Date: Sat, 1 Nov 2003 01:40:51 -0000 (GMT)
From: ok_uwater@merlads.net
Subject: rob-and-gordon-gordon-2

	Needless to say, Rob slept well after his night in the pool.
The next day my parents marvelled at this bubbly kid who had seemed so
vulnerable the night before.  In fact, he was a veritable whirlwind,
running everywhere, diving into everything, jabbering incessantly.  My
parents decided that nights at Rob's house were not only good for Rob's
peace of mind, but also for the household breakables.  I never learned
whether Rob was manipulating the situation or if frequent, but
convenient, banishment was a fortunate side effect of his hyperactive
nature.  In any case, we spent most nights of the holiday alone at
his house.  We did some revision to ensure realistic progress reports,
but Rob spent most nights tied to the bed, or submerged in the bath
tub.  He showed me his contortion skills.  He could double over
backwards and grab his own shins from behind.  The pose displayed
his lycra clad jewels exquisitely, which I would grab and hold,
forcing Rob to remain bent for several minutes.  That always activated
his wild defiance.  His array of speedos never ceased to amaze me.  He
had a different pair for each occassion - solids of all colors,
straight patterns, interlocking circles, abstract shapes.  Each color
scheme apparently had a kind of symbolism for a particular ordeal.
	The challenges at the house stretched neither my creativity nor
Rob's endurance.  Rob knew I was planning a major torment for him,
commensurate with his night at the pool.  It took me a few days to pull
the elements together, but finally I prepared a night of anguish that
would push Rob to his farthest limits.
	"Let's go," I said, leaning into his bedroom door.
	Without waiting for acknowledgment, I hefted my bag and started
down the stairs.  I am sure if I had blinked I would have missed the
yellow and black blur that zoomed past me on the stairs.  Rob was
holding the front door for me, wearing his signature yellow swim team
shirt and black sweats.  He all but ran circles around me as I struck
out for the school.  I think he would have carried me there on his
shoulders if it would bring him to the night's "festivities" sooner,
not the protocol I had in mind.
	"Heal!" I growled.
	Rob smirked and walked, or rather bounced, alongside me.
	We went to the school, and thence to the boiler room.  Rob
quieted as we approached the steel door from which emanated the drone
and whine of heavy machinery, although his look was of anticipation.
I let us in with a key set "borrowed" from the maintenance staff.
When we entered, I closed and locked the door.  Rob was committed now.
We stood on a landing atop a long, steep metal stair that led down to
the machines in the basement.  Previously that evening I had cut about
two thirds of the lights and half the vents.  The more distant machines
receded into darkness, and the heat was palpable.  I was wearing jeans
and a white T-shirt, but I started sweating immediately.
	"Strip!" I shouted above the din.
	Rob shed his outer wear in about ten seconds and stood at the
top of the stair.  He wore a light blue speedo with white circular
swirls.  It looked like steam, I thought.  Excellent!
	Long speeches were not possible in the cacaphony.
	"O.K.  Same procedures as the night in the pool!  Do you
understand?" I barked.
	Rob nodded.
	"March!" I commanded.
	Rob descended the stairs, extravagently kicking his knees up
with each step.  His soft fair skin and lanky ten year old body were
an alien presence among the imponderable masses of metal, oil, and
water before him.
	We reached the bottom of the stairs.
	"To the right, march!"
	Rob marched stiffly across the deck.  He body glistened with
sweat.
	"Halt!" I commanded when he reached a saw horse I had set up
earlier.  Just beyond it were two horizontal pipes, one about even with
the horse, the other running parallel about an arm's length above.
Beyond the pipes was another saw horse.
	"Mount for press ups!" I commanded.
	Rob grinned ever so slightly as he figured out the game.  He
perched on the near saw horse, tilted forward and grabbed the lower
pipe, and quickly stretched to put his hands on the far saw horse.  The
pipes only carried hot water, but they were still about 160 degrees
Fahrenheit.  Rob suspended his body between the two pipes.  The lower
pipe aligned with his mid-riff.  I went under the lower pipe and put my
mouth next to his ear.
	"Down!" I ordered.
	He lowered his body to just above the pipe.
	"Down!" I repeated.
	He winced slightly as his chest made contact, but he held the
position.
	"One press up means you go from your chest pressing the lower
pipe to your back pressing the upper pipe and all the way down again.
That's one count.  You stop when I say, or when you want to go home!
Understand?" I shouted into his ear.
	Rob nodded.
	"Ready!" I barked.
	Then I grabbed two locking pliers and quickly fastened them to
Rob's nipples.  I let them drop.  Rob winced as his tender flesh was
stretched to the maximum, jolting the heavy tools to a stop below him.
	"BEGIN!" I screamed.
	Rob's face twisted with pain as he lifted his torso to the
other pipe.  He had to stretch his arms and round his shoulders to
reach it, but he complied and pressed his back against the hot pipe
above.  Then he went all the way down again.  Up, down, up, down.  The
veins stuck out on Rob's neck and he gritted his teeth.  The locking
pliers swung pendulously below his chest, relentlessly tearing at his
tender flesh.  Nonetheless, Rob was strong and disciplined.  Every
press up was perfect.
	"I'm watching!" I admonished, and then I started back under the
pipes and beams.
	I took a moment to admire Rob's body from below.  I could see
drops of sweat falling off him.  There was already a red strip across
his chest where he made contact with the hot metal.  His narrow waist
tensed to make a well defined six pack.  That beautiful speedo, now
drenched with sweat, remained perfectly in a line drawn from his head
to his feet.  I reached up and punched him in the front of the speedo.
I could barely hear him grunt above the noise, but he kept his rhythm.
	Once beyond his feet, I got up and fetched the next prop.  Then
I walked around to Rob's front.  He still had good form, but his arms
were quivering.  I counted fifteen more press ups.  I guessed he had
done between forty and fifty.  I lowered my face to his.
	"Up and hold!" I commanded.
	Rob stretched his arms and rounded his shoulders one more time,
obediently giving the hot metal above another taste of his back, which
also now sported a deep red streak.  I released the locking pliers,
pulling them down first so Rob's nipples would snap back.  He screamed.
Then he looked at me.  The look of anguish transformed to anger.
	"Bastard!" he shouted.
	"Ten more!" I answered.
	Rob complied.  He was rid of the locking pliers, but it was
easy for me to grab his now distended nipples and squeeze hard with my
fingers as I pulled Rob's chest down, increasing both his pain and
effort.  After twelve more press ups I let go of him.
	"Dismount!" I barked.
	Rob locked his arms and pushed off with his feet.  He briefly
stood on the pipe, and then sommersaulted over the forward saw horse.
The steel deck clanged as he piled onto it.  Rob grabbed his anguished
nipples.  I reached between his legs, lifted him by the crotch, and
lowered him upright on the deck.  He looked down a narrow pipe lined
corridor.
	"Attention!" I commanded.
	Rob quickly snapped to attention, although he clearly had not
quite recovered from the exercise.  I stood behind him.  His body was
literally hot.  The smell of his sweat mixed with the oppressive
humidity.  I had accounted for the eventual possibility of heat stroke.
Although Rob was a super boy, he needed fluid.  I reached into my bag
and pulled out a bottle of tomato juice.  Rob hated tomato juice.  I
crouched and pulled Rob's head back onto my shoulder.  I pinched his
nose and thrust the open bottle into his mouth.
	"Drink fast!" I ordered.
	Rob guzzled.  Rob would not be able to breath until he finished
the nasty stuff.  He choked and gasped as the bottle emptied.  I gave
him another.  When he finished that one I tossed his head forward.  Rob
coughed and spat juice down his chest, where it mixed with his sweat.
It looked like blood.  That would be later, I told myself.  He raised
his hands to his face as he coughed.  He was wobbling.
	"Attention!" I repeated.
	Rob resumed his rigid stance.  It was time for the next prop,
a twenty pound sledge hammer.  I held it up behind him, with the head
down.
	"Reach back and grab this!" I instructed.
	Rob reached his arms over his head and grabbed the handle.  I
went round front, pulled down his speedo, and put a noose around his
balls.  The line went through the leg hole of his speedo to the head of
the hammer.  If he dropped the hammer now, his balls would drop with it.
I restored his speedo, and then attached some clips to his still
tender nipples.  The clips were the kind used to hold big sheafs of
paper together in offices.  They were big, had sharp edges, and
squeezed hard.  Rob moaned, and shifted his sweaty grip on the sledge
hammer.  I connected the clips with a long nylon string that I looped
over the hook of a small gantry crane overhead.  Now Rob could not
crouch without losing his nipples.  He was obviously uncomfortable
and strained, but his eyes were bright and defiant.  I pushed a button
and the crane started moving.  Rob moaned again as the line on his
nipples tightened.  Rob had no choice but to follow the crane down the
passageway.  I followed Rob, ready to grab the hammer if he actually
lost his grip.  I wanted to keep his balls attached, although Rob did
not need to know that.  I periodically motivated him by shoving the
hammer head into his butt and then letting it swing out until the line
to his balls tightened.
	"Arrgh!  Butt sniffer!" Rob's responed.
	"Noodle nipples!" I replied, and kicked the hammer head into
Rob's rear, making it rebound even more violently.
	The deck was coarse steel grating, designed more for steel toed
boots than soft boy feet bearing an extra twenty pounds.  At a couple
of spots I had run a chain across the corridor, about a foot off the
floor.  Rob had to step lively over it to keep up with the crane, and
also take care not to snag the hammer head on it.  When we reached the
end of the passageway, I put the crane into reverse, and Rob followed it
back.  We got back to the start, and I took Rob for another round trip.
The whole routine took less than five minutes, but when we got back the
second time, Rob's entire upper body was convulsing.  His hands were
constantly working the handle trying to get a good grip.  His sweat
drenched rib cage pumped rapidly as he gulped the hot, humid air.   His
nostrils were flaring.  I grabbed the hammer, hooked the head under
Rob's crotch, and pulled him back to me.  I released his nipples and
reached down the front of his speedo to untie the noose.  My grasp
lingered a moment, and I felt his sweaty organ stir.  Before he could
start enjoying it, I tossed him onto the deck.  Rob collapsed in a heap.
He grabbed his still quivering shoulders.  He was hyperventillating.  I
crouched next to him and administered another bottle of tomato juice.
	Rob sputtered and gagged, then let out a sigh of relief as if
he had enjoyed the nasty stuff.  I answered the taunt with one more
bottle.
	"Change into something that doesn't stink!" I ordered, tossing
him his bag.
	Rob glared.  He did not like his speedos disparaged.  Rob shed
his blue and white garment.  I grabbed it.
	"Stinks nice!" I assured him.  Rob smiled for a tenth
of a second and then rifled his bag for his next selection, a glossy
black speedo with a couple of red strips on each side at the waste.
	"Attention!" I commanded again.  Rob staggered to the center
of the passageway again.  He was still strained from his ordeal with
the sledge hammer.  He was not quite as rigid as before.  I leaned
forward.
	"Warm up is over!  Now the real pain starts!" I admonished.
	"March!"
	Rob's face registered a note of concern.  Then his look of
determination returned and he set off down the passageway.  I led
him to the center of the machine room, where the main boiler howled
monotonously.  I had Rob spread eagle on his back on the deck.  I tied
his hands to a wooden beam, slightly more than a shoulder width apart.
Then I pressed a wooden pole into his palms and made it fast to the
beam.  Then I rolled his fingers around the pole and tied them in place,
so that he was in effect hanging onto the pole.  Finally I wrapped a
line several times around each wrist and then around the beam.  I spent
a couple of minutes making sure the restraining force was evenly
distributed over his fingers, hands, and wrists.  Soon the beam would
apply tremendous force to his extremities, and I knew that a misapplied
force could cause permanent nerve damage in as little as ten minutes,
probably less for a developing ten year old.  Rob would go home fully
functional, although sore.  The beam was attached to a nylon strap that
connected to a cable that disappeared over the top of a boiler.  I
activated a remote control on a cable.  An electric motor sounded from
the other side of the boiler.  The nylon strap went tight and lifted
Rob up the side of the boier on his back.  Once his feet were off the
deck I pulled his ankles down and fastened them to the boiler
foundation, as carefully as I had bound his hands.  Rob was bent
backwards against the side of the boiler.  He was forced to look up,
almost at the overhead, but his speedos faced me.  The boiler was
insulated, but it was still searing hot.  Sweat poured down Rob's
hairless body.  The surface of the insulation was coarse and hard.
I caressed Rob's already sweat soaked speedo.  His apparatus shifted
and swelled as I rubbed his front.  I went to the front of the boiler
with a pair of pliers and retrieved a large box staple I had placed on
the frame of the fire door.  The staple was searing hot, to sterilize
it.  It was painful to have my hand near it.  I slid it under the skin
of Rob's abdomen.  Rob moaned, but did not speak.  I applied three more
staples, similarly prepared, so there were two on each side of his
abdomen.  I put my hands over the offended areas, and felt the heat
emanating from under his skin.  Rob writhed and tightened his muscles,
but nothing could relieve the heat.  I stepped onto the foundation
and pierced Rob's nipples with tiny heated needles, two per nipple,
inserted at right angles to make a plus.  I looped twine under the
needles and pulled it tight, lifting the needles away from his body,
again stretching his still tender nipples.  Rob writhed more, bit his
lip and looked around wildly.
	"The winch at the end of this line is rated at ten tons," I
informed him.  "Do you think you are stronger than a ten ton winch?"
	Rob clenched his jaw and looked ahead with determination, but
there was fear in his eyes.  I stepped down and activated the remote.
The racking began.  I ran the winch in short pulses with random pauses,
so Rob would never be sure of when the stretching ended.  At first he
writhed and shifted his body, trying to relieve pressure points as his
back pressed against the uneven insulation.  Soon, Rob's body was
completely immobilized.  His joints and muscles stood out in high relief
under the taut, white skin.  His waist narrowed to a hawser connecting
the dome of his distended rib cage to his loosening speedo.  His nipples
bled where the needles thwarted their attempts to flatten against his
body.  Blood also trickled from the perforations made by the staples,
now become lengthening cuts as the skin stretched against the rigid
metal.  Rob's face contorted in agony.  His lips moved, but I did not
know if he was trying to speak or just take air.  The only motion on his
body was a slight pulsing of his belly as he gulped meager puffs of air.
I obtained another heated tool, a small pocket knife, and ran it across
his chest.  I pressed lightly, but the stretched skin separated
immediately, and rivulets of blood mixed with sweat coursed down his
torso.  I made a similar cut across his stomach, and blood descended
to the waist band of his speedo.  I rubbed him again, tracing circles
around his genitals with my finger.  I observed his member stiffen
again.  I gathered his balls in the fabric and squeezed, first
playfully, but then hard.  His cock enlarged and straightened in
response.  I pulled his balls as far as a could and then let them
snap back.  I gave his boy basket a good punch and returned to the
winch control.  I made the pulses were shorter now and the pauses
longer.  I could tell from the contours in Rob's arm pits and knees
that he was nearing the safety limit.  A couple more pulses, and I put
the remote aside and walked away.
	I went to the office, which was air conditioned.  I revelled in
the cool air, and took several refreshing drinks from the water cooler.
Then I made a leisurely stroll back to the boiler with its anguished
occupant.  I looked Rob in the face.
	"And now for the real pain," I said.
	Rob's lips moved, but he could not speak.  I grabbed the remote
and the motor whined, and let out line.  I was running it in reverse.
I relieved the tension slowly, not wanting to snap any major joints.
When the line was almost slack I removed the needles and staples and
cut the bindings on Rob's ankles and wrists.  He flopped onto my body.
I deposited him in a ball on the deck.  He shook and hugged himself,
trying to restore normal circulation and alignment to his overwrough
joints.  His entire back and thighs were red.  I was sure his butt was
too.  He appeared to be sobbing, although I could not make out any
tears amidst the sweat.
	"You have one minute to get upright!" I barked.
	Rob's movements became more frequent and ambitious.  In just
over thirty seconds he stood before me, shaking himself like a swimmer
limbering up before a race.  His face betrayed his aching muscles and
joints, but his gleam was returning.  He swelled his chest and threw
his shoulders back.  He was triumphant.
	"You have one more challenge, if you feel up to it," I said.
	Rob looked apprehensive for a moment, and then annoyed at my
suggestion that he would give up.  I led him to an open area under the
main vent.  A circular shaft rose from the overhead.  At the top,
twenty feet above, a huge fan roared.  The hottest air in the room
would be just under the fan.  A chain hung from the fan's grating to
the deck.  Rob's prize hung at far end of the chain - a shiny speedo,
like the metallic one he had earned in the pool, except this one was
bright red, the color of fire.  Rob needed no further explanation.  He
grabbed the chain and started climbing.  He was slow - his body had not
fully recovered - but steady.  As he entered the shaft I pulled my last
trick of the night.  I had attached a braided steel hose to the base of
the shaft.  The other end connected to a steam drain.  I opened a valve,
and steam hissed out of the hose into the shaft.  The great fan was now
pulling huge billows of live steam as well as hot air around Rob's
receding body.  I lost sight of Rob in the clouds.  I shoved a pile of
loose fire hose at the base of the chain to cushion any fall if Rob's
wet hands let go of the chain.  I waited at the base of the thickening
cloud.  After about a minute Rob's black and red speedo landed on my
face.  A moment later Rob careened out of the roaring oven, bounced
roughly off the pile of hose, and roled across the deck.  He was
wearing the red speedo.  He stood and raised his hands like a gymnast
at the end of a performance.  Before I could stop myself, I applauded.
	I carried him on my shoulders to the landing by the door.  He
washed in a cool shower in the changing room by the pool, and I salved
his cuts and burns.  He was undamaged.  The redness could be explained
away with "bath was too hot" or words to that effect.  As we walked
home Rob regained his old self - bouncy, boisterous, and full of beans.
I had no doubt that he was the toughest, bravest kid I could ever hope
to meet.  Knowing him and seeing him test his limits was an privilege I
would never forget.