Summary: Three months later, you return for your next quarterly examination with Doctor Korsh. This time, his methods push further and you don't want to be just his patient anymore. You want to be his omega. And he wants to be your alpha.
<----PART 1
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Three months.
Ninety-two days of dreaming about green hands and amber eyes and the smell of herbs.
Ninety-two nights of touching myself in the dark, remembering the weight of his thumb on my clit, the stretch of his fingers in my ass, the clinical way he'd said "beautiful" while staring at my pussy.
When the summons arrived for my next quarterly examination, I read it seven times. My hands shook. My thighs pressed together. And when I walked into his office exactly on time, I wasn't wearing underwear.
Doctor Korsh looked up from his desk. His amber gaze dropped to my chest,my nipples already hard beneath the thin fabric of my shirt then back to my face.
"You're early."
"I couldn't wait."
His mouth didn't smile. His eyes did. "Please undress."
The examination table waited in the center of the room. Same crinkling paper. Same overhead lamp. Same tray of instruments that gleamed like threats. But something was different about him today. The way his tusks caught the light, the way his trousers fit tighter than I remembered, the way his nostrils flared when I pulled my shirt over my head.
"No bra today," he observed.
"No."
"Underwear?"
"Didn't bother."
His pen paused over the clipboard. "You're anticipating the examination."
"I'm anticipating you."
A long silence. Then he set down the pen and stood, and the room shrank around his shoulders. "Come here."
I walked to the table. He didn't help me up this time, just stood there with his arms crossed, watching me hoist myself onto the crinkling paper. I shivered.
"Spread your legs."
I obeyed. He stepped between them, his thighs caging mine, and looked down at my exposed pussy with the same expression he'd give a fascinating specimen.
"Already wet," he drawled. His finger traced my outer labia, gathering the slick that had been building since I walked through his door. "You've been thinking about this."
"Every night."
"Touching yourself?"
"Yes."
"Did you come?"
"Every time."
His finger pressed deeper, slipping between my folds to circle my entrance. "How many times?"
"Once. Twice. Sometimes three."
"And what did you think about?"
I swallowed. "Your hands. Your voice. The way you said good omega."
His finger slid inside me—one thick digit, no warning, no preamble. My hips jerked. My pussy clenched around him, greedy and shameless.
"Your lubrication response is even stronger than last quarter," he said, clinical despite the way his knuckle pressed against my inner walls. "I'll need to check your oral cavity first. Open."
He withdrew his finger and brought it to my lips. I opened. His finger slid across my tongue, salt and musk and my own taste, and I sucked without being told.
"Good. Now show me your throat."
I opened wider. He pushed deeper, index and middle finger together, pressing down on my tongue until I gagged. My eyes watered. My throat convulsed around his knuckles.
"Breathe through your nose."
I tried. His fingers pressed deeper, bumping the back of my pharynx, and the gag reflex tried to buck him out. He held steady.
"Swallow."
I swallowed around his fingers. The muscles of my throat clamped down, and he made a low grunt that vibrated through his chest.
"Excellent. Your gag reflex has desensitized since last quarter." He withdrew slowly, dragging his wet fingers across my lower lip. "Lie back."
I lay back. The crinkling paper crunched beneath my shoulders. He adjusted the overhead lamp, and the heat washed over my bare breasts. My nipples had tightened into hard peaks, areolas crinkled and dark.
"I'm going to examine your mammary tissue manually today," he said. "No clamps. I want to see your natural response."
His hands cupped my breasts, massive green palms that covered almost everything, thumbs brushing across my nipples in strokes so light they felt like whispers. My back arched.
"Sensitive?"
"Yes."
"Good." He pinched my left nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently. The sensation shot straight to my core. I felt myself gush. "You like that."
"Y-yes."
He pinched harder. Not painful—not yet—just firm pressure that made my hips rock against the paper. His other hand found my right nipple, pinching and rolling in tandem, and I heard myself whimper.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Wet and whimpering and I've barely touched your cunt."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't know—"
"You never know." He twisted both nipples at once, a turn that made me cry out. "That's what I like about you. You don't pretend to understand your own body. You just let me figure it out."
He released my nipples and stepped back. His trousers strained against his erection, a huge ridge pressed against dark fabric, a wet spot blooming where the head touched the material.
"On your knees," he said. "Face me."
I slid off the table. The tile was cold against my bare knees. He stood above me, massive and green, and his hands went to his belt.
"I need to calibrate your oral depth," he said, unbuckling. "My fingers only reach so far. For accurate measurement, I need the real implement."
His trousers fell. His cock sprang free, thick as my first, green, ridged, the head already glistening with pre-cum. His balls hung heavy beneath, drawn up tight against his body.
"Open."
I opened. He stepped closer, and the head of his cock pressed against my lips—warm, smooth despite the ridges, tasting of salt and something musky. I opened wider. He pushed inside.
"Just the head," he rasped. "Suck."
I sucked. My cheeks hollowed. His pre-cum leaked across my tongue, bitter and thick, and I swallowed without thinking. He groaned... a low, gravel sound that made my pussy clench around nothing.
"I'll give you more."
He pushed deeper. The head slid past my lips, past my teeth, bumped against the roof of my mouth. I adjusted my angle, and he slid further—two inches, three, the ridges catching on my tongue.
"Breathe through your nose."
I breathed. He pushed deeper—four inches, five, the head bumping the back of my throat. My gag reflex fluttered but didn't trigger. He noticed.
"Desensitization is working." His voice had gone rough, less clinical. "Take more."
I took more. Six inches. Seven. His cock filled my mouth completely, stretching my lips around its girth, and still more waited outside.
"Breathe."
I couldn't. His cock blocked my airway completely—nothing but the ridge of his shaft against my soft palate, the head pressed against the entrance to my throat. Panic flickered. My hands came up to push his thighs, and he caught my wrists.
"No. Hold still."
He held me there—five seconds, ten, fifteen. My chest burned. Spots danced behind my eyes. And then he withdrew, just an inch, and air rushed down my throat in a desperate gasp.
"That's your limit," he said, still holding my wrists. "Seven and a quarter inches to the soft palate. We'll work on getting you past it."
He pushed back in. This time, when the head bumped my throat, he pressed harder. My throat opened, not by choice, but by reflex, the muscle giving way like it had been waiting for this moment and he slid deeper.
I gagged. My throat convulsed around his shaft, and he groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his cock and into my skull. His hips pressed forward, and I felt him in my esophagus, in my chest, in the back of my nose.
"There," he breathed. "There she is."
He held me there, his cock buried in my throat, my nose pressed against his belly. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't swallow. Couldn't do anything but kneel there with tears streaming down my cheeks while his fingers pinched my nipples.
"Nnngghh—"
"That's it. Take it. Take all of it."
He withdrew. Air flooded my lungs. I coughed, gasped, sobbed and he pushed back in before I could catch my breath. Deep. Deeper than before. His balls slapped my chin, and his fingers kept pinching my nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger until the sensation blurred into something that wasn't pain and wasn't pleasure but was everything.
"You're close," he observed. "Your nipples have darkened. Your breathing is erratic. Your cunt is dripping down your thighs."
It was true. I could feel my slick running down my inner legs, pooling on the tile beneath my knees. Each time he pinched my nipples, my cunt clenched. Each time he pushed into my throat, my hips rocked forward, seeking friction that wasn't there.
"I'm going to come," I gasped when he withdrew again. "No, you're not." He pulled his cock from my mouth. It glistened with my saliva, veined and thick. "Lie back on the table. I need to examine your nipples more thoroughly."
With trembling legs, I moved and lay back. The paper stuck to my sweat-slick skin. He positioned himself beside the table and bent over my chest—his tusks grazing my sternum, his breath hot against my areolas.
"I'm going to suckle you," he said. "I need to test your milk duct response. Even non-lactating omegas often produce colostrum under sufficient stimulation."
His mouth closed around my left nipple. Not gentle. His lips sealed tight, and he sucked, pulling my entire areola into the heat of his mouth. His tongue pressed against the peak and I felt something deep in my chest release.
"Oh fuck—"
He suckled harder. His cheeks hollowed. His tusks pressed against the sides of my breast, blunt pressure that anchored me while his mouth pulled at my nipple like he was trying to draw milk from stone. Nothing came—not yet—but my body didn't know that. My back arched. My hands tangled in his hair. My poor pussy spasmed around nothing.
His free hand found my other nipple, pinching and rolling in rhythm with his suckling. The sensations layered—suck and pinch, suck and pinch, his tongue laving the peak while his fingers twisted the other.
"You taste like nothing," he murmured against my breast. "But your body doesn't know that. Your body thinks you're feeding a child. Your body is preparing to let down."
He switched to my right nipple, sucking it into his mouth with the same ferocity. His hand moved to my left, pinching hard, and I felt the connection—nipple to cunt, cunt to brain, a direct line of pleasure that bypassed everything else.
"Your pelvic floor is contracting," he observed. "You're going to come from this."
"I can't—that's not—"
"You can. You will." He sucked harder, his tongue flicking the peak, and I felt the orgasm building like pressure behind a dam. "Let go. Let your body show me what it can do."
His teeth grazed my nipple, just scraping, the barest edge of pain and the dam broke.
I came.
No clit stimulation. No fingers inside me. Just his mouth on my nipple and his hand on the other, suckling and pinching while my pussy convulsed in rhythmic waves. My hips bucked off the table. My thighs clamped together.
"That's it," he breathed. "Good omega. Good girl."
He didn't stop. He kept suckling through my orgasm, prolonging it, drawing it out until the pleasure turned sharp and then sharper and then too much. I tried to push his head away. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head.
"One more," he said. "I need to see refractory response."
"No—I can't—"
"You can. You will."
He returned to my left nipple, sucking it into his mouth with renewed vigor. His free hand slid down my belly, through my wet folds, and pressed two fingers inside my soaked pussy. His thick digits stretched me open while his mouth pulled at my breast.
The overstimulation made me sob. His fingers curled, pressing against my front wall, finding that spongy spot that made my vision white out. His thumb found my clit—swollen, hypersensitive, screaming—and pressed down.
"Come again," he commanded. "Now."
I shattered. My walls clamped down on his fingers. My nipples burned. My throat released a sound I'd never heard myself make—a raw, animal whine that bounced off the walls and came back to me distorted.
He held me through it. His fingers stayed inside me. His mouth stayed on my nipple, gentle now, just holding the suction while I shook apart beneath him. When the convulsions finally stopped, I lay there gasping. Tears had tracked down my temples into my hair. My thighs trembled. My pussy pulsed around his unmoving fingers.
"Refractory response: negligible," he said quietly. "You recovered in under thirty seconds. That's exceptional even for an omega."
He withdrew his fingers. I whimpered at the emptiness.
"Roll over."
I couldn't. My body wouldn't obey. He flipped me himself, on my hips, turning me onto my stomach, arranging my knees beneath me. The paper crinkled. My face pressed into the cool surface.
"Ass up," he said. "I need to examine your anus again."
I pushed my hips up. He made a sound of approval and his fingers parted my cheeks.
"You're still wet from your orgasms. Your perineum is glistening." His thumb pressed against my pucker, circling. "I'm going to use more fingers this time. I need to assess your capacity."
Lubricant dripped onto my hole, cold, then warm from his body heat. His thumb pressed inside, just the tip, and I pushed out like he'd taught me.
"Good. Relax."
His thumb slid deeper. Then his index finger joined it, two thick digits stretching my rim, burning in that good way that made my toes curl. He scissored them apart, opening me, and I heard the wet schlck of lubricant and my own arousal.
"Breathe."
I breathed. His middle finger pressed against my opening—three fingers now, the stretch intense enough to make me whimper. He pushed them inside slowly, watching my hole stretch around his knuckles.
"There. That's your limit for fingers." He withdrew, then pressed back in, fucking me with his three thick digits while my rim clung to them. "But I need to check deeper than fingers can reach."
I heard his belt buckle. The clink of metal. The rustle of fabric.
"I'm going to use my cock now. Anal penetration is the only way to assess the full depth of your rectal canal. If it's too much, tell me. But I suspect you can take all of it."
The head of his cock pressed against my anus. Warm. Slick from my saliva and his pre-cum. He pushed, and the stretch burned—three fingers hadn't prepared me for this, for the sheer girth of him pressing against my tightest hole.
"Push out," he commanded.
I pushed. His head breached me—a pop of pressure, a sudden fullness that made me cry out. My rim clamped down behind the ridge of his cock, sealing him inside, and he groaned.
"Tight. You're so tight."
He pushed deeper. Each ridge of his shaft caught against my inner walls, dragging, claiming. I felt him in my pelvis, in my spine, in the back of my throat. His balls pressed against my perineum, and he was only halfway in.
"Breathe through it."
I breathed. He pushed deeper. Another inch, another ridge, the stretch spreading through my entire body. My cunt was dripping, soaking my inner thighs, and I realized with distant surprise that I was enjoying this. The fullness. The helplessness. The way he filled me so completely that I couldn't think.
"All the way," he grunted. His hips pressed against my ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside my rectum. "Look at that. You took all of it."
He held still, letting me adjust. His hands gripped my hips and his breathing came in ragged bursts.
"You're squeezing me," he said. "Your sphincter is fluttering. Does it hurt?"
"Y-yes. No! I don't—"
"That's the right answer." He withdrew an inch, then pushed back in. The drag of his ridges against my inner walls made me moan. "I'm going to move faster. I need to map your internal sensitivity."
He fucked me faster, as promised. Long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, each thrust accompanied by the schlck schlck of lubricant and the slap of his balls against my pussy.
"Your anterior wall has significant innervation," he observed, thrusting deeper. "You're moaning every time I hit it."
"Nnnhh—yes—"
"And your posterior wall is sensitive too. Feel that?" He angled his hips, pressing against a different spot, and I sobbed. "Yes. There."
He took me harder. His hands left my hips and grabbed my shoulders, pulling me back onto his cock with each thrust. The ridges scraped against my walls, sending sparks up my spine, and I felt another orgasm building. I'd already come twice, but there it was, coiling in my belly like a spring.
"Come on my cock," he ordered. "I want to feel your ass squeeze me while you fall apart."
His thumb found my anus—already stretched around his shaft—and pressed against the rim. The extra pressure sent me over. I came screaming. My ass clenched around his cock, milking him, pulling him deeper. He groaned and his hips jerked, his cock swelling inside me.
"I'm going to fill you," he growled. "Your rectum can absorb my seed. It's part of the omega bonding process."
"Yes—"
He exploded. Hot ropes of his spend flooded my ass, more than last time. I felt each pulse, each spasm, each jet of his seed painting my inner walls. He kept thrusting through it, shallow strokes that pushed his come deeper, and I collapsed onto the table with him still inside me.
For minutes, we lay there. Him on top of me, his cock softening inside my ass, his breath hot against my neck. The paper had crinkled into nothing beneath us. The lamp hummed overhead.
"Doctor Korsh," I whispered.
"Korsh," he corrected. "Just Korsh."
"Korsh." I turned my head, and his tusks brushed my cheek. "I don't want to be your patient anymore."
His body went still. "What do you want?"
"I want to be your omega."
Silence. The lamp hummed. His cock twitched inside me.
"You're serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything."
He withdrew carefully, watching my face for pain and rolled me onto my back. His amber eyes searched my face, looking for something. Deception. Uncertainty. He didn't find it.
"I'm not gentle," he said. "I'm not kind. I'm clinical and demanding and I will push you further than you think you can go."
"I know."
"I will examine every inch of your body every single day. I will document your responses. I will keep you on that table until you can't remember your own name."
"I know."
"And I will protect you," he added softly. "With my life. With my body. With every weapon I own. If you're my omega, no one touches you. No one examines you. No one even looks at you without my permission."
I beamed at that. "I know."
He cupped my face in his massive hands. "Then yes," he smiled, a rare smile. "I'll be your alpha."
He kissed me. Not clinical. Not examining. His lips pressed against mine, his tusks bumping my chin. I kissed him back. When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"The examination isn't complete," he said, reaching for his clipboard. "I still need to check your cervical position."
"Korsh."
"Yes?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
He laughed and tossed the clipboard across the room.
"Best suggestion you've made all day."
He lifted my hips, positioned himself at my entrance and pushed inside. No examination this time. Just him. Just me. Just the two of us, together, in the quiet room that smelled of herbs and sex and our new bond.
He kept me on that table until dawn. My cervical position got checked seven times. My clitoral response got documented in triplicate. And when I finally limped out of his office, sore and full and grinning like an idiot, he pressed a piece of parchment into my hand.
Appointment: Daily. Indefinite.
Subject: My omega.
I showed up the next day. And the day after. And every day after that.
Some examinations, he used instruments. Some, he used his hands. Some, he just held me on the table and told me I was beautiful while his fingers traced patterns on my skin.
I kind of want to ask Damon, doesn't he get tired of being so eager to find love? If it's just him, the things he needs to worry about are actually far fewer than those with a partner. Besides, he has friends, so he's not unloved, well, though not in a romantic way. So is all the effort he's made to find a soulmate really completely worth it?
Damon: "I… sure. Obviously it's fewer things to worry about. I know that."
"But DG's not— he's not going anywhere, I know that too, and I'm grateful, I am, but it's… it's different. You know it's different. Don't pretend you don't know it is."
"I mean… you're not trying to convince yourself you stopped being hungry because you drank water, are you?"
Damon: "People always say that like the alternative is supposed to feel better. ‘Just be alone. It’s easier.’ Easier for who? I mean, sure, I only have to think about myself then. And then what? I come home to an empty house. I see something funny and there’s nobody I actually want to send it to. I wake up and nobody’s there. Nobody waiting for me. Nobody thinking of me…"
Damon: "You know… when I love someone, everything else stops feeling so gray. Food tastes better. Music sounds better. I want to go outside more. I start thinking about the future instead of just surviving the week."
"I want somebody who looks at me and thinks ‘there you are, my love.’"
"And I want to be that person for someone too."
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