My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 7-9

My Stepmother's Dungeon Parts 7-9
by Platypus
[email protected]

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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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Part 7 - The Advent of Worse Wednesdays

For several Wednesdays, four to be precise, I endured the routine with a kind of stoicism I'd never knew I'd possessed. I'd go to school, dreading what might occur when I got home, thinking about it in every class except for gym when other tribulations from the kids in my class usually awaited me. They'd tease and taunt if I daydreamed too much, "Hey Jeremy – you Space Cadet!" or "Jeremy is spaced out again!" or someone might spike me with a football or a soccer ball or a baseball or a basketball without warning -- sometimes in the balls – my testicles inside my gym shorts – so in gym class I had to control my thoughts about going to my stepmother's dungeon.

I'd usually walk home from school and open the door on a Wednesday and it would seem like any other day. I'd begin my homework and try to forget about Caroline and "the boys" – put the sadistic bastards right out of my mind. The first of these Wednesdays I had to strip my school shirt off and get tickled all over my chest and belly and sides, and then they made me strip off my shoes and socks so they could take turns tickling my bare feet, especially on my soles and under my toes. On the second Wednesday it was a strapping on my bare behind after I was ordered to take my dress pants and underpants off. My asscheeks were still reddened and sore three days later. Wednesday number three was a prolonged pink belly again – all four of them slapping my bare stomach with the palms of their hands, taking turns, until my belly was appropriately pink while my own screams and hollering gave me a migraine.

On the fourth Wednesday session, it was time for something entirely different. I never knew what they were going to do to me, or how bad it would be.

For this occasion, Clarence got out his special bag. I had no inkling of what the motorcycle goon was planning, if I'd known, I would have run away that week – despite the risks and consequences. Down to the sub-basement dungeon I walked dejectedly, with my four adult tormentors right behind. In the harsh glare of the torture chamber, I noticed the new bag, a leather pouch that Clarence was holding, and stupidly asked what was in it. "Oh, just some tattooing needles, boy. It's time I practiced a little on you." Everybody grinned, including Caroline, my evil stepmother.

"Clarence is pretty good with a needle. He's a regular artiste," Lonnie added while letting out a gross burp that made me immediately aware of his fouler than usual breath.

"Okay, lose those shoes and socks," my stepmother said.

I was wearing white athletic shoes, a pair of New Balance that was almost new and white athletic socks. My feet seemed quite comfortable as they were. For some reason, with good reason I was soon to discover, I refused. "No!" I said. "No way! I'm not going to let that fat loser tattoo my feet!"

But while Lonnie and Mitchell calmly pinned me down to the table, Clarence patiently unlaced my left shoe, slipped it off, peeled off my left sock, and began unlacing my right shoe. In a few more seconds, my feet were as naked as the day I was born. Up on the table, my hands were put in restraints, left and right stretched out so I couldn't escape. Lonnie – the big jerk – pinned my left ankle above where my jeans started so that my foot couldn't squirm too much. I so wanted to kick him right in the nose – maybe break his nose with my bared toes. Mitchell – with the strength of at least two of me – took care of my right ankle so that Clarence and his tattooing needles would have access to that one too.

Before the needlework began, Caroline, the evilest one who had brought these Angels from Hell into our midst rubbed alcohol and witch hazel between my toes and all over my soles in case Clarence wanted to begin there too. "That should do, Caroline," he said. The needles contained red, and blue, and orange dye, and they were quite sharp.

"I'll do turtles and cute little birds, real tiny, between each of his toes," Clarence announced. So that's how he began, on each of the toe spaces of my left foot. Between my big toe and the second toe, the needlework began with short, quick little jabs. "Gotta get the colors worked in nice," Clarence purred, while I started screaming bloody murder. "Keep his f__cking foot still, Lonnie." It hurt a lot. His fingers worked the needle like a craftsman of sorts, from the inside section of my big toe working downward toward the space in-between. He did from that tender skin of the space all the way up, very gradually. The needles and the colors penetrated my skin deep enough to please the "artiste" until he was finished with his last bit of art – a miniscule turtle that was orange and green entirely. It ended right near the inside top of my second toe, which is slightly shorter than my big toe.

"Okay, time for his next toe space." Clarence was acting pleased, like he'd just painted the Mona Lisa or something, only I was doing all the moaning. So the sharp needles descended again, working the sides of my second and third toes and down in the valley between. I screamed again, as this really hurt, and my foot couldn't get away. The needle's tip would jab and cut deep into my flesh, into the most sensitive places in-between my toes. These places would suddenly blossom with colors. I'd never known how sensitive that area of my body was. He worked at least fifteen minutes between each of my toes. Third and fourth toes, fourth and fifth toes, and finally he was finished with my left foot, at least for my toes, except the bottoms of those already sore toes which he was considering doing too.

"Mitchell, we'll start on his right foot now."

So then the goon began again right where he'd first started on my other foot, the same sensitive places. The short, quick, painful little jabs beginning all over again on my right foot, from the inside of my big toe closest to the toenail and down toward the cleft, a tiny web of soon to be colorful skin that is the demarcation between my first (big) and second toes. Turtles and birds, some of them with meticulous details that were amazing and vibrant colors that were now embedded into my skin. He was a craftsman, and I should have praised him as he did the needle tango between each of my toes. But with the pain of the needles on some of the most sensitive parts of my body, instead I just kept screaming and begging for him to stop. On the right foot, he seemed to take even longer, maybe twenty minutes between each toe. He would dig so deep, the sharp needle making me bleed slightly, to make sure that the tattoo was permanent, in fact, if I didn't like it, I remembered thinking during this agony, how in the Hell would I ever be able to have normal, ordinary toes again? What would anybody say if they ever saw me barefoot?

Clarence was a craftsman, a great artist, probably the most adept man at tattooing the spaces in-between a boy's toes since maybe some sadistic artist from ancient Rome, or maybe Alexandria in Egypt, but I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge this. I was a modern boy, a bit studious, rather nice-looking, perhaps bestowed with some puerile characteristics that might have constituted a type of boy loveliness in the ancient world, but it was difficult for me to appreciate that sort of thing. I couldn't resist crying and carrying on, screaming in fact, "What have you done to my feet? You miserable f__cks!" as I contemplated the little turtles and varieties of bird that now adorned every bit of territory in between each of my toes. The colors, brilliant and vivid hues, had saturated the skin nicely without smudging, and I should have been resigned to having art created on my person like that – and not even whimpered at the reds, oranges, blues, pinks, and yellows that were now predominate. But alas, I was a stupid boy. I wailed. This heartfelt sobbing of course produced hysterical laughter at my expense. Eventually the laughter gave way to irritation and annoyance. "Why are you crying? It's over with. Your toes are probably just a little sore now!" Lonnie yelled straight into my eardrum.

It was true. They didn't hurt anymore, the pain nerves weren't being stimulated, and I should have retrieved my socks and New Balance shoes and just walked quietly upstairs, not making such a big deal out of my now extraordinary toes. But as usual, I couldn't leave well enough alone. "I hate it! I hate what you bastards have done to my feet! I'm going to run away and never come back!"

Caroline, my vicious stepmother, saw this outburst as her cue to get tough again. "Okay, you little shit-ass? Just try it and see what happens to your toes then. In fact, Clarence wasn't going to, but next Wednesday, you know what he's going to do, he's going to finish what he's started!"

I gulped, started to whimper, and then picked up my footwear and started up the little winding staircase leading up to the basement. I didn't know exactly what she was alluding to, but I had a pretty good idea.

Chapter 8 – Clarence Completes His Masterpiece

For most of that week at school I never removed my socks, even during gym. "Hey dickwad! How come you take a shower with your socks on?" The derision was there, but curiosity too. Finally, on the following Monday, I gave in to societal pressure and removed my socks when I took my shower. I was really self-conscious and expected a lot of comments about the spaces between my toes, but under the shower nobody seemed to notice. It was all done, well, between my toes, and wasn't quite so obvious. Still, one kid, a boy named James, did notice my colorful toes when I was drying off. "Hey, nice toes." But he didn't insist on taking a closer look or on anything else quite so embarrassing or gross. Before he could open his pie-hole again by making another smart remark, I had my socks and shoes back on. He did flash me some kind of weird look, but I didn't much care.

At home, the animal people didn't bother me much. They were sticking to their "ignore Jeremy except for Wednesdays" policy, and in the privacy of my bedroom I began examining my decorated toe spaces more closely with a magnifying glass.

"These don't look all that bad after all," I rationalized, and so I even thought about approaching Clarence to thank him for tattooing me. What the Hell, I figured. Maybe if I changed my attitude of pure victimhood, they'd ALL like me more, or at least Clarence would.

"Clarence," I opened up one of many difficult conversations filled with pauses, "You know what you did to my toes doesn't look all that bad."

He looked at me and grinned. It seemed to be working. Perhaps he was glad I was appreciative. His pie-hole opened. "That's good boy, because I'm not even close to finished with you."

"I know," I said, attempting to act confident and self- assured, comfortable with his plans. But if I'd known precisely what he was thinking concerning additional "bodywork" on my fleshly canvas, I would have bolted on the spot.

Pretty soon it was another Wednesday. As it was getting late on a school night, I was hoping they'd ignore me for once. I had a lot of homework in science and French and was actually doing it. I heard the gang of four coming up the stairs to my room, the raucous chuckles and ribald laughter followed by the dreaded knock. I hated that knock.

"C'mon, kid. It's time for our weekly entertainment. Get your butt off that bed!" Mitchell roared.

Then the door burst open. I wasn't on my bed, but working at my writing desk, dressed casually in blue jeans and soft socks and loafers; I wasn't wearing any shirt.

Caroline's voice was a nasty laugh, "Let's get him down there," she muttered, and then were hands – several pairs of intruding hands, pushing and shoving and lifting me up out of the school desk and jostling me down the stairs and down into the basement. The little trap door came up in the basement with a high-pitched screech on its metal hinges. I was pushed and shoved down into the familiar dungeon and almost went sprawling face-first, as usual, barely managing to keep my balance. Light soon flooded the sub-basement and the monsters were expectant, leering, waiting. I just hoped it wouldn't be too bad.

"Socks and shoes," Clarence said, almost too eager.

They were all in a jovial mood, and I hadn't even started screaming. I slipped off my left loafer, then its sock, and followed with loafer and sock on the other foot. I stood barefoot in my jeans, no shirt, and waited for instructions with almost a defiant look, trying a new tact, more aggressive.

"He seems a bit more spunky tonight, doesn't he?" my stepmother said. I was almost 13, felt that I might be able to handle this.

"Get up on the table," Mitchell said, his fat gut jiggling under his T-shirt that read 'Make Love Not War.'

Clarence already had his tattooing needles out. When I saw them glinting in the harsh light, I began losing my nerve. But I got up on the table, sitting up, and my bare feet down near the table's edge. Lonnie and my step-mom outstretched my arms above my head and fastened me to the wrist restraints. "Lie flat on your back, you little bastard," she said.

I whimpered in fear. Couldn't help it, but only once. I was steeling my nerves for the inevitable pain.

"Where are you going to start tonight?" Lonnie asked while holding my left leg at the ankle. Clarence was being mysterious. Mitchell was holding my right leg just above my ankle where the jeans began.

I soon felt where. It was a sharp jab with the tattooing needle on the bottom of my left big toe!

"Yeowwh!" That really hurt. The needle began to inject the dye, in all kinds of places on the underside of that poor toe. Wherever the needle stuck me, and Clarence liked to jab deep, I learned the geography of that toe with my mind.

"Damn it – please! Don't do my toes on their bottoms!"

"Have to! Your toes are now my canvases! I am an artist, can't you tell Jeremy?"

"Look he's drawn a little blood!" Mitchell exclaimed.

The sharp needle jabs came every few seconds. A fount of color began emerging on the bottom of my left large toe. Yellows, blues, oranges, pinks, greens, reds, purples – a regular symphony of color became synchronous with a steady pain from all the needle pricks penetrating my skin. By the time that first toe was really sore and he'd wiped away the blood so as to see the bird, a tiny pigeon design, better – Clarence the artiste had started jabbing the needle on the underside of my slightly shorter second toe. "Yeowwh!" I squealed, mainly due to my second stabbed piggy. What seemed like a hundred needle pricks later, he was on to the next, my index or middle toe on that increasingly abused left foot. His zoological garden of turtles and birds began taking shape in concert with the bemused and admiring chortles of his cohorts. God they were loud, and crude! My stepmother, Lonnie, and Mitchell couldn't help but be amused by my painful experience. Lonnie actually drooled on my patiently waiting right foot near its bare instep – ewwh gross –, which I somehow noticed but nobody else did. Meanwhile, the needle kept jabbing deep. A regular jabberwocky, the cruel needle began constructing something plainly intricate on my tortured fourth toe. Maybe ten minutes later, it seemed like ten hours, Clarence began sticking my helpless pinky toe on the bottom. Finally, after he "polished" the other toes on that foot a bit more and was satisfied with his creations, he started in on my right foot's toes – all five of them in their turn – until the artwork pretty much matched.

"Are you pretty much finished tattooing my toes?" Tears were choking out my words, but I was hopeful at that moment.

Silence ensued for that instant, as everyone in the room wondered what Clarence the goon would do. "Aren't you going to do more on his feet?" Lonnie asked almost plaintively, "I like watching the kid's reactions."

Mitchell and my stepmother echoed that disgusting sentiment. If I could have dismembered all of them that moment with a meat cleaver, I would have. I swear it. They were inhuman. But I was just barely finding out the depths of depravity that they were willing to sink to. I knew one thing. I didn't want to feel that needle again anytime soon. The bottoms of my toes being done that way hurt a lot. Maybe not as much as between my toes had the other time, but bad enough. I was thinking about escape. It was an all- consuming thought, like a wish. "You could unfasten me and I could go back up to my room."

Clarence looked me straight in the eye as I rose up in my wrist restraints. "Boy," he said, "I've barely begun tonight's work."

I sobbed and carried on for a minute or two, bawling, amid a chorus of "Shut the Hell up," and a hard slap across the face by my stepmother. I quieted just in time to feel Mitchell and Lonnie clamping down again. Next I felt a fierce jab from the needle on the naked ball of my left foot, and it had begun again. Over the next hour, Clarence worked over the entire sole of my left foot. Working in the colors, creating a grander design of some sort than he had on my toes, I could feel it, a larger scheme, something more like the DaVinci Code or a tapestry from the Pristine Chapel. Over and over he worked with those sharp needles, not holding back, digging deep into my skin, at least a quarter of an inch it felt like. "Owwhh! Owwhh!" I kept yelling. Sometimes I must have shrieked, which I'm sure must've been entertaining. It was like having your teeth drilled down into the nerves without the Novocaine. The needles explored my entire sole like a colony of fire ants. They pierced my fleshy sole with a monotonous regularity as if Clarence was sewing stitches, except he was sowing a pattern, on my instep, on the sides of my bare foot, on my heel, the back of my heel, up towards my ankle the needles writhed. Finally that foot's handiwork was ended.

I felt a sense of relief. Until a few seconds later, I felt a tightened grip on my right foot and then a needle piercing the naked ball of my poor right foot. "No! No! You can't do this! Please stop!" I heard myself screaming, pleading, and hoping for mercy. Soon he was at it again on the geography of my right sole, a foot I was also to learn to know a lot more intimately than I ever had. When a boy not quite 13 is having the sole of his foot tattooed with needles everyplace on that tender anatomy loaded with sensitive nerve endings, he can't help but scream and cry and thrash around. "Keep still!" my stepmother the evil Caroline screamed back at me. She managed to distract me for a few seconds until the pain from the needle stabs and the thrusts into my defenseless sole started registering again. Never-ending waves of pure pain coursed like acid into my brain. Sometimes Clarence held firm my toes when he was working the needles into my soles, and when he reached my heel area I could sense the end, and almost fainted. He polished whatever images he had made on both of my feet bottoms for the next twenty, maybe thirty minutes. It seemed like another eternity.

The soles of my feet felt like I'd been walking for miles over sharp pieces of gravel. They throbbed as I began to drift into unconsciousness. I kind of dozed off for a minute, I don't know why. It was a school night and I'd been up since early morning. I heard the voices around me drift off and go into a buzzing, like a bad dream about bees. Then I felt it, like a sting -- a cursed needle again. I suddenly remembered that I wasn't wearing any shirt, that my chest was bare, and the pricking had started again, yes, oh no, it's started again I screamed first inside my head. The bastard Clarence was drawing something around my belly button, all around it, needles were thrusting faster and beating a staccato perimeter around my navel!

It gets worse, much worse. Clarence the big goon began undoing the snap on my jeans, unzipped my fly, and began taking my pants off! "Hey, what are you doing? No! NOOO!" I screamed bloody murder as the artiste removed my jeans, slipped them off my bare feet, and then lowered my white Hanes briefs I was wearing too! "No, you can't do this! I'm naked!" I didn't know what else to say.

"No kidding Sherlock!" That bitch of a stepmother said with a note of derision as my tighty whities were quietly slipped off my lower extremities. My wrists were still restrained although I squirmed and thrashed with my legs and lower torso while the bastard adults held me down.

"You're in your birthday suit!" Mitchell remarked with a definite glee, the pervert.

"Let's add the ankle restraints," Clarence suggested, and the others agreed like the monsters they were. Soon my ankles were restrained in the leather straps too and I couldn't move as freely. I certainly couldn't thrash without risking a cramping Charleyhorse in my calf muscles I soon found out.

Clarence began tattooing parts of this newly exposed canvas known as my naked body. I learned what other places are extremely sensitive to a tattooing artist's tools. The needle started creating something on the frontal inside of my right thigh, a "meaty" area exclaimed Lonnie, and this meant a corresponding work of art of some kind being created on the inner region of my left. He worked lower, doing something deep and painful on my calves and shins, and more on each ankle. All of it hurt a lot, but I was struggling to keep from yelling out, keeping my composure as best I could, trying to maintain a little dignity, as the needles kept jabbing into places I only vaguely had been aware of on the meat of my legs. But then the goon started working higher again, higher up the leg, still higher, perhaps he was polishing on my left thigh meat where I felt several sudden jabs along the inner parts toward my scrotum. My scrotum! He stabbed me with the needle into my bag as I felt a piercing of my right testicle as he firmly held the elastic skin in place with his other hand.

"Oh, I can tell he isn't enjoying this part of our fun," giggled my evil stepmother. She was actually giggling. This most unpleasant sound grated on the ears of her stepson as if a dragon was breathing on me. Clarence put additional pressure on my gonads as she moved closer wanting to get a better look. Suddenly Clarence the big goon pulled out the edge of my scrotum with his strong fingers and holding the delicate skin firmly he stabbed the needle into my right testicle as if he were piercing an apple! I screamed bloody murder again – wasn't the first time – and the work was repeated maybe a hundred times with the needle piercing different places on my defenseless ball-sack. I kept screaming – this action hurt the most of anything so far – until he held the base of my penis and began sticking me with the needle all over my freaking cock!

"Look. He's getting a few more hairs down there," Caroline said. Boy, she was evil! So nonchalant she sounded, as if her stepson wasn't being mercilessly tortured for what seemed to me like an endless amount of time.

"Puberty is definitely starting to kick in," Mitchell added his two cents. The cruel needle was working all around my penis now, on the underside of it and along the top, like it was a hotdog being decorated. I remember it hurting an incredible amount. I was gritting my teeth. Clarence the artiste kept swiveling and positioning my penis so that he could tattoo better. He'd penetrate deeply into my little cylindrical and circumcised sausage with the sharp points of the metal needles, and I could bear it, bear the pain somewhat, while holding on to the fantasy that I was a pubertal Australian aborigine boy enduring my manhood ritual.

When he stuck the needle into my ultra-sensitive glans for the first time, the tip of spongy flesh at my dick's crown, I finally lost it again. "Yeowhh!" I screamed bloody murder. The needle was now roaming that puerile region all around my pee-hole, my urethral opening, and he was squeezing with his fingers just below my cock-head to get at the best spots. The worst part was that he was creating something, some type of image around the edges of my urethra, and opening my pee- hole with his powerful fingers so he could better see what he was doing. I think I fainted. Next I remember my restraints being removed, and being told to "Take your clothes and run up to bed now, like a good boy," by the evil Caroline. I can recall thinking that she was a woman without a shred of decency! I was angry and awake and I didn't bother to dress but ran naked and barefooted up the spiral staircase into the basement, still crying and sobbing. I must have been a sight for those gawkers! Jumping into bed without putting on my pajamas, I crawled into my comfortable bed my whole body sore and tattooed and pulled the covers right up over my head. I guess I'd remembered to turn my bedroom's light off, but that was about it! I cried myself to sleep.

Chapter 9 – School Again

Going to school was not as painful as I'd feared it might be. The next morning, I looked at myself a little in my bedroom mirror. The skin was still pink and tender around my belly button and my genitals, but my feet didn't even hurt a little when I pinched my flesh on the soles, for instance. Still, I had gym later on that day and then the embarrassment would really begin. It wasn't until 6th period, though. My shower and dressing into school clothes and breakfast went okay, my step-mom actually made me breakfast! But soon enough I was at school.

In social studies and math, the first two periods, it wasn't too bad. But then in literacy class when we were just supposed to read books, I started daydreaming. The thoughts began to torment me, one after the other, like those idea bubbles you see in comic strips, only with fangs. "You are a freaking freak! They've made you into a monstrosity! Like the illustrated man, only much worse. How could you let them do this to you!" Only I didn't let them, it was not consensual, not completely anyway, and if I had allowed a tattoo, it would have been just a little one, and just one, in a more traditional place – like on my shoulder or something. It also wouldn't have been a turtle, or a flower, for instance. I was starting to freak out, almost starting to cry. When a couple of the girls in my class noticed, and Tiffany, who was chubby, wore ugly horn-rimmed glasses, and who was already starting to show an unhealthy interest in me, said "What's the matter?" in a husky whisper, I answered her curtly. "Nothing. I'm fine."
Suddenly I was. The show must go on. It was a necessity, no matter how bad I felt.

I dreaded changing for gym. First I attempted to lurk off towards a distant corner locker, until that kid James became a nuisance again and started getting friendly. "Hey, I'll be your partner if we have two-man basketball teams," he said sweetly.
"Why do you want to be my partner?" I asked suspiciously. "Oh, I don't know," he said, "If you don't want me to be, I won't then."
It was fortunate that I wore white athletic socks with my New Balance sneakers, so in taking my pants off, I didn't have to remove my socks. There were those tattoos on my inner thighs, but if I quickly got my gym shorts on, maybe he and the other kids wouldn't notice them. It seemed to work. Once dressed a bit more safely again, I replied to James. "Okay, we can be a team." James actually smiled then, and I smiled back.

In the gym, we played basketball. James was rangy if not so tall, sort of lanky with great hand-eye coordination, and we made a good team. We played three straight games of twenty- one, with each two-point basket counting for one point. I was a decent passer that day and so we won those three games, although the last one, 21-18, was close. James and I actually made the "finals" of that day in gym class, playing two guys who started at forward and guard on the junior varsity, and it was very close as James and me were unexpectedly competitive. The score was 13-13, 15-15, 17-17 – until the basketball jocks, Hank and Lenny, scored the last four baskets.

I didn't want to take a shower. James was already naked and real chatty and pleased at our showing, but I was still dawdling with my shoelaces. God, he had a big cock for a 7th grader, it was erect and at least a five-incher, and he seemed a little too proud of it. But that wasn't my problem, although I might have been staring a little.

"Like it?" he said, sashaying with his towel for a moment. "You want to suck it?"
" Shut the f__ck up! I'm not queer!" "Nobody said you was," he said defensively, and then changing the topic, "You stink, you know." I was still playing with my shoelaces both untied now. "I'm going to take a shower. Why don't you just go take yours?" "The bell is going to ring in five minutes," he said, matter-of-factly, while absentmindedly stroking his erection. "Okay, but we both really got sweaty." He turned and walked off, giving me another of his looks. I continued to dawdle. A thousand thoughts started buzzing again. I'd be naked, and would be sure to garner unwanted attention if I showered with the group. The alternative was possibly worse. I'd stink to high heaven during 7th period if I walked into class dressed and unshowered. Maybe I could hang back for a minute and avoid most of them. Maybe I would skip the embarrassing shower.

"Jeremy! You get your ass in that shower right now!" Mr. Sylvester, the florid-faced gym teacher, had a thing for hygiene. Arguing would have been no use. Soon I was toweled but otherwise bare and walked gingerly into the boys' shower jet area.

I removed my protective towel. Got under the showerhead and began to wash off my disgusting sweat. The tattoos however, weren't about to wash off. Within seconds, there was the first shrill scream of delight. "Hey guys, will you look at Jeremy!"

Being the object of derision in a 7th grade gym shower when you're a self-conscious 7th grader is bad enough. But then after school, four of the tougher kids caught me and had me go with them to an abandoned warehouse downtown. It was a little like my stepmother's dungeon all over again. We went way inside to this small room that had a wooden chair left in it and they made me strip.

Tom was the ringleader. He played junior varsity football and should have been an 8th grader, because he'd stayed back. "Take off all your clothes, punk. We just want to see your tattoos."

"Will you let me alone if I do?" I was almost pleading.

"We'll consider it," said Peter, who was more studious- looking than I was, but liked to be one of the guys. He also was trained in boxing, so nobody really messed with him. I started taking off my sneakers. God, this was familiar. Tears of shame were pouring down. Soon I was bare in the naked glare of a light bulb. Why did an abandoned warehouse still have electricity? I wanted to know.

I just sat there, completely humiliated. "Put your hands on your head," Tom said.
"Stop bawling like a baby. We aren't going to hurt you." That was a third boy, Rick. He could have been my friend under different circumstances. But the others seemed to agree. I closed my eyes, hoping it was all going to be over soon.

Somebody was pawing my penis, while examining it closely. "Look, He's even been tattooed on the tip of his dick. Damn. That's got to hurt." Phil's voice was low, almost guttural. He was a street-smart kid whose voice had changed.

"Who did this to you?" Tom asked, genuinely curious.

I didn't want to answer. Finally, I couldn't stop myself. "My stepmother used to be in a motorcycle gang. She has three of those goons living with us. One of them does tattoos."

"Gee, if somebody did something like that to me, or tried to, I'd get the f__ck out of there," Peter said.

They didn't mess with me after that. They let me dress and seemed to pity me, which was even worse than being jeered at. I walked home alone. Once in my bedroom, I thought about what they'd said, the boys who had taken me to that abandoned warehouse. But I was angry first. I stomped downstairs into the parlor where Caroline and the three stooges were watching television. I did a stupid thing, right in the middle of an episode of Law and Order. I reached over and shut the TV off.

"Hey! What'd you go and do that for?" Mitchell screamed, suddenly very angry.
"I hate what you guys did to me – all that freaking tattooing!" Then I stormed back upstairs, like a little teapot.

I heard my stepmother's voice as she turned the TV back on. "I guess he's in a little bit of a huff tonight," she said.

"We'll really have fun on Wednesday," Lonnie said. It sounded like a promise. I think he was talking louder deliberately so that I'd be sure to hear him in my room, on the bed, with the door still open.

Right then, I made up my mind. I would run away, whatever the consequences. I wouldn't get caught. Those kids who'd taken me to the warehouse were right. Why should I take this shit? It wasn't fair! But I needed a plan.

It was a Friday when I left town. Supposedly heading for school, I ditched a truant officer, patrolling in his Saturn. Sleet was falling out of a leaden sky as I crossed the railroad tracks where trains used to go, commuter runs to Goshen, and then you could get a connection out to Chicago. But there weren't any trains now, so I pulled my woolen cap down over my ears, put my head down into the wind and kept walking. I wanted to get far away but was feeling chilled to the bone, despite my winter jacket. Inclinations to turn back crossed my mind. Sleet is not quite rain, not quite snow. Pellets of ice that sting like needles on bare skin. I never liked needles on my bare skin.

In Chicago the downtown was a lot like Goshen, just a thousand Goshens. By the time I reached the giant city on foot I was disoriented and probably had hypothermia. A kind cop looking down on me found me in an abandoned warehouse. They put me in a hospital, a pediatric ward, and I was burning up. Later a nurse told me that my temperature was 103 degrees. I felt dizzy and light-headed, nauseous at the same time. The doctors and nurses and interns and aides kept asking me my name. I wouldn't tell them. But they let the TV cameras come into my room because I was sick, but photogenic. I was probably excellent for ratings. I guess the local news searches for kids like me who get lost in the city. They called me the "mystery boy." It was no coincidence I suppose that Law and Order is on just before the 11 o'clock news. Chicago is close enough to Goshen to consider local, but how could I be expected to know that?

During the next few days, they pumped me full of antibiotics in that hospital. I later learned that some good Samaritan had taken care of the bills, like the rich benefactor in Oliver Twist. He even came in to visit me once. I was feeling better. The man's name was Justin L. Cody, and he owned a chemical company and liked boys. "How much do you like boys?" I asked him.
"I'm thinking of adopting you," he said, "or at least obtaining legal guardianship." He brought me gifts, two computerized games, and for some reason, a black dress shirt that looked cool as hell.

"You can come back tomorrow," I said, trying not to sound too eager.

I was dozing off during the afternoon the next day until voices woke me up. In that twilight fog between consciousness and sleep, I thought it was Justin's voice I heard drawing closer, but it wasn't, it was much more familiar. The male voice was raspy, but too familiar, and then he entered the room. It was Mitchell and he'd caught a cold. Right behind him was Lonnie and Clarence and my evil stepmother Caroline. "Look who's come to see you," she said sweetly.

To be continued in Part 10 – Homecoming