“Housekeeping!” A crisp female voice calls from outside my hotel room, punctuated by three light taps on the door.

I’m in the bathroom, drying myself with a towel. My watch reads 6:33 AM. This is WAY too early, and my checkout day is tomorrow!

“Can you come back later?” I call out, not even trying to mask my annoyance.

Her voice lowers slightly. “Sir, I am sorry. Please, I need to finish my job quickly.”

Pulling a bathrobe over myself, I rub my chin, feeling the stubble. I crack the door open just enough to see her. Standing at my door is a petite Latina woman, likely in her early thirties. Her navy-blue uniform, accented with delicate white stripes, is neatly pressed and modestly tailored. A crisp white apron is tied snugly around her waist, its hem brushing against a skirt that ends just above her knees. Her well-toned calves peek out, their subtle definition hard not to notice. No complaints here.

“Please...” she says softly, standing in front of a cart loaded with cleaning supplies.

Her hair is pulled back into a tidy bun, though a few soft strands escape, framing her face. She stands with her feet close together—not in a soldier’s rigid stance, but with the meekness of a student outside the principal’s door, bracing for reprimand. Her hands are clasped in front of her, thumbs fidgeting nervously. Her dark eyes are slightly downcast but pleading, a mix of professionalism and vulnerability. How many men, middle-aged or not, could say no to this—even in the middle of their morning routine?

“I’m not even dressed!” I protest but keep my voice low, not wanting to cause a scene.

“I can start with the bathroom, or your bed—whichever is better for you. And I’ll be quick. I won’t get in your way. Please...” Her big eyes plead with me, desperation spilling into her voice.

Shaking my head, I realize I’ve already lost the mental contest. “Fine.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” she exclaims, relief washing over her face.

I grab my shaver and step aside to let her in. She starts with the bathroom. As I browse emails on my laptop while shaving, I hear her working quietly—running faucets, flushing the toilet, and moving around with practiced efficiency. At one point, she opens the bathroom door briefly to retrieve something from her cart.

After a while, I almost forget she’s there until her voice breaks through again. “Excuse me, sir, I’m coming out!”

Closing my laptop, I grab my clothes from the drawer and step aside to let her cart pass. She nods at me with a shy smile as she pulls out a stool and begins dusting the tops of the cabinets. On my way to the bathroom, my gaze lingers briefly on the back of her legs. Faint bruises mar the skin just above her knees. Don’t ask why I noticed.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the bruises. They’re faint—definitely not fresh—but still visible.

She freezes, then climbs down from the stool, her face flushed. “Oh, it’s ... nothing,” she mumbles, turning to hide her legs from view.

“They look bad,” I press, concern creeping into my voice.

“I’m ... fine,” she stammers, her eyes darting away. “Um ... I was bad, so...”

“What do you mean?”

Her blush deepens, and her fidgeting hands betray her nervousness. “Sir, I deserved it. I needed it.”

I furrow my brow, confused. “You need this job?” I read her name tag, “Angie?”

She hesitates, her voice dropping lower. “No ... I need...” Her gaze meets mine, and she blurts out, “The caning.”

“Huh?”

Her eyes dart to the door, and for a moment, she looks as though she might bolt. Instead, she takes a breath and slowly turns around. Lifting her skirt, she reveals bruises on the backs of her thighs, climbing higher until they disappear beneath her panties. Most are a dull blue, but a few remain an angry purple.

“These are caning marks...” Her voice is small, her body tense as though awaiting judgment.

Unsure how to respond but feeling an unexpected surge of arousal, I stammer out, “Why ... why would you want that?”

“Sir, I needed it,” she says softly, turning back to face me. Her hand brushes my elbow, and her other slips inside my bathrobe. “It helps me ... relax, after tense days on the job.”

Her big eyes meet mine as she leans in, kissing me softly. I feel clumsy—my shaver in one hand, my clothes in the other—but Angie steps closer, her body brushing against mine.

She gently takes the items from my hands, setting them on the nightstand. Her fingers slip inside my robe, her touch featherlight against my skin. “Sir, you smell good...” Her voice is a whisper, her breath warm against my chest as her tongue circles my nipple.

I inhale sharply. Her hair tickles my face, and her scent—a mix of light perfume and shampoo—floods my senses. A moan escapes me as her fingers tease and explore.

Angie kneels, her eyes never leaving mine, her movements confident yet tender. Her lips and tongue work along my cock, the sensation both overwhelming and deliberate, until I’m completely hard. It might have been minutes or hours before she stands again, cheeks flushed, and turns her back to me.

Bending at the waist, she places her hands on the bed. “Do it, please,” she whispers, her voice heavy with desire.

I hesitate, unsure of her meaning.

She reaches back and slides her panties down, letting them fall to her ankles. Her skirt rides up, exposing her thighs and the bruises that mark them. Her wet pussy glistens, undeniable evidence of her arousal.

“What ... what do you want me to do?” I ask, my voice shaking.

“Use your belt,” she says, her tone steady. “Double it over. And flog me.”

She glances back at me. “You don’t have to,” she murmurs. “I can leave now, and bother you no further.”

Her words hang in the air, but the look in her eyes—pleading and raw—compels me. Slowly, I retrive my belt, folding it over in my hand. The familiar leather feels alien against my palm.

Her voice is low, nonetheless with resolution: “But if you start..., finish me.”

“Finish? What does that even mean?” I ask myself, panic and curiosity warring in my mind. Surely, she doesn’t mean...

I nod slowly despite my uncertainty, still unsure if I’m doing the right thing. The first strike lands softly, almost tentative, and she gasps, her body flinching. Her face buries itself into the pillow, muffling the sounds that follow—a mix of cries, gasps, and something that sounds disturbingly close to pleasure.

I put more and more into the following blows. with each, her body tenses and relaxes, the rhythm of her movements hypnotic. I can see the faint sheen of sweat forming on her back and thighs. My senses are overwhelmed—the sharp crack of the belt against her skin, the quiet, breathy “Yes” that slips from her lips after every lash, the musky scent of her vaginal secretion mingling with the air.

I lose myself in the moment, hyperaware of everything: the recoil of the belt in my hand, the way her muscles clench in response, the sharp intake of her breath before the next strike. At one point, I find myself looking at us from a strange, detached perspective, as if observing the scene from outside my body. Her face twists in a mixture of pain and something deeper, while my own expression, is flushed with equal parts confusion and exhilaration.

Then the marks start to show. Faint pink in the very beginning. The later ones morph into bleeding red, deep blue, and purple. I feel less like a ruthless punisher, more like an artist painting a beautiful piece.

By the forty-third strike, she cries out, collapsing onto the bed, her body trembling. Tears stream from her face, her sobs raw and unguarded. She crawls up to me, clinging tightly, her voice muffled against my chest. “I’m sorry ... I’m sorry...” she whispers, over and over.

I sit down on the edge of the sofa, pulling her into my arms. Her tears soak into my chest as I stroke her hair, murmuring soft reassurances I’m not entirely sure I believe. Her soft skin presses against mine.

For a moment, I forget about the burning questions swirling in my mind. Instead, I focus on her breathing as it steadies, on the feel of her weight on top of me. Her wet vagina rubs against my thigh. My hard-on pokes at her belly. It is an erotic feeling different from masturbation, blow job, or vaginal penetration.

Eventually, she stirs, her gaze meeting mine. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but steady. “That was ... perfect.” Her smile is faint, almost shy, but there’s a lightness in her eyes now, a content that wasn’t there before.

I watch as she stands, retrieving a damp towel from her cart. She wipes me down gently, her movements tender and deliberate. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, she pulls her panties up gingerly, before straightening her uniform, tying the apron with practiced precision.

She is leaving! But I want her to stay. I need to feel, and poke her. Not just with the belt. “Can you...” I look sheepishly at my raging cock.

Slipping into her shoes, she looks at me one last time, her lips curving into a small, playful smile. “I have to go,” she says with a light tone, though something deeper lingers in her gaze.

Before I can respond, she wheels her cart to the door and steps into the hallway. By the time I follow, peeking out, she’s already gone.

I don’t need my watch to know that I’m late. My colleagues at the conference won’t be happy. But I am covered with sweats and my thighs coated with Angie’s juice. Another shower, cold show, is needed.

As I rush out of the hotel lobby, juggling my laptop, a cup of coffee, and a bagel, the street outside is already teeming with noise and activity. Construction workers shout over the roar of machinery, and pedestrians navigate a labyrinth of temporary corridors. Traffic is a mess. It seems like a miracle that anyone—on foot or in a vehicle—can reach their destination.

The convention hall is right across the street. I spot a narrow gap in the stream of slow-moving cars and make a dash for it, hoping to save a few precious minutes. A sharp whistle pierces the air, stopping me in my tracks. I freeze at the median and turn slowly to face the source of the sound.

“Do you WANT to get killed?” The stern voice cuts through the chaos. It’s not a question.

I gulp, trying to swallow the half-chewed boiled egg in my mouth, and focus on the approaching boots rather than the officer’s face, hoping to delay the consequences.

The boots stop a few feet from me. “Huh?” A non-word that demands a response.

I finally manage to swallow the egg and shift my gaze upward, stopping at the pair of reflective sunglasses hiding her eyes. “No, officer. I just don’t want to be REALLY late.” I motion awkwardly toward the convention hall and then quickly lower my arm when I realize I’m pointing with a bagel.

She studies me silently for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then her voice softens, laced with hint of amusement. “Nice belt.”

“What?” I glance down at my belt buckle, confused.

She doesn’t answer immediately, sidestepping to stop a car attempting an illegal left turn. “No turns here. Go straight.”

Turning back to me, she continues. “I should ticket you for jaywalking.” There’s a pause as she lets the statement hang in the air before adding, “But I’ll let it slide—just this time.”

Her lips twitch, and I swear I see the beginnings of a grin.

“Angie?” I blurt out, my confusion deepening.

Her voice drops to a near whisper as she steps closer. “Sorry to leave you hanging this morning. I’m late for work, too.”

She leans in slightly, her words meant for me alone. “You served well. The lashes were hard and ended at the right moment, the aftercare was perfect ... and you didn’t take advantage when I was broken and vulnerable.” Her gaze sweeps over the hectic intersection, scanning for potential troubles.

I blink, glancing around at the bustling street. To anyone watching, it must look like I’m getting a stern lecture from the officer.

Across the intersection, another officer blows a long whistle. Angie mirrors the gesture, raising her right hand to stop traffic and giving pedestrians the right of way. As the wave of people moves forward, she looks back at me briefly.

“I appreciate what you did—and what you didn’t do,” Her voice softens again. “I owe you one!” With the final words, she waves me on with the rest of the crowd.

At the top of the convention hall stairs, I peek back. A handful of police officers are directing traffic, but I’m almost certain Angie gives me a small nod before turning her attention back to the chaos of the intersection. The crowd around me surges forward, and I let them push me into the hall.

The presentation on innovative marketing strategies drones on, but my mind keeps drifting back to the hotel room. It isn’t the sex itself that lingers, but the marks. The way the fading blues and purples contrast with the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. I’ve never seen bruising quite like it, a deliberate pattern, like an artist’s macabre palette.

I try to focus on the speaker, his words about market segmentation and target demographics washing over me, meaningless. But the image of those marks keeps resurfacing, a stark reminder of the intense, unsettling intimacy we shared. They’re almost ... beautiful in a strange way. The deep blues at the edges fading into softer purples and then the pale yellow of healing skin. The colors shift like a bruise blooming across her skin.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, my fingers unconsciously graze my belt. I could almost feel her trembling flesh through it. The speaker’s voice rises and falls, but all I hear is the echo of her gasps, the soft thud of the leather. There is no doubt that I have enjoyed the beating. But did I enjoy it too much? Did the encounter wake the sadist in me, a self-proud, decent and reasonable person my whole life?

The coffee I grabbed during the break tastes like ash in my mouth. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something, that I’ve crossed some kind of line. I servey the hall, seeing ladies dressed in power suites mingle around. Would I enjoy having that kind of power over them? The thought of holding them captive, of controlling their reactions, makes my skin crawl. Would listening to their sobs and feeling their bodies thrashing against my touch excite me more than vanilla sex—could it? Am I tumbling down a slope with eyes wide open? There is no answer to any of these. And merely asking them to myself scares me.

It’s almost 10 in the evening when I walk back to the hotel. I’m tired, more mentally than physically. Angie has been weighing heavy on my mind the entire day. As I approach the hotel entrance, I slow down, noticing a police cruiser that parks prominently near the front door.

I wonder: “Is this hers”, glancing at the intersection where we’d last spoken. The streets are quiet now, void of pedestrians, construction workers, or officers.

“Yup, it’s mine.” A voice comes from the side.

I spin around. Surely it is her, grinning at me. Not in police uniform, nor in hotel maid’s attire, she is wearing a summer dress that is long enough at the hem to conceal the bruises. The neckline plunges almost to her navel. I force my gaze upwards.

Clearing my throat, I try to converse: “You ... em...” My mind floods with questions, but none form into coherent sentences.

She steps closer and catches my unasked questions, with a soft voice. “My aunt manages this hotel. I crash here sometimes when I’m on call or too tired to get back to my own place. The station’s only three blocks away.”

She slips her arm through mine, pulling us closer. My heart races, and I feel a familiar heat rise.

“I’m not on call tonight,” she murmurs. “And there’s no early-morning detail tomorrow.”

“Are you playing Angie now?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

She freezes, her shoulders stiffening. Then, without looking at me, she replies, her voice clipped and terse. “I don’t play Angie. She comes out when she needs to.”

Taken aback by her sharp tone, I hesitate. Shadows fall across her face, but I catch the sadness in her eyes. It’s not anger—it’s something heavier.

“I’m s—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“My dad died of liver cancer,” she says flatly. “Two years after he had to quit his job because of alcohol abuse. One of my uncles committed suicide, and another one nearly killed himself, riding his motorcycle at 110 miles per hour.”

Her voice doesn’t waver, but her words land like stones in the silence between us. Slowly, she turns to face me, her eyes meeting mine. “Maybe I was born into a crazy family. Or maybe the fact that they were all cops had something to do with it.”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. She’s not expecting an answer anyway.

“I’m sorry...” I manage to say eventually, though the words feel woefully inadequate. I’m sorry for her pain, her family’s suffering, and my own inability to say anything meaningful. I watch as she squeezes her eyes shut tightly. Her throat bobs as she gulps several times.

“Being a cop is hard. You need to be on your toes every minute.” She steps closer, her breasts brushing against my arm. The touch seems both deliberate and unconscious. “You’re expected to be tough, gentle, a leader, and a punching bag—sometimes all at once.”

“At the end of a shift, you can’t dump that on the people you care about. So you bury it.” Her fingers trail up my chest, stopping over my heart. “Some people bury it in a bottle. Others ... find different outlets.” She looks up at me through her lashes, and for a moment I see both versions of her - the vulnerable maid, the stern officer, merging into something more complex.

Her perfume is different now - lighter, more feminine than the morning’s uniform scent. My hand finds her waist, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses closer, her voice dropping lower.

I lean down, drawn by her lips, but she turns her head slightly. My kiss lands on her neck instead. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.

“This week alone, I pulled two double shifts.” Her words come out breathy as my lips explore her neck. “Was called back until 4 this morning. And the fucking traffic detail starts 7:30.”

She finally pulls back, breaking contact. The loss of her warmth is physical. “I have to apologize for this morning,” she says, composing herself. “I forced myself into your room as a maid, tricked you to flog me by getting you hard, and left you stranded.”

My breath quickens as I recall the details.

“I know you want me,” she whispers with a smirk “you almost bruised my ribs with THAT this morning.”

I chuckle, trying to hide my hard-on with my bag. Damn I am always clumsy around her.

“Can we...?” I ask meekly, looking up, towards the room.

She steps back, her smirk fading into a tired smile. “Tonight, I’m not Angie. I’m not a cop. I’m just me—and I need a good night’s sleep. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll think about what this all means ... and maybe I’ll call you.”

She releases my arm and walks towards her cruiser.

Dumbfoundedly, I watch her getting into the driver’s seat. The door slams shut.

“Wait, you don’t even have my number!” I run after the cruiser.

She stops, and lowers the window: “Angie has the master key to the rooms-and access to the computer files.”

The walk back to my room is ever so tiresome.

The room is spotless. The bed is freshly made, the usual piece of chocolate resting neatly on the pillow. But my attention shifts immediately to the nightstand, where a small handwritten note is taped to an envelope.

The paper feels smooth in my hand, the handwriting precise and plain, each letter deliberate. I lift it up carefully, my breath catching as I read:

“I don’t know how our conversation will turn out, but I want you to keep this souvenir. Some things only work when you put in the effort.”

The note is not signed—there’s no need for it to be. I run my thumb over the note, feeling the faint indentations of her pen strokes. The envelope feels weighty despite its small size.

Inside is a shiny whistle, attached to a small clip by a short yellow paracord.