Platypus

Self-Serve Punishing Huts

–1–

Sensing the worst, now that his crime had been discovered, Jimmy made a last-ditch attempt to placate Andy. "I'll let you spank me again, bare-butt," Jimmy offered, while flashing his most winsome smile.

"It's too late for that boy," Andy, a burly 29-year-old trailertrash punk that his mother had inexplicably married barked in a quiet show of rage, almost a hiss, "This time you've destroyed property, and your mom and me ain't too pleased."

Jimmy was a cute, sturdy young teenager, on the cusp of puberty, with hazel eyes and light brown hair, dusky soft. He did have a cute ass too, and Andy had spanked his wife's kid more than once, but he didn't trust the feelings aroused in his own mind when the kid made that cute butt available, certainly not in the basement rec room where the spankings usually took place. The last time, he'd been enraged and aroused, and had come perilously close to raping the boy. His wife wouldn't have minded, true, but that was beside the point. Shit, I'm not gay or anything, Andy had mused. The boy seemed to be taunting his step-dad, using sexuality as a weapon.

"You can spank me, I'll even get naked down in the rec room, and you can hit me all over with the belt," Jimmy reiterated, sweetening the offer to make it even more enticing. Jimmy knew that Andy possessed a vicious streak and might take him up on it. He could sense that his step-dad would 'do him' if pushed, pronging him up the ass perhaps, or give him a bj. Jimmy saw distinct advantages in manipulating Andy – beyond the sex, although he was a very horny young teen. Jimmy's goal was to drive an emotional wedge of some kind between his mom and this creep. Jimmy had pulled his pants and underpants down twice so far for the spankings in the six months since his mom had known and dated Andy. She'd finally married Andy because she had become slutty. Jimmy remembered the spankings. Neither corporal punishment session had hurt all that much, just a few black-and-blue bruises. He didn't even hit me hard enough to break the skin, Jimmy recalled, and there hadn't any blood.

"No, not this time, boy, you and me, we're going to one of those huts."

The self-serve punishing huts had been set up all over 'Bama, and there was one, a little domed Quonset-hut painted white, just down the road. The television had showed the governor bragging about them, how they were helping to curb juvenile crime, and when his dad was alive, his parents used to joke about taking him to one, but that was when he was still a kid, a couple of years ago, and they never really were serious. Was Andy serious?

Suddenly Jimmy felt a flash of fear. One of his playmates, Roddy, had been taken to the hut, in fact, one in the next county, and Roddy had been very quiet after word got out that Roddy's foster dad had subjected the 12-year-old in his care to a Level 2 session. In fact, Roddy had missed a week and a few days of school and when the other kids, including the curious Jimmy, had asked about what had happened to him inside the hut, he'd shut up like a clam. Jimmy had all kinds of questions, and was very curious, but didn't want to discover any painful mysteries firsthand.

"Get in the car!" Andy barked.

Andy and Jimmy didn't say a word as they traveled in the Lexus. Andy knew right where he was going to take the boy.

In less than five minutes, the nearest self-serve punishing hut, was in plain view within the high beams switched on. Andy turned into the gravel parking lot. It was empty at that moment. Jimmy felt a shudder in the pit of his stomach.

Andy got out of the car, but Jimmy didn't move from the passenger seat. "Get out of the car boy!"

After a few moments of procrastination, a fearful Jimmy did, following his step-dad to the side entrance.

Inside it was like a little kiosk, and quiet except for a slight humming emanating from a machine by the door they'd just entered.

A sign by the machine read 'register here' and 'take a ticket.' Jimmy was beginning to feel a little less anxious. What could they do to him, the boy figured, in such a small place? Andy punched a button, and out popped a metallic registration card. The boy was about to receive the benefits of the newest innovations in scientific technology, as designed to cause a 'juvenile delinquent' the maximum of pain.

–2–

"Jimmy, strip off your clothes," and this command appeared on an emerging card; all the cards were falling out of a slot in the terminal and were being greedily snatched by Andy, who was now becoming quite amused. Jimmy just stood there, wearing his light spring jacket, blue jeans, a t-shirt with the metal-rock band Korn emblazoned on its front, a pair of cheap Nike high-tops with a hole in the left toe, white cotton athletic socks, and a pair of tight Fruit-of-the-Looms. As if Jimmy hadn't glimpsed the first fateful card, Andy showed it to him and read it off to him as if he was still a little kid, maybe a six-year-old.

"It says 'Strip,' Jimmy, take off your clothes, so we can do whatever else the machine wants," his step-dad said slowly, enunciating every word, but a little too gently and also eagerly.

"No," Jimmy said, "I don't have to."

Andy was about to smack his step-son, the bratty kid, but managed to restrain his hand. It wanted to strike, that hand. But he held it back. A tense several seconds ensued, and then something that both Andy and Jimmy both considered in hindsight to be amazing occurred; the machine responded to Jimmy's disobedience, almost as if it was programmed with voice-recognition software, and KNEW Jimmy's insolent voice. The 13-year-old suddenly felt shocks, painful electric shocks, striking various parts of his clothed body, as if he was being tasered by a cop.

"Yeowwh!" Jimmy shrieked, as he felt sharp pains in his chest, belly, back, feet, and balls, all at once, simultaneously, and the electric shocks, each one painful, kept striking the boy until another card emerged unsolicited form the slot where they all came out. Andy could not conceal a grin, and was close to erupting with glee.

"Stop it! Make that thing stop shocking me!" Jimmy yelled.

Andy quietly read the card to Jimmy as he kept being shocked several times a second in various parts of his body. "The measured electric pulses will continue indefinitely until Jimmy becomes naked as instructed," Andy read to the boy with a smile spreading o'er his own features.

But Jimmy again attempted to defy the machine, this time trying to escape via the kiosk's door back to the imagined sanctuary of the Lexus.

"No!" the boy screamed, "I won't do it!"

This time, when Jimmy touched the metallic handle of the kiosk's door, it was not only locked, but emitted a stronger electric pulse that felt like a million fire ants crawling and biting up the entire length of his outstretched arm. Even worse, the pubescent boy was unable to release his hand from the door handle. It seemed to be stuck fast. The intense pain continued for nearly a minute until yet another card, made of a thin cardboard like substance as all of them were, and all were colored beige, like a light-brown, came out the accustomed slot.

"Jimmy's pain will continue until he strips and stands at attention in compliance," informed the new card, "Unless he agrees to comply he won't even be released from the door handle. There is no escape for him," the card communicated quite precisely.

Andy was rather disinterested in the young teenager's agony as he reiterated what the card was 'saying.' "Better do what it says," Andy added.

Finally, Jimmy was sobbing and tears were streaming down his face as the pulses continued to jolt his errant arm, the one that had touched the door's handle, and he yelled, while looking straight at the terminal part of the machine, "Alright. I'll strip! Damn machine!"

As soon as Jimmy pronounced those sentiments of obeisance, the pain stopped, and he was able to remove his now sore right hand from the handle of the kiosk's door – the self-serve hut's only exit or entrance. He saw that his palm was reddened and blistered, and several demarcations of crimson extended in the manner of angry lines, at least up to Jimmy's forearm where the shirt's short-sleeve commenced and probably beyond, beneath the spring jacket.

A few seconds later, another card emerged from the slot. "Jimmy you must strip and stand at attention, hands by your side. Just toss your clothing onto the floor."

Again, Andy gleefully read the card to the chastened boy as if he were a six-year-old. He added with a human touch, "C'mon Jimmy. Get naked. You're always eager to show off your cute little body when we're at home."

With tears still streaming down his face, this time of humiliation, Jimmy began to disrobe. He was reluctant and hesitant, but knew that he didn't really have a second option. Off came the spring jacket, black with a hockey logo on the garment's back. His short-sleeved shirt came off next, and Jimmy noticed that, yes, the burn marks from the shock, angry lines, extended all the way up his right shoulder to his now bared neck. Jimmy was now naked to the waist, a sturdy young teenager with muscles just beginning to acquire a testosterone-fed manliness, but his chest and back were yet to be sufficiently developed beyond incipient puberty. His nipples were small, slightly larger than a dime, and the flesh along his torso proximate to his ribs was pale and white, almost milky and delicate, as he'd not yet spent enough time that spring in direct sunlight sans his shirt to create a healthier shade. Jimmy next undid the belt clasp on his blue jeans, the fabric faded and worn in places, most notably the seat, unzipped his fly, and began to slide the pants down his slender legs, again a part of his body showing future possibilities with muscles rather prominent on his thighs and calves, but when he tried to slip the jeans off with his Nikes still on his feet, it was proving difficult.

"Slip those shoes off first so it doesn't shock you again," Andy suggested, as if he was a genteel man genuinely interested in Jimmy's welfare.

"Fuck," Jimmy cursed, but reluctantly obeyed, so that he could more easily slip his legs out of the stubborn jeans.

Jimmy was now wearing just his tight white briefs and his socks, but somehow the machine KNEW. Out came another card out of the slot. The cards were all the same size, about five centimeters by four centimeters [2x1½ inches]. "Remove your briefs and socks too boy," the machine instructed tersely but accurately, "and stand at attention to await further instructions."

A few seconds later, Jimmy was appropriately nude, hands innocuously placed by his sides.

"Finally," Andy said, as if echoing what the machine might have emoted if it wasn't a machine.

–3–

Andy was musing about technology and its wonders, 'What will they think of next?' he almost said aloud, and it was a whisper just below Jimmy's threshold of hearing and he understood, but science class was the last thing on the boy's mind at this moment.

Jimmy stood there in the warm room, almost too warm, and a bead of sweat appeared on the young teenager's brow. The room that comprised the self-serve punishing hut was quiet, filled with a silence that broke suddenly like a wave of sound.

It was a large drawer that suddenly thrust itself out, rather noisily, as metal brushed metal, the surface of the machine had appeared seamless, an unbroken surface, until now. Jimmy glanced with horror at the drawer emerging from the machine, as he began to realize some imminent possibilities. Being naked didn't help. Jimmy's bare feet were comfortable but restless as he unconsciously placed his left foot atop his right, as if to protect it for some reason. The floor he was standing on was hard, and ungiving.

A smaller noise ensued. It was another cursed card emerging on its own, which Andy snatched up with greedy and slightly stubby man fingers, larger than the boy's.

Andy read the card. "Jimmy should lie down in the drawer on his stomach, spread-eagled."

"Get in and lie down," Andy encouraged, a hint of glee in his voice. "It's payback time."

Tears were starting to run down the boy's cheeks, but he knew that to refuse would be futile. He got into the drawer as if he was entering a bathtub, except that there wasn't a drop of water.

Andy gently helped to place the 13-year-old in the coffin-like container, the metallic surface felt slightly cold on the boy's unprotected skin. "Spread your arms and legs toward the corners," Andy instructed.

Jimmy just wanted to get this ordeal over with now, although he knew it was only the beginning.

Once Jimmy was lying correctly on his bare stomach against the cool metal, he heard another card coming out, a small sound that was already grating on the boy's nerves like fingernails across a chalkboard.

"Secure the boy," Andy read, and Jimmy heard his step-dad's familiar voice acquire a tinge of urgency, or was it excitement? Jimmy's hard-on was gone, his penis in tumescence, in the manner of a butterfly stuck in its pupae stage.

Suddenly, inside the drawer bindings appeared for the miscreant's ankles and wrists. They felt like duct tape, these bindings, but placed on his belly, Jimmy couldn't really tell what the material actually was. All he realized in a few seconds was that he was helpless, his movements restricted to perhaps five or six inches [13-15 cm] in any direction. "Shit," Jimmy thought, "Fuck, shit, fuck," and now he was really scared.

As soon as he was secured according to the directions that Andy had followed, another loud noise occurred. It was the drawer, with Jimmy in it, retreating from the glare of the self-punishing hut's larger space, into the maw of the machine. It was like Jimmy had been swallowed by a mechanical whale, or at least some beast that can be named to aid in our description.

"Wow!" Andy exclaimed, "Fucking kewl!" Andy was really enjoying what was happening to his stepson.

Inside the drawer, for a second or two, it was completely dark, as if the boy really was about to be digested in the belly of a beast, but then a dim light came on, not very bright, in the manner of a nightlight that led the way to the toilet in their home, at night when he had to get up to pee. In fact, Jimmy had to pee now, and accidentally, perhaps out of sheer fright, maybe out of a loss of control of his sphincter muscle and he dribbled a few drops of his urine onto the metallic surface. As a small child, he'd been punished for bedwetting by having a sewing needle stab the tip of his six-year-old little boy's penis three times, one of his mother's stupid punishments before she met Andy, when his dad was still living with them, and this was because she didn't like doing extra laundry in the middle of the night, his mother didn't. The needle would usually draw blood, but it wasn't as bad as some punishments, Jimmy knew.

In the dim light, the corner of the drawer that Jimmy could see resembled the MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) machine that he'd spent more than an hour inside of when he'd fell off his skateboard last summer and hit his head on the concrete steps of the next door neighbor's patio.

Outside in the glare of the room outside the machine where Andy was, his step-dad was being prompted to choose the boy's punishment. Andy was peering at a list of questions visible on the monitor, and most of the answers were multiple choice. Andy hadn't liked school very much, he'd been a punk, but he'd always enjoyed those standardized tests, and this time, he wasn't about to flunk out.

Backside of boy – neck to heels – was the area of Jimmy's body being considered. "We're getting to the good part," Andy said loudly, but Jimmy couldn't really hear his mother's lover from the place he was.

The selections were quite diverse. Text in the form of questions was now appearing in rapid order on the viewscreen. Andy was faced with the task of pressing a few buttons so he could decide exactly what the boy would experience, the type of punishment

1. whipping,
2. burning,
3. painful deep muscle massage,
4. scratching.

Another question to further clarify Andy's selection appeared on the machine's monitor. This question specified the type of scratches that would be inflicted. The choices were

1. shallow,
2. moderately deep, or
3. very deep,

Jimmy was just lying there in the drawer, not in any pain whatsoever, still naked and spread-eagled on his stomach. His fear was starting to subside, as boys, like most of us, are dwellers of the moment at times such as this. He was a little concerned, however, as he wondered what his stupid step-dad was doing out there. If the boy had known what Andy was doing, his fear would not have been subsiding.

–4–

As Jimmy waited inside what appeared similar to an MRI machine like at the hospital, similarly dimly lit, his heart began to beat faster and the boy wondered what Andy was up to outside in the brightly lit room, and what cards might be emerging. He wouldn't have long to wait before it would begin.

Andy was given suddenly given several buttons to push on the computer screen. He'd been pondering the marks the boy had deliberately made on his precious car, long jagged scratches with the sharp end of a key. Jimmy had used one of the spare house keys, to create long vertical lines from the right side of the Lexus in front to within inches of where the front passenger door began. "They're ugly scratches," Andy said aloud, but of course Jimmy couldn't hear him, "Repairing it will cost me plenty at the auto body shop. Too bad the kid doesn't have any money." If Jimmy had had funds available, Andy would have considered that kind of retribution as well.

The buttons seemed seductive to Andy. He was eager to start pushing, almost too eager. The kid would start screaming. It might be fun.

Andy pushed the 'activate punishment' button. When he did this, he felt a surge of adrenalin, as if he were in a street fight with some punk his size, somebody who'd wronged him, somebody who deserved what was about to happen inside the MRI-like machine. Andy possessed an inkling of the process he'd started, but suddenly a window appeared on the console in front of him. In the tiny window, maybe the size of a small coffee mug, only a square instead of a rounded near-circle laid the naked Jimmy, a view which began with the soles of his feet and progressed up the kid's body to his shoulders and the back of his head. Jimmy was lying on his stomach, just as he'd been placed a little while before. Jimmy was barely moving, perhaps squirming in anticipation just a bit, and apparently quiet. Is there audio? Andy mused, "Will I get to hear the kid scream?" but mouthed this question in a soft voice which was out of character for Jimmy's rather uncouth step-dad.

Inside the metallic world he found himself immersed in, Jimmy was definitely squirming in terror, and moaning softly. Interior microphones would soon be picking up the boy's vocals, and he wouldn't be singing like a choirboy. The boy was listening to the grind of gears, growing louder and creaking like the hinges of a dozen doors at once. Suddenly something he couldn't see emerged from above the boy's body, what appeared to be a cutting tool, a sharp-pointed object that reminded Andy of a combination of a screwdriver and something else, a needle, but one that was curved like a miniature scythe, in any case the mere sight of it made Andy exclaim, "Damn!" he said, pretty loud, as if he was at a bar downing beers, and he watched the instrument advancing slowly downwards toward the 13-year-old's bare and vulnerable skin. The thing was moving slowly, maybe a few inches a minute, its deliberation excruciating.

Inside the chamber, the terrified boy was now hearing a distinct whirring, but couldn't see what was going on, but noticed that light inside the closed chamber was growing progressively brighter.

A new card emerged from the strange punishment machine. "Press the next button for sound," it instructed, and sure enough the button appeared on the console within easy reach of Andy's eager fingers. He pressed that one too, and suddenly he could hear the sounds Jimmy was making, and, presumably, he'd soon be hearing the screams that his terrified step-son would be making.

It took perhaps about a minute and a half from the instant Andy 'had audio' as he would tell it later, for the miniature scythe, the scratcher, as it was known to aficionados of such machines, to gently contact the tender skin on the back of Jimmy's neck; the tinier hairs in that place were standing on end, vertically, as if Jimmy's entire backside had some inkling of what was about to occur.

"Damn!" Andy said again, louder this time. "That's fucking radical!" "Radical" was a word that Andy had tended to use incessantly when he'd been Jimmy's age, perhaps a decade-and-a-half earlier. Perhaps Jimmy would grow into a man similar to Andy in some ways, and perhaps this learning experience would be a factor in that particular evolution. One can never know the precise vicissitudes of what is to be. In any case, Jimmy was moaning louder now, even whining in an expectation of horrific pain. For this miscreant teenager, the ordeal would mirror a manhood ritual, something in many ways like those which Maori teenagers in Australia were once subjected to as a matter of course – for the mere fact that they were becoming men. But this was different, yet cultural all the same, a punishment ritual, specifically meant for retribution. Americans have always been fond of retribution.

The curved little blade, called the scratcher, was merely sitting innocuously on Jimmy's neck, not moving, like the fangs of a snake suspended in mid-strike. Jimmy's 13-year-old brain, his cerebral cortex with its billions of neurons, was interpreting the pressure of the tiny scratcher, a stainless steel marvel, the texture of the blade, the length of it, the sharpness of it, he felt a tiny pricking sensation already, and as it balanced on his neck motionless the boy began to quietly sob. Suddenly he screamed out to Andy, his cruel stepfather, whom he knew was out there, "You bastard – don't do this! You fucker! Don't, please don't do this! Get me out of here!" If it was a command from the boy, this plea, it went unheeded as all such pleas ultimately do.

Andy just laughed. He thought the boy's frantic pleadings were funny; in their own right absurd, much like a Three Stooges skit, even though Andy had only watched the Three Stooges a few times in TV reruns that he could now hardly remember.

Suddenly, the tiny scythe began to move, and press harder on Jimmy's skin. Jimmy uttered an unearthly howl as he felt the 'scratcher' beginning its appointed task. Andy watched in rapt fascination as the scratches began to form, an inexorable line. The miniature sharp-edged instrument began to write, much in the manner of a pen, the line of incipient damage began to grow ugly, and jagged, and Jimmy's blood began streaking to the surface, crimson in its immediate splendor. Jimmy was howling in pain now, as the line proceeded slowly but inexorably towards Jimmy's shoulders.

Andy, becoming vindicated by the gruesome handiwork, watched in a kind of sadistic glee, a feeling not too divorced from sexual excitement or from the workings of a lynch mob if you view it from a psychological perspective – although Andy wasn't able to articulate this peculiar delight.

Jimmy's perspective was fright and pain. He was growing hoarse already, although it had only been a little over two minutes since the scratching had begun on his body. He'd begun by pleading again to Andy, by begging his step-dad to "Make it stop! I'll be good! I promise I'll be good!" But Andy had no intention of making it stop, at least not yet. The man's bloodlust was far from satisfied. The boy, his wife's little bastard, a tempter who'd also tried to seduce him and thereby had threatened his heterosexual manhood, arousing homoerotic feelings deep within his psyche that he'd never realized he'd had, a boy who'd attempted to manipulate him into having sex and who had also deliberately mutilated an extension of his phallic pride, his Lexus, his precious Lexus, without showing a shred of genuine remorse, of course this Hell child would be screaming for mercy now.

The miniature scythe didn't stop.

It was creating a diagonal line, a scratch line to be precise, through the tender skin of Jimmy's upper back, as if to connect his shoulders via an artist's reckoning. The boy moaned and shrieked as the 'scratcher' proceeded on its merry way, the cut was moderately deep; enough to cause minor scarring once the line had healed, perhaps in a month's time, but not deep enough to cause major scarring or permanent injury.

"Yeowwh!" The 13-year-old shrieked, and the pattern of the lines were intriguing to Andy, it was almost as if the man was stoned, watching the tracings on the boy's bare skin. The line was curving now, below the kid's shoulder blades and coursing toward Jimmy's sensitive mid-back, lots of nerve endings there, the line jagged as it cut into the skin, perhaps three centimeters [1¼ inch] deep, and then something odd occurred as the kid continued to shriek and holler. The scythe was making a loop! This circle was in the middle of Jimmy's bare back but approached the boy's lower back along its downward arc. It reminded the sadistic Andy of something he remembered when he'd been Jimmy's age in a science class, was it a lesson about weather, and the erratic paths that Atlantic hurricanes sometimes took? Andy had been out of school too long and had dropped out in tenth grade anyway. He couldn't exactly remember. But he did remark to the room outside the machine about what he was seeing form on the shrieking 13-year-old brat's back, "Wow! Neat! It's making a circle," Andy remarked, but just as he noticed the aesthetics of the circle, the miniature scythe was off on its merry way, programmed in advance no doubt, advancing southward toward the top of the Jimmy's butt, and marking the boy's left buttock, what Americans like to refer to as the kid's left 'cheek,' which is entirely unrelated to what the Brits call 'cheeky.' The line now appearing across the terrified Jimmy's left buttocks region was maintaining its jagged texture and depth, and of course continued to be excruciatingly painful, but the destination was now becoming more interesting to Andy, since, the needle-sharp device was now approaching the boy's cleft, the extremely sensitive tissue between Jimmy's nates, could it be headed for the 13-year-old's vulnerable anus? Shrieking himself hoarse, Jimmy was thinking the same thing. "Oh wow!" Andy exclaimed, "It's heading for the little asswipe's asshole! That's got to hurt!"

For his part, Jimmy's cries of distress were once again entreaties, as the boy was begging his cruel step-Dad to stop the infernal device, to turn it off, to stop the unrelenting pain that the scratching was causing, especially as the miniature scythe was approaching Jimmy's nether regions, his ultra-sensitive anus.

The scratcher, as it was more technically known to its inventors and those persons charged with making self-serve punishment huts and the torturous devices within those huts a reality, kept on keeping on. The tiny blade was now very close to the edge of the cliff, so to speak, in other words, 'the flesh between the boy's cheeks.' Jimmy continued to shriek like a banshee, the sounds produced by the boy's vocal cords were somehow soothing to Andy, still feeling vindictive, although the worst of the man's spite had probably passed.

Andy found himself mesmerized by the miniature scythe's progress, as it headed towards the valley between Jimmy's nates, and then, all of a sudden, it happened. Jimmy's shrieks increased in their crescendo perhaps an octave, and the little blade descended, suddenly made invisible, escaping from the sadistic voyeur's view.

"Oh wow! That must really hurt!" Andy remarked, "I'm serious!"

Jimmy was howling as his anus was being scratched. The miniature scythe was meticulous, and thorough, as it scratched its way through the sensitive tissue, only moderately deep, but that still seemed extreme now, even to Andy, considering where it was 'keying' the boy, and Jimmy continued to cry, sob, and wail, creating a cacophony that would rival the vocal range of the most exquisite choir of boy sopranos.

Andy was considering searching for a button, if there was one, to turn off the infernal device, or to at least to redirect it back into view, but a few seconds later the scratching continued along the 13-year-old's perineum, the vulnerable skin there almost as sensitive but not quite, and finally it re-emerged back into Andy's view, "There it is again!" he said, pretty loud, although no one was listening, and its destination became the mountaintop of Jimmy's right nate, his right buttock half.

Jimmy felt the change in the cutting, but was still suffering due to where the device had just been, and the damage it had wrought there, 'down near my asshole,' as Jimmy would have put it. His asshole was throbbing, that was never in doubt, and it was probably worse than if a grown man had raped him down there, penetrating the boy ungreased, or maybe if a giant dildo with protruding spikes had been rammed down there into his ass, shoved in and out, repeatedly, as if it were fucking the boy. Anyway, that part was mercifully over now, thank anyone but Andy, Jimmy mused. The boy felt as if blood was oozing down there, and indeed it was, it would need to be disinfected later, and the infernal machine was programmed to do that too, when it was time.

In the meanwhile, the miniature scythe known as 'the scratcher' merely went about its business, with no more concern than a scorpion would show when it jabbed its stinger, methodically the little device now headed toward the rear of Jimmy's right thigh, another vulnerable area of the 13-year-old's naked and spread-eagled body, and began carving a little cross, somewhat in the manner of a tattoo or ritualistic scarring, in its way, the cross reminded Andy of genuine body art, and at that moment another cruel idea crossed the psyche of the 29-year-old step-father that Jimmy's mother had rather irresponsibly married, he thought of taking Jimmy to a guy he knew from the motorcycle gang, a rather vicious guy, to perhaps get Jimmy tattooed, body art, and he laughed when he thought of the kid's balls being tattooed, or maybe his little cock, he'd pay money to see that done to the kid. The little cross on Jimmy's right rear thigh was bad enough, Jimmy was moaning in pain now, as the miniature scythe with its sharp little blade was scratching down the kid's leg now, the needle-like blade approaching the meat of the 13-year-old's mid-thigh, not so fancy now, perhaps some bowing but more or less proceeding in a straight line. Jimmy let out a little howl whenever the pain became too intense, after all, it was a continuous laceration, and down the boy's leg toward another sensitive region, it was about to start cutting within a moment or two – into the soft tissue – in back of Jimmy's right knee.

The cruel little blade continued its progression down the boy's body. From the rear of the right knee it began cutting into the sensitive calf area, and the meat there in that portion of a boy's anatomy was once a delicacy to South Sea island cannibals during the mid-19th Century whaling days, as historical accounts have since indicated with a lurid relish. Jimmy kept screaming of course, but no one was listening, even though Andy could see the boy's raw fear, he'd turned off the sound. The miniature scythe was now slicing lower, tracing excruciating loops near the 13-year-old's heel and finally descending onto the sole of Jimmy's right foot. After a criss-cross pattern in the British tradition (the infernal machine's manufacturer was from Leeds, a symbol of today's thriving Global Economy) was traced on Jimmy's naked foot bottom, from the underside of each toe and back to the heel, the sharp blade lifted off the screaming boy's body automatically and began to begin a new, but essential identical progression; only in reverse order, first beginning its scratching on the sole of Jimmy's left foot.

By the time the procedure was completed and the thoroughly scratched boy emerged from the horrific machine, after being sponge bathed with a moist large towelette which was conveniently coated with a powerful astringent, a disinfectant that stung most unpleasantly over the entire backside of Jimmy's naked body, and dried with painful jets of hot air, the fledgling teenager was still sobbing, and his skin throbbed terribly – although the worst of his ordeal was mercifully over.

Jimmy dressed, but for some reason, even when a curious Andy tried to make conversation in the Lexus on the way home, Jimmy gave him the silent treatment.

–5–

He didn't talk much about the ordeal to his friends, and understood now why Roddy, the other boy who'd also experienced a self-serve punishment hut, had shut up like a clam. In his room, Jimmy avoided his mother and Andy, who still liked to kid the 13-year-old about it; worse, Andy had brought up the self-serve punishing hut experience with his friend who owned a tattoo parlor, and they hatched a little plan between themselves with Jimmy as 'guinea pig.' Jimmy knew this and did his best to stay out of Andy's way. He'd thought about plotting his own revenge, but decided it wasn't worth the risk. Jimmy mostly stayed in his room and watched his little HDTV and played violent games on his computer.

One day, he heard Andy and his mom discussing him. They were in the kitchen and arguing, within easy earshot from Jimmy's bedroom, especially with the door cracked open as Jimmy's curiosity was aroused and they were pretty loud.

"I want to take him to Bobby's to get tattooed. Something artistic, not as a punishment," Andy was saying.

"It can't be on his backside," replied Jimmy's mom, "the skin there on his backside is probably going to be sensitive for awhile."

"Are you giving your permission then?"

"I don't know, your friend Bobby used to be a biker, and he's a sadistic fucker," Jimmy's mom argued, raising her voice.

"He won't be doing his backside," Andy said.

"What parts of Jimmy's body do you plan to tattoo?" the woman who gave birth to Jimmy asked.

"His toes, under his toenails," Andy said, "and we'll see how that goes."

"Why under his toenails?"

"Because that's becoming popular among some of the biker women at other shops, and Bobby has to be able to offer the same service, in order to compete."

"So why doesn't he just do it?" asked Jimmy's mom.

"I'll level with you. He hasn't had enough experience with doing toenails yet. You have to lift up each nail a little in order to work the needles in onto the nail bed to etch the designs. It's not easy, according to Bobby. It's also very tedious, and time-consuming. Before he takes it public, he has to experiment some."

"My Jimmy would be a guinea pig?"

"Yeah, in a way; it would be better fucking around with Jimmy than with some paying customer, at least until he knows what he's doing."

"It sounds very painful," said Jimmy's mom matter-of-factly.

"A lot less than the scratching machine was, most likely, and we'd be doing Bobby a favor," Andy added.

"Jimmy isn't going to want to go along."

"I'll pay the kid fifty bucks."

"Will that be it? Just his toenails will get tattooed?"

"Probably, that'd be up to Bobby. I promise he'll leave the boy's backside alone."

"Okay, I don't care," said Jimmy's mom. "When do you plan on doing this?"

"Tomorrow."

At that point, Jimmy closed the door to his room, and started playing a very violent computer game. He'd overheard bits and pieces of the conversation, and understood that they'd be tattooing his toes and that he'd earn fifty bucks. It couldn't hurt that much and he was already thinking about doing it. Still, he felt angry inside, and still hated his step-father.

The tattoo parlor was a little storefront within a nearby strip mall. Robert C. Antigone was a big man, about six feet five [1.95 m] and 250 pounds [115 kg], still burly even if his biker days were over. His own body was decorated with numerous tattoos and piercings, including nearly continuous tattoos all over his powerful arms. The theme on Antigone's body included a collage of human skulls and fierce predators, mostly eagles and rattlesnakes. Andy's friend usually maintained a grizzled look, with a fierce expression etched onto his countenance which resembled the rest of his markings. The shop owner appeared in dire need of dental work, as he was missing several front teeth. The small sign, neon at night, read simply 'Bobby's.'

Jimmy heard a knock on his bedroom door at around eleven of the clock the next morning.

–6–

The Lexus was gliding along, it did ride nice, and Jimmy was considering sneaking it out for a joyride some night later in the summer if the boy thought he could get it away with such a bit of mischief. He sure wasn't about to scratch it again, or damage it in any way, not after his bout in that horrid machine. Jimmy still shuddered to think about it, and played over and over in his mind how the painful scratching had felt on various parts of his body. He not only had nightmares about it, but daymares too.

Too soon they were at the strip mall, and walking up, like father and son, to the tattoo parlor, and its unpretentious sign simply etched with the single apparently innocuous word, 'Bobby's.' Andy opened the glass door which had blinds completely hiding the parlor's interior from curious passersby. A little bell rang when the door was opened and the man and boy strolled inside.

Inside the tattoo parlor, the bell rang, sounding more like a tinkling than a real bell's clang. The ex-biker emerged to greet the 13-year-old and Andy, the thug who had married Jimmy's mom. When he looked at Jimmy, it was more of a leering stare, and Jimmy felt a sudden chill that had little to with air temperature, although it was an involuntary shiver.

The 'decorative body artist' specializing in tattoos and body piercing, Jimmy noticed several signs attesting to such expertise as he gazed around the main room, was like a human spider sizing up his prey. Bobby initially spoke to Andy. "So you brought him. He's willing to help me out today?"

Bobby peered at Jimmy suddenly expecting an answer.

Andy prodded Jimmy. "He's asking you a question boy. Are you willing?"

Jimmy thought about the fifty dollars and what he could buy with that sum of money. "I guess," he said, rather meekly, and in a soft voice.

There was a door in the back of the tattoo parlor's main room, which led to a back room. Bobby led his friend and his friend's attractive step-son into the back room, which had a medical table covered by a plastic white sheet, which Jimmy saw clearly once Bobby turned on the light. "We'll do everything in here. It's soundproofed," he explained.

Jimmy didn't like the sound of that sentence, but before he could react or run, Bobby barked a command to the boy, his first of many that day. "Get up on the table and sit, but take off your shoes and socks, first kid."

Jimmy did as he was told, but felt butterflies in his stomach. He didn't yet know why. The young teen's perfect bare feet dangled off the table's edge.

"Lie back all the way and shimmy your body up onto the table," Bobby ordered, "Do you know what I'm going to do to your feet?"

"Lock that door so he can't get out before we want him to," he said to Andy. Andy walked over and locked the door so that it couldn't be opened from the inside without a key, which Bobby and no one else had. Next Bobby reached over for a pair of handcuffs, conveniently within reach and, single cuffs, and stretched out Bobby's arms so that each of his wrists were secured to the table. "I call this my torture board," Bobby said.

"He's joking, right?" Jimmy said, attempting to be brave and keep his sense of humor as well as a sense of dignity.

"Oh, I don't know," Andy replied.

Bobby repeated the question he'd asked Jimmy a moment before. "Do you know what I'm going to do to your feet?"

Jimmy guessed according to the snatches of conversation he'd overheard from his mom and Andy when they'd been arguing in the kitchen. "You're going to tattoo my toes?"

Bobby was suddenly in an explanatory mood, now that Jimmy was a captive boy, and couldn't escape. "Not exactly, I'm going to tattoo your toenails; actually, I'm going to tattoo the nail beds underneath your toenails."

Bobby's grim explanation was starting to register with the 13-year-old. "Won't that hurt – a lot?"

Andy chimed in; he was starting to enjoy this a lot more than Bobby was about to. "It sure sounds like it will get you screaming again," he said, with obvious satisfaction.

Jimmy thought he detected a flaw in the ordeal's reasoning. "You can't get under my toenails to make your tattoos," the boy said, more than a bit naively.

"That's true, it won't be easy," Bobby admitted, "I'm going to have to use a special tool." He removed a little case full of tiny tools from underneath the medical table. He removed what looked like a pair of pliers, only the twin grips were no more than the length of a finger – or a toe. He showed these pliers to the increasingly terrified boy. "These. These will do fine to lift up the kid's toenails sufficiently," he said, flashing a wicked grin in Andy's direction.

"Cuff each of Jimmy's ankles," Bobby instructed.

"No! You can't do this!" Jimmy shrieked in abject fear.

He flailed his legs and kicked Andy twice, one well-placed kick landing squarely against his step-father's testicles.

"Damn it! That hurts!" Andy yelled. Bobby leapt into action and a moment later, Jimmy's legs were pinned nicely, so that he was spread-eagled.

"I need to master this technique before I attempt this on any paying customers," Bobby said, as if excusing himself for what he was about to do. "It will be a little gory, as I'm going to have to partially yank the nails right off, separating them from the nail beds. There's bound to be at least some blood."

"I'm glad the room is sound proof," remarked Andy.

"I think we all are," Bobby agreed.

"Not me," Bobby yelled.

"Oh, you're tough, you won't turn into a pussy-boy on me," Andy cooed, in a misplaced attempt to encourage his step-son's ability to endure pain.

Bobby tried to be reassuring too. "The sooner I can get your toenails ready, the sooner I can do the actually tattooing," he intoned, sounding calm but menacing at the same time.

–7–

"This is going to be a lot of fun," Andy couldn't help saying.

But it took Robert C. Antigone about a half hour to prepare the rest of the kid's toes in a similar fashion. The large toes were the worst, given their surface areas, causing excruciating pain to the boy as his toenails were partially yanked out, and his toes at this stage looked grotesque, a far cry from the perfect natural spacing typically found on a boy's toenail, as intended by God or determined by heredity.

When Bobby was satisfied, he observed ten dangling toenails still adhering partially to Jimmy's toes, but the young teenager's shrieks reached a piercing crescendo when the needles began their artistic creations, intricate designs of miniature lizards and dragons etched into the extremely sensitive and suddenly unprotected tissue.

As the 13-year-old sobbed in pain, Andy peered closely at Bobby's bizarre handiwork with a convenient magnifying lens. "That's excellent quality work," he said, slightly in awe.

The boy's ordeal, unfortunately, was not over. Applying an antiseptic-soaked cloth to each nail bed, slowly enough so that infection wouldn't set in, tattoo and body artists are very cognizant of infection, produced a new round of shrieks and yells from the anguished Jimmy. A final procedure pressing the boy's toenails back into place lasted at least an additional twenty minutes. More antiseptic was applied as a precaution and finally careful placing of gauze and bandaging was performed. "Stop squirming, I'm nearly finished with your toes," Bobby barked at the tearful Jimmy, who wasn't close yet to calming down – as he'd endured this tattooing beneath his toenails without benefit of even a local anesthetic.

Soon thereafter, the two adult men left the boy with his feet still throbbing. "We'll bring you back a sandwich," Andy promised.

Still secured to the 'torture board,' Jimmy was left alone for almost an hour. Mercifully, his blue eyes clouded over towards sleep as he kept saying out loud. "They hurt, that was worse than the scratcher, they hurt so bad."

Andy did bring the kid a sandwich, roast beef with tomatoes and Swiss, but when Jimmy sat up, he was nauseated and only managed to eat about half of it, hungry or not.

With the resilience and naiveté of youth, Jimmy asked Andy, "Do I get my fifty bucks yet?"

Bobby had other ideas rather than ending the day's experimentation just yet. "Lay all the way back again," he instructed. The brutish artist next grabbed Bobby's Korn T-shirt and rolled it all the way up, covering a portion of the 13-year-old's face while exposing the boy's naked belly.

"Hey, what the heck are you doing?" Jimmy yelled.

Andy just grinned like the hyena he was. "He's going to do some artwork on your tummy," he explained for his friend.

So the needles, full-sized ones this time, were brought out, and more etchings began on the sensitive areas just below and just above Jimmy's navel. This process hurt, at times more than a bit, and it was tedious, taking nearly two hours. Topical alcohol was applied before and after. The result was a snake blooming from a flower, pigments of green and red shimmering to create a startling and rather stunning effect on the teenager's smooth skin.

Perhaps incredibly, Jimmy was starting to feel better and asked for a piercing of his left earlobe. "Can you do a piercing on my ear?" he asked Bobby, nodding to indicate the traditional left lobe.

The granting this request opened up the possibility of a second piercing elsewhere on the kid's body. "If we do your ear, you'll have to agree to more tattooing and piercing. Will you?" Bobby asked too sweetly if anyone astute was listening. Jimmy was not yet astute when it came to such things.

In any case, the alcohol dabs and earlobe piercing went well. An earring was inserted that Bobby was shown and immediately liked. "That's cool," he said, admiring his newly decorated ear from a pocket mirror's reflection. Stupidly, without much introspection, Jimmy agreed to whatever piercing and tattooing which might ensue.

"Ready?" Bobby asked the kid as Andy, who'd requested what was about to begin as a 'special favor' from his friend, looked on with at least sadistic contentment and quite probably a sense of excitement.

Jimmy was still spread-eagled on the 'torture board' when Bobby blithely began unbuttoning the 13-year-old's jeans.

"Hey," Jimmy yelled, "What are you fucking doing?"

Bobby remained nonchalant as he unzipped the boy's fly and began pushing the kid's blue jeans down his legs in the direction of his bandaged toenails. When Jimmy's pants inevitably disturbed his injured feet as they were slipped off, those bandaged toes throbbed anew, and Jimmy let out a couple of little yelps. But the boy was concerned with his masculinity momentarily.

"I'm not a homo you know," Jimmy said defiantly, and when Bobby's fingers pinched the waistband of the boys reasonably clean white cotton briefs and began tugging his Hanes down his bared legs, Bobby answered, "Neither am I."

Suddenly with his wrists and ankles secured and his T-shirt pulled up to expose his chest and belly, lying virtually helpless and spread-eagled on his back, Jimmy was scared again, especially when Robert C. Antigone began handling and stroking Jimmy's perfect and without blemish barely pubertal circumcised cock. "He has a nice penis for a 13-year-old," Bobby remarked, and Andy concurred.

–8–

Jimmy was sobbing again and whimpering from the renewed assault on a sensitive area. "Please guys," the boy begged, "I can't stand it." The pain must have been if not excruciating, then at least intense. What was worse for the boy was the duration of this latest phase of his Saturday ordeal, like a puberty rite. He worked over the boy's naked cock head for at least two and half hours. "He's a little stud," he told Andy, the praise being bestowed not because Jimmy wasn't crying, he was, after all the combination of needles really hurt, but he wasn't screaming – like a lot of kids would have.

Andy noticed it first, a space of nothingness, unblemished skin, on the cockhead towards the periphery. "How come you didn't tattoo everywhere on his cockhead? You left a spot."

A few seconds later, as if on cue, Bobby grabbed the coup de grace, if sheer pain is the idea. "I'm going to do a Prince Robert, which is my improvisation on a Prince Albert," Bobby explained. Mr. Antigone held in his powerful fingers a thick-bore, heavy gauge needle, ideal for piercing a grown man's cock, only this one was about to be inserted in the glans of a 13-year-old, who immediately began screaming and wailing when he first felt the sharp point. Bobby had taken sterilization precautions once again, daubing the boy's entire raw tattooed glans meatus with topical alcohol, and a bit of witch-hazel for good measure. Experienced in these procedures, more so than Andy would have figured, it was fascinating to watch, the thicker steel needle penetrating Jimmy's penis until it re-emerged out the opposite side, somehow completely avoiding the kid's urethra, and while Jimmy kept screaming himself hoarse, it was in situ less than five minutes later. "I'll have to bend it a bit so the kid can still pee okay," Bobby explained, while working his strong fingers around to bend the needle sufficiently.

"Are you going to leave it in there?" Andy asked.

"For a few days," Bobby said.

"No, you can't," Jimmy pleaded.

The last procedure was a continuation of the penile head tattoo design; more screams ensued when the etching with the Bobby's relentless needles continued over the rest of the boy's genital areas, on the groin near each of his testicles, and meandering back toward Jimmy's anus and prostate. By the end of the afternoon, Bobby plunged a hypodermic needle into the kid's left forearm, and mercifully it contained a sedative.

After his 'nap,' Jimmy drove home with Andy in the Lexus, dressed and presentable, with one hand inside his blue jeans clutching his promised fifty dollar bill.

–9–

"He's a brave young man," one of the biker women remarked, in obvious admiration.

Although Bobby had implied that he wasn't 'a homo' either, Jimmy discovered that this wasn't entirely factual – not by a long shot. During the next two years, until he was well through puberty, Jimmy, occasionally joined by his age mate Rodney, were soon engaged in semi-regular sexual trysts, with Bobby, and ironically, Jimmy soon lost interest entirely in his step-father Andy. Andy probably suspected what was going on, but never revealed his suspicions, to Jimmy's mother, or to anyone else.

Later, Jimmy not only graduated from high school but was accepted at a pretty good community college.

The End