The Belt and the Briefcase

The hotel bar was almost empty at this hour. I'd almost walked past her — dark hair shorter now, sharper cheekbones, a glass of red wine held like she owned the place. Then she looked up and smiled.

"Marcus Chen. Well, fuck me sideways."

I laughed, my briefcase suddenly feeling heavy. "Lena Vasquez. You look..."

"Older? Wiser? Like I've been through some shit?" She patted the stool beside her. "Sit your ass down. Tell me you're not here for some boring conference too."

"Pharmaceutical sales. You?"

"Corporate law. Defending the very bastards you sell pills to." Her laugh was low, familiar. "Remember when you used to spitball answers at me during Mrs. Patterson's history tests?"

"I remember you threatening to tell on me if I didn't stop copying your handwriting."

She tilted her head, eyes traveling down my chest slow enough to feel like a touch. "That was fun. You were always getting into trouble."

"And you were always getting me out."

"Not always." She set down her glass, tapped the rim. "Remember detention? When Mr. Harris caught us behind the gym?"

My skin went hot. "You told him we were practicing for the talent show."

"I told him you dragged me there to make out. Which was a lie. Mostly." She leaned closer, and I caught her perfume — something floral with an edge. "You never did get that spanking you deserved, did you?"

The word hung between us like smoke.

"Lena..."

"Second floor. Room 214." She stood, smoothed her skirt. "I've got a belt in my suitcase. Figured I might need it for something other than keeping my pants up."

I followed her like I had no choice. Like I'd never had a choice with her.

The elevator ride was silent. She pressed the button, then turned to face me, one eyebrow raised. "Nervous?"

"Curious."

"Good answer." The doors opened. She walked ahead, key card already out, and I watched the sway of her hips, the way her heels clicked against the carpet.

The room was standard — beige walls, a king bed, a view of the parking lot. She tossed her purse on the desk, unbuckled the belt from her dress with deliberate slowness.

"Take off your jacket."

I did. She folded it over the chair, then picked up the belt, doubled it over in her hands.

"Bend over the bed."

"You're serious."

"I'm always serious, Marcus. You just never listened." She stepped closer, the leather creaking. "Count. And don't you dare laugh."

I bent, hands flat on the comforter. The first strike came fast — a sharp crack that stung through my slacks, made me hiss.

"One."

"Good boy. You remember your numbers." Another stroke, lower, harder. I grunted.

"Two."

She didn't stop. Three, four, five — each one landing in a different spot, building a heat that spread across my ass, down my thighs. I lost count, grit my teeth, and she laughed, breathless.

"You always were a terrible student."

The belt hit the floor. Her hands were on my hips, pulling me up, pressing her body against my back. "Now," she whispered, lips against my ear, "let me show you what I learned in law school."

She shoved me onto the bed, climbed over me, skirt bunched around her waist. No panties. Her cunt was slick, swollen, and she sank onto my cock without a word — just a gasp, her head thrown back, nails digging into my chest.

"Fuck, Lena..."

"Shut up and let me ride you."

She moved like she'd been thinking about this for years. Fast at first, frantic, then slowing to a grind that made my vision blur. I grabbed her hips, tried to thrust up, and she slapped my hand away.

"Uh-uh. My turn to be in charge."

I let her. Watched her tits bounce under her blouse, the flush spreading down her neck. Her breathing turned ragged, her rhythm stuttering.

"I'm close," she bit out. "You better not fucking come before me."

I reached between her legs, thumb finding her clit. She cried out, bucked, and I pressed harder, circling, feeling her tighten around me.

"Like that?"

"Don't — fuck — don't stop..."

She came with a shuddering moan, body clenching, and I followed a second later, pumping into her, holding her hips so tight I knew there'd be bruises.

She collapsed on top of me, breath hot against my neck. "Not bad, Chen."

"High praise from you."

"Don't get used to it." She lifted her head, grinned. "We've got all night. And I still owe you about twelve more strokes."