This story was written by Me some time ago. It started as a forfeit after losing a game of online bowling. The instruction I was given,as far as I recall, was "Write a story about a paddle" its title was to be The Life of a Paddle, From The Tree to the Fire.
I hope Y/you enjoy this short tale as much as I enjoyed writing it, and still enjoy reading it.
.The Life Of A Paddle From The Tree To The Fire
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I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want my life to end. I would like to think I had a productive and useful life, but now it is coming to an end. Let me tell you my story….
I was not always as I am now, I remember the day that the man came and took me from where I started life. I was so tall, but he had other ideas. I was chopped to the ground without ceremony along with so many others of my kind, and then we were dragged to a river and thrown in, to float down stream.When we arrived where we were going, we were dragged out of the water and left to dry in the sun, until we had dried to the point that the men could work with us. Then it was off to the mill to be split and sawn into so called usable lengths.
When I had been cut into lengths, at least what was me then, I was discarded as waste product, destined for the chippers yard to me made into block board, sterling board or some such cheap wood. I lay there for what must have been two years until the night of the fire.
I don’t know what happened during the fire, maybe it was the way the heat dried me but I changed somehow. My fibres became denser and I felt so much harder and stronger than before. It was then that I was picked up by the first one to make use of me.
I felt the tools he used cut into me but unlike when I was cut down, this felt like it was done with feeling, a loving craftsman’s touch. Each cut was done with feeling and purpose. I knew I was going to be something special. As he worked I could feel my new form taking shape. I went from 20 inches long and 8 inches wide of charred wood to something about 18 inches long round and slender at one end and flat at the other. I felt him wielding me around, I, knowing I had a purpose, he, knowing what that purpose was. He crafted symbols into my whole body; each one carved with love each one with its own meaning; with the symbols came letters. They were all manner of sizes and shape but the same three together always: S.S.C.
It must have taken him three or four weeks to craft me into what he wanted, but at last he finished carving and trimming, smoothing and sanding. He held me up to the window “You will be well used and loved.” he said, turning me this way and that, checking the craftsmanship and looking for flaws in his work.
I was taken from the workshop and into a large house.
“Mistress,” called the man, “It is finished. I hope it is what you wanted.”
The man knelt on the floor before a beautiful woman and once again held me aloft. He did not look at me this time; instead he cast his eyes to the floor.
My reason for being had arrived.
“This is a beautiful paddle, my little one,” She said as she took me from his hands.
Never again was I to be held by the man but for many years he felt me as his Domme used me to train him in her ways, and there were many times.
His mistress enjoyed using me on the man, not in an evil way for never before that one time did she use me to hit him when she was angry. I could tell by her grip if she was or not, and if she did not feel all her anger had subsided she would place me back in my velvet pouch and use another of those like me, although none had as much detail as I.
Her movements were graceful but firm her hands soft but strong. She knew how to wield a paddle such as me.
I did not fully understand all they did to start but as they learned and grew, then so did I.
So much has yet to be said and yet I feel that my time left is ever shorter. For years I have known what was, and why but now…
Her love for me seemed joined to her love for him. I know her bond to him was separate, yet somehow I was important to them both. She used me as a tool to guide him in her ways; to train him to do her bidding, often without thinking, not as brain washing but as a natural act of love.
The man was instructed in my care, not as a piece of wood or a toy, what he did not know about that was not worth knowing, but rather how to care for her toy.
Any time I was taken from my case I was to be polished until every mark and finger print was gone. This was the only hand contact that was allowed and then it was with soft gloves. No varnish had ever been used on me but I was polished to the highest shine. Years later I looked like I was made from glass after the daily polishing ritual, for that is what it became…
In the first days I was used in odd ways and not to hit as the man thought he created me for. He had habits that she did not care for and wanted to train out of him and I was to be her tool. Often he would be seen sitting with his back bent and this annoyed her, so to make him sit straight she had him sit in a dining chair with me at his back. He was told that if any marks on his back showed that he may have been sitting any other way apart from straight then he would not only feel me down his back whilst sitting but also he would feel me strike him ten times
Often he would leave his chair half out after they had eaten a meal and she would have him get me from my velvet case and lay me on the floor. He would then be made to kneel across my handle for however long the chair had not been in its rightful space when empty. This included the time it took to eat, and her meals were not something to be rushed.
After eating he would clear tables, wash whatever was used and make the dinning room ready for the next meal. If anything was missed I would be used to train him in the correct ways to do her bidding.
It did not take long for the man to have a private name for me and as he polished me I noticed he called me “The Devil”. I do not think he ever said it with bitterness more of an evil name given with love. One day, the woman listened from behind a door as I was polished and when she heard the name she was angry. She went into the man and demanded I be put down and he stands and waits her instructions. Hours later she came to the man and told him what kind of devil I will be.
“For 365 days you will not orgasm,” She told the man, “unless ‘the Devil allows it. ‘The Devil’ will have a covering of rabbit fur and ‘it’ will be used to control you. You may orgasm when you are struck and marked by the Devil and no other time”
She was true to her word and for the next year I was used both for orgasm control and also severe punishment and training.
When I was covered in the rabbit fur I taught him the devils kiss, and that she controlled his sexual drive. I was used to hit his genitals and he learned not to orgasm until I marked him but I know the love they made after the mark was pure passion never before experienced by either of them together.
When I was bare he knew that the lesson was not for pleasure. He had done wrong and was made to pay…..
They were so lucky to have each other, and I was so blessed to be a part of their lives, yet now it is finished and my usefulness has been and gone. All that remains is the memories of what I was and how I taught him her way…
After his year of only having orgasms when he was struck by me, he never called another of her “tools” by any name without first hearing her call it or asking if he may name her tools. But that was only the beginning of my teaching roles. Often she would see him “slouching” when he was sat at his desk, which bothered her, for she knew he had perfect posture whenever she called him to her and I was set to ‘assisting him in his everyday posture’
A band was placed around me with studs attached. Each time she saw his posture drop she put the band around me and fastened me to his back with tight belts. I was left in place for a given amount of time, the studs pressing hard into his spine. It took only a short while for him to realise his folly and within weeks he sat straighter and stood taller than he ever thought possible.
I was not only used for punishment however, often she would use me during play, teasing him during playful flogging sessions. As much as I sometimes think I was hated by the man, there were times I know he craved her to get me from my case, so that he would feel my glass like finish striking his bare flesh, exciting him and bringing him close to the orgasms that he knew always followed my pain. He did not only reach his orgasms when I was used but somehow those after me were always stronger.
Then came the day the woman punished him in a way that hurt me. After he had been tending her garden he had entered the house to receive a telephone call, in his haste he had not removed his shoes and dirt had been dropped on the floor. When she saw this she became outraged and she vowed to teach him a lesson that would never be forgotten.
After she had left him standing, as was her way before any punishment, she took me from my case and covered me in dirt from his shoes. I was then used in the manner for which I was made. For 100 strokes I was repeatedly swung back and forth it was the first time I heard him scream for her to stop, but this was one time when only an absolute safe word would save him. He would never do that to her.
After his punishment he took me back to where I was always taken to be polished. The man wiped the dirt from my blade and from the handle. A tear fell from his eye as he surveyed the damage caused by the soil on the polished wood. he called out to the woman to tell her he did not think that the scratches would be removed and I knew I would no longer ever shine like I had just hours before.
When she saw the chipped and shattered polish she told the man to strip. I could sense this was not part of some scene and something was truly bothering them both.
For the first time in over 20 years that I had been used, she had lost control. No longer was I the instrument of love and the toy of passion. She vowed that never again would such craftsmanship be used in such a heartless and uncaring way.
I had reached the end of my usefulness and she told him that as she had caused such pain and suffering with something that had enabled so much love between them it was time to let it go.
Together they made a pile of wood and I was placed on top. From whence I came now I was returning. Years before the man had rescued me from a fire and now he has placed me in one.
Ironically, it is now, in these last seconds it all becomes so clear to me. Pain is not only about hate. Love is not all about joy. BDsM is not all about………
©AJ Hawley-Thomas 1 September 2007
