The Monster Sex Experiment: Episode 5 E-Book

Nixie Fairfax

• Herausgeber: Nixie Fairfax
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Trish and Olivia share a bond they’ve been trying to keep secret from the other girls. But now Olivia’s turn in the arena has come, and Trish, forced to watch as a snake-man wraps Olivia in its scaly coils and has its way with her, can’t keep her feelings hidden anymore. Both girls find themselves swept up by forces beyond their control in the latest ophidian episode of The Monster Sex Experiment.

Leseprobe

THE MONSTER SEX EXPERIMENT

Episode 5

By Nixie Fairfax

Copyright 2018 by Nixie Fairfax

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This work contains explicit sexual content and is intended for adults only. All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

TRIAL 5

The Subjects

Cell 1: Fiona Lewis

Cell 2: Katie Macintyre

Cell 3: Olivia Blucher

Cell 4: Megan Mobley

Cell 5: Maddie Pryce

Cell 6: Trisha Prentiss

Cell 7: Sarah Scott

Cell 8: Sophie Honeycutt

Cell 9: Lauren Schumacher

Cell 10: Jennifer Lau

Cell 11: Claire Eliot

Cell 12: Baylee Hutchins

Cell 13: Hannah Baker

Cell 14: Zoe Kensington

Cell 15: Sadie Honeycutt

Cell 16: Rebecca Blish

Cell 17: Abby Van Zandt

Cell 18: Liz Twotrees

Cell 19: Cat Ruiz

Cell 20: Emma Quigley

Olivia sits very still in her cell, listening to her fellow classmates’ snores and deep breathing and occasional somnolent grunts and lip smacks and, even more occasionally, a drowsy, sleep-slurred non-sequitur from Baylee Hutchins. Somehow Olivia isn’t at all surprised that Crestwood’s number one blonde dingbat talks in her sleep, though she is kind of taken aback by the utter fucking weirdness of most of Baylee’s dreams.

Everyone seems to be asleep. At least judging by the sounds. Visual confirmation is pretty much impossible. However hard Olivia peers into the darkness, she can barely see a thing. Even her nearest neighbors are just vague shadowy shapes on the floor.

“Wait, I don’t understand,” Baylee murmurs half the room away. “Is he an antelope or a fire chief?”

Moving as silently as possible, Olivia gets on her knees before her cell’s front membrane, then casts another glance around the room, this time at the walls and ceiling, though of course she can’t actually see them in the darkness. She feels horribly sure they’re under constant surveillance. Maybe there are cameras hidden in the walls. Or maybe the whole place is alive, sentient. That would explain the creepy organic vibe of their prison’s building materials. But whether it’s cameras or eyes or something else, whatever’s watching them might be able to perceive them in the dark somehow. Infrared or sonar or whatever. Which means she needs to be careful.

Hunching over as much as she can and tucking her head down with her chin against her breastbone so that the sharply slanting bangs of her crow-black emo pixie cut dangle in front of her face, she sticks her fingers into her mouth and begins to unscrew her tongue stud, dubbed Mr. Bones. The stud’s stainless-steel bead is a tiny skull, and she loves the effect it gets when she sticks her tongue out at prudes and intolerant douches and other deserving parties, and they see the mini memento mori grinning at them from atop the broad pink pad of flesh. Double takes and nervous laughs often ensue. Or scoffs that hide their uptight discomfort.

She unscrews Mr. Bones, then slides the threaded base out of the hole in her tongue, making every move with great care, for the external threads are unfortunately sharp in places. She has the tiny scars on her tongue to prove it. She’s been meaning to find a less cutter-friendly bit of mouth-adornment, but she never got around to it. Good thing, too. Maybe.

Keeping Mr. Bones clenched tight in one increasingly sweaty palm lest she lose her morbid mascot and keeping the base as obscured by her fingers and her hunched body as possible, she touches the base’s threads till she finds the sharpest part, then presses that part to her cell’s front membrane. This had better work. If the fuckazoids who locked them up stick to their routine so far, tomorrow it’ll be her turn to get gassed and fucked by some bizarro monster. And that just ain’t in the cards. Maybe once upon a time getting pronged by a Wookie or a gargoyle or whatever shows up next might have been kinda cool. Something to tell the never-to-exist grandkids about. But things are different now.

She saws the sharp threads back and forth across the membrane. She tries to keep the threads rubbing at the same small area as best she can, but it’s so damn dark she can barely see what she’s doing. She does her best, though, and she imagines the threads slowly digging a groove in the membrane, cutting deeper and deeper until the whole sheet of shimmery material splits like a giant hymen and falls away in curling flaps. She’ll release Trish next and then—

She stops sawing and runs her fingertips over the membrane. She feels only the same smooth surface as always. The threads haven’t made the slightest mark. Shit. In desperation she fingers the threads again till she feels the prick of the sharpest bit and then tries again, sawing at the membrane with redoubled effort. She saws till her arm feels like it’ll drop off and her face is damp with sweat. Then she stops and feels the membrane again. Nothing.

“Fuck,” she spits under her breath.

“No, I don’t want another Grannie Smith,” Baylee mutters testily.

The floor. The soft, fleshy floor. Maybe it’ll work on that.

Bending forward till she’s nearly kissing the ground, she scrapes at the floor with the threads. The skin-like material sinks under the pressure, but it’s too resilient to cut. She keeps trying anyway, growing more desperate, more frantic, till she’s whisking the threads across the floor like some house-proud wifey trying to scrub a stain off the linoleum. She feels a scream building up in her chest like a giant fist. But she doesn’t dare let it out. She doesn’t dare let anyone—especially their captors—know what she’s doing.

Her fingers start to cramp from holding the tiny tool so tightly. She quits and sits up, tears of frustration and anger burning in her eyes.

But she’s not done yet, damn it. She’s got one more trick up her sleeve. (Or she would if she still had a sleeve.) The flash. The blue flash. Brainiac Emma conceded that their captors might be using electricity to open the membranes. Olivia doesn’t know if stainless steel is one of the materials that can generate static electricity, and she didn’t want to ask about it for fear it would give away too much, but it’s worth a shot. Anything’s worth a shot at this point.