The Alpha: Part IV — The Chauffeur
The text arrives at 7:03pm on a Saturday.
We need a ride. Pick us up at 8.
You stare at the screen. Your heart does a slow, heavy roll in your chest. You’ve been wearing the green lace thong for two days. You haven’t touched yourself. You’ve been waiting.
You do. You remember the toilet, the sink, the panties in the water. You remember her hand on your back. Good boy.
You shower. You shave. You put on dark jeans and a button-down shirt, the kind you’d wear on a date. You leave the thong on. It’s become a part of you, a constant, delicate reminder. You check yourself in the mirror. You look good. You look like a guy who gets the girl.
You arrive at 7:55. The blue craftsman house is quiet, but light spills from the windows. You park, text her. Here.
The front door opens. Tabitha steps out onto the porch, and your breath catches.
She’s wearing a little black dress. It’s short, tight, cut low in the front. Her legs are bare, her heels high and sharp. Her hair is down, falling in blonde waves over her shoulders. She looks like something from a magazine, something you’d swipe right on and never match with.
Behind her, Libby and Nadine appear. Libby in a red slip dress that hugs her curves, Nadine in something silver and sparkling. They are all made up, perfumed, glowing. They look at you, and their smiles are warm, approving.
“Hey, pumpkin,” Tabitha says, her voice a soft melody. “You look handsome.”
“Thanks,” you say, your voice rough. “You all look… amazing.”
“We know,” Libby says, not arrogant, just factual. She slides into the back seat of your SUV. Nadine follows, giving your arm a squeeze as she passes.
Tabitha stays on the porch for a moment, looking at you. Her eyes move over your shirt, your jeans, your face. “You dressed up for us. That’s sweet.”
“I thought…” you start, then stop.
“You thought what?” she asks, her head tilting.
She smiles, a small, knowing curve. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
She takes the front seat. Her perfume fills the car—something expensive, floral, with an edge of spice. You start the engine, pull away from the curb.
“So where are we going?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“A club,” Nadine says from the back. “The new one downtown. Eclipse.”
“We’re so excited,” Libby adds. “We haven’t been out in ages.”
You drive. They talk among themselves—about their outfits, about the music, about who might be there. You listen, your hands tight on the wheel. You catch Tabitha’s eye in the rearview mirror. She’s watching you, her expression calm, pleased.
After a few minutes, Nadine leans forward, her hand on your shoulder. “By the way, thank you for doing our laundry. My bras have never been so soft.”
“Yeah,” Libby says. “You’re really good at it. They smell amazing.”
“It’s nothing,” you mutter.
“It’s not nothing,” Tabitha says, her voice soft. “It’s a help. We appreciate it.”
Her hand comes to rest on your thigh, just above the knee. A simple, warm weight. Your cock stirs, thickening against the lace. You shift in your seat.
“See?” Tabitha says to the girls, her thumb stroking your leg. “He likes being useful. His little buddy agrees.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy hoping, against the growing evidence, that this is a date. That you’re the guy taking three beautiful women to a club. That at the end of the night, Tabitha will choose you.
The club is a fortress of glass and neon, a line of people wrapped around the block. Music thumps from inside, a bass you feel in your teeth.
“Drop us at the front, pumpkin,” Tabitha says, her hand leaving your thigh. “We’ll meet you inside.”
You pull up to the curb. The bouncer, a mountain in a black shirt, eyes the car. Tabitha leans over, kisses your cheek. Her lips are soft, her perfume overwhelming. “Be a good boy and find parking. See you soon.”
They slide out—three goddesses in a swirl of fabric and scent. They don’t join the line. They walk straight to the rope, say something to the bouncer. He smiles, unhooks the velvet, lets them through. They disappear into the dark, pulsing mouth of the club.
You sit there, the kiss on your cheek burning. A car behind you honks. You drive away, find a parking garage three blocks over. You pay, walk back.
The line is even longer now. You go to the front, try to catch the bouncer’s attention.
“I’m with Tabitha,” you say. “She just went in.”
The bouncer looks you up and down. “Who?”
“Tabitha. Tall, blonde, black dress. She said she’d get me in.”
He shakes his head. “Not on the list, man. Back of the line.”
You step away, your face hot. You pull out your phone, text her.
I’m here. Can’t get in. Bouncer won’t let me.
You wait five minutes. Text again.
You stand there, watching the line creep forward. The music thumps through the walls. You can see flashes of light inside, silhouettes of bodies moving. You text her once more.
Are you inside? Can you come get me?
Don’t pout, sweetie. Maybe just wait in the car. We’ll text when we’re ready to go home.
You stare at the screen. The words blur. You type a reply, delete it. Type another.
You walk back to the car. Sit in the driver’s seat. The garage is quiet, dim. You can still hear the distant thump of the bass. You wait.
You check your phone. Nothing. You lean your head back, close your eyes. You see Tabitha in her dress. You see her smile. You see her walking past the rope, leaving you behind.
Your cock is hard. It has been since she kissed your cheek. The lace is damp with precum. You adjust yourself, your hand brushing against the erection. A jolt of pleasure-pain shoots through you. You pull your hand away.
You don’t get to play with it unless one of us says you can.
Her voice, in your head, is calm, certain.
Two hours pass. The bass stops. The quiet is sudden, ringing. Your phone lights up.
You start the car, drive to the front of the club. The crowd is spilling out, laughing, shouting, stumbling. You see them.
Tabitha, leaning against a tall man in a leather jacket. His hand is on her hip, possessive. Libby, wrapped around another guy, his arm slung over her shoulders. Nadine, standing slightly apart, watching the street.
You pull up. Nadine sees you, waves, opens the front passenger door. “Hey, chauffeur. Perfect timing.”
Tabitha slides into the back, the man—Jim—following her. Libby and her man—Jason—pile in after. The SUV feels suddenly small, crowded with bodies and perfume and the smell of sweat and alcohol.
“This is Jim,” Tabitha says, her voice a little slurred, warm.
Jim nods at you, his eyes already back on Tabitha.
You pull away from the curb. In the rearview mirror, you see Tabitha curled into Jim’s side. His hand is on her thigh, high up, under the hem of her dress. She’s whispering something in his ear, and he’s smiling.
Your hands tighten on the wheel.
Nadine, in the front seat, is watching you. Her eyes are sharp, sober. She sees your white knuckles. She sees the way your eyes keep flicking to the mirror.
In the back, Jim’s hand moves. You see it in the reflection—his fingers sliding under the black fabric, the flash of panty between Tabitha’s legs. She lets out a soft sigh, her head falling back against the seat.
You look away. Your face is on fire. Your cock is a steel rod in your jeans, throbbing with every beat of your heart.
Nadine’s hand lands on your thigh. You jump.
“Easy,” she murmurs, her voice low, for you alone. Her fingers squeeze, then drift inward, until her palm is cupping the hard bulge in your jeans. “Oh, sweetie. Look at you.”
You gasp. Your hips buck up into her hand.
“Shh,” she says, her thumb rubbing slow circles over the head of your cock through the denim. “It’s okay. It’s okay to be aroused by watching.”
In the back, Tabitha moans, a soft, broken sound. His fingers working between her thighs. “Jim…”
“I see her,” Nadine whispers, her hand still moving on you, a steady, gentle pressure. “I see what he’s doing to her. Fingering her. He knows how to make her feel good.”
Your eyes are glued to the road, but you can hear it—the wet sound of his fingers working, Tabitha’s breathing getting faster, Jim’s low grunt. Libby and Jason are making out, oblivious.
“You like it, don’t you?” Nadine says, her lips close to your ear. “You like seeing her like that. Knowing she’s getting what she needs. Knowing you could never give it to her.”
A whimper escapes your throat. Your cock is leaking, a hot flood of precum soaking through the lace, through your jeans, into Nadine’s hand.
“That’s it,” she coos. “Let it out. It’s honest. Your little penis is always so honest with us.”
She keeps rubbing, her touch firm, relentless. You’re balanced on a knife’s edge, every nerve screaming. You’re going to come. You’re going to come in your pants like a teenager, with Tabitha getting fingered by another man three feet behind you.
“Not yet, sweetie,” Nadine murmurs, her hand stilling, just holding you. “You don’t have permission. You’re just… appreciating the show. That’s all.”
You let out a shuddering breath. You’re trembling. The pressure is unbearable.
You pull up to the blue house. The engine idles. In the back, Jim withdraws his hand, licks his fingers. Tabitha is flushed, her dress rumpled, her eyes heavy-lidded.
“Thanks for the ride, man,” Jim says, clapping you on the shoulder from behind.
You nod, unable to speak.
They pile out. Tabitha leans in the front window, her face glowing. “You can go home now, pumpkin. Thanks for driving.”
“Wait,” you say, the word torn from you.
She turns back, eyebrows raised.
“Can I… can I stay? Just for a bit?”
She studies you. Her eyes drop to your lap, to the obvious wet spot on your jeans, to Nadine’s hand still resting there. She smiles, a warm, indulgent curve.
“Okay,” she says. “You can sleep on the sofa. But be quiet. We have company.”
She turns, lets Jim guide her up the porch steps, his hand already under her dress again. Libby and Jason follow, already kissing, his hands on her ass.
You get out, stand on the sidewalk, watching them disappear into the house. Nadine takes your hand, leads you into the house.
“Come on, sweetie,” she says, her voice gentle. “Let’s get you settled.”
You follow her inside. The house is dark, quiet. Upstairs, a door closes. Then another.
Nadine leads you to the living room sofa. She tosses the pillow at one end, then sits, leaning back against the cushions, stretching her legs out and resting her feet on the coffee table. She pats her lap.
You stare at her. “What?”
“You heard me. Head in my lap. Come on.”
You obey. You lie down lengthwise on the sofa, your head settling in her lap. She’s warm, soft. Her hand comes to rest on your chest, over your heart.
“Your penis is so hard it hurts, doesn’t it?” she says, her voice a low murmur.
“Yes,” you whisper. “It’s… it’s agony.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.” Her fingers stroke your hair. “Would you like me to stay with you for a little while? We can listen together.”
You nod, your throat tight.
“Good.” Her hand moves from your chest to your waistband. “Push your pants down. Just to your thighs. The panties stays up.”
Your hands are clumsy. You unbutton your jeans, push them down over your hips. The cool air hits your skin. The green lace thong is dark with precum, stretched tight over your erection. You are completely exposed to her, from the navel down.
“There,” she says, her voice approving. “That’s better.”
Upstairs, a moan cuts through the silence. Tabitha’s voice, high and desperate. “Oh, god, yes—”
The sound of a headboard hitting the wall. A steady, rhythmic thumping.
“Listen,” Nadine whispers, her fingers tracing the waistband of your thong. “That’s Jim. He’s inside her now. Can you hear it? That wet sound? That’s her pussy accepting him. Stretching around him.”
Her index and middle fingers come to rest on the head of your cock, right through the soaked lace. She presses down, just enough to make you gasp, and begins to rub small, slow circles—the way you’d rub a clit.
“This is how girls do it, sweetie,” she murmurs, her voice a hypnotic hum. “Small circles. Gentle pressure. No tugging. Just soft, round motions. Can you feel that?”
You nod, a helpless jerk of your head. Your hips lift, seeking more.
“Shh, just listen,” she soothes. “He’s so deep inside her. Every thrust, she feels it tapping her cervix. He’s splitting her open. Filling her up. That’s what a real cock does. It stretches. It claims.”
Her fingers never stop their slow, maddening circles. Precum wells, soaking the lace, making it slick under her touch. The pleasure is a tight, coiling spring in your belly.
From another room, Libby cries out—a sharp, delighted sound. Then laughter. Then Jason’s low growl.
“They’re both getting what they need tonight,” Nadine says, her voice calm, observational. “Real men. Adequate men. Men who know how to use their cocks. Not like you or your little buddy. He's for this. For lying here. For leaking. For listening.”
Your breath hitches. You’re so close. The pressure is a live wire in your balls, your cock throbbing under her fingers. You’re going to come. You’re going to—
Nadine stops. Lifts her fingers away.
You groan, a broken sound. “Please…”
“Not yet, sweetie,” she says, her hand returning to stroke your hair. “We’re just getting started. Listen.”
Tabitha is screaming now, a raw, ragged sound. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck me, please—”
“He won’t stop,” Nadine whispers. Her fingers return, not circling this time, but just resting on the soaked fabric, a warm, still weight.
“He’s going to fuck her until she comes. He’s going to empty himself inside her. Pump her full. Breed her. And you’re going to lie here and feel your little penis weep because it knows it will never, ever get to do that.”
Her fingers begin to move again, not circles now, but a gentle, up-and-down rub over the length of your shaft through the lace.
“This is all you get, sweetie. This soft rub. This little tease. While he’s up there, pounding into her, stretching her pussy wide open. You can hear how wet she is, can’t you? That’s because he’s doing it right. Because he’s a real man.”
You’re panting. Tears prick your eyes. The pleasure is unbearable, edged with a shame so deep it feels like truth.
“He’s tapping her cervix,” Nadine narrates, her voice low and certain. “Every time he bottoms out. She can feel him in her belly. That’s what being fucked feels like. That’s what being filled feels like." She gives your lace-covered cock a gentle, pitying squeeze. “Tap. Tap. Tap. Can you feel it sweetie.”
She brings you to the brink again with her expert, maddening touch. You can feel your orgasm gathering, a tidal wave about to crash.
She stops again, just as you’re about to fall over the edge.
“I know, sweetie,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “I know it’s hard. But this is what you’re for. This is your purpose. To listen. To want. To not have.”
She starts again. This time, she takes your hand and guides it to your cock. Places your own fingers over the lace. “You do it. Show me. Small circles. Just like a girl rubbing her clitty. Go on.”
Your hand moves, clumsy at first, then finding the rhythm she taught you. Round and round. The soaked lace slips under your fingertips.
“Good boy,” she coos. “Good girl. You’re such a good girl, rubbing your little clitty while real men fuck your women. Say it.”
“I’m a good girl,” you whisper, the words torn from you.
“Rubbing my clitty,” she prompts.
“While a real man fucks Tabitha.”
“While a real man fucks Tabitha.”
Your hand moves faster. The coil tightens. You’re there. You’re right there.
Nadine’s hand closes over yours, stilling it. “Not yet. Listen.”
The noises upstairs change. The headboard slows. Tabitha’s cries soften into whimpers, then into a long, shuddering moan. “I’m coming… oh god, I’m coming…”
“You hear that,” Nadine narrates, her breath warm against your ear. “Her pussy is clenching around his cock. Milking him. Begging for his seed. And he’s going to give it to her. He’s going to pump her full. Because that’s what real men do.”
A final, brutal series of thrusts, then a low, guttural groan from Jim. Then silence.
Heavy breathing. A satisfied sigh.
Nadine’s hand is still over yours. Your cock is a throbbing, desperate ache beneath your fingers. You haven’t come. You’ve been edged into a state of raw, shuddering need.
She leans down, kisses your forehead. Her lips are soft, warm.
“There all done sweetie. And so are you,” she whispers. “You did so well.”
She gently pulls your hand away from your cock. Gives it a final, soft pat through the wet lace.
“Get some sleep now,” she says, shifting out from under you. She stands, arranges the pillow under your head, spreads the blanket over you. “No playing with yourself. Your penis belongs to us. We aren’t giving you permission.”
You nod, your eyes closed. You are empty. You are owned.
She turns off the lamp. The room is dark. You hear her footsteps on the stairs, then the soft click of a bedroom door closing.
You lie on the sofa, the blanket over you, your cock still hard and aching in its lace prison. The smell of sex—their sex—lingers in the air. You listen to the silence, and you wait for morning.
This is the fourth in a series about an "alpha", the woman he chases, and the gnawing awareness that some men are designed to listen, not to fill.
Previously: The Alpha: Part I — the BBQ | The Alpha: Part II — the Gym | The Alpha: Part III — The Roommates
Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.
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