Authors: Lizbeth Dusseau
“I’ll not
go!” she announced, suddenly taking on the haughty bearing of an arrogant
child.
“Perhaps
we should sit down and discuss it reasonably,” Aaron suggested,
maintaining his calm, even though he was about to
loose
patience with this unexpected performance. He’d never seen Abigail quite like
this; stubborn as she sometimes was, nothing had happened in their young marriage
to upset her so.
“There’s
absolutely nothing to discuss, Aaron. If you’d only consulted me, you would
have known that I am not about to spend my life in some out of the way outpost
in the midst of the uncivilized wilds.”
“I’m
afraid the deed is already done,” Aaron informed her, his eyes narrowing
in that stern way he had about him.
“Well,
then you’ll just have to undo it, because I won’t be going with you.”
Rising from her chair, she started for the door, her flushed face looking at if
it was about to burst.
“Don’t
you dare walk out of this house!” Aaron roared, his own anger no longer
suppressed.
She looked
back at him and stomped her foot, then swished her behind sassily and continued
her exit.
“I told
you not to leave!” Aaron blared, and this time he was out of his chair,
swift enough to catch her arm, and whirl her around.
“I don’t
care!” she snapped.
“Your
father warned me about your rebellious streak. To this point I thought it might
have been his problem, but …”
“Let me
go!” she cried, trying to wrench away from a very firm grip.
But Aaron was
much too strong for her. Lifting her away from the doorway, he carried her to
the other side of the room under his arm. Sitting down on a kitchen chair, he
briskly flung his flailing wife over his lap. Holding her tight-
ly
to him, his hand came down on her bottom with a
veritable rainstorm of smacks.
“What do
you think you’re doing!” she screamed.
“Spanking
your butt! What does it feel like?”
“Stop it
now!” She tried wiggling from his grasp, though it was a useless effort.
Aaron only doubled his effort, spanking her harder and more vigorously the more
she tried to get away.
“You are
a vile bastard!” she roared, a declaration she’d never used before, though
at the moment it came from her tongue so easily, she didn’t even realize what
she was saying.
Aaron spanked
her harder yet, his hand not letting up for even an instant, so even through
the protection of her skirt, her bottom was beginning to burn hot.
“You’re
not going to sass me, no matter how angry you are!” he vowed.
“Ouch,
goddamit
!” she wailed.
“That’s
it!” Aaron blared, hearing her curse.
Raising her
skirt, he pulled down her drawers and began again on her bottom, this time with
nothing between her reddening rear and the sting of his hand.
“You
swear again, I’ll use my belt!” he warned her.
“I’m
sorry, please stop!” she cried, feel-
ing
the
impact of the sting so dear, she wasn’t sure she could take much more of it.
“Not
until you’re ready to discuss this reasonably,” he said. The steady pelt
of his hand wasn’t letting up, even as he spoke.
“Ouch!
Goddammit
!” she cried again. It hurt so badly, the
pain so fierce, in all her pun-
ishments
ever, she’d
never felt anything so
hor
-rid.
“You must
want the belt!” Aaron said.
“No, no,
oh no, please don’t, I’m sorry.”
Aaron
continued spanking her so hard his hand was hurting - no doubt as much as his
Abigail’s rear. The hot blush on her wiggling bottom was a fiery red so he
wondered if either of them could take any more.
“Are you
ready to behave yourself?” he asked.
Abigail said
something through her sobs that he couldn’t hear.
“Are you
ready to behave?” he asked again.
“Yes, all
right! I will, just please stop!”
Though he
wasn’t sure he could believe her, Aaron stopped anyway, and pushed the
exhausted young woman from his lap to her feet.
The look on
Aaron’s face was fierce, his eyes as dark as Abigail had ever seen them.
“There’d
better not be another word, especially another curse from your lips, or I’ll
get my strap, and I will blister your bottom raw!”
“No, no,
please,” Abigail said, at the same time she was gulping back a sassy
retort. She could see her husband meant every word he said.
“I will
not have you flying off the handle at the first mention of something that
upsets you. You’re an adult and you’ll be behaving like one. Is that
understood?”
“Yes.”
She bit her lip. The strangest and loveliest feeling ever was suddenly apparent
emanating from her hot rear end. “I’m sorry, I guess I lost my head.”
She was trying hard to be contrite though she hardly felt it.
“You
certainly did lose your head.”
“But,
Aaron please! I still don’t want to move,” she pleaded with him
passionately.
“Brighton
Springs is a lovely town. Out of the way, yes, but not buried in some
untrav-eled
mountain valley. Have you ever been
there?” he asked.
“No,”
she admitted.
“Then
it’s hard to judge, isn’t it?”
“I
suppose, but …”
“But
what?”
“I think
you’re being horribly unfair and so is your father, no one saying a word to
me.”
“I do
what I think is best for the both of us, and I’m certain you’ll see it the same
way. Now, I have to get back to the mill.
Your
out-burst has already made me late.”
“Couldn’t
we just take a few moments, and run upstairs?” Abigail suggested, as the
seductive little spark was returning to her blue eyes.
Aaron read her
thoughts, his face break-
ing
into an amused grin.
“You’d like that I’m sure,” he said reaching out to tousle her hair.
“And I probably would too, except that you used up your bedroom time for
one lunch, my fine lit-
tle
brat. You’ll have to think
of that next time you decide to go to war.”
She pouted,
but not too much, having no desire to raise his ire again. Though watching him
walk out the door, Abigail was all the more determined to change Aaron’s mind
about the move. If he thought punishing her was enough to get her to relent,
then he didn’t know her very well.
Still smarting
from the sting of the spanking, and being denied a womanly outlet for her
passions, she had every reason to be as
indig
nant
with her husband’s behavior as he was with hers.
After lunch,
Abigail worked in her gar-den, thinking perhaps it would soothe her ruffled
feathers, though it did not. My mid-afternoon, she was such a whirling tempest
of fury again, that she dropped her spade and shovel in the dirt, and went to
the barn to saddle her horse. There were just enough daylight hours to get her
where she was going, and if she started now, she might even be there in time
for supper.
Not bothering
leaving her husband a note, her anger supplanting her better judgment, Abigail
was on her horse, minutes later riding swiftly toward her parent’s home.
Reaching the
house of her childhood at dusk, Abigail was warmed by the thought of her
mother’s arms welcoming her home, by the thought of her shoulder to cry on.
Even Miss Hattie who would surely understand the wretched circumstances fate
had dealt her. She was glad to see that her father was not yet home. Tying her
horse in the barn so he wouldn’t like-
ly
notice, she
raced in the back door and was within minutes sobbing in her mother’s arms telling
her the grand tale of woe.
“I simply
can’t bear the thought of
leav-ing
, moving miles
beyond my life here,
espe-cially
to some place so
distant and in the wilds. There’s simply no civilization, no culture, no life,
none of the grand things I want!”
“Oh, my
dear, dear child,” her mother comforted her, her arms reaching around to
hold her tightly, her hand patting her gently on the back.
“Please,
mother, isn’t there some way we could insist he give up this plan?”
Mrs.
McPhearson
pulled back. “He is your husband, you have
your vows,” the older woman reminded her.
“But when
we married, he talked about a bigger life, not a smaller one than we have
now!”
“You
don’t love him enough to follow him?” her mother asked.
“Surely,
I love him. I’d simply leave him otherwise.”
“Abigail!”
her mother retorted. “That’s hardly an answer. He is your husband.”
“Please, tell me what I can do. I thought I was so happy, and now
this.”
Margaret
McPhearson
reached out to hold her again, smiling kindly as
she did. “You need some rest, child. A little sleep. The morn
ing
always puts a better light on things, and it will on
this too.”
“He
spanked me, mama,” Abigail blurted out.
“He did
now?” Her mother’s eyes
nar
-rowed.
“Aaron
was terribly angry with me.”
“If you
ranted and raved as I know you can to, I’m sure he was.”
“But, he
didn’t even consider my feel-
ings
, just made the
decision without me.”
“It is
his job to provide for you, Abigail. And if this is how he sees best, then I
don’t know what you can do.”
“Oh,
mama, no!” she wailed.
“Hush,
you’ll sleep here tonight, and we’ll talk again in the morning.”
“What’s
Abigail doing here,” her father’s voice rose above her cries, as Mr.
McPhearson
opened the bedroom door. “Is something
wrong?” he asked.
“Not
seriously, Neville. Just some adjustments.”
“Shouldn’t
she be making her adjust-
ments
with her
husband?”
“Sometimes
it takes a mother’s touch.”
“Look at
me, girl. What’s your com-plaint?”
Abigail pulled
away from Margaret
McPhearson’s
arms and looked up at
her father with her tear-stained face. Seeing his stern
vis
-age,
she shriveled back.
“Out with
it!” he ordered.
“I’d
rather not say, sir,” she snuffed.
“Is it
some womanly matter?” her father inquired.
“No,
sir.”
“Then
you’ll tell me.”
Abigail
gulped.
“Please,
sir. It’s just that Aaron wants us to move to Brighten Springs, and I just
can’t.”
“Humph!
Brighton Springs. That is quite a distance.”
“Yes, you
can see how horrible it would be!”
Neville
considered his daughter’s announcement for a moment. “No. I see nothing of
the sort,” he concluded. And if that’s where his work takes him, it’s your
duty to go. I don’t see a problem here.”
“But
father …”
“I hope
all your complaints are this easy to figure,” he said.
“Father,
I won’t go. I just won’t.”
“Oh, you
will, girl, and you know it. It seems that you’re being typically rash in your
objections. Did Aaron bring you here? Where is he?”
“He’s not
here.”
“Not
here?”
“No,
sir.”
“Who
did?”
“I rode,
sir. On Biscuit.”
“And
Aaron knows nothing of it?” His face was instantly livid, his eyes casting
a sharp penetrating look her way.
“No,
sir.”
“You, my
child, need a good whipping, leaving him like that.”
“No,
sir!” she answered indignantly. Her father’s eyes didn’t alter their grim
expression.
“You have
no more right to defy me now than you had before you married,” he
countered.
“But
you’ll not whip me!” she vowed.
“We’ll
see about that,” he said.
“Neville,
please,” Margaret pleaded.
Jerking her
away from her mother, Neville
McPhearson
hauled his
daughter out of the room, down the front stairs and into the library. The whole
house was peering around doors and corners, listening to the tormented young
bride plead and kick and wail for mercy, none of which Neville was likely to
give her. Her mother following closely on their heels could do nothing but sigh
out of weariness.
“I can’t
believe such foolishness from a married woman,” Neville went on. “Why
I’d be paddling your mother’s behind if she did any-thing so senseless.”
“But you
can’t, you won’t whip my
bot
-tom,” Abigail said
jerking away from him.