Sansa’s hands returned to the desk, fingers curling into rucked skirts, pulling them along her ribs until both arms pressed close against her in some semblance of embrace. She thought not of how to avoid the Lord’s desire for punishment — for certainly to bid her stand bare, exposed, vulnerable would not suffice — but how evidence of its indulgence might be hidden. Though young girls in the care of mothers and septas alike might know reproach’s sting, by such time as their flowering methods so blunt in nature gave way to subtler communications. Children were stricken. Young ladies instead had privileges removed, freedoms restricted, small daily pleasures denied until their absence caused a sorrow not even fond memories of willful insubordination could assuage. On the morrow Randa would expect to wonder at a barren sewing basket or the retrieval of her few jewels. But to hear rumor of strange noises, cries, from Lord Baelish’s chambers? And his daughter, taciturn and chagrined with the morning light? Even whispered suggestion that she submitted to the rod as readily as little Robert’s whipping boy Sansa could never abide; required privacy magnified her shame all the more, that man and girl would both know how readily she submitted to his sly commands.
And was she not the very picture of submission? More striking, perhaps, were hair restored to ruby sheen, though in the low light of evening and smoldering embers ivory skin still shone with stark grace amidst stone of palest grey. Sansa felt him watching. Controlled breaths betrayed not only Baelish’s location, subtle shifting as he no doubt regarded the tempting sight he had composed, but the need for such restraint. Wondering if bare flesh or striking pose enticed the man more served only to increase what unpleasant weight had settled in her stomach.
Petyr would see hair rustling atop her shoulders, jostled as she nodded in silent agreement. Fortunate. In doe-skin slippers two sets of toes curled, hips pulled infinitesimally closer to desk’s edge, her sole means of escape. His touch was not itself unpleasant — like many of comfortable means the Lord’s hands were soft, their caress gentle and unhurried. Were Baelish not who he was, and were Sansa not prostrated as she was, perhaps they might have conveyed some small pleasure; contact came rarely and briefly into her days, most often in the brisk movements of a maid, the quick jostling of Myranda when she wished for a friend’s attention. Only Petyr ever indulged in her…though always at his behest.
Tension unwound at hand’s absence. For a moment Sansa dared think the exercise over, embarrassment sufficient to have earned her dismissal. Focus on impending relief only doubled what shock of pain raced across her bottom at the strike; while firm, it still imparted no more than a passing sting. Where silvered bands graced his fingers the sensation lingered, fading into a dull throb rather than the faint, whispering thrum of agitated flesh. A whimper rose and died in her throat when Baelish landed his disciplined blow; otherwise she knew to keep quite quiet, reacting instead by rising onto her toes, stretching further out across the desk with muscles in calves and thighs pulled taut. “No.” Her voice quavered, just as both legs began to shake. Sansa regained balance upon her heels. “No, you are quite fair, my lo— father.”