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"How's Travis doing? I rarely see him these days," from across the room, the dinosaur sucked on a cigar, swilling smoke about his mouth before letting drift through the rows of primal teeth, "Now whether that's a good or a bad thing, who's to say."

"He's..." Hitchcock grunted, a hard sound from the pit of his stomach, all his limbs convulsed as if trying to curl upon himself violently, "He's doing okay..." another groan, "good grades, more interested in seeing Kurt though..." Each word was a struggle to breathe, each syllable snagged in his throat. The straining male still managed a low, exhausted chuckle however, "but whether that's good or bad..."

Vincent gave a wry smile, warm and compassionate as he had always been, before he took another long, slow drag on the cigar he held between two large fingers. Being the father that he was, Hitchcock couldn't help instincts,

"I wish y'wouldn't smoke."

"Shut up."

"Yes sir, sorry sir."

Hitchcock resumed his pained groaning and grimacing as his body suffered the steady rhythmic palpitations of the electrical currents running through his raw nipples and steeled cock, the throbs agonisingly numb yet distinctly smarting under the confines of his cage now from hour after hour of torment. He had been wired up expertly by his son once he had been secured to the bed, fastened so that every limb was stretched from post to distant post of the king size frame, forcing Hitchcock out so that every inch of him was exposed and vulnerable. The behemoth dinosaur was bound with heavy leather and rope to the bed, leaving him to lie back and observe the room around him in his static position. The rise and fall of his muscled chest gently ebbed from his view, as did the squirming of his gut whenever his muscles became sore and he needed to distract them from their ache. His darkened skin, the blues and reds, were softened in the evening's light as dusk slipped into night, leaving the pair of them to skulk in the feverish glow of candles and lamplights. His son, half his age but if nothing else twice the man, sat casually, one leg crossed atop the other's knee, still half-dressed in his duty uniform, enjoying a cigar his grandfather - Hitchcock's father - had gifted him, the tuber rich in colour and fat even between the tyrannosaurus's digits.

Near enough three hours ago, though it may well have easily been four - it was so hard to know with his mind split between sweeping pain and absent memory - Vincent had arrived home. Immediately he had sought out his father and commanded him to the bedroom and told to wait. From there he had presently had him strip, submit to being bound spread-eagle to the bed, after which his son had drawn out the control box and assortment of wires that he was ever fond of and attached clips and slips across his father's body. Each nipple suffered the snap of biting crocodile teeth, sharp metal digging into the tendered flesh, and though Hitchcock might have thought he'd be released from the chastity cage so as to be exposed for his son's sadistic pleasure, Vincent had simply replaced it with a modified model, one capable of fitting the wired jacks that were now all hooked up to his box of tricks. Building ever by the minute, he had pushed and pushed Hitchcock's tolerance until he was gritting his teeth and writhing upon the bed, a sweat beading from every pore and agony scoring along each nerve. Once they had found that limit, Vincent had taken a seat at his father's desk, lit his cigar, and waited.

Vincent always had a penchant for long, drawn out sessions, often taking up to hours of Hitchcock's time just to sit back and allow him the privilege of torture. Ever since he had begun to become a virile male just like every other member of their family - all except for Hitchcock, of course - he had always been fascinated with the control of pain and its endurance. Even now he pushed as much as he could, just like everyone else in the household, as his fingers not admiring his cigar were twitching daringly on the dials that would intensify the current burning its way through Hitchcock's already fatigued body.

It had taken months if not years to come to this bizarre understanding father and son held. Hitchcock had always feared the day when he had slipped back into his old lifestyle of suffering under his family's command what would ever happen with his boys. Vincent had been a teenager practically, with all the trimmings of angst and rebellion that any adolescent held, and Travis was too young to truly be aware of anything. It had been a dangerous game doing his best to ensure the other patriarchs of the family didn't expose their sordid affairs to his children, but inevitably it was only a prolonged effort. He remembered so distinctly the moment when Vincent had apparently uncovered the coveted photo albums of his father's submission, no detail left hidden, and his reaction seemed to fall most in line with the rest of the Monroe name; Vincent, bolstered with confidence and testosterone, had confronted his father, and when finding his resolve wavering, gone for the kill and crippled anything left of his authority by skull-fucking his dad against the wall in the family den. Hitchcock was left battered and exhausted, sucking gasps of air as he spluttered and swallowed the thick load his son had just pumped down his gullet and walked off, as if nothing had ever happened at all. Since that point on, whenever Hitchcock attempted to be the parent he was supposed to be, Vincent would always turn, like a switch being flicked inside his head, and suddenly the boy he'd raised since infancy and watched with pride as he grew into a man became very much the predator that boiled under his skin. A glare would fix his and suddenly any effort of discipline or control was lost, incinerated in a flash beneath Vincent's wrathful wake. It was a turbulent time, Vincent taking abundant advantage of his father's submission, and it ultimately took an emotional breakdown during one of his scenes with his own father, Warren Monroe, for the balance to be righted. A meeting was called, not as men of domination and submission but as family, and Hitchcock winced as he watched his brothers and father lay into his son for how abusive he had been behaving. A decision was reached, with consent of Hitchcock, to assume guardianship of Vincent and Travis too should the need arise if they were to proceed further with his enslavement. He had sat there, so uncomfortably, as his family around him had spoken so candidly and freely about his position and direction, occasionally confirming details and negotiations with him directly, but for the most part deciding anything and everything to ensure discord is never sown again. The hierarchy was established, Warren took Vincent and showed him the true path of domination and submission, invariably shaping the boy, now bristling in his near twenties, into a man who would control for some, but submit to others. Hitchcock was thankful of course, but it took time to adjust no longer being in control of yet another part of his life, especially one that had been so intimately and inextricably his.

Time worked wonders though, and Vincent had henceforth always made the effort to demonstrate to his father the utmost respect he had for the life he had chosen, the life he was born to live.

"Nipples or crotch, I'm gonna push one up by five for you speaking out of turn, choose."

Hitchcock didn't want either to get worse, he was already struggling at a threshold and he didn't dare suggest Vincent go any higher. It felt like sharp, precise points of pain were searing into his flesh, his nipples throbbing as his chest seized, and his cock confined was so agonisingly tight against the cage as it was shocked it was nothing but a dulled sensation of something he had once known as pleasure now warped beyond all belief. He stayed quiet, though he knew it was a bad decision to ignore the master.

"Pick one," Vincent said levelly, though louder, harder, as if he had just sharpened his voice against a whetstone, "Or I'm putting both up by ten."

There was a flickering instant in which Hitchcock grit his teeth, allowed his mind to drift, all before inertia took hold and violently drew him back to present moment as pulses surged their way through his body.

"Nipples!" He cried, frantic and pleading, and his cries exalted higher as Vincent's fingers tweaked in a short, tight twist against the box in his palm. Renewed pain, far deeper and tougher than before, tore at Hitchcock's breast as it felt as if the very teeth of the clamps against his nipples grew sharper. His body wrestled with the bonds as he convulsed, an action that may very have been some voluntary reflex to the torment, but Hitchcock was beyond caring. He struggled as much as he liked, for if Vincent wanted him to obey and be still, he would have left him unrestrained and goaded him as he suffered. Hitchcock let loose a low, deep growl of agony as he panted, willing himself to try and adjust, breathing to cope with the intensity now churning within him.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he rose to accommodate the feeling. It by no means lessened the sensations, but his mind dulled his response to them, and soon the sharp slices of pain were blunted to hammered strikes that repeated themselves, battering against his muscles, keeping him forever aware of the current that refused to abate. His breathing slowed because he forced it to, taking deeper and longer drags of tight breaths until he metered out his intake, doing his best to relax and allow his mind to swim to its happy place.

"I shouldn't have to be teaching you manners after all this time," Vincent cajoled, taking an almost purposefully too long draw on his cigar taunting his father, "You should know better." He rose from his chair, the first movement he'd made in a long while, and with careful, amble steps he sauntered towards the bed, wires trailing in his wake, leading with the control box still very much clasped in one paw as he loomed above his father, "To remind you to speak only when spoken to, I'm gonna put the cage up five too, understand?" Hitchcock breathed deep, something of a suffused sigh, but said nothing and nodded, confirming his consent to his son, and hissed severely as the younger male's paw slipped against the controls.

The dinosaur loosed a wild, feverish whimper as his cock, throbbing against the cage, charred under the current that intensified. The voltage whipped and lashed through his crotch like tendrils of steel, a feeling unlike heat, but still just as fearsome and licked its way through his cock and balls. It was an inescapable, near indescribable sensation that seemed never to ebb away, and though Hitchcock did all his best efforts to ignore and rise above, his mind was too exhausted and keen to the feeling. Even as he closed his eyes, screwed his brow, and breathed hard between his teeth, the searing surges still drummed and stabbed at his groin. Unbeknownst to him however, his son was still slipping his fingers against the dial, and slowly, as they had throughout every hour of his torture, five went to six, then seven, and eight, until he had climbed to ten just as he had promised.

Hitchcock felt the very beads of slick sweat boiling against his skin as he writhed in his bindings, hips shaking and jutting as instinct tried to drive him away from the pain. But the cage was snug around him, sealed by his own erection, and wires draped across his body slid in feathery, tickled lines as they delivered the voltage to his body. His drawled whimpers became strangled moans, unable to hold back his own cries as he shuddered uncontrollably,

"P-please," he slurred between quickened pants, "m'gonna cum... if y'keep goin'..."

Vincent considered him for a moment, lingering on his indecision for too many seconds too long, knowing it would keep his father in his feverish desperation and leave him to the mercy of his own body. Orgasm without permission was strictly forbidden, ever since day one, or so Vincent had been told, and though he had the power to waive Hitchcock's climax as much as any other, he alongside his brother were subjected to far greater scrutiny if it was deemed undeserved. Dark eyes slid down Hitchcock's body, and in his mind he decided his father had indeed suffered plenty. But he wasn't prepared to make it easy for the aged dinosaur.

"Then you may cum," he said calmly, "If you even can."

He was hard as he could have possibly been in the cage, but even that was perhaps just barely an inch more than when flaccid. Hitchcock whined incessantly as relief washed through him, knowing that the broiling feeling swilling up his gut wouldn't have to be staunched by sheer willpower. However a new problem arose as he succumbed to its swirling pull, letting him sink into the orgasm as best he could. Vincent was right, it might not be enough for him. Orgasm had become so difficult to achieve from years of play, and whilst his ass was empty, his hardness constrained and nothing but the meagre jolts of electricity running through his nerves, he may only ever manage a mere dribble of cum, or worse yet nothing at all. Now that he had been given permission, it would count towards an allowed orgasm, and he only had so few of them each year, if at all. If he did not cum now, he never would, and so he found himself instead of fighting the sensation, fighting to keep it, and to nurture it. He opened the floodgates of his mind and gave in to the pain, centred his focus on it, allowed nothing to fill his thoughts but the very feeling of stabbing electricity pulsing through his cock, his balls, and his nipples, until he felt as if no other part of him existed. He cherished the agony, savoured the sensation, and howled as it drove him to cum.

It was not an ordinary orgasm. Pleasure was devoid of the feeling. The climax might have been akin to something like passing a stone, removing a splinter, or splashing rubbing alcohol against a wound. It was sharp, tight, brief, and all-consuming. A trick he had learnt from his own father, Hitchcock knew it would have been the only way to unleash his load had Vincent left him to his own devices. His son smirked, smugness far too blatant on his face, as his father convulsed in agony, hot seed dripping from the end of his cage in pitiful spurts, just globs of cum from an overstimulated manhood. He allowed the current to carry Hitchcock far past his brink, until he was milking nothing but dry screams from his father, until he slowly tweaked down the electricity on his controls.

Hitchcock, breathed heavily and deeply, felt his body sag against the soiled bed sheets as Vincent went one by one and released his limbs, coiling the rope upon the bed. He took great satisfaction in unclasping the clasps from his father's nipples, pinpricks of dark red where they had dug against his skin, the flesh far too tender to even touch slightly without a wave of pain. As Hitchcock lay there, Vincent took a long, deep drag of his cigar, held the smoke, and extinguished the cigar's blunted tip against one of Hitchcock's more raw-looking nipples. In an instant Hitchcock screamed, an all-new pain flourishing in his senses as nerves once fried now throbbed with fiery pain. Promptly Vincent straddled him, crushing his gut as he lay his weight against his father's belly, and pursed his lips to his father's gasping own and forcing his tongue down his throat. It was a short, but intense, passionate kiss, with Vincent entirely in command, as he suffocated his father's bellows of agony against as he exhaled; burning furling smoke billowed down his mouth and into his lungs, filling them until they felt sticky and hot. Humiliated under his son's muzzle, Hitchcock could do nothing as teeth scraped against his tongue and Vincent forced him to hold the rancid breath of smoke. Seconds past until he was wrestling for air, until finally his son relinquished his hold, and he moaned and coughed, spluttering up ashen spit, tears at the corners of his eyes.

"Don't ever lecture me about smoking again, slave."

"Yes sir."