Tommy's Attitude Adjustment Chapter 65
by Chadlad

copyright 2007 by Chadlad, all rights reserved
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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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Chapter 65: The Reverend Gets to the Bottom

"I'm appalled," The Reverend said solemnly and with great gravity. "Brawling in the bathroom like drunken louts in a tavern or some other such den of iniquity. Not to be presumptuous, ladies, but I'd recommend that all three of these miscreants be remanded immediately to The Farm for disciplinary training." He leaned down and hauled S. F. to his feet. "Get up, young man," he ordered. "Get up and face the consequences of your actions like a man!" He frowned at S. F.'s continuing grip on his genitals as he was balanced on his feet. "What happened to your clothing, boy? Stop pawing at yourself like a half-witted dog and stand up straight! The scepter of God is not to be abused by the hand of man!"

"What?" S. F. squeaked.

"True pleasure comes directly from God, not from carnal lusts and feverish strokings of the holy parts!" The Reverend said. "We'll soon break you of that disgusting habit on the Farm." He yanked S. F.'s hands away from his crotch, expecting to see yet another little boy's appendage dangling over a tiny coin purse of a jewel sack. Instead, his eyes widened as it took in S. F.'s almost man-sized appendage and his massive, pendulous balls, now swollen to half again their original size of moments ago. He licked his lips. God was indeed mighty and wondrous – to have brought into his hands the possessor of such a magnificent example of God's scepter! He thought with glee of the huge number of boys he could humiliate by comparing their genitals to these – bigger boys, strapping, strong, masculine boys with tools half the size of this magnificent specimen. His equipment looked huge on his puny body. And what an example he could make of this boy in front of the dining room crowd, were he to schedule that magnificent scepter for public scourging.

Humility, that's what it was all about. Humility before God and before your fellow man. He'd learned humility early in life, at the hands of his stepmother and stepsister. His own mother had been called to the Lord while giving birth to him, and his father had remarried when he was 9 and then immediately gone on a mission to Africa, leaving him with two almost complete strangers. His stepsister, a superior and cocky 11-year-old, had resented him from the beginning and had set out to demonstrate who was the dominant child. It had been a painful time in his life, a hard time, a time when his commitment to God had been sorely tested. Yet it had taught him humility.

It had taught him how powerful and effective the spanking of a boy's fundament was in influencing and controlling him, as well. The very first night after his father's departure, his stepsister had followed him into the kitchen when he'd gone for a glass of water as the stepmother watched TV. She'd smirked at him as he headed for the sink. "I bet you came to steal a cookie," she said in a superior tone. His stepmother had denied him any of the fresh cookies she'd made at dinner on the grounds that his table manners were atrocious. "But I've caught you." She opened the cookie jar, took out a cookie, and smiled slyly. Then she broke the cookie in half, and dropped it on the floor. The Reverend, then little Abbie, and stared at her, mouth agape. As he did, she dropped the cookie jar lid on the floor, where it smashed neatly on the linoleum, and immediately shouted, "Mom! Abbie tried to steal a cookie! I caught him, and he's broken the cookie jar Grandma gave you!"

His stepmother had come flying out of the living room in a rage, surveyed the scene, and dragged him by one ear, screaming and protesting his innocence, back into the living room. His short pants had been stripped down, his white little-boy briefs had followed, and with his stepsister smirking and looking on, he'd been given a painful, bare bottom spanking that had left him crying incoherently and his bottom glowing red. Worse yet, he'd had to stand, pants down, facing his stepsister as his stepmother had lectured him on the atrociousness of his behavior, the former smirking as she stared blatantly at his crotch the whole time, just drinking in his unfamiliar anatomy.

When she'd finally wound down, and he'd swallowed back his tears enough to force out words again, he'd tried to proclaim his rightful innocence. "But—but—but she did it!" he'd blurted, between sobs. "She threw the lid down and said I did it so I'd get in trouble!"

His stepmother had flown into a rage. "How dare you accuse my daughter of such a thing, you sassy, impudent, lying little bastard! Miranda, go get your hairbrush – the big wooden one! I'll teach this little bastard the consequences of lying about my daughter!"

Miranda had skipped off to her room smirking, and had raced back holding her flat-backed wooden hairbrush, and in moments The Reverend to be had found himself face down across his stepmother's lap again, this time the pain in his fundament exploding to new, unimagined heights as he was thoroughly paddled with his lying step-sister's own hairbrush. He was sobbing incoherently and thoroughly blistered when she was done. Then he was stood up once again on wobbly legs, twitching and holding his butt with both hands, no longer cognizant of the display of his genitals as his stepmother lectured him more and his stepsister smirked. Afterward, he'd be led, waddling, to the corner with his pants still down while these two strangers in his house had laughed at sitcom jokes he could hear but couldn't see, wondering whether he'd still have to stand there on display if someone came to visit, and dreading that it might happen. After what seemed like an eternity, his stepmother had told him he could go to his room, but he wasn't allowed to raise his pants or underpants, so he'd had to waddle once again, little penis flopping, in fast little shuffling steps all the way down the hall to his room, his stepsister trotting backwards in front of him the whole way and getting an eyeful. He'd lain down face first on his bed, this pants still around his ankles and his red, blistered butt on display, crying into his pillow and alternately asking God why he was being so mistreated and cursing God for allowing it.

Of course, God hadn't answered then, and it was some time before The Reverend had realized that his answer had been not to answer, because, like Job, God was testing him, holding his feet to the fire and tempering his soul for the jobs to come. His stepsister became his daily tormenter, forcing him to do things under the threat that she'd get him in trouble and get him spanked if he didn't obey, and every ten days or so following through on the threat just to keep him cowed and compliant. After the cookie incident, she'd next covered his shoes in mud and tracked them all over the kitchen while he was in his room, gleefully pointing out the mess to her mother and watching even more gleefully as he was called out of the bedroom, shown the mess, and then given a long, hard spanking, this time with his pants and underpants pulled clear off. Afterward, he'd been forced to clean the floor on his hands and knees, with his stepsister standing behind him making whispered fun of the contrast between his red butt and white butt crack, the silly way his genitals clung to his crotch between his legs, and the unsightliness of his anal opening, which his stepsister compared to "a dog's butt hole."

Later that month, she'd lowered the toilet seat, squatted over it, emptied her bladder on it, and then loudly accused him of peeing with the toilet seat down. This had earned him another bare-bottomed spanking with her watching from behind as he kicked his legs and squealed his innocence, followed by her supervising him as he cleaned the toilet. Worse, his stepmother had announced that he was from that point on not to use the bathroom without her or his stepsister supervising, not even to move his bowels. As his stepmother was often gone from the house, that meant the humiliation of going to his stepsister every time he had to pee, and, red faced, communicating that fact to her and asking her to come with him. After the first few times, she insisted on taking his penis out herself so that he wouldn't "play with himself as boys always do," and holding it while he peed. Often her fumbling of his organ made it stiffen, and peeing was difficult then, especially with her hot hand squeezing and pulling on him the whole time. Once, this had gone on so long that he'd gotten a tickly, unbearable feeling in his scepter, and for the first time he knew the glory of God as his small organ had spasmed, pulsed, and jerked in her grip and his bottom had clenched tightly several times, bringing him up on his toes.

At the time, he'd selfishly thought that this pleasure was something he could give himself without God's help, and he'd shut the door of his room that evening after putting on his pajamas, lain on his back, and taken his scepter out of the front fly. He quickly found that rubbing it felt better than just squeezing, and he'd just gotten caught up with it when the door eased open quietly. Suddenly the room light was one, and his stepmother and stepsister were staring at him with his hand on his organ, the former looking angry, the latter smirking and triumphant. "See," his stepsister had crowed. "I told you he was touching himself! He tried to do it in the bathroom earlier today!"

He didn't protest his innocence this time, to his credit, meekly standing at his stepmother's command, watching in terror as she settled comfortably on his bed and pointed at his pajama pants, lowering his p. j.'s to his ankles, and settling across her lap awaiting her stinging, merciless hand. Oh, how he'd cried that time, begging merciful God to forgive him as his spanking went on and on and on, his buttocks a mass of blisters by the time she tired of beating him and lifted him off her and dumped him on his bed. His stepsister had stayed in the room, watching him sob into his pillow and remarking gleefully that he was surely bound for hell for his depravity. After his stepmother had turned on the TV in the other room, and his sobbing had diminished to sorrowful hiccupping, she had leaned into his ear and whispered that he'd better be even more obedient of her in the future, because she could get him spanked that badly or even worse any time she wanted.

His bottom had slowly healed over the next week. His stepmother and stepsister had gotten great joy in commenting about how sore he must be every time he sat on the hard wooden chair for lunch, or when he was standing, pants down, while one of them held his scepter so he could pee. His stepsister had shown him the glory of God twice that week, and he'd accepted her gift without comment, fearing if he were to say anything the gifts would stop. She reminded him frequently that he'd better do everything she said whenever her mother wasn't within earshot. Her requests were often more of a nuisance than anything else – she'd order him to do her chores, volunteer to wash the dishes alone, or make him give her half of his dessert. Sometimes there were harder to bear. Once, when they were in the back yard, she'd ordered him to press a thorny stick that had been trimmed off a rose bush against his "little bag," (what his stepsister called his Jewels of Adam, a phrase he soon picked up), and that had hurt, and even raised three little beads of blood on the surface, but he'd come to accept that this was God's punishment of him for handling himself and trying to bring God's pleasure undeserved, and he'd pressed the thorns against himself until she'd told him he could remove them. She'd stared, fascinated, at the beads of blood for a bit, then swiped them with her finger and lifted it to his lips and then her own, the two sharing the metallic taste of it. His scepter had stiffened, then, and she'd shown him the glory of God out there in the open, leaving him panting and breathless and confused after he'd stopped clenching and shivering and thrusting at her hand.

He'd thought he loved her then, but the very next day she'd come outside to where he'd been playing on the swing with her friend Amanda and ordered him over behind the garden shed, out of sight of the house. There, as Amanda giggled, she'd ordered him to pull down his pants and underpants and allow Amanda, who'd only seen baby boys naked before, examine his generative parts. When he'd protested that he wasn't showing himself to this strange girl, his stepsister had shown him, briefly, a most amazing picture of a woman stretched on her back on a bed, with no clothes on and her breasts completely exposed, and threatened to go to his stepmother and say she'd found it under his mattress. Reluctantly, shamed to the core at having to expose himself, yet feeling a tinge of heart racing excitement at the idea of girls looking at, maybe even being impressed by his most private parts, he'd pulled his pants down enough to expose himself and stood there, feeling ridiculously vulnerable, while Amanda had squatted in front of him and stared at his genitals, stared at them like she'd never seen anything like them before.

"You can touch him, you know," his stepsister had said after Amanda had stared for almost 3 minutes.

Amanda hadn't answered, just kept looking.

"Really," his stepsister had said. "He can't do anything, or I'll get Mom to spank him on his bare bottom. And then we could touch him all we want afterward while he stands in the corner."

"That's okay," Amanda had said, not reaching for him. "Can he turn around?' she asked. "And take his pants all the way down. I want to see his bum."

For some reason, this request had embarrassed The Reverend to be even further. He should have been glad to end the scrutiny of his privates, and yet having his bottom scrutinized was, in its own way, even more humiliating. Part of the reason is that he'd come, in the last few weeks, to associate baring his bum and having females looking at it with chastisement, humiliation, and pain. His bottom was constantly in the open in the bathroom these days, in view of his stepsister or mother as he stood to pee. Almost once a week it was in view for everyone right in the living room, including, once, the members of his stepmother's bridge club, as he was bared for spanking, then stood to be lectured and stood longer in the corner. And adding to his humiliation were the signs of his past correction – fading lines of blisters and welts on his cheeks, positive signs of his debasement.

He'd stared stoically at the back yard fence as the girl had knelt behind him, her hot breath on his bottom evidence of the intense scrutiny she was giving his fundament. She didn't touch him here, either, just knelt inches away and stared at him with rapt attention, perhaps memorizing the scene to carry for a lifetime.

"You can look inside if you want," his stepsister had said. He'd felt her touch on his fundament immediately, as she'd rudely pulled his buns apart to expose his hole.

"I don't want to," the girl had quickly said. "It looks yucky." His stepsister had, reluctantly, removed her grip and let his butt snap closed again. It was odd, the way his stepsister used every excuse to paw him, but this girl had made no move to do so, either on his buttocks or on his penis. It was almost like she felt that actually touching him, feeling that he was a living, breathing boy, was too daring or would be too overwhelming. So if she was content to just look, the boy The Reverend had been was content to let it stay that way. He'd wished at the time that his stepsister would shut up and quit encouraging the girl to do more embarrassing things to him, and perhaps God had granted that wish, because she didn't touch him anywhere throughout the whole humiliating, stimulating episode. Instead, she'd asked him to turn around again, and had stared at his genitals for another extended period of time. This time, all the attention made him self-conscious, and his focus on that region had its effect, making his small, then uncircumcised penis start to rise. Unbidden, it continued growing until it pointed out at the girl, out and slightly upward, like an upturned coat hook. The foreskin drew back as it did, until half of the tip was uncovered, the boy's pee slit now visible for the first time. The girl seemed even more rapt at this turn of events, looking cross eyed at his penis tip, but she still wouldn't touch it even when his stepsister had gripped it and showed the girl, with a squeeze, how hard his organ now was, and how the foreskin would retract off of his head. She'd stroked him a few times, and he feared for a bit that she'd make him experience the glory of God right there in front of her, but Amanda chose that point to stand up and look away.

"Thank you very much," she had said to him with innocent sincerity, surprising him. "For letting me look at you. You look very nice." And then she'd skipped off across the lawn and his stepsister had followed, leaving him with a confused look on his face to pull up his own pants while carefully avoiding touching his hard, yearning boyhood. (He hadn't touched himself since the marathon spanking he'd received for doing so in his bedroom – his fundament had been so painfully sore for days afterwards he couldn't sit at all to start with, and had to eat standing up. He knew that God himself had to have sent his stepmother and stepsister – his father had said so just before he left. And thus God was also teaching him about dealing with his feelings. And he had to listen to God.)

His feelings had remained confused through the end of the day, as Amanda stayed on to play. He managed to find his stepmother to take him to pee afterward, so he didn't have to make that embarrassing request in front of Amanda, and he managed to stay out of their way most of the day until after dinner, when all three ended up watching the same television show in the living room. When his stepmother went off to answer the telephone, though, little Abner had realized at the very next commercial break that he had to go to the bathroom, number 1 and number 2 both, and soon. He looked hopefully in the direction of his stepmother, but she was engrossed in her phone call. Finally, on the verge of both wetting and dirtying himself (options that would have brought him both a painful paddling and probably diapers, rubber baby pants, and major humiliation, possibly for days), he finally asked his stepsister to accompany him to the bathroom. To his dismay, Amanda tagged along, her eyes glowing with interest. He didn't have time to argue, not if he was going to stay dry and unsoiled, so he had to swallow his pride as his stepsister suggested Amanda unzip his pants and lower them and his underpants, a job she seemed eager to do. Once again the girl was staring at his genitals, but this time the boy sat down immediately, and not a moment too soon for both functions.

Pooping in front of the two girls was the most humiliating thing yet. He couldn't control it – it slipped out immediately, starting even before he sat down, so he tried to close his legs, but his sister insisted he spread them wide open, "So Amanda can see," and Amanda did indeed watch wide-eyed as his powerful, uninhibited stream surged into the bowl and, at the same time, a brown column emerged, stretched downward under his genitals, and broke off to splash in the bowl. But worse was yet to come. His sister, who usually let him wipe himself on the grounds his butt was "disgusting," made him stand and bend over while Amanda delicately swiped at his bottom hole with toilet paper. She took her time, staring at his anal region with rapt attention the whole time, until finally she pronounced him clean but disgusting and the two girls skipped out, again leaving him to dress himself. When he finally crept back into the living room, still flushing with embarrassment, the girls were in whispered conference.

"I can do it," his stepsister was whispering. "I do it all the time. And I will if you want me to."

"Okay," Amanda had said. Her eyes were shining. His stepsister was smirking her superior smirk. Uh-oh, the boy had thought. He knew what that smirk meant. And he knew what his stepsister did all the time. And he knew, all too well, that he hadn't been spanked in more than a week – his almost healed bottom was evidence of that. In moments, his worse fear had been realized – as his stepmother got off the phone, his sister got up. "Mom," she said, putting on a sweet, innocent demeanor. "There's something sticking out of Abbie's mattress." The two hustled into his bedroom. With growing dread the boy knew what they'd find, and what it meant for him. He should have anticipated it –his stepsister never let him get fully healed before making sure he was spanked again, and the opportunity to show off for her friend must be powerful. But he'd hoped that making him exhibit himself was enough. Dread rose in him as he heard his stepmother cursing him as a disgusting pervert from his bedroom. If he had gotten blistered for just touching himself, what would he get for looking at a disgusting picture while touching himself…

His stepmother motored in with his smirking stepsister in tow. "Strip naked, you dirty boy, and prepare for the spanking of your life!" his stepmother thundered, rushing into the room holding the picture of the nude girl aloft. "I thought we'd cured you of that despicable, ungodly habit of touching yourself, but this picture is proof we didn't!"

"But," he'd protested, forgetting the error of doing so. "I didn't put it there – she did!" he pointed at his stepsister. "She said she'd put it in my bed and get me into trouble! It's hers, not mine! And she made me take my pants off and show my private parts to Amanda, too! She said she'd say she found that picture in my mattress if I didn't let them see me!"

"Is any of that true, Amanda?" his stepmother had thundered. "Or is he just weaving more evil stories in his perverted, twisted mind?" The visiting girl put on a virtuous expression.

"No, ma'am," she said. "He tried to show himself to us outside, but I told him I wasn't interested in the little pee-pees of little boys. We did see him just now when we took him to the bathroom, of course, but girls always see the pee-pees of little boys when they potty them, so I assumed it was okay."

The Reverend had been cut to the quick with her dismissal of his scepter of God. He'd taken at least some pride in her interest, and being called just a little boy with a little boy pee-pee hurt. But the false accusation, immediately believed by his stepmother, hurt worse. "I didn't do it!" he begged. "Please don't spank me! Please! I didn't do it! It's not fair!"

The last part trailed off into sobs as his stepmother literally ripped his pants and underpants off him. The pants tore down the front and she tripped him backwards, yanking them off his legs. She then gripped the front of his briefs, gave a mighty tug, and the worn, almost transluscent cloth gave way, giving him skin burns between his thighs as she yanked the torn briefs through his legs. He scrambled back to his feet and tried to back up, only to trip, sobbing, into an armchair. His stepmother grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet, holding them over his head and twirling him so that his naked privates faced the girl. The cold air on his backside reminded him his fundament was completely bare as well, and incredibly vulnerable. He remembered thinking that this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

But then it got worse. "Miranda, you were the one to discover this filth, so I think it is only fitting that you should be the one to deliver his punishment. You and Amanda can sit side by side on the couch. You, you disgusting pig, lie down across them and hold the end of the couch so they can give you the long, hard spanking you deserve!"

The two girls sat down gleefully on the couch. Amanda's eyes were shining, Miranda had on her famous superior smirk. The boy stood shaking in terror, unable to move. His stepmother transferred his right hand into her grip along with his left, then reached around, threaded her hand between his legs, and, cupping one hand over his genitals, lifted him bodily onto their laps, taking his hands and pinning them to the couch arm with her own. She nodded to the wooden hairbrush, now permanently at hand on the side table.

"Given the small size of your hands and the severity of spanking he deserves, you may take turns using the hairbrush on him," she said. "With your delicate constitutions, I doubt if he'll feel it that strongly even then."

The lie of this was demonstrated immediately, as the first of many blows landed on the future Reverend's bare behind. His stepsister delivered the first 20 hard, blistering whacks, alternating sides of his bottom, then Amanda took over, and tentatively at first, then with greater vigor, reddened the very bottom of his fundament, from just above the crease where it joined his legs right down onto the tops of his thighs themselves, and centering over the secret opening where his bodily wastes came out. By then he was thrashing so hard that his bottom would not hold still.

"Miranda, you're going to have to restrain him more firmly if we're to continue his spanking," his stepmother had said. "Reach under him and grasp him by the spigot and hold it tightly."

Miranda eagerly dug her left hand under the thrashing boy's midsection, groping for his penis. She circled the projecting head like a vise, pinching his drooping foreskin. The Reverend to be hardly noticed the pain, his bottom was blazing so hot by then. Then his stepsister took the paddle again and concentrated on his upper buttocks, blistering that area thoroughly. In the middle of that paddling, he thrashed so violently that he pulled his penis free of his stepsister's hand twice despite her pinching the foreskin so hard that it made a thumb-sized red bruise, a bruise he only noticed the following day, when it had become a purple blotch on his foreskin.

"You'll have to grip his little bag, too," his stepmother had finally said the second time he'd gotten free. "That always calms the intractable ones down."

Miranda had clamped down on his small jewels of Adam with enthusiasm, for the first time raising discomfort greater than that in the boy's bottom, and he was forced to restrain his kicking of thrashing threw the rest of her blistering of his upper buttocks. Finally, Amanda got a second turn, this time blistering the centers of each of his buns right where he sat down. By then, he was a limp rag, sobbing incoherently into the couch cushion and suffering from aching balls along with a fiery bottom. His step sister lightened her grip on his sack but he remained over her lap for many long minutes after his paddling ended, the females discussing avidly the techniques they'd used to punish him, the redness and blisters on his bottom, and how much more tractable a grip on his boy parts made him. Gradually, through a haze of pain, the boy realized that his stepsister was gently rubbing his penis with her fingers rather than gripping his balls, tickling just under the head and gently rolling the foreskin back on forth over it, until, as his crying was settling down to gasps, swallows, and hiccups, she had made him rock hard and he was feeling the glory of God building up inside him. The intense, throbbing, fiery pain in his bottom just added to his hardness, and his crying stopped entirely. But just as he could feel God's Glory upon him, his sister abruptly stopped stroking him and removed her hand from between them, stating, loudly, "I think it's time Abbie went to the corner, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," said his stepmother, releasing his hands, which immediately flew to his burning butt, where he began cautiously feeling his blisters and welts. She pulled him to his feet by lifting him under his shoulders and set him on wobbly legs, where he hunched slightly to hide his erection while still gripping his butt (he wanted to cover his genitals more than anything else, but knew by now that touching himself was shameful). But his step mother was having none of that, making him straighten up fully, and then frowning at his erect member pointing up at a 45 degree angle. She reached over and grabbed it firmly, yanking it so hard it hurt all the way to the root.

The future Reverend, stricken with terror at the words "another padding just like the one you just got," shook his head wildly. He wanted to scream that his evil stepsister had done it, made him hard so he'd get into trouble, but he couldn't get the words out. At this point, surprisingly, his stepsister saved him. "I imagine he just has to pee, mother," she said. "Boys have to pee a lot, and the little ones like this always get that way when they have to pee."

"Take him to the bathroom, then," his stepmother had said, giving his penis another painful yank and then releasing it. "I don't want him peeing in the corner."

The girls had each taken the boy by a hand and led him to the bathroom. Every step was an agony, stretching his painful, tortured bum. But once in the bathroom, his stepsister hand lined him in front of the toilet and, with Amanda watching wide-eyed, begun energetically rubbing his still hard scepter, and in seconds the glory of God had overtaken him once again until he shivered, shook, pumped his sore butt vigorously, and thrust at the air with his penis pulsing. Afterward, he'd peed docilely, and let the girls lead him by the hands back to the living room, where he was ordered to stand in front of the three females with his genitals on display while his stepmother lectured him about the evils of touching himself and warned that dire consequencesm far worse than these, would ensue if he didn't stop. Then, just as he was beginning to feel that it would all be over soon, his stepmother had leaned over him, pinned his arms, and given him ten quick, sharp slaps on his already welted and blistered bottom. This time he couldn't hold still, the burning in his bottom was so intense, and he jumped comically around the room for some minutes, his little penis flopping like a limp sausage and his scrotum jiggling as he held his buns and screamed. Once he showed signs of calming down, he was finally ordered to the corner, where he stood the rest of the evening as the girls enjoyed slumber party activities, including munching on fragrant popcorn that made him drool uncontrollably, and holding an extensive discussion on the punishment of boys by spanking and the best ways to make them cry. His butt stiffened so while in the corner that it was agony to walk to his bedroom when he was finally dismissed, and he slept fitfully on his stomach for days as his extensive welts and blisters slowly healed, constantly telling himself that this had been the worst experience of his life.

Yet that wasn't the worst experience after all. He'd had a much stronger lesson – one even more public, more embarrassing, more humiliating, and more painful. The experience that was the fire that had hardened him, had made him the Godly man he was today, a man determined to give as many other boys and girls the opportunity he had been given to experience the lowest of suffering and to rise above it to embrace God in the ways God had intended. That stronger lesson was the memory he most liked to contemplate when remembering his old ways, and his formative years. It was a memory he liked to savor while meting out punishment to a boy, or better yet, a series of boys and girls. He forced himself to put that memory aside for now – there'd be time to consider it later that day, he was sure – perhaps while he was taking these three to the Farm, because surely that's where boys who brawled in the bathroom would be sent.

He turned his attention back to the boy in front of him, the boy with the very pale skin. Yes, this boy would be an excellent subject for genital punishment, especially if he persisted in touching himself. Although, to look at it, someone had already beat him to that – this boy was hairless in the groin, as smoothly shaven as his own mature boys were kept at the Farm. And his scepter showed unmistakable signs of biblical scourging, possibly with nettles. That rang a bell – something one of his devout volunteers had discussed on Sunday. His mouth almost dropped open as recognition struck him. He saw many boys and girls in his travels, but he knew this boy, knew his mother even better. The name escaped him at the moment, but he'd never forget that white skin almost the color of library paste, skin that had always left him intrigued about how it would be to take this lad bare over his lap and lovingly mark his bottom with a hairbrush, or better yet, a leather strap. He opened his mouth again to ask the lad's name, but Gabriel, alarmed at this turn of events, suddenly spoke up.

"You're bleeding," Mrs. Hendricks said unnecessarily. "Emory? Is that his name? I don't remember us having an Emory, either."

"Nooooo! Em-wy! Em-wy Gid!" Chad slurred. Mrs. Hendricks looked at him in frustration. "Waaer," Chad said thickly. "Nee Waaer." He pulled on Gabriel's steadying arm to pull himself erect and, wobbling and dripping blood slowly down his chest, weaved his way to the sink, leaned on it, turned the cold tap on, and stuck his face under the stream, sucking water eagerly from the spout and let it wash over his face, blood flowing away in pink trails into the sink. Mrs. Hendricks looked over at S. F., who was having another coughing fit while being held upright by the Reverend, who was trying to stay out of range of his spittle.

"How about you?" she said to the white, bony, hunched figure. "Can you tell us who attacked you?" She looked over at Quentin. "Get the nurse," she said. "Tell her to bring the kit, too." Quentin unfroze from where he'd been standing with his mouth open and sped out the door. S. F. stopped making choking noises and unbent slightly, his eyes opening and fixing blearily and then with more focus on Mrs. Hendricks. "Arrrrrrrghhhhh!" he said. His hands hovered over his dangling, red, swollen testes, clenching and unclenching but fighting the urge to grasp himself again. The Reverend had told him not to, and he was afraid of The Reverend. He coughed a bit more, winced elaborately while squeezing his eyes shut tightly, trembled, and then made his eyes focus on the vice principal's face. He could feel warm stickiness trickling down the back of his thighs from the crease in his buttocks, and a continuous stabbing pain from his anal ring. God, he'd just gotten to where he could poop again without dying of pain, and now this!

"Ennily," he whispered hoarsely. "Emeddy. Emminy." He shook his head, licking his lips, and coughed again. "Emily." he finally managed. "Emily Gitt. Shhhh-- she—she got—got away." He was panting, trying not to retch. His balls felt huge and incredibly tender, and the swaying that was set off every time he moved made them hurt more, throbbing so strongly that he thought he might throw up at any minute. "God, it hurts!" he finished, moaning and hunching over himself again, but still carefully not grasping his genitals.

"Young man, you should not take the Lord's name in vain!" The Reverend said sanctimoniously. He glanced around the room, seeing nothing on the floor but an old diaper and drops and puddles of blood. "I notice these two are nude, my dear Mrs. Hendricks, but the other boy is fully clothed. As the other boys in the class I just attended were clothed, am I to assume these two were being punished?"

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Mrs. Hendricks said. "We've had quite a lot of trouble with Mr. Henson. If I had to guess, though, I'd say that diaper on the floor belongs to him – he has a wetting problem and probably soiled his clothes in class. And Mr. Farlow may well have been punished this morning. I doubt it, though. His bottom has been spanked recently, quite severely, but not the morning for sure – probably over the weekend."

Farlow, that was the boy's name! he could picture the boy's mother as plain as day.  "So, young man," The Reverend intoned. "What happened to your clothes?"

S. F. tried to inch away from the white figure, but was too unsteady to stand on his own. Fear shot through him at the question. He had a faint memory of being very small, and of undressing out in his back yard and running through the sprinkler, and then suddenly his Mom appearing, angry, with here prayer group, and shouting the same accusing phrase. "So, young man, what happened to your clothes? He hadn't known exactly what to answer then, especially as his mom was holding the clothes in question at the time, and he hadn't been allowed to answer anyway, but instead had been hustled into the house with the help of two stinging slaps on his bare backside (He hadn't even been aware, at the time, of the sly, excited grins of the two preteen girls with them who'd watched his penis bounce merrily as he sped away, impelled by his mother's strong spanking hand.) Those words, echoing his mother's, had extra power when delivered in the Reverend's powerful voice, a voice that had always sounded to him like the voice of God in a way that his own father, also a reverend, had never sounded. He was deathly afraid of The Reverend. Every boy at his church and the associated churches was afraid of The Reverend. Hints of stories circulated about the boys and the few girls who'd been sent to The Farm for discipline – stories of pain and misery and crushing humiliation. But the stories weren't specific, and even sounded fanciful, like boogie-man stories. One boy had even claimed that boys had wires shoved through their dicks, and had to stand for hours tied up by the wire like a dog on a leash. Other boys dismissed that, though, saying that you couldn't stick a wire through a boy's dick without him bleeding to death, while still others claimed you could if you stuck it just through the tip. Sometimes boys tried to see the penises of boys who'd been to The Farm, just so confirm or deny the rumors, but those few boys were changed people when they returned, and had a habit of standing very close to urinals when they peed around other boys, always cupping their penises when peeing in a strangely protective fashion. What S. F. had seen of those mostly hidden organs hadn't looked any different than before, but, being a shy sort, he was really afraid to look very closely.

So he'd heard stories about The Reverend, and they were enough to frighten the poop out of him. It didn't help, either, that he knew that the man in the white suit was a good friend of Mrs. Ardmore. He shivered as the memory of his traumatic Friday night reappeared.

"Young man, I find your unconscionable delay in answering my questions tedious. I'm beginning to think that, victim or not, your attitude would benefit from a month of discipline at The Farm!"

Terror rose in S. F., and he hunched over in a fit of coughing. The Farm! No way he was going to The Farm! He'd jump out the bathroom window stark naked first!