"It's going faster now," she boasts proudly as she shovels the scarlet beef into her mouth. A dribble of blood from the highly undercooked Sirloin drips onto her chin as she chews it, and she smiles worryingly at me sat on the beige carpet next to her dining table. "We've been pushing the envelope all month," she brags. "It's nearly ready. The new fuel injectors are great, if they get past testing."

It's a weird term to use – pushing the envelope; it's an engineering term. What my lady means, is that the performance of the model of sports car she has been developing, is exceeding it's original expected limits; they have gone beyond the boundaries set by the designers. Why can't she just say this? Why "push" an envelope at all, and not break it, or open it, or just exceed it?

My lady interrupts my deliberations of her linguistic gymnastics by putting her cutlery on the ceramic plate with a clatter. "Decent," she told me – the nearest thing I would ever get to a compliment on a Friday – "but the vegetables were overcooked." I nodded in agreement; I could do little else and she supped her wine. Her ruby red hair fell back from her face as she drained the scarlet liquid, and then wiped her mouth on the napkin I had folded twenty minutes previous.

She stroked her hair back, tucking it behind her ears, and looked at me. I knew what was going to happen. It is not easy being unemployed; society's expectations demand that I am the breadwinner but work is so hard to come by. As she read another of my rejection letters – I was down to the "final two" again – I knew what was coming. I had to have an incentive and a punishment she had told me; I was promised a threesome the day my salary exceeded hers, I was punished with several spanks of her hand for every week I was unemployed. It was her rules; it was our game.

My lady led me up the stairs with a worrying expression; this was not the smile I was used to, but something meaner and more serious. She took me to our bedroom and closed the door. It was symbolic as there was no-one else in the house, but it meant something to her. I guessed there would be no playtime. We weren't financially desperate, but we did need another income.

The woven wrist restraints waited menacingly on the fresh bedsheets where I had left them minutes after reading my rejection letter. Her face flickered when she saw them and gestured towards me. She didn't have to say anything, I knew my place. I knew what to do. It didn't take long for me to discard the safety of my navy cotton tracksuit bottoms and scarlet Arsenal T-Shirt, and her eyes sparkled menacingly, still wearing her oil-splattered work overalls.

I could fit my hands into the black restraints myself; I could actually get out of them easily enough if I really wanted to, but that wasn't the point. I had made the bet with my wife and consented willingly. Sure, my butt would sting and ache for the rest of the evening, but it was part of the game. Secretly, I quite enjoyed the helplessness of it.

I fell face-first onto the bed; I felt her hands fasten the velcro tightly and move the cuffs further apart. Today, she really did mean business, and I turned my body to look over my shoulder to watch her. She pulled a deep red object from her pocket and slid it over my head; it was a blindfold. The soft velvet turned my world dark and my pulse quickened.

"Oi," I cried but got no answer. I listened; I could hear the floorboards creak as she moved around my helpless self. I mutter into the pillow and wait; she is to my right, I think. I strain my ears to hear. I can hear rustling of some kind. My exposed rump is hers, ready for her to abuse and I cannot even see when she is doing it.

My body tingles in expectation. She will not wait. She never waits. I guess she is sizing up my milky white, hirsute body, trying to work out where best to start. I know my arse will be red when she has finished but this is part of her game. She wants me to be anxious, play with my mind, mess with my head. I don't want to play along with her manipulation but I can't not fall for it.

I close my eyes – a pointless act given the blindfold – and clench my fists. I know she sees my responses as I hear her move. She is to my right and I feel something touch the hairs on my arse. Slowly, gently, tenderly, a mass of soft cord-like implements are dragged within millimetres of my exposed flesh, tickling the hairs.

I instinctively tense and flinch; I hear her snigger as I do. She's expecting it. She knows what I do, we have been here before as I await the first spank. I have been unemployed for eight weeks; I will get eight hits of her right hand. I know this, I am expecting it and I take a deep breath.