Disrespected in Public

 Disrespected in Public

Story by Lisa

Setting - Kansas 1890

The church bell had not yet rung its second call when I made the mistake.

A cluster of us stood near the hitching posts, gloved hands folded over Sunday skirts, the morning sun warming our bonnets. I had leaned close to Mrs. Albright, my voice dropping to the kind of whisper that carries farther than a shout.

"...and you know what they say about her back room. The flour isn't the only thing that gets sifted."

A few of the women tittered. Mrs. Albright's eyes went wide with delight, her mouth opening to add something surely worse.

Then his hand closed around my upper arm.

Jake's fingers dug in just above the elbow, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh with enough force to make my breath catch. I looked up at him—my husband of six years, his Sunday collar already tight against his neck, his jaw set in that way that meant I had embarrassed him.

"We need to find our seats," he said, his voice pleasant enough for the other women, but his grip told another story entirely.

Mrs. Albright had the good sense to look away. The other women suddenly found their gloves fascinating.

He pulled me toward the church steps, not hard enough to cause a scene, but firmly enough that I had no choice but to follow. My heels scuffed against the packed dirt.

"Jake—"

"Not now."

He released my arm only when we reached the door. The imprint of his fingers remained, four small circles of heat beneath my Sunday sleeve.

I followed him to our usual pew, third row from the front, left side. The same spot his father had sat. The same spot his grandfather had sat before him. Generations of upright men with upright wives, and here was Bernadette, whispering filth about the store owner's wife before God and everyone.

Jake didn't look at me during the service. That was worse than anger. His profile stayed fixed toward Pastor Williams, his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles white. I sat with my back straight, my own hands folded in my lap, and felt the heat of his displeasure radiating from him like a stove.

The sermon was about gossip. I do not remember the verses. I remember only the weight of his silence, and the way my own body refused to settle—my foot tapping, my fingers twisting in my lap, sweat prickling at the small of my back.

After the final amen, after the last handshake, after the slow procession back out into the afternoon light, I let my frustration surface. The fear had curdled into something sharper.

"I don't see why you're so upset," I muttered, keeping my voice low but my chin high. "Everyone talks. You'd think I'd committed a crime."

Jake untied the horses with quick, efficient movements. "Get in the wagon."

"Or what? You'll drag me home by my ear like a child?"

His hands stilled on the reins. "I'm not going to argue with you in front of the whole town. We'll talk when we get back to the farm."

"Talk." I crossed my arms over my chest. "You mean you'll lecture me. You'll tell me how wicked I am, and I'm to nod and say yes, husband, and then you'll go out to the fields and leave me to my dishes."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Bernadette. Get. In. The wagon."

I planted my feet. The hem of my dress settled into the dust. "I'm tired of being treated like one of the cows."

The road stretched before us, mostly empty, but I was aware of the churchyard behind us. The lingering parishioners. The ones who had heard me earlier. The ones who now watched with poorly concealed interest.

Jake said nothing.

That silence again. That terrible, patient silence.

He wrapped the reins around the brake handle. Then he was beside me, moving faster than I thought a man his size could move, his hand closing around my wrist.

"Jake—"

"Walk."

He pulled me away from the wagon, past the hitching posts, toward the low stone wall that separated the churchyard from the road beyond. The stones were old, moss-covered in places, warm from the sun.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. He just kept walking, and I kept stumbling behind him, my free hand reaching out to brace against the wall as he pulled me around it.

The wall came up to my waist. Old stones. Solid.

"Jake, people are watching—"

"Let them watch."

He sat on the wall and pulled me across his lap in one motion.

It happened so fast I didn't have time to fight. One moment I was standing; the next, my hands were braced against the grass on the far side of the wall, my hips fitting over his thighs, my legs dangling.

"What are you—"

His hand found the hem of my dress.

"No—Jake, wait—"

He pushed the fabric up. Layers of petticoats, my Sunday best, the dress I had ironed just that morning. His fingers worked through them methodically, folding the material up over my back, exposing my drawers.

The white cotton suddenly felt very thin.

"You will learn to mind your tongue," he said.

His hand came down.

The first swat landed square on my right cheek, the crack of it echoing off the church wall. The sting arrived a heartbeat later, spreading through the cotton of my drawers like fire. I gasped, my fingers scrabbling at the grass.

"Jake—people are watching—"

"Then maybe you'll remember this."

His hand came down again. Left side. The sting, sharper this time, driving the air from my lungs. I kicked without meaning to, my Sunday shoes tangling in my skirts.

"Hold still."

"I will not hold still, you—"

Three swats in quick succession, each one landing in a slightly different spot, until my entire bottom felt like it was covered in a hot, pulsing map of his displeasure. The sound of it—that sharp crack of his palm against cotton—seemed impossibly loud in the afternoon air.

I looked up through watering eyes and saw them.

People had gathered. Not close, not brazen, but they were there—small knots of men and women lingering by the church door, by the hitching posts, their faces turned toward us with a mixture of shock and something else. Something that made my cheeks burn even hotter than the swats.

Mrs. Albright stood with her hand pressed to her chest. Her husband had his arm around her shoulders, but his eyes were fixed on the wall. On us. On the place where my drawers were stretched tight over my upended bottom.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, Jake, not here—"

"You should have thought of that before you spread your poison through the congregation."

His fingers found the waistband of my drawers.

"No—"

He pulled them down.

The air hit my bare skin, and I made a sound I'd never made before—a strangled half-sob of pure mortification. My bare bottom, exposed to the sun, to the breeze, to the eyes of everyone who had ever called me Sister Bernadette.

"Now," he said, and his hand rested on my lower back, warm and immovable, "you're going to count."

"Count?"

"Every one. Out loud. So everyone can hear."

I shook my head, tears streaking down my face, dripping into the grass. "I can't—"

"You can. And you will. Or we'll start over from the beginning."

The first bare swat landed without warning.

The sound was different now. Louder. A wet Crack that seemed to ricochet off the church walls. The pain bloomed across my right cheek, white-hot and immediate, and I cried out—a broken, humiliated sound that I didn't recognize as my own voice.

"That's not counting," Jake said.

Another swat. The other cheek.

"One!" I gasped. "One, please—"

"Good. That's one."

His hand came down again, harder, and I felt the impact through my whole body—through my thighs, my belly, even my teeth seemed to rattle with it.

"Two!"

The rhythm settled over us then. His hand, my count. The numbers falling from my lips in a trembling stream while the crowd watched and the sun beat down and my bare bottom turned from white to pink to a deep, burning rose under the force of his palm.

Around seven, my voice broke completely. "Seven—please, Jake—please—"

He paused. His hand rested on the heated skin, almost gentle now.

"Are you sorry for what you said?"

"Yes."

"Are you sorry for your insolence after church?"

"Yes, Jake, yes—"

"Good."

His hand lifted again. I braced myself, my fingers digging into the grass, my back arching.

The next swat landed lower, on the sensitive crease where my bottom met my thighs, and the sensation that shot through me was not pain—or not only pain—but something else entirely. Something bright and devastating that made my hips jerk against his lap.

I felt him go still beneath me.

"Bernadette."

“Yes sir” I blubbered. 

He pulled up my drawers and down my coverings. And helped me up on my wobbly legs. Pulled me to the wagon and lifted me like I did not weigh anything to the seat of the wagon. Climbed next to me and we headed home. 

All I could think was, I bet I am the talk of the town now.