Three Tales of Female Submission

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Wait

It took another two and a half years for Mother to die, during which time I continued to live with her—my betrothal an incontrovertible fact which, in the beginning and somewhat confusingly, changed my life not at all.

She regularly strapped me—taking over for Father—and flushed me, until the last few weeks of her life.

Once I’d made my permanent return home from college, there was little in the way of pretense or justification; punishment became what it had always really been: a ritual, a rhythm, a tradition.

I could have resisted.

I suppose.

I just don’t quite see how.

When, on rare occasion, I hesitated?

If I made an expression, or the smallest sound, suggestive of disapproval?

Were Mother’s bony, commanding, finger, pointing in the direction of the bathroom, not heeded with alacrity bordering on enthusiasm and gratitude?

She would often grab me by my ear; she would swish the strap in the air impatiently; she would mutter about cutting a switch, as though she might drive me down the hallway like a recalcitrant cow to the milking parlor.

There was also the addition, post-engagement, of a new ritual: Friday night dinners for which The Reverend would join us, at what was now Mother’s home, which shifted my punishment—the weekly “maintenance” ration of discipline, at any rate—from bed time to late afternoon.

This “new tradition” gave an odd twitch and spark to a period that I have trouble properly naming.

You couldn’t call it courtship; we were already engaged.

There was nothing in the way of wooing; what would have been the point?

The Reverend would give me a perfunctory peck on the cheek, on arrival and on departure; the first time he kissed me on the lips was at the altar.

I called him “Sir,” always and only, which I continue to do to this day—reserving his title for conversations with others.

I waited for him dutifully on the front porch, no matter the weather.

And I spent almost every dinner in close to full flush, trying not to squirm when I was seated—rather than serving—the heat of the punishment, always dispensed moments before his arrival, making my buttocks sting as I sat gingerly on, tried not to hover above, the hard, wooden, dining room chair, the greasy ring between atwitch with the effort of controlling my watery bowels.

“She’s looking very much in the pink today,” The Reverend would joke dryly, now and then, speaking—as he often did—about me, rather than to me; whether he suspected—or simply knew—the reason for my coloration was never clear to me.

“She’s excited to see you, Sir,” Mother would murmur, always more respectful and deferential to him than she had ever been to Father.

“And I her,” he would respond somberly. “Of course.”

Perhaps he did not notice how this assertion infallibly made Mother purse her lips, either in skepticism or disapproval; perhaps he chose not to notice.

“Well,” she would say, “I’m not long for this earth. She’ll be yours soon enough.”

“She is already mine,” The Reverend would say, gazing at me, eyes and expression flat, “always and eternally. Where she is, for the moment, housed makes no difference. Isn’t that right?” he would prompt me.

“Yes, Sir,” I would murmur, blushing hotter than ever, my heart hammering in my chest, that greasy and sore ring of muscle aflutter.