Alien Pet (mxmxm)

.4

BENNETT

        I was beginning to think myself a bit on the slow side. It took me literal days to grasp the stark reality of my new predicament—I was being groomed for servitude. However, the predators in this scenario were an alien race well-versed in the art of buying and selling luxury commodities. Living, luxury commodities. At my age, one would think falling for the lost-puppy-and-van act would be embarrassing. Still, I couldn't say that was what this was, I hadn't fallen for any trick, only gotten lost on a mountain really. Dumb in its own right, but it didn't exactly warrant being kidnapped.  Spacenapped?

Still, I recognized similarities to what escorts and sex workers endured when they went through training. Lessons were conveyed in silence sure, leaving me baffled about how these aristocrats communicate amongst themselves, but they were lessons all the same. The absence of overt communication wasn't necessarily better than being talked about like I wasn't in the room, but it could be worse. I could hear and understand the shitty things they were saying about me. It was almost better not knowing, even if I was beyond confused half the time. And don't get me wrong, it certainly made things like saying no or don't touch hard to convey, but even if he had been able to communicate his disdain it seemed unlikely the aristocrats would care.

'Aristocrat' no longer seemed fitting for their species as a whole. It was evident they maintained a hierarchical structure. There were unmistakable guards—tall, lean figures clad in lightweight armor, wielding long staffs akin to spears. The house workers resembled apparitions, reminiscent of butlers or slaves, flitting about in the background clad in plain monochromatic tunics. Then there were the overseers, whom I bitterly referred to as this species version of an 'extraterrestrial pimps.' I harbored a profound dislike for them above all else of their kind. With their ostentatious, vivid robes and excessive jewelry. They spent hours dressing me up like I was some kind of tall, sending their worker bee's to and fro, procuring a variety of silks and jewels. A mere nod from them set the workers into motion without a sound, dressing me in a million different fabrics, styling my hair despite its stubborn habit to bounce right back where it wanted to be, trimming my and cleaning my nails for what seemed like the thousandth time, and poking and prodding just about every crevice of my body till it was to their liking.

During one distressing instance when I had finally lashed out, slapping away a worker's hand that was attempting to shave me in an area that I absolutely did not want foreign hands or a blade, the situation had escalated quickly and had been halted just as swiftly. I found myself held down by a guard while the worker resumed their task—everywhere. The humiliation was compounded by the scrutinizing gaze of the pimps, who either approved of the butler's work or, god forbid if it wasn't to their liking. Subjected me to the ordeal repeatedly until they were satisfied. The appalling lack of humanity in their treatment was unsettling, I didn't think they saw me as sentient, but as like a badly behaved pet of sorts. I felt reduced to a small, feisty dog, barking and biting, only to be picked up and maneuvered at the guard's discretion to appease the whims of the pimps.

Days passed like that, in a monotonous routine of montone stone as far as the eye could see, drowning in sheer fabrics and jewelry I had no interest seeing on my body. Despite dedicating numerous days dodging guards, and mapping out the building's maybe long endless hallways, I couldn't locate any door leading outside or a window signaling a possible exit. Going home seemed like a distant daydream I had simply made up to pass the time. My reality was a deep monotone grey, and I didn't know how much longer I could fight the emotions pressing down on me. The anxiety was squeezing the life from me. 

They made sure to feed me regularly, almost excessively, to restore my body from the gaunt, emaciated state I had been in when captured by the Bantys, transforming me slowly into a toned, healthy-looking individual. I underwent a meticulous grooming regimen, from bathing to oiling and moisturizing to plucking and waxing, until my skin gleamed, smooth, and tanned without a single blemish every night before bed. The attire they selected for me primarily consisted of sheer or barely-existent outfits, hinting at some preparation for something I vehemently refused to partake in. Despite the absence of direct communication, I made my stance on the matter very clear, causing chaos and mischief whenever I could. But even I was growing tired of the act, and every day it became more obvious the pimps knew it to.