Pets 2: Pani's Story (9 page)

“Why does everything you eat taste so foul!” she cried, shuddering expressively before tossing back the bottle for another long drought.

She was so busy sucking down formula that she barely offered so much as a protesting squeak when he diapered her, popped her into her sleepsack and put her to bed early. The sun was still up, for crying out loud. But under the circumstances, she supposed she ought to be grateful she wasn’t immediately rushed to the nearest Vet.

Day Two of the Great Communication Effort didn’t fare much better. She woke up determined to make him understand her and chose her venue toward that goal by talking to him.

Nonstop.

She talked about soap and toes and shampoos in general the whole time they were in the shower. She talked about all the little nooks and crannies where she really wished he wouldn’t 38

insist so stubbornly on washing her and that she could even do that herself if he’d just relinquish control of the wash cloth. She talked about how silly these little girl clothes made her feel, and how much she disliked braids in general while he brushed out her waist-length hair, braided and then be-ribboned them to hang over her shoulders. She talked all the way through breakfast, except while she was sucking (and if she could have found a way to do that and suck at the same time, she would have). She sat in the highchair, talking while he washed up afterwards, and then followed him through the house, talking nonstop while he swept the kitchen floor, sat at his computer, watered and spritzed what few house plants there were in the windows of the living room and kitchen.

Papa never did catch on to what she wanted, but Judy did learn a new word. It was ‘hush’

and it was reinforced with a single squirt from the water bottle he’d been using to spray down the plants. That one word was all he said, but unlike Papa, Judy could take a hint. She let it go for the day, but bright and early the next morning, she was ready to try again. She waited until Papa disappeared into the kitchen to do the washing up and then she quickly worked her way out of the straps. Darting into the living room, she scrambled up onto his chair in front of his computer, finding a sheet of paper and pen. Now, what to write…what to write…

She quickly drew something recognizable: a simple box house with a triangle roof. She was a writer, after all; not an artist. She put a tree on one corner, then a giant-sized stick-figure Papa next to a smaller stick-figure Judy.

When Papa came out of the kitchen, at first upset to find her out of her chair, he froze when he saw the picture she quickly held up.

“House,” she said, and pointed at the corresponding picture before sliding her finger along the page to indicate the larger of the two stick figures. “Tak’buh.” And then, “Judy.” A few slow steps closed the distance between them as he looked first at the picture and then at her.

Dropping the picture back on his desk, she quickly drew speech bubbles coming from the mouths of each stick figure and then held it up again so she could point to each one in turn. “Me and you,” she said and, hoping it wouldn’t lead to another quick trip to the bathroom, she again pantomimed words coming from her mouth. “Talking.” He reached for the picture, taking it from her to look at it. He hummed, his eyebrows arching as he tipped the picture into the light, gazing on it as if it were a newly discovered Picasso. But Judy’s initial eureka-we’ve-struck-brains excitement faded into disappointment when he patted her on the head and turned and walked away. The picture was hung on the wall above the fireplace mantel; the alien equivalent of sticking it to the fridge with magnets, no doubt. And by sundown, her collection of toys had grown to include a coloring book and box of crayon-like sticks in every rainbow shade imaginable.

Frustrated and depressed, Judy put herself to bed, rolling over to face the wall and pulling the blankets up over her head.

On Day Four, she almost didn’t bother, but as Papa pulled her up out of bed and began their morning routine, she half-heartedly gave it one more try. Standing under the spray of the warm shower, grimly watching as he scrubbed himself into a soapy lather and knowing her turn was coming up next, Judy suddenly reached up and poked him in the chest. He tipped forward, 39

letting the running water wash the soap from his face—splattering the top of her head in the process—and then, blinking blearily, looked down at her. He probably would have poked her back had she not painstakingly gestured to the cake of soap in his hand and, enunciating carefully, said, “Soap.”

He looked at the bar of soap.

She pointed to herself. “Pani.”

He looked at her and though she again pointed to the soap, his eyes fixed on her, his dark gaze sharpening with sudden understanding. “H’ng,” he said as the tip of her finger fell in line with the bar he gripped.

“Whung?” she echoed, already bracing herself to be disappointed yet again when h’ng turned out to be anything but soap.

“H’ng,” he corrected, unsmiling as they studied one another with equal measures of intensity. When he lowered himself to one knee, coming almost to a level with her, she reached up to catch a wet, stringy lock of her own reddish-blonde hair. “Tlih,” he said promptly.

Eureka.

“Pani tlee,” she said, holding her hair out for confirmation, and then gesturing at his own short-cropped locks, “Papa tlee.”

Papa nodded once, firmly, patiently correcting her pronunciation, “Tlih.” Judy threw her head back with a sharp laugh, clapping her hands once at the accomplishment. “Finally! I didn’t think you were ever going to get it.” He stood up slowly, his face strangely unreadable as he continued to study her. But then he simply took her shoulder, and once more they were Papa and Pani in the shower, doing their morning routine. Judy obligingly turned when he gestured and tipped back her head so he could wash her tlih.

She closed her eyes, a smile curving her lips as she considered how much better things would get once they could understand one another. Once he understood that she was her own person and not his little girl or some well-trained animal to be collared, leashed or owned. As his gentle fingers combed soap through her hair, feeling confident in her plans, Judy even allowed herself a small measure of enjoyment in his touch.

He murmured at her, something probably very close to “Good, Pani,” as he worked the lather into a thick white crown all around her face and shoulders. Streams of suds tickled down her back and between her breasts, flowing in rivulets of warm water as he carefully rinsed the shampoo away. Rinse, lather, repeat. Papa was nothing if not thorough, and by the time he was ready to leave her head and start in on the rest of her, Judy was so relaxed that she almost didn’t mind when his soapy hands began to stroke across her skin.

He started at her head, washing her face with painstaking gentleness. She swept her hands up across her face when he let her rinse, repeating his soothing, “Good, Pani,” compliment when she obediently put her hands back to her sides as soon as she could see again.

“Judy,” she corrected, holding still while he re-soaped his cloth to scrub down the rest of her. His hands slid up and down her back, her buttocks, her legs all the way to her ankles and feet. When he nudged her shoulder, she obediently turned but looked away when he lay his hand upon her breasts. Her nipples responded to the caress of the soapy cloth, pursing into stiff little 40

peaks.

“It’s not you, it’s the water,” she said, softly clearing her throat and trying not to hunch her shoulders as the softness of the cloth became that much coarser with every pass. Her face flushed, but she stole a quick peek down between his legs. Breath-takingly huge but still flaccid; obviously, this was still a far more personal experience for her than him. Even when his hand left the soapy circles of her stomach behind and slipped down between her thighs instead, teasing the folds of her labia to open, letting his fingertips glide in between with an intimacy that had her grabbing at the walls for balance. Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and heat that had nothing to do with the water flushed her face and chest. Unable to stop it, she caught his arm instead. For stability. Certainly, she knew better than to try and push his hand away.

“Pani,” he cautioned.

“Mm,” was the closest she came to a moan when his fingers began to move again, slipping soapily back and forth along the slit of her, gliding over and around her clit with every pass. “M-my name is Judy,” she whispered.

He tipped his head, watching closely as he took special notice of that highly sensitive bump he’d just rediscovered. She grabbed his wrist again, fighting herself with everything she had to keep from either pushing at his arm or jerking her hips away.

“Pani,” he said again. Drawling each syllable. His tone deepening with disapproval.

“Judy,” she moaned hoarsely. Her knees weakened and her hips—struggle though she did to hold as still and unfeeling as a statue—ever so faintly undulated in time with the rolling of his caressing fingers. “And boy, do I have a thing or two to say to you…just as soon as I learn how!”

* * * * *

She was Pani, the wonder pet. She sat, she stayed, she talked—she just didn’t say anything of any importance whatsoever.

“Communication, my big toe,” Judy grumbled, slumping down as far as she could, strapped as she was into her highchair. “I’m a parrot, that’s what I am.” Papa slipped the tray onto the highchair to complete her confinement, ruffled her hair (ignoring it when she jerked her head to one side in order to evade his touch) and headed into the kitchen for another round of that nasty green glop in a bottle that he was so very fond of making her drink. And apparently, being a parrot is what made Papa happy because her first forays into learning his language had resulted in this: three days of my name, your name, and a long string of syllables that she was beginning to suspect might be a phone number. If only he’d venture the question, where should I go? She’d be only too happy to offer him one or two choice suggestions.

As Papa puttered around the kitchen making another batch of that god-awful drink, he contented himself by repeating those same questions over and over again. “Who are you?”

“Judy,” she groaned, tipping her head to rest on the back of the highchair, casting her sour glare ceiling-ward.

Papa waited. When she only pressed her lips stubbornly together, he backed a step into the open kitchen doorway so that he could continue waiting, albeit from a more obvious vantage. He 41

rolled one hand encouragingly in the air, very slowly enunciating, “Who...are...you…?” Judy huffed a pent-in breath, blowing her bangs up off her forehead before jerking herself into a more upright position. “Pani,” she grumbled.

“Good Pani!” he cheered, and disappeared out of sight again.

“Yeah, good Pani,” she muttered. One leg beginning to jiggle up and down as her agitation level mushroomed up through her. “Good Pani, my big fat—” The blender kicked on, momentarily drowning her out as he whomped up another nauseatingly liquid lunch. But she was still muttering to herself a few seconds later when the blender switched off again. “I’ll

‘Good Pani’ you...you big jerk.”

He came out of the kitchen, testing the temperature of the liquid against his wrist. “Who are you?”

Having already answered that one, she only glared at him and waited for him to catch his mistake. He didn’t. He held out one hand, a broad, flat warning that instantly had her bottom crawling in trepidation.

“Pani,” she said, not exactly dropping the attitude but certainly venturing a step or two closer towards willing cooperation.

He came to sit at the table in front of her highchair. “Who am I?”

“Papa.” She could hear her own sullenness dripping from the word like icicles. She was pressing her luck and she knew it, but she just wasn’t ready to stop yet. Not until he was really good and aware of just how unhappy she was with him right now.

The bottle still in one hand, he folded his arms across his chest and looked at her, one corner of his mouth curving slightly. He took in her bad humor with only a slow blink and a muffled chuckle for acknowledgement—that chuckle only serving to increase her disgruntlement—and then finished the trio of questions with a long string of words and syllables that as near as she could figure meant, “Now summarize and add the numbers.” Heaving a deep sigh, she echoed Pani, and she echoed Tak’buh, and then repeated the series that to her ear sounded a lot like a phone number. Frowning, she then looked at him again. “Are you happy? Can we go on to something different now?” He set the bottle down on the table. Strapped down as she was, she flinched slightly but couldn’t pull away when he took hold of the highchair and turned it fully around to face him.

Already in a bad mood, the thought of having to chug another bottle full of stuff she wouldn’t feed a dog was enough to spur her on to revolt. “Anything but that,” she told him honestly.

“Give me anything else, but I am not drinking that. I’m done, I quit!” She locked her lips together when he picked the bottle up anyway, turning her face resolutely away when he pressed the nipple to her lips. He didn’t bother trying to chase her mouth, and she wasn’t at all surprised when he set the bottle back on the table. But after studying her through calculating eyes, he began to roll up his sleeve.

“Naturally,” she growled. “The first time I don’t do what you want, and all you can think to do is beat me!” If only her feet were free, she’d have kicked at him. Instead, she settled for shouting, “I’m not a damn dog! I don’t care what you do to me; I won’t drink any more of that crap!”

She threw herself into defiance, screaming, slapping and kicking from the moment he undid 42

her straps, pulling her from her chair and laying her down across his lap with ridiculous ease.

“Go on!” she bellowed, kicking and thrashing furiously. “Beat me! Beat me!” He held her in place, letting her struggle until she had worn herself down into a panting, seething silence. The warmth of his hand pressed lightly against the small of her back, where her baby doll dress had ridden up leaving her to suffer the sensation of his bare skin on hers. She only wished it felt as horrible as an alien touch should, not calm and steadying the way he was right now, relaxed even, waiting patiently for her to come to terms with her position so that when he did finally bring his right arm striking down, she would be so tuned into him that nothing else would matter. No other sensation; no other thought. Just the feel of him all around her, and that overwhelming confusion in the mind-space where the pain of his hand inevitably took her.