I start work early, upstairs in my office. It’s 9.30 a.m., one morning last week, and Haron’s woken, kissed me good morning, then gone downstairs. I arrive in the living room, to find her typing at her computer.

“And what sort of service is this, young lady?” I enquire, in my best fake upper-class-I-demand-to-be-obeyed accent. “You know full well that a girl is to serve breakfast before 9 each morning on a silver tray.”

She immediately stands, and curtsies. “I am so sorry, sir. Please don’t beat me…”

(Actually, I didn’t. I was far too hungry!)

And then on the morning of our departure on holiday, as she emerged from the shower an hour before the cab arrived to take her to the airport. She found me sitting on the bed: a disciplinary, bare-bottomed spanking was administered to her warm, freshly-washed backside. A *hard* disciplinary spanking, at that, to make sure she behaves while we’re away.

Half way through, it occurs to me to wonder whether the bedroom window is closed behind the drawn blinds, or whether we’re entertaining (or worrying) the neighbours. “It is,” she promised. And I started to wonder about other girls who might swear that it was not, to end their spanking. And about the consequences for them should their gentleman happen to check, some minutes later, and find that it had indeed been closed all along.

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