The fourth strike landed before I could brace myself, followed immediately by Marco's mouth soothing the sting with gentle kisses that somehow made everything worse. The dual sensation—sharp pain followed by soft lips—was short-circuiting whatever remained of my verbal abilities. My brain's language center had officially gone offline, replaced by a primitive system capable only of registering pleasure and making embarrassing noises.
"F-four," I choked out, face pressed into sheets. "Kill… sleep… rusty… thing… spoon. Eyes… first… then… kneecaps."
"Promises, promises." Marco laughed, his tongue tracing the handprint blooming on my skin. "But you're forgetting something important."
"F-fuck… impor… not… thanking—Oh God."
The fifth blow landed directly over where Marco had been kissing, the sensitized skin making the impact twice as intense. Before I could recover, Stefano's mouth replaced his hand, teeth scraping over the abused flesh before his tongue soothed the sting.
"F-five," I sobbed, my body betraying me completely as more slick gathered between my thighs. "Hate… so… much… all of you. Going… hell… premium tickets… VIP section."
"Your mouth tries to say hate," Stefano said, fingers tracing the wetness now streaming down my inner thighs. "But your body is singing a very different song, little prince."
eighteen
. . .
By the tenth slap, I was a wreck—crying, trembling, my cock leaking steadily into the pillows beneath me despite my continued stream of incoherent threats and fragmented profanity. Each strike was now followed by the wet heat of Stefano's mouth or Marco's tongue, creating a rhythm of pain-pleasure that had thoroughly dismantled any ability to form complete sentences. I was operating on a primal level, my higher brain functions having vacated the premises in search of dignity I'd probably never recover.
"T-ten," I managed, voice hoarse from shouting broken obscenities. "When… function… all… dead… revenge… cold… dish. Serve… you… pieces. Small… unidentifiable… pieces."
"Listen to him," Marco said with obvious delight, fingers trailing through the slick coating my thighs. "Still trying to threaten us when he can barely string two words together. That's what makes our little wildcat so perfect."
"Indeed," Stefano agreed, his palm smoothing over my burning flesh. "So beautiful when you're fighting what we both know you need."
I should have been furious at the possessive claim, should have been plotting elaborate revenge for the humiliation of being spanked like a disobedient child. Instead, I pressed back into his touch, my brain too scrambled to maintain even the pretense of resistance. My body had changed sides in this war, enlisting as a double agent for Team Alpha.
"I think our fierce little prince has earned a reward, don't you?" Marco suggested, his fingers still tangled in my hair. "Even if he can't form enough coherent words to admit how much he enjoyed his discipline."
"Indeed, he did," Stefano agreed, and I could hear the smile in his voice without needing to see it. "Flip him over. I want to see his face when we make him come again."
Hands were on me immediately, turning me with careful efficiency. The pressure against my freshly spanked ass made me hiss, the sting reigniting with my weight against it. But before I could adjust, I was being repositioned again—back onto the pillows, spine arched, legs spread wide. The Alpha Rearrangement Committee was in full swing, treating my body like a particularly interesting piece of erotic origami.
Matteo appeared with something in his hands—silk ties, I realized with a jolt of alarm. Before I could protest, he was securing my wrists above my head with surprising gentleness.
"No," I tried, tugging weakly against the restraints. "Not… tied. Can't… Already… powerless… overkill."
"Shh," Matteo soothed, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "Just to keep you safe. So you don't hurt yourself."
Marco took each of my ankles, spreading my legs wider than before, securing them with similar silk ties until I was completely exposed, unable to close my legs or lower my arms. The position—spread-eagle on my back, wrists and ankles bound—was the most vulnerable I'd ever been, every intimate partdisplayed for their hungry gaze. I was the centerpiece in their feast of omega submission, arranged for optimal viewing and access.
"Beautiful," Stefano murmured, his eyes dark as he surveyed my bound form. "Absolutely perfect."
He moved between my spread legs, hands sliding up my inner thighs with possessive intent. When his fingers found my entrance again, now slick and loose from his earlier attention, I couldn't even try to move away—could only whimper as he pushed two fingers inside.
"Listen to those sounds," he said to his brothers, though his eyes remained fixed on my face. "Such pretty noises our baby makes when he's helpless."
"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was begging for anymore. "Need… something. Anything. Empty… terrible. Fingers… not enough. More… something. Anything."
"What does our good boy need?" Marco asked, positioning himself beside me, his hand trailing down my chest to circle a nipple that was already sensitive from previous attention. "Tell Daddy exactly what you need."
The praise—"good boy"—hit me like a drug, sending warmth flooding through my system that had nothing to do with physical stimulation. My omega biology responded to their approval like it was oxygen after near-drowning, something essential I hadn't realized I was missing. My therapist would have a field day with this—"Neglected Omega Develops Praise Kink: A Case Study in Daddy Issues."
"Need…" I couldn't articulate the confused tangle of wants and needs coursing through me. "Everything. Touch… me. Please, Daddies. Can't… words… anymore. Just… feeling. Please."
"So polite," Stefano approved, his fingers working deeper inside me, finding that spot that made white explode behindmy eyelids. "We're going to touch you everywhere, little prince. Going to make you come so hard you forget your own name. The only word you'll remember is 'Daddy.'"
The promise should have terrified me. Instead, my cock jerked eagerly against my stomach, precum beading at the tip like a visual exclamation point to my body's complete betrayal. My reproductive system was the Benedict Arnold of body parts, enthusiastically saluting its new commanders while my brain tried desperately to maintain even a semblance of resistance.
