tagNonHumanExperimental Animal

Experimental Animal


Subject 405 is a male human of 37 years of age. He has been housed in our facility in northern Montana for 152 days. As you can see from these images, he is healthy and fit. He experiences frequent sexual tumescence both when he is awake and (as in this picture) asleep. We've found that tumescence in sleep is normal in males of his species.

The chip we installed in his brain controls his sexual responses, with the effect that he has not experienced sexual release for the entire duration of his captivity. It has rarely been necessary for us to stimulate his sexual centers to keep him in a state of arousal - he seems to be naturally highly-sexed. That he is both emotionally and physically frustrated is plainly evident from this graph ...


Captain Matthew Jordan, U.S. Army, completed his 200th crunch. He allowed himself to rest for a few minutes, sweating on the cold concrete floor. Then he drank some water, rolled over, and began to do pushups.

Matt didn't know how long he'd been imprisoned, naked and alone, in this windowless blank concrete cell. The recessed fluorescent lights never went off; he existed in a state of perpetual bright artificial light. He received food - granola bars, apples, corn tortillas, peanuts - through a hatch in the door, along with bottles of water. Whoever they were, they gave him more food than he could consume; he kept it stacked neatly in the "pantry," the corner farthest from the drain. The drain was his latrine. They also made sure he had soap and extra water, for washing.

He hadn't seen another human being, or heard another human voice, since he awakened here.

He was well-fed and treated, but subject to sensory deprivation and solitary confinement. Torture, according to the Geneva Convention, if it went on long enough. Matt had learned about its effects in the army: prisoners in could begin hearing voices, could lose track of reality.

Matt's restless mind had begun manufacturing violent, frighteningly vivid fantasies some time ago. Elaborate, wildly erotic fantasies of sex, agonizing because they never resulted in orgasm. Cruel, vengeful fantasies of torturing and mutilating his imaginary captors.

The sexual deprivation was the worst part. He didn't understand it - they must have done something to his head - but he couldn't masturbate. If he was hard, he couldn't touch himself; he couldn't even rub up against a wall. He hadn't come, not so much as a wet dream, in ages. Not that he didn't want to. Jesus, he had nothing to do in here but think, think of all the things he wanted - and, as time went on, he wanted two things. To fuck, and to murder his captors.

He could still tell the difference between fantasy and reality. So far.

Physical exercise was the only thing keeping him sane. He'd tried leaping up to break the lights, but they were housed behind thick plastic shields, and the ceiling was too high for him to gain any purchase on them. He'd tried shouting, pleading, feigning illness, refusing to eat. Nothing had ever garnered any response.

The hunger strike was a bad idea anyway, he'd decided. He needed to be in good shape if he was ever going to escape from this place, wherever it was.

And he would escape, he told himself, grunting slightly with each push-up. He allowed hatred for his unseen captors to flow into his veins and muscles, turning his boredom, loneliness, and frustration into hot venom. He would escape, and he would come back, and he would slaughter every one of the bastards. Whoever they were.


Day 153. Subject 405 is continuing his regimen of callisthenic and aerobic exercises. Crew G is in place in a nearby cell, and a heavy snowstorm has been forecast for tomorrow morning. Blackout is scheduled for three hours after dawn.


Matt lay on his back in the corner of his cell he had designated as his "bedroom." He closed his eyes against the bright light, and saw the glowing red of the inside of his eyelids. Inevitably, he longed for human touch, and his cock began to grow and throb. "Damn it," he whispered. He imagined reaching down, grabbing his shaft in his fist, stroking up and down. His hands didn't move. He strained for it, but nothing happened, except that he became hard as a rock. A bead of moisture seeped out of the tip of his cock. He imagined that he weren't alone, that a woman was there to take care of his need - she would stroke him, rub him between her breasts, lean down and suck the head into her wet mouth. No relief. Pain, a constant companion, spread out from his testicles and radiated through his pelvis. He groaned.

Then the red light in his eyes disappeared. There was a loud click.

He opened his eyes. It was dark. Pitch black. For the first time in God knew how long, the lights weren't on. A power failure? Matt got to his feet, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He held the wall for support.

There was a little light, though - a thin vertical wedge of gray against the blackness. After a moment, he realized what it was:

The door to his cell was open.

A power failure. The lights were out. The electronic locks on the doors had failed - that was the sharp click he'd heard. He went to the door, which was standing ajar, and looked out into a dim corridor. It was daytime. There were narrow windows high above his head, giving him a view of a stormy gray sky, lighting a long, featureless concrete hallway. Matt looked up and down the corridor, hesitating in the doorway.

He was naked, alone, defenseless. Afraid to leave his cell.

"Get a fucking grip," he snarled at himself. This was his chance. He turned back to his cell, grabbed a bottle of water and a package of tortillas, and forced himself to walk out the door.

He turned right at random and began to walk, quickly, but not in a panic, his bare feet silent on the cool floor. His heart was pounding wildly with excitement; adrenaline was pouring through him. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to move deliberately.

As he passed the open doorway to another cell, he shoved it open, letting the dim daylight shine in. The cell was empty. So was the next one. He pushed the third door open, and paused. He didn't see anyone, but there was a store of food in one corner, like his own "pantry." This cell had housed a prisoner. Had they already left? He stepped into the cell and cautiously looked into the hidden space behind the door.

It was a woman. In the dimness, he could see that she was as naked as he was. She cowered in the corner behind the door, trying to hide her breasts with her hands. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.


Every effort was made to make Crew G attractive to Subject 405. She appears to be a young and fit human female, somewhat smaller than him (as is the norm with this species), with prominent secondary sexual characteristics. Some debate went into her features; standards of attractiveness among human females are highly variable. She is equipped with relatively large eyes, prominent lips, and plentiful hair, all of which are generally considered desirable in Subject 405's culture.


Matt dropped his tortillas.

He hadn't seen another human being in so long, he was speechless. She was a vision of curvy bare flesh, tousled hair, huge dark eyes. Full breasts, inadequately hidden behind her hands; sweet thighs pressed together, a triangle of soft hair hiding her sex.

For a moment he didn't know if this was reality or fantasy. Lust surged through his body. He wanted to grab her and throw her on the floor, spread those thighs, bury his aching cock inside her. The need to escape was almost overridden by his intense desire to fuck her, hard, now. His hands obeyed him: he couldn't touch himself, but he could touch her. He reached for her.

She whimpered with fear. Belatedly, he noticed that she was terrified, shrinking back into the corner away from him. She was scared to death, staring at his big hands and quivering erect cock like he was her greatest nightmare.

Jesus. This was real, and he was not a rapist.

Matt stepped back, away from her. He managed to get back out into the corridor, and pressed his hands against the wall, head down, breathing hard. After a moment, he managed to say, "Come on out, honey. I won't hurt you."

She didn't answer.

He said, "Look, we're in this together. We're both prisoners here. This is our chance to escape. Come on with me, honey. Let's get out of here." When she didn't answer, he added, "We may not have a lot of time."

Faintly, she said, "You go first. I'll follow you."

"Okay. Bring some food and water with you; we don't know where we're going or how long it'll take to get there." He began walking down the corridor; he couldn't hear her behind him, but he didn't look back. After a moment, he asked, "Do you know where we are?"

"No," said her soft voice behind him. "I woke up here - I'm not sure how long ago. I don't know what's going on."

"Neither do I." Matt kept pushing upon cell doors. He didn't find any more prisoners. "But we're getting out. What's your name?"

"Trish Heywood."

"Matt Jordan. I'm sorry I scared you back there. I promise I'm not going to hurt you."

She didn't answer. He glanced over his shoulder at her. Her hair was thick and tawny, gold-streaked brown; in the dimness, he couldn't see the color of her eyes. She had a pretty, soft-featured face, and (he couldn't help but notice) a smoking little body. She flinched when he looked at her and faltered back; he averted his eyes and kept walking.

"Really," he repeated. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"The last one did," she whispered.


"They let another prisoner into my cell once," she said. "A naked man, like you. He raped me."

God. "I'm sorry, honey," he said, sincerely.

"He said he couldn't help it; that they had done something to him, that he had to take me." After a pause, she added, "It was awful. I wanted to kill myself, but they wouldn't let me."

"It won't happen again," he promised, gritting his teeth with guilt. He knew exactly why the guy had raped her; he'd almost been that guy. "What the hell is going on in this place?" he whispered.

"I don't know," she said.


That Subject 405 is a highly-sexed and aggressive male of his species has already been amply documented. Yet, as his initial interactions with Crew G make clear, his socialization towards frightened and helpless females is stronger than his mating instinct.


The corridor ended in a heavy fire-door. Matt took a deep breath and shoved it open. Icy-cold air swirled in. He looked out in dismay at an empty field, covered in at least a foot of snow. The sky was low and gray and filled with snowflakes. In the distance, beyond the deserted field, a jagged blue line of white-capped mountains stood.

"Damn," Matt said, letting the heavy door fall closed. "Trish, we're in trouble. We'll freeze to death out there."

"Look," she said.

He turned and saw that she'd found treasure. What he'd assumed was yet another empty cell was actually some kind of storeroom. Trish had opened a large trunk. She held a man's shirt against her chest with an expression of joy. "Clothes!" she said.

They were masculine clothes: socks and shoes, pants and shirts and coats. They began to put on layers of ill-fitting clothes: long johns, jeans, two or three shirts. Matt watched Trish from the corner of his eye. He couldn't help it: it had been so long since he'd seen another human, and she was so lovely. She pulled on a men's waffle-weave long-johns top that clung to her body amazingly. She seemed so happy to have something to wear that she didn't notice the way it hugged her trembling breasts and outlined her sweet nipples, clung to her supple little waist, dipped in at her navel. He was sorry to see her cover up with a heavy flannel shirt and wool overcoat.

Matt was wildly stimulated, not just by the sight of Trish, but by the sensation of cloth against his aching balls and hypersensitive penis. He was fully erect and taut with need; his breath was coming hard, though he tried to suppress it. His mind was filled with the fantasy of crowding Trish up against a wall and pressing himself against her, grinding against that sweet body until he came. He looked away from her, stamped into some boots. They were a little too big; he wore extra socks. "You about ready to get out of here?" he asked, gruffly.

They left the building and fled across the empty field, their boots crunching through snow, their breath coming in clouds. It was snowing hard, which was good - it would cover their tracks. They ran towards the shelter of the woods, where there would be more cover from searchers. Matt looked back over his shoulder at the low, strange, featureless compound they'd just escaped from.

"I wonder why no one is chasing us," he said.

"Maybe they're busy trying to get the power back on," Trish said.

Matt gave the compound one last look, struggling with the nagging feeling that this escape had gone too easily. "Maybe," he said.


Crew G's task is to keep him balanced between his strong biological desire to mate and his equally strong, socially-imposed desire to protect the weak. We are most curious to see which of these drives is more powerful in the human male.


Trish suggested they go west.

As they walked through the heavy snow, his admiration for Trish grew. She kept up. She didn't complain. After a few hours, she sensibly suggested they stop and drink and eat, and when it was time to go again she got up willingly, dusted off, and set out without grumbling. She had relaxed with him considerably; she no longer cringed when he looked at her. Which was good. He looked at her a lot.

They were both warm from the exertion of their hike; Trish had opened her coat and her flannel; he could see the soft bobbing sway of her unbound breasts in that tight waffle-knit top. She had a tendency to cross her arms under her breasts as she walked, supporting them. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling.

There had been no sign of pursuit, or of any other human habitation at all. Wherever they were, they were high in the mountains and far from civilization. The woods were dense and roadless and profoundly silent, the only sound the soft hiss of falling snow.

As they topped another rise, to see nothing but more woods spread out below them, Matt stopped in frustration. It was late afternoon; it would start to get dark soon. "I'd hoped to come across a highway or a farm or something by now," he said.

"What's that over there?" Trish asked.

She was pointing at a dark shadow some distance into the trees. "Could it be a house?" she asked, excitement in her voice.

It was a cabin, tiny and uninhabited, half snowed-in. The door was locked, of course, but Trish found a key on top of the door sill. Pushing the door open, Matt stared around in amazement. "Un-fucking-believable," he said.


Our studies of American popular culture led us to believe that a secluded shelter from inclement weather is considered to be highly conducive to mating by humans of both sexes.


The one-room cabin was apparently someone's fully-stocked love-nest. One corner featured a cast-iron wood stove and a huge stack of chopped firewood. Another corner had a refrigerator/freezer and a propane stove. The refrigerator hummed. There was a generator. In the center of the room was a king-sized bed, covered with wool blankets, tasseled pillows, and a thick down comforter. The room was cold, but inviting and cozy. Romantic. "Start a fire," suggested Trish. "I'm going to go use the privy." And she left, making her way to the tiny outhouse out back.

He lit a fire in the wood stove and checked the kitchen area. There were filet mignon steaks in the freezer. The fridge held champagne and a tightly-wrapped fruitcake, glossy with rum and dark preserved fruits. In the pantry, he found water crackers, jars of caviar, and tins of smoked oysters. "This is crazy," he muttered.

"Why?" asked Trish, coming back in, stamping the snow off her feet. She went over to the wood stove and began taking off her coat. "What's wrong?"

Matt sat down on the floor, putting his head in his hands.

He'd met a beautiful girl. He'd escaped without danger or pursuit. Now he'd found a ridiculously romantic little hideaway in the snow. There was champagne and oysters, for fuck's sake. It couldn't possibly be real.

He must have finally lost grip on reality and had dreamed up a far more pleasant alternate version. He was probably still back in the concrete cell, dreaming, or hallucinating. This was the escape fantasy of a sick man. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to wake up.

He opened his eyes. Still in the cabin. It was starting to get warm; Trish had taken off her coat and flannel shirt, and knelt before him. Her eyes were a lovely hazel and they were full of concern as she gazed at him. He looked at her pretty face, entirely too aware of her breasts, deliciously outlined by her top.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"This can't be real," he confessed. "It's too perfect. You're too perfect. I think I've finally lost my mind and I'm imagining all of this."

"Oh," she said, sitting back on her heels. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, shone golden-brown in the fading light from the windows. Her breasts were loose and soft in her shirt. Her borrowed men's pants were slipping down around her hips, so he could see a little slice of bare flesh at her waist between her shirt and the top of her pants. Her skin looked soft, pale, and vulnerable. He looked away.

After a moment, she asked, "If you were imagining this, wouldn't I be willing to have sex with you?"

He dragged his gaze back to her. "Yes," he admitted.

She quirked her eyebrows and gave him a little sideways smile. "Well then," she said. "This must be real. Come on, get up. Let's see if there's anything to eat." She hopped to her feet and walked, perky little ass swaying, to the little pantry. "Ooh look! Cake!"


Perhaps the cabin was too elaborate.


They ate smoked salmon and crackers and cake. Trish wanted to open a bottle of champagne, but Matt insisted they stay sober, in case their captors pursued them. They were both tired; Matt suggested Trish take the bed. He would be quite comfortable on the Navajo rug on the floor.

"I want to heat some water and wash," Trish said. She looked at him hesitantly - shy, appealing, nervous. "Will you ... keep your back turned?"

The idea of her getting naked and giving herself a sponge-bath in his presence was enough to bring on an agonizing erection. "I'll go outside," he managed to say. So he spent half an hour stamping his feet in the snow outside as it grew dark, imagining her naked and wet and warm inside. He curled his hands towards his groin, but the compulsion in his brain was still in place - he was unable to reach down and give himself release. Standing alone in the cold night, hurting and thwarted, went a long way towards banishing the idea that this was all a flight of the imagination.

When he went back in, she was in bed, covered up, invisible except for her damp, tousled hair. She'd left him some warm water. He stripped and, keeping his back to the bed, sponged himself down, obeying the hated compulsion to avoid touching his groin. He had no idea whether she watched him or not. It doesn't matter, he told himself firmly. Some strange man had already savaged her; it wouldn't happen again. He pulled on his long johns and lay down on the rug beside the bed.

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