Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Roth’kar

Oh, are my culans hungry after so much kissing. Sinking my tongue into Amara’s warm mouth made me think of what else I could put inside her, how it might feel to bury myself in that hot channel that my communicator tells me is between Amara’s legs.

I did not intend to become so infatuated with my new wife, but I suppose it’s not unwelcome. Perhaps once the trial is over and we secure my citizenship, it would be easiest to remain with her.

Once upon a time I had a friend who lived in the room beside mine and visited my bed often.

But life in the Hole means all relationships are relationships of convenience.

We sated our physical needs because we couldn’t sate any others, and we fought frequently.

I was attracted to her, and we had formed a close relationship, but when she had to relocate for work, I was only despondent for a short while.

How I’m beginning to feel about Amara, though? It is new. Different. Exciting, yet comforting. And her smell? How that scent has begun to drive me wild.

Of its own volition, my hand drifts down under my belt and pulls down my leggings, just enough to free my culans of their prison. This is the second time I’ve touched myself while thinking about Amara, and I wonder what sort of magic she carries with her that does this to me.

At first, my culans spread as they fill with blood, each flexing their ridges before clasping back together again. Then I wrap my hand around them firmly and squeeze, imagining them buried in Amara’s singular passage.

I topple backward on the bed as I drag my hand up and down roughly, the soft teeth of my culans fluttering wildly. Once more, I think about how they would feel inside her, if they would please her. I love the sounds she makes as I kiss her, and I hope she will make more of them as I pleasure her.

When I near my finish, my culans clasp tightly together as I erupt. They part and spray out in two directions, and I hastily cover them with my hands so I can control the flow. I should have brought in a towel first.

I know my hand doesn’t compare to what might await me in Amara’s bed, but it will do for now.

The next morning, I make sure to be up before Amara leaves for work. She gives me my own key to the apartment and a kind of money I haven’t seen before.

“Cash,” she explains. “Not credit. This is one hundred and sixty dollars. Hopefully it will last you a bit.”

I stare at the money, which is strangely the most familiar thing about this place. The Hole operated on a chip currency, where we were paid in chips of varying sizes and weights. These bills work the same way, with different numbers on them.

“Got it,” I say, sweeping up the money and putting it in my pocket.

Amara gives me a sad smile, then gets up on her toes to kiss me. I return it eagerly, but I know she needs to leave for work, so I do not press for what I really want.

“I’ll see you tonight.” She wiggles her butt and departs.

My mind is so occupied with her after she leaves that I pull out my communicator once more and read through the Human Fact Sheet. I pay special attention to the diagrams, and they fuel the growing heat in my belly that is becoming familiar when I think about Amara.

Suddenly, I receive a message. Curious about who would want to contact me, I scroll down to it.

It’s from Zono, the Karthinian who lived in the room next to mine in our cubicle.

We met working on a cleaning crew once, tasked with unclogging sewer drains.

There is nothing like being covered in shit to build camaraderie.

We couldn’t get the stench out of our noses for days, but Zono always made a joke out of it, saying that at least we got a break from the smell of kath .

I don’t even open it. Just thinking about the Hole fills me up with a nervous energy. I came here to escape that place, and I have been lucky enough to find Amara on the other side. But the sight of Zono’s message reminds me of the pretenses under which I came to Earth.

I thought I would come and use Amara to get what I wanted. Knowing what I know about her now… I don’t want to think about the version of me who first came here.

So I put the communicator away instead.

To distract myself, I flip on the television.

I am rather infatuated with this big flat-screen, though it seems to play mostly mindless nonsense.

We had holo-vids in the Hole, but you used them almost exclusively for video communication and sending messages.

People made recordings and shared them, but that was it.

Holo-vids don’t compare at all to the mountain of content available on the TV.

I scroll through it, trying out different shows.

There are frequent breaks—usually at the worst moment—when suddenly, a man will appear on-screen, cleaning dishes and telling me all about the benefits of soap.

These interruptions are the most confusing, as they are rarely related to the item being advertised.

Sometimes there’s no advertisement at all, and people simply run through open meadows hand in hand while an obnoxious voice lists of fifteen possible side-effects at top speed.

After a while of this mindless scrolling, I give up and decide to go on a walk to the park. At the entrance, I come across a cart with an incredible smell emanating from it. The woman behind the cart calls me over.

“Alien!” Her mouth forms an O. “Incredible! I’ve never seen an alien before.”

“I cannot say you’re my first human,” I respond, gesturing at all the other humans around us.

The woman guffaws. “How’d you end up on Earth?”

“I married an Earthling.”

Her brows go up. “Are you one of those mail-order husbands?” She fishes around in a bucket of hot water and pulls out a brown tube, which she then puts on a hot grill top.

“Mail-order?”

“Yeah. You came with the Galactic Matching Program?”

Ah, that’s what she means. “That is how I got here, yes.”

The woman turns the tube—which smells marvelous—to even out the grill marks. “Do you like it on Earth?”

“I believe so. It is… a vast improvement over where I come from.”

Fresh sky, warm sun, and a cool breeze? I will never, ever take these gifts for granted.

“Hmm.” The woman behind the cart pulls out some white bread and tosses it on the grill, too. “And your wife?”

How do I feel about Amara? I certainly like her. “She is a good woman. Works hard but likes to have fun.” The more I talk about her, the more enthused I feel. “She is very generous and kind. To a fault, perhaps.”

The woman cocks her head. “You sound smitten.”

I become aware of just how much I’ve said, and I bite my lip. The woman opens up the bread bun and drops the brown tube inside, then hands it to me. I take it, unsure of what it is or when I ordered it.

“Five bucks,” she says.

“Bucks?” My translator supplies an image of a four-legged beast with horns.

“Dollars?” she clarifies.

“Oh, yes.” Right—money. “Here you are.” I pull out the bill marked with a five and pass it over to her, though I am fairly certain I never asked for… whatever this is.

“Enjoy,” she says. “Be good to that wife of yours.”

I give a nod to show I understand, then continue on my way, peering down at the food in my hands.

Well, it smells good. Might as well try it.

After my revelation of a lunch, I check out more of the neighborhood and try not to accidentally buy anything else. Then I head back to the apartment to watch some more television before Amara returns home.

It is strange, I must admit, not working all day long. I’m used to constantly being busy, unless there’s a dry spell in odd jobs, in which case we tended to play a lot of chip games. It is a welcome relief to rest, but after so much of it, I’m not sure what to do with myself here.

Finally, Amara appears, and I’m overjoyed. I didn’t expect what a rush I’d feel seeing her after being on my own all day, but I give her space as she comes in the door and sets down her jacket and purse. Once she’s inside, I swoop down to kiss her.

“Oh!” She smiles against my mouth, and so I kiss her deeper, until she’s falling into my arms.

I sure do like this kissing business. In fact, I get lost in it, my hands holding her soft body against mine, our lips tasting each other and our tongues playing between us. I can’t get enough of her. She is far better than the brown tube in the bun.

At last, Amara giggles and pulls away.

“I’m happy to see you, too,” she says with a wink, and I think just how charming she is as she swirls off to make dinner. “It’s taco night. I hope you’re ready!”

“Ah, yes, of the Taco Tuesdays?”

Amara beams. “Exactly!”

I help her as best I can, watching and learning everything she does so I can do my best to emulate it. In the future, perhaps I can have dinner ready for her when she gets home.

That night, we turn on a movie again, but we do what Amara calls “making out” instead of watching it. She sits astride my lap once more, and my culans rise, eager to be let out. But I keep them where they belong, simply enjoying her with my hands and lips, curious where they will lead me next.

A few days later, my new clothes are ready. Amara flings open the front door and brings them inside with her, absolutely ecstatic.

“Try these on and then let’s go pick you up some new pants!”

Each garment is folded neatly inside a paper bag, and when I pick them up, I’m surprised by the quality. We use synthetic fabrics on New Dro’thar II , but these appear to be natural ones, soft but sturdy and thick.

The top item is a deep, dark blue with lighter blue trim around the collar and sleeves.

I eagerly head into the bathroom to change, as I don’t think Amara is ready for me to walk around “bare-assed.” I leave my leggings on, then strip off the stained, torn robe that came here with me.

The moment I have these new pants , I’m going to throw my old clothing in the garbage.

I put on the shirt, and I’m pleased to find four holes exactly the right size and shape for my arms, and the collar sits neatly at the base of my throat.

The image I see reflected back in the mirror is…

strange. That Karthinian doesn’t look, well, Karthinian anymore.

It’s an odd sight, seeing myself dressed like a human, but one I don’t mind at all.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Amara leaps to her feet.

“Oh! You look amazing!” She rushes over to pet the new shirt. “Try on the next one!”

So we do this with all seven shirts, which come in dark blue, light blue, dark gray, white, brown and purple. All simple colors, Amara points out, that will be easy to coordinate.

Next, we’re off to the clothing store, which is a shock to my system. Amara worried about the club when she should have worried about this “department store,” which appears to be an emporium of options. There are clothes absolutely everywhere, in all manner of colors and sizes.

“Too many choices,” I murmur to myself as we walk past rack after rack. How is one supposed to choose anything?

Eventually, we find the pants, and I try on a few pairs made from a starchy, unforgiving blue fabric that Amara calls “jeans.” I don’t care for them, but she likes the way they look, so I give them a try.

“Dang,” she says when I come out wearing a pair with my new dark blue shirt. Her eyes are as big as saucers. “You look fire in those.”

I preen, glad that she likes them. I pick a handful of them in different shades before she introduces me to the “sweatpants.”

Oh, do I like the sweatpants. I will happily sit on the couch and watch television in them. I buy two pairs because I have a hard time imagining I’ll want to wear these stiff “jeans” unless we’re going out on the town, as Amara calls it.

After we check out, I wear the jeans home, and my wife finds excuses to touch my butt as we walk. I’m pleased that she likes it, as starchy as these new pants are.

Today, for the first time, I’m beginning to feel like an Earthling.