Prepped

Okay, I'll admit it. I'm one of those crazy ass preppers, a mountain man armed to the teeth, ready to hole up in my well-stocked, armored and armed fortress home in the advent of civilization's demise. I will also admit there's a chance it's all for naught, that I'm just another loose screw with a finger tip grip on reality. Sure, maybe the world just swims along for the next few decades and the worst that happens is we elect a couple of dipshit do-gooders or batshit crazy ego-driven senile old men to the most powerful offices in the world and nothing bad happens at all. The planet finds equilibrium, warms, cools, oceans rise, fall, whatever, and we all get to surf internet porn forever after. But maybe not. Maybe not. And that's what I'm prepped for. The Not factor.

Besides, I love the paraphernalia, the guns, the trucks, the gear, and I love what I'm working for - my survival.

Anyway, as you may have noticed, nothing bad has happened lately, batshits and dipshits notwithstanding. Life has been moving along at that same, slow, relentless boring pace it has for most of my time on this planet, the six months of my second wife being the most obvious exception.

I'm thirty five and mean and gruff and happy as shit. I live at and run a junk yard outside of town and have a dog who eats whatever I sic him on. But things went awry just recently. Badly.

Blame my neighbor. He's a drug lord. Really. The guy has a compound that must make Gitmo look like a school playground - triple fencing, guard towers, a small army of guards and dogs, countless sensors, cameras, helicopters. I don't doubt he's got small tactical nukes in there too. Paranoid is too tame a word to describe his level of anxiety. He's taken it three steps beyond basic paranoia.

So, it was inevitable somebody would come along and try to kill him, right? Like they used to say, being paranoid doesn't mean somebody's not out to get you. Now, the killers who showed up to do that, they couldn't just, like, storm his bastion. The U.S. Marine Corp would have a hard time taking down my neighbor's fortress.

Not really. The fucking Marines would turn him into a slice of crispy toast in about a half an hour. But the caravan of black SUV's full of ex-soldiers that arrived that day with body armor and a small armory of weapons knew enough that they didn't immediately launch an attack on Fort Drug Money. They sailed into my yard, right next door. They had a plan.

I saw them come in and I have enough of my own inbred paranoia to conclude that these boys weren't there looking for a transmission for a '64 Impala. Now the thing is, Dara was there, too. That made the situation about ten times worse. She's only nineteen and a stiff wind would launch her into the stratosphere. I mean, she must weigh all of 120 pounds with 20 pounds of weights strapped to her.

She's my other neighbor's kid, or something. I don't know exactly where she lives. I only know Killah won't sic on her. He becomes a wee little happy puppy around her. Well, I am open to the public and she sort of began taking advantage of that fact in the afternoons of that long hot summer. She apparently didn't want to go home to whatever trailer she lived in with her chain smoking, crack addicted, toothless mom, or that's how I pictured her old lady, anyway.

Dara just wandered in one day, sat down on one of the stools by the front counter and made herself at home. Being gruff and mean to her didn't work. She'd apparently been around bad attitudes her whole life. I guess my place was a quiet, safe place, had a cute dog, a coke machine and so, she hung around.

I'd actually known Dara since she was a kid. But I lost touch with her, and reality, when I joined up after 9/11 and went to Iraq. When I did, I shut the yard down. Paid the taxes and bills from afar and went off to kill a few bad guys over there on the other side of the planet. Gotta love your country. Or love killing. I met both types, though most loved both.

When I returned home another broken hero and reopened the yard, Dara had grown up. Well her mind did. Her body looked like it stopped at thirteen.

So, that day when I looked out the window of the yard office and see six shiny black SUVs cruise in between the piles of junk and skid to a dusty stop, I know its not somebody coming to deliver pizza. Before the dust settled I grabbed Dara by the hand and we dropped through the hidden door into my man cave. See, I dug out a cave behind the office with my backhoe, lined it and topped it with steel, covered it back over with dirt and made it about as comfortable as you can make a hole in the ground with steel walls and roof. I know, the bunker mentality sounds crazy, right? Well, that is, until it's not.

I had installed a periscope, the top of which was hidden inside an anonymous pile of junk, alongside my air shaft, and I quickly began scanning the action up there. Sure enough those bad boys immediately deployed around my yard, closed the front gates, setting up a perimeter and posting guards here and there. Then they shot my dog. They coulda had my whole fucking yard and wouldn't have raised much ire in me. But they shot my motherfuckin' dog. More on that later.

A couple of guys that looked like the big boss bad boys made their way to the yard office and barged in, ready to dispose of any pesky old man who might be vegetating behind the cash register.

I don't imagine it ever really settled well with them that they never found the yard man. And of course it would never occur to them that I was six feet beneath their jackboots living in 12 by 12 subterranean comfort.

As I watched them make themselves at home on my property I realized that they were setting themselves up for a long haul. Fifth wheelers, a chow truck, a bus full of workers. When they brought in the big equipment trucks I finally surmised that they were doing exactly what I would do if I was in charge of taking down a ridiculously well protected target. I'd dig a tunnel, el Chapo style. Right under the middle of his house. Break through his living room floor and pop up to say hello. 9 mm hellos.

Well shit. That meant Dara and I were in for a long god damn wait. But, the good news was that we preppers prep for this kind of shit going down. I had plenty of food, canned and freeze dried, and water enough to last several months at least. But the bad news was that killing time eating MRE's, canned goods and tasteless camping food, pacing a 12 by 12 cell and playing Parchesi with a skinny blonde popsicle who's never had to think much beyond what color panties to wear any given day, well, might strain the fabric of my sanity, which was always hanging by a few threads anyway.

The first day we just sort of hunkered down, listened, peeked out the periscope, and hoped they would leave soon. No cell service down there, of course. We had a goddamn radio that barely got FM and AM, but had no way to contact the outside world. I hadn't got around to installing a CB or short wave. The second day was a repeat of the first, but now we were pacing a lot more. The third day dawned and I saw some of the bad boys had started overseeing a work crew of coolies. They were starting to dig.

Fuck. Stuck. Now I'm not what you would call a genius when it comes to interpersonal dynamics, ask either of my ex wives. But I swear Dara started acting like she was my third wife. It was like she somehow thought we'd set up house together down there, like we were some old couple as comfortable around each other as two old shoes in a shoebox.

This became especially clear that third night. See, I only have one bed in my bunker. Which I kindly gave up to Dara, making a bedroll thing for myself on the floor.

Sometime in the middle of that third night I had a dream that I was sticking my dick inside a fat cube of warm butter, then squeezing it and stroking it all over my hard cock.

As I ejaculated into the butter I awoke and found myself balls deep inside of Dara. She was laying on my side, spooned into me, quietly rocking back and forth on my shaft, like she was fucking a wall dildo or something, or like we'd been doing this kind of comfy coitus for the last twenty years of marital bliss.

I pulled out of her, stood up, hit the night light, and would have demanded she leave that very moment if there weren't a slew of assassins up there.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dalton," she said, looking downcast, "It just sort of happened. You got so big and hard, my butt was right there next to it, it fit so nicely. I know you've had a vasectomy, so..."

"So you just saddled up and rode yourself to happiness?"

"You didn't seem to mind."

She had a point there.

She was really sorry. "I didn't mean to rape you."

"Oh now, Dara," I said, "I don't think that counts as rape."

"Really?" That seemed to brighten her up a bit. "Can I still sleep next to you?"

I assured her that sleeping with her butt at my crotch might indeed lead to sexual assault. Besides, I like the women who sleep butt to dick with me to be much older, more experienced, and about fifty pounds heavier.

But the next morning when I awoke I was sporting a massive boner. And despite a big breakfast, coffee and an hour or so with the weights, the big bear wouldn't go back down. He'd tasted from the honeypot and wanted more, even if I didn't.

"You seem to have a problem," Dara kind of smirked, "a big one."

"Yeah, well, it's my, um, my problem."

"Evidently."

"Look, we better lay out some ground rules here, Dara. About respect and personal space and...and..."

"Erections?"

"Fuck," I said, pure exasperation.

"Whatever," she said, sort of under her breath.

"Look, Dara. We may be here awhile. Let's just...keep cool-headed."

"Looks like your other head has something hotter in mind."

"Stop. Stop right now. I will not be disrespected."

"Okay, Mr. D," she said flatly. "I'll be good."

And she was. She and I kept our distance, which meant never more than ten feet or so. We even played a couple of board games that evening. And around bedtime she perused my books and then spent a few hours reading to me. I gotta admit that was a fairly pleasurable way to do time. She has a nice voice.

But at least several times during the day my erection, um, erected. Each time Dara just looked at it, didn't say a thing, just looked at it, sort of caressing it with her eyes.

It was that fourth night that I really heard what sounded like a tunnel being dug somewhere in the compound. The thudding sound of shovels and picks continued all night. I finally fell asleep late.

I woke up in the dark with my rod planted between the tiny cheeks of Dara's butt. She'd broke her promise, crawled into my bed roll and was spooned up against me again. At least, I mused, she wasn't raping me. I thought about sending her back to her bed, but I didn't. She was asleep, comfy, so I rolled over and just tried to nod off.

But the big bear wasn't sleepy.

What to do? Mr. Bear wouldn't have given it a thought, being, of course, brainless. That sweet young honey pot was just inches away from his eyeless head. She was actually snoring a little. It was kind of cute. Speaking of cute, in those last few days I couldn't help but noticing, given her proximity, that little Dara had filled out quite a bit. Sure she was still tiny, but she had some curves now, nice mini tits that fit her size and a very cute, saucy little ass. But it was how feminine my little tomboy neighbor had become that was the most noticeable difference.

Well, it was a long, hard night, literally. I woke up grumpy and, fuck, still hard. Dara just ignored it. She got up out of my bedroll like it was our marriage bed and made some coffee.

Sometime around the third cup she brought up the subject.

"I'm a normal teenage girl, Mr. D."

"I'll take your word for that, D."

"I need to masturbate. Or something."

Sweet Jesus. Could this be any more torturous? I was about ready to arm myself to the teeth and bust on out of that hole in the ground shooting and cursing my fucking luck.

"Will you have a problem with that?" she asked in her flat way.

"Jesus, Dara," I sighed, "Whatever."

She stood up and began taking off clothes. Considering it was a pair of shorts and a tank top, stripping took just seconds. It was hot in that hole and we both didn't wear much.

Dara looked around, searching for something. Phallic shaped, I realized when she finally picked up a Bowie knife with a big handle and settled down on her bed with it. She continued to ignore me the entire time.

Okay, so picture this. A fine, though tiny, teeny girl sitting up on the bed, leaning back against the wall with her legs spread and the handle of a nine inch hunting knife playing up and down over her incredibly cute tight almost virginal vagina, which is beginning to glisten in the low lamp light with the first twinkle of liquid oozing out her crack. She's biting her lip, eyes glazed over a bit, looking down, watching as she begins to fuck herself and is occasionally murmuring something to herself that I cannot hear. You've seen similar scenes countless times on porn channels, yer basic masturbatory teen queen. It's the nine inches of razor sharp, glistening steel projecting out of her cunt that makes this picture so...disturbing.

Well, I can't not look. She never once acknowledged my presence, just got to work. And wonderful work it was. With one hand she worked that knife handle gradually up inside her fuck hole, and was even humping her skinny hips a little as she continued to stroke in and out of her wet, pink, and oh so delicate major and minor labials. With the other hand she alternated between squeezing and pinching those small, but nicely proportioned tits, then fondling her clit, and finally, to my utter and jaw dropping surprise, she reached underneath herself and began poking a finger into her ass.

This brought her off; a slight throat-constricted whine escaped her, she sort of hurried her hips humping motion, stuck a finger all the way into her ass and her legs went stiff, her torso arched back on the bed and the knife handle went all the way inside her puffy cunt.

Leaving her with a long, wicked, curved knife blade sticking straight up into the air out of her moist pink pussy and sort of quivering there as an orgasm shook her tiny frame.

I can't say it wasn't erotic as hell, though the symbolism of it was deeply disconcerting.

After, she collapsed back on the bed and lay there awhile, then sort of gathered herself up, tossed her shorts and top off to the side, took down one of my military shirts, put it on and nothing else, then went over to get something to drink.

"What do you want to do today?" she asked as she sat down across from me at the table.

"That didn't take you more than ten minutes," I observed, still stunned.

"I was horny."

"What," I exclaimed, "in God's green earth, could be sexually stimulating about this...this...situation we're in down here?"

She drank a little water, stared at it a moment, then looked up at me with those two big as saucers blue green eyes and said, simply, "You."

Well, that was it. The big bear began going into the beast mode. I would have thrown her down on that table and fucked the last ounce of cum out of her too cute young cunt, but just then there was a loud boom.

The whole room shook. Dust came down from the ceiling. Fuck. What? Were they trying to bust through my blast doors? The periscope showed nothing special, nobody was running around reacting to an explosion, no dust or smoke. They must have been doing some blasting in their tunnel, maybe a rock or something they were getting around.

Anyway, it shook us both, reinforcing once again the reality of the situation, that we were basically sealed up in what was essentially a mausoleum. I was pacing, sweating. She was gripping her water bottle tight and had her legs up on the chair, hugging them.

I finally calmed down by spending an hour and a half lifting weights. Sometime in there Dara joined me. She couldn't lift the weights, just the bars. But watching her little arms bulge, her tummy strain and those thin hips flex, awakened the big bear. It was like he was doing lifts too, or more like, reverse pushups inside my shorts. Dara, good to her word, never said a thing.

We ended the day playing poker, wagering our future earnings, then had dinner and finally, she read to me from a fat Stephen King novel called The Stand. He may not know it, but his book was written for people caught in exactly the circumstances Dara and I were trapped in. It would take weeks to finish and of course, it's about the end of civilization.

That night she didn't even go to her bed, just settled in next to me. And, of course, the Bear was immediately up and nosing around for Dara's honey pot. No sleep for me. She was obviously awake too. We lay there like that for what seemed like a very long time, both of us breathing, listening to the thud, thud, thud of the tunnelers, though they were getting further and further away.

Finally, she broke the silence, a sort of pleading whisper, "Please?"

And her ass nudged backwards against me. Well, Zorba the Greek had a saying I thoroughly agreed with: God has one sin he will not forgive. If a woman asks a man to her bed and he will not go.

So, I gave the big bear what he wanted, a slow, easy, late night, lazy kind of fuck. With the lights out, it's pitch black in the bunker, even during the day. So it was easy to imagine myself back in my dream, sliding my dick into a tight, warm, smooth, crock full of butter and churning it slowly into some sort of frothy, viscous, tasty cum concoction. Dara moaned deep in her throat, and the pitch of it, that sweet young angel voice, the fragile, vulnerable, soft quality of it, and the kind of lewd urgency of it, was incredibly erotic. I didn't want to fuck her. I wanted to make love to her.

We just settled into a comfortable, relaxed rhythm. She was so small, though, she seemed like a doll, a living, breathing, fuckably tight doll. Her skin was supple and silky smooth. She took my wandering hand and held it to her nipples which felt painfully engorged with blood. I squeezed them and she gasped. Then I remembered her session that morning and I placed a finger at her anus. It seemed impossibly tight and small, but I finally worked a single digit inside her and then she started bucking against me.

I was fucking her tight tiny young vagina, mauling her fine teen titties, butt fingering her cute ass and she started spasming through a powerful orgasm.

"Cum," she managed to croak. "Cum inside me."

And I did, ramming the bear as far inside her cunt as he could go and then blasting hot shots of semen, going off like a fucking shotgun shooting cum loads way up into her rag doll limp body, clutched as close to mine as I could hold her.

When finally we sort of regained a semblance of consciousness, she whispered, "Thanks," then stood up, turned on the night light and trotted to the bathroom. I lay there in a state of pure bliss and wondered how did I ever get so fucking lucky in such unlucky circumstances. I had a fuck buddy, albeit an undersized one. I could very well have ended up down in that hole all alone. Shit that lucky doesn't happen to me.

But a part of my brain, the logical part, the part that knew that this was how entanglements get...entangled, wondered, what had I just started?

What I had started was the most erotic two and a half weeks of my life.

The next day when I got hard while lifting weights, Dara's eyes went right to it. She looked up at me and I could tell she was asking for permission. I pulled down my pants. She started with some tentative licks, then lavished her tongue across the head; finally she lowered her mouth onto the bear, grasped the base and head fucked me for several minutes, making occasional slurping, slobbering, gagging noises. When I came, she swallowed the load and she never said a thing, before, during or after. It was a powerful explosion, like my brain shot out my dick as she sucked the cum from me.