On the Paddle, and Its Many Uses

"This is an important time for you, slave. The most important time."

As much as I hated kneeling here with my face in my spunk, I'd done much more difficult things for Sara. I was basically resigned to going through whatever she ordered me to do, for now. I knew myself too well. As resentful as I felt, as dead as my normal submissive drive seemed to be, I wasn't combative. I avoided conflict at all costs. That was the type of person I was. I wasn't going to push Sara's hand off, stand up, and demand an end to this slavery arrangement right here and right now. I knew I'd think it over, and give it time. Which made things horrible and awkward for me right now. I cringed and died inside. My penis hung limp and unsheathed, a strange and alien sensation. I felt unmoored.

"Who are you, Chris?"

I sighed deeply. "I am your slave, Miss Sara."

"Who owns you?"

"You own me, Miss Sara."

Unlike previously, the words felt lifeless in my mouth.

"Now, there's one more thing you have to do, Chris. You've made a mess on this paddle. I expect you to lick all of it up, and swallow it."

Suddenly, my strategy of passive acceptance hit a crisis point. My immediate reaction was oh hell no, no way, no fucking way, absolutely not, never in a million years, you've got to be kidding me, there's no way I'm going to do that, nope, not gonna do it. no, no, no, NO, NO! What this actually translated into was pushing my neck up against Sara's hand, as hard as I could, while making a loud, closed-mouth, desperate whining sound.

"Chris! STOP!" Sara gripped my neck so hard I felt a sort of sharp nerve pain. I winced silently as her thumb and pinkie dug deeply into the sides of my neck. When she finally relaxed her hand to its normal tight grip, I was relieved, but the lingering pain actually left me sobbing.

"Chris, that's no way for a slave to react. Do you understand?" I just continued to cry. "I let you have an orgasm. That's a privilege. I didn't have to let you. It's not something you have any right to. But when I do, you lick it up. It's what slaves do. Now, press your tongue against that paddle, right in your mess."

Oh god, I might have been trying not to hate her, but I was failing. At that moment, I hated her. She sounded so imperious, her voice was grating, and my god, there was no way I was doing this. I let out a little wail.

"NOW, Chris."

There was no avoiding it. As much as I dreaded it, and despised myself for it, and hated Sara for making me do it, I lowered my face the necessary inch or so, and pressed my tongue against the hard wooden paddle, into my goop. Bitter, salty, slimy, disgusting. A sort of chill ran through my whole body, and I shivered. Sara gripped my neck a bit tighter, and spoke.

"Now swallow what's on your tongue."

Yech. I lifted my tongue from the paddle, and the stuff on my tongue stayed stuck to the wood in a sticky, stringy connection. I let out a little sort of whine, and Sara laughed, just a little. Flicking my tongue just a little, I somehow got some of it into my mouth. I knew I was screwing up my face. I honestly tried to swallow, but for some reason, all of the saliva in my mouth had disappeared. I sort of pushed the stuff toward the back of my throat, but it just stuck, coating my tongue as it went. I tried and tried, feeling more and more disgusted. Finally, I worked up some saliva, and had most of it worked toward the back. I tried again to swallow - honestly - but it just didn't go anywhere. The texture was awful, possibly worse than the taste. It was like snot, but somehow worse. Finally, I swallowed again, and it went down. Some, I think, went all the way, some coating and sticking in my throat. I was miserable, embarrassed, and disgusted. Sara's hand on my neck was a constant reminder of my humiliation.

"Now lick some more and swallow."

My voice quivered. "Yes, M-mmiss Sara."

Pressing my tongue against the paddle, I licked. The problem was, my tongue just pushed the whole mess forward. I had to stick my tongue in the middle, draw it back, try again. It took some work, and I only managed to get a little more into my mouth. The contrast between the thick, snotty part of my mess and the runny, watery part of my mess, combined together on my tongue, was almost too much and made me start to gag. I held it in, worked it toward the back of my tongue, still as disgusted as before, and tried to swallow. After fifteen or twenty more seconds, I had most of it down.

"Again."

Oh dear god. This was so awful, and there was so much more. Nastiness was pressing itself into the little holes on the paddle, and smeared all over the end of it, staining the black paint. It was the most horrible disgusting mess, and it was all going into me. I was still working to hold in a sob. Sara's hand tightened on my neck again, just a little bit. After I finally swallowed this time, she spoke.

"Chris, you know I'm not going to let go of you until every last bit of this semen is inside your stomach. Where it belongs."

I took a very deep breath. Something about what she said and how she said it hit me hard. It was humiliation overload. I let out a little sob, then another, and then I could speak.

"I know, Miss Sara."

"Again."

Another lick, another semi-gag, another disgusting attempt to swallow, another fight to get it down. Awful, absolutely awful.

"Another lick, Chris."

"And another lick."

I tried a little bit bigger one. It was horrible, and the gagging was almost too much, almost choked me. It took me forever to swallow, and I realized I couldn't take that much at a time. This was going to take forever.

"Another one. Take your time, Chris."

Oh god. At least I'd stopped crying.

"Another lick, Chris. This is just what slaves have to do. Get used to it."

And something started to turn. Sara's thin, high-pitched voice, what just a minute earlier had sounded so imperious, so annoying, so grating, now glinted with just a touch of the authoritative, commanding owner's voice I remembered. I shook, just a bit, and whispered.

"Yes, Miss Sara."

And as I let my tongue again descend, licking up just a little bit more of the cum, it felt just a bit less like an awful chore, and just a bit more like an opportunity to obey. I was falling. Once again, I was falling into that state from which there was no return.

"Another lick, slave. Now."

The taste was still awful. The snotty texture was still horrid - it still gagged me, and forcing it down wasn't easy. But now, Sara's hand on my neck was a comfort, an encouragement, rather than a source of resentment. I wanted to obey. I wanted to please her, to make her proud.

It was many more rounds of "another lick," quite a long time, before the paddle was clean and Sara was slipping my sheath back on, locking me up, and ordering me not to eat or drink for several hours, so I could keep tasting myself. I remember being sent straight back to my chores and warned not to expect such a treat often.

Mostly I remember the feeling, back in the apartment, as I went about my tasks, of being owned. I felt owned more completely than I had ever before. Yes, Sara had owned me for several weeks, but now something was different. Now I knew there was nothing she couldn't make me do.