No. 27 - I’M FINE. I PROM…
passing out | vertigo | collapse
nsfwhump, a/b/o dynamics, omega!sam, alpha!cas, slavery, nonbinary cas, afab cas, cock warming, deep throating
A continuation of #23.
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Sam sleeps through twenty-six solid hours. Sluggish wake-up, dazed and heavy and, right, Alpha gave him meds so he could… Alpha. Right. Sam has an owner, now.
Sam remains half-curled-up on his mattress. No, not his; Alpha’s, Alpha’s room… Sam swallows. He’s alone. The door is ajar. Golden afternoon light filters through the curtains. Sam’s collar is gone. The cuffs on his wrists and ankles persist. Sam’s eyes are wide open. He knows he won’t move.
Alpha comes to check on him eventually. The relief that Sam woke up is palpable even through the minimal emotions on Alpha’s face. Their scent, their body language… Sam swallows. He doesn’t want to get up. Alpha brought him food, though. Sam will have to at least sit up.
“No. On the floor.”
Sam’s head droops for a second before he complies. Carpet, here. Mostly tiles around the house, though, and Sam decides not to think and straightens his still-sore back and puts his hands in his lap, waits. Being handed the bowl is a surprise. Sam reluctantly peers up at Alpha to get consent before he reaches inside.
“I apologize. You still must be tired.”
Sam doesn’t agree nor object. Cubed fruit, cheese; nuts. Sam’s stomach gurgles happily. Sam paces himself. It’s a big bowl. He won’t go hungry if he’s allowed the whole thing.
Alpha stands up from where they sat on the edge of the bed and gestures for Sam to stay. “I will be right back,” they say. “Have as much as you want. I am getting you a glass of water.”
Sam nods, swallows. Stuffs the next piece into his mouth. He goes from singular pieces to handfuls as soon as Alpha exits the room.
The water tastes heavenly. Sam holds the glass with both hands as he drinks. Alpha watches. Sam ducks his head as he hands back the empty glass and goes straight back to his bowl. The long months of kibble and stale broth are a lifetime away with the pop and squelch of a grape between Sam’s teeth, the chewiness of cheese. Sam does his best to be quiet, silent. Alpha lifts the bowl out of Sam’s lap with only a dozen pieces left in it. Sam doesn’t complain, doesn’t strain after the food. Hands on his thighs, he blinks up at Alpha. Waiting.
“Would you like more water?”
“Yes, master.”
“Of course. Follow me downstairs, please. Oh, you can—” Alpha turns back and forth between the door and Sam on all fours. “You may—walk, Sam. There are stairs.” Alpha is flustered. Sam did bad.
Sam makes sure to leave extra distance, to duck his head extra low while he follows. It’s a nice house, light and quiet. Alpha asks him to kneel and wait by the kitchen door. An empty spot next to the counterspace with hooks drilled into the wall at two different heights—Sam’s spot, no doubt. Sam kneels, waits. More water. Sam accepts, drinks. Alpha watches him, again. Still.
“I spend most of my time here. Or over in the garden, or the living room.” Sam nods, listens. Hands back the empty glass. Alpha leans against the counter. That suit again, but no jacket, no tie, no shoes. Socks, soft-looking. Alpha fumbles with Sam’s glass before he puts it down, away. “I want—you will stay close to me at all times. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.”
Alpha sighs, “Good,” and their relief puzzles Sam. “I need to get more writing done until dinner. Join me at the table.”
Sam decides that, since he is past the stairs, he is supposed to crawl now. Alpha doesn’t stop him again, so; right choice. Alpha grabs a cushion from the sofa to put it on the floor next to their chair. Relief tugs at Sam. He’d thank Alpha if he could. Well—he can, in a way.
Alpha sits down and so does Sam, back straight and the pillow gentle under his legs, and even seated, his eyes are above tabletop level. Shame creeps into Sam but he can’t hunch, can’t sit crooked or lazy, so he has to—accept. Shuffles a bit closer to Alpha’s chair, but Alpha isn’t even looking. Types on their laptop, puts the pair of glasses waiting for them back onto his nose but squints at the screen regardless. They huff before they peer down at Sam, brows pinched and their scent still dull, unbothered, and Sam’s nose points out: unimprinted. Empty. Virgin. Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Sam spirals and maybe Alpha notices because they’re reaching out, pet—the top of Sam’s head, scratch through his hair. Sam swallows. Alpha focuses on their laptop. Sam stays vigilant. A command might come at any time. It doesn’t, though.
Sam drifts, underneath. Looks at nothing, past Alpha’s lap, past the untouched-looking furniture and the bright white walls. It’s all so…surreal. Every moment Sam doesn’t wake up to being back in the cell, back with the others, with Bel, is a surprise. Leaves him stumbling, balking. This can’t be it. Suddenly, his life is supposed to be—this? It can’t be. It was so…easy.
Sam startles; Alpha startles back, takes their hand off Sam’s head. Sam immediately pushes back into the contact. Alpha pets him for nuzzling their leg. Yes. Okay.
Alpha doesn’t talk. Sam closes his eyes, listens: typing. The slow, steady scratch of Alpha’s fingers through Sam’s hair, across his scalp. Alpha thumbs Sam’s ear, behind, around. Sam rubs his cheek firmer against Alpha’s thigh. Their reactions feed into each other, so the change in Alpha’s scent is to be expected. Sam tenses regardless. Forces himself—calm. Breathe. Let it go. Alpha remains silent, still. Even through guiding Sam’s head aside and around. They scoot their chair back so Sam can move underneath the table, between their legs. Choppy, unsure movements—or just eager. Sam swallows, kisses—their knuckles while they unzip their pants, and he imagines hearing Alpha’s breath catching, out of sight. Sam licks his lip as he watches them peeling their dick out of their fly. He blinks, taken aback. Different than what he was made to practice on, but he can—yeah, he can—do this.
It twitches once Sam’s lips wrap around it, once it pushes across his tongue. Alpha squirms and makes a small noise, buries their fingers back into Sam’s hair. Tucks him close until Sam’s nose is flush with their pubic bone, and Sam can’t see their face but he hears their breath, feels them—thick in his mouth, wet with want and wetter yet down below, where… Sam swallows, airtight. Going dizzy with it already, with Alpha’s scent and taste taking over his system, his brain, everything. Drool, already. Alpha relishes in just this: being buried in something warm and wet and not moving, just absently pets Sam’s head and keeps typing, albeit slower with one hand only. Sam shuffles into more comfort. He can’t sit upright under the table anyway.
Alpha doesn’t move for the longest time, but once they do, their instincts quickly take over. Sam focuses on breathing through his nose on the downstrokes, doesn’t fight. The trickle of his saliva down his chin and throat still irritates him after all this time. It’s easy to give in, accept. Sam’s chemistry reacts, of course. His own scent revs him up even more, makes his hairs stand on end. Alpha growls low in their throat. They get their second hand on Sam’s head, too, helps him stay put while they hump his face. Their thrusts grow erratic and they grunt, and goosebumps race up Sam’s back for the thrill, the deep, intensifying musk in his mouth, throat, his airways, every hidden corner of him; taking over. Filling Sam. Completing him.
Alpha comes loud and sudden, roaring. They pull Sam’s face flush with their crotch and raise their ass off their chair to continue thrusting, even though there’s nowhere to go. Their knot swells belatedly—Sam’s panic gives him enough force to pull back and save the integrity of his jaw. Alpha gasps and then growls. Sam makes it up to them with firm suction, with practiced prods of his long tongue around the sensitive, taut throb of their knot. Sam’s eyes water with the sick, intense taste of actual Alpha come, with the tell-tale heat in his stomach, the damp warmth between Alpha’s legs. Sam can’t see their face, still.
They let him pull off, eventually. They slouch in their chair and Sam coughs and swallows, and Sam doesn’t notice they’re watching until their eyes meet on accident. Sam looks down—between Alpha’s legs, the still-thick, spent throb of their dick; to the inseam of their only-slightly smeared pants. Sam throbs, deep down. He knows Alpha can smell it. Hell, he can scent himself.
Alpha drags their hand down their face. Says, raw and scratchy, “Christ,” and wipes through the mess on Sam’s face; flings the major wetness away, onto the floor. Sam blinks, high. Chases those fingers, the salt on them, Alpha’s skin. Is told, “It wasn’t supposed to escalate this early,” and gets that palm to nuzzle into. Warm, gentle—open. Willing. “But I guess it can’t be helped.”
Sam huffs, eyes closed.
