Creative Spanko Wench Blog

by patty, Copyright 2003, updated 2007 

Not even an eighth of the way through the diary and completely entranced by it, Connie vowed nothing would get in the way of finishing, not even Roy. She could barely contain her anxiety, not knowing what the dire deed was that had Mary so afraid. It preoccupied her all through the evening chores. Tonight she would be sure the lamp was well filled with oil.

When she got to bed though, Connie realized she had a dilemma. As long as Roy was still up resting by the fire, she needed a reason to have the lamp on, or there was a good chance he would have questions about what she was doing. It occurred to her that she could ask permission to read some of the many books he had, but what if he said no.

It was idiotic to lay up there in the loft and just stew over it, she knew it, but the urgency Connie felt about getting back to Mary’s journals coupled with the guilt she felt sneaking to do it, made her nervous about drawing too much attention to the whole idea of her reading. An impossibly long time passed before Roy finally got up and retired to his room.

“Please close the door, please close the door,” Connie whispered into her pillow.

He didn’t.

Connie felt her whole body tense with frustration. It took her well over an hour to wind down and curb her restless energy enough to finally fall into a fitful sleep. When Roy hollered up from the kitchen to roust her the next morning, she was sullen and out of sorts.

“On your feet up! The day’s wasting away,” When Connie didn’t answer or make her way down after a few minutes, Roy climbed the ladder and poked his head over the edge.

Connie startled. “I’m coming.” Her answer was short, the tone of her voice was irritated.

“Get the lead out, there is work to do and I have something I want to talk to you about.” Roy’s expression became firm, and his cocked eyebrow acknowledged and issued a mild warning about the edge in her tone. Connie curbed the annoyance she felt and elected to just nod.

It didn’t take her long to dress and make her way down. When she did, Roy was pulling his boots on in preparation to head out to the barn.

“Hurry up and let’s get the chores done before old Bossy busts.”

“Can’t I have some coffee first?”

If you want coffee before getting to the animals in the morning, you need to get up when I call you the first time.” Roy gestured to her boots and coat, his patience clearly short.

Connie grimaced, closing her eyes against the urge to issue some sarcastic retort.

The icy pre-dawn air was still, initially making it feel deceptively warmer than it was. Connie left her mittens and scarf inside the cabin.

“You’ll need your mitts,” Roy shooed her back.

“I’ll be fine,” Connie argued.

“Suit yourself. See to milking the cow, then fetch whatever eggs there are. I’ll see to the feed.”

“I have to see to myself first.” The urge to relieve herself was much stronger than any obligation she might feel to the cow, and certainly more urgent than the desire to have a cup of coffee was.

“Don’t dawdle in there. You’ve wasted enough of the morning as it is. The sun’s already up down there in the valley beyond the ridge.”

Connie didn’t answer. Inside the outhouse, she rubbed her face tying to shake off the thick foggy remnants of inadequate sleep, scolding herself for her sullen mood in the process. She really didn’t want to have Roy angry with her again, and it wasn’t really his fault she was out of sorts. She took the time she needed to try and clear the cobwebs from her head while her body relieved itself.

The bone chilling cold managed to sink in through her coat by the time she made it to the barn. Bossy bawled her objection when Connie started to milk her with ice cold fingers. Connie tried to gentle her by speaking softly and patting the animal’s hide. It helped some, though Connie’s hands remained cold. The cow tolerated the chore of being milked by a pair of clumsy, icy hands, but just barely. By the time the chore was finished, poor Connie was aggravated almost to the point of tears.

Her eyes burned from not enough sleep, and her mind trundled much too easily back into the “everything is against me” wallow she’d woken up in.

Not getting enough sleep was her own fault, and so was having hands so cold they were almost useless by the time she collected the eggs. The pain she felt in her fingers as she carried the bucket filled with milk to the root cellar reminded her of what her feet felt like when she’d gotten her self locked out of the cabin those short few days before. That had been her own fault too.

“Get a handle on yourself girl! You have to stop doing things like this to yourself. And for goodness sake don’t make things hard for yourself with the first man who’s ever been good to you in your whole life.”

Connie lectured herself all the way back to the cabin, and through the whole process of making breakfast.

Roy came in to find her mood much improved. She was still foggy enough that she had very little to say during breakfast, but at least she was able to be civil and answer questions and listen to what little conversation Roy felt like having.

“Think you can keep things together here for two or three days on your own?”

The question took Connie by surprise?

“Huh?”

“Since you’re here and can look after the stock, I thought it’d be a good season to put out some traps and see if I can’t get some pelts to trade come spring. It’ll help me, and be a good way for you to earn your keep.”

At first the prospect of being left alone shook her. What if someone came on the property while he was gone? Still it was only a couple of days, and she would be able to use all her spare time reading without worrying that Roy might catch her.

“Sure, I think I can manage if it’s just taking care of the stock. Can I read some of the books on the shelves over there by the fireplace while you’re gone?”

Roy nodded. “Whatever’s there that interests you, sure.”

Connie smiled. Perfect! She thought to herself. Not only did she have some uninterrupted time to spend reading Mary’s journals to look forward to, she’d secured an alibi that would let her keep reading whatever she wasn’t finished by the time Roy got back.

In preparation for his trek, Roy put Connie to work making jerky and corn biscuits and then helping him use thin strips of raw leather to sew a better poncho to help keep the weather off him while he traveled.

The day flew by, and by the time supper was cleaned up, and Roy’s packs set out by the door for him to get an early start, Connie was completely wiped out. Bed was the only thing on her mind. Mary visited Connie’s dreams, although by morning Connie had only a vague memory of it. Her dreams cycled with just the right rhythm so that the last one left her and woke her first the next morning.

She had coffee on before Roy was up.

“Should I help you get started here this morning?” he asked when she handed him a cup and moved to the door to pull on her boots.

“No, I’ll be fine. If you get a good start, you’ll be able to get back sooner.”

Connie did not feel as confident as she sounded, but she made a good show of it.

Roy got underway just as the sun peeked up over the rise to the east of his property. The traps and supplies he carried were slung and battened down over a sled harnessed to and pulled behind his horse.

Connie smiled and waved. “Well, at least that’s one animal I don’t have to feed and clean up after,” she quipped.

Then there she was alone in stewardship of a property she’d happened on and burglarized only a few short days before.

Roy left her with a fairly long list of additional chores, and Connie kept to them diligently, though by noon when her back began to ache, she let her mind drift to Mary’s journal and a few hours of quiet time before it was time to start all over again in the barn. She made herself some tea and a quick lunch of fresh cheese and left over biscuits then climbed up into the loft to get the diary she had hidden before returning to the kitchen table to relax, eat and read.

Her hands trembled as she opened the worn leather cover and flipped the pages to the spot she’d been forced to leave Mary.

March 19, 1867

Please God don’t let Roy or Caleb ever find out what we have done. We cannot even hide behind Clarissa’s rotten soul. Please God!

But it was her rotten soul behind it. She had no right to make Lilia feel so badly. Just for telling the old bat what she could do with her extra stew. Really! Lilia tries with her cooking just as hard as I do, and Caleb has never once complained. How dare that woman insult her like that! Oh how I hate her!

I fear neither Roy nor Caleb will understand. No, that is a lie, diary, as you well know. The truth of the matter is they will understand all too well and my backside quivers in fear of how they will show their displeasure.

Please let the fates give me this one minor victory. Mr. Meets and his son will recover before another day passes, and Clarissa really did need to have her high and mighty pride cut down.

Oh laws! I cannot help it. As worried as I am that Roy will not be happy with me, it would almost be worth it just for the memory of the look on Clarissa’s face when Mr. Walker fished the cascara leaves from her stew and held them in front of her.

He accused her of using the beans as well! She sputtered. I’ve never seen a human being look so much like a steaming pot puffing its lid up and down. I didn’t dare look Lilia’s way. I know her body quaked with the giggles just as mine did.

After all her bragging and incessant harping about how skilled she was using nature’s bounty. How on earth could she be so foolish as to garnish her family’s supper with a plant even school children knew for its proper use?

No I do not feel sorry for her that no one heard or cared to hear her objections that it was not she who added the greens.

Mr. Walker was so stern with her! It was perfect. “You would accuse some ghost of poisoning the supper you fed you family? And you woman? Why is it you are so fit?”

Lilia agrees with me that our trick would have been better if Clarissa too was stricken laid as low as her aggravating husband and child by the trots. But perhaps it is best that she wasn’t. It is a good shield that she seems to have avoided her concoction that is certain.

March 21, 1867

Darn that Lilia! I could just shake her! The woman couldn’t play poker to save her soul, and now Caleb suspects it was us who poisoned the old bat’s stew. So help me if he makes Roy suspicious too I’ll shoot myself. Lilia must have spent a full hour lamenting our fate if either of our husbands guessed the truth. If she would just smile and look properly shocked, there is no way anyone could know it was us!

I swear, if it is the last thing I do, it will be to tutor her in the art and importance of the demure poker face.

March 22, 1867

Dear world, when these pages are found after my death by humiliation, please know that I do not fault my husband, nor do I fault my poor misguided best friend. Bless her! Lilia couldn’t help herself. She is a much better person than I.

March 25, 1867

It’s done. I apologized to the Meets family, even to Clarissa. I am withered and shamed, but I have not as yet succumbed to death. My hind end is battered beyond all possibility of recovery, and Roy has seen to it I sit on that god forsaken wagon seat the whole day long. The only saving grace is that Roy did not hold to his threat to let Clarissa watch me take the spanking of my life.

Roy was most upset with me. I must say that I am still most upset with him too. Clarissa deserved the lesson we gave her. He could have punished me without making me confess to her. No one would have been the wiser and I would still be punished. I simply do not understand how his mind works.

Caleb was happy to deal quietly with Lilia and it is her fault that anyone guessed it was us in the first place.

It is just not fair. Here I am, dragged into the heart of nowhere, coping with all of the tribulations of this hard journey and in it all forced to deal with that trial of a woman.

March 27, 1867

Roy has become so hard toward me, and I am so angry with him over it if he puts his hands on his hips to scold me one more time I will be forced to scalp him. I humiliated myself and apologized to that hateful woman days ago, yet he still harps on what I did.

I refuse to be sorry for what I did.

March 30, 1867

I hate men! They simply will not see reason. I am right. He is wrong. I am NOT going to say I am sorry.

April 3, 1867

The trail has been hard these last two days, and I am so tired. Roy looks ready to fall off his horse. We have had little energy to spend much of our evenings talking, yet I feel it is this thing between us more than fatigue that keeps him distant. I wish he would try to see my humiliation and how much of a trial it is for me to put up with that woman. I do not wish to be difficult, nor do I wish to shame my husband, but why is he so harsh with me? Why does he not go to Mr. Meets and tell him that his wife needs better handling?

I feel his disloyalty and disdain like a knife in my heart.

April 4, 1867

Heavy rain and hail has forced us to stop again. I feel the weight of the world smothering me. I hate these people and they hate me more.

April 5, 1867

I woke up from a dream this morning imagining I felt Roy’s arms around me. I miss him. Why am I so monstrously stubborn? I can see the pain in his eyes each time I refuse to tell him I am sorry for what I did. I am sorry for the pain between us, sorry for the discomfort suffered by Mr. Meets and his son, very sorry that I talked Lilia into being complicit with me, but I am just not sorry that I did it.

I don’t want to lie yet I fear if I don’t I will loose his love.

April 6, 1867

I cannot believe that Roy lifted my skirts and spanked me right there in front of the whole camp!

I didn’t say it! I just grumbled it. How can I help it that he heard me? I didn’t say it so anyone but him could hear! She is a self serving simpering cow! She is!

She knows it’s her fault too. Hateful harlot that she is! I saw her gloat, the satisfaction so bright on her face we will not need a moon for night light for a fortnight!

Roy’s stance with me about this is so unyielding. I am trapped by it. She goads me, and he allows it. I stand up for myself, and she stands back to watch him beat me for all the world to see. I cannot bear it much more.

If my husband does not choose my dignity over his stubborn unfathomable insistence on propriety just once, I swear I will escape this wagon train and go home.

May 12, 1867

I am back among the land of the living. Rescued from my own foolish pride. There is no punishment on earth that will equal the pain I have caused those who love me. I can only curse and bless the fates that I was found in spite of myself.

God knows I have offered my confession and seen my willful nature for the curse that it is. I will try to do better to curb it. I promise on my soul.

In the days since I last wrote in these pages I have bickered with my husband, forced him to spank me, and forced him to lay down an ultimatum. I ran from him. My choice of a time was fortuitous, or calamitous, depending on point of view I suppose. I managed to put a full day between me and this train before anyone knew I was gone, and then the storm from hell itself severed the trail I had taken.

I was foolish beyond words to set out to widen the distance after such a storm, and lucky to have survived the flood that washed down out of the hills, with my life.

Roy tells me it was a week before I was found. I have very little memory of this time, only of the freezing cold nights, long hellish days and lonely, lonely prayers, prayers that the good lord saw fit to answer. I have seen and held my Roy’s face again, felt his touch and tasted his kiss. I need nothing more now.

I’ve been confined to bed for weeks, and only in the last two days have I found the stamina to do more than the simplest chores.

May 19, 1867

I am a blessed woman. I know my husband’s love again, and I swear here in these pages never to stubbornly resist his will again. He was right, and I knew it all along.

I feared he would reject me yesterday when I went to him and begged him to punish me and then love me. He looked so bewildered. “How could I think he didn’t love me?” he said. But I did. I feared it from the deepest darkest places in my being. He has not lain with me in nearly two months and he has not punished me for the willful thing I did running away.

And now he has done both.

As awful as the pain of his hand to my backside was, the feel of him inside me was bliss. His lips on mine make me feel whole. His touch gives me life.

I just don’t know what gives the evil forces in me that would question him so much power.

You are my witness diary, may my life be snuffed out if I should ever question Roy’s wisdom or his love for me again.

 

~~oooooOOOOooooo~

Connie’s heart pounded, and parts of her she was ashamed to acknowledge woke up and came to life as she read all of the rest of the pages in that one journal.

Mary spared none of details of the love she shared with Roy. Things she did to please him, and things he did to please her were described in detail that ignited something primal within Connie.

The image of Roy painted by Mary, didn’t quite match the image Connie had. Certainly the unyielding and stern parts rang true, but she was having trouble matching the man she’d only recently gotten to know, saying or doing some of the more sensual things Mary described.

Connie was confused by her body’s responses as well. The only thing she knew about the physical aspects of ‘lovemaking’ bore no resemblance to what Mary’s experience was. Could laying with a man be more than the painful brutal experience she survived months ago? Her stepfather’s treatment of her mother and the proposition he’d made to her in order to keep her place in his house hadn’t helped her perception of the sex act either. That what Mary described held so much attraction, and woke up such deep yearning for her was unsettling for Connie.

She had to put the book down for a while and think. Chores and seeing to the animals helped to an extent, but she still spent the better part of the evening thinking about her own life and experiences, and wishing for a life with even a fraction of the love that Mary described.

Connie replaced the first book, and carefully retrieved the next. She read it through cover to cover before finally putting out the lamp and crawling into her loft in search of sleep.

Mary’s written vow never to question Roy again lasted into September that year when they‘d made their way to this homestead. The struggles of isolation proved to be as difficult as Clarissa Meets had been. Sleep beckoned though, and Connie had to defer digging for the next volume. She’d have all day tomorrow, she told herself.

The next day Connie barely finished in the barn, and was anxious to get back to the cabin and begin reading again when the sounds of horse and a wagon intruded into her solitude and plans.

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