The Orphanage Boys Chapter 38

The Orphanage Boys Chapter 38
by Chadlad

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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 38: 38th Floor: Lotions

His balls thrummed with new, deeper, wrongness, pain so great he couldn't put words to it. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out, because he couldn't breathe. Mother Superior stepped back again from where she'd just given the vice another half turn. Fighting the leather straps, trying to lean over, he arched his head down and vomited on his chest, on his crotch, and on the vice and his own genitals, gut clenching heaves that did nothing to easy the now overwhelming pain of his balls. Mother Superior was safely out of range again, having stepped back immediately after turning the vice.

"They always up-chuck," she commented to Sister Mary Catherine. "Always about this same time. We will have to hose him off before we can continue." Sister Mary Catherine moved to a hose that had hung unnoticed coiled on the back wall and began unreeling it. Mother Superior looked the miserable boy in the eye as he came up again after his last eruption, blowing, panting, and wild-eyed with pain. "Your answer was clearly wrong," she said. "A boy with morals would realize how wrong it was. Exposing the more Godly in our young flock to perversity such as yours, making them aware of the ungodly things perverts like you do? Giving the other boys tempted to stray ideas that that don't need in their heads? Filling the sweet, innocent girls on the farm with your sickness? Such evil must not be talked about, let along shared with vulnerable children. No, we will not be telling the others of your crimes. Those boys you bunk with do not need new ideas of perversion to experiment with. You will not breathe a word of it, no matter who questions you! Or, perhaps, I will crush those tiny marbles of yours all the way the next time you sit here."

The moments after that were hazy in Dennis' memory. There had been blasts of stinging, numbingly cold water over his body, drenching his shirt and stinging his penis, dripping off his legs and feet. She'd asked him several more questions, he knew. He'd been mad with pain and panic. He knew he'd answered two of them wrong as far as she was concerned, because she'd turned the handle two more times. Later, though, he couldn't even remember what they were. He'd though he couldn't be in more pain, but each time he'd found he was wrong. He'd blurted out everything he'd ever thought of doing, every sin he'd ever committed by the second turn, even every sin he'd even imagined doing. His vision had narrowed to a red haze in front of his eyes, and his body felt only his throbbing balls, which he was sure must be squashed by now, squashed the way boys squashed clay in art class, when told to make the lump of clay they'd been given into an ash tray. He was pretty sure he'd confessed to whacking his dick like a madman every chance he got, and to trying to feel the boobs of girls (which he'd imagined but hadn't done), and even plotting to rape a girl (which he had thought of doing, and understood because his cousin had described the act to him). Then, somehow, his balls were free, and he was being released, his mouth tasting of vomit, his body spattered with his own muck from three separate orifices. His shirt had been stripped off and discarded, and he'd been forced to hose down that awful metal thing with the dangling straps and the tile floor of the vice room, washing his detritus into the drain. He'd then been hosed off himself, the cold water providing no solace at all to his still painfully throbbing genitals or his sore, well-kicked lower butt. The walk, still dripping, through the cool outside air to the flagpole might have embarrassed him if walking hadn't been so painful with his bruised perineum (from being kicked in the ass) and his sore, swollen, vice-squeezed balls that he hardly noticed when they'd passed the occasional older boy and girl running errands, and he hardly noticed their double takes or their stares and smirks.

Then had come that long afternoon, and the shame of being the only boy ever tied naked to the flagpole, of having the girls see him, and having the boys mock him and, worse yet, having to beg them to pee on him to wash off the biting ants. Then the humiliating bath in the open by the barn, with the girls watching him and the little shits wash each others' dicks, and all the humiliating things he'd done after dinner in front of the younger girls. He shuddered and shoved his thoughts away as he remembered he'd shat in front of them, and masturbated, and won but then lost the peeing contest. At least he hadn't had to suck dick, like that little brown-haired shit had been forced to do. He'd have preferred the red-head suck him, really—he'd already humiliated the brown-haired one. He bet that red-head was a good dick sucker, too—he had such full lips, and such a nice, soft face...

He tore his mind away. He was approaching the farm dorms now, where the boys his age bunked down. Lights were on inside, they boys enjoying their usual noisy free time before lights out. He stopped and considered how to proceed. His fear was rising again. Sister Magdalene had promised him as she'd sent him off alone to his bunk that he faced punishment on the part of his peers when he arrived. She hadn't detailed what punishment and he hadn't asked. Every bunk house of 12 or so boys had a head boy and his assistant, just as the dorms for the squirts did. Dennis' head boy was Paul, a big, hulking, adult-sized kid with huge hands. He knew about those huge hands personally, because Paul was authorized to discipline any boy in the bunk house for infractions too small to bring to Sister Magdalene. And Paul had a vision of himself as a father figure, so he inclined toward spankings—humiliating, pants down, bare-butt, over the lap spankings where the boy being spanked had to hold still and take it. Because the alternative was to be whipped, bare-assed, over the bunk with Paul's belt while you were held by the arms by two of the other boys. He'd felt Paul's hand and his belt on his own bare ass many times since he'd come here. But if Paul was to be the instrument of his punishment, Sister Magdalene's tone had suggested he'd receive a lot more than a simple bare-assed spanking, or a simple belt whipping.

There was another problem to consider, as well. He was dressed in girls' clothes, and that would never work. He regarded himself in the gloom. He couldn't go in as he was now. The dress was out—he'd never live down entering the dorm in a dress. The same was true of the knee stockings and girls' shoes. He quickly stripped them off, standing just in the thin, washing-grayed panties. The air was cold on his body, now that the sun was down. He glanced at the panties regretfully. There was nothing for it—they were clearly girls' panties. They'd have to go, too. Between panty-clad and bare-ass naked, he'd take bare-ass naked any day. He did, after all, share showers with these boys. He stripped the panties off quickly and added them to the pile of girls' clothing, then slipped the pile behind a tree. Feigning nonchalance, he straightened up and walked boldly to the door into the barn and its internal bunkhouses, ducking into the light. Maybe he could just slip in, and back to his bunk, and get clothes before they noticed.

There was loud conversation from all directions as he entered, hoping to slip quietly into the room he shared with 3 other low status boys, the smallest meanest room of the 3 that led off the common room in the barn, the one that was also farthest from the wood stove and draftiest in winter. But his entry was electric—conversation and rough-housing and game-playing and reading all ceased instantly, as 20 or so boys turned as one to regard him, some with surprise, some with something else in their eyes that he couldn't read. Dennis froze, and silence enveloped the room for a long moment.

"Well, well. Look who's here," Paul finally said. He was a tall, broad shouldered boy, filling out well his overalls and his flannel shirt, the head boy, the biggest of the boys in that bunkhouse. "You seem to have lost your pants, Dinky."

"He seems to have lost his shirt, to," a smaller boy ventured. "And his undies."

"I think he's lost his cock and balls," a third boy said, and there was a chorus of guffaws from the other boys. "Nothin' down there but a stump."

Dinky couldn't help glancing down. Damn, his dick was almost hiding, just a stub pointing straight out over balls that were still swollen and showed signs of abuse. He looked up again.

"What happened to your britches, Dinky?" Paul asked evenly.

"Um, Sister Badass..." Dinky ventured.

"Got your butt licked, did you?" Paul said. "Bare naked?"

"Looks like he got the vice," a boy sitting next to him said. They two had been playing checkers before Dennis had entered. "Look how red his nuts are. And they're not as dinky as normal—he doesn't look so much like a baby down there."

"That true, Dinky?" Paul asked. "Sister Badass gave you the vice."

Dennis nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Dread rose in him, and he prayed the boy wouldn't ask the obvious question. He'd been sworn to secrecy about his sins, sworn with his balls in the grip of the vice not to spread word of his actions. So these boys didn't know, and that was a relief. But he couldn't tell them if they asked. So of course, they asked.

"So, tell," Paul said. There was something off in his voice, almost a sarcastic lilt. It clearly wasn't a friendly question. "What did you do that Mother Superior crushed your balls?"

Dennis considered. He'd already spilled what he'd done to that group of other boys by the flagpole, at least about the pigs. Had he mentioned the boy, too? On the other hand, those boys were with the oldest group, young men, really, a group that seldom spoke to the younger boys in his bunk house. But he also knew word traveled fast. Perhaps if he put his own spin on it, tried the one he'd tried on Mother Superior... He gulped, and his voice quavered. "It wasn't my fault," he began. "I was peeing, and this boy was bending over..."

Paul interrupted. "Stuff it," he said, and contempt now glittered from his eyes. "We already know. Everyone at the farm knows, even the girls. It's all over camp. I bet even the squirts know by now. You been fucking pigs, haven't you, Dinky? Sticking that stubby little peter of yours into pig cunts. Never mind that we all suffer when some jerk like you gets caught doing that. She shut off the hot water, did you know that? Sister Badass came by after dinner with a pipe wrench and turned the valve off herself. Said we needed cold showers to calm us down and protect us from sin. Because of you, and the fact you can't keep your dick out of pig cunts. But that wasn't enough for you, was it. No, you had to go and fuck a couple of the squirts, too, didn't you? Reamed 'em right up their tight little poop chutes with that tiny little thing of yours. You know what that means, Dinky? To us? To all of us? Starting the day with cold showers? With winter coming on and all? Just cause you couldn't be satisfied with whacking it?"

All eyes were on Dinky, and the eyes weren't friendly. Dinky gaped, open-mouthed. It was as bad as it could be. Everyone knew. Worse, they were all suffering because of him. Cold showers. He couldn't imagine it. The shower room was already cold in the morning, but the hot water was a heavenly start to the day that made the hard work afterward bearable. Cold showers from now on, for all the boys. The other boys were going to kill him—simply murder him in cold blood. He wondered if he shouldn't just take off now, run for the hills and hope he could outrun the dogs. But then it got worse. Because the boy next to Paul spoke up.

"I got a little brother," he said. "Down in the squirt dorm."

"So do I," said a boy across the room.

"Me, too," said a third from the side of the room. "You'd probably think he was cute. Want to fuck him in the ass."

"I'd kill someone who did what you did to my little brother," the first boy said casually. Dinky noticed that he had a pocket knife out, now, and was slowly cleaning his nails with a long, sharp blade.

"Naw, you'd just have to cut his balls off," the second boy said. "Then he'd never try to fuck one of our little brothers in the ass again."

"You'd have to take his cock, too," the first boy said. He held the knife in the air, letting the bare bulb in the ceiling gleam off it a moment. The blade looked long and sinister. "If you didn't take his cock, he could still stick it into a kid's butthole."

"Naw, he wouldn't get hard anymore if you took his balls," the second boy said. "None of the boars ever get hard ons after we take their balls. Nor the steers, neither. Or the dogs we castrate. None of them get hard anymore. So you'd only have to take his balls. Besides, if you took his baby cock, he'd have to piss sitting down, and someone would notice. His balls are so small no one would miss them."

"It's be easy," the boy by the wall said, and he had a knife out, too, now. "He'd be easy for us to hold down. Just like the pigs. Two quick cuts, grab each one and pull the cord out and, he'd never fuck one of our little brothers in the ass again."

"He wouldn't even bleed that much," another boy said. "The pigs don't. Though it'd hurt like Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

"Not enough," the first boy said. "We ought to smash 'em flat with a hammer first. Put them on the anvil in the smith's, and beat 'em flat, a little at a time."

Dennis had had enough. He turned to run, but suddenly two of the larger boys materialized in the doorway from outside, blocking it. They must have been watching for him as he came up, in the shadows. He wondered if they'd seen him in the dress and knee socks. "Going somewhere?" one asked, putting a hand out and shoving Dinky further into the room, closing the door behind them. Suddenly the small, crowded bunkhouse seemed much smaller and more crowded.

Dennis turned, his eyes rolling as he saw the ceiling light glinting off both knife blades, a boy on either side of him now. "Come on!" he pleaded. "I didn't hurt him. It was just one of the whores' kids. The brown headed one. He wanted it. He liked it. He said he did it all the time before he came here. For money, like his mom! His butt wasn't even that tight, 'cause he does it all the time." He looked at the other boys one by one, trying to appear earnest. "Really!" he added, when they looked at him stonily. "He really likes it. He asked me to do it. I didn't really want to, but he begged me. 'Cause he likes it. I think he's a fag."

"Really," Paul said, still sitting calmly. "So you're saying if a boy does it a lot he learns to like it?"

"Huh?" Dennis stalled, his eyes still shifting, looking for a place to escape to. "You're saying that if a boy takes it up his butt enough times, he starts to like it," Paul said flatly. "That's what you said. You said that little guy did it all the time and that he liked it."

"He did!" Dennis said. "He was used to it! It didn't even hurt! I was doing him a favor." He looked from face to face, all of them still looking daggers at him. "It made him hard," Dennis threw in, hoping it supported his story. "He was jerking himself while I did it," he added. "He came—he came buckets. Like he was squirting a firehose!"

"Really?" Paul said again. "How 'bout that." He looked around the room. "Ain't that somethin', boys?" he asked the room. "A squirt with a bald crotch, and he came buckets. Like a firehose, Dinky says." He looked at Dennis evenly. "Yet all the girls over there are saying he can't squirt at all," Paul said softly. "Him nor the redhead, either. They said neither of them squirt. Only you, Dinky. You spatter like a little sprinkler, they said, but neither of them can squirt a drop."

"He milked it all out of him earlier," Dennis ventured. "When I took him. Doing him a favor. My dick was so big it made him come all he had, I guess."

"Because he liked it," Paul said.

"Yeah!" Dennis said eagerly. "He came a lot because he liked it. It must have dried him up for awhile. 'Cause he likes being taken up the butt—like I said, he did it all the time before he came here. The other one, too. They said they take it up their butts all the time from big guys, for money. So they missed it. I was just helping him out."

"Well, ain't that convenient," Paul said, and his voice now dripped sarcasm. "Then we're going to be doing you a favor," he said.

"Huh?" Dennis said again. How was he going to get out of here, he wondered. Could he jump past them, maybe jump through a window. No, the glass would cut him, especially since he was bare naked.

"We're going to give you a chance to like it, too," Paul said. "Just in case. In case you meet someone like you who wants to do you a favor like you did to the little shit."

"Yeah," the boy who'd been playing checkers with Paul said, speaking for the first time. "We talked it over. And we're going to give you one chance to keep your tiny balls. We've made some changes in the sleeping arrangements. You now bunk in the feed bin on the other side of the barn. You can't get out without going through here. We've set up your cot in there. We even gave you some pillows."

"In case something needs to be propped up," a boy snickered.

"Those of us who want to help you like you helped that squirt will all get a turn," Paul said.

"One at a time," another boy added. "Only one a night. We don't want to overdo it."

"But every night," a third said. "Until we're all satisfied that you've learned. One of us a night, every night."

"They've volunteered to do you a favor," Paul added. "And you don't tell a soul. 'Specially not the nuns, or the Father. They notice you got a sore asshole, you tell them you stuck your finger up there. 'Cause you're a pervert, and you like it. But you don't tell on us."

"Or we'll make those cuts. Two quick ones, right under your stubby little pecker," the boy with the knife by the wall said. "Relieve you of the urge, so to speak."

"But..you couldn't...they'll ask questions if you do," Dennis said.

"You tried to jump over the harrow and got your balls caught on it," Paul said easily. "'Cause you're an idiot. Tore 'em right off. We all saw it," he added. "And your balls will be hanging there, on the teeth, dangling by their cords. The front of your pants will be ripped out, and covered with blood," he added.

"Your blood," the boy with the knife said.

"Supporting our story," Paul finished. "Nice and neat. So, decision time, Dinky. Which will it be, your balls, or your butthole?"

Dennis felt a sinking feeling as it dawned on him where this was going. "NO!" he exclaimed. "You couldn't!"

"Ah, but we can," Paul said calmly. "Sister Badass lets us run our own affairs as long as no one gets badly hurt. You know that. And your new roommate each night won't hurt you, at least not much."

"As long as you relax and enjoy it," a boy in the middle of the room spoke up.

"We'll use Vaseline," another boy spoke up. "Sister Badass gave it to us. When she came by to tell us about the cold showers. Said that it was good for making things fit into tight places, and that we might have a use for it. Said she'd get us more if we ran out. I think she doesn't want you to bleed too much."

"You get too sore, you won't enjoy it," Paul summed up. "Like the little shit you butt-fucked did. And we want you to enjoy it."

"Yeah, we want you to enjoy it," the boy next to him chimed in.

Dennis took a frightened step to the door. They boy by the wall stepped forward in a flash, backing Dennis toward the wall. The point of his knife was suddenly low, dimpling the center of the naked boy's tightly pulled up left testicle.

"Go ahead," the boy said softly. "One more step. Give me an excuse. We'll hang them from the harrow, like he said. Maybe hang the tip of your little cock there, too."

Dennis froze, then looked down at the shiny blade pressed against his left ball. As he watched, a tiny drop of blood welled around the tip of the blade and began inching down his wrinkled sack. "Please," he begged. "Please..."

He slumped and looked pitifully at Paul, the clear leader of the group. Paul looked at him with clear contempt. "Let him go," he said to the boy with the knife. The boy held the knife in place another long second, then dropped his hand. Dennis slumped, breathing again, involuntarily clutching his balls with his right hand. Blood smeared on his fingertips, but he'd already stopped bleeding.

"Guess he decided to keep his balls and give up his asshole," Paul said casually to the other boys. "We'll see how long it takes him to learn to like it." He looked at Dennis. Dennis, dread of what was to come permeating him, couldn't meet his eyes. "Okay, we're done with you, shithead. Get your ugly little ass over her and get over my knee so I can lube you up," Paul finally said flatly. "Once I'm done, you go out through the barn, into the feed bin. Leave the door open. When you get there, bend over the bunk with your ass facing the door. Pull your knees up good, so you're wide open, and bury your head in a pillow and keep it there. We don't want to year you bawling if it hurts. Someone will come, eventually. Stay in position until he comes. It's black as a witches tomb out there, so you won't be able to see who it is—you don't need to know. After he's done with you, you can get into the bunk and go to sleep. If you feel like sleeping afterward, that is. In the morning, you stay in your bunk until I send someone to get you. You get paddled every morning from now on, too, until we're done teaching you. A different boy in your butt every night, a different boy working your cheeks over with the paddle every day. Get used to it, there are a lot of guys here want a turn with you. Both paddling you and "helping" you learn to like it."

"Wait," Dennis plead. "Please. I'm sorry. It was kind of an accident..."

"Shut up," Paul said. "Or I'll paddle your ass now and you can have your first lesson with your butt already sore. Get your ugly little ass over here and get into position right now." Dennis looked around the room Hatred stared back at him through every pair of eyes. He was suddenly strongly aware of his butt hole, buried in his muscular, boyish butt cheeks, tightly pursing in reaction to the horror of the pronouncement. He was going to be butt fucked by all these boys. One a night. For weeks. And then get up in the morning, his hole still burning and violated (he knew the feeling from experience with his cousin) and be led into the main room to be paddled, paddled by a boy larger than himself but only slightly older. Paddlings in the bunkhouse were done in the humiliating little boy/father position. Paul usually did the paddling, and he himself had gotten one of Paul's paddlings several months ago, and he's watched other boys get them as well. It was always in the morning after showers,always bare butt, always painfully hard. He and the other boys all knew the drill—it was be paddled in the bunkhouse voluntarily, without reaching back or resisting, or be switched or strapped at the flagpole in front of everyone. Paul had never let anyone else paddle the boys, though—let along letting them each have a turn. Paul would blister him, too, and he had no doubt the other boys would add to those blisters. And that wouldn't be the end of it. There'd be another boy tomorrow night, grunting into his ear as he reamed Dennis' butt hole, the way his cousin used to grunt by his ear, his weight making it hard to breath has he thrust into the boy's asshole. Then it would be a paddling on his painfully sore butt the next morning, and then more the next day and the next. Suddenly his days seemed a long, dark tunnel of gloom. He turned and slowly began the shameful trudge to the door that led into the barn, and to the feed bin that would be his prison until the boys chose to let him go. Because that was his only choice, if he wanted to keep his balls.

He tried one more appeal. "Please," he said. "Please. I'll make it up to you guys. I'll get Sister Badass to give you back the hot water. I'll tell her that it isn't your fault—it's all mine..."

Paul had already sat down on the chair by the checkerboard and turned it to face the rest of the boys. "Shut up," he said. "Get into position." He was already opening the squarish jar of Vaseline. A boy gave Dennis a shove, and he tripped forward, stumbling toward Paul. The boy by Paul's side caught him and neatly tripped him so he fell over Paul's lap. Paul reached down casually with a huge right hand and yanked Dennis' body forward and pushed his shoulders down. In moments, Dennis' butt was the apex of a triangle, with his head and legs hanging toward the floor. The boy to Paul's right leaned forward and put a hand on each of Dennis' bare buns, spreading them painfully wide before he could move. Paul quickly smoothed a thick glob of Vaseline across the boy's exposed, tight hole, and then quickly drove his finger up Dennis' butt. His rectum screamed in pain as Paul roughly reamed his protesting hole, thickly coating the entire inside with Vaseline as far as his fingers would reach, then obtaining more from the jar and inserting two fingers into his now slick hole. Dennis sucked in his breath and tried to relax and not tense up, because he'd learned long ago with his cousin's cock up his butt how much more tensing made it hurt. The boys around the room watched with rapt attention as Paul finished smearing the small boy's rectum with lube.

"Get up," he said roughly. "I gotta go wash my hands." There was guffawing all round at this pronouncement. Shamed to the core, his butt hole smarting and lube squishing between his buns, Dennis rose and began the shameful walk to the feed bin and the humiliation and pain that awaited him there.

"Cheer up," Paul called afterward. "You said yourself, you get used to it. You learn to like it." He chuckled humorlessly. "Maybe you'll be able to use it to make money for yourself if you ever run away." He turned back to his checker board, and conversation began picking up around the room. As he passed the last boy by the door to the barn, the boy looked up, his eyes boring into Dennis'. It was one of his bunkmates, a boy named Sal, a mean-spirited lad almost as small and sexually immature as Dennis, with just a light coating of straight pubic hair and a dick barely bigger than his own. (Dennis knew every boy's butt and crotch as well as their faces—there wasn't much else to do when you were in the shower every day but look at boys' privates, and he'd always been envious of what the others had).

"You should have run," the boy by the door said. "Not tried to come back at all. Just lit out for the fields. You'd have had more of a chance with the dogs. Now you're doomed." He grinned. "If you'd had any guts, you'd have told them you wanted your balls cut off rather than be a fag boy," he added. "Maybe they wouldn't have gone through with it. Maybe. Then again, maybe you'd be balless and bleeding right now." He snickered. "We aren't supposed to tell,' he said more softly. "But I'm first. I get to fuck you while you're still tight. And I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. Too bad they used that stuff up your butt, though. I'd have done you dry. I want it to hurt."

Dinky looked at his glittering, hate filled eyes. Then he turned and stumbled through the door to the barn, and the dark, barely visible feed bin door across the way. The dirt floor of the barn was cold on his bare feet, and the air cold on his bare genitals and buttocks as well. He felt his way through the door and crept forward, knowing the cot couldn't be far. His hands found it, low and closer to him than he'd thought. He settled on his knees and groped forward, finding a rough, hard pillow and bringing it up under his face. He lowered his face into the lump of it, feeling his buns spread as he settled his knees on the cold wooden floor of the place. He could feel the greasy sensation of the lubricant up his butt and between his buns, buns that Sal, hated, disgusting Sal, would be mounting in short order, thrusting his small, hard, mushroom-headed cock into. Rutting in his tight butt until he came, shaming Dennis to the core with the most humiliating thing a boy could do to another. He sighed, feeling the lump in his throat, fighting the urge to cry. It was like with his cousin, all over again. The boys who were going to take him by force at night would be there beside him during the day, their superior smirks reminding him that they fucked his butt at will, and he had to take it. He opened his eyes into the pillow as he heard the steps approaching behind him, the clothes rustling as pants were unzipped and lowered. A rough hand took his shoulder as the weight of the other boy pressed him, and another hand guided a hard, already throbbing cock tip against his hole. He tensed it, knowing the tensing was futile, and the boy behind him chortled. "Go ahead," he hissed in a whisper. "It'll be better if you fight me." Dennis opened his eyes into the darkness of the pillow over them, and saw his dark future.