Zombos 2 (Reluctant Zombie Apocalypse Erotica)
It's been eight months since the outbreak, when millions succumbed to the O Virus, turning them into ravenous, sex-crazed zombos. Only one survivor camp remains, holding out against the madness that lurks outside their doors. Louise, one of the last remaining scientists, is desperate to find a cure, before the hunger takes over for good, but it's becoming harder and harder to fight the urge... More
It's been eight months since the outbreak, when millions succumbed to the O Virus, turning them into ravenous, sex-crazed zombos. Only one survivor camp remains, holding out against the madness that lurks outside their doors. Louise, one of the last remaining scientists, is desperate to find a cure, before the hunger takes over for good, but it's becoming harder and harder to fight the urge...
Warning: This 11600+ word story contains masturbation and rough sex with multiple partners. Adults only!
I'm aware of two things at once: the deep ache between my shoulders blades and the fact that the light in the room is wrong. I blink several times in confusion before I realise that I must have fallen asleep at some point, hunched uncomfortably over my desk, and I've somehow slept through the night. A quick glance at my watch tells me that it's just past seven in the morning, and I know I'm expected to be back in the lab in less than an hour. When I shift in my seat to relieve my aching shoulders, I'm startled to feel that my underwear is completely soaked through, warm and slick with my juices, and there's an undeniably pleasant throb between my thighs.
The events of the past day come back to me in a rush, and I bolt to my feet so quickly that I send my chair tumbling to the floor behind me. More than twelve hours have passed since my encounter with Subject Thirteen, since the infection has passed onto my body, and yet I'm still capable of rational thought. The small, no frills mirror on the opposite wall tells me that, aside from being a little dishevelled and bleary-eyed from a night spent sleeping at an uncomfortable desk, I'm still the same old me. By all rights, I should be a crazed, shambling sex fiend by now.
Fear turns to confusion, and I stare hard at my reflection, trying to figure out what exactly has happened. I'm conscious of the way my nipples are distending the front of my blouse, pink and erect and begging to be touched. Moving even slightly causes the fabric of my bra to graze deliciously over the firm tips, and I can't help but moan with need. The O Virus has most definitely taken up residence in my body, judging by the highly aroused state I'm in, so how it is possible for me to still be thinking and acting normally, despite the urges? Could I have some kind of immunity?
I become aware that I'm rhythmically squeezing my thighs together, feeding my growing lust, that warm wetness at my core. As much as it alarms me, I find it difficult to stop, needing to fuel that sensual fire at the place where my legs meet. I'm desperately craving the pleasure that I haven't felt in so very long, wet and deeply aroused, my skin all but burning to the touch, but I know that I shouldn't; I mustn't.