Page 11 of Trust No Alpha
His cock was already as hard as a marble sculpture, pressing insistently against the soft, loose material of his sweats. It seeped at the tip with an itch that turned to pleasure.
He hadn’t yet touched himself and already he was soaring on the ecstasy of the Burn which was such a powerful drug it left him in an orgasmic stupor, coming again and again, sometimes for days.
Thorne decided if there was a god, creating this kind of biology for humans to endure simply to perpetuate the species was mad. Even if there was pleasure, it was out of control. And it had created a society where Omegas like his beloved Ian were subservient to such madness.
It had been twenty-five years and he still thought of Ian every day, though the tears had dried long ago. He found himself forgetting more and more about him. He could no longer remember his voice. Sometimes he had to look at a picture of him to remind himself of the details of his face and hair.
The chains on Thorne’s wrists ran through a metal O-ring cemented into the floor of the basement. He could have bound himself in his own bedroom, but he didn’t trust his own strength. He might, given time, be able to break his bonds if he had affixed the chains to the wall or his headboard.
It was safer in the basement. Sturdier. And it blocked all sound. His way was safer for himself, and everyone else.
Thorne lay back and took deep breaths, letting the Burn simmer through his veins, basking in the pleasure. Guilt left a bitter taste, for his love was buried under an oak tree in his yard and he did not want to forget that for one moment, but the pleasure consumed all that grief and regret, and soon there was nothing but red-gold ecstasy.
His cock pulsed and he couldn’t push his sweats down fast enough to take himself in hand and milk his rock-hard shaft.
His thumb rubbed over the leaking tip and his head spun. He rode a tsunami of ecstasy as he pulsed out his first orgasm, the rattle of the chains diminishing as he lost his breath and his eyes rolled back. He nearly passed out from the strength of it this first time.
He used the liquid from his first orgasm to lube himself, and squeezed his balls, then rubbed his still-hard cock with tighter pressure. It felt so good, so comforting. He didn’t want to stop, and he lay in a doze stroking for half an hour until another pulse began, this time lasting longer.
A knot formed at the base of his cock. He tightened his fist around it and felt his own pulse beneath the stretched skin. He squeezed it and his cock jolted, spurting over and over.
If he’d been with an Omega for this part, his knot would have locked them together in a frenzy of pleasure, the Omega’s muscles automatically milking him, squeezing everything from him in the act of breeding. At this point in the mating, a healthy Omega body would, in turn, be stimulated by the knot inside him, and the Omega’s own cock would pulse and leak until the knot worked itself up the shaft and let loose thick spurts of potent semen for impregnation.
Alphas and Omegas could be locked together for as long as fifteen minutes in shared ecstasy.
It took a lot of energy. A lot of effort. Aftercare was essential after the knotting, which happened about fifty percent of the time during an Alpha’s Burn. Aftercare was something he’d been unable to do for Ian.
Now, here in the basement, without the stimulation of another body, Thorne’s knot moved up his shaft and released in a few minutes. He’d been prepared. He had a towel on hand, but the pleasure catapulted through him so hard he blacked out.
When he came to, another half hour had passed. He’d slept like the dead with no dreams, only darkness upon darkness and no memory of the evidence of yet another orgasm all over his chest and stomach.
He used the towel, wetting it in a basin of water, and cleaned himself.
He took about fifteen minutes to drink some water and eat an energy bar. Then he curled up under a blanket for a few minutes before his skin began to heat up all over again, and he came another three times, one of those times with another thickly-formed knot.
From sheer exhaustion, he napped. When he woke, he had the clarity of mind to turn on the TV for company and eat another energy bar.
Feeling his cock rise once more, he covered his palm with lots of lube and went at it again, milking himself through it. The lube was never enough in the end. He always finished out his Burns with sore genitals and chafed skin.
To help himself more, he had various toys. The fleshlight shaped like a mouth with soft lips and a tongue fed with lube by a plastic tube was the best and most gentle device when he was feeling overly sensitive. It even had a vibrate setting.
But he hated it. It looked crude, rude and unsophisticated. The toy of a sex addict. The toy of a whore. Thorne only used it in the last throes of the Burn when his hand ached from so much pumping, and his cock was almost painful to the touch. The softness and the vibration helped him get the last of the fever out of him, the last liquid he had to give.
When he put it on thevibrateandautosetting, he was able to lie back and let it do its job. He could close his eyes and soar to better realms. He could even dream a little of his favorite things: the beauty of sunsets, snow in his winter garden, a starry summer sky. Sometimes then, Ian’s face would return to him, laughing, and he’d see him running through the long grass of the backyard, or turning to embrace him, kissing him with sweet, sweet lips that tasted like sugared plums and better times.
But the blackouts still happened with regularity. Despite his ability to enjoy the Burn and have multiple orgasms in such a short time, he could not control the intensity of the first hours and the first day. It was only when the Burn ebbed that he might feel some control, and relax into his final orgasms.
Thus, he still could not be trusted. Not ever with another person.
Now he looked up at the tiny window at ground level, watching as the light darkened to evening, turning the walls pink and lavender.
There was an earthen scent down here, more like a cellar than a basement, though Thorne did not use it as a cellar for food storage. The room was only for laundry.
It had a heater, though he never used it. During the Burn, he did not feel the cold even in the deepest time of winter.
He watched the outside ground and the little bit of long grass he could see darken with night’s shadow.
The arousal returned, and another knot. More shadows darkened his vision as he grabbed hold of himself and rode into wild throes of euphoria.
