I promise, next week, no more spitting.
“You are quite the little hellion, Yankee girl.”
“Stop calling me that,” I said, my jaw clenched in anger and resolution.
“Since I do not know your real name, what choice do I have?” Although I was certain he had exerted himself thoroughly in my punishment, which continued unabated, he spoke as calmly as if he were reading the news.
I am not proud of this, and if I am asked directly to verify its accuracy, I cannot vouch for my own future honesty, but I shall tell you, Dear Diary.
While tottering across his knee, I turned my head as best I could but could not get a good enough angle to spit in his face, so instead, I worked up an impressive amount of spittle which I then projected onto his shoe with both accuracy and a fair amount of delight.
He paused in his efforts to scorch my rump, stood me up (which then caused my skirts to thankfully fall back into place over my reddened bottom) and stared down at his saliva adorned shoe.