I'm a little confused, do Damon and DG live together?
nope, they live in different neighborhoods and in separate houses. Damon lives in a detached house with a garden near the forest. DG lives in an old terraced house with a fairly large basement and… a few prison cells 👀 he doesn’t know the history behind them, but he thought they were neat 😃
Imagine MC had a rough day—Damon noticed them crying in the bathroom when they thought he couldn't hear.
Damon: "Rosebud, come here."
He pulls you into his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear again.
Damon: "Now why didn't you tell me anything? That's a problem, you know? We can't have that. And the second problem is you thought you had to hide it."
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
Damon: "When you're sad, you should come to me. That's not optional. That's not a favor you ask for. It's what you owe me, because I'm the one keeping you safe~"
His lips brush against your earlobe.
Damon: "I'm going to take you to bed. I'm going to hold you down and make you feel so good you forget why you were crying. And then you're going to sleep. And tomorrow, we're going to talk about what happened. Not because I'm being nice. Because I need to know who made you sad so I can decide what to do about them."
He tilts your chin up.
Damon: "I love you. That means I get to fix things. Let me fix this."
This time MC is in the darkroom of Damon’s home, red safelight casting everything in blood tones while more photos of you are being developed.
Damon stands behind you, arms caging you against the counter as strips of developing film hang around you like silent witnesses. His voice is soft and dangerously affectionate.
Damon: "See how beautiful you look in these? Captured perfectly when you thought you were alone… Every secret expression belongs to me now~"
He lowers his head, deliberately dragging the rough scrape of his stubble along the side of your jaw and down the curve of your neck. His stubble leaves your neck tingling as he presses closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear while one hand slips between you and the counter, fingers teasing just under the hem of your clothes.
Damon: "You’re already shaking… so responsive for me. I love how your body betrays exactly what it wants, even when you’re trying to stay quiet."
Damon: "Now spread your legs wider against the table—yes, just like that, darling. I’m going to fuck you right here while you watch yourself come undone in the photos I took yesterday."
Damon: "Tell me how it feels knowing I own every inch of you, even the parts you haven’t shown anyone else. Whisper it. If you’re loud enough for me to hear over the sound of my cock filling you, I might even let you keep one of these as a reward <3”
Can you get Damon to talk dirty to me? I like talking during that and I like being talked to, I want to see how creative my little bee can be, I'm sure DG has a good tongue for that. Vito must be a sweetheart HAHA
Damon: "Mmm… look at you, already flushed for me, my little honeybee, my perfect one~ I want to bury my face between your thighs right now and taste how wet you get just from my voice <3"
Damon: "I bet you’re dripping already, aren’t you? Like nectar. I’ll lap it up slow, tongue pressing flat and dragging up until I catch that little twitch you make when I find the spot that makes your legs shake."
Damon: "I’ll flip you over and push in so deep you feel me in your stomach, stretching you open while I bite down on your shoulder hard enough to leave marks that last for days~"
"I'll rut into you like the lonely animal I was before you. Fuck—imagine me knotting you, locking us together so you can’t run even if you tried..."
Damon: "I’ll fill you up over and over, pumping every drop until it’s leaking down your thighs and I can push it back in with my fingers, whispering how I’m going to breed you full so you’ll never be empty again~"
Damon: "I’ll keep you tied to my bed if I have to, just so I can keep licking you clean between rounds, telling you how sweet you taste when you’re stuffed and whimpering my name…"
Damon: "I want to hear every gasp, every filthy sound you make while I use you until you can’t think about anything but me <3"
"My sweet, sweet darling, I’ve waited so long… don’t make me wait anymore. I love you. I’d kill for this. I’d do anything just to keep hearing you moan like that for me."
I'm doing MY PART to contribute mind-break religious smut to the world. Blasphemy in the name of love. Endless adoration for the Worst Charlatan Alive.
Martyr belongs to: @quieteeks and her upcoming game A Seat At The Table!
TW: dubcon, mind-break, intoxication, general religious blasphemy, loss of bodily and mental control, teeny 🤏bit of bloodkink, overstimulation, prolly more but those are the main ones
SOUNDTRACK:
Salvation by Christabelle Marbun
Time of the Season by The Zombies
The Bondage Song (Unchained Mix) by London After Midnight, Sean Brennan
Enjoy the 3.1k words of divine desecration, beloved Prophets 🙏
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You did not recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.
Countless hours were spent staring at yourself in Martyr’s bed, thinking of the events that led you here.
You watch yourself in the mirror above, thinking of your life as two halves. Before Martyr, and after Martyr. He cleansed the life you had before him until there was nothing left but what looked back at you in the mirror.
Reborn in his image. Catharsis through rebirth brought on only by him.
Your bare shoulders peek out from underneath the red silk duvet. Rarely did you sleep with clothes on these days, even if you wanted to. Martyr would coax the protective fabric off you, his fingers gently undoing every button, pulling down every elastic band, his lips warmly resting against every inch of bare, vulnerable skin.
Sermons kept him busy some days, like today. A small jaunt into the city, in which you showed a preference for staying home.
He glittered with amusement whenever you called this glass cage ‘home.’ But he understood The Flock’s reverence weighed heavily on your shoulders. He promised you’d get used to it. You weren’t so sure.
Distracted by luxury, power, devotion, the endless perverted piety in which he seduces and defiles your mind… Here, alone, you could take stock of the tiny fragments of yourself still intact.
Martyr’s presence was suffocatingly intoxicating. He kept your mind clouded with aching desire. Every need was met exquisitely before you voiced it. His hands endlessly caressed and teased every part of your body. Everything was meant to overload you with ecstasy.
It was here, beneath the cold mirrors, in a mercifully empty room, that you found solace. The absence of euphoria became a coveted asylum.
The late afternoon light drifts through the window, comforting and real, a reprieve from the constant opiate-induced tonic that was Martyr. Was it all a rapturous dream? A feverish state of psychosis. At any moment you’d come to realize it was all in your silly, empty little head.
Martyr enters the room with a quiet flourish, distracting you from your thoughts. He always appears when your mood sours into somberness. He murmurs at the sight of you, proud and loving. He’s already half-naked, having discarded his soap-box outfit (as you liked to refer to it) in some hamper outside.
A soft glow emanates through the room when the sun from the window hits his skin. Suddenly, your small reprieve is magnified, overtaken by his presence. The mirrors reflect his beautiful pale visage. The very room brightens with his complexion.
“Hello, my beloved,” he whispers, yet you hear him clearly.
Martyr kneels beside the bed, resting his arms on the side, staring at you with a devout and dirty smirk.
“Did you miss me?”
He has a slight musk from the events of the day. It is overwhelmingly irresistible. Sensuous, carnal…a scent of incensed cathedrals, mahogany candlelit altars and hedonistic pleasures.
Your lungs expand, inhaling as much of the scent as you can. It’s an automatic response to being in his presence, uncontrollable and against your will. Your body stirs, and your thighs press against each other as you meet his gaze.
Martyr reaches for your cheek, his large, warm hand cupping the soft flesh. He sighs, and you catch a small hint of red wine, rich and lovely.
“...” It takes a moment of adjustment before you can form words.
Martyr’s smirk deepens, selfishly endeared by his effect on you.
Many would kill to be in your position, laying in The Savior’s bed, breathing in his scent, feeling his hand on your cheek, melting under the heat of his merlot gaze.
“So precious,” he coos, gleaming with love. At least, you wanted to believe it was love.
His thumb rubs your bottom lip, teasing a response from you.
“Yes. I missed you.” Your voice comes out clearer than expected.
“Hm, I missed you too,” Martyr sighs, sending a fresh wave of wine and musk your way. Arousal blooms between your legs. His eyes wander over your face, drinking in every detail of you. Your eyes, your cheeks…your lips that he still rubs his thumb absently upon. “You look absolutely perfect in our bed like this, my dove.”
So allured as you were in his presence, breathless from his beauty and affections. It makes you sick with heat and…appetite.
You roll over to place a kiss on his expectant, perfect lips. Obedience and sensuality made him happiest. And he did so, so much to make you happy.
Didn’t he?
“You’re not real,” you say, against his lips.
He inhales your sigh, drinking in the essence of you. He moans quietly at the sound of your whisper. The moan turns into a deep, erotic chuckle.
He keeps his lips on yours. “Oh Prophet, there are nicer ways to say I’m the man of your dreams.”
Your body screams in agony as you gently tear yourself away from his lips and roll onto your back. Stare at your reflection once more, unable to recognize yourself.
Your eyes dilated with an otherworldly frenzy. Your body cries with a psalm of worship only Martyr can hear, only he can answer with divinity specific to him.
“I-I’d never dream of you,” you whisper, holding your gaze in the mirror, trying to feel anything other than sickening bliss. “Dreaming of you would require a deep rooted masochism I don’t have.” You swear you see your reflection’s eyes flick to Martyr.
Martyr releases a deep chuckle. “Don’t you?”
His body weight shifts the bed slightly as he crawls into bed. He teasingly pulls the silk blanket off of you, watching a cold shiver work its way down your body when your skin reacts to the cool air.
He probably turned the heat down on purpose.
Your nipples perk against the chill. Martyr reveals the rest of your naked body with a loving smile. There is nothing holy about the way he looks at you. Only the seven deadly sins are present now, and he intends to indulge all of them.
The thought of such ecstasy makes your stomach roll, tumbling a mixture of desire and disgust together.
His voice is quietly rapturous. “Shall I prove just how real I am, Prophet?”
Martyr slides on top of you, blocking your view from your heinously inebriated reflection. You close your eyes before he can captivate you with his own. It is the only pitiful example of willpower you have.
His lips melt against your neck, a soft moan gently throbs against the sensitive skin. He’s already hard, dripping precum onto your thigh. Arousal flourishes through your body. Martyr breathes in your scent, the heat building in your hips.
His hands wander over your body, sultry, gluttonous, devouring every part of you with every one of his senses.
“Does this feel real, Prophet?” He bumps his tip against your entrance, eliciting an immediate and visceral reaction of pleasure from you.
Martyr chuckles. You can feel the eternal smirk against your skin. He kisses you again.
A small sob of frustration departs you.
“Shh, shh. I’m here, beloved. I’ll take care of you. I always do, don’t I?” A warm kiss placed on your collarbone. “I know you feel so pent up…” A soft moan, his lips placing a wet, heated kiss on one nipple while his fingers tease the other. “Show me how you feel, dearest.” Lips sliding down your belly, hands gripping your hips, his heated aroma wafting into your lungs. “Ruin me, if it keeps you close, and I’ll love you all the more for it.” Precum sliding down your inner thigh, adjusting himself to lick the droplet away.
“Mmph…” you whine, overwhelmed with nauseating euphoria.
He presses his salivating, desperate mouth where he knows you want it most, taking communion with only the sweetest wine your body produces, indulging in the deliciousness of your taste.
Your legs spread, your back arches, you claw fistfuls of the bedding, anything to ground you to reality, possessed with pleasure only He can exorcise.
Martyr chuckles into the sensitive heat between your thighs. His tongue slithers along every part of you down there and your body agonizes for more, more, more.
“Look at me, Prophet.” Tongue teasing your entrance, preparing to feast on you.
You turn your head to the side, eyes still closed.
Firm, gripping hands on your hips, pulling you closer so He can have His fill of you.
“M-Martyr…” you whine and clutch more fistfuls of sensual fabric.
He licks up and down your length, making sure every part of you is dripping with Him. “That’s it, Prophet. Tell me how it feels.” He sucks on your most sensitive part, overstimulating your senses with ecstasy. “Look at me, Prophet.”
You turn your head to the other side, chest heaving with bodily delight because of Him. Only He makes you feel this good. Only He can give you this feeling of glorious, decadent harmony.
And He knows it.
A wet pop as He sucks at you again, then licks along your wet entrance. The sensation edges you closer and closer to climax, but He knows how to keep you on that edge forever.
He is both The One who pushes you over the edge and The One who catches you when you descend over it. He is everywhere. Isn’t that what the good book says?
“All you need to do is look at me, Prophet.” Another teasing lick along you. Fingers work their way to your wet, throbbing sanctuary, His one true temple: your delicious body. “Look at me, and you’ll cum. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Release?”
You squirm, your hips buck into His mouth to shut Him up. His voice is so perfect, so lovingly condescending. The sensual confidence that oozes from Him like incense. His ethereal beauty, so opposite from the sharp intelligence you know lies inside.
Addicts remain addicts for their entire lives. You know there is no escaping Martyr, even if you were a world away from Him. How could you go back to living without His worship of you?
“I can give you release, little dove. All you have to do is look at me. I know release is what you’re after, and I can give it to you. I always give you what you ask for, don’t I?” His fingers oscillate delicately inside you, keeping you on that edge, His tongue licking at other parts of you, devouring every taste within reach, saliva dripping down to your entrance, slick and burning with need.
“N-not the release I want,” you manage to moan between breaths. “Not the real one.”
His dark chuckle slithers into your ears, echoes around your head. “It’s reality you want, hm?” A moment of reprieve as He adjusts Himself.
His warm tip presses against you, sliding into your slick hole easily yet snugly.
You both whimper in euphoric, rapturous pleasure as He pushes inside. His hands massage and roam your body once He’s fully seated inside you. You squirm with impatient gluttony and reach to touch yourself--
“Ah, ah,” Martyr pins your hands above your head, leaning to kiss your forehead. “That’s cheating, my beloved.” He murmurs a soft laugh as you whine and quiver underneath him. “Not until you look at me.” He presses His hips deeper, sinking to the hilt.
“I’m not a--a doll,” you ground out, bucking your hips into Him. “Y-you can’t keep me like this forever.”
Martyr chuckles again, unphased. “Can’t I?” He leans close to your ear. “Besides, I can think of a few uses for a doll…”
“Fuck you,” you moan in ecstasy.
Martyr laughs and quickly thrusts His hips into you a few times, causing you to gasp divinely in His ear. Your arms and legs wrap Him in a tight, covetous vise.
“You’re putting up such a good fight, my little dove.” His breath, hot and teasing against your ear. “So pure yet limiting are your convictions, you can’t see what’s real.” He presses His body against yours fully, His cock pulsing deep inside you. “Doesn’t this feel real, Prophet?” Lips against your neck, tongue along your collarbone. “Isn’t this the most real thing there is?” Deep, lustful moan against your ear, divinely intoxicating in its timbre. “Look at me, Prophet.”
A slow, deep thrust. “Look. At. Me.”
You open your eyes, faced with the achingly beautiful gospel that you are His.
Martyr smiles, and you fall into His blood rouge eyes, drowning in their cardinal depths.
“There you go, my beloved. You’re so good for me.”
Your body detonates into orgasm after orgasm. You cry out, digging your nails into His back.
Martyr hisses with pleasure, feeling you tear His skin. He fucks you faster, gloriously lost in the nirvana of your body, your eyes, your soul. You cry out as you cum, each wave of pleasure unbearable, tearing apart your mind with euphoria. Martyr talks you through it, murmuring praise that’s as true as it is condescending.
“Mm, gorgeous,” He purrs.
He guides your chin to the side, forcing you to look at the mirror that shows Him deep inside you. Your legs and arms clawing at Him while He fucks you through endless frenzied orgasms. Your eyes are dark and muddled with heavenly hunger only He can feed.
You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror anymore.
Martyr’s hand rests on your neck, holding you in place while He thrusts needily into you, His own pleasure rising with yours. He breathes deeper in an attempt to control Himself, but you can tell He wants so badly to fill you, claim you, hear the wet requiem of your bodies melting together.
“Doesn’t that look real to you, pet?” Martyr moans against your skin. “Doesn’t it feel real when I touch you?”
You don’t answer.
“You deserve this, Prophet,” Martyr drags His silky moist tongue against your cheek. “After all your suffering, all your loneliness… Don’t you think you deserve my worship?”
Words escape you with each deep thrust He seats inside you. Thoughts are a kaleidoscope of ecstasy and mindless fervor.
A sob of disastrous euphoria leaves you, and Martyr swallows the sound with His lips, thrusting with longer, harder strokes. The bed is wet from your cum spilling onto the sheets, causing a dark stain on the crimson sheets.
“Is it so terrible to be loved by me?” Martyr turns His head and watches you cling to Him, admiring you from every angle.
Your eyes meet His in the mirror. Underneath his mask of seduction seems to be a genuine yearning. A desire to hear that His love was worth something, anything to you.
But Martyr would behave in any manner that brought you closer to Him. Even His most genuine moments were only a mirror meant to reflect what you wanted to see.
Never reality.
Another frustrated sob escapes you and you bury your head in His neck and cling to Him as another orgasm seizes your body.
“I love you, Prophet,” Martyr whispers against your hair, holding you close. “You are mine forever.”
And you know it’s true. There is no escape from Him, this life or the next. He has touched you in a way that has tainted your soul for eternity.
The build up of emotion is too much, and you bite His neck, needing to ground yourself. It awakens something primordial and tameless within you. He tastes of rusted, fragrant sweetness, a coin warmed under the wetness of your tongue.
His sharp inhale fades into a horny moan, and His hips sink deeply into You as he cums inside you.
“That’s it, Prophet. Take your anger out on me. That’s what I’m here for. I’m always here for you.” His pace increases with His excitement, and you dig your nails harshly into Him, needing to mar the glittering perfection of His sweaty skin.
Blood from your bite blooms around your lips, and you bite harder. If His “love” is what you deserve, then your hate is what He deserves. Let Him take it so you don’t have to feel it anymore, don’t have to think about it anymore.
“Ah, so pent up today, hm?” His movements slow, letting your body come down from its ecstasy. You feel His cum deep inside you, full and warm.
Martyr sits up, still hard and doesn’t leave the embrace of your body, keeping Himself seated to the hilt inside you. He grinds His hips into you teasingly, admiring the view of you obedient and vulnerable beneath him.
“What a lovely symphony our bodies make together.” Martyr touches the bloody hickie on His neck and smirks at the sight of so much blood. He runs His bloodied hand down your torso, leaving a cursed trail. He uses His own blood to draw a cross just above your pubic bone, and chuckles to Himself.
You have just enough of yourself left to think, Bastard.
His beauty enthralls you. When He’s inside you, the feelings of disgust and hopelessness fade away. It’s only you and Him. Forever.
“Something so pure must be holy, wouldn’t you agree?” Martyr licks the rest of the blood off His fingers and looks at you with His vermilion eyes.
Martyr catches your chin gently and makes you look at Him. “Wouldn’t you agree, beloved?”
Now that the intensity has slowed, it’s easier to form words, though your body still buzzes with pleasure.
“Temptation isn’t always holiness,” you rasp, unable to stop your hips bucking against him. Your legs lock around him and jerk him closer.
Martyr smiles, cupping your cheek. “Oh my love, you are not simply tempted by me. You are fulfilled.” He kisses you passionately, his soft hair sweeping over your forehead. “This is not the sin you think it is. Holiness does not mean being untouched, it means you are chosen. You are mine, Prophet,” he murmurs against your lips.
His insidious love feels like addictive comfort, the absence of all worry replaced by unimaginable pleasure and indulgence. He wants you to feel like you deserve it. He wants you to hang yourself with his rosary, wants you to think it’s your idea.
Even if you escape, your life will always be haunted by his unholy divinity.
Finally, mercifully, Martyr leaves your body, your defiled temple of angry transcendence that He owns completely. He pulls you tightly against his chest, whole body pressed against him.
“Made for me. For each other. You belong here, Prophet. With me.” He kisses the top of your head.
You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Where else would I go, Martyr?”
I hope I don’t get flamed for this, but I feel like there’s many conversations to be had about taboo topics in fiction. I’m not going to jump the gun and say, you read non-con therefore you’re a rapist, as that’s kind of moronic and a really closed off mindset. However, I feel like taboo things in works of fiction does damage the psyche and has a tendency to desensitize people to those topics. So, while I’m not going to try to crucify you for your thoughts as you are an adult who’s capable of forming your own opinions, I do feel that we should be more wary about what people write in fiction as I feel like at times the line between fiction and real life can blur.
honestly? I don't think that's an unreasonable concern, anon ^^
I agree that fiction can influence people. stories can affect how we think, what we empathize with, what scares us, and how we view the world. media isn't created in a vacuum.
where I personally differ is that I don't think the presence of a taboo topic in fiction is enough to tell us much about the people consuming or creating it. again, human beings engage with fiction for all sorts of reasons, and those reasons can vary wildly from person to person.
I also think it's important to be careful about assuming a direct line between fictional interests and real-world behavior. throughout history, people have blamed books, comics, video games, horror films, music, and countless other forms of media for harmful acts (another example is rapists and serial killers blaming porn for their crimes). in many cases, the people committing those acts already had deeper issues that couldn't be explained by a piece of fiction alone.
so while I agree that media can have an impact, I personally don't think that discussing or depicting a taboo subject in fiction automatically reflects someone's real-life morals, desires, or intentions.
at the end of the day, I'd rather judge people by how they treat real people than by what fictional topics they are willing to read, write, or discuss ^^
Hello, hello!! I saw you were answering so I thought I'd try asking!
Do the main four (Damon, DG, Rasmus, Vito) prefer tits, ass, or thighs? 🤔
hallo ^o^/)
okidoki, peeps! how about you make a prediction before you look? and then you tell me if you got it right in the comments! that would be fun, yeah~? :D
if you would tell them to choose only one:
Damon and Vito prefer thighs.
DG and Rasmus prefer ass.
but the list of their preferences is actually a bit longer:
Damon: thighs, tits, neck, ass, belly
DG: ass, back, neck, thighs, tits
Rasmus: ass, tits, legs, waist, thighs
Vito: thighs, tits, belly, hands, ass
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
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
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.
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