Hunting the Renegade Omega
Book One
M.D. Pentacles
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
A Sneak Peek of Hunting the Renegade Omega (Book 2)
About the Author
Tentacle Press
Other Books from Tentacle Press
HUNTING THE RENEGADE OMEGA BOOK 1
A REVERSE HAREM OMEGAVERSE STORY
Text copyright © 2018 M.D. Pentacles
Published with Tentacle Press. http://www.thetentaclepress.com/
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Ivana B. Kinkee
Created with Vellum
1
It was time.
Filthy, the Omega stood, taking a breath of the oppressive summer heat—a heat that matched. Mimicking the bunching, greedy muscles deep within her core. Flexing and reaching without conscious need. It was rare, these episodes. Especially for one such as her. A feral. Renegade. An outsider who’d rejected any notion of packlife, embraced solitude, and found blissful happiness in their absence. Rare that she’d experience the mindless hunger of her fellow Omegas, and grow needy for a spurting prick to fill her to overflowing, for she was never exposed to the insufferable hormones of other pack females.
Not anymore.
Lips curled back, she sneered. What need had she of a man? She, who hunted when her belly growled and found a new den every night without fail. Always roaming. Lawless. And when her cunt ached? She saw it satisfied better than any man ever could. No, she had no house to keep nor stubborn jars to open, for she ate her meals raw. Bloody.
Shit, she’d eat her kill still breathing if she was feeling destructive enough. Had done so only the moons prior when her courses didn’t come and the urge to nest settled over her. Fogging her mind with all things… motherly—of all the heinous, insane things.
She’d destroyed the fluffy snuggle-pit as many times as she’d made it these last weeks. Knowing it was almost upon her… her Omega curse. The Canicule.
It was in the name of the Canicule that she was driven to do it. Dozens of nests built up from various forest fluff, only to be stomped into nothing and discarded when her mind cleared of instinct. Instinct that hissed and raged, for no matter how perfect the construction, her nest was incomplete. Missing a fundamental piece she couldn’t forage or create. Missing a fucking Alpha—or more specifically, his salty, sticky cum.
Slick saw her treacherous quim grow plump and needy with nothing more than the thought of being mounted. Of being pressed into whichever den she’d claimed for the evening, and fucked until her womb was seeded and her voice raw.
Snarling, Renegade pushed her hair back. Frustrated because she couldn’t just walk into the nearest pack and demand to be bred—though her scent screamed of fertility and any male she encountered would be damned lucky to taste her abundant offering. No, she was frustrated because her wanderings had taken her to the bleeding outskirts of any conquered, habitable lands. Days away from the nearest civilized men with their shiny technology and their insufferable rules.
No, the only males capable of surviving this far outside of the Krust were rejects and outcasts, almost all immune to the Trax virus that had sent the rest of society cowering behind a river of burning magma and the shields of technology. Criminal monsters too wild to exist within a pack, and unable to create a pack for themselves for lack of any foreseeable organizational skills.
She, of course, was none of those things.
She’d rejected them. She’d renounced the future’s glitter for the wild winds of the past, Trax be damned. But for that betrayal, they’d docked her tail. Snipped her glorious fifth limb down to a stump, and sent her beyond the Krust, never to return. The same was true for all who’d been banished or forsaken, for to have their tails lobbed off at the base was to mark a feral so they might ever be recognized for being… abhorrent. Errant. Criminal.
But… once or twice a year, her courses wouldn’t come and the moons would mock her need for solitude. Once or twice a year, the moons would force her into a powerful Canicule—a heat so desperate and mindless it threatened to fracture what remained of her civilized mind. All for the need to breed.
Oh, she’d tried to ignore it. Tried to shape a cock from a smooth and sculpted branch of maplewood, but it hadn’t been anywhere near enough. When the Canicule settled in, all else was pushed out. All but the need for an Alpha’s teeth and seed.
Renegade threw back her head and howled at the three moons hanging ever-present and low on the horizon. Hackles bristling, the silky black fur of her mane puffed up as she screamed her fury into the afternoon heat. Howled until her voice splintered and broke, until her breath came on a gasp and some of the fervor abated. If she wanted to retain some semblance of sanity, she’d have to find a male. She’d have to sort through these rejects and monsters and find one capable of conquering her wildling spirit and inducing Canicule in earnest.
But if he dared to set teeth to the sensitive spot between neck and shoulder?
She grinned, baring pointed teeth.
2
She had days—maybe two—before the first stage of Canicule was upon her. Two days, probably less, before she was mindless with instinctive need and would fuck anything that was lucky enough to come across her. Any bottom-dweller or reject with a prick or tongue or protuberance of literally any kind, and she’d fling herself at, on, or over it. And that just wouldn’t do.
Swiping her left hand through the slick dripping betwixt her glistening thighs, she rubbed it across the trunk of a tree. A tree chosen for its proximity to a narrow, trickling creek, for while she rarely saw the males who lived on the outskirts, she knew they were there. Knew them to be an inherently lazy bunch who wouldn’t stray far from a ready supply of water not infected with the Trax. And that made them easy prey.
Renegade didn’t know this land as well as they probably did, as she was never in the same den twice in a row, but she had advantages they did not. One whiff of her steamy cunt and they’d fall into line, one by one. Alpha, Beta, or Omega—gay or straight—it didn’t matter for no male could resist the scent of a breeding Omega female in the grip of a particularly strong Canicule. A flaw she’d use to draw them into her trap.
She spent the afternoon marking a trail through the underbrush, drawing them to a clearing with a defensible cave and suitable pool of potable water. It was perfect, really. A chosen niche where she could spend the entirety of her Canicule rutting her fill until the males she’d drawn into her honeypot were spent and drained. Where she could drink from a choice sampling of all the males with docked tails, proven unfit to live within the Krust. She’d have them regardless of whether or not they wished to participate in h
er rut. All she had to do was draw them in.
And when her preparations were made, it was with time enough to watch the moon rise on that first night. A full moon, which was fitting, given what she intended to do under that watchful lunar monocle.
Humming merrily to herself—for she and her nethers were in sync for the first time since she’d shucked the trappings of packlife—the Renegade Omega stripped nude and dropped into the chilly little pool. Running fingers through her slick heat and lacing the water with potent scent. Scent that would flow downstream, and draw in any stragglers who were too far out to taste her pheromones on the trees.
The worst part of a full-blown Canicule—and the very reason she was now going to such lengths—was the inability to climax without a thick knot preparing her for it or semen to tease the frosty gate of her cervix. A curse, really, especially to one such as Renegade who couldn’t sleep without bringing herself off. Couldn’t eat during the rut, and couldn’t think of anything but the all-consuming urge to cum.
Even now, as she lounged in the chilly bathing pool, an orgasm building beneath her skin, she couldn’t get there. Not without help of the most insidious sort.
She snarled, temper waylaid by little more than the knowledge that it wouldn’t be long before the first one came ambling through the brush, cock first.
What she wasn’t expecting, however, was for them to come together.
3
For a long moment, as he stared at his Beta’s findings, Balkazar couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do much of anything really, except gape at the thing his subordinate presented in a clenched fist. Smooth. Polished. It was a carved length of maple, complete with veins and bulbous glans.
“Is that—” Balkazar swallowed, nostrils flared to take a breath of the sweet impossible scent wafting from between his Beta’s clenching fingers. “Is that a cock?”
“Yes, my Alpha,” Konjo replied, his voice a deep gravelly rumble, his eyes unable to break away from the false phallus, for his pupils had narrowed to tiny points. “It stinks of Canicule,” the Beta whispered, the words a breathy tremble. “Tastes of Canicule…”
Balkazar snatched his Beta’s find, fingers overlapping the tiny grooves carved into the base. “A… handle.” This mysterious Omega had carved a fucking handle into the wood. Tried to fuck herself through a Canicule, of all impossible things. “But—”
He didn’t get through the next thought, for when the wind turned, sending the faceless Omega’s scent into his brain, Balkazar’s sack tightened. Drew up into his pelvis and sent him into an immediate rut without a dripping quim to rut into. Blind and hungry, the Alpha roared, sending his Beta to cower at his feet, prostrate. Teeth gnashing, the incensed Alpha licked the wooden dildo from base to tip, gathering up all of those precious dried juices before any other in his pack could stake a claim.
“Flaming teets, brother, what in the ever-loving fuck are you doing?”
Balkazar dropped into a crouch, stepping on the Beta’s back as he faced his brother. His twin from another mother and co-leader of this pack of miscreants and thieves. An Alpha known simply as Silver for the pearly left eye, bisected down the center. A trophy from battle, and one of many his brother had ultimately won. Silver was his rival in every way, and the only Alpha he’d ever encountered who could match him in both size and physical strength, and as such was entitled to an equal portion of everything Balkazar owned. They’d drawn a bloodpact and sealed it beneath a waxing bloodmoon.
And so it was that Silver toppled over backward when Balkazar snarled at him, laughing his damned fool head off when the already-rutting Alpha bared his teeth and clenched a wooden prick behind his pack. “Mine!!!”
“Trust me, brother,” Silver said, wiping at the tears streaking down his rugged cheeks. “I’ve no desire to fight you over a dildo. What you do with our brothers or yourself is none of my concern.”
“Alpha, please,” Konjo groaned, proverbial tail tucked between his legs as his superior pinned him to the earth, eyes still searching for the sheen of slick-coated wood.
“Let him up,” Silver admonished, taking a step to help the downed Beta—a step that brought him close enough to catch wind of the thing clutched in his packmate’s meaty fist. “Lord and Lady All-Gods, what—”
“Canicule,” Balkazar managed to say, forcing the single word through bared and clenched teeth.
“Omega,” Silver returned, undamaged right pupil narrowing to match Konjo’s searching, desperate pinpoints—just as his sack, too, drew tight within his pelvis as all males who’d scented an Omega going into heat. “And a crafty little bitch.” Silver extended his right palm, letting the mark of the bloodpack see the moonlight, demanding his due without bothering to voice it. And true to their bond, Balkazar handed the wooden cock over without a fight, though his fingers almost refused to unwind and his chest vibrated with a near constant possessive growl. Hackles raised and bushy, marking the back of his neck and shoulders with his thick brown mane.
When Silver grunted, knuckles going white as he took in the faceless Omega’s scent, Balkazar understood why Silver had laughed.
He’d never seen anything quite so… ridiculous as an Alpha like Silver licking a wooden cock.
4
“There’s more here!” Silver called, stomping through the underbrush. “Saucy little minx has left us a trail of slick to follow.”
Something… sinister unfurled in Balkazar’s chest. “Aren’t Omegas supposed to be… soft? Submissive? Especially in their Canicule?”
Silver nodded, passing a thumb over the tip of the wooden phallus. Eyes narrowed in thought. “It’s safe to say any Omega living this far from the Krust isn’t the average fair.” He grinned, tossing the dildo to Balkazar, who caught it and had to fight the urge to lick it all over again. “I’m looking forward to meeting this renegade bitch. She’s got a wicked sense of humor, if nothing else.”
Balkazar couldn’t help but agree—it was all he could do to stop himself licking at her cock again, no matter that his men would see it. Undignified, it was. Manipulating battle-hardened Alphas with something as sacred as Canicule? But Balkazar matched his brother’s grin, for she’d earned herself a punishment before they’d even met. He clenched her cock in tightened fist, licking his lips instead of her member. It was a punishment he was sorely looking forward to dealing out—almost as much as he hungered to see her belly swell with a litter of his pups…
Trying for subtlety, and failing, he watched Silver adjust his swollen, dribbling prick. Knowing his brother’s sack was drawn tight, too. And tight and buried it would remain until they’d found and tamed the Omega daring enough to taunt when she should have been running. Until they’d filled her to overflowing and ridden her through the entirety of her Canicule—entreating her cervix to bloom and grant them access—both Alphas wouldn’t be able to find relief, no matter how many times they came. No, their balls wouldn’t descend again until the Omega who sent them into rut was marked inside and out with their scent and her neck bore their claiming marks. Until she was well and truly satiated and submitting to the dual force of their twin purrs.
Konjo called out again, following his nose through the dense brush. For a time, finding her trail was confusing. Trying to follow the fragmented mind of a female losing her senses to the rut wasn’t easy—bore no resemblance to logic in any form. But of any of the members in their pack, Konjo had the best nose, and without all the fancy technology employed by those lazy twats hiding within the Krust, his nose was the best they had. It was all they had, really, because no one was foolish enough to risk trade with one of the banished. None would risk their tails being docked, never mind the risk of being exposed to the Trax.
And so Konjo was their tracker by default, though he was lithe enough to slide unnoticed through the brush and return to his twin Alphas with news of enemies or prey. True to form, he’d been the one to narrow the Omega’s trail, each passing moment bringing the pack of six closer to the source of all that slick and
wanting, quivering flesh.
Silver stooped, gathering a scoop of water from the stream—and immediately dropped to his knees in the muddy bank. “Fuck me,” he groaned, then plunged his head beneath the surface. Drinking great gulps of sweet water without coming up for air. Didn’t surface, in fact, until Balkazar himself pulled him up.
“Slick,” Silver gasped, still swallowing. “There’s slick in the water.” He lunged, trying again for the quietly bubbling stream. Fool enough to drown himself for another taste of that which was rare so far from the Krust.
“Stop!” Balkazar snarled, shaking his brother by the lapels of his fitted leather jacket, struggling not to do the same and dunk his head beneath the surface of the water and drink that small river dry. “Think, brother. If her slick is in the water, what does that mean? Where will we find our bitch in heat?”
For several long moments, Silver could do nothing but blink, straining toward the dilute slick. And then, “The water. She’s upstream.”
5
All six pack members were sprinting now, following the river more than the trail of slick. Running with stiff cocks was neither easy nor optimal, but they hadn’t a choice. She hadn’t left them any choice. And in his fist, Balkazar still clutched her wooden prick, engulfing the tiny delicate finger grips that spoke of dainty hands.
He roared, redoubling his headlong sprint with nothing more than the thought of seeing that tiny fist wrapped around his thick meat—and in her other? Silver’s cock.
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