The Water Pump

What am I looking at this minute? Our ancient water pump.
You know the type. Cast iron with burnished finish
mottled by the grime of time; eighteen inches from the
base to the apex of the pump rod; long, graceful s-curved
handle; and a blunt, squared-off spout. You slosh a
cupful of water into the workings to prime it and use
elbow grease to bring up cold, mineral-rich earth's
blood.

It's mounted waist-high under the shade of a century-old
English walnut tree.

It's adjacent to the decrepit corn crib that leans more
than the Tower of Pisa and now serves as a roomy firewood
bin. 

It's also only five feet from the sawhorse. In my
position, that's the only fact I care about right now.

You see, I'm straining over that damnable sawhorse, my
shoeless toes digging into the rich soil on one side and
my fingers clutching tufts of clover and grass on the
other. My jeans and panties hug my ankles, hobbling them.
The absence of denim and silk in strategic places exposes
my coltish long legs (goosebumped by the crisp early air,
tendons taut) and the full curve of my shying gluteus
maximus.  

Ordinarily I'm as pale as a gal of Northern European
extraction can be. But thanks to Phil, I'm a lobsterback.
Strike that. A lobsterbutt. My agonized posterior is a
mass of flaming nerve endings, a bed of bar-b-que coals.
Thanks awfully, honey.  The ferocious hardwood bite of
that stinking paddle he relishes wielding is a trial in
the privacy of our farm house. But out here, where nosy
Mrs. Durning could see us if she had a mind to look out
her kitchen window and hook on her specs, I feel doubly
hazarded. And humbled. 

I hate this!  Mission accomplished, Phil. Let me up,
please. No more....

Phil doesn't quite see it my way (not surprising; I don't
tell him since I'm proscribed from speaking aloud). His
left hand presses me firmly into the sawhorse as he pelts
my burning, aching, arching cheeks until I melt into a
suppliant puddle of tears and hiccups.

Hoisting me to my feet, he buries my face in his shirt
for a minute. 'Sh, baby. Sh.' he rubs my back, but holds
my hands off my roasted rump. 

'Come here,' he softly commands and shuffles me backward,
still trussed at the ankles, directly in front of the
water pump snout on which I've focused my swimming eyes
for excruciating minutes. The muscular arm that just
broiled my backside with gusto, draws the pump's handle
until fresh well water gushes forth.

The cool liquid splashes my carmine ass and cuts the
fiendish sear nearly in half. AHHHHHHH.  

'Quenching?' he inquires. I crane back at him and
encounter a satisfied glint in his wolfish, gray eyes. I
nod guardedly. 

'Good!' Phil booms. 'I hereby designate this the official
spot for your maintenance spankings. This old-fashioned
water pump can damper the fires I light. Perfect -- 
wouldn't you say, sweet?'

ARRRGGGGHHHHH.

End


Note: Many thanks to those who wrote such kind words
about my first entry, 'The Long and the Short of It'.
Feedback is a lovely thing.