Page 27 of I'm Not Your Pet

Roark was protective to the point of frustration.

Especially when we visited actual-real-life-foreign-planets—in space!—and discovered things that I could never have dreamed of. Roark kept me within two feet of him at all times. Which in turn, made the scientist in me riot. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tugged on my leash, no matter how much I tried to bargain, he refused to ever allow me to stray from his side.

So yeah, safety wasn’t the issue.

I understood that he was looking out for my best interests. Roark had proven to be nothing but serious and kind since the day I met him. But as someone who had always been independent, I hated the way I had no say in my life at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that being a pleasure slave was any more dignified than what I was now. But at least back on planet F’ukYuu I wasn’t sleeping on what was essentially a “doggy” bed. I wasn’t dragged around on a leash. I wasn’t pampered like a pedigree Pomeranian and left alone on the ship in Roark’s quarters forhoursat a time while my “owner” went to work at his very important job.

I was lucky he didn’t crate-train me, for god’s sake.

I bet he’d view that as “protecting” me too.

Roark had to have experienced something really fucked up to be as paranoid and controlling as he was. And I hurt for him, I really did. But that didn’t make this transition any easier.

I’d had a purpose before. An occupation. A Manager. There was structure in my life on F’ukYuu that was noticeably missing here. I had always known my place, and I’d always known what was expected of me.

Roark was, admittedly, a much better person than The Manager had been. He was kinder, for one. He wasgentle. Sometimes too gentle. To the point it was almost cold. Like he was scared to touch me the way he had the day we met. I supposeI could understand that too, as it wasn’t like I’d crossed that line either.

We were both trying to figure out how to navigate this new life together. And it wasn’t his fault that he was having an easier time transitioning than I was. Like a robot, he woke up at exactly the same time every morning—no alarm clock necessary—and went about his day with ruthless efficiency.

I was a blip on his schedule.

Between brushing his teeth—which took forever—disappearing to what I assumed was a gym based on how sweaty he was after, showering, and accepting our breakfast at the door, “pet Hugo” was simply another task on Roark’s to-do list.

It shouldn’t have bothered me the way it did. I knew he made time for me in his life because he cared. Or so I assumed he did, considering he bought me for a shit-ton of money.

But still.

The truth was, I didn’t want to be Roark’s pet.

I wanted him towantme.

And instead, I was stuck in limbo, following him around, waiting for him when he was gone, thinking and dreaming about him—unable to fully enjoy the wonders that made up my new life on the days he brought me with him—because the little part of me that had hopes for the future was starting to die.

When we weren’t out running errands on various planets the only view I was privy to was the stars on our ceiling and the smooth, cold walls of Roark’s rooms. I’d memorized every astronomy poster that decorated their surface ten times over. Sitting alone in the quiet with no stimulation made my brainitch.

What was worse was knowing I currently lived inside an alien spacecraft and did not even know where our food came from. Or where Roark disappeared for most of the day when we were in space.

The monotony was enough to make me feel like I was going crazy.

Everything wasn’t all bad though.

The highlight of my day was the time the nanobots would clean. I’d sit on Roark’s bed—because he was more than often gone at that point—and watch them scurry around the floor like tiny electronic mice. I wasn’t surehowexactly they cleaned, and I was still working up the nerve to snatch one so I could examine it more closely. I wished I had tools to do so. Screwdrivers. Anything that would help occupy my withering mind.

I was sure, if I could leave the room these feelings wouldn’t be festering. And the seed of discontent that had been planted would grow at a slower pace.

Not that I could tell Roark that.

Or anything really.

Language barrier, remember?

We’d been working on that during the hours we spent together after Roark returned to his rooms for dinner every day. We’d started our own version of sign language. Gestures to indicate both good and bad. Hand motions to ask for the bathroom, or the bed. And on top of that, Roark had learned a handful of words in English.

“Bed,” I repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time one night after we’d finished eating the weird cucumber-tasting bark stuff he kept force-feeding me. There were a few hours left before he’d retreat beneath the covers of his bed, the lights would turn off, and I’d be left on my “doggy” bed to rot in silence.

The distance between us felt vast then. Like he was a galaxy away. Like I was even more alone than I’d been when I was a kid, or in my pod on F’ukYuu.

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