by Dex Bass
College Omega’s Secret Baby
By Dex Bass
Book 1 of the series MPreg College
Copyright 2017 Dex Bass
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One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Epilogue
Author’s Afterword
One
“I’m Professor Alan Archer.” It was the start of another quarter, and another bunch of clueless undergraduate charges in front of him. “This is Human Reproduction 101. Prepare to be bamboozled.”
Alan stood tall and looked across the room. A hundred or so faces. A few cute young omegas stood out among them, but Alan knew not to look. He had to be professional. And anyway, freshman omegas were cute to look at, but their attractiveness ended with their looks. Alan knew he could never engage one of those twinky omegas in any serious conversation. Still, they were his students, and he’d have to teach them, at least for that quarter.
Teaching undergraduates was like wiping your ass: nobody liked it, but everybody had to do it. Human Reproduction 101 was Alan’s ass-wiping exercise for the year, where he’d reconnect with the undergraduate population. Undergrads were never too smart, but at least they did always fawn over him: his smarts, his academic fame, and most obviously, his looks.
He was the famous Alan Archer. He couldn’t deny it. He enjoyed their attention. Springville State wasn’t Harvard, but so what? He didn’t always have to live up to the Archer family name.
It wasn’t just for his academic accomplishments that the university always chose Alan to appear on their admissions website. Alan could’ve moonlighted as a model, and he knew it. His looks were enough to bring starry-eyed omega students through the university’s doors. Of course they knew they had no chance with the actual Alan Archer. But fangirls knew they had no chance with Justin Bieber, and they still lined up to see him and dream about him, didn’t him? As far as the world’s young omega men were concerned, Professor Alan Archer was the Justin Bieber of Springville State University.
Sure, his parents wanted him to teach at a famous place, a more prestigious place. But he liked being a big fish in the Springville pond. And he liked Springville.
As Alan spoke that Monday morning, his students were about as unresponsive as always. They’d all been enthusiastic to get into his class, but once there, they seemed to have lost all interest. Every year they seemed more catatonic. The joke about being bamboozled had barely registered. Their faces were in their smartphones. A bright blue stripe defiantly shone took the top of each phone’s screen. The students’ eyes had all taken on an unnatural Facebook-blue tint. Those blue stripes definitely weren’t a textbook or scientific journal.
A hand went up. Second row, to the side, a slightly acne-ridden freshman. Glasses. A mousy male specimen, a mouse of the kind whose stem cells you’d replicate in the lab in hopes of producing some kind of hardier animal. His mouse-colored gray eyes were mouse-quickly scanning the room.
Alan pointed at the raised hand. “Yeah? And tell me your name please also.” Alan talked down, literally, from his lectern to the mouse in the plastic chair. The kid probably wanted to know if the class would get out early that day or whether he could have an extension on the first problem set or whether it was ok to drink soda in class. Alan asked his name so he could start learning students’ names early. Normally it took Alan all quarter, and by then the class was over.
“I’m Oswald.” The student’s lithe fingers flew up to his face to adjust the eyeglasses on his nose in front of his admittedly beautiful gray eyes. “My full name is Oswald, but I go by Os.”
“Like The Wizard of Oz?” Alan grinned. He thought it was a good joke. The students only rolled their eyes. Maybe that movie was before their time. It was before Alan’s time too, he happily reminded himself.
“No. Not really like The Wizard of Oz.” The kid shook his head. Alan hadn’t gotten the right answer. The student’s voice wasn’t at all amused. More like annoyed, the way he shook his head with reprimand at his professor. “I mean it’s not even spelled the same. My name is spelled O-S. The Wizard of Oz is — well, you know how The Wizard of Oz is spelled.”
“Right.” Alan nodded. Alan spotted an escape route from this verbal pummeling he was receiving in front of his whole class. He was desperate to take it. Humiliation in front of the undergraduates who were supposed to be fawning over him wasn’t how he wanted to spend his first day of classes. “So what’s your question, Os?”
“I’m just wondering why you said we should prepare to be bamboozled.” Os held one finger in the air. He looked like an Oxford don, or like Professor Dumbledore. His eyes shone fierce inquiry. He obviously wasn’t going to drop the matter.
“Genetics is a difficult subject,” Alan said. For mere mortals, for people not as smart as Alan, Alan wanted to add, but didn’t. Everybody had to know that genetics was difficult. And if they didn’t know how difficult it is, Alan would show them, right there in his class.
“Right, but we’re here to learn, and you have a reputation as a great teacher.” Os nodded his head and pursed his lips into a question.
“Well,” Alan bought himself a few seconds to come up with an answer. “It’s just that most freshmen — most students who come through the classroom —”
“I just don’t get why you’d say that. Why you’d even joke about that. That you’d expect us to be bamboozled, when we’re supposed to learn. On the first day of class.” Os was indignant. He sat in the second row, and was physically one of the smallest guys in the class, but in the span of a few minutes he seemed to have emerged as the class’s leader and advocate. The other students looked to Os deferentially.
Os was mousy, but he wasn’t bad-looking. And his manner definitely wasn’t mousy. His questioning cut right to Alan’s core.
Alan’s face flushed hot and red. The mousy kid had caught him out. “I’m. Actually, I’m sorry. My words weren’t well considered. It was a stupid joke. Thank you for calling me out on it.”
It was the first time Alan had ever apologized to an undergraduate, or probably to any student. Os nodded offhandedly. Os’s expression looked like he’d been expecting Alan’s apology all along: like famous professors just apologized to Os all day long every day, like every day Os called out his professors in class and humiliated them. Maybe he did. A kid like that’s got bite. You never know.
“Alright. So, you won’t be bamboozled. You’re all intelligent men and women. You can certainly learn human genetics.” The class looked pleased with that. Alan felt like he was surrendering to them, with Os as their leader.
Sexual reproduction, Alan wrote on the whiteboard. At least college freshmen didn’t giggle at those words. Alan had spent a year teaching high school fifteen years back, when he himself was a college undergraduate, and he definitely did not enjoy having to settle the class down after every potentially giggle-worthy term.
“Sexual reproduction.” Alan repeated, reveling in the words, and reveling in his students’ lack of giggles. “What is required for sexual reproduction to take place? I mean the most important prerequisite?” Alan looked across the room. The same kid’s hand shot up again.
“Yes. You.” Alan looked at him. He even remembered his name. He remembered his name a little too well. “Os. Os, what’s required for sexual reproduction to take place?” Alan asked.
“Orgasm.” Os smiled slightly as the word came out. His white teeth flashed. He didn’t quiet
his voice when he said the magic word. He nodded to confirm it. “Male orgasm. A cumshot.” Orgasm didn’t bring any giggles from the students, but cumshot certainly did. The expected deluge of giggles.
“True. Very true.” Alan nodded. “Sperm is indeed necessary for sexual reproduction to take place. But at an even more basic level. What’s necessary for sexual reproduction?”
Os’s hand was up again. No other hands were. Alan had no choice. He called on Os again.
Os cleared his throat before answering. “Are you referring to the cell level? Because you definitely need eukaryotes for sexual reproduction. And you definitely need gametes and meiosis.” Os was obviously holding back a smile as he spoke.
This time, Os wasn’t low-key in how he gave the answer. He gave Alan a proud half-grin that said You didn’t know I could do that, did you?. No, Alan didn’t know that Os could answer questions at that level. And Alan also didn’t know that his own professorly dick could grow hard just from looking at an undergraduate.
“Good answer, Os. Good answer.” Alan’s erect dick inside his pants was pointing directly at his students. He turned sideways to try to make it less obvious. Then he realized that his cock would be even more visible in profile.
Alan considered himself a sapiosexual. He was definitely attracted to smarts. He was openly alpha, but had never been mated. At the age of thirty-eight, his past sexual experience consisted only of rushed blowjobs with fellow professors and researchers at conferences, conventions, and other meetings.
At home in Springville, Alan was solitary. He didn’t even dare to attend LGBTQ-AO events at Springville State or join the university’s AO meetup groups. Relationships between faculty were frowned upon. Relationships between faculty and students were even more severely frowned upon. So what would be the point of tempting himself with what he couldn’t have?
He’d been tempted a few times before by a few of his brilliant graduate research students who were openly omega. But he knew not to get too close. One complaint to the dean, one Facebook post, one article in the Springville State Reporter, and his career, his reputation, everything, would be gone.
“Is class dismissed?” a burly jock yelled from the front row. The other students laughed. “You just went narcoleptic there for a minute, Professor Archer.”
“Class is not dismissed.” Alan took a deep breath. He didn’t have much else to tell his students. The more he tried not to look at Os, the more his eyes were drawn to him: the slim, sensitive face, with brown bangs gently falling on his forehead, the tortoise-shell-frame eyeglasses, and the mouth that held the power to destroy.
Alan could tell Os to see him in his office after class. But he didn’t have anything to tell him, nor ask him, other than well done on knowing eukaryotes, well done also on calling Alan on his poorly executed opening joke. Other than that, he had nothing to say to him. And after catching a whiff of the unmistakeable omega smell permeating the room, together with taking in the sight of Os’s mischievous grin, Alan was the one feeling bamboozled. He had nothing else to say to the students.
“Um, class is dismissed,” Alan said. He exhaled and sighed. Alan left the classroom before his students could. Os looked at Alan as a victor looks at a vanquished enemy: with triumph and, Alan could only hope, with a little bit of pity.
Two
Professor Archer’s office was on the fourth floor. Ancient, dusty signs pointed to some likely ancient, creaky elevator in some dusty corner of the building. But according to Buzzfeed, stair-climbing was the second-best exercise for shaping a young omega’s fertile ass. Os could definitely fit in some stair-climbing while visiting Professor Archer. He wiped sweat from his brow and started the climb up the dark, dusty stairs. He could only hope that Archer would already be in his office, ten minutes after the end of class.
As for that list’s absolute best exercise for ass-shaping, Os had no delusions. There was no way he could Professor Archer to pound his ass. But maybe Os could at least make the old man all loopy eyed. Or, if nothing else, he could ask Archer a question about the class. He could stand up for himself and demand that the class cover male pregnancy, and then demand that omegas be discussed with respect, not with sneers. That would be a step on his way to becoming comfortable in his own self, adulthood and omegahood.
Even thinking about Archer as an alpha felt like forbidden fruit. He was too far out of reach. Archer was the professor every omega man and every straight woman on campus was after. People joked that Archer’s looks and striking manner were the result of an advanced genetic engineering experiment. His tight-cropped blond hair crowned his perfectly chiseled face, six and a half feet off the ground. Blue eyes shone from Archer’s face like headlights.
Archer’s online CV said he graduated from Harvard in 2000, which meant he was almost 40. He looked more like 28. He could have been featured on a Facebook handsome-alpha-of-the-day page. As Os trudged up the stairs, he only hoped that his own exercise and diet regimen would let him stay that vivacious and young-looking when he was Archer’s age — even though unlike Archer, Os was an omega, an omega who very much wanted to use his genetic gift, and bear a child.
Being an omega was a gift, Os’s parents and teachers had told him. He’d worked hard trying to throw off the mental stigma of having been Omega Os all his life, of classmates and even relatives thinking he was nothing more than some alpha’s future fuckhole. At Springville State was where Os hoped to come into his own. Only one last flight of stairs to go.
Os could at least try to overcome his insecurity about having been born an omega. Showing Professor Archer his mettle as a biology student would help. Archer was not just an alpha, but the alpha of alphas, the one everybody wanted: academically, socially, and of course, sexually. Even a glance from Archer was enough to boost anybody’s confidence. After that morning’s in-class discussion, Os felt already well on his way to getting some step in his groove. “Own being omega,” Os’s dad always told him.
So far, that day, Os was more than owning being omega. He was absolutely dominating it. His dad would be proud, his beta and alpha brothers would be proud, even his high school PE teacher who’d called him “that pathetic little omega” might be proud.
Omega stigma dogged Os since high school. It wrecked his confidence. Springville State wasn’t the most academically prestigious college he’d gotten into. It didn’t have the most beautiful campus, nor the most comfortable dorms. But Springville State, just down the street from world-famous MPreg Hospital, was where omegas could be themselves. That was what everybody told Os, anyway.
Omega stigma was what he’d have to battle when visiting Professor Archer. The well-weathered sign on Archer’s office door said You don’t need to knock. I’m not scared of you.
Os did as the sign instructed. Without knocking or announcing himself, Os simply pushed the door open. He swung it wide open. He held his breath, in case Archer’s pheromones would be too much.
Archer was deeply reclining in an office chair. He’d sprawled his legs on his desk. His head was down, looking toward his crotch. The professor at his desk didn’t even notice Os come in. He looked ready to take a nap, or read a book, or maybe jerk off.
Os allowed himself to breathe, and Archer’s alpha smell was unmistakable. Os tried not to notice it. He knew that going around smelling alphas at college could very well lead him astray.
“Professor Archer?” Os said, quietly but confidently. He allowed himself one more sniff of the alpha scent permeating Archer’s office.
Archer gasped, then tensed up his whole body so hard that he tumbled over onto the floor. Archer’s huge manly body thudded down onto the floor, while the office chair clanged down. Pens and staplers and paper clips and books went flying.
Os’s first impulse was to try to help Archer up. Os stepped to Archer and extended his hand down to help him. Archer waved him away and shook his head no, then stood up on his own. He dusted off his pants and looked like a cat trying to look like his fall had all been
intentional. Os played along.
Archer probably didn’t want to feel like an old man who’d just fallen out of his chair. 39 was around the age guys started worrying about these things. Os had learned that much from talking to alphas online. Archer sat back down in his chair, this time not leaning it back quite so far. Instead of leaning his chair far back, Archer raised his legs high up in the air. The way Archer held his legs up, Os couldn’t help but think of a man begging to be fucked.
Was 39 old? Kind of. Compared to Os’s 19 years, 39 was old. Maybe. Archer’s obvious compunction about his age only brought him down to size, made him more like a fallible human to Os. Maybe Os could just — well, just talk to him.
“Yeah, Oswald. Os.” Archer nodded from behind his desk, acting as if his spectacular fall to the ground had never happened. He looked as if he was just waking from a professorly nap. Maybe he was. He brushed some blond hair from the bridge of his glasses. “Os, not like The Wizard of Oz. What can I do with — what can I do for you?”
Archer’s voice close-up was that much more intimate when he spoke to Os directly, speaking up to Os from behind his desk, his legs still up in the air. It was nothing like how Archer’s voice had sounded in the lecture hall. In his small office, Archer sounded a little bit gruff, a little bit worn, a little bit intimate — and all manly. He no longer seemed like a public performer up on a stage, but like a very gorgeous, very imposing older man sitting right in front of Os.
“I’d like to discuss human reproduction, Professor Archer.” Even Os was surprised with his forwardness. He hadn’t intended to sound so forward. But he’d said it. And he’d have to own it. Anyway Archer wasn’t stupid. He must’ve already smelled Os’s omega pheromones loud and clear.
“Yes, what about human reproduction?” Archer folded his hands behind his head. Musky sweat aroma drifted from Archer’s armpits. It smelled like pure alpha man sex, even if it was muted by soap and deodorant smells. Oscar inhaled it deeply. He allowed himself two deep breaths before he answered Archer’s question.
