Dave's Zombie Proof Bunker and Refuge for Unattached Wimmens

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oh, yikes... that's a toughie! I am just the aunt... I want to makes sure the nieces and nephews feel they can come to me with anything, but... they're still little, so that one is way out of my realm of knowledge.

FWIW, I liked your answer.

I think if you showed them a vid of a hardcore BDSM session, they would not experiment with sex until about the age of 45.
 
They need to be nurtured, allowed to choose their own time, made to think that it's their idea....




...before one pounces.

made to think it's our idea, huh? Well, see, that's the trick redheads use!

*runs and grabs a butterfly net*

Butterfly net, eh? I'm from Texas... lasso or nothing, baby.

Damn, see now I don't stand a chance... I'm just a blonde hair, blue-eyed, hunk o' burning love from North Cackilacky who can't even get a nipple tweak from the man of the house...lol :D:D

Sadly, RA, it's not much better for the single chick. :eek:
 
OMG... I just spit soda out onto my computer screen.

You think if a shemale was buggering some dude who was tied down while forcing him to endure a beating at the hands of a pro domme the kids would re-think their interest in chasing the fairer sex?
 
Butterfly net, eh? I'm from Texas... lasso or nothing, baby.

This may be an issue as America's original cowboys--you know, Floridians?--use bullwhips to move cattle. We don't toss ropes over the horns of these scruffy short horns, they'll turn and gore the horse.

Besides, the Crackers learned that on the Palmetto Plains of old Florida, the small palms were shoulder height to the average bovine who would simply duck under a lass rope while it landed harmlessly on the fronds of the plant.
 
This may be an issue as America's original cowboys--you know, Floridians?--use bullwhips to move cattle. We don't toss ropes over the horns of these scruffy short horns, they'll turn and gore the horse.

Besides, the Crackers learned that on the Palmetto Plains of old Florida, the small palms were shoulder height to the average bovine who would simply duck under a lass rope while it landed harmlessly on the fronds of the plant.

bullwhips, you say? hmmm.....
 
They need to be nurtured, allowed to choose their own time, made to think that it's their idea....

...before one pounces.

I will assume you can hear me laughing from here...
This may be an issue as America's original cowboys--you know, Floridians?--use bullwhips to move cattle. We don't toss ropes over the horns of these scruffy short horns, they'll turn and gore the horse.

Besides, the Crackers learned that on the Palmetto Plains of old Florida, the small palms were shoulder height to the average bovine who would simply duck under a lass rope while it landed harmlessly on the fronds of the plant.
*Pulls up some fluffy pillows to wait for the cow stories. Pass those swedish fish, Niam!
 
So, it is true what they say about blonds....

**ducks and runs**
OMFG....Girl... you did not! :EEK: I'm a natural blonde... Only those stupid enough to put bleach on their heads represent the common phrase of which you speak...
*picks up chair and playfully throws it in Max's direction*
 
In the darkness outside the bunker, Whip is slowly stumbling back to the glowing bunker. Turns out the bike didn't have that much gas in it, and wasn't as willing to be controlled as she thought. It threw her off with a jolt when she tried to drive over the rotting body of a downed stumbler. Not having the strength the lift it back off the ground she left it there to slowly crush the ribs of the stumbler. Its idling is still barely audible in the distance.

What's far more worrying is the groans of two or three undead who seem to have heard the motor with their rotted ears, trailing behind Whip as she comes upon a set of tripwires, triggering the sirens inside. She stops just short of the stinking schnapps moat, blinking groggily at the drawbridge, waiting for it to come down.
 
OMFG....Girl... you did not! :EEK: I'm a natural blonde... Only those stupid enough to put bleach on their heads represent the common phrase of which you speak...
*picks up chair and playfully throws it in Max's direction*

** ducks and laughs **

Oh, now now... I'm a natural red head and you should HEAR some of the questions I"m asked.

Still have a friend who calls me Fire... :eek:
 
I will assume you can hear me laughing from here...

*Pulls up some fluffy pillows to wait for the cow stories. Pass those swedish fish, Niam!

You hush. I need to be quiet about animal husbandry now (that sounds funny) since I know it makes you all drippy too.
 
OMFG....Girl... you did not! :EEK: I'm a natural blonde... Only those stupid enough to put bleach on their heads represent the common phrase of which you speak...
*picks up chair and playfully throws it in Max's direction*

I was not aware it was possible to throw a chair playfully.

:eek:
 
In the darkness outside the bunker, Whip is slowly stumbling back to the glowing bunker. Turns out the bike didn't have that much gas in it, and wasn't as willing to be controlled as she thought. It threw her off with a jolt when she tried to drive over the rotting body of a downed stumbler. Not having the strength the lift it back off the ground she left it there to slowly crush the ribs of the stumbler. Its idling is still barely audible in the distance.

What's far more worrying is the groans of two or three undead who seem to have heard the motor with their rotted ears, trailing behind Whip as she comes upon a set of tripwires, triggering the sirens inside. She stops just short of the stinking schnapps moat, blinking groggily at the drawbridge, waiting for it to come down.



As the alarms go off, the fun ends. I am instantly in action, reaching for the Spike's Tactical custom built AR-15 that I have in the corner of the room. A monitor in the corner of the room shows a heat source in the infrared spectrum standing on the other side of the moat. And the monitor next to it is showing three cold bodies moving in the darkness.

Running down the long hallway towards the heavy steel door, I pause to press the button to open the door, flip switches that turn on blinding lights outside, and turn a crank that lowers the drawbridge.

The door opens enough that I can squeeze through and run out onto the pad between the moat and the bunker's door. The light is blinding me with its sudden brilliance. My heart soars with recognition.

"Whip!" I yell, "Look out!"

The rifle raises to my shoulder of its own volition. Let my hand be true. Let my eyes see my target. Let my heart go cold as I do my job. My infantryman's prayer is barely finished as the rifle bucks in my hand and the closest walker to Whip goes down in a spray of gore and innards.

A second is stumbling towards her, arms raised.

"No fucking way, pal."

Two rounds obliterate his head.

A third, appearing to have been a child--a very obese child--is getting close as the drawbridge is almost all the way down. She is waiting at the very end of the causeway, waiting on it. Rifle rounds speed past her and knock the third zombie to the ground. I have missed the head and it is crawling towards her.

"Sorry kid." Another round and it is motionless.

The drawbridge lands and she bounds across. I continue firing as she presses the button for the bridge behind me. It begins to go up, but I keep firing.

"Damned Zedheads. Fuck you!" I yell. Round after round finds its target as I change mags and continue putting them out of our misery. Finally, Whip turns off the lights to hide my targets, possibly to get me to come back inside...or possibly, just to get me to quit wasting ammo on targets of opportunity.

I turn and she is already so far down the hall that I can barely see her.

I step back inside and press the button for the door and it slams home with a loud bang. We're safe again.
 
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