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.
