Page 50 of Marked By Feral Monsters
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 heardmonster, 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 freakingangry.
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.
