“No.”
He shifted until he was slyly sliding our cocks alongside one another. I swallowed, my throat parched and my head buzzing. I should have stopped him, but I didn’t.
“Young man,” I said. He laughed and continued rocking into me in a lazy sort of way. The ache in my balls intensified and my dick was ultra sensitive where it touched the fabric of my underwear. My jeans were tight enough to offer some resistance, and Kitten was at just the right angle. I could easily get off like this, especially with the pressure building in my balls…
“What day is it?” he asked, stopping suddenly.
“No idea.” I resisted the urge to grab hold of his ass cheeks and mash him against me. I needed just a little bit more friction to bring me to completion. I didn’t even care about the potential discomfort of having to hike ten miles in sticky, cum-stained underwear.
“It’s August 3rd,” Macon said from where he was squatting a few yards away, coaxing his pyramid of firewood to burn. He winked at me from behind Kitten’s shoulder, and I groaned at the lack of privacy.
“Today is my birthday,” Kitten announced.
“Happy Birthday,” I said and kissed the top of his head. It was a friendly kiss, that was it.
“Will you kiss my mouth?” he asked and angled his chin upward.
“No.”
“Birthday spankings?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Pretty please?”
My willpower was only so strong, so I disentangled myself from his grabby hands and stood with my dick uncomfortably hard in my too-tight pants. It was obvious to everyone present what was going on here. Luckily, Artemis was on watch and Gizmo and Teresa were still sleeping.
“Off for your morning wank?” Macon asked, grinning like an idiot.
“Fuck off,” I growled. “Ask Teresa to make something special for breakfast when she gets up. For the birthday boy.”
Kitten smiled up at me, gaze dropping down to my dick. Licking his lips, he said, “I know what I want for my birthday.”
“Bad Kitten,” I said and stomped off into the woods to find some relief.
* * *
The day wasone of those exceptionally humid summer afternoons where the sun was beating down on us relentlessly and even the forest shade offered very little relief. Our limited water wasn’t enough to keep us cool and the gang was broody, all of us wishing there was a river nearby or even a pond where we could submerge ourselves long enough to cool off for a bit. Loaded down with our packs, we’d barely made any progress under the blazing sun. Gizmo and Teresa both wore hats, but even still, their exposed skin was pinking to a burn, and Gizmo’s freckles seemed to have multiplied.
“I can’t take much more of this,” Macon complained, his shirt saturated with sweat and his blond hair dampened at his temples to a shade of brown. “We need to find shade, at least for a couple of hours.”
We altered our path to skirt closer to the road, hoping to find some sort of abandoned building or industrial warehouse to take cover. It wasn’t long before we came across a squat, concrete structure painted bubblegum pink. Where the windows had been busted up, vines had crawled across and taken over. The asphalt in the parking lot was similarly cracked and broken, with large chunks missing and weeds growing out of the gaps.
“Holy shit,” Macon exclaimed. “A nudie bar.”
Pink Pony had been the establishment’s name, or so I assumed, since a couple of the sign’s letters were missing, resembling a barroom brawler’s broken smile. I’d never been to a strip club before, but I’d been an avid gamer prior to the plague and had seen my fair share of porn back in D.C. I said to Macon, “I don’t think there are any strippers inside, buddy, unless they’ve gone Rabid.”
“I don’t care. Let’s check it out,” he said, already heading toward it.
“Me first,” I reminded him, since I was the one with the gun. “You come in behind. Let’s make sure there are no unfriendlies nesting inside. Everyone else, wait out here, red alert.”
Gizmo handed me the night-vision goggles, but once I’d managed to lever open the door with a piece of rebar, I found I didn’t need them. The windows allowed enough sunlight inside to see fairly well. There were some broken bottles by the bar and a few overturned tables and chairs. The sickly-sweet smell of spilled, fermented liquor permeated the air. I checked out the back rooms meant for private dances and found them empty, as were the bathrooms. In the dressing room, there were costumes on clothing racks and a long countertop lined with mirrors where the dancers must have gotten ready. Most of the mirrors were broken too, and I didn’t look for long because even though I wasn’t religious, I was a bit superstitious.
“All clear,” I told Macon, who relayed it to the rest of our crew. They filtered inside, stepping cautiously around the broken glass and debris. Kitten and Teresa were fascinated by the podiums mounted with stripper poles. Kitten climbed onto one of them and managed to swing himself around by hooking one knee on the metal. His other arm was thrown out in a dramatic pose. Teresa giggled and encouraged his clowning.
Meanwhile, Gizmo was inspecting the cash machines, probably to see how they worked since U.S. money was no longer recognized as a national currency but minted within each of the hundred or so major metropolitan areas to be used within city limits. The smaller cities that were still functioning tended to rely on trade or barter systems, but many of those had become outposts for raiders who trafficked in humans, weapons, and drugs. The military would go in every once in a while to make arrests and blow shit up, but the criminal element inevitably returned.
Macon was searching behind the bar for any surviving bottles of liquor, and Artemis had found a broom and was sweeping the broken glass into a corner. Such a mom.
