Page 74 of Impossible

On screen, the first alpha speeds up until with one heavy, final thrust, he stops, the bulk of his body covering hers. He doesn’t pull out, and I realize he’s locked with her.Knotted. She’s panting and smiling, a hazy look in her eyes like she’s not fully there.

A mindless sex-crazed doll. I was being cruel and mocking when I said it, but I was right. It’s exactly what she looks like.

The alpha on top of her lifts her body and turns so his face is visible for the camera, and the expression he’s wearing makes my vision start to tunnel. Helovesher. If the resolution were clear enough, I know with complete certainty that I would see silvery bite marks on all of their necks. This pack is bonded, heart and soul, body and mind.

Captions begin to scroll across the bottom of the screen—a laughable, health-class appropriate spiel to a terrifyingly intimate scene. “Knotting can last anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. During this time, massive amounts of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin are released in both the alpha and omega. It is very important toneverforce an alpha and omega apart when knotted, or serious internal damage may occur.”

The video cuts then, showing the same group in a different configuration. I wonder if the action onscreen is toned down at all for the classroom—in this new position, she’s on her knees with a different alpha behind her, using her hand on another.

I watch mutely, a throbbing feeling growing at the back of my neck. It briefly crosses my mind to touch myself, to attempt to alleviate the sharp ache between my legs, but something tells me it would do no good. What I’m craving isn’t my own hand. I feel squelchy with wetness. I cringe as the word comes to me.Slick.

I fight the urge to slam the laptop shut. The video cuts more frequently, showing all the different ways they handle her. At one point they’re all sprawled out, one of them holding a juice box to her lips while another wipes between her legs with a damp rag. She looks hazy, half-conscious, all smiles and bliss. The alphas are glowing as well, smiling warmly and touching each other almost as often as they touch her. If this weren’t being recorded to be shared with thousands of students, I wonder if they’d be giving each other more than passionate kisses and occasional strokes.

The video ends with a final caption over an image of all of the alphas and their omega curled blissfully together in the nest, sweaty and thoroughly sexed out. They’re all touching her somehow, one on either side, one between her legs with his head pillowed on her stomach while she absently cards through his hair.

For a moment, I imagine Joshua like that, looking up at me. Shame chases the image away as quickly as it came.

The caption rolls slowly and then freezes: “An omega’s heat can last anywhere from one to three days. During that time, it is important to spend as much time as possible knotted, while still leaving adequate time for food, water, and rest. At the end of a heat, it is normal to need a day or so to recover, during which time it is important for an omega to remain as close as possible to her alphas in order to avoid a serotonin dip.”

I’m breathing hard when the caption disappears. My pants are ruined. Humiliation roils in me as my scent battles Ms. O’Brien’s for domination of her office.

A new image flashes onscreen.

This one is a different room. Rather than the dim darkness of the first, it’s all sterile and white. A neatly made, extra-wide hospital bed fills the frame. A surgical tray on wheels is next to it, like the occupant of the bed is about to be operated on.

I squint to see what’s on the tray, then recoil—sex toys. All of them with big, fake knots at the base.

An omega enters the frame. She’s pacing back and forth, clearly anxious.

The first caption flashes, and a sense of foreboding fills me. “Warning: some viewers may find the following video disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.”

The omega stops and hunches over. She looks like a pregnant woman feeling her first contraction.

I reach out and turn the sound back on with a shaking hand. Immediately her whimpers are audible, high-pitched sounds much like Risk made when Leon dominated him. I flip the volume back off, unable to handle the pitiful whines.

She crawls to the bed, pulling herself up and yanking the blankets back, burying herself underneath. She curls into a tiny ball, holding her midsection tightly. I’m beginning to understand the feeling she’s having. Emptiness. The need to feelfull. To feel connected. The edge of what I’ve felt with Leon or Risk when I spike. To be touching them. But she has nobody to touch.

Her hand shoots out, reaching blindly towards the surgical tray. She grabs the first toy she lands on, pulling it under the blankets. She shifts, adjusting herself, and a moment later it becomes clear that she’s riding it. She’s hunched, the movements subtle, and they don’t last long. She slumps forward.

A caption rolls across the bottom of the screen: “It is normal for omegas to call for help during heats spent alone. Unfortunately, they are unable to consent while in heat. This is why heat suites are equipped with timed locks, and only a medical override with three betas present can open the door ahead of the completion of the heat.”

My throat is made of sandpaper as I watch her drag herself from the bed and pound on the door, over and over again, slumping into it as she wears herself out. I turn the sound back on and immediately regret it. She’s wailing, her voice full of despair. I mute it again, but not before the words are branded in my brain: “alpha, alpha, please, alpha…”

The video cuts and for a second I think she’s gone, then I realize she’s under the bed. Another caption rolls as her shivering form cowers against the metal frame: “Nesting instincts often turn overpowering in unattended heats, and omegas will hide wherever they can. Serotonin dips are inevitable, and thus all heat suites are cleared of any sharp objects or potential weapons.” Her eyes turn to the camera, pitifully sad, still glazed with a disturbing lack of awareness.

Sharp objects or potential weapons.Would she… hurt herself? Would I? My stomach is full of gravel.

The video cuts again, showing her in the bed once more. She reaches out blindly again towards the tray, but only manages to push it away from the bed. As her hand fumbles, searching for it, she tips, lurching for a frozen moment before falling out of the bed altogether. She lands hard. I wait for her to get up, to get the toy she needs from the tray, to get back in bed, but she doesn’t. She just curls into a ball on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, shivering.

I can’t do it.

I slam the laptop shut, closing my eyes and willing the image of her out of my mind.

She was so afraid. So alone. Naked, and scared, her eyes similarly hazy to the omega in the first video, but with none of the satiety or pleasure. She was all yearning, absence, and need.

I wipe at my cheeks and realize I’m crying.It’s just the hormones, I think. Just the fucking hormones. The goddamn motherfucking soul-sucking life-owning hormones.

I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. I wonder; who was on the other side of that door? Who had to listen to her cries? Who sat there and did nothing to help her?

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