Stevens School Runaways - Part 12 (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 weekend of punishments continues but a ray of hope for
the miscreants emerges.


Stevens School Runaways - Part 12
"The Chair"

It was getting late that Friday evening in the dungeon -
already past 11 p.m. Normally, it'd be past the runaways'
bedtime, and they'd be getting sleepy even if they weren't
forced to retire, but tonight, with all the excitement, the
boys remained wide awake, being sore in many places, and
sleep was the last thing on their minds. Standing next to
each other, waiting for whatever horror would be happening
next, the boys watched several adults having a little
conference. Although they were whispering to each other in
conspiratorial tones, Tom and Rich noticed that the
government guy, who'd come into the subterranean vault-like
room, seemed to be running things now. Mr. Elliott, a pasty-
faced guy in a dress shirt and tie – he'd removed his suit
coat --reminded the boys of an accountant. In fact, he was a
bureaucrat, and happened to be very detail-oriented. "He's
from the government - maybe CIA," Tom whispered to Rich when
no one seemed to be looking at them. Meanwhile, Mr. Cousins,
the weird math teacher who'd been a voice of moderation,
comparatively speaking, was gone. This didn't seem
altogether like a good thing. "Cousins is gone too - I think
that we're really in for it now," Rich whispered during
another of the adults' attention lapses. Both boys were
getting a little bit better idea of what Mr. Cousins had
been about – although for the time being, that seemed pretty
much moot.

Unfortunately, the lapses were too soon over. "I think that
you ought to get one of them into the chair," Elliott
murmured, this time loud enough for the runaways to hear.

"Who wants to be first?" Mr. Reilly the gym teacher said,
while nodding toward the chair, "We'll need to get a
complete set of dental X-rays for each of you, and then Mr.
Mueller will fix any cavities that you might have. So who
wants to be first?"

Both boys looked at each other. The chair was like a regular
dentist's chair, except that it didn't have cushions or
padding, was made of metal, and had sharp thin spikes
sticking up out of it everywhere - on the backrest, the
seat, the arms, the footrest - all but one of the spikes
were small sharp things - about a half inch high and a
sixteenth inch in diameter - probably hundreds of them. The
exception, a larger thicker spike with serrated edges at the
crown, lay squarely in the center of the seat - where the
boy's anus might rest. There were leather straps to secure
the seated person at the neck, waist, and ankles. The inside
of the straps had lots of spikes too.

"You want one of us to SIT in that thing?" Tom said. He was
close to breaking into tears already.

"We won't heat it this time," said Mr. Graves, "C'mon, it
won't be so bad." He sounded almost gentle, as if to re-
assure the kids. His "you kids are punks" tone was
temporarily gone.

"So who's going to be the brave boy and try it first?"
wheezed Mrs. O'Neill.

"A real patriot," offered Mr. Elliott, who definitely had
some self-interest in the pain threshold testing now. "These
tests are important for our nation's security."

"Besides, you'll get your teeth fixed while we're at it,"
said the eager Mueller.

"Well," said headmaster Taylor, "We're all waiting. If one
of you doesn't volunteer in about ten seconds, we'll throw
one of you onto it lickety split. Tom? How about it?"

"I'll do it," Rich offered, "I've got a cavity probably
anyway." Tom breathed a sigh of relief, even though he knew
deep in his heart that he'd get his turn too.

"That's more like it," said Mr. Mueller.

The chair might not have been so bad, Rich mused, if he was
wearing some sort of protective clothing, maybe a hard
plastic vest and hard plastic pants, or at least an
insulated winter coat, thick ski pants with woolen socks and
hard-soled shoes. But he was dressed in his birthday suit -
naked as the day he was born. He eased himself into the
chair gently, as it sat vertically, balancing himself
precariously, every muscle straining and tense - especially
in his legs and back - trying desperately to shift his own
body weight as much as possible off the wickedly cruel
spikes. He especially wished to avoid planting himself
squarely on the big sharp-edged serrated spike that was
poised to penetrate his asshole at least two or three inches
deep into him. Even strapped in, with spike-laden straps
securing the 13-year-old's neck, waist, and ankles, it was
painful and uncomfortable, but Richard believed it possible
to keep the spikes from "really getting him" as he told Mr.
Cousins much later. But then Mr. Mueller adjusted the chair
so that it was nearly horizontal. The straps lost any slack
they might have had. Gravity did the rest. Rich let out a
scream.

The pain was incredible. Spikes impaled the nude runaway -
he felt his blood oozing from all the many tiny cuts - from
the back of his head and neck down to his already tenderized
soles. But then Mr. Mueller was saying "Open your mouth,"
and the X-ray film was inserted, "Bite down hard," and so it
was soon discovered that Rich had five cavities inside his
mouth, and when Rich saw the dentist's drill that the
sadistic man was wielding, he let out a little shriek of
sheer terror. "All five of them appear to be deep," Mueller
said, "down to the nerve." With his mouth open wide enough
to accommodate the drill, all Rich heard was the loud
whirring, and when Mueller got down to the root on the first
cavity, the boy later swore that the pain in his suddenly
exposed tooth was worse than the sharp pain in his butt -
especially inside his asshole where the big spike was now
firmly lodged and tearing around inside with its jagged
edges.

Meanwhile, Tom was watching what was happening to his friend
in disbelief, standing barefoot and naked on the cement
floor of the dungeon-like room. He wasn't crying, but
instead was trying to look as inconspicuous as possible,
hoping that they wouldn't notice him, at least until Rich's
current ordeal was over. Rich was screaming his lungs out,
it seemed to Tom.

"Hey, bring out the little block for little Tom," Elliott
said wryly, "Maybe we can get a bit of a chorus going."

"Kneel down, young man," said Mr. Taylor. "He's about five
feet tall, so make sure that the block's just the right
height."

Tom knelt, and when he did, his knees immediately hurt. But
that wasn't the worst part. The block, about sixteen inches
high and made of wood, was placed right against his thighs
and bare belly so that Tom's four-inch circumcised penis was
almost perfectly on a level with the block's top, a smooth
flat wooden surface. The 7th grader didn't immediately get
the connection.

"Well, just don't kneel there like a Goddamned statue. Put
your cock up there on it - lay it flat and get all of it up
there, boy, now!" Mr. Elliott was practically screaming. Tom
was suddenly terrified.

"No, no, please don't make me!" Tom wailed. The boy had the
distinct impression that these awful people were going to
cut off his dick right then and there!

"I can't," he cried again.

Mrs. O'Neill grew swiftly impatient. "I've had just about
enough of this kid's impudence!" Before he could resist, she
grasped Tom's cock and placed it squarely on the block.
Mason and Reilly pinned the organ – jabbing one small sewing
needle on each side of it, so that he couldn't move it. The
pins pierced the skin superficially -- one along the root
and the other piercing flesh of the meatus on the opposite
side -- but in his fright he tolerated these new sharp
pains, which felt more like crab's pinches. Tom's sheer
fright. "Don't - please don't cut it off!"

But instead it was another whipping - the instrument a
sharp-pointed cylindrical wooden rod, only about a quarter-
inch in diameter but two feet long, which would punish the
runaway's member. "According to the experiment's
specifications, he's to get fifty hard strokes on his
exposed penis - twenty near the base, ten toward the head,
and twenty on his sensitive glans," Mr. Elliott said matter-
of-factly.

"I see no problem with that," said Doc Thompson, "We usually
give them twenty-five, but although that little stick will
produce excruciating pain in a boy his age, it will only
cause bruising and lacerations if performed correctly. As
they say on the commercial, "Let's do it!"

"You can't - that's torture!" Tom screamed, "No! Please!"

"There, he's used that nasty word again," Mr. Taylor
corrected, "Give him five extra for that outburst, Mr.
Mason." Mason was only too happy to oblige. He tensed the
rod, swished it a few times in the air as Tom watched in
horror, practice strokes that already made the boy wince.

Tom was kneeling, as Mr. Reilly grasped his bare feet from
behind so that "you won't wriggle around too much and miss
your punishment." The way his penis was pinned down, that
was out of the question anyway, the boy mused; he was afraid
of tearing his organ completely off.

"It's just like a spanking," someone said, "just not on your
behind," but Tom was tuned out. Watching intently as Mr.
Mason swished the stick, once, twice, three times, the stick
was gaining momentum, and then the downward motion, as the
sharp tip struck his bare cock just below the head. "Yeowh!"
The boy screamed. Mason was expert at this technique -
deliberately pausing so that the boy could anticipate the
next stroke - five seconds between blows - sometimes as much
as ten. Each time, Tom couldn't believe that anything could
hurt so much. It was easiest to bear near the base, but as
the stick's sharp tip landed nearer his cock-head, or worst
of all, directly on his extremely sensitive piss-hole -
maybe eight or ten times in that precise spot - he felt the
pain spread through his whole body in waves.

"Good, excellent," said Mr. Elliott, "He appears to be an
almost perfect test subject."

"And we still have a ways to go before we actually reach his
pain threshold," Doctor Thompson opined. Tom was shaking and
moaning from the pain, but to his credit, and perhaps
proving the physician's point, he didn't faint.

There was some blood to clean up from both runaways, some
stinging hydrogen peroxide to rub into their cuts and
lacerations, but finally Friday evening mercifully ended.
After their wounds had been tended, the boys were brought
pillows if not blankets and told to "Just curl up somewhere
down here on the floor."

Around two a.m. on Saturday morning, the lights were turned
out so that the runaways could finally sleep. Exhausted,
they did. While their dreams were far from pleasant, at
least they hadn't lost any body parts.

Through much of the night, Mr. Cousins had heard the boys
screaming. These two had affected him more than any previous
absconders, and he knew why. They don't belong here, he
thought, in this awful place. He now knew this without a
doubt. While the boys were being punished in the basement,
Cousins had been covertly rummaging through their records in
the administrative office on the third floor - cautiously,
with an eye peeled for security people. He was going to take
a big chance to get them out of here. He would intervene. He
would call their parents. Those people couldn't have any
idea what was happening to their kids - what might happen
again and again now that they'd been selected for
punishment. With the help of the boys' parents, he'd get
them out of here - maybe even returned to their homes if the
parents could raise enough of a public clamor. He grew
teary-eyed at the thought of that - of the kids somehow
being removed from Stevens custody and being returned to
someplace safe. In the morning, Saturday morning, he would
call both sets of parents. It would probably cost him his
job, but the risk was worth it. For too long he'd been
avoiding what was plainly true. The whole mess might even
cause a national scandal - if all the facts were to come
out.

End of Part 12

  
SSR12_Stevens_School_Runaways_Part_12