Female voices fill the back room of the strip club as I work at my station, applying my makeup. Their artificial scents create a potent cloud of perfume in the air. I try my hardest not to gag, but I can’t let them get to me. I need to focus. I’m aiming for a sexy cat-eye look tonight, but water threatens to leak from my eyes, ruining all my hard work. The strippers at the club are all beta, yet they pretend to be omega to appeal to our clientele. Many of the club patrons are alphas, and alphas love their omegas. Several girls laugh amongst themselves, and I bite the inside of my cheek, a part of me wishing that I could be over there with them. After all, I am not like the other strippers at this club. My scent isn’t artificial. That’s because I’m an omega. An omega who is pretending to be a beta who’s pretending to be an omega. It reeks of irony.
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