Word Count: 500
Bonus Words: +100 if you’re a good tipper.
Required Opening: “What took you so long?”
Forbidden Word: Honeymoon
Extra Credit: Set the story in the most recent place where you stayed overnight in a hotel.
“What took you so long?”
I muttered an apology before I gently deposited her newly-arrived companion’s suitcases in her room; I knew better than to sully her mood with my pathetic excuses. The sharpness of her voice, the scowl on her face and the commanding pose told me what I needed to know. I was in trouble.
“Plastic roses,” she snapped. I whimpered; she oozed control: the smoothness of her stocking-clad legs, the stare of her eyes, the commanding psychology of her clothes: I shrank before her withering displeasure. “Close the door.”
I knew what was coming; it wasn’t just the plastic roses. There was only three teabags not four on her tea-tray, and she had had problems connecting to the complementary wireless. In short, the room was not to her expectations and she had every intention of ensuring that I knew. She was going to give me a “tip.”
My trousers were destined for the floor; my underwear was moments behind. She pulled me roughly by my tie, throwing me over the table. It creaked in protestation of my weight as she selected a suitable implement: my embarassment burning brightly in the moonlit room.
“This will hurt,” she promised me with sadistic glee. A swoosh of air warned me moments before the leather paddle struck my exposed skin, slapping my buttocks with intense pain rocketing through my body.
I screamed; she hit me again. My body was a punchbag to her frustrations and disappointment, as the dominatrix cascaded strike after strike on my tender skin. Tears welled in my eyes, as my naked bottomless body pressed against the cold wooden table, and my buttocks burnt under the hot impact of the leather.
She detested the writhing and pleading. She abhorred my whimpering, smashing the firm tool against my skin with renewed zeal as I begged for mercy. I had no excuse, she told me; she was doing this to help me.
“Send up my guest,” she demanded once she’d finished reddening all of my cheeks, and grabbed hold of my trousers and underwear. “These are mine now. Let everyone see your red arse of shame,” she barked as I thanked her, edging towards the door. I knew her “companion,” waiting in the bar downstairs would be in for a very painful night.
It’s always an honour to have Mistress Niamh stay in my hotel; but sometimes I wish she’d sign the feedback book like everyone else. Instead, I get a more personalised – and painful – report into my venue’s performance!
Image from a photo series called “Rich Bitch”
Flash Fiction Friday from Three Spelling Mistakes: Read all the entries at Three Spelling Mistakes