DarklyEverAfter (11 page)

I lived a lifetime full of doubt in the seconds she took to cross the distance between us. Her gentle caress of my breast sent a shiver down my spine. I almost fainted when she bent over and began to suck on my nipple, not hard, mind you, but soft and inviting. I just wanted to reach out and kiss her, but it was too late. She forced her tongue down my throat as a burst of energy coursed over my body, leaving me weak from the experience.

There was no end to our passion in sight. For weeks, we hid in barns, buildings, locker rooms and any hiding place we could find to copulate and explore each other’s body. There were days when I thought I had a finger permanently implanted in my vagina and a beautiful mouth attached to my boobs. My fingers were wrinkled from all the time I spent in her wet spots.

With every good thing, there comes something evil. Ours came in a package too small to see and to devastating to conquer. The first wave killed Tina. She was so fragile and weak from a cold she and I had been passing back and forth that she couldn’t fight off the monster. Left stricken and dying, she was shot by the police. It was a mercy killing, but still the pain of losing her kept me crying for weeks.

When the first wave ended, I learned to hate the summer. In those three months, I lost our youth to a virus so heinous we didn’t have time to fight. The winter times brought on fewer deaths, with the heavier clothes and shorter days. The monsters just went home early.

But, there were good days and bad. Some women were immune to it. Some women fought off the disease and became immune. To a young lady of twenty, it seemed like the universal norm was to fight against dying young.

The old and weak people went first. Then the baby-boomers. Some survived, but the great majority died off before we knew the cure.

That included my good friend, Tom. He was just twenty-four when the disease attacked him on a street corner near the post office. His ravaged body looked more like green hamburger than a human. At the funeral, I could hardly watch his body as they lowered him into the furnace. I missed him, loved him, but I couldn’t watch him consumed in the fire, no more than I could have watched him be consumed by the infected. Now, there were two close losses to the enemy.

We fought the monster valiantly with antibiotics, masks, and old timey spats, those leather shoe covers that our great grandmother wore to hide her ankles. We looked funny parading around in long pants and hot garbs even in the summer, but there was a modicum of safety in the clothing. They couldn’t bite your ankle. They couldn’t scratch your thighs.

We learned survival tricks as well. Walking in the park alone was not a good idea. Pairing up in bed became the normal thing to do. Cuddling up next to a he-man became a nightly ritual. With all those muscles and adrenalin going around, a new and larger baby boom was inevitable. With all those couples crowded into small apartments and everyone assigned a bed partner, even I had thoughts of being held by a guy.

Everyone learned judo and karate. Those infected with the zombie virus didn’t live long, but they sure bit and scratched a bunch of people before they died. They were slow but strong. Know one of the martial arts gave us the advantage.

With the attacks, the virus spread. What once started in a small town outside of Toronto had now spread to our little village just south of Richmond, Virginia. With the baby boom, there were plenty of targets for the zombies to attack. Even though they were slow, the pregnant women were slower and an easy target.

Funny how things work out, though. The baby boom caused by the zombies was now the cure. Someone somewhere noticed that babies who were nursing never got sick. A few of the guys didn’t get sick when they were bitten, either. Discovering the link between the two was genius, and I’m proud to say that a group of lesbians realized that it was mother’s milk that would save us. All those uninfected people had one thing in common. They were drinking mother’s milk.

Even though this wasn’t a cure, it was a way of surviving. A person could drink mother’s milk once a week and be safe from all but the most severe of attacks by the zombies. Some scientists even tried curing zombies by injecting mother’s milk into a few specimens, but had little success except for getting a few lab assistants eaten.

In a few months, every little town had conscripted a few women for work in a hastily built clinic to distribute mother’s milk to the community. With all the pregnant women floating around, it didn’t take long before the place was a afloat in milk, twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week.

My first time in the clinic felt funny. I had dreamed of suckling a fair, young lady many nights in my dreams, but this was different. Sauntering up to a topless stranger, sliding over her lap and having her stick her nipple in my mouth felt so Stanley Kubrick I procrastinated to the last minute before going. I was so nervous about touching another woman’s breasts that I almost fainted. I hoped she would understand that although I yearned to fondle a woman’s breast, it was a secret that only I knew and I had never even acted upon it. I hoped the woman would be appreciative of how hard I struggled not to over-fondle her breasts and how hard I would have to fight against my natural urges. It had to be just business. Silly me, I never even thought that maybe she didn’t care one way or another.

Just like every other Friday since the discovery of the treatment, I trod to the Zombie Virus Treatment Center to get my dose of mother’s milk. I enjoyed those trips, not from a sexual view, but I loved the mothering feeling of nestling up to the woman’s breast and sliding my lips around her nipple. The soothing feeling of warm milk squirting in my mouth reminded me of what mothering was supposed to be.

I didn’t like to think of the women as machines like the others did. They were more than just women who survived a zombie attack and had their milk infused with zombie anti-virus. They were the young women, old women, and mothers with families, friends, and lovers who found for the first time the need to come to their neighbors’ aid. They gave up their days, nights and weekends to allow the rest of us human's life without the fear of a zombie existence.

Over the course of time, I had become fond of the woman in stall number three. Tall, blond and with perky lips and a pink complexion. I gauged my position in line to help insure I ended up at her stall. If I guessed wrong, most people were cordial enough to trade places, all except that fat boy with the pimply skin and greasy hair. I think Number Three didn’t like him much, anyway. I heard her tell him to stop biting on several occasions.

Biting was a big no-no. Even wrapping your lips around the girls’ nipples was frowned upon. Some women would let you suckle them once you got to know them, maybe after a few months. It was a gift they gave to you for the appreciation you showed them.

Number Three and I had this relationship for some time. With her smallish breasts and tiny nipples, it was much easier for me to suckle the milk from her. The milk flowed down my throat without spilling a drop on her skirt or mine. Squirting was so garish, so pedestrian. Suckling her was so refined and natural. I must also admit, it was so sexy. I had to fight not to orgasm. Even Number Three was disturbingly excited by my tongue. Often, when lying in her lap, I could feels her muscles contract as a small, quiet moan escaped her lips.

On that fateful day, the rain kept coming down just east of us. The sun rising over the trees filtered through the clouds in a beautiful rainbow. The longer I stared at the sight, the more amazed I was at the colors of the arc painted in the sky. I was so infatuated with the sight that I completely missed the signs, the unkept clothes, the monstrous face, and the telltale dragging foot. I spoke as he shuffled by, just a friendly gesture between two people passing under God’s great artwork. Had I not spoken, he might not have even noticed me and passed along the trail to never be seen by me again.

The bite on my neck was so swift that I didn’t even notice the deep scratch on my other leg. I tossed the old guy to ground before kicking him in his privates. The look of agony on his face brought a rainbow sized smile to mine. When I severed his head from his body with my retractable sword, I thought how lucky I was to be sane in this world of crazy.

The blood dampened my socks. As I walked I noticed a burning creeping up to my knees. It was spreading. My white pants turned red, then green with the poisons running up my body. Time was short. I needed to reach the center before I was consumed and doomed forever.

I ran to the car. Firing up my vintage Beetle, I jabbed the car into first gear and peeled out of the parking space. The roar of the engine drowned out the easy listening music I was enjoying just minutes before. Speeding passed the donut shop attracted the attention of a policeman parked there. The sirens screamed loudly when the police caught up with me. I tried to convince the 911 operator this was an emergency. Nothing I said to them stopped the sirens and blue lights. When I turned onto the interstate, however, the policeman passed and cleared the way to the zombie center. By the time the center was in sight, the green tinge had reached my bellybutton. Pulling my shirt up, I saw where the skin had rotted away and my ring had fallen from my bellybutton.

With all the doctors and medical people swarming around me, I could hardly think. The bleeding had stopped while traveling to the center, but the damage was done. The virus needed only a scratch to enter and this old boy had given me a barn door for the virus to enter. The doctors swarmed over me as the nurses rubbed all kinds of stuff over my body from lotions, creams, and poultices. I was exhausted and strained from the events.

The calming came when I looked over to the doorway and spied Number Three standing there waiting to get into the room. She looked wonderful. For the first time, I saw her in a bra and blouse. The even flow of fabric from her shoulders to her waist actuated her slim figure, but she looked more curvy in the shirt, a look that took her away from the Twiggy look she sported in that stall.

“Bring her on in,” the doctor said as he moved away from me. I watched the nurses scramble to move all the fancy equipment away and allow the young woman to come close.

Number Three shed her blouse tossing it on the table as she came to me. Rolling her arms around to her back, she fumbled with the hooks for a few seconds before the bra slid down on her arms to her elbows. As I watched her walk close to me, a drop of milk dribbled down her chest. Cute, I thought. Very cute. I tried sitting up, but with all the lines and equipment attached to me, I couldn’t get past horizontal.

Number Three must have done this before. She didn’t stop coming to me until she was straddling my body with her nipples hovering over my mouth. “Leave us,” she said, still concentrating on my eyes.

The room cleared in a few minutes. I could smell the powdery sent of her cleavage, a scent I dearly love. With the room empty, she slid under the sheet with me, pulling my face into her bosom. I slid my lips around her pink nubs and began to slowly suckle her milk from her body. She was warm and fresh as the milk she produced.

“Drink, dear. Drink me dry.”

I wrapped my hand around her breasts and gently pumped it. Spurts of milk shot to the back of my throat, soothing the strains from all the screaming and praying I had done in the car. I felt it working. The numbness in my knees was receding. The cold chills were warming up under her body’s comfort. I knew I would survive.

We twisted onto our sides for more comfort. Returning my lips to her breast, I sucked hard and deep. I wanted to draw every drop of her milk into me. Not only did I want healing, I wanted her. I wanted to taste her nectar and consume her fluids.

As I finished the milk in one breast, she shifted to allow me the other. I also noticed she had slipped her hand beneath her sweat pants. I looked up for just a moment to see her eyes were closed and there were furrows in her brow. I saw the sexual tension pouring out of her facial expression. She liked what I was doing.

When her milk ran dry, I stopped sucking and began gently licking around her nipples and across the little bumps at the edge of her pink circle.

“Keep licking,” she said with force.

I couldn’t help but oblige. Reaching over with my other hand, I fondled the other exhausted nipple between my thumb and forefinger. A subtle moan told me I had it right. Her body started moving while small sounds of pleasure escaped her lips.

The flailing in her sweats intensified. I wanted to shove a finger inside of her to help stimulate her, but with one hand on her breast and the other wrapped around her body, I just ran out of appendages. All I could do was hold her tight and let her work her own magic. I kept rubbing her nipples, but occasionally stopped to drink from her breast.

First, Number Three breathed deeply. Then her hand became furious under her clothes. “Suck harder,” she demanded. In the instant she stiffened, her breath exhaled a deep slow moan. Quickened by her quivering body, I began to licked and suck her breast. Her spasms shot milk all over my face as the last of her supply rolled down her tummy. I licked her clean, even while she protested that it tickled too much.

The two of us lay in my hospital bed for several long moments recovering from our experience. Number Three kept her finger in her sweats for several seconds. I thought maybe she loved the feeling against her clit. I often do that after I masturbate, gently rubbing across the nub every few seconds just to send those special shockwaves up my spine.

I thought about slipping my fingers between my legs as well, but I stopped short each time for fear she would think me crazy after just being attacked by zombies. I just closed my eyes and pretended.