The Machine

The antithesis of the magic, science led astray. A story by DJ Black.

Megan Chen had spent six months and four thousand dollars of her scholarship money perfecting the “Behavioural Modification Station” in her parents’ garage. At twenty, she was a study in contrasts, delicate features hidden behind oversized safety glasses, a petite frame usually swallowed by Caltech hoodies, but with curves that drew appreciative glances when she wore anything fitted. Her dark hair was currently tied in a messy bun, pencils stuck through it like a porcupine’s quills.

The machine gleamed under the fluorescent lights: a padded waist bar with biometric sensors, titanium restraints with velvet lining. The paddle arm, swappable between leather, wood, and acrylic; currently mounted with a heavy oak slab modelled after Victorian school discipline implements. But the newest additions were what Megan was currently calibrating: the “Hygiene Module” consisting of a reservoir, heating element, and delivery nozzle, and the ‘Observation Suite;’ three 4K cameras with night vision and streaming capability.

She wanted Brittany to suffer. Her 23-year-old sister, who’d been Miss Pasadena, who’d mocked Megan’s “robots and virginity” at Thanksgiving, who’d somehow won at everything while Megan won at nothing except engineering competitions nobody cared about.

The plan was sophisticated. Lure Brittany into the garage with a fake package delivery notification. The machine’s ‘demo mode’ would engage, ostensibly a therapeutic massage device. Once Brittany was bent over, Megan would trigger the override. The machine would denude her, lock her in, and administer a four-hour correction cycle with random pauses to break her spirit. The cameras would stream to a private server. The enema function would at random intervals, but at the very least twice, firmly and medical precision penetrate her anus as deep as was safe to deliver a series of cleansing routines, all with a slightly caustic liquid, leaving Brittany humiliated beyond recovery. Or at the very least, Megan would have leverage forever.

Megan was adjusting the nozzle angle, bent over the platform to check the alignment, when her knee bumped the master switch.

“Subject detected: Initiating acquisition sequence.”

“N-No… wait…”

The wrist cuffs snapped shut with hydraulic precision, pinning her forearms to the platform’s sides. Before she could process the error, ankle restraints locked her in place, spreading her legs eighteen inches apart, arching her back to present her posterior at exactly the optimal angle for impact. The biometric sensors activated, mapping her body heat and positioning.

“Override,” Megan screamed, “Code Omega-Alpha Emergency release!”

“Override denied. Voice authorization not recognized. Administrator privileges required.”

Megan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d disabled emergency protocols during testing last week; she’d been meaning to re-enable them…

“Scanning for garments,” the machine announced pleasantly.

“N-no, no, no… wait.”

The robotic hooks descended; delicate titanium fingers designed to remove clothing without damaging skin. They caught the waistband of her yoga pants and her cotton briefs simultaneously. With a mechanical whir, both garments were yanked down her legs and shredded, leaving her completely exposed from the waist down. The cool garage air hit her bare skin, and Megan realized with horrible clarity that she was locked in place, bottom bared and vulnerable, exactly as she’d designed for Brittany.

“Commencing correction protocols please stand by. Duration: four hours. Intensity: maximum.”

“Maximum? No, I set it to moderate…”

The oak paddle descended with devastating force. The thwack on her naked bottom was both loud and searing.

Megan’s scream echoed off the garage walls. The impact was catastrophic, a solid slab of polished oak meeting unprotected flesh with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Then before she could recover, the second blow landed slightly lower than before, then the third, establishing a relentless rhythm that covered every inch of her bottom from the crown of her cheeks to the crease where thigh met buttock.

The rhythm was slightly irregular as she had intended, but nonetheless utterly relentless.

Megan had calculated the physics herself. Around 400 grams of oak, descending at precisely calculated velocity, striking the meatiest part of the gluteal muscles; the pain was extraordinary: deep, bruising, and penetrating. Within five minutes, her pale skin was flushed pink. Within ten, crimson. Within twenty, she could see in the side mirror that angry welts were rising, red ridges crossing her cheeks like topographical maps of agony.

“Please,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face, her glasses fogged, “Stop! I’m the programmer, I’m the administrator, I’m… ahhh… no please.”

The machine didn’t care. It worked her bottom with mechanical precision, never tiring, never varying, landing each stroke with identical force in a pattern designed to maximize coverage and minimize numbness. Megan writhed against the restraints, her hips bucking, her bare bottom clenching and unclenching, but the sensors adjusted the angle to ensure perfect contact every time.

After forty minutes of relentless punishment, the machine paused.

Megan hung limp over the bar, gasping; her bottom throbbing with a heartbeat of its own. She craned her neck to look in the mirror. What she saw made her whimper, her bottom was a deep, angry crimson, crossed with raised welts that were already darkening toward purple. The skin looked tight, swollen, and hot to the touch. She knew from her research that sitting would be impossible for days.

“Rest period complete,” the machine announced, “Resuming correction.”

“Wait, wait, no…”

The thwack of the paddle stole Megan’s breath and if anything was more painful than before.

The paddling resumed with fresh enthusiasm, as if the pause had allowed her nerves to reset to maximum sensitivity. Megan howled, her voice breaking, as the oak descended again and again on her already devastated flesh. The welts multiplied, some overlapping, creating a lattice of pain across her cheeks.

Then came the humiliation she hadn’t anticipated.

“Initiating Hygiene Protocol Seven,” the machine chirped.

“What? No, I didn’t program that yet…”

The nozzle extended from beneath the platform; a medical-grade silicone tube with a flared tip. Megan felt it press against her exposed bottom, seeking entry, and then with a mechanical whir, it pushed inside, penetrating her deeply.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God… please,” she wailed.

Warm water began to flow—not gentle, not therapeutic, but vigorous, forceful, filling her with uncomfortable pressure. The machine administered exactly one litre, then held it for three minutes, during which time the mixture inside her began to fizz and sing, especially at the entry point where it positively burned.

“Release commencing.”

The evacuation was as mechanically efficient as the filling, leaving Megan sobbing with humiliation, her face burning nearly as hot as her bottom. The nozzle retracted, but before she could feel relief, the machine announced:

“First Hygiene cycle complete.”

The paddling resumed.

Megan lost track of time. The machine would spank her for twenty minutes, pause for five, spank again, pause, and then just when she thought she could not take anymore the enema cycle would repeat; filling her, cramping her, humiliating her while the paddle continued its work, then evacuating her with clinical detachment. By the third hour, her bottom wasn’t just red—it was purple-black in places, the welts raised and angry, her skin broken in spots where the oak had landed with particular ferocity. She couldn’t imagine ever sitting again. The flesh felt like raw meat, swollen to twice its normal size, radiating heat she could feel with her own hands if they weren’t locked in restraints.

“Streaming initiated,” the machine suddenly announced. “Remote viewers: four.”

“What?” Megan’s head snapped up.

On her phone, mounted on the workbench, she could see the green light of the camera active. The stream was live. The viewers counter showed four connections. Someone was watching, multiple someone’s.

“Viewer comments enabled,” the machine added.

Megan couldn’t see the screen from her position, bent over and facing away, but she could imagine the comments. Could imagine strangers, or worse, people she knew, watching her bare, beaten bottom being paddled by machine, watching her enema humiliations, watching her cry and beg and scream.

The garage door opened with a clatter, followed by a babble of conversations.

Brittany entered first, perfect in a sundress that showed off her tan, her blonde hair cascading in beach waves. Behind her came Tiffany and Amber, Brittany’s sorority sisters, all holding champagne flutes and wearing expressions of delighted confusion. They stopped. They stared. And then Brittany’s eyes found the phone, the green light, the viewer count. “Is that… Megan?” Tiffany whispered.

“And is she… oh my God, is that a spanking machine?” Amber covered her mouth, but her eyes were wide with fascinated horror.

Brittany walked slowly around the platform, taking in the scene, her little sister locked in place, bottom bare and blackened with welts, the robotic arm rising and falling with methodical cruelty, the enema apparatus glistening with lubricant, the cameras recording everything.

“Brittany,” Megan sobbed, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Please. It was an accident. I was trying to… I was going to…”

“You were going to put me in this,” Brittany said quietly. Her eyes fell on the laptop nearby, where Megan’s notes detailed the entire plan, the blackmail, the streaming, and the four-hour humiliation, “You built a sex machine to spank me and then ruin me.”

“It’s not a sex-machine, it’s behavioural modification, I…” despite everything Megan couldn’t help herself.

“Stream viewers are requesting increased intensity,” the machine announced helpfully.

Brittany picked up the phone. She could see the chat, four viewers, all anonymous, all commenting in real-time: ‘Beautiful welts,’ ‘She’s getting what she deserves,’ ‘The enema function is inspired,’ ‘Make her suffer.’

Brittany looked at her sister’s bottom, the purple bruising, the raised welts, the broken skin. She looked at Megan’s tear-streaked face. And then she smiled.

“Tell you what, robot girl,” Brittany said, her voice dangerously sweet, “I’m going to give you a choice.”

She walked to the control panel, examining the settings. “Option one: I call Mom and Dad right now. I show them this machine, your notes, your plan to torture me… Meanwhile, I release this footage…” she gestured to the stream “…to everyone at Caltech. Your academic career ends. Your life ends. You’re the girl who built a buggering machine to torture her sister.”

“No,” Megan whimpered, “Please,” she was in freefall now, the knot in her stomach more painful than the stinging ache of her bottom.

“Option two,” Brittany continued, “is that you accept a new arrangement. You become my personal project… Every weekend when I come home, you report to me for discipline,” her sister grin did not come close to reaching her eyes. “You’re going to get spanked properly, by hand, until you can’t sit. Then you’re going to stand in the corner and think about what you’ve done. And then, when I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson, you’re going to spend several more hours with that brush. And then more corner time… And when I’m not here to supervise…” She tapped the machine’s interface. “You’ll spend quality time with your invention; regular sessions. I’ll set the parameters remotely: Random enemas, long paddling’s, streaming to my private account so I can watch from my phone.”

Megan’s blood ran cold. “You can’t…”

“And if you’re very, very, very good,” Brittany leaned close, her perfume overwhelming, “I might not tell Mom about the credit card fraud you used to buy all these parts. Yes, I found the statements. You’re looking at prison, little sister. Or you’re looking at a very sore bottom for the foreseeable future. Choose.”

Megan hung her head. The machine chose that moment to deliver another enema, and she groaned as the nozzle entered her again, the filling beginning as the paddle was poised continued to rise and fall on her wrecked bottom.

“Can’t we…? I was only…” Megan sniffed, but something deep in her bottom was quite distracting just then.

Brittany’s eyebrows were arched in the question and not hearing an answer she retrieved her phone and began to walk away.

“Alright, alright…” Megan panicked, “Please, please… option two.”

“Good girl,” Brittany straightened, “Ladies, we’re going to need supplies. There’s a drugstore on the corner. I want heavy-duty diaper cream, ice packs, and a hairbrush, wooden, with nice stiff bristles.”

While her friends giggled and fetched, Brittany explored the machine’s settings. She found the duration timer, the intensity controls, and… she smiled; the hygiene protocols. She reset the timer to eight hours. She enabled something called ‘sustainability mode,’ which apparently prevented muscle damage but ensured maximum discomfort. These safety protocols could override to prevent any permanent damage. And she found the ‘random interval’ setting for the enemas, setting it to activate on average every 45 minutes with no warning.

“Brittany, please, I’ve learned my lesson,” Megan begged as the machine finally completed her enema.

“Oh, sweetie, you haven’t learned anything yet.”

Brittany picked up the hairbrush her friends had retrieved, a heavy oak paddle brush with stiff natural bristles. She tested it against her palm. Thwack. The sound was satisfying.

“First,” Brittany said, “you’re going to finish your session with the machine. I’ve reset it for overnight. You’ll receive… oh quite a few more enemas and approximately… well you’ll find out how many more hours of paddling. The stream will continue… I mean I wouldn’t want to miss all the fun.”

“No, I can’t, my bottom, I can’t take more…”

“You can and you will,” Brittany walked around to face her, lifting Megan’s chin with the brush. “At some point you and I are going to have a long talk, you know with Mom’s hairbrush, the heavy one she keeps in her dresser, naked, probably, since you seem to enjoy that.”

“Tomorrow morning say, when I release you. Yes, you’ll shower and report to my room. Then you’ll receive a proper hairbrush spanking over my knee, and on your bare bottom. Then you’ll stand in the corner for two hours, nose to the wall with your punished bottom on display. This is going to happen every day this week, and then every weekend when I visit, for… the rest of the semester, at least… at least do you hear me worm.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And if you’re thinking about telling anyone, remember, I have the footage, I have the evidence of your criminal plots, so I own you now.”

Megan sobbed, it wasn’t fair, and Brittany had won… again.

“One more thing,” Brittany added, stepping back. “I’ve enabled the machine’s ‘maintenance schedule.’ Every Tuesday and Thursday while you’re at school, it will activate remotely. You’ll receive two-hour sessions with random enemas. You’ll be expected to position yourself before it starts. If I check the cameras and you’re not there?” She smiled. “Well it is double for a month… double everything.”

There was a metallic twang and a sound like a 1990s modem and the machine resumed.

Megan screamed as the oak descended again, her bottom already beyond bruised, the flesh so swollen and tender that each stroke felt like fire. The stream viewers had grown to seven; Brittany had shared the link with her sorority.

Brittany and her friends settled into lawn chairs with their champagne, watching the show. They commented on the colour and texture of Megan’s bottom.

“She’s going to be doing this for months,” Tiffany observed.

“Years,” Brittany corrected, “I think I’ll keep her on the schedule through graduation…” she made a rocking motion with her hand, “Or maybe longer.”

They laughed the sound mixing with Megan’s yelling and the rhythmic thwack of oak on flesh.

*

Later that night after her friends had gone home Brittany finally released Megan from the machine. Her little sister even muttered a ‘thank you’ as she walked with bandy and uncertain steps to the bathroom to examine her bottom and it’s mass of purple welts and broken skin.

Brittany found herself alone in the garage.

She stood before the machine, running her fingers over the padded bar, the restraints, the paddle arm still warm from hours of use. She thought about Megan’s face, twisted in pain and humiliation. She thought about the power of it, the absolute control.

Her hand found the master switch.

It was reckless, it was stupid, She was 23, not some kinky engineer with a death wish. But the curiosity was overwhelming. What had it felt like… to be truly helpless and truly punished?

Brittany set the timer for one hour; moderate intensity, no enemas… this time. Then she bent over the platform, her heart hammering, and reached for the activation button.

The cuffs snapped shut.

“Subject secured,” the machine announced.

Brittany gasped as the hooks descended, catching her sundress, her lingerie, stripping her bare in seconds. She was exposed, locked in place, her bottom, tan and toned and perfect, presented for correction.

The paddle descended with a thwack.

Brittany’s scream was genuine, surprised, the pain immediate and shocking. The second blow landed, and she understood now, understood why Megan had sobbed, why she’d begged. This was real. This hurt.

She lasted twelve minutes before she was crying, her bottom pinking, the unfamiliar sensation of submission overwhelming her. She should stop this, should call for help… if there were any.

The machine worked her bottom with mechanical indifference, and Brittany took it, tears streaming, her perfect composure shattered. When it finally paused, she hung limp, gasping, and her bottom warm and stinging. When the machine resumed, she had to take it all, the full hour.

When the cuffs finally released, Brittany collapsed to the floor, her bottom glowing red, her mind reeling. She touched herself, felt the heat, and felt something else…

She stood on shaky legs, pulled up her lingerie, and smoothed her dress. In the mirror, she could see the flush in her cheeks, the wildness in her eyes. She should delete the footage of herself… destroy the evidence.

Instead, she reset the machine for next Wednesday, setting a reminder on her phone.

Megan would never know. But Brittany would be back. And maybe, just maybe, she’d increase the intensity next time.

She turned off the garage light and went to bed, her bottom warm, her secret safe, already counting the days until her next session.

DJ Black