On the Paddle, and Its Many Uses

The paddle never left her side.

Never, at least it seemed, though I'm certain it was accurate to say rarely. It seemed she always had it with her, either in her hand, or within easy reach. Always. At that moment, as I was on my knees, bent over the floor in front of the couch, naked except for a tight pair of black jockey shorts, carefully picking up every tiny crumb from the carpet, each speck that was missed by the vacuum cleaner, it lay inches from her hand.

My ass still ached, both cheeks stinging, from the paddling I'd received half an hour earlier. I hadn't been completely silent while putting away dishes. I'd let plates clink together - there had been noise - so my briefs had been quickly pulled down and off, I'd been forced down into a kneel, and my bottom had been promptly blistered until I was screaming in pain. It was horrible how surprising the pain still was. As long as this had been happening to me, getting paddled nearly every day, sometimes two or three times in a single day if I was bad or if she was in a mood, the pain was something that it was impossible to get used to. It still gripped me, ripped me open, felt worse than anything imaginable, each and every time. My breath caught a little, just thinking about it.

I picked up little crumbs in my right hand, held them in my left. My lower back ached from bending over. On the edge of the couch, it. The paddle. Smooth wood, painted black. Long but very narrow, probably only an inch wide, two at most. Tiny little holes, drilled throughout the length of it in a repeating pattern. An ergonomic handle, screwed tightly into the end. The most intimidating object in the world. The thing that I had to kiss after every paddling, not to mention before leaving every night. From the floor, I noticed her hand slide into the handle, pick it up, and hold it. Her book resting on her belly, she read while she held the paddle, now caressing the length of it with her other hand. Soft brown hand against the black of the paddle, short-cut nails, semi-consciously feeling and admiring the finish of this object of pain. I continued my floor work while I half-watched her out of the corner of my eye.

She shifted a little, gripped the paddle tighter. I felt my cock stir a little, press tightly against the inside of its stainless-steel sheath, try and fail to become erect. Try again, fail again, denied by its solid metallic enclosure. God, this was so frustrating. Involuntarily, I reached down to my crotch, and stroked the cold steel just a little bit through the thin cotton of the jockey shorts. I sighed. This got her attention.

"Look at me."

"Yes, Miss Sara."

Letting my hand fall immediately away from my groin, I looked toward her. She continued holding the paddle, smacked it against her hand a bit. I looked toward her face, trying to keep my gaze simultaneously lowered while angled toward Sara's face, while at the same time holding both hands behind my back. I closed my left hand a bit to try to hold on to the debris I'd already picked up. For a few very long seconds, she just stared at me. Beautiful, but so serious. Dark brown, almost black teardrop-shaped eyes, soft brown skin, nearly black hair that fell just past her chin - no longer. Lying on the couch in jeans and a t-shirt, pink socks, book propped up against her legs, holding the paddle, staring straight at me in a look of condescension.

"Do NOT touch your CAGE."

"Yes, Miss Sara. I'm Sorry, Miss Sara."

"Why were you touching it?"

"I ..." I'd almost said 'I don't know,' then caught myself. I didn't need another paddling. I desperately hoped I wasn't about to get one right now. "I was starting to get an erection, Miss Sara, or at least as much of an erection as I'm able inside my cage, and it surprised me, so I touched my cage."

"Does that cage belong to you, slave?"

"No, Miss Sara."

"Are you allowed to touch it?"

"No, Miss Sara."

"Don't let me catch you with your hand anywhere near it again! Clear?"

"Yes, Miss Sara."

I held my breath, and waited. Sara continued to hold my lowered gaze. Despite my fear, I again noticed my cock beginning to swell within its enclosure, press painfully against its limits, and retreat. I tried to remain perfectly still. It was difficult, in the heat of her beautiful stare. I felt my breath become shaky. Still and silent, I reminded myself. Still and silent. Whap! Quickly, Sara had smacked the paddle against her hand once again, and it was difficult not to gasp.

"Be good, slave."

"Yes, Miss Sara."

Resuming her reading, Sara left me to my floor work.

Whew! I returned to what I had been doing, thankful that I wasn't about to endure another punishment. I didn't think I'd be able to take it right now. So I worked, redoubling my efforts to do the best job I could. I felt genuinely grateful. It was strange, but every time I was scolded like that, but not paddled, I felt grateful for Sara's mercy, and it made me want to please her more, to impress her. Yes, I'd spent my life dreaming about corporal punishment, fantasizing about it. But now that I was actually living as someone's slave, and it was a reality in my life, I'd discovered something new. I hated being paddled. Absolutely hated it. There was nothing fun about it at all. It was excruciating while it was happening, a kind of pain I'd been completely unprepared for, unable even to imagine. And while there may be a very brief surge of adrenaline just before a paddling, it wasn't so much a thrill as sheer terror at what was coming. But what I hadn't expected was that the everyday experience of living as a slave, all my mundane chores and tasks, every act of obedience, all would be lent a special sort of glow by the very real, ever present threat of corporal punishment. I hated being paddled. But I absolutely loved the idea of it - loved that I was a person who sometimes actually got paddled. Sometimes just reminding myself of that fact sent a shiver down my spine.

Working now around the side of the couch, right next to Sara's pink-socked feet, as she sighed and stretched them, I felt again the still-frustrating sensation of my cock growing, halting, retreating. Growing, halting, retreating. I'd been her slave for five weeks. Five weeks in this metal sheath. Five weeks, the longest in my adult life I'd ever gone, by far, without an orgasm. I'd experienced all sorts of highs and lows and strange emotional sensations, some of which I'm sure were due to my chastity, some of which I'm sure were caused by the experience of slavery itself, the loss of my freedom, sheer excruciating pain, terror at the fear of pain to come, and adjusting to my entire world revolving around Sara. I swallowed, hard. They'd been more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I continued picking up crumbs, placing them in my left hand.

Twenty minutes later, I rose. Not stood, but rose - as gracefully as possible, from kneeling to standing, turned and walked quietly and gracefully across the floor toward the trash can, and brushed all the debris into it. Then I paused, turned, and walked, minding my posture, gracefully toward the bathroom, to make sure every surface was polished so that it sparkled.

Working in the bathroom, I tried to hold on to that feeling, a feeling of gratefulness to Sara for letting me serve her, to want to do the best job I could for her. I could hear Sara talking on the phone - to her boyfriend, probably, or maybe her parents. She was speaking in Spanish, too fast for me to understand much of what she was saying, especially in here. I reminded myself of my place. I am Sara's slave, nothing else. With that thought, I began cleaning the toilet.

Hours later, chores finished, kneeling before Sara, I felt her hand lightly touch my chin, lifting my face to meet her gaze. A slight smile, barely noticeable.

"Slave, I think it's been long enough. Are you ready for a treat?"

My heart soared. I wondered if she meant what I thought she meant.

"Yes - Yes, Miss Sara!"

"Get dressed, slave. I'll meet you in the storage closet in fifteen minutes."

--

Each apartment comes with its own storage area, in a small separate building. Cramped and narrow, with a dim bare overhead bulb, the unit that belonged to Sara and her boyfriend contained a few tubs and boxes, but was mostly bare. I used my key to enter. I'd been in here a few times before, when Sara had ordered me to move things down here, or retrieve things from here. Turning on the light, I stepped inside, let the door close, knelt on the bare concrete floor, and waited for Sara.

I admit, I had my hopes up. I didn't know what sexual release would be like for me, but when I became Sara's slave, she promised me that my ejaculations would be seldom and that they would be supervised. They would never happen without her permission, never outside her presence, and never inside her apartment - she was grossed out by the idea of me doing that in there. So naturally, I wondered if that's why I was here. Again, I felt myself swell against my cage. I waited, then waited some more. I started to sweat. It was freezing in here.

Finally, the door opened. Sara walked in, beautiful as ever, now wearing a thin gray cotton jacket and black Chucks. She walked around me, and stood across from me. She was carrying a large backpack which she immediately opened, taking out the paddle. Extending it toward me, I knew what I was supposed to do. I leaned down and kissed the end of it, firmly and slowly. Sara then set the paddle down, flat on the concrete floor, in front of me.

"Take off your clothes, slave. You need to be naked, now."

"Yes, Miss Sara."

I stood and immediately stripped, as quickly as I could while avoiding being sloppy about it. Within a minute or so I was completely naked in front of Sara, with the exception of the cage that was ever-present on my cock, something that now felt like simply a part of me. Sara motioned for me to hand her the clothes. She took them and stuffed them in the backpack, zipping it up and setting it down behind her. Finished with what she had ordered, I again knelt.

"Slave, I've decided to offer you a gift. I'm going to let you ejaculate."

I smiled, and even gasped a little. I probably almost laughed, and looked super goofy. "Th-thank you, Miss Sara!"

"Yeah. Just remember, this is a gift. You're a slave. You have no right to do this. It's not a right, or even a privilege. Just a gift, because I decided I wanted to be nice to you. Do you understand, slave?"

"Yes, Miss Sara. Thank you, Miss Sara!"

She reached into the pocket of her jeans, and removed a tiny key. "Stand up."

"Yes, Miss Sara."

"Put your hands behind your back. You may NOT touch yourself, even after I unlock you."

"Yes, Miss Sara."

Careful not to touch me directly, Sara took hold of the little padlock over my cage in one hand. With the other, she inserted the key, and turned, springing it open. She carefully removed it, leaving the key in the lock, and placed both into her jeans pocket. Then she slowly removed the solid metal sheath and the posts attached to it from the ring behind my balls sliding it down my cock, exposing it for the first time in five weeks. Wrinkly, funny looking little thing. I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, even more naked than before. Sara looked down at it and smiled, chuckling just a little. I didn't think it was possible to feel so naked. Being sheathed for so long had made me forget what this felt like. My stomach actually felt funny. It took every bit of willpower to keep me from moving my hands around to my front side and covering myself. Oh dear god. Sara took a step back, just looking at me with a funny smile, and I felt too naked, too nervous to even become erect. I swallowed loudly, awkwardly.

She had left the ring still locked in place behind my balls. God, I felt ridiculous. So utterly embarrassed. Sara started speaking.

"Slave, here's how this works. When I tell you, you will lie down, flat on the floor, and let the tip of the penis touch the edge of the paddle. You may NOT touch the penis with your hands. Instead, I'm gonna let you slide your body back and forth along the floor, and rub the penis along the paddle. When you ejaculate, you will do it on the paddle. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes, Miss Sara." Oh god, this will be a humiliating way to do it, I thought. Something strange was happening, though. All this embarrassment was working on me, but in a different way than just a minute before. I was becoming erect, more erect than I'd been able to in weeks. I didn't have time to dwell on the thought, however, as I heard Sara tell me to descend to the floor.

Cold, hard, dusty concrete. I let my whole naked body descend, lying down flat against the awful surface, placing my hands next to my face, my right elbow brushing the side of a plastic tub, my left elbow against a cardboard box. I hovered until I found the position that would allow the tip of my cock to just land on the end of the paddle. Pressing all of my weight against it, it sort of hurt. Stomach and legs against the cold hard concrete, my right nipple near a metal drain. And of course, the wood of the paddle up the middle of my body, its handle almost at my neck, the length of it along my sternum, pressing uncomfortably between myself and the concrete.I looked directly forward along the floor at Sara's shoes, her black Chucks, directly ahead of me, as she was standing nearly directly over my head. She gave my forehead a little kick, and I turned my head so that I was looking toward the side.

"Slave, you may begin."

"Thank you, Miss Sara."

I began trying to slide along the paddle. It didn't exactly work, and hurt even worse. I tried sliding back, and slipped off the end. I pushed up and repositioned myself, trying to slide again. Then, I realized, I needed to hold my hips up slightly, and slide. Better, but the paddle was trying to slide with my cock. This was super frustrating. Sara was laughing at me openly. After some more trying and squirming, I found the best way to do this. I had to press down hard with my upper body, my chest and shoulders, to keep the paddle firmly in place against the floor, but stroke independently with my hips, while holding them up, to slide my cock along the end of it. Which took some work, but once I got the hang of it, oh my god, the feel of sliding along painted wood never felt so wonderful. It worked for a bit, sort of. Finally, Sara had mercy on me. Stepping over my head, she worked her foot beneath my chest, and pressed down on the handle of the paddle with her shoe, holding it still. Finally, I stroked against a still, hard surface. It had been so long, I needed it so bad, Sara's mocking laughter was actually an encouragement, and within a minute or two, so quick, so much faster than I expected, it seemed like it was all of a sudden, I was exploding all over the end of the paddle.

The paddle.

The paddle? What the hell?

Seriously, I'd always loved, absolutely loved, the idea, the images, even the practice of submission to a natural dominant. It's the reason why I'd ended up, finally, trying to live this life. But an orgasm can do funny things to your mind, sort of clear your head, rewire your brain in a way. Which left me wondering, as I found myself lying in a puddle of my own goo on top of a paddle on a cold hard concrete floor, buck naked, why exactly I'd let my life revolve around this paddle for so long. Why I'd let devotion to it and fear of it go on for so much longer than just a play session. I mean, I just felt really weird. I felt heavy - my whole body felt so very heavy on the floor, on this hard paddle stuck beneath me. And this very young woman standing over me, well, she was beautiful, and she was intelligent, but she was also very cruel. And without the constant sexual tension and frustration I'd had driving the whole thing, I just felt plain weird. Really weird. I was cold. I was - well, embarrassed didn't even begin to describe it. And I wondered what in the hell I'd been doing for the past five weeks.

"Up on your knees." She was giving orders. I just felt like lying there, thinking things through. I didn't say anything. "UP on your KNEES, NOW!" I slowly pushed myself up. I still didn't say anything. I didn't know what I wanted to do, but I didn't want to have this fight now. I looked up, at Sara. God, she looked mean. I felt so ridiculous, like I never had before. This wasn't the kind of humiliation that drove my submission and service to Sara. This was something different, something dark, and resentful. I wanted to clean all this away, get dressed as fast as I could, and pretend none of it had ever happened. Of course, Sara had my clothes.

"I want your face down, in your mess. Looking at it. NOW." What the hell? This seemed messed up. OK, whatever, I'd just keep obeying until I could make a decision. So I started bending over. Started, that is. This felt so very wrong, that it took every bit of willpower I had just to make myself start moving, start bending down, and moving my face toward the floor. Every part of me wanted to resist. I still wasn't sure why I was still doing it, other than momentum, the fact that I'd been habitually obeying this young woman every day for the past five weeks.

"Yes, Miss Sara."

It surprised me that it came out. It just seemed automatic, ingrained in me at this point. I bent over until my face was about 6 or 8 inches from my mess, on the paddle. Ewwww. Suddenly, I felt Sara's hand on the back of my neck, pushing hard, forcing it down farther, until it was nearly touching it, no more than an inch away. Oh my god, the smell. I was disgusted.

"I said IN your mess, slave."

I didn't say anything. I was holding my breath. The smell, this close, was killing me, and Sara's hand on the back of my neck was making me furious, angrier by the second. How I'd ever stayed still while she paddled me black and blue I couldn't figure out. The sound of her voice was becoming something more than irritating. I was trying not to hate her.

"Did you hear me?"

I didn't want to open my mouth. I couldn't fight this forever. I'd have to either start obeying, or just tell Sara this was all over. Still, something inside made me answer, some ingrained instinct.

"Y-yes. Yes, Miss Sara." There was no emotion behind it. The words felt dead.

Breathing in the scent of my cum, I tried to stay calm. Sara would relax her grip on my neck, and each time she did, I tried to calm my anger, tried to ignore it, but each time, she would again tighten her grip. I took a very deep breath, which made things worse, and tried not to grunt.

"Chris." She spoke directly and firmly, straight into my ear. Sara meant business, and more than at any time in my history with her, I could hear her very slight accent coming through in her voice. "I'm going to remind you of some things you need to think about right now. You. Are. My. Slave. You are MY slave, Chris. I OWN you. I own your body. I own your mind. You are MY property, and I'm not going to let you go. You're not going to escape, so don't even THINK about ending this now. Don't answer, just listen."

Deep breath. I was getting used to this smell, but not so used to these feelings.

"I know this is a strange time, a hard time for you. There's a reason slaves don't get to come very often, Chris. But you're just as much my slave after the ejaculation as before. If your slavery to me depends on sexual feelings to drive it, well then, that's not really any sort of slavery at all. What you're feeling right now, this rebellion inside you, it's temporary. Don't let it ruin what you know is true about yourself."

I wanted so badly to reach up and grab Sara's hand, pull it off my neck, to lift my face out of this spunk. I hated the feeling of her hand on me. Hated it. Ingrained obedience was the only thing keeping me from doing it.