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From: nialos@yahoo.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 2 by Platypus (MMMF/mmmm, torture, cbt, extreme)
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Date: Mon,  9 May 2005 21:10:03 -0400
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I'm posting this story at the request of and with the permission of the
author, Platypus.  It is an entry in the Spartan Boys Story Festival
and is archived at my site at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nialos/www/spartan_boys.html

* * *

Pain Factor Part 2 by Platypus (MMMF/mmmm, 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.
* * * * *

Chapter 2: Pain Games

"There you are. In your birthday suits." It was Craig L.
Nelson, the game show host, observing. But this too was for
the benefit of those assembled, and for the select audience
watching the show on the close circuit network via
satellite. "All of you have nice hard-ons, except for you,
Steven." Steven shifted his bare feet on the stage, blushed
a deep momentary red, as did Andrew, who had a proper
erection, four plus inches of penis jutting out nearly
horizontally from the middle of his naked body. Andrew's
pubic hairs were just beginning, tiny, just wisps, and he
shivered involuntarily. Steven couldn't figure out why he
hadn't managed a quick hard-on, as he actually liked being
nude onstage in front of all these people. He also wondered
if there was some kind of extra painful penalty for not
getting a hard-on right away. He'd soon find out.

"Ready to begin then?" Nelson seemed to be almost smirking,
it seemed to John. John shifted his slightly longer feet
with their tapering toes, one atop the other for a second,
as if to scratch an itch just below his slightly dirty
toenails. Nelson glanced briefly at John, but more so at
Peter, musing to himself, hmm the eyes on that boy are quite
striking.

The burly wrestler-types were on the stage, as was the
female producer. Suddenly the physician appeared, so that
medical protocol would be precisely followed. "Oh, here's
Dr. Talmadge, right on cue," Nelson intoned. Before we
begin, though, we have a little matter to attend to.
"Steven, please step forward." Steven did, suddenly feeling
a bit timid. He'd lost some of his previous swagger.

"Do you have any idea why you will receive an extra minor
punishment to begin our festivities?" Nelson asked.

Steven did but wasn't real keen on stating the thought that
was quickly forming.

"Well?" The audience uttered a collective snicker and
Steven's peers - John, Andrew, and Peter - weren't far from
joining in. Each managed a weak titter, but felt too ill at
ease to do more. "Is it about - about my hard-on?" Steven
managed.

The audience laughed loudly. It sounded like a roar to all
four contestants. Nelson waved his hand magnanimously. "Or
more correctly, your lack of one when ordered to make
yourself hard," he said. "So, you do agree you need to be
punished for this infraction?"

Steven shuffled from bare foot to bare foot, squirming while
standing, nervous and naked as a jaybird. "Y-yes," he
replied sheepishly.

"Please follow Dr. Talmadge and Donna our producer to the
center of our stage," Nelson intoned. Steven took baby
steps, one, two, three   at nine he was there. For the first
time he noticed a smooth-surfaced metal table raised about
two feet off the wood platform stage.

"Lie down, on your back, hands behind your head," Donna
instructed. She's pretty, Steven mused, although he now felt
more than a little embarrassed and fearful of what might
happen. A few seconds later, Steven had assumed the proper
position. Nelson walked over, practically loping over, it
seemed to John, Peter, and Andrew, who were suddenly merely
witnesses. They also watched as Dr. Talmadge signaled with
his hand, and a narrow gauge steel cable tapering to a tiny
sharp-pointed fish hook-like appendage came hurtling down
from somewhere in the stage ceiling, above the lights.

"I'll attach it," said Donna. The camera was on her fingers
as she did, taking the tiny metal barb and piercing the
sensitive glans of Steven's circumcised penis. Steven let
out a brief screech, it hurt, but now the last few inches of
metal cable lay flat and slack against the boy's testicles
and lower scrotum. It felt cold, but not uncomfortable.

"Okay, nine turns of the winch should be enough," said Dr.
Talmadge.  "That should make his penis erect." The studio
audience erupted with another burst of laughter, the loudest
yet.

"No," Steven whimpered, because he knew now what was about
to happen.

"What? Do you want to quit Pain Factor?" Nelson asked.

"No," Steven said very loudly.

"Okay then, it's up to you. Tell us to continue."

"Okay," Steven said, trying to regain a little composure,
"Continue."

For the first three turns of the gears, a bit of slack in
the cable remained, and the boy's cock failed to rise. But
on the fourth turn, it rose about an inch, then by the fifth
and sixth it was fully extended in a straight line   pointed
toward the rafters. "It's stiff already," Steven cried out.
He swiftly began panicking.

"Three more turns," said Nelson, definitely enjoying the
proceedings. With the seventh turn of the winch, the boy's
cock was really stretching, with the eighth it stretched
like a taut little hot dog and was pulling away from his
body it seemed.

"No, I can't take it anymore. It hurts so bad," Steven
yelled.

"Do you want us to stop?" Donna asked sweetly.

"No, you bastards," the boy swore.

"One more turn!"

With this final turn the skin of Steven's cockhead seemed to
be changing, becoming a bit whiter with the stretching. His
penis seemed extended over two inches away from his
genitalia bed, and it would have been worse if Steven hadn't
been using his bare heels to push off with his belly away
from the table. "Yeowhh!"

They let Steven's organ remain suspended like that for a
full fifteen seconds. Steven was going crazy with fright.
Nelson, Donna, and Dr. Talmadge all seemed to smirk at the
boy's discomfort. The burly wrestling types were onstage,
but still hanging with the other boys, and they were
grinning too.

"Now that's what I call a hard-on!" Nelson exclaimed. The
crowd roared again with approval, their loudest exhalation
yet.

*

Soon it was time for the first genuine ordeal. John, Steven,
Andrew, and Peter were to be given their "little flogging."
For each boy a small low settee, maybe fifteen inches in
height, was readied and brought into place. "Get on the
tables," Dr. Talmadge barked, "like you were doing a push-
up, hands on the table, fingers extended." But the boys soon
noticed that the low tables weren't long enough for their
entire bodies to stretch out properly. In fact, the bare
feet of each boy soon dangled over the settee's edge to rest
upon, at least in this position they were touching with
their toes - a curious and circular raised metallic disc -
instead of the actual wooden platform. John noticed it
first, and immediately decided it was probably a bad thing,
that disc. He tried to sneak each foot slightly to either
side, so that his toes were not on the disc at all, but
resting squarely upon what he now suspected to be the
infinitely benign planks.

Alas, his maneuver was immediately discovered. Both feet
need to be on the metal disc," Donna said, "At least your
toes, John."

"Yes, in this position, torsos raised with your hands,
backsides up, all of your toes will need to remain in
contact with the metal disc near your feet," Nelson intoned.

Peter assumed this wouldn't be a big deal. He would just
have to stretch his toes out. The metal thing wouldn't
really matter, would it? But why had John already tried to
cheat? "So we'll just do push-ups?" Peter asked.

"Oh not exactly, Peter. You'll remain in the up position of
the push-up, without going down or touching your chest and
belly to the table surface, so that your entire backside can
be properly flogged and present the best target."

"That means your shoulders, backs, butts, and the backs of
your legs down to your heels will be fair game. Our
instrument of choice will be this,"  she showed the boys
what it was. The thin cane, though made of hard white cedar,
was flexible and supple. She swished it through the air near
the boys' heads within their plain sight as if to show how
effective the switch might be on bare skin. It was about
thirty inches long and tapered into about five or six tails.
At the end of each tail was a tiny sharp-edged steel shard.

"You're going to hit us with THAT?" Andrew asked, his voice
suddenly a plaintive whisper.

"Fifteen strokes spread out over their entire backsides,"
Dr. Talmadge said, "should create the desired effect." Each
boy's sharp intake of breath was clearly audible, but no boy
wanted to risk disqualification. There was another
appreciative spate of murmurs from the sadistic crowd. One
of the burly wrestler-types came forward to wield the cane,
and soon he took it like a baton from the producer, Donna.
The boys were lined up - Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven -
each to a settee, backsides thrust into the air, as straight
as possible because before hitting them, the "executioner"
as the boys came to refer to him - Mr. Leon G. Smith, the
chief punisher (he was surely an expert in these matters as
the boys were about to find out)    said to each of them, "I
want you straighter, boy," while poking each outstretched
contestant in their exposed ribs and sides with the not-yet-
bloody cane.

Soon the hits began. A measuring commenced, and then a swift
action through the air as the instrument of pain descended.
One stroke apiece for each boy, about twenty seconds apart.
Swack! Andrew felt a flash of sheer and hitherto
indescribable pain explode below his shoulders in the middle
of his back, an instant welt, the metal doodad already
slightly piercing his tender skin, and then the pain came in
precisely equally administered measure to the nearly
identical spot on the bodies of John, Peter, and finally
Steven. Each time the boy being struck grimaced, trying not
to scream, or at least to have his scream stifled or
muffled. By the fifth strike, on the bare calves of each
boy, intense pain was registering in each of their brains,
like a clarion of sensation, and they were all unabashedly
screaming. The executioner struck with a surgical precision
under the watchful eye of Dr. Talmadge and the others   and
soon the boys noticed a burning feeling, heat from where the
underside of their bare toes touched the circular metal
discs. John noticed it first, but remained stoically silent.

"The temperature of the discs that your toes are touching
has been heated to 105 degrees Fahrenheit. It should be
slightly more uncomfortable but not really burn you as we
increase the temperature to 110 degrees during the duration
of this game," Nelson told them. "Remember, you are NOT to
budge those toes." Andrew and Steven were already crying,
but neither wanted to quit, to disappoint their families or
themselves at this stage of the festivities. So each gritted
his teeth and braced their muscles for mustering as much
courage as humanly possible. Even as the metal plate reached
110 degrees, each of the boys, except for occasional shrieks
and screams now reduced to whimpers, gutted it out. When it
was over, the boys seemed to heave a collective sigh of
relief, an immense exhalation despite welts, minor cuts and
a few purplish bruises from shoulders to heels as a kind of
manly badge. For a moment, amid cheers and the support of
the audience, each contestant allowed himself to relax
momentarily. But then it was time for their front sides to
be flogged.

"Okay, heads down, reverse push up position," Nelson
intoned. That produced an almost giddy reaction of
appreciative recognition from the crowd. Soon Andrew, John,
Peter, and Steven were inverted on their settees, front
flesh and legs thrust forward in the opposite direction to
meet the cruel instrument wielded by the exacting Mr. Smith.

"This time we need you to place the entire sole of each foot
on your metal disc," Donna said, "You must not lift your
foot   any portion of it from the undersides of your toes
down to your bare heels   off the hot plate   or risk being
disqualified."

"This time your soles should begin getting in on the fun,"
said Nelson for the benefit of sadists everywhere, "We're
going to heat your metal discs to 110 degrees Fahrenheit
once the whipping of your front side starts, and gradually
increase the temperature to slightly in excess of 120
degrees."

Each boy grimaced, having some idea of what lay in store.
Andrew uttered a little squeal, like a little piggie's cry.
Peter's blue eyes went oh gosh wide with shock and horror -
he'd never imagined anything this bad.  John knew he had
calluses, but didn't know if his tougher skin was thick
enough to withstand this improvised torture. Once during the
previous summer he'd walked barefoot on freshly laid hot
road tar on a dare for Ashley's benefit, but that'd only
been a mad dash of several seconds and twenty feet. Still
his soles had remained slightly sore for two whole days.
Steven, fresh from the infamous safety scissors incident,
didn't even want to contemplate the potential pain. But $50
million   wow!

Dr. Talmadge discussed potential consequences. "I'd
anticipate a reddening of each of their entire soles, a
distinct tenderizing of the adipose tissue of the balls of
their feet, maybe the onset of minor blistering in a few
sensitive places   especially at the highest temperatures,"
he stated, "I'll tell you this much. It won't be fun   for
them!" As the good doctor chuckled, 300 sadistic souls
present at the site roared with laughter.

Nelson concluded his introductory remarks with
straightforward points about the main event. "Of course,
while the precious soles of their feet are being nicely
warmed, Mr. Smith will be making an impression with the cane
 a flogging of fifteen strokes targeting their nipples,
chests, tummies   time for a pink belly, hey kids? And
working ever lower he won't miss those sensitive nether
regions   penis and testicles   the meaty areas of their
inner thighs, their rather bony shins, down to the front of
their lower legs near the ankle."

There was clapping, more approval from the gathered sadists.
Leaning forward in their inverted push-up positions,
completely vulnerable to the thin cane, thirty inches long,
flexible and supple, with the tethered pain-making steely
shards at the tip, about to descend on their bare skin, each
boy tried to brace himself in his own way. Again, the order
was Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven, and meticulously, as if
the executioner Leon G. Smith was an artist, the patchwork
of welts, cuts, and bruises on their barely pubertal bodies
began developing as the tapestry of choice. Andrew was
struck just above the left nipple, and more jutting boyish
chests were struck in synchronous fashion, as shrieks
emerged appropriately from John, Peter, and Steven. The
belly flesh on each boy proved very sensitive, as did their
penises   a perfectly aimed strike near the geographic
center of each boy's circumcised prize, on the glans not far
from his coveted peehole entrance, the TV cameras not
missing even this slight nuance, or the sudden wails of each
boy caused by excruciating pain   but as the thin whippy
cane progressed lower, towards their feet, those feet once
again emerged into a painful awareness for each boy.  "My
fucking feet   fuck, I swear they're burning up," shrieked
Andrew, and he wasn't that used to swearing.

"The plates are only up to 118 degrees!" Donna muttered, but
by the time the caning had ended the boys' soles had been
tenderized like slightly cooked meat at a final 121 degrees
Fahrenheit, precisely as forecast.

That's why the next Pain Factor ordeal, the first bastinado,
seemed especially diabolical to the boys. This time, a
contraption, like Pilgrim's Pride wooden stocks built to
enclose and secure each 13-year-old ankle so that the boys
were lying face-up on a comfortable divan but with their
feet arranged way up above their heads and their reddened
already terribly tender soles exposed completely and
mercilessly to the cruel six-tailed cane. Again it was
Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven, now wailing piteously, but
still refusing to quit.

The probing eyes and fingers of Dr. Talmadge carefully
examined each sole. Andrew's left. "A little blister is just
starting on the ball of his left foot, another incipient one
on his instep here   but he'll pass. It's reddened of
course, as you'd expect." So it went. Andrew's right sole
showed less obvious damage; John's tougher tissue had
disappeared from both soles, look ma, no callous, he almost
cried out when Dr. Talmadge started pinching the too pink
flesh of his insteps and undersides of his toes, but managed
to show self-control, not giving these bastards the
satisfaction, and Peter's fleshy soles with their perfectly
formed toes were palpated just for the sake of palpating
them it seemed, but he didn't mind, wanted to postpone the
inevitable, as did Steven, who now recalled the stitching of
his tender soles and the Novocain that hadn't worked. In
fact, Dr. Talmadge ran a sharp fingernail along the length
of each of his extremely tender soles. But they all passed,
eight soles, every boy. "Give them each fifty good ones on
each foot," Talmadge blithely instructed the executioner
wielding the cruel cane.

"Fifty!" screamed John, suddenly not so macho.

"Would you like to quit the competition?" Nelson barked in
response to the angry and terrified boy.

"I'd like to, but I won't give you the satisfaction," John
yelled back. He didn't care who saw his defiance in the
audience, or on TV. "Give me sixty!" John screamed again.
But as soon as he said this he thought better of it.
Unfortunately, his utterance had escaped his stupid lips.

"Okay, give them all sixty strokes!" Nelson said.

"No!" the other boys screamed, absurdly in unison.

"Thanks a lot   stupid!" Andrew turned to John and shrieked.

Peter echoed Andrew's sentiments. "Yeah, bright move,
shithead." Steven felt like his insides were about to heave
from the anticipated pain that he couldn't help but dwell
on.

Before long, the cane began descending. By only the second
strike on Steven's right sole, just below the toes in the
geographic center of his foot, all the boys were sobbing.
The strikes came hard, but not so fast, about twenty seconds
apart for each boy foot hit. Leon the executioner tried to
space them out carefully, but the hits had to he hard, and
fair, he couldn't go easy with any particular boy, or show
favoritism, although the crowd's sentiments were clearly
with Peter. By the time this particular ordeal was over
forty- five minutes later   the show would be edited for
closed circuit viewing   this was really a nine-hour pilot
from which maybe fifty minutes of the best footage would be
eventually salvaged for a premiere showing   the soles of
each boy were bruised and bloodied   although miraculously
it seemed   possibly owing to Leon's skill in wielding the
cane   each boy was able to walk immediately afterwards,
albeit gingerly. "It could've been worse. They didn't get
the needle treatment as a prelude this time," muttered Donna
matter-of-factly.

Steven heard the bit about the needle treatment, and almost
went berserk. He was able to control his fearful emotions,
however, and though on the verge of it, he refused to quit
right then and there. Besides, Andrew had just been chosen,
picked first for a bizarre form of measuring. He was made to
lie down on his back spread-eagled, his ankles and wrists
cuffed, waiting expectantly as Donna handed Dr. Talmadge a
black leather case. It was full of drill bits of various
sizes. Suddenly Talmadge selected one, and with one hand
began carefully fondling Andrew in full view of the cameras.
He stopped fondling and roughly grabbed Andrew's proud four-
inch circumcised penis, now newly erected despite the aching
in his soles and other body parts, and gently squeezed the
boy's glans   pressing the boy's peehole open. Whereupon Dr.
Talmadge promptly inserted the selected metal drill bit,
it's diameter about 1/16 inch, and pushed the bore
slowly and deliberately into Andrew's urethra. "This will
probably hurt quite a bit, boy, but not as much as it
could," the physician remarked.

"It hurts a lot," Andrew said, again gritting his teeth and
tensing his stomach muscles. "I can't think how it could
hurt much more."

"Listen boy, it's almost a perfect fit. I guessed about 95%
correctly. Now try not to wriggle around so much as I groove
it better and smooth out the inside of your urethra."

Meanwhile, the cameras were running, catching Andrew's penis
and the hand-held drill bit's every action. Andrew kept
clenching and unclenching his stomach muscles, and brought
his fingers and toes into play, while Dr. Talmadge worked.
It would later prove crucial to know precisely the
circumference of each contestant's urethra. Talmadge kept
slowly and agonizingly inserting the drill bit all the way
in to its hilt in the boy's penis and then slowly
withdrawing it, taking it all the way out, while slowly
spinning the slender metal object between thumb and
forefingers.

"How could it be worse than that for the boy?" Donna asked.

"Well, that bit is only about a smidgen too large, and it's
not attached to a live drill with the juice turned on,"
Nelson whispered back to her loud enough for TV monitors to
catch. "Now if we actually drilled that boy, or any of these
boys, a 1/2 inch peehole  - that would really hurt. You
betcha. But it would be within the guidelines, especially
if we don't have a champion by then."

Soon enough it was John's turn. This slightly older and more
mature boy required a slightly larger bore so Talmadge
chose a 3/32 inch drill bit, inserting that to the hilt into
the boy's cock, almost 5 inches deep, and he deliberately
seemed a bit rougher with him, working it around inside so
that the metal began scraping.

"You bastard," John whispered, but the doctor heard him and
became yet a little rougher.

"I'm causing him moderate to severe pain right now, It needs
to have a little smoother track inside there. A procedure
like this would usually be performed under anesthesia   at
least a local   but in this case there's no need."

"No need   Fuck! Yeowhh!" John screamed himself almost
hoarse.

"If we have to use a live drill on him eventually to enlarge
his peehole, at least I'll know what we're dealing with
inside his cock," Talmadge casually explained.

"It's a lot like working with dental tools," Leon Smith
remarked, peeking over Dr. Talmadge's shoulder.

"In fact, if you observe closely, John's peehole opening is
very much like a little mouth. Right now, think of me as
scraping tartar off the urethral walls. In fact, that's a
great idea!"

John was loudly sobbing by now. But he quieted momentarily
as Dr. Talmadge suddenly removed the drill bit from John's
now sore and throbbing penis. But the boy's relief was
short-lived. Digging around in his black bag, Dr. Talmadge
was delighted to find another little tool   a sharp-edged
curved metal dental pick usually used for removing stubborn
tartar from the surfaces of teeth. "Excellent," said
Talmadge smiling, "Stay perfectly still, boy." And then to
the onlookers after showing the wide-eyed boy the new
utensil, "He's not going to like this one bit, but it's
obvious that John has never cleaned himself in there and
we'll just have to tear him up a bit to make the jagged
pieces of tissue I've just created more uniform. I need to
bring out just a little tissue with the new probe and you'll
notice a few specks of blood. Open wide, John!" Talmadge
couldn't help chuckling as he tightly grasped the boy's
penis with several deft fingers as John thrashed around,
chafing his wrists and ankles from the cuffs, then he
skillfully began forcing in the curved and sharp-pointed
dental tool into the walls of John's ultra-sensitive
urethra, as John screamed himself almost hoarse.

"The curved end isn't a clean fit. I see it has to be forced
in, "Donna observed. The metal tartar pick was all the time
digging, scraping, and causing excruciating pain.

"This would definitely be done with anesthesia, maybe even a
general anesthesia," Talmadge remarked. "He's got some
tissue irregularities I don't like in there. We have to dig
or scrape it out of there. It's a lot like penis tartar!"
After around another ten or twelve minutes, Dr. Talmadge
worked out what he was after   a bulbous lump of wadded up
inner penis tissue mingled with blood came out with the
curved metal pick's tip. Still he wasn't done. The pick was
roughly re-inserted into John's penile eye, all the way
inside to the hilt, and slowly pulled back out again five or
six times, all the while scraping and digging into urethral
tissue suddenly made even more sensitive. Talmadge recovered
yet a little more blood and tissue, looking a little like
nasal mucus. John kept sobbing from the excruciating pain
even after the horrid metal pick was out. "There, that'll
make it a lot easier if he has to be drilled with a live
drill for the sake of the contest," Dr. Talmadge exclaimed,
now quite pleased after all that hard and delicate work, "A
lot easier." Following that little drama, the experiences of
Peter and Steven, while intense and quite painful, seemed
almost anti-climatic.

*

The boys had a week to rest until the next round; they'd
earned it. And they were allowed to call their families, and
to say with assurance if not glee that each was still in the
running. "Is it fun?" John's little sister asked in one such
long-distance conversation. "And exciting at the same time?"
She was only 11, and already thinking of their family being
filthy rich. John didn't quite know what to say. 

End of Part 2

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