My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 1-3
by Platypus
[email protected]

copyright 2005 by Platypus, 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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Once when I was two my stepmother left me locked in her car with the windows closed on a sweltering hot July day. I was discovered strapped in a baby's seat inside her prized Audi after she'd misplaced the key to it. When my stepmother called 911 -- and the dispatcher told her to break the window to pull me out of the car she wouldn't do it said she needed to walk home "just three minutes away" to get a spare key! "That's ridiculous!" the dispatcher is supposed to have said. When the rescue people came, they broke the window anyway. I was already unconscious. My Dad and stepmother's temporary custody of me ended when I was three. My real mom told me this story years later.

*

When I was eleven, and my real mom was hospitalized in a horrid place where they put the terminally ill, I had to go live with my stepmother and my Dad. But he was using drugs and sick a lot too, and so his presence in the home grew weaker and weaker. He would stay out for days, going into Manhattan, and when he'd see me, his only son, I'd be lucky to have him in a sober moment shake my hand or lift my pajama top to rub my bare belly when he tucked me into bed. "Jeremy," he'd say, "Listen to your step mom. Deep down, she doesn't resent you half as much as you think she does."

*

He seemed right at the time. For those few months, "Caroline" as I called her would seldom raise her voice to me even when I was disobedient or sassed her or said things like "You're not my mother!" when she wanted me to do chores like mop the kitchen floor or clean the toilet. But as Dad came home less and less, and she began to have other men over instead of my Dad, and they began having wild parties at night the adults started ignoring me for the most part, and I had to make my own lunches for school, and wash up and get to bed early and make my own breakfasts usually cereal and bananas if there were any. Sometimes I couldn't get to sleep, it was so loud downstairs, and even though the door to my bedroom was closed I could hear the murmur of crude voices including my step mom's. I cried myself to sleep sometimes.

*

The house was a Cape Cod with two bedrooms upstairs and two more downstairs. Downstairs also had a bathroom, kitchen, and "parlor." I wish that was all there was to "our house." But beneath the downstairs was a basement, and unbeknownst to me was the sub-basement, what came to be called "the dungeon."

*

My mind wanders to what was. My step-mom is a blonde woman in her mid-forties. Her face is weathered, almost craggy; lines are etched into her wrinkles until it seems like her plainness is a mask, a deceptive cold veneer of sarcasm and curtness that mirrors our language engaged in between each other, woman and boy. She was raising me, she said, and that was enough. At eighteen I could leave, but until that day, that eighteenth birthday, she would be my guardian! My parents were dead and she now had legal custody of me. I refused to accept this, in spirit, for a long time, fighting her every chance I got, offering what little resistances I could offer. Still, for a long time there were certain precise rules between us, like secret codes, and chief among these was that we stayed out of each other's way as much as possible. "You live your life and I'll live mine," she'd say to me in quiet moments, when the inevitable boyfriend was asleep. Her boyfriends had been rather tranquil men, just quiet boozers, but then the nature of her "guests" began to change. Until I was 12 and a half I never saw the inside of my stepmother's dungeon, never even knew it existed.

*

Precise rules. I never let her see me naked, not even my bare feet if I could help it. I would run into the bathroom, more cautious as I approached puberty, knowing that I was in 7th grade and there were changes happening to my body, the appearance of little hairs alongside my penis and testicles, and a few under my arms, and one night when it was winter a wetness came upon my sheets that did not smell like pee. She wasn't my real mother and so I shared none of this with her.

*

Clarence was a refugee from a motorcycle gang. He was a rough, hirsute and huge to me, maybe six foot four and two twenty, with beetling eyebrows that seemed to create a silhouette effect around his panda-like brown eyes. When I first heard his motorcycle and saw him talking to Caroline by the hedges out front of our Cape Cod, I just knew that he'd be moving in. He knew Caroline from some former life, a part of her existence before my awareness, and was the first of several "bad news" hirsute bears that would be moving in. Clarence, like Lonnie and Mitchell, brought out the worst in my step-mom, but also the worst in me. I could avoid Caroline, something she seemed to prefer, but not four adults. Unfortunately, in my increasingly crowded living space, a "home" that seemed more like a biker's hangout in the middle of nowhere, as the nearest house to ours was almost a mile down the lane next to an ugly decrepit strip mall, I was getting agitated, feeling imposed upon, as the other three bedrooms were now occupied. Three bedrooms for four adults sounded like discordant music to a virginal boy as Caroline almost never slept alone and seemed to take

turns with her "stallion of the night." The sex began edging closer. Pubertal already, easily embarrassed, I was increasingly attracting odd stares from the entire gang. What could this mean? "Jeremy seems way too modest," I overheard Clarence saying one evening to my stepmother. I heard him distinctly as I emerged from the bathroom in bathrobe, slippers, and white socks with my pajamas underneath the robe, "Are you sure he's not a little fag?" Lonnie was a big man with facial hair -- a mustache and goatee; he had the swarthy look of a construction laborer and a fat gut that produced folds of pinkish pork meat overhanging his belted jeans. He overheard me sassing Caroline one night as she'd asked, "Is your homework done?" and I'd said "What's it to you?" knowing that she was just acting motherly so as to impress Lonnie. "That boy should be brought down a peg or two," he said loud and nasty so I could hear it, and for the first time, the dungeon was mentioned. "He needs a visit downstairs way downstairs," Mitchell agreed, just entering the parlor, tracking mud into the room with each giant step as this guy was six foot five if he was an inch and must have weighed 300 pounds of solid muscle as he lifted barbells in the basement. I knew that I

would have to get up extra early in the morning to clean the
carpet. I couldn't stand it what a pig and just as I was
thinking about his heredity he blasted a loud fart as if to

punctuate the already fetid air. "I'm going up to my room," I announced, getting four icy stares. The words, "He thinks he's f__cking too good for us, the little asshole," echoed in my ears. The voice was male it didn't matter whom.

Part 2 - It Begins

On the night it all began I was 12 and a half years old. I didn't realize this, but I possessed good looks and a slim build with my collar length dark brown hair framing a handsome face that was already turning heads. I posed before myself in my bedroom's mirror with my school shirt opened, and I noticed that my chest was just beginning to develop definition around my pectoral muscles, a term that I knew from 7th grade health class where we were just touching on anatomy, although we'd learned nothing about touching. My skin was light but not pale, a nice tone, and its texture was perfect compared to most boys I knew my age. Before the mirror, I was wearing pants, and briefs underneath, white, cotton; in fact I could see my briefs because my top button on my pants was undone. I twirled around before the mirror, wearing brown socks, my feet slid along the hardwood floor as I completed a near revolution, even in this condition of privacy I felt slightly embarrassed. I knew about my sparse little brown pubes, the beginnings of a manly nest, and although I'd never taken a shower with other boys I'd heard their disgusting locker room talk, their banter about their bodies. My penis was a forbidden part of me, connected to my body but detached as possible from my mind, up until that day I had never even touched myself in a way to provoke much more than a tingle when I peed. Other parts of me, like my well-proportioned feet with soft sturdy toes, or my fleshy thighs and behind, a butt like two rounded globes or the rest of me, especially as seen and remarked upon by other people, was unthinkable, unknowable. I was not a self- confident boy, physically, nor one who liked to be touched. I knew nothing about touching others, or sharing intimacy in a physical way. About sex, I knew some broad outlines of the mystery, something about a penis being injected into a woman's butt, or maybe somewhere in front called a vagina, and I knew to make semen was possible as that was what my wet dreams were made of. Girls didn't interest me much yet, and neither did boys and their bodies, although I'd heard jokes about donkey dicks, and other misshapen genitalia, and these were supposed to stretch out like Pinocchio's nose when he lied maybe two feet long! But before the mirror in my bedroom, I was in a reverie, considering myself, lost in a fit of narcissism, in a trance, when it all ended. I heard a sharp knock, it was Caroline, my stepmother, and since I didn't immediately answer, she felt permitted to shatter my privacy forever. The door burst open. "What are you doing?" she screamed.

*

She'd seen my pirouette before the mirror as I'd slid in my socks, a very private moment she was never intended to observe, and assumed it to be a sissy's prance, totally unfair of her, but these ideas had been planted in her head by the biker boys all home that evening and waiting downstairs in the "parlor." I looked incredulously at her, the witch whom I despised, she wasn't my mother, but she promptly shattered my still juvenile disdain. "You are a little homo!" she screamed again.

This wasn't rational; I had no way to counter it. I smiled at her, which got her even angrier. "I finished my homework," I said; as if in some kind of defense for the mistake of revealing a tiny bit of the spontaneous me. "Please leave." But she just stood there in my room just inside the door, seeing me with my school shirt unbuttoned and with my pants button undone. "You little queer," she said, with more venom than was necessary.

By this time, my composure was blown and I stared back at her as if she was an alien intruder. I yelled, my early pubertal voice cracking like an accordion bellows with the sudden strain. "Get the f__ck out of my room!" This was a big mistake, and only a few seconds later I realized why. "Clarence! Lonnie! Mitchell! I need you! Come on up here!" Within seconds the motorcycle gang was bounding up the stairs to my bedroom, six big shoed men's feet pounding closer in unison one of the worst sounds I'd ever heard, or even imagined hearing. "He's being insolent," were the first words out of her mouth, "He needs to be punished."

"He needs a visit to the dungeon," Lonnie said, as if he'd been anticipating such an ordeal for me for months. Lonnie's mustache and goatee twitched in unison like the movement of a rat's tail, and he let go a tiny bit of drool.

"No," I yelled, "Leave me alone!" as they all seemed to grab
me at the same moment all four adults my stepmother and
the three bad news hirsute men, and as I struggled and

resisted and fought and scratched with my nails and flailed my arms and legs, they half dragged me, half carried me, down the stairs to the parlor and then down into the basement on the opposite side from where Mitchell's barbells lay scattered about the cement floor, to a small piece of throw rug, a red carpet mat, and when this remnant was tossed aside a trap door was revealed, opened quickly with a spring-lock, and a light came on down below. I was pushed down below the now raised trap door into the bright light illuminating the nether regions, my left sock-covered foot and then my right connecting with a stair, then another, as strong hands kept pushing me forwards. I almost tripped and feared falling flat onto my face, but somehow I kept my balance and soon was on solid ground again. But I was alone with four menacing adults in a subterranean place. Surprisingly, it was spacious. In a first awkward moment that ensued, I dared glance around, taking it all in. So this is my stepmother's dungeon!

Part 3 - Humiliation

The light in the sub-basement was bright, two panels of fluorescents that had me seeing squiggly circles, as did a backhand from Clarence, definitely not my pal. So this was the dungeon? Rather spacious in that it was the width if not also the length of the entire basement above, furnished with a couch, a ping pong table, several wooden folding chairs, a set of wrist restraints and ankle restraints that could be tied to things except I didn't yet know their purpose, I was naive for 12 and a half years old. A hideous dark green paint covered the surrounding thick cement walls even the ceiling seemed thick and dense in the manner of pea soup. Most ominous although I didn't know it was a cabinet filled with my stepmother's favorite instruments of punishment wooden-handled needles of various diameters, shapes, and lengths whips, canes, straps, and martinets, also varied, Q-tips and toothpicks, large paper clips for pinching. Vials of strange solutions and ointments were at the ready. The floor was metallic, which was odd. The whole place was bizarre I would come to learn that this dungeon had been waiting for me all along and my pain would become their amusement Caroline, Clarence, Lonnie, and Mitchell's. Again, my startled brain was waylaid to a dream-like state, as I tried my damndest to re-locate these four troublesome adults to the Land of Nod.

My stepmother broke the ice, metaphorically. "Jeremy," she said in a sweet but vicious tone that was hers alone. "Take off your clothes."

I just stood there amazed that she would say such a thing. I didn't say anything right away.

But Lonnie, his facial hair twitching as if the twin nests had fleas opened up his pie hole. "You heard your Mom, boy. Strip!"
The giant stooge, Mitchell, reiterated this sentiment. When he grinned, I noticed several missing teeth amidst his decaying maw, and he did grin. "He can either strip or be stripped," he said matter-of-factly in reference to me, "If he wants a fight, we'd be quite happy to give him one."

Yeah, right. Three monsters versus a bambino in a wrestling match seem fair. Yet stupidly, I found myself resisting. "No," I said, no doubt with a petulant look.

Clarence grabbed my left arm in my shirtsleeve, and bent it back behind my back. It hurt like Hell, and I thought he was going to break it. Still, I resisted while crying out in pain. I didn't want to be naked in front of these pigs. "You can't make me take my clothes off!" I screamed.

"Scream all you want. Our little dungeon is soundproof. Nobody can hear you but us and we don't care." Clarence bent my arm back so that I could almost feel my arm break. It had to be dislocated already and the pain was intense. "Let my arm go!" I screamed.

"Not until you begin to take those clothes off, boy." Clarence was dead serious as if I didn't know that already.

Mitchell the giant intervened. "Clarence, let his arm go. I'll try reasoning with our little faggot boy." My arm was released, and I rubbed my collarbone and my sore shoulder near the strained but so far uninjured socket, already whimpering. I was willing to listen.

Mitchell continued in a gentle voice that seemed unsuited to the sadistic bastard. "Alright Jeremy, let me tell you what's going to happen. At the moment, we're planning to go fairly easy on you today, just to give you an idea of what's in store if you don't start learning some respect for your mother and your mother's friends pretty quick. You can either cooperate and get it over with, or you can put up a fight, in which case you can be sure that whatever happens to you will be much worse. Either way, there's no avoiding it. You won't get out of your mother's dungeon until we're done with you. You can either get undressed yourself, or one or more of us will help you."

"You can't make me," I said softly, but now I was a lot less confident.

My gaze flickered about the dungeon's fluorescent-lit room. They could probably sense the panic in my eyes like the vicious animals they all were.

My stepmother spoke; her intonation suddenly became the Empress Caroline, imperial, haughty. "Jeremy. I won't say it again. Take off your clothes!"

I looked at her, straight into her eyes to see even the slightest hint of mercy. There was none. "It's not fair," I sobbed.

"I don't care whether you think it's fair or not," she said, her tone measuring me, and my reaction. She was delighted by this situation.
"If you don't start stripping within the next ten seconds, we're going to do it for you, and once you're naked we're going to whip your little penis with a strap," Lonnie said. I was shocked by his words that first time wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.

I didn't move.

"Look at him an angry snarl on his otherwise cute face," Clarence mocked. "Do you want me to break your arm?"

My stepmother began counting off the seconds. "One, two, three" were the first numbers counted. Her rabid eyes never left me as she counted slowly and deliberately.

Soon she reached "ten" and the three male assholes began advancing upon me. "Times up," she added, "Go ahead, guys let's have his clothes off."

"Noo!" I must have said, really scared now. I would have scratched and gouged if I'd been a wildcat. Clarence grabbed my wrist and began twisting, while starting to remove my blue school shirt with his other hand. Mitchell touched me obscenely for the first time and unfastened the belt to my trousers, "Let go of me!" I screamed, and I kicked out with my sock-covered left foot barely missing as I tried connecting with Mitchell's unprotected groin. Lonnie held my flailing foot and peeled off its sock to make that foot bare, and then he somehow wrestled the other one and removed my right sock too. My trousers were soon tugged down past my knees, and soon they were gone as was my shirt. Barefoot, just in my white briefs now, I was sobbing with humiliation. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Clarence had a quick reply. "Because it's fun," he said, "and because we can."

I was mortified as I noticed a small pee stain on the left side of my scrotum pouch of my Hanes. My stepmother noticed it too, the evil thing. "Been peeing your pants," she murmured softly.

I stood upright in my briefs, sobbing, hoping this ordeal was over, and my hands clasped protectively in front of my groin. I raised my head, ashamed to be practically nude. My stepmother said something all the more chilling for its strangeness. "Look at him, boys. Tears on his cheeks; open defiance still in his eyes. Well, I won't have it!"

She moved from the couch near where she was leaning, and came over and slapped me hard across the face. I just glared at her.

We both stood in silence for a moment, waiting, while Clarence took my clothes and tossed them into a corner of the sub-basement, half-flinging them. The tension kept building. Continuing my angry glare, I started to move boldly toward the staircase leading up to the basement, looking disdainfully at all of them. Big mistake. "Screw all of you!" I screamed again. Even before the words were out of my mouth, Lonnie and Mitchell tackled me like in a football game. I crashed into the metallic like floor in pain with the weight of one if not both of those beasts pinning me. I felt one of them tearing my briefs off ripping the cotton fabric from my rear. Suddenly I was standing again, now completely naked, both hands clasped in front of my privates.

"Get your hands up behind your head!" Clarence shouted.

"Stand still, boy," said Lonnie, "Let's all get a good look at that body you've been trying to hide from us."

"Legs apart," added Mitchell the giant. He strode up to me and began touching. "You don't like to be naked, do you boy?" He was openly leering at me and I noticed a slight bulge in his trousers there must have been a monstrous cock lurking in there somewhere. I reluctantly stood with hands clasped behind my head, nude and on display.

Mitchell kept touching stroking my bare chest and stomach like my father used to, only this was far different. "Whenever we want you to be naked down here, you will be nude, in your birthday suit, and we can touch you anywhere, and play with your dick until you get hard, anyone ever see you hard?"

I shook my head slowly, softly sobbing.

"No? I thought not."

"He could even keep rubbing you until you cum," Clarence added, gleefully, as if he was enjoying every moment of my

boyhood humiliation. Or we could force you to jack off in
front of us all of us including your mother."

"She's not my real mother!" I managed to muster with a last spoken shred of dignity, a naked quietly sobbing remnant of the 12-year-old I'd been.

"Whatever your real mother's dead," Caroline said. She uttered this deadpan, as if this was inescapable logic that justified everything that was happening to me.

"One of us or all of us might decide to put you over our knees and spank your rear end red," Clarence added.

At that moment, Mitchell startled me again by moving his filthy hand even lower, brushing through my thin stray pubes and taking my four-inch circumcised cock between his thumb and index finger. "It's soft," he said, "like a bald-headed mouse."

My eyes must've widened. "Get your fucking hands off me!" I snarled.

"Punish him immediately!" my stepmother ordered.

At that second, I felt a flash of pain, as Mitchell stomped down hard on the bare toes of my right foot with the heel of his heavy work shoe.
"Yeowhh!" I wailed, sobbing with the sudden wave of acute torment, not even expecting such an assault.

I managed to control my flow of tears a moment later and stopped crying as he continued to fondle me. "Do you jack off?"

"I don't know how," I answered truthfully.

He began stroking me gently, with the intimate audience present. "You do it like this boy," and he showed me how fingers placed expertly I soon had the hang of it, and was masturbating myself for their entertainment. Soon the feeling came, my wet dream in a way, except this was no dream. I coaxed out of my piss slit, as I later came to call it, a few mostly clear drops of whitish cum. They cheered at this, including my evil stepmother, and for the next half hour each took a turn touching me everywhere and anywhere chest, stomach, cock and balls, masturbating me four more times. I came a few drops the first two times, then practically nothing as my glans and frenulum began chafing, my cock was sore and they could care less.

"Let's give him a spanking now," someone said, I've tried hard to forget who, and slaps on my bare ass with four pairs of eager hands left my buttocks on fire, and reddened like a baboon's butt.

"Let's give him a pink belly!" Clarence announced, and this time the hard slaps rained down on my tender belly as Lonnie and Mitchell pinned me down backwards over the end of the couch, and I thrashed and sobbed to no avail. But that was only my introduction to my stepmother's dungeon the initiation and hazing would continue whenever an opportunity presented itself to punish me.

To be continued in Part 4 - Further Torments