You are breathing heavily. Your skin is flushed from its usual pale colour. Your hands tremble. But you wordlessly offer yourself to him anyway.
He now approaches you. But proudly and regally, looking you up and down like a piece of meat. He stalks around you, poking at you slightly with his claws.
Behind you, he moves closer, There's a low rumble in his throat. Though not loud, it drowns out the cacaphone of brays and neighs and squeels from the rest of the club. You care only for him.
He tightens his grip, pulling you back into him. You stretch your head high into his fur, exposing your neck to his teeth. Is it instinct? But rather than tearing out your throat, he laps at it approvingly.
His claws are tugging at your black shirt. Are you really willing to go through with this?