A viral force interrupts Scryer’s designs for her Hero in debilitating ways.
Striker made his way as quietly and as urgently as he could into an apartment he was strangely familiar with from the roof. Silently, for not wanting to arouse noisy suspicion of his presence. No neighbors seemed aware; either they were absent, or he was just that silent. He might’ve had to risk exposure due to the urgency of entering the apartment he somehow had access to, the precious cargo of a dilapidated, near unconscious witch in his arms.
On a rooftop nearby during afternoon patrol, Scryer surprised him again. She said she was bored and felt like keeping him company during his hero duties. The mischievous witch being bored told Striker immediately the kind of company she was going to be. He waited for some elaborate sorcery to pop-up for him to resist. Hands waving elaborately, an intense stare, some palpable supernatural pull, but her words were enchantment enough, droning on about whatever, until whatever was a sultry blur that slipped into his mind so he could slip to his knees in front of her. She promised she would be on guard while he could kiss her feet.
So amused she was with him that she made for a terrible guard as she never noticed a shadowy figure who snuck up on both of them. Pest, of course short for Pestilence, was a known thorn in the side of most of the city’s heroes. That included the lowly Striker, whom he had come to exact vengeance for the last humiliating beating dealt to the villain. Pest, dressed in a trench coat and gas mask, armed with weaponized aerosol tubes at his wrists connected to virus-filled canisters, was plenty amused that someone had already got to him. But when Scryer noticed him, she smoothly put herself between Pest and Striker. The look on her face was firm, with a touch of unconcern.
“I’ve heard of you before,” the witch replied in a bored deadpan. “Please embody your namesake elsewhere why don’t you. We’re preoccupied at the moment.”
“I have prior dealings with that man. You’d do best to step aside. You look as if you’re preoccupied, with a touch of the flu yourself.”
Pest extended the chemical spray toward the outstretched hand of the witch, thinking she could contain whatever was thrown her way so she could throw it back, not counting on the rooftop winds to aid his attack, the gas swirling around before her magic could contain it, a good dose of it flowing across her face. The effect was nearly immediate as she started coughing and tried controlling her breathing from the violent reaction. She leaned hard against a dazed Striker who woke up from the physical reaction to see Scryer visibly vulnerable, and the cause of the vulnerability right behind her. Scryer’s awareness began to fade no matter how much she fought, but she still heard what sounded like a vicious beating someone was receiving, worse than the last.
The rooftop altercation was Scryer’s last clear memory of occurrences, followed by small moments of recollection and identification. Her fuzzy, clouded mind was aware of the where, her apartment. She was aware of the feel of his body, cradling her, telling her to hold on with concern, something neither was used to in their dominant submissive roles. A small, but undying sense of pride welled up in her, angered and flummoxed at being bested, weakened. She struggled a little against being carried, trying to summon the strength to tell him to put her down so she could walk on her own, even if the strength to actually do it was denied.
As good as it felt to be in her hero’s arms, laying across the bed felt better, body allowed to weakly react like it wanted to. She felt gentle disrobing, eyes too heavy to open to see him do it, smiling at what she wanted to do with her clothes off, before drifting off to an sleep of exhaustion.
For however long it was, the dim awareness continued for hours, days, maybe longer. Nourishment was consumed through liquids and soft foods, maybe chicken soup, and maybe medicine with it. Her body felt cleansed and warm, perhaps bathed and redressed in loose clothing to rest in. Speaking drowsily was such a chore, but she always tried, even despite the concerned whispers to her ears to rest herself.
Thoughts and dreams were a torrent of wanting to reach out toward a semblance of wakefulness, escaping the delirium. Through a dream, or maybe what just seemed like a dream, she was able to grasp onto something. Feeling still more loopy than lucid, though getting closer to the latter, feeling familiar warmth, and a caring hand on her forehead and face, she reacted, trying to reach out to Striker, to grasp him, to hold him close like a child and their favorite stuffed animal. She tried speaking, a deeply sour taste of medicine, maybe NyQuil, on her tongue. Nothing coherent was coming out, and her lips seemed to agree with his whispered assertion of “sleep now, speak later.” The latent hypnotist in her let herself be warmed by those words, remembering she used to say those things, to make people feel like she was, but better than this.
The thought of the words remained in her, resurrecting some of the pride in her. Better formed thoughts concluded how much she hated the taste of her own medicine, so to speak, and felt the need to seek control as soon as possible. That thought remained over another unknown gap in time, to the next time he was above her on the bed, checking on her condition. By then, she had the strength to grip his clothes and gently pull him towards her.
Scryer whispered in the direction of his ears, proud she could remember an established trigger so well, even prouder to see his expression. Wrenched-open blue eyes brightened a little to see a caught expression that wasn’t able to look away. She calmed her breathing and kept her eyes open, trying to shake the cobwebs in her own head to remember more control to grasp onto.
Latching onto his own sense of self, Striker snatched his own gaze away, covering her eyes with a hand to be freed before he descended any further. Blinking his eyes several times to shake off the effect, he realized he should’ve paid more attention to the smile her lips formed.
“Embrace the crimson.”
Like second nature, suddenly eager lips set upon her pale, unpainted but no less magical ones, matching the marginally weaker effort of the mutual kiss. Either the putrid after-taste of Pest’s chemicals had completely worn off, or his mind was too enamored by the spellbinding kiss to notice them, highlighting how substantial her control might’ve become. Feeling her hands hold onto him gently, he returned the gesture by holding her body, hypnotic eyes unsheathed and taking him back under further with a dual assault to his whittling resolve.
With more conscious awareness, he would’ve been impressed by how quickly Scryer recovered from chemical exposure. Long days of unconsciousness was the most merciful side effect of an attack from Pest, with the nastier effects often lead to more health-critical reactions; the witch either had enchantments ensuring a stronger immune system, or just had a will as stubborn as his, or both. The passionate exchange she initiated seemed to give her vitality, or share some of his. She had to break the kiss to breathe, keeping eye contact with him as she made him lie next to her, having direct access to his ear.
“Listen to me, only to me,” the litany of words sent to his brain were muddled variations of the first command, ensuring he wouldn’t try to escape again, not minding repeating herself if it meant solidified control. Once she had it, she was unsure of what to do with him, keeping a hand on him, realizing that for once, Striker really was her hero, that she had to be rescued, saved, deferring to his will. The last part would’ve set her pride off if his will wasn’t acting in her service. That thought alone sent praising words and tones that made him smile dreamily as much as she could deliver them.
A whistle from the direction of the kitchen sounded like a kettle boiling on the stove.
“Yes Mistress,” the answer given was as quiet as the question. Lips urged his ear to meet her halfway.
“Serve me tea then, slave. Bare.”
Husky breath muttered affirmation as he left her side for a few minutes. Blue eyes struggled to keep themselves open, happy to see his form return, carrying a tray of tea and assortments, the ingredients to her preferred tea. As desired, Striker was stripped down to signs of arousal on his face and below his waist. He prepared her perfect cup of tea, blowing on it, mumbling in trying to tell her not to drink it so quickly. She rewarded his concern with fingers stroking his excited tip.
Words urged him back to begin posing for her like an adonis exhibition. Devoid of self-conscious pride, muscles with a light sheen of sweat began flexing, stretching, showing off every athletic contour. The hot beverage sipped on was in competition for heating her body with the body that complimented the mind attached, both of which she coveted. Every muscle, including his brain, revealed a fighter in every sense, down to bruisings that had yet to fully heal here and there. Some of which looked so painful that it made her wince, he agreed as some statuesque poses looked strained, working through possible pain for her pleasure.
“Stroke your b-body for me,” she husked out, beads of sweat pervading her forehead. Done with her tea, she let her work of art come alive with reactive shivers amongst his show of strength. Hands grasping at his own body made him resemble more an exotic dancer, in love with the feel of his own body, muscles and nerves alit with witchy commands. Playing with his own nipples, stroking his chest like it was her hand, the increasingly adult show enraptured its audience, Scryer half-aware of her own hand reaching under the thick covers.
“F-yesss. Stroke there, don’t stop,” her command once one of his hands reached his erection. He pumped with such vigor that his posing performance was reduced to how his body reacted, facial muscles contorting, legs spasming, driven to an edge he had yet to be aware of being unable to cross would permission. Scryer let herself go to her own acts, the only discipline left in her was keeping her eyes open to watch where her direction took them.
“Fuck, oh. Netherkiss…..netherkiss….netherki-aaaahh.” The speed at how quickly he slipped under her covers to comply was incalculable. A determined tongue and lips’ efforts were supercharged compared to her own fingers, rocketing her across multiple finish lines, whimpering in fear of being taken too far. The coupled heat, his own vigor and her magic seemed to crescendo into a perfect storm. She screamed into a void, with her at the epicenter, on the verge of over-stimulation and sensory overload…
Sabrina screamed herself out of her pleasure-wrought dream. It was a scream of ecstasy, breathing as if coming down from a nightmare or panic attack. She surely felt attacked, sick body tingling from activities that would’ve been exhausting for a healthy woman. Fortunately for her, she was much better than nearly a week ago, steadily on her way to regaining full health. And she was glad that the steamy dream was all in her head somehow; the greatest wet dream she could recall, that left her pussy still twitching. It took her long moments for her to catch her breath, to wonder why she was still so tingly, until the numbness from stimulation went away and a tongue was felt, and breathing nestled between her legs.
Flipping the covers open, Sabrina found a naked Jon, entrenched, licking gently at her sex, more consideration at his mouth than in his glassy eyes.
“Jesus..” laughed unbelievably to herself.
The view above him, and the implication of having hastily coining her experience a dream, created involuntary moisture. Jon’s tongue picked up on it and moved accordingly to bring her to orgasm again. Feeling too far gone to stop, Sabrina buried her fingers in his hair to make it a much softer orgasm than before, one that kept her from screaming, just his soft moans and her lip-biting in riding the wave. Immediately after she came again, he forcefully told him to cease his worship.
There seemed little difference between the actions of dream Jon and real Jon; both were susceptible to her triggers no matter what state she was in. She laughed again at how this all started with a nasty office flu bug hitting most there to one degree or another. Such a phenomenon inspired a new character, Pest, for Striker and Scryer to play off of, until the flu unceremoniously hit her too. Seemingly never-sick-Jon took care of work and an ailing Sabrina, knowing she was bummed about interrupted plans for hypno play. He asked what her “fever pitch,” was, having overheard complain to herself; she smiled seductively with puffy cheeks, teasing between coughs “wouldn’t you like to know, just so that you could forget for me.” Thanks to her stubborn, overactive imagination, and lucid dreaming, it seemed to happen anyway.
“Ugh,” an exasperated sigh came from seeing her reflection in a bedroom mirror. Head shaking in self-chastising, the absence of mostly pale skin with no blush, matted, unkempt red hair, and a still-irritated red nose to match should’ve told her she was dreaming. Jon’s attempts to convince her of being gorgeous with or without the flu were endearing, enough that she could resist hitting him with a pillow.
“Poor Jonathan,” she thought, caressing his hair . He worked hard to nurse and keep her placated in bed, sanitizing, disinfecting, most of her apartment, humidifying and quarantining her bedroom. Most nights were spent there, keeping himself well and little Loqui occupied while momma was sick. Vulnerable as he was, exposed to her so intimately, she guessed they’d be trading places soon. Remiss as she was to playing nurse herself, she did feel responsible for his potential predicament.
The only logical next move thankfully less muddled thoughts could conjure was showering, individually. She would wake him after, with some amnesiatic suggestions to boot and a request to change her damp bedsheets.
If Jon was next in-line to be sick and need care, she imagined how tough a time it could be keeping him resting. Arguing with him to postpone workouts, catching him trying to work from home, he was bound to be even more stubborn with his male, fighting personality. Watching his naked, slow steps toward her bathroom was the sudden reminder of who he’d be dealing with. The details for his schedule of care were already coming into place.
Striker woke with a start, drowsy, drained of energy, in a dark room barely recognizable as his. How he got there seemed a mystery; the last clear memory was of Pest interrupting one of his enchanted moments with Scryer. The sickening miscreant caught his attention despite the spell cast on him. Knowing his modus operandi, he used his dormant strength to move in-front of Scryer to bear the brunt of the viral attack. Pest regretted it in record time with a speedy and furious beating, before sickness made him faint.
“Scryer…” he called out, throat somewhat raspy, a sign it’d been worse recently.
“Hush, my hero.” From somewhere in the darkness her voice originated, echoing off the walls and the corners of his mind. He weakly tried to speak, while trying to move out of bed. He felt well enough to speak and get up, but the energy reserved for doing so barely responded to his will.
“You have no need to worry; I am here for you.”
“W-what…..?” he managed
“You took care of that Pest impressively, almost so I had nothing left to do to him. Almost.”
The malignant damage Scryer was capable of made him wince momentarily, still shrouded in mystery since he only knew her capacity for doling out spells that damaged his pride, and ravaged everything else in compelling pleasure.
“Since you don’t need to get up to relieve yourself or for any emergency, it’s much easier to remain safe and snug in your bed. It’s still amuses me how much you fight these suggestions though.”
A harder push to move his legs and torso to sitting up failed. He collapsed back onto the bed, feeling most of his dormant energy flowing to his crotch, keen on the playful tone of her voice.
“If you still have enough strength to even try to move, you have enough to reward yourself for protecting, and serving, the will of others. Reward yourself with open ears, an open mind. Congratulate yourself.”
His hands were triggered to move to his most erogenous, sensitive places, keeping him occupied enough to not notice his phone on speaker next to the bed. From his living room, Sabrina sat on his couch, lounging, speaking with a mutual breathlessness as her hands stroked places she imagined him touching.
Compared to the mild flu he’d mostly gotten over, she didn’t think he’d be wanting to break this fever pitch anytime soon.