It was the part where he was supposed to be afraid, that always got Jazz. He was bound, he couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as twitch. He was exposed, could feel the ghost of air currents over his valve and spike. He couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t see anything. Could barely sense any fields through the fog on his processor.
Except that he knew he was safe. He knew he was in Bluestreak’s very talented, very knowledgeable hands. He knew that the caresses dragging him toward pleasure belonged to his Master. And with that knowledge came complete and utter surrender.
Jazz’s processor settled. His fight or flight instincts vanished into the shadows. Anxiety was replaced by lust, and enough of it that all else faded. There was nothing to focus on but Bluestreak’s touch, the delicate press of his fingers, the hot sweep of his glossa. Jazz had no noise to focus on, save the static in his cortex. He had no light to draw his optics. He couldn’t do anything but lay here and trust, lay here and feel.
He felt the moan rise up in his chassis. He knew his vocalizer activated. But he couldn’t hear it. He tried to move toward the teasing caresses, but couldn’t shift more than an inch in any direction. A combination of straps and magnets kept him firmly in place.
It was freer than Jazz had felt in months.
Pleasure throbbed through his frame in thick, suffusing waves. Jazz would’ve moved with it, if he could, instead he felt it carry him away, floating on a sea of ecstasy. He purred and moaned, babbled for his master, and when overload came, it was less a sharp and sudden thing, and more a slow pour of liquid heat through every nook and cranny of his frame.
More than the pleasure, more than the overload, was the eclipsing sensation of being safe and Jazz clung to it.
In Bluestreak’s hands, he was safe.