The Minotaur #2
I tell Nuk how I like it, but he doesn't listen, doesn't care. He does what he wants with my body, and he does it right. He makes it sing. The pleasure spreads further, deeper, and on one last cry, I rub my clit with my other fingers, whip the fake cock faster, and my orgasm takes off.
The minotaur's weight hanging over me, the rough scrape of his sharp teeth against my skin, like he could swallow me whole, the sheer power of him—the mirage melts into a single, exquisite release as I explode.
And then it's over.
Except for the ragged breath catching in my throat, and the faint buzzing of the vibrator buried under the covers, there's nothing left but silence.
I almost cry. Almost. But I have nothing to be sad about; I have everything I ever wanted.
I turn off the toy and throw it onto the ground in frustration. I'll wash it in the morning.
At some point, I drift to sleep.
"Can you believe that? So, when her husband found out, he rightfully divorced her ass."
"Wait, but I thought you said she didn't cheat?"
"She didn't, but he totally caught her on the website. She was looking for—" Kelly lowers her voice, but I can still hear her over the sound of the hand dryer blasting hot air—"a banshee, for a threesome."
"Don't they screech when they—"
"Yes!" Kelly and Violet erupt in laughter. I keep waiting for them to get out of the bathroom, but too much time has passed, and at this point, I feel like a psycho, hiding in the stall with my feet up.
I'm the CEO of this company, but I'm hiding from my employees in a bathroom stall. Fuck my life.
Five minutes ago, I came in here for a minute alone.
I was trying to avoid another inopportune breakdown, though every day it feels more and more imminent.
I didn't cry, though. Instead, I bit my lip until I drew blood, but I knew I was red faced, and needed a minute to myself, and the bathrooms were closer than my office.
Two of my employees handed in unfinished work, another pissed off one of our major clients, and a fourth complained I was playing favorites, so when I gave her a brand new client to handle on her own, she scoffed because she wasn't looking to start an account from scratch—what she actually wanted, was a seasoned client with a big account handed to her, even though she's only been here a few months, and hasn't earned it.
I explained to each person what I hoped to see improved in their behavior, and every single one called me a stuck-up bitch under their breath the moment I walked away.
The last one was the final straw, and I barely made it into the stall, eyes burning, before Kelly and Violet stormed in after me with their usual whirlwind of gossip.
But when Kelly mentioned the Monster Fulfillment Center, I kept my mouth shut and stayed hidden, too intrigued to interrupt.
And honestly, the moment I heard monster, all emotions at being labeled the office harpy vanished.
I hope they don't trash-talk monsters like this all the time.
All the offices in our highrise share the same mail service, run by the dragon-turtle clan, Peddryd.
They have a monopoly on mail service, actually.
They're slow, but efficient, and I'd feel terrible if Igo, the little turtle-man assigned to our floor, overheard their giggling.
"So he's pissed his wife wanted a threesome? Or because she wanted to fuck a banshee?"
"Banshee. Apparently, he tried sharing in the past, but she wasn't interested.
Guess she thought this was some kind of compromise.
Anyway, I don't know what kind of freak would go to a place like that.
I mean… they have minotaurs there. Minotaurs!
I heard that when they growl—" Kelly quiets down to a low whisper, and I miss the rest.
"I mean, what kind of person would ever go to a place like that?" Sounds of the office rush in, and Kelly's voice trails off as the door swings shut behind them.
And then I'm alone again. But my thoughts are racing.
Minotaurs.
The word ignites a fire deep within, a sudden jolt of electricity waking something dormant inside me. My head spinning, I step out of the stall and walk to the sink, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Not a strand out of place, my chignon bun and curly dark hair are pulled tight against my scalp. Perfectly applied red lipstick, my naturally tan skin no longer ruddy from almost crying. I stare at the sharp angles of my face, the shadows under my eyes hidden beneath the makeup.
In my reflection, I see another million-dollar account, another milestone achieved, another award, more money. I see late nights and microwave dinners and unsatisfying orgasms with expensive, battery-operated toys. I see emotional starvation.
Minotaur.
The word whispers again, sending shivers down my spine.
I have everything I've ever wanted.
Except that.
I wash my hands, cool my neck with a wet paper towel, then calmly return to my office. I manage to avoid whining employees, and when I get there, I walk around my desk, take a seat, slide my mouse around the pad to wake my computer, then stare at the internet browser.
And I type it in.
Monster Fulfillment Center.
A quick glance out the glass walls of my office confirms no one is looking at me—because no one wants to make eye contact with me.
I try my best. I'm not an asshole. A pushover, definitely, emotionally stunted, maybe, but I'm not a dick—but they treat me like I'm some kind of bitch in heels, and it makes me freaking angry.
I'm angry, dammit.
Suddenly, excitement bubbles up. I feel giddy and crazy, a laugh caught in my throat.
My palms feel clammy, and I nervously scroll down and click on the website.
The home screen is clean and professional, and reads: A monster-only escort service.
Embrace the unknown. Venture beyond your wildest dreams.
Maybe I'm being impulsive. My fingers hover over the keyboard, heart pounding against my ribs, my usual control stilling my fingers in place.
The old me whispers caution, reminding me of the risks, the potential social destruction if anyone found out about this—Kelly and Violet, case in point—or if it's even safe.
We've all seen monsters out and about in town.
They come in all shapes and sizes, but one thing they all have in common is that they are significantly more dangerous than humans.
They have claws and horns and sharp teeth and height, some towering over the rest of us.
That's why most humans steer clear of the monsters. Everyone pretends to be cool with them, unless you admit you want to get railed by one, and suddenly, you're the freak.
But there's another voice, a stronger, more desperate plea, urging me to do this. My hands shake as I type, then move the mouse around.
And then I stumble across a list of services offered, and my head swims with all the possibilities.
A veritable checklist of sex acts, role-play scenes, BDSM, and even a selection of monsters to choose from. I check off every possibility until I reluctantly acknowledge I'm in way over my head and start over. All the while, a nervous grin stretches across my face.
An hour later, I'm horny, freaked out, and feel more alive than I have in years.
"Alright, just sign here, here, and here." The woman slides the paperwork across her desk, turning it around to face me. I flip through the pages with shaky hands. Safety guidelines, safe words, guaranteed satisfaction, confidentiality clauses. All right there in black and white.
I expected to be more anxious, but reading through the contract makes me feel calm. I know contracts. Paperwork. This is my jam, my safe space. I swallow, initialing beside each yellow tab, before sliding the paperwork back to her.
"Okie dokie. There's nothing else you need to do, so just go home, try to relax, and he'll come to you. Your window is two weeks."
"Do I... I mean, I know it's what I signed up for, but will he give me any warning or heads up that he's on his way?"
The woman smiles warmly, clasping her hands on the desk between us, and leans in.
"Ms. Claire, part of your request, and the experience, is the surprise element.
The fear factor, if you will. He can inform you when he's on his way if that's something you need, but I think it'll take away from the experience.
Don't worry. Trust us. We have an excellent rating.
You've read all the testimonials. Our monsters have worked with many humans, and we're pairing you with our most prized minotaur. He'll take good care of you."
I blush at her last statement, the word minotaur sending a buzzing vibration through me, all the way down to my clit, and she winks like she already knows how I'm feeling.
Of course I chose a minotaur.
Ever since I saw my first—when I was a little girl, and I tripped and fell, and this massive, hulking, horned beast gently lifted me up off the ground, then pulled a lollipop from his pocket before sauntering away without a word—my standards for men have been impossibly high, and I can finally admit to myself, it's because none of them have ever lived up to the idea of being with a minotaur.
The one I chose had an intimidating profile picture.
A massive monster, with wide grey horns curling out of his temples, the head of a snarling bull.
With the body of a man, he had thick thighs, an expansive chest, and the bulging arms of a warrior.
He was holding a log in the picture, and in the next shot, the trunk swung over his shoulder, showing off his enormous strength.
For a second, I wanted to laugh at the headshots, like he was auditioning for some survivalist reality show. But the longer I looked, the more I acknowledged the sheer power in his body—there was nothing funny about that. He could kill me in an instant.