Summary: During Vox's weekly maintenance, Baxter calibrates a new attachment. Valentino assists.
Tags: Vox/Valentino, Vox/Baxter, Vox/Other, Dubcon, Medical Kink, Objectification, Drugging, Interchangeable Genitalia, Body Modification, Forcefem, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, PIV Sex, Power Play, Restraint, Voyeurism, Dacryphilia, Humiliation, No/Limited Aftercare
WC: 7803 | AO3 | Trust Us With Your Hardware
The worst part of Vox’s week is always Thursday afternoon. Immediately after his working lunch and before his review of the Friday night programming block, he drops by the hardware team’s lab for the kind of preventative maintenance that’s as dull as it is important. He’s too busy for down time. This one hour sucks, but he can’t view it as a waste when the resulting damage is much more time consuming to fix. Not to mention what Alastor would have to say if Vox was taken down by dust building up in his air filters.
At least the lab rats have the system down to a tee. From the moment Vox sits on the hard metal observation table, they set to work around him with all the fury and efficiency of a car wash. He doubts even a well-programmed machine could work so perfectly. Two techs start on his hands, buffing his claws of any scratches or dents. One takes a cotton swab to the seams of his head while another windexes his face. Another three massage the tension from his neck and back. Somewhere behind Vox, the last one takes detailed notes of each step.
“Where’s Baxter?” he asks. “I’ve been smoking more this week, so he should take a look at my gills; Val’s shit always gunks them up.”
The one taking notes taps away at her screen for a moment before she answers, “In the elevator with Mister Valentino. He’ll be here in just a moment, Mister Vox.”
“Fuck do those two have to talk about?”
A quick system check finds them in the main elevator, Val crowding over Baxter with an unsettlingly large grin, while the doctor seems far more interested in the screen of his tablet than whatever Valentino’s trying to convince him of. He doesn’t bother to tune into the audio now- they’ll be in the lab any second, and he can always rewatch the security footage later if he feels the need. The Voxtek servers store everything for 48 hours by default. Longer if he saves it himself.
Val is still talking when the elevator doors whoosh open. “-if you know what I mean. You have his measurements, right?”
Vox clears his throat.
“Because I actually drew a mock-up this morning,” Val continues, not even glancing at Vox. Baxter, for his part, climbs straight onto the table to flick open the maintenance panel on the back of Vox’s head. “Do you do texts? Or is it still fax city down here, or something.”
“What the hell are you doing down here?” Vox asks.
One of the techs uses a handheld baster to blow air into his ports, clearing out the dust with remarkable patience considering how hard Vox jumps at every blow of air. Usually Val would have a salacious comment on hand. Now, he swoons around the table to shove his sketchbook on top of Baxter’s tablet, like his stupid sketches are more important than Vox operating at peak condition.
“It can’t be that hard,” whines Val.
“It’s not,” Baxter answers, his first words since entering the room. As he speaks, his thin fingers fish into Vox’s head for the data cable. “I’ve made much more difficult prosthetics than that.”
The surge of electricity from his tablet forces a glitch across Vox’s face and he finally loses his patience. “Hi, hello, I’m right here!”
“And I’m in the middle of a conversation,” Val snipes back. “As I was saying-”
“Can’t this wait?”
“No. It’s urgent. I had an idea for Baxter, and since you never take my ideas into account-”
“What ideas, Val?” Vox sneers, leaning forward enough to pull on the cord connecting him to Baxter. “You only think with your dick, and let me tell you, it’s not a good look.”
For once, Val doesn’t have a quip or complaint back; instead, he rolls his eyes and snatches his sketchbook back. He has to be starved for attention to bother coming all the way down here, but Vox truly doesn’t have time to coddle him right now: he has that scheduled for quarter after midnight, after they’ve both wrapped filming for the day.
“Goodbye,” Vox says pointedly.
Then Val leans against one of the computer consoles and extends his cigarette holder like he expects Vox to light it for him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Vox summons a cable to knock it out of Val’s hand. “You can’t smoke in here. This is- do you-” his screen flashes pink and blue, “I- I’m getting maintenanced right now. Knock it off.”
“I was using that,” Val bites, making to retrieve his cigarette.
Before Vox can get more wires to restrain Valentino with, Baxter drops his tablet with a jittering curse. Routine maintenance usually doesn't set off his system this badly, but the added strain of Valentino tap dancing on his last nerve seems to be enough to have the techs stepping back nervously.
“We’re on a schedule, here,” he reminds them.
Baxter hums. “Then it might be time for your injection.”
As if he wasn’t enough of a nuisance already, Val perks up at the mention of drugs, swanning over to the observation table with bright eyes like he’s about to watch the show of a lifetime. Vox just ignores him. Eventually, he’ll get bored.
A couple of the techs help Vox out of his blazer, another tugs off his bowtie, and a fourth makes quick work of his button down. They usually give him PainKiller through his forearm, which he could just roll his sleeves up for, but it’s more efficient to go the whole nine yards when Baxter has to take a look at his gills anyway. This routine is so well-practiced, so familiar, that Vox doesn’t so much as twitch when the tourniquet wraps around his bicep. He expects the gloved fingers tapping his vein to bring it forward. Even the needle is ingrained in his memory, the gauge perfectly to push through the layers of semi-silicate skin and the dual coated plumbing that makes up his vascular system: too narrow and it bends or snaps in his arm, too wide and it takes a cookie-cutter chunk out of him.
“One and a half in,” Baxter verbalizes for the scribe.
The drug works nearly immediately, washing over Vox like a wave of calm. He slumps forward slightly as the needle withdraws, but the techs hold his arm steady to prevent injury before lowering him back onto the table with learned precision. A hand stays under the back of his screen to keep it off the hard metal. His data cable is positioned to keep it from kinking. Both his legs are lifted onto the table so he can lay comfortably.
When Baxter hands off the tablet to assess Vox’s gills, the gentle touch registers as little more than an annoyance. “How much more smoke than usual?” he asks, lifting the muscle slightly on each to check for obvious discoloration. “And have you felt any symptoms, or is this precautionary?”
“Nothing notable,” Vox slurs out. The dose is always higher when the maintenance is invasive like this. “I think.”
“No, not on the right. Everything looks healthy.”
Baxter pats his ribs almost affectionately before moving to his other side to repeat the process. Just over his shoulder, Val squints through his glasses as if he’s actually paying attention. Vox doubts he’ll retain anything if he is, but it’s still somewhat of a novelty to have him down here in the bowels of the R&D department, in the most secure lab Voxtek has. This room isn’t on any schematics besides Vox’s internal processors.
“Does my smoke actually fuck with him?” Val asks. “He doesn’t even get high.”
Vox’s speakers fuzz with static before he gets his words out. “Sure, pretend I can’t fucking hear you. Real mature.”
“In high concentrations,” answers Baxter, evidently not concerned with including Vox in the conversation either. He remains gentle with Vox’s gills though, only tugging at them enough to tickle as he peers into each one. “They’re more sensitive than his lungs, or yours for that matter. Usually they regenerate on their own, but too much at once can irritate them.” He smooths his cold palm across Vox’s stomach after his exam. “Everything seems to be in working order today, however.”
Baxter retrieves his tablet to study the diagnostic report without Val’s incessant distractions. Based on his own internal surveys, Vox knows there’s nothing of note beyond the usual bugs, which are easily solved by the quick hands of his hardware team at these weekly meetings. It should be a simple all-clear so he can get back to work.
“But you’re not processing out the PainKiller yet,” Baxter says thoughtfully. “There’s nothing special about the dose, but…” he looks between Vox’s face and his screen. “Hmm. Run his blood, see what’s wrong with it. Did you take anything new this week, Mister Vox?”
Val scoffs Vox’s arm is tourniqueted again, this time for a blood draw. “He’s been all over that little deer bitch. Maybe the radio waves are fucking him up.”
“Pretty sure I’d know by now if that was the case,” Vox mumbles.
“Interference causes other problems,” Baxter says dismissively, unconcerned with what Val might do with such information. He stills for a moment when his tablet chirps with the delivery of Vox’s test results. “Simple exhaustion. You’ve been overworking yourself and you need a break.”
Vox groans. “Who has the time?”
“You do, unless you’re aiming for a system crash.”
He instinctively digs his claws into the table in frustration, but the PainKiller weakens him to the point that they merely scratch across the metal with an ear-splitting screech. “Just reverse it, or whatever. I have meetings to go to, I can’t- can’t-” his screen sharply cuts into technicolor as his voice catches and stutters.
“My point in case,” sniffs Baxter. “If it would make you feel better, we can use the downtime to calibrate some of your newer attachments. You missed your last three appointments to test upgrades.”
“Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”
Baxter shakes his head, his dangling light swinging with the movement. “Not necessarily. There’s a difference between active and passive engagement. All you would have to do is lie there, Mister Vox, and answer a few diagnostic questions if you’re up to it. We take care of the rest.” He turns to the techs. “Prepare another half-dose on standby to be safe.”
“Does he have to be here?” Vox asks, gesturing sloppily towards Val’s silhouette.
Val’s smile nearly splits his face in two. “Uh, you owe me- or did you forget?”
“For what, exactly?”
When he leans down, Valentino obscures the rest of the room to such a degree that Vox automatically adds the overhead security cameras to his visual feed. He always dwarfs Vox standing eye to eye, but something about this position makes him seem especially large, as if he could swallow Vox whole without blinking if he wanted to.
“Letting you drive me and Velvette up the fucking wall with your obsessions,” he coos sweetly, bringing a hand up to caress Vox’s screen. “The doctor said a little down time will be good for you, no?”
Baxter disappears down a connected hallway to visit the parts room for whatever new attachment he wants to calibrate. It’ll be one of the several the lab has tested on the proxy mannequin lately, if Vox had to guess- all somewhat modeled after different sinner species in Hell, none of them similar to his standard dick that came pre-connected with his first body.
“Besides, shouldn’t I get to christen all your new parts, Voxxy?”
“They’re not finished yet,” Vox argues, but he knows he won’t change Val’s mind at this point. With the drugs in his system, he can’t exactly make him leave or restrain him out of the way, either. “So be careful. And listen to Baxter.”
“Yeah, yeah-”
“And! No fucking smoking.”
Val rolls his eyes as he stands up. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m not gonna ruin your stupid lab.”
The moment Baxter reenters the room with a Voxtek branded box under his arm, the techs spring back into motion to pull Vox’s slacks off his body. It stopped registering as awkward at the same time as them removing his shirts, leaving only Val’s hum of appreciation to neg their clinical touch into a familiarity that makes Vox’s dick stir with interest.
“Mister Vox,” Baxter prompts.
“I thought you wanted me to relax,” Vox bitches, struggling to prop himself up on his elbows. “Now I’m changing out parts?”
Two of the techs grab his arms to lower him back down. “Not at all, sir. I merely meant for you to activate standby mode while I switch your attachments, for my safety and yours.”
Vox flicks through his programs for the temporary standby. Lowering his power to ten percent capacity is an annoyance, and often leaves him completely immobile until he restores power, but does lower his risk of short-circuiting himself while his attachments are changed out. In combination with the PainKiller, Vox barely feels the invasive procedure.
“Make it quick,” he advises before changing modes.
Through the security cameras, he watches Val crowd over Baxter’s shoulder to observe the process. Vox usually comes down to have his attachments switched over properly–he has no interest in damaging anything by changing out the parts on his own–which makes this new enough to draw Val’s attention as Baxter disconnects Vox’s usual dick.
“There, and there,” Baxter mutters to himself as he carefully separates each cable from its port, “nice and slow.” Slightly louder, he adds, “You’re doing perfect, sir. We’re halfway done.”
“I don’t think he can hear you like this,” Val says.
Baxter glances back at Val before opening the box. “Of course he can. If not through his physical form, then via the security system.”
That gets Val to narrow his eyes at the darker corners of the lab. His eyesight isn’t good enough to actually catch the lenses, but he knows Vox well enough to hazard guesses at where the crispest cameras will be, and Vox can’t help switching feeds to follow his search. Confusion has always been a good look on Valentino, irritating as it can be. And, honestly, Vox would rather have him caught up in the logistics of surveillance than get involved with such a delicate operation as this.
Even with his senses dulled, Vox still grimaces behind his dull screen at the spark of the new attachment connecting. They always tingle at first as they interface with his system. Coding can only go so far before Vox actually connects to a new piece of hardware, but decades of perfectionism have trained his internal software to get with the program quickly. Within a matter of seconds, he can feel Baxter’s hands ensuring everything has connected, down to the smooth seams at either side of his groin. Like always, it’s a perfect fit. But the sensations are… off. Warmer, he thinks, and more compact.
“Alright, go ahead, Mister Vox.”
Vox restores his body to full power and sits up slightly to look, his complaint about the mismatched feeling dying in his throat. “Where’s my fucking cock?” he hisses instead, tugging away from the techs to cover himself instinctively. His mind goes straight to exposed circuits, the potential for damage if Val sets his sights on fucking pure machinery not designed for such roughhousing. It would mean days of Vox being inoperable for major repairs.
But the second his hands land on his crotch, he pauses. The skin is smooth and warmed to Vox’s preferred core temperature, but not completely flat as he had assumed at first glance; instead, the silicon parts open with his spread legs, revealing a narrow pussy that glows teal on its inner lips.
“What the fuck?” he says, the phrase echoing back to him through the overhead speakers. “Hey, Baxter, what the FUCK is this?”
“It’s cute,” Valentino interrupts.
Vox’s neck cracks with how quickly he whips his head around to glare at Val. He ignores how it makes his vision darken at the corners. “Don’t care, didn’t ask. This isn’t- we didn’t agree on this shit. Get it off me, now.”
“We did discuss it though,” Baxter retorts, tablet held in front of the lower half of his face. “You asked for a more compact attachment that wouldn’t interfere in your battle with Heaven. This won’t interfere.”
Vox’s antenna crackle with static. “I never said to make me a fucking girl!”
Before Baxter can begin to come up with a lame excuse, Val grabs Vox by both shoulders and slams him back onto the table. Vox grapples with him for a moment but still weakened by PainKiller, he only succeeds in scratching Val’s arms- minor injuries that will heal by dinnertime. Worse, Val likes that sort of shit.
“Wanna try that again, babe?” spits Val. Red saliva spills down his chin from the exertion of the fight to drip from his jaw onto Vox’s bare chest. “I think I misheard you.”
He’s like a dog with a bone, but Vox still tries to diffuse the situation since he can’t squirm out of Val’s grip, entreating, “You know I didn’t mean it like that-”
“Then what did you mean? Huh?”
Val’s lower set of hands catch Vox’s thighs to hold them open at a much wider angle than is strictly comfortable. He pushes back against it, but it’s no use, and he knows as much. This is exactly why Vox tries to keep Val away from the lab.
“You still have a dick, Val, it’s different,” he tries. “Now get out of the way so Baxter can take this piece of shit off me.”
“No! You fucking owe me!” Val carries on.
Vox runs a quick cost-benefit analysis. Supposing he could muster up someone else to distract Val, it would be a temporary solution, and exacerbate Val’s frustration with him at an already delicate time in Vox’s plans. This would be efficient, at least: he gives his body the rest Baxter recommended, Val gets over himself, and if he’s lucky Vox still makes his next meeting.
He lets his head fall back against a tech’s hand and sighs. “Fine. You can help Baxter calibrate it, but I’m never wearing it again.”
And just like that, Val leans back with a smug grin. “Yay! Okay, what first? Can I eat you out?”
“Wait,” Baxter instructs. His passive permission makes him bold enough to return to Vox’s side and plug his tablet back in to read the output. “And I’d like to give you another half-dose to ensure you don’t damage yourself during calibration.”
“Might as well, right?” Vox knows Baxter will talk him into it no matter what. But, as a tech draws up a syringe, he grabs Baxter by the lure to drag their faces together. “Keep Val in check,” he warns, “got it?”
“Obviously,” the doctor wheezes.
When Vox releases him, Baxter takes a second to collect himself, straightening his coat and inhaling slowly, before he takes the needle from the tech. He doesn't bother asking Val to move for access to Vox's inner arm. Like it's second nature, Baxter works around him, using Val's restraint to find the vein high on Vox's inner thigh instead
It's not enough to knock Vox out in good health, but he does go slack in Val's hands, head lolling to the side. None of the techs correct the angle, and Vox can't be bothered, so he makes the camera in Baxter's tablet his primary visual feed- it isn't perfect, but he can at least see himself and Val close up this way.
“Is he like, good?” Val asks hesitantly.
Vox's speakers sputter when he tries to speak, leaving Baxter to cut in on his behalf. “He's fine. Lightly sedated, as a safety measure, but just as sensitive to positive stimuli.” He strokes Vox's ribs to demonstrate how his gills flare in response. “He can hear, see, and feel- but he'll stay where you put him. Right, Mister Vox?”
Immediately, Val's smug smile is back. They've fucked while Vox was knocked out a couple times--that footage is triple password protected and quadruple encrypted--but he's never let Val near him in the lab before. Vox doesn't do this for the fun of it like him. Abruptly, he wonders if he's in over his head giving Val access. While Baxter has permission to tranq him if he gets unruly, but that predicates on him doing so before Val shreds him.
“You can touch him now,” Baxter allows, “but be careful. It has to be warmed up or you'll break it.”
“I'm always careful,” Val purrs, because the bastard knows Vox can't call him a liar right now.
He releases Vox's arms to slink down his body, trailing his tongue from the base of Vox's throat to the joint of his hip. It doesn't absorb into his skin like it would for other sinners. No, it'll dry there, staining him pink until he scrubs himself raw in the shower. Val strokes his stomach with silk gloved hands, teasing as he studies Vox's new cunt like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
“Pretty,” Val muses. He drags a finger through Vox's slit to gather some kind of faintly glowing fluid. It's thinner, clearer, than Vox's cum, and when Val wraps his tongue around his finger to taste, he cocks his head to the side. “Mmm, sweeter than usual.”
Baxter jots this down.
“This is actually really good work.”
Val leans his cheek against Vox's thigh as he explores with just his hand first, mapping every inch of Vox's labia as if to bring it all to his attention. It takes nearly a full minute before he lightly brushes over Vox's clit, which is infinitely more sensitive than any of his dicks have ever been. If he weren't put down with the PainKiller, Vox would be a mess of static electricity too intense for even Val to put up with. He tries to tell Baxter that the sensitivity is too high, but still can't construct the sentence around Val's slow ministrations. Each time he thinks he might have a couple words strung together, Val makes another slow circle over his clit that resets his thought process.
He ought to expect Val to stray lower, but it still surprises him enough for his face to glitch when Val dips two fingers into his hole. “You're soaked,” Val observes in a low purr. “So wet for me, amor, and I've barely touched you.”
Vox tries and fails to tell him to shut up.
“You’re so soft inside, like silk,” he carries on without a care. He moves so much slower now than he’s ever bothered to before, whether it was while fucking Vox’s ass or ruining some no-name sinner he wanted to get on contract; he only gives Vox a couple inches at a time before withdrawing. “And tight, Vox, damn.” On each inward push, he curls his fingers upward. He's not deep enough for it to do anything. But this is still better than Val getting too carried away and fucking Vox up– his enthusiasm is a frequent cause for repairs. “This thing was made to be fucked, right?” He asks without looking away from Vox's cunt. “I'm gonna do it no matter what, but like, it’s not gonna make him extra pissy?”
Baxter places a bold hand on Val’s arm to push him deeper, making Vox’s breath stutter and screen flicker. “The receptacle was designed at a base depth of six inches, but can be stretched to nine with the right stimulation. And I modeled it to relax and self-lubricate based on pleasure, like the real thing.” He guides one of Val’s other hands to splay over Vox’s lower stomach and presses Val’s thumb into Vox’s clit once more. “He’s most sensitive here.”
“Motherfuckers,” Vox glitches.
Neither of them acknowledge it.
Val simply continues his leisurely exploration, stroking Vox’s clit in time with each lazy thrust as though they have the entire evening to waste. It’s maddeningly not enough, while simultaneously fraying his train of thought with its intensity. Perhaps this is what Love Potion, Val’s poison, feels like to those actually susceptible.
When Val sneaks a third finger alongside the other two, Vox’s whole body arches off the table by a couple inches before slamming back down, but he doesn’t produce a single defensive spark. He isn’t sure he would want to, anyhow, but it’s often automatic when his system gets overwhelmed like this. And he knows Val’s hands intimately enough to know his fingers, however long, are reedy enough to be negligible. To genuinely feel the stretch of a third doesn’t bode well for what’s coming next.
“Shh, shh, relax, baby,” Val hums, petting Vox’s thigh. “I’m being nice, hmm? It can’t hurt that bad.”
Baxter turns his tablet screen toward Val, who wouldn’t know what to make of the data on it if his life depended on it. “He’s not feeling any pain, Mister Valentino.”
“What a shame,” Val says, long and sweet, the way he speaks when he doesn’t believe a word off his own tongue. “Still so sensitive though, aren’t you? Like a virgin again.” He spreads his fingers slightly and Vox slams his head back into one of the tech’s hands, crunching bone under the back of his screen. “And I can have it tuned up between uses so it’s like this every time.”
Val’s getting confident now, speeding up to a steady rhythm that’s just fast enough to keep Vox from catching his breath. Every exhale leaves him empty before he can draw in fresh oxygen, and every inhale gets punched out of him by Val’s knuckles forcing their way through his entrance.
Even with the knowledge that this is as gentle as it gets for Valentino, Vox still struggles as much as his drugged limbs will allow when Val’s dedicated exploration has him pressing into a spot that makes Vox see stars. Some of the techs not keeping watch over his head rush to help Valentino hold him down flat against the table. Off to the side, Baxter types in more notes.
“If you intend on penetrative intercourse, you should add another finger,” Baxter advises without looking up from his tablet. “The attachment is forgiving, but you heard Mister Vox- we don’t want to damage it on first use, if we can help it.”
That’s all the warning Vox gets before Valentino manages to cram another finger into Vox, stretching him enough for a warning to flick across a screen despite it only registering as pressure-pleasure instead of pain. A low static whine bounces between Vox’s speakers and the ones overhead until Baxter leans in to dismiss the pop-up.
“Careful,” he reminds Val, returning to his side to help. “A bit more stimulation to the clitoris should help him relax.”
Val responds by lolling his long, cherry red tongue out of his mouth to take over for his hand on Vox’s clit. It’s as dexterous as his fingers, but twice as ruthless in its relentless slick glide. His tongue is magical enough for a blow job. Like this- like this, Vox can’t begin to think. It’s all sensation, warm and wet and full and held and floating somewhere just beyond his body. Watching. Feeling.
With Val occupied, Baxter fills the silence as he always does. “See, Mister Vox, a little relaxation is good for you.” His miniscule palm presses into Vox’s hip close enough to nearly touch Val’s antenna. “You’re closing down auxiliary processes- optimizing. Think of how efficiently you’ll run after this.”
A tech wipes his screen for him, clearing oily tears Vox thought his screen too hazy to produce. Vox doesn’t doubt he’ll run better after his cache clears, but not because he trusts Baxter; he doesn’t have the capacity to question anything right now. His system is trapped in a feedback loop between Val’s insistent touch and his body’s refusal to do anything besides occasionally shiver in response.
“Be good for Mister Valentino, sir. It’ll be much easier to take him if you cum on his hand first.”
Encouraged by Baxter, Val redoubles his efforts, massaging Vox’s clit with his dextrous tongue and fucking him on his fingers like he’s testing just how hard he can go before he’s called off the delicate machinery. For once, Vox doesn’t feel like he’ll physically crack into pieces from Val’s attention. Mentally is another question, though he can’t summon the wherewithal to be concerned about it.
Baxter presses down on Vox’s lower stomach and his vision frantically darts between cameras, trying to find an angle that he can make sense of when his mind is spinning, desperate for something solid to cling to, needing any-fucking-thing to anchor him as his world narrows to Val’s touch. His heart jackhammers inside his chest like a warning before three of the overhead lights burst from uncontrolled energy.
“Alright, alright,” Baxter says quickly, nudging Val’s head with a confidence that would get anyone else killed. “Give it a minute. We don’t want to cause a crash.”
Val pulls back with a low growl that Vox feels in his bones. He still can’t catch his breath. Every point of contact between them is on fire. The warmth of Val’s hands on his thighs could be a brand and Vox wouldn’t have it in him to care.
“Can you hear me, Mister Vox?”
He isn’t sure if he nods, but his face brightens back to visibility.
“How does it feel?”
Vox flicks through his auto-responses for a reasonable option, comes up with nothing, and runs through his whole wordbank in search of an answer that would make sense. Eventually he happens upon “Sensitive,” and forces it through his fritzing speakers.
“Sensitive,” Baxter repeats slowly as he types notes into his tablet. “I can reduce the input before its next use.”
“Right now?” asks Val.
For a moment, Baxter seems to consider it. Then he says, “Well, no; it wouldn’t make sense to remove the attachment mid-calibration. I’ll do it after you’ve finished.”
Val’s touch slips away as he stands up properly, letting his wings fall off his body. He’s always beautiful, but especially here: the harsh industrial lights, even spotty as Vox has accidentally made them, leave no part of him in shadow. His body is completely illuminated, regardless of which camera Vox watches him through, to the point that the fine mesh of his lingerie is little more than a color filter over his hand and cock. Vox can’t be sure when Val started touching himself. He can only guess based on the shiny precum smeared across Val’s abs and wrist.
“So, you test all his dicks like this?” Val asks. His prehensile cock writhes in his hold, the tip occasionally slipping between his fingers as he talks. “I’m hurt that I haven’t been invited.”
“It’s a clinical medical procedure,” Baxter replies matter-of-factly.
Pink drool spills across Val’s cheek when he tilts his head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
He makes slow, casual steps around the table, studying Vox from each new angle. Without him in the way, the security cameras show the pool of juices accumulating under him. His blue mixes with Val’s pink to make a soft lavender not far from the shade of Valentino’s fur. Already, Vox is a wreck, and he knows both Baxter and Val are unstoppable forces. They’ll keep him here until they decide he’s finished.
“How are you doing now, Mister Vox?” Baxter asks, patting the side of his head to get his attention. “You’ve been handling the calibration very well; we’re making excellent progress.”
Vox turns his screen slightly into Baxter’s hand. “Wasn’t that good enough?”
“It was an excellent start,” he says with practiced calm. He allows Val to turn Vox’s head away again, but stays nearby with a point of contact between them. “However, it is my understanding that Mister Valentino also makes frequent use of your attachments, and we have to ensure he won’t break it. Right, sir?”
It’s a good point. If Val breaks Vox’s pussy, or breaks Vox, he’s already down in the lab for repairs. “Yeah. Just…”
“Are you ready to finish calibrating?”
Val returns to his position at the foot of the table and grabs Vox’s calves to drag him down until his legs hang over the edge. “This is a longer break than he usually gets,” Val croons, shimmying his panties down his hips as the techs crawl onto the table to continue supporting Vox’s head and arms, “and I’ll be gentle.”
His dick seeks out Vox’s pussy automatically, always searching for a warm hole to bury itself in. Logically, Vox has always known it’s big–Val fucks him too often not to–but it looks more imposing than usual squirming up Vox’s thigh. When it bumps against his clit his whole body shudders. Val steadies himself with a hand so it happens again, and again, like pressing on a live wire that runs through Vox’s entire body until he can’t tell up from down. Then, once Vox is little more than a jittering, whimpering mess, he finally guides his tip down.
“Deep breath, amorcito,” Val teases, like he did the first time Vox let him top. And, just like Vox did all those years ago, he listens, suffering through a long, jerky inhale until Val’s dick presses into him. Vox thinks it’s slightly wider than four fingers but can’t be sure. No matter what, it’s stuffing him too full to think. “God, how are you still so tight?” Technically, Val is moving slowly, but he doesn’t pause to let Vox adjust, instead pressing forward relentlessly while his cock undulates inside of Vox. On the overhead camera feed, Vox swears he can see it bulging his belly with every upward sweep. “I can’t wait to destroy you next time,” sighs Val between rumbling purrs under his breath. “Fucking perfect. Should’ve gotten you one of these years ago.”
“Val,” Vox moans, equal parts complaint and prayer.
Over the decades, Val has often said it feels like Vox was made for him and vice versa. Their bodies fit together perfectly. Their personalities match even better. As soon as Vox takes over heaven, he’ll be able to spoil Valentino and Velvette like they deserve. But for now, down here, he suddenly understands what it means to feel made for Val. With each slow inch Val pushes into him, he fills Vox like the perfect missing piece of a puzzle.
“That’s right, babe, say my name,” Val encourages. His wings flutter at Vox’s next full-body twitch. “You’re mine.”
Vox nods dumbly. “Val, fuck-”
He’s interrupted by Val reaching the end of his pussy, the tip rubbing up against the sensitive cluster of nerve endings concentrated there. Baxter thought of everything. A fleeting instant of gratitude flutters through Vox’s consciousness before it melts into the wave of sensations. He hasn’t taken all of Val, but the rest of him grinds against Vox’s clit and labia in a way that tears apart any hope Vox had left of coherent thought.
“Could be deeper,” Val informs Baxter casually. “You don’t have my measurements?”
Baxter shakes his head as he takes the note down. “We were guessing- I can lengthen the receptacle for you on the next model.”
A couple of the techs wrestle Vox's fists open to put protective padding between his claws and his palms. Its texture is soft like the ruff around Val's wings, as perfectly imitated as the skin on Vox's upgrades, and his screen hurriedly scrolls through his memories of Val's fluff as he compares the two. He could almost imagine he's holding Val if it weren't for the hands keeping him pinned down and exposed for calibration.
“No warnings,” Baxter muses. “You seem to have prepared the attachment well, Mister Valentino.”
Val chitters, stroking Vox's legs and abdomen while his cock squirms inside of him. “Voxxy's just easy like that.”
He pulls back just enough to push back into Vox harder, the tip of his flexible dick curling around itself so he can fit more inside, uncaring of how Vox's body surges back against the table to escape it. Between Val's four arms and the techs, he doesn't get far.
“He's sobering up,” Val says.
“I can tell.” Baxter tilts his stupid little screen toward Valentino again. “Heart rate and respiration are up, but he's still not feeling any pain. I don't see reason to be concerned. But you're the expert on Mister Vox's responses, so I suppose if you think he needs another dose…”
Val cuts Baxter off with a nasty grin. “You don't need more, do you?” he asks Vox, then immediately answers for him with, “You're man enough to take me without it.”
His next thrust is deeper, stretches Vox even wider, activating more sensitive nerves in a complicated interface Vox would have never designed on his own. When he tries to respond to Val, only strings of binary code stutter out his speakers while his face breaks into static.
“Aww, poor baby. It's too much, hmm?”
Val pulls out almost all the way before burying himself in Vox's cunt, his dick curving inside of him to make Vox take every inch of it.
“Just relax, I'll do all the work.”
He maintains a fairly slow, careful pace by Val's standards: he pulls back slow, so Vox can feel the drag of his movement and the emptiness when he's gone, and fills Vox again at the same glacial pace to keep him aware of just how intense the stretch is. And it's still too much. But all Vox can do is tug weakly at the hands holding him in place, unable to break away from them, completely pinned at Val's mercy. He can't resist when Val lifts one of his legs to get that last half-inch inside Vox alongside the rest of his monstrous cock.
He says something else, then, but Vox doesn't hear it. Just the tone, syrupy and sweet, especially in contrast to the vicious intensity of every thrust. Vox can't process anything beyond how Val feels inside him, against him, when every time he buries himself fully, he grinds against Vox's oversensitive clit.
Some half-baked connection in the back of his mind clicks into focus on true hedonism. It's this, so lost in the pleasure that's only now starting to verge into pain, where nothing--not even Vox's systems--can work past the pure sensation. He feels remarkably human.
Baxter's garbled voice cuts through the haze when Val seems to lose his patience, caring less and less about the force behind every deep thrust into Vox.
“He's fine,” Val drawls, “I've put him through way worse. And he needs to be taken down a peg! I know it, Vel knows it, even you little pricks down here know it. I mean, giving him a cunt was definitely a choice. You had to know he'd fucking hate it.”
He starts pulling Vox back into the the cradle of his hips as he fills him, dragging him along like a rag doll. Vox can tell through the security cameras that his screen has gone into standby to compensate, cutting between bright static colors to fill the idle space and flashes of code rewriting themselves around the new sensations building in his gut.
That, he would recognize anywhere.
Vox reflexively strains under Val and the techs again, wanting to cling to Val, wanting to be closer, wanting feedback from anything besides his pussy to balance him out before his system fails. A few overhead lights flicker in warning.
“Shut up, I'm almost there,” Val growls above him.
“He's going to crash-”
“Okay, and?” Val leans down to nip at Vox's leg, splitting the skin easily on his razor sharp teeth, but the pain is only a faint echo behind the zing that races up Vox's spine. “Always does when he lets me fuck him up. Plus, maybe the reboot will fix your attitude, right, babe?”
“I have to give him something for his pain, then-”
“Don't bother.” Val bites down higher on Vox's thigh, pressing his tongue into the gouges left by his teeth. Then he wedges one of his hands between them so he can stroke Vox's clit directly with a speed that speaks to years of practice. “He's a masochist beneath all that internalized homophobia.”
For all his big talk, Val comes first. But it's the way it fills up what little room Vox had left in his cunt, completely stretching him to the limit of his engineering, that makes Vox's muscles lock up and his heart stutter over its next beat. Every square inch of him, inside and out, processes through the same signal of pure orgasmic pleasure at once.
The remaining lights shatter and the power in Vee Tower fluctuates, but the reboot stays local. As quickly as Vox crashes, his system boots itself back up to sort through the overabundance of data and updates his new attachment created.
He's on his back still, both legs held up and open by the techs, while his hands are finally free to rub his screen and steady him as he sits up. Val has withdrawn exactly far enough to lean against a wall with a lit cigarette.
“I told you not to smoke in here,” Vox sighs. He tries to flick a couple cables to steal it, but they flop flaccidly back to the floor before getting close. “Where the hell did Baxter go?”
Unimpressed, Val points over Vox's opposite shoulder, where Baxter is still typing on his tablet. “Are you back with us, Mister Vox?” he asks cordially without looking up.
“Yeah.” Vox rolls his head from side to side in the techs’ hands to stretch his neck. “Maybe I did need the reboot. I can think a little clearer now.”
“Very good,” Baxter praises, “I knew it would help. Can I take my final readings now?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Baxter sets his tablet aside to climb onto the table between Vox's legs, gently nudging them further apart to better examine him. Through the cameras, Vox doesn't think it looks much different; just wet, now, with Val's rosy cum splashed all over his lower body and more of it leaking sluggishly out of Vox's pussy.
“Speculum,” Baxter prompts a tech.
He doesn't give Vox the chance to react, let alone object, before he's pressing the cold metal tip into Vox's cunt. It's frigid in comparison to Val, and even at its narrowest setting, too much for Vox after already coming twice, but the techs easily hold him in place when he flinches away from it.
“Hey, what the fuck,” Vox gasps as Baxter presses it further in. “This isn't- what-?”
“Breathe, Mister Vox,” Baxter says, a beacon of calm to Vox's racing thoughts. “I have to measure a few things for the file. I'll be as quick as I can.”
Vox shakes his head, turning it against one of the tech's arms. “You've never- what the fuck are you measuring?”
The handle of the speculum settles against Vox's pussy lips once Baxter releases it. For a moment it's near relieving, like a cold compress for his abused flesh. Then Baxter begins to crank it open and Vox's speakers rumble with a choked sob.
“How much it was able to stretch. I noticed Mister Valentino got, uh, creative, with his methods.”
Each tick of the speculum ratcheting open, forcing Vox's hole open wider without actually filling him, makes it harder for the techs to keep their grip on him. He's surprised they haven't given him more PainKiller. But then again, he hasn't managed to get away, and his system hasn't come fully back online enough to produce a defensive shock, so it would simply be unnecessary.
“I believe we'll have to lower the sensitivity,” Baxter says thoughtfully. “This isn't sustainable, even for short usage.” He locks the speculum at its widest setting, still narrower than Val's cock, with a considering expression before dipping two fingers into Vox's cunt to hook against his insides. “See, right here-” Baxter presses against Vox's inner walls, glancing up at his face when he whines, “you wouldn't be bruised like this if you hadn't tightened up around Mister Valentino.”
He withdraws his hand and the speculum, studying the juices left behind.
“Phenomenal fluid expression,” Baxter comments. When he spreads his fingers, it strings between them with a menacing glitter. “I'm surprised you could cry while producing this much lubrication, sir.”
“That's my man!” Val pipes up from the corner. “He's a good cryer.”
Baxter hums and takes a sample vial from his coat to collect some of the spend from Vox's still dripping cunt. “Yes, he is.”
As Baxter drops the dirty speculum and his used gloves into a biohazard bin, he hops away from the table.
“Go ahead and clean Mister Vox up,” he instructs the techs, “but the attachment has to cool down a bit longer before it can be removed.”
“I have a meeting,” Vox complains, though he can't recall what it's about. Or where it is. Or when. “Give me my fucking dick back.”
Baxter shakes his head, not bothering to look Vox in the eye as he disconnects his tablet from Vox's head. “It would damage you and the attachments, sir. We can exchange them after it's cooled down.”
Vox grabs his shoulder. “No, hey, I don't have the-” his screen glitches quickly with the rising frustration, “I don't have the time. I got big shit happening. Just fix it.”
Baxter raises an eyebrow but remains unmoved. “If you're in a hurry, I can remove the attachment after you've attended your meetings.”
“You definitely are,” Val laughs. “It's like, two-thirty right now, so that makes you how late for your meeting, exactly?”
Vox has to double check his schedule, realizes he's already twenty minutes late, and slumps into the table. “I'll have to reschedule it,” he mutters to himself. He can't muster the energy to send those emails now, so he pings Ethan to take care of it. “Fuck. Fine.” On second thought, Vox simply summons his assistant to the lab, since he'll probably need an extra set of hands to get anything done. “I can stay for fifteen minutes, then you take this fucking thing off me, Baxter. Got it?”
Baxter simply nods. “Of course, sir. Fifteen minutes.”
Then he ducks away, leaving Vox with the techs, who set about washing him clean, and Valentino, who watches every moment of it with a cigarette between his teeth.
Trust Me With Your Prompt
