Pain Factor Part 6 (MMMFF/mmm, torture, cbt, extreme)
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.net

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

Andrew was gone. The implications of this seemed crucial to
the remaining contestants for a variety of reasons. His
parents watching on closed circuit TV had viewed Andrew on
that very afternoon when he'd made his somewhat surprising
decision, and since his family actually lived only an hour's
drive from the secret location where the show was being
videotaped, he'd been whisked home that very afternoon.  

This left the hotel-like offstage premises to the remaining
contestants   John, Steven, and um, Peter.

Peter was adjusting to his new role as loner and pariah.
With Andrew's departure, he was actually in good spirits,
and it was easy to tell why. He lay on his bed; yes it was
now his bed alone, as John had joined Steven in sharing the
other bed. They were off somewhere, Peter mused, maybe at
the pool, maybe the game room, maybe   it didn't much matter
where they were. Peter flat out didn't care! I'm going to
win $50 million and outlast both those fuckers, he said to
himself, and almost said it aloud. But pain is a funny
thing, a weird experience worth considering. You can never
really appreciate how intense it can be. Peter fondled a
black remote grown familiar with its silver buttons, turned
on the TV. It was an episode of "Fear Factor" with parent-
kid teams pitted against each other. "Oh wow," Peter said,
"How tame."

*

Andrew was back home in his split-level townhouse, sitting
in the garage playing with his dog Plupy. Their silver
Lexus, his parents had bought it pre-owned, was outside in
the sun, being rinsed off by his Dad and little cousin Alex,
8. Andrew could barely make out the water swishing from two
separate hoses. His Mom was inside, glued to what was on the
closed circuit. "Andrew, your show's on!" she yelled from
the living room. He got up slowly from what was essentially
a yoga position, still sore, and wearing socks when he'd
usually be going barefoot. After all, it was still summer.
His soles   the brandings took care of that option. But
already his soles were less sore than they had been, healing
nicely. "I'm coming, Mom," he yelled back. Andrew limped a
little, but was soon seeing a familiar scene. "God, I hope
Steven wins," he heard himself saying.

"I take it you're not exactly rooting for Peter then?" His
Mom had a wry sense of humor, sometimes mingled with
sarcasm. He liked it; it was something he really liked about
his Mom.

Andrew measured his words. "I think that I will enjoy at
least some of what we're about to see   especially what
might happen to Peter."

"What if John wins?"

This time Andrew stared off into space, whistled, and said,
"Let's just watch it, okay?"

His Mom nodded.

"Hey, what are you two up to? Is it on already?" Andrew's
Dad was ruggedly handsome, with flashing blue eyes. Andrew
just noticed that; he'd previously just taken his Dad's
looks for granted. Andrew mused, He must have looked a lot
like me when he was my age.

*

The three boys were dressed in their schoolboy outfits  
short-sleeved light blue cotton shirts, Navy blue clip-on
ties, matching dark gray dress pants, black dress shoes, and
brown socks. John and Steven were obviously fidgeting,
nervous as usual, while Peter seemed smug, self-assured. He
stood ramrod straight like a young teenaged soldier, or at
least showed excellent posture. Craig L. Nelson's sharp-
edged voice broke the silence. "Okay, here we are, ready to
go. Strip boys! Strip!" The lights were hot, seemed more
intense than usual as the assembled sadists loosed a rousing
cheer. Peter struggled to comply, as did John and Steven. In
the ensuing 30 seconds, off came shoes and socks, ties,
shirts, and pants; buttons were undone or unclasped, zippers
unzipped. All three boys were soon down to their tighty
whiteys.

But there was an unfortunate pause. "C'mon," Nelson barked
as if he were a drill sergeant, "Birthday suits! Now!"

Ensued a few looks from the boys, not quite of desperation,
but at least anxious glances. So their briefs came down,
came tumbling down.

*

The first exercise was guaranteed to be painful. "Stand up
straight. Hands clasped behind your necks. Legs spread to
about eighteen inches. Same rules apply. Say stop and you're
out of the competition. Otherwise, we'll have something new
ready for you." Nelson was speaking loudly not only to the
contestants but through his microphone so that all the
sadists could hear. The boys   this time John, Steven, and
Peter -- were being made to stand bare soled and flatfooted
on those hotplates again.

Donna was there, and Doctor Talmadge too, and Leon. G.
Smith.

"Your soles need to be completely in contact with the metal
plates if this is to count," Donna intoned, "From your heels
to your toes." She was like a schoolmarm in the manner she
inflected her voice. It would have been annoying to any
adolescent boy even under less severe conditions.

"The plates will be heated to no more than 130 degrees  
maybe a few degrees less," Dr. Talmadge explained, "and all
this will be happening while we test the flexibility of your
testicles  and your scrotums."

Each boy had his balls re-examined by the cruel physician.
He pinched and squeezed the tender tissue   first Peter's,
then John's, then Steven's matched pair of baskets in the
groin. While John and Steven perceptively winced from the
handling, a sharp pain followed by a dull ache, Peter
strangely smiled. "I'm a pain athlete," he was thinking
aloud in his head, "A pain athlete, a pain athlete  " The
affirmation was being repeated like a mantra, making Peter
look a bit crazed.

"Think of it as a game," Nelson chimed in with the skill he
possessed as a TV announcer, "We will first insert a sharp
metal hook attached to a thin guide wire   the hook will
pierce your tender scrotums. The wire has an end point
through which small weights can be threaded. We'll then
attach weights to your wire   since each magnetic weight
weighs one-quarter pound, it should be fun to see if any of
you boys has a stress limit. About six pounds on the leash
are guaranteed to seriously strain your testicles   that's
how many weights dangling from your scrotum flesh, eh
Steven?"

Steven gulped, his eyes wide with a new horror. But he was
good with his times tables. "Twenty-four," he managed.

Then the good news came. "We will stop at six pounds of
weight regardless   because we have lots of other fun events
planned." At that moment, Nelson leered in a way that Steven
found disgusting.

The first nasty part was the hook. Like a sharp fishhook,
this small instrument was about a half-inch around. A dab of
alcohol used as an antiseptic was initially applied to each
boy's groin area in preparation for the hook's insertion.
Its steely tip   about 1/16 inch in actual size -- pierced
Steven's groin first. "Owwhh," Steven cried out softly as
his nut sack was penetrated. Talmadge knew just where to
insert it so as to ensure maximum pain while minimizing
damage. About three minutes later, both John and Peter had
been similarly adorned, their groins oozing a tiny shimmer
of blood. John winced and let out a little screech during
this procedure, but Peter somehow remained stoic until the
weights began to be added, one at a time.

"Count them each time one is added," Donna said, smiling
sadistically. "You must count each one or it won't count.
Two missed counts and you're automatically disqualified."

"One," Peter said, feeling the first little tug from the
effects of gravity. This time he grimaced too.  

*

"Ewwh," said Andrew, watching comfortably at home in his
favorite lounge chair, "Ewwh, that has to hurt."  

*

Each weight, about the size of a postage stamp, was made of
some very heavy metal, and weighed exactly one quarter-
pound. When the each boy had six attached, the strain on
their gonads was already visible to the TV cameras,
especially when close ups were recorded on each contestant's
face. But it LOOKED painful too, with their groins and ball
sacks weirdly distended, as they were, almost grotesquely.
The weights were lined up evenly, like square beads on a
chain, and it seemed to John and Steven and Peter that this
might do some serious damage   even if not expressly
intended.

But it was Steven who dared ask the question. "Won't our
balls rupture if you keep this up?"

"No," Dr. Talmadge answered with his best clinical face, "a
rupture is a hernia   and that's caused by a weakness in
your abdominal wall or else a weakness in your groin.
Thankfully, you don't have any such weaknesses. In fact,
thankfully, all three of you boys are, shall we say,
structurally sound. Thankfully, you're each quite safe for
the six pounds."  

"Thankfully," John said in a pique of his own sarcasm.

"That'll be enough out of you," Nelson barked. Not much
sarcasm escaped his ears. In fact, at that moment it seemed
to John that Nelson's ears were slightly malformed, cruelly
shaped   or else the pain in his balls was making him
hallucinate. Did he really see a Samurai sword poised to
decapitate the barking bastard?  

In their balls, and in their bare feet too, the levels of
pain were increasing.  The metal hot plate was warming at an
alarming rate. Right now their bare soles were being roasted
quite evenly, and in fact, all three pairs had already
reddened from the intensifying heat.

"Owwhh, my fucking feet really kill," Steven was saying, and
John nodded, tears starting to course down his cheeks. He
was trying to estimate where the pain was most intense   in
the soft spaces under his toes or on the balls of his
tenderized feet, or else within the confines focused by the
cramping-like aching of his tortured balls.

Peter was staring straight ahead like some kind of Spartan
Adonis, as he no doubt imagined he was. "I'm a pain
athlete," he kept humming, but thank God to himself.

The weights kept adding up, like postage stamps devised in
Hell. Two pounds. "Eight," shouted Peter. Three pounds.
"Twelve," John said while gasping from the torture.
"Sixteen" Steven said when the weight, now nearly
unbearable, reached four full pounds. By this juncture,
Steven didn't even want to contemplate what was happening to
his bare soles.

Unbearable or not, each boy managed to bear the awful weight
gains on their balls   and the added "feet heat" thrown in
by the sadists for good measure. Each struggled to stand as
tall as possible despite their diabolical impediments.

"Good posture is important," Donna cooed, attempting to urge
the boys on, "Keep those hands clasped behind your necks."
Finally it was practically over.

"Twenty four," Peter shouted, his face stained with his own
tears despite his remembered litany of mantras.

The hooks were taken off, the hot plates turned off, and the
nude boy contestants could now stand for a moment and relax.

Except standing hurt too   each boy's soles were singed and
blistered   with from three to five blisters having erupted
depending on the particular boy sole's toughness.

"All right, at ease," Nelson barked, and "Well done."

"At ease," John whispered, his face a pained grimace,
"That's pretty funny."

But this oasis continued only for a moment.

"Time for their next ordeal," Talmadge exclaimed. Already
the bloodthirsty crowd was buzzing with anticipation.

*

In fact, the ordeals came fast and furious as the judges
were trying their best to eliminate two of the boys. But
fifty million American dollars can be quite an incentive
even to 13-year-olds who might find it difficult even to
visualize that much money.  

The rack, a pretty excruciating ordeal in its own right came
next, except that it was made even worse with the ingenious
addition of a few barbaric embellishments.

*

Three naked thirteen-year-olds stretched out on racks made
for a sight to warm the heart of any sadist. Each rack,
three of them set up in the dungeon-themed corner of the
wooden stage, resembled simple wooden platforms -- at first
glance they weren't much more than a frame of cross ties
designed for supporting the weight of a young teenage boy as
sparingly as possible. Each spread-eagled boy was laid on
his back with cross beams for his calves, lower back, his
shoulders, and his head. But it was the binding of his
digits that made for a fiendish improvement even over a
Seville dungeon during the Holy Inquisition. Thin steel
wires attached to Medieval-like pulleys could be ratcheted
up at a torturer's whim and bound each finger and toe
separately.

The suddenly talkative Leon G. Smith was just completing
Peter's binding. "As you can probably feel, I'm doing your
toes on your right foot now, getting them nice and secure.
Boy, is this going to hurt!"

"So what?" Peter said, "Do your worst to me. I'm a pain
athlete."

"We'll see how you feel when these little toe joints get a
good workout," Leon whispered in Peter's ear.

Nelson and Talmadge reiterated the same message. "We will be
stretching you boys out in the conventional way first.
Eighty turns of the pulleys where the movements will stretch
you out at the wrists and ankles, pulling on your legs and
arms and making your bodies as tense as possible   without
causing any permanent injuries, of course. This was the
typical torture used in the Spanish and German Inquisition
days. But then further increments will work your fingers and
toes   all twenty digits on each of you   until those
extremities are at the point of dislocation   but of course
 we'll try not to dislocate them."

"Does anybody want to bail out and quit the contest now?"

Only silence ensued until Steven spoke.

"Go for it!" he snarled.

*

The rack began creaking, just as had similar instruments
centuries ago. At first it was just like stretching after
you've had a nap, getting the muscles stretched out feels
good, when you can immediately relax them. But this was soon
feeling different, very different.

It feels like I'm stretching out, and stretching out, like a
cramp it's beginning to hurt, John mused, but it keeps
getting worse 'cuz they're cranking me up a fraction of an
inch at a time.

I'm like a bowstring, Steven said to himself, Taut, so damn
taut, I'm going to fucking break! I can feel pain in every
muscle, every tendon, every ligament, from my wrists to my
ankles. This really sucks.  

I'm a pain athlete; Peter sang to himself, I can do this! I
can do this! I'm going to be rich! Rich! Fucking rich!

 
"Time to start cranking up your fingers and toes." The voice
was Dr. Talmadge's, but it sounded like it was far away.

All the boys were crying out loud now, tensed nearly but not
quite to the max, and more turns began for their extremities
 John's, Steven's, Peter's.

"Oh my God! I never thought anything could hurt so much,
please!" Yelled Steven.

"Do you want us to stop your pain?" Nelson said in a
deceptively soothing tone.
"No! You bastards!"

"As you like it, boy. Eighteen more turns on his fingers and
toes!"

But it wasn't just Steven whose joint tissue was being
stretched unmercifully. Wave after wave of excruciating pain
kept assaulting the hands and feet of the three contestants.

There was a pop   it was one of Peter's toes. "Yeowhh!" he
screamed.

"Oops, his middle toe on his left foot just went." Talmadge
was concerned, but only momentarily. He felt Peter's toe,
unhitched it for a second. Peter was screaming from the
pain. "But it's not separated completely from the joint. I
can bend it back in right now." He did. There was a second
pop, and an even louder scream, albeit brief. "Just a
sprain," he added. "Do you want to quit the contest, Petey?"

"Fuck no! Hitch that fucking toe back up!" Peter screamed.
"And my name is Peter   not Petey!"

*

The belly scratcher came next. This cruel implement
resembled a sharp-pointed garden tool with six steel fingers
for hoeing. Instead, it was used on the exposed bodies of
the three contestants, loosened considerably lying on their
backs on their personal racks, but still stretched out
fairly taut so that one could make the outlines of their
ribs. The garden tool was intended for scratching and
digging in to a boy's sensitive exposed skin.

"It has a nice comfortable handle," Leon remarked while he
was "doing" John. Tears were coursing down the older 13-
year-old's face, as he felt the sharpened spikes lightly
gouging his bare chest, piercing his pectoral area, first
left, and then right. "My nips, he went right over my
fucking nips," John exclaimed out loud. Leon continued to
travel with his manual tool   John's abdomen, lower and
upper, his underarm pits and along John's fleshy rib areas,
all the way down the boy's left side, and then down his
right side, his meaty thighs, left, right, down his legs to
his shins; John was abraded quite generally over a large
surface area. It hurt like hell and the antiseptic, when it
was applied right afterwards -- stung his front side even
worse.

Next was Steven. "I'm going to tickle you," Leon joked. He
took a different route with this second boy of three,
starting with Steven's bony shins and muscular (for a 13-
year-old) calves, scratching next first his left knee and
above his knee to his left thigh, then a similar leg path
along the shin, calf, knee, thigh, only on Steven's right
limb. Steven's belly, chest, nipples, underarms and along
his rib cage on both sides all proved especially sensitive
as tracks were made in the boy's skin   not too deep, but
very painful.

"Not too deep," Dr. Talmadge said, "Just cut through the
epidermis, so the antiseptic will work well."

Steven was trying not to scream, but he cried continually,
and when it was finally time to apply the antiseptic liquid
 clear iodine   he screamed like a banshee. "That stings!
It kills! It kills!" But to Leon this was the most enjoyable
part. "Stop squirming, will you? Do you want to get any of
your scratches infected?"

Peter's turn came soon enough. Leon began scratching with
the steel-pointed garden tool along this brave 13-year-old's
stomach. "I'm starting with your tummy, Petey!"

" I said my name is Peter!" he yelled, and he kept on
yelling for a long time afterwards.  

*

Other assorted ordeals followed. All three nude boys had a
turn in the dental chair, sitting in it comfortably as Dr.
Vito Salmon, "Or Doctor keep your mouth open wider!" as that
became his trademark exclamation, worked two cavities apiece
on each boy   drilling deep into the enamel of incisors or
molars and going right for the pulp. "I'm using the dullest
drill I could find," he added into his microphone   while
delighting his audience of sadists "Wow, this has got to
hurt!" There was the body temperature-lowering cold bath,
twenty minutes for each nude boy while immersed from head to
toe in a bathtub filled with ice cubes. The upside down
flogging   where Peter, Steven, and John were placed on
Saint Andrew's X-shaped crosses, and while inverted, were
flogged with steel-tipped martinets.

But none had the desired effect. The Pain Factor session
ended with each of the three boys still "alive" in the
macabre competition. It was deemed that the most severe
ordeals for the three boys still lay ahead in some gruesome
if not gore-filled finale. For which Peter's announcement at
the end of this day's session might have served as some sort
of omen.

"I'm a pain athlete!" shouted the still-confident Peter into
an eagerly chasing camera.

*

"Good grief!" yelled Andrew back at the closed circuit TV
screen, "Stop it already with that pain athlete crap!"

"He certainly is a rather obnoxious boy, isn't he?" echoed
Andrew's Mom about Peter.

"I'd say that's quite an understatement," added Andrew's
Dad, "but he's tough enough too. Maybe as tough as John and
Andrew's friend Steven   or even tougher."

Andrew felt a different kind of pain right about then.

*

End of Part 6