EIGHT THIRTY PM, NIGHT OF THE GALA.
IN ONE OF THE INNER ROOMS OF THE VENUE.
“Why don’t you want to f**k me Miyamura?”. Sorahiko drapes himself across Miyamura like a sheet, while grinding down on his thigh.
His heavy breathing is all Miyamura can hear, coupled with the lust-heavy scent of his pheromones.
Miyamura gulps. “I need you to calm down Sorahiko”. He keeps his hands by his sides, making sure he isn’t touching the omega currently dry-humping his thigh.
He shouldn’t touch him.
“I c..can’t calm down..”. Tears fall from Sorahiko’s eyes, staining Miyamura’s suit jacket. “I need you to f**k me…please Miyamura…please f**k me”.
Miyamura utters what might be a prayer or a curse under his breath. “You don’t want this Sorahiko, your mind has been addled by…”.
His explanation is cut
