This is my first attempt at any kind of creative writing, let alone erotic writing, and it was borne of insomnia. I welcome feedback and criticism. If this is well received, I may write more.
It should go without saying that this is 100% fictional, with no intended resemblance to any actual people or events. Either that, or it's a memoir written by a time traveler who survived the zombie apocalypse in 2019; whichever suits you better.
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When the zombie apocalypse hits, everything you know goes out the window. Most worries are forgotten until all that remain are the most immediate needs: food, shelter, ammunition. We knew we hit the jackpot when we found a fully-stocked fallout shelter whose owners had met their unfortunate end before they ever had a chance to use it. Exhausted and relieved, we pushed the bolt home and released the breath we hadn't realized we were holding. We looked at each other then, exchanged a wordless thought, and began moving shelves to barricade the door.
Those doors may be enough to withstand a nuclear bomb, but we weren't about to trust them against that mindless horde.
Only when we were done ensuring our safety did higher-order thought begin to return. I contemplated my companion and reflected on the events that had just transpired. Nearly everyone I knew had died. My husband Andrew and I had lasted pretty long -- long after many, many of our loved ones had perished. Yesterday, though, as we made a break from our previous shelter, one of those monsters grabbed hold of me, and I knew I was done for. Andrew, in one last, brave act, threw himself between the zombie and me, whispering "I love you always" as the beasts began to gnaw. It already felt like that had taken place a decade ago.
Time flies when you're fighting for your survival.
So who was I with? It's funny how it happened. A close friend of ours had run into us and joined up with us the day before last. We were happy to share our shelter and supplies with him, since he supplied us with guns and ammunition. He was the one who kept me moving as I watched my husband get ripped to shreds, and it was he who stumbled onto the luckiest find of the century, our new home. It was he that I now shared this new shelter with.
It was strange, really, that the two of us had survived. We were young -- both in our late twenties -- but neither of us was the athletic type, both being of a somewhat "smooshier" build, as I preferred to think of it. Ryan was the type that most girls barely noticed, mostly because of his low self-esteem and quirky sense of humor. He was tall, with short, curly, dark brown hair, and a face attractive enough that he really shouldn't have had as hard of a time of it as he did. He had a pair of warm, deep brown eyes that betrayed his kindness but also revealed his mischievous side when he so chose.
I, on the other hand, am on the shorter side, and though I wasn't about to win any kind of beauty contest, I'd never really had trouble attracting guys. My shorter stature made my ample breasts and rump stand out all the more, and I'm told that I am very pretty when I'm not making ridiculous faces. I wear my auburn hair long enough that it could completely conceal my breasts, if ever I wanted it to -- I'm not really the modest type. Any guy who was looking for the "complete package" was enthralled by my prowess at cooking, baking, and crafting all manner of things. I had always joked that if society crumbled, those around me would hardly notice, with all of my skills. I hoped I wouldn't eat those words.
As the reality of the situation caught up with us, we surveyed our new home. The shelter was sparse and small, designed more for a married couple than for two platonic friends. Almost all of the facilities were based on one room, with only storage and lavatory in separate rooms. The furniture consisted of a single futon in the center of the room that served as couch and bed, though truth be told, it wasn't until we had been there a few weeks that we finally figured out how to convert it. There was a small wood stove in the corner, a small table with two chairs, and a few shelves along the walls. The rest of the space was taken up with necessities like the water filtration system, a stall shower, a small food prep area with a sink and dishrack, a small area that could be used to grow some indoor-friendly plants, and an exercise bicycle set up to charge a series of capacitors with the kinetic energy generated.
In short, it would definitely not be winning any awards for keen interior design. No matter; we had survived, and that was all that mattered. We investigated the supplies, and he started a fire in the wood stove while I gathered supplies for our first hot meal since the last organized resistance failed this past weekend. As we ate, we discussed what had happened.
For the first time, we began to talk about how we felt about everything that had happened. We agreed that if we were going to survive in such a small space, we would have to be completely open with each other. We talked of our fear, our anxieties, and our needs. The one need that neither of us mentioned was the need for sexual release, which was starting to reach the forefront of my mind now that my immediate survival was not in danger. We curled up together on the futon, enjoying the comfort and peace of being safe, and fell asleep nestled in each other's arms.
As the days went by, we fell into an easy routine. He began to sort through the various items that we had access to in the shelter's storage rooms, and I began to assess what I could make with the supplies we had. Stored clothing was adjusted to fit us or converted into more useful objects. Supplies were tallied, and it seemed that we'd have enough to last in there many months, maybe a year if we were clever about it. He was a great companion, and he eagerly began figuring out all those nitpicky details like "how long can we survive" and "what can we use for weapons when our supplies run out." There was a naturalness about our interactions that made it easy to forget that the world outside was still in chaos. The only awkwardness was the building sexual tension. Though neither of us spoke it aloud, it hung in the air between us, a palpable buildup of energy that needed an outlet.
The outlet came on the fifth day, as we realized that it was high time to find a way to have a good, hot shower and do some laundry. The area that served as a shower was separated from the main room by only a glass door, which for some reason was not the usual frosted glass you find on shower doors. No, this glass was completely clear. Ryan showered first, and I'll admit I tried my best not to perv out and spy on him. I watched him as surreptitiously as I could, anxiously hoping to catch him jerking off. That thought excited me in a way I hadn't expected. But aside from a pretty good glimpse of what appeared to be a decent endowment, so to speak, I didn't get to see anything scintillating. When it came my turn to shower, Ryan promised to be a gentleman, which got me thinking.
How was he so cool about all of this? How was he not begging for some kind of release? We hadn't really had any time to ourselves at all, so I knew that he couldn't be keeping himself satisfied by masturbating. As I showered, I began to realize how much I had been suppressing my own needs. I realized then that if he was not going completely crazy by now, he must have been masturbating when I wasn't looking. We slept each night with me draped across his chest, seeking the comfort that is so hard to find when the world outside is all but dead, so it occurred to me that he must have literally been jerking off behind my back.
The thought of him stroking himself so close to me turned me on so much I had to stifle a moan. I found myself showering in what I hoped was a more seductive manner, determined to make him want me enough that we could both get some release. As I watched the remaining shower water begin to run low, I ran my soapy hands along my curves, from my full hips and ass across my torso, ending with a luxurious and exaggerated caress across and between my tits. He didn't say anything, but even through the steamed-up door, I knew that he was watching, and that only turned me on more. Facing away from him, I bent all the way over, ostensibly to wash my feet, but really, all I wanted was to give him a good look at my ass and pussy. My mind raced with thoughts of what he would do to me when he finally gave up the gentlemanliness that had kept us platonic so far.
When I finished showering, I toweled off and used the used shower water to begin to clean our laundry. Out of the clothes that we arrived with and the ones I had modified from those we found in the shelter, we had each saved a set of underthings to wear while I washed the other clothes today, so I had on only a plain pair of panties and a simple, yet flattering bra, while he was in a comfortable pair of his preferred boxer briefs. I leaned over the laundry basin, aware that my scrubbing must be making my ass shake quite nicely. I knew this was the case because I could see the heaving of my bosom in time with my movements and I knew that my rear end was surely mirroring that movement. By Ryan's silence, I was pretty sure that I had his attention. Yet, still, he tried nothing.
As I finished up the laundry, I snuck a peek at Ryan's not-so-concealed manhood. It seemed to be on the larger side in both length and girth, as my peek confirmed that he had definitely been enjoying the view. So what was stopping him? I decided that I would need to be more forward if I was going to get any kind of satisfaction. I took up what was now my usual seat beside him, with him leaning back on the futon with a wide-kneed stance while I sat beside him, angled to face him, so that I wasn't resting on the back of the couch at all. "Can I ask you a question?" I had always wondered, and in fact my late husband and I had debated, whether Ryan had been interested in me. I was fairly convinced that he had never had any particular affection for me, but Andrew was convinced that he had secretly had the hots for me since we met. I had to know.
