Sabrina walked down the corridor to the hotel room where she was to meet her next client, a semi-regular she knew as Roy. Her high heels clacked on the floor as she checked her make-up in her pocket mirror. Room 207, that was it. She knocked on the door. Roy was a little, shy man, a tad overweight. He always tried to make her smile, and often brought her gifts, on top of the money she asked. She found him amusing if a little pathetic. She was wearing a pair of earrings he’d gotten her in the past.
She checked that her hold-up stockings were still up, readjusted her hair. He liked lingerie, Roy, stockings, corsets, that kind of thing. He probably like to pretend he was fucking some high-class bitch for a time. Men and their power fantasies. She mentally shrugged. Whatever floated his boat, really; he payed well, wasn’t complicated to please and had never been violent in any form. She heard a click, and the door opened. She put on a sultry voice, “Hey Roy, wh—”
It wasn’t Roy. Instead of the short, balding man she was expecting, a middle-aged woman stood in front of her. She looked furious.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Sabrina said, “I must have the wrong room.”
“Are you Sabrina?” the woman said, sneering as she said her name.
“Yes, but—”
“Come in.”
Startled, she obeyed, and the woman closed the door behind her.
“Roy didn’t tell me there would be another—”
“Roy isn’t coming.”
“Oh…”
“And I’m his wife.” The woman glared. She was tall, slim, she wore heels, a neatly cut blouse and matching skirt. This was his wife? Sabrina was starting to think that there was more to Roy’s tastes than she had thought.
“Oh… Roy never mentioned…”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” the wife said, grabbing Sabrina’s wrist “That little weasel…”
She pulled her towards a chair that was set in the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Sabrina cried out.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you little whore!”
“What? Let me go!”
The woman said nothing, sat down, and pulled Sabrina over her lap.
“Wh-what are you doing?!” Sabrina cried again.
The answer came in the form of a hand smashing down on her bottom with a loud *SLAP!*. She cried out, in pain and in surprise.
“Stop! What the fuck! I’m not a kid!”
“Well, I’m surprised a whore like you isn’t used to that kind of thing,” the woman said dismissively as she lifted the young girl’s skirt and slapped her ass again, harder.
“Stop or I’ll call—”
“The police? Your pimp?”
Sabrina said nothing.
“That’s what I thought,” the woman said with a cruel smile as she kept slapping and smacking Sabrina’s poor bottom. After a few minutes of hard slaps from her and protests from the young call-girl, the woman grabbed Sabrina’s lacy thong and pulled it down to her thighs.
“Stop! That’s enough!” Sabrina said, trying in vain to reach out behind her and protect her bruised behind.
“You’re going to take it like a good little slut,” the woman said, her tone cold as ice, “and you are never to see my husband again, understood?”
Frigid bitch, Sabrina thought.
“But he’s the… OOoow! He’s the one that.. Ow! Oww!”
“Un *SLAP!* der *SLAP!* stood? *SLAP!*
“Yes! Yes! God’s sake! Leave me alone you crazy bitch!”
“Oh you’re going to regret this…” the woman said. Her hand still firmly holding Sabrina’s waist, she reached into her purse and took out a spatula. Sabrina saw it and hated it at once. She hated it even more when the first hit came. It was biting, vicious, that little silicon thing. It made her cry out, and tears began to roll down her powdered cheeks as the slighted wife got her revenge on her crimson ass. The spatula came down again and again, leaving marks and welts as it went, making her cry, beg, and scream. From experience, she knew that that hotel had well sound-proofed rooms —it was one of the reasons she met clients here— and nobody would come to save her from this mad woman.
“Count them,” the woman said.
“What?” Sabrina said through her tears.
“Count. *SMACK!* Them.” *SMACK!*
“Oww One! What do you want from— Owww! Two! Three!”
“Atta girl. I’m starting to enjoy this.”
Sabrina said nothing, the fire in her bottom robbing her of any witty retort. The spatula kept hitting, and the crying call-girl did as she was told, counting them as they came down. Ten, twenty. She squirmed and kicked and screamed to no avail. Thirty, forty. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t do anything but focus on the pain, not daring to think what would happen if she missed the count.
“Owww! Forty eight! Owww! Forty nine! OWW! Fifty! Please! Please!” Sabrina begged.
“And one for good luck,” the woman sniggered and hit her full force with the spatula. Sabrina cried out. There was a wet patch on the carpet were her tears had been continuously falling.
The woman all but threw the young girl on the floor, were she lay, trembling and sobbing, her bottom throbbing with pain. She caught a glimpse of her bottom in the full-length mirror on the wall and gasped. It was a deep, crimson red, marked and blotched with bruises. She heard the woman putting the spatula back in her handbag. After a minute, the wife came to stand over her, a smug look on her face, waving her finger as one would in front of a misbehaving child.
“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson, Sabrina,” she said, saying her name with venom still.
Sabrina nodded frantically.
“I won’t see R— your husband ever again.”
The woman scoffed, “You better hope so.”
Sabrina sniffed and winced as she rubbed her bruised ass. She wouldn’t be able to see any clients for a while. There was a lot she wanted to say to that woman, none of them good things, but she felt it wiser to stay silent.
“Oh, and by the way,” the woman said, “I don’t even want to know what my little prick of a husband paid you, but I rather enjoyed this, so there.” She let a few banknotes fall down on the call-girl.
In a way, that was the most humiliating of it all.
