|
3 French Hens
This material is copyright, 2003, Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping one electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous permission. If you have any comments or requests, please e-mail them to me at anon584c@nyx.net. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. |
|
3 French Hens
|
|
What did he want her to say? "I missed you." That was safe enough. "I'll get back to town tomorrow. Come over then?" "Yes, Jonathan." "Five o'clock, my place." It was hard to find parking in his neighborhood, and she had to walk three blocks to his apartment house. The wind was cold and gusty. Since she was wearing a skirt, no panties, and nylons instead of pantyhose, the breeze reached areas which she normally kept warm. She was shivering when she rang his bell at 4:55. He buzzed her in and opened his apartment door when she knocked. He was wearing slacks and an open-necked shirt. He took her coat before kissing her. "Your ass feels cold," he said. "It is," she told him. "There was nothing between the skin and the cold wind." "These are warm enough," he said feeling her breasts through her blouse. "Well, we'll find a way to warm up your ass soon. Are you ready for your Christmas presents?" "I didn't bring you anything," she admitted. "I didn't tell you to, Melissa." His voice made her shiver more than the cold wind had. "I make the decisions, remember?" "Yes, Jonathan." "Anyway," he said more cheerfully, "you aren't quite ready for your presents, yet." He led her into the bedroom. There was a strange-looking chair off to one side with a straight back and wooden seat. "Leave on the stockings -- and the shoes for now." She knew that everything else was to come off. "Yes, Jonathan. Earrings?" "Leave them on, too. Did you insert your diaphragm?" "Yes, Jonathan." When she had hung her clothes in the closet, he brought her three packages wrapped in Christmas paper. Two of them were the same odd shape, the third was long and thin. "This," he said, "is the third day of Christmas. The song calls for three French hens." He handed her one of the odd-shaped packages. "The first French hen." She unwrapped a ping-pong paddle. It had rubber on one side and sandpaper on the other. She knew instantly that this was how he was going to warm up her butt. "Oh Jonathan!" She kissed him, sticking her tongue in his mouth as he fondled her still- chilly butt. Before she could ask him to do the warming then, he handed her the other odd-shaped package. "French hen two." "Thank you." If she was less appreciative of this gift, it was because it had been predictable as soon as the first one was in front of her. Could you even buy a single ping-pong paddle? "Do you want to try out your gifts now?" "Open French hen three." He handed her the third package. What she unwrapped had obviously started off as a single yardstick. Jonathan had cut it in half and put the pieces together by their sides. One end was wrapped to make a handle, and the two pieces were not quite against each other. There were two lengths of what looked like wire from a coat hanger along the edges of one piece. The one end of each length disappeared into the handle, and the other end stretched beyond nails which Jonathan had driven into the edges of the yardstick. "Can you get into the gym shoes when they're like that?" he asked. The legs of the wooden chair were in holes in two-by-four pieces of lumber, and the shoes were about a foot apart pointing inward with their toes on the right-hand two-by-four. When she tried to move one shoe, it stayed against the board. "I nailed them there," Jonathan said. She slipped out of her heels and struggled into the gym shoes. Jonathan sat in the chair holding the yardstick and one of the paddles in his left hand. When she leaned over his lap, her left side was against his erection, her legs were straight, and her heels were off the floor. "Poor ass," Jonathan said. He stroked it, his fingers brushing over her vulva as he did. "Poor chilly ass. Poor chilly ass which has to suffer for Melissa's faults. Well,..." he shifted the paddle into his right hand and settled his left arm across her back while his voice paused. "We'll do something about the chill soon." "Ping," he said as he swung the paddle against her right butt cheek. "And pong." This time he hit her left cheek. The swings which followed rapidly did warm her butt, but they didn't hurt much. She felt a stinging when he switched to the sandpaper side. She kicked under the new feeling, but her legs couldn't move. He dropped the paddle to stroke along her butt. "A little warmer now," he said. His fingers stroked across her vulva. She felt the arm which had been resting across her back shift. The next slap on her butt was marked by a loud crack. It didn't hurt worse than the paddle; the crack must have been the two pieces of the yardstick hitting each other. More blows followed. When he stopped to stroke her butt this time, his fingers didn't just casually brush over her vulva. He caressed her labia and even her clitoris. The next blow from the yardstick hurt. "Ow!" she said. She writhed under his arm. "When I hold it this way," he explained, "the wires keep traveling when the wood stops. Stings, doesn't it?" "Yes.... Yes, Jonathan." "It's supposed to sting." He hit her that way hard enough to sting. And, then, with increasingly harsh strokes. She tried to accept her punishment stoically, but she couldn't help writhing as the wires bit more deeply into her butt and crossed welts from previous blows. He dropped the yardstick, and caressed her butt again. He alternated spanks with his open hand with a finger rubbing between her lips. She thrilled at the sensations, but she soon wanted, needed, something more. Approaching her clitoris on every stroke, his finger never quite touched it. And then it did. Those strokes drove her higher and higher. Her body struggled against her imprisonment harder than it had done during her spanking. Suddenly, she felt herself climax. His finger didn't stop moving until she collapsed. He patted her shoulder and butt while she lay across his lap gasping. After a while, he slapped her with his open hand. It wasn't a hard slap, but the welts hurt. "Stand," he said, removing his arm from her back. She almost fell when she did. "Careful! Can you untie those shoes like that?" "I'll try." She could. When she'd got her right foot out of its shoe, the left one was easy. "Do you want me in the heels, again, sir?" "Please." She put them on. He gestured her towards the kitchen. He pushed a few buttons on the microwave. He pulled a chair out for her. With her sore butt, she'd have preferred to keep standing, but he didn't give her that option. Plates were on the table, tea was in the pot. When the microwave beeped, he fetched boxes of oriental takeout to the table. It took him only a minute to open the steaming boxes and insert serving spoons. They ate in silence. "So," he finally asked, "did you enjoy your French hens?" "Yes, Jonathan." "Want more food?" "No, thank you. I'm full." "You can put the boxes in the refrigerator. The rest of the dishes need to be rinsed before you put them in the dishwasher." "Yes, Jonathan." She added their dishes to those already in the dishwasher. She found a dishcloth in the sink and used it to wipe off the table. Was she his guest or his sub? Both, apparently. Well, loading a dishwasher was no onerous task. He led her into the living room and pushed a button on a music system. The sound of some classical piece filled the room -- audible, enjoyable, not particularly loud. "Brahms," he said, sitting on the sofa. "Join me." She sat next to him, the fabric stinging the welts on her butt. He put his arm around her. Soon he was kissing her and caressing her breasts. Her arousal grew slowly until he got up from the sofa. She had to suppress an objection; Jonathan was in charge -- her opinions didn't matter. But she had more than opinions on this; she needed his kisses, more of his caresses, deeper caresses. Then he pushed her down on the couch and knelt beside it. He was caressing her again. Now, his kisses left her mouth to trail down her neck. His fingers were no longer on her breasts, but were stroking the insides of her thighs. When his mouth reached her right nipple, his hand reached her vulva. Tongues of fire spread from his mouth and his fingers. When the two blazes met, they consumed her. She convulsed. When she was next aware of the outside world, he was kissing her forehead. His hand rested on her mound, not stroking anything but still holding her. "No," she said when he started kissing her left breast and caressing her vulva again. It was too soon for her to respond again; those spots were too sensitive. He ignored her, and soon she was responding again. When he sucked hard on her right nipple, she went over again. This time when she recovered, he was kissing around her navel. He stood up when she'd just caught her breath. "I think," he said, "you'd be more comfortable in bed." He raised her torso by tugging on her hands and slipped an arm behind her. He slipped his other arm under her legs; then he lifted her. He carried her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. The air was cool on her skin. Before she got too cold, however, he had stripped and was lying beside her. His hand guided her in turning on her side with her knees drawn up, so he was lying behind her. After he covered them both with a sheet and a light blanket, he was cool against her back. Soon, though, his body heat warmed her back, especially her still-sensitive butt. His breath warmed her neck, and his hand warmed her belly and breasts as it caressed her. When it went between her legs, it warmed her all over. If his hand was warm there, his phallus was hot. It rested against her vulva for a moment. Then he parted her lips and he pressed inside. His torso slid back and a hand kept her from following as he moved deep within her. Then he tucked the covers more tightly around her. "Good night," he said. He seemed to be going to sleep. She couldn't sleep like this. Not when Master had her tied to the whipping post and thrashed her had she ever been a man's possession so completely. Jonathan was in her, resting in her -- not moving, but claiming her and occupying her. And with nothing to distract her, no other sensations but the warmth of his legs behind hers and the occasional twinges from her butt, her experience was all of his occupation of her, his possession of her. He did go to sleep, though; and, soon after his body relaxed, his phallus relaxed as well and slipped out. She missed it, but she could go to sleep then. This story, and a hundred more by Uther Pendragon, are available for free and without advertisements at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www
It was more a matter of their taking a shower. He washed her, and she washed him. When they'd dried each other off, he led her back to the chair. "No reason to put on the shoes this morning" he said. When she was back across his lap, he stroked her butt and vulva instead of striking them. Morning wasn't her favorite time of day, but his caresses in the shower and in the chair took her higher and higher. She was nearing climax when he did spank her. Only his hand, but the welts from the night before hurt. Soon, though, he was stroking her vulva again, his erection pressed against her side. After a few repetitions of that pattern, she wanted -- needed -- release; but he was neglecting her clitoris in favor of her lips. She writhed in her need. Suddenly, he spanked her harder than he'd ever done with his hand alone. That was enough to take her over, and he rubbed her clitoris as she spasmed and spasmed. She lay gasping on his lap. Breathing was harder than ever like this. "When you're ready," he said, "get up." She took the implicit permission for another minute's gathering of her breath and energy. Then she struggled to her feet. After leading her into the bedroom, he gave her a long kiss before helping her lie down on the bed. The kiss was repeated lying down, but he soon kissed down to her breasts. He spent a long time there, holding one breast in his hand while he sucked the nipple of the other, then kissing a line from one nipple to the other and repeating the process. After a while, he got up and went to the foot of the bed. This time, his kisses began at her ankles and progressed slowly up her left leg. When he'd given one sucking kiss to her vulva, he started over on her right ankle. Finally, though, he was kissing and licking her vulva, arousing her but teasing her unmercifully. Whenever she began to peak, he would abandon her clitoris for less direct -- though still arousing -- licks on her labia. Finally, when she was almost there, when she felt that she needed one last lick on her clitoris, he raised his head away from her altogether. She moaned, and reached down to give herself the stimulation he was denying her. But he was there before her. When she felt his phallus against her hands, she guided it into her vulva. One hard thrust filled her completely. On the second, she began her climax. It seemed to go on forever as he drove in and out. Finally, he thrust deep within her and hard against her. His climax joined hers. They lay there for a long time. Even after he'd come out of her, he lay on top of her. Finally, though, he got up and left the room. After he'd come back and dressed, he asked her, "Want to use the bathroom before breakfast?" She did. Again, she cooked their eggs wearing only an apron. "Did you pay off the Visa Gold?" he asked out of the blue. "Yes, Jonathan." He seemed to have switched to his dom personality, not that going naked when he was dressed and doing the cooking weren't types of submissive behavior. "The December payment was very small. Interest and charges on the previous month's balance. I don't have the statement with me." "That's all right. I'd like to see the January statement when it comes. Living without one credit card should teach you that you can live without another, too. We'll have to meet in your place next time; all your records will be there." "Yes Jonathan." "You have things to do today?" "I could change my schedule." "No need. Why don't you take the second French hen with you? It's no different from the first, and we might need it at your place." She was being dismissed. After donning the clothes she'd worn here, she came to him for one last kiss. Then she put on her coat and left. |
The End 3 French Hens Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net 2003/12/25 2004/09/01 Thanks to Denny for editing this. This is one of a series of four stories about Melissa and Jonathan. The first story story in the series is: "1 Careless Moment" The next story in the series is: 4 Little Words The index to almost all my stories is: Index to Uther Pendragon's website |