Flogger for Hire

Chapter 1: Just a Job

Leather backpack slung over one shoulder, garment bag over the other, Kurt Hummel whistled as he climbed the steps of the boutique hotel just off Times Square. "Afternoon, George. How's the leg?"

The doorman smiled as he pulled the heavy brass-framed door open for Kurt. "Right as rain, Mr. Hummel. Thank you." In the ten years George Ramirez had worked these doors a staggeringly minuscule amount of guests had ever taken the time to learn his name and even fewer troubled themselves to ask how he was doing. As far as George was concerned, not that anyone was asking, Kurt Hummel could do no wrong.

Pausing in the granite tiled lobby, Kurt grinned at the doorman. "Ready to show your grandson how it's done?"

"No, sir!" George shook his mane of grey hair, his laughing green eyes bracketed by fine lines. "Skateboards are not for me!"

"If at first you don't succeed..."

"Quit!" George grimaced, wild eyebrows descending into the frown that chased zealots wielding printed dogma away from the hotel.

"Or quit." With a smile that lit his crystal eyes, Kurt nodded to George and crossed the lobby to the reception desk. "Kalinda, how are the numbers?"

The young woman behind the desk, her brown hair discretely tied at the nape of her neck to hide the tattoo that senior management considered unprofessional, sighed dramatically as she handed Kurt his key card. "Not good, Mr. Hummel."

Slipping the key into his pocket, Kurt grimaced in sympathy. "Next week?"

"Yes, Sir. That's the plan." Kalinda played the same numbers every week, convinced that her dream house was only one lottery ticket away.

Starting for the elevators, Kurt called out the first half of their weekly mantra. "Someone's going to win ..."

"So, why shouldn't it be me?" Kalinda sang out the ending to their duet and grinned at the man stepping into the elevator. Kurt Hummel was a fixture here. Every Wednesday, come snow, or sleet, or garbage strikes, the same suite was reserved under his name. Check-in was officially 3 pm but his suite was always ready whenever he was. He breezed in every week anytime between noon and two, with not much that could be considered luggage. He almost never stayed the night, a fact which the staff discretely ignored. He had a friendly, easy way about him and was a more than generous tipper. Kurt Hummel was Kalinda's definition of a gentleman and she only wished more of their guests were like him.

Exiting the elevator, Kurt paced down the hallway to his left and slid his card into the door at the end of the corridor. The hotel called this set of two rooms, a living room leading into a bedroom with an en suite washroom, a junior suite. Kurt called it his office.

Folding his garment bag carefully over the back of the couch, he pulled out his phone. Swiping through the screens, he checked his email for any last-minute cancellations and scanned his schedule one final time. Tucking his Blackberry away, Kurt took the knapsack and garment bag into the en suite and began the process of transforming himself into the man his clients expected to see. Everyone who came to him was looking for something different so Kurt presented a different version of himself to each person who hired his expertise. Clients found him through the time honored tradition of someone who knew someone who had heard of Kurt or by stumbling across his website, Flogger for Hire. In either case, by the time anyone walked into this hotel room for the first time, Kurt knew exactly who they were and how he could help them.

It didn't take much, a quick change of clothes, the addition of black-framed eyeglasses and Kurt morphed into the authority figure that he knew his 2 PM appointment felt comfortable with. Stashing his backpack and garment bag in one of the bedroom closets, Kurt checked his watch as he walked into the living room. At the first soft rap, he crossed the carpet and opened the door. "Cynthia, how are you?"

"Not so good, Sir." Tossing her purse and laptop bag on the couch, she turned to Kurt and didn't quite succeed in her attempt at a smile. Shoulders tense, hands twisting at her sides, nervous energy fairly crackled in the air around her. Of course, she was always wound tight as a firecracker before her sessions.

Motioning to the bedroom with one hand, Kurt stepped back to allow Cynthia to precede him. "Please."

Her eyes on the floor, Cynthia gave him a stiff nod, and hurried into the next room. Stopping at the foot of the bed, she waited until Kurt sat and then folded herself across his lap.

Brushing her hair to one side, Kurt laid his hand on the nape of her neck, just under the collar of her shirt and waited for her to settle. He stroked one hand down her back, feeling the warmth of her skin seep through the thin veil of her shirt. He held his hand still, fingers gentle against the small of her back. "Ready?"

A deep breath, and a quick nod, the whisper of her hair sliding over the fine Egyptian cotton of the hotel duvet, were his answer. Kurt brought his hand up and then down with a snap. Heavy and hard, each fall of his hand exploded into the quiet of the room.

Cynthia had a severe case of "First Child Syndrome". She set impossibly high standards for herself and couldn't cope with the guilt and resultant stress of her own very human failures. Therapy was a painstakingly slow process that she had no faith in and no time for. A few minutes under Kurt's hand and she emerged cleansed of her own condemnation.

Unlike his other clients, spanking wasn't a dark erotic thrill for Cynthia. She didn't come to him looking for an ever stronger sensation to revive a jaded palate. She didn't chase pain into an endorphin rush. In short, pain didn't turn her on; it allowed her to like herself. Kurt was part confessor and part parent. He was God in Prada glasses.

The spanking was professional; precise, controlled and painful. Cynthia wasn't looking for arousal, she was looking for punishment and Kurt gave it to her. He listened to her sobs and watched her body language. Over the time they had worked together, Kurt had learned to read the pain-filled gasps, the tremors and twitches, and smothered, silent cries. He could negotiate the fine line between enough and too much.

When Cynthia reached that always fluctuating level of hurt that allowed her to forgive herself, Kurt smoothed his hand in comforting sweeps across her shoulders. Seconds ticked by marked only by tear-clogged gasps as she tried to gather the energy to move.

Kurt traced gentle fingers through her hair. "Hey, sweetheart, how you doing?"

"How do you think I'm doing?" Pressing one arm into the mattress, Cynthia pushed up from the bed. "That fucking hurts!"

Kurt helped her off his lap, keeping one arm around her waist until she settled comfortably, or as comfortably as was possible considering a certain expected tenderness, beside him. Tucking one finger under her chin, he tipped her head up, forcing eye contact. "That fucking hurts, Sir."

He insisted on her use of the honorific because that one small word, 'Sir', was the pivotal component in the mind game they played together. The word was a symbol for the power she gave him, the power to punish and to forgive.

The tears still drying on her face, Cynthia grinned at him. "That fucking hurts, Sir."

It never failed to astound him, how relaxed and carefree Cynthia was after a session. She had tried to explain it to him once, the feeling of freedom, of lightness, of being released from a crushing weight. She said she felt clean and new and full of hope. Whenever he doubted the rightness of his 'part-time job', and he had spent more than a few sleepless nights debating the question with himself, he remembered Cynthia like this, happy, at peace with herself, and he felt better about his choices. Unorthodox, certainly, 'Discipline Specialist' wasn't exactly one of the career choices his high school guidance counsellor, Emma Pillsbury, had recommended. Of course, he had never followed any of her recommendations anyway.

Smiling at the woman beaming happy into the room, Kurt stood and poured a glass of ice water from the carafe on the bedside table and handed it to Cynthia.

"Thanks." Dipping her head to drink, Cynthia flashed Kurt a look from under her eyelashes. "Sir."

"You're welcome." Laughter lighting his crystal eyes, Kurt smiled as he stepped into the en suite. Running the hot water, he soaked a facecloth in the sink and wrung it out. Returning to Cynthia, he took the now empty drinking glass and set it on the night table. Sitting beside her, an arm around her shoulders, he wiped her face with the hot cloth, patting away all traces of her recent tears. She curled into Kurt, submissive under his care, his approval seeping into the parched desert of her need.

Over the years, as Kurt became more experienced and established in this rather niche business, his session fee had risen dramatically, but not for this woman. His first client, Cynthia still paid his original fee because she had been there when he wasn't sure he could even do this. Kurt had been her safe place, her confidant and confessor, and he still was. She paid him the compliment of crediting him for her growing ability to defeat her demons. She needed him rarely now, calling him only when life got particularly stressful.

Putting the washcloth on the night table, Kurt extended his hand to help Cynthia to her feet. "Green tea?"

Standing, Cynthia glanced at her wrist watch and smiled up at Kurt. "Please. Kick me out at three though, it's my carpool day. I have to pick Lauren and co. up after ballet."

Kurt picked up the phone and dialed room service. "Hi, this is room 837. Send up my order now, please." Kurt used his room number not his name because his clients did not know his real name, none of them, not even Cynthia. Kurt put certain safeguards in place to protect himself. Payments were delivered by electronic deposit to a corporate account discretely listed as FFH Ltd. Clients reached him by email, and met him here, in this hotel suite. They did not know his name or anything about his life outside of this hotel room. They called him "Sir" or "Master", titles which helped them to slip into a submissive mind space and helped Kurt to remember that this was just a job. No matter how close he felt to any client, and the very nature of what they did together often created an intense connection, Kurt remained aware that these people were not friends, not lovers. No matter how well he knew his clients, they did not know him. They could not know him because Kurt kept this neat and clean and separate from his real life.

Smiling, he replaced the receiver and guided Cynthia back into the small living room. "Fill me in. What's been happening with you?"

Cynthia curled into the arm chair next to the sofa. Years of experience making her automatically tuck her legs under her, resting her body weight on her knees and not her still throbbing backside. "Well, I'm up for tenure."

"Congratulations!" Kurt settled into the sofa opposite Cynthia's arm chair.

"Thank you, but it's not a sure thing. There's only one position open and I'm not the only candidate." She shook her head, setting the honey-coloured strands dancing across her shoulders. "I was doing okay with it, excited even…" She grimaced, "and then my mother-in-law came for an extended visit…" She shot Kurt an indignant look, "and my husband decided to go out of town on business, and the dog hates her and she makes the kids nuts." She blew out an exasperated breath. "Work is a political quagmire and then I come home to a thousand minor catastrophes…" She leaned out of her chair and stretched out a hand to Kurt. "I'm sorry for the emergency email. Thank you for fitting me in."

Kurt squeezed her hand before giving it back to her. "You know I'm always here for you. Besides, believe it or not," Kurt grinned, his crystal eyes lit with laughter, "none of my other clients need the pre-carpool time slot."