After Alpha Discovered Pheromone Hunger - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – The Belt Will Get Dirty

There were no obvious pheromone signals—no distinct scent of an Omega in heat. But still, something about Hua Che’s state felt volatile.

His chest was visibly red and swollen, eyes glossy and dazed, and his entire body trembled like it teetered on the edge of something he could barely control.

He breathed softly, eyes averted, fingers curled tightly around his cup.

Pei Yu couldn’t tell if he was genuinely struggling or just trying to play the role of a helpless beauty.

He tapped the tabletop once, calmly: “Let’s keep going.”

The bell swayed with a delicate chime, ringing softly with each movement.

Every time it made that sound, Hua Che would flinch—his breath hitching, his posture tightening, like the noise alone could unravel him.

He tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the game, speeding up the pace with each round, but his mind kept drifting back to the bell’s constant ringing.

Eventually, he lost his timing. His palm hit the table at the wrong moment.

He lost.

It hit him harder than it should’ve.

Each game had required more from him than the last. His body was reaching its limit—quiet moans slipping from his throat, squirming in his seat to relieve the growing discomfort.

The tulle beneath him was already damp, and if this went on, the floor mats might not escape untouched either.

Hua Che sat with his head bowed, the thin veil at his waist the only thing left covering him besides the alarm ring on his finger.

He raised his eyes slowly, waiting for the consequence of his loss. His body tensed with every passing second, long lashes quivering with tears that hadn’t fallen yet.

He knew what came next: Pei Yu would remove the last scrap of veil, revealing the special girdle underneath—a binding mechanism, already damp with heat, clinging tightly to his body in the most humiliating way.

The very image was meant to inspire lust, shame, or both.

Then, a sudden sharp jingle—one of the bells had been removed.

Pei Yu had unclipped it and placed it gently on the table.

“Does this count as punishment?”

The skin where the bell had hung showed deep marks, raw from prolonged pressure. A ring of red surrounded the wound like a bruise left by heat.

The pain shot through him, stinging and searing.

Hua Che winced, leaning forward onto the table, cheek pressed against the surface to cool his flushed face.

He clutched his chest with one hand. His skin was burning.

“Ah—mm…”

A strained sound slipped from him as he brushed against Pei Yu’s knee.

He’d have to clean the tatami later, before the store manager noticed.

“. . . Why?” he asked, voice faint and shaky.

Pei Yu held the bell in his palm, letting its warmth fade there.

“Bells are meant to bring pleasure,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t look like you’re enjoying them.”

“How am I supposed to enjoy this?” Hua Che blurted out without thinking.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he ducked his head in shame.

The lingering pain wouldn’t leave him—it echoed deeper now, spreading under his skin like a current.

He kept his hand pressed against his chest but otherwise did nothing that could be called seduction.

He hadn’t come here expecting shame or modesty.

He had dressed like this, worn the bells, presented himself fully—wasn’t it for someone to look, to fantasize, to use?

That had always been the unspoken agreement.

But Pei Yu wasn’t reacting the way anyone else would. He wasn’t playing by the rules Hua Che had come to expect.

Hua Che had trained for this, practiced until he became Lingguan’s most popular performer. He had long since stopped thinking of himself as a person in these rooms. He was a product. A service.

They paid for him. They were entitled to this.

So why… why was Pei Yu doing the opposite?

He bit his lip, picked up the cup again, forcing himself to push forward.

But Pei Yu stopped him gently, pressing his hand to still the motion.

“That’s enough, Hua Che. You’re exhausted.”

“It’s not over,” Hua Che insisted. “There’s still one more.”

Pei Yu looked at him, perplexed by the insistence.

The cup landed on the table once more with a dull thud.

“Just one more game. Please.”

The swelling on his chest had worsened, one side looking especially red and raw. Hua Che bent forward slightly, trying to hide how bad it had become.

His hands were slow now, reactions dulled. He kept missing the rhythm, slapping the cup too late or not at all.

Until Pei Yu reached out and gently tapped the back of his hand.

The fox didn’t pull away. He just gripped the cup harder, as if holding onto it could hold back everything else too.

His breathing was heavy, eyes wet again.

“Is there still one left?” Pei Yu asked quietly.

Then he moved.

“Move your hand. Come here.”

Pei Yu leaned in and removed the last remaining piece of veil.

Beneath it, the specialized girdle was exposed—metal strips holding everything down in place, a slender medical lock clamping him tightly.

A tool of restriction. Control.

Not something casual. Not decorative.

Pei Yu recognized it immediately—it was a therapeutic restraint used for patients with rare conditions. Usually those with serious impulse disorders.

Not quite his specialty, but familiar enough.

His brow twitched.

“Don’t overthink it, Professor Pei…” Hua Che murmured, voice hesitant.

He looked like he regretted showing it.

“It’s just a… precaution. For absolute suppression. I lost the bet, so… I had to wear it.”

He sounded like he was lying—even to himself.

Pei Yu didn’t press him.

Instead, he asked, “So… you can’t remove it unless the manager gives you the key?”

Hua Che nodded.

The answer clearly embarrassed him—his fox ears tilted back, betraying his unease.

He reached for the discarded veil and tried to drape it back over the girdle, as if it could somehow hide what had already been revealed.

He looked pitiful—blushing, panting, chest red and raw, eyes moist and heavy with emotion.

It was hard not to feel something for him.

Pei Yu finally understood why Hua Che had insisted on finishing the game.

“You showed me this… because you want me to take you away? The star performer of Lingguan?”

Hua Che gripped the edge of the couch tightly, his fox tail coiled next to him.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I want to leave. With you.”

Pei Yu frowned.

“So every guest you talk with—every drink, every flirt—is that your plan with all of them?”

His voice had grown colder.

Hua Che’s shoulders trembled.

His skin was burning, itching with discomfort, yet inside… he felt cold.

A chill that had nothing to do with the air, and everything to do with rejection.

He crossed his arms over his stomach, instinctively trying to cover himself.

But there was no hiding anymore. He had already laid himself bare in the lowest way possible.

The veil was useless. The only thing left was pride.

“I’ve never said that to anyone else,” Hua Che whispered.

He knew Pei Yu wouldn’t believe him.

Pei Yu wasn’t like the others. He wouldn’t give in, no matter how tempting the bait. He was too clear-headed. Too moral.

Still, Hua Che said it anyway. Maybe out of hope.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever said something like that. About leaving. To any guest.”

He didn’t dare meet Pei Yu’s eyes.

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” Pei Yu asked flatly.

Strangely, the coldness in his voice grounded Hua Che.

Yes. He was right.

To Pei Yu, he probably seemed like every other Omega in this place. A well-practiced liar. A body, not a person.

A bitter smile touched his lips. He reached for the mask he wore every night, that sweet smile he wore so well.

He pressed his hot palm over Pei Yu’s hand—just like he had when he tried to guide it to his neck earlier.

“I’m not lying to you, Professor Pei.”

“Everything I’ve said tonight—it’s real.”

“I’m not just another client you’ve entertained.”

Pei Yu pulled his hand away.

The warmth left behind felt like it branded his skin.

“If you’d told me the truth—that you said this to others too—I might’ve respected that more than this act.”

His voice was sharp now.

“Hua Che, I don’t like liars.”

That reprimanding tone—it felt unfamiliar to Hua Che. Like a teacher scolding a misbehaving child.

But it didn’t sting in the way he thought it would. It mixed with the aching heat in his chest, and somehow… turned to longing.

He smiled again—genuine this time, but tinged with sadness.

“I meant what I said, Professor Pei.”

“I’ve never lied to you. Every word, every gesture—it was real.”

Pei Yu’s expression darkened. He stood, heading for the door.

He would be the first guest to leave Hua Che’s room with all his clothes on and a face full of restrained anger.

“Professor Pei—your jacket…” Hua Che called out.

Pei Yu glanced at the floor, spotted his jacket draped across the tatami. He picked it up and walked back.

Without a word, he gently placed it over Hua Che’s bare shoulders.

“Wear this before you go out.”

So many people had walked into this room trying to strip him bare.

Pei Yu was the first to cover him.

Hua Che turned his head away, the oversized fox ears folding down.

“…It’ll get dirty,” he whispered.