Stevens School Runaways - Part 6 (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.
* * * * *

Two young runaways from a harsh but politically correct
reform school eventually get punished in a most severe way.


Stevens School Runaways - Part 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 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 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?"

End of Part 6