Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I look over my shoulder, just glancing at him as sudden shyness overcomes me. He’s sitting there, watching me with a smile that seems to indicate pleasure. I think he likes me. And I think I like him too. A lot.
“Will you stay here with me? Or do you think you will be more comfortable on the ship? I know this place is very small.”
“I would like to keep you with me, pet. Wherever you are most comfortable is where I want to be.”
There is a slight clanking sound as he starts to remove the torso armor he put on after fighting the aliens. He places it on the floor next to him. There isn’t really a place in the house for alien armor. I suppose that will have to change. Maybe I can clear out the spare room. I suppose I will have to if he is going to stay.
“That’s better,” he says, like a man who has taken off his jacket and loosened his tie.
Zain
This little human house is precious indeed, as is the occupant. Everywhere I look there is some other memento of human lives lived in domestic bliss. A hand-stitched sampler on the wall declares: You don’t have to be crazy to live here, but it helps.
Emily moves around this space with a comfort that can only be attained in a place one has lived in one’s entire life. This is not just her house. This is her home, it is the place she was most likely born, and before the arrival of Wrathelder it is likely that she would have lived and died here as well.
I wonder how many of the items she realizes are even there. So much of this cozy clutter looks to have been there since before she was born. It is not dusty, but it is very static, and it does not seem to reflect what I know of this girl who is impulsive and sexually avaricious.
I think Emily has been embedded in this village and in this family for so long she has never stopped to think about what she wants or who she is — not until I pulled her pants down and she squirmed her perfect human pussy down on my cock.
“You make me blush when you look at me like that.” She smiles, spatula in one hand. She’s tied her hair up into a messy bun while she cooks, but little tendrils are escaping and curling around her face.
The last female who cooked for me was our family cook when I was a very young man. My brothers were much older, but she would tend to me as if I were her own. Our mother was far too busy conducting affairs to be bothered with pedestrian activities like feeding the brood she felt obligated to bear.
Emily does not hesitate to take such duties upon herself. She picks up an apron in blue and white check, puts it over her head and ties it around her waist before decanting a variety of human foods into a bowl. I should become more familiar with human food now that I have a pet, and given that my family’s livelihood depends on these soft little creatures and their pleasingness to our kind.
“Tell me what you are doing,” I say.
“I’m making pancakes,” she says over her shoulder.
“Yes. Tell me each and every thing you are doing. I wish to understand.”
“Oh. Well. I’ve got some flour and some eggs and some butter and some sugar and some baking powder and some milk, of course. I’m just going to mix them all together into a batter, then fry them up in the pan. It’s very simple.”
I like listening to her as she describes this little domestic activity. In the darkness of a brutal prison there are few cozy moments. I had to reach mentally for anything resembling comfort and very rarely found it.
Now I am surrounded by contentment. Every part of this little house is designed to delight. The old stove is green and bulbous in shape, with several coiled elements at the top. This technology is so primitive, but there is something far more satisfying about it than the more advanced methods of food generation we have developed back on Euphoria.
The name of our world seems pretentious and ironic now. I am closer to feeling euphoria here in a kitchen where little bits of dirt and grease have made their way into crevices and cracks to color everything in a way that can never completely be scrubbed out. The paint on the trims is chipped and faded, the paper of the walls likewise succumbing to years of the sun’s effects. But the counters are clean and there is a smell of homey soap that I am certain must be made from animal tallow or lard. I can smell the slight animal scent which rises when she washes her hands.