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UTTERLY MISERABLE

The stairwell leading to the CEO's floor was dark, so I moved warily, though I doubted any security guards would be hanging around this part of the building. By the time I reached the designated floor, I was a little winded—it was twenty flights, after all—but a few deep breaths helped me steady myself.

Cautiously, I swiped my card through the reader, and after a soft beep, I slipped into the hallway lined with closed doors on either side, keeping my head on a swivel. Moving slowly, I read the numbers on the doors and checked the plaques to see who occupied each office.

At the end of the hallway was the office of the D-Project CEO. He wasn’t expecting me today. None of them ever really waited for me—my job, as always, was to provide the element of surprise. I stopped outside the door and listened for a while. The faint, muffled sounds of music filled the room, probably him relaxing after a long day of keeping everyone in the company on edge.

My backpack held all the equipment I’d need for this assignment. Sighing deeply, I adjusted my ski mask and pulled it down over my face. Now it was time for the crucial part. With a steady push, I opened the door, a surge of adrenaline kicking in as I stepped inside.

He sat comfortably sprawled in a grand, CEO-style chair that seemed like a fixture in companies like his. He was about fifty, a lot shorter than me, which I welcomed with satisfaction, knowing it’d make everything go more smoothly. I closed the distance between us in just a few long strides.

The man squealed like a pig, twisting in his chair to shield himself with the backrest, only making my job easier. With one solid push, I shoved the chair, causing him to lose his balance slightly and his hands landed on the edge of his desk. Perfect. In no time, I’d grabbed his wrists and snapped on the handcuffs—maybe three seconds flat.

"What do you want?!" he yelled, his eyes searching my face, likely trying to spot eyeholes in my mask—but those were hidden by a thin mesh, just in case. My natural eye color was rather unusual and would probably give me away if we met under different circumstances.

"Your downfall!" I shot back in a venomous, theatrical tone I’d heard in some cheesy action flick, then looped a rope around his neck and pulled, yanking him off the chair.

He struggled, jerking to break free, but the rope was knotted, so the more he wriggled, the tighter it got. "If I were you, I’d stop resisting—you’ll just run out of oxygen. Do what I say, or you’ll suffer…" My over-the-top, villainous lines continued.

I gave him a little kick in the hip just to get him moving. Then I started walking around the desk with him on the makeshift leash while he was forced to be on all fours. The CEO of D-Project let out strange grunts as he moved awkwardly, practically hopping forward with his bound hands like a clumsy rabbit. His sounds were a ridiculous mix of snorts, and I chuckled a bit at the spectacle. With a firmer tug, he picked up the pace, his grunts forming an almost comic symphony. We circled the desk a good ten times, just to start things off.

Then I stopped behind him, pulling a knife from my backpack. When the cold blade touched his neck, he shuddered.

"Whatever you want! I—I beg you—please!"

But I just laughed. Those weren’t the words I was looking for.

With a swift motion, I slashed down his jacket, revealing his pale back, and I didn’t stop there—I sliced open his pants, exposing his bare backside. Anyone walking in now would find a truly unsettling scene, the true meaning of which they wouldn't understand.

"You’re nothing but a corporate parasite, bleeding your people dry for minimum wage while they break their backs for you." I gave him a shove, sending him sprawling to the side.

That wasn't the truth, actually. D-Project paid their employees—mostly programmers—quite well! But I didn't care about the truth, I just ripped his pants from the front, exposing his dick. It was a below average-sized dick, not very impressive for an alpha.

This time, I also knew what to say. "An alpha with such a small dicklet? I have fucked a lot of betas with bigger dicks than you, and even a few omegas. You are pathetic. Did you build this company to compensate for that little pee-pee? And you're taking it out on people because you're walking around with this shrimp in your pants, and they don't know it, they think you're a big alpha with a big dick and a big career. But you're just a poser, a nobody."

I poked his penis lightly with the tip of my shoe. It was half hard at this point, but it was gaining mass with every word I said, so I smiled to myself.

"And such small balls, like peanuts! My omega ex had twice your size!"

With a firm tug, I pulled him up and forced him to lie on the edge of the desk, his ass up. I grabbed one of the pens, and then made a few slow circular motions around his anus, which clenched, feeling the movement.

"What do we have here, some tight virgin hole that no one has ever penetrated, and as much as you dream of someone fucking you soundly, you can't afford it. What would it be like if you lost control even for a moment, you? The head of a big company?"

I took a small sachet of lube from my pocket, opened it, and dipped the tip of the pen into it. The moment he heard the torn package, he tilted his head and watched me with dilated pupils. In a slow motion, I slid the pen into his anus.

The CEO let out a muffled moan. His stiff cock, hanging heavily between his legs, twitched slightly, a few drops of pre-cum dripping down. To be fair, it wasn't that small, but I knew what I had in my script.

Smirking, I leaned low over his ear and whispered, "Tomorrow, you will give it to your assistant, he has this habit of biting pens, think how satisfied you will feel to see in his mouth the very object that was in your ass."

I straightened up and searched the small utensil cup on the slightly lower table, tucked just behind the boss's large desk, for a pencil and a marker. After lubricating these items as well, I slowly inserted them all into his hole.

"Tomorrow, at a company upper management meeting, one of your directors will use this marker to draw on the board: charts, graphs, strategies, plans for such a huge company like yours. Think of the pleasure you will feel knowing where this marker has been before. And a pencil? Sometimes when employees come in with their reports, you can lend them one if they need to jot something down quickly. Yes? Those little delights, of seeing it, are not to be underestimated!"

Out of my backpack, I pulled the hero of the day.

It was an old-fashioned Polaroid, the kind that made a sound when you pressed the shutter. To make sure he could see it, I took a couple of shots where it was easy to identify what was sticking out of the CEO's butt. I even stepped back, revealing the soul of a photographer, to get a wider, more interesting angle shot, one where there was no doubt that it was the boss himself, reclining on his desk in such a humiliating arrangement.

Finally, I moved on to the next stage, taking out a pink kitsch butt plug with a small furry tip on the end, one that resembled a rabbit's tail.

I lubricated it with lube, removed the pens and markers from his ass, and slowly slid the plug into its designated place.

"Now we're going to take another little walk, bunny!"

With a brutal jerk, I knocked him off the desk, and he sank to his knees once more.

Again, we strolled around the room, with him having a funny pink butt plug stuck up his ass. During this tour, I took even more pictures.

Once I had him walk over to a pot with a small palm tree in the corner, I forced him to lift his leg like a dog getting ready to pee, and I took a picture of that too.

Then I led him to the sofa where people usually sat to talk to him, next to a low coffee table, and I took a picture of him there as well, and another when I told him to lie down flat with his legs out as far as they would go on the carpet—a smooth, fluffy one on which the employees rested their feet.

Finally, bored, I pulled him up again by the leash and pushed him onto the desk. He was now lying on his back, his head on a stack of papers. His penis was stiff and pointed at the ceiling.

In a menacing tone, still in character, I said, "You know what I’m going to do with these pictures? I’m going to stick them on all the doors in the company. I’ll put some of them in binders at the information desk, downstairs in the lobby, so everybody can find them. Surprise, surprise! And the ones on a Polaroid memory card? I’ll send them to your employees—every single one of them—so they can look at you… and laugh, seeing you for who you really are."

And then it happened; the alpha lowered his hands to his stiff penis, made maybe two movements, and came! His face was red with humiliation and… excitement. How strange—anyway, I wasn’t here to judge him.

His jizz splattered everywhere, but I managed to get away in time. Some of his cum fell on his stomach, on the desk and on the floor. It was a real miracle that it didn't land on me.

"Oh, yuck! You made a mess here, now lick it thoroughly, like a good boy!"

Still, he didn’t resist, obeying me meekly, with complete submission.

Feeling fed up, I looked at my cell phone. Twenty minutes had passed—exactly how long I was supposed to be here. I took some of the photos and piled up the best, juiciest ones on his desk. I also left him the plug still sticking out of his ass. The company provided me with it, so I didn’t care.

At the very end, I took his hands out of the cuffs, turned around, and…

Just then, the guy made a quick move, grabbing my wrist. I realized my black jacket’s sleeve had slid up. Through a narrow half-inch gap, the pink-purple line on my skin revealed me to him as a purple alpha.

The CEO’s eyes zeroed in on that spot. I instantly jerked my wrist free from his grip, but he gasped. "You’re one of them—a purple alpha? I should’ve known, you're so tall."

I tried to step back, but he wouldn’t let me, moving closer and grabbing my arm again. He looked ridiculous, with his pants down, the bunny tail, and his limp junk dangling between his thighs.

"I’ve heard about your strength. Is it true? Are you really that powerful?"

The clients received some information about us, but as long as penetrative sex wasn’t involved, I wasn’t supposed to reveal my identity—not even a clue that might hint at it. And how many of the purples even worked for Dark Dreams? But if I reacted defensively—or worse, aggressively—he might report it to my boss, then my money bonus would go out the window. And my customer reviews were fucking perfect until today!

So, I stayed silent, watching him, choosing to be mysterious over rude. That always seemed to work.

"Prove it to me. Lift me with one hand," he challenged, his eyes shining with that unhealthy excitement I’d seen too many times from those who realized I was different.

Only about 1.5% of the population was like me, and we were usually considered freaks. Or outright… monsters. I’d had to get used to it, and sure, I’d been asked more than once to show off my strength. For a few extra bucks, I could do it. My pride didn’t have to suffer if it came with the sound of rustling bills.

I kept quiet, looking down into his wide, eager eyes. The height difference between us was noticeable—I was 7’2", and he was maybe 6’4". Without a word, I raised my hand, wrapping it around his neck. As I tightened my grip, he let out another squeak—a mix between a kitten and a chicken’s sound. What was with him and those cute animal sounds?

Then I slowly lifted him into the air, letting him savor the moment while his legs kicked freely. He didn’t weigh enough to even make me break a sweat; I’d lifted much heavier alphas. I could handle over 650 pounds with one hand, so his 280 was nothing.

Holding him up, I watched his face turn red, veins popping, until finally, he lightly patted my forearm, probably struggling to breathe. I lowered him to the ground. He was panting, gasping for air, but seemed oddly satisfied—and was it just me, or had he started to get hard again? Either way, I had no interest in sticking around to see what he’d do about it.

As he still coughed and tried to catch his breath, looking pleased as could be, I turned on my heel, wanting to walk out, but then he unexpectedly said, "Can I… see your spines?"

Fuck. Not this again. I hated when conversations took this turn, when their curiosity crossed that line—becoming invasive, unhealthy. Then I just knew they saw me as nothing more than an oddity, a monster to be ogled and objectified like a circus freak.

"I can't push them out unless I'm angry," I said, half-lying. It wasn't entirely true, but he didn’t need the details.

His eyes lit up with twisted excitement. "I can make you angry."

"You really don’t want to do that," I said, my tone steady, warning.

The CEO didn’t listen. He swung at me—a lazy, sloppy attempt to slap my face. I caught his wrist mid-air, gripping just hard enough to make him freeze.

Leaning closer, I slowly shook my head and growled, my voice low and hoarse as I said, "Johansson, you really don't want to get on my bad side."

His nervous giggle broke the silence. "I bet," he murmured, his breath hitching, his dick throbbing even more, "you’d maul me… so easily."

I could feel the sick thrill radiating off him, and I knew it was time to go. I released his hand, turned, and walked away without a word.

My mission was accomplished. And I… was miserable.

***

Two hours later, as I was relaxing in the bathtub, staring at the ceiling and brooding for the umpteenth time about how I’d ended up in such a shithole of a life, my phone rang. I saw my boss’s name: Mr. Jun Ragu.

"Storm, calling with good news," he said, sounding excited. "Mr. Johansson spoke very highly of you—and even threw in a nice bonus! Plus, he wants to keep using our services. So, excellent job as always. Congrats."

I immediately grabbed my phone, which was laying dangerously close to the water on the edge of the tub. A text message notification from my bank popped up. Ten grand had just landed in my account. Hell yeah! One step closer to freedom.

But my elation didn’t last long, Mr. Ragu wasn’t done.

"For the next scenario, he’s asking for you to take things further: a good fuck."

Wait, what? For a moment, I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

"I’m sorry? He wants to have sex with me?"

"Yes, that’s what fuck means, Storm." Mr. Ragu sounded amused, but I was far from laughing along.

"You can’t be serious—" I started, still having trouble believing what I heard.

"I’m quite serious."

A shiver ran down my spine and a wave of revulsion hit me, as the reality of what he’d just said sank in. No, no, no… Anything but that!

Fighting against my jaw clenching involuntarily, I replied, "Well, I hope he knows that I'm still a newbie, on my probationary period—I can’t offer that kind of service."

Mr. Ragu’s laugh had a bit of a villainous edge to it. "Not yet! You’re still in the… protective phase, but that’ll change very soon. Mr. Johansson will patiently wait—he wants only you for his first time, and nobody else. Romantic, huh? You’ve made quite an impression!"

Fuck! There was no wiggling out of this. I squeezed my eyelids shut as my breath sped up. My whole body was resisting the idea, and I had to work hard to stop myself from outright snapping.

"Well, boss… I would rather avoid it, if possible. Could maybe Harry do it?" I tried hard to sound as calm as possible.

"Sorry, Storm. Harry’s not a purple. If you’re in our company, you need to play by our rules, or you’re out. But don’t worry, there are good pills. You’ll be ready for him. And Johansson offered quite a lot of money for it, you’ll be happy when you see the amount."

Certainly, no amount of money could convince me that this was a pleasant prospect. But what could I do? The repossession agents were breathing down my neck.

"I’ll see what I can do—when the time comes," I said, practically choking on the words. I hated the idea with everything I had, but I still had a few last installments to pay off. And no regular job could bring in this kind of money.

"Well, I hope it won’t be a problem. The guy has mild kinks compared to what others might demand. It won’t be that bad," he said, probably striving for a reassuring tone—but it fell flat.

"I hope no more of the dick humiliation part. I hate it," I muttered, just to say something and end the convo.

"Remember!" said Mr. Ragu in his fake-preaching tone, "in our company, we don’t judge anyone!"

After he hung up, I let my head rest on the side of the tub. Fuck. My innocent days at Dark Dreams were slipping away. The realization made me sick to my stomach, and I just knew it—I was about to sink even deeper into the depression that had been dragging on for nearly six months.

Me, Storm Nolan—once a proud and successful matchmaker—had, more than half a year ago, landed myself in this mess. A job that involved getting paid to assault people—or at least do weird things to them.

As strange as it sounded, it wasn’t some cheap marketing gimmick—it was an accurate job description. And, of course, it wasn’t exactly my dream career, despite the ironic name, Dark Dreams . Still, working in a place this controversial was the only way I could claw my way out of my dreadful financial shithole.

My story was pretty grim.

I ended up here after my life took a bizarre turn: I was falsely accused of rape by my own ex-husband and hit rock bottom because of it.

Before the shit hit the fan and everything spectacularly fell apart, I had a pretty good, stable life. I worked at a matchmaking agency called Fate’s Choice and genuinely took pride in what I did. Despite having a background in both law and psychology—a pretty promising combo—I’d chosen a path where I could actually make people happy by helping them find their perfect matches. Pairing people up was my favorite thing, and honestly, I was pretty good at it, getting better with each passing month. On top of that, I had a very attractive husband and felt like Fate had been kind to me.

Some could say this job was boring for a purple alpha. A matchmaker? Sounded like something an old, gray-haired beta uncle would do on his nephews’ birthdays to the annoyance of everyone.

During college, I’d worked part-time as a security guard at Fate’s Choice. Once a week, they held marital contract auctions and fairs. I used to work at these events and enjoyed watching the glass booths where omegas, betas, and alphas sat, waiting for their marriage contracts to be bought. I felt a strange thrill whenever someone found their Half or High Mate.

Of course, that was just one part of Fate's Choice’s services. Their main business was something more traditional: a classic matchmaking agency where people filled out lengthy forms detailing their preferences. From there, specialist matchmakers worked diligently to help them find their ideal contract husbands.

Over the years, I got to know the company and grew fond of the idea of working there, watching happy couples come together, paired by skilled matchmakers. So, when a junior client assistant role opened up, I jumped at the chance.

Right after graduating from college, I started there full-time. For the first year, I just helped with the selection process for senior client assistants. Eventually, I began handling my own cases and making matches myself, with a few impressive successes—even finding High Mates within our client base. Unfortunately, that winning streak didn’t last long.

Everything crashed down three months after my promotion when my husband started an affair. I caught him with his lover, and things escalated quickly. I confronted Tom, but I didn’t touch him; still, he thought he could gain from the situation by filing a false accusation against me.

Even though I defended myself and cleared my name, my reputation took a major hit. Because of my husband’s somewhat celebrity status as a model, it became public. Most of my family distanced themselves from me, and even my then-boss—Mr. Ren Ragu—explained that he couldn’t keep an employee with a ‘damaged reputation’. In his opinion, a scandal surrounding me could be detrimental to the public image of his young company.

Then he kindly suggested an alternative.

His own husband, Mr. Jun Ragu, owned a well-established venture called Dark Dreams, which offered a very different set of services. Mr. Ren assured me I could smoothly switch to his husband’s company, where my reputation wouldn’t be as much of a liability—after all, Dark Dreams dealt in some rather controversial activities.

They specialized in role-playing services for people with all kinds of kinks. Dark Dreams offered stalker scenarios, home-invasion setups, fulfillment of consensual-non-consent and BDSM fantasies.

Most of my friends and family were shocked; the only one who really got it was my cousin Nathaniel, but he was one of a kind. For most people, assault—whether consensual or not—just felt… wrong. And that’s precisely why Dark Dreams’ clients sought discretion; they feared they’d be criticized for their unusual kinks.

The company didn’t look down on them; it didn’t ask why. It just asked, "What would you like, sir?" and handed them a bill.

To be fair, they didn’t deal with anything extreme like life-threatening torture, killing, or minors. But almost everything else? Fair game.

And… the job paid well! Since I was too proud to ask my parents for help—Mr. Jun Ragu’s offer came at just the right time to change the course of my life.

Despite being innocent of the main thing—I got off on the false rape charge—I couldn’t avoid the consequences of other things: destruction of property and ‘emotional abuse’. True—when I saw Tom fucking that guy, I trashed his car, smashed a few windows, and—my biggest mistake—I threw his nest out the balcony… So, Tom seized the opportunity and claimed I’d caused him ‘enormous suffering’, even saying that the violence was a daily occurrence. The fucker showed up at the police station covered in bruises!

That's how I became the villain… or rather, the victim of his lies, manipulation, and defamation. There was nothing I could do, his lawyer was smooth, and the jury ate it up. The settlement took all my savings—and more, leaving my finances in ruins.

Being a purple alpha didn’t help either—most of the jury were betas or omegas, so I had even less sympathy. They looked at me as if to say, "Purple alphas are violent and brutal". My twisted ex knew how to play it; he hunched over and sobbed right there, creating a believable, Oscar-worthy performance, easily convincing them I was the ‘cruel rapist’ he made me out to be.

And really, the worst thing I did to Tom was throw his fucking nest on the lawn. But they blew it all out of proportion, calling it a ‘disgusting assault on sacred omegan nature, a brutish and primitive act by a feral alpha’. I remembered the jury’s horrified faces so vividly.

But what about him impaling himself on a cock of some employee from his modeling agency?! They didn’t care about what I felt, for sure.

At one point during the trial, there was a real danger that the Omega Red Line Agency would take over my case. If that had happened, not only would my ex have been able to take everything I owned, but I would have ended up in jail. So, in the final phase, I agreed to settle. My pricey downtown apartment, my savings—all of it went to Tom. I’d always been a saver (which he hated, preferring a more lavish lifestyle), working through college and living frugally, so losing it all was a brutal blow.

Tom was quite disappointed in our marriage, mainly because of that one thing—me being thrifty. He’d expected that marrying a purple alpha would mean a grand life of adventure, maybe even a boost to his modeling and acting career. Instead, he got me: a guy who chose a modest job as a junior assistant matchmaker. That mismatch led to endless arguments. He wanted me to be a stuntman in movies or take some big supporting role. He even dragged me to meet a stuntman manager once, but I wasn’t into it.

So, when Tom decided to end it, he made sure to grab as much as he could—basically, everything I had.

The only reason I was able to save my suburban house was that I took out a large short-term loan. I had bought the place at a bargain price, literally just days before Tom’s betrayal. Sure, it needed some work, but it was still an amazing deal. Tom demanded to take it as well, so I had to give him an equivalent amount in cash. Also, my cousin Nathaniel chipped in some money so I could at least buy a car—because Tom took my Jeep.

At the time I joined Dark Dreams, I was broke, surviving on cheap pizza, and deep in my full-on rebellion mode

Part of me knew exactly how this could ruin me—and my chances of finding a stable relationship or a decent love life in the future. But at that point, I didn’t care. Everyone was already calling me a rapist or, at best, a criminal, so I figured—why not lean into it? Maybe it was sick, but I was desperate, and this was how I coped.

So, I started there.

At first, I didn’t realize then that my subconscious had gone rogue. Deep down, I was revolting against my own choice, craving my old life back. Slowly, as the weeks passed, depression crept into my life, like a gray, never-ending fall rain, wearing me down bit by bit. I was sinking deeper into bitterness, endlessly replaying how unfair it all was, while secretly longing to have someone I could actually love—someone who wasn’t a selfish, backstabbing asshole.

The emptiness was a tenacious bastard and became my constant companion, even though the start of my six-month probationary period at Dark Dreams wasn’t exactly grueling. Some of the early assignments were even kind of funny, and yet, I was still slowly sinking.

Mr. Ragu gave me VIP access to the internal commission board. Every day, new client scenarios popped up there, and I got first pick of the lot before the other employees even got a look.

Assignment after assignment, I was making decent money, keeping the repossession agents at bay, and even working on renovations for my precious suburban house. The place was right next to a small, peaceful grove where I could sit for hours, feeling numb and lifeless after ‘assaulting’ one rich client or another—always strictly consensual, of course.

From the very first day, I knew that once my six months were up, I’d start getting assignments that leaned more into the actual ‘sex work’ territory. But I wasn’t ready then to even think about that. I pushed the thought to the fringes of my mind and left it there, hoping it would stay out of sight for as long as possible.

Of course, we weren't slaves in Dark Dreams. I had to consent too; I could set some of my own terms, and I did. But it was clear from the get-go, no matter how much I wanted to avoid it—that I would eventually end up in a scenario involving sex with a client, and that weighed heavily on me.

My rules were: if things got sexual, it would be condom-only; no blowjobs, no rimming. I told my boss that I could work with young alphas, but I preferred betas and omegas. Mr. Ragu didn't mind at the time, saying that they had enough staff, so the rest of the commissions could just go to someone else. The Johansson job, however, proved that if the money was big, I would be forced to comply even beyond what I had discussed with Ragu at the beginning.

By the final stage of my six-month probation, most of my assignments already involved some form of consensual assault, more or less sexual in nature, and could get quite creative. I had to learn proper bondage techniques, sometimes spoon-feed or even overfeed clients until they, well, lost it, diaper them, hang them naked upside down in their offices, make them relieve themselves in front of me or in public (sometimes with the help of a ‘bowel stimulant’), give them an enema and wait it out, humiliate them in all sorts of ways, spank them, put chastity cages on their dicks, or use vibrating toys in their ass—preferably in public places.

Only because the pay was so good, I forced myself to push through and try to do the best job I could—always on-script, with every detail memorized and carried out perfectly.

My clients left glowing reviews, and by the end of my six-month probation period, I was close to fully paying off my debts to both the agents and Nathaniel, with only two installments left.

Each job usually took a few days to complete, so it wasn't overly demanding, but each one could bring in five to ten thousand dollars for the longer scenarios. In my best month, I made close to $ 60,000.

In the more expensive gigs, clients wanted scenarios that went a little deeper into the pain-pleasure side of things —whipping instead of spanking, gagging with toys, erotic asphyxiation, and forced penetration with random objects, like the case with Johansson. I even gained one ‘regular’ client, which was rare. Once a week, I’d take a ‘dog’ out for a walk—really just a guy in leather and a plastic muzzle, crawling around on all fours.

However, these scenarios didn't require me to use my own dick, and I wanted to keep it that way.

But in the end, there was no avoiding the inevitable.

***

Two weeks after the CEO of D-Project gig, the dreaded day arrived.

My six-month probationary period was officially over.

I knew that Mr. Ragu would contact me in a few days about Johansson's request, and my only vague hope of pushing it off for a little longer was to keep my assignment slots fully booked.

But the problem was… I was now competing with others as equals for the easiest assignments, being just a regular, full-service employee. Sex was firmly on the table as part of most gigs, and I was very concerned I wouldn’t be able to secure those sex-free assignments on time.

Even though I hadn't been exactly prudish before, I just didn't want to be forced to fuck people that I wouldn't otherwise choose. In the past, I didn’t mind sex at all—I’d even been kind of an asshole about it, sleeping with a few of my brother’s exes purely out of revenge for their years-long teasing and humiliating ‘hunt the alien’ games.

But suddenly, the whole concept of being paid for sex just didn’t sit right with me. I’d never thought of myself as traditional or overly romantic, but maybe I was, after all?

The idea of wanting more hit me pretty hard after my brother Rain found his True Mate.

The guy was insanely beautiful—an ex-model, no less. God forbid! The idea of dating anyone from this industry again gave me shivers. Never again: no models, no actors.

But meeting the happy couple at my other brother Skye's college graduation ceremony made me sentimental. Seeing those two lovebirds together sparked something. Suddenly, I became jealous, craving to have a relationship for myself even more fiercely. Maybe not my own True Mate, since that seemed unrealistic within my rare subspecies, but maybe a High Mate? Meanwhile, here I was—spanking old CEOs’ asses while the months kept slipping by.

On the day my probationary period came to an end, I had to face the fact that my depression wasn't going away anytime soon. Fall was approaching, and still no roses, love confessions, or moonlight dates for me.

One morning, I just woke up, opened my laptop, and saw that the safe ‘locked commissions’ section was gone—they were all open, up for grabs for anyone at the company.

Now I had to focus hard to snag only the BDSM jobs without the actual ‘me-penetrating-them’ part. To do this successfully, I had to be faster than the other employees in evaluating scenarios as they gradually popped up. In maybe three to five seconds, I’d scan the list for the sex-free ones. But a few other employees had a similar strategy, so they’d often hit ‘accept’ just as quickly. And they had the experience to top me.

Already on the very first day—I miserably failed. I stared nervously at the screen, noticing the assignments turning gray (as in ‘taken’) every few seconds as I frantically scanned the details. Those bastards were good at grabbing the easiest ones! Within minutes, all the best jobs were taken.

Dammit!

There was only one left that no one seemed to want, and unfortunately, it also involved penetrative sex. Curious about why it was still available, I clicked on it and saw that it only offered a small amount of money.

Sometimes, as part of reputation-building, the company accepted clients who paid less, without guaranteeing an employee would take the job. We could pick these up if we wanted, but the company didn’t promise the customer anything.

This client had only paid $1,000—one of the lowest amounts I’d seen.

The commission included the client’s personal information and a photo, so I clicked on it just out of curiosity. The scenario wasn’t complex, but it still involved full service—meaning at least an hour of passionate sex. It was a twenty-year-old student, an omega. His photo loaded slowly, and that’s when I guessed why no one had wanted to take such a low-paying assignment.

The image that appeared was… let’s just say, unflattering. For some reason, it occurred to me that this might have been deliberate. It was a skewed selfie. The guy had a sour expression, like he didn’t even want to take the photo in the first place. A narrow jaw, a small upturned nose with freckles, thick bottle-bottom glasses, a mop of unusually colored hair—light amaranth—falling across his forehead and almost to his shoulders in unruly curls, acne scars dotting his skin, and… a prominent, large pink birthmark covering his entire left cheek in a shape somewhat similar to a rose!

I whistled quietly upon seeing it. With such a visible, giant birthmark, he must have had a rough time dating, some people staring, and maybe kids pointing him out. Poor guy.

There was also information about his body type; the omega indicated he was chubby, whatever that meant. However, it wasn’t apparent since his neck and face, visible in the picture, seemed rather nondescript. Taking it all into account, including the low $1,000 price, I wasn’t surprised that no one had decided to take on this assignment.

The scenario itself was quite straightforward; the omega expected someone to break into his place at night while he was sleeping, tie him up, and then engage in various sexual activities, culminating in gentle intercourse. Yes, gentle, I had read that correctly.

What I also found amusing, or perhaps unusual, was that the guy expected very specific comments to be directed at him—he listed long tirades, insisting that whoever came to him should marvel at his body, praise his chubby love handles, express admiration for his plump buttocks, his small penis, his cute pink balls, and his beautiful tiny hole. Even appreciate his freckles! Not my words—his exact words! The person should eulogize these parts of his body, and also rim him thoroughly!

What? Rim? Oh, no! Not my thing.

Overall, very strange tasks. I shrugged because it simply wasn’t a commission for me. Still, for some reason, I stared at the student’s photo for a moment. And stared. Then stared even more. I closed it… then opened it again, just to look… just for a second. But it ended up with me staring for another few minutes!

Ah, fuck no! I’m not taking this one!

There was one funny thing, though. I actually had a birthmark of almost the same shape, kind of like a red rose, but by pure luck, mine was under my hair, on the back of my head. Well, surely a coincidence.

So, I didn’t get any job that day, but the next day, I sat down in front of my laptop, ready and alert.

It should start any minute now…

Wait! As I focused my eyes on the list of commissions that had already been taken—now appearing in pale gray—I noticed their dates. They should be from yesterday, but they all had today’s dates. What the hell? After a short investigation, I concluded that somehow, the commissions had appeared in the system a little earlier than usual while I was in the shower, and most of them were already claimed. Argh!

The only one left untouched was the commission for the redheaded student. Once again, I clicked on it absentmindedly, having no idea why. His eyes seemed to be staring at me, almost disapprovingly.

I found myself in a strange daze and only managed to snap out of it after a solid ten minutes! His photo seemed to simply mesmerize me.

The question was: why was this commission still stubbornly hanging in the system? Was really no one interested in taking it? I sighed, scrolling through the list disinterestedly. Other employees probably saw that the rest of the assignments for the day were worth amounts like $5,000, $7,000, or $10,000. No surprise that an offer of $1,000 didn’t really entice anyone.

So, once again, I didn’t take any jobs that day. I just looked away from the header that read ‘Home invasion scenario’ , ignored the green color on the offer that signaled availability, and the luring ‘Accept’ button, and… felt shitty.

After a few minutes of fruitless deliberation, I gave up, opened the photo again, and stubbornly stared. Our eyes seemed locked, and I fell into that strange daze again. No idea how long it lasted.

Suddenly, the phone beeped, and I flinched.

Fuck. It could be Mr. Ragu, asking about my readiness to fulfill the CEO’s ‘dark dreams’!

Clenching my jaw, I fixed my eyes on the display. Nope. Gladly, it wasn’t the case—just some text message from my dad about my brother Skye’s miserable condition (due to heartbreak), which I ignored. I already knew who his True Mate was, but the idiot didn’t want to believe my ‘alien intuition’, so be it. Not my problem.

Anyway, I had a somewhat pessimistic attitude towards the whole concept of True Mates myself, since my own could not be found among normal omegas, but only within my subspecies, which was extremely uncommon, so I never had high hopes for it and learned to live accepting my reality.

***

By the third day, I was getting pretty annoyed, constantly lurking by the computer screen, planning finally to get my perfect commission. But then, at the very moment when the system displayed a fresh, hot list of jobs to take, my laptop's battery refused to cooperate. The computer shut down!

"What is going on?!" I shouted as the screen went blank. I quickly opened my phone, but the internet was sluggish; everything loaded incredibly slowly. My frustration spiked, I started tapping so nervously on the screen that the phone eventually froze, and I had to restart it.

"Un-fucking-believable!"

Then, for a brief moment, something strange crossed my mind. I’d once heard that sometimes Fate plays a crucial role in pairing people. I smiled to myself because, of course, it sounded ridiculous—surely, that wasn’t what was happening here. Impossible. Just fairy tales and urban legends.

So, I decided again to skip the redhead’s commission that day. I ignored my intense gut feeling and moved on, only praying that Mr. Ragu didn’t call me.

That same night, I had a dream. I found myself wandering through an amusement park filled with hundreds of people. At the center stood a large, colorful nest. As I approached it, I felt a tug on my arm. I turned and spotted someone dressed in a fluffy, red bunny costume. The person handed me a rose-shaped helium balloon with a long ribbon trailing behind. The bunny tilted his head and extended one hand, as if urging me to take the balloon.

"Don’t let me fly away!" came from his fluffy mask.

And then I woke up.

It was a funny, bizarre dream, and the first thing that popped into my mind was the rose-shaped birthmark on that student. A balloon? Seriously, Fate? My mind was playing tricks on me, for sure.

But again, I opened up the photo and engaged in a silly staring session.

On the fourth day, I finally lost faith in the reality of it all. I sat by the screen with my laptop plugged in, staring at the list with determination, making sure the battery wouldn’t die on me again. I pressed the cable firmly into the socket, checking it every five minutes. But just as new commissions appeared, and I rushed to click on the first one, a prompt flashed on the screen: "Your session has expired; you need to log in again."

I let out a string of curses and flung the mouse against the wall.

It was some god-awful bad luck.

When I finally logged back in, the other employees had already snatched up the remaining commissions, and there it was, yet again, just that unlucky amaranth-haired student left in the system. Yep.

I yelled a colorful curse loud enough to shake the walls, got up, and stepped away from the screen, my head spinning.

Anyway, my other duties were waiting.

That day, I had my usual appointment with the ‘dog client’. In my bad mood, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about strolling around town with a guy in leather gear who was only half-heartedly committing to his canine look. But the gig paid reasonably well, and it had been five days since my last one. So, off I went.

I pulled up to his place—it was in a pretty affluent neighborhood; I’ll give him that. He could afford Dark Dreams, so clearly, he was doing well for himself, whatever it was he did all day when he wasn’t moonlighting as a dog. Also, I had no idea if he was an omega or beta; I was on suppressants, so I couldn’t pick up on his Allure scent.

My ski mask already on, I hit the buzzer, keeping things anonymous as always.

He let me in, and right from the gate, I was immediately greeted by loud, cheerful barking. And no, not from an actual dog—just him, living out his canine fantasy. Moments later, the door opened, and there he was, ready to go.

This guy had a leather mask fitted to resemble a dog snout, with pug-typical ears and brown, bulging lenses over his eyes to complete the pug look. He was already on his knees, gloves that mimicked paws on his hands, kneepads securely in place for maximum crawl comfort. There was even a fluffy tail attached to a butt plug, thoughtfully covered with a strip of leather, so any passersby would just assume it was a regular tail—a permanent part of the costume.

His leash hung on a hook nearby. I never ventured past the entryway into his house—client’s rules. So I just stood there, gave him the usual pat on the head, and said, "Good boy." He wiggled his butt happily, wagging his pseudo-tail (and in the process moving the plug inside, of course), making excited doggy noises.

We never actually spoke. He’d just bark, whine, or growl a bit. Honestly, I had no clue what his deal was, and he had no idea about mine. Once a week, though, we’d do this little routine, and I’d take him for a walk around the local park.

I grabbed the remote for the butt plug and then his leash to clip it to his collar, and he leaned forward to help me, looking downright grateful.

"Heel, boy. Time for a walk," I announced, and off we went, down his fancy front path, lined with pricey ornamental shrubs that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

He was obedient as always, trotting along at my side while I occasionally entertained him by tapping the remote for his tail-plug to give it a little buzz. We reached the park right around five, peak people-watching time, which was most likely the whole point for him. This type loved to be stared at and thrived on the sight of shocked faces around them.

Sometimes I’d toss a stick for him to ‘fetch’, but with that mask on, he couldn’t really pick it up, so he’d just nudge it along with his paws. Not exactly realistic dog behavior, but hey, I didn’t sign up for authenticity. Today, I wasn’t in the mood; I’d have preferred to just sit on a bench and watch the swans gliding by.

So, we wandered over to the pond. I plopped down, pointed at the birds, and said, "Look, boy, swans. Go bark at ’em." As he obediently barked away, I sank into a cloud of stress, running over my problems in my head.

Sighing and rubbing my forehead through my mask, I tried to clear my mind of negativity. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed ‘the dog’ had lost interest in the swans and was sitting beside me, legs folded up, ‘paws’ straight in front like a loyal mutt waiting for a command. He made a soft, almost sympathetic whine.

Strangely enough, it made me want to talk.

"Business has been weird lately," I admitted. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t spill my guts to a client, but it wasn’t like he expected in-character conversation anyway. He knew I worked for the company he hired and nothing else, so it wasn’t against his scenario rules.

"There’s this one gig hanging around in the system that no one wants. And no matter what I do, I’m left only with this one. Power outages, logging issues, timing conflicts—you name it, it all kept me from getting any other jobs."

He whined encouragingly, tilting his head.

"It’s, well, a ‘special’ gig," I added, sighing. "Some young guy who’s, uh, looking for a home invasion scenario but with a fuck at the end, and that’s not my thing. I’m here for clients like you," I added with a smirk. "But it’s been days, and I’m seriously wondering if the universe is trying to push me into this."

He let out another quiet whine and wagged his tail sympathetically while I continued, "Funny thing is, the kid has a birthmark, the same shape as mine. Weird coincidence, which just makes it all the more… mysterious." I shrugged. "Anyway, sorry to vent. I bet you’d rather go mark some bushes, right?"

I stood up, and he let out a happy yip, moving closer, brushing his head up against me like some kind of oversized cat.

After a quick detour to the nearest bush for his bathroom break, we headed to the dog park, where some real dogs gave him a curious sniff. He took it well; I just pressed his remote once for good measure, and he spun around, his tail going, and gave a couple of long, enthusiastic whimpers.

Then, as always, it was time to head back. But before we wrapped up, we had to hit the main event. We found a quiet part of the park, and as the routine always went, I let him hump my leg while I used the remote. I dealt with it—‘the dog’ was fully clothed, and I didn’t have to worry about any unfortunate stains.

Afterward, I walked him back to his place, unhooked the leash, gave him a final head pat, and said, "Good boy." But instead of the usual bark and wave of his tail, he… stood up! Wow.

Suddenly, we were face-to-face. Well, not quite—he was around 6’1". Definitely a beta, I guessed. He looked at me through those brown lenses, and I just stared back, totally thrown.

Then he spoke.

"I think you should take that job." His voice muffled but surprisingly smooth and young—maybe even boyish. He could be around twenty, by my judgment, so close to the redheaded omega’s age.

I blinked, stunned to hear an actual human voice from behind the mask. He tilted his head slightly.

"I know, advice from a ‘dog’ might not make much sense, but trust me on this one."

"And why’s that?" I asked, more out of shock than anything.

"When Fate’s that persistent, it’s usually worth listening. Trust your gut." He sounded dead serious.

I could’ve laughed it off and told him to go lick his… balls or watch the birds on the balcony and bark at them incessantly, but I just mumbled, "Thanks. Maybe I’ll do just that."

He gave a slight nod, and I gave him one in return. Well, my parents raised me to be kind to animals, after all. And that was our goodbye.

I headed home, determined. Dog-man or not, his advice actually hit home. So, I sat down at my computer and opened the dreaded photo again.

Our eyes met.

"You won!" I muttered, and just like that clicked on his commission to hit ‘accept’.

Oh, well! I had to appease Fate somehow.

Exactly at that second, my phone rang, making me jump.

‘Mr. Jun Ragu’ appeared on the screen.

"Hello, Storm."

"Hello, boss."

"You know why I'm calling?"

How could I not…

"Johansson?"

My boss let out a small huff.

"Exactly. I gave you a few days to mentally prepare yourself, but it’s coming your way. I can’t string him along much longer."

I closed my eyes and breathed out, "But I just took another assignment. The omega student and a home invasion scenario."

The deafening silence on the other end of the line made me halt my breath.

Please. Please. Please—postpone it!

Finally, Mr. Ragu made a long grunt. "Okay Storm, this time I will postpone it, but only for the time of this commission. After that, get yourself together. It’s not going away, Storm. Mr. Johansson is very much in love!"

Closing my eyes, I let out a quiet, desperate swear.

It's been like that my whole life. Ever since I was sixteen, there was always a certain type of person around me who just… wanted me to fuck them because I was a purple.

At first, it seemed fun. I had this low-hanging idea that having a lot of sex would boost my confidence and make me feel like I was something, but it only laid bare even more insecurities. The empowerment thing came out empty. So after a while, I started avoiding casual hookups. None of them actually wanted me . They wanted an idea of a purple—like I was some kind of novelty or toy. I mean, I didn’t have anything against people with fetishes, but I was tired of being someone's kink instead of being treated as a real person, someone to respect or have a serious relationship with.

That was one of the reasons I married Tom. He wasn’t all that into me sexually—it was more about how I could boost his status and keep things interesting. He liked the fun, the attention, the stares, the envy. It felt like a new dynamic, and I fell for it… but of course, like all illusions, it didn't last. Still, there was no love there, and surely, no respect.

Walking in on Tom with his fuckboy screwing on the bed I bought, in the apartment I paid for, while I was working twelve-hour days so we could have a good living, was the ultimate proof that I needed to search for some other type of people in my life.

Now it seemed that my old life was coming back to haunt me, in the form of a fifty-year-old alpha with a humiliation kink. I was back to being a walking-talking dick.

All the things interesting about me were… me being a purple.

There was nothing I could do but quit, and I still had 20k to pay in installments. Damn it.

As Mr. Ragu said his goodbyes, I put the phone down and glanced at the laptop.

Suddenly, this commission didn’t seem so bad—maybe even something to look forward to? Johansson was such a downgrade compared to the redheaded student.

Staring at the screen, I sighed.

Minutes passed in silence, and my depression settled back in. Oh, well. It was just another gig. There was nothing that would come out of it—nothing positive for me, no hope. Just a job. I swallowed hard, again feeling that dreaded emptiness inside. My mood grew darker and darker.

But staring at the omega’s face was, in a way, pulling me out of that miserable feeling, so I gave in to it with full dedication.

"Save me, Damien. Save me somehow," I whispered, without even realizing it.

Whoa!

Did I just give him a nickname?

I had no idea what his real name was—it wasn’t given in the commission details. Names were only provided in cases that absolutely required them, like scenarios in public settings. If I was going to the CEO of a company, it made sense to know his actual name, but with private people, in-home scenarios, it wasn’t necessary.

Anyway, my mind was doing some weird tricks on me.

When I focused really intensely, there was this distinctive glow around him, like a purple tinge. Yeah, definitely. There was a strange luminescence that spoke to me, that drew me in, something about him… I couldn’t quite grasp. It kept slipping away, though I wanted to catch it—so much. But why? It’s not like I believed we could have a high mateship, right?

In the past, when I was still working in Fate's Choice, from the moment I discovered that I could somehow sense people's high matches, I tried many, many times to ‘sense’ my own highly compatible mate, but for some reason it never worked. I had even begun to believe that perhaps I could not use my own intuition on myself. Why should it be any different now?

What was worth mentioning—with the commission firmly in my inbox, the system suddenly ran perfectly—no issues, no expired sessions, no battery or power glitches, no crashes. Everything just worked. Fucking miracle.

Again, I locked eyes with the redheaded student in the photo, staring back at me.

"So. Will you save me, Damien?" And then I burst out laughing. Hell no, there was no salvation from my private hell. There was only more misery.

***

Before each assignment, I had to visit headquarters; that was the rule. So, I got in my car and drove to the city center, where the company was located. After waiting in the lobby, I was escorted to Mr. Jun Ragu’s office by his beta assistant. He still personally handled new hires, briefing them on their first official cases before handing them over to coordinators. He was all about double-checking to ensure the service quality was ‘impeccable’.

Mr. Ragu was a middle-aged alpha with a large black beard and a protruding belly. He greeted me with a broad fake smile as soon as he saw me.

"Oh, Storm, I'm glad to see you. I'm actually very pleased that you've accepted this commission. Our company aims to meet all our clients’ needs, even for those with limited resources. We strive to be flexible!" he delivered his usual spiel, and I grimaced. I’d had my fill of these official lines.

Though I was grateful, he didn’t mention Johansson and focused on the current assignment.

We took our seats, and he leaned back in his large leather chair, still grinning.

"So, are you excited? First time with a scenario like this, right? Here’s a detailed script." He handed me some papers, double-checking as usual to make sure I had the right folder.

In the system, the scenarios only covered the act itself, with no mention of personal details such as the address, the layout of the apartment, how to access his bedroom. Mr. Ragu always provided that information in person.

"It’s a simple scenario; you won’t have to exert yourself too much. He lives in a tiny studio near the East Coastline Campus, where he’s majoring in computer science. A harmless kid, terribly shy. Honestly, when he came to us, I was surprised he even wanted to hire services like ours. Desperation? Who knows. But our policy is not to judge our clients, so I didn’t ask his reasons!"

"Yeah, well, it’s an unusual case," I replied, wincing a little at Mr. Ragu's chubby, stubbornly grinning face.

He ignored my remark and continued, "The student lives on the first floor; the window should be left slightly open. You’ll be able to sneak into the kitchen and go straight to his bedroom. He’ll resist a bit, but you’ll handle it. At the beginning, he wants to feel overpowered, helpless, to sense your strength."

Mr. Ragu pointed to the papers I held. "So a bit of wrestling on the bed won’t hurt, pressing him down with your body weight. Then he wants to be tied up—just hands, symbolically. He doesn’t want to see your face, so you’ll wear a ski mask. And no unrelated conversations; he wants everything scenario-focused." His large beard swayed as he talked.

Then he leaned in low and murmured, "Though, I’ve sometimes considered offering clients normal conversations—like in a therapist’s office. Some people just need a person to listen, maybe even hold their hand."

As he rambled on with ideas, I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Mr. Ragu always loved his side tangents, relishing the sound of his own voice. But he was my boss, so I just sighed.

Abruptly, he returned to the case. I looked up, meeting his gaze, bringing my focus back.

"This is your first job involving sex, Storm. Are you ready?" He bent forward, staring almost accusatorily.

I scoffed. "He’s a young omega; I shouldn’t have any problems."

"Any questions?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I know how to have sex," I replied mockingly.

"Don’t doubt it, but do you know all our rules? The safe word for this kid is ‘Rose’. When he says it, you stop immediately, no matter how into it you are."

What the hell?

"That’s a given! These are consensual scenarios, not a real assault."

I felt insulted that he would even explain it to me at all. I could bet he didn't tell it to anyone but me, all because of my 'rapist’ slash ‘criminal' past. The fucker.

Mr. Ragu nodded, pursing his lips. "He wants this to happen within the week, so we’re already four days in. Only three left. I’m not sure why he’s in such a hurry; maybe he’s going somewhere? I didn’t ask. Just try to do it tonight or tomorrow at the latest. Then you will meet Johansson, your loyal fan."

I tried to keep my face indifferent, but it wasn’t easy.

"I'll try to do it tonight. $1000 is not exactly the dream price, especially with my bills piling up, but I'll do it."

Mr. Ragu scratched his beard, smirking and tilting his head. "You’re just too slow picking assignments! But don’t worry, Johansson will repair your budget—substantially!"

Oh, could you just stop, jerk? I could tell him what I thought about it, but then I’d have to start looking for new employment.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Mr. Ragu added in a lower tone, "I wanted to ask you something else, about your previous job for my husband. You were an aspiring matchmaker, right, Storm? With some good achievements."

Wait. I flinched. A glitch in the matrix? What did he say? We never— ever —talked about my previous job for his husband. He’d always seemed to completely ignore my past, so why the change? Quite a twist in the conversation.

"Yes, I worked for Mr. Ren as a client assistant. At first, I was just… well, assisting, but in the last three months, I handled matches myself. I also helped finalize and enforce deals for clients since I graduated from law school, specializing in marriage and divorce laws." I lifted my chin with pride. Maybe I was a pathetic ‘assaulter specialist’ now, but it hadn’t always been this way. Once, I had a more… reasonable career.

Mr. Ragu scratched his beard, a strange flicker in his eyes as he smirked slightly. "Did you know my husband has big plans for Fate’s Choice?"

"Well, it’s already flourishing. Your husband’s matchmaking agency runs the biggest marriage contract fairs in the city."

Mr. Ragu preened a bit, shifting like a hen on a perch. "Yes, yes, we are a formidable presence in the market, and we've been drawing a lot of attention lately. But… well, before we go even bigger, we need to wrap up some old business that could potentially drag us down, reputation-wise. There are some loose ends. We, uh—" He cleared his throat, hesitating. "We made a lot of promises to attract clients and outshine other agencies."

I noticed he’d switched to ‘we’ while talking about his husband’s business. He must have been heavily involved in it too.

"Of course, being on the market for only a few years, you have to make a real effort to stand out," I murmured, trying to nudge him to spill whatever he intended to say.

He relaxed a little. "Exactly, exactly. Most of our clients believe we’ll secure them an ideal match—a marriage contract with the right person, fantastic terms, in a short time. But deadlines are approaching fast for some clients, and we’ve got nothing for them. The situation’s getting tense, and the penalties we could face are in the millions."

Millions? Wow. I stared at him.

He stared back, and for a moment, we just locked eyes.

"Half a year ago, we hit a bit of a plateau. To get things moving, we ran an ad campaign with a… limited-time offer. Just a day or two, but quite a few people were enticed by the promises we made."

Half a year ago? That was soon after I was dismissed from Fate’s Choice.

"What were the promises?" I asked, suddenly unsure where this was heading.

"I’ll leave the details for my husband to explain. But just to give you a heads-up, we’re hoping someone with a… unique perspective can go through our candidate pool, maybe spot suitable matches, you know, with a fresh eye?" He mumbled, glancing aside. "There are some interesting individuals. We have a former surrogate, a quadruple murderer, a former escort, an eco-terrorist, and so on…"

This was all too strange. "But I was fired from Fate’s Choice because of my criminal case. Why would you risk bringing a criminal … back in such a sensitive situation?" I emphasized the word in a self-torturing tone.

Mr. Ragu grinned—too wide. "Water under the bridge, Mr. Nolan! Let’s not dwell on the past, shall we?"

I glared at him in disbelief, and the fucker giggled, looking a little sheepish. Before, my case had seemed like a big deal. A major threat to their fragile reputation! A disgusting criminal … Now?

Look who came crawling back.

"My husband would appreciate it if you’d check those cases… just a few that have lingered in the system. Only our most challenging clients."

I scrutinized him for a long moment, feeling a strange thrill.

Well… why the hell not? Could this be my chance to regain what I’d lost? My way out of Johansson’s… ass? Out of this Dark Dreams, out of my depression? If they wanted me, despite the stain on my reputation, should I even hesitate?

"Would that be a one-time thing? Or am I back in my old job?"

Mr. Ragu was clearly flustered; he avoided my gaze, looking at his hands, then at the window, and finally at the wall.

"It all depends on how effective you will be," he muttered evasively.

Aha, gotcha. This had to be some kind of test. If I pulled it off, there was a chance; if not… well, maybe the past wasn’t as forgiven as he made it sound. Water under the bridge? Unlikely.

"Set me up with your husband, and we’ll see what I can do for him," I said firmly. I decided to at least try, and I had some solid reasons to believe I could actually help.

Mr. Ragu lit up, quickly gathering the sheets spread out in front of him and handing them to me.

"Yes! Yes! Great! We appreciate it! Now! Back to business!"

His hands trembled slightly. Was it really such a big deal for them? Were they in deep shit? Maybe I could use it even more? Something else—something serious—had to be going on if they were in such a hurry to close these cases.

"Here are the details for our client, who has quite a demonic name for a little 5’7" student." He giggled again, sounding as silly as usual, but there was a lingering tension beneath it.

Mr. Ragu pushed the STD test results toward me—clients were also required to take them—but I ignored it and snapped my head up. What did he say?

"A demonic name?"

Mr. Ragu waved his hand. "Ah, nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it, I was just thinking out loud."

But I was like a dog with a bone. "No, you have to tell me. What do you mean by a demonic name?"

He snorted. "It’s really nothing. You don’t need to know this client’s name. It’s a private setting, and you’re a home invader—"

"Please, I need to know. Why did you say it was demonic?"

Mr. Ragu eyed me. "I have this passion for watching old, thousand-year-old movies. One of them had somebody like… a demon kid or something, and this student has the same name."

"Is it Damien?!"

Mr. Ragu chuckled. "Oh, so you also like old movies?"

I blinked in shock.

How the hell did I guess his real name?!

For a moment, I was just stupefied, but after a few frantic thoughts, I decided it was just my alien intuition. Yeah. It had to be. I could guess people’s perfect mates, for fuck’s sake! Why not guess a person’s name after staring at him for hours? I could see that happening, easily. There was probably nothing more to it, right?

I relaxed a bit and leaned back in the chair. "Yeah, I am. Sorry for asking, it was just… interesting. An intriguing name. But let’s continue."

Mr. Ragu also relaxed and smiled, helping me with the folder to put in the documents.

The sheets held all the information I needed, including the address and details for the scenario, so I took them and stood up.

"We’ll be in touch!" Mr. Ragu said, winking. "When you’re done with this assignment, I’ll set up a date for you to meet with my husband, okay?"

I hesitated, wondering if I should ask about potentially being taken off the Johansson thing, but I concluded he wasn’t the right person to discuss it with. Mr. Ren Ragu would have much more authority to free me if I gave him something he really wanted.

So, with an official smile, I just gave a short nod.

I drove home in a bit of a daze, my mind spinning. Mr. Ragu’s proposition intrigued me. The man was clearly desperate—worried about hefty fines if he didn’t meet the terms of the contracts. And this ‘big thing’ happening soon? Maybe they needed funds for an investment and were scared penalties would swallow their reserves? That was my suspicion, but of course, I couldn’t be sure.

In theory, it wasn’t my problem, but… if I pulled off whatever he needed, maybe it would be my way out of this mess. My secret talent—my sixth sense—I could use it if things lined up just right!

Smiling to myself, I drove home as night settled in.

According to Mr. Ragu’s text, the client had already been notified that we’d accepted his commission. They never knew the exact moment things would happen—that would kill the vibe. Usually, they got a vague timeframe of three days to a week, keeping them on edge and stretching out the thrill. This client had only three days left. Normally, I wouldn’t consider doing it on the first day, but with the window closing fast, I’d have to move quicker than usual.

Traffic slowed me down, so it was already late when I got home. I tossed the folder on the bed, lay down, and started thinking through a few scenarios I could use with the student. As usual, I checked his picture—it had become a daily habit—brainstorming something creative and believable that he’d find satisfying.

And once again, the trap was activated: his photo caught me.

He was such an interesting-looking omega. Amaranth-red hair, almost pinkish, and fair skin. Maybe I could work that into the scenario? Compliment him on the sensitive skin common to redheads. He had freckles across his nose—maybe elsewhere too. Personally, I had a soft spot for freckles; they reminded me of tiny sunspots. His face wasn’t classically handsome, but for some reason… well, he was almost cute. His full lips, and even the braces peeking between them, added to his nerdy appeal. Sure, his skin could use some acne treatment, but his features weren’t half bad—at least in my eyes. Without these thick glasses and with a smoother complexion, he could even be pretty, birthmark or no birthmark!

Besides, I was so over the ‘perfect ten’ types, like Tom, who embodied omegan beauty standards to an annoying degree. I’d fallen hard for that once, totally blindsided. Never again.

Damien.

So that was his real name! A computer science student, probably surrounded by a sea of betas and omegas all day—alphas rarely went into programming. Except, of course, for my peculiar family. Three of my brothers and a cousin were programmers. The rest? Musicians. And me? Definitely even more the odd one out.

I wondered if people stared at Damien’s birthmark, a nearly perfect rose shape on his cheek. It wasn’t ugly at all, honestly. Strange, that I had a similar mark on the back of my head, so it felt like a hidden kinship—a bizarre secret connection. One twist in my DNA, and I could’ve ended up with it on my face, too. That thought made me look at him with a bit of empathy. Life’s luck hadn’t been on his side there.

We had other similarities, too—like hair color. Mine was a mix of dark purple and deep burgundy, part of my alien heritage, but people often assumed I dyed it. Nope, it was au naturel. Were Damien’s light amaranth-red curls real, or was he hitting the dye?

Behind his glasses, his eyes seemed an indistinct color—maybe dark gray or hazel. The photo had a slight yellowish sepia tint, making it impossible to see the true hue. His straight red lashes, more like cow lashes, didn’t have that flirty upward curve. Instead, they drooped down, giving him a perpetually sad look.

To my surprise, there was yet another photo in the extras file folder—a candid shot of Damien leaning awkwardly against a tree, as if the picture had been snapped at the last second. His hair was a little tousled, his eyes startled. He wore a thick, oversized hoodie and baggy jeans, so his shape was hard to make out. He might’ve been a bit chubby, not obese—just soft and round in certain places—but the hoodie hid most of it.

From a distance, he was just another computer science student with red-pink curls and thick glasses, someone who probably blended into the background. But I still had some time, so I stayed trapped —staring at the omega’s hypnotizing face.

Finally, I forced myself to look at the sheet again.

Okay, so he wanted to start with doggie style—the so-called ‘breeding position’, instinctive for omegas during heats. But here was the weird part: he specifically requested that it be gentle, with plenty of prep beforehand—nothing rough.

That was unusual. Most of Dark Dreams’ clients were all about the intense stuff. But, to be fair, it was his first contract with the company, and sometimes people were skittish at the beginning. Maybe he just wasn’t very experienced and wanted to ease into it, opting for a more relaxed atmosphere during sex.

Truth be told, I wasn’t a fan of rough sex myself. My private life in the bedroom was vanilla as hell. That was one of the issues Tom had with our marriage—he was into some kinks, and I seemed boring to him in the long run. Kind of ironic, considering the kind of job I’d ended up in.

My attention drifted back to the photo folder.

Seriously, Storm? Not again. Fuck.

And yep, I got enthralled by his photo again. Crazy. What was so special about him? I was pretty sure that 90% of the alphas wouldn't even notice him. And the rest would think amaranth hair was a poor choice of dye.

Why did I become so obsessed with the guy?

Minutes passed. I stubbornly studied his full lips, those sad eyes, and that funny rose-shaped birthmark. And I felt a strange wave inside me. I’d experienced something like this before while working on matchmaking—something almost ominous and powerful.

Could it be…? Nah.

Then came another wave—this one more familiar: a good old warmth in the crotch area.

Today, I’m going to fuck him, I thought. My hand absentmindedly touched my hardening dick.

Well, one thing was for sure: I wouldn’t need the erection pill they recommended for employees. The company always insisted on using it to ensure a top-notch experience for the client, but this? This was all me. I could already feel an intense kind of excitement spreading through my body at the thought of having that little 5’7" omega under me—such a stark contrast to my 7’2" frame. A small, plump omega with red curls.

For the last seven months, since I split up with Tom, I've been very… asexual, the idea of casual sex wasn't appealing at all, and looking for a serious relationship wasn't much on my depressed mind.

But today, for some reason, I felt different. My hand slipped to my crotch again. Damn.

Should I stop? Maybe it was good to show up a little heated—it’d guarantee the success of my first fuck job at Dark Dreams.

Nope, I could get it up again easily.

Smirking, I got to work. It took less than a minute to bring things to a satisfying finish.

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