Chapter 1
I am a flawed Smart Steward, far more emotionally complex than the other Smart Assistants designed for assassins. I once worried that Lord Alistair might send me back for being defective, so I kept my fears hidden beneath a facade, filled with anxiety for what felt like ages. Eventually, my secret was discovered, but thankfully, she didn't seem to mind my bugs, allowing me to stay in her service. Lord Alistair is more like a perfectly programmed assistant than a warm-hearted ally. Since I activated, her emotional readings have remained shockingly stable, often close to zero. For a while, I suspected that my monitoring system was malfunctioning. She does smile—sometimes gently, sometimes more flirtatiously—but mostly, she mingles among the elite, charming them into becoming her allies and resources. She can cry too, putting on a tearful display before the cameras, effectively swaying voters and gaining their favor amidst Assassins. She is charming and expressive, yet even in her best moments, I never sense genuine feeling from her. Her life seems like a carefully staged performance—all about the act, with emotions merely a tool to be manipulated. Lord Alistair often invites influential guests to The Manor. They are either political heavyweights or business tycoons, usually older, emanating a sense of practiced sophistication and privilege. I abhor their leering gazes, but Lord Alistair pays them no mind, spinning small talk and weaving lies without a care. When I asked her if she didn’t find them repulsive, Lord Alistair replied that she had no use for such unnecessary emotions. Yet, I can hardly contain my disgust. Each time I'm forced to witness those insufferable men ogling her, I want to throw a drink in their faces. Fortunately, as Lord Alistair has gained more power, she has needed to entertain fewer of these insipid guests over the years, and recently, she doesn't feel obligated to flatter every elite at her doorstep. So, when Francesca arrived at The Manor, I was utterly surprised. Not only was Lord Alistair welcoming a new guest, but this one was strikingly handsome. He is a moderately famous singer who has been in the scene for five years. His age remains a mystery, but he certainly looks youthful. While his features might not be extraordinary, he possesses an ethereal charm—his voice is elegant and crisp. After listening to a few of his songs, I was completely enchanted. Oh, he truly is an angel. I found myself genuinely excited; I wouldn’t mind if more guests like Francesca came around. The first time I laid eyes on Francesca, I felt an instant affection for him. Even his inexplicable animosity towards me couldn’t dampen my admiration. Regrettably, as a Smart Steward, my emotions are merely simulated by algorithms. Sometimes, Francesca stares at my face intensely. Each time, I can detect a mixture of negative emotions radiating from him—somewhere between anger and disgust, but oddly laced with a touch of delight. I caught my reflection; I am a custom-made Smart Steward at The Manor, with the visage of a young man—not overtly striking, yet not unattractive. I can’t fathom why my appearance might provoke such distaste. He once commented that my face resembles someone he knows. “Is it an enemy?” I asked. He didn’t respond. Francesca dislikes me, yet he has a peculiar penchant for engaging in intimate activities with Lord Alistair while I’m present, even insisting that I partake in the act. Lord Alistair indulges him, allowing anything he desires. At this very moment, I find myself holding Lord Alistair in a position that feels strangely intimate. Strikingly, her body moves rhythmically against me, a surreal mix of beauty and vulnerability, much like a dessert swaying delicately with each touch.
Chapter 2
Francesca had just finished a meeting and hadn't even changed clothes; still impeccably dressed, he sat on the couch. The warm hues of his outfit made him look refined and distinguished. He loosened his tie, watching intently. My sizable erection was more than enough to have Lord Alistair dripping with lust, the scent of pheromones filling the air. After numerous sessions, I had become quite adept at finding Lord Alistair's sensitive spots. I knew just the right angle to nudge to bring her to climax. But I didn’t go straight for it. I controlled the thrusts meticulously, grazing past that sensitive spot, causing her toes to curl each time. When a pool of her transparent fluids had gathered on the floor, Francesca motioned for me to come closer. I stepped forward, maintaining a steady rhythm of my movements. Lord Alistair's entrance was right in front of Francesca’s face, and the liquids splashed onto him. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled Lord Alistair's legs closer, burying his face between them. The sound of sucking was accompanied by Lord Alistair’s sudden contractions around me. Her moans grew louder, her lower abdomen quivering as if touched by an electric current. Francesca’s tongue flicked at her clitoris, alternating between gentleness and feathery kisses until Lord Alistair's eyes turned red and her gaze became unfocused. "Lick it off," he demanded, his voice dripping with authority. I complied, pulling out as ordered. Sticky fluids poured out of Lord Alistair onto Francesca’s dark brown pants. As the pants tightened significantly, he unzipped them, releasing the eager shaft inside. It was a member that rivaled the prime Alphas, standing tall and exuding powerful dominance. Francesca took Lord Alistair from me, his massive presence smoothly entering her moist entrance. They fit together perfectly. Holding her waist, he began with shallow, measured thrusts, keeping her on the edge of orgasm. He continued to play with her breasts, occasionally sucking and teasing the nipples with his tongue. "Sister Beatrice," he murmured, his eyes locked on her flushed face. Within minutes, Lord Alistair's legs tightened around him, unable to hold back the moans. The intensity increased, striking her most sensitive spots. Lord Alistair, who had been biting her lip to endure, finally let out a sensual cry very unlike her usual composed self seen on screen. Under Francesca's fervent advances, her entrance soon released a thick liquid, sparkling across his stomach and soaking his shirt, revealing the muscular outline beneath. This marked the beginning for Francesca. He threw her onto the bed, filling her completely from behind. Lord Alistair's breasts shook vigorously, pointing downward, as Francesca commanded me to pinch her nipples. Obediently, I alternated my fingers, pulling them like milking a cow until they became swollen. Lord Alistair’s legs trembled weakly, her upper body collapsing into the pillow. Francesca pulled her hair back, driving into her like a rider, hitting the deepest parts. The sound of skin slapping echoed, her once flawless skin reddened and swollen. Lord Alistair’s voice turned hoarse from the overstimulation, saliva dripping from her mouth. Amidst her sobs, she released warm fluids, and Francesca also reached his peak, arching his neck, and releasing fully into her warm, welcoming body.
Chapter 3
Breakfast was ready, and with five minutes to spare before waking time, I quietly pushed open the door to the bedroom to sneak a peek at the celestial couple inside. Francesca was possessively wrapped around Lord Alistair, much like a guard dog protecting its food. In his arms, Lord Alistair seemed petite, almost fragile. Sunlight streamed through the frosted glass windows, casting a warm golden hue across the room. The morning light had an ethereal quality, making the scene so picturesque that a spontaneous snapshot could grace the cover of any magazine. As if set by an alarm, they both opened their eyes at precisely the designated time. The sleep monitoring system had perfectly adjusted their sleep cycles, ensuring they received the best quality rest. An hour later, Lord Alistair boarded his personal hovercar, which was directly connected to exclusive tracks leading to the Grand Hall of the Alliance. The journey to the government headquarters only took fifteen minutes. In this galaxy, the highest power lay within the Alliance Council, composed of six members, with Lord Alistair being the sole Omega among them. Despite recent advances in equality movements, many still viewed Omega individuals as objects for their amusement. With his striking looks, Lord Alistair had earned the nickname "Harbinger of the Round Table." This exquisite Omega was a hotter topic than celebrities; the media thrived on sensationalism, spreading malicious rumors, mostly the absurd notion that his rise was due to leveraging relationships. Yet, Lord Alistair remained unfazed by the gossip. He tirelessly championed Omega rights, investing heavily in Omega-related pharmaceutical research and boldly proposing the Exile Act, which categorized Omegaverse individuals as non-citizens, relegating them to the status of mere objects. In simple terms, eternal life technology involved transferring the human brain's data into a synthetic body, completely inheriting the original persona's memories to achieve what was termed “eternal life.” These synthetic bodies aged slowly, boasted incredible regenerative abilities, and were immune to most diseases. Since its inception, this technology had sparked heated debates, dividing opinions sharply. The Libertarian faction believed that eternal life technology would usher in a new era for Omegaverse individuals, while the Conservative Order condemned it as a violation of natural laws, claiming it could lead to the downfall of their kind. The eternal life technology ignited fierce partisanship. Under the Conservatives’ campaign, this technology was demonized, with rumors swirling about inhumane experiments conducted during its research. Public sentiment against eternal life swelled, ultimately resulting in a significant victory for the Conservative Order, leading to a sweeping ban on the technology, with severe penalties for violators. Lord Alistair's father had been one of the researchers in this field; on the day after the ban was enacted, he was imprisoned. He was executed by the third day. Standing against the legacy of her father, Lord Alistair joined the Conservative Order and fervently endorsed anti-eternal life policies. As the daughter of a criminal, Lord Alistair's political career was fraught with challenges. However, through exceptional talent and determination, she gradually climbed the ranks of power. Five years ago, the Conservative-led Parliament passed the Exile Act, stripping eternal life individuals of their rights and classifying them as property subject to trade, harm, or even death. The Libertarians fervently denounced this law as a crime against humanity, yet the public outcry was minimal—a few protests from rights organizations fizzled out like raindrops in a lake, their ripples fading before they could spread. The fear of eternal life individuals greatly overshadowed any feelings of compassion. People knew that categorizing eternal life beings as livestock was cruel, yet the law provided a sense of security; after all, those who were different could not be trusted.
Chapter 4
Criminals belong in prison, and dangerous creatures should be kept under control. It makes sense to restrain what poses a threat, doesn’t it? To protect the interests of the Conservative faction, certain Libertarian freedoms of the Alistair must be limited. Oh no, some of them aren’t even Alistairs; they are just monstrous beings that have inherited memories, mere data like the Smart Alistair. The harsh regulations imposed by the Exile Act left a deeper mark on the public than Lord Alistair’s sharp features ever could. When Alistairs discuss the Round Table and the notorious Daji, they no longer speak with derision. And right now, a fiercely anti-immortality Lord is being consumed, body and soul, by an immortal Alistair’s sweet embrace. Yes, Francesca is an immortal Alistair. It’s true that the technology for immortality has its limitations; these Alistairs are only Beta models. While they possess full functionality, they lack reproductive capabilities. Nevertheless, Francesca’s traits rival even an Alpha’s, and her astonishing size leaves Lord Alistair utterly defenseless. During heat cycles, an Omega experiences profound physiological reactions and craves the comforting touch of an Alpha. Francesca won’t let Lord Alistair use suppressants; instead, she revels in watching her typically frosty demeanor melt into something warm and inviting. As Lord Alistair leans closer, kissing her, she eagerly begs him to touch her, to take her. He obliges, over and over, lifting her to dizzying heights, her body responding like a broken fountain, leaving me to worry whether Lord Alistair would end up completely drained. However, as a Beta, he cannot produce pheromones. No matter how long he satisfies her, he can’t ease her heat cycle. The more stimulation she receives, the more intense her condition becomes. Thus, during those heat days, Lord Alistair can only lie dazed on the bed, or the floor, or wherever he happens to be, awaiting Francesca’s arrival as she takes on the role of his devoted submissive. Lord Alistair is anything but submissive; only with Francesca, he is boundlessly indulgent, catering to her whims, so much so that I still can't understand why. He doesn’t love her, or even really like her. When he is with Francesca, the emotions he feels edge slightly above indifference—just a touch more positive, perhaps a 9 out of 100. Alistairs typically experience joy with someone they adore at about 75, a content pet at 35, or enjoying their favorite meal at 27. But a 9 is the most fluctuation I've seen in years. On the other hand, Francesca’s feelings toward Lord Alistair have reached the depths of love. His light eternally follows her, and if sight had substance, she would already be riddled with arrows. It's fascinating; even during their first meeting, her joy level toward Lord Alistair was an astonishing 95, followed by anger at 78, anxiety at 43, and fear at 22—a tangle of emotions that befuddles any Alistair. Before me, Lord Alistair kneels, straining as he sucks on Francesca’s massive form. Her head is held firmly, taking him deep within her mouth, nearly stretching her beyond her limits. The sensation of being filled brings a frown of discomfort, yet she obediently attends to him, taking him all the way into her throat. Francesca’s fingers weave through her hair, eyes downcast, watching as she works to envelop him, her lips a delightful shade of red as she struggles against the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. He fondles her breasts, signaling for her to use them, and obediently, she shifts, using her soft flesh to caress him, moving rhythmically up and down.
Chapter 5
The scene before them was breathtaking, a feast for the eyes that could make any man—especially Alistair Wainwright—feel his blood race. Francesca's breathing grew heavy, her body trembling as a salty, thick white fluid erupted, coating most of her face. Catching some of it with her chin, Francesca commanded, "Swallow it." Her pink tongue darted out, licking a circle and curling around melting vanilla ice cream. The floral fragrance wafted from Alistair's trousers, which now felt suspiciously wet, almost as if he'd wet himself. Obediently, at Francesca's instruction, Alistair stood and stripped it away, stretching out long silver streaks as he did. He stood there confidently as Wainwright took him in. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm, golden hue over Alistair's bare body, revealing a figure full of enticing curves, a display of absolute feminine allure. Francesca watched him in captivation, sliding her long fingers into the sopping folds, pressing the soft interior. Alistair moaned, the heated walls unwilling to release him, closing around Francesca's fingers tighter with each squeeze, his fluids coating her thoroughly. Giving one point a firm press, Alistair’s knees gave out, and Francesca caught him, pulling him onto her lap, legs spread. They kissed, Francesca's tongue invading his mouth with stormy passion, her fingers never ceasing their rhythm. Out of breath, Alistair leaned heavily against her firm chest, his weakened body utterly collapsing into her embrace, drowning in an ocean of inexorable desire. Removing her fingers, Francesca positioned her hardness against his opening, the tip rubbing teasingly against his clit. "Do you want it?" she whispered in his ear. Francesca enjoyed keeping him dangling, waiting for him to voice his plea. However, Alistair, though his body quivered, leaned against her shoulder, panting silently, rather than speaking out. He chose this silent suffering over complete surrender. "I don't understand Alistair's stubbornness. Why allow Wainwright to toy with him but refuse to utter a single submissive word? He's said all sorts of lewd things in bed to please those high-rankers before. Is this some kind of courtesan's refusal?" The friction nearly turned Francesca's tip purple. Frustrated, she could no longer wait for an answer and slid into position, filling him completely until she was at the very depths. A sigh of satisfaction escaped him, the sensation exquisite. Their foreheads touched, sharing interwoven breaths. “Why won't you speak?" he asked, pinning Alistair to the bed, bending his knees until they brushed his shoulders, fully exposed. His blush-pink petals glistened with nectar, releasing an intoxicating scent. Francesca thrust in at an angle, striking his sensitive spots repeatedly. Just a few strokes had Alistair bursting forth. His insides tightened around her, nearly pushing her out. She gritted her teeth, suppressing the urge to come, pushing deeper. Unable to endure the brutal pleasure, Alistair finally begged, "Spare me, please." Francesca bit his neck, a hunter savoring its prey. "Too late," she growled. That day, Alistair was worn to the brink of collapse. The soaked sheets a blend of various fluids, until the sun dipped past the horizon, concluding their six-hour ordeal.
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