Stevens School Runaways - Part 11 (hist, tort, CBT, psych)
By Platypus (formerly Dark Man)
[email protected]

copyright 2005 by Platypus, all rights reserved

(First published on Eunuch Archive)

* * * * *
This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
 * * * * *

The dungeon is a terrible place to be.

Stevens School Runaways - Part 11
"Dungeon Time"

Like he was in a trance, Tom lay on the wide table in Examination Room 'A' on his back staring at the ceiling. While he was no longer secured at the wrists and ankles and could move about freely, he was almost afraid to. He certainly didn't want to get up and chance walking on those already punished feet. They didn't hurt that much while he was prone, but he suspected they'd feel hellish once any pressure was put on them. The lights were on, but just in the examination rooms. Suddenly, Tom heard a dull thud, a soft and almost defiant "Yeowh" - and the pitter-patter of his friend's bare feet.

A naked Rich was peering down at him. Standing straight up, he must've been hurting, or at least a little sore in some places. Wincing, the slightly elder of the runaways forced a smile. "Whatcha doing?" he said. Tom couldn't help cracking a smile, since his friend's mannerisms, if not his actual words, reminded the 7th grader of Bugs Bunny glibly saying, "Ah what's up Doc?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm thinking, numb nuts!"

Both of them started laughing, cracking up. It was so incongruous, considering all that they'd been through and still had to go through. But these were resilient boys.

"Well I think that you'd better get up and start walking around so that your feet don't stiffen up. C'mon. It's not so bad once you get used to it."

Tom stretched his legs and toes out, did the same with his arms and fingers, relaxed, then did, slowly, stepping onto the linoleum floor in the exam room, in a few seconds putting his full weight down. Surprisingly, it wasn't so bad. They were sore, his feet, but only slightly, the incipient blisters on his soles that had started to form having closed up; the scratches being shallow and not of much consequence. He stood up off the table and hopped once, twice, then walked around the room and into the other exam room and he tried to open the ordinary door of the third exam room, it was locked, then he walked into the antechamber where the black sofa and the television and the ceiling mural were.

"Where you going?" Rich asked. He continued to smile but then started walking too, all around the little area that they were confined in, as he tested it, the huge wooden door to the basement chambers, the way 'out' to the rest of the school. "Of course, it's locked," he said quietly, and suddenly the brief exhilaration was gone, vanished in a puff of reality, as both boys knew what that meant.

"They'll be back in a few minutes, probably," Tom muttered.

"Yeah, the bastards!" Who could blame Rich for feeling angry?

In a few moments, the boys heard a key turning, the thick outer door opening, and the adults returning. "We're back boys!" said the smelly Mrs. O'Neill.

*

Tom and Rich were hanging naked from handcuffs facing opposite brick walls in "the dungeon," their arms each extended high above their heads, their feet resting on tiny footstools, maybe fourteen inches high. "They look so cute hung up that way -- like they're almost ready for their first punishment," Mueller said, "But I said almost."

The position, stretched out like that, was uncomfortable, but bearable, at least with the little stools in place. Tom and Rich were on able to stand flat on the smooth wooden surfaces, ready to be punished with a whip from the tops of their smooth-skinned shoulders down to their exposed heels. Mueller would be doing the whipping as Doc Thompson, Mrs. O'Neill, Graves, Mr. Taylor, Cousins, Mason, and O'Reilly bore witness. Mr. Briggs stood at the ready with his trusty camera. All the security guards were absent as the boys were properly secured; they'd be returning once they were needed again. He went over to Tom first, touched his bare back with the whip he held in his hand, showed it to the boy, who gasped when he saw it - a whip made of strips of raw hide and having three lashes tipped with small leaden balls. "If you choose this whip, you get 50 stripes with it, ten on your shoulders, ten on your back, ten on your buttocks, ten on your legs from thighs to knees, ten below the knees."

"What - else can I choose?"

"What else can I choose - sir"

"What else can I choose - sir?" Tom asked more contritely.

"Well, since you asked, "We could use this rod instead." It was about three feet long, and made of birch. Mueller snapped it in the air a few times. The thing made a whooshing sound. "I'll take 50 with that," Tom said, without much hesitation.

"Oh, no. You misunderstand. If I use the birch on you, it's 75 strokes on your backside. It's much less severe than the other one. That's if you stay comfortable. Twenty-five less if you don't -your decision - if we remove the stool. There's also a third choice - the famous cat-o'-nine- tails." Mason handed Mueller one of those cruel instruments of flagellation to show the boy. Again the 7th grader gasped in horror at what he saw - a hard leather whip with nine knotted cords at the ends. About eighteen inches in length, each of the nine outer thongs possessed five or six knots, compressed and hardened into sharp edges.

"How many do I get with t-that?" the boy asked. He didn't really want to know.

"Forty in all," Mueller replied, "Eight in each area - but that's reduced to six times five - thirty in all, if we remove the stool.

"Remove the stool?" Tom muttered; the boy contemplated that situation. His feet would be dangling in mid-air; even tiptoes would mean a gap of several inches between his toes and the concrete floor, putting a lot of strain on his handcuffed wrists. The boy knew that.

"So you don't want the stool, Thomas?"

"No, I'll keep it."

"Which implement - raw hide whip, birch rod, or the cat? Decide right now."

There was a murmur of expectation in the room. Most present, except for Rich, thought he'd opt for the cat-o'-nine-tails.

"Birch." Tom said, unsure he'd made the right choice. He gritted his teeth.

"Okay. That's 50 then. But we'll let you take away the stool if you should decide at any time -that way you'd get just 25 hard ones total - but then we'd be providing a more interesting surface for your pretty young feet to rest upon."

"Fine," said Tom. He gritted his teeth all over again. Standing on the stool, he clenched his toes too while staring straight ahead at the brick wall.

Mueller hesitated several seconds, then he snapped the birch rod in the air, making practice strokes. After what seemed like an eternity to Tom, the birch cracked, the whoosh sounded, and the birch's tip struck a stinging blow just above the kid's left shoulder blade. "Owwh!" The next in the series smacked the cruel tip against the middle of Tom's bare back, he tried to scream softer, but the third struck his right butt cheek and really stung, so he screamed real loud, the fourth tagged the skin just above the back of his knee, the last in the first series of five got the back of his left calf. "OWWH!" Meanwhile, after each stroke he practically smacked face-first into the bricks, and this was just the beginning - forty-five or maybe twenty more. He chose twenty. "Okay - you guys can take away the stool!"

Somebody did. But now his wrists were strangling - clutching wildly as the pressure against them was enormous and the cuffs bit into his wrists. "Don't worry - you have a nice surface just under your feet now." He placed the soles of his feet flat. "Yeowh!" It was a hotplate - he'd been tricked! Quickly he lifted his feet again into the air by bending his knees.

"Nice and warm for you - one-hundred-forty degrees. Not enough to cause a severe burn," Mason said, "just enough to scorch those tootsies a bit."

The birch kept striking Tom's naked backside all over - shoulders, buttocks, lower back, legs, and heels - especially if they were bent in mid-air. After fifteen strokes, he deliberately braced himself, placed his bare soles solidly against the hot metal, while the rod cracked mercilessly against his unprotected skin. Each time he let out a banshee shriek.

After what seemed one more eternity, Tom was quietly sobbing when his first punishment was over. Mercifully, somebody removed the awful hotplate and put back the stool. The security guards returned. Tom was rearranged. Still handcuffed, and standing somewhat limply on the stool, his back was now to the bricks, his face to the room, brightly lit for a dungeon. Tom could see a lot more than he needed to.

But now it was Rich's time to make his first punishment's choices. They were equally grim. Unfortunately, he was less wise. He chose the rawhide. Tried to make it through the ordeal while standing on the stool, but fifty cuts with that instrument of small leaden balls was too much for any thirteen-year-old to bear. The crimson marks on his backside were soon bleeding, and the boy decided to try shortening his ordeal and asked for the hotplate instead of the stool. His back was lacerated raw in places, and the physician applied a styptic pencil to close the wounds as best he could. The bottoms of Rich's bare feet were burning up. Rich's voice was soon hoarse and reduced to moans, and he needed ammonia applied to his nostrils twice so he wouldn't pass out. Rich was also rearranged against his wall to face the room.

The boys received a ten-minute break before it all began again. "Ready for your fronts to be punished?" Mason chirped.

"This is too much," said Cousins. He left the room, disgusted by what he was witnessing. His thoughts were dark, but directed toward the draconian school policies.

Soon both boys were alert again, after being splashed with cold water, and then carefully dried off. More choices. Both boys chose the birch this time, and once more, the cruel cuts rained down. Standing stoically on hotplates set at a slightly hotter one-hundred-forty-five degrees, somebody had found a second heated surface for this purpose -- this time they were flogged simultaneously, the blows landing on the many sensitive places found along a young teenager's naked front side - chest, stomach, belly, ribs, nipples, still a bit sore from their earlier attentions, cock and balls, inside of thighs, knees, shins, and around the ankles. Once in a while, Tom or Rich would bend his knees to lift his feet from the hot metal, but then the cuffs would bite into their wrists again. Rich tried to alternate, athletically as possible especially after the rod struck him flush on the testicles, but it was too exhausting, and soon he was just gritting his teeth, standing flat-footed. The pain everywhere on his body was incredible, and it was just beginning.

End of Part 11