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Hotch is here because he wants a sibling for Jack.
He has to remind himself, as he passes each of the omegas in turn, that what he's looking for is breeding stock. Not a companion, not a wife ... he's had all that before, and lost it.
He just needs something to produce a child.
The omegas are all naked, chained, their mouths locked down to keep them quiet. They need to be restrained for their heats, or they could hurt themselves.
There are maybe twenty of them, buckled into the benches on their hands and knees. Each of them squirms in their restraints, but they can’t change positions – their thighs are spread wide and strapped into place, their wet, open asses on display.
Hotch does not let himself wonder how they came to be here. They could be sold for any number of reasons ... debt, addiction, repudiation. It's none of his business.
He already has a sad story of his own.
He starts with the one closest to the door. It’s a female, blinkered and gagged like all the others. Her hair is yellow. She whines as Aaron parts her swollen folds to examine her genitals. Her grunt is muffled as he pushes his ring finger into her anus while his forefinger slides into her creamy cunt.
She's dripping wet, and so hot inside. Aaron tries to imagine planting his seed here, swelling her belly with his pups.
He feels nothing.
He pats her flank and withdraws.
Hotch accepts the wipe from the keeper and moves on down the line, cleaning his hands.
The next one is a pale, slender boy. Aaron likes the look of him immediately. He’s delicate and lanky, with scraggly pulled back from his face so they could fit his gag properly. He’s trying to work his mouth around it to no avail.
"Is this one really healthy enough to breed?" asks Hotch doubtfully, examining a scrawny, manacled ankle. "Looks too thin."
"Oh, it's been thoroughly vetted, or it wouldn’t be for sale. We take basal temp every hour. It's ovulating now."
Well, Hotch can fatten him up, maybe.
He feels a little sorry for the omega, which can hardly move. A bar behind his knees keeps him kneeling, and a thick leather collar keeps its head in place. It must be uncomfortable.
He makes a slow circle around the boy, starting at the face; pulling back his lips to examine the white teeth clenched around his gag. Nice and healthy.
"How's his medical history?" asks Hotch, checking the ears.
"Clean as a whistle. Won't give you no problems on that scale."
Hotch will be checking that for himself. He moves unhurriedly down the body, looking for lumps or sores. The boy doesn't seem to like being handled, but he can't do about it. Good muscle tone, Hotch thinks, for all that he can see the ridge of every rib, dotted sparsely with moles.
He strokes the trembling back as he moves down towards the rump, where the real action is. He pulls his skinny buttocks apart to check his conformation; high and tight, and flushed lovely pink.
The boy yelps and squirms.
"It's virgin," the shopkeeper says, with the air of someone who knows he's playing an ace.
Usually Hotch wouldn't believe him, but in this case he just might. For him it's a selling point. It means he can teach his omega how he likes his cock sucked, how to accommodate his particular kinks, and where he likes to come (over the omega’s bare buttocks, or on his face).
Hotch holds him open to have a good sniff, ignoring the burbling protests. He’s only just barely in heat, asshole hardly damp, but Hotch can smell his freshness, like new-cut grass in springtime.
"He's good quality," says Hotch. He'd like a taste, but that's not allowed - not until money changes hands.
He tests the slide of his hole with the pad of one finger. The boy is tight, ungenerous with his slick. "Relax for me, omega," he murmurs, pressing in. Still the boy resists, whimpering as his anus is prised apart. Hotch is only up to the first knuckle and he's already kicking up a fuss.
"Don't know how to take it yet," says the shopkeeper, bored. "But it'll learn. That one's a fast learner."
He’s indignant about that finger in his butt, that’s for sure, even though Hotch is barely giving him anything. He’s tugging fruitlessly at his restraints, trying to protest through his gag. It all comes out comically muffled.
The omegas are kept penned when they’re not in heat, and this boy must have suffered terribly, pressed in with a thousand unwashed naked bodies. Everything about him suggests that he's high-strung and nervous.
Hotch should keep walking, look for one that's more laid back and indolent.
But maybe he doesn’t mind a feisty omega. And he'll be docile enough when the pregnancy hormones kick in.
"This one," says Hotch. "But I'll want it on its back."
He's hoping for a girl this time.
-
The boy looks terrified.
His legs are spread, knees bent, like he’s ready for a gynecological exam. Someone spread a towel under his buttocks to catch any spilt fluids.
His wrists are securely bound above his head and they’ve removed his gag - for now. There is a heavy strap over his hips, and a thin bar between his ankles.
Hotch enjoys the view. Pale genitals are exposed under the bright lights; small omega cock, balls like grapes. Light dusting of fine, pale hair. Tight little hole that had never been used for its intended purpose. All were thoroughly cleaned despite the omega’s muffled protestations. (Hotch insisted; after all, its mouth and buttocks have been inspected by a thousand other potential buyers today).
The stress has intensified his heat and the slick is dribbling out of him.
Hotch starts by rubbing the boy's chest. His little breasts will grow with milk for Jack and Hotch and the new baby. But now they are small and tight, and the omega does not like them squeezed.
"Please," whispers the boy. His lips are puffy and swollen from being stretched around his gag. It makes Hotch think of how nice it will feel when he gets his cock in that bruised mouth.
"It’s alright, omega," he promises. "I’m not going to hurt you. I only want another child."
The boy just closes his eyes.
"What’s your name?" asks Hotch, stroking the tangled hair, which the omega endures dully.
"Spenser." The boy whines and tries to lift his hips, another trickle of slick leaking out of him. "Spenser Reid."
"That’s a pretty name."
"Thank you. You know, I ... know what you're doing. You're - attempting to demonstrate your ... authority over me in a - ritualized display of dominance." Spenser is panting, trying to concentrate through the chemical wave of his heat.
Hotch is surprised to find himself charmed. "Am I?"
"Yes," Spenser croaked. "That’s why you’re ... fully dressed and I’m - naked, that’s why all the restraints, why I can’t even close my legs."
"That’s right," says Hotch, fixating on this last point. "You have to keep them open for me."
He sees now why the shopkeeper called this one 'mouthy.' But rather than being discouraged, Hotch wants to show him what a good breeding will do to that big brain of his. Wants to reduce him to a womb and an aching, needy hole.
He climbs up between the boy's spread legs, and Spenser's head drops back, his eyes closed.
"I know this has only been your asshole until now," says Hotch, stroking the swollen entrance. "But now it’s going to be where I put my seed into your belly, and when its time, it will be where my baby comes out of you."
"No," says Spenser quietly. Another gush of liquid spills out of him.
"Keep talking," says Hotch. "What am I doing to you, sweetheart?"
"You’re – stimulating my anus with your fingers, to stimulate lubrication."
"That’s right. And now?"
Spenser's eyes open, but he avoids eye contact. Something tells Hotch it's a habit of his. "Your fingers are ... in my rectum. You’re massaging the rectal muscles, trying to stretch them out."
"Why am I doing that?"
Spenser looks away, sullen. 'To make space for your cock," he mutters.
"That’s right," says Hotch. "I want you to relax for me, so you can take me all right here, right in this little hole."
Spenser grunts.
Hotch lifts his little cock away from his belly and tugs on it gently.
"Don't -" starts Spenser.
Hotch puts his clean hand over the boy’s mouth. It's big enough to cover the lower half of his face. "Quiet now," says Hotch.
The boy falls silent, lips wet against Hotch's palm.
Hotch works him until he's fully hard; an omegan orgasm assists in fertilization. Then he lines himself up with the other hand. The boy is too wet to offer any resistance. He doesn't struggle.
"I'm going to fill you up," Hotch whispers. "I'm going to paint your insides with my come and you'll be swollen with life."
Spenser shakes his head, but it's feeble, and he's trying to grind back against Hotch's dick.
Hotch slides into him on one long stroke. Whatever he may feel, his body is greedy; it opens easily for Hotch, welcoming him inside.
"Beautiful," says Hotch.
He picks up the pace, his balls slapping against the boy's perineum. He likes him nice and still like this, pinned down. When he finds a good rhythm the boy rocks with him, not quite deliberately; Hotch is guessing he doesn't know he's doing it.
He takes his hand away, but the omega stays silent, biting his lip.
"You were made for this," Hotch whispers.
The omega squirms, tugging feebly at his bound wrists, and Hotch feels himself swelling. The boy has begun to whine in his throat. His body knows what he needs. He tries to lift his hips but he's held down by the straps.
Hotch reaches down to squeeze his little dick. "That's it," he says. "Come for me, Spenser. Come."
Spenser makes a low, broken sound, and then Hotch feels himself being milked by the boy's strong internal muscles. He lets the greedy body suck out his seed, lets him swallow it all up into his womb.
"That's right," says Hotch, still thrusting slowly. "I’m going to give you such a good life, sweetheart, as mother to my children." Some people sell omegas after they wean, but Hotch won’t do that to Spenser – he’ll keep him, introduce him to the team, make him a part of the family. "I’ll take care of you," he whispers, "And and you take care of them."
He bucks one last time, depositing the last little spurt of fluid deep inside, and buries himself as deep as he can.
The boy is a sloppy mess now, wetness leaking out between his legs all around where they're still joined. He must be so sore down there, used up and swollen.
Hotch waits until his heart rate levels out, and then withdraws.
He lifts the boy's hips, reaching for the plug that's stored conveniently within his line of sight.
Spenser whimpers tiredly when he sees it.
"Ssh, you need your asshole stuffed so my seed stays in," murmurs Hotch, easing the thick plug into the boy’s reddened hole. The omega squirms and whines until it's properly seated. Then he relents, evidently resigned.
He falls silent in his restraints, not struggling, accepting the gag that Hotch slides back into his mouth.
He knows it’s over.
The room is equipped with everything a breeding couple could want. Hotch fusses around getting the boy positioned correctly, his hips raised up and legs in the air, so the sperm is directed to his womb.
He looks a little ridiculous, his ankles leashed together and suspended overhead in a breeding sling. But he accepts it silently, barely protesting until Hotch rubs his belly where he hopes the new life is already taking root.
Then the boy glares at him through the hair that has fallen over his eyes.
Hotch combs it back for him. "Rest, for now, Spenser," he tells him quietly, strokes the boy's flushed cheek.
"If you haven’t conceived in an hour, we go again."