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The penumbra of Vox's room was broken only by the light from his own screen, reflected in the minimalist designer furniture he had chosen to convey power and control. None of that furniture, nor the cold lines of black and gold, nor the imposing empty bed, did anything to calm the whirlwind that had been burning his nerves for hours.
Ever since he'd returned to the Overlords' meeting, his internal cooling system had been working at double capacity. What was supposed to be a silent triumph — a public rehabilitation, a reminder that Vox didn't bend so easily — had become a daily exercise in restraint. At first, the joy that Valentino and Velvette had finally allowed him to accompany them again had been genuine. After months of being suppressed, of watching his VoxTek empire be rebranded as "VeeTek" (a name completely lacking the technological punch and personal style he had forged), he needed to show his face. He needed them to see him. To know he was still there, that his situation was just a misstep, a strategic pause before pulling himself together and reclaiming what was rightfully his.
But the Overlord meetings had become a personal hell.
The first time he sat back at that table, he felt the stares like daggers. Some Overlords watched him with residual irritation — they still remembered his crazed charge against Heaven, his failed attempt that had nearly dragged everyone into disaster — others with mere morbid curiosity, like someone watching a wounded animal to see if it was still bleeding. Indifference was the best he could hope for, and Vox clung to those who wouldn't even look at him as if they were a lifeline.
But there was one.
That bastard Alastor.
From the very first moment their eyes met across the table, Vox knew this new phase would be a martyrdom. Alastor wasn't just present; with an insolence that only the Radio Demon could get away with, he had gotten up from his usual seat and settled in next to him. Next to him. As if they were old friends. As if there were no history between them.
"Well, well," Alastor had said that first time, his perpetual grin so wide it seemed ready to devour the entire room. "You took longer to come back than I thought, my dear. And I'm a patient fellow, but you kept me waiting quite a while." His voice, always modulated with that old-timey radio announcer's lilt, reverberated in Vox's ears with cruel clarity. "I'm glad to see your head attached to your body, though. For a moment I feared they'd leave you as a simple household appliance."
Vox had clenched his teeth until he felt they might shatter. He didn't respond. He couldn't. He had decided he wouldn't give the satisfaction of showing instability, not this time. But Alastor wasn't finished.
"Your colleagues let go of your leash, darling?" he had asked, leaning slightly towards him with a false camaraderie that made several nearby Overlords stifle laughs. "They're letting you out to play like a good little puppy? Did you learn to behave, or do you still need to be muzzled?"
The heat that coursed through Vox's body at that moment had nothing to do with his internal systems. It was a furious, indignant burn that rose up his neck and concentrated at the edges of his screen. The comparisons to being a good "pet" came out of that mocking mouth every time they saw each other. And each time, Vox hated more that he couldn't shout back. Couldn't smash his fist into that perfectly smiling face. Couldn't send an electric shock that would turn him into roasted venison.
But he held back. Because he knew that if he exploded, if he showed a single crack, all the Overlords would see it. And the looks of irritation would turn into definitive contempt. He wouldn't be the laughingstock of the meetings again, not this time.
However, his body wasn't cooperating. And that was the part that terrified him most.
Because whenever Alastor called him "puppy" in that voice full of cruel amusement, whenever he said "good boy" as if he were actually patting a well-trained dog's head, Vox felt something more than anger. A different kind of heat. One he couldn't smother with fans or cooling systems. A heat that ran down his spine and settled in places on his body he'd rather not think about. It was humiliating. It was degrading. It was everything he'd always hated about Alastor.
And yet.
The last meeting had been the last straw. The turning point that now left him alone in his room, trembling hands hovering over an elegant, deep red box tied with a black bow that seemed to laugh at him.
Alastor had approached his seat with unnecessary stealth — savoring every step, every second of anticipation — and placed the box in front of him. "For you, my dear," he had said, with an exaggerated tenderness so fake it was more hurtful than any direct insult. "I took the liberty of buying you a gift. A small detail to celebrate your... rehabilitation."
Vox had stared at the box as if it were a time bomb. In his mind, the possibilities were all horrible. A sinner's finger that Alastor had eaten and preserved as a macabre souvenir. A stuffed bug with twisted legs. Something worse, something that upon opening would release a spell or a curse or simply an unbearable stench. Anything Alastor would find amusing.
He hadn't wanted to open it. He had flatly refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his reaction in public. For the rest of the meeting, he kept the box to one side, not touching it, ignoring it with the same intensity with which he ignored Alastor's whispers in his ear: "Aren't you curious?", "Come on, be a good boy and open your present", "I promise it doesn't bite."
He thought about throwing it back in that idiot's face. About getting up and leaving. About shouting that he wasn't his dog, that he'd rather be erased from the map than accept anything from his hands. But he didn't. Because the stares of the other Overlords were already on him, expectant, and any scandal would only confirm what everyone thought: that Vox was still unstable, that he hadn't recovered, that he was still the same disaster who'd nearly gotten them all killed.
So he stayed quiet. Clenched his teeth. Endured the rest of the meeting with the red box burning in his peripheral vision.
And now he was here.
Alone.
The box rested on his desk, Vox's fingers resting on the lid. The black bow gave way with a firm tug. The lid opened with a soft, almost intimate creak that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the room.
Inside, on a cushion of velvet as red as the box itself, rested the object.
It wasn't a diamond necklace. It wasn't a jewel for a lover or an elegant accessory for a gala. It was, unmistakably, a dog collar.
Vox observed it with his large, bright eyes, reflecting the dim light of the room. The collar was made of black leather, thick yet flexible, and around it was delicate lace giving it an almost Victorian, almost antique, utterly perverse appearance. The buckle was silver, with engravings that looked like small microphones and radio waves if you looked closely. And hanging from a ring, a shiny metal tag.
Engraved on the tag, in elegant handwriting that Vox would have recognized anywhere, was the name.
Vincent.
His fingers trembled as he took the collar. The leather was soft, almost warm to the touch, as if it had been waiting to be touched. The lace brushed his fingertips with a delicacy that made his skin prickle, and the metal tag was cold, firm, with the letters of his name engraved in relief so he could always feel them against his chest.
Indignation hit him like an electric shock. How dare he? How dare Alastor still use that name? How dare he send him this, as if wanting to brand him as his pet, his property, his puppy to tame? It was an affront. It was a declaration of war. It was the most insulting thing done to him in decades, and that was saying something considering the things Valentino had done that still enraged him.
But then.
Then came the other thing.
That pang he couldn't ignore, forcing its way through the anger like a hot needle. Humiliation, yes. A humiliation so deep, so absolute, it made him feel small, insignificant, reduced to something that could be put on a leash. But also — and this part terrified him to his very core — arousal.
Vox closed his eyes. The collar was still in his hands, the leather heavier than it should be, and the name Vincent seemed to glow in the twilight as if it had a life of its own.
He remembered Alastor's voice. Good boy. Puppy. Each word resonated in his head with a painful clarity, but not in the way it should hurt. It hurt like wanting something you know you shouldn't want. Like wanting someone to look down on you and decide for you.
"Damn you, Alastor," Vox whispered in the darkness of his room, pressing the collar against his chest with one hand while the other trembled at the edge of his neck, where the screen met skin, where the lace and leather would fit perfectly.
He wouldn't put it on.
Of course he wouldn't put it on.
That was exactly what Alastor wanted him to do.
-------------------------------
The following days were an exercise in willpower Vox didn't know he possessed.
He got up early, before Hell began to boil with its usual routines, and forced himself not to look toward the vanity table. The red box was still there, on the black glass surface, like a bloodstain in the midst of his meticulous order. His eyes avoided it with the same intensity with which an addict avoids the dose he knows will destroy him.
"Don't think about it," he told himself out loud, his voice trembling. "Don't think about him. Don't think about the collar. Don't think about the name."
Vincent.
The name rang in his head like a bell. He heard it in the silence of the shower, in the hum of his own systems, in the moment before sleep when he couldn't control his thoughts. Alastor had achieved the impossible, again: he had slipped something under his skin, and that something didn't want to leave.
Velvette had assigned him a mountain of paperwork, probably to keep him busy and out of trouble. Property transfer documents, contracts for new VeeTek sponsors, damage assessments from his failed attempt against Heaven. Vox threw himself into the work with a ferocity that surprised even his own personal assistant. He spent hours in front of the screens, reviewing figures, correcting clauses, ensuring every line was perfect. Work was an anchor, a way to remind himself who he was. Overlord. Businessman. Power. Not a dog on a collar.
But the numbers started dancing before his eyes after the tenth hour. The letters mixed together until they formed words that didn't belong in any contract: puppy. good boy.
"Damn it," he muttered, rubbing his screen as if he could erase the thoughts with the gesture.
He tried meditation. He sat in the center of his room, legs crossed and systems at rest, seeking that mental emptiness he had struggled so hard to achieve during his rehabilitation sessions. Breathe deep. Exhale. Empty the mind of all thought. Of all worry. Of all...
"Did they let you out to play like a good little puppy?"
Alastor's voice cut through his meditation like a hot knife. Vox opened his eyes with a snort of frustration. It was no use. Nothing worked.
Shockwav, at least, was a physical distraction. His enormous mechanical shark swam in the tank that occupied an entire wall of his office, its metallic scales gleaming and its jaws full of sharp teeth that could shred steel. Vox spent hours by the tank, feeding it scrap metal he selected himself, stroking the glass while the beast followed him with its bright red eye.
"You're loyal, at least," Vox told it, resting his forehead against the cold glass. "You don't look at me like I'm a pity case. You don't call me... things."
Shockwav smacked the glass with its tail, as if agreeing, and Vox managed a weak smile. At least someone in this Hell respected him.
But even with Shockwav, even with the paperwork, even with meditation, his gaze always returned to the vanity table.
He put the box in a drawer. Then, when that wasn't enough, he buried it at the back of his closet, under piles of clothes he never wore. The red box disappeared beneath layers of fabric and dust, invisible, unreachable.
But Vox knew it was there.
He knew it at night, when he woke up sweating, after dreams where Alastor's voice wrapped around him like a blanket. Dreams where those clawed hands stroked the back of his neck, where long fingers adjusted something around his throat, where that wide, cruel smile leaned close to his ear to whisper: "Good boy, Vincent. My good boy."
He woke up with his body burning and the sheets tangled, and spent long minutes staring at the ceiling while his breathing slowly regulated.
A week passed like that. Then two.
The day he finally broke was a day like any other. He had finished all the paperwork Velvette had assigned him, had meditated for two straight hours without achieving a single second of real peace, and Shockwav was asleep at the bottom of his tank, tired after a particularly active play session.
Vox was alone.
Completely alone.
His feet carried him to the closet before his brain could intervene. He opened the door with trembling fingers and pushed aside the clothes with meticulous movements until he found the red box at the back. The black bow was still there. Waiting to be opened again.
As if he knew you'd come back to look at it, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. As if he knew you wouldn't be able to resist.
"Shut up," Vox growled, carrying the box to the vanity table.
He opened it with steady hands. The collar was there, intact, the black leather gleaming under the dim light of the room. The lace looked more delicate than he remembered, almost feminine, and the nameplate reflected his own miniature image.
Vox looked at it for a long time.
Who would see it?
The question floated in the air like a justification, like an alibi. After months of maintaining control, of behaving, of swallowing every insult and every mockery, didn't he deserve a small indulgence? A moment of weakness that no one would have to know about. After all, he was alone. The door was closed. No one would come in. No one would see him.
No one would know.
His fingers took the collar with a delicacy he didn't know he possessed. The leather was soft, softer than he remembered, and the lace brushed his palms like a caress. He raised the collar to his neck, and for a moment he stopped, holding his breath, and then, with a quick movement to not allow time for regret, he fastened it around his throat.
The buckle clicked into place with a metallic sound that resonated in the silence.
The leather against his skin was... was...
Vox swallowed. The collar wasn't tight, just resting there, but he felt the pressure as if it were a clenched fist. The lace brushed his collarbones, the tag hung just over the hollow of his throat, and the name seemed to weigh more than all the metal in Hell.
His fingers went to the collar. They tightened it a little more. Then a little more. Then a little more, until he felt real, tangible pressure against the sides of his neck. Until each breath was a small challenge against the restriction.
A sound escaped his lips.
A moan.
Low, trembling, barely audible, but unmistakable. Vox brought a hand to his mouth as if he could catch it before it escaped, but it was too late. It had already come out. It had already confirmed what his body had known from the very first moment he saw the collar.
He loved it.
"Oh, shit," he whispered, and his voice sounded different, rougher, as if the collar had changed not just his breathing but the very tone of his being.
Alastor's voice floated through his mind, clear as a bell, mocking and warm at the same time: "Good boy, darling."
Vox shuddered. A tremor ran down his spine, descended through his legs, and settled somewhere deep in his abdomen, where the heat began to grow, intense and undeniable. Arousal burned through his body like a fever, like an electric shock he couldn't control because it came from some primitive corner he didn't even know existed inside him. Not like this.
He looked at his reflection in the vanity mirror. There he was, with a dog collar around his neck. His face lit up with a blush his systems couldn't fake, and his large, bright eyes were fixed on his own image with a mixture of horror and desire.
He undressed slowly.
First his pajama shirt, pulling the fabric over his screen, careful not to catch the corners. Then the pants, which fell to the floor with a whisper of silk. Each garment he removed was one less barrier between him and what he was about to do, one less excuse to regret it later. He wanted to savor the anticipation. He wanted to feel the cold air of the room on his bare skin, wanted every inch of his body to know what it meant to wear that collar.
He took a hand mirror from the vanity and got onto the bed after making sure the door was securely closed. He turned the knob twice, activated the electronic lock, and then, only then, allowed himself to kneel on the sheets.
He placed a pillow between his legs. The soft but firm pressure against his crotch made him sigh, and the arousal, which had been bubbling inside him like hot liquid, began to spill through his limbs, through his fingers, through every corner of his being.
The mirror.
He raised it with trembling hands and activated his hypnotic eye.
The effect was immediate. The concentric spirals of his gaze began to spin, hypnotic, captivating, and he himself was not immune to his own power when looking into a mirror.
The spirals spun. They spun and spun, and Vox felt his consciousness begin to loosen, felt the walls of his mind become permeable, felt the doubts and justifications fade away like smoke.
In the mirror, he saw himself with the collar tightening around his neck.
The tag gleamed, catching the dim light of the room and returning it in small flashes. Vincent. Vincent. Vincent. The name seemed to move, to dance, to claim him. Whenever he moved, even slightly, the tag jingled against the metal buckle, producing a small, delicate sound that mingled with the beating of his own heart.
The brush of the pillowcase against his cock — already half-erect, beginning to stir beneath the pressure — made him sigh. A sigh that turned into a moan when his hips, out of pure instinct, moved forward, rubbing against the softness of the fabric.
"Ah..." the sound escaped his lips, hoarse, needy.
The spirals kept spinning. His gaze lost itself in them, and with it, his resistance, his control, his pride. The words began to spring from his mouth, at first in a murmur, then clearer, firmer, as if he were reciting a prayer.
"I am..." his hips moved again, slower this time, more deliberate, "Alastor's... good boy."
The name made him shudder. The hands holding the mirror trembled, but didn't let go. He needed to see himself. He needed to see the collar. He needed to see the tag. He needed to see the dog that Alastor had decided to tame.
"I am... his little puppy..." another hip movement, another moan that got caught in his throat, "well-behaved."
The pillow was beginning to get damp. His cock, now fully erect, pressed against the fabric with each movement, and the friction, soft but insistent, sent waves of pleasure through his entire body. But it wasn't enough. He needed more. He needed to lose himself completely.
"You are Alastor's good boy," he repeated to himself, and this time the voice wasn't his own. It was deeper, more modulated, with a hint of static and old-time radio. It was the voice he heard in his nightmares, in his dreams, in every damn moment of weakness. "You are his well-behaved little puppy."
His hips began to rock against the pillow at a faster rhythm. Up and down, forward and back, rubbing against the fabric like an animal in heat. The collar tightened around his throat with each movement, reminding him of his place, reminding him who he was now. Vincent. Not Vox. Not the Overlord. Vincent. Alastor's pet, the good boy, the little puppy who had learned to behave.
"Ah... ah..." the moans were more frequent now, louder, escaping his lips without control. "Yes... yes..."
Vox's head filled with Alastor's voice. It wasn't a reminiscence, wasn't a memory. It was real, vivid, as if the Radio Demon were there, in the room with him, whispering in his ear while he rubbed against the pillow like a dog in heat.
"That's it, puppy," the voice said, mocking and warm, full of approval. "How good you are, rubbing yourself like a needy little dog. Do you need me to help you? Do you need me to give you a treat?"
"Yes..." Vox moaned, and his voice sounded broken and desperate. "Yes, please... give me... give me..."
"Good boy," Alastor whispered in his mind, and Vox could feel the imaginary caress on the back of his neck, right where the collar couldn't reach. "My good boy. My pretty puppy. Vincent."
The name hit him like a wave. Vincent. He wasn't Vox. He wasn't the Overlord. He was Vincent, and Vincent was weak, Vincent was submissive, Vincent needed someone to guide him, take care of him, control him, put him in his place. Vincent needed Alastor.
"Alastor..." Vox whispered as his hips moved faster, more desperate. "Alastor... please..."
"Please what, darling?", the voice in his mind was a poisonous and sweet whisper. "Tell me. Tell me what you need. Good boys ask for things politely."
Tears began to well at the corners of his bright eyes. It wasn't sadness. It was something more intense, more overwhelming. It was total surrender to pleasure.
"I need..." he let out another moan, his hips moving in circles now, pressing against the pillow, "I need you to... to call me..."
"Call you what, Vincent?"
"Puppy," the word came out between sobs and moans, begging, pleading. "Tell me I'm your puppy... please... Alastor..."
"You are my puppy, Vincent," the voice answered, and this time it was so real that Vox could almost feel the warm breath on his neck. "My little dog. My property. My good boy. And good boys come when they're told to."
Vox moaned, loud, uncontrolled, and his hips moved frantically against the pillow. The mirror trembled in his hands, barely held, and his own reflected image — the collar, the tag, his large bright eyes clouded by a veil of tears — was the last thing he saw before pleasure enveloped him completely.
"Ah!" he cried out, and his voice broke into a sharp moan. "Alastor...! I am... I am your puppy... I am... I am... yours..."
The orgasm hit him like a bolt of lightning. His body arched, his back lifting off the mattress, his hands gripping the mirror so hard the frame creaked. The collar tightened against his throat with the muscular tension, and the Vincent tag shone like a star in the center of his storm.
"Al!" he screamed, and the words came out mixed with moans and sobs. "I'm a good boy... I'm Alastor's good boy..."
The pleasure lasted eternities and seconds at once. When it finally ended, Vox collapsed onto the bed, the mirror falling aside, the pillow stained and wrinkled beneath him. He panted, and the collar still tightened around his neck, and the tag still gleamed with the reflection of the light.
He closed his eyes. The sleepy haze that followed released pleasure filled his body.
In the silence of the room, with the echo of his own moans still resonating off the walls, Vincent smiled weakly.
He was a good boy.
----------------------------------------------
The weeks had been torture.
Not the kind of torture Alastor usually inflicted on his victims — that was creative, loud, full of delightful screams and the crunch of bones — but a more subtle, more irritating torture. The waiting. The damned waiting.
Ever since he had delivered the red box, Alastor had waited with a patience he didn't even know he possessed. He was waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. For Vox to burst into the next meeting with his eyes blazing, his screen distorted with fury, sparks jumping from his fingers as he demanded to know what the hell that collar meant. He expected him to confront him in some dark hallway, to shout at him, to try to hit him, to do something.
He needed him to do something.
Because outraged fury was the first step. If Vox got angry, Alastor could respond, could provoke him more, could play with that anger until it turned into something more malleable. Until Vox was so tired of fighting that he accepted defeat. Until he put on the collar. Until he understood that was his place.
Alastor had spent a long time choosing the material. The leather had to be perfect: soft enough not to hurt, firm enough to constantly remind him of its presence. The lace had been a personal touch — Alastor liked the contradiction, the delicacy in something designed to subdue — and the silver buckle with the microphone engravings was his signature, his mark of ownership. The tag, of course, was the most important thing. He had spent hours engraving the name, making sure every letter was perfect, that Vincent shone like a star in the dark metal.
He knew it would look beautiful on Vox. He knew how it would look against his skin, how the light would bounce off the tag with every breath, how the jingle of metal would accompany every one of his movements. He had imagined it a thousand times: Vox with the collar, Vox kneeling at his feet, Vox looking up at him with those large, bright eyes while waiting for orders.
But the Overlord meetings came and went once, twice, three times, and Vox did nothing.
He sat in his seat, pressed his lips together, and didn't say a single word about the box. He endured Alastor's taunts with a surprising stoicism that seemed unnatural. "Haven't you opened your gift yet, my dear? Or did you like it so much you don't want to share it?" Vox avoided his gaze and didn't respond. He didn't shout. He didn't get up from his seat. He did nothing.
Alastor's irritation grew meeting after meeting.
He started pushing harder, being more direct. "Vincent, darling, aren't you going to thank me for the detail? How rude of you." The name made Vox blink rapidly, his breath catching for just a second, but nothing more. A minimal overheating that dissipated before Alastor could savor it.
"Did they punish you for misbehaving, little puppy? Is that why you're so quiet? Or do you like it when I insist?" That time Vox clenched his fists under the table, and Alastor felt a tingle of electricity in the air, but Vox held back. Again.
Alastor was beginning to despair.
His smile remained wide and firm, as always, but inside he boiled with impatience. Hadn't he been clear enough? The collar was an invitation. A declaration of intent. A promise of what could come if Vox accepted his place. Why the hell wasn't he reacting?
On the tenth night, Alastor made a decision.
If his puppy wouldn't come to him, he would go to his puppy.
The Vee tower was a monument to technological ostentation, full of screens, security cameras, and defense systems that would make any hacker in Hell blush. Alastor could have taken the time to walk through it hallway by hallway, deactivating each system, requesting an audience like a simple visitor.
But since when did an owner have to ask permission to see their property?
The shadow enveloped him like a cloak, and when he materialized again, he was inside Vox's room.
The place smelled of Vox. That was the first thought that crossed Alastor's mind as his red eyes adjusted to the dimness. An electric aroma, slightly metallic, mixed with something softer, something more. Ozone and musk. Copper and something sweet.
The lights were low, dimmed to a level that barely illuminated the silhouettes of the furniture. Alastor had expected to find Vox buried in work, surrounded by papers and tablets, cursing the mountain of paperwork. He had expected shouting. Objects flying through the air. A miniature electric storm as Vox discharged his fury against him.
He hadn't expected this.
The sound reached his ears before the image. A moan. Low, wet, desperate. Then another, higher, broken in half as if the one emitting it was on the edge of something. And another, a chain of moans that filled the silence of the room, bouncing off the walls like an obscene echo.
Alastor stood still, his smile frozen on his face, as his pupils adjusted to the darkness.
There.
On the bed.
Vox was on all fours on the tangled sheets, his body arched at an angle that should be uncomfortable but which he didn't seem to mind at all. His screen was tilted toward a mirror propped against the headboard, and in his large, bright eyes, the spirals of his own hypnosis spun slowly. He was trapped. Lost in his own power, looking at himself while his body moved with a rhythm he couldn't control.
And the sound.
The unmistakable hum of a sex toy filled the air, louder than it should have been in the silence of the room. Alastor lowered his gaze and saw the base of the device protruding between Vox's buttocks, vibrating with an intensity that made his entire thighs tremble. Each vibration sent waves through his body, waves that translated into more moans, more tremors, more desperate movements of his hips.
But what truly captured Alastor's attention was the collar.
There it was. Tightened around Vox's neck, the black leather gleaming under the dim light, the lace brushing his collarbones, the silver buckle with the engraved microphones securely fastened. And the tag. It gleamed with every movement, catching the light and returning it in small flashes. Vincent. Vincent. Vincent.
Vox was wearing it.
And not only that. He was wearing it tight. Alastor could see how the leather sank slightly into the skin of his neck, how each breath — each gasp, each moan — was a small challenge against the restriction. Vox had tightened the collar more than necessary. Vox wanted to feel it. Vox needed to feel it.
"Ah... ah... ah..."
Vox's moans filled the room, and Alastor felt his own breath catch. It wasn't possible. This wasn't... he hadn't... Was Vox wearing the collar? Had Vox put on the collar voluntarily? And now he was here, on all fours, moaning his name?
"Alastor..." Vox moaned, and the word came out broken, needy, like a prayer. "Alastor... please..."
His name. Vox was moaning his name.
Alastor took a step forward, and then another, his feet making no sound on the carpet. He needed to see more. He needed to understand what he was witnessing. Vox didn't seem to notice his presence — the hypnosis had trapped him completely, his eyes still fixed on the mirror, the spirals spinning slowly — and his mouth kept moving, murmuring words between moans.
"I'm a good boy..." Vox sobbed, his hips pushing back to meet the vibrating toy. "I am... ah... Alastor's good boy..."
Alastor stood frozen beside the bed.
Vox was... reciting? Affirming? He was telling himself that he was his. He was convincing himself, with every word, with every moan, with every desperate movement of his hips, that he belonged to Alastor. The hypnosis had trapped him in a loop, and in that loop, Vox had surrendered completely.
"I'm his well-behaved little puppy..." Vox murmured, his voice trembling, his bright eyes fixed on his own reflection. "I'm... ah... his property... his pet... Mmm..."
The vibrator changed intensity — it must have had a remote control, or maybe Vox had programmed it to increase power over time — and Vox moaned, loud, uncontrolled, his back arching even more.
"Ah!" he cried out, and his hands gripped the sheets. "Alastor...!"
Alastor smiled. Not the wide, threatening smile he used in public, but something more intimate, darker, hungrier. Vox was here, on his bed, wearing his collar, moaning his name, and he had no idea Alastor was watching him.
But he was watching him.
And what he saw was beautiful.
He approached slowly, without making a sound, until he was right behind Vox. His shadows spread around him, dimming the lights even more, creating a small world of darkness where only the two of them existed. Vox didn't notice. His eyes were still fixed on the mirror, the spirals spinning, the hypnosis keeping him trapped in his own reflection.
Alastor raised a hand.
His long fingers brushed the back of Vox's neck, right where the collar couldn't reach. The touch was soft, almost a caress, and Vox shuddered as if he'd received an electric shock.
"Ah!" Vox moaned, confused, his hips stopping for a moment. "Al..."
But the hypnosis was too deep. His mind, trapped in the spirals, couldn't process reality. In his dream world, Alastor wasn't really there. It was just his imagination. Just the voice in his head. Just the owner he had created for himself.
"Keep going like that, mon cher," Alastor whispered, his voice low and modulated, full of old-time static. "Don't stop. I want to see you."
Vox moaned, and his hips began to move again, more desperate now, as if the caress he believed imaginary had ignited something new inside him.
"Alastor," Vox sobbed. "Alastor, please... I need... I need..."
"What do you need, baby?" Alastor asked, and his fingers traced the back of Vox's neck to the edges of his screen, caressing the line where technology met skin.
Vox trembled. His eyes closed for a moment — the spirals disappeared, but when they opened again, they were still there, spinning slowly — and his mouth opened in a moan that seemed to come from the deepest part of his being.
"Tell me," Vox moaned. "Tell me I'm... ah... that I'm yours..."
Alastor tilted his head, his smile widening to show his teeth. His lips brushed Vox's neck.
"You're mine, Vincent," he whispered against his skin. "You always have been. You know that, darling."
"Ah ah ah!" Vox moaned, loud and broken, and his hips moved frantically against the toy. "Yes... yes... I'm yours... I'm your puppy!"
Alastor lowered his lips to Vox's shoulders. He kissed the skin with a delicacy few knew he possessed, and felt Vox tremble beneath his lips. Each kiss was a small contact that made Vox moan, that arched his back, that pushed him closer and closer to the edge.
"Listen to me, Vincent," Alastor murmured between kisses, his lips traveling across his shoulders, up his neck, stopping right where the collar tightened against the skin. "Listen to me carefully."
Vox moaned in response, his eyes fixed on the mirror, the spirals spinning. He couldn't respond with words, not really, but his body could. His body leaned toward Alastor, offered itself, surrendered.
"You're mine," Alastor said, his voice low and sweet, almost loving. "My needy little puppy who rubs against his pillow because he can't control himself. Because he needs someone to remind him of his place."
"Ah... ah..." Vox's moans grew higher, more desperate. "Yes... yes, I'm your puppy..."
"You're my puppy," Alastor continued, and his teeth nibbled the collar lightly. "My puppy. My property. And dogs don't touch themselves without permission, do they?"
"No... they don't touch..." Vox sobbed. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry, Alastor..."
"Don't apologize, mon cher," Alastor smiled against his skin. "Tonight, you can touch yourself. Tonight, you can come. Because I allow it. Because I'm a generous owner to his good boy."
"Yes!" Vox moaned, and tears began to well at the corners of his eyes. "I'm a good boy... I'm your good boy..."
"The best," Alastor confirmed, and his hands went down Vox's back, caressing his spine, reaching his buttocks, brushing the base of the vibrator. "My good boy. And I'm going to take care of you, Vincent. I'm going to take care of you like you deserve."
Vox moaned, and the sound was so desperate, so needy, that Alastor felt a shiver run down his own back. His cock was hard beneath his pants — it wasn't something that happened to him often, not with the intensity it was happening now — but he did nothing to relieve it. This wasn't about him. This was about Vox. About watching him break. About watching him surrender.
"Now," Alastor said, his voice an erotic whisper that filled Vox's ears. "Now I want you to come, baby. I want to hear my name when you come. I want everyone in this damned tower to know who you belong to."
"Alastor!" Vox screamed, and his hips moved frantically, pushing against the toy, against the sheets, against everything. "Alastor, please... please!"
"Come," Alastor ordered, his voice firm, relentless. "Come now, puppy."
Vox's orgasm was violent. His body arched backward, his spine forming an impossible arc, and his screams of Alastor's name filled the room like a plea and a declaration at the same time. The collar tightened against his neck, the tag shone like a star, and the spirals in his eyes spun faster, faster, until his entire being dissolved into waves of pleasure.
"Alastor!" he screamed one last time, and his voice broke into a sob, into a moan, into a sigh.
Vox's body collapsed onto the sheets, trembling, muscles tense and slowly relaxing. The vibrator still hummed between his legs, but Vox no longer moved, no longer moaned, only breathed heavily, with the collar still tight around his neck.
Alastor watched him in silence for a long moment.
Then, with a gentleness that no one knew he possessed, he reached over and turned off the toy with a gesture. His fingers caressed Vox's back, tracing slow circles on his skin, feeling the tremors gradually subside.
"Good boy," Alastor murmured, and this time it wasn't mockery. It was tenderness and possession. "My good boy, Vincent. You can sleep now, darling."
Vox only responded with a little noise of agreement. His eyes closed and his breathing was slow and deep. The hypnosis had released him, but exhaustion had trapped him in a dreamless slumber.
Alastor smiled.
He had won Vincent.
And he was never, ever, going to let him go.
---------
The room was plunged into a silence broken only by Vox's slow, deep breathing. He slept deeply, trapped in that state of total exhaustion that follows the storm, and Alastor watched him for a long moment before moving.
His hands rested on Vox's inert body with a delicacy that belied his nature. He took the vibrator with a gentle motion, and when he slowly withdrew it from inside his puppy, Vox moaned in his sleep — a small, pitiful sound, almost a whimper — and Alastor felt a pang of something that could be described as tenderness, if anyone dared suggest it.
"Shh," he whispered, stroking Vox's hip with his other hand. "It's over, dear. Rest."
The toy was left to one side of the bed, forgotten. Alastor searched the adjoining bathroom and found a soft cloth, dampened it with warm water, and returned to Vox to clean him with slow, meticulous movements. He wiped the dampness from his thighs, the trace of orgasm from his belly, the skin that still trembled with residual spasms. Vox sighed in his sleep, a deep, happy sigh, and his body relaxed completely under Alastor's touch.
When he finished, Alastor contemplated the collar.
The black leather was still tight around Vox's neck, and the lace rested against his collarbones like a permanent caress. Alastor smiled and decided to leave it on. His puppy had chosen it. His puppy had tightened it. His puppy wanted to feel it.
It wasn't his place to remove it.
He covered Vox with the sheets, adjusting the fabric over his shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight and his smile wide. He wouldn't leave. Not tonight. When Vox woke up, Alastor would still be there, waiting for him, so he would know this hadn't been a dream. So he would know there was no going back.
Vox moved slightly in his sleep, seeking warmth, and Alastor reached out a hand to caress his screen, his fingers tracing the edges where it met skin. Vox sighed again, a soft, surrendered sound, and curled up against Alastor's hand without waking.
"When you wake up, mon cher," Alastor murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness, "I'll make sure you know that I will never let you go again. That you are now mine to care for, to pamper, to keep close as you always should have been."
His smile widened as he imagined the other collars he could buy for his little puppy. One of red velvet, perhaps, with a gold buckle and a larger tag, where he could engrave something more than a name. Property of Alastor, or something similar. Vox would put on anything he gave him, he knew that now. He would put on anything, and he would do it with that flushed glow on his screen, with those large, bright eyes looking at him with equal parts adoration and desire.
"I'm sure you'd love a red one," Alastor whispered, almost laughing. "You love being mine."
Vox moaned in his sleep, as if he had heard, and Alastor stayed there, on the edge of the bed, stroking his puppy's head as the night slowly advanced toward the infernal day.
When Vox woke up, everything would be different.