I’m not stupid. I know what people think when they see us together: Oh, isn’t that sweet, that nice young woman holding hands with her grandpa! Wait. He’s touching her bottom. That’s disgusting!

Except Jim is not my grandfather and it’s not disgusting. Jim is my Master, and it’s sexy as hell for both of us when he touches me like that in public. Because I am his willing slave, I never object, even though sometimes it hurts.

Jim likes to walk me on Fifth Avenue, only a few subway stops from home, after I’ve been punished. He insists I wear thong panties under a short skirt and jokes that we’re hoping for a stiff breeze. I stop to admire what’s in the store windows, and his hands are always on my ass then. Sometimes he buys me something pretty, but I don’t expect it.

We can’t go that far from his apartment when it’s an enema, and that only when it’s been rainy and the sidewalks are wet and have puddles. We’ll nod to people we recognize from the neighborhood, stop to buy something at the corner store or a fruit stand, my colon so full my belly bulges, my anus plugged to help me control myself. More than once I’ve had enema water trickle down the backs of my thighs. Jim marches me to stand in a puddle or at the gutter, where we pretend we’re arguing so people will keep their distance.

Master and slave are not roles we play as part of our sex lives. They’re our life-lives, except when we visit his kids, adults with families of their own. When Jim and their mother divorced, they didn’t share the real reason why: Jim needed the kind of relationship he has with me, and Marti wouldn’t be his slave, not even during sex play. They parted on fairly good terms, but the kids resented him for breaking up a happy family, Jim’s personal happiness of no importance to any of them.

Two or three times a year when we see his kids, I wear my work clothes and make a point of not touching Jim beyond maybe a finger on his arm to get his attention. They think I’m using Jim for his money, that he’s some sugar daddy rather than the love of my life.

#

I ran away from home when I was fifteen, and the police brought me back cold and hungry. Mom not only didn’t believe me when I told her how her boyfriend Stuart was always touching me while she was at work but slapped my face and called me a liar. I did it better the second time, taking the money from her purse and Stuart’s wallet before boarding a bus for New York City. Let them try to find me among eight million people.

By the time we got there, I didn’t feel so good. No surprise; a lot of the people on the bus were coughing and some were sick to their stomachs, making me wish I’d chosen a seat farther from the tiny bathroom in back.

At the Port Authority bus terminal, creepy guys kept approaching me, telling me I was pretty, asking where I was staying, did I need directions. A particularly persistent Hispanic guy with lots of ink wouldn’t leave me alone, and he was touching my arm like he owned me.

“Trixie!” Jim called, hurrying toward me. “I was afraid I’d missed your bus. Good trip?” He hugged me loosely, whispering near my ear. “Play along. We’ll get you away from him.”

“Okay, I guess. Boring. The bathroom smelled really bad.”

Laughing, Jim lifted the suitcase I’d taken from Stuart, offered me his arm, and escorted me into the street. “I’m Jim, and that man was trying to turn you into a prostitute.”

“I figured it was something like that. Trixie,” I said.

“Very funny. Let’s get you set up in my spare bedroom, just for tonight. No strings attached—although I do hope you’ll tell me your name.”

It was the first time I really looked at him. He was short, maybe five-seven, mostly bald, and dressed nice. His smile was his best feature, blue eyes a close second. I couldn’t guess his age, but he was, you know, old.

He stuck his arm out and a cab pulled up. Jim gestured for me to get in first, then handed me the suitcase and got in himself. He gave the driver an address, then turned back to me. “Name?”

“Amanda.”

“On your own?”

“I’m going to get a job right away. I’ll do anything.”

“Not what those men in the bus station wanted, though.”

“Right. Not that.”

His apartment building had a doorman and an elevator like on a TV show. He really did have a spare bedroom. “This will be yours tonight. Sorry about the boxes.” He made us grilled cheese sandwiches, but I hardly touched mine.

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t feel so good,” I confessed.

He touched his hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up. Let’s get some Tylenol into you. Go change into your pajamas, sweetheart.”

For two weeks, it was pretty bad. I shivered with chills, then threw off the covers awash in sweat. He made me clear soups, which I threw up. I had diarrhea so bad that twice I didn’t make it to the bathroom. Jim was wonderful, changing the bed, washing my clothes, sponging me clean, and later applying something slippery that quenched the fire at my asshole.

There wasn’t a TV in there, but Jim read to me by the hour, good books, pausing to talk about the story, sometimes sharing something about himself. I didn’t reciprocate, though. If he knew how old I was, he’d send me back for sure.

By the time I felt well enough to creep into the living room, weak as a kitten, I was not only grateful but terribly fond of him. “Amanda,” he said, “I want you to stay here. No funny business. You make yourself useful, and I’ll take good care of you.”

Since he wasn’t my guardian, Jim could not register me for school, but he bought the materials for the GED alternate diploma. “We’ll get you home-schooled,” he said. “And not just academics. Life skills matter.” He taught me to cook healthy meals using his hand-written recipe cards, some written by his mom and both grandmas, and we shared the cleaning, laundry, and shopping. It sounds so sad now, but it was the first time I could remember being happy since I was really little.

So gradually I didn’t realize it was happening, I opened up to him. He didn’t know where I came from, but he knew everything else.

Jim did not touch me in a sexual way—I was still fifteen, remember—but he was a strict disciplinarian. When I was flippant about doing poorly at a GED practice test, Jim pulled me across his lap and spanked me. I scrambled off, furious, called him an ugly name, and he yanked my pants down and spanked my bare butt, which hurt a lot more. Then he sat me on his lap, my seared cheeks sticking out beyond his thighs.

“You go ahead and be mad at me,” he said. “But you owe it to yourself to do better. Some day you’ll need to earn money, and to do that well, you need an education. Lots of people who didn’t get that high school diploma are poor their whole lives, even though plenty of them are pretty damned smart. Like you. Now let’s see you dry your eyes, study for a half hour, and try that test again.”

I sniffled. “Okay.” The spanking and loving words afterward made be feel… funny and excited, like a ride at the fair.

“That’s my good girl.”

I was still a child in many ways: selfish, combative, and defiant. Jim insisted I dress my age, so my clothes were almost like a little girl’s.

Sometimes I lied about not doing my assignments so I’d get a spanking; I think Jim knew, and that he liked lifting my skirt, pushing down my white cotton panties, and spanking me as much as I liked being spanked. Neither of us had to say it.

#

“Amanda, when you act like this, it tells me your body’s acting up. You don’t need a spanking as much as an enema.”

“No!” I was shocked, but that funny-excited feeling blossomed huge in my lower belly, and the crotch of my panties moistened. “You can’t!”

“All right, then, a good spanking, then an enema. Let’s go. Across my lap, young lady.”

Jim’s good spanking had me sizzling. He administered a warm water enema between tender red cheeks. I didn’t understand my moaned reaction, but later realized it was extreme arousal. How could I like something that invaded my most private place? It was humiliating, way worse than a spanking.

I loved it and quickly learned to complain, which got me a spanking then an enema—or two, three, or so many I’d be weepy at the announcement there would be another. Jim liked that. Then I would have to study with my bare butt on the wooden chair, so I couldn’t forget what would happen if I slacked off.

The GED exam seemed easy. Not yet seventeen, I enrolled in a community college three subway stops from home. Jim bought me several new outfits suitable for an older girl but still modest. Sometimes people at school looked at me funny, like I was weird, when what I was simply a proper young lady.

Two days after my eighteenth birthday, we got married. I was a virgin, of course, and he was unable to get hard. “I’m so sorry, Amanda. I’d hoped, with the pill…” He shook his head. “You deserve someone who can perform.”

“I love you,” I reminded him. “You know other ways to please me?”

“Let’s get you a nice enema, and I’ll touch you just right.”

It turned into three enemas, and three orgasms. They were amazing, addictive. I just couldn’t get enough.

“Now that you’re my wife,” he said, “I’ll get you on a schedule for enemas and maintenance spankings that works with your classes.”

“Maintenance spankings?”

“A taste of what will happen if you don’t do well at school.”

I nodded. “Every Monday morning, obviously. No, wait. Every weekday. Last thing before I leave.”

“Excellent. Enemas Sunday evenings and Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Maybe both?”

“That’s my girl. My wife!”

“Are you busy now? Just talking about it makes me, you know…”

Our slave-Master play evolved over the first months of our marriage. I liked to come to Jim, kneel in front of him, and confess. “I missed an easy question on the quiz because I hurried instead of reading carefully,” I’d lie.

“You need a spanking, then.”

“Also, I let my mind wander in American Lit, thinking about you taking me out without any panties, wearing a short skirt.”

“Amanda, we need to get a few paddles, and a cane. For now, I’ll just use my ruler.”

It stung, then burned. I blew my nose and changed into my little skirt. For the first time, Jim whisked me outside, the doorman’s eyes on me. Did he suspect? We took a taxi to Times Square, with all the tourists. Jim touched my bottom a lot, renewing the sting again and again. I leaned close to him to whisper, “Master, your slave needs more, then a punishment enema.”

We took the subway home. Jim wanted to know how I knew about punishment enemas; he’d never given me anything but warm water with sea salt and baking soda.

“The internet,” I said.

“You will make me a recipe card for every punishment enema you can find,” he announced. “There are index cards in the desk. Just add them to the recipe box under E.”

“Yes, Master.” I made fifteen recipe cards as fast as I could.

“We’ll need a trip to the store,” he said after reading them. “For now, let’s just use cold water.”

It was pretty awful, with lots of cramping and urgency denied. I squirted a little once, and he spanked me with the ruler again. “You’re starting to bruise.”

“We need a switch. Um, maybe birch twigs, like in the old porn?”

“Where did you read old porn, young lady?”

My mother’s boyfriends didn’t even try to hide it. “Back home,” was all I said.

When I got my associates degree, I doubt my classmates knew I’d been well caned just before leaving the house, or that I accepted my diploma while wearing a butt plug held in place with tight thong panties.

“Now I can get a decent job,” I countered. “I hope.”

“You don’t have to work.”

“I want to, though. I’ll always be your wife, first and foremost, but I want to be make the world a better place, too.” I found something pretty quickly, thirty underpaid hours a week at a non-profit. I contributed to the household for the first time, and saved up a lot. Maybe I would be able to enroll in real college eventually.

It was not to be.

#

“What day do you get off work at noon?” Jim asked.

“This week, it’s Wednesday.”

“Don’t make plans for after, just come home.”

Jim and I taxied to a high-rise office building and went to a dizzying level to see his lawyer, where Jim signed his updated will in front of the firm’s notary. Each of his adult kids got the same bequest, and I got the rest. The lawyer, a woman about Jim’s age, shook our hands as we left but did not smile.

“One more stop, then maybe out to dinner?” Jim said. “It might be too early.”

The financial planner was patient, explaining to us what my husband already knew about his insurance, investments, assets, Social Security, and lots more. Essentially, Jim was well positioned, his income safe no matter what might happen to the market. At least the planner smiled as we parted.

“What was that all about? Just getting your ducks in a row?”

“I’m dying, Amanda. With luck, I have two years, maybe three.”

#

“You and your husband were together how long?” Both these older men had introduced themselves as The Master, so I thought of them as Grey Suit and Blue Suit.

“Together thirteen years, married six.”

“We’re so sorry for your loss. He was an active member at one time, although neither of us was a Master yet. He contacted us when he received the hard news, explained what your needs are, and suggested you might do well here as a Charge,” Grey Suit explained.

“A sex worker for our fetish-oriented clientele,” Blue Suit added.

I felt faint. “A whore?”

Blue Suit backpedaled. “Not at all. In fact, we have a female Charge who was a virgin when she came to us and still is. She allows anal. Is that something you’d consider?”

“If I was a whore? Sure, why not?”

“Jim told us what it takes to wipe that smirk off your face.” Grey Suit scowled.

“Oh, did he now?” I wasn’t scared of these guys.

“A long bare-bottom spanking, then two enemas, the second one a punishment.” Blue Suit had a good smile. “He gave us your recipe cards so we’d know what you’re used to. Said he hoped you’d think of him while you were filling.”

I felt the blood leave my head. “He did?”

“Jim wanted this for you. Two years, and we pay your college tuition at any public university you choose and that accepts you. You live on his money, go to school on ours, and see where life takes you. We hope back to us here, but you would have met your obligation already. Is this something you’d consider?” Grey Suit tented his fingers and looked at me over them.

“He wanted this for me? He said so?”

“We have a video, but I thought seeing it might be painful for you, so soon after,” Blue Suit said. “I could read you the transcription.”

“Please.” Could this be true? I’d know Jim’s words, even if they could fake video with AI these days.

“Hi, Trixie,” Blue Suit read, then looked up. “Trixie?”

“Private joke.” Tears clogged my voice.

“My sweet wife, I’m so sorry to leave you alone and in need. I’m in touch with the place where I learned how to fulfill your desires, and I’m instructing them to contact you when I’m gone. You’ll know I really did it when they show you the recipe cards you wrote for me so long ago. I’ve asked them to take you in for a few weeks, long enough to use each of those recipes to fill your amazing bottom, and to send you to Corrections as often as they deem appropriate.”

“What’s Corrections?” I said.

“They correct the Charges’ behavior with physical punishment, usually to the buttocks,” Grey Suit said. “Within safety limits, always. No blood, no scars. Plenty of ouch and a good big dose of humiliation. Jim said you liked being taken out with your beaten buttocks barely covered by a short skirt, or while holding an enema.”

“Yes,” I whispered. It was really his wish that I be here.

Blue Suit resumed. “Please honor my last wish for your happiness, my darling bride, and tell The Masters you will be their guest at the Facility for two weeks. Do it now.”

“Yes,” I said, louder. “Yes, I will.”

“Just as we’d hoped. We have an Attendant waiting to take you to Corrections.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Open the door and go where Attendant directs you.”

Attendant doesn’t talk to me. We walk fast. The corridors are a maze, but I think we’re repeating some of them before we get to a heavy wooden door with that pebbly glass at its window, the kind you can’t really see through except colors. Attendant knocks and steps back.

A big man with long hair in a ponytail opens the door. “You must be Amanda. Come in, please. I’m Drew. I’ll be correcting you.”

“Do I need correcting?”

He flashes a grin. “One of us corrects every Charge, whether they’ve behaved or not, as often as The Masters tell us to. Apparently you need a long spanking over my knees. Just my hand. Not too scary, right? My wife actually likes those spankings.” Drew unbuttons my shirt and I don’t protest. “I like them, too, in a different way. Turn around, let me get the skirt.”

In no time I’m standing there naked in front of a man I met three minutes ago. A man who’s going to spank me, because Jim arranged for this.

Drew sits in a sturdy armless chair. “Right across my legs, with your head closer to the door. That’s good, but closer to my body. Ah, I see you’ve done this before, am I right? Don’t worry about the trembling. It’s pretty common, but it’ll stop once we get going. Ready?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but spanks my bare butt, hard and fast. He’s a lot stronger than Jim and I’m burning in no time, but it goes on and on and on. I can’t help kicking my feet and trying to block the swats with my hands, which is, of course, forbidden.

Someone I can’t even see grabs one hand, then the other, holding them tight by the wrists. I lift my head but all I see is uniform pants legs. My spanking continues until I’m crying, then wailing.

Drew stops. “There, not so bad. You handled it like a trouper. Didn’t ask me to stop once. My instructions are to remind you that you’re a good girl.”

“I can’t disagree.” The voice comes from whoever held my hands. A woman.

“Good.” My voice is clogged with tears.

“You can get up. Here, let’s get you into the Charge uniform. It’s like a nightshirt. Arms over your head, then just stand still. On you, it’ll reach way past your knees, but I’m going to clip up the back so everybody can see you got a good spanking, like Jim wanted. Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty more. Attendant?”

A different Attendant, this one verbal. “Come with me.” I feel the eyes of everyone we pass. My throbbing bottom must be glowing red. I’m not used to display. The risk of it showing when Jim walked me was tame in comparison. We pass people in the corridors and I feel their eyes.

The Infirmary is brightly lit. “I’ll leave you to Night Nurse. She knows what you need.”

“Come in, dear.” The woman wears a stiff white uniform, white stockings and shoes, and a little cap like nurses from a long time ago. “We’re going to the glass-walled part there, all lit up. Get you taken care of just the way you need. Gracious, Drew did a fine job. I can feel the heat from here!”

She guides me onto a padded vinyl table and has me lie on it just so, with small adjustments to my position until she’s satisfied. “Let’s get your temp, shall we?” The thermometer feels huge in my anus. “You relax, dear. Feel the thermometer and your spanked bottom and think your thoughts while I get everything ready.”

Jim wanted this for me. Wanted me to be spanked longer and harder than he could. Wanted me to walk with my punished bottom on open display. Wanted my temperature taken in the most humiliating way. Wanted whatever else the Night Nurse is going to do.

I know what’s in store, of course I do, but the soft shoosh of her steps in those white shoes scares me just as much as the size of the enema bag. It, too, is from another era, made of golden rubber you can see through, a vertical oblong bulging at the bottom with the weight of its contents. Steam rises from a thin layer of bubbles at its top. Night nurse hangs it on a stand, then raises the stand higher than she could reach.

“We’ll run a little into the bedpan, so we know we’re not injecting any air…” she says as much to herself as to me. “There we go. Let’s check your temp, then lubricate your anus.”

I miss the thermometer. Night Nurse writes something on a form on the desk, then goes behind me. There’s the snap of a rubber glove, a soft splat, then cold moisture at my anus, worked in a small circle before the finger slips inside. “Very good, dear. Not a word of complaint.”

The nozzle is soft rubber, too, with two inflatable bulbs. She slips one inside me and inflates it, then tugs it snug against my anus from the inside. When she inflates the second bulb, it spreads my cheeks a little and holds the inside bulb in place.

“There we are. That’s about all we can do to stop any leaks. Of course, if you were to leak a lot, I’d be obligated to send you back to Corrections. Drew is there for some time yet. He’s very good, don’t you think? All right, let’s begin, yes, just be still, feel that flow. I like to deliver the first part fast, about one-point-five liters. We’re all about metric here. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it. If you ask me, the US is lagging behind the rest of the world when it comes to metric. It’s the more sensible system. We’ll just fill your colon with two-point-five liters of this nice solution and have you hold it for a while. That’s important, giving it time to loosen up whatever’s clinging. Well, look at you! Such a good girl. Now we slow it down a good bit.”

Thank goodness.

“You’ll be feeling more pressure as you fill, and the glycerin in the mix will make you feel the need to expel. You absolutely cannot let that happen. The double-balloon helps, but in the end, you’re the person in control of your anus. Hold tight, now. Don’t think I didn’t see that little trickle down your cheek, although we’ll pretend I didn’t unless you do it again. I understand your late husband arranged for this. They know us so well, better than we know ourselves, some of them. He must have loved you so very much, to make sure you continued to enjoy the kinds of attentions he paid to your buttocks even after he’s gone. Yes, about a half liter remaining. You can make a little noise it it helps. Relax your tummy muscles and breathe through your mouth, slow and easy. Oh, nearly there, so close, so— Oh, dear. Hold on! Tighter! I truly thought you were going to take it all. I must say I’m quite disappointed. You can just lie there in the mess you made for your ten minutes’ holding time. Then we’ll let you expel, and after that, you can clean up after yourself.”

My face flames hot. “Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

“Not like you will be after I send you back to Corrections. You’re not off to a very good start, are you?”

“I’ll do better.”

At Corrections, Drew gives me four with the cane and sends me back to Night Nurse for a cold rinse, which I somehow manage to hold as ordered. I follow Attendant to the dormitory area on shaky legs, exhausted by The Facility’s attentions. All the other Charges see my ass, both scarlet and striped. I don’t care, because Jim would have enjoyed it.

In the morning, they get us all up while it’s still dark. Four of us are marched to the infirmary for enemas. I do not protest, but afterward, we all visit Corrections just the same.

That was six years ago. I have not left The Facility since I arrived except to meet with Jim’s financial advisor, now mine, twice a year. Jim’s estate is waiting for me when and if they force me out, but so far, I still have Clients who want to do to me what Jim did, and I love them for it. Not like I loved him, but it’s good. I didn’t think I could be happy without Jim, but he’s always with me. Always.