The Colonel Comes Home

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He sat cracking his neck on the veranda overlooking the river. His bed always took some getting used to after months peacefully rocking in a hammock. He might be done with it; the bed, the house, all of it. Pitch his hammock out here and sleep under nets like everyone else. They seemed happy with it.  Why should those with nothing be content with their lot and he feel so fucked all the time?

The river wasn’t a torrent by any means but neither the low green stream he was hoping for on his return. It ran full and brown-café con leche-filling the banks the way it never did in the summer and covering the marsh grass that deer would eat wading in the cool shade in the heat of the afternoons.

A swollen cow floated by, hooves reaching for the sky, then a couple of chickens. The lowland peasants always take the brunt of the weather. Floods this late in the season would mean hunger in the winter-not famine-there would still be food here in the most fecund valley he knew, but less of it. Without their chickens and corn they would be hunting his hills for game all winter. Which was fine, so long as they steered clear of the poppy fields, which they knew to do.

He had gambled before leaving and had the crop planted high on the mountain. Making the new clearings so far from where he usually farmed had been arduous but the rains which would have washed him out on the lowland fields, drained quickly up there. He had ridden through the fields on his way in and the crop was beautiful and lush. Thus did the rich get richer.

The sun peeking over the ridge downstream colored the trees and awoke the woodpeckers and the crows. Everyplace the filtered light touched him burned slightly, like a warm stick pressed against his skin. It would be hot today.

He heard the soft scraping tread behind him and steeled himself.

“More coffee Excellency?”

When he was sure Buenila couldn’t see, he had spilled what was left in his cup into the brown river. The pestilential rains had ruined the coffee crop and they were reduced to drinking chicory which was better than tea he supposed but worse than everything else.

“Yes, Buenila. Thank you.”

“It’s good then?”

“Wonderful”, he said turning his head slightly toward her but not looking back.

“Good…” she shuffled away.

Below him a pig floated by, tits up and mottled by the sun. His stomach gurgled an ominous reminder of his miseries.

“Wait”, he called back over his shoulder “A glass of Port instead. And a piece of the bread you made last evening.” She would know to bring the cheese without being told. Might as well start the day.

The sun was directly overhead when he pushed the last of the ledgers away and rubbed his eyes. He still had the eyes of an eagle, but they, like the rest of him, were only good for short spurts. Most of the morning had been spent with Diego, who was effectively the estate foreman, responsible for everything when the Colonel was gone on conquest or otherwise indisposed. Small and dark, Diego was young enough to be-and whispered that he was in fact-the Colonel’s own son. Neither man remembered Diego’s mother-she was gone when he was a swaddling babe, left to the capable hands of Buenila. To the Colonel-then a striving Captain-she had been one in a long continuing series of couplings.

While his wiry physic and green eyes could have been a give-away, neither of the men seemed to care about the certainty of his lineage. As a boy, and now a man, Diego wanted nothing more than to sit astride whichever mule or horse the day’s labor called for and do his work. “Nothing between my God and me but my hat!” he would smile doffing his well-worn woven skipper.

They had opened the canopy before noon and he now toyed with the idea of stringing his hammock and taking his siesta right here. Just toyed. While there was a breeze, the thick masonry walls that had survived two earthquakes to his knowledge kept his house cool even at midday. He would go inside.

Before he could push away from the table Buenila appeared at his shoulder.

“A girl from the village is calling, Excellency.”

“The village?”

The crone shrugged. To her, everyone not of the estate was from ‘the village’.

He settled back in his chair. “Send her out.”

Good Lord, he thought as he did when confronted by young girls. Is this my daughter? He didn’t think so-she was too young with striking raven eyes and thick straight hair the color of jungle dirt. Her cheekbones were high disguising the baby fat that still rounded her. She hesitated at the edge of the veranda.

“Come, come”, he said gently.

The girl shuffled closer. He could not ignore her full pouty lips. “What’s your name, daughter?”

“Laurencia”, she answered. “Laurencia Palacios.”

“Come, come…” he repeated reaching out a hand. The girl held back-walking in sand. Palacios, he thought. I know that name. “Do I know your father?” he asked.

“He’s gone.”

“I see, I see… What brings you here to see me today, Laurencia?”

“My mother, your majesty. She…”

He snorted loudly. “There is no crown on my head, sweetheart. I’m a simple Colonel.”

“Yes sir.” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. “My mother says I should come by. I should make myself…an introduction. I mean…I should make myself available to you….”

An icy hand gripped the Colonel’s chest. There were women, God knows, who approached him-who always approached him-wanting to be close to him and share what he’d won. And God also knows he had a weakness for them which is why there were so many of a certain age across the territory and in his service that had his green eyes, his sharp nose, his wavy hair.

He was used to these clingers and grabbers and had done, in his mind, a reasonable job recently of keeping his distance from such hardscrabble paramours. These days, his victories and powers brought a different class of women to his bed; ones who had their own gold and houses-even husbands-and only wanted to share of his essence if for a night or a week or a month. That was one thing. There was a special place in hell for those who would whore their daughters out for the same reason.

“How old are you, Darling?” he asked covering his rage.

He watched the girl freeze-the truth of fourteen colliding with the lie of seventeen her mother had given her. He had sat on too many tribunals to be fooled by a naïve virgin and her conniving mother.

“If you are contemplating a lie to me, just say nothing. It will be better.”

The girl stayed quiet, then, peeking up at him, “Fourteen, your majes…colonel.”

“Ah, fourteen. Very good. Very good.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “You weren’t supposed to tell me that were you?”

The girl blushed and looked away.

“No matter, no matter. I’ll make sure I tell everyone you’re eighteen, is it? Seventeen?”

“Seventeen, Colonel.”

“Very good.”

Regardless of her looks and the beginnings of regal bearing, the girl’s accent was of the mud. It was tough to hear such guttural tones coming out of a mouth as wonderful as this.

“Do you read Laurencia?”

“No, Colonel”.

“Numbers?”

She shook her head.

What is this mother thinking? He didn’t know, but he would find out. The girl brightened when he offered her chocolate and a cup of watered wine. She had come up the mountain alone on a handsome burro that she loved and had all her life. The colonel smiled; there is hope for one who loves a burro as the girl loved hers. The words poured about her burro, then her cats, then the dog, then the chickens-the girl who had slinked up the mountain in fear babbled on happily about the animals in her life. Probably preferable to the people she knew. The Colonel had daughters, both known and unknown, native and mestizo, and knew how to speak to girls. What he thought would be a five-minute interview extended to a half an hour of laughter and simple stories.

“Well Laurencia, it was wonderful to meet you”, he said finally. “But I have work…” he gestured apologetically toward the table.

“Yessir. I’m sorry to have taken your time.”, she said primly and stood. “I will go now. Thank you.”

She bowed formally and turned away her pert bottom pressing against the woven dress. They always mature first back there, he thought before looking away.

“Laurencia!” She stopped and turned. “I want you to…” how to say this? He didn’t want to appear to be offering what her mother had sent her for but wanted to ensure that the girl knew she had a place to come to if she ever needed one. “Stop back and see me. I don’t have the time now, but would love to meet your burro. Would you bring him back to visit?”

“Oh yes sir. And I will bring you eggs-from my chickens.”

“You will never be able to bring eggs up the mountain on your burro”, he teased. “They will all be scrambled when you get here!”

“You’ll see. I know how to pack eggs”, she smiled widely and for a moment he saw the woman she would become.

Dios Mio, he thought. Then with a charming smile that betrayed nothing, “Have your mother stop by to see me, would you? Not you, just her. Same time as this tomorrow. High noon. You’ll remember that won’t you?”

“Oh yes Colonel. I will tell her. And remember, I am seventeen!” She laughed like pearls flowing over pebbles.

“Dios Mio”, he whispered as she strode across the patio and was gone. He didn’t feel guilty for his arousal but rather proud that he hadn’t acted upon it.

 

(To be continued…)

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June 16

The first tentative chirps of the morning birds far preceded the dawn. He snapped to and imagined it no later than four. There was a cardinal, the robin at the arbor, the turkeys on the hill and the mourning doves all calling below the stars still spattering the resistant sky.

He smelled eggs boiling downstairs-does the woman never sleep?-and a whiff of coffee. By the stench he knew it bitter and strong-would need heavy doses of cream which he was fairly sure had curdled. She could fuck up a one-car funeral this one.

He’d been dreaming about a train accident that Frank was somehow tied up in. He was being interviewed on the teevee-Frank was-and the camera had inadvertently it seemed allowed his cock into the frame as he was not wearing pants. Why didn’t anyone notice? Could the camera man not see it there hanging listlessly like a sail on a windless lake? Weren’t there editors to prevent such things from getting onto the air? Truth be told though, old Frank’s uncircumcised seven (don’t let him tell you nine) would not be the worst thing to hit telly today.

He’d never get back to sleep now. His own cock was soft and bladder full but as soon as he went downstairs he’d be done for. Maybe piss out the window. Had she brought in the laundry? He fluffed his pillow and lay back in a huff-determined to wait out the night. The bob-white called but he didn’t count-he was up all night the poor bastard.

Doc Savage

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The sun was barely up and already muggy; more August than October. That’s why I hadn’t gone out that morning-had humped and sweated two thick, buggy ridges the day before and felt wrung out. Didn’t feel like archery season. I liked the woods in the fall; not the summer, so I let them go without me-I’d hunt the evening; spend the day reading and chilling. That’s what I was doing when Jerry’s girlfriend Lynn padded softly into the kitchen. We were all staying in her grandparent’s decrepit farmhouse in the foothills of the Adirondacks.

I wished I could say I was reading Kerouac, Gary Snyder, even Hemingway but actually it was one of the Doc Savage series; don’t remember which-there were a ton of them and I’d had most as a kid. Brought them hunting with me because they were small enough to pack and there was something reassuring about them. Having read and re-read them for years, they calmed me and brought me back to earth when I got too high. Which was hard to avoid when hunting with Jerry and the boys.

Lynn said “Mornin”, soft and sleepy and I looked up with a ready smile to find her completely and totally naked, a wrinkle from the bed clothes traced along her hip. Not a thread, not an earring, nothing. “I can’t sleep in anything in this weather”, she said. “I hope you don’t mind.” No, I told her, I’m fine. I put my head down to read again but that didn’t feel right. If she came down dressed I wouldn’t read and ignore her.

The smells of sleep swaddled her-all like baby milk, vanilla and dried sweat. She picked a cup from the sideboard and poured, her back to me, skin shining in the morning dim of the old house. Sugar was there and the cup tink-tink-tink-tinked as she stirred. She had a great ass-that I knew from the jeans she wore. Her butt was like Marcia’s a little smaller, maybe firmer. No, couldn’t have been. Marcia’s butt was bounce a quarter off it firm. Marcia-Jesus. Hadn’t thought of her in months. She liked me to spank her-the first girl who ever asked for it. I didn’t get it at first, but I’m a quick study.

She laughed like I was tickling her; and she’d fake these little ‘ooohs’, and ‘ouches’ like I was hurting her. As if ever that could have happened. She broke up with me when she went off to college. Didn’t want any encumbrances she said. That was her word. I thought I was going to be her husband, but suddenly I was an encumbrance. Christ.

“I’m going back upstairs”, Lynn said turning a little my way so I could see her tits. She liked them and should have, but her eyes, looking sideways, betrayed nothing. She was giving a show but couldn’t tell if it was for my benefit or hers. “There’s a cross breeze up there-feels sweet and you can still taste the last bit of evening.”  I thought to say ‘Yeah’, but some kind of weird, strangled sound came out, so I kept my mouth shut as her bottom disappeared into the shadows and creaking, back up the stairs.

I had never been so hard in my freaking life. It was like all my morning-wood ever rolled together but I didn’t know if it was Marcia’s memory or Lynn’s reality that lit the fuse. I read a paragraph, Doc was in trouble, but remembered nothing. Read it again-then a page, then the same page again. I tried reading aloud in a whispered mantra to bank the fire but it wasn’t working.

Then I heard the creak again-on the stairs. I knew, and started reading harder, silently but unable to drown the sound of her bare feet scuffing across the old hardwood.

“I thought you would follow me.”

She was still naked, her body-facing me now-luminous in the knife edge of sunlight that was peeking through the kitchen window. Golden dust motes twinkled, a cape swirling in the air above her.

“I could.” I kept my eyes on hers as she waited to hear more. “Can I spank you?”

The corner of her mouth lifted; her eye caught the sun. She turned slowly, languidly, a weekend swimmer taking a turn in a pool. “Sure”, she said over her shoulder as her butt walked off again into the shadows.  “Just not too hard.”

For a second, I thought of Jerry. No, less than a second. I’d known him since first grade but it wasn’t like we were brothers or anything. I cringed at the squeaking sound the chair made pushing away from the table.

Balzac

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Nose picking at Morrison’s grave

Flew to Paris years ago on business. I was saddled with a mid-level manager who was as loose as uncooked pasta so I had to entertain myself. Because it was those times, I snorted coke crouching in the lav then couldn’t sleep the whole way across the Atlantic; drank too much in the darkened plane till I got tired of it then dropped a Quaalude. The times, as I said.

By the time we landed the drugs had cancelled each other and I was straight, but wine drunk and it was midmorning. He wanted to go to the hotel to “freshen up” whatever that meant, but it was my first trip to Paris so I commandeered the cab and barked “Pere Lachaise!” Where? he asked. Cemetery, I said. We’re in Paris and we’re going to a cemetery? Who’s buried there? Balzac, I told him. Balzac. Turned out to be true but what did I know? Just said it. Didn’t want to tell him we were going to Jim Morrison’s grave.

The jig was up when we got out of the cab and picked up a map from an old woman on a folding chair and started following the makeshift signage. As we got closer, the graffiti thickened, the litter deepened and just as we reached the small circle of pilgrims passing a joint, which I grabbed at, the sun hit me like an ax and the night of red wine split my skull. Somewhere there is a picture of me talking to a pack of German girls one of whom had some English. None of them thought Morrison was buried there. That he was dead at all. I had no problem with him being dead-that it could happen. That’s what people did: some sooner some later. I never thought he wasn’t buried there.

Until the morning, years later, when I saw him working in a bait shop in North East, PA where we had gone salmon fishing. We were almost sick at the time, having drunk all night and barely sober in the cool autumn morning. Aside from the fishing and wine, North East was known for fresh donuts made in a bakery with huge foggy widows on the main drag. People lined the street for them. That was back then-not now. Now it’s all Horton’s and Dunkin and that shit.

So the first thing we did was split two dozen fresh, gooey hot glazed donuts and sweet steaming coffee from Styrofoam cups. Then went to the bait shop near the creek where Jim Morrison sold us salmon eggs and hooks. It was surreal. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I even called him “Jim” and he looked at me like I was nuts. It wasn’t till later, on the stream, that I realized the guy didn’t look like Morrison at all, but like a fat Val Kilmer. I had them confused from the movie.  Fucking embarrassment. Coulda been worse. Coulda thought he was Doc Holliday.

Caught three nice steelhead that morning, on the eggs I bought and only puked once behind a tree. Kicked leaves over it. Turned out to be a good day overall.

Nurse Kimani

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(Continued from The Party )

Having made their entrance into the full glow of the fire and been viewed and admired, he released them from their collars and lay the staffs aside. Someone else would surely find a use for them before the evening was out.

“I’m going to find Duke”, he told them. “Go mingle.” Then, to Gennie, “Have fun”, with a light smack on her rump as he passed toward the house.

They wandered past the still smoking hulk of the motorcycle. “I can’t believe you did that…” she whispered into Chelsea’s ear. “Collateral damage”, the blond winked back. “A bonus. Very cool though.” The girls each grabbed a glass of wine from an angel with a black halo of wires circling her head. The woman’s hair was shaved tight on the sides with a floppy blue mohawk falling to the left. “You sure you’re an angel?” flirted Chelsea eyeing the woman’s ink-a blue web that crawled up her neck. “The devil began life as an angel, love”, she answered coolly. Chelsea, fully on the prowl, raised her glass in salute and allowed Gennie to pull her away.

They walked slowly past the toy table and Gennie slipped to the other side of Chelsea as if being too close to a paddle or crop might give someone ideas.  But it was hard to imagine people hear didn’t have the ideas already. Just over there-leaning against the mantle that she’d help deliver was the bare bottomed kitten that had met them when they arrived. The tail was gone but she was happily displaying two bright red welts running across her white cheeks. When had that happened? Where had that happened? Just seeing the marked bottom set Gennie’s stomach roiling.

Hors d’oeuvres that the villains had scattered to paddle Beth had been replaced. Chelsea went for the bacon-wrapped dates. “Famished! Waging war stokes a girl’s appetite.” Her eyes aflame, Chelsea scanned the scene looking for likely singles, doubles, whatever. As Gennie’s doors tightened at the prospect of public play, Chelsea’s opened like flood gates.  “Let’s go inside”, she said popping the last date whole into her mouth.

They moved through the foyer and into a high-ceilinged hub of a hall that spoked to a number of rooms, some dimly lighted by candles and a fire’s glow, a couple brighter with lamps and hanging bulbs. There seemed to be at least as many people inside as there were out.

“Where’d they all come from?” Gennie wondered.

“Party people gonna party”, Chelsea answered moving forward.

Gennie froze at the sound of a swat; the unmistakable song of wood on bare skin accompanied by an “owwww” and laughter. “Not that way!” she said pulling at Chelsea’s arm away from the sound. “Okay…” said Chelsea allowing herself to be led away. “But we’ve got some work to do with you girl.”

They slipped into a sitting room and were drawn to a small group standing around a couch. The circle opened for them as they pressed inward and Gennie caught the eye of a sandy haired boy-well, not really a boy, probably Gennie’s age-but impossibly cute in a slight blondish way. She couldn’t tell how tall he might be as he was currently lying across the lap of a statuesque beauty, the color of burnished mahogany in a blue nurse’s outfit. The boy’s pants were down to his thighs and a thermometer, a tad large for the task at hand, protruded from is tight upturned bottom. Why had she punked on being a nurse?

He smiled at her and the edge of his mouth twitched only the slightest when the nurse extracted the thermometer. Gennie noticed that his bottom was brushed the sweetest hue of pink. The nurse, with the name tag “Kimani” sewn onto her lush breast, went through the motions of reading the instrument. “You’re fine, Tommy”, she said patting his butt. “Just fine. See all that ruckus for nothing.” Her voice was strong and melodious with a hint of the islands tinkling just below the surface.

Kimani followed the tilt of his head and locked eyes with Gennie. “Well, hello there my green-eyed sister.” It was true, the nurse had green eyes, but not as bright as Gennie’s; more the muted, smoky color of martini olives. “I don’t know”, she said clinically, “You being a zombie and all, might be beyond my help. But maybe a little medical workup would serve you well.” She dropped the thermometer she had used into a bag at her feet and extracted a new one from her pocket.

Heat rose in Gennie’s cheeks and she gulped audibly, eliciting giggles from those close enough to hear.  “You’re scaring the girl Kimmie.” Gennie leaned away meaning to bolt, but Chelsea was at her back solid as a fence post blocking a simple escape. Gennie looked pleading into her eyes, “Please Chel…” she whispered. Chelsea held her there just long enough before smiling and stepping out of her way. “Maybe later, Nurse Kim”, she said. “We have to get some alcohol in her first.”

As Gennie slipped past, Chelsea grabbed her bottom gently and squeezed. “The longer you wait”, she whispered in her ear, “The worse it’s going to seem…” But as she walked away she felt something more than the nerves and gut-churning fear of being exposed to strangers. She would deny it out loud but there was something in the naughtiness of this whole evening that was beginning to buzz, so far quietly, inside her. She wished Chelsea would have kept her hand on her bottom.

(Continuing…)

The Party

(Continued from Chelsea – 9)

They sat in a charged silence with the turn signal blinking to allow a silver Volvo station wagon to enter then followed it down the drive. “We’re just arriving”, he said glancing into the rear view to catch Gennie’s eye. “We don’t know what happened…let anyone who wants to tell, tell.”

“Duke and Beth?” Gennie asked from the back.

“No. They know. Everyone else though…”

Gennie sighed loudly-a tad too loudly.

“Jesus Christ Geneva!”, Chelsea hissed turning in her seat. “Would you drop the fucking ‘tude!” The magic word to bust Gennie’s attitude always is her proper name spoken in anger. She puddled against the door.

“I’m sorry”, she said. “Sorry. I was just so…I’m just so…scared…”

“Scared”, sniffed Chelsea. “Scared…” She turned in the seat and without warning, slithered over the back rest. He had no desire to interfere but looking over in time to get a glimpse of Chelsea’s butt peeking out of the large tear in the seat of her jeans awakened desires he did have.

Gennie could barely get out a weak “Hey!” and throw up her arms before Chelsea was on her. “Do not be afraid and do not be a baby!” Chelsea said sternly grabbing her wrists and pushing them down to her sides. This lanky blonde was surprising strong. “Do you think we’re going to let anything happen to you?”

“But…”

“Shut up!” Chelsea whispered. In the rear view he could mostly on see the back of Chelsea’s head but saw Gennie’s eyes roll back and close as Chelsea closed her mouth over hers. Gennie had no choice then but to shut up, there being two tongues in her mouth and all. She did relax, at least for the moment, as Chelsea released her arms and wrapped her in a hug. He pulled his eyes back to the road. Whatever the women did together back at the house, they did it out of his sight. Being a witness to this small coupling further scattered his concentration.

One would have thought that gunplay, an explosion, a cavalry charge of ATV’s and SUV’s scattering and subsequently rounding up a band of armed brigands might have put a damper on the party. In truth, some of the more timid souls had left at the first chance, but not too many timid souls come to this party anyway. The stream of vehicles coming down the driveway far and away outnumbered those going up.

After all that had happened it might have seemed easy to forget the plans for their entrance, but Chelsea was still on point. Once parked, she went to the trunk and pulled out the two staffs she had fashioned with the nooses on the ends. “Are we still going to do this?” Gennie asked.

In answer Chelsea looped the noose over her head and pulled it tight.

“GAK!”

“Yes, we’re still going to do this.”

They entered the bonfire’s circle of light opposite the smoking hulk of the motorcycle which had become a prop. The girls lurched, twitched and growled at the menagerie of beasts and ghouls that turned at their entrance.

“Walkers in the house!” croaked a three-eyed raven; “Ah Zombies!” cried a vampire with improbably large breasts spilling over her red corset. Gennie was happy she hadn’t done the vampire thing. There were cops, soldiers, Captain America made it as did Bat Girl-who might have been Bat Man in drag. Some costumes were less elaborate than others, and others wore no costumes at all-it was a good mix.

While he was scanning the crowd, a five-foot kitten hopped their way and sniffed at his feet.  He paused to allow for the act and when she turned from his feet to Gennie he saw the fur chaps she wore were backless and her furry tail protruded directly out of her bottom, no doubt plugged firmly in place. She rose on her haunches to sniff Gennie’s butt.

“Scat!” he said pantomiming a kick that gently poked at the kitten’s dimpled white bum. She hissed and scampered off.

(Continuing…)

Chelsea – 9

(Continued from Chelsea – 8)

Slipping back over the hill, they left the yelling and the glow of the scene behind and retraced their steps quickly but surely in the deepening gloom. At least he and Chelsea did; Geneva hung back. Without the excitement of knowing what she was doing back there-or of having any part in the proceedings-she was left confused and, truth be told, more than a little frightened. Not wanting to reveal herself as a scaredy-cat, she instead donned the cloak of pique, moodily dragging herself along doing everything but kicking at the ground.

Chelsea was still on-mission; moving precisely and with purpose. She was the first to reach the gun cache and popped it back open with the digging tool. Comfortable with Chelsea’s execution he stepped back to read and answer texts that were coming pretty regularly right now.

“A little help here”, she asked Gennie, nodding to the other end of the lid. Moving precisely, she wiped each gun and put them back carefully, sealed and covered the top. “Just fill and smooth the dirt back over that edge”, she said. “Make it look natural.”

“Don’t worry, Wonder Woman. I know what to do.”

Chelsea was quick to come out of her crouch and snag Gennie by the belt buckle. “Hey! Don’t be a brat,” she ordered pulling her close. Gennie seemed to be resisting and Chelsea stepped into her and slipped the back of her hand down her pants keeping her grip. The feel of her nails roughly scraping her lower belly then settling in the top strands of her pubic hair froze Gennie. Her belt dug into her back as Chelsea leveraged her hand deeper into her pants. Was Chelsea suddenly taller?  Were her shoulders wider? She gasped lightly as the longest of Chelsea’s fingers plunged to the bottom of her patch and flicked back and forth at the top of her suddenly moist opening.

“I warn you, you don’t want to be a brat right now”, Chelsea growled, the menace in her voice undercut by the dancing light in her eyes.

“No…” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “No, I don’t.”

Gennie’s eyes fell closed and she allowed her mouth to sag open expecting a kiss from the lips that were so close she could smell Chelsea’s lipstick. Instead, Chelsea opened her mouth, slipped her head to the side and bit Gennie’s nose. Softly at first, then just hard enough to get her to open her eyes.

“Some zombies eat other zombies, you know”, she said pulling back.

He watched from the deep shadows of a large sycamore. Evidently it wasn’t only his blood that was running hot.

(Continuing…)