I’ve spent the last couple of days getting a number of very short, very painful spankings. Each individual one wouldn’t really merit writing about, but as a whole they have been kind of building up. Abel is going away on business today, and just as well, because I’m sure that if he didn’t, I’d be getting more of these “what are you complaining about, you wimp” spankings.

Firstly, there was my etiquette test. This must have been the most boring chapter ever: clothes and “image management”. You would have thought it would be exciting, but really it kept going on about the teeny aspects of a girl’s wardrobe that I can’t ever imagine needing to consult – never mind have committed to memory, never mind try to imagine what they would sound like when Abel turns them into test questions.

(Question: What are the two things a girl should remember to do if she risks applying fake tan at home? Answer: Exfoliate and moisturise. Chance of me ever applying fake tan, at home or otherwise: zero.)

Anyway, I got two questions out of ten wrong, mostly because of being unable to stay even relatively awake by the time I got to the last two pages of the chapter. (What are some of the uses for a square piece of cloth? Hair accessory, scarf, SOS banner, sarong. How long may a girl’s dress be at a black tie event? At the shortest, it may skim the knee.)

“Take your jeans down and bend over the arm of the sofa,” said Abel, trying to sound stern. “I’m going to spank you with my most severe implement.”

His hand, you understand.

Oh my goodness, did those two smacks ever hurt! The first one felt more like a punch; he must have swung his arm way back; I could feel it deep in the muscle of my bottom for the rest of the evening. The second one wasn’t as extreme, but it was still a damned painful whack.

And then there was yesterday morning, when I got spanked for – I’m not sure what, but it might have been for the crime of having a bottom, and standing around with only some French knickers on while I was brushing my hair in the morning.

So, I’m minding my own business (damp hair), when Abel swoops into the bedroom, sees me and says something along the lines of: “Well, if you show off your bottom like that…” He grabs my Mason Pearson hairbrush, pushes me over the bed, and wallops me with it about two dozen times.

It stings. A lot. Hairbrushes tend to.

So that was that: random, unprovoked acts of violence in the home, and he seemed mighty pleased with himself after all that.