Chapter 17
seventeen
. . .
How long had I been in this tent? Minutes?
Hours? Days? Time had lost all meaning since they'd started their methodical dismantling of my sanity.
At some point between orgasm number two and whatever round of "Let's Break Leo's Brain" we were currently playing, my body had officially staged a coup against my mind.
My limbs weren't even mine anymore—just hypersensitive nerve endings attached to a quivering mass that once resembled a person with actual dignity.
Every inch of me had been claimed, marked, tasted, and tortured with pleasure so intense it bordered on cruelty.
My cock deserved hazard pay and workers' compensation for the abuse it had endured.
If sexual organs could file workplace complaints, mine would be compiling a multi-page report with color-coded exhibits and eyewitness testimonials.
"Beautiful," Marco praised, pressing gentle kisses to the marks they'd left on my throat, his tongue tracing the indentations from teeth that had broken skin at some point. "So perfect for us. But we're not done with you yet, baby."
Not done? My mind struggled to process the words through the syrupy haze of exhaustion and oversensitivity.
Not done implied there was more. More than the three—or was it four?
—orgasms they'd already wrung from my body.
More than the endless stream of "good boy" and "perfect omega" that kept short-circuiting my brain's resistance centers.
More than the humiliating discovery that being called "Daddy's little prince" made something in my chest tighten with desperate need.
The same chest that used to house my pride before it was surgically removed by three alphas with boundary issues and a shared fetish for breaking omegas.
"Can't," I managed, the word slurring past lips swollen from their kisses. My voice was unrecognizable—hoarse from screaming their names, begging for mercy, pleading for more. I sounded like I'd swallowed gravel and chased it with sandpaper. "No more. Broken. Everything… broken."
Stefano's laugh rumbled against my back, his chest vibrating with dark amusement. "You underestimate yourself, little prince. And you definitely underestimate what we can make your body do."
"Consider it a scientific experiment," Matteo added, his amber eyes studying my flushed face with that unsettling intensity. "Testing the upper limits of omega pleasure response."
A scientific experiment? Is that what they're calling this methodical breakdown of my defenses, this systematic dismantling of every barrier I've ever constructed?
Omega Torture 101 with these three as tenured professors.
Next, they'll be publishing their findings in the Journal of Inappropriate Alpha Research, complete with footnotes and a bibliography of "Innovative Ways to Break Omegas While Making Them Like It. "
"N-not lab rat," I muttered, though the protest lacked any real heat when I was still sprawled across Stefano's lap, my spent cock already twitching with renewed interest despite my exhaustion.
My reproductive system was clearly suffering from short-term memory loss, forgetting that it had already performed the "get hard and ejaculate" magic trick multiple times tonight.
"Research… ethics… violation. So many… violations. "
"Our only guideline," Stefano murmured against my ear, his hands already moving to lift me, "is your pleasure. And teaching you who you belong to."
Before I could attempt a suitably scathing response, I was being repositioned with the casual efficiency of men who'd clearly planned this choreography in advance.
My back hit cool silk sheets, and something was being tucked beneath my lower back—pillows, I realized, arching my spine at an angle that left me feeling exposed and vulnerable in entirely new ways.
Like a virginal sacrifice on the altar of Alpha Pleasure Gods, positioned for optimal access to all available orifices.
"Wha—?" My question died as Marco and Matteo each took one of my legs, spreading them wide enough that I felt the stretch in my inner thighs.
The position left me completely open, my head tilted slightly back over the edge of the pillows, blood rushing in a way that made my already dizzy state even more disorienting.
If the Kama Sutra had an appendix titled "Positions That Make Omegas Feel Like Sexual Display Objects," this would be center page, with a five-star difficulty rating and a warning label.
"Perfect," Stefano approved from somewhere near the foot of the bed. "Look at him—displayed like the precious treasure he is."
The casual objectification should have infuriated me.
Instead, something deep in my omega hindbrain preened at being called precious, at being admired by these powerful alphas who could have anyone but seemed obsessed with me specifically.
That treacherous part of me was currently doing backflips of joy while my rational brain tried desperately to hold an emergency strategy meeting on how to regain even a shred of dignity.
What the fuck is wrong with me? They're talking about me like I'm a particularly appetizing dessert, and my body is eating it up like it's starved for compliments.
Stockholm syndrome speedrun: new record holder.
Someone alert Guinness—we've got a contender in the Fastest Omega to Develop Inappropriate Attachment to Kidnappers category.
"Hate… all of you," I managed, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way my cock had hardened again, lying heavy against my stomach in mute betrayal of my words. "So much. When I… move again… consequences. Thinking elaborate… revenge plots. Involving… your kneecaps and… household tools."
Marco laughed, the sound warm and appreciative as his hands slid up my inner thighs, thumbs pressing into sensitive flesh. "Listen to him—still fighting even when he's spread out for us like a feast. That mouth is going to get you in trouble, little wildcat."
His lips descended without warning, claiming mine in a kiss that stole what little breath I had managed to recover.
His tongue pushed past my parted lips without resistance, exploring with possessive thoroughness that made my toes curl.
I should have bitten him, should have fought—instead, I responded with embarrassing eagerness, my tongue meeting his in a dance that felt too much like surrender.
When he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connected our mouths for a moment before breaking. "God, I missed that smart mouth," he murmured, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Even when it's struggling to form complete sentences."
"My mouth… always trouble," I slurred, trying desperately to string words together in some semblance of my usual snark. "Brand… personality defect. Comes with… omega package. Along with… terrible judgment and… inconvenient arousal… at worst possible times."
"And what a delicious defect it is," Stefano murmured, kneeling between my spread legs, his large hands settling on my thighs just above Marco's.
The double point of contact—both alphas touching me simultaneously—sent a shiver racing up my spine.
"I wonder what other trouble we can get that pretty mouth into. "
Before I could process that somewhat ominous statement, Matteo's fingers found my nipples, pinching both simultaneously with careful precision. The sudden, sharp sensation made me gasp, my back arching further off the pillows.
"Ahh!" The sound that escaped me was nothing like words—just a desperate, broken noise as the sensitivity I thought couldn't possibly increase somehow ratcheted higher.
It was like my nipples had developed their own direct hotline to my groin, bypassing all normal neurological pathways in favor of an express delivery system for pleasure.
"Fascinating response," Matteo said, repeating the action with slightly more pressure. "His sensitivity is increasing rather than decreasing with repeated stimulation."
"Right… here," I reminded him through gritted teeth as another pinch sent jolts of electricity straight to my cock.
"Not… science project. Person. Person with…
feelings. And nipples. Very angry… nipples.
Filing complaints… with management. Forming…
nipple union. Demanding… better working conditions. "
"But you are fascinating," Matteo replied, his thumbs now circling my hardened nipples with featherlight touches that somehow felt more torturous than the pinching.
He leaned down suddenly, his mouth closing over my right nipple just as his fingers pinched the left.
The contrast between wet heat and sharp pressure short-circuited my brain, reducing whatever clever retort I'd been attempting to incoherent whimpers.
My vocabulary had apparently decided to take an early retirement, leaving me with a lexicon consisting primarily of gasps, moans, and half-formed expletives.
"Look at that," Marco murmured, his own mouth descending to claim my left nipple as Matteo released it. "Stereo stimulation. His back arches so beautifully when we do this."
They were working in tandem now, both mouths on my chest, alternating between gentle suction and sharp bites that had me writhing between them.
The position—hips elevated on pillows, head tilted back, legs spread wide—left me completely at their mercy, unable to escape the overwhelming sensations.
I was the omega centerpiece in their alpha banquet, and they were determined to consume every inch.
"Stop," I gasped, though my body contradicted me by arching further into their mouths. "Too much… can't… My central nervous system is… staging walkout. Brain cells… committing mass suicide. Death by… alpha overstimulation."