The day after: An apocalyptic morning (89 page)

              It took a long time before she came. His tongue was starting to cramp and his lips were going numb before he was able to pull that first orgasm from her. But when it did release, it came with explosive force. Her legs closed around his head, squeezing him almost painfully and nearly cutting off his respiration. Her pelvis jerked up and down with such force that he had to struggle to keep his mouth upon her clit.

              When she finally came down from it, he was dizzy and out of breath, his mouth struggling with several stray hairs that had dislodged. Before he had a chance to do anything about this Sara's hands were in his armpits, pulling him upward atop her nakedness. Those massive tits pushed into his chest and his bare thighs pushed against her larger ones.

              "Fuck me," she panted at him, kissing him and shoving her tongue in his mouth. She seemed to get off on tasting her own juices, just like Stacy did. "Come on," she said, breaking the kiss and squirming beneath him. "I need it. Fuck me."

              "Yeah," Stacy said next to them. "Fuck her. Fuck her good."

              Jack grasped his cock in his hands and put it against her dripping slit. He pushed forward and sank into her in one stroke. All three of them gasped in pleasure at the penetration. As he began to thrust in and out of her, as her legs wrapped around him, he looked over for a moment and saw that Stacy had pushed her maternity pants down and was rubbing her red-haired pussy furiously as she watched them.

              "Fuck her, baby," she told Jack breathlessly. "Fuck her good. Fill her up."

              Thanks to his frequent couplings with Stacy he had learned a certain degree of control over his orgasm. That was fortunate because it took every ounce of willpower he had to keep thrusting long enough for Sara to come again. Watching his woman masturbate next to him while he fucked someone else was the kinkiest, most erotic thing that he had ever imagined. As soon as Sara's body began to jerk and shudder beneath him, that control slipped and he came explosively within her.

              When he rolled off of her a minute later, leaving her sweaty and dripping on the couch, Stacy grabbed him and pulled him over to her. She had taken off all of her clothes and her swollen, pregnant body was on complete display for both of them to see.

              "Now its my turn," Stacy said, pushing him back into the couch.

              While Sara and Jack both watched in astonishment, she dropped her head into his lap and sucked his cock, which was half erect and still wet with Sara's juices, into her mouth. It took less than three minutes of her sucking and licking him clean before he was back up to a complete erection. She then assumed one of her favorite positions. She sat on his lap, her back to his chest, as if he were an easy chair. This kept her large stomach from intruding upon the act. She reached between her legs and put him against her pussy, sinking down upon him. He began to push and pull within her, using strokes that he knew she liked, pushing her quickly towards her own orgasm.

              Sara watched them as they copulated less than two feet from her, still amazed that she had participated in such a perversion, still amazed that her friend Stacy had actually sucked on Jack's cock just seconds after it had plopped free of her own pussy. She had never been so turned on in her life. She opened her legs widely, putting one on the back of the couch, the other on the floor, displaying her sex for them. Continuing to fuck each other, they both looked at her, watching as her hands went to her slit and began to rub.

              Jack would come two more times that night, once in Stacy's pussy, once in Sara's sucking mouth. Though the two women both tasted each other on Jack's cock, neither one touched the other in any way. But before they fell into bed exhausted and sore, Jack snoring between them, both had thought about it.

              Part 11             

              One of the features of the law enforcement package that had been installed in the MD-500 was a programmable VHF radio system that could transmit on nearly any frequency as long as the operator knew what that particular frequency was. As such, with the assistance of a manual from Paul's fire engine, Jack, sitting in the passenger seat of the chopper, was able to talk to Paul and Mick who were two thousand feet below listening to a fire department portable radio. Of course the VHF repeater that the fire department had used for its primary channels was out of action making those frequencies useless, but several direct frequencies, with a range of a mile or so, had been programmed into the portable.

              They were fourteen miles east of Garden Hill, just above a CalTrans road maintenance station that Skip had found during a recon flight the day before. Their mission for the day was to get a water truck that had been stored at the facility safely back to Garden Hill where it's large tank could be used to store jet fuel for the helicopter. Getting the water truck started had been the easy part of the operation. It had been a simple Micker of installing two fully charged twelve-volt automobile batteries. The hard part was going to be navigation of the vehicle home. Two large slides and three washouts along Interstate 80 between Garden Hill and the station had ruled out the option of simply taking the freeway. Instead, they were using back roads to work their way home.

              Skip and Paul - by burning up an entire tank of fuel in the helicopter - had found a wildly circuitous route along two-lane mountain roads. It was a route that stretched miles out of the way and switched back upon its self several times, but that, after a trip of nearly fifty miles, would eventually drop them out on the Interstate just east of the cut that guarded the town. Now, as they were putting the plan into motion, Skip and Jack were flying just ahead of them to scout out the route and watch for unseen dangers.

              "Okay," Jack, speaking into his headset informed them, "you're coming up on the first turn now. It's just around the bend you're approaching. You're going to turn right and that will take you up a rise to a smaller road."

              "Copy that," said Mick's voice in his ear. "Turn right around the next bend."

              Skip pulled them into a hover as the orange truck below them completed the maneuver, watching until they were safely headed up the hill. He then brought them up a little higher and eased over the rise in question so he could take a look at the other side. Once they were there, Jack, who had a map laid out before him, gave them their next set of directions. This brought them to a twisting, turning road leading nearly up to the snowline, which began about 6000 feet.

              "I hope they don't trigger an avalanche," Skip said nervously, flying slightly behind them now. "Some of that snow up there is pretty thick."

              "They volunteered to chance it," Jack reminded him.

              "That wouldn't make me feel any better if they were buried alive," he replied.

              It had been three days since the discovery of Auburn and the strange community that existed there. The knowledge of all those guns and men less than forty miles to the west had stirred a near-fanatic burst of activity around Garden Hill. Some of the defensive improvements, which had been on hold in the excitement of acquiring the helicopter, had been placed back on the front burner. Christine, taking to her new job with gusto, was spending her every waking hour supervising the reinforcement of the hillside defenses, finishing up the training of those that had yet to go through the firearms class, and drilling the reaction force in how to deploy in the event of an attack. No longer were the Garden Hillians merely anticipating an untrained group of hunters like the last time trying to hit them, they were now being forced to consider that a hundred or more heavily armed men might suddenly come walking into their midst. As of yet it seemed an unlikely possibility at best - they had no evidence that the residents of Auburn even knew they existed - but the first attack had taught them that they had to anticipate unlikely possibilities as well as likely ones.

              While Christine and Paula had been busy taking care of home defenses, Skip, Jack, and Mick, with the help of Paul, had been frantically trying to secure a fuel supply for the helicopter so they could begin using it to its full advantage. The problem of fuel storage needed to be solved first - thus the day's mission - before further recon flights of the surrounding area and possible recovery of the freight supplies on the train could be undertaken. There had been a furious debate the previous night on the wisdom of attempting to do what they were now doing. Skip had been firmly opposed to risking two men by driving a loud, clanking machine over those perilous roads just beneath huge accumulations of comet-caused snowfall. But none other than the two men who were volunteering to take the risk had overruled his objections.

              "You yourself have told us that we may as well not have the helicopter if we can't get and store fuel for it," Paul had argued. "We've been over every other possibility and this is the only way we're going to be able to store it. It has to be done."

              Mick, who was obviously no fan of being smashed to pieces by an avalanche, had been forced to agree with this logic. "This is the only tank we have available to us and we've scouted out a means to get it back here. You've determined that we can't cut it loose from the truck and fly it back here, right?"

              "Right," Skip had replied miserably. The tank, while light enough to be carried if empty, was simply too large and bulky. The drag caused by trying to pull it through the air would make the aircraft too unstable.

              "Then I guess our decision is made," Mick said. "Both Paul and I have been advised of the risks and have elected to go forth. No more discussion on the Micker is necessary."

              And so now Skip, very much against his better judgment, was flying above as they entered the area directly below the snowline. "If those assholes get buried," he told Jack, "I'm going to hover right above them and yell, 'I told you so' through the fucking loudspeaker."

              "They'll be all right," Jack said, watching anxiously, although he had absolutely no evidence or experience upon which to base this statement.

              It was an agonizing twenty minutes as the orange truck crept slowly uphill on the slick, muddy road. Occasionally the back end would slide a little bit on a particularly slippery patch. Occasionally they would have to edge perilously close to a drop off so they could get around a mudfall or a crumbled section.

              "How are you doing down there?" Jack asked them from time to time.

              "We're hanging in there," Mick's voice, sounding strained, would come right back.

              Finally they reached the summit of the pass, where the highest danger of causing an avalanche lie. They did not pause or comment on their achievement. They only started down the other side. Soon they were well below the snowline once again and relatively out of that particular brand of danger.

              "You see, Skip," Mick's voice sounded in their headsets, its tone more than a little relieved. "Nothing to it."

              "Right," Skip replied, just as relieved. "Nothing to it. I'm scouting ahead."

              He flew forward for a few miles, checking on the next section of route as they continued to lumber down to the bottom of the hill. Jack, his rifle safed and resting next to his seat, peered through a pair of binoculars at the road below, looking for anything that might present a danger. He saw nothing but road and mud and the occasional dead body next to a dwelling.

              In the past few days Jack had once again become the subject of wild discussion in the town. He had become the second man in Garden Hill to openly live with two women and call both of them his lover. Though there was still no ceremony or official recognition of this fact, and though none of the parties involved had actually admitted what was going on, the simple fact that Sara had moved in with them had not gone unnoticed. Fortunately, with the absence of Jessica and her mindset, no one was trying to vote any of them out of town for the offense. None of them were even calling it an offense. But, no Micker what the mindset of the people, Garden Hill remained a small town where everyone knew everyone else and the gossip flew like mad.

              But the gossip and the mood of the townspeople were not what were on Jack's mind at the moment. He had experienced much worse before. What was on his mind was something that he had wanted to bring up ever since the first Cameron Park mission. Now the time seemed right.

              "Skip?" he said softly, hesitantly, after making sure he wasn't accidentally keying the transmit button on the radio.

              "Yeah?" Skip replied, his eyes making a constant track from the instrument panel to the outside. "What's up?"

              "You said you were going to teach others to learn to fly this thing," he said.

              Skip took a moment to glance over at him, seeing his hopeful face. "I did say that," he said. "And I intend to do so just as soon as there's enough time and fuel to start."

              "Well, do you think that maybe... you know that just possibly... uh... well..."

              "I think you'll make an excellent pilot," Skip told him with a smile. "I've already decided that you'll be my first student."