By the time I finish grad school, earning my masters in operations management, I’m so eager to work at The Facility that I only interview with a few other places, mainly as practice.

The suits ask predictable questions, but I startle at “Tell us how you handle stress at work.” They don’t want to know that I write a detailed plan of action to address the stressful situation, then march myself to the Infirmary, where I make an appointment with Night Nurse at a late-enough hour that I should be on top of things if not fully finished before I get a series of enemas. I tell them only about the plan of action, breaking everything into manageable steps, none of them so difficult as to be stressful, followed by some self-care because work-life balance is especially important when your career is demanding.

I get two offers but accept The Facility’s without giving the other any serious consideration.

My job as Assistant Manager at The Facility is better than the first jobs of many fellow students. A few of us talk salaries, and I’m comfortably in the middle. What they don’t know is that my living expenses will approach zero and that I’ve been given a generous signing bonus.

The Facility assigns me a small furnished suite with all the character these old buildings have: a red brick wall, tall paned windows with an arch at the top, natural wood floors. I buy Egyptian cotton sheets and a satin comforter worthy of Old Hollywood. My new towels are deep ocean blue, the thickest they sell. I add an area rug, then another in the bedroom. I enjoy all my meals in the dining room for staff, getting acquainted with my peers and underlings.

It takes a trip to the nearest big city to have my black suits made. The jackets are fitted, the high-necked blouses white, and the skirts are long and generous, easily able to accommodate hidden tools of the trade once Manager feels I’m ready for each one. I wear black tights and sensible shoes; I walk fast now.

Manager is an excellent mentor, and I emulate him. We stop to discuss the reasoning behind his decisions several times each day, and he urges me to voice my opinions. If I’d have acted differently than he did, how might that have played out? Short term? Long? His way was the right one, most of the time, better for The Facility.

My first Friday on the job, we stayed late. “It’s vital that upper level management not simply accept the reports of employees but that we occasionally observe, unannounced. Shall we?”

“Of course. Where will we begin?”

“Corrections has two Charges who found what they believed to be a private spot for physical intimacy. Both were fully aware we do not allow such behavior.” He pauses mid-stride. “Do you mind if we swing by the cafetorium? I am in desperate need of coffee.”

We carry thick mugs to Corrections, sipping along the way. Our stop has made us late; the young woman stands naked and corrected. Her bare feet are behind the line painted on the floor, her nose touching the wall, breasts dangling. The buttocks thrust into the room glow hotly pink. Manager touches her right cheek idly. She flinches, I think more startled than in pain.

The Attendant on duty, fusses at our presence, insisting on moving easy chairs to allow us to view the young man’s correction in comfort. I could get used to this.

“This one fought,” Attendant explains, thrusting a thumb at a naked man with a crown of blond curls, head bowed, hands crossed over his genitals, “so we’ll be using full restraints.”

I’ve never seen the punishment bench in use. It’s a beautiful piece of work, the shaped wood smooth and solid, its parts adjustable to accommodate varying heights.

The young man is bent over it, then straps secure him in place. Waist, upper thighs—no wriggling evasion there—just above and below his bent knees, ankles, chest, and finally wrists, his arms extended on either side of his face.

I make a mental note, something I might one day discuss with Manager: it would be wonderful to see the faces of the Charges during each part of correction, starting as they await their turns, during the correction itself, and as they display the results. Perhaps we could use strategically placed mirrors? Or small cameras, to capture it for those unable to attend.

“I’ve chosen a particular instrument for this one,” Attendant tells us. “I anticipate it will take all the fight out of him.”

The paddle, a blond slice of wood that nearly matches the man’s hair, is drilled through with small holes. It shrieks quietly, if that makes sense, as it moves through the stillness toward its target. The man fights his restraints by the sixth stroke and bleats by the tenth. Only fifteen swats later, Attendant declares the correction sufficient and bids me come close for explanation.

He aims a small laser pointer at the man’s red buttocks. “Here, and again here, there’s bleeding under the skin. That one will be a small blood bruise in a few hours. Slow to heal. Quite sore, too. He’ll be feeling this much longer than she will.” He starts unbuckling the many bindings. “That’s what you get for fighting the Attendant doing his job.”

The punished man is made to display himself next to the woman. She reaches for his hand, but Attendant is ready, slapping her pink buttocks with the drilled paddle. She gasps. “No touching, no talking. Don’t make me tell you again.”

After a short time, Attendant dresses each of them in a nightshirt, its lower edge held up with sturdy clips to display their backsides. Everyone who sees them will know. A different Attendant arrives to lead the two from the room and Attendant looks to Manager with a fawning smile. “Sir?” he says.

“Ahem, yes. Assistant Manager will now be corrected.”

Through my shock, I manage, “Thank you, sir.” I should be grateful, I should, but I’m more frightened.

The adjustments on the punishment bench are all wrong; I’m a good deal shorter than the blond man. At least I am allowed to keep my clothing. My voluminous skirt is raised and rolled, clips holding it clear, and my underthings pulled down near my knees to bare me, then I am buckled in place securely.

“I firmly believe,” Manager tells my bare buttocks, “that everyone authorized to write up our Charges should fully understand what it is they will experience. Your records indicate you’ve been paddled many times, but without extraordinary measures. We’ll begin by using the drilled paddle now.”

It sings in the air, and on impact it burns. I imagine tiny cones of my flesh forced into those drilled holes, then ripped free. I am nowhere near ready for another when it comes anyway, pushing the air from my lungs audibly.

Attendant is skilled, distributing the force all across my lower cheeks, stopping at nine when my skin shows the faintest trace of a potential blood bruise. He allows me to hide my tear-streaked face between my extended arms while he and Manager discuss the finer points of using this paddle. I understand and appreciate that Manager does this, even extends the discussion, to allow me to regain my dignity. Ten minutes crawl past while they talk shop, then Attendant frees me, tugging my underclothes up and into place before helping me to my feet, where I stand swaying.

“Take a moment, let the blood get to your head,” he says, not unkindly. “Wouldn’t want you to faint.”

“Thank you. I’m all right now.” Except for the burning backside.

“In that case,” Manager says, “report to Night Nurse, after which you’re off duty. Just walk over, no Attendant required. I’ll see you Monday morning. Have a pleasant weekend.” He stands, removing his jacket, and I think I hear his belt buckle as the door closes behind me.

The thought intrigues me. Manager continues to seek Correction? It’s something of a relief; I’ve come to—“need” isn’t quite right, but it’s well past “want”—what Corrections provides.

Night Nurse seems to have been notified that I’m on my way. On my arrival, she ushers me into the small room-within-a-room I call the enema room—officially it’s a treatment room—where a bulging bag hangs ready.

“Just bend over the table, dear. We’ll get you all taken care of.”

She moves my skirts and secures them with those ubiquitous clips, then tugs down my tights and panties. “Oh, my. I bet that hurt.”

“It still does.”

She lubricates my anus. As usual, that alone gets me aroused, even with my butt burning.

“Once we get this enema started, I’ll see if I can’t find something to soothe you.” The nozzle is bulbous, a hard one made of that black plasticky material. “It’s soapy, lots of castile. I knew you’d want a nozzle you can grip.”

“Always, when it’s soapy,” I agree.

“Some things never change.” The flow starts fast, the warm water stinging my rectum. Night Nurse bends, examining the contents of the cupboards. “Nothing much here. Back in a few minutes, dear. You enjoy your enema.”

I would not have thought that possible, but the soft burning inside and tender heat on the surface echo back and forth, reinforcing one another and somehow waking my sex, which gets very wet. I would like to touch myself, but I don’t dare.

Then Night Nurse is back, a green glass bottle with a pump on top in one hand. “This should do the trick.” She pumps a clear gel into one hand, then rubs it between her palms before she applies her gentle hands to my battered backside. Her touch stings just the same, but whatever is on her hands is cooling and smells of almond blossoms.

Meanwhile, my enema continues to flow fast, harder to accept as my colon fills. Her hands continue to work my slippery buttocks as I moan my discomfort, the moans becoming louder, evolving into groans as more soapy water pours into me, and finally I’m grunting, not at all sure I can contain myself.

“Very nice, dear, you’re doing quite well. You make whatever sounds you need to. Just a tiny bit more, no more than six or seven ounces. Hold on good and tight now. Grip that nozzle. You don’t want to leak and be sent back to Corrections for more of that, do you?”

“No, ma’am!” I gasp.

“There we go, that’s the last of it. We’ll just leave the nozzle right where it is, help you hold it.”

“I have to hold it?”

“Of course you do.” She returns to the cupboard and brings out a black dildo about the size of an erect penis. She has to crouch to see what she’s doing below the big nozzle planted in my anus, but the dildo slides into me with ease. It moves the nozzle inside me in a way that’s uncomfortable and exciting.

She fucks me with it, slow and deep, with a little twist now and them, and her free hand finds my clit standing tall, begging for attention. It’s only two or three minutes before I come.

To my horror, I leak a good bit, spurting around the thick nozzle; I can’t help it.

Night Nurse sighs and leaves the room, returning with a mop and bucket. “Empty yourself first, then clean up in here. I can’t begin to tell you how terribly disappointed I am in your lack of self-control. I expect better in an Assistant Manager.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, miserably making my way to the toilet right in the open. I manage to sit before reaching between my thighs to pull out the nozzle, limiting the gush of filthy water to my own hand.

It takes me a long time to be sure I’m empty; I haven’t had a complete clean-out in weeks, what with interviews, graduation, moving, shopping for the new place, getting my suits, and a thousand other details.

After what feels like an hour but is probably less than half that, I start cleaning. I’m always good at this, thorough and methodical, extending the area well past what’s necessary. The monotony and simplicity of the job is somehow comforting. I can do this as well as anybody anywhere, never mind my humiliation or hot bottom. Night Nurse will not be able to find any fault. Maybe I should have applied for a custodial position. Or do they visit Corrections and Night Nurse, too?

She returns when she sees me pouring the bucket’s contents down the toilet, which flushes spontaneously. I take a minute to clean the bowl. It looks like no one has ever used it, that kind of white.

“All done?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And your usual good job, I see. Here’s your paperwork. You can take yourself. No need to get an Attendant to escort you.”

Where am I going? I know before I look at the papers. Back to Corrections. “Failure to Cooperate During Enema.”

“You can come back here when they finish with you. I have plenty of that nice lotion.”

Attendant’s brows rise on seeing me again. He reads the write-up, his lips moving. “All right, then. Busy night for me. Weekends always are, and we’re down a man. That’s when we entertain the most clients. I’ll need you to remove everything from the waist down, including your shoes.”

A dull dread settles over me like a weighted blanket as I undress, neatly folding each item and setting it on the empty chair where I’d sat and observed earlier, never dreaming I would be corrected.

Twice.

“Don’t look so worried. I would never use the drilled paddle when you already have a little bruise going, not unless Manager insisted. I managed to reach him and he had an entirely different recommendation. Hm. Take off the jacket as well.”

It’s silly, but I wish there were a hanger.

“Manager suggested we get ourselves some wooden hangers for blazers and suit coats,” Attendant says. “And something to hang them from that looks nice and is completely safe if someone were to run into it. I can be a special kind of clumsy.” He chuckles.

Not what you want to hear when you’re standing mostly bared, your thin white blouse your only protection. I wish I’d worn a bra; the jacket covers me more than adequately, and I hadn’t anticipated removing it. Attendant can see my small breasts clearly.

“Ready? Stand right here, good. Now give me your hands.” He wraps my wrists separately in the leather cuffs some Attendants use to keep their Charges from protecting their butts. These are fairly new, the sheepskin lining thick and soft. He fusses at the clasps, then hooks them together.

“Now I’m not going to suspend you or anything,” he says, tying a red cord as thick as my pinkie finger around the clasps. “I’ll only raise your arms over your head. Suspension can dislocate the shoulders, and we wouldn’t want that. Here we go.” He pulls the end of the red cord.

I look up as my hands are raised. There’s a pulley, with a cleat to tie it off affixed high on the wall. My elbows and shoulder joints are slightly bent by the position, which is not uncomfortable.

“It lifts more than just your wrists,” he says, his eyes on my breasts. “Very nicely.”

Manager is going to hear about that. Attendants are not to sexualize their Charges.

“I’ll be quick about it, done before your hands start to tingle.” He walks behind me.

My arm blocks my view as I turn my head. A low whoop sounds, then a line of blue flame erupts across my behind, right at the lowest part. Another, higher. Low again, where it burns the worst. Fully on my upper thighs. High, where there’s less meat.

I don’t count. There’s no point. I’m sure Manager has assigned the number of strokes with the cane, and knowing that number will not help me in any way.

Before it ends, my bare feet dance on the cool linoleum floor, and I can’t help the short squeals that evolve into yips, then fully voiced yelps.

Attendant lied. My fingertips are tingling when he lowers my wrists.

“I’ve called for assistance,” he says. “They’ll help you dress and walk you where you want to go. Probably back to your quarters, eh? A cold towel and some ice cream, maybe.”

Two Charges arrive, one almost pretty enough to model, the other plain. Both wear nightshirts with the back clipped up, showing pink punished bottoms. The plain one drops the skirt over my head without mussing my hair, helps me pull my arms through, moves it into place, and zips it while Model looks at the panties and tights as if mystified. Plain holds my jacket as if she were a gentleman helping me don my coat after an evening at the opera.

“Thank you,” I say. My voice is raspy, my throat slightly sore. “Give me those,” I say sharply to Model, who’s done exactly nothing. I step into my shoes barefoot. “Let’s go.”

“Have a good evening,” Attendant says.

“Take me to Night Nurse,” I order, my voice already mimicking Manager’s imperial tone.

My steps are small and nevertheless pull the rising welts from the cane. “Thank you for your help,” I tell the Charge who actually helped. “And thank you for the opportunity to write you up.”

“Oh, please, ma’am! Don’t!”

“We’ll see.” Dreaded words. I make note of her name. “I’ll give the matter some thought over the weekend.”

Night Nurse isn’t ready this time. She has me lie flat on my belly, where she dabs some kind of paste directly on the welts lining me from mid-thigh to upper cheek. She leans close to whisper. “They’re rough on all the new employees at the executive level. We’ll get you through it.”

I don’t know what’s in the enema. Not soap. Pretty soon I think it was some kind of alcohol. I become less than drunk yet not at entirely sober, at the stage in which you like people ridiculously much. I announce my fondness to Night Nurse several times while she makes me retain the solution, and she laughs indulgently.

Some time later, I don’t know how long, Night Nurse calls for an Attendant to see me to my quarters. It’s one of the few women in the job. She smiles at me and takes my elbow, although I don’t need help walking or balancing. I carry my tights and panties, the paste dried crusty on my welts and not disturbed by my clothing. At least I don’t have to show my shame with my clothing clipped up to display it.

Attendant orders a meal to be delivered and stays with me until it arrives, setting the little high-top table, pouring me a tumbler of water and a glass of wine, and otherwise fussing over me in a way that’s acceptable.

“Night Nurse said I am to do anything you ask that might be a comfort,” she says. “Do you, ah, require physical release? The pleasurable kind, I mean. I’ve been trained; I was a Charge here, a long time ago.”

“That’s a lovely offer, but no. I think I require a good dinner and an early night.”

Her disappointment shows, but she says nothing. “Can I help you into your nightgown and robe, then, now that you’re safely home?”

“Yes.” I follow her into the bedroom.

She clucks over my bottom. “You poor thing. That paste will crack off now that it’s dried. I know just the thing. After you’ve eaten, and had yourself some wine, we’ll wash it off and get a cold compress on you, changed every twenty minutes. You can sleep right through it.” She dares to smile. “You probably should. Corrections is exhausting, isn’t it?”

“That sounds lovely. I don’t want to keep you too late, though.”

Attendant raises my nightgown above my head and I thread my arms into its sleeves. “Ma’am,” she says, “you don’t seem to understand what an honor it is to serve the Assistant Manager. I’m fully prepared to stay all night, if it pleases you.”

When my dinner comes, she moves the high stool out of the way so I can eat standing up. When I’ve had my fill, she lays compress after compress on my backside, each one reducing the swelling and bringing fresh comfort. It’s after two in the morning when I send her away.

I think I’m going to love this job.