Denise tapped her pen against the desk. The glow of her computer screen reflected in her tired eyes. Another spreadsheet. Another quota. She sighed, pushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"This report is due tomorrow, Mark," she called over the cubicle wall. Her voice sounded strained even to herself.

Mark leaned back in his chair, stretching until his spine popped.

"I know, I know. Just finishing these contracts."

He glanced at his watch—6:15 PM. The German restaurant’s happy hour ended at seven.

"You still up for that drink?"

He tried to sound casual, but his knuckles whitened around his pen.

Denise bit her lip, scrolling through her spreadsheet.

"Mary dumped the Midwest sales data on me last minute. Says it’s 'urgent.'" She gestured at the screen, flooded with red error flags. "I’ll be lucky to get out by eight." Her shoulders slumped. "Rain check?"

Mark’s smile faltered. "Yeah, sure."

He grabbed his jacket, the leather creaking softly. "Text me if you finish early?"

He lingered at the cubicle entrance, but Denise was already hunched over her keyboard, fingers flying. The elevator doors closed behind him with a hollow thud, sealing away the fluorescent buzz of the office.

The German restaurant’s warmth hit him like a wall—sizzling bratwurst, yeasty beer, and the low hum of after-work chatter. He slid into a booth near the back, checking his phone. No message from Denise. As he flagged down a server for a Pilsner, Mary appeared, her floral dress bright against the dark wood paneling.

"Mark! Fancy seeing you alone. Denise still buried?" She didn’t wait for an answer, sliding in opposite him. "Her loss. Let’s get a round."

Mary’s foot brushed his calf under the table—accidental, maybe. But then it crept higher, pressing firmly against his crotch as she sipped her Riesling, eyes locked on his. Heat flooded him, a visceral jolt after months of lonely nights. His body responded instantly, rigid against her instep. Almost reflexively, his own foot nudged her inner thigh, feeling the hitch in her breath. Denise, he reminded himself. He gripped the table edge, knuckles white.

"Mary—stop."

The words came out strangled. "This isn’t… right." He slid out of the booth, beer half-finished. Mary’s smile faltered, replaced by something raw and wounded.

"Denise doesn’t appreciate you," she murmured, but Mark was already shrugging into his coat, the cold leather a slap against his flushed skin.

Outside, the suburban street was quiet, frost glittering under streetlights. He walked fast, breath clouding the air, the ache in his groin a dull, persistent throb. Stupid. Rebounding with a coworker? After everything? The divorce papers still felt fresh in his desk drawer.

That Friday, Denise texted: Drinks at my place? Makeup for standing you up? Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up smelling of citrus cleaner and old wood. She greeted him with a too-tight hug, cheeks already flushed.

"Chardonnay?" she asked, pouring generously before he could answer. They talked work, then St. Joseph, where she was from—the boarded-up shops, the lake’s gray winters.

"C'mon," she grinned, "let's head over to Shearwood," a local dive bar a short drive away.  After arriving, Denise quickly downed two more drinks and suddenly became overly affectionate, saying, "C'mon, let's go to my place; I'll show you my new shortcut."

In the parking lot, Mark got in the passenger seat, belatedly realizing Denise was not fit to drive. "You’re not driving." 

Denise waved him off, "I’m fine." Her Toyota peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching. She accelerated down the narrow street, swerving around a delivery van.

Mark gripped the dashboard. "Slow down!" The thud was muffled—a parked sedan’s side mirror shearing off. Denise flinched but didn’t brake.

"Just a scratch," she mumbled.

Back at her apartment, she shoved a wineglass into Mark’s hand. Her fingers traced his collar. "Stay." Her breath was sour with alcohol. When he pulled away, she pouted. "You’re mad about that stupid car?"

Mark’s jaw tightened. "You left it there like a hit-and-run. Someone owns that car, Denise."

She wobbled toward the bedroom, tripping over a rug. "Then bill me," she slurred, collapsing face-first onto the bed. Within seconds, she was snoring.

Mark paced the cramped living room. The clock ticked toward midnight. He draped a blanket over Denise, her makeup smudged like bruises. She could’ve killed us. He left a glass of water on her nightstand and slipped out as dawn bled gray through the blinds. The walk home was brisk, silent. Frost crackled under his boots.

Then he saw it—the dented sedan parked crookedly near Denise’s building. Its driver-side mirror lay shattered in the gutter. As he bent to pick up a shard of reflective glass, a sharp voice cut through the cold: "That’s my car!" Rachel stood wrapped in a bathrobe, eyes blazing. "Did you do this?" She snatched the mirror fragment from his hand.

Mark hesitated, then nodded toward Denise’s apartment. "Not me. Her. Drunk."

Rachel’s knuckles whitened around the broken mirror. "Then she owes me." They huddled on the frosty curb as Mark laid out the plan: Denise would face consequences, not just for the car, but for the recklessness. Rachel’s lips thinned. "Police report or cash by Monday," she declared. "Or I press charges."

Mark invited Denise over that evening, his text clipped: We need to talk. Denise arrived clutching two bottles of Merlot. Knowing she was in trouble, Denise had brought Mary as backup in hopes Mark would not want a confrontation in front of her. Mary, despite being friends with Denise, had designs on Mark and was secretly delighted, sensing the tension.

"I thought we could smooth things over," Denise offered, setting the wine on Mark’s coffee table.

Mark didn’t sit. "You drove drunk. You fled. That ends now." Denise flinched as he called Rachel into the room.

Rachel stepped out from the hallway, arms crossed. "You wrecked my car." Denise paled, stammering apologies until Rachel cut her off. "Five hundred dollars. Or I call the cops."

Denise’s voice cracked. "I can’t—"

Mary leaned in, whispering, "The wine, Denise. Offer him a glass."

But Mark’s gaze was ice. "I'll pay it, and you’ll pay me back monthly. And take real responsibility."

Rachel scoffed. "Money? That fixes nothing. She drove drunk!"

Denise clutched Mark’s arm. "I swear I’ll stop drinking!"

Mary nudged the Merlot bottles forward with her foot. "She brought these for you, Mark."

Rachel snatched her phone. "Enough. I’m dialing."

Denise lunged, desperate. "Please! I’ll do anything!"

Mark stepped between them. "Anything? Even accept punishment?"

Rachel lowered her phone, intrigued. "What kind?"

Mark met Denise’s terrified gaze and turned to Rachel. "A spanking. Hard. Bare. Enough to make her remember why she can’t drive drunk."

Rachel considered it, then nodded sharply. "Do it. Make it count."

Denise protested, but Mary grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her back with surprising strength. "This is for your own good, Denise," Mary murmured, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she forced Denise over Mark’s lap.

Mark hesitated and asked, "Do you accept your punishment?  You can't be with me if you don't." 

Denise, eyes filled with tears, slowly nodded.  Denise’s skirt was yanked up, her underwear pulled down. The first smack echoed—a sharp, stinging crack of palm on bare flesh. Denise gasped, kicking wildly as Mark delivered a dozen more relentless blows, turning her pale skin fiery red. Tears streamed down her face with each punishing slap.

Rachel watched, arms crossed, then stepped forward. "My turn." She took Mark’s place, her spanks harder, rhythmic, and precise. "For my car," she hissed, bringing her hand down with brutal force until Denise’s sobs turned to breathless whimpers. Mary tightened her grip, a small smile playing on her lips as she held Denise steady.

After the final slap, Rachel pulled Denise upright. Denise swayed, tears streaking her flushed cheeks.

Mary, seeing Mark going to console Denise, held up the wine, saying, "She'll never learn. Look, she brought more wine."

Dumbfounded that Mary would betray her, Denise stammered, "But you told me it would smooth things over!"

Mark between the two, his voice low. "Sue told me that you, Sue, and Mary pregamed and she thought Mary was putting extra shots in your drinks that night. She wanted us to fail."

Mary froze, eyes widening in panic as Denise spun around, betrayal flashing across her face. "You bitch!" Denise lunged, but Mark caught her wrist.

"She’ll be punished too." Mary paled as Rachel shoved her over Mark’s lap without ceremony, yanking down her slacks. The spanking was swift and merciless, each crack echoing Mary’s sharp cries.

Mark motioned for Denise to sit on the couch, and with a wince, she did so, as Mark dumped Mary in Denise’s lap.  “Mary, you lied to both me and to Denise, one of your best friends. She gets to punish you, too.”

Denise proceeded to swat Mary’s bottom until both cheeks were as bright red as her own and tears ran down her cheeks, at which point she shoved Mary unceremoniously off her lap onto the floor, saying, “Some friend!”

Denise turned to Mark, trembling. "Thank you for caring," she whispered, her fingers brushing his thigh. "I can't thank you enough for caring so much about me."

Rachel snorted. "What about me? I’m the one with the busted car."

Mark, aroused by spanking first Denise and then Mary, nodded at Denise. "She is right; why don’t you show Rachel your gratitude first."

Rachel was at first surprised but then spread her legs wide, believing Denise would never go for it. Denise hesitated, but then, with a sharp look from Mark, sank to her knees before Rachel, determined to show him the lengths she was willing to go to to show her remorse. Denise’s mouth tentatively parting, Rachel’s breath hitched, fingers tangling in her hair as she guided her head.

Across the room, Mark pointed at Mary. "You owe Denise. Make it right." Mary reluctantly crawled forward, Mark slapping her bare cheeks to encourage her until she was behind Denise, whose bottom was lewdly poking up while her head was buried in Rachel’s lap. Mary leaned in and began to soothe Denise's reddened cheeks with her tongue. "You created a dangerous situation and tried to break us up; you better do better than that," pointing to Denise's moist cleft.

Denise gasped as Mary’s mouth found her folds, her fingers circling her opening, the dual sensations making her shudder. Rachel, seeing this, jerked her hips forward to keep Denise attention on her now sopping vagina, a low moan escaping her lips. Mark watched, jaw tight, until Rachel bucked and finally cried out, collapsing back against the couch. Only then did Denise turn to him, eyes wide and cheeks wet from tears and Rachel's juices. Denise moved from Rachel to between Mark's legs and unzipped his jeans with trembling hands, taking him into her mouth with desperate urgency. Her tongue moved in rough, hungry strokes—apology and need tangled together. Mary, meanwhile, scooted over, licking and kissing Denise's vagina, desperate to prove her apology to her friend.

Rachel watched them, a faint smirk on her lips as she took a tube of hand lotion from her purse. She knelt behind Mary, whose sobs had quieted to whimpers. The cool gel spread over Mary’s reddened skin, soothing the heat of her punishment. Mary flinched but didn’t pull away, her gaze fixed on Denise sex.

"You deserved that spanking," Rachel murmured, not unkindly. "But we’re done now, and you deserve a little reward," she said, slipping a finger between Mary's cheeks. 

Denise worked Mark with fierce concentration, her hands gripping his hips. He tangled his fingers in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. The room filled with wet sounds and Mary’s shaky breaths as Rachel pumped her fingers in and out of Mary’s anus and vagina. When Mark finally shuddered, Denise swallowed, which pushed Mary over the edge, and she too shuddered, spasmodically, finally sinking all the way to the floor. Silence settled, thick and awkward.

Rachel stood, smoothing her skirt. "Mirror’s paid for, then." She tossed the lotion tube onto the couch beside Denise. "You may need this. Mary can help you apply it; she owes you. And Denise? If I see you near a car after two drinks, I will call the cops." She grabbed her coat and left without looking back. The door clicked shut like a period.

Denise wiped her mouth, cheeks flushed. She avoided Mark’s eyes, fumbling with her skirt.

"I meant what I said. No more drinking like that. Ever." Her voice was raw, earnest. Mark zipped his jeans, the silence stretching. He believed her—but the trust felt fragile, like cracked glass.

Mary stood slowly, wincing as the lotion-soothed skin of her backside stretched. "I’m sorry, Denise," she whispered, tears welling. "I was jealous. Stupid." She reached for her purse, her hands trembling. "I’ll quit. Find another job. You won’t see me again." The admission hung heavy, sharp with regret.

Mark watched Denise’s face—the flicker of anger softening into weary resignation. "Don’t quit," Denise said quietly. "No more drinks. Maybe we can be real friends now." She turned to Mark, her eyes searching his. "And us? Is there… anything left?"

Mark hesitated, the memory of her drunken recklessness clashing with the raw vulnerability in her voice. "Give it time," he said finally. "Show me you mean it." He glanced at Mary, who stood frozen by the door, shame etched into every line of her body. "Both of you." The words "both of you" had them wondering about possibilities, and the unspoken "or we’re done" hung heavy in the air.