I'm hard. Achingly, desperately hard, my cock pressed against the wood, and there's nothing I can do about it. My body doesn't care about the cross or the restraints or the room or the man behind me. My body only knows one thing:need. Need so vast and primal it drowns out thought.
"There it is," he says. Satisfied. The way you'd say it when an engine turns over. "There's the omega."
The slick is running down my inner thighs. I can feel it—warm, damning, impossible to hide. Every part of me on display, including the parts that prove Ellis right.Omegas are built for this.My biology betraying me in real time, performing exactly as advertised.
"Look at you." His voice is close now. Right behind me. Right against my ear. "All that fight you had with the handlers, all thatno—and your body's begging before I've even touched you."
"Please." The word comes out wrecked. Shaking. I didn't decide to say it—the heat ripped it out of me, or the terror did, or both at once because they're tangled together now, indistinguishable. "Please don't—I can't—please don't do this—"
My hips roll forward. Against the wood. Seeking friction on my cock against the smooth surface and finding it, and a sound escapes me—half sob, half moan—that makes me want to die. Because I'm begging him to stop while my body is grinding against the cross, and he can see it, he can see everything, the slick and the erection and the involuntary rocking of my hips,and the words coming out of my mouth don't match what my body is doing and I can't control either one.
"Please—please—I don't want this, please stop—"
"You're going to learn something tonight, seventeen." His hand moves from my neck to my shoulder. Down. Along my spine. Each touch sends fire cascading through sensitized skin. In heat, every nerve is a live wire. Every point of contact is a detonation. My back arches into his hand even as my mouth keeps begging, and the disconnect between the two is so total it feels like being split in half. "You're going to learn that what you want doesn't matter. What matters iswhatyou are. And what you are—" His hand stops at the small of my back. "—is exactly what you were made to be."
"Stop—please—I'll do whatever you want, just don't—"
"What I want," he says, with the patience of a man correcting a slow student, "is for you to stop talking."
I can't. The words keep coming—please, stop, don't, please—a broken loop, half prayer and half panic, pouring out of me in a voice I don't recognize while my hips keep rocking against the wood and the slick keeps running down my thighs and my body keeps performing exactly the way it was designed to perform.
Even as I yank and pull on the restraints on my wrists.
"See, this is the problem with fresh inventory." He sighs. Conversational. Bored. "All that noise. All that begging to stop." His hand wraps around the back of my neck again, squeezing once—a warning. "I'm not here to train you to beg me to stop, seventeen. I'm here to train you to beg for more. Your buyer will want that pretty mouth as eager as this wet little hole of yours. And we're going to get there. But first—"
I hear the buckle before I feel it.
Suddenly, a leather gag presses against my lips, forcing my jaw open, and he buckles it behind my head without givingme a second to adjust. Panic claws up my throat. The strap digs into the corners of my mouth. My pleas compress into muffled, shapeless sounds—the language of a person who no longer has words.
"Better," he says.
Something touches the back of my neck. Thin. Firm. Leather, maybe—smooth and cool against my heat-flushed skin. I crane my neck to the side, desperate to see, and catch a glimpse: a long, narrow rod with a small leather paddle at the tip. Some kind of riding instrument.
Something designed foranimals.
It traces down my spine—slow, precise—and every inch of contact is a lit fuse. My skin tightens. My breath catches. The leather tip moves between my shoulder blades and my whole back arches into it, chasing the pressure without my permission. A sound pushes through the gag—low, throaty, nothing like a scream. My face burns. My cock throbs against the wood. I'm pressing into the touch like a cat being stroked and I can't stop.
I can't stop.
The tip drags lower. Down my ribs. Along my flank. Each point of contact sends heat cascading outward in ripples—skin flushing, muscles twitching, nerve endings firing so hard my toes curl against the concrete. Slick pulses between my legs in a warm rush that I feel run further down my inner thigh. My hips roll forward against the cross—once, twice—grinding into the wood, desperate for friction, and the moan that leaks through the gag is so raw and so wanting that I bite down on the leather hard enough to make my jaw ache.
The first strike lands across my upper back.
Bright. Sharp. A sting that blooms outward like a sunburn and my body—my treacherous, broken, heat-sick body—reads it asgood. The cry that rips out of me sounds like pleasure. Sounds like begging. Sounds like every shameful thing I've spent elevenyears hiding, broadcast through a leather gag for a stranger to hear.
The second across the backs of my thighs. I lurch against the cross, forehead grinding into the wood. The impact sends a shockwave straight to my core—my cock jerks, my hole clenches around the emptiness, slick pooling between my legs so fast I feel it dripping.
My body is screaming for something to fill it and the struck skin sings with heat that my nervous system can't distinguish from arousal.
The third a little higher—the curve where thigh meets ass—and my hips slam forward against the wood so hard the cross shudders. Seeking. Grinding. A keening sound leaks through the gag, high and desperate and animal, and I can feel myself leaking pre-come against the smooth surface, my body performing every function it was designed for, right here, right now, for a man I don’t know and against my will.
"Good," he says. Like a command obeyed. Like a test passed.
I'm sobbing. The tears are hot and constant and I can't wipe them because my hands are above my head and the restraints dig into my wrists every time I pull. My skin is tight and burning where the rod landed. My cock aches against the wood. My thighs are slick and trembling. And I know there won't be marks tomorrow.The product stays undamaged.That's the point. That's always been the point. Everything—the blockers, the meals, the calibrated temperature, the padded restraints, and now the injection that stripped me bare and put my heat on display—is designed to show a buyer exactly what they're getting.
He sets down the rod.
I have three seconds of silence. Three seconds where nothing touches me and the only sound is my own raggedbreathing and the wet hiccup of sobs I can't control. My body throbs—every welted inch of skin pulsing, my cock still hard and leaking, the heat rolling through me in waves that crest and ebb but never stop. Three seconds to thinkit's over, maybe it's over—
