The Prankstress

This is my first non-erotic story. Unsurprisingly perhaps, there is no explicit sex in this work. Oblique references to sex only involve adults over the age of 18.

Somehow, I initially managed to submit this as an Erotic-coupling story. I have corrected that here. Oops!

For background, on other sites, I have seen references to adults copying 'pranks' they have seen on social media For some reason the word itself annoys me, but not nearly as much as these apparently true accounts. For clarity, this story and everyone in it is fictional. The pranks described are not. In fairness, it is a stretch to believe the victim would allow the perpetrators the lattitude that I have before responding. Please allow me that as artistic licence.

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It probably started during Covid. My wife and I were recently married when the lockdowns began. My job in a local supermarket required me to go into work. Sandy's job in local government allowed a lot of home working. I think it was the isolation and the access to our home internet from waking until bedtime that led to her fascination with social media videos.

Or perhaps that just sowed the seed. Perhaps the real catalyst was that, once the world returned to normal and we all went back to work, Rachael joined Sandy's team. They hit it off from day one and, at first, I was pleased because Sandy had always struggled making friends. I say, at first because it was not long after that the pranks started.

Initially, it was stupid little things: for example Rachael would be invited to eat with us after work and, when I sat down at the table, my glass of wine would be full to the brim so, inevitably I would spill some trying to take a drink. As I wiped my hands I would look up to see at least one of them filming me on their phones.

"Really?" I would say. "Are you twelve?"

Another night I would settle down to watch a cup match on TV. My wife would set a bottle of beer on the table next to my favourite chair but went I went to take a drink, it was empty.

"Oh," she'd say as she pointed her phone, trying to capture my reaction. "Sorry Ewan, I forgot. I poured it into a glass for you, but I must have brought the empty bottle in by mistake. The glass must still be in the kitchen."

That night I was really annoyed. Yes, it was trivial, but I missed the only goal of the fucking match while I went to fetch my beer. Sandy thought it was hilarious. She said that the expression on my face was a picture. Despite my pleas and, eventually, threats, the stupid little tricks still continued, until things escalated from there.

The first real blow-up was about three years ago. I had been promoted by then to shift manager and needed to be at the store a little earlier than usual to prepare for a visit by the Regional Director. Rachael had turned up to give Sandy a lift to the office as was their habit, but I noticed them hanging around as I tried to find my keys. I always left my store keys and car keys in the same drawer; religiously. Not there. I checked my coat pockets, my backpack, the kitchen, everywhere. Then I noticed that Rachael was filming.

"Sandy! Where.. the.. actual.. fuck.. have.. you.. put.. my.. FUCKING.. KEYS?"

She actually smirked at Rachael, put her forefinger on her chin, pursed her lips and pretended to think. "Errr. Have you tried the bathroom?" She asked innocently.

I stormed down the corridor in a foul mood, knowing that I was already late. I spent another ten fucking minutes in that bloody room. I even tipped all of the clothes in the laundry basket out onto the floor. No. Nothing! Certainly not my fucking keys.

"SANDY!" I roared from the bathroom door, not at all happy at the stupid giggling I could hear coming from the pair as they watched me. "If those fucking keys are not in my fucking hands in the next sixty fucking seconds, you are facing a fucking shit-load of grief!" I was shaking with anger by now.

"Have you checked your bedside table, dear?" she called back.

Cursing to myself, I went into the bedroom to find both sets of keys exactly where she'd suggested. To be clear; those keys were not there when I had dressed that morning.

I grabbed them and pushed past the two smirking women as I dashed to the car. "Well fuck you very much!" was about the kindest farewell that I could manage.

Of course, the Regional Director and Store Manager were far from impressed by my late arrival. Though the inspection went relatively well, I still had an uncomfortable and detailed ten minute examination of my short-comings once the Director had left. It was explained to me in very clear terms that my penance would be to be sure all of the trivial issues raised during the visit were resolved, in full, before I left that evening.

An hour after my shift was due to end, Sandy rang to find out why I wasn't home yet. "Because I was fucking late for work and made my boss look like a dick, so he's dropping all of the shit jobs on me by way of thanks!" I retorted, and hung up.

My phone rang again. Sandy. I muted it and went back to my punishment.

I was finally done and preparing to leave when Bill, one of the old hands, joined me. "You finished too? Fancy a pint? You look like you could do with one," he observed.

To be fair, he was right, and I was in no mood to go home anyway. We ordered a couple of beers and found a table. "You've obviously shit in someone's shoes today," Bill commented. "Brian usually thinks quite highly of you."

I told him about the stupid pranks and how today's, in particular, had got me so fucking incensed.

"Has she posted it?" He enquired.

"What!?"

"That's what they do; TikTokers, or whatever the fuck they call themselves. They post stupid videos on line and copy each other's practical jokes." He took a pull on his pint. "You ought to look, son. You might be trending; a fucking on-line phenomenon." He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Well, Bill might have thought that it was fucking hilarious; me not so much. "Where do I look?" I asked him.

"Don't ask me," he replied. "I'm a bloody grandad. I can barely use WhatsApp. She'll know." He nodded at the young woman collecting glasses. "Trace," he called out. She looked across and he signalled for her to join us. "Tracey. Perhaps you could help my young friend here." He pointed to me. "He's afraid he might be an internet sensation without even knowing it," he continued.

He explained the situation. She looked across the bar to the landlord and held up five fingers. He nodded in acknowledgement. In fact, it took only four minutes to find a speeded up video of me frantically searching for my keys.

Bill was obviously trying not to laugh at something. "What?" I asked resignedly.

"The music she's used," he smirked. "It's called Yackety Sax. When I was your age, a comedian called Benny Hill used it to close his show, usually as he chased a half naked woman around a park or such." He shook his head. "She really is taking the piss, son."

Tracey agreed. "I'd never do this to my boyfriend, even when he's been a right knob-head. You must have really pissed your missus off. Anyway, gotta go."

"Before you do, Tracey," I asked. "Could you save that link for me?"

"Already done, sweetie," she replied; and she went back to her work.

I checked my phone. Dozens of missed calls and texts from Sandy. I deleted them all. Instead, by way of reply, I sent a link to the video and an emoji of a closed hand with only the middle digit extended.

"Why, Bill? Why does she think it's okay to do this stuff?"

"Validation probably, Ewan," he replied after a moment's thought. "Strangers 'liking' her videos probably give her an adrenaline rush; she's likely addicted to it."

I stared at him. "You know this, how?"

He replied in a gently chiding tone. "You may be surprised to learn that I'm not a career shelf-stacker. I took early retirement from the police when my wife first took ill. When she passed, what with her life insurance and my pension, I'm comfortably set. I only work at the store for beer money and the company." He finished his pint. "That's why I don't give a shit about any of their corporate bollocks. Anyway, coppers get some training into why some folk commit crime. Validation's one of 'em."

My phone screen showed an incoming text. Sandy. "Ive taken the video down. I know youre cross. So sorry. Xxx"

It wasn't much but it was a start. I was mad as hell but at least the fucking clip wasn't there. Or was it? Finishing my own pint, Bill and I got up to leave. He patted me on the shoulder and wished me good luck. I thanked him and made my exit via the bar. "Tracey. Could you just make sure that video has actually gone?"

It only took a moment for her to reassure me that it had.

Sandy was alone in the flat when I got home. I ignored her greeting and went into the kitchen to make myself a hot drink. There was a plate with lasagne covered in cling-film on the worktop. I was courteous enough to acknowledge the offering as I put it in the microwave.

As I waited for my congealed meal to reheat. Sandy asked, nervously, "What happened to make you late?"

I almost exploded but I kept calm. I knew that raised voices and insults would just give her an excuse to play the victim.

"Well," I explained, in my most patronising voice. "Apparently you and your girlfriend think that getting likes on TikToxic is more important than my job." She started to speak but I held up my hand. "I've not finished. Because you," I pointed accusingly at her, "made me late, things that would have been done if I'd been in on time, were not done. My boss was annoyed. He bollocked me. I didn't enjoy it; but that doesn't matter, because you thought it was a fucking hoot. Apparently that's all you give a fuck about. It certainly isn't your husband."

The microwave dinged and I went to get my belated meal, ignoring Sandy's tearful apologies. I ate; drank my coffee; washed my pots and went to bed without another word to her.

The following morning, she apologised again. I repeated what I had said on previous occasions. "I told you, Sandy. These pranks are just not fucking funny. I'm supposed to be your husband not your fucking stooge. If that's not good enough, then perhaps we need a rethink." And I left for work, wishing Rachael a very sincere, "Fuck you too!" as we passed in the street.

It was a couple of weeks before the atmosphere in the flat returned to anything approaching normal. But, at least the pranks stopped.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be just a pause. One Friday evening, about four months later, I'd been playing five a side at the sports centre in town, not far from the shop. After the game, I had a shower and changed into a fresh set of clothes I'd brought from home; I wasn't going to put my working gear back on, having just got clean. I drove home, looking forward to a meal and a nice quiet night in.

I wandered into the flat only to be called into our living room. Sandy and Rachael were standing together by the TV holding hands looking very serious. Obviously my suspicions were aroused but neither was holding their phone. Then I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, a phone, propped pointing towards the centre of the room; the exact spot where I would be standing to face them. Intrigued, I obliged.

"Ewan," Sandy began. "We need to talk." My heart sank. Not because she was breaking up with me but because I could tell from Rachael's pathetic attempts to keep a straight face that this was another prank.

"Go ahead," I replied. "I'm all ears."

"Well, it's like this," Sandy explained. "I'm wanting to explore my wider sexuality. So, in fairness to you." She inclined her head in my direction. "You need to know that I want to open up our marriage." She paused, and I saw Rachael squeeze her hand as they waited for my shocked reaction.

I was prepared though. Even though I didn't know specifically what was coming, the knowledge that they were up to something gave me an advantage. I paused to consider my response. Then, "Fair enough," I replied. "I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

I turned to go, dropping the bag with my kit and work clothes by the door. "Ewan, where are you going? Don't be upset," Sandy called out.

"I'm not upset," I reassured her. "I'm going out on the pull." And, before she could make sense of what I'd said, I left.

I'd stayed calm in the flat but now I was fuming. I debated booking into an hotel. I would if I had to, but it seemed unfair that I should have to pay to deal with this stupid game she, they, were playing. Instead, I called Harry; we'd been friends since juniors and he'd been my best man, and I knew that he had a spare room. Fortunately he was at home with Vikki, his partner, and they both assured me that I'd be welcome. Again, I had to mute my phone to silence the texts and calls from Sandy and her idiot friend. This was getting to be too much of a habit.

Vikki met me at the door and led me into the living room where Harry was engrossed in an international football qualifier. A beer was offered and accepted and we sat in comfortable silence until half time. At the break, Harry turned to me and asked the obvious questions. I answered honestly. Then I explained as best I could.

"So Bill, a guy I work with, reckons that she's addicted to the rush when people like her videos. She realises, when I get angry, that she's gone too far and it stops but, eventually the craving gets too much and she and her fucking partner in crime; sorry Vikki," I apologised. "They just do it again."

"You can't go on like this," Harry sympathised. "You can't start a family and raise kids in a home like that."

"I know," I agreed. "When she's not pulling these stunts we're good together but I just cannot get her to see that they are not just an irritation for me; it's a sign that she has no respect for me or my feelings." We talked until the second half started and then concentrated on the match.

After the game we nattered for an hour or so then Vikki showed me to the spare room. I stripped to my underwear and played a couple of games on my phone and then slept like a log. Next morning, I heard the pair of them moving about as they got ready for work and, once I heard them starting breakfast, I got dressed and used the bathroom.

I joined them in the kitchen and, as Vikki tidied the table after we'd eaten, I reluctantly checked my phone. I showed them the missed calls and messages. "I suppose I should call her," I conceded. "I just wish I could make her see sense."

Vikki bit her lip. "Um."

"Go on," I urged her. "You have an idea."

She nodded. "I do, but it's cruel and I'm not sure that you should do it."

"I'm sinking here, Vikki," I pointed out. "Nothing that I've done so far has worked. In terms of relationship-ending pranks, this is her second strike. Even this is really one last-chance too many."

Vikki seemed unconvinced, but explained her idea anyway. I saw what she meant about it being mean, but I felt that Sandy needed to understand that actions have consequences and that hurt could go both ways. Despite her misgivings, Vikki agreed to go ahead. Harry? Well, he was my mate; he was on board at the word 'cruel'.

I unmuted my phone and, sure enough, within five minutes there was an incoming call from Sandy. "I switched it to speaker and answered. "Hi Sandy. How are you this morning?"

"Where are you Ewan?" She whispered. "You ran off before we had a chance to explain."

"What was to explain?" I retorted. "You wanted us to fuck around and I said okay."

Just then, as Sandy began to speak; presumably to explain that it was just a joke, Vikki called down the corridor in a husky voice, "Come on lover. If you want another round before work, I've only got an hour."

Sandy burst into tears and, from the sound of it, dropped her phone. Moments later, Rachael's voice came over the speaker. "What the hell did you say to her?" she demanded.

"Hi Rachael; good fuck?" I enquired, cheerfully.

Her answer was cut off when Vikki, now fully embracing her role, shouted, "Babe. I'm going in the shower. If you're not here by the time the water gets warm, I'm starting without you."

Harry was just about pissing himself when I called back, "On my way, gorgeous."

"Who the fuck was that?" Rachael snapped over Sandy's howls.

"That was Alice something," I replied. "Or maybe Alicia; It was loud on the dance floor. Look I've got to go. She's waiting for me. Bye." I closed the call.

It was eleven o'clock when I finally sauntered in to the flat. Sandy must have heard me from the spare room that she used when she occasionally worked from home. I was making coffee when she burst into the kitchen. "What have you done?" she wailed.

I looked around, faking bemusement. "Nothing," I answered trying to look convincingly innocent. "I'm just making coffee. Do you want some?"

"Where were you? Who was she? What did you do?" my wife sobbed.

I considered. "Well, after your announcement, I went to the pub. I had a couple of drinks as I read up on how to do open marriages and then I went clubbing."

The kettle boiled and I poured the water over the instant coffee granules in the mug. Sandy was all but vibrating with impatience at my lack of urgency. "So," I continued as I fetched the milk from the fridge. "The best advice that I could find was that it's good manners to let each other know when we are going to fuck someone else; condoms are to be used for all penetrative sex; but the who and the where and the details should be kept private to prevent feelings of jealousy causing arguments."

I finished making my drink and returned the milk to the fridge. "So," I looked across at her, almost feeling sorry for her. Almost. "How was your night? You and Rachael, eh? She's been crushing on you for months. Was it your first time fucking a woman?"

"No. I mean, it wasn't. I mean, we didn't. We were never going to. It was just a joke." The words spewed out.

"But Sandy; that can't be right," I pointed out gently. "For two reasons: first, a wife telling her husband that she intends to fuck other people is hurtful; it isn't funny, so it couldn't have been a joke. And second, you promised me that there would be no more pranks. Did you lie to me?"

She was caught and she knew it. "It was different this time," she tried to explain. "We thought that you'd see the joke and, anyway, we didn't expect you to just leave before I could tell you."

"What did you fucking expect?" I shouted. "My wife had just told me that I'm not man enough for her in bed. Should I have been happy? Well I fucking wasn't. So, like I said, I left and went looking for reassurance that I'm not a total fucking dud in the sack."

She was in tears again. I steeled my heart. She needed to understand that her stupid games had the power to hurt. "Who was it?" she begged through the tears.

"None of your business" I replied curtly. "If we have an open marriage I can fuck whoever I want without having to explain myself to you."

"But it was just a prank," she wailed. "It wasn't real."

"But isn't the whole idea of a prank to make the victim believe it's true?" I challenged. She couldn't, or wouldn't, answer. "So if the whole point was to convince me you meant what you said," I carried on remorselessly. "Then well fucking done; you cracked it; a resounding success; now how's that fucking working out for you?"

Still sobbing, she turned to leave me and go back to her work. "Sandy?" She turned towards me.

"Yes?"

"So are we in an open marriage or not? It's just that there's this cute blonde in the DIY store next door and..."

"No we are fucking not!" she yelled at me. "So your cute blonde can find someone else's husband to fuck!" She slammed the door as she left, to emphasise her point.

I actually felt a little guilty. True, she was going to make me think she planned to cheat, but then she thought she'd let me off the hook and we'd all have a jolly good laugh about it. Yeah, right. But I made her think that I actually had cheated and, even if I told her the truth now, she'd never be totally sure. So, yes, I felt bad. A bit, anyway.