“It’s very nice to meet you, Sark,” Mila said, filling her tone with warmth. “And you, as well, Norvik.”
“Greetings to you,” the Collectivist replied.
“So, uh, what do XenX usually eat?” Sark asked. “Back home?”
His gaze lingered on her face, then flickered down her body, before coming to a rest on her vagina. She suppressed a laugh, and his head snapped back up. His flush deepened.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that … well, I’m more used to women who, you know, wear clothes.”
Mila kept her expression politely neutral, though the directness of his stare and the awkwardness of his questions were notable. His desire embarrassed him. It was cute.
“As you can see, XenX are covered in fur,” she said. “We’re plenty warm without clothing, especially since the climate on our world is temperate.
“As for food, our diet is primarily omnivorous. Fruits, cultivated fungi, lean proteins similar to what your dispenser offers. Efficiency is often prioritized over culinary artistry.” She pointed a clawed finger at the “Synth-Stew (Protein)” option. “That should be adequate, thank you.”
“Right! Protein stew. Coming right up.”
He tapped the selection with more force than necessary. The machine whirred, gurgled, and spat a thick, brownish sludge into a waiting bowl. Steam rose from it, carrying a smell reminiscent of boiled meat and preservatives. Sark handed her the bowl, his fingers brushing against hers for a brief moment. He pulled his hand back quickly, as if scalded.
“Careful,” he said. It’s hot.”
“Thank you.”
Mila took the bowl, the heat radiating through the thin composite material. She moved to the table, choosing a seat midway between Sark and Norvik. The Collectivist’s gaze tracked her, silent and assessing.
Sark hovered near her seat.
“Need a spoon? We got spoons.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, fetching a utensil from a drawer and placing it beside her bowl. She inclined her head in another gesture of thanks.
“So … Mila. That’s a nice name. Simple. Strong.” He leaned a hip against the table, trying for casual, but the tension in his posture betrayed him. “You said you were … Harimi? That’s like … a job? A calling?”
Norvik spoke for the first time, his voice calm, precise, cutting through Sark’s nervous chatter.
“She stated it is a voluntary contractual arrangement, Sark. Providing intimate services in exchange for financial security for her family.” His black eyes fixed on Mila. “Is that an accurate summation?”
Mila dipped the spoon into the stew, finding the texture thick, gelatinous. She took a small bite. It tasted bland, vaguely salty, utterly utilitarian.
“It is accurate, Norvik,” she confirmed, swallowing. “The term ‘Harimi’ denotes one who has chosen the path of service. It is an honored role within XenX society.”
“Service,” Sark echoed, his brow furrowing. The red fin twitched. “But servicetosomeone, right? Like, whoever buys you?” He gestured vaguely. “What’s that like? I mean, do you get to choose who?”
Mila paused, spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The question, asked with suchnaïvecuriosity, highlighted the cultural chasm. To Sark, the idea of belonging to another seemed inherently tied to lack of choice. To her, the choice had been the most profound act of agency she’d ever exercised.
“The choice lies in embracing the role itself, Sark,” she explained patiently. “Once the contract is accepted, the Harimi’s purpose is to fulfill the patron’s desires. To anticipate their needs. To provide pleasure, companionship, and satisfaction without reservation. It is a discipline. An art form.”
“Pleasure?” Sark’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat. “So … you’re trained? In that?”
Mila met his gaze directly. His pupils were wide, his skin flushed a deeper orange. The desire was a palpable heat radiating from him, mixed with fascination and a hint of embarrassment.
“Extensively,” she stated simply. “XenX regard the exploration and mastery of physical intimacy as the highest pursuit. It is woven into our culture, our philosophy. To bring another being profound pleasure, to surrender completely to their desires and in doing so, guide them to heights they could not reach alone, that is the core of what it means to be Harimi. It is considered the ultimate expression of connection and purpose.”
A stunned silence fell. Sark stared at her, mouth slightly open. Norvik remained impassive, though Mila noted a slight tightening around his eyes – processing, analyzing the implications. The only sound was the faint hum of the dispenser’s idle cycle and the distant throb of the engines.
“Highest pursuit?” Sark finally breathed. “So … it’s not just … not just a job? It’s … sacred?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Mila agreed, taking another small bite of stew. The taste was irrelevant; sustenance was the goal. “Those who walk the path of Harimi are regarded with deep respect. We dedicate our lives to understanding the complexities of desire, the nuances of touch, the psychology of surrender and control. It requires empathy, intuition, and rigorous training. It is far more than a mere physical transaction.”
