Pay back

You wake up in a special kind of hell.

The moment consciousness returns you know something is badly wrong. Every muscle in your body is on fire—deep, constant, unrelenting pain that doesn’t ease even when you lie perfectly still. Your arms, your legs, your core, your back… everything burns. You try to shift just an inch and a white-hot spike of agony stops you cold. Sitting up is out of the question. Standing is a fantasy. You are flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, genuinely unable to lift yourself off the mattress without screaming.

You are no couch potato, but Sandra has always been the sportier of the two of you, and your body has never been known for quick recovery. Skipping real rest the day before has clearly compounded everything. The bill for two days of nonstop, athletic fucking has come due with interest.

Faint sounds drift in from the kitchen—cupboards, the fridge, the soft clink of dishes. A few minutes later Sandra appears in the doorway looking completely recovered and cheerfully awake. She’s bare-faced, hair loosely tied, wearing only one of your shirts that barely covers the tops of her thighs. In her hands is the same tray you used yesterday, now loaded with a bowl of porridge, sliced fruit, coffee, and a glass of water.

She takes one look at you and the cheerful expression falters.

You try for a normal smile anyway, the stupidly manly kind that says you’re fine, just a little sore, nothing to worry about. The smile lasts exactly as long as it takes her to set the tray down on the nightstand and notice that your fingers cannot close around the spoon she offers. You attempt to form a fist; the muscles in your hand and forearm seize in protest and the spoon simply slips from your weak grip back onto the tray.

Sandra’s eyes widen.

“Oh my god. You’re not fine at all.”

She sits carefully on the edge of the bed, the playful energy from previous days completely replaced by genuine concern. One hand rests lightly on your chest as if to keep you from even thinking about sitting up. The role reversal is instant and absolute—yesterday’s sick princess is now the caretaker, and you are the one who cannot even feed himself.

She picks the spoon back up without comment and scoops a small amount of porridge.

“Open,”

she says softly, no teasing in her voice.

“You’re not moving today. At all.”

Sandra takes to the caretaker role with surprising ease and quiet enthusiasm, as if she has been waiting for the chance.

After feeding you the first few spoonfuls of porridge she disappears for a short while. When she returns she has changed.

The outfit is a short, deliberately slutty maid costume—tiny frilled apron, a top that frames and lifts her bare breasts instead of covering them, and a skirt so short it may as well not exist. Every time she moves her hips and the soft lips of her pussy are fully on display. She has left herself completely accessible under the pretence of “easy movement for nursing duties.” The look she gives you is equal parts concerned and knowing.

Your cock reacts immediately, stupid and independent of the rest of your wrecked body. Despite the constant burn in every muscle, it begins to fill at the sight of her walking around the bed like that, breasts gently bouncing, bare pussy visible with every step.

She notices, of course.

A small, private smile tugs at her mouth, but she doesn’t comment. Instead she sets to work with sports salve and careful hands. She starts at your shoulders and works downward, warm palms sliding over sore muscle, fingers pressing just firmly enough to ease the pain while still feeling deliberately sensual. When she reaches your chest her thumbs brush close to sensitive skin. When she moves to your thighs she spreads them just enough to kneel between them, the short skirt riding up so you have a clear, uninterrupted view of her bare cunt while she massages the aching muscles of your legs.

The salve application becomes openly arousing.

She takes her time coating every sore inch, hands lingering, occasionally “accidentally” brushing the growing hardness of your cock with the back of her wrist or the soft inside of her forearm. Each time she does it she pretends not to notice, but the flush on her cheeks and the way her breathing has deepened give her away. She is enjoying this—taking care of you, keeping you helpless, and watching your body respond to her even while it is otherwise useless.

By the time she is working the salve into your lower abs and the sensitive crease of your hips, your cock is fully hard and aching, standing against your will in the middle of all the pain. Sandra glances at it once, then continues the massage with slow, deliberate strokes.