1. Madeline
Madeline
Friday
“I’m denying your request for another round of heat suppressants. It would be medically unsafe for you to continue delaying your heat.”
Panic rises in my chest. “Please, Dr. Rose. It’s not a good time for me to have my first one. If you let me skip it for one more cycle, then I’ll have more time to prepare.”
There’s not really anything I need to plan for; I’m honestly lucky I’ve been able to avoid it for so long. I’m just terrified to have my first heat.
As an unbonded omega, I only have two options: overly eager alphas, or a medically assisted heat—which is a really nice way of saying “medically induced coma due to horny hormones.”
IVs, sedation, and beta nurses who try to keep you comfortable—until you’re nearly comatose—to survive alone for the worst parts.
A clinical heat sounds terrible, but as an omega who refuses to have my heat with clients, it was always going to be the only option.
It’s one of my nonnegotiable rules for being a sugar baby.
Get paid and move on.
Always wear scent blockers.
Never catch feelings.
No sleepovers.
No knots.
No real names.
Alpha-free home.
No heats.
No packs.
Money over love.
If I wanted a committed relationship with alphas, this wouldn’t be an issue, but I will never be part of a pack.
All I’ll ever have are clients.
As a sugar baby, this was always going to be a problem.
I’ve made a lot of promises about my first heat to too many of my clients, without any intention of keeping them.
Pretending to give wealthy alphas a chance to live out their wildest heat fantasies keeps them paying me each month.
They’re generous men who provide for my every want and need to gain access to me while I focus on my travel photography.
I spend a year dangling the promise of sharing my heat with them—and then I disappear.
On to the next.
Heat suppressants have prevented me from ever having to follow through with any promises.
It has to be like this.
Sometimes, my clients like to imagine there’s more between us than transactions, no matter how clear I make things from the start, but they face that reality when I leave without a second glance.
Dr. Rose looks at me with sympathetic eyes and my stomach drops, knowing her answer.
“I’m sorry, I told you this last year. You’ve been on suppressants since you were nineteen and your body needs a rest from all the synthetic hormones. We’ve delayed it for six years, and you knew this was coming. Once you have one heat, we can get you right back on your medications, alright?”
She sets a pamphlet on heat preparation on the counter next to me while dread makes itself at home in my gut.
The pamphlet features a happy omega with big, bouncy curls, surrounded by four alphas staring adoringly at her on a large, fluffy bed.
I’d rip it up, but Dr. Rose doesn’t deserve my misplaced anger. Instead, I beg.
“Please. I can’t afford to take time off work right now. Give me a few more weeks?”
I hope the desperation is clear on my face.
“Madeline…” Her lips purse. “You were supposed to be here for a pre-heat checkup, but I understand this is a serious matter and you’re nervous about having your first one.
I will make an exception, I’ll give you a shot to hold off your heat for about two weeks, but you’ve already surpassed your window of having a smooth transition. You’re putting your body at risk.”
I perk up, ignoring that last part. I can handle a shot.
Dr. Rose continues, “The side effects may be unpleasant, though. It will set off a faux heat. You might be extremely tired, experience flu-like symptoms and extreme bouts of sexual urges during that time, since your body will start to demand a proper heat rather quickly. You will need toys or alphas nearby, as your omega side will try to take over, but you will remain in your right mind. Orgasms will keep the cramps and nausea away. It’s more like a Band-Aid, but it will give you a few weeks to make plans for your true heat. ”
It will be a shitty two weeks, but I can manage. “Thank you so much! I’ll take any extra time I can get.”
“Are you still seeing clients, or will I need to provide a medical note to an employer?”
“Seeing clients. Hence me not being able to take time off work.”
If I wanted a pack, I’d have taken one of the thousands of opportunities available to me since I presented. Sugar babying works for me. I love the money, sex, and travel that comes with it. As a sugar baby, I have two types of alphas: clients and donors.
Donors are alphas who want to be clients. I’ll let them send me money and buy me dinner. It’s part of the vetting process to see if I like them enough to become clients.
Donors can pay to have me as their dates at weddings, as a guest at private events, or companionship on luxury vacations for retired alphas. All platonic, a majority of them gentlemen.
Sure, if we have chemistry, we might fuck, but I don’t sleep with most of them.
Clients, however, have standing dates and guaranteed time with me. They pay my monthly fee, plus gifts and vacations. Only a few chosen donors who have proven to be generous and can keep their possessive alpha side locked down become clients.
For the past year I’ve only had three: Zachary, Hunter, and Alric.
I’ve promised those alphas my heat, but it’s coming to the end of my time with them. I’ll have to wait till after my heat to find new ones, so I don’t have to temporarily vanish during the vetting process.
“I see,” she says. “Well, plan around it. They’ll understand, and there’s no avoiding it now. Remember to keep taking your scent blockers, though, because your heat pheromones will be very high. Will any of your alphas be joining you, or would you prefer a medically assisted heat?”
Prefer is a strong word. I wish I weren’t an omega at all; then I wouldn’t even be having this conversation.
I trust alphas with my bank account, but not something as intimate as my heat. Not after I saw how poorly my mother was treated during hers, when I spent the week afterward helping her recover, since none of her alphas had any interest in caring for her once they got what they wanted.
Omegas don’t get to remember most of their heat, and alphas get the only thing they actually care about: a week-long sex fest with no limits, and an omega, driven by lust and biology, at their mercy.
There’s not even a guarantee they’ll remember to pour some water down their omega’s throat while their body becomes a vessel for someone else’s endless pleasure.
The urge to cry sneaks up on me and I pull the soft material of my knee-length coat a little tighter around me. “I’ll need it to be medically assisted.”
Dr. Rose gives me a curious look, but quietly hands me a glossy pink card with swirling letters.
Omega’s Comfort: A Luxury Medical Heat Facility.
“This is the best, but if you’re concerned about funds, I can schedule you to have it at your nearest hospital.”
Money isn’t technically a concern. I can afford it, but I don’t want to. Thinking about all those thousands of dollars disappearing from my savings account makes me nauseous. Another price to pay for being an omega. Alphas don’t have to drop that type of money on something they can’t control.
“Omega’s Comfort will be fine.”
“Do you have a preference for location? They have a few in the city.” She writes everything down.
“The one in the shopping district.”
“Alright. You have my number if you need anything. I’ll send a message over to them.
On your arrival date, they’ll send a heat practitioner and a driver, both betas, to come pick you up.
Overnight visits start the night before your heat, so plan for an evening pickup.
I will be on call, so if anything happens, I can be there in twenty minutes. ”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“If you’d like to proceed with the shot, we can do that today.”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
She leaves and comes back, and within five minutes, I receive the shot.
We make small talk about her pack while waiting to ensure I have no immediate adverse side effects.
When I’m free to go, she leads me over to the attached pharmacy, where I pick up the orange bottle of painkillers she prescribed to deal with my eventual symptoms, and we say farewell.
I knew I’d eventually have to have my first heat—it’s in my DNA—but I had truly hoped for one more year. I dream of the day I can retire and quietly slip away from all the endless alpha attention.
Once I’m on the street, I pull out my phone. Four missed text messages are stacked on top of each other on my lock screen. I ignore them for the moment until I can call a car through an omega rideshare app. When my driver is six minutes away, I can finally respond.
Alric:
I’ll see you tonight. Dinner is at 6. 2288 Lakeview Circle.
Always an alpha of few words.
Madeline:
Leaving my massage now, see you soon.
I swipe on the next notification.
Unknown number:
Stop ignoring me! I know your heat is soon. I’ll pay anything for it!!
Since the number isn’t saved, I’m going to assume it’s one of my former clients or donors trying to circumvent being blocked.
Blocked—again. Next.
Hunter:
I’ve been dreaming of your perfect tits since licking whipped cream off them on Saturday night.
Send me a pic, babycakes?
I scroll through the countless pictures I have of myself for this very reason and choose one from the Hunter-specific folder to send him.
In the photo—taken at a fancy hotel earlier this year—I’m in the bath.
I’m surrounded by bubbles, my tan nipples peeking up from the iridescent suds.
My face is turned and unrecognizable with the way my chestnut locks lay, but he knows it’s me.
The dangling diamond earrings he bought me sparkle like the city lights visible through the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows.
It’s a cute fucking photo.