Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
But I hardly care about that now, because now the water is warm, the soap smells nice, and being bathed by someone with four hands is a very nice experience. It’s like being tended to all over at once. He can massage shampoo into my hair at the same time as he rubs my shoulders and neck.
It seems wild to think that I ever complained, now that I am comfortable and being cosseted like a spoiled little pet.
“You are such a pretty little thing,” he compliments me. “Your body is beautiful, all soft curves and allure. The human female was truly made to be one of the most desirable creatures in creation.”
Who am I to disagree with him? The way he touches my body has a worshipful air about it. He is careful with me. He treats me like I am something special to be treated specially.
I am so relaxed I find my eyes closing, lids too heavy to keep them up. If I were at home, I’d have to get out of the bath. It’d be dangerous to keep bathing. But here, Arkon has me. I’m safe to pass out completely if I want to. I know he would look after me.
My contract here is for a few months. I wonder if he would consider extending it. I guess once the project is done there won’t be any need for me.
But I let myself fantasize, just for a bit, that he might want to keep me as something more than an employee. It’s a wild thought. The sexual stuff has been for the purposes of machine training. It’s not personal. But it…
* * *
I wake up in bed. I must have fallen asleep while he bathed me, and he must have dried me off and put me to bed. I am as cozy as I have ever been, and—notably—not in the cage.
I don’t see Arkon right away. He’s not in the bed with me.
When I look around, I see that he’s sitting in a huge chair that fits him perfectly that is positioned adjacent to the bed. He is not wearing a shirt. His two upper arms are folded over his chest, his lower ones are relaxed against his thighs. He is looking at me with an expression that almost looks sad. Definitely serious.
“Did I do something wrong?” I am sleepy as I ask the question. I can’t remember doing anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes I crime without noticing.
“No,” he smiles. “You need more sleep than I do, and I ended up watching you. Sorry if I startled you.”
“You were watching me sleep?”
I wonder if he was scared I was going to get up and do something, or if he just likes looking at me when I’m passed out. I’m probably easier to deal with then.
“Yes,” he says. “You’re peaceful when you sleep.”
I blush, feeling something like uncomfortable, though I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because I’m just not used to being looked at by someone who really seems to care.
“I’ve gotten you something to eat that isn’t slop. I think,” he says. “Stay there, I’ll bring it to you.”
I sit up in bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and wait for the meal to come. There are sounds out in the kitchen area that sound faintly harried. I wonder if there’s anything I could help with.
He comes in with a tray and a plate on it. The plate has, I think, toast and eggs on it.
Arkon presents it to me and stands back with an expression that indicates he’s a little worried about what I might think about his efforts.
“This is amazing!” I smile, making a big show of it. I cut into the eggs and toast and I smile as I shovel the massive forkful into my mouth.
It tastes like, well, it tastes like bland terribleness. Like it’s not quite food. The slop is better than this.
“It’s bad,” he says.
“No,” I say, forcing myself to swallow. “It’s good. It’s just different. I will have to get used to it. I bet it’s my favorite soon.”
“Stop eating it,” he says I as I take another, smaller bite. “You don’t like it.”
He tries to reach for the plate, but I cover it with my arms and shove more of the food into my mouth, as quickly and as ferally as possible.
“By the gods, stop,” he laughs, finally separating me from the plate eventually. “You don’t like it. You don’t have to eat it. I can get you some nutritional gruel.”
“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I say. “Unless you made me more of those delicious eggs. What kind of animal are they from?”
“A bird,” he says. “Or, well, a sort of bird adjacent machine. It’s a synthesized protein.”
“It tasted very synthesized,” I say. “I mean. In a good way.”