My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 10-12
by Platypus
plupy@surfbest.net
copyright 2006 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.
* * * * *
Chapter 10 -- "Homecoming"
For the first week after my return from Chicago and the
hospital, I continued recuperating. The evil Caroline and
her motorcycle henchmen left me alone. I didn't even have to
go to school, although I figured that I'd have to make up
the work eventually. So I gradually regained my strength. Up
in my room, I was reading a lot, books like Edgar Pangborn's
"Davy" and Booth Tarrington's "Penrod and Sam." Several
Hardy Boy mysteries had also piqued my interest. With so
much time on my hands, I soon began to involve my bald-
headed mouse in my play. Masturbating became a twice-daily
event. I was obtaining a better quantity of cum now too,
seven or eight drops that would often land on my bare tummy,
and it would be more whitish than clear.
This wasn't entirely a good thing. While it still tasted
like water with the texture of raw ocean clam and smelled
faintly of ammonia, it was even more likely to stain my
sheets. I wasn't being careful. In fact it might be said
that a passive aggression had begun to emerge, especially
towards those "adults" I was living with. As each day passed
with no punishment ordeal, as the routine of Wednesday came
and went without a visit to the dungeon, as two, and then
three weeks coursed by without incident, I became more
confident about leaving my residue. Instead of being worried
and secretive, I would deliberately smear big gobs of it all
over my bedsheets, an auspicious mark of my incipient
manhood that my stepmother, vulgar tart of the motorcyclists
that she inevitably was, would have to scrub out to clean.
When my 13th birthday occurred on a Wednesday and they
invited me into the parlor downstairs, and not into the
dungeon, and we ate cake and soda pop on the anniversary of
my birth, I was a happy boy!
That evening when I came down from my sickbed, I was
declared "one hundred percent recovered" by my observant and
perhaps not quite so evil stepmother. We played charades and
cards and well, parlor games. "We like to play cards,"
Clarence said, and I wanted to join in. I was given two hot
rum toddies to drink over a period of about a half- hour. I
started getting intoxicated, or at least relaxed. I was in a
good mood, an oblivious mood. Even when Clarence asked me to
"Strip!" and said "please" and so I removed my slippers and
my pajama top and then my bottoms and so became naked in the
parlor for his and everybody's intimate inspection, I
suspected nothing. "He just wants to look at your tattoos,"
my stepmother said in a pleasant voice. She did make an
embarrassing comment about my penis having "a little" more
hair but balanced it out, I thought, by commenting "he's
becoming a man," and not belittling me. Nothing was
mentioned about the stains on my sheets she'd been cleaning
for weeks. How could I know that in just two days I would
reap the fruits of my "disgusting habit" and of my running
away? How could I know that my previous punishments would
soon seem trivial in comparison to what would happen? Again,
for the umpteenth time in my life, I asked something
downright stupid. "Isn't tonight my dungeon night?"
Nobody replied. So I let it go for the time being.
I stood still and obedient as Clarence palpated my tattoos,
starting with my bellybutton. I let him swivel my penis and
gently pinch it, pinching my "piss-slit" as he called it,
opening it so that he could see his artistic work on my
exterior glans in all its glory. He worked downward to my
scrotum, but didn't hurt it, and then my inner thighs and
calves were inspected, why, "to see if the inks had set
correctly," he alleged. When Clarence had me sit down with
my clean ass pressed comfortably against the soft carpet; I
lazily handed him each bare foot when asked. At his leisure,
he checked my soles and between my toes while he sat in our
Lazy Boy Recliner in its upright position. I lifted my legs
above my head high into the air and remember giggling.
Lonnie got out the digital camera. He started taking
pictures. "You look nice nude," Caroline said, Both bemused
and puzzled to be on display, I smiled.
Mitchell got out a measuring tape. The measuring started
with aspects of my body like the length of my toes and of my
penis, the girth of the latter too, and the size and
circumference of my glans, documented for posterity.
Caroline stood me up against a parlor wall and took the tape
measure to record my height. "He's dressed very
appropriately," Lonnie added, "my boy in his birthday suit
on his 13th birthday!" I bristled a bit at being called
"his" boy, but let it pass.
More stupidly, I said it again. "Isn't tonight a
Wednesday?"
There was again, no response from any of them, which was
curious. I should have suspected something was in the works.
Instead, that evening ended pleasantly. "It's late. Your
bedtime I think. School tomorrow." It was Caroline's voice,
definitely not so evil sounding. I could return to school!
So at ten of the clock I put my pajamas back on and coaxed
my feet back into my slippers, and headed back upstairs to
my room. Yeah! I thought. Maybe these people aren't so bad
after all. They are a weird family, but they're mine. I'm an
orphan, and can't be choosy. Settling in under the covers, I
dreamed pleasant dreams after having had an excellent
birthday compared to what could have been. Slipping off to
the land of Nod, I played excitedly with my little bald-
headed friend, perhaps stimulated by being naked in front of
intimate strangers for the better part of an evening in the
parlor. Nine drops of pearly sperm smeared my sheets, a
record. I'll clean the stain in the morning. But I didn't.
*
In the morning it was time for school. The rash of
unexpected kindnesses continued. My stepmother made a
special effort to get up extra early and make my bag lunch -
- a chicken salad sandwich, a tangerine, and a bag of chips
– although she was back in bed by the time I was up and
dressed. I caught the school bus that morning. It was
raining lightly. At school I saw James and Tom and Peter and
Rick and Tiffany and hundreds more kids. Everybody seemed
glad to see me. My teachers assigned my make-up work and
gave me an extra study period. I got excused from gym. It
was glorious! The school day passed quickly. Soon I was home
again, and the motorcycle goons who'd been still asleep when
I'd left in the early morning were gone now. So was my
stepmother. I almost missed conversing and interacting with
them all, as I was feeling chatty. James had given me his
phone number, and so had Peter and Rick. But I dared not
ring them that day.
Upstairs in my room I settled in. My mood was not the least
bit apprehensive. Homework beckoned. There was lots of it,
so I started into it – math problems and social studies and
Spanish and the beginnings of a science project on Faraday
and electricity. I became the proverbial bee, droning
silently, like the sound of one hand clapping. I heard them
enter the house, doors opening and closing but until the
call for supper there was little notice of me. Supper was
stewed corned beef and cabbage, my favorite. I have it with
ketchup. I remembered that the next day, Friday, I was
supposed to go on a field trip to the natural history museum
in Chicago. I needed Caroline to sign my permission slip.
"What time will you be back?" she asked. All heads turned.
Suddenly I was the center of attention. Lonnie, Clarence,
and Mitchell seemed quite concerned, as if it was important
that I be home the next evening at a specific time, like
something was planned involving me.
"What's the absolute latest you'll be back?" Clarence
queried.
What's it to you? I felt like telling him, but perhaps his
concern was legitimate and the question a valid one. "The
museum closes at five of the clock, and we're supposed to
head right back. But some of the guys want to go out for
pizza later," I blurted. I liked saying "of the clock"
rather than the abbreviated "o'clock" that everybody uses.
Caroline regained her composure. "No pizza. We need you home
by seven – not a minute later. I'll sign it if you can
promise me. It's another little birthday party," she said
sweetly.
I weighed my options. I should have been suspicious. Why
were they throwing me two birthday celebrations? But it was
great that she was letting me go to the museum, and I was
anxious to do something normal with other kids and didn't
want to miss it. Instead of really grilling these so-called
adults, I let it pass and in fact, asked another in my
seemingly endless string of stupid questions. "Will I be
getting presents?"
Lonnie chuckled, then emitted a foul burp, a cabbage burp.
He smiled at me brightly.
Mitchell spilled something on his shirt, staining it pink.
Clarence answered me, sort of. "What would you like? For me
to tattoo your asshole?"
I burned with embarrassment. Fear began returning too
although I tried hiding it.
"He's asking you a question," my stepmother said "Would you
like Clarence to tattoo your rectum?"
"I wasn't thinking of that type of present," I managed.
"Let us surprise you," Mitchell ended up saying, in a wise
owl manner. It must have been an affectation of the moment.
"Yeah," the others echoed.
I just knew enough to be home by seven.
*
On Friday morning before school another chicken salad
sandwich was waiting for me, a pickle wrapped in wax paper,
an apple, and two Oreo cookies. My paper bag lunch was
ready. Out the door I went. I felt like a sharp-dressed man,
a teenager dressed to the hilt. I wore my New Balance
walking shoes with white athletic socks, a pair of khaki
semi-casuals over my white Hanes briefs, and my cool black
dress shirt with the silver buttons that Mr. Cody had
brought me in the hospital. This Friday was a gorgeous day,
spectacular in every way. Instead of the bus, I decided to
walk. James showed up on the way. "How's it hanging?" he
asked by way of greeting.
"Just the way you left it," was my snappy comeback. Not
entirely original, granted, but I was feeling confident and
excited. School wasn't so bad. Home had been tolerable for a
while, since I'd gotten back from the hospital in Chicago.
I'd already pretty much accepted the ritual on Wednesday
evening. I'd been a naked boy on display again. It had been
embarrassing but not as mortifying as some of the other
Wednesday nights I'd endured – in the dungeon for instance.
The dungeon meant more than embarrassing. It meant pain. But
perhaps Caroline and the motorcycle guys were outgrowing the
need to punish me, or the need to see me punished. Maybe
they were starting to like me. Walking with James, I was
thinking all this good stuff.
James broke the silence. "Any new tattoos?"
"What's it to you? Do you get off on seeing my tattoos?"
"You sure got a lot of them."
"I know. They're kind of cool." Bravado never hurt. In fact,
I was starting to get used to my tattoos, accepting them as
part of my persona.
"Yeah. That's what I was thinking." James was about to
surprise me.
"Do you think your friend, the guy your mom lives with,
could do me?"
"I don't know. They take hours to do and hurt a lot.
Sure you want me to ask? You might just get what you ask
for."
"Yeah, I'm sure. What's the guy's name who draws them?"
"Clarence. He's a real goon. Rough character." Again,
honesty was the best policy.
"There'd be two of us at school with tattoos all over."
"You'd get your dick and balls tattooed? What would your
parents say?"
"I don't have to tell them if it isn't obvious. My parents
never see me naked except barefooted."
"Don't you ever go to the beach?"
"I don't like swimming in fresh water. I don't even like
swimming."
"Okay. I'll ask him if you really want." I was reluctant to,
but would consider asking Clarence the artiste to create a
second illustrated boy. Maybe it would become some kind of
trend at my school.
"I'd like him to do my whole dick – just like you had yours
done."
"That hurt like Hell." Contemplating it made me wince.
"My dick is an inch longer than yours. This guy Clarence
would have more room to create something real original,"
James kidded.
Vain, he was probably half-serious. I had to challenge.
"Nicer than my bird?"
"My bird is nicer than your bird even without a tattoo." The
retort was swift, and it hurt a little. He sure had a giant
dick for a 7th grader.
"Yeah, you wish." I said.
James squeezed my shoulder, gently.
I felt a tear well up, couldn't help it.
"You getting all emotional on me?"
"It's just that – awwwh shut up!" I pushed him, practically
knocking him over. James started laughing.
Pretty soon I was too.
*
The school day swiftly passed. I went to see my teachers to
get my progress reports on more make-up assignments taken
care of, was excused from gym again (although that didn't
seem like such a big deal anymore), and ate my lunch (even
the apple). Before long we were all headed to Chicago on the
special bus that our school used for field trips. James sat
next to me, and Peter was near me on the bus too, as was Tom
and Rick. I had friends! This was kind of a miracle
considering everything, but it was nevertheless true! At the
museum, our group stayed together, and we joked about some
of the exhibits as boys do. There was an entire huge room
filled with Mastodon heads and skulls. I cracked up when
Peter asked about Mastodons masturbating, and asked what its
cock looked like 20,000 years ago, and James said, with a
straight face, "It probably looked a lot better then, when
the thing was alive!" That set us all off to giggling, and I
don't think any of us were serious during the entire field
trip after that. When the museum closed at five, we headed
in the special bus back to our town. I had to tell the guys
that I didn't have permission to go out for pizza. I really
wanted to though.
"How come you can't go?" Peter asked. He was really studious
and would stare at you sometimes when he asked you something
important.
Averting his glance only for a second, "They're having a
birthday thing for me," I said. Thinking about Wednesday
evening's affair in my head, being naked and on display
again, and thinking of the warehouse incident too, the
combination of all those memories made me blush. It would
have been difficult to explain so I didn't try.
Peter was perceptive, though, in a way that James wasn't.
"Are you cool with all those tattoos?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm getting better with it – having them."
Peter nodded but I wasn't sure if he believed me.
*
Part Eleven: Enter Dr. Seymour Gore
I made it in the door at just an instant before seven.
"You're late," said Clarence the artiste. I wondered if he
would consider tattooing another kid. Funny thought to have
at that moment but that's the way my mind worked. But I was
suddenly defensive. "No I'm not!"
Just then Caroline appeared, flanked by Mitchell and
followed by that tub of lard Lonnie. "Put your school books
down, Jeremy. The doctor is waiting for us downstairs."
Immediately my stomach started doing flip-flops.
"Downstairs?" I said. Downstairs could only mean two places
– the basement and THE DUNGEON. God no, I thought. Panic my
first reaction, my second reaction, and my third reaction. I
turned to run; to exit out the door I'd just entered. But my
escape route was of course blocked.
"Where do you think you're going?" Lonnie asked innocently.
"Nowhere," I said. My day felt popped like a cheap balloon.
Clarence screamed at me, right into my eardrum. "C'mon, we
can't keep the Doc waiting!" My ear rang like a telephone.
Over and over it rang, like I wasn't home. I didn't want to
be home.
I was hurtled into the basement, and then into my
stepmother's dungeon after the trap door had been sprung.
Familiar sounds erupted, like the creaking hinges of that
trap door I was hoping to never hear again. I managed to
stay upright, but just barely. The light was already on,
glaring, and in fact, there were a few extra lights, like in
a production studio. A stranger was standing there too, in
the middle of the room.
"Is this our 13-year-old male?" he asked.
I took offense. "Jeremy," I said. My voice quavered. "My
name is Jeremy." I looked the bastard right in the eye. He
had doll's eyes like a shark. Underneath each was a wrinkled
sac of skin. His nose resembled a proboscis. I didn't trust
the creases in his forehead. They reminded me of tree rings.
I tried to stare the bastard down. Why would this strange
man be waiting for me in the dungeon?
Dr. Gore was a trained physician. How old was he? Fifty?
Sixty? He was short, only an inch or two taller than me at
age thirteen, maybe 5 foot two. He was muscular but lacked
muscle tone, his skin pale and pasty in the manner of a
corpse. I didn't want him touching me or examining me. The
mere thought was gross. His body or breath, I wasn't sure
which, gave off an unpleasant odor. He wore a white hospital
smock.
"I've been down here for awhile, setting things up for you,"
he said. His two large gray medical bags were in plain
sight. I kept staring. He stared back. We regarded each
other, like boxers.
The stranger spoke again. "My name is Dr. Seymour Gore," he
stated matter-of-factly. "So you just had a birthday?"
"Yes," I forced myself to answer. "I just turned 13."
"He's into puberty," my stepmother said, "The evidence is
all over his bedsheets every night! This boy is nasty!"
I turned about five shades of red. But she continued,
humiliating me in front of this horrible man. "He is a
compulsive masturbator, this brat, and we're hoping this
weekend's treatments can cure him of his disgusting habit.
Is it possible Doctor Gore?"
The other three stooges nodded. "Yeah doc, the kid really
jerks off. It's not normal that he does it so often,"
Mitchell said, although he sounded a bit tongue-in-cheek as
he said it. Mitchell probably masturbated about ten times a
day. He had no right to talk. But I was the male on trial.
Dr. Gore replied drolly to the evil Caroline. I can
appreciate such things now, as nuances if nothing more. As a
13-year-old, the physician's reply scared the living shit
out of me. "We may be able to turn off his faucet for a
while," he said.
*
From the outset, Dr. Gore regarded me like a scientist
regards a hamster or a rat. His voice, always deceptive,
seemed courteous and polite. "So you've discovered
masturbation, boy. How often each day?"
"I don't," I said.
"Now don't you dare lie!" my stepmother screamed.
"You should cooperate, Jeremy. We're only trying to help
you," Clarence lied.
"Yeah," said Lonnie, "and the first part won't even hurt."
Mitchell stood staring and blocking the escape route up to
the basement. I was in deep trouble. What did Lonnie mean?
Was this pre-arranged?
"Answer the doctor!" my stepmother screamed. "Don't you dare
lie!"
I stammered. Blushing, I told the truth. "Twice a day
usually," I muttered almost under my breath.
"What's that boy? I didn't quite catch that. Louder so that
everybody can hear. How many times a day do you pleasure
yourself?"
"Twice," I said much louder, "Twice a day." I almost
screamed it because this was none of their business and I
was getting angry.
"Can you ejaculate?"
I hesitated a long time before answering. "What?" I said,
disbelieving what I'd just heard. I certainly knew what it
meant.
"He asked if you can cum yet, out of your piss-slit, boy,"
Mitchell spoke up.
"Yes," I said. "YESSS!"
"Does it feel good when you do it?"
I tried ignoring this nosey bastard.
"Well does it?" my stepmother screamed, grabbing me and
shaking me by the shoulders, pinching my arms severely at
the same time.
"Yes!" I started sobbing now. It was getting more intense. I
just wanted to run up to my room and slam the door.
"I see," he said, the corpse-like Gore smiling a wicked
grin. To the others, he nodded, as if something bad was
about to begin. He looked at me, at my clothes. I could see
the reflection of my clothes in his shark's eyes. "That's a
nice shirt," he said, his gaze fixed on the black dress
shirt with silver buttons that Mr. Cody had brought me in
the hospital. "I won't ask you to remove it," he added.
I let go a sigh of relief.
The doctor looked me up and down again. "So, why were you in
that hospital in the first place? How did you get all the
way to Chicago?"
I knew better at this point than to lie, or to make some
smart-aleck remark. "I guess, I ran away."
"You guess?" The doctor was like the Nazis probably were. I
hated that grin already. Why did he keep asking me things he
already knew?
"I ran away!" I said it this time with more conviction. "I
wanted to get away from these – people – for what they do to
me down here in this dungeon!" I started to bawl, but the
doctor's icy stare put a stop to that.
"Let's continue, shall we? When you ran away, what parts of
your body did the running? More specifically, when you had
walked for miles and miles, what parts of your body hurt the
most, were sore?"
"My legs," I guess, "and my feet."
"So, if you'd been punished on your feet so that you
couldn't walk well, or even stand very well, would you have
still deserted your loving stepmother and her friends who
love you?"
He looked positively evil, this monster, with his off-kilter
mouth uttering what sounded to me like dragon's words. Talk
about loaded questions, what was I supposed to say to that?
"Well boy, I need an answer."
"Answer him!" Caroline screamed, while smacking me on the
head.
"Owwhh!" I yelled. "You didn't have to do that!"
"Better answer the doc," echoed Clarence. Grinning, he was
really enjoying the show.
"No," I said, just loud enough for the five adults I was
trapped with to hear. "I guess I wouldn't have." At least
until they'd had a chance to heal, I thought, and then I'd
be off like a shot for parts unknown.
"So what kind of shoes are those? New Balance? Please remove
your left shoe." It was almost a whisper, but I heard it,
and it gave the pit of my stomach butterflies all over
again. No! I screamed. No! No! No! But to myself I screamed
so that the sound was loudest inside my head.
I unlaced my left shoe, slipped it off. Lonnie took it and
placed it on a chair in the dungeon's corner. I had a
feeling that more of my clothes were about to end up there
too.
"Now, please remove your right shoe." I unlaced it as slowly
as I could. Made a show out of undoing the knots in the
laces first.
"You are dawdling young man." The bastard looked at me again
with those expressionless eyes he had.
I slipped off my right shoe and handed it gently to Lonnie.
"Now remove your left sock." His voice was chilling, and as
I slipped my sock off, my bare left sole felt cold,
unprotected on the dungeon's hard floor.
"Please remove your right sock." I was soon barefoot with my
socks on the chair. My feet were a little cold and
uncomfortable on the ungiving surface.
As the stripping continued, I tried to resist. "I can't do
this," I said to them all.
"It's not up to you! Do what the doctor says you ungrateful
brat!" The evil Caroline's anger wasn't helping.
"Unbuckle your belt from those nice khakis," the doctor
commanded.
I did, now feeling that I had to comply. Maybe whatever
these people were going to do wouldn't last long or be that
painful. At any rate, it would be over in a couple hours at
most, and then I'd be safe and snug in my bed.
"Unzip your zipper," he said. I unzipped.
"Take your pants completely off and hand them to your
mother's friend," he commanded.
I did. Now I was dressed in just my tighty whitey Hanes and
the black shirt with the silver buttons. I shivered
involuntarily although it couldn't have been colder than
sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit in that dungeon.
I waited with an incredible amount of dread for the next
instruction. My dread was not misplaced.
He kept looking me up and down like a pervert would. I
couldn't stand it! That stare of his with the doll's eyes
seemed to go right through me! I shivered again. Enough
already! I'll take them off! Just get it over with!
"Remove your briefs! Be quick about it boy!"
I was glad to in a way as there was an obvious yellow stain
on my briefs and nobody had mentioned it. I was afraid I'd
be humiliated about pissing my pants. Funny how my mind
worked at thirteen, but nobody mentioned the urine stain
when I handed Lonnie my briefs. Everybody saw it too.
I wanted to make sure that Dr. Gore would keep his word
about my shirt. "You said that I can keep my shirt on," I
started sobbing.
"So you shall boy! So you shall!" They had me dressed just
the way they wanted me. I couldn't have realized that, but
I sniffled, my tears temporarily halted.
*
The doctor began examining me with his cold pale hands. It
felt like a corpse's hands. He had me sitting up on the big
examining table, with my bare legs and feet dangling over
the edge. "Your hands are cold," I said. He was touching
me. He palpated my bare belly and the tattoos around my
navel just under the black shirt where it ended on my body.
He fondled and squeezed my penis and testicles, isolating
each testicle one at a time in their sack, not too gentle
when he pinched, regarding my "faucet" and "equipment" as he
referred to my private parts. I was trying to disassociate
from these events as he continued to examine my front – his
cold hands and fingers palpating and feeling up my thighs
and knees and calves and feet in the harsh bright dungeon's
glare. He tickled my feet and stroked my soles and bent
back each of my toes until it hurt, and I winced, and then
he instructed me to get all the way up on the table and lie
on my stomach.
I soon felt his cold hands on my bare back under my shirt.
He explored my butt-cheeks and stuck some kind of metal
probe deep into my rectum while massaging my prostate gland.
He squeezed my scrotum hard from behind. I let out grunts of
pain from both the probe and the squeezing. It really hurts
to have your balls squeezed hard from behind. He moved onto
the backs of my thighs with those horrid strong freezing
fingers. Lower on my legs and back those fingers came to
linger on my feet, palpating those parts of my soles and
toes and insteps and heels that he might have missed when
I'd been positioned sitting down.
"This thirteen-year-old is a fine young male specimen," he
said. The clinical speech was in a different context than
when he'd greeted me what seemed eons ago, so I didn't make
it an issue. "He's a very sturdy boy, and very attractive."
I definitely didn't want to make an issue of any
homoeroticism that this perverted ghoul might have been
implying.
He asked me to turn over and lie on my back. Again, his cold
hands were everywhere palpating, feeling me up. Holding and
swiveling my penis with those horrid appendages, he took a
lighted instrument and flashed it at my pee-hole while
asking for "your measurements of his penis – including the
urethra." Lonnie handed him what he'd asked for, their
scribbled notes from Wednesday's edition of "Naked Jeremy on
exhibit."
Then he startled me. "Interested in a proposition boy?" he
asked. I didn't immediately respond so he continued. "Like a
challenge. If you accept, I can promise that you won't
suffer pain, only some embarrassment and humiliation. You
will escape the punishments that we have planned for you.
Totally escape any painful treatments, does that intrigue
you?"
I had a feeling these punishments would be worse than
anything that Caroline and the gang had tried on me so far,
or else could dream up, or why would they need this freaky
doctor? I was also two days past my thirteenth birthday and
quite naive.
Everybody was watching my reaction. "What is it?" I asked.
"What's the challenge?"
*
Dr. Seymour Gore and the other fully clothed adults stared
at me dressed in my black shirt with the silver buttons but
otherwise naked including barefoot. They were like vultures.
For my part I just wanted to avoid anything painful, and in
this situation felt terrified. Whatever the ghoulish cadaver
man might suggest, I was willing to listen. "Well?" I asked.
"Okay. You will need to sit down on that table there with
your pal Lonnie photographing you with your shirt entirely
unbuttoned."
"Okay," I said, but I was thinking that Lonnie was
definitely not my pal. This would be humiliating and
embarrassing but I would do it, I decided. Unfortunately,
there was more.
"You misunderstand boy. That's merely the first part. We
need to have you masturbate to ejaculation four times in
succession within a half-hour. We will time you. Each time
you must display your ejaculate-covered penis and
surrounding body parts and we all must give you the signal –
all of us will nod assent or else just say 'continue," and
then you may continue to try and beat the clock."
He means 'beat my meat.' I swear I saw Dr. Gore show his
teeth like a vampire at that moment, and imagined him
sucking me and biting my dick off. I tried to ignore that
gruesome image.
"There is a catch of course. You must show you have
ejaculated each time. If you don't ejaculate, it doesn't
count," he added, smiling with those awful teeth again. "You
may have one of us, your choice, orally fellate you, to help
you achieve your little goal. Of course, if this occurs, you
must reciprocate with that person no matter what the
outcome. Do you understand the rules boy?"
"I don't think I want to do this. I've changed my mind."
It was way too gross, and he was saying that I had to suck
off one of these men too as an embarrassing bonus, if I
couldn't come on my own with just my hand – a total of four
times. I'd never been able to come four times. I'd never
jerked off more than twice in the same day. What if I
couldn't do it? No, maybe we could start the painful
punishments and get them over with.
"You've changed your mind boy?"
"I think so." Suddenly I was getting less sure by the
second.
"Were you aware that we've selected an entire list of things
to do to you and over a hundred punishments are on the
list?"
"How long will that take?" I asked.
"All day tomorrow, and then when Dr. Gore can come back to
treat you," my evil stepmother said, beaming with joy. She
showed her teeth then also, and frankly, she resembled a
vampire too, to my mind.
That warning was enough. I was willing to become a boy slut
if it would spare me the worse fate of almost non-ceasing
pain. This was a difficult decision for any boy just turned
thirteen to make. "Okay, I'll do it," I said.
"Good decision," Lonnie said. He already had the digital
camera ready.
I got up and sat on the table and started unbuttoning my
shirt. I began fingering my penis, trying to make myself hot
and sticky with cum. I would put on a show for these five
sadistic adults and for Lonnie's digital camera. They'd get
their money's worth and maybe I could go upstairs to bed
afterwards with a slightly sore cock and nothing more. That
would be getting off easy with this crowd. Dr. Gore had a
stopwatch ready. "Ready, set, go!"
So it began. I had a hand job to do.
*
Fingering my cock in full-view of the adults while
demonstrating my masturbation technique started to feel
good. My fingers proceeded slowly, like a massage of the
shaft, underneath and above, all around the sensitive skin,
and finally brushing my thumb over my glans. I would also
brush my fingers against my belly and pelvic areas, and do
my balls, with just the right amount of pressure. But with
all these people watching me like vultures, I wasn't coming
close to a cum! I tried concentrating more intensely. I
thought about what it felt like doing it up in my room, but
embarrassment was winning out. Finally I managed to block
them all out by closing my eyes. I tried not to listen to
any noises any of them made, and it worked. It started
feeling real good and I spurted once, twice, three jets of
cum. Opening my eyes again, I noticed that one jet had gone
out like a geyser, pressurized, landing high on my chest
against the backdrop of my black shirt. I sighed, content.
"That took you almost eight minutes," Dr. Gore rasped,
"Hurry up, you will need three more successful events in the
next twenty-two minutes."
"Three more successful events are required," chimed in
Lonnie, who had already recorded my first "event" in all its
glory with the digital camera.
I began fingering myself again. My penis was already
slightly sore and starting to chafe, because of over
rubbing. Less nervous, I managed a decent second "event" in
slightly less time, six and a half minutes, but now I was
starting to feel desperate, as this time my semen had merely
oozed, and the quantity was only four or five drops. My cock
was noticeably reddened in one of the good spots on my
glans, near my pee-hole. I knew that a third consecutive
hand massage would really make my penis sore, or barely
work, and even if it did work, I'd never get a fourth one
out of it. So it was time to exercise my oral option, with
somebody giving me a blowjob in full view of these sadists,
or at least four of them. Who would I choose from this
monstrous crowd to orally fellate me? My stepmother was out,
even though it was technically heterosexual doing it with
her. The ramifications of her doing me were simply too
odious. Lonnie had the camera, so he was out. Clarence was
an artiste, and I eliminated him in my mind for that reason.
So that left Mitchell.
"Mitchell, will you blow me?" I begged.
The big motorcycle goon just stared at me, as my request
somehow caught him by surprise. Still, I got the impression
that he wasn't entirely new to this activity once he started
– even if he'd never practiced on thirteen-year-old boys.
Kneeling down before me, his mouth and tongue started
licking and it felt immediately good, even on the sore
chafed areas. But the clock was ticking and I still needed
another hand-induced orgasm after this if I was to escape
the extended pain session. Worse, he was merely tickling and
licking around the edges, and the clock kept ticking.
When Dr. Gore said, "Five minutes left," desperation really
set in, and I was almost frantic. Instinctively I knew what
was needed. Mitchell needed to go deep, to let my cock
penetrate his mouth all the way back into his throat. He
needed to deep throat me.
"Mitchell, all the way in!" I screamed, holding on to his
head and keeping it on my cock. It was useless. He kept
straying. "All the way in!" I yelled again, starting to sob.
By the time I came, maybe two or three drops Mitchell said
later, the clock had nearly expired.
My stepmother gave me the grim news. "You have to make it
happen one more time in fifty-five seconds. I'm rooting for
you," she said, but of course she wasn't.
Sobbing, exposed to all five adults in the lewdest way
imaginable, I began to masturbate. But it was futile.
"Time's up little man," Clarence drolly added way too soon.
Everybody laughed.
The rest of that Friday evening was anti-climatic. I was
made to kneel down with my bare-knees on the dungeon's floor
and "reciprocate," as Dr. Gore put it, by giving Mitchell a
bj. His penis was a giant appendage and scrolled with huge
veins. It must have been ten inches long with a four-inch
girth. It smelled of body odor too, although only faintly,
as he had showered that morning. I doubt he'd used soap.
Soon I was choking on his penis. He called it his "wild
thing," and it was soon pushed deep back into my throat. He
held my head a lot more firmly than my grip on his had been,
digging his fingers into the nape of my neck. Gagging,
barely able to breathe, I was almost glad when he came a
copious amount, maybe a pint of thick white semen and he
made me "drink up" every drop and lick his organ "clean."
The smell of my own saliva was soon overpowering. I felt
like puking. While I was kneeling there trying to fellate
Mitchell, Dr. Gore was running some kind of sharp instrument
along the soles of my bare feet. It hurt.
But they saved my initial round of punishments for the
morning.
*
They'd cuffed my right ankle to the hard medical examination
table, brought me some chocolate milk, a light blanket, and
a pillow, and then just left me there overnight in the
dungeon. I had to sleep on my back rather than on my
preferred tummy or side because I couldn't turn over without
twisting my leg into an unnatural position. Mercifully, they
turned the lights off.
I woke up early on Saturday morning. Lying on my back with
an unbuttoned black shirt being all that I was wearing, I'd
probably slept five or six hours instead of my usual eight.
I was covered with the blanket and fairly comfortable at
that moment, but when I heard muffled footfalls crashing
down the stairs above me in the basement, it all dawned on
me. I heard voices now, including the sinister voice of that
cadaver man, the one with the icy cold fingers. The hatch
door to the sub-basement opened and they were here.
"Let's get him ready," my stepmother said, towering over me
as I opened my eyes into this Hellish Oz.
"He should be showered and brought back down naked," Dr.
Gore was instructing. I also had to pee and crap.
*
I was clean and well scrubbed at around 9:30 on that
Saturday morning, cuffed by wrist and ankle restraints on
the dreadful exam table. Naked as the day I was born except
for the beginnings of armpit and pubic hair, and a few
slight hairs on each of my large toes; I was spread-eagled
on my back to begin. I was whimpering.
Dr. Gore would be conducting most of my painful punishments.
"I will have assistance from your family as I require it,"
he added. I lay on a white linen sheet. I assumed it was
necessary, as I would be bleeding. "This 13-year-old male
probably expects punishments producing the same level of
pain he received during his tattooing. Isn't that right
boy?" Gore sneered at me in a condescending manner.
"Answer him!" my stepmother screamed. But what was I
supposed to say?
"I don't know."
"Well, let me assure you that the pain you'll be receiving
this weekend will test your endurance – your maximum pain
threshold. How will we determine your pain threshold? With
this little device that was very lightly applied last
evening while you were occupied with your friend Mitchell,
servicing him orally."
I didn't particularly want to dwell on that.
Showing me the device, he allowed me to look at it closely.
"What is it?" I couldn't help asking.
"This is a Wartenberg Pin Wheel. Made to test skin
sensitivity and pain perception, it is 7 inches in length
and made of shiny stainless steel. I'm going to apply it to
the most sensitive areas of your naked body. Once I know
your threshold requirements, I can inflict maximum pain on
you as well-deserved punishments – without causing serious
or life-threatening injury."
"No!" I wailed, "That thing has pins in it!" I could see the
pins, tiny but evil looking.
"Yes, these are sharp pins. They'll rotate around as I roll
it across your exposed flesh. Should be fun!" As he cracked
a ghoulish grin, the rest of the peanut gallery guffawed in
their typical boorish way.
"I will begin anew on your left plantar fascia." He looked
at my so-called "family" to explain further. "Jeremy – I
guess that's this male specimen's name – has a very fleshy
sole – lots of nice spongy adipose tissue some people refer
to as 'baby fat.' His plantar fascia is the tendon surface
along his entire sole from the bottoms of his toes to his
heel surface."
Gore began pointing as he explained. He considered himself
some kind of teaching physician. "The long plantar ligament
extends here, along with the muscles -- all four layers of
them – all of these areas – together with the extremely
sensitive nerve endings that are attached to them -- will
certainly be stimulated for pain during our merry little
weekend. But he will recover."
"No," I moaned, but it too was more of a whimper.
He grasped my left foot's instep firmly. As usual, Dr.
Gore's fingers felt icy, as if he were dead. I felt the
wheel with its sharp little pins pressed harder against the
fleshy "meat" of my bare left sole. This time he was
pressing hard enough to make tiny little nicks, or cuts.
Although superficial, I didn't like this treatment much AT
ALL. In retrospect, it was bearable; probably similar to the
tattooing needles that Clarence had used. He made about ten
passes starting on the undersides of my toes and working
that wheel – with its sharp pins – down onto the ball of my
foot and then across the instep and down to the heel. He was
nicking my left sole raw, making it into hamburger it felt
like, and then he grabbed my right foot's instep in exactly
the same manner. It didn't tickle, it wasn't pleasant like a
massage, but the motions he used were similar, and a lot
like the way Clarence tattooed me.
"Fascinating,' the artiste murmured, looking on so I could
feel his hot moist breath on my feet.
Soon the skin of my sensitive right sole was covered with
tiny nicks, pinpricks, raw and reddened as some bled
slightly – maybe hundreds of them. Yes, it was feeling like
hamburger too. Ten hard-pressure passes on a person's bare
sole with a Wartenberg Pin Wheel can do that.
But then, as I writhed and moaned in my restraints, Dr.
Seymour Gore moved on to my other sensitive areas. "These
pinwheels can be used almost anywhere on a boy's body," he
narrated.
I felt the pricks from the pinwheel as Gore began rolling it
over my stomach, first above my navel and then over it where
my belly tattoo began. Grimacing, I didn't cry out. "Let's
try a different site on this young specimen's body," he
said. I hated it when he referred to me as a "specimen," but
wisely held my tongue. He went over my bare nipples which
actually were less sensitive than my belly had been. When my
nipples were rubbed a bit raw, he saw that the effect wasn't
to his liking. "He's not that sensitive on his chest, or can
tolerate the pain."
"Try another place where it hurts him more," my stepmother
suggested.
I could have killed her right then. But Gore followed
Caroline's lead.
He held up my bare penis, and with the other hand, began
using the pinwheel on it, along the sensitive underside
first. His ghoulish face had an expectant look, as if he
expected me to scream. I didn't disappoint him.
"Yeowwh!" I wailed, because the pins were being pressed down
with considerable force. Being creative with the device, he
used it along the side of my cock, from the base to the
glans, but not directly on the glans at first. He was saving
that. Continuing, he pressed the pinwheel along the top side
of my cock, and then down the other side working towards the
base of my cock and my scrotum. My scrotum was about to get
some attention. Using his thumb and forefinger to stretch
out my scrotal sack more, I soon felt that awful wheel
pressed flush and rolled over my balls.
"Yeowhh!" I let out a yelp.
Finally he did do my glans, the most sensitive part of a
boy's penis. The quick route, maybe twenty times over and
over my little bulb was performed as he put it, "to see how
sensitive he is there."
I was plenty sensitive. This wasn't just white meat being
cut on a chicken. "Owwh," it hurts, I said, meaning it
completely, as this strange sensation from the skin on my
prick's head being pricked was decidedly unpleasant.
"The cuts are minor and barely bleed," Gore noted.
The wheel went other places too. Inside my thighs, on my
calves, over the bony parts of my ankles, first one, then
the other, along the sides of my feet along the insteps and
heel, six more passes on the defenseless soles of my feet.
When Caroline and the gang flipped me onto my stomach, the
pinwheel started its "important tests" on my naked spread-
eagled backside.
This testing for the "real pain", as it was later referred
to, just preliminaries to see how sensitive my skin was,
seemed to drag on forever. At least while lying on my
stomach I could sort of "zone out." I was starting to
develop a tolerance for this persistent low level pain.
Except for when the pinwheel invaded my asshole, or when
Dr. Gore switched to something called a needle hammer and
started pounding that nasty little device all over my bare
back.
They observed a lunch break and even let me walk up to the
kitchen (while still naked of course) for a sandwich with
soda, cola, and a small bowl of soup, chicken noodle,
homemade. I accepted, although this felt very strange, as my
feet were already pretty sore. I had to use the bathroom
too, and was hungrier than I'd thought.
"No, that's enough for him to be eating. He's likely to
vomit all over the place otherwise during the afternoon
session," Gore intoned.
"His punishments await," Lonnie, the fat one warned.
I was not in a hurry to commence this phase of my life, so I
dawdled as much as possible, and while naked, tried to
appear nonchalant.
"He's taking forever to eat that sandwich!" Mitchell
suddenly exclaimed.
Grinning, I attempted to look cute.
"Let's get him back to the dungeon," Clarence said, matter-
of-factly.
"We are on a schedule," Gore added with a tinge of
irritation. He liked torturing boys, and I was keeping him
from his work.
When I was loping painfully down the stairs to the basement,
I felt a sense of dread that dwarfed any I'd ever felt.
*
Dr. Seymour Gore had been an Outward Bound physician and
director at a Colorado boot camp where wayward teenagers are
often punished. Five kids, four thirteen-year-old boys and a
fourteen-year-old girl, suffered frostbite during a field
trip as he'd forced them to hike barefoot over snow-covered
terrain. "Only nine toes lost out of fifty," he was later
heard to remark at a subsequent court proceeding, "it could
have been worse."
At Ricendum, a private boy's school in Delaware, he'd been
let go after a naked 7th grader was discovered suspended on
a Saint Andrew's cross with cuts, abrasions, and burns over
70% of his body.
I wish I'd known Gore's history. Or maybe I don't.
I learned about the Saint Andrew's cross firsthand. Bound
with ropes on my ankles and wrists, tight enough to support
the weight of my naked body on the X-shaped cross, I found
myself secured upside down, head downwards, and terrified.
"What are you going to do to me?" I asked plaintively.
"You'll find out," Gore said with a smug grin. Looking up at
the human monster from my upside down vantage, he looked
more alive, but then those cold hands started touching my
chest and tummy and fondling my cock and ballsack.
"You bastard," I said.
"Let's put a hood on him so we don't mark his cute little
face," Clarence said. He wasn't immediately worried about
blemishing my tattoos.
"Here, open wide and bite down on this," Mitchell said as
Lonnie clicked on the digital camera. It was a hard rubber
ball gag to prevent me from screaming. Once it was in my
mouth, the ball gag was secured so that I couldn't spit it
out. But they hadn't placed my head inside the hood yet.
Gore did just that. He knew how. Soon I couldn't see as the
hood had an airspace for my nose and mouth so I could
breathe, but no holes for my eyes. It was dark all of a
sudden. Despite the glare of the brightly-lit dungeon, I
could only make out brightness, like a brownish-haze.
Seconds later, I felt the first stroke of a leather whip
with several tails. It struck me about mid-back and felt
like a snake's fangs. "Yeowwh!" But my scream was muffled by
the ball gag and was probably barely audible. Another lash
from the cruel whip struck my tender naked skin in front, on
my chest, just below the left nipple. I couldn't tell who
was hitting me. All five of them had their own personal
whipping instruments. Prime targets on my exposed body
appeared to be my back, buttocks, legs and especially my
cock and balls – I must have been hit thirty times on my
"bits" as my stepmother called them. I figured that it
couldn't last forever, but it seemed to. Sometimes they
paused for as much as a full minute before hitting me again
"to let him think about it."
Finally, they removed my hood and ball gag. Untied from that
horrid Saint Andrew's cross, I plopped onto the dungeon's
floor like a potato spilled from a sack. I was quietly
sobbing.
*
Next I was stretched out on a portable rack. I'd seen
paintings in medieval books where racks had guys stretched
out on them with their joints grotesquely dislocated. I had
lots of little cuts and abrasions on me by then and was
smarting all over, but getting stretched in that condition
seemed to magnify my terror a hundred-fold. All my fingers
and toes were tied with leather thongs. Even my penis was
looped to some kind of overhead beam and pointed unnaturally
toward the dungeon's ceiling. Lying spread-eagled on my
back, I heard this terrible squeaky cranking sound, as I
screamed "No No! You can't do this!"
They could control what particular joints they wanted to
torture, individually.
"Five more turns on his toes," Dr. Gore said, "Ought to
produce the level of pain we're seeking." Each thong began
stretching further, with my toes being pulled outwards. All
my toes were being worked at the same time. "I can't stand
it!" I screamed.
They did every joint in my body stressed to the point of
dislocation so that I felt excruciating pain, but not quite
tearing the tendons. "We don't want to dislocate anything on
him," Gore said, relieving the pressure on my joints one
notch at a time. About eight notches had to be lowered on my
fingers and toes before those tortured extremities felt any
relief whatsoever. I was sobbing due to a miserable ache-
type pain even after I was taken off the rack completely! It
seemed like every one of my joints was damaged. I even had a
weird pain in the nerves of my penis because of the way that
organ had been stretched.
"How do you feel?" Lonnie asked while taking more torture
pictures with his digital camera. I just glared at the
clueless bastard.
*
My next torment was something entirely unexpected. Let loose
from the portable rack, I was headed for the ice-cold tub. I
could hardly walk and had to be helped over to it. Everybody
was expectant. Of course I was still in the nude. The metal
tub was not quite as long as a regular bathtub, but it was
deep, maybe three feet, and it was filled with water and
slowly melting ice cubes, probably about 35 degrees
Fahrenheit. I just stared at it.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Jump into your bath water,
boy!" Mitchell yelled.
"I'm not going in there!" I yelled. I tried to escape, but
soon was captured and brought back to the icy tub by the
scruff of my neck. Fighting them to no avail, I soon felt
strong hands lowering my body into the water. First my feet
felt the shock of it, then little by little, the rest of me,
until I was immersed up to my neck. I cried and sobbed, but
soon shut up, as the shock to my system was incredible.
Besides water, there was Epsom salts and something else
therapeutic added by Dr. Gore. But it was cold! Soon I was
shivering so hard and prepared to die, because nobody could
live while immersed in a bath like this for too long, could
they? "Eight minutes is his limit," I heard the cadaver man
say, and then I was being lifted out and toweled dry, and
then covered and clothed with more bath towels and also a
nice blanket.
"Just let him lay there for a few minutes," Gore added, and
I did, and it felt so nice. Felt so nice? Yes! Miraculously,
my joints, which had been so sore just moments before, now
felt only slightly painful, as any inflammation had been
arrested. But I thought that getting up or moving in any
direction would break the spell.
"You can go up to your room now, to your bed Jeremy," my
stepmother said. I wanted to believe her. But didn't dare
move for fear the terrible joint pain might return.
"Go ahead! Before we change our mind!" Clarence yelled.
I didn't have to be told again. I got up onto my feet,
picked up all my clothes off the chair, and without dressing
began to head toward my sanctuary. I limped a little but
surprisingly little.
"Doctor Gore has to leave for today but he'll be back next
Saturday," Mitchell warned. I lifted the dungeon's squeaky
latch and was soon padding onto the basement's cement, and
then the kitchen, and then had closed the door to my
upstairs bedroom and hopped under the covers.
My body needed the sleep as it was exhausted. Sunday I
stayed in bed all day and only got up to go to the toilet.
*
By Wednesday I was back in school again, my earlier absences
due to the "flu." I tried to avoid my friends, at least
long discussions with them, as there'd be the inevitable
questions. Physically I felt fine, especially by Friday. I
even had the bag lunches prepared by my stepmother, and took
gym on Friday. Playing basketball, I jammed two of my
fingers, but it didn't hurt as much as it would have, I
believed, because of being on the rack and my experience
with that torment, especially with what was done to my
finger joints. The ice bath must've helped, but it was
something I never wanted to go through again.
Psychologically was my war. As Saturday approached and a
second appointment with Dr. Seymour Gore loomed, I dreaded
the end of the week. Tuesday it began. I felt an increasing
sense of terror, especially before going to bed that night,
knowing that school would begin anew for me. Time has a way
of speeding up when you're in school, and when you know
you're eventually going to be punished for running away.
Clarence tried to justify what they'd be doing to me on
Saturday, how it was important that I be punished "for my
own good" so that I wouldn't run away again. Caroline spoke
about having to clean the "gobs of cum" off my bedsheets and
my not having "any consideration" and having a "fresh mouth"
at times. When Friday evening came, we rented a video called
"Midnight Express." In that movie, there's a scene where
boys in a Turkish prison are beaten on the soles of the feet
until they bleed. During the scene as the boys wailed
pitifully, everybody in "my family" looked at me. I made up
my mind at that moment to endure whatever it was they
planned to do and not be a wuss about it. I might scream and
cry, but I would try hard not to. Lonnie said, "Good luck
tomorrow" just before I went upstairs and said "I'd get
through it." I thanked him but I heard the digital camera
clicking as I started climbing the stairs. Mitchell gave me
a hug, which felt very good but I didn't know how to react
to his affection. Since he stank and I was reminded of the
reciprocated blowjob, all I could say was "Can you go and
take a shower and this time use soap?" He laughed.
*
Saturday morning came soon enough. I heard somebody arrive
and enter the house, and the familiar voice of Dr. Seymour
Gore. I was lying comfortably on my back under the covers,
lolling about, not wanting to leave my bed for the pain and
terror of my stepmother's dungeon. I was awake but thinking
about what was going to happen. I began to psych myself up.
Could I get through it? How much pain would these bastards
inflict on me? I began to get angry at the unfairness of it,
and starting bawling. I doubt if any of the cruel adults
heard me, but I was having a good cry. I must have started
dozing off again until I heard a little knock on my bedroom
door, and then Lonnie's familiar voice, "C'mon. It's time!"
"Okay. But can I take a shower first?"
"Yes, Dr. Gore wants you to, and in fact, you should. We'll
see you down in the dungeon in about 20 minutes, okay boy?"
Part 12 – Conclusion
What? They were going to trust me to go down to the dungeon
on my own? Like an honor system? I had to urinate and
defecate really bad so I got up and walked over to the
upstairs bathroom. I closed the door and took care of my
business, brushed my teeth, and turned on the shower,
getting the warm water just the way I liked it. About ten
minutes later, I decided to dress completely into jeans, T-
shirt, clean underwear and socks in my room, and held my New
Balance shoes in my hands. Yes, I was going to try and sneak
out! Sock clad, I got downstairs as quietly as I could.
Hoping against hope that they were all down in the dungeon,
I tiptoed through the house toward the front door, where
maybe they wouldn't expect me to escape from, as the kitchen
and the door to the cellar and sub-basement all were near
the back door in my stepmother's house. Eight, ten, twelve,
steps seemed like forever as my heart was racing. My hand
touched the lock, I unclicked it, and just as I began to
open the front door, so quietly, soundlessly I'd figured,
five seconds from freedom, at the freaking most – I felt a
hand on my shoulder, and then a gentle squeeze.
"Going somewhere?"
It was Lonnie. "Go ahead, open the door," he whispered. I
assumed for one more fleeting second that he was showing
mercy, that he was giving me a break and had taken pity on
me. I opened the heavy oaken door.
Standing there outside on the porch were Clarence, Mitchell,
and the evil Caroline.
Their derisive laughter from that moment still reverberates
in my mind.
*
"You were preparing to run away again, weren't you boy?" Dr.
Gore's tone was harsher on that Saturday, more menacing.
I stood beneath the glare of the dungeon lights, my feet
shifting inside my New Balance walking shoes. My footwear
resembled sneakers comfort-wise. Still completely dressed,
it was obvious I wouldn't be for long. The others were there
too, my stepmother and her motorcycle goons. I hated her. I
hated them all! They all were glaring at me, although a
perverse satisfaction must have colored their perceptions.
"Answer the doctor! He doesn't have all day!" Caroline
screamed.
Tears had already streaked my cheekbones. My eyes were
slightly puffy. What defense did I have?
"Yes! I was trying to get out of this place! To get away
from you bastards!"
For that last comment my reward was a hard slap across the
face.
My stepmother gloated with anger. She had reddened my face.
I swore you could make out her handprint, too.
"Fuck you!"
"What? What's that I just heard?" She smiled at my rage.
"We'd better get started with him. Please take your clothes
off, and hand everything to your friend Mitchell." Dr. Gore
seemed anxious.
"No! Also, he's not my friend!"
"That's just about enough out of you, you prissy little
brat. The doctor asked you to strip!" Mitchell looked
furious like he'd cold-cock me with his fist if I didn't
begin undressing.
Facing the futility of my situation, reason began to set in,
and despair, once again. My look at that instant was doe-
like, showing as much vulnerability as I could muster.
"Now!" my stepmother said, unfazed.
I began peeling off my T-shirt, gave it to Mitchell, so that
I was bare-chested. Next came my jeans, unbuckled, unzipped,
pushed down, and handed to my pseudo-butler. My legs were
bare too, but I still wore my socks and briefs. Looking
around, I noticed a few new accoutrements, a small electric
brazier, and an unfamiliar stainless steel chair resembling
a dentist's chair. The chair had a set of restraints for the
sitter's wrists and ankles. A cloth-covered end table near
the chair was laden with various kinds of medical
instruments, several types of clamps and picks and tweezers,
many long solid-bore needles, syringes, and God knew what
else. I involuntarily shivered. "What are you going to do to
me?" I was pleading, my words more pitiful than the boys my
age or slightly younger getting their bare soles beaten with
wooden clubs in "Midnight Express."
I became pensive for a moment. Milking this moment for some
kind of unexpected reprieve. "No!" I said, starting another
crying jag. "Please don't hurt me!"
But their eyes were merciless. "Finish stripping!" Clarence
yelled.
Reluctantly, trying to dawdle for all I was worth, I slowly
stripped off my left sock, an inch at a time, and then my
right went even slower. Their eyes were still on me, five
sadistic adults of the worst kind. Barefoot, I still wore my
briefs. They were white, Fruit-of-the-Loom, and clean –
straight out of the dryer and made nice and soft with a
fabric softener. Downy I think it was called. I was thirteen
years and ten days old.
"C'mon," Clarence yelled again. I pressed my fingers into
the waistband, and tugged downwards, again, a quarter-inch
at a time, maybe an eighth-inch. My pelvic rim, and next my
sparse growth of pubes came into view, then the base of my
penis, more of the stalk, until the tip was exposed. I got a
little braver, revealing my testicles and groin area, my
thighs, my upper legs – some nice muscle was starting to
develop as I was getting more pubertal.
"I can't take it any more!" my stepmother screamed, and then
she brushed my own hands away and began a swift motion that
left my briefs to clothe my bare feet and leaving the rest
of me naked. "Now! Step out of them, pick them up, and hand
your shorts to Mitchell!"
I did. Beckoned over to sit in the chair, I did that too. I
tried to get my head to go foggy, to block it all out. To
erase from the immediacy all that would happen to me. Dr.
Gore adjusted the chair, so that it extended backwards in a
reclining position. It was rubbery-vinyl, cushioned, and
fairly comfortable even as I sat and laid back nude on it.
Mitchell strapped me in by the wrists. My arms extended
straight up above my head. My feet and ankles were soon
secured to a footrest that extended out in front of the
chair. I could move my arms and legs enough to squirm in my
bonds. I was almost but not quite lying completely flat on
my back. The way this medical chair was adjusted was a
little like the Lazy-Boy recliner up in the parlor in its
reclining position.
"So there's our 13-year-old male specimen just the way I
like him," Dr. Gore commented. I was in no position to
complain about a demeaning comment.
"What are you going to do to me?" My voice was husky,
sounding sexy to a sadist, practically a whisper.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe punish you," the cadaver man said.
To me, it sounded like a hiss, his words. I was more than
just scared. Terrified. The enclosed space in my
stepmother's dungeon started swimming in circles, becoming
indistinct as I almost fainted.
"Wake up!" my stepmother said, smacking me hard on the bare
belly with her open palm. Damn that hurt!
*
My senses were heightened again. I was alert and a bit
tensed as I felt Dr. Gore's cold fingers touch my penis and
testicles. He began manipulating my scrotum, feeling for my
balls in their sacs, first the left testicle, than my right.
"Like soft little marbles," he said, "It would be so easy to
crush them, to ruin this boy's ability to produce semen." He
gave my left testicle a hard little pinch. "Owwh," I said.
"Please, don't crush my balls!" I screamed. This plea
produced a hearty laugh at my expense. He continued to feel
my balls, pinching, squeezing, palpating. He scratched me
lightly with one hand on my chest and tummy, working down
into my pelvic area, sort of tickling. He then began his
tender ministrations to my penis, lightly scratching, even
tickling. It felt very good despite my terror. "I have to
make him hard first," he said. Dr. Gore kept it up until I
was hard, and oozing a little pre-cum out of my pee-hole.
Somebody handed him the first of the extremely slender
stainless steel rods that he was about to use, and he showed
it to me. "Do you know where this is going, boy?" I didn't,
and shook my head.
"Straight into your urethra. Down your pee-hole. Your piss-
slit. All the way in until only the tip of it is
protruding."
"No," I said, almost yelling, "You can't. It will hurt. A
lot!" The thing was slightly longer than my penis, maybe
four-plus inches. I didn't notice this detail immediately,
but it must have been smooth, without any ridges or sharp
edges.
"Ewwh! This punishment should be real fun," Lonnie
exclaimed. He held the digital camera and was moving in for
a close-up. He kept aiming the camera at my face, and then
at my penis, repeating this sequence for some type of
effect.
Holding my penis just below the glans with one sure steady
hand, the cadaver man squinted, like he was threading a
needle. With the other hand, Dr. Gore advanced upon my penis
with the first of the stainless steel rods.
*
I screamed at first, mostly because I thought it would hurt.
Dr. Gore placed the first steel rod against my pee-hole and
pushed it in steadily but surely, a fraction of an inch at a
time. Even when it was embedded "all the way in" as all five
adults had a jolly time with that phrase, shouting it over
and over like a musical chorus, and protruding only slightly
from my penis, I barely felt it. But the insertion of the
second stainless steel rod alongside the first did cause
some discomfort going in. I began to notice the feeling of
my urethra being distended slightly, and then the third rod
was even worse, some mild pain from my urethral tissue being
stretched began to become apparent. "Please," I wailed,
"it's starting to hurt bad," and my eyes went as wide as
saucers when he started pushing a fourth extremely thin
stainless steel rod into my penis, and then finally, the
fifth. The cadaver man's eyes were bright and cheerful as he
pushed and guided the last steel rod with his strong fingers
"all the way in" in sync with the joyful chorus of shouts
from my stepmother and her three stooges. All five rods now
protruded perhaps 1/8 of an inch out from my penile eye.
"He's feeling some moderate pain now from the stretching
inside his penis, but let's punish him now by upping the
ante." Besides being a physician, Gore was a teacher and I
hated learning this lesson.
"How?" My evil stepmother asked.
"Like this," he began showing them, with all eyes riveted on
my cock and his stronger fingers. "You just squeeze all
around the tube of his penis – like giving the boy's organ a
little massage. Without the rods, it would give him
pleasure. With the rods placed as they are, not only will he
be unable to ejaculate, but it will cause him moderate to
severe pain when I squeeze."
It did hurt. His pressure, pinching me with his thumb and
index finger, hurt like Hell. He didn't miss a spot and
pretty soon I was softly sobbing from the pain. I maintained
a hard on, of course, with the rods in there and my blood
pulsing through my penis. "Please don't do it anymore!" I
finally gasped when he stopped.
"Fascinating," Clarence said, "Mind if I try?"
"Why not? In fact, each of you should have a turn." Gore
smiled and showed his vampire's teeth.
So Clarence had his turn squeezing my cock with those horrid
rods inside there, "giving me a massage" and he was followed
by my stepmother, who squeezed hardest and hurt the most,
and Mitchell, and Lonnie. Finally, when they began tiring of
this hideous little game, Dr. Seymour Gore decided to end it
by quickly pulling all five rods out of my cock at once.
"Yeowhh!" I screamed. That pain was the most acute, and
afterwards it still felt a little sore inside my penis even
with the stainless steel rods out.
Another activity commenced while I was stretched out in that
chair. The hair pulling experiments, to obtain "samples" of
my body hair that I had at age 13, was more humiliating than
painful, although it did hurt. Dr. Gore used tweezers to
pull out a few hairs on my armpits and big toes, but really
went crazy as he pulled out fifteen little pubic hairs – two
sets of three at a time from my groin, and the rest singly.
I seemed able to count every hair, and I grimaced a lot.
But for the worst punishments, I went back onto that
stainless steel table. Spread-eagled on my stomach, I felt
Dr. Gore insert something into my anus. It felt like a
carrot but I knew it wasn't. "It's an anal dilator," I heard
the heartless bastard say. Then after that probe was
withdrawn, in went something much worse. This object had
lots of thorns on it, actually spines. "It's part of a
cactus," he informed me, "and it's just six inches long."
The spines alone felt like they were six inches long, but I
learned later, after I stopped screaming, that the irregular
spines were only a quarter-inch or less – depending where
they were located on the branch or whatever it is they call
a cactus portion. He then took another piece of cactus and
used it to "draw blood on our boy's back and butt" – making
deep scratches as I screamed my vocal cords raw.
Another bad punishment "group" as they called it was when
they started in on my feet and toes. I had to place my bare
feet up on another table willingly, to spare me "some" of
the pain they were considering for me. I was sitting on a
towel that had been placed on the dungeon's floor. "Let's
begin some punishments just for his feet, since he seems to
enjoy running away from his loving home and family," Dr.
Gore said to everyone. Mostly it involved needles, and they
were heated red-hot and glowing. I remember snippets of what
they did to me, because I passed out at least three times
from the excruciating pain.
I can recall how this ordeal began. "We will begin on this
13-year-old male's plantar fascia of his left foot and end
up with a heated needle coming out of his extensor hallucis
brevis. Do any of you have any idea what I'm talking about?"
I had a pretty good idea and immediately screamed. "No, you
can't EVEN do that. Please!" From the way his cold fingers
were lightly scratching the ball of my foot was that the
red-hot needle would be pushed right through that extremely
sensitive spot until it penetrated all the way through to
the muscle that controlled the movement of my left big toe!
While the cadaver man palpated, the other ghouls watched,
fascinated, as my world was about to become a wave of
excruciating torment. "Do you enjoy red-hot needles boy?"
"No!" I wailed.
The adults that were technically my family at that time, in
the sense that they had gained custody of me, watched with
rapt fascination. They still didn't have a clue, not even
Clarence.
"I never was too knowledgeable about medical names for parts
of the body," admitted Clarence. "But somewhere on his sole
you're going to stick it in, and deep. Jeremy should enjoy
this."
"Not," added Lonnie documenting everything with his digital
camera.
"I want to know where you're going to stick him," the evil
Caroline said.
"Here, through the ball of his foot, is where it will enter
on the boy's tender sole." Gore touched me smack in the
middle of the extremely sensitive ball of my foot as I
whimpered in fear.
"Fine with me," she agreed. "He'll think twice about
running away again while it heals. Go ahead. Stick him!" She
was a heartless bitch.
"That's bound to hurt," Mitchell said, cringing with a
pained expression as he looked on.
Lonnie was crouching for a better angle with the camera. He
didn't want to miss any of the action.
"Okay, get me one of the needles that have been heating on
the brazier." Dr. Gore donned a pair of heat-resistant
gloves.
"No, don't do this, please," I whimpered, almost in a
whisper.
He held my left foot tightly at the ankle in his strong
fingers, but added a direction to Clarence and Mitchell.
"Hold his leg firmly so he doesn't kick too hard. I don't
want him moving too much when I do this."
"Hold that foot still – or you'll get three extra needles in
each foot – six more than we were going to give you to think
about!" He had directions for me too. "Also, if you move
your foot while I'm doing this, you might never walk again!"
I believed this last threat in my terror stricken state, and
my brain flooded with a new kind of fear. I now WANTED
Mitchell and Clarence to immobilize me so that my foot would
remain still. I knew that I would thrash if left to my own
devices. As for the "extra" needles, it was only the one in
the human monster's gloved fingers that I cared about for
the time being. I watched, my teenaged eyes following the
movement and wide with sheer fright as he was given the long
needle, part of it glowing, and approached the tender ball
of my left foot.
I felt the sharp point of the red-hot needle as it touched
my skin. That pain in itself was enough to make me scream
bloody murder. Then he pushed it in, slowly, deeper and
deeper, and my pain reached a whole new dimension. "Yeowhh!
Oh, it kills, it kills! Take it out! Please take it out!"
The monster doctor's expression was maniacal as he held my
bare foot firmly. A few seconds later, the awful needle had
penetrated all the way through my foot, coming out near the
bottom of my big toe where that muscle he'd mentioned
connected with the rest of my foot! I think that was the
first time I fainted.
Other red-hot needles went through my bare heels pretty
deep. More went through my long plantar ligaments (which
were in the middle of each of my soles right on the instep).
About twenty went all the way through each of my toes. I
think those insertions began on the toe parts of my plantar
fascia. More needles went through the sides of my feet
through the insteps, but these were more horizontal in their
penetration and so amounted more to excruciating "flesh"
wounds. In a streak of sadistic relish, Dr. Gore also
decided on a coup de grace. "Let's give his toenails a good
cleaning," he remarked. He did this by shoving the same red-
hot needle underneath all ten, and scouring the sensitive
tissue that lay in those tender regions with the needle's
sharp point.
Several times I passed out from the pain, but it only got
worse when he started in on my genitals again.
*
He would alternate actually, from sticking those horrid
needles into my feet to doing something else to another part
of my body. Needles went in, usually through skin and
surface tissue, on various places on my chest and back. He
was especially vicious near my pectoral muscles nipple-high
and on my bare belly and along my ribs and inner thigh. All
the needles were heated sufficiently for his liking.
More red-hot needles went through my scrotum. Once I passed
out when it felt like a needle had pierced my right
testicle. Four needles pierced the glans of my penis, but
"only" penetrated about an inch or so.
I was secured tightly on that medical table again when more
"work" began to cause pain in my urethra. Instruments came
out, tools for causing pain like several different sizes of
J-shaped urethral sounds, and something called a urethral
"spreader" which widened my pee-hole so that other probes
could be inserted. He had a little light that he used to see
inside my penis down deep, and began digging with a sharp-
pointed dental pick when he'd placed a small metal ball down
near the entrance to my bladder and was enjoying himself
while trying to dig it out. He would hold onto my penis and
swivel it from side to side as he needed to. I started
bleeding when bits of tissue would come up from inside me
down there – little chunks of tissue from my urethral canal.
I screamed almost incessantly. If I fainted, they brought me
back to consciousness with a whiff of ammonia salts. But the
worst Dr. Gore saved for last – a grand finale.
I thought it couldn't possibly hurt as much as some of the
other things he'd just performed. He took a Q-tip, a cotton
swab, and soaked it in some vinegar. He pushed the Q-tip
down into my cock "all the way in." It was really stinging
and the raw and bloody flesh inside my urethra felt like
hamburger meat. But he wasn't finished. He removed the first
Q-tip and inserted a second coated with what he called at
first "his mystery substance."
I lost it then and couldn't stop screaming myself hoarse.
"Take it out! Take it out! It burns! It burns!"
The mystery substance was cinnamon oil. He kept that Q-tip
in my cock for at least ten minutes. I couldn't stand it. It
felt like the inside of my cock was on fire!
*
They gently carried me up to my bedroom and plopped me under
the covers. I'm not sure who carried me, but it must have
been Clarence or Mitchell. Nude, under the covers, I felt
like my whole body was one gigantic wave of pain. I was
given some Ibuprofen pills that Dr. Gore had mercifully left
behind. After an hour or so of agony, I fell asleep.
Epilogue
James came over one day about a week later with Peter and
Phil. Nobody at home meant I was unguarded. The house had
been watched evidently, if not only by my school friends,
then also by Mr. Justin L. Cody who had once tried to rescue
me in the hospital. I live with Mr. Cody now in Chicago. He
is very wealthy and kind, and somehow he gained custody and
was able to adopt me. I own ten black shirts with silver
buttons. I am Jeremy Cody now and I'll be fifteen next week.
I am no longer an orphan. I learned that Clarence did tattoo
James, so there is a second illustrated boy. For some reason
that I can't fathom, Clarence wasn't sent to prison. My new
Dad says that I won't ever have to go back to my
stepmother's dungeon. I think I love Mr. Cody. I know he
loves me.
END