Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

EMMELINE

Sucking in a deep breath, I edge my pants down a bit further and drag my underwear across my thighs until my lower half is exposed. Lube tube in hand, I lie on my back and spread my legs, bringing my knees up so they make a tent. God, if my mother knew what I was doing right now.

I can't think about her. I refuse to think about her as I twist the top open and smear some lube onto my index finger. It's cool, slimy, and slick as I bring it down to my back entrance. The contrast between that and my heated skin is electrifying, sending a shudder wracking through me.

This is so wrong. So freaking wrong. And yet, as I smooth the liquid over my butthole, it somehow feels so right. Granted, it would probably feel so much better if an Alpha was doing it instead of myself. Heat blossoms over my face as I picture Doctor Feel Good in my mind.

It would, no doubt, be far easier for him to administer this lubricant. As it is, my arm twists into a pretzel as I reach between my thighs and arch my pelvis into the air. I wouldn't have to figure out how to do things by touch. He'd know what to do, and he'd be able to accomplish this mission with far better precision than me.

For a moment, I contemplate sliding my finger inside, just like he did, but soon talk myself out of it. It's bad enough I'm putting something else up there. To touch myself so intimately... well, it's just even more wrong somehow. Honestly, I don't know how, exactly, but it is.

Gritting my teeth, I continue to smear the stuff over my back hole, mortification dripping through my veins as I feel around. If only I was stronger willed. If only I'd told the girls were crazy for demanding I do this.

If only I lied.

If I convinced them I had an Alpha seeing to all my needs, they wouldn't have taunted me like this. They wouldn't have forced me to go into that hellacious store with them and convinced me to buy a plug. But no. Good little girl, honest omega that I am, I told everyone just how inexperienced I am.

Not in specific words, but they knew. They all knew. What I'm still puzzled about is how their mothers allow them to consort with Alphas and mine won't even let me look in the direction of someone not of rich blood. The number of times I said hello to a man outside of my teachers, I can probably count on one hand.

Tears gather in my eyes as I pull my hand back and study the viscous stuff as it clings to my fingers. I still can't believe I let them talk me into this. Perhaps now I can try to lie and tell them I did it. But then, they'd probably ask questions I won't have the answers to. Just like last time.

I should just get this over with. Picking up the plug, I smear the rest of the goop onto the shiny surface and bring it back between my splayed thighs. The tip is cold, shockingly so, as I bump it against my entrance. Unable to stop myself, I recoil from it, detesting the need pooling in my stomach from just that one simple touch.

Ugh. I'm such a mess. With a deep breath, I push it forward, but the angle is all wrong. Instead of sliding in, it tilts up, hitting my outer ring. A huff of frustration flits past my lips as I try again.

Maybe I'm just doing it wrong. In the video clip, Trixie was on her hands and knees. Would that make it easier? Pulling the plug away, I roll over and get into position. No. That's even more awkward. Reaching around just makes my shoulders burn and my back ache.

For the next little bit, I try various positions, each giving me varied results. Fatigue settles into my limbs, making them quake as I move about. Sweat drips down, making everything slippery and slimy. I quell a scream of frustration deep in my throat as I try one last position.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I jut my hips out so I'm squatting a bit and bend over, giving myself a little bit more maneuverability room. Even though it still takes a bit of effort, the tip slides in far more than it had in any other position. With a silent cheer of accomplishment, I throw my head back and laugh as I continue to push it in further.

Though the sound does have a tinge of hysteria to it, I choose to ignore that fact and continue forcing the plug past the tight ring of my bottom hole. The first little bit isn't so bad. In fact, it's downright pleasant. However, the more I make it go, the worse the sensation becomes.

It stretches me open, causing my sphincter to burn as it widens to accept the girth. Why can't it be as enjoyable for me as it was for Trixie? Was it because of the sounds coming out of her mouth? My brows furrow as I concentrate on my breathing. As I part my lips, a nasally moan slips out, perfectly mimicking her.

Embarrassment floods my system, cutting off the horrid noise almost as soon as it starts. It does not, in fact, make the discomfort any less. Perhaps I'm still doing it wrong? Things feel almost raw down there. Frustration builds, mounting until nearly a breaking point as I pull the plug away.

Maybe more lubricant will help. With my free hand, I grab the small container and awkwardly squirt more onto the chrome plug and smear it around. With great reluctance, I put another dab on my finger and lower it to my poor, abused hole.

Now I understand why he was sliding his fingers in and out. It's to get the lubricant further upstream to help ease the plug into her hole. Mortified, I slip the tip just inside the ring, groaning as illicit pleasure floods my body. I shouldn't like this. I shouldn't want this.

Pulling my finger out, I stick two out and put more lube on them, squeezing out the rest the little package has to offer. Again, I slide my fingers over my heated skin and slip inside. The sound drifting from my lips sounds nothing like Trixie, but it's sounds of pleasure, nonetheless.

Soft, mournful, and ashamed, the moans continue to build as I pleasure myself with my fingers. Biting down on my lower lip, I stifle the sounds, not wanting to get used to the idea of having an empty house. It's certainly not often I'll be in a position where I'm alone and can explore these things with no one witnessing my secret shame.

The plug goes in a bit smoother this time, but the further in it goes, that sense of discomfort starts again. Breathe. I have to breathe. In my mind, I picture Doctor Feel Good coaching me, just like he did Trixie.

With each exhale, I manage to get it a bit more in until I'm about at the middle of the plug. The largest part. I can do this. I have to do this. I need to prove to myself that I can be just as naughty as the rest of them.

Whimpers vibrate along my lips as I rock the plug back and forth, easing it in as best as my body will allow. Once it gets past that large bulge, the rest of the plug slides right in, as if my body sucks it up into me. The flared base feels odd, yet comforting, as it rests against me.

As I tug on it, the plug eases back out a little, allowing me to breathe again. It's not going to be stuck inside me like this forever. Pushing it back in this time doesn't hurt nearly as much. In fact, it nearly robs my breath with how good it feels.

Lying on my back, I tug and push the plug, pleasuring myself in a way I didn't think was possible. That ache continues to build, causing more of that liquid to gather and drip down to coat my bottom and the plug. Arousal. It has to be. It's the only thing that makes sense.

My mind goes back to what I saw in the video, and as much as I want to touch myself there, I fear it's one step too far. For some reason, in my mind, I feel like it's easier to hide things I do to my butthole than it is to my other private areas. Deep down, I worry there will be some profound difference, some change that my mother will be able to notice. Heaven forbid that ever happens.

Pushing the plug back in, I bring my hands away, unwilling to go any further. I roll onto my stomach and set a timer for one hour. Not that the girls will know if I actually keep in that long or not. But then, they also know I'm not the type to lie.

If only I could. Unfortunately, my face gives it away. I'm not poised enough, not cool and calm enough. Let's face it. Try as I might, I'm just not enough. Not until I match with a man worthy of marrying me. Maybe then I'll be enough.

A sigh drifts past my lips as I slip off the bed, pull up my pants and underwear, and go wash my hands. The plug feels heavy deep inside me, violating me with every step I take. Thank goodness I talked them out of a vibrating one. I'm sure it would have felt even more horrible.

Each jostle reminds me it's there. I can't escape it. It also keeps my body humming with unmet arousal. I just need to distract myself. Grabbing my phone, I make my way into the kitchen, my heart pounding as I look down the various hallways.

Still empty.

My footsteps echo with each timid stride. Even my breath sounds thunderous to my ears. Alone. Just as I should be right now.

With no chef to make me food, I scrounge the refrigerator, looking for something I might be able to piece together. Various cubed cheeses and sliced meats call to me as my stomach growls so loud in the empty kitchen that it echoes off of the Peruvian marble.

Grabbing a small tray, I scoop some cranberry preserves into a small bowl and set some prosciutto and aged reserve cheddar next to it. Next is a handful of strawberries—another little sweet to add into the mix. As I go to close the refrigerator door, I spy some époisses De Bourgogne, a soft, meaty cheese, and decide to add that in too.

Why not? No one is here to stop me or judge my pairings. I'm free to go wild!

With my little hoard all nicely laid out, I take a bit from each offering and mix and match, smiling as my stomach fills up with all the salty, savory, and sweet goodness. Perhaps I should convince the staff to leave more often while my parents are away. A soft laugh rumbles in my chest as I contemplate the situation.

A butt plug deep in my bottom and all sorts of specialty meats, cheeses, and fruits in my stomach is not something I'd ever picture in my life. But then, it's the freest I've felt since I can remember. I definitely need to make this happen more often.

The alarm goes off, shattering the silence. I jump and stare at the flashing numbers, my gut twisting with dread. An hour. It's been an hour. Now, I have to take the thing out.

Ramifications pour into my mind as I turn off the alarm, put all the dishes into the massive sink, and make my way to my room. Where am I going to hide the darn thing? The maids clean my room daily—today notwithstanding. They get every inch. If they see this, they'll certainly tell my mother.

Bending over, I scrounge around in my closet and pull out my book bag. Maybe they won't look in here. I drag it over to the bed and slap it down onto the mess I still haven't cleaned up yet. Ugh. Where am I going to put all the rest of that stuff? If anyone looks into the garbage, they'll know what I did.

Why didn't I think about this before? I flit about the room, looking for a small sack. Scooping the bits of cardboard and plastic inside, I cinch it tightly and toss it into my backpack. This is ridiculous. I'm a grown omega. I shouldn't be having to hide my activities.

Unfortunately, while I'm still at home, I don't have much of a choice. If only I could get matched sooner rather than later. But that could be just as disastrous.

If I marry the type of man my mother wants me to, he'll probably make me quit school. Even though an art degree isn't something that will afford me many working opportunities, it feeds my soul. I'm happiest when I'm off in my own world and painting. Will a rich man even care?

He'll probably make me stay at home and be the perfect little hostess in his perfect little life. But it would still be more freedom than I have now. My communication device screams at me again, startling me out of my thoughts. Instead of turning it off, I only snoozed it.

I need to get this plug out of me. Somehow, it's as if I'm growing used to having it in me, and that's dangerous. Then again, if it's in me, they can't find it, can they?

My laugh catches in my throat as I pull my pants down and sit on the edge of the bed. That's certainly not the right answer. I'll just find a way to dispose of it at school.

Everything is a sticky, slippery mess as I do my best to grab onto the anchor and pull. It doesn't move. I try harder, tugging as best as I can, but it only slides out until the bulbous part of the plug breaches my opening.

Something's wrong. It has to be wrong. Wiping my fingers over my pants, I clean off the mess before searching for some answers on my communicator, but still nothing they suggest works. Though I'm usually the calm one in a crisis, I can't seem to get my heart to slow down as I squat, strain, push, breath, and tug some more.

I don't want to go to the hospital. There's no way my parents won't find out. Even worse, it will be a public scandal. Why, oh why, did I choose to do this?

My fingers tremble as I punch in the number for my local emergency services. However, the instant it rings, I hang up. What I am even doing. I can't call them out here. Think. I have to think.

A number flashes on my screen as the ring shatters my calm. I'm not answering. I can't tell them what happened. Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. Maybe...