The Orphanage Boys Chapter 9

The Orphanage Boys Chapter 9
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 9: 9th Floor: Tables and Counters

Father Mckenzie's hand, under his desk, slowed as he recalled the treatment he'd given the boy who'd just left. A very stimulating lad, indeed, with his soft whimpers as he received his treatment. But the good father didn't want to climax, not right now. These things were best when you denied yourself, built up a hunger and an anticipation. Yet he didn't want to stop, either, not for the moment. He needed the two boys whose ravaged little bums were displayed in front of him to wait just a bit more so that their fear of the upcoming shots could sink in before the deliciousness of the actual injections. He loved the feel of the trembling buttocks under his hand, the boy's shock as the needle penetrated that soft skin and neatly impaled the tense muscle, the little squeak or full-fledged squall of pain and the effort to control tears, biting lower lips and clenching little fists. The way their privates shriveled at the assault on that muscle so close to their vulnerable little sacks and dangling little penile fingers.

Anticipation, that was the seasoning that made dishes savory. Like that boy who had just left. That boy was a favorite of his - the red hair, much like the boys he grew up with, like the more tentative boy of this pair. He loved red heads, with their white skin. Such smooth, creamy skin, even smoother on their luscious little bottoms. Skin so white that the pinkness of the scrotum and anus was almost the perfect shade, a color a young girl would wear in a bonnet. And he rather liked that the boy who'd just left wasn't broken in fully yet, that he gasped when entered and whimpered with each thrust, and cried soft tears before his "treatment" was done, yet remained rock hard and throbbing at the same time. Father McKenzie had soothed the boy as he always did, with hands well-practiced in bringing small penises to the brink of ecstasy over and over again before letting them spill over into that blessed, breathtaking release. He knew all too well that heady, confusing mixture of feelings. The feeling a young boy experienced having these unfamiliar, disturbing, but enticing things done to their inexperienced bodies. He'd spent many an hour after such an experience himself, nestled in the arms of an older boy spooned against his back, stirred up inside, rectum burning, but oh, so sated and comfortable from the ecstasy that could be wrung from his diminutive, hairless genitals. Sometimes the boys held his genitals after he'd cum, and that felt good - companionable and comfortable. He'd feared for and yet yearned for the next round, for the weight of the boy on his back, the eager hands spreading his soft, virginal cheeks, the sharp pain of the intrusion and the little stabs that followed as the boy panted into his ear, the gush of fluid inside him as the boy came quickly, the pain of the withdrawal, but then, always, the pleasure…

He'd had to come up with a way to explain that hot gush inside the boys he treated, a thing easily done with these gullible little boys. He'd made a rubber rod complete with bulging head just the size of his own member, and had drilled a hole in the center and attached a balloon at the other end, behind a cross-handle he'd added as a grip. He showed it to the boys before masking them once he was ready to move on to the second phase of their treatments, and explained to them that the rod massaged their prostates, which reduced their lusts and made it easier to be more Godly. (This much was true - his treatments definitely reduced the boys' lusts for a time. He carefully made sure they all left him sated, their passions exhausted for a time.) The balloon, he would explain, was full of hot medicine that would be squirted deep inside them at the proper time, to soothe them inside and help with their treatments. As the boys never felt the actual rubber rod inside them, they had no experience to allow them to realize that he didn't use the actual rod on them once they were masked, but instead his own, rubbery, "rod."

He'd had a bad moment the first time he'd tried this plan. When he'd finished with the boy he'd been "treating," and was removing the boy's mask after standing him up on bowed legs, the boy had commented that he'd felt something "fuzzy" against his buttocks and wondered aloud what it was. Father McKenzie had panicked for a moment, but fortunately spotted a fuzzy scarf of his on the counter and in a moment of inspiration pointed to it and told the boy he'd used it to hold the rubber rod because his hand was sore from digging in the garden at the Monastery. The boy appeared to have bought his explanation, but as soon as he was gone Father McKenzie had repaired to the bathroom and carefully shaved his entire pubic area with the same straight razor he used on his face. He'd kept himself shaved since, rather liking the way it made him look as bare and virginal down there as the boys he serviced.

He slowly stroked himself, keeping well below the climax level as he contemplated the ravaged little butts facing him. Too bad Sister Mary Catherine was so enthusiastic and had marked these boys so thoroughly. He loved boys' butts - so soft skinned, so vulnerable, so easy to mark, but so firm under that velvety skin. Sister Mary Catherine clearly had cleansed these two yesterday along with all the spanking she'd done to them, and he was sorry for that - he enjoyed the sight of a tightly pursed little anal slit, preferably a slightly darker pink than the surrounding skin, although a light brown like the boy on the left was very nice, too. He loved spreading the soft orbs and watching the tight, wrinkled slit twitching in embarrassment at being so openly exposed. He liked studying the tight corrugated pattern surrounding that snug little slit, then following it down between the legs, where all of them had that neat ridge where boys were knitted together by the good Lord, avoiding the sloppiness that females had there, that unsavory-looking, wet messiness that made him despise that part of female bodies. (Not that he disliked the rest of females -- a fine pair of young breasts, a gently curving bare bottom - these he liked on the girls as much as he the bums of the boys. But the genitals of girls he just couldn't get into - neither figuratively or literally. Not the adult ones, anyway. The younger girls with their neat, hairless little furrows - those he rather liked as much as he liked the dangling, complex equipment of boys.)

And speaking of that low, snug triangle where the legs joined on boys, that equipment was fascinating to him, endlessly fascinating. The swell of the scrotum, the dangle of the little penis or the straightforward thrust of an erection! He liked the endless variation of scrota, hanging loosely or pulled tight to the body in a mass of pink or light brown wrinkles. He preferred them tight to loose, and he noted with satisfaction that both these boys were sporting tight little scrota, hugging their valuable contents close to the boys' bodies. He was inclined to be cruel to boys with heavy, dangling scrota, especially if they bore even the slightest trace of adolescent hairs. But these two brought out more fatherly or maybe brotherly instincts. At least brotherly instincts like those of his brothers at the Monastery where he grew up, and the seminary where he'd studied.

The lubricant he'd used on their rectums glistened around their finger-violated holes, inviting him compellingly, making the head of his manhood swell. Well, mustn't thank about that -- he wouldn't violate them there any more today. He never did do more than insert his fingers in the anus for the prostate exam on any boy's first visit. But he licked his lips thinking about the potential of these two—he liked redheads, and the one called Sam was an especially fine specimen to his eyes, reminding him of the red-heads from the old country that he'd grown up with and attended seminary with. And shared a bed with those long, cold Dublin nights as well. He liked the white skin of the redheads, the pinkish or pinkish brown of their scrota and anuses, the way they flushed when excited or embarrassed, all the way to the roots of their hair. And this one was a a vulnerable lad—a bit thin and gawky, with teeth that were too big and protruded. Much like his first bed partner, who'd been only a bit older than this age, sporting his early mat of red hairs, still not yet curly, and his growing, eager penis - the penis that had taken his own virginity so eagerly. He stopped his stroking hand and let his excitement taper off again.

Yes, the little redhead who'd just left was also a satisfying little lad. The treatments he'd been receiving had loosened the formerly tight little anus nicely, so he now penetrated with only a little effort, and the boy no longer screamed in pain but only whimpered. Oh, the thrill of pressing his own respectably long but noticeably thin tool to the boy's tight anus, forcing it to surrender, to open its pink moistness to him. The long, slow strokes, careful to never let his body touch the boy's smooth buttocks, to maintain the illusion that a rubber tool was in use instead. Working the hard little penis in his hand simultaneously, feeling the boy respond internally and externally to the stimulation. Finally the climax, necessarily done in silence, biting his lip as he ejaculated into that hot warmth, shuddered, and then pulled out. Commenting something light, like "And in goes the medicine." Dropping his concealing cassock, finishing the boy off effortlessly, wiping the boy down, and then removing the boy's straps and then his mask. He only treated a few boys at a time, and every one, he was pretty sure, believed they were getting medicine massaged into their rectums by a rubber rod to control their lustful or aggressive impulses. And although some of them, such as today's earlier boy, still found it painful and distressing and cried during the "application," most eventually came to tolerate the "treatments" and even, possibly, to look forward to them, especially the part that involved the stimulation of their own variously sized tools. Eventually, they all became too mature to excite him, with penises too large and scrota too pendulous. The hairs would grow in, and ejaculate would start appearing - first as a spatter of surprised drops, then as little spurts, and then the ropes, heavier and thicker, that signaled that it was time to pronounce that boy cured and look for another victim. Or two, in this case.

The red-head who'd just left remained dry when he climaxed. So there were still many months of experiences with him. Even when he began climaxing wetly, Father McKenzie could tolerate it as long as the boy was kept shaved and the offering was merely eager, excited, sticky spatters, not thick ropes of cum. But it would be months before the boy reached that point, probably more than a year. And there would be plenty of time for enjoyment until then.

The sandy-haired one of this pare would be spattering wildly himself fairly soon,Father McKenzie judged - his small orbs were already growing. But until then, there were months he could savor. He let his stimulation of himself come to a stop - he had another boy to see later, and to treat, this evening, probably, after he was well done with the penance of these two. He'd be pent up all afternoon with what he had planned, and release would be frenzied and sweet with this evening's boy. But worth it - more worth it for the wait. He let his robe fall and turned his contemplation back to the two naked boys so invitingly displayed in front of him. They were getting edgy, waiting for their shots, and that was good - let them get used to the idea that they had to submit to painful bodily intrusions. They'd be more ready for him later. The redhead was most attractive to him, but the other boy was appealing to him as well - more sturdy in manner and appearance than the my babyish redhead, a bit duskier, but nicely proportioned and with a slightly less rounded bottom. And a smaller, more childish little member, too, despite his more mature orbs. Father McKenzie rather liked the type - they were more concerned about appearing manly and strong, and thus easier for a man like him to manipulate simply be suggesting the boy was being childish. He could tolerate the darker scrotum and anal muscle for an attitude like that. He wondered, briefly, if these two had ever experimented with each other the way the boys did at the Monastery where he grew up. Somehow, he doubted it - there was an air of innocence around them when it came to exposing their genitals that suggested they hadn't played any of the oral or anal or even the touching games he'd played so avidly with the other boys. From what he'd seen of their records, they shared a bed in an apartment used by their mothers for their shameful profession, but he'd have bet all the boys he intended to violate for the next month that neither had every tasted a penis, nor had one in his bum. Given their rather surprised reactions to their body's reactions to his "treatments," it was possible they hadn't even touched themselves before the dear sisters had milked them so clumsily last night. He felt a shiver of excitement at the thought of defiling two such innocents.

It was too bad that Sister Mary Catherine had been so thorough in her punishment of these two, he thought to himself. He preferred boys with creamy white butt cheeks. (Although there was a something to be said for light brown and dark brown little boy butts, too—a year or so back, Father McKenzie had, for a time, treated an undersized and immature Negro boy. The almost black anal ring and the black, bunched scrotum against the light brown skin was actually very stimulating for a time, and contrasted nicely with the deep pink inside the boy's bum.) And if that boy was any example, the rumor about the size of the members of the Negro race was greatly exaggerated - many of the white boys had much bigger penises. That boy's bum had developed the most intriguing redness under then dark skin when thoroughly spanked - he'd ordered a spanking in his study as penance for the boy just to see how his bottom would mark. He'd spanked the boy quite thoroughly, bare hand on bare bum, dispelling another myth he'd heard, that Negros didn't feel pain like other people. They boy had cried as shamelessly and copiously as any white boy receiving a similar spanking, and his bottom had blistered and welted as readily, too, and danced around squalling, his short little dicklet flapping, for an extended period after being let up from his spanking.

It had been a pity to mark that fine, brown bum, actually. He really preferred a boy's soft bottom skin unmarred by pimples or welts or blisters from a paddle. And he liked them untouched between those soft orbs - he preferred looking at and working with tight, virginal anuses, not swollen, red, violated ones. Still, one worked with what one had, and at least the genitals and perineums of these two were untouched. For the moment. Although what he had planned for these two…

Well, it wasn't time to think about that, not yet. And it wasn't that he didn't redden more than his share of soft, bare buttocks himself. It didn't even matter if they were attached to people with boy or girl apparatus in front. That apparatus couldn't be seen, anyway, when you had them over your lap. And girls cried easily, and he liked the surge of power he got from making them cry. Still, he preferred the boys over the girls. He wondered for a moment why that was, and why he never even considered violating the girls for his satisfaction the way he did the boys. Their tight slits of anuses were exactly the same, after all. But of course, there was no throbbing hard appendage to fondle on the girls, knowing you were given them pleasure while taking it. And although he'd heard girls could be rubbed in places that gave them pleasure, he shuddered at the very thought of touching that messy place. Not to mention the fact that Mother Superior probably would not be as tolerant of him practicing his "treatments" on the girls.

Besides, there was something intimate between a boy being spanked by a man - a sort of shared bond, a rite of passage sort of experience. Boys had so much to expose during a spanking, and felt so exposed. A boy over your lap was at your mercy—the pain he would suffer, how much, how long, and exactly where—that was all up to you. He could kick, he could squeal, he could tremble and twitch and beg, but ultimately you decided when it started, when it stopped, and everything that happened in between. Father McKenzie preferred reddening boys' butts by hand to using a paddle, and he didn't like whips or canes or switches at all. He had big hands, and he could spank a boy slow and hard, with his hand slightly cupped to conform to the boy's smooth curves, and feel the resilient skin's shock each time his hand landed, and the hard muscle underneath that hot, reddening skin.

The older boys he liked to leave unrestrained, ordering them to hold onto a chair crossbar, or a pillow, or the edge of a desk or couch, because he enjoyed watching them war with themselves with the urge to reach back and cover up, their poor, red, tortured bottoms begging them to do so, their minds telling them they'd better not or he'd make their spankings worse. (He always reminded them of just that, that he'd spank longer and harder if he had to restrain them. In fact, one of his favorite things to tell the older boys was that if they reached back to block his hand or tried to escape in any way, they'd be tied and their spankings would be started again, from the beginning! He'd even done it, once or twice, and word got around the boys quickly of the folly of resistance to his will).

He loved the trembling that all of them did, even the big, tough early teens, prior to commencement of their ordeals, and the unconscious little kicks and wiggles that told him his spanks were having their effect. He loved the way they fought crying out, first just stiffening in surprise at how much his initial blows hurt, then breathing hard, then gasping, and then finally being unable to control the little grunts that his blows drove out of them. Then would come the cries of pain with each blow, cries that eventually merged into one long, continuous cry with pauses for breath, and before they knew it, they all were crying for real, even the big, blubbering 14-year-olds.

The little boys cried right away, of course, some from the first spank, some even before his big hand landed on small buttocks, and they had to be restrained from the beginning. This was easy enough with them - all he had to do was take the right arm and pull it across the smooth, soft-skinned back and pin it just above the small of the back, above the swelling curve of the buttocks, with his left hand. (He spanked all boys completely naked in his study - not just pants down, but completely naked. It made them more pliable and vulnerable.)

His gripping the right arm across the body left the little boy's left hand free, but there was no way for the child to worm that left arm up past Father McKenzie's grip to protect himself, and often that arm flailed comically in the air, grasping at nothing, fingers tensing into claws as the pain of his methodically, bare-bum spanking soaked in. He could feel them through the thin cloth of his cassock—feel the rippling stomach muscles tense in pain, feel the thighs rub and bump against his leg as they tensed and kicked, and feel the soft, squishy genitals against the top of his thigh as the boys shifted, heedless, aware only of the intense, unbearable pain building in their bottoms. He missed that feeling in the girls, and it was one of the reason he preferred the boys.

Of course, the bigger boys with their lengthening and swelling genitals could be felt more easily, but even the little boys prodded his leg with their little protrusions, and he loved the feel of those private little lumps against his leg. And once in awhile, making his life more interesting, a boy would go over his lap incongruously hard, and would start his spanking lying on a hard little cylinder pressing insistently into the priest's leg. He found them intriguing - how could a boy be hard at a time like that? He certainly hadn't gotten hard in the many spankings he'd gotten from priests and seminary students as an extremely badly behaved little boy. Although he'd certainly gotten hard from the other things they did to him, when he wasn't being spanked, and the things he and his bedmate did to comfort themselves and each other after a spanking.

And then, when he finally finished reddening a boy's posterior to his liking, would come the glorious afterward. When he rested his hand on the swelling, hot, flushed curves and let the boy try to compose himself for a bit, his hand gently exploring the damage he'd done. He'd let the boy cry a bit, then turn him and lift the body up against his, letting the tousled head cry against his chest while he patted the back and gently cupped the hot, red posterior, his hand often pressed against the soft, cooler skin between the hot globes, in that intimate place right between anus and scrotum or pressing right on the softer, more yielding anus itself, supporting the boy there, where no one ever touched, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And then drying the boy's tears and getting his fevered promise not to misbehave again (promises they always broke, thank the good Lord).

They were so grateful when you stopped spanking them. So eager to please, to be approved of, to do anything so as to be in your good graces again, to be a boy with adult gazes focused on his eyes and not his glowing red posterior. They hugged gratefully, little naked bodies shamelessly against his, let him kiss their cheeks and the tops of their heads, and whimpered gratitude when he rubbed lotion into their sore bottoms later, the cool soothing of his hands such a contrast to the hot pain the same rough hands had brought earlier. And then he would tell some of them that their misbehavior meant they needed another of his treatments, and the best time would come for him, and sometimes for them as well.

He compared the two posteriors so invitingly pointed toward him, the two nervous little boys waiting for their shots. He liked giving boys shots, especially in the buttocks. These two actually needed them, but sometimes he would simply make up the need for shots, giving the boys vitamins, or even just sterile water, or, of a boy displeased him, salt water. It was better, of course, if the buttocks were pristine and unmarked, but this would be fine, too.

He'd learned to give shots by reading a text on the subject, and then by practicing on children until he'd become quite good at it. He almost always gave shots in the bum - he had more margin for error that way, as well as a better view while he was working. Like the view he had now. Well, best not let them wait too long - one of them would be sure to pee on his floor in fright if he did. He hated boys peeing on his floor, or his table, or anywhere in the room. Indeed, he didn't like the fact that boys peed at all - he'd just as soon those cute little organs that bounced so innocently in front of them when they walked to be unmarred by any such nastiness. He liked his anuses clean and his rectums clear, too, and in that respect he supposed he ought to be grateful that these two had been cleaned out so thoroughly, even if Sister Mary Catherine had marred their tight orifices in the process.

Normally, before a boy started his treatment, before he was tied to the table and the stirrups, legs widely spread, tiny, hairless genitals on display, and buttocks bent and spread for Father McKenzie's access to his tight hole, Father McKenzie would take him to the office's bathroom after undressing him and administer an enema for that very reason. He'd done exactly that to the boy who'd been leaving when these two arrived, stripping him naked in the office, then walking behind him to the bathroom, watching that dimpled, jutting little bum flex as the boy did as he was bidden. He loved taking the boys over his lap as he sat on the closed toilet seat. He positioned them farther forward for this procedure than he did for spanking, with their bums in the middle of his lap rather than off to the right side, bent like the letter A, head and legs slanting down, parting the soft, tender buns with one hand and sliding the big nozzle, already lubricated, in with the other. After administering the enema he'd hold the boy that way for a minute or two, then stand him up facing to the left, so he could massage the boy's stomach with his left hand while pressing the other at the base of his bum and encouraging the boy to hold it in the requisite 10 minutes. (If the boy were to lose control, it was relatively easy to squeeze those yielding little buns shut to prevent leakage until the boy could be installed on the toilet). Once the boy was ready, his belly swollen, his expression uncomfortable as he danced from foot to foot begging to be allowed to "go," Father McKenzie would rise from the toilet seat, flip the top open, and depart, leaving the boy to empty and clean himself and flush the toilet and find his way back to the office. (He had no fear of the boy trying to flee at this point - there was nowhere he could go to escape the priest's reach here at the orphanage, and besides, he was butt naked and his clothes were in the office.

It was almost comically how the boy would make his way back dutifully to the office, still flushing with the embarrassment of the enema, dragging his feet, looking at the floor. Then it was up into the stirrups with him, a thorough swabbing of his genital and anal region with alcohol (some of these little guys wiped themselves meticulously after the enema, some did not). Then the glorious treatment - the boy biting his lip and grunting in discomfort under the mask until Father McKenzie was spent and withdrew, then gasping and crooning and yipping when their own climax was coaxed out of their eager, jumping little tools. The lad who had just left was always flushed the most beautiful red in the face when the Father was done and he was unbound from the table and his mask removed, the remembered and still felt violation of his rectum mixed with the ecstasy of the genital massage at war on his face. Father McKenzie knew how the boys felt at that point - he'd felt that way himself many a time in his own youth as his older and stronger bed mate had snuggled close to him for his warmth on those cold Dublin nights, his anus and rectum still stirred up and smarting from the boy's too eager and too rough humping, but his penis sated and comfortable after the boy's stroking. Sometimes, when he was feeling very charitable, his bunkmate had even taken him orally, or, more often, ordered one of the less favored boys to take him orally while the head boy watched, leaving his penis wet and cold but also spent and satisfied.

His bunkmate for awhile had even used him in disciplining the other boys, ordering them to suck him, or lick his bum, or even go over his lap to be spanked. This had seemed to excite the older boy to no end, and often he could hardly wait to drag young Paddy to the bed immediately afterwards, humping him shamelessly under the covers, heedless of the eyes of the other boys on him.

Well, the boys were getting restless, it was time to act. He rose and walked to the counter, picking up the first syringe on each stack and setting them on the table, one on either side of each boy. Eyes bright with fear, one set blue, one brown, followed him as he moved, watching him until he went behind them, then turning resolutely forward and looking at the floor.

"Let's get this out of the way," he said. "Don't you boys dare let go of the table." Sam tensed and looked at him fearfully over his shoulder a moment, caught a glimpse of the needle beside his butt, then looked away. Jake hung his head and looked at the floor, his buttocks clenching momentarily and then being forced to relax.

"Jake…Jake…" Sam moaned, looking frantically sideways at his life-long friend for protection.

Jake looked at Sam, who was looking like he might shit himself at any moment. Well, not that - they were still empty inside from yesterday's events. But he looked like he might do it anyway, no matter how impossible it was. Jake sighed and took his right arm and circled Sam's shoulders, pulling their upper bodies into contact with each other. "Don't look," he said. "You'll feel better if you don't look. Put your arm around me, and we'll hold each other. Like we did when we had to get the splinters out of our behinds. Remember?"

Sam, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, nodded. Both boys remembered the incident quite vividly. It had been Sam's idea two years before that they slide down the big board slanting down from the building at the construction site, but Jake had readily agreed, and they'd gone side by side, together. Halfway down, going fast, they'd run into an unsanded part and ended up with butts full of small splinters, and even two splinters in Jake's tight scrotum and two in Sam's. Hobbling home, crying, they'd sobbed their stories out to Jake's mom, who had immediately pulled down pants and blood-spotted underpants and bent them over a couch under a strong light, where she'd donned reading glasses and painfully removed splinter after splinter from shivering little boy buns. They'd held each other just as Jake had said, and his mother had alternated pulling splinters from each of them, leaving their tightly bunched scrota for last. Both boys cried before the end, but it was the iodine afterward that made them shriek, and then hop around the room for awhile clutching sore, iodine spotted buns, little penises bouncing, pants kicked off and forgotten along with any shred of modesty.

Trembling visibly, bent over the table, Jake also couldn't keep at bay bad memories of Sister Mary Catherine's desk and their stints over it, and yesterday's long session tied to the enema horse. Jake's butt felt incredibly vulnerable, and he supposed Sam's did, too. He couldn't bear to look as the priest moved behind him, picking up the needle by his side, then swabbing Jake's left bun low down, across from his butt hole, with cold alcohol,. Jake tensed as the swabbing ended, gripping Sam tightly across the shoulders. Sam tensed as well, even though he wasn't being touched. Then, there was a period that seemed like forever, while each boys held his breath and nothing happened. Jake almost jumped when a big hand pressed against his right bun, fingers pressing firmly, gripping the cheek but spaced apart, stretching a section of mottled, blistered skin taut. There was another pause, then a sharp stabbing pain exploded in his left buttock, right in the sit spot. The pain deepened until it felt like the needle was about a foot into his butt, then it intensified again as the needle was emptied into him and the contents burned as it separated tissues. He began whimpering, but then the needle was withdrawn, though the burning remained, and he almost sighed with relief that it was over.

"Still three to go," the priest reminded him, and his heart began racing again. A throb was building up in his butt, a painful ache that increased with each heart beat right at the shot site. Three more? He wasn't going to be able to move afterward, let alone sit in the classroom! Beside him, Sam began whimpering, too, and the hand on Jake's buttock rubbed the sore surface for a bit and then left the throbbing muscle. Moments later Sam stiffened, squelched a yelp, and then squalled as he apparently also felt the stab of a needle. His fingers dug into Jake's back and he gasped and squalled louder, then subsided into moans as his needle was also apparently withdrawn.

"That was the easy one," the priest intoned. "I'm afraid the next one will burn quite a bit more." He smiled to himself. He knew for sure it would burn quite a bit more - the shot itself was only ½ a cc, but he'd added saline to the solution to bring it up to 2 cc's. The greater bulk of the shot, combined with the salt, would insure these boys would sit up and take notice!

Jake almost peed himself and the side of the table in fright, but then controlled it. Waiting for the next needle was agony, as both boys' left cheeks throbbed with indignation. It felt to Jake like the needle was still in there at times, like he could feel a cold line running deep into his muscles. The priest retrieved the next two needles place one pointedly on each side of the boys, and then Jake squirmed uncomfortably as his other buttock was scrubbed with alcohol, also low down, across from his anus. Again the large hand pressed down on his butt and the needle prodded at the skin, found a spot, then jammed into him. As advertised, this time liquid fire filled his buttock as the needle was depressed, and he squealed, took a deep breath, and squealed again and again as the burn took hold. He rocked and bawled as the priest rubbed the area, the burning only gradually subsiding along with his cries into a sharp, painful throb that was almost worse than the aftermath of being spanked.

Next to him, Sam was a basket case, already weeping even though he hadn't even been cleaned with alcohol yet, petrified at Jake's reaction. When his turn came he screamed as the needle went in, and screamed again, louder, several more times before lapsing into full-throated crying. His fingers dug into Jake's back as he squalled, and Jake hung on tightly to him as well as the priest put down the needle and massaged both boys' butts over their entire surfaces. The priest's touch was agony to start with, but as the burn in their buttocks calmed down, settled into an odd combination of pain and feeling rather good. The boys' welts and blisters didn't like the touch at all, and neither did the sites of their shots, but the massage felt better on their less tortured skin. They stayed in that position for many long minutes, the priest working on Jake's butt with his left hand and Sam's with his right, and the boys calming their crying down to little moans and hiccups.

"Well, so much for the easy ones," the priest intoned. "I'm afraid the other two are much more painful.

Jake's had controlled his crying, and Sam was down to whimpers, but this pronouncement was like a vat of cold water dowsing both of them. The easy ones? The easy ones? Their butts were throbbing in agony, and those were the easy ones?