“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.