Sammy 2times Chapter 2

By H. T. Duck

The author does not wish to receive feedback
Copyright 2026 by H. T. Duck, all rights reserved

[8,041 words]

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now. 

Breakfast was a silent pantomime, his mother's nails clicking against her coffee mug in deliberate intervals while he shoveled bran flakes into his mouth without chewing.
The cereal turned to paste on his tongue, each swallow dragging like wet sand through his esophagus. When the doorbell chimed at exactly 6:45 AM, they both froze mid-bite, her lips pursing around a sip of Earl Grey, his spoon hovering over the bowl in a trembling arc.

The door swung open to reveal Patricia's delicate frame backlit by dawn, her ballet flats crossed at the ankles like a demure schoolgirl.
"Good morning, Sammy!" she chirped, bouncing on her toes in a way that made her pleated skirt flare. The effect would've been charming if not for the digital camera dangling from her wrist like a shackle.
His mother's heels clicked once against the linoleum, a single, loaded punctuation mark.

Sammy's fingers fumbled with his backpack strap as Patricia's gaze dropped pointedly to his crotch. Her giggle was high and bright, the sound of glass shattering in slow motion.
"Oh silly, you're still dressed!"
She wiggled the camera strap suggestively, her other hand already reaching for his belt buckle. Behind them, his mother's mug hit the counter with a ceramic clack, neither approval nor protest, just another data point in his humiliation log.

Patricia's fingers were surprisingly strong for their delicate appearance, popping his button fly open with practiced efficiency.
The morning air licked his exposed flesh, raising goosebumps along his inner thighs.
"There we go!" she cooed, patting his larger cock like a misbehaving puppy.
The camera's flash seared his retinas before he could protest, capturing his flaccidity for some unseen audience.
"Now hold that pose for yearbook committee!"
Her giggle morphed into something sharper as the second flash illuminated his wince.

Sammy's mother cleared her throat, a sound like a guillotine being prepared.
"You keep those pictures for yourself," she stated, pointing a finger at Patricia's camera with lethal precision.
The nail polish matched her lipstick today, scarlet warnings painted across both weapons.
"You be respectful with my son. He is special."
The words landed with the weight of a judge's gavel, making Patricia's smile falter.

Patricia's eyelashes fluttered in rapid succession, her grip tightening reflexively on the camera strap.
"Of course, Mrs. W..."

"Special *needs*," his mother interrupted coolly, "Surely you've noticed his... condition?"
"The program exists for boys like him. Not for your little collection."

Patricia's throat worked visibly, her porcelain complexion flushing unbecomingly pink.
The camera swung limply from her wrist like a hanged criminal.
Sammy stared at his toes curling against the welcome mat, wondering when his mother had become such a convincing liar.
Special needs?
The only condition he suffered from was existing in this godforsaken town.

"Run along now," his mother murmured without looking up.
"Don't you have cheer-leading practice?"

Patricia's retreating footsteps echoed down the driveway, her usual bubbly energy replaced by something heavier.
Sammy watched a ladybug crawl across his left foot, its tiny legs tickling between his toes, until his mother's shadow swallowed him whole.

"Special needs," she repeated softly, more to herself than to him.
"They'll believe anything if you say it with conviction."

The bus brakes screeched outside, jolting Sammy from his thoughts.
Through the smudged window, he saw Harold's familiar hunched posture near the back, his shoulders curved inward like parentheses around some unspeakable truth.
Next to him, Kevin's bulk took up two seats, his meaty forearm draped possessively over Harold's knee.
Kevin's free hand lifted in a slow, deliberate wave that made Sammy's sphincter clench.

Sammy hesitated at the bus steps, gripping his backpack straps until his knuckles blanched.
Harold's expression was unreadable behind Kevin's shadow, just the occasional flash of teeth when Kevin whispered something that made his entire body flinch.
The driver tapped the steering wheel impatiently.

Kevin's fingers flexed meaningfully on Harold's thigh, his other hand patting the empty seat beside them with deliberate slowness.
The gesture would've been friendly if not for the way Harold's knees kept bouncing, as if Kevin's palm concealed a live wire.

Sammy sat with Harold and his new friend, the ride to school passed quickly.

The bus ride jostled them together, Kevin's thigh pressing insistently against Sammy's while his fingers drummed a slow rhythm on Harold's knee.
Harold's breathing hitched whenever Kevin's pinky strayed too far inward, tiny choked noises swallowed by the diesel roar.
Sammy stared fixedly at the safety pamphlet above the emergency exit, its cheerful cartoon characters demonstrating seat-belt use with grotesque smiles.

Art room fluorescents burned away the morning gloom, highlighting the dusty plaster casts of Greek statues along the shelves.
Mr. Brimley clapped his hands once, a sound like two slabs of raw meat slapping together.
"Today we're studying musculature in motion," he announced, gesturing toward the raised platform where Kevin already stood, shirtless and grinning.
His pecs flexed without prompting, the dark trail below his navel drawing every eye downward to where his sweatpants tented obscenely.

Kevin hooked both thumbs in the elastic waistband with performative nonchalance, letting the fabric snap against his hips before shimmying it down.
The unveiling was met with scattered applause, mostly from the girls in front who craned their necks for a better view.
His cock swung heavily between muscular thighs, flushed and proudly erect without invitation or assistance.
Heather's pencil hovered over her sketchpad, lips parted slightly as she catalogued the abrupt angle where foreskin should've been but wasn't.

Mr. Brimley cleared his throat.
"Note the pronounced dorsal veins," he instructed, circling Kevin's platform with a pointer stick that hovered dangerously close to the subject's glans.
Kevin arched into the attention, causing his shaft to bob against his abdomen with an audible slap of flesh.
Ruth's giggle cut through the room like a scalpel, sharp and clinical, her own sketch already shading in the bulbous corona with unsettling precision.

Kevin flexed his quadriceps deliberately, making his cock jump again.
A bead of pre-cum welled at the slit, catching the fluorescent light as it trailed down the ventral side.
Heather's pencil snapped against her notebook, the broken graphite skittering across the tile.
She didn't seem to notice, her glasses reflecting the way Kevin's foreskin had been removed with surgical neatness, no telltale frenulum remnants, just smooth skin stretched taut.

Mr. Brimley's pointer tapped against Kevin's left testicle, making it bounce.
"Circumcision reduces sensitivity by approximately thirty percent," he announced, as if commenting on the weather.
Ruth's fingers twitched toward her own lap, her doodle of Kevin's shaft suddenly acquiring precise cross-hatching along the ridged band where nerve endings should've been.
Kevin smirked at her scrutiny, rolling his hips forward so his erection bobbed like a metronome.

Heather's broken pencil point dug into fresh paper, her furious scribbles capturing every ripple of Kevin's abdominal muscles as he flexed on command.
Unlike Sammy's documented responses, Kevin's arousal required no coercion, his thick veins pulsed visibly under classroom lighting without Heather's fingers ever touching him.
The realization made her teeth click together audibly.
Kevin caught her stare and winked, deliberately bouncing on the balls of his feet to make his heavy sac swing between his thighs.

Sammy was glad it wasn't him but knew that one day it would be, the year was just to long for him to avoid it altogether.

Kevin's performance reached new heights as Mr. Brimley instructed him to demonstrate "dynamic tension poses," each movement making his circumcised shaft glisten under the art room lights. Patricia's digital camera flashed repeatedly from the front row, her tongue darting out to wet her lips every time Kevin flexed his glutes.
Heather's sketchbook pages rustled violently as she flipped between anatomical studies, Sammy's frenulum variations on one sheet, Kevin's lack thereof on another, her graphite strokes becoming increasingly jagged with each comparison.

Ruth suddenly stood, her chair screeching backward.
"Sir, shouldn't we have a control subject?"
Her voice dripped with false innocence as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
"For comparison's sake?"
Her polished fingernail tapped meaningfully against Sammy's desk, the lacquer matching the scarlet of Kevin's flushed glans.
The classroom buzzed with sudden anticipation, pencils pausing mid-stroke.

Harold's breath hitched, he knew that look.
Ruth had worn it yesterday in the locker room when she'd "accidentally" knocked Sammy's towel into the toilet.
He swallowed hard, his palms slick against the wooden desk as he watched Heather's fingers twitch toward her calipers, eyes darting between Kevin's display and Sammy's hunched shoulders.

Before Ruth could press her advantage, Harold shot up from his seat.
The chair legs screeched against linoleum, drawing all eyes.
"I volunteer," he blurted, already fumbling with his belt buckle.
His fingers trembled worse than yesterday when Kevin had helped peel his gym shorts off, but he forced them steady.
Anything to divert attention from Sammy's white-knuckled grip on his charcoal pencil.

Kevin's smirk faltered as Harold clambered onto the platform beside him, bony knees knocking together.
The contrast was almost comical, Kevin's golden tan against Harold's pallid complexion, the corded muscles versus protruding ribs.
But Harold straightened his spine with unexpected dignity, pushing his trousers down past hips mottled with fingerprint-shaped bruises.
His soft cock lay flaccid against his thigh.

The classroom murmured as Harold turned slowly under the fluorescents, showing the patchwork of yellowing bruises across his backside, each imprint a perfect match for Kevin's meaty fingers.
He caught Sammy's eye briefly, mouthing "better me" before Ruth's derisive snort cut through the room.
Heather's calipers twitched in her grip, her scientific detachment cracking as she registered the semicircular bite mark blooming purple on Harold's inner thigh.

Kevin cleared his throat, his erection bobbing against Harold's hipbone.
"Sir," he said, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry over the students' whispers, "I think I need relief."
His fingers flexed around Harold's wrist, not painfully, but with the casual ownership of someone gripping a bicycle handlebar.
Mr. Brimley's clipboard clattered to the floor, his pointer stick rolling toward Ruth's feet where she stared up at Kevin with parted lips.

Harold's Adam's apple bobbed violently when Kevin guided his limp hand toward himself.
The contrast was obscene, Harold's slender fingers splayed awkwardly against Kevin's engorged flesh, fingertips barely spanning half the circumference.
Heather's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply, her pencil sketching rapid-fire strokes that captured the precise moment Harold's nail scraped the frenulum that wasn't there.

Mr. Brimley's throat worked soundlessly, his gaze darting toward the clock as if willing time to accelerate.
Ruth's heel tapped an impatient rhythm against the floor, each click coinciding with Kevin's subtle thrusts into Harold's reluctant grip.
Patricia's digital camera flashed twice in quick succession, capturing Harold's flaring nostrils and the way Kevin's thumb pressed possessively into his wrist pulse point.

Heather's pencil moved with clinical precision, documenting the exact angle where Harold's thumbnail indented Kevin's swollen glans, a detail invisible to everyone else.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, leaving a faint graphite smudge at the corner of her mouth. The classroom buzzed with stifled giggles and shifting fabric as students leaned forward unconsciously.

Kevin exhaled sharply through his nose, his hips jerking forward to smear pre-cum across Harold's trembling fingers.
Ruth's sketch abandoned anatomical accuracy entirely, her shading now depicting Harold's blanched knuckles with pornographic exaggeration.
The broken clock above the door ticked once, an illusion of movement, as Harold's free hand rose instinctively to shield himself.

"No no," Kevin chided, swatting Harold's wrist away with a wet slap.
"Both hands on deck, sailor."
His chuckle vibrated through Harold's shoulder where their bare skin touched.
Behind them, Sammy watched Harold's jaw clench so tightly a muscle twitched in his hollow cheek.

Ruth's pencil skidded off the page as Kevin guided Harold's other hand downward, pressing both palms together around his shaft in a crude imitation of prayer.
The sticky sound of skin on skin filled the classroom, a grotesque parody of applause.
Patricia's camera flashed again, freezing the moment Harold's thumbs accidentally squeezed the swollen head, making Kevin's entire body jerk.
Droplets rained onto the platform.

Mr. Brimley's pointer stick trembled mid-air.
"Note the... involuntary... neuromuscular response," he stammered, pointing at the way Kevin's toes curled against the wooden stage.
Harold's breathing came in shallow pants, his forearms shaking with the effort of maintaining the grip Kevin demanded.
Beads of sweat dripped from his collarbones onto their joined hands, making Kevin's strokes glisten under the fluorescence.

Patricia's camera captured the moment Kevin's hips stuttered, her flash illuminating the frantic pulse in Harold's temple as Kevin's release streaked across his sternum in hot, viscous arcs. Heather's calipers clattered to the floor when Kevin groaned Harold’s name instead of hers, his teeth sinking into Harold's shoulder to muffle the sound.
The bite mark overlapped perfectly with yesterday's bruise.

Mr. Brimley's clipboard slipped from his grasp entirely as Kevin slumped against Harold, his spent cock still twitching against Harold's thigh.
The classroom vibrated with muffled gasps, Ruth's pencil hovered mid-stroke, her shading abandoned for the way Harold's eyelids fluttered at the warmth trickling down his ribs.

"Well," Mr. Brimley croaked, adjusting his tie where it had gone askew.
He gestured vaguely toward Kevin's glistening abdomen with the snapped pointer stick.
"That has taken up most of our time. The rest of the class, you can draw freehand, anything you can see."
His emphasis made Harold flinch, still trapped beneath Kevin's lax weight.

The teacher moved toward the supply closet with jerky steps, like a marionette with tangled strings and disappeared inside with a click of the latch.
Ruth was first at the door, pressing her ear against the particleboard with predatory focus.
Heather watched through smudged glasses as Ruth's lips parted unconsciously, her tongue darting out to catch the rhythm of uneven breaths from within.
Patricia joined her, camera forgotten at her side as she pressed her cheek against the doorframe, lashes fluttering at whatever wet sounds escaped the gap.

Harold scrambled off the stage with frantic efficiency, yanking his pants up while still buttoning them, one leg hopping awkwardly as fabric snagged around his ankle.
He didn't glance back at Kevin's languid stretch across the platform.

Kevin took his sweet time, sauntering down the platform steps with his softening cock swinging pendulum-heavy between his thighs.
He paused by Ruth's desk to lean over her sketch.
Harold, meanwhile, had his sweater inside-out and backward, fumbling with the tag at his throat while his untied shoelaces tangled around his ankles.

"Not bad," Kevin murmured to Ruth, tracing a finger along her exaggerated shading of his veins.
His thumbprint smudged Harold's blanched knuckles in her drawing.
"But you missed the part where he cried."
Behind them, Harold froze mid-lace-tying, his fingers twitching around the strings.

The dismissal bell rang like a gunshot, too loud, too sudden.
Harold bolted for the door before it finished echoing, his sweater still inside-out and flapping behind him like a surrender flag.
Sammy forced himself to move slower, stacking his sketchbook with deliberate care while Kevin's sweat dried tacky on the platform beside him.

Sammy's sneakers squeaked against freshly mopped tiles as he rounded the corner, straight into Patricia's waiting digital camera flash.
The camera captured his flinch in perfect detail, her grin widening as she previewed her new picture, next to three others already there.
"Smith's garage," she whispered, popping her gum against his earlobe.
"Be there by four."

The scent of gasoline and WD-40 clung to the Smiths' detached garage like a warning.
Sammy's knuckles hovered inches from the peeling red door when Cathy's laughter splintered through the aluminum siding.
He counted three distinct voices inside, then a fourth, Heather's clinical monotone listing measurements in millimetres.

The door creaked before he could knock, swinging inward to reveal Patricia perched on an upside-down bucket, her cheer skirt spread deliberately wide around spread thighs.
Behind her, Ruth knelt beside a tool chest with surgical precision, arranging calipers and speculums across a grease-stained towel.
The sight sent Sammy's pulse hammering against his ribs.
This wasn't just bad, it was premeditated.

Cathy's sneakers squeaked across the oil-stained concrete as she circled him, her fingers already tugging at his waistband.
"Out," she repeated, popping the elastic against his hipbone.
"Unless you're still modest?"
Her grin showed too many teeth, her manicured nails skating beneath fabric to trace the divot above his pubic bone.
Behind her, Heather adjusted her glasses with trembling hands, the lenses magnifying pupils blown wide with something between clinical interest and starvation.

Sammy's throat clicked dryly when he swallowed.
"I'm not modest," he insisted, watching Patricia's digital camera flash reflect in Heather's glasses.
"I'm just different."
The words tasted like ash, he'd rehearsed them in the shower this morning, whispering to the tiles while imagining Kevin's smirk.
"The guys wouldn't..."

Cathy's fist twisted in his waistband before he could finish, yanking fabric down past his hips with a single brutal jerk.
The elastic caught behind his knees, trapping him mid-step as cold garage air licked up his inner thighs.
Patricia's camera flashed again, capturing the way his twin shafts twitched against his abdomen, one fully erect, the other semi-flaccid with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

"Christ," Ruth breathed, her surgical calm fracturing as she leaned forward.
Her notebook slipped from her lap, pages fluttering open to a diagram of Kevin's circumcised erection, now rendered laughably simplistic compared to the anatomical impossibility before her. "That bifurcation at the base... the corpus spongiosum shouldn't fork like that."
Her fingers twitched toward Sammy's groin with none of her usual clinical detachment, stopping just short of contact.

Patricia's gum snapped between her teeth, her knee bouncing as she angled another digital camera picture.
"Told you I wasn't lying," Cathy crowed, circling Sammy like a shark.
She stooped suddenly, blowing a stream of air across the flaccid shaft, making it twitch violently. "See? Both work."
Her fingertip traced the thin strip of skin connecting the two members, nail scraping the hypersensitive bridge tissue until Sammy's knees buckled.

Heather's right hand kneaded her left breast through her sweater, fingers digging into the fabric hard.
Her breath fogged her glasses.

Ruth abandoned her notes entirely, crawling forward on all fours until her nose nearly brushed Sammy's inner thigh.
"This changes everything," she whispered, her clinical cadence slipping into something dangerously close to reverence.

Patricia's next flash illuminated the way Ruth's tongue darted out, not touching, just close enough for Sammy to feel the humid puff of her exhale against his perineum.
Cathy's laugh turned jagged as she pinched the tip of his erect shaft between thumb and forefinger, twisting just enough to make his breath hitch.
"Special treatment for special boys," she singsonged, her other hand already reaching for the mason jar of cloudy liquid Ruth had prepared earlier.

Ruth's fingers closed around the flaccid member with unsettling precision, her thumb circling the frenulum in perfect counterpoint to Cathy's cruel squeezes.
Sammy's hips jerked involuntarily when she found the ridge of nerves beneath the crown, a spot Heather's calipers had measured yesterday with trembling hands.
"It's responding," Ruth noted clinically, though her breathing had gone shallow.
Behind her, Heather's pencil rolled off the tool chest, forgotten as she pressed both palms flat against her thighs.

"Keep going," Patricia commanded, angling the digital camera to capture the exact moment Ruth's fingernail scraped the urethral opening.
Sammy's knees locked, the concrete biting into his bare soles as his body betrayed him again, the second shaft filling out slowly beneath Ruth's ministrations, veins emerging like relief maps under her surgical stroking.
Cathy's grip tightened in warning, her thumb smearing pre-cum in glistening arcs across the engorged head.

The smell of chemicals mixed with gasoline as Patricia's latest photo was shown off, her glossy lips parting at the image.
Ruth's studious frown juxtaposed against Sammy's trembling thighs, her fingers working with methodical intensity while Cathy's painted nails dug crescent moons into sensitive flesh.
Heather made a wet clicking sound in her throat, her sweater riding up where she'd been kneading her own stomach.

"Fascinating," Ruth murmured, her thumb catching a pearl of fluid from the now fully erect second shaft.
Her notebook lay forgotten, pages fluttering open to yesterday's sketches of Kevin's ordinary anatomy.
"The dorsal veins interconnect at the base, like a shared root system."
Her index finger pressed into the spongy tissue where the two members diverged, eliciting a choked noise from Sammy's throat as both shafts twitched in unison.

Cathy's grin turned feral when the garage door rattled, not from wind, but from three sharp raps of a familiar cadence.
Brad's shadow stretched across the oil-stained floor as the door creaked open.
His gaze locked onto the tableau, Ruth on her knees between Sammy's thighs, Cathy's hands sticky with evidence, Patricia's photographing everything while sitting on the workbench.

"Uh, what's going on?" Brad asked, naked as a jaybird.
The late afternoon sun gilded his uncircumcised erection, still half-hard from art class.
He scratched his ribs, glancing between Sammy's twin shafts and Ruth's clinically fascinated fingers.
"I thought you wanted me to pose for you today?"
His voice cracked on the last word as Patricia's digital camera flashed, capturing his dumbfounded expression.

Ruth didn't even look up.
"Change of subject," she muttered, her thumb pressing into the webbed skin connecting Sammy's members.
Brad's Adam's apple bobbed violently when Cathy licked a stripe up Sammy's inner thigh, her tongue catching the seam where thigh met groin with obscene precision.
Heather's glasses slid down her nose as she leaned closer, her pencil hovering over fresh graph paper where she'd begun sketching Sammy's unique vasculature.

Brad took an involuntary step forward, his erection thickening against his abdomen.
Patricia's knee bounced faster, her camera angling to capture the way his foreskin slid back and forth over his glans darkened at the sight of Ruth's fingers working in tandem, one stroking each shaft with metronomic precision.
"Holy shit," Brad breathed, his hand drifting downward.
"Does it all... y'know... come out at once?"

Cathy laughed, a sound like cracking ice, as she twisted her wrist on the upward stroke.
"Let's find out," Ruth said, her clinical detachment fraying at the edges.
The shorter member pulsed in her grip, veins standing ridge-like beneath her fingertips as she timed her strokes to Cathy's rhythm on the longer shaft.
Their palms met where the skin fused at the base, pre-cum slicking their fingers together in a grotesque parody of hand-holding.

Sammy's thighs trembled violently, the concrete floor cold against his bare feet as Ruth's thumb found the ridge where the two shafts diverged.
The sensation sent twin jolts up his spine, one sharp and immediate from Cathy's rough handling, the other deeper, slower from Ruth's calculated pressure on the nerve cluster she'd identified. Patricia's digital camera flashed, freezing the moment Sammy's hips jerked forward involuntarily, smearing pre-cum across Ruth's collarbone.

Heather made a choked noise in her throat, her fingers digging into her own thighs hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in the fabric.
Her glasses fogged as she leaned closer, her breath hot against Sammy's inner thigh.
"Look at the frenular delta, it's responding to stimulation separately but the ejaculatory ducts must converge somewhere in the..."

Cathy cut her off with a brutal twist of her wrist, her acrylic nail catching the slit of the longer shaft.
Sammy's choked cry echoed off the garage walls as both members twitched violently, ropes of cum arcing across Ruth's cheek and Brad's bare chest in alternating spurts.
Patricia's camera flashed again and again, capturing Brad's dumbstruck expression as a thick strand landed across his parted lips.

Ruth didn't wipe her face.
Instead, she extended her tongue slowly, like a scientist examining a specimen, and licked the viscous strand from her cheekbone with disturbing deliberation.
Her pupils dilated as she swallowed, her fingers still working the softening shafts with clinical precision.

Brad wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at his sticky fingers with something between horror and fascination.
Cathy smirked, using her free hand to guide his fingers toward Sammy's still-dripping tips.
"Taste test?" she purred, popping the 't' against his earlobe.

Brad hesitated for only a heartbeat before leaning forward, his lips parting around the longer shaft with unsettling ease, tongue flicking experimentally against the hypersensitive ridge where Ruth's thumbnail had dug moments earlier.
His nose wrinkled at the bitter tang, but he didn't pull back.
Instead, his palm cupped the shorter member, thumb brushing the slit as if comparing flavors.
"You weren't kidding about the musk," Brad muttered, wiping his chin with one hand while the other remained casually wrapped around Sammy's softening flesh.
His boyfriend Sanford's gym-sock scent had nothing on the coppery tang clinging to Sammy's skin. Brad's tongue darted out again.

Patricia's digital camera captured the exact moment Brad gagged, not from disgust, but from involuntary reflex as Ruth squeezed the base hard enough to force another weak spurt.
The spray hit Brad's uvula, triggering a full-body shudder that had nothing to do with modesty. Behind him, Heather's sweater hit the floor with a wet plop, her bra straps already sliding down shoulders mottled with self-inflicted nail marks.

Cathy's laughter turned jagged as Brad coughed violently, his reflexive swallow dragging another thick droplet from Sammy's slit.
Ruth guided Brad's mouth back toward the junction where both shafts met.
Sammy's knees gave out first, his back hitting the oil-stained concrete with a thud that sent tools rattling in their chest.
Brad followed him down, not pulling away, but adjusting his angle to maintain contact, his lips still stretched obscenely around fused flesh.
Patricia's camera flashed again and again, the strobing light catching Heather's bare breasts as she finally stopped taking notes and started touching herself in earnest.

Brad's nose pressed into wiry pubic hair, the scent of sweat and bitter musk filling his nostrils as Cathy's fingers tangled in his hair, forcing him deeper.
His own erection throbbed against the cold floor, neglected but painfully hard, as Ruth leaned over his shoulder to pinch Sammy's nipples in time with Brad's sucking motions.

Patricia's digital camera flashed, capturing the moment Brad's gag reflex kicked in, his throat convulsing around dual shafts as saliva dripped down to pool in Sammy's naval.
Heather abandoned her clipboard entirely, crawling forward to press two fingers against Brad's distended throat, feeling the twin bulges move beneath his skin with clinical fascination. "Extraordinary," she breathed, her other hand working frantically between her own thighs.

Cathy straddled Sammy's ribs, grinding her denim-clad crotch against his sternum while Ruth straddled Brad from behind, her lab coat hiked up to reveal bare thighs clamping around his hips. The garage smelled of sex now, the musk of three straining bodies.
Sammy's vision blurred as Cathy leaned down, her hot breath puffing against his ear.
"Still think you're different?"
she taunted, her teeth scraping his earlobe.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting.
Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he could hear Brad coughing, wet, hacking sounds interspersed with Ruth's clinical murmurs about gag reflexes.
Sammy dug his nails into the concrete until his fingertips burned.
He wanted his mom's lemon-scented hands smoothing his hair back.
Wanted her to march into this oil-stained nightmare in her floral apron and shoo these girls away with her wooden spoon.

But she wouldn't.
She'd signed the consent forms.
Twice.

Sammy didn't really mind Brad so much, not really.
Between Cathy's fingernails and Ruth's clinical detachment, Brad's fumbling mouth almost felt like relief, his lips warm where they pressed against overheated skin, his occasional hesitant swallows less violent than Heather's measurements had been yesterday.
Brad's teeth scraped once, panicked, but he'd pulled back immediately, muttering "shit, sorry" against Sammy's inner thigh like it mattered.

Patricia's camera flashed again, freezing the moment Brad's eyelashes fluttered, his nose wrinkling as another pearly strand hit his tongue.
Cathy reached down, her palm rough against Brad's stubble as she tilted his chin up.
"Open," she commanded, her thumb pressing into the hollow of his throat until his jaw slackened. Sammy's hips bucked involuntarily when Brad's tongue flattened against his frenulum, the sensation magnified by Ruth's fingertips tracing the exact spot on his shorter shaft.

"No hands," Cathy reminded, her thigh pressing down on Sammy's wrists.
The concrete floor chilled his spine, the oil stains blooming beneath him like bruises.
Sammy squeezed his eyes shut, veins standing ridge-like along both lengths as Patricia's digital camera flashed again, capturing the moment the first arc hit Brad's cheekbone, hot and stinging.

The second stream came weaker, more of a dribble than a spray, but Ruth caught it in her cupped palm with clinical fascination.
She tilted her hand, watching the liquid sheet between her fingers.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Brad wiped his face with the back of his hand, grimacing at the acrid smell clinging to his skin.

Patricia's digital camera captured the exact moment Cathy leaned in, her lips parting not for Sammy's shafts, but to catch the last few droplets still beading at the tip.
Her tongue darted out, quick as a lizard's, lapping at the bitter residue.
Sammy's thighs trembled violently as she swallowed with exaggerated relish, her acrylic nails digging into his hipbones.
"Salty," she announced, smacking her lips.

Ruth's lab coat fluttered open just as the garage door rattled, the aluminum panels shaking with each forceful lift.
An engine idled outside, the familiar stutter of Brad and Ruth's mother's old Volvo vibrating through the oil-stained concrete.
Heather froze mid-stroke, her fingers still buried between her thighs.
Brad jerked back so fast his teeth scraped painfully across sensitive flesh, leaving Sammy gasping.

The door screeched upward halfway before sticking, revealing Mrs. Smith's sensible flats and the hem of her floral dress.
"Kids?" Her voice carried the tired patience of a woman who'd spent all day listening to other people's problems.
A grocery bag rustled as she adjusted her grip.
"What's all this..."

The plastic handles snapped when she saw them.
Oranges rolled across the oil-stained concrete, stopping against Heather's discarded sweater, still damp with sweat.
Mrs. Smith's gaze traveled from Brad's bare knees to Ruth's lab coat hanging open, then zeroed in on Sammy's flushed skin.

Her lips pursed at the twin shafts glistening in the overhead light, one still twitching weakly against Sammy's thigh, the other already softening where Brad's spit shone slick.
"Honestly, Ruth," she sighed, stepping over a puddle of congealing motor oil without glancing at Patricia's hastily hidden digital camera.

Mrs. Smith's gaze lingered longest on Heather, her daughter's best friend since kindergarten now sprawled bare-breasted on the tool chest, fingers still wedged between her plush thighs.
Heather squeaked, scrambling to cover herself with a grease-stained shop rag.

"Mom—" Ruth began, buttoning her lab coat with trembling fingers.

Mrs. Smith held up a hand, her wedding band glinting under the fluorescent lights.
"Save it."
She nudged an orange with her toe, watching it roll toward Cathy's boot.
"Sammy, clothes. Now."
Her voice carried the quiet authority of someone who'd confiscated enough cigarettes behind the bleachers to know when teenagers were lying.

Brad scrambled backward, his erection wilting against his thigh as his mother's gaze settled on him. "We can't have you exposing yourself to our innocent young ladies," Brad's mother stated.
"Go home now and think about what you've done," she added.

Sammy barely had time to pull on his boxers before Cathy shoved his pants into his chest with a smirk.
His fingers fumbled with the button fly, cold metal biting into his fingertips, as Mrs. Smith's disapproving stare burned into the back of his neck.
"Exposing myself," Sammy whispered hoarsely, realizing too late how easily his own words could be twisted against him.
He knew better than to argue with a woman though, and quickly dressed, bolting out the garage door before anyone could "correct" him further.

Outside, the humid evening air clung to Sammy's sweat-slick skin as he staggered toward home.
His thighs still burned where Cathy's nails had dug in, the memory of Ruth's clinical probing making his stomach churn.
A passing car slowed, some older girl in the passenger seat wolf-whistling at him, but Sammy kept his head down.
He couldn't afford another report, not after today.

The shower-head spat rusty water when he twisted the knob too hard, the initial cold spray shocking his overheated body.
Sammy scrubbed until his skin turned raw, soap stinging the crescent-shaped marks Heather had left on his inner thighs.
He couldn't wash away the taste of Brad's panicked mouth, the way his teeth had scraped, or the digital camera flashes that seemed burned into his eyelids.

His mother's key turned in the lock just as he was buttoning a fresh shirt, fingers trembling against the pearlescent plastic.
She paused in the doorway, grocery bags sagging with the weight of whatever lemon-scented detergent she'd bought this week.
"You're home early," she noted, her eyes flickering to his damp hairline.
Sammy opened his mouth to explain, but the words tangled somewhere between his throat and tongue.

Her sandals clicked against the linoleum as she set down the bags.
"Mrs. Smith called," she murmured, arranging canned goods in the pantry with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched until Sammy could hear the ice maker clunking in the freezer.
His mother's hands stilled.
"She said there was... an incident."

Sammy's throat tightened.
He watched her shoulders tense beneath the sunflower-patterned blouse, the one she always wore when volunteering at the community garden.
"They made me," he croaked, fingers digging into his own elbows.
"Cathy and, and Ruth had Brad..." His voice cracked on the name, the memory of blunt teeth scraping making his stomach lurch.

His mother turned slowly, a can of tomato soup suspended between her fingers.
The overhead light caught the silver streaks in her ponytail.
"Made you?" she repeated, like the words were a foreign recipe she couldn't quite follow.
Her gaze dropped to his wrists, to the red marks Cathy's nails had left when pinning him to the tool chest.

Sammy swallowed hard.
It was absurd how small the kitchen suddenly felt, how the smell of lemon disinfectant made his eyes water.
"Brad was..." He gestured vaguely toward his lap, the motion jerky.
His shirt collar stuck to his damp neck.
"Ruth had this, this chart..."

His mother set the soup can down carefully.
A dent in the metal caught the light as it rolled slightly.
"They forced you?" Her voice was too measured, like she was reading a script.
She stepped closer, fingers hovering near his wrist but not touching the crescent-shaped marks.

Sammy swallowed hard.
"Cathy had my arms pinned," he whispered.
"Patricia kept taking pictures."
The digital camera flashes still burned behind his eyelids whenever he blinked.
His fingers twitched toward his fly before he caught himself, another telltale modesty reflex that would get him reported if anyone saw.

His mother's eyebrows knitted together as she processed the information.
She reached for Sammy's wrist, turning it gently to examine the red crescents where Cathy's nails had broken skin.
Her thumb brushed over the marks, her calloused fingertips catching on the raised welts.
"And Brad?" she asked quietly.

Sammy swallowed.
"He's... on the program," he muttered, remembering how easily Brad had dropped to his knees, not out of cruelty, but because the rules left no room for refusal.
The modesty reduction program stripped boys of their choice, turning every hesitation into proof of guilt.
"They told him to... to take me in his mouth. He couldn't say no."
His cheeks burned at the memory of Brad's panicked eyes flickering up at him between laboured breaths, the way his throat had convulsed around Sammy's flesh, not from want, but from the terror of consequences.

Brad wasn't like the others.
He hadn't laughed when Cathy dragged Sammy's pants down, hadn't jeered when Ruth clinically catalogued his reactions.
He'd whispered "sorry" against Sammy's thigh like it mattered, his fingers trembling where they braced against the oil-stained floor.
Even now, Sammy could taste the salt of Brad's sweat where their skin had pressed together, fear and resignation, not malice.

"I saw Heather's boobies," Sammy blurted, the confession tumbling out before he could stop it.
His mother's hand stilled on his wrist.
"She took her sweater off and was touching herself, right in front of everyone."
Heather's nipples had been shockingly pink against her pale skin, the pink slit between her thighs glistening in the garage's fluorescent light.
Sammy shuddered at the memory, the way her fingers had worked frantically, not in pleasure, but in some clinical frenzy of documentation.

His mother exhaled sharply through her nose, the same sound she made when finding mouse droppings in the pantry.
"Are you okay down here?" she asked abruptly, her fingers hooking into the waistband of Sammy's sweatpants.
The elastic snapped against his hips as she yanked them down to his knees, her clinical gaze scanning for bruises or abrasions along his inner thighs.
Her thumb pressed into the crescent-shaped indents left by Heather's nails, four neat half-moons darkening to purple.

Sammy's breath hitched.
"You look a bit excited talking about Heather's boobies," she observed dryly, tapping the flushed tip of his shorter shaft with her index finger.
The contact sent a jolt up his spine, equal parts mortification and involuntary response.
"Is that the girl that washed you last night?"
She didn't wait for an answer, already dragging her calloused palm up the length of his longer shaft with the same brisk efficiency she used to knead bread dough.

Sammy's knees wobbled.
"I didn't, she made me..."

"Shh." His mother's fingers tightened, her wedding band cold against overheated flesh.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly behind them.
Describing Heather's anatomy in detail?
That's progress."

The skillet hissed when she turned back to the stove, ground beef browning as she stirred it with more force than necessary.
Steam curled around the sunflower print of her blouse when she lifted the lid on the rice cooker. "Well?" She didn't look up from the sizzling pan.
"Are you dating Heather or was this another modesty reduction exercise?"
Her wooden spoon scraped the skillet's edge, a sharp sound that made Sammy's shoulders hitch.

Sammy stared at his socks.
One big toe poked through the worn cotton.
"She's nice to me," he mumbled, tracing a seam on the linoleum.
A drop of condensation slid down the fridge door beside him.
"But she likes me too much."
The confession hung between them, as sticky as the humidity clinging to the kitchen windows. Heather's hands had been everywhere in the garage, charting his reactions, documenting his responses, but it was the way her breath hitched when he groaned that unsettled him most.
Not clinical.
Not cruel.
Hungry.

Cathy was very pretty, with her sharp cheekbones and smirking lips, but she wasn't his type.
And Patricia, with her petite frame and digital camera flashes, was too small, too quick, like a hummingbird darting between moments of cruelty.
Sammy swallowed hard, remembering how Cathy's acrylic nails had scraped his thighs while Patricia documented every flinch.
"They're just doing their jobs," he whispered, parroting the program's rhetoric even as his hands curled into fists.

His mother's wooden spoon stilled mid-stir.
"And Ruth?"
The question hung between them like the steam curling from the rice cooker.
"She seems... thorough."
The way she said it, clinical, deliberate, made Sammy's stomach twist.
Ruth had taken measurements in the garage with calipers, her lab coat sleeves rolled up to reveal freckled forearms.
Her touch had been impersonal, but her breaths had quickened when Sammy's dual lengths strained against her grip.

Sammy focused on the fridge magnet shaped like a tomato, its red enamel chipped at the corner.
"She makes Brad kneel," he whispered.
The memory of Ruth's fingers carding through her brother's sweat-damp hair as she guided him forward surfaced unbidden, the way Brad's Adam's apple had bobbed when she murmured "deeper" against his ear.
Sammy's fingers dug into his own thighs.
"She says it's therapy."

His mother's wooden spoon clattered against the counter-top.
A fleck of browned beef landed on the sunflower print of her blouse.
"Brad's her..." Her voice trailed off as she processed the implication, how Ruth's clinical precision extended past anatomical charts and into familial obligations.
Sammy had seen the Smith family portrait in their hallway Ruth in her starched lab coat even at fourteen, Brad's naked shoulders hunched under her gloved hand.

The refrigerator hummed louder in the silence.
His mother wiped her hands on a dish towel embroidered with dancing carrots, the one Sammy had made in third-grade home ec.
"She's different," he blurted, remembering how Ruth's goggles had fogged when documenting his emissions, how her clinical detachment had fractured for just a second when Brad choked.
"She doesn't..."
His fists clenched around the hem of his shirt.
"She didn't laugh."

His mother's gaze softened.
"I think you should take the time to get to know her," she stated, pressing the magnet back into place with deliberate precision.
The click of enamel against metal punctuated her words.
"Properly."
Her fingers lingered on the fridge door, nails tapping a rhythm Sammy recognized from church hymns.

Later, tangled in sweaty sheets with his laptop balanced on his knees, Sammy hesitated over the Warcraft character selection screen.
The tinny voice chat crackled with Brad's nervous breathing, one, two, three pauses between inhales, like he'd been crying.
Ruth's crisp voice cut through the static, "Humans have superior early-game armour values."
Sammy clicked random, the screen landing on Tauren, just to hear Brad's surprised snort.

Ruth's avatar materialized in-game clad in full plate armour despite playing Night Elves, her character's absurdly oversized pauldrons glinting under pixelated moonlight.
Brad's Human Paladin stood stiffly beside her, his avatar's bare feet planted wide in a way that made Sammy's stomach clench.
The resemblance was uncanny, right down to the way Brad's character kept glancing sideways at Ruth's, as if awaiting orders.

Sammy's Tauren Druid should have dwarfed them both, yet somehow Ruth made even towering polygons feel small.
Her messages popped up in clipped, efficient bursts, *North gate needs healing. Brad will tank. Sammy—mana regen buffs.*
No room for argument, not even in Azeroth.
Brad's Paladin knelt obediently when Ruth's Elvin Priestess cast Blessing of Protection, the animation looping twice before Sammy realized, Brad wasn't pressing any keys.

Ruth's Night Elf flickered into stealth mode just as a Horde rogue back-stabbed Brad's exposed flank.
The ambush should have been lethal, but Ruth's timed stun landed with surgical precision, her character emerging from invisibility mid-cast to shield her brother.
Brad's panicked *sorry, sorry* echoed through voice chat as his avatar scrambled upright.
Sammy watched Ruth's cursor hover over Brad's health bar for three full seconds, long enough for pixelated moonlight to glint off her pauldrons, before typing, *Eat. Dinner first.*

Brad's mic cut out with a muffled clatter, silverware hitting porcelain.
Sammy's fingers froze over his healing spells as Ruth's Priestess rotated slowly toward his Tauren. The whisper notification blinked, *He forgets meals if unsupervised.*
Through Brad's open mic came the distinct sound of Ruth rearranging silverware, the clink of knife set precisely parallel to spoon, as she murmured something about protein intake.

Sammy understood now.
The garage hadn't been cruelty, just documentation.
Ruth's clinical hands cataloguing Brad's responses the same way she tracked his character's mana regen, adjusting variables to optimize outcomes.
Even the forced servitude had purpose, Brad needed structure, needed the program's rigid expectations to counteract his own paralyzing modesty.
Ruth was the only one who'd figured out how to keep him functional.

Brad's mic clicked back on with a wet sniffle, Ruth's whispered *chew properly* barely audible over the sound of silverware scraping china.
The Paladin avatar remained motionless on-screen except for the automatic idle animation, sword rising and falling in a slow salute.
Sammy's Tauren lumbered closer, casting Rejuvenation just to see the golden glow encircle Brad's pixelated shoulders.
Through the headset came the sound of Ruth's chair scraping back, her returning steps measured, before she murmured *good* and Brad's character finally moved again.

Sammy's fingers hovered over the keyboard when Ruth's whisper popped up, *You understand.*
Not a question.
The Night Elf tilted her head, an emote Sammy had never seen her use, and suddenly he recognized the careful calibration behind every garage humiliation.
Brad needed the structure, needed the program's inflexible rules like he needed Ruth's exacting dinner supervision.
Sammy's gut twisted remembering Brad's panicked *sorry* between gasps, not fear of punishment, but fear of failing expectations.

The group chat notification pinged, Brad's icon blinking nervously beside Ruth's clinical blue text. *Movie night tomorrow,* Ruth typed.
*Bring pyjamas.*
The specificity made Sammy's throat tighten.
Brad added *please* three seconds later, his typing lag betraying shaking hands.
Not pyjamas.
Never pyjamas again for boys like them.
Sammy exhaled through his nose, recognizing the invitation for what it was, Ruth grafting him into Brad's support system, another variable in her brother's stability equation.

"I'll be there," Sammy answered, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
He added *with or without pyjamas* before he could stop himself, a joke that wasn't funny, a defiance that wasn't defiance at all.
The ellipsis bubbled for seven agonizing seconds before Brad's relieved *thanks man* appeared, followed by Ruth's matter-of-fact *Good.*