My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 1-3 
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.net

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved 

* * * * *
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.
* * * * *

Once when I was two my stepmother left me locked in her car
with the windows closed on a sweltering hot July day. I was
discovered strapped in a baby's seat inside her prized Audi
after she'd misplaced the key to it. When my stepmother
called 911 -- and the dispatcher told her to break the
window to pull me out of the car she wouldn't do it   said
she needed to walk home "just three minutes away" to get a
spare key! "That's ridiculous!" the dispatcher is supposed
to have said. When the rescue people came, they broke the
window anyway. I was already unconscious. My Dad and
stepmother's temporary custody of me ended when I was three. 
My real mom told me this story years later. 

*

When I was eleven, and my real mom was hospitalized in a
horrid place where they put the terminally ill, I had to go
live with my stepmother and my Dad. But he was using drugs
and sick a lot too, and so his presence in the home grew
weaker and weaker. He would stay out for days, going into
Manhattan, and when he'd see me, his only son, I'd be lucky
to have him in a sober moment shake my hand or lift my
pajama top to rub my bare belly when he tucked me into bed.
"Jeremy," he'd say, "Listen to your step mom. Deep down, she
doesn't resent you half as much as you think she does."

*

He seemed right at the time. For those few months,
"Caroline" as I called her would seldom raise her voice to
me even when I was disobedient or sassed her or said things
like "You're not my mother!" when she wanted me to do chores
like mop the kitchen floor or clean the toilet. But as Dad
came home less and less, and she began to have other men
over instead of my Dad, and they began having wild parties
at night   the adults started ignoring me for the most part,
and I had to make my own lunches for school, and wash up and
get to bed early and make my own breakfasts   usually cereal
and bananas if there were any. Sometimes I couldn't get to
sleep, it was so loud downstairs, and even though the door
to my bedroom was closed I could hear the murmur of crude
voices   including my step mom's. I cried myself to sleep
sometimes. 

*

The house was a Cape Cod with two bedrooms upstairs and two
more downstairs. Downstairs also had a bathroom, kitchen,
and "parlor." I wish that was all there was to "our house."
But beneath the downstairs was a basement, and unbeknownst
to me was the sub-basement, what came to be called "the
dungeon."  

*

My mind wanders to what was. My step-mom is a blonde woman
in her mid-forties. Her face is weathered, almost craggy;
lines are etched into her wrinkles until it seems like her
plainness is a mask, a deceptive cold veneer of sarcasm and
curtness that mirrors our language engaged in between each
other, woman and boy. She was raising me, she said, and that
was enough. At eighteen I could leave, but until that day,
that eighteenth birthday, she would be my guardian! My
parents were dead and she now had legal custody of me. I
refused to accept this, in spirit, for a long time, fighting
her every chance I got, offering what little resistances I
could offer. Still, for a long time there were certain
precise rules between us, like secret codes, and chief among
these was that we stayed out of each other's way as much as
possible. "You live your life and I'll live mine," she'd say
to me in quiet moments, when the inevitable boyfriend was
asleep. Her boyfriends had been rather tranquil men, just
quiet boozers, but then the nature of her "guests" began to
change. Until I was 12 and a half I never saw the inside of
my stepmother's dungeon, never even knew it existed. 

*

Precise rules. I never let her see me naked, not even my
bare feet if I could help it. I would run into the bathroom,
more cautious as I approached puberty, knowing that I was in
7th grade and there were changes happening to my body, the
appearance of little hairs alongside my penis and testicles,
and a few under my arms, and one night when it was winter a
wetness came upon my sheets that did not smell like pee. She
wasn't my real mother   and so I shared none of this with
her. 

*

Clarence was a refugee from a motorcycle gang. He was a
rough, hirsute and huge to me, maybe six foot four and two
twenty, with beetling eyebrows that seemed to create a
silhouette effect around his panda-like brown eyes. When I
first heard his motorcycle and saw him talking to Caroline
by the hedges out front of our Cape Cod, I just knew that
he'd be moving in. He knew Caroline from some former life, a
part of her existence before my awareness, and was the first
of several "bad news" hirsute bears that would be moving in.
Clarence, like Lonnie and Mitchell, brought out the worst in
my step-mom, but also the worst in me. I could avoid
Caroline, something she seemed to prefer, but not four
adults. Unfortunately, in my increasingly crowded living
space, a "home" that seemed more like a biker's hangout in
the middle of nowhere, as the nearest house to ours was
almost a mile down the lane next to an ugly decrepit strip
mall, I was getting agitated, feeling imposed upon, as the
other three bedrooms were now occupied. Three bedrooms for
four adults sounded like discordant music to a virginal boy
  as Caroline almost never slept alone and seemed to take
turns with her "stallion of the night." The sex began edging
closer. Pubertal already, easily embarrassed, I was
increasingly attracting odd stares from the entire gang.
What could this mean?  "Jeremy seems way too modest," I
overheard Clarence saying one evening to my stepmother. I
heard him distinctly as I emerged from the bathroom in
bathrobe, slippers, and white socks   with my pajamas
underneath the robe, "Are you sure he's not a little fag?"
Lonnie was a big man with facial hair -- a mustache and
goatee; he had the swarthy look of a construction laborer
and a fat gut that produced folds of pinkish pork meat
overhanging his belted jeans. He overheard me sassing
Caroline one night as she'd asked, "Is your homework done?"
and I'd said "What's it to you?" knowing that she was just
acting motherly so as to impress Lonnie. "That boy should be
brought down a peg or two," he said loud and nasty so I
could hear it, and for the first time, the dungeon was
mentioned. "He needs a visit downstairs   way downstairs,"
Mitchell agreed, just entering the parlor, tracking mud into
the room with each giant step as this guy was six foot five
if he was an inch and must have weighed 300 pounds of solid
muscle as he lifted barbells in the basement. I knew that I
would have to get up extra early in the morning to clean the
carpet. I couldn't stand it   what a pig   and just as I was
thinking about his heredity he blasted a loud fart as if to
punctuate the already fetid air. "I'm going up to my room,"
I announced, getting four icy stares. The words, "He thinks
he's f__cking too good for us, the little asshole," echoed
in my ears. The voice was male   it didn't matter whom.


Part 2: It Begins 

On the night it all began I was 12 and a half years old. I
didn't realize this, but I possessed good looks and a slim
build with my collar length dark brown hair framing a
handsome face that was already turning heads. I posed before
myself in my bedroom's mirror with my school shirt opened,
and I noticed that my chest was just beginning to develop
definition around my pectoral muscles, a term that I knew
from 7th grade health class where we were just touching on
anatomy, although we'd learned nothing about touching. My
skin was light but not pale, a nice tone, and its texture
was perfect compared to most boys I knew my age. Before the
mirror, I was wearing pants, and briefs underneath, white,
cotton; in fact I could see my briefs because my top button
on my pants was undone. I twirled around before the mirror,
wearing brown socks, my feet slid along the hardwood floor
as I completed a near revolution, even in this condition of
privacy I felt slightly embarrassed. I knew about my sparse
little brown pubes, the beginnings of a manly nest, and
although I'd never taken a shower with other boys I'd heard
their disgusting locker room talk, their banter about their
bodies. My penis was a forbidden part of me, connected to my
body but detached as possible from my mind, up until that
day I had never even touched myself in a way to provoke much
more than a tingle when I peed. Other parts of me, like my
well-proportioned feet with soft sturdy toes, or my fleshy
thighs and behind, a butt like two rounded globes   or the
rest of me, especially as seen and remarked upon by other
people, was unthinkable, unknowable. I was not a self-
confident boy, physically, nor one who liked to be touched.
I knew nothing about touching others, or sharing intimacy in
a physical way. About sex, I knew some broad outlines of the
mystery, something about a penis being injected into a
woman's butt, or maybe somewhere in front called a vagina,
and I knew to make semen was possible   as that was what my
wet dreams were made of. Girls didn't interest me much yet,
and neither did boys and their bodies, although I'd heard
jokes about donkey dicks, and other misshapen genitalia, and
these were supposed to stretch out like Pinocchio's nose
when he lied   maybe two feet long! But before the mirror in
my bedroom, I was in a reverie, considering myself, lost in
a fit of narcissism, in a trance, when it all ended.  I
heard a sharp knock, it was Caroline, my stepmother, and
since I didn't immediately answer, she felt permitted to
shatter my privacy forever. The door burst open. "What are
you doing?" she screamed. 

*

She'd seen my pirouette before the mirror as I'd slid in my
socks, a very private moment she was never intended to
observe, and assumed it to be a sissy's prance, totally
unfair of her, but these ideas had been planted in her head
by the biker boys   all home that evening and waiting
downstairs in the "parlor." I looked incredulously at her,
the witch whom I despised, she wasn't my mother, but she
promptly shattered my still juvenile disdain. "You are a
little homo!" she screamed again. 

This wasn't rational; I had no way to counter it.  I smiled
at her, which got her even angrier. "I finished my
homework," I said; as if in some kind of defense for the
mistake of revealing a tiny bit of the spontaneous me.
"Please leave." But she just stood there in my room just
inside the door, seeing me with my school shirt unbuttoned
and with my pants button undone. "You little queer," she
said, with more venom than was necessary. 

By this time, my composure was blown and I stared back at
her as if she was an alien intruder. I yelled, my early
pubertal voice cracking like an accordion bellows with the
sudden strain. "Get the f__ck out of my room!" This was a
big mistake, and only a few seconds later I realized why.
"Clarence! Lonnie! Mitchell! I need you! Come on up here!"
Within seconds the motorcycle gang was bounding up the
stairs to my bedroom, six big shoed men's feet pounding
closer in unison   one of the worst sounds I'd ever heard,
or even imagined hearing. "He's being insolent," were the
first words out of her mouth, "He needs to be punished." 

"He needs a visit to the dungeon," Lonnie said, as if he'd
been anticipating such an ordeal for me for months. Lonnie's
mustache and goatee twitched in unison like the movement of
a rat's tail, and he let go a tiny bit of drool. 

"No," I yelled, "Leave me alone!" as they all seemed to grab
me at the same moment   all four adults   my stepmother and
the three bad news hirsute men, and as I struggled and
resisted and fought and scratched with my nails and flailed
my arms and legs, they half dragged me, half carried me,
down the stairs to the parlor and then down into the
basement on the opposite side from where Mitchell's barbells
lay scattered about the cement floor, to a small piece of
throw rug, a red carpet mat, and when this remnant was
tossed aside a trap door was revealed, opened quickly with a
spring-lock, and a light came on down below. I was pushed
down below the now raised trap door into the bright light
illuminating the nether regions, my left sock-covered foot
and then my right connecting with a stair, then another, as
strong hands kept pushing me forwards.  I almost tripped and
feared falling flat onto my face, but somehow I kept my
balance and soon was on solid ground again. But I was alone
with four menacing adults in a subterranean place.
Surprisingly, it was spacious. In a first awkward moment
that ensued, I dared glance around, taking it all in. So
this is my stepmother's dungeon! 


Part 3: Humiliation   
   
The light in the sub-basement was bright, two panels of
fluorescents that had me seeing squiggly circles, as did a
backhand from Clarence, definitely not my pal. So this was
the dungeon? Rather spacious in that it was the width if not
also the length of the entire basement above, furnished with
a couch, a ping pong table, several wooden folding chairs, a
set of wrist restraints and ankle restraints that could be
tied to things   except I didn't yet know their purpose, I
was naive for 12 and a half years old. A hideous dark green
paint covered the surrounding thick cement walls   even the
ceiling seemed thick and dense in the manner of pea soup.
Most ominous although I didn't know it was a cabinet filled
with my stepmother's favorite instruments of punishment  
wooden-handled needles of various diameters, shapes, and
lengths   whips, canes, straps, and martinets, also varied,
Q-tips and toothpicks, large paper clips for pinching. Vials
of strange solutions and ointments were at the ready. The
floor was metallic, which was odd. The whole place was
bizarre   I would come to learn that this dungeon had been
waiting for me all along and my pain would become their
amusement   Caroline, Clarence, Lonnie, and Mitchell's.
Again, my startled brain was waylaid to a dream-like state,
as I tried my damndest to re-locate these four troublesome
adults to the Land of Nod. 

That tactic didn't work for long. Whack! I felt the
concussion of a second backhand from Clarence that cast out
Hell's Angel who'd been disguised for months as something
other than the sadistic thug he really was. His panda-like
brown eyes hiding beneath his beetling brows looked somehow
terrifying to me at that moment in the fluorescent glow. He
was sure one big stepmother f cker. He'd probably spent time
in prison as somebody's bitch   but I was way too naive to
even think in those terms yet. All I knew was that I was
scared, my heart was beating fast like a rabbit's. He spoke,
with Lonnie and Mitchell and my stepmother's cold gazes
riveted on me   my small frame   I was about five feet tall
and weighed maybe 90 pounds. Surrounded I was by three large
and cruel men and my stepmother   with her cold hard face
mirroring her ice-cold heart. 

I was wearing my black school trousers and black matching
socks, a pair of white briefs underneath, and an unbuttoned
blue school shirt. I nervously shuffled my left sock-clad
foot, as the metallic floor seemed somehow colder than it
should have been. 

My stepmother broke the ice, metaphorically. "Jeremy," she
said in a sweet but vicious tone that was hers alone. "Take
off your clothes."  

I just stood there amazed that she would say such a thing. I
didn't say anything right away. 

But Lonnie, his facial hair twitching as if the twin nests
had fleas   opened up his pie hole. "You heard your Mom,
boy. Strip!" 
The giant stooge, Mitchell, reiterated this sentiment. When
he grinned, I noticed several missing teeth amidst his
decaying maw, and he did grin. "He can either strip or be
stripped," he said matter-of-factly in reference to me, "If
he wants a fight, we'd be quite happy to give him one." 

Yeah, right. Three monsters versus a bambino in a wrestling
match seem fair. Yet stupidly, I found myself resisting.
"No," I said, no doubt with a petulant look. 

Clarence grabbed my left arm in my shirtsleeve, and bent it
back behind my back. It hurt like Hell, and I thought he was
going to break it. Still, I resisted while crying out in
pain. I didn't want to be naked in front of these pigs. "You
can't make me take my clothes off!" I screamed. 

"Scream all you want. Our little dungeon is soundproof.
Nobody can hear you but us and we don't care." Clarence bent
my arm back so that I could almost feel my arm break. It had
to be dislocated already and the pain was intense. "Let my
arm go!" I screamed. 

"Not until you begin to take those clothes off, boy."
Clarence was dead serious as if I didn't know that already. 

Mitchell the giant intervened. "Clarence, let his arm go.
I'll try reasoning with our little faggot boy." My arm was
released, and I rubbed my collarbone and my sore shoulder
near the strained but so far uninjured socket, already
whimpering. I was willing to listen.

Mitchell continued in a gentle voice that seemed unsuited to
the sadistic bastard. "Alright Jeremy, let me tell you
what's going to happen. At the moment, we're planning to go
fairly easy on you today, just to give you an idea of what's
in store if you don't start learning some respect for your
mother and your mother's friends pretty quick. You can
either cooperate and get it over with, or you can put up a
fight, in which case you can be sure that whatever happens
to you will be much worse. Either way, there's no avoiding
it. You won't get out of your mother's dungeon until we're
done with you. You can either get undressed yourself, or one
or more of us will help you."

"You can't make me," I said softly, but now I was a lot less
confident. 

My gaze flickered about the dungeon's fluorescent-lit room.
They could probably sense the panic in my eyes   like the
vicious animals they all were. 

My stepmother spoke; her intonation suddenly became the
Empress Caroline, imperial, haughty. "Jeremy. I won't say it
again. Take off your clothes!" 

I looked at her, straight into her eyes to see even the
slightest hint of mercy. There was none. "It's not fair," I
sobbed. 

"I don't care whether you think it's fair or not," she said,
her tone measuring me, and my reaction. She was delighted by
this situation. 
"If you don't start stripping within the next ten seconds,
we're going to do it for you, and once you're naked we're
going to whip your little penis with a strap," Lonnie said.
I was shocked by his words that first time   wasn't sure
whether to believe him or not. 

I didn't move. 

"Look at him   an angry snarl on his otherwise cute face,"
Clarence mocked. "Do you want me to break your arm?" 

My stepmother began counting off the seconds. "One, two,
three" were the first numbers counted. Her rabid eyes never
left me as she counted slowly and deliberately. 

Soon she reached "ten" and the three male assholes began
advancing upon me. "Times up," she added, "Go ahead, guys  
let's have his clothes off." 

"Noo!" I must have said, really scared now. I would have
scratched and gouged if I'd been a wildcat. Clarence grabbed
my wrist and began twisting, while starting to remove my
blue school shirt with his other hand. Mitchell touched me
obscenely for the first time and unfastened the belt to my
trousers, "Let go of me!" I screamed, and I kicked out with
my sock-covered left foot   barely missing as I tried
connecting with Mitchell's unprotected groin. Lonnie held my
flailing foot and peeled off its sock to make that foot
bare, and then he somehow wrestled the other one and removed
my right sock too. My trousers were soon tugged down past my
knees, and soon they were gone   as was my shirt. Barefoot,
just in my white briefs now, I was sobbing with humiliation.
"Why are you doing this to me?" 

Clarence had a quick reply. "Because it's fun," he said,
"and because we can." 

I was mortified as I noticed a small pee stain on the left
side of my scrotum pouch of my Hanes. My stepmother noticed
it too, the evil thing. "Been peeing your pants," she
murmured softly. 

I stood upright in my briefs, sobbing, hoping this ordeal
was over, and my hands clasped protectively in front of my
groin. I raised my head, ashamed to be practically nude. My
stepmother said something all the more chilling for its
strangeness. "Look at him, boys. Tears on his cheeks; open
defiance still in his eyes. Well, I won't have it!"  

She moved from the couch near where she was leaning, and
came over and slapped me hard across the face. I just glared
at her. 

We both stood in silence for a moment, waiting, while
Clarence took my clothes and tossed them into a corner of
the sub-basement, half-flinging them. The tension kept
building. Continuing my angry glare, I started to move
boldly toward the staircase leading up to the basement,
looking disdainfully at all of them. Big mistake. "Screw all
of you!" I screamed again. Even before the words were out of
my mouth, Lonnie and Mitchell tackled me like in a football
game. I crashed into the metallic like floor in pain   with
the weight of one if not both of those beasts pinning me. I
felt one of them tearing my briefs off   ripping the cotton
fabric from my rear. Suddenly I was standing again, now
completely naked, both hands clasped in front of my
privates. 

"Get your hands up behind your head!" Clarence shouted. 

"Stand still, boy," said Lonnie, "Let's all get a good look
at that body you've been trying to hide from us."

"Legs apart," added Mitchell the giant. He strode up to me
and began touching. "You don't like to be naked, do you
boy?" He was openly leering at me and I noticed a slight
bulge in his trousers   there must have been a monstrous
cock lurking in there somewhere. I reluctantly stood with
hands clasped behind my head, nude and on display. 

Mitchell kept touching   stroking my bare chest and stomach
like my father used to, only this was far different.
"Whenever we want you to be naked down here, you will be
nude, in your birthday suit, and we can touch you anywhere,
and play with your dick until you get hard, anyone ever see
you hard?"

I shook my head slowly, softly sobbing. 

"No? I thought not." 

"He could even keep rubbing you until you cum," Clarence
added, gleefully, as if he was enjoying every moment of my
boyhood humiliation. Or we could force you to jack off in
front of us   all of us   including your mother." 

"She's not my real mother!" I managed to muster with a last
spoken shred of dignity, a naked quietly sobbing remnant of
the 12-year-old I'd been. 

"Whatever   your real mother's dead," Caroline said. She
uttered this deadpan, as if this was inescapable logic that
justified everything that was happening to me. 

"One of us or all of us might decide to put you over our
knees and spank your rear end red," Clarence added. 

At that moment, Mitchell startled me again by moving his
filthy hand even lower, brushing through my thin stray pubes
and taking my four-inch circumcised cock between his thumb
and index finger. "It's soft," he said, "like a bald-headed
mouse." 

My eyes must've widened. "Get your fucking hands off me!" I
snarled. 

"Punish him immediately!" my stepmother ordered. 

At that second, I felt a flash of pain, as Mitchell stomped
down hard on the bare toes of my right foot with the heel of
his heavy work shoe. 
"Yeowhh!" I wailed, sobbing with the sudden wave of acute
torment, not even expecting such an assault. 

I managed to control my flow of tears a moment later and
stopped crying as he continued to fondle me. "Do you jack
off?" 

"I don't know how," I answered truthfully. 

He began stroking me gently, with the intimate audience
present. "You do it like this boy," and he showed me how  
fingers placed expertly   I soon had the hang of it, and was
masturbating myself for their entertainment. Soon the
feeling came, my wet dream in a way, except this was no
dream. I coaxed out of my piss slit, as I later came to call
it, a few mostly clear drops of whitish cum. They cheered at
this, including my evil stepmother, and for the next half
hour each took a turn touching me everywhere and anywhere  
chest, stomach, cock and balls, masturbating me four more
times. I came a few drops the first two times, then
practically nothing as my glans and frenulum began chafing,
my cock was sore and they could care less. 

"Let's give him a spanking now," someone said, I've tried
hard to forget who, and slaps on my bare ass with four pairs
of eager hands left my buttocks on fire, and reddened like a
baboon's butt. 

"Let's give him a pink belly!" Clarence announced, and this
time the hard slaps rained down on my tender belly as Lonnie
and Mitchell pinned me down backwards over the end of the
couch, and I thrashed and sobbed to no avail. But that was
only my introduction to my stepmother's dungeon   the
initiation and hazing would continue   whenever an
opportunity presented itself to punish me.


  
MSD1-3_My_Stepmothers_Dungeon_Parts_1-3