supplicium post mortem

She checked her appearence in the hatstand mirror and knocked on her uncle’s study door. A bass come, equal in power and authority to his in pricipios. Rubbing shoecaps against kneesocks, she twisted the wrought-iron knob.

He had vested already and summoned her forward with efficient finger. She preferred him in smoking jacket to rector’s cassock, though it made no difference to his right arm.

He crossed his arms and forced a frown. “What are we going to do with you?”

She looked down. A rustle of robes, then his hand lifted her chin, firm yet compassionate.

“Haven’t you anything to say, child?” She blinked, setting her jaw against the sudden sting in her eyes. Outside the lead-paned windows, a bruise-colored cloud advanced across blue sky, promising a May shower. His hand shifted to the back of her neck, his ring warm against her ear. “I suppose you’re my cross to bear,” he said wryly. She hoped he wasn’t attempting a pun.

“Right.” He stepped back. “I’m not going to cane you for this.” A surge of relief, and surprise. “But I am going to take the strap to you.” He reached for the tawse unseen on his desk, its back rough leather. She swallowed.

Directing her to the arm of the settee, he bent her over it and lifted her grey school skirt.

“What is this?” His voice scandalized. She craned to see the hem of her skirt smeared with lemon meringue from luncheon.

“I – ” she began.

He returned her to position. “You, child, are incorrigible. My cross to bear indeed.”

My story went a few words over, but with six wildcards (albeit six of the best), you gotta hope for leeway.

Check out other FFF stories from this week:

• Naughtyabby – The Little Red Schoolhouse
• Rafi’s World
• PapaTomLA
• Joe at Spanking Resource