The next morning grew late and I delayed my workout, for it was another night of restlessness. My new book had been set aside, tucked away in a night stand’s drawer with those pair of gloves. I didn’t have the energy to delve into it, something about the past haunting me, like the ending of a sad film.
In the afternoon, there were two maids, girls of fair complexion and different shades of brown hair, one like dark chocolate, the other hued as sequoia bark, and of eyes that were pale green and silver gray. Modest to a fault, prim and proper, elegant but not snotty, healthy and slim, they were out of place in their beige-and-trimmed-blue dresses, as though they were of royalty forced to low service, or academy girls working part time.
A compliment I had learned from Pyria led to innocent touches and not so subtle nudges, then chaste kisses and playful teasing. Somewhere along the line, their work was forgotten, and they didn’t seem to care that I was studying. Somewhere along the line, clothes were ‘lost,’ and from our deepest recesses our passions rose. Somewhere along the line, time was lost as we lost ourselves, as I gave myself to them, as they gave themselves to me.
They were with me until late the next morning. After we cleaned ourselves, we feasted, they finished their tasks, and despite my insistence, they left…
I forgot to ask their names…
This day, beside Pyria there was Verrona, a dirty blond with red eyes, a woman who looked Midwest and Norwegian, arriving dressed bright red in a long, flowing skirt and form-fitting shirt. She wouldn’t say where she was from, only that a “mutual friend” had sent her, and from there I relinquished control, letting her guide me in her slow dance and seduction, in roleplay and hypnotic whispers. Our kisses were tender, and with an unseen skill she made love like a pornstar.
From dusk to dawn, she was with me, but as soon as the sun rose, despite my suggestion to stay, she left…
Like the others…
Pyria mentioned Verrona was like Teriani in profession, another well known “pleasure artist” in the same circles, from the same benefactor that would have my favor (whatever that will mean). Whoever they were, they seem to know their women.
Saevel was the most serene, wolfish in her appearance with a bob-cut of wild grey hair with black highlights (either dyed or natural, I couldn’t tell), of eyes that were pale as ice that almost made her look blind. Despite our language barrier, she had a way with her words, her voice whimsical as whistling birds as she shared rhymes and poetry. It was because of her that I understood just how enchanting Vinlis is.
But something in me snapped, and when we found ourselves on the bed that stormy night, with us intertwined, skin on skin but no more, lips upon lips but without my fire, I couldn’t go through, not with what she wanted.
When she felt something was off, she barely separated herself, our make out no more, hands still wrapped around my neck. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I could hear the worry, “De bierutic, wynsas spaaragmiec eaara?” ‘My Oasis, what’s wrong?’
What was wrong?
You know what is wrong, what will be wrong.
I felt myself chill, letting my arms grow loose. That caused her to rise, her legs adjusting to straddle my waist, my rod pressing against her ass and back as she nudged into place. She would have been average height on Earth, but compared to me she seemed so small.
There was patience, no judgement, as I struggled to find the words, “Ay… tsar-coal lu… xi-aur,” I can’t do this.
Saevel couldn’t hide the subtle, crestfallen expression.
I untucked myself from under her and shuffled off the bed, unable to meet her gaze, moving to slip on the discarded sweat pants and loose long sleeve shirt, neither doing a decent job of hiding arousal, my dick pressing against me and under my breasts.
This body…
The balcony seemed as good a place for seclusion, that past the recreation room and through the glass passage (there was no way to reach it from the master bed room), the air felt charged and heavy, the storm having just arrived. There was every intention to lean against the railing, to let myself become soaked, but I couldn’t do it, instead leaning against the wall and under the eave. There was always this aversion to getting wet with clothes, a pet peeve when my brother tossed me into a river years… forever ago.
A while later, when droplets became a shower, I could sense Saevel’s footsteps, and she pressed up against me, just as I leaned in, the feeling of a soft fabric meeting my arm. We said nothing, that in silence we both understood and felt each other for a long moment.
“Tiss-ar eaara hay-ree… sa-colw-wir… xiiedie saga-aras zee-yar… pauir?” Will you sing me something? I asked.
There was a giggle and a hum, and she began:
“[Do you feel them dance?
Do you hear them prance?
See their form and sing.
See them swarm and cling.
I will be here, wet and sweet
With you, and you alone.]”
Only understanding a sliver of her rhyme, it carried warmth into my heart.
Silence again took us, the shower soon a downpour as we huddled closer. The moment stretched to several, and too long did I wait.
“[Something is troubling you]” she observed.
“[I… am troubled.]”
An arm snaked around mine as I kept staring at the scene, like that of curtains billowing in tatters and streams. Powerful was the force that I felt its rush and took it within me, one silent breath after another. I wanted to reach out, to let it fall on my arm and chill it to the bone.
“I think I like you,” I said.
“[What did you say?]”
“[I like you.]”
She tensed for a second.
“[You… cannot stay]? I asked.
“Thelamein…”
“[I understand.]”
Eventually, she tugged me inside, and we sat on the couch cuddling.
Hours before we were strangers, that for any average chump it would be unthinkable that we had grown so intimate. It had been like that with most of the girls and women, and it only further cemented how different things were from Earth. In a sense, I was the luckiest bastard, luckier than any married man or bachelor should be.
But to lose that bond, over and over, somehow felt worse than being alone.
If only one would stay…
“[Why me? Is there no one else?]” she asked.
There always will be, but there is only one like you, and only ever one of you, I wanted to say but (literally) couldn’t.
“[Yes.]”
Her hand rested on my thigh. “[What is wrong? Was it my fault?]”
“[No.]”
“[Then what?]”
The admission was difficult to make. “[... I am… afraid of… being alone.]”
Nothing was said, and I looked at her, nerves encroaching on me.
She wore a soft, knowing smile. “[My silly Oasis…]”
Nudging her head in, she wrapped herself tighter around me, and I wrapped my arm around her waist, our bodies shaping to each other. “[I can stay through tomorrow, just for you, but no longer.]”
“[Could you… get friends… and family here?]” I tried joking.
She shook her head, her smile growing wider. “[You are silly.]”
The night passed without much else happening, and it was the best rest I had in a while. By morning, we made love, rough and hard, as we gave each other hickies and scratches, and it was some of the best sex I had thus far.
True to her word, Saevel stayed, wearing an overly large shirt borrowed from my wardrobe. She helped with my language and writing studies, allowing herself to be the subject of Pyria’s lessons and giving her own input as they guided me. It was the funnest lesson I had since Professor Greg’s infamous Cold War lecture.
When Pyria left, at Saevel’s insistence, we had gone at it again with the same energy, having broken a chair and torn a blanket, having drawn blood as we marked each other, our passion deep and raw, our bodies slick and messy, our ecstasy high and mighty. Nothing could have separated us.
Then, by the evening, she left…
That night was the worst night I had thus far, and I wished I had gone with Dara.
Never had I thought that I could be so aroused by and hateful of a person, one insistent on fancy clothes and lavender perfume.
She keeps averting her eyes. Good…
Her legs were crossed, her body angled away, all of her attention on the pad, as she taps away on its screen every now and then. There was barely a word other than a greeting when she came, one in that same, expressionless look.
Is she upset or nervous? Maybe nervous…
Tilting her head, midnight hair sways to her left like silk. With a brush, she sets her bangs aside without so much a flinch of her brows, without so much a twitch of her nose, but her lips part and she takes a breath, the burgundy lipstick immaculate against barely visible, perfectly white teeth. All this with fair, unblemished, smooth skin made for something far more exotic. She was the perfect Victorian’s Secret doll.
Too perfect…
“You are sad again,” Naberoa finally stated.
“Yeah…”
“And you have been injured.”
I let my tongue brush along the split in my lip. To her, it must have looked like something clamped on my lower lips and pinched hard on my neck to leave noticeable, purple bruises. If Nabe saw me naked, she would see more on my inner left thigh, shoulders, collarbone, and right upper arm. Even my back had long, red scratches with the occasional scab. ‘Injured’ was one way to explain my current state.
“Yeah…” Injured…
“What about your hand and ankle?”
Bringing up my hand, I gave it a quick inspection. The pink scar had nearly faded, now only a phantom itch. Pain had, also, completely faded from my ankle. “They’re both fine.”
With noticeable effort, her golden-orange eyes locked with mine, her posture straight and now directly facing me. “Are you certain there isn’t anything you want?”
“… No.”
“What about from me?”
Leaning back into my chair, tugging the cords of her peripheral with its ends sticking to my head, I took her in. Legs uncrossed and crossed, the creases of her slim charcoal pants (something like jeans) shifting rolling with her shiny black shoes casting a radiance from nearby lights. Shoulders were laid bare, shifting subtly, her strapless black top short enough to expose her midriff and narrowing hips, resting on her collar a pendant of some, yellow gem hooked to a loose, silver chain. The unremarkable wear was, somehow, all the more remarkable.
“No.”
It was difficult to maintain a neutral expression, and I was certain she sensed something from the odd twitch of my eyes, the low inflections of my voice, or the curtness of my speech, neither of which an auto-translator could hide.
“I see.”
Yet she mastered it, the expression of someone who keeps you locked up, deciding on who you can see, who you can fuck, and who you can love. Hers was of someone who didn’t care.
Then why does she keep showing up?
Maybe it's her job…
I kept glaring at her, occasionally gazing at some detail of the living room.
As she stood and started to remove the sticky pads, I asked, “How much longer do I need to stay?” Why am I still here?
“… It is still too soon,” was the answer.
“Is it?”
She eyed me briefly as she sat back down. “I need you to keep seeing Pyria.”
“Does it have to do with Thelamein?” I hadn’t forgotten, from the first meeting, that the mind switch was supposed to be a secret, that until I was assimilated (or something) I would remain in ‘recovery.’ At least, that was the impression Nabe gave.
In hindsight, that didn’t make sense. There were too many witnesses, too many women that could see that something was off with ‘Thelamein’ if they knew even a tiny detail of her. What did Nabe think would happen by sending 12 fuck buddies my way? What of everyone that knew her from before?
There was no response, not as she bundled the peripheral and stuffed it in her suitcase.
“Is no one noticing anything?”
“… No, they have noticed.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“Friends that you are not ready to meet, and others that would take advantage of you.”
“That’s it? Politics?" Maybe I was being unfair, but I didn’t care.
For the first time, I saw her cheeks blush. It was barely anything, but it was there.
While the pad translated in its usual tone, her voice spoke with a lower inflection as she briefly eyed me again. “It’s more than that.”
At a sudden realization, the anger dissipated.
Her golden-orange eyes locked with mine, their glow brilliant, and I could see from them uncertainty. Slender arms slid across polished wood to rest on her lap, the shine of well-manicured, red-painted fingernails now noticeable. Below that delicate neck, beneath that pendant, something about the collar and sternum accentuated her firm, round breasts, those large enough to partially cover the sides of her biceps. But the face, that face… the way her chin rounded and merged with a smooth, firm jaw; a nose firmly straight and shaped; and cheeks that are soft and not too filled. How was it that I am now noticing these things?
I must have been staring for too long, for she averted her gaze. Something in my look must have put her off.
She started packing her belongings. “I think we are–”
Naberoa froze as I reached out, prying her hand away as I cupped it in mine. Slowly, she looks at our hands, then to me, her eyes as wide as when we first met.