I was a beautiful baby. So were you, probably. But as I grew up, I remained beautiful. People approached Mama in public, asking if I would appear in their advertisements for toys or children’s clothing, that’s how pretty.

She refused. “My Esmeralda is not going to be spoiled by fame and money the other girls don’t have. She will have an ordinary childhood with school and play and church.”

The advertisements aired or appeared in Mama’s magazines, the girls not as pretty as me.

“I would have looked nicer,” I announced. “And they’d give me all the fancy dresses, too!”

“Greed is both ugly and a sin, child,” Papa said. “Pretty doesn’t last, and it doesn’t make you any better than other people. Pride is a sin, too.”

“Yes, Papa.” That was what he expected me to say. But how could it be wrong to take pleasure in being pretty?

By my teens, I’d grown tall and willowy, my lips pouting over even white teeth, my nose small, eyes doe-like, my shoulders wider than my slim hips: even more beautiful by present standards. Male teachers gave me better grades than I earned, and if pride was a sin, then I was a happy sinner. I rarely went to confession anyway.

Now the strangers approaching me for their advertising talked to me directly, not Mama at home with my little brothers and sisters, and sometimes I agreed, especially if they had cash to pay me for considering the offer. I would go to a photographer’s studio, taking my boyfriend Hernan just in case, sign whatever they put in front of me even though I was too young, and put on the pretty clothes or makeup and be photographed. I didn’t tell Mama and Papa, and spent the money on myself, saving half.

Hernan was my first lover, of course, handsome and so athletic that his coaches tried their best to get scouts to come to see him play baseball. He was sweet but loved his sports more than me. I could not make myself care about adjusting his batting stance or what a balk was, and his lengthy retelling of the exciting moments of his most recent game bored me.

A handsome photographer from San Diego was my second, and he did not bore me at all. He taught me to move differently for the camera than I had been, to make faces from haughty to naughty, hungry to angry. To let my shoulder or the top curve of my breast escape the expensive clothing, to walk with the ball of my foot making first contact with the surface, to push my pelvis forward, to make myself thinner.

“I’m already thin,” I protested.

“Your tummy sticks out sometimes,” he said. “Let me give you an enema.”

“What’s that?”

He showed me by doing it, gently, and touching my pussy the way I wished Hernan had while the warm water flowed into me. When I was empty, my belly was completely flat and my ass completely open for his cock.

After that, every time he took pictures, he did that first, an enema and his cock in my ass. He never hurt me but made me feel pretty and desirable.

“You should come to the States,” he’s say when he finished. “That’s where the real money is, in modeling.”

So I did.

I was seventeen when I traveled to the US on the private boat of a rich friend of the San Diego photographer’s. I carried my backpack filled with my best clothes; Mama and Papa thought I’d gone to school and was staying the night with Gabriella, who was really studious and hadn’t been my friend for years.

My photographer friend escorted me onto the yacht and introduced me to the owner, Irwin, who in turn introduced me to his friends, men older than Papa. Next I met the other girls, all of them beautiful, all of us fools who believed the lie that this would be a fun day trip.

We left so early there was haze over the water, but the party music blasted and the rum flowed. The photographer was not on board. Unaccustomed to alcohol, I got sleepy and found a shaded spot to lie down, but several of the other girls did not get to choose where they laid down or with which wealthy man.

It was dark when we arrived at the marina and were herded into a van, still hot inside from sitting in the sun all day, by three new men. The wealthy men ignored our departure.

In the van, some of the girls cried, saying they were promised modeling jobs but were raped instead, and now where were we going?

We drove for two days, stopping only for fast food and at highway rest areas where the men again herded us like sheep, with soft-spoken promises to hurt us if we tried to get away. One girl did, and the men kept their promise, knocking out a tooth.

#

By the time the police raided the building, I was twenty, still beautiful, and a whore, terrified of the men who sold my body. Rafaela had disappeared and when Estrella dared to ask, they’d beaten her pretty badly. We were in the van within the hour, some of us with no time to pack, sharing hairbrushes, clothes, and our fears.

They put us with social workers who helped us apply for asylum, directed us to jobs no one else wanted, and helped us find crappy apartments we could share. Even pooling our resources, we were poor and our standard of living was bad. We lived on the foods of the poor, beans and tortillas. I was lucky my group of four had a skilled shoplifter who made sure we had tampons, shampoo, and aspirin, although we worried she’d be arrested and deported.

Tilda was first to walk the street for money. She woke us after midnight, digging into her sexy outfit and pulling tens and twenties from her waistband, cleavage, and crotch. “Plenty to stock up on groceries!”

The next time she announced she was going out, I decided I would join her. We dressed together, swapping tops, evaluating makeup and hair. “I wish I had your ass,” Tilda said with a sigh.

“I bet they’d pay extra to have my ass.” I meant it as a joke.

“They do! A lot extra. If you do butt stuff, you can probably do great with only one customer per night.”

There was no reason for me to be lucky, but I was. My first three customers simply wanted to put their cocks in my ass and fuck me there, and they paid double. The fourth was Anthony.

He was older, in an unhappy marriage he would not leave because of their disabled son living at home forever. He’d invested well and retired just a little early. He paid all the bills and gave his wife a generous amount to spend on household necessities and herself, so she had no idea what he spent or how.

Anthony never lied about loving me, but he was quick to tell me how much he liked the way I looked. We spent time in a hotel together nearly every day, working around my schedule for my job, sometimes having anal sex, sometimes just watching old movies.

“I’m a selfish old man,” he began one evening.

“Not old. Not selfish, either.” I fingered the hem of the dress he’d bought me the previous afternoon, when I pouted about not feeling pretty in these old clothes.

“Yes, selfish. I want you all for myself, all the time. What would you say to having your own place, and not having to work?”

The apartment was small, just one bedroom, but it was nice, fully furnished, even dishes and art on the walls. “I hope you like it.”

“It’s wonderful! I will be your girlfriend here as often as you want. I can’t thank you enough.”

Usually Anthony called before coming over, but he would sometimes take his chances that I was home, letting himself in with his key. It was a safe bet; I was studying for my GED, although I wasn’t sure how that worked if I was here illegally. Sometimes I wished I had Gabriella to explain the math or what the textbook meant by “primate city,” which sounded to me like it was full of monkeys.

Because I only knew when Anthony was coming over some of the time, I always kept myself pretty. I used his Visa card for highlights at the high-end beauty salon, a mani-pedi, sexy lingerie, a Brazilian wax, sexy outfits. In a way, my purchases were gifts for him.

Still, I was startled and embarrassed to find Anthony hovering at the open bathroom door when I was self-administering a large enema. I’d taken nearly all of it and my need for the toilet was quite urgent.

“Anthony!”

“My Esme needed an enema?”

“I need to release it. Could you leave?”

“I think not.”

Confused feelings filled me as much as my enema. Anger at his refusal; usually Anthony was perfectly willing to do what I asked. Embarrassment at him knowing I took enemas, seeing me with the nozzle in my anus; I didn’t know any other girls who did. Humiliation at being so desperate; I danced in place, pressed my hand to my anus, longing eyes on the toilet.

“Release it.” His voice was stern.

It had reached the point of having no choice. I scurried the few steps to the toilet and my anus opened before I was fully seated. My face flamed hot at another person being present for this, knowing it. Anthony watched with interest and an erection until it was all stops and starts, smells and farts, when he came near me to pick up the enema bag, a nice green one I’d found online, expensive because they didn’t make green any more. He turned on the water at the sink and cleaned it thoroughly, scrubbing at the nozzle with soapy hands, running hot water into the bag and through the hose repeatedly.

For the first time since he’d ordered me to release it in front of him, Anthony spoke again. “Was it just water, or did you make a solution?”

“Water with a little castile soap. To make my tummy nice and flat for you.”

“Do I want your tummy nice and flat?” He adjusted the faucet’s temperature. “I think I would like to see it big and round with another enema. How much water can you take?”

“Not the whole bag. Three-quarters only.”

He ignored my limitation and filled the bag. “This soap? How much?” He held up the bottle with all the tiny writing.

“One cap for the bag three quarters full.”

Anthony carefully poured in a capful, then added a second. “Esme, you’ve taken advantage of my generosity and I won’t have it. Do you have any idea how much you’re spent this month?”

“Not really. I did it to be beautiful for you.”

“You’re quite beautiful without spending thousands of dollars to supplement what Nature gave you. I’m going to give you this enema as punishment for unnecessary purchases.”

He was right; I’d been selfish. I walked the few steps to where he stood holding the green bag, then turned around, bent well forward, and spread my buttocks open. He jabbed the nozzle in, not at all gently, and started the flow without another word.

It was awful, stinging inside my body. I was deeply ashamed to know I deserved it. “Anthony, I was bad. It’s good that you’re not letting me get away with it. Even though this is just terrible.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m enjoying it. I’ll enjoy spanking you when it’s over, too.”

“You can’t!”

He could. By the time all the the soapy enema was inside my bowels, I was crying softly, promising I’d be good, really good, I wouldn’t buy anything at all, but would he please stop, please? He would not.

“That’s the last of it. Let’s see your nice round tummy.” He pulled me upright by my hair, but not hard. “Oh, my, look at that, such a big enema belly. I like it, and apparently so do you. You’re very wet, Esme. Excited.”

“Excited to be done.” Excited the other way, too. “Can I release it now?”

“No, you need to stand at attention like a soldier and let me enjoy your enema belly for five minutes. In the tub, in case of accidents.”

He had good foresight, because within two minutes I could not hold my soapy filling. The slick water cascaded down the backs of my long legs, and I could not stop it. Could not close my anus. Anthony laughed and laughed, then left the room.

I emerged some time later, empty and contrite and naked. Anthony was not yet ready to forgive me, though. First I had to lay myself across his lap for a spanking. I was not afraid—it was Anthony—but maybe I should have been, because he’d rolled much of his belt around his fist and spanked me hard with the short length that remained until I was crying.

“Even wetter,” he announced, and tugged me toward my bed, where he put himself inside my ass and was the roughest he’d ever been, worst than Hernan when he didn’t know to be gentle and I was desperate to keep my virginity..

I came, so big I screamed and thrashed. Anthony liked that.

The next time he came over, he had two men with him, wearing nice suits. They reminded me of the human traffickers with their yacht, but nothing was further from the truth.

“These are two of The Masters,” Anthony said. “You don’t need to know their names.”

“Hello. What is it you’ve mastered?” I wasn’t usually so flippant, but what was Anthony going to do, spank me in front of strangers?

“A great deal,” one of them said. He wore a grey suit with a crisp white shirt and a sea blue tie. “We’ve mastered operating a Facility for discerning clients who seek something extra from a sex worker.”

The one in the navy suit added, “And we’ve mastered training our sex workers to do their very best, because they are handsomely rewarded for good service, and severely punished for bad.”

“Do you hit their buttocks with a belt?” I said, my voice hot with fresh outrage.

Grey Suit smiled. “Yes, we do. And more, whatever is required to correct their behavior.”

“We also reward good work. For every two years of service, we will underwrite one year of education or training in a field we agree upon. We’re seeking to give our Charges transferable skills that will get them employment wherever they choose to go—and be of use to us if they choose to stay.”

“I did not finish school,” I told them, “but it was not because I was stupid. I was foolish and let a photographer take advantage of the naive child I was.”

“Your high school equivalency would come first, then. Assuming you are able to show some basic skills and cooperation during the Master’s evaluation.”

“What is that?” I looked to Anthony for help, but his face was unreadable.

“You and a Master spend five or six hours together being physically intimate in many ways. Some will be familiar, no doubt, and others new to you and perhaps off-putting.”

“Does that mean I won’t like them?”

“Exactly. Which of us would you prefer to evaluate you?”

“Now?”

“Yes. If we accept you, we will pay our friend Anthony the amount you have charged to his credit card as a finder’s fee. If we do not, you and he will have to work out some arrangement.”

“It’s going to involve my belt every single day,” Anthony growled. “I won’t be used like that.”

How had I ever thought Anthony was a nice man? “When do we begin?”

“To whom are you speaking?” Navy Suit asked.

“You,” I said.

“You’ll excuse us, then,” Grey Suit said. He and Anthony left immediately.

For the first time, I was afraid. What if this was a snuff film brought to life? I didn’t know this man. Just like I didn’t know the men to whom by body was sold, night after night, before I met Anthony. It would be okay, I told myself, but I wasn’t fully convinced.

“Show me your body,” Navy Suit ordered. He had his phone out and was doing something to the screen.

I undressed, trying to be provocative without turning it into a strip show, always ready to be photographed.

“Excellent legs and buttocks,” he said into the phone. “Small breasts, but proportional. Nipples fully brown.”

“I’ve always wanted implants.”

“No waist to speak of. Good skin, no scars or tattoos, no sign of tanning. Excellent face.”

“Thank you.”

“Lie on the bed and show me your pussy.”

I was glad of the recent Brazilian, only a few hairs attempting to grow back in.

“Hm, inner labia protruding unevenly. Feet in the air, like I was going to change your diaper. Yes, just so. Anus browner than ideal, but no hemorrhoids. Let’s get you the first enema.”

“First?”

“Your job here is to cooperate at a minimum, although your attempt to please me would be better. Anthony tells me you have a green bag.”

I fetched it, and the baking soda and sea salt containers, too.

“Liquid castile soap?”

“Of course,” I said, and smiled like I was looking forward to it.

Navy Suit pulled the duvet off the bed, leaving only the bottom sheet, and had me lie there, ready for the enema. He filled the bag at the bathtub.

It was the worst enema ever: too hot, too soapy, too much, hung too high. And there was nothing that would protect the bed if I had the accident I feared. My fight for control was grueling as the hot soapy water climbed my colon, filled it full, kept coming, until my belly was round with pressure that made me grunt with effort to contain myself.

He let me release it right away, but gave me a second one, pleasantly tepid, immediately.

“There, a good rinse. Go use the toilet.”

When I returned, after a fast clean-up of both toilet and buttocks, he pulled me across his lap for a spanking, which wasn’t so bad. Papa’s were worse, probably done in anger. When he finished, he inserted a finger inside my anus, without any lube, which pulled and hurt as well as pinning me in place.

I lay motionless, more aware of that dry finger than anything else. “I feel like a butterfly on a pin.” My anus pulsed around it.

“You’re as pretty as a butterfly, Esme. But being a Charge takes more than that.”

It’s hard to remember what he did to me in order. There was a little butt plug that vibrated, tickling me there in a way that made me giggle. A paddling that stopped my childish laughter. His penis in my pussy, my mouth, and later my anus, but he did not come. One slap, just one, across my face. A belt across my bottom, many strokes. Rope tying my hands and ankles, and a big enema I had to hold there until he freed me. Different rope spreading my arms and legs wide as I lay on the bed while he fucked me with a dildo. Leather straps around my neck and waist, holding my wrists in front of me and a big anal hook inside me, pulling if I dared to move. An enema so cold it hurt. A few strokes with a cane. A different paddle. A fat butt plug that stayed where he put it thanks to a leather harness. When it came out, this leather slapper on a flexible stick spanking my distended anus again and again and again.

By ten the next morning, I was on board an American Airlines plane with no luggage, not even my purse. Mr. Navy Suit, in the seat beside me, assured me that everything I needed would be provided at The Facility. My swollen buttocks and chafed anus kept me from sitting still, and my pussy felt messy with wet desire.

Mr. Navy Suit leaned close and whispered into my ear. “Esme, we cannot allow you to draw attention to yourself. If you don’t hold still, I’m going to send you to the restroom to insert a butt plug that you’ll wear until we change planes. Is that clear?”

I nodded and tried harder to be motionless, although a part of me wanted that plug and hoped it was a big one.

I never saw Anthony again.