Page 61 of A Brat's Tale
Having my pants pulled down for a spanking never gets less humiliating, and I imagine it will always make my cheeks rosy no matter how many times it happens, and how much I know I need it.
Corrik levers me over his lap so I’m off balance and I can’t gain purchase on anything. “Tell me what you’re meant to be doing between the hours of late morning and dinnertime.”
“Studying, sir.”
“And were you?” When I pause he smacks my bare, upturned rear. “Tristan.”
I don’t want to say. “I wasn’t, sir.”
Without the cover of my trousers, the spanks have more impact and I’m squirming and kicking, scrabbling for something to grab onto. There isn’t anything. I hiss as his hand awakens the misery there from the yesterday and let me tell you, it’s hard not to attempt an escape.
He pauses, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “I’m sorry, Corrik. I’ve learned my lesson,” I’m quick to say. It’s my plea for him to stop. We don’t need the brush; we don’t need the brush!
“I don’t think so. You ran. You know better than that. When I tell you to come for a spanking, you obey me Tristan.”
“Yes, sir,” I groan. I regret, oh how I regret.
I hear the wooden brush scrape across the table and then the warm wood is circling my tender backside raising gooseflesh there. “Any last words?”
And that, that’s the reason I maintain there’s a little brat in every Top, in every Dom, in every Master. Corrik is serious, but he’s also cheeky and I know why. He’s well aware I face the hairbrush with certain doom and he’s rubbing it in. “You’re a horrible person!” I say.
“Am I? Perhaps you’ll remember that next time.” He’s not sorry.
Corrik Spanks Tristan with Hairbrush by Arkham Insanity
The devil thing makes contact with my arse and I cry out. I’m overly dramatic today, pushing at the chair leg, arching my back and kicking. My eyes water and I have to work to catch my breath as swat after swat descends, echoing through our chambers. I make some childish noises, some woe-is-me noises, some whining groans and huffing grunts.
After a time, my skin trembles before the brush hits it, knowing how much it’s going to hurt. The pain increases as the spanking continues. My focus narrows to the pain—it’s all that exists—until I have no fight left in me. I collapse over Corrik’s knee, still wriggling to move the pain around, but no longer struggling.
The brush clatters to the table and his hand is soft on my poor arse, rubbing it for me. “To the corner with you.” He removes my trousers, which were half off anyway, the dance of spanking released them from my right foot.
I want to complain, I do, but the throb in my arse prevents it. I move to the corner with my pants down and place my hands atop my head—proper corner time protocol.
The chair scrapes across the floor. His clothes crinkle and shift as he sits, his boots creak as he crosses them, and though I can’t see him, I know he’s laid them on the table and has leaned back in his chair so he can keep both eyes on me.
The throb in my arse makes standing still difficult.
“Tristan,” Corrik warns.
I halt my fidgeting allowing the ache to run through me unhindered and think about how I’m not going to slack off anymore. I don’t know how long I stand there—corner time always feels like it’s forever—but at long last, Corrik calls me over for the best part of spanking.
The after spanking snuggles.
I race across the room, climb into his lap, spread my legs to either side of him and let my red arse shine toward the room behind us, as I nuzzle into his chest. “I’m sorry, Cor. I’ll behave myself.”
He hugs me close and I breathe in his scent, content for the moment. “For your arse’s sake I hope so.” He kisses my lips.
But I’ve lost steam, I’ve fallen way behind my projected six-month goal, and something in me has been craving Bayaden. I wonder if he has a green husband, I wonder if he’s expecting his first green baby, and I wonder if he misses me, or if I was just a naughty fetish he’s long since stopped thinking about. And yes, I realize it’s not been nearly enough time for any of those things to happen, but the Aldrien king seemed urgent about it; I wouldn’t be surprised if he rushed the wedding.
I sit in my robe on the ledge reading a book, with my looking device nearby. It’s something magical I can view great distances with, another gift from Corrik. With it, I have discovered a band of Elves way out, past the marketplace, who practice with swords and bows, who are a form of Elven militia and I love watching them. “They’re farmers who hope to become warriors,” Corrik told me when I asked about them. “It’s how some of our warriors begin their service to Mortouge until they are chosen for one of the advanced guards.”
It’s an odd idea to me still, even though it was this way in Aldrien as well. The way we do things in Markaytia is different. A lot of it is different. Women are not allowed to become warriors like they are in other territories. I always wondered why, especially when I still remember little Asha Tucker kicking my arse when I was seven. I was sore about it and seven-year-old me was secretly glad she wasn’t in the running for Warlord. She moved away the next year anyway, but that was the first occurrence that got me thinking about women joining the military.
But even if women in Markaytia were allowed to fight, or if she were a boy and not a girl, she was a servant’s daughter—servants cannot become warriors. All of my father’s men are of special lineage. They don’t have to be royals, but they do have to prove there is a warrior in their blood somehow.
I like the idea that anyone can work his or her way to warrior.
In my depression, I’ve taken to hours of watching them. They are actually very good. I can see where they need pointers, but it’s a good crew to work with. “What are you doing? Come away from there,” Corrik says.
