God, I’m burning up.
My cock brushes the edge of the counter, and I whimper, my hips tense. The alpha is still wringing out my clothes.
I could skip ahead. But I don’t dare—it feels too much like disobeying an alpha, even a virtual one. I hump the counter—a sweaty, gasping mess.
“Now,” the alpha says. “Let’s see how wet that made you…”
I slip my hand under the waistband of my soaked briefs, and my skin is slick with sweat and pre-cum. When I pull my hand away, strings of moisture cling to my fingers. It’s never been this bad before.
“You need this knot, don’t you?” the recorded alpha croons.
“Yes,” I whimper aloud.
Oh god, I have no idea how thick these walls are. I’m about to find out.
I kick off my briefs and my shaft is already so slick, my hand slides so easily, that it only takes a few pumps before I cum all over the counter.
But there’s hardly any release. It’s not enough. It won’t be enough until I’m stuffed with that knot.
I dig out my dildo, vision blurring. I remember the lube this time. Even though I have the apartment to myself, I still lock myself in the bathroom and slump into the bathtub, if only for easy cleanup.
My phone is silent—the video ended. I flip to a new one, then sink onto the shaft of the dildo. I start three different videos, but none of them are working today. Something’s just off. I’m cumming and gasping, but my body’s still hanging on, holding out. I can’t get the knot in.
And then I have a terrible, wonderful idea.
No, this crosses a line.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
I search:Morgan Hunter speech.
A keynote from last year’s conference. Her voice fills the bathroom, echoing from my phone, as bright and commanding as it had been in person.
Oh, fuck, it’s working. The knot slides in, but I can’t help but think about how much bigger her knot is. Life-sized, my ass. Hers is bigger, I know it.
She’s saying something about sales numbers, and I’m moaning like a whore. She’s telling her team to sell, sell, sell, and I’m hearingcum, cum, cum.
And so I do. Over and over, her voice winding deep into my cells and wringing it out of me.
When I finally settle, I’m covered in a glaze of my own cum. I catch my breath and soak myself in icy water.
I dry off. Get a snack. Text Mom. But the come-down doesn’t hit. I curl up in bed and I just feel… glowy.
Which means my heat isn’t over.
#
Dreams of her wake me up in the middle of the night and send me back to the bathroom. I spend all of Saturday in dizzy heat. Just when I think I’ve calmed down, another wave hits. I watch years’ worth of conference footage as I whimper and writhe and pour out in the bathtub, covering the sound with Top Forty radio cranked to max because I think it’s better for my neighbors to hear that than all my moans. I search online for soundproofing tiles.
Even though I took suppressants Friday night and only missed the Friday morning dose, I still feel that bone-deep heat on Sunday. I can ignore it, but it’s there. How much worse would it be without the suppressants? I guess I got too used to the calm of Pleasantwood.
My reaction must be so intense because it’s been so long since I last got a proper whiff of alpha. The other possibility is that it’s because of Morgan specifically, but I don’t want to deal with the implications of that, even if her voice was the only one that could bring me relief…
I carefully read the instructions on the suppressants and take a double dose on Sunday night. I’m not taking any more chances.
When the come-down hits, I bury myself under the pillows and blankets of my bed.
