Bink Bonk Boink

Someday, you think to yourself, carefully feeling your way down the stairs on faith and muscle memory alone, unable to see past your overloaded laundry basket and your swollen belly, I’ll be rich, and then I can live in a flat with an in-unit washer and dryer. And that is the day I will finally be happy.

Laundry has always been your least favorite chore, but ever since you hit the four month mark of your pregnancy and blew up like a balloon, you’ve come to hate it with the fiery, burning passion of one thousand suns. If you never have to do a load of laundry again, it will be too soon.

It doesn’t help that your piece of shite ex up and ran the moment he found out you were pregnant. God forbid a grown man be faced with adult responsibilities instead of sitting on your couch, eating your food, and watching your telly all day, every day. Being single and pregnant was far from easy, but once the initial shock of it was over, you realized that you were glad he was gone. Never again would you tiptoe around your own flat whenever he was drunk, afraid of setting off his hair-trigger temper and taking a backhand to the face for it. Never again would you work three jobs just to support a lazy bum of a boyfriend. Never again would you let a man order you around in your own bloody home.

If you have a son, you’ll teach him to not just respect women, but cherish them. He’ll turn out nothing like his father, you’ll make sure of that.

Lost in thought, you miss the second-to-last step, and as you pitch forward, you see your life flash before your eyes. You drop your basket and wrap your arms around your belly, futilely trying to protect the little life inside you. But just before you hit the ground, two, huge hands appear out of nowhere and grab your hips, pulling you close so you break your fall against a broad, muscular chest instead of the unforgiving concrete floor.

The noise you let out is some amalgamation of a curse, a sob of relief, and a shriek of fear. The noise you get in response sounds like a yelp, a grunt, and a sneeze all at once. It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s just German.

The German hero is still talking, much too fast for your A-Level fluency to understand. As he sets you on your feet, you realize you’re shaking, and you clutch onto his beefy arm and dig your nails in, sure you’ll topple right over if he lets go. He goes still and stops talking, and for a long moment, you just listen to the pounding of blood in your ears as the adrenaline slowly fades from your body.

“God,” you whisper, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. You look up… and up… and up one more time, finally meeting the eyes of your hero. They are big, blue, and watery, framed by thin, sparse brows above, and a black scarf below, pulled up over his mouth and nose. It looks familiar, and you frown. “Did I drop my laundry on you?”

“Ah… nein,” the tall stranger says. Your neck is starting to hurt from how far back you’ve bent it, but you don’t dare brave the stairs again just to get up to his height. He looks down, and gestures at your feet, radiating awkwardness. “It is on the floor.”

You look down as well, and then groan. Your clothes are scattered all over the stairwell’s filthy landing, and you can only imagine how many germs are crawling all over them right now. At least they’re not clean… But you’re still going to have to struggle to get every single item back in the basket, without your stupidly large belly making you faceplant every time you bend over.

“I can help?” the German giant offers, his knees audibly popping as he folds his long legs in half and grabs the basket, holding it out to you. He tilts his head a little to the side in question, eyes skittering away from yours. “Yes?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, accepting the basket and tucking it under your arm. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. For this, and— well. Saving me and the little one.”

You caress your baby bump, feeling reassured when you feel a tiny kick. You gaze down at it with a soft smile.

“Mummy’s alright, sweetheart,” you tell your belly in a lilting voice. “The nice stranger caught us. How lucky we are, hmm?”

You look up, still smiling, only to find the man staring at you with wide eyes. You can’t read his expression very well with half his face covered, but he seems almost frightened. You raise a brow, and he ducks his head, quickly gathering several items of clothing and dumping them into the basket without looking at you. You shrug, and dismiss it as some weird German quirk.

A second later, he lets out an odd, choked sound, and you look at him to see him holding one of your nursing bras. Two months out from giving birth, and you’ve already started lactating. Your doctor reassured you that it’s normal, if rare—it just means that your body is ready to provide for your baby. Which would be great, if you didn’t have to manually pump twice a day to avoid sore, swollen breasts, clogged milk ducts, and leaky tits staining your favorite clothes.

On the plus side, you already have a big enough supply of frozen milk to last until your baby is six months old, so you’ll never have to worry about them going hungry. You do miss having space in your freezer for frozen pizzas, though…

The stranger deposits your bra in the basket, the skin just above the scarf a bright red. You press your lips together to keep from chuckling, unable to help but find his embarrassment endearing.

“You sure that’s not mine?” You ask, reaching out to tug on the end of his scarf, teasing him a little more. You don’t get out much nowadays, and it’s been quite awhile since you’ve gotten to engage in a bit of harmless flirting. The stranger shakes his head, quickly adjusting the scarf to make sure it doesn’t fall down.

“Nein, nein,” he says, scanning the ground hurriedly. He lets out a small, relieved noise, plucking a scrap of black fabric off your feet, where it had been hidden from you by your belly. It’s your scarf, identical to his own. He holds it up for you to see, looking nervous, like you’d truly believed he’d stolen from you. “See?”

You can’t contain your laugh this time, giggling as you take the scarf from his hand and drop it in the basket.

“Guess you’re not a thief, then,” you say with a wink. Then, because you’ve always had a bit of a dirty sense of humor, “So none of my knickers are going to mysteriously go missing?”

There’s that same, choked noise again, and even his forehead is starting to turn red now. He’s got a pile of your clothes in his arms, and on top is a pair of lacy knickers that absolutely don’t fit at the moment. You must’ve tossed them into this load by mistake—it’s not like you’ve been able to wear them recently.

“Oh, poor boy,” you coo, and he jolts like he’s been struck by lightning. “I’m being a right bastard, aren’t I? Sorry, I can’t help myself. It’s the pregnancy hormones. They make a woman crazy.”

You’re still joking, but he shakes his head so effusively you can tell that he thinks you’re serious. It makes you laugh again, and you hold out the basket for him to put the rest of your clothes into.

“Thanks again for the help, stranger,” you say sweetly.

“K-König,” he replies, and you blink, tilting your head to the side in question. He clears his throat, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. His hair is buzzed so short it’s hard to tell what color it is, but if you had to guess, you’d say it’s a dark red. It goes nicely with his eyes—he really should grow it out. “My name. It is König.”

“Oh,” you say, before introducing yourself as well. “König, huh? Interesting name.”

From your murky memories of secondary school, you’re pretty sure it’s the German word for “King.” Briefly, you wonder what his mother could have possibly been thinking. You know just how hard choosing a name is, but “King?” Seriously?

“It is, ah, a nickname,” he answers haltingly, ducking his head. Oops. You definitely sounded judgy. Time to do damage control.

“It’s nice!” You say quickly, and honestly, if you didn’t know the literal translation, you would think it was a nice name. “I like how it sounds. And it’s fun to say. König. Kooonig. Pretty.”

It’s your turn to feel embarrassed. You’re rambling and making even more of a fool of yourself than when you smacked into him, face first. But König doesn’t give you a weird look, just ducks his head lower and twists his fingers together, before abruptly reaching out to take the basket from you.

“I will carry for you,” he states. Then, delayed, like he’s more used to giving orders than asking for permission, “Yes?”

A little bemused, you just nod, and then warily start descending the stairs again, one hand gripping the railing for dear life, the other resting on your belly. König follows closely behind you, a giant, nervous shadow. The laundry room is in the basement of your five storey building, and just your luck, the elevator is out of service. By the time you make it down two flights, you’re out of breath, and you lean against the wall to take a break.

“Ugh,” you complain, because complaining makes you feel better, at least emotionally. “God, I hate stairs. Don't you?”

You look up at König, only to find him completely unfazed. Your gaze lingers on his strong, muscular arms, and you remember the firm feeling of his chest under your face.

“Right, of course you’re fine,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “Are you some kind of soldier or something?”

König shifts, eyes darting away from you.

“Ah… ja. A soldier. Or something,” he answers, sounding very suspicious. You decide you’re better off not knowing, and just nod politely.

“Well, I’m not, so we’re going to be stuck here until my lower back stops screaming at me.” You huff a laugh. “Nobody ever tells you about that, you know? Don’t really tell you much of anything about pregnancy. Especially not how hard it is to do alone.”

König’s eyes widen again, finally returning to you. You wince. Oh, great. Now the massive, strange (and strangely nice, you have to admit) man that is possibly a soldier, possibly a criminal knows you live alone, in this building. Brilliant move, truly.

“The father?” he asks while you continue to mentally berate yourself. You hesitate for a second, then shrug.

“Better off without him,” you say after a beat, before forcing a bright smile onto your face and pushing off the wall. “Alright, on we go. I’m not wasting any more effort on these bloody clothes—it’s bad enough I have to pay to wash them. I’m mourning the two quids already.”

When you finally reach the laundry room, you plop down onto the single folding chair just next to the door, taking a deep breath. König stands beside you awkwardly, and you give him a sheepish look.

“Would you mind putting the laundry in the machine for me? Bending over’s quite a challenge nowadays. I’ll get it started properly in a moment. I just need another quick rest.”

He nods, bringing the basket over to the closest available machine. You watch him carefully place your clothes inside, one by one so nothing falls on the floor again. His hands stutter over your nursing bra, just like last time, bringing a wry smile to your face. You honestly doubt that he’s ever had sex. Despite his staggering height and intimidating breadth, he looks quite young—certainly more so than you. Then again, you’ve only seen half his face. Maybe he’s secretly in his fifties.

You snort, thinking of how awkward and shy he is. He acts like he’s barely out of university. Hmm… does that make you a cougar for flirting with him?

You decide you don’t care, leaning back in your seat a bit more and closing your eyes. A moment later, they open right back up when you hear the washer groan as it turns on, your brows furrowing.

“You didn’t ha—” you start, but König is already brushing past you and out the door, long legs eating up the distance so quickly that by the time you manage to get up, he’s already vanished. You frown, casting a glance back at the rumbling machine, before settling back into the uncomfortable folding chair to wait.

***

König slams the door of his flat shut behind him, back pressed firmly against it. He digs around in his pocket as he slides down the wood until he’s sitting on the floor. His cock strains in his trousers, painfully hard. His fingers tighten around a wad of soft fabric, and he tugs it out of his pocket, yanking his scarf down so he can press it against his face and inhale deeply.

“Scheiße,” he curses, fumbling with his fly. Your nursing bra smells delicious, a mix of your sweat and milk. He turns it around, burying his nose in one of the cups, and then sticks his tongue out, licking it. He groans loudly, taking his long, thick cock in hand and beginning to stroke it roughly. “Mama, du schmeckst so gut…”

He begins to suck on the middle of the bra’s cup like it’s your nipple, moving his hand faster. He’s so close already, has been half-hard since the moment you crashed into him, and fully erect since you caressed your swollen belly and spoke to the baby nestled within with such loving tenderness. He’d felt so desperately jealous in that moment, wishing you were his Mama, that you would speak to him like that. Why wasn’t his mother like you? If she had been, he wouldn’t be such a freak, the kind of man who is so pathetic as to steal his pretty neighbor’s undergarments and jerk off with them. Instead, she had flitted in and out of his life whenever the mood struck, leaving him with an aching, gaping hole in his heart that even his Oma and Opa couldn’t heal, though they’d done their best to raise him. The hole had only grown bigger after their deaths, and now, any woman who is even slightly kind to him makes his heart race and his cock harden. But you… you’re glowing with the maternal affection he so craves, and just a few short minutes in your presence was nearly his undoing.

König moans your name as he comes. There’s so much of it—there was always so much of it, “hyperspermia,” his doctor had once told him—that when he’s finally finished, the white, sticky liquid coats his hand, his trousers, his shirt, even the floor. A little bit has managed to get on your bra as well, and he flushes deeply, ashamed of himself. He’s disgusting; nothing but a perverted loser… a woman like you would never want someone like him.

Guiltily, he cleans himself up, mopping the floor before hopping into the shower. He’ll wash your bra tomorrow and leave it in the dryer. When you find it the next time you do your laundry, you’ll just think you had left it there by accident. But tonight… tonight, he’ll hold it close to his face as he sleeps, breathing in your scent. For a little bit, he’ll be able to pretend that someone loves him, enough to let him fall asleep while suckling at their breast, like a mother would.

***

You’re pretty sure König is avoiding you.

You’ve seen him a couple times over the last two weeks, but he mysteriously seems to vanish every time you try to catch up with him. It’s criminal how a guy that big can get around so sneakily—and it’s seriously getting on your nerves.

It seems that luck is on your side today, though, because the old, creaky elevator is up and running again, and when the doors open, there he is. He’s got his own basket of laundry this time, and from the slightly sour smell that greets you as you step inside, it’s long overdue for a wash.

When he spots you, his eyes widen, and he tries to step around you, clearly intent on running again. You turn to the side and use your belly to block his exit, unrepentant despite the panicked expression on his face.

“Finally!” you exclaim, audibly exasperated. You jab his well-sculpted chest with your pointer finger, giving him an accusatory glare. “You, young man, are exceptionally hard to track down.”

Though the scarf covers his throat as well as his mouth and nose, you’re pretty sure König gulps. He ducks his head, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“Ah, I am sorry, Ma—Ma’am,” he answers, stumbling over his words. You scoff.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you state plainly. “And I know why.”

König’s head whips back up, and his already pale face completely drains of color, his watery, blue eyes terrified. You let him stew in his fear for a few seconds before you continue.

“You don’t want me to pay you back for the load of laundry you did for me,” you finish, rolling your eyes. “I assume it’s some weird, German dick measuring contest thing.” König splutters. You talk right over him. “And you know what? Fine. I won’t be difficult about a few quid. But I’m not some mannerless twat, either. So that means you’re coming to dinner at mine tonight, so I can properly thank you. Understood?”

You’re still poking König’s chest, and you notice that his shirt is rumpled. You huff, smoothing it out and then straightening his collar before looking back up at him, eyes narrowed.

“I said, do you understand?”

König looks about five seconds from passing out, but he nods mutely. You smile, then reach up and pat his covered cheek.

“There’s a lad,” you say. Suddenly, the elevator dings, and you turn around just as the doors open up to the lobby. “18:00, König. Flat 412. Don’t be late.”

***

König is not late. He shows up outside your flat at exactly 17:59, waits one minute, and then knocks as soon as his watch switches to 18:00. From inside, there’s a loud bang, a louder curse, and then hurried footsteps coming his way.

“Give me a sec!” you call through the door, before retreating to clean up whatever mess you made. He wishes you’d let him in so he could help. The confrontation with you earlier today reignited his guilt about pleasuring himself with your underthings, and he’s desperate to soothe it any way he can.

At 18:02, you open the door, a smear of flour on your cheek and a satisfied smile on your face. You’re wearing an apron over your swollen belly, thick oven gloves sticking out of the front pocket. You look utterly domestic, and König’s cock twitches as his heart aches with want.

“Good, you came,” you say, moving aside to usher him in. “Come on, in you go. Don’t want the food to get cold.”

König obeys, letting you shepherd him through the flat to the tiny kitchen, and into a dining chair. He awkwardly folds his body in order to fit, his knees practically up by his chest. You frown at the display, and he ducks his head, feeling insecure. On the battlefield, his size is his greatest weapon, and he’s come to take quite a lot of pride in it, even though it had stopped him from being a sniper like he’d always dreamed of. But in the real world, it’s nothing but a hindrance. He’s a freak—too big, too intimidating, too unusual. He doesn’t fit in chairs or cars or through doorways, and he scares almost every woman he comes across. He’s sure that if he hadn’t saved you at just the right time, you, too, would be afraid of him.

“Chin up, love,” you say, patting his shoulder. He shivers at the contact. You’re so free with your touches, your sweet names, your encouragement… it’s driving him insane. “You’re alright. I’m just sorry I don’t have something more comfortable for you.”

“Nein, this is— this is fine,” he rushes to reassure you, trying not to make even more of a fool of himself. He shifts in his seat, attempting to look a little less like an elephant balancing on a teacup. “It is great. Very comfortable.”

From the look on your face, he can tell his performance isn’t all that convincing. But you don’t press the issue, much to his relief.

“I’ve made lemon chicken with fettuccine alfredo,” you just say, turning around and heading back to the oven. You put your oven gloves on and slowly, carefully bend over to retrieve the food. König’s gaze goes immediately to your bum, but he tears it away when he hears you start grunting as you struggle not to fall. He springs up and out of the chair, rushing over and helping you straighten. His hands linger on your body as you smile up at him, making him feel frozen, like a bug caught in amber.

“Making a habit of coming to my rescue, are you?” you tease, and König blushes, coughing as he reluctantly lets go and takes a step back. You set the glass pan down on the stovetop and start filling plates for the both of you before pausing. “You don’t have any allergies, do you? I can’t believe I didn’t ask! How rude of me.”

“Nein! Nein, I have none,” König stumbles over himself to reassure you. Though he probably would have said the same even if he did, if only it meant he got to eat your cooking. To eat a mother’s homemade meal… his heart squeezes in his chest. “No allergies, Ma—Ma’am.”

“That’s a relief,” you say, picking up the plates and bringing them to the table. You’re waddling a bit because of your belly, and while your back is turned, König reaches down to squeeze the bulge in his trousers, unable to help himself. He quickly lets go and folds himself back into his chair as you do the same. His brows furrow when he notices how much bigger the portion on his plate is than yours, looking at you questioningly.

“What? You’re a growing boy, you need your nutrients,” you say. He bites his chapped bottom lip to hold in a whimper. “Besides, even pregnant I don’t think I could eat as much as you.”

König’s sure that’s true—honestly, even the amount you gave him, generous as it is, is less than what he would usually serve himself. He wouldn’t dare say as much, though, not wanting to seem ungrateful. Because he is grateful, incredibly so. And it makes him feel even worse about his depraved thoughts and actions.

You begin eating, and after a moment of hesitation, König lowers his scarf until it’s tucked below his chin. He tries not to squirm as you blatantly study his face, nervously waiting for your reaction. He’s sure you’ll think he’s ugly—he knows that he is. His eyes are already bad enough, watery and red-rimmed and as oversized as the rest of him. But below the scarf is a long nose with an unattractive bump on the bridge, too-big ears, pudgy cheeks, acne-pitted skin, a shiny, pink burn on his jaw, and thin, chapped lips. A scar cuts through the top one, stopping just below his nostrils. It’s from a childhood surgery to correct a horrid cleft lip. Though he certainly looks better than before, every time he looks in the mirror, he can’t help but remember the ruthless teasing he was subjected to by his classmates before the deformity was fixed.

But instead of laughing at him or wrinkling your nose, you smile, sweet and maternal.

“Well you’re a handsome lad. No wonder you cover up—you’d have to beat the girls off with a stick if you didn’t,” you tease, and he flushes deeply, shoulders hunching as he tries to hide from the compliments. Surely you’re just being kind. Surely you don’t mean it. “And so young… is this your first time living on your own, love?”

Young? He thinks, brows furrowing. He glances up at you from beneath his short, stubby lashes, thinking you’re joking, but you have a look of genuine curiosity on your face. He clears his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat.

“Ah… nein. I am thirty-nine. Not young,” he replies. Your eyes widen in shock.

“Thirty-nine? But you look like a little boy!” you exclaim, and König’s knuckles turn white as he grips his utensils nearly tight enough to break them. You have no idea what you’re doing to him, how you’re feeding his depraved, desperate mind with all your comments. Oh, the things he would give to be your little boy… You giggle. “Well, your face, at least. It’s so cute, I just want to squish your cheeks!”

König whimpers under his breath, his cock hard and aching in his trousers. He opens his mouth, about to beg you to do just that, but it’s so dry that no sound comes out. Gott sei dank.

You give him an embarrassed look, clearly misinterpreting the reason for his speechlessness.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s the pregnancy hormones. I swear, they’re making me want to mother hen everything. I started baby-talking to my roomba the other day when it got itself stuck under the couch!”

König has officially reached a new low, being jealous of a vacuum.

“It is okay,” he says, lowering his gaze to his plate, unable to look you in the eye. “It is— kind of you to say. I know I am… unpleasant to look at.”

König takes a bite of his food—it’s as delicious as his Oma’s cooking always was, just like he expected—trying to distract himself from the sudden silence. He tenses when he sees you shift out of the corner of his eye, the sound of your chair scraping across the vinyl floors grating against his ears. You stand, rounding the table until you’re right beside him. König holds his breath as he stays perfectly still, not knowing what to expect.

There’s a gentle touch to his cheek, and he flinches, ducking his head so low it nearly touches his chest. But then your fingers slide from his cheek, to his jaw, to his chin, gripping it firmly, but not harshly. He can feel you trying to lift his face, to turn it towards you, and after a moment of hesitation, he allows it. His gaze finally meets your own, and he swallows thickly when he notices your frown.

“You are not ‘unpleasant to look at,’ König,” you say, your tone leaving no room for argument. The pad of your thumb ghosts over his surgery scar, and he whimpers. You quirk a smile at the sound, and he cuts his gaze away, embarrassed. You lightly shake his head, tutting. “Ah ah, don’t look away. Didn’t your mother ever teach you the importance of eye contact?”

König winces, slowly dragging his gaze back to yours. He shakes his head minutely.

“No, Mama,” he whispers, voice cracking from how dry his throat is. He licks his lips to wet them, his tongue accidentally making contact with your thumb. His cock jumps, and he’s pretty sure he goes a little cross-eyed. He hastily corrects himself. “I— I had no mama. I mean.”

“You poor thing,” you croon, letting go of his chin to pull him into a hug. His face is pressed right to your soft breasts, and he groans lowly, unable to stop himself from burrowing into the plushness, just a little bit. He feels something wet against his cheek, and he turns his head a little, lips parted, breathing heavy. His tongue darts out, brushing against the fabric, and he gasps at the sweet taste of your milk, his cock spurting as he comes untouched, soaking the front of his trousers.

You pull away, and he leans forward, chasing your scent, your taste, your warmth. He’s panting, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed. The sweetness of your milk lingers on his tongue, and it takes him several long seconds to realize you’re talking.

“—so sorry! My pump broke last night, and I haven’t been able to find my nursing bra.”

It feels like a bucket of ice has just been poured over his head, dousing the afterglow of his orgasm. His eyes snap from your beautiful breasts to your face—and he goes pale as a ghost at the knowing expression he finds on it.

“I— es war nicht— I did not—” he stammers rapidly, panicked. You raise a single brow at him, and he shuts up. He stares at you fearfully for a long moment, and then slowly reaches into his back pocket—careful not to reveal the mess he’s made in his trousers—and withdraws your nursing bra. He looks down as he holds it out to you, his hands shaking, entire face tomato-red, even his too-big ears.

You hum as you take the offending piece of clothing from him and place it on the table, out of the way.

“You’ve been a bad boy, König,” you say, and he shivers, spent cock twitching, valiantly trying to harden again. “Stealing my underwear… I bet you got yourself off with it, didn’t you?”

König doesn’t answer, hunching over in shame.

“Of course you did… horny little boy. No mother to teach you manners… have you ever even been with a woman?”

He mouths a response, nothing more than a rasp of air. You grab his chin, harder this time, and force him to look at you.

“What did I say about looking at me when I’m talking to you?” you ask sternly. He leans into your touch, feeling small and helpless and so incredibly turned on.

“Sorry Mama,” he breathes, barely feeling conscious. You purse your lips, giving his head a little shake again, clearing it. He gulps when he realizes what he just said, trying to curl in on himself in shame, but you don’t let him.

“I asked you a question,” you say. “And I expect an answer. Have you ever been with a woman?”

He lets out a shaky breath, and his gaze almost darts away before he remembers your scolding. He wets his lips, and then nods.

“A prostitute,” he admits, voice small, embarrassed. “She was much older… the only one not scared of me.”

Your expression softens instead of souring with disgust like he expects, and you relax your grip on his chin, moving to cup his cheek instead.

“Tch… how sad.” König flinches. “You must have been desperate for a woman’s touch.” You swipe your thumb across his browbone, leaning down, your breath ghosting over the shell of his ear. “A mother’s touch…”

“Mama,” he gasps, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your breasts again to hide the way he’s tearing up. You know. You know how disgusting he is, his twisted desires, and you’re using them against him, cruelly playing with him… but he can’t help but beg for more. Anything to keep you touching him, to keep you speaking to him in that soft, condescending tone of voice, the same one his mother would use on the rare occasions she deigned to speak to him during her infrequent visits. The voice that makes him feel two feet tall and his cock weep. “Bitte, Mama, bitte. Es tut mir leid. Es tut mir so leid. Bitte, vergib mir, bitte, liebe mich, liebe mich, bitte!”

You shush him, petting his hair as he cries into your breasts like a scared child, so completely at odds with the bloodthirsty, terrifying soldier most people know him as. He’s ashamed of this part of him, the pathetic little boy so desperate for maternal care that he falls apart at the first glimpse of it. The disgusting pervert that comes untouched just from the barest taste of a mother's milk.

“That’s it, sweet boy,” you say softly once his sobs have faded to sniffles. “That’s it. Let it all out. Mama’s here.”

He shudders, whining softly as his arms tighten around your waist. He quickly loosens them again though, not wanting to hurt you—or your baby. Your belly presses against his chest, big and round, and he envies your unborn child fiercely. He wishes it was him inside you, that he really was your baby, that you really were his Mama.

He wonders if that’s better or worse than being jealous of a vacuum.

When his sobs have faded to quiet hiccups, and his embarrassment has returned tenfold, he forces himself to let you go, wringing his hands together as he avoids your gaze once more. He doesn’t know what to say, sure he’s worn out your patience with all his blubbering. Surely you’re going to kick him out now—perhaps you’ll even report him to your landlord for stealing your underthings…

“Do you feel better, baby?” you ask him, and he flinches, but nods, still not looking at you. You hum, cupping his downturned face for a moment, before you grab his hands and tug. He stands easily, unable to even consider disobeying you, but quickly drops your hands and tries to cover the mess over his groin. You tut, pulling his hands away, pursing your lips when you see the dark stain covering his crotch. He flushes, tears of shame gathering in his eyes again.

“Messy boy,” you say, a gentle reproach. Then, harsher, “Perverted boy… Buying whores, stealing underwear, coming all over yourself from a hug… it’s pathetic.”

The tears fall, and he hunches in on himself, your words as hurtful as they are true.

“It’s not your fault, love,” you continue, voice soft now, reassuring. You take his hands in yours again and squeeze them gently. “You didn't have a Mum to teach you any better. But you do now, don’t you?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening as his head jerks up to stare at you. You smile, amused and fond.

“That’s right. I’m your Mummy now. And that means it's my responsibility to punish you when you do something naughty.”

König’s cock twitches, his expression a mix of desire and apprehension. Your smile turns coy, and you lead him over to your couch, pushing at his chest until he sits down on the overstuffed cushion.

“Get your cock out, sweetheart,” you order, leaving no room for argument. He jolts like he’s been hit by an electric shock, but quickly reaches down with shaking hands to undo his trousers. The button stubbornly refuses to move, and he rips it off in his desperation to obey. You laugh, pretty and just a little bit mean, and he flushes, feeling hot all over, cock straining against his briefs, already half-hard again. He quickly tugs them down, tucking the waistband below his heavy balls, revealing himself to you. He holds his breath as you examine him, hoping you like what you see. He knows his dick is big, just like the rest of him. But he’s afraid it’s too big, also just like the rest of him. The fact that the flushed tip is covered in drying cum certainly doesn’t make it more appealing, he’s sure.

But slowly, a grin spreads across your face, your eyes sparkling. You hum, pleased, and your approval makes him dizzy—but it’s nothing compared to when you reach out and drag the tip of your nail up his length.

Still oversensitive from his orgasm, even the featherlight touch is enough to make his cock jump. He lets out a choked gasp, fighting not to pull you into his lap and rut against your pregnant belly like the filthy, depraved mutt he is.

“So sensitive,” you coo, settling on the couch next to him as you wrap your hand around him fully, now. The tip of your thumb and middle finger just barely touch, and the sight alone is enough to make his head spin. But then you start to stroke him, slow and steady, and he whines, gripping the couch cushions hard enough that he hears stitches popping. “Do you think you can give me another, sweetheart? Show Mummy just how badly you want her?”

He swallows thickly, but nods, determined to do as you say. His eyes fall from your face to your breasts, and he licks his lips at the dark spots he sees staining your shirt. His cock hardens fully, thick and long as it points straight up, ending just past his navel. You laugh, tracing the neckline of your shirt teasingly as you lean in close to whisper in his ear.

“Do you want to see them?” you ask, nipping his earlobe before pulling back. He moans loudly, unsure whether he’s more aroused or embarrassed, and nods enthusiastically. You tsk at him, digging your nails into his cock just hard enough to hurt. He yelps, thrusting up into your hand, the sharp pain making him pant, panic and pleasure swirling low in his belly.

“Use your words, baby,” you say, holding his length too-tightly for another second before letting go entirely, cupping both your breasts. “Tell Mummy what you want.”

“Mama,” he whimpers, tears in his eyes from the pain, or maybe the desperation, he’s not sure. “Mama, please…”

“Proper sentences, love,” you answer, unmoved. “‘Mama, please’ what?”

He lets out a little hiccuping sob, reaching for your breasts—but you smack his massive hand away, and then swat at his hard cock, making him let out a broken moan as precum spills out.

“Bad boy!” you say sharply, and he hunches over in shame, guilt washing away the sticky strands of pleasure stretching through him. “That is not acceptable behavior, young man!”

“Es tut mir lied,” he cries, tears dripping down his round cheeks. Then again, in English. “S-sorry, I am so s-sorry, Mama! I am bad boy! Bad! I do not deserve your milk!”

“No, you don’t,” you agree, and this time when he moans, it’s in despair. “But my pump is still broken, and my breasts are so full it hurts. I can’t wait any longer for relief.”

With that, you climb into his lap, trapping his cock between your protruding belly and his much flatter one. It hurts a little, but that only makes it even better. He can’t help but rut against you once, twice, before he regains control of himself and forces himself to stop, babbling another apology.

“No,” you say, reaching down and gripping the bottom hem of your shirt, before pulling it up and over your head. You’re wearing a lacy bra that’s clearly from before your pregnancy, as it’s much too small for you. Your heavy, veiny breasts are practically spilling out of the cups, and the fabric is sodden with your milk. König is sure he must have died and gone to heaven, somehow. He spares a moment to pity the poor, innocent soul who got mixed up with him and took his spot in Hell, before refocusing on you, just in time to watch you shuck your bra off and reveal your gorgeous, milky tits in all their glory. “Keep doing that. And don’t you dare stop until I give you permission.”

Immediately, he starts rutting against you once more, and though he’s grateful, so grateful you’re even letting him do this—he’s a greedy boy, and he can’t help but wish he was thrusting into you instead. But he knows he doesn’t deserve such a reward, so doesn’t ask, just watches his precome leave shiny streaks against your round belly, awed.

Suddenly, something warm and wet hits his face, and he startles, looking up. One of your nipples is in your mouth, lips wrapped around it as you drink your own milk. The sight makes his balls draw up tightly, another orgasm building. You catch your nipple between your teeth and smile at him before going back to sucking. Something wet hits his face again, and he finally realizes that you’re gently squeezing your other breast with both hands, causing a steady stream of milk to squirt from it… and onto him.

König groans low in his chest, opening his mouth wide and sticking out his tongue to try and catch a single drop. At the same time, his cock pulses, his body locking up as he comes again. It hurts, still too sensitive from the last one, but he remembers your orders and doesn’t stop rutting. Your belly is entirely white by the time he’s done, the added slickness only making everything even more sensitive. The overstimulation makes him whine, tears coming to his eyes, but you show him no mercy. A minute later, his toes curl as a third climax rips out of him. He’s babbling, now, begging for relief, face dripping with your milk, your sweet taste on his tongue, half-hard cock throbbing with pain and pleasure. Still, you don’t let up, and he watches with blurry vision as you let your breast drop from your mouth and let go of the other before wrapping your arms around his neck. You lean in close, crushing his cock between the two of you and making him sob, more cum dribbling out.

“One more,” you whisper, and he sobs harder. You shush him, guiding your breast to his mouth, brushing your nipple against his trembling, cleft lip. “Little baby needs a pacifier… Go on, drink. Mummy’s milk will give you the strength you need to finish, hmm?”

He hiccups and latches on desperately, suckling like his life depends on it as he continues to weakly thrust his hips. He takes great, big, greedy swallows of your milk, and his eagerness has practically half your breast in his mouth. You gently run your fingers over his short hair, but they dig into his scalp a little when the flow of your milk slows down to a trickle before stopping entirely, and he starts lightly chewing on your nipple to try and coax more out.

“Other one,” you order, pushing his head away. He detaches from your nipple with a loud, wet pop, and you immediately smush his face against your other breast. “Be a good boy and come while you drain Mummy’s tits, okay?”

He doesn’t even know what noise he makes, just that it sounds utterly slutty and pathetic. He latches back on and suckles fervently. Maybe he should feel guilty, stealing all your milk from the baby in your belly, but he doesn’t. If he were your baby, he’d never waste a single drop—and your gorgeous tits would never get overfull again. He’d quit his job, leave it all behind, just to nurse from you all day long…

For the first time in his life, König comes a normal amount when he orgasms. His eyes roll back in his head and he reflexively bites down on your nipple none-too-gently. He can’t hear your reaction over the static in his ears, but he can feel you trembling atop him. The small part of him that isn’t completely overwhelmed by painpleasurepainpleasurepainpainpainPLEASURE hopes that it means you’re coming too.

When his senses return to him, the first thing he does is unlock his jaw. Your nipple falls out of his mouth, and he cringes when he sees the deep bite marks ringing your areola. He’s about to apologize when you cut him off with a bruising kiss. He submits easily, letting you take what you want, your tongue licking into his mouth and your teeth digging into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of it makes his head spin.

“You can stop,” you breathe, nose still brushing his. His hips stutter, making him realize he’s still rutting pathetically against your belly. Slowly, he manages to get them to stop, gasping with every shallow thrust. His cock is screaming in delicious agony and his head falls against your chest as he cries, muffling his wails against your soft breasts.

“Oh, sweet boy,” you coo, holding him close and rubbing his back. “Sweet, sweet boy. You did so well for Mummy, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

He cries louder, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. He’s a mess, you pulled him apart so easily and he has no idea how he’ll ever be put back together. It’s terrifying, the power you have over him, and yet he’s never felt safer than in your embrace.

“Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, yeah?” you say after an indeterminate amount of time has passed, and König’s sobs have faded into sniffles and hiccups. Enough time for the milk and cum drenching the both of you to have dried and grown uncomfortably sticky. He nods, but whimpers when you go to pull away. You shush him again soothingly. “You can hold my hand while I lead us to the loo, okay? How does that sound?”

He whines softly but lets you move this time, gripping your hand tightly as the two of you get off the couch. He trails after you like a lost puppy as you walk through your small flat, you without a top on, and him with his raw, red cock still out. You giggle when he follows you into the shower stall and you see the results of your punishment, bending slightly to press a soft, lingering kiss to the tip. He gasps, leaning against the wall as his knees threaten to give out, another whine crawling up his throat.

“Mummy’s got to kiss her baby’s boo-boos, doesn’t she?” you say, not even a little apologetic. He thinks he might love you. “Now, is the water too hot for you, darling? Or should I make it warmer?”

“Mama,” he just murmurs, stepping under the spray with you and plastering himself to your body. He rubs his cheek against your wet hair, holding you close and very carefully not squeezing you as tightly as he wants to. You laugh quietly and kiss his chest.

“Yes, sweetheart,” you say, equal parts loving and smug. “Mama’s here.”

The rent was cheap, suspiciously cheap, but the landlord reassures you that nobody actually died in the apartment; the sudden vacancy just has them desperate to move someone else in.

You tried to ignore the odd noises at first. You tell yourself the bones are just settling, but that doesn't explain the way the doors open and shut by themselves.

Your things go missing sometimes, and if it weren't for the cameras you'd installed, you'd be convinced it was a stalker. It'd be easier to pretend to be oblivious if it were just hair ties, pens, and your favorite mug. Normal stuff. It's harder to act like everything is normal when your favorite lace panties disappear– it's even worse when they show back up covered in so much cum.

You’re cleaning behind your dresser when you find a pair of dog tags. John Mactavish, they'd read. You know for a fact they shouldn't be there, that the apartment had been deep cleaned before you'd moved in. You set them on the TV stand and think nothing of it.

At least, not until you wake up in the middle of the night and find them hanging from your neck.

​

The metal feels cold against your skin, and you can feel hands trailing down your chest.

You must still be asleep, you think, as you feel your underwear fall to your knees. You let out a soft sigh when the air hits your cunt.  

You realize that having a wet dream about the ghost haunting your apartment is definitely a sign of some kind of complex. But the feeling of something cold running up and down your wet folds feels too good– too real– for you to care.

"Fuck, more,” you whine. You feel something press against your entrance, but when you glance down, you see nothing.

You gasp at the sudden stretch, something you can’t even see filling your cunt up. Your back arches up as the invisible cock starts to pound into you.  Wet noises fill the room, and if you listen closely, you swear you can hear a man moaning.

Your hand reaches down, and as you rub your clit you’re surprised to find that you can feel something solid bump against your fingers.  “Hng, shit, so good, Johnny!” you moan, not entirely aware of where the sentiment came from.

The pace gets faster, and you swear you can feel bruises forming on your hips. The dog tags hanging from your neck clank against each other with each thrust.

Your eyes roll back, and your thighs shake. Despite the full feeling when you look at your cunt it’s clenching around nothing. The sight is enough to push you over the edge.

“Gonna cum!” you whine, a shudder wracking through your body. You feel the cock inside you twitch as hot and sticky cum fills your insides.

You feel a weight fall on you, almost as if someone were lying on top of you. As your eyes flutter shut for a split second, you think you see a man with a mohawk and blue eyes staring down at you.

​

When you wake up, it’s harder to write it off as a dream. There are faint bruises littering your skin, and your cunt aches. There’s dried up cum on your sheets– more than you alone could ever make.

The dog tags still hanging around your neck feel like an omen. You pretend not to notice the way the air freezes when you remove them.

​

There’s a knock on your door. Despite how sore you are, you open it, your legs shaking as you walk.

The man standing in front of you is military–that much you can tell. Half of his face is covered by a black medical mask, but you can see his deep brown eyes. He has to be a little over six feet tall, and you can spot the faintest hint of blonde hair peeking out from under his baseball cap.

“Name's Simon. My boyfriend, Johnny, used to live here. He passed.” You try not to react to his words, but there’s a pit in your stomach.

If he senses your discomfort, he doesn’t show it. “Can’t find his tags. Think they might still be here, can I come in?”

When you nod and step aside, you feel hands gripping your hips, something hard pressing against your ass.