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.
