O’Melissokomos
The Bee Keeper

Goody Two-Boots (rubber fet)

by Purplebootsgywr

"Alright you guys, get ready! Here he comes!"

Four good-sized young men in their early twenties stood in wait around the corner of their school's main hallway. They were known almost exclusively by their last names. The first was Belkem, with the oblong face of a weasel. Ridder, with a boyish face and perpetual devilish grin, and a shock of platinum blond hair always protruding down onto his forehead. Turnblad, a scowling lanky lad with a perpetual wispy pubic-hair moustache. Last was Hennesy, a handsome and trim-built young man of 20 who in days of old would be referred to by authorities as the ringleader.

They were notorious on campus as being four of the worst troublemakers in the school's history.

The four troublesome students were all built like gymnasts or linebackers, something that was very easy to see by their attire. Each young man wore a skintight suit of rubber, heavyweight industrial grade, with attached boots and gloves. The suits featured an open-faced hood, leaving each student's face as the only features showing. The suits they wore were jet black, a bit dull and scuffed here and there from continuous wear and not much attention given with polish.

Their rubber outfits would seem terribly out of place on any campus save the one they attended. Here they were perfectly appropriate. In fact, they were required.

This is the J. Thomas Squirmsen advanced preparatory school, in the picturesque city of Rubberston, in the fine state of Latexas. Everybody wears rubber. It's a given. In this almost-perfect world, the boys are all gay and attend their own schools and universities, separate from the girls, including the required post-high school preps which better help groom students for college studies. But the pecking order of teacher's pets and those forever branded as bad seeds still exists in the hierarchy of academia, the former getting preferential treatment, the latter treated like dirt. I did say this world was merely almost-perfect.

Approaching down the hallway was the foursome's target. Preston Cafferelli, the golden boy of the Dean's List, the honor student, the overachiever, and by far the most conceited and arrogant jackass ever to saunter through the halls of Squirmsen.

Preston was wearing a rubber suit similar in cut and outer design to that of the four troublemakers, except that his was very well-polished, shining, in the best condition, and colored a soft golden tan.

The tan rubber identified Preston as one of the academic elite of the school. There were three colors found in the Squirmsen school uniforms. The most common was a gleaming light green, worn by the vast majority of the student body. The green rubber covered the expanse of academia ranging from C-students to those just under the honor role. Though not terribly accurate, those in green latex were known only as "average".

Tan was the least common, worn by those select few with a grade point of 3.8 or higher. The tans were not often celebrated by the students the way they were by the professors and administrators. The tan-suited poster-boys for the school were commonly known as ass-kissers, brown-nosers, teacher's pets, and worst, as "goody two-boots".

The black suits were the bottom of the totem pole. You had to be a rabble rouser, a disobedient lout, or have your grade point slip down into the "D"s or below to be assigned a black rubber suit. Black suits rarely could be found mixed in with the greens anymore, as they were usually relegated to Special Ed classrooms, disciplinary areas, or detention halls.

And now four of the worst blacksuits were ready to pounce on the premiere goldenboy.

It was still early. The school hallways would not begin to fill with students for at least another half hour. It was a rare thing indeed for any of the blacksuits to be seen wandering the school halls before it was absolutely necessary, much less this far ahead of classtime. It was a common sight to see Preston Goody Two-Boots there at this hour. Preston liked to have his father drop him off at school on his way to his prestigious coporate job. The esteemed Mr. Cafferelli was renowned in industrial and social circles as the genius behind some of the best rubber attire innovations in the past decade, and he had the bankroll to prove it. Being the son of a celebrated man did put considerable pressure upon Preston to be an outstanding student to better uphold the honor of the family name. However, it did not call upon him to be a total asshole. Ever striving to be more, Preston was always both.

Preston greatly enjoyed walking down the empty hallways before the crush of rubberized boys filled the corridors. It made Preston feel as if he owned the school, and was patrolling its halls like a king surverying his castle before the rabble was allowed in. He always made it a point to stroll past the trophy case to smile at his photo on one of the academic decathalon awards. He sauntered past the Student Of the Month articles which were laminated, framed, and on display by the library. Preston broke precedent by being the first honor student to get nominated not for just one month, but two (October and March). Preston also enjoyed spying the athletic excellence display case near the freshman hallway, which distinguished his name upon a special plaque as one of the top tennis players in the school's history. Preston smirked. He did look adorable in his all-rubber white shirt, shorts, and snug-fitting tennis boots.

Preston had other stops he liked to make as part of his morning ritual, but he had to cut his stroll short today. Today, the king was to depart his castle before roll call. No, the thought of cutting class never occurred to him. Today he was to be carried off to recieve another feather in his cap, a new jewel in his crown. Preston took a deep breath and let it out slowly. God, it was good to be him.

Preston approached a hallway he ordinarily never used. It was a side hallway usually used by the maintenance crew, with only a few classrooms connected to it, designated for shop and craft courses. He loathed using this corridor, not that it was any worse kept or somehow less attractive than the other hallways, but simply that Preston associated it with the "lower classes". Yet he had received a message that the special car that would greet him this morning before classes would be waiting to pick him up at the door beyond this hall. Preston had hoped that the car would arrive at one of the two main entrances, so he could make something of a spectacle out of his departure, if only for those few early arrivals who might see him there. He did so hate this hall. He was about to hate it even more.

Preston had made it only about thirty feet down the length of the janitorial hallway when he was jumped by the four blacksuits who had been waiting for him, crouched on either side of the hallway, within the cramped entryways of the shop and woodworking classrooms. Unaccustomed to seeing any students in the halls at this hour, much less four burly blackshirts with ill intent on their minds, Preston was taken completely off guard.

"What the hell is this?" he cried petulantly. "What do you think you're doing??"

The foursome did not have to stop and think about what they were doing. They knew precisely. Turnblad had Preston's arms held behind his back as Ridder grabbed his legs. Belkem placed a thick-gloved hand over Preston's mouth before he could raise an alarm. Hennesy stepped up to the group and admired how well they had subdued the obnoxious golden boy so quickly. Hennesy nodded to Ridder, who held Preston's legs together and lifted him off the ground. Belkem used his free hand to support Preston's back, while Turnblad kept the lad's arms pinned helplessly behind his back. Preston realized that this was more than just some prank or effort designed to scare him. He squealed under Belkem's weasly hand and squirmed in his captor's arms as he fought to free himself.

"Get him into the bathroom, quick," Hennesy ordered. Immediately, the other boys had Preston on the floor of the nearest men's room. This being the most infrequently used hallway, in addition to the early hour, practically guaranteed that they would be undisturbed.

Turnblad had forced Preston down onto his knees and Belkem bore down upon the honor student's shoulders. From further behind, Ridder held Preston's feet down by the ankles, pressing his boots against the tile floor. Hennesy had already pushed the waste basket in front of the door, blocking it.

"I'm being taken to an academic summit this morning!" Preston barked, still outraged that he was being manhandled and so rudely inconvenienced. "There're going to be people waiting for me!"

"They'll be waiting for someone," Hennesy said. Preston did not understand what that meant, and Hennesy did not give him time to dwell on it. Hennesy looked down at his nemesis. "You narced on us last night," he said.

"You had it coming," Preston answered back. "You were vandalising a school concession stand."

"We were spray-painting the concession stand at the rival school's playing field. That's like…showing school spirit, or something. You should give us props for that, anyway," Hennesy argued.

"The anatomically impossible suggestion you painted on that stand hardly falls under the category of support for the alma mater," Hennesy replied pompously.

"What the hell were you doing at that school that late, anyway?" Belkem asked.

"Chess match," Preston said honestly.

Ridder sneered at that. "Pfah!"

Hennesy took Preston's face in his gloved hand. "Well, did you know that I was due to get tranferred out of this hellhole, Cafferelli?" The look on Preston's face indicated that he did not. "Yeah, it's true. Got my grades up almost to the point that another school was considering me. Until you went and blabbed. Suddenly they're not so interested."

"And this little assault on me will surely convince them," Preston sneered, trying to wiggle free. The other boys just held him tighter.

"Y'know, this was going to be my big farewell stunt," Hennesy mused. "My final, parting gift before my grand departure." He shrugged. "Now I guess it's just gotta be good old-fashioned revenge. Oh well." Hennesy signalled the trio holding Preston. "Strip him."

Preston was flabbergasted. "Wha--?"

But the honor student had no opportunity to protest, as Belkem, Ridder, and Turnblad quickly and roughly began to peel Preston from his treasured gold suit of status. Preston fought as fiercely as he could, but he was no match for three opponents, especially those who were so much his physical superiors. The back zipper which ran the length of the suit's shoulders was torn open with a harsh yank. Hennesy scolded his cohorts.

"Hey, hey! Easy, boys, don't harm the merchandise!"

"Oh, yeah, right," Belkem said apologetically.

"Sorry, man," Ridder added.

"I'm not your merchandise--!" Preston cursed, but his head was already clear of the suit's hood, causing his longish hair to flop free and his loose bangs to fall over his forehead. Preston always preferred to wear his hair longer, with bushy bangs and loose waves over his ears and halfway down the back of his neck. It was a privilege allowed those students not in the lowest clasification. But Preston's pivileges were about to be revoked.

As the blacksuits stripped Preston of his rubber uniform, the honor student quickly realized that whatever was happening to him, it was serious. He began to panic. "What are you doing? STOP it!! Somebody HELP!"

"Mouth," Hennesy said, and Belkem once again clamped his gloved hand over the frightened boy's face, effectively gagging him. Preston whimpered as with a few more deft movements, the blacksuits had stripped him naked. Preston may have been a champion tennis player, but that hardly afforded him a buff body. He was trim, taut, and hairless, save for his pubes, but without his precious gold suit he looked even smaller while held by the buffer tough boys. Preston's dick hung free before the four young thugs, a further humiliation that caused him some effort not to cry.

"No shorts," Hennesy said, approving. "Maybe you're not a complete dick after all." Hennesy then started to strip off his own rubber uniform suit, skillfully reaching around his own back and tugging open the zip along his shoulders in one easy movement. As Hennesy pulled one arm out of his golved rubber sleeve, he glared at the naked and helpless teacher's pet. "Hey," Hennesy said to his minions, "I really don't want Golden Boy here to see me naked. Drag him into a stall or something."

The other three did so. Preston fought against them, but it was even harder being naked, and his efforts were stymied by being pressed into the small space of the bathroom stall. From outside the stall, even with the sounds of struggle and his muffled protests, Preston could hear Hennesy strip off his heavyweight suit. The unmistakable sound of thick rubber being pulled from bare skin, the thud of wader boots hitting the cold hard floor. Soon Hennesy's hand, extending the empty black suit, appeared at the edge of the stall.

"Put him in this."

The other three toughs needed no more instruction. They grabbed Preston and lifted him off the ground, turning him into a reclining position, and began to force his feet down into the legs of the abandoned black rubber uniform. If preston had squirmed and fought before, it was nothing compared to the fight he put up now.

"NNNOOOOOOOO!!!" he cried from behind Belkem's hand. Preston tried to bite Belkem's hand, but couldn't get past the thick glove.

"Watch it, you," Belkem said, and smacked Preston's head hard, dazing him slightly. Even so, Preston twisted in their grasp, yanking his arms to and fro, kicking his legs ferociously.

"Fiesty little bastard," Turnblad said, almost admiring the bookworm's stamina.

The reason for Preston's increased ressitance was obvious to everyone. For an honor student, especially one with Preston Cafferelli's ego, to be dressed in the uniform of a detention hall degenerate was the equivalent of a decorated police officier being forced into prison stripes. Preston was more horrified of what the black rubber suit represented than anything else about it. But he was fighting three-against-one, and he was going to lose. Pushing hard and rough, the three disreputable lads shoved their prey into Hennesy's discarded suit. The rubber felt rough and worn against Preston's soft skin. But as his feet planted inside the boots, he noted how sturdy the suit was, too. There was no way in hell he was ever going to rip it off, that was for sure.

Once Preston's feet and legs were in place, the rest was relatively easy. Ridder held the boy's legs tight as the other two forced his arms in the gloved sleeves. In short order, Preston was suited up, save for the open-faced hood, which still hung around his neck like a casual hoodie sweatshirt. Preston did not feel casual. He felt denegrated and dehumanized. While the black suit did not show any signs of dirt or disrepair, beyond not having been polished in a while, Peston felt filthy in it. Like he was now reduced to less than he truly was. The interior wasn't as smooth as Preston was used to, and the unpowdered rubber pulled at what litle wisps of hair he had on his arms, chest, and legs. He decided that these blacksuits would pay dearly for what they had done to him.

As the trio hauled their disguised charge from the stall, Turnblad ruffled Preston's hair, as if he were a small boy. Turnblad laughed at the gesture, making Preston wonder what was so damn funny. “How the fuck do you keep all that hair stuffed up inside your hood, man??”, Belkem remarked snidely.

“It’s a mystery”, Hennesy said, winking at his mates. They smiled, Ridder adding a quick guffaw. With extra roughness, they pulled the sung black hood up over Preston's head. The rubber pulled at his hair, making him wince.

Turnblad stood before Preston, blocking his view of Hennesy. "You set?" he asked their leader.

"Give me a sec," came the reply.

Turnblad paused a moment to look at his friend and cohort. While Turnblad had never had any attraction to Hennesy, he had to admire the man's build. He was of similar height to Preston, perhaps a bit taller, but his body was ripped where Preston's was slim. Hennesy's body was not bulky, but his arms and legs were defined, his pecs were tight, and his abs were a hard six-pack. Hennesy caught Turnblad looking and snorted an appreciative laugh. Turnblad looked away, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, man."

"It's all good," Hennesy answered, more focused on the new gold rubber suit than his pal's voyeuristic tendencies. The ringleader stepped into the soft tan suit quickly, his intention being to very rapidly jump in and zip himself up. He already had the hood up and on his head, leaving only his face visible, but Hennesy stopped after having his legs and feet inside the suit. Hennesy also wore no underwear, and the sensation of the rubber against his smooth skin was something for which hew as totally unprepared. He froze, his dick suddenly rock hard, the suit pressing against him, even as its empty sleeves still flopped against Hennesy's muscular torso.

Belkem peered out from behind Preston, whose mouth he still held shut with his weasly hand. "What's the holdup?"

Hennesey breathed in sharply as his midsection slid easily into the golden rubber suit he’d appropriated from Preston. “Ohhh, man”, he gasped, his feet settling nicely into the cushion-soled boots. “This thing is fucking incredible!” The other guys looked at him strangely as he shuddered with pleasure while donning the stolen suit.

“What’s the big fuckin’ deal?”, Turnblad said.

“Hurry up already before someone walks in”, Ridder sneered.

Hennesy just smiled. “Guys, you should feel this fuckin’ thing. It is so—so---“, he paused, trying to collect himself as he slid the suit up his torso. His voice rose an octave as he continued, “—so swee-eeett!” After more puzzled looks from his cohorts, Hennesy explained, “The whole inside of the suit is lubed. Like with a non-stick coating or something.” The guys looked even more confused. Hennesy smiled wider. “It just slides over your body, and it fits so easy. The rubber is way better than our suits. It’s so soft, go on, feel.”

As Belkem and Turnblad brought Preston out to the center of the restroom, down on his knees, Ridder ran his fingers over one of the loose sleeves as Hennesy slid into the other. “Whoa. Nice.”

“Ain’t it?”, Hennesy smirked.

Preston wrestled in the grip of his captors, seeming not only less than enthused with his new black suit but greatly offended that his arch enemy was getting off on wearing his gold one. His outrage gave him the extra purchase he needed to free his mouth of Belkem's hold. “You’re never going to get away with this”, Preston scoffed angrily.

“Shut yer mouth”, Belkem said, twisting Preston’s arm and forcing him down farther upon his knees.

Hennesy now adjusted the hood's opening around his face, and was staring down at his golden-rubbered arms as if they were glowing. “Oooohhhh”, he said softly. Forcing himself back into the moment, he commanded his henchmen, “Seal me up.” Rapidly, Ridder and Turblad zipped up the seal across Hennesy’s shoulders and closed the tight flap over it. Hennesy shrugged his shoulders and felt the suit “lock” into place, the slickened rubber almost flowing over his skin.

Belkem forced Preston around, still on his knees, to face the newly-uniformed Hennesy. The standing Hennesy looked down at Preston, smirking. “Looks much better on me, don’tcha think?”

Hennesy began grabbing at his crotch, almost feeling himself up. At first the others began jeering Preston as he did so, his hand grasping, his hips gyrating, as they assumed Hennesy was simply mocking the honor student. But even the thickheaded young thugs were quick to discern that Hennesy's movements were not mere harrassment of their captive victim.

Turnblad furrowed his brow. "Henn, what the fuck, man?"

"Guys," Hennesy said, a smile spreading across his face, "there's a fucking sheath in here."

Belkem wasn't sure what that meant. "A sheeth? What, like you sleep on?"

Hennesy rolled his eyes but still kept working his crotch, now using both his hands to adjust himself. "Not a sheet, asshole. A sheath. As in, a little rubber pocket to slide your dick into."

The three hoodlums looked at each other agog. "No fucking way!" Ridder gasped. "So, there's like a little rubber tube in there for your cock?"

"There sure as hell is," Hennesy said, his smile now fixed in place. And with a few satisfied sighs and a small moan, that's not all that was fixed in place. "Ooh, it feels awesome, too. Not tight like a condom or anything, but it's a good fit. And yeaahhh…" he relished the sensation, revealing, "it's got extra lube inside it. Feels like lotion." Hennesy rubbed the front of the his crotch, really gaining an entirely new appreciation for his stolen uniform.

Turnblad eyed the front of the golden suit. "I don't see no codpiece or anything. Looks like the regular front of a wadersuit."

"Oh, it's in there," Hennesy assured him. "Believe me."

Hennesy smacked Preston upside the head as Belkem held the boy in place. "Guess there's a whole lot of added benefits to having one of these gold suits, huh, asswipe?" Hennesy jeered. Preston felt a growing fury rise within him over Hennesy wearing his precious uniform. Especially with him having discovered its interior penis sheath. Preston considered the suit to be his second skin, almost a part of him. And to have Hennesy inside the suit, inserting himself into it this way, was violating. It seemed to Preston like something akin to rape.

Preston had been grinding his teeth to keep from saying anything, but now blurted out, “You assholes tried this shit once before. All I gotta do is pull this damn hood back to show that I don't belong in this fucking retard suit.” He looked up at Belkem. “You can’t hold me down forever.”

Belkem seemed unphased. “You mean pull your hood back like this?” Roughly, he yanked back the snug black rubber hood from Preston’s head, causing the honor student to yelp in pain as the thick, untreated rubber pulled at his long, floppy hair.

His eyes watering slightly from the pain, Preston blinked the tears back and said, somewhat uncertain where this was going, “Yeah. Like that.” The guys exchanged laughs and knowing looks. “What?”, Preston demanded. “What’s so damn funny?”

Hennesy stepped up to the kneeling teacher’s pet. “So all you gotta do is have our hoods pulled back and our big cover’s blown, huh?” Preston nodded, confident in his theory yet unsure of why he was the only one who saw its merit. “Well, maybe I should just get this over with right now then”, Hennesy suggested, grabbing the edges of his own hood, playing to his crowd. “Just save us all a lot of misery and punishment, huh?”

Preston tried to press what he refused to abandon as his only leverage. “Yeah, just save yourself a lot of misery and—“ but he stopped short as Hennesy peeled back the golden hood on his head, which slipped off smoothly due to its lubricated interior coating. Preston just stared, unbelieving.

Hennesy shook his head slightly as long, dirty-blond locks of hair tumbled free across his head and down over his brow. He ran his gloved fingers through his long hair and ruffled it into an untidy mop. “The new ‘do suits me almost as much as your school uniform, don’t it?”

Preston began to stammer, “H-how--? You guys are required to keep your heads shaved into buzzcuts. It's the rules!” He looked at the other guys, still hooded, wondering if hidden beneath their hoods they also sported longer haircuts. Then he looked back to Hennesy, still not believing what he saw. “No lower-graded student is allowed a haircut with follicles at lengths beyond that of a quarter-inch—“, Preston rambled, quoting the student handbook.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah”, Hennesy said, waving the recitation away with his hand. “Let’s just say that for the last several weeks it’s been a pain in the ass wearing my granny’s old swimming cap under my uniform hood so none of the teaching staff would figure it out.” He leaned forward and shook his lengthy locks in Preston’s face, who squinted his eyes against the brush of hair.

As Hennesy stepped back, Preston tried to recover from this rude surprise. “So--so you have a long haircut. So what? That’ll just get you in even more trouble when you’re found out—“

“If”, corrected Ridder.

Turblad agreed. “If we’re found out.”

Hennesy walked over to one of the sinks and reached underneath it, feeling around. There was a sound of tape ripping away from it’s porcelain surface and Hennesy turned back to face everyone, brandishing a set of barber’s clippers, twin strips of duct tape still stuck to them.

“How—how did you get those in here??”, Preston asked, suddenly very frightened.

“It’s amazing what certain members of the janitorial staff will do for a fellow blacksuit when you tell them you’ll do anything to keep your hair short to avoid getting in trouble during random buzzcut checks.” Hennesy shrugged, adding, “And when you slip him a twenty.” He flipped the switch on the side of the clippers and its angry buzz echoed off the walls of the washroom.

“Hold him.”

“NO!!”, Preston started to scream, but Belkem’s hand was over his mouth in an instant, smothering the sound. The other two helped drag the helpless Preston over to one of the stalls, leaning his head over the toilet bowl. Hennesy reached in and began to gleefully shave away Preston’s precious hair in huge swaths, scarring his freshly-washed and pefumed coiffure with harsh paths of skin visible beneath the newly-buzzed strips.

Preston tried to jerk himself away, to push off his oppressors, now filled with the renewed strength that comes with panic. “Keep him still!”, Hennesy ordered forcefully. The others did so, the three hoodlums pushing the poor brainy kid against the bowl.

Hennesy began to hum a merry tune as he sliced away more and more of Preston’s beautiful hair, arcing cruel, elongated rectangles across the boy’s scalp. The mechanical buzzing of the clippers resonated off the close quarters of the metal stall as Preston watched lock after lock of his beloved hair tumble into the toilet to float atop the water. This was really happening, he finally accepted, and began to weep. His whimpers were muffled under Belkem’s tighlty-clasped hand over his mouth, heard only by those holding him down.

“Aww, don’t cry wittle boy”, Hennesy mocked. “It’s only your first haircut.” he laughed, and the others laughed with him, truly enjoying themselves.

In short order the deed was done. Preston had gone from adorable, bushy-headed mama’s boy to buzzcut ruffian in a matter of seconds. It was less than two minutes to strip the boy of his hair and his carefully-groomed personal look. Hennesy clicked off the clippers, then nodded to Belkem. “Loosen your grip on his mouth.”

Belkem did so, slowly taking his hand away, expecting Preston to cry out again, but no sound came. Preston only licked his lips and swallowed, as if trying to rid his mouth of a bad lingering aftertaste.

“Take one last look”, Hennesy said, having his pals hold Preston’s face over the bowl now filled with the golden boy’s shaven hair. With two fingers, Hennesy touched the flusher, lingering there to milk the moment, then pushed the lever down. With a swirl of water and a few loose hairs flitting about, Preston’s very identity disappeared down the drain in a clockwise swirl.

“Pick him up”, Hennesy said.

The guys yanked Preston to his feet, ready to hold him down again if need be, although the fight seemed to have gone out of him. Hennesy looked to Belkem, who had handed Preston over to Turnblad and Ridder. “Give that a courtesy flush or two. We don’t want any evidence left behind.” Belkem nodded, and stood before the bowl, watching intently for the swirling to stop, the rumbling of pipes to fade, his fingers hovering over the lever, ready to pull it again.

Hennesy directed his other two pals to drag Preston over to the mirror above the sinks. “Take a good look, golden boy”, he sneered. Preston saw his reflection and for a moment didn’t recognize himself. That was his face, his frigthened eyes, his soft lips over whitened teeth, but with his head shaved to near-baldness, it was if something of his very self had been stripped away. For the first time, Preston understood why this was a requirement for the black suited students. It kept them in their place, as part of a uniform mob of ne’er-do-wells, marked as such for all to see even when out of their rubber dress.

Turnblad slapped Preston’s shoulder roughly. “You’re one of us now.”

“Hood him”, Hennesy ordered.

Ridder and Turblad pulled Preston’s black hood back over his head, which went back into place much more easily without the excess hair to impede its progress. Once there, Preston saw his image reflected back to him, face framed by the circle of black rubber, his body trapped in the scuffed and heavyweight detention suit. “My God”, he thought, his heart sinking, “I really am one of them now.”

Worse than that, Preston also saw Hennesy's reflection as the delinquint lad stood behind him. Hennesy with his loose mop of hair, dirty blond locks falling over his forehead, a few stray strands obscuring his eyes. Hennesy in the fine gold suit, and for the first time Preston noticed the faint resemblance between the two of them. Done up this way, Hennesy could almost be called cute. In a different time and place, the duo could even be mistaken for brothers. A new and frightening thought occurred to Preston. "They might actually get away with this."

Hennesy signalled for his men to bring Preston over to the door in preparation for Phase Two. Putting their victim in place in his new environment. Belkem was quick to join them at the restroom door, the last echoes of the third flush resounding in the room.

After seeing that the hallway was still clear, Hennesy had the three fellow thugs bring Preston out in to the hall. "None of our teachers will believe that you're me," Preston said, sounding desperate. They'll recognize you right away."

"Yeah, they might," Hennesy admitted. "But a bunch of strangers won't."

Preston's eyes widened. He'd said it earlier himself. I'm being taken to an academic summit this morning. Preston's mind raced, trying to recall if those in attendance at the special awards summit included anyone he'd previously met. As this was the first time he'd been awarded by this particular comittee, it seemed unlikely. Preston bolted.

"Hey! Stop him!" Ridder yelled.

Preston made it the full length of the hallway in seconds (he may have been slight of build, but he was fast). Preston was sure he could have gone even faster in his own suit. The soles of these black boots felt heavier somehow. Hennesy didn't even have to order his pals to catch him. They were on him in an instant. Preston had only just rounded the corner when the three blacksuits tackled him, pounding him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him. At the end of another corridor, a teacher was making his way to his office. Preston spotted him and tried to cry out for help. The three thugs made sure his mouth was held so tightly shut it hurt his jaw. Preston was crying openly as they pulled him back down the maintenance hallway.

The teacher paused on his journey to his office. Had he just heard something? Who else would be here this early in the morning? He made his way toward the sound he thought he'd heard. Was it boots upon the floor? At least two pairs of boots, perhaps three. But when the teacher reached the maintenance and shop class hallway, he peered down and saw no one there. Oh, well. Older school buildings were full of all manner of unidentified noises, he decided, going back about his business.

Scrunched tight inside the entryway to the shop room, all five boys huddled silently. Once they were satisfied that the teacher was long gone, the gold-suited Hennesy looked daggers at Preston. "That was really stupid," he said. He nodded to the other boys. Turnblad held Preston in a tight bear hug the smaller boy could not break, pinning his arms to his sides. Belkem kept his hand clamped over Preston's mouth and Ridder held their captive's head stationary. Hennesy held up his tan gloved hand and pinched his thumb and forefinger together a couple times in warning. Then, he reached over and pinched Preston's nostrils closed.

Preston's eyes widened as he felt his breath being cut off. His face went red and he tried to shake his head away from Hennesy's pinching fingers. Ridder held his head too tightly for that to work. Preston soon felt his cheeks burn, his head growing light. He kicked his feet and tried to push back against Turnblad, hoping to loosen his grip, anything to get some air. Nothing doing. The other boys were too well-braced against the door behind them. They held him that way for half a minute. A full minute. Two. Preston felt his lungs begin to burn and black spots danced before his eyes. He was fading fast.

"You gonna be a good boy?" Hennesy asked, pinching the golden boy's nose even tighter.

Preston nodded, as best he could.

"You ain't gonna try to run away no more?"

Preston shook his head. His eyes felt like they were going to pop. His face was as red as a beet.

"I'm in charge now, isn't that right?" Hennesy asked unnecessarily. "I'm the boss of you."

Preston nodded vigorously, even held in Ridder's grip. He began to whimper. Yes, yes, whatever you say, please just let me breathe.

Hennesy let go. Preston inhaled sharply, noisily, drawing as much air as he could into his nose. He breathed in and out desperately, his head going light again, this time with the rush of oxygen washing back to his brain and lungs. His color began to return to normal and he looked at Henney. Hennesy slowly peeled Belkem's hand from Preston's mouth. Preston was gasping for air.

"Yes…yes…I'll be good…I won't run again…you're the boss of me…you're the boss…" Preston felt utterly humiliated to give in this way, but he felt so frightened by his near-suffocation that he dared not risk angering these four hoodlums again. He hadn't the balls for it. Better to bide his time and wait for a teacher, a counselor, an authority figure to enter the picture. Backed thusly, Preston could face his captors with at least a modicum of dignity, even if it was done with false and posed fortitude.

Hennesy turned back to his three friends. He spoke as if Preston no longer mattered, as if he were no longer even still present, with no concern for his feelings. As one would in the presence of a very small child, or a pet. "Okay," Hennesy said, "if we're right, there's gonna be a ride pulling up for our little golden boy real soon. I'm going to meet it. You take our new blacksuit to morning home room so he can't get into any trouble. Got it?" The others nodded. They understood the plan.

Hennesy turned to Preston, who sat cowering in the corner of the small entryway. "And you, geek?"

"I'll be a good boy," Preston answered, still frightened.

"It's what he's best at," Belkem taunted, giving Preston's head a playful shove.

"Then let's do this thing," Hennesy said. They all departed their hiding place, Hennesy starting in the direction of the pick-up door, the others escorting Preston in his new black suit to the lower-grade home room, dragging or pushing him, respectively.

Preston made just a little pretense of putting up some resistance, but in truth he was happy to go along, and not just to avoid further abuse and possible smothering. Home room meant a designated classroom, and a classroom meant a teacher, who in turn to Preston spelled freedom. Sure, he'd go along. No problem. There's a good boy.

"You know where to take him," Hennesy had said to his boys as he quickened his pace. "Get him there pronto. I know where I got to go." Preston smirked. Hennesy wasn't going to get very far with his plan using that kind of grammar. Even stuck in a delinquent's uniform, held prisoner with a shaved head, Preston took some comfort in knowing he was still superior to these oafs.

"Good luck, man," Belkem said.

"Have fun," Turnblad added, holding Preston's arms tight.

"Not so hard," Preston said quietly. "I said I'd be good."

"Like we believe that," Ridder scoffed.

Hennesy waved his goodbye. And, winking at Preston, giving an extra pat on the chest of his new suit, ran off down the hallway. The path down which Hennesy was headed was still clear of any teachers or administrators, so it looked as if the thug in his stolen gold suit was going to make it as far as the pickup car, at least.

Turnblad guided Preston down the corridor quickly, with Belkem and Ridder taking point. Ridder scouted ahead, Belkem kept an eye on the halls behind them. They made it to the farthest hallway uninterrupted. This was the thug hallway, where all the detention halls and correctional classes were. Preston had walked by it a million times, but had never been down it before today. He felt somehow dirty just treading this hall—despite it being no different in outward appearance from any other hall in the Squirmsen school. Preston half expected there to be cobwebs near the ceiling, cracks and holes in the walls, spiders and rats scurrying by, and even, inexplicably, at least one steaming street grate set in the floor. But it was simply another hallway, like any other, differentiated only by those who had to walk it. Preston thought it was made worse by the fact that he trod it in black boots. He cringed as he was pushed along.

"Come on, move it," Turnblad growled, shoving Preston on as he began to drag his feet.

The foursome made their way to one of the last rooms in the hallway. Preston could see an exit door just a few classrooms away. If he could run again, he might make it outside…

But it was an idea that was short-lived. Ridder had already turned to the right and gone into one of the open rooms. He paused momentarily in the doorway, there was a soft humming sound, Preston thought somebody said something, and then Ridder continued on inside. Preston had no clue what was happening. Turnblad jerked his head toward Belkem, ushering him to go in next. "Go, go!"

The weasly hood stepped up to the doorway, which Preston now saw had a square doormat of some kind set into the floor, not unlike the automatic door pads found at the entrances and exits of most grocery stores. Only these were almost a quarter inch deeper. Belkem stepped upon the pad and a series of small blue lights lit up along the edges of the pad's recess. A bar of projected light slid from front to back beneath the soles of his boots, scanning them, or rather, something that was inside the soles.

There was a soft hum and a stiff, computerized voice said, ["Belkem, Aaron. Proceed inside and be seated. Step quickly and quietly. Your movements are being monitored."]

"What the hell is this?" Preston began, but Turnblad pushed the smaller boy forward and held him in place over the pad. As soon as Preston's boots were standing upon the pad, the scanner flashed below again, reading whatever was hidden in the soles under his feet. It spoke once more. The prerecorded voice was vaguely female.

["Hennesy, Eugene."]

Preston was incredulous. "Eugene? His name is Eugene??"

The machine's voice continued, not hearing him. ["Proceed inside and be seated. Step quickly and quietly. Your movements are being monitored."]

Turnblad pushed Preston on inside. "Go on, move! You heard the thing! You wanna get zapped, jackass?" Preston began to turn to face Turnblad, wondering what he was going on about, when a small shock rose up from the mat and jolted Preston right through the soles of his boots.

"AAH! What the hell was that?"

Turnblad went to push him again, but Preston had already jumped off the pad. The skin on the soles of his feet felt burned. He stepped up and down on them, hoping to work off the pain.

"Tried to tell you," Turnblad said, taking his turn on the pad at the door. ["Turnblad, Steven. Proceed inside and be seated. Step quickly and quietly. Your movements are being monitored."] Turnblad strolled inside and took a seat at one of the four desks there, legs extending in front of him and crossing his feet at the ankles, made himself comfortable. All three of them had already sat down. Preston saw his moment.

Preston dashed for the open door only to have it slam shut in his face. There was a hiss of something happening between the door and its jamb and then came the sound of metal on metal, a deadbolt lock rapidly sliding quickly and firmly into place. A small metal disc upon the door turned as if of its own accord and when it too clicked into place, a small red light lit up at its apex. The machine voice spoke again. ["All students of Holding Room 24-A accounted for. Students will remain in Home Room until First Period. Any homework may be tended to at this time, but movement about the room is prohibited. There is no talking."]

Preston fought against the door, but it was closed beyond his ability to budge it. The wooden door was thick and sturdy, the deadbolt as considerable. And he was just a slight honor student tennis player. Preston grabbed instinctively for the door handle and only scraped his gloved hand against the flat of the door. Instead of a handle, there was only the flat metal disc with the glowing light. An automated locking system, evidently to prevent the school ne'er-do-wells from wandering the halls before class and interfering with the "legitimate" students.

"There's no door knob," Preston whispered. "There's no way out."

Beyond the slender, vertical window on the door, crisscrossed with black wire a bit more formidable than that found in other classroom door windows, Preston could see more black-suited lads arriving and grudgingly making their way to other rooms across the hall, each one stopping as he entered, allowing the scanning pad to take roll as they were confined in turn. There was a knocking sound behind Preston.

Preston turned around to see Ridder holding up a Geography textbook he'd confiscated from a nearby shelf within reach. He'd scrawled on its interior cover in pencil, and now held the book up for Preston to see.

you better sit DOWN

Preston then heard the mechanical voice speak again, slightly louder in volume.

["Movement about the room is prohibited. All students will take their seats."]

Preston looked up at the ceiling, hoping to find a camera or some other security device. He saw none. "Hello? I don't belong here. Can anyone see me?" The other three started to laugh. Ridder dropped his pilfered book upon his desk, arms out as if to say I tried to warn you. Preston called out again. "Hello? My name is Preston Cafferelli. I need to speak to someone on the faculty—"

The voice practically snarled. ["ALL students will take their seats. Hennesy, Eugene, will be designated for special disciplinary action if directions are not followed. You have ten seconds to comply."

Ridder pointed with a jabbing finger at the only empty seat in the room. Preston stood there, unsure of how to process all this. The pad behind him sparked again, and a lance of electrical discharge shot out and spiked against his boot. Preston moved rapidly to the empty seat and practically threw himself into it. The others were all laughing again.

"Alright, alright," Preston whined. "I'm sitting down already! Jesus, you don't have to—"

["THERE IS NO TALKING."]

Preston breathed heavily. He gripped the edge of his desk and looked around. It was a very small room, but as it was not intended for people to move around in it, that was hardly a big problem. There was a large clock on the wall at the head of the room. It was still at least forty minutes until first hour began for the rest of the student body. In the distance, Preston could hear doors opening, footsteps, a few people trickling in to start their day. He wondered if this was what it meant to be a blacksuit. Ushered in earlier than anyone else, forced into a veritable cell, only able to interact with the other students during lunch or between classes.

Preston looked around the room, taking in the other three blacksuits. They sat languidly, doing nothing, staring at the walls. Ridder was beginning to nod off. They seemed quite used to his routine. None of them had brought in any homework to do, so they had nothing but the better part of an hour of boredom to look forward to until they were ushered off to who knows what came next for them.

Preston leaned forward and whispered to Turnblad, "Is it always like this?"

["THERE IS NO TALKING."]

Preston sat back hurriedly, arms raised as if to show he intended no malice. Turnblad snickered, shaking his head. Slow learner. Preston sat back in his chair, feeling his heart pounding from fear. It was suddenly less of a mystery to him that so many of the black suited students went on after graduation to nothing more than menial jobs or became criminals. What else could they learn, if they were always treated as criminals?

Hennesy had made it to the back doorway where rides usually picke dup students for special events and field trips. Buses pulled up nearby, but they wouldn't be arriving for a little while. Hennesy could already hear the small crowd of his fellow blacksuits arriving, being ushered into their holding cell home rooms. They chance that he'd be spotted by anyone who knew him, or mor eimportantly, knew Preston cefferelli, was slight.

Hennesy rocked back and forth on his heels. not form nervousness, but from the sheer pleasure he got from the feel of the high-quality golden boots on his feet. The soles were cushioned with spongy gel inserts which made his every step nearly bounce. It also felt better to walk in boots that did not have an i.d. plate in their soles. Hennesy shrugged his shoulders, loving the feel of the soft, lubricated rubber sliding over his skin, pressing against his arms and back as he moved. Rank certainly had its privileges. Hennesy had been fighting the urge to fiddle with his cock as it lay nestled inside the suit's interior sheath, and finally gave in to the desire to grope himself a bit when he saw a black car round the corner at a very slow speed and approach where he stood.

"Oh, no fucking way…" he whispered to himself.

It was a limousine. It pulled right up to the young man in the golden rubber suit and came to a stop. The driver's door opened and a man in an impressive driver's uniform, complete with the little hat, stepped out. The suit was entirely rubber, all the way down to the tall rubber riding boots. The driver stood tall but had a look that indicated that he was born to service and was happy to accommodate. He looked to Hennesy.

"Mr. Cafferelli?"

Hennesy blinked for a moment, processing the greeting, and nearly corrected the man. But he caught himself. "Hm? Oh, yeah. Right. I mean, right. I'm Preston Cafferelli." This was the first time Hennesy had said the name as his own. It was odd to hear it come out of his mouth without wanting to spit.

The driver walked in long strides around the front of the car and shook Hennesy's hand. "Good morning, sir. Seeing as your parents both have obligations with work they were unable to avoid or reschedule, I was sent to see to it that your reach your academic summit in the utmost comfort and safety."

Hennesy was abit overwhelmed. "Umm, okay."

The driver opened the door. "I take it you weren't expecting a limousine, sir."

"I sure wasn't," Hennesy admitted. He got into the car.

"Enjoy, sir," the driver said, closing the door firmly but without slamming it. He quickly skipped back around and took his place behind the wheel. He buckled in and looked back at Hennesy, who was enjoying his posh surroundings, running his gloved hands over the luxurious seats, sinking his back into the cushions behind him. "First time in a limo?" the driver asked. He seemed surpised. Hennesy caught on to the man's tone and realized that Cafferelli's family must enjoy extravagance on a fairly regular basis.

"Haven't ridden in one lately," Hennesy said. The driver nodded, appearing to accept that.

"Well, anything you need, Mr. Cafferelli, you just let me know. You'll find you have a snack bar and an assortment of soft drinks and juices. There's a DVD player and a few new releases there, but I doubt you'll have much time for them. It's only about an hour drive to the summit."

Hennesy thought he could get used to this. Then another thought occurred to him. "Say, do you know if any representative of the school is supposed to be there? Teachers, the principal, superintendant, that kind of thing?"

The driver pulled away from the school, answering as he looked out at the road before them. "Near as I recall, Mr. Cafferelli, you're the representative of the Squirmsen school."

"So, nobody'll be there who knows me, then," Hennesy said, verifying that his prior suspicions in that regard were indeed correct.

The driver smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. There’ll be plenty of other supporters of the Cafferelli fan club there, so to speak. Folks who've read your papers, seen your test scores, recommended you for recognition awards. You'll be able to bring a pretty sizable trophy to the folks back home, along with stories a'plenty to make them feel as if they were there. They just won’t be there to experience it firsthand is all.”

Hennesy sat back in the posh seats, a feeling of relief washing over him. So far, so good.

Back in the holding cell 24-A which served as the home room for Hennesy's cohort quartet, Preston sat fidgeting in his desk. He'd watched the seconds on the clock tick by, feeling the discomfort of his forced black rubber suit, the stiffness of his boot soles, the closeness of the quarters and the staleness of the air which seemed by his estimation to be getting worse by the minute. There were no windows in the room, and no air ventilation that he could tell. What if there was a malfunction in the door's locking mechanism? Would they all begin to suffocate? He felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back and puddle around his ass cheeks. He never seemed to sweat in his gold suit.

Preston sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He could hear more and more noise from beyond the hall which held his prison room. Lockers opening and closing, the chatter of students, even bits of laughter at shared jokes. The comforting sound of rubber boot soles on the polished floors. Soon. He would be free soon. He would be escorted to a first period classroom and then he'd speak to whatever teacher was there. Preston was quite certain that the instructor would blanch to see the school's poster boy for academic excellence and school spirit wrongly ensconced in a hoodlum's uniform. He would be rushed to the principal's office and tended to as a squad of policemen—rubber uniformed policemen, in their electric blue shirts with the black trim, black rubber ties and rubber riding boots—were sent out after Hennesy. It would be wonderful.

Preston fumed at the thought of Hennesy luxuriating in a limousine on his way to the grand hotel to receive honors and accolades for something he'd never done. Preston knew there'd be a limousine. His folks always sent a limo when they couldn't make it to his award ceremonies. Preston imagined Hennesy the thug squishing into the overstuffed seats, his cock rising as it rubbed within the gold suit's hidden sheath. Preston knew he'd have to have the suit fumigated when he got it back.

There was a sound that was a cross between a buzz and a whine that came over the p.a. system. The first period warning buzzer. Five minutes left until the start of the day. Preston sat up expectantly, waiting for the second buzzer. Ridder, Belkem, ad Turnblad were all dozing at this point. Belkem and Ridder had their heads down on their desks, resting upon folded arms. Turnblad, who was too tall to rest his head comfortably, let his head loll backwards as he sat in a near reclining position. The trio seemed so completely out of it that Preston wondered if they'd even hear the buzzer when it sounded.

But sure enough, as if they'd been wide awake all along, as soon as the second buzzer sounded, the trio of thugs sat up at attention as if they'd heard their names called. There was a small chime that rang from the door and the circular disc upon it spun in a direction opposite to its first turn and the light upon it glowed green. There was an audible click and the door opened about two inches.

["Students will now proceed to their first period classroom. Move quickly and quietly, your movements are being monitored."]

The three hoods got up and shuffled toward the door, which Turnblad pushed open with a large hand. Uncertain of what to do next and afraid of being zapped again or otherwise punished, Preston followed along behind the other boys. "Wh-where are we going now?" he asked no one in particular.

"First period, duh," Belkem retorted. "How'd you get to be such a big-shot honor student if you're so fucking stupid?"

"I-I meant, what room is it in?" Preston asked. "What subject is it?"

"PACC rat stuff," Ridder mumbled.

Preston was confused, but stumbled along behind the others as separate groups of blacksuits made their way up and down the hall, each cluster in an almost straight line, most of them keeping their heads down, walking as if any misstep could land them in detention or worse. "Pack rat? What's--?"

"Previously Assigned Courses for Correction," Turnblad said angrily. He sounded as if he were sick of answering Preston's questions. "And just follow the fuckin' grid."

Preston looked down at the floor and for the first time noticed that, despite being otherwise identical to the floor everywhere else in the building, this hallway's tiles were separated by a grid of clean metallic wire. Silver, about an eight of an inch wide, shiny. The grid broke off here and there and angled its way into different classrooms. Preston did not see any markings that differentiated one grid from the next, as would colored lines on the floor of an airport, to indicate one route over another. He couldn't image what good they would do.

When Preston looked up from the floor, he saw one of his own teachers at the end of the hall, no doubt walking past on his way to first period. He was only in sight for a moment, but Preston recognized him all the same. As preston hoped the teacher would recognize him. Preston bolted forward and called out to him. "Mister Stillson! Wait up!"

No sooner had Preston dashed past Turnblad, Ridder, and Belkem than another surge of electricity—this one much stronger than the one from home room—surged through Preston's boots, effectively knocking him to the ground, where he writhed in pain. Also different from the jolt issued in home room, these charges were not sporadic but constant, and as the sharp, jagged pain continued through Preston's feet, he began to whimper.

"Agh! No! M-make it st-stop!" Preston cried, tears already streaming down his cheeks.

"Get up, dumbass," Belkem said gruffly. Preston just kept on twitching and crying.

"Aw, fer Christ sakes," Turnblad muttered, and stretched over and grabbed Preston by his suit, yanking him back in line. The immediate pain to Preston's feet had stopped, but the lingering burn continued. Turnblad smacked Preston hard in the back of the head, then pointed to the floor. "Stick to the goddamn grid, asshole."

Preston looked down at the grid on the floor and saw a flash of yellow gleam across a strip where he had just been. Clearly, the inlaid gridwork was not to direct students on where to proceed to class, but was a security measure designed to shock wayward students into submission should they stray too far from the approved pathways to and from each period. Preston was still panting, unable to believe what had just happened. Who treats people like this? Besides me, he thought to himself.

Ridder shoved Preston from behind, and the brainy boy turned to face the young thug with an angry look. "Hey, watch it!" Ridder continued to shove him and Turnblad made a loud grunting noise to gain the kidnapped lad's attention.

"We're in here," Turnblad said, turning back to enter a classroom. Preston followed, praying the teacher was someone he knew well.

Hennesy didn't know what awaited him at this academic summit, but if it was half as much fun as riding in the limo, he was going to love it. Eugene Hennesy stretched out his legs before him in the amply cab, his feet rocking back and forth to the reverberating tunes of a local metal station he was blasting on the car's stereo system. He was sipping away at an odd-shaped bottle of something called Orangina and was working his way through his fourth pastry wrapped in gold foil bearing a fanciful name he couldn't pronounce. It tasted not unlike a bear claw, but with such moist layers, sumptuous icing, and a thick hazelnut creme center that made it more akin to a bear claw's much wealthier cousin. Hennesy felt that he would be more than happy to set up house right here his spiffy new ride. There came a rapping on the privacy screen that Hennesy had raised.

"Excuse me, Mr. Cafferelli?" came the muffled voice of the driver. Hennesy kept on rocking to the tunes and munching his treat. The voice came again, louder. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Cafferelli?" Still nothing. The privacy screen lowered via the driver's override switch, and the renewed open gap between passenger and driver caught Hennesy's attention. The chaufeeur waved at him.

Hennesy leapt forward and turned the volume down on the radio. "Oh, dude. Sorry. Hey, whats' up?"

The driver smiled. It seemed to him that few passengers he'd ferryed about had ever enjoyed their ride as much as this young scholar. "Pardon me, Mr. Cafferelli, sir, but we're here."

"No shit, already?"

Hennesy rolled down the window by automatic button and let out a low whistle as he took in the sight of the posh and towering Grand Hotel. "Ohhh, hell yes," he said, dropping his pasty and drink back upon the bar. "Dude. Just slam me to the wall and screw me standing," he grinned, reaching for the door handle to step out.

"Sir, wait!" the driver said, hurriedly stopping the car before the main entrance's cricular drive. The driver leapt from his seat behind the wheel and scurried to Hennesy's door. With flourish, he opened the door for his charge and said, "Allow me."

Now this, Hennesy decided, was the only way to live. He stepped out of the car and took in the luxurious surroundings. Bellmen and parking attendants all in rubber tuxedoes of forest green and brick red, respectively, leaping about to tend to the needs and whims of hotel guests. Thick carpeting led a path up the main entryway, which was roped off with velvet bands strung upon golden posts. Hennesy decided that maybe there were things better than riding in limos. He turned to his smiling driver.

"Thanks for the lift, man. I wish I had some cash to slip you so you could get yourself a nice lunch and a good fuck."

The chauffeur smiled. "You're parents have laready sen to it, Mr. Cafferelli. Er, the payment part, in any event. Just ask the man at the desk to ring for me when you're ready to go back home. Enjoy your summit."

Hennesy strode up the carpet to the front door. "You know, I think I will."

"There he is!" Hennesy had no sooner passed the main doors and stepped into the hotel lobby than he was greeted rather gregariously by a regal gentleman with a white moustache. He dashed over and shook Hennesy's hand. "And you no doubt are our much-praised scholar we've all bee so anxious to meet! Welcome, son!"

"Um, thanks, I guess," Hennesy said, a bit overwhelmed.

"I know who you are!" came another voice, from a stocky man with a severe dark brown brush cut. He gripped Hennesy by the shoulder.

"Of course," the man nearly barked. "I'd recognize that gold hono student uniform anywhere. You're are acclaimed representative from J.T. Squirmsen, aren't you? Capperelli, isn't it?"

"Uh, he's—that is, I'm—it's Cafferelli. And yeah, I guess that's me."

"Excellent! Good to have you." Another man, smartly-attired for the event, made his way to the group and waved a few other gentlemen over.

"Come on and say hello to the young man we've bene waiting for," he announced. "This is that fine Preston Cofferalli fellow!" Smiling academics and educational reps approached quickly.

"Uh, it's Cafferelli," Hennesy said, feeling a bit foolish at correcting them on the pronunciation of a name that wasn't even his.

"Right, right. Sorry about that, Preston," the man said, patting him on the back. "My, but you look smart in that gold uniform, though."

Preston nodded his head. "Hey, thanks."

"It's a little while yet until the presentation in the central ballroom," the man said, his arm no draped proudly around Hennesy's shoulders. "Why don't you join us at a table in the cafe and let us bore you with how much we loved your award-winning paper. What would you care to drink?"

"I, uh, just recently got into drinking Orangina," Hennesy said sheepishly.

"Ha-HA!" the man laughed, gently pushing Hennesy along. "I'm partial to that myself. Orangina it is. I must tell you, this paper of yours with its—if I may say so—revolutionary means of dealing with undisciplined ruffians was nothing short of inspired!"

"Well, thanks," Hennesy smiled, enjoying the praise, regardless of it being misplaced. "Gotta stay on top of those damn undisciplined ruffians, I always say." This earned him more pats on the back, more laughter. Yes, he was definitely going ot like this academic summit thing.

Preston sat down hard in the only vacant desk in the room, front row center. He was not going to get shocked again, and as he was unaware how this particular room was wired, be opted not to take any chances. He would just sit very still and wait for the arrival of the techer. Preston looked around, toward the head of the classroom, seeing one door off to the left in addition to the one in which he had entered. He wondered which one the instructor would use to enter.

"Hi, Pres."

Preston whirled around to see a handsome African American lad seated three desk down in the first row. Preston recognized him immediately. An upstanding greensuit student, young athlete in track and field, and very stand-up guy.

"Derek!" Preston gasped, thrilled to see a familiar face. "What the hell are you doing here?" He thought a minute. "Di-did someone jump you too? Force you into that suit?"

Derek rolled his eyes and laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, right. I was jumped the administration alright."

Trying to keep his feet flat on the floor to indicate no intention of escpae to whatever sensors might exit, Preston turned to face him. He saw this was a larger classroom than the holding cell that passed as home room, but there were still only fifteen students present. "Derek, what happened to you?" Preston asked, genuinely concerned. "There's no way you should be here."

"I'm truly surprised to hear you say that," Derek said pintedly. "Considering how you helped put me here." Preston began to speak in protest, but Derek held up a hand to silence him. He then leaned forward in his desk to impart his tale. "Last term, my gran was dying. I went to be with her at her bedside. She was asking for me."

Preston was confounded. "Derek, I dont even know your gran—"

Derek went on. "It was the week of finals. I missed exams for three of my classes. The big tests, the ones that count for a third of your final grade."

Preston still didn't understand. "You're a 3.7 student! Surely they'd let you retake the stupid tests considering the circum—"

"I left as soon as I got word from the main office," Derek interrupted. "Therefore, no special notice was submitted by me beforehand about my family difficulty, no meeting with the attendance office, and thus no official release for me. I was marked as truant."

"But-but that's ridiculous!" Preston said. "I mean, if you got word about your dying grandmother from the office, that means you were already here! They knew what was going on. They had to."

"Didn't stay to fill out all the proper excuse forms in triplicate and wait to have the signatures witnessed by two faculty members. I just left. Got to say goodbye to her, at least. She waited for me, lasted another four and half minutes before she went."

"Well, they must have let you retake the—"

"Does it fucking LOOK like they let me retake anything?!" Derek snapped, pounding a fist against his chest, now covered in black rubber. The other students turned away, clearly frightened of him.

"I-I can put in a good word for you," Preston offered weakly.

"Doesn't look like you're in much of a position to speak for anybody," Derek pointed out.

Preston looked at his own black suit. "This? This is a mistake!"

"And of course what happened to me wasn't," Derek answered back. "You should know."

Preston was still incredulous over Derek'd anger toward him. "But what did I—this is the first I'd heard about--!"

"As president of the student council, you put in the deciding vote concerning the school's No Tolerance/No Exceptions policy in regard to truancy." Preston was silent. That was true. He had. "Ask me about my athletic scholarship offers that got pulled when I was…demoted," Derek added. Preston didn't. He simply turned back in his seat, unable to look his former classmate in the eye.

"I'm gonna write a paper about all this when I get out of here," Preston mumbled to no one. "See if I don't."

The teacher entered from the far door on the left. He was a thin gentleman with short sandy hair and black-rimmed spectacles. He wore a worn lab coat, which indicated that this period could be some type of science class. But the possible subject is not what bothered Preston. He had never seen this man before. Preston stood up.

"Excuse me, sir, but I have something I need to tell you."

The teacher was still looking over his notes for the day, opening his rollbook, when he began to respond. "Yes, what is it—" then he looked up and saw who was addressing him. "Oh. You. I should have guessed. Well, whatever smart remark or prank you have to share can wait until after the day's lecture, Mr. Hennessy."

Preston's heart fell. "What? What did you just call me?"

"Your name," the teacher said. He had a haughty air about him, indicating a low tolerance for nonsense. "A name with considerable infamy behind it, if I may add."

Preston felt his heart begin to race. "Sir, that's not right. That's not my name. That's what I wanted to tell you. I'm really Preston Cafferelli."

The teacher snorted a derisive laugh, tossing his notebooks upon his desk at the head of the room. "The school's premiere honor student? I hardly think so." He laughed again, a forced, false sound, and the other boys, catching on, joined in.

"No, no you have to believe me," Preston insisted. "I was jumped at the beginning of the day and Hennesy…Eugene Hennesy…switched suits with me."

"I happen to know that Preston Cafferelli is attending an academic summit at the Grand Hotel today, Mr. Hennessy. Nice try. Where would you have jumped him, as he was getting into his liousine?"

Preston paused, further saddened. "They sent a limo--?"

"Now sit down and spare me your nonsense. You have enough to worry about today." He referred to his notebook again. "It says here you put up a fight over simply taking your seat in home room this morning. You have that to answer for without adding pranks pulled on the new guy to your list of offenses."

"Ask them!" Preston said, indicating the other fourteen bodies around the classroom. "They know damn well that I'm not Hennesy! They know who I am!"

"Well?" the instructor said, looking to the other blacksuited students. They simply shifted in their seats and glanced away. The instructor grunted. "Huh. I thought so. Get the substitute to go on a wild goose chase to find your supposed nemesis to compare the two of you, only to find he's away at a summit. Too bad for you I already knew that. Fun's over, even your fellow students clearly want no part of it. Sit down."

"Derek!" Preston turned to face the shafted student. "Tell him! Tell him who I am!"

Derek eyed Preston for a moment and there was clear tension in the air created by his silent pause. Then he said, "Sit your ass down, Hennessy, before you get us all in trouble."

Preston was dumbfounded. "No…"

The teacher walked over to Preston and put a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down into his desk. "You heard the man. Take your seat." As the instructor moved back to the head of the room, Preston asked him a different question.

"So who are you, anyway? I don't recognize you."

"Which indicates why you were foolish enough to think you could pull a fast one. You know full well that at this time each week a different disciplinarian instructor is assigned to this room. We travel from all over the district to share our expertise with those troubled students most in need of our speicalized gudiance. Something of which you are well aware, so you can drop the act."

“So you really have no idea who I am”, Preston said, his concern growing.

“Oh, I rather think I do”, the stuffy man said. Preston started to feel some hope spark within him—he really did know who he was, they were already tracking the real Hennessy—until the man withdrew a massive folder from one of the desk drawers and plopped it heavily upon the blotter. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Hennesy. I’ve been told aallll about you.”

"Then…then sir, if it's alright, I really need to go to the bathroom," Preston said. It was na old gambit, but if he could withstand the shocks along the floor long enough to make it to the main office…

"So go," the instructor said. Preston started to rise, but the teacher added, "Use your hose." The other students stiffled giggles. Preston clearly didn't understand. The increasingly angry instructor came over and clasped a hand around Preston's right thigh. "Use. Your. Hose." Preston felt the seam of his suit's leg and could feel a small tube running along there. Now that he was aware of it, he could tell it attched to a small cup within the suit's crotch and emptied, no doubt, into some collection bag concealed within his boot. It was an internal urinal device, like a trucker's buddy.

"And spare us the announcement about your calls of nature," the instructor huffed.

The prize scholar grew angry. "Sir, I am telling you, I really am Preston Cafferelli. And you are going to be in so much trouble when you find out that I am who I say I—"

The frustrated instructor slammed his folders back down upon his desk and marched over to Preston, grabbing his open-faced hood roughly and tearing it back off of his head, revealing the severe buzzcut underneath. The other students laughed at the sight of the school's golden boy fully shorn. Derek laughed the loudest, even adding a "Woo-HOO!" and slapping his gloved hands together. The instructor looked Preston in the eye, daring him to continue his evident charade.

"Are you, now?"

"No, you don't understand!" Preston whined. "This was done against my will! I was grabbed when I got to school early for the academic summit, I was dragged into the bathroom and my head was shaved!" The other kids in the room began to laugh even harder. The teacher assumed this was because of the preposterous story, when in fact it was because the other students realized it was true.

"Hey, that's good," Ridder said, trying to sound amazed at the retelling.

"Yeah, why didn't you let us in on the story, man," Belkem chimed in. "Then we could back you up on it."

"How many were there?" Turnblad inquired. "Six guys? Seven, maybe eight? How many did it take to subdue you?"

"You shut up!" Preston said, almost tearful.

"Alright, all of you," the teacher said, waving his palms slightly to calm the ruckus, "everybody better settle down right now."

At the Grand Hotel which was hosting the academic summit, Hennesy was enjoying an altogether different reception. He'd been enjoying the academic men rambling on about how wonderful a student he was, what a pristine example of the next generation, of what a breath of fresh air he was. Well, "enjoyed" was perhaps inaccurate. Hennesy didn't understand most of what the older men were saying, nor was it a real thrill for him to hear Preston Cafferelli's boring homework lauded to the sky as if it were the written prelude for the second coming. What Hennesy enjoyed was the complete acceptance by figures of authority.

He enjoyed being welcomed into their circle of privilege. He enjoyed being seen as if he belonged, as if he had found a place at their table, an entrance into their world. He especially enjoyed that he didn't have to do any actual work himself to experience it. He didn't mind all that much that none of the papers that were being compared to great literary works were his. Hennesy just liked being told how great he was. How wonderful, how promising. Hennesy rather enjoyed being praised for his academic accumen, for his zest for athletics, for his participation in the high school musical, despite his lack of overwhelming talent in that department. His strength of character was what counted.

As Hennesy was escorted by his excited entourage to the ballroom where the summit's opening presentations would take place, the bad boy in the stolen gold suit decided that this was indeed the life for him. Not the world of academic exclusivity earned by hard work and years of discipline, heavens no. But stealing the rewards from those who'd done all the boring drudge work was as good as it could get. Particualrly when the one who'd done the work was being punished for your crimes. Hennesy decided, amid slaps on the back and handshakes, that he had found his niche.

When Hennesy stepped through the ballroom door, a number of people—a small crowd, really—all rose to their feet in applause. Hennesy stumbled back a bit in surprise. "What-what's going on?" he asked. "Did we walk in on the middle of a show?"

The mustachioed academic beside him laughed. "Don't be silly, my lad. They're applauding for you!"

"For me? What did I do?"

"Ha-ha! What haven't you done?" he smiled. Hennesy offered a few meek waves and a nod of appreciation. He seemed puzzled by the recognition, both in reputation and appearance. The gentleman beside him picked up on his confusion. "No doubt they recognized your rather distinictive Squirmsen school uniform," he explained. "Oh! And speaking of uniforms, there are some other scholars in good standing you should meet. Come with me."

Hennesy was escorted past more handshakes and pats on the back to two other students who stood nearby, clearly trying to mingle but not doing so well. One was of avergae height, the other was noticeably taller. "Allow me to introduce your fellow honor students," the cheerful gentleman said, "Paul Vargas," and Hennesy reached over and shook the hand of the first boy, who seemed less than thrilled. "And Terrance Fitzpatrick," and he shook the hand of the tall boy beside him. His expression was equally dour.

The boy on the left was all in red. Red rubber bodysuit, not unlike a surfsuit or a shorty, only with a high collar and long sleeves. Short pants, though, and matching red knee high boots, snug fit with white soles. His school emblem was in raised white rubber on his left breast. Hennesy thought he looked like a moron. The student's eyes shone with a combination of intelligence and contempt, but the red short-pants suit made him appear stupid. The taller fellow was in a deep navy blue rubber jacket that had a military look to it. Golden-yellow bands across the chest. Stark white cuffed rubber gloves and equally white form-fitting rubber leggings tucked into black rubber wellies. This one looked more like a cadet than a scholar, but his school uniform was no more flattering than the red boy's was.

"Hey guys," Hennesy said. They just stared at him with gross disapproval.

"These are the two finalists whom you beat out—just barely, mind you—for the prestigous Pembletom Award you'll be receiving today." The two students did not like being introduced in this way. The expression of the red-suited Vargas indicated he felt as if it amounted to introducing them both as a couple of losers.

Hennesy recognized the expression of anger and jealousy in their eyes, having seen it enough times in the mirror, and attempted a warm comment. "Hey, well, better luck next time, huh fellas?"

The two lads bristled visibly at this and the older gentleman quickly steered Hennesy away. He whispered to his gold-suited prodigy, "Now, now, son. No need to rub it in. We all know the Pembletom is only awarded once every five years."

Hennesy blanched at that. Whoops. "Um, sure," he said weakly. "Sure, but like, I didn't mean it that way. Not to rub it in or anything."

The gentleman patted Hennesy's shoulder. "Of course you didn't. But the air of an academic conference can ofttimes be thick with envy. You know that as well."

Hennesy only nodded, and looked back at the two boys they'd just left. He offered a shrug as a way of apology, but it only inspired Vargas to take a step forward to engage a confrontation. Fitzpatrick held him back. Hennesy began to realize that being the great Preston Cafferelli was not all it was cracked up to be. And this must be what it was like for Preston to pass by students like…well, like him.

"I would love to kick that arrogant bastard's ass in," Vargas steamed.

Fitzpatrick only nodded, but still barred his companion's way. "You're in good company, man."

The ballroom filled up in short order. Hennesy enjoyed more handshakes, compliments on work he hadn't done, snatches of conversation about topics and issues he didn't understand. It was fun. He avoided the other two scholars by staying within clusters of fawning administrators and faculty so the angry runners-up couldn't act on their hatred of Cafferelli by killing him. All was going swimmingly until the overhead lights blinked to signify the start of the ceremony. The kindly gentleman who had taken such a shine to Hennesy took him to the side. "Excuse us, if you will," he smiled at the other patrons, and guided Hennesy toward the front of the room.

"Uh, I guess this thing's getting under way, huh?" Hennesy said stupidly. "Ah, where am I supposed to sit?"

The man smiled, patting his boy on the arm. "Ha-ha! Such a lark, that. No, all you need do is head out that side door and you'll find that it curves around to your left and leads right up to the stairs for the the stage."

Hennesy froze. "Whoa. The stage—what?"

The gent looked more than a bit surprized. "Why, to give your big presentation, of course, Mr. Cafferelli. Yours was the award-winning paper, after all. It's only fitting that we all get to hear you read it."

Hennesy's heart began to pound. He had only intended on hijacking all the perks of Preston's life. He never knew that he'd have to perform in it. He didn't even have the faintest inkling what Cafferelli's celebrated paper was about.

"B-but—I can't," he stammered. "I mean, I'm not prepared. I didn't being my paper with me! See," he patted the sides of his gold suit, "I don't have it on me. I must've left itin my locker or something. I got all excited about coming and I must've forgot. See, his folks…I mean, my folks sent a limo—"

The gentleman smiled. "Oh, not to worry, my boy. A little stage fright is to be expected. And you needn't worry about your precious paper, we've made certain to have a copy of it waiting for you at the lectern."

"Is it really important that I read it? I mean, you seem to have a much better speaking voice…"

The gent put his arm around Hennesy's shoulders and steered him back toward the room, which was full to bursting with academics, faculty professors, administrators, superintendants, and a great many undergrad scholars. "See here, all these fine people have come here to enjoy this celebration in education, and we've elected to start things off with you reading your paper. Now, you wouldn't want to disappoint thiese nice people, would you?"

Hennesy swallowed hard. "Through the door and curve around to the left, huh?"

The gent laughed heartily, slapping Hennesy on the back. "That's the spirit, lad!"

The instructor strode back and forth before the blacksuit class, speaking in drawn, boring tones about proper deference and veneration for the educational process. Preston didn't know what was worse. The fact that he had to put up with listening to this crap, or the knowledge that he could do it so much better than this guy.

"And I don't suppose you could actually share with us the first five points of discipline, now could you, Mr. Hennessy?"

Preston responded without pause. "Respect, Loyalty, Discipline, Obedience, and Understanding."

The instructor stopped in his tracks, his pacing halted. "Why…yes. Yes, that's correct. You recite that list almost as if you comprehend what it means."

"And maybe because I can appreciate them a hell of a lot more than you do," Preston sneered. He was finding it easier, even reflexive, to behave like Hennesy the more he was treated like him. His reply got a round of "oooh"s from his fellows just like Hennesy's smartass comments would, too.

"Then perhaps you'd like to get up here and have a go at teaching for a while, Hennesy. How about it?"

"Myabe then you'd take me seriously," Preston snapped back. He'd be more than happy to get right up and start reciting his prize-winner paper on discipline from memory if he didn't think it'd get his ass kicked all around the room by the everyone else seated in it.

"Fine!" the instructor said, having had enough. "That's it. Everything I've ever been told about you is definitely true. You are beyond redemption. I was saving this for the halfway mark of the lecture, but I'm more than happy to accelerate things if that's all that will have a proper effect upon you." And he glared at everyone in the classroom. "On all of you." He then pointed at Preston. "You. Stand up." Preston looked at him with contempt, practically daring him to try something. The man slammed his hand down against his desktop. "NOW!"

Preston stood up, arms crossed over his chest. He was really looking forward to what he would have done to this malcontent after the truth of his identity was known. He glared right back at the infuriated instructor. "So now what?"

"So now you get to help me teach." The instructor said. He walked to the door at the left of the room, through which he had entered. Preston moved to follow him, but the instructor shot back, "Stay put." Preston shrugged, complying. Let the jackass challenge him. He could answer any question prepared for this group of remedials, ace any test. He had planned to spend this day at an academic summit, for pete's sake.

The instructor stuck his head out the door and could be heard saying, "Now. We're doing it now." A voice came back, "What, already?" The teacher said yes. Another voice prodded, "You said not for another half an hour, at least." The angry teacher snarled right back, "Well, we're doing it now, so let's get a move on. Come on!"

The instructor stepped back from the door and in stepped two burly men at least 6'3" in height each, both easily tipping the scales at 250lbs, all of it solid muscle. They wore tight military crewcut flattops, and were cleanly-shaven. Their attire was all of white rubber, including white Nora knee boots. Their main outfits consisted of tapered coveralls, trimmed at the waist, with snug sleeve cuffs and matching shirt collar, each neatly fastened with a single black pearl snap. They had black I.D. tags attached to their left breasts. These were part of the school's security force assignmed to the blacksuit wing of the school, usually called upon to break up fights or subdue rabble rousers. The instructor pointed to the main entrance to the classroom and said to one of the security men, "Lock that door."

Preston turned to Turnblad, who sat directly behind him. Preston gave the ruffian a questioning look, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the massive man locking the door and cutting off access to the hallway. Turnblad just shrugged in reply, clearly having no idea what was about to occur.

"Hey, don't look at me, Eugene," he said.

"No talking!" the instructor yelled. Turnblad held up both palms in apology, then made a 'locking' gesture over his lips. Whatever you say, boss. The instructor pointed at the floor at the head of the room. "Hennessy, you stand here." Preston did as he was told. The instructor then singalled the large men in white. "Wheel it in."

The two men brought into the room, not without some difficulty, a large and unwieldy machine. "Get out of your desks," the instructor said. "Make room." As the men hauled in the contraption, those in the two rows closest to the door pulled their desk out along the walls. It looked a bit like an exercise machine, with a bench in the lower portion, with extension arms above and below, as one would use for arm butterflies or leg curls. But it was not quite right for that. It's lower extensions seemed more like delivery room stirrups than a workout bench. It's base was strong and sturdy, with thick rubber wheels that, but for their smoothness, would be more at home on a bulldozer than on expercise equipment. The students soon needed to pull their desks further away to accommodate the device as it was centered in the left half of the room.

The upper portion of the machine was the largest. It offered a great many devices and extensions the blacksuited students could not begin to identify or understand. It shone all silver and chrome, a sharp contrast to the thick domed top of black acrylic, which hovered more than perched at the top of the machine. The dome featured a small series of inset dials and knobs, no doubt as one would use to set weight resistance and amount on any exercise machine. There was even a small screen on one end of the dome which would perhaps show favorite television programs or play DVDs while the user worked out. As it was set on the outside of the dome, away from the enclosed bench, it was decided by those looking on that the screen must rotate around for better viewing, although exactly how it did that was not apparent. A round blue light gowed softly at its peak.

Preston's face had lost all its color. He was shaking his head slowly as he watched the men in white set up the device. "No," he gasped finally. "No, they couldn't have. They couldn't have made it. Not so soon."

"What the hell is that thing?" Ridder whispered to Belkem. And that was when Preston Cafferelli freaked.

"What the hell is that thing?" Hennesy mumbled to himself. He was staring at the stage from his vantage point at the top of the side stairs, watching as four men in black rubber tuxedos set up a strange apparatus that looked like a cross between a workout machine and a carousel. Padded bench below, silver extension arms, large black acrylic dome on top upon which a blue light glowed softly.

That was when the cheerful gentleman announced the first speaker and presenter, none other than honor student and scholarship candidate Preston Cafferelli. "Here he is now, a man I have had the personal pleasure of having been charmed by all morning, the promising young man you've all come to see. Come onstage, won't you, dear boy?"

The audience responded with warm applause.

Preston began clawing at the door to the hallway. "Let me out! Let me out!" He yanked furiously at the doorknob, trying to somehow tear the portal open, knowing his efforts were futile before he began. The instructor looked on in awe, astounded at this type of recoil from the formidable Eugene Hennessy, especially prior to his participation in demonstrating the device. It took a moment for the teacher to gather his wits in the face of Preston's uncontrolled terror long enough to direct the large men in white suits.

"Uh…hold him," the instructor finally said. "Don't, ah, don't let him get away."

That was hardly a concern. Preston had pressed his back against the door, gloved palms flat and scraping at the smooth wood in attempt to find some purchase there. The large men were used to dealing with bullies, hoodlums, and delinquents, but they were a bit out of their province when it came to handling those in blind panic. "Uh, c'mon, kid," the first of the oafish security men said, taking Preston by the arms. "You know you ain't gettin' out that way." He nodded to his companion. "Get his legs."

The instructor was still shaken. He had expected Hennessy to anticipate a grueling physical workout, to climb into the machine with an air of arrogance and defiance. The instructor had been looking forward to breaking the miserable thug, to watching him crumble. He had not expected this reaction. At least not so soon. "Um, bring him over here," he said numbly. The instructor collected himself quickly, though, when he realized that the only reason Hennessy could possibly have to fear this machine would be if he possessed some knowledge about it. And he could only do that if he'd been getting into things, invading areas, where he was not allowed. All the more reason to see this through.

Preston's boot treads pushed against the floor, trying to keep himself away from the enigmatic machine, whatever it was. "No, you can't! You can't use it on me! It was never meant for me!"

The other students began to feel a rising dread within them without knowing why. Preston's anxiety attack was enough to make them all fear the strange exercise equipment without even knowing what it was for, what it was supposed to do. Even Belkem, a master of cruelty, was surprised by Preston’s reaction. “Whoa. What’s his fuckin’ deal?”

Preston began begging them, “Please don’t put me in that thing! I swear I’ll be good!”

Belkem asked his cohorts in a hushed whisper, “What is that? What’s it do?”

Turnblad shook his head. “No clue.”

Preston was strapped into the chair, unable to break the powerful grip of the men in white. Seeing that escape was impossible, he started to cry, to plead, for release. He could see from the face of the authority figures in the room that his cries were going unheard. Instead of standing before cheering crowds of scholastic admirers in posh surroundings, fawning over his brilliance, he was going to be put through a turmoil he'd never intended for himself. And away from the approving gaze of his professors, but alone with thugs in a sparse room with only a few remedial tomes. But then Preston’s eyes rested on books stacked along the shelves on the wall by the teacher’s desk and an idea came to him.

Preston screamed, “The yearbook! Just look in the yearbook, look up my picture! PLEASE!”

The three other kids in Hennesy's inner ring began to get scared. They knew that if the visiting disciplinarian were to find the school’s listing for Eugene Hennesy and compare his image to the boy before them, it could ruin everything. Game over. Ridder, Belkem, and Turnblad exchanged worried looks. But the teacher was not buying Preston’s change of tactic.

“It’s too late for any last minute gambits, Mr. Hennesy. You’ve brought this upon yourself, you realize that.”

Preston began whimpering, “Please you’ve gotta believe me. I swear to God I’m telling the truth. Just look me up in the yearbook, sir. If my photo matches my name, I’ll go through this willingly. Just please, please look. That’s all I ask.”

The teacher hesitiated, moved by Preston’s obviously sincere plea. And there was something else there. Something in the boy's voice that the man had never before encountered in all his years of working with bad kids. Respect. Respect for authority. Grudgingly, he went to the book shelf and pulled off the yearbook, flipping through its pages for the correct listing.

With renewed confidence, Preston began to feel his place again as the top of the academic food chain. His eyes shot daggers at Ridder, Belkem, and Turnblad. “They did this! Them and the real Hennesy. Those three grabbed me this morning and brought me in here. You should put them in this thing, not me! And when you do it, I wanna watch! I should be at a summit for academic excellence right now!”

The disciplinarian looked at Preston, again unimpressed. His voice conveyed this as he examined the yearbook, then muttered, “Uh-huh.”

“And you should find that bastard calling himself Cafferelli at MY award ceremony”, Preston ranted, “and drag his sorry ass back here and let me strap him in this thing myself!” Silence from the new teacher. Then a huff of air through his nostrils, signalling annoyance.

Preston’s eyes looked back to the new teacher, his eyes gaining the fear that the three hoodlums’ already held. The instructor turned the yearbook around for the class to see. A page had been torn out. The listings for the ‘H’s were gone. Or most of them, anyway.

“To think you had me going for a minute there”, the instructor remarked, admonishing himself with his tone.

“Check the ‘C’s!!”, Preston cried. “The listing for Cafferelli!”

The instructor turned another few pages and held the book out again. “You mean this one?” That page was gone, too.

“No, no, no…”, Preston whimpered. Then, his eyes still desperate but brightening, cried, “The trophy case! The trophy case by the principal’s office! It has my picture on one of the plaques! I’m shaking hands with the school superintendent! Just go to the trophy case--!”

“On the other side of the school”, the instructor said, shaking his head. He tossed the yearbook casually upon the desk and waved a finger to the burly men. “Proceed.”

Hennessy reached down into his gold rubber suit as he mounted the last few steps to the stage. Reaching into the opening for his hood, he pulled out a couple sheets of paper he'd kept secreted there near his chest since he'd commandeered Preston's uniform. The pages were beginning to irritate him, now that he was sweating so nervously in anticipation of speaking publicly. He wadded the yearbook pages up into a ball and handed them to a smiling junior grade student helping out in the wings, clad all in a neon green wadersuit, the name of his school printed in black upon his chest.

"Throw these away for me, willya, kid?"

The junior beamed back. "Yes sir, Mr. Cafferelli!"

Hennessy took the stage with one arm raised in greeting to the crowd. They all rose to their feet as one man. Even the students who despised him stood up if only to maintain an appearance of civility. Hennessy made his way to the podium and offered a few thank-yous into the microphone, which squealed with feedback as Hennessy leaned in too close. "Oops. Sorry," he offered. Those in attendance took their seats as Hennessy hoped he could bullshit his way through this. He began to search around a leather pad for the papers he was supposed to read aloud when he realized that it was not a pad but a binder. Inscribed upon it in gold lettering were the words Pembletom Award Essay by Preston Cafferelli. Hennessy opened the folder to find the paper inside, glued professonally at the seam, printed on crisp 24 lb white paper. There was a post-it note inside with a woman's handwriting scrawled upon it.

Good luck, honey. We're so proud of you!

Love, Mom & Dad

"They had it bound for him…" Hennessy said, honestly impressed.

The audience began to mumble a bit in discomfort at the silence coming from the podium, causing the gentleman to rise to his feet. "You must forgive the delay, good people. I am partly at fault. There was a little surprise waiting for Mr. Cafferelli upon the stage, isn't that right, my boy?"

Hennessy smiled, explaining, "Mr. and Mrs. Caff—," and he corrected himself, "my parents had it bound!" And he held up the winning essay for all to see, earning another round of appreciative applause.

Hennesy adjusted the microphone and opened the first page of the paper. He hoped there wouldn't be too many big words. He sucked at reading aloud in class as it was. "How To Deal With Bad Students," he read. "A new innovation in disciplinary improvement, by Preston Cafferelli." He coughed, clearing his throat, and his voice trembled a bit. "I'm really nervous," he said into the mic, earning him a few soft laughs. His apprehension made him appear all the more likable to those listening.

Behind Hennessy, the men in the rubber tuxedos busily completed their work setting up the monstrous workout machine, or whatever it was. There were some whirrs as parts of it settled into position and a couple loud clanks as metal bars locked into place. A blue light up above began to glow more brightly. The machine was drawing more attention from the crowd. Hennessy leaned back toward the mic and said jokingly, "What are those guys doing back there, huh?" A few more polite chuckles. One of the tuxedoed men retruned fom the wings with a mannequin of some sort, that appeared anatomically correct. Hennessy muttered to himself, "What the hell are those guy doing back there?"

The men in the white suits back at the correctional classroom fought against Preston's flailing limbs. "He's like a whirling dervish," the first said, trying to keep Preston under control. His strength was not very threatening to them, but his jolting and kicking arms and legs presented a challenege.

"More like a bucking bronco," the other said. "Come on already, kid, you're only gonna get yourself hurt! Don't make us smack you down."

"Do whatever it takes to get him into that machine," the instructor said, although he had taken several steps back.

On the ballroom stage, Hennessy read tentatively. "Order through proper discipline is something vital to maintain not only in the classroom, but also in the hallways, in all areas of the school, and in our community and society in general. Our greatest thread…excuse me, threat…I said I was nervous….greatest threat to maintaining order is leniency. Far too many students, truly bad kids, bad seeds," and Hennessy paused. He knew full well that this paper he was reading was referring to him.

Hennessy reached for a glass of water that was preset beneath the podium. He took a sip, his hand shaking. The other two students being honored, Vargas and Fitzpatrik leaned toward one another. "If this is how the jackass reads, we're going to be here all day," Vargas hissed.

Hennessy continued. "Sorry about that. Uh, far too many kids, bad seeds, and genuined disruptions to the learning atmosphere and to other students who are more serious about their education are all too often given too much leniency for their offenses and are forgiven them too quickly." Hennesy felt the warmth come to his face as his anger grew. He could feel the back of his neck growing red and was grateful for the concealing hood.

"That is why I have created designs for what I feel is truly the ultimate solution for disciplinary measures in these demanding times. My machine to help transform unrepentant ruffians and potential career criminals into reformed young men and productive, contributing members of society. May I present 'Request first slide'." Genuine laughter from the audience. Vargas and Fitzpatrick howled. Hennesy was about to challenge the boys to come up to the stage and try laughing in his face when the gentleman stood up once again.

"Again, my apologies for throwing the good Mr. Cafferelli off his game. You can imagine his surprise when he stepped upon the stage this morning to find not a slide screen to accompany his talk, but an actual working model of his ingenius machine!" More applause from the admiring audience.

"Uh…yeah," Hennessy said. "It's a surprise alright."

The gentleman continued. "In fact, there is not only this working model, but we were so impressed by this paper, by this revolutionary idea, that a twin machine is already set for use in demonstration at the good Mr. Cafferelli's own alma mater, the J. Thomas Squirmsen preparatory academy!"

"What, really?" Hennessy said, truly impressed.

The applause died down and the gentleman took his seat as Hennessy stared at the strange device, the four men standing by to do whatever it was they were supposed to do with it, and the odd lifelike mannequin held by the fourth man. The gentleman in the front row cleared his throat. "You can go on, lad."

"Oh, yeah!" Hennessy said, embarrassed. "Right, right. Going on."

The men in white slammed Preston face down upon the cushioned bench. He was still crying, still trying to get away, even with the meaty hands of one of the security men holding his back and rear flat against the bench. "Please, please, please let me go. You can't do this to me!"

The instructor's face was like flint. "You brought this down upon yourself, Eugene. I'm sorry."

"No you're not! If you were, you wouldn't be doing this! God, help me!"

There were dull clanks as thick chrome bands locked over Preston's wrists, then over his ankles. When the second man singalled to the first that Preston was secure, he took his weight off the lad's back. Preston struggled, but he knew it was no use. The bands were designed to hold even the burliest of troublemakers, and they were more than a match for Preston's trim frame. The teacher waved at the men in white.

"Back away. He's not going anywhere now." Preston just sobbed into the cushioned bench. He didn't even care that all these thugs saw him crying. It was nothing compared to what they were about to see.

Belkem raised his hand. "Uh, sir? Excuse me, but what does this thing do?"

The instructor held up a hand, shushing Belkem, who shut up fast. The instructor referred to a red folder which looke dlike an owner's manual or instruction booklet. "I've spent the last two days familiarizing myself with this thing. Let's see if my lessons took." He pointed a thin silver remote at the device and pressed a button. The machine hummed to life. Preston buried his head in the cushion and began to pray in rushed whispers. A metal arm swung down from the black dome above. It looked like a big handle, complete with a black rubber grip.

Hennessy found his place on the page again. "Um, yeah, may I present…and I don't need the slide here I guess…the Squirmsen Correctional/Rehabilitaion Excorcism Workout for Youthful Offenders and the Undisciplined, or the S.C.R.E.W.-Y.O.U." Hennessy couldn't believe he'd just read that. There was even a diagram on the next page. "Uh, as you can see from this example, the student lout in need of reconditioning is placed within the machine thus." The men upon the stage placed the mannequin into the device. Hennessy watched as the dummy was set down on the bench upon its belly, and strapped into place. He looked back to the crowd. "Ah, where are we…yeah, okay…as most preparatory students are clad in their own school's distincitve rubber uniforms, it is imperative to begin by releasing that uniform's secret back flap first." Hennesy stopped. What, a back flap in every suit, really?

The instructor indicated that the men in white could continue. "Get his dropseat, gentlemen, if you would."

The men in white went to Preston and at first seemed only to be feeling up his ass. "Where is it?" "There's a seam, keeping looking." "What, here?" "No, there it is." Then they both gave the rubber material around Preston's rear a tug and opened up a rear dropseat, exposing his ass to the air.

"Our suits have butt flaps?" Belkem said in surprise. "No way!"

"Quiet," the instructor said. Then to the two men, "Stand aside."

The instructor pointed his remote at the machine and the lower half of the bench withdrew slightly, bending Preston at the waist, lowering his legs almost to the ground. The honor student was apparently aware of what was in store for him as he sobbed, "Oh God…oh God…oh God…"

Hennessy was having a difficult time of it keeping his eyes off the display model behind him and focused on the paper he was supposed to be reading. "Um, as you can see from this model," he went on, "the initial phase involves the device known as the…Plunger Rod, which is inserted into the subject's anus. The stainless steel extension is cylindrical, for easier entry…stainless steel, Jesus, that's gotta hurt…but (ahem) but the rubber head, a sturdy model with a contour only vaguely remina—um, remiNIScent of an actual penile prostrated…sorry, I'm nervous…penile protrusion, excretes only a minimal amount of lubricant from its head, so entry still has an abrupt effect…geez, I'll bet…and quickly informs the subject that this is indeed a disciplinary operation."

Preston screamed. The metal extension with the rubber head swiveled down and entered his ass without any preamble or testing of the entry. It drove forward without pause, pushing ahead like the unthinking machine it was, boring into Preston's tight anus without the slightest consideration or concern for his physical or emotional well being.

"AAAAHHH!" Preston wailed. "No! No, it's too tight! Make it stop! My hole isn't BIG enough! PLEASE!"

The other students began to back up a bit, some of them even pulling their desks farther away. The men in white peered at Preston's pained asshole. "Sir, we got a little bit of blood here. Should we stop it, or--?"

The instructor was unmoved. "It says here that's to be expected. Let it go."

Preston continued to cry out. "Please, I'm not who you think I am, you gotta believe me!"

The instructor snorted. "As if an honor student and award candidate like Preston Cafferelli would ever use a slang word like "gotta". Really."

"Preston Cafferelli was never mean to have his ass plowed by a goddamn machine, you fucker!!" the lad screamed. "Now get me out of here—GAAUGHH!!"

"The probe has reached it's maximum entry," the instructor observed placidly. "On to phase two."

"No, no, please, you can't…I'm begging you, please…" Preston cried.

The instructor did not answer, did not seem to care whatever about Preston's plight. Instead, he adjusted his remote coldly and wacthed as the extension arm bent on a pivot point to reveal a strong black coiled spring within its housing. Preston was now weeping harder, blubbering incoherently. Once again, he seemed to know what was coming. The extension arm began to pump into Preston's ass with a steady, unrelenting motion. In and out. In and out. In and out. Preston cried out in response to the ramming metal rod.

"OHHHHHH, GODD!!"

"Um, as you can see here by this diagram," Hennessy read on, "sorry, I mean example on the model here…that the Plunger Rod bends on this hinge to access the movement of the pinoo—man, I'm sorry—pneumatic spring. The spring creates a steady inward and outward motion that does not allow for any release on the part of the subject. It also prevents the eventual tiring of the invading body, as would be the case with an organic probe were another human being to be employed for this exercise."

Preston tried to squirm away, but the metal bands held him too tightly. The way the bench had him bent over also prevented any means of relief from the steady pumping of the metal rod up his ass. The minimal lube had made entry very painful, but now even as Preston's own body provided natural fluids to ease the comings and goings of the plunger, the hard metallic nature and sheer diameter of the extension still made the experience far from pleasant.

"Oh, PLEASE, dear God, make it STOPP!!" Preston wailed. "I've had enough! I'll be good! I swear to God! AAHHHGGGH!! Puh-please, I'll be a ghoo-ood boyy--!"

"That's it," the instructor muttered to himself, "get all that shouting out of your system, you lying little shit."

The rod began to pump faster into Preston's ass. His cries rose in volume, intensity, and desperation.

"As an added feature to make this not only a disciplinary experience, but also a learning one," Hennessy read on, "the pumping Plunger Rod is wired to multiple sound receptors, keyed to volume. Hence, the louder the captive screams for releas [or more likely, curses his superior] the faster and more aggressively the extension pumps within him." Hennessy stopped and reread that last sentence silently. He whispered to himself, "No shit, really?"

The administrator seated beside the older gentleman leaned over and commented, "I can understand some measure of stage fright, but you'd think with his grade point average he'd be a bit better at this."

The gentleman nodded his agreement. "Quite."

Hennesy continued. "The level of noise, indicated here—" and he was cut off by a shrill alarm that had been set up beside the mannequin's head to indicate a raised voice. It made Hennesy jump. "Whoa! Wasn't expecting that. How about all'a you?" Some uncomfortable laughter, very strained. Hennessy cleared his throat again, took another drink of water. "So it is necessary for the subject to overcome all levels of physical discomfort…in order to achieve a stronger control over himself…by exerting his will over his bad attitude and his learned responses of aggression and disobedience." He took a deep breath and went on. "Just as an animal of the forest…will express dominance over another by ravaging it…so too does this revolution. Er, revolutionary machine show the dominance of proper authority by ravaging the subject. Let us refer to this daigra—to this example."

Hennessy stood back from the podium and watched with the crowd as the machine went to work on the lifeless mannequin. As the helpers raised the volume of the squawk box, the extension arm increased its plunging motion into the mannequin's backside, making the dummy quake and convulse upon the bench. Hennessy decided that it was a good thing that the mannequin was without any kind of internals, for this machine would surely have fucked its brains out.

"I don't know if this is the sickest thing I've ever seen or the coolest," he mumbled to himself.

Preston knew he had to stop screaming, but it hurt so tremendously that it was hard to do. He tried biting the cushion of the bench to silence himself, but there was no purchase to be found there. He continued bawling as the plunger pounded his ass faster and faster. Preston bit his lip, trying to hold back the cries of anguish, but lost out as the plunger kept going, on and on. He howled in agony. "PLEASE!!!"

Derek stood up. "Sir, don't you think he's had enough?"

"Be quiet!" the instructor yelled. His own raised voice was picked up by the speakers within the machine and the rod pumped faster into Preston, making him cry even louder. "The demonstration isn't done yet. Now take your seat unless you'd care to be the device's next victim."

Derek sat back down. "No, sir."

Preston clawed at empty air, his wrists locked down so that his fingers had nothing within reach to grasp. He lowered his forehead down upon the bench, gathering up all his will to quiet his voice. He could not stem the tide of his tears, however. As he wept on, the plunger began to slow the force of its driving, although it did not stop.

The instructor sauntered up to Preston and leaned down beside his head. "Are you feeling at all sorry for your many transgressions, Mr. Hennessy? Are you beginning to get an inkling of understanding for such things as regret, respect, possibly even a desire for reconcilliation?" Preston nodded his head, eyes squinted tight, tears still flowing. "I need to hear you say it, Eugene."

Preston answered, taking care not to raise his voice any louder than just enough to be heard. "I-I-I'm sorry…I've made mis-mistakes…I want to make it…buh-better…"

The instructor huffed. "We'll see about that."

A new series of commands were entered into the remote. It did not stop the workings of the anal rod. Instead, an additional extension disconnected from the main rod and swiveled underneath the bench. There, a panel within the bench receded and the smaller arm reached up to clutch Preston's dick beneath his rubber uniform. It grasped on tight, with all the gentleness as if it were steadying an auto part. Preston shrieked. The pump began to go faster again.

"Once the subject has recognized his wrongdoing and expresses a willingness to repent and be rehabilitated…under no circumstances is the machine operator to continue on to the next phase," Hennessy read. "Although it will often be…that the subject is lying in this case, seeking only release from the device…it opens the process for retraining his behavior…which is reinforced by fear of a return to the machine."

Hennesy looked up at the crowd and smiled. He was starting to get the hang of this. He was surprised to see that the crowd was not smiling back at him. Many faces held blank stares, others actually seemed annoyed. Well, hell. It wasn't his fault if Cafferelli's paper sucked. Asshole. If I bomb up here, Hennessy thought, I am so gonna gut-punch the shit out of that brainy fuck when I get back.

Hennesy quickly looked back at the paper. "Should the subject still remain defiant, the next phase is recommended. It involves an additional extension that works in harmony with the Plunger Rod. This is called the Milking Inflictor." Hennessy turned to the men at the demo machine and gestured for them to show the additional arm. They did. There, see? He could fake this shit no problem. He continued reading with what he thought was authority and conviction. He simply sounded more pompous.

"The Inflictor," Hennessy continued, "or M.I., is designed to use a combination of approaches…including grip, stroking motions, vibration, and even sound waves, to stimulate the penis to a…heightened state of arousal." The machine proceeded to have its way with the mannequin's unfeeling member by example. "The manipulation of the subject's penis is continual and unceasing, with…special censors imbedded within the M.I. to bring the subject all the way to the point of orgasm…but never allowing him to reach it. (Man, fuck me, that's harsh) …thereby taking what would ordinarily be a pleasurable experience for the subject and making it one of considerate…considerABLE discomfort."

Preston was trying to keep his begging to a low volume so that the rod pumping his ass wouldn't increase in speed and intensity, but with the other arm yanking at his cock, it wasn't easy.

"Whu-why are you still doing this?" he whined. "I said it—I said I was sorry—I said I'd change." He gasped, feeling himself brought to the brink only tumble back, all the while with that steel ramrod fucking him beyond endurance. "You're supposed to stop if I tell you I'm willing to repent."

The instructor merely frowned. "I don't believe you."

He tapped another series of buttons on the remote and Preston screamed. As a result, the rod fucked him harder and faster. Preston screamed louder. He could feel the need within him rising, the arousal was more intense than anything he'd ever felt before. His member throbbed, but each time he was certain he was going to cum, he felt a resonating wave wash over his cock, like invisible fingers pushing his semen back down, denying him release, turning his tensing muscles to liquid. He was certain his balls were going to burst as the intensity grew. He sobbed uncontrollably.

Ridder raised his hand. "Um, if that thing's jerking him off…shouldn't he be enjoying it?"

The instructor spat his response. "It doesn't work that way. Now pipe down unless you want to be next." Ridder dropped his hand quickly and held it, as if he feared it might pop up again of its own accord. Preston conintued to scream.

"Should the Inflictor fail to coerce a show of repentance," Hennessy read on, "the next step involves a sophisticated set of headphones which descend from the dome above and lock directly into the subject's ears." Behind him, an arc of hard plastic was brought down from the black dome and fastened roughly into the mannequin's empty ears. "These headphones, known as the Prongs," Hennessy read, "emit a series of pulses directly into the wearer's brain, stimulating the portion of the brain that controls feelings of guilt, remorse, and pensive…pennit…penitence." There were grumbles of discomfort from the audience. Hennesy spoke louder to compensate.

"While this does not force the subject to confess against his will at the S.C.R.E.W.-Y.O.U. controller's command, it does bombard him with an overhwleming urge to do so of his own accord when he otherwise would not." Hennesy stopped, mumbling to himself. "Dude, what's the difference?"

Preston's pain resonating within his backside, and pounding within his ball sac was compounded by an emotional anguish he felt overtake him quite suddenly. There was a hammering in his head, beginning in his ears and reverberating around his temples, from which he felt incredible sensations of regret and loss. The instructor rounded the front of the machine and lowered himself onto his haunches before the weeping Preston.

"Now, what I want you to do now, Eugene, is confess to your wrongdoings. It's that simple. Can you do that for me, Eugene?"

Preston nodded his head. Yes. Oh, yes. He could do that. He would do anything to make this torture stop. The band of plastic surrounding his head and going into his ears pulsed with tiny yellow lights that blinked in sequence along the outer edge of its arc to indicate that it was working.

"That's good, Eugene," the instructor said. "That's good. Now are you ready to own up to what you've done, for everyone in this room to hear?" Preston nodded. "And would you even be willing to repeat your confession in front of this school's authorities?" Preston nodded again, eagerly, tears still flowing. "Fine, Eugene. Would you even be willing to do so if I were to call a special assembly and have you admit your criminality, your lack of respect and consideration for others, your general worthlessness, in front of the entire school and beg our forgiveness?"

Preston sobbed some more, wailed a bit, then, squinting back tears, admitted, "Y-Yes…yes, sir…I will…"

"Check the readout," the instructor said. The men in white looked together at the far side of the black dome.

"Considering that this device is to be used first and foremost on only the most unrepentant students," Hennesy read, "to ensure that the subject is not lying even while undergoing this in-depth porcedure, a simple readout connected to the Prongs headset can be found at the reverse of the dome to check the veera…veracity of any statements made. More direct than any pa-lee-gruh…polygraph, this will register simply with a red light if the subject is lying, with a green light if he is telling the truth."

"Green light," the first man in white said. "You're good so far. Wanna pull him out?"

The instructor grinned. "Not yet." Then, to the crying Preston, he said, "So it seems as if we're finally making progress. That's a nice change, considering your longstanding record. Though I hadn't expected you to fold so quickly." Preston simply sobbed in reply. "Now before I let you out of here, before I call that assembly…and yes, you had better believe that I was serious about that. It will not only serves as a powerful message and deterrent to the rest of the student body, but your sudden reform will secure my employ as a successful disciplinarian, for certain." Preston closed his eyes and tried to ride the waves of pain, of withheld pleasure, of guilt.

"Just do one thing for me," the instructor said. "Apologize for lying to me about not being Eugene Hennesy."

Preston's eyes popped open. He could not do this. He was a bad person, he knew that now, he could feel it. And true, in bringing attention to his plight of having been switched with the ruffian student, he most likely should have found a nicer way, a more polite way, of stating his case. Perhaps if he had fallen to his knees and begged? Perhaps if he had suggest a DNA scan? He was an arrogant, presumptuous, pompous ass. And he was so very, very sorry. And he wanted to be better, he wanted to improve. But he could not do what was being asked of him now. He could not lie to a figure of authority.

Preston shook his head. "Nnnooo..sir, no…I can't do that…I won't, sir…I'm not Eugene Hennesy…I can't lie to you…I'm telling the truth…"

"You miserable little bastard!" the instructor yelled. "To think that you had me going for a minute there! You really are an unrepentant fuck!" He grabbed his remote and started stabbing buttons with a newfound fury. The bench upon which Preston lay swiveled suddenly, smoothly, amid a series of violent whirring noises. The extension and protrusions remained within and upon Preston as he was spun into a reverse position from what he had been, now facing the other direction. The two men in white had to step quickly out of the way to avoid being struck by the swinging bench and its rider. They did not have the opportunity to check the light-up truth detector.

"Sir, should we check the readout before you go any furth—"

"Quiet! I know what I'm doing! Little bastard fucker thinks he's gonna play me!!"

"In only the most absolute extreme cases," Hennesy continued to read, feeling a bit more comfortable and still oblivious to the audience's clear dissatisfaction with his performance. He ad-libbed, "I guess that's like, the really totally badass kids who can't be changed yet…" and then read on, "the Turnaround Lockjaw Glider is impedimented. Whoops…implemented."

New extensions slid out from the sides of the bench beneath Preston and rode on two small but formidbale hinges up to his jaw, grabbing it from either side. Preston tried to protest.

"Sir, please, no! I'm a bad person, I see that now! I regret that! But I can't lie to you! I won't lie to—yuughh!!"

The slim extension arms seized Preston's jaw and forced it open as far as it could go. Then it pushed it open just a bit farther. The end of the extensions, one of which formed a letter "C" and the reverse of same in its twin, were set within Preston's mouth, covering his teeth and holding his jaw in place. The outermost side of the clamps were a solid plastic, its underside a soft and pliable rubber. Even if Preston wanted to confess to every wrongdoing of his entire life now, it would have to wait. He could no longer say a word.

The instructor looked around the room at the other students, all of whom watched in horror at the goings-on. The instructor's eyes lit upon Derek. He pointed to the former student in good standing. "You. Get up."

Derek held his hands up. "Hey. Sir, I did not do anything since I got reduced to a blacksuit. I have been on my best behavior." The others all nodded in agreement. Derek had been a model blacksuit, despite the program having no opportunities for scholastic improvement, and he had started no trouble with anyone else. The instructor didn't care.

"You seemed very interested in having our subject released from his punishment early. So you have volunteered to help end out his session. Come. Here."

With an expression of barely contained rage, Derek stood up and walked directly up to the man, looking him in the eye. Derek's considerable musculature was obvious even beneath the heavy rubber uniform (which was the only polished one in the room, by the way), and he stood quite a bit taller than the teacher. The instructor felt a bit intimidated but said nothing to indicate it.

"Stand in front of Hennessy and face him."

Derek breathed hard through his nose. "The man said he wasn't Hennessy. Maybe you ought to consider if he was telling the truth."

"Oh, please. You verified his identity yourself. Now shut up and do as I say."

Derek stood before the weeping, helpless Preston and spoke softly to him. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

"There is no talking!" the instructor said. He nodded to the men in white. They looked at him questioningly.

"Sir, you sure about this?"

"Am I the only one in here who understands that I'm in charge?? You know what to do. Do it!"

The men in white approached Derek from either side. "Don't move," they told him."

"I won't."

They then used a sepcial tool to undo a front fly flap at the crotch of his suit which was usually sealed shut. Out tumbled Derek's dick, which was huge. Nobody in the room said a word. The men pulled down two handlebars which swiveled down from the dome, and really did look they belonged on an exercise machine. "Hold onto the handles," the said.

Derek did so, and as soon as his gloved hands gripped the handlebars, small hard-rubber bands latched arond his wrists, holding him in place. One of the men retrieved a metal bar from a compartment in the side of the machine and brought it down to the floor behind Derek. It was a stock bar which attached to Derek's ankles and kept his stance in one place. It also prevented him from going anywhere or trying to pull away. One of the men in white then attached what looked a hard rubber cockring on to the base of Derek's member, sliding it on past his balls. Derek tried to look up at the ceiling. He did not want to become aroused for whatever it was they were still going to do to Preston. He already felt bad enough about not telling the truth about the boy's identity earlier.

As the one man secured Derek, the other tried to spy the truth readout, but the lights had already faded. Whatever the response to Preston's earlier comments, the indicator of its integrity was gone now.

"What are you looking for?" the instructor snapped. "Is he ready yet? Get away from there, then!"

The men in white looked at each other. The first said, "Now, you're absolutely sure about this, sir?"

By now the instructor was simply talking to himself. "Not going to keep me from getting my due notice, from getting my promotion, from getting my muther-fucking raise. Not after this shit, he won't."

The instructor pointed the remote at Derek. The rubber ring at the base of his cock vibrated, small lights upon its surface glowed, and a wave of pleasure surged through Derek's dick and rippled throughout his body, emanating outward from his penis. The large lad trembled and got instantly hard. Had he not been strapped into place, he knew he would have lost his grip on the handlebars and stumbled backwards, possibly even fallen over. The instructor smiled and activated the machine once more. The bench began to slide back and forth, bringing Preston's open mouth over Derek's penis, back and forth. Back and forth.

Derek's entire body stiffened and he moaned with a pleasure he was in no way prepared for. He had anticipated pain, not physical ecstacy. Whatever was at work within the cock ring was magnified by the steady sliding of Preston's soft, warm, wet mouth, held open by the ring with the soft rubber lining. Derek tried to resist, to hold himself back, but he was already moist with precum. Preston continued to cry.

"This final use of the machine," Hennesy narrated as the demo behind him was set up, reversing the mannequin and locking its lifeless jaws open, "is truly a last resort. It is highly unlikely that the subject will not have been broken at this point. Hence so much care being taken with the truth indicator and such, to make sure that we recognize that he has been." Hennesy glanced back at the demo machine and saw the precarious state the mannequin had been forced into. He turned back to the audience and grinned. "Yikes." He read on, "As this portion of the treatment will cause the second subject untold pleasure, it is better to employ a friend or accomplice of the first subject. That way, there is a combination of humiliation as well as remorse on the part of both subjects, as they are forced to act out a scenario they otherwise never would in front of a punitory officer."

Hennesy looked up, smiling. "Hey, did the mannequin bring a friend today, by any chance?" He saw the men in tuxedos hooking a second mannequin up. "Hey, cool. Guess he's in trouble now, huh?" More mumbles and inquisitive looks from the audience, all of which went unnoticed by Hennessy, who was now rather enjoying all the attention.

Derek groaned as he tried to hold back his orgasm. Unlike Preston, who had the machine forcing his own ejaculation back into painful reserve, Derek was experiencing the opposite. He did not want to cum, but he had never felt so totally aroused in all his life. Derek gritted his teeth, his neck muscles tensed, and he felt himself sweating with the strain of resistance. The bench slid Preston smoothly back and forth upon Derek's stiff member. Back and forth, back and forth. Preston cried, he gagged, he cried. Derek cried out.

"Grrrrraauggh! I can't hold it, man! I'm sorry, man, I just can't!

Derek came. As soon as his juices started to burst out, the bench registered the orgasm and stopped as smoothly as if it had expected it. Derek emptied a virtual torrent into Preston's mouth, which he was forced to swallow or drown in. He swallowed. It took him some time to choke it all down, but he did. As soon as his throat was clear, he continued crying. The men in white approached to unfasten Derek. The instructor held out an angry palm to stop them.

"Not yet!"

"Sir, you aren't serious," they protested.

But he was. The instructor started the machine again and Preston once more slid back and forth over Derek's cock. It was only just beginning to soften, but then the cock ring pulsated, glowed, and brought the large lad back to full erection. He was overcome with more waves of amorous pleasure. He practically screamed.

"GAHH! Fuck me, man! You have GOT to be kidding me!"

"Gag!" the instructor shouted. "I will not be spoken to in that manner!"

The men in white didn't move. The second said, "Sir, we really must protest…"

The instructor pushed past them to the second, smaller compartment in the side of the machine. "Oh, for Christ sakes! Do I have to do everything?!" He removed a large red ball gag from the compartment and locked it feircely around Derek's head, silencing him. He still groaned and growled, but could say nothing coherent. The sliding bench continued.

Derek growled and Preston wept. It took less time to bring Derek to orgasm this time than before, and he came twice into Preston's locked-open mouth. All the while that Preston gulped down Derek's massive load, the lights all along the outer edge of the headset Preston wore blinked at a faster rate, and at a brighter intensity. Preston did not know he was capable of crying so hard while being gagged and face-fucked so ruthlessly.

The instructor grinned, now riding high on the feeling of power that controlling the machine gave him, of seeing someone with a record of rebelliousness crushed so completely. "Again," he said.

Derek twisted his head around, his eyes wild. "Hoo guhhah ne UGCKIN hiddin nee!!"

The men and white moved as one. The sped forward and pushed Derek back a pace. They both removed the mouth clamps from Preston's jaw, one of the men wiping the excess flow of semen from the captured boy's mouth with a moist cloth. As one man worked to remove the headset, the other unlocked Derek's ankles and worked to carefully remove his automated rubber cock ring.

"What do you two thing you're doing?!" the instructor raged. "This isn't over yet!!"

"The hell it's not," said the one man. He slammed his palm against an override button on the side of the device's dome and with a shudder, the machine came to a halt. The plunger stopped driving into Preston's ass, the torture grip stopped stimulating his cock. Without the steady sound waves keeping his ejaculation in check, Preston shot a thirty-second wad into his suit, some of which was collected by his urinary tube. Preston wasn't even aware of it.

With the terrible machine paused in its aggressive torture of Preston, the blacksuited scholar was left bawling his eyes out. The other students in the room had all backed into the far corner. What had started out as an amusing moment of cumuppance for the snottiest kid in school had degenerated into a horrifying display of cruelty. Preston's entire body was trembling, tears were still pouring from his eyes almost in steady streams even as fluids dribbled and oozed from his mouth and his hole. His ass was already showing signs of severe bruising.

"Shit," Ridder said. "is he even fucking alive?"

This was meant to be only the first part of an ongoing series of demonstrations on the machine's capabilities, but even the men in the white uniforms were shaken by the state of the young man before them. What they had been told about the unrepentant Eugene "Snake" Hennesy, and the excessive amount of conditioning it would take to break him, to make him compliant to rehabilitation, now seemed to be terribly, terribly wrong and hideously overestimated. All eyes shifted to the teacher, each stare silently condeming him.

"Get him out of that thing," the instructor relented.

As the men in white pulled Preston from the machine, freeing his cock of the milker and his anus of the metal rod, Preston began to babble furiously. His body twitched as it was held, but beyond spastic reflex actions, he offered no resistance whatever. As the men lowered to the floor the quivering mass that had once been the J. Thomas Squirmsen School's pride and joy, he wailed as if he had just witnessed the death of his best friend.

"Damn," Turnblad observed unnecessarily, "he's fucked up bad."

Hennesy was trying to look away from the S.C.R.E.W.-Y.O.U. machine while it continued its demonstration on the stage behind him. He understood that these were simply two mannequins acting out what would happen should this punishment machine be required, but he found it all incredibly hot and was unable to keep from imagining all the people he'd like to lock into it, prefarably with himself strapped up front, his own stimulated cock at the ready.

Hennesy turned back to the crowd, very excited. "Damn! We should sell tickets to that, whattaya say??" He was met with angry silence. He tried to salvage the situation, adding, "Um…anybody got someone they know needs to be, ah, taken down a peg?" The tension in the room rose beyond the point of discomfort. Hennesy cleared his throat and swallowed hard, scanning the pages before him to find his place. He began in again with what he hoped was a hint of humility.

"Ah, this is the furthest extent to which the device should ever be used. It is unlikely in the extreme that the end of this program will not evoke a full confession and, as it is fervently hoped, a genuine desire on the part of the subject to truly mend his ways."

One of the men in white cradled Preston in his arms. Preston's babbling cries began to become somewhat coherent and the onlookers were soon able to make out words. Rather than just spouting shocked gibberish, Preston was saying something that, to him, was of the utmost importance.

"Man, what's he saying?" Belkem asked.

"He even making sense yet?" Turnblad added.

Derek's gag was removed by the second man and the large boy hollered out, "Everyone, shut up!" They did.

Preston was now going a mile a minute. "I am so sorry I am so sorry I'm a bad person, I admit it, I admit it, I really do admit and I want to change, please let me change…"

The instructor smiled. "It's a confession. It worked. I knew what I was doing was right."

The second man in white was undoing Derek's wrist straps. Derek snapped at the teacher, "Once I get down from here, I am gonna kick your ass."

Preston kept talking frantically. "I'm sorry I told on Hennes-ssy and his boys when they snuck into the game to see his cc-ousin play. I knew they couldn't afford tickets, it wouldn't hurt anyone, but I told anyway just to hurt them." He choked, then went on. "I said I knew Belkem was cheating on his mid-terms when I only saw him throw some notes away before going into the testing room, I never saw him do anything, but I still said I did."

Preston paused to sob, to collect his wits, and Belkem leaned to Ridder, whispering, "I was cheating, but damn, I knew he didn't have proof." Ridder shushed him.

Preston kept crying, kept spilling his guts to the room. "I accepted the award for best Biology exhibit at the regional fair when I knew full well that Tony DeNarros' was better and that I only won because three of the judges liked me personally but I didn't say anything." Preston wailed, then went on, sobbing. "I had Rebbecca-Sue Johnson disqualified in the Algebra decathalon and it was totally fabricated, I knew she didn't have anything unauthorized on her laptop but she was the biggest competition and I was afraid she'd b-beat meeeee." Preston kept on crying, screaming, shaking like a leaf, and sobbed out, "There's more! There's more! I've done so much more! I don't deserve to be admired, I don't deserve any kind of award for anything!"

Preston flopped around in the man's arms, and he kicked at the S.C.R.E.W.-Y.O.U. machine. "I made this thing! This terrible thing! I thought it up! What kind of mean, vicious bastard asshole DOES something like that?? Who?!" Preston turned to the instructor and begged him. "Please! Call the asembly! Let me tell everyone in the school what a piece of shit I am! Let me beg their forgiveness! PLEASE!! I'm so sorry!"

The second man in white, who had now freed Derek, pointed forcefully at the light atop the machine's dome. It was now glowing a very bright white.

"The final indicator of the machine's results," Hennesy read, nearing the end of the paper at last, "is the Repentance Light atop the machine's dome. While it usually glows a soft blue, indicating that all systems are running normally, once it turns white, you have a clear an indisputable indicator that the subject has rounded a moral corner for the better and that the use of this miraculous machine was indeed a success." Nothing from the audience but soft grumbling. Hennesy leaned forward. "I think you're supposed to clap now or something." There was a smattering of polite applause. The gentleman in the front frow began to rise, but Hennesy stopped him by speaking again.

"Whoops, sorry. One more page here." The gent was about to go up on the stage to stop the proceedings when Hennesy's narrative prevented him. "As a note of errata, (whatever that is) something I would like to indicate as an afterthought now that this paper is complete, is my own recommendation for the first test subject of the S.C.R.E.W.-Y.O.U., should this machine ever be built." Hennesy laughed. "Heh. Didn't know you'd have one waiting for me." He read on.

"The perfect test subject for this device would be one of our own J. Thomas Squirmsen ne'er-do-wells, a Mr. Eugene "Snake" Hennesy." Hennesy paused, feeling his face redden, deciding to end right there. But seeing all eyes still on him expectantly, he continued. "A schemer and an upstart with genuine intelligence and planning skills, he is the worst kind of underachiever simply for the fact that, were he to apply himself with even an nth of his ability, he would be an acceptable student. Were he to apply serious effort he would most likely be an exceptional student. But alas, he does not. In fact, he does the opposite." It took all of that ability for Hennesy to keep his expression placid.

"This individual should receive immediate intervention. As it stands, he is nothing more than a petty and vindictive loser living within a self-imposed prison from which he claims hatred for those he secretly envies, and who is determined to become a burden on society just to spite them." Hennesy scoffed. "That little shit! I am NOT!"

The room fell deathly silent.

Preston was still attached to the headset, and thus to the machine's readouts. One of the men in white pointed to the Truth Indicator. It glowed green. The boy was telling the truth. The instructor's jaw fell open in stupefaction.

"What?" he said.

"What?!" the gentleman said.

The entire room of attendees rose in unison, all eyes set in outrage and realization upon Hennesy. The lout at the podium had no idea what to do, what to say. He knew he was caught. The little kid in the green wadersuit appeared at the side of an academic on the far side of the room. The lad was showing him the pages from the yearbook, now unrumpled and smoothed out. The small boy pointed at Hennesy. The man nodded, and quickly brought the pages to the gentleman. He looked at the pages, understood what had transpired, and looked up at Hennesy, his eyes afire. He spoke three words.

"Lock the doors."

Hennesy tried to scramble backwards, but the tuxedoed men were upon him in an instant and held him tightly. The mannequins were quickly removed from the machine and the program was reset to its beginning. As every person present in the ballroom mounted the stage and descended upon Hennesy from all sides, the last thing to be heard before Hennesy's screaming was the steady hum of the machine coming back to life.

END

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