by Amanda Milo
Keeper whistles something that sounds like it’s supposed to be soothing, but it doesn’t calm the male down, and frankly, I barely register it either.
“Want to know why I’m here?” the male continues, speaking through gritted teeth, and a ravaged, angry face. “Too many Ornamentals in my line are starting to birth babies with health problems, so they want to breed back to the orig-stock. His eyes rake down my body like he’d rather spit on me than touch me. “Guess that’s you.”
CHAPTER 2
I’m silent for so long that even the mean male must get tired of the quiet. “Aren’t you dreading it?”
“What?” I ask, wondering if he means the sex. “As long as you’re courteous…”
He snorts. “Not the fucking.”
I flinch.
He doesn’t so much as pause. “Doesn’t it bother you? You’ll be giving birth to a freak’s baby.”
“You’re not a freak,” I finally disagree softly. “In your own way, you are very beautiful.”
His scoff is ugly and harsh.
“You are. Keeper thinks you are or—”
The male’s hands fling out, and his voice snaps so hard I almost feel it physically. “Don’t. Don’t try to convince me using your precious keeper—because once you resort to a keeper’s definition of beauty, you’ve lost your argument. They’re playing with us. Don’t you see that? They design us! Look at me.”
I look at him, bewildered. “And so what if they are? It makes them happy.”
He shoves to his feet, and he’s the one pacing now. “Do you hear yourself? I said look at me! Your baby could come out as disfigured as me.”
I try to proceed very carefully, and not without an alarmed glance or three at the blind that I know Keeper is still observing us from behind. “You’re not disfigured,” I start carefully, measuring my words. “You’re designed. And I love my babies. I love all my babies.”
He stops pacing to stare at me. “You’re a zealot.”
I feel more exposed with him standing above me, even though we’re technically both naked. I also feel like standing may present him with a perceived challenge, so I remain sitting and even crouch over to appear a little smaller. “I’m a realist. This is our life. Is it really such a bad one? Are you hurting? Does your physical body pain you from their selective tampering?” My fingers clutch my bare sides, still tightly covering my chest. “I’ll bet it doesn’t. They don’t like to see us hurt—”
Finally, the male breaks our gaze so that he can roll his eyes. “That’s right. They only like to ruin our lives in other ways.”
“How is your life ruined? You’re fed, you’re sheltered, you’re cared for. Keepers care about us. What would you rather have?”
“Not to be warped like this,” he slams his open hand against his chest for emphasis.
“Designed,” I correct, the word so quiet it’s almost uttered under my breath.
He swings away from me, a look of frustrated fury streaking across his face. “Dammit!”
Maybe I can’t understand his position because my life experience is not his. As he pointed out, I am from the ‘orig-stock’ line. A human who looks like what our people more or less looked like when they existed on Earth, roaming free with no care to what ‘type’ they should strive to pair with, no ‘look’ for anyone to achieve. My line isn’t special because of any certain way our bodies are formed, but because we’re the small remaining line of wild-bred humans.
I’m not angry about my lot in life as a kept creature. I don’t miss those days where my ancestors roamed free on some tiny planet in a far-off galaxy, because I’ve never been there. This life is all I know. I was born from a union of love, I was raised with love, and I’ve always been treated with affection and care.
I’m happy.
My babies are being raised exactly the same.
And maybe I’m not horrified to be paired with this male because I was raised in a herd that incorporated some Ornamentals. Simpler designs, like special colorations or color patterns that shaded certain features, but they were still deliberately designed individuals, the products of a considerable amount of specialized breeding nonetheless.
This Ornamental is pacing away from me, his gait jerky—not due to any issues involving his locomotion, but more because of his turbulent emotions. He’s clearly frustrated that he can’t change my viewpoint.
I’m sad for him that I can’t help him be less bitter about his.
In a valiant bid to thaw him, I try to share more about me, about life here, now that he’s joined us. “The other two males here are selective-breds.” When he says nothing to this, I soldier on. “Tranq is from the ‘Gentle’ line.”
“Tranq as in tranquil? That’s witty.”
I don’t say anything to this, because his tone is unnecessarily acerbic, and in the face of his undeserved anger, I’m not sure what to say.
But yes, his guess is correct. Tranq is short for Tranquil. The keeper who raised his mother’s herd named him, and his mother could have called him anything but she chose to translate the keeper-whistled word into our common tongue, which, after all these generations of human cultures being melded together, is a bastardized mix of every old Earthen language. All barriers have a way of being removed when we’re all behind the same fence. And it may not be very witty, but it really fits him. You’ll never meet a more peaceful person.
Well… Unless you meet any of the rest of his line. They’re bred that way.
My mother, who heard the story from her mother’s mother, who heard it from her mother’s mother, told me that the keeper who founded the line of Gentles took the gentlest male human in his care and bred him to the sweetest women. When the resulting babies’ personalities began to emerge, the keeper separated the mothers who had the quietest, softest-hearted babies. If they showed a flash of mean-spiritedness, the keeper moved the child and their mother to a different cage on the other side of the property. Not cruelly. No, he was simply—and very clearly—looking for a certain ‘type.’ A special sort of personality, if such a thing could be bred for.
He proved that it could. Tranq is a seventh-generation Gentle-male-to-Gentle-female breeding, and he is the kindest creature you’ll encounter, ever. He can get excited, and does, but his baseline is devoid of active aggression. He has never attacked a keeper—or anyone else, for that matter. He has a ‘mutt’ look, because his line was not bred for special hair (although his hair is very nice) or eye color (although his eyes, sweet as they are, are lovely all on their own), or body breadth (yet he is a sturdy male, tall with ropes of muscle even if he isn’t bulked with it like Avox, who hails from the fighter-type line). Tranq’s skin color is not the color of a sensual purple midnight or the blinding white of sun-bright snow. He’s just… a mid-everything mutt. Not too big, not small, not special in a surface way like other prized varieties are but he is exceptionally good-natured. And to be exceptional at such a thing is only plain on the surface if you aren’t paying attention. Because Tranq has a presence that soothes a room. He’s powerfully, irresistibly kind—and he’s kind in a way that spreads warmly and wraps around you.
You can’t help but love a man so warmhearted.
And I do love him. In fact, if it were up to me, I would never have left Tranq’s cage after we were introduced. Despite being with Tranq for some cycles, I hadn’t yet become pregnant. Perhaps Keeper thought the addition of a rival male would somehow stir Tranq’s sperm into rising up in challenge. What it managed to do was get me pregnant by the rival male during the very first round of coverings. The rival male—Avox—was quite worked up to be housed so close to a competitor for my affection.
The day that Avox arrived was the first time I’d been passed off to another male. It was eventful. Keeper knew that I was new to breedings, and thankfully, he didn’t just toss me into Avox’s cage like a midday snack. He set the male up one cage away from us so that we could see each other for a few hours, talk. Tranq and I had looked at the newcomer
, but I hadn’t so much as approached the fence by evening meal. Keeper cackled softly (his version of a chuckle) and physically had to retrieve me.
Tranq had been reluctant to let me go—but he didn’t growl a warning like males do. He had made a pleading sort of whine, but he didn’t fight to keep me.
This nearly hurt my feelings. But, as I was led away, I realized as I stared back at Tranq, that he’s so incredibly gentle, he wasn’t capable of throwing himself into a violent rage over the loss of his female… and Keeper was pleased. Any male would be forgiven for becoming incensed at the removal of his mate—but for Tranq, instinctive violence against Keeper was simply… not in his makeup. For Keeper, Tranq’s non-aggression was a success to be celebrated. (And he did celebrate. He passed out food rewards to Tranq, and gave me to a female-hungry Avox for a lusty celebration of a different sort.) Tranq’s quiet reaction was a testament to the care that went into selecting the temperaments that made up his line.
The Ornamental male’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. He surprises me when he asks, “Is Tranq the oversized one?”
“That’s Avox.” I pick at a flower that’s peeping up from the grassy section of his substrate. One of the little blue flowers that pop up in the shade-covered portions of enclosures. They aren’t extravagantly ostentatious like the flowers that are arranged deliberately in the healthy, sunny areas, but they’re lovely and all the more surprising for growing amid not much else. “He’s a fighter type.”
“Figures,” the Ornamental mutters.
Not sure what to say to that either, I offer, “I have one daughter with Tranq.” When he doesn’t make any further contribution to the conversation, not even to mutter something barbed, I blather on. “She’s as mellow-spirited as her father. It was a shock for everyone once their personalities all started to emerge, because my first and youngest babies are Avox’s, and Tranq’s daughter seems darn-near narcoleptic when you see her side by side with her half-sisters. They’re energy tsunamis.” I smile ruefully. “We all stay together, on the other side of the hedge—” I realize I’m raising my hand to point out the hedge that he can’t have missed. It’s a wall of towering green in front of us. “There are three enclosures in a row so we can raise our family together. My pen is in the middle, Tranq is on my left, and Avox is on my right. This garden we’re in? Keeper takes great pride in it—”
The mean male interrupts. “You’re not allowed to stay together?” There’s a hard edge to his voice.
Hearing it, I hesitate. Many herds allow family units to run together—and if it were up to me, up to most of us, this is the way we’d prefer it. I’m sure this male instinctually feels the same way.
Still, Keeper brought him here, but didn’t place his pen near us, and I have to wonder why this is. This male so far doesn’t seem like he can be friendly enough to run together in a herd.
Then again, most males can’t, not if they have to share their female. Free herds are usually made up of perfectly mated pairs, with no bachelors housed among them. Females who come to maturity are paired quickly or sold, that way there’s no in-fighting in the main herd’s pairs.
While Tranq is comfortable now with sharing me, Avox—no matter how hard he struggles with himself—cannot relax enough to come to terms with me being with Tranq too. He just cannot easily share me. “We raise the children together. They can pass through child-sized doors to visit their fathers. If I’m…” my face heats, even though this has never embarrassed me before. I venture the reaction has something to do with the thread of scorn hanging in the air, “...on suppressants, I can visit either male’s pen too.”
My eyes fall on my dress, where a patch of sunlight is illuminating the colorful, gauzy fabric.
Keeper enjoys decorating us with outfits, but today, before he brought me to this new male’s pen, he had me change outside behind the panel blind. The new dress was much shorter than I’m used to, with brighter colors, and wherever it covered me, it somehow showed more of my skin than it hid. My first thought was the top band was too tight and I’d have to shove it down to breastfeed. (Unlike my regular dresses that reach my neck and wrap my chest with layers that shift aside for each of my breasts to be freed as needed.)
This new outfit was clearly not for the purpose of wholesome breastfeeding. But if it was supposed to inspire great lust in this new male, it failed. I don’t know if he even spared it a look.
I wonder if Keeper is disappointed. He has to be. He put thought and preparation into arranging this. Not just my dress but even down to our enclosures. Before I was led away, Keeper tied me to the outside of my cage, with my surprised and confused babies watching me from the inside. Keeper had smiled at them and opened up the walls of the enclosures to make one big pen, which allowed both males to roam and to mind our children as a pair rather than be separated by bars.
With me not an object to compete for, Avox’s aggression wasn’t triggered. Just his confusion, but that was the same for all of us. The males eyed each other warily.
Keeper had uttered a high-pitched series of vocals that sounded like seeet sveet theeeet chikk. What we understood him to say was, “Behave. Mind the young together. Stay civil.”
Avox became alarmed that I was being removed. “Don’t take her. Please,” he’d called to Keeper.
And I realized he was afraid that I was about to be sold.
I hadn’t even considered the possibility. And I admit—I felt a bolt of shock so strong it made my stomach ill. I trust Keeper, and I know he cares for me very much, but Avox came from a herd facility that was not like this place, with a keeper who didn’t consider the feelings of his humans. That keeper sold Avox’s mother when Avox was only a little boy. It was terrible for him—and terrible for his father, too. It was clear in that moment that Avox was afraid he was about to become his sire—mateless, heartbroken, and facing the task of raising his offspring without their mother.
Keeper had paused, his hands light on my lead, so light I didn’t feel the pressure to move yet. He observed Avox for a long moment, then called him over to the fenceline kindly. “No fretting. I’ll bring your female back to you when it’s time.”
Avox had exhaled the breath he’d been holding in, and his relieved eyes had met mine. He gave me a long look before grabbing up Quinn and tossing her over his shoulder, making her giggle, even as his own face stayed pinched with something that wasn’t quite worry but certainly wasn’t happiness either.
“I don’t think he’ll have me gone long,” I told him. “Not with Molly not accepting enough healthy solid foods yet.”
My youngest will eat anything if it’s sweet, but it’s breastmilk or nothing beyond that. And because of this fact, I expect I’ll be returned to my enclosure before dark, whether I’m bred or not. Keeper will never allow the babies to cry. He doesn’t like to see any of us suffering.
“So your precious zookeeper breaks up your family,” the mean male says, like he’s prompting me to agree with the way things are. But this is only the way he sees them.
“We can’t really stay together as a full family herd,” I try to explain. “Keeper has tried,” I vow, championing him. “But when Avox sees Tranq with me in any way, even kissing, he reacts…”
“Like an asshole?”
“Aggressively,” I correct.
The mean male makes a derisive noise. “Like all of his kind.”
“It’s his nature,” I defend. “He was bred to—”
“Be a violent prick,” the male says scornfully. “And it sounds like he is one.”
“You don’t know him,” I defend again, more.
Yes, Avox was bred to have a body meant for meting out violence, but under the power, past the baser instincts, he’s a normal man, a good man, and that part of him stretches a lightyear long. I stare at the Ornamental, searching for a way to explain this, but I don’t see any chink in his expression, no opening to give me hope that I can change his mind as far as how he’s made it in regards to Avox, as if h
e can judge Avox by whatever of Avox’s fighter-type kind it seems he’s known.
I eye the male before me, taking note that so far, it seems he rushes to judge. He’s also angry and spiteful and unpleasant—clearly, his line was selected for their looks and not their temperaments.
I have to wonder if I’m really the best female to pair him with. I’m too normal to correct the gap in his humanity. This Ornamental needs a female with Tranq’s temperament: extreeeemely nice to balance out the sheer emotional infection curdling in him.
“Come on,” he says somewhat nastily, only proving my point about his nature. “Defend him too. This I have to hear.”
I marshal an even tone and manage to continue even under his irrationally aggressive scrutiny. “Avox is not a violent…”
“Prick,” he supplies, goading. “You take pricks. You should be able to say the word.”
I try to ignore him. “He’s a good male and a great father—”
“Hmm, speaking of him being a father, let’s hear you spin the story of how he fathered his offspring. How’d that go? Did he cover you like a gentleman? Or did he shove you down and make you take him while you squealed? Were you scared, that first time he attacked and climbed on top of you?”
“He didn’t…” I swallow, face burning. He did sort of attack me the first time—and consequently, I had felt fear, because he grabbed me, wrapping his over-large, hard, heavy body around me, over me. His penis had been stiff and insistent, nudging my legs, the insides of my knees, leaving glistening trails of his pre-fluid—and when he grabbed my thighs and butt to lift me up, his swollen shaft had fit unerringly at my entrance, excitedly poised to surge in.
Thanks to Tranq, I hadn’t been new to lovemaking, but this level of aggressive passion was unfamiliar—and so was the male who was about to get passionate with me. I’d been moved into the missionary breeding position with my thighs spread for him so fast, this unfamiliar male’s strength and size was so immense, I was too overwhelmed to do more than cry out. It wasn’t even ‘Stop,’ or ‘Please wait, I don’t even know your name!’ It was just a startled, wordless sound.