As always, we start with a view from the pavement looking up to the hotel window, the view into the room through the opened shades, the lamp in the room dim, but, even so, the girl’s face towards the windowglass clearly visible.
A second look, and it’s clear the girl isn’t standing; instead she’s over the knee of a man who is also clearly seen, he’s sitting on a chair — armless, unusual for a hotel, did he bring it? — and although the light isn’t bright enough to reveal all the details in technicolor clarity, we can tell he’s fully dressed and she isn’t, she’s over his lap with her pants pulled down. And presumably her panties too, although the only evidence of this is a quick flashing of bare thighs in the dim light as she squirms back and forth over his knees.
As fixated as we are on the scene unfolding above, we stop for a moment to look around to see if we’re the only one watching; the parking lot we’re in is large enough, but there are no other cars nearby and, as far as we can tell, the scene above is unobserved. As are we.
Even so we move out of the bright spotlight of the lamppost we’re under to a darker spot, a spot where, we note, we’re still likely visible to the girl up above if she looks down. Which she hasn’t done, yet, since she seems rather preoccupied with what’s happening to her. Or at least with what’s happening to her lower half. Her bared lower half. Her bared bottom, to be exact about it.
We aren’t an intentional observer of course — we were getting out of the car to go into the hotel when the lamplight from above caught our eyes, and, having gotten a first look …. well, it’s like looking at the accident you pass on the highway, you don’t want to see, you know it’s not your business, that the rubbernecking at the scene of someone else’s misfortune isn’t something to be proud of.
Still. This isn’t a highway accident, and although it’s clearly the girl’s misfortune, it’s the kind of misfortune that excites, rather than repulses. The view is indistinct, but it’s clear she’s an adult, not a child, the teary-eyed face is that of a young woman, and the curves of her buttocks, obscured by the angle of observation though they are, are shapely and round, upthrust, not in any way juvenile.
She’s obviously adult, she’s clearly suffering and we shouldn’t be watching. But we are.
And you, dear reader, are too. And none of us are going to change that.
I don’t think we want to. And you do agree.
From the spot of shadow we occupy we watch the actions of the pair in the hotel room above. The girl is still shifting, the man’s hands aren’t visible but it’s likely he’s steadying her from slipping off his lap onto the floor. Or is he holding here there? That’s more likely the case since her motions have grown just in the last minute or so, and she can’t be in a stable position, bent over like that, head to the window, backside raised, feet on the carpeting.
Perhaps she’s better secured by way of her lowered pants, they’re as indistinct as the man she’s bending over, they’re probably pulled down to her ankles though, perhaps her knees? Can she stand if she wanted to, assuming he’d want her to of course? Assuming he’d let her.
But he would let her if she wanted to, wouldn’t he?
We know the answer, don’t we. No. That’s the answer, and we know it. Quite well.
How did they get there? Not in the meaningless way of meeting at a chosen location, of renting a room. No, how did they get there in the sense of how did they meet, and how did they agree to meet? Did she look for him? Did he look for her? What did each of them say they wanted, and are they getting it now? Is her being bare bottomed over his lap in front of an open window the extent of it, or is there more to come, a scene that will continue to unfold?
Again, we already know the answer.
Perhaps she posted a note somewhere, “Wanted, someone to give me the discipline as an adult I know I shouldn’t need — not in this very juvenile form — but, even so, I do need it.” Was that the total of it?
And even if that’s all she said, why would she say that; why, more to the point, would she want that? It’s clear what’s coming, is this a new thing for her, did she have it as a child and, if so, is that experience rekindled in her as an adult? After all, childhood is a time of strong emotions where feelings are forged and then forgotten, only to reemerge later on. Is that what this is?
Was she given this as a child, corrected the way children often are, punished for … talking back, perhaps, throwing things, cursing? For the child the actions had consequences, and not pleasant ones. But perhaps they were pleasant in some strange way, or at least reassuring. Children need structure, is being put over a parental knee for the administration of discipline on the bared behind a reassuring sort of structure, no matter how horrible when it happens and bittersweet when remembered decades later?
Does that memory drive the desire as an adult? For after all, she’s not there from having fallen across his lap. She’s there because she wants to be. Even though the experience isn’t going to pleasant.
But we doubt she wants it to be pleasant. The only question we really have is: how unpleasant does she want it to be?
We’ve no doubt she’s already told him, we’ve no doubt he’s more than willing to give her what she wants.
And as we watch we’re sure to find out exactly what that is.
A car pulls into the parking lot, followed by several others behind it. A party probably, there’s a large ballroom we know is inside the hotel. We step back further into the darkness, looking up we realize our view to the window’s now blocked by the trees on either side of the hotel. With the view obscured we can still make out motion behind the glass, it’s a rising and falling motion of a hand being raised and then descending, hard and unrelenting.
From our new position the girl’s face is completely obscured, but we can see her jerking her head back and forth, shaking it from side to side and — if we use a bit of imagination — we can almost see her mouth twisting up into an expression of pain, her lips opening so that she can yell out for it to stop.
The cars pull into spots in front of the hotel, their doors open and a number of people get out and begin unloading their belongings. There’s a lot of commotion and it’s clear they’re going to be slow about their business.
The motion above us continues, our view is still frustratingly blocked.
There’s a solution, though.
We can see the room’s on the second floor, the position likely halfway down the length of the building. And so we abandon the darkness and hurry past the parked cars into the hotel’s lobby to the elevator, which is just opening as we approach.
We enter, push the button for the second floor. The doors close and the elevator beings to rise. The heart pounds; the lips are dry; we hope our hearing is acute and that the doors to the rooms are thin.
Thin, so that we can hear the sounds of heavy hand on shapely bare flesh. To hear the sounds of pleading, and then, of crying.
The elevator doors open. We’re alone in the corridor as we begin to walk rapidly down towards the halfway point. Towards the muffled sounds of the sobs and the hand falling on the girl’s bare behind.
The doors are indeed thin. Thin enough. A point that’s emphasized as we come up by the door, pause and kneel to pretend to tie a loose shoelace on our velcro-closing shoes.
“Let me feel your hand,” we hear, followed — after a long pause — by the words “ah, I see it’s wet, is it. I’m glad I had you check. Well as you know, I don’t tolerate arousal during correction, so you’ve earned yourself a strapping, bent over the end of the bed with your behind facing the windows.”
Well, what can we do but hasten away back downstairs?
And as we scuttle off we hear these final words against a background of muffled sobs: “And take off those lovely red high-heels of yours. You can put them back on after I’m done with you, when your bare bottom matches their color …”
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