She Said Yes - a Covid-19 Story

She Said Yes -- a Covid 19 story Ch. 11

By Pat Annon © 2021

(All characters are over 18 years old. They have no memory of anything that may or may not have happened before their eighteenth birthday. All sex acts depicted are consensual, including those involving BDSM.)

Amanda and I enjoy coffee and quiet conversation. Monday morning she observed that most people in our neighborhood are wearing masks all the time, even while jogging. She said she has little fear of the virus because everyone cooperates. I might wish my fear of what was coming could be so allayed.

I watch more TV news than she does. "It's not like that everywhere. Even though the numbers have come down, it's still really bad."

We reaffirmed our commitment to our little Covid bubble, at least until there is a vaccine. I have extended unemployment and Amanda's income from online work is increasing. Yesterday, Julie began her quarantine after her sister's wedding. She's not here for another ten days, but will return to us.

This pandemic has been oddly good for me. Julie has changed my imagination and sexual fantasies. Her enthusiasm for life is beautiful. She is free. And she has given me a whole new attitude of respect for women: an attitude that values listening, caring, and loving. She freed me from myself, my solipsistic prison.

I was my own worst enemy when it came to relationships. Julie showed me how to get out of the way; how to be a partner in pleasure, how to have fun together with another. Covid brought Julie to me.

But first, Covid brought Amanda into my condo. Even after months of daily contact, Amanda's presence here with me feels like a dream. Some mornings I wake fearing today is the day she will leave. I know it will happen. I count every moment she is here as precious. Between Amanda's efforts to help me live a purposeful life and Julie's gift of freedom, I have been blessed by this Covid lockdown.

At least once a day I have to resist the temptation to kneel before Amanda, kissing her shoe or her toes. But that is not our relationship. When I committed to a day of chastity, she let me kiss her foot as a seal for my commitment. I took those moments seriously as I worked at living purposefully with less impulsiveness.

Some mornings, when I am not caught up in fear of abandonment, I wonder about the combination of freedom and obedience. I think about being free and getting out of my own way. I wonder what it would be like to let go and be wholly obedient to Amanda. Some mornings I think about giving her the key to my freedom and letting her decide. But then I feel the need to masturbate. Without the cage, I find this impulse impossible to resist, usually twice a day.

Over our morning coffee, Amanda told me a former client has asked for a custom video. She said he's into CP, but his butt has a hard time cashing the checks his fantasies write. "He asks for a hard spanking, but the reality draws a safe word."

In any case, he has this fantasy about being caned. He thinks he wants a judicial caning. Amanda has told him he would have a hard time with a nursery cane. Like me, he has yet to experience cane.

Still, to feed his fantasy as an online client, Amanda planned this video for him: a submissive, caned for the very first time, describes the experience as it happens, what it feels like, the fear, the pain, the anticipation, the dread before the next stroke. This is exactly the kind of video that will keep her client coming back for more.

Of course, Amanda has thought of a candidate for the video. "I don't believe I've ever used a cane on you, have I?"

"I've never been caned by anybody."

"I have a project that could use your inexperience. I want to make a video where we talk about your very first caning as it happens. But, of course, you would have to be up for it."

"I have to want to be caned?"

"Or at least act like it."

"Is this an important client?"

"He's been with me longer than you have. He can be flaky, sometimes disappearing for months. But he shows up on time when he makes an appointment. He put down a big deposit for this custom video. I need someone, someone Covid safe, someone who has never received a serious caning."

"Well, of course you do. And it would seem I'm just the man for you. What do I need to do to get ready?"

"Oh, nothing at all. We will use the pony as a caning horse -- Don't look that concerned -- It's not to ride, but to bend over. We will pad it so it can support you comfortably. If I need to, I can tie you down. That way you can enjoy the cane without worrying about staying in position."

"Enjoy the cane?

"Clients do come back so they must. I know I enjoy delivering one. I love the feel of the cane in my hand as it whips the air. I love the marks I make when it strikes. I take pride in well striped flesh. I love the sounds the cane makes and the distress of the client. I love the delicious suffering after I deliver a perfect stroke. I wait for it. I prolong it, the suffering, that is. I love the after glow of fear as I prepare to bring the next one. I like deciding where I will strike, then striking, then enjoying the moment. It is all good."

"For you, maybe."

"No, I think for both. There is the act of submission, the acceptance of imminent, awful pain at my hand. I feel the client's love and devotion. I am gratified by their fear, terror, and trust in me. I know the client's need for the caning to end, and the shear will power it takes for it to continue. I know their desire; the power of my will overcoming theirs. I give them a reason to live, stroke after stroke. And they love it. They come back for more."

"I've never been caned."

"You've never been properly whipped either."

"When you put it like that, there is so much to look forward to," I joked.

"Riding a wooden pony wasn't part of your expectation, but now, don't you have a secret desire to ride again?"

"Um, not today, but someday."

"Exactly my point. Experiences like that become fantasies you want to do again."

"What I might want, what I covet, is to see you aroused by my predicament. Watching you watch me on the horse by myself was stunning."

"You noticed, did you?"

"Hard to miss."

"I did enjoy being close, watching you ride, feeling your struggles, twisting the clamps. It was like foreplay to the thrilling moment your will was crushed by my pony. I haven't been that aroused by a submissive in a long time. You reminded me what I miss about having in-person sessions."

"Yeah, well..."

"Online sessions are basically work without reward, except the money. It's more like a job than a calling. Some in-person sessions are also just work, but, every now and then, someone comes along who reminds me why I got into this in the first place."

So, just like that, my first caning is planned without a set date. I don't look forward to it. Still, Amanda needs a bottom for a caning video and the bottom is going to be mine. I have my concerns, but just imagine if I was able to arouse Mistress Amanda once again. I can fantasize about suffering at her hand and being broken by her will. But mostly, my newest fantasy is to give my body for her desire. Amanda is precious to me. I long to suffer for her pleasure, perhaps like the heroine who succumbs to Count Dracula's bite.

Julie and I have been texting. She said she had a good time at the wedding rehearsal. She really liked teasing her new brother-in-law. I'm sure he appreciated what we all appreciate about Julie. I might guess he wondered if he picked the right sister. Julie can be enticing. I want to see her in her bridesmaid dress.

When I texted her about the coming video, she said, "Fear the cane. Amanda knows how to use it. You will be in a world of pain."

What a comforting thought: a world of pain. Then she texted: "You don't want to miss out." Then, a little later, "This can be an experience we share in quarantine. I've been caned by Amanda. You and I can compare notes."

What a great idea," I texted. I was being sarcastic. I know some people make a fetish of the cane. I am not one of them. But if Mistress Amanda believes she needs a bottom to be caned, I'm her man. If in the process I bring her joy, more's the better.

I may not have been caned, but I have been paddled and paddled hard. I've never asked to be caned or whipped because I like thud. I hate sting. I prefer a paddle, maybe a ruler paddle to warm up, followed by a sorority or spencer paddle. After about the seventh or eighth stroke, I know what to expect. If I can get to ten, I can accept the next twenty.

The thing is, I don't know if I can handle a real caning. Julie tells me the pain isn't manageable; it continues to crescendo. She says Amanda knows how to make it unbearable. In my opinion, that's the problem with sting. Instead of deep bruising, the skin and nerve endings keep coming back for more. Welts are not like bruises. I can take a beating, not a licking.

Before the pandemic, I sometimes asked to be paddled. One session in particular was memorable. It happened before a 500-mile car trip to visit my family on the other side of Iowa. I was to leave by 10:00 in the morning, getting there late enough to avoid at least one difficult conversation with my relatives at the dinner table.

I begged Mistress for an early morning CP session. I humbly requested that she leave me with something to think about while I was with my family over the Thanksgiving holiday. I knew she often worked late into the evening. The earliest she offered a session was noon. But I was persistent and she agreed to meet me at the dungeon at 8:30 on that Wednesday morning. "But it will cost you."

I brought a vanilla soy latte for her. Accepting the latte, my tribute and a gift of flowers from me was the only moment of grace she offered until the hug at the end of the hour. She beat my butt, stopping only to chastise or humiliate me. With the cherished hug at the end of the session she said, "You're going to have some really good marks that should last ten days." By the next morning, I was one continuous dark bruise across my butt and halfway down each thigh.

She made sure I was aware of how annoyed she was, getting up that early to be ready for me. Mistress understands everything I need. She wore a LBD, hair up, dangling earrings and makeup, like Breakfast at Tiffany's. After tying me down she took off the dress revealing a black lace bra and pants set. She acted as if she wanted to be more comfortable while beating me. But the heels, thigh-highs and garters stayed on so I knew it was just for me. Over the course of an hour, she led me through a journey of impossible punishment, glorious tease and deep humiliation.

I love when she pauses to pick up a new implement. She is so threatening; I get insecure all over again. Sometimes she stands next to me, leaning her leg against my head. She lets me feel her cool skin. When she paddles me, I get overheated. I tend to sweat profusely, especially on my back. "You are a soggy, sweaty slave, aren't you? And I got up early for this? Now I'm going to have to spend my precious time cleaning up after you. Count the next thirty for me."

In my favorite moment, one I shall never forget, Mistress deliver a series of very hard backhand strokes from my right side. She grunted with each stroke, "Just like Serena William's backhand," she said with a laugh.

The session was exactly what I needed: eight hours in the car, deeply bruised and on an endorphin high. The ride left me stiff, my backside sore. It was easy to ignore my brother's pronouncements on the state of the nation. I was in my own little world, obsessed with Mistress Amanda and struggling to remain seated on a hardwood chair.

While I think I can take a hard paddling, I am not at all confident I can handle a caning. If I have to safe-word, will it ruin the video for Amanda? I love her. I do not want to disappoint her, ever. Not for real, disappoint her, I mean. I know how often I am a disappointment. I frequently relapse into impulsive behavior. But I do my best for her, and she tells me she appreciates my efforts.

I've been watching YouTube videos on how to do a pedicure. While massaging Amanda's feet, I asked if she thought I might be able to give her one. I know she wants a pedicure, but, with the continuing shutdown, she doesn't have the opportunity. Her "We can try," answer encouraged me to do research. Maybe I can please her.

Maybe I can please Julie as well. Let me tell you the story of her last day with us before her sister's wedding rehearsal. She came over to spend the morning with us. On Thursday evening I put on the chastity cage as I prepared to give a foot massage to Amanda. Impulsively, I knew I wanted to wear it. Friday morning, I woke remembering Amanda's legs across my shoulder, her feet in my lap. I woke remembering how the cage restrained my erection and how good I felt massaging her feet. I woke, my cock still trapped in steel, my fantasies coupling freedom and submission. I did not submit to the impulse to unlock and jerk off. So, I was wearing the cage when Julie arrived on the Friday morning of the wedding rehearsal.

Amanda went to let her in at the door to the building downstairs. I waited at the table with my coffee in hand. This was the last time she would be with us for two weeks. Friday night the rehearsal, Saturday her sister's wedding, then ten days of quarantine.

Julie has lots of friends. I'm sure she will be entertained with calls and texts, just not in person. None of us look forward to solitary confinement, but Julie is prepared with everything she might need for two weeks alone.

Amanda said Julie has a surprise for me. I had no idea what it might be, but I looked forward to it. Sometimes I have wondered about the three of us: Is Julie Amanda's gift to me?

Julie blew into the room. She gave me a hug around my neck as I sat at the table. She whispered in my right ear, "I'm so ready for your cock. I won't get any good dick from my family, and there are no other guests. Yours will be the last real cock I get for two whole weeks. I hope it's ready for me."

She reached down while she was whispering and felt the steel cage I was wearing. "Oh goodness! You've kept it safe for me! We are going to have some fun unlocking it."

Amanda was next to us. She hugged us both, "My two pets, right here. I love you guys."

Well, this feel-good session didn't last long. Amanda led Julie to her bedroom, leaving me standing in the living room. I cleaned up the dishes and had the last of the coffee. Then I made my bed.

I decided it would be good to shower and shave before anything else might happen. My room looked good, the kitchen clean, I should look good and clean as well. I figured I would remove the cage, and thoroughly wash my prick and ass to be ready for whatever Julie's gift might be. I undressed and took the key into the shower, closing the sliding glass doors.

The water gets hot quickly in our building. It is easy to adjust the temperature. It felt good to stand with the warm stream on my scalp. Standing there, facing the shower head, letting the water spray on my forehead and face, I realized I was not alone in the bath. Julie was watching me.

Our eyes met, she, clothed in her usual dark leggings and loose top, me, naked except for the steel cage encasing my cock and balls. How often have I imagined a woman in the shower with me? This recurring fantasy, a woman steps into my shower as a substitute for my masturbation, has been with me forever. The two are linked; masturbation and a fantasy woman connected by my prick. I haven't imagined anything other than hands, hers or mine, on my prick in the shower. My fantasy was limited by my imagination until Julie gave me a blow job. I began imagining her sucking my cock in the shower. Still the center of attention was my prick.

I watched Julie undress, carefully slide the glass door aside, and step into my shower.

That last sentence is an entire paragraph unto itself. No, it is an entire chapter. Can you imagine a lifetime of fantasy become reality in one glistening, warm, wet moment? Julie, naked, stepped into my shower and kissed me.

She took my head in her hands and pulled my mouth to hers. Water poured over my shoulder and down between us. I hugged her tightly as her tongue once more explored mine. I pushed back a little, tentatively thrusting my tongue, touching her lips. She yielded to me, allowing our tongues to dance. I pressed my fingers against her back, moving in a slow massage.

Julie pushed me away and turned. I felt the curve of her bottom move across the cock cage as she leaned down to pick up the bar of soap. She began soaping her chest.

Her first words to me were, "Would you mind helping me with this?" With her butt teasing my caged prick, she held out the bar of soap over her shoulder. Teasing, she said, "I think my tits need a good cleaning this morning, would you mind?"

And just like that my whole shower fantasy changed. Whatever I imagined before became meaningless. I lathered my hands and ran them over her body. Her breasts, slick with soap, felt soft, round, sensual. I cupped them, gently lifting and squeezing them together. I felt their weight, running fingertips around areolas, pinching nipples until she reacted.

"More soap, more rubbing, please. I want squeaky clean tits." She leaned back against me. Now, I knew she was teasing. I didn't care.

I laughed with her and lathered again. This time my hands glided across her chest, on down her belly, and up her sides. May I say here and now there is no feeling like soaping a woman's body while she leans against you, water pouring down, steam rising. She pulled my hands back to her breasts as if she liked my hands there. It's hard for me to know whether this was true or not, but I complied. I lathered her chest, her hands on mine. Soap suds ran down to her feet.

"Yes, like that. I like my girls clean, don't you?"

There is this place on her sides, under her arms, where the firmness of Julie's ribcage transitions to the yielding flesh of her breasts. "I love this spot," I said in response. Turns out, it is where Julie is most ticklish. She moved, pulling my hands across, under her breasts.

I leaned back against the shower wall, letting the water rinse the soap from her. She turned to face me. I kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts. Her hands pressed down on my shoulders, I leaned down. Taking a nipple between my lips, I sucked, swirling my tongue around it. I went to my knees, my back to the shower, kissing her belly, warm water running down. I drank from the water.

I knelt, knees between her feet. She gave my lips, my tongue free rein. The stream of water, redirected by her chest, rained down over me. There was so much water. It became hard to breathe. Water-boarded in the shower, I sputtered but persevered. Holding my breath, I concentrated all my attention on her clit. I had to stop and turn away to take a breath. She laughed, but did not move.

Quite by chance, I discovered I could breathe through my nose if I pressed my forehead against her, forming an eddy in the stream of water enough to get air. I stayed like that, my tongue and lips on her clit, my face pressed against her. Her buttocks flexed; she leaned into me. The water stream changed, running over her head, down her back. I could breathe freely, allowing my tongue more opportunity to taste her.

And taste her I did. I felt really good about it. I ran my hands down the back of her thighs, firmly squeezing, massaging. I felt her thrust into my face. I sucked on her clit harder than before, I ran my tongue rather roughly over it. After a series of low throated moans, she pushed my head down and away. She stepped back from me. The full force of the shower flooded my upturned face. Again, I sputtered and choked. Again, she laughed. I stood up.