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.
An older but classy hotel room. The DÃ©cor 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…
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.