Work Text:
When Vincent died, he wasn't expecting to wake up again. He was never the religious type, so the ideas of Heaven and Hell weren't something that he put any stock in. So, when he did come to, and in Hell to boot (go figure), it was a huge shock to him. Was he supposed to start worshiping in angels and God and the rest of the clowns? Fuck that. Vincent was in the pit, and God wasn't going to save him.
Vincent did a decent job at reorienting himself to his new life, if he did say so himself. He was climbing the ranks somewhat quickly, getting a hold of his developing powers just fine, and networking was getting along quite spectacularly. There was just one itty, bitty problem.
Vincent's Hell form.
Honestly, Vincent couldn't complain for the most part about his new body. It was strong, durable, and all around pretty hardy! His head alone (a television, could you believe that) could withstand a good knock and be fine. It was just… the other parts. The animal parts.
Now, it was Vincent's understanding that no matter what form one fell to Hell with, it was going to have some type of animal characteristic. Of course, if a sinner was already animal-based, that wouldn't apply. But for everyone else, it made for a really good freak show of body horror.
Vincent would have felt incredibly lucky if he had been amalgamated into anything other than what he had, like a dog, a parrot, or even a fucking bunny! Just not what he had been saddled with. It was awful. Unbearable. Terrible to look at, too.
Vincent was a fucking cow hybrid.
The lowest of the low. Fucking cattle. Droopy cow ears (don't even get him started on how that worked with television casing. It just did), long, wire-like tail with fluff, and small horns where antennae would be on a TV. And not to mention the braying!
Surprised? Moo. Happy? Moo. Vincent couldn't escape it, even in the bedroom. He tried to sleep with a night walker a while back, and got laughed out of the establishment because of the animal calls. Every time the pleasure got a bit too intense, Vincent couldn't help but let out a little moo-an. It was horrific. Vincent hadn't slept with anyone else since.
Normally, celibacy would have broken any normal man, but Vincent had his own ways of getting off. This new body of his had plenty of sensitive areas. He discovered that very shortly into his afterlife, when attempting to shower. Vincent had these…openings, per se, on each side of his abdomen. He brushed past one whilst cleaning himself, and the rush of heat that followed that action made him weak in the knees. He had spent the next week discovering what it felt like to (metaphorically, of course) finger himself.
That wasn't the only way Vincent found, of course. The second one was…more disconcerting. Naturally, it came back to the hybridization of sinners. The one characteristic that truly defined just what kind of bovine Vincent had become.
Hell was very convoluted and specific in the punishments it dealt people. As such, there were many breeds of animals around. Out of all of them, though, Vincent felt like he was "cursed" with the worst breed. See, Vincent was a bovine alright. Just… not any old run of the mill moo-cow you could think of.
Vincent was a dairy cow. He made milk.
If his limited knowledge was anything to go by, Vincent was almost certain that dairy cows were all female, because they had to be pregnant to produce milk. Vincent was neither pregnant nor a female, and yet… every week… his chest swelled with the white liquid.
When it first happened, Vincent ignored it, beyond disgusted at what his body was doing, at what it was creating. But as time went on, and his pecs plumped larger and larger, they began to hurt. He got too full, and it ached something fierce. He couldn't go a day without leaking, back then. Now, Vincent had learned how to handle it.
Once his chest reached a certain size (Vincent learned how to measure it just for this), he had to express. The old fashioned way. There was absolutely no chance that Vincent would ever get caught, well, dead in one of the many stores here buying a milking aid. Fuck, no. He would do that shit all on his own.
Vincent's initial experience milking himself was…something. He had no idea how to go about it; Vincent had never married or had children while alive, too occupied with making his way to the top, something that was biting him in the ass now. The thought of even touching his overfull brassiere was very intimidating. They ached that damned badly.
Eventually, Vincent got over his fear. He had to. He didn't want to die from fluid overload and his chest bursting like a balloon. That would be embarrassing as hell, and a horrible mess to clean up when he regenerated. Thus, he had to relieve the pressure while he still could. Vincent hesitantly brought a hand to one pectoral, and leaned over the sink.
He massaged his teat with the hand he chose, the relief instantly rushing in. It felt so nice, to have his throbbing pec rubbed. A couple of pearly drops escaped his nipple, and Vincent sighed in bliss. His squeezing became more forceful, then, beginning lightly at the base of his…well, his breast, and squeezing more firmly down towards his areolas.
Vincent felt a pressure begin to form, centered around the nipple of the mammary he had chosen. Using his free hand, he squeezed and pinched the cyan (weird, but that was his color scheme) bud. Drool built up in his mouth at the sensation, and he swallowed roughly. This wasn't supposed to feel that good, was it?
Vincent rolled his nipple in between the pads of his fingers, a soft moo-an escaping. He clamped his mouth shut in sudden self-shame, and his tail curled around his left leg tightly, as if to sooth him. Vincent suddenly remembered how demeaning this whole scenario was, and his budding arousal began to wither away instead. The uncomfortableness returned to his chest, and the teat he was playing with dribbled a little more. Shit.
He continued to push and play with his chest, no longer getting any enjoyment out of it. Vincent's primary goal now was to just release the entire contents of his bloated breasts. And express he did; it ended up being a long, arduous task, but Vincent successfully emptied his "tanks."
With the objective completed, Vincent cleaned himself up quietly, avoiding his reflection. He didn't want to acknowledge how nice the feeling of releasing his supply had been at first. In fact, Vincent didn't want to think about this at all. He could only hope it didn't happen often.
Unfortunately, it was Hell, and wishes don't come true. Vincent found himself needing to express himself at least once a week, sometimes twice depending on what he ate. Vincent learned what foods were dos and don'ts very quickly.
Lactose and every product it was in made him blow up incredibly fast. Seriously, Vincent had a simple milk coffee once, and his chest was double the size by day's end! That had been quite harrowing, rushing to fulfill his work duties while his shirt got increasingly tighter.
Vincent did consider the option of buying women's underwear, but he ran into the same problem that he did with buying the milking aid: Vincent would drop double-dead before being caught up in any rumors of having unsavory fetishes. His reputation was everything, and he spent a long time building it up. Of course he couldn't risk a single blemish on it!
As the days moved on, though, Vincent's will against buying the clothing was growing weaker and weaker. With all the milk he produced, "female" hormones flooded his body quite often. The continuous process had certain… effects that Vincent was very ashamed of. He had fallen down to Hell every inch the quintessential man; lean, but not too skinny. Muscular, but not overly so. Now, though… Vincent was but a shadow of that.
Excess hormonal secretions wrought havoc on Vincent's figure. His body had softened over the years he'd been down here producing animal products; his hips widened, thighs thickened, and even his chest's "default size" had increased. Vincent found it awful. Truly, Hell's punishment. A man with a body that looked every inch a woman's. Vincent supposed he should be grateful that he still had his dick, and not a cunt, as insignificant as it was nowadays.
As Vincent's body continued to change and develop, he found himself spending more and more money on altering clothing, or outright buying new pieces. Because he was so "shapely" now, finding male clothes that fit his frame became way harder, if not impossible. The only way to avoid wearing female clothing was spend a fortune on tailors. Of course, money right now wasn't the problem; the attitudes directed towards him were.
Vincent got many lecherous stares as he went about his days. Apparently, a LOT of people had cow fetishes, so he was the target of countless attempts at catcalling and propositioning. It didn't matter that he was male; all they saw was ass and tits. It was strange.
Men lusting after men was wrong, but yet so many seemed to do it. Vincent would have thought there would be more people against that lifestyle here, but Hell always had a way of surprising people. It wasn't like Vincent could cast stones, anyway… he was forced into celibacy himself.
Vincent was loathe to admit it, but his cock had shrunk as his body continued to fill out. It pushed him even further away from enjoying anothers' company, leaving him quite frustrated. He tried every method in the book to seek relief, but it didn't always work. Fingerfucking his vents only worked so many times, so Vincent resorted to much more… frowned upon methods.
Vincent found out very early on that his libido had skyrocketed down here in Hell. At first, he attributed it to being a healthy male, but as time passed, he figured out it was the opposite. Vincent would have never figured that women were so… horny! They always seemed so prim and proper when he was alive, but as his body produced and in took more female hormones, he'd discovered it was quite the opposite.
Vincent didn't know if it was the estrogen, or the natural erotica of having to massage his chest and nipples frequently, but he found himself needing to get off at least once a day. Twice, even, depending on how recent the last "emptying" session was. He was grateful that his prick still got hard to jack off with, but sometimes it wasn't enough. When that happened, Vincent had to get creative.
Occasionally, maybe every few weeks or so, Vincent was struck with this sort of ache, deep inside. Nothing seemed to help; no amount of masturbating, vent fingering, or pillow humping sufficed. On those days, Vincent was forced to do the most feminine thing possible: insert something inside of himself. He hated those times, even if it felt so good he came right away. He wasn't fucking gay, okay, he just had… needs. It was normal, Vincent thought, or at least he hoped so. Things got a bit fucky when you were dead and in Hell and had a terrifying animal/machine hybrid body.
Anyway…
Vincent shook himself out of his musings. It wasn't efficient to ruminate on the past when the future had so much opportunity! That was his motto: bigger, brighter, newer!
Besides, Vincent had a reason to get his ass into gear. It was his first meeting as an Overlord! He'd finally been accepted into the elite few, after so many years of hard work and struggles, both internal and external. Vincent considered coping with the extra weight (in the wrong areas) he was putting on as a cow a struggle in and of itself. It certainly took a lot out of him dealing with it.
Vincent rushed to get dressed. Of course, he had enough time to get things situated. The gathering wasn't until the afternoon, and it was only nine, but he was too damned excited. Nothing, nothing was going to get him down. No cow traits, no fucking milk (he made sure to express prior to reduce the chance of a leakage incident happening), no worries!
Vincent's day passed in a rush, his mind constantly elsewhere. Could you blame him? This was the biggest day of his afterlife! Vincent's energy was infectious, the rest of his studio maximizing production for record profits. By the time the meeting came around, he couldn't have been happier. More money, a few more soul deals, and a brand new spot opened for his programs!
This time, the gathering was hosted in Cannibal Town, something Vincent was worried about. He understood the motive behind switching the location occasionally, not wanting to draw attention to certain buildings, but still. Cannibal Town was exactly as it sounded: a city full of cannibals, not to mention predator hybrids.
As much as Vincent hated to say it, his animal instincts overwhelmed him sometimes. He was still working on it, as it was unbecoming of someone of his status to be behaving that way. Vincent knew he was at a disadvantage, since prey animals tended to have way stronger insticts than predators, but damned if he didn't try. He just hoped that there were other prey overlords…
The most prominent of the elite were notablely predator hybrids. The leader of Cannibal Town, Rosie, was a fox. Carmilla, the arms dealer, was a snow lepoard. Zestial? Spider, obviously. What Vincent was getting at was that he was about to be prey in a room full of hunters, and he was nervous as fuck.
As Vincent made his way towards Cannibal Town, thankfully only a short distance from the entertainment district, he was the subject of many leers and jaunts. No matter how masculine he dressed, or how many souls he collected, sinners on the street only saw his hips and chest. Quite the infuriating experience, it was. Thankfully, Vincent was strong enough to simply murder anyone who tried him, nowadays.
So, after frying a couple of demons to a crisp, Vincent finally arrived at Cannibal Town. Walking through the streets was difficult, at first. The vibes were antiquated, and Vincent felt very much dissected, in both an animal and regular way. His head was a television, after all, even if it had a few organic attachments.
When Vincent stopped in front of Rosie's Emporium, he felt relieved. This was supposed to be a safe zone, allegedly, so he quickly went inside. The interior of Rosie's abode was much cooler, for which Vincent was grateful. His enhanced…assets tended to overheat, especially his head.
Vincent was thankful that Rosie's was easy to navigate. The conference room was clearly pointed out, so Vincent was his prompt in his arrival. He was sure he was going to make a good impression. He had intended to mingle beforehand, but it seemed that everyone was already seated.
Vincent spotted his name on a flowery namecard by an empty seat, so he trotted over. He was next to some…red deer guy? And Rosie herself. He knew what Rosie looked like, she appeared in the papers a few times. Vincent wished she would agree to an interview, but she hated new tech. He couldn't say he understood, but he respected it.
"Hello, darling!" The red guy turned to Vincent as soon as he sat down, so he was able to inspect him more. He couldn't tell what sort of animal this man was. He had horns, and ears, so definitely cervid in nature… Vincent wasn't going to ask. That was rude.
"My name is Alastor, quite the pleasure! Say, you are a sight for sore eyes. What is this on your neck?" The guy reached over and tapped Vincent's screen. Personal space, maybe? Damn. This fucker talked a lot, apparently. And didn't give a fuck who he was touching. He used darling. Did he think he was a fucking woman?
"It's a television," Vincent replied, annoyed. "Alastor" pulled back immediately, shaking his hand in the air. What the fuck? What was this guy's problem? Any sense of comraderie that Vincent felt at the sight of another prey hybrid disappears at his terrible attitude. This guy would only touch women? What a fucking creep.
"Ah," the fuckhead murmured, "you have a very misrepresenting visage, my friend." Friend? What fucking friend? So he did think Vincent was a woman. Well, join the club. Vincent's tail lashed agitatedly, making Rosie titter on the other side of him.
"Now, dear," she cooed, "it was a simple misunderstanding! You have to agree, you seem to be cut from a very particular cloth." What the hell did that mean? Vincent turned to look at Rosie, who's smile seemed much more genuine than the other guy's. He knew of Rosie a bit more, so he would take her word for it over the other fucking demon.
"Alright," Vincent muttered, hackles lowering. No matter. If he didn't know about him, then he was irrelevant. Nothing to be worried about. Don't cause a scene at your first meeting, Vincent, he thought. Don't fuck up your chances.
"Tea?" Rosie asked. Vincent thought for a second before accepting the offer. Maybe that would settle his nerves. Make him less jumpy. As soon as he nodded, Rosie manifested him a teacup and poured him a serving from the pot she had sitting on the table next to her.
"Thank you," Vincent said politely. Rosie leaned over and patted his hand. Wow. She was so much nicer on a personal level than he thought she would be! It almost made up for the poor encounter from earlier. Vincent found himself grateful that he was seated next to her.
"Of course! Welcome to our little soirée," Rosie beamed. What hospitality! Vincent was feeling more and more relaxed, despite his other seatmate throwing glances his way. Carmine rose to the podium at the front of the room, demanding attention from those still seated.
"Welcome, all," she started, "old faces, and new," Carmine threw an acknowledging glance in Vincent's direction, making him sit up straighter in his chair. To have an overlord of her status making room to see him, include him, made Vincent ascend to cloud nine. Fuck Hell, this was his personal heaven, here.
"To this quarter's gathering. As to orient our new addition," Carmine continued, "I will make a few things clear. This meeting is to discuss trends and changes among the general populace and our own owned souls. Other things will be mentioned at the end. In any case, welcome, overlord Vox, to our ranks!"
"Thank you, Carmine," Vincent nodded respectfully. A wave of murmurs spread throughout the room. Wait. Seriously!? Did everyone think he was a fucking chick? Okay, Vincent got the fact that his TV face was sorta androgynous, but fucking really? Oh, hell.
As the conversation between the overlords began flowing, Vincent started feeling strange. It was almost as if he were… producing? Huh? But Vincent just milked himself before coming here, and he hadn't eaten anything since. What was going on?
A familiar pressure started to fill Vincent's chest, and he looked down. His breasts were noticably larger. It was then that Vincent realized that his sweater was tighter than it usually was. His tail flicked in slight anxiety. Why was he producing so quicky now of all times? It couldn't have been anything he consumed, he was on top of his diet for that reason, unless…
The tea.
The fucking tea!
Oh, shit. That was the only thing Vincent intook that was from a source other than his own creation. Did Rosie add milk to it? Cream? Anything that helped stimulate lactation? God. During a lull in conversation, Vincent turned towards Rosie again. Putting on his best bullshitter's smile, he started to question her.
"Say, madam," Vincent caught her attention. The epitet had Rosie giggling and fanning the air. Jackpot.
"This tea you made," Vincent went on, "it's spectacular. I'm really enjoying it. Could I trouble you for a recipe?"
"Oh, you flatterer!" Rosie smiled, "Of course. It's just orange with a bit of cream in it. I brewed and mixed both before the meeting, so people wouldn't be running around to find add-ons. I'm happy you like it!"
Oh fuck. Oh goddammit. Vincent was right. There was fucking cream in the tea. But how much? Rosie said "a bit," but a bit was subjective. That could mean anything from a small to decent amount. With the way his tits were filling, Vincent made a reasonable guess that it was the latter. Fuck!
"Ah, you're welcome," Vincent shifted uncomfortably. When his milk glands produced this much at once, it felt weird. Not terrible, but not good. Just unpleasant. The feeling of hitting max capacity so fast had Vincent getting antsy. He hoped the meeting was over soon.
It was not over soon.
The talking went on for another thirty minutes! Fuck. Vincent was about to burst when Carmine adjourned for the day. He needed to find a bathroom, ASAP. Or at least somewhere to dump his load. He got up quickly, bidding goodbye to Rosie and ignoring Alastor. Now, off to find a lavatory…
Vincent got lost quickly in Rosie's Emporium. The conference room was clearly labled, but nothing else was. Vincent was quite upset. His chest hurt something fierce, and he could feel himself beginning to leak. A spark leapt from his fingertips in distress, sizzling out on the floor.
"My," a filtered voice sounded behind Vincent, "someone is in quite the rush. Whatever could you be running from?" Oh god, not that guy again. This was the last thing Vincent needed! Hopefully he could convince Astor (that was his name, right?) to leave him alone quickly.
"No," Vincent spoke shortly, eyes downcast, "I'm not running from anyone. I gotta piss." There we go. Keep it short and sweet. Hopefully he would be let go soon.
"Are you sure?" Astor sounded amused, "I smell something different. Something more… maternal, perhaps?" The fuck? Could this guy smell Vincent's milk? But he was a deer or some shit, at least Vincent thought so. Prey. Prey couldn't smell other prey like that, like a predator would, right?
What was he getting at? Was he trying to bluff because Vincent was clearly a dairy cow? He had the black-and-white markers of one, and others had tried that shit before, so the conclusion was reasonable to Vincent. Fuck. This. Guy. Seriously.
"The fuck? No," Vincent denied again, "I really gotta piss, though, so unless you want me to whip it out and go on you, you should probably let me find the toilets" Astor sighed in what Vincent took as dissappointment, which made no sense. Why would he be dissappointed? Vincent was the one in trouble here, not this asshole.
"Must you keep these games up? Did your television head melt your brain?" Smart fucking words for a guy who just asked him what a television was a couple hours ago. He must have consulted another overlord for information. What a prick.
"What the hell are you talking about, you creep," Vincent straightened up, at the cost of his sweater vest pulling taut over his chest. Astor's eyes dropped down immediately, then came back up. Oh. He was one of those. A pervert masquarading as a gentleman. Vincent had met many of these types. Well, it looked like worst was coming to worst. He sighed internally.
"You are fully capable of understanding what—" Astor's voice cut off as Vincent turned. He did all the things in the book, then: arching, thrusting his chest out (like his tits weren't bursting out already), and a small pout on his lips to end off his little display.
"I don't think I am," Vincent made sure to sound as pathetic as possible, "could you… help me?" As much as he loathed it, his… enhanced body had uses, and he was apt to deploy them as he saw fit. Including, apparently, seducing other overlords. There was a sharp screech of… something in the air before Vincent was grabbed and thrust into a black pit.
The trip was nauseating. It was cold, and then warm, and Vincent felt like he was being taken apart and put back together. He let out a loud "moo" in distress. Was this how other people teleported? He would stick to the wires, then, thanks. It definitely felt easier becoming one with the grid.
Vincent got deposited in a bathroom (thank god) with Astor. He wobbled on his feet (hooves? he didn't know. they were weird), disoriented. Astor took the advantage and muscled him into a stall.
"So," Astor started, "you think that you can prance around, smelling like that, and be one of us? Hah!" He laughed, a little menacingly. Vincent's prey instincts kicked into overdrive: he went stock still, eyes as wide as they could be, almost clipping off his screen. Fuck. He was going to die here, wasn't he? From some no-name overlord, who wasn't even important. Full of milk and everything. Shit…
"U-uh, I don't know what you want," Vincent stammered, "and I don't know what your problem with me is, either, but I just wanted to use the bathroom, yanno? A man's got needs." Hopefully the appeal to masculinty would work. Vincent was banking on that. A gentleman to gentleman conversation, if you would.
"Oh, I think you do," Astor purred, "you smell… frustrated. And overwhelmed. Too full, aren't you? Sweet cow." Astor leaned forward and scented Vincent's neck. That wouldn't have been so bad, if Vincent hadn't submitted immediately.
Vincent relaxed with a sigh, content to have a (predator? prey?) higher hybrid scent him. Fuck, resisting this feral shit was so hard. How was Vincent supposed to be a competent overlord if he melted at any old random? He wasn't. God, how was this other demon, and a man to boot, making him so pliant?
"Okay," Vincent admitted, "yeah, I'm full. I need to let it out. So kindly," he requested, pushing at Astor weakly. He was testing the other hybrid's limits. He wanted to express on his own, not with some other asshole watching him! This was a private affair, and Vincent was not a show cow.
"Hmm," the other considered, "no." The fuck did he mean, no? There wasn't an option. Vincent was gearing up to fry the other demon when something… unexpected happened.
Astor… ripped his sweater? What?
"Uh," Vincent said, nervous. What the hell was happening? His vest now had a deep tear, all the way down to his navel. His swollen tits were on show, and Vincent shivered at the draftiness of the restroom.
"I've been ravenous," Astor started, "and your smell is simply delectable. Would you, perhaps, allow me a taste?" Astor licked a distended nipple, making Vincent shudder. How long has it been since he was touched by another? Years, maybe, ever since he fell. Vincent had been milking himself for so long…
Vincent couldn't stop the liquid that pearled at his nipple. Astor latched on immediately, sucking eagerly. Vincent brayed in distress. God! He didn't even wait. Vincent was given no other option but to sigh, relaxing into the not-so-unwelcome sensation.
Astor was a pro, seemingly, at taking care of cattle, because he was pulling on Vincent's chest in all the right ways. It felt… nice, in a sense, to have finally found a good milking outlet… Shit! Vincent felt himself getting hard, his free pec squirting a little liquid. Oh, hell, this wasn't supposed to happen.
Astor continued to drain his right breast, coaxing the milk out of it. Goddammit. Vincent hadn't tried to relieve himself that way in quite a while, and he found it devastatingly effective. He couldn't help but shiver and relax into it, his boon flowing out naturally in response to the stimulation.
Astor seemed to be enjoying it, if his expressions were anything to go by. What a freak. Was he a cannibal, too? Drinking sinner byproduct counted as cannibalism, right? Vincent didn't know, and the thought train quickly exited his head as Astor increased the suction. His knees felt weak, and he was as hard as a rock. Fuck, what was going on?
Vincent continued to moo—an and whimper as he was sucked dry. Every angle Astor pulled at turned him on in a new way. Was this guy a farmer in life? Holy shit. Vincent was about to cum, and he hadn't even touched his dick.
"M-more, please," Vincent requested, and Astor moved to accomodate. One of his hands crept upward and fondled Vincent's free pec. A small amount of liquid splurted at the attention. God, Vincent was so full. What kind of cream did Rosie use?
Vincent's hips moved of their own accord, grinding against Astor's crotch. The other man (man! Vincent felt ashamed) wasn't hard at all. Maybe he was a fucking cannibal, and just drinking Vincent's milk because he was hungry. Whatever. Vincent didn't care. All that mattered was getting off and getting emptied.
Astor continued his assault on Vincent's tit, coaxing the last of the milk out. God, he felt like he was about to burst, literally and metaphorically. He desperatly hoped that Astor was still thirsty, as his other pec was sorely lacking attention.
"Needy, hmm?" Astor remarked, letting off of Vincent's nipple with a faint 'pop!' Uh, duh? Obviously. Anyone would be needy after having their chest fondled and played with. Vincent's reservations about gender roles were thrown to the wind as he came closer and closer to climax. If it meant he would cum, other men could milk his tits as much as they wanted…
"How… pathetic," Astor stated, looking down at Vincent's straining cock. Okay, so he wasn't the largest, even more so after living as a cow and producing estrogen, but damn did a man have pride! The percieved insult raised Vincent's hackles.
"Fuck you mean," Vincent huffed out, beginning to squirm in discomfort. He still had one udder about to explode from fullness, and he was desperate to find a way to relieve the pressure. Astor let out a loud breath, sounding amused, before continuing the conversation.
"Before I… relieve you," Alastor spoke, "you must acknowledge who you belong to now, yes? Alastor, the radio demon. Speak it back to me, if you would." Ah shit. Vincent had been calling him by the wrong name for a good minute. Whoops. Well then. Getting off sounded really fucking good right now, so Vincent was apt to comply. It wasn't like it was a soul deal, just some weird guy with a power kink.
"You, Al," Vincent took to the nickname immediately. He wouldn't be a professional bullshitter if he didn't! Vincent was content to pretend, as long as he made it out of here alive (and satisfied).
"What about me?" Alastor shot back and god, did Vincent groan. What was this? Were they twelve? Did he want him to play telephone or what?
"I belong to you," Vincent spoke quickly, hips bucking again. Alastor laughed in delight and dove back down onto his remaining udder. The combined feeling of relief and having his nipple stimulated sent Vincent into an orgasm immediately, pleasure pulsing through him like a wave. He tried to ride it out as best as he could, but Alastor never stopped milking him. Vincent was quickly shot into overstimulation, and he whimpered and brayed as Alastor finished up.
When Vincent was completely empty, Alastor stepped back and just stared for a while. It was really fucking weird. Vincent was about to say something when Alastor turned on his heel and disappeared. What the fuck? That was it? Alastor was just going to leave him here, sweater and shirt ripped, pants full of cum, and feeling weak? God, Vincent thought, what an asshole.
Yeah. Fuck that guy.