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From: nialos@yahoo.com
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Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 7 - The Conclusion by Platypus (MMMMMFF/mmm, torture, cbt, extreme)
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Date: Fri,  8 Jul 2005 04:10:06 -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 on my site at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nialos/www/spartan_boys.html

* * *

Pain Factor Part 7 - The Conclusion (MMMMMFF/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.
* * * * *


An urgent meeting of the American Sadists Society (ASS) took
place in the Blue Room of the underground complex where the
shows were being taped and broadcast from. Present and
accounted for were officers of the society as well as some
familiar faces that the boys had become well acquainted
with. These decision-makers were sitting around a large oval
hardwood conference table as if a board meeting was taking
place   one imbued with urgency.

"This is getting to be embarrassing. One of these three kids
has to win, but we have to have a winner soon   to get a
resolution," argued Dr. Talmadge. He looked earnest, forcing
a wry expression that didn't quite become him, and shifted
in his seat.

"We've obviously been coddling them," added Donna, the buxom
blonde producer.

"If this is to be an annual event, and if we're to keep our
sponsors, we have to get very aggressive today. Anyway,
they've had a week off   so we can really up the pain ante.
They're bodies are like canvasses   all we need is to paint
them red   if you know what I mean." Craig L. Nelson had a
way with colorful phrases.

"We should concentrate on a couple of body areas   so these
boys can focus on their pain," said Dr. Morticia Simmons,
the disreputable podiatrist, "How about an ultimate test on
feet? We know that Steven has a weakness there   from the
interviews."

"Yes, yes, it might work," agreed Ansel Darwin, a British
urologist who had some fiendish ideas of his own for causing
the boys pain   but his fetish was of a different nature
more akin to Talmadge's. "But what if it doesn't?"

There was a murmuring around the oval platform. An evil
murmuring like those cacophonous sounds striking the ears in
enchanted forests was heard, but reveled in, at that very
moment. Darwin pressed his advantage. It was evolutionary as
far as torture was concerned, what he'd be suggesting. It
would be a process that all three boys would never
successfully withstand. He whispered his "Final Pain Factor
Solution" as he later called it, and those gathered around
the oval listened intently.

Every head around the table nodded with surprised delight
especially when he'd completed the last of the implicit gory
details.

There was a vote, and it was unanimous. They'd be doing an
ultimate test of feet   and if that failed to have the
desired result, they'd be executing what came to be called
the FPFS. No 13-year-old boy could endure both   and remain
in the contest   except for a single "lucky" winner.

"Peter should be considered the favorite then?" Nelson
blurted afterwards.

"He has to be. That boy doesn't seem to have a weakness
maybe he is a pain athlete," admitted Simmons with a look of
resignation.

"I just want to do it right   we can't baby these boys. But
I hope we have to perform Darwin's test   all of it -- on at
least two of them. That'd make it worthwhile for me." No
doubt about it. Doctor Talmadge was a sadist's sadist.

*

They'd lounged around their quarters healing for an entire
week. Peter suspected that the ante was about to be
ratcheted up, way up, but he didn't share this, he hardly
spoke to his two peers, and anyway, he saw it as an
opportunity. He stuck to his room, examined his healing cuts
and bruises in the suite's full-length mirror, watched TV
including some more "tame" episodes of Fear Factor, reruns
as it was summer, and played solitary video games like Die
Liberal Scum   his favorite when he was in a political mood.
Peter liked current events and was hoping for a World War
soon, maybe an Apocalypse like in Revelations, or better
yet, two Apocalypses   one for each universe his brain could
imagine. But first he had to win this   to be filthy rich
and make his parents proud. He had a dual track mind, like
many thirteen-year-olds, but he was a formidable adversary
he thought, especially for the likes of John and Steven. For
exercise, Peter trained on a treadmill   ran five miles a
day   and lifted weights to keep his "panther-muscles" as he
called them in his own mind, toned and trim. In truth, he
was a formidable adversary, and if this "pain athlete" were
a racehorse, he'd be favored by at least a length.

Steven's feet had healed completely, not a trace of even the
tiniest blister remaining, and the rest of him was fit and
healthy too. He and John spent endless hours bouncing and
jumping off the diving board and swimming in the 68-degree
water of the subterranean Olympic-sized pool, and John and
he also ate their meals together   and played more sane
video games like Hitler's Sister and Dog Food Gobble.  They
also coupled off at night for some relaxing boy-boy sex
the sixty-nine became their favorite number. "I bet Peter's
jealous," John remarked once, while slurping some of his own
cum from in-between Steven's toes. "Tastes like vanilla,
I'll betcha," Steven commented.
"Sugar, sugar," John replied.

*

It all began innocently enough, in the usual way. The usual
uniforms, the stripping, all three boys in their birthday
suits soon enough   before an appreciative and very live
audience. A moment came when all three nude contestants were
standing at attention with their hardons at full mast,
presentable to all the cameras and shown in perfect detailed
display in the glare of the bright lights, their skins
without obvious blemishes again except for a few minor
scars. But today they'd know precisely what ordeal they'd be
enduring, and would be handed by Craig L. Nelson little
scripts on pieces of paper   these inside a sealed envelope.

The boys were instructed to follow foot doctor Morticia
Simmons to the center of the stage where the hot plates
were. This time, the plates were already heated to 115
degrees and ready for their bare soles, six plates in all
to begin the agony for three barefooted thirteen-year-olds.

"All right, you can read statement one. Who'd like to go
first?"

This time there was not the slightest hesitation as Peter
spoke up. "I will."

"Okay. Go ahead." That was Morticia Simmons. Nelson, and
Leon G. Smith flanked her, as well as a curious Doctor
Talmadge and Donna, the show's producer. Dr. Darwin wasn't
on stage yet, but he was waiting in the wings and watching
this reality drama unfold with the scrutiny of a sparrow
hawk.

Peter's voice rang out loud and clear   like a choirboy in
his robes, only he wasn't wearing robes. "I will stand for
thirty minutes on these hot plates in my bare feet without
quitting," he read, "and please make them as hot as you
possibly can." He started to eagerly add, "I'm a pain
athlete," but was cut off mercifully for those listening at
the word 'pain.'

"Just the statement, please," Nelson barked.

One last instruction ensued. "Remember, toes to heels at all
times in full contact with the plates or you'll be
disqualified," Donna said in her schoolmarm's voice.

So Peter grimaced, stepped gingerly onto the heated metal
surface, first his left foot, then his right, and uttered a
little shriek. "Yeowhh! This is hot." But he kept smiling
like Phil Mickelson did, a famous golfer he idolized.
Michelson smiled annoyingly even when he missed a putt.

John went next. He read his statement with a little less
eagerness, more perfunctorily. "I will stand for thirty
minutes on these hot plates in my bare feet without
quitting," he said, and promptly did. "Owwee!" he screeched,
"And please make them as hot as you possibly can." He then
tensely asked a quick question, "How hot?"

"They're already heated to 115 degrees," confirmed Doctor
Simmons. Before fifteen seconds had passed, tears were
starting in John's eyes. But his entire soles were pressed
flat and perfectly still against the heated metal surface as
he'd been told.

Steven had a good mind to walk out while he could. But he
knew he'd stick it out   somehow.

"Okay, it's your turn, Steven." "I will stand   for thirty
minutes   on these hot plates in my bare feet without
quitting   and please make them as hot as you possibly can."
The last part sounded rushed and cursory, more like mumbling
in the manner that 13-year-old boys often do  but he was
understood. He braced himself; stepped forward as if testing
the relatively hot water in a bathtub, toes first. Instantly
he felt a pain signal along the underside of his tender toes
  his large toe and second slightly shorter perfectly formed
toe on his left foot where he'd cautiously stepped and
contacted the hot metal.

"C'mon boy   it'll go better if you just place the entire
soles of both feet on each plate. Just do it!" Nelson
yelled.

"Remember   place them flat   toes to heels   flat   or
you'll be disqualified," reiterated Donna.

Steven very reluctantly did   and let out a banshee screech
as his entire left sole   and then his entire right bare
sole   came into contact with the already hot metal surface.
"Yeowhh! Oh my God! Owwhh! Owwhh! That kills! That kills!"
He was crying within the first minute, tears coursing down
his face from the sudden pain.

"That's better," said Morticia Simmons with a pleased and
satisfied grin.

There was a huge giant timer clock in plain sight of the
boys (and everybody else) right on stage, white, with black
numbers indicating the increments of minutes and seconds
that ticked off slowly, so slowly, an eternity for each
tortured 13-year-old. Accompanying this graphic visual was
an awful little "time" melody that kept repeating itself
like clanging chimes.

The temperature of the plates, meanwhile, gradually rose,
and this was visible on a giant overhead thermometer for the
audience and also for the boy contestants to see if they
chose to look up   which they did occasionally   their
handsome early adolescent features contorted in sheer
anguish, shouts of "Fuck! Owwhh! Oh God! I can't do this!
But I have to!" escaping their lips at various stages. At
ten minutes, the temperature on all the plates was a uniform
121 degrees F., at fifteen minutes it had risen to 125
degrees.  But although their pain was excruciating, the boys
all tolerated the hot metal better than anyone expected. By
the twenty-five minute mark, the temperature had reached 129
degrees on all six plates; it peaked at 132 degrees at the
28-minute mark, then started decreasing slowly   back to 130
degrees F. when the buzzer on the timer finally went off
startling everyone within earshot. There was a rousing
cheer; the audience had been fairly quiet so that the
tearful sounds of the boys could be clearly heard throughout
the ordeal.

"All right! Time's up!" Nelson barked. "Congratulations
young gentlemen. Guess you all made it through that phase.
You may step off your plates." Although all six plates had
cooled to 100 degrees or less, they'd done their work. The
act of stepping, using their reddened, blistered, and
extremely tender soles, was a painful moment in itself. All
three boys stood shakily on the wooden stage again, their
feet admittedly a bit wobbly.

"Owwhh! Owwhh! Owwhh!" Steven shouted, and exclamatory
curses could be heard from the mouths of John and Peter.

But the paraphernalia for the next phase was already ready
and waiting. Still, a statement declaring what they'd be
enduring remained to be read aloud. There was once again an
opportunity for at least one boy to back out   and quit Pain
Factor.

Steven was asked to read his statement first. "For the next
part of my ordeal, I will gladly permit Dr. Simmons to use
the sharp sterilized needle   to use the sharp needle   to
score the soles of both my feet   that means to make deep
painful scratches   no matter how much I scream and cry. I
want her to be extremely thorough so that my feet can be
properly prepared for my bastinado   which will come next. I
want her to make my soles bleed and to also use the needle
between my toes   no, no, you can't mean this   and to use
the needle   digging it deep under each and every one -- of
my toenails." Steven was pleading with his eyes and crying
and reduced to a hoarse whisper after reading this.

"Are you quitting then, boy?" Talmadge asked.

"No, no!" Steven cried, "I'm not quitting! I'll stay in the
contest."

"All righty then. Read the rest of your statement." Donna
the producer again seemed quite pleased.

Steven continued. "I want Dr. Simmons to make the sensitive
tissue underneath my toenails to bleed   and to use the
needle anywhere else on my feet that she sees fit."

The crowd of sadists spontaneously erupted once again into a
cheer. But Steven received a brief reprieve, as John and
Peter were obliged to read the same statement.

John was visibly upset as he read it, but once again, Peter
seemed oddly distracted. As he calmly read, he was musing to
himself, "I'm a pain athlete! I'm a pain athlete!"

After all the statements were read, all three boys were
instructed to hop onto the waiting medical tables covered
with white crinkly paper placed over thin mattresses. Each
boy received a pillow for his head, was told to "Lie all the
way back on your backs." Donna was speaking as Leon G. Smith
lifted the legs of each boy, placing their elevated ankles
into a tight plastic noose, first lifting John's left foot,
then his right, so that his feet were nicely secured, and
then he did the same with Peter and Steven's feet.

"Okay, I'd better get started," Dr. Simmons said.

*

John's feet were slightly larger than the other boys; he was
a big-footed boy with long tapering toes. His soles were
reddened and blistered in places from the metal plates, and
so when Morticia Simmons, the podiatrist began palpating and
pressing with her thumbs and lightly scratching the bottom
of his left foot, John was already feeling it, wincing and
grunting. Cameras were set overhead and poised just above
"the action" on suspended cables so the sadists could
observe the tiniest details on their big screen. The camera
would go from his face to his "action" foot, as sadists
called it, and then back again as needed, mostly in close-
ups. "Does this hurt?" she asked John when she pinched one
of the blisters, one about the size of a pea on the ball of
that sensitive left sole. "Yes! Yes! It hurts!"

She got out the sharp needle and showed it to the cameras
and to John. John's eyes opened wide with terror but he
tried not to show it. "John, what I'm going to do is use
this sterilized needle to burst all your blisters first. I
can see at least a couple   that one on the ball, another
one just below your toes, and another on the middle of your
foot near your instep. Can I do that now as painfully as
possible?" John hesitated for a few seconds.
"John, we're all waiting. I can't begin until you give the
word. You may scream all you want. John?"
"Okay, okay. Just do it you fucking bitch!"
"All right. No need to get huffy about it." There was
general laughter amid scattered ripples of applause. She
began to stick the needle into the first blister on the ball
of John's foot, popped it, and then scored the needle right
through the damaged skin where the blister had been.
"Yeowhh!" John started crying and wailing and trying to move
his sole out of her evil reach. But it was secured and all
he could do was squirm a bit while chafing his bound ankle
against the plastic noose.
"Okay, next blister. Try not to squirm so much." The needle
approached the blister just below his toes on the left foot,
and began cutting, with a similar result. "Yeowhh!" He cried
and wailed even louder. Then the middle of John's left foot
near his instep and its blister met the needle. "Yeowhh!" He
chafed his ankle worse on that latter little needle
expedition. But with the blisters gone, it was time to just
use the needle on reddened, very sensitive skin, mildly
burned like a sunburn on the sole of one's foot, and she was
careful as the instructions allowed, very thorough in
diligently preparing John's foot for his eventual bastinado.
He screamed, and kept screaming, as the needle carved
painful scratches on the underside of each toe, four lines
or scratches on his big toe, two on each of the other toes,
and then worked an intricate mosaic of scratches on the
ball, instep, heel, and the sides of his foot just up from
the sole, and then she went over the blistered areas again,
producing even louder screams from the 13-year-old, and then
started in on the toenails, his big toe underneath the nail
through the quick of the nail bed, after several passes that
seemed to take forever as he screamed, cried, and wailed, it
was time for the next toe, and the next, and the next, and
finally she did his baby toe, working underneath the nail.
She finished her "needlework" as she called it by carving
scratches between each of John's toes, until these areas
were oozing blood too. When she went "down under" to pierce
the quick of his left toenails one more time, all of his
toenails on that tortured foot were bleeding, as was his
entire sole.

"Okay, time for your other foot, John. Your right one." Her
voice was so calm, so tranquil, but this woman was not very
nice. "John, you know the drill. Can we begin on your right
foot so you can entertain all these nice people?"
"They're not nice people. All of you are fucking miserable
creeps!" John screamed at the top of his lungs.
But she was gentle sounding, persistent. "Are you ready to
have us do your right foot now? You have to give the word.
We're waiting!"

*

Soon it was Peter's turn to have his left foot scored with
the needle. He had five or six blisters on that one, and all
had to be popped and run through, slowly and as painfully as
possibly. He too screamed and carried on, but not to quite
the degree that John had, quiet sobbing was more his macho
style. Surprisingly to those present and to Dr. Simmons,
when the good foot doctor did his toenails, and gouged under
each of the boy's toenails, he seemed quieter than humanly
possible, even soothed, perhaps remembering some early
childhood ritual "I'm a pain athlete, I'm a pain athlete"
that he'd endured as a little boy at the hands of his
slightly sadistic mother. "He has nice even toes, this one
is a very handsome boy   perfect proportions to his feet
just like all of them have   but his feet are almost
beautiful   or at least will be again after they heal." She
was thorough, and Peter was eager to get through it all, and
hadn't yet broken down mentally from the sheer pain. "Time
for your right foot now, Peter," and he seemed to smile, was
this possible, a beatific smile, or was this young teenager
eligible for sainthood? The needle burst through more
blisters and through the raw underneath, and created the
same intricate mosaic on his sole, and there seemed to be
odd coos when she did under his right toenails with the
cruel needle as she had with his left, or were they moans
mingled with coos, who's to tell?

While this excruciating ritual was progressing with Peter,
and John retained a grim expression on his face because Leon
G. Smith was playfully tickling that thirteen-year-old's
tortured soles, Steven's dread level was rising to sky
level, even though they were way underground, as he
anticipated quite correctly that he was only a minute or two
away from his own horrific turn with the needle on already
ultra-sensitive soles. He mused and daydreamed about the
failed Novocain and stitching needle once experienced in his
family doctor's office, and agonized about how much this
impending procedure would hurt, considering that his feet
already hurt like hell, the pain for the moment reduced to a
steady if lingering throbbing. Steven, lying there on his
back ignored for the time being, almost drifted off.

"Steven! Wake up!" Craig L. Nelson yelled painfully close to
his right eardrum.

"Uhhh, uhh, huh?

Morticia Simmons's calm and evil voice burst upon his
reverie like a ton of dried cement.  "Steven, it's your
turn."

But he wasn't about to quit. He'd spoken to Andrew on the
phone since he'd left and he knew how to get through this.
He knew the secret.

"Steven, are we ready to begin on your left foot, honey?"
She grinned a wicked grin as she stroked his left sole
lightly, and began to pinch and palpate the tender tissue as
he began to wince. "Or do you want to quit the contest? You
don't have to continue, you know." She put the needle
directly into Steven's view, deliberately taunting. Lightly
tracing the dull end of the needle along his sole, she
probed for his most sensitive spots, and already it hurt
more.

"No, just do it. I can take it, I hope. Go ahead."

"Oh, all right. As you like, I will."

So it began. She was especially brutal it seemed, trying to
get him to quit, to scream "No! I can't take any more of
this awful pain!" she hoped he'd say. With that dreadful
needle, she pulled out all the stops.

On his left foot the ball was torn when a blister was
broken, and the same thing happened on that heel. Doctor
Simmons then went over those same raw areas at least a dozen
times as Steven screamed his lungs out. "He has rounded
balls of his feet, a lovely shape for a pubertal boy," she
remarked for the cameras as the needle scratched its deep
bloody tracks into the new mosaic she was joyfully creating
all over the reddened slightly scorched skin of that same
ball where the blister wasn't and then along his instep in
the middle and along each side of the slightly squirming
boy-foot and up to underneath and between each underside of
his toes and down to the heel on Steven's "boy-hoof" as she
called it once. He just screamed, especially when she went
over each needle track four or five times and started doing
his toenails, first finding a little dirt under his big
toe's nail and flicking that off with the needle's sharp
point and then digging under the same nail down to the
tender quick. She dug beneath each of Steven's toenails
several times with the cruel needle as if she was digging
for toe-jam and he writhed and screamed for about ten
minutes while the excruciating procedure was occurring and
until his left foot was a bloody scratched up mess the
needle kept cutting and scratching even on the top of his
foot she'd made at least five scratches and by then he'd
screamed himself hoarse.

But then there was a pause. "Right foot now?"

Steven managed a weak nod.

*

All three boys had survived the needle treatment. Now it was
time for something potentially worse   the bastinado with
the expert Leon G. Smith wielding that vicious steel-tipped
martinet. Each boy's left and right foot was observed and
examined by Dr. Simmons. Her summation was equally vicious.
"I am authorizing eighty strokes with the martinet on each
of their feet. This won't tickle. But Leon, for maximum pain
and to make sure that every single stroke that John, Peter,
and Steven have coming is safely administered, make sure to
administer them evenly on each bleeding sole   starting each
sequence of eight at the toes and working down to the
heels."

"Don't worry. You know me," Leon bragged, "Accuracy is my
trademark."

Craig L. Nelson made sure dramatic music; a Wagnerian opera
in this case, was audible in the background, along with some
emotional violins. He also set the tone of this particular
bastinado session, imbuing it with special significance.
"This degree of bastinado is seldom preformed on 13-year-old
boys, except for a few historical scenes where boys of this
age were also being executed for some reason. The tissue on
their feet will take three to five weeks to heal if they
should make it through this ordeal. That's because the cuts
made earlier by Dr. Simmons with the sharp sterilized needle
will retard healing maybe 40% -- while intensifying the pain
to an inordinate degree. The martinet will do still more
damage than exists already, but because Mr. Smith is an
expert wielding the instrument of pain, it will feel like
their nerve endings are on fire, and each blow will travel
up each leg in the kind of acute wave that each boy won't
soon forget. Even the Turks in their prisons don't punish
boy criminals quite to this extent."

There was tremendous applause following this apt description
of what was going to happen to each boy's foot. But there
was also time to back out.

"Do any of you wish at this time to quit the competition?"

Again, silence. John, Peter, and Steven would at least taste
this ultimate ordeal   a supreme agony of the feet.

"Okay then. Leon, you can begin. The left foot of each boy
John, Peter, and Steven's   will be struck one maximum blow.
A full-force strike on the right foot of each contestant
will follow that. Good luck, all of you!"

"May God have mercy on your soles," Talmadge quipped, "I'm
sure that Leon won't."

There was a spontaneous burst of applause.

*

The martinet used by Smith was about fourteen inches long
from leather handle to sharp-pointed steel tip. There was a
single tip protruding from a whiptail, as its goal was
precision   and landing on the soles of boys' feet required
both precision and a deft hand. In the loops of the noose,
their feet could squirm slightly, but the contestants were
at a distinct disadvantage as they couldn't see where the
flog master was aiming his blows.

John's left foot was first to suffer. Leon had many friends
in the audience and was trying to impress them; he knew that
the single steel tip needed to land within a quarter inch of
his target on the underside of John's large toe. It would be
embarrassing if he missed so he had to concentrate. The
boy's toe was nicely vulnerable but he was moving it
slightly, squirming within his ankle bond. He'd have to
compensate for the movement. Leon G. Smith said to himself,
"Ready! Set! Go!" The martinet flashed through the air in a
single deft movement like a viper's strike. "Yeowhh!" John's
scream when the instrument landed and the pain registered
sounded like a puma's cry. Perfect! Within 1/8 inch of where
he'd wanted! "Only seventy-nine more for you, John!" Leon
shouted in a kind of triumph.

Leon's first assault on Peter was off slightly more, by �
inch or so, a direct hit on "pain athlete's" large toe, but
not precisely where Leon had wanted it. But when the
martinet first landed on the fleshy underside of Steven's
large toe, it was absolutely accurate. "Bull's-eye!" Leon
yelled. "Only 79 more for you on your left foot." Tears were
pouring down Steven's face, but he was determined to stay in
the game. Meanwhile, Peter worried, until the next hit on
his second toe, if there'd be more hits on his left foot
because of do-overs. He needn't have worried.

The blows continued to rain down. The first eight of course
on each foot were to the toes of each boy. Next, the
martinet blows landed just below the toes   where the main
sole begins. The next eight hit the ball of each thirteen-
year-old's foot, and worked their way across to that part of
the instep parallel to the rounded ball. There was two
complete patterns that had the martinet working across the
balls of their wounded soles, and as this particular
sequence was finishing, a scream, and in fact, a scream of
the type that everyone had been hoping for, came from the
lungs, and also from the lips of one anguished boy
contestant. It began with a long drawn-out shriek and ended
with screamed out words. "Okay, I quit, I can't take anymore
of this. I give. Please stop! PLEASE!"

Suddenly, the arena was silent. One boy had more than forty
blows remaining from his bastinado on both feet   and he was
quitting. Could this really be?

*

The boy was Peter.

"Are you sure Peter? I thought you were a 'pain athlete'
are you sure you're quitting?

"I  -- have to. It hurts too much. My feet are like raw
hamburger!"

A cursory examination by Morticia Simmons revealed that he
was correct   there'd been too many burst blisters   too
many martinet strikes on larger areas of raw flesh. It'd
been bad luck really, thrown in at least as an extenuating
circumstance. He could have continued, but because he'd
suffered a few more blisters than either John or Steven,
Peter realized that to stay in the game would have required
the courage of at least a Lance Armstrong. The pain must've
been absolutely excruciating.

So there was a brief break to allow Peter to leave the
stage, helped to walk by two burly men propping him up. He
winced a lot and tried to smile. He was crying   but not
just from the pain. He hated to lose! "Fuck! Fuck! I lost!"
he was muttering. It was just beginning to sink in about
what he'd voluntarily given up.

*

So now there were two. Watching at home alone as his parents
and his cousin were out grocery shopping, Andrew was wincing
a bit too as he jumped up and down elated and his socked
feet were still a little sore. "Peter's out! Peter is out!
Peter is out!" He screamed to all four walls surrounding him
in the family room. "Yes!" But that still left John   along
with his friend Steven.

*

Since there were only two boys left in the competition, and
the "ultimate" foot ordeal had already reduced the field,
there was debate among sadists present, and especially among
the ASS coordinators, about whether to continue the foot
ordeal or to proceed right along to the FPFS   or Final Pain
Factor Solution. There were advantages and disadvantages to
both. If they continued the foot ordeal on John and Steven,
there was a good chance to get one of the two boys to drop
out; probably Steven, and John would be the winner. But if
this occurred, there'd be no opportunity to try out the FPFS
  which promised to be a real crowd-pleaser. But if they did
do the FPFS, and get to perform this horrific torture in all
its grisly evolutionary stages, well, Mr. Darwin wouldn't be
the only one pleased. Decisions, decisions. To be or not to
be a sadist   that was the question.

*

"Your feet are to be spared further torment it's been
decided." Nelson announced this decision very loudly. John
and Steven were still nude, standing by their medical
tables, after having been made to walk gingerly all around
the wooden stage. Although the boys were given an assist
here and there, for the most part, they could still walk,
although it wasn't anything like a pleasant experience. Both
boys were favoring their heels and the lower half of their
feet, and trying to keep weight off their toes, and now
leaning heavily on the medical table reserved for their last
bit of suffering in much the same posture.

"But we have another statement for each of you to read. Are
you ready for your last script?" Nelson was beaming and
being cheerful, epitomizing the emcee from Hell. "Who would
like to read it first?"

"I will, I guess," Steven said. John had a good idea what
the FPFS would be   even though he had yet to hear a single
word about it, and so wished to delay his reading to the
last possible instant.

Donna, the blonde bombshell of a producer, handed Steven his
final script. "This treatment," Steven began, "is called the
Final Pain Factor Solution, or FPFS for short.

"So it's called the FPFS," John repeated, mostly to himself.

"Shh!" Donna admonished John, "Show Steven appropriate
respect and support. Continue Steven."

"The FPFS will involve my urethra on my penis, also called
my peehole, and down into my peehole, from my glans at the
tip all the way in to the base of my penis, down near my
bladder. If I should continue, I will allow Dr. Talmadge and
Dr. Darwin, to do anything they need to   to that part of my
body   to cause me the most excruciating pain imaginable
possibly worse than anything that I have suffered so far.
Again, I can scream and cry and say any curse word or any
other word, my behavior will be excused, but the proceedings
will not be stopped unless I quit the contest. I must also
know that the doctors have my parent's permission to enlarge
my urethra, which will be a lot like having an operation
performed without any anesthesia whatsoever. This entire
procedure is likely to take more than an hour. Even if one
of us quits, the other must have the entire procedure
performed to actually collect the $50 million prize and to
be declared the winner."

There were cries of glee in the underground arena and
general applause when Steven had finished.

"Good grief," Steven said out loud. John was already
squirming in agony, his worst fears confirmed.

"Well," Donna asked, "Do you want to continue in the
contest?"

Steven's will was nearly, but not quite, broken. He sounded
like a mouse when he replied, almost squeaking while quaking
with real fear, "Yes."

"What's that   louder so that everyone can hear. Speak right
into the mike, Steven."

"Okay, yes, fuck, I'll do it. I have to, I guess."

John was handed the same script. With his hands shaking
while he held it, and his whole body quivering even worse
than had Steven's, he read it, every word.

"Yes," John screamed, "Happy you bastards? I'm fucking in."

*

Soon the cameras were set, ready to record the smallest
painful nuance. The nude boys were set too, each had his
arms strapped to his sides, and were lying face up on their
respective tables. Dr. Talmadge and Dr. Darwin were set to
begin their work with thousands of eyes, most of them
sadistic, watching. John's penis was described for everyone
as Talmadge held it up as if was a large plump worm. "This
13-year-old's penis has started puberty, probably is at
second stage puberty, he has a nice assortment but not yet a
full beard of pubic hair, he's circumcised, and his organ is
measured at 4.6 inches when flaccid, 5.7 inches when fully
erect. His urethral opening is slightly larger than
Steven's, and it rests on his glans exactly in the middle,
right where nature intended."

There were cheers of anticipation and polite applause.

Dr. Darwin held up Steven's genital pride and joy. A few
rude sadists chuckled. One made a sound like an adolescent
moose.

Darwin began in his cultured British accent. He had a nice
speaking voice as he held up Steven's penis with thumb and
forefinger just beneath the ridge of the boy's glans, near
his ultra-sensitive frenulum. "This 13-year-old boy has a
wonderful circumcised penis. He's at stage one of his
puberty, just a few wisps just starting, but like John he is
able to ejaculate. His organ measures at 4.2 inches when
flaccid, and 5.1 inches when fully erect. His urethral
opening, our path to his extreme pain beginning in earnest
just a few minutes from now, is slightly smaller than John's
  who is as we're now all aware just a few months older.
Steven's urethral opening is perfect in every way for the
time being   and so is his entire urethra, and situated in
the geographic center of his own unique glans."

More polite applause ensued, and cries of "On with the
entertainment!" coming from several box seats near the front
of the stage area.

"So now we're about to proceed with the first procedure of
several," Craig L. Nelson intoned, "Actually, it's the only
pleasurable part of the ordeal for John and Steven. "Isn't
that so, doctors?"

"Righto," chimed in Dr. Darwin, the fiendish urologist from
the United Kingdom, "I'm going to stroke him a bit to make
my guy here   Steven -- erect properly. Only when he's erect
and leaking pre-ejaculate fluid can we satisfactorily begin
the rest of our procedures integral to FPFS."

"John needs to be masturbated in the same way   to be made
fully erect so that his pre-ejaculate fluid, a clear fluid,
begins to flow and so that his penis is enlarged enough so
that a special foreign object can be nicely inserted into
his urethra. Isn't that right, John?"

"Whatever, you quack. You've really been looking forward to
this, haven't you   you perv?"

"It must be admitted that I have. So has just about everyone
else in this arena." Clapping and applause ensued, and a
little nervous laughter made the walls echo.

So both physicians began fondling their patients. Steven
tried his damndest to resist, he recalled that time early in
the contest weeks ago, when he'd tried to make himself
become erect and failed. He tried to think of something
gross, like a dead mouse with flies and maggots swarming all
over it, but his own little bald-headed mouse had a mind of
its own. In less than two minutes, Steven's completely
vulnerable cock was hard as a rock, pointed vertical like a
mast, and leaking little rivulets of pre-cum. "There," said
Darwin, who knew exactly how to stimulate a pubescent boy's
organ, and he even used his index finger to test its
bounciness and resistance as Steven already began whimpering
with sheer dread.

John's extremely vulnerable penis was no different. "He's
even quicker on the trigger," stated Talmadge, as John's
erection quickly formed along with the "nice moist tip"
leaking pre-ejaculate. "He's got quite a bit of stuff
leaking," Talmadge added. He too tested the boy's hard-on
for springiness and firmness by tweaking it and pushing and
pulling it so that it sprang back to its position after
being placed against John's lower abdomen. But by this time
John was already anticipating what was about to happen doing
some whimpering of his own.

"Okay, now we'll really begin," Darwin said. "First on
Steven."

He called for assistants with sharp pointed little tweezers.
Leon G. Smith and Donna each held a pair at the ready. As
the good doctor held up Steven's erect penis in place with
the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Leon and Donna
each used a sharp edge of their tweezers to carefully hold
open his urethral opening, making it appear wider like a
tiny gaping mouth. Although this was only slightly
uncomfortable, and all he felt was very slight pain around
the edges of his peehole, he feared it was merely
preparation.

Seconds later, maybe fifteen seconds, Darwin showed the boy
the thorny twig   as he referred to it   a tiny dried rose
branch that was approximately four inches long. "Do you see
this thorny twig Steven? This will even hurt a lot going in,
and believe me lad, it's going all the way in."

"No, no," Steven cried, "You can't. Please, oh God please!"
He was already sobbing with utter fear.

"Hold his urethra open to its maximum apex. That's it.
Perfect." The urologist used his right fingers to guide the
nasty twig nearer its boyhood target. But first he teased
Steven for a few seconds, touching the natural stick to
various areas of his glans, not really hurting, but teasing,
as if the stick was intelligent and was trying to find its
way in to Steven's 13-year-old penis. Finally he worked in
tiny circles ever closer to the boy's peehole, grazing the
edges on several occasions as Steven emitted terrified
little cries. Finally he plunged brutally and quickly as
Steven suddenly screamed with pain. "Okay, you helped me get
it started, now I just have to thread our thorny twig all
the way in so that it's embedded its entire length, like
this." It took almost an entire minute to work the stick in
that far   approximately four inches   but that wasn't
enough for this sadist. He grabbed a pair of tweezers using
the closing the two sharp points together, he pressed down
on the nearest end of the thorny twig until it had
penetrated even further, at least an inch, and so that its
farthest twig end was down close to Steven's bladder, near
the end of his urethra, and down very close to the base of
the shrieking boy's penis. "Get it out! Get it out you
bastard!" shrieked Steven, now sobbing almost hysterically.
"He's at about level 7 pain now," Darwin remarked casually,
"The scale goes to level 12. He'll be feeling close to that,
I guarantee." While the cameras didn't see the thorny twig
at all as it was buried in Steven's penis, they did pick it
up again when their lighted magnifying lenses peeked well
into the peehole   at least a half-inch down into slightly
torn and raw-looking urethral walls.

But there was a second thorny twig for John. Again, the
identical procedure was followed as Donna and Leon held open
his slightly larger urethral opening with the single tweezer
edges, and then Talmadge was quite rough too as he pressed
John's thorny twig all the way down into the young teen's
peehole, and then used the closed tweezers to completely
bury it so that it was maybe   inch beyond the hilt. John
was yelling and shrieking and sobbing every bit as
vociferously as Steven had been a moment or two before. The
audience was finding the FPFS every bit as intriguing as
advertised.

"Okay, that sets us up for some real fun," Darwin explained,
"As you'll soon see, we've inserted the twigs so deep into
the lads' cocks for a very good reason. The little boxes,
please."

Little boxes? There were murmurs and whispers throughout the
arena. What does he need little boxes for?

Darwin smiled with pride. He quietly set up the little
cardboard boxes atop the glans of first Steven, then John.
The boxes didn't yet have a roof, so to speak, just four
walls, but then Darwin tried the roof on each box   a
rectangle of cardboard big enough to cover a boy's glans
with a tiny circular window in its middle, about the size
and appearance of a clear see-through contact lens. This
"window" was centered directly over each boy's peehole. The
boys didn't yet grasp the new horror they'd soon be
experiencing.

Darwin brought out another little clear plastic jar, filled
with something moving, lots of little creatures in motion
ants. "They're not just any ants," he explained, "They're
our common black garden ants   an aggressive type of biting
ant found in England   and each time they bite, which is
often, they leave behind a tiny residue of formic acid.
They're not like some of your stinging ants, like fire ants,
in severity, but just to be safe Dr. Talmadge we should
inject each boy's urethral walls above the thorny twig with
hydrocortisone to prevent infection from the bites. I'm
going to inject Steven, will you do John?"

He took the tiny roof off of each cardboard box, leaving the
glans and peehole entirely exposed on first Steven, then
John. "Now these injections with the hypodermic will surely
sting   you'll feel an additional sharp pain each time.
Ready Steven?"

"No, but you're going to do it anyway!" wailed Steven.

John felt the same sharp pains as Talmadge thrust his
hypodermic needle into his peehole   injecting
hydrocortisone each time into the boy's sensitive tissue
above where "John's" thorny twig was buried.  "Yeowhh!
Yeowhh! I've never heard of anybody getting a shot in
there!"

Steven's peehole shots performed by Dr. Darwin produced some
more wailing and sobbing, they did hurt a lot   but when
that ordeal ended another had just begun.


"But why the thorny twigs?" Craig L. Nelson asked, as if
right on cue.
"Yes, you might appreciate the reason for the thorny twig by
now," Talmadge explained, "The twigs are in there to clog up
the bottom of the lads' urethral canals so that the ants
can't burrow in too far. They probably consider these
juvenile penis routes as just another tunnel, and if we left
the twig out, they'd crawl and bite deep down into the boy's
bladder, and we'd probably never get them out. But another
question, how do we attract these aggressive ants and get
them to go where we want them? Down into the peehole of each
lad? Well they're fond of sugary substances, so we'll use
honey."

Both boys started whimpering anew when Dr. Talmadge used a
honey soaked Q-tip to first liberally coat John's pinkish
glans and then down inside his urethra with the sweet
substance. Dr. Darwin did the same thing to Steven.

So then the cameras were readied and the ants were dumped
into each little cardboard box the window, which lifted up
off the cardboard rather cleverly so that this might be
easily accomplished. "Not too many, maybe fifteen or twenty
ants for each lad," Darwin instructed. With each boy
whimpering and sobbing anew, the tiny contact lens-like
window was placed down so that the ferocious insects
couldn't escape.

The cameras   visible on the big screen for all to see
revealed some fascinating nuances of ant life as they looked
down into the window. Visible were the glans of each
thirteen-year-old, and their urethral openings, and down
into the peeholes of each pubescent.

"They'll start biting in a minute," Darwin grinned, "Ever
heard the expression, 'You got ants in your pants?' Steven?
Believe me, this is going to be a lot worse."

"Take them out, take them out!" Steven screeched.

John was terrified too. "Please, I had no idea you were
going to do this!" he yelled, sobbing again.

The ants, for their part, were simply exploring. For them,
it was an adventure, nothing out of the ordinary. Not all of
them went down the peeholes of John and Steven. Some were
gleaning honey off of the glans "territory," and at first,
only about a third went down into the available opening to
explore. First, there was just the crawling sensation. It
was awful enough. But then the bites began. Almost as if a
pheromone signal was given, all the ants began biting at
once. More also began heading into their peehole   as deep
as they were permitted to go.

"Yeowhh! They're biting everywhere inside my dick!" John
screamed, "It burns! It burns!"

"That's the formic acid he's feeling," Darwin explained.

"Please, they really hurt   every time they bite   those
shots didn't help   it still hurts!" Steven screeched, now
wailing and sobbing, shaking his head from side to side,
moving his naked body but with his arms secured, unable to
escape from the medical table. It wouldn't have mattered
anyway.

After about ten or twelve minutes of this hideous agony,
Darwin and Talmadge removed the cardboard hood from over the
boy's penes, used a washcloth to clear any ants from the
glans of each contestant, and then inserted a little enema-
like suction tube into their urethras to act as a rinse and
vacuum. "It is white vinegar," Darwin said, "It will sting a
great deal too, of course, but at least it'll rinse out the
ants."

"Oh my God," said Steven, "That kills! That burns! I can't
stand it! Please Doctor!"

John was squirming on the table a little too much for
Talmadge's liking, so he pinched the boy's left nipple very
hard to get his attention. John had been sobbing and
writhing again as the vinegar coursed through his ultra-
sensitive penis. "You stay still, boy. This is supposed to
hurt. But we have to get every last ant out!"

Soon the ants were a very unpleasant memory for John and
Steven. But now it was on to other unpleasantries.

*

"Alright, everyone. We're sort of faced with a bit of a
dilemma. The ants have been removed from John and Steven's
penises. But there's still the matter of the thorny twig   a
small rose bush branch, each about four inches long, remains
lodged deep in each of their urethras. It blocked the ants
from going down into their bladders, but now they must feel
pretty uncomfortable, in fact, with pressure on John or
Steven's cock from the outside   we can initiate quite a bit
of pain. Care to demonstrate Doctors Talmadge and Darwin?"

"Of course, I'll do Steven first." Dr. Darwin was really
enjoying this. "Right now he's feeling about a level 2 pain
just from having it in there   worse if he really had to
urinate   which of course he can't at the present time. (To
Steven) Does it hurt right now   I mean from the thorny
twig, does it hurt lad?"

Steven just looked at him, strapped in the nude to the
medical table as he was. "Yes! I'd like to put one in your
dick!"

"Can you describe your pain? If you describe it in detail I
may go easier on you than I might have."

"I can feel where the little thorns are   every one of them.
There's pricking me inside there, you prick."

"All right, suffice to say, he's feeling a low level pain.
Now watch what happens when I give him a nice penis massage
  applying a good amount of pressure with just my fingers
but on the exterior portion of his penis where the thorny
twig is indeed lodged. If it weren't for the twig, this
touch would feel quite pleasurable for a boy this age. But
when I give Steven this 5-minute massage, right now, you'll
see what soon occurs. Should be fun   except for him." So
the maverick urologist began fondling Steven's cock, and
pressing the penis flesh hard exactly where he knew the twig
to be.
"Owwhh! Please stop! No! That kills! It's puncturing me
inside with the little thorns! Please! That kills!"
"Nope lad. You're going to get the full five-minutes of a
nice massage, whether you like it or not." Darwin continued,
pressing below the frenulum and down to the base even
harder, as Steven kept screaming and sobbing. Sometimes he
would tickle along Steven's glans first, digging at the ant
bites there with his freshly washed and soapy fingernails,
picking at the irritated skin there, and then proceed
deliberately to where the twig was. He kept alternating the
pattern until Steven had a rather improbable erection. "He's
erect now, but I'd say he's not enjoying how it feels as the
pain level is probably close to an eight."

"Remember, a twelve is the maximum as Dr. Darwin has already
explained," announced Nelson.

With one tortured foot placed atop the other in a relaxed
pose, John was lying as still as possible hoping that he
somehow might be ignored for a while, but no such luck.

Craig L. Nelson thought John too relaxed   and in need of
some old-fashioned penis pain. "Why don't you do the same
thing to John, Dr. Talmadge?"

There were some scattered claps from the fascinated audience
in order to urge Talmadge on.

"I intend to," Talmadge said, "Would you like the same kind
of massage that Steven's getting?"

"You fucker! You're not going to do me like that for five
minutes, faggot!"

"Okay, I won't. We'll make it ten." He immediately reached
for John's slightly larger penis and began masturbating him
  except pressing hard on his "twig-parts" as some were
beginning to coin a phrase. He also began using the dreaded
dental pick then   to pick unmercifully at some of John's
readily visible ant bites on his circumcised glans, digging
deep into sensitive outer skin with the sharp metal tip, and
digging deep and pressing hard with his fingers down lower
on the boy's cock. Soon John was sobbing and screaming too.

"I'd say you have him at a level 7 or 8 also," Dr. Darwin
remarked, paying his colleague Talmadge a compliment.

When the boys' unusual massages were completed, Darwin had a
splendid idea, although not an entirely original one. "That
dental pick will work fine for our next phase now that we've
gotten them hard again. Do we have another sterilized pick
available Doctor?

"As a matter of fact, we do Dr. Darwin. Dr. Salmon our
dentist just brought us over a whole kit full of them in
different sizes, along with the hand-powered wood drills
we're going to need for the final phase too."

Hearing this, during that brief moment of calm, and while
they still were experiencing only a relatively low level of
slowly receding residual pain, John and Steven began crying
and sobbing and pleading   but to no avail.

Dr. Darwin was firm, as he had to be   not to be swayed.
"Well, they're going to have to urinate soon, and even if
they weren't, we can't have those thorny twigs lodged
forever in their urethras. But getting them dislodged won't
be easy."

"No, it won't," agreed Dr. Talmadge.

"We could just use a pair of tweezers and go down to the top
of the twig, maybe an inch into John and Steven's penis and
just begin pulling the twig straight out -- enough so that
it protrudes from the urethral opening," Dr. Darwin said.

"But can't we try a much more painful way using instead the
nice dental picks we've just obtained? Dr. Talmadge
wondered.

"I was thinking the same thing exactly," Dr. Darwin, looking
suddenly like a bemused if vicious Santa Claus. "Why don't
we force the sharp-edged dental picks   we'll have to cut
through the urethral lining along the edge of their urethras
  have the picks cut right through practically their entire
penises   search for and find the bottom of the thorny twigs
down near the base of their members, and then begin wedging
the thorny twigs out using the picks as our leverage? Just
forcing the sharp-pointed dental picks down all the way into
their penises should be enough to cause excruciating pain in
itself   at least a 9   maybe a 10 or 11   on the pain
scale!"

"And if either boy should faint during the procedure, we'll
use ammonium salts to immediately revive him!" Dr. Talmadge
added enthusiastically.

"Do you expect them to faint?" Nelson asked innocently.

"They might." Said Talmadge.

"It won't be quick doing this   at least forty-five minutes,
maybe longer. It may take a full hour to re-position the
thorny twig doing it this way." Darwin was excited that his
suggested torture would be implemented to its full extent
after all   or maybe that was the plan all along. "We'll
begin on each boy at exactly the same time
simultaneously."

All this horrid talk was having its anticipated effect on
John and Steven. "No guys, please don't do it that way
it'll still hurt us a lot if you just go for the twig with
the tweezers from the top. Please   I'll be good if you just
do it the easier way. Please!" John pleaded.

"Please! The easier way! I won't even complain if you do us
the easier way   do it from the top with the Goddamned
tweezers! Please!" Steven agreed desperately.

For a moment Talmadge and Darwin deliberated if they should
acquiesce to the teenagers' pleas. But they were the best of
sadists; they were the worst of sadists.

"Nope, we've decided   we'll use the dental picks and attack
the twig from the bottom. We'll have to dig a channel
through the lining   and do any smoothing repairs as
necessary once the twig is all the way out. Sorry." Talmadge
was obstinate, and the matter was settled.

*

"Okay, begin." Those were the words that John had dreaded
most of all   and Steven wasn't far behind. Talmadge began
on John with the dental pick, as he lay back terrified and
fully conscious, squirming a little but trying to hold as
still as possible, crying and sobbing, sobbing louder as the
sharp-edged dental pick began probing along his precious
peehole's edge, along its periphery, and then began
descending into his urethra's recesses, but starting to dig
a new parallel channel partly through the penile tissue
immediately adjacent and partly through the urethral wall
itself, as John screamed himself hoarse. The pick was
roughly forced through this especially sensitive tissue but
even so extremely slowly, and all the time Dr.Talmadge was
cutting and excavating with a benevolent grin. Sometimes he
would pull the dental pick completely out of John's penis
and then plunge back in, perhaps meandering a bit before
returning to the depth where he'd left off   often picking
at already injured inner penile tissue   it seemed to John
just for the fun of it. John was still conscious and sobbing
softly after about twenty excruciating minutes.

Darwin was meanwhile doing precisely the same grisly work
using Steven's penis as the work area. The dental pick was
terrifying to Steven. First Darwin had played with the edges
  all the edges it seemed for at least five agonizing
moments   of Steven's urethral opening before making the
pick begin its gruesome job. Then Steven felt the worst pain
he'd ever felt in his life as Darwin held his penis up with
his left hand and performed a kind of crude surgery with his
right. At about the sixteen-minute mark, when Dr. Darwin had
penetrated about halfway down Steven's penis and well past
the beginning of the thorny twig, Steven fainted and had to
be immediately revived. He woke again to renewed horrific
pain as Darwin was blithely continuing.

At about the forty-eight minute mark both physicians were
near the base of John and Steven's bloody penises, still
digging and searching, trying to feel around in the lower
urethral recesses for the base of the thorny twigs. "Ah!
Eureka!" Dr. Darwin suddenly screamed as if striking a
silver vein.

But it was a full eighteen additional minutes before the
boys' cursed thorny twigs were positioned in a way so that
they could be pulled out by finger-strength alone   tweezers
were never used   and even this final step required some ten
horrific moments more. Each thorny twig came out covered
with blood and little bits of flesh. Both boys were hoarse
from screaming   in fact   had developed a form of temporary
laryngitis   by then.

*

John and Steven were resting after their ordeal when a last
fateful decision presented itself.  Still nude on the stage,
still with arms tethered to their medical tables, they were
rather numbed at this point. But still there was more   at
least potentially   for both of them.

Craig L. Nelson began spelling out some more conditions.
"Okay, you have another opportunity to quit the contest. If
you both quit right now, nobody wins. If one of you quits,
the other has to experience the rest of what we have planned
to collect the $50 million prize. If you can't talk because
you're hoarse, signal with your feet. Lift one foot for
quitting, lift two for staying. If you want to write
something as a comment on a piece of paper, wiggle all your
toes."

Donna chimed in. "So who is quitting? Lift one foot
doesn't matter which one!"

There was an agonizing moment, a little like an ancient TV
show from the 1960s called To Tell The Truth. Will the real
big game hunter please stand up? Steven's feet began rising,
his left at first and not his right, slowly, tentatively.
John's bare feet came up together and were held up for a few
seconds. A few seconds later Steven's right foot had joined
his left, so both feet were up, and at the same instant one
of John's slowly dropped back to rest on the table so that
only one foot, his left, remained aloft. John had tears in
his eyes from a different kind of pain; so did Steven.

*

Steven was the survivor! Andrew was watching at home with
tears in his eyes. To collect the money, to make it through,
Steven, his friend, he only had to last through one more
grueling session.

*

"But first," said the sadistic Dr. Darwin, we have to
enlarge your urethral opening with this wooden hand drill."
Meanwhile, his battered and cut-up feet were lifted up and
re-tethered into their nooses. "Dr. Simmons will be working
on your feet some more," Dr. Talmadge said matter-of-factly.
He lifted his neck and head and there she was   that awful
bitch, the foot doctor from Hell. "Leon might also give you
some more lashes with the martinet on your soles if she
recommends it," Donna added. But he was so close now.
"Okay," Steven whispered, a bit of his voice already back
for the moment.

*

About three weeks later there was a get-together at Andrew's
house. Steven embraced Andrew and hugged him for all he was
worth in the Moriarty's living room. "C'mon over here
you," Andrew said. Another boy came over and reluctantly
joined his friends. He was slightly taller, and slightly
older. His name was John.

"My parents say we can split the money," Steven said, "Three
ways." There was whooping and hollering as the boys
celebrated   perhaps not knowing then that they'd remain
friends for life. It had to do only a little bit with money.

Later on that evening, as they were all ending their summer
together, they were upstairs in Andrew's room, and John had
a question to ask of Steven. "How did you do it   how did
you have the guts to stick it out   no matter what they did
to you?" He was serious, but alas, John didn't get a
straight answer.

Steven seemed to ponder something. Then giggling, he
whispered something into Andrew's ear. Suddenly they both
started dancing and jumping up and down and screaming, "I'm
a pain athlete! I'm a pain athlete! I'm a pain athlete!"
Soon John joined in the fun and he was dancing and screaming
and cavorting too. "I'm a pain athlete!" They all joined
hands and started bouncing up and down on Andrew's bed
three of the happiest boys you'd ever want to meet.

Downstairs, Andrew's parents were tempted to go upstairs and
check out the noise, but it was a most joyful noise they
somehow knew. 

END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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