I'd been living in Grange Court for about six months before I ever exchanged so much as two words with Jane Stickson. I knew who she was and I knew her name only because I happened once to take delivery of a parcel the postman was trying to deliver to her when she was out. When she got home and read the note the postman had put through her letterbox saying which neighbour he had left it with and came to get it, that was the first time I spoke to her.
I'd noticed her around, of course. And yes, I'd cast my eye over her – she was a very attractive woman. About ten or twelve years older than I was, in her late thirties by the look of her, she was still very beautiful – delightfully curvy, buxom but not in a disgustingly top-heavy way like those mutant women who have breast enlargements, and with a couple of long, shapely legs she occasionally showed off in short skirts when the weather was warm. Her hair was very dark brown, looking black in some lights, and hung soft and silky and loose just down to her shoulders. So yes, I definitely fancied her, I suppose, and was surprised there was no husband or lover present – indeed, she only ever seemed to come and go from her flat for work, and otherwise seemed to lead quite a lonely existence, pent up in there on her own during the evenings. Still, each to their own, and it was nothing to do with me, after all.
That all changed one Saturday, two weeks or so after we'd had our first proper conversation over that parcel.
The knock at my door that afternoon was quite unexpected – I was having a quiet weekend in, watching a DVD at the time, and I wasn't expecting any visitors. I paused the disc and went to the door, being quite surprised when I opened it to find Jane Stickson there. She was wearing a red top and black trousers made of a smooth, thin material than accentuated the curves of her legs. She smiled at me, a little nervously, her green eyes looking at me with a sort of quiet intensity.
"Hello, I'm so sorry to bother you," she began apologetically. "It's just... Well, I couldn't help noticing when I was here the other day that you had lots of computer books and things on your bookshelf."
She indicated the shelf behind me, which did indeed hold all of my computer manuals and so forth. I didn't work with computers, but I was a bit of an enthusiast in my spare time and sometimes earned a little extra money doing freelance website building, albeit only on a small scale.
"Yes, yes I suppose so," I admitted, feeling well-disposed towards her – after all, it's not often one has an attractive woman on one's doorstep. I guessed already that she probably needed help with her own computer, and so it proved.
"My PC keeps crashing," she explained. "And I'm afraid I'm next to hopeless when it comes to these things, and I was wondering..."
"Of course I'll come and have a look at it," I replied helpfully, grabbing my keys off the table just inside the room. "No problem."
"Oh you don't have to come right now, if you're busy..."
"I'm not busy," I assured her, locking the door behind me as I came out. "Just lazing around really."
"It's terribly kind of you," she thanked me as I followed her downstairs into her flat.
The computer, it turned out, was in the bedroom, and I admit the prospect of being in there was not an unenticing one. I wondered whether to make a joke about 'any excuse to get me in the bedroom' or something along those lines, but I reasoned that I would in all likelihood only end up with a slap, so thought better of it. It was a reasonably large room, with the bed in the centre, the desk with the computer to one side, a wardrobe to the other with a small window next to it, and a dressing table with drawers built into it underneath against the wall opposite the end of the bed. Above the table, fixed to the wall, was a large mirror.
It was distracting, in the most pleasant of ways, having her sit down in the chair next to me as I got to work on the computer's problem – I wondered why she had two chairs there anyway. Perhaps she'd brought one through from the main room in anticipation of my agreeing to help her. Either way, I certainly enjoyed having her sitting so close, barely inches away from me – I admit it had been a little while since I'd last had any intimate female company, and I was a little frustrated. I kept wondering whether I ought to say something, crack a joke, try and find something in common, maybe even just get straight to it and ask if she wanted to go out somewhere for a drink or something. After all, she seemed to like me, and she'd invited me into her flat so she must trust me, but... No, as usual, I lacked the confidence. I couldn't do it. So I just sat there, and got to work fixing the problem.
It was pretty simple in the end – I've wondered since whether she simply set the whole thing up as an excuse to get me in there, but I don't think so. I think it was just spontaneous, the way the afternoon unfolded from thereon in. She'd installed a new screensaver she'd downloaded which was crashing her processor for some reason – it was a bit of a rickety old machine. I sorted it out pretty quickly, for which she was of course very grateful.
"You're so clever," she enthused, sounding more like a schoolgirl than a woman in her late thirties.
"It was nothing, honestly," I assured her. "Do you want this left on, or shut down?"
"Oh you may as well shut it down for now."
I don't know why I let the mouse drift onto the 'My Recent Documents' list, displaying the files she'd most recently been using on the computer. It was a bit cheeky of me really, delving into her privacy like that, especially with her sitting there right next to me, but she made no attempt to say anything or intercede as the list appeared. She merely drew in her breath sharply, nervously, as the filenames came up, and just as I was about to apologise and explain it away as an accident, I saw the list of names – 'spank1.jpg', 'hogtiedbitch.jpg', 'handcuffed2.jpg'. And so it went on.
For a moment neither of us moved, or said or did anything. Then I turned to look at her, and she glanced at me expectantly. Still we were both silent, then I looked back at the screen and clicked on the first of the files. It showed a young woman, naked, bent over the knees of a man who could only be seen from the chest down, being spanked. Her face was a mask of pleasure mixed with pain, a silent cry or perhaps a moan of ecstasy. I clicked for the next picture, and it was a similar image, this time a naked girl cuffed with her hands behind her back.
I looked across again at Jane, and knew that if ever anything was going to happen between the two of us, it was going to be now. Come on Ian, pull yourself together. Are you going to take advantage of this, or chicken out, mumble some embarrassed apology and leave?
My heart was thumping and I felt almost sick with the tension, but seeing her sitting there, hands in her lap nervously clasped together, biting her lip in an anxious but gorgeously sexy way, I couldn't resist. You only live once, after all. She obviously liked this stuff, and it certainly turned me on, seeing the images there, knowing she'd downloaded them for her own pleasure. Go for it.
"Someone's been a very, very naughty girl," I said, with as much authority as I could, trying to keep the wavering nerves out of my voice, holding myself steady. Whether I could get away with calling a woman over a decade my senior a 'girl' I didn't know, but it was all part of the game. She was either going to respond and this was going to become one of the most electric afternoons of my life, or throw me out of her flat and leave me with some very embarrassing neighbourly relations.
"Yes," she said quietly, looking down into her lap and then nodding slightly.
Blimey. This was it then.
"And we all know what happens to bad girls, don't we?"
She looked up and nodded more firmly, a mixture of hope and apprehension in her eyes.
"They get punished?" she asked.
"They get punished," I confirmed, getting more into it now, energised by her obvious desire to join in the fantasy. I stood up and moved across the room to her bed, sitting down on the edge and moving back a little on it, my legs out in front of me. I patted my thigh firmly.
"Come on!" I instructed. "Across my knees young lady."
She stood, walking slowly across, not a word of protest. Smiling for the briefest of moments, she got onto the bed and stretched herself out across my knees, her beautiful backside clad in tightly-fitting black trousers stretched wonderfully across it. The material was thin but there was no panty line... Was she wearing a thong? Or no knickers at all? The prospect of seeing was enticing, but I kept my mind on the job in hand, wondering if she could feel how hard I was for her under my jeans. God, having her warm, soft body stretched across me like that was bloody wonderful.
"Now I don't want any fuss out of you," I told her sternly. "Just lay still and take your punishment like a good girl."
"I'll try," she replied, shifting slightly once more, her backside moving on my knees. I looked at it, took a deep breath, and raised my hand up high. I'd never done this before – there's a first time for everything, I suppose.
My palm connected with her backside with a delightful sharp slap of flesh, and she gave a little cross between a whelp and a whimper as the sensation hit her. My palm stung slightly, so I hoped her backside felt the same. She wriggled a little, and I placed my other hand on the small of her back.
"Hold still," I commanded, and she did so. I raised my hand up again and brought it down, this time on the other cheek, and this time the sound she gave out was more of a moan, a delightfully breathy little 'oh!' of pained pleasure. My cock was practically bursting through my jeans, and with the skin of her abdomen covered only by her thin top, I knew without a doubt that she could feel how hard I was there, so close to her skin.
I kept her waiting for a moment, running my fingers across the smooth material of the trousers covering her backside, caressing her with my palm. She sighed gently, and I felt for the slip of material that would give away a thong underneath, but there was nothing.
"You're not wearing any knickers, are you?" I asked, trying not to sound too obviously turned-on by the idea, even though she doubtless knew how aroused I was.
"No," she confessed quietly. "I'm afraid I'm not."
She hadn't been expecting that one, and yelped.
"I... I'm sorry," she breathed.
"Sorry for what?"
"Sorry for downloading filthy, kinky photographs from the Internet? Sorry for being a little whore who goes around not wearing any panties? Or..."
I leaned in close, moving my other hand to stroke her hair gently as I whispered:
"...sorry for being such a hopeless spank-slut who can't get enough of having her pretty little bottom smacked?"
Two in quick succession, one on each cheek.
"Oh God...!" writhing and grinding her crotch against my thighs.
"All of that," she confessed, her voice still a husky, erotic whisper.
She nodded, a gesture I could see only by the movement of her hair, down and up.
Snack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
This time she did sound pained from the quick foursome, but the cry turned into a pleasured moan once more.
She tried to take a breath, compose herself.
"I said tell me, spank-slut."
The name seemed to excite her, revelling in the degradation the tag carried. She moaned once more, and it took another sharp spank to get an answer out of her.
"B... Books," she spluttered.
"In the bottom drawer, under the dresser..."
Slowly, she stood up. Her face was as red as I guessed and hoped her backside was, but there was a real excitement in her eyes, her flushed cheeks showing just how much she was enjoying this. She walked to the drawer, kneeling and opening it. Underneath various underwear – some lovely-looking knickers I instantly knew I would love to see her in at some point amongst them – were several erotic novels.
"Bring them here," I instructed. She bought the six books across to the bed and laid them in front of me, standing back nervously as I examined them. They were all much the same – paperback tales of women taken and tied up, spanked, degraded, used as sex slaves...
"You dirty little pervert," I told her with dark relish. She bowed her head.
"There's more isn't there?" I asked.
This time the confession came with almost a kind of quiet enthusiasm.
"Sometimes... sometimes I like to spank myself."
"With my hairbrush... I've never had anybody to spank me before. I know I deserve it."
"Nonsense," I sneered. "You do it because you love it, spank-slut. Show me."
She moved once more back to the dressing table and picked up the hairbrush, holding it out to show me. It was a good size, purple plastic backing with hard black bristles.
"I said show me!" I told her.
"I... I don't understand?"
I fixed her with what I hoped was a suitably menacing look.
She looked surprised, then excited, moving a step forward and holding the brush behind her. Pausing a moment to fix me with a look of something close to pride, pleased to show that she could take it, brought it down hard with a resounding smack against her own backside, gasping slightly as she did so.
"Again," I demanded. "Harder."
She did as I commanded.
"Keep doing it."
Harder and harder she brought the brush down again and again, smacking it against her flesh, the redness of excitement returning to her face.
Without protest she did so, making sure she switched between her two cheeks as she continued to punish herself, moans of pleasure returning once more to her lips as she breathed ever more deeply.
I stood, and walked over to her. Taking the brush from her hand, I ran my palm once more smoothly across her backside, feeling its radiant warmth from the many blows that had rained down upon it.
"Turn around," I told her. She obeyed, as always – we could see each others' reflections in the mirror above the dressing table, her face still flushed with excitement, mine as far as possible fixed with its commanding, determined look. I was beginning to get used to my role, and to relish it. I suspected that she had longed to be in hers for some time.
She moved forward, stretching over the table, not caring that she was knocking aside the various moisturisers, lipsticks and other bits and pieces covering it. She was pressed down against it, arms outstretched and hooked over the end of the table that was not quite pressed against the wall, her backside now a wonderfully tempting target.
"You're going to count out each stroke," I explained. "I will spank you twenty times. If you make any other noise, or lose count, then we'll go right back to the beginning. Understand?"
"Yes," she affirmed, sounding almost as if she couldn't wait. She didn't know what I had planned, however – I turned around the brush so that I would be striking her not with the flat plastic back of the implement, but with the hard, stubby bristles. I smiled devilishly as I raised it to deliver the first blow. I was definitely enjoying this now.
She whelped, all thoughts of games and counting forgotten as she reacted with shock to the very genuine stinging pain of the blow.
"Wrong!" I told her, gleefully. "Start again, from the beginning."
There was a pause as she desperately suppressed another cry, before in a quiet voice on the verge of tears came out with:
"Too slow," I told her. "One more try, and if you don't get it right this time we'll make it thirty altogether."
"One!" she cried.
"Good girl. Now, remember, don't lose count..."
"That was two, can't you count? Should have been 'three four'... You have to be quick. Back we go, and now it is thirty."
She said nothing this time, merely readied herself for the next onslaught. I was almost impressed.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
"Three, four, five..."
This time she managed it – some struggles along the way and more and more pained the more blows rained down on her poor, tortured little backside, but eventually she cried out with evident relief:
I stopped, replaced the brush on the table, but didn't tell her she could stand. She waited, breathing deeply, head resting on the surface. Once more my hand returned to her arse, smoothing across it, stroking it, feeling it... Then I delivered one final short, sharp smack with my palm, causing her to squeal in surprise, before I stood back again.
"You can stand," I told her.
She stood, slowly, a little unsteady on her feet. Her face in the mirror in front of me looked proud and defiant, although it betrayed both the flush of excitement and the tracks of the tears she had shed during her punishment. I moved closer, right up behind her, and gently rested my head on her shoulder, looking into her eyes in the mirror as I slipped my hands around her and placed them together around her stomach, still heaving gently as she took composed breaths. The hardness of my cock under my jeans now pressed against her backside.
"How do you feel?" I whispered delicately into her ear.
"Wonderful," she whispered back, looking at me intently in the mirror. "And terrible."
"Good." I unclasped my hands and slipped one of them down between her legs, pressing gently against the softness there covered by the thin material of her trousers... "But there's more isn't there?"
She looked confused for a moment.
I pressed a little harder, rubbing more firmly up and down, up and down between her legs. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
"No. Eyes open."
Reluctantly she obeyed, re-opening her eyes and moaning again as I continued to massage her gently between her thighs.
"You have toys," I whispered menacingly into her ear. "At least one vibrator I'd wager, you dirty little slut. You haven't had a man here in the entire time I've been living upstairs, but you can't get enough of it. You're always playing with yourself every night, aren't you?" A harder push. "Aren't you?"
"Oh God..." she gasped. Then, "Yes... Yes, I am."
"I knew it... Dirty, dirty little slut, playing with yourself, stuffing the biggest vibrator you could find up yourself as you lay back on that bed, eyes closed, thinking about all those photos you've downloaded onto your computer... Or perhaps you spread your legs right there in front of the computer, looking at those photos, wishing you were the girl being tied, you the one being spanked... Am I right?"
It was a guess of course. An educated guess by now, but I was far too carried away with the game and my role in it to bother about how accurate it might be, and I think she felt the same. She would have agreed to whatever I said by that stage, although I got the feeling I was probably pretty near the mark anyway.
"Yes," she moaned. "Yes, yes you're right."
"I knew it. Moaning and writhing away, making yourself wet, fucking yourself..."
"Oh God yes!"
I could feel her wetness now, soaking through the thin material of her clothing, and I knew that if I carried on like this she'd cum quite soon. I could feel her grinding herself onto my hand as I stroked her. It was hugely erotic, but there was no way I was going to allow her the pleasure of full satisfaction. I stopped, removing my hand and stepping back, leaving her gasping in disappointment and surprise as she clutched the edge of the table to stop herself from collapsing with the sudden shock of having her pleasure taken away.