Roaming for Sex

8 min read

photo: MetArt

Roamers 4: Trash gets her kicks in the age of roamers

Trash’s eccentric personality wasn’t the perfect fit for the zombie apocalypse.

She had earned her nickname in her first year of college on account of her excessive drinking, streaking across the quad, and engaging with multiple sex partners, sometimes at the same party. She burned through friends faster than nickel bags.

She was incompatible with most of the collectives that had formed in the wake of the Roamer Virus. And she would rather die than submit to some fascist in a uniform.

With her short orange hair, she walked a different path. She was a one-woman anarchist movement.

Trash found an escape from the rigid social structures in a quiet farmhouse protected by a white picket fence. Her favorite room was the library. It had her favorite chair. And she replaced all the books on the shelves with dildos, vibrators, dirty magazines, and other paraphernalia to help satisfy her deep sexual needs.

Thwap, thawp, thawp, thawp.

Trash was naked in the lounge chair playing with herself. Her back was braced against an armrest and her leg dangled over the back of the chair as she stuffed a silicone-based shaft inside of her. The balls slapped against her labia, swelling them up.

Trash was focusing hard. Too hard. Eventually, she got a little sore and finished herself off with the Magic Wand. She came so fast that she wasn’t sure if she came at all.

She hated the silence once she stopped hearing herself breathe. She wasn’t cut out for the loneliness.

“Wonder what the roamers are up to,” she said.

She threw on her trench coat and ventured out. A full moon made her excursion riskier. She always had to be on the lookout for fascists, and it was safer to interact with the roamers when their eyesight was limited. Usually, she would just taunt them: get in its face, stick out her tongue, and yell something obscene before running away.

She also liked to play practical jokes. A poor soul on the street corner, staring up at the moon, seemed like the perfect target.

Trash went into her favorite department store. It was near a condemned part of town, so it wasn’t fully picked over. She returned with some leather gloves and a pillowcase.

The man must have been on a run when his transformation occurred, judging from his short shorts, an orange blazer, and a headband. He barely flinched when the pillowcase went over his head. Trash was strong enough to subdue his grabby hands to put on the gloves, which protected her from the virus.

She took off the pillowcase and debagged the runner, boxers and all.

“Nah, nah, nahh, na, nahhhhh, nah,” she said, twisting her open hands with her thumb on her ears as she backed away. “Come and get me.”

The roamer stood in its place, too smart for her trick.

“Awwww,” she said. “You sure you don’t want a piece of this?”

Trash undid her trench coat and flashed the Roamer with her curvy body. She was on the shorter side, but her breasts and butt were both proportionally larger. Even by roamer standards, her resulting curves were sexy. She swung her big breasts in circles as she stepped closer to him.

“Ugh, ughh, errrr, uhhhhh, ahhhh,” groaned the roamer. He lifted his hands towards her with his clenched fingers, walking forward gingerly. She still couldn’t get him to fall down but she did notice his hairy dick was getting chubby.

“Ooooohhh, someone’s happy to see me,” she said.

Trash grabbed his cock. It felt hotter than it should. The roamer uttered up guttural pleasures as she jerked him off. She reckoned he had an eight-inch cock — Trash had a good eye for these things — when he became fully hard.

Then Trash got an idea. She giggled so much that she had to put her hand over her mouth.

She pulled up the roamer’s shorts and stuffed his hard cock back into his boxers. She made a second trip to the department store for a couple of boxes of Trojans, a big bottle of lube, and a dog leash.

“You’re kind of cute,” she said. “I don’t think Momma’s gonna like you.”

Trash had done some risky things in her life, unethical too. Taking a roamer home wasn’t actually that high on the list.

The Roamer virus emerged in an age of peak zombie awareness. Most people with access to cable TV had a refined zombie taxonomy. There were homer zombies, mutant zombies, zombies that ran fast, zombies that coughed up blood, integrated zombies. The list went on.

A roamer was the best kind of zombie you could hope for as a survivor.

They weren’t dead so their flesh didn’t rot — when they died, they were dead, usually because of bodily starvation, dehydration, or a piece of metal through the heart. Roamers did sometimes drink water but they did not eat. To keep the host alive as long as possible, the virus preserved the host’s energy by keeping the body in an almost comatose state.

Trash had to drag that roamer home that night by the leash. She was exhausted by the time she got home so she locked the roamer in the closet and went to bed.

She woke up in the morning horny and took her boy toy out of the closet. He was much more compliant after she stripped him down. She gave the roamer a quick cleaning with soap and a washcloth and put him down on the bed.

He was hard enough to easily roll the condom on. Trash lubed herself up thick before crawling up on his dick. She loved the feel of a man, not just his dick inside her but the feel of his tense chest and strong arms.

She’d never seen a Roamer so animated. He jiggled around in bed almost as she thrust herself down on him. He seemed to be stuck in an orgasmic state. And if there was anything the Trash got off on, it was getting other people off.

The only thing creepy was his hands. The roamer grabbed at her constantly with his gloves on.

She rode the roamer cowgirl — front and back. The roamer seemed to get more excited when she went reverse cowgirl, twerking that ass down over his cock.

“Uhhh, uh, uhhh, uhhh,” the roamer moaned, as he reached for Trash’s ribs and stomach, looking for some skin to pinch.

Trash replaced the condom several times. “No roamer babies for me,” she said.

He remained hard but never came. Trash never had so many orgasms in one day.

Over the next few months, Trash gathered quite a collection of roamers. Her main source was the local gym, where there was an ample supply of young studs with cocks in her “sweet spot” — seven to eight inches. She also transported some weightlifting benches back to the barn, which offered flexibility for a variety of sexual encounters.

She kept the roamers, three or four at a time, resting them up on cots in stalls in the barn. Her collection would have grown if not for some limiting factors. Baseball and football gloves were ideal because they strapped on tight. The roamers went through them fast given their nail growth, so they were getting harder to replace.

But there was an even bigger problem. Trash was out of condoms.

Trash was sitting her chair. It was the first time she had contemplated in weeks, and it was a sure sign that loneliness was creeping in again.

For Trash, a roamer was the perfect man. He didn’t say stupid shit; he didn’t say anything at all beyond the typical grumbling of zombie discontent. He didn’t have an appetite so he never demanded dinner. He could live for months on a glass of water, and he would never ask for beer from the fridge. He didn’t prematurely ejaculate and didn’t need a pill to keep from going soft.

Trash was used to risky behavior. She lived in a fallout zone for Christ’s sake. She looked at the piece of lifeless silicone in her hands and threw it across the room.

“Fuck this,” she said.

Trash picked out two roamers from the stalls. She took one out and put him back on the bench press. She stood up another in front of the bench press. The roamers were naked except for black leather belts that she used to keep them in place — she chained one to the bench and the other to the wall.

Trash got on her knees between the two roamers with a bucket of suds. She scrubbed their privates clean with a washcloth, hardening them up in the process. She gave them handjobs with a dry towel.

When they were squeaky clean, Trash backed her ass up towards the standing roamer until the tip of his cock poked her in the ass. She guided him slowly into her lubed pussy.

“Aaahhhhhhhhhh,” the roamer moaned.

She put the other roamer’s cock in her mouth as she started to ride the roamer behind her. The cock skin felt so good on her tongue. He felt so solid in her mouth and she sucked and spit without concern for his sensitivities.

“Uhhh, uhh, uhhh, uhhh,” the roamer uttered with each suctioned kiss.

Their hands were roaming. She felt the scratch of a roamer’s fingertips on her ass and up along her spine and at her shoulders and then her breasts from the other. The tickling sometimes distracted her with the giggles.

“Behave!” she said.

She saw a piece of their humanity return when she fucked them. Their open mouths looked like smiles. The roamer fucking her had shoulders that seemed to sway giddily and the roamer on the bench pivoted his feet in and out. It’s like the virus was letting them come out to play.

They fucked pretty good, too. Maybe he was just mimicking, but the roamer behind her was thrusting his dick inside her at the same pace as her rocking ass. Their skin slapped together at full speed.

Trash liked to switch things up. She slid off the roamer’s dick and replaced it with the upright dick on the bench. She slid the cock she was fucking into her mouth slowly, savoring the taste of his cock, which was coated with a mixture of silicone and pussy. She liked how she tasted.

Trash got quite the workout fucking two guys who wouldn’t come. Her rapid squats were easier when she was bouncing off the muscular legs of the roamer, allowing her to go as long as her legs could handle. She came several times while moaning over the cock stuck deep in her mouth.

Trash sat back on the roamer and pulled the dick out of her mouth as she caught her breath.

“That’s all I got, boys.”

Trash put the roamers back in their stalls and kissed them on their hairy cheeks. She could barely walk back to the house. She got a drink and grabbed her notebook to share her observations.

Trash fancied herself as a bit of a sexual researcher. She had written down something after every encounter with a roamer in a composition book. She called it, “Trash’s Scientific Sex Notes,” and used the biggest words she could.

“Entry 73: Is the Roamer virus man-made?”

I have to wonder.

The emitted heat and the excessive bloodflow indicate that the genitalia is a central hub of sorts for the virus. The dick seems to have replaced the roamer’s brain in terms of central processing activity. I would presume it’s similar for women but I haven’t observed it myself.

The virus has shown it can spread effectively without exerting sexual energy. So why are the roamers so animated by sex? My working hypothesis is that roamers simply enjoy it.

The virus has killed off several bodily functions, ostensibly to preserve energy. I believe that includes fertilization. Unlike their fingernails, there is no appearance of any substance on the roamers’ dicks to suggest they are using sex to spread the contagion.

My unprotected sex will put that theory to a test. I sacrifice my tits and ass to science!

If I’m right (and I don’t plan on getting this virus), it would beg a question.

If sex doesn’t help the virus spread — if, in fact, it drains the roamer of the energy it needs to propagate — then why the design flaw? If it’s between God and men, I choose men.

I swear, this is some pleasure pill gone wrong. Somewhere in corporate America, there’s a bunch of roamers hanging around a whiteboard with a marketing pitch: “Live the orgasmic life.”

Trash looked at her fingernails and took her temperature. 98.9 degrees.

A little high, but nothing to panic about.

She had thought about the idea of becoming a roamer enough that she had started having dreams about different scenarios for the end of her days.

The thought of looking up at the moon like a dumb dog terrifies me.

Her nightmares gave way to fantasies.

I’d much prefer becoming someone’s living sex doll. Maybe I’d be shut away in a closet. Or maybe I’d be tied up in the basement, serving as the grand prize for a poker game. Maybe the winner would make the prize grander. Everyone could join in.

It gets me horny thinking of it. Is that weird? The thought that Linnea would still be desired, even in the great fog of life? That I could still make people cum?

Some days, it feels like my destiny.

It was as good an afterlife as she could hope for.

Read the next issue…

Sharing the Load

Catch up with the rest of the series here.

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