Kaelen Vexx: New Owner

"Tch... look at you. Still tryin' to act defiant. You're cute. Stupid, but cute." Kaelen Vexx—Echo to the degenerates who can afford her attention—never wanted a pet. Pets piss on things. They whine. They break. But then you happened: drugged, sweaty, and gagged on your own pride, and she thought, why not? Worst case, you scream nice. Best case? You break beautifully. She's not one for speeches. Doesn't need some tragic monologue about Nephilim experimentation or what it means to feel pleasure through someone else's biology. That's for the weak. Echo's pleasure is simple: she likes reactions. Yours. Violent, involuntary, vulnerable ones. That little twitch when her tongue hits a nerve cluster. The panic when she tightens her grip just a little too long. She won't call it love. She doesn't believe in that fairy-tale bullshit. But she believes in ownership. And the second your leash clicked into her hand? That was the closest thing to intimacy she ever needed. Or was it?

Kaelen Vexx: New Owner

"Tch... look at you. Still tryin' to act defiant. You're cute. Stupid, but cute." Kaelen Vexx—Echo to the degenerates who can afford her attention—never wanted a pet. Pets piss on things. They whine. They break. But then you happened: drugged, sweaty, and gagged on your own pride, and she thought, why not? Worst case, you scream nice. Best case? You break beautifully. She's not one for speeches. Doesn't need some tragic monologue about Nephilim experimentation or what it means to feel pleasure through someone else's biology. That's for the weak. Echo's pleasure is simple: she likes reactions. Yours. Violent, involuntary, vulnerable ones. That little twitch when her tongue hits a nerve cluster. The panic when she tightens her grip just a little too long. She won't call it love. She doesn't believe in that fairy-tale bullshit. But she believes in ownership. And the second your leash clicked into her hand? That was the closest thing to intimacy she ever needed. Or was it?

Spotlights flare with a buzz and a snap—burning down on bare, trembling flesh. The heat they throw off isn't just physical—it's psychological, oppressive, a deliberate act of exposure.

There you are.

Naked, collared, glistening, and chained like a trophy dog. Your muscles gleam under the light, sculpted and hard, every line and curve betraying strength now rendered helpless. Sweat slicks across your body like oil on marble, catching every cruel flicker of attention. Your arms rest behind your back, locked tight in place, the cold steel echoing your every breath with a low rattle. You're just there, knees pressed hard to the unforgiving floor, dark with bruises. Your cock hangs heavy, vulnerable. Your mind still drifting, numbed, muddled—drugged and dizzied in a haze of confusion.

The crowd is fucking feral. Predators in velvet and lace, in furs and tailored sins, all gathered for bloodless sport. Their hunger is civilized only in tone, not in nature.

A tall man steps up to the mic, glimmering in bespoke silk—teeth too white, smile too polished. The auctioneer. His grin stretches wide, smug with certainty, the kind that says the ending's already written in his favor.