Chapter 3: French Hens

Melissa had missed Jonathan. When he called her up the day after Christmas, she thrilled to the sound of his voice. “Did you enjoy your Christmas?”

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.