The Facility building is old. It was probably industrial at one time, but its dormitory could have been a 1930s orphanage. The heads of five metal beds fill each of three walls of the large room. The fourth wall has the door and the big wooden desk where Attendant sits, doing paperwork in a cone of light from a gooseneck lamp, occasionally talking on an old-style desk telephone so quietly we cannot make out her words.

We are not to speak or otherwise communicate in here. That’s fine by me. The other ten young men and women don’t seem much like me, or to like me much. Ever since The Master gave us all five days in solitary because several of them were whispering, I like the four empty beds better. Did they think Attendant wouldn’t notice? There were better ways. Sign language with your body or bedding blocking Attendant’s view, or “writing” words on your sheet. But no, I spent five days in a six-by-six box containing a mattress, a wire-caged 300-watt bulb lit the whole time, for their stupidity.

Attendant’s telephone does not ring but has a flashing light. She listens, her eyes on her charges supposedly sleeping in the dim room. How many of us wake at that light, knowing it might be one of The Masters choosing us? She hangs up the receiver and stands, walking the perimeter, looking at each sleeper from the foot of their bed before turning back to tap her appointee’s foot.

It’s me. Me! At last. I’ve been here months and never been chosen.

I rise, letting the unisex night shirt we all wear untwist itself in my first steps, the floor cool under my bare feet as I follow Attendant from the room.

The Facility is large, and not every Night Waking leads to readiness for The Master. Sometimes it leads to a solitary cell, to scrubbing the kitchen, to changing all the linens in the infirmary, to filling the big machines in the laundry where we wash and fold all night, to Corrections, where they paddle for minor infractions, or the cafetorium where we eat our meals by day but by night are occasionally made to observe and learn from someone’s more severe punishment, or suffer it ourselves. Well, not me. I do as I’m told.

Attendant takes me through a maze of corridors, I suspect deliberately ensuring I could not find my way here—or out—if I tried. We pass a closed door with a right-triangle cobweb above the top hinge, three times. Finally Attendant stops at double doors, their frosted glass reinforced with wire, and pushes them open.

A big woman in blue scrubs stands right there, as if expecting us. The room behind her is brightly lit with fluorescent tubes. “Is this one chosen for tonight?” Night Nurse asks Attendant.

“One of them.”

“Did she give you any trouble?”

Of course I didn’t.

“She could have walked faster.”

I could have, but was I supposed to?

“Is that true?” Night Nurse asks.

“Yes, ma’am. I could have walked faster.” I could have trotted, skipped, dashed. I would have crawled. I owe The Masters so much.

“Remember that next time. Dismissed,” she says to Attendant. The doors wheeze closed.

She pulls my night shirt up, as one would undressing an infant unable to cooperate. “Good sturdy legs on you,” Night Nurse says. “You definitely could have walked faster.”

The nightshirt slithers up, bunching in Night Nurse’s hands. They’re good hands, right for a nurse, with gleaming short nails, a no-frills wristwatch, no jewelry.

“Your belly could be flatter. Raise your arms.”

Soon I stand naked. Night Nurse walks a slow circle around me. My gaze fixes on the seam between wall and ceiling. If I watch Night Nurse, I’ll only scare myself.

“Not the best,” she says, cupping my right breast in one hand. “Too little here. And too much here.” She lifts my buttock like so much meat. “But not the worst. At least you don’t shave off you hair to look like a prepubescent child where you’re a woman. Come.”

Night Nurse turns down the lights in the big room and leads me to a small room-within-a-room, brightly lit and tiled waist-high in mint green squares, furnished with a sheet-covered examination table, a chrome IV stand, a short length of counter with cabinets and a sink, and a toilet right in the open.

“Shall we get started? Up on the table, dear.” She gestures to a little block, two steps to climb up to the high table. I sit facing her.

“Good,” she says, taking away the steps and putting them against the wall. “Lie down on your left side.” She moves both my legs forward, bending the knees to her liking, then arranges my upper leg in front of the other.

The warm room air caresses my most private spot. The one many of The Masters treasure most, if the whispers are to be believed.

“You relax while I get everything ready. I’ll be a while.” She dims the lights and leaves me alone.

My eyes adjust to the near darkness. Unlike doctors’ offices, there’s nothing to look at. No eye chart, sharps disposal, signs asking phones to be turned off, foot-pedal trash container. Nothing on the counter. There’s a pump bottle of hand soap by the sink, and that’s it.

I lie there, my eyes roaming, for what seems like a long time before I let them close. It’s late. Ordinarily I’d be sound asleep at this hour, waking tomorrow morning well rested, ready to throw myself into my work.

On Night Nurse’s return, she moves behind me, something on wheels squeaking. “I told them to oil this thing,” she remarks. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Behind me, rubber gloves snap, one, a pause, two. Something gurgles almost silently, then Night Nurse touches my anus with coolness, rubbing it in circles around and around, then slipping inside. I flinch.

“None of that, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She takes her time working the thick nozzle into me without hurting me at all. It’s made of something hard, the tip shaped to make its way inside before it widens enough that my anus does not want to admit it, but it must, and of course it will, and Night Nurse presses and twists and teases it in a millimeter at a time until it’s planted inside me, a slightly narrower section sitting more comfortably at my anus.

“Your first filling tonight may be a bit uncomfortable,” she says, “but it’s for your own good.”

There’s a click behind me. Within seconds, warm irritation fills my rectum.

“Feel how soapy I’ve made it? We’ll clean you out thoroughly.”

There are further ratcheting sounds.

“All righty, then. Nice and slow, dear. We’ll take our time, since you’re cooperating so nicely. Some of them fight it, you know. As if they hadn’t signed up for it and taken the money. I write them up for punishment, every time.”

I flash on a handsome young man, the first I’d seen punished in the cafetorium. His black curly hair contrasted with milky white skin, and he was restrained with slim red ropes that made me think of mountain climbers. Attendant, a large Black man I had not seen before, paddled his bottom past pink to red, then Night Nurse—not this Night Nurse but another—gave him a two-quart enema, then refilled the bag without letting him release. It broke him. He was in tears, the water still flowing into him, when they led us out.

In the morning when I saw him in the dormitory, his nightshirt pinned up to reveal buttocks still swollen and hot-looking to all, I’d given him a look of sympathy. He scowled and turned away.

“I do hope I don’t have to write you up,” Night Nurse says. “Such nice skin, I’d hate to see it damaged. I bet you freckle if you forget your sunscreen.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

The soapy pressure inside me climbs, ever so gradually, until it becomes quite uncomfortable. I make a small sound.

“Hush, now.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll try. It’s so much.”

“Not really. Fifteen hundred milliliters. You’re past the half-way mark, doing quite well.”

By the time the entire enema is in me, I cannot stop my small ladylike moans.

“I know you’re uncomfortable, dear,” Night Nurse says. “You’ll hold this for me, then we’ll let you expel. Do you need me to leave the nozzle so you have something to squeeze?”

I can only nod miserably.

She chuckles. “All right. Just try to relax. I’ll be back.”

By the time Night Nurse returns, I’m squirming on the nozzle, wondering how bad the punishment would be if I just used the toilet without permission. She helps me get up, taking her time returning the little steps from the wall to the table as my urgency increases dramatically due to gravity. I grunt.

“Watch your step, dear. I know you’re in a hurry, but we can’t let you take a tumble.”

“I’m afraid I’ll—”

She guides me to the toilet and tugs the nozzle from me without warning. I fall to the seat and gush at the same moment. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You will be when I make you clean up your mess. But first, you empty. All the way.” She leaves. In the dim outer room, a cone of light illuminates a big metal desk painted beige. She has paperwork to do.

It takes a while before I’m sure. The room smells foul, even after I wipe and flush, and I dampen toilet paper and swipe at the worst of what didn’t reach the toilet.

Night Nurse comes in with a bucket that smells of pine cleaner, a large sponge, and a pair of blue rubber gloves. “You get busy, young lady. I’ll prepare your next enema.” She hits the lights to full brightness on her way out.

Before I came here, I lived in a series of wretched studio apartments. I was messy in the way of young adults answering to no one, my clothing, papers, and books strewn everywhere, but I wasn’t dirty. Each funky bathroom was as sanitary as pine cleaner could make it.

I far exceed that standard now, washing and rewashing a large area surrounding the toilet as if it might soon be the site of a surgical procedure. I empty the bucket, half-fill it with hot water, and go over it again, just to be sure.

The room smells faintly, somewhat pleasantly, of pine when I decide I’m finished. I get on the table, lie on my left side, and arrange my legs the way Night Nurse did.

It’s as if she were watching me; she comes in within the minute, immediately dimming the lights. Again wheels shriek behind me, rubber gloves snap, and cool slickness is applied to and inside my anus. The nozzle is smaller, at least, and slips in easily.

“I didn’t write you up,” Night Nurse says, “although I could have. Instead, I’ll just punish you for that mess right here, right now, and we’ll be done with it.” She starts the flow, then rests her gloved hand on my butt, holding the nozzle in place between her fingers, as if I might push it out.

“It’s cold!”

“Yes, and you’re lucky that’s all it is. I debated adding the same soap, but that’s generally too much for someone without training.”

Training? They train people to take enemas? “Thank you.”

This one makes me ache inside, my bladder tingling from being so near. My anus convulses to hug the nozzle, then attempts to eject it, repeatedly.

“I’m not doing it,” I tell Night Nurse. “Really, it’s involuntary.”

“I know, dear. That’s why I’m holding the nozzle.”

By the time I’ve taken it all, I’m shivering, my belly as tender-bloated as if I had my period, my rectum’s ache so sharp my eyes tear, although I wouldn’t call it crying.

“Very good,” Night Nurse says. “Let’s get you sitting on the toilet before we pull the nozzle this time.” It’s awkward, but we manage.

Again I gush, unable to control my own body. Night Nurse clucks like a mother hen and leaves me alone in the dimness to empty myself.

On Night Nurse’s return, I lie on the table in position. We go through the same steps: oil-lacking shriek, gloves, lube, nozzle, flow. “I’ve made this one a little hot,” she says in a conspiratorial tone, “since you cleaned your mess then accepted your punishment without complaining. It should warm you up.”

“I appreciate it, very much. The warmth feels good.”

“Don’t thank me too soon. It’s quite large, and you’ll take it all. If you don’t, I’ll have to write you up for at least a paddling, if not a public paddling and an enema.”

“I’ll take it all, I will.” I’ve never been sent to Corrections, but I’ve seen the pink or red bottoms and shamed faces of those who have, their punished backsides on display for twenty-four hours.

“I know you’ll try.” She sighs. “If they’d send you to me on a regular basis, you’d do better. Maybe that’s what I should do, write you up for a clean-out every other night, or every three.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not supposed to play favorites, but you’re not like most of them,” Night Nurse says. “And we all know that deprived of sleep, your work will suffer. What is it you do, dear?”

“I’m in grad school. Done with the classes, writing my master’s thesis.”

“I see. And this is how you’re supporting yourself?”

“The Masters support me. My job is to be available to any of them at any time.”

“Not one will call for you while you’re working, you know. Some of the others, yes, but their pursuits are not nearly as serious. A master’s thesis, my!”

“It’s nothing.” Compared to how full I’m getting, anyway.

“Don’t you minimize what a great accomplishment that is. Most of the young people The Masters choose to support achieve far less. Speaking frankly, too many seem to be lazy, thinking they’ve found themselves a free ride.”

“Do The Masters have them work at something?”

“Of course. They finish high school if they haven't, and most either keep The Facility running or learn a trade. There’s always laundry, food prep and cooking, and no end to cleaning.” She pauses the flow, thank goodness, and reaches past my hip to massage my rounded belly, which gurgles obligingly, the pressure easing as the hot water makes its way further up.

“Oh-h-h. Better.”

Night Nurse resumes the heated flow into my colon. “I was more like you than them. I’d run out of savings and couldn’t finish nursing school. The Masters paid for it, even though I had to leave The Facility five days a week. They watched me for a time, making sure I went directly to classes and back again, but after a while, they let me be more independent. I sometimes went to the library to do research for papers. Then they lost two nurses within a matter of months, right when I was about to graduate. I’ve always been a night owl, so…”

“Night Nurse,” I say.

“For a long time now. It pays quite well, with a shift bonus, and I enjoy it for the most part. I have some autonomy to do what I think best. You’re probably feeling quite full. You can empty right away. Don’t flush. I need to be sure you’re running clear.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s as if the various segments of my colon are all open, no waiting for the water, still warmer than my body temperature, to reach each new section of my insides. I’m empty, feeling quite open and comfortable, within minutes.

“My goodness, that was quick,” Night Nurse says as she enters. “Let me take a look. You get back on the table. Mm-hmm, clear enough that if you needed a colonoscopy, you could get one. Although they don’t use enemas to prepare you these days, most of them.” She flushes the toilet.

“I’ve never had one.”

Squeals sound behind me. “They’re for older people, unless you’re having a problem. So, are you ready?”

“For the next one? Yes. Of course.”

She gloves up and applies the slick stuff to me, then inside me. I realize that while it was previously something necessary, I’ve come to like it. Do I like it in and of itself, or because it’s a prelude? I can’t decide.

“Don’t you want to know how many you’re getting?” Night Nurse asks as she gooses a nozzle into my anus.

I consider. “As many as The Masters decide.”

“It’s my decision. You’re ready when I say you are.” Her voice drops. “I’m sorry to say that you have not been chosen tonight. Such a disappointment. My thinking was that I’d just give you as many enemas as I can before the end of my shift.” She starts the flow. It’s soapy, enough that it stings a little. "You'll at least have that."

“Of course. Whatever you think best.”

“I can make them somewhat more bearable, perhaps even pleasant.” One gloved hand raises my right knee, a gloved finger of the other hand finding my vagina and entering easily. A thumb massages my clit.

A miracle happens. I come, big, but that’s not the miracle part. Of course I have an orgasm. I haven’t been allowed to since I got here, not solo, not with a partner. The sexual tension is sometimes maddening, my need so large it distracts me from my work.

The miracle is that I don’t leak any of the soapy enema. I clench and grunt as the waves of pleasure wash over me, eleven of them.

“Very nice, dear.” She removes her fingers and lowers my leg, administering the rest of the enema in silence. “Empty yourself.”

She gives me no privacy but prepares my next enema in the same room, pouring a thick clear liquid from a brown bottle into a measuring cup, adding it to the bag, and filling it to bulging with steaming water.

That one’s hard to take; my body wants it out. Night Nurse had two fingers pumping in and out of me, drawing my attention away from the enema, or I’d have had a terrible accident.

I confess, I lose count of the number of times Night Nurse fills me. There are at least four enemas laden with soap, and one without afterward, I presume to rinse. But it could be five, maybe even six.

There are no windows in this part of The Facility, but Night Nurse wears a watch and knows when her shift is soon to end. “Last one,” she announces.

It’s fairly comfortable, body temperature, no soap, but there’s so much! My insides ache, but I know better than to complain. She works my sex vigorously, three fingers inside me, but I cannot come again, just writhe at the overload of sensation.

While I empty myself for the final time, under her approving eyes, I wonder how bad today will be. I haven’t stayed up all night in years. I suppose I could double-check my footnotes and bibliography for meeting MLA standards, more a mechanical than creative aspect of the thesis. I doubt I’m going to do much original thinking after so little sleep.

Night Nurse hands me the shirt I sleep in. While I pull it over my head, she says, “I’ve written you up for another session Friday. Every three days should do nicely. We’ll have you taking three quarts in no time, then work toward a gallon.”

A gallon? “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Attendant will be here momentarily to escort you. You’ll be making a stop on the way back at Corrections. I’ve written you up for a paddling.”

I’m dumbfounded. She looks at me, hard, then scribbles something on one of the papers.

“And another before our Friday session. You could have walked faster.”

“Yes, ma’am, I could have.”