and like honestly trying to think about what kinks i think the vees even has raises the whole valentino question where its like. he's the sex guy. he can't NOT have a relevant kink. if he can't perform the exact correct sexual role (usually dominant and active) then what's his point. more than that- he needs to ANTICIPATE his partners kinks and maybe even sometimes convince them that they have it in the first place. i don't think he could possibly begin to tell you where servicing his partners ends and his own personal sexual gratification begins. i'm literally just thinking out loud here but this could be why he's so reluctant to move on from angel dust. because he can treat angel as terribly and selfishly as he wants and angel cannot leave. which is not to say that he treats vel and vox well (by their standards) because he abuses angel, but rather abusing angel releases the anxiety that pleasing vel and vox causes.
Summary: Vox needs assistance after a fight with Val. Velvette calls Baxter in.
Tags: Hurt/No Comfort, Dubious Consent, Body Modification, Force Feminization, Lingerie, Lactation, Milking, Breast Pumping, Electrostimulation, Drugging, Drugged Sex, Objectification, Dehumanization, Medical Kink, Vaginal Sex, No Aftercare
WC: 5865 | AO3 | Voxtek: Trust Us With Your Hardware!
Vox has gotten used to the new rhythm of his days. At least, as much as a precision machine designed to run an empire can adjust to being barred from even the most marginal tasks in his own company.
He still wakes early, but instead of checking his metrics while Ethan brings him coffee in bed, he slogs out of Val's silk duvet to make his own shitty pour-over in the kitchenette. Rather than back-to-back morning meetings, he flits around the security system to keep an eye on the company in the only way he can. His working lunch is now a lazy mid-afternoon snack plate in Velvette's brewing room. All his greasy diner takeout has been replaced with a regimented diet outlined by the hardware team. The slot that belonged to his nightly broadcast now reruns Velvette's hair and makeup tutorials. When he should be closing out the day's profits and preparing for the next, he sits on the sideline of Val and Velvette's interviews with Katie.
Worst of all, Val finds Vox every two hours with frightening precision. He's pretty sure Val hired someone just to keep track of time, given how little regard the smug dick usually has for schedules, but Vox hasn't managed to bring himself to check the employee directory. To be the center of Val's day like the early days of their partnership is Vox's only solace in the impotence he's been reduced to.
So when Val accosts him at noon on the dot for the second straight week, Vox shrugs off his blazer and starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt before Val tears them off. The shirt is replaceable; Vox would just like to keep what little dignity he has left.
“Wait a second,” Vox tells him, ineffectively attempting to bat Val's many hands away. “Fuck, Val, a little impulse control?”
“Never heard of it,” Val purrs.
He only lets Vox get the top few buttons undone before he loses his patience and rips the shirt open, scattering mother-of-pearl down the hall and baring Vox's chest. Val hums low in the back of his throat as he grabs Vox by the waist, lifting him up and slamming him back into the wall. Even expecting it, Vox can't prevent the back of his head from smacking against the marble.
“Val!” He snaps.
“Don't be such a pussy,” Val bites back, though he does sneak a hand between the wall and Vox's screen casing to protect it. “The shirt was already ruined.”
He nuzzles Vox's chest, pressing his face into the cleavage Vox didn't used to have. Between Val's insatiability and Baxter's lack of concern for practicality, the tits they've conspired to give him fill with milk so quickly that Vox always finds himself sticky in the minutes leading up to Val's arrival.
“I could've had it dry-cleaned,” he whines.
Val doesn't acknowledge him, too busy reacquainting himself with Vox's chest to bother. His pecs are tight and swollen, verging on sore, with beads of milk leaking out of his nipples at Val's rough handling. Instinctively, Vox wrangles a hand free to curl around the back of Val’s neck. He needs to hold onto something, he thinks, and if he so much as thought about touching Val’s hypersensitive antenna, Val would find a way to make him regret it.
“I fucking love your tits,” Val mumbles against Vox’s chest. “I’m such a fucking genius for this, oh my god. Fuck, you’re so hot, Vox.”
Vox wraps one leg around Val’s torso to nudge him with the heel of his dress shoe. “Can we get this over with?”
“Uh, excuse you.”
Val pulls back just enough to bite sound Vox’s nipple, deep enough to bleed and firm enough to make Vox spurt milk against his tongue with a staticky gasp. He withdraws too quickly to offer any real relief.
“I’m making time in my very busy day to take care of you,” Val iterates slowly, as if this hasn’t been his idea and his schedule.
It’s one of the tactics he uses to keep his whores in line, down to the huff of pheromones wafting off him that Vox’s previous bodies used to filter off effortlessly. Nowadays, it catches in his vents and passes through his gills with a warm rush.
“Yeah, as if I fucking enjoy this,” Vox snarks.
“Fine. Milk yourself, then.”
Abruptly, Val drops him.
Vox doesn’t get his feet under himself in time to avoid falling on his ass, and the sudden impact makes his full chest jiggle in a way that aches down to his bones.
“Fuck!” he hisses. “Fuck you!”
He disappears into one of the overhead security cameras, zapping himself into his office a few inches off center of his chair. He scrambles to keep his balance for a few seconds before it topples and his screen bounces off the floor. As he pushes himself up on one shaky arm, Vox cups the plastic corner of his casing. Dented, but not broken. It can wait for his next maintenance. The few dead pixels spreading from the scraped plastic should heal on their own before then. All and all, he's no worse for wear, save for the sting of Val's humiliation and the uncomfortable fullness in his chest.
“Piece of shit,” Vox mutters. He slaps his hand against the side of his head to interrupt the error making him tremble. “Fuck Val, fuck Baxter, fuck this!”
With significant effort, he manages to sit upright with his back against the frigid metal desk console. Rivulets of milk are drying on his bare chest and stomach though Val hardly gave him any attention, light catching against the trails with each heave of his lungs. The regular intervention has coded a production algorithm Vox could set a clock by; he knows the pressure will only continue to build if he doesn't express his milk. But Val always takes care of it. So far, Vox has managed to avoid looking at, or thinking about, the process almost entirely.
He raises one tentative hand to cup his right pec. The texture, the weight, is familiar enough, but the double feedback of touching his own tits makes glitches skitter across his face.
It's wrong. This isn't him.
Vox lets go of his chest like he's been burned.
Handling this himself would be worse than letting Val do it. At least then, Vox is more of a prop than a participant. But alone, without the excuse of pheromones or the warmth of Val's mouth, he'd be choosing to debase himself by kneading the milk so it dribbles down his body like branching lightning.
He takes a moment to calculate the odds on several solutions: apologizing to Val would fix absolutely nothing, demanding a Voxtek employee would be beyond embarrassing, and sending for Baxter would require Velvette's permission. Now, Velvette might actually help him if he asks nicely, which Vox figures to be easier than waiting for Baxter.
After a quick skim of the cameras, Vox throws himself back into the Voxtek system to dart to Velvette's brewery. The second he appears, on his feet this time, the sweet smell of Love Potion flirts its way into his ventilation and sends a warmth through Vox that makes him dizzy. He grabs onto the edge of her sofa until the wave passes.
“Velvette!” he crows. “How's your day going? Anything I can do to help?”
Velvette glances up at him from across the vat of Love Potion, face little more than the ruby glow of her eyes from beneath the brim of her hat. In that split second, she glances over the mess Val has made of Vox. Only his pride prevents him from crossing his arms to cover his chest.
“You look like shit,” she says coolly, stirring with one hand and reaching for another bottle of Val's jizz with the other. “Don't come near my cauldron, you'll fuck it up.”
Point taken, Vox ducks over to the cleaning cabinet for a rag to at least wipe himself down with. Neither the employees nor the robots would come if he called.
“There's gotta be something else I can do,” he schmoozes as he tries to balance cleaning his torso without enough pressure to make his chest leak further. His speakers whine low around his words. “You've been working so hard, sweetheart, and we both know Val is…” he trails off as his face glitches again, “well, he's Val.”
He tosses the rag somewhere in the vicinity of a trash can, misses it by a couple feet, and sends a cable to rectify the situation before Velvette can complain.
She still rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, and you're offering out of pure kindness, are you?”
Vox hesitates for a moment, trying to stick together the right words to convince her. “Come now, Vel, you know me,” he entreats. “Voxtek is my baby. And you and Val, you're my Vees… you're-” he has to swallow back a deflection, “-uh, special. My… my partners.”
When Velvette looks up at him again, Vox makes himself meet her gaze.
“Can I help?” he asks again, slow, deliberate in its calm.
She huffs, jutting out her bottom lip and shaking her head. “Put your tits away and you can bottle up yesterday's batch of Dreamy.”
“Happily,” Vox agrees. He can reel her in. “But the thing is, Val's been working my chest like his own personal wine tap, so now that he's bored, I…” he gestures at himself. “I could use assistance–just a little, that way your potions stay clean–so I can help you. You've got a few minutes, right, doll?”
Velvette snaps her fingers and a strappy, intricate bra suddenly appears on Vox's chest. It's slightly too snug, unusual for Velvette's meticulous tailoring, but padded so as to absorb any milk.
“Velvette!” He barks, only for her to roll her eyes once more and give him the finger. “What the fuck, Vel-”
“I'm not getting involved in that, babes,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Now that you're not at risk of dripping all over the place, it's the vat to your left, and we're bottling hundred mills, with misting top number eight.”
Vox clenches his fists at his sides, electricity jumping between his antennas. “Sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth.
She doesn't even look at him.
“You know how I feel about your nasty fuckin’ fluids, V.”
With a loose gesture, one of her storage cabinets opens, digital hologram hands working to carry the correct vial size to Vox.
“But you wanted to make yourself useful, so by all means.” She pauses, as if daring Vox to argue with her. “Unless you were lying because you wanted something. Again.”
Vox hangs his head in defeat and gets to work.
Over the course of three hours, during which Val fails to make another appearance, Vox fills and seals almost two hundred bottles while Velvette dictates tweets for hers and Val's accounts. She doesn't address him, and he doesn't complain. The process is too menial to distract him from the throbbing in his chest, nor the slow growth that has his pecs spilling out of the cups of his bra. By the time Vox scrapes the bottom of Velvette's cauldron, he can barely hold the ladle in his shaking hands.
“All done, my dear,” he announces, wrists crossed against the small of his back. “You know, I can't be the only obligation Val's ignoring today. I could corral him; keep him in line.” He flicks through his repertoire of expressions for something appropriately sympathetic. “You must be exhausted.”
Velvette, having moved onto a lazy supervision of several boiling cauldrons, lowers her phone to look him up and down. “I know you're not saying I look tired.”
“Not at all!” He assures quickly, crossing the distance between them. “You look as beautiful as ever, sweetheart. But we've worked together a long time.”
He gestures to the seat next to her on the lounge, and Velvette raises her legs long enough for him to sit next to her. When she sets her legs back over his lap, he eases off her heeled boots to massage her calves: it never does much, given how inflexible her hard plastic is, but the attempt goes a long way at getting into her good graces.
“I can get you a night off,” Vox ploys, digging the pads of his thumbs into a ridged plastic seam. “No emails, no disasters, no Val.” He lifts one of Velvette’s legs to kiss the inside of her knee. “You deserve time for yourself, doll. Maybe call up that singer you like, take her out on the town with the company card?” Vox pulls up his own bank account across his screen so Velvette can watch him send her a few hundred bucks. “Just a little bonus for your hard work.”
Her head rolls back on the arm of the chaise. She flexes one of her feet, straightening her already perfect arch into a ballerina's en pointe, which Vox takes as permission to slide that leg over one of his shoulders. As she angles her phone to snap a few selfies, he earmarks the footage in the security cameras for later review. Val might soften up at the chance to watch.
“Tag me in those,” Vox says faux-casually.
Velvette laughs as he leans his head against her thigh. “Laying it on real thick, Vox.”
“Only the best for you,” he tells her. She wouldn't consider anything less. “I just need help with a tiny problem.”
“The tits are nice, but you're still not my type.”
He strings a sincere smile onto his face. “I'm not asking you to deal with, uh, Val's creativity. I wouldn't.” Slowly, he ekes her skirt further up her thighs, pausing every so often for her to take another flurry of photos. He explains, “I just can't seem to get our stupid fucking employees to remember whose name is on their contracts. They all answer to Val now, and apparently…” he consciously relaxes his hands so he doesn't accidentally gouge Velvette's legs, but he can't control the static skipping between his antennas, “those morons are more afraid of him than me.”
“And what do you want me to do about it?” Velvette asks.
“You're the baddest bitch in Hell,” he says smoothly. To seal the deal, he runs a highlight feed of her past week across his face. She likes her own image more than his. “Nobody says no to you, my darling Vel.”
The second Velvette posts her selfies of the two of them, Vox adds it to his reel.
“I need you to call someone for me, that's it. The second that my chest is handled, I'll be able to focus, and I'll take care of things for the night!”
He doesn't dare actually put his mouth on her without express permission, but Vox does let his tongue extend past his screen so she knows he's offering anything and everything she might want.
“All for you: my brightest star, my perfect Velvette.”
For a long moment, Velvette considers this, fingers flying across her cell phone screen as she does. When Vox peeks through the network, he sees her queuing up her social media feed for the rest of the night. He has her. But he keeps the relief off his face, still playing at dedication.
“You're a real sorry bastard,” she says. “Fucking pathetic, Vox.”
“Of course, darling,” Vox agrees, because there's no use in arguing.
She pushes his head away gently and he allows it. “Doctor Baxter'll be in at eight, he can sort-” Velvette gestures at Vox's overflowing bra, “-whatever you have going on.”
Another two and a half hours.
Vox bites back an insult, fighting not to demand better. “Thank you, sweetheart, really.”
He stands up and instinctively goes to straighten his suit before remembering he doesn't have a shirt or blazer on. The aborted movement doesn't escape Velvette's sharp gaze, but she takes mercy on him with nothing more than a quiet smirk.
“I guess I'll wait for him,” Vox says.
“Guess so,” Velvette replies, a mocking edge dipping into her tone. “Have fun, babes.”
Vox crackles back into the network. At least incorporeal, like this, he has a reprieve from the pain in his chest. Rather than reforming in the lab immediately, he decides to pass the time in the Voxtek system. He keeps a passive eye on Velvette, who heads straight to her ensuite, drops into a soak drawn by four nude assistants, and bathes like a princess with the help of so many hands.
Val, he pays more attention to. His usual omnipotent presence on the sets has grown sporadic as he shoulders half of Vox's workload alongside his own. Flitting from studio to studio, office to office, meeting to meeting, he's more harried than Vox has ever seen him. The stress looks good on Val--everything does--but it makes Vox's chest twinge all over again. This is his company. His job. He's supposed to run Voxtek to enable Val and Vel to pursue their little corners of the market, and while they're doing their best, they need Vox back in his office. He doesn't even need the title right away, but he could make everything run so much smoother if given the chance.
He concocts a simple plan: step one, have Baxter fix his chest so he can concentrate; step two, balance the Voxtek accounts because Val's shit with numbers; step three, remind Val and Vel how much they need him. Before he knows it, everything will be back to normal.
Watching the sinner cogs of the Voxtek machine prop up the day's work keeps Vox occupied until a company car finally dumps Baxter at the front entrance of the building. It must have come from Morningstar's hotel, judging by the grime and vandalism marring the paint, but at least he still knows his place enough to show up without a fight.
Vox drops himself into the lab while Baxter navigates his way inside. The techs are already there, waiting around the observation table to help Vox out of the overly complicated bra Velvette cast into place on his body. He probably would have sliced it off himself. But they're more patient, or perhaps more subject to Velvette's wrath for destroying an original, and take care to unbuckle several different straps and clips before it comes free.
By the time it comes off him in a pile of loosely connected fabric, the elevator swishes open to reveal Baxter with his eyes glued on his tablet and his lure swinging.
“Connect him for vitals,” Baxter orders the techs. Vox hops obediently onto the observation table and reclines against it so he doesn't have to hold himself up with his maintenance panel open. “Missus Velvette said there was some sort of emergency, but declined to elaborate on the nature.”
At last, Baxter glances up at Vox. He gives him a quick once over, but his attention zeroes in on Vox's chest almost as quickly as Valentino's does. Sighing under his breath, Baxter pulls on a fresh pair of gloves before he hops up on the table.
“I see you're having difficulty with your breasts.”
“I want this shit off my body,” Vox snaps, crossing his arms before Baxter can touch him. “This stops now. Get rid of it.”
Baxter meets Vox's eyes with the same detached annoyance that always shines through the thick lenses of his goggles. “I cannot do anything for you until your breasts have been expressed. If we could start there, Mister Vox?” he says slowly and clearly, as if Vox is an idiot.
Vox clenches his fists at his sides. “And then you'll get rid of them?”
He can read Baxter's hesitation plainly, but doesn't argue against the noncommittal, “My concern right now is your excess fluid, sir. Draw up a half dose of PainKiller for Mister Vox.”
“So, what's the plan?” Vox asks, pointedly not flinching when a tech stabilizes his arm for Baxter to inject the drug. “You and Val are all buddy-buddy now, and you think he's gonna come just ‘cause you call?”
Baxter takes it in stride. “Let me take care of you, sir,” he advises in the same detached tone that has come to haunt the back of Vox's mind when he tries to sleep at night.
Four techs seize Vox's shoulders and wrists to keep him in place on the table, while another brings a sleek black metal case to Baxter. The doctor opens it with choreographed ease, pulling out what appears to be two angular suction cups connected by thin cords back to the case, and holding his hand out expectantly for the final lab tech to pass him a graduated plastic bottle. After attaching it to one of the cups, Baxter accepts another bottle to repeat the process on the second.
Vox stares blankly at them for a moment trying to identify the apparatus. It looks familiar, but not in a way he can place behind the haze of PainKiller permeating his thoughts.
Baxter frames Vox's right pec in his hand to steady it, pausing when a few drops of milk spill from the nipple. “This won't take long, sir.” He presses the first cup firmly into place. When Vox whines and shifts away from the touch, Baxter glances back up at his vitals on the screen. “I expect heart rate to be elevated during this procedure, but notify me if it exceeds two hundred. Draw up another quarter for Vox as well.”
He squeezes Vox's left pec tighter when he affixes the cup to his other nipple, clicking his tongue at the short spray of milk from the pressure.
“All the time I put into your body,” Baxter mutters under his breath, “and not one of you takes care of it.”
“I didn't ask for this,” Vox reminds him.
Baxter holds his hand out for the syringe. “Start the pump at speed two. And hold him still, so he doesn't dislodge the shields.”
All the hands on Vox tighten before the next shot of PainKiller goes into his arm, but he represses the urge to pull away. When the pump turns on, however, Vox arches off the cold metal table into the sudden pulsing vacuum seal around his nipples. In moments, the shock of stimulation already shooting down to his groin marries into the sharp relief of finally being milked several hours overdue. Vox's fans kick up and his gills flutter at the rush of release from the day's building agony.
Unlike when Val sucks him dry, the pump is mechanically precise and structurally unyielding, never giving Vox a chance to catch his breath as it tugs at his nipples. Through the security cameras, he can see the steady stream of pale milk filling the bottles Baxter procured. He looks just like something out of a Lust catalogue–even Val isn't often this creative–and the mere thought makes him drop his head against the table before a tech can stop him.
“Thirty milliliters combined so far,” Baxter notes aloud, “but slowing. You still look quite full, Mister Vox; I'm going to massage your breasts to stimulate expression.”
“Stop calling them that,” Vox whines.
Baxter climbs back onto the table at his side and gropes at both sides of Vox's chest, kneading in the same slow, elegant strokes Val has perfected. Sparks leap between Vox's antennas, his speakers crackle with static, and his face glitches in and out of blue, but all the while, Baxter remains precise and composed.
“Blockage is unlikely,” continues Baxter, as if Vox hadn't spoken. “If Mister Valentino won't attend to this, schedule Vox in for daily maintenance, pending approval to remove the attachment. The stress isn't good for his system.”
He leans over Vox's face, studying the shuddery pixels on his screen. Between his ongoing massage and the unending pulse of the pump, Vox is trapped in the overwhelming space between the comfort of the milk leaving his body and the cacophony of confusing sensations involved in doing so. Above him, Val's art on the ceiling drifts in and out of focus like a cheap camera.
“Freeze the samples as soon as we're finished,” Baxter orders the techs. “Missus Velvette's enriched formula has applications outside of Mister Valentino's entertainment, if we store it.”
A pair of hands catches Vox's head before he can bang it into the table this time. “What? What're you talking about?” he slurs.
“The formula of your milk is useful, and I do not intend to waste my samples.”
At last Baxter stops studying Vox's screen to check the output of the pump.
“Seventy-nine milliliters.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “Set the pump to speed three, he's got at least fifty left in him.”
The pulsing suction on Vox's nipples accelerates and a full body twitch runs through his frame. Baxter doesn't let up his thorough massage, either, determined to press every last drop into the bottles now resting heavily against Vox's ribs. He has a moment to hope Baxter's samples prove useless so there's no excuse to do this again.
“Expression is still slow,” Baxter comments. “Run diagnostics on both his chest and genital attachments?”
After a quick system check flashes across Vox's screen, a tech displays the the output on one of the massive lab monitors. “Heart and respiration are elevated but stable. No errors on either attachment, but TES, E, PRL, NE, OXT, DA, and CORT are high.”
“All to be expected,” hums Baxter. “Take over mammary stimulation; his system needs to close the loop, so to speak.”
The two techs not already holding Vox down make quick work of his slacks and boxers before one slots into place at his side, trading one hand and then another for Baxter's on his still swollen chest. Though the gloves feel the same, their hands are larger, their motions rougher, and Vox hisses through his whining speakers. His weight shifts as the techs rearrange themselves to get ahold of his legs too, completely immobilizing him.
“Mister Vox, I am going to electrically stimulate the receptacle of your genitals to encourage milk expression,” Baxter says matter-of-factly. “The attachments were designed to support each other.”
Vox blinks up at the painted ceiling. “Jus’ hurry the fuck up,” he mumbles.
The familiar click of a bottle cap makes him frantically dredge up the security cameras again to monitor Baxter. He used to trust, stupidly, that he would be entirely safe in Baxter's care no matter how the little shit actually felt about him. An arrogant assumption. But it was comforting, and too often lately, Vox has dreamed of Baxter's fingers in the wound of his severed head and woken up in a cold sweat. So he has to watch, even if he's still helpless, because at least he'll know what's coming.
Baxter coats a slim wand, garishly pink and obnoxiously branded by Valentino's signature, with jelly lubricant. It's top of the line, made in collaboration with the weapons department, but graded down in power to avoid frying the user on every discharge. Still, knowing it's the safest tool for the job doesn't take away from the humiliation of its presence in the lab.
A wince slips through Vox's speakers when the tech groping his chest squeezes too hard, but when he flinches, the cold lab table leaves him nowhere to go. Baxter takes advantage of the distraction to slip the wand into Vox's cunt. After so many days of incessant attention from Val, Vox feels the cool press of Baxter's fingers against his inner thigh far more intensely than the pressure of what must be a significant portion of the wand's length.
“Breathe in,” Baxter orders.
Vox obeys on instinct.
“And out.”
Then Baxter plunges the last couple inches of the wand into Vox and angles it upward, digging its hard metal probe into a spot that makes Vox bluescreen. When he reflexively arches his back, the sudden extra pressure from the tech and the machine working to drain the milk from his pecs hits him like a wave of discomforting pleasure that his system can't categorize. He slams back into the table to get away from it. Vox feels pinned like an insect, and it makes his chest ache and his pussy throb.
Mercifully, Baxter gives him a moment to catch his breath. “You're alright, Mister Vox. This will only take a few minutes.”
Vox doesn't manage a verbal response. His speakers fizzle and sputter while he struggles to come up with a single word to say.
“Alright,” Baxter says to himself.
A moment later, the wand comes to life with a quick, sharp electric current that punches all the air from Vox's lungs and jerks his legs in the techs’ hold. He whines and shakes his head. The next comes almost immediately, seeming to shoot straight up his spine and into his brain like a bolt of liquid lightning. With each pulse of the wand, Vox's pussy spasms around almost nothing.
For once, he misses Val. Whatever happens between them, the sex is always satisfying, if occasionally destructive, and never leaves Vox in this frustrated limbo of too much and nothing at all. Then another pulse of electricity jolts through him at the same time that the cups on his nipples tighten and the tech massaging his chest squeezes both pecs, and the absolute humiliation of being a test subject for Val's latest fetish floods back in like a tidal wave. The wand shocks him again. He thrashes like a fish out of water, never able to move more than inches at a time, but too overstimulated to stop.
“Breathe, Mister Vox.”
Vox shakes his head, sobbing. A second probe on the wand settles against his clit and joins the steady beat of shocks coursing through Vox's entire body. When he involuntarily throws his head back, he smashes the hands under it and hits hard metal, and their cries make a bolt of need shoot through him.
“One more of PainKiller,” Baxter snaps, “and turn the pump up to five. Give me a couple more minutes, Vox, you're almost done.”
He skates his hand up Vox's stomach to press down over the tip of the wand, adding another pressure point to make Vox quiver in the techs’ bruising grips. One of them gets the needle into his bicep somehow. In turn, the extra drugs cut through the ache of maintenance until only the pure sensations are left: deep tissue massage for the overworked and sore muscles in his chest, rhythmic suction pulling at his hypersensitized nipples, the sparkling closed circuit of electricity darting from his cunt to his screen and back again. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. But it still feels like being flayed open as Baxter works the wand in a short sweeping motion.
A light bursts overhead, and Baxter grimaces. “I know. You have another ten milliliters in you. This will be easier if you let yourself orgasm, sir.”
Vox makes a hysterical noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh, trying and failing to free his arms. In turn, Baxter adjusts the interval on the wand so it almost vibrates in its sudden bursts of electricity. The excess energy arcs between Vox’s antenna, crackles at his fingertips, scatters the pixels on his face. He can’t breathe or think or feel or hurt for an instant that feels like an eternity.
He doesn’t know if he could describe it as satisfying, or even pleasurable, but it’s the crest of something that leaves him shivering in the near dark of emergency lights, still pinned and prodded by too many hands, and desperate to be anywhere else.
“Stop the pump and prepare four of PainKiller,” Baxter says as he eases the wand out of Vox’s twitching pussy. “Take two mills from each side for testing, label and deep freeze the rest, and bring Genital Mu One for attachment after maintenance.”
Even when the techs release him, Vox is too exhausted to move. His head tips back, heavy, against the gory metal of the table. At last, the suction cups are peeled off his chafed nipples. He allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of Val taking care of him for exactly long enough to forget the next round of drugs coming.
“I'm going to sedate you while we repair your hardware, Mister Vox.”
Before Vox can argue, the needle pierces his thigh, and his consciousness fades away.
Vox wakes back up suddenly, gasping for air as he props himself up atop the observation table. His internal clock says he's only lost a couple of hours. His thoughts lag like he's been unconscious for several.
As he waits for his system to fully boot up, Vox takes stock of his body. The minor damage to his screen has been repaired and the scrapes of its casing buffed out, though the blood hasn't been fully scrubbed from the ports in the back of his head, and his neck squeaks with protest when he cranes it down to see his chest. When it's normal, save for a ring of bruises around his nipples and a lingering soreness, he audibly sighs with relief. Finally, this nightmare is over. His cock is finally back too- one of the smaller attachments in his arsenal, but better than a cunt any day.
Vox swings his legs over the edge of the table at the exact moment Baxter emerges from the hall, bag over one shoulder and tablet in the opposite hand. They both pause, staring at one another. Baxter is the one to break first, eyes darting down toward Vox's crotch before fixing on some point over his shoulder.
“Took you long enough,” Vox snarks, gesturing at himself. “You know, you're pretty fucking blessed to work in a lab like this. You'd have nothing without my company.”
Baxter sniffs. “And you are nothing without my work, Mister Vox.”
Then Baxter resumes his exit, unconcerned with the threat of retaliation for such a callous statement, and Vox lets him leave without raising a hand or cable to stop him. With the techs already gone, Vox is alone.
He takes the stack of folded clothes off the tray beside the table and dresses, for the first time in what feels like forever, in clothes that fit him properly. Velvette must have found time to alter his wardrobe, or at least create a couple sets of clothing for him to wear until she has a chance to do the rest. Vox dresses himself with ease until it comes time to pull his boxers up his thighs and notices a gleam against the joint of his hip.
Heart pounding, Vox presses his fingers to the sticky fluid pooling next to his dick. It stretches between them and glitters in the dim lighting of the lab, too pale to be Val's, too thin to be his own, and too conspicuous to be artificial.
He swallows and wipes himself clean with his boxers before tossing them aside to continue getting dressed.
Summary: Vox needs assistance after a fight with Val. Velvette calls Baxter in.
Tags: Hurt/No Comfort, Dubious Consent, Body Modification, Force Feminization, Lingerie, Lactation, Milking, Breast Pumping, Electrostimulation, Drugging, Drugged Sex, Objectification, Dehumanization, Medical Kink, Vaginal Sex, No Aftercare
WC: 5865 | AO3 | Voxtek: Trust Us With Your Hardware!
Vox has gotten used to the new rhythm of his days. At least, as much as a precision machine designed to run an empire can adjust to being barred from even the most marginal tasks in his own company.
He still wakes early, but instead of checking his metrics while Ethan brings him coffee in bed, he slogs out of Val's silk duvet to make his own shitty pour-over in the kitchenette. Rather than back-to-back morning meetings, he flits around the security system to keep an eye on the company in the only way he can. His working lunch is now a lazy mid-afternoon snack plate in Velvette's brewing room. All his greasy diner takeout has been replaced with a regimented diet outlined by the hardware team. The slot that belonged to his nightly broadcast now reruns Velvette's hair and makeup tutorials. When he should be closing out the day's profits and preparing for the next, he sits on the sideline of Val and Velvette's interviews with Katie.
Worst of all, Val finds Vox every two hours with frightening precision. He's pretty sure Val hired someone just to keep track of time, given how little regard the smug dick usually has for schedules, but Vox hasn't managed to bring himself to check the employee directory. To be the center of Val's day like the early days of their partnership is Vox's only solace in the impotence he's been reduced to.
So when Val accosts him at noon on the dot for the second straight week, Vox shrugs off his blazer and starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt before Val tears them off. The shirt is replaceable; Vox would just like to keep what little dignity he has left.
“Wait a second,” Vox tells him, ineffectively attempting to bat Val's many hands away. “Fuck, Val, a little impulse control?”
“Never heard of it,” Val purrs.
He only lets Vox get the top few buttons undone before he loses his patience and rips the shirt open, scattering mother-of-pearl down the hall and baring Vox's chest. Val hums low in the back of his throat as he grabs Vox by the waist, lifting him up and slamming him back into the wall. Even expecting it, Vox can't prevent the back of his head from smacking against the marble.
“Val!” He snaps.
“Don't be such a pussy,” Val bites back, though he does sneak a hand between the wall and Vox's screen casing to protect it. “The shirt was already ruined.”
He nuzzles Vox's chest, pressing his face into the cleavage Vox didn't used to have. Between Val's insatiability and Baxter's lack of concern for practicality, the tits they've conspired to give him fill with milk so quickly that Vox always finds himself sticky in the minutes leading up to Val's arrival.
“I could've had it dry-cleaned,” he whines.
Val doesn't acknowledge him, too busy reacquainting himself with Vox's chest to bother. His pecs are tight and swollen, verging on sore, with beads of milk leaking out of his nipples at Val's rough handling. Instinctively, Vox wrangles a hand free to curl around the back of Val’s neck. He needs to hold onto something, he thinks, and if he so much as thought about touching Val’s hypersensitive antenna, Val would find a way to make him regret it.
“I fucking love your tits,” Val mumbles against Vox’s chest. “I’m such a fucking genius for this, oh my god. Fuck, you’re so hot, Vox.”
Vox wraps one leg around Val’s torso to nudge him with the heel of his dress shoe. “Can we get this over with?”
“Uh, excuse you.”
Val pulls back just enough to bite sound Vox’s nipple, deep enough to bleed and firm enough to make Vox spurt milk against his tongue with a staticky gasp. He withdraws too quickly to offer any real relief.
“I’m making time in my very busy day to take care of you,” Val iterates slowly, as if this hasn’t been his idea and his schedule.
It’s one of the tactics he uses to keep his whores in line, down to the huff of pheromones wafting off him that Vox’s previous bodies used to filter off effortlessly. Nowadays, it catches in his vents and passes through his gills with a warm rush.
“Yeah, as if I fucking enjoy this,” Vox snarks.
“Fine. Milk yourself, then.”
Abruptly, Val drops him.
Vox doesn’t get his feet under himself in time to avoid falling on his ass, and the sudden impact makes his full chest jiggle in a way that aches down to his bones.
“Fuck!” he hisses. “Fuck you!”
He disappears into one of the overhead security cameras, zapping himself into his office a few inches off center of his chair. He scrambles to keep his balance for a few seconds before it topples and his screen bounces off the floor. As he pushes himself up on one shaky arm, Vox cups the plastic corner of his casing. Dented, but not broken. It can wait for his next maintenance. The few dead pixels spreading from the scraped plastic should heal on their own before then. All and all, he's no worse for wear, save for the sting of Val's humiliation and the uncomfortable fullness in his chest.
“Piece of shit,” Vox mutters. He slaps his hand against the side of his head to interrupt the error making him tremble. “Fuck Val, fuck Baxter, fuck this!”
With significant effort, he manages to sit upright with his back against the frigid metal desk console. Rivulets of milk are drying on his bare chest and stomach though Val hardly gave him any attention, light catching against the trails with each heave of his lungs. The regular intervention has coded a production algorithm Vox could set a clock by; he knows the pressure will only continue to build if he doesn't express his milk. But Val always takes care of it. So far, Vox has managed to avoid looking at, or thinking about, the process almost entirely.
He raises one tentative hand to cup his right pec. The texture, the weight, is familiar enough, but the double feedback of touching his own tits makes glitches skitter across his face.
It's wrong. This isn't him.
Vox lets go of his chest like he's been burned.
Handling this himself would be worse than letting Val do it. At least then, Vox is more of a prop than a participant. But alone, without the excuse of pheromones or the warmth of Val's mouth, he'd be choosing to debase himself by kneading the milk so it dribbles down his body like branching lightning.
He takes a moment to calculate the odds on several solutions: apologizing to Val would fix absolutely nothing, demanding a Voxtek employee would be beyond embarrassing, and sending for Baxter would require Velvette's permission. Now, Velvette might actually help him if he asks nicely, which Vox figures to be easier than waiting for Baxter.
After a quick skim of the cameras, Vox throws himself back into the Voxtek system to dart to Velvette's brewery. The second he appears, on his feet this time, the sweet smell of Love Potion flirts its way into his ventilation and sends a warmth through Vox that makes him dizzy. He grabs onto the edge of her sofa until the wave passes.
“Velvette!” he crows. “How's your day going? Anything I can do to help?”
Velvette glances up at him from across the vat of Love Potion, face little more than the ruby glow of her eyes from beneath the brim of her hat. In that split second, she glances over the mess Val has made of Vox. Only his pride prevents him from crossing his arms to cover his chest.
“You look like shit,” she says coolly, stirring with one hand and reaching for another bottle of Val's jizz with the other. “Don't come near my cauldron, you'll fuck it up.”
Point taken, Vox ducks over to the cleaning cabinet for a rag to at least wipe himself down with. Neither the employees nor the robots would come if he called.
“There's gotta be something else I can do,” he schmoozes as he tries to balance cleaning his torso without enough pressure to make his chest leak further. His speakers whine low around his words. “You've been working so hard, sweetheart, and we both know Val is…” he trails off as his face glitches again, “well, he's Val.”
He tosses the rag somewhere in the vicinity of a trash can, misses it by a couple feet, and sends a cable to rectify the situation before Velvette can complain.
She still rolls her eyes at him. “Yeah, and you're offering out of pure kindness, are you?”
Vox hesitates for a moment, trying to stick together the right words to convince her. “Come now, Vel, you know me,” he entreats. “Voxtek is my baby. And you and Val, you're my Vees… you're-” he has to swallow back a deflection, “-uh, special. My… my partners.”
When Velvette looks up at him again, Vox makes himself meet her gaze.
“Can I help?” he asks again, slow, deliberate in its calm.
She huffs, jutting out her bottom lip and shaking her head. “Put your tits away and you can bottle up yesterday's batch of Dreamy.”
“Happily,” Vox agrees. He can reel her in. “But the thing is, Val's been working my chest like his own personal wine tap, so now that he's bored, I…” he gestures at himself. “I could use assistance–just a little, that way your potions stay clean–so I can help you. You've got a few minutes, right, doll?”
Velvette snaps her fingers and a strappy, intricate bra suddenly appears on Vox's chest. It's slightly too snug, unusual for Velvette's meticulous tailoring, but padded so as to absorb any milk.
“Velvette!” He barks, only for her to roll her eyes once more and give him the finger. “What the fuck, Vel-”
“I'm not getting involved in that, babes,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Now that you're not at risk of dripping all over the place, it's the vat to your left, and we're bottling hundred mills, with misting top number eight.”
Vox clenches his fists at his sides, electricity jumping between his antennas. “Sweetheart,” he grits through his teeth.
She doesn't even look at him.
“You know how I feel about your nasty fuckin’ fluids, V.”
With a loose gesture, one of her storage cabinets opens, digital hologram hands working to carry the correct vial size to Vox.
“But you wanted to make yourself useful, so by all means.” She pauses, as if daring Vox to argue with her. “Unless you were lying because you wanted something. Again.”
Vox hangs his head in defeat and gets to work.
Over the course of three hours, during which Val fails to make another appearance, Vox fills and seals almost two hundred bottles while Velvette dictates tweets for hers and Val's accounts. She doesn't address him, and he doesn't complain. The process is too menial to distract him from the throbbing in his chest, nor the slow growth that has his pecs spilling out of the cups of his bra. By the time Vox scrapes the bottom of Velvette's cauldron, he can barely hold the ladle in his shaking hands.
“All done, my dear,” he announces, wrists crossed against the small of his back. “You know, I can't be the only obligation Val's ignoring today. I could corral him; keep him in line.” He flicks through his repertoire of expressions for something appropriately sympathetic. “You must be exhausted.”
Velvette, having moved onto a lazy supervision of several boiling cauldrons, lowers her phone to look him up and down. “I know you're not saying I look tired.”
“Not at all!” He assures quickly, crossing the distance between them. “You look as beautiful as ever, sweetheart. But we've worked together a long time.”
He gestures to the seat next to her on the lounge, and Velvette raises her legs long enough for him to sit next to her. When she sets her legs back over his lap, he eases off her heeled boots to massage her calves: it never does much, given how inflexible her hard plastic is, but the attempt goes a long way at getting into her good graces.
“I can get you a night off,” Vox ploys, digging the pads of his thumbs into a ridged plastic seam. “No emails, no disasters, no Val.” He lifts one of Velvette’s legs to kiss the inside of her knee. “You deserve time for yourself, doll. Maybe call up that singer you like, take her out on the town with the company card?” Vox pulls up his own bank account across his screen so Velvette can watch him send her a few hundred bucks. “Just a little bonus for your hard work.”
Her head rolls back on the arm of the chaise. She flexes one of her feet, straightening her already perfect arch into a ballerina's en pointe, which Vox takes as permission to slide that leg over one of his shoulders. As she angles her phone to snap a few selfies, he earmarks the footage in the security cameras for later review. Val might soften up at the chance to watch.
“Tag me in those,” Vox says faux-casually.
Velvette laughs as he leans his head against her thigh. “Laying it on real thick, Vox.”
“Only the best for you,” he tells her. She wouldn't consider anything less. “I just need help with a tiny problem.”
“The tits are nice, but you're still not my type.”
He strings a sincere smile onto his face. “I'm not asking you to deal with, uh, Val's creativity. I wouldn't.” Slowly, he ekes her skirt further up her thighs, pausing every so often for her to take another flurry of photos. He explains, “I just can't seem to get our stupid fucking employees to remember whose name is on their contracts. They all answer to Val now, and apparently…” he consciously relaxes his hands so he doesn't accidentally gouge Velvette's legs, but he can't control the static skipping between his antennas, “those morons are more afraid of him than me.”
“And what do you want me to do about it?” Velvette asks.
“You're the baddest bitch in Hell,” he says smoothly. To seal the deal, he runs a highlight feed of her past week across his face. She likes her own image more than his. “Nobody says no to you, my darling Vel.”
The second Velvette posts her selfies of the two of them, Vox adds it to his reel.
“I need you to call someone for me, that's it. The second that my chest is handled, I'll be able to focus, and I'll take care of things for the night!”
He doesn't dare actually put his mouth on her without express permission, but Vox does let his tongue extend past his screen so she knows he's offering anything and everything she might want.
“All for you: my brightest star, my perfect Velvette.”
For a long moment, Velvette considers this, fingers flying across her cell phone screen as she does. When Vox peeks through the network, he sees her queuing up her social media feed for the rest of the night. He has her. But he keeps the relief off his face, still playing at dedication.
“You're a real sorry bastard,” she says. “Fucking pathetic, Vox.”
“Of course, darling,” Vox agrees, because there's no use in arguing.
She pushes his head away gently and he allows it. “Doctor Baxter'll be in at eight, he can sort-” Velvette gestures at Vox's overflowing bra, “-whatever you have going on.”
Another two and a half hours.
Vox bites back an insult, fighting not to demand better. “Thank you, sweetheart, really.”
He stands up and instinctively goes to straighten his suit before remembering he doesn't have a shirt or blazer on. The aborted movement doesn't escape Velvette's sharp gaze, but she takes mercy on him with nothing more than a quiet smirk.
“I guess I'll wait for him,” Vox says.
“Guess so,” Velvette replies, a mocking edge dipping into her tone. “Have fun, babes.”
Vox crackles back into the network. At least incorporeal, like this, he has a reprieve from the pain in his chest. Rather than reforming in the lab immediately, he decides to pass the time in the Voxtek system. He keeps a passive eye on Velvette, who heads straight to her ensuite, drops into a soak drawn by four nude assistants, and bathes like a princess with the help of so many hands.
Val, he pays more attention to. His usual omnipotent presence on the sets has grown sporadic as he shoulders half of Vox's workload alongside his own. Flitting from studio to studio, office to office, meeting to meeting, he's more harried than Vox has ever seen him. The stress looks good on Val--everything does--but it makes Vox's chest twinge all over again. This is his company. His job. He's supposed to run Voxtek to enable Val and Vel to pursue their little corners of the market, and while they're doing their best, they need Vox back in his office. He doesn't even need the title right away, but he could make everything run so much smoother if given the chance.
He concocts a simple plan: step one, have Baxter fix his chest so he can concentrate; step two, balance the Voxtek accounts because Val's shit with numbers; step three, remind Val and Vel how much they need him. Before he knows it, everything will be back to normal.
Watching the sinner cogs of the Voxtek machine prop up the day's work keeps Vox occupied until a company car finally dumps Baxter at the front entrance of the building. It must have come from Morningstar's hotel, judging by the grime and vandalism marring the paint, but at least he still knows his place enough to show up without a fight.
Vox drops himself into the lab while Baxter navigates his way inside. The techs are already there, waiting around the observation table to help Vox out of the overly complicated bra Velvette cast into place on his body. He probably would have sliced it off himself. But they're more patient, or perhaps more subject to Velvette's wrath for destroying an original, and take care to unbuckle several different straps and clips before it comes free.
By the time it comes off him in a pile of loosely connected fabric, the elevator swishes open to reveal Baxter with his eyes glued on his tablet and his lure swinging.
“Connect him for vitals,” Baxter orders the techs. Vox hops obediently onto the observation table and reclines against it so he doesn't have to hold himself up with his maintenance panel open. “Missus Velvette said there was some sort of emergency, but declined to elaborate on the nature.”
At last, Baxter glances up at Vox. He gives him a quick once over, but his attention zeroes in on Vox's chest almost as quickly as Valentino's does. Sighing under his breath, Baxter pulls on a fresh pair of gloves before he hops up on the table.
“I see you're having difficulty with your breasts.”
“I want this shit off my body,” Vox snaps, crossing his arms before Baxter can touch him. “This stops now. Get rid of it.”
Baxter meets Vox's eyes with the same detached annoyance that always shines through the thick lenses of his goggles. “I cannot do anything for you until your breasts have been expressed. If we could start there, Mister Vox?” he says slowly and clearly, as if Vox is an idiot.
Vox clenches his fists at his sides. “And then you'll get rid of them?”
He can read Baxter's hesitation plainly, but doesn't argue against the noncommittal, “My concern right now is your excess fluid, sir. Draw up a half dose of PainKiller for Mister Vox.”
“So, what's the plan?” Vox asks, pointedly not flinching when a tech stabilizes his arm for Baxter to inject the drug. “You and Val are all buddy-buddy now, and you think he's gonna come just ‘cause you call?”
Baxter takes it in stride. “Let me take care of you, sir,” he advises in the same detached tone that has come to haunt the back of Vox's mind when he tries to sleep at night.
Four techs seize Vox's shoulders and wrists to keep him in place on the table, while another brings a sleek black metal case to Baxter. The doctor opens it with choreographed ease, pulling out what appears to be two angular suction cups connected by thin cords back to the case, and holding his hand out expectantly for the final lab tech to pass him a graduated plastic bottle. After attaching it to one of the cups, Baxter accepts another bottle to repeat the process on the second.
Vox stares blankly at them for a moment trying to identify the apparatus. It looks familiar, but not in a way he can place behind the haze of PainKiller permeating his thoughts.
Baxter frames Vox's right pec in his hand to steady it, pausing when a few drops of milk spill from the nipple. “This won't take long, sir.” He presses the first cup firmly into place. When Vox whines and shifts away from the touch, Baxter glances back up at his vitals on the screen. “I expect heart rate to be elevated during this procedure, but notify me if it exceeds two hundred. Draw up another quarter for Vox as well.”
He squeezes Vox's left pec tighter when he affixes the cup to his other nipple, clicking his tongue at the short spray of milk from the pressure.
“All the time I put into your body,” Baxter mutters under his breath, “and not one of you takes care of it.”
“I didn't ask for this,” Vox reminds him.
Baxter holds his hand out for the syringe. “Start the pump at speed two. And hold him still, so he doesn't dislodge the shields.”
All the hands on Vox tighten before the next shot of PainKiller goes into his arm, but he represses the urge to pull away. When the pump turns on, however, Vox arches off the cold metal table into the sudden pulsing vacuum seal around his nipples. In moments, the shock of stimulation already shooting down to his groin marries into the sharp relief of finally being milked several hours overdue. Vox's fans kick up and his gills flutter at the rush of release from the day's building agony.
Unlike when Val sucks him dry, the pump is mechanically precise and structurally unyielding, never giving Vox a chance to catch his breath as it tugs at his nipples. Through the security cameras, he can see the steady stream of pale milk filling the bottles Baxter procured. He looks just like something out of a Lust catalogue–even Val isn't often this creative–and the mere thought makes him drop his head against the table before a tech can stop him.
“Thirty milliliters combined so far,” Baxter notes aloud, “but slowing. You still look quite full, Mister Vox; I'm going to massage your breasts to stimulate expression.”
“Stop calling them that,” Vox whines.
Baxter climbs back onto the table at his side and gropes at both sides of Vox's chest, kneading in the same slow, elegant strokes Val has perfected. Sparks leap between Vox's antennas, his speakers crackle with static, and his face glitches in and out of blue, but all the while, Baxter remains precise and composed.
“Blockage is unlikely,” continues Baxter, as if Vox hadn't spoken. “If Mister Valentino won't attend to this, schedule Vox in for daily maintenance, pending approval to remove the attachment. The stress isn't good for his system.”
He leans over Vox's face, studying the shuddery pixels on his screen. Between his ongoing massage and the unending pulse of the pump, Vox is trapped in the overwhelming space between the comfort of the milk leaving his body and the cacophony of confusing sensations involved in doing so. Above him, Val's art on the ceiling drifts in and out of focus like a cheap camera.
“Freeze the samples as soon as we're finished,” Baxter orders the techs. “Missus Velvette's enriched formula has applications outside of Mister Valentino's entertainment, if we store it.”
A pair of hands catches Vox's head before he can bang it into the table this time. “What? What're you talking about?” he slurs.
“The formula of your milk is useful, and I do not intend to waste my samples.”
At last Baxter stops studying Vox's screen to check the output of the pump.
“Seventy-nine milliliters.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “Set the pump to speed three, he's got at least fifty left in him.”
The pulsing suction on Vox's nipples accelerates and a full body twitch runs through his frame. Baxter doesn't let up his thorough massage, either, determined to press every last drop into the bottles now resting heavily against Vox's ribs. He has a moment to hope Baxter's samples prove useless so there's no excuse to do this again.
“Expression is still slow,” Baxter comments. “Run diagnostics on both his chest and genital attachments?”
After a quick system check flashes across Vox's screen, a tech displays the the output on one of the massive lab monitors. “Heart and respiration are elevated but stable. No errors on either attachment, but TES, E, PRL, NE, OXT, DA, and CORT are high.”
“All to be expected,” hums Baxter. “Take over mammary stimulation; his system needs to close the loop, so to speak.”
The two techs not already holding Vox down make quick work of his slacks and boxers before one slots into place at his side, trading one hand and then another for Baxter's on his still swollen chest. Though the gloves feel the same, their hands are larger, their motions rougher, and Vox hisses through his whining speakers. His weight shifts as the techs rearrange themselves to get ahold of his legs too, completely immobilizing him.
“Mister Vox, I am going to electrically stimulate the receptacle of your genitals to encourage milk expression,” Baxter says matter-of-factly. “The attachments were designed to support each other.”
Vox blinks up at the painted ceiling. “Jus’ hurry the fuck up,” he mumbles.
The familiar click of a bottle cap makes him frantically dredge up the security cameras again to monitor Baxter. He used to trust, stupidly, that he would be entirely safe in Baxter's care no matter how the little shit actually felt about him. An arrogant assumption. But it was comforting, and too often lately, Vox has dreamed of Baxter's fingers in the wound of his severed head and woken up in a cold sweat. So he has to watch, even if he's still helpless, because at least he'll know what's coming.
Baxter coats a slim wand, garishly pink and obnoxiously branded by Valentino's signature, with jelly lubricant. It's top of the line, made in collaboration with the weapons department, but graded down in power to avoid frying the user on every discharge. Still, knowing it's the safest tool for the job doesn't take away from the humiliation of its presence in the lab.
A wince slips through Vox's speakers when the tech groping his chest squeezes too hard, but when he flinches, the cold lab table leaves him nowhere to go. Baxter takes advantage of the distraction to slip the wand into Vox's cunt. After so many days of incessant attention from Val, Vox feels the cool press of Baxter's fingers against his inner thigh far more intensely than the pressure of what must be a significant portion of the wand's length.
“Breathe in,” Baxter orders.
Vox obeys on instinct.
“And out.”
Then Baxter plunges the last couple inches of the wand into Vox and angles it upward, digging its hard metal probe into a spot that makes Vox bluescreen. When he reflexively arches his back, the sudden extra pressure from the tech and the machine working to drain the milk from his pecs hits him like a wave of discomforting pleasure that his system can't categorize. He slams back into the table to get away from it. Vox feels pinned like an insect, and it makes his chest ache and his pussy throb.
Mercifully, Baxter gives him a moment to catch his breath. “You're alright, Mister Vox. This will only take a few minutes.”
Vox doesn't manage a verbal response. His speakers fizzle and sputter while he struggles to come up with a single word to say.
“Alright,” Baxter says to himself.
A moment later, the wand comes to life with a quick, sharp electric current that punches all the air from Vox's lungs and jerks his legs in the techs’ hold. He whines and shakes his head. The next comes almost immediately, seeming to shoot straight up his spine and into his brain like a bolt of liquid lightning. With each pulse of the wand, Vox's pussy spasms around almost nothing.
For once, he misses Val. Whatever happens between them, the sex is always satisfying, if occasionally destructive, and never leaves Vox in this frustrated limbo of too much and nothing at all. Then another pulse of electricity jolts through him at the same time that the cups on his nipples tighten and the tech massaging his chest squeezes both pecs, and the absolute humiliation of being a test subject for Val's latest fetish floods back in like a tidal wave. The wand shocks him again. He thrashes like a fish out of water, never able to move more than inches at a time, but too overstimulated to stop.
“Breathe, Mister Vox.”
Vox shakes his head, sobbing. A second probe on the wand settles against his clit and joins the steady beat of shocks coursing through Vox's entire body. When he involuntarily throws his head back, he smashes the hands under it and hits hard metal, and their cries make a bolt of need shoot through him.
“One more of PainKiller,” Baxter snaps, “and turn the pump up to five. Give me a couple more minutes, Vox, you're almost done.”
He skates his hand up Vox's stomach to press down over the tip of the wand, adding another pressure point to make Vox quiver in the techs’ bruising grips. One of them gets the needle into his bicep somehow. In turn, the extra drugs cut through the ache of maintenance until only the pure sensations are left: deep tissue massage for the overworked and sore muscles in his chest, rhythmic suction pulling at his hypersensitized nipples, the sparkling closed circuit of electricity darting from his cunt to his screen and back again. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. But it still feels like being flayed open as Baxter works the wand in a short sweeping motion.
A light bursts overhead, and Baxter grimaces. “I know. You have another ten milliliters in you. This will be easier if you let yourself orgasm, sir.”
Vox makes a hysterical noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh, trying and failing to free his arms. In turn, Baxter adjusts the interval on the wand so it almost vibrates in its sudden bursts of electricity. The excess energy arcs between Vox’s antenna, crackles at his fingertips, scatters the pixels on his face. He can’t breathe or think or feel or hurt for an instant that feels like an eternity.
He doesn’t know if he could describe it as satisfying, or even pleasurable, but it’s the crest of something that leaves him shivering in the near dark of emergency lights, still pinned and prodded by too many hands, and desperate to be anywhere else.
“Stop the pump and prepare four of PainKiller,” Baxter says as he eases the wand out of Vox’s twitching pussy. “Take two mills from each side for testing, label and deep freeze the rest, and bring Genital Mu One for attachment after maintenance.”
Even when the techs release him, Vox is too exhausted to move. His head tips back, heavy, against the gory metal of the table. At last, the suction cups are peeled off his chafed nipples. He allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of Val taking care of him for exactly long enough to forget the next round of drugs coming.
“I'm going to sedate you while we repair your hardware, Mister Vox.”
Before Vox can argue, the needle pierces his thigh, and his consciousness fades away.
Vox wakes back up suddenly, gasping for air as he props himself up atop the observation table. His internal clock says he's only lost a couple of hours. His thoughts lag like he's been unconscious for several.
As he waits for his system to fully boot up, Vox takes stock of his body. The minor damage to his screen has been repaired and the scrapes of its casing buffed out, though the blood hasn't been fully scrubbed from the ports in the back of his head, and his neck squeaks with protest when he cranes it down to see his chest. When it's normal, save for a ring of bruises around his nipples and a lingering soreness, he audibly sighs with relief. Finally, this nightmare is over. His cock is finally back too- one of the smaller attachments in his arsenal, but better than a cunt any day.
Vox swings his legs over the edge of the table at the exact moment Baxter emerges from the hall, bag over one shoulder and tablet in the opposite hand. They both pause, staring at one another. Baxter is the one to break first, eyes darting down toward Vox's crotch before fixing on some point over his shoulder.
“Took you long enough,” Vox snarks, gesturing at himself. “You know, you're pretty fucking blessed to work in a lab like this. You'd have nothing without my company.”
Baxter sniffs. “And you are nothing without my work, Mister Vox.”
Then Baxter resumes his exit, unconcerned with the threat of retaliation for such a callous statement, and Vox lets him leave without raising a hand or cable to stop him. With the techs already gone, Vox is alone.
He takes the stack of folded clothes off the tray beside the table and dresses, for the first time in what feels like forever, in clothes that fit him properly. Velvette must have found time to alter his wardrobe, or at least create a couple sets of clothing for him to wear until she has a chance to do the rest. Vox dresses himself with ease until it comes time to pull his boxers up his thighs and notices a gleam against the joint of his hip.
Heart pounding, Vox presses his fingers to the sticky fluid pooling next to his dick. It stretches between them and glitters in the dim lighting of the lab, too pale to be Val's, too thin to be his own, and too conspicuous to be artificial.
He swallows and wipes himself clean with his boxers before tossing them aside to continue getting dressed.
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