Special Detention
(multiple FM/mb, torture, cbt, anal, extreme, mast, humil, nc)
by Nialos Leaning

nialos@yahoo.com

CAUTION! This story tends toward the extreme side and may be
too intense and/or graphic for some readers.

a Spartan Boys Story Festival entry
For Spartan Boys Story Festival details and submission
guidelines, and to find all of Nialos' Leaning's youth
punishment and sexual humiliation stories, plus those of
selected guest authors, visit the always free
http://www.asstr.org/~nialos

Copyright 2005 by Nialos Leaning, all rights reserved.
Permission for noncommercial free (no charge) electronic
distribution and personal use reproduction of this story is
hereby granted.  All such distribution, re-posting and
reproduction must be without alteration of this story in any
way, must include this entire copyright notice, and must in
their entireties retain the following statements:

"This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.  It depicts teams
consisting of preteen and young teen boys competing against
each other in a school discipline "special detention"
program involving public nudity, sexual humiliation, and
infliction of extreme pain.  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."

"This story is pure fantasy, written for the enjoyment of
adults.  Behavior depicted in this story may in real life be
illegal or considered by society to be abusive, harmful,
unacceptable or undesirable.  The author neither advocates,
condones nor personally engages in any such behavior."

"This story, as is all fiction, is fantasy and not reality.
The author does recognize the difference between the two.
Please do understand that some of us, including the author,
enjoy such fantasy material."

"Compliments and constructive criticism are always welcome."

* * *

Special Detention
by Nialos Leaning

a Spartan Boys Story Festival entry

"I'm not going in there!" screamed twelve year old Harry,
struggling to escape his father's strong grip.

"Me, neither!" hollered Harry's twin brother Barry, futilely
fighting his uncle's firm hold.  "I'm not getting naked for
everyone to see!"

"Oh, yes you are," said their mother, walking with the
twin's aunt and two cousins.  Giggling female cousins ages
thirteen and ten.

"Mom, please," begged the desperate Harry, "the Games are
going to hurt us really bad."

"Don't make us," pleaded the equally desperate Barry, "I
won't be able to stand that much pain."

"You'll have to stand it and take it like a man," responded
their father, "because you're in, and that's that."

"We warned you two this would happen if you didn't
straighten out your act," said their mother.

"Bullying and hitting first graders, I'm ashamed of you,"
chimed in their uncle.

"Not to mention all the other stuff you've done," commented
their father.

"You only have yourselves to blame," their aunt spoke up for
the first time.

* * *

"You can't do this, it has to be against the law!" fourteen
year old Matthew complained to the two police officers in
the front seat of the patrol car.

"Son," said the officer on the passenger side, "this is what
the judge said you were going to do, and you are."

"Or," said the other officer, "you go to the juvenile center
for six months.  I guarantee you if that happens, they'll
find a reason to send you here every single month."

"It's your choice, kid," said the passenger side officer,
"do the Games once and win and it's over, or do them six
times and be in kiddie jail to boot."

* * *

"This is going to be a piece of cake," the thirteen year old
scowled at his principal and his father.

"Gary," replied his principal, "you're going to find out
real fast that a Saturday special detention isn't the slap
on the wrist that a regular after school detention is."

"Yeah, sure it isn't," answered the young teen. "I don't buy
all that scare us shitless crap you've been telling us at
assembly."

"Defiance to your teachers got you into this mess," said his
father, "and here you are, still being defiant."

"Yeah, well," Gary continued his defiant stance, "at least
all the cool chicks will see how much of a man I am."

"They sure will," his dad sarcastically replied.  "They'll
definitely see how much of a man you are, or aren't, down
there," he added, pointing at his son's crotch.

"And how much of a man you're not," his principal drily
commented, "when you're crying like a big baby and screaming
your head off.  Which I promise you will do."

"No I won't," Gary tough guy postured, "I won't give you the
satisfaction."

* * *

Ten year old Michael was already crying, and the car wasn't
even at the stadium parking lot.  To make matters worse, his
mom was making him ride naked, sitting in the middle of the
back seat between his laughing eight year old brother and
eleven year old sister.  "Might as well get use to it
early," his mother had said when he arrived home from school
yesterday, not letting him wear anything since.  His father
concurred, backing up his wife all the way.

His sister couldn't resist every so often reaching over and
fondling his hairless little boy genitals.  "Mom," he
squalled, "she's touching my thingie!"

"That's the price you pay for telling your teacher to go
'eff' herself," responded his mom.  "Before the end of the
day, I'm sure lots of people will be touching it, and
hurting it."  His two siblings uncontrollably giggled at
their mom's prophetic prediction.

"You'll just have to be a man about it," commented his
father.

* * *

"Do we have to do this?" eleven year old Timmy asked his
parents.

"Yes we do," said his father, "you know we never go against
a school punishment."

"Can't you have them do something else instead?" the boy
pleaded for mercy.

"No," said his mother, "the school decided on this, so this
is what you get."

"It's not right," murmured Timmy.

"What's not right," rejoined his father, "is you cheating on
tests and not doing your homework."

"What if they want to cut off something, like my dickie?"
Timmy voiced his worst fear.

"I wouldn't worry about that," answered his mother, "nothing
in the rules allow cutting off anything."

"Oh," said the still not very convinced Timmy.

* * *

In all, eighteen boys were gathered in the locker room. The
youngest ten, the oldest fourteen.  Some were crying, some
were nervously talking with neighbors, some were silent,
some were fidgeting.

"Okay boys, listen up," said one of several men in the room.
"You nine on this side are the Red team," he instructed,
pointing to the group that included Matthew, Harry and
Michael.  Altogether, the team had two fourteen year olds,
two thirteens, two twelves, an eleven, and two tens.  "And
you nine," he indicated the team with Gary, Barry and Timmy,
"are the Blue team."  Blue consisted of three thirteen year
olds, three twelves, two elevens, and a ten year old.    

"These ladies have your uniforms," said another man.

"Uniforms," Michael, the only naked boy in the room, said to
the boy next to him, ten year old Justin. "Maybe my mom is
wrong about us playing naked."

"Everyone strip naked, everything off," commanded the first
man, obviously the adult in charge.  "Now!"

"I can't do that," said Richard, the other fourteen year old
on the Red team.  "There's ladies here."

"And you don't think there's ladies out there?" countered
the second man.

"But we'll have our uniforms on out there," responded
Richard.

Once all eighteen boys were down to their bare skin most
clutched at their genitals, shielding them from view.
"Hands away," boomed the second man, "you don't cover up
unless told to as part of a Game."  This comment had little
Michael second guessing his earlier guess about his mother
being wrong on the nudity issue.  

The uniform ladies distributed a pre-numbered bag to each
boy, most blushing at the close up looks the two females
were getting of their varied sized packages.

"Put all your clothing in the bags," instructed one of the
ladies.

"Even our shoes and socks?" asked the Blue team's twelve
year old Mark.

"Yes, those too," said the other lady.

"The number on the bag is also your uniform number," said
the first lady.  "Remember it, or you may never see your
clothes again."

The filled bags were quickly whisked away, out of the boys'
sight.  Using push carts, the ladies quickly handed each boy
a uniform of half shirt and very short shorts, red in color
for Red, of course, and blue for Blue.  The back of each
shirt had the same number as on that boy's clothing bag.

"What about underwear?" asked Frankie, Red's other twelve.

"Don't need it, only gets in the way," said the second lady.

"Careful putting those on," warned the first lady, "they rip
real easy."

As sizes had been previously obtained from parents, the
uniforms fit surprisingly well.  Except that the extremely
short wide legged shorts didn't do too well at keeping
private boy parts private.  Simply sitting caused Matthew's
relatively large genitals to poke out the side.  Several of
the other older boys had the same problem.  For the other
boys, even slightly spreading their legs gave onlookers a
clear shot of their no longer so private privates.

"We can't wear these," whined thirteen year old Toby from
the Blue team.  "They don't cover our stuff."

"Won't matter for long," smirked the second man, "once the
Games start."  This remark had Michael third guessing his
earlier guess about being allowed to be dressed.

"Oldest boy on each team is captain," said the man in
charge.  "For Red, that's you, Matthew.  And for Blue,
that's Gary."

"It's the captain's job," said the second man, "to make sure
that all his players are doing their best to win, and their
best to help their teammates win."

"That's important to you," said the head man, "because any
Game your team loses, you endure a penalty, one that hurts a
lot, while the other team rests for the next Game."

"Not fair," protested Red team captain Matthew.  "I have the
two youngest boys here on my team."

"That's right," chimed in Alan, one of Red's two thirteens.
"It's not fair."

"Actually," said the second man, "you have the youngest,
Michael, and the third youngest, Justin."

"Stevie," said the first man, indicating Blue's only ten
year old, "is in-between those two."

"Besides," the second man ended the debate, "you have two
fourteen year olds on your team, Blue has none."

"Now, this is important," the man in charge lectured the two
teams.  "You don't won't to be the overall losing team for
the day."

"Why not?" asked Red's other thirteen year old, David.

"Because that team suffers a penalty more painful than
anything that happens in the Games," said the second man.

"That sucks big time," opined Seth, the third twelve on
Blue.

"And just to make sure you try your very best to win," said
the head man, "the losing team gets to come back in two
weeks and do it all over again."

"And again, and again," said the second man, "until you
manage to win."

"Now, are we ready for the Games to begin?" asked the man in
charge of getting the boys ready to compete.

"No!" shouted Red's eleven year old Kevin in unison with
Blue's other eleven, Aaron.

"Well, that's okay," said the second man, "you have to get
your medical exams first."

"Uniforms back off," barked the boss man.

* * *

As soon as the last boy was again naked, as if on cue, the
examining staff entered the room. "Ah," said the head man,
"here's our senior medical staff to do your exams."  He
pointed toward the male doctor, female doctor, and two
female nurses now approaching the boys.

In short order, the exams commenced, at first very routine
and familiar to the boys .  Hearts and lungs were checked
with a stethoscope.  Lower backs were felt and probed for
potential problems with internal organs.  Temperatures taken
with ear thermometers.  Nasal passages, ears, and mouths
were examined.  Necks were carefully palpitated for lumps
and abnormalities. Even a reflex check was performed, using
the classic soft hammer tap to the knee technique.  For some
strange reason unknown to the boys, considerable time was
spent inspecting feet and toes.

"Now to test if you're allergic to stings," said the male
doctor to Gary, shallowly injecting a small amount of fluid
into his left arm.

"Ouch, that stings!" protested Gary.

"I hate needles!" Michael shouted at the nurse about to
inject him.

"You don't have to test me," Harry told his injector, "they
already did at school."

"We know you all tested fine this week," said the assistant
chief doctor, "but we're just making sure.  It'd be a very
bad thing for you, and us, if you went into shock from a
little sting."  

Once the allergy testing was done, the very embarrassing
genital exams began, leaving all the boys red faced, even
the three ten year olds.  Each set of genitals was visually
and tacitly scrutinized for any problem.  A hernia check was
performed, culminating in a very painful squeeze that had
each boy crying out in misery.  To finish, each penis was
stroked to a full erection.

Pumping away on Gary, the male doctor said, "We need to know
how big this gets."  When the thirteen year old was at full
mast, the doctor - who also was chief of the medical team -
used a tape measure to determine the length and girth of the
boy's boner.  He then used a green marker to write the
number "10" on Gary's right arm.

"What's that for?" asked Gary.

"That's to make sure they don't stick your dick into too
small a hole," cheerfully replied the chief doctor as he
resumed pumping Gary's prick.  All the teens, and some of
the younger boys, grimaced at this announcement, realizing
the implications.

"Hey," protested Gary, "if you don't stop, I'm going to
shoot."

"That's the idea," replied the doctor.

At the same time, Matthew complained to the female doctor,
"you're going to make me cum."

"That's right," the assistant chief of the medical team
replied.  "It'd be better for you to save it till you're out
there on the field, but the exam rules say that I have to
make you do it now."

Before long, both Matthew and Gary were cumming, Matthew's
thicker whiter output shooting much further than Gary's
thinner less copious release.

One by one, all the boys were brought off to unwilling red
faced climaxes.  Surprisingly, fourteen year old Richard
left a smaller and thinner deposit than the thirteen year
old Gary, a deposit that just barely spurted beyond the tip
of his dick.  Of the other thirteen year olds, Alan, Thomas
and Toby all were white, ejaculating various distances.  The
still hairless thirteen year old David, genitals definitely
larger than little boy size, only managed a few watery
drops.  As did the lightly haired twelve year old twins
Harry and Barry and the hairless eleven year old Aaron, his
genitals just slightly bigger than the other tens and
elevens, all who sported little boy privates.  All the tens
and the remain eleven and twelve year olds were dry cummers.
Of the dry twelves, Frankie and Seth were still prepubescent
sized, while Mark was noticeably larger, almost as big as
David's "tween" sized package.

Satisfied that all the boys could satisfactory orgasm, the
medical team turned to the next embarrassing item on their
checklist, the anal exams.  Each boy was bent over a bench,
hands firmly touching the floor, legs spread wide.

"Okay, little guy, this is going to feel a mite
uncomfortable," said one of the nurses as she inserted an
anal speculum into Michael's bottom.  A speculum that she
quickly began dilating, opening the little boy up wider and
wider.

"Ow," complained the ten year old, "that's hurting me."

"We have to get you nice and wide open," the nurse replied,
"so we can measure your hole back there."  Once she had his
anus gaping wide, she inserted a lubricated gloved finger
into the boy's small tight rectum.

"That hurts!" hollered little Michael, "take it out!"
Undeterred, the nurse continued her probing, feeling for his
prostrate, assuring herself that all was in good condition
up the small hole for what was to come during the Games.

Michael's relief at the eventual withdrawal of the invading
finger was very short lived.  Almost immediately, the nurse
commenced inserting a series of slim cylinder probes up his
rectum.  The last few were a tight fit, not quite stretching
the hole, but causing the boy much pain.  Satisfied she'd
found the maximum safe size, the nurse used a red marker to
write "75" on Michel's arm, right below the green "75."

As Michael was undergoing this painful procedure, so were
the other two ten year olds, Justin and Stevie, as was one
of the elevens, Kevin.

Finishing with the first four boys, the team moved on to the
next four.  In groups of four, until only the two team
captains were left to be done, the boys all had their own
turns of enduring painful anal probing and measuring.

"What do these numbers mean, anyway," the almost crying Red
team Captain Matthew asked as the chief doctor marked him
with a red "18" to match his green "18."

"I want to know that, too," Blue team Captain Gary told the
assistant chief as she wrote a red "10" under his green
"18."

"The first number tells us how close in size your dick is to
these," said the second man, pointing to three butt plugs
that hadn't been there a few minutes earlier.

"And the second," said the head man, "tells us how big an
object can go up your asshole without putting you assholes
in the hospital."

"An eighteen," said the second man, "means this size here."
He pointed to the largest plug.  "It has a one-and-an-eighth
inch diameter.  Ten means this one inch size, and seventy-
five this three-quarter inch size."

"Alright boys," the chief doctor brightly pronounced, "since
it looks like none of you are allergic, it's time for the
last part of your exams, your shots."  He held up a filled
syringe in his right hand.

"Shots, I hate shots!" blabbered a flustered Michael,
repeating his earlier protest.  Most of the younger boys,
and a few of the older, voiced their agreement with this
sentiment.

"Well, then Michael," said the assistant chief doctor,
"since you hate shots so much you can have the honor of
being first."
                   
"No!" screamed the already crying boy, to no avail.  Quickly
he was again bent over the bench.  Just as quickly the
female doctor swabbed his left buttock with alcohol, and
swiftly injected the whimpering ten year old.  Through his
panic, the bare boy barely noted that the injection didn't
seem to be very deep, barely more than a skin prick.  Not
yet finished, she then proceeded to awaken a fire in his
right cheek to match the one developing in his left.
Literally, as he quickly discovered.

"Ouch, that burns!" he hollered as the medical team finished
up a group of boys.  "It itches! Make it stop!" he pleaded,
madly rubbing away in a vain attempt to end the stinging in
his bottom.

"Holy shit, look at that," exclaimed Gary, pointing at the
red bumpy rashes on Michael's behind.  Burning itching
rashes that one by one began appearing on the other boys.

"What the fuck was in those needles?" Matthew demanded to
know.

"Anybody here ever accidently touch a stinging nettle?"
asked the medical team chief.

"Me and Barry," said Harry, "and that's exactly what
happened to us."

"It hurt," was all Barry said.

"Precisely," said the assistant chief.  "All we did was
inject into you the same three ingredients that nettles use
to sting."

"You put poison in us!" accused Alan as his own rashes
intensified.

"Not really," said the chief doctor, "your body already
makes those substances."

"It's just," explained the assistant chief, "that when too
much of them are applied to too small a body area, what's
happening to your backsides is what happens."            

Shots finished, the man in charge of the locker room gave
his final order.  "Okay, get your uniforms back on, it's
time for the Games to begin."

* * *

To the host college's fight song, the eighteen scantily clad
barefoot boys ran out onto the field, to the thunderous
applause of the 12,000 spectators overflowing the small
stadium's packed stands.  Already nervous wrecks from their
exams and what they'd been told in the locker room, the boys
anxiety immediately increased considerably when they saw the
large crowd and heard the applause raining down.  Anxiety
that grew even more when they spotted the very large video
screens displaying the proceedings at many times real life
size.

"Please welcome the Red team to the first ever playing of
the Games," intoned a sports announcer type, standing
midfield with microphone in hand.  Television cameras and
boom mikes were all over the place, ensuring that home
viewers didn't miss any of the gory details to come.  As
previously instructed, as his number and name was announced
each blushing player took a spot facing the Announcer,
forming a parallel line.  "And now, for the Blue team!"

By the time the last boy had been announced, Blue's ten year
old Stevie, wooden frames had been wheeled into position
behind the boys.  Standing by each frame was a smiling high
school girl.  To the vast relief of the organizers,
recruiting volunteer assistants had proven much easier than
anticipated.

"Okay boys," said the Announcer, his voice booming
throughout the stadium, "back up and let the girls tie you
into your frames."  At that precise moment, a group of
twenty uniformed school security officers entered the field,
taking up positions on the sidelines, clearly visible to the
boys.

"Why?" asked the always defiant Gary.  To his dismay, the
sensitive microphones picked up his comment.

"Because you were told to," said a woman now standing near
the Announcer, a woman holding an ominous looking multi-
stranded bullwhip.  A bullwhip that she immediately
forcefully whipped down onto the ground, the resulting
cracking sound, aided by the mikes, echoing loudly
throughout the stadium.  That had all the boys moving toward
the frames, fast.

It didn't take long for the girls to have the standing
spread eagled boys securely attached to their frames.

"Why are we tied up?" Gary again asked.

"Because," said the smiling Announcer, "we have a little
problem that we have to fix before we can begin the Games."

"What's that?" asked Barry.

"Yeah, what?" Harry supported his twin.

"You're wearing uniforms," said the now smirking Announcer,
"but the rules say you have to be naked for the Games."
Little Michael groaned, his faint hopes of modesty dashed.

"So, of course, we have to take them off," said the Bullwhip
Lady.

"How?" asked Red's David.

"Why, with these, of course," replied the Lady, holding up a
bullwhip flogger.  A string of small metal shards marched up
the length of each strand.  Despite it being relatively
lightweight, to the boys it looked like the most fearsome
chastisement instrument imaginable.  If only they knew.

"No way," screamed Matthew, "you can't use those on us.
They'll kill us."

"No they won't," said the Announcer, "but when the girls are
finished undressing you, you may wish they had."

"Each girl," said the Lady, "has been specially trained in
effective painful but safe use of their whips."

"Safe," shouted Matthew, "how can those things be safe?"

"Like I said," said the Announcer, "they won't kill you, or
for that matter, permanently main you."

"You might end up with a scar or two," said the Lady, "but
that won't be on purpose."

"Okay, ladies," boomed the Announcer, "begin undressing your
boys."

And so it began.  Whip strike after whip strike tearing away
at the flimsy clothing.  More and more boys screaming and
then screaming some more, ever louder, until all were
howling in pain, pain more intense than they knew they could
resist.  Pain they would discover as the day progressed was
but the tip of the iceberg.  As the boys' ripped to shreds
uniforms began falling away, more and more of the red welts
now marking their bodies were exposed, some lightly
bleeding.  The girls were unmerciful, taking seriously their
duty of whipping every last stitch of clothing off the boys.
That meant not ignoring any covered part of their bodies, no
matter how little or sensitive that part.

"Yeoww," yelled Blue's Timmy as the whip bit into the eleven
year old's already half uncovered penis.  A blow immediately
followed by an equally painful one to his balls, leaving his
hairless just starting to grow genitals on full display.

"Ow," howled Michael as the whip landed squarely in the
middle of the still itching burning nettle rash on his left
bottom cheek.  A bottom that was now completely bare, as was
the rest of the crying boy.

Soon, all the welted, lightly bleeding, occasionally bruised
boys were completely devoid of their uniforms.  Many,
especially the younger ones, were still screaming their
lungs out.  All were crying and sobbing.  Gary was
especially distressed, realizing that despite his earlier
bravado, this indeed was not going to be a piece of cake.

"Now boys," said the Announcer, "while you're still tied up,
we have another little matter to take care of."

"And what would that be?" asked the smiling Lady,
brandishing her bullwhip idly in the air.

"Can't tell the players without their numbers," said the
Announcer.  "And with their uniforms gone, the boys don't
have their numbers on.  So we'll have to put these on them."
He held up a red patch with the number 18 on it.  Little
Michael's team color and number.

"How?" the still howling Michael managed to croak out
between his sobs and still occasional screams.

"Why, our team of doctors, nurses and paramedics will use
these to sew them on," answered the gleeful Announcer,
holding up a medical suturing needle and thread.

"And where will they be sewed?" asked the Lady.

"On their chests, right over their left nipples."

"Oh, that's going to hurt," prophesied the Lady.

"Absolutely," agreed the Announcer, "but than, pain is the
name of the game."

"You can say that again,"said the Lady.

"Pain is the name of the game," again said the Announcer.
"Now, everyone, please welcome our medical team.  Because we
care about our boys, the medical staff is here to ensure the
boys' lives and limbs aren't endangered."

"And to help ensure they endure the maximum pain possible,"
added the chuckling Lady, again cracking her whip on the
ground.

Each member of the full medical team, eighteen physicians,
nurses and paramedics, made their way to their assigned boy.
They each immediately began examining the welts, marks and
cuts on the boys' bodies, ascertaining that other than
considerable pain, no serious long lasting damage was done.

"Well, well," joked the chief doctor to Gary, "we meet
again, and so soon."

"Not my choice," vehemently replied Gary, spitting at the
physician.

"That was not a smart thing to do," the doctor responded to
the boy's insult.  "Now, I'm going to go out of my way to
make sure this hurts you as much as possible."

"You bastard," Gary spat again, "how can you do this to us.
You're supposed to help people feel better, not hurt them!"

"Usually, you'd be right," replied the doctor, "but today
our job is to make sure you bad boys are properly painfully
punished.  I like to think of it as being the 'PPP'
pediatric treatment procedure."

"Fuck you!" shouted Gary.

"My, my," said the physician in charge, "definitely no St.
Louis method for you today."

"What's that?" asked the nurse to the doctor's left, working
away on Michael.

"Yes, what is it?" asked the paramedic to the right, busily
checking Thomas.

"It's a technique developed at the children's hospital there
to safely and effectively administer Nitrous Oxide to kids."

"Why would they want to do that," asked the nurse, finishing
her examination of Michael with a careful thorough fondling
inspection of his whipped dick and balls.

"So they won't feel pain from procedures such as setting
bones and so they don't fidget and carry on for things like
suturing."

"Wish my hospital used that method," said the nurse.

"Have your pediatrics chief give me a call, perhaps we can
set up some training," replied the chief doctor in charge of
causing pain.  "Speaking of suturing, shall we begin
stitching?"

"By all means, let's," responded the paramedic.

And so the stitching began, as did the screaming.  In and
out, in and out, needle and thread painfully punctured the
fatty tissue around each boy's left nipple, securely
attaching the correct numbered patch to the correct chest.
The patches were sized to each boy, assuring that the pain
inducing needles would sew through the most sensitive chest
flesh possible.  As the sewing continued, the screams grew
louder, more persistent, and more frequent, with more and
more boys joining in the chorus of agony.

With a renewed supreme effort, Gary, gritting his teeth and
rolling his hands up into fists, was able to avoid
screaming, but not crying and moaning.  Surprisingly, Red's
twelve year old Frankie was also able to salvage a bit of
his dignity, by only screaming once, on the very last
stitch.

"Such crybabies," commented the field commentator Announcer,
"and the Games haven't even started yet.  I don't know how
they're going to get through this."

"I guess," guessed the Bullwhip Lady, "that our tough guys
aren't so tough after all."

"Guess not," agreed the Announcer. "Okay, boys," he
instructed the now being released boys, "gather in your team
areas.  Captains, you have five minutes to calm your teams
down and prepare for our first Game of the day, Butt Hole
Wrestling, or as we like to call it around here, Stuff the
Asshole's Asshole."

The large volunteer field crew quickly had the playing area
set up for the tournament of assholes.  Nine mats had been
placed on the field.  Two butt plugs, appropriately sized
for that mat's competitors, one red, one blue, had been
fastened opposite end from each other on the out of bounds
circle.  A uniformed referee stood on each mat; alongside
each mat two large college football player types stood.

"The rules of this Game are quite simple," the Announcer
announced the rules.  "Anything goes that our referees feel
isn't dangerous in terms of causing serious injury other
than pain.  Matter of fact, the more pain, the better!"

"Pain is the name of the game!" snapped the Bullwhip Lady,
snapping her whip on the field.

"Boys, the objective," continued the Announcer, "is for each
of you to force your opponents's asshole all the way down on
his team's color plug before he can put you on yours."

"What if they're not strong enough to push the other boy
down?" asked the Lady.

"If you get your opponent fully down on the plug on your
own, you get ten points," explained the Announcer.  "Or,
once the top of the plug touches any part of your opponents
bottom, you can get seven points by letting the two
gentleman on the side push your boy down for you.  Simply
ask them by saying 'help please' and they will."

"Can the boys resist or fight off the big jocks?" queried
Bullwhip Lady.

"No, they can't," the Announcer elaborated on the rules of
competition, "they have to let the men put them down, or
they might find themselves sitting on one of these.  As
might any boy we feel isn't trying hard enough to stick his
opponent."  He pointed to three large plugs, four inches,
three inches and two inches in diameter.

"No way am I going on those things," hollered Harry.

"They'll rip us apart," Barry backed up his twin.

"Well then," said the Announcer, "you're have to do your
best to get the other boy on his plug, which for you two
means each other.  And you better not resist the men in any
way."

"Or," commented the Lady to the two reluctant to hurt each
other twins, "you just might find out how much these can
hurt ripping you apart."   Both the Announcer's and the
Lady's words had been carefully tailored to create the
impression in the boys' minds that slackers would be riding
the huge invaders, without actually stating this as being a
certainty.  Neither the rules of the Games nor the medical
staff permitted the use of such huge monstrosities, as they
most definitely would do major damage.  The large plugs were
on display mostly for the psychological effect on the boys
and as a motivator for them to do their utmost best.

"But," the Announcer resumed announcing the rules, "don't
you winners think you're escaping pain free.  Once your
opponent is impaled, on the referee's signal you must
immediately position yourself over your own plug and within
ten seconds sit all the way down on it."

"What happens if they don't?" asked the Lady.

"For each second over ten that they take," answered the
Announcer, "they lose one point, which is given to their
opponent.  When they run out of points, the gentlemen will
make sure they go down on their plug."  Then, just to add
fuel to the fire and the boys' anxiety, "or maybe even one
of these big boys here," pointing to the large plugs,
hinting at what would not, could not, actually be the case.

"How about team scoring?" asked Bullwhip Lady.

"Winning team gets ten points, losing team," announced the
Announcer, "gets no points and a pain penalty."

"Boys, to your mats," ordered the Lady, once again cracking
her fearsome whip.

"And, one last thing," added the Announcer, "you have five
minutes to get your opponent on the plug.  If not, neither
of you get any points and the gentlemen will make sure you
both go onto your plugs."

"Any boy on the winning team who has zero points will join
the losing team in suffering the penalty," warned the Lady,
whip yet once more cracking.  

* * *

"More action, try harder," the referee warned the twins.
"You don't want to know what a four incher feels like going
up your little butts."

This warning spurned the duo to triple their efforts, Barry
immediately grabbing and squeezing his twin's balls.  Harry,
the natural leader and usually more dominant of the pair,
retaliated by kneeing his brother squarely in the nuts,
doubling him over in pain.

Immediately the whistle blew. "Potentially dangerous,"
declared the referee, "don't knee again, or you're
disqualified."  Harry backed away from his brother, having
no desire to discover what dire, and undoubtedly very
painful, fate befell the disqualified.  "Center and
restart," ordered the ref.

On and on the two brothers battled, neither able to get the
other's bare bottom to touch the plug.  Time expired without
either twin scoring.  Immediately upon the horn sounding,
the two football players grabbed Barry and started the
struggling screaming boy on his downward journey.

"Don't fight us now, boy," demanded one of the jocks, "you
know the rules."  Barry, reluctantly, gave up the fight and
ceased resisting his swift painful impalement on the slick
lubricated plug.  His screams, conveniently picked up by mat
side microphones, resounded throughout the stadium.  The
cameras made sure to show his contorted in pain tear
streaked face.  "Stay there," ordered the other jock when
they had the hurting boy's butt cheeks firmly pressing onto
the mat, "don't move."

Now, they moved toward Harry.  A Harry who was grateful that
no one had brought out any of the monster sized plugs. A
Harry who wisely didn't resist.  A Harry who just as quickly
as his twin had an one inch diameter butt plug jammed up his
now very sore hole.  A Harry who reacted just like his twin,
screaming bloody murder, face contorting in agony.  "You
stay there, too," he was commanded.

Over on another mat, little Michael and Blue's ten year old
Stevie were putting on a spectator show, both aided by their
now almost year long wrestling club memberships.  This was
far from the first time the two had grappled; each was very
familiar with the other's moves and skills.              

The two little tens seesawed back and forth across the mat,
neither quite able to get the other's bare behind to touch
the top of the three-quarter inch plug.  That is, until
Michael remembered that "anything goes."  As Barry had done
in his match, Michael reached out and gave little Stevie's
little jewels a strong squeeze. Distracted from defending
against his attacker to dealing with the sudden sharp pain
in his balls, Stevie didn't react quickly enough to
Michael's next move, rapid and decisive.  In fact, Stevie
didn't begin to counter till he felt the plug touching his
butt.

Michael was determined to show team captain Matthew that he
was wrong about him, that despite being the youngest boy on
Red, he could help the team win. He wasn't going to call for
help, he was going to stick Stevie himself.  Michael's next
move completely took Stevie by surprise, unbalancing the
still not fully resisting boy.  Michael jumped onto Stevie,
wrapping his arms and legs around the soon to be impaled
boy.  Somehow, Michael was able to maneuver Stevie's behind
just right so the plug was dead center on his hole.
Michael's full weight on Stevie quickly did the job, the
loudly screaming Stevie's bottom quickly touching bottom.

"Break!" barked the referee, whistle blowing.  "Blue,"
pointing at Stevie, "stay.  Red," pointing at Michael, "to
your plug.  On my whistle, you have ten seconds to be on it,
all the way."

The whistle blew, the now screaming Michael began his own
painful descent.  Still determined to prove Matthew wrong,
Michael was fiercely fighting the blinding pain in order to
impale himself without the help of the adults.  It hurt, it
hurt really bad, even worse than that time when he was eight
and broke his arm playing soccer, a shard of bone sticking
through the skin.  He didn't care, he was going to do this,
he had to do this.  Drawing on a degree of will power he
didn't know he had and exerting by far the greatest effort
to succeed of his young life, he did do it.  Wildly
screaming, partly in triumph but mostly in excruciating
pain, the butt plug fully stuffed his butt hole in eleven
seconds.  He had only forfeited one of his points to Stevie.
Match to Michael, nine points to one.

Up in the stands, Michael's parents and siblings were very
proud and impressed with their little warrior, especially
his dad and younger brother.

"Wow," exclaimed dad, "he's growing into one tough little
dude, isn't he?"

"Sure is," agreed his mother.            

"That has to hurt really bad," said younger brother.  "I
couldn't do that, no way."

"Well," warned his mother, "when you get a little older,
behave like Mike did in school this week and we'll find out
if you can or can't."

On the field, the two team captains, Red's Matthew and
Blue's Gary were warring.  Both were playing rough,
realizing that they needed to lead by example.  Both boys
had several nicks and cuts, fortunately, none bleeding. As
in regular scholastic wrestling, for health and safety
reasons, bleeding would require an automatic stoppage to
stem the flow and for clean up.  In such a close contact
sport, there was just too much danger of contaminated blood
infecting another.  Matthew got Gary to the mat, immediately
dragging him toward the blue plug.  Gary managed an escape;
now he was pulling Matthew toward the red plug.  Matthew
eluded this hold, gained control of Gary, and started moving
him to the other plug.  The battle royale continued in this
fashion for slightly more than four minutes, with it
appearing neither boy would be able to score.  That is,
until Matthew's stamina and endurance was the first to wane.

In a to the spectators surprising turn of events, Gary very
quickly had Matthew hovering over his soon to be plug of
doom.  Matthew's bottom touched plug.  Gary hollered, "Help,
please."  It didn't take the men long to have the loudly
sobbing Matthew jammed all the way down on the one-and-an-
eighth inch diameter intruder.  Despite the intense pain,
Matthew somehow managed to be one of the few boys not to
scream upon impalement.

Gary, knowing that Blue's honor and his duty as captain
demanded it, impaled himself.  Like Matthew a few seconds
before, and like at the patch suturing, he managed to avoid
screaming at the deliberating pain, but the sobs were loud,
the tears continuous.  It took him thirteen seconds, barely
giving his blue team a 4-3 victory for the match.

****

The final tally was announced.  "The winner is," the
Announcer proclaimed, "the Blue team, 25-20."  The stands
erupted into applause, many of the Blue parents and
supporters joyful over their victory, many of the Red
shaking their heads in disgust at their "little wimps" as
one father put it.

"Red team," declared the Lady, cracking her bullwhip, "go to
the table in the middle of the field for your penalty.  Your
pain penalty!"  Dejectedly, the Reds made their way to the
table.  Standing by the table were the four doctors and
nurses from the locker room, as well as three security
officers.  Cotton swabs, various bottles, and several bowls
arrayed the table.

"From the Blue team," said the Announcer, "for scoring zero
points Mark, Barry, and Timmy need to also go to the table."

"The rest of you boys," stated the Lady, "can rest for a few
moments before we start our next contest, Skin the Dick's
Dick!"

"All right boys," said the chief doctor, "half of you line
up facing the stands on this side, the rest facing the other
side."  That task quickly accomplished, the next command
came.  "Start jerking off, you need your little dicks hard
for this."

"So get them that way, and keep them that way," demanded the
assistant chief physician, the female doctor.  Twelve hands
went to work on twelve varied sized dicks, most of the
owners faces red.  Of course, the cameras and microphones
made sure to get up close and personal on all the action.

As they made their preparations, mixing ingredients into the
bowls and opening the package of swabs, the medical
professionals joked, the mikes overhearing all.

"Wonder," said one of the nurses, "if this could become a
new speciality?"

"Ah, yes," jovially answered the chief doctor, "I can see it
now, meeting the requirements to become a fellow of the
Academy of Pediatric Disciplinary Medicine."

"How would you like to be chief of that department?" asked
the other nurse, "training residents in methods of causing
pain instead of alleviating it."

"Do you think medical insurance would cover office visits?"
asked the assistant chief.

"Yes ma'am, that'll be a twenty dollar co-pay for Johnnie's
penis torture treatment today," the chief lightheartedly
replied before turning back to the serious business of their
newly invented speciality of Pediatric Disciplinary
Medicine.
     
"Boys, turn around," ordered the assistant chief.

"Good," said the chief, "you all have boners.  Don't lose
them now while you wait your turn."

"Or else," warned the female doctor.

"You four, come up here," said one of the nurses, pointing
to four of the smaller boys who had naturally clustered
together.  Michael, Justin, Kevin and Timmy all reluctantly
shuffled forward.

"What are you going to do to us?" a nervous Justin nervously
asked.

"We're just going to swab you with this mixture," said the
other nurse, pointing to the four bowls.

"What is that stuff?" asked an equally nervous Kevin."

"It' just a combination of Methyl Salicylate and Menthol,"
said the chief doctor.

"What's it used for?" asked the very apprehensive Michael,
having no idea what Methyl Salicylate and Menthol were or
what they were used for.

"That's the stuff," explained the assistant chief, "that
they put in the ointments your parents or grandparents might
buy to ease muscle or arthritis pain."

"For good measure," the chief mystified the boys further,
"we've added in some Witch Hazel and some cayenne pepper
grains.

Michael was completely confused.  He didn't know what
"cayenne pepper grains" were nor what they could do, but he
knew that Witch Hazel was the stuff his mom always put on
his cuts and scrapes.  Sometimes it stung just a little bit,
but then it always helped him feel better.  And the doctor
had said the other stuff was to make pain go away.  "I
thought you were trying to make us hurt, not make us feel
better," he voiced his confusion.

"Oh, we are going to make you hurt," the female doctor
reaffirmed, "just like this."  With that, she firmly grasped
Michael's hard little member, jamming the swab deep down
inside his urethra.

"Eeeoowie, owwwww," he immediately shouted in a panic, "take
it out, take it out, it stings, it's burning up my peehole."

Slowly, methodically, twisting and turning, the doctor
pulled the swab up and out of the almost hysterical boy. She
was amused at his gyrations, knowing that this new pain was
no where near as bad as those he'd already suffered, nor as
painful as the next planned penalty.  It didn't take long
for all twelve boys to receive their stinging cleansing
swabs, the bigger boys having to take two swabs at once.
Soon, amid repeated admonishments of "no touching, no
covering up," twelve sets of legs were madly gyrating in an
effort to ease the sting, twelve sets of boy genitals
jiggling not so merrily.          

"And now," boomed the Announcer's voice, "it's Game time!"

"This Game is for five team points," announced the Lady,
bullwhip cracking.

* * *

Team captains Gary and Matthew were again battling it out,
each furiously rubbing the other's boner.  Boners that grew
sorer and sorer, as the opponent's gloved hand thoroughly
worked a slightly abrasive lotion into the other's dick.

"Shit, take it easy," screamed Matthew at Gary, "I need my
dick!"  Gary didn't bother to answer or slow down,
determined to win by leaving Matthew's dick rawer than his
own.

"Oh, no, I'm cumming," shouted Matthew, alerting all to his
cum that was more pain than pleasure.

"No stopping," shouted a whip wielding high school girl,
soundly smacking Gary's behind.  "Time's not up yet."

No sooner had the girl ceased speaking then the red faced
Gary had his own cum.  The embarrassed sobbing boy salvaged
some pride from having managed to avoid screaming throughout
the savage ravishing of his most prized toy.

The twins were tearing up each other's abraded dicks,
scratches and speckles of blood clearly visible to the
prying television cameras.  Each had already cum twice, only
adding to the sensitivity and agony overwhelming their young
cocks.  

Michael was determined to do more damage to Stevie's little
dick than was done to his.  And he was again determined to
prove team captain Matthew wrong, to prove that he indeed
was a help to the Red team.  He couldn't help but cry and
scream as his own little dick was rendered red and raw, but
he never slowed down on doing Stevie's dick in, not even
during his several dry cums, or Stevie's.

"Wow," said Michael's father, "I'd never thought that he'd
have it in him to be so tough."

"Me neither," agreed his mother.

"Guess I'll have to stop calling him a sissy," said his
older sister.

"No one's doing that to my dickie," said his younger
brother.

"Well, then," his mother repeated her earlier warning, "you
better make sure you stay out of trouble at school."

"Or they will be doing that to you," father reinforced
mother, "with our blessing."

On the field, Blue's Timmy was hysterical at what Justin was
doing to his little boy penis.  "Don't tear it up, don't rip
it to shreds, please don't," he repeatedly begged through
his screams and sobs, only halfheartedly attacking Justin's
own diminutive member.  

Halfheartedly that is, until the whip blows raining down
spurred him on to his best possible effort. "Get moving,"
shouted the girl at his mat, snapping her punishing strands
of leather down onto his belly.  "Faster," she demanded,
whipping his thighs.  "You can do better," she hollered,
snapping the whip across Timmy's bare bottom, catching on
both cheeks the outer lower edges of his still visible
nettle rashes.

By the time the siren sounded, after eight long painful
moments, every boys' dick was a sorry sore looking mess,
red, raw, and some lightly bleeding.  Every boy was crying,
none daring to risk the consequences of touching their
publically displayed privates.

The judges trotted onto the field, a team of five boys, the
youngest ten, the oldest fourteen, with an eleven, a twelve
and a thirteen sandwiched in between.  As previously
rehearsed, the judges made a show of inspecting each
ravished penis, looking, touching, lifting.  Being from the
same school, some of the judges knew some of the now
extremely embarrassed boys.  As each judge inspected each
boy, he made a note on his clipboard.  Clipboards that were
soon turned in for tallying.

"The judges have decided," said the Announcer, "that the Red
team is the winner!"

"That makes our team score," said Bullwhip Lady, "Blue ten,
Red five."

"Blue team, go get your penalty," demanded the Announcer.

* * *

Approaching the table, Barry stopped in his tracks, causing
Timmy to bump into him.  "Whoa, Nelly," said Barry, "look at
those."

"No, way! " shouted Timmy, panicking at the sight of the
pinwheels scattered upon the table.  Around the outer edge
of each wheel protruded a continuous row of sharp half inch
needles.  Each pinwheel was attached to a sturdy seven inch
long handle.  "They ain't cutting my dickie off with those
things!"  

Timmy madly dashed toward the sidelines, only to be quickly
caught by several security officers.  Crying, screaming, and
vainly kicking all the way, he was dragged back to the
table."

"No, no!" he shouted as the female assistant chief physician
roughly grabbed his little dick.

"These are called neurowheels," she explained to the too
hysterical to listen boy.

"As beat up as your little penises are," said the chief
doctor, "I don't think they'll feel too good when we roll
these all over them."  Several of the older boys blushed at
the "little" insult to their boyhoods, compared to the
younger kids on the field, they weren't so little, at least
in their minds.

"Shall we find out how they feel?" asked one of the nurses.

"No!" shouted Timmy.

"Yes," said the assistant chief doctor, "let's find out."
Immediately, she began running the needle sharp wheel all
across Timmy's already very sore dick.

"Eeow, that hurts," he screamed, finding this new pain on
his already damaged dick to be excruciatingly unbearable.

"Can't hurt that bad," said his torturer, "I'm not even
cutting into you.  Like this," she added, applying extra
pressure for a few seconds, causing the needles to prick the
little boy's prick, resulting in several drops of blood.  

Released from his torture, Timmy launched into a wild dance
of pain, shaking and wiggling his genitals in a fruitless
effort to ease the pain in his penis.  A penis he dare not
touch in fear of the repercussions for "covering up."

It wasn't long before all the other eight members of Blue
joined in Timmy's dance, some more animatedly than others.
In all nine teammates the neurological pinwheels awakened
their penile pain to even greater, even sharper levels of
nearly unbearable hurting.            

"Now, for our last Game before halftime," announced the
Announcer, "a little tar and feathering we call Tar the
Baddies."  

* * *

Red was lined up at one end of a shallow trough, six feet
wide and twenty feet long.  A mud-like substance, blackish-
brown in color, filled the four inch deep channel.  Smoke
raising from the "tar" surface only added to the boys'
apprehension of what was about to happen.

"This is a timed event," declared the Announcer, "team with
best combined time gets five points."

"Let's Tar the Baddies!" snapped the Lady, snapping her
whip.

Two of the college football players grabbed a shaking crying
Michael.  "When we lay you down on the tar and say go, roll
as fast as you can to the other end."

"The faster you go, the less you'll be burned," the other
jock not so helpfully stated the obvious.  

"No, please it burns," shouted Michael as he was placed
lengthwise on his back on the hot surface, "get me out!"

"The only way out is to get to the other side," said the
first football type.

"Go!" shouted his partner.

Desperately, Michael began rolling as fast as he could.
Mostly to escape the searing heat as quickly as possible and
have as little as possible adhere to his now toasting body.
But also partly to again show captain Matthew that he was a
team trouper, that youngest or not, he "could do it."

As soon as his body touched the opposite end board, two more
college players, hands gloved, lifted him up and out.
Several giggling middle school girls immediately began
sprinkling his mud caked body with a smattering of brightly
colored feathers.  One girl made a big show of sticking a
bright pink feather on the tip of his coated and still
toasting penis.  The girls only stopped decorating the
sobbing boy when Justin was pulled out of the muck.  

Michael had to stand on a raised display platform, the "tar"
continuing to cook him, until Red's third player, Kevin was
pulled free.  Justin took Michael's place on the platform.  
Michael, making no effort to control his sobbing, was lead
off to a cleaning station.

"Hey, I can clean myself," the crying Michael protested to
the high school girls standing by the portable shower.

"Maybe so, little boy," said the leader of the pack, "but
we're going to do it for you."  First using a warm spray of
water, then their hands, the girls did a thorough job of
getting every last burning speck and every bit of feather
off of Michael.  They made especially sure that their firmly
rubbing hands didn't miss a single square inch of the
embarrassed boy's body, especially his genitals, which came
in for extra attention.  

One after another, the Red team took turns rolling in the
heated mud pack. Some screamed from first contact, some
further down the flat chute, Matthew, Richard, and David not
at all.  Most sobbed loudly, a few silently, all with tears
running down their faces.

"Just how hot is that stuff?" the Lady asked the Announcer.

"Not too hot," came the reply, "we have it set to 115
degrees Fahrenheit."

Now Blue was having their own playtime in the mud, with
similar effects as Red.  The ever determined Gary managed to
stay silent, but not tear free, throughout the ordeal.
Barry like his brother Harry, was a screamer all the way.
As was little Timmy, grateful that at least no one was
directly threatening his little penis.  A little penis, that
along with his balls, just like all the other boys, was
being coated and burned by the tarry mud.  

"Red team wins!" exclaimed the Announcer.

"Team score is now tied 10-10," updated the Lady.

"Blue team, come get your penalty," commanded the Announcer.

* * *

With much trepidation, Blue approached the penalty table.
Four tea kettles sat on glowing red hot plates.

"I don't like the looks of this," captain Gary muttered to
his teammates.

"It has something to do with our dickies, I just know it!"
screamed the again panicking Timmy.

"Every penalty seems to have something to do with our
dicks," commented Barry.

This time, the two oldest and two youngest boys were called
forward first.  Gary and Thomas were directed to the left
end of the table, where the chief doctor and assistant head
nurse awaited.  Stevie and Aaron were sent to the right
side, attended by the assistant chief and the head nurse.

"What, what, are you going to do to us?" the teeth
chattering Stevie stammered.

"Oh, just pour this hot water on you dickheads, on your
dickheads," answered the assistant chief.

"Actually, just behind your dickheads," cheerfully
pronounced the head nurse.

"You can't do that, that'll burn us bad," Gary protested the
danger to his own and his teammates' most important
appendage.

"Actually burn, no," said the chief doctor, "hurt like hell,
yes."

"The water on this side for you big boys is only 124
degrees," explained the assistant head nurse.  

"And for you little boys," the head nurse did nothing to
reassure the little boys, "your water is 115 degrees, just
like the tar."

"Let's begin," said the physician-in-charge, grabbing hold
of Gary's dick and roughly peeling the boy's foreskin back
to fully expose his glans.  Gary was one of the six boys on
the field who wasn't circumcised.

"Hey," shouted Gary to his handler, "you don't have to be so
rough, you're a doctor for cripes sakes."

"If you didn't like that," replied the doctor, "you sure
won't like this."  Using a pair of serrated biting forceps,
the nurse  firmly and somewhat painfully pinched his glans,
stretching the young teen's dick taut.  Grabbing a kettle,
the doctor, slowly counting to ten, poured a thin stream of
water onto the young offender's penis, right at the juncture
of glans and shaft.

"Owwwwwww!" screamed Gary in immediate response, this latest
torture proving too much for his resolve to react as little
as possible.  As his principal had predicted, the boy  was
now screaming his head off and wailing like a baby.

Not taking any chances on possible escape attempts, two
officers stood next to Timmy as he awaited his own turn.  A
turn that had him fighting and resisting all the way, all to
no avail.

"Ouch!" he shouted when the nurse's forceps bit into his
tender dickhead.  "Owwweeeee!" he let out an earth
shattering scream when the hot water contacted his little
dickie, just behind the head.  Legs kicking like an out of
control teeter-totter, the eleven year old  was wildly
dancing in place even before the two officers released him
from their grip.

All nine boys suitably penalized, the Announcer announced,
"Half time, thirty minute break for all."

* * *

"Boys, eat up," said the man-in-charge of the locker room,
pointing to a spread of food and drink.  Fruits, cold cuts,
nutrition bars, cheeses, pastry, and even candy adorned the
table.  There was a selection of drinks, ranging from
healthy fruit juices to unhealthy sweetened carbonated
beverages.

"You need to keep your strength up for the second half,"
said the other locker room man.

"Man," commented Blue team captain Gary to Red team captain
Matthew, sipping a grape juice, "I wish they'd leave our
dicks alone, I'm this close to doing it with my girlfriend."

"I wish they would too," replied Matthew between bites of a
Danish, "but I don't think they will."

Fifteen minutes into the break, the senior medical team
entered to give the boys a quick examination.  They declared
all of the bruised, welted, nicked, hurting boys to be fit
and ready for enduring the rigors of the second half.

* * *

College fight song again blaring from the speakers, the
boys, this time naked, again ran onto the field.

"Welcome back, boys,"  welcomed the Announcer.  "Before we
start our next Game of Fry Those Feet, or as it's called
here, You're Fired, it's time to give our audience a little
show."

The boys were lined up facing the side stands, half at
either sideline.

"Start jerking off," demanded the Lady, cracking her whip,
"and don't stop until we tell you."

For ten minutes the boys worked on their already pained
dicks, all having a first cum within five minutes.  Cums
that only rendered their sore pricks even more sensitive as
they continued to rub, not daring the consequences of
stopping too soon.

"Stop," shouted the Announcer after ten long embarrassing
humiliating minutes. The red faced boys needed no further
encouragement to remove their hands from their erect dicks,
relieved to no longer have to not-so-pleasantly relieve
themselves.

"Now, it's time to play You're Fired!" the Announcer
informed the entire stadium.

"The good news, boys," chuckled the Bullwhip Lady, once
again cracking her whip, "is that even though you may be
fired, you still have to play the Games."

"And the bad news, for you anyway," chortled the Announcer,
"is that you're not going to like it!"

And indeed, the boys didn't like it.  Four beds of coal had
been laid out on the field.  Glowing coal that was obviously
hot.  Each bed was fifty feet long and four feet wide.  The
smaller boys form Blue were at one bed, the little boys from
Red at the adjacent bed.  Next came the Big Boy Blues, and
at the last bed, the bigger Reds.

"Ready, set, go!" the Announcer started the relay.

Despite his dread of the sure to be pain, Michael
immediately took off like a jackrabbit.  He'd been through
too much already to let Matthew and the rest of his ream
down now.  Up in the stands, the ten year old's parents and
siblings were again impressed by their little warrior's
determination to succeed.

Blue's Stevie and Mark each also got off to a fast start,
but Red's Harry just stood there.  Stood there till the cane
strokes got him moving.  "Start running," shouted the high
school girl wielding the thin flexible cane. "I keep doing
this until you run," she punctuated her edict with a painful
sting to Harry's left forearm, immediately followed by one
to his already hurting dick.  That had him moving, in a
hurry.  In a hurry to get away from the stinging cane, a
hurry that immediately blossomed a new pain in a new area,
his feet.  He was tempted to step off the coals, but the
patrolling cane girls had him abandoning that option.

Despite being the smallest boy in the Games, Michael,
screaming all the way, was the first to tag his waiting
teammate.  Ten year Justin immediately bolted forward, but
more hesitantly and gingerly than Michael.  "Faster, you
have to go faster," hollered team captain Matthew. "Faster,
go faster," his teammates joined in encouraging their other
ten year old.

Back and forth the boys ran, hot coals scorching tender
feet.  It was close, but in the end Blue was declared the
winner, garnering another five points.

"Blue 15, Red 10," the Lady provided the latest score.

On the field, the entire medical team was out, inspecting
each boy's feet.  "What do you have to do to it?" asked an
apprehensive Timmy.   A Timmy somewhat consoled that this
time his penis wouldn't be undergoing a painful penalty.

"Oh, nothing at all," said the assistant chief physician as
she dropped his right foot.  "It's red, it's very tender,
and you have some blisters, but there's nothing that really
has to be done to it."

"But, but," blubbered Timmy, "they hurt!"

"That's too bad," responded the female doctor, "because in
the next Game, you need to be able to run very good."

"Red Team, to your penalty," boomed the Announcer's voice.

To their horror, Red's penalty was a repeat of Blue's last
penalty, the hot water to the prick treatment.  As with the
Blue boys, every member of Ted screamed at this latest abuse
of their already abused penises.

On the sidelines, Gary commented to Barry, "I'm glad they're
not messing with our dicks this time."

"Me, too," agreed Barry.  A Barry secretly glad that his
twin was about to suffer the same penis torture he had just
before halftime.

"Maybe mine will be better enough by next weekend,"
continued Gary, "to fuck my girlfriend."

"Man, you're lucky," answered Barry, "mine won't even suck
me off."

* * *

"Time for our last Game," declared the Announcer, "the
Kaleidoscope."

"Or as everyone here affectionately calls it, the Gates of
Hell," said the lady, bullwhip snapping the ground.

"This game is worth ten team points," said the Announcer.

The Gates of Hell playing area was a 120 foot long, 40 foot
wide rectangle, with waist high sideboards.  At the far
ends, just ahead of the starting lines, eight spinning poles
whirled around multiple wicked looking straps.  On each
pole, the straps were set at various heights, to ensure that
every boy could be struck, regardless of size.  The gap
between straps was too narrow to allow evasion, at a minimum
a boy running between them would be caught by the tips.

"Boys," warned the Announcer, "unless you want to cook your
feet some more, make sure you stay on the paths."

"And you don't want to fall down outside the paths, either,"
added the lady.

A series of zigzagging four foot wide paths crisscrossed the
playing floor.  Some combinations of paths gave an
unobstructed other than by defenders clear shot to the goal
at the other end; other combinations lead to more spinning
poles.  Poles equipped with various devious torture devices,
straps, canes, rotating needle wheels, sprays of hot water,
even stinging nettle leaves.  The sidewalls alternated
between sharp little spikes, nettles, hot plates, and a
gritty sandpaper like skin abrading substance.

Safety equipped with helmets with full face shield and knee
and elbow pads, Michael, Harry and Richard stood randomly
spaced at the starting line, ready to launch the  first
offensive move.  The three Red's objective was to drop the
somewhat prickly balls they held in their left hands into
the goal box at the other end as quickly as they could. The
objective of the nine Blue defenders were to delay the three
Reds as long as possible, and run them into as many
punishment poles as possible.

The head referee of three sounded her whistle, the three
Reds started off.  Michael decided to try to squeeze between
the slightly wider gap between the first pole and the
sideboard.  He barely avoided the strap, but brushed up
against some prickly spikes, which drew droplets of blood.
"Eeeoww," he shouted, dropping his ball.

"Two points, Blue," declared the head referee.  Each contact
with a torture item was a point, as was each dropped ball.

To retrieve the ball, Michael had to leave the path,
roasting his already roasted feet some more.  But true to
his determination to succeed, he screamed once, gritted his
teeth, recovered the ball, and quickly went back on path.

"Point, Blue," a referee awarded Blue their point, this one
for Michael's leaving the path.  

Harry had opted to run straight through two sets of straps;
for his trouble he received five sound smacks, one each to
his chest, belly, buttocks, thighs, and calves.  He
staggered through the pain, focused on reaching the opposing
goal.

"Two points Blue," an assistant referee announced, giving a
point for each of the poles that had punished the crying
twin.

Richard duplicated Michael's strategy.  He avoided the hot
area on the sideboard adjacent to his pole, but the straps
caught him. Richard took hits to the chest, front mid-thigh,
and unfortunately his balls.  Immediately he went to the
floor, writhing in pain, rolling off the path.  He
immediately dropped but quickly recovered his ball.

"Three points, Blue!"

The searing pain of the heated floor had the moaning Richard
instantly up and back on the path, still doubled over as he
gingerly advanced.

"It's 8-nothing, Blue" the lady breathlessly provided the
running score of the fast paced Game.

Michael sensed trouble before it struck, three defenders
advancing on him.  Without a second thought, at the next
path junction he made a right.  A right leading right to a
needle wheel pole.  The boys pounding up the path behind him
cut off his retreat.  In desperation, he stepped off the
path onto the burning floor, darting toward the next nearest
path.

"Penalty!" shouted the head referee, "one penalty point Blue
for eluding defenders, one point Blue for fleeing the path."

"Aren't they the same thing?" the lady asked the Announcer.

"No," he answered, "one is for leaving the path, the penalty
point is for running away from defenders."

To his dismay, Michael discovered that incurring the penalty
meant he had to let the needle wheel pole work him over for
a full ten seconds.

"Point, Blue," shouted a referee as soon as the needles made
contact with the sobbing Michael.  When the referee signaled
time up, the crying boy, dripping blood from numerous small
nicks and cuts, immediately sped away, the defenders the
mandatory penalty distance of twenty feet away.

Richard and Harry didn't fare any better than Michael.  On
his torturous journey to the goal, the defenders forced
Richard into enduring a multiple cane caning, a hot water
spray, and a stinging nettle lashing, adding three more
points to Blue's total.  Giving Blue another two points,
Harry rediscovered the not so pleasant joys of the spinning
straps and found out just why Michael found the wheels so
distressing.  He gave Blue another point when he dropped the
ball; which he fortunately recovered with out leaving the
path, by stretching out on his belly, one foot still
touching the path.  Somehow, the driven Michael managed to
suffer only one more pole encounter, a brief caning
simultaneously welting his back, buttocks, and thighs.  In
all the three Reds yielded eighteen points to Blue.

Michael was first to reach the goal, quickly dropping his
ball into the box.

"Seven points, Red," shouted out the referee, awarding the
first drop score.

"Six points, Red," was the award for the second ball drop of
the three; a drop made by Richard.

"Five points, Red," came the award when a staggering Harry
made his drop.

"After the first round, it's tied 18-18," said the Lady, for
once not cracking her whip.

Next Blue sent out their first three offensive boys, with
the round ending in Red ahead, 38-36.  When the sixth and
final round concluded, both battered, bruised, bloodied
teams waited with bated breath for confirmation of the final
score.  The winner of the Gates of Hell would also be the
winner of today's Games.

"Our final Gates of hell score," announced Mr. Announcer,
"is Red 112, Blue 109.  Red wins!"

As best as they could force their abused bodies, the Reds
jumped for joy, jubilantly celebrating, their pain
momentarily forgotten.  They were done, they didn't have to
suffer anymore today, nor come back to suffer another day.

"Our final team score," the Lady told all interested
parties, "is Red 20, Blue 15.  Red wins the Games!"

Stupendous applause greeted this proclamation, the Reds
smiling and waving in acknowledgment, the Blues hanging
their heads low to avoid displaying their despair.

Up in the stands, Michael's proud big sister grudgingly
conceded, "they couldn't have done it without Mikey."
Privately, she noted that perhaps she needed to pick on her
oldest brother less, that he was much less a baby than she
had thought.

"Mike was great!" Michael's little brother agreed with both
boys' big sister.  "He was super fantastic!" the little boy
added, reaping more accolades on his new found hero, his big
brother.

Michael's parents were too busy cheering and clapping to
respond to his siblings high praise of their brother.        

"Blue team, penalty time for losing the Gates of Hell," the
Announcer reminded the Blues that their suffering was far
from over.   Blue's penalty turned out to be a repeat of the
stinging burning cotton swab in the peehole that had been
Red's first penalty for losing the Stuff the Asshole's
Asshole contest.

Penalty duly administered to the Blue's it was now time for
the promised worse ordeal of the day.

"Before we proceed," the Announcer announced, "a few
announcements.  Red team, you have to remain naked until
after you get home from school on Monday."

"That's so everyone can see what happens to boys who break
the rules," said the Lady, bullwhip cracking for emphasis.

"Blue Team," resumed the Announcer, "you have to remain
naked till you win the Games."

"After your final penalty, you might just be glad that's the
case," said the Lady.

"Gary, Barry, and Timmy," continued the Announcer, "for
various reasons you three are to receive the Special
Detention Special Attention Special Penalty.  You'll get
that instead of the regular team penalty."

"No," screamed Timmy in fright, "I don't want them cutting
off my dickie!"

"No one's going to cut anything off," a security officer
tried to reassure the crying boy.

"Yes they will, I just know they will!" he again screamed
out his worse fear.

"Let's begin the team penalty," said the Announcer.

Stevie, Aaron and Seth were brought to the table.

"Boys, this is going to be a lot of fun," joked the chief
doctor.

"For us," clarified the assistant chief, "not you."

"Dicks hard, now!" barked the head nurse.

Within a few moments, the three boys, ignoring the
discomfort of their still sore dicks, had full fledged hard
ons.

"Now," said the chief doctor, "push those boners through the
holes in these boxes."

"Why?" asked Aaron.

"Because your penalty is in there," answered the assistant
chief.  "Do it, now!"

"Officers," the chief asked the officers, "would you please
help these boys stick their holes."  The officers were glad
to help, firmly gripping each boy as they forcefully jabbed
the little pricks' little pricks into their assigned hole.
Holes with rubber rings that were quickly inflated, securely
trapping the soon to be suffering dicks.

The nurse on the other side of Stevie's box quickly slid a
pair of tweezers through a slot on the back side of the box.
Immediately, he felt something drop onto his dickhead,
something that felt like a bug.  No sooner had the first
something landed, than a second something did likewise.
Immediately Stevie felt the "bugs" bite, instantly followed
by an intensely painful burning sensation.  "Yeeeeooowwwww!"
he let out the shrillest loudest scream of the day.  His
shrieks continued as more and more stinging burning spots
erupted on his glans.  "Get them off! Get them off!" the
completely hysterical boy wailed.

After a full ten seconds, the nurse did get them off,
flooding the box with lukewarm water from a pitcher.
Immediately the ring deflated and Stevie was pulled free.
The howling boys dickhead was red, somewhat swollen, and
riddled with small white pustules.

"What are those things?" asked the Lady.

"Imported red fire ants," replied the Announcer.

"Ouch, they hurt bad," replied the Lady. "I got stung on the
finger once, and the pain was almost unbearable."

"Absolutely," agreed the Announcer.

"Why the water?" inquired the Lady.

"Fire ants are nasty creatures," responded the Announcer.
"They bite to hold on, and then repeatedly sting.  But they
hate water, so we use it to get them off before we go too
far in damaging the little dicks' precious little dicks."

Down on the field, Aaron's and Seth's little dicks did not
do any better than Stevie's.  All three boys were in extreme
agony as Mark, Toby and Thomas were led to their own up
close and personal ant encounter.  Being bigger than the
younger three boys, each was "treated" to the sensation of
three ants apiece.  Ants that left the three screaming
bigger boys cockheads as much an extremely painful mess as
those of the younger three still howling boys.

"Boys, I'm not sorry to say," the chief physician wasn't
sorry to say, "that your dicks are all going to be hurting
for some days."

"Those white spots," said the assistant chief, "are going to
turn into blisters that are going to itch like crazy."

"Do not scratch them," cautioned the chief doctor, "as that
will cause infection."

"Your parents have been given instructions on how to keep
your dicks properly cleansed to help avoid infection," said
the head nurse.  "You will let them clean you as often as
they feel necessary."

"I'm old enough to clean my own dick," protested a blushing
Thomas.

"Not this time," replied the chief.  "We want to make sure
it's done right, so your parents must do it for you."

"That's our rule, and the Games' rule," the assistant chief
ended the discussion with the still crying boys.

* * *

Two security officers were half dragging, half propelling a
struggling Harry toward the three "special attention" boys.

"What's this," asked the amused Announcer, "another
candidate?"

"Exactly," replied one of the officers.  "His mother wants
whatever's done to his brother to be done to him also."

"She says," said the second officer, "that since they're a
matched set, they should both look the same down below."

"Done deal!" exclaimed the Announcer.

"We'll ready to begin now," the chief doctor informed the
anxiously waiting stadium.

The four boys were secured onto gynecological exam chairs.
Their arms were strapped down to the chair arms.  Their
feet, widely spread apart, were locked into stirrups and
raised high, fully exposing their anuses and now very
vulnerable genitals.  A strap was tightened around their
chests.  Harnesses firmly held their heads in place, heads
that were tilted downward so as not to miss any of the
action down below.

"What are you going to do to us?" asked a no longer so brave
Gary.

"Young man," said the chief doctor, "you ended up here for
being so defiant, a defiance you continued throughout the
Games."

"Yeah, so what fuckhead?" shot back the still defiant Gary.

"We're  going to see how defiant you are, dickhead," said
the doctor, "when we use this to cut into your dickhead."
The doctor was holding a hand drill, a sharp pointed smooth
3/32 inch diameter bore protruding from the chuck.

"No!" screamed Timmy at the assistant chief doctor, "don't
cut off my dickie with that thing!"  She was holding a drill
with a bit smaller than the one to be used on Gary, 1/16
inch in diameter.

"Listen to me carefully, Timmy," she admonished the
hysterical little boy, "as everyone's been telling you, no
one's going to cut off your penis, unless perhaps you move
too much and accidentally make my hand move off target."

"I'll try to stay, to stay, still," stammered the still
blubbering boy.

"All I'm going to do," she continued, "is put a new hole
through your glans."

"What's a glans?" Timmy asked.

"It's this part of your penis," she said as she began
swabbing the part in question with alcohol.

"Won't that hurt?" asked Harry, staring at the long 5/64
inch diameter bore in the drill held by the male doctor
attending to his pending surgery.

"Of course it will, a lot, worst than anything else today,"
cheerfully replied Harry's doctor.

"What about bleeding?" asked Barry.  "Won't that make a
bloody mess."

"Not to worry," reassured the female physician assigned to
Barry.  "This will take care of that," she said, indicating
the already glowing cauterization tool on the table next to
her.

"Infection," shouted Gary, "what about infection?  You
warned the other boys about that!"

"Shouldn't be a problem," stated the chief doctor, "our
instruments are all sterilized and your parents all have
instructions in what to do to prevent infection."

"But, but," Barry launched a last ditch defense, "we'll look
like freaks with an extra hole in our dicks."

"Only for a little while," replied his doctor, "it'll close
up within a few weeks, no one will even know it was there."

"Except for me," muttered Barry, "and everyone who sees it
before it goes away."

"That's too bad," replied his female doctor.

"Why are you doing this to us?" demanded Harry. "It's, it's,
muti, multila, mutilation," he struggled to get the word
out.

"It's only a temporary alteration," responded his male
doctor.   "And, to answer your question, at half time your
parents specifically asked that you be subjected to our
Special Penalty."

"Timmy here," said the assistant physician-in-charge,
pointing to her patient, "is getting it for being a crybaby
all day long about his dick.  Now, he'll have a reason to
cry about his dick."

"Gary," said the chief physician-in-charge, "is getting his
prick pricked for being a defiant little prick."

"Fuck you!" Gary spat out.

"Ladies and gentleman," the chief addressed his surgical
team as he retracted and clamped in place Gary's foreskin
well below the teeth gritting boy's glans,  "it's time to
drill some holes!"

Gary's tough guy defiance quickly deflated as the drill
slowly, excruciatingly painfully slowly, bore into his
dickhead.  Straight down, near the edge so as to avoid
nicking his urethra.  Barely had the bit penetrated, when
the last of his resolve suddenly departed, like a rapidly
deflated balloon.  He screamed, and screamed, and screamed
some more.  The tears were fast, furious, continuous hot
splashes on his face.  Slowly, ever so slowly, the intensely
painful bore dug deeper into his intensely painful cockhead,
giving the seriously distressed boy no reprise.  His
vociferous screaming and shrieking left no opportunity for
him to interject a protest or a plea.   Useless protests and
pleas that would only be ignored, anyway.  Blood was oozing
out of the wound, seeping around the bore, coating his
dickhead, making it slick.  And on and on the doctor cranked
the drill, till the bore penetrated the base of his glans.
Quickly withdrawing the bore, the doctor just as quickly
used the hot iron to cauterize the wound, bringing Gary's
howling to an even higher level.

None of the boys knew that so much agony was humanly
possible to endure.  But endure they did, each doing their
best to out scream the others.  Timmy, partly fueled by his
fear that somehow his dick was still coming off, had the
worst time of all four, his shrill soprano screams clearly
being heard above those of the other boys.  Screams that did
none of the near to fainting boys any good, as in the end
all four sported a newly drilled tunnel through their
dickheads.  Tunnels that throbbed and hurt exceedingly
badly, much, much worse than anything else the boys had ever
experienced in their young lives.

"Job well done, everyone," commented the chief as the
painful procedures finally drew to a close.

* * *

"Be sure to come back in two weeks," promoted the Announcer
to the departing crowd, "when today's Blue team takes on a
brand new Red team."

"There'll be new surprises, new tortures galore," chimed in
the Lady, cracking her whip for the final time that day.

"Stop by the ticket office on your way out," extolled the
Announcer, "and pick up your tickets now at a special
discount price."

"And be sure to ask about our special family packages," the
Lady got in the last word on her husband the Announcer, as
usual.