He wakes in a small, bare room. Pale light falls through the high window just below the featureless ceiling. The walls are blue-gray, stone, and in the center of the floor is, what he believes to be, a mattress covered by a sheet. A woman in the fetal position is in the corner, wearing only white panties and a plain, black bra. She has short-cropped blonde hair and a suntan complexion. Gregory realizes that he, too, is only wearing striped boxer shorts. His slight gut and untoned limbs on display.
After glancing around once more, as though something would change, he says across the room: "Hey, wake up."
No response.
"Wake up!"
She jolts awake, her blue eyes bleary. It takes her a moment to sit up, a redden mark across her cheek from where her arm was. "Who are you?" she says, then realizing where she is: "Where the fuck am I?"
"I don't know, do you remember anything before waking up?"
Her eyes move as if she's reading text he can't see. "No, nothing. I don't remember anything at all."
"Same here."
His words hang in the cool air.
"Is this your fault?" she asks. "Is this some kind of fucked-up prank you're pulling? Is there a camera?"
He clenches his teeth. "No, this has nothing to do with me. I don't have a fucking clue, like you. I just woke up here."
"Uh huh..." She stands, now realizing she's only in her underwear. "Where's my clothes?"
He shrugs. "Mine's gone, too."
Like it's the least important thing, she walks to the window. She grabs the bottom edge and jumps, pulling her head over the lip. From the angle, he notices she's wearing cheeky panties, the cusp of her ass showing.
"See anything?" he says, still not moving from where he sits.
When she comes down, she shakes her head. "Just fucking grass and trees." Striding around the bed, she goes to the opposite wall, running her hand over the edges, the corners...
"What're you doing?"
"Shit like this happens in movies all the time." She bends over, running fingers along the floor. "Sometimes there are secret switches." Straightening, she sighs. "There ain't shit here, though."
"Figured as much."
She turns to him, hands on hips. "Why aren't you doing anything? You're stuck here, too."
"True, but if whoever managed to get both of us in here, I can't imagine them being stupid enough to have a way out from the inside."
"You're correct, Greg," a distorted, deep voice says from nowhere. They both look at the ceiling. "The room you're in has only an entrance, no exit."
"Why?" she asks. "What's the point of this?"
"Experimentation, Tiffany," the voice says. "Honestly, that's all. I needed a male and female to test a mechanism I created."
"What kind of mechanism?" Gregory says, standing. "There's nothing in here but us and a fucking bed."
"That's not a bed."
They both look at the sheet covered thing. What else could it be? Flat. Square. Mattress shaped. Instinctively they step back.
"What is it?" Gregory says.
"Lift the sheet and find out," the voice says. "If you choose not to, you'll only delay the possibility of leaving here."
"Fuck that," Tiffany spits. "I'm not touching whatever that is." She leans against the wall. "I'll wait until my friend's come looking for me. They'll know something's up once I don't show up to class tomorrow."
"They won't, because I've already taken care of that. You too, Greg. No one will suspect anything's amiss for at least ten days. By that time, you'll have died from dehydration."
Fear churns in his gut. He glances at Tiffany, then the not-bed. The voice's right. They're fucked either way, so why not get a jump start? Greg crouches by the corner of the sheet, pinches and yanks it away.
"What the fuck."
*
A plexiglass box the size of a twin size mattress, a drain in the center leads to God knows where.
"What're we supposed to do with that?" Tiffany says, tossing her hand at it. "It's a fish tank."
"It's a feeder," the voice says. "The drain goes down to the true experiment, which can only live off of bodily fluids."
"Bullshit." Greg eyes the tank. "Nothing can live on just sweat and blood; tears, piss, maybe, but..."
"Specifically semen. It can only properly digest semen from both sexes, but gets more nutrients from men."
"What the fuck," Tiffany says again. "What kind of shit is this? We're not food. We're people. If whatever this thing lives on cum, then you fucking jerk off into this thing and let us out!"
"A third party's required for further testing, and I have yet to test coupling feeding. So, here we are."
Tiffany glances at Greg. "I'm not fucking him--I don't even know him."
Greg is in the same boat, yet he wasn't ever one to turn down a one-night stand. Sex is sex, but the circumstances they are in made it less appealing than just a random hook-up from the bar.
"Then you'll die."
"Can't he just, I don't know, just jerk off there, and we can be done?"
"Fluids must mix for a proper test," the voice says, "and it's not only once. Enough will need produced to be satisfactory."
"And how much is that?" he asks.
"I'll tell you when we reach that point."
The voice goes quiet, and they both look at each other. Greg's not Tiffany's type; she's more into the athletic type, height doesn't matter, weight either, but she prefers less chub than what Greg has. Also, he's so pale, she thinks. And, Greg doesn't have a preference, as long as they're consenting and adults--all women are welcome.
