The Compound
Copyright© 2025 by Pete Fox
Chapter 7
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7 - Hedonistic prepper nudists, Shoshone trial marriage customs, a group of like-minded families prepare a bug out community in Wisconsin. Government bureaucrats, doctors, former military, farmers, and actors. In the background gain-of-function research, H5N1 influenza, spy games, sex, story progresses to 2020 pandemic over several instalments. Pete, a State Dept employee prepares his cabin and family for what he does not know. Much sex, drama, family fun, 1st POV, NSFW.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Mult Teenagers Fiction Historical Sharing Incest Exhibitionism Lactation Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy Voyeurism Big Breasts Nudism Politics
A Day in the Life
I entered through the back door after parking the Gator. Sweaty, high on endorphins from this morning’s workout. Bacon, I smelled bacon and saw tits and asses in the living room. Not unexpected, as Julie’s ATV was parked at the front of the house.
“Hi, Dad,” Tommy said as he wiped down the kitchen table with a towel, a surface usually covered by my kids’ latest projects.
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, pretty Jo wearing an apron, making breakfast in my kitchen alongside Sydney, or my son setting the table for breakfast.
“Hi, Jo. Julie,” I said to both. Julie sat in front of my laptop, which was still connected to the internet.
Curious, I went and stood behind Julie, placing my hands on her shoulders. She was reading a Science magazine article from May 2011. I admired her cleavage, then the awful words jumped out at me as I read... H5N1 avian influenza ... genetically modified ... transmission between ferrets ... pathogen if released in nature could trigger an influenza pandemic ... possibly with many millions of deaths.
“Wow, Julie, is that possible?” I said, massaging her shoulders as I read.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I was listening to the recording when Julie came in as I was looking things up online,” Sydney said apologetically.
“No, it’s okay,” I replied, meaning it. She was a good kid.
“Julie, how dangerous?” I asked. My left hand under her thick blonde hair, massaging her tight neck muscles.
“Pete, that feels nice. The three people on the recording were sharing data and talking about using labs in China for research, Wuhan was one name,” Julie said. “It would be very bad if the modified strains got out. The article says that precautions are taken, but still some scientists argue it’s not worth the risks,” she said, her voice professional. “I can do more research, with Sydney’s help.”
“I understand. Keep this between us. Can you write a report for the security committee on gain-of-function and H5N1?” I couldn’t picture a pandemic like the Spanish Flu, where tens of millions died, in my lifetime. But that’s why I was here with my family, preparing.
“Of course, between us, in this room,” Julie said.
“Come and eat,” Jo said, waffles, eggs, bacon, juice, fresh dairy milk ... a small feast.
I was thoughtful at breakfast, even with Jo’s gorgeous chest across from me and her engaging smile. She came off as shy in private. I ran my foot up her calf, a slight smile as she nibbled on a piece of bacon. I ate my waffle and cheesy scrambled eggs, my thoughts divided as the breakfast conversation flowed around me.
Tommy was fully engaged with Julie, flirting and touching. Sydney observed the interplay while refilling my coffee cup.
“Dad, why don’t we invite everyone back here after the dance tonight?” Sydney said.
I was still thinking about H5N1. “Yes, of course,” I answered. I needed to meet with Sarah, perhaps in Germany, on my way back to Nairobi. Maybe a casual talk with Ben, he’s a scientist at the Centers for Disease Control (CDC).
Jo and Julie nodded in agreement.
“Good plan. Approved,” I smiled at my kids, touching Sydney’s knee under the table and putting a hand on Julie’s shoulder.
I had lots of chores to do today, I reminded myself.
“Julie, Jo, I gave Sydney a blow job lesson last night. My wife usually handles sex education for the kids. Any insight into what makes a good BJ?” I said and smiled.
Jo-Scarlett choked on a piece of strawberry. Then we all laughed once she cleared her throat and smiled famously. Nodding her head, glancing at my son.
“I think we do. Right, Tommy?” Julie said, her breasts still jiggling from laughing. Jo blushing.
“Good, save it for tonight. Sydney, I’m going to shower, then we are going to town,” I said, pushing back from the table. “Tommy, you’re scheduled to work with Mr. Smith this afternoon, helping him prepare for this Saturday’s barn raising,” I said. He nodded.
I leaned down and spoke to Sydney, “Good job analyzing the recording. I owe you, wife,” I said, palming her left breast lest there was any doubt at the table as to my relationship with Sydney.
Gwen was obviously on hold as far as my son was concerned, for now.
Sydney and I had ‘the talk’ once we had her marigolds and other odds and ends for the garden in the back of the Land Cruiser. My parents had planted the kitchen garden in late May; we had to maintain it during our stay. Part of prepper life, growing your own veggies.
The talk went something like this.
“Hey, honey,” I said. I’d thought hard about what to say.
In the passenger seat, Sydney gave me a long look from behind her Ray-Ban Aviators.
“Dad, I’m okay with whatever you want to do with me,” smirking.
I took my Dr Pepper from the cup holder and drank. Buying time. Damn, was I that easy to read?
My empathetic fourteen-year-old tossed her drowning dad a line.
“Mom and I talked about you and sex for like the last three months.” She sipped her Diet Coke.
Fuck, I was getting a woody in my cargo shorts and wasn’t wearing underwear.
“Honey ... I’m supposed to protect you.” I managed to say.
“I know, Dad. When we do it, you still will be. But we don’t have to, right now,” she said, her mom again.
My face must have shown disappointment. I slowed down and made a right turn.
“Daddy, it’s okay. I like messing around with you and Tommy.” She touched my hand on the stick shift.
I took charge again, not really.
“Tell you what. We keep practicing. I mean, your hymen is gone,” I said. I sounded lame.
“Good idea, Daddy. Just surprise me. I want it to be you. I won’t say no.” She was smiling, unbuttoning her shorts. The taboo black hole I’d worried about was wide open and pulling me in.
As soon as the Black Hawk Commons gate closed behind us, she pulled off her T-shirt, titties bounced, no bra, and slid off her shorts, no panties, a patch of curly pubes.
My wife Heidi and I had sex when she was seventeen. We just did it, little discussion, no condom, she was a virgin. I was going to war; thousands of casualties were expected. It’s a good memory, the war and the sex.
I told a version of the first part of the conversation to Gunny Carlos as we drove onto the ridgeline above Black Hawk Commons. If anyone asked, we were inspecting the property line.
His military surplus M1009 utility vehicle came to a stop at a point on his Garmin GPS inside a grove of pines. Basically, a 20+ year-old souped-up 4x4 Chevy Blazer still camouflaged with green, black, and brown paint.
We both wore boots and woodland pattern camouflage pants and tops. I opened the passenger side door.
The cache was a natural opening in the limestone bluffs.
“Sounds like you have your hands full with Sydney,” he said, clearing brush from in front of a concealed metal door.
In the open back hatch, I pulled back a wool blanket and looked at the biggest item, greased and wrapped for long-term storage.
“She’s a good kid. I agree, though,” I said. My dad had used one of these in Vietnam, where he had served as a Military Policeman.
Sydney and I had shared a long father-daughter naked hug once back in the cabin. We agreed that ‘it’ would happen, date TBD.
She took her flowers to the greenhouse while I waited for Carlos.
Carlos undid a heavy padlock and, using his big muscles, pulled open the small 2x2-foot hinged metal door of our cache.
Using gloved hands, I pulled out the big package, the first item to go in the hiding place, heavy and metal.
Gunny shone a flashlight in the hole. Reinforced with HDPE (high-density polyethylene) pipe to protect the contents.
“It’s all still there, no one’s been here,” he said.
“Great,” I said. We spent last summer building this cache for some tools that came into our possession.
“I have a daughter, fifteen, from my first marriage. A fighter, very passionate. She’s with her mother in Puerto Rico,” Carlos said, rolling his r’s.
Black under its plastic wrap, it weighed 23lbs and could fire 500-600 rounds of belt-fed 7.62 a minute.
Carlos took the M60 machine gun from my hands. I didn’t ask where he got it from. The retired US Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant (E-7) had done well and owned a nightclub and apartments in South Miami, among other business ventures.
“Have you ever thought of bringing her down here?” I asked.
The big man grinned. “In a week. She’s not happy about Maria, though,” he said.
I handed him two cans of linked 7.62 ball ammo.
“Well, we will do what we can to make her welcome,” I said. He was willingly bringing his fifteen-year-old to this place.
I handed him the first of two cases of MREs, freeze-dried military rations. We always placed rations in our caches.
He stopped, holding a box. “I have you to thank.”
I didn’t know why.
“Maria, her milk,” he said, grinning.
I nodded. He didn’t look angry; I had my pistol.
“I am to tell you that she wishes to meet you and Devorah again,” he said. No malice.
That was the end of that worry.
We locked up and covered the cache and drove back in quiet companionable silence, windows down, enjoying the scent of pine.
I stood listening to the pretty musician cover a Shania Twain classic with my arms around Miriam, Ben’s wife. Her generous chest rested on my arms, my groin against her ass as we swayed to, You’re Still the One...
Earlier in the day, returning from the cache, Sydney was gone. A note said she went to visit a friend and would be back by dinner time. I sat on the porch with a can of Special Amber from Sprecher Brewing, feet up, with a book from my small library. The bookshelf near the computer desk sagged under the weight of my family’s books collected over the last five years.
The heavy paperback, The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History, by John Barry, had influenced my decision to join my parents in this growing prepper community with my family. Opening to a bookmark 100 pages in, I read for half an hour, reminded of the grim details, until both my kids rode up together on their mountain bikes. They made use of the outside shower again, with my help, before dinner and the dance. I shaved, for the ladies, hopefully my efforts would be noticed.
My kids and my wife are the reason I was here and not renting a beach house in the Carolinas for July, like many of our friends back home. I kissed Miriam’s dark hair, the scent unfamiliar, yet nice.
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