Chapter Text
So now you’re locked in a chastity cage.
You know the purpose of it. You don’t bother listening to Geto’s prattling, what he says the purpose of it is.
If you have to sit through more of the cult leader theatrics he so easily falls into, you might actually start screaming at him.
He’s doing it to humiliate you, and it’s working. He wants you to know that not only can you not cum without permission – you have to ask to touch yourself in the first place.
You have to go to him and confess your desires, instead of rubbing one out in some secret moment you can steal away from his prying gaze.
It’s even more humiliating that you now need to ask him to unlock you every time you want to use the restroom.
Were he not aware that it would send you into complete hysterics, Geto would probably follow you into the bathroom and wipe you afterwards, too.
And it’s not even that he doesn’t want you to go into hysterics. Geto, you’ve started to learn, loves you like that, especially.
Terrified, panting and panicked, tears of fury and anguish blotting your vision. Leaking pheromones that beg for him to comfort you, reassure you. The scent of your desperation flitting through his senses.
You think he’s saving it, like a little treat for himself when he has a bad day.
Portioning off the pieces of your sanity into bite sized snacks for him to indulge in at his leisure.
This is the next bite, it seems.
It’s his eyes that give him away. Dark and violet, dilating as you unwillingly scent the air with your arousal.
“I just want to make sure you’re coming to me when you need something,” He purrs with too much satisfaction to be innocent, “You’re my omega. It’s my duty as an alpha to take care of your needs… and you’re so quiet about these things sometimes. This will help you learn to rely on me.”
Geto says it, like he’ll unlock you if only you ask. Like you’re being stubborn, and an easy climax is only a request away.
And you’re sure it will be, the first time. Maybe even the second, and the third. Perhaps fourth, too, if he’s being generous.
But Geto is a greedy little thing to his core. Never matter what you concede to him in the moment, no matter how satisfied he is, he’ll always be back for more, eventually. More of your submission, more of your pleasure at his hands, more of you.
He’ll drink it all up and set his empty cup in front of you, waiting patiently for you to pour out every last drop of your soul for him to savor.
All your struggles are in vain, of course, as they always are with Geto. He always wins. It’s like a compulsion – he can’t resist the urge to smother you every time he sees you.
When you give in for the first time it doesn’t feel relieving. All the pent up lust and desire; Geto had stoked it gleefully, not with any touches, but just with his presence as an alpha.
The broad, well-muscled figure he takes absolutely no shame in baring to you in nothing but a towel, pheromones that ooze off of him because your presence arouses him, the subtle bulge expertly hidden by his robes, which he makes no secret of when he pulls you into his lap.
The scent of him in your shared bed that accompanies you to sleep. A startlingly chaste embrace, his handsome face nuzzling into your neck, breathing you in like your scent is his air.
You’d never wanted to touch yourself so bad until he’d so blatantly removed the option. Never been so desperately ashamed of it before now.
When you do give in, it’s with the knowledge that you were always going to. And you’ll do it again, no matter how much you hate it.
But Geto doesn’t even let you hate it. Doesn’t let you pretend he’s just doing it all for himself (he is, he is, he is). Always acts like he's doing you a favor, like all you have to do is ask. All your struggles are by your own design, to hear him tell it.
It feels like the beginning of a long battle you never wanted to fight in the first place. You want out of the battlefield, out of the war. You’re trapped in the trenches with only Geto to guide you – and he only wants to pull you further in.
And he’s good at it. Too good at it. Asking you which way you think is out, letting you think it’s all your idea, ever-smiling and confident in the knowledge that all your turns will lead to him eventually.
The first time you give in, he’s almost giddy with self-righteousness. You almost expect him to push you down or bend you over, but instead he smiles kindly as he unlocks the belt and pulls the cage off you. Carefully catching it in his hands when it falls free, because god forbid you go without it for too long.
“Would you like to do it yourself?” He purrs, with barely contained excitement, “Or would you like me to help?”
You’d like him to leave the room so you could take care of it yourself. But you already know what he’ll say to that. He barely lets you use the restroom alone.
“I can do it myself,” You mutter, sitting on the edge of the bed while he nods indulgently. His smile is awful and wide. You have to look away from it.
His pheromones pick up, too, predictably, at the sight of you sitting, legs spread, cunt wide open.
Geto had graciously allowed you to choose whether or not to wear underwear over the cage, and you hadn’t seen much point in an extra step every time you begged him for a bathroom break.
You don’t meet his eyes. You stare at the floor as you spread yourself with your fingers, tracing and teasing at your entrance while you rub over your clit.
It’s laughable, how easy you are, now. How much you shiver at the lightest touch. The understimulation has you twitching, flinching away from the contact, dipping your fingers into your slick before you go back to rubbing over the hood of your clit. Rocking your hips to get the gentler, indirect stimulation just right –
“There, there,” The sound comes from across the room, “That’s just it. Would you like me to hold your legs for you?”
Almost on cue, as if your body is conspiring against you, your legs jerk as if trying to shut against the sudden, blinding contact.
(More likely, he’d simply noticed your urges before you had. You’re not sure which is worse.)
You bite your lip, “It’s just – it’s just been a while, I’m fine.” The last words come out petulant, demanding, but Geto lets you have it.
A few minutes in, still experimentally rubbing over your clit, alongside it, plunging your fingers in (shorter, smaller, not like his large hands), you are fighting the part of yourself that wants Geto to really let you have it.
This is harder, much harder than you’d thought it would be, especially because of the audience. Being watched is the opposite of arousing for you, even though your stupid omega biology is trilling at the presence of an alpha.
You must smell delicious right about now. He’s probably salivating at the thought of your taste. Ready and willing to run that hot tongue all over your cunt, gliding perfectly right where you need it, soft and slick and squishy and just enough to get you there, it always was.
Oh, he knows, too. You can feel him, even without looking, shifting his weight with an eagerness, crossing and uncrossing his arms with restless arousal. He’d been aroused before, you could smell that, but now you can smell him getting hard.
It wouldn’t be strange. You’re masturbating in front of him. This would actually be one of the most normal things he’d done –
Except you know it’s not your failed attempts at fingering yourself that’s doing it for him.
It’s that you’re failing.
It’s that you need – that you could use his help, that you know he is there, that he can smell you getting more and more frustrated as you shiver and scoot and impatiently rub yourself into painful overstimulation.
Geto knows he could do better. He knows you’re choosing to stumble helplessly over your own pleasure rather than ask him to help you. Like you’re bad at this, rather than your movements being awkward and rushed because you have an unwanted audience.
When you finally manage – after far too long – to wrench yourself to the edge in scathing, dogged strokes, the climax is almost as painful as it is pleasurable. Your clit burns and buzzes as the orgasm washes over you, and your real relief is that it’s finally over.
Surprisingly, this does very little to amend your sexual frustration as a whole.
Every time, Geto does this. He watches. He won’t leave you alone. Inching closer and closer while he watches.
Sometimes he touches himself in tandem. Gives you low growls and purrs of approval when you find a spot and rhythm that works for you, a shameful trickle of heat dripping through you at the noise. Lifting you ever closer –
But he doesn’t actually “help”. Doesn’t touch you. And that’s starting to get to you, too, you can tell.
The scent of him, the one that he makes when his eyes are wide and dilated at the scent, when the throbbing between your legs becomes so uncomfortable, the heat under your skin so insistent that it’s worth it to you to ask him again, just to get rid of the infuriating urge.
Whenever he pulls off the cage you can feel your cunt pulsing already, slicking up for the inevitable in anticipation.
He has you trained like a dog, and you’re sure he knows it, too. You’re sure it turns him on.
Your heat is coming up and you know it’s just a matter of time. You won’t be able to do it alone, you won’t even be able to want to do it alone.
You’ll want him, Geto, your alpha by your side, you’ll cry and whine and beg for him and he knows it, too. You’ll feel like you’re dying whenever he’s not touching you.
Like a fever, it builds deep inside you. It has you squirming from side to side, fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing your legs to relieve some of the building ache between your legs. The cage prevents all but the most basic stimulation, pressure getting through, but little else.
And it’s worse than nothing getting through. Because if you cross your legs just tight enough, there’s a pleasant little squeeze.
If you sit back on your heel the right way it presses down, but it’s not enough.
It could never be enough; that was the point.
All it was ever going to do was get you more worked up.
An arm around your waist, pulling you against Geto’s side, shushing and holding you still like a wriggling kitten.
That’s how he always makes you feel; it’s effortless for him to take hold of you, move you, throw or pin you with just one arm. There’s no concern on his part over how much you struggle; rather, how to still that struggling without hurting you too much.
And it plays to your instincts, too. There’s a terrible, primal allure to an alpha who is strong enough to subdue you with brutal efficiency, but chooses to do so delicately, with your comfort in mind if not your consent.
He makes rules for you and he keeps to them, a reliable mate that sings to your desire to be kept, held, protected.
Your alpha will take care of you, whether you want it or not. He’ll know what you need, when you need it, and he’ll make sure you get it always. Nothing can go wrong because he won’t let it.
He’ll never get angry with you, never get tired or bored. The alpha of every omega’s dreams; calm and powerful and always acting in your best interests.
And even when you hold yourself back, even when you resist, you can’t control what happens after. How he coos over you, tells you what a good job you’ve done.
Petting your hair, holding your exhausted body close while he lines the cage up with your poor, swollen cunt and locks you back in.
Why are you struggling? Why do you make yourself suffer?
You know you're truly gone when you start asking yourself the same questions he does.
Giving in to him is as easy as breathing.
Your heat is coming on anyways. You’ll surrender so much more when all you can think about is getting his knot in your cunt and keeping in there.
What’s a little piece now? What’s an appetizer, a tiny bite stinging at your pride, when soon you’ll be begging and mewling for him shamelessly, desperately?
It feels so easy, so right, to just nod quietly, red-faced, and let his smile grow even wider as he descends upon you like a starving wolf upon a lamb.
And it’s relieving. Letting him do it, take control.
Geto is so good at it, fingers quick on your cunt, your clit, his clever tongue and wide lips mouthing over you with the certainty he has in every word he speaks.
Even as raw as it is, your cunt slicks up under his touch, the oversensitive buzz deepening to an electric tingle that has you shaking down to your bones.
You gasp and weep and one of his huge hands finds your hair while the other slips into your cunt. It’s been ages since you’ve been fucked but you open up so easy for him, his scent permeating the air,
And once he’s made you cum once, wringing it out of you after “All that time you spent getting yourself worked up, wasn’t is so much easier to let me do it?”, Geto doesn’t stop there.
No. He has to be intimate, has to be affectionate. He settles you against him in a facsimile of love, while your body is still lax and pliable, while the airy pleasure is still bubbling through your veins.
When you’re like that, happy and fuzzy and limp in his arms, he purrs his smug questions in your ear:
“Mmmh, so cute, do you want another one? Mouth or hands this time?”
“There, there. Doesn’t that feel good? Your alpha makes you feel so good, don’t you? Sweet little omega.”
“You know how much I love you, don’t you? You feel it right now. Say it for me.”
With his hands caressing you there isn’t even a thought of resistance, denial. You follow along with the sweet, low voice that always makes you feel good.
“I know you love me, Geto.”
“Suguru." He corrects, "Suguru loves you, your alpha. And how do you know I love you, my darling?”
“Hhhh…” You drift off, his long fingers driving into the knots of your shoulders, working you even looser, “Because… you make me feel so good… Suguru…”
“Mmmm…” The purr he makes of satisfaction radiates through you, and it’s all just warm, fuzzy bliss to your helpless omega brain, “Don’t I always? I take such good care of you, don’t I, darling?”
“Yes,” You agree, tilting your head back for him to kiss, nip at it, “You always take care of me. My alpha, the best alpha…”
“Oh? What a good, sweet little thing you are. You want to cum again before I put it back on? Since you’ve been such a good omega.”
And you like to think that it’s just the happy hormones of your climax, just the irrepressible pheromones that hook into your dopamine receptors and tug your brain inside out for him to pick apart.
But the truth is, Geto knows you. He’s always known you, so, so well. And even if you think this is surrender, you know he can do so much worse.
It’s worse, now, with him growing bolder. Sitting you on his lap to listen to hapless followers prostrating and sniveling before Geto.
He smiles, nods, an expression of vacant amusement drifting over his face.
The picture of casual control, an easy kind of power that doesn’t need to be projected. If Geto merely gazes in a certain direction, all attention in the room will soon follow.
His entire body, his pheromones, the arm he warps around you to hold you into his lap, it all screams alpha.
And you feel it, you feel it, it’s coming on and you can’t help it. You know he must have smelled it on you, Geto knew your heat was coming, so –
Burning burning, the heat sears you from underneath your skin. It’s like your whole cunt is throbbing where it’s confined, aching and empty.
So it was all right, then, he must have been expecting –
“G-Geto,” His name comes out as a soft, warbling sound.
The arm around your waist gives a tight pinch and a click of his tongue.
A whimper. “Suguru…” Pitiful, pouty, that’s what you’ve been reduced to. You’re almost as pathetic as the people bowing before him. He respects you just as much, you’re sure.
“What is it, my dear?” He hums, but he knows, he already knows. His hand is reaching under, around your waistband, toying with the belt.
Geto knows what you want. But it pleases him, always, to make you ask.
You feel eyes on you, so many of them. Silence in the air as everyone listens. To Geto, the room may as well be empty, which is why he didn’t care if you were in heat when you brought him here.
It’s wet, now, dripping out between the very edge of the chastity cage, leaking on the inside of your thighs.
You think he can smell it. You think you know exactly the face he’s making, the terrible smirk. But more than that, you smell it, him growing hard against you, his pleasure and excitement tinging the air.
Any other moment, you’d love to deny him. Yank this out from under his nose. But his hands against you sear, they’re so wide and grasping and you want want want –
“Suguru, I’m,” you pant, open-mouthed, to feverish to even be ashamed of how you rub yourself against him, “I’m, I need you to, let, hhhh, let me, out… let me out, Suguru…”
“Mmmn?” It’s his dark eyes on you now, a weight that finally makes a difference. “Do you need help?”
There’s hunger in those eyes. Teeth in that smile. Eager for this latest, delectable bite.
And the worst part? You don’t even care.
You just want to cum.
“Please.”