“Hey kid, what the fuck you think you’re doing?” Startled, Cody turned to see two men had sneaked in behind him while he had been idling looking at the blank warehouse wall and shaking a can of spray paint. Both were big, wore holstered handguns on one hip and portable radios on the other, and were clad in the uniforms of some kind of rent-a-cop security company.

“I, uh,” he started to say.

“I know exactly what you were going to do!” The larger man exclaimed, eying the bag of paint cans as well as the one Cody had been shaking. “You were going to tag that wall, you little cocksucker. It looks like we got here just in time.”

“No!” Cody cried. “I wasn’t going to paint the wall! Honest!”

“Honest, my ass,” the other man added in. “Someone’s been tagging all around here, and it looks to me like we just caught him red handed.”

“Eight and Ten, come in please.” The larger man keyed the shoulder microphone and spoke into the radio. “The Vardini loading dock,” he said to the unseen Eight and Ten, “ASAP, please.” Cody looked beyond the two men, searching for an escape route. Fighting them was not an option for the hundred and twenty pound fifteen year old; both men were big and stout looking and would apparently be soon joined by two more men.

The corner of the loading dock was bordered by a high iron railing and Cody was trapped like a caged animal in one corner. The only escape route was right through the two large men. “Don’t even think about trying it, kid,” the smaller man warned, as if reading his mind. “You just stay right there and keep cool, hear?”

“What do we have here?” Cody didn’t if this was Eight Or Ten. Both had driven up a few minutes ago, and both were obviously employed by the same company. One was man about like the first two; the other was a woman almost as large.

“We caught us a tagger, Rob,” the larger man said, “we caught him red-handed, literally.” As proof, he held out Cody’s can of red spray paint.

“I’m not a tagger!” Cody said, indignantly.

“Shut the fuck up, boy.” The smaller man cautioned.

“So, you need our help with the apprehension?” The woman asked. “He does look pretty tough.”

The large man just gave her a dirty look and addressed her partner. “You remember what I said this morning? About how this tagging had better stop or there was to be some ass-kicking going on?”

“Yeah, I remember,” the guy they had called Rob answered. “The warehouse owners are really pissed, and, that makes you pissed.”

“Well, we caught four of the little bastards last week and hauled them in, and they were back out here before we could even get back on duty. You figure just running them in is going to stop the tagging and save your jobs?”

“Fuck no!” His smaller partner answered for all of them.

“Well then, let’s do it,” the large man stated.

“Do what?” the woman asked.

“What we talked about at coffee this morning.” The boss knew that the split-tail was dense, but he didn’t think she was this stupid.

“You mean that thing with his balls?” She finally said.

“Uh, hey Boss,” Rob spoke up. “It ain’t right to mess with a guy’s privates. You know what I mean?”

“I’ll do it,” the large man volunteered.” I don’t mind messing with guys’ stuff, and I’ll bet this little boy has a real set on him, unlike someone I know.” He gave the woman a warm smile. She flipped him off.

Cody felt his scrotum retract and his asshole pucker, but before he could even move the four assailants had seized him and were roughly removing his clothing. “Well, look at that!” The larger man exclaimed as soon as they had the naked boy spread-eagle on the loading dock. “Hell, he isn’t even old enough to have much hair, either that or he shaves it like some fairy.”

Cody had a swim meet Monday, and like all competitive swimmers he prepped for the important events by shaving his arms, legs, and thighs, leaving only what hair on his crotch that would be covered by his Speedo. This didn’t seem like the proper time to enlighten his captors, though.

“Just hold him right there,” the man said, donning the latex gloves that he always carried. He picked up the spray can Cody had been shaking, listened to ball rattle a few times, then roughly grabbed Cody’s dick, forced the foreskin back, and pressed the button in the can. “Ooh, red, my favorite color,” the man said.

Cody felt the foreign touch of another person’s hand on his cock and then the cool air on his exposed glans, then the awful, burning sting as the powerful solvent in the quick-drying paint attacked the delicate nerve center. He couldn’t help but cry out, and was quickly rewarded by having his mouth stuffed with one of his socks. He then felt the grip shift to his balls and force then up and away from his body while the cool paint spray was applied to the inside of his thighs, and finally the wetness as his pubes and scrotum were soaked with the remainder of the can.

“Roll him over,” the guy said, shaking a new can to free the little marble and mix the paint. “Hold him right there.” Cody felt fingers separate his ass cheeks and then another fiery sting as the paint hit the tender skin of his hole. He man played the stream up and down Cody's crack, and finally across both ass cheeks before turning his attention to the boy's head. “You look good with red hair kid,” He said, once his hair and scalp had been thoroughly soaked with paint. “Now, get the fuck out of here and go to that day care center you call a high school and spread the word: No more fucking tagging.”

Vince Vardini pulled his Mercedes into his driveway and was immediately pissed. His son’s bicycle, against standing orders and common sense, had been abandoned in the middle of the driveway, blocking access to the garage. Plus, he’d given the fifteen year old explicit instructions to paint a red boundary around the outside of the loading dock and on the front of the stair risers at the warehouse, as per a safety inspector’s demands. He didn’t expect the teenager to bust his ass, but still, it was a simple enough Saturday project for a kid who had been granted a very generous allowance, and there was no way his son could be finished by now.

The next three hours were all kind of a blur to Vince: How he found his son trying to scrub red paint from his crotch and head with an open container of gasoline, how he’d rushed his son outside before the pilot light of the water heater could ignite the fumes and immolate both of them, and how he’d wrapped him in a blanket and driven to the emergency room, and how he’d paced the floor until the doctor came out and delivered both the bad and the good news.

“What happened, son?” Vince asked as they drove back home. Cody’s head and crotch had been shaved, and most of the paint had been removed, but some, like that in his anus on his glans, would take more time and he was likely to burn and peel everywhere the paint had been. He would be extremely uncomfortable for the next few weeks, and worst of all, he was prohibited from entering a swimming pool. Getting bumped from the swim team would hurt Cody more than anything else.

“I was just getting ready to paint the loading dock when four guys, uh, three guys and a woman, jumped me and accused me of being a tagger. They stripped me and, uh, painted me.”

“Who were they?”

“They all had guns and badges that said Atlas or something like that.”

“Atlas Security,” Vince said. “A real bunch of assholes. I use Sentry security instead. They shouldn’t even have been on the property. Did you get any of their names?”

“A big guy and his partner jumped me and they radioed for help. A guy they called Rob and the woman came but it was the big guy that acted like he was the boss, and he’s the one that painted me.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

“Not really, Dad, but the way the big guy, you know, touched my dick and balls? I got the idea that he, you know, likes guys instead of women?”

“I’m trying to find one of Atlas’s people,” Vince told the owner of Sentry Security. “He’s probably a supervisor or foreman. He’s a big guy,might be a fag, and he was working the warehouse area with a partner. A guy named Rob and his partner, a woman, met them there.” I don’t care about the others, just the big guy. Find him and take pictures. My son will make the positive identification.”

“Can I ask why?” The security chief inquired.

“He trespassed on Vardini property and humiliated and injured my son and endangered his life, and also prevented him from swimming for the state championship. Is that enough?”

The security chief knew Vince’s reputation and his terrible capacity for revenge. “That’s all I need to know,” he said. Whoever the guy was, he’d best start praying, the chief thought as Vince left.

“The Vardini family has been in the nut business for three generations,” the hooded man told his captive. “We don’t grow them, but we just process and wholesale. Some of them we crack, some we crush, and some we roast.” The large man didn’t want to hear this kind of talk, about nuts; his were particularly vulnerable at the moment, being as how he was naked and tied spread-eagle to a worktable in the warehouse. To emphasize the point the hooded man reached out and took the big man’s nuts in his hand and gave then a hard squeeze. The man was big, he thought, well over six and a half feet tall and weighed upwards of two hundred fifty pounds, but his testicles were small, not larger than his own or those of his fifteen year old son. “You have caused an innocent fifteen-year-old boy, the only son of the owner of this business, a great deal of pain, humiliation, and embarrassment, and for that you shall pay.”

“This material is called Nomex,” the hooded man said, producing a three foot square piece of silvery fabric. “It’s what firemen’s and race car drivers’ suits are made from. It doesn’t burn.” The cloth had a hole in the center, and it was through this hole that the captive man’s balls were forced. The hooded man then gathered the cloth around his captive’s scrotum and secured it with several wraps of wire.

“Please, don’t hurt my balls!” The big man pleaded. “Anything but that! Please! I’ll even suck your dick!”

“If I wanted you to suck my dick you’d all ready be doing it,” the hooded man said, producing a can of spray paint. “Recognize this?” He asked, shaking the can.

“Please!” The big man repeated.

“Shut up,” the hooded man said, depressing the button on the can and directing the red mist onto his captive’s scrotum. The big man bucked and struggled against his bonds and the paint was applied to his balls, but it wasn’t until the hooded man produced a cigarette lighter that he began to scream.

Ten minutes later it was over. The paint had burnt off and with it most of the big man’s scrotal skin. Another application was required for the man’s testicles, but by that time he had passed out from the pain and was unaware of their ultimate destruction.

“How are you doing, Son,” Vince Vardini asked Cody later that afternoon.

“Uh, okay I guess, Dad,” the boy answered. He wore a fashionable skater-boy stocking cap, and was dressed in loose, baggy sweat pants. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it itches like crazy and I keep peeling. Hey Dad,” he added, pointing to the red stain on his fathers hands. “Have you been painting?”

“Yeah, Son,” Vince smiled. “Just a little project down at the warehouse. Too bad you weren’t there to help.”