My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 10-12
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.netcopyright 2006 by Platypus, all rights reserved
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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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Part 10 - HomecomingFor the first week after my return from Chicago and the hospital, I continued recuperating. The evil Caroline and her motorcycle henchmen left me alone. I didn't even have to go to school, although I figured that I'd have to make up the work eventually. So I gradually regained my strength. Up in my room, I was reading a lot, books like Edgar Pangborn's "Davy" and Booth Tarrington's "Penrod and Sam." Several Hardy Boy mysteries had also piqued my interest. With so much time on my hands, I soon began to involve my bald- headed mouse in my play. Masturbating became a twice-daily event. I was obtaining a better quantity of cum now too, seven or eight drops that would often land on my bare tummy, and it would be more whitish than clear.
This wasn't entirely a good thing. While it still tasted like water with the texture of raw ocean clam and smelled faintly of ammonia, it was even more likely to stain my sheets. I wasn't being careful. In fact it might be said that a passive aggression had begun to emerge, especially towards those "adults" I was living with. As each day passed with no punishment ordeal, as the routine of Wednesday came and went without a visit to the dungeon, as two, and then three weeks coursed by without incident, I became more confident about leaving my residue. Instead of being worried and secretive, I would deliberately smear big gobs of it all over my bedsheets, an auspicious mark of my incipient manhood that my stepmother, vulgar tart of the motorcyclists that she inevitably was, would have to scrub out to clean. When my 13th birthday occurred on a Wednesday and they invited me into the parlor downstairs, and not into the dungeon, and we ate cake and soda pop on the anniversary of my birth, I was a happy boy!
That evening when I came down from my sickbed, I was declared "one hundred percent recovered" by my observant and perhaps not quite so evil stepmother. We played charades and cards and well, parlor games. "We like to play cards," Clarence said, and I wanted to join in. I was given two hot rum toddies to drink over a period of about a half- hour. I started getting intoxicated, or at least relaxed. I was in a good mood, an oblivious mood. Even when Clarence asked me to "Strip!" and said "please" and so I removed my slippers and my pajama top and then my bottoms and so became naked in the parlor for his and everybody's intimate inspection, I suspected nothing. "He just wants to look at your tattoos," my stepmother said in a pleasant voice. She did make an embarrassing comment about my penis having "a little" more hair but balanced it out, I thought, by commenting "he's becoming a man," and not belittling me. Nothing was mentioned about the stains on my sheets she'd been cleaning for weeks. How could I know that in just two days I would reap the fruits of my "disgusting habit" and of my running away? How could I know that my previous punishments would soon seem trivial in comparison to what would happen? Again, for the umpteenth time in my life, I asked something downright stupid. "Isn't tonight my dungeon night?"
Nobody replied. So I let it go for the time being.
I stood still and obedient as Clarence palpated my tattoos, starting with my bellybutton. I let him swivel my penis and gently pinch it, pinching my "piss-slit" as he called it, opening it so that he could see his artistic work on my exterior glans in all its glory. He worked downward to my scrotum, but didn't hurt it, and then my inner thighs and calves were inspected, why, "to see if the inks had set correctly," he alleged. When Clarence had me sit down with my clean ass pressed comfortably against the soft carpet; I lazily handed him each bare foot when asked. At his leisure, he checked my soles and between my toes while he sat in our Lazy Boy Recliner in its upright position. I lifted my legs above my head high into the air and remember giggling.
Lonnie got out the digital camera. He started taking pictures. "You look nice nude," Caroline said, Both bemused and puzzled to be on display, I smiled.
Mitchell got out a measuring tape. The measuring started with aspects of my body like the length of my toes and of my penis, the girth of the latter too, and the size and circumference of my glans, documented for posterity. Caroline stood me up against a parlor wall and took the tape measure to record my height. "He's dressed very appropriately," Lonnie added, "my boy in his birthday suit on his 13th birthday!" I bristled a bit at being called "his" boy, but let it pass.
More stupidly, I said it again. "Isn't tonight a Wednesday?"
There was again, no response from any of them, which was curious. I should have suspected something was in the works. Instead, that evening ended pleasantly. "It's late. Your bedtime I think. School tomorrow." It was Caroline's voice, definitely not so evil sounding. I could return to school! So at ten of the clock I put my pajamas back on and coaxed my feet back into my slippers, and headed back upstairs to my room. Yeah! I thought. Maybe these people aren't so bad after all. They are a weird family, but they're mine. I'm an orphan, and can't be choosy. Settling in under the covers, I dreamed pleasant dreams after having had an excellent birthday compared to what could have been. Slipping off to the land of Nod, I played excitedly with my little bald- headed friend, perhaps stimulated by being naked in front of intimate strangers for the better part of an evening in the parlor. Nine drops of pearly sperm smeared my sheets, a record. I'll clean the stain in the morning. But I didn't.
*In the morning it was time for school. The rash of unexpected kindnesses continued. My stepmother made a special effort to get up extra early and make my bag lunch -
- a chicken salad sandwich, a tangerine, and a bag of chips although she was back in bed by the time I was up and
dressed. I caught the school bus that morning. It was raining lightly. At school I saw James and Tom and Peter and Rick and Tiffany and hundreds more kids. Everybody seemed glad to see me. My teachers assigned my make-up work and gave me an extra study period. I got excused from gym. It was glorious! The school day passed quickly. Soon I was home again, and the motorcycle goons who'd been still asleep when I'd left in the early morning were gone now. So was my stepmother. I almost missed conversing and interacting with them all, as I was feeling chatty. James had given me his phone number, and so had Peter and Rick. But I dared not ring them that day.
Upstairs in my room I settled in. My mood was not the least bit apprehensive. Homework beckoned. There was lots of it, so I started into it math problems and social studies and Spanish and the beginnings of a science project on Faraday and electricity. I became the proverbial bee, droning silently, like the sound of one hand clapping. I heard them enter the house, doors opening and closing but until the call for supper there was little notice of me. Supper was stewed corned beef and cabbage, my favorite. I have it with ketchup. I remembered that the next day, Friday, I was supposed to go on a field trip to the natural history museum in Chicago. I needed Caroline to sign my permission slip.
"What time will you be back?" she asked. All heads turned. Suddenly I was the center of attention. Lonnie, Clarence, and Mitchell seemed quite concerned, as if it was important that I be home the next evening at a specific time, like something was planned involving me.
"What's the absolute latest you'll be back?" Clarence queried.
What's it to you? I felt like telling him, but perhaps his concern was legitimate and the question a valid one. "The museum closes at five of the clock, and we're supposed to head right back. But some of the guys want to go out for pizza later," I blurted. I liked saying "of the clock" rather than the abbreviated "o'clock" that everybody uses.
Caroline regained her composure. "No pizza. We need you home by seven not a minute later. I'll sign it if you can promise me. It's another little birthday party," she said sweetly.
I weighed my options. I should have been suspicious. Why were they throwing me two birthday celebrations? But it was great that she was letting me go to the museum, and I was anxious to do something normal with other kids and didn't want to miss it. Instead of really grilling these so-called adults, I let it pass and in fact, asked another in my seemingly endless string of stupid questions. "Will I be getting presents?"
Lonnie chuckled, then emitted a foul burp, a cabbage burp. He smiled at me brightly.
Mitchell spilled something on his shirt, staining it pink.
Clarence answered me, sort of. "What would you like? For me to tattoo your asshole?"
I burned with embarrassment. Fear began returning too although I tried hiding it.
"He's asking you a question," my stepmother said "Would you like Clarence to tattoo your rectum?"
"I wasn't thinking of that type of present," I managed.
"Let us surprise you," Mitchell ended up saying, in a wise owl manner. It must have been an affectation of the moment.
"Yeah," the others echoed.
I just knew enough to be home by seven.
*
On Friday morning before school another chicken salad sandwich was waiting for me, a pickle wrapped in wax paper, an apple, and two Oreo cookies. My paper bag lunch was ready. Out the door I went. I felt like a sharp-dressed man, a teenager dressed to the hilt. I wore my New Balance walking shoes with white athletic socks, a pair of khaki semi-casuals over my white Hanes briefs, and my cool black dress shirt with the silver buttons that Mr. Cody had brought me in the hospital. This Friday was a gorgeous day, spectacular in every way. Instead of the bus, I decided to walk. James showed up on the way. "How's it hanging?" he asked by way of greeting.
"Just the way you left it," was my snappy comeback. Not entirely original, granted, but I was feeling confident and excited. School wasn't so bad. Home had been tolerable for a while, since I'd gotten back from the hospital in Chicago. I'd already pretty much accepted the ritual on Wednesday evening. I'd been a naked boy on display again. It had been embarrassing but not as mortifying as some of the other Wednesday nights I'd endured in the dungeon for instance. The dungeon meant more than embarrassing. It meant pain. But perhaps Caroline and the motorcycle guys were outgrowing the need to punish me, or the need to see me punished. Maybe they were starting to like me. Walking with James, I was thinking all this good stuff.
James broke the silence. "Any new tattoos?"
"What's it to you? Do you get off on seeing my tattoos?"
"You sure got a lot of them."
"I know. They're kind of cool." Bravado never hurt. In fact, I was starting to get used to my tattoos, accepting them as part of my persona.
"Yeah. That's what I was thinking." James was about to surprise me.
"Do you think your friend, the guy your mom lives with, could do me?""I don't know. They take hours to do and hurt a lot. Sure you want me to ask? You might just get what you ask for."
"Yeah, I'm sure. What's the guy's name who draws them?"
"Clarence. He's a real goon. Rough character." Again, honesty was the best policy.
"There'd be two of us at school with tattoos all over."
"You'd get your dick and balls tattooed? What would your parents say?"
"I don't have to tell them if it isn't obvious. My parents never see me naked except barefooted."
"Don't you ever go to the beach?"
"I don't like swimming in fresh water. I don't even like swimming."
"Okay. I'll ask him if you really want." I was reluctant to, but would consider asking Clarence the artiste to create a second illustrated boy. Maybe it would become some kind of trend at my school.
"I'd like him to do my whole dick just like you had yours done."
"That hurt like Hell." Contemplating it made me wince.
"My dick is an inch longer than yours. This guy Clarence would have more room to create something real original," James kidded.
Vain, he was probably half-serious. I had to challenge. "Nicer than my bird?"
"My bird is nicer than your bird even without a tattoo." The retort was swift, and it hurt a little. He sure had a giant dick for a 7th grader.
"Yeah, you wish." I said.
James squeezed my shoulder, gently.
I felt a tear well up, couldn't help it.
"You getting all emotional on me?"
"It's just that awwwh shut up!" I pushed him, practically knocking him over. James started laughing.
Pretty soon I was too.
*
The school day swiftly passed. I went to see my teachers to get my progress reports on more make-up assignments taken care of, was excused from gym again (although that didn't seem like such a big deal anymore), and ate my lunch (even the apple). Before long we were all headed to Chicago on the special bus that our school used for field trips. James sat next to me, and Peter was near me on the bus too, as was Tom and Rick. I had friends! This was kind of a miracle considering everything, but it was nevertheless true! At the museum, our group stayed together, and we joked about some of the exhibits as boys do. There was an entire huge room filled with Mastodon heads and skulls. I cracked up when Peter asked about Mastodons masturbating, and asked what its cock looked like 20,000 years ago, and James said, with a straight face, "It probably looked a lot better then, when the thing was alive!" That set us all off to giggling, and I don't think any of us were serious during the entire field trip after that. When the museum closed at five, we headed in the special bus back to our town. I had to tell the guys that I didn't have permission to go out for pizza. I really wanted to though.
"How come you can't go?" Peter asked. He was really studious and would stare at you sometimes when he asked you something important.
Averting his glance only for a second, "They're having a birthday thing for me," I said. Thinking about Wednesday evening's affair in my head, being naked and on display again, and thinking of the warehouse incident too, the combination of all those memories made me blush. It would have been difficult to explain so I didn't try.
Peter was perceptive, though, in a way that James wasn't. "Are you cool with all those tattoos?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm getting better with it having them."
Peter nodded but I wasn't sure if he believed me.
*
Part 11 - Enter Dr. Seymour Gore
I made it in the door at just an instant before seven.
"You're late," said Clarence the artiste. I wondered if he would consider tattooing another kid. Funny thought to have at that moment but that's the way my mind worked. But I was suddenly defensive. "No I'm not!"
Just then Caroline appeared, flanked by Mitchell and followed by that tub of lard Lonnie. "Put your school books down, Jeremy. The doctor is waiting for us downstairs."
Immediately my stomach started doing flip-flops. "Downstairs?" I said. Downstairs could only mean two places the basement and THE DUNGEON. God no, I thought. Panic my first reaction, my second reaction, and my third reaction. I turned to run; to exit out the door I'd just entered. But my escape route was of course blocked.
"Where do you think you're going?" Lonnie asked innocently.
"Nowhere," I said. My day felt popped like a cheap balloon.
Clarence screamed at me, right into my eardrum. "C'mon, we can't keep the Doc waiting!" My ear rang like a telephone. Over and over it rang, like I wasn't home. I didn't want to be home.
I was hurtled into the basement, and then into my stepmother's dungeon after the trap door had been sprung. Familiar sounds erupted, like the creaking hinges of that trap door I was hoping to never hear again. I managed to stay upright, but just barely. The light was already on, glaring, and in fact, there were a few extra lights, like in a production studio. A stranger was standing there too, in the middle of the room.
"Is this our 13-year-old male?" he asked.
I took offense. "Jeremy," I said. My voice quavered. "My name is Jeremy." I looked the bastard right in the eye. He had doll's eyes like a shark. Underneath each was a wrinkled sac of skin. His nose resembled a proboscis. I didn't trust the creases in his forehead. They reminded me of tree rings. I tried to stare the bastard down. Why would this strange man be waiting for me in the dungeon?
Dr. Gore was a trained physician. How old was he? Fifty? Sixty? He was short, only an inch or two taller than me at age thirteen, maybe 5 foot two. He was muscular but lacked muscle tone, his skin pale and pasty in the manner of a corpse. I didn't want him touching me or examining me. The mere thought was gross. His body or breath, I wasn't sure which, gave off an unpleasant odor. He wore a white hospital smock.
"I've been down here for awhile, setting things up for you," he said. His two large gray medical bags were in plain sight. I kept staring. He stared back. We regarded each other, like boxers.
The stranger spoke again. "My name is Dr. Seymour Gore," he stated matter-of-factly. "So you just had a birthday?"
"Yes," I forced myself to answer. "I just turned 13."
"He's into puberty," my stepmother said, "The evidence is all over his bedsheets every night! This boy is nasty!"
I turned about five shades of red. But she continued, humiliating me in front of this horrible man. "He is a compulsive masturbator, this brat, and we're hoping this weekend's treatments can cure him of his disgusting habit. Is it possible Doctor Gore?"
The other three stooges nodded. "Yeah doc, the kid really jerks off. It's not normal that he does it so often," Mitchell said, although he sounded a bit tongue-in-cheek as he said it. Mitchell probably masturbated about ten times a day. He had no right to talk. But I was the male on trial.
Dr. Gore replied drolly to the evil Caroline. I can appreciate such things now, as nuances if nothing more. As a 13-year-old, the physician's reply scared the living shit out of me. "We may be able to turn off his faucet for a while," he said.
*
From the outset, Dr. Gore regarded me like a scientist regards a hamster or a rat. His voice, always deceptive, seemed courteous and polite. "So you've discovered masturbation, boy. How often each day?"
"I don't," I said.
"Now don't you dare lie!" my stepmother screamed.
"You should cooperate, Jeremy. We're only trying to help you," Clarence lied.
"Yeah," said Lonnie, "and the first part won't even hurt."Mitchell stood staring and blocking the escape route up to the basement. I was in deep trouble. What did Lonnie mean? Was this pre-arranged?
"Answer the doctor!" my stepmother screamed. "Don't you dare lie!"
I stammered. Blushing, I told the truth. "Twice a day usually," I muttered almost under my breath.
"What's that boy? I didn't quite catch that. Louder so that everybody can hear. How many times a day do you pleasure yourself?"
"Twice," I said much louder, "Twice a day." I almost screamed it because this was none of their business and I was getting angry.
"Can you ejaculate?"
I hesitated a long time before answering. "What?" I said, disbelieving what I'd just heard. I certainly knew what it meant.
"He asked if you can cum yet, out of your piss-slit, boy," Mitchell spoke up.
"Yes," I said. "YESSS!"
"Does it feel good when you do it?"
I tried ignoring this nosey bastard.
"Well does it?" my stepmother screamed, grabbing me and shaking me by the shoulders, pinching my arms severely at the same time.
"Yes!" I started sobbing now. It was getting more intense. I just wanted to run up to my room and slam the door.
"I see," he said, the corpse-like Gore smiling a wicked grin. To the others, he nodded, as if something bad was about to begin. He looked at me, at my clothes. I could see the reflection of my clothes in his shark's eyes. "That's a nice shirt," he said, his gaze fixed on the black dress shirt with silver buttons that Mr. Cody had brought me in the hospital. "I won't ask you to remove it," he added.
I let go a sigh of relief.
The doctor looked me up and down again. "So, why were you in that hospital in the first place? How did you get all the way to Chicago?"
I knew better at this point than to lie, or to make some smart-aleck remark. "I guess, I ran away."
"You guess?" The doctor was like the Nazis probably were. I hated that grin already. Why did he keep asking me things he already knew?
"I ran away!" I said it this time with more conviction. "I
wanted to get away from these people for what they do to
me down here in this dungeon!" I started to bawl, but the
doctor's icy stare put a stop to that.
"Let's continue, shall we? When you ran away, what parts of your body did the running? More specifically, when you had walked for miles and miles, what parts of your body hurt the most, were sore?"
"My legs," I guess, "and my feet."
"So, if you'd been punished on your feet so that you couldn't walk well, or even stand very well, would you have still deserted your loving stepmother and her friends who love you?"
He looked positively evil, this monster, with his off-kilter mouth uttering what sounded to me like dragon's words. Talk about loaded questions, what was I supposed to say to that?
"Well boy, I need an answer."
"Answer him!" Caroline screamed, while smacking me on the head.
"Owwhh!" I yelled. "You didn't have to do that!"
"Better answer the doc," echoed Clarence. Grinning, he was really enjoying the show.
"No," I said, just loud enough for the five adults I was trapped with to hear. "I guess I wouldn't have." At least until they'd had a chance to heal, I thought, and then I'd be off like a shot for parts unknown.
"So what kind of shoes are those? New Balance? Please remove your left shoe." It was almost a whisper, but I heard it, and it gave the pit of my stomach butterflies all over again. No! I screamed. No! No! No! But to myself I screamed so that the sound was loudest inside my head.
I unlaced my left shoe, slipped it off. Lonnie took it and placed it on a chair in the dungeon's corner. I had a feeling that more of my clothes were about to end up there too.
"Now, please remove your right shoe." I unlaced it as slowly as I could. Made a show out of undoing the knots in the laces first.
"You are dawdling young man." The bastard looked at me again with those expressionless eyes he had.
I slipped off my right shoe and handed it gently to Lonnie.
"Now remove your left sock." His voice was chilling, and as I slipped my sock off, my bare left sole felt cold, unprotected on the dungeon's hard floor.
"Please remove your right sock." I was soon barefoot with my socks on the chair. My feet were a little cold and uncomfortable on the ungiving surface.
As the stripping continued, I tried to resist. "I can't do this," I said to them all.
"It's not up to you! Do what the doctor says you ungrateful brat!" The evil Caroline's anger wasn't helping.
"Unbuckle your belt from those nice khakis," the doctor commanded.
I did, now feeling that I had to comply. Maybe whatever these people were going to do wouldn't last long or be that painful. At any rate, it would be over in a couple hours at most, and then I'd be safe and snug in my bed.
"Unzip your zipper," he said. I unzipped.
"Take your pants completely off and hand them to your mother's friend," he commanded.
I did. Now I was dressed in just my tighty whitey Hanes and the black shirt with the silver buttons. I shivered involuntarily although it couldn't have been colder than sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit in that dungeon.
I waited with an incredible amount of dread for the next instruction. My dread was not misplaced.
He kept looking me up and down like a pervert would. I couldn't stand it! That stare of his with the doll's eyes seemed to go right through me! I shivered again. Enough already! I'll take them off! Just get it over with!
"Remove your briefs! Be quick about it boy!"
I was glad to in a way as there was an obvious yellow stain on my briefs and nobody had mentioned it. I was afraid I'd be humiliated about pissing my pants. Funny how my mind worked at thirteen, but nobody mentioned the urine stain when I handed Lonnie my briefs. Everybody saw it too.
I wanted to make sure that Dr. Gore would keep his word about my shirt. "You said that I can keep my shirt on," I started sobbing.
"So you shall boy! So you shall!" They had me dressed just the way they wanted me. I couldn't have realized that, but I sniffled, my tears temporarily halted.
*
The doctor began examining me with his cold pale hands. It felt like a corpse's hands. He had me sitting up on the big examining table, with my bare legs and feet dangling over the edge. "Your hands are cold," I said. He was touching me. He palpated my bare belly and the tattoos around my navel just under the black shirt where it ended on my body. He fondled and squeezed my penis and testicles, isolating each testicle one at a time in their sack, not too gentle when he pinched, regarding my "faucet" and "equipment" as he referred to my private parts. I was trying to disassociate from these events as he continued to examine my front his cold hands and fingers palpating and feeling up my thighs and knees and calves and feet in the harsh bright dungeon's glare. He tickled my feet and stroked my soles and bent back each of my toes until it hurt, and I winced, and then he instructed me to get all the way up on the table and lie on my stomach.
I soon felt his cold hands on my bare back under my shirt. He explored my butt-cheeks and stuck some kind of metal probe deep into my rectum while massaging my prostate gland. He squeezed my scrotum hard from behind. I let out grunts of pain from both the probe and the squeezing. It really hurts to have your balls squeezed hard from behind. He moved onto the backs of my thighs with those horrid strong freezing fingers. Lower on my legs and back those fingers came to linger on my feet, palpating those parts of my soles and toes and insteps and heels that he might have missed when I'd been positioned sitting down.
"This thirteen-year-old is a fine young male specimen," he said. The clinical speech was in a different context than when he'd greeted me what seemed eons ago, so I didn't make it an issue. "He's a very sturdy boy, and very attractive." I definitely didn't want to make an issue of any homoeroticism that this perverted ghoul might have been implying.
He asked me to turn over and lie on my back. Again, his cold hands were everywhere palpating, feeling me up. Holding and swiveling my penis with those horrid appendages, he took a lighted instrument and flashed it at my pee-hole while asking for "your measurements of his penis including the urethra." Lonnie handed him what he'd asked for, their scribbled notes from Wednesday's edition of "Naked Jeremy on exhibit."
Then he startled me. "Interested in a proposition boy?" he asked. I didn't immediately respond so he continued. "Like a challenge. If you accept, I can promise that you won't suffer pain, only some embarrassment and humiliation. You will escape the punishments that we have planned for you. Totally escape any painful treatments, does that intrigue you?"
I had a feeling these punishments would be worse than anything that Caroline and the gang had tried on me so far, or else could dream up, or why would they need this freaky doctor? I was also two days past my thirteenth birthday and quite naive.
Everybody was watching my reaction. "What is it?" I asked. "What's the challenge?"
*Dr. Seymour Gore and the other fully clothed adults stared at me dressed in my black shirt with the silver buttons but otherwise naked including barefoot. They were like vultures. For my part I just wanted to avoid anything painful, and in this situation felt terrified. Whatever the ghoulish cadaver man might suggest, I was willing to listen. "Well?" I asked.
"Okay. You will need to sit down on that table there with your pal Lonnie photographing you with your shirt entirely unbuttoned."
"Okay," I said, but I was thinking that Lonnie was definitely not my pal. This would be humiliating and embarrassing but I would do it, I decided. Unfortunately, there was more.
"You misunderstand boy. That's merely the first part. We need to have you masturbate to ejaculation four times in succession within a half-hour. We will time you. Each time you must display your ejaculate-covered penis and surrounding body parts and we all must give you the signal all of us will nod assent or else just say 'continue," and then you may continue to try and beat the clock."
He means 'beat my meat.' I swear I saw Dr. Gore show his teeth like a vampire at that moment, and imagined him sucking me and biting my dick off. I tried to ignore that gruesome image.
"There is a catch of course. You must show you have ejaculated each time. If you don't ejaculate, it doesn't count," he added, smiling with those awful teeth again. "You may have one of us, your choice, orally fellate you, to help you achieve your little goal. Of course, if this occurs, you must reciprocate with that person no matter what the outcome. Do you understand the rules boy?"
"I don't think I want to do this. I've changed my mind."
It was way too gross, and he was saying that I had to suck off one of these men too as an embarrassing bonus, if I couldn't come on my own with just my hand a total of four times. I'd never been able to come four times. I'd never jerked off more than twice in the same day. What if I couldn't do it? No, maybe we could start the painful punishments and get them over with.
"You've changed your mind boy?"
"I think so." Suddenly I was getting less sure by the second.
"Were you aware that we've selected an entire list of things to do to you and over a hundred punishments are on the list?"
"How long will that take?" I asked.
"All day tomorrow, and then when Dr. Gore can come back to treat you," my evil stepmother said, beaming with joy. She showed her teeth then also, and frankly, she resembled a vampire too, to my mind.
That warning was enough. I was willing to become a boy slut if it would spare me the worse fate of almost non-ceasing pain. This was a difficult decision for any boy just turned thirteen to make. "Okay, I'll do it," I said.
"Good decision," Lonnie said. He already had the digital camera ready.
I got up and sat on the table and started unbuttoning my shirt. I began fingering my penis, trying to make myself hot and sticky with cum. I would put on a show for these five sadistic adults and for Lonnie's digital camera. They'd get their money's worth and maybe I could go upstairs to bed afterwards with a slightly sore cock and nothing more. That would be getting off easy with this crowd. Dr. Gore had a stopwatch ready. "Ready, set, go!"
So it began. I had a hand job to do.
*
Fingering my cock in full-view of the adults while demonstrating my masturbation technique started to feel good. My fingers proceeded slowly, like a massage of the shaft, underneath and above, all around the sensitive skin, and finally brushing my thumb over my glans. I would also brush my fingers against my belly and pelvic areas, and do my balls, with just the right amount of pressure. But with all these people watching me like vultures, I wasn't coming close to a cum! I tried concentrating more intensely. I thought about what it felt like doing it up in my room, but embarrassment was winning out. Finally I managed to block them all out by closing my eyes. I tried not to listen to any noises any of them made, and it worked. It started feeling real good and I spurted once, twice, three jets of cum. Opening my eyes again, I noticed that one jet had gone out like a geyser, pressurized, landing high on my chest against the backdrop of my black shirt. I sighed, content.
"That took you almost eight minutes," Dr. Gore rasped, "Hurry up, you will need three more successful events in the next twenty-two minutes.""Three more successful events are required," chimed in Lonnie, who had already recorded my first "event" in all its glory with the digital camera.
I began fingering myself again. My penis was already slightly sore and starting to chafe, because of over rubbing. Less nervous, I managed a decent second "event" in slightly less time, six and a half minutes, but now I was starting to feel desperate, as this time my semen had merely oozed, and the quantity was only four or five drops. My cock was noticeably reddened in one of the good spots on my glans, near my pee-hole. I knew that a third consecutive hand massage would really make my penis sore, or barely work, and even if it did work, I'd never get a fourth one out of it. So it was time to exercise my oral option, with somebody giving me a blowjob in full view of these sadists, or at least four of them. Who would I choose from this monstrous crowd to orally fellate me? My stepmother was out, even though it was technically heterosexual doing it with her. The ramifications of her doing me were simply too odious. Lonnie had the camera, so he was out. Clarence was an artiste, and I eliminated him in my mind for that reason. So that left Mitchell.
"Mitchell, will you blow me?" I begged.
The big motorcycle goon just stared at me, as my request somehow caught him by surprise. Still, I got the impression that he wasn't entirely new to this activity once he started even if he'd never practiced on thirteen-year-old boys. Kneeling down before me, his mouth and tongue started licking and it felt immediately good, even on the sore chafed areas. But the clock was ticking and I still needed another hand-induced orgasm after this if I was to escape the extended pain session. Worse, he was merely tickling and licking around the edges, and the clock kept ticking.
When Dr. Gore said, "Five minutes left," desperation really set in, and I was almost frantic. Instinctively I knew what was needed. Mitchell needed to go deep, to let my cock penetrate his mouth all the way back into his throat. He needed to deep throat me.
"Mitchell, all the way in!" I screamed, holding on to his head and keeping it on my cock. It was useless. He kept straying. "All the way in!" I yelled again, starting to sob.
By the time I came, maybe two or three drops Mitchell said later, the clock had nearly expired.
My stepmother gave me the grim news. "You have to make it happen one more time in fifty-five seconds. I'm rooting for you," she said, but of course she wasn't.
Sobbing, exposed to all five adults in the lewdest way imaginable, I began to masturbate. But it was futile.
"Time's up little man," Clarence drolly added way too soon. Everybody laughed.
The rest of that Friday evening was anti-climatic. I was made to kneel down with my bare-knees on the dungeon's floor and "reciprocate," as Dr. Gore put it, by giving Mitchell a bj. His penis was a giant appendage and scrolled with huge veins. It must have been ten inches long with a four-inch girth. It smelled of body odor too, although only faintly, as he had showered that morning. I doubt he'd used soap. Soon I was choking on his penis. He called it his "wild thing," and it was soon pushed deep back into my throat. He held my head a lot more firmly than my grip on his had been, digging his fingers into the nape of my neck. Gagging, barely able to breathe, I was almost glad when he came a copious amount, maybe a pint of thick white semen and he made me "drink up" every drop and lick his organ "clean." The smell of my own saliva was soon overpowering. I felt like puking. While I was kneeling there trying to fellate Mitchell, Dr. Gore was running some kind of sharp instrument along the soles of my bare feet. It hurt.
But they saved my initial round of punishments for the morning.
*
They'd cuffed my right ankle to the hard medical examination table, brought me some chocolate milk, a light blanket, and a pillow, and then just left me there overnight in the dungeon. I had to sleep on my back rather than on my preferred tummy or side because I couldn't turn over without twisting my leg into an unnatural position. Mercifully, they turned the lights off.
I woke up early on Saturday morning. Lying on my back with an unbuttoned black shirt being all that I was wearing, I'd probably slept five or six hours instead of my usual eight. I was covered with the blanket and fairly comfortable at that moment, but when I heard muffled footfalls crashing down the stairs above me in the basement, it all dawned on me. I heard voices now, including the sinister voice of that cadaver man, the one with the icy cold fingers. The hatch door to the sub-basement opened and they were here.
"Let's get him ready," my stepmother said, towering over me as I opened my eyes into this Hellish Oz.
"He should be showered and brought back down naked," Dr. Gore was instructing. I also had to pee and crap.
*
I was clean and well scrubbed at around 9:30 on that Saturday morning, cuffed by wrist and ankle restraints on the dreadful exam table. Naked as the day I was born except for the beginnings of armpit and pubic hair, and a few slight hairs on each of my large toes; I was spread-eagled on my back to begin. I was whimpering.
Dr. Gore would be conducting most of my painful punishments. "I will have assistance from your family as I require it," he added. I lay on a white linen sheet. I assumed it was necessary, as I would be bleeding. "This 13-year-old male probably expects punishments producing the same level of pain he received during his tattooing. Isn't that right boy?" Gore sneered at me in a condescending manner.
"Answer him!" my stepmother screamed. But what was I supposed to say?
"I don't know."
"Well, let me assure you that the pain you'll be receiving this weekend will test your endurance your maximum pain threshold. How will we determine your pain threshold? With this little device that was very lightly applied last evening while you were occupied with your friend Mitchell, servicing him orally."
I didn't particularly want to dwell on that. Showing me the device, he allowed me to look at it closely. "What is it?" I couldn't help asking.
"This is a Wartenberg Pin Wheel. Made to test skin sensitivity and pain perception, it is 7 inches in length and made of shiny stainless steel. I'm going to apply it to the most sensitive areas of your naked body. Once I know your threshold requirements, I can inflict maximum pain on you as well-deserved punishments without causing serious or life-threatening injury."
"No!" I wailed, "That thing has pins in it!" I could see the pins, tiny but evil looking.
"Yes, these are sharp pins. They'll rotate around as I roll it across your exposed flesh. Should be fun!" As he cracked a ghoulish grin, the rest of the peanut gallery guffawed in their typical boorish way.
"I will begin anew on your left plantar fascia." He looked at my so-called "family" to explain further. "Jeremy I guess that's this male specimen's name has a very fleshy sole lots of nice spongy adipose tissue some people refer to as 'baby fat.' His plantar fascia is the tendon surface along his entire sole from the bottoms of his toes to his heel surface."
Gore began pointing as he explained. He considered himself some kind of teaching physician. "The long plantar ligament
extends here, along with the muscles -- all four layers of
them all of these areas together with the extremely
sensitive nerve endings that are attached to them -- will
certainly be stimulated for pain during our merry little weekend. But he will recover."
"No," I moaned, but it too was more of a whimper.He grasped my left foot's instep firmly. As usual, Dr. Gore's fingers felt icy, as if he were dead. I felt the wheel with its sharp little pins pressed harder against the fleshy "meat" of my bare left sole. This time he was pressing hard enough to make tiny little nicks, or cuts. Although superficial, I didn't like this treatment much AT ALL. In retrospect, it was bearable; probably similar to the tattooing needles that Clarence had used. He made about ten
passes starting on the undersides of my toes and working
that wheel with its sharp pins down onto the ball of my
foot and then across the instep and down to the heel. He was
nicking my left sole raw, making it into hamburger it felt like, and then he grabbed my right foot's instep in exactly the same manner. It didn't tickle, it wasn't pleasant like a massage, but the motions he used were similar, and a lot like the way Clarence tattooed me.
"Fascinating,' the artiste murmured, looking on so I could feel his hot moist breath on my feet.
Soon the skin of my sensitive right sole was covered with tiny nicks, pinpricks, raw and reddened as some bled slightly maybe hundreds of them. Yes, it was feeling like hamburger too. Ten hard-pressure passes on a person's bare sole with a Wartenberg Pin Wheel can do that.
But then, as I writhed and moaned in my restraints, Dr. Seymour Gore moved on to my other sensitive areas. "These pinwheels can be used almost anywhere on a boy's body," he narrated.
I felt the pricks from the pinwheel as Gore began rolling it over my stomach, first above my navel and then over it where my belly tattoo began. Grimacing, I didn't cry out. "Let's try a different site on this young specimen's body," he said. I hated it when he referred to me as a "specimen," but wisely held my tongue. He went over my bare nipples which actually were less sensitive than my belly had been. When my nipples were rubbed a bit raw, he saw that the effect wasn't to his liking. "He's not that sensitive on his chest, or can tolerate the pain."
"Try another place where it hurts him more," my stepmother suggested.
I could have killed her right then. But Gore followed Caroline's lead.
He held up my bare penis, and with the other hand, began using the pinwheel on it, along the sensitive underside first. His ghoulish face had an expectant look, as if he expected me to scream. I didn't disappoint him.
"Yeowwh!" I wailed, because the pins were being pressed down with considerable force. Being creative with the device, he used it along the side of my cock, from the base to the glans, but not directly on the glans at first. He was saving that. Continuing, he pressed the pinwheel along the top side of my cock, and then down the other side working towards the base of my cock and my scrotum. My scrotum was about to get some attention. Using his thumb and forefinger to stretch out my scrotal sack more, I soon felt that awful wheel pressed flush and rolled over my balls.
"Yeowhh!" I let out a yelp.
Finally he did do my glans, the most sensitive part of a boy's penis. The quick route, maybe twenty times over and over my little bulb was performed as he put it, "to see how sensitive he is there."
I was plenty sensitive. This wasn't just white meat being cut on a chicken. "Owwh," it hurts, I said, meaning it completely, as this strange sensation from the skin on my prick's head being pricked was decidedly unpleasant.
"The cuts are minor and barely bleed," Gore noted.
The wheel went other places too. Inside my thighs, on my calves, over the bony parts of my ankles, first one, then the other, along the sides of my feet along the insteps and heel, six more passes on the defenseless soles of my feet.
When Caroline and the gang flipped me onto my stomach, the pinwheel started its "important tests" on my naked spread- eagled backside.
This testing for the "real pain", as it was later referred to, just preliminaries to see how sensitive my skin was, seemed to drag on forever. At least while lying on my stomach I could sort of "zone out." I was starting to develop a tolerance for this persistent low level pain.
Except for when the pinwheel invaded my asshole, or when Dr. Gore switched to something called a needle hammer and started pounding that nasty little device all over my bare back.
They observed a lunch break and even let me walk up to the kitchen (while still naked of course) for a sandwich with soda, cola, and a small bowl of soup, chicken noodle, homemade. I accepted, although this felt very strange, as my feet were already pretty sore. I had to use the bathroom too, and was hungrier than I'd thought.
"No, that's enough for him to be eating. He's likely to vomit all over the place otherwise during the afternoon session," Gore intoned.
"His punishments await," Lonnie, the fat one warned.
I was not in a hurry to commence this phase of my life, so I dawdled as much as possible, and while naked, tried to appear nonchalant.
"He's taking forever to eat that sandwich!" Mitchell suddenly exclaimed.
Grinning, I attempted to look cute.
"Let's get him back to the dungeon," Clarence said, matter- of-factly.
"We are on a schedule," Gore added with a tinge of irritation. He liked torturing boys, and I was keeping him from his work.
When I was loping painfully down the stairs to the basement, I felt a sense of dread that dwarfed any I'd ever felt.
*
Dr. Seymour Gore had been an Outward Bound physician and director at a Colorado boot camp where wayward teenagers are often punished. Five kids, four thirteen-year-old boys and a fourteen-year-old girl, suffered frostbite during a field trip as he'd forced them to hike barefoot over snow-covered terrain. "Only nine toes lost out of fifty," he was later heard to remark at a subsequent court proceeding, "it could have been worse."
At Ricendum, a private boy's school in Delaware, he'd been let go after a naked 7th grader was discovered suspended on a Saint Andrew's cross with cuts, abrasions, and burns over 70% of his body.
I wish I'd known Gore's history. Or maybe I don't.
I learned about the Saint Andrew's cross firsthand. Bound with ropes on my ankles and wrists, tight enough to support the weight of my naked body on the X-shaped cross, I found myself secured upside down, head downwards, and terrified.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked plaintively.
"You'll find out," Gore said with a smug grin. Looking up at the human monster from my upside down vantage, he looked more alive, but then those cold hands started touching my chest and tummy and fondling my cock and ballsack.
"You bastard," I said.
"Let's put a hood on him so we don't mark his cute little face," Clarence said. He wasn't immediately worried about blemishing my tattoos.
"Here, open wide and bite down on this," Mitchell said as Lonnie clicked on the digital camera. It was a hard rubber ball gag to prevent me from screaming. Once it was in my mouth, the ball gag was secured so that I couldn't spit it out. But they hadn't placed my head inside the hood yet.
Gore did just that. He knew how. Soon I couldn't see as the hood had an airspace for my nose and mouth so I could breathe, but no holes for my eyes. It was dark all of a sudden. Despite the glare of the brightly-lit dungeon, I could only make out brightness, like a brownish-haze.
Seconds later, I felt the first stroke of a leather whip with several tails. It struck me about mid-back and felt like a snake's fangs. "Yeowwh!" But my scream was muffled by the ball gag and was probably barely audible. Another lash from the cruel whip struck my tender naked skin in front, on my chest, just below the left nipple. I couldn't tell who was hitting me. All five of them had their own personal whipping instruments. Prime targets on my exposed body appeared to be my back, buttocks, legs and especially my cock and balls I must have been hit thirty times on my "bits" as my stepmother called them. I figured that it couldn't last forever, but it seemed to. Sometimes they paused for as much as a full minute before hitting me again "to let him think about it."
Finally, they removed my hood and ball gag. Untied from that horrid Saint Andrew's cross, I plopped onto the dungeon's floor like a potato spilled from a sack. I was quietly sobbing.
*
Next I was stretched out on a portable rack. I'd seen paintings in medieval books where racks had guys stretched out on them with their joints grotesquely dislocated. I had lots of little cuts and abrasions on me by then and was smarting all over, but getting stretched in that condition seemed to magnify my terror a hundred-fold. All my fingers and toes were tied with leather thongs. Even my penis was looped to some kind of overhead beam and pointed unnaturally toward the dungeon's ceiling. Lying spread-eagled on my back, I heard this terrible squeaky cranking sound, as I screamed "No No! You can't do this!"They could control what particular joints they wanted to torture, individually.
"Five more turns on his toes," Dr. Gore said, "Ought to produce the level of pain we're seeking." Each thong began stretching further, with my toes being pulled outwards. All my toes were being worked at the same time. "I can't stand it!" I screamed.
They did every joint in my body stressed to the point of dislocation so that I felt excruciating pain, but not quite tearing the tendons. "We don't want to dislocate anything on him," Gore said, relieving the pressure on my joints one notch at a time. About eight notches had to be lowered on my fingers and toes before those tortured extremities felt any relief whatsoever. I was sobbing due to a miserable ache- type pain even after I was taken off the rack completely! It seemed like every one of my joints was damaged. I even had a weird pain in the nerves of my penis because of the way that organ had been stretched.
"How do you feel?" Lonnie asked while taking more torture pictures with his digital camera. I just glared at the clueless bastard.
*
My next torment was something entirely unexpected. Let loose from the portable rack, I was headed for the ice-cold tub. I could hardly walk and had to be helped over to it. Everybody was expectant. Of course I was still in the nude. The metal tub was not quite as long as a regular bathtub, but it was deep, maybe three feet, and it was filled with water and slowly melting ice cubes, probably about 35 degrees Fahrenheit. I just stared at it.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Jump into your bath water, boy!" Mitchell yelled.
"I'm not going in there!" I yelled. I tried to escape, but soon was captured and brought back to the icy tub by the scruff of my neck. Fighting them to no avail, I soon felt strong hands lowering my body into the water. First my feet felt the shock of it, then little by little, the rest of me, until I was immersed up to my neck. I cried and sobbed, but soon shut up, as the shock to my system was incredible. Besides water, there was Epsom salts and something else therapeutic added by Dr. Gore. But it was cold! Soon I was shivering so hard and prepared to die, because nobody could live while immersed in a bath like this for too long, could they? "Eight minutes is his limit," I heard the cadaver man say, and then I was being lifted out and toweled dry, and then covered and clothed with more bath towels and also a nice blanket.
"Just let him lay there for a few minutes," Gore added, and I did, and it felt so nice. Felt so nice? Yes! Miraculously, my joints, which had been so sore just moments before, now felt only slightly painful, as any inflammation had been arrested. But I thought that getting up or moving in any direction would break the spell.
"You can go up to your room now, to your bed Jeremy," my stepmother said. I wanted to believe her. But didn't dare move for fear the terrible joint pain might return.
"Go ahead! Before we change our mind!" Clarence yelled.
I didn't have to be told again. I got up onto my feet, picked up all my clothes off the chair, and without dressing began to head toward my sanctuary. I limped a little but surprisingly little.
"Doctor Gore has to leave for today but he'll be back next Saturday," Mitchell warned. I lifted the dungeon's squeaky latch and was soon padding onto the basement's cement, and then the kitchen, and then had closed the door to my upstairs bedroom and hopped under the covers.
My body needed the sleep as it was exhausted. Sunday I stayed in bed all day and only got up to go to the toilet.
*
By Wednesday I was back in school again, my earlier absences due to the "flu." I tried to avoid my friends, at least long discussions with them, as there'd be the inevitable questions. Physically I felt fine, especially by Friday. I even had the bag lunches prepared by my stepmother, and took gym on Friday. Playing basketball, I jammed two of my fingers, but it didn't hurt as much as it would have, I believed, because of being on the rack and my experience with that torment, especially with what was done to my finger joints. The ice bath must've helped, but it was something I never wanted to go through again.
Psychologically was my war. As Saturday approached and a second appointment with Dr. Seymour Gore loomed, I dreaded the end of the week. Tuesday it began. I felt an increasing sense of terror, especially before going to bed that night, knowing that school would begin anew for me. Time has a way of speeding up when you're in school, and when you know you're eventually going to be punished for running away. Clarence tried to justify what they'd be doing to me on Saturday, how it was important that I be punished "for my own good" so that I wouldn't run away again. Caroline spoke about having to clean the "gobs of cum" off my bedsheets and my not having "any consideration" and having a "fresh mouth" at times. When Friday evening came, we rented a video called "Midnight Express." In that movie, there's a scene where boys in a Turkish prison are beaten on the soles of the feet until they bleed. During the scene as the boys wailed pitifully, everybody in "my family" looked at me. I made up my mind at that moment to endure whatever it was they planned to do and not be a wuss about it. I might scream and cry, but I would try hard not to. Lonnie said, "Good luck tomorrow" just before I went upstairs and said "I'd get through it." I thanked him but I heard the digital camera clicking as I started climbing the stairs. Mitchell gave me a hug, which felt very good but I didn't know how to react to his affection. Since he stank and I was reminded of the reciprocated blowjob, all I could say was "Can you go and take a shower and this time use soap?" He laughed.
*Saturday morning came soon enough. I heard somebody arrive and enter the house, and the familiar voice of Dr. Seymour Gore. I was lying comfortably on my back under the covers, lolling about, not wanting to leave my bed for the pain and terror of my stepmother's dungeon. I was awake but thinking about what was going to happen. I began to psych myself up. Could I get through it? How much pain would these bastards inflict on me? I began to get angry at the unfairness of it, and starting bawling. I doubt if any of the cruel adults heard me, but I was having a good cry. I must have started dozing off again until I heard a little knock on my bedroom door, and then Lonnie's familiar voice, "C'mon. It's time!"
"Okay. But can I take a shower first?"
"Yes, Dr. Gore wants you to, and in fact, you should. We'll see you down in the dungeon in about 20 minutes, okay boy?"
*
Part 12 - Conclusion
What? They were going to trust me to go down to the dungeon on my own? Like an honor system? I had to urinate and defecate really bad so I got up and walked over to the upstairs bathroom. I closed the door and took care of my business, brushed my teeth, and turned on the shower, getting the warm water just the way I liked it. About ten minutes later, I decided to dress completely into jeans, T- shirt, clean underwear and socks in my room, and held my New Balance shoes in my hands. Yes, I was going to try and sneak out! Sock clad, I got downstairs as quietly as I could. Hoping against hope that they were all down in the dungeon, I tiptoed through the house toward the front door, where maybe they wouldn't expect me to escape from, as the kitchen and the door to the cellar and sub-basement all were near the back door in my stepmother's house. Eight, ten, twelve, steps seemed like forever as my heart was racing. My hand touched the lock, I unclicked it, and just as I began to open the front door, so quietly, soundlessly I'd figured, five seconds from freedom, at the freaking most I felt a hand on my shoulder, and then a gentle squeeze.
"Going somewhere?"
It was Lonnie. "Go ahead, open the door," he whispered. I assumed for one more fleeting second that he was showing mercy, that he was giving me a break and had taken pity on me. I opened the heavy oaken door.
Standing there outside on the porch were Clarence, Mitchell, and the evil Caroline.
Their derisive laughter from that moment still reverberates in my mind.
*
"You were preparing to run away again, weren't you boy?" Dr. Gore's tone was harsher on that Saturday, more menacing.
I stood beneath the glare of the dungeon lights, my feet shifting inside my New Balance walking shoes. My footwear resembled sneakers comfort-wise. Still completely dressed, it was obvious I wouldn't be for long. The others were there too, my stepmother and her motorcycle goons. I hated her. I hated them all! They all were glaring at me, although a perverse satisfaction must have colored their perceptions.
"Answer the doctor! He doesn't have all day!" Caroline screamed.
Tears had already streaked my cheekbones. My eyes were slightly puffy. What defense did I have?
"Yes! I was trying to get out of this place! To get away from you bastards!"
For that last comment my reward was a hard slap across the face.
My stepmother gloated with anger. She had reddened my face. I swore you could make out her handprint, too.
"Fuck you!"
"What? What's that I just heard?" She smiled at my rage.
"We'd better get started with him. Please take your clothes off, and hand everything to your friend Mitchell." Dr. Gore seemed anxious.
"No! Also, he's not my friend!"
"That's just about enough out of you, you prissy little brat. The doctor asked you to strip!" Mitchell looked furious like he'd cold-cock me with his fist if I didn't begin undressing.
Facing the futility of my situation, reason began to set in, and despair, once again. My look at that instant was doe- like, showing as much vulnerability as I could muster."Now!" my stepmother said, unfazed.
I began peeling off my T-shirt, gave it to Mitchell, so that I was bare-chested. Next came my jeans, unbuckled, unzipped, pushed down, and handed to my pseudo-butler. My legs were bare too, but I still wore my socks and briefs. Looking around, I noticed a few new accoutrements, a small electric brazier, and an unfamiliar stainless steel chair resembling a dentist's chair. The chair had a set of restraints for the sitter's wrists and ankles. A cloth-covered end table near the chair was laden with various kinds of medical instruments, several types of clamps and picks and tweezers, many long solid-bore needles, syringes, and God knew what else. I involuntarily shivered. "What are you going to do to me?" I was pleading, my words more pitiful than the boys my age or slightly younger getting their bare soles beaten with wooden clubs in "Midnight Express."
I became pensive for a moment. Milking this moment for some kind of unexpected reprieve. "No!" I said, starting another crying jag. "Please don't hurt me!"
But their eyes were merciless. "Finish stripping!" Clarence yelled.
Reluctantly, trying to dawdle for all I was worth, I slowly stripped off my left sock, an inch at a time, and then my right went even slower. Their eyes were still on me, five sadistic adults of the worst kind. Barefoot, I still wore my briefs. They were white, Fruit-of-the-Loom, and clean straight out of the dryer and made nice and soft with a fabric softener. Downy I think it was called. I was thirteen years and ten days old.
"C'mon," Clarence yelled again. I pressed my fingers into the waistband, and tugged downwards, again, a quarter-inch at a time, maybe an eighth-inch. My pelvic rim, and next my sparse growth of pubes came into view, then the base of my penis, more of the stalk, until the tip was exposed. I got a little braver, revealing my testicles and groin area, my thighs, my upper legs some nice muscle was starting to develop as I was getting more pubertal.
"I can't take it any more!" my stepmother screamed, and then she brushed my own hands away and began a swift motion that left my briefs to clothe my bare feet and leaving the rest of me naked. "Now! Step out of them, pick them up, and hand your shorts to Mitchell!"
I did. Beckoned over to sit in the chair, I did that too. I tried to get my head to go foggy, to block it all out. To erase from the immediacy all that would happen to me. Dr. Gore adjusted the chair, so that it extended backwards in a reclining position. It was rubbery-vinyl, cushioned, and fairly comfortable even as I sat and laid back nude on it. Mitchell strapped me in by the wrists. My arms extended straight up above my head. My feet and ankles were soon secured to a footrest that extended out in front of the chair. I could move my arms and legs enough to squirm in my bonds. I was almost but not quite lying completely flat on my back. The way this medical chair was adjusted was a little like the Lazy-Boy recliner up in the parlor in its reclining position.
"So there's our 13-year-old male specimen just the way I like him," Dr. Gore commented. I was in no position to complain about a demeaning comment.
"What are you going to do to me?" My voice was husky, sounding sexy to a sadist, practically a whisper.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe punish you," the cadaver man said. To me, it sounded like a hiss, his words. I was more than just scared. Terrified. The enclosed space in my stepmother's dungeon started swimming in circles, becoming indistinct as I almost fainted.
"Wake up!" my stepmother said, smacking me hard on the bare belly with her open palm. Damn that hurt!
*
My senses were heightened again. I was alert and a bit tensed as I felt Dr. Gore's cold fingers touch my penis and testicles. He began manipulating my scrotum, feeling for my balls in their sacs, first the left testicle, than my right. "Like soft little marbles," he said, "It would be so easy to crush them, to ruin this boy's ability to produce semen." He gave my left testicle a hard little pinch. "Owwh," I said. "Please, don't crush my balls!" I screamed. This plea produced a hearty laugh at my expense. He continued to feel my balls, pinching, squeezing, palpating. He scratched me lightly with one hand on my chest and tummy, working down into my pelvic area, sort of tickling. He then began his tender ministrations to my penis, lightly scratching, even tickling. It felt very good despite my terror. "I have to make him hard first," he said. Dr. Gore kept it up until I was hard, and oozing a little pre-cum out of my pee-hole. Somebody handed him the first of the extremely slender stainless steel rods that he was about to use, and he showed it to me. "Do you know where this is going, boy?" I didn't, and shook my head."Straight into your urethra. Down your pee-hole. Your piss- slit. All the way in until only the tip of it is protruding."
"No," I said, almost yelling, "You can't. It will hurt. A lot!" The thing was slightly longer than my penis, maybe four-plus inches. I didn't notice this detail immediately, but it must have been smooth, without any ridges or sharp edges.
"Ewwh! This punishment should be real fun," Lonnie exclaimed. He held the digital camera and was moving in for a close-up. He kept aiming the camera at my face, and then at my penis, repeating this sequence for some type of effect.
Holding my penis just below the glans with one sure steady hand, the cadaver man squinted, like he was threading a needle. With the other hand, Dr. Gore advanced upon my penis with the first of the stainless steel rods.
*
I screamed at first, mostly because I thought it would hurt. Dr. Gore placed the first steel rod against my pee-hole and pushed it in steadily but surely, a fraction of an inch at a time. Even when it was embedded "all the way in" as all five adults had a jolly time with that phrase, shouting it over and over like a musical chorus, and protruding only slightly from my penis, I barely felt it. But the insertion of the second stainless steel rod alongside the first did cause some discomfort going in. I began to notice the feeling of my urethra being distended slightly, and then the third rod was even worse, some mild pain from my urethral tissue being stretched began to become apparent. "Please," I wailed, "it's starting to hurt bad," and my eyes went as wide as saucers when he started pushing a fourth extremely thin stainless steel rod into my penis, and then finally, the fifth. The cadaver man's eyes were bright and cheerful as he pushed and guided the last steel rod with his strong fingers "all the way in" in sync with the joyful chorus of shouts from my stepmother and her three stooges. All five rods now protruded perhaps 1/8 of an inch out from my penile eye.
"He's feeling some moderate pain now from the stretching inside his penis, but let's punish him now by upping the ante." Besides being a physician, Gore was a teacher and I hated learning this lesson.
"How?" My evil stepmother asked.
"Like this," he began showing them, with all eyes riveted on my cock and his stronger fingers. "You just squeeze all around the tube of his penis like giving the boy's organ a little massage. Without the rods, it would give him pleasure. With the rods placed as they are, not only will he be unable to ejaculate, but it will cause him moderate to severe pain when I squeeze."
It did hurt. His pressure, pinching me with his thumb and index finger, hurt like Hell. He didn't miss a spot and pretty soon I was softly sobbing from the pain. I maintained a hard on, of course, with the rods in there and my blood pulsing through my penis. "Please don't do it anymore!" I finally gasped when he stopped.
"Fascinating," Clarence said, "Mind if I try?"
"Why not? In fact, each of you should have a turn." Gore smiled and showed his vampire's teeth.
So Clarence had his turn squeezing my cock with those horrid rods inside there, "giving me a massage" and he was followed by my stepmother, who squeezed hardest and hurt the most, and Mitchell, and Lonnie. Finally, when they began tiring of this hideous little game, Dr. Seymour Gore decided to end it by quickly pulling all five rods out of my cock at once. "Yeowhh!" I screamed. That pain was the most acute, and afterwards it still felt a little sore inside my penis even with the stainless steel rods out.
Another activity commenced while I was stretched out in that chair. The hair pulling experiments, to obtain "samples" of my body hair that I had at age 13, was more humiliating than painful, although it did hurt. Dr. Gore used tweezers to pull out a few hairs on my armpits and big toes, but really went crazy as he pulled out fifteen little pubic hairs two sets of three at a time from my groin, and the rest singly. I seemed able to count every hair, and I grimaced a lot.
But for the worst punishments, I went back onto that stainless steel table. Spread-eagled on my stomach, I felt Dr. Gore insert something into my anus. It felt like a carrot but I knew it wasn't. "It's an anal dilator," I heard the heartless bastard say. Then after that probe was withdrawn, in went something much worse. This object had lots of thorns on it, actually spines. "It's part of a cactus," he informed me, "and it's just six inches long." The spines alone felt like they were six inches long, but I learned later, after I stopped screaming, that the irregular spines were only a quarter-inch or less depending where they were located on the branch or whatever it is they call a cactus portion. He then took another piece of cactus and used it to "draw blood on our boy's back and butt" making deep scratches as I screamed my vocal cords raw.
Another bad punishment "group" as they called it was when they started in on my feet and toes. I had to place my bare feet up on another table willingly, to spare me "some" of the pain they were considering for me. I was sitting on a towel that had been placed on the dungeon's floor. "Let's begin some punishments just for his feet, since he seems to enjoy running away from his loving home and family," Dr. Gore said to everyone. Mostly it involved needles, and they were heated red-hot and glowing. I remember snippets of what they did to me, because I passed out at least three times from the excruciating pain.
I can recall how this ordeal began. "We will begin on this 13-year-old male's plantar fascia of his left foot and end up with a heated needle coming out of his extensor hallucis brevis. Do any of you have any idea what I'm talking about?"
I had a pretty good idea and immediately screamed. "No, you can't EVEN do that. Please!" From the way his cold fingers were lightly scratching the ball of my foot was that the red-hot needle would be pushed right through that extremely sensitive spot until it penetrated all the way through to the muscle that controlled the movement of my left big toe! While the cadaver man palpated, the other ghouls watched, fascinated, as my world was about to become a wave of excruciating torment. "Do you enjoy red-hot needles boy?"
"No!" I wailed.
The adults that were technically my family at that time, in the sense that they had gained custody of me, watched with rapt fascination. They still didn't have a clue, not even Clarence.
"I never was too knowledgeable about medical names for parts of the body," admitted Clarence. "But somewhere on his sole you're going to stick it in, and deep. Jeremy should enjoy this."
"Not," added Lonnie documenting everything with his digital camera.
"I want to know where you're going to stick him," the evil Caroline said.
"Here, through the ball of his foot, is where it will enter on the boy's tender sole." Gore touched me smack in the middle of the extremely sensitive ball of my foot as I whimpered in fear.
"Fine with me," she agreed. "He'll think twice about running away again while it heals. Go ahead. Stick him!" She was a heartless bitch."That's bound to hurt," Mitchell said, cringing with a pained expression as he looked on. Lonnie was crouching for a better angle with the camera. He didn't want to miss any of the action.
"Okay, get me one of the needles that have been heating on the brazier." Dr. Gore donned a pair of heat-resistant gloves.
"No, don't do this, please," I whimpered, almost in a whisper.
He held my left foot tightly at the ankle in his strong fingers, but added a direction to Clarence and Mitchell. "Hold his leg firmly so he doesn't kick too hard. I don't want him moving too much when I do this."
"Hold that foot still or you'll get three extra needles in each foot six more than we were going to give you to think about!" He had directions for me too. "Also, if you move your foot while I'm doing this, you might never walk again!" I believed this last threat in my terror stricken state, and my brain flooded with a new kind of fear. I now WANTED Mitchell and Clarence to immobilize me so that my foot would remain still. I knew that I would thrash if left to my own devices. As for the "extra" needles, it was only the one in the human monster's gloved fingers that I cared about for the time being. I watched, my teenaged eyes following the movement and wide with sheer fright as he was given the long needle, part of it glowing, and approached the tender ball of my left foot.
I felt the sharp point of the red-hot needle as it touched my skin. That pain in itself was enough to make me scream bloody murder. Then he pushed it in, slowly, deeper and deeper, and my pain reached a whole new dimension. "Yeowhh! Oh, it kills, it kills! Take it out! Please take it out!" The monster doctor's expression was maniacal as he held my bare foot firmly. A few seconds later, the awful needle had penetrated all the way through my foot, coming out near the bottom of my big toe where that muscle he'd mentioned connected with the rest of my foot! I think that was the first time I fainted.
Other red-hot needles went through my bare heels pretty deep. More went through my long plantar ligaments (which were in the middle of each of my soles right on the instep). About twenty went all the way through each of my toes. I think those insertions began on the toe parts of my plantar fascia. More needles went through the sides of my feet through the insteps, but these were more horizontal in their penetration and so amounted more to excruciating "flesh" wounds. In a streak of sadistic relish, Dr. Gore also decided on a coup de grace. "Let's give his toenails a good cleaning," he remarked. He did this by shoving the same red- hot needle underneath all ten, and scouring the sensitive tissue that lay in those tender regions with the needle's sharp point.
Several times I passed out from the pain, but it only got worse when he started in on my genitals again.
*
He would alternate actually, from sticking those horrid needles into my feet to doing something else to another part of my body. Needles went in, usually through skin and surface tissue, on various places on my chest and back. He was especially vicious near my pectoral muscles nipple-high and on my bare belly and along my ribs and inner thigh. All the needles were heated sufficiently for his liking.
More red-hot needles went through my scrotum. Once I passed out when it felt like a needle had pierced my right testicle. Four needles pierced the glans of my penis, but "only" penetrated about an inch or so.
I was secured tightly on that medical table again when more "work" began to cause pain in my urethra. Instruments came out, tools for causing pain like several different sizes of J-shaped urethral sounds, and something called a urethral "spreader" which widened my pee-hole so that other probes could be inserted. He had a little light that he used to see inside my penis down deep, and began digging with a sharp- pointed dental pick when he'd placed a small metal ball down near the entrance to my bladder and was enjoying himself while trying to dig it out. He would hold onto my penis and swivel it from side to side as he needed to. I started bleeding when bits of tissue would come up from inside me down there little chunks of tissue from my urethral canal. I screamed almost incessantly. If I fainted, they brought me back to consciousness with a whiff of ammonia salts. But the worst Dr. Gore saved for last a grand finale.
I thought it couldn't possibly hurt as much as some of the other things he'd just performed. He took a Q-tip, a cotton swab, and soaked it in some vinegar. He pushed the Q-tip down into my cock "all the way in." It was really stinging and the raw and bloody flesh inside my urethra felt like hamburger meat. But he wasn't finished. He removed the first Q-tip and inserted a second coated with what he called at first "his mystery substance."
I lost it then and couldn't stop screaming myself hoarse. "Take it out! Take it out! It burns! It burns!"
The mystery substance was cinnamon oil. He kept that Q-tip in my cock for at least ten minutes. I couldn't stand it. It felt like the inside of my cock was on fire!
*
They gently carried me up to my bedroom and plopped me under the covers. I'm not sure who carried me, but it must have been Clarence or Mitchell. Nude, under the covers, I felt like my whole body was one gigantic wave of pain. I was given some Ibuprofen pills that Dr. Gore had mercifully left behind. After an hour or so of agony, I fell asleep.
Epilogue
James came over one day about a week later with Peter and Phil. Nobody at home meant I was unguarded. The house had been watched evidently, if not only by my school friends, then also by Mr. Justin L. Cody who had once tried to rescue me in the hospital. I live with Mr. Cody now in Chicago. He is very wealthy and kind, and somehow he gained custody and was able to adopt me. I own ten black shirts with silver buttons. I am Jeremy Cody now and I'll be fifteen next week. I am no longer an orphan. I learned that Clarence did tattoo James, so there is a second illustrated boy. For some reason that I can't fathom, Clarence wasn't sent to prison. My new Dad says that I won't ever have to go back to my stepmother's dungeon. I think I love Mr. Cody. I know he loves me.
END