Stevens School Runaways

Stevens School Runaways - Part 14 (hist, tort, CBT, psych)
By Platypus (formerly Dark Man)
plupy@surfbest.net

(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 rest of the terrible weekend is concluded.

Stevens School Runaways - Part 14
"Sunday's Offerings"

The boys were surprised they could still talk after having their tongues seared with a red-hot iron. But it was a small instrument of pain, like a brand with a pencil tip's diameter, and only burned the very edge of their tongues.

"I thought that my tongue would be real sore," Tom said.

"Mine too, only it isn't," remarked Rich, "although some of the rest of me doesn't feel too good."

"Today's the last day. You'd think they'd run out of things to do to us."

"Nope, they're fucking creative."

They were just waking up, cuddled up for body heat. It was early Sunday morning – sometime. In a subterranean place without clocks, guessing the time was out of the question. Luckily it wasn't real cold in the dungeon – maybe 61 or 62 degrees Fahrenheit.

"I'd like to get this day over with," Rich said as he decided to untangle himself from Tom and walk around. Besides, he had to take a leak. When he jumped up, he felt a rude surprise. "Oh, cripes!"

"What's the matter?"

"My foot's all messed up from when those bastards put that hook thing in it."

"They took it out. They took all the hooks out."

"I know that. But it still hurts."

Tom noticed that his friend was limping on his way to the toilet. The toilet was next to the shower. Rich emerged a moment later, still limping.

"Let me see it," Tom said.

"What?"

"Your foot, stupid!"

Rich showed his friend his right foot. It did seem a bit swollen and painful to the touch near the exit wound on his instep. The skin was puffy, red and inflamed. Unthinking, Tom squeezed it.

"Yeowh! Whatcha doing? Do I have to get tortured by you too?"

Tom did yet another of his headmaster Taylor imitations. "We don't use the 'T' word around here – it's just not the Stevens way."

That did it. Both kids cracked up. They were still laughing when the adults returned.

"What is so funny?" Mr. Graves asked. Rich shifted position on the floor and tried to hide his sore foot. What he didn't want was to draw attention to it. Several rude looks were added to Graves' dour puss. These stares too quickly focused on the boys. The whole crew was present and accounted for again, even Mr. Cousins, which was a blessing, slight as it was. "Nothing," the boys replied.

Now they were sitting on the concrete floor -- suddenly quiet as church mice. The only peep these creeps want to hear from us is cries of pain, thought Rich. Cousins might be an exception, although it was still beyond Rich's comprehension to entertain the belief that he might actually care what happened to them. He just didn't seem enough of a factor in the Stevens scheme of things.

"Stand up! Now!" barked Mr. Mason, "Hands on head!"

It no longer seemed very unusual that they were in this situation. Here the young teens were, dressed in their birthday suits, standing exposed for all these adults to see and to torment their bodies as they pleased, and the whole scene no longer seemed like anything but the ordinary as manifested in the awful present. Rich stood a bit more slowly than his friend and he couldn't help wincing, attempting to conceal the pain he was feeling. Unfortunately, Doctor Thompson noticed the slightly older boy leaning a little strangely; as if he was putting too much weight on his left foot. Uh-oh, the ruse was over. Thompson quickly grabbed a chair and sat down. "Richard, please sit down again." The boy complied and plopped his bare butt again on the concrete. "Give me your right foot," Thompson said, motioning to place the injured foot in his lap. A quick inspection revealed what was wrong -- near the side of Rich's bare instep. "Will you all look at this? Despite all the antibiotics and the disinfectants we gave him, he's got himself a little infection."

"Please don't hurt me," Rich begged.

Thompson deliberately palpated the wound with a squeeze, almost a pinch using his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to bring forth the boy's scream. "Owwh!"

"Does that hurt?"

"Yeah! Oh Yes! It hurts! It hurts bad!"

Rich might as well have issued an invitation. Mr. Elliott sensed this opportunity too, a bit of a bonus. "I think we had all better test this sore spot," he said.

"Who wants a squeeze?" Doctor Thompson asked. One by one, Mr. Elliott, Mr. Briggs, Mrs. O'Neill, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mason, Mr. Mueller, Mr. Taylor, and even the three security guards gave Rich's sore foot a good pinch. Only Mr. Cousins abstained. "Do you really have to torment Richard in this manner?" He complained. But to the rest, it seemed like a game, at least to Tom, who was still standing at attention, and sobbing softly. Rich bawled anew each time someone grasped his foot. Then it got worse before it got better. "Looks like there's a little pus in there. Let me have it again. I'd better lance it," Thompson said finally. Bracing the bare foot in his strong hand, the physician slowly pierced the boy's skin with a long hypodermic needle. Rich screamed -- a wail really, and louder than ever. "Oh, don't be a baby," Mrs. O'Neill said to the suffering kid. Once the pus was drained, the doctor pierced the raw wound with a second hypodermic needle containing a stronger disinfectant. It really stung. "Yeowh!" Yet almost miraculously, a few seconds later, the foot felt much better. Rich was amazed. "Well, what do you say?" Thompson asked. "Thank you, I guess," Rich said in a soft voice, no longer sobbing. "Now that wasn't so bad, now was it?" Mrs. O'Neill chimed in. Rich flashed her a dour look, in fact, he flashed them all dour looks, but nobody really noticed, or else they thought his anger was futile and thus funny.

Soon "the festivities" re-commenced. After receiving another whipping with canes all over their bare bodies while handcuffed by the wrists and with their feet dangling a few inches off the floor in the dungeon, the runaways found themselves in Examination Room 'C' for the duration of Sunday afternoon and early evening. 'C' was a larger sterile exam space; maybe three times the size of 'A' or 'B' containing two extra large, very wide metal tables.

Each table was soon decorated with a nude 13-year-old boy, spread-eagled, well secured; one named Thomas Bridges, the other Richard Hansen. Everybody was present, except for Mr. Cousins, once again, where had he gone?

For the first punishment at 'C' – the kids were shackled at the wrists and ankles, facedown, lying on the cold hard metal on their bare stomachs, hands and feet stretched as far as possible without dislocating joints or tendons.

"Are we ready to get started?" "You runaways ready?" Mr. Mason received a whimper from Tom and a muffled curse from Rich. "Looks like the older one is back to his obstinate self," Mr. Taylor remarked. "He just has an attitude," Mr. Mason said with some disdain. There was an air of expectation in the room as Mason held a very hot electric soldering iron in his hand. The instrument had a long cord for easy maneuverability. Mason showed it to each boy, waved it right near his face to increase the fear factor. Someone told both kids to turn their heads slightly for a better view. More whimpering, pleading, muffled sobs ensued from the runaways; both felt intense heat emanating from the tool, but no pain yet. "You're allowed to mark them with that – but only second-degree burns at worse over small surface areas, and the surface areas must be kept distinct and separated," Doctor Thompson lectured the user.

"I know. I realize that, what do you think I am, a simpleton?" Mason replied. "It's okay if you produce superficial scars," offered Elliott, the government guy, "but try to hit only the most sensitive areas on their bodies. I have them marked." He'd carefully drawn one inch diameter circles with a red felt-tip pen on the runaways' skin – at the apex of their shoulders, on their armpits where Tom was still smooth but where Rich sported his first few hairs, bony and ticklish rib areas on their sides, targets on each exposed buttock cheek, on their "meaty" thighs along the inner perimeters near the crease where the buttocks and scrotum coincide, backs of knees, on each of their calves, on their bare heels, and on the balls of their feet where exists a most tender part of their soles.

Mason began with Rich. "Okay, here we go. Let's see what he has left for lungpower. This sure ain't going to tickle!" Rich felt the heat, as the soldering iron grew closer to the bare skin of his left shoulder. Mason teased, waving the hot instrument in the air like a wand, before making contact for a full two seconds. Rich tensed his shoulder, but that didn't help. "Yeowh!" The smell of burning flesh briefly permeated the room's already fetid air. Tom felt the cruel iron next, on his naked right shoulder; the iron, usually used for melting metal by "soldering" pieces together, was now being utilized for something entirely unintended by its inventor. During the next twenty minutes, Mason slowly moved down the boys nakedness with the "wand" -- his progress systematic; he loitered one and a half to two full seconds at each "stop," delaying about ten seconds between burnings to heighten anticipation, but with idiosyncrasies – at Rich's left armpit, for instance, he dallied, choosing to singe off "just a few" of the boy's incipient hairs as the eighth grader protested with louder, more prolonged screams. Tom's sides, usually ticklish, proved quite tender, as the areas along his ribs were given the full treatment. Rich's inner thigh on the right side was a touch too close to his exposed and rear-hanging ballsacks, extremely sensitive as everyone could detect from the volume of his shrieks, and "doing" the ball of his left foot with the soldering iron nearly equaled that outburst as far as vocal intensity went. Actually, Tom proved sensitive no matter where the "wand" wandered, and was relieved momentarily when the punishment finally stopped. But again, it was only a reprieve.

The next ordeal to be suffered by the runaways was fiendish in its way – the full bastinado. This time the instrument of choice would be a rattan cane, two feet long and made of sturdy bamboo. Gloved adult hands pulled down anklets of barbed wire attached to pulleys from a dispenser on the ceiling, then carefully wound the fence wire around the ankles so that the boys' feet, especially their naked soles, might be properly suspended. Although the barbs dug into their exposed skin and created more lacerations on bony ankles, these irritations were minor compared to what could be expected. After Tom and Rich were shown the dreaded cane, Mueller grinned sardonically prior to the administration of his duties while Mr. Reilly, who'd made them walk outside barefoot in snow and ice, was now applying generous amounts of rubbing alcohol onto the entire fleshy surface of their soles – from the underside of their toes to the pads of their tender heels.

Mr. Taylor proclaimed this standard punishment's course. It was a watershed experiment, one of the most crucial to be inflicted during this weekend if only for its symbolic nature, as these absconders were runaways, and their feet had indeed strayed and must indeed be punished for the sake of the school's integrity. "Each boy will receive the full complement of seventy-five strokes with the rattan cane on the naked soles of his feet. Be careful to apply them evenly, Mr. Mueller – we should at least attempt to avoid excess bleeding."

"Gladly Mr. Taylor. These boys won't be doing any running anywhere anytime soon once I'm through with them," he boasted.

"No, you can't," Tom begged. He was sobbing and nearly hysterical even as Rich was trying to be stoic again, his bare feet up in the air, trying to meditate like an Indian fakir of the type he'd watched on The Discovery Channel walking barefoot over a bed of hot coals. Rich closed his eyes and tried to dramatically slow his breathing and heartbeat. He even managed to stop his toes from wriggling while imagining his feet fully protected, invulnerable, encased in chunks of concrete that couldn't be penetrated. It didn't work.

Mueller measured and struck his first blow. The cane's tip landed squarely on Rich's left foot, directly on the most sensitive spot of his entire sole -- right on the side of his instep where the "little infection" had been. "Yeowh!" Rich sounded like a banshee. He was quite alert to the pain now. "That's a great first hit – I thought the kid was starting to nod off or something," said Elliott, "and if they're not awake and alert, it can skew the results."

"Very true," said Mr. Mueller.

Tom's left foot, snared in mid-air in the cruel barbed wire trap, received the next strike, a wickedly timed action that struck the boy on the underside of all of his toes. "Yeowh!" Intense pain shot up his leg like an electric shock and seemed to resonate in waves throughout his body. "The sole of the foot and the palm of the hand are quite similar when it comes to nerve endings," Mason remarked, "but the feet can be even more sensitive."

"That's true too," said the perfume-scented Mrs. O'Neill, "My male clients don't enjoy punishments on the feet – even if they agree to them beforehand."

The ball of Rich's left foot took the next smack, and Tom's instep, right in the middle of it, the geographical center of his right foot -- bore the brunt of the hit after that. Mueller was carefully measuring too, every eight or ten seconds, then the strike came like a rattlesnake's bite – giving the boy time to anticipate the next blow and to distinguish between blows. Mueller was also taking great care to apply the punishment evenly. After about ten blows per foot on each boy, their skin became reddened and started blistering from underneath the absconder's toes down to the middle of their heels. By stroke twenty, the soles were oozing blood and moderately blistered everywhere. By stroke fifty on each of Tom and Rich's bare feet, the blisters had uniformly broken and the "boys are yelling bloody murder – this is working out quite well," Mr. Elliott remarked. Twice the boys assumed that Doctor Thompson might stop the torture – he did stop and handle their feet – inspecting their raw soles with his fingers – an exercise which hurt in itself but that gave the boys hope – only to be destroyed when the beating with the rattan cane mercilessly continued. When it did end, both runaways were almost hysterical with their sobbing, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, the pain unbelievable; Rich imagined the soles of his feet must look like raw hamburger – if they didn't quite, they sure felt like it! Mercifully, Mr. Reilly removed their ankles from the barbed wire hoops and placed their feet, toes first, gently back onto the metal tables – so that Thompson could apply rubbing alcohol to each of their entire soles, a disinfecting procedure which stung like crazy! Then, any excess blood was soaked up – but the boys' feet were not bandaged.

"Each of you will get a fifteen-minute break now before your next punishment," headmaster Taylor pronounced. During this time Tom and Rich were un-manacled and ordered to walk around the entire basement area – all the doors were open to them now – although every bit of curiosity and then some had been satisfied about those surroundings – but walking was an extremely painful process. Wincing continually and sniffling back tears, they were told to "Don't walk on your tiptoes or on your heels. Place your feet flat and squarely on the floor! If you don't do it right, they'll just swell up and hurt a lot more!" Twice each the boys were prodded to walk more naturally with swats received from a strap – Tom took one on his bare belly and another on his right thigh just below his left "bubble-butt" ass cheek; Rich caught a smack on his left calf and on the middle of his back below the shoulder blades. Around and around, several times, they were forced to walk; when they were instructed to "get up again" onto the metal tables, it almost seemed a relief.

This time Tom and Rich were manacled about the wrists and ankles while lying on their backsides. The punishments didn't get any easier. First Mr. Elliott drew a few more of those dreaded circles on their front sides – nipples, on their soft bellies just above their navels, fronts of thighs, knees, shins, and the tops of their feet just below the toes. "Alright, commence with the soldering iron, Mr. Mason!" Again, he teased Tom and Rich, both wide-eyed with horror and fear, they first felt the intense heat, and watched as the brand actually touched their bare skin in its appointed places. When this happened, the reaction was predictable: a scream followed by gut-wrenching sobbing.

Next, it was Mr. Graves' turn. He'd been appointed to "do" their nails with a sharp heated needle. Tom's fingernails were attended to first. "How many do you have to do?" he asked plaintively.

"All of them, boy." He went from finger to finger until all ten were gouged and "cleaned of any traces of dirt" with the awful needle. Rich was subjected to the same treatment, fingers on his left hand, then ditto on the right. It was excruciating, and far too thorough for the boys' tastes. But when the boys thought the "nails" were over, Mr. Graves held Tom's already scourged left foot steady so he could begin anew. "No!" the boy screamed, "You said you were done!" "Toenails too!" Mr. Taylor interjected, "Since he complained, I think it's only fair you should do each of his toenails twice," and all the adults present agreed, even the security guards. Tom writhed on the table as the sharp needle dug into the sensitive tissue under his nail beds on each exposed toe – first his big toe, then his second toe, then his third toe, fourth, and finally his "baby" toe – with the same procedure to be followed on his exposed right foot. Each time, Mr. Graves grasped the boy's foot firmly so that the "unpleasant" task could be completed with a minimum of resistance from the "subject." Of course, because he'd complained, Tom was forced to endure the needle on all ten pedal digits a second time. Rich received the same treatment immediately thereafter, but had the sense to not complain and so was spared a "repeat performance." Still, as he tried to meditate again like an Indian fakir, with his foot held firmly and with the needle making all of his toenails bleed, being stoic failed miserably.

After this kind of treatment, the boys were somewhat de- sensitized to almost anything else that might be done to them, except when the attentions of the adults returned to Tom and Rich's genitals.

Manacled again by the wrists and ankles to the metal tables in Examination Room 'C,' the nude miscreants were lying on their backs waiting for what might happen to them next. The room was dark, as the adults had left. But both boys were conscious and more alert than either wanted to be. "Do you think they'll torture us any more?"

"Shh! They don't want us calling the punishments torture – it's not the Stevens way," Tom said. But the joke was definitely starting to wear thin. This time, neither boy felt much like giggling.

"I wish we had gotten away from this place," Rich said. Now THAT must be the classic understatement of the century, Tom thought to himself. "I can't think of anything that they might do to us that they haven't already that would hurt as much or more than what they've already done," he ended up saying.

This seemed logical enough, but Rich knew better. "I don't know – they could think up something. For instance, I saw this spy movie once." But Tom started sobbing softly in- between sentences. "I wish I was home," he said, "I'd be good. I'd stay awake in church. I'd stop being disobedient to my Dad. I wouldn't even HAVE a freaking diary."

Rich was going to detail some more of the punishments that might be coming. After he heard his friend sobbing, and getting homesick, he thought better of it. "Maybe you're right," he said to Tom, "maybe there's nothing else that they can do that will hurt half as much as what they've already done." It was a lie all right, and Rich knew it, but Tom stopped crying.

When the lights came back on, and the adults returned, the lie bore its fruit. First, the boys had their ankles un- manacled and re-secured in those cruel barbed wire hoops. "No, you're not going to beat our feet again with that bamboo cane!" Tom cried in obvious fright. His feet still throbbed, but the pain was tolerable and they hadn't yet swelled to a great degree. Rich didn't know why, but he had an inkling that their oppressors had something else in mind – and it wasn't feet. When the barbed wire hoops were moved into position in mid-air, separating first Tom's legs and then Rich's by a painful stretch, he had an idea what they were going to do. "I'm going to beat your puny ball-sacks with this little piece of rubber hose," said Mrs. O'Neill, "don't worry, you'll each have your turn."

"Twenty-five strokes apiece," announced Dr. Thompson, "that's all that I'm authorizing."

"That should be enough to produce the desired effect," she said.

Rich knew that his ball-sacks with his sensitive testicles enclosed therein weren't particularly puny; in fact, he knew they were quite respectable for a kid his age, but that knowledge gave him scant comfort. He'd never been struck on the balls twenty-five times in succession in his life – not even during this unbelievable weekend at the pain factory! Such a punishment was bound to cause him permanent harm. "I'll never be able to make kids," he said aloud, to no one special. "Oh, no, she's an expert at this activity, she'll just bruise you down there a bit," Doctor Thompson countered. "No, please don't do this," Tom said, unabashedly whimpering, "You'll have to cut our balls off when she's through with us." But the pleadings were to no avail. In a few seconds, the whipping of their balls began. "Yeowh!" Tom's left testicle seemed to take a direct hit, but the woman was indeed an expert wielding the rubber hose, being well-practiced as a dominatrix -- in reality, the blow's focal point was just above on the boy's scrotum, and so only caused bruising of the loose hanging folds. Rich felt a shot strike his right ball-sack, and the pain, like a rogue wave, traveled everywhere on his body, and lingered as a dull ache. This pain was multiplied with each successive blow, and when the beating was over, after twenty-five strokes that seemed to take forever, their scrotums were bruised black-and-blue and starting to swell. So Reilly immediately applied icepacks to take care of that.

After being dried off with a towel and having the cold packs mercifully removed, attention again turned to their penises, more specifically, to their urethras. At least their feet were taken down, and again their ankles were secured with the manacles. "Time to punish your piss-slits, boys," Mason said, "I doubt you'll be jerking off much for the next few weeks."

This part was fiendish, as the boys thought later in retrospection while in the infirmary. First, it was the Q- Tips again, this time dipped in a mild irritant that produced a severe itching and burning reaction. "Yeowh! That kills!" Tom said. One, two, three, four cotton swabs were inserted by Mr. Mason one right after the other, and then slowly worked around deep inside the seventh-grader's cock. "I think that's his limit," Thompson advised. But then Mason just left the cotton swabs inside the boy's organ, and turned his attention to Rich. "Five?" he asked. "I think he'll tolerate five," Thompson replied, "Go ahead." "No!" Rich screamed, "I can't tolerate five! You'll stretch me way too bad in there if you do that. Please – give me a break, guy!" He was really afraid of this punishment, and was soon writhing in his shackles as first one Q-Tip was inserted, teasingly at first, a little bit at a time, his piss-slit opening like a tiny mouth, "Stop it! It burns! It burns!" He was sobbing, out of control, but fortunately shackled. A second cotton swab intruded into his piss-slit, Rich felt the sensitive tissue inside his cock stretching, stretching, he imagined like elastic, and elastic bands do snap. "Please! Something's breaking inside there! I feel it! It hurts so bad!" When the second swab was embedded to the hilt, a third was inserted, and slowly worked into the length of his four and a half inch penis, this stretched the sensitive tissue even more, taking up more space, it was about two inches long, and then when it was all the way in, it was time for a fourth irritant-dipped swab, by then the burning was excruciatingly painful and the itching that the boy felt was truly maddening, and his urethra was at least temporarily widening and changing its shape, and yes, a FIFTH irritant-soaked cotton swab entered the boy's member, he was also being stimulated and getting an erection – his penis was now swelled to five inches in length -- but this condition only made the pain worse.

The boys were kept in this condition for a full twenty minutes as the adults watched them squirm and wriggle on the table, trying to break free from the foreign objects tormenting their pretty cocks. "It feels like a million ants crawling around inside!" Tom screamed. Rich was sobbing, saying, "Please sirs! Mrs. O'Neill – please take them out! You can do anything else to me – anything you want – just fucking take them out!" Mason finally did, pulling on the ends of the swabs, all at once, and yanking them out in a single excruciating motion. "Yeowh!" Both runaways cried. But even when the Q-Tips had been removed, the horrible itching and burning sensations in their cocks hardly abated. Another cotton swab with just cold water on it helped some, probing around, the object was even welcomed by the boys when they were told what it was, but then Doctor Thompson insisted on a burning stick being inserted, usually referred to as a "punk" and typically used for lighting firecrackers, and first this was used to "remove and dry up the irritant's residue" by the good doctor, mainly because he didn't trust Mr. Mason with this phase of the procedure, and the "punk" went first inside Tom's four-inch cock, all the way in – as deep as it could go – like "digging for gold" as it slowly worked up the walls inside, and by then Tom was screaming hysterically from the extreme pain as Thompson held his penis and nonchalantly continued, and Rich was soon subjected to the same procedure, not considered a punishment by those adults present, and he too was soon hysterical with pain, and the good doctor held his penis and was working the burning red-hot little stick along the edge of his urethral walls, deep inside, and Rich too thought it would never stop, and that he'd never be able to pee again let alone jerk off, and finally Mr. Cousins voice was heard, a beautiful sound really, "It's nine o'clock," and just like that – it was over, the weekend of punishment, and both boys were given sedatives for the pain, carried to the school's infirmary, and put to bed. They slept soundly for more than twelve hours following their ordeal.

End of Part 14