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The rope bit into Vincent's wrists, the coarse fibers scratching against his skin as he tested the bonds one more time. His arms were pulled back uncomfortably behind the chair, shoulders straining slightly from the position. The wooden seat was hard beneath him, unforgiving, and he could feel every groove and imperfection pressing into his thighs. His breathing had already quickened, chest rising and falling with anticipation that made his skin prickle with awareness.
Alastor circled him slowly, deliberately, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. Vincent could feel those eyes on him—assessing, calculating, drinking in every detail of his bound form. The air felt charged, electric with possibility and promise.
Then Alastor stopped directly in front of him, and Vincent's gaze was drawn upward. In Alastor's hands was the collar—black leather with a small rectangular device attached. The shock collar. Vincent's throat went dry, his pulse hammering visibly at the base of his neck.
"You know what this is, don't you?" Alastor's voice was smooth, almost conversational, but there was an edge to it that made Vincent's stomach flip.
Vincent nodded, not trusting his voice.
"Use your words, pet." The command was soft but absolute.
"Yes... yes, Sir. I know what it is." Vincent's voice came out rougher than he intended, already thick with need.
"Good boy." Alastor's lips curved into a smile that was equal parts affectionate and predatory. He stepped closer, and Vincent could smell his cologne—something dark and woody that always made his head spin. "Now hold still."
Vincent forced himself to remain motionless as Alastor fastened the collar around his neck. The leather was cool against his heated skin, snug but not uncomfortably tight. He could feel the weight of the device resting against his throat, a constant reminder of what was coming. Alastor's fingers lingered at the buckle, adjusting it with meticulous care, and Vincent shivered at the intimate touch.
"There we are," Alastor murmured, stepping back to admire his work. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Perfect. You look absolutely perfect like this—bound, collared, completely at my mercy."
Vincent's breath hitched. His cock was already beginning to stir, responding to the situation, to Alastor's words, to the delicious vulnerability of his position.
Alastor pulled out a small remote from his pocket, holding it up so Vincent could see it clearly. "Do you know what you did wrong, pet?"
Vincent's mind raced. "I... I touched myself without permission, Sir."
"That's right." Alastor's expression hardened slightly, though his voice remained controlled. "You were explicitly told not to touch yourself while I was away. And yet, what did I find when I came home? My naughty little pet with his hand wrapped around his cock, moaning like a bitch in heat."
Shame and arousal flooded through Vincent in equal measure, his face flushing hot. "I'm sorry, Sir. I couldn't help it. I needed—"
"What you need is irrelevant," Alastor interrupted, his tone sharp enough to make Vincent flinch. "What matters is obedience. And you, my dear pet, have been very disobedient." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Oh, dear. You've been a bad dog, and bad dogs need to be punished."
Vincent's heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. Every nerve ending felt alive, hypersensitive. He watched as Alastor's thumb hovered over the button on the remote.
"Sir, please—" Vincent started, but he didn't get to finish.
Without warning, Alastor pressed the button.
The shock hit Vincent like lightning. His entire body went rigid, muscles seizing as electricity coursed through him. It wasn't pain exactly—or rather, it was pain, but pain that somehow transformed into something else entirely. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he felt his teeth sink into his tongue. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth immediately.
The shock lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity. When it finally stopped, Vincent slumped forward as much as his bonds would allow, gasping for air. His tongue throbbed, and he could feel blood pooling in his mouth, warm and metallic.
"Fuck," he managed to choke out, the word garbled and wet-sounding.
He looked up at Alastor through watery eyes, and what he saw made his cock twitch despite—or perhaps because of—the pain. Alastor was watching him with rapt attention, his pupils dilated, lips slightly parted. There was hunger in that gaze, raw and undisguised.
"Look at you," Alastor breathed, stepping closer. "Already bleeding for me."
Vincent realized blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth, a thin red line trailing down his chin. He tried to swallow, tried to compose himself, but his body was still trembling from the aftershocks.
And then he became aware of something else—the insistent throb between his legs. His cock was hardening rapidly, straining against his pants, responding to the intensity of what had just happened. The pain, the helplessness, the way Alastor was looking at him —it all combined into a heady cocktail that went straight to his groin.
Alastor noticed immediately. Of course he did. Nothing escaped those sharp eyes.
"Hard already?" Alastor's voice was filled with dark amusement. He reached down and palmed Vincent's erection through his pants, squeezing just hard enough to make Vincent gasp. "We're only at 50%. Tsk tsk."
Vincent whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily into the touch. "Sir, I—"
"Quiet." Alastor withdrew his hand, and Vincent nearly sobbed at the loss. "You don't get to speak unless I ask you a question. Nod if you understand."
Vincent nodded frantically, blood still dripping from his mouth.
"Good." Alastor's thumb moved over the remote again, and Vincent's entire body tensed in anticipation. "Let's see how you handle a bit more, shall we?"
"Please—" Vincent couldn't help himself, the word escaping before he could stop it. Alastor's expression darkened. "What did I just say about speaking?" And then he pressed the button again.
This time, Vincent was prepared for it—or thought he was. But the shock was just as intense, just as overwhelming. His back arched, straining against the ropes, and a strangled cry tore from his throat. The electricity seemed to travel through every nerve, setting them all ablaze. His cock throbbed almost painfully, the line between pleasure and pain blurring until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
When the shock ended, Vincent's head dropped forward, chin nearly touching his chest. He was panting hard, sweat beading on his forehead. His tongue hurt like hell, swollen and tender where he'd bitten it. More blood filled his mouth, and he let it drip, too exhausted to even try to swallow.
He heard Alastor move closer, felt fingers threading through his hair. The touch was almost gentle at first, almost soothing. Vincent leaned into it instinctively, craving any comfort, any connection.
Then Alastor's grip tightened, yanking Vincent's head back sharply.
Vincent's eyes flew open, meeting Alastor's gaze. This close, he could see the flush on Alastor's cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Alastor was affected too, aroused by Vincent's suffering, by his complete control over the situation.
"Look at what a mess you are," Alastor murmured, his free hand coming up to trace the line of blood on Vincent's chin. "So beautiful like this. So perfectly ruined."
Vincent could only whimper in response, his mouth hanging open slightly. Blood stained his lips, made them slick and red.
Alastor leaned in, and Vincent's breath caught. He thought maybe Alastor would kiss him, but instead, Alastor's tongue darted out, licking a slow, deliberate path along Vincent's lower lip. The sensation was obscene, intimate in a way that made Vincent's cock pulse. Alastor lapped at the blood like it was something precious, something to be savored.
"Delicious," Alastor whispered against Vincent's mouth. "You taste like copper and desperation."
Vincent moaned, the sound broken and needy. His entire body was on fire, every sensation heightened to an almost unbearable degree. The pain in his tongue, the ache in his shoulders, the throbbing of his erection—it all swirled together into something overwhelming.
Alastor pulled back slightly, still gripping Vincent's hair. His other hand moved to the remote again, and Vincent's eyes widened.
"No, please, Sir, I can't—" The words tumbled out in a rush, panic and arousal making him reckless.
"You can," Alastor said firmly. "And you will. Because you're my good little pet, aren't you? You'll take whatever I give you."
Vincent's eyes filled with tears—from pain, from need, from the sheer intensity of it all. "Yes, Sir," he whispered. "I'm yours."
"That's right." Alastor's smile was sharp, dangerous. "Mine to punish. Mine to hurt. Mine to pleasure." His thumb pressed down on the button. "Mine."
The third shock hit Vincent like a freight train. His vision whited out for a moment, his entire world narrowing down to the electricity coursing through his body. He was vaguely aware of screaming, of his muscles spasming, of his cock jerking violently.
And then, impossibly, he felt it—the coil of tension in his lower belly suddenly snapping. His orgasm crashed over him with brutal force, ripping through him like a second shock. He came hard, untouched, his cock pulsing as he spilled into his pants. The pleasure was almost painful in its intensity, mixing with the lingering electricity until he couldn't distinguish between the two.
When the shock finally ended, Vincent collapsed as much as his bonds would allow. He was sobbing openly now, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood and sweat. His body felt like it had been wrung out, every muscle trembling with exhaustion.
He was dimly aware of Alastor releasing his hair, of gentle hands touching his face. The contrast between the brutality of moments before and the tenderness now was almost too much to process.
"Shh, shh," Alastor was murmuring, his voice soft now, soothing. "You did so well, pet. So very well. I'm so proud of you."
Vincent tried to respond, but all that came out was a broken whimper. His mind was floating, disconnected, lost in the haze of subspace.
"Let's get you cleaned up," Alastor said gently, already working at the ropes binding Vincent's wrists. "You've been such a good boy. My perfect, beautiful boy."
As the ropes fell away and Alastor carefully removed the collar, Vincent felt himself being gathered into strong arms. He buried his face against Alastor's chest, still trembling, still crying softly.
"I've got you," Alastor whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Vincent's head. "I've got you, and you're safe. You're perfect. You're mine."
And in that moment, wrapped in Alastor's embrace, Vincent had never felt more complete.
But Alastor wasn't quite finished with him yet.
Just as Vincent began to relax into the embrace, feeling the warmth of aftercare settling over him like a blanket, Alastor pulled back. The sudden loss of contact made Vincent's eyes flutter open in confusion, still glassy and unfocused.
"Actually," Alastor said, his voice taking on that dangerous edge again, "I don't think you've quite learned your lesson yet, pet."
Vincent's heart stuttered. "Sir, I—"
"Did I say you could speak?" Alastor's hand shot out, gripping Vincent's jaw firmly, forcing him to meet his gaze. The tenderness from moments before had evaporated, replaced by that predatory intensity that made Vincent's stomach drop and his spent cock twitch with renewed interest.
"N-no, Sir," Vincent managed, his voice hoarse and broken.
"That's what I thought." Alastor released his jaw and stepped back, reaching for the collar that he'd only just removed. Vincent's eyes widened as he watched Alastor fasten it back around his neck, the leather settling against his skin like a familiar weight. "You came without permission, didn't you?"
Vincent's breath hitched. In the overwhelming intensity of the moment, he hadn't even thought about it. But Alastor was right—he'd never been given permission to orgasm. "I'm sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to, I couldn't help—"
"Excuses." Alastor's fingers worked the buckle with practiced efficiency. "You know the rules. You know what happens when you break them."
Vincent's entire body tensed, anticipation and dread warring within him. He was oversensitive now, his nerves still singing from the previous shocks, his cock sticky and
uncomfortable in his soiled pants. The thought of another shock made him want to sob, but at the same time, some dark part of him craved it—craved the pain, the surrender, the proof of Alastor's complete control over him.
Alastor picked up the remote again, turning it over in his hands almost casually. "You're going to take one more for me, pet. And this time, I want to see those pretty tears. Can you do that for me?"
Vincent nodded frantically, already feeling moisture gathering in his eyes. "Yes, Sir. Anything, Sir."
"Good boy." Alastor's smile was sharp and beautiful and terrifying all at once. His thumb hovered over the button. "Deep breath now."
Vincent barely had time to inhale before the shock hit.
This time was different. His body was already wrung out, oversensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed. The electricity felt like it was burning through him, more intense than before, or maybe he was just too exhausted to brace against it. His back arched violently, the chair scraping against the floor, and a scream tore from his throat— raw and animalistic and desperate.
The pain was exquisite. It radiated from the collar outward, seeming to touch every part of him at once. His muscles seized, his toes curled, his fingers clawed uselessly at nothing. And his cock—god, his cock was hardening again despite having just come, the overstimulation bordering on unbearable.
When the shock finally ended, Vincent collapsed forward, gasping and shaking. And then he felt it—the hot sting of tears spilling over, tracking down his cheeks in twin streams. He couldn't stop them. Didn't want to stop them. They came freely now, born of pain and pleasure and overwhelming emotion, and he let them fall.
"There they are," Alastor breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "There are those beautiful tears."
Vincent looked up at him through blurred vision, his face wet and flushed, blood still staining his lips, tears cutting clean paths through the mess. He must have looked absolutely wrecked, and from the way Alastor was staring at him—pupils blown wide, chest heaving—that was exactly what Alastor wanted to see.
"You're so fucking beautiful when you cry," Alastor murmured, reaching out to catch a tear on his finger. He brought it to his lips, tasting it, and Vincent whimpered at the obscenity of the gesture. "Absolutely exquisite."
More tears fell, and Vincent couldn't seem to stop them. They streamed down his face steadily now, dripping from his jaw onto his chest. His whole body was trembling, caught between exhaustion and arousal, pain and pleasure, shame and pride at being able to take what Alastor gave him.
"Please," Vincent whispered, not even sure what he was begging for anymore. More? Less? Touch? Release? Everything and nothing all at once.
Alastor circled around him slowly, deliberately, drinking in every detail of Vincent's broken state. When he came to stand in front of Vincent again, his eyes dropped down to the obvious bulge in Vincent's pants—the wet spot from his earlier orgasm, the renewed hardness straining against the fabric.
"Look at you," Alastor said, his voice a mixture of amusement and dark desire. "Still hard. Even after coming untouched, even after all that pain, you're still desperate for more, aren't you?"
Vincent sobbed, fresh tears spilling over. "Yes, Sir. I can't help it. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry —"
"Don't apologize for what you are." Alastor's boot came up suddenly, pressing against Vincent's erection through his pants. The pressure was firm, deliberate, and Vincent's entire body jerked at the contact. "You're a needy little slut who gets off on pain. There's no shame in that. Not here. Not with me."
The pressure increased, and Vincent cried out, his hips trying instinctively to buck up into it even as the sensation bordered on too much. The sole of Alastor's boot was hard and unforgiving against his sensitive cock, the texture of the leather adding friction even through the layers of fabric. It was degrading, being stepped on like this, being used like this, and that degradation only made him harder.
"Sir, please, I can't—" Vincent's words dissolved into another sob, more tears streaming down his face. His vision was completely blurred now, everything reduced to sensation —the pressure on his cock, the weight of the collar around his neck, the ache in his bitten tongue, the salt of his tears on his lips.
"You can," Alastor said firmly, grinding his boot down harder. "And you will. Because this is what you need, isn't it? To be used. To be hurt. To be reminded exactly who you belong to."
Vincent nodded frantically, unable to form words anymore. His cock was throbbing almost painfully under Alastor's boot, caught between the agony of overstimulation and the desperate need for more friction, more pressure, more anything.
"Say it," Alastor commanded, his voice sharp. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You!" Vincent gasped out, his voice breaking. "I belong to you, Sir. Only you. Always you."
"That's right." Alastor's boot moved in a slow, deliberate circle, grinding against Vincent's erection in a way that made him see stars. "You're mine to punish. Mine to pleasure. Mine to break and put back together again." He paused, letting the pressure build until Vincent was whimpering continuously. "Mine to step on like the pathetic little pet you are."
The humiliation of it crashed over Vincent like a wave. Here he was, tied to a chair, collar around his neck, tears streaming down his face, blood on his lips, while Alastor literally stepped on his cock like he was nothing more than an object to be used. And God help him, he loved it. Loved the degradation, loved the proof of Alastor's dominance, loved being reduced to nothing but a toy for Alastor's amusement.
"Please, Sir," Vincent begged, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" Alastor's tone was mocking, cruel in the way that made Vincent's cock pulse. "Use your words, pet. Tell me exactly what you need."
"I need to come," Vincent sobbed, shame and desperation making his face burn even hotter. "Please, Sir, please let me come. I'll be good, I promise, I'll be so good—"
"You'll come when I decide you can come," Alastor said coldly. But his boot pressed down harder, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. "And right now, I'm enjoying watching you fall apart. Look at you—crying, begging, so desperate you'd probably hump my boot like a dog in heat if I let you."
Vincent made a wounded sound, because Alastor was right. He absolutely would. He'd do anything right now, anything at all, if it meant relief from this exquisite torture.
Alastor seemed to read his thoughts, because his smile turned predatory. "Actually, that's not a bad idea." He shifted his boot slightly, angling it so the pressure was more direct. "Go ahead, pet. Rut against my boot like the needy animal you are. Show me how desperate you are."
For a moment, Vincent's mind went blank with shock and arousal. Then, helplessly, he obeyed. His hips rolled forward, grinding his aching cock against the hard leather of Alastor's boot. The friction was rough, almost painful through his pants, but it was something, and he chased it desperately.
"That's it," Alastor encouraged, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. "Look at you, so shameless. Tears streaming down your face, humping my boot like a bitch in heat. You really are pathetic, aren't you?"
"Yes, Sir," Vincent gasped out between sobs, his hips moving in jerky, uncoordinated thrusts. "I'm pathetic. I'm yours. Please—"
The tears were flowing freely now, mixing with the blood and sweat and drool that had accumulated on his face. He was a complete mess, utterly debased, and he could see the hunger in Alastor's eyes as he watched Vincent degrade himself.
"You can come," Alastor said suddenly, and Vincent nearly sobbed with relief. "But only while I'm stepping on you. Only while you're crying for me. Only while you remember exactly what you are."
"Thank you, Sir, thank you—" Vincent's words dissolved into incoherent sounds as he ground harder against Alastor's boot, chasing his release with single-minded
desperation.
Alastor pressed down harder, the pressure bordering on painful, and that was what pushed Vincent over the edge. His orgasm hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath, making his vision white out completely. He came hard, soaking through his already-soiled pants, his cock pulsing against the unforgiving leather of Alastor's boot while tears continued to stream down his face.
The pleasure was almost indistinguishable from pain, overwhelming and all-consuming, and Vincent rode it out with broken sobs and gasping breaths. When it finally subsided, he slumped in the chair, completely spent, still crying, barely conscious.
Alastor slowly removed his boot, and Vincent whimpered at the loss of contact. He was vaguely aware of Alastor crouching down in front of him, of gentle hands cupping his tear-stained face.
"Perfect," Alastor murmured, his voice soft again, tender. "You were absolutely perfect, my beautiful boy."
Vincent tried to respond, but all that came out was another sob. He was floating somewhere far away, his mind disconnected from his body, lost in the overwhelming intensity of what had just happened.
"I've got you now," Alastor said gently, already working to remove the collar, to free Vincent from his bonds. "You're safe. You're mine. And you did so, so well."
As Alastor gathered him into his arms, Vincent finally let himself go completely, surrendering to the exhaustion and the tears and the overwhelming sense of being utterly, completely owned.