Sammy 2times Chapter 3

By H. T. Duck

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

[8,746 words]

* * * * *
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. 

The school bus smelled like disinfectant and grape bubblegum.
Sammy kept his knees pressed together, knuckles white around the straps of his backpack.
Cathy was already in their usual seat, sprawled across the vinyl with her skirt riding up, deliberately, he thought, her bare thighs splayed wide enough to show the lace edge of her underwear.
She grinned when she saw him hesitate.

"Looking good, Sammy," she drawled, patting the space beside her.
The bus lurched forward, forcing him into the seat before he could refuse.
Her acrylic nails tapped his thigh through his jeans.
"Heard you had fun with Brad last night."
Her whisper carried across the silent bus.
Two rows ahead, Patricia turned slowly, digital camera already raised.

Sammy's throat clicked dryly when he swallowed.
He focused on the emergency exit instructions above the driver's seat, red letters on yellowed plastic, while Cathy's fingers crept higher.
The bus hit a pothole, her nail scraped the inseam of his jeans.
"Stop," he whispered, but his hips jerked upward betrayingly, denim tightening across his lap.

Biology class dragged.
The fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped wasps as Mr. Johnson droned about metamorphosis.
Sammy kept his arms crossed over his notebook, elbows digging into his ribs.
Heather's perfume, something fruity and artificial, drifted from two seats back whenever she leaned forward to adjust her knee socks.
The clock's minute hand seemed frozen until Patricia passed him a folded note, *Brad cried in PE locker room.*
The paper stuck to his sweaty palm.

Lunch was worse.
The cafeteria's plastic trays squeaked against tabletops while Cathy stage, whispered about Sammy's "special anatomy" to her friends.
Ruth ate methodically beside Brad at the "program table", cutting his chicken into precise cubes before allowing him to chew.
Sammy counted thirty-seven ceiling tiles before Heather slid into the bench opposite him, her knee pressing against his under the table.
"You looked lonely," she murmured, peeling her yogourt lid with exaggerated care.
Her tongue darted out to catch a drop of strawberry goo at the corner of her mouth.

The final bell rang like a gunshot.
Sammy ducked into the boys' restroom, empty except for Kevin lounging against the sinks, shirtless as always.
"Heard you got Smith's brother off," Kevin sneered, cracking his knuckles.
The faucet dripped steadily into a brown-stained basin.
Sammy focused on the handwritten "FAG" scratched into the stall door until Kevin shouldered past him, deliberately knocking his backpack to the wet floor.

Outside, rain slicked the pavement into a black mirror.
Ruth waited under the awning with Brad huddled beside her, Her arm around him swallowing his naked frame.
Brad's sneakers squeaked when he shifted, the left one untied.
Ruth handed Sammy the umbrella without comment, her gloved fingers brushing his wrist.
The bus arrived.

Kevin boarded first, of course, shoulders taking up the aisle, blocking Sammy's path until Ruth cleared her throat twice.
The vinyl seats exhaled damp warmth when Sammy sat beside Brad, their thighs pressing together through Sammy's thin sweatpants.
Ruth took the seat directly across, crossing her legs at the ankles, prim, proper, except for the way her knee bobbed whenever Brad sniffled.

Brad's fingers twitched against his bare thighs, pale from winter, still goose-bumped from rain. Sammy unzipped his hoodie halfway before hesitating, Ruth's sharp inhale stopped him cold.
"Not yet," she murmured, eyes flicking to Kevin slouched in the front seat.
Her gloved hand flexed, once, against her skirt pleats.
Brad exhaled through his nose, fists unclenching millimetre by millimetre.

The bus brakes squealed at Heather's stop.
She lingered in the aisle, backpack straps digging into her collarbones.
"See you tomorrow?" Her whisper carried over engine growls.
Sammy nodded too fast.
Ruth's pen clicked, clinical, loud, as Heather stepped down onto wet pavement.

Kevin's laughter erupted from the front seat.
"Check it out, Smith's mutt's got wood!"
His meaty finger jabbed toward Brad's lap.
Brad hunched forward, shoulders caving, but Ruth's gloved hand snapped out, catching his chin. "Posture," she commanded.
Brad straightened with a whimper, his pinkening flesh fully exposed to the snickering football team. Sammy's fists clenched around his hoodie strings.

The bus hit another pothole.
Brad's knees splayed wider from the impact, Ruth's approving nod making Sammy's gut churn.
Kevin swaggered down the aisle, deliberately stepping on Brad's untied shoelace.
"Gonna cry, Smith?"
His breath reeked.
Brad shook his head violently, eyes screwed shut, but Ruth's pen tapped against her clipboard, once, and his eyelids fluttered open.
"N-no sir," Brad whispered to Kevin's crotch.

Sammy's fingernails bit crescent moons into his palms.
Ruth's gloved fingers twitched, the same motion she'd used to adjust Brad's head position in the garage.
Kevin grinned, hiking his gym shorts lower.
"Prove it."
The dare hung between them like the scent of Axe body spray and rain-damp denim.
Brad's Adam's apple bobbed.

The bus engine idled outside Heather's subdivision.
Sammy watched her silhouette shrink through fogged windows, her sunflower-patterned umbrella twisting in the wind.
Ruth's clipboard landed with a thud on the empty seat beside her.
"You have three minutes," she told Kevin, voice flat.
Sammy's stomach dropped.
This wasn't protection, it was documentation.

Brad's fingers dug into his own thighs hard enough to leave crescents.
Kevin smirked, hiking his shorts lower until the waistband barely covered his hips.
"Know what happens to modest boys?"
He leaned down, close enough for Sammy to count the acne scars on his shoulders, and blew directly onto Brad's flushed skin.
Brad whimpered, shoulders hunching forward instinctively.

Ruth's gloved hand snapped out like a viper, catching Brad's chin again.
"Posture," she repeated, colder this time.
Sammy watched Brad's Adam's apple bob as he forced himself upright, knees trembling but obediently spread.
Kevin's grin widened, he knew the rules.
Any sign of resistance was proof.

The bus seat vinyl creaked as Kevin straddled Brad's lap, his gym shorts riding up to expose coarse blond hairs.
Sammy's throat closed when Kevin grabbed Brad's limp wrists and pinned them to the headrest.
"Let's see how modest you really are," Kevin sneered, grinding down deliberately.
Brad made a sound like a wounded animal, high, reedy, but didn't struggle.
Ruth's pen scratched against her clipboard.

Sammy counted the freckles on Brad's collarbone (eleven) while Kevin's calloused thumb circled one nipple, then the other.
Brad's breath hitched, his eyelashes fluttering, as Kevin leaned in to bite his earlobe.
"Pathetic," Kevin murmured, hot and wet against Brad's ear.
The bus driver adjusted the rear-view mirror without comment.

Ruth's pen stopped moving.
She tilted her head, assessing, as Kevin's free hand trailed down Brad's sternum.
Sammy recognized the exact moment Brad's body betrayed him, the sharp inhale, the way his hips jerked upward involuntarily.
Kevin laughed, low and mean, grinding his pelvis down harder.
"Not so modest now, huh?"

Brad squeezed his eyes shut, shame flushing his chest pink, but Ruth's glove snapped forward to flick his eyelid.
Brad whimpered, obediently forcing his eyes open even as tears welled.
Sammy's stomach twisted watching Kevin lick a stripe up Brad's neck, the wet sound audible over the bus's rumbling engine.

Kevin's shorts tented obscenely against Brad's thigh.
"Look at you," he sneered, hooking fingers under Brad's chin.
"Little faggot likes it."
Brad shook his head violently, but his body arched against Kevin's grinding hips, betrayal written in the pre-cum smearing his stomach.
Ruth's pen scratched faster.

Sammy tasted bile when Kevin grabbed Brad's wrists again, forcing his hands down to Kevin's waistband.
"Show me," Kevin breathed, hips stuttering forward.
Brad's fingers trembled against the elastic, but Ruth's glove twitched, her silent command, and his hands sank into fabric.

The bus hit a bump.
Brad's knuckles brushed skin and Kevin groaned, rutting against his trapped fingers.
Ruth's clipboard tilted slightly, documenting angle of Brad's wrist flexion, while Kevin's cock sprang free, slapping wetly against Brad's clavicle.

"Move it," Kevin panted, grinding Brad's limp hand against himself.
Brad's fingers curled reflexively, just enough to earn a guttural "fuck", but his gaze stayed fixed on the emergency exit sign.
Sammy tasted copper, he'd bitten his tongue.
Kevin's hips jerked faster, his free hand gripping Brad's hair to force eye contact.
"Watch, you little..."

A camera flash.
Patricia leaned over the seat, digital camera whirring.
"Documenting progress," she chirped, waving the digital photo on display.

Sammy jerked his head away, too late.
The image would show Kevin's cock thick as a Coke can against Brad's tear-streaked cheek, the circumcised head purpling where it smeared pre-cum across his eyelid.
Bigger than adult videos Sammy had glimpsed on Harold's phone, veins standing in ridges that pressed white lines into Brad's trembling lips whenever Kevin thrust upward.

"No teeth," Kevin gasped, gripping Brad's hair like reins.

Brad tasted salt and rubber, the tang of an unwashed penis, the synthetic hint of Axe body spray clinging to Kevin's pubic hair.
His throat convulsed around the intrusion, but Ruth's pen clicked, a metronome to measure compliance and he forced his lips wider.
Kevin groaned, hips snapping forward, forcing himself deeper until Brad's nose mashed into wiry curls.

Sammy counted the water stains on the ceiling (three) while Patricia's camera flashed intermittently.
Brad's hands still trapped between Kevin's thighs.
Ruth adjusted her glove cuff before jotting notes, *Subject demonstrates adequate oral accommodation despite visible distress.*

Kevin's hips stuttered, once, twice, before his thighs clamped around Brad's skull.
Brad's fingers scrabbled against them, his gagging sounds muffled by flesh.
Patricia leaned closer, digital camera angled to capture the exact moment Kevin's cock pulsed down Brad's throat, the bulge moving visibly beneath pale skin.

Sammy's own throat convulsed when Kevin pulled out abruptly, dragging Brad's lips with him.
The resulting pop echoed obscenely in the silent bus.
Pre-cum and saliva dripped onto Brad's collarbone, forming a glistening trail that Ruth's pen dutifully recorded.

"Swallow," Kevin commanded, squeezing Brad's jaw.
Brad's Adam's apple bobbed once, twice before Kevin shoved his softening cock back in with a wet squelch.
Patricia's camera whirred again, capturing the tear that streaked through the mess on Brad's cheek.

Sammy dug his fingernails into his thighs until the denim fibres groaned.
Ruth's glove tapped the clipboard, methodical, unfeeling, as Kevin rocked lazily in Brad's mouth. The bus's brakes hissed at the Smiths' stop.

"Disengage," Ruth commanded.
Kevin withdrew with an obscene slurp, leaving Brad's lips swollen and slick.
Patricia's digital camera flashed again, capturing the string of saliva that still connected them.

Sammy flinched when Ruth stood abruptly.
She produced a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, monogrammed RS in crisp navy thread, and tossed it onto Brad's lap without looking.
"Wipe."

The bus doors wheezed open, releasing a gust of rain-swept air.
Kevin smirked as he yanked his shorts up, deliberately smearing residual wetness across Brad's cheek with his thumb.
"Better luck next time, Smith."
His chuckle died when Ruth's gloved hand snapped out, not to strike, but to press a small yellow ticket into his palm.

"Friday," she stated. "Social studies classroom. 3:15PM."
Kevin's grin faltered, Sammy recognized the slip as an official summons for program participation. Those who doled out humiliation often became subjects themselves.
The football player pocketed the paper with a stiff nod before shoving past them into the rain.

Brad remained still except for his trembling hands fumbling with Ruth's handkerchief.
The monogram—stitched so precisely, caught on his bitten fingernails as he swiped at the mess on his
Ruth watched impassively, then extended two fingers toward his mouth.
Brad opened obediently, she withdrew a stray pubic hair from his tongue with clinical efficiency before depositing it on the wet ground.

Patricia's digital camera finally developed a print as the bus lurched forward, Kevin's cum-shot frozen mid-air between Brad's eyelashes.
She tucked it into Sammy's hoodie pocket with a sticky pat.

Ruth stood, smoothing her skirt.
Brad swayed when she pulled him upright, his knees buckling like a newborn deer's.
Sammy caught his elbow, the skin was clammy, damp with rain and sweat and other things he didn't want to name.

The bus doors hissed shut behind them.
Brad's sneakers dragged through puddles, untied laces leaving dark trails on the pavement.
Ruth walked ahead, her oxfords clicking rhythmically, never checking if they followed.
Sammy counted the cracks in the sidewalk (seven) until Brad's breath hitched.
A thin line of saliva dribbled down his chin.

Ruth's glove snapped up without turning.
"Swallow properly."
Brad's throat convulsed twice before she lowered her hand.
The Smiths' mailbox leaned crookedly, rusted hinges squeaking when Ruth flipped it open.
She extracted a manila envelope with her teeth to keep her gloves pristine, the corner smearing damp against Brad's chest when she nudged him toward the house.

Sammy's sneakers stuck to the porch steps, old gum and rain making each lift an effort.
The door swung inward before Ruth could twist the knob.
Mrs. Smith stood haloed by hallway light, her floral apron crisp over a turtleneck despite the humidity.
Her gaze skipped over Brad's trembling knees to land on Patricia's Picture peeking from Sammy's pocket.
"Early documentation?"
She plucked it free, studying Kevin's glistening arc across her son's face.
"Angle's off."

Brad swayed like a marionette with cut strings until Ruth's glove clamped his shoulder.
"Posture."
His spine straightened automatically, chin lifting to expose the spit-smeared hollow of his throat. Mrs. Smith hummed, tucking the photo into her apron before reaching for Brad's jaw.
Her thumb rubbed away a fleck of dried cum at his temple.

The Polaroid disappeared into her apron alongside a wooden spoon.

"We don't do modesty around here," Brad's mother said, flicking the waistband of Sammy's jeans with clinical precision.
"If you want to just strip here, and you boys can go and play."
Her sunflower-patterned oven mitts contrasted violently with the way she gripped Brad's jaw tilting his face toward the hallway mirror so he could watch her pluck another stray pubic hair from his eyelashes.

Sammy's fingers trembled on his zipper.
The denim stuck to his thighs, rain-damp fabric peeling away like a second skin as Brad's mother held up three fingers.
"Count of three, or I'll call Ruth back in."

Brad's eyelid twitched at his sister's name.
His pinky finger hooked around Sammy's belt loop not stopping him, just tracing the stitching with numb familiarity.
The oven timer dinged from the kitchen, releasing the scent of burnt sugar.

Mrs. Smith's sunflower mitts landed on her hips.
"One."

Brad's fingers jerked against Sammy's belt loop, the same twitch Sammy had seen when Ruth commanded posture corrections.
Rainwater dripped from Brad's earlobe onto the welcome mat, forming a dark puddle around his untied shoelaces.

"Two," Mrs. Smith sang, tapping her wooden spoon against the door-frame.
The sound echoed like a judge's gavel.
Behind her, Ruth adjusted her gloves with meticulous tugs, each finger seam aligning perfectly. Sammy's zipper sounded unnaturally loud in the silence.

Brad's pinky went rigid against Sammy's hip.
His lips formed silent words, *don't* or *do it* or maybe just numbers before his hand dropped limp to his side.
Rainwater trickled between their sockless ankles.
The oven timer kept dinging.

Mrs. Smith's spoon hovered. "Thr..."

Sammy's jeans hit the floor with a wet slap.
The sudden draft raised goosebumps along his thighs, his grey briefs clinging in damp patches. Brad's eyelid twitched again, but his gaze remained fixed on the hallway mirror where Sammy's reflection stood half-exposed, trembling like a cornered rabbit.

Mrs. Smith's oven mitt tapped her chin.

"Underwear too," she added, tilting her head toward Brad's own bare thighs.
"Unless you're feeling modest?"

Sammy flinched at the word, the way it rolled off her tongue like a dare.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband, elastic fibres stretching with agonizing slowness.
The fabric clung momentarily betraying every curve before slumping down his legs in a damp heap.

Mrs. Smith exhaled through her nose a sound that wasn’t quite approval.
"Now turn," she ordered, wooden spoon swirling toward the hallway mirror.
The glass reflected Brad’s hollow stare beside Sammy’s shuddering outline, two pale forms under flickering fluorescent light.
Her oven mitt tapped Brad’s shoulder-blade.
"Observe."

Sammy’s knees locked.
The mirror showed every detail, the way Brad’s ribs protruded slightly beneath his nipples, how his collarbones formed sharp parentheses around the lingering spit-trail Kevin had left.
Worse was his own reflection hips jerking involuntarily when Ruth’s gloved fingers suddenly pressed between his shoulder blades to enforce posture.

"Eyes forward," Mrs. Smith commanded.
Her wooden spoon tapped Brad’s thigh leaving a faint red mark that matched the ones Kevin’s teeth had left earlier.
Brad’s eyelid twitched, but he obeyed, staring blankly at their nude reflections as if dissociating from his own skin.

The oven timer’s shrill beep cut through the silence.
Mrs. Smith strode away, sunflower mitts vanishing into the steam-clouded kitchen.
Ruth remained, glove tightening on Sammy’s shoulder, her breath a cool puff against his ear as she inspected his trembling form.
Sammy’s stomach lurched when she tugged his foreskin back with clinical precision, documenting the flushed hypersensitivity with detached interest.

"Sorry," Ruth murmured abruptly, releasing him.
Her gloves snapped straight, adjusting invisible wrinkles, before meeting his eyes dead-on.
"You’d probably do the same to me if you could."
The words landed like a discarded scalpel between them, glinting with something uncomfortably close to honesty.
Sammy blinked, throat working soundlessly.
Would he?
The thought coiled in his gut, ugly and unfamiliar, as Ruth’s pen scratched another notation.

Brad’s fingers twitched against the door-frame, his pinky nail cracked where he’d bitten it raw. "Nice to see you," he rasped, voice sandpaper-rough from throat strain.
His arms slithered around Sammy’s waist, not hugging so much as collapsing inward, forehead thudding against Sammy’s clavicle with a damp thump.
The embrace lingered two seconds too long, Brad’s ribs expanding in shallow hitches against Sammy’s bare stomach.

Ruth’s glove tapped the remote control against her thigh, once, twice, before tossing it onto the couch cushions.
Brad’s chin lifted sluggishly from Sammy’s shoulder.
"Our guest chooses," Ruth added, smiling in a way that made Sammy squirm.
The remote gleamed between them like a dare.

Sammy hesitated, thumb hovering over the worn-down "OK" button.
The screen flickered, menu options glowing red in the dim living room, before settling on an innocuous-looking nature documentary.
Dolphins, he thought.
Everyone likes dolphins.
His fingertip pressed down with deliberate force.

The screen dissolved into static.
Then flesh.
Close-up.
Female legs spreading with clinical slowness, not porn, something worse, a gynecological exam filmed in merciless 4K resolution.
Sammy recoiled instinctively, his thigh knocking against Brad’s clammy knee.

"Wrong choice," Ruth sang, her gloved fingers curling around the remote.
The volume surged, wet sounds and stainless steel clattering, as the gynecologist’s latex fingers parted glistening labia.
Brad flinched violently when the speculum clicked open onscreen, his own thighs clamping together in reflex.
"You *see* that, Sammy?"
Ruth’s breath ghosted over his ear as she pressed the remote into his palm.
"Women don’t *get* modest in stirrups. Why should boys?"

The screen zoomed in, vulva stretched obscenely around cold metal, as Ruth’s other hand slid between Sammy’s thighs.
Her fingers found his scrotum with practised ease, rolling his testicles like marbles in a sack. "Pick. Something. Else."
Each word punctuated by a squeeze that made his knees buckle.

Sammy stabbed at the remote, vision blurring.
Fast car, everybody likes fast cars, the menu scrolled past war documentaries, baking shows, a thumbnail of a woman’s spread legs circled in red grease pencil.
His thumb skidded sideways.
Engines roared to life as a Ferrari fishtailed across the screen, tires screeching.

Ruth sighed loudly but said okay, then she asked Brad to trade places with her, she then sat between the two boys placing one hand on each boys genitals.
Brad moved like a sleepwalker, his bony hip bumping Sammy’s thigh as he shuffled sideways.
Ruth’s gloves were unexpectedly warm where they settled, left palm cupping Brad’s flaccid length with the same clinical detachment as a nurse taking a pulse, right thumb rubbing slow circles under Sammy’s foreskin.
The contrast made Sammy’s stomach flip, Brad’s skin looked almost grey in the TV glow while his own erection twitched traitorously against Ruth’s latex grip.

They didn’t speak for seventeen exhales, Sammy counted, until Brad’s breathing hitched first.
Ruth’s left hand moved with methodical precision, twisting just below his glans in a motion that looked painful but drew a thin whine from Brad’s nose.
Sammy watched, transfixed, as Brad’s cock began filling out between Ruth’s fingers, the skin flushing from ashen to pink under her manipulation.
His own hips jerked when Ruth’s right thumb found that spot beneath his crown again, the one that made his toes curl against the carpet.

By minute twenty-three, Sammy’s thighs had stopped trembling.
Brad’s knee pressed against his sister's, radiating warmth where their skin stuck together with a tacky layer of sweat neither would acknowledge.
The Ferrari onscreen blurred into red streaks as Ruth’s pace increased imperceptibly, each stroke syncing with the revving engines until Sammy couldn’t tell if the vibration in his belly came from the surround sound or Ruth’s thumb circling his frenulum.

Brad exhaled through his nose, sharp and sudden, when Ruth twisted her wrist just so.
His hips lifted reflexively before slamming back onto the couch, fingers clawing at the upholstery seams.
Sammy watched the tendons in Brad’s neck stand out, counted three rapid swallows, before realizing his own mouth had fallen open.
The remote lay forgotten between them.

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat from the doorway.

Sammy hadn't heard her approach, too focused on Ruth's methodical stroking and Brad's shallow panting, but suddenly she was *there*, oven mitts dangling from one hand while the other rested on her hip.
Her gaze travelled downward with clinical precision, lingering where Ruth's gloved hands worked between their thighs.
The smell of burnt sugar intensified as she stepped closer.

Mrs. Smith tilted her head slightly, examining Sammy's erections with the same detached interest one might inspect an undercooked casserole.
"Well," she said finally, tapping her wooden spoon against her palm.
"That's certainly... *developed* for your age."
Her nostrils flared as she leaned in, catching the musky scent of precum mixing with latex.
Brad whimpered when Ruth squeezed him harder in response, his hips jerking involuntarily.

The oven timer's shrill beep sliced through the silence.
Mrs. Smith sighed, straightening her sunflower apron over the turtleneck stretched tight across her chest.
"Supper's ready."
Her gaze lingered on Sammy's twitching length before flicking to Ruth's gloved hands still moving with mechanical precision.
"Though some of you seem... preoccupied."

Sammy had stripped for campfires before, all boys under pines and stars, roughhousing while their dicks swung freely in the heat.
But this?
The Smiths' dining room smelled of lemon polish and overcooked ham, the tablecloth starched stiff beneath his thighs.
Ruth's knee bumped his under the table, her smirk widening when he flinched.
He counted the floral patterns on the china (twenty-three roses) to avoid staring at Mrs, Smith's cleavage straining against her turtleneck.

The ham was dry.
Sammy chewed mechanically, acutely aware of Brad's bare thigh pressing against his whenever he reached for seconds.
Ruth had chosen the seating arrangements, Brad sandwiched between them like a human buffer.
Her fork clicked rhythmically against her plate, each metallic *tink* syncing with her foot nudging Sammy's ankle higher up his calf.

By the third movie, some barbarian epic Ruth selected, Sammy's thighs had stopped tensing whenever her fingers brushed his inner knee.
He counted the scars on Brad's forearm (fourteen) instead of flinching when Ruth palmed his erection casually, like someone adjusting a throw pillow.
The sensation wasn't unpleasant anymore, just inevitable, like swallowing or blinking.
When Brad leaned into him during a battle scene, Sammy didn't pull away from the damp heat of his flank.

Ten o'clock found them sprawled across the couch in a tangle of limbs, Ruth's latest selection, a nature documentary about penguins, casting blue shadows over their skin.
Sammy barely registered her thumb rubbing circles under his foreskin now, distracted instead by how Brad's breathing hitched whenever the male penguins preened their mates.
Mrs. Smith had long since retired.

The third movie was Brad's pick, some animated fantasy, and Sammy noticed how Ruth finally stopped touching them both, letting her gloved hands rest on the armrests instead.
Brad's knee still pressed against his, warm and damp, and Sammy found himself leaning into it without thinking.
The protagonist's sword gleamed onscreen as Brad's pinky finger brushed Sammy's thigh, just once, before retreating.

By the fourth film (Ruth's turn again, a documentary about synchronized swimming), Sammy's erection had subsided to a dull throb between his legs.
He'd stopped counting how many times Ruth adjusted him absentmindedly, her latex fingers cool against his overheated skin.
The swimmers' legs kicked in perfect unison onscreen, their toned thighs glistening under stadium lights.
Brad exhaled sharply when the camera zoomed in on a diver's spread-eagle descent, his own legs twitching apart before he caught himself.

Midnight found them slumped together on the couch, the TV casting flickering shadows across their tangled limbs.
Sammy realized with distant surprise that he'd stopped noticing the air against his bare skin, the way it curled around his exposed nipples or licked at the damp crease of his thighs.
Ruth's hand resting on his knee felt no stranger than the weight of a blanket.
Even Brad's occasional shivers against his side had become predictable, like the rhythmic rise and fall of his own breath.

"Do you shower in the morning before school," Ruth murmured suddenly, her voice slicing through the film's murmured narration, "or before you go to bed the night before?"
Her fingers flexed against Sammy's kneecap, the latex squeaking faintly.
Onscreen, a synchronized swimmer arched backwards into the water, her thighs parting in perfect symmetry with the motion.

Sammy blinked.
The question landed strangely, too mundane for the context of their sprawled nudity, Ruth's gloved hand still absently tracing his inner thigh.
He opened his mouth, then closed it when Brad stiffened beside him.

"Morning," Sammy admitted, and instantly regretted it.
Ruth's fingers stilled.
The documentary's narration droned on about hydrodynamic efficiency while her index finger tapped twice against his kneecap, a silent countdown.

She rose smoothly, the couch springs creaking under her shifting weight.
Without preamble, she bent over Brad, still slack-jawed against the cushions, and pressed her lips to his in a dry, closed-mouth kiss that lasted exactly three seconds.
Sammy watched Brad's eyelids flutter but not close, his hands remaining limp at his sides as Ruth pulled away with an audible *smack*.

Then she turned to Sammy, her latex-gloved fingers already hooking under his twin foreskins with practised ease.
The dual exposure made his stomach lurch, cold air hitting suddenly bared heads as Ruth dipped down, planting two quick kisses atop each glistening tip.
Her lips were chapped.
The bizarre gentleness of the gesture contrasted violently with the clinical detachment in her eyes when she straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist.
"Good night," she said, already pivoting toward the doorway.
Her hips swayed deliberately as she exited, the deliberate *click* of her Mary Jane's marking each step down the hallway.

Morning came too quickly, the shower's spray needling against Sammy's back before his brain fully registered wakefulness.
Brad stood hipshot under the opposite showerhead, arms crossed loosely over his chest as water sluiced down the ladder of his ribs.
Steam curled between them in arabesques, lending a false sense of privacy neither boy trusted.
Sammy watched Brad's tongue dart out to catch droplets on his upper lip, once, twice, before the bathroom door swung inward with a soft *creak*.

Ruth leaned against the doorframe, one gloved hand adjusting the waistband of her tartan skirt. "That's cute," she remarked, nodding toward Sammy's half-hard length bobbing under the spray.
Her Mary Janes squeaked against the tile as she stepped closer, her shadow stretching across the wet floor to touch Brad's toes.
"You're going to want to get rid of that morning wood," she added conversationally, snapping her gloves taut.
"Unless you *like* walking to school with it swinging."

Brad made a small noise in his throat, not quite a protest, as Ruth reached past him to crank the cold water dial.
The sudden temperature drop made Sammy gasp, his nipples pebbling instantly under the icy assault. Ruth's smirk widened when his erection faltered, then twitched back to life despite the cold.
"Hmm," she mused, tapping her chin with one latex-clad finger.
"Persistent little thing, isn't it?"

Sammy shut his eyes tight, counting the water droplets hitting his shoulder (thirty-seven) before Ruth's gloved fingers encircled his base.
Her grip was clinical, no teasing strokes, just efficient downward pressure until his trapped blood pulsed visibly under the skin.
"Watch," she commanded Brad, who stood frozen under his own shower-head, water streaming down his hollowed cheeks.

"I... I can do it," Sammy stammered, reaching for himself with trembling hands.
Ruth's chuckle reverberated off the tiles as she swatted his fingers away, latex snapping against his knuckles.

"Too slow," she murmured, already working him with brisk strokes that left no room for hesitation. Her other hand seized Brad's wrist mid-air, he'd been reaching to cover himself, and guided his palm downward with terrifying gentleness.
"You take this side," she instructed Brad, positioning his fingers around Sammy's left shaft with the precision of a surgeon placing a scalpel.
The contrast burned, Ruth's clinical efficiency versus Brad's uncertain, feather-light touch that barely grazed the vein.

Sammy's hips jerked forward involuntarily, his right shaft twitching against Ruth's wrist.
The shower's spray had turned lukewarm, but Brad's fingers felt scalding where they trembled against his sensitive underside.
Ruth adjusted Brad's grip with a tut..."Like *this*, forcing his thumb to press directly beneath the glans in that spot Sammy couldn't resist.
A whimper escaped his clenched teeth when Brad's calloused fingertip found the ridge, his body betraying him with an immediate bead of pre-cum.

Ruth's watch alarm beeped, 7:03 AM, and she stepped back, peeling off her gloves with a wet snap. "Finish yourselves," she ordered, tossing the used rubber toward the wastebasket.
It landed with a splat as she exited, leaving the bathroom door gaping.
Distant sounds of Mrs. Smith clattering pans underscored the violation, domesticity persisting alongside degradation.

Brad's fingers stilled around Sammy's left shaft, his breathing shallow.
The shower's spray had cooled again, making their skin prickle.
"Should we..." Brad swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the tile beneath Sammy's feet.
"Do our own or... each other's?"
The question hung between them, fragile as the steam dissipating toward the ceiling vent.

Sammy's throat clicked when he swallowed.
Brad's thumb still pressed that spot under his crown, not moving, just *there*, and it took all his focus not to buck into the contact.
He risked a glance upward and instantly regretted it, Brad's eyelashes were clumped together with moisture, his parted lips trembling slightly.
The right side of Sammy's brain screamed that this was wrong, that they should both be jerking themselves off silently like usual, but the left side noted how Brad's knuckles had gone white where they hovered near his own neglected erection.

"Your..." Sammy's voice cracked.
He tried again.
"Your hand's already... there."
The admission burned worse than the shower's sudden heat surge.
Brad inhaled sharply through his nose but didn't pull away, his fingertips tensing almost imperceptibly around Sammy's shaft.
A water droplet clung to Brad's lower lip, refracting the fluorescent into a tiny prism before sliding down his chin.

Brad turned fully, his ribcage expanding in one shuddering breath before gripping both of Sammy's cocks, left shaft cradled loosely in his right palm, right shaft pinched delicately between his left thumb and forefinger.
He began stroking with the tentative rhythm of someone handling fragile glassware.
"Sorry mine's so small," Brad murmured, his gaze fixed on the tile seam beneath their feet.
His own erection bobbed pitifully between them, barely half the length of Sammy's twin shafts.
"I really can't help it," he added.

Sammy wasn't gay, had never been gay, but the moment Brad's knuckles brushed his inner thigh, something chemical happened in his bloodstream.
He reached instinctively, closing his fist around Brad's narrow erection with enough pressure to make the other boy gasp.
It felt like gripping a warm pencil, absurdly slight compared to his own equipment, yet pulsing with the same frantic heartbeat when Brad whimpered against his shoulder.

The shower tiles dug into his back as he pinned Brad against the wall, their chests sliding together with wet smacks.
Brad's fingers tightened around Sammy's shafts in retaliation, his bitten-off moan vibrating through both their ribcages when Sammy thumbed the leaking slit of his tiny cock.
It wasn't arousal, couldn't be, but the way Brad's hips stuttered forward told Sammy all he needed to know about leverage.
Ruth had left the door open.
Mrs. Smith's spatula scraped pans down the hall.
None of it mattered as Brad's thumbnail dug into Sammy's frenulum with perfect, accidental precision.

Sammy came first, a choked-off groan against Brad's collarbone as twin spurts painted the other boy's concave stomach.
Brad's shocked inhale fogged the mirror before Sammy swallowed it, their mouths mashing together in something too wet and panicked to be a kiss.
Brad's orgasm hit three strokes later, a pathetic dribble between Sammy's fingers that somehow made his own softening cocks twitch again.
They broke apart panting, foreheads knocking together as shampoo suds swirled around their ankles.

Mrs. Smith's shadow stretched across the wet floor tiles before her voice registered.
"Nice to see you boys playing together so nicely," she remarked.
Neither boy dared breathe as her sensible flats squeaked against the tile retreating down the hallway.

Sammy stared at the empty space where his hoodie should've been hanging, just bare hook and dust motes swirling in the morning light slanting through the blinds.
The realization hit like a bucket of ice water, no clothes meant walking the six blocks to school bare-assed, past Mrs. Henderson's rose bushes where the gardening club always gathered at this hour. His twin shafts, still damp from their rushed shower, twitched involuntarily at the thought of Janie Parker's wide eyes tracking their swing with every step.

Brad's bitten-off whimper pulled Sammy's attention to the doorway where Ruth stood adjusting her skirt's waistband, freshly-polished Mary Janes gleaming under the hall light.
"Tick-tock," she sang, tapping her watch face where the minute hand crept toward 7:15.

Sammy's cocks swayed as he bent to retrieve his scattered textbooks, the motion sending twin shadows flickering across linoleum.
Ruth's clinical observation, *swinging on your way to school*, now pulsed in his temples with each heartbeat.
He caught Brad's reflection in the hallway mirror mid-shudder, hands hovering over his own meagre erection as if debating whether covering it would violate program protocol.

"Your mother and I have decided that you need to go naked for the day, just to prove you are not modest. After that there should be no more issues" She added.
The screen door slapped behind Mrs. Smith's exit, leaving the scent of scorched toast and lavender detergent.

"Lift your chin," Ruth instructed, adjusting Brad's posture with gloved fingertips at his jawline. "Modest boys slump. Confident boys showcase."
Her Mary Janes squeaked against the floorboards as she stepped back to admire her handiwork, two nude seventh-graders trembling in the foyer, backpacks slung low to avoid obstructing the view.

Sammy counted the daisies on Mrs. Smith's wallpaper, thirty-four before his gaze snagged on the hall mirror reflecting their absurd tableau.
Brad's knobby knees knocked together, his erection barely a nub compared to Sammy's dual shafts still glistening from their rushed bathroom tryst.
Ruth's breath hitched slightly when she noticed, was that pride?
Her gloved thumb swiping a stray bead of pre-cum from Brad's tip before he could protest. "Remember," she murmured,"if anyone asks, you're proud to be natural."

Pavement burned Sammy's soles worse than the stares.
Janie Parker dropped her trowel with a *clang*, rose pruning shears dangling forgotten as they passed.
Brad's sharp inhale signalled the basketball team's approach, Kevin's Jordan's squeaked to a halt inches from Sammy's bare toes.
"Damn," Kevin whistled, cocking his head to admire the twin sway of Sammy's shafts in the morning light.
His fingertip traced a lazy circle in the air, just shy of contact.
"Heard you popped your program cherry with Bradley here."
The team's laughter spiked when Brad's face flamed crimson, his tiny erection bobbing in pathetic agreement.

Mrs. Henderson's sprinkler system chose that moment to kick on, icy droplets pelting their exposed skin.
Sammy's cocks shrivelled instantly, nature's cruel mockery, while Kevin's smirk widened at the involuntary reaction.
"Modest," he sing-songed, snapping a pic with his phone as Sammy's shafts retracted further.

The bus stop loomed ahead like a gallows.
Cathy's pigtails bounced as she leaned over Janie's shoulder, whispering something that made both girls giggle.
Their eyes darted to Brad's meagre erection, then up to Sammy's twin shafts now plumping again under scrutiny.
Cathy's knowing wink confirmed Ruth's warning, the rumour mill had already churned out their bathroom escapades before dawn.

Brad's whimper was barely audible over the bus's hydraulic hiss.
Sammy grabbed his wrist, hard, forcing their palms to smack against their own thighs in unison.
"No covering," Sammy hissed through clenched teeth, louder than necessary for the gathering crowd. Cathy's eyebrows shot up as Sammy deliberately spread his legs wider, letting his semi-erect shafts bounce freely.
If they were gonna be busted anyway, he'd be damned if it'd be for *modesty*.

The bus doors wheezed open to reveal Ruth already seated midway back, knees primly together beneath her tartan skirt.
Her gloved fingers tapped a rhythm against her thigh, counting violations or heartbeats, Sammy couldn't tell.
He marched down the aisle chin-up, ignoring the way his left shaft slapped against his hip with each step.

"Morning, princesses," Kevin crowed from behind, shoving Brad face-first into Ruth's lap.
Her skirt hiked up just enough to reveal the program-issued strap peeking from her waistband, polished leather glinting under fluorescent lights.
Sammy's stomach lurched when Ruth patted her lap invitingly, but Brad was already scrambling into place with the resignation of a veteran.

The first bell's echo hadn't faded before Coach Metzger's whistle cut through homeroom.
Sammy's soles left damp prints on linoleum, his twin shafts swinging pendulously with each step. Behind him, he heard Kevin stage-whisper, "Double-dick demo day," and the classroom erupted.

Coach's clipboard hit the mat with a clatter.
"Front-and-center," she ordered, tossing Sammy a bottle of baby oil with clinical disinterest.
The liquid pooled cold in his cupped palms before he understood, this wasn't punishment.
This was graduation.

Sammy oiled his shafts with exaggerated strokes, watching Cathy nibble her lower lip from the front row.
When Coach's whistle blew again, three sharp bursts, the entire class leaned forward as one.

"Now," Coach said, snapping fresh latex over her knuckles, "let's see what all the fuss is about."

Sammy's stomach clenched as she squatted before him, her whistle swinging hypnotically between them. His left shaft twitched under her scrutiny, betraying him again, while his right swayed in the air-conditioning draft.
The baby oil dripped onto his inner thigh, warm now from friction.
Cathy's gasp echoed when Coach pinched both shafts at the base, lifting them like exhibit A.

"Notice the asymmetry," Coach narrated, rotating Sammy's left shaft between thumb and forefinger. Her glove squeaked.
"Typical in cases of gemini development."
Her other hand slid down his right shaft with unsettling precision, stopping just shy of the tip. "But this one's veins are textbook."

The class leaned closer.
Someone's pencil clattered to the floor.

Kevin's elbow jabbed Brad's ribcage.
"Bet you couldn't even fill one hand," he sneered.
Brad's whimper was lost in the collective inhale when Coach abruptly released Sammy, letting his shafts slap wetly against his oiled stomach.

"Hands on desks," Coach barked.
Twenty palms hit laminate in unison.
Sammy's hips jerked when her gloved fingers suddenly spread him wide, exposing his twin frenulums to the fluorescents.
"Observe the keratinization difference."
Her fingertip traced the left shaft's under-ridge, making his knees buckle.
"That's from masturbating more on this side."

The room exploded in giggles.
Sammy's face burned hotter than the baby oil dripping down his inner thighs.

Behind him, Ruth's Mary Janes tapped a slow rhythm.
He didn't need to turn to know she was taking notes, could picture her gloved fingers checking boxes on some godforsaken program clipboard.
Coach's whistle pierced the room again.

"Alright, ladies. Pop quiz."
She tossed Sammy a fresh bottle, catching it against his chest when he fumbled.
"Who can demonstrate proper handling technique?"

Cathy's hand shot up first.
Sammy's right shaft pulsed involuntarily at her smirk.
Coach's latex snapped as she peeled off the used gloves.
"Front and centre, Parker."

Janie's knees knocked louder than Brad's as she approached.
Sammy's breath hitched when her cold fingers circled his shafts, too tentative, nowhere near enough pressure, but Coach just nodded approval.
"Good isolation of the dorsal veins."

Kevin's phone camera clicked relentlessly from the back row.
Sammy counted ceiling tiles (twelve) as Janie's thumb experimentally smeared a bead of pre-cum across his left glans.
The door creaked.
Principal Phillip's steps paused mid-stride, his coffee steaming as he surveyed the scene.

"Carry on," he said after a beat, sipping his latte.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sammy to the mercy of Janie's curious fingers and Coach's running commentary about glans retraction rates.

Brad's tiny whimper cut through the lecture.
Sammy chanced a glance backward, just in time to see Kevin force Brad's hand into his pants.

The second bell rang.
No one moved.

"Question one," Coach Metzger barked, her whistle bouncing between her collarbones.
"Optimal strokes per minute for dual-shaft orgasm?"
Every female hand shot up, pig-tailed Cathy straining forward, Janie's fingers still sticky around Sammy's left shaft.
Even Ruth's gloved hand lifted with clinical precision from the back row, her program clipboard balanced on one knee.

Sammy's own hands stayed welded to his thighs.

Janie's guess had been barely audible, 60 she said, her fingers still gripping his left shaft like she was afraid it might bolt, but Rhonda's correction rang out sharp as Coach Metzger's whistle.
"A hundred," she declared from the back row, arms crossed under her pointed B-cups.
When Coach crooked a finger, Rhonda sauntered forward with none of Janie's trembles, her braces glinting as she sized up Sammy's erection like a math problem.
"At least," she amended, squatting with none of Janie's modesty to grab both shafts in practised fists.

Coach's stopwatch beeped.
"Begin."

Janie's strokes were hesitant at first—up-down on the left shaft with uneven pressure, until Rhonda elbowed her sharply.
"Like *this*," she hissed, demonstrating a brisk twisting motion that made Sammy's hips jerk forward.
Rhonda's hands moved with mechanical precision, her thumbs pressing cruel circles under Sammy's crowns while Janie scrambled to match pace.
Someone's watch ticked audibly in the silent classroom.

Sammy bit his tongue hard enough to taste copper.
His thighs quivered, not from pleasure but the visceral wrongness of twenty-seven eyeballs tracking every twitch of his flesh under Rhonda's relentless manipulation.
Behind him, Kevin's whispered countdown ("Fifty-eight, fifty-nine—") synced with Rhonda's accelerating strokes.

Pre-cum dripped onto Janie's saddle shoes.
She flinched but didn't stop, her pigtails bouncing with each upward tug.
Rhonda's breath hitched when Sammy's left shaft pulsed violently, she knew before he did.
"Sixty-two!" she crowed triumphantly as his first spurt arced onto her plaid skirt.
Janie gasped but kept stroking, her palm slick now as Rhonda ruthlessly milked out the last dribbles.

The stopwatch beeped again.
Coach Metzger's whistle dangled forgotten around her neck as she studied the results.
"Rhonda wins," she announced, ruffling the victor's hair while Janie wiped her hands discreetly on her socks.

Sammy didn't realize he'd collapsed against the chalkboard until the rough texture scraped his shoulder-blades.
His spent shafts lay limp against his thighs, glistening under the classroom lights.
Across the room, Brad's whimper cut through the murmur of shifting desks—Kevin had his Brad's hand down his pants again, whispering "Now *you* try" loud enough for the first row to giggle.

Coach Metzger tossed Rhonda a fresh pack of gum like a prize.

Sammy counted the cracks in the ceiling tiles.
Above him, the second hand on the clock stuttered forward one more notch.

A cool breeze ghosted over his thighs, someone's breath, followed by the tentative prod of a ruler against his left shaft.
Sammy flinched, but kept still.

"See how it retracts?" murmured a voice he didn't recognize.
The ruler's edge pressed harder, lifting his softening flesh for the class' inspection.
Sammy caught a glimpse of spiky blue hair and a collar lined with silver studs before another student, taller, broader, shouldered their way to the front.

"Move your meat," the taller one grunted, and suddenly Sammy's right shaft was being lifted by calloused fingers.
The stranger's touch was clinical, turning him this way and that like a specimen under glass.
Their other hand, rough, work-hardened, traced the veins along his underside with something like professional interest.

Someone giggled.
"Look at *that*," a voice, high and lilting, whispered near his ear.
Sammy turned his head just enough to see a delicate, manicured hand hovering near his hip.
The nails were painted a shimmering black, the fingers adorned with rings.
"So *veiny*," the owner breathed, before darting in to skim a fingertip along his length.

Sammy's stomach clenched.

A shadow fell over him, someone else kneeling to peer between his legs.
"Wait, *wait*," they murmured, their voice deep and resonant.
"I think I see something."
Their fingers, long and elegant, parted him further, exposing the sensitive skin beneath.
Sammy's breath hitched as they leaned in, their warm breath ghosting over his most intimate flesh.

The blue-haired student, the one with the ruler, suddenly leaned in, their nose nearly brushing his flesh.
"Does it *hurt*?" they asked, their voice oddly earnest.

Sammy swallowed. "N-No," he managed.

The student sat back, visibly disappointed.

A new voice, soft, tentative, piped up from the back.
"Can I...?"

Before Sammy could answer, another hand, smaller, softer, closed around him.
This touch was different, exploratory rather than clinical.
The owner, a slight figure with wide, curious eyes, tilted their head as they worked, their fingers tracing patterns along his skin like they were reading Braille.

Sammy's stomach twisted.

Across the room, Brad whimpered again, louder this time, as Kevin's laughter rang out.

Coach Metzger's whistle cut through the noise like a knife.

"Alright, ladies," she barked.
"Back to your seats."

Hands withdrew reluctantly.
The crowd dispersed, murmurs lingering in their wake like smoke.

Sammy remained pinned against the chalkboard, his breaths shallow and uneven.

Rhonda's gum popped in the silence.

Coach Metzger's whistle swayed between her collarbones as she turned to the board.

A student with fox-red hair and a chest flatter than Brad's knelt between his legs, peering up at him with mismatched eyes.
"So *this* is where the second one sprouts," they murmured, pressing a cool fingertip just above Sammy's pubic bone.
Their other hand, adorned with chunky silver rings, traced the seam of skin where his left shaft emerged.
"Fascinating. Like a branching root system."

Behind them, a girl with lavender braids leaned forward.
"Can he *control* them separately?" she asked, reaching out to pinch one shaft while stroking the other.
Sammy's hips jerked involuntarily, proof enough, and the class tittered.

Someone produced a magnifying glass.
"Look at the keratinization patterns," they announced, examining Sammy's right glans with academic detachment.
Their companion, a hulking figure in a tank top, nodded sagely.
"Classic overuse on the dominant side."

A student whose gender Sammy couldn't begin to guess, their features shifting like desert mirages, cupped both shafts in their cool palms.
"Interesting weight distribution," they mused, bouncing them slightly as if testing produce.
"The left one's denser."

Sammy's face burned hotter than the fluorescents overhead.
Yet here they were, treating *him* like the oddity.

A person with violet eyes and translucent skin leaned in, their breath smelling of mint.
"Do they *taste* different?" they wondered aloud, before, before,

Coach Metzger's clipboard came down between them with a *crack*.
"No bio-sampling without gloves," she chided, though her tone held more amusement than reprimand. The violet-eyed student sat back with a pout, their long tongue flicking out to wet their lips.

Near the window, a student raised their hand.
"Permission to chart vascular patterns?" they asked, already uncapping a set of markers.

Coach considered this, then nodded.
"Five minute limit."
She turned to Sammy with a smirk.
"Try not to get *too* excited."

The student's markers *scritched* across his flesh in ticklish trails, mapping veins in neon pink and electric blue.
Sammy bit his cheek hard, willing his traitorous body not to react, but when another student joined in, tracing the underside of his right shaft with surprising dexterity, his resolve crumbled.

Pre-cum welled at both tips.
The class *oohed* appreciatively.

"Note the simultaneous emission," Coach narrated, as if commenting on a weather pattern.
"Rare in Gemini cases."

Sammy squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of twenty-seven fascinated faces, each more extraordinary than the last, lingered behind his eyelids.
The cruellest irony?
In any other school, *they'd* be the specimens under glass.

Rhonda's gum popped again, right in his ear, as the bell screeched overhead.
Hands withdrew reluctantly, markers uncapped for vascular mapping left neon streaks across his thighs.
The fox-haired student lingered longest, tracing the branching veins with something almost like reverence before being herded out by Coach's whistle.