Omega Fox
_Toonces, the Driving Cat, the Cat Who Could Drive a Car
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The omega isn't a role, it's a lifestyle, a disposition bred into our various species. The omega wolf was the classic example, the pack bitch, cumrag, what have you. And though the role has evolved with time, adapted to our culture, been transformed in its passage from pack mentality to post-modern metanarratives, it has always had one special distinction. It's not the distinction of being the bottom. Many would willingly throw themselves, lunge forward to the bottom of the hierarchy if for no reason other than practicality. Embody the role as the cost of a good fuck. Get a few scuff marks on your knees but at least you get laid. The omega does not do this. The omega sits at the end of the bar, doesn't say a word, and gets pulled into the bathroom by a man who doesn't have time to ask questions. The omega changes in the locker room with a constructed confidence, all eyes on his cock, which he may have every reason to be embarrassed by, but has no desire to keep anything hidden. The omega blushes, says "Hi," to a cute guy across the club floor, and immediately finds himself leashed to the most atypical alpha-male with a cock like a jackhammer, as if his attentions alone had granted the man the powers. The omega isn't the weakest, isn't the most vulnerable. He's the only one that doesn't want to be the alpha.
Ethan was an omega. He knew it. An omega naturally knows his role, and is sure of it, and Ethan understood it as clearly as the markings on his fur. It wasn't the small, foxish frame his body was built on that tipped him off, and it wasn't the incurably effete tinge to his speech, not so much defined by its femininity as its decided lack of masculinity. It wasn't in how quickly and stiffly his cock sprung up when he was fucked, and it wasn't in how insatiable he was, how dutiful he felt when given the opportunity to confirm his status as the omega. He was the omega because every time he would be lying naked in bed, his short curved cock already dripping onto his stomach, as he stared at the impossibly hung and uncut alpha-whatever (as even the most classically passive types now seemed to be brimming with the alphas), all he could think would be "Why on Earth would I want to be him, when I could be the guy he fucks?" Every partner is more dominant, assertive, masculine, powerful, and magnetic than he. Lucky Ethan, every guy he bagged was by definition way out of his league.
An average fox, spectacular only in his unspectacularity. In appearance, he denied being either attractive or unattractive, his flaws being sculpted so divinely. His ass, which was neither juicy nor fit, was still the most tender, inviting meat on any body. His cock, as small as most guys only think they are, was so gentle in its curve, the foreskin so neatly wrapped around its head, the rod itself seeming made of molten pearls poured into a perfect, if slightly undersized mold. His face, which radiated a sweetness that invited a pleasant crushing, was marked by a brown splotch behind his right eye. His body, covered in a discolored, richer orange like sorbet, was too slight to imply any use, but still so perfectly realized.
A slut spends too much time at the gym. An omega has a job there. Lifeguarding, the tight speedos putting him on display, his position in the high chair only advertising his status. He doesn't cruise with the men. He blushes and sinks his head into his shoulders when one cuts a remark his way. Grabbed by the wrist, he only follows dutifully to wherever he is led. Today, like many days, it was the locker room. Ethan being bent backward, beneath a not indiscriminate man, on a locker room bench. Not a swimmer, just a weightlifter that knows of the fox's, let's say, "availability."
A slut forgets his partners. An omega appreciates each partner for the specific ways their bodies and temperaments highlight his own submissiveness. Today the alpha, a panther, embodies a cruel mix of perfection and ignorance, a staggeringly faultless body and the ingrained sense of right to superiority that accompanies it. When the panther takes off his shirt to show a body trimmed through relentless dedication and countless mirrors, Ethan melts, a dumb smile spreading over his face as he peeks through his spread legs, agreeing with whatever vain thoughts have to be going through the panther's head. When the pants are dropped to reveal a dick built for cruelty and balls whose mass give off a vibe that can only be described as ecologically unsustainable, the fox firms right back up.
Ethan is no size queen, but he would never stifle his appreciation to appear otherwise. He feels the massive meat on his face, feeling the warmth of it, an appreciable heat that only the most endowed seem to contain. The musk of the man is overbearing, a tad offensive, that is to say, the perfect scent for the occasion. He absorbs it into his fur, feels it wash over him and displace his own subtle aroma. When it's shoved into his mouth, all he can do is keep his teeth off the firm flesh. His throat fills easily until his nose it buried in the short, wiry pubes at the base of the long, stout, black cock. He is gorged, his jaw aching, cannot even pretend to suck, can only lap his tongue along the underside and let the panther enjoy the sensation of balls slapping against a chin.
He is turned over, his chin to the floor and ass in the air, tail bent over his back in invitation, his cock dripping into a slowly running rivulet inching toward a drain. Nobody rims omegas. He's not even teased; the panther must be in a hurry. And of course he still grunts, shrieks even, at the first plunge, the panther's impatience slowed only by the natural limits of the fox's body. It doesn't hurt too bad - it never hurts too bad - but it's hard to ignore the damage. He feels the cock stuffed between his cheeks, forced like the last shirt in a suitcase. The panther doesn't fuck him just yet, but rather plumbs the depth of the fox, spreads the ass with a cocky self-satisfaction, enjoying the distinct pleasure of being Too Much. And if the fox can take it - as Ethan does, his eyebrows furrowed in anxiety and teeth mark in his lips - then all the better to enjoy the privileges of a huge cock.
Ethan moans, loudly, not feeling any need to silence himself - it wouldn't be so bad if someone new came to join, so either the more dominant would win him, or they'd learn to share - and bares his teeth, curls his toes and lets his head swim free as he focuses on the electric sensation that shoots through his cock like a lightning rod each time the panther fucks him one inch too deep (and still two more inches til the end). He's abused, his ass slapped, a hand between his shoulders keeping him squirming against the ground, and a flow of ever insulting words are poured into his ear.
"You take that dick you omega bitch, you can't resist every inch, not the first, second, eighth or any past that. You want to feel my balls slap against yours. You dreamed of a dick like mine, and when you lay in bed and stroke that omega prick you fantasize about being fucked like this. If your body didn't want it, you'd still just grit your teeth and let me ream you like a ragdoll. Take that dick! That that dick, fox! God gave me this dick because someone was meant to be fucked by it, and you're gonna take every bit I was blessed with. Omegas aren't omegas because they want it, you're an omega because you need it, fox, bite down and let me give it to you!"
The words melted together, as they always do, and soon the very cadence of the panther's voice beats into the fox's dignity like a timpani drum. The rhythms of it all - all different beats - overwhelm him. The overbearing, steady beat of the fat dick spreading him open, the rising and falling pattern of the panther's taunts, the tug on the tail that seemed to come with every dozen plows, the beating of his own heart in his chest. Each rhythm distinct, even, but too much to keep track in his head. Like overambitious jazz, it overloads his senses, defied him to keep track of it all.
The panther has his hands on Ethan's shoulders. He holds him down, physically, really, and feels the sensation that the alphas love, the one joy at the center of it all: to feel the fox squirm. Squirming isn't quite resisting, it isn't quite a protest. You can feel it in your paws easier than you can see it, can feel the weakening or growing trembles feed into your palms. You never hold them quite still, you only hold them so you can feel the squirming. If an omega gets too comfortable in being pistoned, becomes easy in the motions of being fucked, you bury your cock in him to the hilt and by God he'll start to squirm. You give them time to think, time to really sense how much of what's inside them isn't actually them. Give them the idea of how wide they're being stretched, how deep they're being pounded, how completely they're being abused, and they always begin to squirm, and they're keep squirming until you've fucked them for a good while, again.
Ethan cums, though the panther doesn't notice, the cries of orgasm mistaken for any other. His cock pulses, shooting thick white gobs of cum into his fur, onto the floor. The sniffs for his scent, but still it is subdued by the panther's dominant musk. In only a few seconds, that don't seem like any longer than a few seconds, the fox is drained, his balls tight and his cock red with fatigue, and still the panther plunges on. Two hands spread his cheeks, hold him still as the panther probes him deep, shoving the blunt tool into the tender hole, the exhilaration of orgasm leaving him sensitive, and the sharp cries in his throat reflect that.
A thrust is broken off suddenly, and rather than pull back for another, the panther simply tries to push himself deeper, past the fox's milky cheeks, riding on the fox's ass. The panther doesn't groan or sigh as he unloads inside the fox, and the fox doesn't need these cues to know he's being filled. He writhes, imagining he feels the great torrent filling him, imagining he feels each jet sink a little deeper into his gut, knowing it's his imagine that feels it, but fact that makes it so. The panther's well-stocked balls fill the fox until he's leaking from his loosening seal, the cum running down the back of his balls and dripping to the floor below. The panther remains sunk in the fox's ass for awhile. When he pulls out, he does so unceremoniously, impatiently, leaving the fox crumpled and battered on the floor below, but feeling no guilt for it, and if anything, a sense of pride for making things right in the world. He stays to shower, and the fox, still messy, slips back into his tight speedo and returns, sticky, to his spot at the lifeguard's chair.
His dick is still hard, showing obscenely through his dampened speedos, but he doesn't hide it. No reason to hide. That's supposed to be the idea in the end, he supposes.