Finch #2
“Don’t what? Don’t tell you what a good little omega you are?
Don’t tell you how pretty you look taking my cock?
” His pace gets harder. Faster. His hands move back to my hips, bruising, controlling, dragging me down onto him.
“Don’t tell you that this tight wet hole was made for me?
That nobody else has ever gotten you this wet, this desperate, this fucking gone? ”
The wave crests. The heat takes me, and there’s nothing left — no composure, no argument, no classroom, no quarter notes, no carefully maintained identity.
There’s just his cock inside me and his voice in my ear and the wet obscene sound of his cock driving into me through the mess of slick between us and I’m meeting him thrust for thrust, riding him, my head thrown back and my hands clawing at his shoulders and the sounds coming out of my mouth are high and desperate and continuous and I couldn’t stop them if my life depended on it.
“That’s it, baby. That’s my good boy.” His voice is getting ragged.
The composure is shredding. “Let me hear you. The whole floor can hear what a desperate little omega you are, and I want them to. Every alpha in here can hear you taking my cock. You love it, don’t you?
You love that they can hear how wet you are, how loud you are, how fucking ruined you are for me. ”
I’m nodding. I’m actually nodding, my head bouncing against his shoulder, because he’s right: I do love it, the exposure and the filth and the way his voice wraps around the words good boy and pretty and little omega like they’re sacraments.
I’m supposed to hate those words. I’m supposed to bristle at being called little, at the implication that my body is a thing to be used and filled and bred.
Instead, my cock is leaking a steady stream against his stomach, and my hole is clenching around him in spasms. Every degrading syllable makes me hotter.
He grabs the back of my neck with one hand and my hip with the other and holds me in place and fucks up into me, hard, relentless.
My cock is trapped between us, grinding with every thrust, and I can feel his knot starting to swell at the base, thickening with every stroke, catching on my rim with a stretch that makes me whimper.
“You feel that?” He grinds up, the knot pushing wider against my entrance. “You know what’s coming. You’ve been dreaming about it. Dreaming about getting knotted and bred and filled up like the perfect little omega you are.”
“Please.” My body has taken over completely. My voice is wrecked, thin, nothing like the voice I use in a classroom, nothing like the voice of anyone who has their life together. “Please, please, I need it—”
“Need what? Say the words. I want to hear you say them. I want every alpha on this floor to hear my pretty omega beg for it.”
“Your knot.” Tears are running down my face behind the mask. “Breed me. Please, fuck, breed me, fill me up, I need you to fill me up—”
The sound he makes when I say it is the most animal thing I’ve ever heard from a human throat. A growl that rumbles through his chest. His grip on my neck tightens, and he pulls me down onto him and drives up. The knot catches, swells, and pushes past my rim and locks.
I scream. The stretch is blinding — pain and pleasure so tangled I can’t tell where one ends — and the fullness is obscene, his knot pulsing inside me, pressing against everything, and I can feel him coming, the hot flood of it filling me while the knot throbs and my body clamps down on him in rhythmic waves.
My cock erupts between us, untouched, pulsing against his stomach, and I’m coming and crying at the same time, tears running down my face behind the mask, my body shaking apart on his knot while I sob and grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
He wraps both arms around me and pulls me against his chest. Holds me there, my face pressed into his neck, his heart hammering against mine, the knot pulsing between us. His hand cradles the back of my head. His mouth is at my temple, and he’s saying things, low and rough against my skin.
“Perfect. Fuck, you’re perfect. Stuffed full of my cock and my come and still shaking.
Still so wet.” His hand slides down between us and his fingers find where we’re joined, where the knot is locking us together, and he traces the stretched rim of my hole, and I whimper.
“Feel that? Feel how tight you are around my knot? You were made for this. Made to take me. Made to get bred and filled and knotted until you can’t think.
” His arms tighten. The knot pulses, and I shudder.
A fresh wave of tears runs down my face.
“I’ve been sitting at that bar smelling every omega who walked in, and none of them were you.
None of them was this sweet, this wet, this fucking perfect. ”
I cry into his neck. The knot holds me in place — I can’t run, can’t pull away, can’t retreat into the version of myself who doesn’t want this.
I’m locked onto him in an alcove on the floor of Knot Club with his come inside me and his scent all over me and the words I said still hanging in the air between us.
Breed me. I said that. I begged for it. And the worst part, the part that’s going to keep me up at night, is that I meant it with every cell in my body.
His hand strokes my hair. His breathing slows. The knot pulses in steady waves that send aftershocks through me, little jolts of pleasure that make me twitch against him. My cock is softening between us, sticky with come, and his stomach is a mess, and I’m a mess, and neither of us moves.
“Stay,” he says. Quiet now. The charm is still there, but something underneath it is different. Softer. “When this is over. Stay.”
I don’t answer. My face is pressed against his neck, and his scent is the only thing in the world. The knot is holding me where I am, and I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to leave. That’s the part I can’t say out loud yet. I’ll have to deal with it when the heat’s gone and the knot’s gone and I’m sitting across from him with no excuse left.
For now, the knot holds. For now, I stay.