Chapter 2: The Feast of Time: Older Milly Devours Her Past
The silence was a physical weight. The only sound was the soft glug-glug-glug of whiskey pouring into a crystal tumbler. Future Milly stood at the sideboard, her back to the room, the lines of her spine rigid. She took a long, slow swallow, the muscles in her throat working. When she turned, her face was a mask of cool detachment, but her eyes were live wires.
She didn’t look at the men. Her gaze landed on her younger self, who was slowly sitting up, drawing her knees to her chest as if to make herself small. The motion left a smear of wetness on the floor—a mix of hers and his, past and future.
“Get up,” Future Milly said, her voice low and hoarse.
Young Milly just stared, shell-shocked.
“I said get up.” The command cracked like a whip. Future Milly set the glass down and began moving across the polished wood floor. There was a predatory grace to her walk, a hunter’s economy of motion. The scars on her torso and thighs seemed to writhe in the low light.
Young Leon stirred, pushing himself to his elbows. “Hey, back off—”
“You shut up,” Future Milly snapped without even glancing at him. “You don’t get a say. Not after what you just did.” She stopped in front of young Milly, looking down at her. “You feel it, don’t you? That hollow place. That cold spot inside where the fire used to be. It just got bigger.”
Young Milly’s lower lip trembled. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good. Remember that feeling. Because it’s the only thing that’s real.” Future Milly’s mask slipped for a second, revealing a profound, unbearable loneliness. Then it was gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “But right now, you’re still warm. You’re still soft. You still fucking feel things.”
She dropped to her knees, her movements fluid and deliberate. Young Milly flinched, trying to squeeze her legs tighter, but Future Milly’s hands were like iron. She gripped her younger self’s thighs and wrenched them apart, exposing her completely—the glistening, swollen flesh, the evidence of the older Leon’s release still seeping from her.
“Look at you,” Future Milly breathed, her voice a mixture of disgust and aching want. “Look at how fucking alive you are.”
And then she buried her face between young Milly’s legs.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a consumption. A wet, obscene slurp filled the silent room as Future Milly’s tongue laved through the younger woman’s folds, lapping up the combined taste of their husband and themselves. She groaned, the sound vibrating against sensitive flesh, and young Milly cried out, her hands flying to tangle in her own future hair, pushing her away and pulling her closer in the same desperate motion.
The sight was a detonation.
Young Leon, who had been frozen in confused anger, felt a fresh, vicious jolt of arousal punch through his gut. Seeing Milly—his Milly—being eaten out by this harder, shattered version of herself was wrong in every way that mattered, and it made his cock twitch back to life against his thigh, thick and heavy.
Future Leon watched from where he lay, propped on one elbow. A weary, grim understanding passed over his features. This was no longer about them. This was hers. A ritual of self-annihilation and remembrance. He saw the raw hunger in his wife’s shoulders, the desperate way her tongue plunged inside, fucking young Milly with a familiarity that was devastating. He pushed himself up.
Young Milly was arching off the floor, incoherent sounds bubbling from her lips. “Oh god… oh fuck, that’s… you can’t…”
“I can,” Future Milly growled against her, not stopping. “I know what you need. I know every inch of this cunt. I remember how it used to weep when it came.” She latched onto young Milly’s clit, sucking the stiff little bud between her lips, applying a ruthless, perfect pressure.
Young Milly screamed, her body bowing. The orgasm hit her like a freight train, brutal and shocking. She convulsed, her heels digging into the small of Future Milly’s back, holding that devouring mouth right where she needed it as wave after wave of raw sensation tore through her.
As she peaked, Future Milly lifted her head, her chin glistening. She looked at the two Leons, her eyes burning. “She’s sensitive right after. Everything’s electric. Don’t just fucking stare at it.”
It was an invitation, a command, a sharing of spoils.
Young Leon moved first, driven by a possessive instinct he couldn’t name. He crawled over to young Milly’s head, his own need a blunt, aching thing. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused from the climax. He guided his cock to her lips. “Suck it,” he said, his voice rough. “Suck me clean. Taste her. Taste him.”
Dazed, obedient, young Milly opened her mouth. He pushed inside, the head of his cock bumping against the back of her throat. She gagged, then relaxed, her tongue swirling around him, lapping at the residual bitterness of Future Milly’s essence and the musk of his own skin.
Future Leon approached from the other side. He looked at his younger self fucking his younger wife’s mouth, then down at the woman between her legs—his wife, his present. He lowered himself, his hands cupping young Milly’s breasts. They were perfect, firm, the nipples peaked and tight. He leaned down and took one into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue flicking the tip. He bit down, just shy of painful, and young Milly moaned around the cock in her mouth, the vibration making young Leon hiss.
Future Milly watched them for a moment, a strange, possessive pride on her face. Then she shifted. She moved up young Milly’s body, positioning herself over her younger face. “Look at me,” she ordered.
Young Milly’s tear-filled eyes rolled upward.
“This is you,” Future Milly said, lowering her hips. “This is what you become. Now taste it.”
She settled her weight, pressing her own wet, open cunt against young Milly’s mouth. The younger woman hesitated for a second, then her tongue tentatively emerged, licking at the swollen lips presented to her. She tasted herself, but darker, saltier, layered with the distinct, musky tang of her older Leon and the faint, metallic hint of her younger one. It was a confusing, profoundly intimate cocktail. She began to lick in earnest, her tongue seeking out the hard nub of Future Milly’s clit.
Future Milly threw her head back with a sharp gasp. “Yes. Like that. Just like that.”
The penthouse became a living circuit of sensation, a closed loop of giving and taking. Young Milly, pinned and used from both ends, was the conduit. She sucked her young lover’s cock with frantic need while her tongue serviced her own future self. Future Leon lavished attention on her breasts, sucking and biting, marking the young skin with a possessiveness that spoke of loss. Young Leon watched it all, his hips pumping slowly into that warm, willing mouth, his hand reaching out to grip Future Milly’s ass, his fingers digging into the scarred flesh as he guided her grind against his Milly’s face.
Future Milly’s breathing grew ragged. She was close, teetering on the edge. She looked down at young Milly, who was staring up at her with wide, overwhelmed eyes, mascara smeared, mouth stretched wide around Leon’s cock.
“You want to know?” Future Milly panted, her voice breaking. “You want to know what breaks you? It’s not the zombies. It’s the quiet mornings after. It’s the look in his eyes when he thinks you’re asleep. It’s the way you’ll fuck him one day just to feel something besides the goddamn quiet!” Her hips stuttered. “Now make me come. Do it.”
Young Milly redoubled her efforts, her tongue a frantic blur. Future Milly cried out, a raw, shattered sound, as her orgasm slammed into her. She ground down hard, riding the younger mouth, her body shaking as the pleasure ripped through her, sharp and cleansing as a gunshot.
The vibration of her cry through her body made young Milly moan, which pushed Young Leon over his limit. With a choked grunt, he jammed his cock deep and came, pulsing hot jets of cum down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, her own body trembling with a secondary, sympathetic clenching between her legs, where she was still throbbing from Future Leon’s attention.
Future Leon felt it all—the climaxes reverberating through the bodies connected to hers. He released her breast, his mouth moving to hers, kissing her deeply, tasting the salt of her sweat and the unique, combined flavor of all of them on her tongue. He was painfully hard, his cock pressing against her thigh.
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers. Their noses almost touched. Young Milly was spent, a vessel emptied of everything but sensation.
“I’m sorry,” Future Leon whispered, so softly only she could hear it. The apology was for everything: for the horrors to come, for the man she’d have to become, for this violation, for the love that would somehow survive it all, bent and scarred but never broken.
Then he moved. He shifted his body, pushing young Milly’s legs wider. He positioned himself at her entrance, still slick from her own arousal and his wife’s attentions. He looked into her eyes, holding her gaze as he pushed inside, filling her slowly, achingly completely, for the second time.
She was loose, sensitized, every nerve ending alight. It wasn’t about friction now. It was about connection, a terrible, profound merging. He began to move, a deep, steady rhythm that was almost tender. He kissed her again, swallowing her soft whimpers.
Across the room, Future Milly had slumped to the side, watching them. Young Leon had withdrawn, sitting back on his heels, looking stunned and empty. Future Milly reached for him, her hand finding his. Their fingers intertwined—the young man and the old woman, bound by the same impossible love for the same two impossible people.
Future Leon’s pace quickened. His breathing grew harsh in young Milly’s ear. “This is the last good memory,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent. “I’m giving it back to you. Take it.”
He drove into her, once, twice, three more times, and then held deep, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her again, a hot, claiming flood. She held him as he came, her arms wrapped tight around his scarred back, her face buried in his neck. She didn’t cry. She just held on.
As his tremors subsided, a new sound filtered into the room. Not a groan, not a sigh. A low, oscillating hum, like faulty electricity. The amber light in the penthouse began to flicker, strobing between the warm glow and a sickly, pulsing green.
Outside the window, the ruined skyline shimmered. For a heartbeat, the crumbled buildings were whole again, lights blazing in perfect windows. Then they were ruins. Then whole. Then ruins.