To everybody else, I was thrown at Petruchio out of sheer rage. Naught else. Yet I knew the truth of the matter. As I was hurled through the air I knew it was not rage but lust. I was the seat of her pleasure, and she would not have thrown me away lightly. God be praised that she did break me, for had I endured I would have been cruelly used by her venery. No, from Petruchio’s grand entrance she never sat on me more, nor would she have, had I remained whole. Of that I am sure. Indeed, she was perched on me at her habitual window sill when he was announced, and I felt her moisten. None saw it but I. No others, until he announced himself. Bellowing across the courtyard, like an escaped bull snorting for mates. Yea, I had not felt a drenching like that since my Wintery days as a cloven pine, many years before my felling. As soon as he came through the gates, I felt the baptism of her desire for her future husband. It was my salty sea change.
Katherine’s father had always railed against her wayward spirit. Yet what did Baptista expect, cosseting her away in a garret at the prime of her youth? She was no coldhearted lady. Nor one made for solitude. Nay, there was a furnace within her that was white hot, and one that sought company. Yet people called her shrewish. They were cruel to her, and scoffed at her loneliness. I heard the servants and their talk. Withering on the vine, they said. Spinster, they spat. No. Fiery. Misunderstood. Hidden. Petruchio brought her to light. Sought her out. That was what made her fall. All else followed, but his seeking her out won her.
As I have said, Grammercies I am wood- hewn and carved. She rode me mercillessly, mercillessly when her hands would not suffice. I was her relief, her release, her fuck-pony ( please pardon my boldness, but she was wild). My leg-joints bore all her lust, nightly, though I never felt ill of her for it. Only lamented, did I, that she had no companion for her lustiness. I know that many pity her for the post-nuptial torment she endured. She is famous for it. Though I heard her sobs by night, and know that she endured far, far worse within the confines of her mind. Nay, she latched on to Petruchio, and he had no idea what or who he had taken on. He found out.
© Tom Tide 2016