My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 4-6

My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 4-6
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.net

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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 4 - Further Torments

After my first experience in my stepmother's dungeon, I didn't want to repeat any of the painful parts, like the pink belly treatment or the spanking or when somebody's clodhopper biker-shoe stomped on my bare foot. I did take something I figured was positive out of the predicament namely the ability and pronounced inclination to masturbate. For about a month afterwards I tried it different ways, and in fact, the idea that I'd been naked and touched by adult men would penetrate my fantasies. My penis at age 12 pushing 13 was about four inches long when flaccid, exactly four and a half inches in length when I measured it with a ruler hard. It wasn't very wide, maybe three-quarters of an inch around when erect. I liked to make it go erect. Sometimes while playing with my baldheaded mouse I wondered what the penises of Clarence, Lonnie, and Mitchell were like as far as size, never having thought about such things when my Dad was still around, and certainly not about my Dad's penis. Because my stepmother's boyfriends weren't father figures and were often pretty crude, it was easier for me to objectify them I guess. I didn't think much about my stepmother in the nude; in fact, I tried not to think much about her at all. I usually got a great feeling at the tip of my little baldy if I kept at it without being distracted. This task required a certain amount of concentration. To bring it off, I was discovering, occurred about once every three times I tried. I would ejaculate about three or four drops of whitish or semi-clear watery stuff that smelled like the faint odor of ammonia. It tasted like water with the texture of a raw ocean clam. My "stuff" did manage to stain my sheets and a pillowcase I sometimes used to wipe with. Lost in the reverie of a good jerking session was the abrupt and horrid musing that if my stepmother, the evil Caroline, was ever to find "cum stains" or "evidence" of said cums on any of my bedding, then I'd be taken down to the dungeon again and REALLY punished. But I sort of put this warning out of my little head (I mean the one encasing my brain) until it was too late.

I was taking a gigantic chance. At first, if I sensed a stain that might be detected -- I would sneak into the bathroom late at night to get a washrag and scrub out any visible residue. I knew that Caroline did laundry three times a week and approximately when a laundry was due. For perhaps twenty-seven cycles I succeeded well, leaving no traces of my sexual crimes. But then, for a few happy days, when I'd pleasure myself twice a day if it didn't get sore, I forgot about disguising my actions. Still, nothing happened. Clarence made a few weird comments like "What's he doing up there jacking off?" when I came late down to supper once. I told the asshole that I'd been doing homework. One day, it was still afternoon, I'd just got home from school and was in my school clothes, they all were home for some reason, and I began to piss them off with what I learned in retrospect was a very stupid thing to say. I should have just kept my pie hole shut that day and gone up to my room and closed the door. Like a dumb shit, I utterly failed to show discretion. "Don't you people work?" I was certainly annoyed that they were in MY house at an unaccustomed time. It was excellent masturbation time that they were ruining by just being there!

"Oh look whose little mouth is back," remarked the giant strong man Mitchell while giving me a look that could only be described as slightly cross-eyed, a deviation of center. It was hard to believe, I remember thinking, that this cretin was Caroline's stallion for that week, sharing her downstairs bedroom with him and his horse cock off from the parlor.

"Yeah, it's back," agreed Lonnie, "You know what that means, what we decided." He nodded and was wearing some sort of baseball cap that had gotten engine grease all over it somehow.

Clarence beetled his eyebrows at me while his panda eyes began to look really brown. When his eyes got like that, looking at them was like peering into a turd-filled toilet bowl as if from a great and surreal height.

But Caroline was the decision maker. It was really her call. The lynchpin was something to do with sheets, my dirty cum stained sheets!

"I work a full-time job and slave for you, you little shit, and this is how you reward me? By making whoopee all over your sheets I'd just cleaned? What did I tell you about that business?" She was brimming with hellfire; I insist it was her most contented condition. "Cleaning your normal filth is bad enough, we have to add your fluids from your piss-hole to this putrid stew?"

I squirmed, and shuffled from foot to foot. It really embarrassed me her speaking like that about my most private and fun activity.

The three stooges were grinning and showing their stained and smelly teeth at my discomfort. Ever hear of flossing guys?

I continued squirming right there in the kitchen, looking to escape. "I gotta go upstairs to my room, do some homework," I muttered, avoiding eye contact with any of these so-called adults. I wished with all my heart that I could escape to Kansas, like Dorothy in the presence of the wizard when she wanted to leave Oz.

"No you don't little man!" she screamed. At that instant there was some kind of eye signal and they closed in on me, and I began struggling, bawling and sobbing, trying to push them away as they half-dragged, half-carried me into the basement's threshold and down its stairs, lifting the little throw rug not far from Mitchell's weights and I almost lost my balance again as I was pushed into the sub-basement's portal down the next few steps into the place I'd already learned to call the dungeon.

Part 5 - Flogging

On this occasion as I stood timidly cowed I was not told to undress immediately, and never completely. Part of the "fun" for these people charged with my care and guardianship was that I was never to know exactly what punishment or punishments to expect when I was hauled down there. My stepmother would usually pronounce sentence as if she were some high and mighty judge and executioner. I tried talking my way out of it, but this was impossible, as they'd already made up their minds, vicious cruel entities in the shape of human beings as they were. I was babbling like little boy fool. "Step-mom, I didn't mean to do it it just happened," I blurted. I'd played into her despicable hands. She could humiliate me while it suited her fancies, and the fancies of her studs. Watching me grovel was probably a favorite pastime for all of them some kind of sadistic foreplay.

"What did you do?" she said with a glint of hatred. "I want to know all the details."

"We all do," said Clarence, and the panda was all ears, even if they weren't white and black.

This wasn't easy for me. I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to describe exactly how I masturbated. It was a private thing. "It's none of your business," I said, "Any of you!" I was still fully dressed, but felt my ears redden, felt somehow naked. It was so completely embarrassing.

But I ended up telling them every last aspect of my most secret and pleasurable activity, totally shaming myself. I felt so ashamed.

"So then what did you do?" Caroline pinched my arm hard through my blue school shirt, pinching with her thumb and forefinger just below the crook of my elbow. I was sure she'd left a red mark or even a bruise.

"Owwhh!" I screamed. I must have sounded like a girl. I hadn't meant to.

"Yes! I tasted it!"

"Tasted what?" Mitchell asked sweetly, as if he didn't know the answer.

"I tasted my stuff," I finally admitted, and began crying.

"Ewwh gross!" Lonnie screamed. Somehow when he did it, the vocalization came out more like a Rebel yell, so if it was a scream, it was very masculine.

Then the inevitable emerged from Mitchell's lips; he'd swigged down a beer before joining this dungeon party and had beer breath. "What'd it taste like?"

Perhaps that was my downfall. I don't know. I was never sure what precipitated the actual punishments in these cases. I couldn't produce a satisfactory answer and so I was flogged. I was still a few months shy of my 13th birthday and didn't even know what a flogging was. I was ordered to remove my tie, it was a nice blue tie with silver stripes, almost pretty as an article of clothing, and then told to "Lose that shirt."

I unbuttoned each button very carefully, ever so slowly, as if to delay the inevitable. My shirt opened wide and became untucked from my trousers. I took it off and put it on the arm of the couch. I was now naked to the waist, as I hadn't worn an undershirt. I was about 92 pounds and surrounded by huge masculine creatures, pigs as they were, drinking from the trough of my misery. She was there too, the bitch, the ultimate bitch, my anger towards her mingled with my terror at what was about to happen. As she went to fetch a leather strap with several little knotted tails at the end, my arms were raised above my head. Mitchell secured my wrist restraints. My bared back was now a target for my first flogger Lonnie.

Caroline spoke with her voice of judgment. "We'll each do ten hits," she pronounced, "only on his skin from his shoulders to where his pants begin."

Lonnie asked a question. "How hard can I hit him?" "Hard as you want."

He swished the freaking strap though the air a few times. He succeeded in terrifying me. I was already whimpering. "Please, go easy," I said.

The first strike hit me between my shoulder blades. It was as if a giant bee just stung me. He kept hitting me, measured long enough for me to know that the next one was coming. I tried tensing up my back muscles, but it was no use. He'd hit the same place several times, then go lower down to the center of my back right along the sensitive spine, and finally work his way down to my lower back. They all were good at this Lonnie, Mitchell, Clarence, and finally Caroline. I received forty strokes with the five- tailed strap on my bared back. I counted each one silently.

Towards the end, they congratulated each other on the "nice welts" and black-and-blue bruises they had created. She'd even gone for my ribs on each side about twice. That was somehow unexpected, and hurt a little more. I was sobbing, crying, battered and bruised, by the end. It took about an hour.

But what really frightened me was Caroline's final pronouncement. "This is something you are going to endure from now on you little brat. Every Wednesday you'll be brought down to our little dungeon for your weekly chastisements. The more willingly you go, and the less we have to chase or drag you, the easier it will be on you. If you miss a day for some unexcused reason, or if you try to run away from home, you'll be subjected to special punishments. Is that understood you wicked child?"

What else could I say? I'd just been flogged.

"Yes," I managed. Other boys my age had Prince Spaghetti Day or something familial and festive awaiting them on Wednesdays. I had my stepmother's dungeon.

Part 6 - Wednesdays

I now had a weekly ordeal to dread. Sometimes I'd daydream about what would happen while I was sitting at my desk in a class at school; and it got progressively worse as mid-week approached. Tuesday before my first Ash Wednesday, I failed an oral quiz in math times tables with decimals points.

Mrs. Sawyer blinked at me, was lurking right next to my ear. "Jeremy, I said, what's .6 x .9? It equals what?"

"54?" I asked, temporarily spacing out. It would mean a note home to my stepmother. The other kids thought I was becoming feeble-minded, since I usually got A's. I heard some titters.

By Wednesday I was a nervous wreck. I waited up in my room after I got home from school, did my homework, was hoping that if I showed my step-mom my completed work, she'd change her mind. Little did I realize that all four of them were looking forward to my pain and terror as entertainment was it Showtime yet? It was about 7:30 p.m. when Caroline yelled shrilly up the stairs. "Jeremy, c'mon down. Don't let us have to come up and get you!"

Moments later, I was in the dungeon, standing there with all four of them watching. It was the wrist restraints again, more flogging without a shirt. "Today we do both sides, front and back," Caroline said. It sounded shrill in the soundproof space. I learned what that was to mean, a special meaning. I received a total of fifty stripes with the 5- tailed strap on my bared back, welts and bruises, all over my boy's flesh, hands outstretched way above my head caught in the wrist restraints and then they started in on my front. Clarence the panda began this accoutrement by attaching a big metal paper clasp to my left nipple, pinching my pectoral flesh between the blades to send a shock wave of new pain to my brain, and then he attached a second one to my right one. "Yeowhh!" The game was to knock them off with the strap, re-attach them when that occurred, and then do it again! My nipples and surrounding chest flesh was soon torn and oozing blood as was my belly and sides now deliberately aimed for. I couldn't help shrieking, except nobody heard me who mattered. "This is so fun!" Mitchell yelled, after a particularly vicious hit not only knocked the metal clasp off my chest but I thought it brought my entire nipple with it! (It was a tiny piece of bloody flesh all right, but not my nipple.)

I was determined to run away prior to the next week's ordeal, made it to the Piggly Wiggly at the edge of town before a policeman (they'd called the local police to report me missing) dutifully brought me home, and for the first time, I was to learn what a bastinado was.

Down in the dungeon, I began removing my shirt, expecting more of the same. "No you can keep your shirt on, we have a different punishment for you tonight," my stepmother said. It had already been decided what they were going to do to me. Lonnie, Mitchell, and Clarence looked on silently, anticipating this next "experience" for me, as Mitchell called it.

I moved my fingers, dreading what might occur next, moved them to my trousers. Undid my pants button, unzipped my fly.

"No you can keep your pants too." Caroline said. I had some undone buttons on my school shirt, an undone pant's button, and an unzipped fly and confused and scared, I didn't move to readjust anything. For about a full minute, my tormentors kept me in suspense. I didn't know what they wanted.

"We're going to give you a mild bastinado tonight," she said.

I still stood there, looking at them, utterly dumbfounded. "A what?" I said.

Suddenly Lonnie advanced closer and cuffed me along the side of the head, catching my nearest ear. "Owwhh!" I yelled. "Take off your shoes and socks!"

I unlaced my black dress shoes, now badly scuffed due to my attempt to flee, and took each shoe off, rolled down my thin itchy socks, a bit sweaty. Newly barefoot on the metallic floor, I didn't have much time to consider this new sensation, as soon I was draped over the side of the couch on my stomach, each foot secured in its own ankle restraint, my soles upended as a thin rope-like cord connected each ankle restraint to an overhead beam that they'd rigged. "You ran away, and you'll have to be punished where it really hurts, in a place that you'll be thinking about should you decide to escape us again," Caroline intoned. She began tormenting me in a different way at first with pleasure. "A 12-year-old boy's foot has all sorts of sensitive nerve endings. He has pretty feet, doesn't he?" She was massaging my toes and lightly scratching my soles with her fingernails, kneading my entire foot a moment later, first the left one and then the right, almost sensually. It would have felt spectacular, except that I was scared shitless about whatever she was about to have happen. I still didn't know what a bastinado was. I was so naive. "They look very sturdy, Jeremy's feet, don't they?" All three men agreed. The statement was uncontroversial. But then she began bending my toes back on the left foot, and squeezing them hard and digging her fingernails into my sensitive sole. She gave a look and Clarence, with his even stronger hands, began to manhandle my right foot, bending my big toe, and all my toes, and squeezing my instep real hard. Suddenly I didn't like this at all. "Please, don't!" I said, pretty loud.

Her prelude continued. "But notice the expression on his face now? They are so very fragile too - a 12-year-old boy's feet!"

She left my foot then and so did Clarence, but my relief was short-lived. She picked up a thirty-inch long thin bamboo cane from the cabinet on the dungeon's wall. She began swishing it through the stale, dank air. "All sorts of sensitive nerve endings!" she hissed aloud, as the cane hissed, and caught the bottom of my big toe and part of the ultra-sensitive ball of that same left foot with its cruel tip, crashing upon my bare skin with surprising force. For a microsecond, I felt nothing. But an instant later the pain came in a shockwave that coursed all the way up my left leg. "Yeowhh!" I cried. "Please, no more!"

She counted out twenty hits on each unprotected sole, hitting the bottoms of each foot everywhere, producing the same result every time except when she missed slightly and caught the ankle of my squirming foot or the knuckles of my toes on the top of my feet which provided a slightly different variety of excruciating agony. It took maybe twenty minutes, this beating, this bastinado, and then she handed the bamboo cane to Lonnie, and after he'd had his fun, it was Clarence's turn, and finally Mitchell who hit the hardest. When they were finished and they released me from the ankle restraints I was limping badly, told to put my shoes and socks back on, and to "run upstairs to bed before we change our mind," according to Lonnie. My feet felt like they were on fire but I somehow ran at top speed straight up to my room, only to hear, "Can't wait until next Wednesday," from one of the loud voices entering the kitchen just as I slammed my bedroom door.

To be continued in Part 7 - The Advent of Worse Wednesdays