Page 47 of The Drama King
But that was different, as I'd told him. We were pack. We were equals playing with hierarchy for pleasure and bonding.
The question followed me up the stairs, accompanied by the memory of Vespera's defiant chin lift during her showcase performance. She'd looked directly at me while delivering Lady Macbeth's madness, as if channeling her anger at our treatment into her art.
Beautiful. Infuriating. Irresistible.
I found him exactly as expected. Naked, kneeling beside my bed, hands resting on his thighs in the position I'd trained him to assume years ago. His cock was already half-hard, his body responding to anticipation despite his earlier moral protests.
The sight stirred memories I usually kept carefully compartmentalized. Oakley during our senior year of prep school, when his father had finally revealed his true feelings about his son's "weakness" and thrown him out for being "unworthy of the Sinclair name." We'd been best friends since childhood. Our families' estates neighboring each other, summers spent racing horses and winters plotting elaborate pranks on our tutors.
I'd found him in the abandoned boathouse on our prep school grounds after one particularly brutal confrontation with his father, the golden boy I'd grown up with reduced to something desperate and broken.
"Let me help," I'd whispered then, both of us eighteen and finally understanding that pack meant taking care of your own in ways our privileged upbringings had never prepared us for. My best friend, my constant companion since we were seven years old, needed me in a way that transcended everything we'd been taught about Alpha pride and independence.
That first time had been tentative, desperate. Two young Alphas who'd been inseparable since childhood figuring out how dominance and submission could coexist within the same designation.
What started as comfort had evolved into something more complex over the years at university. Oakley's gratitude transforming into genuine submission, his need for my strength becoming the foundation of our pack bond. He'd helped me through difficult times too, but always as the one who yielded, who bent, who accepted whatever I needed to give.
Eleven years of friendship had become three years of something deeper, more primal.
"Look at you," I said, closing the door behind me with deliberate finality. "All that righteous indignation, and you're still here on your knees, waiting for me to put you in your place."
His cedar scent sharpened with embarrassment, but he didn't move from position. There was something almost nostalgic in his submission now. The echo of that frightened boy who'd needed me to teach him that yielding could be strength rather than weakness. My childhood companion, who'd once raced me across meadows and challenged me to climbing contests, now kneeling in perfect submission.
"Dorian."
"Alpha," I corrected, beginning to remove my clothes with methodical precision. "When you're naked and kneeling, you acknowledge the pack hierarchy properly."
"Alpha," he repeated, the word carrying the weight of years of friendship, three years of this deeper bond, shared secrets, shared need.
I stripped slowly, letting him watch, letting the anticipation build. His eyes tracked every movement, pupils dilating as my sandalwood scent filled the room with dominance pheromones designed to trigger submission responses.
It had taken months to train him properly after that first desperate encounter in the boathouse. Teaching him that submission to me didn't make him weak. It made him mine. That there was honor in yielding to a stronger Alpha, safety in surrendering control to someone who would protect him from a world that saw his gentleness as failure.
His father had called him "soft," "unnatural," "a disgrace to Alpha bloodlines." I'd shown him that his capacity for submission was actually rare, valuable. Something that made our pack stronger rather than weaker.
"You want to know the difference between us and scholarship Omegas?" I asked, moving to stand in front of him, my cock inches from his face. "The difference is that you understand hierarchy. You know when to submit."
The irony wasn't lost on me. We'd built our entire identity around the idea that designation determined behavior, yet here was proof that Alphas could be just as submissive as any Omega when the right dynamics were in play.
But that was different. We were a pack. We were choosing this dance of dominance and submission, finding strength in our complementary needs.
Before he could respond, I fisted my hand in his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Open."
His lips parted obediently, and I pressed inside without ceremony, hitting the back of his throat in one smooth thrust. The sound he made, part protest, part surrender, sent heat straight through me.
"That's it," I murmured, setting a steady rhythm. "Show me how an Alpha submits properly."
He relaxed his throat, taking me deeper, years of training evident in how perfectly he accommodated my size. His hands stayed planted on his thighs, maintaining position even as tears gathered in his eyes from the pressure.
"You question our methods," I continued, voice rough with pleasure as I used his mouth. "But look at yourself. Taking me so perfectly, desperate to please your Alpha. This is what proper submission looks like."
The humiliation in my words made him moan around my length, the vibrations nearly undoing my control. I pulled back before I could finish, leaving him gasping and disheveled.
"On the bed," I ordered. "Face down, ass up. Show me that pretty presentation."
He scrambled to comply, positioning himself exactly how I liked. Back arched, knees spread wide, presenting himself for my use. The position emphasized his submission, the way his body curved to offer itself despite his Alpha designation.
"Perfect," I said, running my hands over the smooth expanse of his back. "You see? This is what proper hierarchy looks like. You submit to me, just like she'll submit to us."