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Pressure builds in waves— not a slow swell, but a merciless, calibrated acceleration designed to overwhelm strategic regulation . His touch doesn't just elicit sensation—it constructs a new language inside me, each pass spelling out a truth I’ve been denying since I walked back into this hell.

I want this.

Not because of heat protocols or chemical manipulation. Not because of biological imperatives or fated compatibility. Because it’s him .

Because it’s Riot.

Because he’s the one who makes the control slip, the calculations unravel, the masks shatter.

And I don’t care who’s watching.

The rhythm changes— intensifies. He’s escalating by design, layering stimulation over saturation, engineering pleasure like a system meant to implode.

My breath catches. My thighs tremble. Muscles clench involuntarily against the onslaught of sensation, narrowing the entire world into one singular, punishing point of focus.

The tension coils tight.

Relentless. Unsustainable.

Shit. I'm going to ? —

I try to hold it. Contain it. Use my training, my layers of internalized behavioral reinforcement, to temper the wildfire catching beneath my skin. But it’s no use. He dismantles it all with fingers that never once hesitate, with strokes that map my anatomy like a schematic studied for years.

He knew what I needed before I remembered I was allowed to need.

The pleasure builds into pressure— into pain —tight and desperate and screaming to be released. It claws at me, a living thing demanding surrender.

And then ? —

"Let go," he orders, voice low, commanding, absolute. No doubt. No room for refusal. The kind of order that cuts deeper than restraints or sedation or seduction.

My body obeys before my mind can resist.

The release hits with catastrophic force.

I shatter with a sound I don’t recognize— a gasp, a sob, a plea —and the pleasure doesn’t just ripple through me, it consumes. Every nerve ignites, every breath fractures. I lose all sense of where he ends and I begin.

I’m burning and flying and collapsing all at once—disassembled in real time by the only Alpha who ever bothered to see beyond the designation. Beyond the data.

And in that spiraling, suspended freefall, I feel it.

Connection.

Raw. Ruthless. Real.

And for one impossible moment—between heartbeats, between breaths—I remember what it felt like to be wanted , not processed.

To be touched , not tracked.

To be his .

The permission shatters final resistance despite non-existent tactical foundation or strategic objective—release flowing through activated systems with comprehensive intensity despite control methodology and operational conditioning designed to maintain perfect regulation regardless of stimulation parameters or environmental factors.

My body convulses within his secure hold—not distress or discomfort, but overwhelming pleasure cascading through interconnected systems with devastating efficiency despite tactical training and operational conditioning designed to prevent precisely such vulnerability or unregulated response patterns.

The involuntary muscle contractions create visible evidence of genuine physiological reaction rather than performance parameters or simulated engagement, despite surveillance documentation and institutional monitoring.

The vocalization accompanying physical response emerges without conscious regulation or tactical consideration—genuine sound unconstrained by volume control or content filtering, despite surveillance systems and institutional documentation.

The noise carries no specific verbalization or articulated content—just pure expression of overwhelming sensation beyond linguistic construction or conventional communication despite linguistic capability and verbal functionality remaining technically operational despite compromised regulatory parameters.

He maintains perfect support throughout the uncontrolled response—not simple physical assistance or general stabilization, but comprehensive protection ensuring safety despite vulnerability and compromised function during overwhelming experience.

As physiological intensity subsides through natural progression rather than abrupt disruption or pharmaceutical override, cognitive function reboots with gradual recalibration rather than full restoration.

Mental processes drift— adrift —navigating between fragmented thought and residual pleasure, momentarily suspended in the aftermath of climax that dismantled every protocol drilled into me since designation was weaponized.

The window is small. Vulnerable. Dangerous. A breach in defenses that tactical training taught me to avoid at all costs—where awareness dulls, reflexes lag, and the world contracts into one overwhelming certainty:

I feel too much.

His lips find the junction of my throat and shoulder with surgical intent —not casual affection or reflexive comfort, but a deliberate act of sensory reclamation. Contact that bypasses clinical definition and lands instead in the place where instinct lives.

The kiss detonates through frayed nerve endings still sparking from orgasmic backlash, a delayed echo building upon the aftermath rather than interrupting it. It’s gentle— but only in pressure. The weight behind it is anything but.

It’s a command. It’s confirmation.

It’s Riot.

"Mine," he growls, mouth brushing skin already too sensitive, voice torn from somewhere too deep for strategy or restraint. No pretense of performative dominance or institutionally approved courtship rituals. Just truth —raw, unfiltered, unchained.

And I feel it everywhere .

Not just in the way my body responds— shivering, trembling, yielding —but in the way something fundamental inside me settles for the first time since Ravenscroft split me in two.

His words don’t just land—they integrate.

Assimilate. Replace code once burned into synaptic response pathways with something older.

Something real.

He says mine, and my body— my soul —responds like it was designed to recognize his voice in a room full of static.

There’s no fear.

No calculation.

No performance.

Just instinct and the flickering memory of belonging.

And when my mouth opens to respond, the words don’t come from intellect or agenda. They emerge from the same place he touched with his kiss—from the core of what they tried to erase.

“Yours,” I whisper.

Not a concession.

Not a programmatic reply.

A recognition.

A vow spoken without coercion, conditioning, or cost-benefit analysis. No clause. No caveat. No careful distancing.

Just me.

Just him.

And in that moment, held in arms branded by violence and forged by betrayal—I let it be true.

Because I am.

And I always have been.