We agree to meet up. I am nervous. I know I like you. I am excited. But I …how will it be? Will it go further than I can handle? Will it go flat and embarrassing? We meet at a sort of coffee bar place that you have suggested and you are already there. Its just..nice. chatty. friendly. Almost girly. Before I order a cake and a coffee you suggest that we take a cake home to yours and relax.

Your house is stylish and comfortable and you are welcoming and charming. I am relaxing in your company. Somewhere floating around is an elephant in the room. We both know how we met. Why we are friends. Why I am here…….I am not thinking about that.

You sit, demurely, on your stylish sofa. It’s just slightly odd that you walked ahead and sat down and didn’t invite me to sit, but I walk to the sofa facing yours to sit down. You raise your hand to stop me. Instead, you motion towards the kitchen and ask me to get the bottle of wine and glasses which I will find there. Again, it feels a little odd how you seem to tell me to do this in your house, not using the word please, but you are charming and …. I chose not to think about it. I smile and act as if it’s entirely natural. We are friends. Why wouldn’t I make myself at home. I ignore the distinct change in tone or temperature of your manner with me compared to the cake shop, just 20 minutes ago.

I set a tray on a low table in front of you and feel slightly self-conscious standing there fiddling around opening the bottle as you lean back, legs crossed, watching me in in obvious amusement, saying nothing. When I pour two glasses you simply hold out your hand to be handed your glass, and I smile and do so. As I reach to take my own glass you stop me with another firm lift of your open palm. Before I have a chance to translate my surprise and confusing into a coherent sentence, you tell me that I look nice. That you are pleased with how I have dressed. And you ask me to stand in front of you and let you look at me, after all this time.

It’s not unreasonable, is it? Don’t we often ask friends to show off their outfit. That’s all it is. I bury the thought that you are speaking to me like a director auditioning an extra. I smile and do as you say, feeling my face blush a little and feeling rather self-conscious. A feeling which grows a lot when you tell me to turn around to let you see all of me, asking me in your auditioning director voice to bend forward, complimenting my figure and bottom in a rather detached and appraising manner. I turn back to face you, blushing openly and trying to deal with the moment by telling you that you too are looking lovely. However you make it rather clear that you are not interested in hearing from me with a dismissive movement of your hand and instead, as if asking me to pass the bottle for a top up, you ask me to remove my skirt and let you see some more of me properly.

Almost like throwing a switch I feel my skin tingle with heat and embarrassment from my cheeks to my chest. My legs are trembling, and I am stuttering and stammering and suggesting that you have made a joke. But your face remains quite passive, your voice with a firmer edge as you tell me to take off my skirt and not be silly.

I freeze. I hesitate. I…

I knew why I was coming here. When I spent the last ten days thinking about today and planning what to wear, contemplating and planning every stitch of my outfit, I assumed that I would probably take most of it off. I chose a tight brown wool mix skirt, which I know accentuates my thighs and curves. I have a cream silk shirt with a military collar and large French cuffs with pearl cufflinks on top with a brown cashmere pashmina shawl over it. I had toyed with a finer satin blouse, which is rather tighter and more revealing, but came down on the side of sophistication rather than obviousness. There is so much blood pumping to my face that I feel like it is impairing my vision; my cheeks must be scarlet as I drop my eyes to your shoes and reach behind my back to open my skirt, unable to think of any way, or good reason, not to do as I have been told. I dare to look up into your face, swallowing a sob, as I wriggle to make the skirt drop to my feet. You are smiling warmly at me as you say, “And the shirt Kathy.”

It’s almost a blur from there to finding myself kneeling on the floor beside your seat wearing only my underwear. But I am fully conscious of you holding my chin gently with your finger and thumb and asking me to agree that it is much nicer now that I am in my place. That we know where we are. That, now, we can relax and chat.

After no more than five or ten minutes (and a couple of glasses of wine, which I may have gulped in a rather too enthusiastic manner) I relaxed almost to a point where this sort of felt normal, talking about your home, your taste in furnishing, the wine, food. Despite the fact that I am wearing a bra and panties and kneeling on the floor beside you; because you have told me to. It is just as off handed and relaxed when you motion to a chest of drawers across the room and tell me to go and open the bottom drawer. It’s a bit firmer and less relaxed when you say “CRAWL Kathy. On your hands and knees”.

I find a single dark velvet slipper in the drawer with a soft rubber sole which you tell me to bring back to you. In my mouth.

Like a bitch.

It’s like I am just in a trance now. With no ability to question what you are telling me to do. How can I stop now? I am tingling all over with fear and…excitement…as you tell me to bend across your knee, and, as you just gently stroke me, you explain that you are not a sadist. That you will not hurt or punish me all the time. That you want us to be friends, but that it is important from the outset that I understand that you are in control, that when you tell me to do something, you hope that I will want to do it. But that it really doesn’t matter whether I do. Because I will need to do it anyway. That when I am bad, when you decide that I need punishment, that when you want to...it will hurt and that I will cry. You stroke your hand across my bottom and my brown la Perla panties and explain that I need to be brave. I am squirming and quivering and swallowing sobs. Under my breath, I am begging you to spank me.

I cry out with the first whack…..