"After all this time, I should say so," she asserted.
"All right then," he agreed, then took her arm and gently pulled. She lost her balance and fell over his knee.
"What? What are you doing, Porter?" Emma demanded. She felt his hands at the elastic waist band of her gardening slacks and tried to stop him as he tugged. "Stop that. You can't do that."
"Says who? You just told me you agreed. You just told me you've been waiting. It's been quite a while since you told that lie and you'll get what's coming to you today."
"But that's not what I....ouch! Ow! OW!" she cried out as he made good on his promise to start with his hand. She wriggled to try to get away from him, but he was able to hold her easily. He smacked her backside twenty times on each cheek before he stopped to scold her.
"This is what you'll get each and every time you tell a lie, Emma. I don't tell stories and I expect the same to be true of you. Now, be still, or after I'm done, I'll give you twenty more swats for not minding me."
"But wait," she protested when she'd caught her breath. "I misunderstood. I thought you meant that spring was finally here and we were going to plant seeds today."
"I suppose we could do that," he answered after a moment's thought. "That doesn't require sitting down, so you'll be okay."
"Wait, ouch! Ouch! Ouch! OUCH! Oh, ow, please, wait, stop. No, wait, I meant...oh, ow, please!" she tried to reason with him as he resumed his assault on her pinkening bottom.
"Lying is something I won't tolerate, especially lying to get out of trouble. We should have just taken what was coming to us. Instead you told that lie and it came all too easily to you, I thought," he scolded as he spanked. "And I'll take my belt to your kabumpus each and every time you try it, understand?"
"Yes, I understand, Porter. Please, I won't do it again, I promise. Oh, ow, that hurts, please stop! Stop, please," she pleaded and he wondered if she really thought it would do any good.
"Hush that talking and take your medicine, little lady," he told her as he picked up his belt from the bench where he had laid it earlier. He doubled it with a practiced motion, hiding the buckle in his big hand. Snap, thwack, splat came the sounds of the belt striking tender flesh in various places up and down her thighs then on up higher over all of her rear end. She was thoroughly red by the time he stopped and let her catch her breath.
"So, let's go over this again. Why are you getting this spanking?"
"Because I told a lie. I'm really sorry and I'll never do it again," she answered in a small voice. She pushed herself up on her hands in an attempt to stand up, but he held her down with his strong left arm.
"You'll wait to get up till I tell you to get up," he cautioned her. "Don't try that again." He made his point clearer with a dozen more strokes with the belt. She was sobbing now and he gave her a moment to recover her composure. "So you agree that you do deserve this spanking?"
"Yes, I do. I agree that you should spank me if I lie, but I won't lie again, so please, no more."
"I told you I would use the ruler, too. That's what I'm fixing to do, but if you count out twenty, I'll let that be the end of it." He picked up the ruler and brought it down hard on her backside. The pain was different and terrible on her already roughened, red, sore skin. She winced and bucked, but counted as she had been told.
"One." Another stroke sounded over her sobs. "Two." He brought it down again, though not as hard this time. "Three." A little lower down, the ruler connected with the tender crease between her bottom and her thighs and she gasped before she counted. "Four." He continued, waiting for her to count before he gave her the next stroke so that in essence she was setting his pace. She began to let more time elapse between each swat until she realized that this only made the pain of each individual stroke worse. Better to get it over with, she thought, as with supreme effort, she counted faster until all twenty had been delivered.
He rubbed her back for a moment when he was done and then said, "You can stand up now. I'm finished, and I hope that for goodness sakes, I never have to do that again."
She stood with difficulty then remained where she was, not knowing what to do next. He grasped his crutch and stood, then embraced her with his free arm. "I'd hug you with both arms," he explained, "but then I'd have to lean on you."
"I wish you would, Porter," she responded. "You can always lean on me."
"No, not always. Sometimes a man has to stand on his own. But sometimes, I guess it's okay to lean, too." He put the crutch back on the bench and let his hands rub her gently, her hair, her back, her sides. It seemed natural to both of them, once her tears had subsided, for him to kiss her face and lips. This time she didn't pull away from him, but returned his kisses. The buzzing of a bee finally interrupted them and they laughed as Porter swatted it away with the ruler.
"You're entirely too handy with that thing," she joked. She wanted him to understand that she would accept his discipline with good grace, when she felt she deserved it. "And the belt, too."
"And you couldn't see how the belt would do any good, huh? That's rich. You wanted me to use the hoe. Ha ha ha! You don't see how I can use a belt to plant seeds, huh? Do you get the idea now how handy a belt can be?" he asked her.
"I get the idea that a belt can plant an idea in my mind, and that idea is 'no lying'. I think that seed will sprout and take root very quickly, too. Speaking of my lie, Porter, when do you think I ought to start to make that right. I mean, the preacher is going to start to wonder why we're not saying anything."
"You know, I've been thinking on that right often and I was wondering if we really needed to correct that lie after all. Maybe we could just let it be for a spell, and see what happens." Porter looked at his hands, at the floor, at the pesky bee, anywhere but at her face, because he couldn't stand to see her expression if she wasn't going to agree.
He need not have worried. She threw herself into his arms again and nearly knocked him over. They kissed again, then went out into the bright sunshine to begin the spring planting together. "That's it, right there," he told her as he inhaled a big breath of a luscious scent he wanted to share with her. "That's the spring smell I was telling you about."
"Oh, that is lovely," she replied, imitating his long inhalation to get the full effect. "What is it?"
"Nobody knows for sure. It's the rain and the blooming trees and shrubs and just the very hills around us. It's everything mixing together and welcoming spring."
Each spring, the first smell of that lovely fragrance reminded Emma of her first spring in Tennessee. From that year on, it reminded Porter of a certain spring afternoon in his shed, where his belt came in very handy indeed.
Easter Hat
By Fiona Wilde
Easter Hat by Fiona Wilde
The bell above the door of Hart’s Mercantile tinkled lightly as Matilda Jenkins walked into the store. She looked down at the toes of her shoes and the hem of her dress and despaired. She’d tried to step carefully, to avoid the muddiest parts of the road left by the spring rains. But it was hard to do while toting a huge basket.
Matilda looked around. At least the store was relatively empty and what shoppers there were consisted of ladies too old to make snide remarks. Breathing a sigh of relief, she walked up to the counter.
“Good morning, Mr. Hart,” she said.
“Mrs. Jenkins!” Aaron Hart turned, his mustachioed mouth turning up in a friendly smile. “You’re just in time. Janet Little was in yesterday asking if I’d have jam and eggs today.” He helped her lift the basket onto the counter and opened the lid.
“Lovely,” he said as he lifted a smaller basket of eggs from the larger one. “These are perfect for coloring.”
Matilda smiled. “There’s more where they came from,” she said, lifting forth another basket. She sat it down beside the first and began to take out other things - jars of mint jelly, strawberry jam and a stack of intricate hand-tatted lace doilies.
“You’ve outdone yourself, young lady,” the storeke
eper beamed. “I hope Ray appreciates what a wonderful little homemaker his new bride is.”
The face framed by blonde curls and a bonnet blushed prettily. “Thank you, Mr. Hart,” she said, and instantly brightened. “It’s been six months today since we were wed!”
“Has it been that long? My goodness.” Mr. Hart opened the cash drawer and began to withdraw money, but Matilda stopped him.
“Mr. Hart, I actually have a few things to pick up. Perhaps we should hold off on the accounting until we balance out what we owe each other.”
“Let me guess, you caught a glimpse of my new ribbons,” he said.
Matilda laughed. “Is my longing so apparent, Mr. Hart? You do carry the most beautiful ribbons in the region. And I’m particularly keen to create a lovely Easter hat.”
“Then you should be well pleased,” he said. “Much of it is imported silk, lace from Belgium..”
But Matilda was already there, allowing the beautiful ribbons to slide through her slim fingers.
“Can I help you?” Pearl Hart glided through the door of the back room, her hands smoothing the bodice of a light pink dress. She looked Matilda up and down, her eyes lingering with disapproval on the younger woman’s muddy hem.”
“Goodness, Mrs. Jenkins. Did you walk in the pigsty this morning?”
Matilda heard the sound of tittering laughter behind her and turned to see Samantha Snowden and Margaret Appleby giggling and eyeing her mud-caked hem.
She blushed deeply, feeling deeply embarrassed, as Matilda was a fastidious girl - and neat - who prided herself on her tidy home and tidy appearance. She wanted to fall through the floor in the face of such mean-spiritedness, but instead repeated the mantra her mother had taught her, “At all costs, be a lady.”
So rather than walk away as she wanted to, she turned and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Snowden, Mrs. Appleby.” Then turning back to the shopkeeper’s wife, she said sweetly. “It only looks like I walked in a pigsty, Mrs. Hart. But I did not. The road outside your shop is terribly muddy and it became impossible to hoist my skirt while carrying your order in a way that did not shatter the eggs.”
“Well, I would have shattered the eggs before coming into public with egg on my face,” said Samantha Snowden.
Matilda ignored her. “Mrs. Hart, I’d like to talk to you about getting some ribbons.”
“The regular ones are over there,” Mrs. Hart said, jerking her head towards the cheaper embellishments.
“I meant the new ones, ma’am,” she said.
Mrs. Hart smirked before stepping aside with an audible sigh. “You can look,” she said. “But they are *very* expensive.”
“I have money,” Matilda said quietly, and began to re-examine the ribbons, ignoring the loudly whispered “Well, that’s certainly unusual,” that came from behind her back.
Matilda compared the ribbon, scrutinizing the grain, texture and thread count. In her mind, she saw the simple straw hat she’d purchased several weeks before, envisioned the hat festooned with a bouquet of ribbons and lace.
She selected four different types of ribbon and some lace. Mrs. Hart cut it into the lengths she requested, figured the amount and wrote it on a piece of paper. “Take this to Mr. Hart,” she said.
Matilda looked at the ticket and felt her heart leap into her throat. The amount came to nearly three-quarters her projected revenue from the items she’d brought in to sell. But then she remembered that Mr. Hart always gave her items at wholesale cost. Walking over, she handed the shopkeeper the ticket. As she did, she heard his wife’s hard voice from across the room - and so did everyone else.
“There will be *no* discount on the imported ribbon, Aaron.” Matilda felt all eyes on her again, and the flush crept back into her face. Raymond Jenkins was very specific about what his wife was allowed to spend, as they were saving to buy a house in town. He’d be incensed to know she spent so much money on trifles.
She looked imploringly at Mr. Hart, but he looked down, obviously uncomfortable but unwilling to publicly confront his wife. He dashed out figures on the paper and tallied them, as his wife stood behind him, her lips pursed, glancing occasionally at Matilda.
Matilda tried to look casual when he announced that the revenue was, indeed offset by her expenditures to the tune of a little more than three quarters. Taking the change, she smiled graciously and took her package and tucked it in her basket. Then she turned and walked from the store with her head held high.
She walked down the steps of the mercantile, clutching her basket. She walked past the livery, past the butcher shop before ducking into a side alley, where she leaned back against a wall and closed her eyes.
“What have I done?” Matilda asked herself. “What am I going to tell Raymond?”
She considered her plight. Matilda had been married six months and had never once deceived her husband. That, in fact, was why he had chosen her from among the flock of beauties pushed in his path by anxious mothers. And then there were the matchmaking attempts of the shopkeeper’s wife, who’d always been civil to Matilda until Ray chose her over Pearl Hart’s best friend Margaret Appleby.
The spurned women and their allies had shown up at the wedding with forced smiles, but had been cruel as wolves ever since. Raymond’s tight grasp on the financial strings meant that Matilda had little money to spend. Even most of the money generated from her flock of chickens, her cooking and her sewing was required to be put back into the budget. She was given a strict allowance and was warned that - while he was a patient man - spendthrift ways would not be tolerated and would furthermore earn her a trip over his knee.
Matilda had been an obedient, placid daughter and was determined to be an obedient, placid wife. So the shock of her own defiance for the sake of pride presented a dilemma. Should she throw herself on her husband’s mercy? Or should she concoct a plan to cover her weakness, and save her bottom?
She decided honesty would be the best policy, so with a heavy sigh she turned back on the street and walked another block before coming to a narrow brick building that housed the office of Raymond Jenkins, town clerk.
He greeted her with a smile, putting down his quill pen and rising from his chair. She put the basket on a chair and rushed to him, her bonneted head only coming up to the middle of his broad chest as they embraced.
Matilda broke away and reached into the basket to retrieve the lunch she’d prepared, some dried meat, bread, cheese and plum cobbler. Best satisfy his hunger before giving him the bad news.
“How’s your morning, dear?” she asked.
“Quite well, except that the mayor is in the worst of moods.” He stomped about fretting all morning. I could barely hear to do my sums.
“And what set him wrong?” Matilda asked, taking off her bonnet and hanging it up along with her short cape. “Surely he had a good reason. Mr. James is usually such a mild-mannered man.”
“He has a perfectly good reason,” her husband said, his handsome face growing serious. “It seems his wife went into Clarksville a fortnight back - with Mrs. Hart - to visit the merchants and purchased a dress worth two weeks wages. When he confronted her about the wastefulness of such an expenditure, she said she wanted finery to match her companions. In other words, her allegiance to her own vanity was more important than her allegiance to her husband.”
Matilda stood, her face hot with shame at hearing herself described in the tale of another woman’s vice. She walked over to the bookshelf and let her fingers absently play along the leather bound spines. “Well, perhaps it was just a moment’s weakness that he will excuse. After all, husband, Easter is upon us and we wives all wish to look lovely for our husbands.”
“Hmph.” Raymond Jenkins’ derisive snort could not be interpreted as anything other than condemnation. “I’d hardly think my wife lovely adorned in finery outside our budget. If I looked at such a woman, I’d find her shameful to behold.”
At this, Matilda Jenkins instantly burst into such a violent fit of tears that her hus
band dropped his fork. Pulling the napkin from around his neck, he rushed to her side.
“Tildy,” he said. “Tildy, darling, what’s wrong?”
But she could barely muster the words to tell him and only cried harder until he ordered her quite sternly to calm her emotions. Matilda was not completely successful, but was able to calm down enough to give him a full accounting of what she’d done at Hart’s Mercantile, how she’d been lured by the pretty ribbons and had been too embarrassed to put them back after she found out their exorbitant cost.
Her husband was sympathetic but stern. “Tildy, you know better than that. We’re saving for a place in town, so that I can be closer to work and we can spend more time together. You want a nice house with a little yard and a rose garden. You’ll never have it if you fritter our money away on ribbon.”
“I know,” she sniffed.
“You must take it back,” he said.
“Take it back?” A vision of Mrs. Hart’s smirking face floated before her. “No!”
“You must, Tildy.” Raymond Hart’s voice tone was inflexible.
“I will do more sewing next week, to make up the difference,” she cried.
“No, that is not the point,” he persisted. “You will learn nothing if I allow you to keep those ribbons, save that you can flaunt my rules without consequence.”
Tildy felt her face grow hot. She crossed her arms. “That is not true,” she said. “I never ask you for anything, Ray. I pinch pennies, mend my own clothes and have saved you more in six months than other wives spend in a year. I have a right to a few ribbons and I shall not return them!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.
Her husband sighed and walked to the door and for a moment - a brief moment - Matilda thought she had won, until she saw him lock the door and stride back towards her, his face grim and purposeful.
She had precious little time to contemplate being lifted and hauled over to the chair, where he sat before pulling her over his knee.
“I warned you, Matilda, that if you ever did anything like this you would be spanked!”
Monthly Maintenance: Selected Stories from Blushing Books Authors Page 6