You shoved the door shut behind you, the neon glow from Vox’s screens painting the room in harsh blues and reds. He was already waiting, tall frame slouched against his desk, screen-face flickering with that signature smirk. “Took you long enough,” he rasped, voice layered with static. His clawed hand shot out and yanked you forward by the front of your shirt until your chest hit his. “Strip. Now. I want to see every inch before I fuck it.”
Clothes hit the floor in seconds. Vox didn’t bother with slow. His jacket was already open, shirt unbuttoned, the smooth plane of his chest warm under your palms. He spun you around and bent you over the edge of the console, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other sliding down to grip your ass hard enough to leave marks. “Look at this,” he muttered, fingers spreading you open. “Already wet for me. Pathetic little slut.”
Two thick fingers pushed inside without warning, pumping fast and rough. You gasped, hips jerking back against his hand. Vox laughed, low and crackling. “That’s it. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Show me how bad you need it.” He curled them just right, scissoring you open while his thumb circled your clit in tight, relentless strokes. Your legs shook; he didn’t let up until you were dripping down his wrist.
He pulled his fingers free and you heard the clink of his belt. Then the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance. “Beg,” he ordered, voice glitching with hunger. “Tell me you want this dick splitting you open.”
“Please,” you choked out. “Fuck me, Vox. I need it.”
He slammed in to the hilt in one thrust. The stretch burned sweet and sharp; you cried out, fingers scrabbling at the console. Vox didn’t pause. He fucked you hard, hips snapping forward, the wet slap of skin loud in the room. Every thrust shoved you harder against the desk. His screen leaned close, static buzzing against the back of your neck as he growled filthy praise.
“Take it. Goddamn, you’re squeezing me so tight.
Gonna milk every drop out of me, aren’t you?” One hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite at your throat. The other reached around to rub your clit again, fast and mean. “Come on my cock. Do it now.”
You shattered with a broken moan, walls clenching around him. Vox fucked you straight through it, pace never slowing, chasing his own release. When he came he buried himself deep, cock pulsing, hot flood filling you while static crackled across his screen and into your skin.
He stayed inside you for a moment, breathing ragged, then pulled out slow. Cum leaked down your thighs. Vox spun you around, lifted you onto the desk, and dropped to his knees. “Not done yet,” he said, voice rough. His tongue—long, clever, electric—dragged through the mess he’d made, licking you clean before sucking your clit back into his mouth. You came again, thighs locked around his head, his claws digging into your hips to hold you still.
Later, he had you on the couch, riding him reverse, his hands guiding your hips while he watched the way your ass bounced on his cock through the reflection on a nearby monitor. “Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice thick. “Look how fucking wrecked you are for me.” You watched the screen, watched his glowing eyes, watched his length disappear inside you over and over until you were shaking and he was snarling your name through another orgasm.
When he finally let you collapse against his chest, screen dimmed to a soft blue glow, his claws traced lazy circles on your back. “Good,” he murmured, static soft now. “Next time you come crawling back, I’m putting you on the air while I do it.”
