I was doing just fine as a dancer. I know, people think of it as “stripper,” but I could really dance, and if adding a little tease as each item of clothing comes off makes me a stripper, then I’m a damned good one; most of the other girls just move like they were drunk at a club or something.

So I made pretty good money, with tips and lap dances and all, and maybe once every three or four weeks I’d have sex with some guy. I definitely had a type—well, not the type I found the hottest, but the ones I’d go home with, a completely different type.

They were older, at least forty-five or fifty, and they had to be dressed like they made good money in a way that’s legal. I didn’t want some thug or drug dealer but a businessman, you know? So I’d look for a good haircut, really nice clothes, no flashy jewelry, like that. And every single one of them had a nice house or condo, and quite a few had a super-nice house with a view. Their places were always clean, with quality furniture. A bowl of fruit in every kitchen, which became sort of my thing. “Can I have an apple?” Never a banana—too obvious, you know?

“Huh? Oh. Sure, honey.” Even if they knew my name, it wasn’t my real name, which is Heidi.

“Thank you. I love a good apple.” I’d eat it and walk around the living room, looking at all their fancy things. Framed paintings on the walls—not prints, but actual paintings—all kinds of artsy stuff on the shelves and tables, sets of books in matching leather bindings, a TV the size of a bed. Lots of the guys would stand right by me, telling me about this item or that painting. You could tell who was impressed by what they paid and who just loved the thing itself.

“It doesn’t look like much, but I don’t let anybody touch it because that little vase is more than eight hundred years old. Can you believe something as fragile as that, made for a rich man in China, and eight hundred years later it’s on another fucking continent without so much as a chip?” I liked that a lot more than comparing its price to a car’s.

Mostly they wanted blow jobs, which is every working girl’s favorite since you can do it all night so long as you brought a lipstick for touch-ups. I’d get on my knees and look up at them and they’d mess up my hair while I did them, and I wouldn’t let them come on my face because then I’d have to redo my makeup. Swallowing was easier, although once in a while I’d get a guy who wanted to come on my boobs, which was okay if he gave me a chance to undress halfway.

Of course some wanted regular sex, which I didn’t mind so long as they’d use a condom and weren’t too gross. Rich businessman ass and armpits smell the same as anybody’s. Usually I could convince the stinky ones I’d gotten sweaty and ask if we could shower together, or maybe even take a bath.

I didn’t do anal and I definitely didn’t do kink. But I listened, laughed at their jokes, participated in whatever sex they wanted like they were my boyfriend, and it was worth it.

Some would give me cash. “I know how this looks, sweetheart, and that’s not how I mean it. We both know you’re a dancer, not a working girl. I didn’t know what to get you, just that it should be special. So you buy yourself something really nice, and the next time I see you, you tell me what I bought you, okay? Really special, you promise?”

“I promise. Thank you so much!” Rent was really special. So was the crown I needed at the dentist. I’d lie, tell them I bought a gold necklace just like the one my mother gave me before she died, lost years ago when the clasp failed. “I felt so lucky to find it! It really is special. Thank you.”

Then everything went sideways.

#

It wasn’t anybody’s fault. The cold rain falling when I went to work had turned to sleet while I danced, and by one in the morning the roads were icy. I drove slow and careful, but it didn’t stop me from sliding right off the interstate at a curve, my car rolling down the embankment. My left leg was badly injured, and even after two surgeries, I wasn’t going to be a dancer ever again.

Just a woman with a limp, who might never pay off her medical bills, living with the stepmother who never liked her.

The club tried to help me out, but I couldn’t wait tables or stand long enough to bartend. I could sit on a high stool at the door and check IDs, but I couldn’t handle would-be patrons who shouldn’t be allowed to come in. I helped the manager Steve with the books, learning real fast, enough that I was sure he was skimming and he realized I knew. Boom! Fired.

I called Wesley, the owner, to tell him just the same, but he wouldn’t return my calls. Probably thought I was going to ask for money, not save him money. Hell, if he’d taken my call, he’d have fired Steve and maybe seen I could have managed the place just as well, without cheating him. As far as I know, Steve’s still managing the dump, and still ripping Wesley off.

Okay, then. It’s not that different from going home with some businessman, just way more often. Only it was hard to stand on the street for that long, and cold besides, and when the men saw I limped, some sped away.

But not this man. He turned on the seat heat and drove around while we talked. “I feel so bad for you girls, standing outside on a cold night like this.”

“We’re pretty tough. Have to be.”

“Still, being uncomfortable is uncomfortable, right?”

“Right. Where are we going?”

“In loops around the area where I met you,” he said, “while we work out our arrangement.”

I gave him the price for oral and regular. “I don’t do anal,” I said.

“Can’t say I blame you. It requires a certain… gentleness. Not something your typical John is going to give you.”

“For sure.”

“I’m definitely not asking for anal, then, but tell me, do you do that with your boyfriend?”

“Sometimes. He’s a big guy, not just there. All over. It’s hard.” A lie. I hadn’t had a steady boyfriend in a couple of years, and hadn’t been with a man since the accident.

“It has to be,” the man said, and chuckled. “My ex used to let me give her an enema, or two, beforehand. Not just for clean, but to loosen her up. If we did it right after she used the bathroom, it was easy for her.”

“That makes sense.”

“It got to where she liked it, including the enemas. Ever had an enema?”

“No.” Did he want to give me one? “Should I?”

“Your decision. But you want someone who knows what they’re doing to administer it.”

“And that would be you.”

“Exactly. I’m Alan, by the way.”

“Heather.” I’d tried to come up with a name that starts with the “Hi” sound of my real name, so I’d have an instant to recover if I slipped, but couldn’t.

“I could give you a nice enema at my place, Heather. Two quarts of warm water with a little sea salt, nice and slow.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Besides warming up on a cold night like this and making you feel clean and healthy? I could do forty dollars.”

Same as a blow job. There were so many of us offering that the price dropped. It used to be fifty.

“You’d be safe. No restraints or anything like that. I’ll sanitize everything right in front of you. Clean bathroom, even.” He turned to grin at me, his face greenish in the light from the dashboard. “I can’t take credit. A woman comes in once a week, mainly for the kitchen and bathrooms, and to vacuum. She was there yesterday.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Vacuuming? Completely painless.” He laughed at his own joke. “An enema doesn’t hurt unless it’s meant to. There are ways to punish someone with an enema, hurting without any injury, but this wouldn’t be that.”

“Why would you want to do this?”

He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain a kink. I like the submissiveness of a woman accepting an enema, and how she’s embarrassed, maybe, or feels a little humiliated; this is as personal as it gets. Of course I love butts and assholes, in addition to the usual things men like. My ex and I have three great kids, all grown up. So tell me, would you accept a nice two-quart enema?”

“Could you do fifty, Alan?”

He smiled at the windshield. “Sure, I can swing fifty. Throw in a plate of eggs and some toast afterward, too, if you want. My ex was always hungry after a good enema.”

He turned into the driveway of a one-story house, not large, and waited for the garage door to open. “Supposed to snow tonight. I’d rather not have to scrape it off when I drive you home later. Right this way.”

The kitchen was clean but had no bowl of fruit. I caught myself smiling at getting an enema rather than my usual apple.

We walked through to the living room, with framed photographs and packed bookshelves. A short hallway led to the bathroom, where a night light glowed, and presumably a couple of bedrooms.

“You read a lot?”

“Never too old to learn, I hope.” He stopped at a linen closet in the hall. “I promised I’d sanitize everything where you could see. Will soap and hot water do it, or should I mix up some bleach solution? I’ll want to change clothes if I do that. I always seem to splash and ruin something.”

“Soap and hot water.”

“Good decision, Heather. Considering how unclean the human colon is, I’m not sure more would be worth the bother.”

I stood next to the vanity in a bathroom while Alan scrubbed the enema bag’s exterior, then ran water inside it, added a squirt of the same dishwashing detergent I use, then attached the white fluted hose to wash its inside as the soapy water ran through it and down the sink’s drain. He uncoupled the bag and hose and refilled it with clean hot water.

“Rinsing it so there won’t be any traces,” he explained. “Maybe one day I’ll give you a soapy enema—children used to get them for the most routine complaints—but tonight it will just be a little salty. As promised.” He hummed softly as he tested the water temperature, filled the bag, and added salt, using a tablespoon to measure. He attached the hose again and rocked the bag back and forth in his hands. “Mixing the salt,” he explained. “It dissolves pretty easily. Not every enema solution does.”

He gestured for me to follow him into one of the bedrooms. “Hold this a minute?” Alan handed me the enema bag, as warm and heavy as a cat. From the dresser, he pulled a satiny throw. “Waterproof layer in the middle,” he explained, spreading it flat on the bed. “You’ll need to be naked from the waist down, but if you’re comfortable with it, fully naked is even better. Let me turn on the space heater for you.”

“Ah, thanks. I should undress, then?” It was weird: suddenly I felt a little shy. Ordinarily I had no problem with nudity in front of the men I go home with, but Alan seemed different. More real.

He proved it soon enough. “Very lovely,” he said, observing me as I stood next to the bed under its gleaming throw. “You know that, of course. I truly believe character is more important than appearance, in the end, but your appearance is still a pleasure to see. If you’ll just lie on your side. Left side. Yes, but with your legs a bit more bent. Exactly! Such a nice bottom. Is it all right to ask?”

“So long as there’s no penalty if I decide not to answer.”

He moved my upper leg to rest in front of the lower one. “How much pain do you have from this injury?”

“Enough. More than enough.”

“I noticed you favor it a little. They’ve done all they can for you?”

“They’ve done all I can afford and another fifty thousands’ worth. I’ll die owing them money.”

“I’m sorry things are so difficult. Tell you a little secret. Most women receiving an enema can’t think about other things just then. So this will be a little respite from your pain and your debts. You’ll be all about this nice warm enema and nothing else. Now, I’m going to lubricate your anus. This is water soluble. Vaseline and such can be hard to clean completely.”

His hand on my hip was warm. A fingertip on the other hand applied cool slickness, then slipped inside my rectum.

“Oh!” I said.

“I should have said I’d lubricate inside as well.” The finger left, quickly replaced with something smaller and cooler. “Here we go.”

Behind me, something clicked. At first I wasn’t sure, but within a half minute I could tell the warm water was slowly filling my rectum. “It feels so weird.”

“But it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, Alan. Not even a little.”

“Good. Let’s not talk unless we need to. I want you to experience this more than I want to chat.”

It was the strangest sensation, the slight fullness and warmth both soothing and just a little exciting. I wouldn’t mention that; Alan might interpret that as an invitation for anal.

So I lay still as the water flowed, filled my colon, and slowly built up pressure until I felt uncomfortable, like I’d overeaten and really needed the bathroom. Without me doing it, my anus nipped tight around the nozzle in my bottom.

“Feeling that? You’re about two-thirds of the way.”

“You can stop it now. I’m full.” More than full.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take it all if you expect to be paid. Our arrangement was a two-quart enema.”

What? “I don’t think I can.”

“You will. Breathe through your mouth, and let your tummy go completely slack. Good, good. Here, let me…” Alan slipped his hand sideways, between my upper thighs, and used the edge of it to work my clit.

Paired with the pressure of water wanting out, which I couldn’t let happen, the stimulation was all it took. To my dismayed shame, I squirted a small amount of the enema onto my thighs, Alan’s arm, and the bed with each wave.

“Well, there’s my answer to whether you like it,” Alan said behind me. “Tighten up. There’s still at least a pint to go.”

“No more. I can’t.”

“You will.” His voice was firmer, not as warm.

“But what if I can’t?” I hated the weepy tone riding the words.

“I don’t know. I could spank you. I probably should anyway, for making a mess.”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I’m really sorry.”

“How about if I stop it now and let you at the bathroom, and afterward, I give you a little spanking? Just my hand.”

“No,” I said, and got up, letting the water spew from the nozzle onto the bed. It would have been nice to stomp out, but I was naked, and in desperate need of the toilet.

Twenty minutes later I’d cleaned the toilet before I emerged, both sheepish and a little scared. The throw, the enema bag, and Alan were all gone.

“In the kitchen!” he called. “Don’t bother to get dressed. Your eggs are about done.”

My leg was bad tonight and I let myself limp.

“Salsa, ketchup, or just salt and pepper?”

“Salsa, please.” I hadn’t realized I was starving and had to make myself slow down to eat with basic table manners.

“So,” Alan said as I cleaned the plate with the last bit of toast, “you only got a quart and a half at the most. You still owe me a two-quart enema, and I still owe you—”

“Don’t think for one second you can spank me.”

“I could, but I won’t. Not now, and not for that. We did agree to a two-quart enema, though, and you haven’t had one. The second should be easier, now that the way is clear.”

“Very tactful.”

“Some people are interested in that aspect, but not me. To each his own, eh?”

I shrugged.

“The waterproof throw is in the washer, so we’ll have to be on something that could handle getting wet. Definitely not the bed. A towel on the floor is about the best I can offer.”

“You want to do it right now?”

“And right here.” Alan spread a beach towel on the floor next to the table, then filled the enema bag a second time.

I didn’t have to be told. I settled on my left side, arranged my legs, and waited. Alan lubricated my anus and rectum again, slipped the nozzle inside, and started the flow immediately.

Like he’d said, the second filling was easier, but I still struggled with the internal pressure. It eased a little when Alan massaged my belly. His voice was soft when he said, “Sometimes it helps to moan, even beg a little. You can certainly do that if you want.”

And I did, at first experimental complaint noises when I breathed out. They graduated to full-blown groans as my belly grew taut and I had to grip tight on the nozzle if I didn’t want that spanking Alan obviously wanted to give me.

“Very good, Heather. Excellent. You’ve earned your money. Let me help you up and walk you in. The pressure’s a little worse when you’re upright, so we’ll hurry. You don’t want to have another accident, because I’ll spank you even though you don’t want that.”

I didn’t have time to argue but limped as fast as I could toward the bathroom. My relief opening up to release the pressure was almost sexual. That reminded me that I’d come earlier. What was up with that? Did I like enemas now?

While I emptied myself, reduced to fits and starts, I pondered that. Maybe in a way I did like it. I didn’t have to do a thing except allow it and show Alan how uncomfortable I was, which I liked but wasn’t exactly a turn-on.

What was? Submitting to something I didn’t want, I guessed. Because I sure as hell didn’t get into a stranger’s car thinking, Hey, maybe he’ll give me an enema or two, cool!

“All done? Faster this time. Tell me, Heather, do you feel clean and light?”

I considered. “Yes, I think I do.”

“Not to mention fifty dollars richer. How does another fifty sound?”

“What do I have to do?” Here comes the blow job. Ten dollars more than I usually got.

“Nothing you haven’t already done. Another two-quart filling.” He smiled at me. “It’s kind of my thing, giving enemas to beautiful women. I love it.”

By the time I had four hundred and fifty dollars cash, I’d lost count of the enemas, been spanked twice, stood in the corner on display until my leg started bothering me, and told Alan my real name.

And he’d told me about The Facility, where he worked in Corrections. “We spank there, too, but usually it’s something harsher. Only if the charge doesn’t do what they’re supposed to, of course. For the ones who cooperate, it can be a pretty great life. They teach you a skill, usually something they need but always something where you could get a job someplace else.”

The sun was coming up when I put on my ordinary clothes for the last time. Alan said I didn’t need anything from my stepmother’s house and drove us straight to The Facility.

In a brightly-lit glass cubicle, a man Alan introduced as The Manager asked me some questions, mostly about my health, then a woman in an old-fashioned nurse uniform came in.

“Hello. Heidi, is it? Lovely name for a lovely young woman. You can address me as Night Nurse. I’m going to give you a nice big enema.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’d like that.”

“You’d get it whether you liked it or not,” The Manager said. “It’s not the charge’s decision.”

“I like that, too.”

“Good and soapy, I think,” Night Nurse said.

I didn’t like that.

I loved it.