Chapter 8: Daughter's Judgment
The backwards crawl was agony. Every shuffle scraped Robert’s knees raw against the coarse wool rug. His palms burned. Maintaining balance on hands and knees while moving in reverse felt precarious, humiliating. The fireplace seemed miles away, its hearth a maw promising more pain. Sunlight, now lower and richer, streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the charged air like tiny, mocking spectators. He focused on the pattern beneath his hands – swirls of faded burgundy and gold – anything to avoid the eyes he felt boring into his exposed back, his lowered head.
Mary watched, perched on the armchair like a queen on a makeshift throne, the riding crop a scepter resting on her knee. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of cool control. Ginny leaned forward on the sofa, chin propped on her hand, utterly engrossed. Nancy sat rigidly beside her, legs primly crossed, but her fingers twisted a stray thread on her expensive wool skirt. Ava tracked Robert’s progress with her phone, occasionally muttering, "Come on, old man, pick up the pace," her voice dripping with casual cruelty.
Lilly stood slightly apart, near the bookshelf, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her gaze flickered between her father’s degrading progress and Mary’s stern face, a flicker of something unreadable – pity? Shock? Curiosity? – in her soft eyes. She flinched as Robert lurched sideways, nearly toppling, his breath hitching in a stifled gasp.
Finally, after an eternity of awkward, shuffling inches, Robert’s shoulder bumped the cool bricks of the fireplace surround. He stopped, panting, his head hanging low, sweat dripping onto the rug. The warmth radiating from the hearth felt oppressive against his bare skin.
"Stay," Mary commanded, swinging her leg off the armchair and standing. Her boots clicked softly on the hardwood floor as she walked towards the ornate wooden sideboard near the large flat-screen TV. It was crowded with framed photos – Mary with friends, landscapes, Robert and Mary smiling stiffly at some event. She pulled open a deep drawer.
The sound drew everyone's attention. Ginny practically bounced in her seat. "Ooh, the good drawer!"
Mary rummaged for a moment, her back partially obscuring the view. When she turned, she held a polished wooden box, about the size of a large jewelry case. She placed it deliberately on the low coffee table in front of the sofa, the box contrasting sharply with the colorful throw pillows. With a click, she opened the lid.
Inside, nestled in fitted black velvet, lay an array of implements. It was a curated collection of discipline: a slender cane, dark and menacingly flexible; a short, thick wooden paddle; a sturdy leather hairbrush; a coiled leather strap with a heavy brass buckle; a handful of smooth wooden spoons of varying thicknesses; and tucked almost shyly in one corner, a long, wide silk scarf the color of deep amethyst. The late sun glinted off the buckle and the cane’s polished surface.
"Girls," Mary said, her voice calm, authoritative. "Since your father’s... indiscretion... involved such dedicated viewing of other women, it seems fitting you choose how he learns his lesson this time. Select something."
Ava was out of her seat before Mary finished speaking. She strode to the table, her phone momentarily forgotten, dangling from her hand. She peered into the box, a predatory gleam in her eye. Her hand hovered over the cane, then the paddle, before decisively snatching up the leather strap. She hefted it, testing its weight. The brass buckle clinked softly.
"This," Ava declared, her voice bright and sharp. "Looks like it means business. Perfect for teaching a dirty old man some respect." She gave the strap an experimental flick in the air. Thwip.
Robert flinched violently at the sound, a low moan escaping him. He pressed his forehead against the cool brick, eyes squeezed shut.
Lilly had drifted closer, drawn reluctantly to the tableau. She stood beside Ava, looking down into the box. Her gaze wasn't on the strap or the cane. It was fixed on the silk scarf. Soft. Luxurious. Utterly out of place amidst the instruments of punishment.
Lilly reached tentatively towards it, her fingertips brushing the smooth fabric. "What's this for?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ginny, still perched on the edge of the sofa, leaned forward to see better. "Oh, that's for... well, I guess it’s for fun too. A little... flair." She grinned wickedly.
Mary watched Lilly’s interaction with the scarf, an almost imperceptible softening in her gaze. "For those who appreciate finesse over brute force," she explained, her tone gentle.