by Lizzy Bequin
Shared Omega
Lizzy Bequin
Shared Omega
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.
© 2020, Lizzy Bequin. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes.
This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks might find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children.
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Table of Contents
Newsletter
Prologue: KANE
PART ONE: THE MISSION
Chapter 1: SLOANE
Chapter 2: SLOANE
Chapter 3: SLOANE
Chapter 4: DOG
Chapter 5: TRUK
Chapter 6: SLOANE
Chapter 7: DOG
Chapter 8: SLOANE
Chapter 9: DOG
Chapter 10: SLOANE
PART TWO: THE PACK
Chapter 11: TRUK
Chapter 12: SLOANE
Chapter 13: DOG
Chapter 14: SLOANE
Chapter 15: SLOANE
Chapter 16: KANE
Chapter 17: SLOANE
Chapter 18: DOG
Chapter 19: KANE
Chapter 20: SLOANE
PART THREE: THE RUINS
Chapter 21: TRUK
Chapter 22: SLOANE
Chapter 23: SLOANE
Chapter 24: SLOANE
Chapter 25: SLOANE
Chapter 26: KANE
Chapter 27: SLOANE
Chapter 28: DOG
Chapter 29: SLOANE
PART FOUR: THE MESSAGE
Chapter 30: TRUK
Chapter 31: SLOANE
Chapter 32: DOG
Chapter 33: SLOANE
Chapter 34: SLOANE
Chapter 35: DOG
Chapter 36: SLOANE
Chapter 37: SLOANE
Epilogue: SLOANE
Also by Lizzy B.
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PROLOGUE: KANE
It was not always this way, I think to myself as the little omega squirms in my grasp.
Despite her cries of protest, I lift her off the ground easily, weightlessly. It always pisses her off when I manhandle her this way. Hence why I enjoy doing it so much.
I lower her body onto my waiting pack brother’s lap, impaling her on his stiff, pierced cock, which is standing tall and proud like a monument of flesh and steel. He guides her hips into place, and then gravity does the rest, pulling her well-greased opening down his shaft.
The omega whimpers and mewls as he sinks into her.
Her mingled sounds of resistance and enjoyment redouble my own erection.
He lifts her and lowers her on his pole, up and down, up and down. He’s not so much fucking her as he is using her helpless body to jerk his hard cock. Already, his shaft is well-slathered with her thick, creamy omega excretions churning out of her stretched hole.
“Don’t be selfish, brother,” A voice growls from the shadows.
It is my other pack brother. He steps forward, his own member hoisted and ready for breeding. Clear fluid dribbles from his also pierced tip.
“There’s plenty to go around, brother.”
The second Alpha doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward and drops to his knees, positioning himself to mount the omega from behind. Gripping his cock in his fist, he brushes his tip up and down her wide open crack, spreading his precum and mixing it with her fertility fluid.
The omega glances back over her shoulder, eyes wide and lips trembling deliciously.
“Please…”
The second Alpha grins. He spits a stream of clear saliva directly onto the place where his pack brother’s cock is impaling the omega, adding to the already abundant lubrication there. Then, ever so slowly, he nudges the head of his cock against the shaft that is already penetrating her and begins to press inside.
“Oh God!” The omega shouts, as the second thick member inches into her stretched hole to join the first one. “Oh fuck!”
Her body shudders. Her hands are braced against the first Alpha’s chest, and her little nails dig into his flesh, raising beads of black ruby blood. The Alpha hisses through a cruel grin.
With a bit of work, the second Alpha finally seats his cock hilt-deep in the omega’s stretched cunt.
“Fuck, it’s so tight,” he growls.
“It’s not made for two cocks at once, brother.”
“We’ll see about that.”
They begin moving inside of her, fucking her with an alternating rhythm, one sliding back as the other plunges in, both of them grunting with a combination of pleasure and exertion.
It doesn’t take long for the omega to come. She gasps desperately—a wet, ragged sound—and her body convulses as her first climax of the evening ripples through her muscles.
Her first, but not her last.
I step forward now, my loincloth tented by the painfully hard erection beneath.
My balls throb with desire. I must relieve my lust, and that sweet omega mouth looks like the perfect place for me to spill my hot desire—those plush, pink lips slick with saliva, trembling, begging to be dominated.
“Kane,” the omega whimpers.
She looks up at me, her face flushed and sheened with a layer of sweat. Her pupils are blown wide, dilated to near total blackness. Her pale blue irises are only wire-thin circles around the edge.
Source, her heat is so intense.
Her need is so desperate and insatiable. So much more than a single Alpha could ever quell.
Fortunately, she has three of us to sate her—three Alphas to dominate and protect her precious body.
It was not always this way.
I unfasten my leather loincloth and pull it aside to free my aching cock. The omega gasps, and her heat-dilated eyes cross slightly as she focuses on the tip, which is nodding up and down with the pulse of my blood. My piercing glints briefly. The omega licks her lips.
Her white-blond hair is longer now, much longer than when I first laid eyes upon her. A few more weeks, and I’ll be able to clutch a proper handful of it.
For now, however, I need some other handle.
I take my leather loincloth in both hands, and loop it behind her head, using it to steer her forward. Her lips part, accepting my hard meat into her mouth. The soft, wet pad of her tongue slides along the underside of my pulsating shaft.
As she sucks me, my eyes drift toward the three marks on her neck and shoulders.
She belongs to us now—all three of us. We are a pack, and she is our shared omega.
Ours to use.
Ours to protect.
Ours to breed.
It wasn’t always this way, though. We were all enemies once. And the omega, she was once an Outsider.
But we were joined together as mates by the power of the Source.
By the power of Fate.
PART ONE:
THE MISSION
CHAPTER 1: SLOANE
city hive Galadon-1; SynerGen central headquarters
several months earlier
I file into the briefing room behind my fellow marines to the sound of clomping boots and low, muttering voices. They are all joking and ribbing each other like oversized schoolboys. All except me, of course. As usual, I’m excluded from the testoster
one-fueled camaraderie.
The briefing room is small, cold, and spartan. The charcoal gray walls are lined with acoustic dampening panels. A holographic image hovers at the front of the room displaying the SynerGen company logo—a DNA double helix morphing into a caduceus, the intertwined pair of snakes that compose the classical symbol of the medical field. The lines and vectors of the holographic image pulse and tremble with a laser-like glow.
A handful of civilians are already seated in cushioned chairs along one wall—medical nerds and corporate suits from the look of it. Weak, mindless sheep with their noses glued to their handheld devices.
In the middle of the floor is are two rows of hard metal folding chairs for us grunts.
By the time I get there, all of the seats are taken except for a spot on the very end of the front row, right next to Donovitch. That prick is manspreading so wide that his leg clad in black combat pants is blocking my access to the empty chair.
He looks up at me with a shit-eating grin on his ugly, pock-marked face, and bats his eyes. “Problem, Sloane?”
Same old story.
As a woman, I’m forced to take a lot of shit from all of the swinging-dick marines in this unit. Whatever. I’m used to it by now.
In fact, I’ve grown to enjoy it.
It just means I have to be that much tougher and meaner than all of these ugly sons of bitches.
Donovitch snorts as I gingerly slide my butt into the empty seat from the side. Then, with a sudden violent motion, I swing my knees around, slamming his legs out of the way.
“Ow, fuck!” Donovitch complains, rubbing his leg where I cracked it with my armored knee pad. “What gives, Sloane? You PMS-ing or somethin’?”
A snicker runs through the other soldiers.
It’s the same shit day in, day out. They haze me mercilessly for being a helpless little princess. Then, when I prove them wrong and stand up for myself, they chalk it up to PMS or call me a “dyke”—their words, not mine.
They say a woman can’t be a warrior.
I’m going to prove them wrong, one day at a frigging time.
I know better than to let my guard down and show even the slightest sign of weakness. It’s a lesson I learned as a little girl when I was still stuck in that dirty orphanage.
“Look, Sloane,” Donovitch says, gesturing toward the crotch of his black combat pants. “I need some extra room to let my balls dangle, ya understand?”
I fold my arms and quirk one incredulous eyebrow at him.
“I’ve seen you in the locker room, Donovitch. Trust me, you don’t need that much room.”
At that, all of the marines erupt into howls of laughter. All of them except Donovitch, who just scowls at me, his pitted face darkening until it’s brick red.
“Quiet!” a baritone voice booms, cutting through the laughter. “Enough of this horseshit.”
The pungent stink of tobacco smoke fills my nostrils as Colonel Fulgore steps to the front of the room. He is a square-shouldered brick of a man with a severe, snow white flat-top haircut. His jaw works as he gnaws on the fat stub of his ever-present cigar.
“All right, listen up, ladies,” Colonel Fulgore begins in his deep, gravelly voice.
He pauses, and his eyes flick toward me momentarily.
His little introduction was meant as an insult to the half-dozen or so male troopers gathered in this room. However, the colonel seems to have suddenly remembered that there is an actual female present today.
Me.
Lance Corporal Jessica Sloane.
The first and only female grunt in the entire SynerGen corporate marine corp.
However, Fulgore’s use of “ladies” as a casual insult doesn’t bother me one bit. Yes, I’m a woman, but I’m no frigging lady.
I may not be as big and brutish as the males, but I’m still tough and hardened from training. Plus, my smaller stature and flexibility gives me an advantage when it comes to stealth and infiltration.
I run one gloved palm over my extra-short buzz-cut hair. Maybe it’s an unconscious reminder to myself and to the colonel that I’m a marine first, and a woman second.
Fulgore gives me a look of naked disgust before continuing.
“Listen up, grunts.” He paces in front of the screen, his cigar trailing wisps of pale blue smoke over his shoulder. “This little soiree is considered Dominion Level clearance. That means it is strictly confidential. We are not here right now. This briefing is not taking place.”
He halts and peers out over the small audience of marines, letting that statement sink in.
“Understood?”
A half-dozen voices boom in unison.
“Yes sir!”
Colonel Fulgore nods and gestures toward the side of the room.
“Good,” he says curtly. “Now, Dr. Frostgrave here is going to fill you grunts in on the details of the mission. Doctor…”
From the darkness comes a voice as soft and cold as windblown snow.
“Thank you, Colonel,”
The lights in the room dim as Doctor Frostgrave steps forward, and for a moment the two men are paired side by side, half-silhouetted by the glowing holographic image behind them. The juxtaposition is almost comical. In contrast to the colonel’s stout build, the doctor’s frame is thin and gaunt. He could practically be a skeleton dressed in a lab coat except for the point of his goatee and the back-lit tufts of hair glowing white atop his head.
Colonel Fulgore moves off in the shadows, and Frostgrave takes the floor. He begins speaking, attempting without much success to make his chilly voice sound cordial.
“Greetings, marines. As some of you have likely already surmised, the mission which you are being called upon to execute will take you deep into the Quarantine Zone.”
Behind him, the image of the SynerGen corporate logo fades, and the laser-like lines of the holographic projection trace a satellite map displaying a wilderness of over ten thousand square miles encircled by a massive iron wall. At this zoomed-out level, however, the wall is little more than an irregular circle. At its center is a dark spot like the pupil of a crudely scribbled eye, the remnants of a ruined city and Ground Zero of the Cataclysm.
The Quarantine Zone. Most people refer to it as the Zone for short.
For over one hundred years, it’s been a festering blister on the face of the earth.
“Before we go over the details of this endeavor,” Frostgrave says, “I am going to show you some footage that was recovered from previous expeditions.”
The doctor pauses and tents his fingers thoughtfully in front of his bearded chin.
“Your reputation as hardened warriors notwithstanding, I must warn you that the imagery you are about to witness is…disturbing, to say the least. However, I feel it is important that you know exactly what you will be going up against. These images were recorded by the neural chips of SynerGen team members during earlier, unsuccessful excursions into the Zone.”
As Dr. Frostgrave steps back, moving away from the holograph, the satellite map transitions into a different image. It’s a first-person view of someone running through a dense forest, weaving in and out of massive trees the likes of which I’ve only seen in old photographs. Slanting sunlight lances through the leafy canopy and strobes across the runner’s arma-glass visor. There is the sound of desperate, labored breathing inside an enclosed helmet and the crunch of leaves under thudding boots.
My God, this is a real neural chip recording.
I’ve never actually viewed one before.
All of SynerGen’s marines have a chip implanted near the base of their skull, myself included. For one thing, it acts as a tracking device, allowing Central Command to know our location at all times during a mission.
More important, however, the chip monitors every detail of a marine’s sensory experience. Every sight and every sound.
They claim that the chip is only turned on during an active mission. I have my doubts about that.
“The footage you are see
ing now,” Dr. Frostgrave comments from the sidelines, “depicts the last moments of Private First Class Lyle Parsons.”
On the screen, Parsons is still running. His point of view glances fearfully around the forest. A little ways off, partly obscured by the massive tree trunks blurring past in parallax, a dark shape is loping through the shadows of the woods.
Parsons whinnies with fear. It is a pathetic, animal sound of a man stripped down to one single emotion.
Terror.
He turns his eyes forward again. Even though he is already running at a full sprint, the private seems to get a burst of adrenaline as he picks up the pace even more.
But it’s no use. When Parsons glances back at the thing that is chasing him, it has already begun closing the distance. And it has been joined by others of its kind. The forest fills with the sounds of inhuman howls.
“Oh God,” Parsons whimpers.
My throat becomes dry as I watch. My heart thuds in fearful anticipation of the inevitable end I know we are about to witness. All around me, the other marines are deathly silent as they look on.
Practically sobbing with terror, Parsons races ahead.
“Help me!” he screams. His voice is desperate. “Please, somebody hel—”
He stumbles. Perhaps the toe of his boot caught a stray tree root. Or perhaps his legs simply gave out from exhaustion.
It doesn’t matter.
The beasts are on top of him in an instant.
Alphas.
They look like beings that have stepped straight from a nightmare.
To a degree, they resemble human men, more or less. However, there are differences. Big differences.
For one, they are far larger than the ordinary citizens of our city hive. Hell, they are even larger than the other roided-up marines who are sitting here in this briefing room, watching now in shocked revulsion.
The Alphas’ naked bodies are laden with thick slabs of powerful muscle. Their taut skin is striped with scar tissue and caked with dark smudges. At first I think that is mud, but I soon realize it’s something else.
Blood. Dried blood.
I can only assume that it belonged to Parsons’ fallen comrades.