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He’s the first man to ever see my bare breasts after puberty, and it’s absolutely terrible.
I hate him.
His hands slide into the band of my pants, and I shudder as his skin connects with mine. He pulls them down and off my body.
“So far, so good,” he says, his breath washing over my hip.
I hear his movements, but I can’t bear to open my eyes to watch him as he looks at me. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to meet him. Stupid enough to fall into his trap.
I hear a thud, and look to see that he’s put the knife down. He’s not going to gut me, after all. Maybe this is just an inspection, like he said, done by the worst inspector in history.
I mean, this has to be worse than the dreaded IRS audit.
He moves to my back and I feel his fingers digging through my wet hair.
“Seriously?”
“Every inch.” His voice comes out in a slow rumble.
Those two words are terrifying, because every inch of my body includes all my intimate parts.
“Why, though? It’s not like zombies were sneaking into my hat and underwear.”
“It’s not just about the zombie disease. I need to know you’re healthy. Everyone that joined the Civil Police was inspected, body and blood, to make sure we were free of disease in case we ended up confined for a time. In case this happened.”
“You fucking knew!” I accuse.
“At first, we knew very little. Then, we knew a lot.”
“You’re monsters!”
“I already told you I was, but not the one you think.”
He travels down my neck, my back, his fingertips grazing my skin lightly, and because my body is a traitor, it responds obscenely. A coil of warmth stirs in my loins, threatening to overwhelm my other senses.
And my anger only feeds it.
His hands close around my butt cheeks, and because this can’t get any more mortifying, he spreads them.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snap, kicking out my legs to no avail.
“Every inch.”
His hands relax and begin moving down my legs as tears roll down my cheeks.
He lifts one foot, separates each toe as he continues his inspection, then moves on to the other.
I could be spending my remaining days comfortably in my closet, eating Ding Dongs from the vending machine.
The thought of food makes my stomach rumble.
He pauses.
“You’re hungry,” he says as a statement of fact.
I don’t reply.
“Chili with beans or spaghetti?”
