Page 5 of Clonely You
I press my hands to my mouth, revolted at the surge of excitement I feel over torturing someone. It’s just that…if Ican find Rafaela…that changes everything. My sister is the last family I have. We’d been taken from Earth at the same time. Captivity made us grow closer than ever before. I could trust her with my life, and she knew I had her back. If the universe fell apart around us, we had each other.
But with Rafaela taken from me, there’s a cold, permanent fist around my heart at the thought of her being enslaved and suffering while I’m safe here on Risda. I’ve tried to get the local authorities to find her, but every refugee here has missing family. My voice gets drowned out. I throw myself into work here on my farm, because work is the only thing I can do. I work, and I save credits, and I dream of the day I can see Rafaela again.
That afternoon, I go about my regular chores. I check on the cattle’s statistics, then run the milk through the pasteurizer. I take one batch and pour my churns full, then hit the button on the wall. It took a bit of rigging, but I’ve managed to make sixteen butter churns hooked together while the machinery pistons them. After a few hours of this, I’ll have butter to tidy up, along with some buttermilk. Is it the most efficient process? No, it is not. Back home, I imagine that any butter farm would laugh at my small set-up. But it’s a way for me to make a living with my livestock and feel decent about it. My stock aren’t meat cattle, but an alternative kind specially bred to continually produce milk for years after a calf is born, so I’m not constantly having to get them pregnant to keep the milk reserves going. I tend to my cattle and take good care of them, and in turn, they take care of me. They let me hook up the milking machines without kicking me and nuzzle me when I pet their heads. It makes me feel less lonely to have them here on the farm with me. Silly but true.
As I move about the barn, getting the last batch of butter cleaned and put away, I examine my tools. I need something that will tie down the stranger. I need something that can act as a torture device. I pick up metal implements and put them down again, eventually deciding on a utility knife instead. I sharpen it and pull some heavy fiber rope from the barn and take it into the house. I don’t have cuffs, but maybe I can make tying him up into a sex game. I’m shaking with nervousness at the thought, but what are my options?
There’s a hiss in the barn as the milking clamps release and the cows dutifully step away, now free. I stare at the milking clamps—just like tiny cuffs, really—and I get an idea.
I watch the road for his return, my hands shaking with anxiety. Everything is ready. I’ve changed into my tightest-fitting tunic and cut the neckline to show a little cleavage. I fluff my curls and bite my lips to give them a little color. At the kitchen table, I’ve draped the chairs in fabric to hide the fact that I’ve tied all kinds of implements to the arms of one. All I have to do is push the fabric aside to grab the pneumatic milkers and snag them on his fingers. I know from working with the cows that once they’re on, they’re impossible to get off without the release button. They need to distract him long enough for me to tie his wrists down with the leg clamps I have for cattle that get a little unruly when being medicated…and then I can torture him for information.
It’s going to be awful, but if it gets me information on Rafaela, I have no choice. I take a deep breath, watching as he approaches my door, and steel myself. Think sexy. Think seductive. Think killer.
I can do this. I can. I can. I can. He wouldn’t think twice about destroying me, so I must harden myself and think along the same lines.
I can do this.
Opening the door before he can knock, I pin my sultriest smile to my face and give him a coy look. “Welcome back, stranger.”
“My name is Aithar,” he tells me with a bright smile. He smells like fresh soap, as if he showered before coming over, and his eyes are eager as he looks me over. “You are more beautiful than I remember.”
“Flatterer.” I step aside and indicate he should enter, a calm sweeping over me. “You’re here for the butter?”
“I am.” He comes inside, looking around with interest.
“Just the butter?” I tease, walking behind him and letting my fingertips snake down his back.
That makes him turn. He gazes at me thoughtfully, and for a moment, he looks really, really young. No, not young, I decide, because he could be twenty, or he could be thirty. His features are fully adult, but there’s a strange naivete in his expressions.
He’s an excellent actor. I remember how hard his laugh was when he separated Rafaela from me. How he’d kicked me in the gut and left me behind in the slave pens. There was no warmth in his gaze then, and it’s deceiving to see it now.
“If butter is all you are comfortable with, then yes, I am here solely for butter.” Aithar smiles again. “I am happy to let you lead the way.”
“Is that so?” I practically purr at him. I take his hand and lead him toward one of the prepared chairs. There are no calluses on his palm despite the scrawl of tattoos that cover his knuckles and the back of his hand. It’s a strange contrast. “Come have a seat, and let me get a good look at you.”
He’s got no clue of what I plan, I think, because he immediately thumps into the seat I steer him toward, and his gaze remains locked on me. Those bright eyes devour me with fascination, watching my every move. I take his hand again and he lets me.
Playing with one finger, I lick my lips. “How were you hoping tonight would go, sweetheart?”
He tilts his head, thinking. “I was hoping you would have a great deal of butter. And that you would talk to me. Tell me about yourself. Mostly I am hoping to hear you talk more. You have the most attractive voice.”
It’s a compliment I’ve never heard before. Most men that want to get laid lavish attention on my thick curls (which are fantastic), my full lips (pouty and sexy) or my tits and ass (both equally incredible). My voice is not something that’s normally called out. “You say the sweetest things.” I toy with another finger. “What do you want me to tell you? What I’d do to you?”
He swallows visibly. “If you like. Or you can tell me about you.”
I’m not interested in telling him anything about me that he can turn into a weapon. I continue to smile, easing his hand down near the arm of the chair even as I play with his fingers. “Well…I make butter…and…”
I flick the fabric aside and grab one of the udder clamps and slip it onto his finger.
“And I use a lot of these things.”
He eyes his clamped finger thoughtfully as I quickly lash his other arm to the chair. Either his reflexes are slow, or he’s more distracted than I thought, because he doesn’t fight back. He simply wiggles his trapped finger as I tighten his other arm to the chair, and move back to the one he’s got the clamp on. I move with haste, holding my breath as I lash him down. When bothof his arms are trapped, I allow the tiniest, freaked-out laugh to bubble up in my throat.
That was too easy. Way too easy. I…can’t believe I did it. Incredible.
I pace away a step, pressing a hand to my brow, and take what feels like the first breath in the last ten minutes. I’ve got him trapped. Now the real work can begin.
I look over at Aithar—my enemy. He eyes the thing attached to his finger and looks up at me. His gaze remains bright. Interested. “What are we doing?”