“Are you behaving down there?” Abel shouted to me from upstairs.

He often does that during the day, when each of us is glued to our own work-station. Not because there’s a wealth of room for misbehaviour, you understand, but because when both of us are working from home, it’s nice to remind each other that this is no lousy corporate office, and we can do whatever we like.

“No!” I shouted, as usual. And then: “I need a spanking!” I don’t know what made me say it; an instant before I was unaware that I needed a spanking, or that I was going to request one - but as soon as I said it, it was true, and I knew it. If I had my bottom smacked now, my work would go so much better.

“OK,” he called down. “Come here.”

I jogged up the stairs, to where he was waiting for me on the landing. He unclipped my fancy belt, yanked down my trousers and bent me down, with his arm around my waist. I could see our cat where she was stretched out on the carpet: a figure of feline bliss. She didn’t even deign to open her eyes as the spanks started echoing around the hallway. Thus, holding me under his arm-pit, Abel gave my bottom a dozen crisp, heavy slaps. I owwwed and squealed in appreciation, and wriggled about a little when it started to really hurt.

“There,” he said, helping me upright. “Better now?”

“Immesurably.” We hugged. The cat opened one golden eye: it was obviously missing the slapping sounds and the cries.

This is no corporate office, alright.

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