Stevens School Runaways - Part 12 (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 weekend of punishments continues but a ray of hope for the miscreants emerges.

Stevens School Runaways - Part 12
"The Chair"

It was getting late that Friday evening in the dungeon - already past 11 p.m. Normally, it'd be past the runaways' bedtime, and they'd be getting sleepy even if they weren't forced to retire, but tonight, with all the excitement, the boys remained wide awake, being sore in many places, and sleep was the last thing on their minds. Standing next to each other, waiting for whatever horror would be happening next, the boys watched several adults having a little conference. Although they were whispering to each other in conspiratorial tones, Tom and Rich noticed that the government guy, who'd come into the subterranean vault-like room, seemed to be running things now. Mr. Elliott, a pasty- faced guy in a dress shirt and tie – he'd removed his suit coat --reminded the boys of an accountant. In fact, he was a bureaucrat, and happened to be very detail-oriented. "He's from the government - maybe CIA," Tom whispered to Rich when no one seemed to be looking at them. Meanwhile, Mr. Cousins, the weird math teacher who'd been a voice of moderation, comparatively speaking, was gone. This didn't seem altogether like a good thing. "Cousins is gone too - I think that we're really in for it now," Rich whispered during another of the adults' attention lapses. Both boys were getting a little bit better idea of what Mr. Cousins had been about – although for the time being, that seemed pretty much moot.

Unfortunately, the lapses were too soon over. "I think that you ought to get one of them into the chair," Elliott murmured, this time loud enough for the runaways to hear.

"Who wants to be first?" Mr. Reilly the gym teacher said, while nodding toward the chair, "We'll need to get a complete set of dental X-rays for each of you, and then Mr. Mueller will fix any cavities that you might have. So who wants to be first?"

Both boys looked at each other. The chair was like a regular dentist's chair, except that it didn't have cushions or padding, was made of metal, and had sharp thin spikes sticking up out of it everywhere - on the backrest, the seat, the arms, the footrest - all but one of the spikes were small sharp things - about a half inch high and a sixteenth inch in diameter - probably hundreds of them. The exception, a larger thicker spike with serrated edges at the crown, lay squarely in the center of the seat - where the boy's anus might rest. There were leather straps to secure the seated person at the neck, waist, and ankles. The inside of the straps had lots of spikes too.

"You want one of us to SIT in that thing?" Tom said. He was close to breaking into tears already.

"We won't heat it this time," said Mr. Graves, "C'mon, it won't be so bad." He sounded almost gentle, as if to re- assure the kids. His "you kids are punks" tone was temporarily gone.

"So who's going to be the brave boy and try it first?" wheezed Mrs. O'Neill.

"A real patriot," offered Mr. Elliott, who definitely had some self-interest in the pain threshold testing now. "These tests are important for our nation's security."

"Besides, you'll get your teeth fixed while we're at it," said the eager Mueller.

"Well," said headmaster Taylor, "We're all waiting. If one of you doesn't volunteer in about ten seconds, we'll throw one of you onto it lickety split. Tom? How about it?"

"I'll do it," Rich offered, "I've got a cavity probably anyway." Tom breathed a sigh of relief, even though he knew deep in his heart that he'd get his turn too.

"That's more like it," said Mr. Mueller.

The chair might not have been so bad, Rich mused, if he was wearing some sort of protective clothing, maybe a hard plastic vest and hard plastic pants, or at least an insulated winter coat, thick ski pants with woolen socks and hard-soled shoes. But he was dressed in his birthday suit - naked as the day he was born. He eased himself into the chair gently, as it sat vertically, balancing himself precariously, every muscle straining and tense - especially in his legs and back - trying desperately to shift his own body weight as much as possible off the wickedly cruel spikes. He especially wished to avoid planting himself squarely on the big sharp-edged serrated spike that was poised to penetrate his asshole at least two or three inches deep into him. Even strapped in, with spike-laden straps securing the 13-year-old's neck, waist, and ankles, it was painful and uncomfortable, but Richard believed it possible to keep the spikes from "really getting him" as he told Mr. Cousins much later. But then Mr. Mueller adjusted the chair so that it was nearly horizontal. The straps lost any slack they might have had. Gravity did the rest. Rich let out a scream.

The pain was incredible. Spikes impaled the nude runaway - he felt his blood oozing from all the many tiny cuts - from the back of his head and neck down to his already tenderized soles. But then Mr. Mueller was saying "Open your mouth," and the X-ray film was inserted, "Bite down hard," and so it was soon discovered that Rich had five cavities inside his mouth, and when Rich saw the dentist's drill that the sadistic man was wielding, he let out a little shriek of sheer terror. "All five of them appear to be deep," Mueller said, "down to the nerve." With his mouth open wide enough to accommodate the drill, all Rich heard was the loud whirring, and when Mueller got down to the root on the first cavity, the boy later swore that the pain in his suddenly exposed tooth was worse than the sharp pain in his butt - especially inside his asshole where the big spike was now firmly lodged and tearing around inside with its jagged edges.

Meanwhile, Tom was watching what was happening to his friend in disbelief, standing barefoot and naked on the cement floor of the dungeon-like room. He wasn't crying, but instead was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, hoping that they wouldn't notice him, at least until Rich's current ordeal was over. Rich was screaming his lungs out, it seemed to Tom.

"Hey, bring out the little block for little Tom," Elliott said wryly, "Maybe we can get a bit of a chorus going."

"Kneel down, young man," said Mr. Taylor. "He's about five feet tall, so make sure that the block's just the right height."

Tom knelt, and when he did, his knees immediately hurt. But that wasn't the worst part. The block, about sixteen inches high and made of wood, was placed right against his thighs and bare belly so that Tom's four-inch circumcised penis was almost perfectly on a level with the block's top, a smooth flat wooden surface. The 7th grader didn't immediately get the connection.

"Well, just don't kneel there like a Goddamned statue. Put your cock up there on it - lay it flat and get all of it up there, boy, now!" Mr. Elliott was practically screaming. Tom was suddenly terrified.

"No, no, please don't make me!" Tom wailed. The boy had the distinct impression that these awful people were going to cut off his dick right then and there!

"I can't," he cried again.

Mrs. O'Neill grew swiftly impatient. "I've had just about enough of this kid's impudence!" Before he could resist, she grasped Tom's cock and placed it squarely on the block. Mason and Reilly pinned the organ – jabbing one small sewing needle on each side of it, so that he couldn't move it. The pins pierced the skin superficially -- one along the root and the other piercing flesh of the meatus on the opposite side -- but in his fright he tolerated these new sharp pains, which felt more like crab's pinches. Tom's sheer fright. "Don't - please don't cut it off!"

But instead it was another whipping - the instrument a sharp-pointed cylindrical wooden rod, only about a quarter- inch in diameter but two feet long, which would punish the runaway's member. "According to the experiment's specifications, he's to get fifty hard strokes on his exposed penis - twenty near the base, ten toward the head, and twenty on his sensitive glans," Mr. Elliott said matter- of-factly.

"I see no problem with that," said Doc Thompson, "We usually give them twenty-five, but although that little stick will produce excruciating pain in a boy his age, it will only cause bruising and lacerations if performed correctly. As they say on the commercial, "Let's do it!"

"You can't - that's torture!" Tom screamed, "No! Please!"

"There, he's used that nasty word again," Mr. Taylor corrected, "Give him five extra for that outburst, Mr. Mason." Mason was only too happy to oblige. He tensed the rod, swished it a few times in the air as Tom watched in horror, practice strokes that already made the boy wince.

Tom was kneeling, as Mr. Reilly grasped his bare feet from behind so that "you won't wriggle around too much and miss your punishment." The way his penis was pinned down, that was out of the question anyway, the boy mused; he was afraid of tearing his organ completely off.

"It's just like a spanking," someone said, "just not on your behind," but Tom was tuned out. Watching intently as Mr. Mason swished the stick, once, twice, three times, the stick was gaining momentum, and then the downward motion, as the sharp tip struck his bare cock just below the head. "Yeowh!" The boy screamed. Mason was expert at this technique - deliberately pausing so that the boy could anticipate the next stroke - five seconds between blows - sometimes as much as ten. Each time, Tom couldn't believe that anything could hurt so much. It was easiest to bear near the base, but as the stick's sharp tip landed nearer his cock-head, or worst of all, directly on his extremely sensitive piss-hole - maybe eight or ten times in that precise spot - he felt the pain spread through his whole body in waves.

"Good, excellent," said Mr. Elliott, "He appears to be an almost perfect test subject."

"And we still have a ways to go before we actually reach his pain threshold," Doctor Thompson opined. Tom was shaking and moaning from the pain, but to his credit, and perhaps proving the physician's point, he didn't faint.

There was some blood to clean up from both runaways, some stinging hydrogen peroxide to rub into their cuts and lacerations, but finally Friday evening mercifully ended. After their wounds had been tended, the boys were brought pillows if not blankets and told to "Just curl up somewhere down here on the floor."

Around two a.m. on Saturday morning, the lights were turned out so that the runaways could finally sleep. Exhausted, they did. While their dreams were far from pleasant, at least they hadn't lost any body parts.

Through much of the night, Mr. Cousins had heard the boys screaming. These two had affected him more than any previous absconders, and he knew why. They don't belong here, he thought, in this awful place. He now knew this without a doubt. While the boys were being punished in the basement, Cousins had been covertly rummaging through their records in the administrative office on the third floor - cautiously, with an eye peeled for security people. He was going to take a big chance to get them out of here. He would intervene. He would call their parents. Those people couldn't have any idea what was happening to their kids - what might happen again and again now that they'd been selected for punishment. With the help of the boys' parents, he'd get them out of here - maybe even returned to their homes if the parents could raise enough of a public clamor. He grew teary-eyed at the thought of that - of the kids somehow being removed from Stevens custody and being returned to someplace safe. In the morning, Saturday morning, he would call both sets of parents. It would probably cost him his job, but the risk was worth it. For too long he'd been avoiding what was plainly true. The whole mess might even cause a national scandal - if all the facts were to come out.

End of Part 12