I’ll try not to spy on Sara once she’s a Charge. If she becomes a Charge. I’m a professional, not just at Corrections but my attitude toward the Charges. The fact that she’s my girlfriend, doing this to pay for nursing college, wouldn’t change how she’s a Charge like any other.

Prettier than some, although when I tell her that, she always jokes about me wearing love goggles.

She needs to be more seasoned than most, though, so The Masters will have a reason to take her. I’m good at Corrections and got that part covered, but there’s whole categories I know nothing about.

Weekends I claim the night shift. Lots of clients, lots of Charges needing Corrections. Usually I come home so horny I have to wake Sara or I might explode. I make sure she comes before I do, more than once if I can—which is usually.

But really late one Friday night, after things slow way down, I visit Night Nurse. She’s one of the motherly ones, not old enough to be my mom but close. “Drew, is it? Yes. Are you feeling ill?”

“No, ma’am. I need to get information about enemas. Solutions, positions, like that. It’s for my girlfriend,” I explained. “I want to start her with regular enemas, then, you know, harder ones.”

“Punishment enemas,” she says. “I can talk until the cows come home, but it’s like explaining a flavor. You need to experience it to really understand.”

“Are you saying I should get a punishment enema?” My face gets hot at the thought.

“Not at all.”

“Good. You had me worried.” My laugh sounds nervous even to me.

“What you need, Mr. Corrections, is to start with basic enemas before we get into the full range. Does your shift end at four?”

“Everybody’s does.” What am I getting myself into?

“I’m in charge here; you say ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You report here, to me, when you get off. I can stay a while. Two Night Nurses will see to it that you understand what your girlfriend experiences every time you give her any kind of enema.”

“But I don’t want an enema, just—”

“She probably feels the same way. You will be here by five after or I’ll write you up for Corrections myself.”

Fuck me, can she do that? “Yes, ma’am.” I’m mad at myself for the rest of my shift. I should have looked up punishment enemas online, not talked to Night Nurse. I sure as shit don’t want any enemas.

There’s two Night Nurses, like she said, and they’re no-nonsense the way some nurses are, not treating me like an equal. Instead, they take me to this lit up little room inside the main room in the infirmary. They undress me like I couldn’t do it myself, put a gown on me, and lay me on this vinyl table, my bare back and ass covered with a sheet, arranging how I lie until it’s what they want.

“Very good. You can relax,” the older Night Nurse I’ve been talking to says. Something brushes my ankle.

Restraints. My heart starts pounding hard and fast.

“This will help you stay in position and cooperate. You’re a big man and it’s a narrow table. No options, so no point in getting yourself all worked up over nothing, dear,” she says.

“It’s ready,” the younger Night Nurse says. She’s holding a frosted bag with a matching hose. It’s two-thirds full, a line of bubbles at the top.

“We’ll start you with a simple SSE. That’s soap suds enema. We use castile soap, because it’s gentle. No chemicals. This SSE won’t reach every nook and cranny, but it’ll clear you out reasonably well, so you’re better able to tolerate the next one.”

“I’m getting more than one?” My voice is too high. I’d laugh at myself in other circumstances.

“Oh, yes. Night Nurse will decide what’s best for you, dear.”

The young Night Nurse moves the sheet just a little, lifts my right cheek, and dabs something cool right on my asshole, rubbing it around before she slips her finger inside, startling me. “Sufficiently empty,” she says.

“That you have no stool in the rectum means we can use a small nozzle,” older Night Nurse explains, sliding it in.

The enema is strange and kind of irritating but way short of hurting. Best comparison I can come up with is that it’s the way mint is when you eat it, only up your ass.

“We’ve started you at a slow flow rate, with something small,” older Night Nurse says, “since we’ll need you to retain it for at least five minutes. Ten would be better. It needs a little time to soften the fecal matter in your colon.”

By the time it’s all in, I feel pretty full, the way you do when you have to take a crap but haven’t had the chance. Young Night Nurse pulls out the nozzle. “I’ve started the clock.”

“I’m going to put the microphone right here,” Night Nurse says, “so you can describe the SSE in your own words. For future reference, to know what it is your girlfriend is experiencing when you give her an SSE.”

They leave the room and I tell the microphone how uncomfortable it was, how the feeling is like one of those strong mints in the little metal tin, whether I’m imagining it or actually tasting the mint in my ass, how degrading just being given an enema is in the first place, how helpless I feel in the restraints, and that I’m afraid I’m going to leak, everything going through my head in no particular order.

When I finish, young Night Nurse comes in, moves the recorder away, and presses something to my asshole. “I’ll help you retain it.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You will.”

She’s right. Three times I get this really strong urge to go, but of course I can’t, not lying here tied to a table. Young Night Nurse can tell, though, and she presses whatever it is against my asshole more firmly until it passes.

“There we are, ten minutes.” Both of them undo the restraints and help me sit up. I get off the table and am immediately dizzy.

“Easy, easy,” young Night Nurse coos. “Let the blood get back to your head.”

“I’m okay now.”

“Good. We’ll leave you to it.” She gestures toward the toilet, which is right in the open, no privacy.

They’re gone a while. Once I think I’m empty and flush, then go sit on the table again, but two minutes later I have to hurry back to the toilet.

“All set, dear? We’re ready with your Three-H. High, meaning how high we hang the bag, plus how high into your colon it will reach. There’s some debate on which it is. Hot, close to the highest safe temperature but of course a little cooler. And a Hell of a Lot.” Her chuckle is evil.

They position me differently, on my knees with my ass up in the air, my upper body on the table, and restrain me again. The water’s pretty hot, but at least there’s no soap I can feel. For a while it’s not too bad. I tell myself the fast flow means it’ll be over way sooner than the SSE. How many will I be getting?

It gets bad pretty suddenly. I’m full, and a fast glance up shows the bag’s still got a lot left. My gut twists in a vicious cramp. “Oh, man… Can you stop it a second?”

“Of course, dear. Cramping?” Older Night Nurse slides her hand under the sheet and presses my belly pretty hard, moving from one place to another. A rumble I feel and hear rewards her, and the pressure backs off. She starts the flow again.

“This is a good quantity for a big man,” young Night Nurse says. “You’ll be experiencing some discomfort as we near the end.”

I can barely hold on. I think if I wasn’t tied down, I might have gotten up and left. Or at least used the toilet. Instead, I take the whole bag, groaning near the end, holding it in with difficulty.

“Microphone,” older Night Nurse announces, setting it by my face. They leave.

I talk softly into it. How awful this is, how I’m struggling to hold it. How humiliating the position is. How the nurses’ glee makes me feel helpless and stupid. How they were smart to strap me down because I’d be fighting the whole procedure otherwise. How I never want another Three-H as long as I live—but I’d love to give one to Sara, talking her through it, rubbing her belly.

Maybe ten minutes later they come back, free the straps, and tell me I can get up and use the toilet. They don’t leave fast enough, and I don’t even care, I need it so bad.

They return when I’m getting dressed. “My goodness, where do you think you’re going? We have time for one more, maybe two.”

“But I—”

“No buts, young man. Except your butt, filled up with a good big enema.” She starts undoing my pants.

“Not another Three-H, I hope.”

“We don’t repeat ourselves so quickly, unless we feel you had an atypical experience. Your Three-H was as expected. What do you think, warm oil?” she asks the other Nurse.

The woman nods.

The sun’s coming up when I go home, finally, and I’m, like, insane with need. I wake Sara up by eating her pussy, and we fuck furiously, then sleep wrapped in each other’s arms, although of course she gets up before I do, since I was up all night.

So every Friday and Saturday night, I stay an extra two hours and get all kinds of enemas, and talk into the microphone holding each one. Sometimes they’d put a butt plug in me—well, any of several they had—and make me walk around the infirmary. It changes how you move, for sure.

Night Nurse—the original older one I’d been talking to—finally told me I’d had all the enemas she knew. “Would you like to repeat any? Refresh your memory in light of what you know now?”

“Thanks, but no.” I hoped I’d never get another one.

“All right, then. I took the libery of typing up your recordings, which I’ve destroyed.” She hands me a manila envelope.

“Deleted files aren’t really gone,” I say.

“I used a typewriter, dear. The Facility deliberately doesn’t use computers. You can’t hack a typewriter.”

I already knew Corrections inside out, and now I knew enemas. Time to present it all to Sara and see what her move is.

First I planted the idea, to see how she’d react. “You know, some of the people where I work had their school paid for by The Facility. Or job training.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I think the deal is that first you’re a Charge—one of the sex workers—and after your contract is up, they pay for school. For the trades, I think they might have to work there for a while after they finish.”

“What do you mean, the trades?”

“Trade school. Plumbers, electricians. Skilled trades.”

“Like nursing?”

“That’s college, isn’t it? I don’t know if they make you work there after they pay for college. Or if they pay for college. It’s not like I’m in on that kind of thing. I’m just Corrections.”

“But they might pay?”

I had her interest. She hates the kind of jobs LPNs can get, and studying for the RN is a full-time job by itself. “The new Assistant Manager went to grad school on their dime, got her masters in operations management, whatever that is. I heard her telling somebody in the lunchroom that she got other offers but picked The Facility. So I guess she had the option of working someplace else if she wanted.”

“Do you think they’d do that for me? Because if I had the RN…”

“I don’t know for sure, but probably. If you’re willing to be a sex worker for two years, that is. That’s a huge ‘if.’”

She didn’t answer. The next time it came up, I told her it wasn’t just sex-sex, it was some seriously kinky shit, and I’d support her in getting comfortable with it, even talk to The Masters when she thought she was ready, if she was sure.

The start was difficult, but by fall Sara loved it and was sure. She signed up and never looked back—and broke up with me at the end of her two years so she could re-up. She loved the life of a Charge more than life with me.

I’m not ashamed to say I went home, got good and drunk, and cried. Over the next few days, I packed up her stuff.

For the second time, I asked if I could talk to The Masters at their convenience. This time I wasn’t asking for a favor for my girlfriend, one that might benefit The Facility it if worked out, but for myself. And it definitely wouldn’t benefit The Facility.

“Do you know if there are other places like The Facility? I need to leave.”

“Ahh,” said one of The Masters. “Sara?”

“It’s killing me, seeing her. She made her choice, but man…”

“Let me make some calls.”

The news was not great. I left the boxes of Sara’s things at The Facility, put some of my stuff in storage, donated the rest, quit my job, and took a road trip.

#

The Master told me places like The Facility once flourished in a handful of cities, but none were as well financed or run as they needed to be to survive. Now there are only groups of former members and kindred spirits who rent a place for a weekend play party that includes what I do at Corrections. He gives me a list of parties and who to contact. “There are probably others. If you attend, be sure to ask.”

A letter from The Masters introduces me, a guest who observes but does not participate, at every one of them.

The people are generally in their thirties through fifties or sixties, and not many are attractive. Groups range from six people meeting in someone’s finished basement to thirty or so renting an entire ski lodge off-season, which tells me there’s money. They do their own check in and cleaning so nobody else is around.

This is the one, then. I return for a second visit.

I offer my services and recommendations from The Facility on a per-weekend basis, Friday night through late Sunday afternoon. They pay pretty good, and the lodge has a big meeting room that’s part of the deal, with a raised platform for speakers or demonstrations at one end.

It’s not enough to live on. I interview for a warehouse job driving a forklift, which I did for a couple years in my twenties. “I have weekend commitments. If you schedule me a conflict, I’d have to quit.”

“What are you, in a band? Wedding photographer?”

“I take care of older people.” Accurate enough. “They really need me.”

I show up on time, do what I’m told, and don’t take stupid chances. Management likes me as much as my co-workers resent me for making them look bad. I don’t make friends.

The people at the play parties have been around the block and appreciate my skill, especially once they realize how good I am at taking somebody to the edge and holding them there, or pushing them over the line without so much as a bruise on their sizzling ass.

They like more drama than The Facility. They light the little stage, leaving the room dark. I put together sexy outfits, shopping thrift stores with one of the women. Leather pants with a silk shirt, or no shirt and a black mask. A floppy poet’s shirt and snug gray-striped trousers. Tight jeans and a leather vest or a T-shirt that hugs my muscles. Shirtless in overalls, with a straw cowboy hat. Costumes.

The women come on to me pretty often. “Sorry, but staff does not mingle.” I smile; I’m the only staff they’ve got. “Even though staff is flattered.” A lie.

“Are you sure? I’d make it worth your while.”

Diana, I think her name is. Too aggressive, and kind of mean to her husband. “You’re really beautiful, but it’s completely unprofessional. If I’d done it at The Facility, it would have cost me my job.” Thank God I had Sara.

Sara. Her absence still hurts.

Life goes on. It’s at one of those parties that I introduce an additional punishment after caning Diana good.

It’s common, the person with the blazing butt not sensing pain like they should. They want more when they ought to go upstairs and have sex with their man.

“You call yourself a professional? You’re afraid to do your damned job! Hit me. I dare you! Or should I get one of the men up here so you can show them what a cocksucker you are?” She immediately covers her mouth with one hand, red nails and three gaudy diamond rings I bet are real.

“Clearly you need more punishment,” I announce, loud, “and you’re really going to get it.”

“Ooh, yes. I need to be punished really bad.”

“I expect you’ll change your mind, but it will just be too late, won’t it? Five minutes. Gentlemen and ladies, could you see to it that she’s restrained with that nice striped ass accessible before I get back? And that she’s blindfolded?” I carry my duffel bag of supplies into the kitchen. One of the men follows me. “Out!” I bark.

I fill the enema bag all the way and add castile soap. When I return, some people gasp at what I’m carrying.

“Oh, no…” a woman says.

“Not one word from any of you,” I growl, “or you’re next. No excuses, no refusals, just restrained, blindfolded, and getting the same thing. Do we all understand?” I slip the douche nozzle inside the restrained woman.

“What is that?” Diana says.

I hold one finger over my lips and give those watching a conspiratorial wink. “Come closer, everyone. You want to see this for yourselves.” I open the stopcock and the warm soapy water flows fast.

“Oh. Oh! This is awful!”

“That’s what makes it a punishment. Keep complaining. I’m here all night, and the water never runs out.”

The punishment enema is a huge hit with everyone but the woman who gets it. She’s in the bathroom so long I go upstairs to my room before she comes out.

The next day’s session starts after lunch. A plump woman with amazing curly hair tells me she needs a punishment that punishes and isn’t fun. “Maybe kind of, you know, humiliating?”

“You mean an enema?”

“Yes,” she says, all meek. “I’ve been really bad.”

“Maybe you deserve a paddling, then an enema.”

Her face colors and she can’t look me in the eye any more. “If you say so.”

From that point forward, I give an enema for every three or four other kinds of corrections, to women and men both. When someone doesn’t seem uncomfortable enough, I make them hold it, on the stage or walking the perimeter of the room with a butt plug. They hunch and walk funny, just like Sara did. Does. I jerk off in my room, remembering. Wondering what would happen if I went back.

Time slides past. I see a woman at work for a while, but she gets mad when I won’t tell her where I go weekends. She doesn’t want to be spanked anyway and won’t take it up the ass. “That’s nasty, Drew. You’re nasty!”

Maybe. But it’s not like I chose this. I’ve been who I am since I can remember.

Play party attendance falls off in winter; the ski lodge isn’t available. Once a month some of the regulars meet at a drafty beach hotel that’s seen better days. Some people come with out-of-season tans announcing they’ve traveled.

One time I run into one of the women at the liquor store and she buys my bourbon. “Enjoy!” she says. “I know we don’t pay you what you’re worth. It’s the least I can do.” I’m ridiculously grateful and I thank her every time I see her until she teases me to stop—and gives me another bottle.

With spring, we’re back at the lodge. “Word about you is getting around,” the woman who bought my bourbon tells me. “Every room is booked and we’re sending overflow to hotels.”

“You need my room? I’ll do a hotel if you’re paying.” I’m safe to drive, since I don’t drink when I’m working.

“Would you? We’d like the visitors from other play parties to feel included. There’s serious talk of people camping in the lobby.”

They get me a nice room every weekend. One Friday night I’m pouring sweat while spanking a man with a thick wooden ruler that digs into my palm. It’s a long time before he yelps. I set down the ruler, note the sore red mark on my hand, and turn toward the people clapping, my arms raised like I was a rock star.

Then I see Sara, right in front. Beaming at me, she takes the few steps into the lights. “I’ve been looking for you. The Masters didn’t know where you went, and they didn’t want to share the information they gave you, either.”

“A list of places with play parties,” I tell the people watching us like it’s theater. The man I just beat and his hard-on are attentive.

“I talked to people and made my own damned list, then started visiting. Texas, Florida, all these cities on the East Coast. At least The Masters gave me a letter of introduction. Then a woman in D.C. told me they’d hosted a man here who used to work Corrections at The Facility, and that she heard he had a steady weekend gig here. I drove straight through. Hoping when I don’t have any right to hope.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t say anything.

“Biggest mistake of my life, letting you go. I was okay being a Charge, and they said they’d pay my tuition, but I didn’t have enough to live on. That’s why I signed up again. I never thought you’d leave.” Her eyes shimmer; she’s trying not to cry. “I needed the money. As soon as my contract was up, I started looking for you. And here you are.” She holds out her arms for a hug.

Not happening.

“You’re still angry. You have every right to be. You should punish me for hurting you, however you want, in front of everyone.”

I nod. “Nothing ever hurt so bad as what you did.”

“So hurt me back.”

And I do, within the safety rules. We start with a long spanking across my knees, until my arm is so heavy I can barely lift it. Then there’s a three-H in the knee-chest position, emptied into a bucket in front of everyone because that’s humiliating. Some people leave. I don’t care; all of a sudden it’s my last night here. I put her across my knees again and apply the leather paddle to her ass. She’s put on a little weight and bounces nicely. Next up is small and soapy enema, held with a plug and some difficulty while I hiss into her ear how hurt I was, how I felt alone and worthless. I give her two with the cane while she’s still plugged, then she empties before a bigger rinse. After that, it’s alternating, a beating, a punishment enema, another beating, nothing very extreme because I want to keep going, need to. She cries eventually but pleads with me not to stop,to punish her more, no, more! She begs me to forgive her. She swears she loves me and I can do anything to her body at any time. “Except give me away. I’m only for you, now. Only you, Drew. Forever.”

It’s really late and we’re both wiped out. “We’re done. For tonight,” I add, then face the party people still watching. “Ah, I resign, and I thank you for all you’ve done for me. It’s been an honor and a pleasure. Sara, let’s get you to the hotel.” I scoop up her clothes and lead her buck naked to my truck, and find my rain gear behind the seat for her to wear through the lobby.

I put some ice and cold water in the sink to make her a compress while I shower. When I come out, I tell her I never stopped loving her and she cries again. We make love most of the night, every way we can think of. Her ass is more accessible than it used to be, and I love her butt all hot against my belly.

Early in the morning, she puts on yesterday’s clothes, although I must have dropped her panties somewhere. We get her car from the ski lodge’s lot and start the long drive to The Facility.