The sun was unexpectedly warm as she crept from under the trees where it was still winter cool. Stepping from the shadows, she revelled in the contrast as she moved from the chill into the summer-like blaze that set a fire in her copper-sheened hair.

Blue flowers now peeked out between the first of the daffodils and for the first time she could see the house. A haven of stone now glowing in the sunshine, a place of safety she should never have left.

He had told her not to go out. They didn’t need any more shopping and the weather was not yet reliable enough to ignore the cough upon her ample chest. He was right, she conceded, not that it mattered. He had said she should remain and she hadn’t.

But the yellow blooms were so lovely and she thought of Easter and chocolate and shopping… It was all a dance between them, played out over and over from love and submission and he was her Lord. She smiled wanly and bit her lip. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her departure; maybe.

But he had.

As soon as she entered she saw the cane and the hairbrush on the table.

“Hello,” she called nervously.

But there was no reply.

“Come on, I’m sorry,” she said lightly to the silent empty room.

The sun poured through the mid-Victorian panes in dusty beams forming curtains of light in the room. They shone onto the far wall by the corner and at any other time it would have been beautiful.

“Balls,” she moaned.

She hated the next bit. Did she dare duck out and pretend she hadn’t come home? Of course not, he was lord now and this was his domain. So with a sigh she began to remover her dress and tights until she stood in her underwear. Then half of that too descended to her ankles as she moved over to the corner. She hated it. Here she would remain until he returned, patient and compliant for his return and the rest of her punishment.

She thought of the cane then and gulped. Stick followed brush every time; one sore-making and worthy of contrition and the other mean and bitey.

“Oh balls,” she said again and stamped her foot.

*

Ten minutes is an age for a girl in the corner. Forty is a world dragging eon and she sighed. She had stood here for hours in her time, bare bottom to the room and wondering if anyone at the window could see.

Once or twice there had been visitors. Just voices in the hall threatening to bear witness but he had politely guided them away as she meekly blushed into the corner. Even now she could not be certain they did not see, not for certain sure. She was a good girl and she hadn’t looked back. She blushed now at the memory before remembering where she was.

“I see you have at least learned something.” His voice was sudden and from nowhere; she had not even known he had been there.

“Yes Sir,” she said quickly after a pause.

Her voice sounded small from where two walls met and her ears burned.

“You will think long on what you’ll get later, but for now come here,” he growled.

He already sat in the chair fixing her with a hard gaze from under thick heavy brows. They were still mostly dark compared to the silver dashed close-cut on top, but it was his thick arms revealed to the elbows that drew her attention. She always trilled as he rolled them up, but this time she had missed the action. Why was that sad?

“I didn’t… I mean, I was only…” This and other excuses tumbled meekly from her mouth.

His deep blue eyes flashed in warning and she all but scampered to her doom.

Doom was it? His hand stung her bare bottom well-enough, but he hadn’t even touched the promise of the hairbrush. She still had that to come. The cane did not figure in her thoughts then, she had not yet the courage.

Sometimes when he was mildly chiding, his hand was a nice sting to make her a good girl and she had to try not to giggle. It was like that now, or it would have been, but this time she had been bad. The spanking reflected that, just a tingle at first, but soon really tanging her to her a burn.

He spanked her until she was panting and kicking her legs, then he upped his game. Taking up the hairbrush he patted it to her bottom, making an impatient growl in his throat as he did so.

“I told you not to leave,” he said in a hard deep voice and he spanked her, “I told you.”

“Yes Sir,” she managed, but it was hurting now.

He listed her crimes as he spoke and she tried to listen. He would have her repeat them later as she bent over with a bare bottom awaiting the cane strokes. It was a kind of test and failure was so sore-making.

Finally she broke to mewling and kicked out her legs in a dance of pain, but he spanked on determined to make his point, the first of many. Only he would decide when it stopped, for he was Lord of the Dance.

Ends