The Unspankable Brat: Original Fiction by Loki Renard

Just in time for Halloween, a gothic, beautiful and unusual spanking story from the wonderfully talented writer Loki Renard — you can read more about Loki on her site Trouble Books, which offers free excerpts and sizzling samples, and more spanking goodness.

Armed with a deliciously original voice, Loki’s fiction covers genres ranging from vampires to historical thrillers and everything in between.  This short story, “The Unspankable Brat,” re-posted with kind permission from the author, most certainly intrigued me — its style perhaps influenced by writers such as H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allen Poe.  But with some cherry redness involved.

[Check out some of Loki’s past guest columns on this blog, such as her “Top 10 Tips on Writing Spanking Fiction” and a post on her favest spanking writers.]

As always, your comments are welcome and appreciated. [Also curious if you’d like to read more spanking stories and such on this blog….?]

:twisted:

The Unspankable Brat: Fiction by Loki Renard

This place smells like flowers and embalming fluid. Nobody is at the front desk, but a gentle, familiar song emanating from the rear of the building draws him through the waiting room with its comforting boxes of tissues at the ready for mourners

A young woman flits about placing flowers in arrangements about a gleaming mahogany coffin. He clears his throat, but she seems not to hear him, humming to herself as she goes about her business with a gaiety that seems out of place in this hallowed home of death.

“Excuse me, miss.”

His greeting goes entirely ignored. Unless she is deaf, she is deliberately ignoring him.

“Excuse me, miss – police business.”

She looks up as if hearing him for the first time and drops the flower she is holding.

“Balls!”

His brow creases instantly. “Excuse me, young lady?”

“Balls!” She repeats the curse with a gleeful grin.

His expression grows ever more grave. “Is that any kind of language to use in a mortuary?”

“I don’t think he cares what I say,” she gestures cavalierly towards a closed coffin in the corner.

“His family may.” She is subject to a scowling look of disapproval. He is a tall man in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit that clings to his hard lines as if it had been super glued there. His dark salt and pepper hair has been flattened by the hat of office he now holds under his arm in respect for the dead.

“His family June?” She makes a flippant reply accompanied by a tinkling laugh then turns to continue decorating the coffin with white flowers. Her beauty is pale, perfect, calm in repose as she carefully fixes each flower in place.

“Someone should teach you a lesson in manners,” he observes. His palm began itching the moment he laid eyes on this young woman who treats him as nothing more than an unimportant distraction. As he glowers at her, he realizes that there is something very familiar about her. Perhaps he has encountered her before? Perhaps she is one of the many youths he has driven home to hand wringing parents over the course of the years. There have been so many tearful young madams in the back of his cruiser that he struggles to remember them all.

“Someone should teach you a lesson in life. You are far too serious.” She looks at him reproachfully, as if he has committed a far greater sin than she.

He is overcome by the spunk of the lass. Surely she knows better than to smart mouth an officer of the law? As she gently places yet another flower upon the casket, he spies a gold band on her slim finger. So she is married.

“Where is your husband?”

“Long dead,” she replies, her tone off-hand and casual.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she laughs, flicking the now empty basket of flowers in his direction. Loose petals billow up into the air and settle in his hair, on the shoulders of the uniform and in little crevices where he won’t find them until much later.

It’s all rather too much for him. A smart mouth is one thing, but throwing things about in a place of mourning, that is entirely unacceptable.

“Look here, miss, show some respect.” His tone is becoming strained now, as the urge to impart discipline grows and grows, becoming almost irresistible.

“Respect for what?” She is entirely unperturbed.

“For the dead, for your elders and betters, for the authority of the law.”

She turns towards him now, her expression coquettish. “And I suppose you have the authority of the law?”

“I do. Not to mention being a great deal older than you, young lady.” His hair is streaked with gray, whilst her blonde locks gleam with youth and vigor.

“You’d be surprised,” she laughs.

“Where is Mr Mortensen?” It is a sharp change of subject, but it is time for him to attend to the business he came to attend to. He does not have time to argue with bratty, rude young women. He searches his mind for the memory of the business that brought him here, but finds it fuzzy. No matter, he needs to see the mortician, then he will remember.

“Gone home for the evening. It’s just me here now.”

She is lying. He knows it. He calls her bluff.

“No-one to save you from a well deserved spanking then.”

“No-one to give me one,” she giggles.

“I’m here.”

“Are you? Or are you just a dream? Perhaps I have dreamed you up?” she laughs, and her laughter is light and brilliant, one with the beams of sun falling gently through the stained glass as the sun begins its descent below the horizon.

She has pushed him too far now. “I am most definitely here, and you, young lady, are about to be over my knee.”

She pouts prettily. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“I most certainly would.” He beckons to her and to his mild surprise, she comes obediently, her hands clasped before her, a twinkle in her eye. In spite of her protestations and earlier cheek, she goes over his lap like a lamb.

He has done this many times before. Sometimes a good spanking is enough to set a youngster straight before they get themselves in serious trouble, and sometimes a good spanking is needed to teach a mouthy young minx a lesson.

She is nearly weightless as he props his knee up and settles her into the proper position. Her short white dress is quickly pulled up to reveal pretty white bloomers. That’s a surprise. Most young ladies these days wear skimpy lacy things, not bloomers. He should know, he’s spanked enough young ladies to know. His life has a bachelor has been long and lonely, for although he has brought many women to justice, he has failed to find the woman that touches his heart with her smile, the woman whose presence lights up a room with light and love. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps when this is done, when she is spanked and her tears are dried, this pretty widow might agree to accompany an old man to dinner.

“I bet you spank like a girl.” A taunt from the brat puts all idea of dinner out of his mind. He sets his mouth in a firm line. He will show this little lady the error of her ways.

He raises his palm and brings it down in a powerful sweeping arc, but it is he not her who cries out in surprise and pain as his hand contacts not her waiting bloomer clad bottom, but his own thigh. She has melted away entirely. He thinks he hears a light tinkling laugh somewhere in the distance, but she is gone. He is alone in the room, alone with the mahogany coffin and its carefully pinned flowers, alone with a few lone petals stuck in his wiry dark hair.

He dons his hat quickly, as if the badge might protect him, and turns to leave. As he does, a falling petal dances before his eyes and leads his gaze to a portrait amongst several on the wall. A portrait of a smiling young woman with alabaster skin, long blonde locks and a twinkle in her eye. The inscription simply reads ‘Lily 1569 – 1589.’ 400 years. She has been 400 years dead. Fingers of cold wrap themselves around his heart as he fights back a cry of horror. Still, a gargled sound forces its way between his clenched, cold lips. It is a cry that finally gets the attention of the proprietor.

“Can I help you, Sir?” The mortician bustles in, wiping his hands on a cloth that may or may not be smeared with the fluids of the dead. He is dressed in a long Victorian coat, and sports long mutton chop whiskers that make his sallow face seem some how inanimate. With the mortician’s arrival, a pall has fallen over the room, making it seem grotesque and morbid.

“This girl. Who is she?” He jabs his finger at the painting, his tone clipped and short. He will not admit to fear, though every hair on the back of his neck is prickling.

“You’ve met Lily, have you?” The mortician chuckles dourly. “Has she been playing games with you?”

“She was here. I watched her decorate that coffin.”

The mortician nods with that same sickly smile. “Oh yes, Lily is always here.”

“But, she decorated the coffin.”

“I imagine she did. It is tradition for a lady to decorate her husband’s coffin, even if he has forgotten her in the excitement of new life times.” The mortician’s smile becomes something of a leer.

A flash of horrid inspiration grips him. He steps towards the coffin Lily decorated so prettily and lifts the lid. There is a glint, a flash of light as the ebbing sun falls on the badge that have been carefully pinned to the stiff, pressed uniform that the body wears. He recognizes his face, as stern in death as it was in life, but now eerily still. The revelation of death breaks the spell and the coffin lid slips and slams down through his ethereal arm, passing through him as if he did not exist at all.

Before he can be overcome by hysteria and darkness, a slim, pale arm wraps around his waist. She is back by his side smiling, laughing, as if she has just made him privy to some great cosmic joke. The scent of flowers assails the senses that are no longer there as she leans up on tippy toes and kisses his cheek. Now he remembers her. He remembers her from lifetimes ago. How could he have forgotten one as rare as this? He remembers the day they parted, the day she slipped away with the fever, her pale skin blotched with the sores. It is clear now, as clear as it was the day they met. Why did he ever leave her side? He does not know. There are many questions, but they are lost to him as he gazes into the eyes of his beloved.

“You have been very, very naughty,” he growls the words softly as a smile plays about her ethereal lips.

She has taught him the lesson that death does not conquer all. Now it is time he teaches her a lesson in turn. Time is an illusion, past is present, here is there, now is eternal and all deserved spankings, no matter how long they are put off, will eventually be received by those who have earned them.

:twisted:

For more samples and info on Loki Renard, please visit Trouble Books.

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3 Responses to The Unspankable Brat: Original Fiction by Loki Renard

  1. Pingback: chross.blogt.ch - Chross Guide To The Spanking Internet

  2. lilmissnaughty says:

    Oh wow, what a great story I loved it! thanks for sharing 🙂

  3. cherryred says:

    :–)

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