Chapter 2: A Revelatory First Time

She sounds like she’s asking 329 for a pen.

It’s not the tone of voice one uses for an unreasonable request. Rather than uncertainty, it contains only some embarrassment at the imposition. Yasha’s inquiry is quite polite, the politeness of a gentlewoman. Lesser persons ought to have some self-awareness: people like her are so polite because they’re brought up right, rather than because their conversation partner warrants it.

329 is very self-aware. Even if he hadn’t been in the past, the past year has made him learn.

I don’t want to enter sexual relations with anybody, he wants to say. Get the hell out of my room and let me sleep a couple hours before my next shift —but it would be pointless. Exiles can, of course, go to the police, tell a Supervisor that they’ve been mugged, robbed, beaten, raped. This would serve no purpose other than wasting time. If the Supervisor was in a good mood, they’d send you off with some form response. If you encountered one who really hated the new Exile Laws (“you scum of society deserve to die outside!”), the outcomes get a lot worse.

“Please don’t worry. I’m fifteen years old. It’s perfectly legal to enter relations with me,” Yasha says considerately.

She adjusts her wristcom and flashes 329 her ID. Her date of birth really does show her to be exactly fifteen—today is the girl’s birthday. Most of the ID has been blurred out for privacy reasons, revealing only an age and a headshot. The girl in the photo smiles serenely at 329.

Why? He wants to ask. Who are you? Why are you here? Why should I say yes?

If he asks, maybe she’ll answer, talk more talk, waste more time. 329 is tired as hell.

He asks, “Right now?”

“If it’s no trouble.” Yasha beams.

Another polite stock phrase of the well-bred.

Even as she spoke, Yasha had stood, vacating the bed. 329 walks over, lies down on his back, takes off his pants, and gets out a condom from under his pillow. Funny thing—Exiles have to work for their living, but the omegas among them get free condoms from the government in the name of humanist consideration. In reality, it’s probably the same concept as handing out free condoms at a brothel—avoiding STD transmission, and nothing more.

The alpha takes the cheap product from him, but makes no move to use it. 329 is wondering if he should try to talk her into putting it on, when Yasha says, “Could you please remove the rest of your clothing? Alternatively, would you mind if I took them off for you?”

329 is wearing only a sleeveless shirt, exposing his shoulders and a patch of his chest, but it seems that the alpha still thinks he’s wearing too much. He takes off the shirt and stuffs it under his pillow, hoping that his uninvited guest won’t take as long with this as she had with all her talk.

His skin is exposed to the air, displayed under the dim lamplight. By omega standards, it’s not a body to get anyone going. No shortage of old injuries lie scattered everywhere, and no shortage of visible needle marks. Treated with primitive procedures, without the care of medical equipment, they’d become dispiriting scars, interwoven with newer injuries. Subdermal bleeding looks even brighter against his pallid skin. His elbows are scraped, his knees covered in purple and blue. He hopes the alpha’s not a fan of doggy style.

But if Yasha hasn’t ordered him to turn over and kneel, it’s only because she’s dragging this out as usual.

She looks at 329, head to toe, her gaze licking over every inch of skin. Her green eyes are luminous under the lamplight, like a wolf at night with meat in its sights. The young alpha blinks constantly. The scene before her is too stimulating; she needs to take breaks. That mouth of hers no longer chatters ceaselessly. It parts, just a little, then abruptly snaps shut—the respectable young lady hurriedly swallows, so as not to drool.

When she licks her lips, she looks especially like a purebred cat, the sort with a pedigree worth tens of thousands of credits and a diet more expensive than ninety percent of humans’. A high-grade pet, elegant and stately as it dines. It’s pretty funny. This alpha is clearly aflame with arousal already, pupils dilating, trousers tenting, and yet her features are sweet enough that she comes off as innocent even as she burns with lust, her face all wide-eyed unworldliness. She places a well-cared-for hand on 329’s battered chest, gently caressing his scars and nipples. Her hand is too soft, her movements too light; the itch of it raises goosebumps.

Her feather-light touches don’t last for long. After her brief scouting mission, Yasha climbs over him. Her lips and tongue descend upon 329’s neck, lapping repeatedly at his Adam’s apple, before gliding down. Her mouth is as artless as her hand, at times licking, at times nipping, gradually growing urgent and wanton. Whatever she thinks of, she does. She is very much enjoying him.

For some reason, he doesn’t mind.

Maybe it’s because Yasha looks like she’s enjoying it so much. She’s at once unbearably impatient and taking it easy, like someone humming a tune as they prepare dinner, the delight infectious. Maybe it’s because almost no one has looked 329 in the eyes in the past year as they spoke to him—if you don’t count verbal abuse and orders at his workplace, then no one at all. Yasha is enjoying him, enthusiastically, contentedly. It’s not humiliation, torment, or proving one’s power. It’s desire, that’s all, like a beast hunting when it’s hungry.

Of course, given the force of her biting, it’s also like a small creature teething on your finger.

Maybe that’s the other reason why 329 can’t get mad. Yasha is truly too young, not even half his age, or his size. Slender-armed and slender-legged, she only reaches 329’s chest when she stands upright; he could easily lift her up and spin her in circles. Rather than an alpha pinning him down, it’s more like she’s perched atop him, not heavy at all, like a little fawn. Even if this little fawn is preparing to fuck him, he feels no sense of impending violation.

Yasha has already unfastened her trousers. Her sex organ presses against 329’s lower abdomen, sliding back and forth, leaving a line of wet marks. When she pants, it’s long and heavy; she’s trying to control the volume by holding her breath, but the more she holds it the louder it gets. The body she’s dreamed of lies on display before her, quietly splayed open, like a scaled and gutted fish lying on a platter, waiting to be sampled. She can’t breathe.

She squeezes a finger into 329’s body. His entrance is moist; she can smoothly insert her middle finger to the hilt. This is the inside of his body. I’m touching his organs , she thinks, so eager she’s nearly shaking. She turns her finger in circles. The man in front of her doesn’t move, but his body cavity contracts a few times, sucking at her finger. Yasha’s scalp tingles. She pulls out her finger and bends down to kiss him. The omega obediently parts his lips. His mouth is as wet and hot and soft as he is below.

But he’s not erect.

Yasha’s right hand has been coaxing at 329’s cock this entire time. She applies gentle force; her palms are soft. There shouldn’t be anything wrong in theory. She watches his face with some apprehension. 329 is looking at her too, his grey irises like the morning fog on glass windows.

“Don’t mind it.” He pauses, then says dismissively, “Omegas are like that.”

Omegas are like that. They don’t easily become aroused except during heat; making a omega orgasm at any other time is harder than setting off a beta. It takes patient, skill, and perhaps even some feelings.

329 has taken a lot of injuries, on his hands and feet, on his torso, on his sensitive places. These experiences have made him very good at enduring pain, but they’ve also dulled his sense of touch. It takes a long time for his nipples to peak; even after several minutes of coaxing, his cock is only half-hard, as feeble as the water streams in the shower. He’s wet, purely as his body’s self-defensive measure, rather than through sexual arousal.

Most alphas wouldn’t care if he’s turned on. A small number, on the other hand, would care very much, not out of consideration for him, but for their own dignity. They consider their technique outstanding, their cocks girthy; by all rights, they should get an omega coming again and again. If the receiving side doesn’t appear sufficiently appreciative, it’s nothing short of an insult.

“Forget it, omegas don’t get hard easily,” says 329. “I’m soaking wet. Come on!”

He doesn’t want her to keep wasting time. If he has to, he’ll make some sound, although he’s unsure if he has the energy for acting. It’s unfortunate that he has a cock, or he’d have a much easier time faking orgasms.

Fortunately, the young alpha believes him.

She turns her attention away from 329’s cock, puts on the condom, and attempts to lift up 329’s thigh—it proves a challenge for her. She’s half-grown and clearly unaccustomed to physical labor; 329 thinks that if he tried propping his legs up on her shoulders for real, the weight would squash her flat. Yasha pouts vexedly, then fiddles with her wristcom once more.

The wristcom flashes, and a sheen of light wraps around Yasha’s hand. 329’s leg lifts easily, like something’s holding it up. He knows what this is: an XT-21, a military model. With this “glove”, a child can lift up a truck. It’s an expensive product, in theory not available for sale. The Consul’s crack teams wear it to suppress rebellions and exterminate mutants; the girl in front of him wears it to lift an omega’s thigh.

329 finds it risible. But the girl kisses him on the thigh, and begins to fuck him.

Yasha pants uncontrollably.

Soft flesh presses against her from every direction, surrounds her, delectably sweet. The pleasure is as intense as bullets going through her. The omega’s thigh sticks to her hand, the muscle drawing taut against her palm. She wants to bite it. Yasha kneels between this man’s legs, as if sitting in the seat of honor, his body laid out for her viewing.

The lines of his muscles are gorgeous, sturdier than the average omega’s, yet not as rough-hewn as an alpha’s. Those scars are just right, like a forest after the hurricane’s ravaging, like the ruins left behind after the fires of war sweep through. His hair is like frosted gold. His face is handsome, lovely, perfect . Yasha thinks the word perfect was made for him. If he changes, then the standard for perfect must change too. He lies on bedsheets faded with washing, his hair still beaded with water, dewy and delicious, like a heaven-sent banquet misplaced.

Thank you for your hospitality.

Yasha slams into him until he shakes. He grabs at the edge of the bed; the cot groans underneath them. She reaches a hand to touch where they’re joined together, smearing the fluid upward, until his lower abdomen glistens like a gladiator rubbed with oil. The girl stares ravenously at each wound, each fresh injury. It feels like pouring a bottle of carbonated drink over her heartstrings; whether it’s heartache or ecstasy, she can’t tell. So beautiful , she thinks.

“You’re so beautiful,” she says.

The older man blinks, noncommittal.

He only looks at Yasha, saying nothing. Even this is enough to make Yasha’s heart nearly leap out of her chest. She wants to tear at him savagely, bite until he bleeds, listen to him cry and cry out, and at the same time she can’t bear to leave a single toothprint. He’s looking at her. It makes her want to feel her hair—has her hair gotten mussed? Has she made any improper sounds, or silly expressions? If she has, she can’t help it. He lies underneath her in the flesh, better than any erotic dream, better than any simulation. Yasha is joined with him (through a layer of latex, a real pity,) touching his skin and his insides. The thought quickly brings her to climax.

They fuck twice that night.

The first time ends very quickly. Afterwards, the girl collapses panting atop 329, even apologizing for her unsatisfactory performance. “I’m short on practical experience,” she says, embarrassed. “It won’t be like this next time!” The next time, she knots inside 329. She’d carefully chosen a side position, so that they won’t get too tired even if they spend half an hour like this.

All in all, not bad.

The girl is enthusiastic enough that 329 doesn’t need to contribute with any sounds. The two rounds of intercourse can’t be called comfortable, but they’re not painful either—perfectly ordinary, thank heaven and earth. Yasha spends the entire time fully clothed; only after she’s started knotting him, the second time, does she appear to remember something, stripping fully bare in an instant. The small, naked alpha holds 329 tight, rubbing herself against him, sighing with satisfaction, as if jumping into bed after a long, tiring day and giving her blankie a hug.

Her fuzzy head butts against 329’s back, her skin as smooth as silk. Her small breasts press against him, soft like her lips. Yasha kisses his back intermittently, and says, “Today’s my birthday, you know!”

What, am I supposed to give you a gift? 329 thinks.

“I’ve never had a better birthday,” Yasha sighs.

A stranger illegally entered my home and fucked me to celebrate her birthday , 329 thinks. But as before, he’s not angry—he just finds it funny. Maybe it’s because there’s too many things to be angry about; he’d wear himself out if he tried to chase down every single one. A polite rapist isn’t much, in the grand scheme of things. And maybe it’s Yasha herself. Who knew there’s such a thing as a natural-born princess, youthful and sweet, naive and innocent, pursuing everything as if it were hers by right.

329’s eyes are falling shut.

He’s sleepy as hell. He doesn’t plan to shower again. This is good enough. The alpha is still inside him, yet her touches and kisses seem soft and innocent, as if she were grooming a pet.

“I want to give you a present!” says Yasha. “What would you like?”

What’s this, emotional damages or a prostitute’s fee? Once again, 329 feels a sense of absurdity. He’s been called “whore” countless times, but he’s not actually a prostitute. See, if someone wants to fuck him, they don’t pay. He’s free. Exiles must pay exorbitant fines to shorten their sentence. Every month, the money transfers automatically from his account, and his account receives rigorous inspection: every sum must be legal. Commercial prostitution is an illegal trade.

So he says, “Eight hours of sleep.”

By the time the girl’s assent drifts out from behind his back, 329 isn’t registering it clearly.

The next day, when 329 wakes up in his room, his wristcom tells him that’s it’s ten in the morning. His 5:30 alarm didn’t go off. He forcefully closes his eyes, lies for a little while on his bed, then gets up and gets ready.

He’s four hours late. His boss is going to fire him for sure, and most likely refuse to pay him this month’s salary. He needs to go in anyway, since they still have his deposit. 329 washes up and walks to work, five blocks away. It’s surprisingly deserted there. All the shops on that entire street are closed, handwritten notices taped to the doors.

“I heard the filters broke down,” the passersby are complaining. “No water or power. No idea how long they’ll have to stop work.”

The water and power outage only lasts for a day. The next day, when 329 goes to work, his boss doesn’t seem to realize he was ever late yesterday.