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From: nialos@yahoo.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 5 by Platypus (MMMFF/mmmm, torture, cbt, extreme)
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Date: Mon,  9 May 2005 22:10:02 -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 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

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