Page 7 of Whisked Away By the Alien

“What is this?”

“An apron. All cooks wear them. The smart ones, anyway.”

“A uniform?”

She tilts her head in an adorable manner. “I guess you can call it that.”

“If I wear this, I may stay? To fulfill my training?”

“I’ve got you covered. Both with the apron and on convincing my mother not to toss you out the moment she sees that you’re an alien.”

Golda stops talking. Her lovely smile disappears, worry reflected in her face, but then she bounces on her heels, lifts her chin, and says, “You’re one of the good guys, as we say. The DAA wouldn’t have let you land otherwise. That’s all that matters. I’ll handle my mom if and when she objects to you being here. She put me in charge of the cooking and I’ll take whatever help I can get.”

“Yes, Commander.” I dip my head. My people do not have a salute like that of Earth’s military.

“I’m not a commander.”

This female takes control quickly and decisively like any commander I’ve ever known. So to me, the title fits.

“The apron is essential, so you don’t stain your clothing. Working with oil can get messy.”

“You cook with the crude energy that your land vehicles use?”

“Cooking oil, silly. Not car oil. Latkes aren’t hard to make, but they splatter when we fry them.”

She holds up white material that looks like half of a bartah, a traditional dress zyanthan females wear back home. And when I say half, I mean there is no way that dress will cover both sides of this female. If she wears it in front, then her backside will have no coverage, not that I mind the image. On the other hand, covering her back and ass will fully expose her front. Rather enticing, either way.

I should not picture such things, especially with my pleasure cock easily aroused by this female. I lift one leg then the other, trying to adjust myself in these tight pants without calling attention to my erection.

She tosses the apron to me. “That’s yours.”

As I catch the thin, half-garment, the dilemma’s now mine. How should I wear this meager cloth without violating the rules my commander set forth?

Three rules of being a marshal, Stenikov. First, you do anything to protect your witness. Second, you remember your training as a warrior at all times. And third, no public sex, even if it’s with your mate.

The second rule includes a warrior conducting himself with honor and dignity. This garment does not appear dignified. I wonder if it was clothing such as this that led to my commander’s third rule, about no public sex. It is not our way on Zyan to have sex in public. Golda said it was not acceptable here either, or did she mean because I’m not her mate?

Her mate… I don’t dislike the idea.

But I am not here to find a mate. I’ve been in this home less than thirty minutes and already I realize I have much to learn about humans. And not only the rules of their culture but how they think and communicate.

Since I arrived on Earth two weeks ago, I’ve faced mostly fear and hatred. Golda displays neither, but humans don’t have horns like zyanthans, which makes reading their body language difficult. Zyanthans convey much with the position of our horns and how quickly we move them. With humans, I must rely more on facial expressions.

And this female is quite expressive. Her eyes do more than follow me with curiosity; they narrow and widen at various intervals. At least I can detect her color changes. A drop of two shades in most species reflects anything from mild concern to surprise. An increase in a being’s color usually indicates embarrassment or excitement.

“Are you mated, Golda Birnbaum?”

“Call me Golda. Or Commander,” she adds with an uptick of her mouth.

Yes, she is quite astute. And adorable. I will enjoy taking orders from her.

“Does that mean you have no mate?” I repeat my question. I’m extra careful around a mated female, as I do not wish to anger a mate in any way.

She points to the fourth digit on her left hand. I see nothing there. Perhaps she is suggesting an activity with me? One that involves only a single finger. I can think of several.

“Why are you grinning, Sten?”

“I was thinking of home.” I don’t wish to lie to her, but I don’t think she wishes to hear how I would use my fingers on her. And my tongue. And my—

---