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"Jake, it's too much. Oh, God, I...no, please." She pleaded with me as I took my time getting the foreign object in place. Rushing would only harm her and that was not my intention. Taking a good five minutes, she finally opened enough to fit around the cork. By the time I finished, she was panting and her skin was coated in a sheen of sweat.
Pushing down her skirts, I helped her to stand, gripping her elbow as she adjusted back to an upright position. From the way her face was pinched and tight, it was obvious she wasn't happy. Good.
I went to the basin to clean my hands. "I’ll bring the wagon around for you in thirty minutes."
She only nodded as I left her standing there, trying to figure out her latest predicament - a predicament of her own making.
The wagon ride into town was as I'd anticipated. Catherine sat on the bench seat leaning so far forward, she planted her hands on her thighs to keep from tipping over. The cork was so large that she couldn't sit normally and every bump, every jolt of the wheels over the uneven ground had her groaning. She continued to shift her shoulders as the discomfort of the training blouse mounted.
"What is this shirt made from?" she asked after a fashion.
"It's cotton just like your other blouses, but I assume you're referring to the wool that's covering your breasts." I flicked the reins gently over the horses back.
"Yes, it's terribly uncomfortable."
"No doubt," I replied. "That's homespun wool."
"Why is it made with such awful material?" she whined. "It's so itchy and hot. My skin is so irritated.
"
"I bet, sweetheart." I gave her a quick glance, then turned my eyes back to the prairie in front of us.
By the time we reached town, sweat dotted her brow and her shoulders were slumped, as if she could curl her body in to avoid the bothersome fabric. I took her firmly by the waist and helped her down. Once standing, she shifted her hips to find comfort against the cork. This motion forced her shoulders back and her breasts against the blouse. "Jake, I can't," she whispered, glancing around.
I looked down at her with pretend confusion. "Can't what, sweetheart?"
"My nipples, they...they're so sore. This blouse is bothering my skin."
"Do you want to take it off?" I asked. I reached around to the buttons in the back.
"Not here!" she begged. Tears filled her eyes. "I need a blouse that's not so...so horrible."
"There are two choices, since we are in town - this blouse or nothing. Let me know when you decide." I took her by the elbow and led her slowly down the town's boardwalk to the mercantile, aware of how she walked very carefully and with an extra swing to her hips. Every man in town, and every married woman, would know the reason. I tipped my hat to the sheriff. We'd grown up together, along with my brothers and Grant. Ian MacKenzie lived in town near the jail. The ladies found him handsome and he never lacked for their attentions, but he was a confirmed bachelor. "Sheriff MacKenzie, may I introduce my wife, Catherine?"
She glanced at the man and gave a wan smile. My friend smiled, gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Ma'am, it's a pleasure."
"Would you like to sit on that bench, sweetheart, while I talk with the sheriff? I'll just be a few minutes."
"No!" she cried. When she realized how desperate she sounded, she continued. "No, thank you. I'll stand."
I saw the corner of MacKenzie's mouth turn up, but he offered no other indication to her predicament. We spoke of general things, just long enough to add to Catherine's discomfort. After issuing our goodbyes to the sheriff, we entered the mercantile. I introduced Mr. Carter to Catherine, who eyed her as if she were a prized mare. He was older, in his fifties, and his wife stood next to him. She was of similar age, but still quite attractive. Her back was arched in the position of a proper wife and she wore a scarf of a pale blue over her shoulders, across her front to wrap around behind her. She was modestly dressed, yet could be uncovered at any time by Mr. Carter. I'm sure Catherine now understood how a scarf was fashioned and was more miserable in her decision to doubt me.
"Mrs. Carter, would you mind helping Catherine find some new blouses? I believe she'd enjoy a few in pretty colors."
Catherine blushed hotly. No doubt she knew the older couple was aware of her predicament in the training blouse.
"Of course. The selection is over here." Mrs. Carter pointed toward the back of the store as she came out from behind the counter. Mr. Carter and I watched as our wives walked away.
"You have her well in hand," Mr. Carter said. "She looks...miserable."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "That she is."
"It's only been, what? A week? She'll learn quickly."
I nodded. "Her resistance is minor in comparison to what the doctor had warned me about. She's in fact, quite submissive. I'm well pleased with her."
"Then placing that ad was a smart move," Mr. Carter replied.
