Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Thune noticed her hesitation. He raised the silver remote and waved it menacingly. A low, warning hum emanated from the collars around their necks.
“Come now, piggy-wigs—show us what we want to see.”
The three of them exchanged a look of shared dread and grim resignation. Burn’s jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. Bright’s face was a mask of controlled fury.
But Noelle didn’t want to be shocked again. The memory of the searing, incapacitating pain was too fresh. With trembling fingers, she reached for the fastenings of her dress. The soft rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet room as she let it fall to the floor, leaving her standing completely bare.
A moment later, she heard the rustling sounds of Bright and Burn discarding their own trousers. The cool, damp air raised goosebumps on her naked skin, and she fought the urge to cover her breasts and the triangle of dark curls between her legs, knowing she would only shock herself if she did, thanks to the non-contact collar she wore
“Good, good,” Thune grated, his six eyes roving over their bodies with clinical appraisal. “Now then, I know the three of you have to be all together in order to breed, but we think it would be good to see you in pairs to start with. Let’s see…which of you has the biggest equipment?”
The drone whirred in a slow circle around them, its lens focusing intently on their groins. But neither Bright nor Burn was hard. They stood with their fists clenched, their postures rigid with tension and defiance.
This seemed to displease Thune. The middle head let out an angry snort.
“Well now, this is no good—we must be able to see what kind of equipment you have before we start the breeding, piggies. Each of you, take a pink drink from the cooler unit.” He gestured with a massive hand towards a sleek, humming unit in the corner. “And while we’re at it, we think it would be good to have some wine.”
He heaved himself off the couch and lumbered towards the cooler. As he did, Noelle’s eyes, sharp with fear and desperation, caught a glimpse of something long and silver sticking out of the pocket of his sagging, filthy trousers.
Her heart gave a wild leap.
Could it be? The key to the shuttle?
It had the right shape, the right metallic glint. She nudged Bright subtly with her elbow and nodded her head minutely towards Thune’s retreating back. The Light Twin’s gaze followed hers, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod, catching Burn’s eye to pass the silent message along.
Is there any way to get it?
But the hope was immediately crushed by the sight of the silver remote, still held securely in the Trollox’s other hand.
Thune opened the cooler, the light from within illuminating his grotesque features. He pulled out a large, dark bottle of wine and poured a truly enormous amount into a tankard that looked like it had been carved from a dinosaur’s skull. The smell that wafted across the room was pungent and fruity, with a sharp, alcoholic burn that stung Noelle’s nostrils even from a distance. It was clearly potent stuff.
“Well? What are you waiting for—come here and have a pink drink, piggy-wigs,” he demanded, turning back to them and waving the remote again.
Reluctantly, they walked towards the cooler, their bare feet silent on the cold stone. Noelle felt utterly exposed and vulnerable under the unblinking gaze of the drone and Thune’s six hungry eyes.
“What’s in this fucking stuff?” Burn growled, picking up one of the small, chilled bottles filled with a vibrant, pepto-bismol-pink liquid from the door of the unit.
“Nothing bad—it only gives good feelings,” Thune promised, all three of his heads nodding in unnerving unison. “All good feelings for the piggy-wigs,” the middle head remarked with a wet-sounding chuckle. “Now drink up…or would you rather drink pain?”
He pointed the remote directly at them, and the collars around their necks hummed ominously.
Noelle hastily uncapped her own bottle. The smell that hit her was cloyingly sweet and minty, with a chalky, medicinal undertone that reminded her exactly of the Pepto-Bismol it looked like.
She had never been able to stand the taste or smell of wintergreen—it made her want to gag. But the threat of the shock collar was more immediate. She pinched her nose and took a sip.
The taste was worse than the smell—thick, syrupy, and disgustingly sweet, with a bitter, chemical finish that coated her tongue. She forced herself to swallow, then took another, larger gulp, desperate to get it over with. Thankfully, the bottle was small, and it was gone in only a few revolting swallows.
Bright and Burn downed theirs with similar expressions of disgust.
Almost immediately, a wave of dizziness washed over Noelle. The room seemed to tilt slightly and she had to put out her arms to keep her balance.