Page 49 of Marked By Feral Monsters
It's quiet in my apartment, the only sound, my spoon scraping against the bowl and the faint hum of the refrigerator.
I don't know at what point in the last couple of years I allowed this clawing, aching loneliness to become a part of me. Not just something I felt, but something Iam, that I've adapted to, all this silence and emptiness.
I don't cry. I never cry.
But lately, it threatens to bubble up at the most random, inopportune moments, like I can't control myself. I hate losing control. But my body is telling me I desperately need to let go.
A choking sensation squeezes my throat, and for a moment, the panic thatthisis my life, this is all I'll ever be, all I'll ever have, threatens to suffocate me.
But the tears don't come.
The city lights filter through the rain as it hammers against the expansive windows. My apartment is a testament to all my hard work and my failures, a symbol of my self-imposed isolation. It's beautifully designed, the type of apartment I dreamt of having when I was growing up. Minimalist, with sleek lines and polished surfaces.
And it's cold. Stark, emotionally barren.
It's how I like it. Or, how I liked it when I had to work insane hours to earn my position, to fight for my grandfather's respect in his company. Now I have everything I ever wanted, and I'm terrified that I don't actually want any of this at all, that I've wasted so much time working towards something that makes me feel so… empty.
Shoving the bowl away, I get up with unnecessary force, the stool scraping against the cold tile. I rinse out the dish and the pan, put them in the dishwasher and clean up the counter andmy place setting. Not a crumb, everything looks perfect. As if no one had ever even been there.
I shower, then get ready for bed, digging my battery-operated boyfriend out of my bedside drawer after crawling under the cool covers. It takes longer than usual to tease my body into responding. I feel numb, even with my newest purchase, a giant, synthetic minotaur cock with six vibration speeds and a supposedly realistic blunt tip with a thick, ropey ring around the head.
Vranuk3000. I call him Nuk for short.
The length wobbles on the lowest speed, but as the vibes increase in intensity, Nuk thickens, firming in my hand. It's a glorious toy, one I spent over two hundred dollars on, but it still takes me several minutes to get wet enough to slip the toy inside my pussy, so I let the vibration dance over my clit, going for the easy pleasure.
Eventually, I forget all about work, all about my loneliness, all about the everyday life decisions that amount to nothing, and focus on the singing vibration. The pleasure that took so long to build crests higher, and higher. It begins low in my abdomen, like a vibrant fire, a pooling of heat and burning ache. The blunt, flat head of the cock drags against my g-spot, and I plunge the toy in and out, faster, while the vibrations stimulate my nerve endings.
I picture a real minotaur, one of those great hulking beasts occasionally spotted in human clubs downtown. I imagine one hitting on me, following me home. He's massive, far too big to control.
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 itright. 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 everyday 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.
