Only distant street lights were visible as the train sped onwards. Mark, from his compartment, was trying unsuccessfully to sleep. The dull, horrid ache in his hindquarters kept him from drifting off.

He had ridden the same train earlier that afternoon with excitement. After a year of dreaming and six weeks corresponding with his muse, he was finally about to get spanked.

She'd met him at the station, as planned. She'd been cheerful, but there had been a sensation of age upon her which photos had not revealed. Everyone has misgivings, he thought, and ignored the pangs of unease.

In the darkness he felt cheated. Once accustomed to the sounds of the engine, the night was silent, save for his memory, replaying the scene: sharp report of hand and wooden paddle on his bare flesh.

They'd had lunch together, then she took him home for the session. Shared a glass of cheap red wine, then her voice grew authoritarian and he was undressing. Bent over, emotions hectic, conflicted urges as she struck.

He always was a coward, he reflected, as three smacks in he was already overwhelmed. It was harder than he imagined, he who had read every story and seen every movie. Now reality was tattooed onto his backside, and to his dismay, he learnt that pain was a less ambiguous emotion than he had been led to believe. He begged her to slow down, but she merely reached for the paddle.

He shuddered in remembrance as the headlights of a truck momentarily illuminated the carriage. He had disgraced himself. He'd quickly resorted to the safe word, and, reluctantly, she'd stopped. She tried to talk him into resuming. He was certain that he didn't want to. They grew cordial. Her disapproval turned her words to ice. When he left, his shirt untucked from behind, her farewell was cold.

Here, in the darkness, he had to accept that certain things he believed about himself were lies. He was not a spanko. He hated it. Maybe in time, his memories would fade enough to allow him to remember the experience fondly, but he knew he could never try again. He had made that decision while pulling up his underwear, wretched under her glare, and he was sure it was correct.

Abandoning any hope of sleep, he reached for his knapsack and extracted his laptop. The light from the screen illuminated his hands and face. There wasn't wireless access in his location, but he had stacks of images and videos of his favourite obsession stashed away in several folders. He clicked one open at random. The picture only made him feel even more foolish.

The lights outside were extinguished as the train entered a tunnel. He would have to come up with something new, now. He could take no more comfort from spanking fantasies. He could no longer speak disdainfully of vanillas. Now there was only a return to darkness as, one by one, he deleted the icons and their light winked out.

by Andrew Angerclashes,
Copyright 2010