Too Loose for Terror Ch. 03

Moonlight streamed into little cracks around the shaded solarium windows and ricocheted like thin slivers of broken glass across the cracked concrete floor. The haggard husk of a nurse slumped, devoid of all passion in one of the musty old loungers. Her eyes were sunken above dusty white skin pulled too tightly, like a sheet over bones. Torn white stockings reclined upward under a yellowed uniform that might have been white... once.

"That's Miss Eleanor Trabes, the only nurse to ever die in Sunnyville," Trish announced cheerfully.

Tom slumped in the shadowed alcove that housed the lounger beside Eleanor's, his legs bracketing either side as he swayed back and forth and tended the temporary defeat in his quest. The sweet perfume of mildew wafted from her fibrous plastic bones, and he sighed heavily.

Trish shot him a disapproving look but didn't remind him of how delicate and authentic the furniture was. It might have been more than he could bear at that point.

"And this is the solarium," she continued, "It was widely believed that moonlight exacerbated disturbances in the mentally ill, so at night, the staff drew every shade and restricted its use to themselves."

"Staff?" The mannequin wearily lifted her head of tangled red hair. Her nursing cap pitched to one side, the bun atop frazzled and disoriented as her flickering gaze. "New patients?" she asked, gazing at the assembled group.

"No, no, sleep dear. It's alright. Sleep." Trish coaxed.

"Oh, very well," the nurse sighed in exhaustion. "I hardly feel myself today anyway, not myself at all," she lamented before settling back with a loud thump.

Her thighs sprawled on either side of the lounger, and she gave a long shuddering wheeze of a gasp. Charlotte rushed forward, but Tom's vice-like grip on her forearm stopped her in her last tripping step.

Beneath the long white robe, he snuck a brief glimpse of old-fashioned stockings and a realistically molded pussy. He wondered if it grew hair or if it could cum. Trish said that the mannequins possessed artificial intelligence. The lumpy one felt real. His head lifted. For several heartbeats, he stared into the reposed skin stretched taunt across the dead light of dead eyes. The guide's droning words faded from his mind, eclipsed by that familiar smoldering ache in his dick like a thousand fire ants marching on. He had to have her.

Wind battered the windows, and rain wrenched the old overgrown blooming hell bushes against the bars like whiplash victims. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK.

His heard raced as he stared into those partially parted pale pink lips, deathly dispensing muted breaths. Would the mannequin scream?

The group moved on, leaving him behind, and for a moment, his heart raced like a kid robbing his first candy store. He sat between her parted thighs, pale shavings of moonlight haloing his pale constricting throat. His tongue slipped from puffed lips, lapping her stoic knee as his hand cradled her silky calf. He squeezed.

Nothing, though she did make the breathing sounds of a woman, and her chest rose demurely under the stained and tattered nursing gown.

Leaning forward, his mouth stirred the white panties, fingers curling around their dirty edges. He stroked the lace-dusted outer rim of the leg holes, working slowly inward then back out again. The heavy curtain of his dark lashes swept his eyes, and he released a low sigh of contentment.

A brief flutter of movement opened her thighs even more, and the reclining nurse heaved a long exhale.

His eyelashes jerked in time with the mechanical fringes overhead.

They caught his frantic glance upward then closed just as quickly.

Never dissuaded, he leaned forward, his warm lips touching to her frigid ones. It was like kissing steel-framed cotton. His hands hiked her thighs like a musty forest trail, dragging the uniform to her well-molded hips with persistent wrenches of his wrist. Swampy fetid breath turned burning, his wet kisses contrasting her closed, cold, and dry lips. "Open up for me," he hissed.

The mannequin did as he bade, and his tongue stabbed ruthlessly at her tiny teeth. Like diving through a cavern of rot, he tasted dust... archaic dust. His hips ground against the lounger with a whimper, and he pinched and squeezed at her fleshy nipples impatiently. Nothing. He ground his teeth on her mechanical tongue, biting until it split, but no whimpers passed her cold lips like when he bit Charlotte.

His mouth parted for a Mephistopheles grin, and he glanced down at his hands. Brutal fingers tugged plastic peaks until he thought they would pop off then rolled them in counter-clockwise twists that encompassed a vicious wrench of his wrist to a near-circle. She was like a fresh corpse. The grin spread to something gleeful and childish as he slid up her waist, throbbing cock grinding her chest through his Levis.

He stared down at his fingers as he curled them around her ears. "Open your eyes," he growled.

The eyes fluttered open, a sick shade of old rot green.

"Mmmm, yea, you like that don't you," he growled under his breath, bucking against her neck as he slid up her form.

His eager cock popped from his boxers like a quivering snake, and he rammed it toward that shining olive light with an excited howl of triumph.

The impact was sudden, hard, and very unexpected. His cock bucked back and slammed into her brow, bending at an acute angel toward his pelvis. Fire licked his balls, and he collapsed in agony over the mannequin's slender knees. Above him, her lips remained cast in their pleasant smile, tongue hanging half ripped from a ruined mouth.

The dummy's chest emitted several loud clicks that echoed from her flaring nostrils to her cunt.

Tom rolled to the side and clutched his aching jewels.

The clicking turned to a vicious shake, like steam rattling through the corroded pipes of a moldered exhaust system.

"Hot Jesus on a bed of iron dicks, I broke it!" his thoughts squealed in panic.

He shoved his flopping cock back in his boxers and clawed his jeans back up his hips, shoving the zipper up shakily. It caught his boxers, and he spent several shuddering moments trying to rend the two materials apart. Silk split like a brittle skin, and he gave a loud groan, finally shucking the jeans and the boxers off and balling a large section of the underwear into the mannequin's mouth to resituate her tongue. The other portion, he lodged between the legs of the lounger and the wall.

Stepping back, he admired his work. Her mouth closed naturally, lips still bowed in that gentle smile. Nobody would notice, especially not while they were still there.

The old clock in the foyer chimed eleven times. His spine went rigid, and he hurried past the peeling pea green paint and the slapdash art of the imprisoned into the reception area.

The dais of the stage was cold and empty. Mary Jane Simmons giggled and continued to clap her hands, pointing at him and shrieking wildly, "Mr.! Mr.! We should plaaaaaaaaaaay." She collapsed then in a rash of giggles, and Bill Casey rose like a giant from his chair.

"We can play Mary, if you like," he offered, flicking his lighter repeatedly.

Tom swallowed deeply but didn't bother to cater as a voyeur to the old man's perversions... even if he had no true idea of his presence. He ran straight into that shadowy alcove, and his forehead promptly smacked a wall. Dust brooms and buckets clattered.

He poked his head around the corner and started as a series of acoustic speakers wailed, "Let gooooo! No! No! Leave me alone!" and differing sounds of struggle from every level within the closet. Like the quivering points of stars, his fingers grew elongated in the faint glow of the stereo command center as he searched each crevice of the wall.

During interruptions on the tape loop, he tapped the shiny black plastic walls, frowning when he found that they were not hollow. In a state near panic, his fingers scraped along the floor, seeking hinges, irregularities, any sort of abnormality. The golden wood gleamed with new polish and met perfectly at every corner.

Tom hung his head and rapped at the base, which echoed back similar clunks heard from the walls. Defeated, his shoulders slumped, and he leant into the vibration from the screaming, the sound echoing up and down his neck. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes but refused to fall as he explored a doorframe that spread like twin femurs below a denuded pelvis. His sigh of frustration succumbed to the quick sharp chimes of the clock, heralding the half-hour. He bolted upright again.