recognition. No wonder the blistered butt was familiar! This was the pasty white kid from Chad's class – the one whose mom had beat his butt and dick on Friday, the one whose dad had taken him and moved out. This was one of the Brothers of the Red Butt! He spied white cloth separating the boy's lips and dug his fingers in the boy's mouth bravely, grabbing soft cloth and pulling it out, pulling out more and more and more, until it became a sodden pair of boy's white briefs. S. F. gasped and began retching, curled on his side and still clutching his genitals in a fetal position.

Gabriel, disturbed by the retching, looked away, across the room to the fat kid with clothes on. He was probably from Chad's class too. If so, that had to be Randy somebody or the other, the fat kid in Chad's class, the one with a dick smaller than his cousin's (although he didn't understand why the size of Chad's dick bothered him so much – it was bigger than his own, after all). But he'd shared a room with a fat kid at a foster home, once, and remembered the gross, enormous, flabby butt the kid had, and he'd gotten glimpses of the kid's tiny-appearing cock in his fat-padded crotch, so he had a pretty good idea what Chad had been talking about. Heck, maybe he knew all the kids that were hurt in here – maybe they were all Chad's friends! Maybe…

"This one doesn't look so good," Quentin said from behind Gabriel. "His face is all bloody. And his eyes aren't focusing." And then realization struck him – something that had been nagging at him when he'd first come in. He realized that when he'd first swept the room, the figure in the corner had seemed familiar, but this other kid had been closer and he'd stooped by him. The small figure that was naked by the door, behind him, the one with blood trickling down his face – that had to be…

Gabriel whirled, staring down at the third boy, the pathetic naked figure clutching his nuts and bleeding copiously from the nose and mouth. "Chad!" he gasped. He scrambled across the bathroom floor and dropped to his knees by the moaning figure, reached to grab the twisting head, turn it so he could see it. Chad looked up at him with bleary, unfocused eyes, blood bubbling out of his nose as he tried to speak.

"MMMMWY," he mumbled, spitting up blood. "MMMMMMWY!"

"I'll get help," Quentin said, racing out. Squatting by Chad, Gabriel could now smell the metallic odor of blood so strongly it almost overwhelmed him. Behind him, the pasty white kid – what was his name, it was some kind of initials – made a disgusting vomiting noise and continued to retch. The fat boy across the room continued his low moaning, still clutching his stomach and panting and wheezing.

There were running feet behind Gabriel. He turned to see that Quentin was back, panting. "They're coming," he said. "The principal and the vice principal. And that Reverend dude – the one in the white suit." He stopped to catch his breath, watching the blood trickle slowly down S. F.'s welted buttock to the floor, where he'd already smeared it under him with his twitching as he coughed and spit and gasped for air. He turned back to Gabriel and Chad.

"How come they don't have clothes?" he asked. "And how come they're bleeding?"

The door opened and Mrs. Hendricks walked in calmly, almost regally, and surveyed the situation. Seeing Chad sitting up, she squatted by him. "What happened here?" she asked briskly as the principal also came through the door and squatted by S. F., immediately pulling on one buttock and examining the boy's anus. S. F. was gripping his genitals too tightly to notice. "Looks like fingernail scratch," she said. "Superficial. Who did this? Were they fighting each other?"

The Reverend strode in, all 6 foot 2 of him, stopping beside Mrs. Hendricks. Chad tried to talk, inhaled blood, and began coughing, spraying little droplets of blood out his nose. The Reverend stumbled backwards to avoid the spatter and tripped over S. F., but caught himself adroitly without falling and neatly avoided S. F.'s blood puddle by his buttocks. Mrs. Hendricks jerked back, pulling her new white designer blouse out of spray range. "I'm appalled," she said. "We cannot have you boys fighting each other like animals. I won't tolerate it, do you hear me? Each of you boys can expect severe paddlings this afternoon – I don't care how injured you are from fighting! In fact, we'll administer them at a school assembly, so everyone can see what happens to boys who fight!"

Chad's eyes grew wide and he almost choked on his blood. "EMMMM –WWWWY!" he said, frustrated.

"What do you mean, 'no way?' young man? If you weren't bleeding and would get blood on my new blouse, I' take you over my knees and blister your behind right now!" Mrs. Hendricks said.

"I'd be happy to volunteer my services," The Reverend said. "I'm quite experienced in warming the fundaments of boys." He eyed Chad's diminutive genitals, noting his small, button-like penis. Not much of a scepter on this one, he thought. Putting him in the stocks would be very enjoyable. He could comment on the inadequate size of the boy's member as he did, stretch it out painfully, and make sure that he felt as inadequate as possible in the boy department by comparing his small button to the organs of the other boys, especially the younger ones. He almost rubbed his hands together as the desire to work on these three rose in him. The school would probably love to have him make the three of them his first example. The fat boy would have interesting possibilities, too – fat boys were always ashamed of their appearance – he'd put that one into hard labor, and use every excuse to strip him naked so that others could make fun of has fat rolls. If he held true to form with the other fat boys, he'd have inadequate genitals, too. For a moment, The Reverend pictured taking Randy over his lap naked for the first time, and slowly, methodically blistering his huge butt. He turned his attention to the third boy, the bony one. Probably not much there, he decided. A body that small, his scepter wouldn't be much to contemplate. But with that white skin, he'd mark nicely. The Reverend smiled, and it was an evil smile. God, indeed, was good.