The jacarandas are in bloom and Conny McCann, shirt tucked in, pens in the plastic-protected pocket of the rust-coloured blazer he has not yet surrendered for a blue chequered pinny, rocketship wristwatch ticking past Pluto, pretty-pink omega cunt virgin-tight and dry inside his grey schoolboy shorts and green beta-boy briefs, waits on the curb outside Acklesburgh Elementary for his brother's car.

His light straight hair, still beta-short (for now; Mother has told him there'll be no more haircuts after he graduates) sweeps left over his forehead in a glossy wing. Twice a second or so he reaches up to push it back off his eyebrows.

This movement, like almost any motion he makes, starts a jiggle in the large tracts of plowable ass he carries under his backpack. The sheer size of that asset is kind of unbalanced on his thin, bird-breasted frame, would be almost comical. If it weren't so hot. He can't see it, but every step this ten-year-old takes is a slutwalk.

As for his mouth, there are no two views about it. It's a hooker's mouth, a whore's mouth, a mouth that ought to be glued to a glory hole, and by some sick joke of genetics it has ended up on a gradeschool boy, between a narrow nose and knobby chin. Puppy-plush and red as wine, it invites cock as a rose invites bees in spring, solicits them with its scent, beckons their pricking stings deep into its furled secret heart.

If he had a freckle for every boy who's jerked off to that mouth under the desk, imagining himself or his pornstar of preference skullfucking that rose, he'd have about as many as he has now. If he had an eye for every teacher who's done the same he'd have as many as he had until last year, when he decided that the weirdness of having plastic shells on his eyeballs beat the jibes that were tired by first grade. The contacts are clear, letting the witchy blue moonlight of his orbs shine through.

He still keeps his glasses stowed in his backpack, just in case. He's sensible like that. It's saved him from many a scrape in the past. It won't save him from the rape that's in his future. His very near future.

The rocketship continues on the endless voyage round its circular cosmos. More and more children walk past in pairs or threes, or cruise past in their parent's cars. None of them call or wave to him, but many look.

They're too young to know why and so is he, but they look because he's beautiful. Every piece of him, from the taut plain of his belly, to the smooth milkfat of his thighs, to the china bone spindles of his fingers, is finely-made and fragile, infinitely breakable and begging to be broken, though none of this appears to the tender eye of a child, least of all to Conny's when he interrogates his budding form in the bathroom mirror.

Their parents see the beauty, indeed, but soured by boredom and preteen complaisance, marred by a self-possession that seems entitlement in a boy this young and (literal) rank insubordination in an omega. Maybe some of them think he looks a tiny bit punchable (and one hundred percent rapable)–a little preppy, a little prissy. He doesn't look lonely, even though that's the one thing he is.

And beautiful. He is always that, even as a baby, even as a grown bitch, naked and marked and heaving with pups. In a less prosaic setting he would be a work of art; in a less profane time he would be a minor miracle. As it is he stands alone, unfucked and friendless, turning his face from the bloom-ripe wind so it doesn't wreck his hair, even as the rest of his body sluttishly welcomes it's warm fragrant caresses. Already a thin vein of slick is gleaming in the deep untapped baby-mine of his crack. He hasn't noticed, and when he does, he'll think it's sweat. By the time he realises, it'll be blood.

He wonders how long Cuan will be. He never arrives at the same time. Conny used to walk — their house isn't far, but it's not safe for him to walk alone anymore, Mother said. Ellis shook her head and whispered in her quaver-thin voice, 'Even at his age…'

Ellis is a beta. She's told Conny (so many times) how she grew up in an all-beta churchtown on the coast, how she'd never even seen a wolfblooded before she moved to Acklesburgh to be their family's maid. In b-towns nobody locks their doors and babies are conceived through mitosis and delivered by storks. She doesn't get it.

Conny is only starting to get it himself. He is on the cusp of adolescence, the age when rank gets real, when kids stop being mere boys and girls and dynamic comes into play, when knots start popping and pussies start bleeding (sometimes the former leads to the latter, despite the teachers' best–or worst–efforts), when the sheep are divided from the goats, the leaders from the breeders, the cocks from the cunts.

Mother and Papa chose to send him to a boy's school rather than an omega school, even though he was smaller and softer and prettier than other boys his age and showed every sign of staying that way. Hoping against hope that six generations of alphaborn weren't going to end in a smoothdick beta and a gaping omega cunt, a literal hole in the family tree Papa had tacked to the wall of his study.

Papa can't have any more children, not after the accident. So a second mate isn't an option, even if Mother was likely to let him.

It isn't fair, how everything changed after the test. They already have Cuan, don't they? Maybe he isn't an alpha but he wants to be, and acts like one (at least around omegas and other betas. He doesn't dare around the real alphas). It's why he wears that stupid Alpha Prime scent that makes Conny want to spew, why he stopped helping with chores or listening to Mother, why he spends almost every minute he isn't getting laid or getting into fights (or trying to) masturbating with one of those silly pump things that're supposed to help you express a knot–why he refuses to do it in the privacy of his own room, cause that's not how alphas roll, apparently (Conny is sure Cuan times his orgasms for when he's walking past, too). It's why he aggressively sniffs and wolf-whistles after omegas, including mated ones, since his dumb beta nose can't tell the difference. That helps with the fighting thing. By now he's probably told everyone at school, including the cleaners, how he even won one of them. What he doesn't tell them is that it was only because the alpha was, like, twelve, and even then it was close. It's why he drives the big stupid third-hand Lyko that he spent ten years of paper-run savings on and which is just now, finally, pulling up to the curb.

Conny throws his bag onto the back seat and climbs in after it. When he was little he always wanted to sit in the front, but now he prefers the space and privacy of the back. It's less awkward, too.

Cuan doesn't offer any kind of acknowledgement, but starts driving as soon as the door shuts. Conny surreptitiously scans his brother's expression in the rear-view mirror.

Looking at his brother is a little like looking at those apps that show you what you'll look like when you're older. Hair cropped a few inches shorter than Conny's, bleached a few shades whiter, riffled back in the casual heartthrob style that's popular among alpha males at the moment. Features broader, more defined, more masculine, dumber. Freckle-free. Conny used to believe those apps.

Perversely, Cuan has all his cunt brother's good looks but none of his accidental arrogance. With his small blue cough-lozenge eyes and permanent recurve bow smile, his face is pleasant but inscrutable. 'What a nice beta boy', parents say. The sort of young man you wouldn't mind leaving your daughter with. And as far as daughters go, they'd be right.

That false air of innocence makes the way he talks and acts all the more startling to those who don't know him well, which is most people, Conny feels. Sometimes he thinks he's the only one who really knows him.

At the moment, he seems sort of nervous. He looks like that a lot these days.

With his incipient omegine empathy, Conny has more than an inkling of how hard it has to be for him, the beta son of alpha sires. He wishes they could be friends like they used to, when books and board games weren't too nerdy for an aspiring alpha. Before he'd started getting boners around Conny on accident and blushing and pushing him away. Before he'd started getting boners around him on purpose and pulling him against him, rubbing and rutting and pinching between his legs until Conny said he'd scream for Ellis.

That was about a year ago. His brother hasn't touched him since, or tried to. Instead, he ignores him, which is almost worse. Cuan doesn't have a good reason to avoid him–he's on heat-blockers now, since they're legal till middle-school and Papa said it was safer. Not safe, but safer. When you're an omega, Conny is already coming to learn, nowhere is ever truly safe.

Yet on that day in spring, under the fanlight of jacaranda boughs, in the back of his brother's car, he felt as safe as he ever had.

Pretty prissy bitch, the one who swears to anyone who asks with rosy cheeks and flashing eyes that he's never going to get mated, never, never, waits till the school is out of sight to kick off his shoes and pull apart his tie. When they stop at Acklesburgh's only traffic light, Cuan lights up one of the pungent cigars he started smoking after he'd failed to present. Conny has to sigh three times at escalating volume before Cuan sighs as well and rolls the windows down.

The streets are quiet. Away from the after-school rush, the whole town seems asleep, basking in the ruins of the last year's foreshortened winter. They drive through purple-roofed tree tunnels slotted with sunshine, sliding smooth as a round through a rifle. Conny has his weekly worksheet and two books out on the seat beside him. (One of them is a fantasy novel set in a dystopian alternate universe where wolves stayed four-legged animals and all humans are betas, without heats or mates. The other is a biology textbook–this cunt wants to be a scientist.) But he doesn't look at either, eyes glued to windowglass. He doesn't like to do anything during car rides. The ride itself is the experience: the weightless, effortless glide of the world slipping by, its scenes rendered at a safe remove, like pictures in a museum or tanks in an aquarium. The feeling of untouchability, of inevitability, being borne along by a silent, invisible force, guided inexorably toward the final destination. The release that comes from powerlessness, from not having to think, for the moment, about where to go, what to do, which way to turn.

He has one hand drumming on the armrest and the other eased down the front of his shorts, curled idly under his hairless impotent balls, feeling the small heft of his shaft crawl up his palm. He knows he's not supposed to touch himself there anymore, but when he's riding in a car rules seem suspended and old bad habits resurface unannounced.

They never told him not to, when they still hoped a knot would sprout under those pale pianist's fingers. It's good for little alphas to like their dicks–at the end of the day, it's all there is to them. But once he bitched–oh boy did they beat that out of him. There is a faint indignation there, at being abruptly deprived of one of a boy's primary pleasures, the more so because the deprivation seemed so arbitrary, so unjust. It's not as though they ever stop Cuan, even though he is so much worse–he makes such a show out of it, and such a mess. What he does not realise is that his parent's new uneven puritanism came not from caprice, or even outrage, but from terror. A baby meghole fiddling in his pants in public is worse than an indecency–it's an invitation.

Besides, the only part of him worth anything is further back. What he has in his hand is useless meat, a relic of evolution, and nobody, including Conny, is supposed to pay it any attention.

But he knows better. It may not be making any babies, but it's not useless for everything.

For when it achieves its full potential, the small stiff head, perfectly round and shiny as a thimble, kneading into the cupola of his domed palm, there's a moment when all his insides draw into one tight knot, when he's plummeting joyously down a cliff-face toward eternity. Then a rush of blinding heat, a wet gasp, a sweet smell and a slight dampness dewing his hand. He drags it up the back of the front passenger seat, leaving hardly more than the glittering track of a snail, silver on black. And that's all. For now.

He can have a dozen of those in succession, if he tries, but then his asshole itches like it wants to join in the fun and he hates that. He's never touched himself there. He refuses to.

He flicks his eyes forward, conscious of what he just did only now it's done. But Cuan doesn't seem to have noticed anything, his head motionless and straight, eyes seeing only the road.

Conny watches the road with him, feeling relieved and relaxed. It takes him a minute before he realises: this isn't the way home.

"Where are we going?"

There's a curiously drawn-out beat before his brother responds. "Gonna pick up a friend on the way."

"Oh, whaaat, why-ee?"

"Shut your cunt, brat," Cuan bites back, turning casually vicious on a dime. "It's my fucking car."

Conny doesn't argue any more or grizzle like he normally would, too shocked by the word Cuan used. He sits silent, staring at the back of Cuan's seat.

Cuan never referred to Conny's–his thing before, even offhand like that. Other omegas, sure. It's how alphas talk, and therefore how betas who want to be alphas talk, even though they're not supposed to. But not his. Not even when he was trying to touch it.

Betas aren't supposed to talk about omegas' sex parts–nobody is, apart from their mate. To do so, Miss Cockermeg said, is the most obscene and degrading insult an omega can be subjected to. In the old days it meant death–either for the alpha, who would be torn to pieces by the omega's vengeful mate, or for the omega, who would kill herself out of shame.

At the time he'd thought, it's just a word, what's the big deal? But now, he only thinks, I can't believe he said that to me. It's just a word but he hates it, not because it's vulgar, but for how it makes him feel: somehow open. Vulnerable. Exposed. Like the thing between his buttcheeks that he hates is suddenly magnified and magnetised and the four-syllable epithet is a penetrating dart aimed right at it.

His lower lip trembles, but he's not going to cry. He won't. He's not going to turn into one of those pathetic lame bitches who sob uncontrollably when they get so much as a paper-cut, just so every alpha in the vicinity will fall over himself to kiss her better. Even if he has to be an omega, he's better than them.

Brave little bitchboy. If only he knew how much more alluring that stoic act made him.

Doing everything in his power to keep the tremor out of his voice, and almost succeeding, Conny asks, "Why couldn't you just drop me off first?"

Cuan doesn't answer, so Conny kicks at the back of his seat. When he does it again, Cuan grabs his ankle without looking.

"I know you're a bitch, Cunny, but you don't have to act like one."

Cunny.

At his christening he was dubbed Connagyn: a strong name, a wolf-name, the name an alpha sire would give his alpha son. Papa always insisted on sounding out the full three syllables in his deep bass boom. Now he calls him Conny like everyone else. When Conny is mated, his Alpha will call him whatever he wishes.

Cuan already does. He calls him 'Cunny', pronouncing it wrong on purpose. Conny knows it's on purpose because he doesn't do it when Mother and Papa can hear.

Deciding two can play potty-mouth, he loud-mutters, "Don't fucking call me that, asshole." He kicks out again, jerking Cuan's arm.

Cuan swings around to glare at him, driving with one hand on the wheel and no eyes on the road. "You trying to get cuntspanked?"

Conny stares back defiant, even as Cuan's grip twists and tightens. "You can't do that to me. You don't have the right."

"I'll do worse if you don't pipe down, Cunny-cunt." But the anger has already gone out of his voice. He drops Conny's leg and snaps back to the wheel just in time to catch the right turn-off at the roundabout. "Anyway, we're almost there."

Almost where? Conny wonders. Wonders, what's 'worse'? Even though some part of him wiser and more ancient than himself knows, recognises instinctively the ultimate punishment that awaits every omega, no matter how old, who acts out.

In any event, he won't have to wonder for long.

When they turn the corner, Cuan's friend steps out of the trees. For a moment Conny thinks he literally steps out of a tree, because the tan of his bare upper body is close enough in colour to the trunks it sort of blends into them.

He's tall–all alphas are tall, though this one has a leaner build than most — with long hair and long teeth when he smiles.

Cuan lets the car idle (doesn't use the handbrake–reckless) and gets out to meet him. He does something Conny has never seen him do before–puts his nose on the alpha's neck and sort of nuzzles him.

Conny waits, breath bated, for the alpha to deck him, but to his consternation the alpha does the same back. It's an old alpha greeting; at least, Conny has only ever seen old alphas do it. Like, really old ones. And Cuan isn't even an alpha, so what's he doing scenting this guy like they're packmates?

They pull back and something slips from hand to hand, from eye to eye: an exchange Conny, cunt for now still virgin-safe and bloodless between his cheeks, cannot read.

The shirtless alpha says something Conny can't hear and Cuan says, "Yup, I swapped em out this morning."

Cuan gets into the driver's seat again, and the alpha pads round to the seat behind it. He opens the door and his nose twitches in sync with his dick. The car smells like cunt.

When the alpha swings onto the backseat beside him, Conny discreetly shifts as close to the window as possible. The boy smells weird, and no wonder. His hair is like a hazel thicket in fall: golden-brown and interminably tangled. Small twigs and fragments of dried leaves peek out between the matte waves. It looks like it hasn't even heard of the invention of shampoo. His feet are bare and huge and hatched with yellow dirt on the soles. The nails are long, thick and pointed, halfway between human toenails and… wolf-claws. He looks somehow older than Conny's brother, even though Conny's pretty sure he's a couple years younger. He looks…more mature somehow. More like a man. Or maybe just more like an alpha.

If he wasn't so ragged he'd look like an alphawear model, although his clothes definitely do not belong on a billboard, not even in a before-and-after photo.

Although 'clothes', plural, is a bit of a stretch. The only thing he's wearing is a pair of jeans, faded at the knees, frayed at the bottom and ripped all up the sides, revealing long lakes of furred sepia flesh, as tanned as his upper body–Conny doesn't imagine him hurtling naked through black tree-branches, doesn't imagine the colour and shape and heft of his organ because he doesn't have to.

Below the top button, the fly splits open into a giant hole where the crotch would be and Conny can see it all. To come to the point, can see his cock.

He knows he's not supposed to call it that, but all the boys do, when the teachers aren't listening. He can smell it, too. Smell it even over the raw wildwood smell of the boy himself.

Even his drug-dampened senses recognise the scent: pure, primeval alpha, alien but enticing, to his unbroken bitch's body both a promise and a threat.

It smells hungry.

Conny's mouth is suddenly dry, his asscunt tight with fear.

The car starts to move again. The alpha doesn't say anything, so neither does Conny.

Omegas aren't supposed to speak unless spoken to, and they're definitely not supposed to initiate conversations with strange alphas.

Strange unmated alphas. Conny's senses may be dulled by the pills, but he can smell that much. Even looking at him is risqué–and risky.

He lowers his eyes. It's hard to adjust to the world's new, and much more onerous, expectations. Especially since he never asked for this, never expected to be anything but a beta like his brother.

The alpha shifts in his seat, stretching his legs to take up all the space there is, sweeping Conny's book and homework to the floor, boxing him further against the window. He isn't wearing a seatbelt, Conny notes with disapproval, and Cuan doesn't tell him to. Is he a student? He's the right age to be, although those jeans surely aren't part of any uniform. Maybe he's already left? Miss Cockermeg told them that in the country schools they have a separate graduation for alphas and omegas after eighth grade so they can get married. But somehow Conny doesn't think this alpha went to any kind of school.

He's not just a strange, unmated alpha but a wild one. He must belong to one of the forest packs. Free-range. Feral. At least, that's what people say. Conny used to imagine them living there forever, since the first packs prowled the primeval forests under the sacred sight of the moon. Used to dream about running away to join them. But Papa said most of the ferals round Acklesburgh moved out there a couple decades ago, as part of the 'Back-inna-woods' movement. He said they wanted to get away from civilisation, live on the land like real wolves. That the folk who went to see them or study them never came back, and who could say why? Said that sometimes when their breeding stocks got low they took people from the town, always omegas and always young, and by law the police couldn't do nothing, since they were just following tradition. Not that Acklesburgh police would have been any use out there anyway. If a father wanted his bitch-pup back he had to go get it himself. Some fathers did just that. They never came back either.

Conny's heard that in the forest packs they don't have any betas at all, that it's all alphas and omegas, just like in the very oldest of the old days before wolf-seed and man-blood mixed. He's not sure how that's possible–surely they must have some beta babies, right? Unless…

Conny looks over at the alpha and is disconcerted to find he's looking back. He quickly glances away again, feeling his cheeks burn. Crap, he saw him. God!

But try as he does to keep his eyes on the sedately passing streets, they keep inching back to that hole in the blue where the long golden cock and wisp-wrapped balls dangle out, sliding all over the peeling, cigar-spotted fake leather of which Cuan is so ridiculously protective. Conny spilled a Coke on it once and he got so mad he hauled Conny out of the car by his hair, threw him over the hood, ripped down his shorts and spanked him between the cheeks (even though hole-spanking was something only parents and mates were supposed to do to omegas) while Conny squirmed and howled on the sunscorched metal (he'd had burns on his knees and forearms which had taken weeks to stop smarting. That was the last time Papa took the broom-handle to Cuan). But for some reason he doesn't mind this strange backwoods alpha stinking up his seat with his sweaty junk.

The closest thing Conny's seen to him among the 'civilised' alphas of Acklesburgh are the seniors who come back from the winter camps. It had been in the first term after his presentation. He was sitting in his new Omega Obedience Training class (which he hadn't minded too much because it replaced Algebra. Instead, they had Household Accounting in their Domestic Arts class, which was boring but easy), paying more attention to the clock winding up the last hours of the school day than to the teacher, when a group of students from the Alpha Academy attached to the elementary school, just returned from one of the nature retreats tame town puppies went in to feel like real wolves, walked past their classroom.

Though 'walked' was hardly the right word. They moved beastwise, a shambling, unruly rabble, teachers corralling them with whistles and cuffs around the head. Like herding wolves, and that's what they were, in manner if not in form, human but half-feral and they'd gone worse when they'd seen (and smelt) the omegas. He remembers them scratching the glass with their nails and teeth, slicking it with their long tongues and even longer (horrifyingly long, when he thought about what they were for, where they were supposed to go) dicks, howling promises and crooning threats that the bitchboys of O13 only half-understood, but felt down through their bones to their shivery preteen cunts. One of the highschoolers even cracked the glass before two of the alpha teachers dragged him away.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and even older for some of the stupid ones (Cuan said in his class there was a guy who was over twenty, but only there half the year because his father took him out of school for the winter hunt). They were all old and huge and suddenly real and there as they never had been before, in the way that the years above didn't really exist when you were a gradeschool weenie — they belonged to another world, one you couldn't imagine ever being a part of, anymore than at ten you could imagine being mated.

But if they had broken into the classroom, if the teachers hadn't been there to stop them, he wouldn't have had to imagine it. That the omegas were boys and they were men — twice their age and easily twice their size — wouldn't have stopped them either, wouldn't have mattered or meant anything, wouldn't have kept them from…

What exactly he couldn't quite conceive. He knew the words but couldn't visualise the act. Omegas aren't supposed to know about that sort of thing. All he's heard are whispers, whispers which even now, with almost seven feet of alpha and well over seven inches of fat but flaccid alpha cock on the seat next to him, he does not really believe. If he had, would it have saved him?

Up ahead a rectangle of gold flashes briefly through the blossoms: a shampoo advertisement, the nude model writhing Rapunzel-like on a silken bed of his own yellow tresses, hourglass figure upside down, one hand on his mouth and the other in his ass, modest omega pizzle squirting coyly on his belly, round basketball breasts larger and more prominent than his head, which is crammed into a corner of the billboard. Conny rubs his chest, wondering uneasily if one day he'll have breasts like that. The action does not go unnoticed by the other passenger.

The smell gets stronger, unbearably strong, Conny–he actually feels dizzy. Even worse and weirder, he feels itchy and achy down there in his no-no place, down where his bitch, that deep denied part of himself, knows the stranger's dick wants to be, and ought to be, and will. In less than fifteen minutes.

Conny clenches his apple-round baby buttcheeks, as if he could squeeze his throbbing cunt back inside his body and be normal again. His skin is sweaty and hot to the touch, even though the fan's going. He wishes he had one of the face veils some of the old-fashioned families still make their omegas wear.

But he shouldn't need to wear one. He had taken his heat-blockers that morning, as he took them every morning, with his cinnabones and grape juice. There are stories about what happens if an o-boy has his first heat surrounded by his classmates, some of whom are bound to be unpresented alphas. Bad things.

Unfortunately, those stories are not told to Conny, who is shy and sheltered and bad at making friends and therefore considered stuck up his own cunt. Even if they were, he would still have got in the car. It's his big brother's, after all. What's the worst that can happen with him sitting right there in the front seat?

Thirty seconds after he thinks this, Conny realises, with a spiralling sense of doom, that he has an erection.

He crosses his legs with difficulty because of the seatbelt, not daring a glance over at the alpha, knowing without looking that he's watching. That he's seen. Oh God!

The alpha's eyes flick to Conny, then forward to where Cuan is sitting. His hands strokes down his heavy prick in a considering manner, squeezing a gob of swirly piss-cum concoction onto the edge of the seat. Some vital but unguessable decision is made, and the alpha turns away from Conny, bringing his long legs up to kneel on the seat, hitting the button to roll down the window.

He's so tall in Cuan's beta-built car he has to sort of limbo his upper body over backwards to get his dick out the window. He thrusts his crotch forward so his cock hangs into the wind and starts to piss. The spray drums against the side of the car in a stop-start rhythm of waves, like rain that's having performance anxiety.

Conny is appalled. He wonders if there's anyone behind them, remembering how Mother snapped at him once for throwing an apple core out the window on a road trip. He twists to look out the back window.

There's no one behind them. No one ever comes down this road.

Does this weirdo live down here? But if he's feral he lives in the woods, right? Why does he need a ride in a car anyway? The woods aren't that far, and alphas can run for miles without getting out of breath.

They're out the back-end of town, now, the houses coming only every few miles. Conny can't shake the feeling that he's sharing the backseat with a tiger. He wishes he'd sat in the front. He wishes the alpha had sat in the front. Why hadn't he?

This question jerks him out of his slump.

He's Cuan's friend, right? Why would he want to sit in the back with his little brother?

He's just about to say something, etiquette be damned, when he's almost knocked over by a blast of noise from the speaker near his ear. This, with the smoking, is the other downside of riding home in his brother's car: his brother's shiny new taste in music. Though there was nothing shiny about the kind of 'music' he claimed to enjoy: rapecore, fuckmetal, knotrock, cuntgrind and other, even more obscure alpha metal genres, all viciously misomeganist and incomprehensibly obscene, an assault on his existence as much as on his eardrums. Conny didn't know their names, couldn't understand their lyrics. All he knew was that the sound felt ugly throbbing inside him, pounding at the core of his being like a huge, hateful cock. It made his cunt sting.

The worst of them all was succinctly and aptly named bitchhate–less music than an aural distillation of alpha disdain for omegas at its most graphic and violent, crashing drums, shredding electric guitars, wolf howls and the (supposedly real) screams of tortured and dying omegas.

But its use of the blue wolf tone, pitched so precisely it actually brought physical pain to omegas within earshot, was what made it the only genre of music to be actually illegal.

The stereo screen shows the album art–a giant wolf tooth sinking into the gaping folds of a vagina, blood welling and dripping down the curved white bone. Cuntcrunch is the rather redundant title.

The year before the assault that would render Conny forever incapable of performing his daily bodily functions without pain, a new teacher had come to Acklesburgh Elementary. A rabid Omeganist and a bitch to boot, she was not popular with the staff, and even less popular with the students. The Headmaster decided to give her the opportunity to put her quaint theory of equality into practice, and assigned her to oversee a class of hardcore delinquents, those whom the school had long given up trying to teach anything and was merely holding until it could hand them off to either an unlucky high school or a reform school or the army or prison. A classroom of teenage alphas is unruly at the best of times and with an omega in charge, completely unmanageable. On this day a particularly fractious bunch, all of whom had been held back several grades, were passing the time at the back of the classroom by playing rapecore through boomboxes and masturbating to it.

How does one masturbate to music? Well, most of rapecore's appeal to horny young alphas was how it straddled the line between music and straight-up audioporn. Most tracks consisted of little more than a thin veneer of instrumentation laid over remixed recordings of real rapes–it was a point of pride to the artists that they never used fake scenes from porn, no matter how well-acted. Although the purest of the purists held that authentic rapecore should be recorded live in the studio, with real live (at least when recording started) omegas. As you may imagine, rapecore concerts–advertised as Bring Your Own Omega events–were as much organised fuckfests as musical performances and they drew crowds in the millions. These teen wolves had been to their first one the weekend before and were still high (and hard) off the thrill of their first blood-letting-cum-dick-wetting.

When the teacher, ever brave but foolish, marched over and told them to put their dicks away and shut that crap off, they instead gave her a full blast of bitchhate. The piercing howl of the blue wolf tone, used by alphas to subdue wayward omegas since prehistory, left the woman rigid and twitching on the floor, blood pouring from her ears while her gleeful students destroyed her holes beyond repair. Conny never learned why school closed down so suddenly that day, and the students were never officially told. The alphas who'd done it were happy to brag, once they returned from their half-week suspension (told you no-one liked her much). But all Conny got were rumours. Dark, red rumours, and promises and threats.

If Conny had been a less sheltered omega, one less in denial about what he was and what he was made for, one who hadn't passed his first and only heat in a frightened chemical haze in a health centre–if he had not lived in a society where an omega was taught how to feed a baby but not how to make one, he might have understood what was about to happen. Yet, even if he had, it wouldn't have saved him.

For as hard as he squeezes his legs and buttcheeks together, he can't stop the alpha from smelling him, too, smelling his dainty cherry-stick and dimplepink omega boycunt, virgin-snug and ten years untouched by alphakind. For ten years and the next ten minutes.

The alpha is getting impatient, and so is his dick. All his senses are drawn toward the boy like predators to a campfire in the woods at night. Underneath the din from the speakers, his wolf can hear the rustle of those white unblemished thighs brushing over each other as the boy vainly attempts to hide his shame. He can smell the hot red reek of the boy's virginity in his nostrils, calling out to him, begging for a claiming. He can feel his prick leaking and fattening, the submerged tissue at the root already itching to be locked inside the boy's cock-vice.

He spreads his thighs to give it room to grow, knocking knees with Conny. The boy gasps, his eyes turning cartoon-round, staring between the alpha's denim-clad legs as he rapidly sprouts a third one.

It shouldn't be possible for a penis to get that big. Thick and blue-veined red, slightly pointed tip aiming straight for the stars, it looks–it must be some trick of perspective — but it looks almost as tall as Conny. It bobs and throbs and pulses and spits. It is hungry.

Conny is mesmerised. And terrified. As he ought to be, the whore, though even now he doesn't fully know why. Stupid whore. But he'll find out soon enough.

The scent comes over him in waves. He'd thought it was bad enough going into a classroom after a bunch of alphas had been in it, but this! He's about to something, and it's 50/50 whether it's cum or spew.

He lunges to the left and now it's his turn to roll down the window, sacrificing his hair for a clear head. But he only gets half of one.

The smell is still there, resisting the wind, like it's burred itself in the very pores of his skin, rich and rank and raw with the blood of a thousand ravishings past and one future.

He wishes his brother would drive faster, or else just drop this creep off already. And indeed, the car is slowing. Has Cuan finally noticed the fuckery going on in the back? He should have noticed. Even a deadnose beta should be able to smell–

Conny starts. Something reaches across his shoulder, falling warm and large over his hand, pressing down on his finger and the button below it so the glass slides back up and Conny's slow but vital supply of air that doesn't reek of unwashed alpha balls and cockcheese is cut off.

The alpha lifts his hand away, but he takes Conny's hand with him. Conny can only watch, cherry mouth popped open, voice drowned in dread, as the alpha brings it down between his thighs to his cock. Maybe part of him knew all along what was coming, but most of him still can't believe it, even as it's happening.

He gasps when the skins touch, shivers right through his core to his cunt from the strange hot hardness of the thing under his palm. The moment is like an oil painting from the Devil's art gallery: the boy's delicate wrist slim and snappable in the older boy's huge brown hand, his eyes wide and baby-blue, hand pale and baby-sized, obscenely small on the teen's huge ruddy prick. His fingers stand out stiff as a doll's, but the alpha forces them to bend, to mould to the third-limb girth of his dick. They don't get even halfway round.

Conny tries to pull away, but the alpha doesn't let him. Instead, he rubs the hand up and down his veiny length, Conny's fine-china pianist's fingers forced to strum up and down the ridges of his one-holed recorder. Using his little white hand to jack his atrocity of a cock to orgasm.

"Cuan. Cuan!"

Everything that happened previously in the ride–in the year–is forgotten, and he's reverted to a little kid, begging his big brother to save him from the monsters under his bed. An alpha is an alpha and Cuan, no matter what he wants to be, is a beta. But Conny knows his brother keeps a gun in the glovebox.

But Cuan doesn't turn around. Nobody's saving him from the monster in the seat beside him.

Conny glances up at the alpha for a fearful moment. He stares back, saying nothing, calm as ever as he strokes Conny's hand over his dick. Yellow eyes like witch-shards of a cruel hunter's moon.

"Cuan, look!"

Cuan moves his head…

…stooping over his phone to turn up the music.

What? Can he really not hear? Is the music that loud? Is he too focussed on driving? Does he think Conny just wants to point out a cow or something dumb like that?

The black hole that's opened in the pit of his stomach tells him none of those things are true.

"Cu…" His voice dies away into dumbfounded silence as the music continues to blare, his brother continues to keep his eyes resolutely on the road, and the stranger he picked up continues to work Conny's arm up and down like the wooden limb of a marionette. It's an experience like no other he's had, one he entirely lacks a frame of reference for. He's heard of stranger danger, bad touches, but till now he never knew… When the teacher wasn't in the room, kids talked about them like they were something exciting, something sinfully thrilling, almost something to be sought out.

There's nothing thrilling about this. It's just a cock–just his hand, but for some reason he wants to cry. But he's not that kind of omega. He's not.

He sits there helpless, taking shallow high-pitched breaths, shoulder and wrist twinging each time the alpha jerks them, slick gathering in his palm, so much thicker and so much more than anything Conny can produce. There's angry weals forming in the folds of his babysoft skin from how hard the alpha's gripping, how fast he's jerking, how ruthlessly he's fucking Conny's hand.

The current song comes to a crescendo, an electric howl and scream of pure anguish, and the alpha lets out a grunt that's pure animal. Then he lets out his cum.

There's a pheromone rush so strong it almost knocks Conny out, and the alpha cups his hand over the head to catch all that's coming, till it's bleeding white between his knuckles, dribbling down his wrist into the crook of his elbow, staining his sleeve. He takes Conny's hand off his cock and rubs it palm-first into his own face, smearing his seed all over, into every dip and pore, till Conny's gagging, this time truly about to throw up. He waits till the alpha stops touching him, unwilling to anger him, unable to fight him, but as soon as he does, he hurls himself at the window, jabbing his finger into the button and gasping into the floral-scented air as it rolls down again.

He dry-heaves for a few seconds, squinting one eye because of the cum pasted around its perimeter, feeling unspeakably violated, even though all the slut's had so far is a handjob and an indirect facial. He's about to get much, much worse.

The alpha strokes the back of his neck, teases his slightly damp hair, and Conny wants to scream. He would scream if he thought anyone would hear, or would help.

The car has slowed to walking speed now, pulling off the ragged-edged sideroad onto a grassy tire-track that dips down into an orchard of trees of all colours: purple, pink, red, yellow, blue, white, alternating in perfect rows.

Conny realises as the nausea recedes that he knows this place. He used to come here sometimes to read in the shade, after he'd had the epiphany that Acklesburgh was small enough you could walk pretty much anywhere, didn't need to wait for a ride like a little kid. Before he grew a pussy inside his ass that anchored him to the house, leashed him to his family just as he was spreading his wings, stopped him being able to walk anywhere alone. When he was still a normal beta boy with four eyes and books instead of friends, not yet the scratched-up knotwhore he will be for the rest of his life after this ride, this was where he used to come. He never told Cuan about it.

As soon as the car stops, he tries the door handle. But just as it starts to lift there's the quadruple snap of all four doors locking. Cuan!

Before his brain can properly register this betrayal, there's a hand on his collar, flipping him backwards, slamming his head into the seat. The pens fly out of his blazer pocket with little plastic patters. Conny automatically opens his mouth to shout, but the cry is stifled, blocked by a musky, sticky roundness at his lips, shoving past his teeth into his throat.

The next moments come in flashes: clawed hands clamped around his scrawny boytits, something like a heated steel rod forging its way down his gullet, trying to pop his lungs like balloons.

The car making cranky noises, Cuan making no noise, no question, no protest, Conny unable to make any sound at all as the alpha pounds his face into the leather like it's just another hole. It's like being repeatedly smashed into a concrete wall, and on the tenth or twentieth thrust there's a crack, a flare of pain and a wetness blooming from under his nose.

It trickles down over his lips where they're spread like a rubber-band around the alpha's pistoning rod. As the alpha continues to hammer in, he fucks some of Conny's own blood down his throat, but still all the boy can taste is cock. He can feel the alpha's heavy balls bouncing on his chin, smell his dank untamed pubes clogging his nostrils, fouling his airways with their pheromone-laden stench.

Now he truly does have to hurl, but it has nowhere to go — his rising gorge is fucked back into his stomach by the alpha's babykiller dick. Nothing can get out that way–there's no room. His throat flexes and spasms, filled to the brim with rock-hard man-meat. His nose throbs and bubbles blood as he tries desperately to suck air in that way. He wants to scream, but he has no breath.

He seems to have lost the feeling of his body below the neck. And his power of sight. He can't see a thing but fœtid pounding darkness. Only when he closes his eyes does the light return, thrumming in painful blotches against his eyelids. His mouth is stretched as wide as when he's at the dentist; the corners feel like they're tearing. The inhuman girth of the alpha's shaft drags over milk teeth, thick-skinned and impervious to the sting, stuffing his throat halfway, all the way, riding down the furrow of his kitten tongue, fucking through the tight starfish-hole at the back of his mouth that is the opening of his second pussy.

One of the alpha's large hands comes up to massage his throat, working it like a fleshlight around his cock. Conny can feel his cock jump and swell inside his œsophagus as it finally spews out its load, straight into Conny's heaving stomach.

The alpha withdraws slowly, and his prick continues to spit all the way, laying line after line of viscous cock-cream down Conny's gullet, across his tongue, over the crumpled mess of his nose.

When it finally comes free, Conny finds that he's already screaming, has been this whole time. He wails till his breath runs dry, then quickly draws in another. But this time it comes up wrong, the cry interrupted, stuttering, as Conny brings up a white seafoam froth of scum and spit, churning to red where it snorts painfully through his collapsed sinuses.

It coats his chin and spills onto his blazer. So disgusting but he hardly cares. He can breathe.

His head is whirling, but he feels weirdly calmer, or not calmer but just…less. It still hurts so bad he wants to curl into a ball and never come out. But when he tries to move his limbs they feel oddly disconnected and…floppy.

Among the many things they neglected to teach him at school was that alpha cum is mildly poisonous to omegas: it makes them dizzy, woozy, weak, unable to think or see clearly–or to run. The Wolf-mother was thoughtful with Her gifts.

Still coughing like a car trying to start on a winter's morning, Conny sits up. He puts a hand out to support himself, but snatches it away when he realises he's supporting himself on the alpha who just raped his windpipe. The motion sends him slumping against the seat in front, and the alpha, laughing, hauls him upright again by the hair. Conny shrinks away from him by the few inches that are all he can get–the alpha is everywhere. His warm, reeking bulk seems to fill up the back of the car as thoroughly as his dick filled Conny's gullet, as it's about to fill his birth canal.

Conny looks to the front, toward Cuan, his brother, who he still thinks of as his protector.

Conny searches out his eyes in the rear-view mirror and finds them grey with turbulence energy.

They flick up and away again. Then up and hold his gaze.

Why is he just sitting there? Why doesn't he do something?

'Cuan', he croaks over a throatful of cum and scrapes, as truly heartbroken as he's about to be cuntbroken.

Then the alpha is on him.

He doesn't bother with the awkward shimmy of schoolboy shorts over knobby knees and velcroed sneakers, the fight against fabric and kicking feet. He just extends his claws, digs in through shorts and undies, into Conny's pale unpenetrated hide and rips them down the seam.

They come apart like tissue paper in his paws, and all of a sudden Conny's virgin hole is bared to the cockripened air, pink and perfect and exquisitely rapable.

Conny fights, but not hard. He's felt the alpha's strength, enough to know a real struggle would be suicide, even if his slight omegine build, high on heady alpha cum, was capable of one. Those rough, clawed hands and muscled arms have imprinted the conviction deep into his bones that if the alpha got really mad, Conny's limbs would come apart about as easy as his shorts.

The alpha wrestles him onto his back, knees crowding against his chest, rump lifted, offered to the alpha's inspection. A claw scratches around the rim of his anus, making it, and the boy it belongs to, tense up in terror. The alpha chuckles and moves to plant one hand under his chin, pinning him to the seat and almost crushing his trachea, while the other clasping both ankles, holding them up and out of the way so he has a clear shot at Conny's boycherry. He doesn't care what Conny's hands do. There's nothing they can do that would so much as annoy him.

Alphas tend not to be much for preparation, not even when their mates are young enough to ride free at fairgrounds. Besides, fingering this boy's hole with his claws would do as much harm as it's supposed to prevent. Not that anything could prevent the world of hurt this bitch is in for.

He hitches up his hips and his dick swings down, slopping a gooey icicle of cockdrool directly onto Conny's panicked, puckering hole. You can practically hear the sizzle.

The music turns to static in Conny's ears–the whole car is buzzing with it. It seems to emanate from the alpha's pole: fallstreaks of lightning, vanishing into æther before they touch the groundroot of his ass. An impossible yet irresistible magnetism. Omegas are designed for dick, it's true, but only a psychopathic sadist would even think about putting that war crime of a prick anywhere near this scared little boy's itty-bitty cunt.

A sadist, or a feral alpha who just wanted to get his nut.

The alpha chases the precum-trail all the way to the bitch's backdoor. He only knocks once, rocket-red to pretty-pink. And in.

Conny clenches his sphincter as hard as he can. It helps that he's young and tight and scared out of his wits, that the trickle of babybitch slick in his undies is still no more than that.

But megholes weren't made to keep cocks out.

No matter how tight, no matter how dry, no matter how young, no matter how unwilling, this alpha's dick is going right where it wants to be. And it's not stopping until every last inch is tucked up inside this precious baby-cunt's body, even if his cum ends up squirting out his eyes.

Pleased by the resistance, the proof that this really is the bitch's first time, the alpha shifts to grip Conny's hips, tenses his calves like he's about to run down an elk and slams in, punching through his maidenhead like a hammer through wet paper. His cock is too big to go in all at once. But what does go in is about the length of the average beta male's dick, and more than thrice as thick. Conny's sealed-up twat is split open so fast it takes a moment for it to register. But when it does…

"Ahhh-hahhhhnnhh take it out take it out take it OUT please hurts I hate it no please no more please GOD please!"

The alpha puts a hand over his mouth; it covers most of Conny's face. Unable to control the white-out animal panic of imminent death, Conny beats his heels on the alpha's body. He may as well be beating them against a tree.

It's like having a baby backwards, Conny is sure, even though his first litter won't arrive till six months later. The alpha's length plunges in so rigid and ruthless and thick that if the Wolf-mother hadn't set his hips wide for bearing children and taking cock, his pelvis would have cracked like a wishbone from a Thanksgiving turkey. It feels like it did anyway. Everything feels broken.

He's lucky he's already had a fat dose of wolf-jizz, otherwise the pain would have been so bad he would have blacked out. Or maybe he's unlucky.

More slides in, and more and more, inches upon inches of angry alpha cock helped along by baby-slick and virgin-blood. Kind of a bumpy ride, but it never stops.

Until it does, and Conny's buttocks are sitting warm and wet on the alpha's firm belly. He daren't scream for fear the alpha's cockhead will come out his mouth.

The alpha grunts in satisfaction and lifts his hands away to better admire the view of his plowshaft buried inside the tiny boy's fertile body, burrowed like a mole under his skin. Almost immediately, Conny's hindbrain goes into overdrive, screaming at him to get off, get away, even as the more rational part of him knows it's impossible.

The alpha enjoys the slip-slide around his length as Conny scrambles to pull himself off, the way he makes himself even tinier than he already is as his knees draw up, half fœtal, trying to get away from his dick, but he can't, he won't, he doesn't.

The alpha lets him get almost all the way off (shoving back in a little every now and then, just for fun) until only the fat, flared head is lodged inside his passage. The bitch squirms and groans, pulling his pucker white. The alpha grabs his hips again and slams all the way back in, all at once, all the way to the base, so brutally hard Conny literally sees stars, and nothing else for several seconds.

The alpha throws back his head and howls, the sound blending with the song on the stereo, with Conny's fractured wail. Then the alpha finally starts to fuck.

When Conny's sight returns and his head stops ringing, bile and cum is running from his mouth down the side of the seat and his body has gone blessedly, frighteningly numb.

But the alpha doesn't care, doesn't even seem to notice. He's already settled in for the ride.

He fucks Conny on his front, knees tucked underneath him, single side-eye staring in panic as he ruts into the mind-melting heat, relishing the angry stretch of the boy's pucker around his shaft. The little bleeding tears only make him drive in harder, wondering what it would take to snap that rubber band.

He has him on his knees, face mashed into the window, blinking into a purple haze of tears as the alpha mauls his guts, bulging out his stomach with each bone-grinding thrust.

He has him on his side, dick slotting into his spine, slapping his head this way and that every time he raises it, just for something to do while he's raping him.

He has him hanging over the seat, tasting crusted mud and lint while the alpha effortlessly hauls his ass back onto his dick over and over, ring finally loosening but pain never dimming, slopping a soapy mix of slick and pre-fuck and blood down into the crooks of his knees.

And Conny? Conny cries, like the soppiest, sissiest wet panty of an omega bitch imaginable, bawling his little preteen heart out as the alpha plows him like a summer field.

From the front there's the rustle of plastic, the flick of a lighter. And a new, unfamiliar smell, far stronger than Cuan's cigars. His shrieks and moans are interrupted by racking coughs as the putrid smoke invades his lungs.

The music's stopped. Instead, from the front there are growls, grunts like ones athletes make to hype themselves up before a game, flurried abortive motions, the smack of fists against plastic and glass, like his brother is boxing air. Is Cuan going crazy? What did he take? What did that alpha give him? (Not a gift, Conny tells himself in despair. Not a gift.)

Abruptly, the alpha picks him up, still firmly ensconced around his cock, and shoves his head under the headrest of the front passenger seat. Then the headrest ratchets down again, descending on his neck like a guillotine, trapping him with his toes only just brushing the floor.

He looks left and sees his brother has his dick in his hand.

He's masturbating.

Conny is being raped to within an inch of his life, sharded through with worse pain than he thought a body could bear and his big brother is getting off to it.

Cuan looks up to meet his gaze. His ice-lozenge eyes are red-rimmed, unfocussed. And yellow.

What? How? But, most importantly, "Why? Cuan, whyy–"

Cuan kisses him.

It's rough, unguided and clumsy and wrong wrong wrong. Conny still finds himself wetting around the alpha's piledriving dick. The kiss is wet, too, and stinging. It's only when Cuan pulls back for air that Conny realises it's blood, not saliva, filling his mouth.

If Conny could cry harder, he would. Why is everything hurting him now? It's like the universe has joined in some vast conspiracy against him. Like the gods have appointed this day for his doom.

Cuan dives in again, fucking his tongue through Conny's teeth, cutting his lips and gums, the cunty lining of his inner cheek on the sharp canines Conny would swear weren't there before.

This kiss continues until the alpha gets jealous, ripping Conny back through the prongs of the headrest, rubbing his ears raw, all without once unseating his cock from Conny's bitchpussy or slowing in his rhythm.

He throws him down on the seat and settles in for the long haul, for a nice Church-approved preteen missionary mating, Conny on his back underneath him, crushed into the brittle plastic leather. Conny is choking on the smoke, choking on his scent, choking on the cock that feels like it's shoving up between his lungs.

The alpha's full weight is on him now, legs split wide around his hips as he thrashfucks the life out of him. The whole car rocks precariously with each thrust. If the alpha goes at it much harder he's gonna roll the thing, a distant, intact sliver of Conny's mind observes.

A passing hobo who spends warm nights in the orchard pauses to rubber-neck the rocking car. He eyeballs the sweaty tan machine of the alpha's body, humping savagely into the sliver of white fuckmeat underneath him; the slim feet up on his shoulders; the older boy in a high school uniform smoking up and jerking off in the front seat. He grins, lecherous and toothless and flips him an approving sign. It's good to know boys are still boys. But this boy doesn't seem to notice his appreciative audience of one, more focussed on chewing the lining off the dashboard. The hobo, unoffended, moseys on by, grimy dick expanding into the torn pocket of his off-grey cargo pants, nudging his stolen bag of dope, mind already mapping out the neighbourhoods where he knows young pussy is plentiful and unattended.

The alpha's grunts come faster and faster, his thrusts ratcheting up in speed and force, his balls tight and hard as tennis-balls, about to explode, about to burst, aching to unleash his creamy essence of life into Conny's lacerated interior.

As for the cunt, at some point the stuck record of his interior monologue has switched tracks from don't put it inside, please, please, please, don't put it in me to don't cum inside me, please don't, I don't wanna be pregnant, I can't have a baby, please!

But knowing that in the dawn-time when wolves were few and men were fearful her children would be hated and hunted, the Wolf-mother did not leave such things to chance. Alpha cocks are designed to go all the way in–that's why they're so big. Long to fire their load right into the omega's womb. Thick to make sure none leaks back out. Knotted at the base to make sure the bitch can't get away till the alpha's seed has caught.

Conny can feel it coming, like a second set of balls above the alpha's balls, but smooth and unyieldingly hard, like two hot stones shoved inside his cunt.

The alpha pulls all the way out with a pop, then shoves in deep, deeper than ever before, heels lifting, toes curling, glutes clenching, nuts pulsing, knot popping as he comes.

To Conny, it all seems to happen at once:

The point of the alpha's dick ripping through the tiny gate of his cervix, a pain that would make devils weep —

— the feeling that he's tearing in half, that his whole body is stretched around the alpha's knot. Fat balls pulsing against his taint, flooding his cum-ditch —

— and a new pain, sharp and slicing, at his neck.

Conny dies.

When he stops being dead, and the agony returns, the alpha is hanging over him, gold wolf-eyes wicked and triumphant, canines gleaming long and dripping blood. Conny's blood.

'What did you do?' he whispers, pink spittle spraying from between his macerated lips. His neck is throbbing and raw and his hole–oh God, his hole. Does he even have one anymore? His whole lower body is just pain and sloshing cum and cock. The tears come in long continuous streams, his breath in a heart-splitting sob. It hurts so much. Is this what omegas go through every time? How can they stand it?

The alpha laps up Connor's tears like they're sold by the vial and says the first word he's said all the time.

"Mate."

The front door of the car opens. Then the back door opens. Conny finds himself gazing into his brother's upside-down eyes.

"Cuan?" Conny snivels, trying to focus on something else — anything to distract himself from the horror-scene that has become his body. "What happened to you?"

Cuan looks down at him in contempt and spits on his face. "The fuck do you mean, 'what happened?', bitch? This is what I always was. And this is what you were always meant to be."

Conny starts to shake his head no, but Cuan is already sliding his cock into his mouth.

The alpha growls at this and starts to lunge forward–Cuan puts up his arm to fend him off, and the alpha sinks teeth into his forearm.

He grits his teeth but bears it while he fucks Conny's mouth, brutal in his haste to empty his tingling balls down his little brother's throat.

It's over quickly: a few swift, suffocating pumps, and then his first knot is inflating against Conny's lips, bruising their rose-petal plumpness.

The alpha growls hard enough to shake the car this time, and releases his hold on Conny to take a swipe at Cuan. The beta–no, the other alpha–curses and stumbles back, cock slipping out of Conny's mouth to spray across his broken nose and teary eyes.

Most of it went into his mouth, though. His own big brother's semen.

He doesn't even have the strength to spit it out. But nor can he bring himself to swallow it, so it sits on his swollen tongue, warm and rancid, tasting of too many Cheetos and cigars. Some of it dribbles down the corner of his mouth onto the seat.

The alpha–Conny's alpha, as the deep part of his psyche now recognises him, even as his conscious mind refuses to accept it–follows his brother out of the car, sliding off the seat with Conny cradled to his chest.

He pads light-footed across the flower-strewn earth, carrying the trembling boy with an easy stride, thrusting up into the warm whimpering tightness with powerful jerks of his muscular thighs, aroused by the grind of his cock against his own belly, the skin and gristle that lies between barely a barrier.

He carries Conny to a spot where two jacarandas — a young, white-blossomed tree and an old red one — have grown together and half merged, and lays him at their twining feet. Under his back is a kaleidoscope carpet of blossoms and, below their softness, the hard, tangled mountain-chains of tree-roots, knuckling into his spine.

He can't really fuck Conny anymore with his knot stuck in his ginch, but he still tries, grinding into Conny's guts with painful hunches that set his swollen ring on fire. His cock can't really move inside him, so it's Conny that moves, jerked like a ragdoll on his prick, rasped against flaky, scratchy tree-bark. Shaking the tree, branch and stem.

Blossoms fall around them, into Conny's eyes, kissing away his tears.

Whether it's the mocking bridal whiteness of the petals, or the burning stretch of his cum-stuffed belly, it is only now brought home to him that this boy is his mate.

And Conny doesn't even know his name.

What he does know is that the alpha is still coming, hasn't stopped since he started. He can feel his prick jerking inside him, still pushing out thick, potent wads of sperm somewhere north of his bellybutton.

He hates it.

Cuan leans against the car to watch. He's smoking again, just one of his regular cigars now. He's still wearing his blazer, though the arms are gone, revealing his newly broadened shoulders and thickened biceps. His shirt's pretty much gone too, seeming to have ripped in half below the collar, revealing what Conny was sure had only been a four-pack — six-pack at best–before. His uniform trousers are in rags below the thighs. He doesn't seem to mind the state of his clothes or even notice.

And why should he? He's got what he wanted. The one thing he wanted, the only thing he ever cared about. All it cost was Conny's life.

"You fucking bastard!" Conny curses in a shrill, ragged voice he hardly recognises as his own. "I'm gonna tell Mother and–and Papa." He recognises the impotence of the threat even as it leaves his throat.

Cuan responds with the high, scornful laugh Conny always hated, though his voice is deeper now. "No need, bitchclit, I'm gonna tell em myself."

Conny stares, for the moment distracted from the snuffling beast to which he is still tied, on whose engorged member his tender cunt is still impaled.

Cuan gets as close as he dares, cock hanging heavy, and lower than it ever used. "What, you think they'll be mad? This way they get two alpha sons. Two for the price of only one worthless omega bitch." He takes a long drag and blows the smoke towards Conny. "Besides, you won't be seeing them again for a long time."

Conny's alpha shifts onto his haunches, Conny clinging anxiously to his neck to stop from being ripped open at the womb. He hooks his claws into Conny's blazer and shirt and gives them the same treatment he gave his shorts. The blazer is sturdy, thick stuff but a few efficient swipes later and Conny is wearing nothing more than rags and bruises.

Then, for the first time the alpha lifts his face off Conny's neck and looks at Cuan. "You got a belt?"

Cuan puts his cigar up behind his ear (Conny remembers when he used to find it funny, but sort of cool when he'd do that). He unfastens the belt from (what's left of) his pants and they slip down, catching for a moment on the jut of his semihard dick. He shakes them off and kicks them away, handing the belt to Conny's alpha.

The alpha wraps it around Conny's neck twice, then cinches it. "There. That'll do till I can put a proper collar on the bitch."

Conny is half-choked, the leather as pinch-tight around his neck as his cunt is around the alpha's dick. He wants to tell his alpha this. But the words can't get out.

His alpha ignores his wheezing attempts at speech, addressing Cuan, who is idly stroking his cock. "How's the wolf?"

Cuan grins. "Hungry."

He gazes longingly at Conny, bent-bow mouth slightly open, bright spots of colour in his cheeks. "Fuck, I need to knot something."

"Come back with me, brother. In the woods there is warm cuntmeat waiting for you to sink your cock and teeth into, ready for you to breed and to claim."

"Your sister?"

Conny's alpha bares his teeth and makes a noise that's as much a laugh as a snarl. "My sister I mounted in the cradle. Then my brothers, then my father, then his brothers and the whole pack. It's our way. For you there's fresh meat, unfucked and unblooded, hunted from her home down in the slave-sties of the townlings and brought shrieking to her bride-bower and the stake."

Some detached part of Conny that still cares about these things is surprised to hear poetry from the beast who fucked him to pieces, who hasn't pulled out yet. He still doesn't think he ever went to school, doubts he can read a book. But he got this strange animal eloquence from somewhere — another age maybe, or another, darker world. One to which Conny now belongs.

I married Satan, is the thought that comes randomly into his head.

"How old?"

"But three summers on the soil, my brother."

'Fuu-uuck.' Cuan turns to cum against a tree, painting long white stripes into the furrows of the grey bark.

Conny's alpha continues in his queer mixture of obscenity and formality. "You cannot wait. She is a virgin only because I told them she was promised as such. If you delay even a night, she'll be so full of knots you'll have to pry them out of her with your hands. She may not even be alive–we don't treat our prey as gently as we treat our mates."

A vicious half-thrust and a long scratch with a pointed nail, deep, down, parallel to the bass-clef curve of his spine.

Conny thinks, insofar as he was still capable of that, the alpha is doing it just because he can, just for the curiosity of seeing his spotless flesh bleed.

In fact he is tracing a pattern, the beginning of the traditional marks of mating and ownership used by the wildwood packs for whom a single bite on the neck is not enough. The swirling designs will be added during copulation, made with his own teeth and claws and rubbed with a bitter fiery root, pulped and mingled with toxic alpha cum, that ensures they will never fully fade, will pain and stain him forever.

"This bitch, does she–you say she, but is it actually a girl? Or a boy-bitch like Conny?"

"She has a cock, I believe," Conny's alpha says dismissively, using the tips of his claws to make a line of three dots right above the cleft of Conny's ass. "You can bite it off if it doesn't please you. Many do."

For an instant Conny sees himself spread-eagled on the ground with his hands and feet tied to wooden stakes, pegged out like meat for buzzards, sees the alpha diving between his legs with gleaming teeth, chomping down and coming up again, muzzle dripping blood —

Cuan groans. "No, no–shit, no, that definitely pleases me. Fucking hell. Wish I'd had him at three, the slut."

By the time Conny bears his first litter, he will be covered in scars, and gelded, and pierced through the nipples and cocktip and internal clit and tongue–a special piercing with a thorn-spike, designed to discourage bitches from speech (from using their holes for any but their proper function), which can be pinned to the lips at his alpha's pleasure, allowing him to seal his mouth shut when he wants him to swallow his caustic seed, or just to stop screaming.

Cuan seems to recollect himself, giving an awkward chuckle. It's an incongruously social sound, the sort of thing you'd hear at a party. "Sorry, I know it's a bit weird to care about that. It's just–"

"They're tighter," the alpha agrees, pumping out and in as much as the snatch-clutch of Conny's quim will let him. "You don't have to choose between tightness and wetness. Between bleeding them and breeding them. And there's only one hole to fill, so they don't get greedy."

Conny doesn't feel very tight anymore. In fact, it feels like the alpha's humongous dick of death is the only thing keeping his insides still inside him.

"And they fight more. I like that. This one still thinks he was meant to be a beta, don't you, darling?"

They're the first words his alpha has said to him directly. The first time he's been acknowledged as an actual person, not just two holes with a cum-sack in-between.

Conny stares at him, as bewildered and uncomprehending as when he first got a handful of his cum.

The face looming only a few inches from his own is easy enough to map: strong nose, thick eyebrows, narrow mouth, deep-set eyes now a soft gold. Young, handsome, unremarkable. Yet to Conny it still seems somehow blank as ruled paper, the boy to whom he is bound for the rest of his life as much a stranger as when he saw him first as a tree among the flowering jacarandas.

Cuan finishes his cigar and flicks it into the grass. He swings his arms over his head and lets out an energetic whoop. "Let's fucking gooo, then, bro. I've got a fuckin toddler bitch to rape."

Conny's alpha stands up with a squelch around his dick, hands swinging free, leaving Conny to hang on for dear life. Cuan bounds over to the car but Conny's alpha doesn't follow him.

"You don't need that metal death-box." He pisses a little in contempt, an automatic gesture of the alphas of the wild. Only, because he is still locked inside Conny's cunt, the piss goes inside him, splashing into the veritable ocean of cum churning in his womb. His belly has started to press uncomfortably against the firm hills of the alpha's abs.

"You are a wolf now, my brother. And as wolves, we will run."

Cuan's eyes are confused for a second, then they spark with new excitement. "Oh, fuck yesss!"

He looks at the car and hesitates, hands resting on the open door to the driver's seat. Then his claws crunch into the metal, his biceps bulge, veins stand out on his neck and he rips the whole door off, flinging it away into the trees. It hits the trunk of one with a dull clang, then falls to the ground. Cuan whoops again, and gives his car a few more kicks and punches for good measure, making a few dents and shattering a window. The car he spent so long saving for. The car he used to promise to give to Conny when he graduated and moved away to college. And for some stupid reason Conny feels more upset about it than he evidently does.

"Fuck school and fuck this city!" Cuan roars, and starts off, bounding up the aisle of trees to the woods that rise on the hill above the orchard, dark against the glow of the slowly-sinking sun.

Conny's alpha, who Conny more than ever thinks of as the older boy, though the close-up of his face confirmed he really can't be more than fifteen, clasps his hand around Conny's buttocks, throws back his head and howls too, the sound raising gooseflesh all over Conny's skin. God, Conny could feel the gush of cum he let out then. It felt like someone firing a water-gun inside his tummy.

His nails lengthen and sharpen, cutting into the vanilla fondant globes of Conny's ass and making trails of strawberry syrup down to the bright jacaranda floor. By now his knot has softened just enough that it can slip out a little. That means the alpha can start fucking him again.

Conny squeezes his eyes shut, praying to pass out, to die, to be spared that agony.

But neither God, nor gods, nor the Wolf-mother, listen to bitches.

Conny's alpha starts after Cuan. He runs with long, loping strides, hunched over, holding Conny firmly against him in his tireless arms. And as he runs, he fucks.

Even with all the blood and cum and slick, the going is rough. The knot is still there, half again as thick as the base of his cock, which is itself thicker than Conny's arm, thicker than anything that should be going inside his body or anywhere near his anus. Each time the alpha tears out and rams in again is like a fresh deflowering.

Even for Conny, who has been through more this afternoon than in the whole of his life that came before, the long run home will be a learning experience like nothing he's yet known. A nightmare like nothing he's yet dreamed.

Taloned toenails dig up dirt; Conny's alpha catches up to Cuan; they run in unison, picking up speed.

Childish moans and squeals are lost in panting breaths and the drumming of feet against clay.

The world whirls past; cum sloshes sickeningly around Conny's bloated womb, squirting out each time the alpha rocks up into him, stuffs his knot past the screaming, inflamed rim.

Jacaranda blooms are crushed and shredded under-foot, as the boy's pink petal has been crushed and shredded under-cock.

On they run, to the hills and the bloody end of day, two brother alphas and a bitch, leaving a trail of broken dreams in purple, white and red. 

The End