We were staying at a colonial Williamsburg bed and breakfast - a tourist trap if truth be told. The main house had been carefully restored to invoke a sense of historical accuracy, and five or six small cottages scattered about the gracefully wooded, pastoral property allowed guests to get that genuine revolutionary experience. Each cottage had a short tree-lined dirt driveway leading to the main house, and each was surrounded by small but lush, grassy fenced yard. The motif was old Williamsburg, but the cottages were newly built, quaint three-season structures with little more than a cozy living room, a tiny kitchen, and a small bedroom. The decorations were reproductions of the colonial era, designed to appeal more to vacationing families than to historians.
When we arrived, after unpacking CJ went out back to check the yard. I followed a few minutes behind. "It's cute," she said. "We'll get some reading done there. Peaceful. And look we have our own stocks!"
Technically, it was a pillory. But unlike the ones at Williamsburg, these were functional, with holes just big enough for hands and neck embedded in a split board. Well oiled forged metal hinges and a hook and eye lock completed the assembly.
"Wow, we do. Look at that." I walked over to the pillory, mounted on a three foot tall post that looked like it had been set in concrete (how authentic!) I checked out the hinge, lifted the top bar, and rested my neck in the big slot in the middle. While lowering the bar, I slipped my wrists in the slots on either side. The neck hole was ample, but there was still no way I could pull my head through when the bar was lowered. The wrist holes were tight, too.
"But I'm innocent. I called out, once settled in the pillory's grip." CJ, who had been checking out the rest of the yard turned toward me. Seeing me bent over in the pillory's grip, she broke into a wide grin.
"Don't waste your pleading with me, bucko," she replied. She had now arrived at the front of the contraption, and noticed a simple latch hook and eye latch on the free end of the hinged bar. She deftly slipped the hook in place. "Oh my, it seems that the warden has left this latch was left undone. But not to worry, I fixed it. No need to thank me."
I shook the top bar, to no avail. "Hey hey, let me outta here," I yelled, as she dropped out of sight behind me.
"Sorry, I will have to speak to the magistrate before I can help you," she replied, and I heard her close the cabin's screened back door. A few minutes later, which passed rather slowly from my trapped perspective, I heard the door open again. She arrived in front of me, planted a kiss on my lips, and asked "Thirsty?" She held up a pair of frosty glasses filled with what I expected were gin and tonic. She had a cat-that-ate-the canary look on her face, and she took a big swallow from one of the glasses.
"Yes, I would love a drink," I replied, hopeful.
She raised the glass to my lips and I drank a big swallow. It was gin and tonic, and more of the former than the latter.
She stepped back, raised a digital camera and said. "Now this is a memory I want to preserve. She snapped several shots, then kissed me once more before unlatching the hook."
"Well you took your time, but thank you for letting me out," I said as I raised the bar, extracting myself and rubbing my wrists and neck. "You want a turn? "
"No thank you!" She answered quickly.
"It would be the only fair," I replied.
"Maybe so, but I know you, you love getting even. And usually, that means more than even."
I had to admit that was true.
"OK", I said, "maybe later."
"Yeah, maybe."
The rest of the evening was quite romantic and enjoyable. We took a long walk through the historic village, and came back home to sip cold martinis in the private back yard before heading to a satisfying tryst in the cabin.
The next day, the sun shone brightly when we woke at about eleven. We had no plans, and were so enjoying our little cabin that we decided to hang out in our yard for the sunny part of the day. CJ put on her new bikini - a recent switch from her years favoring one-piece suits. With a halter top and string-tied bottoms, it was a sight that gave me a tingle. I donned my shorts and a tee, and we both scooped up a pile of unread New Yorkers to idle away the day. We snacked on food we had brought in the cooler, and when noon rolled around, I mixed up a pitcher of gin and tonics. We each had a glass or two, relaxing in chaise lounge chairs while soaking up the sun. After a while I noticed two sandy horseshoe pits positioned along one wall of the fence.
"Wanna play horseshoes?"
"Sure. I was the Laurel Avenue champion of horseshoes."
"Oh yeah? Well I'll put my Butler Street championship up against your Laurel Avenue championship any day."
"Lets go, chump."
We warmed up for a few minutes, and she was indeed good, I missed the post with every toss, and she hit ringers about once every four tosses, rarely missing the stake by more than a foot or two.
"Hey, you are good," I said.
"Told you."
"Alright, one game to ten, If you lose you have to get locked in the stocks until the I free you. Payback."
"You're determined to get me in those stocks, aren't you? What do I get if I win. I've already had my fun with you in the stocks."
"Something comparable, then, I guess. What did you have in mind?"
"Foot massage, back rub, and I get to take pictures of you in the yard wearing only your hat."
I had purchased a kitchy three-pointed hat at the village the previous night, and wore it to town, despite CJs objections, through the evening stroll.
"You'd take pictures of me while you were only wearing my hat?" I asked. "Ooh La la."
