Oh, chicken, did you just cluck at me?”
“No,” I squawk hoarsely.
“I believe you did. Yes, you did. You remember what I said I’d do to you if you clucked?”
Aw, jeez. “Yes.” I pause before I add, “Yes, Chef.”
“My word is my bond,” he crows. “I’m going to spank you. And then I will cook you, very hot and hard.”
I know what his hard cooking is like.
“I’m not sure I can take any more quite yet,” I whine.
“Stamina, Miss Hen,” he says brightly.
My inner goddess has donned a tiny cheerleader’s uniform and starts to chant.
Give me a B!
Give me an L!
Give me an A!
Give me a D! E! S!
Whack whack whack.
What does that spell?
Control freak poultry-beater, that’s what it spells. But I don’t fancy another swat, so I manage to keep the thought to myself for once.
He roasts me gently until I reach sweet doneness.
“You are a most beautiful sight,” he says, pulling me out of the Wolf. “And your smell is intoxicating.”
Afterward, everywhere he spanked me is stinging and warm. The experience was humiliating and mustardy and unbelievably hot. I definitely don’t want him to do that to me again. But now that it’s over I have this warm, safe, golden brown afterglow. I feel contented, and totally confused.
I must remember to cluck at him more often.