Platypus

The Delacorte School

Labeled an incorrigible, Timothy Jackson's parents had signed the papers, finally, after all the burglaries, the drinking, the cigarettes, truancy, the all night hours, and the violent arguments. On a frigid Saturday morning that January, four men from the Delacorte School came for him. Just thirteen and a half, the stern-looking men took him away in front of his relieved parents. Timothy was dragged away screaming, his winter parka unbuttoned on that Minnesota winter's Saturday as the defiant boy was shoved into the waiting van.

"It'll be for the best. The Delacorte School has a very high success rate with boys like Tim," Tim's father said to his mother, who just nodded through a mist of tears. Both of them were ambivalent about their son's impending confinement, but they hadn't known what else to do.

"What about that corporal punishment clause they made us sign?" Mrs. Jackson asked.

"Yes, I saw that too, in the fine print. They might spank him, I guess," her husband said. "He probably needs a good spanking."

"I'm sure they'll only spank him as a drastic measure," Timothy's mother added.

Mr. Jackson nodded, but secretly he didn't want them to be soft on the boy. In fact, he hoped that they would use corporal punishment as a means to make their unruly son a 'governable little man,' as his own father had said while whipping his own bare back with a razor strop at around the same age.

Timothy calmed down in the van, and his behavior was fine until a few hours after he'd arrived at the Delacorte School, when he'd sassed the headmaster, Mr. Frye. Having failed to heed several warnings on that first day away from home, he was just testing his limits, he figured. But Mr. Frye figured that it was Timothy Jackson's first chance to experience the fine print that his parents had noticed in the contract. The incorrigible boy was a newcomer at Delacorte, but he'd failed to heed several warnings and was already insubordinate and that could not be tolerated. Mr. Frye decided that it was time for Tim's training to begin.

Two older teenagers, each a burly mannish adolescent, hurriedly came to Tim's shared quarters. Tim was just falling asleep in a nap on the hard bed and extra firm pillow he'd been assigned, and with a loud bursting through the unlocked door (no doors were locked at Delacorte) suddenly he was being hurriedly escorted while in a startled and dazed state, outside without his jacket. He'd yelled about the jacket but it wasn't allowed him. "You're being punished for sassing Mr. Frye," one of the bigger 17-year-olds asserted. Tim stared angrily back at his captor, trying not to show any weakness. "Whatever," he said, keeping an insolent tone. Outside without his parka, thirteen-year-old Tim, while still defiant as ever, accompanied by the older teens, was virtually dragged on his feet to the small hitching post in the schoolyard, near the small pond. The snow was at least six inches [15 cm] deep in the yard, and it was topped by an icy, brittle crust. Under the crust was powder snow, extremely cold. Mr. Frye's vice-master, Mr. Daly, soon joined the little entourage as Tim's hands were outstretched above his head and manacled to the hitching post. He was already cold, but composed again, determined to tough this out. Mr. Daly had a long face with a bristling salt-and-pepper beard. He also had a wandering eye that Tim would have mocked but knew better. He hadn't really met Mr. Daly, and attempted to reason with him; perhaps to manipulate his way out of this punishment whatever it might be. But the vice-master was in charge of discipline and took his duties seriously. This new boy was only the most recent of hundreds of similarly defiant boys he'd encountered during his five years at Delacorte. Tim had temporarily lost his hostile demeanor, but Mr. Daly knew that the boy's defiance lurked just beneath the surface.

"I didn't mean to sass Mr. Frye, honest I didn't. I didn't realize I was in trouble. Please, it's cold out here. Can somebody at least get my parka? It's in the closet, in my new room. I asked these guys who took me out here, but they brought me out here without it."

Tim shed a crocodile tear or two for effect to emphasize his argument. "C'mon. It's freezing out here, guys!"

Mr. Daly just regarded his new charge, taking the measure of his fortitude and of his deception in a single glance. "You should have worried about that earlier, when you were disrespectful to Mr. Frye despite being warned several times." Daly surely noticed the bitter breeze and the cloudy skies. A light snow was beginning to fall - like a Christmas scene, only for Tim, it wasn't even close to Christmas.

"Don't worry, you won't need your coat for this," said one of the 17-year-olds who'd brought him out into the cold from the nice warm room. He seemed to know what was going to happen, and so did the other teen that'd helped get him to the post. Many other pairs of eyes belonging to other boys conducting their activities inside the huge Delacorte main building were distracted by what was about to happen to the newest boy. By one window, a small fascinated crowd had coalesced. Many of the Delacorte inmates knew what could happen in a punishment situation like the one enfolding.

Tim, a sturdy and handsome blonde-haired boy just entering puberty, was wearing a green sweatshirt and belted matching blue Levis with briefs underneath, along with laced hightops and white athletic socks.

"Uncuff him," said Mr. Daly in a brusque voice.

"Stand straight," he told Tim.

Tim figured that they'd make him stay out here without his parka for a few minutes, maybe a little longer, just standing there. It'd be colder than a witch's tit, he mused, but he could do it, even thirty minutes if he had to.

"Thirty minutes you're going to be out here," Mr. Daly said in a loud voice, and that was do-able, but he could tough it out, it'd be a bitch for sure, but Tim knew that he could.

"Okay sir," Tim said in a voice that was contrite but with the vaguest trace of a defiant edge still attached to it. So that was the punishment. He could do it. He would do it. He'd show these bastards. Why did his parents even send him here? There were worse kids in his town. He could do it out here in the cold without his winter parka on, with just a sweatshirt and his street clothes.

But before he was re-manacled to the post, Mr. Daly upped the ante. "The sweatshirt!" he said.

Tim stared at the man incredulously. "What about it?" Tim said, truly bewildered, not meaning to sound insolent. He didn't respond quickly enough, but one of the older teenagers clarified the order for him. "He means take the sweatshirt off, kid," the burly 17-year-old who had spoken said.

"You can't be serious!" Tim cried out.

"Take it off now!" the second teenager said, "Mr. Daly is about as serious as he gets!" That particular teenager gave Tim a stinging slap across an ear. "Now," he repeated, obviously enjoying his authority over the younger boy.

"You guys can't mean it," Tim pleaded, "I'm not wearing an undershirt underneath.

"Do it!" Mr. Daly yelled in the frozen air, his voice reverberating in the stillness.

Tim dallied, and this got him a second slap from the first burly teen. It was an open-handed slap across the face; it hurt and stunned him enough so that Tim started stripping off the sweatshirt. A few seconds later Tim was bared to the waist, and within a second or two he started shivering.

Tim was re-manacled to the post, hands over his head and behind his back. The defiant boy was in a state of shock about ten seconds later when Mr. Daly barked another order.

"Feet."

At this single word, a command, one of the teenagers, the one that had slapped him, reached down and picked up Tim's left foot, untied the laces of that shoe, and yanked the hightop off. "Hey!" Tim shrieked. "What do you think you're doing?" Before Tim could react further or kick out, he pulled off Tim's left sock, as Tim begged, "No. Please guys. You can't -"A few tears were streaming now as the thirteen-year-old was realizing his predicament. At that very instant, the second teenager seized Tim's right foot, shucking off first the protecting shoe and then the sock as this time Tim attempted to kick. His timing was off, making the kick ineffectual. Tim now stood bared to the waist and barefoot on the icy crust, balancing his soles precariously so that he wouldn't shift his weight and crunch through the icy crust into six inches of soft, powdery snow.

Mr. Daly and the two burly teenagers left him out in the cold then, just turned on their heels and walked away, leaving the bare to the waist and barefoot 13-year-old tethered to the post. "You can't do this to me!" he screamed.

Soon they were out of earshot and Tim was alone, balancing on his bare heels and trying not to shift his weight. Suddenly, he got distracted when a crow cawed at him in the frigid stillness. His left bare foot shifted and with it, so did Tim's weight. He heard a slight crunch, and his bare foot crashed through into the powder snow before he could pull it out. "Shit! Fuck!" He screamed, mostly at himself. With snow clinging all over his bare foot, he shifted again, and this time his right foot dunked through the crust into the powder. "Shit! Fuck!" Fifteen minutes later, his feet were so cold; he figured he'd get frostbite for sure. They'll have to amputate my toes, Tim mused in horror. The actual temperature was only about zero degrees Celsius [32°F], but it felt and looked colder, maybe because it was snowing harder now. Steadier, if not much heavier, the snowflakes were gathering in weird places on his partially exposed flesh. "I'm fucking freezing!" Tim screamed. Tim kept trying to move so he wouldn't get frostbite.

But at about the twenty-eight minute mark, he saw the three figures moving towards him again, and Tim was actually relieved. Sure enough, Mr. Daly allowed him to put on his socks and hightops again, and his sweatshirt, and even his parka, and so this particular ordeal was over.

Later on that evening, Tim was inside the common room, his teeth still chattering as he sat watching television under a warm blanket; he'd been given some hot fennel tea, he was bundled up and cozy under the blanket, and his toes were fine, no frostbite. But he still fumed in anger, not really having learned his lesson. "I'm lucky that I didn't get my toes cut off because of those assholes," he thought.

Mr. Daly kept an eye on the new inmate for the next week. Tim seemed to be fitting into the routine at Delacorte, with no major infractions noted, although Daly did detect an undercurrent of hostile defiance still present in the boy. Tim at least had the wits about him to avoid Mr. Frye.

Trouble erupted during Tim's first sensitivity test, an annoying and dreaded weekly ritual for each Delacorte boy. By itself, the sensitivity test wasn't supposed to be a punishment, but it was pretty embarrassing, especially with what they referred to as 'the milking.'

"You have to go to your sensitivity test, Jackson," Craig, his floor monitor, another burly teenager, this one a fat 16-year-old with zits all over his face, announced on that fateful morning. "Do I have to?" he said, "I'm reading a math book and trying to get ready for that math bee I signed up for," Tim complained. Truth be known, he was in bed, under the covers, in the room he'd been assigned to, and had just finished jerking off undetected, a favorite pastime, and had rubbed the cum all over his sheets. This had been accomplished when his three roommates, whom he barely spoke to, had left for breakfast and basketball period, which Tim felt he could forego.

"No, you have to go. It's mandatory," Craig explained. He wasn't as much a ball buster as some of the older boys were, Tim knew. Tim figured that he'd better get up.

He dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, white briefs, hightops and socks, and bounded out the door. He'd been instructed during orientation about sensitivity test and where the room was, part of the nurse's station and clinic suite. Timid and not knowing exactly what to expect, as they hadn't detailed the procedures involved to him and none of the other kids would tell him; he'd tried asking about it and been forced to give up.

Now he knocked.

Mrs. Higgins, the ugly nurse, who reminded Tim of a nurse shark, opened the door. She recognized him from when she'd taken his blood pressure and oral temperature after the 'snow' ordeal the week before. "Oh, it's your turn for a sensitivity test," she said with a weird smile. "Timothy Jackson, isn't it?"

"Yes, M'am," Tim said, attempting to be polite. God, that bitch is ugly! He mused.

Mr. De Angelo was there already too, in the medical room, waiting for him wearing a white doctor's smock. He wasn't a real doctor, Tim knew, just a physician's assistant. He was fat, with bulges of flesh protruding into the smock, making IT appear bulbous. The guy was gross, and had disgusting breath too.

A moment later the scene got even more ominous as Mr. Daly showed up. "How are you doing Tim?" he asked, "Ready for your first sensitivity test here at Delacorte?"

"I guess," Tim said. "I don't know much about it and nobody would tell me."

"That's by design," Mr. De Angelo remarked. "Punishments are meted out for telling new boys too much too soon."

Tim bristled at the remarks, but kept silent.

Mr. Daly and the nurse shark, Mrs. Higgins, just nodded in their condescending way.

This is going to really suck," Tim figured. "This isn't a punishment?" he asked.

"Nope, every boy goes through it once a week as part of their internment here," Mr. Daly replied. "You're not going to cause us any problems today, are you boy?" Tim wasn't sure about that, as he didn't know what he was about to be subjected to. But he answered "I guess not," in a soft voice.

The initial pleasantries were over. They'd lasted only a few seconds.

Mrs. Higgins got right down to business. "Alright young man, undress. Put your clothes neatly on that chair by the entrance door."

Tim looked around, dawdling. He could hardly believe what he'd just heard. Finally, he said, "You mean down to my briefs and socks?"

"C'mon boy, we don't have all day. Get birth-naked boy!" Mr. De Angelo chimed in. "Strip down to your skin, your birthday suit, and be quick about it boy. Christ, this is a routine procedure that's going to happen every week while you're here with us at Delacorte. I don't like you dawdling Timothy. Too much more of it could earn you a punishment!" Mr. Daly said, much more sternly. He was trying to nip any disobedience in the bud.

Tim looked the three adults over, his brown eyes going from one to the other. He decided to do what they'd asked, albeit reluctantly. He slowly stacked his clothes on the chair, a small plastic one by the entrance door, but he wasn't used to being naked in front of clothed adults and he didn't much like it as he removed his white T-shirt, and blushed as he unlaced his high-tops and shook them off, and pulled off each sock, and blushed beet-red as his jeans and especially his briefs came off.

He saw the doctor's table with the paper linen atop it. "Hop onto the table," Mrs. Higgins said, also a bit more sternly.

"Lie back with your hands by your side so we can strap you in," Mr. De Angelo explained.

"On my back?" Tim couldn't help asking. That is so embarrassing, Tim thought. These people can see everything I've got if I'm lying on my back.

"Yes, of course," said Mr. Daly, as if the question was idiotic instead of pertinent.

Tim lay there naked on his back and felt straps loosely securing his forearms and slightly spread legs at the calves. He didn't have a body to be ashamed of like some kids he could think of; he just didn't appreciate being on display.

His face got red as a beet and he felt humiliated and a little angry when Mrs. Higgins soon began fondling his silky but still sparse pubes, his 43-centimeter cock (the bitch actually measured it!) and soft testicles with her fingers. A minute later he had a fucking hard-on, which Mr. De Angelo duly recorded. His hard-on was sticking up at a 45-degree angle and Tim felt like disappearing under the table. Mr. De Angelo started prodding and tickling his body elsewhere. He lightly pinched Tim's nipples, nickel-sized, left and right. "Can you feel that boy?"

"Yes," Tim replied, wanting desperately to get this whole stupid sensitivity testing over with.

Mr. Daly began tickling the soles of his feet and underneath his toes, first with his fingers and then with a sharp-pointed stick from heels to toes, but hard, so it didn't tickle, which kind of hurt - and he told him so. "That hurts!" Tim almost slipped and added "asshole" but caught his tongue just in time.

Mr. De Angelo started tickling Tim's belly and all along his ribs, first with his fingers and then with that damned stick again.

When Mr. Daly started tweaking his balls and stroking with two fingers up near the thirteen-year-old's perineum and continuing the spider's touch between his thighs, Tim felt like getting up and leaving right then and there, even though it felt good and his hard-on was pointing up toward the ceiling now.

Mr. De Angelo was curious about something. "How much can you ejaculate?"

Tim wasn't sure what the word meant because he'd missed too many health classes where they'd discussed sexual terminology. "What?"

"He's asking how much can you cum," Mr. Daly clarified.

"Can you make the white stuff come out the end of your penis?" Mrs. Higgins phrased it.

"Can you shoot like a man yet?" is the way Mr. De Angelo re-phrased it.

Tim was no longer unsure of what they were asking. He wanted to say it was his own business, and a private thing, but he couldn't risk a punishment over THAT. As if in answer to all these sexy questions from the adults in the room, Tim's penis now glistened with a drop of pre-cum just outside of his piss-slit. He was circumcised so it was very apparent to the adults. Tim blushed some more, and muttered, "Yes, I can," but in a low embarrassed voice.

That clinched it. The decision to 'milk' Tim was unanimous. Mrs. Higgins began threading a very thin tube up Timothy's urethra, which felt pretty uncomfortable but didn't really hurt. "Hey, what are you doing?" Tim asked, alarmed, his voice raised by more than a trace of fear. He started squirming on the table.

"Don't squirm, this has to go up your pee-hole about 20 centimeters - half the length of your penis," Mrs. Higgins explained.

Good grief, Tim thought, but he did make a gargantuan effort to stop squirming. I can't stand this. What are they doing?

Once the little tube was inserted all the way into Tim's penis, the way they wanted it, the tube was attached to a plastic bottle. All three of the adults began fondling his penis then, jerking him off and playing with Tim's cock and balls big-time, until Tim's toes and penis strained and twitched at the same time and he shot what they referred to as 'a good load for a thirteen-year-old' and everybody seemed quite impressed and Mrs. Higgins even praised his 'stud-like' qualities, which would have been much nicer if she'd been prettier. After they removed the bottle and stored his cum in another little bottle, and removed the tube from Tim's penis, Mr. De Angelo had in hand a pair of pliers and began testing Tim for what they called 'mild pain sensitivity,' and as they proceeded through this series of exercises Mr. Daly re-assured Tim that he 'wasn't being punished although you will feel some pain.'

"You're not being punished," Mr. De Angelo emphasized, even though it really hurt when he squeezed Tim's nickel-sized nipples with the pliers, left, then right, in the pliers' serrated teeth, twisting as he did it, not really hard, but hard enough, so that Tim's eyes began tearing up but he wasn't quite crying. He used the pliers to pinch the boy's bare belly and did several hard pinches on his chest and ribs. As a coup de grace, he started worrying Tim's feet, and Mrs. Higgins recorded the thirteen-year-old's grimaces and facial expressions as the pliers squeezed and twisted Tim's ten exposed toes, one by one, like a fish being pulled and prodded in a nurse shark's mouth, Tim mused. The pliers pinched the ball of each sole, and the boy's sensitive insteps, not enough to cause a mark, only a painful temporary reddening of the skin in that localized place. Mr. De Angelo pinched other sensitive places up the boy's legs with the pliers, his ankles and sturdy calves, the delicate place in the hollow on the underside of each knee, and the tender flesh of his thighs in several places. It continued. "You're not being punished," Mr. Daly insisted, but the pliers kept on pinching, in several places on Tim's testicles so that the boy winced almost audibly. Mr. De Angelo opened the jaws of the pliers wide to grasp Timothy Jackson's penis in a firm grip, by its sensitive tip on the tender glans, pulling and stretching the boy's organ straight out from his belly until a punishable outburst occurred, "What are you doing you fucking asshole? Trying to rip it off?"

Mr. Daly asked Tim to apologize to Mr. De Angelo, he wouldn't, and the outburst from a routine Delacorte School procedure, led to a full-scale rebellion from Timothy Jackson over the next week or ten days. The thirteen-year-old became very rebellious, for seemingly no reason, swearing, sneaking off grounds to buy a pack of cigarettes, stealing cookies and other junk food from the Delacorte communal kitchen; he thought foolishly that Mr. Frye was letting it go until he saw that his name 'Timothy Jackson' had been marked down for punishment, he was scheduled for an 'attitude conditioning and behavior treatment session' for the following Tuesday. In the days preceding this major punishment, he didn't care. He was beyond caring. On Monday, he finally became contrite and submissive, and calmed down in hopes of avoiding whatever they might do to him. Tim's mind drifted back to that time a few weeks before when he'd been left outside bared to the waist and barefoot out in the snow for a half-hour - and this impending ordeal, it now dawned on the boy too late, might be even worse. Even more foolishly, on Monday evening Tim decided to run away from Delacorte, another major infraction, but was caught and returned by several cooperating older teenagers who'd known all the places nearest the facility that the boy might conceivably hide.

"Congratulations, you've now qualified for a maximum punishment attitude adjustment and behavior treatment session, something we refer to here at Delacorte as an 'mp'." Mr. Frye informed him. Tim was locked in a cell in the school's basement with just a pillow and a blanket. He didn't sleep all that well knowing what he was facing on the morrow.

But the 'mp' was postponed that entire week as Tim languished in his cell. He was dressed in his clothes and had the blanket and the pillow for sleeping and napping, which he did a lot of, so the waiting wasn't so bad. Maybe they've changed their mind about giving him the 'mp' Tim hoped. But on Friday evening, Mr. Daly and a couple of the older boys came down to the basement to get him.

*** They'd waited until Friday evening because that was movie night for the other boys. Some might argue the merits of the Delacorte School's retraining, but it typically produced results. One room in the school, also in the basement, was referred to by boys who'd been punished as 'the torture chamber.' Several boys had taunted Tim before he'd run away about this, "You're going to the torture chamber if you keep it up!" Tim preferred to think they'd just been exaggerating as boys do. Four teenage lackeys had to drag Tim to the room as real fear began to set into his senses at last. He was no longer the defiant boy he'd been, didn't they realize that? He would plead for them to be lenient, and hope to God it would work.

But he was in the room now. Mrs. Higgins was there too, as were the four teenage lackeys, and Mr. Frye, and Mr. Daly, and Mr. De Angelo. Nobody relished what was about to occur to Tim, but he had brought it on himself.

The room they were in was large, and brightly lit. Mr. Daly was there so that each of the prescribed procedures would be strictly adhered to. This would be a night that Tim Jackson would never forget. Mrs. Higgins was present to record everything, especially the boy's reactions as they occurred. Mr. De Angelo was like a physician, but was only a physician's assistant. In a ceremonious gesture, Tim was ordered to 'strip naked,' which he did, but next he was instructed to 'put on these' which was a pair of striped pajamas and a pair of blue dress socks. The room was equipped with a variety of objects - primarily for inflicting pain. These objects were neatly laid out on several small tables. What caught Tim's horrified gaze, however, was a more elaborate medical table than the one he'd experienced upstairs in the clinic suite. This table was linen and gauze-covered, and included stronger leather straps for binding a bad boy more securely, and a mat on the uneven stone floor with a small gym horse for elevating a person's feet. Handcuffs with long wire chains were at the ready to secure the victim's wrists and ankles at the appropriate junctures.

Tim was commanded to stand in his pajamas and blue dress socks while a prayer was recited. It was the first prayer he'd even heard in the more than a fortnight he'd been confined at Delacorte. But for some reason, Tim felt like praying at that moment. His prayer would have been, "Don't hurt me! I'm a good boy deep down!" except it would have sounded like a plea for mercy, which it was. Tears were in the boy's brown eyes, and a sinking desolate feeling occupied the pit of his stomach. Everybody present bowed their heads, including Tim. Tim thought of all the other boys upstairs watching an old lame movie,The Sound of Music. How he wished he hadn't misbehaved and was watching that movie. Instead he was here, in this place, about to be punished as severely as this Delacorte School knew how to punish – in an age-old ritual which would be inflexible as a cruel martinet or the Inquisition's rack.

"Heavenly Father, we now chastise Timothy Jackson in your beloved name, so he can recognize the errors of his unruly behaviors…" The prayer went on for a full five minutes. Timothy was wishing it would last an hour! The school was more results-oriented than religious, however. A lecture ensued, after the prayer recited by Mr. Frye, but instead a recitation of infractions and their penalty, to which Timothy was asked to 'plead guilty to' or it will go worse for you, and this laundry list was recited by the disciplinarian Mr. Daly, and he asked Timothy, "Are you aware young man that you are obliged to receive the maximum punishment meted out by the Delacorte School, an attitude adjustment and behavioral treatment of the severest magnitude?"

"Yes."

"Yes, sir!" Mr. Frye corrected him, slapping him hard on the pajama top's left shoulder.

"Yes sir!" Tim repeated, now frightened seriously and almost ready to urinate onto the stone floor through his pajama bottoms.

"Do you understand why this is occurring?" Mr. Daly said.

"Yes sir!" Tim got it right that time, but it was small reprieve if any.

"Are you ready for us to begin?"

Tim wasn't, he wouldn't ever be ready for what was about to happen, but he said in a very weak voice, "Yes sir." The boy could only guess what the ordeal would be like. It would be far worse than being forced out into the cold for a half-hour, he knew that much. The final delay was the reading by Mr. De Angelo of Tim's vital statistics, from the Delacorte perspective. It was humiliating, but Tim wished that Mr. De Angelo's voice would simply drone on forever. "Age of perpetrator, 13 years, 6 months, 11 days, height, 1.42 meters [4'8"], weight 49 kilograms [108 pds], physical maturity, pubertal stage 2, penis length, 10.668 centimeters [4.2"] flaccid, 12.446 centimeters [4.9"] erected, etc. etc."

Mr. Frye gave his nod to begin. "Have Tim undress," Mr. Frye said.

"Take the pajamas off," Mr. Daly reiterated to Tim.

Tim slowly stripped off the pajama top and handed that to Mrs. Higgins, the nurse shark. He unsnapped the metal button on the bottoms and removed them too a few seconds later, and was now nude except for the blue dress socks they'd just given him. What was with the ritual of the pajamas and socks, Timothy had no clue; he couldn't have known that the sleepwear garb and socks implied 'sickness' in the inmate about to be punished, just as the actual ordeal signified 'recuperation from the sickness of moral turpitude,' according to the one-hundred-sixteen-year tradition of Delacorte punishment sessions. Everybody in the room was staring at Timothy's body now; he felt strange with just a pair of itchy socks on. He hated wearing dress socks in most cases, although this occasion was a notable exception. There were seven people in the punishment chamber; eight including Tim. Everybody was staring at him like human vultures, three older teenagers, a woman who was by job title a nurse, a dean of discipline, the Delacorte headmaster, and a physician's assistant who was there to decide what limits might be imposed on the punishment regime so that they didn't go too far while inflicting pain. Mrs. Higgins was practically leering at him, it seemed to the Jackson boy, but he did prefer this humiliating staring contest compared to whatever might ensue. Let them look all they want, Tim mused, look but don't touch.

"Stand at attention, hands by your side, boy," Mr. Daly said.

Tim complied. He would have saluted like in a military school if it could have helped him avoid what he knew was coming. There he was, in just a pair of blue dress socks, otherwise stark naked, humiliated, it got worse when he started getting a hard-on with everybody staring at his naked body.

"He sure is a cute boy though," Mrs. Higgins muttered under her breath but loud enough for everyone to hear, as if a part of her psyche regretted what was about to happen.

"Never mind that," Mr. Daly said, "He's old enough to get what's coming to him."

Everybody must have noticed that he was still wearing the socks, yet Timothy was surprised that nobody had told him to take them off.

"What's first?" one of the older teenaged helpers asked. He was a 17-year-old named Paul who looked like a blonde Adonis and stocky football tackle, his muscles bulging through his clothes. Tim wasn't attracted to guys but this guy was a specimen.

Mr. De Angelo, the fat physician's assistant, replied almost immediately, reading dutifully from the penalty instructions, printed on a piece of dog-eared paper that was decades old. "His feet must be prepared for the bastinado."

Mrs. Higgins sounded enthusiastic as she spoke to Tim. "Lie down on the mat on your stomach, Timothy," she said. Timothy lay down on the mat; made of plastic, it felt sticky on his bare stomach.

"Drape your legs over the gym horse," barked Mr. Daly sternly. The 13-year-old obediently lifted his legs onto and over the buttress, so that his stocking-clad feet were uncomfortably overhanging and dangling in mid-air, but vulnerable and accessible to whatever was about to be done.

Mr. De Angelo repeated the original instruction with a slight difference, possibly as part of the ritual and definitely for dramatic effect. "Hisbare feet must be prepared for the bastinado.

Paul, the well-built 17-year-old walked over, and Tim felt the brute's strong hands grab his right foot, yank the blue dress sock off, and then felt his left foot being bared in identical fashion. He now was stark naked, at last, but wished he wasn't. Paul next spread Tim's legs further apart, as his ankles were secured with handcuffs to the gym-horse, while his wrists were being extended above his head and spread apart and secured to the opposite end of the mat by Edwin, a dark-haired and ugly sixteen-year-old who was 'making himself useful.' Spread-eagled on his stomach and totally vulnerable, Tim felt helpless and very frightened, as the enormity of what was happening was sinking in. He started bawling.

The third older teenager, eighteen-year-old Mitch got involved at that moment, taking a coarse sandpaper pad to Tim's left bare sole as Paul started in with the 'sanding' of Timothy's right sole and Edwin and Mrs. Higgins, the nurse shark, began studying the 13-year-old's face for reactions.

"Rub the skin raw from his heels to the underside of his toes, getting rid of any callous he might have acquired on the balls of his feet and on his heels," Mr. De Angelo instructed.

It didn't hurt much at first where there was callous, as Timothy enjoyed going barefoot especially outside, and would even ride his skateboard barefoot sometimes, but on his insteps and the soft undersides of his toes the rubbing of the coarse sandpaper hurt immediately. Damn! Timothy Jackson mused mournfully. My feet are going to be really sensitive.

"Good, very good," Mr. Daly said, approaching very close to observe. "You are following our tradition in an excellent manner," Mr. Frye said.

Timothy was gritting his teeth and wincing. He'd stopped bawling in an attempt to gut this ordeal out. Mrs. Higgins touched the skin of Tim's left instep and noticed the skin damage characteristic of this punishment, the familiar chafing and tiny bleeding cuts starting to appear on the boy's soles. Tim was gritting his teeth almost to the extent of grinding his molars in an effort to not cry out.

About seven minutes later, when his soles were chafed raw, Mrs. Higgins introduced a further step in sensitizing Timothy Jackson's bare feet for the bastinado. Someone handed the nurse shark an already smoldering iron typically used for soldering metal. Tim smelled it and started whimpering.

"This will hurt a great deal I'm afraid, sorry," Mrs. Higgins said.

But she wasn't sorry, Tim thought. "No!" Tim yelled out.

"It has to be done," Mr. Daly asserted.

"Yes, it's part of the tenderizing of his soles for the bastinado," Mr. De Angelo explained, "and I examined him and I know he can take it if you don't burn too deep, just singe the epidermis, Mary," he instructed Mrs. Higgins.

Don't listen, he's just a stupid doctor's assistant, he's not a real doctor, Tim wanted to shout. But that probably wouldn't have helped much.

"Mary is very expert at this procedure, she's done it on at least ten boys during her tenure at Delacorte," Mr. Daly asserted principally for Headmaster Frye's benefit, but also to re-assure everybody else in the room, except Tim of course.

"I can do it," Mary bragged, "You just watch me." She moved the flame from the small soldering iron closer to Tim's bare left sole. "I'm just going to redden his soles, causing maybe a small blister or two, no more."

"It's a good thing he can't kick you," Mr. Daly added.

As Paul, the Adonis-like teenager, held Tim's left heel steady, the ugly nurse shark gently touched the hot smoking iron to the underside of the thirteen-year-old's bare left big toe. He screamed, "Arrghh!" and began sobbing again. Deep in concentration as if she were a welder, Mrs. Higgins traced the soldering iron along the rest of Tim Jackson's toe bottoms and without pausing, she contentedly and professionally she thought, moved the red-hot instrument along the rest of his sensitive left sole, slowly burning his outermost layer of skin, reddening and sensitizing it, as Tim kept screaming bloody murder. With the slight but pungent odor of charred boy-flesh failing to distract the 'professional nurse' from her grisly task, she briskly repeated the exercise on the sole of Tim's right foot, as Paul held that foot steady and in position for its searing. Starting once again as she'd been trained, she once again began the excruciatingly painful procedure in a similar fashion, gently touching the smoking hot iron to the bottom of Tim's bare right big toe. "Arrghh!" and other ear-splitting sounds were heard for several more minutes as she completed her task on his eventually reddened and extremely tender right sole.

"There!" she exclaimed, proud of her work, showing those others present, with everyone except Tim marveling that she'd caused only two small blisters on the sole of his left foot, and only three on Timothy's right one, although one on his heel was an angry looking blister. A few minutes later, the 'fake' doctor as Tim would forever after refer to Mr. De Angelo got it into his head to try a testing massage with his fingers, digging into the extremely tender flesh with his fingernails to provoke more yelps from the boy, all for the purpose of proclaiming that the wincing Tim Jackson's feet were now 'duly prepared' for the dreaded bastinado - being sore and extremely sensitive to the touch. "Thirty strokes on each foot," pronounced the dutiful Mr. Frye, and just as he said it Mr. Daly stepped up, wielding a small truncheon made of hard rubber designed for the purpose in his left hand, making sure that Tim saw it too. "You won't be so eager to run away from Delacorte the next time," he said a bit too cruelly.

A few seconds later, the boy being punished felt it. "Smack!" went the sound of rubber smacking against the already sensitized flesh of Tim's exposed left foot. Mr. Daly alternated the blows every fifteen seconds and began punishing the right foot as well. The thirteen-year-old screamed, writhed, and sobbed almost continuously during the punishment, feeling the pain shoot like fire all the way up his leg from his bare bruised and finally bleeding soles each time. "Smack!" The last blow landed squarely on the ball of Tim's right foot, causing a final agonizing screech-like scream.

"Good, very good," pronounced Mr. Frye, "That should discourage runaways."

"What a baby!" Edwin felt compelled to remark, in the rather condescending manner of a smug 16-year-old.

"His feet are a bit of a mess," added Mrs. Higgins.

"That's what he gets for running away on top of everything else he did," muttered Paul, the Adonis, without a trace of compassion.

"Look, there's even a little blood that's oozing out of - one, two, three, four, five, six of is toenails!" Edwin remarked with some glee.

Tim's ankles were next uncuffed for a moment as the gym-horse was removed; his ankles were then spread even wider by the dutiful older teenagers as he was re-cuffed. Tim was re-secured as he'd been, lying on his stomach, except lying flat, spread-eagled and still stark naked. Tim began whimpering again as he heard that ominous sound: the lighting of the small soldering iron for a second time.

"It's time for the twenty-six points of light," Mrs. Mary Higgins blurted, revealing the next painful procedure in the 'mp' sequence. "He's not going to enjoy that procedure at all," she concluded.

"Not even a little bit," agreed Mr. Daly.

Mr. De Angelo almost begged to perform this new ordeal on the boy himself. "It has to be done precisely," he murmured. "Thirteen painful burns on each side of a nude boy's body - each one in a sensitive place," Mr. De Angelo continued, almost in awe at what he was about to do.

"Please, don't, please, I beg you," Tim sobbed in utter terror. As Mr. De Angelo moved ever closer with the red-hot soldering iron, the terrified boy could already feel the heat as Mr. Daly firmly took charge and held Tim's left bare foot as Mr. De Angelo proudly announced the first location to be burned, this time to make a branding scar. "Ball of his left foot," he said calmly. A slight pause ensued, and during that pause, the terrified boy felt no new assault, no new pain, and then he felt it; a wave of excruciating pain as Mr. De Angelo carefully made the initial required burning, a branding, after first the area to be burned was dabbed with a disinfectant as a washcloth was gently applied. Mr. De Angelo diligently held the small soldering iron against the boy's bare sole for several long seconds, as Timothy screamed anew. Finished, he finally pulled the red-hot iron away, but then Tim felt Mr. Daly's strong hands firmly gripping his right bare foot. "Ball of his right foot," Mr. De Angelo announced like a village crier during the time of the Spanish Inquisition. A few seconds later, the thirteen-year-old's lungs emitted an inhuman howl of reacting to sheer pain. But the excruciating pain continued with each successive ritualized branding. Each branding was small in surface area, maybe nickel-sized in diameter, but as each announcement was bleated by Mr. De Angelo, the fake doctor, Tim mused, the horrific ordeal was relentless. Tim heard the words, "calf of his left leg," and "calf of his right leg," and felt the red-hot touch of the iron; "back of his left knee," and "back of his right knee," and he cursed and squirmed with the sheer pain of it. It continued with "back of his left thigh," and "back of his right thigh," and as he was screaming at Mr. De Angelo when he was instructing the three husky older teenagers to "Hold his damned legs better so that he doesn't squirm and wriggle so much," and Tim was shouting and sobbing simultaneously, all stoic dignity and defiant decorum lost, "Owwh! Please, please, no more!"

"The next couple arereally going to hurt," Paul the seventeen-year-old Adonis-type whispered in the terrified Tim's ear during a break as the soldering iron was re-heated. As if to reiterate, Mr. Daly chose that moment to remark, "The next couple of targets will infringe on really sensitive areas," obviously enjoying the rare spectacle of a nude writhing boy before him. Tim suddenly felt at least two pairs of hands grabbing his buttock cheeks and spreading them apart for the next intended target. As Mr. De Angelo pronounced the word "Anus" Tim felt the searing heat approaching and he screamed as he felt it make flush contact with the sensitive orifice in-between. "Yeowwh!" Tim kept screaming and howling, making a cacophony of distressed sounds. But after a seeming eternity had passed, it was time to burn the back of the boy's silky smooth balls. "Keep him spread nice!" barked Mr. De Angelo, who was just trying to fulfill the ritualized punishment. Like a skilled welder, he brought the red-hot instrument up against the sensitive area flush, against a patch of skin near the back of Tim's scrotum and all along the kid's tender perineum. "Back of genitals," he announced as Tim howled pitifully.

The final three locations to be burned on the boy's backside seemed anti-climatic by comparison. These locations were announced and were dealt with summarily, "right buttock," and "left-side of his mid-back, near the ribs," and finally "right shoulder, low." These produced screams as loud as ever, but attentions of his torturers were beginning to shift. Although Tim overheard a particularly cruel comment from 16-year-old Edwin, " It looks like Tim's birthday suit is getting a little scorched," he said, and a few of those present cracked smiles.

This particular ordeal was, unfortunately for Timothy Jackson, only half over. Mr. De Angelo inspected the burns made on the boy's body so far. It was his decision whether or not to continue. Tim never figured it could get any worse, but he was wrong. "He's fit enough to continue. It's time to cook his front side," Mr. De Angelo said quietly so that Tim couldn't react immediately.

But he reacted a few seconds later, when Mrs. Higgins said, "Alright, let's flip him over!"

"With pleasure," said Edwin, and joined by Paul and the third young man, the eighteen-year-old whose name was Todd; they did, although Tim struggled mightily. While he was held securely by Paul and Edwin, Todd quietly and efficiently undid the handcuffs clasped around Tim's wrists, then unfastened the cuffs restraining the thirteen-year-old's chafed ankles (his wrists were also chafed red and raw due to his squirming and writhing) then they flipped Tim Jackson onto the mat flat on his back before spread-eagling his arms and legs and re-cuffing the boy's wrists and ankles. "Please, don't do this to me!" Tim sobbed. Not content to cuff the boy's ankles on a short leash with his legs spread merely to the mat's edges, Mr. Daly decided to go a step further. "I want his legs spread almost to the splitting point, even wider, "he ordered the team of older teenagers, "Use the anchored manacles."

As Tim was held in place by the three larger teens, he groaned as the "bastards" grasped his very sore bare feet and spread his legs beyond the mat, forcing Tim's feet apart to a very painful position, some three inches [7½ cm] onto the stone floor on either side. "That's as far as we can get them apart without breaking his legs like the wishbone on a chicken," Edwin proclaimed. But he was glad to help.

"Okay, I guess that will have to be enough," Mr. Daly admitted.

Tim wasn't exactly relieved. It hurt to just be in this position, without being punished on top of everything. He felt like he was playing that 'stretch' game with the knife thrown into the ground, so that it stuck in, and you had to bring your leg out to where the knife actuallywas. Tim was lying stark naked spread-eagled on his back, and his leg muscles felt like rubber bands about to snap!

"Alright, proceed, Mr. De Angelo," Mr. Frye said, "The boy has been determined fit enough to experience the remainder of his mp."

"This is the most intriguing part," said Mrs. Higgins, gazing at the boy's penis, which seemingly against all odds was starting to erect.

Mr. Daly noticed it too. "Maybe he's a masochist," he said.

"I doubt it," replied Mr. Daly, matter-of-factly.

Suddenly Tim felt his straining bare feet with the chafed ankles growing ominously warm. "His instep, bottom and top, left foot," Mr. De Angelo announced in his town crier's voice. He brought the soldering instrument against the bare skin there, first on the sole's middle, "Yeowwh!" The scream was a piercing one, and next working to the top, and pressing the iron on top of the boy's bare foot, and holding it there for several agonizing seconds. Screams and sobs ensued from the boy as his left foot was burned with the appropriate marks. A moment later, as Mr. Daly held it steady, the identical procedure commenced on Tim's bare right foot. "We'll do his instep, bottom and top, right foot!" Tim just kept screaming and sobbing. The next location to be 'done' on the boy's body was even more painful. "Right foot, between his toes," was the prescribed location according to time-honored ritual. Paul the Adonis knew what to do right then. He did it and received praise. "That's it. Keep his toes spread really nice so that I can get in-between each one!" Mr. De Angelo said. Mr. De Angelo didn't miss a spot, getting the boy's tender toe spaces branded perfectly; a three-four second interval was necessary between each toe to be thorough.

"Just like the rest of him!" Edwin happily chimed in, catching the festive mood of the Delacorte ritual. Mr. De Angelo slowly touched the red-hot tip in-between Tim's big toe and second toe, second toe and middle toe, middle toe and fourth toe, fourth toe and baby toe. Tim just screamed as his toes were marked and blistered. When Tim fainted from the excruciating pain, he was revived with ammonia salts placed beneath his nose for the first time.

The spaces between Tim's toes on his left foot suffered next. "Left foot, between his toes," Mr. De Angelo announced more casually. The identical procedure was followed with the soldering iron, the cruel cooking in-between Timothy's tender toes, one at as time, as Mr. De Angelo's "helpers" held the screaming 13-year-old in securely in place, so as to prevent any unfortunate accidents. "Perfect, you're spreading his toes nice and wide again," he told Paul, the 17-year-old blonde Adonis.

Nine places to be branded remained on the boy's nude front side. The next two were announced on Tim's thighs, "Let's do the inner thigh on his left leg," which was followed in due course by "Let's do the inner thigh on his right leg," of course, Tim screamed and hollered, as Mr. Daly's strong hands braced Tim's calves to stop him from squirming too much. "Owwh! Please stop it! I beg you!" Tim shrieked.

Although everybody in the room expected them to be tortured next, Tim's genitals were temporarily skipped, neglected in favor of "It's time for his left armpit," with only a few hairs that Mr. De Angelo decided to singe off, and then he headed for Tim's sensitive "Left nipple" on his chest, skipping the right underarm because it wasn't part of the Delacorte ritual. When the soldering iron's red-hot tip advanced upon his "Right nipple," the terrified boy shrieked and was given a small rubber ball to bite down hard on as the hot iron danced around that particular nipple slowly, as that too was part of the ritual. The instrument was touched to the boy's bare chest and directed in small, concentric circles, a more direct burning that needed to be done until the nipple and surrounding pectoral tissue turned almost black.

"Belly" came next, and when the rubber ball now coated with Tim's saliva was removed, as he was having a little difficulty breathing with the small object in his mouth, and there was also the danger of the boy swallowing the school's property; when the small rubber ball was removed, Tim's screams and shrieks and yelps were heard again as the boy's navel was slowly scorched, and Mr. De Angelo creatively did a "good mark" on each of Tim's sides along his ribs.

In a dramatic action, Mr. De Angelo let the soldering iron cool and picked up a second heated iron. He showed this to Tim. "This one is even hotter!" he said, as if to taunt the young Delacorte miscreant.

"Is it over?" Tim asked, his hoarse voice a mere whisper. Nude and spread-eagled, Mr. Daly began masturbating the 13-year-old, and despite what he'd been through, Tim's organ responded. "He's nice and hard now," he said. A drop of pre-ejaculate, natural lubricant, dripped out of Tim's still boyish piss-slit. "Didn't expect that," Mr. Daly snickered.

"Amazing!" Mr. Frye remarked, "We seldom have that occur at this stage of our punishment."

"Should we give the kid a break?" said Mr. De Angelo, the fake doctor, of all people.

But Mr. Daly, always the disciplinarian, would brook no mercy. "Heck no, this is a crucial part of his training, he said.

Mr. De Angelo knew there was no physical reason not to continue, so he shrugged and advanced again with the soldering iron as Tim started screaming vociferously at the words, "We'll do his pubic hair now."

Mr. Frye provided unexpected but pertinent directions, suddenly taking an active role. "He has only a sparse growth, but you can't be lax. Every single hair has to be burnt off at the root!"

Mrs. Higgins decided to make a joke. "Fortunately he doesn't have too much down there yet." Everybody laughed with a single exception, the trio of older teenagers the hardest.

"It's even silky," she said, running her fingers through it and taking the opportunity to give Tim's penis a gentle squeeze. She would have done this to excess but Mr. Daly brusquely moved her fingers away.

"Mrs. Higgins!" he exclaimed in mock indignation.

Mr. De Angelo used his right hand to patiently swivel Tim's cock, and a few seconds later he began edging closer with the red-hot iron. Tim started screaming again, as Mr. De Angelo began searching for the boy's pubic hairs with the red-hot instrument at the ready. Tim's ball bag and all over his scrotum was given attention with the red-hot tip seeking out the sparse hairs. He glanced at Mr. Daly after the pubic hairs were gone, hoping to spare the boy the next ordeal if at all possible, but with the nude boy spread-eagled to his limit he saw from the disciplinarian's expression that this favorable outcome for Timothy Jackson was not to be.

Mr. Daly began fondling Tim's erection, tickling with his fingers down into the boy's perineum seam, and as he was prone to at times like this, he began pontificating. "Here is the source of this boy's procreative power, a healthy length of embryonic manhood – only by finishing the twenty-sixth point can this boy truly learn the lesson he was meant to learn tonight."

Tim started whining, begging, sobbing, "Please Mr. Daly, have mercy on me! I won't do those things ever again if you don't hurt my cock! I'll be a good boy! I promise!"

Mr. Daly answered Tim's challenge of his authority as duty dictated. "No boy! You've had your chances! Proceed Mr. De Angelo!" Mr. De Angelo complied by giving Tim's cock a good hard squeeze at the sensitive glans. "His genitals – from the front!" He finally said.

There would be no sparing them this time.

"It's going to be a real weenie roast," Paul snickered. He'd had this done to him at thirteen. He'd suffered it and recovered, so would this new boy Timothy Jackson.

As the naked thirteen-year-old about to be roasted lay back whimpering, trembling slightly in paroxysms of utter fear, Mr. Daly added one more gruesome detail. "Right from the book, no letting him off easy."

With the boy's legs spread as wide as possible, Mr. De Angelo brought the glowing red-hot iron in contact with Tim's perineum, all along the seam, giving him a good burning this time, and then up onto his Tim's scrotum, as Tim screamed non-stop and louder than ever. He made slow passes along the kid's balls, first scorching the left testicle and then the right, and with Mr. Daly positioning Timothy's penis correctly, his strong fingers encircling the pink glans, Mr. De Angelo started "roasting" the boy's "hot dog" as Mrs. Higgins colloquially referred to the organ on this single occasion, a human wiener being cooked according to the Delacorte cook book for bad boy specifications, as Tim kept on screaming bloody murder. At the excruciating half-way point Mr. Daly's grip suddenly changed, and at his cruel signal, a slight nod to Mr. De Angelo, while Mr. Daly now held the boy's organ straight up from the base, Mr. De Angelo began burning the 13-year-old's sensitive circumcised glans with the red-hot glowing iron, and Mr. De Angelo needed some encouragement, he received it not just from Mr. Daly but also from the authoritative Mr. Frye, "Go on, now is certainly not the time to quit!" who was getting a bit impatient while Tim's screams achieved the intensity of an inhuman howl, his voice fast becoming hoarse as his vocal chords strained, and the red-hot iron licked the pink glans, moving in little concentric whorls along the sensitive surface, until it reached his piss-slit. "In the Delacorte tradition, we train our boys well," Mr. Frye was pontificating now, "So that they can emerge as productive citizens and successful men."

"It's still a superficial burn, I was real careful thank God, but he'll need the infirmary and will be sore for at least two weeks," Mr. De Angelo explained to no one in particular.

The final part of Timothy Jackson's training was known at Delacorte as the 'Hundred Needles.' While still naked, Tim was carried to the wide doctor's table which was covered with white linen. Once again, he was laid on his back and revived with smelling salts, having fainted again. Becoming conscious, he realized how much he hurt all over, especially his 'roasted' penis. The three older teenagers got to assist this time. Tim was skewered with long steel needles wherever Mr. Daly instructed he be pierced. With his wrists secured by leather straps, a needle was thrust ruthlessly under each fingernail (ten), with his ankles secured, Mrs. Higgins held each of his bare feet as needles were thrust beneath each of his toenails (ten), more needles (twenty) pierced his soles and toes away from the nails so that the needles protruded entirely though his feet as he screamed and shrieked with additional pain. The older inmates were given extra latitude as to where the rest of the needles were inserted, but it was suggested by the Delacorte staffers that they pick sensitive spots - calves, knees, thighs, Tim's already scorched navel, and in a clever circular pattern around each nipple. Paul made sure that a ring of needles pierced Tim's belly straight across and that another outlined the younger boy's pubic area. To prevent any chance of causing permanent injury, Mr. De Angelo finished up; piercing the again screaming boy's testicles in several places straight across, and then the penis again, piercing it in an ornamental progression from the base to its sensitive circumcised tip. He stuck a circle of six steel needles straight down through the glans meatus around the piss-slit, and the final needle stabbed through the piss-slit itself, the urethra, and threading Tim's entire very sore penis so that the most excruciating torture could commence. This was Mr. Daly's decision to give Timothy's organ a 'massage' – a vigorous kneading, squeezing, twisting of the poor tortured organ with all the needles still buried in it! The thirteen-year-old fainted several times from the unbearable pain, but each time was cruelly revived with smelling salts until Mr. Frye finally put a stop to the boy's ordeal.

Timothy Jackson spent the rest of that weekend, and much of the next week, in the Delacorte infirmary, as he slowly recuperated. For almost a month, he needed to walk with a cane as his feet remained painful and shaky. He was also a changed boy in behavior, and in fact, the turnabout was so dramatic that he was sent home to his family in four months instead of six. He became quiet and shy, introspective, and given to reading, as he approached his fourteenth birthday. He never wanted to discuss the 'corporal punishment' that he'd been forced to endure, although his Dad suspected that his son had received more than spankings. Mainly his parents were pleased at the results produced in their son, and agreed to provide hearty testimonials attesting to the glorious results achieved. But Timothy Jackson would never be the same, and began abusing alcohol.

Another treatment center was recommended by Mr. Daly when Mr. Jackson called one day, relating the bittersweet story of their son. "It's for substance abuse issues," Mr. Daly explained, "They aren't averse to using some of our methods on boys that worked so well with Tim."

"Would they accept him, do you think?" Mr. Jackson wondered.

"Oh certainly," Mr. Daly opined, "Why wouldn't they?"

The End