The First Taste of Theft

The next morning dawns gray and heavy, the house still reeking of last night's humiliation. Mia's cheeks still stings faintly from the last nights slaps, though the marks on her face have faded to soft pink by breakfast. She moves carefully, jaw set, refusing to meet anyone's eyes—especially mine. The hand-holding last night lingers like a bruise on my soul; I can still feel her fingers squeezing mine in helpless fury as Master disciplined her. Laura is quieter than ever, floating through the kitchen in a loose robe that does nothing to hide how her body sways with unresolved need, collar glinting under the collar of fabric like a brand. She pours coffee with trembling hands, avoiding Master's gaze when he enters, but her nipples pebble instantly at his presence, betraying her again.

Master—Marcus—owns the space without effort. He sits at the head of the table like it's always been his, black shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the hard planes of his chest. He watches us eat in silence, smirking every time one of us shifts uncomfortably, the collars reminding us of our place with every swallow. The water's metallic bite is stronger today, or maybe we're just more aware of it now—every gulp deepening the fog of submissiveness, the constant low burn between our legs.

My phone buzzes mid-morning. Sarah. My heart lurches.

*Can I come over? I need to see you. Everything feels… wrong. Please?*

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering. Part of me wants to tell her no—run, stay away from this house that's become a cage. But on the other hand, the thought of her here, close, feels like the only anchor left. I text back: *Yeah. Come over. Just… be careful.*

She arrives an hour later, knocking timidly. I open the door before Master can, **** for one normal moment. There she is—my Sarah, petite and perfect, red ponytail swinging, freckles dusting her nose, wearing that soft pink sundress that hugs her small waist and flares over her hips. Her green eyes are wide, scared, but they soften when she sees me. She throws her arms around my neck, pressing close, her body warm and familiar against mine.

"Eathan…" she whispers into my shoulder, voice cracking. "I missed you so much. Everything's falling apart."

I hold her tight, breathing in her cherry shampoo, trying to ignore how my cock stirs at the contact—denied for so long, every touch electric. "I know," I murmur. "Come in. Just… stay close to me."

We step inside. The moment the door closes, Master's voice cuts through the air like a blade.

"Well. Who's this little bitch?"

Sarah freezes in my arms. I feel her stiffen, her breath catching. I turn slowly, keeping her behind me as much as I can, but Master is already rising from the couch, eyes locked on her like a wolf spotting prey. He towers, muscles flexing under his shirt as he approaches, gaze raking over her petite frame—the way the sundress clings to her perky tits, the hem flirting with mid-thigh, her bare legs smooth and trembling.

Sarah peeks around me, eyes huge. "Who… who is he?"

"Master," Laura says quietly from the doorway, voice flat with defeat. She’s still in her robe, collar visible, cheeks flushed from whatever torment he's put her through this morning. "Marcus Thorne. Our… assigned alpha."

Sarah's hand tightens on my arm. "Assigned? Like… the law thing?" Her voice is small, disbelieving. She looks up at me, pleading. " Eathan, tell me this isn't real."

I want to. God, I want to lie, to say it's all a nightmare. But the collar around my neck chokes the words. "It's real," I whisper, hating every syllable. "He's… in charge now."

Marcus chuckles, deep and dark, stepping closer. Sarah instinctively steps back, pressing against me, but there's nowhere to go. He stops inches away, towering over both of us, his scent—musk and clean sweat—overwhelming. "Sarah Jenkins," he says, reading her like he already knows everything. "Girlfriend. Sweet little thing." His eyes drop to her chest, watching her nipples harden under the thin cotton despite her fear. "Look at you. Already responding. Good beta."

Sarah shakes her head, tears welling. "No. I'm not… I don't want this." But her voice wavers, breath quickening, thighs pressing together under the dress. The chemicals hit her too—same water, same torment. Her body betrays her just like the rest of us.

Marcus reaches out, slow, deliberate. His large black hand cups her chin, tilting her face up. She flinches, but doesn't pull away—submissiveness rooting her in place. "Pretty mouth," he murmurs, thumb brushing her lower lip. "Bet it looks good wrapped around cock." He drags the pad of his thumb across her lip, parting it slightly, exposing the wet pink inside. Sarah whimpers, eyes darting to me—horror, shame, a flicker of unwanted heat.

I stand frozen, hand still on her waist, feeling her tremble. My cock throbs painfully in my jeans, the first real cuckold twist sinking its claws in. Watching him touch her—my girl, my sweet Sarah—while I do nothing. Helpless. The humiliation burns, but so does the arousal, dark and sick.

" Eathan," Master says without looking at me, "step back. Let me see what I'm working with."

My legs move before my brain catches up—submissiveness overriding everything. I release her, stepping aside, heart hammering. Sarah reaches for me instinctively, but Marcus catches her wrist, pulling her gently but firmly toward him.

"Easy, little one," he soothes, voice that dangerous velvet rumble. "No one's hurting you… yet." He turns her slowly, making her face me while he stands behind her. His hands settle on her hips, fingers splaying wide, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above her waistband. Sarah gasps, body jerking, but she doesn't fight—can't fight.

"Look at your boyfriend," Master orders her softly. "Tell him how wet you are right now."

Sarah's eyes meet mine, tears spilling over. "I'm… I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I can't help it. It's so hot… down there." Her voice breaks on a sob, but her hips shift back slightly, pressing her ass against his crotch. I see it—the subtle grind, the way her thighs clench, seeking pressure. Master's bulge is unmistakable behind her, thick and heavy, pressing into the small of her back through his jeans.

"Good girl," he praises, one hand sliding up her stomach, stopping just under her breasts. He doesn't grope—not yet—but the threat is there, fingers tracing the underside of her small tits through the dress, making her nipples strain harder. "Feel that? That's what a real man feels like. Not your little beta dick."

Sarah whimpers, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes locked on mine—guilt, fear, helpless lust swirling in her green gaze. " Eathan… I love you," she whispers, but her voice cracks as Master's other hand drifts lower, cupping her mound over the dress. He doesn't rub, just holds—firm, possessive pressure right over her pussy.

She moans—soft, broken, involuntary. Her knees buckle slightly, and he steadies her, keeping her upright so I can see every detail: the way her dress tents over his hand, the faint outline of her swollen lips under the fabric, the dark spot blooming at her center.

"She's dripping for me, boy," Master tells me casually, like he's commenting on the weather. "Feel how hot she is." He takes my hand—my own fucking hand—and guides it between her legs, pressing my palm against her soaked panties under the dress. Sarah cries out softly, hips bucking into my touch, but it's Master's grip controlling the pressure, making me feel her wetness secondhand.

She's drenched. Soaking through cotton and lace, clit throbbing against my fingers. I can feel every pulse, every needy twitch, and it kills me—knowing she's this aroused for him, not me. My cock leaks steadily now, trapped and denied, the cuckold ache blooming deep in my balls.

Master removes my hand, brings my slick fingers to Sarah's lips. "Taste yourself, slut. Show your boyfriend how much you want this."

Sarah hesitates, tears streaming, but her tongue darts out anyway—pink and trembling—lapping at my fingers, tasting her own arousal while staring into my eyes. Shame floods her face, but she sucks gently, helpless under his command.

Master leans down, lips brushing her ear. "Tell him you belong to me now."

Sarah sobs once, then whispers, voice shattered: "I… I belong to Master now."

The words hit like a slap. I drop to my knees without being told—submissiveness crashing over me like a wave. Sarah reaches for me again, but Master holds her back, one arm banded around her waist, keeping her pressed against him.

"Watch," he tells me. "This is just the beginning."

He rocks his hips slowly, grinding his thick bulge against her ass, making her sundress ride up inch by inch. Sarah's head falls forward, red hair curtaining her face, soft moans escaping despite her tears. Master's free hand slips under the hem, fingers tracing the edge of her panties, dipping just inside to brush her soaked folds. She jolts, crying out—half sob, half plea.

"Please…" she whimpers, not even sure what she's begging for.

Master chuckles. "Please what, little beta?"

She doesn't answer—just grinds back against him, body moving on instinct while her mind screams no.

I kneel there, collared, hard, helpless—watching my girlfriend dry-humped and fingered lightly by the black alpha who now owns my family.

And the worst part? Part of me—small, dark, broken—wants to see more.

Master finally steps back, leaving Sarah trembling, dress askew, panties visible and soaked. "Go home, girl," he says casually. "Think about who you really belong to now."

Sarah stumbles toward me, collapsing into my arms. We cling to each other, both crying, both aching, both knowing nothing will ever be the same.

Master watches us with satisfaction.

"See you soon, Sarah," he promises.

And I know—he means it.