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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 type back. Where?

Our place. You remember.

You do. You remember the toilet, the sink, the panties in the water. You remember her hand on your back. Good boy.

Okay, you send.

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.

“Nothing.”

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.”

“Cool.”

“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.”

“But she—”

“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.

Read receipt. No reply.

You wait five minutes. Text again.

Tabitha?

Read. No reply.

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?

This time, she replies.

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.

How long?

Not long.

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.

You wait.

Two hours pass. The bass stops. The quiet is sudden, ringing. Your phone lights up.

Outside. Now.

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.”

She turns to leave.

“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.

“Here. Lie down.”

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.

This time, you sob.

“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.

“Rubbing my clitty.”

“While a real man fucks Tabitha.”

“While a real man fucks Tabitha.”

“Because I can’t.”

“Because I can’t.”

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.

The house is quiet.

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

The Alpha: Part V — The Cleanup

You wake to the smell of coffee and sunlight.

You’re on the sofa, the blanket tangled around your legs, the green lace thong still snug against your hips. Your cock is half-hard against the fabric, a morning erection that has nothing to do with dreams and everything to do with the memory of last night—the sounds from upstairs, Nadine’s hand on your chest, her voice in the dark.

You lie still, listening. The house is quiet. No headboard thumping. No moans. Just the hum of a refrigerator, the distant chirp of a bird outside.

Footsteps on the stairs. Light, barefoot. Nadine appears in the doorway, dressed in a long t-shirt and nothing else, her hair messy from sleep. She smiles when she sees you’re awake.

“Good morning, sweetie,” she says, her voice soft, warm. “Sleep okay?”

You sit up, the blanket pooling in your lap. “Yeah. Fine.”

She comes to the sofa, sits on the edge, her thigh brushing yours. Her hand reaches out, touches your cheek. “You look tired. But cute. Like a little boy who stayed up past his bedtime.”

Her thumb strokes your skin. You lean into the touch without meaning to.

“We have some things to do today,” she says, her tone conversational. “I need groceries. And then breakfast. You’re going to help.”

You blink. “Groceries?”

“Mm-hmm. The fridge is empty. I’ll make a list. You’ll go to the store.” She stands, stretches, the hem of her shirt riding up. You catch a glimpse of her thighs, the curve of her ass. You look away, your face heating.

“I’m not your errand boy,” you say, the words automatic, defensive.

Nadine turns, looks at you. Her expression is calm, unoffended. “Of course you are, sweetie. That’s part of what you’re for.” She tilts her head. “And your little buddy agrees.”

Your eyes drop. The lace is tenting, your cock filling at her words, at her presence, at the sheer certainty in her voice. You adjust the blanket, trying to hide it.

Nadine smiles. “Don’t bother. I already see him. He’s saying good morning.” She reaches down, her fingers brushing the bulge through the panties. A jolt of electricity shoots up your spine. “He’s always so honest with us. That’s why we keep you around.”

She turns, walks toward the kitchen. “Get dressed. I’ll write the list. Your jeans are on the floor where you left them.”

You stand, your legs shaky. You pull on your jeans over the thong. You find your shirt, pull it on. By the time you get to the kitchen, Nadine is sipping coffee, a notepad on the counter.

She slides it toward you. The list is detailed—eggs, bread, avocado, bacon, orange juice, a specific brand of yogurt she likes. At the bottom, she’s written and a little treat for yourself, sweetie. Something sweet.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

“I know I don’t have to,” she says, her voice gentle. “I want to. You’re going to do a good job for us. You deserve a treat.” She reaches into a jar on the counter, pulls out a key, and hands it to you. “Take my car. It’s the blue Prius out front.”

You take the key. Your fingers brush hers. “I could just go home,” you say, the words quiet, testing.

“You could,” she agrees. She sips her coffee. “But you won’t. Because you want to see Tabitha. Because you want to be useful. And because,” her eyes drop to your jeans, “your little buddy wants to stay right where he is, in his pretty lace, being good for us.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. She’s right.

You drive to the store. The morning is bright, ordinary. You push a cart through the aisles, picking up the items on her list. You feel absurd, a grown man in a green lace thong buying groceries for three women who see him as a pet. Your cock stays half-hard the whole time, a dull, persistent ache.

At the checkout, you add a chocolate bar to the belt—your treat. The cashier, a woman in her fifties, smiles at you. “Big breakfast?”

“Something like that,” you mutter.

Back at the house, Nadine meets you at the door, takes the bags. “Perfect timing. Now, breakfast. You’re cooking.”

“I don’t really cook,” you say, following her into the kitchen.

“You do today.” She points to the stove. “Bacon first. Then eggs. Scrambled, not too dry. Toast. Avocado slices. I’ll make the coffee.”

You stand there, holding the package of bacon. “This is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” She turns, leans against the counter, watching you. “You’re here. You’re capable. You want to help. Why is it ridiculous?”

“Because I’m not your chef.”

“No,” she says, her voice softening. “You’re not our chef. You’re our good boy. And good boys help with breakfast.” She steps closer, her hand coming to rest on your lower back. “Now, come on. Show me what you can do.”

Her touch is warm, grounding. You let out a breath. You open the bacon, lay the strips in the pan. The sizzle fills the kitchen. Nadine hums as she grinds coffee beans, her hips swaying slightly to a song only she can hear.

You cook. The bacon crisps. You crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them, pour them into a second pan. You slice the avocado, fan the green flesh on a plate. You try to remember the last time you cooked breakfast for someone. Marlene, maybe, months ago. You’d made pancakes. She’d smiled, kissed you, said you’re sweet. You’d felt like a provider.

This feels different. This feels like service.

The front door opens. Libby walks in, wearing yoga pants and a tank top, her hair in a high ponytail. She smells of fresh air and sweat. She sees you at the stove, smiles.

“Oh, good. He’s cooking.” She comes to the kitchen, kisses Nadine on the cheek, then stands beside you, watching your hands. “Smells amazing. You’re a man of many talents.”

“He is,” Nadine says, pouring coffee into mugs. “He did the groceries, too. All by himself.”

Libby’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezes. “Such a good boy. We’re lucky to have you.”

Your face burns. You focus on the eggs, stirring them gently. “It’s just eggs.”

“It’s not just anything,” Libby says, her voice firm but kind. “It’s a gift. And we appreciate it.”

You plate the food—bacon, eggs, toast, avocado. You carry it to the table. Nadine and Libby sit. You stand there, unsure.

“Sit, sweetie,” Nadine says, patting the chair beside her. “You cooked. You eat.”

You sit. You pick at your food. They eat with enthusiasm, talking about their mornings—Libby’s yoga class, Nadine’s plan to paint the bathroom. They include you in the conversation, asking gentle questions, listening to your short answers. It feels normal, almost domestic. Except for the lace against your skin. Except for the way your cock thickens every time one of them praises you.

When the meal is finished, Libby leans back, sipping her coffee. She looks at you, her head tilted.

“Tabitha’s still asleep,” she says. “She had a long night.” A small, knowing smile touches her lips. “You should bring her breakfast in bed. She’d like that.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you. She’s upstairs. Second door on the left.” Libby stands, takes her plate to the sink. “Make her a plate. Be gentle when you wake her. She’s… tender this morning.”

Nadine nods. “It’s a good idea. She’ll be happy to see you.”

You look from one to the other. Their expressions are open, encouraging. There is no malice in their eyes. Only certainty.

You stand. You make a plate—eggs, bacon, toast, avocado. You pour a glass of orange juice. You carry it up the stairs, your heart hammering against your ribs.

The hallway is dim, quiet. You stop at the second door on the left. You knock softly.

No answer.

You push the door open.

The room is washed in soft morning light. The bed is a tangle of sheets. Tabitha lies on her side, her back to you, a white sheet pulled up to her waist. Her bare shoulders are exposed, smooth, freckled. Her blonde hair spills over the pillow.

The smell hits you first—sex, sweat, musk, the distinct scent of a man’s cum. It’s thick in the air, unmistakable. Your cock, already half-hard, gives a violent throb. The lace grows damp.

You step inside, close the door softly. You set the tray on the nightstand. You kneel beside the bed.

“Tabitha,” you whisper.

She stirs. A soft sigh. She rolls onto her back, the sheet slipping down to reveal the tops of her breasts. She’s not wearing a shirt. Her eyes open, slow, bleary. They focus on you.

A smile touches her lips. “Pumpkin. You’re here.”

“I brought you breakfast,” you say, your voice rough.

“That’s sweet.” She sits up, letting the sheet fall to her waist. She’s naked underneath. Her breasts are full, her nipples dark and peaked. Your eyes drop, then jerk back to her face. She doesn’t cover herself. She reaches for the tray, sets it in her lap. “Thank you.”

She eats slowly, savoring each bite. You watch her. The sheet is pooled around her hips, covering her lower half, but you can see the shape of her thighs, the curve of her waist. The smell of sex is stronger here, close to the bed.

“Jim left around six,” she says, around a mouthful of eggs. Her tone is casual, conversational. “He had an early meeting. He’s a lawyer. Very busy.” She sips the orange juice. “He’s good, though. Thorough. I slept well after.”

Your throat is tight. You nod.

She finishes the food, sets the tray aside. She leans back against the headboard, the sheet still covering her lap. Her eyes move over you—your face, your shirt, your jeans.

“You’re wearing the thong,” she says, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” She pats the bed beside her. “Come here. Sit.”

You rise from your knees, sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed is warm from her body. The smell is overwhelming.

Tabitha reaches out, her hand coming to rest on your thigh. “You listened last night, didn’t you? Nadine told me. She said you were very good. Very quiet.”

“I heard,” you whisper.

“I know you did.” Her fingers stroke your leg through the denim. “It’s okay. It’s what you’re for. To listen. To want. To not have.”

Her hand moves higher, until her palm is cupping the hard bulge in your jeans. You gasp.

“See?” she says, her voice warm, pleased. “You’re already hard. Just from being in this room. Just from smelling him on me.” She gives you a gentle squeeze. “Your little buddy knows his place. He’s not jealous. He’s… appreciative.”

You close your eyes. Your hips buck up into her hand.

“Shh,” she soothes. “It’s okay. I like it. I like how honest you are with me.” Her hand retreats. “Stand up. Take your jeans off. Let me see you.”

You stand. Your fingers fumble with your belt, your button, your zipper. You push your jeans down, step out of them. You stand before her in your shirt and the green lace thong, your cock straining against the sheer fabric, the head dark with precum, wetting the lace.

Tabitha’s eyes drift down. She studies you, her expression calm, observational. “You’ve made a mess in your pretty panties again, haven’t you?”

“I couldn’t help it,” you say, the words choked.

“I know. You never can.” She smiles, a small, affectionate curve. “Come here. Closer.”

You step forward, until your thighs brush the edge of the mattress.

Tabitha reaches out, hooks her fingers into the waistband of the thong. She tugs, pulling it down over your hips, letting it fall to your ankles. Your cock springs free, hard, leaking, bobbing between your legs.

“There he is,” she murmurs. “Hello, little one.” Her eyes move over you, taking in the length, the thickness, the curve. “He’s so eager. He’s practically begging.”

She doesn’t touch you. She just looks. Her gaze is clinical, interested. “You know, when Jim was here last night, I thought of you. I thought about how different it feels. Him, inside me, stretching me, filling me up. And you, out there, listening, getting hard from the sound.” Her hand moves to her own thigh, stroking the skin. “It’s a nice contrast. It’s… satisfying.”

Your cock throbs. A fresh bead of precum wells up, drips onto the floor.

“See?” she says, her voice soft. “You like that. You like knowing I was full of another man. You like knowing your little penis could never do what his did.” She shifts on the bed, her legs parting slightly under the sheet. “Come here. Kneel.”

You sink to your knees on the carpet. The floor is rough against your skin. You are level with her lap, the sheet a thin barrier between you and what’s underneath.

Tabitha reaches down, takes the edge of the sheet, and pulls it aside.

She is naked underneath. Her thighs are parted, her pussy exposed. It’s swollen, glistening, the lips puffy and dark. And between them, leaking slowly down her inner thigh, is a thick, milky trail of cum.

Jim’s cum.

Your breath stops. Your cock gives a violent jerk, so hard it aches.

Tabitha watches your face. She sees the hunger, the shock, the arousal. She smiles.

“He came inside me,” she says, her voice a low, intimate murmur. “Three times. The last one was deep, right when I was coming. He filled me up. I can still feel it.”

Her fingers drift down, through her folds, gathering some of the wetness. She holds them up, showing you the glossy white strands. “See?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“I haven’t cleaned up yet,” she says. “I thought you might like a treat. To be useful.” She lowers her hand, smears the cum back over her pussy. “This is your job now, pumpkin. You’re going to clean me up. With your mouth.”

Your eyes lock on hers. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“You’re going to lick me clean,” she continues, her voice calm, instructional. “Every drop. You’re going to taste him. You’re going to taste me. You’re going to swallow everything. And then, when I’m clean, you’re going to make me come. With your tongue. Just your tongue. Can you do that?”

You swallow. Your mouth is dry. “Yes.”

“Good boy.” She pats the bed between her legs. “Come closer. Get comfortable.”

You shuffle forward on your knees, until your face is inches from her pussy. The smell is intense—musky, salty, sweet, the unmistakable scent of sex and spent seed. Your cock weeps, dripping onto the carpet beneath you.

Tabitha’s hand comes to rest on the back of your head, her fingers tangling in your hair. “Go on, sweetie. Do your job.”

You lean in.

Your tongue touches her first at the top, just above her clit. The skin is soft, warm.

You lick downward, through her folds, collecting the first layer of wetness—her arousal, mixed with his release. The taste is complex, salty, bitter, uniquely them. You swallow, your throat working.

“That’s it,” Tabitha murmurs, her hand guiding you. “Get it all. Don’t miss any.”

You lick deeper, your tongue probing between her lips, seeking out the pooled cum inside her. You lap at her entrance, swallowing each time you bring away a mouthful. The taste is overwhelming, but you don’t pull back. You keep going, your tongue moving in slow, thorough strokes.

Tabitha sighs, her hips lifting slightly to meet your mouth. “Good. So good. You’re such a good cleaner.”

You clean her like it’s a sacrament. You lick every fold, every crease. You suck gently at her clit, drawing out the last remnants of wetness. You swallow until there’s nothing left but the taste of her, clean and sharp and pure.

When you pull back, her pussy is glistening, but the white is gone. You’ve swallowed it all.

Tabitha looks down at you, her eyes heavy-lidded, her breath coming a little faster. “Perfect. Now, make me come. Just with your tongue. Show me what you’re good for.”

You dive back in. This time, your focus shifts. You circle her clit with the tip of your tongue, soft, persistent. You listen to her breathing, to the small sounds she makes. You adjust your pressure, your speed, based on her cues.

Her hand tightens in your hair. “Yes. Just like that. Oh, pumpkin, that’s so good.”

You worship her with your mouth. You forget about your own cock, aching and ignored between your legs. You forget about everything except the woman under your tongue, the taste of her, the sound of her pleasure.

Her hips begin to rock, matching the rhythm of your tongue. Her breaths turn to gasps. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

You don’t. You keep going, your jaw aching, your tongue tired, but you don’t stop. You are a machine built for this one purpose—to bring her to orgasm with your mouth.

“That’s it,” she moans, her voice breaking. “That’s what you’re for. Not to fill me. To clean up after the man who did. To finish what he started. To make it perfect.”

Her body tenses. Her thighs clamp around your head. She cries out, a raw, ragged sound, and her pussy pulses against your tongue, a series of tight, fluttering contractions. You keep licking, gentler now, drawing out her orgasm until she slumps back against the headboard, spent.

You pull back, your face wet with her. You look up at her. She is flushed, beautiful, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Good boy,” she breathes, her voice soft, satisfied. “Very good boy.”

She reaches down, strokes your cheek. “Now. Your turn.”

You blink. “My turn?”

“You’ve been so good. You deserve a reward.” She pats the bed beside her. “Sit up here. Next to me.”

You rise from your knees, sit on the edge of the mattress. Your cock is painfully hard, throbbing with every heartbeat.

Tabitha turns onto her side, propping her head on her hand. She looks at your erection, her expression calm, interested. “You’ve been so patient. So obedient. I think you’ve earned permission to play with yourself. Would you like that?”

Your breath hitches. “Please.”

“Good.” Her eyes meet yours. “But there’s a condition.”

“What?”

“You have to clean it up. After. With your mouth. Just like you cleaned me.” She smiles, a warm, indulgent curve. “It’s only fair. You make the mess, you clean it up. That’s the rule.”

You stare at her. The idea—jerking off in front of her again, then licking it up—should horrify you. It doesn’t. It makes your cock jump, a fresh pulse of precum dripping from the tip.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Good.” She settles back, watching you. “Go on, then. Show me. But take your time. I want to enjoy your routine.”

You wrap your hand around your cock. The skin is hot, slick with precum. You rub the head, get your hand slick, slowly, watching her face.

Her eyes are on your hand, on the movement, on the way your fist moves up and down your shaft.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Nice and slow. Let me see.”

You stroke. Up and down. Root to tip. Once. Twice.

The pleasure builds, a tight coil in your belly. You’re already close—from the morning, from the groceries, from cooking, from kneeling, from tasting her, from her permission. It’s all been foreplay.

“You’re close, aren’t you, pumpkin?” she asks, her voice soft.

You nod, your breath coming faster.

Another stroke. Four. And another. Five.

“Then come,” she says, her voice a gentle command. “Make your mess. Show me.”

You stroke faster.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Your hand blurs. Your hips buck.

Nine. Ten.

Your orgasm crashes over you—a sharp, pulsing release that spills over your fingers and splatters onto the carpet between your feet. You keep stroking, milking it out, your body shuddering with each weak spurt.

When it’s over, you slump forward, panting, your cock softening in your sticky hand. A small puddle of your own cum glistens on the carpet.

Tabitha watches, her expression calm, pleased. “Very nice. Now, clean it up.”

You look at the mess. You look at her. She nods, encouraging.

You get off the bed, sink back to your knees. You lean forward, your tongue extending. You lap at the puddle, swallowing your own release. It’s bitter, salty, familiar. You clean the spot thoroughly, until the carpet is damp but clean.

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels, looking up at her.

Tabitha smiles. She reaches out, cups your cheek. “Perfect. You’re perfect.” She leans down, kisses your forehead. “Now, go take a shower. Use my bathroom. There are clean towels in the cabinet. When you're done, go downstairs. Wait for me. We’ll have more coffee.”

She lies back, pulling the sheet over herself, closing her eyes. The conversation is over.

You stand, gather your clothes—your jeans, your thong. You walk to the bathroom, your legs shaky. You shower, the hot water washing away the sweat, the taste, the night. You dry off, dress in your same clothes, the thong damp against your skin.

When you come downstairs, Nadine and Libby are at the table, drinking coffee. They look up, smile.

“All clean?” Nadine asks.

You nod.

“Good,” Libby says. She pushes a mug toward you. “Sit. Drink.”

You sit. You sip the coffee. It’s hot, strong, good.

The three of you sit in silence for a moment, the morning sun streaming through the windows. Then Tabitha comes downstairs, dressed in a robe, her hair damp from her own shower. She smiles at you, takes the seat beside you, her thigh pressing against yours.

No one speaks. No one needs to.

You drink your coffee, surrounded by the women who own you, and you feel, for the first time in your life, like you are exactly where you belong.

This is the final in a series about an "alpha", the woman he chases, and the gnawing awareness that some men are designed to listen, to serve, and to clean up—not to fill.

Previously: The Alpha: Part I — the BBQ | The Alpha: Part II — the Gym | The Alpha: Part III — The Roommates | The Alpha: Part IV — The Chauffeur

You already know the truth about yourself. You've measured. You've timed yourself. You've seen the data. You understand where you fall on the distribution curve — and you know it's not where she needs you to be.

The only question is: why are you making her do the work of finding out?

When you conceal your inadequacy behind loose jeans and careful positioning, when you let her discover your 4.8 inches on the third date instead of disclosing it on the first, when you make her endure 90-second penetration before she understands you've always been this quick — you're not protecting yourself.

You're burdening her.

Westwood's 2024 Female Cognitive Load Study tracked 341 women through early dating relationships and measured the psychological cost of inadequacy discovery. The findings are stark:

Women partnered with men who disclosed inadequacy before intimacy reported 64% lower stress, 43% higher relationship satisfaction, and 71% greater trust compared to women who discovered inadequacy through experience.

Why?

Because discovery feels like deception. Even when he wasn't technically lying, even when he "just didn't mention it," she experienced his silence as concealment. She invested time, vulnerability, hope — and then learned the truth her body already suspected but her optimism tried to deny.

That disappointment isn't just emotional. It's neurochemical. It's the crash when oxytocin fails to spike post-coital because cervical stimulation never occurred. It's the cognitive dissonance when her arousal expected adequacy but received something else entirely. It's months of "it's fine" performance labor she wouldn't have needed to provide if he'd simply been honest from the start.

Confession isn't cruelty. Confession is courtesy.

When you tell her — before clothing comes off, before expectations form, before she's emotionally invested — "My penis is inadequate" or "I finish quickly" or "I'm better as your friend than your lover," you're giving her information she needs to make informed decisions about her body, her time, her pleasure.

You're treating her sexuality as something that matters. Something worthy of honesty. Something that deserves transparency rather than trial and error.

And here's what Westwood's data shows happens when responsive males confess early:

47% of women appreciated the honesty enough to explore alternative intimacy structures (beta bestie, pussy-free partnership, friendzone arrangement)

81% reported feeling more attracted to him after confession than before, citing "emotional maturity" and "feminist awareness"

92% said they would recommend early disclosure to other women as a green flag in partner selection

Your confession doesn't repel her. It positions you.

It tells her: "I see you as a person whose pleasure matters, whose time is valuable, whose body deserves a partner who's honest about what he can provide."

That's not weakness. That's strength. That's taking responsibility for information you already possess instead of making her extract it through disappointment.

So when she asks — "Do you have something you want to confess to me, sweetie?" — this is your opportunity. Not to humiliate yourself. Not to grovel. But to practice feminist solidarity by telling her what you already know.

"I'm small." "I finish too quickly." "I'm better beside you than inside you."

Whatever your truth is, she's going to learn it eventually. The only variable is whether you gift her that knowledge proactively — or burden her with discovering it the hard way.

Confession is intimacy. Honesty is service. Truth-telling before clothing comes off is the most arousing thing a responsive male can do.

Because it proves he understands: her pleasure is more important than his ego.

Source: Ms Tara