5. Chapter 5

Jesus Christ…

Waverly can barely form a coherent sentence, much less a single thought as she revels in the aftermath of their first session. A self-satisfied smile adorning her lips as she is scooped up into Nicole’s arms. Slightly embarrassed at how lifeless she feels, limbs limp and malleable while her mind is a jumbled mess of half-formed ideas and emotions. It’s like she’s a teenaged girl in one of those old Technicolor comics Curtis used to let her read as a kid, talking on the phone with her hair in a side ponytail, popping bubble gum in her mouth and chatting incessantly to her best friend about boys. Or the main protagonist in a romantic comedy where after spending the entirety of the movie trying to overcome her own insecurities through a series of hilarious missteps, the birds start singing and suddenly she understands all those love songs on the radio.

It’s asinine.

Absolutely asinine.

Feeling such things after a series of orgasms; honestly, how sexually repressed was she truly? A question she’ll bother to concern herself with later because the truth is she automatically curls up into the alpha’s arms for the few seconds that it lasts before being placed on the bed. Laid gently in the middle, Waverly takes a deep breath and watches Nicole who sits at the edge. A warm comforter thrown over her body, hair splayed about against the softest pillows imaginable.

Waverly sets the scene, because it deserves setting for future posterity when she can look back on this fondly: her body, despite being numb, still tingles with the aftershocks of her orgasm—one, she might add, that she didn’t obtain herself with the use of her own fingers or the toy she keeps in a chest underneath her bed at home—she’s lying on the world’s softest bed, warmed by a feathered comforter that caresses her bare skin and lastly, beside her is the country’s richest alpha. A purebred no less, pulling out a variety of sweets from a white bag.

Daddy, hanging thickly on her tongue.

“How do you feel?” Nicole asks, her voice softer than what it was before. No longer driving Waverly insane from one colorful explosion into the next.

“I-I’m okay.” Waverly responds. “Just a little tired…?”

Nicole looks up, “Is that a statement or a question?”

Waverly shakes her head, then nods, then widens her eyes like a deer in headlights not knowing what to do or say next. The words dying in her throat when Nicole cuts in with a small laugh. “It’s fine, the first time is usually the most draining.”

“Usually?”

“Of course, but don’t worry about that now.” The alpha winks, smile brandishing a tiny glimpse of the fangs hiding behind her lips. “Let’s see where the week takes us.”

The words bounce off the walls of Waverly’s brain, echoing and igniting the synapses. Reminding her of what was to come—damn it, her cheeks burn at the phrasing and could only hope that Nicole didn’t notice the blush now coloring her cheeks. Throwing her head hack to save face, she becomes startled at what she sees above her.

Her own face staring back at her.

The four-poster canopy had a full-length mirror that encompassed the entire bed. The omega blinking in disbelief as she takes in her own appearance. Body slicked with a thin sheet of sweat, sex mussed hair, wild and carelessly tossed in every direction, lips bitten and swollen; truly, and undoubtedly, well fucked. The kind usually seen on Wynonna slinking back home after a long night at Shorty’s or a relatively short one at Peacemaker.

“Eat.” Nicole hands over a trio of chocolate bars, Hershey’s, two milk chocolate and one cookies and cream. King-sized. “Conserve your energy, I don’t want you dropping.”

Waverly had done extensive research on the matter leading up to this week after Chrissy explicitly mentioned that the rich, blue blooded alpha she would entertaining, and satisfying sexually, had less than conventional tastes. Leading the brunette to pour over countless articles and webpages in preparation. Browsing history filled with sites discussing sub drops and the measures the dominant is supposed to take concerning their submissive/scene-partner.

A drop will generally set in within twenty-four to seventy-two hours after an intense scene in which endorphins and adrenaline will spiked, commonly associated with sub/top space, and thus will result in a crash with symptoms reminiscent of depression.

Marked by things like difficulty concentrating, remembering details and decisions, fatigue and decreased energy, insomnia and disruption in usual sleeping patterns to name a few. Irritability, restlessness and even a loss of interest in activities or hobbies that were once pleasurable; Waverly shook her head at that one, unable to imagine losing interest in something as attuned to her base nature as reading. She might just go insane. But of all the possible afflictions she could endure after a session, Waverly is surprised and a more than a bit worried for the following: feelings of misplaced guilt, worthlessness and or helplessness highlighted with bouts of hopelessness and or pessimism. Persistent sad, anxious or “empty” feelings.

And the most frightening of them all, written in bold red letters: thoughts of suicide and even suicide attempts.

She shivers. Unable to equate a round of sex to suicide. Waverly agrees with the feelings of guilt and worthlessness, but actually take her own life? It gets the omega thinking; how much was she risking putting her mind through all this? How far will she possibly go before she forgets who she is anymore?

The severity of a drop and its symptoms, should they occur, will vary widely between those that experience them. The website Waverly found that was tailored to educating the ignorant and the curious on BDSM explicitly stated: if the symptoms do not clear up within seven days, then it should be considered that there are other psychological and physiological concerns at play. Thus, the dominant and submissive should immediately seek appropriate and professional help.

Waverly takes a bite of the milk chocolate bar first, eager to dissuade any melancholy feelings. Nibbling on the treat as an iPad is pulled from the bag. Gold in color, gleaming in the dim lighting of the playroom and Waverly thinks to herself at how on earth she assumed it would’ve been any other color but gold.

“Netflix? Or a book?” Nicole asks. Waverly shrugs her shoulders sheepishly.

“Now, now, you need to tell me. The session is over but we’re still in the playroom.”

“Uh, Netflix is fine… You can pick whatever you want.”

“Alright,” Nicole scoots closer, arms wrapping around Waverly; setting the iPad in front of them and flipping to the cartoons section.

“Family Guy?” Only a natural assumption, she doubts a grown woman would watch a kid’s show.

Nicole shakes her head and a shive runs down Waverly’s spine when she feels the auburn-haired woman’s chin resting on her shoulder. “American Dad, a lot funnier. Doesn’t try hard when it comes to the jokes.”

An episode is loaded up, the theme song filling the speakers on the side of the device, but the volume is low. The music and the characters’ voices are barely audible, whispers in the cavernous room and she understands then.

“We’re not watching Netflix, are we?”

“You catch on quick.”

Waverly blinks, flinching when the auburn-haired woman settles behind her. Hands clasped together softly in front of her waist. The comforter serving as a barrier between them. Having the alpha’s arms wrapped around her is strange. Heat radiating from her pale skin, providing more warmth than the quilt wrapped around her still naked body.

It reminds Waverly of the time she and Chrissy attended a party at GRU’s resident fraternity. Alpha Nu Sigma. The entire house rented for them in the university’s name was decked out in blue and white colors. Much like Purgatory High’s. It was their first time at a college party, doe-eyed freshman straight out of high school looking to get a taste of that party life glorified and revered in television and movies.

The ones where the alcohol flows freely, students, young and free, hooking up and having the time of their lives. The kind they’d remember well into old age and senility. But Waverly doesn’t remember the party being anything more than a complete bust. Remembering a string of boys lined up trying to be charming than the last, exaggerating their accomplishments and nodding absentmindedly at anything the brunette said. Each one reeking of lust like prepubescent teenagers finding porn for the first time.

She had no luck with women either. They were just as sex driven as the men. She wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. Contrary to popular belief, Waverly indeed was just looking to have a good time. One that had nothing to do with becoming one half of two partially drunken freshmen rutting away like animals for that first college memory to tell for the rest of their lives.

But no, by the time the sixth alpha to approach her is flexing his arms and showing her some party trick he can do with an empty beer bottle, Waverly realizes that she ought to head back home and salvage whatever brain cells she had left.

And she does, bidding her goodbyes to Chrissy before speeding home. Finding her father sleeping on his favorite chair in front of the TV in the living room, mouth open, beer can half-empty in hand. Still wearing his uniform. Willa and Wynonna pouring over some books in the kitchen, well Willa is, Wynonna was busy shoving food into her mouth.

Wynonna asked if she had gotten any, bumped uglies or did the nasty with anyone cute. Practically using every euphemism she knew to describe her baby sister’s non-existent sexual encounter.

Willa in turn, thumps her on the head with a packet of papers for being tactless.

Nevertheless, Waverly shakes her head. Faking a yawn and resigning to her bedroom for the rest of the night.

Now that she thinks about it, here in the alpha’s arms, absentmindedly watching Roger the Alien blow up the Smith family kitchen for the sheer fun of it, Waverly wonders what it would have been like had she and Nicole crossed paths in college.

Imagining a clump of alphas hovering near a card table where all the alcohol is set up, tipping more booze into their cups after every few sips, all too aware of how beer flows endlessly through the party. Nudging her way through, getting a clatter of ice cubes and a splash of vodka from a sweet-faced omega wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt.

Slipping away quickly when the alphas start to get rowdy, not wanting to get caught in the middle of that. Chrissy is missing from the party, probably somewhere where she’s the life of the little group she magnetically drew together like the social butterfly that she is. By now, the party is winding down. People having already drank their fill but were still sober enough to pick cleverly worded fights, the smell of cigarette smoke billowing out an open window even after the host had asked them to go outside.

Waverly would have given herself something to do had she stayed at the party. Instead of milling about, standing in the center of the room like a helpless seal stranded in shark infested waters. She goes for a walk, heading out of the frat house for some fresh air. On the way out, she notices a pair of omegas, both males and clearly a couple from the way they sit off to the side on the porch, angled towards each other, shoulders hunched in the shape of a heart.

She looks at them fondly despite the longing feeling that seeps into her skin. Freezing her blood at the sight. Waverly moves faster, taking one last glance at the couple, two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together, before she—

“Oh, I’m sorry.” A velvety voice says.

It’s her. Heart predictably skips a beat. But she doesn’t know it’s Nicole yet. Just knows that it’s a woman with a pair of bright honey-golden eyes and an even brighter smile, wearing this air of cockiness around her that fits as easily as the shirt on her back. An alpha with the richest scent she’s ever smelled, decadent, like vanilla dipped donuts fresh out of the oven. She imagines the woman as a teenager, a young adult fresh out of high school, having just gotten out of this rebellious phase that had taken hold of her adolescent years. Marked by piercings and tattoos. The kind of woman who has seen all the world has to offer and then some.

Much like Jay Gatsby written to perfection by Fitzgerald’s hand, she’s dressed in the finest silk shirt, jeans made from an expensive brand worth more than Waverly’s own car. The fur lining her boots probably from the hide of some unknown animal who’s become critically endangered just to make them.

“I-It’s okay.” Waverly responds, mentally kicking herself for that slight stutter.

But Nicole would find it endearing. The kind of woman who carries herself with a subtle ease that drew people in, unlike many of the people Waverly had the misfortune of losing several brain cells to; the ones who pretend that an over bloated sex life is attractive. The ones who automatically assume that every breathing, red-blooded omega is out looking to get fucked by the first good-looking person who flexes and smiles their way. Unfortunately, Waverly has had her share of dumbasses in bed, more so than the oh so few who were genuine and sweet.

The preppy rich kids who didn’t understand what the word “reciprocating” means, thinking that their parents’ money entitled them to everything; the self-aware hipsters who took the stereotypically negative traits placed upon millennials like badges of honor, as if they were a code to live by; the sensitive honors students who try to make up for their lack personable skills by treating sex like a musical composition, technical and with no rhythm.

“Please,” it starts with such a weird word, one akin to asking, begging, “let me get you another drink.”

“Okay.” Because Waverly knows, she knows, the alpha would never beg.

Unless she wanted to.

“Okay, but just one drink, though.”

Just one drink, though. It’s a simple line, maybe a little funny and cute with the way Nicole smiles, silver lip piercing glinting in the dim lighting. The makings of what has the potential of being an inside joke that only they share. Somewhere, years from now, they would remember this day fondly, grinning as they did before.

All thoughts of staying outside dissipate as she is lead back inside; a palm open and flat against the small of her back. Staying close, molding into the alpha’s side while the rest part through the middle like the Red Sea to let them through. Some regarded them with envy, half towards Nicole, and the other half towards Waverly herself. She expects several of the female betas and omegas in the now disastrous living room were probably wishing the brunette would run off somewhere to leave Nicole free and unattached; she doesn’t blame them.

Not when, she admits that Nicole is gorgeous. Beautiful. Distractingly so. With the kind of look that makes you do a double take, slack jawed, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water at the sheer unfairness of it all. The other alphas hate her: the auburn-haired woman resembles something out of an ‘80s teen movie—either the rich kid who wears all white after Labor Day with pride, perfect and clean-cut presence that draws attention everywhere she goes; or the leather wearing misfit with piercings and eyeliner, fingers calloused from strumming the strings of a guitar.

She doesn’t act like either archetype, though. Her name is Nicole; of Greek origin and it means "victory of the people". Having evolved into a French feminine derivative of the masculine given name Nicolas. And most of all, it sits on Waverly’s tongue like it was meant to be there.

They chat like they’re old friends, picking up where they left off after years of being apart. For some reason, Waverly is unable to shake this gnawing feeling that they had met before, maybe in a past life some time ago. Living out a timeless love story, instead of sharing their opinions on the many that have already been written.

Coming back to reality, she sees that the previous episode of American Dad had long ended. Now seven minutes into another where Roger the Alien is dressed up as basketball player while Steve Smith is doing a parody of R. Kelly’s Stuck in the Closet. Nicole still has her arms wrapped around the brunette. Chin resting delicately on her bare shoulder, able to feel the vibrations of the alpha’s purrs through her skin.

“You spend a lot of time in your head.” Nicole’s eyes remain closed.

“I’m a thinker,” Waverly replies and hears a soft, non-committal grunt in return. “And a planner.”

“Ever thought of just going with the flow?”

“Not really.” Doesn’t exactly work in my world.

“Well,” Nicole starts. “Maybe we can change that? At least for the week.”

Waverly nods, shrugging her shoulders, still unsure. And then, when she turns her head to face forward and catches sight of the iron grid mounted on the wall, adorned with various objects, that it hits her. “Is this the aftercare?”

Nicole makes a face, half yes and half no. “Somewhat. Today session was really just to prepare you for the rest of the week.”

“So, what have we been doing?”

“You were inside your head,” Nicole has a great smile, a wolfish smile. She could devour the omega whole, the way she smiles at her. Eyes half-lidded like a solar eclipse, the light faint. “Seeing as how that makes you comfortable, I didn’t want to disrupt it.”

“For now.”

“Naturally.”

They sit in silence for the rest of time that is spent in the playroom. A welcome change from the usual half-hearted monotone after-sex banter she was so used to having. Here, Waverly drifts. The low whispers from the iPad and the heat surrounding her, soothing her to sleep. A tired, dreamy yawn escapes from her lips, and she feels the warmth pull her closer into itself. The sound of her own heartbeat steady against her eardrums. A rocking motion pulls her down further, images of herself as child going fishing with her father, sitting with her back against his side, reading through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, as he waited patiently to reel something in; can of beer in one hand, fishing rod in the other. Willa on the other side of him, doing the same while teasing a sleeping Wynonna who, in her sleep, scratches the phantom itch. It’s one of her favorite memories.

Even if there were a few times they went overboard in the lake because Willa and Wynonna couldn’t stop fighting.

When she opens her eyes again, half awake, rubbing the bleariness of sleep out of them, she feels the rocking motion again. There’s nothing solid beneath her feet and she, in a sudden panic, stirs. Only to be quieted with a “shhh…” Her head rests against Nicole’s chest, as she is carried effortlessly down the hall. Over the alpha’s shoulder she sees the black doors of the playroom fade away. Rounding the corner of the grand staircase, she pulls back, staring at the curve of the auburn-haired woman’s profile. Her eyes are mischievous, playful; her lashes are long, Waverly can envision snowflakes clinging to them in winter. Can see what she looked like as a girl, wide-eyed and ready for life.

They head up the stairs, shadows formed into one, dancing dizzyingly on the marble steps behind them. It’s nighttime. Has to be. It’s been more than enough hours since she woke and saw daylight; confirmed when Nicole brings her to her room and sees the clear blue sky from this morning now a cozy gradient of orange and yellow. Just like in Purgatory.

Nicole gently puts her down on the bed, she moves to leave the omega be, but she lingers.

“One last time for today, are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” There’s the makings of a smile on the brunette’s face. Shy, as she discovers that she is still naked beneath and the quilt. Combing back several strands of hair behind her ear, she misses a single strand and reaches up to fix it but Nicole’s quicker. Curling it back, fingertips floating; slow but purposeful, along the skin beneath her ear down the curve of her neck.

Snapping out of it, Nicole makes her way out of the room. Standing at the doorframe, hand on the knob, she gives one last smile, “You’re welcome.” Before closing the door.

With Nicole gone, Waverly sighs and lays back on the bed. Covering her face.