I had wanted to fuck her, but I could tell by the inexperienced, sloppy blowjob, and the way tears formed in the corners of her eyes as her jaw stretched uncomfortably around me, that therewas no way she could take my dick, let alone my knot. Most betas couldn’t, although some could, but it was never quite right.
Not in the way I’d heard omega pussy was.
Magic pussy, some said.
There were so few omegas left though, and as a result, most alphas, like myself, settled by fucking betas. The betas in the red-light district were the best for that. They kept themselves stretched with huge plugs to accommodate alpha knots. They were a loose fuck, but once the base of your dick swelled, they were a tight-enough knot. Sometimes too tight. I had heard stories of beta pussies getting all torn up trying to take a knot.
I grimaced at the thought, and instinctively shifted, grabbing my dick to shield my star player.
That would hurtlike-fuck.
While I enjoyed fucking betas, I avoided knotting them. It wasn't worth the hassle and was easier that way, even if it left me not completely satisfied. Besides, who wants to get stuck inside a beta bunny after you've finished with them? The goal was to get the fuck out of there as quickly as possible.
The cloud had materialized into an old van. It slowed its pace as it approached the checkpoint. Dusk was quickly settling over the sky, and the combination of dust and heat made the air hazy. On Fridays, everyone was eager to get out of the city, so the rush of workers leaving for No-Man's-Land or nearby cities had long passed. But it was still too early for the nightlife crowd to be arriving, ready to line the streets searching for a buzz or a fuck.
Once nightfall hit, Rosie's, the beta military bar on Central Ave, was packed and busy, and the beta bunnies buzzed around The Rusty Tap, the alpha military bar, like flies on shit. Maybethe brunette from last night would be up for round two. She wasn’t particularly good, but perhaps she was teachable, and my standards were low. If she had two tits and three holes, there was a pretty good chance I’d fuck her.
Talon said he would meet me after his appointment. He was always horny and on-edge after a tattoo session, so he’d probably want a turn at the brunette. Hell, maybe she’d let us both fuck her at the same time. After all, there’s only one thing beta bunnies liked more than one alpha, and that was two.
My dick swelled, thinking about spit-roasting her with my pack mate. I was vaguely aware of the squeal coming from the van as its old rusty brakes, desperately in need of a change, struggled to fully stop the vehicle. My mind once again wandered, envisioning fucking the brunette's throat, her hair wrapped tightly around my fist, while Talon hammered her from the other end, hoping the debaucherous mental images would speed up this long and boring fucking shift.
Chapter 2: Rowan
My hands felt clammy, and my heart became erratic as we neared the checkpoint. I had gone through it a million times, but I was still on edge. Harper gossiped in the back with Lily, and Malcolm tapped his fingers on the steering wheel like little drumsticks. I leaned over, pressing my cheek to Alex’s arm. He looked down at me, flashing a gentle smile before ruffling my hair and throwing his arm around me. I melted into him, accepting his comfort. It wasn’t romantic. Alex was like a big brother, and he could always sense when my anxiety was getting the better of me.
I nuzzled into him, knowing his beta scent was just an added layer of camouflage that helped me hide in plain sight, especially if I had a rare and unfortunate run-in with an alpha. They were easy enough to avoid, considering Arca only stationed betas at checkpoints and other public facilities. I supposed they reservedalpha soldiers for more dangerous and important jobs, which was fine by me.
Sweat beaded on the back of my neck, and I quickly rooted around in my bag under the seat for my scent-blocking lotion. I swiped some on my wrists and neck before settling back into Alex’s warmth.
“Mmm, that smells good,” he commented.
Of course, he thought I smelled good. I smelled like a beta. My strong floral lotion was perfect for masking my actual scent. Not that I had much of a natural scent, since I had been taking suppressants for almost ten years.
Alphas were sensitive to scent. They hated strong lotions and perfumes. I detested the smell too, as it made my skin crawl, but it helped me mask my faint omega scent, so I wore it anytime I left the house.
I couldn’t stand the store-bought ones filled with chemicals and preservatives, opting to make the lotion myself. My dad showed me how, and he would often test the perfume with his alpha nose to determine how off-putting it was. The stronger the floral scent, the better.
We had a small garden behind our cabin filled with roses, quince, calendula, and peonies. I would dry the flower petals, soak them in oil for several weeks, and finally combine them with shea butter or beeswax to make lotions and bars.
My dad also showed me how to make the illegal suppressants I took daily. We made the capsules from a plant called weeping violet. Growing it was a punishable offense, which is why our cabin was located deep in the woods of No-Man's-Land.
It used to take my dad well over an hour to get to the women’s health clinic he worked at in Falcon City, so he would leave on foot before the sun rose, walking nearly two miles to reach his car before hitting the road.
Every time I thought about my dad, what he sacrificed to protect me and give me my freedom, a pang of guilt mixed with grief washed over me.
I missed him.
He could have blamed me for my mother’s death. He loved her as deeply as any man can love a woman, and her loss crippled him. I wouldn’t have blamed him for hating me. After all, she was dead because of me.
Omega births notoriously presented complications. Hemorrhage, sepsis, blood clots, stroke, and preeclampsia were just some of the many ways omega mothers died in childbirth, the latter being how my mother passed.
My dad was the doctor who delivered me. While he didn’t blame me for my mother’s death, I knew he blamed himself, thinking he could have done more despite knowing the risks associated with omega births. That’s why there were so few of us now, and why we were so highly coveted by Arca.
Being an omega meant mandatory enlistment, same with being an alpha. We were both required by law to turn ourselves over to the Arca military at 18 years of age. Some omegas and alphas even enrolled in early readiness programs. At 16, omegas often entered training centers to learn etiquette and submission, aiming for enlistment with a desirable pack. Arca only paired the most valuable and well-connected units with those omegas.
The Arca database tracked every known omega and alpha from birth until death. Medical staff pricked every babyimmediately after birth to test for designation, and those few precious drops of blood determined their fate. All the hospitals and clinics below the Border Front sent those results to Arca’s database for cataloging.
My dad once told me that before the world changed, medical history used to be private and protected by something he referred to as HIPAA. It was Arca who lobbied for public access to personal medical files. When the mutations happened, fear gripped people, and laws changed rapidly afterward. It was only a few years later that the mandatory conscription laws for alphas and omegas went into effect.
