Platypus

Pain Factor

Chapter 1
The Four Contestants

Prologue

This is their story, and to some extent, the story of some contestants who were to follow.

The Contestants

The casual observer perceives them to be handsome schoolboys, wearing short-sleeved light blue cotton shirts, Navy blue clip-on ties, and matching dark gray dress pants, although barefoot. Still wearing black blindfolds, the boys are excited, feeling the adventure, and to various degrees inclined to chat with each other. They've been led to an unknown subterranean space located beneath a suburban strip mall not far from a large American city. None of the barely teens had the slightest idea where they'd been brought to.

Andrew is speaking loudly, his lower-pitched half-whisper bouncing in funny echoes off the thick, bunker-like concrete walls surrounding them. His language is matter-of-fact, articulate.

"Some people think my parents are greedy, but they're not, not really. Not like that woman and her sons trying to get money out of Michael Jackson. Besides, I kind of wanted to do this, nobody forced me into it." Andrew has just completed 7th grade, and is 13½ almost exactly. He has light brown hair on his head shaped weeks ago into a buzz cut and starting to grow back, but the tiny hairs on his forearms and big toes are even lighter, barely wisps, and he involuntarily shivers.

"Well I didn't come voluntarily. Not really. But my step-Mom convinced me," Steven replies. He's barely past his thirteenth birthday, a week or so, is dark-haired, close to black in color, and the hair on his head is identical to the sparse growth just starting under his arms and in his pubic regions. He's a sturdy boy, weighing in at 84 pounds [38 kg], and is quick to smile. His eyebrows also draw immediate attention being slightly bushy.

John and Peter are listening intently. John is a bit further into puberty, and at thirteen years, nine months, the oldest of the foursome. He's blonde, and at 5'6" [1.68 m] is the tallest. With long fingers and toes and a slender frame, he can also be called lanky. Peter is thirteen years, four months, has bright and arresting blue eyes, and like the others just completed 7th grade.

"It'll be just like that show Fear Factor except one of us will win all that money," he blurts.

"No, it won't. This isn't real TV, it's closed circuit, and God knows who watches it. We might be afraid, in fact, scared shitless, but the thing that you gotta remember is that it's called Pain Factor and so it's going to hurt," John chimed in.

"I don't l-like pain," Peter admitted. He recalled the time when he'd broken his left leg skiing and his Dad hadn't rescued him for nearly an hour because he'd been talking to some strange woman that they'd just met. That was over a year ago and it was all healed, but he could still feel in his imagination the sharp, stabbing pains from the shards of broken bone digging into the soft tissue just below his knee.

Steven thought about a more recent incident, a few months old, also healed. He'd been doing a Tom Cruise and dancing in his bare feet and sliding across a shag carpet and a pair of his sister's safety scissors had suddenly and somehow penetrated the meat of his right sole. The cut was deep and lengthwise, and took four stitches to close. The doctor had given him a stinging shot of Novocain in the ball of his foot near the wound but for some reason it had not taken effect, and the stitching with a long needle repeatedly puncturing his sole and weaving out again had hurt like crazy. Why am I doing this he thought? I must be crazy.

Suddenly the boys heard a man's insistent voice.

"It's time," he hissed, opening the door to their waiting room.

"You can lose the blindfolds."

***

It was like a circus on the stage. There was a live studio audience with perhaps 300 seats surrounding the stage, set up like an amphitheatre. The seats were filled with adults, most of them dressed casually, but some wore blouses and dress shirts and a few wore expensive suits. They cheered when the four barefoot contestants came onstage, walking hesitantly into the brightly lit area laden with cameras and TV monitors. Although closed circuit and unavailable to the general public, the event was being broadcast like a prizefight around the world. The set was divided into different motifs, like a theme park that suggested various settings for inflicting pain, but to the audience present, the themes and props were familiar a dungeon with various implements and contraptions, manacles dangling from high above, raised metal platforms that could be heated, and in the doctor's office a metal examination table with leather straps for securing a boy's wrists or ankles. Also on stage were the game show's hosts and helpers, a couple of huge muscled burly brutish guys looking like refugees from a WWF spin-off, only meaner and uglier.

"Wonder what those guys are doing here?" Peter said, sounding naive.

Steven whispered, "Probably to make sure that none of us takes a powder."

"What?" Andrew asked, unable to make out what Steven had said amid the cheering and clapping of the crowd.

"Never mind." Steven replied. A moment later the game show began. "Hi, I'm Craig L. Nelson, and welcome to this premiere episode of Pain Factor where these four young men are competing for the largest prize ever offered on a TV game show – 50 million dollars." Cheers, catcalls, and a burst of sustained applause followed. The barefoot boys were standing on the stage's varnished wooden planked surface and trying to take in the enormity of their surroundings. To Andrew, who watched a variety of programming, the guy seemed vaguely familiar, like some actor he'd seen recently on one of a jillion cop shows. But it wasn't him only looked like him. This Nelson, who seemed to project his voice in all directions, spoke again.

"Tonight, we're being broadcast all around the world to over a million of you those sharing our special interest!" More cheers ensued. The joke, if it was a joke, was lost on the boys. All four just smiled and tried not to look embarrassed.

"So let's introduce our lucky contestants." More cheers and a few catcalls followed from those assembled.

"Shh! Quiet down everyone!" Each of the boys were given a hand-held mike and told to speak up when asked. Nelson motioned to Andrew while the other adults onstage, the wrestler-types and a female producer, mid-twenties and looking like a fashion model herself, gazed right at the boy.

"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Andrew." Nelson was insistent because he had to be. These were pleasantries, necessary prelude, but still pleasantries.

"Well, my name is Andrew Moriarty, I'm 13, I go to Cedar Glen Middle School in Pennsylvania. I like racing model cars and building models, I like pizza and I like riding my bike, it's for hills and mountainous terrain, I like going to the beach, there's a lake near where we live and 3;"

Some polite cheers and claps for Andrew as if on cue.

"That's great, Andrew. How about you Steven?"

"Well, Mr. Nelson, I'm also 13 3;"

"You're all 13!"

The audience tittered, and a few laughs are heard.

"Yes, that's true. My name is Steven Pimento, I like science and reading, I go to Daisy Fields Junior High in Mansfield, Massachusetts 3;"

"We've learned that you've had a rather painful experience a few months ago. Your foot got sliced open ACCIDENTALLY. Care to tell us a little bit about that?"

Those assembled are obviously interested as numerous murmurs are heard, like a rustling of human vultures in their seats.

"There really isn't that much to tell, Mr. Nelson. My little sister left a pair of her safety scissors lying around on the shag rug. I was fooling around, playing, running around the house and sliding, barefooted, and one blade cut right across the sole of my foot 3;"

"Which foot?"

"My left one. It hurt, it really hurt, and there was some blood, not as much as you'd think, but it cut deep right under the skin. I needed four stitches, and the Novocain didn't work. The stitching hurt like crazy too."

"But it's all healed now?"

"Yes, but I have a little scar right across my sole where the stitches were and 3;"

"Do you think that your recent experience will make it easier for you to endure pain?"

"I don't think so, Mr. Nelson. Maybe pain games if they don't hurt too much if they're more about my stamina, like in running. I went out for 7th grade track 3;"

The other boys were also a little worried about Steven's recent ordeal, as if the experience had given him some kind of an edge, an advantage, an extra tolerance for pain that none of them possessed. All three of them thought it, but as it turned out, it never mattered.

"That's wonderful, Steven. Let's give it up for Steven Pimento!" Cheers, louder applause is heard. The assemblage is obviously favorably impressed.

"Okay, John, it's your turn."

John, the lanky, slightly older boy, did look a little more mature, even if he did have a baby face. He was also the most taciturn and reticent to talk.

"John Lanroche?"

"I don't like school much, I have a girlfriend, her name is Ashley, she's 14, and we go out to movies and mess around 3;"

"Are you two having sex?"

John's face reddens. He's obviously embarrassed.

"We French and do massages, if that's what you mean," he says defiantly.

"How are you with pain?"

"I'm no wussy. Me and a few guys used to play this game, where we'd punch each other in the arm until one guy would quit 3;"

"Peter Koch. Let's hear from you."

"I'm in this for the money," he bragged, blue eyes flashing. A loud round of applause punctuated the enclosed space. This boy had pluck, precisely the attitude admired worldwide in these types of contestants, even by confirmed sadists.

"It'll be just like Fear Factor which happens to be one of my favorite shows on regular TV. Peter talked about playing baseball, and his skiing accident, and about every nick and bruise he'd ever gotten, but fortunately not for long.

"Okay, Peter. Let's give it up for PETER!" A nice round of applause ensued. Some in the audience were already rooting for this very attractive boy.

***

Soon Mr. Nelson was explaining the rules, and getting through this phase even more quickly.

"The games will be as painful as inhumanly possible and ingeniously devised on occasion, although sometimes a simpler approach to inflicting pain on contestants is preferred. Like the Spartan games for boys from millennia ago, there will be endurance and stamina involved, and all games will be participated in while the boy is naked 3;"

"Naked?" Two of the boys, Steven and John, hadn't been previously made aware of this requirement, or else it hadn't sunk in, but now they both were very much aware. When Andrew and Peter had read it somewhere, they thought, maybe wishful thinking, that the words 'full nudity' had been a misprint of some sort. Oh well. Steven secretly harbored exhibitionist tendencies, now he'd get a chance to try them out for real. He started getting a slight hard-on thinking about the possibilities, as long as it didn't go too far. It would be kind of exciting being nude on stage.

Mr. Nelson went back to explaining the rules.

"During the games, we will always have Dr. Talmadge, a licensed physician and expert in adolescent medicine on stage, as an advisor. No bones will be broken, no joints actually dislocated, or any permanent injury inflicted except some minor scarring may occur and is allowed everywhere and anywhere on their bodies but the boy's face. The boys will have their orifices explored, or even altered to some extent, during certain extreme tests, but again, none of these injuries will be permanently disabling, nor effect their long-term external appearance or functionality. The parents or legal guardians of each boy have signed a release to this effect. These are very similar in character to puberty ordeals, and are actually beneficial in fostering a boy's passage into manhood. It is a 'winner-take-all' contest. There are no consolation prizes except the not insignificant consolation of not quitting and EMBARASSING AND DISAPPOINTING YOUR FAMILIES by leaving the stage prematurely. You must obey every order from any authority figure or be immediately disqualified and replaced. You may scream or curse or cry as much as you want, especially when you are involved in a pain game, but you must obey within a certain amount of time: Exactly one minute from when the order is given!"

Mr. Nelson looked at the boys sternly, especially for a game show host.

"If any of you boys would like to quit now, however, before the games start, and thereby forfeit your chance at the grand prize, a replacement boy is waiting offstage to take your place. Do any of you wish to leave now?"

All four boys Andrew, Steven, John, and Peter – were having all kinds of butterflies, second thoughts, in fact, were scared shitless by what they had heard. This is Pain Factor , not Fear Factor , at least two of them screamed in their heads. Silently. Although four pairs of bare feet squirmed and shifted, no boy made a move to leave the stage.

"All right then. Strip!"

Peter and Andrew each plucked off his clip-on tie and started unbuttoning their shirts.

"You must strip in this order for the cameras or risk being disqualified. Ties, shirts, belts, pants buttons, flies, remove pants, and then briefs. You will then make your penis hard so that you and it are standing at attention."

A few laughs and catcalls from the crowd were heard, as well as a bawdy whistle or two.

The stripping then commenced in earnest.

Steven soon had his shirt off, and then his pants and briefs, and began earnestly jerking off. He wanted to cum right there on the stage but he doubted that it'd be allowed. Still, he stroked.

Peter and Andrew had soon stripped down and were stroking too, their clothes in disarray on the floor of the stage. John was slowest, but he did it. He stroked too, and thought only a little bit about Ashley naked. He didn't want to cum right there in front of a crowd. That would be so embarrassing.

"There you are. In your birthday suits." It was Craig L. Nelson, the game show host, observing. But this too was for the benefit of those assembled, and for the select audience watching the show on the close circuit network via satellite.

"All of you have nice hard-ons, except for you, Steven." Steven shifted his bare feet on the stage, blushed a deep momentary red, as did Andrew, who had a proper erection, four plus inches [10 cm] of penis jutting out nearly horizontally from the middle of his naked body. Andrew's pubic hairs were just beginning, tiny, just wisps, and he shivered involuntarily. Steven couldn't figure out why he hadn't managed a quick hard-on, as he actually liked being nude onstage in front of all these people. He also wondered if there was some kind of extra painful penalty for not getting a hard-on right away. He'd soon find out.

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

The burly wrestler-types were on the stage, as was the female producer. Suddenly the physician appeared, so that medical protocol would be precisely followed.

"Oh, here's Dr. Talmadge, right on cue," Nelson intoned. Before we begin, though, we have a little matter to attend to.

"Steven, please step forward." Steven did, suddenly feeling a bit timid. He'd lost some of his previous swagger.

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

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

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

"Is it about – about my hard-on?" Steven managed.

The audience laughed loudly. It sounded like a roar to all four contestants. Nelson waved his hand magnanimously.

"Or more correctly, your lack of one when ordered to make yourself hard," he said.

"So, you do agree you need to be punished for this infraction?"

Steven shuffled from bare foot to bare foot, squirming while standing, nervous and naked as a jaybird.

"Y-yes," he replied sheepishly.

"Please follow Dr. Talmadge and Donna our producer to the center of our stage," Nelson intoned. Steven took baby steps, one, two, three at nine he was there. For the first time he noticed a smooth-surfaced metal table raised about two feet [60 cm] off the wood platform stage.

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

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

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

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

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

"No," Steven said very loudly.

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

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

For the first three turns of the gears, a bit of slack in the cable remained, and the boy's cock failed to rise. But on the fourth turn, it rose about an inch [2½ cm], then by the fifth and sixth it was fully extended in a straight line pointed toward the rafters.

"It's stiff already," Steven cried out. He swiftly began panicking.

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

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

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

"No, you bastards," the boy swore.

"One more turn!"

With this final turn the skin of Steven's cockhead seemed to be changing, becoming a bit whiter with the stretching. His penis seemed extended over two inches [5 cm] away from his genitalia bed, and it would have been worse if Steven hadn't been using his bare heels to push off with his belly away from the table.

"Yeowhh!"

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

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

***

Soon it was time for the first genuine ordeal. John, Steven, Andrew, and Peter were to be given their 'little flogging'. For each boy a small low settee, maybe fifteen inches [40 cm] in height, was readied and brought into place.

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

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

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

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

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

"That means your shoulders, backs, butts, and the backs of your legs down to your heels will be fair game. Our instrument of choice will be this," she showed the boys what it was. The thin cane, though made of hard white cedar, was flexible and supple. She swished it through the air near the boys' heads within their plain sight as if to show how effective the switch might be on bare skin. It was about thirty inches [75 cm] long and tapered into about five or six tails. At the end of each tail was a tiny sharp-edged steel shard.

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

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

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

"The temperature of the discs that your toes are touching has been heated to 105 degrees [40°C] Fahrenheit. It should be slightly more uncomfortable but not really burn you as we increase the temperature to 110 degrees [43°C] during the duration of this game," Nelson told them.

"Remember, you are NOT to budge those toes." Andrew and Steven were already crying, but neither wanted to quit, to disappoint their families or themselves at this stage of the festivities. So each gritted his teeth and braced their muscles for mustering as much courage as humanly possible. Even as the metal plate reached 110 degrees [43°C], each of the boys, except for occasional shrieks and screams now reduced to whimpers, gutted it out. When it was over, the boys seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief, an immense exhalation despite welts, minor cuts and a few purplish bruises from shoulders to heels as a kind of manly badge. For a moment, amid cheers and the support of the audience, each contestant allowed himself to relax momentarily. But then it was time for their front sides to be flogged.

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

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

"This time your soles should begin getting in on the fun," said Nelson for the benefit of sadists everywhere, "We're going to heat your metal discs to 110 degrees Fahrenheit [43°C] once the whipping of your front side starts, and gradually increase the temperature to slightly in excess of 120 degrees [49°C]."

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

Dr. Talmadge discussed potential consequences.

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

Nelson concluded his introductory remarks with straightforward points about the main event.

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

There was clapping, more approval from the gathered sadists. Leaning forward in their inverted push-up positions, completely vulnerable to the thin cane, thirty inches [75 cm] long, flexible and supple, with the tethered pain-making steely shards at the tip, about to descend on their bare skin, each boy tried to brace himself in his own way. Again, the order was Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven, and meticulously, as if the executioner Leon G. Smith was an artist, the patchwork of welts, cuts, and bruises on their barely pubertal bodies began developing as the tapestry of choice. Andrew was struck just above the left nipple, and more jutting boyish chests were struck in synchronous fashion, as shrieks emerged appropriately from John, Peter, and Steven. The belly flesh on each boy proved very sensitive, as did their penises a perfectly aimed strike near the geographic center of each boy's circumcised prize, on the glans not far from his coveted peehole entrance, the TV cameras not missing even this slight nuance, or the sudden wails of each boy caused by excruciating pain but as the thin whippy cane progressed lower, towards their feet, those feet once again emerged into a painful awareness for each boy. "My fucking feet fuck, I swear they're burning up," shrieked Andrew, and he wasn't that used to swearing.

"The plates are only up to 118 degrees [48°C]!" Donna muttered, but by the time the caning had ended the boys' soles had been tenderized like slightly cooked meat at a final 121 degrees Fahrenheit [49.5°C], precisely as forecast.

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

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

"Give them each fifty good ones on each foot," Talmadge blithely instructed the executioner wielding the cruel cane.

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

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

"I'd like to, but I won't give you the satisfaction," John yelled back. He didn't care who saw his defiance in the audience, or on TV.

"Give me sixty!" John screamed again. But as soon as he said this he thought better of it. Unfortunately, his utterance had escaped his stupid lips.

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

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

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

Peter echoed Andrew's sentiments.

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

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

"It could've been worse. They didn't get the needle treatment as a prelude this time," muttered Donna matter-of-factly.

***

Steven heard the bit about the needle treatment, and almost went berserk. He was able to control his fearful emotions, however, and though on the verge of it, he refused to quit right then and there. Besides, Andrew had just been chosen, picked first for a bizarre form of measuring. He was made to lie down on his back spread-eagled, his ankles and wrists cuffed, waiting expectantly as Donna handed Dr. Talmadge a black leather case. It was full of drill bits of various sizes. Suddenly Talmadge selected one, and with one hand began carefully fondling Andrew in full view of the cameras. He stopped fondling and roughly grabbed Andrew's proud four-inch [10 cm] circumcised penis, now newly erected despite the aching in his soles and other body parts, and gently squeezed the boy's glans pressing the boy's peehole open. Whereupon Dr. Talmadge promptly inserted the selected metal drill bit, it's diameter about 1/16 inch [1½ mm], and pushed the bore slowly and deliberately into Andrew's urethra.

"This will probably hurt quite a bit, boy, but not as much as it could," the physician remarked.

"It hurts a lot," Andrew said, again gritting his teeth and tensing his stomach muscles.

"I can't think how it could hurt much more."

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

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

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

"Well, that bit is only about a smidgen too large, and it's not attached to a live drill with the juice turned on," Nelson whispered back to her loud enough for TV monitors to catch.

"Now if we actually drilled that boy, or any of these boys, a half inch [12 mm] peehole – that would really hurt. You betcha. But it would be within the guidelines, especially if we don't have a champion by then."

Soon enough it was John's turn. This slightly older and more mature boy required a slightly larger bore so Talmadge chose a 3/32 inch [2½ mm] drill bit, inserting that to the hilt into the boy's cock, almost 5 inches [12 cm] deep, and he deliberately seemed a bit rougher with him, working it around inside so that the metal began scraping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

John was loudly sobbing by now. But he quieted momentarily as Dr. Talmadge suddenly removed the drill bit from John's now sore and throbbing penis. But the boy's relief was short-lived. Digging around in his black bag, Dr. Talmadge was delighted to find another little tool a sharp-edged curved metal dental pick usually used for removing stubborn tartar from the surfaces of teeth.

"Excellent," said Talmadge smiling, "Stay perfectly still, boy." And then to the onlookers after showing the wide-eyed boy the new utensil, "He's not going to like this one bit, but it's obvious that John has never cleaned himself in there and we'll just have to tear him up a bit to make the jagged pieces of tissue I've just created more uniform. I need to bring out just a little tissue with the new probe and you'll notice a few specks of blood. Open wide, John!" Talmadge couldn't help chuckling as he tightly grasped the boy's penis with several deft fingers as John thrashed around, chafing his wrists and ankles from the cuffs, then he skillfully began forcing in the curved and sharp-pointed dental tool into the walls of John's ultra-sensitive urethra, as John screamed himself almost hoarse.

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

"This would definitely be done with anesthesia, maybe even a general anesthesia," Talmadge remarked.

"He's got some tissue irregularities I don't like in there. We have to dig or scrape it out of there. It's a lot like penis tartar!" After around another ten or twelve minutes, Dr. Talmadge worked out what he was after a bulbous lump of wadded up inner penis tissue mingled with blood came out with the curved metal pick's tip. Still he wasn't done. The pick was roughly re-inserted into John's penile eye, all the way inside to the hilt, and slowly pulled back out again five or six times, all the while scraping and digging into urethral tissue suddenly made even more sensitive. Talmadge recovered yet a little more blood and tissue, looking a little like nasal mucus. John kept sobbing from the excruciating pain even after the horrid metal pick was out.

"There, that'll make it a lot easier if he has to be drilled with a live drill for the sake of the contest," Dr. Talmadge exclaimed, now quite pleased after all that hard and delicate work, "A lot easier." Following that little drama, the experiences of Peter and Steven, while intense and quite painful, seemed almost anti-climatic.

***

The boys had a week to rest until the next round; they'd earned it. And they were allowed to call their families, and to say with assurance if not glee that each was still in the running.

"Is it fun?" John's little sister asked in one such long-distance conversation.

"And exciting at the same time?" She was only 11, and already thinking of their family being filthy rich. John didn't quite know what to say.

Getting to Know Each Other

John Lanroche, as the oldest and the lankiest of the four 13-year-old contestants, was also the most pain-ridden. During the first evening following his initial ordeal, he remarked about one anatomical part in particular.

"It feels like I shouldn't even think about jerking off," he told Peter Koch. John and Peter shared one of two King-sized beds in a hotel-like setting located in a part of the underground bunker perhaps a quarter-mile [400 m] from the wooden planked stage. Peter was naked under the covers while John was wearing boxer shorts, although the shorts were relatively clean, if baggy, and therefore white.

"I didn't get that dental pick as bad as you did, nobody did," Peter commiserated.

"Oh, Andrew got it pretty bad too."

"Not like you."

In their large room, very much like 4-star accommodations, standard conveniences were present. Besides the beds, there was a small table, regular phone and reading light console in-between the beds. It was all part of a semi-suite that included bathroom and kitchenette, and inside the bathroom mounted on a door was a very expensive full-length mirror. Everything was in soft blue tones, nothing harsh to the eye, with a geographic motif the only eccentricity. World maps and cartographic charts decorated the walls of both the sky-blue bedroom and a short hallway leading to the kitchen. The two boys already in bed had woken from a recuperative nap, and the other two, Andrew Moriarty and Steven Pimento, were elsewhere. Their shared King-sized bed was unoccupied for the moment.

"These beds sure are comfortable," John remarked.

"Where'd the other guys go?"

"Downstairs in the computer room," Peter said.

"They're probably still playing."

Just then Andrew and Steven returned laughing and jostling, in pretty fine mettle considering their ordeal so far.

"Hey," announced Andrew, "We got videos. It's party time!"

Steven just laughed as he read the titles aloud while offering a bit of commentary.

"We got Daisy Does Dallas and The Adventures of Heather. Actually, they sound quite educational." That drew giggles from the others, even John, who wasn't in pain except when he palpated his own organ.

All four teens were up for watching 'sexy; videos. Steven turned on the TV before plopping a vid into the combination VCR and CD player, and with Andrew following suit, soon stripped to his white cotton briefs to join his bed-mate under one of the blue bedspreads and in-between the sheets. Daisy commenced in soft-core fashion, including a predictable soundtrack. The boys didn't care much about nuances. To them, such films remained a novelty.

Within minutes – except for John who had reason not to – they were fingering their prized possessions, trying to judge if any soreness remained. The prognosis was reassuring. Those with active fingers were on their way to a measurable excitement when the dang phone rang. Andrew answered.

"Hello."

It was Peter's parents.

"It's for you!" said Andrew, his tone slightly desultory, as he handed off to Peter.

Initially Peter was glad to hear from his parents.

"How are you doing Peter?" His mother spoke in languid tones, and seemed genuinely concerned until Peter started telling her the straight dope.

"Mom, I didn't think it'd be this bad. I know it's a lot of money but 3;"

"It's fifty million dollars, Peter, and you know, we'll never have a shot at this kind of moo-lah. Your father and I work our asses off supporting you kids, the three of you, but as attorneys, doing mostly civil litigation and probate cases, we can barely afford our house, let alone sending you all off to private schools. Things are expensive. Most of our neighbors in Old Rochelle make more money than we do. You have a great opportunity to change all that to help make a wonderful future for all of us!"

"Mom, do you know what we've already had done to us? What those bastards have done? That crazy doctor, Talmadge the pervert, he stuck a dental pick, he stuck it up 3;"

"I know. Your father and I and Beth and Sam watched the whole show on closed circuit. We have a hookup now because you're a contestant. You were very brave!"

"So you saw what they did, what that guy did and even Beth and Sam watched it. And you still want me to do this?" Peter was starting to get upset, starting to raise his voice just a little.

"Is the money more important than what happens to me?"

"I don't know. That's a lot of money. Besides, that other boy, John, he looked like he got the worst of it. Doesn't that give you our family a bit of an edge? You have to look at it pragmatically. That's what I tell our clients sometimes."

Peter's father grabbed the phone. He was getting perturbed with his son, but also wanted to encourage him.

"Listen. Are you chickening out? I was very proud you were my son out there on the stage. Maybe even more than your Mom."

"Even more than Mom?"

"Yes."

Peter's eyes were reddening. He never got to impress his father and wanted to in the worst way. But he sniffled then so that the sound was audible over the phone line.

"Dad. They can really hurt us. You've given those bastards permission to hurt me."

"Your mother and I signed the release forms, if that's what you mean. Yes, they'll hurt you, maybe a lot. But it's all according to the Pain Factor guidelines. They won't do anything beyond the guidelines, and until you've recuperated completely, nothing more will be done to you. Nothing permanent. Think of it you'll have a healed up body when the next round begins, like a clean slate."

"But it hurts Dad. Everything hurts. I still have bruises. My feet are still a little sore."

"Good, the more intense it is, the better. You're tough and can tolerate a lot of pain. Ask for more pain that might impress the judges. Think of it, you're like a trained athlete a pain endurance athlete. I'm really proud of you, son. One of the other boys is bound to drop out in the next session, and you have a 25% chance of winning everything. Think what that will mean to us, to all of us!"

Peter's mother chimed in as the boy sniffled again.

"Remember when you were little and I used to clean out your little piggies? You used to handle the pain from that pretty well. Ask to have some kind of pain game performed under your toenails I think you'd have an edge in that department, I really do."

Peter remembered that his mother was kind of sadistic. So was his father, in a way. He'd never liked it when his Mom had cleaned dirt from under his toenails. It was no use. He wasn't getting a whole lot of sympathy.

"Can I talk to Beth and Sam please?"

"Sure, son. I'll give Sam the phone. He's really proud of his big brother. Sam. Talk to Peter!"

"Hi Pete. What you're doing is really cool. Mom and Dad say that if you stick it out and win all that money, then they'll get me some new action games maybe even Destroyer or Scream Factory 'cuz we'd all get to celebrate. You also look really cool naked. I wish I got to go naked." Peter heard several nervous giggles, as nudity wasn't exactly part of the Koch family plan. Sam had just turned ten and didn't think about much else besides computer games during the summer. He often played extremely violent games, so he might already be getting a little jaded.

"Hi Peter. It's Beth!" She was eleven and a half, a sixth grader.

"I love the show! Do you think you'll win?" she asked plaintively.

"I don't know."

"It was interesting when they whipped your feet."

"Interesting? Why did you find it interesting, creepy little sister?"

Now her feelings were hurt so she showed her true colors. Never took long.

"Boy did you scream! You were bawling just like a little baby!" If Beth could join a club for junior sadists, she'd be thrilled. He hated Beth, except she was his only sister. Now she teased him, trying to antagonize. Seeing all four nude boys being put through their paces probably made Beth tingle in her fishy-place. She'd probably been tingling since yesterday, the little monster.

"For your information, it hurt. It hurt a lot. But I wasn't bawling."

"Yes you were. I saw you! Heard you too! You were bawling just like a little baby!"

Peter's mother intervened.

"That will be enough, Beth! Quite enough! I said for you to encourage him." Peter was realizing for the millionth time just how dysfunctional the family he'd been born into really was. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"I gotta go, " he said, "The guys and me are watching a movie."

"So, you're not quitting. You're going to be strong?"

"Yes Dad. I won't quit. I'll stick it out as long as I can."

"For your family? Whom you love and care about?"

"Yes Dad."

"My little Spartan. My brave boy. You won't disappoint us?"

"No, Mom. I'll do my best."

"That's all we ask." Those were last words Peter heard before the line went dead. His father sounded different. He must've picked up the extension in the Koch family's master bedroom.

***

Each of the others Andrew, Steven, and John received similar phone calls over the next few days. All the families had viewed the first proceedings via closed circuit hookups. Their reactions to the pain being inflicted on their 'Spartan boys' the cursed term was coming into vogue not only within the contestants' families but also within the network of sadists worldwide was generally supportive, but also insistent that the boys continue. The four contestants had been granted a bit of further reprieve.

Craig L. Nelson visited their quarters the next day to announce, "You can take all the time you need to heal up to ten full days."

During that time it was like a vacation within their summer vacation never really boring either. The boys had access to an Olympic-sized cashew-shaped swimming pool with a built-in three-tiered diving board, they had a library of books and also a video library to browse, all the amenities in their suite, room-service meals culled from an international menu at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, an indoor gymnasium with cardio equipment and weights, plus a basketball court and computer game room. It was like heaven for boys, Michael Jackson's Neverland excepted. Of course none of them really wanted it to end, which was understandable.

***

The boys were healing, even John. He barely felt sore by the fourth evening of what they came to euphemistically refer to as 'our playtime, not theirs' not even in his urethra. He could jiggle his penis without the slightest twinge of pain. But as he inserted a Q-tip into his own peehole that evening, after wetting it first with warm water to see if any blood or pus came aboard that gentle probe and only a tiny bit did, he had an idea, a diabolical idea that was calculated enough for a relatively sweet-natured kid.

"I won't jerk off," he said aloud, "I won't have to." He was sitting naked on the closed lid of the toilet bowl while a thick cotton sky-blue bath towel covered it. He never really dwelt on the homoerotic inclinations of what he was suggesting to himself.

"I'm not gay," he spoke again, listening with his own ears, "I have a girlfriend. But this is necessary. I have to know if it still works."

***

The 'test' as John began to call the exercise in his own mind, a shameless manipulation of his peers, began innocently enough. Rummaging through the video library where the porn tapes and CDs were kept, he found several titles he thought might do the trick. None of them were soft-core.

"Wow," he exclaimed, "this might even be fun." But although the worldliest of the four contestants, John was far from corrupted when it came to sex. Heck, he hadn't even passed through puberty! When all of them began viewing the CDs and tapes, even he'd be in for a few surprises.

***

It was the fifth evening of the ten-day interlude. John brought the tapes into their bedroom like a Pied Piper playing his tempting flute. It started off like pure seduction man-woman intercourse, man fucks woman anally, and then the blowjobs began. A blond woman's head bobbed a lot after that, and Andrew, Steven, and Peter howled. Steven became the victim of a mispronunciation. He though he'd heard the male actor call the cocksucking woman 'Bobbi' although he'd probably meant 'Barbie,' short for Barbara.

"Bobbi Bobbi what else can he call her? Look at her fucking head. It's bobbing up and down, up and down!" Steven was delirious with laughter, in the midst of a giggling fit, and the others were having fun too, flashing lascivious grins.

The music was like Ali Baba from the Arabian Nights, and Andrew started mimicking the melody, "Da-da-da-da-da Da-da-da-da-da-da-da!" It was snake charming music and the boys' snakes began lengthening and rising like little cobras.

Another tape went in, this one was a gay tape, man to man, every sex act known to Man, at first there were protests, Peter mentioned something about "Faggots!" under his breath, but soon even his resistance gave way, and he started stroking himself his naked three-and-three-quarter-inch hard-on under the covers.

"Hey, whatcha doing?" John whispered to him, into his ear, so the others couldn't hear. Finally, a CD commenced featuring boys of about thirteen or fourteen engaged in sex play, first a strip tease and then corn holing and then the blowjobs although not necessarily in that order.

"Fucking hot!" someone muttered out loud, probably John, but no one disagreed. In fact, sulky "Yeahs" swiftly joined the first utterance as the voices of all four contestants became inflamed with passions as yet unrequited. By now the lights were out except for the TV's radiating glow and in the dimness somebody suggested that they mute the sound and John made his unexpected pronouncement. "Why don't we suck each other off like they're doing?"

Dead silence. Finally, after about fifteen seconds, Peter said, "That's fag stuff. It's queer." More silence ensued.

"I think we'd better get some shut-eye." That was Steven.

Andrew kept quiet and temporarily removed his hand from his blood-engorged cockhead under his briefs. Soon the TV and other entertainment faded to black, and the boys' bedroom in the underground bunker went dark. For a long time, there was absolute quiet. But something began happening in the other bed.

"What the heck," Andrew said, and in the dark he pulled off the covers and pulled down the briefs of his bedmate Steven. He couldn't see what he was after but felt it soon enough, and then he went down on Steven's member, licking around the glans, wetting the tip.

"Yeah," Steven whispered, but kind of loud, "Shit yeah," and then a moment later holding the back of Andrew's head in a half-nelson grip near the neck with two hands, "No teeth, open wider, all the way in," and Steven was in the throes of passion.

John was quietly tickling Peter's ribs and then went down deep way down under the covers to suck Peter's toes, "Hey whatcha doing?" Peter said, and a few minutes later the lights were on and all four boys were kissing and licking each other all over like cats licking their wounds except nothing hurt and tongues felt great over chests and bellies and cocks and balls and toes and soles of eight thirteen-year-old feet now bathed in a healing saliva. John received blowjobs from Steven and Andrew and Peter and gave as he received, several times. The best part is that he came twice, spurting with adolescent vigor a decent load of jism both times, making sure that Andrew and Peter swallowed every drop of his discharge as it happened with their turns, and that his ejaculation was white, no blood, and that it didn't hurt, not one bit.

"Was your little science test successful?" Peter asked a little later, "Does it still work?" In fact it was early the next morning, and Peter wanted to try a 69 again.

"I have to take a piss," John said.

"Okay, I don't mind. Do it in my mouth. I'll drink it."

"Okay," John said, "If you insist."

"Ewwh," Steven said, seeing what was going down and just waking up. But in another moment Andrew was awake too.

***

So the boys found another past time over the last few days. But then came the morning for the next episode of Pain Factor to commence. Freshly scrubbed and showered, dressed in their short-sleeved light blue cotton shirts and wearing Navy blue clip-on ties, matching dark gray itchy dress pants, and on this occasion dark blue socks and black leather dress shoes, they headed to the sparkling white and brightly lit examination rooms of Dr. Talmadge in that dreaded quadrant of the complex directly beneath the wooden planked stage. Besides Talmadge, Craig L. Nelson was there too. Waiting for them.

"Hello boys," he said, a bit too sarcastically for John's liking, "been having fun?"

Freshly scrubbed and showered, dressed in their short-sleeved light blue cotton shirts and each wearing a Navy blue clip on tie, matching dark gray dress pants, and on this strangely formal occasion shod in dark blue socks and black leather dress shoes, it certainly could be said that Andrew, Peter, John, and Steven were 'all dressed up with no place to go'. It wasn't the boys' funerals but somehow it cast the same pale. The word 'ordeal' buzzed through the contestants' heads in the manner of wasps chasing sugarplums. They were THERE in the examination area kept by Dr. Talmadge cement painted white revealing bunkered ceiling to floor, a bevy of bright 150-watt bulbs overhead and illuminating the adjoining 'little rooms' that didn't even have doors. Craig L. Nelson the announcer was present too, in all his glory, his assistance calculated to drum up closed circuit rating points while stirring up his sadistic audience to a renewed fever pitch. This examining of boys was being milked for every bit of drama.

Droning into a hand-held mike, "The Pain Factor studio and soundstage is directly above us," Nelson reminded the boys, "but before we can begin, Dr. Talmadge will examine each of you to see if you can continue in the contest."

At that second Nelson peered into a camera that seemed hidden within the big room's nearest wall. Talmadge was there, standing in green med scrubs while twirling a stethoscope between his thumbs and forefingers, looking taciturn and 'evil as usual' (John's thoughts precisely) and so was a second tall, Dracula-like figure with a gaunt face and bloodshot eyes, and also a third doctor, fem fatale who as it turned out was a podiatrist.

"Let me introduce you boys to Dr. Morticia Simmons, she's a podiatrist, to inspect and evaluate your feet, and she'll also be assisting us with painful treatments involving your feet once the games re-commence – assuming you're deemed fit. Dr. Vito Salmon, he's a dentist. He'll be checking out your teeth to see if anything can be worked out for the entertainment of our audience like a cavity or two painfully treated at some point."

he expressions on each boy's face varied then, but a look of resignation seemed general when Andrew said, "Okay. Let's get on with it, shall we?" In most other circumstances, his sarcasm would've started them on a giggling fit.

"Although you'll all get dressed again before we go back on stage, I want each of you to strip. The stripping must occur in the precise way you removed each article when you were on stage last time, or else an extra quite painful punishment will be added to your regimen to be inflicted on the particular offending body part or parts determined to be out of sequence. So strip one at a time. First you Andrew! You have 30 seconds. Place your clothes in a neat pile on that white couch over there, underpants on top."

Finished, Nelson deftly motioned for the cameras mounted inside the walls to focus on Andrew's undressing routine to be shown in minute detail. When Andrew began undressing, he remembered the clip-on tie. He began unbuttoning his shirt. The shirt came off and then his belt, his pants button above his fly, he unzipped his fly, then suddenly he remembered his shoes and socks! But they'd already BEEN barefoot when they'd all stripped on stage nearly a fortnight before, so what to do? What to do? This wasn't fair! Andrew dropped his pants while simultaneously attempting to untie his shoes he succeeded in getting the left untied, then the right shoe, slipped the pants off his legs, baring them before removing his right sock first, then his left, which turned out to be the wrong order for socks, but he didn't know that yet, he lastly removed his briefs and managed to become nude and to place his clothes neatly on the white couch and to stand at attention hands by his sides just as an unexpected buzzer went off. Nelson walked over to Andrew shaking his head.

"Too bad, you screwed up! You were supposed to remove the left sock first. Do you know what that means, young Mr. Moriarty?"

Andrew was angry. Trembling with righteous indignation, the nude boy spoke up. Maybe he shouldn't have.

"That wasn't fair! You never told us in what order to strip off shoes and socks! We were already barefoot on stage the last time!"

"Enough! Does that mean you'd rather be disqualified as you would've been if we hadn't just changed the rule?"

"No." Andrew's expression was sullen, eyes downcast.

"Isn't it the same for all four of you?" Nelson asked quietly.

"No, it isn't. You had me go first. Now the other guys will know how to undress because they got to see me screw up!"

"Andrew, Andrew. True. Logically spoken for a 13-year-old brat. Matters not at all. So will you accept your extra ordeal in exchange for staying in the game?"

"You just wanted to punish me. What choice do I freaking have?"

"None, if you want to remain in our contest. So, do we have your acceptance of this extra little penance?"

"I don't even know what it is yet, although I'm guessing it has something to do with my freaking feet."

"Excellent deduction. Do we have your acceptance, whatever it is?"

"Yes."

"Louder please."

"Yes."

"Dr. Simmons. Since you will be administering it to Andrew, tell him what new little trial he will be enduring."

Dr. Simmons could have been any of the boys' grandmothers. Silver-haired, large-breasted, but dressed chastely in her white surgical blouse and apron, the only odd thing about her was that she was slightly pigeon-toed. Her eyes were bright blue robin's eyes set wide apart and accented by a broad bulbous nose. Her darting tongue however, came close to making Andrew scream. "As penalty for your transgression, you will suffer a small branding with a red-hot iron on the sole of each bare foot."

"No!" Andrew cried.

"According to our Pain Factor guidelines of course, as only minor incidental scarring will result. Win or lose, the brandings will be your little souvenir a gift to you from sadists everywhere! As a special dispensation, you will get to choose the artistic design you'd like on each foot."

"Oh. Whoopee-do. I probably won't even be able to walk afterwards."

"Don't worry too much. Each treatment will be over quickly. Contact with the instrument of pain will last only five to eight seconds per foot. No big deal unless a design doesn't come out perfectly and we have to do it over."

"What? How many times do you get to do it over?"

"I'll be the judge of that. Some of the results will depend on you and your courage. Should be fun!"

"Yeah. I can picture myself laughing so hard I'll be crying."

"You will be allowed to cry scream carry on. Whatever."

"Oh c'mon. It won't be so bad, lad." Nelson was being condescending it seemed. This last comment got John involved.

"True. As long as it isn't being done to your fucking feet." John had had just about enough, and was about to stick up for his fellow contestant and say more.

"Would you rather have it done to yours?" Nelson warned.

"No," John said, suddenly silent. Steven certainly wasn't about to open his own yap. He didn't even like to think much about extreme foot pain. Peter was just being a little soldier, thinking about winning all that money, all that moolah, and nothing else. Besides, this little circumstance might give HIM an edge.

"Okay then. Andrew's extra punishments, and any other extra punishments for the rest of you if they are needed, will be dispensed with first today as an introduction – as we begin the actual festivities on stage. Is that understood Andrew?" Nelson seemed to possess a characteristic smirk glued to his long-faded pretty boy features.

"Yes." But he didn't say it loud enough the first time.

"I didn't hear you, boy."

"Yes!"

"Alright then."

During all this time Dr. Salmon had been quietly grinning grinning and flossing. Two of Salmon's incisors protruded slightly, like a salt-water crocodile's. Andrew and Peter – still clothed but standing closer to the dour sixty-ish man – noticed that Salmon the dentist with the bloodshot eyes suffered from a pronounced case of halitosis.

Moments later, the other boys stripped to their birthday suits first John, then Peter, and finally Steven. Fortunately for them, no further undressing-related missteps occurred, as John stared blankly for a moment at everyone's clothes piled neatly with briefs on top. What the fuck am I doing here? I must be crazy! He mused. These were probably the boy's eighteen thousandth second thoughts.

The examinations went relatively uneventfully, except there was a certain system followed. Each boy entered the small brightly lit room closest to the large room and was thoroughly inspected. Dr. Talmadge (whole body) and Dr. Simmons (feet) performed their main inspection duties on each boy. The dentist took them after that. The order was Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven.

Andrew's Experience

First I was measured with a metal tape measure, I came in at 4 feet 11 inches [1.50 m], head to toes. I weighed 91 pounds [41 kg]. They told me to lie on my stomach on the white-crinkly-papered doctor's table. Nothing happened for a minute. Talmadge and that footy doctor were just talking. I could hear Nelson saying stuff outside the room, but then it began.

First they started touching me with their hands, Talmadge up near my shoulders pressing and pinching, not enough to hurt, and then he used this metal thing, called a calipers, as a pincher, while the foot doctor was doing the same thing to my left foot after asking me to bend my knee, pressing and pinching, almost like a foot massage.

Talmadge was pressing the blades of that calipers in different places along my ribs, "Let's see how much meat he has here ticklish he began tickling me there along the ribs I started laughing a little meanwhile the she-male foot doctor started bending my toes back and forward I heard two of them crack probably just the toe joints I didn't like that much and told her to Please stop that! She just ignored me and kept bending.

She would move them forward and then bend them back hard. I think it was my left foot, and this crazy woman bending my second and third toes back on them, singly, and then together, singly, and then together again What's she doing! Yeowhh! That sure hurts! "I'm just testing to see how much range of motion you have in your toes we need to know this now in preparation – it's being done to prevent possible injury I think she said – but that wasn't reassuring considering that she continued bending my fourth and baby toes on that same foot giving them even worse treatment by bending them backwards wow it hurt a lot while she was doing it then she started in on my right foot, told me to bend the leg at the knee again, and it was the same thing all over again, then she went back to the left and started twisting each toe that wasn't very pleasant meanwhile Talmadge was sticking some kind of probe up my butt and feeling around inside there and also in-between my legs he then squeezed my balls real hard out of the blue – wow, did that hurt I think I screamed but he said that he was just testing she scraped a little bit of callous or rough skin off the ball of my left foot it didn't hurt really I unfortunately kind of guessed why she was doing that she was probably trying to get a decent surface for one of my upcoming brandings but then that was mercifully over.

Or so I thought "Turn over onto your back, Andrew." So the pinching and the probing began all over again. The calipers, like larger tweezers, started pinching me in different places on my chest and belly, along my ribs in twenty sensitive places, my tits, umm nipples, he gave each one a good squeeze with those calipers and pulled the skin out away from my chest for some reason, "I want to see how elastic his pectoral tissue is," Talmadge said to her and she had my left foot hostage and was quietly torturing me by bending all five toes on that foot back at the same time, way back, then she did the other one, same thing, boy did that hurt while she was doing it, then she started pinching and pricking me with a needle between my toes on the left foot, and then my right foot, she's scraping and pinching there looking for toe jam I thought, would I be disqualified if I had any toe jam, but I didn't think I had any, hadn't noticed any and my feet didn't itch and weren't flaky between the toes, then she stuck that sharp needle under each of my toenails, it hurt a little but she didn't stick it way in under the nail to the 'quick' as she was saying, because I'd been a good boy she started joking around, 'cept it wasn't funny.

Then the fucking worst part Talmadge really started in on my cock and balls while she was using another caliper to pinch along the sides of my feet, especially the insteps – Talmadge used a sharp needle to scratch the head of my cock in different places, but without breaking the skin, then he inserted a fat toothpick about as big around as those freaking drill bits they'd used on us before, and I knew that this part wasn't going to be too fun, the bastard shoved it all the way in down my peehole, the sharp wooden point, I think I let out a little screech, and then he tried a Q-Tip with some stuff on it, and it didn't hurt too much, mostly felt weird, as he worked that down my piss slit too, but that was it, and suddenly I was in the next room with that bad-breathed dentist.

He made me sit naked on his dentist's chair, says that he was going to x-ray my teeth to check for cavities, I told him that I usually get the no-drill 'air abrasion' with my dentist at home but he said while breathing his stinky breath on me that I wasn't going to be so lucky this time if I had any cavities they'd be drilled without ANYTHING to block the pain. But nobody does that any more to kids, do they? I mean drill for cavities? Who does that? Anyway he brought the x-ray machine over, and of course it didn't hurt either, I'd had my teeth x-rayed before but he found 2 freaking cavities and one was freaking deep! I think he said. Literally, I was fucked, but then at least the exam was over. Literally.

John's Experience

I don't want to give you every gory detail but I didn't like that examination much. I was hoping to just be pronounced 'fit' like Andrew had been just before me. She worked on my feet, that foot doctor, and said stupid things like "This one has such nice long and slender toes. He has little whorls or ridges like a tiny bit of callous as a natural formation under his second and third toes on either foot. I think it's genetic! He has long feet what did you say he was five foot five [1.65 m] I think he's going to be a six-footer [1.80 m] once he makes it all the way through puberty. She bent my toes forward and backwards, pinched everywhere on my feet, stuck that freaking needle she had in-between my toes and even under my toenails not missing a one.

Most of this stuff hurt, but not enough to really faze me, I'm pretty tough, but although she annoyed me quite a bit I was more concerned with what that bastard Talmadge was up to. He checked my backside over and said, "You don't even have scars or bruises or any marks at all left from the last time." But then he turned me over and the trouble started. I didn't worry too much about my pecs and sides and tummy and those particular areas although some of the probing was unexpectedly annoying like when he started piercing my nipples with some kind of needle I felt a prick but no more don't know what he was doing there but he really got my attention again when he squeezed my balls hard each of them and then started twisting each ball in its sack again and again, twirling them as if they were marbles, it didn't hurt too much but felt lousy, and finally he got to my cock and started scratching it up all over the head it felt like he was using sandpaper or something but just a 'taste' of that 'to test his sensitivity on the glans' I'm pretty sure he said, but then he really went to town, you know where, down my peehole again, and I was scared that it wouldn't be healed completely, he used a fat toothpick, and then a Q-Tip with some stuff gooed all over it, and then that damn dental pick, I was starting to go crazy again, "No no it's only an examination," I reminded the bastard before he did too much damage when it didn't really count, "I know that," he said, "Besides, you should be glad to know that you're fine remarkably healed if anything, you might just be a little more sensitive in there which is actually good for our purposes, so I pronounce you fit."

Later with the dentist oh his breath was skanky I did have the two cavities that he wanted to drill but neither one was deep. Oh, almost forgot. I weighed 101 pounds [46 kg] and my cock was 4.6 inches [11.7 cm] long.

Peter's Experience

I like to get weighed and measured. I weighed 88 [40 kg] and was four foot six [1.37 m]. My penis was 3.9 inches [9.9 cm].

"Are you sure it's not four inches [10 cm]?" I asked. A lot of guys want a longer dong, not just me. At least mine will get longer 'cuz I'm only 13. I'm a pain athlete! I'm a pain athlete! I kept saying to myself, just in case this hurt too, this series of medical procedures and inspections. Dad told me that on the phone. Or was it Mom? About being a pain athlete. While Talmadge was doing most of me, the woman, Dr. Simmons, was doing my feet. I kind of like having my feet touched. She kept bending my toes back and she put a needle under my toenails and after they started working over my front side I remember most the instruments going up my pee-hole. I don't think I can ever get used to that even if I am a pain athlete! I have two cavities that they're going to have to drill. They're both nice and deep. That should get me some points when I make it through that little game of theirs. I can take that. Cripes! Dad even yanked out one of my baby teeth once when it was loose. He used a string tied to the doorknob of my bedroom door. When I win it will mean so much to everyone in our family. Notice that I said 'when" I win not if. Oh, and I passed. My body is okay to continue. Bring it on! I'm a pain athlete.

Steven's Experience

They measured me. I'm 4 foot eight [1.42 m] and I weigh 84 pounds [38 kg]. That lady Dr. Simmons, the foot doctor, said that I have almost perfectly shaped feet for a boy. I'm glad that I'm not getting that extra torture Andrew is a hot branding iron put directly on his soles now, that's intense. I feel pretty good and they pronounced me fit like the others. I'm starting to feel a little guilty about that sex stuff that us guys did. If Mom and Daddy knew, gee, I'd get some spanking! You won't be able to sit down for a week, Daddy would say. Only this whole contest is worse than any spanking. A lot worse. I didn't think they could do things like this to boys and get away with it. I wish I was home enjoying the summer. I miss the guys. Kyle and Rusty and Brandon. Who could have better pals? If I win this competition, I don't even know what I'd do with all that money. They're counting on me though. Everybody back home. Not just my family. This wasn't fun, this examination, but they sure didn't miss anything. I don't really mind being naked in public, or even on a doctor's table, but I don't like Doctor Talmadge sticking his big fingers up my butt-hole like he did. Spreading my cheeks, and sticking some sort of dildo or thingy up into my nether regions. That's what Rusty calls them. My nether regions. That's so funny! The pee-hole treatment was a little bit scary too, as usual, but what Talmadge just did didn't hurt too much. She spent a lot of time on my feet. I don't like having my toes pulled and twisted and bent it seems in every direction.

"Your toes are nice and flexible," she said.

"They're beautiful too," I said.

"Yes they are," she agreed. Talmadge pinched me in the sides and underarms, and he grabbed a few of my pubes with tweezers to tell how long they are and also how strong. How strong? Why how strong? "I'm checking to see how much weight they can support. Ever been hung by your short hairs?" That sure sounded painful. But if that's what they wanted to do and I could take it what the heck! Still, I'm sure this is all going to hurt a heck of a lot more before it's all over. Anyway, pretty soon it was over, they found two cavities they really found four I eat a lot of sweets and don't floss like I should but they're only going to drill two on each boy. I told the dentist about 'air araisin' and he smiled. But then I asked him who takes care of YOUR teeth and he seemed to ignore me. You have bad breath I should have said straight out! But I didn't.

Let the-games-begin-anew!

It was almost time to go out on stage again. Andrew, John, Peter and Steven were dressed again, including shod, looking like schoolboys for a moment instead of nude boys. They were waiting in that same anteroom, stage right. Talk about the jitters. This time each boy was alone with his thoughts, not making small talk. In at least one case, perhaps their competitive juices were kicking in, or was that a lurking raw fear? That female producer, Donna, came over to get them.

"All set boys?" she said.

"Time to go on stage."

Craig L. Nelson, game show host, was at his best that afternoon. It was early afternoon when the second major taping session began, but nobody seemed to know what time it was.

"Our contestants, Andrew Moriarty, John Lanroche, Peter Koch, and Steven Pimento remain our contestants. These four brave boys – our featured 13-year-olds – are back hale and hearty all recovered – for yet another round of Pain Factor! It seems a shame that nobody's been eliminated yet. What do you say kids? Ready for some more fun? What say you?"

Donna got her voice then, to start the banter.

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongues?

Andrew was sort of standing in a daze, like a deer-boy caught in the bright stage lights. "Andrew, you seem especially quiet. Aren't you looking forward to participating in Pain Factor?"

"Yeah. It's just that I didn't get enough sleep last night. I'm a little tired."

"Well, I'm sure we'll be waking you up before long." Nelson said. Andrew was sure he was referring obliquely to the branding, but he didn't want to bring it up. Maybe they'd forget all about it. God, he sure hoped so. That's all he was thinking about. He was already scared shitless.

Dr. Talmadge was on-stage too. He seemed in especially good spirits, gesturing to the packed audience. He knew all four of these boys now.

"John, ready for a little more pain? We have some nice activities planned. Going to tough it out today?"

"I guess," John, replied, measuring his words, "I'll give it my best." He was shifting from foot to foot; he had to pee, though not too badly. Still, there was no harm in asking.

"Can I have a bathroom break?"

"I don't see why not," Nelson droned, "Take it now. You have precisely three minutes!"

This was an unexpected good fortune. John didn't need to be asked twice about going to the john. He ran off that stage.

"Anyone else need to go to the bathroom?"

None of the others did. Nelson looked around for another conversation pigeon.

"Peter, how are you?"

"I'm a pain athlete," Peter said proudly.

"Good for you, that's the spirit!" He received a rousing burst of applause from the surrounding audience. He was certainly the crowd favorite, Peter realized then, and no doubt he was making his family at home proud of him as well. This was cool in a way, he mused, real cool. He'd certainly said what everyone wanted to hear. Peter blushed, but it was part beam too. The boy was actually beaming.

"What about you Steven?" Are you excited to get the competition going again?"

Steven took a page from Peter's playbook.

"That's why I'm here. Ain't I? Let the-games-begin-anew!"

An even more boisterous cheer ensued. Peter felt a bit irked as the clapping for Steven's witticism lasted about twice as long so he flashed Steven a look the kind that 7th grade girls had been in the habit of flashing him when he'd been teasing them.

John made it back from the toilet facilities in the nick of time.

"I counted twenty more seconds and you would have been replaced," Nelson admitted.

John was a tiny bit flushed from dashing at top speed through the underground facilities.

"I made it," he managed, temporarily breathless. Nelson went on after that in rhapsody over some of the new ingenious events that had been devised for the boys.

"Few people realize just how much effort so many of you put into this competition to make Pain Factor the show a reality.

"I'm also amazed at the resiliency of our contestants," Donna added.

"Let's see how resilient they are tonight," Talmadge was heard to murmur. It was not a faux pas, however, because the good doctor had kept his mike switched on. The crowd murmured then, with definite approval and also anticipation.

The boys Andrew, John, Peter, and Steven had just been given the familiar yet dreaded order to strip.

"C'mon boys, birthday suits! We need you naked! You know the routine!" In less than a minute, four naked 13-year-old boys were standing at attention trying to make their cocks stand at attention. Each had his 'frigging' hand on his penis to produce a proud erection. Music was playing, inciting the crowd as those gathered watched to see which boy would harden first. It was like a mini-competition, and not a full scale one either, as ejaculating was not allowed. This time three boys succeeded in producing hard-ons, one didn't. John and Peter both were even oozing pre-cum. But this time the loser wasn't Steven. It was Andrew, poor Andrew.

***

Nelson picked up on Andrew's discomfiture immediately. "Do you think that you deserve to receive another little branding for your poor performance just now?"

"Another one? Where?" He should never have asked.

"Oh, I don't know. How about on the glans of your penis?"

Andrew gasped, and so did his fellow competitors. John was going to say something, but once again, thought better of it. He had a compassionate streak, and in this situation, that might not be good. Steven remembered the game they'd played with his cock in the last round, stretching it with the hook away from his body. He shuddered. Peter tried not to look happy, because this could definitely give HIM an edge maybe even cause Andrew to quit, but his happiness was hard to conceal. The pain athlete's cock suddenly became even harder, and he almost started dancing on his toes. A few very careful members of the audience did notice, and there was a titter from several distinct quarters. But nobody let on.

"Well?"

"I guess it's up up to you guys!"

"Good answer. I'll tell you what. We'll defer our decision and make it conditional on how you perform in the feet brandings. If you receive a "Thumbs up!" from our audience following those brief ordeals, then we'll forget about it. But it will be solely at the whim of our audience. Is that understood Andrew?

Andrew of course, didn't know what to say. He just knew what he had to say.

"Yes!" Andrew promptly began to cry and began shaking his head from side to side in utter fear, "Fuck! Fuck!"

"Try not to curse on stage and please put on a happy face," Donna said. She was pretty, an excellent producer, the boys thought. Although also a sadist, somehow she never seemed quite so bad. Perhaps it was her disarming manner.

"Anyway, it's time for you to pick out your two designs for your soles."

It was quite a selection. There were animals of many kinds, nature scenes; although extremely miniature in their scope, each brand was about the size of a quarter and some of the intricacies, like an excellent tattoo, were simply amazing. Some of them were very cool a lot better than kid tattoos like you'd find in coloring books. Each branding template was engraved with tiny artistic letters looking like calligraphy: PF.

"That's Pain Factor of course," Nelson said.

"C'mon. No stalling. Look at each of them carefully, then choose."

Andrew had temporarily ceased sobbing. He was trying to compose himself as he made an important decision. Even if he lost this stupid competition, he would always have THESE.

"I choose this flying golden eagle, and this animal," he said after a lengthy pause.

"Oh, the aardvark," Donna said loud enough for all assembled to hear, "Wise choice both choices!"

"I never would have chosen an aardvark to be branded on the sole of MY foot," John blurted to Steven. He regretted them as soon as the unkind words left his mouth.

Peter just smiled, thinking the same thing. Stupid aardvark. That's a wuss's choice. But the eagle was all right.

Steven went over and spontaneously hugged Andrew.

"I think that you need a hug right now," he whispered.

Meanwhile, the crowd was erupting wildly. There were a few moments before order was restored. But everyone appreciated Andrew's choices and also the human gesture shown by Steven. The audience was comprised of sadists, but they were still people.

It was up to Craig L. Nelson to restore order and to advance the proceedings.

"All right. You have one more design to select. Just in case we need it, the one for your little cockhead."

Andrew started sniffling again, but worked hard to suppress what would have been a gushing wail if he'd given in to it.

"Show him the penile designs."

This time Andrew chose the head of a rattlesnake, fangs exposed.

He was trying to concentrate on the golden eagle in flight the aardvark and the rattlesnake head with fangs – while patiently waiting. I have to get through this, he mused, when his thoughts began drifting to the pain he'd soon be feeling. Andrew had every intention of continuing with the contest. But a monstrous fear had invaded his gut. At least I'm not bawling like a baby. He scanned the wooden deck, eyes glancing at John, Peter, and especially Steven. They were nude 13-year-olds, as he was, in the company of strangers.

***

Andrew's Dad had been a combat vet in Vietnam. He'd remarked about Pain Factor in general.

"It's a little like what I went through. Remember when I told you about the napalm burning my legs?" Andrew took those words to heart. Maybe the brandings would turn out to be his little 'red badge of courage'. Andrew knew that his Dad considered him, if not an outright wimp, than certainly too introspective. Not manly enough. What would Dad think of him after he'd gone through Pain Factor? The money was a factor, his parents were greedy in a small American way, but it was less Andrew's concern.

"I think it'll be good for Andrew," his Dad had also said. Right now, Andrew wished himself back at home in his bedroom, headphones on, listening to the gentle strains of Scott Joplin. Andrew played piano quite well and his passion was ragtime piano. I'm a sensitivekid. Friends. Steven had done something nice, coming up and hugging him. But he no longer trusted John or Peter. They'rejust out for themselves.

***

"So let's give it up for Andrew!" Nelson was barking. He brought Morticia Simmons up on stage, the podiatrist about to assume her true calling as foot torturer. She was there, as was Donna, the pretty producer, two hulking wrestler types to accompany Andrew to that part of the stage where the brandings would occur, Doctor Talmadge, and Leon G. Smith a regular entourage. Seconds later, the nude boy was led with the entourage over to a part of the wooden stage recreated to resemble a genuine dungeon.

"Andrew no comfortable divan for you this time this time, it's what we call 'the bed of rocks' why don't you lie down in that pit face up, on your back."

"You want me to lie down on those rocks?" He shrugged, went over and made himself stretch out on the kind of rocks you'd find on Atlantic jetties, fist-sized mostly, some with flat edges, others with pointed edges like a child's sandbox filled with rocks.

"Let's get him set up properly," Dr. Simmons said. Two tensile-strength metallic guide wires were trolled down from the rafters. Andrew's legs were lifted into the air and spread apart slightly, shorter fastening wires trailed out of the main wires like tributaries, and Andrew's feet were fastened at the ankles and threaded snugly in-between. All his weight now converged on the boy's bare back and neck, and pressed painfully against the rocks.

"Owwhh, this sure hurts," Andrew was already saying, "Could sure use a pillow!"

Nelson made that quiet remark into a source of merriment.

"He wants a pillow!" The announcer spoke into the mike and began describing what would come next.

"We'll begin the fun with Andrew's left sole."

Dr. Simmons filled in details for the audience, helped along by a disembodied voice, loud and God-like, a professional-sounding audio presence reminding many of The Price Is Right sidekick complementing host Bob Barker, the one who was always heard saying 'Come ondown!' So a very detailed picture began emerging for Andrew of what would be happening to him via a digital video. The image appeared overhead near the ceiling above the stage where everybody could easily see it. Very sharp and distinct, this was a close-up image of target one – Andrew's left sole.

"As you can see, we'll begin with his left sole a quarter-sized brand of the eagle Andrew selected will be branded directly onto the ball there."

The disembodied male voice, another announcer-type, took it from there.

"The brand is just starting to get heated now. It takes about six minutes. Made of stainless steel, the iron is probably familiar to many of you, manufactured by Rawlings Ironworks, one of our proud sponsors, and of the highest quality."

The portable brazier and its embedded iron protruding were now located only a few feet away from the pit where the boy remained sprawled. The video shifted. Instantly the brazier's image temporarily replaced the boy's naked foot. Tears of fear started coursing anew down Andrew's cheeks, but he didn't panic, at least not yet.

"We'll heat it at Dr. Simmons's instructions to between 126 and 133 degrees [52-56°C] for all these brandings," Nelson interjected.

Dr. Simmons resumed her commentary. "That's flash burn temperature – a few degrees above the allowable limits for long contact heat exposure, but perfect for our purposes today. We have to produce perfect brands of each design the eagle first and then when we get to our work on his right foot – the aardvark." She paused, and squinting through the bright lights observes an eager question from the audience, hand raised, the first of several.

"You, second row, left front. The balding gentleman with the rancher's hat."

"I used to brand our stock with an iron similar to this. But calves tend to be tougher skinned than a human kid, I'd think. I'd have to press the iron to the flank of the animal and hold it there for several seconds in order to get a good enough impression. How do you do it on a boy?"

"It's not really that much different," Simmons replied, "On each pass, it's typical to make contact for about 5 to 8 seconds, well under the minimum safety limit of about 60 seconds where we'd have to use the slightly lower temperatures to avoid serious burning. Still, you all should hear a little sizzle when the hot brand touches his exposed flesh along with the boy's typical sobbing and shrieking. The pain is quite intense while the red-hot poker remains on his bare skin, and on some passes, at the highest temperatures, even excruciating. We'll be showing our audience and Andrew here the precise temperature of the hot iron as recorded when it leaves the brazier. We'll need a minimum of 126 degrees [52°C] each time of course!"

Andrew whimpered. A stout woman raised her hand. She was wearing a blonde wig with a dipsy-50s coiffure.

"I'm a foster care provider. What about using branding as a punishment for some errant delinquent boys in our community?"

"That's becoming more common than you think, especially court-ordered for middle school ages. Is that your question?"

"No, not really. You stated, I clearly heard you say, 'on each pass.' Does that mean that one might be forced to repeat the procedure to get a good imprint?"

"One might. Oh mercy yes," Simmons replied. Suddenly there was a twinkle in her eyes.

"For instance, young adolescents like Andrew here tend to be quite frisky when undergoing this procedure. So five, six, even ten passes are not uncommon. Don't worry; we'll get it right, eventually. I'm a perfectionist!"

Good grief, Andrew mused. The fear was starting to mount, overtaking him now, casting his stomach muscles into anxious convulsions. He was heard to sob audibly as the audience laughed and guffawed.

"We'll warn him to keep his foot perfectly still, of course, but although he is secured somewhat, he is able to move his foot a few inches, and in his sheer terror with his leg bucking like a wild animal's, we may not get all the contact points we need even if I usually hit the sweet spot no matter how much he might buck."

"No!" Andrew cried out in a little voice, already dreading this incredibly.

"Let me interject something here for the edification of our audience," Nelson said, "We're not reinventing the wheel. Young adolescent boys have been undergoing brandings on the soles of their feet for at least two thousand years. Greek and Roman slave boys, and Spartan boys as a manhood ritual, routinely suffered through this procedure."

"That's true, Mr. Nelson. But I like to observe the reactions of contemporary boys when their feet are stung, as we like to describe it. Admittedly, it's exciting. I almost never fail to feel a bit of a thrill."

Somebody should sting her fucking feet, Andrew maliciously mused. He'd been lying on the cruel rocks for about six minutes and his backside was killing him. He grunted with pain, shifted his position slightly. But that was the least of his worries.

"Unfortunately, the design he's chosen, the eagle, has many intricate aesthetic lines in it maybe 75 contact points – and the aardvark will be even worse about 93."

"Well, it's about the DO point. Shall we?" Nelson gained a roar of approval from those assembled at this announcement. After all, the crowd had been sitting on thinly cushioned seats for a while, and was beginning to grow impatient.

"Leon you have the honors." Everybody gasped with tension as Mr. Leon G. Smith removed the iron emblazoned with the eagle design from the charcoal-fed brazier, covered with a hood for retaining heat. The instrument looked red-hot. It was sizzling as he handed it cool end first to Dr. Simmons. Andrew cringed. He moved his left foot slightly as if to protect it. But it was a false alarm.

Examining the instrument, Dr. Simmons correctly observed the telltale temperature recording.

"Nope, it's only 124 degrees [51°C]. Not quite steaming enough. Put it back into the pot."

Andrew sighed, albeit knowing his reprieve would be brief. He squirmed involuntarily.

A long moment passed. The stage and surroundings were electric with tension. John, Peter, and Steven, about fifty feet away on the stage's far side, stood transfixed. Peter couldn't help feel a certain fascination as Andrew's ordeal headed into high gear.

"Now?" Leon asked.

"Alright. It should be ready. Pull it out," Simmons said. Leon handed it to her, and this time it was ready. All heard a splash of additional sizzling as the red-hot iron was removed and handed gingerly to the good foot doctor.

"Oh no!" moaned Andrew.

"A nice toasty 128 degrees [53°C] that should be perfect." She gave a curt instruction to Leon.

"Hold Andrew's foot as steady as you can." Then she looked right at Andrew.

"Keep your foot as still as you can unless you want it done over."

Leon did his best to clamp with his strong hands, both hands, Andrew's left bare foot at the ankle.

"Our current target is that sensitive adipose tissue on the ball of his foot. You all might smell a little burnt flesh, an acrid odor. It's nothing to be alarmed about. I made a nice surface smoothing on his foot earlier today, sanded down a little excess boyhood callous, in preparation for this."

"Keep your foot really still, Andrew!"

Nelson intoned, whispering.

"Andrew is 13 years old, is 4 feet 11 inches [1.50 m] tall, early pubescent, and weighs 91 pounds [41 kg]. He's not going to like this!"

"No! No! Please don't," Andrew moaned as he saw the red-hot iron in her hand slowly coming towards the bare sole of his foot. He felt the pressure of Leon Smith's strong hands encircling his ankle. He closed his eyes when the poker was just a few inches away.

Dr. Simmons expertly pressed the red-hot branding iron flat against the tender ball of Andrew's sole.

"Yeowhh! Yeowhh! Yeowhh!" That act produced a boy's high-pitched shrieks, banshee yells.

"Take it off. Take it off." Further sizzling ensued at contact along with the slightly acrid odor of burning flesh. As expected, Andrew bucked. Leon did the best he could to steady the ankle as Dr. Simmons kept pressing the brand down flat.

"I have to lay it flat to make the impressions, Andrew. Hold still!"

Two, three, four, five, six, seven seconds. Finally, she removed the poker to inspect her handiwork. Andrew was still screaming from the pain. Dr. Simmons scrutinized every detail, searching for contact points and for the incipient look of the golden eagle. She touched the boy's sole producing another series of whimpers as his bawling gradually subsided. As she'd expected, there was relatively little damage from the flashburn.

Andrew suddenly grew hopeful. Maybe they could at least move on now to his right foot. The pain was already reduced to tolerable like he'd touched a hot stove and instinctively removed his hand.

"Is the eagle there yet the way it should be?"

There was a long pause, and then her answer came.

"It's there, but you moved too much. I can count only forty-eight contact points."

"How many you say we need?" Andrew's voice was hoarse from screaming, also plaintive.

"Seventy-five. We're going to have to do it again."

"No!" Andrew wailed. But the crowd of sadists roared with approval.

She did do it again. In fact, she felt obliged to sear Andrew's left sole eight times before she had the magic number of contact points. On the sixth pass, the brand hit the maximum at 133 degrees [56°C]. She inspected his left sole; the reddened branded area around the boy's now very tender ball, and felt a flush of pride.

"Perfect, Andrew," she exclaimed, "We did it!"

"We did?" Andrew said, and he managed a weak smile, drifting across his handsome features. The audience of sadists cheered. Watching on closed circuit, Andrew's father and family cheered. Even his competition clapped and yelled with approval John, Steven except for Peter. Peter was kind of quiet, withdrawn, and a few observant sadists sitting near the front of the stage found it odd that Peter wasn't reacting.

Dr. Simmons observed that Andrew's eagle was looking very nice.

"There's a little blistering around the edges, but his left foot came out of this in pretty decent shape. Damage isn't severe at all. So let's move on to the aardvark!"

"I'm way ahead of you. The stick's already cooking!" Leon exclaimed.

Shifting position as much as he could on the non-giving rocks, Andrew started whimpering anew. His back was killing him, pain wise, it hurt more than his branded foot at the moment. But he had worse things to contemplate.

Dr. Simmons tenderly drummed Andrew's right sole with her fingers.

"Time for this puppy," she said loud enough for the audience to hear.

Another roar went up.

"Do his right one!" a juvenile voice screamed. There were some children and teens present after all, some of them suddenly clapping and cheering wildly. That voice sounded like a girl maybe Andrew's age.

Nelson boomed on just as an image of Andrew's right foot, with his now targeted instep in a close-up inset, came into view overhead. The Barker sidekick began his little spiel.

"The aardvark will be a difficult design to engrave onto Andrew's other sole, and so a different site has been selected by Dr. Simmons to make her mark in the middle of the boy's right instep, almost at the geographic center of his 13-year-old bare foot. You might notice that there's already a little blemish there a small brown birthmark."

"We'll have to obliterate that birthmark, of course, can't have it there if the branding is going to be presentable, it's slightly raised, so we'll have to dab the sole with a smidge of alcohol and witch-hazel as a precaution before we begin. Is that okay Andrew?"

"Just do it, get it over with!" he screamed. Andrew's nerves were frazzled by now.

Dr. Simmons looked concerned as she scrutinized the boy's right sole while dabbing on the very light non-protective cover with a cotton ball.

"All right, hand me that poker!' she said. As Leon complied, the podiatrist noted the red-hot iron came in at 132 degrees [55.5°C].

"This is a go!" she yelled. Leon grasped Andrew's right foot firmly. Andrew's look again became one of sheer terror.

"Don't move it!" Morticia Simmons yelled at the boy.

Again, contact.

"Yeowhh! Yeowhh! I fucking hate this!" Andrew screamed. More sizzling and the all-too-familiar slightly acrid odor signified a flashburn in progress.

"Owwhh! Owwhh!" Dr. Simmons held the aardvark brand down for three seconds, five, seven seconds, the full eight as Andrew writhed and bucked, and screamed himself temporarily hoarse.

"Good set of lungs on that boy!" Nelson joked. The crowd laughed. Finally, the red-hot brand was mercifully removed. Again, Andrew plaintively asked during the pause, "Did it take? Did you get all the contact points in?"

Suffice to say, she didn't. But eleven passes later, with the suffering Andrew all-but-resigned to a perpetual if sporadic hot foot, they had an aardvark! "That's a take," were the exact words Dr. Simmons used.

"Hooray!" Andrew said weakly. He was in a lot of pain but at least the brands were on his feet; the naked boy was finally unfastened and allowed to come up off the rocky bed. Leon extended a hand, so did Dr. Talmadge and even Nelson tried to help. Standing painfully on the wooden stage again, Andrew was initially quite wobbly on his newly branded feet. But Dr. Simmons encouraged him to walk around.

"I can!" Andrew said. Like everyone else, he was amazed.

"I can still walk!" The crowd cheered and seemed to be on his side. Andrew momentarily forgot about the next part and began walking gingerly with a pronounced limp back towards his peers on the stage's far side. He didn't get far.

"Umm, what about the rattlesnake?" was all Nelson had to say.

"Oh, oh no!" Andrew managed as all the implications dawned on him. Andrew caught Peter flashing an evil grin and glared back.

"Come back here young man!"

He hobbled back and said, but a bit too loudly so that everyone heard him, "But maybe I won't have to get that one done."

"That's right! Maybe he won't have to get the final branding on his glans, that most sensitive part of a boy's anatomy, more sensitive than the feet perhaps, what say you everyone. He's been a brave boy. Is it thumbs up, or is it thumbs down?"

Andrew looked hopefully around him and especially out beyond the stage to the seats. Any decent group of human beings would have surely spared him. It seemed when Andrew looked at Nelson and Dr. Simmons that even they were actually on his side, hoping right along with him. The crowd murmured as it made up its collective mind. Andrew began seeing thumbs. Unfortunately, they were mostly down. Still, Andrew held out hope until the last possible instant.

"Well, I'm afraid we do have a consensus and it's not in your favor, Andrew."

Then Craig L. Nelson spoke to the crowd like Pontius Pilate.

"What say you?"

"Do him! Do the boy again!"

Peter smiled sadistically.

"I knew they would," he blurted, and he seemed unabashedly glad, reveling in his opponent's misfortune.

This time it was Dr. Talmadge's task to do the branding. This time, someone wheeled out a comfortable divan and soon Andrew was lying on it face up. The boy's middle was promptly propped up with two soft pillows inserted beneath his buttocks. Andrew was already crying again in anticipation of what would happen next. The brazier was wheeled over, Dr. Talmadge dabbed a little alcohol on the boy's circumcised glans, and stroked him on the belly and chest very gently. He began gently stroking Andrew's penis as his precious organ viewable as a close up image became the crowd's newest entertainment.

Nelson started off with his spiel, hyping the situation.

"Andrew is an all-American brown-haired boy in the early throes of puberty. He is perfectly proportioned everywhere else and his 4.2 inch [10.7 cm] erect penis is no exception. He's already got some nice little brown pubic hairs, just starting, around his penile base and growing in towards his lower pelvic region. We can see an almost perfect circumcision scar. In balance right over his urethra, over that ultra-sensitive piss slit will be permanently seared a spectacular emblazoned rattlesnake's head with fangs bared! When he has sex with his girlfriend or his future bride or whomever, there's liable to be some CON-VER-SA-TION!"

Meanwhile, it felt good.

"I think it'll go better if I get you hard first," Talmadge told Andrew, speaking softly.

"This brand is smaller, as big around as a dime, with extremely intricate aesthetics, how many contact points, Dr. Talmadge," Nelson asked.

"I think there's 106, and we'll have to use a magnifying glass to make them all out. I sure hope we can get this done in one pass."

"I hope so too," Andrew whimpered, and then began sobbing.

"Little baby," Peter couldn't help blurting, but now he received glares from Steven and John, and even from a few in the audience.

The red-hot poker measured 131 degrees [55°C]. It was ready.

"Here you go," Leon said, handing Talmadge the implement cool end first.

"Lift your body up off the divan, arch your back, have your erection meet it, head-on, so to speak," Talmadge instructed, "Don't be afraid, boy." Before Andrew closed his eyes, terrified of this new wild cascading pain, he noted that miraculously, he indeed had a hard-on.

He felt the flashburn on the head of his cock soon enough. Everyone smelled the acrid odor of burnt flesh, heard the quite loud sizzle.

"Yeowhh! Yeowhh! With one strong hand Talmadge held the 13-year-old as steady as he could, Leon and even Nelson pinioned his gyrating arms and legs, hands and feet. The boy's erection was maintained even after contact. This hurt more than anything that Andrew had ever experienced, and probably would experience. Again five seconds seven eight. Andrew was trying to buck as three grown men tried to hold him down. Finally Talmadge removed the poker from the boy's bare cockhead. It had seemed like forever the searing burning sensation that he never wanted to feel again. He screamed until it was almost a single unified wailing. Andrew almost passed out from the excruciating pain.

Ten seconds later, the boy opened his eyes again. His reddened penis throbbed a little, but it wasn't too bad.

"Do we have the rattlesnake?" Andrew desperately wanted to know.

"Well, do we?" He sat up on the divan as he watched Talmadge scrutinizing the head of his penis with a magnifying glass.

"I'm afraid not," Talmadge said.

"Okay, just do it, and keep on doing it until the fucking snake is on there good, no matter how much I scream and cry, no matter how much!"

"He is a Spartan boy," Talmadge whispered, resigned to his grim task.

Sixteen passes later, the dime-sized rattlesnake head was a reality. Andrew got up to a rousing ovation and waved to the crowd. His penis was badly blistered, would take days to properly heal, longer than John's urethral mauling with the dental pick, but in his mind, he had won. He had done what he'd set out to do. But now he said something in Nelson's ear, and began walking away toward the stage's edge to where John, Steven, and Peter were, he picked up his clothes, smiled at Steven, and didn't say a word. John put his head down, a bit ashamed.

"There's your real champion," he said, but low, so only Peter could hear him. Steven started yelling out Andrew's name.

"Andrew. Andrew." Although limping slightly, he calmly picked up his clothes, and still naked, kept on walking. In another second, the crowd caught on. Everyone left their seats, stood up, as if they were a single voice.

"ANDREW. ANDREW. ANDREW!" they kept on chanting.

Nelson was trying to shout over the crowd, to somehow be heard in the sudden thunderous din of Andrew's moment.

"We might as well take a brief intermission. When we all return, Andrew has a few words he wants to say."

When Andrew came back he was dressed in his clothes again. That in itself seemed strange. He twiddled his clip-on tie, suddenly a little nervous, was standing behind a makeshift podium that had been hastily set up. But when he opened his mouth, you could've heard a pin drop, or possibly a sadist's needle.

"Today," he said, recalling a long ago speech he'd heard on some TV documentary, "today," he repeated for emphasis, "I consider myself the luckiest guy in the world. But something happened to me today, earlier. I don't know if you realize this but I became a MAN. And I have all of you to thank for that every one of you people. It's been a great experience. Something I will never forget. Good-bye." Then Andrew walked off the stage again, and this time, a marvel seemed to happen, because the boy seemed to be bouncing on his feet, hardly limping at all, and if he was limping, no one noticed, because everyone stood up again, got up out of their seats, and started chanting his name again, "ANDREW, ANDREW, ANDREW!" and they wouldn't stop. They wanted him to come back, to announce that he was kidding, that he would continue in the contest, but the boy was gone.

So then there were three. John, Steven, and Peter. They'd begin again tomorrow, it was unexpectedly decided, in quest of the giant prize.

"We just got examined today, and they didn't even get to do anything to us," Peter told the others. But they just ignored him. He'd become a pariah.

The boys were back in their underground quarters now, with the rest of the day free. Guess who got his own room that night?

Andrew was gone. The implications of this seemed crucial to the remaining contestants for a variety of reasons. His parents watching on closed circuit TV had viewed Andrew on that very afternoon when he'd made his somewhat surprising decision, and since his family actually lived only an hour's drive from the secret location where the show was being videotaped, he'd been whisked home that very afternoon.

This left the hotel-like offstage premises to the remaining contestants John, Steven, and um, Peter.

Peter was adjusting to his new role as loner and pariah. With Andrew's departure, he was actually in good spirits, and it was easy to tell why. He lay on his bed; yes it was now his bed alone, as John had joined Steven in sharing the other bed. They were off somewhere, Peter mused, maybe at the pool, maybe the game room, maybe it didn't much matter where they were. Peter flat out didn't care! I'm going to win $50 million and outlast both those fuckers, he said to himself, and almost said it aloud. But pain is a funny thing, a weird experience worth considering. You can never really appreciate how intense it can be. Peter fondled a black remote grown familiar with its silver buttons, turned on the TV. It was an episode of Fear Factor with parent-kid teams pitted against each other.

"Oh wow," Peter said, "How tame."

***

Andrew was back home in his split-level townhouse, sitting in the garage playing with his dog Plupy. Their silver Lexus, his parents had bought it pre-owned, was outside in the sun, being rinsed off by his Dad and little cousin Alex, 8. Andrew could barely make out the water swishing from two separate hoses. His Mom was inside, glued to what was on the closed circuit.

"Andrew, your show's on!" she yelled from the living room. He got up slowly from what was essentially a yoga position, still sore, and wearing socks when he'd usually be going barefoot. After all, it was still summer. His soles the brandings took care of that option. But already his soles were less sore than they had been, healing nicely.

"I'm coming, Mom," he yelled back. Andrew limped a little, but was soon seeing a familiar scene.

"God, I hope Steven wins," he heard himself saying.

"I take it you're not exactly rooting for Peter then?" His Mom had a wry sense of humor, sometimes mingled with sarcasm. He liked it; it was something he really liked about his Mom.

Andrew measured his words.

"I think that I will enjoy at least some of what we're about to see especially what might happen to Peter."

"What if John wins?"

This time Andrew stared off into space, whistled, and said, "Let's just watch it, okay?"

His Mom nodded.

"Hey, what are you two up to? Is it on already?" Andrew's Dad was ruggedly handsome, with flashing blue eyes. Andrew just noticed that; he'd previously just taken his Dad's looks for granted. Andrew mused, He must have looked a lot like me when he was my age.

Hot & Heavy

The three boys were dressed in their schoolboy outfits short-sleeved light blue cotton shirts, Navy blue clip-on ties, matching dark gray dress pants, black dress shoes, and brown socks. John and Steven were obviously fidgeting, nervous as usual, while Peter seemed smug, self-assured. He stood ramrod straight like a young teenaged soldier, or at least showed excellent posture. Craig L. Nelson's sharp-edged voice broke the silence.

"Okay, here we are, ready to go. Strip boys! Strip!" The lights were hot, seemed more intense than usual as the assembled sadists loosed a rousing cheer. Peter struggled to comply, as did John and Steven. In the ensuing 30 seconds, off came shoes and socks, ties, shirts, and pants; buttons were undone or unclasped, zippers unzipped. All three boys were soon down to their tighty whiteys.

But there was an unfortunate pause.

"C'mon," Nelson barked as if he were a drill sergeant, "Birthday suits! Now!"

Ensued a few looks from the boys, not quite of desperation, but at least anxious glances. So their briefs came down, came tumbling down.

The first exercise was guaranteed to be painful.

"Stand up straight. Hands clasped behind your necks. Legs spread to about eighteen inches [45 cm]. Same rules apply. Say stop and you're out of the competition. Otherwise, we'll have something new ready for you." Nelson was speaking loudly not only to the contestants but through his microphone so that all the sadists could hear. The boys this time John, Steven, and Peter – were being made to stand bare soled and flatfooted on those hotplates again.

Donna was there, and Doctor Talmadge too, and Leon. G. Smith.

"Your soles need to be completely in contact with the metal plates if this is to count," Donna intoned, "From your heels to your toes." She was like a schoolmarm in the manner she inflected her voice. It would have been annoying to any adolescent boy even under less severe conditions.

"The plates will be heated to no more than 130 degrees [54.5°C] maybe a few degrees less," Dr. Talmadge explained, "and all this will be happening while we test the flexibility of your testicles and your scrotums."

Each boy had his balls re-examined by the cruel physician. He pinched and squeezed the tender tissue first Peter's, then John's, then Steven's matched pair of baskets in the groin. While John and Steven perceptively winced from the handling, a sharp pain followed by a dull ache, Peter strangely smiled.

"I'm a pain athlete," he was thinking aloud in his head, "A pain athlete, a pain athlete " The affirmation was being repeated like a mantra, making Peter look a bit crazed.

"Think of it as a game," Nelson chimed in with the skill he possessed as a TV announcer, "We will first insert a sharp metal hook attached to a thin guide wire the hook will pierce your tender scrotums. The wire has an end point through which small weights can be threaded. We'll then attach weights to your wire since each magnetic weight weighs one-quarter pound [110 g], it should be fun to see if any of you boys has a stress limit. About six pounds [2.7 kg] on the leash are guaranteed to seriously strain your testicles that's how many weights dangling from your scrotum flesh, eh Steven?"

Steven gulped, his eyes wide with a new horror. But he was good with his times tables.

"Twenty-four," he managed.

Then the good news came.

"We will stop at six pounds [2.7 kg] of weight regardless because we have lots of other fun events planned." At that moment, Nelson leered in a way that Steven found disgusting.

The first nasty part was the hook. Like a sharp fishhook, this small instrument was about a half-inch [12 mm] around. A dab of alcohol used as an antiseptic was initially applied to each boy's groin area in preparation for the hook's insertion. Its steely tip about 1/16 inch [1½ mm] in actual size – pierced Steven's groin first.

"Owwhh," Steven cried out softly as his nut sack was penetrated. Talmadge knew just where to insert it so as to ensure maximum pain while minimizing damage. About three minutes later, both John and Peter had been similarly adorned, their groins oozing a tiny shimmer of blood. John winced and let out a little screech during this procedure, but Peter somehow remained stoic until the weights began to be added, one at a time.

"Count them each time one is added," Donna said, smiling sadistically.

"You must count each one or it won't count. Two missed counts and you're automatically disqualified."

"One," Peter said, feeling the first little tug from the effects of gravity. This time he grimaced too.

***

"Ewwh," said Andrew, watching comfortably at home in his favorite lounge chair, "Ewwh, that has to hurt."

***

Each weight, about the size of a postage stamp, was made of some very heavy metal, and weighed exactly one quarter-pound [110 g]. When the each boy had six attached, the strain on their gonads was already visible to the TV cameras, especially when close ups were recorded on each contestant's face. But it LOOKED painful too, with their groins and ball sacks weirdly distended, as they were, almost grotesquely. The weights were lined up evenly, like square beads on a chain, and it seemed to John and Steven and Peter that this might do some serious damage even if not expressly intended.

But it was Steven who dared ask the question.

"Won't our balls rupture if you keep this up?"

"No," Dr. Talmadge answered with his best clinical face, "a rupture is a hernia and that's caused by a weakness in your abdominal wall or else a weakness in your groin. Thankfully, you don't have any such weaknesses. In fact, thankfully, all three of you boys are, shall we say, structurally sound. Thankfully, you're each quite safe for the six pounds [2.7 kg]."

"Thankfully," John said in a pique of his own sarcasm.

"That'll be enough out of you," Nelson barked. Not much sarcasm escaped his ears. In fact, at that moment it seemed to John that Nelson's ears were slightly malformed, cruelly shaped or else the pain in his balls was making him hallucinate. Did he really see a Samurai sword poised to decapitate the barking bastard?

In their balls, and in their bare feet too, the levels of pain were increasing. The metal hot plate was warming at an alarming rate. Right now their bare soles were being roasted quite evenly, and in fact, all three pairs had already reddened from the intensifying heat.

"Owwhh, my fucking feet really kill," Steven was saying, and John nodded, tears starting to course down his cheeks. He was trying to estimate where the pain was most intense in the soft spaces under his toes or on the balls of his tenderized feet, or else within the confines focused by the cramping-like aching of his tortured balls.

Peter was staring straight ahead like some kind of Spartan Adonis, as he no doubt imagined he was.

"I'm a pain athlete," he kept humming, but thank God to himself.

The weights kept adding up, like postage stamps devised in Hell. Two pounds [0.9 kg].

"Eight," shouted Peter. Three pounds [1.4 kg].

"Twelve," John said while gasping from the torture.

"Sixteen" Steven said when the weight, now nearly unbearable, reached four full pounds [1.8 kg]. By this juncture, Steven didn't even want to contemplate what was happening to his bare soles.

Unbearable or not, each boy managed to bear the awful weight gains on their balls and the added 'feet heat' thrown in by the sadists for good measure. Each struggled to stand as tall as possible despite their diabolical impediments.

"Good posture is important," Donna cooed, attempting to urge the boys on, "Keep those hands clasped behind your necks." Finally it was practically over.

"Twenty four," Peter shouted, his face stained with his own tears despite his remembered litany of mantras.

The hooks were taken off, the hot plates turned off, and the nude boy contestants could now stand for a moment and relax.

Except standing hurt too each boy's soles were singed and blistered with from three to five blisters having erupted depending on the particular boy sole's toughness.

"All right, at ease," Nelson barked, and "Well done."

"At ease," John whispered, his face a pained grimace, "That's pretty funny."

But this oasis continued only for a moment.

"Time for their next ordeal," Talmadge exclaimed. Already the bloodthirsty crowd was buzzing with anticipation.

In fact, the ordeals came fast and furious as the judges were trying their best to eliminate two of the boys. But fifty million American dollars can be quite an incentive even to 13-year-olds who might find it difficult even to visualize that much money.

The Rack and Other Ordeals

The rack, a pretty excruciating ordeal in its own right came next, except that it was made even worse with the ingenious addition of a few barbaric embellishments.

Three naked thirteen-year-olds stretched out on racks made for a sight to warm the heart of any sadist. Each rack, three of them set up in the dungeon-themed corner of the wooden stage, resembled simple wooden platforms – at first glance they weren't much more than a frame of cross ties designed for supporting the weight of a young teenage boy as sparingly as possible. Each spread-eagled boy was laid on his back with cross beams for his calves, lower back, his shoulders, and his head. But it was the binding of his digits that made for a fiendish improvement even over a Seville dungeon during the Holy Inquisition. Thin steel wires attached to Medieval-like pulleys could be ratcheted up at a torturer's whim and bound each finger and toe separately.

The suddenly talkative Leon G. Smith was just completing Peter's binding.

"As you can probably feel, I'm doing your toes on your right foot now, getting them nice and secure. Boy, is this going to hurt!"

"So what?" Peter said, "Do your worst to me. I'm a pain athlete."

"We'll see how you feel when these little toe joints get a good workout," Leon whispered in Peter's ear.

Nelson and Talmadge reiterated the same message.

"We will be stretching you boys out in the conventional way first. Eighty turns of the pulleys where the movements will stretch you out at the wrists and ankles, pulling on your legs and arms and making your bodies as tense as possible without causing any permanent injuries, of course. This was the typical torture used in the Spanish and German Inquisition days. But then further increments will work your fingers and toes all twenty digits on each of you until those extremities are at the point of dislocation but of course we'll try not to dislocate them."

"Does anybody want to bail out and quit the contest now?"

Only silence ensued until Steven spoke.

"Go for it!" he snarled.

***

The rack began creaking, just as had similar instruments centuries ago. At first it was just like stretching after you've had a nap, getting the muscles stretched out feels good, when you can immediately relax them. But this was soon feeling different, very different.

It feels like I'm stretching out, and stretching out, like a cramp it's beginning to hurt, John mused, but it keeps getting worse 'cuz they're cranking me up a fraction of an inch at a time.

I'm like a bowstring, Steven said to himself, Taut, so damn taut, I'm going to fucking break! I can feel pain in every muscle, every tendon, every ligament, from my wrists to my ankles. This really sucks.

I'm a pain athlete; Peter sang to himself, I can do this! I can do this! I'm going to be rich! Rich! Fucking rich!

"Time to start cranking up your fingers and toes." The voice was Dr. Talmadge's, but it sounded like it was far away.

All the boys were crying out loud now, tensed nearly but not quite to the max, and more turns began for their extremities John's, Steven's, Peter's.

"Oh my God! I never thought anything could hurt so much, please!" Yelled Steven.

"Do you want us to stop your pain?" Nelson said in a deceptively soothing tone.

"No! You bastards!"

"As you like it, boy. Eighteen more turns on his fingers and toes!"

But it wasn't just Steven whose joint tissue was being stretched unmercifully. Wave after wave of excruciating pain kept assaulting the hands and feet of the three contestants.

There was a pop it was one of Peter's toes.

"Yeowhh!" he screamed.

"Oops, his middle toe on his left foot just went." Talmadge was concerned, but only momentarily. He felt Peter's toe, unhitched it for a second. Peter was screaming from the pain.

"But it's not separated completely from the joint. I can bend it back in right now." He did. There was a second pop, and an even louder scream, albeit brief.

"Just a sprain," he added.

"Do you want to quit the contest, Petey?"

"Fuck no! Hitch that fucking toe back up!" Peter screamed.

"And my name is Peter not Petey!"

***

The belly scratcher came next. This cruel implement resembled a sharp-pointed garden tool with six steel fingers for hoeing. Instead, it was used on the exposed bodies of the three contestants, loosened considerably lying on their backs on their personal racks, but still stretched out fairly taut so that one could make the outlines of their ribs. The garden tool was intended for scratching and digging in to a boy's sensitive exposed skin.

"It has a nice comfortable handle," Leon remarked while he was 'doing' John. Tears were coursing down the older 13-year-old's face, as he felt the sharpened spikes lightly gouging his bare chest, piercing his pectoral area, first left, and then right.

"My nips, he went right over my fucking nips," John exclaimed out loud. Leon continued to travel with his manual tool John's abdomen, lower and upper, his underarm pits and along John's fleshy rib areas, all the way down the boy's left side, and then down his right side, his meaty thighs, left, right, down his legs to his shins; John was abraded quite generally over a large surface area. It hurt like hell and the antiseptic, when it was applied right afterwards – stung his front side even worse.

Next was Steven.

"I'm going to tickle you," Leon joked. He took a different route with this second boy of three, starting with Steven's bony shins and muscular (for a 13-year-old) calves, scratching next first his left knee and above his knee to his left thigh, then a similar leg path along the shin, calf, knee, thigh, only on Steven's right limb. Steven's belly, chest, nipples, underarms and along his rib cage on both sides all proved especially sensitive as tracks were made in the boy's skin not too deep, but very painful.

"Not too deep," Dr. Talmadge said, "Just cut through the epidermis, so the antiseptic will work well."

Steven was trying not to scream, but he cried continually, and when it was finally time to apply the antiseptic liquid clear iodine he screamed like a banshee.

"That stings! It kills! It kills!" But to Leon this was the most enjoyable part.

"Stop squirming, will you? Do you want to get any of your scratches infected?"

Peter's turn came soon enough. Leon began scratching with the steel-pointed garden tool along this brave 13-year-old's stomach.

"I'm starting with your tummy, Petey!"

" I said my name is Peter!" he yelled, and he kept on yelling for a long time afterwards.

***

Other assorted ordeals followed. All three nude boys had a turn in the dental chair, sitting in it comfortably as Dr. Vito Salmon, "Or Doctor keep your mouth open wider!" as that became his trademark exclamation, worked two cavities apiece on each boy drilling deep into the enamel of incisors or molars and going right for the pulp.

"I'm using the dullest drill I could find," he added into his microphone while delighting his audience of sadists "Wow, this has got to hurt!"

There was the body temperature-lowering cold bath, twenty minutes for each nude boy while immersed from head to toe in a bathtub filled with ice cubes. The upside down flogging where Peter, Steven, and John were placed on Saint Andrew's X-shaped crosses, and while inverted, were flogged with steel-tipped martinets.

But none had the desired effect. The Pain Factor session ended with each of the three boys still 'alive' in the macabre competition. It was deemed that the most severe ordeals for the three boys still lay ahead in some gruesome if not gore-filled finale. For which Peter's announcement at the end of this day's session might have served as some sort of omen.

"I'm a pain athlete!" shouted the still-confident Peter into an eagerly chasing camera.

***

"Good grief!" yelled Andrew back at the closed circuit TV screen, "Stop it already with that pain athlete crap!"

"He certainly is a rather obnoxious boy, isn't he?" echoed Andrew's Mom about Peter.

"I'd say that's quite an understatement," added Andrew's Dad, "but he's tough enough too. Maybe as tough as John and Andrew's friend Steven or even tougher."

Andrew felt a different kind of pain right about then.

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 [20°C] 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 [46°C] 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 [46°C]," 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. [49.5°C], at fifteen minutes it had risen to 125 degrees [51.5°C]. 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 [54°C] on all six plates; it peaked at 132 degrees [55.5°C] at the 28-minute mark, then started decreasing slowly back to 130 degrees F. [54.5°C] 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 [37.5°C] 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 [35 cm] 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 [3 mm] 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 a half 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 3; 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 [11.7 cm] when flaccid, 5.7 inches [14.5 cm] 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 [10.7 cm] when flaccid, and 5.1 inches [13 cm] 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 [10 cm] 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 [10 cm] 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 [2½ cm], 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 [1½ cm] 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 [2½ cm] 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 [10 cm] 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.

Epilogue

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.

The end