Plump, sweet and begging for cream

Kyle

Opening the front door of your apartment, you bumped into Mr. Perfection returning from his morning run. His skin glistened with sweat in the dim hallway light and a sweet smile lingered on his lips, the one he shows only to you.

"Oh, hi! How was your run?" you ask, letting him in. Listening to his answer, you bend down to put on your shoes, and a sharp pain shoots across your forehead. You wince, but keep fumble with your shoe laces.

"Everything okay?" Kyle asks, stopping in the middle of his story about a lady chasing a loose dog at the park he went running today.

Straightening up, you give him a meak smile.

"Yeah, I just didn't get enough sleep. I have to go to work now". You reach for your usual morning kiss, but at the last moment remember about your illness and pull away, not wanting Kyle to catch it from you too. "Have a good day".

He grasps your wrist with lightning speed, jerking your body into a his, giving you a hug. His lips pressed to your forehead, and you melt from the care in this gesture, something you're not used to.

"You're burning. And not from how much you love seeing me sweaty and out of breath. You're sick".

"It's just a cold, Kyle. I took my meds, I'll put on a mask, and lock myself in my office so I don't infect anyone. Everything will be fine".

"No". The tone cuts off any objections.

Kyle takes your bag from your shoulder and, ignoring your feeble resistance, pulls you deeper into the apartment, stripping you of your "street" clothes along the way. It's not like this is the first time. Only now, the scattered pieces of your attire on the floor don't tell a story of uncontrollable passion. Especially when you’re dressed in your pajamas and tucked back to bed.

"Kyle, I have to go to work".

"No. You need to rest and recover".

"But".

"I'll take care of everything. Give me a few minutes, I'll hop in the shower and then I’ll take care of you, my little snotty princess".

Johnny

"Lass? Where do you think you're going?" His sleepy face pops out of the bedroom door, and the rest of him follows. In all his glory. Uncovered. Nothing in the world would make this man sleep wearing clothes. Or even underwear. You know for sure. You've tried.

Feeling your cheeks flush, and not from the fever, you look away, continuing to pack your bag for work.

"I told you, Johnny, I'm working today".

Shuffling his bare feet across the floor, he sleepily approaches you, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pressing his cheek to the top of your head. The man is a living furnace and his body radiates such warmth, that you give in, exhausted from fighting the chills.

"Mm, hen, you're so hot".

"Johnny, please, we don’t have time for this, I'll be late". You weakly struggle, trying to break free from the trap of his arms. To no avail.

"No, lass, I'm serious. Do you have a fever?"

Johnny turns you to face him with one deft movement, making your vision blur and your head spin. A warm palm covers your forehead. His other hand touches his own, comparing.

"No, you're not going anywhere today".

"But I need".

Before you can finish your sentence, Johnny throws you over his shoulder, leaving you hanging upside down just centimeters away from his firm ass. If you weren't so weakened by the cold, you wouldn't have been able to resist and would have at least tried to sink your teeth into his juicy flesh. But not today.

You land softly on your back on the bed. The contact with the mattress causes something inside your chest to shift, and you burst into a wet cough.

"And she was planning on going out somewhere today", Johnny mutters, handing you a paper napkin. While you catch your breath, he expertly strips off all your clothes—all your clothes—and covers you with a blanket, ignoring all your attempts to reason with him.

"Now be a good hen, and call your boss and tell him you're not coming to work today, while I make you some tea. Then I'll help you sweat the fever out—they say it helps with a cold".

Simon

He knows you're sick even before you wake up. Observant, as always, of any changes in your behavior. A slight whistle with every inhale, a louder snore on the exhale, increased sweating, and generally more restless sleep. He gently brushes his lips against your forehead, confirming his suspicions – you have a fever.

Unbelievably quiet for a man his size, he gets out of bed and grabs your phone from the nightstand. Going into the other room, he turns off all your alarms and calls your boss. The call ends in less than a minute.

Back in bed, Simon holds you tightly, robbing you of the chance to escape.

A couple of hours later you open your eyes, struggling. This morning, sleep refuses to let you out of its clutches. Or maybe this it’s not sleep, but just your enormous boyfriend pinning you to the bed with his body? Ignoring the suspicious pain in your throat, you reach for your phone to check the time. 9.14 am. You were supposed to be at work by 8 am.

You jump up in bed, your heart pounding, wondering why didn't you hear your alarm and why don't you have any missed calls from your angry boss.

But getting Simon Riley's enormous bulk off of you without a crane is simply physically impossible.

"Simon, wake up, I overslept, I need to go", you're pleading, trying to move his arm from your torso. To no avail.

Woke by your struggles, Simon gives you one look that makes you suddenly freeze in place, waiting to his reply.

"You're sick and you're not going anywhere until you get better".

"I'm gonna get fired…"

"You have three days off".

"What?"

"Called while you were asleep. You're on sick leave for three days. Paid".

Your eyes widened in shock, and you couldn't help but gasp.

"How did you do that!?"

"Asked politely".

You roll your eyes, knowing perfectly well what Simon’s "asking politely" sounds like. You don't know how he does it, but something in his voice makes people obey without question. You know it better than others.

"Meds on the nightstand. Take it".

Glancing at the bedside table, you notice a cup of water and a blister pack of medicine. Simon watches you, unblinking, as you swallow the pill. As soon as you put the cup back, he grabs you with one hand and pulls you close.

"Sleep".

And what else can you do? There's something in his voice that makes people obey. Without question. And you know it better than others.

John

You wake up alone in bed, which is unusual. It's much brighter outside than it should be, since you woke up before your alarm. Lifting your heavy head from the pillow, you look around for your phone, but it's nowhere to be found.

Rising from your bed, all weak and dizzy, you go on your wobbly legs to look for your husband. Maybe John took your phone to make a call? He always does that because he forgets to charge his own.

In the kitchen, you finally see him. Lazily dipping a tea bag into a mug, he's actually talking to someone. You move closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek to his shoulder. He stops the conversation to kiss the top of your head. Drowsy, clearly with a fever, you can barely concentrate on the conversation. Only when you hear your name are you finally awake enough to comprehend human speech again.

"She's not coming today. I don't know, Bob, maybe because she's sick?"

You look up at him with horror in your eyes, silently begging him to stop and let you talk to your own boss instead. John ignores your plea, soothingly stroking your back and looking away.

"It's not her problem. Find a replacement".

You hold your breath, dreading the conversation you'll have with your boss at your next meeting.

"Human resources management is the boss’ responsibility. If you can't handle employee getting sick, you might not be suited for the position".

Goosebumps ran up your arms. John had various "voices". Sometimes his quiet, affectionate "sweetheart" would make your knees buckle and your head spin. His equally quiet, yet threatening "Don't" would stop fights that seemed inevitable. You dreaded to imagine what happened to those who experienced the full force of his scream. But most of all, you didn't envy those he spoke to in that dry, bureaucratic language.

The even tone, the dry, formulaic phrases, the deceptive calm that hid a fiery tornado, ready to engulf any fool who stood in his way. It was the ultimate sign of disrespect, or even disgust. Worse than a spit in the face. Worse than direct threats or insults.

But you knew your boss; he didn't have the brainpower to grasp the gravity of what was happening. An irritated grumble came from the phone. John grimaced, pulling the phone away from his ear.

"I don't think it's good for my wife to work for such an idiot. We'll pick up her things and her check on Monday".

Without listening to the rest of the stream of insults, John hung up and finally looked at you. Smiling softly and brushing a strand of hair from your sweat-dampened forehead, he said,

"We'll find you a more suitable job. One where you and your talents are valued. Or maybe it's better for you to stay home. All this stress is taking a toll on you; you're catching colds more often now".

"John, we've already discussed this. I can't just live off of your money. I'm an independent woman and I want to earn my own".

"Of course, sweetheart, I don't doubt you at all. But I want to remind you that you have an option. Just don't forget that".

You still had plenty of little barbs and big objections left in store. After all, you had just lost your job because of him. But they all stuck in your throat as John kissed you tenderly, holding you tightly.

"Now let's get you back to bed. Your cold will drag on if you continue to stand on your feet".

Nikolai

"I told you not to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. If you'd stayed home, you wouldn't have caught it".

The words were harsh, but the tone was soft, accompanied by the gentle touch of a damp towel to your burning forehead.

Yes, you're sick. Like a complete loser, you caught some nasty virus in the middle of summer. You just wanted to enjoy the warm summer sun. Who knew it would rain? There wasn't a cloud in the sky that morning.

"Now I'll have to take the day off and spend the whole day at home caring for my sick wife", he said, wiping your neck.

"Nik, it's just a cold, not tuberculosis", you muttered hoarsely, throwing your head back, giving him more access to your skin. "I'll sleep feel better right away. Don't sit too close, you might catch it".

"Quiet, solnyshko. Save your throat and let your man take care of you".

Obediently falling silent, you relaxed, watching his measured movements. Throwing back the blanket, he began wiping your chest, paying far more attention to your nipples than to the areas that truly needed wiping.

Suddenly he stopped, the gentle smile fading from his lips. Looking you in the eyes, with all the seriousness in his voice Nikolai could muster, he said in Russian:

"А если еще раз вздумаешь мне перечить и попытаешься снова подняться с кровати, я тебя к ней привяжу и не стану отвязывать, даже чтобы тебя в туалет сводить".* Even though you didn't understand a word, you still got the message—something bad would happen if you didn't obey. You nodded silently in response, indicating the hint had been taken and no further explanation was needed.

"That's papa's good girl", Nikolai drawled in a satisfied voice. The towel slid down to your lower abdomen. "Now spread your legs and let me clean you up. But let's make some mess first".

*"And if you dare to disobey me again and try to get out of bed, I’ll tie you down and won't let you go even to use the bathroom".

König

If you weren't so weak from the fever, you would’ve laughed at the irony of it all. You, tied to a bed in a dark, damp basement, and he, the biggest man you'd ever seen, your kidnapper, hiding his face behind a strange looking hood-mask. And of the two of you, you weren't the one shaking in fear.

There was even something endearing about how big and scary Kidnapper was terrified of your cold. Maybe he was a germophobe and scared of catching it? Or afraid the illness would kill you and he'd have to find a new victim?

"Nein, nein, nein, mein Schatz, das kannst du nicht. Was soll ich denn tun?"* he muttered in German, walking around the room. His pacing quickly made you feel nauseous, and you sank back into the pillows, shielding your eyes from the bright fluorescent lights.

You already knew he could stay like this for hours, but you couldn't bear it. Sure, a simple airway infection could easily develop into deadly pneumonia in a damp basement without proper ventilation, but you weren't ready to give in to a bunch of germs after everything you'd already been through.

"Hey", you muttered hoarsely, but he didn't hear. You shouted louder, finally making him stop and look at you. Panic swirled in his pale blue eyes. "Hey, it's just a cold. I need to stay in a well-ventilated room, get some sleep, drink some fluids, and take some meds if my fever gets too high. It's not the end of the world".

He didn't answer. He continued to stare at you, frozen, panicking internally. Like a deer running out in front of a huge truck in the middle of a busy highway and frozen in the headlights.

"Listen to me", you said slowly, trying to sit up in bed, which wasn't easy considering your hands were handcuffed to the headboard. The bedframe creaked with your movements, and it helped bring König out of his stupor. "You need to take me upstairs now. I can't stay in the basement; the air will make me sick here".

"But you…"

"I won't run away. Tie me to the bed. I'm too weak to try anyway".

"Okay", he replied after a few minutes. "But you have to swear you won't try to escape. Because if you do, I'll have to catch you and break your legs, and I don't want to hurt you".

The threat would have been more convincing if not for his pleading tone. The only thing missing was a drawn-out "please".

After settling you down on the bed in his own bedroom, he chained you to the bed, yanking it several times with all his strength to make sure it’s properly secured. 

If someone had told you a month ago that four weeks later you'd be teaching the guy who kidnapped you how to care for someone with a cold, you’d have burst out laughing at the absurdity of the idea. But here you are. Dictating what medicines to buy, what food to cook, telling him to take you to the bathroom when you need it.

König is nearby. He's always there. He never leaves your side, shaking every time you sneeze or cough. He checks your temperature every 15 minutes and practically forces chicken soup down your throat. He just wants you to get well soon, because the mere thought of you suffering is enough to drive your captor crazy.

*"No, no, no, Precious, you can't. What am I supposed to do?"

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