She and I went grocery shopping the other day.
Last year during COVID when everyone in the state was locked down, Amanda obsessed about protecting us from the virus, cocooning the two of us with the fierce intensity of a mother hen.
One outcome was that we, like many people, ordered our groceries to be delivered. Delivery offered Amanda a brief opportunity in executing my slavery — a dominant pleasure in deciding how I’d be dressed or not as I received the groceries from the delivery man on the front porch.
For some reason she never rendered me bare-breasted for these deliveries, just braless, as I always am, and collared and high-heeled. I suppose it didn’t make sense to hide my face behind a mask while exposing my boobs to the contamination of the pandemic. Mind you, this was a time when we were washing our groceries, when it was thought that the surface of a bottle of Heinz ketchup could be hosting a swarm of COVID critters. I suppose they could just as easily transfer themselves and latch onto my tits. (I wouldn’t have minded if Mistress would suds me up and wash me down along with the other melons we ordered. But that never happened.)
It was the same deliveryman most times, a kid young enough to be my son, and by his second delivery, he was wanting to engage me in conversation — though I’m pretty sure not for his keen interest in my intellectual attributes.
That was then. Now we are opened up again —at least for a while — and we are going to the grocery store. And it seems our local Safeway is now a brand new playground for Mistress A.
Amanda of late has bought me several very short skater skirts, as well as a few sheer tops with various degrees of transparency. This is the “McKenna” look for me, which Amanda has taken a cue from. The advantage of this “fashion trend” is that she can show a lot of my girl-flesh without getting me arrested.
And as such, I went grocery shopping with her the other day.
The new wrinkle is that she attached small clips to my labia, bearing thin jewelry chains hanging down, joined onto a small metal ball. Where she gets this stuff, I don’t know.
When she attached them to my pussy lips, they pinched, but then didn’t hurt so much as their presence spread into a numbness, like a local anesthetic. This is what every woman wants — her sex being numbed beyond feeling.
Yet I could feel the weight of the ball dangling down, its tug and sway as I pushed the grocery cart.
The chains and ball hung down to just within an inch of my skater skirt hem. Mistress says next time she’ll lengthen the chains so that the ball hangs below the hem and is visible to others.
So, apparently, this is the new thing.