One girl makes a slight sound, as if her throat swallows a fearful groan.
The Head Spinner smacks her baton into the palm of her hand. “Remove your clothes. All of you.”
I’ve already become accustomed to forced disrobing, so I drop my dress to the floor without complaint. They don’t give us underwear here.
The Head Spinner walks to the first girl in line and uses her baton to tilt the girl’s chin up. “All body hair is unseemly in the sight of the Lord.”
And what Bible verse says that, exactly? Porn 1:69? I keep my thought to myself.
She slides her baton down the naked girl’s torso and stops at the patch of hair between her thighs. “Shameful. All of you. Your bodies are shameful. We have twelve months to try and mold you into females that God and the Prophet can be proud of.” She lets out a labored sigh and moves to the next girl. “But I have never had such a bottom-of-the-barrel class of Maidens in the past five years.” She uses her baton to poke at Eve’s curvy waistline. “That one’s a sasquatch, this one needs to lose weight.” She continued down the line until she came to me. “Now here’s one that shows promise. Trim body, good hair—of course we’ll need to remove that mess between your legs.” She presses the baton under my chin, lifting my face to hers. “Oh, dear.” She frowns. “These eyes simply won’t do.” She clucks her tongue. “There’s something in them I don’t care for. Something that is displeasing to the Lord.” She hesitates for another moment before moving down the row, criticizing hair, weight, dimples, cellulite, skin tone, and even the location of moles. “Is this a tattoo?” Her disgust coats the air like oil on water. “How on earth did you make it into the Cloister with this evil mark of the fallen world on your body?”
By the time she returns to the front of the line, we’ve all shrunk about six inches, and I hear some sniffles in the back.
She smacks the baton in her palm. “The Cloister was created by the Prophet to train young women, such as yourselves, to follow the Lord’s teachings and obey His will. Some things that happen here may confuse you.” A hint of a smile creeps across her thin lips. “They may even scare you, but be assured that everything is done in accordance with the Prophet’s plan for your life. You will understand in time.”
She speaks with a sureness I’ve only seen in salesmen and politicians. It makes my skin crawl.
“You three Maidens, here.” She points to the first set of tables.
“The next three, here.” She motions with her baton to the second area.
I’m the last woman to take one of the tables with the odd IV bag.
“Up.” The nearest Spinner pats my table.
I climb and sit, my arms wrapped around my knees. Dread pulses through me with each beat of my heart.
“The rest of you, come with me.” The Head Spinner leads the remaining women to the lattice wall.
“I need the three of you on all fours.” One of the Spinners behind the tables grabs an IV bag and turns on the water, testing its warmth with her fingertips.
That’s when I realize they aren’t IV bags. Too big. Too not-entirely-medical.
I saw one of these hanging behind the door in my grandparents’ bathroom and thought it was some sort of special balloon. Fun, right? No. They’re enema bags.
Sick fucks.
I exchange a glance with Sarah on the table next to me. Her brows are drawn together as she stares at the bag hanging from the hook above her table. I silently mouth the word “enema” to her.
She doesn’t understand.
I mouth it again.
When her brown eyes widen, I know she caught the word.
“All fours, I said!” the Spinner at the sink barks.
We all turn over and get on our knees. Humiliation washes over me in a dreadful torrent. I dig my nails into the top of the padded table. Another thought adds to my cocktail of shame: is there a camera in here like the one in the vent of my ceiling? Has to be. Maybe Adam’s watching right now, getting off on my torment.
A yelp draws my attention to the other three tables. One of the Spinners is waxing Eve, yanking her dark pubic hair out and tossing the strips aside. Another girl is on hands and knees as a Spinner applies something between her cheeks. She doesn’t rip it away. Must not be wax. A memory of Georgia and me watching “Bridesmaids” and giggling together floats through my mind. Are they bleaching her asshole?
I bet mine will be glowing white before the day is—this thought is interrupted when I feel cold hands on my backside and then the unmistakable insertion of a hose into my ass. My reaction is to push it out.