Page 11 of Bred By the Minotaur
“Yeah, but she just does it because mice are bad. She thinks they taste gross.”
Hmm. It does rather sound like something a cat would say.
“I have to go to work, buddy,” I tell him, scratching between his knobby horns. They’ve been growing in slowly but surely, though they won’t start to really take off until he’s in his teens, when the hormones hit like a tornado. “I’ll be here in the morning, though.”
He frowns. “We haven’t gotten to play Monster Masher at all lately.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But Larry’s taking one of my shifts next week, so we can play Monster Masher all day if you want. All right?”
Easily swayed by promises, Milo grins up at me. “Okay, Daddy.”
Fuck. It still hits me right in the gut when he calls me that. I reach down and pull him against me, wrapping him up in my arms as tight as I can. I will protect him from everything in this entire world.
Milo squeaks, then laughs and returns my hug, not realizing there are tears in the corners of my eyes.
Phoebe. I can’t wait for you to meet him.
Five
Phoebe
Hank Pittsfield.
It would be so incredibly easy to get online and look him up. I’m sure there are dozens of people in the world named Hank Pittsfield, potentially quite a few minotaurs, but I’m certain that I’d know him if I saw him.
I don’t think he’s the type to smile much. No, he’s strong and sturdy and quiet, but commanding and dirty when he needs to be.
I wonder how old he is, and where he lives. What does Milo look like?
I feel like a limp noodle my whole drive home. Hank really fucked me into a puddle.
Hank. I wonder what it would be like to have sex with someone like that all the time. What if we had sex face-to-face? I’ve never done it outside DreamTogether with a monster, certainly not a minotaur.
Does he have a wet nose, like a dog? What would it be like to fuck someone covered in fur? Or is it hair on minotaurs?
This is what happens when you live mostly celibate. My sex life hasn’t been fabulous since I took this job, but it’s not like I have much spare emotional energy for dating or hookups.
The moment I think it, my phone rings in the passenger seat. I pick it up with the car phone.
“Feebs,” my sister says, “is today garbage day?”
I glance at the clock on the dashboard screen. “It’s Monday, garbage day is Tuesday.”
“Okay. That’s good. We didn’t miss it.”
My sister... is a worrier. When she first got sick, we weren’t sure whether it was nerves or illness. Now she has plenty of things to worry about, in addition to all the other things she was already worrying about before.
“I’ll take it out when I stop by later,” I tell her.
“Oooh! You have to dish everything about your appointment today. I want to know who the next baby daddy is.”
I assure her I will and hang up the phone. That’s the reason I don’t date, for the most part. When I’m not with Sandra, I’m working at my desk over my tablet, designing a beauty ad. Not much time in between, especially when you’re pregnant a third of the time. I haven’t tried pregnancy sex yet, but I’m not that interested.
When I get to Sandra’s place, I find the gnomes that sit out front have been rearranged again by the neighbor kids. When she feels well enough to get up and move around, she’ll move them back to where they were before—or maybe she’ll set them up in a parade this time.
Inside, everything is exactly where it should be, and my indoor slippers have been moved from the careless place I left them last time and back to the rack by the front door. Sandra’s on the couch, knitting needles in hand, when I come inside.
She attempts to jump off the couch, but she’s not quite strong enough and she has to sit back down immediately.
