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As the girls deal with last episode’s shocking events, the spotlight turns to Lauren Schumacher. She’s one of Crestwood High’s elite, adored and envied by the student body. But she has a secret that threatens to emerge the longer she stays in captivity: She’s a drunk, one who will do anything to maintain a steady supply of booze…including take on an entire frat house in a torrid gangbang!
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THE MONSTER SEX EXPERIMENT
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.
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
“Would you please stop that?” Lauren snaps as she rubs her temples with her fingertips. “It’s giving me a headache. It’s not like it’s doing any good anyway. You’ve been at it for five minutes, and you haven’t even made a dent in that thing.”
Trish propels herself shoulder-first against her cell’s front membrane one last time—bang!—then stops and glances at Lauren. Trish’s face and her heaving chest are oiled in sweat from her exertions.
“What, don’t you want to get out of here?” she asks Lauren.
“Of course I fucking do! But you’re not accomplishing anything except making a ton of noise. And probably bruising your shoulder to boot.”
“Have you felt the membrane give at all?” Sarah asks Trish.
Trish hesitates, wanting to say yes, to boast that a lifetime of physical fitness has granted her the strength necessary to batter down their prison’s weird walls, but the truth is, Lauren’s right. She’s been hurling herself at the damn membrane for five minutes with nothing to show for it except a sore shoulder.
“No,” she grudgingly admits. “Not really.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Sarah says, striving to sound more hopeful than she feels. “We’ll find a way out of here.”
Nearly ten minutes have passed since Fiona’s fervid, cum-soaked screwing by the big hairy beastman, and the green aphrodisiac gas still holds her in its thrall, though she’s too spent to do aught but lie on the floor of her cell languidly fingering herself and letting out an occasional soft moan. Those who care to look closely (and few do) can see glistening white rills of the monster’s semen still oozing from her twitching hole.
The general mood is one of mingled shock, distress, and dread. Many of the girls have edged away from their cell’s rear walls, afraid the fleshy white substance will spew forth gas to hornify them as it did Fiona. Many cheeks are streaked with tears. A few girls huddle on the floor, bodies folded into tight balls.
Others are more proactive. Trish isn’t the only one who’s been testing the bounds of her prison. (She’s merely the noisiest.) On the other side of the central domed area, past the fleshy manacle and the sea of sperm that marks the site of Fiona’s ravishment, Liz is systematically rapping and pushing at the edges of her cell’s membranes in hopes the shimmery walls are weaker there. Meanwhile, just two cells clockwise, Emma is delivering a series of focused karate-like punches and kicks to the center of her cell’s front membrane, each attack punctuated by several seconds of calm as she focuses her strength for the next blow.
“What is that, Judo?” Cat asks.
“It’s a form of kickboxing,” Emma mutters, standing still and straight as a redwood, eyes fixed on the membrane.
“Wow. Are you, like, a blackbelt or something?”
“No. I’ve never had any official training or legitimization. I taught myself by watching YouTube videos. I incorporated some modifications of my own, though.” After a pause, her right fist lashes out and thuds against the membrane in the same spot as the previous several dozen blows. And like them, it has no discernible effect except to make her knuckles smart.
“Cool,” Cat says.
“Mm.” She glances at Cat, looks her up and down. “Perhaps you should try battering down the membrane, as well. You’re probably the heaviest among us. Your greater weight might make more an impact.”
“Gee, thanks for being so diplomatic about it.”
Emma blinks at her a moment, taken aback by Cat’s acerbity. Then she shrugs.
“Facts are facts.”
“Yeah, well, no offense, but if your Bruce Lee routine isn’t having any impact, and Xena over yonder isn’t either, then I hardly think I’ll make much of a difference.”
In truth, a major reason for her reluctance is self-consciousness about how she’ll look, about what the others might think and say at the sight of her body jiggling embarrassingly. She knows it’s stupid to feel that way and to cave to those feelings, especially under these circumstances, but she can’t help it. Besides, as she told Emma, given the others’ perpetual failures to make so much as the merest ding in the membranes, it’s all but certain her efforts wouldn’t be worth the humiliation.
“If blunt instruments aren’t working,” Megan says with a sly smile, “maybe a sharp object will.” She raises her index finger as though counting to one. Her long, painted nail juts up like the head of a tiny, cherry-red spade.
“Yeah!” Sarah says excitedly, her hopefulness more genuine now. “Try it.”
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