The story you are about to read is true. Only the name has been changed to protect the guilty.
The things that happen to me in this lifestyle constantly amaze me.
Some time ago, I ran into the mother of my childhood best friend. I’ll call Her Mrs. Clark.
Now, Mrs. Katherine Clark was not just any mom, mind you. This was the mid 1970s. The mini-skirt phase had long since passed and Woodstock was just a memory. This was a time of sexual promiscuity and freedom. During this time, She was a strikingly good looking, thirty-something mother with long, flowing red hair and a body that could reduce a grown man to tears (and very probably did on some occasions – in more ways than one!). She was every kid on the block’s fantasy and, much to her son Steve’s chagrin — she knew it. Mrs. Clark was a hot redhead (what is it with redheads in my life, anyway?), with haunting, exquisite blue eyes that complemented her sexy, European-chiseled features that always said to you, “I know something about you that you don’t.” To say that she was classy was the understatement of the twentieth century. She was, for all intents and purposes, a 20th century fox.
She didn’t just walk into a room – she owned the room! She walked with an air of confidence like few I’d ever seen then – or since. She owned every situation she was ever in and every male knew she was completely unattainable. That was her ace in the hole. Every man/boy/woman whoever thought about her in a sexual way knew they had no chance with her. Talk about getting your ego flattened – before you ever start! And twenty-five years ago, I had the biggest crush on her. I remember the first time we met. Somehow the conversation turned to my schooling (I went to parochial school — where CP was in full stride by not only the principal, but the teachers as well). She asked what they did when kids misbehaved. I was startled by the comment she blurted out. Downright dumbfounded.
“The teachers spank, don’t they?” She said, running her hands through her beautiful red hair. “What do they use on you? A paddle?”
She knew, all right. She was baiting me. Interrogating me viscerally. Waiting. Watching. Sizing me up.
I remember her clear as a bell saying those words to me. She knew. She just knew that somehow spanking was as huge to me as riding my new ten-speed.
That brief conversation had stuck in my mind ever since. Mrs. Clark made it a point of catching eyes with me as she uttered the line, waiting for my response, which, for some strange reason, never came. Even back then, we both knew that spanking was very special and dear to us.
I’d make it a point to spend every spare moment of those summer days of ’74 over at the Clark’s. She took a genuine liking to me, partly because of the fact I was her son’s best friend. And because She was, genuinely, a nice person – and realized that I was somehow “different” from the other boys who gawked at her hourglass figure and masturbated furiously in their bathrooms at home (the author being amongst them).
I remember Steve telling me one day that she had E.S.P. (extrasensory perception). If this was in fact true, this partially explained how she knew just what to say to get me going during those certain instances. She’d always say things that left me hanging and wondering at night as I lay there trying to get to sleep. Things related to discipline. She’d always utter some line like, “I bet your mom would spank you good for that!” I always sensed there was more to Mrs. Clark than met the eye.
And there was indeed more about Mrs. Katherine Clark. More I always wanted to know, but could never find out.
Sure, she was a proponent of spanking. And yes this excited me. I liked to think that she was greatly responsible for my interest in the disciplinary arts. And, indeed, she was, as I owe her a great homage (along with my third grade teacher, the one with the paddle).
I remember asking Steve one day how he got spanked.
“With a shoe,” he said, matter-of-factly.
I inquired further.
“Ummm what do you mean? What kind of shoe? How?”
“Ones with heels. Flats, too. Man, do they ever sting!”
Turns out Mrs. Clark had an arsenal of heeled shoes and slippers that she regularly used on ole Steve’s bum. But, according to my pal, she was always looking and experimenting with an array of different house shoes and elegant sandals alike that she could get her hands on. (Fine-tuning the art, I later surmised.)
(And let Me say right here and now that this account is strictly meant to show the progression of a dominant female – and not, in any way, endorse the abuse of minor children.
There is a huge magnitude of difference between a consensual adult spanking and what is being described in these pages. Anyone who knows me, knows I only endorse safe, sane and consensual BDSM practices between willing (consenting) adults over the age of eighteen.)
Once, about a year into knowing her, Mrs. Clark invited me to go with she and Steve to a garage sale. I tagged along just to get out of the house. Once there, Mrs. Clark slowly approached a large cardboard box filled with shoes. Why someone of her social status and grace would look at – not to mention pick up and touch – a complete stranger’s soiled shoes somehow escaped me at the time (but she obviously had her own special agenda – poor Steve’s bum cheeks, no doubt). She seemed thoroughly entranced with them. I stood there knowing exactly what was going through her mind. She was looking for a new implement of correction with which to do some “global warming.” I watched her tap a few of the heels against the palm of her hand and then throw them back in the bin, a sour disposition stretching across her lovely features. Another shoe would come out and get the same discretionary stare. Steve and I exchanged glances. He was beet red and grinned sheepishly as sandal after slipper got tossed nonchalantly back into the bin. Mrs. Clark left that day with a pair of sandals with what looked like wooden soles and heels; If memory serves, I believe they were (and maybe still are) known as “Dr. Scholl’s Exercise Sandals.” How ironic if they are indeed called “exercise sandals” – because that’s exactly what they were used for, I thought, as I cringed and said a silent prayer for my poor chum – whose bum would soon be the recipient of those horrible-looking scourges.
Then it happened one day. I was walking up to their yellow house on the embankment and stopped just short of the front porch when I heard a distinctive sound coming from close to the living room window. It was a definite “thwack,” “thwack,” “thwacking” echo coming from inside the house! I looked and the curtains were partially drawn. I moved in close as I dared and took a peek. I couldn’t hear what Mrs. Clark was scolding her son about, but her lips were moving at a rapid-fire pace and her face had a stern look about it I had never seen before – but nevertheless which was very much under control. It was very erotic, this moment. Forever etched in my memory. Steve was over her lap, bare bottom high in the air, pants and skivvies (yes, that’s what we called them then – later they would come to be known as “boxers.”) down around his ankles as she sat pausing reflectively – taking little breaks between spanking him. my eyes widened to full aperture and got big as silver dollars. In fact, I noticed that one of Mrs. Clark’s shoes was still on her dainty little foot, the other in her elegant hand. her long, red, well-manicured fingernails were holding the slipper firmly, allowing it to bend menacingly in the air just above Steve’s bum – before landing flush with that terrible “thwacking” noise.
What transpired next was a quick series of six crisp, stinging whacks to Steve’s poor behind – three on each cheek – with the heel portion of the shoe impacting awfully with his rosy-red cheeks which – by this time – had to be on fire. Then I counted twelve the next time, six on each side. She alternated this method while scolding him harshly (I wish I could’ve heard what was being said – I would’ve given anything!). Through each barrage of swats with the shoe, Steve laid painfully still.
Oh, he wiggled a bit here and there, but he took the punishment like a man. Obviously she had transmitted a very special decorum of maintaining composure – even while under great duress – to him early in life with his punishments. Mrs. Clark tossed her hair elegantly to one side in a very sexy manner and reached for the coffee table where her cigarette sat burning in an ashtray. She took a long, slow, fulfilling drag – then exhaled – pondered a moment, deep in thought over God knew what. Then she continued my poor buddy’s slippering. The scene was – and still is, as I said – indelibly etched in my mind as one of the most erotic, excruciating OTK spankings I have ever witnessed.
An hour or so later, Steve came over to my house and came clean about the spanking his mom had just administered. “Really?” I said. A shit-eating grin spreading across my face.
I was making copies of my screenplay to send out when, all of a sudden, who walks in but Mrs. Katherine Clark! She came in with a handful of things to copy and tossed Me a nice smile (seemingly not recognizing me). She started using the copier next to mine. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was indeed Mrs. Clark. But as she began to deftly place each copy in her folder, I noticed a familiar expression. Undeniably Mrs. Clark’s. It was the same expression she’d had countless times before that I’d fantasized about and choked my chicken over.
“Mrs. Clark?” I asked.
She paused, staring at me for a moment.
“It’s Mark … remember me … I was Steve’s –”
She cut Me off mid-sentence.
“– Best friend, yes of course I remember you. How are you, dear?”
She said this so matter-of-factly, so nonchalantly – as if She’d planned the meeting all along and it was no big deal that we hadn’t seen one another in over two-and-a-half decades, but had now met by sheer happenstance.
I had so many things I wanted to say to her, so many questions. my mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour. I had to say something.
Just not nothing.
“I’m fine,” I finally stammered out. … It’s really good to see you after all these years.”
Mrs. Clark looked at the copies of my screenplay and raised a curious brow.
“Hmmmm … ‘The Sins of Christina Black,’ is that a novel you’re working on?”
“No,” I said politely, “It’s a screenplay.”
“I’d love to read it. …”
My heart was in my throat now.
“It’s about BDSM,” I blurted out, half-swallowing my tongue in the process and waiting for what seemed an eternity for her response. “It’s actually the story of an insane, sadistic dominatrix who is a serial killer in the S&M scene.”
Mrs. Clark’s pretty blue eyes lit up like the Disneyland fireworks at this. Time had indeed been kind to her and the once perfect skin was still taut and resilient enough to plug Revlon products with Cheryl Tiegs on any given day.
Mrs. Clark looked at me and flashed her thirty-two teeth, sterling-silver smile.
“BDSM?” she said with a twinge of excitement. “I see.”
“Would you like to have some coffee after we finish here?” I asked assertively,
“Yes, I’d like that, Mark.”
Two hours later, in the darkened corner of the local Starbuck’s, Mrs. Katherine Clark and I were still chattering like old schoolmates as if we’d maintained our friendship over all these years. It was strange. Strange because we were both adults now. And the conversation was so steamy – so ambiguous, yet so unambiguous. We were talking about positions for punishment; OTK as opposed to being bent over a chair; our favorite spanking implements as well as the pros and cons of submissives that top from below. We got into a very philosophical and highly-enriching discussion about the practical prismatics of discipline in and of itself (whether it really works or not. We decided that, in fact, it did). When to spank. When not to spank. Pre-punishment scoldings, verbal degradation and posturing rituals before and after delivering a spanking (we went on and on about this with the cane). We discussed the rites and practices of disciplinary techniques in other countries, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. We talked about caning in England and I was fascinated to learn that she had been there in the sixties and experienced caning from both a domme and submissive’s point of view from a very well, respected governess quite proficient in her use of the rod.
We talked about poor Michael Faye (the Ohio teen who was caned in Singapore in ’94) and laughed at his plight and the media circus that surrounded the event and had spanking in the news practically every day. We talked about our own fascinations with spanking and how I was a professional disciplinarian who catered to women who preferred to remain anonymous, but yet who liked the idea of psychodrama role play and therapeutic methods and techniques employed during the administration of their punishments. (She wasn’t shocked, really, but did ask a lot of questions as she had never encountered a professional male master before.) She caught eyes with me again and I mentioned those paddlings I witnessed so long ago at school.
She smiled at me knowingly.
Then I made a confession.
I told her about seeing Steve’s spanking on that sun-drenched afternoon in southern California so long ago back in ’74.
Then confessed Mrs. Clark: “I’m happy it was – and still is – a pleasant memory for you. And although I enjoy spanking and discipline in general, my punishments for my boys never transcended that line. They were solely disciplinary spankings – meant for true correctional purposes. I derived no pleasure from them whatsoever. BDSM and its practices and philosophies are never meant for children – in any way, shape or form.”
I told her that I wholeheartedly agreed, understood and echoed the same sentiment.
Then she told me something that absolutely floored me:
“I’ve been in the lifestyle for nearly thirty-five years as a mistress. I gave my first spanking when I was still in my teens. my husband has been – and always will be — my number one fan. He’s also been my loyal slave all these years and I have never been displeased with him, ever. The man worships me like a goddess.”
I had always thought that she was just a very rigid disciplinarian, very set in her ways and that was just the way things were with her. And spanking was just her way of meting out punishment for punishment’s sake; her way of getting to the “bottom” of the problem, so to speak.
After watching her smoke a pack-and-a-half of Benson & Hedges Lights and down about three cups of good Colombian coffee (Juan Valdez would’ve been proud), we decided to exchange phone numbers and e-mail addresses and keep in touch.
“I’d love to hear more about your business sometime. It sounds fascinating,” She said, while blowing a sexy stream of smoke past my cheek. She still had those lips. Good God.
“Perhaps I could even sit in on a session if it’s permissible with one of your clients.”
Then we locked eyes again and as her nose nuzzled into a blur, I found my lips softly caressing hers and giving her a warm hug. It felt good after all those years to finally consecrate our friendship.
Honestly, what it felt like was my first kiss: Weak knees, lightheadedness. Floating.
That was another of my fantasies come true – and what I meant by you never know what’s going to happen in this crazy lifestyle. Finally getting to know what those rosy-red, soft petal lips felt like against mine was a fantasy that dated back more than a quarter of a century. That felt good. Real good. In more ways than one!
Make a grown man cry, I tell ya.
The thing I’ve come to realize in this crazy, insane world is that you just never know what can happen next. Life truly is a journey. You can stand in the batter’s box and watch the 95-mile-per-hour fastball zip on past you – or you can adjust to the curveball.
And you know what? I never did ask a single thing about Steve – and our conversation never steered toward him, either.
And I don’t think we’re going to spend too much time talking about him, either.
I thought I would die from laughter — laughter filled with relief and peacefulness – as I drove away, pounding the steering wheel in sheer exultation and amazement.
Holy fucking shit!
My best friend’s Mom!
What in the hell would Freud or Jung say if they were here?
Frankly, I don’t give a damn.
Coming next week: Don’t miss Mark E. DeSade’s next story ‘Switched in the Woods’