HEAT CLINIC SPECIAL EDITION HARDCOVER - SCRATCH & DENT

How am I going to get through this heat cycle,
and why does my body have the worst timing ever? The double digit number
of my bank account balance and the sheer number of days left on the
calendar until payday mock me as another clenching spasm hits me low in
my pelvis. Too many days left ‘til next Thursday. Not enough money.

To be fair, there’s never enough.

But
my heat doesn’t care about my financial situation. It always sneaks up
on me. Some omegas have a regular cycle with a few days of symptoms to
warn them it’s coming. Hot flashes, a sore back, moodiness, a rise in
their libido. Me? My body goes from it’s Tuesday to I need to get dicked down and knotted in less than a day.

“Did they forget and put mustard on it again?” Lindsay asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I
glance from my mobile banking app to my untouched cheeseburger and
paper basket of fries. It’s all cold. The cheese has congealed and the
fries are limp. But it’s not like I’m hungry anyway. Omegas don’t eat
during their heat. Well… not food.

“I’m not feeling well. Actually, I think I’m going to leave early and use some of my PTO,” I say.

“Oh, that sucks. I hope you don’t have the stomach bug that’s going around. Half of my department is out right now.”

“No,
it’s…” I look around the break room, but it’s almost empty at this
hour. Most people took their lunch earlier, but we got stuck in that
stupid meeting that could have been an email, so it’s already two in the
afternoon.

I drop my voice low. “It’s my cycle.”

Thank goodness it’s a holiday weekend and I won’t have to use up too many of my hours.

Lindsay’s
eyes brighten as she smiles. “Ooh. Wanna go out with me tonight? My
roommate’s dating the bouncer at the new rut bar that opened on Cherry
Street and I’m dying to see it. I hear they have champagne rooms.”

I
grimace at the thought of it, at the idea of wading into a noisy bar
packed with horny alphas, all of their scents mingling into a nauseating
potpourri as they try to pretend they’re not rubbing up on me on
purpose while they walk by and attempt to out-purr one another.

“Uh…
no, but maybe next weekend?” I throw my napkin over the top of my
uneaten meal, my stomach queasy at the sight of it. “I’m going to go
check in at the free clinic. When I get home, I’ll text you.”

“The free-use clinic?” Her eyes bug out, her voice rising with each squeaked-out word.

I
look around the not-quite empty break room and squirm in my seat.
“Yeah. But maybe don’t shout it so the entire office can hear?” Heats
are a completely normal part of an omega’s life. They’re nothing to be
ashamed of, but that doesn’t mean I need the entire office in my
business, either.

She presses three fingertips to her mouth.
“Shit. I’m sorry. You caught me off guard. I thought they had apps and,
like, nice omega centers for that.”

“Our insurance is shitty and
they don’t cover that. And the last alpha I hooked up with from Heat
Buddy ate everything in my fridge and left me with a mountain of laundry
to do when I came around. That was also the worst UTI of my fucking
life.”

He didn’t bathe me even once during my three-day heat, and
I’d woken up sticky, crusty, and reeking of sex and pheromones. The free
clinic might not be glamorous, but the beta attendants make sure none
of the alphas get too rough and that I won’t forget to drink water or
take a shower. Plus I won’t have to worry about coming out of a heat
with a mating bite I never consented to. It’s not all that common of a
problem anymore, but it happens.

“Okay, umm… be safe and have fun? Do you want me to swing by your apartment and water your plants?” she asks.

I
stand and push my chair in, then toss out my untouched lunch. Another
cramp hits me and I stagger a little. “That would be great, thanks. I’ll
leave a key under the mat and text you when I’m coming home. It’ll be a
few days.”

My boss is less enthused for me to take the rest of
the day off right before a holiday weekend, but a quick promise that I
should be back when the office reopens on Tuesday lessens the sting.
Traffic isn’t bad at this time of day as I swing by my apartment and
pack a bag with a few things. Comfy pajamas, enough underwear to last me
a month, the travel-size toiletries I keep on hand for heat
emergencies, an extra long phone charger, and the soft throw blanket
from my couch.

The duffel bag is near to bursting and heavy as I
lug it down the stairs and throw it into the backseat of my car,
stopping twice to breathe through cramps. I clench the steering wheel so
tightly my knuckles turn white as I drive downtown and park in the free
clinic’s omega lot.

Most of the people I walk by on the street
are oblivious betas, but an alpha in a suit looks up from his coffee as I
pass him, his nostrils flaring as he scents me. Inside the free
clinic’s lobby, a half a dozen people sit, staring at their phones,
while a bored receptionist taps away at her computer. I shoulder my bag
higher and wait for her to make eye contact.

“How can I help you?” she asks.

“Yeah, umm, I’d like to use your omega services?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I
frown and drag the slipping duffel bag strap up again. “No. I didn’t
know I needed one.” How does someone make an appointment for a heat?

“Fill this out.”

She
hands me a clipboard, so I find a seat and set my bag down in the one
next to me as I go through the routine questions. There’s the expected
name, age, gender, dynamic, and sexual orientation questions followed by
more personal ones. Last heat or menstrual period. Relationship status.
I circle single twice. Reason for your visit today. Symptoms
you’re experiencing. Number of pregnancies and number of children
birthed. Medication taken. 

Underneath the intake paperwork,
there’s a discreet pamphlet about domestic abuse and how to safely ask
for help. It’s been laminated to the clipboard. I flip the paperwork
over and continue to fill out the back.

When I bring it back to
her, she doesn’t even look up from her computer screen, so I set it down
on the counter, then go back to my chair and wait. My foot bounces as I
sit there and contemplate if this is something I really want to do.

“Emily,” a nurse in faded pink scrubs calls out from the door to the back. “Hi. Follow me, please.”

I
rise and grab my bag and follow her in, ignoring the way my heart beats
against my ribs. We go into an exam room and I sit while she takes my
vital signs.

“One hundred point eight degrees. When did your heat start?” she asks.

“A few hours ago. They come on really fast. Should I have called ahead?”

“No,
it’s fine. We offer other routine services Monday through Saturday from
six to six, but our heat and rut services are twenty-four hours. A
heads up phone call that you’re coming is nice. We have escorts who help
omegas who need it through the parking lot. Alphas have their own
parking lot and come in through the back of the clinic, but sometimes
people get confused and accidental crossings happen. Here, take a card.
It has our office and emergency numbers on it. Make sure you put it in
your phone.”

I take the business card and pocket it while she looks at my questionnaire and starts typing stuff into the computer. 

“So I see you’re here for heat services today. How did you want to treat that?” she asks.

Treat
it? Are they really going to make me say it out loud? “Umm, I thought…
Don’t you…” Everyone’s heard the stories. Are they exaggerated?

“We
have pharmaceutical or holistic treatment options. You can either get a
heat blocker shot or you can choose the room and board option until
your heat has run its course.”

“I don’t react well to blockers or
suppressors. I’d like the, um, holistic room and board option. Is that
still free? I have insurance, but it’s not great.”

She finishes
typing her note. “It’s completely free. The program is paid for through
government grants and private donations. All right, since this is your
first time here, we have an intake video for you to watch. It’s about
ten minutes long, and then the doctor will come and see you and answer
any questions you have. If everything is good to go, then we’ll take
blood samples and you’ll meet your beta attendant and get your room
assignment.”

The video is dry and boring as a narrator moves about
the screen, standing in front of anatomical models as she explains the
variances in omega and alpha anatomy. It reminds me of the videos we had
to watch in health class as teens. The ones that resulted in a lot of
giggling as our beta softball coach tried to force us to take it
seriously.

The narrator leaves the models and walks down a
hallway, showing off the secure omega wing, and then she takes the
viewer to the rut room.

And then it’s not boring at all.

The
rut room is enormous. There are rows of black vinyl padded cutouts in
all of its walls. Each hole is staggered at slightly varying heights.
She heads to one of these cutouts and sticks her hand through, the
camera following as they show the small enclosure just beyond the wall.
The tiny room is cushioned in washable vinyl and bare except for
handhold straps that dangle off the walls and ceiling.

Next, she
shows how stirrups unfold from the wall. A smiling, clothed actor joins
her and demonstrates how the rut room is used. He enters the cubicle and
lies down as the narrator helps him get his legs in the stirrups and
straps him into place, then angles them until he’s presented properly.

The
video cuts to another room that’s similar but different. The cutouts
are lower, and the floor is padded. In this one, the actor slips his
legs through the opening and turns, draping belly down over a padded
bolster.

The demonstration ends abruptly as the credits roll. My
first thought is how sticky the floor must get, and a bubble of
hysterical laughter escapes me.

Am I really doing this? When I
shift in my seat, the slick lips of my pussy rub and slide against one
another, and my clit throbs. I might be alarmed and nervous about the
idea of being rutted raw by a room full of strange alphas, but my body
is thoroughly on board. I pull at my shirt to fan my hot face.

They leave me there for what feels like way too long, and then there’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I squeak.

The
doctor, an Indian woman with gray-streaked hair, opens the door and
smiles at me. “Hello, Emily. Nice to meet you.” She shuts the door
behind her and leans against the counter. “Do you have any questions for
me about what you saw?”

My mind goes blank as every question I had planned leaves my head. “I, umm… That’s a lot. How many…”

“We average about two dozen omegas a day and two hundred alphas.”

“Two hundred!” Oh, God. Two hundred was a lot. Every day? For three days?

The
doctor smiles, the lines alongside her mouth showing that it’s
something she does frequently. “Yes, but remember that not all alphas
will visit every station or stay for every treatment cycle. We
accommodate all sexual orientations and do not discriminate, but you are
encouraged to tell us your orientation, limits, and preferences in
advance. Some alphas also have a weaker pheromone tolerance than others.
All participants receive a color-coded arm and ankle band, and our beta
attendants are trained to stop and redirect as needed. We have a strict
one-strike and you’re out policy across all facilities nationwide.”

Some of my panic fades with her reassurance. “Right.”

“Are you still interested in continuing, or would you like to discuss your other options?”

Another
cramping spasm makes me twitch in my seat as I resist the urge to rub
against the chair in front of the doctor. The slick panties I changed
into will keep me from embarrassing myself as my pussy grows damp at the
thought of so many alphas close by. I don’t have any other choice at
this point. Not really. I wasted too much time driving across town and
packing. Walking out of here will end up with me latching onto the first
decent-smelling alpha on the street as I try to hump their leg.

“No, I’ll… I’d like to continue.”

“All
right.” She pulls yet another form from a cubby and clips it to a
clipboard, then fishes a pen from a drawer. “Fill this out and sign it.
I’ll send my assistant in to draw blood. We run a standard STD panel. I
have your medication list from your pharmacy. Once the bloodwork comes
back, we’ll take over administration of your birth control and assign
you a room and a beta attendant.”

“Yeah, fine,” I murmur as I study the three-page front-and-back document while she leaves.

A
lot of it is repetitive stuff I’ve already answered, but some of it is
new. They have me filling out an enormous preference section that asks
me everything from the kinds of scents I like and what age brackets I’d
like to match to. What the hell is gourmand, and are there really
eighty-year-old alphas coming to the free clinic? I hesitate for a
moment, then darken the bubbles for the twenty-five to forty-five
brackets. Under gender and dynamic, I select all of them. The part about
group activities confuses me—isn’t a giant glory hole a group activity?
I check the box to be safe.

The assistant comes and draws my
blood, and then I wait. It feels like an eternity later when the nurse
from the beginning returns and holds up a pair of white bands, then
pulls some plastic charms from her pocket.

“Here’s your bands,
hun,” she says as I hold my wrist out to her, and she snaps it into
place with a bi pride flag-colored plastic triangle. The rest of the
armband’s holes get tagged with other colored charms I don’t understand.
She asks me to roll up my leggings and repeats the process with my
ankle.

“Your tests came back fine. Here’s your medication.” She
hands me a tiny paper cup with a round pink pill inside, then fills a
paper cone with water from the cooler in the hallway.

I down it and drain the cup, then hand them both back to her.

She glances at her paperwork. “Your beta attendant is Sam, and your room number is twenty-eight.”

I
hope she’s as nice as everyone else has been. So far, I feel like I’ve
gotten pretty lucky. This is way better than suffering through the
tedium of trying to talk to a Heat Buddy match who answers every single
question with a one-word answer that makes me want to rip my hair out in
frustration.

“The rooms are small, but they’re private. The door
is keyed to your bracelet so only you and staff can enter. I wrote your
room number on the inside of your band so if you forget it you can peek
and check. Not that you’ll be alone. One of us will always be with you,
but just in case. I know that heat can make omegas confused sometimes.”

That’s putting it mildly.

I
follow her through the maze of the back area as she leads me to a
hallway filled with doors that have a room number plaque and a black
badge scanner. We stop outside of room twenty-eight.

“Go ahead and try it to make sure your armband works,” the nurse says.

I
hold my armband up to the scanner, and a tiny LED light turns green as
an electronic buzzing sound alerts that the door is unlocked. She wasn’t
kidding. The room is compact. It’s about half the size of a standard
hotel room, and the full-size mattress takes up almost the entire room.
There’s a narrow closet and a utilitarian bathroom.

“Your
attendant will be in charge of your needs, so if there’s something you
want, all you have to do is ask. The attendants also bring you to and
from your treatment sessions. Most sessions last about four hours and
then you’ll have a break to rest. As your heat reaches its peak, we’ll
reassess your needs and vital signs. You’ll have bloodwork done every
day to make sure you’re not getting malnourished or dehydrated.”

That surprises me. There are so many stories, so many rumors, that it’s hard to tell what’s exaggeration and what’s real.

“Oh, here’s Sam now,” she says as she glances down the hallway.

A
tan man with sandy hair and warm brown eyes waves as he steps into the
doorway. He’s wearing green scrubs and bright blue sneakers, and his
wide, friendly smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. A smattering
of freckles cover his nose and cheeks.

Oh, shit.

Sam is a man.

And he’s hot.

Manufactured by: Dark Moon Publishing, Inc.

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