It’s Rude to Point 7

By SuperEvil
superevil7@protonmail.com

Copyright 2026 by SuperEvil, all rights reserved

[14,668 words]

Chapter 7

Time seemed to fly by, and soon Sarah and I were back on our way over to her house. It was a lot more nerve-racking this time, walking through the neighborhood while the sun was out. It wasn't dark anymore. There weren't any big, busy cars to hide behind. Just the bright, happy sunshine and the quiet, little sounds of a Sunday morning.

"I'm scared," I admitted, my voice a shaky whisper. My free hand flew down to cover my privates, a sad, useless gesture.

"Don't be, my sweet, brave boy," Sarah cooed, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk. She gently pulled my hand away from my crotch, holding it in hers. "Just lean into it. Enjoy the moment. Think of how amazing it is that we've come up with such a great lie that allows you to walk out of the house completely naked and free. That your mom lets you."

She was right. It was an amazing lie. But that didn't make the hot, prickly feeling of shame go away.

Just then, we heard it. A little burst of giggles, followed by the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a bouncy little ball hitting the pavement. We rounded the corner onto a quieter, tree-lined street, and there they were.

A group of girls, Lisa's age, maybe a some a little younger, all clustered in a patch of sunlight on the sidewalk. They had drawn a hopscotch board with bright, colorful chalk, and they were taking turns hopping through it. They were all in little tank tops and shorts, their hair in ponytails and braids. And at the sight of me, their happy game came to a screeching halt.

One little girl with pigtails dropped her stone, her mouth forming a perfect little 'O' of shock. Another, a taller girl with glasses, stared, her eyes wide and unblinking. But it was the third girl, a little girl with bright red hair and freckles, who started the whole thing.

Her eyes weren't wide with shock. They were wide with... glee. A huge, mischievous grin spread across her face. "Look," she squealed, pointing a finger right at me. "It's a naked boy!"

My whole body froze. The hot, prickly feeling of shame washed over me in a big, sick wave. My feet, which had been moving so confidently just a second ago, were suddenly stuck to the pavement.

"Don't be shy, girls," Sarah called out, all confidence, like she wasn't walking with a totally naked boy who was being ogled by a bunch of eleven-year-olds. "He's sick. It's not polite to stare."

"We’re not staring," the little red-headed girl said, a bossy little spark in her green eyes. "We’re just looking. He's cute." And then she asked the question. The question that made my whole body want to curl up into a little ball and die. "Can we come see his wiener better?"

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I wanted to run. But Sarah's arm was like a steel band around my waist, holding me in place. She just chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made my skin crawl.

"It has a name, you know," she said, all sly and superior. "I call it his carrot. And my boyfriend's carrot is the best."

"Carrot?" the little girl with glasses repeated, a little wrinkle of confusion on her nose.

"That's what I call it. A big, handsome, delicious carrot. And carrots like this one needs to be looked at," she declared, her eyes twinkling with a crazy, brilliant idea. Then, she looked down at the hopscotch board on the ground, at the bright, colorful squares. "You know what? This looks like fun. I bet my boyfriend would love to play a game with you girls."

My heart stopped. Play? A game? Like this? Naked? With... with kids? Little girls? I shot her a look, a desperate, pleading look.

But she just smiled, a slow, sweet, terrifying smile. "It'll be good for you, big guy. Good practice for school. You need to get used to an audience." She leaned in, her warm breath a little puff of air against my ear. "It turns me on to see all these little girls staring at your naked body and your penis. And it's turning you on a little too, isn't it? Your carrot is bouncing around for them. Look at the way it's twitching," she whispered. She gave my arm a little squeeze. "I love when you blush for me."

My face was so hot, it felt like it was on fire. My traitorous body was reacting just like she said it would. I could feel a hot, heavy throb down there, a little traitorous jerk of interest at the thought of all those eyes on me.

"Okay! He can go first! I want to see him throw the rock!" the little redhead squealed, her face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. I had a feeling that wasn’t what she was really interested in seeing.

Sarah, of course, had it all planned out. She nudged me toward the hopscotch board. "Here you go, big guy. You can use this." She handed me a little, flat, blue rock.

The girls were all crowded together, their eyes wide, their faces a mix of shock and a weird, creepy excitement. This was the best thing that had ever happened to them. A real-life naked boy, right here, on their street. Playing hopscotch.

I took the rock. My hand was shaking so bad I could barely hold it. I looked down at the chalk-drawn squares, the bright colors a cheerful little mocking of my total and complete humiliation. I took a deep breath, my lungs all tight and shaky.

"Aren't you going to show them the good stuff?" Sarah purred in my ear. Her fingers found my carrot, which was still pointing, and she gave it a little, possessive squeeze. "Look, he's excited to play with you, girls. All hard and ready to go."

I looked down, and she was right. It was bouncing. Just a little, with every beat of my racing heart. And the girls saw it. A collective little gasp went through the group.

"I'm not sure I know how to play," I stammered. I was a boy, and I had never played hopscotch. I had always considered it a girl’s game.

"I'll help you," the little redhead chirped, stepping forward. She was the boss of this little group, I could tell. "You have to toss the rock onto the first square. Then you have to hop over that square, all the way to the end. And then you have to hop back, and when you get to your rock, you have to pick it up without falling over."

"Okay," I said, my voice all shaky.

So I tossed the rock. I aimed for the very first square, a bright blue one, right at the beginning. But my hand was shaking, and my throw was a little wild. The rock landed with a little clatter, right in the middle of the square.

The girls clapped. A little, polite, amazed clap.

"He's good!" the little girl with glasses whispered.

"He's natural," Sarah purred in my ear. "Now hop."

So I hopped. I put all my focus on my feet, on the chalk squares, on not falling over. I hopped from square to square, my sneakers slapping against the warm pavement. My erection, of course, bounced with every hop. A little, rhythmic up-and-down motion that had the little girls' eyes glued to my crotch.

"Wow," the little girl with pigtails breathed, her eyes as wide as saucers. "It's like a little bouncy ball."

My whole face went hot. My whole body went hot. I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle of shame right there on the sidewalk.

"Isn't it great, girls?" Sarah chirped, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of pure, proud ownership on her face. "It takes a lot of energy to do that hopscotch. All that bouncing up and down makes my boyfriend's carrot get all bouncy and excited."

I reached the end of the board, at a double square, and I had to land with one foot in each one. I did it. I didn't fall. I was a little proud of that, for about half a second.

"But it's not just bouncing," Sarah continued, her voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic purr she used. The Point and Praise. It was starting. My whole body went stiff. "It's pointing because of all of you. Your turn to praise him for a job well done. It helps him know how he's doing."

The girls all looked at each other, confused. "Praise him?" the little bossy redhead asked, scrunching up her nose.

"Of course," Sarah said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "He's working very hard. And his little carrot is, too. It's standing up so tall and proud to entertain you. You should tell him what a good job he's doing. Tell him how handsome he is."

"Um... okay," the pigtailed girl said, her face all red. She looked at my bouncing, bouncy carrot, then at my face, her eyes all big and nervous. "You're... you have a very... red wiener," she said, her words all tangled up and shy. She then looked over at Sarah for approval.

"See? That was perfect," Sarah cooed. "It wants to hear more. Don't you, big guy?" My carrot gave a happy, traitorous little bounce, as if to say yes. "And you, cutie with the glasses. You're next."

The girl with glasses blushed so hard I thought her head was going to pop off. But she looked right at my penis. "You have a... a nice carrot," she whispered. "It's so... straight."

"That's my sweet boy," Sarah said, giving me a proud little pat on the butt. Then she turned to the bossy redhead, who was looking at my carrot like it was a shiny new toy. "Now, tell him how naked he is, compared to all of you."

The redhead's face broke into this huge, greedy grin. "You're totally naked! And we can see your butt when you turn around!" she squealed, a little bit too loud.

My whole body tensed. The shame was a hot, sick wave, but underneath it, something else was bubbling up. Something dark and confusing. I liked it. A little. My body did, anyway. My stupid, traitorous body. I could feel my balls tighten, a sweet, hot throb that made my toes curl in my sneakers.

"Tell him what we can see," Sarah coached, her voice a low, encouraging hum. "We can see it all, can't we, girls?"

"Yeah!" A high-pitched chorus of agreement.

My turn to go back. I took a deep breath and made it to the square with the rock. I had to bend down to pick it up. I knew what was coming. I knew what I was showing them.

"I can see your butt! I can see your butt and the little crack in it!" the redhead shrieked, pointing with a chubby finger.

"You have little hairs on your bum," the girl with glasses said, her voice filled with this weird, scientific wonder. She pushed her glasses up her nose, like she was studying a rare new bug.

"Your balls are dangling!" the pigtailed girl squeaked, her face beet red. She covered her mouth with her hands, but her eyes were wide and staring.

"And that's why we have to praise them, girls," Sarah said, all serious and important. "To make them feel better about being so... seen." She leaned in, her stage-whisper full of fake confidence. "Now we need to tell him that he can't see our privates, but we're looking right at his. Like this. His carrot is so happy to see us. But my special place is hiding in my panties, and he can't see it because it's all covered up."

It was like a dozen tiny lightbulbs all lit up above their heads at once.

"My special spot has a pretty, purple flower on my panties!" the pigtailed girl chirped, a huge, proud smile on her face. "But you can't see them! Only I can see them!"

"I have blue ones," the girl with glasses added. "You'll never see my blue ones. Never."

"I have rainbow ones!" the bossy redhead crowed, a smug little triumphant look on her face. "And my mom lets me get new ones every week! I'll have panties forever and ever, but you'll never, ever see them!"

The words were a crazy, childish chant, but they had the effect Sarah wanted. My whole body went rigid with a new, hotter, deeper wave of shame. I had rock-hard proof that they could see every single private thing I had, and they were rubbing it in my face, telling me all about their little secret flower gardens that I could never, ever see. My own penis, my big, proud traitor of a carrot, didn't shrink. It didn't hide. It stood up even straighter, as if proud of its own exposure.

"He's blushing again! Look!" the redhead shrieked, pointing at my face.

"And he's all sweaty, too!" the pigtailed girl added, her nose all wrinkled up.

"He’s so cute when he gets like this!" Sarah declared, clapping her hands together. She walked over and stood beside me, putting her arm around my shoulders. I wanted to shrug her off, to run, to hide, but I was trapped. "All this attention has been very good for him. But it's time for us to go now. We have an important appointment."

"You have to come back and play again!" the bossy redhead demanded. She was a natural-born ruler, that one.

"We'll see," Sarah said, this knowing, little smile playing on her lips. She looked at me, a long, slow look. "Now for a proper thank you," she whispered, her lips so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of her breath. She guided my hand, my own, sweaty, clumsy hand, down to my carrot. "Go on," she coaxed, her voice a low, gentle command. "Give them a little wave goodbye… With your carrot."

I was mortified. But I did it. I wrapped my fingers around myself, just like I'd seen her do a million times now, and gave it a little shake. A silly, stupid wave goodbye.

The girls went wild. A squeal, a gasp, a round of wild, happy applause like I'd just scored the winning touchdown. I'd never been so proud or so humiliated in my entire life.

"Okay, okay, that's enough!" Sarah laughed, her arm a reassuring, guiding weight around my shoulders as she turned me away from them. "Let's go, big guy."

Walking away from them was almost worse than walking towards them. I could feel their eyes on my back, on my bare butt. I could hear their excited whispers following me down the street.

"He waved it at me!"

"I saw! I saw!"

"I can't wait to tell everyone at school that a naked boy played hopscotch with me!"

When we turned the corner, and their little voices finally faded away, a huge, shuddering breath escaped my lungs. I felt all wobbly and weak, like my legs were made of cooked noodles.

"That was... intense," I mumbled, my face still burning with shame.

"You were a rockstar, Tommy," Sarah said, squeezing my shoulder. "They loved you."

"They loved being mean to me," I grumbled.

"They loved pointing out the difference," she corrected, her voice patient, like a teacher explaining a math problem. "They found your exposure exciting. And you did, too. Don't lie."

I didn't want to admit it, but a little part of me had. The adrenaline. The power in her praise of my embarrassment. It was the most confusing mix of feelings in the entire world. And it was all because of her.

"Besides," she added, a smug little smile spreading across her face. "It was the perfect warm-up."

"Warm-up for what?" I asked, a fresh wave of anxiety starting to build in my chest.

"For the real show," she said. "The main event."

We walked in silence for the next block, the only sounds were the birds chirping in the trees and the sound of my shoes crunching on the sidewalk. Her little house was just ahead, and I couldn't wait to get inside. Away from any more prying eyes.

"You're not embarrassed to be seen with me?" I asked, my voice quiet. The question was small and felt too big all at once. It was one thing for us to play these weird, crazy games at my house, but in front of other people...

"Are you kidding? This is my greatest fantasy come true!" she said, a bright, beautiful smile on her face. "Well, probably about as close to it as I'm ever going to get. Swapping places would make it perfect, but this is just as good. I get to walk around, showing off my naked boyfriend to everybody, and no one can say a thing. It's the greatest feeling in the world, being in control of this," she purred, her fingers reaching down and giving my carrot a possessive little pat.

Sarah's front door was unlocked, and we walked right in. Her house was quiet. Too quiet. A little knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. This all just felt too easy.

We walked into the living room, and there she was. Another girl. She was sitting on the couch, and she looked so out of place she was practically glowing. She was a preppy, perfect little doll, with long, shiny brown hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, and a white polo shirt with a little pink horse on it. She had on a little pleated skirt, and her white, pristine sneakers didn't even have a scuff on them. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, so proper, so perfect. It was Becca. Mark's girlfriend. And she looked just about as shocked to see me as I did to see her.

"What in the fuck?" she breathed, her eyes getting huge as they took in all of me. The words she said weren't perfect and preppy at all.

"Now, now, Becca," a soft, gentle voice said from the armchair. It was Sarah's mom. She had a book in her lap, and a look of calm sympathy on her face that was starting to get a little familiar. "Watch your language."

"Sarah, what’s going on here? Why’s he like... this?" Becca demanded, her arm waving a little in my general direction, like she couldn't even stand to look at me.

"Becca, this is my boyfriend, Tommy," Sarah said, her cool, confident face slipping back into place. "Mom, you didn't tell Becca about Tommy's condition?" she asked, a little fake frown on her face.

"She just got here, and... And I really wasn't sure it was my place to tell," her mom stammered, looking all flustered. "I... I didn't know how to bring it up."

"What's wrong with him? Why the hell is he walking around naked, with his… His... You know!? Like that! Is he some kind of pervert?!?" Becca shrieked, jumping up from the couch, like she was scared my nakedness was contagious.

"He's not a pervert," Sarah said, stepping forward, a fierce, protective look in her eyes. "He's my boyfriend. And he's sick. He has Toxic Male Syndrome."

The words hung in the air. Becca just stared. Her perfectly made-up face was a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. Her eyes flicked from my face, to Sarah’s mom, to Sarah, and then, over and over again, back down to my crotch and my penis. Which, even with all the stress, was still pointing. A little, stubborn beacon of proof.

Becca just stood there, her mouth hanging open a little, her perfectly glossed lips all shiny in the living room light.

Just then, the doorbell rang. And then it rang again, this little happy, musical chime that cut right through the tension in the room.

"That'll be Mia and Emma," Sarah said, a little triumphant smirk on her face as she went to get the door.

Mia and Emma walked in. Mia, with her sharp bob and her glasses that made her look super smart and a little dangerous, and Emma, with her cascade of honey-blonde curls and her soft, sunny smile. Their reaction to seeing me was so different from Becca's. Their faces didn't show shock or disgust. They showed... hunger. A hungry, happy, excited light sparked in their eyes.

"Oh my god, he's glowing with health after that treatment," Emma cooed, her wide hazel eyes roving over my body.

"Point and praise before the procedure?" Mia suggested, all business. "His condition seems stable, but we should check his baseline."

"You can say that again," Becca scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard I was surprised they didn't get stuck. "Are you girls for real? Baseline? His condition? I'm going to scream unless somebody gives me a good explanation of what's going on here! Because right now it looks like you all have some sick little fetish for this perv!"

A hot, angry blush shot up my neck. It was true. All of it. But hearing this perfect stranger, this queen of the school, say it out loud made it feel so much dirtier. So much more real.

“Tommy’s condition makes it so he can’t wear clothes. It’s painful for him, and would exacerbate his illness,” Emma explained. “It’s not like he’s naked by choice, so calling him a pervert is really unfair.” Leave it to Emma to leave me feeling better and worse at the same time.

"Becca, it's all perfectly natural and... scientific," Mia said, her glasses flashing as she stepped forward. She looked so serious, so... believable. "Tommy has been exposed to a toxic chemical. My cousin, who’s a doctor, has given him a preliminary diagnosis. The chemical has... adverse reactions in the male system, especially when they are... stressed."

"I'm not stressed," I grumbled, my face feeling like a furnace.

"Oh? Then why are you pointing again?" Mia asked, her eyebrow arching in this perfect little, challenging curve.

My carrot did a little throb, a happy traitor, just like she wanted it to.

"See? The pointing proves the condition," Mia said, like she'd just solved a really hard math problem. "And the way to fix it is through manual extraction of the toxin blockage. Pointing is a key symptom of a severe buildup. It's important for us to monitor it."

Becca looked like she was starting to believe them. Or, at least, she was confused enough to stop yelling. She looked over at Sarah's mom, who was nodding along like everything made perfect sense.

"I thought you called me over because Mark was coming home soon, Mrs. Sanders," Becca said, like she was too embarrassed to continue with the current topic.

"We are," Mrs. Sanders said, her face all concerned. "But that's why I asked you here. Tommy might not be the only one infected by the toxin. Sarah and I are worried about Mark. Have you noticed how he's become so irritable lately? Angry at you? Pushing his teammates?" Her mom was planting the seeds, just like Sarah had planned.

Becca got quiet. The angry, defiant look on her face softened into a worried frown. "Well, yeah... I mean, he's been kind of a jerk lately. More than usual," she admitted, looking down at her pristine white sneakers. "I just thought... it was stress from football."

"It could be. But what if it's not?" Sarah pressed, her voice gentle, but with a sharp, serious edge. "What if he's sick? Like Tommy. And he doesn't even know it? What if he hurts someone? Or himself?"

The fear on Becca's face was real. The thought of something happening to her perfect, popular quarterback boyfriend, the center of her perfect little world, was too much for her to handle.

"You really think?... So... what do we do if he is?" she whispered, her eyes wide and scared.

"We need to be prepared," Mia said, her voice calm and clinical. "And the only way to prepare is to see how it's done. We need a... a demonstration. A training subject." Her dark eyes landed on me, a cool, assessing look.

My own heart started to pound. "A training subject?" I repeated. "No way."

"See, the disagreement shows the blockage is taking hold," Mia said, pointing a finger at me. "We can't risk it. We need to go through the full procedure, so if the time comes, Becca will know what to do to help Markus."

"What's the procedure? With... a needle?" Becca asked, her face going pale.

"No, no. That's for emergencies only. The standard procedure is to start with the point and praise, to coalesce the blockage, then a timed massage to extract. We have a very... gentle system to make sure the patient is comfortable," Mia explained, like it was a simple science experiment and not a plot to torture me.

"And then what? I have to, like... touch it?" Becca asked, her voice a little squeak.

"That's the essence of the extraction. A gentle, but firm massage. And for the health of the patient, it's much better if it's performed by a female he's comfortable with. It makes the medicine go down faster," Mia purred. "We will show you how to preform it on Tommy, so you'll be prepared to help Mark."

This was nuts. The girls were actually getting Becca to believe that Mark had the sickness too. This crazy, evil plan that had started as a whispered conversation between me and my naked, vengeful girlfriend was actually happening. And a small, dark, excited part of me couldn't wait.

"Okay," Becca said, a slow, defeated nod. She looked at me, a really look for the first time. It wasn't a look of disgust. It was a look of pity. A strange, new kind of pity, and a small bit of hunger that made my stomach do a flip. "Okay. I'll... I'll watch. For Mark."

"Excellent," Mia said, clapping her hands together once, a sharp, commanding sound. "Subject, present for examination. We should get your baseline for Becca’s benifit."

My face, which had just started to cool down, felt like it was going to catch on fire. They weren't even trying to pretend it was a medical emergency anymore. This was all for show.

I just stood there, feeling like a total and complete idiot. My penis, which had been doing a pretty good job of standing up, started to throb again, a slow, steady, traitorous beat against my stomach.

"Okay, Becca. We'll start with the praise," Mia instructed. "We need to get a good, coalesced blockage for this extraction. I've noticed that he seems to have a better, stronger blockage when the entire audience participates."

"I'll start," Sarah chirped, not missing a beat. She stepped forward, her blue eyes locking on mine, that same hungry, possessive look that made me shiver. "Look at you, my big, brave boyfriend," she purred. "Standing there so tall and strong for all these ladies, so we can help you. Your little carrot is pointing so high right now. It knows it's going to get the best kind of medicine."

A hot wave of shame washed over me. It was a familiar feeling by now, but it still made my stomach clench.

"See? Now it's my turn," Mia said, her dark, intense gaze making me feel like I was a slide under a microscope. "The blockage is already responding. You should note the slightly angry coloring on the tip," she said, pointing at my penis, and my whole body tensed. "That's a very strong indication of a severe toxicity. This extraction is absolutely necessary for his well-being." Then she gave her own praise. "Your penis is standing so straight and hard, but you can't even see what color panties I'm wearing, can you, Tommy? You'll never see them, because my jeans are covering them up."

Emma was next, her sweet, sunny face a strange contrast to Mia's cool intensity. But her words were just as sharp. "My whole body is tingling right now, Tommy," she said, her wide hazel eyes looking directly at my erection. "My tummy has butterflies. And my boobies are so tingly, all because of how strong your penis is. But you'll never get to see them, because my pretty shirt is covering them up. You'll never know how tingly they are."

My penis, of course, loved all the attention. It gave a happy, proud little throb, like it was soaking up all their words.

"Okay, your turn," Mia said, turning her attention to Becca.

Becca looked totally lost. Her face was pale, her perfect ponytail was sagging a little. "I... what do I say?" she stammered.

"Whatever comes naturally. Just tell him what you see. Tell him how you're feeling. And tell him why it doesn't matter, because he can't see any of you," Mia coached.

"Um... okay," Becca said. She took a deep breath, and her eyes, which had been looking everywhere but at me, finally focused on my penis. A little flush crept up her neck. "You're very... naked," she said, her voice a little shaky. "And... and your... thing... is very... purple."

"It's okay to call it what it is," Mia coaxed. "Be specific."

"Your penis," Becca said, the word a little breathless. "It's pointing right at me. It's pointing very, very... high. It makes me feel all... weird inside. And I'm wearing my favorite pair of underwear right now. They're pink with little lace. And you'll never, ever see them." Her eyes went wide, like she couldn't believe she had actually said the words out loud.

But then, a slow, sly little smirk spread across her face. She had liked it. She had liked saying it.

A dark, angry little spark of triumph shot through me. The queen of the school, who thought she was so much better than everyone, was praising my penis, saying it made her feel all weird inside. She was actually saying she was attracted to me!

"That's a very good praise," Mia said, a satisfied nod. "That was very effective. The blockage appears to be... very well coalesced now." She looked at me. "Now, we need to move on to the second phase. The pre-extraction stimulation."

The second phase. My brain felt fuzzy. I was still trying to recover from Becca's praise.

"Tommy, I need you to get on the ottoman," Mia said, pointing to the little leather footstool in the middle of the living room. It was a big, puff thing. "On your back. With your legs spread."

My whole body went cold. In front of everyone?

"Now, Tommy," Mia commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Remember the rules. You don't want to have a seizure, do you? And I don't want to have to get the needle. We're only trying to help you."

My legs felt like lead weights as I shuffled over to the ottoman. I sat down, the cool leather a strange shock against my bare skin. Then I lay back, the world turning upside down. Then I spread my legs, a wide, awkward V-shape that left me totally, completely, utterly exposed. My penis was pointing straight up at the ceiling. A big, proud, purple rocket for everyone to see.

"Wow, he's actually got a pretty nice..." I heard Becca whisper, before she cut herself off.

"He does, doesn't he?" Sarah said, a proud, possessive little giggle.

"Okay," Mia said, clapping her hands together to get everyone's attention. "Now, for the procedure. We'll have two operators to begin, with a secondary operator as support. This speeds up the process and allows for a more thorough extraction. Sarah, you'll take the left. Emma, you're on the right."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Two at once?

"Don't worry, Becca. Just watch closely," Mia said, settling into the big armchair like she was a queen on her throne.

My body went rigid. Then I felt them. Their hands. A warm, soft weight on each of my thighs. I wanted to jump, to pull away, to cover myself, but I was frozen.

"Okay, subject," Mia's cool, clinical voice said from above. "Are you ready for your pre-extraction stimulation? For the girls to drain your balls of all the yucky poisons?" Her words were so sweet and yet so mean.

Sarah's fingers started to move. Slow, teasing little circles on my inner thigh. "Such good strong legs for football, Tommy," she cooed. "And your skin is so hot. This blockage must be a really big one for your skin to be so hot and sensitive."

Emma's touch was different. Softer. Her fingers danced along the sensitive skin of my stomach, tracing the lines of my muscles. "You're so strong, Tommy. All hot and hard for us," she whispered. Her praise was a weird, gentle counterpoint to Mia's sharp commands and Sarah's possessive murmurings. "My tummy has butterflies again."

Their hands got closer. Moving higher. My whole body was a live wire of pure, jangled nerves. I was trapped, pinned down by their touch, by the weight of their gazes.

"He's beginning to leak," Mia announced, her voice like a teacher pointing out an interesting fact in a textbook. "A clear indicator that the toxins have coalesced and are ready to be evacuated."

Then Sarah's fingers were there. They brushed against my balls, a light, feathery touch that made me jump. Emma's fingers joined hers, and soon they were both gently rolling them in their hands, a slow, maddening exploration that had my toes curling.

"He's so full," Emma breathed, her voice full of a sweet, amazed wonder. "They feel so heavy."

"We have to get all that poison out for you, big guy," Sarah murmured, her thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin just behind them.

My breath hitched in my throat. My hips gave a little involuntary push.

"Good. He's responding well," Mia said, her voice cool and detached. "Now for the primary stimulus."

Sarah's hand moved from my balls to my erection, her fingers wrapping around the base in a firm, possessive grip. Emma's followed, her smaller, softer hand covering Sarah's. Two hands, holding me. Two different textures, two different pressures. My brain went haywire.

They started to move. Slow, up-and-down strokes, a strange, synchronized rhythm that was both incredibly wonderful and horribly humiliating.

"He's so hard," Sarah purred, her own special brand of praise a low, happy hum. "My carrot is so strong for me."

"It's so... hot," Emma whispered, her wide hazel eyes fixed on my penis. "And it's pointing at me, but it knows it'll never see my panties. They have little yellow daisies on them. And you'll never, ever see that."

The praise was a constant, confusing mix that was sending my brain into a full-on meltdown. I wanted to escape, and I wanted more. I was rocketing towards a climax so fast my head was spinning.

"No... wait..." I gasped, my hands fisting at my sides. "I'm..."

"That's the pre-extraction orgasm," Mia announced, her voice calm and clinical. "It's normal. Let it happen. It helps to soften the... tissues for the main extraction." She sounded like she was reading from a textbook.

But her words only seemed to encourage them. Their hands moved faster, their strokes a blur of motion that was pulling me right over the edge with no ceremony, no gentleness.

The world went black, then white, then exploded in a shower of sparks. A choked gasp was torn from my throat. My back arched off the ottoman, a sharp, painful curve. A hot, sticky ribbon shot out of me, landing on my stomach in a messy glob.

I sagged against the cool leather, a wave of relief so intense it was almost agony. I was done. It was over.

But their hands didn't stop.

"Excellent," Mia said, a satisfied little nod. "The pre-extraction was successful. Now for the real extraction. We'll need to work for at least five minutes to ensure we get everything out. It could be longer."

My eyes shot open. "No," I gasped, my body trying to buck away, to escape. "No, not again! I'm done!"

"Becca, you see how he's fighting it?" Mia said, her gaze shifting to the other girl. "That's the toxicity fighting back. It's a common side effect. We have to hold him down and complete the extraction, or all our progress will be lost. Please, help me hold him."

Becca looked scared, but she also looked determined. She stepped forward and put her hands on my shoulders, pushing me down against the ottoman. "For Mark," she whispered, as if to convince herself.

And then it started. For real.

Their hands, slick with my own release, started moving again. This was a different rhythm. A different purpose. They weren't trying to bring me to the edge. They were already there. They were... torturing me.

"Please, please, stop," I begged, a fresh wave of tears stinging my eyes. "It hurts! Oh god, it hurts so much!"

"That's the blockage breaking up," Mia announced, her voice calm and detached. "The hypersensitivity means it's working. This is a good sign. It might take up to twenty minutes to clear the system completely. We must be thorough."

Twenty minutes! The words were a death sentence.

"He's drooling, girls," Mia noted, like she was a bird watcher identifying a rare species. "That's a key sign of a successful treatment. The body is purging the toxins."

Their hands were relentless. A constant, maddening stimulation that was so intense it was a form of agony. Praise and command, a confusing, hypnotic mix. "Your little carrot is still so hard for me," Sarah cooed, her thumb rubbing the sensitive head in a slow, deliberate circle. "You want to give me all your poison, don't you?"

"He looks so beautiful," Emma whispered, her other hand gently stroking my sweating chest. "All sweaty and crying and helpless for us."

My mind was breaking. The pleasure was so intense it was pain, the pain was so intense it was pleasure. It was all just a white-hot, screaming overload.

"It won't stop! Please! Make it stop!" I sobbed, my hands trying to push theirs away, but I was too weak. Becca's grip on my shoulders was like steel.

"We have to clear it all out, Tommy," Mia said, her firm, commanding cutting through my pleas. "It's for your own good."

Their hands kept working. A steady, ruthless rhythm. And then it happened. Another wave crashed over me, harder and more brutal than the one before. My whole body seized up, a strangled cry ripped from my throat, and another spurt of fluid shot out of me, weaker this time, a desperate, final gasp of a system that was completely and utterly spent.

But they still didn't stop. They kept going for what felt like forever, their hands moving in a slow, agonizing rhythm, milking every last drop out of me until I was just a quivering, boneless mess. A happy, drooly, spent puddle on the ottoman.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it was over. Their hands moved away. The pressure was gone. The room went silent, except for my own ragged, wheezing breaths.

A tiny, dopey smile spread across my face. I couldn't help it. I felt... good. So, so good. Like I was floating on a cloud of pure, happy bliss.

My eyes fluttered open. I looked up at all the girls staring down at me. Emma had this soft, sweet, gentle look on her face. Becca looked like she had just seen a ghost, her face all pale and her eyes wide with shock. And my beautiful girlfriend, my sweet, evil Sarah, had this look of pure, unadulterated pride on her face.

"There," Mia said, a smug, satisfied little smile on her face. "That, girls, is the look of a successful extraction. See how happy he is? That's the poison leaving his system. That's what a relaxed, properly drained boy looks like."

"It... it is?" Becca asked, her voice a little squeak of disbelief.

"That's it. The complete, blissed-out, happy little patient," Mia purred. "Now, remember the final step. For your own safety and to check the results of the procedure, it's crucial to taste the blockage. To check for toxicity."

Taste it? My brain, which was currently floating somewhere in the stratosphere, tried to process that. And then I watched, as my two beautiful tormentors, my sweet Sarah and my not-so-innocent Emma, leaned over me.

Sarah dipped a finger into the mess on my stomach. Then, looking me right in the eye, she brought her finger to her lips and sucked it clean with a happy little pop. "Mmm. A little salty," she declared, a playful, triumphant little smirk on her face.

Emma followed suit, her own little taste-test. "Definitely salty," she agreed. "But a little sweet, too. That's a good sign, right, Mia?"

"That's a very good sign," Mia confirmed. "A sweet aftertaste means a light toxicity level. It means we got the blockage out just in time."

My brain was a mushy pile of goo, but a small, dark corner of it was working overtime. That's it. That's what we have to do to Mark. Make Becca do that. Make her taste the results of her boyfriend's extraction. The thought was a vengeful, evil little spark that made my happy, spent body tingle.

While Sarah and Emma gently, and with a weird amount of care, started wiping my stomach down with a little wet cloth they'd gotten from somewhere, Mia turned her attention to her real, actual students. "Any questions about the procedure, Becca?" she asked. "Mrs. Sanders?"

"Is... is he always going to look like that? After?" Becca asked, her voice all quiet. She was looking at me with this weird look. Not just shock, but... something else. A little bit of fascination.

"Blissed out and dopey?" Mia clarified, her glasses flashing. "For a little while, yes. The shock and release of the toxin leaves the male system in a relaxed, compliant state. He won't be much trouble until the next blockage forms." Then she turned to Sarah's mom. "Which will likely be in three to six hours, depending on his exposure levels."

"So... he's going to need one of those... one of those extractions... that many times a day?" Sarah's mom asked, her face pale with shock and a new, profound level of concern.

"Three to five times a day would be ideal, for the first week," Mia said, all casual, like she was talking about feeding a hamster. "To fully flush his system."

The clean cloth felt cool and nice against my hot, sweaty skin. I leaned into Emma's touch, a happy, purr-like hum rumbling in my chest. Sarah's hands were soft and gentle, a strange contrast to how she'd just tortured me into a quivering mess just a few minutes ago. They took their time, wiping away the sticky, salty evidence of my very... complete... extraction.

"Wow," Becca breathed, watching them. "You're really... good at that. The cleanup part, I mean."

"We've had a lot of practice," Emma chirped with a sunny smile, dabbing a last little bit of mess off my hip. "We just want to make sure our patient is comfortable."

"He looks so peaceful now," Becca said, her gaze fixed on my face, and the silly, dreamy smile I couldn't seem to get rid of. "Not like he did when he got here."

"He's been through a lot," Mia said, her tone full of a fake, dramatic sympathy. Then she turned her dark, sharp gaze on me. "Are you feeling better, Tommy? Has all that... crankiness... been purged from your system?"

I just nodded, a slow, lazy movement. "God, I feel amazing," I mumbled, my voice all slow and slurry. "My whole body is all... tingly and relaxed. It's like all my muscles turned into pudding."

Everyone smiled at that. Even Mrs. Sanders looked relieved.

"See? The treatment works," Sarah declared, leaning down and giving my forehead a little kiss. "You're my brave, strong boy."

"And now for the all-important recovery period," Mia announced, taking charge of the room again. "He needs to rest. The body is very weak after an extraction of that magnitude. But we need to affirm that what we're doing is best for him. We need to let him know that it's alright for him to be naked. Make him believe that it's the way he should be. Explain to him that boys being naked is not bad, while making it perfectly clear that we are girls and we should be wearing clothes. It makes the times in between the extractions much easier for him, and reduces the irritability and rudeness." Then she looked down at Becca. "You should practice this with me now. While he's calm."

It was the craziest, most insane lecture I had ever heard. But it was also brilliant in a sick, twisted way. They were reprogramming my brain, while they thought they were teaching Becca how to take care of Mark. It was perfect.

"Okay," Becca said, a nervous little swallow. She stepped closer to the ottoman, her perfectly styled ponytail bouncing a little.

Mia stepped up right beside her, her glasses flashing. "Like this. Watch," she said, her voice dropping into a calm, hypnotic rhythm. "You look so good, Tommy. So relaxed. It's nice to see your naked skin and not have to see it all hidden away."

"It looks... nice," Becca tried, her words a little hesitant. "All of you. All... relaxed."

"More," Mia pressed. "Tell him why it's good for him. 'The fresh air is good for your skin. The freedom is good for your soul. It's important for you to be comfortable this way.' Now, you try that."

"The fresh air is... good for your skin," Becca said, getting a little more confident, her practiced cheerleader smile sliding into place. "The freedom is good for your... soul. And you look... healthy. Not like that mean boy I thought you were before."

"Now to highlight the difference," Mia coached. "It's perfectly natural for boys to be naked, while girls get to wear clothes."

"It's important you know that girls and women get to wear clothes, but boys and men should be naked," Becca recited, a little wrinkle of concentration on her perfect brow. She was learning. She was good. "Girls have secrets we can keep safe under our clothes, but boys have to share everything. Your whole body is for us to look at."

My goofy smile got even bigger. All that logic felt so real to my spent, happy brain. She was right! Girls got to have secrets and pretty clothes, and I got to be naked! Why had I ever fought it?

"You look so cute when you're all helpless like this," Becca added, on her own this time. A real, genuine praise from the head cheerleader. And then she giggled, this weird, witchy little sound that sent a shiver through me. "For Mark," she whispered, like she was trying to convince herself.

"Girls, join in," Mia prompted, looking at the others. "It's a group effort. You too, Mrs. Sanders."

"It feels so natural to look at you naked, Tommy," Emma said with her sweet, sunny smile. "It's how it's supposed to be. You're just... you. All of you. And it shouldn't bother you at all that you don't get to see us. It's just how things are meant to be."

"Of course, sweetie," Sarah's mom cooed, her warm, syrupy voice making my insides all melty. "It's so much nicer for you like this. All that pressure of having to pick out clothes every morning is gone. I know my little boy, Mark, is always getting so stressed about what to wear. He'll be so much happier naked, just like you." She was completely sold on the lie. Mark was toast.

"It's just so... right," Becca added, a real, genuine smile on her face. The words were so much prettier coming from her. It was like getting praise from the queen.

"You see, my special, naked boyfriend," Sarah purred, leaning down to run her fingers through my hair. Her touch felt amazing. "Girls and boys are different. Girls get clothes with secrets, and boys... boys get to be naked. And we get to look." She leaned in close, her warm breath a little puff of air against my ear. "This is why we're boyfriend and girlfriend. You finally get it. I'm so proud of you."

The world was a soft, warm, hazy glow. All those girls were so smart. They were right. This was better. Much, much better.

"Boyfriend?" Mrs. Sanders gasped, her hands flying up to her mouth. A huge, brilliant smile spread across her face. "Oh, honey, that's wonderful! That's just the best news I've heard all day!" She looked from me, to Sarah, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on her face.

Becca just stood there for a second, her perfect face all confused. "Wait, he's your boyfriend? The naked boy is your boyfriend?" she asked, her voice full of disbelief.

Sarah straightened up, all pride and a defiant look. "He is," she declared, her hand possessively stroking my chest. "And he's the best boyfriend in the whole wide world, aren't you, big guy?" Her praise made a happy little hum vibrate through my whole body.

For some reason, seeing how shocked Becca was made me feel all warm and tingly inside. I was dating a Sanders girl. Mark's pretty little sister. And the head cheerleader, the girl who was dating the big bad quarterback himself, was standing right there, looking totally blown away by it.

"Well, this changes everything!" Mrs. Sanders said, her eyes practically sparkling with happiness. "We have to celebrate! You two are just perfect for each other. A handsome, brave boy... and my wonderful, caring daughter, who's helping him through his sickness. It's just like a romance movie!"

Just then, the sound of a big, truck engine rumbled to a stop in the driveway, followed by the click of car doors. A second later, the front door swung open.


"We're home!" a big, loud, cheerful voice boomed through the house. "Somebody's gotta help me carry in all this fish we caught!" It was Mr. Sanders.

And behind him, trudging in with a goofy smile on his face, was Mark.

The world went into slow motion.

I saw his face. At first, he was just Mark. Tired from a trip. A little stinky from the lake. Then he saw me. His goofy smile faltered. His eyes, a darker blue than Sarah's, went from my face, down my naked body, to my penis, which was laying there all soft and sleepy on my stomach. Then his eyes went back to my face. He blinked once. Twice. His whole face went from confused to just... completely and utterly shocked.

"What the...?" he started, his voice a slow, confused mumble.

"Markus!" Sarah's mom chirped, her face all bright and cheerful as she rushed over to him. She took his dirty, smelly fishing vest and started to unbuckle it for him, her hands fluttering all over him like a mother bird. "Oh, my baby boy! We missed you so much! How was your trip with Daddy?"

But Mark's eyes were locked on me. On the ottoman. Naked. In the middle of his living room, being watched by a bunch of girls, including his own sister. And his own girlfriend.

"Dad, what is... what the hell?" he said, looking at Mr. Sanders for help. His dad had come in too, and he looked a little confused, but he was also just looking at his phone, tapping away at it.

"It's about what your mother texted me, son," Mr. Sanders said, not even looking up from his phone, his voice all tired and serious. He was a history professor, and he always sounded like he was about to give a pop quiz.

"Why the hell is there some naked guy in our living room?" Mark demanded, his voice cracking a little. Then he finally looked at my face. "Wait, Tommy? What the fuck?"

"Mark, watch your language, and stop being rude to him. He's a guest in our house, and he is here because he is sick," his mom said in a very serious voice. She took Mark by the shoulders and looked him right in the eye. "This boy has a very serious disease. Tommy has Toxic Male Syndrome. And it is because of the big chemical spill at the old factory a few years ago."

Mark's face went blank. "Toxic... what?" He looked at me, then at the girls, then at Becca, who was suddenly super interested in a loose thread on her perfect little pleated skirt.

"Mark," Mia said, stepping forward like she was some kind of important doctor. She pushed her glasses up her nose in that way she did when she was about to lay down some serious knowledge. "The chemical that spilled was specifically engineered to be harmful to the male reproductive system. It has... adverse reactions, especially when they are... stressed. And Tommy was very stressed when he got here today. But that doesn't matter. What matters is we need to test you right now to see if you have been exposed too, because if you have, we will need to treat you so it doesn't get worse."

"Treat me? What are you talking about?" Mark's face was still blank, but he was starting to get a little of the scared-shitless look that I knew all too well.

"It's very simple," Mia said, all calm and clinical. "Because of where the football field is, so close to the contaminated site, all the football players are a high-risk group. We need to see if you've been exposed." She took a step closer to him, a predatory glint in her dark eyes. "The simplest and most effective test is a two-minute pointing assessment. All the boys on the football team should take it."

"Two-minute pointing assessment?" Mark repeated, his nose all wrinkled up. "I don't know what you mean."

"I will explain," Mia said, like a patient teacher. "Sarah and I discussed this technique with Dr. Garcia, my cousin. I have explained this many times now to Mrs. Miller, and your mother. A boy can be exposed to these toxins for a very long time without ever even showing a symptom, not even a little bit, until he goes into shock. That is how dangerous it is. But with this test, we can see if there's anything hiding in there, before it's too late."

She looked right at him. "A healthy boy, with no toxin blockage, will not have an involuntary pointing. But a boy with a blockage... he will. We're going to expose you to a standard series of stimuli, and if you point, you have the Syndrome. If you don't, you go home a free boy. And you never have to hear from us again."

Mr. Sanders finally looked up from his phone, a worried line forming between his brows. "He was fishing at the lake all day. Could he have been exposed there?"

"The toxin was concentrated in a few key areas, but it also entered the water system. So it's possible," Mia said with a solemn nod. "The fact that he's already been... irritable, as Mrs. Sanders said... it's a key indicator."

Becca's head snapped up at that. "He has been," she said, her voice all small and serious. "A jerk. At practice. Last week, he threw a clipboard. It's... not like him."

Mark looked betrayed. "Becca!"

"It's true, honey," Sarah's mom said, patting her son's arm, a sad little look on her face. "I'm worried about you. This test... it's for your own good."

It was working. Perfectly. The worry, the concern, the manufactured facts from Mia. They were all swirling around Mark, a confusing, scary cloud of information.

"Fine. What do I have to do for this test? Show you my bicep?" Mark asked, a sarcastic little smirk on his face, trying to act all tough and cool for Becca. But I could see the flicker of fear in his eyes. He was trapped.

"Much simpler than that," Mia said, her lips curving into a sly, almost invisible smile. "You just stand there. And look at us. For two minutes."

"That doesn't seem like a test," Mark said, folding his arms and sneering.

"Did I forget to mention that you have to do the test completely naked?" Mia asked, her voice so casual it was almost scary. The smirk on her face was full-on now. A bright, triumphant little smirk.

Mark's arms dropped. His smug look completely vanished. "Naked? No. Fucking. Way. No way," he said, taking a step back. "I’m not getting naked in front of you! What are you anyway, twelve?"

"Oh, here we go," Sarah sighed, rolling her eyes, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. She sauntered over to stand in front of him, putting her hands on her hips. "Just can't do it, can you, big brother? The great football hero is scared of a little pointing assessment in front of my friends."

"It's not about being scared, it's about being... dignified," Mark shot back, but his face was getting all red.

"Dignified?" Sarah laughed, a harsh, mocking little sound that made my own stomach clench in sympathy. "Look at him," she said, waving a hand over at me, laying there on the ottoman. "Look at my Tommy. He's a warrior. He has been through a deep, full extraction, and you still need to be tested for the same thing. Tommy got naked. He endured a very difficult, draining procedure in front of all of us, so he could be healthy. He faced his exposure, to make himself better. Are you trying to say you aren't as brave as my boyfriend? You're less of a man? Maybe he should be the quarterback, if you're going to chicken out of a simple test."

Mark's face went from red to purple. He shot a look at me, then at Becca, who was watching him with wide, worried eyes. He couldn't back down. Not now. Not in front of her. Not when a "lesser" player, me, was the "brave" one in the room.

"I'm not scared of anything," he snarled, a little too loud. "I'm a better man than this naked loser. If that's what it takes to get you nutcases off my back, fine." He looked over at me, a real, mean challenge in his eyes.

"Okay," Mia said, all calm and professional, like she was a real doctor and not a crazy girl getting her rocks off. "The timer starts... when your clothes are on the floor, and you're hard."

He huffed, this big, angry puff of air, but he started to undress. He wasn't elegant about it. He just ripped his sweaty t-shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor with a little angry thud. Then he kicked off his sneakers and yanked down his jeans.

And then he was in his tight, white briefs. That last little layer of defense. He stood there for a second, all tense muscle and a look on his face that said he was going to punch someone. His eyes darted to Becca. She just nodded, this slow, serious little nod. He was a cornered animal. And he had no other choice.

He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down in one quick, jerky motion.

There it was. Mark Sanders. The star quarterback. Captain of the football team. King of the school. Standing in the middle of his living room in just his socks, completely and totally naked.

The thing was, he didn't look like a king. He looked... nervous. His shoulders were all hunched up, like he was trying to make himself smaller. He had these weird little red bumps on his butt and on his upper thighs. Pimply acne. And then there was... it.

His penis. I hadn't really thought about what I'd expected. Something impressive, I guess. Something worthy of a king. But that's not what it was. It was... small. It was kind of chubby and short, hiding in a little tangle of dark, sparse hairs. 3 inches maybe on a good day. And right then, it wasn't pointing. It was just... there. Shrinking away from all the attention.

A slow, sly smirk spread across my face. I was still on the ottoman, feeling loose and good from my extraction. But seeing Mark, the big shot, standing there all pale and naked and... small... felt amazing. A whole different kind of amazing.

"Huh," Sarah said, a slow, thoughtful hum. "I thought you said he was a big, strong man, Becca." Her voice was a lazy, mean little purr.

Becca's face went totally red. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out.

"Subject's baseline state is... non-pointing. Flaccid," Mia announced, her voice all calm and clinical, like she was a real scientist discovering a new bug. "But the pointing assessment hasn't even started yet. Let's see how he responds to the stimuli."

They all started the Point and Praise. But this was different. This was for him. The big, brave, quarterback. My tormentor.

"Look at you, Markus," Emma cooed, her sweet voice full of fake sympathy. "You're so tired from your trip with your daddy, aren't you? Your whole body must be all achy and sore. And your little penis, your little mushroom head, looks so shy right now. So sleepy."

"It's not shy, it's..." Mark grumbled, but he couldn't finish. Because he looked so nervous. So small. The mean words he usually had for anyone just wouldn't come. Not when he was the one who was naked and exposed.

"It looks so cute all snuggled up in that little tangle of hair, Markie," Sarah added, a mean little giggle in her voice. "Like a little field mouse hiding from the big, scary world. You're not scared, are you, big brother?"

"He's got all those little red bumps," Becca whispered, a real note of shock in her perfect, preppy voice. "On his butt. I've never seen them in the light before."

"They're just pimples, Becca!" Mark snapped, and then he stopped, shocked that he'd said it. That he'd admitted she'd seen it enough times to know about them.

"And look," Mia said, her glasses flashing as she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the one thing Mark didn't want anyone to notice. "He doesn't point. It's... small. The tip is all tucked away. It looks like it doesn't want to be here. It looks like it wants to run away and hide."

But Mark's little penis, chubby and shy as it was, didn't respond to the praise. Not like mine did. If anything, it seemed to shrink away from their words, pulling in even tighter against his body. It was so clear, even to my spent, happy brain. The praise wasn't working. He wasn't enjoying the humiliation. He just hated it.

"Something isn't right," Mia said, tapping her chin with a long finger, her face all serious and thoughtful. Her performance was incredible. Like she had studied for a role in a play about a fake doctor. "The stimuli is having a negative effect. The praise should encourage the blockage to present, the hardening and pointing, so we can test its... mass. His irritability, which you mentioned, Mrs. Sanders, is a clear sign of the toxin. He is a prime candidate. But the standard stimuli isn't coalescing the blockage for testing." She looked up at Mark, her dark, intense gaze pinning him in place. "You're fighting it, Markus. The stress and the toxicity is making your system resistant. We'll have to try a different approach."

"There's no other approach! I'm clean! I'm fine!" Mark yelled, his big chest puffing out, but it was a sad, hollow attempt at being tough. He looked like a scared little kid throwing a tantrum.

Mia took a step closer. "If he won't respond to the stimuli, we will have to induce a state... artificially. To see if there's any reactivity. You will have to do it yourself," she said, her words falling like death sentences in the silent room. "To get him pointing for the test. To check for the blockage that is obviously making him irritable."

Mark just stared, his mouth open. "Do... do what myself?" he stammered, a look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face.

"Mia's right," Mrs. Sanders said, her face all pale and full of this new, intense worry. "You have to get it hard so we can check you, baby! We have to know if the blockage is hiding in there!"

"M... Make myself... No!" Mark yelled, shaking his head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears. "No way! I'm not doing that in front of everyone."

"Fine. I guess we'll just make Tommy the new quarterback then," Sarah said, a bored little sigh. She was leaning against the wall now, her arms crossed over her chest, looking at her brother like he was a bug she was thinking about squashing. "The old captain is too shy to see if he's sick. Tommy's not shy, are you, big guy?" she cooed over at me. I was still laying on the ottoman, all warm and happy.

"That's not fair!" Mark sputtered, his face contorting with rage and fear. He shot a desperate look at Becca.

"I think... I think Mia's right, Mark," Becca whispered, her perfect face a mask of serious concern. She had been won over. The lies had her. She looked at him with these big, worried eyes. "We have to know. Your health is more important than... than your dignity." She reached out and put a gentle hand on his arm, a little gesture of support that also kept him right where he was.

And that was it. That's what sealed his fate.

Mark grabbed his chubby little penis in his fist, this tight, angry grip. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face a mask of pure, burning shame. He started to... move. A clumsy, jerky motion. Not slow or sexy or anything like that. It was just desperate.

"He's not good at that," Emma whispered to Mia, her face all scrunched up in this weird, sympathetic confusion. "He looks... sad."

"He is sad," Mia whispered back. "The toxicity is preventing him from feeling pleasure from the act. It makes it feel... clinical. A chore. It's another clear symptom." The lies just kept coming, so smooth and perfect.

Mark kept pulling at it. A fast, rough, angry motion. And then, a miracle happened. Or, a curse, depending on how you looked at it. It started to grow.

It wasn't a sudden thing. It was a slow, reluctant process, like it was being dragged out against its will. The chubby little thing in his fist started to stretch, to get a little bigger, a little harder. Slowly, it stood up, all on its own. Not fully hard. Not proudly pointing. Just... up. At a sad, droopy little angle.

"That's it, Mark," Becca breathed, and this weird, almost proud little light came into her eyes. "See? It's working."

"The subject is achieving a semi-erect state," Mia announced, her glasses flashing. "This is a critical moment for the assessment. Now, we re-introduce the stimuli, girls. Focus on the clothed vs. naked dynamic. The core imbalance. He needs to feel the difference."

And they did. They circled him like a pack of happy little wolves. He stood there, with this sad, half-hard penis in his hand, a look of pure, trapped misery on his face.

"Look at your little mushroom, Mark," Sarah purred, her voice dripping with a sweet, syrupy poison. "It's getting harder, but it knows its place. It knows that even though it's standing up a little, it'll never see what's under my skirt. My little pink panties are a secret that you'll never know."

His sad little penis, upon hearing that, gave a weird, angry little throb.

"It's so much smaller than Tommy's, you know," Sarah added, her voice dropping to a loud, shame-filled whisper that cut right through the room. "Even like this, all hard and angry for me, Tommy is so much bigger."

Mark's whole body went rigid. His eyes flew open, and he shot a look of pure, burning hate at his own sister. But it was too late. The damage was done. It started to bounce.

It wasn't a proud, happy bounce. It was a scared, angry little bounce. Every beat of his racing heart made it jump, a little, jerky motion that had nowhere to hide.

"You see that, girls?" Sarah cooed, a triumphant light in her blue eyes. "See how he bounces? All angry and small. He's pointing because he's being reminded of his place. All boys should be naked and pointing for us to see. He knows you're all dressed, and he is not. That he will never see our secrets, but we can see all of him."

"Shut up, Sarah! That's not true!" Mark yelled, but his sad little penis betrayed him. At Sarah's words, it throbbed again, a hard, angry pulse that made it stand up a little straighter. A full-on, honest-to-god hard-on.

"I see it too," Becca whispered, her face all pale, but a hungry, interested light was sparkling in her perfect cheerleader eyes. She looked from Mark's bouncing penis to his face, a little smirk playing on her lips. She liked this. She liked seeing him squirm.

"Impressive growth from that initial state," Mia noted, her glasses flashing as she studied him. "The blockage is very responsive to shame stimuli. That's a clear and present symptom of the Syndrome. Keep it up, girls."

"It is," Emma agreed, her big, hazel eyes wide with mock concern. "He's so sensitive when we talk about him being small." She took a little step closer to him, a sunny smile on her sweet face. "Your penis is so much smaller than Tommy's, Mark. Even when it's all hard and angry, Tommy's is still so much bigger and stronger."

Mark's whole body flushed a dark, angry red. His sad little penis, upon hearing Emma's sweet, cruel words, did it again. It bounced. A happy, traitorous little bounce. It loved being called small. The humiliation made it hard. It was the weirdest, most amazing thing I had ever seen.

"And it's pointing right at me," Becca added, her voice a low, husky purr. A real purr. Her perfect cheerleader mask was slipping, showing the real, bossy, kinky girl underneath. She had been faking being a good girl this whole time. "My big, strong quarterback is standing in the middle of the room with a tiny, angry penis that's pointing right at me. And I'm fully dressed. My shirt, my skirt, my lacy pink panties... Everything is hidden from you."

Mark's penis bounced again. This time, harder. A desperate, angry pulse that made it stand up at full attention. A pathetic four-inch rock-hard salute for everyone to see.

"Look," Mia said, a smug, triumphant little smirk on her face. "The anger stimulus is very effective." She looked at her little watch, a clicky, old-fashioned thing with a real second hand. "One minute, forty-five seconds. The subject has been fully exposed for a full minute. And we can see he's infected. Very, very infected."

"He gets so hard when we compare him to Tommy," Sarah marveled, a slow, sly smile spreading across her face. "Look at him now. All proud and angry. You should be proud of your little chubby pickle, Mark. It's very hard for us. It's putting on a very brave show."

The nickname made him flinch, a full-body recoil. But it didn't make his penis go down. No. It gave one last, final, angry throb.

"Two minutes," Mia announced, the click of her watch loud in the silent room. "Assessment complete. And the verdict is... Positive. He has the Syndrome." She looked up at Mark, her dark, intense eyes full of a fake, sympathetic pity. "I'm so sorry, Markus. But it is good that we found it. We can treat you now."

Mark looked like he was going to be sick. His face was all pale and clammy, and he was breathing hard, like he'd just run a marathon. "Positive? No. No, that's not possible," he stammered, looking around at everyone for help.

"I'm sorry, honey," Mrs. Sanders said, her face all soft with worry and... was that excitement? A weird, giddy little energy that made her almost sparkle. "But it's clear as day. Your pointing is aggressive and angry. A clear indication of the toxin taking hold. You'll need treatment, baby. Lots of it."

Mr. Sanders, who had been silently watching the whole thing from the doorway, finally put his phone down. His face was pale, and a deep, worried frown was etched on his brow. "Are you sure about this, Mia?" he asked, his voice all low and serious. "I want to do the best for my son, but... Are you sure you're qualified to make this diagnosis?"

"I'm certain, Mr. Sanders," Mia said, her voice full of a calm, scientific authority that was completely believable. "My cousin, Dr. Garcia, developed the assessment herself. She's been studying the effects of the spill for years. Mark has the symptoms. The irritability, the aggressive response, the anger-induced pointing. The diagnosis is conclusive."

"I'll say," Sarah chirped in, a mean little smirk playing on her lips. "He looks miserable. It's all that poison making him all angry and mean and rude."

"But now we know," Becca added, her voice full of this new, bossy confidence. She walked over and stood next to Mark, not to comfort him, but like she was in charge of him now. "And we can start making him better." She reached out and gave Mark's hard little penis a little pat. A pat. Like he was a dog.

Mark flinched away from her touch, a look of pure shock and betrayal on his face.

"My Mark, my poor baby," Mrs. Sanders cooed, rushing over to him. She wrapped her arms around his naked, tense body, pulling him into a big, hug that was both sweet and somehow super awkward. "Don't you worry, sweetheart. We're going to take such good care of you. You're going to get all better."

Mia just stood there, a calm, satisfied smile on her face. She looked from Mark to Mr. Sanders, her dark, intense eyes narrowing a little. She was enjoying this. A lot. But then, a new, even more brilliant idea seemed to pop into her head. A little spark of mischief ignited in her eyes. This was her favorite game. And it was her turn to roll the dice.

"There's one thing that is worrying me, Mr. Sanders," Mia said, her voice dropping into that super serious, worried tone. She stepped toward him, her glasses glinting in the light.

Mr. Sanders looked up from his son, a deep, worried frown etched on his face. "What is it, Mia? Just tell me what you need me to do for Mark. I'll do anything."

"It's about the chemical," Mia said, her words all slow and deliberate, like she was building a bomb. "The original studies that my cousin, Dr. Garcia, conducted, found that the toxin doesn't just affect teenage boys. It can affect males of all ages. The spill was... a few years ago. But the particles remain active in the soil, in the water supply. It's possible that you, as Mark's father, as a male living in this house, drinking the same water, breathing the same air... could also be carrying the blockage."

Mrs. Sanders's arms, which had been wrapped so comfortingly around her son, tightened. Her head snapped up, and her wide, blue eyes locked onto her husband's face. All the giddy excitement drained out of her, replaced by a stark, pure fear.

"No," she whispered, the word a dry little puff of air.

"And what's more," Mia continued, pressing her advantage. She was a shark, and she could smell the blood in the water. "The toxins can be passed through close, prolonged contact. If a father carries an aggressive form of the Syndrome, it can... alter the son’s system. Making his own blockages more severe. More aggressive. We already saw how angry Mark's pointing was. It could be that his condition is a direct result of a latent, untreated blockage in you, Mr. Sanders."

Mr. Sanders stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief. His lips parted, but no words came out.

"Michael," Mrs. Sanders said, her voice all shaky and strange. She let go of Mark and took a step toward her husband, her hands clasped together in front of her like she was praying. "Mia... Are you saying my husband could be making my son... sicker?"

"It's a possibility we have to rule out," Mia said, her voice full of a gentle, clinical gravity. "For Mark's own good. For your whole family's health."

My own body went tense. This was it. The craziest, most dangerous game we had ever played. Not just a boy from school. A grown-up. A father.

"There's only one way to know for sure," Mia added, her gaze locking with Mrs. Sanders's, a knowing, conspiratorial look passing between them. "Another assessment. To be certain."

"Michael," Mrs. Sanders said, her voice all sharp now. All business. "You will take this assessment. Right now."

"Now, hold on, Sandra," Mr. Sanders said, holding up his hands like he was stopping traffic. "This has all gone a little too far. A naked boy in my living room is one thing. I am a grown man. A professor. I am not going to... to disrobe... in front of a bunch of children." He looked at me, then at Becca and Mia, a flash of anger in his blue eyes.

"The girls have all seen Mark now," Mrs. Sanders countered, her chin jutting out. She was a full-grown woman, but she was pouting. "You don't look so different from him. Besides, you're his dad! Mark's health could depend on this! If you have some latent blockage making him worse..." Her voice broke a little, and she looked at Mark, who was still standing there, naked and exposed, a look of pure, abject misery on his face. She was selling the lie like her son's life depended on it.

Mr. Sanders looked from his distraught wife, to his miserable son, to Mia, who was looking at him over the top of her glasses with a calm, unnerving intensity. He was a good dad. He was a good husband. He was trapped.

"Or," Mrs. Sanders added, her voice dropping into a cold, steely threat, "we can go next door and get Brenda. I'm sure our new divorcee neighbor would be happy to come over and observe. She's a nurse, you know. She's seen it all. Maybe she has a professional opinion on how to treat toxic blockages in grown men."

A fresh wave of mortification washed over Mr. Sanders's face. Getting naked in front of a bunch of teenagers was one thing. Getting naked in front of the pretty, young divorcee from next door... and a nurse, no less? That was another thing entirely. He let out a long, defeated sigh, the sound of a man who had just lost a war he didn't even know he was fighting.

"Fine," he mumbled, the word a low, bitter pill he had to force down. "Fine. But just... just turn around. Let a man have some dignity."

"No, Michael!" Mrs. Sanders snapped, her voice all sharp and commanding. She pointed a finger right at him. "You will take off your clothes right here. Right now. In front of all of us. So we can see you. So we can save our son."

And so, with the last shreds of his tattered dignity clinging to him like wet newspaper, Mr. Sanders started to undress. He didn't have Mark's angry, jerky movements. His were slow, heavy, like each button on his shirt, each shoe on his feet, weighed a thousand pounds. He looked tired. A tired, beaten-down man who just wanted it all to be over.

He folded his clothes, one piece at a time, placing them in a neat, pathetic little pile on the chair. He was trying to hold on to some small sliver of order, some small piece of control in a situation where he had none. Finally, he was left in just a pair of baggy, gray boxer briefs that had seen better days. He stood there for a second, a sad, bulky silhouette in the middle of the room. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep, shuddering breath, and pushed them down.

And then he was naked.

And the room got really, really quiet.

Mr. Sanders was not a muscular guy. He was pale and a little soft around the middle, with a sparse patch of dark hair on his chest. His penis, like Mark's, was not pointing. It wasn't hiding, either. It was just... small. Very small. A tiny little nub of pale flesh, nestled in a wiry thicket of graying pubic hair, with a pair of small, saggy balls nestled underneath. It looked... tired.

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Sanders said, her voice a soft, cooing sigh. "Look at you."

My brain was still all fuzzy and floaty from my extraction, but watching this... it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. You wanted to look away, but you just couldn't.

"So non-reactive at the initial exposure," Mia noted, her calm, clinical voice cutting through the thick silence of the room. "We will need stimuli. We need to see if the blockage is there, even if it's dormant." She looked at Mrs. Sanders, a little knowing glance passing between them.

"My sweet Michael," Mrs. Sanders purred, walking up to her husband. She ran a single, red-painted fingernail down his chest. A little shudder ran through his whole body. "Remember how you used to get all excited when we were younger? When you'd come home from work, and I'd have a new little skirt on?" She looked down at his tiny, little nub of a penis. "Your little pickle used to get so happy to see me."

"I... Sandra, not in front of... of company," Mr. Sanders stammered, his face turning a deep, blotchy red.

"But I want to see it happy again," she cooed, a sly, mischievous glint in her blue eyes. She turned to the girls, a theatrical little whisper. "The girls have seen what your son has. And they've seen what Tommy has. Don't you think your little pickle is feeling a little... sad? Being so much smaller than all the rest?"

And there it was. The same dirty trick they'd played on Mark. The comparison.

Mark's sad little penis gave an angry little twitch, a jolt of pure humiliation at being compared to me again.

And his dad's... it did something, too.

It wasn't a bounce. It wasn't a twitch. It was... a stir. The tiny, tired nub seemed to wake up a little, like a little animal peeking its head out of its den.

"There we go," Mrs. Sanders whispered, a triumphant little smirk on her face. "Now, that's better. Starting to get interested. Does my little pickle remember what a pretty girl in a pretty dress looks like?" She did a slow, silly little twirl, her skirt flaring out around her.

Stir. A little more. Starting to stretch.

"He's so small," Emma whispered to Sarah, though it was loud enough for everyone to hear. Her wide, innocent-seeming hazel eyes were all big with fake shock. "It's even smaller than Mark's. I've never seen one that small before."

"He's so... cute," Mia said, her lips curving into a predatory smile. She pushed her glasses up her nose. "It looks like a little pink button just asking to be pushed."

And it worked. Mr. Sanders's tiny nub of a penis twitched, a hard, angry little spasm, and then it started to grow. It was weird to watch. There wasn't a lot to work with, but it was doing its best. It stretched and hardened, pulling itself up until it was standing out from his body.

It was hard. All hard. But it was still just... tiny. A miniature pillar of angry, throbbing flesh.

"Timer on, Mia," Mrs. Sanders commanded. Then her smile turned into something mean. "It is just the cutest little pickle, honey. Standing up so tall for everyone. But look at Tommy's." She pointed a finger right at me. I was still laying on the ottoman, my own bigger, spent carrot laying against my thigh. "And then look at Mark's." She pointed a finger at her son, who was standing there with his sad little four-incher still pointing, a perfect little statue of shame. "It's so much smaller, baby. Your little pickle is the smallest one in the whole room."

"Sandra, please!" Mr. Sanders gasped, a choked, sob-like sound.

His little pickle, the meanest words of all, did it again. It bounced. A furious, desperate little beat against his stomach.

"Look at that!" Becca shrieked, a real, genuine shriek of delighted surprise. The perfect, preppy queen had fully transformed. She was loving this. "The smallest one in the whole room! I can't believe it! Your dad is even smaller than you are, Mark!"

Mark's whole body flinched. But he couldn't say anything. Not a word. Because the bouncing had started for him, too. A fresh wave of angry, throbbing bounces, fueled by the new shame of his dad being even smaller.

"One minute has passed," Mia said, her smug, triumphant smile getting even wider. "Keep up the point and praise, girls."

"He's so hairy, too," Emma chirped, getting into the game. "His little pickle is so lost in all that fuzzy hair. You can't even see it properly."

"It looks... shy," Becca added, her eyes wide with this new, hungry fascination. "Like it wants to hide, but it has to come out and say hello to all of us dressed-up girls."

"It's saying hello," Mrs. Sanders purred, looking right at her husband's furious, bouncing little pickle. "It knows it shouldn't hide. It knows its job is to point for us. To show us how it compares to all the others."

Mr. Sanders's face was a dark, ugly purple. But his little pickle, the traitor, was loving all the attention.

"Ding," Mia said, the little sound loud and final. "Two minutes. Assessment complete." She looked around the room, her dark eyes taking in the whole scene. Mark, standing there miserable. Mr. Sanders, looking like he was about to have an actual, real-life heart attack. Me, laying on the ottoman, all happy and spent. "And the results are conclusive. Both male specimens in this household are severely infected."

Mark let out a choked, ragged sob. Becca just patted his naked, tensed shoulder.

"What do we do now?" Mrs. Sanders asked, her voice all serious, but her eyes were sparkling with a strange, giddy light. She was thrilled. Her boys were sick, and she was the one who got to save them.

"We have a severe buildup in both of them, due to a prolonged, untreated condition," Mia announced, taking charge like a general planning a battle. "Both of them will require immediate, deep, thorough extractions."