He didn't look back.

The escalator took me toward the gate and away from our dreams.  I
turned and watched as he lowered his eyes and walked off.  It was the
last time we were together.

For months, I didn't eat and then I couldn't stop eating. I slept all
the time until the insomnia came. I lost and gained weight
inexplicably. Most of all, I cried. And there was always the tearing of
my heart, more painful than any thrashing he'd ever given me. The grief
swallowed me whole.

I had to work but the days were unsubstantial and I felt like a spectre
moving in the places where we'd been happy, once upon a time.

Yesterday, unexpectedly, I saw him. No. I saw them. I followed them to
a hotel, but not just any hotel. It's where he stayed on his first
visit here. It's where he spanked me and I trusted him enough to cry,
where he told me I was beautiful, where we changed our lives forever.

I followed at a distance as they got into the lift by themselves. I
watched as it told me which floor to investigate further.  It wasn't
difficult. I know the sounds well: the television playing just a little
too loud, the cadence of half-muffled smacks, the way a scream tries to
hide in a pillow.

The worst part was the silence, my imagination filling the delay with
memory and fantasy. I wanted to be in that room. I wanted to be the
girl he whipped, the girl he comforted, the girl he didn't leave in the
airport.

Somehow transported, I am kneeling on the bed. He pushes my knees
apart, presses his palm into the small of my back, whispers, "Twelve". 
My pulse races. I try to breathe slowly, deeply. The hair at the back
of my neck grows more and more damp. There is no hair between my legs
but it's damp there too. He's shaved me: my body, heart, and soul,
everything bared to him.

"Count," he commands. I do. The first stroke shocks me and I gasp. Two
and three come in rapid succession and mounting intensity. He won't
settle into a pattern. He doesn't want to be predictable. Number four
slashes low, into my softest, tenderest crease. I collapse in agony but
pull myself back into position immediately. Sweat trickles along the
curve of my spine. He draws the cane back again and again and lays
tramlines evenly down my backside as I struggle not to safeword. The
final stroke is devastating. I stay in position but allow myself to sob
at last. He drops the cane, wraps himself over me, investigates my
slipperiness and smiles. "I'm proud of you". This is the moment I want
never to end.

But it did end.

From the corner phone, I press 9-9-9.  Quickly, quietly, truthfully, I
say all that I can: "At the Grace Hotel. A girl is being beaten in
room 523".

I didn't look back.