Stevens School Runaways - Part 10 (hist, tort, CBT, psych)
By Platypus (formerly Dark Man)
plupy@surfbest.net

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved

(First published on Eunuch Archive)

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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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The preliminaries are almost over for young Tom in this final section before the real punishments commence.

Stevens School Runaways - Part 10
"More Festivities"

Tom, the unfortunate 7th grader, lay in a vulnerable position on the wide table in Examination Room 'A.' Naked, spread-eagled, on his stomach, 'Doc' Thompson was finishing up with the sensitivity tests. Many of these tests were painful, some excruciatingly so. None were officially considered punishments. "Wait until your punishments begin!" Mueller remarked to the well-secured boy, alluding to this fact.

"You're a crazy bastard!" Tom cried.

"Actually, I'm quite rational," Mueller said, "and I know precisely who my parents are."

During the next half hour, the school physician, being quite methodical and indifferent to what he was doing, continued with the tests.

Pinching the boy's bare skin using pliers, for instance, with careful comparisons noted between heated pliers and a non-heated instrument. Tom could certainly tell the difference. He was instructed to indicate 'hot' or 'cold' based on what the good doctor was using to create results.

"Hot!" Tom screamed, when a microwave-warmed pair of pliers grabbed a fold of skin along his left side, near his lower back, and pinched hard. Another exercise involved something that resembled a garden tool shoved up into his sensitive anus – with his legs spread so wide and several pairs of hands spreading his butt cheeks – that was extremely unpleasant. "Owwh! What the heck is that?"

"Good! Excellent reaction, boy," Thompson said.

Scrapings with a sharp needle were used in many sensitive places on Tom's bare skin also. But just after Thompson had obtained several new samples by scratching the soles of Tom's feet, Mr. Mason had a bright idea.

"Why not give Tom a preliminary bastinado now – just a taste of it – to see how he reacts?" he said.

"What's a bastinado?" Tom asked, his voice more of a whimper.

"It's like a spanking on the soles of your feet," said Mrs. O'Neill.

Tom could see her standing next to the table; he was about level with her bulging midriff from where he was lying, a purple pantsuit from which emanated that hideous perfume she always wore.

Thompson didn't want a bastinado – even a trial one – performed on the boy's feet – out of sequence. "We usually don't begin punishments until we get into the dungeon routine," he told Mr. Mason.

Mr. Cousins agreed. "There's no good reason to start that stuff now – you already have a pretty good idea about how sensitive the soles of Tom's feet are," he pleaded.

"Are you getting soft on these kids?" Graves asked, "You wouldn't want this one in bed with you – to feel him up or something?" Graves came just short of calling Cousins a faggot to his face, but thought better of it. He knew his kind all too well, and he'd just had his say. Graves was just waiting for Cousins to give him a proper challenge, so he might haul off and pop the pervert one – right in the chops.

In fact, a boy like Tom would be better off with a sexual encounter, even with a pederast, than to have to endure what he would be facing this weekend, Cousins mused. The man with the Nazi-style wire-rim spectacles but blessed with a kindly heart almost took up the gauntlet with Graves and the rest of those sadistic heteros, if that's what they truly were, right then and there – but at the last second he thought better of it. "I won't even dignify that with a reply," he said to Graves.

By now, Thompson was swayed anyhow. "Oh, all right!" he said, "Just to stop this arguing – we'll give him a few licks with the proper instrument."

Lying there on his stomach, Tom could only imagine what the "proper instrument" was.

He was about to find out. He heard a draw opening, probably just beneath that shelf he'd observed, and something being removed.

Soon Doctor Thompson showed him what it was. "We call this implement 'The Rod' – it won't tickle," he said. The boy looked at the cruel ping-pong paddle – a round piece of flat wood with little holes in it attached to a handle for easier striking. The "business end" of the 2-foot long implement – guaranteed to raise blisters after about 20 strokes on an exposed boy's sole – was about ½ inch thick. A sturdy plastic brace was brought up onto the table after Mueller had unfastened the straps on Tom's ankles. This handy device had indentations – two of them – for placing and securing a boy's knees. Tom's legs, bent at the knees, were soon secured into this harness – although it left his bare feet about four inches apart and with soles exposed, raised into the air -- perfect fleshy targets for striking. "Keep those feet as still as possible," Thompson said, "I'm going to try and apply the strokes evenly from the bottom of your heels to the bottoms of your toes, 15 strokes on each foot, but if you move, and I catch you on an ankle or if I don't get a clean hit on the precise location I'm aiming for, you WILL get the stroke over. Understood?"

Tom knew that this would hurt a lot – even if it didn't "quite" count for a punishment. Although the examination on his ventral side hadn't yet begun, Thompson had already made several shallow scratches with the needle on Tom's soles, especially along his insteps and on the fleshy ball of each of his feet, some of the little cuts had bled slightly, and the mere thought of a paddle working the bottoms of his feet while they were in that condition terrified the boy. "Please sir," he said, "Can't you listen to Mr. Cousins?"

Every adult in the small examination room flashed Cousins another glare. "See what you started?" Mr. Taylor said to Cousins.

Anyway, it was no use.

"Understood boy?" Thompson repeated.

Tom whimpered when he replied, "Yes!" Then he braced himself not knowing exactly what to expect. Burying his head into a small pillow that someone had just provided, it was soft, that pillow, like the kind he remembered from trips he'd taken with his family on commercial passenger jets. He kept whimpering in a steady cadence while imagining his left foot shaking slightly from fear. It dangled above the rest of his naked body.

Mr. Thompson nodded to the others in the room, but he didn't smile, although a few in the room – such as Mr. Mason -- did. Placing the rod over Tom's left sole, he drew back and thwack – Tom let out a howl when contact was made. The same procedure, waiting, a measured blow, delivered about ten seconds later to the bare right foot. "Yeowh!" Tom screamed, "Please stop it! Please!" as the second stroke hit the flesh pad first on the left, then the right. Tom's soles were already stinging, and the entreaties continued, the pain was sharp each time, like a pulse traveling all the way up his leg, as if a red-hot poker had been applied. By the tenth strokes, the boy was openly sobbing. By the fifteenth, his soles were reddened and tiny blisters were beginning to form, but a thwack on his right ankle and the side of his left instep, and another on a moving big toe, all were extremely painful but needed to be repeated; the 7th grader was obliged to receive 18 strokes on each foot. Before he was turned over for more ministrations, alcohol was liberally rubbed into his soles, this stung in a few raw spots – he cried again when Mr. Mason and Mrs. O'Neill couldn't resist palpating his very sore feet – it seemed they continued for several minutes as if to torment him even after the blonde hazel-eyed 13-year-old had been spread- eagled and secured flat on his back and the device to lift his feet into the air had been mercifully removed from the wide table. Once people stopped touching his feet, they didn't hurt so much, and it was more tolerable. Tom even got to keep the small pillow. But the same treatment that Rich had received on his front now became Tom's trial.

More pinching with pliers on his chest and belly, the needle prospecting for samples too, the sharp blades of tweezers squeezed shut on his nipples and then his genitals getting attention, Tom felt the sharp needle stabbing his left nut and then the right after an agonizing pause, the cruel needle scratching the underside of his penis, another stab deep into the head of his penis causing a sudden louder than usual scream, then alcohol was dabbed on all the places where the needle had gone, and finally a meandering cotton- swab prefacing the first invasion of Tom's piss-slit. "No! Please! I hope you're not doing what I think you're doing!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and then Mueller came over and slapped his face hard and told him to "Tone it down! Stop being a baby!" When Tom did quiet and begin softly sobbing out of pure fear, there was an audible sigh of relief in the room as the danger to adult eardrums eased.

But only temporarily, as when Tom felt the first alcohol- soaked Q-tip slowly snake into his pee-hole, around the inner edges at first, but gradually penetrating deeper into his urethra, making the inside of his cock develop an excruciating burning sensation, worked slowly, expertly, if such a thing can be said, "Yeowh! Doc – get that thing out of my cock! Take it out – I beg you!" Tom was sobbing now, but after the first Q-tip was embedded to the hilt, about two inches, it was required that they stretch the kid's urethra, and so a second was gradually worked in to the 7th grader's cock, and finally a third.

"Will we try four? Four's the magic number," Mrs. O'Neill quipped, "Richard was able to take four."

But no, not this time. "He's not quite so flexible in there," Thompson said, "I think we'll stop at three." Tom breathed a sigh of relief at that, even more so when after they checked Tom's big toes for hairs and only found a few very silky tiny ones and plucked those with the tweezers, Thompson than yanked out the Q-tips all at once – all three "Thank you, doc," the boy said. Alas, a few minutes later, his penis was held up again and a straw was inserted into Tom's pee-hole the same way it had occurred with Rich, a similar small-bore (1/8th inch diameter) sharp-edged flat hard plastic stirring straw – gradually this object was inserted the full two inches in order to obtain additional urethra scrapings. As with his friend, Tom soon learned that these ministrations with the sharp little straw – such a common object used to stir hot drinks like coffee or cocoa – but also quite efficient when employed for this diabolical purpose.

"Almost done, keep still, stop moving around so much, it can't hurt that much," Thompson cooed, but Tom was sobbing again as the awful man was gently holding his cock with his index finger and thumb in one hand while continuing to dig around with the straw, probing very slowly and thoroughly inside his sensitive urethra with the other, like a dental technician methodically cleaning the inside surfaces of teeth. Tom couldn't believe that anything done to him could hurt so much. "Please, when are you going to be done with this torture?" Tom finally blurted.

"We don't use that word at Stevens, son!" Mr. Taylor gently chided, "What you're experiencing is just a necessary procedure."

"When are you going to be finished with this procedure?" Tom choked out with a dry heave sob.

Finally, it was over, and Mr. Briggs took a few more pictures, he'd been taking them all along "Don't mind me. I'm just a fly on the wall!" he joked in his amiable manner.

After Rich experienced a bit more preliminary attention, including the same bastinado that Tom had received with the paddle, 15 strokes on each of his sensitive soles, there was a another brief coffee break for the adults. Once again, the lights were turned off, except for the Examination Rooms, and the boys were left alone. This time, they weren't even secured.

You're both free to walk around for a few minutes inside this basement area," Mr. Mueller said, "Would you like us to bring you back a nice soft drink?"

"In fact, I would encourage you both to walk around so that your feet don't swell up," Mr. Taylor added, "When we come back, we'll start them off with their punishments in the dungeon," he said more softly to Mr. Mueller and Mr. Thompson. Tom and Rich, sharp-eared lads, happened to overhear that grim edict.

End of Part 10