Stevens School Runaways - Part 11 (hist, tort, CBT, psych)
By Platypus (formerly Dark Man) 
plupy@surfbest.net

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved 
(First published on Eunuch Archive)

* * * * *
This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.  It contains
explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If
you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such
material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not
read further, and do not save this story.
* * * * *

The dungeon is a terrible place to be.


Stevens School Runaways - Part 11
"Dungeon Time"

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 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 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
if you don't -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 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. 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, 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.

End of Part 11