The Rebellious Bride

Chapter One-2

“Please, father, no,” she tried once more.

“Another balk, and I'll report this to your intended husband, and make certain he understands the proper way to control your behavior.”

“You wouldn't!” Abigail shrieked. The girl immediately threw herself against the desk, bending over as she'd done so many times before.

“Draw up your skirt,” her father ordered.

Abigail wasted no more time, tugging at the broad soiled skirt. The beautiful satin was a mess after being caught off guard by a sudden downpour. In her hurry to return to the house after the clandestine meeting with Darcy, Abigail had slipped, falling into a mud puddle, further damaging the dress that her father had paid handsomely for. Pulling at the once lovely thing, she gathered the abundant material in her arms and held it at her waist. Pushing at the waistband of her bloomers, she lifted them over her bottom and presented for her father's view, her bare behind.

With just two small candles to light the room, Abigail's fair skin glowed like alabaster, like pure snow, the very thing to present to her new husband in its unblemished state. How that skin would look the next day had Abigail's distraught mother wondering. So many times, Margaret had witnessed this scene with her youngest daughter. The others had been punished, but never so many times. As often as she was corrected, Abigail seemed to take punishment as a challenge to try some more outrageous stunt. Of course, the girl never planned to get caught.

Margaret shook her head in resignation. What a night for this, she thought. And yet, Abigail had sealed this fate. It was almost like it was pre-ordained, the whole confrontation, including the blasted thunderstorm. Neville was simply implementing the inevitable. Perhaps it was for the best. As usual, Margaret watched, while Neville worked.

Standing at his daughter's side, the angered father raised the broad two foot paddle, his arm going back some distance to make the blow fierce. Swiftly bringing his arm forward, the wood landed squarely on Abigail's upturned bottom.

She grunted her first response. There had been so many times in the past that she'd endured this treatment, certainly one more could hardly matter. A second, a third and a fourth blow landed, as he continued on. By the end of the sixth sharp smack, the imprint of the paddle was beginning to show as a bright red imprint across the once white skin. A pause between each blow made the anticipation of the next difficult to bear. But there was much more to endure, her father was only getting started.

Once Neville's initial twelve were over, he started in more briskly, leveling the paddle against the flaming rear with quick sharp smacks that instantly made the sting fierce, and Abigail's cries more animated.

She begged him, pleaded with him, raised her voice with impassioned words, “Oh please! Father stop! I can't take any more!

“You've taken much more than this, young lady, and you'll take more tonight. Stop your hollering,” Neville barked.

“I can't,” she wailed as another blow stuck.

“Suit yourself. If you want the whole house listening in, you might be blushing pretty for lots of reasons tomorrow morning.”

“Please, father, no!”

He leveled another series of blows that stung like crazy, so much so that Abigail danced her feet, as if she might dance away.

“Neville, don't you think . . .” Margaret interjected in her daughter's defense.

“Hush!” he barked, and at least another twelve smacks followed until he finally considered stopping.

“If this is my last lesson to you, Abigail, I want it to count.”

SMACK!

“Oh, please!”

“I hope you'll behave better for your husband, or surely you'll be facing this your life long.”

“Please, no more!” she wailed.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

They were the finishing blows, but nonetheless fierce. The whole mass of once white skin was a hot-fired crimson, and Abigail was sobbing.

“The cane, Margaret,” Neville ordered.

Both women shriveled at this new command.

“Not marks, Neville, please don't forget tomorrow.”

But ignoring his wife's comment, Neville grabbed the cane away from her and pushed Abigail back in her place.

As fierce with the cane as he was with the paddle, he was at least quick, ripping off a half dozen sharp cuts within seconds.

“Yeeeeeawwww! Oh god!” she wailed with each one, though it did no good to cry because the next followed rapidly on the heels of the last. Certainly by now, the whole house knew that Abigail had been duly whipped and caned.

Thankfully, the caning was over in a few moments. The burn on Abigail's bottom seemed to attack her everywhere with a pain that lingered long, and sobbing that didn't cease until the sharp sensations finally diminished.

Stepping back from his task, Neville eyed the punished bottom, the fading glow of red, and the distinct lines where the cane struck. He was satisfied—satisfied that his sobbing daughter would enter her marriage just as she should. For Abigail, a well punished posterior was her trademark, a testimony to the fact that this young woman would probably need substantial correction for some time to come. And for his part, Neville would certainly do his best to see that her deportment was adequately handled in the future. It had been a quandary to him for days, what to do with his opinion of Abigail's conduct. But, with one last punishment, one last glance at her crimson cheeks, he made up his mind to fulfill his duty in giving his fair but rebellious daughter to another man. He'd talk to Aaron Barrow before the ceremony.

“You can go now,” he announced.

Neville watched as Abigail came to her feet again, pulled her bloomers about her bottom and let the muddy skirt drop to her feet.

“You won't tell Aaron about this, will you?” she asked. Stopping at the door on her way out of the room, she implored her father with a sadly tear-streaked face.

“I should,” Neville replied, coldly.

“Oh, father, please no, I'll take another whipping, please don't tell him!” She was absolutely petrified at the thought of Aaron knowing about this. “He doesn't need to know of this. Marriage will be a much different life for me, I know that.” She might have gone on pleading with him, but her father wouldn't hear of it.

“Hush child, I'll consider your request when I have a calmer mind,” Neville replied. “Of course, if you behave yourself, there's no need to worry anyway. Now go to bed.”

Once Abigail was out the door, Margaret sighed deeply, having nothing to say to her often fierce husband. Love him as she did, she'd always found the man too severe. Rising from the chair, she was about to give him her goodnights—it was far too close to morning to consider anything else for this one day—but Neville called to her.

“Margaret, you can take your place now.”

“What?” She turned wearily around to question him.

“You heard me.”

“You're going to chastise me too?” she asked.

“As if you weren't half this insurrection.”

“I will not!” she vowed.

“Don't shame yourself, Margaret, by acting your daughter's age. It doesn't become you.”

“But Neville, it's so late, and we all need to be up early in the morning.”

“Then you should have considered that earlier. Take your place, or I'll tie you down.”

With another sigh, Margaret McPhearson made her way back to the desk, and like her daughter had done bent over the massive wood structure.

“I found your attempts to defend her most deplorable.”

“Neville, I was simply trying to make peace.”

“If Abigail wanted peace, then she should have behaved herself in the first place.”

“But why this now?” she asked.

“Because, my dear, you deserve it, and we both deserve the satisfaction later.”

He reached for the bottom of his wife's skirt to pull it up himself. Unlike with his daughter, Neville took great interest in baring his wife's bottom. It was always a breathtaking sight that first glance at her white rear cheeks that, even with age, had not ceased to allure him. For her punishment, rather than the hard wood paddle, he chose a buggy whip that would snap against her skin, making small marks and sharp pains in her posterior. A few of those were all he needed to convey his message to her. Time and experience had made his wife a more compliant woman than he first knew her to be. Now submissive to his will most of the time, he only considered this a small complaint, even if he was treating it with his typical intensity.

“Neville, I'm so exhausted,” she pleaded her case.

“Then you take these few without incident, Margaret, and we'll be on our way.”

The sharp thing with its long leather shaft and brilliant biting end snapped against her backside seven times, three on each lovely rear cheek, leaving distinct red marks each time, a seventh strayed low, catching her at the base of her bottom, right at the top of her right thigh. She howled like the dickens, and stomped her feet.

“Oh, god, please Neville!”

“A good reminder to you, Margaret,” he said as he lifted her from the desk and drew her into his arms. “Your support such in matters is important to me, I expect a more compliant wife.”

“Ah, Neville, you've had me these twenty some years, you think I don't support you?”

He kissed her lips deeply and she responded.

“Sometimes, I think the reminder is worth the trouble,” he said. He felt her bare bottom skin against his hand. He could just barely make out the slight welts by feeling. She seemed to squirm against him, perhaps stimulated when he fondled the punished places. “There, isn't that better?” he asked.

By the way Neville treated her after a punishment was over, Margaret almost agreed with him, though she would never tell him so.

***

The house hummed with happier tunes come morning. With the bird's song came the cook's sweet tune rising into the air to wind its way throughout the house and dispel any traces of the disturbance that might remain from the night before.

In her room, the bride-to-be lounged in her bed as she listened to the morning, trying not to think of what would be happening to her before this day was over. It was too much to think about: Aaron, the wedding, marriage and s*x. In typical fashion, Abigail answered her nervousness pretending that there was nothing special about this day at all. At least she tried to.

With a twinge of pain reminding her of the night before, Abigail felt her bottom. The poor wounded thing was sore, and likely to be so for some hours for the fierce licking she'd taken in the middle of the night. Yet, it was well worth the trouble to have had her last hours with Darcy. The childhood friend would always be special to her. Darcy, like a roving Gypsy, had her own uncharted path to take. She certainly wouldn't be following in Abigail's footsteps into marriage. She was much more likely to make her way in the world as a shopkeeper, or a tavern hostess, or even a dance hall girl in some wild western town where such uncivilized places still existed.

Abigail envisioned her friend's life with much more excitement than her own.

“My mind's made up, Abby, you tie that knot tomorrow,” she told her, “I'm off to foreign lands. Somewhere really special. Probably China.”

“You can't go to China without me! Besides, how are you going to get to foreign places? It's not easy for a woman to go alone anywhere.”

“Hell, I don't know. But my daddy'll be after me with a shotgun likely, so I'm not tarrying here. You can bet on that.”

“I wish you weren't going,” Abigail said sadly.

“Don't worry, I'll catch up with you somewhere.”

“Sure, I'll be pregnant in the middle of a sweltering summer and you'll come serve me lemonade.”

“Don't sell your life short too quickly, Miss Abigail,” she said with sunshine eyes. They could twinkle even in the dark. “That Aaron Barrow is no boar of a man. I think you'll be surprised.”

“How would you know?”

“Gals like me hear things.”

“Tell me what you've heard!” Abigail demanded.

“You'll have to see for yourself, luv. Now you best be off.”

That was when all hell broke loose, and the rain fell, and the dress got ruined, and shortly after, she slipped in the mud and was caught by her father and paddled.

Still, it was all worth it to hear Darcy's version of life. That was what she'd miss about her most, that and the way she made her one of the naughtiest brats around. She wasn't sure what she'd do now with no inspiration, then again, being married, perhaps there'd be other things to inspire her.

***

In the early afternoon of that day, Abigail trotted down the aisle of the small chapel on her father's arm, smiling broadly. If someone had lifted her dress to show her bottom, they would have seen small red spots where the cane had marked her. As she was getting ready for the ceremony, she saw them for herself in the mirror. She resigned herself to the fact that the marks would be there when it was time for bed that night. They weren't all that bad. Of course if Aaron saw them there would need to be some explanation. Then again, she had no idea what would take place on her wedding night, perhaps her bottom wouldn't be a factor at all.