I could hear Michelle next to me, sniffling. She was quietly crying.
“After the biopsy, we learned it was stage three. I pulled myself together. Straightened up. I knew my job was to be her husband; her sober husband. I’d be worthless to her if I was drunk every night. I knew she needed me as her friend and husband, and she needed me sober. So I quit getting drunk. I still had a drink now and then, but seldom to excess. She fought hard. The cancer went into remission for a year. We thought she’d beat it. We were planning to go on a celebration cruise and maybe get pregnant again. But the cancer came back with a vengeance. We had no happy ending to our story.”
Michelle was still holding my hand. Despite my struggle to hold myself together, I had quietly begun to cry. She wrapped her arms around me and drew me to her. I rested my head on her chest, still crying. This time it was her turn to comfort me.
“Shh, shh . . . it’s okay. You got through it. Jason would have been so proud of his dad. You’re a good man, Kevin, and I haven’t met too many men I can say that about. I’m lucky to call you my friend.”
I allowed myself the luxury of being comforted. It felt good. The memories were old, the emotions faded, but I knew the grief would never go away completely. Scars fade, but don’t disappear.
Men aren’t like women. Crying isn’t cathartic for me. It’s exhausting. I never feel better after crying, I just feel worn out with a headache. I struggled to rein in my emotions.
The creatures outside were quieter, but I could still hear them. As my tears dried and my muscles relaxed, I listened to her heartbeat and the sound of her breathing. As she stroked my hair, I drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke, we had shifted positions in the night, and at some point I had taken off my t-shirt. Now her head was resting on my chest and her arm was around me. I lay there, listening to her slow breathing. The sun had come up on an overcast day, and the room was dimly lit.
I looked around, taking in the contents of my former life. My closet still held most of my clothes. Some of my framed photos were hung on the wall. The dresser was cluttered with odds and ends—loose change, a watch I kept meaning to get repaired, wadded up receipts, a framed photo of Tammy and me smiling into the camera.
Michelle stirred, sleep slowly leaving her. I kissed the top of her head.
“Good morning,” I said, “ready to start the day?”
“Let me lie here jus’ like this for another five minutes, ‘kay? I’m so comfortable and you’re so warm . . .” She still sounded sleepy. I liked the way it felt, her head on my chest, her body snuggled against mine. I pulled her a tiny bit closer and kissed the top of her head again. I could see the curve of her breast beneath the blanket.
I could feel myself start to get hard.
She began to lightly stroke her fingers through the hair on my chest. I felt myself get harder. She looked up at me, and I bent down to kiss her. She kissed me back. Her lips parted in response to mine, and tentatively our tongues began to touch and explore.
I stroked her shoulder, squeezing it, running my hand over her back. I realized I couldn’t feel a strap. I have no idea when she took her bra off—probably when she first went to bed. I reached down and cupped her breast in my hand.
As we continued kissing, her hand continued to stroke the hair on my chest, and then she slowly moved it lower, taking her time, waiting to see how I responded. I could hear her breathing getting deeper, and I realized mine was getting deeper as well. I lifted my hand and began stroking her cheek, letting my fingers touch our kissing lips.
Somehow during the night a line had been crossed. There was an intimacy between us, and it wasn’t because of the conversation we’d had. It was as if I had let down the barriers between us, as had she.
Her hands traveled over my navel, then around to my side, then back to the center again, this time lower. I had no reservations. No fear. I was aroused, willing, and able.
She broke our kiss, put her lips next to my ear, and whispered, “Kevin, please make love to me.” Then she kissed me again. She rolled on top of me, her legs straddling mine, and reached down to grab the bottom hem of her sweatshirt. As I watched, she slowly drew it up, revealing first her tummy, then a bit higher, until I could see the swell of the underside of her breasts. I was breathing faster.
She continued her slow tease, raising her sweatshirt ever slowly higher until at last I could see her rosy pink areola, and then her hard nipples. I reached up and cupped them with both of my hands, as she finally pulled her sweatshirt over her head. She dropped the sweatshirt onto the bed and with her eyes closed allowed me to continue squeezing her breasts and lightly pinching her nipples. Her mouth was slightly open and her cheeks were flushed.
I felt her hand go to my belt buckle and begin to pull the belt loose. As she struggled momentarily with the button of my jeans, I lowered my hands from her breasts. I wanted to indulge myself in looking at her.
Her nipples jutted out from her areola, flushed deep red. Her breasts were full and large and round, womanly, and gorgeous. Her breasts could inspire paintings. Or poetry. Opening her eyes, she saw me watching her, and arched her back to push them out even further. She tilted her head back, and for the third time since I’d known her, she quietly asked, “What are you looking at, Kevin?”
“I’m looking at a beautiful woman who’s straddling me, topless, her incredibly gorgeous breasts begging for my mouth,” I said.
She smiled as she finally undid the button of my jeans and unzipped my zipper. Reaching inside my underwear, she freed me from the confines of my clothes. She stroked my hardness, her eyes closed, using my leaking fluid to lubricate my shaft. I felt like I was eighteen again, completely focused on my cock, immersed in a sexual ecstasy I hadn’t known in many years. I couldn’t help but gasp.
She rolled off me and began to undo her jeans.
“Please,” I said, “let me do that.” I reached over and unsnapped her pants, pulled down the zipper, and with both hands began to pull them down. She lifted her ass off the mattress to accommodate me. As her jeans traveled over her knees, she pulled one leg free, then the other.
I began to run my hand over her body, starting with her breasts. They were so large my open palm wouldn’t even cover them. Then I let my hand wander down her side and onto her thighs. Her panties were dark maroon and lacy. I ran my hand over her mound, enjoying the feel of her sex. As I did this, she quietly sighed. I let my fingers take a tour of her genital landscape without making any direct contact. As I continued, I could feel her getting more excited. She responded with a quiet whimper. I enjoyed the way she felt and the sounds she made.
She reached over and grasped my hardness again, and I struggled to maintain my composure. “No fair,” she whispered, “I’m practically naked and you still have your pants on . . .”
I stood up and began to take off my jeans and underwear. When I turned around, naked, she looked me and said, “Mmmm!” As I lay back down, pushing the sheets to the foot of the bed, she said, “You look good enough to eat!”
Which is exactly what she did. She focused all her attention on me, taking pleasure from giving me pleasure. I was groaning and gasping, unable to control how loud I was. Reaching down and running my fingers through her hair, I said, “Michelle, if you keep that up, I won’t be able to stop.”
I was embarrassed. She’d only been using her mouth on me for a minute, and I was about to finish.
She moaned encouragingly.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” I gasped, knowing release was imminent.
“Mmm-hmmmm!” she hummed.
With renewed energy she began to focus on me. Unable to stop myself, I felt the physical and sexual tension mounting. As the pressure rose, so did my moaning, and within seconds I called out in passion, my voice raspy and uneven. The orgasm was not only the most intense I could remember, but also seemed to last forever.
For a split-second, my moaning reminded me of the zombies. I pushed the thought away.
Pulling her up to me, I said, “My God! I am undone!” I closed my eyes, satiated nearly beyond belief.
But another part of me was all riled up.
I was hungry, hungry to explore her sexuality and ready to express mine. “Now it’s my turn!” I eagerly moved between her legs and began pulling off her panties. Then I lowered my face to her sex, luxuriating in the fragrance of an aroused woman I cared about. As I began to use my tongue on her, I lifted my eyes to take in her body. I could see her breasts and nipples, still hard, even more flushed than they had been a few minutes earlier. I felt like I was in heaven. For a few minutes I forgot everything and simply existed in a state of sexual bliss and satiation, using my tongue to give her pleasure.
After a few minutes she began to breathlessly plead with me, “Please . . . please . . . please don’t stop . . .”
Suddenly she cried out, arched her back, jerked and pulled my head hard against her. I kept using my tongue until I felt her twinges subside. As I lifted my head from between her legs, she began to weep great heaving sobs. When I cradled her in my arms, I felt tears fall on my shoulder. She turned and kissed me deeply, her lips salty with tears and tasting faintly of my sex.
“Geez, was I really that bad?” I joked.
She laughed through her tears, and after several minutes, with a sweet voice weary with spent passion, she quietly said, “Thank God, Kevin, I was so afraid you were gay!”
I wasn’t expecting this and laughed out loud. Hearing me laugh, she stopped crying completely and laughed along with me. We lay there, wrapped up in each other’s arms.
Still chuckling, I asked her why in the world she’d thought I might be gay.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she sniffed, “but I figured either you don’t take a hint or you weren’t attracted to me.”
“Um . . . what do you mean?”
“Well, geez Kevin, how much more obvious did I have to be? I tried my hardest to let you know I was interested. I gave you all kinds of chances to make a move on me. I flirted, I kissed you goodnight, I tried to dress sexy, I gave you compliments to let you know I was interested; hell, I even put your hand on my breast, remember? That night at my house when my heart was beating so fast?”
I reached over and cupped her breast in my hand.
“Do I remember? I’ll never forget. Your heart really was beating fast. I remember standing there with my hand on your breast, wanting to slide it down and squeeze . . . but I was afraid I was misreading you.”
Of course as I said this my hand slid down and squeezed.
“A single woman and a single man are standing close together in a dark room, and she puts his hand on her chest. How could that possibly be misunderstood?!”
“Michelle, I haven’t gone on a date with a woman, kissed a woman, felt a woman’s breast, or made love to a woman in ten years. I don’t know how to recognize and interpret romantic clues anymore. I really liked you and was attracted to you, and was willing to settle for your friendship, as long as I still got to spend time with you.”
She looked at me with tender astonishment. “That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Of course, it was made all the more difficult and overwhelming since I’d already seen you topless and your breasts began to preoccupy my thoughts. Even more than they already were!”
She stiffened slightly in my arms. “You saw my breasts? When?!”
“Back in early October. Before the Collapse,” I said. “I was going through the house, turning off the lights and getting ready for bed. I had just turned the light off upstairs when in my peripheral vision I noticed a light go on. I looked out the window, and there you were, taking off your sweatshirt. It was completely an accident,” I said apologetically. “I wasn’t being a Peeping Tom, I swear.”
“And that’s the only time you saw me without my shirt on?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, you missed plenty of other chances. I walked around my bedroom wearing just a sexy bra or topless with the blinds open plenty of times. I wanted you to see me,” she confessed. “I noticed you glancing at my boobs a few times and I’ll admit it—I wanted to give you a free show. I was alone, bored and feeling naughty. I guess I have a little exhibitionist in me.”
“You did that on purpose? You slut!” I exclaimed with a smile, hoping she wouldn’t take offense.
“I may be a slut, but you’re getting hard again,” she said, reaching down and giving me a light squeeze. “I wanted you to notice me, Kevin. I was feeling pretty low, and I wanted someone to appreciate me. The first few times we met, something in me clicked and I wanted to connect with you. Remember when you brought me the basil, and then went back and got me some lettuce? I thought it was so sweet! I haven’t met a really, really sweet guy in ages. You even helped me move in without my asking. Usually as soon as men see my boobs and get close to me, they turn foreign on me.”
“Foreign?!”
“Yeah, you know . . . Roman hands and Russian fingers.”
For the second time in just a few minutes, I laughed out loud. “I’ve never heard that one,” I said.
Michelle continued. “I know I have big boobs. And I don’t have to catch a guy looking to know he’s looking. So I knew you liked what you saw, and yet every time we talked, you went out of your way to look me in the eyes and talk to me, not stare at my chest and talk to my mammaries. You treated me like a person, not like a walking pair of boobs. You have no idea how sweet that is.”
“And you have no idea how much effort it took!” I admitted. “I even wrote about it in my journal. I’ll show you sometime.”
“Right now,” she said, reaching down between us, “I’d rather you show me something else.”
“I’d love to show you something else, but there’s one problem.”
“Oh?”
“I’m gay.”
“Your mouth says you’re gay, but other parts say you’re straight.”
“Actually, as you can tell, I’m really (cough) up for anything, but . . .” I hesitated, then said, “but I really think we should get downstairs. I can hear the zombies again outside, and if you and I end up being as loud as we were a few minutes ago, we might get their attention. We really don’t want that—if I were a bad guy trying to find a home with people living in it, I’d look for a house surrounded by zombies.”
“Well . . . okay. As long as we start up where we left off.”
“And where exactly are we leaving off?”
“I believe you were getting ready to kiss me and make love to me.”
“I like the sound of that. Let’s get downstairs.”
We scurried to get dressed. I put my jeans on, going commando, and she put on her sweatshirt, but left everything else off. We gathered our stuff and headed down to the first floor with Michelle leading the way. I thoroughly enjoyed watching her bare ass as it descended the stairs. I was obviously looking forward to the coming few hours.
Once we got to the first floor, I stopped by the window for a quick check of the street. It appeared the zombies had indeed heard us; many of them were milling around our house instead of wandering around on the street. I hoped if the despicable men were still down the street they wouldn’t notice. Where the zombies had swarmed and killed the woman, nothing remained but a large dark stain and one small piece of tissue—maybe bone. I wondered where the rest of her went. I shuddered and turned away.
By the time I turned around, Michelle was already in the basement. Damn, I was wanting to watch her ass go down the stairs.
When I entered the living room, Michelle was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. I could hear the shower in the background. She’d lit a couple of candles and the room glowed with their flickering warmth.
Glancing at me, she said, “It’s about time! What took you so long?”
“I had to text my gay boyfriends and warn them not to come over for a few hours,” I replied.
“Really. It’s nice to know
I have the power to cause you to change teams. I’m ready to play ball.”
“I’ll pitch if you catch,” I said.
“I’m hoping you’ll use your Louisville Slugger.”
“Don’t worry, I bring my balls and bat with me wherever I go,” I said, appreciating the scenery as Michelle once again pulled her sweatshirt over her head.
She got into the shower, adjusted the temperature, then poked her head out the door and said, “Join me?”
“You bet. I was hoping to lather you up with my liquid soap.”
“Is that what they call it these days? You already washed my mouth out with your soap . . . I can’t wait to see what else you have up your sleeve.”
“It’s not what’s up my sleeve you need to wonder about . . . it’s what’s up my pant leg. In case you already forgot what’s there, I’ll reintroduce you,” I said as I pulled off my pants and joined her in the shower.
I stepped in behind her, admiring her wet and shining ass in the candlelight. I grabbed the soap and lathered up my hands, then ran them over her ass cheeks, making them even more slippery. I rinsed them off, then turned her around to face me. I leaned over and finally did something I’d been dreaming about for a couple of months; I took her left nipple in my mouth. As I was enjoying the taste of hot water and a hard, wet nipple, she took some soap and lathered up my manhood. “Mmmm,” I growled, “I think we should finish up and take this into the bedroom.”
Love in the Age of Zombies (Book 1): My Zombie Honeymoon Page 14