CHAPTER 2 #2
“I want to do the thing you all are so obsessed with. Become a… hucow or whatever you call them.” The word was usually whispered.
The humans sent to this planet by the ICSS’s matching system were treated with a mix of pity and jealousy.
Never working another day in your life was a pretty sweet gig.
Becoming a mindless livestock animal… that was another thing entirely.
But maybe the stories were exaggerated. That was the thing—nobody ever requested a transfer off of Zairion Prime.
The ISCC never sent anyone with strong attachments there, so it was never anybody you knew well enough to check in on.
Always that girl you bumped into in the cafeteria once, or that quiet guy who kept to himself.
But every other designation came with at least some reassignments. The system wasn’t perfect—or, perhaps it was more accurate to say that humans were fickle.
That everyone sent to Zairion Prime stays ‘without complaint’… It’s suspicious. Extremely suspicious.
So of course I’ve waltzed not just into the lion’s den, but down the damn lion’s throat.
There’s a tink of metal against ceramic. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. There are no sanctioned clinics on this side of the river.”
“Who needs a sanctioned clinic when I have you? Or—don’t tell me you’re impotent.”
“Hah.” His amused smile flashes his fangs. Then his laugh deepens, and the rich sound skitters down my spine as those fangs bead with dark violet venom.
I shudder, fighting primal fear. I won’t be intimidated, and I will be taken seriously.
While bundled up like a kid trapped in their own sleeping bag.
His laugh ends in a quiet, pleased sigh. “I assure you. My potency is of no issue.”
“Great. Then you bite me, I make milk for you, everybody’s happy.”
His smooth smile doesn’t falter. Eight glossy black eyes remain unblinking. “Don’t waste my time. State your condition.”
“What condition?”
That doesn’t get any reaction out of him.
I click my tongue and shrug as much as I can in my silk bindings. “I don’t want anything else. Well… I guess there’s one tiny thing, but it’s really more of a formality…”
“Speak.”
The casual command in his voice momentarily short-circuits my brain.
I clear my throat, trying not to show the lapse in my composure.
“Half the profits,” I bark back, mustering a comparable amount of confidence. “I know the black-market prices. I want a cut.”
His grin turns wicked. “Then you’ll know they don’t pay those black-market prices for bottled milk…”
“I know.” I ignore the image that flickers through my mind: bound and gagged, insectoid mouths at each tit, sucking and pawing. I extra ignore the clench of heat in my cunt.
There’s a clicking sound as he gives a low chuckle. “Any other terms?”
“You remain the handler, my deal remains with you. And whenever I decide I’m done, I’m done. I take my profits and you let me leave, no strings attached. You forget you ever knew me.”
“The first condition will be no problem.” His two primary eyes drag down my body. “The second… well… If you’re serious, you know that nobody ever leaves.”
“And nobody ever makes me do something I don’t want to do. I know myself. I’m not going to become one of those mindless addicts.”
“As long as we’re clear that these are your na?ve assertions and not terms of the binding contract… all is satisfactory to me.”
I already had plenty of conviction, but I’m suddenly very eager to prove this Arachnoid wrong. I’ll get dosed up, pump out enough milk to live like a queen for the rest of my life, then move the fuck on, like I always do.
There’s a planet with a saltwater ocean that has real waves and beaches. I’ve always wanted to go there. Or maybe I’ll keep expanding my horizons and live in orbit around one of the gas giants where the clouds form dizzying, psychedelic skyscapes in an eternal blaze of sunrise and sunset.
This is a means to an end.
“Alright. Do your… contract thingy.”
“You’re in a hurry. Aching to have tits full of milk already?”
Embarrassed heat blazes to my cheeks. “No,” I snap. “I’m eager to itch my nose, and you seem the kind to keep your upper hand until the ink is dried, so to speak.”
He ignores me. Ignores me!
Fury boils in my chest.
Then he turns around holding a cup of tea in each hand and a saucer in the pincers of each of his forelegs.
I scoff. “Too lazy to get up for a refill?”
He raises a brow. “I thought you wanted me to believe you’re smart. Yet you can’t put two and two together.” He seems very proud of himself, gesturing a cup toward each of us.
My eyes narrow. “Who taught you to say that? You’re not supposed to know that.
” That was the thing about the translation chips.
They always translated idioms into their abstract, universal meaning.
Which meant that idioms were something special, something a species only shared with each other.
And more than that, something a community shared only with each other.
The Italian countryside, Harajuku district, New Orleans, the Boston suburbs—they all still existed in our language.
Humans had lost everything, but our words were still ours.
Or so I thought.
He shrugs lightly. “And you’re not supposed to be here.” His legs coordinate perfectly and silently as he rotates and steps over to a taut panel of silk next to me that serves the role of a table. He sets the two saucers down first, then places our cups of tea on them.
They’re authentic British teacups, complete with gold detailing and hand-painted scenes of an idyllic countryside.
My eyes sting. I almost cry. Fuck, I had no idea how much I missed stupid little shit like that.
“Can you let me out now?” I wriggle against my bonds. “This itch is making my eyes water.” The suggestion of the itch takes hold, and it becomes real. I scrunch my face, angling it toward the silk below.
A dark, chitinous limb approaches me.
I get a closer look at the Arachnoid’s foot, which has two paw pads with hooked claws on the end, like a cat paw with only two digits. But weirder. And spidery-er.
I don’t like how easily those claws slice through the silk, starting by my feet, and I hold very, very still as they trail higher.
His claws slice along the seam between my legs, taking advantage of the gap, then slow as they reach my crotch.
My blush deepens, and I try to ignore the odd sensation of the smooth side of his claw bumping against my mound as he cuts across my stomach and between my breasts.
“Okay, I’ve got it from here,” I say quickly, as soon as my arms are free enough to move.
He leaves the last few inches of silk, and I awkwardly pull the loops off over my head, like a too-tight sweater. At least the silk is soft and glides easily over my tangle of curly hair.
There’s not a single snag or nick in my coveralls. That’s impressive, but I’m not in the mood to give him a compliment, so I sit upright on my hammock.
The way it yields is both supportive and comfortable, like a plush, stretchy knit. It molds to my crossed legs as I lean forward, finding the taut panel of the ‘table’ easily within reach. The silk under the saucer is totally different and has no give at all.
He reaches over the ‘table’ and pulls a sugar jar out of a cubby, setting it between us.
“No cream?” I tease.
His gaze falls over me, tracing the planes of my small breasts. “I prefer it fresh.”
My cheeks burn again. “It’s better without anyway,” I mutter, taking a sip of my tea and doing my very best to not frown at the bitterness.
He chuckles, then reaches into another cubby for a matching creamer pot. He tips a splash into both cups.
I freeze. “Is that… human?”
“Would you feel better if it were harvested from bovines on the conservation farms, intergalactic resources used in excess to exploit a feeling life form for its lactation, all so you can enjoy the psychological distance of it coming from a different species?”
I narrow my eyes. “You are entirely too good at speaking English.”
“I read.”
“Yeah, well…” I don’t have a comeback for that. I always have a comeback. I think the human breast milk now swirling in my cup of tea—which I really want to drink because oh my god even bitter it’s a taste of home—has zapped my wit. “Whatever.”
I take another drink. I’ve guzzled plenty of cum, eaten plenty of pussy, sucked plenty of tits. And I’m not about to suck a cow udder, so really, he’s right. It’s the less offensive of the two options.
And holy fuck, it tastes good. It’s everything I remember and so much more.
It’s mornings sitting in my father’s lap, stealing sips while he ate a croissant and did the crossword puzzle.
It’s afternoons visiting my mother after work, ranting about my love life while she baked cookies.
It’s the three of us laughing at a stupid joke and fighting over the last scone.
I make a show of itching my nose so that when I rub my eyes, it looks casual.
“So, how does an Arachnoid develop a taste for Earth tea?”
“It’s the second-best way to consume milk.” He takes another sip, main eyes closing with pleasure. The other six don’t have lids, but they seem to go glassy and unfocused.
“What’s the best way?”
“Straight from the source.”
I stop short, then huff a sigh. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
He chuckles. “You certainly did.” Another sip. “I’m something of a polyglot. It extends to cultural interests as well.”
I tilt my head. “That’s a real answer.”
“Was it not a real question?”
“No, I—You just didn’t seem like the type to volunteer information about yourself.”
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together, aren’t we? May as well be polite.”
The smug little twist in his last sentence hints that it’s a suggestion to me as well.
“I’ve been polite. You’re the one that strung me up instead of saying ‘hello.’”
“And you’re the one who trespassed.”
I give him an exasperated look. “It’s not like you have a doorbell.”
“It’s almost as if I don’t want to be found.”