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Copyright ©2014-2015 Patricia Green
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In hindsight, the big, yellow chicken was a pretty feeble joke. I should have known better. I thought Tom would see the humor in it that Desiree and I had seen, but he was just annoyed. His irritation tended to lead to something unpleasant for the female behinds in the house. Tom wasn’t the type of man who searched for the least excuse to rough up our rumps; he was more discerning than that. Harsh spankings were meant to teach a lesson. Wasting money on the ugly scrap metal chicken called for such a lesson.

At least we hadn’t bought any more kitchen gadgets. That would have irked Tom more. And, in a way, the tin, five foot tall yellow rooster was his fault. If he hadn’t told us not to buy any more cooking do-hickeys, we would never have felt the surge of sophomoric defiance that made us buy the big chicken. He didn’t see it that way, though.

My butt was sore as a result. I tried not to let it touch my heels as I knelt on the parquet floor. Welts from his quirt were raised, burning, itchy wheals crisscrossing my ass. Each mark, though uncomfortable, was a submissive’s prize. He’d shown how much he cared by reprimanding me, helping me be a better person, teaching me not to spend good money on bad jokes. His painful affection made my pussy drip. Soon, just as soon as he was through loving Desiree the same way, he’d allow me some relief from the aching emptiness in my soggy cunt. I hoped.

He knew I loved spankings, so when he gave me the look that said, “I’m pissed off and you’ve been naughty,” I wanted to say thank you even before the smacks happened. And when he finally told me to bend over the back of our leather couch, my nipples went hard and my clit began to tingle in anticipation. It was throbbing now, and becoming more demanding as Desiree’s noises got more insistent.

The quirt wasn’t his favorite weapon, but it came close. He knew I didn’t like it as well as a paddle, and that was my real punishment. Oh sure, I wouldn’t sit comfortably until the welts healed—maybe two or three days—but I might have orgasmed even before he pulled my jeans down to my knees if he’d gotten out the paddle. I had in the past; thus, the nasty quirt.

Although I have fair skin, my rear is not as sensitive as you might expect. It goes red really well, but that wonderful, phosphorous burn doesn’t start until around the twentieth whack. Fortunately, he’s got a strong arm and doesn’t tire easily.

I suppose his stamina is a primary ingredient in his ability to deal with both Desiree and I on a continuous basis. We’re good girls—mostly—but we have our big, yellow chicken moments.

I could see wetness forming on the insides of Desiree’s thighs. Like me, she lived for the humiliation of being treated like a naughty girl, having her butt targeted for pain, and knowing that she was being thrashed by the person for whom she cared the most. It was quite possible that Desiree’s behavior was calculated to get her this painful reprimand. I hoped not because he would never be fooled. There’d be more than a harsh spanking coming if he thought Desi was topping from the bottom.

The quirt lay before me on the floor, and I replayed my scene in my head, contemplating how I might have reacted differently. How Tom might have said something else, but, “Cry, Michala. I want to hear you apologize with tears in your voice.” If the mood had struck him, he might have slid his unyielding cock into me as my ass was up in the air. I saw the bulge in his slacks, the tent of his intent. It was a promise and a tease.

My quim wept with frustration and my imagination spun like a pinwheel as I considered the many ways he could make me come.

The sound of the cane whistling in the air and its solid snap on Desiree’s bottom broke my reverie. She moaned and I thought about how her moan of pain sounded different from her moan of pleasure. The pain started with a gasp and ended on a hum, while pleasure was hum to gasp.

As he laid the cane across her bottom again, she squirmed over the ottoman, unconsciously making herself a more appealing target, showing off her moist, hairless pussy to both Tom and me. I licked my lips, anticipating the taste of the salty, umami richness of her. Would I get to lap at that luxury this time?

Her round rear was courting numerous stripes now. Bright red, narrow and long stripes with perfect distance between them like Venetian blinds or a bamboo mat: stripe, stripe, stripe.

I wanted to reach behind me, to take my hands off my thighs, and touch my own wheals. But, of course, that was forbidden. I just wanted to feel them, to revel in their perfection. Maybe later. Later, when I could also touch my swollen clit. I wondered if Tom was in a foul enough mood to forbid that pleasure. I could never tell which way he’d go on decisions like that. He had a devilish streak, a sadistic bent that sometimes meant that Desiree or I would have to wait. I might perish waiting for that one touch on my engorged clit.

Desiree was moaning almost continuously as Tom’s arm rose and fell. The slender cane bent slightly as it arched down. I wished Desiree could see just how artistic it was to have our big man, shirt sleeves rolled up, standing next to her as she grasped the ottoman’s legs, wielding that implement of balance. Balanced pain and pleasure, balanced good behavior and bad, balanced man and woman. Yin and yang. Of course, she’d watched as I got my turn, and her small nods and the tension in her hands told me that she’d psychically shared my pain as a lover should do.

She started to sob and I bit my lip. Desiree’s extremis always got to me. Whether it was the removal of tight nipple clamps, or the slap of his hand on her pussy, when she cried out, I wanted to answer her voice with a sound of my own. But, in this case, my cry would ruin the moment, distract them both, and I didn’t want to do that.

As her white ass got redder, it reminded me of the yellow rooster that started this punishment. He had a red cockscomb and red wattles. His bright blue feet and eyes were a garish counterpoint to an already absurd sculpture—although sculpture was too generous a word.

We might have gotten away with it if we’d put it in the garden and brought Tom out to point and laugh with us. Putting it in his office had been Desiree’s idea. She was always the scamp and I was the sensible one. Except for today, when I’d let my inhibitions go and went for a naughty laugh instead. I knew it was risky, but the possibility of consequences was a perverse inducement to mayhem. Some consequences, unpredictable as they might be, are worth inspiring.

Now I was paying the price and reaping the reward all at the same time. How lovely life could be.

Desiree screamed a little when the cane moved down her thighs. They’d been pristine white until that moment. Now they were Tom’s canvas.

The big, yellow chicken, lugged into the house with such effort by Desiree and I, sat facing us in the living room. Tom had moved it there from his home office, easy as lifting a potted plant. Beady little mismatched blue eyes stared at our degradation smugly. “You asked for this when you thought I was only a joke,” it said silently. “Now the joke’s on you.”

Yes, the joke was on me and Desiree.

She squealed again. I’d lost count of the cane strokes, but her bottom was beginning to show a little purple, so I knew Tom would stop soon. He wasn’t the kind to inflict serious damage, just serious discomfort.

He gave her another five strokes and then tossed the cane aside. She lay there, panting and sobbing, babbling a continuous litany of apologies. I wanted to comfort her, to lick her red, red ass and then blow cool air on it. My butt was still smarting and I could imagine how hers must feel: abused, achy, hot and broken to the rod. She raised her head at that moment and our eyes locked. Hers were tear-filled, amber brown, abject and unfocused. A smile, tremulous and fragile, turned up the corners of her mouth, and I knew she was hurting but happy.

Tonight, after he’d fucked us as thoroughly as he’d spanked us, Tom would find a place for the rooster. Its silent cock-a-doodle-do would be our herald to smarting butts and seeping pussies. Maybe it hadn’t been a bad idea after all.

___

Thank you for reading this story. BDSM is a branch off the spanking tree, so I hope you enjoyed it as much as my spanking romances. More will follow.