She was a couple of years older, about five four, curvy, heavy breasted with rich dark copper hair and pale skin. She would dress slightly sexily, if that makes sense. Not tarty, but a cut above the average - not a housewife meeting friends, more a businesswoman meeting a colleague.We had developed a ritual. Just as I liked her to tell me what knickers she was wearing, she liked to show me. Sometimes just a little flash in the car park. If she got there first (I was ‘at work’ after all…) she would wait until she was so randy she didn’t want her lunch any more and then just slip them off and hand them to me. If the restaurant was busy, she’d do that in the loo, but if it was quiet she’d either do it sitting at the table or - heavens above - she’d stand up and let me reach under her skirt and slip them down.It’s the Terry Pratchett principle. If you saw Death walking down the street - an eight foot skeleton with black cloak, scythe and twinkly blue eyes - you’d scream for the rest of. "She didn't say anything. He glared at her, but it was him that looked away, flushing. He brought a bag in from the living room. His hands shook while he filled it with food. When he was done, he went back into the living room. The plastic bags clinked as he set them by the back door. He put his steel toed boots back on, drank the last beer, checked his pistol and came for her. He unhooked the leash, then undid one end of the heavy chain. He lifted her up by it, then held it low, keeping her off balance. He leaned the shotgun against the door frame, and opened the door.He picked up the shotgun and started down the porch stairs. Bent over like she was it was a moment before she noticed he'd pulled the car all the way in, and left the door open. A snarl came from the right, and two zombies came around the corner. He screamed and shoved her down the stairs, straight into their arms. She lowered her head and kept moving, ramming her head into one of their chests. Its cold hands grabbed at.
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