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Rojan:
“Welcome to tea time,” Bajoc said. “Gentlemen, please come in. We will head to the lunchroom.”
He had a small towel tossed over his shoulder. Many of the males looked awkward as they widened their legs and distributed their weight from foot to foot.
Each offspring who’d entered with their parental unit immediately headed out to the playground. Apparently, they were used to these ridiculous classes and had no interest in watching.
The small crowd of males followed Bajoc into the room, where small tables were set up. Unfortunately, the offspring were smaller than the adult Freijians and the tables were for their comfort.
“Now, the important thing to remember is to walk with ease and grace,” Bajoc commanded. “You are the king of the castle, no matter the size of the room, nor the size of the chairs. You must always own the room.”
He extended his arm with a flourish to the chairs. Several of the males tried to take one and slink down.
“Halt!”
Men froze in midair.
“Watch how I do it.”
He sat deliberately, straight-backed and at attention.
Some of the men repeated it.
“That’s it. That’s more like it.”
“Now, whether it’s you hosting the tea or someone else, it is important to be complimentary. Even if the tea tastes like the piss of a veshak beast, you must pretend it is the sweetest nectar from the delicate honeysuckle.”
“What? Why would we pretend? That doesn’t make sense.” Chautles frowned.
“My dear good males, the shit-tee-air the tea, the more of an acquired taste you obviously have. Thus, the more cultured you appear.”
“Oh!” Chautles definitely looked impressed.
“Schitty,” Titi said, waddling through the room on her way outside.
Tristan growled. “I will no longer replicate you diamonds if you continue to speak in such a manner.”
Bajoc held up one finger. “Watch this. Titi, my dear niece...”
“Yesss, Unkel Daddy?”
“We do not swear like drunken sailors, do we?”
The tiny creature dressed in stripes swayed a bit like a drunken sailor. “No, Unkel Daddy. Up.” She raised her arms.
He complied, hoisting the purple offspring up where she was able to grab his ear.
“And we do not let our maternal units know that we know these words, do we?”
The small creature pursed her pale purple lips into an “O” and widened her eyes. “Nev’r.”
“Good girl. You may enjoy a cookie to keep your mouth busy long enough to forget the word you learned.”
“Thenk you, sir!” She climbed down his body easily.
“Are you the reason she gets bellyaches from too many cookies some nights?” Tristan’s voice sounded growly, signaling another fight about to break out. But his first commander simply agreed.
“If it has been a day where she has learned a lot of swear words, then yes.”
Wisely, Tristan did not say another word. Apparently, the young one learned the cursing from her paternal unit.
“One thing the mates love,” Bajoc continued, “is to hear what they call the scoop on others. It is perfectly all right to repeat hearsay from others during said tea party, as long as you preface the negativity with the words bless them.”
“I do not understand?” Kamau said.
Bajoc sighed. “If there was a rumor that your mate was sleeping with Aello, we would say, ‘Bless him. That poor Kamau is clueless to his mate’s wanderings.’ That way we get the sublime point across that your mate is a tramp while being rather considerate about your feelings.”
Kamau stood, fists clenched.
“Not here,” Bajoc said calmly. “Stand down, warrior. If there is nothing else to remember...remember this. During tea, you are never to appear uncouth. No matter what. There is no growling, no fighting, no snarling, no cursing, and definitely no bloodletting of any kind.” Bajoc stood, and pulled a satchel he had slung over his shoulder. “This is not a purse,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Nor a diaper bag. It is a matchel. A male’s satchel. I have decided to bring it today to show you what clothing the mates enjoy for us to wear. This is a sweater. Marcie grins and says it is a Mr. Rogers clothing line. She loves it.” He fingered the material thoughtfully, and then riffled through the bag. “This is a fun shirt to wear. It is for pirates.” The white fluffy thing he brought out almost made Rojan cringe. There were ruffles profusely sprinkled all the way up the sleeves, and on the collar. The only person who could carry that off would be the hugely scarred warrior before them. He’d likely scatter the intestines of anyone who dared to scoff.
“The mates like that?” He knew his voice sounded doubtful.
“Definitely.” Bajoc began to strip his shirt off. The muscles strewn across his shoulders and back looked like they would hardly be contained within the flimsy frilled fabric of the white blouse. But very carefully, he pulled on one sleeve, then the other, and fastened the tiny pearl buttons up his chest to his neck, where he tied the long frilly straps into more bow-ties of countless ruffles.
Definitely, he could pull it off.
“And this vest is extremely attractive. The mates like the color. It is called blush. A rather ornate word for pink. When you are educated, you learn to use fancier words for the same object.”
“The blush is the same color as the petals of their personal bloomery,” Kamau announced.
“Very good,” Bajoc complimented. “Our first lesson did you well.” He turned to the others. “Kamau has been a very apt pupil for a while now.”
Rojan scratched his head, but his fool of a crew member spoke instead. “What are their personal blooms?”
All the males of Helian Six gasped in unison. Rojan glared at Hekek, wishing his crew could crawl under a rock and keep from embarrassing him.
“Their secret gardens.” Someone coughed into his hand.
He was sure he looked blank.
“Their delicate lady-bits,” another whispered, horrified at his man’s apparent ignorance. His man stared, just as blank-eyed at the answer as he was when he’d asked the question.
“You know? At the juncture of their delectable thighs?”
Bajoc sighed at the sudden silence in the room. “Tell me you have peered between a woman’s legs.”
Not one of his crew members would speak, afraid of incriminating themselves as uneducated.
Bajoc stood. “Just in case there are some warriors here who have not had the pleasure of staring at the tender orchid nestled in the secret garden of a woman’s hood, I shall describe it. There is a light sunshiny strip of delicate curls, the light leading the way to the prize...” he paused at the confused looks around the room.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Only yours has the pale fur.”
“What?”
Tristan cleared his throat again, delicately this time. “I only saw your mate’s during the birthing of your nutling. It is quite different from my mate’s.”
“I guess I did not know there were various colors.” Now Bajoc sounded dumbfounded.
Kamau raised his hand. “Anita’s is as dark as Tristan. As the midnight air without moonlight,” he declared, still in poet mode.
Bajoc’s jaw dropped, still amazed that there were different colors of gardens.
Chautles raised his hand. “Jannie has no lawn whatsoever.”
Bajoc harrumphed. “It appears the teacher has learned something today. Apparently, the Chihuahuas are different colors. Or bald, as in Chautles’ case. Let’s move on.” He spoke louder. “A female’s parts are delicate. Follow her multi-colored strip of fur, it will point to her hidden treasure. Run through the forest, and at the edge will be the petals to her orchid—”
“My mate has a clam,” Tristan volunteered.
“A clam?” Bajoc asked. “It is a flower. A dewy orchid in bloom.”
“It is a clam. A tender, closed clam, unexposed to the crisp air.”
“Mine has a kitty,” Kresna said. “Dark and furry. Rawrrr.”
“Mine has a ‘china. She said so.”
“Females may have a clam, an orchid, or a kitty,” Bajoc announced. “Or even a country from their long-lost Earth. It is all good. My dear good males, please stop with so many interruptions so that those who are learning will not get confused. Now, after running through the forest, you find the dewy softness of her petals. If her petals do not have dew, stop! She is not into you. By now she should have said no anyway.”
“No means no,” Kresna volunteered.
“It is important to romance them and not just tell them you are horny,” Bajoc said. “A human enjoys being wined and dined. Hence, they are impressed with good tea manners.”
“Go back to the sex lesson,” Tristan said. “Not that I have anything to learn, mind you.”
Someone in the back snorted, and everyone held their breath. Tristan decided to ignore that, though he bared his teeth and looked behind him.
“If there is dew on her petals, she will pant while you stroke the folds lightly, tenderly, as if they are the softest, most fragile...”
“What if you do not feel like being tender?” The male who asked raised his hand.
“It does not matter what you feel like,” Bajoc said sternly. “Your female will lead the way. Sometimes she will like it rough and wild, other times she will wish to be worshipped like the goddess that she is.”
Tristan snickered. “Yes, don’t you all remember when Pritchard made the mistake of worshipping Pariah all the time? She practically called him a pansy.”
There were loud guffaws. “Poor fool.”
“The wuss was clueless with females.”
“If ever a soul needed lessons...it is that poor idiot.”
“I imagine he’ll still need to sign up for the tea class when he gets settled from his honeyed moon.”
Baub raised his hand. “Could you get back to the dewy petals?”
“Of course, my dear student. Your woman is panting now, and she will spread her legs automatically, making room for your larger hand and fingers. Next, I like to cover Marcie’s entire mound of fuzzy, wispy blond hair with my palm, warming it gently. Her petals will part of their own accord, and you are able to take one finger to dip into the honey—”
“Oh, the honey,” someone moaned.
“Yes, yes,” Tristan agreed. “There is nothing like the nectar from between a mate’s thighs!”
“Shh,” Viktel hushed. “I must hear Bajoc’s story.”
“Marcie is going wild with need at this point, biting and nipping, and trying to yank off my clothing...”
Someone in the back of the room sighed. “You have such a way with words, Bajoc. You are the true poet.”
“He does. He really does,” someone else agreed.
“When you have used the tip of your finger to gather the rich, warm nectar, trace it back up gently. There is a secret treasure hidden in the silken folds, a tiny pearl of pleasure, like a ripe, juicy berry hiding in the doughy folds of yeasty perfection—”
“What?!” The feminine shriek that came from the front of the building was so loud it nearly ruptured eardrums. Most warriors in the room winced.
Bajoc paled to a color that matched Kamau. “Marcie, my dove...” He swallowed, the movement moving up the column of his neck.
“What the hell are you teaching?” Her voice was still painfully loud.
“T-Tea,” Bajoc stammered. “Just a class on having tea.”
Marcie looked confused for long moments. Slowly, a sheepish expression washed over her face. “Oh. My scone recipe. Of course. I’m so sorry, my love. I didn’t mean to interrupt your class.”
She glided up to where Bajoc stood, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing the large, ugly warrior soundly. “I am so proud of you,” she whispered. “You are doing so much good for the community.”
“That’s what I told them,” Bajoc whispered.
“I’ll just check on the children in the playground, and head back to the ladies and the crochet lessons. We’ll stay out of your way.”
“You know you are always welcome,” Bajoc said, sweeping his giant arm around the room generously. Since her back was to many of the males, Marcie missed the wincing, the eye-rolling, and one fellow motioning death with a finger swiping across his throat.
“No, no. I just wanted to make sure the babies out back were safe. I should give you privacy and get back to the crochet class. I’m gonna make you something special, you lucky man.” She winked, and deliberately trailed her eyes down his massive body.
Bajoc kissed his tiny mate tenderly, and she slipped out the back door. “Remember, soldiers,” Marcie called out before she left. “Bajoc’s motto. Treat your scones like you would your lady. Delicate.”
With that she was gone.
“What the frak just happened?” Rojan muttered, scratching his head.
Tristan guffawed. “The man is magical. Magic, I tell you. He has that tiny female wrapped around his finger.”
“It is the magic of the mannered, upper crust gentleman,” Bajoc said haughtily. “When I asked her to join the class, I did not really want her to be here. But just extending the courtesy made her politely refuse. Not only that, but I now get lucky tonight. She’s probably rushing back to the sashay class even now, finagling with Lara to watch our offsprings for an hour or two.”
“You lucky devil.” Tristan’s voice held the highest reverence. He elbowed Kresna next to him. “Is he a smart son-of-an-ass-teroid, or what?”
