I'd been friends with Mark for years. We originally met when his company hired me for a freelance project, and found an instant rapport with each other. He was about a decade older, close enough to my age that we had compatible life experiences but enough of a difference that I viewed him as a mentor, at first just professionally and then personally as we grew closer. He'd earned more prominence and success in our line of work than I had, and was able to offer both helpful advice as I built my career and a caring, listening ear as a very dear friend.
Now we were both living in the same city, and spending more time together than ever before. We hung out regularly, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with other mutual friends, and exchanged text messages nearly every day, usually just mundane little bits of daily life or something humorous from YouTube or Twitter, but occasionally the messages were a little more personal, encouraging and confiding in each other.
It was summer and he was spending a few months working on a series of major projects for a very important client. It was meaningful and fulfilling work, but that didn't mean it wasn't stressful too. Adding to his stress was the large envelope sitting on the table in his spacious kitchen, documents sent over by his lawyer with the latest response from the law firm representing his soon-to-be ex-wife.
As the marriage broke down, she had grown increasingly mean-spirited and would frequently insult and belittle him, even in front of his friends, a cruel and petty humiliation. Learning she had been cheating -- for a long time and with multiple partners over the years -- was almost a relief. Still, no divorce is stress-free, especially when she often seemed to extract a twisted joy out of making the negotiations as long and convoluted as possible. Needless to say, the bridge between the two of them wasn't just burned -- the ashes were scattered to the winds and the earth salted below.
I knew Mark would be fine, but there were definitely days where he didn't get enough sleep or just felt rundown. I'd been checking on him and reminding him to take care of himself, gently pestering him to get out of the house for a quick bite to eat or drinks with our group of friends, or sometimes grabbing my laptop and going over to his place to work from there to give him some company in that big ol' house, empty since the kids graduated and she'd decamped for the beach house until the paperwork was finalized.
His couch was just as good as mine, I figured, and in some ways better since it was bigger and I had more legroom there -- plus the saltwater pool in the backyard was a great way to take a break and clear my head with a quick swim.
That was the scene one August afternoon as I was stretched out on Mark's couch with my MacBook resting on my lap, the soft click-click-click of the keys as I typed. I was planning to go work out later that day and was wearing black yoga pants, a black sports bra, and a lightweight soft green V-necked cotton shirt that kept sliding off my shoulder a little. My legs were crossed at the ankle, feet bare with a deep-purple-almost-black polish on my toes, long brunette hair loosely gathered up at the nape of my neck, and face bare of makeup except a little berry-flavored gloss that added a slight tint and shine to my lips.
Mark popped his head in the room. "Hey, I was hungry and made a little snack. Want to take a break and join me?" I nodded and closed the laptop to follow him back into the kitchen.
Never able to do anything simple, his "little snack" was a charcuterie board with at least four different types of cheeses, thin layers of prosciutto neatly rolled, spicy soppressata, crostini, various fancy crackers, a roasted head of garlic drizzled in olive oil, plus some olives and nuts and so on.
"Normal people just eat cheese and crackers," I laughed as I pulled back a chair to sit down at the large table that was a centerpiece to his kitchen. The top was a heavy single piece of dark wood that Mark had sanded and stained himself with a deep, warm hue.
"Who said I was normal?" he playfully replied, giving me his trademark arched eyebrow I knew so well.
We chatted for a bit, catching each other up on our work projects and other random banter. It was all very lighthearted but I could still see the tired look in his eyes, slight slump to his shoulders, and a furrow in his brow that seemed to never completely relax.
"Hey," I softly interrupted him, reaching across the table to place my hand on his arm. "Are you...well, I was just about to ask if you're ok, but you'd say you're fine, so I'm going to answer
for
you. You're
not
fine. You look tired and your eyebrows are all scrunchy. How much sleep did you get last night?"
"Scrunchy eyebrows?" he quipped. "Is that an official medical diagnosis?"
"I don't need an M.D. to know that you've been buried under some unrelenting stress and that is not good for you. You need to do something to relax. And before you object, I know how busy you are but you still have to find some time to take care of yourself and get some stress relief."
"Oh? And you'll be my...uhh...you know how I can get some...stress relief?"
It was an awkwardly-phrased response, sounding to my ears like the latest example in a long line of flirtatiously teasing things we had said to each other over the years that danced right up to that oh-so-dangerous line between friendship and the unknown.
I don't know whether it was my genuine empathy for a friend, or perhaps my own sexual frustration that had been building lately, or maybe the new confidence I had in my body since undertaking a more dedicated workout regimen last year (or maybe a combination of all of those factors), but in that moment I decided, heck yes, I would do that for him.
My realization that I was seriously contemplating not just crossing but stampeding across that line of friendship was a thrilling shock --
well, shit, what do I do now?!
-- as I mentally scrambled for a plan.
I lowered my eyelids, took a deep breath, then looked back up at him with a smile and breathed, "
Yesss.
"
My direct gaze and answer took him aback. He tilted his head slightly, frozen and staring at me as I pushed my chair back and stood up.
"Yes," I said again, standing there, my mind racing, and -- after what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only about five seconds --
Ooh!
A plan popped into my head.
This is crazy, absolutely bonkers,
I thought,
but dammit, it's been a fantasy of mine for a long time and why not help a friend while getting my own naughty little itches scratched?
He stood up, leaning slightly towards me. "So, umm..."
"Yes -- but not right now," I cut him off, holding my hand up in between us, signaling stop but still smiling as he waited with a perplexed expression.
"You said you have that series of conference calls coming up -- I think at 2 pm?" I prattled on, suddenly businesslike as if I were just trying to schedule a meeting. "That's less than an hour from now. We're going to need more time than that. Don't even pretend for a moment it's a good idea to reschedule your calls, trying would just add to your stress. When are you done for today?"
"Should be done at 6, 6:30 at the absolute latest," he replied, as curiosity and anticipation swirled across his face, intrigued by what I might have in mind. He
thought
it was something naughty, he
hoped
it was something naughty, but so far, I'd been vague and hadn't clarified.
And then I clarified.
"Good. I'll be back over at seven. I'm not going to have sex with you..." his face fell into a slight frown as he pondered what exactly I was intending. "...but I am going to get naked."
"W-what?" he replied, his shock evident in his slightly shaky voice and several rapid blinks.
"I'm going to come over and you're going to open a nice bottle of wine -- for medicinal purposes, obviously -- to relax us both. Then we're going to go back to your office..."
Mark had a spare room set up as an office with his computer and recording equipment spread out on a desk and several tables, a comfortable upholstered chair with a large matching ottoman tucked into a corner, and a soft rug stretched over the gently worn wood floor. The walls were painted a deep green and the room itself was tucked away down a back hallway, and I knew it should feel cozier and more secluded than other areas of the house.
"...and you're going to instruct me to strip for you, to take off my clothes, one item at a time. You may direct me to pose for you as you wish, and display my body for you to see..."
I took a deep breath as his eyes inevitably flickered down to my 36C breasts, somewhat restrained in the sports bra but still prominent, especially as my breathing grew heavier.
"...and you may touch me. Touch me anywhere, explore every inch of my body, in any way you believe would bring me pleasure -- although I do have one very important request."
His eyes were wide, pupils slightly dilated as he gawked at me and labored to gather the mental capacity needed to form complete sentences.
"But, what...Katie, what do you...wait, this is insane, you don't mean...ummm...so...what is...what's that request?" he finally managed to say.
"This is a very naughty thing I'm doing," I stated matter-of-factly. "I'm being a bad girl, a very bad girl indeed --
and bad girls need to be spanked
."
He made a soft noise, halfway between an exhale and a moan, and I continued.
"I've wanted to experience a man spanking me for a long while now, but it needs to be someone I trust. I have no interest in being beaten or whipped or seriously injured, but I do want to submit to a strong, confident man and feel his hand slapping my skin and leaving a stinging red palm print on my bare ass."
"Bottom line, pun
fully
intended," I said with a smirk, "I need to do this with someone I trust, and I trust you."
"So, I'm going to go home now, you're going to get your work done, and I'll come back at seven. You're going to command me to strip and expose myself to you, and you'll touch and tease and spank and caress my naughty little naked body until I come, and then I'm going to kiss you goodnight and go home."
"Also, I'd love for you to be dressed like you might be for a professional event, doesn't have to be a suit but at least a nice sports coat or jacket, button-down shirt, and long pants, OK? You're going to be the boss,
my
