Last night I caught myself chewing my nails. I haven't done it since I was about - oh, six or so - and decided that coming back to the habit twenty years later wasn't something I wanted.
"Uh-oh," I said to Abel, with my mouth full of nail. "I think, I need a beating."
This is exactly the sort of matter where any initiative from Abel would have been firstly, impossible, secondly unwelcome: if he had seen me nibble on the nail, and forbidden me to do it under the threat of a punishment, he would have been invited to take a hike. However, helping me with an issue that I brought to his attention myself is a sort of husbandly duty. (The poor guy is so exploited.)
He sat on the bed, bent me over his lap and tugged down my knickers, and gave me a few experimental swats with his hand.
"Ouch," he said. "This hurts."