My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 7-9 
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.
* * * * *


Part 7 - The Advent of Worse Wednesdays

For several Wednesdays, four to be precise, I endured the
routine with a kind of stoicism I'd never knew I'd
possessed. I'd go to school, dreading what might occur when
I got home, thinking about it in every class except for gym
when other tribulations from the kids in my class usually
awaited me. They'd tease and taunt if I daydreamed too much,
"Hey Jeremy – you Space Cadet!" or "Jeremy is spaced out
again!" or someone might spike me with a football or a
soccer ball or a baseball or a basketball without warning --
sometimes in the balls – my testicles inside my gym shorts –
so in gym class I had to control my thoughts about going to
my stepmother's dungeon.

I'd usually walk home from school and open the door on a
Wednesday and it would seem like any other day. I'd begin my
homework and try to forget about Caroline and "the boys" –
put the sadistic bastards right out of my mind. The first of
these Wednesdays I had to strip my school shirt off and get
tickled all over my chest and belly and sides, and then they
made me strip off my shoes and socks so they could take
turns tickling my bare feet, especially on my soles and
under my toes.  On the second Wednesday it was a strapping
on my bare behind after I was ordered to take my dress pants
and underpants off.  My asscheeks were still reddened and
sore three days later. Wednesday number three was a
prolonged pink belly again – all four of them slapping my
bare stomach with the palms of their hands, taking turns,
until my belly was appropriately pink while my own screams
and hollering gave me a migraine.

On the fourth Wednesday session, it was time for something
entirely different.  I never knew what they were going to do
to me, or how bad it would be.

For this occasion, Clarence got out his special bag.  I had
no inkling of what the motorcycle goon was planning, if I'd
known, I would have run away that week – despite the risks
and consequences.  Down to the sub-basement dungeon I walked
dejectedly, with my four adult tormentors right behind. In
the harsh glare of the torture chamber, I noticed the new
bag, a leather pouch that Clarence was holding, and stupidly
asked what was in it. "Oh, just some tattooing needles, boy. 
It's time I practiced a little on you." Everybody grinned,
including Caroline, my evil stepmother.

"Clarence is pretty good with a needle. He's a regular
artiste," Lonnie added while letting out a gross burp that
made me immediately aware of his fouler than usual breath.

"Okay, lose those shoes and socks," my stepmother said.

I was wearing white athletic shoes, a pair of New Balance
that was almost new and white athletic socks. My feet seemed
quite comfortable as they were. For some reason, with good
reason I was soon to discover, I refused. "No!" I said. "No
way! I'm not going to let that fat loser tattoo my feet!"

But while Lonnie and Mitchell calmly pinned me down to the
table, Clarence patiently unlaced my left shoe, slipped it
off, peeled off my left sock, and began unlacing my right
shoe. In a few more seconds, my feet were as naked as the
day I was born. Up on the table, my hands were put in
restraints, left and right stretched out so I couldn't
escape. Lonnie – the big jerk – pinned my left ankle above
where my jeans started so that my foot couldn't squirm too
much. I so wanted to kick him right in the nose – maybe
break his nose with my bared toes. Mitchell – with the
strength of at least two of me – took care of my right ankle
so that Clarence and his tattooing needles would have access
to that one too.

Before the needlework began, Caroline, the evilest one who
had brought these Angels from Hell into our midst rubbed
alcohol and witch hazel between my toes and all over my
soles in case Clarence wanted to begin there too. "That
should do, Caroline," he said. The needles contained red,
and blue, and orange dye, and they were quite sharp.

"I'll do turtles and cute little birds, real tiny, between
each of his toes," Clarence announced. So that's how he
began, on each of the toe spaces of my left foot. Between my
big toe and the second toe, the needlework began with short,
quick little jabs. "Gotta get the colors worked in nice,"
Clarence purred, while I started screaming bloody murder.
"Keep his f__cking foot still, Lonnie." It hurt a lot. His
fingers worked the needle like a craftsman of sorts, from
the inside section of my big toe working downward toward the
space in-between. He did from that tender skin of the space
all the way up, very gradually. The needles and the colors
penetrated my skin deep enough to please the "artiste" until
he was finished with his last bit of art – a miniscule
turtle that was orange and green entirely. It ended right
near the inside top of my second toe, which is slightly
shorter than my big toe.

"Okay, time for his next toe space." Clarence was acting
pleased, like he'd just painted the Mona Lisa or something,
only I was doing all the moaning. So the sharp needles
descended again, working the sides of my second and third
toes and down in the valley between. I screamed again, as
this really hurt, and my foot couldn't get away. The
needle's tip would jab and cut deep into my flesh, into the
most sensitive places in-between my toes. These places would
suddenly blossom with colors.  I'd never known how sensitive
that area of my body was. He worked at least fifteen minutes
between each of my toes. Third and fourth toes, fourth and
fifth toes, and finally he was finished with my left foot,
at least for my toes, except the bottoms of those already
sore toes which he was considering doing too.

"Mitchell, we'll start on his right foot now."


So then the goon began again right where he'd first started
on my other foot, the same sensitive places. The short,
quick, painful little jabs beginning all over again on my
right foot, from the inside of my big toe closest to the
toenail and down toward the cleft, a tiny web of soon to be
colorful skin that is the demarcation between my first (big)
and second toes. Turtles and birds, some of them with
meticulous details that were amazing and vibrant colors that
were now embedded into my skin. He was a craftsman, and I
should have praised him as he did the needle tango between
each of my toes. But with the pain of the needles on some of
the most sensitive parts of my body, instead I just kept
screaming and begging for him to stop. On the right foot, he
seemed to take even longer, maybe twenty minutes between
each toe. He would dig so deep, the sharp needle making me
bleed slightly, to make sure that the tattoo was permanent,
in fact, if I didn't like it, I remembered thinking during
this agony, how in the Hell would I ever be able to have
normal, ordinary toes again? What would anybody say if they
ever saw me barefoot?

Clarence was a craftsman, a great artist, probably the most
adept man at tattooing the spaces in-between a boy's toes
since maybe some sadistic artist from ancient Rome, or maybe
Alexandria in Egypt, but I couldn't bring myself to
acknowledge this. I was a modern boy, a bit studious, rather
nice-looking, perhaps bestowed with some puerile
characteristics that might have constituted a type of boy
loveliness in the ancient world, but it was difficult for me
to appreciate that sort of thing.  I couldn't resist crying
and carrying on, screaming in fact, "What have you done to
my feet? You miserable f__cks!" as I contemplated the little
turtles and varieties of bird that now adorned every bit of
territory in between each of my toes. The colors, brilliant
and vivid hues, had saturated the skin nicely without
smudging, and I should have been resigned to having art
created on my person like that – and not even whimpered at
the reds, oranges, blues, pinks, and yellows that were now
predominate. But alas, I was a stupid boy. I wailed. This
heartfelt sobbing of course produced hysterical laughter at
my expense. Eventually the laughter gave way to irritation
and annoyance.  "Why are you crying? It's over with. Your
toes are probably just a little sore now!" Lonnie yelled
straight into my eardrum.

It was true. They didn't hurt anymore, the pain nerves
weren't being stimulated, and I should have retrieved my
socks and New Balance shoes and just walked quietly
upstairs, not making such a big deal out of my now
extraordinary toes. But as usual, I couldn't leave well
enough alone.  "I hate it! I hate what you bastards have
done to my feet! I'm going to run away and never come back!"

Caroline, my vicious stepmother, saw this outburst as her
cue to get tough again. "Okay, you little shit-ass? Just try
it and see what happens to your toes then. In fact, Clarence
wasn't going to, but next Wednesday, you know what he's
going to do, he's going to finish what he's started!"

I gulped, started to whimper, and then picked up my footwear
and started up the little winding staircase leading up to
the basement. I didn't know exactly what she was alluding
to, but I had a pretty good idea.


Chapter 8 – Clarence Completes His Masterpiece

For most of that week at school I never removed my socks,
even during gym. "Hey dickwad! How come you take a shower
with your socks on?" The derision was there, but curiosity
too. Finally, on the following Monday, I gave in to societal
pressure and removed my socks when I took my shower. I was
really self-conscious and expected a lot of comments about
the spaces between my toes, but under the shower nobody
seemed to notice. It was all done, well, between my toes,
and wasn't quite so obvious. Still, one kid, a boy named
James, did notice my colorful toes when I was drying off.
"Hey, nice toes." But he didn't insist on taking a closer
look or on anything else quite so embarrassing or gross.
Before he could open his pie-hole again by making another
smart remark, I had my socks and shoes back on. He did flash
me some kind of weird look, but I didn't much care.

At home, the animal people didn't bother me much. They were
sticking to their "ignore Jeremy except for Wednesdays"
policy, and in the privacy of my bedroom I began examining
my decorated toe spaces more closely with a magnifying
glass.

"These don't look all that bad after all," I rationalized,
and so I even thought about approaching Clarence to thank
him for tattooing me. What the Hell, I figured. Maybe if I
changed my attitude of pure victimhood, they'd ALL like me
more, or at least Clarence would.

"Clarence," I opened up one of many difficult conversations
filled with pauses, "You know what you did to my toes
doesn't look all that bad."

He looked at me and grinned. It seemed to be working.
Perhaps he was glad I was appreciative. His pie-hole opened.
"That's good boy, because I'm not even close to finished
with you."

"I know," I said, attempting to act confident and self-
assured, comfortable with his plans. But if I'd known
precisely what he was thinking concerning additional
"bodywork" on my fleshly canvas, I would have bolted on the
spot.

Pretty soon it was another Wednesday. As it was getting late
on a school night, I was hoping they'd ignore me for once. I
had a lot of homework in science and French and was actually
doing it. I heard the gang of four coming up the stairs to
my room, the raucous chuckles and ribald laughter followed
by the dreaded knock. I hated that knock.

"C'mon, kid. It's time for our weekly entertainment. Get
your butt off that bed!" Mitchell roared.

Then the door burst open. I wasn't on my bed, but working at
my writing desk, dressed casually in blue jeans and soft
socks and loafers; I wasn't wearing any shirt.

Caroline's voice was a nasty laugh, "Let's get him down
there," she muttered, and then were hands – several pairs of
intruding hands, pushing and shoving and lifting me up out
of the school desk and jostling me down the stairs and down
into the basement. The little trap door came up in the
basement with a high-pitched screech on its metal hinges.  I
was pushed and shoved down into the familiar dungeon and
almost went sprawling face-first, as usual, barely managing
to keep my balance. Light soon flooded the sub-basement and
the monsters were expectant, leering, waiting. I just hoped
it wouldn't be too bad.

"Socks and shoes," Clarence said, almost too eager.

They were all in a jovial mood, and I hadn't even started
screaming. I slipped off my left loafer, then its sock, and
followed with loafer and sock on the other foot. I stood
barefoot in my jeans, no shirt, and waited for instructions
with almost a defiant look, trying a new tact, more
aggressive.

"He seems a bit more spunky tonight, doesn't he?" my
stepmother said. I was almost 13, felt that I might be able
to handle this.

"Get up on the table," Mitchell said, his fat gut jiggling
under his T-shirt that read 'Make Love Not War.'

Clarence already had his tattooing needles out. When I saw
them glinting in the harsh light, I began losing my nerve.
But I got up on the table, sitting up, and my bare feet down
near the table's edge. Lonnie and my step-mom outstretched
my arms above my head and fastened me to the wrist
restraints.  "Lie flat on your back, you little bastard,"
she said.

I whimpered in fear. Couldn't help it, but only once. I was
steeling my nerves for the inevitable pain.

"Where are you going to start tonight?" Lonnie asked while
holding my left leg at the ankle. Clarence was being
mysterious. Mitchell was holding my right leg just above my
ankle where the jeans began.

I soon felt where. It was a sharp jab with the tattooing
needle on the bottom of my left big toe!

"Yeowwh!" That really hurt. The needle began to inject the
dye, in all kinds of places on the underside of that poor
toe. Wherever the needle stuck me, and Clarence liked to jab
deep, I learned the geography of that toe with my mind.

"Damn it – please! Don't do my toes on their bottoms!"

"Have to! Your toes are now my canvases! I am an artist,
can't you tell Jeremy?"

"Look he's drawn a little blood!" Mitchell exclaimed.

The sharp needle jabs came every few seconds. A fount of
color began emerging on the bottom of my left large toe.
Yellows, blues, oranges, pinks, greens, reds, purples – a
regular symphony of color became synchronous with a steady
pain from all the needle pricks penetrating my skin. By the
time that first toe was really sore and he'd wiped away the
blood so as to see the bird, a tiny pigeon design, better –
Clarence the artiste had started jabbing the needle on the
underside of my slightly shorter second toe. "Yeowwh!" I
squealed, mainly due to my second stabbed piggy. What seemed
like a hundred needle pricks later, he was on to the next,
my index or middle toe on that increasingly abused left
foot. His zoological garden of turtles and birds began
taking shape in concert with the bemused and admiring
chortles of his cohorts. God they were loud, and crude! My
stepmother, Lonnie, and Mitchell couldn't help but be amused
by my painful experience. Lonnie actually drooled on my
patiently waiting right foot near its bare instep – ewwh
gross –, which I somehow noticed but nobody else did.
Meanwhile, the needle kept jabbing deep. A regular
jabberwocky, the cruel needle began constructing something
plainly intricate on my tortured fourth toe.  Maybe ten
minutes later, it seemed like ten hours, Clarence began
sticking my helpless pinky toe on the bottom. Finally, after
he "polished" the other toes on that foot a bit more and was
satisfied with his creations, he started in on my right
foot's toes – all five of them in their turn – until the
artwork pretty much matched.

"Are you pretty much finished tattooing my toes?" Tears were
choking out my words, but I was hopeful at that moment.

Silence ensued for that instant, as everyone in the room
wondered what Clarence the goon would do. "Aren't you going
to do more on his feet?" Lonnie asked almost plaintively, "I
like watching the kid's reactions."

Mitchell and my stepmother echoed that disgusting sentiment.
If I could have dismembered all of them that moment with a
meat cleaver, I would have. I swear it. They were inhuman.
But I was just barely finding out the depths of depravity
that they were willing to sink to.  I knew one thing. I
didn't want to feel that needle again anytime soon. The
bottoms of my toes being done that way hurt a lot. Maybe not
as much as between my toes had the other time, but bad
enough.  I was thinking about escape. It was an all-
consuming thought, like a wish. "You could unfasten me and I
could go back up to my room."

Clarence looked me straight in the eye as I rose up in my
wrist restraints.  "Boy," he said, "I've barely begun
tonight's work."

I sobbed and carried on for a minute or two, bawling, amid a
chorus of "Shut the Hell up," and a hard slap across the
face by my stepmother. I quieted just in time to feel
Mitchell and Lonnie clamping down again. Next I felt a
fierce jab from the needle on the naked ball of my left
foot, and it had begun again. Over the next hour, Clarence
worked over the entire sole of my left foot. Working in the
colors, creating a grander design of some sort than he had
on my toes, I could feel it, a larger scheme, something more
like the DaVinci Code or a tapestry from the Pristine
Chapel. Over and over he worked with those sharp needles,
not holding back, digging deep into my skin, at least a
quarter of an inch it felt like. "Owwhh! Owwhh!" I kept
yelling. Sometimes I must have shrieked, which I'm sure
must've been entertaining. It was like having your teeth
drilled down into the nerves without the Novocaine. The
needles explored my entire sole like a colony of fire ants.
They pierced my fleshy sole with a monotonous regularity as
if Clarence was sewing stitches, except he was sowing a
pattern, on my instep, on the sides of my bare foot, on my
heel, the back of my heel, up towards my ankle the needles
writhed.  Finally that foot's handiwork was ended.

I felt a sense of relief. Until a few seconds later, I felt
a tightened grip on my right foot and then a needle piercing
the naked ball of my poor right foot. "No! No! You can't do
this! Please stop!" I heard myself screaming, pleading, and
hoping for mercy.  Soon he was at it again on the geography
of my right sole, a foot I was also to learn to know a lot
more intimately than I ever had. When a boy not quite 13 is
having the sole of his foot tattooed with needles everyplace
on that tender anatomy loaded with sensitive nerve endings,
he can't help but scream and cry and thrash around. "Keep
still!" my stepmother the evil Caroline screamed back at me.
She managed to distract me for a few seconds until the pain
from the needle stabs and the thrusts into my defenseless
sole started registering again. Never-ending waves of pure
pain coursed like acid into my brain. Sometimes Clarence
held firm my toes when he was working the needles into my
soles, and when he reached my heel area I could sense the
end, and almost fainted.  He polished whatever images he had
made on both of my feet bottoms for the next twenty, maybe
thirty minutes. It seemed like another eternity.

The soles of my feet felt like I'd been walking for miles
over sharp pieces of gravel. They throbbed as I began to
drift into unconsciousness. I kind of dozed off for a
minute, I don't know why. It was a school night and I'd been
up since early morning. I heard the voices around me drift
off and go into a buzzing, like a bad dream about bees. Then
I felt it, like a sting -- a cursed needle again. I suddenly
remembered that I wasn't wearing any shirt, that my chest
was bare, and the pricking had started again, yes, oh no,
it's started again I screamed first inside my head. The
bastard Clarence was drawing something around my belly
button, all around it, needles were thrusting faster and
beating a staccato perimeter around my navel!

It gets worse, much worse. Clarence the big goon began
undoing the snap on my jeans, unzipped my fly, and began
taking my pants off! "Hey, what are you doing? No! NOOO!" I
screamed bloody murder as the artiste removed my jeans,
slipped them off my bare feet, and then lowered my white
Hanes briefs I was wearing too! "No, you can't do this! I'm
naked!" I didn't know what else to say.

"No kidding Sherlock!" That bitch of a stepmother said with
a note of derision as my tighty whities were quietly slipped
off my lower extremities.  My wrists were still restrained
although I squirmed and thrashed with my legs and lower
torso while the bastard adults held me down.

"You're in your birthday suit!" Mitchell remarked with a
definite glee, the pervert.

"Let's add the ankle restraints," Clarence suggested, and
the others agreed like the monsters they were. Soon my
ankles were restrained in the leather straps too and I
couldn't move as freely. I certainly couldn't thrash without
risking a cramping Charleyhorse in my calf muscles I soon
found out.

Clarence began tattooing parts of this newly exposed canvas
known as my naked body. I learned what other places are
extremely sensitive to a tattooing artist's tools. The
needle started creating something on the frontal inside of
my right thigh, a "meaty" area exclaimed Lonnie, and this
meant a corresponding work of art of some kind being created
on the inner region of my left. He worked lower, doing
something deep and painful on my calves and shins, and more
on each ankle. All of it hurt a lot, but I was struggling to
keep from yelling out, keeping my composure as best I could,
trying to maintain a little dignity, as the needles kept
jabbing into places I only vaguely had been aware of on the
meat of my legs. But then the goon started working higher
again, higher up the leg, still higher, perhaps he was
polishing on my left thigh meat where I felt several sudden
jabs along the inner parts toward my scrotum. My scrotum! He
stabbed me with the needle into my bag as I felt a piercing
of my right testicle as he firmly held the elastic skin in
place with his other hand.

"Oh, I can tell he isn't enjoying this part of our fun,"
giggled my evil stepmother. She was actually giggling. This
most unpleasant sound grated on the ears of her stepson as
if a dragon was breathing on me. Clarence put additional
pressure on my gonads as she moved closer wanting to get a
better look.  Suddenly Clarence the big goon pulled out the
edge of my scrotum with his strong fingers and holding the
delicate skin firmly he stabbed the needle into my right
testicle as if he were piercing an apple! I screamed bloody
murder again – wasn't the first time – and the work was
repeated maybe a hundred times with the needle piercing
different places on my defenseless ball-sack. I kept
screaming – this action hurt the most of anything so far –
until he held the base of my penis and began sticking me
with the needle all over my freaking cock!

"Look. He's getting a few more hairs down there," Caroline
said. Boy, she was evil! So nonchalant she sounded, as if
her stepson wasn't being mercilessly tortured for what
seemed to me like an endless amount of time.

"Puberty is definitely starting to kick in," Mitchell added
his two cents.  The cruel needle was working all around my
penis now, on the underside of it and along the top, like it
was a hotdog being decorated.  I remember it hurting an
incredible amount.  I was gritting my teeth. Clarence the
artiste kept swiveling and positioning my penis so that he
could tattoo better. He'd penetrate deeply into my little
cylindrical and circumcised sausage with the sharp points of
the metal needles, and I could bear it, bear the pain
somewhat, while holding on to the fantasy that I was a
pubertal Australian aborigine boy enduring my manhood
ritual.

When he stuck the needle into my ultra-sensitive glans for
the first time, the tip of spongy flesh at my dick's crown,
I finally lost it again. "Yeowhh!" I screamed bloody murder.
The needle was now roaming that puerile region all around my
pee-hole, my urethral opening, and he was squeezing with his
fingers just below my cock-head to get at the best spots.
The worst part was that he was creating something, some type
of image around the edges of my urethra, and opening my pee-
hole with his powerful fingers so he could better see what
he was doing.  I think I fainted. Next I remember my
restraints being removed, and being told to "Take your
clothes and run up to bed now, like a good boy," by the evil
Caroline. I can recall thinking that she was a woman without
a shred of decency! I was angry and awake and I didn't
bother to dress but ran naked and barefooted up the spiral
staircase into the basement, still crying and sobbing.  I
must have been a sight for those gawkers! Jumping into bed
without putting on my pajamas, I crawled into my comfortable
bed my whole body sore and tattooed and pulled the covers
right up over my head. I guess I'd remembered to turn my
bedroom's light off, but that was about it! I cried myself
to sleep.

Chapter 9 – School Again

Going to school was not as painful as I'd feared it might
be. The next morning, I looked at myself a little in my
bedroom mirror. The skin was still pink and tender around my
belly button and my genitals, but my feet didn't even hurt a
little when I pinched my flesh on the soles, for instance.
Still, I had gym later on that day and then the
embarrassment would really begin. It wasn't until 6th
period, though. My shower and dressing into school clothes
and breakfast went okay, my step-mom actually made me
breakfast! But soon enough I was at school.

In social studies and math, the first two periods, it wasn't
too bad. But then in literacy class when we were just
supposed to read books, I started daydreaming. The thoughts
began to torment me, one after the other, like those idea
bubbles you see in comic strips, only with fangs.  "You are
a freaking freak! They've made you into a monstrosity! Like
the illustrated man, only much worse. How could you let them
do this to you!" Only I didn't let them, it was not
consensual, not completely anyway, and if I had allowed a
tattoo, it would have been just a little one, and just one,
in a more traditional place – like on my shoulder or
something. It also wouldn't have been a turtle, or a flower,
for instance.  I was starting to freak out, almost starting
to cry. When a couple of the girls in my class noticed, and
Tiffany, who was chubby, wore ugly horn-rimmed glasses, and
who was already starting to show an unhealthy interest in
me, said "What's the matter?" in a husky whisper, I answered
her curtly. "Nothing. I'm fine."
Suddenly I was. The show must go on. It was a necessity, no
matter how bad I felt.

I dreaded changing for gym. First I attempted to lurk off
towards a distant corner locker, until that kid James became
a nuisance again and started getting friendly.  "Hey, I'll
be your partner if we have two-man basketball teams," he
said sweetly.
"Why do you want to be my partner?" I asked suspiciously.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, "If you don't want me to be, I
won't then."
It was fortunate that I wore white athletic socks with my
New Balance sneakers, so in taking my pants off, I didn't
have to remove my socks. There were those tattoos on my
inner thighs, but if I quickly got my gym shorts on, maybe
he and the other kids wouldn't notice them.
It seemed to work. Once dressed a bit more safely again, I
replied to James. "Okay, we can be a team."
James actually smiled then, and I smiled back.

In the gym, we played basketball. James was rangy if not so
tall, sort of lanky with great hand-eye coordination, and we
made a good team. We played three straight games of twenty-
one, with each two-point basket counting for one point. I
was a decent passer that day and so we won those three
games, although the last one, 21-18, was close.  James and I
actually made the "finals" of that day in gym class, playing
two guys who started at forward and guard on the junior
varsity, and it was very close as James and me were
unexpectedly competitive. The score was 13-13, 15-15, 17-17
– until the basketball jocks, Hank and Lenny, scored the
last four baskets.

I didn't want to take a shower. James was already naked and
real chatty and pleased at our showing, but I was still
dawdling with my shoelaces. God, he had a big cock for a 7th
grader, it was erect and at least a five-incher, and he
seemed a little too proud of it. But that wasn't my problem,
although I might have been staring a little.

"Like it?" he said, sashaying with his towel for a moment.
"You want to suck it?"
" Shut the f__ck up! I'm not queer!"
"Nobody said you was," he said defensively, and then
changing the topic, "You stink, you know."
I was still playing with my shoelaces both untied now. "I'm
going to take a shower. Why don't you just go take yours?"
"The bell is going to ring in five minutes," he said,
matter-of-factly, while absentmindedly stroking his
erection. "Okay, but we both really got sweaty." He turned
and walked off, giving me another of his looks.
I continued to dawdle. A thousand thoughts started buzzing
again. I'd be naked, and would be sure to garner unwanted
attention if I showered with the group. The alternative was
possibly worse. I'd stink to high heaven during 7th period
if I walked into class dressed and unshowered. Maybe I could
hang back for a minute and avoid most of them. Maybe I would
skip the embarrassing shower.

"Jeremy! You get your ass in that shower right now!" Mr.
Sylvester, the florid-faced gym teacher, had a thing for
hygiene. Arguing would have been no use.  Soon I was toweled
but otherwise bare and walked gingerly into the boys' shower
jet area.

I removed my protective towel. Got under the showerhead and
began to wash off my disgusting sweat. The tattoos however,
weren't about to wash off. Within seconds, there was the
first shrill scream of delight. "Hey guys, will you look at
Jeremy!"
*

Being the object of derision in a 7th grade gym shower when
you're a self-conscious 7th grader is bad enough. But then
after school, four of the tougher kids caught me and had me
go with them to an abandoned warehouse downtown. It was a
little like my stepmother's dungeon all over again. We went
way inside to this small room that had a wooden chair left
in it and they made me strip.

Tom was the ringleader. He played junior varsity football
and should have been an 8th grader, because he'd stayed
back. "Take off all your clothes, punk. We just want to see
your tattoos."
"Will you let me alone if I do?" I was almost pleading.
"We'll consider it," said Peter, who was more studious-
looking than I was, but liked to be one of the guys. He also
was trained in boxing, so nobody really messed with him.
I started taking off my sneakers. God, this was familiar.
Tears of shame were pouring down. Soon I was bare in the
naked glare of a light bulb. Why did an abandoned warehouse
still have electricity? I wanted to know.

I just sat there, completely humiliated. "Put your hands on
your head," Tom said.
"Stop bawling like a baby. We aren't going to hurt you."
That was a third boy, Rick. He could have been my friend
under different circumstances. But the others seemed to
agree. I closed my eyes, hoping it was all going to be over
soon.

Somebody was pawing my penis, while examining it closely.
"Look, He's even been tattooed on the tip of his dick. Damn.
That's got to hurt." Phil's voice was low, almost guttural.
He was a street-smart kid whose voice had changed.

"Who did this to you?" Tom asked, genuinely curious.

I didn't want to answer. Finally, I couldn't stop myself. 
"My stepmother used to be in a motorcycle gang. She has
three of those goons living with us. One of them does
tattoos."

"Gee, if somebody did something like that to me, or tried
to, I'd get the f__ck out of there," Peter said.

They didn't mess with me after that. They let me dress and
seemed to pity me, which was even worse than being jeered
at. I walked home alone. Once in my bedroom, I thought about
what they'd said, the boys who had taken me to that
abandoned warehouse. But I was angry first. I stomped
downstairs into the parlor where Caroline and the three
stooges were watching television. I did a stupid thing,
right in the middle of an episode of Law and Order. I
reached over and shut the TV off.

"Hey! What'd you go and do that for?" Mitchell screamed,
suddenly very angry.
"I hate what you guys did to me – all that freaking
tattooing!" Then I stormed back upstairs, like a little
teapot.

I heard my stepmother's voice as she turned the TV back on.
"I guess he's in a little bit of a huff tonight," she said.

"We'll really have fun on Wednesday," Lonnie said. It
sounded like a promise. I think he was talking louder
deliberately so that I'd be sure to hear him in my room, on
the bed, with the door still open.

Right then, I made up my mind. I would run away, whatever
the consequences. I wouldn't get caught. Those kids who'd
taken me to the warehouse were right. Why should I take this
shit? It wasn't fair! But I needed a plan.

*

It was a Friday when I left town. Supposedly heading for
school, I ditched a truant officer, patrolling in his
Saturn. Sleet was falling out of a leaden sky as I crossed
the railroad tracks where trains used to go, commuter runs
to Goshen, and then you could get a connection out to
Chicago. But there weren't any trains now, so I pulled my
woolen cap down over my ears, put my head down into the wind
and kept walking. I wanted to get far away but was feeling
chilled to the bone, despite my winter jacket. Inclinations
to turn back crossed my mind. Sleet is not quite rain, not
quite snow. Pellets of ice that sting like needles on bare
skin. I never liked needles on my bare skin.

*

In Chicago the downtown was a lot like Goshen, just a
thousand Goshens.  By the time I reached the giant city on
foot I was disoriented and probably had hypothermia. A kind
cop looking down on me found me in an abandoned warehouse.
They put me in a hospital, a pediatric ward, and I was
burning up. Later a nurse told me that my temperature was
103 degrees. I felt dizzy and light-headed, nauseous at the
same time. The doctors and nurses and interns and aides kept
asking me my name. I wouldn't tell them. But they let the TV
cameras come into my room because I was sick, but
photogenic. I was probably excellent for ratings. I guess
the local news searches for kids like me who get lost in the
city. They called me the "mystery boy." It was no
coincidence I suppose that Law and Order is on just before
the 11 o'clock news. Chicago is close enough to Goshen to
consider local, but how could I be expected to know that?

During the next few days, they pumped me full of antibiotics
in that hospital. I later learned that some good Samaritan
had taken care of the bills, like the rich benefactor in
Oliver Twist. He even came in to visit me once. I was
feeling better. The man's name was Justin L. Cody, and he
owned a chemical company and liked boys. "How much do you
like boys?" I asked him.
"I'm thinking of adopting you," he said, "or at least
obtaining legal guardianship." He brought me gifts, two
computerized games, and for some reason, a black dress shirt
that looked cool as hell.

"You can come back tomorrow," I said, trying not to sound
too eager.

I was dozing off during the afternoon the next day until
voices woke me up. In that twilight fog between
consciousness and sleep, I thought it was Justin's voice I
heard drawing closer, but it wasn't, it was much more
familiar. The male voice was raspy, but too familiar, and
then he entered the room. It was Mitchell and he'd caught a
cold. Right behind him was Lonnie and Clarence and my evil
stepmother Caroline. "Look who's come to see you," she said
sweetly.

To be continued in Part 10 – Homecoming

  
MSD7-9_My_Stepmothers_Dungeon_Parts_7-9