This gorgeous story about caring kink and a Plague Doctor mask is written by The Queer Earthling, and read aloud here by My Wild Lens. Content note: this story features intense impact, COVID-19 mentions, D/s dynamics including “Daddy”, and medical play (kinda).
It’s my metamour’s fault, really. He’s the one who asked Damien to take a picture in their plague doctor outfit, so he could use it as a desktop wallpaper.
Or maybe it’s Damien’s fault, for buying a plague doctor mask in the first place. They’ve always liked them, but right now, in a time of pestilence and fear, a lot of people are buying them, and Damien was inspired to join that particular long-distance party. It’s a certain dark humor, a certain nod to history, a certain acknowledgment of the weirdness of 2020.
Whoever’s fault it is, the fact remains that I was helping Damien with their costume. I woke with my hip hurting, and I could stand but didn’t really like walking right now. That was fine. I didn’t need to do a lot. I handed them things, adjusted other things.
The mask is not very authentic—it’s a little bit steampunk, a little bit industrial. So we didn’t try to dress them like a Renaissance gentleman, but we could still give them a look that worked. Black pants, back shirt, black jacket, black tie. They looked, at this stage, like an expensive executive, the kind you find in shitty erotica novels on Kindle. There’s a reason that’s such a trope, of course. Money is power. Damien looked powerful.
They are powerful, but they looked it, too.
We’d had our first spanking in a while, recently. It was good. It was gentle. They’d held my hand and coaxed me through it. We’d picked out the toys together, to be sure I could handle it. They left me marks, not for the pain but for the reminder that I was theirs and I was safely, securely in their care.
I’d spent the last month or so in a haze of indifference with regard to both kink and masturbation, in practice. I’d bought myself a high-powered wand to try to generate some interest. That worked, a little, but I was even more pleased that it made the whole thing efficient. I could respond to my body’s needs without having to expend any real mental energy or time. I’d written kinky smut for my own enjoyment, and it was decent, but applying any of it to my physical body, to reality…no. I wasn’t interested, except the bare minimum demanded by my body, which didn’t understand my mental lethargy and refused to comply with it.
So that spanking session marked something of a turning point. I felt close and so very submissive to Damien. And I felt connected to my body for the first time in forever. I had marks. They didn’t hurt anymore, but in some lights I could still see them, and they made me smile. And they made me remember how much I loved this.
Here they were, looking powerful, partway through their transformation from soft, goofy, pajama-clad Daddy Bear to…something else.
As they slipped their feet into black boots, I said, casually, too casually, “So, how about we take those pictures, and then you drag me back in here and spank me until I cry?”
Their face still visible, they could give me a smirk. “Maybe,” they said, and put on black gloves.
Then they donned the mask, crowlike and expressionless. All that remained of Damien, suddenly, was a fluff of pink hair, which they quickly covered with a hat.
They looked perfectly androgynous. They looked strong. They looked eerie and mysterious. They looked potentially terrifying. They were a doctor and they could care for me, but they could also destroy me if they wanted, and show no expression on their face.
Why did I want that? But I did.
The mask does not allow much visibility, but it was enough. They found the cane they wanted to use, and a red rose, and we went into our tiny little apartment backyard. No one walked the path behind it, and no one could be heard in any of the other yards. Everyone stays inside now, as much as possible. Sometimes a kid will ride by on her bike, or a neighbor will walk his dog, but not that day. That day it was just me, and the Plague Doctor.
They struck a pose, and I shot. And then another, and I shot again. Each photo felt easy and natural. I am not a great photographer of people—I never quite know how to direct them, and they never seem to know how to aim themselves at the camera, and usually I take dozens of photos for three usable ones. But now it all felt natural. Every angle they held themselves was perfect. Every pose they struck worked. With a pedestrian backdrop of a worn fence and some marigolds, they looked like something—part person, part creature, part something that defied explanation—that both did not belong and yet fully owned their surroundings.
I wanted that, too.
I don’t know if there’s a word for it, the desire for kink. It’s not lust. It’s a drive, but it’s not quite sex drive. My dynamic is nonsexual. I didn’t want them to fuck me—or if I did, that was incidental, unimportant. I wanted to hurt. No, I wanted them to hurt me. And I didn’t want the gentleness, the hand-holding, the “there there, it’s okay, you can cry, sweetie.” I wanted to be fucking ruined.
The photoshoot ended, and we went in to look at the results. They were perfect. The hardest thing would be choosing which one to send to Metamour.
“I guess we should help you out of that,” I said, because it was a warm day, and they were wearing several layers of heavy black.
“Nope.” They brought me into the bedroom. “Get undressed now,” they said.
I’d said it too casually. They know me too well—even from under a mask.
Usually, we plan our scenes out, at least a little, often a day in advance. We know what toys we’ll use. We know what feelings we want. I’ve told them before, months or centuries ago, that sometime I’d love if they just sprang it on me, just chose the toys, just did whatever they wanted. They know how to check in, and I know how to use my words and my safe word. It would be safe, and we both knew it. It never really happened, though, for reasons outside of our control.
“Lay on the bed,” they said. “Face down.”
I did as they said, my arms folded under my head. I watched as they went—slowly, slowly—to the impact toys hanging on the wall. We had not discussed what toys to use, and they didn’t ask me. A black gloved hand picked through them, touching, toying, testing. And I was left to wonder and guess, each time they touched a toy and chose it, or dismissed it. Would I be cuffed? Yes? No? Would they use the homemade flogger? The evil wooden spoon? A paddle?
Somehow, despite watching, I missed what toys they chose until they came to my side. One was the paddle. The paddle is our gentlest toy, more sound than sensation, for the most part. It’s reliable and gentle, and takes a while to build pain. They can control it like an extension of their body.
The other toy was our bullwhip. It is not a kind toy.
“I’ll take my mask off for the whip,” they said. “But I can leave it on for this.”
The paddle came down onto my bare skin.
And I yelped.
It was not gentle. It was not a slow build. It cracked down on my ass, and it hurt. The Plague Doctor was not here to tenderly build pain into a crescendo.
“Will this cure me, Doctor?” I asked, breathlessly, and I still don’t know if it was a joke or if part of me really thought some ancient, nonexistent steampunk plague doctor had come to give me their harshest treatments.
“Oh, yes, Miss,” said the Plague Doctor, with Damien’s voice. “This will cure everything that ails you.”
I was breathing hard, like I might at the end of an intense scene, and this had only just begun.
They struck again. And again. The spanking stretched into eternity. I could feel heat over my skin, the warmth I’d been craving. They brought it down on one of those affectionate marks from our last session, and I cried out.
They touched my back, gently. “You’re okay,” they said. “Relax. You’re okay.” They were the expert, so I relaxed…marginally.
They gave me a moment, and I know they were waiting for a safe word, or a request. I gave none. I hurt. I felt good. I wanted, needed more.
I remember reading once that plague doctors staffs were used partly to examine, partly to beat plague victims so they would make amends for their sins and, perhaps, be spared by a vengeful God. I don’t know if that’s true, but I said something about being a repentant sinner, and they laughed.
They took off their mask then, or they must have. I wasn’t watching. Their vision in the mask isn’t great at the best of times, and while the paddle is easy to control, the whip is not. They put the hat back on—the brim would protect their eyes if something went wrong with the whip. It didn’t matter what they wore. Mask or not, they were still the Plague Doctor.
We’ve tried normal medical play before, and I like it, but we always end up giggling a little, and unsure what to do next. It’s fun, and it’s silly, and it scratches a certain itch of mine. And we’ve done medieval and fantasy inspired scenes before. But this, this was different. This was all of those things, and this was none of those things. There was none of the laughing self-consciousness. There was just the Plague Doctor, and me.
The whip cracked down, and it was like a spark of cold flame on my bare and helpless skin. I can’t describe the noises I made, the way my legs kicked up.
“I’ll hold those down if you don’t,” they said, and brought the whip down again.
They did not stop after a few, like they usually do. They kept going, raining down pain. Sometimes they looped it so that they could smack me with the braid rather than the cracker. Mostly, though, they used the whip as a whip. It cracked, again and again, sound and pain all distinct and yet becoming one tangled mess in my mind.
It was a thousand fiery kisses. It was a thousand loving torments. I took as much as I could bear—until, suddenly, finally, it was too much.
“Red, red, red, red,” I gasped, clutching the comforter with shaky hands.
“Shh, shh,” said Damien, in the Plague Doctor’s voice, in their own voice. Their gloved hand was on my back, impossibly gentle. “You only have to say it once. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
They pulled a soft blanket over my skin and got me a lollipop.
“Every doctor visit should end with a lollipop,” they said.
“Even a Plague Doctor visit?” My voice was thin and weak. I was distant and drowsy. I was a little horny, but too worn out to care, and that was good, too. I was teary-eyed. I was smiling.
“Especially a Plague Doctor visit.”
Later, when my mind was less fuzzy, after we’d eaten a real meal in bed, I got up again. To my amused surprise, the hip pain I’d woken up with was gone. I felt renewed. I was obediently submissive, and small, and full of joy. I craved kink again, like I used to. I even masturbated later, and took my time.
The Plague Doctor had cured me.