Daniel looked around the room and then glanced at his watch. He called the desk and asked for a carafe of coffee and a bucket of ice, then looked to his other arrangements. He had put everything in place before heading down to the bar, but he wanted to make sure. He adjusted one item, plucked two others from where they sat on display, for her to see when she arrived.

“Not yet,” he said to himself. “There have to be some surprises for next time.”

He adjusted the lights and sat in the reading chair, facing the door. He thought about dimming the light around him to keep his face in shadow and decided that too was overkill. He checked his watch again: eight minutes elapsed, two remaining. He smiled to himself.

“She’s going to be late.” He smiled again, stood and removed his blazer and hung it in the closet. The necktie would stay on, for now. There was a knock at the door: room service, with the ice and coffee. He put them where he could reach them easily and sat again, watching the door. His pose was almost meditative.

At eleven minutes and fifteen seconds he heard the elevator down the hall. Fifteen seconds after that he heard her card-key, heard the lock click, watched her come into room 940. Her leather skirt — the one he’d told her to wear — swished gently against the door when it closed.

He glanced at his watch again.

“Amy. Welcome. You’re late.” Matter of fact.

“Yes, I’m sorry. The elevator — “

“You’re late. Come over here, please.”

Amy did as she was told. She tried to project confidence, even defiance. She hoped he couldn’t hear and wouldn’t notice her heart thumping. Something felt like it was banging against her ribs, from the inside. She stood in front of him, in the pool of light just in front of the chair. He smiled to himself: An actor will find the light. He stood and walked around her, starting at a distance and walking a slow, spiraling orbit until they were toe-to-toe and nearly touching. He touched her cheek gently, raising her chin so she couldn’t avoid his eyes.

“I knew you’d be late.” At this she tried to look down, but he pushed her chin up. “Arms out, please. I’m going to remove your top.” Again, she did as she was told. He removed her top, then unclasped her brassiere. He nodded at her to put her arms down, and it fell to the floor. She shivered, although he had set the room temperature to 72 °F almost as soon as he arrived. He touched her shoulder and used his fingertips to gently traced a line that crossed under both breasts and landed on the other shoulder before traversing her throat and ending where it began. The hand closed on the shoulder and, with the silence and subtlety of a practiced dance partner, communicated that she was to turn around.

His free hand traced her bottom through the leather skirt before unfastening it and lowering the zipper. The skirt joined the bra on the floor; he told her to step out of it.

“These are lovely, but I said no panties.”

“Yes, but it’s –“

His laid his fingers gently across her throat and she stopped talking. He pulled her chin up further and put his head down to kiss her. The response was electric. It always was, for them both. He pulled away and continued his circle, his left hand not leaving her throat. His right stripped her panties and added them to the pile. He spanked her, hard, once on each cheek, and whispered in her ear. She shivered again.

He led her to the bed, making sure to take her past the table where he had laid out her immediate future. He told her to kneel on the end. He pushed her shoulders down and put a pillow under her head. He removed his necktie and used it to bind her arm to her thigh, all but immobilizing her left side. He stepped around her and she felt his belt cinch around her right arm and leg.

The leather paddle whistled through the air but landed gently. He raised it again and struck harder, silently this time. Left cheek; right cheek; both cheeks; with varying force, and no discernible pattern. She felt herself slipping; she felt herself wishing for more. She felt the heat beginning to rise through her ass, the area becoming redder each time the paddle fell.

“This is why you were late, isn’t it?” His tone was matter of fact.

She nodded. She felt his hand gently stroke her aching bottom, caressing and soothing, while his fingers occasionally teased her. She tried to move, to invite his fingers, to draw them in. His hand withdrew suddenly and came down, hard and sharp: a rebuke.

His hands were on her back now, fingers moving up and down, treating her to a kind of sensual massage. Whenever a hand reached her ass it would caress, draw back and strike hard, and caress again. He could feel the heat rising from her; he suppressed his own desire to take her, there and then, a target both vulnerable and willing. He continued to caress and spank with one hand. The other reached for the flogger. He dragged it gently across her shoulders, down her back, across the ass that he never tired of looking at, of touching, of fucking. The flogger flicked at her and she shuddered, just once, in anticipation of what was next.

And what was next was the strokes of the lashes across her back, across her ass, across her shoulders: across every exposed inch of her tender flesh. She had no fear that she’d bruise, knowing that he knew and would take care. She accepted it all; she had earned it.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” His voice in her ear, the tone soft, the movement of the air tickling and inflaming her, as if he were entering her head through his words, as if he himself were contained in the breeze he created by speaking. She moaned softly and he slid a finger gently between her labia: almost despite himself, but he wanted to both send another message and discover what he knew was there, a slick flow that he smeared across her anus to tease her more, inflame her more, punish her more. She moaned again and he continued to work the flogger across her back and even down to her thighs, pulled tight as they were against her arms to hold her captive.
She felt his fingers again, wet with her, circling and teasing but never more. She craved his entry, craved his arms and his cock and his mouth, craved the unknown and unimagined pleasures that she knew he could find, would find. She thrust herself backwards. Her reward was more than just the entry she desired: it was a hard stroke of the flogger, a stinging rebuke and a reminder that she was not to attempt, in any way, to manipulate an orgasm. He would allow it, encourage it, demand it: but on his timetable, not hers. Another moan, of desire and acquiescence and more desire.
Her back felt hot. He stopped the flogging and admired her. No welts, but a sunburn-rose from shoulders to thighs that would sting for some time. He unfastened the belt and necktie, helped her sit up and then stand. He kissed her, teasing lips and tongue with his own; she responded in kind, moaning into his mouth, pouring her own passion and desire back, showing him, asking him, pleading with him. His hands found her breast, teased her nipple, gripped it and elicited another faint moan.

“Amy, my love. Put your arms up. Turn around and face the bed.” He applied a balm to her back and ass, to her thighs, even to her legs where the paddle and flogger had not ventured. He rubbed it into her shoulders, kissed her neck, and turned her around again for another deep kiss while he played with her breasts, gently twisting her nipples to both distract and focus her.

He blindfolded her and had her lie down, then cuffed her outstretched arms to the headboard. He used his bare hand to spank her pussy; he felt its warmth, its readiness for him. He smiled and continued on. He picked up the paddle and struck her gently, then a bit harder, then on the thighs. He stopped for a moment, popped an ice cube in his mouth and then sucked her clitoris, tonguing her gently before slipping what was left of the ice as deep inside her as he could. She squirmed and he repeated the trick twice more before plunging his entire hand into the bucket. He took his chilled hand and thrust ice directly into her with his cold fingers; then put his hand back in the ice bucket and used some ice to toy with her nipples.

He poured coffee from the carafe and warmed his mouth, then sucked hard on the cold nipples to warm them. He applied more ice to her labia, pressing another piece inside her, kissing her mouth while he did, using his fingers to test her increasing readiness. He put ice into her mouth, then gave her his cock to suck; blindfolded, she was surprised at both as well as eager to participate. He made sure, always, that some part of him maintained contact with her clit. He enjoyed watching her frenzy build.

Finally he pushed her legs wide open, picking up her ankles to rest on his shoulders, and slid into her, one thumb on her clitoris, a long finger in her ass. He rocked into her, thrust, stroked, and rested an open hand on her throat before pulling off the blindfold. He wanted to look in her eyes when she came; he wanted her to see him, for them to see each other.

They climaxed and he released her arms, pulled her close, applying more balm to every place he could reach.