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His fur is velvety beneath his fingers, like soft down.
Vox tries to hold himself back, but waves of static electricity spill out of him, making Alastor’s sensitive fur stand on end as he whines in discomfort—but that doesn’t stop Vox’s tongue from continuing its work.
Alastor claws at his head in rebellion, and Vox winces slightly as he hears the creak of plastic when the Radio Demon’s rough nails dig into the frame of his screen.
Still, he keeps sucking fervently at the small bud of flesh, slipping his tongue into damp folds, careful not to hurt him with his teeth.
It’s so warm between his thighs—yet Vox wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Alastor’s legs tighten around him, almost choking him—a sign that he’s doing well, though it hinders his movements. Vox glares up at him, and Alastor answers with an arrogant smile. He does, however, loosen his grip just enough to give Vox more room.
Vox thanks him by biting the inside of his thigh, making Alastor arch with a moan. Then he returns to his task, patiently tracing delicate contours, occasionally pressing the tip of his tongue into the throbbing hollow of that delightful organ.
The skin there is almost hairless—smooth as a peach, and just as juicy.
Vox drinks eagerly when a warm flow spills out as Alastor comes beneath his skilled touch. He swallows greedily, without shame. It splatters against the warmth of his screen, and he spreads it, rubbing his face affectionately against the source.
Alastor chokes as he tries to muffle the sounds escaping his mouth, but his pleasure-laced whimpers ring in Vox’s ears like a sweet melody.
Vox keeps licking even as Alastor begs him to stop, until not a single drop remains. Then he straightens, proud of himself, and Alastor grabs his large cubic head, wiping his face clean with the flat of his palm.
Vox doesn’t understand how such a rough, simple gesture can make his heart race.
He’s still hard, pressing himself against Alastor’s knee for some relief—but Alastor doesn’t feel like moving. He lies there on Vox’s couch—which has seen things—legs spread, one stretched up over the backrest, the other dangling toward the floor.
Vox slowly slides down to the carpet and grinds against his partner’s bare ankle.
Alastor finally stirs from his post-orgasmic haze and gently presses his hoof against Vox’s cock. The coarse fur of his leg slides with the mix of sweat and pre-cum down beneath his balls, which Alastor takes a certain pleasure in squeezing—sending a shiver of ecstasy through Vox.
“Filthy degenerate,” Alastor remarks with a wide smile.
Vox doesn’t answer. What could he even say, when he’s literally jerking himself off against his foot like an animal in heat? He lets out a hitching breath and kisses Alastor’s knee, as if apologizing. He presses multiple kisses along his leg, and Alastor’s expression softens at such devotion.
Vox knows what he’s doing: Alastor loves worship—it’s his weakness. And that’s perfect, because Vox loves to adore him. He loves everything about him, from the tips of his silky ears to the ends of his hooves, from the sharp tone of his voice to his deliciously twisted mind.
Small sparks crackle from the holes Alastor’s claws left in his television, but Vox ignores them, focused on the hoof trampling his dignity, driving him higher and higher, while those lovely lips mock him in a syrupy tone:
“You’re truly pathetic, Vox. How long do you think you can last before begging me, hm?”
“Oh… Al…” Vox pants hoarsely.
He wants to say please, wants to say have mercy, but he holds back, unwilling to give him that satisfaction too soon. His ego still lingers, though it’s slowly cracking under the rising need for pleasure.
Instead, he moans louder and louder, which irritates Alastor.
“You sound like a dog,” he comments. “You’re my little dog, aren’t you, Vincent?”
Vox swallows his pride and answers:
“Woof!”
Alastor’s smile widens, genuine amusement flickering in his eyes. His leg starts moving in small strokes, and Vox trembles—then breaks, sobbing:
“Oh… yes… it’s too… good… harder, please, oh please harder!”
“Dogs don’t talk,” Alastor replies coldly.
Vox snaps his mouth shut so fast it makes a small clap. Still, he continues to whine deep in his throat, which Alastor doesn’t seem to mind. He grabs one of Vox’s antennas, wrapping it around his fingers without caring about the sparks it produces, nor the pain it seems to cause—Vox frowns, but never asks him to stop.
Suddenly, Vox stiffens, his cock twitching as his thighs tighten, trapping Alastor’s ankle between them. A rough sound escapes him, almost a beastly growl, and his release spills slowly into the short fur of Alastor’s leg.
Alastor flinches in disgust—but Vox immediately starts cleaning the mess with his tongue, so he says nothing.
He absently pets Vox’s head, and even if Vox can’t feel it, he shivers with pleasure at what feels very much like a reward.
And when he finally lifts his muzzle, his master is smiling at him with genuine affection in his eyes.