A Married Anon visits a Monster Girl Dating Site

You drag your feet to work with the same enthusiasm as a fugitive shuffling towards the nearest Sheriff to turn himself in. As you walk through the glass double doors your eyes pass over the same tired red print that spells your company’s name. You don’t even bother sounding the name out in your head; it only serves to bring you to bitter tears of depression and it’s even a company rumor that if you stare into the mirror in the men’s bathroom on the 3rd floor and say the company name three times aloud you’ll see your asshole Anubis supervisor pop her head in, despite company regulations, and bitch you out for wasting company time. Like that bitch didn’t realize it was “wasting work hours” when she got your entire department to spray paint a dump-truck worth of Lego bricks gold and build her an honest-to-Illias pyramid. In any case, you mumble a greeting to Janice, the Kraken receptionist, and walk over to the elevators. Despite a quick trip up to the third floor somehow you manage to descend to your own personal level of hell. You walk over to your dusty-beige cubicle and silently count down the hours to quitting time.
9 hours, 2 minutes.
You start the workday by reading your email. You look over your inbox, a few spam emails on how to shorten your penis length (retards think that they can protect themselves from a monster girl in heat this way), a reminder that Tuesday is Buri the Cockroach girl accountant’s surprise birthday party (dumbass also sent her the email), and finally a reminder from Isis, your Anubis supervisor, about a company workshop on leadership and synergy (she wrote that while attendance is recommended, the recommendation is mandatory). In other words, nothing worthwhile.
You let out an exasperated sigh and wince when you see that your co-worker is walking over, taking your audible expression of exhaustion and surrender as a sign to remind you that things can in fact get worse.
“Mornin’ man. Working hard or hardly working?” he calls out, smiling like the oblivious douche he is. He does bring up an interesting question though? What do you even do here? You remember vaguely getting hired for a specific position but for the life of you somehow you can’t remember what you are paid to do. Come to think of it, what does this company do? What do they sell? As you slowly panic over your work-related amnesia, you talk to the douche who continues to smile gormlessly.
“Bob, what do we even do here?” Might as well ask him, seeing as he’s the one who brought it up. As you look up from your immaculate inbox to him, you see his eyes glaze over, his smile contorting to a vacant frown, panic starting to settle into his features. You almost feel empathy for him, but you quickly snap out of it.
“You’re not paid to chitchat, that’s certain.” Isis makes her presence known. You ignore her rudeness, if you couldn’t handle that you would have broken down years (holy shit, has it been years?) ago. You start to turn back to your computer, but you realize that Isis might be able to answer the question.
“Isis, what ARE we paid to do?”
She freezes. Shit. You’re not sure if mentally breaking your co-workers is against company regulations.
She begins to think, stroking her chin with her large paw, her black bushy tail swaying rhythmically. Alright, a good sign. She starts tapping her hind paw (foot?) against the floor, turning and twisting here and there every few seconds. You look at Bob; he’s still frozen, his lips silently mouthing gibberish as the Elder God that is the company continues raping his mind. As you slowly feel your own mind sinking into that same abyssal maw you’re suddenly brought back to your senses as Isis claps her paws, her smile as radiant as the waters around Fukushima. She crosses her arms under her abundant chest and proudly tells you of your reason for coming to this hellhole.
“I got a new Lego set yesterday.”
You feel something break inside you. Hope? No, that’s been MIA for a long time already. Happiness? Nope, still in the ICU of your soul. Sanity? Sanity? We’ve got a runner. You pull back from your internal musings to take care of an urgent matter of business.
“No, we are NOT paid to build pyramids.”
“Of course not. You don’t pay slaves to…”
“We aren’t your slaves, Isis.”
“Why do you build my pyramids then?”
Shit, she got you there. You slowly look down onto your wrists, looking for the usual signs of slavery, a pair of shackles perhaps. As you start to genuflect before your construction-crazed mistress, a voice rings out from another cubicle like a modern day Moses to free you from captivity.
“Actually, our department is in charge of logistics. We handle shipping and receiving requests from clients and stuff.”
The new voice sounds out like a clarion call, a light of truth shining in the darkness. You lift up your eyes and behold your savior standing behind the frozen figure that is Bob. You utter heartfelt words of gratitude:
“Shut up Utah.”
Utah shrugs and heads back to his cubicle. You see Isis do likewise, sullenly dejected as she walks back to her office. You see a rather large papyrus under her arm, probably a blueprint for her next Lego project. You shudder at how quickly she had that ready and how easily you were willing to submit to her. Your wife would NOT like to hear of this, so you try to cram the memory of these past few moments as far down into the depths of your soul as you can. Oh hey, there’s Sanity. Get back here asshole. In any case, Utah saved you. Speaking of which…
“Utah, why do we call you Utah?”
“Well, I moved in from Salt Lake City about three…”
“Shut up Utah.”
Curiosity satisfied you look behind you at Bob, still frozen in existential horror. You get up and turn him around so he faces away from you; it’s bad enough to be in the same room as him much less having him staring unblinkingly at you while you’re trying to…work? Feels strange knowing what your job is, like running your tongue over your bare teeth after getting braces taken off. You always did wonder why people just randomly called you asking how long the next shipment would take to be delivered. You always just told them to try turning off their computer and turning it back on again. Always did the trick.
You look at the clock and calculated how much longer until quitting time. Surely a good hour or three passed, right?
8 hours, 54 minutes.
Fuck.
…………….
Six hours, ten I.T. questions, and a demand from Isis to “walk like an Egyptian and build like a Hebrew” later you are spinning in your chair, wondering if boredom can actually kill when Bob finally shows signs of life. Well, all good things have to end sometime. He turns around to face you.
“So buddy, working hard…”
“Shut up Bob. We’re not going through that again.”
“Alright man, chill. How about I show you a good time? I got something that’ll take your mind off work.”
You stop spinning and focus your gaze on Bob. Last you remember Bob was married, so it seems weird that he’s hitting on you. An insect girl you think. Some shitty one, like a Moth girl or a Cockroach girl. Cockroach girl…shit, Buri’s party is Tuesday and you haven’t even thought about a gift. What would a Cockroach girl even like? Maybe you can get by with recycling something you already… recycling! You can just get some garbage and throw it in her cubicle. Don’t cockroaches like trash? It’s perfect. You smile smugly at your brilliance while Bob starts typing something on your computer. Wait, what?
“I swear to Illias Bob, if you try to log on to a handholding site again on my account I’ll sell you to Isis.” That yarmulke on his head was a dead give-away. Definitely a Jew, possibly homosexual. You decide that later on you’ll investigate further.  “She has a new Lego set you know.”
Bob turns to you, eyes glazing over again in horror. Despite his allegations of racial discrimination, Bob couldn’t get HR to even write Isis a strongly worded letter regarding her actions. Then again, the HR guy hates Bob. Everyone hates Bob.
Despite the horrific flashbacks and Lego-stepping PTSD, Bob continues to type on your keyboard. Finally, he hits Enter and a site loads up. You turn away from Bob and look at whatever site he wanted to show you. Judging from the website filter not immediately turning on the fire alarm and spotlights not shining on you like a criminal during a failed breakout, the site isn’t filled with handholding filth. In fact, it’s…
“A dating website? For monster girls?” You turn back to Bob, one eyebrow up questioningly. Definitely a Jew, possibly a homosexual, maybe a cheater? “I thought you were married?”
“I am, happily so. It’s just for fun. You make a profile and you can look at all the losers who can’t catch a man the natural way.” He puffs up his chest with pride. “Besides, my wife knows. She just doesn’t mind since, you know, I am the man of the house. She dotes on me hand and foot or in her case feet.”
Oh right, he’s married to that Oomukade girl. You knew she was a shit tier insect girl of some type. You remember hearing the story that she ASKED him if she could marry him. Bob, men who live in glass houses shouldn’t call other monster girls losers when they’re married to an Oomukade girl. That’s neither here nor there though, and you don’t really have much else to do anyway…
“Hey guys. What’s going… aren’t you guys married? Why you looking at a dating site?” Utah steps in with the can of chicken noodle soup that is his lunch in his hand. That harpy girl a few cubicles over seems offended; maybe she lost a relative that way? Bob turns to him bright eyed and regurgitates whatever drivel he told you. Utah furrowed his brow. “I could never do that. That would be too disrespectful to my wife.”
Huh, you figured Utah was married, single men don’t last long in a workforce dominated by monster girls, but he never did say what kind of girl he married. You kinda wonder what type of monster girl would interest him, so you decide to ask.
“Shut up Utah. What kind of monster girl did you marry?”
Utah takes your words in stride. Good guy, really. Doesn’t deserve the hassle everyone gives him. Just too preachy at times. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his smartphone, and fiddles with it. He then shows you and Bob a picture of him and his girl. The hooves and tail say Centaur, the eye says Cyclops. You never heard of a Cyclops-Centaur mix; Bob smoothly, eloquently, and tactfully brings up this sensitive question.
“Wow, so you got a cripple? Never seen a one-eyed Centaur before.”
Utah blushes a bit. “No asshole, she’s just wearing an eye-patch. Nothing’s wrong with her eyes.”
You figure if she’s wearing an eyepatch, she should have something wrong with her eye. You decide to raise this objection to Utah. He responds with blushing harder.
“She likes to pretend that her left eye is magical and needs to be sealed to prevent it from leaking out demonic energy. She had an Ushi-Oni friend back in high-school, so she must have gotten her story from that. She’s gotten a lot better about it recently. She even takes it off sometimes when we’re alone.” He tries to explain it away, but, no Utah. That’s not an explanation. You tell him straight up like a good friend would (you don’t have many friends so you can’t be sure) that that’s a delusional horse he’s riding and you don’t mean the Centaur.
Bob doesn’t miss a beat, like the Hebrew cuckolding faggot that he might be, and continues on about his hobby. “Trust me, if you make a profile you can get hours of entertainment out of it. You aren’t even cheating; it’s just reminding you how lucky you are to have a cripple crazy horse for a wife.” His smile suddenly disappears. “Trust me, I’m not even joking.”
Utah sighs and heads back to his cubicle with Bob right on his heels. Turning back to your monitor, you give Bob’s last words some thought. It isn’t cheating, that’s true. And judging by the clock you still have a little less than 3 hours until closing time. Might be fun to look at all the desperate failures of what should be proud rapists. You decide to make a profile.
…………….
Mein Gott in Himmel, Bob was right. These are some sad sacks of an excuse for a monster girl. You made an account on the dating site, the not so cleverly named PlentyOfHumans.com. Setup was easy, just your name, sex, and other basic pieces of info. Then came the questions. You weren’t really interested in finding a match, but you do hate lying when it comes to personality questions. So a good majority of the 3 hours at work you spent on the profile came from answering questions that ranged from the common-sense “Are you healthy enough for sexual activity?” to the boring cliché “True or False: I believe that I can outrun a would be mate (the answer is always false unless it’s a slime or snail girl)” to the shockingly lewd “True or False: I think that handholding is something you do on the first rape”. You were so engrossed in answering the questions that the impossible happened: You stayed at work past quitting time. Even as you sit in front of your home desktop you still feel queasy at the thought. That isn’t important however, compared to what you’ve been seeing for the past hour.
Here, right in front of you, were the dregs of the monster girl world. The first didn’t seem too bad, a Holstaurus with a nice face and a seemingly nice personality. Likes munching on flowers, gardening, and slow paced lovemaking. Typical of a Cow girl; their kind aren’t the most aggressive so a dating site is perfectly passive enough for them. You wondered what the hell Bob was talking about when you realized something from her pictures. All except for one was from the neck up and the one that wasn’t was absolutely shocking.
She was flat-chested.
You couldn’t believe it. A flat-chested Holstaurus had no reason to exist. It was an udder abomination, literally. The next girl was no better. A Sea Bishop who by all accounts seemed to be wonderfully well endowed and completely typical for her race. Loved swimming in salt water, helping others to breathe underwater, and electronic gaming (you wondered about that, do they have waterproof electronics?). You wondered why a girl like this would need a dating site when you noticed the tiny footnote on the bottom of her profile. Turns out she wasn’t officially appointed by Poseidon as a Bishop. Seriously girl, get your shit together. You aren’t much of a religious person, but if you’re going to call yourself a Sea Bishop you should at least get your paperwork together. Otherwise you’re just a delusional mermaid.
That final girl you were looking at was the worst of the bunch though. It was a Unicorn; a symbol of peace, purity, and devotion. Definitely the kind to need a dating site, especially considering that she wants a virgin male. So to rekindle your faith in monsterkind, you scrutinized her profile hoping to find that she was a perfectly normal girl. Nope. Turns out, she had a major cuckolding fetish. That and a horn smaller than 6 inches means that by definition she was an absolute failure of a Unicorn.
Man, that Holstaurus, Sea Bishop, and Unicorn girls are shit.
You notice that it was getting late; your wife would be coming home soon and dinner wasn’t ready yet. You decide to log off, but before you could a small message popped up at the bottom of the page. Turns out a monster girl decided to message you directly. Odd, you didn’t put up a profile picture so whoever sent this must be truly desperate. You decide to look briefly at the message and you choke on your tea as you read it.
“Dear Sir,
Good evening. I noticed perchance you just recently set up your account and I thought it wise to welcome you personally. I see you are a male and I wanted to let you know that I respect men as equals. I know how hard it can be to live in a monster dominated world and I want to assure you I’m not the kind of monstergirl that would rape you. If anything, I’d be the one on bottom :))))
Please peruse my profile and let me know if you’d like to meet me for coffee one day. I’ll bring my best bonnet.
Regards,
Sally Mandez
P.S. Don’t respond if you believe in Illias.”
How dare she make you waste perfectly good chamomile? You go to the kitchen to get a paper towel to wipe up the mess you made. While dabbing the keyboard clean of your tea, you stop to look at the picture of the offending girl. That was a mistake.
A Salamander, yes, but you can’t believe your eyes. You’ve known a few Salamanders, a proud warrior race with tails that burn with justice, but this girl defies that description. A girl with pasty white skin, a far cry from the even tan that a normal salamander would have, with small pits on her face that look like they’re oozing with magma. Oh, that’s probably acne for them. Tough. As you peer closer at her picture, you notice something, her muscles. In this case, lack of. Shit, you don’t really work out but you have more noticeable bulges on you then she does. It doesn’t sound like much, but for a Salamander to be noticeably weaker than a male is shameful. How could a self-respecting mother raise… oh god. She’s wearing a My Little Centaur shirt. She actually likes a show for little boys?
You start chuckling while you sit back down on your chair. In the words of a famous man, this is gonna git good. You click on her profile to see a higher resolution picture. Surely that first one was just bad lighting. She probably has…
Oh Illias, does that say what you think it says? You didn’t notice it, but you’re laughing like the first time you got raped by your wife, a slow rumbling mirthless laugh. Her profile title says that Sally here is an “aggressive pacifist who uses her prose instead of her sword”. Really? An honest-to-Illias so-called intellectual pacifist Salamander? What’s next? “A fervent militant disbeliever of Illias, which is not against my vow against belligerence since all believers of Illias are fools who are blinded by their own ignorance.” Heh. “It is the duty of all enlightened equals to defend our illuminated euphoria from these subintellectuals. Their so-called faith shatter against my swords of knowledge and calm debate skills” Hehehe, you haven’t dealt with any hardcore followers of Illias, at least not since Paladin camp when you were 10, but seriously? “People decry the fandom of My Little Centaur to be nothing but a bunch of womanchildren, but they can’t understand the deepness behind it. How all the Centaurs work together to live in harmony despite the inane subterfuge of the evil Paladin king is highly symbolic for the fight all disbelievers of Illias have against her fanatics” Hahahahaha. “I think all men are equal to monstergirls. All the sluts here on this site are just interested in handholding on the first date, but I readily respect men as my contemporaries. That’s why I call all of monster and humankind as ‘equals’. If you date me, I’ll treat you like the equal man you are.” HAHAHAHAHA oh Illias make it stop, your sides are splitting and you almost fell off your chair. Wiping the tears from your eyes, you start scrolling back up the page to her pictures. One catches your attention, a picture titled “A dainty lady wearing a bonnet”. The title sends you back on the floor, giggling like a schoolboy who just heard a classmate tell a Dullahan to ‘not get a-head of herself’. Oh Illias, your sides. You manage to control your giggling fit, barely suppressing it until you turn your head to actually see the picture. You finally break down. Nothing can stop it. It’s too late. Why didn’t you stop it?
 It’s happening.
She was wearing a bergère hat. It’s not even a bonnet.
“AHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahaha…AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA” You laugh like you never laughed before. You laughed harder than the one time you got your homophobic friend to date a Cheshire girl. You laughed harder than the time you saw the succubus captain of the cheer team get turned down by the gay guy she was after. You laughed harder than the time you bought a can of Raid and a flyswatter in a store full of insect girls. You laughed and laughed and laughed and lau….
“Toy, what’s so funny?”
And you stop laughing. When did your wife come home? Dinner still isn’t ready, you haven’t recorded Antique Roadshow for her, and here she is watching her somewhat out of shape husband damn near pissing himself in front of a computer. You try to catch your breath; deep breaths okay? Deep breaths. You start giggling again. You get back on your knees, sit back down on the chair, and point to the screen. If she sees it, she’ll understand.
Understand she does. She walks over to the screen and bends at the waist a bit, her claw on your shoulder. She seems puzzled at first as she starts near the top of the profile. She chuckles a bit at first, giggles at the My Little Centaur bit, actually snorts a bit of fire at the ‘equals’ part. Then you go for the kill.
“See that picture, Tuon? It’s not even a bonnet.”
You see the light in her eyes slowly go dim, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. Tuon then starts laughing, slowly at first, its frequency and volume constantly increases until she is exploding with laughter, snorting small puffs of fire, her laughter reaching a crescendo. You can’t help but laugh with your wife and soon you’re both laughing up a storm to wake the dead (literally, next door you have a neighbor with a Zombie wife and three undead daughters). Finally, the laughter slows down to nothing but a half-hearted chuckle until you’re both wheezing. You turn to your wife, your dear Tuon.
“See honey, wasn’t that hilarious?”
She breathes deeply, catching the breath that was denied her, and replies.
“Yes Toy, that was greatly amusing. What was your favorite part?”
“No doubt about it, the bonnet part. I mean, you’d figure she’d…”
Tuon interrupts you. “Mine was the part where you signed up for a dating site when you already have me.”
Everyone knows about the fight or flight response. Very few people remember the other response, the “I don’t want to die tired” response. You forgot about it. Luckily for you, it decided to remind you right then about its existence.
You stiffen. This is her court, her rules. Rule number one is that you have the right to remain seated until you no longer have that right. Judging by the claw she has on your shoulder, the claw that never left its current resting place, the claw that is now lifting you onto your feet, you figure that you no longer have that right. She holds you outstretched in her right arm, like a wet dog you’re trying to keep from touching the carpet. She throws you onto the bed, the king’s bed that is her dominion and your second place of work.
Now’s not the time to give up though. You decide to go for a plea bargain.
“Honey, I didn’t sign up to actually use it. I just wanted to look at all the losers who…”
Her claws rip the clothes off you like a Tanuki rips off her customer base. In moments you are sans shirt, pants, and socks, with nothing to cover your modesty but your underwear. You tend to buy clothes more for their durability than their style, a fact that is working against you since she’s using your pants to tie your hands to the bedpost and your socks to gag you.
Rule number two. You don’t have the right to speak or be silent. You really need to go back and take Monster Girl bedroom political science again. This so far has been all basic questions and here you are treating it like amateur hour.
Tuon saunters over to you, her hips swaying dangerously. In fact everything about her is radiating with danger. She mounts you, her hips over yours. This would be really erotic if you didn’t currently fear for your life. You notice many things in this exact moment; her wingspan is approximately ten feet, her green scales gleaming as if they were emeralds containing a thunderstorm to rival the anger of Zeus, her eyes glittering with the rage of a thousand scorned women, her horns and claws sharper than the cheddar you had in your breakfast omelet, her pelvic thrust capabilities measure in the range of 3000 kilo-Newtons. The sum of her parts reminds you of the obvious truth about your wife.
Tuon is a Dragon. An angry, jealous, wrathful Dragon. A Dragon that considers you a thief for signing up on PlentyOfHumans.com.
“Now Toy, my treasure, you seem to have forgotten something.” She rips off the last garment protecting you, though the protection it granted was like wet tissue paper versus an orbital bombardment. “You are my lover, my husband, my treasure…” She lifts up her hips, and positions your painfully obedient manhood against the opening of her womanhood.
“AND MINE ALONE!”
………………..
This Tuesday marks the first day since that fateful incident that your doctor has deemed you able to go back to… work? You’ve been running late, although perhaps running is the wrong word for it. You roll up on the handicap ramp up to those glass double doors in your new wheelchair. Not the first time he’s seen a Dragon break a man’s pelvic bone midst coitus, said the doctor. Definitely the first time he saw the Dragon break multiple parts of the pelvic bone in the same act of coitus though. He did get you this spanking new wheelchair straight off the lot though, so he wasn’t too bad. Didn’t like the way he winked at you though.
You mumble another greeting to Janice and head back up to that third level of hell, plastic garbage bag in hand. You knew you were forgetting something this morning, but after that painful surgery you could almost be forgiven for forgetting about sweet dear old “pelvic thrust capabilities probably in the 100 Newton range” Buri. But you didn’t. A fresh bag of garbage later and you knew everything was going to be alright. When you got to the third floor, you were told that the party had been canceled since, you know, not a surprise anymore. You still gave the bag to her, those tears in her eyes obviously from happiness and not from the bitter smell of used bandages and rotting onions.
You roll into your cubicle ignoring Isis as she demands for signed paperwork from your doctor, your surgeon, your anesthesiologist, your chaplain, and your wife. She’s just mad that you managed to skip out on building her third pyramid for her. Shame you didn’t get to see Utah demand that she, in his words, “LET MY DEPARTMENT GO”.
You start your day as you always do, by checking your email. You got nothing at all, a good start. The day passes slowly on as you tell people to restart their computers and you try to do wheelies in your chair. Finally, your good mood comes to an end as Bob and Utah come to check on you.
“Shit man, your wife did a number on you, didn’t she? Maybe you should have gotten a girl like my Lino.”
Bob smiles like the douche he is. You’re not taking it today, not at all.
“Your damn stupid hobby got my hip broken. Three times! Tuon raped me for about two days straight. DO YOU KNOW HOW THAT FEELS ASSHOLE? SHE’S RATED FOR ESCAPING EARTH ORBIT THRUST CAPABILITY YOU DICK!”
Bob doesn’t even crack. Utah tries to step in.
“Maybe Bob is right though. I mean, it’s not like she owns you…”
You lift up your right wrist. Right after she “reclaimed her treasure”, she took you straight to the tattoo artist. Not the doctor, the tattoo artist. And she made you get a…
“A barcode? The hell?” Bob pulls out his phone and tries to scan it with a barcode reader.

“You’re using the wrong app. Here…” You fish out your smartphone out. She installed the right app on yours as soon as you got out of the tattoo artist, right before the doctor. “Check it with ‘Dragon Girl Reader’.”
Utah gingerly takes the phone from you and quickly scans your wrist. His polite frown turns into a grimace. Bob looks at the phone from behind him and whistles.
“Damn son, your name, your place of residence, your social security number, your bank account, and… ‘owned by Tuon’. Shit, she does own you.”
You grab the phone from him. You’re still mad about the dating site thing, especially since the painkillers are wearing off. Utah gently tries to cheer you up though.
“Hey, you don’t have to deal with this. How about this: Rika, my wife, has a couple friends who are looking for mates. We can hook you up with one of her friends, change your name, and hide you. Your wife will never be able to find you...”
You sigh; Utah is a good man, but naïve. That being said, it almost sounds like a plan, but you know something, something that no matter how perfect the disguise, no matter how far away from Tuon you run, one truth is inescapable.”
“Shut up Utah; horse pussy is shit.”