Souvenir Paddles

Souvenir Paddles

I’d passed this place several times in the past. As a traveling factory rep, I had occasion to find myself in this part of the state, perhaps every six months, or so.

This time, I had some time to kill — actually the rest of the day free — and yielded to my curiosity, pulling into the gravel parking lot spanning the front of the building.

The building itself was old and made of concrete block. With windows fronting the store, it looked like it had once been a market — IGA, or whatever.

The sign read, “General Store” with another, smaller sign that read, “Everything from scoop to nuts” hanging below it. I have always enjoyed digging through such a place, looking for that gem that could never be found in a Wal-Mart or Kmart.

As I parked, I noticed that the place was virtually deserted. My car was the only one in the lot and I assumed that employees must park behind the building.

Entering the store, I was charmed by the sound of tinkling bells which announced my entrance to the proprietress, an attractive lady, maybe forty years old, standing behind a sales counter, looking in my direction to see who had rung the bells.

I smiled at her and told her that I just wanted to browse. Not waiting for an answer, I took a quick turn down an aisle and was soon focused on the outstanding collection of eclectic merchandise, putting the lady out of my mind.

Although I was entertained by the variety of bric-a-brac and toys, camping gear and fishing tackle, pet food and horse tack, I’d not found anything to truly appeal to my taste. Until I wandered into the souvenir section.

Immediately I thought back to years past when I’d stop at a Stuckey’s for breakfast and look, always, for the souvenir paddles. They’d always have several choices, all highly varnished, each displaying its saucy message; “Apply To The Seat Of Learning”, “For Naughty Boys”, and so on.

I guess that, as political correctness took hold and ‘spanking’ fell out of fashion, the chain chose to discontinue sales of the paddles and they’d all but become a thing of the past.

Here, though, was a display of perhaps twenty different paddles, all identical in shape and size, all with the highly-varnished finish, all thin and, I imagined perfectly suited to sting and burn a naughty male’s posterior.

Without volition I found myself reaching out and picking up one of the paddles. I could feel my heart pounding and my penis stirred in my trousers, aroused by my immediate fantasy of a stern, strict woman applying this very same paddle to my bared bottom.

Holding the paddle by the handle end, as if I was preparing to use it, I tapped it against the palm of my left hand. As I tap, tap, tapped my palm, I drew a mental picture of removing my clothes, preparing myself for a severe paddling by this woman who was prepared to fulfill my fantasies.

I’d been so absorbed in my thoughts, I’d not noticed the shopkeeper’s approach until she was standing next to me.

“You’re not the first to find themselves standing before these paddles. Many travelers have told me that they’ve not seen these for sale for years. When he was still alive, my husband bought a close-out crate of 1,000 of these and I’ve been selling them ever since.

“We liked using them ourselves. We didn’t have children, but my husband, like most men, was part man and part little boy. I found it satisfying to strip him naked and paddle his bubble butt until my arm was tired, his bottom was bright red, his face covered in tears, and his chest heaving from his sobs.

“After this spanking, I’d have him kneel in front of me and give me pleasure with his mouth. I adored the feeling of his tears on my thighs as he licked me and between my cheeks as he rimmed my butt hole.

“His erection would pulse throughout these activities, dripping a steady stream of pre-cum as evidence of his approval of my methods.

“When I’d had enough of his devotions, I’d have him beat off and ejaculate on my ass-crack. After he had cum, two things would happen. First, he knew that he was to clean up his mess – with his tongue, licking the semen from my crack and swallowing every drop.

“Secondly, and this is the truly wicked part, he knew that after he was done licking me clean, he would be bent over for another paddling. Coming so soon after his first paddling, and immediately after his orgasm, this paddling was exponentially more painful.

“He would cry. He would beg. He would sob like a little boy. And, I would paddle harder and faster. After he’d been reduced to a pitiful state of sobbing and crying, I’d cease, pulling his tear-stained face between my thighs once again, eager to feel the slickness of his tears on my skin and the devoted worship of his tongue in my vulva.”

While this woman spoke, I wondered how she knew. How she knew that I would approve of her story. I suddenly felt the tightness behind my zipper and realized that my erection was pressing against my fly, wanting to escape. Wanting attention. Wanting to be the cock in the story she’d told.

“Look at me.”

Her voice was feminine and commanding both. I felt compelled to turn my head to look her in the face and did so, shuddering as I looked into the depths of her eyes, feeling that she owned me.

“I want to use the paddles on your ass. I want to make you cry. I want to make you cum. I want to have you serve me — front and rear.

“If this is what you want, you need to say only two words — ‘yes ma’am.’ Nothing more. Is this what you want?”

“Yes, ma’am.”