by J. N. Morgan
“Alright… well get your… food and… come on o-… over…”
“Alright.” Was her simple answer, but then seen her chance. “Do you uh… want to split a can of that chunky soup?”
“Sure, I’ve been… looking forward… to that stuff…”
“Me too!” She caught Tiff’s eye, and received a smile and a wink, happy that the two were getting along considering the circumstance. The wink wasn’t reciprocated, in fact it made Nick feel weird which reflected on her face, so she replaced the SPAM can with the chunky soup can, and went to the kitchen once more, then the white woman suddenly got an idea.
“Wait-wait, Nicky! Here…” she got up quickly and followed her. She turned and asked what was up, “You two go talk, I’ll warm this up on the stove, sound good?” On the floor, the idea made him uncomfortable. Being next to her while Tiff was out of sight? Yeah she was just across the wide access between the kitchen and living room, but he couldn’t see that easily. He doubted heavily that she would try anything, whether or not Tiff was present, but he still felt uneasy about her, she still haunted him at night and indeed her mere presence brought back that fear, doubly so when she stood over him, but sitting by him wasn’t quite as bad, which she now did after thanking her friend. A warm meal… they weren’t very common these days.
“So where… did we leave… off?” He asked, looking over at her from his position, his left arm exposed on his torso while his right was at his side under the blanket, bloody bandage still exposed however. His semi erection had already subsided… it had felt nice… but was glad for it to be gone. Still, he couldn’t help that his eyes glanced on occasion from Nicky’s face, down to her modest black cleavage, and back up. She had taken off the coat, hanging it on the arm rest of the couch, the one right next to the doorless doorway between the room they were in and the one Tiffany was in, pouring the food into a pot and putting it on the stove, stirring on occasion to make it warm evenly.
“The dies, I think.” The parts were still around his ‘mattress’, and she took the plastic box with the red bottom and clear top, or at least tried to take it but found that the clear bit came right off. It exposed the four dies, the rim seat, and the powder scoop. She picked one up, one that had a sort of thick and non-pointy needle protruding from the base. They almost looked like huge spark plugs, but no porcelain; just steel. The exposed threads are probably the reason they made her think of spark plugs.
“Ah… yeah… that’s the deep-… deprimer and… resizer.” Like before, he was finding it more difficult to speak with her around; his heart was beating more quickly, breathing came heavier, and though she was over in the kitchen his girl could see his struggles. It was obvious that this was taking a toll on him, but he was making an effort and she was thankful for it.
“Deprimer and resizer, so it removes the primer… and resizes?...” he had nodded when she correctly stated one half of its function, and she made the next half as a broken question, awaiting him to finish it.
“The neck… it expan-…ds on firing… and so… that die… sizes it do-… down…” She nodded, and looked at the little cardboard box with the bullets in it. Hearing her rummaging about with the components around him made him even more uncomfortable but was just hoping that either Tiff was keeping a close eye on them, or that her friends were indeed chosen wisely. It was just hard to trust someone after they’d nearly done you in… it had nothing at all to do with her being black. She was much more physically capable than the woman he had been regularly copulating with.
“Oh, we got your brass and hulls by the way.” She leaned back and gestured to the coffee table. His head moved, looking her way, past her to the shiny bits of standing metal and plastic, eyes had bounced a couple times however from those to the younger woman’s chest and she frowned hard when she noticed it. He, likewise, noticed her frown.
“Sorry…” his head fell back again, “can’t really… help it… sometimes…” it was tempting to berate him for it, her gut reaction was to call him a disgusting misogynistic pig who only sees women as sexual creatures to objectify and exploit, but she bit her tongue, trying to ignore it. Her friend in the kitchen watched on nervously, knowing that she might have been the cause for his wandering eyes. Some arousal must be hanging on within him.
She grabbed a casing and having opened the small box with the 20 projectiles in it, she lifted one out, holding both up in front of him. “So right now the neck of the casing is too wide to properly seat the bullet?” It was asked as calmly as possible in spite of her internal struggle to deal with having been looked upon in a sexual manner by a man.
“Go ahead… try it…” placing the bullet on the casing’s neck, point-up, the exposed lead within the base of the bullet pointed down, she let go and it dropped clean through the neck and clunked within the brass.
“Oh!” He smiled, keeping his eyes looking at the ceiling, grinning at the sound of the clunk and of her little exclamation. She put it upside down, and caught the bullet that fell back out.
“Screw the… die on the… press. Let me see.” She held the tools out so he could see them without his eyes being near her. In spite of the intense warmth in the house, she wished she had her coat on to hide her torso from him. He nodded when she had gestured the die the right way for the female threads in which to put said finely machined piece of metal, and screwed it in. The piston, she noted, was hollow inside and asked how to put the casing on it; there’s no way it would sit properly. “I call it… the seat… it’s in the… box… slide it… into the… slot… on the… piston… thing…”
With the ‘arms’ of the ‘nutcracker’ being completely opened almost 180 degrees, she picked up the little piece of metal from the die box, seen where it was to go in, and pushed it in. There was a hole in the seat that matched with the hollow piston, and she gave a sound of realization. “Ohhhhh, so the hole is to catch the spent primers?”
“Eh?” She showed him the end of the piston. “Oh, yeah… that’s right… the spent primers… go in there…” Next, the woman placed the rim of one of the spent casings into the seat, and it sat snuggly. “Should use… lube… but go ah-… ahead… need to… use muscle…” She brought the arms together and squeezed, they wouldn’t go very close to one another once the casing entered the die. It took some wrenching to bring the arms away from each other again, and she tried to pull out the casing from the seat. It had to go in and out sideways.
“The uh… the casing is stuck…” she commented, pulling harder, then pulling the seat out of the press. He laughed lightly, and luckily didn’t move himself to the point of pain. That, or the painkillers were working enough to where the pain wasn’t hurting enough to make him grunt or groan.
“Primer still… in…” he said with a grin. She saw how the top of the casing did look shiny from where it had scraped along something inside the die to be ‘resized’, though it didn’t look all that much… smaller, however then again it wouldn’t have to be much smaller. The neck was just barely open enough to fit that bullet in and let it fall through. It only needed to be fractionally thinner to keep the bullet from falling through. The seat was returned to its slot on the piston, and then she grunted as she pushed the arms of the press together harder, hearing a little clink noise in the piston. Then with more effort, wrenched the arms apart to make the piston lower away from the die, pulling the casing with it. More of the top of the casing was made shiny from the rubbing and the casing came out easily, the primer having been removed. Tipping the hand press upside down, the spent primer tumbled out of the hollow portion of the piston. She picked it up and inspected it, the first primer she ever seen in person that was not in a casing.
“That’s pretty damn cool!... but man, it’s a bit hard, isn’t it?”
“Helps to… use your knees… to help squ-… squeeze it… together…” She repositioned herself, keeping in mind not to have her opened legs towards him, instead turning so they were towards the woman at the stove since she didn�
��t care if she looked or not, in fact welcomed it. She got another spent casing ready and performed the process again, grunting from the effort, then giving a smaller grunt as she wrenched the arms open again. The arms hadn’t gone completely back together but the primer came out so she was content.
“Alright, sweet! To do this over and over though, that’s rugged… what’s the next part though?”
“Reprime… but let’s… do it… later… I feel a… bit tired…”
“Oh come on, seriously?” Then came a voice from the kitchen, a tone and a name that she had heard all too often when she was getting too pushy.
“Nicky…”
“Alright! Alright! Geez, I’m goin’…” Richard laughed weakly at her exaggerated departure. Her bowl of the stew was handed to her, steaming hot, having just been poured in. His came next, and the older woman dutifully brought it over to the weary man on the couch cushions.
“Mmm, this smells good…” grabbing her coat, she went out the front door, closing it behind her, thinking about the process. So first was the depriming and resizing… then it has to have a fresh primer put in… but wouldn’t it be safer to put it in last since it’s what sets off the powder? No wait, if a primer went off while there was powder in the casing then it would be much worse than if a primer went off with nothing in the casing. Walking over to the bridge she nodded to herself, leaning against the north wall, looking left towards the river, seeing that unceremonious ‘bucket’ still in the creek, and waaaaaaay in the distance to the northeast she seen a faint figure moving along. Probably just a walker, she figured.
“So you like the dark meat, huh?...” Tiffany asked teasingly, having finished feeding him his stew. He let her have the first bite, and though she was tempted with beef, merely made it a piece of potato, and it was absolutely heavenly. A few pieces of vegetable and some of the ‘gravy’ or whatever it was, left in the bowl, from when he said he was full. She had planned to save it for him but after a bit of reading from his novel, asked if he minded if she had it and, of course, he was all too happy to share what he had with her. She relished in the food that she knew was thick with calories, sodium, some fat content… things that were once considered evil and horrible but that’s because there was an excess of it. It was so readily available. Now though, with food so scarce, they were looked upon favorably. Calories to give you energy, fat content to help you store away those calories for when times of food shortage would inevitably come, and of course sodium to replenish that which you sweat, and people did indeed sweat more these days than before.
Much more physical labour nowadays; no automatic machines to do the work. Dish washers, washers/dryers for clothes, a dial to turn up for heat or press a button to turn on the air conditioning. No tap to provide water that was reasonably safe to drink, no functioning toilets to take away waste, and fuel was so scarce that most people have had to abandon vehicles when they ran out. Fuel stations all ran dry within the first days if not weeks of the infection, but they may very well be approaching 7 months since the dead first started to rise if their brain was intact.
Not knowing if Nick would be back soon or not, she didn’t care. With everything dealt with that had to be dealt with, including his ‘business’, she went over to his left, pulled his arm around her shoulders as she lay on her side, and cuddled up to him, only their heads and his right shoulder exposed on the outside. They talked in whispers, not in fear of being overheard but simply due to their proximity, wanting things to be quiet, to be calm, to be nice, and also, unless it was her imagination, she thought it helped him talk a bit more normally. She missed feeling him, and even though the days without a bath were making them a bit ripe, they enjoyed the cuddling, and she still found some part of his musk to be… tantalizing. Couldn’t help but bring up how hot it was to see that tent on the blanket after she jerked him a bit, and he quietly chuckled, berating her playfully for teasing him like that.
She confessed her desires, how… for lack of a better word… horny she was now. It’s been days without it since their last time, and before their first time was over 36 years without such amazing pleasure, without the sensation of another person feeling her body so intimately. It was bringing pressure and heat to his loins in hearing how much she wanted him, and she was warned about it; he thought it best if he didn’t do anything, even orgasm, until he had healed more and so she conceded defeat. Still, her left hand on his hairy chest stroked it absentmindedly, occasionally kissing the side of his chest that she lay her head upon, right hand up, past her chest, feeling his hand on her shoulder and indeed helping him to hold it there.
Still, even in the silence, without the dirty talk, he couldn’t help but get hard, and his breathing was becoming ragged from it. He was still in his 20s, still young and virile, full of piss and vinegar. She seen the tent forming, and giggled.
“Did I do thaaaaat?...” she jokingly said, referencing a popular 90s, possibly even late 80s TV show, and without permission her left hand ran down his torso, along his somewhat flattening belly that was a little larger 3 days ago, probably from all that deer, then sliding past his pubic area, gripped his enlivened cock. It didn’t feel completely hard, not like before, but it was still nice to feel. The sensation of her grip on his manhood brought out a ragged breath.
“Tiffanyyyyy…” he whispered, and it sounded so erotic to her, how deep and gravelly it was, full of lust, but also sounded pleading. Not for her to continue, but for her to stop. His heart was racing, breathing becoming slower and deeper, “Feel… dizzy…” she was stroking it now, and the hollow ragged breaths came on heavier. “Give it… up… baby… I don’t… think I should… do this…”
“You’re not doing anything, sweetie… I’m doing it…” her right hand pulled at his left hand, sliding it down so that his forearm was on the side of her neck, then repositioned herself so she could pull his arm around that neck, reaching it down and so his hand was brought to her left breast. His member was released for one brief moment when she pulled the fabric away, exposing the mammary, and so letting him feel it directly.
“Please… let me… rest…” so out of breath he sounded, it only made her want to go harder, and so she did, rapidly working his still only semi-erect-feeling dick.
“Aww, what’s wrong, isn’t this basically what you did to me when we were in that truck? When you brought your hand up my skiiiirt and rubbed me until you gave me the first orgasm I ever had that I didn’t give to myself?” Just hearing that made him feel faint, so hot, so arousing to know he had done such, the manhood throbbed in her grasp and she knew it hit him pretty hard. Good… she could barely feel his squeezes, but his hand was at work at her chest. She wanted more. Releasing him once more, she climbed up on him, one leg on each side of his torso, sadly still wearing the pants, and leaning forward, her right hand supporting her, her wounded left hand fed her hanging breast to his lips as she leaned over his upper body.
He took the nipple without argument, suckling it, perhaps the one part of him that still had a good bit of its strength; his mouth. Her breathing became ragged, a light moan escaping her, she looked down at the man with his eyes closed, sucking on her so greedily. The brown eyes opened, soft from desire? Soft from weariness? She didn’t know, but her green eyes met them and she shone with affection for him. “I wish I had some milk in there to give you, baby… nice and healthy… nice and natural…” he seemed to suck harder and her head bucked back, giving a louder moan and outside at the bridge Nicky had only just managed to hear the muffled cry but knew it wasn’t the panicked sound of pain of a walker attack so just grimaced, glad she was well away from the structure though displeased by the drizzle that was just beginning. The hood of her large coat was brought onto her head, the sash around the midsection still tied tightly to keep those two big flaps close to her. A lot thinner, she was, than Denise who was the elderly previous owner. She seen a picture of her in the living room, a few actually, and to get a bit more distance she sauntered over towards
the woods though only lazily, not intending to go anywhere in particular.
Tiff was under the blanket now, sucking on him. Her tongue slipped under his foreskin and she shuddered, finding a somewhat unpleasant taste in there, then had the unappealing thought of smegma… no thanks. She had seen some developing over the past couple days whenever she helped him urinate and indeed just pulling back the foreskin to expose the knob and the faint traces of dick cheese on it, it brought an incredibly musky aroma with it. The smell, she almost liked, it was the manliness in it, but the taste? Blegh, not for her, so thanking the foreskin for keeping it sealed up within, she continued to blow him; the blanket rising and falling at his waist.
He was breathing heavily, struggling not to breath so hard that his shoulder moved. A couple times it had, but whether due to it being so slight, or in thanks to his painkillers it was mild enough to keep from crying out from it. The breathing became heavier and heavier, eyes became duller and duller, she kept on sucking, sucking rapidly, harshly even. The foreskin was pulled back, thankfully unable to see the whiteness in the darkness from under this blanket, but it filled the small space with this musky scent and she adored it, letting the foreskin roll back, she returned to sucking, and then it suddenly hit her. His body shuddered, his cock spurted, filling her mouth. This was in fact the first time she had given him a blowjob until orgasm; before it was just part of the foreplay until fucking, saving the cum for the actual sex.
Her head bobbed more slowly, just to coax out the seed that he emptied into her, her grey pants-clad rump sticking out from the base of the blanket, though they were loosened and a hand was down at her crotch; she was masturbating and now that she felt his orgasm on her tongue, she rubbed her pussy more strenuously, more quickly, more roughly, and soon she was moaning high-pitched with lips closed around his shaft as she shuddered in turn. Bringing her lips to the knob of his member, still wrapped in foreskin of course, her hand came under her face and rubbed him a little, trying to make sure it was all out and when the throbs no longer produced cum, she brought her face away, trapping the goopy whiteness in her mouth.