Poor Michelle sat at his desk, trying to smooth his skirt down under his fiery red bottom.

I read out the questions one by one, giving him ample time to come up with the answers. They were very simple questions for anyone who paid attention to their wife – “what’s her favourite meal”, “what size underwear does she wear”, “what’s her favourite TV show” etc.

I could see from his face, however, that he knew the answers to almost none of them. How utterly disrespectful.

At the end of the test he handed his paper to Naomi, and she smirked at the paucity of his responses. As I read out the answers his head slumped, knowing how poorly he'd done in what should have been such a simple test.

“Two out of ten!” I exclaimed. “You know nothing about your poor wife, and don’t seem to take even a passing interest in her. If anyone was in need of this therapy it’s you, Michelle! Well, you know what’s coming next, don’t you?”

He meekly nodded.

I must admit I was really enjoying his humiliation. This was certainly the therapy he needed.

“So how shall we administer the ice cube punishment you agreed you need, Michelle?”

He just sat there, broken and humiliated.

I pressed home my advantage. “By my calculations we started at five, and then there were extras for each question you got wrong. That makes thirteen ice cubes to go up your bottom. I must admit I’ve never put more than eight up a miscreant’s bottom before, but there’s always a first time. If you wish you may stand up and bend over for me to administer your punishment, but I fear you may become too weak to stand after five or six. Alternatively you may go across Naomi’s lap, and we’ll punish you accordingly. Then if you become too weak to stand you’ll remain prone across her lap. Which is it to be?”

I’m not sure I've ever seen anyone look so dejected.

“I’ll go across her lap” he mumbled.

“Speak up!” I barked. “What is it to be?”

I’m sure I saw a tear running down his face as he repeated “I’ll go across Naomi’s lap, please, Miss.”

“Good girl!” I teased.

With that Naomi went over to him and he stood up, allowing her to take his seat. She then expertly guided him back across her lap. She lifted his little dress and tugged down his frilly knickers.

I went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of ice cubes. “Spread your legs!” I orderd, and he meekly complied.

I picked out an ice cube and pushed it up his bottom. He gasped at the pain and coldness of this intrusion. A second followed, then a third, and a fourth.

By the time I’d put eight ice cubes inside him he was gasping with pain and humiliation. But I was relentless. He had to learn his lesson. By the time I’d put thirteen ice cubes up him he was almost beside himself.

But his humiliation wasn’t over yet.

“Now, Michelle,” I said, “that’s your punishment dealt. But of course the ice is going to melt, and it’s going to leak into your knickers once we’ve let you pull them back up. And I’ve warned you before about what happens to little girls who wet their knickers. They get put back into nappies, don't they?

“So you have a choice. Do you want to wet your knickers? Or do you want me to put a pad in your knickers to absorb the wetness? I have some girly night-time ultra pads which I’m sure which will absorb everything. And it might help your therapy to understand how women feel when they have to wear a pad. What do you say?”