My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 4-6
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.net
copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved
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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.
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Part 4 Further Torments
After my first experience in my stepmother's dungeon, I
didn't want to repeat any of the painful parts, like the
pink belly treatment or the spanking or when somebody's
clodhopper biker-shoe stomped on my bare foot. I did take
something I figured was positive out of the predicament
namely the ability and pronounced inclination to masturbate.
For about a month afterwards I tried it different ways, and
in fact, the idea that I'd been naked and touched by adult
men would penetrate my fantasies. My penis at age 12 pushing
13 was about four inches long when flaccid, exactly four and
a half inches in length when I measured it with a ruler
hard. It wasn't very wide, maybe three-quarters of an inch
around when erect. I liked to make it go erect. Sometimes
while playing with my baldheaded mouse I wondered what the
penises of Clarence, Lonnie, and Mitchell were like as far
as size, never having thought about such things when my Dad
was still around, and certainly not about my Dad's penis.
Because my stepmother's boyfriends weren't father figures
and were often pretty crude, it was easier for me to
objectify them I guess. I didn't think much about my
stepmother in the nude; in fact, I tried not to think much
about her at all. I usually got a great feeling at the tip
of my little baldy if I kept at it without being distracted.
This task required a certain amount of concentration. To
bring it off, I was discovering, occurred about once every
three times I tried. I would ejaculate about three or four
drops of whitish or semi-clear watery stuff that smelled
like the faint odor of ammonia. It tasted like water with
the texture of a raw ocean clam. My "stuff" did manage to
stain my sheets and a pillowcase I sometimes used to wipe
with. Lost in the reverie of a good jerking session was the
abrupt and horrid musing that if my stepmother, the evil
Caroline, was ever to find "cum stains" or "evidence" of
said cums on any of my bedding, then I'd be taken down to
the dungeon again and REALLY punished. But I sort of put
this warning out of my little head (I mean the one encasing
my brain) until it was too late.
I was taking a gigantic chance. At first, if I sensed a
stain that might be detected -- I would sneak into the
bathroom late at night to get a washrag and scrub out any
visible residue. I knew that Caroline did laundry three
times a week and approximately when a laundry was due. For
perhaps twenty-seven cycles I succeeded well, leaving no
traces of my sexual crimes. But then, for a few happy days,
when I'd pleasure myself twice a day if it didn't get sore,
I forgot about disguising my actions. Still, nothing
happened. Clarence made a few weird comments like "What's he
doing up there jacking off?" when I came late down to
supper once. I told the asshole that I'd been doing
homework. One day, it was still afternoon, I'd just got home
from school and was in my school clothes, they all were home
for some reason, and I began to piss them off with what I
learned in retrospect was a very stupid thing to say. I
should have just kept my pie hole shut that day and gone up
to my room and closed the door. Like a dumb shit, I utterly
failed to show discretion. "Don't you people work?" I was
certainly annoyed that they were in MY house at an
unaccustomed time. It was excellent masturbation time that
they were ruining by just being there!
"Oh look whose little mouth is back," remarked the giant
strong man Mitchell while giving me a look that could only
be described as slightly cross-eyed, a deviation of center.
It was hard to believe, I remember thinking, that this
cretin was Caroline's stallion for that week, sharing her
downstairs bedroom with him and his horse cock off from the
parlor.
"Yeah, it's back," agreed Lonnie, "You know what that means,
what we decided." He nodded and was wearing some sort of
baseball cap that had gotten engine grease all over it
somehow.
Clarence beetled his eyebrows at me while his panda eyes
began to look really brown. When his eyes got like that,
looking at them was like peering into a turd-filled toilet
bowl as if from a great and surreal height.
But Caroline was the decision maker. It was really her call.
The lynchpin was something to do with sheets, my dirty cum
stained sheets!
"I work a full-time job and slave for you, you little shit,
and this is how you reward me? By making whoopee all over
your sheets I'd just cleaned? What did I tell you about that
business?" She was brimming with hellfire; I insist it was
her most contented condition. "Cleaning your normal filth is
bad enough, we have to add your fluids from your piss-hole
to this putrid stew?"
I squirmed, and shuffled from foot to foot. It really
embarrassed me her speaking like that about my most private
and fun activity.
The three stooges were grinning and showing their stained
and smelly teeth at my discomfort. Ever hear of flossing
guys?
I continued squirming right there in the kitchen, looking to
escape. "I gotta go upstairs to my room, do some homework,"
I muttered, avoiding eye contact with any of these so-called
adults. I wished with all my heart that I could escape to
Kansas, like Dorothy in the presence of the wizard when she
wanted to leave Oz.
"No you don't little man!" she screamed. At that instant
there was some kind of eye signal and they closed in on me,
and I began struggling, bawling and sobbing, trying to push
them away as they half-dragged, half-carried me into the
basement's threshold and down its stairs, lifting the little
throw rug not far from Mitchell's weights and I almost lost
my balance again as I was pushed into the sub-basement's
portal down the next few steps into the place I'd already
learned to call the dungeon.
Part 5 Flogging
On this occasion as I stood timidly cowed I was not told to
undress immediately, and never completely. Part of the "fun"
for these people charged with my care and guardianship was
that I was never to know exactly what punishment or
punishments to expect when I was hauled down there. My
stepmother would usually pronounce sentence as if she were
some high and mighty judge and executioner. I tried talking
my way out of it, but this was impossible, as they'd already
made up their minds, vicious cruel entities in the shape of
human beings as they were. I was babbling like little boy
fool. "Step-mom, I didn't mean to do it it just happened,"
I blurted. I'd played into her despicable hands. She could
humiliate me while it suited her fancies, and the fancies of
her studs. Watching me grovel was probably a favorite
pastime for all of them some kind of sadistic foreplay.
"What did you do?" she said with a glint of hatred. "I want
to know all the details."
"We all do," said Clarence, and the panda was all ears, even
if they weren't white and black.
This wasn't easy for me. I knew what they wanted. They
wanted me to describe exactly how I masturbated. It was a
private thing. "It's none of your business," I said, "Any of
you!" I was still fully dressed, but felt my ears redden,
felt somehow naked. It was so completely embarrassing.
But I ended up telling them every last aspect of my most
secret and pleasurable activity, totally shaming myself. I
felt so ashamed.
"So then what did you do?" Caroline pinched my arm hard
through my blue school shirt, pinching with her thumb and
forefinger just below the crook of my elbow. I was sure
she'd left a red mark or even a bruise.
"Owwhh!" I screamed. I must have sounded like a girl. I
hadn't meant to.
"Yes! I tasted it!"
"Tasted what?" Mitchell asked sweetly, as if he didn't know
the answer.
"I tasted my stuff," I finally admitted, and began crying.
"Ewwh gross!" Lonnie screamed. Somehow when he did it, the
vocalization came out more like a Rebel yell, so if it was a
scream, it was very masculine.
Then the inevitable emerged from Mitchell's lips; he'd
swigged down a beer before joining this dungeon party and
had beer breath. "What'd it taste like?"
Perhaps that was my downfall. I don't know. I was never sure
what precipitated the actual punishments in these cases. I
couldn't produce a satisfactory answer and so I was flogged.
I was still a few months shy of my 13th birthday and didn't
even know what a flogging was. I was ordered to remove my
tie, it was a nice blue tie with silver stripes, almost
pretty as an article of clothing, and then told to "Lose
that shirt."
I unbuttoned each button very carefully, ever so slowly, as
if to delay the inevitable. My shirt opened wide and became
untucked from my trousers. I took it off and put it on the
arm of the couch. I was now naked to the waist, as I hadn't
worn an undershirt. I was about 92 pounds and surrounded by
huge masculine creatures, pigs as they were, drinking from
the trough of my misery. She was there too, the bitch, the
ultimate bitch, my anger towards her mingled with my terror
at what was about to happen. As she went to fetch a leather
strap with several little knotted tails at the end, my arms
were raised above my head. Mitchell secured my wrist
restraints. My bared back was now a target for my first
flogger Lonnie.
Caroline spoke with her voice of judgment. "We'll each do
ten hits," she pronounced, "only on his skin from his
shoulders to where his pants begin."
Lonnie asked a question. "How hard can I hit him?"
"Hard as you want."
He swished the freaking strap though the air a few times. He
succeeded in terrifying me. I was already whimpering.
"Please, go easy," I said.
The first strike hit me between my shoulder blades. It was
as if a giant bee just stung me. He kept hitting me,
measured long enough for me to know that the next one was
coming. I tried tensing up my back muscles, but it was no
use. He'd hit the same place several times, then go lower
down to the center of my back right along the sensitive
spine, and finally work his way down to my lower back. They
all were good at this Lonnie, Mitchell, Clarence, and
finally Caroline. I received forty strokes with the five-
tailed strap on my bared back. I counted each one silently.
Towards the end, they congratulated each other on the "nice
welts" and black-and-blue bruises they had created. She'd
even gone for my ribs on each side about twice. That was
somehow unexpected, and hurt a little more. I was sobbing,
crying, battered and bruised, by the end. It took about an
hour.
But what really frightened me was Caroline's final
pronouncement. "This is something you are going to endure
from now on you little brat. Every Wednesday you'll be
brought down to our little dungeon for your weekly
chastisements. The more willingly you go, and the less we
have to chase or drag you, the easier it will be on you. If
you miss a day for some unexcused reason, or if you try to
run away from home, you'll be subjected to special
punishments. Is that understood you wicked child?"
What else could I say? I'd just been flogged.
"Yes," I managed. Other boys my age had Prince Spaghetti Day
or something familial and festive awaiting them on
Wednesdays. I had my stepmother's dungeon.
Part 6 Wednesdays
I now had a weekly ordeal to dread. Sometimes I'd daydream
about what would happen while I was sitting at my desk in a
class at school; and it got progressively worse as mid-week
approached. Tuesday before my first Ash Wednesday, I failed
an oral quiz in math times tables with decimals points.
Mrs. Sawyer blinked at me, was lurking right next to my ear.
"Jeremy, I said, what's .6 x .9? It equals what?"
"54?" I asked, temporarily spacing out. It would mean a note
home to my stepmother. The other kids thought I was
becoming feeble-minded, since I usually got A's. I heard
some titters.
By Wednesday I was a nervous wreck. I waited up in my room
after I got home from school, did my homework, was hoping
that if I showed my step-mom my completed work, she'd change
her mind. Little did I realize that all four of them were
looking forward to my pain and terror as entertainment was
it Showtime yet? It was about 7:30 p.m. when Caroline
yelled shrilly up the stairs. "Jeremy, c'mon down. Don't let
us have to come up and get you!"
Moments later, I was in the dungeon, standing there with all
four of them watching. It was the wrist restraints again,
more flogging without a shirt. "Today we do both sides,
front and back," Caroline said. It sounded shrill in the
soundproof space. I learned what that was to mean, a special
meaning. I received a total of fifty stripes with the 5-
tailed strap on my bared back, welts and bruises, all over
my boy's flesh, hands outstretched way above my head caught
in the wrist restraints and then they started in on my
front. Clarence the panda began this accoutrement by
attaching a big metal paper clasp to my left nipple,
pinching my pectoral flesh between the blades to send a
shock wave of new pain to my brain, and then he attached a
second one to my right one. "Yeowhh!" The game was to knock
them off with the strap, re-attach them when that occurred,
and then do it again! My nipples and surrounding chest flesh
was soon torn and oozing blood as was my belly and sides
now deliberately aimed for. I couldn't help shrieking,
except nobody heard me who mattered. "This is so fun!"
Mitchell yelled, after a particularly vicious hit not only
knocked the metal clasp off my chest but I thought it
brought my entire nipple with it! (It was a tiny piece of
bloody flesh all right, but not my nipple.)
I was determined to run away prior to the next week's
ordeal, made it to the Piggly Wiggly at the edge of town
before a policeman (they'd called the local police to report
me missing) dutifully brought me home, and for the first
time, I was to learn what a bastinado was.
Down in the dungeon, I began removing my shirt, expecting
more of the same. "No you can keep your shirt on, we have a
different punishment for you tonight," my stepmother said.
It had already been decided what they were going to do to
me. Lonnie, Mitchell, and Clarence looked on silently,
anticipating this next "experience" for me, as Mitchell
called it.
I moved my fingers, dreading what might occur next, moved
them to my trousers. Undid my pants button, unzipped my fly.
"No you can keep your pants too." Caroline said. I had some
undone buttons on my school shirt, an undone pant's button,
and an unzipped fly and confused and scared, I didn't move
to readjust anything. For about a full minute, my tormentors
kept me in suspense. I didn't know what they wanted.
"We're going to give you a mild bastinado tonight," she
said.
I still stood there, looking at them, utterly dumbfounded.
"A what?" I said.
Suddenly Lonnie advanced closer and cuffed me along the side
of the head, catching my nearest ear. "Owwhh!" I yelled.
"Take off your shoes and socks!"
I unlaced my black dress shoes, now badly scuffed due to my
attempt to flee, and took each shoe off, rolled down my thin
itchy socks, a bit sweaty. Newly barefoot on the metallic
floor, I didn't have much time to consider this new
sensation, as soon I was draped over the side of the couch
on my stomach, each foot secured in its own ankle restraint,
my soles upended as a thin rope-like cord connected each
ankle restraint to an overhead beam that they'd rigged. "You
ran away, and you'll have to be punished where it really
hurts, in a place that you'll be thinking about should you
decide to escape us again," Caroline intoned. She began
tormenting me in a different way at first with pleasure.
"A 12-year-old boy's foot has all sorts of sensitive nerve
endings. He has pretty feet, doesn't he?" She was massaging
my toes and lightly scratching my soles with her
fingernails, kneading my entire foot a moment later, first
the left one and then the right, almost sensually. It would
have felt spectacular, except that I was scared shitless
about whatever she was about to have happen. I still didn't
know what a bastinado was. I was so naive. "They look very
sturdy, Jeremy's feet, don't they?" All three men agreed.
The statement was uncontroversial. But then she began
bending my toes back on the left foot, and squeezing them
hard and digging her fingernails into my sensitive sole. She
gave a look and Clarence, with his even stronger hands,
began to manhandle my right foot, bending my big toe, and
all my toes, and squeezing my instep real hard. Suddenly I
didn't like this at all. "Please, don't!" I said, pretty
loud.
Her prelude continued. "But notice the expression on his
face now? They are so very fragile too a 12-year-old boy's
feet!"
She left my foot then and so did Clarence, but my relief was
short-lived. She picked up a thirty-inch long thin bamboo
cane from the cabinet on the dungeon's wall. She began
swishing it through the stale, dank air. "All sorts of
sensitive nerve endings!" she hissed aloud, as the cane
hissed, and caught the bottom of my big toe and part of the
ultra-sensitive ball of that same left foot with its cruel
tip, crashing upon my bare skin with surprising force. For
a microsecond, I felt nothing. But an instant later the pain
came in a shockwave that coursed all the way up my left leg.
"Yeowhh!" I cried. "Please, no more!"
She counted out twenty hits on each unprotected sole,
hitting the bottoms of each foot everywhere, producing the
same result every time except when she missed slightly and
caught the ankle of my squirming foot or the knuckles of my
toes on the top of my feet which provided a slightly
different variety of excruciating agony. It took maybe
twenty minutes, this beating, this bastinado, and then she
handed the bamboo cane to Lonnie, and after he'd had his
fun, it was Clarence's turn, and finally Mitchell who hit
the hardest. When they were finished and they released me
from the ankle restraints I was limping badly, told to put
my shoes and socks back on, and to "run upstairs to bed
before we change our mind," according to Lonnie. My feet
felt like they were on fire but I somehow ran at top speed
straight up to my room, only to hear, "Can't wait until next
Wednesday," from one of the loud voices entering the kitchen
just as I slammed my bedroom door.
To be continued in Chapter 7 "The Advent of Worse
Wednesdays"