Platypus
Stevens School Runaways
Summary
Two thirteen year old boys are sent by stern juvenile court judges to the brutal but politically correct Alexander X. Stevens School. The boys run away, only to be recaptured and returned to the reform school. They then suffer the rather unjust desserts of prolonged and severely painful punishment as part of a secret government research project to study pain endurance.
41,000 words (82 pages)
Characters
Tom Bridges (13yo) and Rich Hansen (13yo)Staff: Mr. Alex Taylor, headmaster; Eddie Mueller, chief of security operations; Dr. Thompson, school physician Alfred Cousins, math teacher
Category & Story codes
Non-Consensual story/TortureMt – non-cons oral – humil tort med cbt spank dental torture
(Explanation)
Disclaimer
This story is the complete and total product of the author's imagination and a work of fantasy, thus it is completely fictitious, i.e. it never happened and it doesn't mean to condone or endorse any of the acts that take place in it. The author certainly wouldn't want the things in this story happening to his character(s) to happen to anyone in real life.The theme explored in this story is FANTASY. Just as one can enjoy violent videogames or movies without committing or condoning violence in real life, a person can enjoy violent fantasies of abuse without promoting abuse in real life.
By scrolling down on this page and reading the story I declare that
Céladon's note
I lost contact with Platypus. His e-mail does not work anymore.Table of Contents
Warning
In all of Platypus' stories young teenage boys are heavy disciplined, humiliated, punished and extremely tortured, with emphasis on penis, scrotum and foot torture, often with needles, sounds and (semi-)medical instruments. The boys never have major permanent body damage, serious injuries, or more than minor disfigurement and scarring. And the stories have a rather happy end, for the boys.If you don't like to read about that kind of torture, click here.
Chapter 1
The Alexander X. Stevens School
Two runaway thirteen-year-old boys eventually get their rather unjust desserts while inmates in a brutal but politically correct reform school.
Nestled deep in the Adirondack foothills, the impressive three-story brick edifice housing the Alexander X. Stevens School was quite a distance from Perkins, the nearest town – almost twenty-six miles [42 km]. For most of that distance, only a two-lane road led to Perkins. Thick woods filled with thorny underbrush or buried by deep snows in winter otherwise surrounded the school on all sides. More than seventy years since the school's founding, only 34 boys had managed to escape. Every 'lost' boy had been recaptured and punished. A reputation for meting out swift correction to absconders had always been spoken of in hushed tones; what mattered most to the school's conservative board was not so much the details of such punishment regimes as their effectiveness.
'Stevens' housed 78 boys aged 12-17 in January 2001 when Thomas Bridges and Richard Hansen were sent there by stern 'law and order' juvenile court judges. Although they came from different states, their individual cases shared certain unsettling similarities.
Tom, a blonde, hazel-eyed seventh grader – had turned 13 only a month prior to his incarceration at Stevens. This 'B+' student and star athlete was well liked at his middle school and had never been in serious trouble until his prying mother found his diary. Discovered in his bedroom, the shocking entries confessed to various 'dastardly deeds' – mostly vandalism and shoplifting committed with peers, but also 'disgusting' sex acts with male and female classmates and even a neighbor's cat. When confronted by his strict Fundamentalist Christian parents, Tom denied everything.
"I made those things up. My diary's private – I never thought anybody would actually READ it!" he pleaded. But to no avail. Believing that their son 'needed to be taught a lesson,' they called the police. A hop, skip, and a court date later, Tom had been ordered by the judge to leave his familiar home and school environs for the Alexander X. Stevens School – an option suggested to the judge by Tom's own dad. Like all boys sent to Stevens, he'd become a ward of the state 'until such notice as your new caretakers should decide to release you – but not before your fifteenth birthday'. The state had abdicated responsibility for the boy's well being and placed him entirely in the charge of Stevens authorities.
Rich – brunette, a brown-eyed eighth grader – was several months older than Tom. Having an August birthday, he was nearly thirteen and a half when sentenced to Stevens for 'wantonly firing a handgun at school'. Although Rich admitted bringing his father's .32-caliber weapon to school was 'a stupid thing to do,' he argued that the chambers had been empty and in any case, the gun had been stolen from his locker and fired in the schoolyard by 'an idiotic ninth grader' – not him. Like Tom, Rich felt his consequences to be 'real bullshit' even if his liberal parents were staunchly supportive. They'd protested the harsh decision labeling their son 'an unremorseful young felon,' as the judge expressed it. Rich. He'd been a straight 'A' student, played junior varsity basketball – even had a girlfriend, Maria, whom he'd proudly kissed twice at a Halloween dance while dressed as a stylish Casanova. The slightly older boy's fate, however, wasn't in his parents' control. Handed over 'without restrictions' – Richard's court-ordered sentence was scheduled to last until his sixteenth birthday.
At Stevens, the 12 and 13's, 14 and 15's, and 16 and 17 year olds were segregated – each to a floor, two to a room. Since Tom and Rich were about the same age and arrived within a day of each other, they became roommates. Their room, 14c – a 10' X 12' [3 x 3.5 m] cubicle really, was at least near a bathroom at the rear end of the ground floor. The boys liked each other immediately. But since Tom was a 7th grader and Rich in eighth, their periods in common were gym and math.
"At least we get to shower together," Tom made an early joke after being at Stevens for about a week.
"Yeah, you get to sneak peeks at my naked body," Rich would shoot back, never loudly or seductively. This was just boys being boys with only a hint of the homoerotic. Sex play between the two remained virtually unthinkable – a taboo fantasy never acted upon, always unspoken, not really desired. But they'd talk about everything under the sun while lying on their backs in their alien beds at night. Everything was fodder for discussion – including their new daily regimen. As might be expected in a reform school, structure was the rule. Lights went out at nine o'clock sharp when armed and uniformed guards – mostly burly adult men – began patrolling. There were unpleasant discoveries. Running was permitted in the halls – but dangers lurked for bare feet due to the rough texture of the old-fashioned wood floors.
"Crap! I think I got a splinter!" Rich said one night at about 8:58. So Tom came to the rescue by digging a tiny sliver out of Rich's tender sole. Without a knife – the boys weren't permitted to own anything sharp – he was forced to use his fingernails and sharp eyes.
"There. I think it's out!" Tom exclaimed. A burly guard spoke up then from just down the hall.
"You kids in 14c – get that light out! In bed – now! – The rest of you – quiet!" Suddenly, a buzz of voices turned off like scared chickens. No response.
"You'd think there'd be at least one wiseass mouthing off," Rich said.
A half hour later, the boys were still chattering in soft tones.
"I got to pee – bad." Thomas held his hand on his penis as if to stop the flow, but he sure didn't want to get up and draw attention to himself. Only he had to.
"Can I use one of your passes?"
"I guess, but what happened to yours?"
"I can't find them. They're not in my pants." He'd already gotten out of bed and was feeling around in the dark. If you had to go to the bathroom down the hall, you showed your 'bathroom pass'. This ubiquitous scrap of recycled paper could be checked off three times in a given night, no more. A guard would be waiting just outside the communal bathroom.
"Now I'll have only two chances tonight," Rich added in a mournful tone, "I guess they'd expect me to hold it after that."
"What happens if you wet your bed?" Tom whispered.
"It'd be your fault," Rich said, the way kids do. When Tom returned from the bathroom, Rich was still awake. He'd been thinking.
"Remember that kid the other night? The one they took away? I think they took him to that place in the basement where they punish kids. Maybe he's a bed wetter." Tom suddenly felt a bit anxious. They both knew about a 'dungeon' of sorts – a locked area in a subterranean part of the building from which emanated the most disturbing sounds.
"Yeah, I swear I heard him screaming his head off for awhile afterwards."
"No shit,"said Tom, "It sounded like he was being tortured or something. I can tell you who it was. Kid's name is Carter – he's in my Math class. Sure was acting strange yesterday – like a freaking zombie. First time he was in class all week. I wanted so bad to ask him what those bastards did to him, but Cousins was on me like a hawk. He always is."
"Torture you say? Like what you did to my foot. It still hurts! I shouldn't have let you dig that splinter out with just your nails. What if the ball of my foot gets infected or something?" Rich was half serious.
"Oh, you poor baby! Want me to kiss it better?" Rich didn't feel that crack merited much of a response.
"You're stupid," he managed. Back to Cousins. Both boys had Alfred Cousins for Math – a gaunt and gangly man with strawberry facial blotches, Nazi-like wire-rim spectacles, and bad breath. While teaching 7th and 8th grade algebra, he paid inordinate attention to the most handsome students – peering down at them over his glasses.
"The creep is always staring at me too," Rich admitted, "He calls me Ritchie and likes to squeeze my neck. I mean constantly!"
"Wait 'till he knows you better," Tom said smart-alecky in a sexy voice, "that's when he'll give you a nice bj." But then came another thought.
"I wouldn't cross him," Tom warned his newfound friend, "What if he gets to help with punishing boys?"
A distinct mystery there – what DID happen to bad boys? Several weeks into their stay, Tom and Rich knew precious little about the basement quarters where punishments occurred. Without being punished themselves, they didn't even know what the chamber might contain.
"They always keep it locked," Tom said, "There's no way you can get in there without attracting a lot of attention." What they did know about the regime of the place they'd learned at an early assembly attended by the entire student body. Stevens boys were required to wake up every morning at dawn, excepting Saturdays when 'sleeping in' was permitted – until 8 a.m. Schooldays meant the same uniforms for all age groups – white dress shirts, brown corduroy pants with matching itchy brown socks and stiff, tight-fitting leather dress shoes. More leisurely dress – for instance, jeans, were permitted on Saturdays – but white cotton briefs and white undershirts were always worn unless a boy was showering, peeing, crapping, or instructed otherwise. Even to bed.
"I guess you can't crash in the nude," Tom muttered to Rich in a low voice. Rich almost started giggling at that one. (They'd found each other in the auditorium.) Students were required to maintain a 'B' average, eat all meals, exercise correctly, maintain proper hygiene, expend maximum effort while playing games or sports, and perform assigned chores. It was expected that students would refrain from masturbating, cursing, fighting, or swearing. Bedwetting wasn't considered an infringement if the act was deemed 'accidental,' but other steadfast rules included obedience – anyone caught sassing or adopting even the slightest hint of an insolent tone to an adult authority figure was 'asking to be punished'. Another compulsory requirement – attending Sunday services – was heavily stressed. While it was stated that all infractions would be severely punished – the roommates detected no big surprises, not even the fact that absconding, any attempt to escape from the premises or head for the town of Perkins – was deemed the worst single act that a Stevens student could be guilty of. Somehow, the boys were lulled into a false sense of security. Mr. Alex Taylor, the school's deep-voiced and pattern baldness-afflicted headmaster, spoke in singsong tones like an earnest grandfather – provoking looks of – in the opinion of Tom and Rich – utter blandness from the entire assembly. He didn't seem threatening at all. Besides, although mildly dictatorial at first blush, he seemed normal – not at all peculiar like Cousins.
But as the days and weeks passed, Tom and Rich noticed something else. They weren't mixing, or making new friends. The other kids seemed to more or less ignore them. Everybody was so close-mouthed, so clannish when you asked other boys anything, especially about the punishments meted out, or about the particulars of the punishments meted out. They'd whisper among themselves, or say something like "Screw up and find out." It was unnerving – like the other kids were egging them on.
"Christ, I used to be freaking popular!" Rich said to his only friend.
"Ever see that movie, the Stepford Wives, where there was this town and everybody acted weird all the time?" Rich asked one night while lying in bed, "Well, compared to this place" – he didn't finish the sentence.
"I don't think they've forgiven me since I tried to ask Carter what happened to him," Tom said at last, "I can't help it. I'm getting curious. Maybe I could mess up on purpose. Then we'd know." But then the fear of what might happen – the unknown – would set in, like a cold feeling in the pit of your stomach.
It was – after all – a reform school. As the days became weeks, queasiness, if not a sense of actual terror, began to grow in the gut of the newcomer boys along with the bizarre curiosity that tantalized them. When their courage to do something radical began to mount, the two outsiders would hear the screams. These awful shrieks of pain began to become more frequent – usually on Friday or Saturday evenings. Although no more than two or three unfortunate boys (out of the whole school) were ever punished at the same time, it became a regular occurrence all through the February weekends and into March. Still, the newcomers could learn nothing. For Tom and Rich, it became an itch. While engaged in some wholesome activity – like playing ping-pong or reading a book about Christian heroes or heroines – mischievous thoughts came and went. It – the fear mingled with the craving to know – usually worsened after being sent off to bed at nine o'clock sharp. Bedtime was no guarantee of quiet. The screams of the miscreants might continue for hours unabated – sometimes until two or three in the morning.
"I can't stand it anymore," Rich said while lying in bed one Friday night, "We have to know. It won't kill us to be punished. What can they do to us? The punished kids always come back from the infirmary or wherever. Sometimes it takes a few days, sometimes a whole week."
"Yeah, and have you noticed that once they've been punished, they don't shower at gym – in fact, every one of them gets excused from gym. Like permanently."
"I don't like gym that much – especially not in this place. Besides, it's our only way to find out. We'll run away – then let them catch us. That way, they'd have to punish us, but probably go easy on us too. Yeah, it's ingenious. Like a test.
"I don't know," Tom said.
"Chicken-shit. When or if you get the bone up, I'm ready. You decide. I can be patient too."
"Can't we talk about something else?"
"Yeah, I guess." But, mused Rich, there was a certain excitement to the whole idea, a kind of thrill. Shit, I don't even deserve to be here! Neither does Tom. It's totally unfair! Rich began to feel tears starting. Neither of them were punks – not even tough kids. Rich started thinking of his old life – of his normal boyhood – missing it – even Trish – his big sister who sometimes teased him – she was fifteen – and Mom – and Dad – and their kitty cat Delores – the best brown tabby that ever lived. I can't even pet my cat anymore, he mused, and now the tears really started coming. Finally, a new idea. Why run away to get caught or punished? Instead, we could freaking escape! Now that would be cool. When Rich finally fell asleep, the whole building was quiet as a tomb, and he could no longer hear the one comforting sound. Tom. Snoring softly.
Chapter 2
'Pain Threshold' Experiments
"Those two kids in 14c – Bridges and Hansen – are up to no good. Did you listen to their tapes – especially over the last few days? I tell you – those two bear watching," said Mueller, the reform school's chief of security operations.
Eddie Mueller usually kept his distance from the kids unless a punishment session was required. He often supervised – or when necessary – introduced pain-causing procedures. All the boys' rooms were bugged, monitored with high-tech surveillance devices – a fact unrealized by inmates until the moment for 'punishment intake' – a pre-punishment orientation required by school charter. This prepping took place in a special antechamber adjacent to the dreaded 'dungeon' where punishments occurred.
"I played the tapes over several times," headmaster Taylor said, "and you're right, I have a few concerns. But nothing that should be acted on yet. Those two are potential trouble – but we're not going to punish them until they screw up. This talk about absconding is just that – talk, unless one or both of them acts it out. For the time being, it's just this strange impulse mixed in with simple boyish curiosity – nothing more."
This – during a February 26th staff meeting – was the first serious discussion about the roommates. Mueller had mentioned them once or twice in previous meetings, but only in passing.
Several adult faculty and staff crowded the stuffy chamber. The conference room on the third floor was old-world, imposing, like a British study – especially the bookcase with dusty tomes. Except there was a big-screen television, videocassette recorder, and even a compact disc player arranged against the far wall. No Harry Potter, nothing magical. Everyone sat on high-backed purple-cushioned chairs. Gathered around a 1930s era oaken corporate table their number included Manny Graves, a tall and gruff-voiced African-American with finely chiseled features. Graves might have been a professional basketball player. Instead he taught shop and metalworking. A proud father of three, his sons ranged in age from six through nine and 'were all going to college if he could help it'. Looking rather morose, he reflected upon the last Stevens punishment weekend. His turn. He'd taken part. Afterwards, he'd felt nauseated, remorseful, sated. Had he enjoyed it? My boys will never be like these little punks. These kids are a different species. Except Payton's face haunted him – an angel's visage. And that odd scream – high-pitched, intoxicating, unnerving. Different from the screams other boys might make – at least those he'd helped punish. Still, there was novelty brewing. How might Bridges or Hansen scream? His musings grew muddled.
"A whole weekend? Why do we need a whole weekend? Those 14 year olds last semester – what a mess – and right before Thanksgiving," he ended up saying.
"There has to be a severe penalty for absconding," Charlie Mason said glibly, "We had no choice. Payton and Singletary made it almost to Perkins before we caught them – what we did was necessary." Mason taught 8th grade history – saw Rich Hansen in class three periods a week. He liked the kid – a handsome boy with the makings of an athlete, and a decent student. He didn't know Tommy Bridges well. But when it came to Stevens' school procedure – this eleven-year veteran was loath to cheat. Even if it would consume an entire weekend – when an absconding occurred, it had to be dealt with promptly and thoroughly. Mueller and Mason resided in Perkins with their families – Mueller legally married with six kids – Mason's situation common-law 3; Mason and his estranged wife had produced a whiney red-haired daughter. Mason viewed his occasional participation in prolonged punishment sessions for errant boys as a stress reliever – like going to a movie. It's a duty he performed almost cheerfully but he didn't consider himself a pederast like Cousins, or even particularly sadistic. It's the power that attracted him, a certain escalation of control over a boy and his body that were usually merely implied. Besides, staff volunteering for punishment sessions merited double overtime pay.
Dr. Thompson was at the meeting too. A lanky gentle-voiced man with an everyman's face, he'd been resident 'healer' at the reform school for sixteen years.
'Doc' lived with a high school age daughter in Perkins, on Main Street, upstairs from the town's barbershop. Sometimes she babysat Mason's daughter. Parts of the physician's duties involved monitoring punishments. It was crucial that these sessions didn't degenerate into mindless boy-bashings. The government guidelines explicitly stated that no bones were to be broken, that any damage to major organs and blood vessels was to be avoided. Boys in these federally approved 'pain threshold' experiments were expected to experience pain, maybe excruciating physical and emotional pain, but never any permanent physical injury beyond superficial scarring. Both as a top-secret national security measure and as an absolutely essential implementation of school policy, the system worked fine – had worked fine since the mid-1970s.
'Doc' Thompson was all for the punishment sessions – took them for granted – even as part of his patriotic duty – within limits – as long as the proper safeguards and follow-ups were rigorously complied with.
"I'm sure everyone realizes that Payton and Singletary are back in classes, fully recuperated, and most of the fears regarding their ability to walk proved unfounded," he felt compelled to say.
"Payton is playing soccer again," added the school's physical education instructor, Anton Reilly, "he's almost as quick as he used to be, and still takes pride in scoring the occasional goal." Reilly was a conversational macho-type, well liked by the boys who hadn't yet encountered him during an ordeal.
"Payton's sperm count is back up too," chimed in Thompson, "and he's tolerated all of his urethral cleanings better than I thought he would."
"How many has he had?" asked Taylor.
"Six, I think – since the initial procedures during that first weekend."
"None of the kids like peehole scrapings," Reilly said, "or anything else done to their cocks and balls. Can't blame them really."
Everyone laughed.
"They all scream bloody murder – never fails – even the oldest boys," Mason said in his gravelly deadpan.
But that brought up another point.
"What about emotional damage?" Cousins asked, "I know they get extra counseling afterwards, but is it enough? The pain inflicted during many of these procedures is like torture."
There was a collective gasp heard in the third floor chamber.
Taylor finally spoke up after the long pregnant pause.
"Please don't use that word. It's not torture. I resent the inference. It isn't the Stevens way."
"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend. But the pain – it can be excruciating. Especially to the younger ones who tend to be more sensitive. And those humiliation skits – making them act out sexually beforehand – are they really necessary?"
"You are well aware, Mr. Cousins, that those practices act as a deterrent – in combination with the rest," lectured Taylor.
"Shaming is now an established practice – even with social workers attempting to rehabilitate youthful molesters. Their agencies just don't broadcast the fact!" Taylor frequently expressed irritation with Cousins – sometimes even outright hostility.
Most of the others glared at Cousins. If Cousins didn't like what the boys had to endure, he didn't have to stick around and attend every minute of their punishment sessions.
Like the physician, though, Cousins had his uses – acting as a counterweight to someone like Reilly in case he got too crazy. Reilly, like Mason and Graves and a few of the guards, really got off on hearing a kid scream.
"Besides," Taylor said as they prepared to adjourn, "the procedures are pretty much set unless a danger beyond the ordinary can be proven. We don't do anything that isn't reasonable under the circumstances. If a kid acts out, we punish him. If not, we don't. The boys have to be trained."
"Even the young ones?" Cousins asked.
"Especially the young ones!" bellowed Thompson.
"In the long term, it's better that we don't coddle them. Besides, the younger boys make 90% of escape attempts."
Cousins thought about that for a moment. If there was one thing he knew about Stevens kids, they weren't being coddled.
Chapter 3
Barefoot Gym Workouts
Tom and Rich seemed to be adapting to life at Stevens. Except for the surveillance tapes that revealed what the boys might be up to – those incriminating audio passages. Now, everything they said and did – especially in the so-called 'privacy' of 14c – was of interest to Mueller and anybody else he'd care to inform. For instance, when Tom and Rich began a practice of massaging each other's feet – interest peaked.
The 'rubs' might have been induced by extraordinary stresses. One day, Anton Reilly got the bright idea that Tom and Rich might be saved from the temptation of flight and its attendant consequences if only exhaustion and what he termed 'minor' discomfort were to become the pair's daily companions. He didn't discuss his dubious course of action with anyone on faculty or staff, but when no one objected, he decided to impose his own brand of extracurricular regime. Of course, the 'subjects' of his 'little experiment' voiced an outcry, but their protests were ignored.
Unmindful of any malicious intent, the gym coach singled out the thirteen-year-olds for strenuous outdoor workouts. That would have been bad enough – besides remaining responsible for their homework and chores the boys now had to fit in up to two hours a day performing coordination and ball balancing drills, wind sprints and laps like trained seals – but Reilly insisted the drills be performed in bare feet.
"I'm just trying to toughen you guys up," he told them. The field where these activities took place was a grassy apron in summer – spread before the edifice's façade like a soft green carpet. Throughout the year, it remained the only outdoor place open to Stevens boys on a regular basis. Young inmates treasured the field as a sanctuary from more odious routines. During the warm season – mid-May through September and stretching into paganip – alias Indian summer, the kids congregated on the field in chatty groups or played baseball or touch football. But this was February drifting to March – a time of crusty snow and ice slowly melting into the slime of cold mud. It was an obstacle course for sneakers – let alone a boy's exposed soles. About a week into this grind, the inevitable occurred.
"Today was brutal," Rich said one night after lights out. He was lying in bed looking up at the ceiling thinking not of sugarplums – but of pneumonia and chilblains. It was dark in their room – what light that filtered in from the hall resembled a crude seascape on a murky night.
"I can't get to sleep," Tom muttered. Both boys were dressed in their underwear – white cotton shirts and briefs, nothing else.
"Not only that, but my feet are killing me. Sore as hell."
"Whaddya want me to do? Rub them?"
"Would you? That'd be kewl." There was a long pause.
"Oh, all right! All right!" Rich hissed. Getting out of bed quietly, he pulled back the sheet and light blanket covering his friend, and felt for Tom's feet.
"Which one first?"
"Doesn't matter. How 'bout my left one?"
"Okay, but you gotta do me after. Mine are sore too." Tom put his left foot onto his friend's lap. His bare heel landed a little too violently.
"Hey! You just crushed my freaking balls!"
"Sorry. Didn't mean to. Honest."
Rich began playing the tips of his fingers over Tom's foot, starting with the toes and working the sole all the way to Tom's heel. It was a light touch that changed to a tickle when Rich used his nails to scratch the skin just a little, not really digging in.
"Hey, you're great at this. That feels wonderful. I'm in heaven."
Rich discovered Tom's skin to be soft, almost silky smooth, especially on his sole. He was getting into what he was doing, despite himself, because part of his brain thought what he was doing was queer, a homo thing to do, but part of him didn't mind at all. That was the weird part. Tom had these cool little ridges along the bottoms of his toes like some boys have, and also on the ball of his foot, just where the instep begins. It was interesting, like a map, with the ridges like tiny mountains. Tom winced when Rich began pulling his toes straight out and deftly snapping the joints – like you'd absentmindedly do with your fingers sometimes. The joints made 'kewl' little popping sounds.
"Hey! What the heck you doing?" Tom's urgent whisper was a little too loud.
"Shhh! Just lay back and enjoy."
Actually, it didn't really hurt, just felt slightly unpleasant at first, before you got used to it. Tom had never had his feet massaged by anybody – not even his Dad or Mom when he'd been little. This was a treat. Soon Rich was pressing, compressing the foot harder, then alternating his fingernails with a nice pleasant scratching – his fingers sinking into the tender skin of Tom's sole a little further, but not enough to break the skin.
"That feels fantastic," Tom purred.
After a few moments, it had to end.
"Okay, give me your right one," Rich commanded. He didn't have to ask twice.
Tom became equally skilled at giving his friend foot massages. In a few days, it became a regular thing – something both boys looked forward to at the conclusion of every Stevens day. Tom noticed that Rich had slightly longer toes, and that he kept his nails trimmed.
"How do you do it?" Tom asked one night in early March.
"We're not allowed to have clippers." The answer was expected under the circumstances, but still a bit startling.
"I get them started with my teeth."
"Ewwh, that's gross!"
Rich continued as if Tom hadn't reacted at all.
"Then I very carefully peel them with my fingers – straight across – so I don't get any ingrown toenails – you know – on my big toes."
"I can't even reach my toes – you know – with my mouth."
"That's why your nails are getting long and jagged – like a wild boy's. It's too bad. You really have nice toenails otherwise."
"Oh, I'll bet you say that to all the boys."
"No, I'm serious. Dickwad. You really are stupid, you know that?"
"I'm sorry." There was another pause.
"Can I ask you a great big favor?"
"What?"
"Can you do my nails too – bite them to get them started and then teach me how to peel them?"
"I don't think so."
"Please? Pretty please with dicksnot on top?" Tom paused and took a long breath.
"I swear I'll clean my feet really good first."
"They don't stink much. It's not that – it'd just be weird – doing yours. No offense."
"Pretty please with sugar on top?"
"Okay! Just shut up about it. I wouldn't want anybody to know."
"Who am I going to tell in this place?"
Chapter 4
The Bad Day
Two young runaways from a harsh but politically correct reform school are eventually punished rather severely.
March 12th began on a dismal note for Rich when he failed an English test.
"It was grammar – stuff about definite and indefinite pronouns and past participles and passive verbs," he told Tom while they were lying in bed that evening," Mrs. O'Neill – the old bitch – really got on my case." Mrs. O'Neill was in her 50s, a thin stick for a figure with little hint of the feminine, a real disciplinarian. Away from the school she was a sadistic dominatrix – mostly with grown men – unless some parents wanted private lessons for their incorrigible child or she drew punishment duty at Stevens. Her face was oval and hard, lined with wrinkles – her eyes close together like a raven's. She wore excessive perfume – and it was a scent Rich found repulsive.
"I just couldn't concentrate," he added.
"Looking at her and smelling her all class period, I'm surprised you could ever concentrate," Tom said, "Imagine having sex with her."
"Ewwh – gross!"
"Or what if she saw you naked."
"Yecch!"
"Or got to touch you all over?"
"I think my cock would try to crawl back into my nuts. Seriously. Ewwh! I don't want to think about that. It's disgusting."
"Enough to make a guy turn gay or something," Tom opined.
The boys' chortle went on in the same vein for a few minutes until Tom brought up the next event in the day's list of tribulations.
"Cousins scared me today. He said something about me and you – we better be on our best behavior – we're being watched. I asked him why he kept staring at us. «I don't,» – he said, «it's your imagination. Besides, I wasn't referring to me,» he said. «What are you talking about then, sir?» I asked him. «I've said too much already. Just be careful. Keep those feet of yours from straying too far.»"
"What do you think he meant by that?" Rich asked, "Do you think he knows we might run away from this place?"
"Nahh. How could he? But I was a little scared. It was kind of creepy."
"Maybe he was trying to warn us or something."
"I think we're just jittery," Tom concluded. After a few more minutes, the topic of the extra-duty gym workouts came up.
"How many laps did that jerk Reilly make you do today?"
"Thirty – I think. I feel like I'm training for a freaking marathon. How long will we be putting up with this shit?" Both boys dreaded the barefoot workouts.
"It wouldn't be so bad if we could wear freaking shoes," Tom added, "Maybe Reilly has some kind of foot thing. I saw some web pages about that on the Internet once. Freaking crazies."
"There are worse things. I was surfing one day and came across something called The Eunuch Archive. That's when they cut off a guy's balls and maybe even his dick."
"You've got to be kidding? Serious?"
"No lie!"
Suddenly, like a cloudburst, another fear surfaced.
"You don't think that when they punish kids here they freaking CASTRATE them? Or cut off their dicks?" Tom felt a shiver coursing through him to the base of his fundament.
"I sure hope not!" Rich exclaimed.
Silence struck up between the two adolescents like a fence. In fact, Rich was starting to doze off when Tom suddenly brought up something a bit startling – considering how their isolation – even alienation – from the other boys had been persistent. The others had seemed to avoid Tom and Rich except when absolutely necessary.
"That kid Carter came up to me too – on the field afterwards – it was almost dark. I think he snuck out to see me. He wants to be friends he says."
"Maybe he'll tell us what it was like to be punished. What they did to him. But I don't think they cut his balls off. Maybe they shot some kind of chemical into his balls."
"I'm wondering why all of a sudden he wants to be buddy-buddy?" Rich asked warily.
It was a good question.
Chapter 5
The Great Escape
For about a fortnight, they became a threesome. Tom welcomed the presence of Carter.
"Look what's happening. We're more accepted now – all the guys at least talk to us. Don't you think Carter has something to do with the other kids treating us like humans?" It was a night in late March; the buds were starting to come out on the maples and oaks – noticeably so on the nice days. Indoors at least the heat wasn't turned on quite so high. It was lights out. Tom was lying on his back talking.
"I don't know. I guess." A little older, a little wiser, Rich couldn't help being suspicious of the interloper.
"But don't you think it strange that he always has to go in the middle of conversations, that even you've caught him snickering and shutting up when he's with his other friends – like when we come near him it stops and he suddenly gets serious? I know one thing. I don't think we should let him in on it."
"I already have, stupid. He wants to go with us. It's all set!"
"You're not serious! You freaking told him? Are you crazy?"
"Three's better than two anyway. He says he knows his way around Perkins. He's wanted to break out of this hellhole for the longest time, too. I think we actually need him."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this shit."
"Carter has this idea. He'd give the signal, and we take off. Then we meet him in the woods. He's told me what to look for when we run."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this."
"Oh, you worry too much. My feet are sore. Can you give me a rub?"
"I'm – I'm – not in the mood tonight. Too tired."
"Suit yourself." But neither boy fell asleep too quickly. After a while, Tom spoke again.
"You still mad at me?"
"Naah. Go to sleep."
"We still escape together?"
"I guess. I just hope you know what you're doing. I don't really want to get caught. I changed my mind about that part."
"I know. Me too. But we'll make it. I know we will."
***
At around 4 p.m. on the afternoon of March 26, Tom, closely followed by Rich, took off into the surrounding woods. Both had been cued by a signal from the enigmatic Carter. They met up in a grove of evergreens after running a full-out sprint for about a third of a mile [500 m]. Both boys were winded, gasping for breath, but in a way, grateful for the conditioning that Anton Reilly had put them through.
"I used to run like that and get a pain in my side," Rich said, between breaths.
"You think anybody's following us?"
"Not yet." Tom was listening, ear to the ground.
"It's quiet. I'll bet Carter was right. They probably don't even know we're gone yet. They probably won't find out until supper – that gives us almost two hours head start."
"Where is old Carter boy?"
"Don't you remember? He's taking the other way – on the other side of the road. He's meeting us at the thirteen-mile [21 km] mark – near a giant boulder – like a cliff. He said we couldn't miss it even if we tried."
"What time is this supposed to happen?"
"Around 6:30." Tom was wearing a watch that glowed in the dark, but it wasn't dark yet.
"Days seem to be getting longer," Rich said as the boys started moving again, half-walking, half-jogging, at a pretty good pace. There seemed to be a path through the melting snow.
"They should. It's spring," Tom said, smart-alecky. Tom sounded like a smart aleck quite a bit lately, if you asked Rich. But he couldn't just desert his friend.
"How will we know when we're getting close? When we've reached the thirteen-mile [21 km] mark?"
"Stupid. Carter gave me a pedometer too. I'm wearing it on a chain under my shirt."
"We aren't supposed to have chains at Stevens. They think we might decide to strangle ourselves – or each other. Carter filch that out of Reilly's office too?"
"Yeah. That Carter's okay. Really kewl. Told you – you've been worrying for nothing. Hey – We've already gone 3.8 miles [6.1 km]," Tom chortled while checking his handy gauge for a quick read.
"Kewl huh?" Both boys were appropriately dressed for the weather, if not for hiking. Thin jackets were draped over their school uniforms, but footwear? Unfortunately – sneakers. It was a partly cloudy, seasonable early spring day, trace of wind, maybe 50 degrees Fahrenheit [10°C]. The footing wasn't too bad either. Only a few hills so far, just little ones. What snow on the path existed as slushy ice, slippery but solid enough to maintain decent footing, although Rich fell flat on his face once; Tom twice. The forest remained eerily quiet – a few calls emanating like from an echo chamber, sounding like crows or hawks, rustlings of squirrels and small animals, nothing too threatening.
All this changed when it got dark. Precipitation started, tiny perfectly round miniature snowballs that made a swooshing sound on the forest floor – mostly decomposed leaves – when they hit. Soft hail.
"Hey it's raining," Tom said.
"I don't think it is rain," answered Rich. But there wasn't enough light by Tom's wristwatch to really tell what the heck it was. All he knew was that it was dark, he couldn't see the sky through the trees, and no stars either, and it was cold. He was beginning to regret this whole idea. Friend or no friend.
"How far have we gone?"
"Ten and a half-miles [17 km]," Tom said, "but we better make some real good time again – it's past six."
"How much past?"
"Ten past."
"Jeez. Do we really need to meet Carter?"
"I told you fifty times. He knows his way around Perkins. Without him, we'd get caught for sure."
Both boys began running, slipping and sliding in the near total darkness, getting scratched on their wrists or hands when branches or brambles got in their way. Their pace became a mad rush, helter-skelter. It might have been fun, a bit of an adventure, under different circumstances. Yet Tom knew where he was going, uncannily perhaps, and Rich kept pace.
"There, I think that's it – just ahead." It was more of a shadow. Tom spotted different lines against a forest silhouette full of amorphous shapes, the slight hint of an incline. They reached the designated boulder from the rear at precisely 6:32.
"No sign of Carter," Rich murmured.
"He'll be here!" Tom said, slightly annoyed.
A few moments later, they did hear something. Footsteps. The beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the forest all around them.
"Carter!" Rich and Tom cried.
"Yeah, it's little old me – numb nuts!" He was laughing, full of good cheer. They embraced like long lost brothers – or maybe musketeers. Tom followed by Rich went off in lockstep behind Carter, the party's newfound scout. The short hike with the flashlight's beam shining led through the woods for a moment, then straight to the Perkins road.
"Oh crap!" Rich said, "Why the fuck we going on the road. That's right where they'd be looking." Suddenly the forest lit up bright as day – high beams.
"Busted!" It was Mueller, and his vice-like fingers hooking around their shirt collars. About six strong men suddenly surrounded them. Two burly security guards armed to the hilt resembled storm troopers or swat team guys out of America's Most Wanted. Overwhelming force used to catch two kids, but guess who was still laughing?
"You bastard!" Rich hissed to Carter.
"I trusted you!" Tom screamed in helpless rage. Carter shrugged, smirked.
"So? It's not my fault you guys are so stupid."
That's when they both tried lunging at their treacherous companion. No use. Several strong hands from behind stopped their shoulders from making any headlong rush.
"C'mon you two! You're going BACK!" Mason was yelling at them. It sounded like a jubilant yell, like he'd been anticipating their punishment. He had.
"Can't wait until Friday night," he said softly, just loud enough for the runaways to hear.
Chapter 6
Punishment Weekend Begins
Black Friday March 30 dawned as a somber day – drizzly and gloomy, then just cloudy. By late afternoon, the sun came out, and a brilliant rainbow appeared. Tom and Rich felt the skies were mocking them, realizing all too well what the evening would bring. All day, their stomachs churned, stricken by a tense and horrible anticipation. In the gym, Tom approached Anton Reilly who'd cancelled the barefoot workouts promptly on Wednesday.
"Maybe if you can take us under your wing, and start those workouts again? Please sir!" Tom pleaded, hoping against hope that a return to chapped feet might at least postpone the inevitable.
"I'm sorry Tom, wish I could help you out, but there's just no reason to do those sessions anymore. You guys blew it. It's out of my hands."
Rich had been hoping Tom might get Reilly to intercede, but as the day slowly ticked away, he realized that wasn't going to happen. By 7:00 p.m., back in 14c lying on his back staring at the ceiling with the lights out and the curtains drawn – the sorrowful 8th grader knew the worst. He'd been informed. At about 7:10 Tom came up from supper – he'd hardly touched his plate, and plopped down on his own bed equally despondent. Both boys lay silently in the dark until Rich spoke.
"We have to take a shower, change back into our school uniforms, and be ready for the knock any time after 7:30. That's 20 minutes. I already took mine. They want us to be 'squeaky-clean' when they come for us."
"Why? I took a shower this morning."
"I don't know. I'm just repeating what they said." Even his friend's voice was scary. Rich sounded like a robot, or maybe a zombie. Tom shrugged, and took a bar of soap with him into the hall, closing the door to their room ever so gently. Fifteen minutes later, he was back, clean as a whistle.
"Even washed my crack," he said, upon re-entering. Rich didn't laugh.
"That's nice," he said, still sounding like a zombie.
What seemed like a moment later, the dreaded knock came.
"C'mon you two!" It was one of the security guards, a big six-footer [1.80 m] built like a serious weightlifter, "They're waiting for you." Neither boy knew their escort's name.
***
The basement's massive wooden door leading into the antechamber and dungeon-like quarters soon stood before the boys like a portal into hell. Their burly guard knocked on that door.
"I've got them," he said.
"C'mon in," someone said – Mason. He was smiling.
"Glad you could make it, boys!" Both boys distinctly heard a murmur – adult voices – coming from inside.
Once inside, someone closed the huge door, hard. Squeaky hinges, a slam. No escape now, as if there'd ever been a way out. Immediately, the miscreants took stock of their surroundings. The room was too bright, the fluorescents a harsh glare. Both boys couldn't help squinting.
"Welcome to the antechamber," a strange stocky man said. He wore a vest and a bowtie among his fine attire; an antique monocle decorated his left eye. Rich vaguely recognized this peculiar man; he'd seen him from a distance around the school once or twice.
'Mr. Mueller, I presume,' he thought but didn't say. Tom had never laid eyes on Mueller and so just briefly glanced in his direction. The slightly younger boy perceived the room itself. Spacious and modern, it contained several nice leather comfortable chairs, a big screen color television with a videocassette recorder, a black suede leather sofa, and canvas soft-backed director's chairs. The chairs, all mauve, the color of blood, were arranged like a theatre's seats in rows – butt-perches for three, six, nine adults – most of whom he unfortunately knew – Mason, Taylor, Mueller, Reilly, Cousins, 'Doc' Thompson, Graves, and also, Mrs. O'Neill – it had to be her – sickly sweet – perfume – an odor combined with a person that Rich had so vividly described.
There was an unfamiliar face.
"Mr. Elliott is here to observe, everyone. He'll be with us all weekend – until the conclusion of these proceedings," Mr. Taylor said. Both boys wondered what he was doing here – and why.
Rich noticed security people ringing the room's perimeter – at least three or four men and a woman. All wore blue-gray police-like uniforms with clubs and stun guns attached to their belts and looked deadly serious. The boys wore school uniforms – white dress shirts, brown corduroy pants, brown socks, tight-fitting brown dress shoes and underwear – cotton T-shirts and briefs, as instructed. Everyone seemed to be looking at them – stealing covert glances. Embarrassed, both boys looked up at the ceiling, maybe twenty feet [6 m] up, as if on cue. Painted murals covered every inch of it. Strange scenes, European probably, the Marquis de Sade, ghastly horrors, men and women wearing hoods, dungeons, naked boys being tortured – it was hard to tell what the boys were seeing in the glare but their imaginations ran wild.
Tom happened to glance towards an open doorway just back from the antechamber, a little ways down a hallway – at what looked to be an examination room. Inside was a very wide medical table with round leather straps – probably for a kid's wrists and ankles. But why was the table so wide?
Rich saw all the way to the end of the corridor from where he was standing. At the terminus point stood a second massive wooden door. What was inside that room? Was it a dungeon for bad boys?
Suddenly headmaster Taylor interrupted the boys' reverie.
"Okay. It's time. Shall we begin their orientation?"
Chapter 7
Orientation
Tom and Rich, dressed in their school clothes, were told to sit down on the antechamber's black leather suede sofa and 'get comfortable but not too comfortable' by Headmaster Taylor. A general chuckle tittered through the large room; the captive 13-year-olds only managed sheepish grins.
"Do you know why you're here?" Mr. Taylor asked. The boys said nothing.
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Mueller interjected.
"Answer Mr. Taylor!"
Both boys were sitting on their hands, rigidly, dress shoes placed flat on the shag-carpeted floor. Finally, Richard Hansen spoke, fearing the immediate consequences if he didn't. All eyes in the room stared at this handsome, brown-eyed youngster, the taller of the two runaways, maybe 5'4" or 5'5" [c. 1.65 m] with hair not quite black, very dark brown and trimmed into a bowlcut with neat masculine sideburns. His nose was straight if a bit on the snub side; his teeth were mostly straight and pearly white. A few freckles, not many, dotted his cheekbones.
"We're b-being p-punished, sir!" he managed.
"For what offense?" Mueller inquired, as if beginning an interrogation.
"Running away!"
Mueller shifted his gaze to the other boy, Thomas Bridges.
"And you?" All eyes were on Tom now – slightly shorter, maybe 5' or 5'1" [c. 1.55 m] and maybe six or eight pounds [c. 3 kg] lighter. Everyone noticed his intense hazel eyes and straw blonde locks; his hairstyle was straight laced, cut short above the ears, no sideburns like his friend's. Two of his incisors were sharply pointed – one on each side of his often laughing mouth. He was generally a good-natured boy. Except for the slight dental flaw, which some people might even consider an attribute, he was remarkably attractive for a boy. Tom was without facial freckles, but seemed to possess a small brown mole or birthmark on the side of his neck. Perhaps he has other birthmarks, Mueller mused.
"Same thing!" he said.
"Are you sorry that you tried to escape your home here at Stevens?"
This query provoked a mild outburst from the boys, mingled with theatrics as if on cue.
"Yes! Yes! We're sorry! We'll never do it again. Just don't punish us. Please don't!" Tears started coursing down their cheeks, part crocodile, and part genuine.
"Quit it with the waterworks!" That was Mr. Graves, the macho black guy who looked a little like a pro basketball player, "No need for those kind of shenanigans at this point. Control yourselves. You placed yourself in this position. If you hadn't acted like little punks and tried to run away, none of this would be happening."
"Well said, Mr. Graves," said Mr. Taylor.
Rich thought there was about to be a burst of applause or something. Instead, nobody said anything until Taylor spoke again.
"Shall we show Thomas and Richard the videotape?"
The tape, which sort of laid out the general procedures to be followed, was titled Absconding From Stevens School. Neither boy had ever seen anything like it on television – or even bundled into the most violent videogame. The boys were allowed to view the twenty-minute tape in privacy, as the adults, except for a silent security guard standing by the massive exit door, took a brief break.
***
The tape opened with an American flag waving in the breeze, paired with an exterior shot of the Stevens façade, then switched to a scene of a boy sitting on the same black sofa. He was clothed in the familiar dress code, about their age, and also looked remorseful. With the adults mostly gone, the boys became a bit more relaxed, and offered a running commentary to each other as the 'movie' progressed. The narrator had a deep masculine voice – like somebody famous they'd never heard of. The music was mostly bits of muzak modulating up and down in pitch depending upon what was happening onscreen.
"So, you're about to be punished for absconding?" the deep voice intoned, "Absconding means to go away secretly – especially after wrongdoing. Did you abscond from your home at Stevens?"
Rich couldn't help laughing at first.
"This is lame, this is so-o lame. Our freaking HOME at Stevens," he couldn't help blurting.
"At least you've learned a new word," Tom giggled.
"Shut up, stupid."
Soon, very soon, the images and narration grew more frightening. Following a bit about the school's history – 1929, 34 boys caught 'absconding' etc. – they started getting into stuff that mattered to the boys – scary stuff.
"Doctor Thompson will examine you. Prior to your first punishments – he will examine you in this room with everyone present. That includes every invited adult – security detail, punishment detail, or perhaps an invited weekend guest. To determine your capacity to endure pain safely, he must be very thorough and perform some tests that you may never have experienced with your family physician." The narrator spoke slowly, enunciating each and every word.
"Holy shit! Does that mean naked? With everybody gawking at us? Even that Mrs. O'Neill?"
"Probably," said Rich, matter-of-factly, "I wouldn't doubt it. This is going to really suck."
"Doc Thompson didn't examine me with all my clothes off the day I came here. Just down to underwear and socks. He did squeeze my balls through my briefs, had me cough, but I got to keep my underwear and socks. Maybe it won't be that embarrassing."
"Same with me."
"You may have entered puberty. Often boys to be punished are given the choice of taking a test involving ejaculation in order to lessen or even eliminate their punishment ordeal. But this is a privilege that must be approved by both the headmaster and the chief of security operations," the narrator intoned seriously.
"There may be a way out – but it involves cumming – maybe into a jar or something. I could do that," Tom mused aloud.
"I'd be surprised if you can cum," Rich teased.
"If I do, you get to eat it, dickhead," Tom retorted.
"Ewwh, gross! What do you think I am – a homo like you?"
"Will you shut the fuck up? I didn't mean it."
The narrator continued.
"If you take the test and pass, you will either begin a lesser penalty phase or you will be exonerated and allowed to return immediately to your quarters upstairs."
"Kewl," they both said simultaneously. Added Tom, "If we get a chance, we should take that test."
"Maybe," Rich said, "Shh!"
"If you refuse to take the test, or if you happen to fail the test, your punishments and painful procedures will commence immediately – and a slight but significant degree of severity will be added to your ordeal."
"Duh!"
"Shut up! Will ya dude?" Rich was getting annoyed again.
"Although you will be expected to endure considerable and sometimes excruciating pain, you might be relieved to know that the school is not allowed to inflict permanent physical injuries on your body. In fact, we at the Alexander X. Stevens School are participants in a little-known federal program – I'm sorry – details are classified 'top secret' – that will use the results of your 'pain threshold' procedures to help save the lives of soldiers and government agents who may be captured by an enemy of our great nation."
"Oh, yeah, that really makes me relieved. Whoop-de-dew."
Rich gave Tom about his millionth dirty look – a withering glance.
"Burning, cutting, and whipping, inserting harsh substances into orifices or other means to be decided, will cause pain."
"While some punishments and procedures are mandatory, sometimes you will be allowed to choose what is inflicted on your body, and how. If you make the correct choice, you might escape considerable discomfort."
Most of the time, the picture on the screen was of the clothed boy just sitting on the couch. But now he was shown undressing, and finally nude. A new sequence began that localized where the pain might occur on the 'absconding' bodies of delinquent boys.
"While none of our pain-causing punishments and procedures may be considered torture, because torture is not the 'Stevens way,' they will be inflicted on the most sensitive areas of your body."
"Oh my God!" Rich was rapidly progressing into terrified mode, and Tom wasn't far behind.
"With most boys, sensitive areas include but are not limited to your back and shoulders."
An appropriate photo of a boy being flogged on his back and shoulders was shown.
"Your behind, including the anus area."
"Your legs – including thighs, inner thighs, back of knees, shins, calves, and ankles."
"Your feet – especially the soles have many sensitive nerve endings, but also your toes and between your toes, and under your toenails."
"The palms of your hands, and also your fingers and fingernails."
"Your stomach and chest, and along your sides near your rib cage."
"Your nipples can be extremely sensitive if properly stimulated."
"Your testicles – you have two ballsacks in your groin and scrotum area that we refer to. Did you know that your penis – especially the underside and glans meatus – and inside your penis where a little tube called your urethra extends all the way to your bladder – all these places contain a multitude of sensitive nerve endings."
"A multitude," Rich echoed, horrified.
Somehow, there were other sensitive places.
"Your teeth – boys needing dental work can get some of it taken care of during their punishment weekend – only without Novocain."
"Your ears, and inside your ears."
"Your tongue."
An appropriate image accompanied every sensitive spot on the boy's body that the video depicted. Sound effects included the boy screaming who had been featured.
By the time the adults returned, both boys were shaking in their shoes.
"Did you enjoy our little video?" Mason asked.
Chapter 8
Exams
The boys have an opportunity to pass a 'little test' in order to escape their punishments. They decide to 'go' for it!
The black Friday evening continued for both boys. In fact, the worst parts were just beginning.
"Do you absconders have any questions about the video?" Mr. Taylor said softly. Taylor's bushy eyebrows wiggled as he spoke, for some strange reason, this mannerism – the absurd nature of it – struck Rich funny.
"The nerve of that kid," hissed the despotic Mueller.
"Is something funny? I wouldn't be too jovial if I were you," Taylor warned. But even in these circumstances, his voice failed to carry a menacing edge. It was almost a lilt.
Rich bit his lip to keep from laughing. Tom caught the contagion – and smiled.
"They don't seem very worried," remarked the repulsive Mrs. O'Neill.
"Do you have any questions about the video?" repeated headmaster Taylor.
Tom surmised that questions about the video, and lots of them, could serve as a delaying tactic. He'd watched a television episode of Hogan's Heroes once.
"The program mentioned kids being punished were also helping the government – some kind of experiment maybe? CIA?"
Everyone in the room nodded in a reverent, deferential sort of way. Tom might as well have uttered the secret name of God. The silence was weird.
"CIA?" the 7th grader repeated.
"Yes, but it's top secret – ultra-classified. Project MISHNA has been going on since the early 1970s," Mr. Mason, volunteered. He liked to talk about classified stuff – it titillated him, made him feel important.
"Do you think we should tell them everything?" Mueller said. It sounded almost like a rebuke. He was clearly irritated. Loose lips sink ships, he thought. But it wasn't his call.
"Pain-threshold experiments? Involving just kids being punished at Stevens?" Rich asked. He tried to sound eager, but not too eager. He was catching the drift – maybe if they could keep it up asking questions all weekend, maybe they wouldn't get punished at all.
Taylor felt obliged to respond.
"I think they deserve to know – considering what they'll be enduring. The Russians started it. During the peak of the Cold War. They used thousands of kids – boys 11 to 15 – orphans mostly – some kidnapped from poor families. It wasn't long before they realized that this age group and gender had the most sensitive – and therefore useful – pain thresholds. When Bush the elder became interim CIA Director, our country was put in the position where we had to obtain the same kind of data just to keep up.
"What exactly is a pain threshold?" Rich asked.
"What was the data needed for?" Tom cajoled.
"Where did they get the kids?" Rich kept the ball rolling.
"Please, please boys! So many questions!" Taylor had never faced this tactic. Blindsided, he felt compelled to satisfy their curiosity. Maybe he could instill some much-needed patriotism in these kids. Some red, white, and true-blue.
Mueller glared. He knew what these two were up to. Impatience settled into the spacious but slightly overheated room like a pall. The adults, and even the security guards, were anxious to get going with what they secretly referred to as 'the festivities'.
"The data, let's just say, consists of baseline bio-medical markers for human pain. In case the enemy captured an agent, or a military special operative, knowing the precise level of pain that can be tolerated – could save an American life. Such data is still useful, extremely so, and we keep improvising, coming up with ingenious new techniques. You're going to be helping our country. Now that's a silver lining, isn't it? Isn't that swell?"
"Yeah swell. But where did the first American experiments get the kids?" Rich repeated.
"Were those pioneer kids all from Stevens? And how 'bout now?" Tom was really in the spirit now. To every adult in the room, except for the gullible Taylor, it was plenty irritating. Tension was brewing.
Mueller and Mason especially, and Graves too, felt like giving both absconders a good smack in the face, closed fist.
But Taylor bit again. Good grief.
"Not just kids from Stevens. We're part of a national program. Thirteen nations are participating – all under the radar of those damned human rights groups. In the old days, up until about 1985, boys on the streets, homeless kids without families, missing kids, kids supposedly kidnapped by strangers – all could end up being impressed into the program. Tens of thousands. The methods were still being perfected in those days. Some boys even gave their lives for their country. Willingly. Gladly."
"Don't you think all this history is just boring them, Mr. Taylor? All these details." Mueller was using another tact to end this charade and get down to business.
Rich seized another pregnant pause – exploited it while thinking 'those poor kids must've been brainwashed'.
"I don't mind being a patriot and all. I'm proud to be from this country, but I don't know if I'm a hero or anything like that," he said. He regretted it the moment he said it. Tom winced, knowing that now the jig was up!
"No, you kids are absconders! That's a far cry from a hero." Mason was really pissed.
"Little punks. Let's get on with this, shall we?" Mr. Graves was going to have to be away from his own kids the entire freaking weekend. He'd be damned if these middle school shit-asses were going to talk their way out of getting their just desserts.
Oops! Rich mused. Better think up something else quick.
"I saw something else in the video. Something about a test we can take?"
All adult eyes in the room brightened under the harsh fluorescents. Tom and Rich were still sitting jauntily on the black suede sofa dressed in their school clothes and holding court, like Christ the juvenile in the temple. Only there were two of them and the tide was swiftly turning.
Mueller was getting into his element. He lived for moments like this – even if he was a family man, and considered himself a red-blooded American male. His eyes seemed to twinkle as HE began interrogating. A trained interrogator interrogating is an awesome thing.
"Richard Hansen. Can you ejaculate yet? In other words, can you cum?" Mueller's stare penetrated straight into Rich's marrow. It was sickening; suddenly beads of nervous sweat broke out on the 8th grader's brow. Several adults including a burly security guard listening couldn't resist amused titters.
"Yes!" The boy was embarrassed and a bit annoyed. After all, he was several months into puberty.
"How many times in succession? Twice? Three times? Can you shoot your sperm three times?"
"I don't know. Maybe twice," he said, but definitely without bravado. Would he have to fucking jerk off in front of all these perverts? Could be worse he thought; if it will cancel the pain stuff, the humiliation might be worth it. He didn't want to suffer through some of the possibilities he saw in that freaking video.
Suddenly Mueller switched to Tom. He didn't go easy. The adults were sensing the momentum – familiar, measured. Like a macabre performance playing out – this was pure Stevens ritual.
"What about you, little man? Can you shoot your spunk yet?"
Tom was sure he could, but he'd just started masturbating only two months before. At home – before his mother had gotten into his diary. It seemed like an eternity ago, and he'd only done it on two or three different days. One time he'd tried to jerk off twice in one night, but his cock had gotten sore.
"Yes," the slightly younger boy answered in a coy fashion, demurely, like a tame boy rabbit.
"I can." He would too, he mused, maybe put on a show if asked. Naked. It was their only chance.
"Unbutton your shirts," said Mr. Reilly. Tom and Rich began to undo their buttons one at a time.
"Take them off." Soon both white dress shirts were discarded and handed to one of the security people – the woman. She had a mousy face with a twisted mouth permanently etched into a sneer.
"Shoes next," said Mr. Taylor. The boys began slowly untying their plastic laces. Once off their feet, the mousy person took their brown shoes. The boys looked down at their own stocking feet.
"Now your socks," said Mrs. O'Neill. Each sock was stripped off to bare their feet, left, right. It felt funny to be barefoot on the thick shag. Comfortable. Even pleasurable. But funny. Tom dug his toes into the fleecy surface out of nervousness. Rich couldn't help flexing his big toes, curling, extending. His toes were slightly longer than Tom's; the feet of both boys appeared healthy despite Reilly's little barefoot games in the snow and ice.
"Unzip your flies, please. Now remove your trousers." That was freaking Mason. Tom and Rich slipped their corduroys off their legs, then sat bolt upright and still as songbirds on the sofa dressed in just their white underwear.
"Stand up, both of you," Thompson said, "It's time to examine you."
The boys stood, obediently. Tom began to get red in the face; Rich was just getting anxious because he was getting a hard-on to end all boners. Both boys had undergone a physical examination on their arrival day, but only down to underwear and not in front of all these people. 'Doc' had squeezed their balls through their briefs, making them cough. Tom and Rich were thinking the exact same thing. In their minds, they again felt the gentle squeeze.
Mueller interrupted their reverie.
"Lose those briefs!" he barked, "Now!"
Once past their fleshy thighs, the briefs slid swiftly down their legs, down to their bare feet.
"Step out of them! Hands on your heads!" Mason again. He seemed to be enjoying this a little too much, Rich thought.
"Feet together! Stand at attention. Perfectly still." Mueller hissed.
Rich worried about his hard-on. It poked straight out from the bottom of his undershirt. If he'd been lying on his back, it'd be a freaking periscope! So embarrassing. He didn't think it could get any harder, but that's when Doc Thompson started feeling him up Hands making gentle little circles beneath his undershirt, the only thing he was wearing! Little circles with warm fingers traced all over his bare belly, his little nipples, his armpits, along his ribs, and then he lifted the undershirt to play with his cock and balls with everybody watching, he pulled his cock out, holding it by the cockhead, pulling it away from his body until the little tugs began to hurt. Rich uttered a little grunt. But the attention was starting to feel good, real good. Then the good doctor stopped, started in on Tom, "Oh my gosh!" the nearly naked boy thought. Soon he had a boner too.
"We can continue this in the examination rooms, start in with the first little punishments too," he said, "I think they'll both do fine. Let's get started."
Every adult began to move toward the examination rooms; both boys were being pushed along.
But they'd only taken a step or two when Rich glanced in the direction of Examination Room A – the one with the door ajar that was closest to the antechamber. Now he saw the extra-wide table with the straps perfectly. Length and width-wise, it was ideal to contain and secure a naked spread-eagled boy. Room B was still hidden, just out of sight.
"What about the tests?' Rich said with a bit of a frantic edge.
"If we can pass 'em, then maybe we won't be punished after all, or at least maybe not so much."
"But if you fail them – or decide not to attempt them – it'll go even worse for you!" Mason taunted.
He was a bad man, Tom thought, a very bad man. He didn't like Mason even a little bit. But it was time for a smile even if it was a desperate one.
"Yeah, what about those tests? You're supposed to at least let us know what they are. Do you want us to jerk off for everybody? I'd be willing to do that," Tom said, a little too loudly.
Everybody in the room laughed. Both boys wondered why. They didn't have to wonder long. The fluorescents flickered as if the lights were laughing too.
Mueller broke the titters with a dose of reality.
"Okay, so you want to try the tests? You – come over here!" He motioned to Tom to kneel on the sofa, but with his bare feet hanging over the arm of it. Two pairs of hands held Tom's feet steady by the ankles so he didn't immediately topple over. Rich was told to stand right up on the sofa's leather cushions facing his friend. Next, Tom was told to lift up his friend's undershirt with one hand. Rich's circumcised cock was only inches from Tom's face. It was rock hard and dripping a single glistening drop of pre-cum from the peehole at the tip. There were quite a few darkish pubes around the base of his friend's penis, and the thing was about 5 inches [13 cm] long, not too thick. He could see the bluish veins running like tributaries all along it.
"C'mon!" It sounded like a general chorus.
"What? Tom cried.
Rich didn't believe this was happening. Are they going to make him suck me off? That'd be so queer! "I don't think I like this," he blurted.
"Shut up!" Another chorus.
"You will soon enough!"
"It didn't seem to bother you boys much in your bedroom at night after lights out – all those foot massages – we've never had boys do foot massages on each other before you two," Mueller taunted, "and even biting each other's toenails! We know all about your bedtime antics – you bet we do!"
Both boys wondered how anybody could know that – their most private things. How could they – unless their room was bugged or something.
"Did you bug our room Mr. Mueller?" Rich asked innocently. He was past being mortified at this stage.
"All of the inmates' rooms are under surveillance," Graves blurted, "This isn't a resort, you know."
"They don't know the rules," Mason opined.
"Okay, it's like this. To complete the test satisfactorily, it's pretty straightforward. Like a little contest, really, except that you both have to tie. Tom, you give your friend Richard a nice bj, he cums in your mouth, you open your mouth to show everybody that he indeed came, then you swallow his jizz. Then you trade places, Rich kneeling, and you standing on the sofa, and he does you. Three times each, you each spurt and swallow three times, you both win. Three healthy ejaculations each. Simple. But if either of you fails to cum satisfactorily, or only pee comes out, or if either of you fails to come when it's your turn, game over, you both lose. Of course, if you don't want to do this, nobody's going to force you. But you know what that means."
"One more thing, you are allowed to do anything with your hands to keep your friend, let's just say – excited."
Tom was still staring at his friend's aroused penis. It was almost daring him to do this. But if Rich didn't want to, he understood. True, this was a real homo thing to do. Except these were special circumstances, and who among people he cared about would know? Who would care really? Except for Rich of course. It would sure feel good. He'd often joked about giving and getting blowjobs. It was their only chance. Extremely embarrassing and humiliating, yes. After a moment or so of indecision, Tom's only real concern was the pragmatic question. Could he cum in Rich's mouth three times in a row when it was HIS turn? What if Rich couldn't do it? Never in a million years did Tom think he'd ever be faced with a situation like this. Never! It was awful, but kind of exciting too. At least his cock wouldn't be too sore – unless Rich used his teeth too much. Maybe it was all a trick and this was really a punishment and they were going to make Rich bite his cock when it was his turn to be sucked – maybe.
"Okay, I guess the boys don't want to do this," Mrs. O'Neill said.
That made up their minds, especially Rich's.
"Well, just don't look at it," he said, "Start sucking! C'mon just do it!"
Tom tentatively bent his head closer, licked the little drop of pre-cum out of Rich's pee-slit, started licking around the sensitive glans. That was all Tom did for awhile, it felt spongy, but it wasn't stinky, it smelled faintly of soap, but didn't taste like soap.
Rich was loving it, it felt great, super, but then he wanted more, started getting into it, partly because he realized the stakes.
"C'mon, all the way in, all the way in, let me tickle your tonsils, boy. Suck harder will you! C'mon harder!" Rich was soon fucking Tom's mouth to beat the band. It took a few minutes, but soon Rich spurted like a geyser – once, twice, three times, four times, powerful spurts gradually getting weaker.
"See, he just came!" Yelled Tom excitedly, "A lot!"
They changed places. Four pairs of hands grasped Rich's feet by the ankles, Tom stood on the sofa. Rich gently tickled Tom's stomach and sides with his fingers, then around his friend's cock and balls and the inside of his thighs to get him hard. Then Rich started in with his tongue action, flicking around the head, licking all around Tom's balls and even under his balls toward his prostate. Tom's circumcised penis was smaller than his, a perfect cylinder and about four inches [10 cm] hard; he had only a few sparse blond pubic hairs around the base if you looked hard enough to see them in the harsh light.
"C'mon Rich! Suck me good!" Tom cried. Then a moment later, "Easy with the teeth!" But he needn't have worried. Rich was an expert at this, however dubious the profession. Within about two-and-half-minutes, Tom came a copious amount, his best production ever so early in his sexual life. Rich showed his semen-filled mouth, and as instructed by Doctor Thompson, swallowed every drop.
Ten minutes later, boys had managed to cum again, less copious amounts, but they COUNTED, and now it seemed easy. A cinch. Two ejaculations down and only one to go. Under slightly different circumstances, this would have pleased each boy enormously. In a way they were proving their manliness – they were little studs. And under pressure too. So much pressure.
Unbelievable pressure, Rich mused. Tom licked and sucked, sucked hard, but suddenly the contest took a turn, became ominous. No pre-cum. Five minutes, seven minutes, nothing. Rich was barely even hard, Tom thought. Uh-oh. Uh-oh.
Rich was totally ashamed. Devastated. Why couldn't I do it? He screamed to himself. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. He began to cry.
"I can do it – again!" Tom offered. But it was no use.
"Get those tops off and let's get you set up in the examination rooms," Thompson said.
Tom was crying real tears now too. Bawling his head off. So was Rich. But five minutes later, they were all set for the next phase – Tom in 'A' – Rich in 'B'.
Chapter 9
Room Service
The boys finally discover that absconding from this harsh reform school will exact a terrible price and is decidedly unpleasant.
They'd had to drag the boys into the examination rooms, kicking and screaming. The security personnel had helped accomplish this necessity, fastening Tom to the wide exam table in Room A, and Rich to the similar table in Room B – just across the narrow hallway, only a few feet away. Both boys had somewhat noticed Exam Room C as well – a big sign clearly marked that cubicle – but its door was closed since it wasn't currently in use. There was also that ominous door – a huge latched entrance at the end of the hall leading into the most dreaded part of the basement, a place known as 'the dungeon'. The boys would get to know the confines of that infamous chamber before too long, as part of an ordeal they would not soon forget.
For now, the subterranean rooms were strangely quiet. The adults had taken a break from 'the festivities' for the moment, although Tom and Rich realized their captors might return at any moment. The silence extended to the large antechamber – with the sofa and the VCR and the murals painted on the ceiling – where lights had been turned off to save electricity. Only in the exam rooms were lights kept on.
"Hey Rich, you okay?" Tom said softly. It felt funny lying naked on the white covering, it was like a hospital matting, rubbery with a thin sheet on top, probably great for soaking up a kid's blood. He was spread-eagled, looking up at the white blank of a ceiling. His arms were outstretched flat above his head and secured to each opposing end by the wrists with the same thick strap-like fastenings that bound his ankles. The fastenings felt like Velcro, though a lot stronger – probably some kind of leather. The position itself – on his back like he was – was comfortable for the time being, although it would allow those bastards to punish any part of his body – from his blonde hair on his head to his chest and belly and 'privates' down to his toes. He was stretched out pretty good but it wasn't like a medieval rack tearing his joints apart. He couldn't sit up but he could move his head about ten inches [25 cm] up from the table before his shoulders began hurting and the fastenings became restricting. He could turn his head from side-to-side. The light was 'less' annoying. Another fluorescent panel made it bright, but it wasn't quite the glare experienced in the antechamber. Against an interior wall was a long shelf-like structure with various instruments and equipment neatly arranged. He could barely make out a short little whip – and a birch or bamboo cane – and what looked like an assortment of needles and pliers and Q-tips and bottles – all of which he imagined might somehow be causing him pain soon. Part of him wanted to get this over with – part of him was scared shitless. Turning his head a little to the right, he could make out the light across the hall where his friend was, although he couldn't quite make out Rich.
"Shh! I'll bet they've got these rooms bugged too! They'll hear whatever we say even if they have to play it back. I'm sure of it." Rich was in precisely Tom's predicament. Room B, even the Velcro-like straps securing him on his back to the table, was identical in every particular.
"I don't care if they hear us. What the heck does it matter at this point? We're screwed!"
"Guess you're right," Rich said. Inexplicably, he started laughing.
"What the fuck is so funny?"
"I've – got – got a hard-on." He burst out laughing again.
"Now you get one!" Tom was getting ready to expound on that point, when the boys heard the adults returning.
"Shit! They're back."
Rich was lying on his back in Room B, quivering in anticipation of what would soon be happening to him. Doctor Thompson was smiling, dressed in his white physician's smock, putting on his plastic gloves.
"Just relax, lie back, I'm going to check you out real good. Finish what we started in the other room." Mason was there in the room too, as was Graves and the repulsive Mrs. O'Neill and a security guard – 6'4" [1.93 m] 220 pounds [100 kg] – heavy set – mid-30s, bald guy with a crew cut.
"Open your mouth." Rich complied. Doc felt around with his gloved fingers inside the 8th grader's mouth.
"I think he's got a cavity – one of his left front teeth – we'll let Mueller drill that one later – he's got some dental experience. I'm sure he'll enjoy that." There was a murmur of agreement.
"No!" Rich thought, and almost said aloud, biting his lip to stop himself. He knew there'd be no Novocain. Someone else entered the room.
"Oh, Mr. Briggs, the photographer."
"You guys going to take pictures of me – like this?" Rich said.
"It's required – before, during, and after the procedures," Doc said, "Birthday suit specials."
"I'll just stay long enough to get a series of this guy for Uncle Sam," Briggs said. Rich didn't see the man very well, but he sounded brusque, efficient, like he was very used to taking pictures of naked boys. Rich saw a flash, the whirring of a camera shutter. Once, twice, three times – shots taken from different angles.
"Don't mind me," Briggs said.
Rich didn't, mostly because Doc's fingers were palpating the sides of his neck, his shoulders, his arms, then something cold, metal, pressed against the boy's left nipple. The blades of a pair of tweezers squeezed hard.
"Yeowh!" he screamed. Several adults laughed.
"He's sensitive on his nipples!" remarked Mrs. O'Neill.
"Guess so," said Doc, "I'm going to squeeze your right one now, Richard. Get ready."
"Please d-don't. Nooo!"
"Sorry. Have to." The cruel tweezers closed on the boy's sensitive right nipple.
"Owwwh! That hurt so bad."
"Didn't get a good read that time. I'll have to do that one again." Titters broke out in the room.
"No! Yeowh!"
A few minutes later, Rich felt a sharp needle scratching along his ribs on his right side.
"Owwh! That hurts too." But Doc ignored him. Soon the needle was scratching the skin along Rich's left rib area, then in several diagonal lines on his bare belly.
"Scratch samples are going well on this guy," Doc remarked to the adults present. Doc pinched the boy's skin in several places with a pair of pliers. Chest, belly, sides, pelvic area.
"Owwh," Rich screamed for the first time, really screamed, when that attention got to be too much. The door was closed, so Tom heard his friend's screams slightly muffled.
"What are they freaking doing to you in there?" Tom yelled. But he got no answer, and was already starting to sweat. Soon it would be his turn.
It was already Rich's turn, and the initial examination for 'sensitivity to pain' was progressing down his body. Rich felt the touch of the needle again, this time on his scrotum. The bastard just stabbed him in the left nut! "Yeowh!" Then squeezed him hard there with the gloved fingers! "You bastard!" Rich yelled.
"Shut up little punk! You show respect for the doctor, boy!" Graves said, "I think you should do a second squeeze on his testicle just to teach the little punk a lesson."
"Have to stick him again with the needle first," Thompson replied. This time Rich just whimpered, although tears were running down his face. The squeeze came again, and soon the boy's right testicle got the same treatment. Suddenly it got much worse as Mrs. O'Neill edged in closer to watch the action. Rich felt the cruel needle scratch the underside of his penis, then two scratches, fairly deep, on his sensitive circumcised glans.
"Ewwh!" The boy was sobbing, his breath coming in gasping heaves.
"I can't believe that the boy is still maintaining an erection," Mrs. O'Neill remarked rather clinically. It quickly got worse. After some alcohol was dabbed on all the scratches, which stung quite a bit, the first Q-tip was soaked generously with alcohol. Like a biting insect finding a home, the cotton swab began circling around the piss-slit on the head of the 8th grader's penis, and then it entered, finally, after several passes.
"Oh no! That kills! That kills! Take it out Doc, please!" The alcohol was burning the inside of Rich's urethra, and Thompson twirled the Q-tip around slowly just past the entrance, coating the inside of the cock a little at a time, pushing in deeper, taking it out, but slowly, so that the burning sensation was excruciating, and finally when the Q-tip was embedded to the hilt, more than two inches [5 cm], he picked up a second Q-tip, soaked it liberally with alcohol.
"I have to stretch out his urethra a bit," he said to those present.
"How many do you think he'll be able to take?" Mrs. O'Neill asked, fascinated by the physician's technique.
"Oh, I think at least three, maybe four," Thompson said.
"It burns, it burns!" Rich screamed out. When there were four alcohol-soaked Q-tips lodged entirely inside the 13-year-old's penis, they were just left there for a while as the 'sensitivity examination' continued unabated. The needle kept scratching, searching for sensitive places – after the inside of his thighs were scratched appropriately, the pliers were used to pinch the soft fleshy spots on his legs. The tweezers came into play again to pluck out several pubic hairs and surprisingly, sudden actions with the tweezers hurt even worse when Thompson efficiently plucked out several hairs growing out of Rich's big toes. After that, Thompson used the needle on the sensitive soles of Rich's feet, making superficial but painful scratches along his ball and instep and the underside of each toe, remarking 'lots of nerve endings on a boy's feet' as everyone quietly assented except Rich, and then he went back up to the boy's penis to finish up the young inmate's front side. Rich grimaced and grunted as Thompson yanked the Q-tips out, one by one, and when they were gone he began inserting something else into the boy's piss-slit, a small-bore sharp-edged flat plastic stirring straw, about two inches [5 cm] long, to get additional urethra scrapings.
"Just need a few more samples, son," Thompson kept saying as Rich was in excruciating pain, shaking his head from side to side, sobbing, as the awful man held his penis up with one hand while he used the sharp little straw to scratch and probe with the other. The motions were mostly vertical along the walls of Rich's urethra and very thorough, and these seemed to take forever.
Finally, when that part was over, Mr. Briggs took a few more pictures, and then several pairs of hands came to turn Rich over on his stomach so that the requisite procedures could begin on his back side. Thankfully, before those could commence, the dreadful entourage departed. They were on their way back to Examination Room 'A' where more tender ministrations awaited Tom.
Chapter 10
More Festivities
The preliminaries are almost over for young Tom in this final section before the real punishments commence.
Tom, the unfortunate 7th grader, lay in a vulnerable position on the wide table in Examination Room 'A'. Naked, spread-eagled, on his stomach, 'Doc' Thompson was finishing up with the sensitivity tests. Many of these tests were painful, some excruciatingly so. None were officially considered punishments.
"Wait until your punishments begin!" Mueller remarked to the well-secured boy, alluding to this fact.
"You're a crazy bastard!" Tom cried.
"Actually, I'm quite rational," Mueller said, "and I know precisely who my parents are."
During the next half hour, the school physician, being quite methodical and indifferent to what he was doing, continued with the tests.
Pinching the boy's bare skin using pliers, for instance, with careful comparisons noted between heated pliers and a non-heated instrument. Tom could certainly tell the difference. He was instructed to indicate 'hot' or 'cold' based on what the good doctor was using to create results.
"Hot!" Tom screamed, when a microwave-warmed pair of pliers grabbed a fold of skin along his left side, near his lower back, and pinched hard. Another exercise involved something that resembled a garden tool shoved up into his sensitive anus – with his legs spread so wide and several pairs of hands spreading his butt cheeks – that was extremely unpleasant.
"Owwh! What the heck is that?"
"Good! Excellent reaction, boy," Thompson said.
Scrapings with a sharp needle were used in many sensitive places on Tom's bare skin also. But just after Thompson had obtained several new samples by scratching the soles of Tom's feet, Mr. Mason had a bright idea.
"Why not give Tom a preliminary bastinado now – just a taste of it – to see how he reacts?" he said.
"What's a bastinado?" Tom asked, his voice more of a whimper.
"It's like a spanking on the soles of your feet," said Mrs. O'Neill.
Tom could see her standing next to the table; he was about level with her bulging midriff from where he was lying, a purple pantsuit from which emanated that hideous perfume she always wore.
Thompson didn't want a bastinado – even a trial one – performed on the boy's feet – out of sequence.
"We usually don't begin punishments until we get into the dungeon routine," he told Mr. Mason.
Mr. Cousins agreed.
"There's no good reason to start that stuff now – you already have a pretty good idea about how sensitive the soles of Tom's feet are," he pleaded.
"Are you getting soft on these kids?" Graves asked, "You wouldn't want this one in bed with you – to feel him up or something?" Graves came just short of calling Cousins a faggot to his face, but thought better of it. He knew his kind all too well, and he'd just had his say. Graves was just waiting for Cousins to give him a proper challenge, so he might haul off and pop the pervert one – right in the chops.
In fact, a boy like Tom would be better off with a sexual encounter, even with a pederast, than to have to endure what he would be facing this weekend, Cousins mused. The man with the Nazi-style wire-rim spectacles but blessed with a kindly heart almost took up the gauntlet with Graves and the rest of those sadistic heteros, if that's what they truly were, right then and there – but at the last second he thought better of it.
"I won't even dignify that with a reply," he said to Graves.
By now, Thompson was swayed anyhow.
"Oh, all right!" he said, "Just to stop this arguing – we'll give him a few licks with the proper instrument."
Lying there on his stomach, Tom could only imagine what the 'proper instrument' was.
He was about to find out. He heard a draw opening, probably just beneath that shelf he'd observed, and something being removed.
Soon Doctor Thompson showed him what it was.
"We call this implement 'The Rod' – it won't tickle," he said. The boy looked at the cruel ping-pong paddle – a round piece of flat wood with little holes in it attached to a handle for easier striking. The 'business end' of the 2-foot [60 cm] long implement – guaranteed to raise blisters after about 20 strokes on an exposed boy's sole – was about ½ inch [1½ cm] thick. A sturdy plastic brace was brought up onto the table after Mueller had unfastened the straps on Tom's ankles. This handy device had indentations – two of them – for placing and securing a boy's knees. Tom's legs, bent at the knees, were soon secured into this harness – although it left his bare feet about four inches [10 cm] apart and with soles exposed, raised into the air – perfect fleshy targets for striking.
"Keep those feet as still as possible," Thompson said, "I'm going to try and apply the strokes evenly from the bottom of your heels to the bottoms of your toes, 15 strokes on each foot, but if you move, and I catch you on an ankle or if I don't get a clean hit on the precise location I'm aiming for, you WILL get the stroke over. Understood?"
Tom knew that this would hurt a lot – even if it didn't 'quite' count for a punishment. Although the examination on his ventral side hadn't yet begun, Thompson had already made several shallow scratches with the needle on Tom's soles, especially along his insteps and on the fleshy ball of each of his feet, some of the little cuts had bled slightly, and the mere thought of a paddle working the bottoms of his feet while they were in that condition terrified the boy.
"Please sir," he said, "Can't you listen to Mr. Cousins?"
Every adult in the small examination room flashed Cousins another glare.
"See what you started?" Mr. Taylor said to Cousins.
Anyway, it was no use.
"Understood boy?" Thompson repeated.
Tom whimpered when he replied, "Yes!" Then he braced himself not knowing exactly what to expect. Burying his head into a small pillow that someone had just provided, it was soft, that pillow, like the kind he remembered from trips he'd taken with his family on commercial passenger jets. He kept whimpering in a steady cadence while imagining his left foot shaking slightly from fear. It dangled above the rest of his naked body.
Mr. Thompson nodded to the others in the room, but he didn't smile, although a few in the room – such as Mr. Mason – did. Placing the rod over Tom's left sole, he drew back and thwack – Tom let out a howl when contact was made. The same procedure, waiting, a measured blow, delivered about ten seconds later to the bare right foot.
"Yeowh!" Tom screamed, "Please stop it! Please!" as the second stroke hit the flesh pad first on the left, then the right. Tom's soles were already stinging, and the entreaties continued, the pain was sharp each time, like a pulse traveling all the way up his leg, as if a red-hot poker had been applied. By the tenth strokes, the boy was openly sobbing. By the fifteenth, his soles were reddened and tiny blisters were beginning to form, but a thwack on his right ankle and the side of his left instep, and another on a moving big toe, all were extremely painful but needed to be repeated; the 7th grader was obliged to receive 18 strokes on each foot. Before he was turned over for more ministrations, alcohol was liberally rubbed into his soles, this stung in a few raw spots – he cried again when Mr. Mason and Mrs. O'Neill couldn't resist palpating his very sore feet – it seemed they continued for several minutes as if to torment him even after the blonde hazel-eyed 13-year-old had been spread-eagled and secured flat on his back and the device to lift his feet into the air had been mercifully removed from the wide table. Once people stopped touching his feet, they didn't hurt so much, and it was more tolerable. Tom even got to keep the small pillow. But the same treatment that Rich had received on his front now became Tom's trial.
More pinching with pliers on his chest and belly, the needle prospecting for samples too, the sharp blades of tweezers squeezed shut on his nipples and then his genitals getting attention, Tom felt the sharp needle stabbing his left nut and then the right after an agonizing pause, the cruel needle scratching the underside of his penis, another stab deep into the head of his penis causing a sudden louder than usual scream, then alcohol was dabbed on all the places where the needle had gone, and finally a meandering cotton-swab prefacing the first invasion of Tom's piss-slit.
"No! Please! I hope you're not doing what I think you're doing!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, and then Mueller came over and slapped his face hard and told him to "Tone it down! Stop being a baby!" When Tom did quiet and begin softly sobbing out of pure fear, there was an audible sigh of relief in the room as the danger to adult eardrums eased.
But only temporarily, as when Tom felt the first alcohol-soaked Q-tip slowly snake into his pee-hole, around the inner edges at first, but gradually penetrating deeper into his urethra, making the inside of his cock develop an excruciating burning sensation, worked slowly, expertly, if such a thing can be said, "Yeowh! Doc – get that thing out of my cock! Take it out – I beg you!" Tom was sobbing now, but after the first Q-tip was embedded to the hilt, about two inches [5 cm], it was required that they stretch the kid's urethra, and so a second was gradually worked in to the 7th grader's cock, and finally a third.
"Will we try four? Four's the magic number," Mrs. O'Neill quipped, "Richard was able to take four."
But no, not this time.
"He's not quite so flexible in there," Thompson said, "I think we'll stop at three." Tom breathed a sigh of relief at that, even more so when after they checked Tom's big toes for hairs and only found a few very silky tiny ones and plucked those with the tweezers, Thompson than yanked out the Q-tips all at once – all three "Thank you, doc," the boy said. Alas, a few minutes later, his penis was held up again and a straw was inserted into Tom's pee-hole the same way it had occurred with Rich, a similar small-bore (1/8th inch [3 mm] diameter) sharp-edged flat hard plastic stirring straw – gradually this object was inserted the full two inches [5 cm] in order to obtain additional urethra scrapings. As with his friend, Tom soon learned that these ministrations with the sharp little straw – such a common object used to stir hot drinks like coffee or cocoa – but also quite efficient when employed for this diabolical purpose.
"Almost done, keep still, stop moving around so much, it can't hurt that much," Thompson cooed, but Tom was sobbing again as the awful man was gently holding his cock with his index finger and thumb in one hand while continuing to dig around with the straw, probing very slowly and thoroughly inside his sensitive urethra with the other, like a dental technician methodically cleaning the inside surfaces of teeth. Tom couldn't believe that anything done to him could hurt so much.
"Please, when are you going to be done with this torture?" Tom finally blurted.
"We don't use that word at Stevens, son!" Mr. Taylor gently chided, "What you're experiencing is just a necessary procedure."
"When are you going to be finished with this procedure?" Tom choked out with a dry heave sob.
Finally, it was over, and Mr. Briggs took a few more pictures, he'd been taking them all along "Don't mind me. I'm just a fly on the wall!" he joked in his amiable manner.
After Rich experienced a bit more preliminary attention, including the same bastinado that Tom had received with the paddle, 15 strokes on each of his sensitive soles, there was a another brief coffee break for the adults. Once again, the lights were turned off, except for the Examination Rooms, and the boys were left alone. This time, they weren't even secured.
You're both free to walk around for a few minutes inside this basement area," Mr. Mueller said, "Would you like us to bring you back a nice soft drink?"
"In fact, I would encourage you both to walk around so that your feet don't swell up," Mr. Taylor added, "When we come back, we'll start them off with their punishments in the dungeon," he said more softly to Mr. Mueller and Mr. Thompson. Tom and Rich, sharp-eared lads, happened to overhear that grim edict.
Chapter 11
Dungeon Time
The dungeon is a terrible place to be.
Like he was in a trance, Tom lay on the wide table in Examination Room 'A' on his back staring at the ceiling. While he was no longer secured at the wrists and ankles and could move about freely, he was almost afraid to. He certainly didn't want to get up and chance walking on those already punished feet. They didn't hurt that much while he was prone, but he suspected they'd feel hellish once any pressure was put on them. The lights were on, but just in the examination rooms. Suddenly, Tom heard a dull thud, a soft and almost defiant "Yeowh" – and the pitter-patter of his friend's bare feet.
A naked Rich was peering down at him. Standing straight up, he must've been hurting, or at least a little sore in some places. Wincing, the slightly elder of the runaways forced a smile.
"Whatcha doing?" he said. Tom couldn't help cracking a smile, since his friend's mannerisms, if not his actual words, reminded the 7th grader of Bugs Bunny glibly saying, "Ah what's up Doc?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm thinking, numb nuts!"
Both of them started laughing, cracking up. It was so incongruous, considering all that they'd been through and still had to go through. But these were resilient boys.
"Well I think that you'd better get up and start walking around so that your feet don't stiffen up. C'mon. It's not so bad once you get used to it."
Tom stretched his legs and toes out, did the same with his arms and fingers, relaxed, then did, slowly, stepping onto the linoleum floor in the exam room, in a few seconds putting his full weight down. Surprisingly, it wasn't so bad. They were sore, his feet, but only slightly, the incipient blisters on his soles that had started to form having closed up; the scratches being shallow and not of much consequence. He stood up off the table and hopped once, twice, then walked around the room and into the other exam room and he tried to open the ordinary door of the third exam room, it was locked, then he walked into the antechamber where the black sofa and the television and the ceiling mural were.
"Where you going?" Rich asked. He continued to smile but then started walking too, all around the little area that they were confined in, as he tested it, the huge wooden door to the basement chambers, the way 'out' to the rest of the school.
"Of course, it's locked," he said quietly, and suddenly the brief exhilaration was gone, vanished in a puff of reality, as both boys knew what that meant.
"They'll be back in a few minutes, probably," Tom muttered.
"Yeah, the bastards!" Who could blame Rich for feeling angry?
In a few moments, the boys heard a key turning, the thick outer door opening, and the adults returning.
"We're back boys!" said the smelly Mrs. O'Neill.
***
Tom and Rich were hanging naked from handcuffs facing opposite brick walls in 'the dungeon', their arms each extended high above their heads, their feet resting on tiny footstools, maybe fourteen inches [35 cm] high.
"They look so cute hung up that way – like they're almost ready for their first punishment," Mueller said, "But I said almost."
The position, stretched out like that, was uncomfortable, but bearable, at least with the little stools in place. Tom and Rich were on able to stand flat on the smooth wooden surfaces, ready to be punished with a whip from the tops of their smooth-skinned shoulders down to their exposed heels. Mueller would be doing the whipping as Doc Thompson, Mrs. O'Neill, Graves, Mr. Taylor, Cousins, Mason, and O'Reilly bore witness. Mr. Briggs stood at the ready with his trusty camera. All the security guards were absent as the boys were properly secured; they'd be returning once they were needed again. He went over to Tom first, touched his bare back with the whip he held in his hand, showed it to the boy, who gasped when he saw it – a whip made of strips of raw hide and having three lashes tipped with small leaden balls.
"If you choose this whip, you get 50 stripes with it, ten on your shoulders, ten on your back, ten on your buttocks, ten on your legs from thighs to knees, ten below the knees."
"What – else can I choose?"
"What else can I choose – sir?"
"What else can I choose – sir?" Tom asked more contritely.
"Well, since you asked, "We could use this rod instead." It was about three feet [90 cm] long, and made of birch. Mueller snapped it in the air a few times. The thing made a whooshing sound.
"I'll take 50 with that," Tom said, without much hesitation.
"Oh, no. You misunderstand. If I use the birch on you, it's 75 strokes on your backside. It's much less severe than the other one. That's if you stay comfortable. Twenty-five less – your decision – if we remove the stool. There's also a third choice – the famous cat-o'-nine-tails." Mason handed Mueller one of those cruel instruments of flagellation to show the boy. Again the 7th grader gasped in horror at what he saw – a hard leather whip with nine knotted cords at the ends. About eighteen inches [45 cm] in length, each of the nine outer thongs possessed five or six knots, compressed and hardened into sharp edges.
"How many do I get with t-that?" the boy asked. He didn't really want to know.
"Forty in all," Mueller replied, "Eight in each area – but that's reduced to six times five – thirty in all, if we remove the stool.
"Remove the stool?" Tom muttered; the boy contemplated that situation. His feet would be dangling in mid-air; even tiptoes would mean a gap of several inches between his toes and the concrete floor, putting a lot of strain on his handcuffed wrists. The boy knew that.
"So you don't want the stool, Thomas?"
"No, I'll keep it."
"Which implement – raw hide whip, birch rod, or the cat? Decide right now."
There was a murmur of expectation in the room. Most present, except for Rich, thought he'd opt for the cat-o'-nine-tails.
"Birch." Tom said, unsure he'd made the right choice. He gritted his teeth.
"Okay. That's 50 then. But we'll let you take away the stool if you should decide at any time – that way you'd get just 25 hard ones total – but then we'd be providing a more interesting surface for your pretty young feet to rest upon."
"Fine," said Tom. He gritted his teeth all over again. Standing on the stool, he clenched his toes too while staring straight ahead at the brick wall.
Mueller hesitated several seconds, then he snapped the birch rod in the air, making practice strokes. After what seemed like an eternity to Tom, the birch cracked, the whoosh sounded, and the birch's tip struck a stinging blow just above the kid's left shoulder blade.
"Owwh!" The next in the series smacked the cruel tip against the middle of Tom's bare back, he tried to scream softer, but the third struck his right butt cheek and really stung, so he screamed real loud, the fourth tagged the skin just above the back of his knee, the last in the first series of five got the back of his left calf.
"OWWH!" Meanwhile, after each stroke he practically smacked face-first into the bricks, and this was just the beginning – forty-five or maybe twenty more. He chose twenty.
"Okay – you guys can take away the stool!"
Somebody did. But now his wrists were strangling – clutching wildly as the pressure against them was enormous and the cuffs bit into his wrists.
"Don't worry – you have a nice surface just under your feet now." He placed the soles of his feet flat.
"Yeowh!" It was a hotplate – he'd been tricked! Quickly he lifted his feet again into the air by bending his knees.
"Nice and warm for you – one-hundred-forty degrees [60°C]. Not enough to cause a severe burn," Mason said, "just enough to scorch those tootsies a bit."
The birch kept striking Tom's naked backside all over – shoulders, buttocks, lower back, legs, and heels – especially if they were bent in mid-air. After fifteen strokes, he deliberately braced himself, placed his bare soles solidly against the hot metal, while the rod cracked mercilessly against his unprotected skin. Each time he let out a banshee shriek.
After what seemed one more eternity, Tom was quietly sobbing when his first punishment was over. Mercifully, somebody removed the awful hotplate and put back the stool. The security guards returned. Tom was rearranged. Still handcuffed, and standing somewhat limply on the stool, his back was now to the bricks, his face to the room, brightly lit for a dungeon. Tom could see a lot more than he needed to.
But now it was Rich's time to make his first punishment's choices. They were equally grim. Unfortunately, he was less wise. He chose the rawhide. Tried to make it through the ordeal while standing on the stool, but fifty cuts with that instrument of small leaden balls was too much for any thirteen-year-old to bear. The crimson marks on his backside were soon bleeding, and the boy decided to try shortening his ordeal and asked for the hotplate instead of the stool. His back was lacerated raw in places, and the physician applied a styptic pencil to close the wounds as best he could. The bottoms of Rich's bare feet were burning up. Rich's voice was soon hoarse and reduced to moans, and he needed ammonia applied to his nostrils twice so he wouldn't pass out. Rich was also rearranged against his wall to face the room.
The boys received a ten-minute break before it all began again.
"Ready for your fronts to be punished?" Mason chirped.
"This is too much," said Cousins. He left the room, disgusted by what he was witnessing. His thoughts were dark, but directed toward the draconian school policies.
Soon both boys were alert again, after being splashed with cold water, and then carefully dried off. More choices. Both boys chose the birch this time, and once more, the cruel cuts rained down. Standing stoically on hotplates set at a slightly hotter one-hundred-forty-five degrees [63°C], somebody had found a second heated surface for this purpose – this time they were flogged simultaneously, the blows landing on the many sensitive places found along a young teenager's naked front side – chest, stomach, belly, ribs, nipples, still a bit sore from their earlier attentions, cock and balls, inside of thighs, knees, shins, and around the ankles. Once in a while, Tom or Rich would bend his knees to lift his feet from the hot metal, but then the cuffs would bite into their wrists again. Rich tried to alternate, athletically as possible especially after the rod struck him flush on the testicles, but it was too exhausting, and soon he was just gritting his teeth, standing flat-footed. The pain everywhere on his body was incredible, and it was just beginning.
Chapter 12
The Chair
The weekend of punishments continues but a ray of hope for the miscreants emerges.
It was getting late that Friday evening in the dungeon – already past 11 p.m. Normally, it'd be past the runaways' bedtime, and they'd be getting sleepy even if they weren't forced to retire, but tonight, with all the excitement, the boys remained wide awake, being sore in many places, and sleep was the last thing on their minds. Standing next to each other, waiting for whatever horror would be happening next, the boys watched several adults having a little conference. Although they were whispering to each other in conspiratorial tones, Tom and Rich noticed that the government guy, who'd come into the subterranean vault-like room, seemed to be running things now. Mr. Elliott, a pasty-faced guy in a dress shirt and tie – he'd removed his suit coat – reminded the boys of an accountant. In fact, he was a bureaucrat, and happened to be very detail-oriented.
"He's from the government – maybe CIA," Tom whispered to Rich when no one seemed to be looking at them. Meanwhile, Mr. Cousins, the weird math teacher who'd been a voice of moderation, comparatively speaking, was gone. This didn't seem altogether like a good thing.
"Cousins is gone too – I think that we're really in for it now," Rich whispered during another of the adults' attention lapses. Both boys were getting a little bit better idea of what Mr. Cousins had been about – although for the time being, that seemed pretty much moot.
Unfortunately, the lapses were too soon over.
"I think that you ought to get one of them into the chair," Elliott murmured, this time loud enough for the runaways to hear.
"Who wants to be first?" Mr. Reilly the gym teacher said, while nodding toward the chair, "We'll need to get a complete set of dental X-rays for each of you, and then Mr. Mueller will fix any cavities that you might have. So who wants to be first?"
Both boys looked at each other. The chair was like a regular dentist's chair, except that it didn't have cushions or padding, was made of metal, and had sharp thin spikes sticking up out of it everywhere – on the backrest, the seat, the arms, the footrest – all but one of the spikes were small sharp things – about a half inch [12 mm] high and a sixteenth inch [1 mm] in diameter – probably hundreds of them. The exception, a larger thicker spike with serrated edges at the crown, lay squarely in the center of the seat – where the boy's anus might rest. There were leather straps to secure the seated person at the neck, waist, and ankles. The inside of the straps had lots of spikes too.
"You want one of us to SIT in that thing?" Tom said. He was close to breaking into tears already.
"We won't heat it this time," said Mr. Graves, "C'mon, it won't be so bad." He sounded almost gentle, as if to re-assure the kids. His 'you kids are punks' tone was temporarily gone.
"So who's going to be the brave boy and try it first?" wheezed Mrs. O'Neill.
"A real patriot," offered Mr. Elliott, who definitely had some self-interest in the pain threshold testing now.
"These tests are important for our nation's security."
"Besides, you'll get your teeth fixed while we're at it," said the eager Mueller.
"Well," said headmaster Taylor, "We're all waiting. If one of you doesn't volunteer in about ten seconds, we'll throw one of you onto it lickety split. Tom? How about it?"
"I'll do it," Rich offered, "I've got a cavity probably anyway." Tom breathed a sigh of relief, even though he knew deep in his heart that he'd get his turn too.
"That's more like it," said Mr. Mueller.
The chair might not have been so bad, Rich mused, if he was wearing some sort of protective clothing, maybe a hard plastic vest and hard plastic pants, or at least an insulated winter coat, thick ski pants with woolen socks and hard-soled shoes. But he was dressed in his birthday suit – naked as the day he was born. He eased himself into the chair gently, as it sat vertically, balancing himself precariously, every muscle straining and tense – especially in his legs and back – trying desperately to shift his own body weight as much as possible off the wickedly cruel spikes. He especially wished to avoid planting himself squarely on the big sharp-edged serrated spike that was poised to penetrate his asshole at least two or three inches [5-8 cm] deep into him. Even strapped in, with spike-laden straps securing the 13-year-old's neck, waist, and ankles, it was painful and uncomfortable, but Richard believed it possible to keep the spikes from 'really getting him' as he told Mr. Cousins much later. But then Mr. Mueller adjusted the chair so that it was nearly horizontal. The straps lost any slack they might have had. Gravity did the rest. Rich let out a scream.
The pain was incredible. Spikes impaled the nude runaway – he felt his blood oozing from all the many tiny cuts – from the back of his head and neck down to his already tenderized soles. But then Mr. Mueller was saying "Open your mouth," and the X-ray film was inserted, "Bite down hard," and so it was soon discovered that Rich had five cavities inside his mouth, and when Rich saw the dentist's drill that the sadistic man was wielding, he let out a little shriek of sheer terror.
"All five of them appear to be deep," Mueller said, "down to the nerve." With his mouth open wide enough to accommodate the drill, all Rich heard was the loud whirring, and when Mueller got down to the root on the first cavity, the boy later swore that the pain in his suddenly exposed tooth was worse than the sharp pain in his butt – especially inside his asshole where the big spike was now firmly lodged and tearing around inside with its jagged edges.
Meanwhile, Tom was watching what was happening to his friend in disbelief, standing barefoot and naked on the cement floor of the dungeon-like room. He wasn't crying, but instead was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, hoping that they wouldn't notice him, at least until Rich's current ordeal was over. Rich was screaming his lungs out, it seemed to Tom.
"Hey, bring out the little block for little Tom," Elliott said wryly, "Maybe we can get a bit of a chorus going."
"Kneel down, young man," said Mr. Taylor.
"He's about five feet [1½ m] tall, so make sure that the block's just the right height."
Tom knelt, and when he did, his knees immediately hurt. But that wasn't the worst part. The block, about sixteen inches [40 cm] high and made of wood, was placed right against his thighs and bare belly so that Tom's four-inch [10 cm] circumcised penis was almost perfectly on a level with the block's top, a smooth flat wooden surface. The 7th grader didn't immediately get the connection.
"Well, just don't kneel there like a Goddamned statue. Put your cock up there on it – lay it flat and get all of it up there, boy, now!" Mr. Elliott was practically screaming. Tom was suddenly terrified.
"No, no, please don't make me!" Tom wailed. The boy had the distinct impression that these awful people were going to cut off his dick right then and there!
"I can't," he cried again.
Mrs. O'Neill grew swiftly impatient.
"I've had just about enough of this kid's impudence!" Before he could resist, she grasped Tom's cock and placed it squarely on the block. Mason and Reilly pinned the organ – jabbing one small sewing needle on each side of it, so that he couldn't move it. The pins pierced the skin superficially – one along the root and the other piercing flesh of the meatus on the opposite side – but in his fright he tolerated these new sharp pains, which felt more like crab's pinches. Tom's sheer fright.
"Don't – please don't cut it off!"
But instead it was another whipping – the instrument a sharp-pointed cylindrical wooden rod, only about a quarter-inch [5 mm] in diameter but two feet [60 cm] long, which would punish the runaway's member.
"According to the experiment's specifications, he's to get fifty hard strokes on his exposed penis – twenty near the base, ten toward the head, and twenty on his sensitive glans," Mr. Elliott said matter-of-factly.
"I see no problem with that," said Doc Thompson, "We usually give them twenty-five, but although that little stick will produce excruciating pain in a boy his age, it will only cause bruising and lacerations if performed correctly. As they say on the commercial, "Let's do it!"
"You can't – that's torture!" Tom screamed, "No! Please!"
"There, he's used that nasty word again," Mr. Taylor corrected, "Give him five extra for that outburst, Mr. Mason." Mason was only too happy to oblige. He tensed the rod, swished it a few times in the air as Tom watched in horror, practice strokes that already made the boy wince.
Tom was kneeling, as Mr. Reilly grasped his bare feet from behind so that "you won't wriggle around too much and miss your punishment." The way his penis was pinned down, that was out of the question anyway, the boy mused; he was afraid of tearing his organ completely off.
"It's just like a spanking," someone said, "just not on your behind," but Tom was tuned out. Watching intently as Mr. Mason swished the stick, once, twice, three times, the stick was gaining momentum, and then the downward motion, as the sharp tip struck his bare cock just below the head.
"Yeowh!" The boy screamed. Mason was expert at this technique – deliberately pausing so that the boy could anticipate the next stroke – five seconds between blows – sometimes as much as ten. Each time, Tom couldn't believe that anything could hurt so much. It was easiest to bear near the base, but as the stick's sharp tip landed nearer his cock-head, or worst of all, directly on his extremely sensitive piss-hole – maybe eight or ten times in that precise spot – he felt the pain spread through his whole body in waves.
"Good, excellent," said Mr. Elliott, "He appears to be an almost perfect test subject."
"And we still have a ways to go before we actually reach his pain threshold," Doctor Thompson opined. Tom was shaking and moaning from the pain, but to his credit, and perhaps proving the physician's point, he didn't faint.
There was some blood to clean up from both runaways, some stinging hydrogen peroxide to rub into their cuts and lacerations, but finally Friday evening mercifully ended. After their wounds had been tended, the boys were brought pillows if not blankets and told to "Just curl up somewhere down here on the floor."
Around two a.m. on Saturday morning, the lights were turned out so that the runaways could finally sleep. Exhausted, they did. While their dreams were far from pleasant, at least they hadn't lost any body parts.
Through much of the night, Mr. Cousins had heard the boys screaming. These two had affected him more than any previous absconders, and he knew why. They don't belong here, he thought, in this awful place. He now knew this without a doubt. While the boys were being punished in the basement, Cousins had been covertly rummaging through their records in the administrative office on the third floor – cautiously, with an eye peeled for security people. He was going to take a big chance to get them out of here. He would intervene. He would call their parents. Those people couldn't have any idea what was happening to their kids – what might happen again and again now that they'd been selected for punishment. With the help of the boys' parents, he'd get them out of here – maybe even returned to their homes if the parents could raise enough of a public clamor. He grew teary-eyed at the thought of that – of the kids somehow being removed from Stevens custody and being returned to someplace safe. In the morning, Saturday morning, he would call both sets of parents. It would probably cost him his job, but the risk was worth it. For too long he'd been avoiding what was plainly true. The whole mess might even cause a national scandal – if all the facts were to come out.
Chapter 13
Saturday
Saturday is not a pleasant day for the runaways. But there are a few twists in the tale.
The boys woke up around 10 in the morning. Being allowed to sleep for so long was such a luxury that both boys had managed to do it on the hard floor. By hugging each other close and entwining limbs, the naked boys had managed to generate enough body heat for a modicum of comfort. It was even kind of pleasant lying that way with their eyes still shut; both boys had dreamt variations of the same theme: Of being home sung in their beds at home, far away from Stevens. But then the adults returned, and each felt the gentle touch of an electric cattle prod on the undersides of their big toes – once, twice, in Rich's case, three times!
"Yeowh! What the fuck!" Both boys had a similar reaction to the stimulus, Dr. Thompson noted.
"It's time to get you guys up. You have lots of procedures and punishments to undergo today," Reilly said. He'd been the one using the cattle prod on their toes. Nice touch.
Both boys' eyes were now open wide as owls.
"Damn," Tom muttered.
Rich and Tom were led into yet another room they hadn't noticed before. Behind the dental chair, it was a small cubicle within the 'dungeon' – a partitioned bathroom of sorts with a shower stall.
"Wash up, including brush your teeth. Each of you takes a warm shower and gets completely dried off. Pronto!" said Mr. Graves, somewhat like a Marine sergeant. Although the cubicle's floor was made of gray painted wood like in a port-o-potty, inside was a sink and mirror besides the shower, and there were fresh clean fluffy towels, toothbrushes, toothpaste, even clean washcloths for them to use.
"Both of you be out here and ready for inspection in ten minutes!" Graves bellowed.
While the boys couldn't help study their bodies in the mirror, a natural reaction after what they'd endured so far, they were surprised that they felt more achy sore all over than any sensation of really intense pain in any one place – although Rich had yet to receive the severe 'penis spanking' that Tom had experienced the previous evening. This part of Tom's anatomy was still quite tender.
"My cock's still real sore," he confided to his friend.
"Maybe they'll forget to do me," Rich remarked. They also felt greasy. Somebody had rubbed Aloe Vera cream or something soothing all over their bodies as they slept.
"We're all shiny!" said Tom, somewhat incredulous.
The hot showers, adjusted to a comfortable temperature, opened up their cuts and abrasions to some degree, stinging their sensitized skin. Surprisingly, the spray also conveyed a soothing effect. If anything, the standing baths were way too brief.
"C'mon you boys! Two minutes each in the shower max!"
Afterwards, they weren't shiny anymore, but felt remarkably okay once they'd dried off.
"C'mon, hurry up! You'd better be dry everywhere – even between your toes!"
Too soon, they were dry and 'presentable'. Outside the little cubicle, more adults arrived for Saturday's punishment spectacle.
"I guess it's time to make our entrance," Rich whispered.
***
Everybody was back – Mueller, headmaster Taylor, Reilly, Cousins (thank God – maybe his presence would at least spare them the worst of potential horrors), Mrs. O'Neill, Graves, Mason, three security people, the photographer Briggs, the government guy Mr. Elliott, and Doctor Thompson, the obligatory physician. It was a real party.
Thompson instructed them both to stand up straight and put their hands on their heads. He was checking them out everywhere – starting with the hair on their heads, to see if it was still wet, inside their ears, behind their ears, and so on. He'd scan Tom and then Rich, Tom's chest and stomach, Rich's chest and stomach, Tom's scrotum, Rich's scrotum – to see if any body part was still wet or dirty. Or not marked up enough. He held up Rich's penis, squeezed the organ's circumcised head between his thumb and forefinger so that the boy's piss-slit opened like a tiny mouth. The penis was about four-and-a-half inches [11½ cm] long, with some nice curly brown pubic hairs just starting around its base.
"First thing – we'll be giving this cute bald-headed mouse some attention with the little rod. It'll be exposed on the block – just like your friend's was. Thought you'd be missing out? Didn't you Richard?"
The boy shivered involuntarily. Dreading this particular punishment, he was also determined to show courage. To take it more like a man than Tom had. If it had to be, he'd grit it out.
"No sir. I wasn't thinking that. Really I wasn't." The inspection continued. He was feeling the kids up everywhere – even inside their cracks. Rich's asshole was a little extra sore from the thicker spike that had penetrated him in the horrid chair. Maybe that's why he'd been cursory and hadn't dried it completely.
"Hand me a dry towel!" – Thompson hissed. But the rest of their bodies were dry, even between their toes and the sturdy soles of their feet.
Tom had to remain at attention with his hands on his head and not move a muscle while Rich's prized anatomical possession was properly chastised.
Since Rich was slightly taller than his friend, five feet five [1.65 m] exactly, the block that was used measured about seventeen inches [43 cm] high.
"I don't need anybody to hold my feet in place," Rich blurted, "and I'll keep it steady on the block the whole time – I promise – so I don't think you'll need to pin it down either." Rich actually desired to test himself, if only to see if he possessed the will to keep his cock there – even if it hurt like crazy. Once he'd read about Australian aboriginal boys of his age being initiated, and undergoing radical, in the sense of extreme circumcisions – just to be accepted into their clans – to be regarded as men instead of as boys. It was a game sort of, his first tentative step toward giving a masochistic permission. Plus, the more stoic he was, he somehow figured, the less fun it might be for these weirdoes. Maybe he could even control his screams and reactions to a certain extent – thus ruining the stupid government experiment.
Everyone was expectant, even Tom. Most of the adults present were more than a little taken aback by the boy's tactics. Elliott was, it seemed to Rich, was a bit more pleased about this novel attitude that the boy had suddenly assumed.
"Yes!" He said, "Now that's the spirit! A real little patriot, this one. Okay, just make yourself hard, boy, then kneel, and put your entire erection nicely up on the block."
"Uh, I think I need a bit of help, sir." He couldn't just will himself to get a stiffy.
Mr. Reilly reached over and masturbated Rich's penis for a few seconds. The boy's hard-on magically appeared. Soon he was over five inches [13 cm] long and slightly thicker, and a string of pre-cum oozed out of his slit. The purplish veins along Rich's pubertal organ became nice and prominent. It was sticking straight out – like an antenna – from his body. Under different circumstances, he might proud to have an audience for his erection. He was a little stud. Decent blood flow, several adults realized simultaneously. That way, the nerve endings would be more sensitive and it should hurt the boy more than it would have had he remained flaccid with the pins. Ironically, if he started out hard, they all knew how stimulation – even painful stimulation – would prevent the boy's erection from easily subsiding as long as the beating continued.
"Okay. Stop dawdling boy. Kneel down, and put your cock up on the block," Mr. Graves said.
Rich knelt. Bravely he leaned his belly and chest forward so that his bare hard-on extended across the solid surface. Quite vulnerable, he was at Mr. Mason's mercy. It felt funny, his cock being there, on display for everybody to see. Mason swished the cruel little stick in the air. The boy heard little whooshing sounds. Tom thought back to his own ordeal – fifty-five strokes – just twelve hours before. But this would be worse somehow. Tom just KNEW it.
"Okay, fifty strokes. Since he's hard and wants to see how brave he is, I recommend the majority of them right where he's most sensitive – on his glans meatus – and particularly near his pee-hole – his urethral opening. If he moves backwards even a smidge, he gets seventy-five."
"Your recommendation is accepted, Doc," said Mason.
There was a murmur of approval from everybody except Tom. He gasped.
"Shut up you!" Someone said.
"No comments from the peanut gallery."
"No! That's not fair!" Rich thought, his eyes bug-eyed with terror as he watched Mason swish the sharp-pointed stick through the air. But he didn't dare say it. Instead he braced himself for what he knew would be terrible pain.
The stick flashed down right on his piss-slit – a perfect strike. Somehow, he bit his lip, but stopped himself from screaming that first time. But a few seconds later, again anticipation made his whole body tighten up, every muscle tense from his neck to his toes, and the sharp tip struck his cock in almost the same place, drawing a tiny bead of blood.
"Yeowh!"
But miraculously, although he screamed and shrieked or moaned on almost every one of the remaining forty-eight blows, Rich heroically kept his erect penis where it was supposed to be during the entire punishment. The effort was impressive to everyone in the room, and brought a tear to Mr. Cousins. He is an incredible youngster, the math teacher mused in sheer admiration.
"Okay, you can remove it now," headmaster Taylor said. The boy's organ was red and puffy, bleeding a little in places, Rich winced as he stood up again, he was sobbing from the pain, but he had survived this mini-ordeal – and on his own terms. In his own mind, he was now a man.
***
The next 'procedure' was to establish the dynamics for several punishments to follow. It was indeed fiendish, but based upon an ancient initiation rite intended for Plains Indian youths. Both Tom and Rich were told to lean backwards with hands and feet firmly planted, eyes staring upwards toward the dungeon's ceiling. Jutting from the ceiling beams, the kids noticed something ominous they'd failed to observe. Secured to the beams were large, sharp-pointed hooks attached to what resembled a thick gauge fishing line. When it dawned on blonde-haired Tom, an ardent recreational trout and bass fisherman when he'd lived with his family, just what those cruel hooks might be for – he started sobbing, and almost immediately began begging. As the hooks and their lines began descending toward the boys' nude bodies, Mueller and Graves went to work quickly and efficiently.
As Graves guided the first sharp point to a place immediately adjacent to Rich's left nipple, and deftly pierced the boy, embedding the hook and working it through the skin of his pectoral muscle on his bare chest, he screamed and wailed. Mueller inserted an identical hook into Tom's right pectoral muscle with the same result.
"That's it, work them in there fairly deep," said Mr. Elliott, "they're going to have to support their body weight."
"Don't spare the hooks!" warned Thompson, "make sure you get good spacing all over their ventral sides."
This soon necessitated twenty large-bore hooks per boy, amid horrific wails and sobs – in a symmetrical fashion, the hooks pierced the skin and were securely hooked down into the muscle tissue on the boys' shoulders, left and right, their chest muscles (pectorals), into their rib-meat on each side, their tender bellies, their pelvic areas, their fleshy thighs, just above each knee, their calves, their Achilles tendons, and finally, the a big sharp hook was firmly inserted through the tissue near the instep and ball of each boy's bare foot. It was like gutting a fish, Tom thought.
Then it got worse. They were hoisted up.
"No! Please don't!" Tom screamed. Rich was loudly sobbing and wailing as he too hung suspended in mid-air about three feet [1 m] away from his friend and maybe five feet [1½ cm] above the floor. Besides a new incredible kind of pain that neither boy had experienced before, it was terrifying to be suspended like that – by your skin! Once the boys were suspended in this fashion, the pain could even be increased by giving Tom or Rich a little push – Mrs. O'Neill imagined a mother pushing her child on a swing – soon they were swaying and screaming – each boy afraid that one of the hooks would tear a huge chunk of flesh off as the their own weight and gravity worked against them.
Finally, after maybe an hour, it seemed an eternity; the runaways were slowly and gradually lowered down to the floor. The hooks were carefully and gently removed, Tom and Rich then experienced deep massage with ointments and hydrogen peroxide, were told to sit up and given fruit juice with an antibiotic to prevent infection, and given a three-hour rest break – so that their bodies might rejuvenate somewhat in advance of their next punishment. Almost as if they'd undergone some manner of ancient if magical acupuncture, the 'really bad' pain from where the hooks had been placed – began subsiding after about an hour. The adults even left for a while as the runaways rested.
"I can't believe this, it's incredible," Rich said.
"What?" Tom replied.
"It's not so bad all of a sudden."
"Yeah, I noticed that too."
"These people are awful good at what they do – it's like a lab for pure pain."
"Yeah, so at least we won't die," Tom said, trying his best to be sarcastic.
"I'm glad they're not torturing us," Rich opined.
"No, they can't," Tom said in his best Mr. Taylor imitation, "It's not the Stevens way."
They both managed to laugh, albeit weakly.
The rest of Saturday's schedule of punishments – the searing of their tongues with a red-hot iron, and the extended beatings with a bamboo cane on the palms of their hands – seemed almost anti-climactic by comparison.
Chapter 14
Sunday's Offerings
The rest of the terrible weekend is concluded.
The boys were surprised they could still talk after having their tongues seared with a red-hot iron. But it was a small instrument of pain, like a brand with a pencil tip's diameter, and only burned the very edge of their tongues.
"I thought that my tongue would be real sore," Tom said.
"Mine too, only it isn't," remarked Rich, "although some of the rest of me doesn't feel too good."
"Today's the last day. You'd think they'd run out of things to do to us."
"Nope, they're fucking creative."
They were just waking up, cuddled up for body heat. It was early Sunday morning – sometime. In a subterranean place without clocks, guessing the time was out of the question. Luckily it wasn't real cold in the dungeon – maybe 61 or 62 degrees Fahrenheit [16°C].
"I'd like to get this day over with," Rich said as he decided to untangle himself from Tom and walk around. Besides, he had to take a leak. When he jumped up, he felt a rude surprise.
"Oh, cripes!"
"What's the matter?"
"My foot's all messed up from when those bastards put that hook thing in it."
"They took it out. They took all the hooks out."
"I know that. But it still hurts."
Tom noticed that his friend was limping on his way to the toilet. The toilet was next to the shower. Rich emerged a moment later, still limping.
"Let me see it," Tom said.
"What?"
"Your foot, stupid!"
Rich showed his friend his right foot. It did seem a bit swollen and painful to the touch near the exit wound on his instep. The skin was puffy, red and inflamed. Unthinking, Tom squeezed it.
"Yeowh! Whatcha doing? Do I have to get tortured by you too?"
Tom did yet another of his headmaster Taylor imitations.
"We don't use the 'T' word around here – it's just not the Stevens way."
That did it. Both kids cracked up. They were still laughing when the adults returned.
***
"What is so funny?" Mr. Graves asked. Rich shifted position on the floor and tried to hide his sore foot. What he didn't want was to draw attention to it. Several rude looks were added to Graves' dour puss. These stares too quickly focused on the boys. The whole crew was present and accounted for again, even Mr. Cousins, which was a blessing, slight as it was.
"Nothing," the boys replied.
Now they were sitting on the concrete floor – suddenly quiet as church mice. The only peep these creeps want to hear from us is cries of pain, thought Rich. Cousins might be an exception, although it was still beyond Rich's comprehension to entertain the belief that he might actually care what happened to them. He just didn't seem enough of a factor in the Stevens scheme of things.
"Stand up! Now!" barked Mr. Mason, "Hands on head!"
It no longer seemed very unusual that they were in this situation. Here the young teens were, dressed in their birthday suits, standing exposed for all these adults to see and to torment their bodies as they pleased, and the whole scene no longer seemed like anything but the ordinary as manifested in the awful present. Rich stood a bit more slowly than his friend and he couldn't help wincing, attempting to conceal the pain he was feeling. Unfortunately, Doctor Thompson noticed the slightly older boy leaning a little strangely; as if he was putting too much weight on his left foot. Uh-oh, the ruse was over. Thompson quickly grabbed a chair and sat down.
"Richard, please sit down again." The boy complied and plopped his bare butt again on the concrete.
"Give me your right foot," Thompson said, motioning to place the injured foot in his lap. A quick inspection revealed what was wrong – near the side of Rich's bare instep.
"Will you all look at this? Despite all the antibiotics and the disinfectants we gave him, he's got himself a little infection."
"Please don't hurt me," Rich begged.
Thompson deliberately palpated the wound with a squeeze, almost a pinch using his thumb and forefinger, hard enough to bring forth the boy's scream.
"Owwh!"
"Does that hurt?"
"Yeah! Oh Yes! It hurts! It hurts bad!"
Rich might as well have issued an invitation. Mr. Elliott sensed this opportunity too, a bit of a bonus.
"I think we had all better test this sore spot," he said.
"Who wants a squeeze?" Doctor Thompson asked. One by one, Mr. Elliott, Mr. Briggs, Mrs. O'Neill, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mason, Mr. Mueller, Mr. Taylor, and even the three security guards gave Rich's sore foot a good pinch. Only Mr. Cousins abstained.
"Do you really have to torment Richard in this manner?" He complained. But to the rest, it seemed like a game, at least to Tom, who was still standing at attention, and sobbing softly. Rich bawled anew each time someone grasped his foot. Then it got worse before it got better.
"Looks like there's a little pus in there. Let me have it again. I'd better lance it," Thompson said finally. Bracing the bare foot in his strong hand, the physician slowly pierced the boy's skin with a long hypodermic needle. Rich screamed – a wail really, and louder than ever.
"Oh, don't be a baby," Mrs. O'Neill said to the suffering kid. Once the pus was drained, the doctor pierced the raw wound with a second hypodermic needle containing a stronger disinfectant. It really stung.
"Yeowh!" Yet almost miraculously, a few seconds later, the foot felt much better. Rich was amazed.
"Well, what do you say?" Thompson asked.
"Thank you, I guess," Rich said in a soft voice, no longer sobbing.
"Now that wasn't so bad, now was it?" Mrs. O'Neill chimed in. Rich flashed her a dour look, in fact, he flashed them all dour looks, but nobody really noticed, or else they thought his anger was futile and thus funny.
Soon 'the festivities' re-commenced. After receiving another whipping with canes all over their bare bodies while handcuffed by the wrists and with their feet dangling a few inches off the floor in the dungeon, the runaways found themselves in Examination Room 'C' for the duration of Sunday afternoon and early evening. 'C' was a larger sterile exam space; maybe three times the size of 'A' or 'B' containing two extra large, very wide metal tables.
Each table was soon decorated with a nude 13-year-old boy, spread-eagled, well secured; one named Thomas Bridges, the other Richard Hansen. Everybody was present, except for Mr. Cousins, once again, where had he gone?
For the first punishment at 'C' – the kids were shackled at the wrists and ankles, facedown, lying on the cold hard metal on their bare stomachs, hands and feet stretched as far as possible without dislocating joints or tendons.
"Are we ready to get started?"
"You runaways ready?" Mr. Mason received a whimper from Tom and a muffled curse from Rich.
"Looks like the older one is back to his obstinate self," Mr. Taylor remarked.
"He just has an attitude," Mr. Mason said with some disdain. There was an air of expectation in the room as Mason held a very hot electric soldering iron in his hand. The instrument had a long cord for easy maneuverability. Mason showed it to each boy, waved it right near his face to increase the fear factor. Someone told both kids to turn their heads slightly for a better view. More whimpering, pleading, muffled sobs ensued from the runaways; both felt intense heat emanating from the tool, but no pain yet.
"You're allowed to mark them with that – but only second-degree burns at worse over small surface areas, and the surface areas must be kept distinct and separated," Doctor Thompson lectured the user.
"I know. I realize that, what do you think I am, a simpleton?" Mason replied.
"It's okay if you produce superficial scars," offered Elliott, the government guy, "but try to hit only the most sensitive areas on their bodies. I have them marked." He'd carefully drawn one inch [2½ cm] diameter circles with a red felt-tip pen on the runaways' skin – at the apex of their shoulders, on their armpits where Tom was still smooth but where Rich sported his first few hairs, bony and ticklish rib areas on their sides, targets on each exposed buttock cheek, on their 'meaty' thighs along the inner perimeters near the crease where the buttocks and scrotum coincide, backs of knees, on each of their calves, on their bare heels, and on the balls of their feet where exists a most tender part of their soles.
Mason began with Rich.
"Okay, here we go. Let's see what he has left for lungpower. This sure ain't going to tickle!" Rich felt the heat, as the soldering iron grew closer to the bare skin of his left shoulder. Mason teased, waving the hot instrument in the air like a wand, before making contact for a full two seconds. Rich tensed his shoulder, but that didn't help.
"Yeowh!" The smell of burning flesh briefly permeated the room's already fetid air. Tom felt the cruel iron next, on his naked right shoulder; the iron, usually used for melting metal by 'soldering' pieces together, was now being utilized for something entirely unintended by its inventor. During the next twenty minutes, Mason slowly moved down the boys nakedness with the 'wand' – his progress systematic; he loitered one and a half to two full seconds at each 'stop', delaying about ten seconds between burnings to heighten anticipation, but with idiosyncrasies – at Rich's left armpit, for instance, he dallied, choosing to singe off 'just a few' of the boy's incipient hairs as the eighth grader protested with louder, more prolonged screams. Tom's sides, usually ticklish, proved quite tender, as the areas along his ribs were given the full treatment. Rich's inner thigh on the right side was a touch too close to his exposed and rear-hanging ballsacks, extremely sensitive as everyone could detect from the volume of his shrieks, and 'doing' the ball of his left foot with the soldering iron nearly equaled that outburst as far as vocal intensity went. Actually, Tom proved sensitive no matter where the 'wand' wandered, and was relieved momentarily when the punishment finally stopped. But again, it was only a reprieve.
The next ordeal to be suffered by the runaways was fiendish in its way – the full bastinado. This time the instrument of choice would be a rattan cane, two feet [60 cm] long and made of sturdy bamboo. Gloved adult hands pulled down anklets of barbed wire attached to pulleys from a dispenser on the ceiling, then carefully wound the fence wire around the ankles so that the boys' feet, especially their naked soles, might be properly suspended. Although the barbs dug into their exposed skin and created more lacerations on bony ankles, these irritations were minor compared to what could be expected. After Tom and Rich were shown the dreaded cane, Mueller grinned sardonically prior to the administration of his duties while Mr. Reilly, who'd made them walk outside barefoot in snow and ice, was now applying generous amounts of rubbing alcohol onto the entire fleshy surface of their soles – from the underside of their toes to the pads of their tender heels.
Mr. Taylor proclaimed this standard punishment's course. It was a watershed experiment, one of the most crucial to be inflicted during this weekend if only for its symbolic nature, as these absconders were runaways, and their feet had indeed strayed and must indeed be punished for the sake of the school's integrity.
"Each boy will receive the full complement of seventy-five strokes with the rattan cane on the naked soles of his feet. Be careful to apply them evenly, Mr. Mueller – we should at least attempt to avoid excess bleeding."
"Gladly Mr. Taylor. These boys won't be doing any running anywhere anytime soon once I'm through with them," he boasted.
"No, you can't," Tom begged. He was sobbing and nearly hysterical even as Rich was trying to be stoic again, his bare feet up in the air, trying to meditate like an Indian fakir of the type he'd watched on The Discovery Channel walking barefoot over a bed of hot coals. Rich closed his eyes and tried to dramatically slow his breathing and heartbeat. He even managed to stop his toes from wriggling while imagining his feet fully protected, invulnerable, encased in chunks of concrete that couldn't be penetrated. It didn't work.
Mueller measured and struck his first blow. The cane's tip landed squarely on Rich's left foot, directly on the most sensitive spot of his entire sole – right on the side of his instep where the 'little infection' had been.
"Yeowh!" Rich sounded like a banshee. He was quite alert to the pain now.
"That's a great first hit – I thought the kid was starting to nod off or something," said Elliott, "and if they're not awake and alert, it can skew the results."
"Very true," said Mr. Mueller.
Tom's left foot, snared in mid-air in the cruel barbed wire trap, received the next strike, a wickedly timed action that struck the boy on the underside of all of his toes.
"Yeowh!" Intense pain shot up his leg like an electric shock and seemed to resonate in waves throughout his body.
"The sole of the foot and the palm of the hand are quite similar when it comes to nerve endings," Mason remarked, "but the feet can be even more sensitive."
"That's true too," said the perfume-scented Mrs. O'Neill, "My male clients don't enjoy punishments on the feet – even if they agree to them beforehand."
The ball of Rich's left foot took the next smack, and Tom's instep, right in the middle of it, the geographical center of his right foot – bore the brunt of the hit after that. Mueller was carefully measuring too, every eight or ten seconds, then the strike came like a rattlesnake's bite – giving the boy time to anticipate the next blow and to distinguish between blows. Mueller was also taking great care to apply the punishment evenly. After about ten blows per foot on each boy, their skin became reddened and started blistering from underneath the absconder's toes down to the middle of their heels. By stroke twenty, the soles were oozing blood and moderately blistered everywhere. By stroke fifty on each of Tom and Rich's bare feet, the blisters had uniformly broken and the "boys are yelling bloody murder – this is working out quite well," Mr. Elliott remarked.
Twice the boys assumed that Doctor Thompson might stop the torture – he did stop and handle their feet – inspecting their raw soles with his fingers – an exercise which hurt in itself but that gave the boys hope – only to be destroyed when the beating with the rattan cane mercilessly continued. When it did end, both runaways were almost hysterical with their sobbing, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, the pain unbelievable; Rich imagined the soles of his feet must look like raw hamburger – if they didn't quite, they sure felt like it! Mercifully, Mr. Reilly removed their ankles from the barbed wire hoops and placed their feet, toes first, gently back onto the metal tables – so that Thompson could apply rubbing alcohol to each of their entire soles, a disinfecting procedure which stung like crazy! Then, any excess blood was soaked up – but the boys' feet were not bandaged.
"Each of you will get a fifteen-minute break now before your next punishment," headmaster Taylor pronounced. During this time Tom and Rich were un-manacled and ordered to walk around the entire basement area – all the doors were open to them now – although every bit of curiosity and then some had been satisfied about those surroundings – but walking was an extremely painful process. Wincing continually and sniffling back tears, they were told to "Don't walk on your tiptoes or on your heels. Place your feet flat and squarely on the floor! If you don't do it right, they'll just swell up and hurt a lot more!" Twice each the boys were prodded to walk more naturally with swats received from a strap – Tom took one on his bare belly and another on his right thigh just below his left 'bubble-butt' ass cheek; Rich caught a smack on his left calf and on the middle of his back below the shoulder blades. Around and around, several times, they were forced to walk; when they were instructed to 'quot;get up again' onto the metal tables, it almost seemed a relief.
***
This time Tom and Rich were manacled about the wrists and ankles while lying on their backsides. The punishments didn't get any easier. First Mr. Elliott drew a few more of those dreaded circles on their front sides – nipples, on their soft bellies just above their navels, fronts of thighs, knees, shins, and the tops of their feet just below the toes.
"Alright, commence with the soldering iron, Mr. Mason!" Again, he teased Tom and Rich, both wide-eyed with horror and fear, they first felt the intense heat, and watched as the brand actually touched their bare skin in its appointed places. When this happened, the reaction was predictable: a scream followed by gut-wrenching sobbing.
Next, it was Mr. Graves' turn. He'd been appointed to 'do' their nails with a sharp heated needle. Tom's fingernails were attended to first.
"How many do you have to do?" he asked plaintively.
"All of them, boy." He went from finger to finger until all ten were gouged and 'cleaned of any traces of dirt' with the awful needle. Rich was subjected to the same treatment, fingers on his left hand, then ditto on the right. It was excruciating, and far too thorough for the boys' tastes. But when the boys thought the 'nails' were over, Mr. Graves held Tom's already scourged left foot steady so he could begin anew.
"No!" the boy screamed, "You said you were done!"
"Toenails too!" Mr. Taylor interjected, "Since he complained, I think it's only fair you should do each of his toenails twice," and all the adults present agreed, even the security guards. Tom writhed on the table as the sharp needle dug into the sensitive tissue under his nail beds on each exposed toe – first his big toe, then his second toe, then his third toe, fourth, and finally his 'baby' toe – with the same procedure to be followed on his exposed right foot. Each time, Mr. Graves grasped the boy's foot firmly so that the 'unpleasant' task could be completed with a minimum of resistance from the 'subject'. Of course, because he'd complained, Tom was forced to endure the needle on all ten pedal digits a second time. Rich received the same treatment immediately thereafter, but had the sense to not complain and so was spared a 'repeat performance'. Still, as he tried to meditate again like an Indian fakir, with his foot held firmly and with the needle making all of his toenails bleed, being stoic failed miserably.
After this kind of treatment, the boys were somewhat de-sensitized to almost anything else that might be done to them, except when the attentions of the adults returned to Tom and Rich's genitals.
***
Manacled again by the wrists and ankles to the metal tables in Examination Room 'C,' the nude miscreants were lying on their backs waiting for what might happen to them next. The room was dark, as the adults had left. But both boys were conscious and more alert than either wanted to be.
"Do you think they'll torture us any more?"
"Shh! They don't want us calling the punishments torture – it's not the Stevens way," Tom said. But the joke was definitely starting to wear thin. This time, neither boy felt much like giggling.
"I wish we had gotten away from this place," Rich said. Now THAT must be the classic understatement of the century, Tom thought to himself.
"I can't think of anything that they might do to us that they haven't already that would hurt as much or more than what they've already done," he ended up saying.
This seemed logical enough, but Rich knew better.
"I don't know – they could think up something. For instance, I saw this spy movie once." But Tom started sobbing softly in-between sentences.
"I wish I was home," he said, "I'd be good. I'd stay awake in church. I'd stop being disobedient to my Dad. I wouldn't even HAVE a freaking diary."
Rich was going to detail some more of the punishments that might be coming. After he heard his friend sobbing, and getting homesick, he thought better of it.
"Maybe you're right," he said to Tom, "maybe there's nothing else that they can do that will hurt half as much as what they've already done." It was a lie all right, and Rich knew it, but Tom stopped crying.
***
When the lights came back on, and the adults returned, the lie bore its fruit. First, the boys had their ankles un-manacled and re-secured in those cruel barbed wire hoops.
"No, you're not going to beat our feet again with that bamboo cane!" Tom cried in obvious fright. His feet still throbbed, but the pain was tolerable and they hadn't yet swelled to a great degree. Rich didn't know why, but he had an inkling that their oppressors had something else in mind – and it wasn't feet. When the barbed wire hoops were moved into position in mid-air, separating first Tom's legs and then Rich's by a painful stretch, he had an idea what they were going to do.
"I'm going to beat your puny ball-sacks with this little piece of rubber hose," said Mrs. O'Neill, "don't worry, you'll each have your turn."
"Twenty-five strokes apiece," announced Dr. Thompson, "that's all that I'm authorizing."
"That should be enough to produce the desired effect," she said.
Rich knew that his ball-sacks with his sensitive testicles enclosed therein weren't particularly puny; in fact, he knew they were quite respectable for a kid his age, but that knowledge gave him scant comfort. He'd never been struck on the balls twenty-five times in succession in his life – not even during this unbelievable weekend at the pain factory! Such a punishment was bound to cause him permanent harm.
"I'll never be able to make kids," he said aloud, to no one special.
"Oh, no, she's an expert at this activity, she'll just bruise you down there a bit," Doctor Thompson countered.
"No, please don't do this," Tom said, unabashedly whimpering, "You'll have to cut our balls off when she's through with us." But the pleadings were to no avail. In a few seconds, the whipping of their balls began.
"Yeowh!" Tom's left testicle seemed to take a direct hit, but the woman was indeed an expert wielding the rubber hose, being well-practiced as a dominatrix – in reality, the blow's focal point was just above on the boy's scrotum, and so only caused bruising of the loose hanging folds. Rich felt a shot strike his right ball-sack, and the pain, like a rogue wave, traveled everywhere on his body, and lingered as a dull ache. This pain was multiplied with each successive blow, and when the beating was over, after twenty-five strokes that seemed to take forever, their scrotums were bruised black-and-blue and starting to swell. So Reilly immediately applied icepacks to take care of that.
After being dried off with a towel and having the cold packs mercifully removed, attention again turned to their penises, more specifically, to their urethras. At least their feet were taken down, and again their ankles were secured with the manacles.
"Time to punish your piss-slits, boys," Mason said, "I doubt you'll be jerking off much for the next few weeks."
This part was fiendish, as the boys thought later in retrospection while in the infirmary. First, it was the Q-Tips again, this time dipped in a mild irritant that produced a severe itching and burning reaction.
"Yeowh! That kills!" Tom said. One, two, three, four cotton swabs were inserted by Mr. Mason one right after the other, and then slowly worked around deep inside the seventh-grader's cock.
"I think that's his limit," Thompson advised. But then Mason just left the cotton swabs inside the boy's organ, and turned his attention to Rich.
"Five?" he asked.
"I think he'll tolerate five," Thompson replied, "Go ahead."
"No!" Rich screamed, "I can't tolerate five! You'll stretch me way too bad in there if you do that. Please – give me a break, guy!" He was really afraid of this punishment, and was soon writhing in his shackles as first one Q-Tip was inserted, teasingly at first, a little bit at a time, his piss-slit opening like a tiny mouth, "Stop it! It burns! It burns!" He was sobbing, out of control, but fortunately shackled. A second cotton swab intruded into his piss-slit, Rich felt the sensitive tissue inside his cock stretching, stretching, he imagined like elastic, and elastic bands do snap.
"Please! Something's breaking inside there! I feel it! It hurts so bad!" When the second swab was embedded to the hilt, a third was inserted, and slowly worked into the length of his four and a half inch [11½ cm] penis, this stretched the sensitive tissue even more, taking up more space, it was about two inches [5 cm] long, and then when it was all the way in, it was time for a fourth irritant-dipped swab, by then the burning was excruciatingly painful and the itching that the boy felt was truly maddening, and his urethra was at least temporarily widening and changing its shape, and yes, a FIFTH irritant-soaked cotton swab entered the boy's member, he was also being stimulated and getting an erection – his penis was now swelled to five inches [13 cm] in length – but this condition only made the pain worse.
The boys were kept in this condition for a full twenty minutes as the adults watched them squirm and wriggle on the table, trying to break free from the foreign objects tormenting their pretty cocks.
"It feels like a million ants crawling around inside!" Tom screamed. Rich was sobbing, saying, "Please sirs! Mrs. O'Neill – please take them out! You can do anything else to me – anything you want – just fucking take them out!" Mason finally did, pulling on the ends of the swabs, all at once, and yanking them out in a single excruciating motion.
"Yeowh!" Both runaways cried. But even when the Q-Tips had been removed, the horrible itching and burning sensations in their cocks hardly abated. Another cotton swab with just cold water on it helped some, probing around, the object was even welcomed by the boys when they were told what it was, but then Doctor Thompson insisted on a burning stick being inserted, usually referred to as a 'punk' and typically used for lighting firecrackers, and first this was used to 'remove and dry up the irritant's residue' by the good doctor, mainly because he didn't trust Mr. Mason with this phase of the procedure, and the 'punk' went first inside Tom's four-inch [10 cm] cock, all the way in – as deep as it could go – like 'digging for gold' as it slowly worked up the walls inside, and by then Tom was screaming hysterically from the extreme pain as Thompson held his penis and nonchalantly continued, and Rich was soon subjected to the same procedure, not considered a punishment by those adults present, and he too was soon hysterical with pain, and the good doctor held his penis and was working the burning red-hot little stick along the edge of his urethral walls, deep inside, and Rich too thought it would never stop, and that he'd never be able to pee again let alone jerk off, and finally Mr. Cousins voice was heard, a beautiful sound really, "It's nine o'clock," and just like that – it was over, the weekend of punishment, and both boys were given sedatives for the pain, carried to the school's infirmary, and put to bed. They slept soundly for more than twelve hours following their ordeal.
Chapter 15
Aftermath
Although the main ordeal is over and the runaways are resting in their infirmary beds, their future is uncertain even as a once unlikely benefactor tries to help.
Tom and Rich were given adjoining beds in the infirmary. The infirmary, nestled upstairs in a third floor alcove of the large Stevens facility away from the hustle and bustle of the reform school, contained a total of six beds. Both boys lay asleep well into Monday, surprisingly comfortable and mildly sedated. Tom woke up first and saw a group of other boys outside on the recreational field playing soccer. The look was cursory as he began to take stock of his new surroundings. He felt pain in many places on his ravaged body, but it was more of a pervasive soreness, as though he'd been given pills of some kind to ease his recovery. No longer nude, he was wearing blue cotton pajamas and lying on his back under the thick covers, including the cozy shelter of a nice comforter. He loved comforters! He felt a kind of rush too – like a mild thrill. The weekend, he thought, was over, and aa sense of satisfaction was there inside him along with the knowledge that he'd survived. Then there was a fear, a gnawing fear suddenly arriving in earnest – and he felt a bit of numbness by his nuts. Not bound or tied in any way, he furtively moved his hand under the covers to feel for his penis and testicles – for a few seconds he was terrified and an empty feeling filled the pit of his stomach – no, those bastards didn't – but then he smiled, and realized that he hadn't been castrated. Whew! That was a relief. His genitals were intact, even if they were quite sore when he felt around down there. In any case, Tom had a pretty good idea that they still worked – which was the main thing.
It sure was quiet in the infirmary. The door entering the sick quarters was closed, and the other beds – except for the one nearest containing a still sleeping Rich – were empty. Tom thought about rousing his friend, but then felt a surge of compassion, and let him sleep. At least Rich didn't snore. It wasn't quite like the hospital room which Tom remembered from when he'd had his tonsils removed, or just last year when he'd had all four wisdom teeth extracted and so been hospitalized for two days as a precaution by his parents, this room apparently didn't have a Nintendo or even a television set. There were a couple of magazines lying around – dog-eared copies of Reader's Digest, National Geographic, and Boys' Life. But he didn't feel much like reading. What he ended up doing was falling back to sleep.
***
Alfred Cousins had witnessed some of the runaways' weekend ordeal – but not all of it. During his frequent absences, he'd been busy. On Saturday, he'd furtively investigated the confidential files of inmates Thomas Bridges and Richard Hansen – only to discover an intriguing string of notable biographical details.
"No actual violence committed by either boy – very questionable admissions" were among the conclusions he'd arrived at following a thorough review. What are they doing here? He asked aloud to himself several times. Neither boy had a history of previous delinquent behavior before being sentenced to Stevens. Although it wasn't unusual that these two weren't local – the school frequently accepted out-of-state 'clients' – some red flags appeared to make them exceptional. Cousins had been employed at Stevens long enough to gain tenure. While eleven absconders had suffered punishment regimes during the 1990s, and though he'd invariably expressed sympathy and even empathy with those boys punished – for instance, following the brutal ordeal undergone by Payton and Singletary he'd repeatedly expressed his objections to practices he'd deemed excessive – he'd never felt tempted to actually intervene. But this case – the situations with Richard and Tom – cried out for intervention. If the truth were known, he'd never felt comfortable about the punishment regimes inflicted at Stevens, or the government tie-in to such practices, or even their secretive nature. He knew for a fact that most of the supporting staff – people like visiting mental health counselors flown in explicitly from Boston and New York City and Baltimore to treat the kids in the aftermath of their ordeals – weren't briefed on the intimate details of what the teenagers had actually been subjected to. Once, after overhearing a conversational snippet between a well-credentialed clinical psychologist and headmaster Taylor immediately AFTER the shrink had completed post-ordeal interviews with absconders Payton and Singletary – Cousins received the distinct impression that the likelihood of emotional trauma consequent to a Stevens punishment weekend was being mistakenly minimized.
"Those kids have the wildest imaginations," the visitor had joked, "you should have heard the allegations they were making."
So Alfred Cousins, once victimized himself by adults in a life-altering way and forced to harbor a terrible secret of his own – decided to call the parents in question.
***
Rich was awake now. He looked out at the Stevens surroundings; the field was empty and the part of the building he was in seemed deathly quiet. It was nearly dark, but he could just make out the outline of his friend's face, was he sleeping, or just faking it? "Hey Tom – you awake?"
"Yeah. So you're back in the land of the living? Finally!"
"How do you feel?"
"Not bad, considering, except a little woozy. I think they slipped us some pain pills."
"Yeah, same with me. They slipped me a Mickey. I'm really sore in a lot of places, but the edge of it doesn't seem to be there."
"Pretty awful what they did to us, huh? Child abuse at least. We should be able to sue those bastards."
"At least they didn't cut your balls off like you were worried about."
"What do you think? It must be a serious crime what they did to us. We could close this place down maybe. I'll bet we can." Tom was very angry, understandably.
But Rich was more pragmatic. He had his doubts about any immediate retribution that they could take to rectify their situation. It was, in fact, a very dismal picture. Their future, as he saw it, really sucked. He posed some logic toward his friend.
"Some of the guys who were punished like us are still going to school here. In any case, nobody closed down the place after they were given their special weekend. I don't think there's anybody who'd listen to us, anyway."
"What about counselors – we're supposed to get counseling – it said so in the video they showed us. I'll bet if we were honest with the counselor they bring in and told that person how we were punished, I mean all the nasty details, I'll bet they'd go apeshit – like they'd have to believe us."
"My Dad has a word for you— and your dopey kind."
"What?"
"Naïve. He'd say that if somebody was peeing on you, you'd think it was raining."
"I'm not sure I'd like your Dad much."
"He's got to be better than your Dad – the born-again freak. Wasn't it his idea to get you put in here? Didn't he even tell the freaking judge that?"
Tom was now near tears.
"I guess, but if he'd known what it was like, he'd never have done it. Never!"
Rich felt a change of heart. He too was angry, and very depressed. But he suddenly realized that to attack his only friend in this place wasn't very nice, wasn't very nice at all.
"I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't mean it."
Tom took the apology as a green light to started talking about counselors coming to the rescue again.
"I bet the counselor they get to talk to us will listen. That's their job."
"Maybe. But I think it's too easy. That's what you'd expect to happen if this was a normal place. I don't think this is a normal place, not even a normal reform school, and I don't think anybody around here gives a God damn about us."
"What about Mr. Cousins?"
Rich had to think about that one, but not for too long.
"What's he ever done for us? I mean really? Did he stop them from hurting us?"
"He could call our parents if we asked him."
What could our freaking parents do, Rich mused, we're freaking wards of this place, it's like they OWN us.
"I doubt Mr. Cousins would call our parents – even if we asked him. I don't think he has the freaking guts anyway. Besides, they'd probably fire his ass if he did, if any of the bastards found out, and he probably doesn't care enough about us – even if he does care about us – to stick his neck out like that. No, he'd never dare call our parents." Rich felt that their future was as hopeless as it was uncertain. But about Alfred Cousins calling their parents – he was already mistaken.
***
Mr. Cousins first tried calling Tom's parents on that Saturday when their son's punishments for absconding were in full swing. Mrs. Bridges, the Evangelical Christian woman who'd first discovered her son's diary in his room and been 'utterly shocked' by its contents, answered the phone in a brusque tone.
"Yes, this is the Bridges home, Jesus loves you, who am I speaking with?"
Mr. Cousins was already made jittery by the circumstances under which he was calling. Realizing the risk he was taking, the woman's self-righteous and religious manner only made things worse. But she had to be Tom's mother.
"Is Thomas Bridges your son?"
"Yes, I have a son named Thomas. He's away – at school. But whom am I speaking with? What is this about?"
"I'm on staff here at the Stevens School. I'm sorry to bother you, but your son is being severely punished at the school today – he and another boy. He tried to run away and was caught – brought back to the school."
There was a pause at the other end of the line, and then Mr. Cousins thought he heard the woman whispering to someone, and then the boy's father came on the line after what seemed like an eternity.
"Hello, I'm Andrew Bridges, and Thomas is my son. What's this about? Whom am I speaking to?"
Mr. Cousins choked a bit, and courageously forged ahead.
"Your son is being severely punished to the point of torture for attempting to run away from the Stevens School. He and another boy were caught and brought back. The government is involved in the punishments – they're actually 'pain threshold' experiments. He's in serious danger of receiving lifelong trauma. You have to get him out of this institution if you can."
But Andrew Bridges – like his often-hysterical wife – weren't easily convinced of such things – nor did the man seem overly concerned about his son.
"What – praise the Lord – are you talking about? My son's a ward at the Stevens school – and I couldn't intervene even if I wanted to. Besides, if he's being punished for running away, the boy probably deserves everything that's coming to him. I recommended that he be sent to that excellent school. I am aware of corporal punishments meted out at Stevens, but I'm sure that everything is done within reason. As you are probably aware, 'Spare the rod, and spoil the child' is taken right from the Bible. I will take it up with the headmaster there – a Mr. Taylor I believe – when I get the chance. But what you're saying makes little sense – and I would classify this call as harassment – what did you say your name was, sir?"
This Bridges guy is an ignorant fool, Cousins mused. He realized that to brain-wrestle with the likes of this born-again would be futile.
"I didn't. Sorry to bother you," Mr. Cousins hissed, and then abruptly hung up.
He had slightly better luck with the Hansen boy's parents, but only slightly. The conversation progressed into a conference call with both concerned parents.
"If what you say is true," said Alice Hansen, Richard's Mom, "it's even more crucial that we get him home. But we've tried contacting him at the school – and they won't even let us speak with him! We've called our local Congressman's office, and the Governor's office, and social services, but it's like Richard has dropped into a dark hole. Do you have any suggestions?" Mr. Cousins didn't – at least not yet. He'd opened up a Pandora's box and taken from it everything but a solution. Mr. Chad Hansen, Richard's Dad, was thankful for the call but equally frustrated.
"Could you keep us posted? I don't have to know who you are – I don't want to know – but could you call us again after the weekend to let us know how Rich is doing?" I'll – try to call you from my home in town – it's not safe here – if I can. I know you have to be worried but the last thing I'd want to do is to make matters worse for your son."
"We understand," Mr. And Mrs. Hansen said simultaneously, "and we appreciate everything that you're trying to do," the boy's Dad chimed in. But at that moment, after a last pregnant pause and the line going dead, Alfred Cousins felt somewhat like a bumbling Don Quixote. This latter realization hit him in the psyche like a runaway train. What the heck was he going to do?
Chapter 16
Returning to the New Normal
Tom attempts to get the story of his ordeal out to the world while the plot thickens.
Alfred Cousins lived a bachelor's life alone in Perkins – just north of town. A winterized log cabin was his humble abode, rented by the month.
"The man's a recluse – a strange one," his landlord said, but she disliked him more because of his bookish nature than because he was a loner. While Cousins didn't mix much with the locals, he commuted the fifty-two miles [83 km] daily to and from Stevens. His mode of transportation – a battle-scarred 1970 Chevrolet van, beige, with darkened windows so the curious couldn't see much of anything recognizable when they peeked inside.
The boys at Stevens were curious – as were the man's colleagues. Although he was widely suspected of being gay, a pederast or worse, he was retained mostly because of his mathematics skills and credentials (he'd be difficult to replace due to the reform school's remote location) and had even earned tenure. It was a tenuous tenure, liable to be revoked at any time – certainly for any major infraction such as searching through inmate records without authorization, or worse, contacting an inmate's biological parents without permission from headmaster Taylor or security chief Mueller. There were other facets of the math teacher's character deemed irritating to the Stevens School administration. It was obvious to many that he wasn't in full agreement with the school's occasional punishment regimes, especially those severe regimes meted out to absconders. He'd frequently spoken out at such 'festivities' – even against those school-approved pain threshold procedures that were government-sanctioned and considered vital to interests of national security. Twice in the last month, boys from Stevens had secretly broken into his van – perhaps as part of an unofficial scouting mission approved by someone on the reform school's staff or faculty – looking to see what they might find, maybe something incriminating, so that headmaster Taylor might fire Mr. Cousins. But nothing out of the ordinary turned up. There was also another element to the entire situation that Alfred Cousins wasn't privy to. For more than a decade, The Stevens School had been the beneficiary of an extraordinary endowment from the government. Although these payments were masked under assorted pretenses, the compensation was known by a select few to be explicitly in exchange for the school's cooperation in conducting 'pain threshold' experiments on inmates. Without that monthly stipend, Stevens would be placed, to some unknown extent, in serious financial jeopardy. All of these circumstances were to come into play in due course.
***
Tom was dressed in pajamas and slippers while sitting up in a chair during his eagerly awaited counseling session with Dr. Sally Allred, a child psychiatrist who seemed friendly enough. The boy was getting ready to drop what he still assumed, despite Rich's earlier negativity about such disclosure, was a bombshell. Still full of anger, he wished to unburden himself about the brutal punishment regime he'd endured. The affable Allred, a wig-wearing shrink with only the wispiest of eyebrows, seemed to be listening, up to that point – while demonstrating an encouraging degree of empathy.
"I know that you've experienced a minor ordeal, but you must feel a certain amount of pride in getting through it. I think that it would help if you compared your weekend experience to an adolescent initiation, like they used to have boys undergo in certain primitive tribal groups. I bet you've read about the aborigines in Australia's outback – although what you experienced had to be a much milder version of such a ceremony – and without much of the ritual entailed." While this was a take on the experience that Rich had decided to stick with, as a method of coping with the emotional aftermath of what HE'D endured, Tom was more keen on developing his own slant. Feigning mild interest in the shrink's comparison, he really wanted to interject something entirely different, something that seemed more normal in his opinion – even if it was within the realm of victimization. The shrink reminded Tom of comedienne Joan Rivers, he'd watched her show once.
"Doctor Allred, can we talk?"
"Yes, of course, young man. Go right ahead."
"It was torture – not just a few little dumb-ass punishments or even an initiation. Those bastards at this school tortured me and Rich."
"Oh c'mon now. Torture is a strong word – I know you were spanked, both on the bare bottom and on the soles of your feet – but those punishments are long established traditions at this reform school – corporal punishments that are well-known – and never performed to excess. Your headmaster Mr. Taylor tells me that it's against the school's charter to inflict permanent injury on a juvenile inmate and that your school's resident physician, Dr. Thompson, was always present during your punishment sessions."
"Yes, some of that's true. But they did a lot more things to us. I could strip and show you all the marks on me – even on my privates. I don't mind. I'm not so bashful anymore. At least let me show you what they did to my feet. I can still barely walk – and it's been almost a week!"
The shrink looked at the boy with some mock concern, returning to her mild manner as if unfazed by Tom's odd remarks. She was also condescending.
"I know you're feeling angry right now," she said, "but you deserved to be punished. You and your friend broke the school's greatest commandment. I think – like I told your friend Rich earlier – and I will say he's more realistic about what happened – he knew all about the Australian aborigines and in fact – volunteered the comparison himself – I think that you need to move on. It's not healthy for you to hang on to this – dangerous repressed anger towards your teachers at this school. It behooves you to adjust here – you'll be leaving the infirmary and attending classes again – except for occasional follow-up sessions with Dr. Thompson – everything will soon be back to normal. Let it be boy, let it be. That's my sincere advice." The part about 'follow-up sessions' wasn't clearly understood and went right over Tom's head. Tom assumed that Thompson would just keep coming by to cursorily 'check him out' while he remained in the infirmary. Wrong.
Otherwise Tom was persistent.
"Can I show you what they did to my feet?"
"Umm. I don't think that'd be appropriate."
"Can I pull my pajama bottoms down and show you my cock?"
"I'm not here to physically examine you. That's not my job."
"What is your job?" Tom had been very calm and collected up to this point, but now his voice was rising, and his anger was beginning to redirect toward the shrink. She's such a dumb shit, Tom mused, Rich was right. They don't give a flying fuck about me!
"Can I at least describe what they did?" Tom asked more plaintively, and with an exaggerated deference.
The good shrink smiled again.
"I think that's within bounds. I'll get you some paper to write down your thoughts – while they're still fresh."
"Oh, don't worry about that Dr. Allred, they're going to be fresh for a long time. Like forever."
The psychiatrist peered intently at this boy she now considered dangerously angry. She would write that down in her evaluation – notwithstanding the unfortunate and accusatory fantasy drivel that she expected the boy would write. Tom would almost certainly exaggerate in her opinion. She'd seen his ilk before – a lot of such boys went on to become murderers. She sincerely hoped that the boy would not 'act out' – by attempting to injure himself or, of more concern, a staff member. I am very glad that I don't have to work with kids like this every day, she mused. She would indeed recommend a full regimen of follow-up procedures – including work on the boy's genitalia – all complementary to a continued regime of 'pain threshold' experiments. Even castration wasn't out of the question with this one, although that wasn't really her decision, and if such a procedure was performed, she would suggest the use of a local anesthetic.
"You may think so now, but forever is a long time," she said between her musings, while plopping a pencil and two sheets of plain paper within the runaway's reach.
"Go ahead. Write – whatever you want. It's good therapy."
As Tom began writing, his fingernails throbbed slightly. He recalled the sharp needle thrust under each of them – and under his toenails too. There's a reminder, he mused, a good place to begin. But could he get it all down on just two pages? "I might need more paper."
"Try to be concise," Doctor Sally said. She wasn't about to hang around forever while this bitter kid scribed out his life story.
***
Alfred Cousins had been summoned into headmaster Taylor's office. Mueller was there too. Taylor came right to the point.
"Mr. Cousins. Tom Bridges' parents were contacted by someone at this school claiming to be a member of our staff."
"Oh," replied Cousins.
"Would you know anything about this?" Taylor added.
"Whoever did this had to go into the inmate files to get the family's number – as well as make the call – both major infractions by any staff or faculty," Mueller said.
"Are you accusing me?" Cousins defended himself while peering straight into the eyes of both men.
"Everyone is suspect in this security leak, Mr. Cousins – not just yourself. But your views toward leniency with the boys – especially boys who've breached our rules – are well known. I hope and trust that you haven't betrayed your position of trust here."
"We WILL find out who did this," Mueller repackaged.
Later, upon leaving the office, Mueller glared at Cousins and was even more direct.
"If we find out that it was you, your tenure won't be worth snot," he hissed.
Chapter 17
The Second Great Escape
The inevitable finally happens – a second chance at freedom, or redemption, take your pick.
Soon the day came when Tom and Rich were declared recovered enough by Doctor Thompson to attend classes – except for gym – and to mingle with the general population. These physicals – a careful check to see if the 'punishment-induced' injuries had sufficiently healed – were conducted on their beds in the infirmary. Both boys were nude for the perfunctory ritual – everyone knew what the outcome would be – and lying on their stomachs. The physician checked Tom first – palpating everywhere on his backside – neck, shoulders, back, ribs, buttocks, legs, feet.
"Wish you'd do a nice massage," Tom quipped. But he wasn't providing pleasure really – just checking for slower healing of any abrasions, burns, cuts, welts – or whatever else happens to skin when it gets punished.
"You know – you're not supposed to enjoy this," Thompson said, "Now turn over."
Tom did, but he was getting a hard-on. He wasn't bashful about it as he might have been a few weeks before. When he was flat on his back, the boy's penis was rock-solid and jutting upward almost vertically toward the infirmary's ceiling.
"Looks like you were enjoying it."
Rich in the next bed couldn't quite suppress a few giggles.
But the doctor's calloused hands began palpating anew, beginning at the 7th grader's throat and working methodically down his bare front side. It didn't hurt much, just a few twinges here and there.
"That bother you a lot?"
"No, just a little. They're still sensitive, I guess." Tom was talking about his nipples.
When Thompson ran his warm palms over the bare belly of young Bridges, it was almost sensual, the boy imagined himself an alligator, and pre-cum magically appeared in Tom's piss-slit, like a drop of dew. Thompson observed this phenomenon, and brushed it off the boy's exposed glans with a finger. Tom felt a delicious shiver, and sighed.
"Have you been urinating okay?"
"Yes, better than a week ago. It doesn't hurt anymore." He was also cumming again but he wasn't about to volunteer that bit of information.
Tom's feet, particularly his soles, were still quite sensitive, especially when the physician dug his fingernails into each one to test for a Babinski reflex.
"Owwh!" the boy cried.
"Still a tenderfoot!" remarked Thompson, attempting a joke.
He told Tom to "Get up and let me see you walk around a bit," and there was a limp, but it wasn't pronounced.
"Fine, you're making wonderful progress," the medical man said as he nodded.
Tom was thinking angry thoughts – like why do I even HAVE to be making progress? None of this shit should have happened to us in the first place. He also thought about that shrink woman – he'd written down the 'low points' of what these people – including the sadistic bastard who'd just been pawing him – had done to him. Rich seemed to be dozing off – napping – all of a sudden. Thompson noticed it too. He reached over and nudged Rich's shoulder.
"Your turn," he said gently. Fifteen minutes later, he was finished. The runaways were told to dress into their school clothes and come down to the cafeteria for supper.
"I'm giving you both a clean bill of health," Thompson said with a wide phoney smile, "I'll bet you're hungry too."
"So, it's over – our punishments?" Rich asked warily. Both boys had heard rumors of more 'pain-threshold' tests and procedures – were hoping against hope that such foreboding hints mentioned by 'Dr. Sally' the visiting psychiatrist and Mueller and Mr. Graves and Mr. Cousins and other visitors to the infirmary were uttered in jest just to scare them.
"Except for Fridays," Thompson replied, attempting to reassure the runaways, "Don't worry, they're just two-hour sessions for a minimum of six weeks – nothing like what you've already been through."
"Do we have to go?" Tom said, his voice on the edge of tears.
"I'm afraid so." The doctor's voice had a dutiful ring to it, almost melancholy as if he actually regretted what would have to be done.
***
Alfred Cousins had tried to get both boys' parents to intervene, but Tom's Dad was clueless, in his opinion, and Rich's parents had been stonewalled when they'd attempted to discover meaningful details about what had been done to their son in the name of 'punishment'. Yet the math teacher knew what awaited their sons over the ensuing weeks – in Tom's case, especially, and he'd been appalled. The visiting psychiatrist had recommended castration, he'd learned through the grapevine, and mused, they just might DO IT. His memory wandered back to his own experience so long ago, how it had changed his life both for good and bad. He'd been a bit older than these kids, but still an adolescent, when he'd had the involuntary surgery, and felt a twinge down there, just remembering. In his math classes, when he saw the boys and tried to get them to concentrate on their algebra, he did his best to reassure them. If Tom lost his testicles, one or both, was gelded like a calf – probably without anesthesia, it would be a tragedy. The boy was blonde and handsome, in the throes of puberty, and as it was, he was sentenced for an indeterminate period to this place, this Stevens reform school, and probably unjustly. How much worse would it be if the kid lost a part of his body that he'd come to cherish – and that might provide his very essence as a young man? Wanting to lose one's testicles was one thing, or losing them due to cancer or accident, that was another. But being painfully gelded – forcefully made gentle at the whim of a misguided psychiatrist? There was something infinitely perverse and vile about such an act deliberately committed by authorities.
What of Rich? While he wasn't yet being considered for castration, as far as Cousins knew, he would continue to be subjected to tortuous procedures for weeks on end – every Friday. While his attitude seemed to be one of quiet acceptance, or resignation, maybe he perceived himself as enduring some sort of tribal initiation – and coming through it as a man instead of mere boy – and that was a way of coping, at least psychologically, with adverse circumstances beyond his control, Cousins suddenly made the decision – No! It doesn't have to be! Not if he, Alfred Drew Cousins, had anything to do with it.
***
Until that first fateful 'new' Friday, the boys were content to re-adjust and to comply willingly, even gladly, with renewed school routines. In the privacy of room '14c', a banal normalcy was fast returning to the resilient runaways and the manner in which they regarded their confining world.
Lying back snug in their beds after lights out, they discussed many things as they once had before, even if nothing was quite the same.
"I guess it isn't so bad now. At least all the kids talk to us."
"Even that traitor – Carter. I could do without him talking to me," Rich said.
"Still, we've been back more than a week now. And everything's been fine, sort of."
"But tomorrow we got those freaking sessions – two hours of bullshit."
"At least we get to do them together." Tom had a bad feeling about those sessions. He kept thinking about that shrink – Dr. Sally. Why hadn't she done something about what he'd written down? This freaking reform school should be closed down now. Those bastards who'd hurt Rich and him – they should all be arrested by now.
Rich dropped a bombshell just then.
"No we don't. I'm scheduled at four o'clock. They get you at 6:30. They're doing us separate."
Tom looked in his friend's direction. It was dark in their room, or else Rich would have seen the expression on the 7th grader's face – a look of abject terror.
***
Two security guards, a man and a woman, came to fetch Rich at 3:58 sharp. He was in his room, waiting, after having showered and redressed into his cleanest school clothes. Tom was getting some 'extra-credit' algebra help from Mr. Cousins.
"Let's go," the woman said. She was kind of pretty, with a dove's face, albeit sandwiched between a hawk's eyes and beak. I'd like to have sex with her, Rich thought. He was beginning to fantasize more about women – grown women were the only kind he got to see these days – and about having sex with one – like another kind of initiation. He was daydreaming about a heterosexual romp that somehow became an orgy – all of a sudden five women wanting his dick bad appeared in his dream – a quintet of scantily clad sexy things. God, I'm so horny, he said to himself, almost out loud. Careful or I'll cream in my pants. Then, it was over, in seconds. Rich saw that door again – that damned portal leading into the subterranean chambers.
"Oh no! Shit!"
Inside he was led into Examination Room 'C'. Nothing was the mystery it once was. Rich was no longer curious. What would happen to him over the next two hours would happen, was inevitable, and was something to be endured. Doctor Thompson was there in his white physician's smock, and Mr. Mueller, and somebody else. Somebody new. Thompson observed the brief look of bewilderment on the once-punished runaway's visage.
"Oh, this is Mr. Greene," Thompson said, being unnecessarily polite, "He's here to observe. Now strip – and put all your clothes on that chair over there."
Rich started unbuttoning his white dress shirt, one button at a time.
"Hurry up – we've only got two hours to perform many procedures," Mueller said. Soon Rich had removed his shirt, his leather shoes, his socks, undid his fly, slipped off his pants, lastly his white briefs came off, were slipped off his bare feet.
"Okay, hop onto the table," Thompson ordered.
"You want me on my stomach?" Rich asked meekly.
"No, he has to be on his back!" Greene was barking, this interloper into the sadistic circle that the boy had not yet met. Who the hell is this guy? Rich was thinking. Another pervert!
"On your back," Mueller parroted, "But if you can hold fairly still during the procedures, we won't have to strap you down." He was acting nicer today for some reason, probably about to get his jollies. I will scream and cry less than the last time, Rich made up his mind. I'll try to get into the pain, if I can. This was a thought worthy of any masochist – not something that an eighth grader should have to be thinking. This time when he closed his eyes, nobody stopped him. In fact, the men, all three of them, smiled and nodded to each other. There was a silence, a moment, then "He thinks he's the sleeping prince today," Mueller said in that same strangely kind, measured tone. Greene laughed a little too loudly.
Rich began meditating. He saw himself on a nude beach, sunning himself, imagined the fluorescent as a warm embracing light. Girls were all around. Naked too. It was great. He could get into this. One especially pretty girl, a blonde who looked a little like Tom, only she was a girl, yeah, she came up to him and whispered a sweet nothing into his waiting ear.
Suddenly Rich felt someone grab his cock, ignored it.
"Look, the little stud's oozing fluid. He's hard as a rock," Thompson commented.
"Well, he won't be in a minute," Greene said. He was from the company. Surprise, surprise.
Rich was jolted from his pleasant reverie when he felt the big needle pierce his glans right below the piss-slit. He opened his eyes – wished to God he hadn't. The needle was being very gradually forced in deep – he was oozing blood and jizz now – all the way down through his penis the needle sank, powered as it was by determined if evil fingers. When it was all the way in to the hilt – about two inches [5 cm] deep – the men took turns squeezing his cock – somebody began inserting those horrid Q-Tips into his urethral opening – one soaked with alcohol, another with vinegar, another with bleach once it was raw inside. It hurt like hell! Once his cock was filled, another needle went through his ball-sack, make it two needles, one left testicle, one right – Rich was screaming his lungs out by then, and squirming like crazy.
"Hold him down! Hold him down!" Mueller yelled, as if a dam was breaking.
"Do you want us to strap you down?" Mr. Greene asked again.
"No! No! I won't move so much. I promise – swear to God!" Rich mustered the self-control to say. He didn't want to be secured, that was for damn sure.
During the rest of Rich's first 'session' – he managed to prevent being bound. But it wasn't easy. Although the procedures were less 'heavy-duty' in some ways he later told Mr. Cousins, they worked his nipples slowly with a small piece of sandpaper, and then used pliers to squeeze the sensitized boy teats; they used the sandpaper on his sides along the ribs more to abrade the skin; they never stopped doing the same painful things to his genitals, working the cotton swabs and the needles slowly in and out; they hammered about a dozen tiny stainless steel nails – each an inch [2½ cm] long – into first the sole of his right foot in different places – then his left. After all these painful things, they yanked every object out – disinfected the skin where they'd done these things and applied some sort of soothing salve – and it was mercifully over.
"All set until next week, young man," said Thompson, "in a day or two, you'll feel just fine."
Tom's session was every bit as horrific, probably worse. His testicles were actually probed in a more active manner, in preparation for their actual removal at a later 'session'. Three days later, after classes had started again, his balls were still very sore.
"Even aspirin doesn't help," Tom told Rich after lights out that night, "I can't take this any more." He began sobbing and Rich came over and hugged him. What else could he do?
***
The next dreadful Friday thankfully never came. Late Thursday night, in the wee hours, Cousins came to their room, '14C', disguised as a security guard. At first Tom wanted to scream, because he didn't recognize their math teacher, but Rich clamped a frantic hand over his friend's mouth.
"Shh! It's Mr. Cousins. He's come to save us!" Sure enough, Alfred had made this decision. It was obvious later that a peculiar man dressed as a security guard and two runaways in tow had managed to fool a skeleton staff of six genuine security people on duty that night. The secret was how nonchalant they'd been – walking at a normal gait and pace past the security cameras mounted near the ceiling in every hallway. Cousins placed one boy just ahead of him and the other just behind so that "They'll just think I'm taking you to the bathroom." The simple ploy worked. Although the boys were barefoot and in their pajamas when they emerged into the wee hours of that chilly April night, it was worth it. Miraculously, nobody saw them when they scampered into Mr. Cousins's van. He had bedding in there for each boy, for they'd be driving a long way – all the way to Canada!
Once safely in Canada, they'd be staying with a man that Alfred Cousins both dreaded and loved. He was the man who'd performed the remembered operation so many years ago.
"We are going to be international fugitives," Alfred whispered to the boys, each sleeping soundly while snug in their makeshift beds, "isn't that wonderful?" He began sobbing, a gentle sound.
Chapter 18
Alfred's Secret
It was daylight now, actually late morning, but when peering through the van's darkly tinted windows, and it was hard to tell. Rich opened his eyes first, but Tom was awake within moments; his consciousness activated by his friend's first awakenings. Tom yawned rather loudly.
"You're up. Finally!" Rich said laconically.
"What?" Tom was still half asleep, and rubbed his eyes.
"Where are we?" he said.
Behind the wheel, Mr. Cousins had heard the yawn.
"That was a rather vocal demonstration of getting oxygen to your brain," he remarked to Tom, or maybe it was more of a comment voiced to no one in particular.
"Glad to see you boys are up. Ready for some breakfast?"
"Where are we?" Tom repeated.
"Mr. Cousins has kidnapped us. Isn't it cool?" Rich said, and then added, "Yeah, I'm starved. Are we going to stop somewhere?"
Mr. Cousins and 'the kids', as it became his wont to call them, soon ate breakfast. After stopping at a Canadian clone of the International House of Pancakes, Cousins instructed them to stay in the van while he brought out the food.
"We'd best not arouse undue suspicion," he said.
The breakfast was heaping platefuls of pancakes and maple syrup and bacon and scrambled eggs and all the orange juice they could drink – food enough for any army of three.
"I appreciate everything that you're doing for us, Mr. Cousins," Rich gushed in-between mouthfuls.
"Me too," Tom added, "I know that you're taking a humungous risk. I bet that the FBI is after us by now. Maybe the CIA. It's great what you're doing, Mr. Cousins."
"Call me Alfred from now on, if you'd like. No need to be that formal anymore, is there?"
Rich noticed a twinkle in Mr. Cousins' eye. He felt the edge of a tear in his – along with a crying jag coming on after all he and Tom had suffered through at the Stevens School.
"I guess not," Rich choked out, "Alfred."
Tom was a bit more suspicious.
"You're not going to hurt us too, are you sir?" He looked Alfred Cousins right in the eyes as he said it.
Mr. Cousins found himself teary-eyed, sitting in the seats at the back of his van with these 13-year-olds. Reaching out with his right hand, he used it to playfully mess up Tom's hair – which was a dirtier-than-usual blonde since the boy hadn't taken a morning shower.
"No, I'm not going to hurt – either one of you," he said, "and where we're going, nobody's going to find us if we don't want them to." He hoped that both promises could be kept in the end, but he knew that such things might not be totally under his control.
"Okay, Alfred," Tom said.
"That's all I needed to know." He was giggling now, laughing hard enough to drool spittle between every bite.
"Ewwh gross! You're getting egg all over me – you jerk – quit it!" Rich yelled.
"Kids, kids!" Alfred began admonishing. But then he was laughing at seeing Tom and Rich returning to some semblance of normalcy.
***
Sometimes Alfred had second thoughts. Why am I doing this? My career, and my life teaching at Stevens or anywhere else, ruined, definitely over. What do I know about anything else besides teaching? Where I am taking them – will it really be safe for these boys? Had it been safe for HIM so many years before? Some people once considered Edgar Mansen crazy, others went a bit further and called the man extremely dangerous. But Mansen was Alfred's mentor, his role model, and his oldest friend. It was all set, Edgar had agreed to everything on the phone. They'd have a place to stay – the boys AND Alfred – for as long as they needed – for the rest of the summer, maybe forever. The movement of the van's radial tires – steady, rolling, steady on the asphalt surface – created a monotonous wall of sound. Would it work out? He tried to convince himself. It's the only solution I can think of, Alfred mused. There weren't exactly a multitude of choices.
"Are we almost there? Does Mr. Mansen, I mean Edgar, live anywhere around here?" Tom was tired, maybe a little impatient, sitting in the backseat for Canadian mile after Canadian mile gets tedious even for a boy whose recently been released unexpectedly from a living hell. They'd traveled past a thousand mile markers [1500 km] since crossing the U.S. border.
"Rich is sleeping again," Tom added. It seemed like he was trying a little too hard to make conversation.
"Won't be long now, a couple of hours maybe – he lives about eighty miles [130 km] from here, northwest of Banff. We'll be driving back roads or it wouldn't even take us that long."
"He sounds creepy. I've heard of Charlie Mansen. Didn't he murder a bunch of people a long time ago?"
"Remember, he'll want to be called Edgar. He's funny that way – you're not the first person to compare him to Charlie."
"But you didn't answer me. Is this guy Edgar – your friend – is he anything like the famous mass murderer guy?" Tom pressed.
While Edgar hadn't ever been guilty of murder as far as Alfred knew, what to say to the boy was worth pondering. There was the matter of the eunuch cult to consider – at least fifty members last he'd heard – all recluses, all unpredictable and according to reports from Edgar, more than a few of them were nutcases. Could the whole lot of that strange community be trusted to 'go easy' on Tom and Rich? It was a delicate matter.
"No, he's nothing like Charlie Mansen – he's not even related to him," Alfred ended up saying, smiling when he said it, trying to make his evasion sound like a quip.
But Tom kept pressing. He was a bright boy, but wary now, so very wary. Adults had hurt him, didn't you know, and it would take him a long time to really trust any grownup again.
"You still haven't answered me." The look on Tom's face, which Alfred couldn't see since he was watching the road but could certainly sense, was truly an anxious expression. He knew he had to answer.
"He's a good man deep down," Alfred ended up saying, "Not a murderer, very gentle in many ways – and he likes kids. We'll have to leave it at that until you meet him. He's very strange in some ways, eccentric perhaps, definitely not used to, err, most people, and you'll form your own impressions, I'm sure."
"I guess so," Tom yawned again, "Guess I'll get some more shut-eye in the meantime. Wake me up when we get there."
At least the interrogation is over for the time being, Alfred thought.
***
Edgar Mansen was up to greeting them when they got there. It was past midnight and pretty cold for late April. Alfred had picked up warm clothes for the boys at a thrift store back in Calgary, so at least they could get out of the van and into the mountainside lodge without much discomfort. Boots even, for the deep snow.
"It looks like a ski lodge," Rich said.
"Used to be one," replied 'Edgar' in a low gruff voice. The boys considered him, this new person in their lives. His voice was fathomless, without shape or edges, odd sounding, like he spoke through a voice box in the manner that a cancer survivor who'd lost his larynx might, but without an echo of any kind. He was a very large man, with a great long silvery-brown beard, neither boy had ever seen such a beard, wide and luxuriant and part and parcel of his head hair, itself a silvery-brown mass of unkempt tangles. His nose was sharp, probing like a sword into the Canadian chill, with icicle snot dangling at the end reminding Tom and Rich of something comical, like a facial penis. He stank, or at least his breath did, the boys weren't sure where the smell exactly emanated from. Also evident was the queer masculinity he exuded – raw and male, so very male; if the boys could articulate it they would have described Edgar's essence as the penultimate maleness, there was nothing in the slightest way feminine about this rogue man, this primitive man, as to physicality. The boys, always seeking adult role models at their age, even if unconsciously, were simultaneously repelled and attracted, certainly impressed.
"How tall are you, Edgar?" Tom asked.
"Six-foot-five [1.96 m] , and I weigh close to 300 pounds [135 kg]," Edgar said.
Rich thought that Edgar looked like a cross between a pro wrestler and Grizzly Adams, except he was older, like God. He had to be at least sixty.
Soon everybody was in the house. It wasn't exactly a four-star ski lodge, but it had lights and heat and basic necessities. They talked, Edgar and Alfred catching up it seemed for hours with small talk and chit-chat, mostly facts about how the surrounding environs were getting too settled, how people were encroaching on the world of Edgar and of THE OTHERS, mysterious others the men knew about and took for granted but who were a complete mystery to the boys. Finally some hospitality commenced and the boys were able to join in.
"Time for a hot toddy!" Edgar exclaimed.
These 'toddies' as Edgar called them – hot Belgian chocolate spiked with rum – were prepared on a nearby stovetop. Soon enough, they were bubbling and ready to drink.
"This is excellent," Tom remarked.
"Bloody decent," Rich chimed in, imitating what a Brit might say, perhaps to impress Edgar and sound manlier. Wasn't most of Canada British? Anyway, the drink's alcohol content wasn't lost on Rich and he realized a sound sleep was definitely in the offing. Sipping their drinks, getting a slight excited buzz from the new experience, ended when the last dregs were gone from their cups. The immediate effect was a certain pronounced restlessness, a desire for boyish conversations to evaluate their newest situation.
Another factor was their surroundings. Banal, even stark, compared to what they'd been used to all of their brief lives. Although there was a ham radio in the kitchen area, no television or electronic entertainment device graced the premises anywhere. It might be boring here – in some ways, the boys thought, all of a sudden. Yet boring might be good in a way considering their cumulative recent experiences.
They would be sleeping upstairs. Somewhere in the conversation, the boys had learned about their own room to share, upstairs – everything prepared for them, made up, ready.
"I'm getting sleepy again," Tom said.
"Yeah," Rich added, "We'd best retire for the evening."
So they marched upstairs to their cozy, an alcove with unmarked log cabin walls graced with twin beds covered with thick homemade quilts, and since it was cooler in their room than downstairs, they hopped straight under the covers after undressing down to their pajamas again.
It was only later, in the wee hours of a new morning, when Tom became the first to learn Alfred's secret. It was premature, an accident – not yet intended – but life tends to unravel when you least expect it. Sneaking downstairs to the bathroom, he saw Alfred in the altogether for the first time, getting out of the bathtub – the door was open a crack and the boy had let himself in, not realizing that his former math teacher was even taking a bath.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Tom said, "I didn't know." But seeing the naked man was like peeping in a freak show. He couldn't believe it.
"You – d-don't have any balls!" Tom blurted. Actually, his ball-sacs were pea-sized, tiny and shriveled, and indeed the man's testicles had long ago been surgically extracted, and Alfred's penis was oddly shaped, like it had been cut off and then replaced with another body part; what remained resembled more of a bulbous middle finger. Tom ran out of the bathroom afraid to pee right then and there; instead he decided to get dressed and to pee outside in the cold – where it was safe. After he shook out the last drops and found himself staring up at the black starry sky, he put his organ back inside his pants and began sobbing, uncontrollably, and for a long time, a very long time, the tears trickled down his face. When they began freezing there, like the man-beast Edgar's snot revisited, he stopped them cold, like shutting off a faucet.
Chapter 19
Awakenings
The boys grow to know Alfred, and to a lesser Edgar.
Tom and Rich lay snug under their comforters the next morning, when Edgar came bounding into their room. He was wearing a pair of soiled jockey shorts, nothing else. What he was saying was incredible.
"C'mon boys! Daylight in the swamp! Up and at 'em! Ready for a swim in the pond?"
The huge bearded man, looking a bit like a monstrosity, shook Tom lightly but vigorously by the shoulders, then Rich. Tom promptly buried himself deeper under the covers. But Rich responded, began to wake. Lifting the sleepers from each eyelid, he asked, "What drug are you on Edgar?"
This only engaged the bearded giant, made him focus on the apparently willing young one. He repeated, "Ready for a swim in the pond? It'll wake you up young one!"
Rich sat straight up.
"It's till early, not much after sunrise. Besides, any pond in the area is likely to be frozen solid."
"Not so. It's been slightly above freezing for weeks. There are only little floes of ice left – here and there. We will go!"
Within seconds Rich found himself being lifted up from the warmth and comfort of the quilt-laden bed, about to become a human polar bear. A moment later, Edgar and Rich were holding hands, the big man was dragging the boy, and both were naked as the day they were born. Outside, running barefoot through thigh-deep snow, until they came to the pond. It was sunny, dazzlingly bright with the reflecting snow, almost blinding. The air temperature was maybe 35 degrees Fahrenheit [2°C] – not a degree warmer.
It was unfrozen, that mountain pond, but unbelievably cold, Rich couldn't believe this was happening, it was crazy, he was in the frigid water up to his chest, then over his head; for a few seconds Rich thought he was going to drown for sure. Next he was out of the water, and swept through the snow as if he were a fledgling broom, and when they got to a porch in back of the lodge, it'd been swept clean of snow, he was being toweled dry by Edgar and by Alfred, and once Rich's body was completely dry, and covered, at least his torso, with a welter of thick, fleecy bath towels – within moments of all this frenzied activity the loosely-clad boy was sunning himself, the sun was much stronger than he'd assumed it would be, and with another hot toddy, and another, he sipped them down, he felt great all of a sudden, strangely invigorated – not cold in the slightest. Edgar and Alfred had joined him now – sitting on lounging deck chairs just like he was – each man was naked but covered lightly with a single towel, except that Edgar's towel didn't quite cover his privates, at least where the big man's privates were supposed to be, the man had no balls, no penis, could that be possible? Rich was slightly tipsy after two morning toddies, so maybe he was seeing things, or not seeing the man's things, as the case may be, and anyway, he started yelling up to Tom in his bed from the rear porch, sounding crazy Tom remarked to him later.
"Hey Tom, c'mon down, the water's fine! I've just been swimming!"
"How do you like our little morning ritual?" Alfred asked.
"It's great!" Rich was saying, but the world was spinning, he was almost drunk from two slugs of rum, but somehow his teenaged eyes were drawn to the men's privates. Alfred had pea-sized ball-sacks, and just a bulbous finger of a dick, a little odd-shaped thing, it looked like a middle finger somehow delightfully obscene, and Rich starting giggling and laughing, and his kid's eyes darted to Edgar's missing genitalia, no balls whatsoever and a little-bitty pencil-thin thing for a dick, just something to piss with, but barely, and then Rich blurted, "You guys are eunuchs!"
"I never thought you'd notice!" Edgar said, and Alfred said "You get used to it," or something like that, but both men were relieved, or at least Alfred was, when Rich reacted differently than Tom had the night before, and out of the blue the sparkling boy said, his fresh skin features sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight, "That was so fun! In fact, it was incredible!"
"What?" Alfred said just to make sure that he'd heard the darling right.
"The skinny-dipping of course," Rich answered, "Can we do it again tomorrow?"
***
It was at least an hour when Rich went upstairs to the alcove to dress, he'd already had breakfast, and after what seemed like a full morning already, he couldn't believe that Tom was still snuggled in bed under the covers in his pajamas.
"Are you EVER going to get up?" he yelled, a bit too loud, at his slumbering friend.
When Tom did, he was crying, still traumatized from his experience of the night before – the vision of Alfred emerging from his bath.
"What's the freaking matter? Why are you blubbering?" Rich was getting perturbed.
"I got something to tell you. I can't even say it out loud." Rich leaned over so that Tom could whisper in his ear.
"So? I knew that. Same thing with Edgar – they're eunuchs. That's all."
"That's all – are you bonkers? It's freaking weird!"
"No, it's not. It's normal for them," Rich argued.
"Can you get serious? They're probably going to make you and me eunuchs. That's why Mr. Cousins – I mean Alfred – probably brought us here in the first place."
"You don't know that. I think it's going to be fun up here. Just wait and see. I'm optimistic. It's a lot better than being stuck at Stevens. Think about it."
But logic couldn't sway Tom. He was still traumatized. This was all way too weird. Finally, the truth came out; Tom's greatest fear.
"I don't want to lose my cock and balls – or even just my balls. I'd die before I'd let that happen. I'm not kidding. I'd find a way. I'd just die!"
Rich measured his words to reassure his addled friend.
"Listen to me. I don't think that Alfred, or even Edgar, would ever make you do anything that you didn't really want to do."
"How do you know that?"
"I just have a gut feeling, that's all."
There was a long pause as Tom regarded his friend, staring intently at his eyes. They'd been through a lifetime together. It seemed like forever. He knew they'd be friends forever, no matter what happened.
"I don't know. I hope you're right."
"I think it's your upbringing. Your parents were tight-asses. It's screwing you up. You gotta adjust, guy."
Suddenly, on an impulse, Tom hugged his friend tight, wrapped his arms around him. To his credit, Rich hugged back, realizing the moment's emotion.
"Hey up there. Tom. Want some breakfast?" It was Edgar's voice – a voice that would become so familiar.
"Yeah," Tom said, "We're coming down. I'm starved!"
***
May. June. By the time it was July in the Canadian wilderness, Tom and Rich had become like a family – even if Alfred and Edgar were the slightly eccentric parent figures. Fishing. Hiking. Backpacking. The skinny-dipping grew into a daily ritual for both boys and the neutered men – soon it didn't matter that their older friends and companions were basically without genitalia. Everyday was fun, and adventure. The lodge also had pets – Edgar's Angora cat 'Fluffy' and the sled dogs – 'Ralph' and 'Maria' – the female was part wolf but invariably friendly to the boys.
Mysteries were still unsolved, but to a lesser degree.
First there was the clandestine visit. Rich's parents came to visit – Arthur had arranged this as a treat – it was in no way safe to bring the boys back to the Lower Forty-Eight and Tom's parents, being straight-laced and narrow-minded Christians – were too great a risk to chance – but Rich's parents just being there with them all for a week worked well – they snuck into the area from a roundabout – back roads traversed through the Northwest Territories and heading south and east.
"Nobody followed us," said Rich's dad.
One summer afternoon, it was hot, maybe upper 80s [c. 30°C] and surprisingly humid, and Alfred told the boys some details about how he'd become a eunuch, and like the rest of the eunuchs in the secret cult, almost nullified.
"I was fifteen," Alfred began, "and Edgar was my savior. You should have seen him in those days." It was a crush, or an infatuation – they'd met in California, where Alfred had grown up as a male prostitute, working the streets of Merced. There'd been a legal guardianship, and then a migration to Alberta.
"The society was just starting out. I doubt we had more than twenty members but they were from different countries, and especially Russia, refugees and dissenters from the notorious Sergei Dostchevski's Brethren of Death. Alfred had continued to turn tricks, working the streets of Calgary that first summer. He was involved inextricably it seemed in a vicious cycle, an established habit – homosexual sex in exchange for drugs. He'd run away repeatedly. Gotten Edgar sent to prison for 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor'. Edgar didn't know what to do, he was barely thirty himself, and in over his head trying to raise Alfred, the hellion teen.
"Finally, the Gentle Ones, that's what they were called, they're still called that – came to our rescue, to Edgar's rescue. Edgar was their leader, he still is. They suggested it – castration – at least a gelding – to take away my promiscuity. Edgar went along with it. You have to know. I had these violent mood swings because of the drugs, because I was emotionally unstable, because I loved Edgar – and I still felt so much guilt and shame." To make a long story short, cutting through the repeated drug withdrawals and the screaming jags, and a million other things barely remembered that Alfred had probably repressed, after all, thirty-five years had passed, there'd been the initiation.
"It was a ritualized rite, like a tribal rite, in the thickest woods just a few miles from here. They led me naked to lie spread-eagled on the bloody stone. The stone is situated in a grove of whispering pines 2.4 miles [3.8 km] from this lodge."
Alfred's mind drifted off again, back through a mist of time.
"But I was always ambivalent. I loved Edgar like the dad I never had, but I wasn't absolutely sure I wanted to be like him, to lose my testicles, my penis, to be one of the Gentle Ones."
It was interesting, perhaps more than a footnote, when Tom left before Alfred had finished his story's gory conclusion, but Rich stayed to listen, transfixed in a fascination that rivaled a trance. Tom went to pet 'Ralph' and 'Maria' while caught indelibly in a mood swing of his own.
Chapter 20 Conclusion
An Ending of Sorts
For weeks after Rich and Tom's opportune rescue, a media circus ensued. Throughout the United States and Canada, television and radio stations blared the sensational. While the Stevens School's true nature (reform school) was a matter of public record, this simple fact was often obscured. It was intimated, if not usually said, that Stevens was an exclusive private school stressing 'academics and discipline' situated in a peaceful, if remote setting. Several well-known commentators hosting nationally broadcast programs referred to 'Stevens students' as college preparatory-minded boys from wealthy families attending voluntarily – not inmates placed by court order in a sadistic institution. In fact, according to the 'official' version of events, Alfred Cousins had been 'employed' by the school in some menial capacity, maybe janitorial. There was nary a mention of his former status as a tenured mathematics instructor. It was 'leaked' in somewhat contradictory fashion, that Cousins, 56, ringleader of an insane satanic cult specializing in the abuse, torture, and mutilation of 'boys as young as five' – was a serial kidnapper with a predilection for 'violating' boys attending private schools. Sources were never identified. Within a week of the 'abduction', tens of millions of 'enquiring minds' regarded Cousins as the pariah that he wasn't. Tom's parents believed these and other gross deceptions, while publicly supporting the massive and very public effort mounted by an international coalition to 'save' their missing son.
Rich's parents tried keeping the lowest profile possible. Categorically refusing extensive interviews with tabloid television shows and maintaining a cautious and even aloof posture with those insufferable reporters who dared encroach upon their family's privacy, they kept in discreet contact with Rich and his guardians hoping to eventually 'fetch him home' when the time was right. Unfortunately, this strategy had an unintended effect. Like it had with the parents of Jon Benet Ramsey, the media became more interested in the Hansens – and began to regard them as accomplices in their son's abduction. Suspicion cast upon the family – even upon Rich's slightly elder sister – an accusatory judgment – became a prevalent mindset – especially when the irresponsible media began framing lurid stories along these lines. When Rich's parents did dare to visit their son, they'd been tailed by law enforcement agents. Soon the boys' whereabouts – and the whereabouts of everybody with them – became an open secret. A discreet surveillance commenced. Eavesdropping devices camouflaged into the natural surroundings provided visual data and even the minutest details of conversations between the four principals. The lost genitalia of both Edgar and Alfred – along with actual photographs – became grotesque curiosities – like an old-fashioned freak show – and ratings-building topics for mass consumption TV. Were they 'deformities' – possibly induced by incestuous breeding – or gruesome self-mutilations? When Edgar and Alfred began mingling the boys with some other eunuchs in the area – how many eunuchs were there in those woods – forty–fifty–sixty? Was this cult-like community dangerous to young boys? It was quickly assumed so. The authorities would 'pounce' upon the eunuch community and 'recover' the 'children' in due course – it was only a matter of time. American and Canadian plainclothes operatives began inhabiting the nearby woods in the vicinity of the lodge – living mostly in makeshift shelters. Despite this whirlwind of activity that was admittedly foreign to those wilderness environs, a certain stealth credited to intense military training methods and inherent to what the American government was now calling 'Operation Canadian Courage' enabled Edgar, Alfred, Tom, and Rich to remain – perhaps blissfully – unawares. It might have helped if there'd been a television set in Edgar's abode.
***
"Operation Canadian Courage" came to its intended and appropriately sensational climax on the evening of August 28, 2001. Tom and Rich had been introduced to the other eunuchs about a month before. There'd been an initiation ritual, the boys had gotten naked for it, but none of the exercises required sex or pain.
"That was so tame," Rich later said, after he'd been immersed outdoors in a tub filled with moose urine, and later rinsed off with a dip in the now lukewarm pond.
"I can't wait until they DO me."
Tom was against the impending castration and partial penectomy of his best friend.
"I can't figure out for the life of me why you would want to let them do that to you," Tom said, "I mean, imagine. It's going to hurt like hell and you won't ever be able to jerk off again, let alone have kids someday. I think you're crazy!"
"I know," Rich said, almost sadly, "but it just seems right. I won't ever feel a part of the Lost Brethren unless I do get it done. I l-love both of them – Alfred and Edgar too – and I want to live here forever."
"What about your real family? They came all the way up here to see you. You love them too, don't you? Did you even TELL them about what's going to happen?"
"I think Dad was afraid to ask. Mom didn't have a clue. I don't know, maybe I'll change my mind at the last minute, but I don't think so."
"I still think that you're crazy," Tom repeated.
***
The logistics, from a military operation's standpoint, and also from a propagandist's perspective, were not black and white.
"If the kid wants to get his cock and balls cut off, maybe we ought to let it happen," said the President of the United States to one of his Pentagon aides, "It would justify to the American public how heinous and evil these eunuchs are, and then we could massacre the whole idiotic bunch of them without political fallout. Besides, with Alfred Cousins dead, he won't be in a position to spill the beans about the 'pain threshold' experiments at that school, what's its name, Simons?"
"Stevens, sir. It's called the Stevens School."
A woman spoke up. She was with the Justice Department, a high-level official and political appointee.
She had frizzy hair and very prominent eyebrows. These latter appendages were furrowed in a fit of worry.
"I think that you have a tough decision to make. Whether the one is castrated or not, I think both boys need to be killed. We don't want those child abuse people dogging your administration to kingdom come. If we bring their bodies back, it might even play well in the press."
"You can't do that!" the Pentagon aide exclaimed.
"I'm sorry," said the President, "I guess that's why I'm the President. I'm not afraid to make the tough decisions in the interests of national security, and frankly, political expedience. That's my job."
The Pentagon aide was aghast, but powerless to do anything. He was in the presence of the most powerful man in the world.
"What if the public finds out?" the aide ended up saying.
The President laughed. It was an evil laugh.
"They won't," he finally squeaked out between chortles, "They never do."
***
The evening of August 28th was mild and pleasant on Rich's bare skin. He was staked out in the clearing, amid a grove of trees, in what must have been an ancient ceremony, and at least was two centuries old. Tom watched the entire proceedings. Leather thongs had been attached to all twenty of his friend's stretched out fingers and toes; his nude form lay splayed out and spread-eagled on the uncomfortable ground, a ground strewn deliberately with sharp twigs, thorny brambles, and stinging nettles by the eunuchs – but not merely for the purpose of causing pain.
"I guess it's time," Edgar said, grasping the razor-sharp dagger used in a hundred such rituals over the years.
"I guess I'm ready," Rich said, and what was odd, so weird, Tom thought, his friend was smiling, although an instant later, when he saw the big man advancing upon his genitals with the sharp ceremonial instrument, Rich at least gritted his teeth. The pain along the entire length of Rich's backside was actually distracting the boy somewhat from what was about to happen. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. The bullet struck the kneeling Edgar's back just beneath the seventh vertebrae, making him an instant paraplegic as well as a eunuch. He toppled over headfirst and landed on Rich's chest.
"Shit!" an unfamiliar voice screamed, "Why'd you do that? Orders were to let the boy get castrated, and THEN kill them all!"
Suddenly, another voice was heard. It was that of the hero, Alfred Cousins.
"I took the liberty of notifying the Hansen boy's folks. So I guess nobody gets killed today – you bastards!"
"Nobody but you and the other eunuchs," came a retort. More shots rang out. Soon Tom and the still spread-eagled Rich were the only ones left alive.
***
But it hadn't worked out in the manner that the American President had intended. Rich's parents became Tom's legal guardians, and both boys went to live with the Hansens. It all seemed like a dream – what had happened to them over the past year – especially the bad things. Tom and Rich sharing a room like brothers, they refused to move into separate rooms – it was Rich's old room at home – very familiar surroundings to him – but they wouldn't be separated except in classes at school. As autumn progressed, everything was different anyway. It was a brave new world – post September 11th – and the only name on everybody's lips was that Arab arch-villain, Osama bin Laden. The 'eunuch-gang' as they were now occasionally referred to, and even the murdered Alfred Cousins, were 'yesterday's news'.
***
One evening in October, Tom and Rich were in their bedroom engaged in a familiar activity that Rich's sister found disgusting. She peeked in the open doorway.
"Ewwh gross!" she said.
"I don't know why she says that,' Rich said, "I think that your toenails are great."
"Just finish up with them," Tom said, holding his left foot up so that Rich's teeth could gain a better grip.
"I just know I need an extra-thorough massage tonight. Extra thorough."
***
Later, that night after lights out, Tom started sobbing. Rich woke up to caress and hug his friend. Sometimes his family joined in when this happened – Mom and Dad and even Sis taking their turns comforting one or the other once-tortured boys who was having a crying jag. They came on spontaneously, those tearful episodes. Tonight it wouldn't be necessary to convene a family 'hug-in'. Rich had matters well in hand.
"Don't worry, you're safe. You're safe!" he whispered loudly into his best friend's ear.
"No, I'm not," Tom suddenly joked like a bolt that sprang out of his deep blue eyes, "It's not the Stevens way."
This simple one-liner sent both boys into a fit of hysterical laughter until Rich saw the photograph of Alfred Cousins on the bedside table. The photograph had the effect of quieting both boys like nothing else.
"Was Alfred a hero?" Tom said.
Now it was Rich's turn to cry.