My heart sinks, just a little, when I enter the hotel. Same lobby. Same plastic plants. Same anodyne music. Same “Good evening! Welcome to the Holiday Inn”. Same as last week and the week before. I check in feeling listless and unmotivated.
Later, returning somewhat energised from the Gym, an Asian woman holds the lift open so I can enter. I guess we’re both hoping I’m not trailing any post gym untpleasantness. She’s older than me, but trim with beautiful eyes that would be quick to smile.
“I’ve just booked the restaurant. Is it any good?” she asks, her English slightly accented.
“Well, not to put you off, but it is a bit mass produced.”
“Oh dear, its been such a long day. Could you recommend anywhere?”
I pause. There’s something about her. She holds herself well, centred; there’s a self contained stillness in her, perhaps from pilates or martial arts training.
“There’s a rather good Asian place across the road. I usually go there on a Monday. Join me if you’d like to.” Neutral tone, neither too expectant nor too assuming. And I don’t expect or assume; I really would like some company for dinner.
“I think I might,” she says. “I’m hungry. Half an hour?”
We swap career stories, music tastes and travel experiences over a selection of Asian starters and exquisite Beef Rendang, its spicy, coconutty, meatiness drawing murmurs of appreciation from the former resident of Singapore opposite me. She’s taken a part time job lecturing at the nearby university, staying in the hotel one night each week. Just like me.
I forget who mentions Fifty Shades first; it’s not so surprising, the second film is showing.
“Most of us in the community hate it,” I comment, realising too late how much my phrasing of this tells her.
“Sorry, what I mean is… that is….” My voice tails away.
She looks at me appraisingly.
“I used to be in a submissive relationship,” she says finally , going on to tell me the story of her Dominant/Submissive first marriage in Singapore; how he’d left her with two five year old twins and little money; she tells me of the wealthy but kinkless visiting businessman who’d fallen in love with her, offered to put her children through private school; how for them she’d sublimated her needs and desires, travelled to England, loved him as best she could. She tells me she still loves him.
She tells her story calmly and without rancour. Her final words are spoken quietly, looking straight into my eyes:
“I haven’t been spanked for twenty years.”
The words hang between us, suspended in the air while we study them, both wanting to be sure they and their apparently portentous meaning are real. Eventually, still looking into my eyes, she takes a deep breath and lets it out very slowly, while her hands drop quietly into her lap. Finally she breaks my gaze, lowering her head to look at her hands. I see the tension leave her to be replaced by a quite beautiful stillness.
I spank her in the soulless, bland bedroom of the Holiday Inn.
I spank her over my knee, tentatively at first then more firmly as her bottom rises to meet my hand, twisting slightly with each smack; “hit me here, now here,” her movements tell me.
I spank her fast and hard over the oak veneer table, the lamp breaking as we push it to the floor.
I spank her tied to the bed with the cords from the hotel dressing gowns, pillows under her pelvis.
I show her my belt and she nods so I spank her with that, blow after blow adding angry red stripes to her already hot and bruised bottom.
We change positions and she beats me with the same belt.
She beats me with great strength and accuracy, first with it folded over then using the full length.
She beats me until I’m sore and hot and sweaty, twisting away from it, breathing hard, welts already forming.
And we fuck. We fuck the pain away. We fuck with the desperation of two lovers after a long separation. We fuck from the glorious release of it all.
And, when we both have nothing left, we talk deep into the night; we talk about loving someone who can’t meet your needs; we talk about lying and deception and denial and unrequited kinks. We share stories of frustration, of self harm, of hideous BDSM porn. We talk about the desperate need for pain, the overwhelming desire to beg an uncomprehending partner: “hitme-hitme-hitme!”
Our minds meet, and tumble with each other for hours, like newly acquainted puppies in a pile of leaves.
And in the wee small hours, after she’s returned to her room and I lie, waiting for a sleep that won’t come, I marvel at how we were bought together in the lift, knowing that, next week, I’ll check in to the Holiday Inn with a lighter heart.
In fact, I’ll check in with relish.
My occasional attempts at fiction tend to be either fantasy sessions I haven’t played out yet or, like this, a bit of fun built around a place I’ve been, a person I’ve met. So she’s real, I did meet her in the lift and I did warn her off the hotel restaurant. As for the rest…well eventually the truth ends and the fantasy begins. But where? Hmmm.
If this kind of thing is up your street there’s another part real spanking story, set on a summer holiday, here.
More wickedness here: