The story begins with The true story of Goldie Locques.
The boy’s parents arrived shortly after I finished straightening up the mess I made upstairs. They were the epitome of country folk, broad shoulders, broad waists and spoke slowly. Not the kind of people I normally associated with, but lately I had been doing numerous things for the first time.
The cold wind that entered with the owners snaked around the kitchen and up under my dress to bit my bare legs. the sudden chill in a normally protected place, sent a shiver through my body. I stood up to greet them as the boy took a satchel and shawl from his mother. It took a moment for either of the new comers to recognize they had guest.
“Hello?” the mother asked me first, “Wendel who is this?”
I immediately stepped forward and responded before the boy could respond. “I am Goldie Locques,” I said and for some unexplained reason curtsied before the older woman. She was just a peasant, but with their potential gratuity it felt appropriate.
“Pardon my manners, she was caught in the storm and asked to stay here until the weather got better. I couldn’t throw her out in that weather, especially on the Lord’s day,” the boy said.
“Hmmm, Where do you live, girl?” the mother asked me.
“Ahmmm, Munich,” I lied. I had repeated that same lie a dozen times in the last two weeks, but for some reason I stumbled this time.
“Munich you say? You are a far way from home, especially for a girl so young to be traveling alone.”
Why did she think I was just some child? It was like this whole family could not tell a sophisticated lady when they saw one. “I am not that young!” I said in a huff. “I turned eighteen this summer if you must know.”
The woman just snorted. “Your attitude says otherwise. You can stay until the storm passes, then you can be on your way. The vicar said it may last for a day or two, so while you are staying here, you can help me around the kitchen.”
I initially considered a witty retort, thought a slight tingle in my bottom changed my mind. These people did not know any better and I should not embarrassing them by publicly correcting their mistakes. “Yes, ma’am?” I posed it as a question in the hope she would provide me her name. Initially she seemed to ignore my request, instead focusing on helping her husband get dressed to go back out into the storm. The two men were going to the barn to check on their animals. Once she closed the door behind them, she responded to my earlier request.
“You can call me Mrs Behr. Goldie Locques? Is that English?” the mother asked, returning her attention to me.
“Yes ma’am, my grandfather came over from Sussex. He was a trader with the East India Company.”
“Trader you say? Hmm.” she stilled looked at me suspiciously. It was the same look my mother would give me when she thought I had been up to no good, but wasn’t yet sure what mischief I had created. “Well, you can wash and set the table while I tend to supper.”
I got a cloth and dampened it in bucket of water that sat on the counter. I made a couple passes over the plank table, before looking for the bowls and spoons.
“Do you know why a bunch of supper is missing?” Mrs. Behr asked, hunched over the large pot of porridge.
“Ah..no?” I lied. It took barely the count of ten for a guilty blush to stain my face. She had been suspicious of my answers before, but the last lie might have been too much.
The older woman turned away from the pot and glanced at me. Her expression quickly shifted from motherly caution to a hard glare. My eyes strayed towards the floor as I could already tell my goose was cooked. Why couldn’t I be good at lying like my older sister?
“Really? You didn’t eat any while Hans and I were gone?”
“No….” I mumbled. While technically true, my governess had always stressed a lie of omission was a lie in of itself.
“Hu? Speak up girl!”
“No, ma’am,” I said a little louder.
“It ain’t hard to tell that you’re lying to me. Why is there porridge missing?”
The tone of her voice told me this woman would not be manipulated by a soft small and a little flirting. What should I tell her, I asked myself. “I…I…didn’t eat it…I…hmmm…spilled some in the fire. It wasn’t my fault, the bowl just tipped over while I was looking for some cooked parts.”
“You spilled good food in the fire! That pot should have lasted two days, now we will be lucky to have enough for today!”
“Please don’t throw me out!” I don’t know where it came from, but my first thought was being tossed out into the winter storm.
“Toss you out?” Mrs Behr half laughed. It was the first time she hand broke her gruff demure since arriving home. “What would the Lord think if I did something so unmerciful as that. You’d surely die out there.”
I could feel the strain instantly float off my shoulders. Learning you will not be dying today is very stress revealing. Her next comment though instilled a different kind of stress.
“That isn’t to say you won’t wish you were died once I get done with your backside,” she said picking up a broad wooden spoon from the table next to the fireplace.
“What?” I half shrieked, half gasped. The next few moments felt like a whirlwind. The older woman took my by the forearm and planted me face down over the end of the freshly washed dinning table. The back of my dress flew up over my back while my shift slide up, until it was wrapped around my waist. With a pull of a drawstring, her target was exposed as my bloomers fell to the floor.
“No, please!” I pleaded.
“Quiet now girl, you wasted food and now you are going to get a good walloping for it.”
The spoon hand none of the hesitations of Wandel’s hand. The first spank was crisp, imparting a instant sting to my bottom. Abstractly the spoon felt like a smaller hairbrush, thought I wasn’t able to comprehend higher level thoughts at that moment.
The swats came fast and furiously, and my yelps of distress couldn’t keep up. She paddled one side for a while then switch to the other. When she moved lower, I got another burst of energy to resist the spanking. My increased wiggling and kicking did not even phase the older woman. She simply spanked on, burning up the lower sections of my bottom and the tops of my thighs.
My eyes were awash with tears when she returned to the top of my bottom to renew the sting in the areas where it had faded to a throb. At the moment it felt worst than any spanking I had previously received, though just about every spanking feels like the worst ever during the spanking. Looking back it would not have even made the top ten.
She stopped after giving my bottom a twice over with the wooden spoon. I was a crying mess, cursing myself for my earlier clumsiness and stupidity. Why had I taken so much? Why had I set the bowl on the side of the pot? Why didn’t I taste it first?
“Now girl, get the table set. The men will be back in shortly,” she said, returning to the pot.
The whole spanking was over as quickly as it started. There was little scolding or lecturing, just draped unceremoniously over the table and “walloped” as she put it. I did not know what to make of it, but I was certain that Mrs. Behr was a no-nonsense woman, and not someone I really cared to trifle again during my short stay here.