The wrong guy – The buyers
A stand-alone interdimensional milking tale
A young man living on planet Herschel Majoris discovers that his horniness has its limits.
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The wrong guy – The buyers
One month later
Over-keeper Protheroe stood in his office with two guests. They were tri-pedal, standing taller than the average man, with slender, vaguely treelike bodies with six arms in a circle around their torsos. They had lean faces, not entirely dissimilar to the fictitious grey aliens that had preoccupied Earth mythology for a while in the 20 and 21st centuries. However, their skin was textured like that of an octopus, and beneath, it was filled with chromatophores that enabled it to change colour at will or with mood. Their mouths were vertical slits, trisected by two vertical membranes, giving their faces a strangely delicate, refined look.
To the ignorant, the Vrdralet’s fine features and slender bodies might make them look weak, but these creatures had no need for physical prowess. Their strength lay in the power of their minds. They could drop an attacker in its tracks causing telepathically-induced pain, or even invoking terminal embolisms or heart attacks with the same ease as a grown man could ward off an attack by a two-year-old child. Fortunately, they were not at all violent, but Protheroe treated them with great respect nevertheless.
He watched as one of the creatures picked up a pipe-like glass flask from the presentation table. The flask was 9 inches tall, but just two across, with straight vertical sides and made of expensive crystal. It was half-filled with creamy coloured gloopy liquid: semen, collected from one of the rascals down below. The alien lifted the flask to its face and a long, snake-like tongue emerged from the central aperture and it sucked some of the semen into its mouth, testing it. After a moment, a second feeding tube emerged from the left facial aperture and dipped into the semen. Then a third emerged from the right and did likewise. Each tube detected different components and flavours in the semen.
Protheroe could see the semen level drop half an inch as the creature sucked a little fluid into its mouth. Then all three tongues retracted, their tips still wet. The apertures momentarily closed and it made a quiet lip-smacking noise as it savoured the liquid.
The rough skin of its face and upper torso flushed pink; a sign that it was happy. Then Protheroe heard its voice in his mind.
“This one is pleasant. A little thick, but with a hint of fructose.”
The voice had a strangely fractured tone – as though delivered through a voice synthesiser whose batteries were failing.
The creature handed the flask to its companion who also tasted the contents before flushing blue in agreement.
The second creature handed the flask to Protheroe.
“Would you like to place a regular order?” the man asked.
“Maybe, how much can you supply?”
“I’m glad you like it George.”
The aliens came from a planet 40 light years away: local even in galactic terms. They did not have names in the same way that humans did. Instead, they identified each other using complex patterns of colours that swirled across their faces and torsos. Humans were not capable of even DETECTING some of the colours, and trying to express them verbally was as clumsy as trying to precisely describe a landscape with a single word. As a courtesy, the aliens adopted human names. This one was George, although it was not male. The other one was Susan, but it was not female. They had a strong sense of humour and adopting vaguely silly human names amused them.
Protheroe looked at the label on the side of the flask and saw Vash’s name.
“This donor is quite fertile. I think I can guarantee half, maybe even a whole litre per day.”
“That’s good. We’ll take all you have.”
George looked to the table. There were 20 flasks at this tasting, but only two that had not been sampled. He picked up one of them. It only contained two inches of nearly clear fluid. He looked at Protheroe and flushed green then purple. The man was still unused to the meaning of all the various nuances of emotion represented by the colours.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“Not much nectar.”
“No, this one is younger. He has not been producing long.”
George supped the fluid in the same way a cowboy might imbibe sipping whiskey.
“There is a unique charm to nectar from the less mature ones. It is more… delicate. Less flavoursome with fewer seedlings, but its sparsity is also special. It vacates the frppthl.”
Protheroe did not know the word, but he assumed it was the Vrdralet equivalent of “palate.”
“How much of this can you offer?” George asked.
“Right now, maybe 100 millilitres per day, but you know how it is; once the rascals start juicing, our shakers quickly increase their capacity.”
“Yes, but then it will lose its purity. I’ll take what you can manage as long as it remains fresh and light.”
George picked up the last flask and sipped again.
“Oh yes, this is wonderful! The perfect texture. Not too thick, but still slimy, and not too dense with seedlings. A delicious sweetness, and again that delightful hint of fructose. This is a real winner. Have you tasted it Potho?”
It always amused the over-keeper that even telepathic aliens had trouble pronouncing certain words.
“No, I haven’t. I don’t have a taste for semen, I mean nectar the way that you do.”
“You really must. This is exceptional.”
George handed the flask to Protheroe. The man had no desire whatsoever to taste the contents of the flask; boy semen; but his Vrdralet guests paid so much for the supply, it would be unwise to decline and risk offending them.
Protheroe tipped the flask to his lips and allowed a little of the cool slime to pour onto his tongue. He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get the full flavour. The semen was mostly insipid, but he could indeed detect an undercurrent of sweetness. He mixed it with saliva and forced himself to swallow.
“I’m afraid I’m no connoisseur as you are George.”
“Then we shall have to teach you. How can you provide the finest youngling nectar if you don’t recognise its numerous merits and subtleties?”
Protheroe gave a polite but awkward smile.
“I’ll have to forego your kind offer George. I really don’t much enjoy their juice. I expect it’s down to a difference in our taste buds. I’m quite happy to leave the sampling to you.”
“Ah of course,” George conceded, trilling his mouth membranes graciously. “In fact, we don’t have taste buds as humans do. We have sampling villi. It is a pity though, that you cannot enjoy this wonderful nectar as we do.”
“But the tastings enable me to enjoy your charming company.”
George’s skin changed through a rainbow of colours that indicated great happiness.
“You are very kind Potho.”
Protheroe offered the flask Susan, and the alien accepted it, changing colour to indicate gratitude at not being excluded. The Vrdralet were a very peaceful, friendly species, and they valued courtesy exceptionally highly. Although Susan was George’s budling, and thus very slightly subordinate, the creature appreciated the courtesy.
George turned to its offspring.
Susan flushed pink and gossamer thin membranes flickered up and down across its multi-faceted eyes.
“Yes, it’s really most exceptional…” it said, and colours washed across its surface to indicate George’s name.
George returned his attention to Protheroe.
“It seems you saved the best until last. It is, to use a human expression, a hit. Now how much of that can you provide.”
Again, Protheroe looked at the label on the flask. It showed Kim’s name.
“Ahh yes, another new guest. Kim has only been with us one month. At the moment his pebbles are still developing. He can squirt 30 – 40 times a day, but not with much volume. I think that we would be fortunate to collect more than 250 millilitres per day from him; if that.”
George turned to Susan and a rapid display of colours flashed across their faces as they silently conversed. George returned to Proteroe.
“Yes, that would be an excellent idea Susan.”
Protheroe tilted his head in query and George explained.
“Susan suggested that we could mix the last and third but last to make a fine blend. Then we’ll have the volume of the first but supplemented by the sweetness of the last. It’ll be perfect. Yes, your best vintage yet.”
“That sounds like a very good suggestion. You may be interested to know that numbers 18 and 20 are friends. They grew up out in the fringes, on farms; what we would call “farm boys.” So maybe the fresh air and good living has made their juice sweeter?”
“If that’s the case,” Susan interjected, “you must be sure to save the nectar of all your future farm boys for us.”
A riot of psychedelic colours played across its whole body, and it started shaking violently from head to toe, bouncing up and down on its legs. George joined in, mirroring Susan’s behaviour.
Protheroe grinned widely. He never tired of seeing the Vrdralet laughing and they laughed easily. Eventually he prompted them gently to the business at hand.
“So, you’ll take all we have of the last three?”
George’s colours slowly returned to normal.
“Yes, plus the 4th, 7th and 12th. They will serve as base to drink with meals. The fine vintages are too good to sully with other flavours.”
“What a shame it loses its taste as they grow older,” Susan added.
Over-keeper Protheroe smiled.
“I think you will have many more years from these rascals before that will become a problem.”