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The fluorescent lights of the backstage corridor hummed with a clinical indifference that grated on Kit Wilson’s frayed nerves. Every step was a jagged reminder of the thirty-eight seconds that had just dismantled his ego. His hip throbbed where it had met the canvas, and his pride—usually polished to a mirror sheen—was currently a pile of ash.
He just needed to get to the trainer’s room, then the hotel, then a bath hot enough to melt his skin off.
He didn't make it past the curtained alcove before the air changed. The scent hit him first—heavy, commanding, and infuriatingly calm. Kit rounded the corner, limping heavily, and nearly collided with a wall of solid, dark muscle.
Oba Femi stood there, looking as though he hadn’t even broken a sweat. He wasn't panting; he wasn't bruised. He was simply existing as a force of nature.
Kit recoiled, his face contorting into a mask of pure vitriol. He didn't have the breath for a lecture on toxic masculinity or the structural imbalances of the locker room. Instead, a sound tore from his throat that was less "superstar" and more "cornered animal."
He narrowed his eyes and hissed—a sharp, sibilant spray of air through clenched teeth that vibrated with genuine loathing.
Oba didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned back against a production crate, a slow, deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. His eyes tracked the way Kit’s shoulders were hunched by his ears, his scent spiked with the sour tang of omega distress and fury.
"Still so much noise," Oba remarked, his voice like velvet over gravel. He tilted his head, a glimmer of genuine curiosity breaking through his towering composure. "You make such interesting sounds when you are beaten, little one."
Kit’s lip curled, his hands trembling at his sides. "Get. Out. Of my way."
Oba didn't move. He stepped an inch closer, invading Kit’s personal space until the omega had to crane his neck back just to maintain eye contact. The Alpha reached out, not to strike, but to lazily tuck a stray, sweat-slicked strand of hair behind Kit's ear.
"You hiss like a feral thing," Oba mused, his grin widening to reveal a flash of white teeth. "I find myself wondering... after such a loud defeat, can you also purr?"
Kit’s breath hitched, the sound dying in his throat as a different kind of heat—one that had nothing to do with the match—flushed across his cheeks.
The flush on Kit’s face deepened, a violent shade of crimson that clashed horribly with his complexion. He wanted to swing; he wanted to spit. But his body was betraying him. Under the weight of Oba’s heavy, alpha presence, that sharp hiss died out, replaced by a ragged, uneven hitch in his breathing.
"In your dreams, you brute," Kit spat, though the words lacked their usual theatrical sting.
Oba didn’t look insulted. He looked fed. He straightened up, his massive shadow swallowing Kit whole against the concrete wall. "Dreams are for those who lack the power to take what they want in the waking world," Oba murmured.
He stepped aside then, granting Kit a path, but the air remained thick and charged. Kit didn't walk; he scrambled past, his limp more pronounced as he tried to put distance between them.
Kit finally reached the sanctuary of the empty trainer’s area. He collapsed onto a taped-up bench, burying his face in a cold towel. The silence was supposed to be a relief, but all he could hear was the echo of that word. Purr.
"Toxic," Kit muttered into the towel, his voice trembling. "Arrogant. Prehistoric. Absolute... mountain of a man."
He tried to summon the anger again, to sharpen his spite back into a weapon, but his inner omega was humming a different tune. The sheer dominance Oba had displayed wasn't just physical; it was an atmospheric pressure that made Kit’s chest feel tight and his skin feel too sensitive.
He closed his eyes and, for a fleeting, horrifying second, he imagined a world where he wasn't hissing at a giant in a hallway. He imagined the feeling of a hand that large resting on the nape of his neck—not to shove him into a mat, but to hold him still.
Kit’s eyes snapped open.
He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"I need that bath," he whispered to the empty room, his voice sounding suspiciously breathless. "A very, very cold bath."
Of course, it wasn’t a cold bath. The steam in the hotel bathroom was thick enough to choke the shame out of the air. Kit had spent twenty minutes just standing under the shower spray, watching the grime of the arena floor swirl down the drain, before finally sinking into the clawfoot tub.
He worked a handful of expensive conditioner through his long, dark hair, the repetitive motion usually a source of comfort. Normally, this ritual was a performance for an audience of one: Elton Prince.
As the silence of the room settled in, the absence of his partner felt like a physical ache. He missed the familiar, bright scent of Elton—something like expensive hairspray and expensive champagne—that always acted as a buffer between Kit and the rest of the world. With Elton, everything was a grand, beautiful joke. With Elton, he was protected.
But as Kit slid deeper into the water until it lapped at his chin, the memory of Elton’s scent was crowded out by something much more primal.
His mind, traitorous and unbidden, went back to the 38 seconds.
He could still feel the phantom grip… the sensation of Oba’s hands. They hadn't just been strong; they had been absolute. The Alpha had handled him not like a competitor, but like an object—something to be moved, toyed with, and discarded at will.
When Oba had driven him into the mat, the sheer mass of the man had felt like the earth itself settling over his ribs. It was terrifying. It was "toxic."
And that low, rumbling chuckle in the hallway.
Kit groaned, splashing water over his face to try and snap out of it.
"It was a fluke," he whispered to the tiled wall. "He’s a bully. He’s exactly what’s wrong with this industry."
He tried to focus on the soft, bubbly water, but his skin felt electric. Every place Oba had touched him during the match felt branded. He had called Oba "toxic", practically primitive, mocking the Alpha's raw power from the safety of a microphone. But being held in that power... being handled with such effortless, terrifying ease…
Kit’s breath hitched in the quiet bathroom. A small, involuntary sound vibrated in his throat—not a hiss this time, but a soft, tentative thrum that made his eyes go wide with horror.
He wasn't purring. He couldn't be purring.
He dunked his head completely under the water, letting the silence of the depths drown out the confusing, traitorous signals his body was sending his brain.
The hotel suite felt like a cage. Kit paced the length of the carpet, his damp hair clinging to the back of his neck, his phone heavy in his hand.
He stared at Elton’s contact photo—a candid shot of them sharing a gold-leafed dessert, both of them glowing. He ached to call him. He wanted to hear Elton’s indignant gasp at the "barbaric" way Kit had been treated. He wanted to be told he was still the most beautiful man in the division. But Elton was recovering, and the guilt of waking him for something as pathetic as a bruised ego (and a confusingly fast heartbeat) kept Kit’s thumb hovering, never clicking.
"I’m a mess," Kit hissed at his reflection.
Driven by a restless, buzzing energy that felt like caffeine and nerves, he grabbed his gym bag. He needed to sweat. He needed to remind himself that he was a professional, a technician, an athlete—not just a plaything for a heavyweight.
The hotel’s fitness center was a high-end, 24-hour facility that, luckily for Kit, boasted a practice ring tucked in the back for the touring talent. At 2:00 AM, it was a ghost town of gleaming chrome and heavy shadows.
Kit didn't go for the weights. He went straight for the ring.
He climbed through the ropes, the familiar creak of the boards beneath his boots acting as a temporary sedative. He started to shadowbox, then transitioned into technical rolls. He was fast, fluid, and graceful. He moved with the poise of a dancer, reminding himself of his own worth.
Snap. Pivot. Roll.
"See?" he panted to the empty room. "Thirty-eight seconds was a mistake. I am Kit Wilson. I am—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes darting to the heavy shadows by the squat racks. The air in the gym had shifted. The scent of ozone and deep, earthy musk began to drift toward the ring, cutting through the sterile smell of cleaning products.
A large silhouette detached itself from the darkness.
"You move well when there is no one to stop you," a deep voice rumbled.
Oba Femi stepped into the dim light. He was dressed in simple gym gear that looked like it was straining to contain him. He wasn't even carrying a bag; he looked like he’d simply materialized out of Kit’s own troubled thoughts.
Kit’s heart did a frantic somersault. He stayed in the centre of the ring, his chest heaving from his workout. "Following me now, Oba? I’d call that obsessed."
Oba walked toward the ring, his eyes tracking Kit with the predatory patience of a lion watching a gazelle try to look tough. He gripped the top rope, the thick cable looking like a toy in his massive hand.
"I couldn't sleep," Oba said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrated right through the canvas and into Kit's feet. "The gym helps. But I didn't expect to find a little cat practicing his claws in the dark."
He vaulted over the ropes with a terrifyingly quiet athleticism, landing in the ring. The whole structure groaned under his weight.
"Show me," Oba challenged, his gaze flicking to Kit’s trembling hands. "Show me your claws.”
Kit’s pride flared, hot and sharp. He didn't think; he reacted. He lunged forward, aiming a lightning-fast forearm smash at Oba’s jaw, desperate to wipe that patronizing tilt from the Alpha’s head.
Oba didn't even flinch. He caught Kit’s wrist mid-air. The impact was like hitting a brick wall covered in velvet. With a casual flick of his arm, Oba redirected Kit’s momentum, spinning him around and hauling him back against his chest in a tight, inescapable rear waist-lock.
"So much temper," Oba chuckled, his breath hot against the shell of Kit’s ear.
"Let go of me!" Kit snarled, thrashing against the hold. He tried to drive a heel into Oba’s shin, but the Alpha simply lifted him off the canvas, dangling him as if he weighed nothing at all.
"You struggle like a kitten in a bag," Oba murmured. The word was a low vibrate, a hum of pure power that seemed to settle right into Kit's bones. "Claws out, spitting at everything that moves, but still so small."
Kit’s heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The term kitten should have been an insult—it was an insult—but heard in that deep, Nigerian-accented rumble, it felt like a leash tightening around his neck.
"I am not... a kitten," Kit gasped, though his struggles were weakening. The sheer heat radiating from Oba’s body was making his head swim, and the lingering scent of his bath products was being utterly drowned out by Oba’s dominant, overwhelming musk.
Oba tightened the grip, his massive arms acting like iron bands around Kit’s waist. He didn't slam him down. He just held him there, letting Kit feel the absolute futility of his resistance.
"A kitten," Oba repeated, his voice dropping to a silkier, more dangerous depth. "Crying for his friend. Hissing at the big, bad Alpha. Tell me, kitten... if I let you go, are you going to run back to your room and hide under the covers? Or are you going to stay here and learn your place?"
Kit’s head fell back against Oba’s shoulder. He was exhausted, humiliated, and terrifyingly aroused. The "toxic" Alpha was currently the only thing keeping him upright.
"I'm not running," Kit whispered, his voice cracking.
Oba’s grip didn't loosen; it shifted. He lowered Kit until the omega’s toes brushed the canvas, but he didn't release him. Instead, he spun Kit around in the circle of his arms until they were chest-to-chest. The height difference was staggering. Kit had to look nearly straight up, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
"You want to train?" Oba asked, his eyes darkening like a storm front. "Then we train. No theatrics. No cameras. Just the reality of the weight."
The next twenty minutes were a blur of grueling, high-pressure grappling. Oba didn't use flashy strikes; he used leverage. He forced Kit into the corner, using his massive frame to smother Kit’s agility. Every time Kit tried to slip away Oba was there, a mountain that refused to be moved.
"Move, kitten!" Oba commanded, his voice booming in the empty gym. "Show me that 'pretty' footwork!"
Kit was gasping, sweat stinging his eyes, his silk-smooth skin now flushed and slick. He ducked a clothesline and tried to double-leg the giant, but it was like trying to tackle an oak tree. Oba looked down at him, reached down, and simply hauled Kit up by the front of his gym shirt, pinning him against the turnbuckle.
The "training" had turned into something much more visceral. The air in the ring was thick, charged with the scent of exertion and something deeply, undeniably territorial.
"You are tired," Oba observed, his chest heaving slightly—the first sign of effort he'd shown. He stepped into Kit’s space, his thighs boxing Kit’s in, his hands moving to rest on the turnbuckle pads on either side of Kit’s head. "Your legs are shaking. Your heart is screaming. And you still haven't landed a single blow."
Kit looked up at him, his lips parted. He should have been angry. He should have been planning his escape. But the sheer proximity—the way Oba’s heat was radiating into him—was melting his resolve.
Oba leaned in, his nose brushing against Kit’s sweat-damp temple. He took a deep, slow breath, inhaling the omega’s scent. "You're not hissing anymore, little one."
He trailed his hand down from the turnbuckle, his thumb grazing the line of Kit’s jaw. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a jarring contrast to the brutality of the match. "I told you I wanted to hear it. The sound you make when you finally stop fighting the inevitable."
Kit’s eyes fluttered shut. The humiliation of the 38-second loss, the loneliness of missing Elton, the exhaustion of the night—it all collapsed into this single point of contact. As Oba’s thumb pressed firmly against the sensitive skin beneath his ear, a low, rhythmic vibration started deep in Kit’s chest.
It was faint at first, nearly drowned out by the hum of the gym’s air conditioning. But as Oba stepped even closer, pressing his massive body against Kit's, the sound grew steady.
A rich, involuntary purr broke through Kit’s throat.
Oba’s low, triumphant chuckle vibrated against Kit’s forehead. "There it is," the Alpha whispered. "Good kitten."
The sound of his own purr was a physical betrayal, a rhythmic thrumming that vibrated in Kit’s throat and echoed in his ears. It was the sound of a total collapse, the white flag of his biology waving frantically in the face of Oba’s overwhelming dominance.
Kit’s knees finally gave out. He didn't hit the mat, though; Oba’s arms were there instantly, scooping him up and holding him against that broad, solid chest. Instead of pulling away, Kit’s hands—previously balled into fists—unfisted and clung to the damp fabric of Oba’s shirt. His face tucked into the crook of Oba’s neck, his nose brushing against the Alpha's pulse point.
The scent there was intoxicating. It was salt, power, and a deep, grounding heat that seemed to quiet the frantic buzzing in Kit’s brain.
"Look at you," Oba murmured, his voice a low vibration that Kit felt more than heard. One of Oba's large hands moved to the back of Kit’s head, his fingers tangling in the long, dark hair Kit had so carefully washed only an hour before. "Where is all that spite, kitten? Where is the omega who called me toxic?"
Kit let out a broken, shaky breath that was half-sob and half-purr. "Still... toxic," he managed to whisper, though the words had no teeth. He was shivering, his body finally reacting to the adrenaline dump and the sheer intensity of being held this way.
Oba pulled back just enough to look down at him. The Alpha’s expression wasn't one of mockery anymore; it was something far more possessive. He saw the way Kit’s pupils were blown wide, the way his lips were swollen and parted.
"Toxic, perhaps," Oba conceded, his thumb tracing the curve of Kit’s bottom lip. "Or perhaps I am simply the only one strong enough to make you honest. You spend so much time acting, Kit. Dressing up, playing the brat, hiding behind your friend. But here? In the dark? You are just mine."
The mention of Elton sent a flicker of guilt through Kit, but it was quickly snuffed out by the heavy pressure of Oba’s hand sliding down to the nape of his neck. The Alpha squeezed, a firm, grounding grip that made Kit’s arch his back and let out a higher, more desperate sound.
"You don't need to ring him tonight," Oba commanded, sensing the flicker of doubt.
"He cannot give you what you need right now," Oba rumbled, his voice dropping an octave as he felt the slight tremor in Kit’s frame. "He cannot hold you down until you are quiet."
Before Kit could even draw breath to protest, Oba moved. With the terrifying explosiveness that had ended their match in under a minute, Oba drove forward. Kit’s heels skidded back on the canvas before his shoulders hit the mat with a dull thud.
Oba didn't just pin him; he blanketed him. He planted his knees on either side of Kit’s hips and pinned the omega's wrists over his head with a single hand, his grip like a pair of industrial shackles. The sheer, unyielding weight of the Alpha was a physical force, pressing the air out of Kit's lungs and replacing it with the heavy, musky scent of Oba's skin.
"Look at me," Oba commanded, leaning down until their noses were inches apart.
Kit looked. He couldn't help it. He was trapped, utterly neutralized by a man who treated his maximum effort like a mild inconvenience. And then, it happened.
Deep in his core, a sharp, liquid heat ignited. It was a visceral, traitorous reaction to the total loss of control. Kit’s breath hitched, his chest heaving against Oba’s solid pectorals. He felt his own body betraying his dignity as a heavy, unmistakable arousal pooled in his gut, making his thighs twitch beneath Oba’s weight.
Kit’s eyes went wide, a flash of genuine panic—and something much darker—flickering in his gaze. He tried to shift, to hide the evidence of his reaction, but the movement only served to rub his hips more firmly against the Alpha’s solid frame.
Oba’s eyes tracked the change instantly. A slow, predatory smirk curled his lips. He shifted his weight, pressing down harder, purposefully grounding himself into Kit’s sudden softness.
"Oh," Oba purred, his voice a low vibration that seemed to strike Kit right in his center. "So it isn't just your throat that's being honest now, is it, kitten?"
Kit let out a choked sound, his head thrashing to the side as he tried to hide his flaming face against his own bicep. "Shut up," he gasped, his voice breaking. "It’s just... you’re heavy... I can't breathe..."
"You're breathing just fine," Oba countered, his free hand traveling slowly down Kit’s side, feeling the frantic rhythm of the omega’s heart through his ribs. "You are just realising that you like being handled. You like that I didn't give you a choice."
The vibration in Kit’s chest returned, louder and more desperate than before. The purr was no longer just a sound; it was a rhythmic plea for more of the very thing he had spent weeks calling "toxic."
The air in the gym felt like it was thickening into honey, sweet and suffocating. Kit’s skin was on fire, the cold sweat of his workout now acting as a slick conductor for the heat radiating from Oba’s palms.
As Oba’s free hand began to wander, sliding from Kit’s ribs down to the sensitive dip of his waist, Kit’s back arched off the mat. Every touch was an intrusion he had claimed to hate, yet his nerves were singing a different tune. His body felt heavy, molten, and achingly sensitive.
"You are so soft," Oba murmured, his hand finally slipping under the hem of Kit’s gym shirt. The friction of Oba’s calloused palm against his stomach made Kit’s toes curl. "All that talk about me being toxic, yet here you are... melting under me."
Kit let out a whimper that he couldn't quite disguise as a hiss. "I... I'm not—"
"You are," Oba interrupted, his fingers tracing the line of Kit’s hip bone, dipping dangerously low toward the waistband of his shorts. "You're flushed, you're shaking, and you're slick with more than just sweat, aren't you?"
The Alpha leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of Kit’s neck. The vibration of his voice against Kit's skin sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to the omega's groin. Kit’s head fell back, his throat bared, his pulse thrumming like a trapped bird against Oba’s lips. The weight of Oba’s massive body pressing into him was the only thing keeping him from floating away into a haze of pure sensation.
As Oba’s hand moved lower, his touch becoming firmer and more possessive, the purr in Kit’s chest reached a fever pitch. He was no longer thinking about Elton, the locker room, or the 38-second loss. He was only aware of the massive Alpha pinning him to the earth and the overwhelming, primal need to be claimed.
"Please," Kit gasped, the word slipping out before he could catch it. He didn't even know what he was asking for—only that the fire Oba had started was threatening to consume him.
Oba paused, his hand resting heavily over the evidence of Kit’s desire. He looked down at the omega, his eyes dark with a terrifyingly calm hunger. "Please what, kitten? You want me to stop? Or do you want me to show you exactly how 'toxic' I can be?"
Kit’s hips rolled instinctively against the mat, a silent, desperate urge for the friction to stop being a tease and start being a solution. He felt the weight of Oba’s hand—huge, heavy, and searingly hot—resting just at the border of his waistband, but the Alpha didn't move an inch further.
The silence of the gym was broken only by Kit’s ragged, uneven panting and that traitorous, vibrating purr that wouldn't stop.
"Your body is asking for something your pride won't admit," Oba said, his voice a low, cruel caress. He didn't move his hand. Instead, he simply watched the way Kit’s eyes rolled back, the way the omega’s chest heaved, begging for the contact. "I can feel you pulse under my palm, kitten. You are practically screaming for me."
Kit let out a broken whine, his fingers twitching where they were still pinned above his head. He wanted those thick, calloused fingers to dive deep, to find the slick, aching heat that was pooling between his thighs. He wanted the blunt pressure of Oba’s touch to find his clit and grind the shame right out of him.
"Please," Kit choked out again, his voice thick with a need so sharp it hurt. "Oba... please."
"Please what?" Oba challenged. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Kit’s ear, his scent flooding the omega's senses until Kit was dizzy with it. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what a 'toxic' Alpha like me should do to a pretty little thing like you."
Kit’s face was buried in the mat, his long hair a tangled mess around his head. The humiliation was total, but the horniness was greater. He couldn't fight it anymore. The emptiness inside him was a physical void that only Oba’s massive presence could fill.
"I want... I want you to touch me," Kit whispered, a tear of pure frustration pricking at the corner of his eye. "Under... under the waistband. Please. I'm so... I'm so wet for you."
Oba let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through Kit's entire body. "Good boy. Now tell me how you want it."
Kit’s breath hitched. "Inside. Your fingers... I want them inside."
Oba finally moved. He didn't rush. He hooked two fingers under the elastic of Kit’s gym shorts, slowly dragging the fabric down just enough. Kit gasped as the cool air of the gym hit his heated skin, followed immediately by the overwhelming heat of Oba’s hand.
When those thick, blunt fingers finally made contact—brushing firmly against his swollen clit before sliding into the damp, dragging warmth of his folds—Kit’s entire body convulsed. He let out a loud, high-pitched cry that echoed off the gym walls, his back arching so hard it should have hurt.
"You are soaking," Oba remarked with a dark, possessive pride, his fingers beginning a slow, punishing rhythm that made Kit’s world narrow down to a single, blinding point of pleasure. "Look at what the 'brute' did to you."
The gym was silent except for the rhythmic, wet sounds of Oba’s work and the broken, melodic cries Kit couldn't suppress. Oba was methodical, a master of pacing who treated Kit’s body like a piece of heavy machinery he was learning to calibrate.
His thumb was a constant, heavy pressure on Kit’s clit, circling with a slow, agonizing deliberation that made Kit’s vision spark with white light. Meanwhile, those thick fingers pushed deeper, inch by painstaking inch, stretching Kit’s dampening warmth and forcing him to accommodate every bit of the Alpha's girth.
"Look at you," Oba rumbled, his voice thick with a dark, primal satisfaction. "Working so hard for me."
Kit was a mess. His expensive gym shorts had snagged down his legs, now nothing more than a tangled shackle around his ankles as he kicked out in a desperate attempt to get closer to the source of the heat. His long hair was splayed across the canvas like a dark halo, soaked with sweat and the sheer exertion of his desire.
"Oba... please," Kit whimpered, his hips rolling in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm that tried to match the slow pace of Oba’s fingers. "More... I need... faster..."
"You’ll take it at my pace, kitten," Oba countered, his voice dropping to a growl. To emphasize the point, he stalled his fingers entirely, keeping them buried deep inside Kit while his thumb maintained that relentless, heavy grind on the surface.
The sudden stillness inside him made Kit nearly sob. He hiked his legs higher, wrapping his calves around Oba’s massive waist to try and force the movement back into his own body. He was begging now, his pride long since dissolved into the slick heat between his legs.
Kit’s world narrowed down to the agonizing stillness of Oba’s hand. Being filled but not finished was a refined kind of torture. He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving as he tried to grind himself against those stationary, thick fingers.
"Please," Kit sobbed, his voice cracking, the polished superstar persona fully shattered. "Don't stop. Oba, I'll do anything. Please just... move."
"You haven't earned 'more' yet," Oba murmured, but he finally released Kit’s wrists.
The blood rushed back into Kit’s hands, tingling and numb, but he didn't use them to fight. Instead, he reached down, his fingers trembling as he tried to grab Oba’s forearm to pull him back in. But Oba was already moving. He withdrew his fingers entirely, the sudden absence of that stretching warmth leaving Kit feeling cold and hollow.
"No, no, please—" Kit started to protest, but the words died in a gasp.
Oba moved between Kit’s legs, his massive hands catching Kit’s knees. With a strength that brooked zero resistance, he forced Kit’s legs apart, pinning his knees wide against the mat until the omega was completely, vulnerably exposed under the harsh gym lights.
"Stay open," Oba commanded, his voice a low, heavy weight.
Kit’s breath came in frantic hitches. He felt the cool air hit his slick, swollen heat, and the shame of being so wide and wanting hit him for a split second—until Oba leaned in.
The first touch of Oba's tongue was like a lightning strike. It wasn't a gentle lap; it was a firm, possessive swipe that gathered up all of Kit’s dampness. Then, Oba settled his mouth over Kit’s clit, his lips creating a seal that made Kit’s hips jerk violently off the canvas.
When Oba began to suck—drawing that sensitive, thrumming bud into the heat of his mouth with a powerful, rhythmic suction—Kit’s scream was muffled by the back of his own hand.
"Oh god!" Kit wailed, his fingers digging into the mat, his knuckles white.
The sensation was overwhelming. The texture of Oba’s tongue was rough, his suction relentless. Every time the Alpha swirled his tongue or flicked it against the peak of Kit’s desire, the omega’s purr turned into a series of high, broken chirps. He was melting into the mat, his heels digging into Oba’s broad shoulders as he tried to ground himself against the sheer intensity of the pleasure.
Oba didn't let up. He used his hands to keep Kit’s thighs spread wide, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of Kit’s inner legs, branding him while he worked. He wanted Kit to feel every ounce of the "toxic" dominance he’d complained about—to feel how it was the only thing capable of bringing him to his knees.
"Oba... I'm going to... I’m going to—!" Kit’s voice rose to a frantic pitch, his body beginning to tremble with the first tremors of a massive, core-shaking peak.
The suction stopped. The heat vanished.
Kit was mid-convulsion, his back arched so high only his heels and the back of his head were touching the mat. He was seconds—fractions of a second—away from a shattering release when Oba suddenly reared back, his massive hands still pinning Kit’s knees wide, but his mouth gone.
The sudden drop in sensation was like being thrown into a frozen lake. Kit’s body jerked, his nervous system screaming for the contact to return. He let out a sound that wasn't a purr or a hiss; it was a raw, primal wail of pure agony.
"No! No, no, no!" Kit shrieked, his fingers clawing at the canvas. He looked down, his eyes bloodshot and blown wide with desperate, unrefined lust. "Oba, put it back! Please, put it back!"
Oba sat back on his heels, his chest heaving, looking down at the wreckage of the "pretty boy" superstar. He looked terrifyingly calm compared to the frantic, sobbing mess beneath him. "I told you, kitten. You take it at my pace. And right now, I think you’ve forgotten who is in control of this ring."
"I don't care!" Kit cried, his hips bucking fruitlessly against the empty air. He was so close to the edge that he was physically shaking, his muscles twitching with the redirected energy of a stalled climax. "I'll say it! I'll say anything! Just... please, I'm dying, Oba, please!"
He reached out, his hands trembling as he tried to grab at Oba’s shirt, his dignity not just gone, but incinerated. He was begging a man he had wanted to publicly humiliate to finish the job, his inner omega howling for the Alpha's touch.
"Say what?" Oba asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He leaned forward again, his shadow looming over Kit's trembling, exposed body, but he stayed just out of reach. "Tell me whose ring this is. Tell me who owns that pathetic little sound you’re making."
Kit’s head thrashed from side to side, a sob catching in his throat. The "toxic" Alpha was right there, holding the key to his sanity, and Kit was more than willing to crawl for it.
"Yours," Kit choked out, his voice cracking. "It’s your ring. I’m... I’m yours. Please, Oba... please finish me. I’m your kitten. Just... please."
Oba didn’t move. He watched with a heavy-lidded, predatory stare as Kit’s body continued to twitch in the aftershocks of a climax that hadn't been allowed to break.
"You're mine?" Oba repeated, his voice like a slow-moving tectonic plate. "A moment ago, you were a 'Superstar.' You were the man who was going to teach the big, toxic brute a lesson. Now, you’re just a shivering heap on my mat."
Kit’s hand reached out, his fingers brushing Oba’s thigh, but the Alpha caught his wrist and pinned it back down with effortless strength. Oba reached down with his free hand, but he didn't go back to Kit's aching center. Instead, he gripped Kit’s chin, forcing him to look directly into those dark, unwavering eyes.
"You want it so badly," Oba mused, his thumb tracing the curve of Kit’s trembling bottom lip. "I can feel the heat coming off you in waves. You’re practically vibrating out of your skin."
"Oba... please," Kit whimpered, his hips giving a weak, pathetic little hitch. "I can't... I’m going to lose my mind. It hurts."
"Does it?" Oba leaned in, his nose brushing against Kit’s, his scent flooding the omega's system until Kit was cross-eyed with need. "Then let it hurt. Let it burn. I want you to remember this feeling the next time you think about hissing at me."
He trailed his hand down Kit’s throat, over his frantic heart, and stopped just above his bare waist. He began to circle the skin of Kit’s lower belly—slow, agonizingly light touches that barely skimmed the surface. It was a tease of the highest order; every time Kit’s hips surged upward to meet the touch, Oba would pull back, just an inch, keeping the contact teasingly out of reach.
"You’re begging like a good little thing," Oba whispered, his teeth grazing Kit’s earlobe. "But I think you can be louder. I think you can show me just how much of a mess you are without me."
He slid his hand down again, but instead of using his fingers, he used his palm. He pressed it flat against Kit’s mound and began to grind in a slow, heavy circle. It wasn't the sharp, focused contact Kit needed to finish; it was a broad, dull pressure that only served to stoke the fire higher.
Kit let out a broken, high-pitched keen, his legs trembling so hard they were starting to cramp. "More... please, Oba... use your fingers... use your mouth... I'll do anything... just let me..."
"Beg for it again," Oba commanded, his palm never stopping that torturous, heavy grind. "Tell me exactly what you are, Kit."
The gym echoed with Kit’s final, shredded cry of surrender. "I’m yours! I’m just a toy! I’m nothing, just... please, Oba, I’m your omega, I’m your kitten! Please!"
Oba’s expression shifted from predatory amusement to a dark, heavy hunger. He liked the sound of a broken omega. He liked the way Kit’s voice cracked.
"Good," Oba rumbled, the sound vibrating through the mat. "But you’re still empty, kitten. And we both know there’s only one thing that’s going to stop that shaking. One thing that will fill that 'toxic' void you keep crying about."
Kit’s eyes were glazed, his breath coming in short, sobbing gasps. He knew what was coming. He could feel the shift in the Alpha’s energy—it had gone from teasing to terminal. "The knot," Kit whispered, his pride long since buried under the mats. "Please... I want the knot. Fill me... stretch me... I need to feel you inside me."
Oba didn't say a word. He stood up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his black gym shorts and shoved them down.
When his cock sprang free, Kit’s breath hitched so hard he nearly choked. It was a monster—heavy, dark, and thick with a girth that defied logic. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split him in two. The sheer scale of it was terrifying, a physical manifestation of the power that had crushed him in thirty-eight seconds.
"You said you wanted it," Oba reminded him, his voice dropping to a guttural growl.
Before Kit could even process the size of what was coming, Oba’s massive hands were back on him. He didn't just spread Kit’s legs; he manhandled them. He caught Kit’s knees and shoved them upward and outward, pinning them on either side of Kit’s head.
The position was absolute. Kit was folded nearly in half, his spine curved, his most intimate parts thrust upward and shivering in the cool gym air. His hole was twitching, a small, dark star of wanting, and his clit was a hard, ruby bead of pure desperation.
Oba moved back over him, the tip of that massive head glancing against Kit’s entrance. The heat was staggering. Kit felt the blunt pressure and let out a whimper of pure, unadulterated fear and longing.
"You're so small," Oba mused, his eyes tracking the way Kit’s entrance stretched just from the mere suggestion of him. "I'm going to fill you until there’s no room left for your pride. I’m going to stretch you until you can’t remember anyone’s name but mine."
Kit’s hands clawed at the mat behind his head, his eyes pinned on Oba’s face. "Do it," Kit begged, his voice a frantic, melodic wreck. "Break me. Just... Oba... I need you inside me."
Oba’s eyes were like molten iron as he looked down at the wreckage of the omega beneath him. He didn’t give Kit what he wanted immediately. Instead, he took the broad, blunt head of his cock and began to drag it slowly along Kit’s most sensitive parts, from the base of his opening up to the hard, throbbing bead of his clit.
The friction of that massive, velvet-wrapped heat against his most sensitive nerve endings made Kit’s vision go white. He let out a high, melodic sob, his hips bucking upward in a frantic attempt to impale himself.
"Stay still," Oba growled, a warning rumble that vibrated through Kit’s pinned thighs.
Oba continued the torture, circling the entrance, the sheer girth of him stretching the skin before he had even entered. He let the tip dip just slightly inside—enough to feel the internal heat and the desperate, rhythmic pulsing of Kit’s walls—before pulling back out.
"Oba... please... I can't... it's too much," Kit wailed, his head thrashing between his own knees. "Just put it in! Split me open!"
"You think you're ready?" Oba asked, his voice a dark, possessive silk. "You think you can handle being claimed by a brute?"
Without waiting for an answer, Oba shifted his weight. He gripped Kit’s hips, his fingers digging into the pale skin like talons, and pushed.
It wasn't a fast strike; it was a slow, relentless invasion. Kit’s breath died in his throat as he felt the sheer, impossible width of Oba beginning to part him. It felt like being unmade. His internal muscles screamed at the intrusion, stretching and yielding to a size they were never meant to hold.
"Oh... oh god," Kit gasped, his eyes blown so wide they showed the whites all around. His voice was a thin, reedy whistle of air. Every inch was a new level of fullness, a heavy, stretching ache that reached deep into his gut.
Oba didn't stop. He kept the pressure steady, his muscles rippling as he forced Kit’s body to accept him. When he finally seated himself fully, bottoming out against Kit’s core, the air in the gym seemed to vibrate.
Kit was pinned, folded, and utterly filled. He looked up at Oba, his face slick with sweat and tears, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream of ecstasy and overstimulation. He was stretched so tight he felt translucent.
"Look at you," Oba whispered, leaning down to capture Kit’s trembling lips in a kiss that tasted like salt and surrender. "Filled to the brink. And I haven't even started to knot you yet."
The mention of the knot sent a fresh wave of liquid heat through Kit’s veins. He felt the first twitch of Oba’s length inside him, the promise of the expansion that would seal him to this mat forever.
Oba began to move, his massive hips driving forward with the same terrifying power he used in the ring. Each thrust was a heavy, wet thud that sent a shockwave through Kit’s entire body.
Kit was completely undone. His head was thrown back, his throat working as he let out a continuous, melodic stream of broken sounds. Drool escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening in the dim gym light, but he was too far gone to care about his image. The "Omega Kit Wilson" who cared about hair products and camera angles was dead; there was only this—the sensation of a monster-sized cock burying itself deep within his guts, hitting his cervix with a blunt, rhythmic force that made his brain spark.
"Oba! Oba, yes! right there!" Kit wailed, his voice hoarse. His fingers were uselessly clawing at the Alpha's thick forearms. "Harder! I... I can't... please, fill me!"
Oba didn't miss a beat. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more violent, until the only sound in the gym was the slapping of skin and Kit’s frantic, high-pitched keening. The Alpha’s scent was a suffocating, glorious wall of musk that fueled Kit’s desperation.
"You want it?" Oba growled, his voice a guttural rasp. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto Kit’s chest, his eyes locked onto the omega's shattered expression. "You want to be locked down?"
"The knot!" Kit screamed, his hips bucking wildly, trying to draw every bit of Oba deeper. "Knot me! I want it! I need to be stuck to you! Please, Oba... knot your kitten!"
The request seemed to trigger something primal in the Alpha. Oba’s movements became shorter, sharper, more frantic. He reached down, grabbing Kit’s chin and forcing him to watch as he delivered a final, devastating series of thrusts.
Then, it happened.
Inside Kit’s tight, overstretched heat, the base of Oba’s cock began to swell. Kit felt the terrifying expansion—the hard, rounded ridge of the knot beginning to grow, stretching his walls beyond anything he’d ever imagined. It was an agonizing, exquisite pressure that filled every corner of his being.
"Oh... oh fuck!" Kit’s eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. His body went rigid, his toes curling as the knot locked into place, sealing them together.
The physical sensation of being permanently plugged by the Alpha's expansion triggered a climax so violent Kit’s entire body went into a prolonged convulsion. He didn't just come; he came in waves that felt like they were tearing the soul out of him, his internal muscles clamping down on the knot in a frantic, rhythmic pulse.
Oba let out a roar, a sound of pure, dominant triumph, as he followed Kit over the edge, pouring his own heat deep into the omega's core.
In one smooth, terrifying display of strength, Oba didn’t even unknot. He kept Kit’s body fused to his as he rolled them over, flipping the world upside down until Kit was the one on top, straddling Oba’s massive thighs.
The shift in gravity caused the knot to wedge even deeper into Kit’s sensitive core. Kit let out a high, garbled sound—a mix of a scream and a sob—as his weight settled fully onto the massive, pulsing expansion. He was impaled, his legs splayed wide and useless, his hands clutching Oba’s boulder-like shoulders for some kind of anchor in the storm of sensation.
"Mhm," Oba rumbled, his voice vibrating through Kit’s chest. "High above me, and yet never more beneath me."
Oba gripped Kit’s waist, his fingers sinking into the omega’s soft skin, and began to lightly bounce him. It was a rhythmic, punishing vibration. Each time Kit’s weight dropped, the knot ground against his internal walls, hitting his most sensitive spots with a blunt, inescapable force.
Kit was a complete wreck. His head lolled back, his long hair swinging like a silken curtain. His mouth was wide open, a steady stream of dazed, rhythmic whimpers falling from his lips. Every bounce sent a fresh jolt of electricity through his spine, keeping him in a state of rolling, continuous overstimulation. He couldn't think about his defeat; he couldn't think about Elton; he couldn't even remember his own name.
"O-Oba... Oba, please... it's so much..." Kit choked out, his eyes fluttering as he felt the knot pulse inside him, matching the thrum of his own heart.
"It's exactly enough," Oba countered, his hands guiding Kit’s hips in a slow, grinding circle that made the omega’s vision spark with white light again and again. "You wanted to know what I was. Now you’re wearing the answer."
The rhythmic impact was hypnotic. Every time Oba’s hands guided Kit’s hips downward, the massive, pulsing knot drove upward, blunt and unyielding, right against the sensitive curve of Kit’s cervix.
The sensation was so deep, so invasive, that Kit’s brain seemed to short-circuit. Each "thud" of internal contact sent a paralyzing wave of pleasure through his abdomen, turning his bones to water. He wasn't just accepting the stretch anymore; he was chasing it, his own weight helping Oba drive the knot home.
"That's it," Oba rumbled, his large hands anchoring Kit’s trembling waist. "Take it all, kitten. Feel how deep I am."
Kit let out a long, shuddering keen, his fingers digging so hard into Oba’s trap muscles that his nails left crescent marks. The "toxic" power he’d once feared was now the only thing he wanted to feel. He began to lean forward, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against Oba’s, his face burying into the Alpha’s neck as the bouncing continued.
"I... I can't... oh god, it's hitting it... Oba, please... don't stop," Kit sobbed into the Alpha’s skin.
He was completely addicted to the heavy, stretching pressure. Every bounce made his internal muscles spasm around the knot in a frantic attempt to hold on even tighter. He felt like he was being branded from the inside out, the blunt force of Oba’s expansion making him feel more claimed than any match or promo ever could.
Oba’s pace didn't slow. If anything, he began to tilt Kit back slightly, changing the angle so the knot ground even more firmly against that deep, internal ache. Kit’s eyes rolled back, his mouth hanging open in a silent, blissful daze as the world became nothing but the rhythmic hit-hit-hit of Oba’s knot against his core.
Kit was left a soft, purring thing being calibrated by a master, completely lost in the heavy, crushing ecstasy of being truly handled.
The gym air felt suddenly cold as the physical seal between them finally broke. As the knot subsided, Oba gripped Kit’s hips and pulled out with a slow, wet sound that echoed in the silence.
Kit collapsed forward, his body a trembling wreck. His hole remained frozen in an open, wide circle, the overstretched muscles twitching uselessly as they tried to find their shape again. The sudden absence of that massive girth was almost as jarring as the intrusion had been. With a heavy, rhythmic pulse, the "toxic" Alpha’s hot, thick semen began to gush out of Kit, coating his inner thighs and pooling in the ring
Kit let out a dazed, broken whimper, his head lolling as he tried to find his bearings. But Oba wasn't done with his reclamation.
"Stay down," Oba commanded. He stood over the omega, looking down at the beautiful, ruined mess he had made. With a sharp, dominant motion, Oba gripped his still hard cock and delivered the rest of his heavy load.
Kit’s eyes fluttered open just in time to see it—hot, white arcs of the Alpha’s seed squirting across his flushed cheeks, his chin, and the bridge of his nose.
Kit flinched as the heat hit his skin, but he didn't pull away. He couldn't. He just lay there, painted in the evidence of Oba’s victory, his long hair matted with sweat and cum against the canvas.
Oba looked down at him, his chest still heaving, a look of ultimate, dark satisfaction on his face. He reached down and wiped a stray drop of semen from Kit’s lip with his thumb, then smeared it across the omega’s forehead like a mark of ownership.
"Thirty-eight seconds in the ring," Oba whispered, his voice echoing in the empty gym. "And an hour on the mat to make sure you never forget who the Alpha is."
Kit could only let out a faint, rhythmic purr, his spirit entirely broken and his body thoroughly claimed.
Oba stood over the wreckage, adjusting his gear with a terrifying, calm efficiency. He looked down at the shivering, painted mess of the man who had once called him a "toxic brute."
"Good little kitten," Oba murmured, his voice lacking even a hint of the exhaustion Kit felt. "Sleep well. I expect you to be just as obedient the next time we meet."
Without another word, the Alpha turned and walked out of the gym, his heavy footsteps fading until the only sound left was the hum of the air conditioning and the wet, rhythmic sound of Kit’s shallow breathing.
Kit lay there, paralyzed. His legs felt like leaden weights, his hips were locked in a permanent, aching arch, and his core felt—for the first time in his life—completely, devastatingly empty. He couldn't even bring himself to wipe the cooling semen from his cheek. He was just a shell of a man, vibrating with the ghost of a knot that was no longer there.
Then, the silence was pierced by a sharp, jaunty whistle.
Kit’s heart froze. He tried to scramble, to pull his shorts up, but his muscles simply refused to fire. He could only turn his head, his eyes widening in horror as a pair of expensive sneakers stepped into the halo of the gym lights.
Matt Cardona stood there, leaning against a weight rack. He wasn't even pretending to be subtle; his phone was held out, the lens glowing as it tracked every inch of Kit’s ruined state.
"Wow," Cardona smirked, his voice dripping with a mix of mockery and opportunistic glee. "And they say the indies are wild. This? This is content."
He stepped closer, the camera zooming in on Kit’s face—the blown-out pupils, the sweat-matted hair, and the unmistakable white streaks drying on his skin.
"Don't..." Kit croaked, his voice a shredded wreck. "Matt... please..."
"Oh, don't worry about me, Kit. I’m just a fan of the 'beautiful' game," Cardona chuckled, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked down at the video, then back at the trembling omega. "But I think Elton is really going to appreciate this. You know how he worries about you. I think I’ll send it to him now so he can see exactly how 'handled' his partner got while he was away."
Cardona gave a mocking little wave with his phone. "Stay 'Always Ready,' kitten. I think you're going to have a lot to explain in the morning."
He turned on his heel, the light of his screen fading into the hallway, leaving Kit alone in the dark with the crushing weight of a whole new kind of defeat…