Stevens School Runaways - Part 9 (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 boys finally discover that absconding from this harsh
reform school will exact a terrible price and is decidedly
unpleasant.


Stevens School Runaways - Part 9
"Room Service"

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 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" 220 pounds – 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, 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 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.

End of Part 9