Stevens School Runaways - Part 1 (hist, tort, CBT, psych)
By Platypus (formerly Dark Man)
plupy@surfbest.net

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved

(Originally posted to the Eunuch Archives website although no actual castration occurs in this story.)

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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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Two runaway thirteen-year-old boys eventually get their rather unjust desserts while inmates in a brutal but politically correct reform school.

Stevens School Runaways - Part 1

Nestled deep in the Adirondack foothills, the impressive three-story brick edifice housing the Alexander X. Stevens School was quite a distance from Perkins, the nearest town – almost twenty-six miles. For most of that distance, only a two-lane road led to Perkins. Thick woods filled with thorny underbrush or buried by deep snows in winter otherwise surrounded the school on all sides. More than seventy years since the school's founding, only 34 boys had managed to escape. Every "lost" boy had been recaptured and punished. A reputation for meting out swift correction to absconders had always been spoken of in hushed tones; what mattered most to the school's conservative board was not so much the details of such punishment regimes as their effectiveness.

"Stevens" housed 78 boys aged 12-17 in January 2001 when Thomas Bridges and Richard Hansen were sent there by stern "law and order" juvenile court judges. Although they came from different states, their individual cases shared certain unsettling similarities.

Tom, a blonde, hazel-eyed seventh grader -- had turned 13 only a month prior to his incarceration at Stevens. This 'B+' student and star athlete was well liked at his middle school and had never been in serious trouble until his prying mother found his diary. Discovered in his bedroom, the shocking entries confessed to various "dastardly deeds" -- mostly vandalism and shoplifting committed with peers, but also "disgusting" sex acts with male and female classmates and even a neighbor's cat. When confronted by his strict Fundamentalist Christian parents, Tom denied everything. "I made those things up. My diary's private – I never thought anybody would actually READ it!" he pleaded. But to no avail. Believing that their son "needed to be taught a lesson," they called the police. A hop, skip, and a court date later, Tom had been ordered by the judge to leave his familiar home and school environs for the Alexander X. Stevens School – an option suggested to the judge by Tom's own dad. Like all boys sent to Stevens, he'd become a ward of the state "until such notice as your new caretakers should decide to release you – but not before your fifteenth birthday." The state had abdicated responsibility for the boy's well being and placed him entirely in the charge of Stevens authorities.

Rich – brunette, a brown-eyed eighth grader -- was several months older than Tom. Having an August birthday, he was nearly thirteen and a half when sentenced to Stevens for "wantonly firing a handgun at school." Although Rich admitted bringing his father's .32-caliber weapon to school was "a stupid thing to do," he argued that the chambers had been empty and in any case, the gun had been stolen from his locker and fired in the schoolyard by "an idiotic ninth grader" – not him. Like Tom, Rich felt his consequences to be "real bullshit" even if his liberal parents were staunchly supportive. They'd protested the harsh decision labeling their son "an unremorseful young felon," as the judge expressed it. Rich. He'd been a straight 'A' student, played junior varsity basketball -- even had a girlfriend, Maria, whom he'd proudly kissed twice at a Halloween dance while dressed as a stylish Casanova. The slightly older boy's fate, however, wasn't in his parents' control. Handed over "without restrictions" -- Richard's court-ordered sentence was scheduled to last until his sixteenth birthday.

At Stevens, the 12 and 13's, 14 and 15's, and 16 and 17 year olds were segregated -- each to a floor, two to a room. Since Tom and Rich were about the same age and arrived within a day of each other, they became roommates. Their room, 14c – a 10' X 12' cubicle really, was at least near a bathroom at the rear end of the ground floor. The boys liked each other immediately. But since Tom was a 7th grader and Rich in eighth, their periods in common were gym and math. "At least we get to shower together," Tom made an early joke after being at Stevens for about a week. "Yeah, you get to sneak peeks at my naked body," Rich would shoot back, never loudly or seductively. This was just boys being boys with only a hint of the homoerotic. Sex play between the two remained virtually unthinkable – a taboo fantasy never acted upon, always unspoken, not really desired. But they'd talk about everything under the sun while lying on their backs in their alien beds at night. Everything was fodder for discussion --including their new daily regimen. As might be expected in a reform school, structure was the rule. Lights went out at nine o'clock sharp when armed and uniformed guards – mostly burly adult men -- began patrolling. There were unpleasant discoveries. Running was permitted in the halls – but dangers lurked for bare feet due to the rough texture of the old-fashioned wood floors. "Crap! I think I got a splinter!" Rich said one night at about 8:58. So Tom came to the rescue by digging a tiny sliver out of Rich's tender sole. Without a knife – the boys weren't permitted to own anything sharp – he was forced to use his fingernails and sharp eyes. "There. I think it's out!" Tom exclaimed. A burly guard spoke up then from just down the hall. "You kids in 14c – get that light out! In bed – now!" "The rest of you – quiet!" Suddenly, a buzz of voices turned off like scared chickens. No response. "You'd think there'd be at least one wiseass mouthing off," Rich said.

A half hour later, the boys were still chattering in soft tones. "I got to pee – bad." Thomas held his hand on his penis as if to stop the flow, but he sure didn't want to get up and draw attention to himself. Only he had to. "Can I use one of your passes?" "I guess, but what happened to yours?" "I can't find them. They're not in my pants." He'd already gotten out of bed and was feeling around in the dark. If you had to go to the bathroom down the hall, you showed your "bathroom pass." This ubiquitous scrap of recycled paper could be checked off three times in a given night, no more. A guard would be waiting just outside the communal bathroom. "Now I'll have only two chances tonight," Rich added in a mournful tone, "I guess they'd expect me to hold it after that." "What happens if you wet your bed?" Tom whispered. "It'd be your fault," Rich said, the way kids do. When Tom returned from the bathroom, Rich was still awake. He'd been thinking. "Remember that kid the other night? The one they took away? I think they took him to that place in the basement where they punish kids. Maybe he's a bed wetter." Tom suddenly felt a bit anxious. They both knew about a "dungeon" of sorts -- a locked area in a subterranean part of the building from which emanated the most disturbing sounds. "Yeah, I swear I heard him screaming his head off for awhile afterwards."

"No shit,"said Tom, "It sounded like he was being tortured or something. I can tell you who it was. Kid's name is Carter – he's in my Math class. Sure was acting strange yesterday --like a freaking zombie. First time he was in class all week. I wanted so bad to ask him what those bastards did to him, but Cousins was on me like a hawk. He always is."

"Torture you say? Like what you did to my foot. It still hurts! I shouldn't have let you dig that splinter out with just your nails. What if the ball of my foot gets infected or something?" Rich was half serious.

"Oh, you poor baby! Want me to kiss it better?" Rich didn't feel that crack merited much of a response. "You're stupid," he managed. Back to Cousins. Both boys had Alfred Cousins for Math -- a gaunt and gangly man with strawberry facial blotches, Nazi-like wire-rim spectacles, and bad breath. While teaching 7th and 8th grade algebra, he paid inordinate attention to the most handsome students – peering down at them over his glasses. "The creep is always staring at me too," Rich admitted, "He calls me Ritchie and likes to squeeze my neck. I mean constantly!" "Wait 'till he knows you better," Tom said smart-alecky in a sexy voice, "that's when he'll give you a nice bj." But then came another thought. "I wouldn't cross him," Tom warned his newfound friend, "What if he gets to help with punishing boys?"

A distinct mystery there – what DID happen to bad boys? Several weeks into their stay, Tom and Rich knew precious little about the basement quarters where punishments occurred. Without being punished themselves, they didn't even know what the chamber might contain. "They always keep it locked," Tom said, "There's no way you can get in there without attracting a lot of attention." What they did know about the regime of the place they'd learned at an early assembly attended by the entire student body. Stevens boys were required to wake up every morning at dawn, excepting Saturdays when "sleeping in" was permitted -- until 8 a.m. Schooldays meant the same uniforms for all age groups – white dress shirts, brown corduroy pants with matching itchy brown socks and stiff, tight-fitting leather dress shoes. More leisurely dress – for instance, jeans, were permitted on Saturdays – but white cotton briefs and white undershirts were always worn unless a boy was showering, peeing, crapping, or instructed otherwise. Even to bed. "I guess you can't crash in the nude," Tom muttered to Rich in a low voice. Rich almost started giggling at that one. (They'd found each other in the auditorium.) Students were required to maintain a "B" average, eat all meals, exercise correctly, maintain proper hygiene, expend maximum effort while playing games or sports, and perform assigned chores. It was expected that students would refrain from masturbating, cursing, fighting, or swearing. Bedwetting wasn't considered an infringement if the act was deemed "accidental," but other steadfast rules included obedience – anyone caught sassing or adopting even the slightest hint of an insolent tone to an adult authority figure was "asking to be punished." Another compulsory requirement -- attending Sunday services – was heavily stressed. While it was stated that all infractions would be severely punished – the roommates detected no big surprises, not even the fact that absconding, any attempt to escape from the premises or head for the town of Perkins – was deemed the worst single act that a Stevens student could be guilty of. Somehow, the boys were lulled into a false sense of security. Mr. Alex Taylor, the school's deep-voiced and pattern baldness-afflicted headmaster, spoke in singsong tones like an earnest grandfather -- provoking looks of – in the opinion of Tom and Rich -- utter blandness from the entire assembly. He didn't seem threatening at all. Besides, although mildly dictatorial at first blush, he seemed normal -- not at all peculiar like Cousins.

But as the days and weeks passed, Tom and Rich noticed something else. They weren't mixing, or making new friends. The other kids seemed to more or less ignore them. Everybody was so close-mouthed, so clannish when you asked other boys anything, especially about the punishments meted out, or about the particulars of the punishments meted out. They'd whisper among themselves, or say something like "Screw up and find out." It was unnerving – like the other kids were egging them on. "Christ, I used to be freaking popular!" Rich said to his only friend. "Ever see that movie, the Stepford Wives, where there was this town and everybody acted weird all the time?" Rich asked one night while lying in bed, "Well, compared to this place" – he didn't finish the sentence. "I don't think they've forgiven me since I tried to ask Carter what happened to him," Tom said at last, "I can't help it. I'm getting curious. Maybe I could mess up on purpose. Then we'd know." But then the fear of what might happen – the unknown -- would set in, like a cold feeling in the pit of your stomach.

It was – after all -- a reform school. As the days became weeks, queasiness, if not a sense of actual terror, began to grow in the gut of the newcomer boys along with the bizarre curiosity that tantalized them. When their courage to do something radical began to mount, the two outsiders would hear the screams. These awful shrieks of pain began to become more frequent – usually on Friday or Saturday evenings. Although no more than two or three unfortunate boys (out of the whole school) were ever punished at the same time, it became a regular occurrence all through the February weekends and into March. Still, the newcomers could learn nothing. For Tom and Rich, it became an itch. While engaged in some wholesome activity – like playing ping-pong or reading a book about Christian heroes or heroines – mischievous thoughts came and went. It – the fear mingled with the craving to know – usually worsened after being sent off to bed at nine o'clock sharp. Bedtime was no guarantee of quiet. The screams of the miscreants might continue for hours unabated – sometimes until two or three in the morning. "I can't stand it anymore," Rich said while lying in bed one Friday night, "We have to know. It won't kill us to be punished. What can they do to us? The punished kids always come back from the infirmary or wherever. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a whole week."

"Yeah, and have you noticed that once they've been punished, they don't shower at gym – in fact, every one of them gets excused from gym. Like permanently."

"I don't like gym that much -- especially not in this place. Besides, it's our only way to find out. We'll run away – then let them catch us. That way, they'd have to punish us, but probably go easy on us too. Yeah, it's ingenious. Like a test. "

"I don't know," Tom said.

"Chicken-shit. When or if you get the bone up, I'm ready. You decide. I can be patient too."

"Can't we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, I guess." But, mused Rich, there was a certain excitement to the whole idea, a kind of thrill. Shit, I don't even deserve to be here! Neither does Tom. It's totally unfair! Rich began to feel tears starting. Neither of them were punks – not even tough kids. Rich started thinking of his old life – of his normal boyhood – missing it -- even Trish – his big sister who sometimes teased him - - she was fifteen – and Mom – and Dad – and their kitty cat Delores – the best brown tabby that ever lived. I can't even pet my cat anymore, he mused, and now the tears really started coming. Finally, a new idea. Why run away to get caught or punished? Instead, we could freaking escape! Now that would be cool. When Rich finally fell asleep, the whole building was quiet as a tomb, and he could no longer hear the one comforting sound. Tom. Snoring softly.

End of Part 1