by J. Morgan
Knock knock knock; it was gentle, meek, quiet, but in the calm house it was still heard easily, in spite of the rain pouring outside. A few heavy footsteps later and the door opened, but she was barely able to see his features in the darkness, and likewise he could not see her very easily. He was nude… again… and she found it difficult not to look down to see if he was hard. Even if he wasn’t she still wanted to see it.
“What?...” He asked impatiently, having been brought out of bed to unlock and open the door to the master bedroom.
“Please?... I don’t want to sleep in that small room again… its door doesn’t lock and it makes me uncomfortable.” It was really only half true, the doors downstairs were locked and that was security enough, and though he had indeed struck her a few times, tied her up, technically forced himself on her, she did not fear him. She did not believe he would senselessly beat her, or savagely force himself on her… not ‘savagely’ anyways…
“Go to your room, if I let you in here and things happen then you’ll just blow the ‘rape whistle’ again.” He was grimacing at her, looking at her with disgust. Of course she didn’t have a literal rape whistle, but it was his way of saying she would accuse him of it again.
“I-I won’t… I promise…” she said subserviently, taking a slight step backwards at his hard stare, going to look submissively down to the floor only to realize that it sent her gaze to his crotch. It was indeed hard, and so she turned her head to look down and to the left towards the stairs. “I won’t…” it was said breathily, moreso than she intended which made her blush, but it went unseen in the darkness and from her peripherals she could see the movement of his cock twitching; giving a bounce. Hearing her speak like that had sent a wave of desire in him.
“What if I really do rape you then, hmm? What if you beg ‘no’, beg me to stop, but I just keep on going, keep on raping you until I cum inside you again.” At this point he was just trying to get rid of her, to scare her off before he reaches out and takes her in the room. Undressing her quickly, kissing her, and doing as most any straight man would desire to do to a woman in a world where death could come at any day of the week. “What if I hit you, make you bleed, and leave you a crying, sobbing mess. Make you hate me even more, make you wish you could…” he trailed off, not wanting to bring up the fact that she tried to kill him before, and might wish to do so again.
“No I…” the voice was broken, reflecting that she might cry. “I just…” she was shivering, conflicted, not wanting to think that she could be so cold to him and suggest he would do all these things, but at the same time the feminist in her told her he HAD done things like that and COULD do them again. What if they leave tomorrow? What if they end up stumbling into a horde? What if some less-than-pleasant survivors see them and shoot them down like dogs without a word spoken between them? What if Richard… left her… the house found empty in the morning… leaving her here to fend for herself, to fend against anything or anybody that might try to get in?
“You just what? Cut out the waterworks, Tiff, I have no interest in dealing with your Goddamn drama tonight. It’s cold up here and I want to get back to bed before my dick gets frostbite and falls off.” It was a lame joke, but the fact he stood before her with a hard cock that was obviously aching for release, and the fact that inviting her in would mean getting that release in the best way presently possible, it was difficult not to somehow bring his member up in conversation. It was like being unable to focus on much other than food while being hungry.
“You… augh…” she broke down weeping, back hunched, arms weakly held up to the front of her torso almost as though it could protect her from letting out her emotions. They came out anyways, and she went to him, embracing him, but he would have none of it and pushed her away. When her hands still clung to the flesh of his broad shoulders, he pushed harder, and she fell back against the west wall of the hallway with a thud, nearly falling down to the floor but catching herself. She wailed in the pathetically desperate act she had made, her desire to be held by him again only to be pushed away, and so she cried her way quickly down the hall to the small bedroom, her sobs still audible even as he closed and locked the door.
It had felt amazing to feel her body against his again… to feel the softness of her breast, the softness of her body where his hands had contacted her in trying and eventually succeeding to push her away. He had wanted her, and was left even more aroused from the brief embrace she gave him which he had not allowed her to reciprocate. As difficult as it was, he had to be strong, had to stand up for himself, to fight his baser urges even though all he could think about now is holding her warm, soft, naked body against him, stroking her hair, and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. To do everything he could to make her feel safe, secure and comfortable with him. The sock drawer, he hit up the sock drawer on the way to the bed, pulling out a pair, separating them, taking one with him and leaving the other behind. The drawer was closed and he got under the covers which still retained some of his warmth while he had stood at the doorway.
The sock was pulled down onto his member, and so masturbation ensued. Jerking his stiff cock savagely while thinking of all they had done, and all that he wanted to do. Just go to her room, he thought. Go to her room, throw the covers off her, wrench off any clothing she might be wearing, rip it if need be, and stick it in her. Stick it in and fuck her savagely no matter how she reacts. If she screams, slap her. If she struggles and tries to fight, then punch her if need be. Harder and harder he rubbed himself, fueled by desire, yet also anger at all that she implied of him. There was such a thing as hate fucking, perhaps this was hate jerking.
It wasn’t long at all before he could feel the cock throbbing and twitching in his hand, the moisture of semen trapped within while his body shuddered under the blankets, breathing that was previously heavy had become ragged. The waves of pleasure from orgasm subsided in time, left his body limp and relaxed. Catching his breath, his hand gave a few last rubs. Going down to his base, squeezing, and rubbing towards the end. Perhaps this is how a cow is milked, he oddly thought for a moment, and did the motion again, feeling some cum that remained in his dick’s passage come out from the ‘milking’. Tossing the spent sock over in front of the dresser just across from the nightstand, he turned towards his left, back facing the door. Manhood slowly twitched itself to softness at the rhythm of his heartbeat since the need for release has been satisfied, and slept alone, though the feeling remained; he wanted someone to hold onto, to feel their warmth, the closeness of human contact, and the feeling of being desired.
Chapter 6
The water had drained slowly, but thankfully it had drained all the same. Where it went or how it got there, he did not know, perhaps taken downstream somehow. By the time Tiffany had woken up, there was cold water in the tub, and no doubt that huge pot was filled with water and heating up slowly on the stove just like before. The smell of pancakes, knowing he would also have water boiling for tea. It wasn’t as strong as coffee, but still had some caffeine in it, and arguably tasted better anyways. As alluring as the thought of breakfast was, she did not want to go downstairs, to possibly have to face him after last night.
She stopped at the door of the master bedroom, tempted to check the knob to see if he had accidentally left it unlocked. What if he was in there though? Didn’t sound like it, but he was probably busy doing something else anyways. Either way she didn’t want to risk it, not that she had any motives behind it, and she honestly didn’t. It was just curiosity. Curiosity that had taken her. With no small amount of courage and recklessness, she grasped the knob and turned; it was unlocked, and so the door was opened. He wasn’t there, good, he’d have been angry if she just opened the door on him, whether he was clothed or not.
Where was his backpack though, was he making more ‘bullets’ downstairs? Rifle gone, as was the thing that held his ammo that he wore across his chest, the magazines on the dresser weren’t there… she went into the bathroom. The water was
indeed fresh, and cold. Not the murky water that he had used once before, herself twice. A sock was along the washroom wall beside the door, unseen from the hallway. It’s where he put his dirty laundry before when she elected to clean it after her bath. Kneeling down to it, it was incredibly musky, masculine, and picking it up had found it damp. She sniffed it, this wasn’t sweat… no, it was not sweat, and her cheeks reddened as she understood its meaning; he must have rubbed one out last night. “Bastard…” she muttered, thinking of him pleasuring himself when he could have done it with her and allow them both to be pleasured at the same time.
She was getting worried though, nervous, almost panicky. Where was he? The temptation was there to call out his name but she would feel silly if she did so only to find he was downstairs, so down she went, feet feeling much better after having taken it easy for the past few days; the Polysporin helping her heal. Pancakes were on a plate on the coffee table, the pliers from yesterday gone, assumingly either brought back up to the storage room or maybe put in his backpack in case he found more rounds to take the bullets off of to get to their powder.
The still warm pancakes were passed, no large pot of water on the fireplace for a bath, what was the cold water in the tub for then? A message for her to ‘take a cold shower’ as it were, to control herself? There was a smaller pot of water though, simmering, soon to boil, no doubt for tea. Looking out the windows gave her no clues. The east facing window above the TV in the living room where she had pushed him; knocking over the picture. The south facing window on the back door near which the grave lay. The west facing window over the sink in the kitchen, or the north facing window on the front door; nothing.
Panic was beginning to set in, he had truly left her. Taken all of his things and gone. She was on the verge of tears. Running upstairs she checked more windows from that greater height hoping to see some figure in the distance. If any were seen, she already knew she would run to it, even knowing the danger that it might be just a walker. North and south windows in the hallway, east window over the master bedroom’s bed, west window in the washroom… nothing. Not a soul, or even a corpse with lack there of.
Down in the kitchen she fell to her knees, weeping. She’d driven him away. He had fed her, protected her, made a woman of her, might even have made a mother of her if she found herself lacking her periods in the coming months. He had held her, kissed her, rubbed her, licked her, suckled her, and she had sucked him in turn. He had made her laugh, indeed made her cry, and though he had hit her she did not care. She had been a bitch to him, a fool.
The feminist in her was being kicked by her own decency, beaten to the ground, and kicked when it was down. It had made her say those awful things, do those awful things, drove him away, and now she was alone. The food in the house would run out, or she would be attacked by the undead or by survivors far more evil than Richard had been. She would die. She was unarmed, unskilled in the ways of survivalism, and she would die. Go back to the town, she thought. Go back, go to the trail, find her rifle, PRAY that it had at least one bullet left, take the rifle to the truck in which she had lost her virginity, stick the barrel under her chin, and pull the trigger. She probably wouldn’t have the strength to pull that tail gate shut by its cords like he had, Tiff thought sourly to herself, hating her weakness in the face of his strength.
Wandering, she found herself back upstairs, restless. She looked over to that sock, not knowing WHAT was going through her mind. She picked it up and sniffed. Sniffed hard, sniffed deep, it made her head swoon, made her mouth water, brought back memories of how he had tasted when she performed fellatio on him. The sock was partially rolled inside-out in her hands, her tongue dabbed the wetness. A bit salty, and very bitter. So this was the taste of semen? She licked at this sock, not even thinking about whether it had been actually worn on his smelly feet or not, it didn’t seem to be, or if it was then the smell of feet was just overwhelmed by the smell of his seed.
If she could, she’d suck him right now; suck him until he came. If he wanted, even if she ended up hating the taste of warm cum, she would keep sucking for him. The thought utterly repulsed her; it scared her, disgusted her, and thought it would likely be painful, but he could even put it in her ass. Why did he have to leave? Why was he gone? The only man she’d ever been with, and though she didn’t know for sure, she might even have been able to love him in spite of the hits, of his forceful nature at times, or his crass sense of humour.
While sniffing at this sock, a free hand undid her pants, loosened them, pent up from a night of desire that went unquenched, and so with this inside-out piece of cloth, moist from his sperm, she rubbed it on herself in under her panties. Before sitting on her knees, now she lay down on the hard, cold tiles, rubbing herself, curled up but with legs opened, masturbating lewdly with a soiled rag meant to be worn on the foot. In this case it was meant for the foot of an old retired man likely in his 80s when he died, but she didn’t think about this. She thought about him, about his cock, his masculine body, the strength within the softness of his beer belly, the softness of his soul within the strength that he was capable of. Even the youth of him being nearly 10 years younger than her. Being held, being petted, being kissed, nuzzling into his chest, his neck, feeling the coarseness of his chest hair.
“Richard… Ri-hi-hi-hi-hichaaaaaaard…” she wept, she pleaded, and before long shivered in release, though it was not as good as when he had done it so many times that night; each time almost getting MORE intense. Pulling the rag out from between her legs, it was now soiled with not just his juices, but her own. It was discarded where she found it, ashamed at what she’d done, disgusted at herself, at that sock, and though she wanted to be disgusted at the man who left her couldn’t bring herself to do it. She felt it was her fault, and hated that her feminist thoughts drove him away.
She ate; eyes still red and puffy from tears. Made tea, spilt some of the steaming hot water onto the kitchen counter, took the pot with the rest of its boiled water off the fireplace and left it outside like he had done. What should she do? Try to fish? Was there perhaps a fishing rod downstairs, or in that door in the master bedroom? Where could she get worms? The thought brought the old couple in the backyard to mind and she almost gagged as she sat there on the couch in the living room, empty plate in front of her, belly full and content but still thinking of how to get more food for later.
That rifle on the trail was still in her mind, she couldn’t remember if it still had rounds in its magazine or not, but it was possible. She could try to get back into Strathcom; there were some places she hadn’t check for loot because they always had too many zombies around or in it. It was good to be in fresh air again, but in that stinking town of the dead there could still be more supplies. For now she’ll eat whatever is left in the house here, yeah. There’s a couple days left before she must leave.
Eventually she found herself in the washroom, looking into the mirror of the medicine cabinet. Looking at her hair which was longer now than she normally would allow it to be, seeing the considerable brunette roots that had grown beneath the permanently dyed bright red hair which was somewhat less bright than it used to be. Tiff looked at her soft lips, her button nose, the sad green eyes that looked meaner than she meant them to be. Her mouth opened, inspected her teeth, bottom lip staying mostly flat while her larger upper lip stretched and arched above it. Teeth were a bit big perhaps, but not unsightly she thought. Stuck out her tongue, nothing of note, why was she doing this? How would any of this help her to stay alive? What should she DO?! He was always finding things to do!
She just couldn’t stop thinking about him, about Richard. Now that he was gone, she felt helpless, lost, in an impossible maze of which the exit would never be found without him. Into the storage room, the food was still there, he had preserved the canned goods after the first day by making pancakes and fishing. It was smart, she reflected. Her first thought was to just eat the canned goods so she can leave and go back to the town she lived in b
efore where she would likely meet her death, but still, it was at least familiar. She should try to make things last, she should use the pancake mix for breakfast, she should fish from the small river, and… maybe check around the valley or the nearby forest they walked through on the highway for berry bushes?
The thought of dealing with her that morning was unbearable. She’d thrown herself at him like a bitch in heat, and yet it took every ounce of willpower he had to resist her. Rifle over right shoulder, backpack over left, bandolier across his chest from left shoulder to right hip… he was on the road again, heading east. The house was out of sight, SHE was out of sight, and he hadn’t gotten around to putting the cross on that ‘grave pan’ he had fashioned for Charlie and Denise. So far there was mostly prairie immediately around him, some gently rolling hills and valleys here and there, but nothing as notable as the valley in which the Winters’ house was built.
Off to the northeast in the distance were more intense hills, maybe even worth calling mountains, while to the southeast was primarily just more prairie. Straight ahead to the east towards the rising Sun the hills became more extreme; some rock cuts like near the truck he slept in a few days ago, but said rock cuts and the road would make things easy, except for the car accident in the nearest one. What a terrible location in which to have a fender bender… well… that was putting it mildly. Debris were spattered here and there, the glinting of broken glass on the pavement visible even from this distance. A bush was passed not far from the road to his right, droplets of moisture visible on the green from the raining of last night. There had been the sound of thunder, flashes of lightning, it had awoken him once but sleep came again shortly.
The boots that carried him stopped in their tracks as intimidating brown eyes widening at a sudden partially-obscured sight ahead of him. A doe deer. Yeah it was female, looked a bit on the young side but still would have quite a bit of meat. Slowly, terribly slowly, his rifle was taken from his shoulder into hand. It had showed itself from behind the hill of the closest rock cut with the wreckage. Maybe… 200m away? He could make the shot if he was right on the elevation. Rear ladder sight was flipped up, checking that it was set for 200m; it was. The deer leapt over what appeared to be a cop car, broken glass crackling beneath hooves, and the sudden motion made the man twitch; almost jump, not wanting it to run away. Good, it was out from behind the vehicle; that would make the shot easier.