Message-ID: <51513asstr$1120810206@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <news@google.com> X-Original-To: ckought69@hotmail.com Delivered-To: ckought69@hotmail.com X-Original-Path: o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com!not-for-mail From: nialos@yahoo.com X-Original-Message-ID: <1120784020.501928.235720@o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 8 Jul 2005 00:53:46 +0000 (UTC) User-Agent: G2/0.2 Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com Injection-Info: o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com; posting-host=24.176.133.96; posting-account=rbcflg0AAACYNrM68pD62TXuH5QfPzLK X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 7 Jul 2005 17:53:40 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 7 - The Conclusion by Platypus (MMMMMFF/mmm, torture, cbt, extreme) X-Original-Subject: {ASSM} Pain Factor Part 7 - THe Conclusion by Platypus (MMMMMFF/mmm, torture, cbt, extreme) Lines: 1348 Date: Fri, 8 Jul 2005 04:10:06 -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/Year2005/51513> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge 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. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | 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}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+