Page 17 of Clonely You

AITHAR

I can’t wait any longer.I know I said I’d be over at Michaela’s farm at dusk, but by the time the sun starts to head toward the horizon, I’m in the air-sled and flying over to her place. I can’t stop thinking about her and what she intends for tonight.

I’m so eager to beused. Especially by her and her soft lips and gentle hands. I want to know what all it entails, this being used. Will she touch my cock? My arms? My thighs? Or will she put her mouth on mine again? I am truly fine with as little as she wishes to give me, but oh, my mind does go to illicit places.

I would like some good memories so when she inevitably tells me that she is interested in some other male, I will have something to look back to. Because theyalwayssay they want someone else. It is not me, they reassure me. They want someone more commanding, someone more experienced, someone less eager to please. Someone less a’ani.

Until then, I will enjoy myself.

Once the sled is parked, I take a deep breath to steel myself, and then emerge. The pants that Ruthie insisted I wear to “showoff my goods” are Sakkar’s, and so tight that I have difficulty moving naturally. The tunic I’m wearing is Kazex’s, and the neck is cut down to gape open to my pectorals. It shows off my tattoos and my musculature, according to Ruthie, who helped me dress.

She also tried to give me facial piercings, but I declined. I do not want my face hurting when Michaela kisses it. As a compromise, I let her spike my short hair into what she called a “rugged” look. When she was satisfied with her work, she called in Ruth-Ann to judge my appearance, and I’d turned in place to display everything.

“Well, he looks like he’s angling to get laid for sure,” was all Ruth-Ann said.

This pleased me to hear, as I am definitely looking forward to getting laid.

I approach the barn, keeping my steps slow and measured, even though I want to sprint to Michaela’s side and immediately fall to her feet. She comes out to greet me, her puffy hair pulled back from her face with a thick band. She’s wearing her work overalls and there is a smell of stock animals and lactation about her.

“You’re early,” she greets, and her gaze moves up and down my body. “And walking funny. Are you okay?”

“My pants are very tight,” I admit, trying to adjust my gait as I approach to be more normal. “You are more lovely than I remember, and I remember you as breathtaking.”

“Flatterer.” A smile spreads across Michaela’s face at my words. She glances back at the barn, and her expression grows reluctant. “I won’t be ready for at least another hour. I have to pull the butter out of the churns.”

“May I help you?” I all but bound towards her, and the seams on my trou protest, making me lurch awkwardly.

“Are you sure you’re dressed for it?” She arches a brow at me.

“I can undress if you’d prefer me that way.”

She laughs, her head thrown back, and I feel like the most important male in the universe, that I got this beautiful creature to laugh at my words. “Okay, fine, come on. I’ll show you what I’m up to.”

We enter the barn together, and as we do, the smell of milk and the dairy-stock creatures becomes overwhelming. My nostrils twitch, but I manage to keep my face composed because I do not want to insult Michaela. This is clearly a delicacy for humans, and she is very proud of her work to produce it. It’s not her fault that the smell is appalling to me. As we go into the barn, we head toward the back, where there is a large crank on one end of a wall, and what looks like barrel after barrel lined up in a row along the wall with a large stick protruding from the center of the barrel. Michaela grabs a large, clean bowl, large enough for her to curl up inside, and she hands it to me.

“You hold this and I’ll scoop the butter.”

I do so obediently, following her as she lifts the lid on the first barrel and the smell of dairy overwhelms me. I flinch, my throat working as she uses a scoop to pull strange, rancid-looking yellow bits out of a watery goop. “What is all this?”

“This is butter before it gets salted.” She gestures at the liquid. “That’s buttermilk.”

“I see.” I do not see but it seems polite to respond.

She glances over at me as she scoops another huge plop of “butter” into the bowl. “Do you want me to explain how it works? I’m kinda proud of my method.”

“I would love that, actually.” Anything that will get me more of her smoky, delightful voice.

Michaela launches into her explanation. How when she first arrived on Risda III, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to raise cattle. She was interested in a farm but disliked the thought of animals sold to be meat. “It reminded me too much of the life I had just escaped.”

She’d been missing the comforts of home, and wondered if she could re-create them here. She purchased some milk from the store and recalled reading in a book that it could be churned and made into butter, and so she experimented with it before eventually having success. After that, she requested that she be given a farm with dairy-stock, animals bred to continue producing milk even after their calves had grown.

“But then I got my first batch of milk and I realized how much work it was to churn butter. And to sell it at a larger scale was alotof work.” She straightens and makes a churning motion with her arms. “If I was going to make money on my farm, I’d have to figure something out. I talked with one of the women in town that does odd projects and she helped me construct this.” Michaela gestures proudly at the wall. “If I turn this one crank, it pistons the plunger in twenty different barrels and makes enough butter that I can sell the profits at the store. I sell the buttermilk, too, but people are less interested in that. I’m trying to think of a product I can make that will use the buttermilk up so it doesn’t go to waste.”

“We can always ask the other humans if they have any ideas. Ruthie or Ruth-Ann or even Lady Ruth might know a suggestion.”

“Sure.” She scoops the last of the butter out of the first barrel and moves on to the next, pulling the lid off.

“You can ask when you inquire about bounty hunters.”

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