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From: Uther Pendragon <nogardneprethu@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} repost -- 3 French Hens -- Uther -- MF sm
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Date: Mon, 07 Dec 2009 21:10:06 -0500
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3 French Hens - Text {Uther)

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This material is Copyright, 2003, Uther Pendragon.  All rights
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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
                         Uther  Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net


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 hangar 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.

<span>This story, and a hundred others, is available for free without
annoying advertising at:
/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm</span</~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm%3C/span>>


She was lying naked and uncovered when she woke to his hard slap
on her butt. "Wake up," he said.  "Go into the bathroom, use the
toilet and renew your contraceptive.  Come get me before you
shower."  She brushed her teeth, too.  There was no reason to do
her hair or makeup if she were going to be taking a shower.

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
2009/12/07


This is one of a series of four stories about
Melissa and Jonathan.

The next, and last, story in the series is:
4-little.txt
"4 Little Words"

The first story in the series is:
1-care.txt
"1 Careless Moment"
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