How it started is foggy: a dare, or a bet, or just challenging each other the way we do. But once upon a time we checked into a hotel room and I got spanked, counting up to the room number. Room 315, I think it was, with 315 hard smacks on my bare bottom.
Then somehow it turned into a tradition. “We always.” Whenever we took a vacation together, the trip began right after check-in with a room number spanking. It was the sort of ritual that a girl like me can love and anticipate and dread in that delightful, shiver-inducing, want but don't want mixture.
And since we travel on a budget, and that means lower floors closer to the noises of lobby, restaurant, and pool, it was always a good start to our private time. Just enough to remind me of who I am for him, of who we are together.
I thought about this while he checked in, my bottom cheeks clenching in anticipation and my panties growing more and more soaked, clinging to my heated pussy. I watched him talk to the desk clerk, saw her flirt with him a little bit, noticed his usual oblivion with a smile and a bit of pride. Then another woman joined them, a manager, and there was further talk. I was both in a hurry to get to our room — what number this time? — and more than content to postpone that moment indefinitely.
Finally, he came across the lobby to me. His face was a little hard to read.
“They didn’t have the room we reserved,” he said, as we crossed to the elevators. He pressed the up-button. “But the manager remembered that we come here pretty often, so she gave us a suite instead. No extra charge.”
The doors slid open. We entered the car and I held his arm with both hands.
“I imagine the view will be nice,” he said, and pushed the button for the twenty-eighth floor.
— Frenulum
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