"Hi Simon
I'll be in the Nag's head tomorrow night.  I'm driving, so I'll be
drinking orange juice."

She stared at the e-mail a while before returning it to the draft
folder.  It looked innocuous enough, but still she hesitated.  She was
sure he would understand.

He'd arrived late for her leaving do - he was always late for that
kind of thing.  She was already drunk.  She giggled as she greeted him
and offered him a drink.  As she poured it she suddenly noticed a pair
of scissors on the table.  She handed him his drink, then reached up
to stroke his beard.  His smile turned to a frown as she produced the
scissors from behind her back.  His left hand gripped her wrist
tightly.

"Why is it," he sighed, "that drunken females always want to try
that?"

"Oh go on.  Just a little bit, please?"

He put his drink down and gently but firmly forced both of her arms
down and behind her back, drawing her closer to him.  As she snuggled
up to him he caught both wrists in one hand and relieved her of the
scissors.

"Spoilsport!"

He patted her bottom, saying "Naughty little girls mustn't play with
sharp objects; they might get hurt."

Despite the implied threat she felt safe in his arms; she decided to
apologize.

"I'm sorry about what I said about you - it really was a case of
mistaken identity."

He looked at her blankly, but she missed her escape route.  She told
him a few seconds before she realised that he hadn't known.  She began
to feel queasy as his face hardened.

"The only question now," he said grimly, "is whether you're too drunk
to go over my knee without throwing up?"  She turned a delicate shade
of green.

"You'd better get going," he said, releasing her, "but perhaps we
should discuss this again when you're sober."

Despite the excitement of her new job she found herself preoccupied. 
At night she would replay the scene.  With each repetition the
alternate ending became more vivid.  She began to daydream at work. 
Writing the e-mail had helped, for a few hours, but now the fantasy
was again intruding into her working life.  She squirmed in her seat,
feeling his hands running over her, pulling her across his lap,
lifting her skirt, insinuating themselves under her panties.  She felt
herself blush as she imagined them being ceremonially lowered ready
for...

She could stand it no longer.  She pulled back the e-mail, read it one
last time, and pressed send.