Bluebell

So this is one chapter from my crazy zombie-themed NaNoWriMo this year. I thought I'd share part of it, even though it is horribly horribly unpolished.

"Shut the fuck up," I hissed, elbowing Scott in the ribs as hard as I could manage.
He was having nightmares again, and as much as I felt for the kid, we couldn't afford to make any noise at all in this shitty cardboard shelter if we didn't want to end up as human hamburger meat.

Scott struggled up to a sitting position and rubbed his face with both hands, like he was trying to wipe away the entire world. He just sat for awhile, staring at the ground and apparently getting lost in his thoughts. It's kind of a dangerous thing to do in a time like this, to daydream. I mean, it's bad enough to be stuck in a nightmare while you're awake without dwelling on it. I think that's why Scott can barely shut his eyes before he starts to yell and thrash around, and I somehow manage to sleep sounder than a log.

When he finally did look over at me, I thought he'd be pissed at me for waking him up with my elbow and giving him more bruises to complain about, but all I see is the face of a scared teenager.

"I hate this god damn place, Mark," he says, swallowing hard. "I don't care anymore how many of them there are in Dallas, at least there it didn't feel like we were the last ones left on the entire fucking planet."

I don't say anything back, instead I stare out of the opening of our makeshift shelter, listening for any noises that mean it's time to get my trigger finger ready. It occurs to me, for the millionth time, that if anyone else talked to me the way Scott does I would leave their whining ass sitting in my dust. He probably doesn't realize how lucky he is. I spent 8 years in the military shooting at people in the Middle East, 15 trying to raise a family, and all it takes to undo everything that I built myself up to be is one 17 year old kid.

See, the way I was raised, "gay" wasn't something you could just "be". It was like a nameless disease that effected the feeble minded and weak hearted, talked about only in disgusted whispers in darkened corners. By the time I realized what and who I really was, I had no time or room to turn around in my life. It's true that I could have packed up, left the military, and avoided lying to my wife and having children only because I felt obligated to have them. But that wasn't me, and that wasn't my life. I decided that it would be less painful to live a lie and pretend to be happy than to dismantle myself and rebuild somewhere else. Then came the End, society fell, and all of a sudden I was all alone with no one to judge me but myself.

My wife and kids left as soon as rumors of a quarantine started to fly around. An old buddy of mine from the Army was nice enough to give me a call and warn me about it a few days early, so my family actually had a chance of getting out. I stayed behind to guard our home, or at least I did until it became clear that whether I stayed or not, it wouldn't take too much time before there was nothing left to guard. The quarantine didn't last long anyway, because like my dad used to tell me, a roof'll only keep the rain out if the walls are still holding it up. And those walls were pretty shitty to begin with. It only took about a month for the quarantine to fall apart, all of the soldiers sent to enforce it either got infected themselves or deserted out of fear. I'm not usually a man who has much sympathy for people who abandon their duties, but I can't say that I blame the boys that ran away.

Scott lived in one of the apartments down the hall from the one I shared with my family, and once the military took over the city we were the only two left on our floor. Before then, I only knew him as this slightly effeminate kid with a mop of blonde hair who I exchanged a nod with once in awhile if I passed him in the hall or on the stairs. But we struck up a quick friendship, and I found out that he was a pretty smart kid, not to mention mature for his age. He was all alone since his parents were some of the first to get sick in the early days of the epidemic. They had Scott drive them to the hospital after their fevers spiked and they couldn't keep down anything for more than a couple minutes. A nurse told him that he might as well go home and get some sleep and come back in the morning, since he had done everything he could, and now all he was doing by staying was exposing himself to the virus. When he returned the next day, the hospital staff said they had no record of his parents ever being there, alive or dead. They were just gone.

After a couple days, Scott and I decided to band together and stay in one apartment. We moved all of our food into the nicest apartment we could find on our floor, which happened to have a pretty extensive collection of alcohol. The two of us burned through about half of the liquor cabinet in one night, getting plastered off our asses while the curfew sirens screamed shrilly along with the poor zombie bastards locked up in the open air "disease control units".

We joked around for awhile, shared stories, talked about people we knew, our families, the shit-storm that was unfolding all around us. Eventually, secrets started pouring out. He told me that he was gay, but he had never told anyone. He ended up dating some girl in high school so no one would suspect the truth about him, but the relationship eventually fizzled out because Scott never wanted to touch her. He told me how unhappy he was, because he was sure that he'd die a virgin.

My heart was pounding in my throat as I looked at him. The rational part of my brain that normally would have stopped me from staring this way at a seventeen year old boy had shut down about 5 shots ago, and at that moment as far as I was concerned, the world could fall apart around us but all I wanted was him underneath me. It must have unnerved him, because in the few seconds of silence that came after his "confession" he looked down at the floor like he had just embarrassed himself in front of the world and mumbled something about keeping his mouth shut.

I moved over to where he was sitting on the floor, and hooked a finger under his chin to pull his face parallel to my own.

"It's okay," I whispered, somehow still managing to slur my words. "You don't want to die a virgin?" I asked him.

He shook his head no so softly that it was barely perceptible, his eyes wide with shock and anticipation as I stroked the edge of his face with one hand. I smiled at him, but on the inside I was shaking like a god damn leaf.

"Then don't," I said.

I'll admit, it wasn't really one of my best pick-up lines, but I was so drunk, horny, and lonely that I couldn't care less at the time.
I pressed my lips to his in a forceful kiss, and we fell into each other as if it were the last thing we would ever do. Part of me wanted to take all night and the rest of the next day to taste and savor every square inch of his body, but I was drunk and clumsy, and might as well have been a virgin when it came to men. I pawed his clothes off, while sucking and biting at any piece of skin I could get my mouth onto. Just the sounds of his moans were almost enough to finish me off. Once the both of us were finally rid of our clothes and my skin touched his, I was absolutely gone into ecstasy. To be honest, I would have been more than happy to just keep rolling around on the floor with him until I came (and it wouldn't have taken long, either). We had barely done anything, and already I felt more sexually fulfilled than I ever had before in my life. Scott was pinned underneath me, our erections rubbing together every time one of us moved.
He looked up at me with his wide, blue eyes and said "I want you inside me".

Immediately I scrambled up off the floor like I'd just been shocked, and tore the house apart. Eventually I found a half-full bottle of hand lotion that I decided would be good enough. I forcefully flipped him over onto his stomach and pulled him up so that his head and shoulders were on the ground with his ass in the air. I pulled his cheeks apart with both hands, as he whimpered softly and his erection twitched. His hole, I was surprised to find, was clean and pink with a tight pucker that clenched and unclenched as he slowly jerked himself off. I gave his ass an experimental lick, receiving a long, low moan as a reward. Encouraged by the not-bad taste, I latched onto his hips and dove in, licking and sucking at his virgin portal. He vocalized his pleasure with a long stream of moans and softly whispered obscenities, and soon he began to thrust his hips backward and we were got into a rhythm. It was about ten minutes or so before he came, spurting hot fluid all over his stomach and the carpet, before collapsing in a sweaty heap on the floor.

I worked my way back up his body, savoring the salty taste of sweat on his skin, and met his mouth with mine in another feverish kiss. My right hand snaked down his stomach and wrapped around his slender cock, bringing it back up for round two.

"Yeah, baby," I muttered. "Don't worry, I'm not done with you yet."

I covered two of my fingers with the hand lotion, and positioned myself so that I was between his thighs with his ankles up on my shoulders. Slowly, I slipped my index finger into his spit-covered hole. I couldn't tell how much discomfort he was in, his eyes were closed and his mouth wide open. Experimentally, I stroked the velvety, moist walls of his channel, savoring the shudder and loud moan that I received in return. I eased my index finger out, and then immediately pressed in two fingers. His breathing was ragged and heavy, and my dick was so hard I was sure I'd pass out if I had to wait another minute. I thrust in and out with my fingers a few more times, scissoring them and drunkenly savoring the feel of his body. Gingerly I pulled my fingers out, and began to slather my cock liberally with the hand lotion. I didn't bother trying to find any condoms. I stroked myself a few times in an attempt to warm the frigid, watery paste up, and I positioned myself at his entrance. I took a few deep breaths and as slowly as I could manage, began to push into him. I had to stop several times for him to adjust, but eventually I made it all the way inside. I had never felt such physical bliss before, it was like every nerve ending in my body was screaming out in pleasure.
I began to thrust shallow, slow thrusts in and out of him, trying hard not to get carried away in his tightness and finish too early. Gradually, his muscles yielded, and his erection which had been flagging while I entered him returned in full force.

"God," he said, rocking his body back and forth in rhythm with my thrusts. "Harder, please fuck me harder."

Needless to say, I didn't need any more convincing. Soon I was slamming into him, and we were both almost crying with pleasure on each thrust. I waited until he came for the second time, and a couple minutes later I followed suit inside him.

We slept curled around each other on another couple's bed. It was the last real night's sleep either of us would know for a long, long time.

Three weeks later is when I had to elbow him awake, and he told me that he wishes we were back in Dallas. We were in a tiny shack built out of plywood and cardboard, covered in a plastic sheet and dead foliage for camouflage. There are no more warm beds, and it's obviously too dangerous for any impromptu sex sessions. Still, I think, as I look at him in the gathering darkness. It's infinitely better than being alone.