Pinned!

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.

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PINNED!
[28 June 1996] by Alpenhorn

Posted somewhere in 1997, presumably now defunct.
Posted to y!gallery in 2007, with an invitation to provide illustrations.

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EDITOR’S NOTE

We can see that the story is a work of fiction (or else drastically disguised) for many reasons. One is the lack of a definite time-period: On the one hand, corporal punishment is still allowed in what is clearly a public school---making the time period long ago. On the other hand, there is mention of “Silicon Valley”, a term for a region in Northern California that did not exist until more recently. So it is offered as a “fantasy” for those so inclined... Or else a look into the morbid psyche of the author...

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1. TIMOTHY

He was walking through a corridor at school. The familiar red and gray banners of Adams Middle School decorated the walls. Timothy kept his gaze down so as not to risk meeting the eye of an eighth-grader; he knew that if he did he would lose his lunch money (or worse). Other students were going this way and that. Groups were standing in the hallways talking. Lockers were being opened, and slammed shut. There was a jumble of shouts and laughter.

He had a math test next period. Suddenly Timothy felt panicked. He couldn’t remember what the test was on. And he certainly hadn’t studied for it. This would be another failing grade; his father would ground him for a month this time!

Suddenly the sounds ceased, except for some whispers. Timothy looked around. Mike, a seventh-grade bully, was looking at him. ‘Great,’ he thought, ‘I’ve had it now.’ In fact, everyone else was also looking at him! Staring. Pointing. He looked down and saw, to his horror, that he was completely naked. Somehow his hands were holding something important, so they could not be used to cover himself. The whispers increased. Some of the girls started to snicker at what they saw.

Not only students were looking. Teachers had emerged from their classrooms to ogle at Timothy. He started walking faster. He could feel their eyes like little ants crawling all over his skin. Even his private parts. Especially his private parts. Ants, ants, and more ants. Or maybe beetles. Timothy saw that his balls were drawn up tightly to his body, and his dick was shortening itself, as if to hide. His normally puny genitals were as small as he could ever remember. But, paradoxically, this had the effect of making them all the more visible to the onlookers. Everyone was drinking in with their eyes the secret details of Timothy’s privates---the brown mole on his inner thigh; the total absence of pubic hair; a crease of baby-fat where the hair might someday begin to grow; the brownish gooseflesh of his scrotum; the wrinkles in the pale skin on his dick; the little doily frills at the end of his foreskin.

He started to run. The halls were crowded. Everyone looking. But he could not run very fast. It was as though he was under water. It took all his effort to keep moving.

His parents and relatives were in the crowd. Newspaper reporters. TV camera crews. Geraldo, on the air live, announcing: ‘Right after these messages, we will be back with still more first-line coverage of Timothy Haskin’s penis---or “Dickie” as he calls it when he is alone.’

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Timothy was in his bed. What a nightmare! The worst one yet! He was drenched with sweat. He pried his eyes open and looked at the clock. Time to get moving. He went into the bathroom, carefully locked the door, started the shower, double checked that the door was locked, and took off his thick pajamas. Then he looked---pulled back the foreskin to make sure. Although Dickie was still puny, he was relieved to find that it was back to normal size. The water of the shower woke him up fully.

He got dressed and went into the kitchen to get some breakfast. Mom was sitting there, sipping a cup of coffee. No sign of Dad. ‘I didn’t expect you up so early on a Saturday,’ Mom said. ‘I got wrestling practice,’ Timothy replied, as he put a Pop-Tart into the toaster. ‘Even the Saturday after Thanksgiving? Don’t they give you a long weekend like the rest of civilization?’ Mom asked. Timothy considered. ‘I dunno. Coach says we have to practice today because we have an out-of-town meet coming up on Tuesday.’ He finished off a glass of orange juice just in time to pick up the Pop-Tart and head out the front door. Timothy hopped on his bike and started out to the school.

He thought about how important the wrestling team was to him. They were practically the only kids he knew in the school. He wasn’t smart; he wasn’t good-looking; so no one liked him. Adams Middle School contained the students that had attended several different elementary schools, as well as students (like Timothy) who had been home-schooled up through fifth grade. “Middle school” meant grades 6, 7, and 8. Ages 11 to 14. Each elementary school supplied a ready-made clique, and he belonged to none. He was at the bottom of the pecking order for sure. Eleven years old, thin and scrawny-looking. These together tended to make him a magnet for bullies. But now that the bullies were starting to know he was on the wrestling team, and that the seventh and eighth-grade wrestlers might be offended by an attack on little sixth-grade Timothy, his life was starting to become more tolerable.

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2. MIKE

Second-period boys’ gym class was assembling for calisthenics. Mike took his usual spot at the end of the second row. His newly laundered uniform (gray T-shirt and red shorts---everything in the school colors) felt good. He flexed his muscles; now that he had built them up, he always felt strong and competent. Even though he was only in the seventh grade, no eighth-grader dared to challenge Mike. He was becoming a bit of a bully himself, but always careful not to let any teacher see it.

Coach Wilson blew his whistle for quiet. ‘Listen up, people!’ he said. ‘I have to do some paperwork in the office this period. So I will leave one of you in charge here for the class. I’ll let you choose who it should be.’ Naturally, everyone looked to Mike. He graciously accepted the task. It would be worth another suck-up point with old man Wilson.

After the coach left, Mike took the place of honor in the front of the gym. ‘Let’s dispense with calisthenics today,’ he said to the cheers of the class. ‘How about a little game of dodge ball?’ More cheers. Mike’s natural charm and popularity had them all enthralled. ‘Shirts against skins! This side of the gym, take off your shirts.’ They complied. Mike admired the bare skin... Fat guys and thin guys, and lots of belly buttons. He got an even better idea: ‘Everybody take off your shirts!’ They did. Acres of pink skin. And tanned brown skin. Here in the center of Silicon Valley, there were also plenty of children of families from China and India, with their own gorgeous skin tones. And of course the brown skins on the sons of Mexican migrant farm-workers. And even one or two dark-colored African-Americans. Mike shivered with pleasure as his eyes drank in all the naked skin.

He was on a roll. ‘Take off your shorts!’ he ordered. Everyone was grinning about this development. Now they were all in the regulation white jockstraps. ‘Turn around,’ Mike called. As they did, he adored their rounded buns. Some buns were firm, and some were quivering like Jell-O. Of course Mike had kept his own uniform on, giving him the advantage in dignity.

‘Jockstraps off, too!’ Now the entire class was wearing only tennis shoes and socks. More time for admiration. Looking at their genitals made Mike’s eyes pop. Some scrota tight, and some loosely hanging. (Latin class taught him “scrota” as the plural of “scrotum”. A useful word.) And inside the scrota, large-size balls and small-size. But the main attractions were the rows of penes ready for Mike’s inspection. ( “Penes”, also from Latin class.) Long ones and short ones; chubby ones and slender ones; some hanging straight down and some jauntily jutting out to the front; circumcised and uncircumcised. The boys were all smiling broadly as they enthusiastically exhibited their assets for Mike’s enjoyment. It was a friendly competition among among the boys to catch Mike’s eye with their cocks.

Some boys had no pubic hair at all; some were luxuriantly supplied with it; and others had all gradations in between. Mike pondered that seventh grade must be the mid-point for pubic hair---sixth-grade boys were mostly bald down there, while eighth-grade boys were mostly bushy. That gave him another idea. ‘Dodge ball teams: bald against bushy!’

Somehow they all knew what he meant and started separating themselves into the teams. But a voice from the back called out, ‘But won’t that mean the older boys against the younger ones? That’s hardly fair.’ Mike magnanimously admitted this error in his plan and quickly came up with another: ‘Cut against uncut!’ Miraculously, exactly half of the class was circumcised and the teams were exactly evenly matched. Another sign of Mike’s superb leadership skills.

When the class separated into the two teams Mike noticed one boy left in the middle of the gym. It was that little sixth-grade twerp, Timothy. The one whom Mike had never seen naked (despite weeks of surreptitious attempts). Mike did not pause to wonder why a sixth-grader was in the seventh-grade gym class. Timothy had taken off his T-shirt with the others but still had the rest of his uniform on. ‘Okay Mister!’ Mike said in his sternest voice, ‘Take it off!’

‘Take it *all* off!’

Mike watched with bated breath as Timothy hooked his thumbs inside the elastic waistband and started to push his red shorts down.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRING

Mike started awake. Just a dream. And he had been *so* close! He lay in bed contemplating. A year or so ago he had realized what his favorite thing in all the world was: another boy’s cock. Any boy’s. (Or even any man’s, he supposed, but he did not get many chances to see that.) So he had started examining the crotches of the pants of his classmates, guessing what was inside. And keeping his eyes busy during showers after gym class (and every day in the swimming-pool dressing room during the summer). He memorized every cock he could. And whenever he saw a boy he knew, he would call to mind the appearance of his “stuff”. Mike smiled as he lay there in bed and visualized a few penes for practice.

Then he remembered the ending of the dream. Timothy! They were both on the wrestling team, and often went together to the showers after practice. But Mike had begun to notice that Timothy always wore a towel into the shower room, and either went behind a partition, or waited until the others had cleared out, before he took it off. (If he ever took it off at all!)

Despite his best attempts, Mike had never seen Timothy’s. It started to become an obsession. In addition to the towel in the shower, Timothy would always do the last bit of dressing or undressing in the locker room under the cover of a long T-shirt. Too bad: The rest of his body (although scrawny) was so cute...

After all that time spent thinking, Mike had to run the two blocks to get to the school on time, and did not get any breakfast. His mother probably had too much vodka last night, anyway, so she would never know. As he was running, he remembered another part of the dream: The admiration of his classmates. Too bad he wasn’t that strong, competent, and popular in his waking life...

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3. TIMOTHY

When Timothy arrived at the school, he saw that the team was waiting outside the door near the gym. Normally, the door was unlocked for their Saturday morning workouts. At the last minute, Coach Wilson rushed over from the parking lot. ‘Sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I guess we are the only ones here today.’ On most Saturdays, there were many activities at the school; but today the wrestling team was in the school building alone. Coach unlocked the door, and the boys went to the locker room to change.

Timothy got the large T-shirt from his locker. It was voluminous inside, and reached to his knees. He always changed his pants under the T-shirt. From his earliest childhood, his parents had emphasized the privacy of the private parts. Apparently they had read from a pop-psychologist that nudity in children invites unwanted sexual advances. Or maybe his parents were just unusually shy themselves. So in Timothy’s house, no one exhibited themselves, not even to family members. Timothy guessed that his parents made an exception behind their locked bedroom door---he was here after all. But sometimes he wondered; he was their only child. (His parents had no idea of the therapy that would be required to prepare Timothy for his own married life.)

Timothy had begun to become vaguely aware of Mike always watching him when he changed under the T-shirt. But so far Mike, despite his reputation of a bit of a bully, had never bothered Timothy.

The wrestling team went into the gym, laid down the mats in their usual arrangement, and began their workout. After the usual time, when everybody was sweaty and tired, Coach called them together to read the roster of contestants for the up-coming wrestling meet. Timothy was disappointed, but not surprised, to find that he was not on the list. The team had three wrestlers in his weight classification, all about evenly matched, so he found himself on the roster only part of the time.

While the coach was reading the list, another man had entered the gym. ‘Listen up, people,’ Coach Wilson explained. ‘This is Dr. Crowley. He will be giving a pre-meet medical exam to those of you who will be going to Central on Tuesday. So you boys will come with us to the Health Center. The rest of you, continue the work out as you normally do. We’ll be back in half an hour.’ When they left, Timothy noticed that only five wrestlers were left behind. Besides himself, there was Mike, Shorty, Fenton, and Willie. Fenton was the second of the three boys in Timothy’s weight class. The other three were in heavier classes.

They did a few more wrestling practices: two rings of two boys each, with the last boy serving as referee for both pairs at once. After a while Mike was the referee, with Timothy against Fenton and Shorty against Willie. Fenton and Timothy were almost equally matched. But this time Fenton got the best of it. Timothy was pinned. His shoulders were firmly on the mat. Fenton was on his side under Timothy’s back, with an arm across Timothy’s chest. Timothy’s arms were helpless under Fenton’s body. Timothy’s legs, up in the air, could kick back and forth, but that did no good, since he could not get his feet on the floor. So there he was: Helpless, torso sticking up, waiting.

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4. MIKE

Mike was beginning to hatch a plan. He watched Timothy from the corner of his eye. Shorty, Fenton, and Willie could all be controlled. After a while Mike was the referee, with Timothy against Fenton and Shorty against Willie. When Fenton pinned Timothy, Mike was ready. He went over to their ring, and counted: ‘One! Two! Three!’ But then he went on, ‘Fenton, don’t release him yet.’ ‘What?’ the confused Fenton muttered. ‘Keep him pinned.’ ‘But why?’ ‘We’re goin’ to have a little fun!’ ‘Well, I don’t know...’ Fenton said. Time for control. ‘If you don’t do as I say, Mrs. Timmins will find out about you-know-what,’ Mike said softly. ‘Anything you say!’ Fenton replied.

Timothy was squirming, but he could not get free. Fenton was just as strong and wiry as Timothy, but more persistent.

Mike smiled. It felt great to be in complete control. He walked around behind the pair of boys on the mat. And reached his hand to touch Timothy between the legs. Finally, the sight he had been yearning for was about to be his! He was grinning in anticipation.

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5. TIMOTHY

Timothy was wondering what to do. As Mike walked around behind them, Timothy could not see him any more. Then he felt Mike’s hand touch him *there*. Oh, no! Timothy kicked his feet. He felt his tennis shoe connect with Mike. He heard Mike fall to the floor with a grunt. Shorty and Willie had broken off their match, and were watching in confusion. Mike called to them, ‘Get over here!’ Their quick responses showed Timothy that they were also under Mike’s thumb. ‘One of you get on each side. Hold a leg.’ Despite his desperate kicks, they knelt, one on each side, and held Timothy’s legs in vise-like grips.

‘Now we have him where we want him!’ said Mike. ‘To avoid any more kicks, let’s get his shoes off.’ Timothy watched helplessly as Mike removed his shoes and socks. Timothy began to cry out, ‘HELP! Coach Wilson! ANYBODY!!’ ‘They can’t hear you, stupid,’ said Mike. ‘The Health Center is at the other end of the buildin’. And no one else is in the school at all.’ Timothy’s heart sank. A few more struggles showed that he was completely helpless. He appealed to the boys holding him, but found that they would never defy Mike.

Again he felt Mike’s hand on his private parts. A little kneading and squeezing. ‘Interestin’. Let’s get these shorts off.’ Timothy felt Mike’s fingers hook into the waistband of his shorts. ‘Not that! Please,’ Timothy said. ‘What did I ever do to you?’ No answer. He felt Mike start to pull. ‘Wait!’ Timothy pleaded, desperately. ‘Maybe we can make a deal. What do you want? Money? I’ll give you money. I have fifty dollars saved up. And I’ll get more from my grandmother for Christmas.’ But Mike replied, ‘Ha! I laugh at your money. I’m takin’ your pants off, and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.’ Timothy’s voice was cracking, ‘Don’t. I’m begging you. I’d get down on my knees if I could move.’ A little voice in the back of Timothy’s mind asked why he was joking even now, at his most desperate hour.

Timothy felt his shorts sliding along his legs. There were careful pauses to adjust the hold of the boy on each of his legs. He felt the shorts go over his bare feet. Mike tossed the shorts onto the mat above Timothy’s head. ‘Wow, nice buns!’ gloated Mike. ‘Aren’t they nice, guys?’ Shorty and Willie agreed. Timothy could see them smirking. ‘Hey, I can’t see anything,’ called Fenton from under Timothy. Mike replied, ‘There’s not much we can do about that now. Maybe we’ll think of somethin’ later. But keep your hold tight!’

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6. MIKE

Elation! Mike hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Maybe since his father had lost his job and started taking out his frustrations on Mike. Or maybe never...

Mike went slow. He put his hands around one of Timothy’s legs, stared at the knee and felt every inch clear up to the very top (or bottom, since Timothy was upside down). As he did so, Timothy was desperately trying to jerk his legs free, but it was impossible. He carefully felt the twin globes of Timothy’s bare butt. Muscular, but soft.

Mike was ready for the next step: to remove the jockstrap in the same way as the shorts. But Timothy started screaming again. ‘Put a sock in it!’ said Mike. That gave him an idea. He took one of the discarded socks, and stuffed it in Timothy’s mouth. After some choking, Timothy was quiet. Then, just like that, the jockstrap was off.

Back to business... ‘Look at this guys! The nuts.’ Mike took the two testicles within the tightened scrotum and rolled them between thumb and fingers. ‘Mini-nuts. Hey, I know they are called “nuts”, but I don’t think they had peanuts in mind!’ Shorty and Willie chuckled at the joke. ‘And look,’ Mike continued. ‘You think at first that his cock is longer, but actually this part here is just empty foreskin.’ Mike used his finger to flick it back and forth. ‘If we retract like this, we see how short it really is inside.’ Shorty said, ‘It has a rather sickly color in there, doesn’t it?’ Mike tried to memorize the feel as he squeezed the cock, making Timothy emit a squeak.

Mike tickled Timothy right between the legs. As his hand lay there, he felt Timothy’s body shaking. At first he thought it was Timothy making another attempt to break free. But then he realized it was sobbing. He looked down to see tears flowing freely from Timothy’s eyes. ‘Oh, so he’s a cry-baby, too, is he?’ Mike said, to rub it in.

Mike felt his own cock begin to stir as he contemplated what to do next. If he only had a camera... The best feeling in the world is not sex—it is control.

‘WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?’

Mike started. Coach Wilson!

Mike wondered if they were back early. Or if he had lost track of time. What must this look like? Timothy being held down by three boys, with his naked crotch held up and Mike sticking his hand there. The boys looked toward the voice, frozen in place.

Coach Wilson was standing in the gym door. The other members of the wrestling team were in the hallway behind him craning their necks to see what was happening. ‘Hit the locker room,’ said the coach to the boys behind him. Go in through the office.’ After they were gone, Coach came into the gym. The four boys quickly released Timothy and stood up quietly in a row. Timothy lay on the mat but curled his legs to hide himself. He was still quietly sobbing. Coach got a towel from a handy bench and gave it to Timothy, who wrapped it around himself.

‘Now, you four. What were you doing?’ demanded the coach. ‘We were just havin’ some fun,’ said Mike. ‘Does it look like this kid on the floor was having fun?’ Coach asked. Mike and the others knew better than to answer such a rhetorical question. ‘I think this calls for some punishment, don’t you?’ said the coach. The four boys all nodded. They had been on the receiving end of school punishments before, and knew that protests and excuses would just make it worse.

The unwritten school punishment policy said that the teacher could impose an appropriate punishment, then the student could ‘take it’ or refuse. If he ‘took it’, then the infraction was never mentioned again. If he refused, his parents would be notified; or the police; or whatever was deemed appropriate. Mike resigned himself to ‘taking it’, whatever it would be. That would be better than getting his parents (or other outsiders) involved.

‘Now, what would be an appropriate punishment?’ Coach said. Mike was resigned to something more severe than his previous punishments. His worst so far had been administered by the chemistry teacher, Mrs. Timmins, when Mike had almost managed to make some LSD in her lab right under her nose. The punishment had been 24 strokes with a switch on his bare bottom and back, while the entire chemistry class (boys and girls) watched from their seats. What could be worse than that?

‘You, what’s your name?’ Coach said to Timothy. ‘Haskin, sir. Timothy Haskin.’ He had stopped sobbing by now. ‘Well, Timothy. You are the victim here. How about if I let you set the punishment?’ Willie made a noise as if to object, but a glance from Coach convinced him that complaint would not be wise. The four boys stood quietly with their eyes straight ahead.

‘Here’s what we will do. Timothy and I will take the next two days to settle on a punishment. You four boys (if you choose to take the school punishment) will report to my office a half-hour before school starts on Monday morning. At that time, the punishment will be administered---or at least started.’ He tenderly took Timothy by the hand, helped him stand up, and walked with him toward the office. Incongruously, at the door he looked back at the four boys standing meekly in a row and quietly said, ‘Good luck!’

(End of File)