Sofita cleared her mind of the past and snatched up her axico, determined to lose herself in some literature. Regrettably, she still wasn’t alone.
The rocks surrounding the darkened water hole had been filled corpulent zaxiri lazing about in the frosty artificial wind, and the whispers started the moment Sofita stepped out of her pants.
“Why is her undershirt still on?” “Her fronts are too big, and what’s wrong with her backswell?” “Is that hair on her head?” “That axico isn’t real. Bruisers can’t read.”
All that remained of the gossipy herd now were two half-naked zaxiri, one young, the other, a mid-lifer like herself. Neither bothered hushing their thoughts on Sofita’s heated exchange with Balru.
Between them, concealed in a modest pool-robe, sat a subak, presumably Sofita’s age.
Engrossed in an axico, she was every bit as top-heavy as a zaxir, but her caste lacked those flabby arms and the hanging, dimpled belly that marixi loved pawing at when everyone’s clothes were gone.
The lone appeal of any subak was her suzuk. Braided hair advertised a subbie’s origins, and the beauty across the water wore a single rope, indicating she’d grown up in Toxis. No subak ventured out without her hair woven in suzu, nor would she deliberately flirt with anything resembling a marix, sexual opportunists that didn’t understand the nuances of consent.
While a teen, Sofita and her hizaki peers attended socio-sexual parties where the attending zaxiri always knew what she wanted and boldly expressed what they expected in return. Subaki, however, required constant coaxing with no guarantee of a ride.
Despite their complicated nature, Sofita’s thighs had bounced their share of subaki. Even now, her mind conjured ways to pleasure the aloof chunk of ice across the water.
Suddenly, the subak brought up her head and fixed her eyes on Sofita’s side of the pool.
“Komad Kul?” came a familiar tenor.
Pitana Dag approached with arms open.
Unusually lean in her fashionable pantsuit, the long-faced Dag changed little since their teenage years, wearing her thick hair molded into seven neatly fashioned cylinders that formed a single row from her brow to her neck.
Zaxiri interest was a given since hizaki were sexual partialists that kept things exciting, but the subbie’s hungry stare felt strange; hizaki were too self-absorbed, and their compulsive use of sophisticated vocabulary put off even the most unpretentious of subaki.
“You’re a long way from the helovx-hotel,” Sofita rose from the chaise and entered Dag’s embrace. When the breeders across the pool began whispering, Sofita couldn’t help imitating their murmurs. “That color brings out the brown in your hide.”
Never in on the joke, Dag examined her jacket sleeve.
“My stylist claims this the color of helovx blood,” she cast an inquisitive eye. “Does the phasic enhancement in your anatomy eradicate your hizaxikogatix?”
“No Ambassador,” Sofita became the proper hizak. “If it altered my physicality, I wouldn’t be obligated to sustain this musculature.”
“I’ll refrain from commenting on your physique,” Dag pulled a small brush from her trouser pocket and began dragging it over her suit jacket’s front. “That swimsuit is atrocious, Komad.”
Hizaki abhorred cosmetic simplicity; refined sartorial choices were strategic as appearance influenced judgment. Their congenital color-blindness enslaved them to hairstylists and fashion designers. Dag’s clothier demonstrated considerable talent by endowing the willowy hizak with a noticeable girsuzsch. Beyond her donational years, the lanky Dag’s buttocks had failed to achieve an ideal prominence; for hizaki, the bigger the rump, the better the brain.
“I’m not a conveyance clerk, Komad,” Dag adjusted her long legs to sit upon the chaise. “My presence here is punishment for a perceived tardiness in delivering pertinent information to CM Wram.”
Since elevation to Ambassador Prime, Dag resided full-time in a sea-floor facility built to house helovx diplomats; the lone drawback to this esteemed position was answering to an hizak elder named Lekada Wram.
The infamous Second Office of the Committee, the only thing old Wram despised more than helovxi was Sofita Kul.
“Spite is one of her better endowments.”
“I attempted to acquire you in Orta, but your superior directed me here,” Dag’s thin lips pursed as Sofita sat beside her. “Primekomad Hibz is a miserable bruise.”
A young zaxir’s arrival interrupted their conversation, her plump flesh stuffed into a sheer bluzerie that left little to the imagination. Long black hair curtained two bulbous fronts, each covered with spots that curled like a ribbon across her chest.
“Sorry to disturb you,” her sugary smile exposed two rows of perfectly cusped teeth. No other creature on the planet possessed teeth like a femmar—the closest had been the crabeater seal, and they were extinct.
“Is that an ambassador service pin?” she asked.
Dag’s hand moved to the medallion on her collar.
“I begin classes in Mynu this week,” the young thing aimed a casual finger toward the two older breeder’s poolside before letting loose a barrage. “My nestor is a burxol therapist, my other mako, she’s an intimacy counselor, with the Zaxiri College.”
Sofita and Dag craned their necks for a look.
This round beauty was far too young, but an educated zaxxy and a sub trained in orgasmic therapy were worth more than a fleeting glance.
The young thing’s voice rose an octave. “Did you go to school in Mynu?”
Dag’s attention rebounded. “May I inquire after your name, citizen?”
“Hako,” she declared.
Sofita interjected, “What’s your nestor’s name?”
Hako bent over to focus on Dag’s other pins, putting her bulging fronts on full display. Unnerved by the view, Dag stood and began removing the tiny medallion from her lapel.
“Hold out your hand, Hako.”
Hako beamed, “You’re going to let me touch it?”
“She sure is,” Sofita leered.
Dag cautioned Sofita with a glance before placing the pin in Hako’s palm. “They provide me with many of these on Ramaxia Primada,”
“Base Thirteen?” Hako gasped. “You work with helovx?”
Sofita asked, “Does your nestor work by appointment?”
“I don’t know bruise,” Hako’s nostrils flared. “You should go ask her.”
Dag cleared her throat. “You can keep that Hako,”
“I can’t take this,” Hako purred, clutching the pin strategically to her cleavage.
Dag’s hiziburx centered on large suzsch, and if this zaxxy had met her twenty years ago, Dag would’ve sought quiet permission to grope and fondle. Today, she remained the stolid elder with her eyes fixed to Hako’s face.
“Consider it a gift,” she lifted a hand to Sofita, “In our day, there were so few zaxiri seeking education in Mynu.”
Hako’s eyes shifted furtively.
Strange hair notwithstanding, her muscular arms, rude behavior, and that stringy blaster peeking out from under those pants proved Sofita was an idiotic bruise—and bruisers didn’t go to Mynu.
Hako slipped into Dag’s space. “Can I ask you something?”
Dag took a step back. “Inquire of me anything, citizen,”
“I want you to call me, Hako,” she tapped a flirtatious finger to Dag’s bottom lip.
Dag stiffened, “You may call me, Ambassador Dag,”
“You’re Pitanadag?” the young thing’s face flushed darkly. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ambassador, I’m taking part in the Helovx-Initiative,”
“You’re bound for the Office of Helovx Advocacy,” Dag’s disposition quickly improved. “Do you have a particular field of interest?”
“I have a particular field of interest,” Sofita threaded her fingers behind her head and reclined on the chaise. “Does your nestor make room calls?”
“Not to thick-backed bruisers wearing shitty hairpieces,” Hako seethed, then aimed a saccharine smile at Dag. “I’d like to stay polar, Ambassador. Maybe service on those Helovx-Care Floats, in the Ramaxic’acarol,”
“Now Hako, when in Helovx Studies, you must refer to that body of water by its helovx name, the Arctic. Your instructor will make an example of you,” Dag continued to mind her distance. “What was your inquiry, Hako?”
“Yes, my question!” the zaxxy laughed before turning serious. “Helovx women have trouble birthing. Do you think, someday, citizens like me could live between the poles, and help them?”
“They’re fragile,” said Dag, “But they’re also formidable.”
“I hear some are worse off,” Hako’s large eyes shone like a playful seal. “My kerma says that helovx breed with their donations. If a child is born genetically damaged, like, if they can’t walk or talk, the parents eat them.”
Dag and Sofita exchanged knowing glances; Hako’s kerma, likely a bizzie, seemed desperate to discourage her zaxiridoe from leaving the mainland.
Sofita had encountered a few incidents of inbreeding, typically among those isolated at sea, while cannibalism remained rare. Over thirty thousand humans lived between the poles, nearly dying out in the years following the Yosemite eruption. Before that, they’d endured a drastic culling by the Eros Impact Event.
“Perhaps, in the future,” Dag placed a platonic hand on Hako’s shoulder, “Citizens like you will help them.”
“Thanks, Ambassador,” chimed Hako.
“Your makers up for a group?” Sofita jerked her head toward Dag. “The Ambassador’s not due back to the Helovx Hotel just yet.”
“Sofita!” Dag admonished.
“If you’re looking for that sort of thing, soldier,” Hako put her hands on her fleshy hips. “Go visit the citbluz.”
“My room can be our bluz,” said Sofita.
Hako huffed in revulsion before walking away.
Not all zaxiri worked the massage parlors, dance clubs, and erotic rooms of a Citizen’s Bluzsh; some aspired to more than rent-free boarding and daily orgasms.
Across the pool, Hako relayed Sofita’s rude offer. The subak sucked her tongue and glared, but the older zaxir smiled in delight before embracing Hako on a flirtation well done.
Dag aimed a sour expression at Sofita.
“Must you continually perform?” she asked.
Sofita’s time among marixi required regular displays of crudeness; performing, as Dag intimated, was essential to assimilating.