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I left work early today, so when I get home, the house is sunny and quiet as I put away the groceries. I appreciated the chance to shop during off-hours, but that’s not the reason for my change in schedule.
Food poisoning, I told my boss, to explain the flush of my cheeks, the sheen of sweat on my skin. Hopefully, nobody’s keeping track of how I tend to get food poisoning or a cold once a month like clockwork.
If I spent more time outside, especially in the evenings, that cycle would align itself with the full moon, like it does for the communes of alphas and omegas that live in even more rural areas than Pleasantwood.
But, like most alphas and omegas nowadays, my cycle drifts. Twenty-seven days here, twenty-nine there.
It sneaks up on me sometimes. I start to think the AC broke, or I accidentally grabbed my warmest sweater. Today is one of those days. This morning, I commented on how the weather was finally warming up, and my coworkers looked at me like I had two heads. Oops.
I press a frozen pizza to my cheek for a moment before putting it away.
My cock is starting to tense behind the fly of my jeans. I ignore it, sorting boxes of cereal into the pantry. It doesn’t really feel good or bad—it’s just… a reflex.
It’s not that hard to ignore right now. Mom is still at work, and I have a precious few hours to myself. I think I caught it early this time, so I might be able to take care of things before it gets too bad. Sometimes I can calm myself down, even it out. Stress makes it worse, and I actually haven’t been too stressed lately.
I have a few chores I want to catch up on, things Mom would tut at me for if she caught me doing them—cleaning the toilets, vacuuming the drapes. Guilt nags at her when I pick up those tasks, but she took care of them for years, so why shouldn’t I help now?
I strip off my shirt to ease my gathering sweat, grab the vacuum, and get to work.
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Thirty minutes later, the heat is unbearable. I’m locked in the bathroom, just in case Mom comes home early, and I press as much of my body as I can against the cold enamel of the empty bathtub.
Fuck. There’s nothing more useless than a male in heat. A male omega.
All the mewing and moaning and dripping, all the desperation to be bred, and for what? For nothing.
Apparently, a lot of male omegas fantasize about pregnancy, but that’s never been my thing.
I haven’t figured out yet whether porn helps me get over it faster or makes it ten times worse. Still, I can’t help myself, clumsily mashing my phone screen until the video starts.
Alpha jerk-off-instructions. It doesn’t matter which one—I’m too delirious to have a preference. At least I remembered to bring my dildo into the bathroom today, and my cock’s alreadydripping with enough pre-cum that forgetting the lube in my nightstand isn’t a total disaster.
The alpha’s voice barks from my phone and sends a jolt down my spine. Sometimes, betas try to record these videos to cash in. But I can always tell. There’s nothing like a bona fide alpha to make my blood turn to pure lava. I can’t stand the idea of alphas most of the time, and I try not to think about them. But when I’m in heat, there’s no way to get them out of my head.
God, this one’s making me gush. It’ll only be a couple minutes before I have enough pre to slick the dildo.
But still too long. Way too long.
The alpha in the video tells me to suck his cock, so I jam the silicone length down my throat, drooling around it, my gag reflex conspicuously missing, just like every heat.
Only the voice of the alpha commanding me to keep sucking, telling me that I won’t get that knot in my ass until I earn it, keeps me from trying something as stupid as cramming the dildo in under-lubricated.
Life-sized, the sex shop had promised. It’s big enough to be convincing. I’ve never seen a real alpha cock before. Don’t plan to. The heats aren’tsobad out here without any unbound alpha pheromones to whip me into a frenzy. Getting through them by myself is bearable. I’ve never actually been with an alpha before, and I have no intention to change that.
I suck the dildo so hard I choke, and since omegas are nothing but predictable, the video praises my commitment.
My brain can no longer parse the alpha’s voice into words—I just feel a sense of relief and desperation as the alpha permits me to take what I need most.
As I pull the dildo out of my throat, it remains coated with viscous, slippery spit, one of an omega’s many adaptations to stand up to the kind of fucking alphas prefer. Female omegas produce a similar substance vaginally. Male omegas make dowith spit and alpha pre.
I plunge the fist-thick cock into my ass, muscles tight since this is the start of my heat. I’ll be a stretched out mess by the end.
But for the moment, the resistance sends tingles of warmth and pleasure-laced pain up my spine.
I need it—I need the knot. I fuck myself hard, alpha’s voice growing distant beyond my panting.
