Kink blog

30, flirty, and thriving. She/they. Just a place to keep my kink stuff off main.  Sometimes I write stuff. Most times I don't.

[queen-frostine]

hi, it's me, don't ask why this happened. Actually, no, it's fine, I'll tell you why. This post from @snzqt. And this other one from @sneezysubbyboi and probably like 5 others. They crashed together in my head and said "if you don't write this we're going to ruin your life" and I've got no time to fight the specters of inspiration, okay? I've got a job. I've got things to do. I didn't even proofread this. I wrote it in my notes app on my phone at my place of gainful employment and then put it in a document and now it's here, okay? What am I doing. What's going on.

**don't reblog to non-kink places pls and thnk u**

Max Coleman, senior director of design, was always late. He kept his calendar perpetually full to a degree that even the most seasoned c-suite execs would find harrowing. It was more unusual for him to be on time than it was for him to slip into a meeting room or hop on a Zoom call five minutes late, half an idea out of his mouth before the door even shut behind him. 

The only meeting he arrived at on time was his 8am schedule review with his assistant, Jenny Han. 

Jenny had worked with Max for four years at that point. He’d inherited the assistant from his predecessor, an old school designer who went on a thirty-minute tirade about digital graphic design and how “back in my day we DREW, by HAND!” at least once a week. He had been impossible to please, exceptionally rude, and generally exhausting. 

When Max, thirty years his junior with more design awards under his belt from his work with major brands all over the world, had taken over, Jenny had quietly withdrawn all her applications at other jobs. Because while Max was also particular and moody and tiring, he remembered Jenny’s name and birthday, signed her requests for time off, and met her sarcasm with snark of his own. 

So when Max entered the Zoom meeting at 8:03am, Jenny knew something was going on. She raised a brow and asked, “how’re those allergies?”

Red eyed, flushed with fever, and a tissue to his nose, Max glared at her and admitted, ruefully, “Ndot allergies.”

Three days ago, Max had come into the office with a thermos full of tea and a persistent sniffle. “Allergies,” he said. It was January, but sure. Whatever he wanted to believe. At least he’d had the decency to go home at lunch and work remote the rest of the week. 

“The symptoms were simbilar endough. Adn easy mbistake to mbake. I wouldn’t blameb ah-eh…anyone for thindking—”

“Just to be clear, I was never confused about what was happening,” Jenny said. “Last I checked, it was you who insisted—”

“Yes, yes, I kdnow what I said,” Max snapped with all the strength of a toothless, geriatric schnauzer. He sighed. “I’mb fightding a cold. There. Happ–haa–eh?...hi-ISTCHiew!”

“Sounds more like losing to a cold to me, sir.” 

Max, nose shoved into the now-soaking tissue, coughed disdainfully before tossing it into a wastebin off screen. “Very funndy,” he groused. His usually well-styled hair flopped about, mussed from restless sleep and hands running through it to feel for fever.

Jenny smirked. “I take it you’re going to push through like a hero?”

He frowned. “The meedtings are…eh–hi?? Ubgh…imbportant.”

“Yes, of course, sir, you definitely could not miss…” she looked at his 9am, “...check-in with the design team who have not made any changes to the proof since you spoke with the project lead at 5pm yesterday.”

Max rubbed his temples. “God, I should fire you. At the very leasdt tank your annual review.”

“Please do. I’d love a vacation.”

He glared at her. She smiled. 

“Hi-ISTCHIew! Uh-HuASCHieww!” The sneezes barreled out of him like a shotgun blast, barely caught in the crook of his elbow. The resulting moan crackled with congestion. “Schedule, Jenny? Pleasbe. And no more, ‘sir’, Jesus, you kdnow I hate thadt.”

Jenny sighed. “Fine, fine. So at 8:30 you’ve got the comms team from KindCause to review the first round of edits for the video assets…”

#########

There was a moment when Jenny thought he really was going to push through. Whatever meds he knocked back right after waking up kicked in, and for his first three meetings of the day he looked more like he’d had a bad night out instead of looking like a walking corpse dead from the plague. 

If he could make it through his eleven o’clock, he’d get thirty uninterrupted minutes to take a nap, chug a mug of tea, and shoot up some intravenous Dayquil before the marathon of meetings from 12:30pm to 6pm. 

Jenny joined the Zoom call. Turned on the automated notetaker, set the meeting to record, and pulled up her own spreadsheet of upcoming dates, deadlines, and meetings. 

It was a typical stakeholder meeting. Nothing special. Usually a boring circle jerk of the directors speaking fluent corporate-ease and never making decisions beyond “let’s circle back on that,” and “we’ll table that thought for next meeting.”

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Jenny and Max had hopped off their 10:30 call a few minutes early, mostly at Jenny’s suggestion, since Max looked like he might die if he didn’t blow his nose. She would never be so foolish as to expect he’d actually be on time, but twelve minutes late? Even for him, that was— 

Ding! 

“Sorry, sorry,” Max rasped as he appeared in the room. He looked…well, if Jenny were being professional, she’d say, “a little haphazard.” 

Not professionally? He looked like absolute shit. 

She didn’t understand what could have happened in the twenty minutes between leaving one meeting and starting another, but it looked like he’d been sent through two spin cycles on high heat. Hair a disaster, skin pale except for the darkening flush of fever along his neck and cheeks, eyes sunken like he hadn’t slept in years. He’d changed, she noticed. No longer in the button-down and tie, he’d put on an old college crew neck with a bleach stain near the armpit and sweatpants. A fresh box of tissues sat right at the edge of the frame. 

Jenny pulled up the calendar as the directors dove right into a discussion that no one seemed to understand, follow, or have any context for. As they prattled on, she started sending some emails, keeping an eye on Max’s little box off to the side of the main speaker. Not that she was actually worried he’d drop dead in the middle of the director meeting…more like she didn’t want him front-and-center with camera on if a sneezing fit got out of hand and he was suddenly dripping in snot ropes. That seemed not just plausible, but inevitable. 

Despite it all, Max played the role well, even if he looked like a background extra in a zombie horde. “Well, I think we can all agree thadt the oudtcomes here are…hii-–eh—sdnff—sorry, that the outcomes are not quite what we were hoping for with this most recent iteration.”

He was trying to keep the congestion out of his thready voice. But much like his nose, it leaked through the consonants without his consent, plugging up vowels and thickening his tongue the more he tried to keep the illness at bay. 

Max’s breath hitch. His nostrils flared. Tissues clutched in hand, he pressed a knuckle into his septum. Caught in the helpless throes of the itch plaguing his inflamed sinuses. Just when it looked like a losing battle, he exhaled wearily. A few dabs of the tissue to his chapped, angry nostrils, and one woeful sniff that sounded more harmful than helpful, before he cleared his throat of gummy phlegm and scraped out, “And the, uh, *sndff*, deliverables. Are we still ond track for the Q1 deadline?”

He was He grabbed for a clump of tissues, securing three. One sneeze. Another. A pause, and then a final, heaving IITzCHieeew! He waited for a moment, kept his watery eyes shut and head turned away from the screen with his finger held uselessly beneath those flaring, tortured nostrils. Finally, with a resigned sniff, he turned back to the screen. “Apolodgies. Please, contindue,” 

The Zoom blessed him. Jenny wondered how long they’d keep it up. She’d bet six more sneezes before they just started ignoring him. 

“Ndo, ndo, *sdnff*, whend I spoke width Greg, thadt was nodt the…eh-hhih!...sndff, imbpression I godt about the vision mboving forward.”

His breath caught. “hhi–ah–hiii–ADzzchiew! Hii-HiZTCHEW, AHzdiCHiew!! Sdnff. Pardon mbe.”

The chorus of bless-yous dwindled. Another director took Max’s pause to manage his nose as an opportunity to get back on his soap box about the “best path forward.”

Max turned slightly. A voice flickered in and out as Zoom tried to decide whether Max or the other guy were worth listening to. Jenny muted Max’s screen. He didn’t notice. He was talking to someone behind him, before his brows furrowed and jaw went slack and three more sneezes burst out, spray glittering in the lamplight. 

Max, though friendly, was notoriously private. Jenny knew he had a partner of some fashion—there was a wedding band on his finger most days, silicon if he was coming to the gym and gold otherwise—but didn’t know a thing about what they looked like, what they did for work, how Max met them. He didn’t even have photos in his office; most of his decor were art prints, framed design projects, and little lego sets he liked to do while stuck in long, boring meetings with salesmen and execs. 

Jenny didn’t know how to feel when the blonde man appeared on screen behind Max. A little guilty, for invading the well-maintained privacy of a man clearly delirious with cold and unaware of what was appearing on screen. A lot intrigued, for this little insight into Max’s fortress of solitude. 

Blondie said something to him. Max shook his head, waving him off. The blonde held up a mug. Tea, it would seem. Another sneeze. Max’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Then, he turned back to the screen. The other man entered, picked up the used mug and placed the new mug on the desk. His free hand squeezed Max’s shoulder, rubbing in a passing massage that made Max melt into his chair. 

Jenny’s eyes caught on the ring on the man’s finger. Gold, just like Max’s. The same engraved line through the center. 

“Max, what do you think about that plan?” said another director. 

Max coughed into a fist. Jenny unmuted him. “I had a simbilar thoudght, Jadckie. Ledt’s talk offline aboudt it. Jenny’ll toudch base with Rachel about a good timbe.”

She muted him again before the following sneeze blew out their speakers again. 

Finally, finally, the meeting started wrapping up, more circles and bases to be touched at later dates. They all dispersed without a goodbye. Except for Jenny and Max. 

Max, slouching in the chair, head tilted back, didn’t realize the room was still open, that he was still in it. 

Jenny should close the room. Should go send that email to Rachel with the tiny slivers of time Max might have to meet with Jackie next week. Should go eat something, her own stomach grumbling in response to the calendar alert for lunch. 

Instead, she watched. 

The blonde man reentered, this time with a blanket. “Poor thing,” he cooed at Max, fingers running through her boss' chestnut locks and massaging his scalp. Max’s moan was almost obscene, if not for its worn edges and congested crackling. 

The blonde gently maneuvered Max’s head to settle against his stomach as he stood by the chair. Max’s eyes fluttered shut, wincing as he swallowed. “Bed now?” the man whispered. “Please?”

Jenny already had the message ready to go. She pressed “send”.

Ding!

Max’s eyes creaked open to read the alert. The glare at the offending screen turned into a relieved, exhausted, smile. 

Your calendar is clear for the rest of the day. All meetings rescheduled or canceled as necessary. I will not answer any calls from you, so don’t even try. 

-JH

“Baby?” the man said, fingers pressing Max’s temple in the exact spot he always massaged when he got a tension headache. 

“Mmmm…yes. Bed,” Max rasped. 

The man kissed his forehead. “Good answer.”

He helped Max to his feet and pulled the blanket around his shoulders as Max coughed into his fist. 

"Thank you, Jenny," the Blonde man called over his shoulder.

Okay, maybe she wasn't as clever as she thought. Still, Jenny smiled to herself and closed the Zoom.

And maybe at 8am tomorrow, she'd ask Max about his husband. The least he could do is give her name so she could address some flowers as thanks for keeping her boss alive.

[queen-frostine]

hi, it's me, don't ask why this happened. Actually, no, it's fine, I'll tell you why. This post from @snzqt. And this other one from @sneezysubbyboi and probably like 5 others. They crashed together in my head and said "if you don't write this we're going to ruin your life" and I've got no time to fight the specters of inspiration, okay? I've got a job. I've got things to do. I didn't even proofread this. I wrote it in my notes app on my phone at my place of gainful employment and then put it in a document and now it's here, okay? What am I doing. What's going on.

**don't reblog to non-kink places pls and thnk u**

Max Coleman, senior director of design, was always late. He kept his calendar perpetually full to a degree that even the most seasoned c-suite execs would find harrowing. It was more unusual for him to be on time than it was for him to slip into a meeting room or hop on a Zoom call five minutes late, half an idea out of his mouth before the door even shut behind him. 

The only meeting he arrived at on time was his 8am schedule review with his assistant, Jenny Han. 

Jenny had worked with Max for four years at that point. He’d inherited the assistant from his predecessor, an old school designer who went on a thirty-minute tirade about digital graphic design and how “back in my day we DREW, by HAND!” at least once a week. He had been impossible to please, exceptionally rude, and generally exhausting. 

When Max, thirty years his junior with more design awards under his belt from his work with major brands all over the world, had taken over, Jenny had quietly withdrawn all her applications at other jobs. Because while Max was also particular and moody and tiring, he remembered Jenny’s name and birthday, signed her requests for time off, and met her sarcasm with snark of his own. 

So when Max entered the Zoom meeting at 8:03am, Jenny knew something was going on. She raised a brow and asked, “how’re those allergies?”

Red eyed, flushed with fever, and a tissue to his nose, Max glared at her and admitted, ruefully, “Ndot allergies.”

Three days ago, Max had come into the office with a thermos full of tea and a persistent sniffle. “Allergies,” he said. It was January, but sure. Whatever he wanted to believe. At least he’d had the decency to go home at lunch and work remote the rest of the week. 

“The symptoms were simbilar endough. Adn easy mbistake to mbake. I wouldn’t blameb ah-eh…anyone for thindking—”

“Just to be clear, I was never confused about what was happening,” Jenny said. “Last I checked, it was you who insisted—”

“Yes, yes, I kdnow what I said,” Max snapped with all the strength of a toothless, geriatric schnauzer. He sighed. “I’mb fightding a cold. There. Happ–haa–eh?...hi-ISTCHiew!”

“Sounds more like losing to a cold to me, sir.” 

Max, nose shoved into the now-soaking tissue, coughed disdainfully before tossing it into a wastebin off screen. “Very funndy,” he groused. His usually well-styled hair flopped about, mussed from restless sleep and hands running through it to feel for fever.

Jenny smirked. “I take it you’re going to push through like a hero?”

He frowned. “The meedtings are…eh–hi?? Ubgh…imbportant.”

“Yes, of course, sir, you definitely could not miss…” she looked at his 9am, “...check-in with the design team who have not made any changes to the proof since you spoke with the project lead at 5pm yesterday.”

Max rubbed his temples. “God, I should fire you. At the very leasdt tank your annual review.”

“Please do. I’d love a vacation.”

He glared at her. She smiled. 

“Hi-ISTCHIew! Uh-HuASCHieww!” The sneezes barreled out of him like a shotgun blast, barely caught in the crook of his elbow. The resulting moan crackled with congestion. “Schedule, Jenny? Pleasbe. And no more, ‘sir’, Jesus, you kdnow I hate thadt.”

Jenny sighed. “Fine, fine. So at 8:30 you’ve got the comms team from KindCause to review the first round of edits for the video assets…”

#########

There was a moment when Jenny thought he really was going to push through. Whatever meds he knocked back right after waking up kicked in, and for his first three meetings of the day he looked more like he’d had a bad night out instead of looking like a walking corpse dead from the plague. 

If he could make it through his eleven o’clock, he’d get thirty uninterrupted minutes to take a nap, chug a mug of tea, and shoot up some intravenous Dayquil before the marathon of meetings from 12:30pm to 6pm. 

Jenny joined the Zoom call. Turned on the automated notetaker, set the meeting to record, and pulled up her own spreadsheet of upcoming dates, deadlines, and meetings. 

It was a typical stakeholder meeting. Nothing special. Usually a boring circle jerk of the directors speaking fluent corporate-ease and never making decisions beyond “let’s circle back on that,” and “we’ll table that thought for next meeting.”

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Jenny and Max had hopped off their 10:30 call a few minutes early, mostly at Jenny’s suggestion, since Max looked like he might die if he didn’t blow his nose. She would never be so foolish as to expect he’d actually be on time, but twelve minutes late? Even for him, that was— 

Ding! 

“Sorry, sorry,” Max rasped as he appeared in the room. He looked…well, if Jenny were being professional, she’d say, “a little haphazard.” 

Not professionally? He looked like absolute shit. 

She didn’t understand what could have happened in the twenty minutes between leaving one meeting and starting another, but it looked like he’d been sent through two spin cycles on high heat. Hair a disaster, skin pale except for the darkening flush of fever along his neck and cheeks, eyes sunken like he hadn’t slept in years. He’d changed, she noticed. No longer in the button-down and tie, he’d put on an old college crew neck with a bleach stain near the armpit and sweatpants. A fresh box of tissues sat right at the edge of the frame. 

Jenny pulled up the calendar as the directors dove right into a discussion that no one seemed to understand, follow, or have any context for. As they prattled on, she started sending some emails, keeping an eye on Max’s little box off to the side of the main speaker. Not that she was actually worried he’d drop dead in the middle of the director meeting…more like she didn’t want him front-and-center with camera on if a sneezing fit got out of hand and he was suddenly dripping in snot ropes. That seemed not just plausible, but inevitable. 

Despite it all, Max played the role well, even if he looked like a background extra in a zombie horde. “Well, I think we can all agree thadt the oudtcomes here are…hii-–eh—sdnff—sorry, that the outcomes are not quite what we were hoping for with this most recent iteration.”

He was trying to keep the congestion out of his thready voice. But much like his nose, it leaked through the consonants without his consent, plugging up vowels and thickening his tongue the more he tried to keep the illness at bay. 

Max’s breath hitch. His nostrils flared. Tissues clutched in hand, he pressed a knuckle into his septum. Caught in the helpless throes of the itch plaguing his inflamed sinuses. Just when it looked like a losing battle, he exhaled wearily. A few dabs of the tissue to his chapped, angry nostrils, and one woeful sniff that sounded more harmful than helpful, before he cleared his throat of gummy phlegm and scraped out, “And the, uh, *sndff*, deliverables. Are we still ond track for the Q1 deadline?”

He was He grabbed for a clump of tissues, securing three. One sneeze. Another. A pause, and then a final, heaving IITzCHieeew! He waited for a moment, kept his watery eyes shut and head turned away from the screen with his finger held uselessly beneath those flaring, tortured nostrils. Finally, with a resigned sniff, he turned back to the screen. “Apolodgies. Please, contindue,” 

The Zoom blessed him. Jenny wondered how long they’d keep it up. She’d bet six more sneezes before they just started ignoring him. 

“Ndo, ndo, *sdnff*, whend I spoke width Greg, thadt was nodt the…eh-hhih!...sndff, imbpression I godt about the vision mboving forward.”

His breath caught. “hhi–ah–hiii–ADzzchiew! Hii-HiZTCHEW, AHzdiCHiew!! Sdnff. Pardon mbe.”

The chorus of bless-yous dwindled. Another director took Max’s pause to manage his nose as an opportunity to get back on his soap box about the “best path forward.”

Max turned slightly. A voice flickered in and out as Zoom tried to decide whether Max or the other guy were worth listening to. Jenny muted Max’s screen. He didn’t notice. He was talking to someone behind him, before his brows furrowed and jaw went slack and three more sneezes burst out, spray glittering in the lamplight. 

Max, though friendly, was notoriously private. Jenny knew he had a partner of some fashion—there was a wedding band on his finger most days, silicon if he was coming to the gym and gold otherwise—but didn’t know a thing about what they looked like, what they did for work, how Max met them. He didn’t even have photos in his office; most of his decor were art prints, framed design projects, and little lego sets he liked to do while stuck in long, boring meetings with salesmen and execs. 

Jenny didn’t know how to feel when the blonde man appeared on screen behind Max. A little guilty, for invading the well-maintained privacy of a man clearly delirious with cold and unaware of what was appearing on screen. A lot intrigued, for this little insight into Max’s fortress of solitude. 

Blondie said something to him. Max shook his head, waving him off. The blonde held up a mug. Tea, it would seem. Another sneeze. Max’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Then, he turned back to the screen. The other man entered, picked up the used mug and placed the new mug on the desk. His free hand squeezed Max’s shoulder, rubbing in a passing massage that made Max melt into his chair. 

Jenny’s eyes caught on the ring on the man’s finger. Gold, just like Max’s. The same engraved line through the center. 

“Max, what do you think about that plan?” said another director. 

Max coughed into a fist. Jenny unmuted him. “I had a simbilar thoudght, Jadckie. Ledt’s talk offline aboudt it. Jenny’ll toudch base with Rachel about a good timbe.”

She muted him again before the following sneeze blew out their speakers again. 

Finally, finally, the meeting started wrapping up, more circles and bases to be touched at later dates. They all dispersed without a goodbye. Except for Jenny and Max. 

Max, slouching in the chair, head tilted back, didn’t realize the room was still open, that he was still in it. 

Jenny should close the room. Should go send that email to Rachel with the tiny slivers of time Max might have to meet with Jackie next week. Should go eat something, her own stomach grumbling in response to the calendar alert for lunch. 

Instead, she watched. 

The blonde man reentered, this time with a blanket. “Poor thing,” he cooed at Max, fingers running through her boss' chestnut locks and massaging his scalp. Max’s moan was almost obscene, if not for its worn edges and congested crackling. 

The blonde gently maneuvered Max’s head to settle against his stomach as he stood by the chair. Max’s eyes fluttered shut, wincing as he swallowed. “Bed now?” the man whispered. “Please?”

Jenny already had the message ready to go. She pressed “send”.

Ding!

Max’s eyes creaked open to read the alert. The glare at the offending screen turned into a relieved, exhausted, smile. 

Your calendar is clear for the rest of the day. All meetings rescheduled or canceled as necessary. I will not answer any calls from you, so don’t even try. 

-JH

“Baby?” the man said, fingers pressing Max’s temple in the exact spot he always massaged when he got a tension headache. 

“Mmmm…yes. Bed,” Max rasped. 

The man kissed his forehead. “Good answer.”

He helped Max to his feet and pulled the blanket around his shoulders as Max coughed into his fist. 

"Thank you, Jenny," the Blonde man called over his shoulder.

Okay, maybe she wasn't as clever as she thought. Still, Jenny smiled to herself and closed the Zoom.

And maybe at 8am tomorrow, she'd ask Max about his husband. The least he could do is give her name so she could address some flowers as thanks for keeping her boss alive.

[chezsnez]

sisterhood of the traveling salesman (m)

ok, so, let me preface this by saying this is very NSFW, 18+, with contagion & mess.

now that that's out of the way, this is a (6,000+ word) continuation of my good friend @sickromancer's fic, "terrible for business", which if you haven't read, GO DO IT NOW. it's so good and inspired this!

the jist of it is that harry, our beloved 1950s traveling hosiery salesman, ends up catching a cold from one housewife and bringing it to the next. this particular housewife, though, wants to finish what her neighbor started. with @sickromancer's permission, i named her housewife "lorraine", just to give context with my own characters.

i can't think of many other notes, other than i hope you enjoy & i'd love to know what you think!

________________

The morning after his encounter with one Mrs. Lorraine Studebaker, Harry Handsey woke up in his motel room with his cheek stuck to the pillow and an insurmountable weight sitting in his sinuses. He had known what a risk it had been, entering Mrs. Studebaker’s germ-filled home, but he hadn't known how quickly her cold would settle into his own head. Apparently, it wasted no time. 

Despite the pounding in his head and the occasional stray sneeze, Harry knew he still had hosiery to sell. His mother's landlord wasn't going to accept a head cold as an excuse for late rent, so Harry had begrudgingly dragged himself out of the motel’s bed and got dressed. He decided a cup of coffee at the diner on the corner would be enough to knock the exhaustion out of him, although a cup of tea in bed sounded much more appealing. 

Once he was dressed, fed, and caffeinated, he loaded up his wares and made his way back to Lorraine's neighborhood. He had made it to the end of her sprawling street the day before, just as the local kids were being called in for supper, but he hadn't made it to the opposite side. Based on the number of children he saw scattering to their homes once the street lights came on, Harry had a feeling that the neighborhood was chock full of housewives who needed new stockings. 

As he parked his old Buick on the corner of Spruce and Mayfair, Harry couldn't help the blush creeping up his neck as he caught sight of Lorraine's yellow rancher. The curtains were still closed, even though the hour was approaching 10:00. Harry couldn't help the twinge of jealousy he felt at the thought of her still tucked into bed while he shlepped up and down Mayfair to sell hosiery. 

Hh…hhhn-SSSSSSHIEW!

The sneeze catapulted out of him before he knew it was coming, a spraying mist of germs that gently settled on the driver’s side window. 

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Harry muttered to himself as he dug in his pocket. A waterlogged snrf kept most of the mess at bay, but Harry vigorously cleaned his upper lip with his handkerchief to stave off any more escaping. He was glad he packed two handkerchiefs instead of his usual one. 

With a weary sign, the salesman sniffled once more and opened his door. It was almost October in the northeast, and a chilly breeze whipped down the street. He shivered as it snaked down his collar and bit at the end of his dripping nose. With his free hand, Harry held his hat tighter to his head and beelined for the cape cod across the way from Lorraine’s house. 

It was a cute home, painted white with red shutters. The front walk was lined with blue hydrangeas, their blooms sagging with end-of-summer weight. He could also see an empty milk bottle on the front step, and the newspaper. Another late riser, he thought to himself with a smirk. Sleeping late as a salesman wasn't an option. You rose with the sun and hustled until there was no hustle left. Although I suppose I was right there with them today, Harry said to himself. On this particular morning had woken far later than normal, much to his chagrin. 

Clearing his throat before scrubbing the underside of his nose with a finger, Harry steadied his breath and knocked on the front door. Beyond the door he could hear the click of heels on hardwood, and he straightened his tie as the door opened. On the other side was a woman–if Lorraine had been Ava Gardner, this woman was Doris Day. She had a blonde bob, softly curled and teased at the crown, a cherubically round face with two blue chips for eyes, and a sweet, upturned nose. Harry couldn’t help an appreciative glance at her figure–his business was women and their intimates, but he wasn’t immune to an attractive housewife. She was wearing a pair of grass green pedal pushers with a pale pink button-down. He could see she wasn’t wearing any stockings on her feet, just a matching pink pair of block-heeled pumps. She had a cigarette between her two fingers, which she placed on her lips and took a drag. 

“Well, well, well…I was wondering if you’d be stopping here,” the woman said. She leaned against the door jamb as she took the cigarette off her lips, tucking her other hand beneath her elbow to keep it aloft. 

“Pardon?” 

“You’re the stocking salesman, aren’t you?”

At this, Harry didn’t respond. Instead, a traitorous sneeze tore out of him, barely covered with his elbow to avoid splattering the blonde in front of him.  

“I see you’ve met Lorraine,” she said with a smirk.

“Lorraine?” Harry responded hazily as he retrieved his handkerchief. 

The woman in the doorway nodded towards the yellow rancher across the street. 

“Oh, yes, Lorraine. I sold her some stockings yesterday.”

“She told me,” the woman said. “She’s been down with that awful cold she caught, so I brought her some dinner last night.” She took another drag of the cigarette, exhaling the smoke softly in Harry’s direction. “She wasn’t lying when she said you were cute.”

Harry blushed at this…he couldn’t help it. One encounter with a beautiful housewife was enough, but two in less than twenty-four hours was going to send him into cardiac arrest. 

“You flatter me,” he said with a quick sniff. “Harry Handsey, hosiery salesman.”

The woman smirked at him again, like a cat watching a squirrel. “Dorothy Bishop,” she said, extending her free hand. “But you can call me Dottie.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bishop,” Harry said, taking her offered hand. He was thankful the handkerchief was in the other hand. “Can I interest you in some new stockings?”

“Please, call me Dottie. And yes, you can,” Dottie responded, stepping to the side and holding her arm out, beckoning him into the entryway. Harry stepped over the threshold and was surprised to see that Dottie Bishop wasn’t nearly as tall as Lorraine was, despite her personality being far more assertive than her neighbor’s. She looked him in the eye, the blue of her irises saturated by the blue chinoiserie wallpaper behind her. Harry cleared his throat and quickly averted his own eyes. “Right this way,” he heard her say, and he glanced up to watch her walk towards what he assumed was the sitting room. 

The sitting room was just as elegant as the entryway. A settee and matching armchair were centered in the room, with a television set off in the corner. The room was decorated in creams and browns with small pops of deep green. Above the fireplace was a painted portrait of Dottie and a man, who Harry assumed was her husband. There was no evidence of children, just the white Pekingnese that had humped his leg the day prior. It was growling at him from an absurdly elaborate dog bed, the white fur around its eyes stained brown. Harry grimaced. 

“Buffy, shush,” Dottie said, bending down to scratch the dog between the ears. “Please, have a seat Mr. Handsey.” Harry watched as Dottie perched herself on the settee, her shapely legs crossing at the knees as she laid the cigarette into an ashtray. 

“Oh, I’m fine,” he replied. Somewhere in the back of his sinuses he could feel a buzz, and he was afraid that the shift in position would send him into a fit of unsanitary sneezes. 

“Don’t be silly,” Dottie replied, patting the cushion next to her. “Come, sit.”

Warring with himself, Harry conceded and gently lowered himself next to Dottie. His fears had been correct, and the movement sent his nose into a flurry of wet, congested sneezes that he tried to crush into his handkerchief. 

Nn-shiew! HhhnSSSHIEW! Snrgk, snrgk. SHIEWWW! 

He could feel the mortification seeping through his pores as Dottie cooed next to him. 

“Mby abologies,” he muttered. He gave his nose an obligatory honk, hoping it would help ease up the congestion, but it continued to pound behind his eyes. He pinched the corners of his eyes with his free hand, refusing to look in Dottie’s direction.

“You sound just like Lorraine,” she said. “Full to the brim and miserable.”

“No, no, I’mb fine,” he retorted. “Just some allergies.”

Dottie just chuckled at that, a soft almost condescending sound. It made Harry’s cock twitch. 

“Can I get you anything? Water? Hot tea?”

Harry looked at her now, desperately trying to ignore the pain that had started to scrape his throat with each sneeze. Dottie just looked back at him, her cigarette slowly burning down in the ashtray next to her. 

“Tea would actually be lovely,” he said.

“Tea it is,” Dottie replied before pushing herself up and heading towards the kitchen.

From his spot on the settee, Harry could hear Dottie rummaging around in the yellow linoleum kitchen. He gazed around her sitting room, trying to figure out where her husband was and if Buffy the Pekingese was going to continue glaring at him. Buffy seemed content, though,  and he watched the dog slowly drift off to sleep. Without the threat of being bitten–or worse, humped–Harry allowed his eyes to linger on the portrait above the fireplace. It was a sizable portrait, probably 11x14, and clearly the centerpiece of the room. In it, Dottie was wearing a navy blue dress with white buttons, a string of pearls around her neck and diamonds hanging from her ears. Behind her stood her husband. He was a good-looking man, taller than her with dark hair and an easy smile. 

Hrn-SHOO! 

The sneezes from this cold were starting to become unavoidable, and Harry was increasingly self-aware of how wet they were. He scrubbed at his nose with the handkerchief, silently praying that his nose would calm down long enough to ensure him a sale, especially after forgetting to collect payment from Lorraine the day before. He was halfway through blowing his nose when Dottie’s head peeked out from around the doorframe.

“Bless you,” she said. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Thagk you,” Harry said, pocketing the damp fabric. “Sugar, please.”

Dottie nodded her confirmation then disappeared again. She reemerged with two saucers of steaming tea. He admired the way she navigated the space between them, the saucers not making a sound as she expertly placed his on the coffee table in front of him.

“You sound awful,” she said, taking her seat next to him again. “Are you sure you should be working today?”

No, I shouldn’t be. I should still be at the motel, in both pairs of my pajamas and buried under the blankets, Harry thought to himself. Instead of responding, he took a sip of the tea. It was hot and soothing on his throat, and he couldn’t help the small moan that escaped him. 

“Good?” Dottie continued, sipping from her own cup.

“Egcellent,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

Dottie just smiled, eyeing him from over the rim of her cup. She made no effort to continue the conversation, opting instead to take another sip of her own tea. Harry shifted uncomfortably, not used to the dullness in his conversational skills. His mother always said that he has been gifted with the ability to talk to anyone, a skill that served him well in his line of work. This cold, however, was impeding that. 

“That's a lovely portrait,” he finally said, nodding towards the picture above the fireplace. 

“Ah, yes,” Dottie said. “Thank you.”

“Is that your husband?”

“Was my husband. He's been gone for about three years now…died in Korea.”

“I'mb sorry to hear that,” Harry said sincerely. 

“Don't be,” Dottie replied, taking a sip of her own tea. “It wasn't in battle. Knowing Mick, it was probably a gambling situation gone bad.”

There was an awkward silence between the two. Dottie’s foot bobbed as she sipped her tea again, and Harry awkwardly shifted his handkerchief into his other hand so he could grab his teacup. They drank in silence, the only sound in the room being Buffy's heavy breathing and the ticking of the clock on the mantle. 

“So,” Dottie finally said, breaking the tension. “What do you have in that little suitcase of yours?”

Thankful for the distraction, Harry launched into his selling points. He rattled off the brands and the different denier weights, pulling stocking after stocking out of his case. He let Dottie touch each fabric, their fingertips grazing each other as he held them out to her. She hummed her approval or scrunched her nose in distaste, and soon, Harry was in tune with her preferences. 

She finally settled on six pairs of stockings, all different brands and styles. The salesman’s palms were damp at the prospect of such a sale, and he feared the cold taking residence in his head was going to take the money from him before he even received it. 

Nxt-shiew! 

A barely contained stifle crossed the space between him and Dottie. He saw her squirm, an infinitesimal movement that made him clear his throat. 

“Mby apologies,” he whispered. “I truly didn't thingk I was this sigck.”

Instead of speaking, Dottie reached across the distance between them and gently cupped his cheek. Harry leaned into the touch, unaware of how starved for contact he truly was. 

“Why don't I try these on,” she said, drawing her hand back. Harry’s impulse was to chase the warmth of her palm, but he nodded instead. “Care to help?” At this, he balked. 

“Pardond?” 

“You're the expert. I never wear dresses anymore, not since Mick died. I usually wear slacks. I rarely go out, just walking around this house like a ghost.” Dottie stood up, balancing the stack of hosiery in her hands. “I'll go put on something with a little bit easier access and you can tell me if they fit properly. Come on, now, follow me.”

Leaving him with little room to oppose, Dottie made her way to the staircase and started to make her way up. Harry’s mouth was dry, despite the incessant drip at the back of his throat. With a shake of his head, he stood up and followed the widow up the stairs. 

Once they were on the landing, Dottie turned to him and said, “If you don't mind staying here for a moment, I'll be right back.” Harry just gave a tight nod, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. Dottie gave him a smirk before turning from him and disappearing into her bedroom. Harry was too stunned to move, so he awkwardly stood on the landing, hyper aware of the berry colored carpet beneath his oxfords. 

Hehhh…HN-SSSHIEW! 

A sloppy sneeze rocketed out of him. His nose dribbled onto his upper lip, and for half a beat he wasn't sure if his handkerchief could handle it. Then he remembered the extra one he had tucked inside of his breast pocket and he sighed in relief. 

“Bless you!” he heard Dottie call from the other side of her bedroom door. Harry blushed. 

“Thangk you,” he called back before giving a plugged up blow into the fresh handkerchief. 

Without a word, Dottie opened her door and Harry felt his mouth go dry. She was wearing a white dress with strips of black accent around the skirt and bodice. It was sleeveless, and the square  shape of the neckline showed off her decolletage. Harry slowly lowered the handkerchief from his abused nose. If the pants and blouse made her tiny frame formidable, this dress made her a siren. It was cinched at the waist, and he couldn't help staring at the inches of soft, slightly tan skin it showed off. 

“Can you zip me?” she asked, turning around. She had managed to get the zipper halfway up her back, and Harry could see the top of her underwear at the V of the zipper. They were pale pink silk, the same color as the matching straps of her bra. With shaking hands, Harry reached forward and took the zipper pull in his fingertips. With a sharp tug, he closed the remaining fabric of the dress. 

“There we are,” he muttered, shoving his sweating palms into his trouser pockets. 

“Thank you,” Dottie replied, turning around to face him. The waist of it was even tighter, now, showing off the true hourglass of her figure. 

“You look–” Harry cut himself off, realizing that the word “beautiful” had almost fallen off his lips. He masked the faux pas with a deep, chesty cough that quickly turned more real than fake. Something flashed in Dottie’s eyes, but he chose to ignore it.

“I look what?” she said.

Harry gave her an appreciative once-over before saying, “Very nice.”

Dottie gave a self-satisfied smirk at that, smoothing her palms down the front of the skirt. 

“I don’t get to wear these much anymore,” she said. “Mick used to take me out all the time–dinner, dancing, any reason to show me off. I haven’t found much reason to wear those types of outfits since his passing.” A less detail-oriented man would have missed the quick flash of sadness that passed through the widow’s face, but Harry Handsey’s profession called for detail. It had been just a slight downturn of her mouth, the tiniest furrow between her eyebrows, but he saw it.

“Well, I’mb sure taking you oud was something he took a lod of pride in,” Harry said. 

“Lorraine told me you aren’t married,” Dottie continued, looking at him through her eyelashes. 

“Thad is correcdt,” he replied. He swore his palms were going to sweat right through the fabric of his trousers. 

“Shame,” Dottie continued, gently running her fingers up the doorframe. “You seem sweet.”

Harry blushed at this, furiously. Unable to look the widow in the eye, Harry decided to turn his attention to the tips of his own shoes. Right across the threshold, just mere inches from his own feet, he could see Dottie’s bare toes, painted a striking shade of red. Somehow, that made him blush even more.

“Alright, Mr. Handsey, let’s see what kind of wares you have,” he heard her say, and soon the line of red toes disappeared from his sight. Daring to look up, he watched her retreat from him, heading straight for the bed in the middle of the room.

Like the rest of her house and appearance, Dottie’s bedroom was prim, neat, and beautiful. In the center of the room sat her bed, which she now sat upon. Across from the bed was a vanity, with a tray of creams and perfumes and blushes. He could see an ensuite to his right, and a rather cavernous closet to his left. The far side of the room was covered in big windows, and Harry noticed that Dottie had closed the sheer curtains closest to the glass. The fabric diffused the October sunshine beating in through the windows, catching in the ends of Dottie’s hair and along the skin of her arms. She was watching him from her perch on the end of the bed, her bare legs stretched out in front of her, arms bracing against the mattress. 

“How do you want me, Mr. Handsey?” she said, tilting her head. 

“H-Harry, please,” the salesman stuttered. It was at that moment that the hitch in his voice shifted from nervousness to urgency. H-h-hNSHIEW! NSHIEW! NSHEWF! The triple filled the space of the bedroom in both noise and contagion. Harry had barely caught them in his handkerchief, the messy result of the fit hanging out of both nostrils. Snrf, snrf. Harry tried valiantly to contain the mess, pressing the handkerchief to his nose as he rubbed vigorously. 

“Bless you, Harry,” Dottie said, her eyes never leaving his face. Her voice was a purr, the same sound a content feline makes when it finally gets the cream. The sound made his cock twitch. 

“I’mb so sorry,” he gasped, wiping up the last of the mess. He hastily folded his handkerchief, palming the sodden square in his hand. 

“No need to apologize,” Dottie said. “Shall I stand?”

Harry nodded. He watched as Dottie stood, pivoted her body, and bent to grab the hem of her skirts. In a swift motion, she pulled the layers of crinoline and silk up towards her face and bent over the edge of the fabric to look at her exposed legs. They were sturdy legs, muscular and toned, with shapely calves and slim ankles. The red of her toes was particularly noticeable against the cream carpet. Harry swallowed thickly.

“I believe I usually wear my garters here,” Dottie said, lowering one hand to her left leg. She ran a matching red fingertip along the middle of her thigh. Harry watched as her hand disappeared between her legs before reappearing to once again grab hold of the skirt. 

Fighting the blush creeping up from under his collar, Harry gave Dottie a silent nod before removing his jacket and laying it across the foot of the bed. It was far easier to move in just his vest and shirtsleeves, especially in a crouching position, but he couldn’t help feeling a little smug at the hunger that flashed in Dottie’s eyes when she saw him without his jacket. Without saying a word, Harry crouched in front of the widow and pulled his tape measure out of his pocket. 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Dottie said from above, “Lorraine wanted me to give you your other tape measure and the money she owes you for the stockings.” 

“Oh?” Harry said, looking up at her. “I thoughd id was a lost cause.”

Dottie laughed at that, a soft, sultry sound. It made Harry’s blood stir. 

“She’s good for it,” Dottie responded. “It’s downstairs in my escritoire.” 

Instead of responding, Harry sneezed directly onto her bare thigh. He hadn’t felt it coming, and it had exploded out of him with such force that there was no way he could have contained it. Mortification seeped into every part of his body as he realized what had happened, and he scrambled up to retrieve his handkerchief from his coat pocket.

“Oh, Mrs. Bishob, I’mb so incredibly sorry.”

“Harry, please. Call me Dottie.” Harry was too caught up in his embarrassment to register her response, and he knelt beside her to quickly wipe the spit and spray from her skin. He got to her knee before he felt the cool softness of her hand circle his wrist. 

“Harry,” she said softly, tugging him back. “I’m fine. I promise. Come on, come sit down and I’ll get you a fresh handkerchief.” The only response Harry could give was a weak sniffle and a nod. He sat in the same place Dottie had been just minutes before, wishing he was laying in the bed instead of sitting on it. Dottie crossed the bedroom to a chest of drawers that was tucked next to the bedroom door. She tugged the top drawer open and extracted a stack of clean, white handkerchiefs. 

“Ah-ha,” she said, holding the stack above her head as if it were the Heisman trophy. “I knew they were still in there.” Harry eagerly took them from her, placing the stack in his lap before pulling the first one off the top and eagerly blowing his nose into it. “You can keep the whole stack,” she continued. “They were Mick’s. It seemed a waste to get rid of them…you never know when you’ll need a stack of clean handkerchiefs, right?”

Harry just nodded.

“So, which should I try first?” she said, pointing to the pile of stockings on the nightstand. 

“Oh, erm…perhabs the ones there on the top, the ‘Lober’s Knods’, as they’re called in the catalog.”

“Lover’s Knots?” Dottie said, holding up the pair he was pointing to.

“Yes, those,” Harry replied. He absentmindedly wiped the bottom of his nostrils with the handkerchief. “They’re a bit more egspensive than the other hosiery we offer, but they have a lovely detail right on the heels.” He stood to give the widow some privacy, but she already had her skirts hiked up and her toe pointed. Harry caught just a glimpse of her bending over before he felt uncomfortable and turned towards the closet. He could hear rustling behind him, the sound of the nylon sliding up her leg, the snap of the garter as she clipped them into place. The only other noise in the room was the occasional soupy sniffle from himself. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to turn,” he heard her say. “I’m all finished.”

Harry turned back towards her and promptly choked. Harry was no stranger to women’s legs, but there was something about the way she was standing there, the forward leg bent at the knee, toe pointed into the carpet, skirts still hiked up to her hips, that launched him into another fit of tight, wet coughs. 

“Oh dear, are you alright?” she breathed, dropping the skirts and crossing the space between them. She laid a hand on his upper arm as he wrestled with his lungs.

“I’mb fine,” he muttered, finally gaining control of his breathing. He took a steadying breath…this cold was far more than he had bargained for. “Let’s take a loogk.”

Dottie bent forward once more and grabbed the hem of her skirts. She lifted them to her chin and repositioned her leg into the same pose that had practically choked him to death just seconds before. The garter was right across her thigh, imprinting her skin just enough that Harry wanted to know just how soft it was. His eyes traveled down the muscular lines of her leg, down to where her foot was arched. The nylon from the stocking was snug to her foot, a perfect fit. 

“Perfegct,” he said, briefly running his fingertips along the top of the stocking. “A perfegct fit.”

The moment was cut short, however, when Harry’s breath hitched violently, a careening sound that filled the room. He launched himself towards the bed where the stack of clean handkerchiefs sat. He grabbed the closest one before burying his nose into it.

H-h-h-HNSHIEW! HNSHOO! HNSHOOOO!

“Oh, Mr. Handsey, please, sit,” he heard Dottie say. He felt her hand on his elbow, guiding him towards the mattress where she lowered him down. Exhausted from the fit, Harry could only nod his thanks before soggily blowing his nose into the now soiled handkerchief. “You poor thing,” she cooed, running her red-painted fingertips through his hair. “You know, Lorraine and I talk quite a bit,” she continued. “She…told me, about your encounter yesterday. That’s how I found out you weren’t married. I was quite hopeful that her cold hadn’t gotten to you yet, but it’s obvious that it has. It’s a shame, too, because I hear that an orgasm can really clear your sinuses.”

Harry choked at this, sending him into a fit of chesty, wet coughs. 

“You know,” Dottie said, “Lorraine also told me that you didn’t quite…finish, yesterday. I’d be happy to oblige.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide over his handkerchief. “But, I’ll get you sigck.”

“I already told you, I don’t leave the house much. It’ll be a nice change of pace to have a reason for staying in and convalescing.”

Harry blinked owlishly at her, weighing his options. Two encounters with two stunning women in less than twenty-four hours wasn’t something that happened to Harry Handsey, but he also wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“How do you probpose we, erm, ‘clear my sdinuses?’” 

“With a blowjob, of course.”

Harry choked again, the sensation familiar enough now that he was able to cut off the inevitable coughing fit. He had never received a blowjob before, let alone receive one from someone like Dottie. 

“A blowjob?”

“Yes, you silly man, a blowjob. Here, you can stay seated right there. Just take off your pants.”

Maybe it was the fever creeping up on him, or maybe it was the exhaustion, but Harry didn’t oppose. He simply stood up, unbuckled his trousers, and let them fall to his ankles. “Should I still stand?” he asked, covering his ever-growing member with his hands and the crumpled up handkerchief. 

“If that’s comfortable for you,” Dottie said. 

I don’t know what’s comfortable for a blowjob, Harry thought to himself, but instead he said, “Yes, sure.” Shakily, he lowered his hands from his cock, letting them fall limply at his sides. The handkerchief hung from his one hand, a flag of surrender.

Clearly a woman of experience, Dottie Bishop lowered herself onto her knees in front of the hosiery salesman. Tucked in a corner across from where they were was a mirror, and Harry watched appreciatively as she smoothed her hands along her bottom, tucking the silk and crinoline skirts underneath her so that just the soles of her stockinged feet were visible. He dared to look down at her, the top of her blonde head and strong, lithe shoulders looking back up at him. Past that, he could see the intricate, flocked bows on the stockings creeping up the backs of her ankles and the soft ridges of her soles in perfect alignment with one another. Seeing his wares in such a state made his cock twitch. 

“You’re sure about this?” he breathed.

“Only if you are,” Dottie replied, tilting her chin back to look up at him. Her eyes were the color of the lakes he’d seen in a National Geographic magazine, a cobalt that seemed otherworldly. Her lips were full and soft, and Harry couldn’t help thinking of how they’d feel wrapped around him.

“I’mb sure,” he murmured.

Dottie just smiled at him, a proud housecat that had managed a kill. Harry swallowed thickly. He braced himself as she leaned forward, her hands grasping the backs of his bare thighs. In an instant, he felt the warm, wet heat of her mouth around his cock and the world melted away. She let the silk of her tongue run the length of his shaft, stopping at the tip to give it an appreciative swirl before swallowing him whole again. He couldn’t help the guttural groan that fell from him. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine Dottie’s self-satisfied smirk.

“Oh, Mrs. Bishob,” he moaned, gently placing his free hand behind her head. Dottie hummed in a way that sounded dissatisfied, a vibrating “ah-ah” that chided him. He blushed before correcting himself. “Doddie.” At that, she hummed appreciatively, the vibration of the noise running down the length of him and settling in his thighs. He felt his knees buckle at the sensation. 

The widow clearly wasn’t a stranger to this particular act, and Harry thought he was going to ascend. Her mouth was adept and skilled, an onslaught of warm, wet heat and perfectly applied pressure. He found himself unfocused on anything besides her, kneeled in front of him, with her one hand on the back of his bare thigh and the other at the base of his shaft, holding him steady while she continued to bob in front of him. 

He was so distracted, in fact, that he didn’t realize the fit that was creeping up on him.

Hh-hh-hrnSHIEW! HRN-SSSHIEW! HRF-SHOO!

Harry caught them in his palm, too caught up in the way his cock bobbed in her mouth with each sneeze to properly cover his nose. The movement didn’t deter Dottie from her ministrations, the pull back and thrust from each sneeze matching the rhythm of her mouth. If there was a god, Harry was now a believer, because he had never experienced a feeling so heavenly. Dottie swallowed him whole, her lips pressing against the skin of his cock and sliding up and down the length, not a single hiccup in her movements. 

HRN-SHOOOO! Snrf, snrf, snrf…het-SHOO!

His nose was almost as uncontrollable as his mounting orgasm. Somehow, in the haze of Dottie sucking his cock, Harry remembered he had a handkerchief in his hand. He brought it up to his nose, wiping sloppily. He didn’t care if he was completely clean, as long as it wasn’t dripping on the housewife in front of him. He gave an obligatory honk, the sound stuffed and tight. Dottie dug her red fingernails into his thigh and he groaned. 

Harry peered at himself in the mirror, red-nosed with purple shadows under his eyes. His wavy brown hair was still immaculate, but he could see the pallor of his skin. Dottie, though, was perfect. Even from behind, Harry was mystified by her. Her feet were still perfectly lined up next to each other, the seam of the stockings not budging an inch. A selling point, he thought to himself amusedly. He almost chuckled, but it was as if Dottie knew his attention had drifted. She pulled him back to reality by swallowing him whole, her mouth now at the base of him, the slightest drag of her teeth along his shaft. It sent him over the edge, a congested yelp coming from him as his knees finally gave out and he bounced onto the mattress. Dottie stayed with him, her mouth still warm and firm around his cock until he finished.

 With a wet pop, Dottie leaned back and daintily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Harry was laid out spread eagle on the mattress, his pants around his ankles still and his heart beating wildly in his chest. From this angle, his traitorous nose started to clog up, the angle causing all of his congestion to build. He coughed, trying to catch his breath, and when he opened his eyes, Dottie was hovering over him, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. The light from the windows lit her like an angel–perhaps a fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless. 

“You can clean yourself up in the en suite,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll clean myself up across the hall.” 

Without another word, she disappeared from the room, closing the door behind her. Harry continued to lay on her bed, begging his heart to slow down and his cock to soften even just a fraction. He sat up with shaky arms, and his nose started to run with the movement. Harry blew his nose into the handkerchief, a wet, constant sound that made him wince. I shouldn’t be out, he thought to himself as he stood up. He pulled his trousers back up, zipping and buttoning them before heading into the en suite. His red-nosed reflection stared back at him as he washed his hands and face. I really shouldn’t be out. 

When he returned to the bedroom, Dottie was standing there, holding his suit jacket. She helped him into it, running her hands along his shoulders to smooth out any wrinkles, and Harry shivered at the sensation. He turned around to face her, and she smiled at him.

“I hope that helped a little,” she said. 

“It did,” he replied, wiping his nose once more.

“You really should be in bed, Mr. Handsey.

“I’mb aware, but sadly I have bills to pay.”

Dottie bit her lip, looking at the unopened stack of stockings still sitting on her nightstand.

“I’ll take the whole lot,” she said. 

Harry blinked. “Egxcuse me?”

“I’ll buy all your stockings for today…how many do you need to sell to meet your quota?”

“You don’d have to do that, Mrs. Bishob…”

“Dottie.”

“Doddie. You don’d have to. I’ll be fine.”

“Ah, but I want to. Don’t argue. I’ll buy your stockings, and you’ll go back to bed. I think that’s a very fair deal.”

Harry looked to her, to the stockings, and then back. She was sincere, and based on her lifestyle, he wouldn’t be taking money from someone who needed it. The plush carpets and fine clothes told him that. 

“You’ve given me enough,” he replied, thinking back to ten minutes ago.

“Harry Handsey,” she said, her voice taking on an edge that made his heart race. “There’s no discussion here. I’ll buy the stockings, you’ll go back to bed, and we’ll be squared away.”

Too tired to argue, Harry just nodded. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Tea, pajamas, bed, and a fat wallet were far too appealing to turn down.

-*-*-*-

Two days later, when Dottie Bishop woke up, her sinuses were pounding and her throat was on fire. She knew this was inevitable after her encounter with the traveling salesman, but she hadn’t expected it to be this bad. 

She spent the morning tucked in her bed, Buffy at her side as she read Pride & Prejudice for the umpteenth time. She didn’t have much of an appetite, so she hadn’t made her way downstairs. Bed and books were how she intended to spend her day, and nothing was going to deter her from that.

Until the doorbell rang.

With much chagrin, Dottie padded her way downstairs, the thick, pink robe pulled tightly around her. She opened the front door to find a young delivery boy on her step, holding a brown paper bag.

“Mrs. Bishop?” he said, removing his hat.

“Thad’s me,” she replied.

“Delivery from Rosenfeld’s Deli.”

“I didn’d order anything.”

“It was called in by–” the boy paused to look at the notepad in his hand. “A Mr. Handsey?”

Dottie couldn’t help the smile that crossed her lips.

“Oh, yes. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, ma’am, it was taken care of.” The boy handed her the paper bag. It was warm through the paper. “Have a lovely day.”

Dottie nodded and shut the door behind her. She carried the package into the kitchen and set it on the yellow linoleum countertop. Inside was a container of hot chicken soup, a sleeve of Saltines, and half of the stack of handkerchiefs she had given Harry.. Tucked at the bottom was a note:

Sorry about the cold. Hopefully this will help. Someone once told me you never know when you’ll need a stack of clean handkerchiefs, so I figured I’d return a few. Thanks again for such a lovely afternoon…I should be back in town in a month. Hopefully you’ll need some new wares by then. 

x,

HH

Dottie just smiled.

[fluziska]

reblog this if you're an 18+ snzblog?

my reccs and 4u page aren't doing it for me i need more content

[queen-frostine]

This has been brewing in my brain for years. Finally exorcising it.

**NSFW 18+ don't reblog to non-kink places pls and thnk u**

The sickness has been growing in her nose for days, from seed to bud to a full, blossomed head cold as of this morning. She can do nothing but lay sprawl in her four poster bed, flicking through mid-day soaps and cooking shows with as much vigor and interest as a corpse. She certainly feels like one, pale and flushed with a low fever. 

The house staff had, at her insistence, stayed out of the room except to bring her lukewarm soups and mint teas–she would feel so guilty if one of them were to come down with the same plague as a result of changing her bedding or picking up used tissues. No, she can manage in her own contagious filth for a few days. 

She is propped up on the quilted pillows, nestled beneath the downy duvet. A box of lotioned tissues sits beside her, waiting for the next one to be drawn in service of her running, red-rimmed nostrils. A sniff, then. And another. She pinches the corner of the tissue between two delicate fingers, as her breath begins to hitch. Eh! She lays the tissues across her palm. ehH! She holds it before her face. Eh-shCHTIEWW! The sneeze explodes in a mess of congestion, thick and viscous, into the tissue. “Ubgh,” she moans, rubbing the residue from her nose with the dry edge of the Puffs. She crumbles it in her hands, to her nose once more as another tischew! sneaks out. Thoroughly used, it is added to the ring around her. A halo of tissues on the duvet. She pulls another to blow with an unsatisfying gurgle and groan. 

This cold is ravaging her. It has taken her body and infected her every orifice. Her nose is clogged, her ears thick, her eyes itchy and throat sore. She can feel, even, a dampness in her cunt, a tender throbbing at her clit where the silk of her pink chemise tickles as she adjusts her aching legs. Cold’s touch drags along her skin, leaving goosebumps and fevered flesh. It is breathing along her neck, hot and moist. It draws a finger along the bridge of her nose. A tickle, a hitch, a sneeze. HA-A-aCHTIEW! into the tissue clutched within her fist. It feels good to release them. It feels nice to rub her tender skin against the soft sheets, against the silk of her gown. 

She feels Cold’s touch once more, returned now to her chest where some of the congestion has settle in her lungs. A cough loosens it, and shakes her breasts. They’ve fallen to the sides, loose and full without a brassiere to keep them in order. A brown aerola peeks out of the lacey cup of the chemise. Cold breathes against them, hardening the nipple. She exhales a rasping, breathy moan as Cold takes the nipple into its mouth through the silk. Damp with soft from her explosive sneeze, shining with fevered sweat. Its tongue swirls around the bud until its pert and poking through the side of the lace as well. Her other breast yearns to be released. A tickle, once more, to the side of her nose and a great, heaving sneeze–EchTIEWW! Ubgh, god–and the chemise slides to the side. Cold grabs both tits in its hands. Chilled yet warm. Large, bulbous nose tracing the soft flesh of them both as she hitches–heh–EhHH–HUHH!--but nothing comes of it, tissue and finger held beneath her nose.

But Cold has other ideas. It tickles her, tempts her, itches inside of her nose, and those membranes can barely contain themselves as she bursts once more, EhshCHTIEW, eschTIEW, ESCHTIEEEWW! 

“Myb dose,” she mourns, but Cold cannot resist stirring yet another from her, cupping her breasts and soaking them with the hot, contagious mess that comes heaving out of her violent, chapped nose. 

She has done so well for Cold, that cold forgoes her throat and her ears. Cold rubs her temples, lets the headache subside for a moment, and then reaches a finger to the hem of her chemise. It has ridden up well past her thighs, as she has writhed on the bed under the attention of the illness. Decency is no longer a priority. Curing the ache that is building between her folds, that has been building since the first sniffle all those days ago, is what must be done. 

A finger, then, slips beneath the lace and traces the edges of her folds. She moans, head tilting back against the pillows, hand and tissue still held close to her nose. The itch is everywhere–behind her eyes, in her throat, building in her clit and in her nose. She grinds against the hand, desperate for pleasure, to put an end to the tease. Her eyes flutter shut. A hitch builds in her throat.”Yes,” she breaths, “Ye-Eh! ehH! Eh-shCHTIEWW!’

It’s like a spark. A flick of her clit at the same time as the sneeze, and her body feels electric. Hot in a way that is pleasuring, not feverish, for the first time in days. Cold is lapping at her, now. Tongue swirling around the clit in a careful dance that sends shivers through her, that has her breath itching once more. Ha-Ah! E-Eh-shCHTIEWW! She sneezes, uncovered, exposed. Snot strings land between her breast and she mops it up with a tissue. Grazing against her nipple makes her tremble. She drops the tissue to her sternum and plays with her nipple as Cold continues its ministration. Licking, circling, fluttering the tongue against the clit as mucus of a different sort begins to ooze onto the bed. “Oh mby,” she breathes. “Oh god,” she exclaims. 

“I’b close,” she says, but of course Cold already knows. Cold knows her intimately, has nestled themselves into her as they move to lay across her, making her hot–too hot, nearly, feverish as they are–applying pressure to her plushy stomach and sticky breast. Cold’s fingers know the rhythm, they know how best to pleasure her just as well as they know how to make her achy, stuffy, tired, sick. Pleasure comes from pain, after all. 

She continues to pinch one nipple while Cold’s mouth finds the other. Beneath gentle sucking of her tit, Cold breaths along her neck, whispering filth into her ear, “Myb snotty princess. Who bade you this way? Was it thadt mban in the store, coughing on the produce? Your coworker who cambe to work with a bad case of the sdniffles? Or was it just luck thadt led me to your bed?”

She squirms, desperate for release, the pressure building in her clit, in her nose. Cold flicks their tongue at the opening of her nostrils. Red, shiny, sore–they flare, irritated. Heh!

“I’bve got you –heH!-- in mby grasp,” Cold hisses sweetly, a hitch of their own. “Every pardt of you is consumbe by mbe-eh-EH!” 

Ahh-AH-EH! She gasps.

“An-and-heH! All it took was one–heh!--little—aHEH!--SnbEEZZ–AAATCHOOO!”

Eh-shCHTIEWW! They sneezed, a thunderous symphony, as the orgasm rippled through her, arching her back, making her shout and gasp with heaving, congested release. 

When her heart rate settled and her nose stopped twitching, it was only her and the tissues in the bed. She tucked her breast back into the chemise, sniffling. A shower, she felt, would do her some good. 

[queen-frostine]

Have I ever written porn before? No. Have I ever written any sneeze porn before? Definitely not. Was this rotting my brain for the past few days, unable to let me live in peace until I wrote it down? You better believe it. 

*~*~NSFW~*~*~

~*~*~Please do NOT reblog to nonkink blogs. I can barely handle the humiliation of being perceived here, let alone….out there…… ~*~*~

If Edmund Robinson Price had known that his wishes to skip the Baron’s dinner party would result in such an awful head cold, he certainly would have revised his wording. 

He knew, of course, that wishing on stars was superstitious posh for children. That his half-hearted desire spoken to the bright spark of an asteroid was not, in fact, the cause of his current misery. That is was most certainly the late night he’d spent in the dead of winter outside, looking for said shooting stars with Mr. Robert Chettam. 

Still. His past self was under advisement. 

He lay swaddled beneath the thick blankets of his four poster bed, a graveyard of handkerchiefs surrounding him. The one in his hand–his last, blast it all–was already damp and growing near sodden with the force of each awful sneeze. 

He was caught, now, in that terrible moment between hitches of breath. His nose wished to clear itself of the offending disease; his mind wished for it to not. A war wage within his sinuses, breath gasping, each short inhale a step closer to release and relief. 

“Heh…”

He hefted the kerchief to his nose. 

“Ehhh…”

His lips parted, his rotted nostrils flaring in distress–

“heh -eh! EHDschIEw!” He snapped forward at the waist. “EHHSCHieehew!” Each sneeze thick, runny, stuffy as his vowels in speech. “Eh–eh–haSCHZiew!” The last, for the moment. He held the tissue to his nose to catch the encore: a thick, roiling cough. “Ugbh,” he moaned, falling back into his pillows once more. 

He’d been at this all morning, and the whole night before. What had started as a slight chill, an occasional sniffle just two days before had blossomed like a daylily at sunrise. Throbbing headache, fever, a nose so full he could barely breathe. His poor housemaids had taken to entering his chambers with scarves tied round their mouths and nose, as he had long lost the ability to catch every sneeze and cough that came bursting out of his burning nose and aching throat. He had left his bed once–only once–since using the toilet in the morning to call Robert’s estate and tell him, “Givbe the Baron myb regards,” before he suffered such a cacophony of sneezes it gave him vertigo. 

Which was why the heavy chime of the doorbell in mid evening startled him. 

Keep reading

[fluziska]

reblog this if you're an 18+ snzblog?

my reccs and 4u page aren't doing it for me i need more content

[queen-frostine]

Have I ever written porn before? No. Have I ever written any sneeze porn before? Absolutely not. Was this rotting my brain for the past few days, unable to let me live in peace until I wrote it down? You better believe it. 

I’ve never posted anything like this anywhere….EVER. Sorry if I did this wrong???? Anyways, enough capitulating. 

*~*~NSFW~*~*~

~*~*~Please do NOT reblog to nonkink blogs. I can barely handle the humiliation of being perceived here, let alone….out there…… ~*~*~

If Edmund Robinson Price had known that his wishes to skip the Baron’s dinner party would result in such an awful head cold, he certainly would have revised his wording. 

He knew, of course, that wishing on stars was superstitious posh for children. That his half-hearted desire spoken to the bright spark of an asteroid was not, in fact, the cause of his current misery. That is was most certainly the late night he’d spent in the dead of winter outside, looking for said shooting stars with Mr. Robert Chettam. 

Still. His past self was under advisement. 

Keep reading

[queen-frostine]

Have I ever written porn before? No. Have I ever written any sneeze porn before? Absolutely not. Was this rotting my brain for the past few days, unable to let me live in peace until I wrote it down? You better believe it. 

I’ve never posted anything like this anywhere….EVER. Sorry if I did this wrong???? Anyways, enough capitulating. 

*~*~NSFW~*~*~

~*~*~Please do NOT reblog to nonkink blogs. I can barely handle the humiliation of being perceived here, let alone….out there…… ~*~*~

If Edmund Robison Price had known that his wishes to skip the Baron’s dinner party would result in such an awful head cold, he certainly would have revised his wording. 

Keep reading

[queen-frostine]

Have I ever written porn before? No. Have I ever written any sneeze porn before? Definitely not. Was this rotting my brain for the past few days, unable to let me live in peace until I wrote it down? You better believe it. 

*~*~NSFW~*~*~

~*~*~Please do NOT reblog to nonkink blogs. I can barely handle the humiliation of being perceived here, let alone....out there...... ~*~*~

If Edmund Robinson Price had known that his wishes to skip the Baron’s dinner party would result in such an awful head cold, he certainly would have revised his wording. 

He knew, of course, that wishing on stars was superstitious posh for children. That his half-hearted desire spoken to the bright spark of an asteroid was not, in fact, the cause of his current misery. That is was most certainly the late night he’d spent in the dead of winter outside, looking for said shooting stars with Mr. Robert Chettam. 

Still. His past self was under advisement. 

He lay swaddled beneath the thick blankets of his four poster bed, a graveyard of handkerchiefs surrounding him. The one in his hand–his last, blast it all–was already damp and growing near sodden with the force of each awful sneeze. 

He was caught, now, in that terrible moment between hitches of breath. His nose wished to clear itself of the offending disease; his mind wished for it to not. A war wage within his sinuses, breath gasping, each short inhale a step closer to release and relief. 

“Heh…”

He hefted the kerchief to his nose. 

“Ehhh…”

His lips parted, his rotted nostrils flaring in distress–

“heh -eh! EHDschIEw!” He snapped forward at the waist. “EHHSCHieehew!” Each sneeze thick, runny, stuffy as his vowels in speech. “Eh–eh–haSCHZiew!” The last, for the moment. He held the tissue to his nose to catch the encore: a thick, roiling cough. “Ugbh,” he moaned, falling back into his pillows once more. 

He’d been at this all morning, and the whole night before. What had started as a slight chill, an occasional sniffle just two days before had blossomed like a daylily at sunrise. Throbbing headache, fever, a nose so full he could barely breathe. His poor housemaids had taken to entering his chambers with scarves tied round their mouths and nose, as he had long lost the ability to catch every sneeze and cough that came bursting out of his burning nose and aching throat. He had left his bed once–only once–since using the toilet in the morning to call Robert’s estate and tell him, “Givbe the Baron myb regards,” before he suffered such a cacophony of sneezes it gave him vertigo. 

Which was why the heavy chime of the doorbell in mid evening startled him. 

He did not move from his bed, at first. The housemaids should know, having seen him all day and night through the torture of this cold, that he was in no state for visitors. Unless they’d rung the doctor without telling him. But then the familiar, jovial voice of his current least favorite socialite echoed up through the foyer, down the hall, and into his room. 

“Edmund? Are you up there?” Robert Chettam called through the house. 

That bastard. 

Edmund stumbled out of bed. He shoved his arms through the dressing gown, pressing the kerchief to his now-streaming nose as he marched himself to the foyer. 

Robert stood in his expensive black suit and silk tie, chatting merrily with Alice–one of the maids. In one hand he held a teacup and saucer–delivered, it seemed, by Alice–and in the other he cradled his velvet top hat. Dark, wavy hair, meant to be oiled back, must have been mussed by the sharp winter winds between the carriage door and the house; the culprit of his pinkened cheeks as well. 

He looked ravishing. Delectable. At any other occasion, Edmund would have wanted to bring him up to his room, divest him of those silk fineries, and devour him. Dessert before dinner, he’d say. 

Instead, Edmund was full of fever and snot and contagious particles, and while illness could stop his thick and heavy desire for Robert Chettam’s ass no better than a speeding steam engine, he was certain that attraction would not extend both ways when Edmund looked like a reanimate corpse. 

“eh …eh…ehdSHICHEw!” the sneeze barrelled out of his flushed nose and into the handkerchief quicking between his fingers. “Udh, blasted dose,” he groaned. He coughed into his fist, damp handkerchief still in hand, as he stood leaning against the railing of the staircase. 

“My goodness, old chap!” Robert said, turning at last to watch as Edmund dragged his feet down the stairs. “I had thought you were just trying to wiggle your way out of the dinner, but you certainly undersold that cold of yours. I expected a light sniffle. This is…”

“A hurricade…heh…edh—” He held the cloth, still, a finger beneath his nostrils. Eyes drawn into slits, mouth puffing with anticipation. Expectant, on guard…only for the sneeze to die within the bridge of his nose. He sniffed thickly. “Yes, I’mb ill as a dog. Thankds to your star–heh–heeh–ugh–stargazing the othder night. Happehh–eh! ADHchshicheew! Happy?” 

Robert placed a hand on his shoulder. “Of course not,” he said, softly. “What sort of villain might I be for you to think I’d wish this upon you? Hell, I don’t think I’d wish this upon my greatest enemy. No one deserves to be afflicted by such a–”

“--heh–”

“Such a–”

“Hedh…”

“A–”

“HADSHizchew!” The sneeze had exploded from his nose with such a force that sent his forehead careening into Robert’s chest. Keeping the handkerchief close to his nose had been the right call: the thick ropes of snot caught in the cotton folds, instead of staining Robert’s fine suit. 

“--a cold,” Robert finished, half of a smile at the edge of his words. 

Edmund moaned, nose still buried in the handkerchief. He remained still, forehead resting against the soft wool of Robert’s dress shirt and tie. Robert folded himself around Edmund, hunched and shivering despite the thick rope and pajamas. His hand rubbed Edmund’s back. “How about we take you back up to bed, hmm?” Robert murmured into his ear. 

Edmund sighed, wearily, and allowed himself to be led back up the stairs. The fire in his room had been stoked back to its former glory; the same someone had come and removed all the handkerchiefs. Small mercies, Edmund supposed, as he blew his nose once more. 

“Is this really from our little excursion?” Robert asked. He sat his hat upon the velvet chaise lounge. 

“I don’t know,” Edmund sniffed. He dabbed at his nose with his sleeve,rubbing harder when it did nothing but make the persistent irritation flutter through his nose. “eh–hehdSHICHEw,” he sneezed into the crook of his arm. “Bless be,” he muttered. 

“Gesundheit,” Robert said, moving to his bedside. “My, my, this really is quite a monstrous flu, isn’t it?” 

He touched the back of his hand to Edmund’s forehead, turning over his palm for his cheeks. “Oh, my love,” Robert mewled.

Edmund whined, a thick sniffle interrupting him as if to prove the point. “I feel bloody awful.” 

Robert kissed his forehead then, lips lingering along his brow. He had toed off his shoes at the door, and now straddled Edmund where he’d laid back on the bed, lips never leaving his head. Edmund shifted his hips, chasing the friction of Robert’s hips against his. Robert kissed his temple, his cheeks, the corner of his chapped lips. His hands brushed along Edmund’s neck, tracing the column of his throat down to his chest. He undid the top buttons of the silk sleep shirt. “So warm, my dear,” he muttered, nosing along Edmund’s fever-hot jaw as his hand slipped beneath the top of the shirt. He skirted gently along his chest, tickling the fair field of hair between his pecs, fingers finding his right nipple and pinching, then circling soothingly. Edmund, breathing heavily through chapped, parted lips, shifted his hips. His breath hitched, not from an oncoming sneeze, but from the soft touch of silk against his hardening cock. 

“It hurts me to see you so damn miserable,” Rodger murmured, tongue a salve against the blossoming bruise he’d left on his neck. “Let’s see if we can’t make you feel a touch better, hmm?”

He pulled his hand from beneath Edmund’s shirt, resisting the groan of protest from the other man. “Now, now, no need for that,” said Robert, clicking his tongue in chastisement. “I think you’ll prefer where I’m going next.”

He pulled open the robe a little further. The fabric fell to the side of his thighs, unveiling a tent in the crotch of his pajamas. Robert ducked his nose to it, breathing along the seam of the thin fabric, moistening the edge of it with his tongue. Edmund’s head dropped back with a moan of pleasure. Robert’s hand dipped beneath the waistband, taking Edmund’s cock in his palm and kissing along the side of it, the head, lapping up the salty precum that dripped from the tip. 

When Robert took him in his mouth, the rush of heat to Edmund’s face was not unlike the flash of fever. He groaned, hips writhing in the silk. One hand gripped the hair at the crown of Robert’s head, slick with pomade. The other held diligently onto the handkerchief. Necessary, he found, as oral sex was apparently not a panacea for horrifically ticklish and virus-abused nostrils. The sneeze burst from him without fanfare, caught half in the kerchief and half on his bare chest. Robert rubbed a hand up his thigh as if in comfort. 

Edmund allowed himself to be lulled into relaxation by Robert’s ministrations. He was not trying to get Edmund to climax, not yet; this was slow and careful, keeping him nicely aroused without pushing him into begging for it. It did not take long, however, for his sinuses to begin their insistent pressure once more, for the panting to scrape at his hoarse throat, for his cock to want more, more, more. 

And Robert, an expert in polo and French impressionist and Edmund, felt the shift as it came. He pulled his lips with a salacious pop off of Edmund’s cock and looked at him in the yellow lamplight: shirt mostly unbuttoned, sleeves and robe pulled off his shoulders, soft chest red and speckled with snot and saliva from the sneeze, face a mess of pleasure and feverish discomfort. 

“Oh, my dear,” Robert crooned, reaching up to caress Edmund’s face. The other man whimpered, leaning into the cooling touch. “Let’s get you into a more comfortable position.”

He kissed the head of Edmund’s cock once more, hot and weeping; the inside of his thigh, the gentle curve of flesh over his hip bone, the plush edge of his chest. “On your side, hmm?” he insisted. Edmund obeyed, resuming the position he’d been in most of the day, curled at the edge of the bed, a hand close to his face to catch the coughs and sneezes as they pushed out of his nose and mouth with the unstoppable force of a geyser. 

“No, no, let’s have you relax,” Robert purred. He removed a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket with a flourish. With an arm wrapped under the pillow, he held the kerchief to Edmund’s streaming nose, just in time for another gasping, heaving sneeze to fill the decorative damask fabric. It was silk, most certainly, a pair to the burgundy bowtie he’d worn for the occasion. Far too lovely to be made such a mess of, but the smooth fabric felt like a salve against Edmund’s burning, blistering nostrils. “Relax, my love,” Robert said, nibbling at the flesh of his shoulders before kissing away the sting. His other arm, resting over Edmund’s hip, had once more taken his length in his hand. 

“Cand I…” Edmund rasped, letting out a thick cough, “I wantd to feel you.”

Robert tugged at his cock, his thumb brushing slow circles around the head. Edmund jerked with a moan of pleasure. “This is meant to be for you,” Robert said into his ear, stopping his mouth’s ministrations along Edmund’s shoulder to speak in the low, husky way that drove edmund–ill or not–absolutely wild. “Unfortunately, I don’t think my cock in your ass will allow you to relax in a way I deem beneficial to your health.”

Edmund’s breath hitched. “I–heh–it will helb me–hee–eh—ehb…I-I-eh–eh! ehSCHIEW haBSCHew eh!...eh..heh…EBHszCHIeeww!” Each sneeze filling the delicate silk of the handkerchief, his nose caught and held tightly in the fabric by Robert’s steady hands. Edmund groaned. “It’ll helb. I need you, by love. I need–please, please…”

Robert chuckled, pinching Edmund’s nose to wipe it clean as he stroked Edmund’s with a softer grip. “Alright, alright, no need to beg. Give me just a moment.”

He removed his hand from Edmund’s cock–with considerable wordless complaint from Edmund–but remained attentive to Edmund’s streaming nose. Edmund cough, nearly bringing his own hand to catch it, except Robert had beaten him there. “I said, relax,” he reminded him, trousers unzipped and suspenders unhooked. “You’re not proving to me that you can be trusted with the responsibility of taking my cock in your current state.” Edmund whined in protest, and Robert bit the underside of his jaw. “Good thing I’m a man with a plan.”

He parted Edmund’s legs just slightly, sliding his thick and throbbing cock between Edmund’s thighs. Edmund’s eyes fluttered shut, his own member near bursting, as Robert spit into his hands and lubricated himself and began to slide back and forth between Edmund’s legs. 

“How’s this for a little compromise,” he said into Edmund’s ear. Edmund could do nothing except groan. Robert’s hands found his length once more, stroking quickly to restore what little blood had been lost before writhing and grnding against Edmund’s back. Robert–kissing his shoulders, his fever-dampened cheeks, his neck, his temple; attending to his cock, his stuffy nose, his full coughs; thrusting his dick between Edmund’s legs in a steady, building rhythm. It was too much. It was not enough. The sinus pressure that had built into a savage headache, the swollen nasal passages, the uncomfortable fever, the tight chest and irritated bronchioles–all of it faded into the background, disappeared as Robert, huffing, biting, licking, snarling out curses of pleasure while his touch remained gentle and certain; weeks and months and years of paying attention to how Edmund preferred to be pleasured, both what he said and what he didn’t. 

He felt the moment approaching as certainly as he felt the next gigantic, heaving sneeze. “Love,” he gasped. “I’mb…oh god…fuck mbe, Robert, Robert!”

“Yes, darling, yes, let it come,” Robert grunted. “Let it happen–”

“HEeh–”

Robert held the handkerchief once more to his nose. 

“Heh–ebh!”

He pulled Edmund’s cock from base to tip, pressing his thumb along the bulging vein.

“Haa–!” 

Another tug, quick, without pause. Robert’s fingers, then, stroking the length of his nose, stimulating, tickling, tantalizing–

“heEDSCHIW–HEHSCHEW–hee—heeh–hEHDziSCHEW–aaah!!”

From both nostrils and the head of his cock exploded thick, white mucus. He trembled with aftershocks. His nose, suddenly, clear. His fever, broken. Only the bright light of orgasm, fading into flickering, dancing spots before his eyes. 

By the time Robert came with a grunted stutter, his nose was clogged once more and he was coughing in earnest. Even while coming down from his own high, Robert rubbed his hand over Edmund’s chest to soothe his sore, aching muscles. He pressed a kiss to Edmund’s shoulder once both their breathing had returned to normal. 

“I fear I’ve made quite the mess of you,” Robert said, drawing a finger through the thick fluids drying on Edmund’s stomach and sheets. 

“No more a mbess than what I’vbe mabe,” he sniffled thickly as if to prove a point. 

Robert propped himself up on the arm he’d been using as Edmund’s personal handkerchief. He looked at the other man–who looked horrific, he was certain–with a smile Edmund had seen before. Paris, last spring: looking at a Degas in the Louvre, like he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

Robert ran a finger along Edmund’s temple, down his cheek. Edmund’s eyes closed. Opening them, he realized, would be an exceptional ordeal. Robert kissed his temple, extricating himself from Edmund’s bed. 

Edmund wasn't sure how long he was gone–his fever had not been bested by an orgasm, and had it known once Edmund’s heart rate had slowed back to a reasonable rate. Time was a syrup, marked only by an occasional sneeze, a weak cough.

Robert returned with a wash bin and a cloth, a fresh pair of pajamas, a stack of laundered handkerchiefs, a steaming cup of tea. 

“Mind sitting up, love? Just for a moment, I promise.”

Edmund moaned, but did as he was asked. He pushed himself up to sit at the edge of the bed, another cough escaping, too quick to be caught in his fist. Robert helped him stand, assisted in dressing him in fresh pajamas, handing him a fresh cotton kerchief just in time to catch a thick, exhausted sneeze. 

“May I ask that you drink just a sip of tea?” Robert said. 

And while Edmund whined like a child about it–all he wished was to bury himself once more under the covers and not reemerge until the fever was broken and his horrid nose relearned its place–he did sip slowly so that the peppermint may soothe his aching sinuses. 

When he opened his eyes once more, Robert stood by the chaise, staring into the fire. His hands toyed with the sapphire and silver cufflinks; Edmund had gifted them to him for his birthday. 

“I’vbe mabe you late for the dinner,” Edmund rasped, setting the tea cup on the bedside table. He meant it wryly, but with his congestion it just sounded pathetic. 

Robert startled, turning then from the hypnotizing dance of the flames. “Didn’t I tell you? I was never attending that dinner without you.”

It was such a shock, Edmund didn't even feel the tickle return to his nostrils until he was forced to stifle another wretched sneeze. “But your suit…”

Robert shrugged. He was, Edmund saw now, not redressing but undressing. Down to his undershirt and briefs, picking up the robe Edmund kept just for him in the armoire. 

“I thought a little bit of a show would help you feel better.” He smiled, sly and foolish. “Did it work?”

Edmund’s cock, though sated, twitched at the thought. “You bastard,” he said, gifting Robert with half a smile. 

“You knew who you were getting into bed with, Mr. Price.” He pulled back the covers of the other side of the bed, though he scooted closer once the quilt covered them both. “Just as I know who I am getting into bed with now, sickness and all.” He kissed his cheek, ending the protest Edmund knew he should make but was unwilling to say. “If this horrid cold comes for me next, then you can play nursemaid for me. I’ve always wanted to try a little roleplay.”

Edmund smacked him in the chest. “You’re a terror.”

“And yet, my love…” Robert nuzzled at his neck. 

“And yet.”

[awfulwhumpsideblog]

Some of my favorite magic side effects:

-Nosebleeds. Never gets old.

-Coughing up blood. The good ol’ “cough into your hand and pull it back to see blood” also never gets old.

-Headaches. You keep fighting as your head pounds, desperately telling you to take a break. At first they fade within minutes when you stop using magic, but overtime, they become chronic.

-Fatigue. After a big battle, you stand triumphant, and then just fall asleep on the spot.

-In a similar vein, overuse causing you to straight up faint rather than just fall asleep. Darkness begins to overtake your vision in the middle of battle, unconsciousness abruptly looming over you.

-Any of the side effects happening to another person. Maybe two close characters are connected, and whatever side effects character A would normally endure are transferred to character B. When A uses a blast of magic B screams loudly because holy shit that hurt.

-Magic gradually deteriorating your mind. Using it too much eventually caused hallucinations and an inability to retain memories, or even larger scale memory loss. 

Feel free to add more, I’m looking for some to steal

[hurtwithasideofcomfort]

Here’s some for more elemental magic

- Overusing fire magic leaves the mage feverish and feeling popping, hot pricks like embers or firecrackers under their skin. In extreme cases, it even feels like their blood is boiling in their veins.

-Overused earth magic makes them feel stiff, like their joints and muscles are turning to stone. It feels like they instantly age fifty years, every movement being accompanied with cracking pops and their range of motion severely limited.

-Overusing air magic messes up their sense of weight and balance. They feel lightheaded and dizzy and have a hard time keeping their feet under them. Other times it might leave them breathless and unable to catch it again for some time.

-overused water magic leaves them dehydrated and sweaty, the magic almost seeming to pull the water out of the user’s very body. This would probably have the additional side effect of cooling the character down alarmingly quickly. Maybe it even almost feels like they’re drowning in some cases, the water working it’s way up their nose and throat.

-ice magic obviously causes hypothermia when overused, the cold piercing to the characters marrow and lingering for hours or even days regardless of the amount of warm food and drink they consume, steaming hot baths they take, or how many blankets they’re buried under.

-lightning magic leaves users jittery when overused, the excess electricity messing with their nerves and making them twitch and spasm involuntarily. Also a frustrating amount of static electricity that makes touching people or anything metal unpleasant.

[selffins]

man were so robbed in sickness content by ts4. im on the sims wiki rn reading abt illness mechanics in other sims games..

vs ts4

[empresskaze]

IIRC there's a code you can do to make your Sims sick but you need the Sims At Work DLC because it has the hospital job. I have made my Sims sick before using it but I don't remember how.

[queen-frostine]

Help me find a fic?

Hello! I tend to lurk quietly around here, but I’ve lost track of a story on here and I’m hoping someone might help me find it? It started with someone falling ill with a cold and insisting it’s just allergies, but proceeds to get their whole house sick with the cold. One person was in denial. There’s a scene of the original sick person going downstairs to get water for the partner, who eventually comes downstairs to find them because they got sidetracked talking. I don’t think it was explicitly polyamorous, but it was a bunch of couples living in the same house together (sibling, perhaps? Sort-of polyamory? I dunno it’s hard to remember). It’s soft and fluffy and was just a nice, comforting read. 

If anyone is willing to help, or knows what this might be (from it’s very skeletal description), I’d appreciate it! 

[queen-frostine]

Not exclusively fetish related, but sometimes I just end up down a rabbit hole of following tags from blog to blog, and of course you stumble across blogs that have been deactivated or gone dark when doing so, especially in a niche community like this one. And whenever I see one of those, I always wonder how the original poster is doing now. It feels strange to miss someone you never knew, never even interacted with or knew existed when they were still around, but I always have this moment of wondering if they’re okay wherever they are now. I hope, wherever they are, that they’re happy. 

[anditvanisheslikemist]

I just wrote 1,000 words plotting out future fics for my OCs, and didn't realize until I was typing it how incredibly appealing the phrase "thoroughly exposed" was to me. As in:

Character A is coming down with a cold, but they just chalk up their symptoms to allergies, a change in the weather, etc., and go about their interactions with their friends/partner as normal. By the time they realize that, oh no, this is definitely a cold and they've been contagious this whole time, Character B (and C, and D, and so on...) have already been thoroughly exposed.

[queen-frostine]

okay this is the EXACT idea of the story I’ve been looking for!!! It’s a whole house of people maybe sort of in love with one another and this occurs. I swear this story is my white whale, and the second I stop hunting for it is when it will appear. 

[miserablebabes]

God I'm such a contagious cold whore

[queen-frostine]

Help me find a fic?

Hello! I tend to lurk quietly around here, but I’ve lost track of a story on here and I’m hoping someone might help me find it? It started with someone falling ill with a cold and insisting it’s just allergies, but proceeds to get their whole house sick with the cold. One person was in denial. There’s a scene of the original sick person going downstairs to get water for the partner, who eventually comes downstairs to find them because they got sidetracked talking. I don’t think it was explicitly polyamorous, but it was a bunch of couples living in the same house together (sibling, perhaps? Sort-of polyamory? I dunno it’s hard to remember). It’s soft and fluffy and was just a nice, comforting read. 

If anyone is willing to help, or knows what this might be (from it’s very skeletal description), I’d appreciate it!