Spankatorium 1: Timmy's Unpleasant Encounter of the Mechanical Kind 
(spank, nc, severe, machine/b) 
by Nialos Leaning

Copyright 1999 by Nialos Leaning, all rights reserved.
Permission for noncommercial free (no charge) electronic
distribution and personal use reproduction of this story is
hereby granted.  All such distribution, re-posting and
reproduction must be without alteration of this story in any
way, must include this entire copyright notice, and must in
their entireties retain the following statements:

This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.  It depicts a
preteen boy being spanked and otherwise disciplined by
machines in a government operated walk-in punishment center.

If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such
material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not
read further, and do not save this story.

"This story is pure fantasy, written for the enjoyment of
adults.  Behavior depicted in this story may in real life be
illegal or considered by society to be abusive, harmful,
unacceptable or undesirable.  The author neither advocates,
condones nor personally engages in any such behavior."

"This story, as is all fiction, is fantasy and not reality.
The author does recognize the difference between the two.
Please do understand that some of us, including the author,
enjoy such fantasy material."

"Compliments and constructive criticism are always welcome."

* * *

This story is dedicated to Millard, whose FutureSpank
stories inspired me to once more try my hand at a spanking
machine tale.  

In a much altered form, the concepts of punishment levels,
video monitors, and penalties used in this story are all
derived from the FutureSpank stories.   

The characters, settings, situations and overall plot of
this story are all vastly different than those of the
FutureSpank stories.  Any similarities, other than taking
place in government run centers utilizing spanking machines,
are purely coincidental and unintentional.    

Not one sentence of Millard's prose is knowingly
incorporated into this story, either as originally written
by him or in any modified form.

I thank Millard for the inspiration and hope he keeps up his
good work.

* * *

Timmy's Unpleasant Encounter of the Mechanical Kind 
by Nialos Leaning


"Timothy Crawford, report to booth A in Spankatorium 3,"
announced a very pleasant female voice.

Nervously and ever so slowly, twelve-year-old Timmy stood
up. 

"It's show time, kiddo," announced his mother.

"Great!" gloated Jennifer, his eleven-year-old sister and
part cause of his current predicament.

"Goody, goody," giggled his pesky younger brother Nicholas,
age nine, the other source of his immediate problem.

Turning to the right, his eyes flickered off the three large
video monitors at the front of the waiting room.  Monitors
showing the damage that the dreaded spanking machines, one
in each spankatorium, were doing to the bare behinds of
other kids.  Kids just like him, some of whom he knew from
school.  A school where, unlike parents and teachers, none
of the kids were happy about this newly built Juvenile
Punishment Center.

Making his hesitant way toward the doors of his unwanted
fate, Timmy's glance caught the array of monitors for the
sixteen turntables in Spankatorium 3.  Most of the slowly
rotating tables were occupied by kids, some with red
bottoms, some without. Seeing his name, his eyes focused on
the small computer screen next to the monitor for empty
turntable 8.  A computer screen that now listed his
punishment sequence.  A listing that quite literally froze
him in his tracks.

His mom had sentenced him to a bare bottom level four
"standard" spanking, to be followed by twenty-four hours of
remaining bare below the waist.  But the screen indicated
that he was to receive a completely naked level 5 spanking,
with afterwards forty-eight hours without any clothes or
other coverings.  Obviously, the computer had recommended
that based on his latest misbehavior and his past history as
inputted by his parents, he deserved this higher severity of
punishment.  A recommendation that, since it was listed, his
mom must have had agreed with.        

Why, oh why, had he fought with Jenny, getting in a few good
wallops, much harder than her weakling girl punches.  Why
had he been so mean to that squirt Nick, refusing to let him
have any computer time, hogging it all for himself?  And,
why had he been so intent on smart mouthing mom when she
intervened on their behalf? 

Timmy  was scared, very scared.  This was the first time for
any of the Crawfords at the Jacobs Avenue JPC, or any other
JPC for that matter.  Not surprising, as Jacobs Avenue had
only been open for a little over two weeks, and it was only
five months ago that the very first JPC in the country had
began blistering bare behinds of misbehaving youngsters ages
six to fifteen.  His siblings were happy to be here, he
wasn't.  But than, they were here to see the show, he was
part of the show!  

"Booth 3-A, two minutes and forty seconds remaining," the 
gentle female voice intoned, bringing the entranced Timmy
out of his daze.  He now noticed that on "his" screen next
to his first punishment item of "completely naked" a timer
was counting down, second by second. It now read "02:36."  
He remembered the officer at the registration desk saying
that to avoid a penalty, he had three minutes from when he
was called to a preparation booth to being in the state of
undress specified for his punishment.

"Holy shit," he muttered to himself, quickly moving toward
the doorway.  He hoped no one had overheard his expletive
language, he just couldn't help himself. 

With much trepidation and very little bravery, Timmy entered 
Spankatorium 3 just as the female voice informed the waiting
room, "Booth 3-A, two minutes and twenty seconds remaining." 


Timmy felt as if all of the nearly hundred pairs of eyes in
the almost full theater were staring at him as he made his
way to the "prep" booth in the left rear corner.  Why did
the government have to sell tickets to this "show," wondered
the flustered boy.  In actuality, many in the audience were
much more interested in what was currently going on center
stage, where the spanker was doing a wicked number on a
loudly screaming and very naked fourteen-year-old girl. 
Others were concentrating their stares on the naked and bare
bottomed children stationed on the turntables scattered
about the u-shaped stage. 

Not a single child was making the least effort to cover
their exposed privates.  Timmy knew why.  They had been told
at a school assembly that trying to "cover up" would mean
having their hands tied behind their backs and a much more
severe spanking.

Just as he entered the glass booth, Timmy noticed that the 
bare bottomed little boy of about seven leaving the booth in
the other corner had an obvious erection.  This only
heightened his anxiety as it reminded him that he popped a
boner each and every time he got nude.  It was as it his
penis, once set free, just had to stretch to its full three
inches of glory in order to better enjoy all that air and
light.               

Silently sliding closed, the booth door locked behind him.  
"Timothy Crawford, welcome to booth 3-A," said the female
voice, still pleasant but somehow authoritarian at the same
time.  "Please remove all your clothes except for shoes and
socks.  Place your removed items in the open locker in front
of you."

"Yes, ma'am," Timmy felt compelled to respond, yet feeling
foolish in answering a computerized synthesized voice.

As he stripped down, a digital clock ticked off his
remaining time.  Every ten seconds, the voice also
enunciated the time he had left.  With fifteen seconds to
go, only his white jockey briefs were protecting his
modesty.  He once more froze, he just couldn't take them
off, his dick was already hard!  At the ten second mark, the
voice started a countdown, "Ten, nine, eight..."  Still, the
boy kept his hands from his waistband, breathing hard, and
getting even harder below, perhaps from fear.

"Three, two, one, time," said the voice, immediately
following with an emphatic "Penalty!"  Timmy moved his
trembling hands to his underpants.  "Session increased one
level, to level six.  Additional penalty for every ten
seconds not ready, ten, nine, eight..."  The distressed
Timmy couldn't quite bring himself to remove his last small
piece of clothing despite the severity of the penalty.  Now
instead of his strokes being five times his age, equally
split between a small paddle and a tawse, they would be six
times, similarly split.  It also meant that he would now be
spending sixty minutes, a whole hour, on the turntable, both
before and then again after his spanking, rather than fifty. 

He hadn't even known that there was a level six.  In school
they had been told the highest level the person sentencing
you could assign was five.  Didn't the dumb computer know
that?  Oh, yeah, that was right, he now remembered.  As a
penalty, one of the things the computer could do is increase
levels.  And because it was a penalty, the new level didn't
need approval of the original sentencer.
 
"Three, two, one, penalty!" informed the now dreaded voice. 
"Eight extra strokes, with the cane.  Ten, nine, eight..." 
This terrifying pronouncement propelled Timmy to action. 
Ever so slowly, he inched his briefs off.  Unfortunately for
him, he didn't quite have them off when the next ten second
interval elapsed.  "Penalty! Twenty-four additional hours
naked time, for a total of seventy-two hours."

Before time again expired, Timmy had his underpants in the
locker.  As soon as his hand cleared, the locker door hissed
shut, locking with an audible click.  He knew from what had
been explained in assembly, that since he had naked time,
his clothes would be mailed home to his parents.

"Timothy Crawford," came the now hated voice, "you have
thirty seconds to be on turntable eight."  The booth door
slid open.  "Counting down, starting now."

Timmy, desperately not wanting any more penalties, rapidly 
made his way up the steps onto the left hand wing of the
stage.  Turntable eight, with a blue light flashing
overhead, was halfway down the stage.  Timmy stepped onto
the three foot diameter device as the digital display
overhead showed four seconds left.  Immediately as he was
on, the blue light shut off, a spotlight lit up him and the
table, and he began turning.  The digital display above, as
well as one embedded in the table, began counting off the
boy's show off time.  The overhead display, unseen by Timmy,
also listed his name, age, and the fact that he was to
receive a level six standard session.

Red faced, Timmy was acutely aware of his hard little penis
jutting outward and slightly upward from his still
absolutely hairless pubic area.  Here he was, naked as a
jaybird, standing on a rotating circle, showing off his
boner to the entire audience.  Which included his family,
whom had taken seats in the spankatorium.

"Hey, Timmy little man, how's it hanging?" said a giggling
young girl standing only inches from the front of the stage,
eyes almost level with his crotch.  Two other giggling girls
were with her.  "Or, should I say, pointing?"

Timmy flushed even more furiously at this latest 
embarrassment.  The situation made worse since he knew these
three from his seventh grade class.  The three bitches from
hell, as the boys called them behind their backs, always
tormenting and belittling their male classmates.

"Told you," said the smirking one on the right, "we should
had brought a magnifying glass.  He doesn't have much there
to see."

"Bet you his little brother Nick is bigger down there," said
the one on the left.  Giggling hysterically, the three girls
resumed their stroll around the perimeter of the stage.

Timmy knew that the parting comment was not true, he was a
little bigger than Nick, not by much, but still, a little. 
But he also knew that at twelve years and four months he was
still very much a little boy in the male parts department. 
Matter of fact, being a little small for his age, more like
an almost eleven-year-old, he was pretty much a little boy
everywhere.  Which thought did brighten him momentarily,
remembering that the machine adjusted the severity of its
hits not only by age, but also by size and weight.

For the first half-hour, his penis occasionally went down
instead of up, lessening his embarrassment for short periods
of time.  But not at all during the last half-hour.  For
that entire time, a naked twelve-year-old girl was stationed
on the turntable to his right.  A very pretty, very cute
girl, with small jutting breasts and a light smattering of
pubic hair over her vulva, through which her lips could just
be seen.  And to his right was an equally naked, equally
pretty, equally cute thirteen-year-old girl.  With somewhat
larger breasts and a little thicker bush that hid what lay
beyond.   

As a result of those two beauties, his short stuff was doing
its darnest not to be so short.  He couldn't help it, he
might be small for his age, and hairless, but he was, after
all, almost a teenager! 

Time moved much too slowly for Timmy.  Kids took their
places on the turntables.  Kids visited the machine, their
screams and sobs combining with the sounds of the spanks to
orchestrate a strange concerto within the spankatorium. 
Kids left for home, some still naked, several with shirts
but pantless, bare bottoms and privates clearly showing, but
most dressed.

Time moved much too quickly for Timmy.  Days before he was
ready, the voice announced "Timothy Crawford, report to the
spanker. You have thirty seconds from now."  The voice
launched into its now familiar countdown mode.  "Thirty,
twenty-nine, twenty-eight..."

His little boner leading the way, a crying Timmy went toward
the evil machine.  But not fast enough.  He was just a step
away when the voice proclaimed "one, time."  Immediately
followed by "Penalty! Session increased one level, to level
seven."

Level seven!  It wasn't fair, the adults could only go as
high as five, but the JPC's shitty computer could keep going
higher and higher.  It wasn't fair, it just wasn't!

"Motherfucker!" screamed Timmy as he stepped over the line
marking the outer boundary of the machine's area.

"Penalty!" declared the voice.  "Use of profanity.  Standard
session changed to special session."  A frantic Timmy was
crying very hard now, and the first spank had not even yet
fallen upon his bare bottom.  A special session!  The small
paddle would now be replaced by a larger, thicker one, with
numerous blister holes drilled throughout.  The tawse would
be replaced by a cat-of-nine, with all nine tails thicker
than either of two on the tawse.  And with now being at
level seven, he would get forty-two doses of each.  Plus his
eight penalty cane strokes.  He'd never be able to sit down
again!

He couldn't help what he'd said, it just kind of came out. 
It was no big deal, almost all the boys in his class used
words like that, especially when adults weren't around to
hear.  Just like in the movie "Stand by Me."  But to the
fucking stupid computer, it was a fucking big deal, and now
he would pay.  Stupid shitty computer!

"Approach the center yellow line," instructed the voice. 
Timmy shuffled to the line, located just before a padded
bench-like contraption, about eighteen inches wide and
three-and-a-half feet long.

"Raise your arms up straight, spread your legs apart." 
Timmy did as told.  Before he realized what had happened,
his wrists and ankles were shackled.  By soft cuffs attached
to adjustable rods projecting from sliding trolleys set in
tracks.  Overhead on a grid like structure, with multiple
intersecting tracks crisscrossing each other.  On the floor
with a corresponding pattern, set flush with the stage
surface.  At the same time, the bench lowered itself a few
inches into the floor, adjusting itself to the perfect
height for accommodating the now panicking boy.

Suddenly, he was being bent over the bench to a perfect
ninety degree angle.  His arms were stretched forward and
flat on the table.  His own legs were pushed up against the
bench's legs.  A strap tightened itself across his back.  He
heard the cuff rods click, locking his arms and legs in
place.  On the video monitor in front of him, he could see
just how ridiculous he looked, restrained to the bench, his
bare behind pointed toward the eagerly watching audience. 
An audience including his brother and sister, his mom, and
the three little bitches from hell.    

Then his terror increased tenfold.  The number 42 lit up in
the upper right hand corner of the monitor, on which he saw
the paddle slowly descending from above, at the end of a
multiple hinged metal arm.  To his frenzied eyes, the wooden
implement looked impossibly large, with an impossible number
of holes everywhere on its business end.  An end that
without warning made hard harsh contact with his end.  The
left cheek of his rear end, that is.  The paddle was big
enough to cover his entire cheek, with room left over. 

The pain was incredible! He couldn't help but scream, as
loudly as his lungs would permit.  Five seconds later, the
paddle slammed into his right cheek.   Five seconds later,
across both cheeks, bridging his crack.  Over and over the
pattern repeated itself, left, right, center.  The pain and
burning just kept getting worse and worse.  His bottom
turning redder and redder, with white blisters scattered
about.  His screams, howls, wails meshed into a horrible
crescendo of an ear piercing banshee song, a mis-melody of
anguished discord.

He couldn't help himself, he peed on the floor.  "Penalty!"
the voice boomed over the continuing spanking, sounding
almost gleeful, "peeing on stage, twenty-four additional
hours naked time, for a total of ninety-six hours."  Timmy,
of course, was in no position to protest.  He was having
enough trouble catching enough breath to issue forth his
horrendous screechings.

After thirty-three horribly torturous smackings, the
paddling ceased.  From what his feverish tear streaked  
eyes could see on the monitor of the condition of his
already well punished bottom, Timmy was fleetingly hopeful
that the nasty machine was taking pity on him, showing him
some mercy.

But alas for the poor boy, that was not to be.  The bench
titled upward slightly, the floor trolleys spread his legs
even further apart, till he felt that if they went any
further, he would split in two.  From the monitor, his only
partially functioning mind realized that the part of his
buttocks where the sun never shined, even on a nude beach,
not that he would be caught dead on one, was now exposed to
one and all.  Even his little hole, gaping wide open, was on
display.

Oh, God! He realized that the machine was going to hit him
in there, the only part of his bottom not a bright red, the
only part not covered with blisters.  A situation the
machine promptly did its best to change.  Mercilessly,
emotionlessly, relentlessly, without any hesitation or
lessening of force.

Turning the paddle sideways, the machine smashed into
Timmy's cleavage, obliquely striking the right cheek, then
the left, repeating itself four times.  With each stroke,
Timmy screamed, howled, bawled louder than for the one
before.  

For the grand finale of the forty-second paddle spank, the
machine struck full force across both of Timmy's cheeks,
simultaneously bursting all his blisters.  Timmy throat
wretchedly howled as never before.  He couldn't believe the
state the monitor showed his bottom to be in, red as a ripe
tomato, several blue bruises, weeping blisters everywhere. 
That couldn't possible be his bottom, could it?  But the
pain and fire in his behind told him that indeed it was his
lit up bottom lighting up the screen.

Timmy's respite was brief, as all too soon another 42
appeared on the monitor.  Without being repositioned from 
his final paddling posture, the first impact of the
cat-of-nine bit into his bare bottom.  Nine burning tails of
fire on his already savaged behind.  Repeated every five 
seconds.  Left cheek. Right cheek. Both cheeks. In his
crack.  Over and over.  The crack strokes were the worse, as
invariably the tip of a tail of two would find its way into
his hole.

Amazingly, the incoherent noises blasting from his mouth
never diminished in volume or intensity.  The pain was
totally  intolerably unbearable.  But the bare boy had no
choice but to totally tolerate the unbearable.  There was no
escape, there was no stopping the machine from its appointed
duty.  To Timmy, it seemed the spanker was determined to
strip away the very skin of his behind, to make his bottom
into raw meat, raw red meat.  Of course, the machine was
programmed to do no such thing, although in extreme cases it
could come close.  And with Timmy, it certainly would.

Finally, stroke forty-two of the cat landed, the hardest of
any of Timmy's eighty-four spanks.  The boy let out another
glass shattering award winning shriek.

Immediately, the floor trolleys moved his feet until they
were shoulder length apart.  The bench lowered, again
positioning him at a ninety degree angle.  And the first
penalty cane stroke hit him like a run away freight train. 
The pain on his already unimaginably sore bottom was simply
incredible.  A narrow band of fire that just kept growing
stronger and stronger.  He could see on the monitor the
railroad track now raised on his literally blistered bottom,
a bottom as dark red as the darkest apple he'd ever seen. 
Dark red except for the three black and blue marks, and one
purple one scattered helter skelter on his rear.   

A full ten seconds after the first cut, the next fell.
Slightly below and perfectly parallel to the first.  Ten
seconds later came the third, placed below the second. 
Three more marched down Timmy's behind.  After each taste of
the cane, he let out a full voiced scream of pure distress,
absolute agony.  It was a wonder that his voice had held out
for the entire session, his throat had to be raw by now.

The final two cuts, in the finest English tradition,
diagonally crossed all the others and themselves, forming a
perfect "X" superimposed over six straight lines.  Timmy was
astounded that he hadn't passed out from the pain of these
last two.

The cuff on his left wrist loosened and slid up his arm a
few inches.  An arm with an ominous looking device descended
down, coming to a stop on Timmy's wrist.  He felt a slight
pinching sensation, and the device ascended back into the
recesses.  A thin plastic band, much like a hospital
bracelet, encircled his left wrist.  He had been tagged!

The bracelet would inform parents, teachers, police, any
adult in authority, just how long he had to remain naked. 
The rule was that even when the prescribed time was up, the
child had to stay naked until the band was removed.  Which
could only be done at a JPC or other designated public
facility, using special tools.  Timmy knew from personal
experience the futilely of "do it yourself" removal
attempts.  Last weekend, he and two friends had tried to
remove their buddy Bobby's tag.  They'd only succeeded in
hurting Bobby's wrist.  And setting off some kind of signal
that brought the local police patrol car around.  The
officer had sternly warned them that if he ever again caught
them "tampering with government property" he would file a
report guaranteed to ensure them a very unwelcome trip to
Jacobs Avenue!    

The machine released him.  Still screaming and on rubbery
legs, assisted by two staffers, Timmy slowly, painfully made
his way back to the turntable.  To his complete
mortification, despite his terrible ordeal, he was again
sporting a hard on.  

For the next seventy minutes, he slowly turned on the table,
displaying himself, his most-of-the-time erect penis, and
his destroyed bottom to one and all.   When he finally left
the building with his family, he was still crying hard.

On the way out, his mom picked up his "certification of
punishment administered" slip.  The desk officer also handed
her a diskette containing before, during and after pictures
of his session.

Timmy was glad to get out of the Juvenile Punishment Center. 
He was glad to turn off Jacobs Avenue, not having to see
that horrible place again.  While being in the audience
might be fun, especially if Jenny or Nick were getting it,
he was determined not to ever again be on stage.  But he
knew, deep down, that sooner or later, he would be up there
once more, his bottom and his seemingly ever hard dick 
giving a show of shows.

The family Crawford, with the still crying, still hard Timmy
still making a spectacle of himself, reached their home
block.

"Well, kiddo," said his mom, waving the diskette around,
"maybe when your friends next visit, we can run a little
slide show on the computer."

"Please, mom, no," pleaded Timmy.

"And maybe," she continued, "when Uncle Bill and Aunt Helen
and your three girl cousins come next week."  

Timmy realized that his ordeal was going to extend well past
his four days of naked time.  But that's another story
entirely.