The Spankogram

(Author's note: this very short story is intended to be more curious than arousing. I hope you enjoy it on those terms.)

*

They'd put the idea together somewhere between the fourth and fifth pints, so he certainly never expected it to come to anything. The others - three of them, who he'd met at the local munch - all had collared submissives, and he tended to underestimate girls like that.

So anyway, he came in the door that evening from work just as usual, kicked off his shoes in the hall, put his keys in the dish, and bent down to stroke the cat as it twined round his legs.

Then he saw her, even from just inside the front door. She was kneeling bedside the sofa in the living room - he thought at first she was a burglar ferreting about for a stash of notes somewhere down the back of the cushions. Daft, but he'd never come back and found anyone else in the flat before.

Burglars don't blindfold themselves though, and they rarely go about their business in stiletto heals and hold-up stockings. She didn't turn round as he walked towards her, although he saw her stiffen slightly to a more attentive position. She held her skirt up neatly, revealing black silk knickers between her rounded arse-cheeks.

Although it was exactly the scenario they'd planned in the pub, he could scarcely believe they'd really pulled it off. The idea had been simple, but just - well, not the kind of thing that you could ever get away with. "Spankograms", they were going to call them. And the best bit was that these weren't to be professional girls, all fake tan and gone in five minutes: these would be the real thing, true submissives who had been instructed by their Master to accept you instead of him for the evening.

There wasn't going to be any actual sex. They'd all been clear on that - they didn't want their girls getting fucked by punters, certainly. And anyone making a booking was going to have to be checked out. They hadn't worked out all the details yet, and he guessed correctly that sending one round to him was a trial run.

But now she was here, it didn't feel the way he'd expected. He looked across at her, patiently waiting as she'd no doubt been trained, and it all seemed a bit surreal to him.

He went to the fridge for a beer and took it back into the living room; he toyed with the idea of bringing two, but he knew that wasn't how things were done. His supposed his mates would have sent her to fetch the beer.

She hadn't moved a muscle. Goosebumps were appearing on the backs of her thighs, and his eyes traveled up from there to the crotch of her knickers. It lay snugly against her pussy and he knew she'd have shaved dutifully for him - or rather for her Master. He felt a sudden shudder of disgust, and he wondered whether he could ask her to leave.

She was dark-haired, and he didn't recognise her; his mates' taste in girls was usually for the busty blonde type. Who was she? He didn't feel he could ask. Her passivity was starting to really unnerve him.

Certainly she had a figure put on this earth to be spanked. A slim waist, curving out to shapely hips and a quite exceptionally full bottom. He reached out, and measured his hand against the ample roundness, imagining how it would bounce if he slapped it - and then he did. She gasped - of course, she'd had no idea it was coming.

He hadn't expected her to react, for some reason, and hearing her - seeing the slight movement as she adjusted her weight on her knees - made her seem like a real woman for the first time.

He stroked his hand up her thigh, and, feeling the urge to try her out as if she were a borrowed car, he struck her hard, a ringing slap across the left cheek. It coloured immediately but she made no sound.

Suddenly he twisted away from her and stood up.

"I'm sorry," he said. "This just isn't working for me."

She still didn't move. It was like talking to an automaton. He reached down and touched her gently on the shoulder, shaking her as if to wake someone from sleep. She lifted up the blindfold and blinked at him, looking acutely anxious.

"It's not your fault, you've been ... great. I'm sorry." He had no idea what to say.

She stayed on her knees, but he could tell she was less worried now than disappointed, and he began to feel defensive.

"Just go. Please."

She stood with her back to him and retrieved a patterned top from behind one of the cushions.

He walked from one side of the room to the other, for no purpose except to feel purposeful, and picked up the TV remote, but caught up with himself just in time.

"Erm, did you have a coat?" He knew she hadn't though, it was the middle of summer.

She was in the hall now, waiting inside the door for him to open the catches.

He said, "Thank you," but as she stepped delicately down the stairs to the street, she didn't even look back.

He found himself going into the kitchen again. Another beer, that's what he needed. But when he got to the fridge, he put his elbows on the top, his head in his hands, and he could have almost cried.