Werewolf
Tim spread-eagled against the wall wrists and ankles shackled, leather straps
across chest and belly pinning him to the wall, the muzzle hangs loose around his neck.
Sondra, looking amused holds an open iron collar in her hand, the chain leads to a bolt in
the wall.
“Just snap it around my neck Sondra, then I’ll tell you my secret,” Tim urged.
She replied gently, like she’s pleasing a child. “Okay Tim.”
She snapped the collar around his neck, stepped back standing in front of him; her
hands clasped before her, eyes downcast, demure little smile on her face. “Does that make
you happy Tim? Do you feel safe enough to tell me your secret now? I know I’m only a third
year psychology student, but I’d love to have you explain just what goes through your mind
when those shackles slip on.”
He shook his head making a disgusted sound. He looked at her imploringly. “Sondra
please believe me, I’m a werewolf.”
Simply. “Oh well, that explains so much then.”
He groaned. “Please Sondra don’t just humor me, I’m a werewolf and I’m going to
prove it to you. In a moment I’m going to ask you to throw open the shutters and let the
moonlight in, then you’ll see.”
“Oh but I do believe you Tim, I’ve seen one or two in all my long centuries.
Detective
An older but classy hotel room. The Décor was dark brown wood paneling, and
red: red carpet, heavy red damask window drapes, a dark vermilion bedspread. Made of silk,
it would feel cool and soft on your skin, inviting comfort ridden slumber as it cradled
you in its determined embrace. Wall scones light the room softly, the subdued lighting of
a mortuary viewing room. The room however, is destroyed, signs of a vicious life or death
struggle portrayed in every corner.
The bed sheets are tangled on the floor, furniture knocked askew as if violently
heaved in an effort to keep some stalking predator back. The windows drapes have been torn
down, to lie like a murdered bird, its broken wings askew, upon the floor. The room is
splashed with blood. Arcs of it spread everywhere, but especially pooled on the bed. More
blood covers the walls, the door, bloody handprints dot the headboard, the desperate
grappling clasp of a man trying to pull himself upright. Through a doorway was a bathroom,
the mirror smashed… blood everywhere.
Ooze
A dark basement room, stark cold concrete floor. A spotlight in the ceiling
illuminated only the immediate surrounds, all else was lost in darkness and shadows.
Steven in only white boxer shorts sat bound to an old plain wooden chair, thick strong
wood, rough-hewn ladder-backed, the headrest rising just over his head. The chair was
bolted to the concrete, thick leather straps with metal buckles restrained him at wrists
elbows ankles and knees. Another pair of straps, one over his breast the other just above
the waistband of his boxers; a strap over his forehead helped hold his head in place. He
can thrash but not much. Electrodes were taped over his hart and belly, another clipped to
a finger, lines trailing from them to: The Machine.
The Machine sat behind the chair, it looked cobbled together from spare\junkyard
parts. The main body a waist high wheeled metal filing cabinet, drawers stripped away to
leave a metal shell with platforms (the bottom of drawers left in). Bottommost a pair of
computer towers linked together, lights blinked madly on them. Above were glass jars and
plastic vats full of strange bubbling liquids trailing tubes and wires, plus empty jars
with tubes as well. A monitor\keypad and trackball mouse were welded to the side, the
monitor displaying bio readings. On top some type of iron lung style pump\ bellows
squatted like a warty toad on a lily pad, waiting for prey to fly into range. It most
resembled something a mad scientist might use in a bad movie from the seventies.
Tubes led off from The Machine to Steven, tubes trail under the legs of his boxers.
Over his bellybutton poised a large nine-inch diameter glass vacuum tube, inside this hung
a four-inch diameter second glass tube more centered over his button, inside it a syringe
waited. Three tubes led into the vacuum tube, a thick one simply attached to the large
tube, two smaller ones led off from the thick one and attached directly to the large bore
syringe.
Tammy looks like a cross between a dominatrix and a mad scientist. Her hair let
down shoulder length. Thigh-high shiny black leather boots, a lab coat buttoned to the
neck, her breasts fight to pop the buttons. It goes down to her hips showing flashes of
her red panties as she moves. She still had her glasses on, a clipboard in hand.
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