The Pet Project: Unnatural Selection--a Kept In Alien Captivity Romance

by Amanda Milo

  Keeper turns the spray power down on the waterfall feature so that the water isn’t crashing on us.

  I ease back into the deeper portion of the pool, and Quinn follows me but Ava and Molly are apprehensive.

  Keeper steps in and by silent agreement, we play with them in a way that guides them to float on our hands. They even test out swimming, which they’ve never really had a chance to do before. Once they realize they aren’t sinking, they love it, and when Keeper opens up the shampoo bottle for another try at hair-washing, there’s only a little whimpering. Unlike the struggle during bath time, the swim-play keeps smiles on their faces even as their hair gets coated and rinsed free of suds.

  I’m enjoying myself just watching their happiness. I even tune out Ornamental when he calls, “Look at you, training your puppies to swim doggy-paddle.”

  He doesn’t say it in a biting tone; he doesn’t sound mean at all. But referring to my children as reviled dogs is no joke to me.

  Keeper’s eyes narrow slightly and he glances back at Ornamental, but when he sees I’m studiously ignoring the male, Keeper lets the comment go and returns to splashing handfuls of water at the girls, who are begging him to splash them more. It’s a surprisingly breezy day, but the sun is fantastic and keeps the water plenty comfortable for them. They laugh, shriek, and play.

  They’re especially thrilled by the soap bubbles that have filled the fountain.

  “This worked,” Keeper announces proudly as the girls spend a good hour popping bubbles, not wanting to leave the bath for the first time in their lives.

  ***

  Hours later, in the middle of the night, Quinn wakes up sobbing. She’s holding the side of her head. She says her ear hurts.

  “What’s wrong?” Tranq calls from his pen.

  Avox asks, “Is that Quinn? Did she have a bad dream?”

  Sometimes when the girls have bad dreams, they want to see their dads for additional comfort. Quinn is our easy baby to soothe.

  Whatever is wrong now though will take more to treat it than a snuggle in strong, protective male arms.

  I carry Quinn out, bringing her from one side of the pen to the other. “She says it’s her ear. She must have an earache from playing in the water today.”

  “It was probably the breeze,” Ornamental calls.

  I try to make him out across the garden, but all I see in his pen are shadows.

  “I get earaches if there’s a cool breeze when I’m sprayed down,” he shares. “You’ll have to see if you can plug her ears during bath time next time.”

  His advice is devoid of heat or hatred, and in my concerned state, as I carry my sobbing daughter, I appreciate the respite from his more typical comments.

  Keeper appears at our door, dragging a hand back and forth over his face, bleary-eyed and looking troubled. He enters, and he motions for me to give him Quinn. I pass her to him and she melts into his hug, but when he whistles to her, she clutches her ear and cries harder.

  The sharpness of his vocalizations have hurt her worse.

  Keeper is distraught. He waves me out of the pen, retrieves Molly and Ava from their beds, and takes us right to his house.

  CHAPTER 8

  I yawn.

  “You look like shit. He kept all of you in an exam building overnight?” Ornamental asks. “Did he split you up or did you get to stay with her?”

  I send him a tired glare.

  “What?” he asks, looking genuinely curious. “Seriously. What happened after he took you away?”

  We’re walking abreast of each other on a garden walk. Keeper arrived to lead me out for the excursion, saw how tired I looked—and told me to stay and rest. But I told him I was fine to go. I’m caught in that weird loop where I’m too tired to sleep. I’m hoping that after I stretch my legs, I’ll be able to drop next to the girls and finally nap. If nothing else, I should sleep well by tonight. To Ornamental’s question, I sigh and respond, “No. He kept us in the house.”

  “The fuck you say.”

  I shrug. He doesn’t have to believe me. “He does anytime one of us gets sick.”

  “With three little kids pissing everywhere?”

  I toss him a bewildered glance. “They don’t piss every—haven’t you ever been housetrained?”

  He snorts around his stud chain. “No, I’m not a damn dog.”

  It’s my turn to finally be able to send a smirk at him. “Yeah? Humans used to live in houses too you know. They would have had to train themselves—”

  “‘They?’ Did you just refer to your own species as ‘they?’ I think you mean ‘we.’ At some point in history—you’re right. We must have.”

  Damn. I ruined my smirking opportunity. Thus, I don’t respond to his correction. I train my eyes ahead and try to enjoy the scenery.

  “So… an alien let a baby cry in his house?”

  If he didn’t sound so genuinely perplexed, I wouldn’t deign to answer. But he really sounds flabbergasted. I rub at my tired eyes. “Once he put medicine in her ear, she stopped crying and fell asleep.”

  “Why didn’t he take you back out to your cage then?”

  “Because when she woke up not too long after, she started crying again. Since he was right there, he was able to administer another dose of medication immediately. It was a good thing he didn’t return us because, unfortunately, the pattern repeated for what was left of the night.”

  “Huh.”

  “But no matter what the reason is for taking us in at night, he always lets us stay the rest of the night. It’s just easier with children to let them sleep once they’re down rather than shuffling back and forth.”

  Ornamental looks like he’s deep in thought over this. Lots of things seem to be turning him quieter, more thoughtful. For example, Keeper surprised us a few hours ago by arriving at midday. His movements seemed rushed but he wasn’t brusque with Quinn when he motioned—rather than whistle-called—her to him and administered her medication. He gave us all treats—even trotting all the way across the garden to Ornamental and handing him a treat too before he left for wherever he goes.

  Ornamental actually took the offered treat right from Keeper’s hands today without being sullen about it—he drew it from Keeper’s fingers slowly and thoughtfully. He still stared at Keeper with a wary mistrust, but it sure appeared like a step in the domesticated direction. At least I thought so—and it’s apparent that Keeper considered it to be too, because he smiled and used an unfamiliar word in a praising tone.

  He uses it again now, even reaching out and placing his hand on Ornamental’s head. “Schweeeet.”

  I bite my lip when Ornamental tenses—then slumps a little and sighs.

  “I’ve never heard him say that word until he called you it today,” I share. “I think he wants it to be your new name.”

  Ornamental sends me a sharp look. “I don’t care what he wants. I’m never going to answer to schweet.”

  I can’t bite back my smile. “It really doesn’t fit you, does it?”

  Ornamental huffs, almost returning my smile. But then he sobers and moves his gaze forward as we pass low hanging foliage. “Normally they don’t name me unless they’re planning on trying to keep me a while.”

  His shoulder brushes mine, and where I might have jerked away at any other time, right now, I must be too exhausted to care.

  “What’s your real name?” I ask.

  His jaw turns hard, and I wonder why. “I don’t have one.”

  “Someone must have called you something…” I prompt.

  He stares at another tree like it spit on him. “Freak. I was raised being called ‘Freak.’”

  I wait a beat, until I realize he’s serious.

  He must catch my shock. His jaw works, making the ring of his stud chain lightly bounce against his cheek. “I was raised by a surrogate. I don’t know who my mother was. I don’t know if she got sick or died or if she just flat out rejected me, but I’m alive because a half-Ornamental wet nurse fed and ra
ised me, but she hated me because her baby was sold so that I, the more valuable full-Ornamental specimen, could be kept as a future breeding male.”

  I’ve heard about farms that, due to limited funds or space or interest, cull their stock hard, keeping only the humans who will contribute in some way to the keeper’s selective breeding program.

  When raising livestock, this method is understandable. When raising people, it’s a lot harder to come to terms with. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  He doesn’t say anything more, but I can’t let this go now that I know he has no real name. “What do you want to be called?”

  Thankfully, he lets a burst of humor color his eyes once more. “I don’t know, but I sure as hell don’t trust this guy to give me anything decent. He tosses his head derisively, making his face gear jangle.

  “He’s normally good at it,” I point out.

  “You would say that. Yours is like…” He trills almost a perfect imitation of Keeper’s name for me.

  The sound means something like obedient, refined young woman. It’s a term of endearment keepers often use with young females (as well as elder females that a keeper wants to compliment) but Keeper called me by the endearment so often, I realized it had become my name here.

  The imitation of the sound is so incredibly executed that Keeper comes to a complete stop, amazed—which causes Ornamental’s stud chain to tug his head sharply to the side.

  Keeper actually screeches an apology—rushing forward and bending down, catching Ornamental by the face, patting his cheek in regret. He instantly attempts to stuff a treat at his mouth.

  Ornamental tries to shake him off. “Get off me. It’s fine. Sort of funny that you fucked up this time, not me.”

  But Keeper isn’t satisfied. It’s clear he feels he needs to make amends for correcting Ornamental by accident. He reaches for the clasp behind Ornamental’s head and takes the chain off of his face.

  Ornamental looks stunned, his hands hanging in the air where he’d started to push Keeper away, clearly not expecting to be trusted with freedom.

  Keeper offers him a treat again.

  This time, Ornamental takes it.

  “What about Tarzan?” I ask.

  Ornamental had just taken a bite of his food. At my suggestion, he chokes on it. “Hell nowf.”

  “Well, you have been kind of wild.”

  He swallows the rest of his treat and stares at me like I’ve turned lunatic.

  “What’s your favorite color?” I ask him.

  “Suede brown, like your eyes,” he returns.

  I frown at him.

  “What?” he asks, scowling at me. “You asked.”

  I roll my eyes and turn my attention to the path ahead of us again. “I’m waiting for the insult. Let me guess, you’ll say it’s more proof I’m really a dog?”

  He glances at me sharply. “No. I mean it. I’m not trying to be a dick. I like that color. That’s it.”

  This answer seals my lips.

  “Come on,” he prompts. “You asked me for a reason. What names did you have in mind when you asked for my favorite color?”

  “I figured you’d say black, and I thought Obsidian was a cool name.”

  His nose wrinkles and his lip even starts to curl.

  “But okay,” I say quickly, “you said you like brown, so what about Pecan?”

  He rears away from me, actually startling Keeper.

  Seeing Keeper’s reaction, Ornamental laughs. But then he shakes his head at me. “How the hell did you name your own kids? You get lucky with decent names three times in a row, or did your husbands pick?”

  Stung, I tsk at him. “You’ll have to forgive me. As you pointed out, I have girls, and I’ve only ever named girls.” (Although yes, Tranq and Avox chose the girls’ first names and they did tease me about my wilder choices. Thus, we agreed that I got to choose whatever I wanted for all of their middle names—information I do not share with Ornamental.) “I don’t have any practice at picking boy names.”

  “That’s pretty damn obvious.”

  “What about Kory?” I try.

  “Kory?” he asks, looking perplexed. “Where’d that come from? How’s that a color?”

  “Like Hickory,” I explain. “You know, a shade of brown? Hickory. Kory.”

  He grunts. We walk all the way back to our pens, and Keeper is returning him to his when Ornamental calls over his shoulder, “Kory’s fine.”

  CHAPTER 9

  It’s normal to start the day with Keeper grooming the girls and me, since our hair is longer and takes more care than the men, and because Keeper likes to groom us. It’s a pastime he takes enjoyment in every day. But once a week, when he doesn’t have to run off to wherever he has to go for work, he takes his time grooming the males’ faces too, and trims their hair, keeping it short. Although, in deference to my personal preference, he keeps Tranq’s a little longer. Tranq has the softest hair, and before we had three children who needed to be shielded from adult activities, there were many occasions throughout the day and nights where I found myself grabbing his hair like handholds. I sigh wistfully at the memories, before smiling at the results of one such indulgent day.

  I ruffle Quinn’s hair, making her grin and glance up at me before returning to the toy Keeper gave her to play with.

  Anyway, after so many years, I can trust Keeper’s trimmers. He knows how I like my mate’s hair to look.

  Avox is the last male to be groomed today, and rather than it taking place inside of his pen, he’s taken out, leashed to his cage’s wall, sprayed down, shaved until his head and face are smooth, and his body gets fitted for a fight. He wears dark pants that fit nicely at his hips, the material relaxing as the fabric travels down his legs. They’re almost shiny, with a surface slick enough that no one can easily grab onto it and use it as much of an anchor during matches. His chest and arms stay bare.

  “Good luck,” Tranq calls to him as Keeper finishes up last-minute preparations before leading him away.

  “DAD!”

  “Dadddd…”

  “Dah!” the girls call, lining up along the wall of the cage, trying to see Avox around the privacy blind that he gets washed and dressed behind.

  He steps from behind the blind and waggles his fingers through the bars. “Right here, ladies.”

  “Be safe!” the girls tell him, which they’ve heard me say, and Ava and Quinn wish him good luck, parroting what they just heard Tranq say.

  Avox stretches the length of his lead to reach in and hold them to the bars, like hugs, telling them to be good and that he’ll see them tomorrow morning—and then he does the same to me—but he drags me right up for a kiss through the fence.

  The girls giggle, Tranq whistles—which always makes Keeper jerk and start—and then Avox releases me. Keeper waves to us before he leads Avox to the transporter that will take them to a fight.

  ***

  It’s night when Avox returns sweaty, breathing hard, and pacing his transport crate like he’s just barely able to stop himself from ripping his way out of it.

  If I were on suppressants like I usually am, Keeper would leave Avox where he is, peek his head in my sleeping den to make sure the girls were out cold, and then he’d lead me to the crate and unlock the door. Avox would drag me inside with him where we’d mate like wild animals.

  Tonight though, Keeper lines up the transport crate’s door with Avox’s cage door so that my mate has nowhere else to go but inside his pen.

  Avox charges out and leaps on our joined fence.

  Keeper sighs, shaking his head when he sees some of the bars have bent from the force of being hit.

  Avox isn’t sparing Keeper a thought, let alone the damage he’s wrought. His stare on me is piercing, hungry—no, starving.

  He’s always worked up after a fight.

  His primal need for me always drives me wild. As Keeper breaks down the transport crate, folding it in on itself for storage elsewhe
re, I’m being wooed by a beast of a man. It’s not long before Avox has me sucking on his fingers while he uses the fingers of his other to caress between my legs.

  Meanwhile, Avox is going mad with not being able to reach me. He pulls his fingers from my mouth and orders me to turn around. When I do, he tries to grab and position my hips so that he can force his swollen penis through the bars for a fence breeding.

  “Avox, no!” I warn breathily. Not because I don’t want him—ohhh, I do—I would really, really like him to drag me up on my toes and jerk me onto his length, make me ride him despite the metal barrier that stands between us—but Keeper has us separated for a reason.

  Avox grunts and releases my hips.

  I throw a look over my shoulder, knowing what—who, rather—made him stop. Keeper hasn’t even had time to get behind a privacy blind. He’s in full view, arms crossed, the half disassembled crate at his feet—but his face isn’t marked with disapproval or even surprise. He knows how excited fighting makes Avox.

  And breathing heavily, Avox is rubbing his neck—because to stop him, Keeper corrected him. Unfortunately for Avox, a regular collar’s corrections don’t have enough of an effect on him. When his blood is up—which he says happens when he’s fighting or fucking—he needs the sort of strike that could stop a train. The collar he wears is oversized and ‘packs a punch’—therefore, I know this means what he just got hit with was painful. And all he wanted was me. His mate.

  Him getting a correction makes me sad.

  “Here,” I say softly, getting to my knees.

  “I cannot wait to sink myself inside your pussy,” Avox vows.

  He groans when I wrap my mouth around him instead.

  I have to pull back twice to remind him to be quiet, which only makes his growls more guttural, his soft curses sound more deadly.

  When he comes, I lick him clean, and then I stand, shaking the pins and needles feeling from my feet.

  “Dress off, precious. And put your sweet ass against the bars,” he orders.

  I glance at his still-hard cock apprehensively. Keeper is still right here.