by Geraldine Hillis
Friday at last. The girls busied themselves about the office, tidying desks, switching off machines, and chatting about their weekend plans. Most seemed to include boyfriends, dinner out, the cinema, theatre, disco, club or party. Only one of them did not join in the lively chatter.
At thirty-two, Diane Preston was older than most of the other office workers by at least ten years. Her bosses liked her because she was efficient and reliable - no Monday morning hangovers ever kept her from her desk; she was never too distraught to work because of a broken romance - but the girls considered her rather dull. Pleasant and helpful, yes - but not someone whom they would consider a friend.
On an impulse, Janet, the office junior, addressed her. "Are you doing anything nice this weekend, Diane?"
One of the others laughed rather unkindly. "Diane never does anything except sit at home and play on her computer!"
"Actually -" Diane flushed at the unaccustomed attention. "I'm going to Scotland to see my - my boyfriend."
There was a moment of silence, then the questions came thick and fast.
"What's his name?"
"How old is he?"
"What does he do for a living?"
"Is he rich?"
"Is he handsome?"
"How long have you known him?"
"Where did you meet him?"
"How come you've never told us about him?"
That last should have been easy to answer. She hadn't told them because they'd never shown the slightest interest in her private life, believing she didn't have one. But there was more than that. How could she possibly explain to these girls that though she'd 'known' Michael for almost three years, she had never actually met him? How could she tell them that she had talked to him on Instant Messenger for eighteen months before she'd even heard his voice on the telephone? And how could she ever admit that she'd 'met' him - not on an ordinary Lonely Hearts site - but on a site most of them would consider kinky, if not downright sick and perverted?
She couldn't. As well as she could, she fielded their questions. His name was Mike; he was forty; he was an estate manager; she didn't know if he was rich, but he seemed to be comfortably off; yes, he was very handsome. At least, she thought to herself, the photograph he sent showed a good-looking man. But maybe it wasn't really him. Maybe he's seventy, with a glass eye and bad breath. Maybe he's a serial killer - maybe he's a fifteen year old schoolboy - maybe - maybe -
She cut off those thoughts and continued to answer. She'd known him three years, and she'd met him - "Well, I met him here in town. He was - was visiting." It was a half truth. She had met him in town - in her own flat on the Internet.
"Ooooh!" said Janet. "Sounds dishy. Hope you have a great time - and tell us all about it on Monday."
Diane smiled awkwardly, and was glad when the clock showed it was time to leave. She disliked being the centre of attention, and her embarrassment was heightened by the 'guilty' secret she harboured. She drove home, picked up the small case she had packed the night before, and set off for the airport.
The flight was short, just over an hour, but it gave her time to think over her 'relationship' with Mike. Like thousands of other people with her particular fetish, she had sat one night, and with some trepidation, typed 'spanking' into a search engine. And her world had not been the same since.
She had read stories - then started writing her own and submitting them. She had frequented chat-rooms, and learned to avoid the more sordid ones. Some of the e-mails she'd received had made her squirm and wonder if she ought to give it up altogether, but most had been letters praising or commenting on her stories.
When Michael had first contacted her, things had changed. He had said he enjoyed her stories, but wondered if there was something more in them than just fantasy. Was she perhaps seeking someone to help her with certain behaviours? All her characters seemed to have problems with the same things. They couldn't organise home and work - their houses were ill-kept; they didn't always obey speed limits and seat-belt laws; they smoked or drank to excess. Perhaps, subconsciously, she was displacing her own problems onto her characters? Perhaps she was 'crying out' for help?
At first, Diane had scoffed at such an idea. She managed her job perfectly well, thank you very much! Ok - so the flat could do with a bit of tidying up - the laundry was piling up - it was some time since she'd run the Hoover over the carpets - and if she didn't do some dishes soon, she'd have nothing left to eat from. But it wasn't a problem - was it?
She always wore her seatbelt, which was probably just as well, since she did tend to push the speed limits just a little when she was running late. Not often, though - not often enough to be a problem.
Drinking - now that definitely wasn't an issue. In fact, she hardly drank alcohol at all; it was just something she occasionally had her characters do. But a guilty glance at the overflowing ashtrays told her something she already knew; smoking was a problem. It wasn't that she hadn't tried to stop: almost every night she promised herself she would - and almost every morning she breakfasted on two coffees and five cigarettes.
But how could Mike help her? She mailed him back, saying that while there were some things about herself that she would like to change, she was sure she could manage them on her own. Besides, she asked, what could he possibly do when he lived a few hundred miles away and could only speak to her by email?
He put her on his Buddy List. "Let's talk," he said.
And talk they did. He didn't push her to admit she needed help, but made friends with her, chatting about this and that - current affairs, books, music, TV programmes. They had a lot in common.
Gradually, he introduced the subject of spanking. After all, it was that shared interest which had brought them together in the first place, but he sensed that she was shy of openly discussing it, other than in the context of story-writing.
"You do need help, don't you, Diane?"
"Yes," she typed. "I suppose I do - but I could never tell anyone face to face, or try to meet someone through Spanking Contact Ads. I just couldn't!"
"Then let me try to help you."
Thus was born their 'disciplinary' relationship. He set her targets. Simple and easily manageable at first: You will not come online until you have done half an hour of housework each evening; you will stick rigidly to the speed limit. If it means you are late for work, then you must set the alarm fifteen minutes earlier.
Each day, she had to tell him whether or not she had met her targets, and if she had not, there were consequences: early bed; no chatting online; standing in a corner for half an hour; taking the bus to work instead of driving.
Sometimes she wondered why she obeyed him, why she was so honest with him. Surely she could lie - tell him yes, the dishes were done - yes, she'd taken the bus - no, she'd not been late for work. She did it once - then confessed - - and experienced her first cyber-spanking.
She'd not believed it could be such an intense experience. It couldn't hurt her physically, she reasoned, so how could it have a deterrent effect? By the end of the two hour session she was an emotional wreck, exhausted and penitent, wanting only to crawl into bed and sob herself to sleep.
Within a few months, she had noticed a positive difference in her life. The flat was a pleasure to come home to - clean, tidy and cosy. She had easily fallen into the routine of clearing up, doing laundry and washing dishes before gong online. Speeding was no longer a problem. What was getting up fifteen minutes earlier, compared to the pleasure of not having to rush and fume behind the wheel in the mornings? All was going well.
Then came the real test.
"Let's talk about your smoking habits," typed Michael.
Diane had dreaded this. It was an addiction, not just a bad habit.
"I don't know if I can stop," she replied. "I've been smoking since I was fourteen. I don't think I can do it."
"Ok, I understand. So let's start gradually. How many do you smoke in the mornings before you go to work?"
"Four or five," she replied, her face burning in embarrassment, even though he couldn't see her.
"So tomorrow morning, make it three - then the next day, two, then one. We'll stick with one for a few days and see how you're doing."
And over the months, with Mike's help, and some patches and gum, she'd managed to quit. For twelve weeks she was completely nicotine free. The flat smelled fresher; she felt great; her bank balance too was considerably healthier; and best of all, Mike was proud of her.
During this time, they'd progressed from Instant Messenger to the phone, and every Saturday evening they chatted for a couple of hours. A meeting was proposed, and after some misgivings, she'd accepted. Now she sat, just minutes from landing at Glasgow Airport, and a flood of panic assailed her. Supposing he didn't like her? Supposing she didn't like him? Supposing he was nothing like he'd said he was? Supposing -
- supposing he found out she was smoking again?
Not many, of course. Nothing like the forty-a-day habit she'd had before. But sometimes, when work got hectic, when she was stressed - she couldn't resist the odd one. In itself it was hardly a crime, but the real problem was that she hadn't told him. She'd meant to - but he would have been so disappointed in her that she just hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. But it would be all right, she reassured herself - she wouldn't be smoking while she was with him, and she would give it up completely as soon as she got back home. Not right now - meeting him would be stressful, and she would probably need a cigarette when she got to her hotel - but soon.
This decision made, Diane unfastened her seat-belt, and prepared to come face to face with the man who had made such a difference in her life.
She recognised him immediately, and noted at once that the photograph had not even begun to do him justice. He stood an inch or two over six feet, and carried himself with an easy grace, unusual in a man of his size. As he bent to kiss her cheek, she was aware of strong hands on her shoulders, and wondered fleetingly how those hands would feel on her bare bottom. The thought brought her up short. Not that it was going to happen this weekend - they would not even be alone together on this first meeting, but in the future - if the relationship progressed - then at some point she would experience her first 'real' spanking. Whether the idea excited or terrified her, she wasn't quite sure.
Michael Bradford liked what he saw. Diane was just as pretty as her photograph had promised. Shoulder-length dark hair framed an intelligent, oval face with a straight nose, a mobile mouth made for laughter and kissing, and a pair of clear, hazel eyes.
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