Arousing Daddy's

by Taylor Sparks

  Aimee woke.

  The smell of decay was there as though filtering through from her dream. She listened intently for any sound and was relieved only to hear silence. The smell though had raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She was fully alert. The air was cool on her skin and the room was darker. She wondered how long she had slept.

  She lifted her head from Tommy's chest.

  'Tommy,' she hissed.

  He lay unresponsive. His head was turned away from her, his eyes closed. She decided to let him sleep a little longer. She rose from the bed, and moved to the window, careful not to make herself visible. She sidled to the edge of the window pain, and looking down, gasped at what she saw. On the lawn below they were there, at least a dozen of them - dead rotting figures, shuffling toward the house, drawn by the scent of warm living human flesh. Aimee stifled a cry.

  'Tommy!' she hissed as loud as she dared.

  Tommy remained still and oblivious. Then as though in unbidden response, she heard a crash against the door. It was the sound in her dream that had woken her. Though now, this was no dream. It came again, an urgent angry sound. Aimee's stomach flipped, a primeval sensation of fear -- a realisation of imminent mortal danger.

  'Tommy!' she cried, this time shaking his shoulder.

  Tommy's head turned to face her. His eyes opened. Aimee screamed.

  Tommy had turned.

  Cold glazed lifeless eyes focused on her terrified features. She stooped and picked up the claw hammer raised it above Tommy's head. Her vision blurred with tears.

  'Oh God, Tommy, I can't. I can't.'

  The hammer dropped uselessly to the floor.

  Tommy's face was impassive as though she was a complete stranger, her actions irrelevant. The pounding on the door increased to a rapid tattoo, a sound that suggested there was more than one of the dead things trying to get in. Terror flooded Aimee's mind. She was trapped. She backed into the far corner of the room, squatting down into a foetal position, one hand protectively covering her belly were beneath life grew inside her. She tried to push back the rising tide of hysteria and panic that was filling her mind. The swarm mentality of the dead things meant that there might be a dozen or more outside the door. There could be no escape that way. She went to the window again hoping the others might have gone into the house leaving the garden empty, giving her a chance to jump out the window and make a run for it. Her heart sank, as far from being empty there were even more of them there now. Yet more were streaming through the gate, shuffling, limping, lurching to seal her fate.

  She wiped tears from her eyes, looking down at Tommy. He watched her silently, without expression. There was a rattle deep within his throat and he strained at the bonds that held him spread-eagled on the bed.

  'What do I do Tommy?' she whined, panic stricken.

  She closed her eyes trying to think. The sound of pounding was a now a cacophony as many fists rained on the door. It could take hours, maybe even a day, but eventually they would get in. They would swarm over her, ripping and tearing her with teeth and fingers. She would not die like that. She would not let them touch her with their filthy rotten bodies. She knew before they got in she must be dead. All the choices in her life had now shrunk down to the elemental choice of how to die, for the end was now upon her. She looked at Tommy and suddenly her head cleared. The fear ebbed away, for Aimee realised what she must do.

  She climbed onto the bed, hands and knees either side of Tommy's body, her face inches from his.

  'I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I let our baby down. I should have left when you said.'

  Tommy inclined his head slightly and Aimee wondered if somewhere deep down he understood her.

  'They're all around the house now, they're trying to get in. They want me and our baby but I won't let them touch us. I need you to make sure they don't touch us. We belong to you - me and our baby.'

  As she spoke moved down his body. She began to untie his feet.

  'I realise now how tired I am of running, or being afraid all the time. This is no world to bring a baby into.'

  Both his feet were free now. He flexed his legs as though trying them out for the first time.

  She reached to untie his hands. Her breast hung inches from his face and he slowly opened his mouth, saliva dripping from his lips, he craned his neck, lifting his head to reach her breast, but not quite being able to reach. Aimee noted his attempt. 'Not long now love, I know you need me. I'm here for you Tommy. We both are.'

  One hand was free. Tommy looped it around her torso to pull her close. She resisted, as she struggled to untie his other hand. 'Almost there darling, we're almost there.'

  Tommy was making a low groaning noise, it reminded Aimee of the mewling sound a dog makes as its owner teases it with some tasty morsel of food.

  The scarf came loose. Tommy was free.

  The pounding at the door was at fever pitch now, accompanied by a low animalistic moaning sound.

  Aimee felt Tommy rise beneath her, his arms close about her. She pulled herself to one side and he followed the movement, so they rolled on the bed and Tommy now lay on top, his heavy body pinioning her to the bed.

  The relentless pounding at the door went on but Aimee was oblivious of it, as if it were a thousand miles away. There was only her and Tommy, and within her a small life.

  She looked into Tommy's lifeless eyes, saw the hunger there. Keeping eye contact she angled her head slightly fully exposing her neck.

  'I love you Tommy.'

  Tommy stooped his head, the maw of his mouth opening wide as he took Aimee's throat between his teeth.

  Aimee gasped and her body tensed as pain shot through her. She heard the crunch as Tommy bit through skin flesh and tendons. She heard the jet of blood as her jugular artery was ripped. She was aware of one of Tommy's hands claw at her belly, hard fingers seeking to penetrate her stomach, digging in deeply, using nails to cut a way in to her innards. Pain flooded her body electrifying her mind. She had expected instantaneous death, instead her senses seemed heighted and fully conscious to her slaughter. Tommy's fingers broke through skin and his hand slipped into her stomach as he continued to rip and chew through her neck. He pulled out slippery blue coils of her intestines that steamed in the cool air. The coppery stench of blood filled the room. Aimee was finding it impossible to breath. The end was near. She was glad. She knew that in the coming hours Tommy would consume her, strip the flesh from her bones, devour her innards, swallow the small life they had created together, crack her skull open and feast on her brains. There would be nothing left for the filthy decaying things that would eventually break into the room. She and her baby would be inside Tommy. She hoped there was an afterlife and she would soon be with Tommy's spirit, to spend eternity with him -- never to be apart again.

  Aimee could feel Tommy's hand deep inside her, reaching up. His fingers clenched around her heart and pulled hard to tear the organ from its arteries. Aimee felt a terrible tugging in her chest then as the light faded and death closed around her there was no more pain. She felt a warm floating sensation, a serene joyfulness. The last image she saw was Tommy, sitting up on her torn ravaged body, his face and torso sheeted with her blood, her still beating heart in his hand as he raised it to his mouth and bit into it.

  The End.

  When Hairy Met Hairy

  I've always been a hairier-than-average guy, and I've always been grateful that, in the body-type lottery, I was given a hairy one. Mind you, I'm not the hairiest guy you'll ever meet -- not like those guys who get nicknames like 'Bear' or 'Ape' -- but my chest and shoulders have a nice, ample covering of hair, and my arms and legs, too.

  I was 'That Kid' in junior high -- the first guy in my class to hit puberty, the guy the other boys gawked at in the showers after gym class. I was twelve when my dad pulled me aside, rubbing his thumb across my upper lip to determine if I was sprouting my first facial fuzz, or if my lip was just dirty. Upon confirming that it wasn't dirt, h
e took me to the bathroom and tossed me a can of shaving cream.

  "Shake the can," he commanded, and I obeyed. Then he rummaged around in the cabinet for one of his 'spare' razors, and gave me my first instruction in the manly art of shaving. Within a year or two, it was no longer simply a matter of some fuzz on my upper lip -- I was pushing out real, manly whiskers, all over my face, which in my own youthful mind, was a treasured marker that I had arrived, biologically.

  The rest of my body joined in the fun, pushing out hair in all manner of places that I hadn't anticipated. My hairy arms and legs were, in my mind at least, a sign of my advancing maturity that was visible to the outside world, and whenever the weather was warm enough to wear shorts, I was proud to show my hairiness to the world.

  Pubic hair was a particular joy to my youthful self. There was just something very cool about the thick tangle of hair that sprouted around the base of my cock, and even onto my balls. In the shower, and at the beach, when I wore swimming trunks, I noticed that the hair on the insides of my upper thighs was a bit thicker than the hair on the rest of my legs. It wasn't pubic hair, but it seemed like it was the 'residual spillover effect' of my pubic hair, overflowing from my genitals, down my legs. At first, I was a little self-conscious about it, like my pubic hair was hanging out for all the world to see, or at least that my thighs were a flashing neon sign -- 'Pubic Hair This Way' -- but no-one besides me ever seemed to notice it, so I stopped worrying about it.

  When I went to college, in the hippie-ish style of the day, I took my earliest opportunity to lose my razor and grow a beard; it only took me a couple weeks to grow it out past the point where it just looked scruffy, like I'd forgotten to shave. And I've had a beard ever since. I keep it trimmed, not like some prophet from the Bible, or anything like that. But I have always enjoyed the feeling of having hair on my face. Besides which, I like how it looks on me (it covers a bit of a 'weak chin'), and it gives me something to fiddle with when I'm trying to look thoughtful. . .

  *****

  I was a high school freshman, I think, the first time I was over at a buddy's house, and he got into his older brother's stash of porn magazines. It was a stunning revelation to me -- girls had pubic hair, too! I'd always thought that girls were pretty much completely smooth and hairless, but -- they had hair on their private parts, just like I did!

  I knew that my mom and sister shaved their legs and armpits, so there was a part of me that understood that it just stood to reason -- hairy armpits, hairy legs, hairy crotch -- but female pubic hair still fascinated me no end.

  *****

  I'd never been exactly suave with the ladies, and somehow or other, my hairiness notwithstanding, most of the girls I knew had somehow or other failed to take notice of my innate desirability. I didn't feel super-awkward around girls; in fact, I always liked girls, and several of my best friends were girls. They just didn't think of me as boyfriend material -- I was the dreaded 'nice guy'. I'd get invited to the parties, but everyone else, it seemed, was hooking up except me.

  I think it was the summer after my sophomore year of college that I was at a beach party; it was a mixed group of maybe 20 or 30 people. At one point, I was talking to a dark-haired girl; she had lovely olive skin, and brown eyes that I could get lost in. What caught my eye, though, was that she had one of those wispy girl-moustaches sprouting on her upper lip. I'd often heard other guys joke disparagingly about 'girls with thicker 'staches than they had', but in my eyes, the little wisp of hair on her lip looked really sexy, and alluring, even a little mysterious.

  "I'm Pete," I said.

  "I'm Anna."

  Her bathing suit was a modest one-piece, that even had little legs to it, that extended an inch or two down from her crotch. I could see that she had a real nice shape, with full round breasts, and a shapely butt, and I wondered to myself why she wanted to cover it up so much.

  She seemed kind-of shy, and when I asked her if she wanted to get away from the group and go for a walk, she quickly agreed. We broke off from the main group, and went for a walk down the beach, the two of us talking about our lives, our likes and dislikes, our hopes and dreams, making a nice connection with each other.

  While we were talking, Anna put her hand on my arm briefly, and I noticed that her arms were quite hairy, and her legs, too -- she didn't even shave them! I was already quite taken with her physical charms, but her hairy arms and legs only heightened the attraction I was already feeling toward her.

  When we were a ways down the beach, maybe a mile from the main party, I turned to face her.

  "I hope I'm not out of line," I said, "but I think you're very pretty."

  She looked at me askance, tilting her head to one side. "You do?"

  I nodded. "Mm-hmm."

  "Well, then, you're the first," she said, chuckling, but with more than a hint of irony.

  "I'm serious."

  "My own mother doesn't think I'm pretty."

  "What?!? Why in the world not?"

  "She thinks my moustache makes me look like a man. Now, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?"

  I smiled, stifling a chuckle. "Well, you know, that little wispy thing isn't exactly something most guys would be very proud of," I said. "I think it makes you look even prettier. Sexy, even."

  "You're crazy."

  "Maybe," I said, "but it's crazy in your favor."

  She smiled shyly.

  I stopped and looked at her for several seconds. "How can I prove to you that I mean what I say?" I asked, more of myself than of her. Impulsively, I leaned forward and kissed her. On the lips. She seemed momentarily startled, but quickly recovered and returned my kiss.

  "You're sweet," she said. "But you're still crazy."

  I grinned. "I don't know if you've noticed," I continued, "but I'm fairly hairy myself -- not that I expect you've been looking all that closely. I like hair; I like my hair, and -- I hope this isn't creepy -- I like your hair. And I'm glad you don't shave your legs. Nothing to be ashamed of -- God put it on your body, so you might as well enjoy it, don't you think?"

  Anna smiled. "It's not creepy," she said. I don't know if she really believed that I meant what I was saying or not. But she was at least willing to hear me out.

  "Look," I went on, "I think you're pretty, I really do. And I'd like to get to know you better, if you don't mind."

  "I don't mind at all," she said.

  *****

  We finally rejoined the main party, staying together for the rest of the evening. When things started breaking up, I offered to drive her home, and she accepted my offer. I pulled up in front of her place, and walked her to her door.

  "We've already had our first kiss," I smiled. "You up for a second?"

  "Mmm-hmm."

  This time, there were tongues involved, inter-penetrating each other's mouths, and twisting together in a sensual mating-dance.

  When we finally broke our kiss, Anna looked at me, searching my face for. . . I couldn't tell what, exactly.

  "Would you like to come in for a while?"

  "I would love to."

  We walked into her apartment, and she motioned for me to sit on the couch, while she scurried about the room, quickly tidying up.

  "My roommate's gone for the weekend," she said. Finally she sat next to me on the couch.

  "I'm sorry, Pete," she said. "I don't mean to refuse your kindness. But my whole life, I've been told that my hairiness is ugly. You're just. . . so different from anyone I've ever met. Certainly any guy."

  I sighed; it was frustrating me, and pissing me off a little, the way this lovely young woman's beauty had been utterly missed by virtually everyone she'd ever known, including her own mother. I just wanted to love her the way she deserved, and convince her that she was as beautiful as was obvious to me. "Maybe it's a good thing we met each other, then," I said. "Because I don't just think you're pretty, Anna; I think you're beautiful, in a deep, elemental, earthy way. All that hairiness is YOU, and I think you're wonderful. Do y
ou trust me?"

  She nodded.

  I grinned impishly. "So -- when do I get to see your armpits?"

  "What?!?"

  "Can I see your armpits?"

  Anna rolled her eyes, then raised her arms, wrapping them over the top of her head. I smiled appreciatively to see a dark, thick swatch of curly hair sprouting lavishly from the hollow under each of her arms. "I know you think I'm crazy," I said, "and there's no reason you should care what I think. But yours are the loveliest, sexiest armpits I've ever seen."

  She blushed, and looked downward, then back into my eyes. "I DO care what you think," she said, almost choking back tears. "You're the first person I've ever known. . . not even my own mother could love me just as I am."

  "I wouldn't have you any other way."

  She leaned toward me, parting her lips for another kiss, and soon we were locked in a passionate embrace, our mouths and tongues feverishly inter-penetrating each other. Anna's hands stroked lovingly, urgently over my back and shoulders, running sensually through my chest hair.