Message-ID: <51135asstr$1115691002@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <news@google.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: nialos@yahoo.com X-Original-Message-ID: <1115681147.845426.117150@f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 9 May 2005 23:25:53 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: f14g2000cwb.googlegroups.com; posting-host=24.176.133.96; posting-account=rbcflg0AAACYNrM68pD62TXuH5QfPzLK X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 9 May 2005 16:25:47 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 5 by Platypus (MMMFF/mmmm, torture, cbt, extreme) Lines: 597 Date: Mon, 9 May 2005 22:10:02 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2005/51135> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: hoisingr, newsman 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 5 by Platypus (MMMFF/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. * * * * * The Brandings of Andrew He was trying to concentrate on the golden eagle in flight the aardvark and the rattlesnake head with fangs - while patiently waiting. I have to get through this, he mused, when his thoughts began drifting to the pain he'd soon be feeling. Andrew had every intention of continuing with the contest. But a monstrous fear had invaded his gut. At least I'm not bawling like a baby. He scanned the wooden deck, eyes glancing at John, Peter, and especially Steven. They were nude 13-year-olds, as he was, in the company of strangers. * Andrew's Dad had been a combat vet in Vietnam. He'd remarked about Pain Factor in general. "It's a little like what I went through. Remember when I told you about the napalm burning my legs?" Andrew took those words to heart. Maybe the brandings would turn out to be his little "red badge of courage." Andrew knew that his Dad considered him, if not an outright wimp, than certainly too introspective. Not manly enough. What would Dad think of him after he'd gone through Pain Factor? The money was a factor, his parents were greedy in a small American way, but it was less Andrew's concern. "I think it'll be good for Andrew," his Dad had also said. Right now, Andrew wished himself back at home in his bedroom, headphones on, listening to the gentle strains of Scott Joplin. Andrew played piano quite well and his passion was ragtime piano. I'm a sensitive kid. Friends. Steven had done something nice, coming up and hugging him. But he no longer trusted John or Peter. They're just out for themselves. * "So let's give it up for Andrew!" Nelson was barking. He brought Morticia Simmons up on stage, the podiatrist about to assume her true calling as foot torturer. She was there, as was Donna, the pretty producer, two hulking wrestler types to accompany Andrew to that part of the stage where the brandings would occur, Doctor Talmadge, and Leon G. Smith a regular entourage. Seconds later, the nude boy was led with the entourage over to a part of the wooden stage recreated to resemble a genuine dungeon. "Andrew no comfortable divan for you this time this time, it's what we call 'the bed of rocks' why don't you lie down in that pit face up, on your back." "You want me to lie down on those rocks?" He shrugged, went over and made himself stretch out on the kind of rocks you'd find on Atlantic jetties, fist-sized mostly, some with flat edges, others with pointed edges like a child's sandbox filled with rocks. "Let's get him set up properly," Dr. Simmons said. Two tensile-strength metallic guide wires were trolled down from the rafters. Andrew's legs were lifted into the air and spread apart slightly, shorter fastening wires trailed out of the main wires like tributaries, and Andrew's feet were fastened at the ankles and threaded snugly in-between. All his weight now converged on the boy's bare back and neck, and pressed painfully against the rocks. "Owwhh, this sure hurts," Andrew was already saying, "Could sure use a pillow!" Nelson made that quiet remark into a source of merriment. "He wants a pillow!" The announcer spoke into the mike and began describing what would come next. "We'll begin the fun with Andrew's left sole." Dr. Simmons filled in details for the audience, helped along by a disembodied voice, loud and God-like, a professional- sounding audio presence reminding many of The Price Is Right sidekick complementing host Bob Barker, the one who was always heard saying 'Come on down!' So a very detailed picture began emerging for Andrew of what would be happening to him via a digital video. The image appeared overhead near the ceiling above the stage where everybody could easily see it. Very sharp and distinct, this was a close-up image of target one - Andrew's left sole. "As you can see, we'll begin with his left sole a quarter-sized brand of the eagle Andrew selected will be branded directly onto the ball there." The disembodied male voice, another announcer-type, took it from there. "The brand is just starting to get heated now. It takes about six minutes. Made of stainless steel, the iron is probably familiar to many of you, manufactured by Rawlings Ironworks, one of our proud sponsors, and of the highest quality." The portable brazier and its embedded iron protruding were now located only a few feet away from the pit where the boy remained sprawled. The video shifted. Instantly the brazier's image temporarily replaced the boy's naked foot. Tears of fear started coursing anew down Andrew's cheeks, but he didn't panic, at least not yet. "We'll heat it at Dr. Simmons's instructions to between 126 and 133 degrees for all these brandings," Nelson interjected Dr. Simmons resumed her commentary. "That's flash burn temperature - a few degrees above the allowable limits for long contact heat exposure, but perfect for our purposes today. We have to produce perfect brands of each design the eagle first and then when we get to our work on his right foot - the aardvark." She paused, and squinting through the bright lights observes an eager question from the audience, hand raised, the first of several. "You, second row, left front. The balding gentleman with the rancher's hat." "I used to brand our stock with an iron similar to this. But calves tend to be tougher skinned than a human kid, I'd think. I'd have to press the iron to the flank of the animal and hold it there for several seconds in order to get a good enough impression. How do you do it on a boy?" "It's not really that much different," Simmons replied, "On each pass, it's typical to make contact for about 5 to 8 seconds, well under the minimum safety limit of about 60 seconds where we'd have to use the slightly lower temperatures to avoid serious burning. Still, you all should hear a little sizzle when the hot brand touches his exposed flesh along with the boy's typical sobbing and shrieking. The pain is quite intense while the red-hot poker remains on his bare skin, and on some passes, at the highest temperatures, even excruciating. We'll be showing our audience and Andrew here the precise temperature of the hot iron as recorded when it leaves the brazier. We'll need a minimum of 126 degrees each time of course!" Andrew whimpered. A stout woman raised her hand. She was wearing a blonde wig with a dipsy-50s coiffure. "I'm a foster care provider. What about using branding as a punishment for some errant delinquent boys in our community?" "That's becoming more common than you think, especially court-ordered for middle school ages. Is that your question?" "No, not really. You stated, I clearly heard you say, 'on each pass.' Does that mean that one might be forced to repeat the procedure to get a good imprint?" "One might. Oh mercy yes," Simmons replied. Suddenly there was a twinkle in her eyes. "For instance, young adolescents like Andrew here tend to be quite frisky when undergoing this procedure. So five, six, even ten passes are not uncommon. Don't worry; we'll get it right, eventually. I'm a perfectionist!" Good grief, Andrew mused. The fear was starting to mount, overtaking him now, casting his stomach muscles into anxious convulsions. He was heard to sob audibly as the audience laughed and guffawed. "We'll warn him to keep his foot perfectly still, of course, but although he is secured somewhat, he is able to move his foot a few inches, and in his sheer terror with his leg bucking like a wild animal's, we may not get all the contact points we need even if I usually hit the sweet spot no matter how much he might buck." "No!" Andrew cried out in a little voice, already dreading this incredibly. "Let me interject something here for the edification of our audience," Nelson said, "We're not reinventing the wheel. Young adolescent boys have been undergoing brandings on the soles of their feet for at least two thousand years. Greek and Roman slave boys, and Spartan boys as a manhood ritual, routinely suffered through this procedure." "That's true, Mr. Nelson. But I like to observe the reactions of contemporary boys when their feet are stung, as we like to describe it. Admittedly, it's exciting. I almost never fail to feel a bit of a thrill." Somebody should sting her fucking feet, Andrew maliciously mused. He'd been lying on the cruel rocks for about six minutes and his backside was killing him. He grunted with pain, shifted his position slightly. But that was the least of his worries. "Unfortunately, the design he's chosen, the eagle, has many intricate aesthetic lines in it maybe 75 contact points - and the aardvark will be even worse about 93." "Well, it's about the DO point. Shall we?" Nelson gained a roar of approval from those assembled at this announcement. After all, the crowd had been sitting on thinly cushioned seats for a while, and was beginning to grow impatient. "Leon you have the honors." Everybody gasped with tension as Mr. Leon G. Smith removed the iron emblazoned with the eagle design from the charcoal-fed brazier, covered with a hood for retaining heat. The instrument looked red-hot. It was sizzling as he handed it cool end first to Dr. Simmons. Andrew cringed. He moved his left foot slightly as if to protect it. But it was a false alarm. Examining the instrument, Dr. Simmons correctly observed the telltale temperature recording. "Nope, it's only 124 degrees. Not quite steaming enough. Put it back into the pot." Andrew sighed, albeit knowing his reprieve would be brief. He squirmed involuntarily. A long moment passed. The stage and surroundings were electric with tension. John, Peter, and Steven, about fifty feet away on the stage's far side, stood transfixed. Peter couldn't help feel a certain fascination as Andrew's ordeal headed into high gear. "Now?" Leon asked. "Alright. It should be ready. Pull it out," Simmons said. Leon handed it to her, and this time it was ready. All heard a splash of additional sizzling as the red-hot iron was removed and handed gingerly to the good foot doctor. "Oh no!" moaned Andrew. "A nice toasty 128 degrees that should be perfect." She gave a curt instruction to Leon. "Hold Andrew's foot as steady as you can." Then she looked right at Andrew. "Keep your foot as still as you can unless you want it done over." Leon did his best to clamp with his strong hands, both hands, Andrew's left bare foot at the ankle. "Our current target is that sensitive adipose tissue on the ball of his foot. You all might smell a little burnt flesh, an acrid odor. It's nothing to be alarmed about. I made a nice surface smoothing on his foot earlier today, sanded down a little excess boyhood callous, in preparation for this." "Keep your foot really still, Andrew!" Nelson intoned, whispering. "Andrew is 13 years old, is 4 feet 11 inches tall, early pubescent, and weighs 91 pounds. He's not going to like this!" "No! No! Please don't," Andrew moaned as he saw the red-hot iron in her hand slowly coming towards the bare sole of his foot. He felt the pressure of Leon Smith's strong hands encircling his ankle. He closed his eyes when the poker was just a few inches away. Dr. Simmons expertly pressed the red-hot branding iron flat against the tender ball of Andrew's sole. "Yeowhh! Yeowhh! Yeowhh!" That act produced a boy's high- pitched shrieks, banshee yells. "Take it off. Take it off." Further sizzling ensued at contact along with the slightly acrid odor of burning flesh. As expected, Andrew bucked. Leon did the best he could to steady the ankle as Dr. Simmons kept pressing the brand down flat. "I have to lay it flat to make the impressions, Andrew. Hold still!" Two, three, four, five, six, seven seconds. Finally, she removed the poker to inspect her handiwork. Andrew was still screaming from the pain. Dr. Simmons scrutinized every detail, searching for contact points and for the incipient look of the golden eagle. She touched the boy's sole producing another series of whimpers as his bawling gradually subsided. As she'd expected, there was relatively little damage from the flashburn. Andrew suddenly grew hopeful. Maybe they could at least move on now to his right foot. The pain was already reduced to tolerable like he'd touched a hot stove and instinctively removed his hand. "Is the eagle there yet the way it should be?" There was a long pause, and then her answer came. "It's there, but you moved too much. I can count only forty-eight contact points." "How many you say we need?" Andrew's voice was hoarse from screaming, also plaintive. "Seventy-five. We're going to have to do it again." "No!" Andrew wailed. But the crowd of sadists roared with approval. * She did do it again. In fact, she felt obliged to sear Andrew's left sole eight times before she had the magic number of contact points. On the sixth pass, the brand hit the maximum at 133 degrees. She inspected his left sole; the reddened branded area around the boy's now very tender ball, and felt a flush of pride. "Perfect, Andrew," she exclaimed, "We did it!" "We did?" Andrew said, and he managed a weak smile, drifting across his handsome features. The audience of sadists cheered. Watching on closed circuit, Andrew's father and family cheered. Even his competition clapped and yelled with approval John, Steven except for Peter. Peter was kind of quiet, withdrawn, and a few observant sadists sitting near the front of the stage found it odd that Peter wasn't reacting. Dr. Simmons observed that Andrew's eagle was looking very nice. "There's a little blistering around the edges, but his left foot came out of this in pretty decent shape. Damage isn't severe at all. So let's move on to the aardvark!" "I'm way ahead of you. The stick's already cooking!" Leon exclaimed. Shifting position as much as he could on the non-giving rocks, Andrew started whimpering anew. His back was killing him, pain wise, it hurt more than his branded foot at the moment. But he had worse things to contemplate. Dr. Simmons tenderly drummed Andrew's right sole with her fingers. "Time for this puppy," she said loud enough for the audience to hear. Another roar went up. "Do his right one!" a juvenile voice screamed. There were some children and teens present after all, some of them suddenly clapping and cheering wildly. That voice sounded like a girl maybe Andrew's age. Nelson boomed on just as an image of Andrew's right foot, with his now targeted instep in a close-up inset, came into view overhead. The Barker sidekick began his little spiel. "The aardvark will be a difficult design to engrave onto Andrew's other sole, and so a different site has been selected by Dr. Simmons to make her mark in the middle of the boy's right instep, almost at the geographic center of his 13-year-old bare foot. You might notice that there's already a little blemish there a small brown birthmark." "We'll have to obliterate that birthmark, of course, can't have it there if the branding is going to be presentable, it's slightly raised, so we'll have to dab the sole with a smidge of alcohol and witch-hazel as a precaution before we begin. Is that okay Andrew?" "Just do it, get it over with!" he screamed. Andrew's nerves were frazzled by now. Dr. Simmons looked concerned as she scrutinized the boy's right sole while dabbing on the very light non-protective cover with a cotton ball. "All right, hand me that poker!' she said. As Leon complied, the podiatrist noted the red-hot iron came in at 132 degrees. "This is a go!" she yelled. Leon grasped Andrew's right foot firmly. Andrew's look again became one of sheer terror. "Don't move it!" Morticia Simmons yelled at the boy. Again, contact. "Yeowhh! Yeowhh! I fucking hate this!" Andrew screamed. More sizzling and the all-too-familiar slightly acrid odor signified a flashburn in progress. "Owwhh! Owwhh!" Dr. Simmons held the aardvark brand down for three seconds, five, seven seconds, the full eight as Andrew writhed and bucked, and screamed himself temporarily hoarse. "Good set of lungs on that boy!" Nelson joked. The crowd laughed. Finally, the red-hot brand was mercifully removed. Again, Andrew plaintively asked during the pause, "Did it take? Did you get all the contact points in?" Suffice to say, she didn't. But eleven passes later, with the suffering Andrew all-but-resigned to a perpetual if sporadic hot foot, they had an aardvark! "That's a take," were the exact words Dr. Simmons used. "Hooray!" Andrew said weakly. He was in a lot of pain but at least the brands were on his feet; the naked boy was finally unfastened and allowed to come up off the rocky bed. Leon extended a hand, so did Dr. Talmadge and even Nelson tried to help. Standing painfully on the wooden stage again, Andrew was initially quite wobbly on his newly branded feet. But Dr. Simmons encouraged him to walk around. "I can!" Andrew said. Like everyone else, he was amazed. "I can still walk!" The crowd cheered and seemed to be on his side. Andrew momentarily forgot about the next part and began walking gingerly with a pronounced limp back towards his peers on the stage's far side. He didn't get far. "Umm, what about the rattlesnake?" was all Nelson had to say. "Oh, oh no!" Andrew managed as all the implications dawned on him. Andrew caught Peter flashing an evil grin and glared back. "Come back here young man!" He hobbled back and said, but a bit too loudly so that everyone heard him, "But maybe I won't have to get that one done." "That's right! Maybe he won't have to get the final branding on his glans, that most sensitive part of a boy's anatomy, more sensitive than the feet perhaps, what say you everyone. He's been a brave boy. Is it thumbs up, or is it thumbs down?" Andrew looked hopefully around him and especially out beyond the stage to the seats. Any decent group of human beings would have surely spared him. It seemed when Andrew looked at Nelson and Dr. Simmons that even they were actually on his side, hoping right along with him. The crowd murmured as it made up its collective mind. Andrew began seeing thumbs. Unfortunately, they were mostly down. Still, Andrew held out hope until the last possible instant. "Well, I'm afraid we do have a consensus and it's not in your favor, Andrew." Then Craig L. Nelson spoke to the crowd like Pontius Pilate. "What say you?" "Do him! Do the boy again!" Peter smiled sadistically. "I knew they would," he blurted, and he seemed unabashedly glad, reveling in his opponent's misfortune. This time it was Dr. Talmadge's task to do the branding. This time, someone wheeled out a comfortable divan and soon Andrew was lying on it face up. The boy's middle was promptly propped up with two soft pillows inserted beneath his buttocks. Andrew was already crying again in anticipation of what would happen next. The brazier was wheeled over, Dr. Talmadge dabbed a little alcohol on the boy's circumcised glans, and stroked him on the belly and chest very gently. He began gently stroking Andrew's penis as his precious organ viewable as a close up image became the crowd's newest entertainment. Nelson started off with his spiel, hyping the situation. "Andrew is an all-American brown-haired boy in the early throes of puberty. He is perfectly proportioned everywhere else and his 4.2 inch erect penis is no exception. He's already got some nice little brown pubic hairs, just starting, around his penile base and growing in towards his lower pelvic region. We can see an almost perfect circumcision scar. In balance right over his urethra, over that ultra-sensitive piss slit will be permanently seared a spectacular emblazoned rattlesnake's head with fangs bared! When he has sex with his girlfriend or his future bride or whomever, there's liable to be some CON-VER-SA-TION!" Meanwhile, it felt good. "I think it'll go better if I get you hard first," Talmadge told Andrew, speaking softly. "This brand is smaller, as big around as a dime, with extremely intricate aesthetics, how many contact points, Dr. Talmadge," Nelson asked. "I think there's 106, and we'll have to use a magnifying glass to make them all out. I sure hope we can get this done in one pass." "I hope so too," Andrew whimpered, and then began sobbing. "Little baby," Peter couldn't help blurting, but now he received glares from Steven and John, and even from a few in the audience. The red-hot poker measured 131 degrees. It was ready. "Here you go," Leon said, handing Talmadge the implement cool end first. "Lift your body up off the divan, arch your back, have your erection meet it, head-on, so to speak," Talmadge instructed, "Don't be afraid, boy." Before Andrew closed his eyes, terrified of this new wild cascading pain, he noted that miraculously, he indeed had a hard-on. He felt the flashburn on the head of his cock soon enough. Everyone smelled the acrid odor of burnt flesh, heard the quite loud sizzle. "Yeowhh! Yeowhh! With one strong hand Talmadge held the 13-year-old as steady as he could, Leon and even Nelson pinioned his gyrating arms and legs, hands and feet. The boy's erection was maintained even after contact. This hurt more than anything that Andrew had ever experienced, and probably would experience. Again five seconds seven eight. Andrew was trying to buck as three grown men tried to hold him down. Finally Talmadge removed the poker from the boy's bare cockhead. It had seemed like forever the searing burning sensation that he never wanted to feel again. He screamed until it was almost a single unified wailing. Andrew almost passed out from the excruciating pain. Ten seconds later, the boy opened his eyes again. His reddened penis throbbed a little, but it wasn't too bad. "Do we have the rattlesnake?" Andrew desperately wanted to know. "Well, do we?" He sat up on the divan as he watched Talmadge scrutinizing the head of his penis with a magnifying glass. "I'm afraid not," Talmadge said. "Okay, just do it, and keep on doing it until the fucking snake is on there good, no matter how much I scream and cry, no matter how much!" "He is a Spartan boy," Talmadge whispered, resigned to his grim task. Sixteen passes later, the dime-sized rattlesnake head was a reality. Andrew got up to a rousing ovation and waved to the crowd. His penis was badly blistered, would take days to properly heal, longer than John's urethral mauling with the dental pick, but in his mind, he had won. He had done what he'd set out to do. But now he said something in Nelson's ear, and began walking away toward the stage's edge to where John, Steven, and Peter were, he picked up his clothes, smiled at Steven, and didn't say a word. John put his head down, a bit ashamed. "There's your real champion," he said, but low, so only Peter could hear him. Steven started yelling out Andrew's name. "Andrew. Andrew." Although limping slightly, he calmly picked up his clothes, and still naked, kept on walking. In another second, the crowd caught on. Everyone left their seats, stood up, as if they were a single voice. "ANDREW. ANDREW. ANDREW!" they kept on chanting. Nelson was trying to shout over the crowd, to somehow be heard in the sudden thunderous din of Andrew's moment. "We might as well take a brief intermission. When we all return, Andrew has a few words he wants to say." * When Andrew came back he was dressed in his clothes again. That in itself seemed strange. He twiddled his clip-on tie, suddenly a little nervous, was standing behind a makeshift podium that had been hastily set up. But when he opened his mouth, you could've heard a pin drop, or possibly a sadist's needle. "Today," he said, recalling a long ago speech he'd heard on some TV documentary, "today," he repeated for emphasis, "I consider myself the luckiest guy in the world. But something happened to me today, earlier. I don't know if you realize this but I became a MAN. And I have all of you to thank for that every one of you people. It's been a great experience. Something I will never forget. Good-bye." Then Andrew walked off the stage again, and this time, a marvel seemed to happen, because the boy seemed to be bouncing on his feet, hardly limping at all, and if he was limping, no one noticed, because everyone stood up again, got up out of their seats, and started chanting his name again, "ANDREW, ANDREW, ANDREW!" and they wouldn't stop. They wanted him to come back, to announce that he was kidding, that he would continue in the contest, but the boy was gone. * So then there were three. John, Steven, and Peter. They'd begin again tomorrow, it was unexpectedly decided, in quest of the giant prize. "We just got examined today, and they didn't even get to do anything to us," Peter told the others. But they just ignored him. He'd become a pariah. The boys were back in their underground quarters now, with the rest of the day free. Guess who got his own room that night? End of Part 5 -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>| | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+