Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45366 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Papi continues to rock me, wandering around the room, pacing absently. He stares at my face the entire time, smiling, watching me, holding me like I’m the most precious thing on Earth.
“You’re so sure about this.”
“I am. You will be too in time. I promise. It’s not a concept human females are accustomed to. This bonding, I mean. Over time, you will accept it and trust it. You’ll realize I’m yours for the rest of our centuries.”
I gasp again. That happens a lot. “Centuries? You keep saying that. Do you really live longer on Eleadia?”
“Yes. My people have been aging at a very slow rate for over a hundred years. When you arrive, you too will stop aging at the same speed as Earth. Our scientists believe we will live for centuries.”
“How old are you?”
“One hundred and fifteen.”
My eyes bug out. “Nooo.”
He chuckles. “Yes.”
The door opens, and I twist my head to find Surgient returning. He’s holding out a bottle. It’s huge. But then again, it would have to be proportionate to my size. I’m not eight pounds. I’m over a hundred pounds.
Surgient strokes my arm as he hands the bottle to Papi. “You look calmer, Little one. I’m glad.” He glances at Papi next. “I added electrolytes and a laxative. Why don’t you head to room six. You’ll be more comfortable there. You can stay there until it’s time to leave. I’ll come check on both of you every few hours.”
“Thank you,” Papi says as he follows Surgient from the room. He heads down a hallway and then another, turning a few times before coming to a stop at a door with a six on it. Everything is sterile and stainless steel or something similar.
I watch as he lifts his wrist to the door. It pops open, startling me. “How did you do that?”
“There’s a chip in my wrist, Baby girl. It give me access to elevators and doors.”
“That’s cool.”
He seems amused as we enter.
I look around. It’s like a hotel room except there’s also a changing table and a large crib. I know they’re for me, and renewed panic takes over. “You’re going to treat me like a baby at all times.”
“You’re not a baby, Little one. I’m well aware. But this is how we care for our females. It’s all about safety. The crib will keep you safe when you sleep so you can’t fall out. Bottles ensure you don’t choke or eat something your tummy can’t handle. Diapers help me ensure your bowels are doing their thing and that you’re urinating often enough. It’s not about you being an infant. It’s about me being overprotective.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work for me,” I tell him. “I don’t like the idea. None of it.”
“You will over time, Baby girl. I promise.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You will.”
I groan at his insistence.
Papi heads for the large recliner and lowers us into it. “You have your entire life to argue with me, Little one. How about for now, you take your bottle and go down for a nap. You’ve been through a lot. You need to rest.”
I sigh. I have about a hundred questions, but I’m tired. So tired. I stare at the bottle as he holds it up. “I’ll try it.”
“Good girl.” He brings it to my lips.
It takes me a minute to wrap my tongue around it and get it just right before I take my first suck. I’m uncertain as the flavor fills my mouth. Skeptical. But it’s good. I try again. Yes, it’s good. I close my eyes and let my body relax.
As I suck down the formula, I grow more and more tired. Papi jiggles the nipple every time I start to doze off. “Finish all of it, Baby girl.”
I whimper and squirm in his embrace several times until he’s satisfied with my intake. I’m nearly asleep when I feel the pressure in my bowels. I need to go to the bathroom so badly I’m clenching my butt cheeks.
Wiggling in Papi’s arms, I fight against him. “Bathroom. Please let me go to the bathroom.”
He stands, rocking me again. “Don’t fight it, Little one. Use the diaper. Papi will change you, and it will all be over.”
I shake my head. “No. No, no, no.”
He holds me close, rubbing my back, not backing down. He doesn’t respond to me.
I can’t hold on much longer. The pressure is intense. My tummy is gurgling. I squeeze my eyes closed as if that might help. But it’s a losing battle. I finally stop fighting instinct and release my bowels.
Papi waits for me to finish before kissing my forehead. “Good girl.” He carries me to the changing table, lays me on my back, and straps me across the waist, including securing my hands at my sides.
I hold my breath and refuse to look at him while he changes me. It’s gross. I’m so embarrassed. I’m not even sure why I care. Everyone poops. There’s even a book about it. If Papi wants to clean me up every time, why should I care?