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“That’s it child,” he said soft and encouragingly as he stepped in behind her. He kept that gentle demeanor, and reached to the hem of her skirt. She could feel him grasp it at her thighs as he delayed just momentarily.
“To take on a position of authority such as a teacher, one must first be prepared to humble themself,” he stated just before he lifted her skirt and exposed the round curve of her rear.
Only her panties hid her from him as he inspected her.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling so flushed and embarrassed in her life, but she understood it. That it was part of the ‘humbling’ he spoke of. Knowing that her flesh wasn’t hers to control and own, that it was God’s to do as He may.
And the Father was his representative on earth.
But still, she couldn’t help but wriggle, trying to hide from his gaze.
She could hear the Father mumble a prayer, it was all so official. Right up until the leather strap slapped her pale ass cheeks. The skin so milky light there, unlike her arms and legs. The hard crack resounded upon her skin and he let loose a sigh, watching as her skin turned red from the smack.
Tears sprung to her eyes at the old, familiar sensation. It felt so much sharper, though, than she recalled. So much more intense.
“No no, this won’t do,” he said to her, sounding disappointed.
She trembled on the desk, her hands holding her up as she tried desperately to stay in position, her maryjanes pushing her up a couple inches.
“What?” she asked in a quivering voice, trying to look at him. “What won’t do?”
“The strikes have to be upon raw, bare flesh,” he said to her so matter-of-factly. “Your panties,” he explained without her asking, “They are in the way. They’ll have to go if you hope to have absolution for your sin of deserting the church.”
There it was, that demand. So crass, so simple.
Yet she knew that was different from her childhood, and she rose up, turning to face him and shaking her head so desperately.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she said softly, her ass smarting from that one blow. “Father, please, I’ll do anything, but... I don’t understand.”
The Father’s face turned cross.
“The Lord gives us everything, child. He gives us life, He gives us love. He gives us the food on our plate, the air in our lungs. All he asks is faith, faith Amy,” he said to her, repeating it, and he sounded so controlling so ominous. “Faith is belief unquestioning. And you — child — ask far too many questions. How can I entrust the children to such a woman?” he asked, looking almost angry at her.
She shrank before him, her eyes widening. She’d never seen him like that before, and certainly not so upset at her. He’d only ever been kind and generous, and she wondered, then, if she was simply being irrational.
Something within her said no, that she should simply leave, but she thought back to her teacher, at how important it was to him that she pleased the Father and the Mayor.
So she turned back to the desk, and, burning with shame, hooked her fingers into her panties and let them drop towards the ground, unveiling her pinkened sex beneath the light bit of fur, clenched between her thighs.
Though as she bent over, there was no fully hiding it with the way her body naturally flowered before his eyes.
“That’s better,” he said in a low husk, and though she couldn’t see him, he eyed that precious slit of hers, reached a hand out and very nearly touched it. “Don’t move,” he told her instead, and he pressed his free hand down upon her lower back. “You have a lot to make up for. Not just your absence, but your doubts. Your questioning.”
The next crack landed against her fully bare backside raw and hard, the third smack even grazed her dainty pink folds and made those delicate lips sting.
She let loose a wail, her body so unused to such sharpness. She was a tough woman, used to grueling hours on the farm, but that pain was utterly different.
Her head lurched back and she tried to move away, to flee from him and his wicked sting, but he held her too roughly. All she could do was shimmy that rounded ass, with the red markings lancing across it as she whimpered.
“Father!” she cried to his punishment, tears making her vision murky.
“Shh,” he said to her, bending over her form. “Hush my child, there are but forty seven more to go,” he said to her, his fingertips trailing over her bottom sweetly. Those thick, long fingers touching her bare, rouged ass cheeks in a gesture that seemed to be intended to calm her, ease her suffering.
But that wasn’t a possibility. Forty seven?
She could barely have handled those three without becoming an utter wreck, and she trembled so violently, flicking her braid to her back as she looked at him with those pools of blue eyes.
“Father,” she began to plead, her youthful face contorted as though she were going to protest. But she knew what was at stake. And fifty lashes was a small price to pay for her future, and her eternal soul.
