When I came home this evening, my B was busy at the kitchen counter.
I made my greetings, chatted a little about our day and confirmed her compliance with some requests I had made and permissions we had negotiated by phone earlier when she had gone for a mid-afternoon nap.
Running my hand around the hem of her skirt, I lifted it clear of her buttocks, noting the tight smooth black knickers she was wearing. Regular readers maybe a little surprised, since I had previously posted a couple of times that such underwear is the exception for B, rather than the norm. This rule has been relaxed, however, whilst we are waiting for the final piercing to heal.
Her admition that she had not been as perfectly good today as she might have been, provoked the inevitable response and I swung the palm of my hand firmly down several times. It was only after six or so strokes that I realised that, whilst jiggling, jumping and squirming, she was still dicing an onion with a lethally sharp French steel knife.
Concensual maybe, not sure it was the sanest punishment I've ever delivered.