“They target a specific frame type,” Prowl had said as he urged Getaway into the hands of the four-mech team who would alter and adjust Getaway’s frame – paint included. All the better to entice the crew of kidnappers who were like spark-echoes, terrifying the streets of lesser Iacon. “They serve customers who have very specific kinks, and this particular one is the rarest. You’re modified frame will be a sight they can’t resist.”
“And you’re sure Jazz can’t take this mission?” Getaway had asked, hands braced on the doorframe, heels dug into the floor. He might have been resisting. “Jazz’s frame is way better suited.”
Prowl had given him that Look, the one everyone in Spec Ops knew a little too well. The one that meant a table would be flipped because Prowl would neither be dissuaded nor argued with, and woe be unto the mech who decided to push the limits.
“He is needed for pursuit. And though I don’t want to over-inflate your ego, need I remind you that when it comes to escaping impossible situations, there is none better than you,” Prowl had said.
He hadn’t pushed Getaway into the re-fit room, but his look had the physical weight of it. So Getaway had dropped his arms and skulked inside, his mental picture of what the “adjustments” to his frame would entail more than enough to make him cringe. The worst part of going undercover was having to change how you looked.
He had secondary energon storage sacs installed because they were useful, not because they were appealing or sexy or… or… something to be fetishized!
Getaway recalled the conversation now as he sashayed down the street, tossing coy looks to mechs who trundled past, their heads down, exuding disinterest in what Getaway had to sell. Not that these downtrodden, rust-eaten mechs could afford him anyway. Getaway’s persona sought richer clientele, and the swell of his chest, the peek at engorged energon sacs as they jiggled behind the protection of his chest armor, advertised such a thing.
A potential mark walked by, his gleaming paint and high-class enamel suggesting he could afford the kind of look Getaway offered. So he gathered up what remained of his dignity and sidled up to the dark-blue mech.
“Evening, sir. Fancy sharing a cube with a pretty stranger?” Getaway purred, drawing on every lesson involving seduction Jazz had drilled into his processor until his optics swam in his helm.
The mech barked a laugh at him. “Sorry, sweetplate, but you’re not my type.” Blue optics raked Getaway from top to bottom. “A little too soft for my tastes.”
“Soft?” Getaway flirted his fingers over his own clavical strut, drawing attention to the swell of his energon sacs. “But that’s the point.” He cocked a hip, resting his free hand over the dip of his waist. “Curves in all the right places, too.”
The stranger grinned, but there was a sharp edge to it, mockery more than interest. “Like I said, you just aren’t my flavor. Ring me when you earn another two meters and several tons.”
Ah. Big spender liked the big mechs. Pity.
Getaway fluttered his optical shutters. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, interjecting disappointment into his tone. “You know where to find me if you want something sweet.”
The mech laughed and shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks.” He flicked his wrist in parting and headed down the walk, still chuckling as though Getaway had told the funniest joke this side of comedy central.
Damn. Not the piece of scum Getaway was looking for.
He cycled a ventilation and scanned the streets again, lower back aching where the change in his pede structure made him walk at an odd angle. He wasn’t a seeker. Why he needed heeled feet without the thrusters to accompany them made absolutely no sense.
“Some mechs just don’t know a fun party when they see one.”
Now that smarmy tone was the kind of thing Getaway had been hunting. He turned slowly, head tilted, armor fluttering around his energon sacs.
“Oh, is that interest I hear?” he cooed as another mech with polished armor approached, a spoiler jauntily sprouting from behind his shoulders, and a cocky look on his face. Racer maybe, or rich enough to be one of their thirsty groupies.
Mech grinned with a mouthful of perfect, even denta. He had a visor, diamond-polished with an iridescent sheen. “The kind that’ll keep the two of us up all night.” He cocked his head and circled Getaway, predator to prey. “Those maxed out?”
Getaway arched his spinal strut, making the energon sacs more prominent. “Not even close, handsome.” He shifted his weight, the heels causing his aft to paint quite the sumptuous picture. “If you’ve got the creds, you can find out just how much.”
“Oh, I’ve got the creds.” The potential customer smirked and paused partially behind Getaway, leaning in and in-venting, as if tasting Getaway’s scent. “Mmm, you aren’t a cheap piece of rust, are you? You’re the real deal. What’s a sweetplate like you walking the street for? Surely you got a patron at home waiting on you.”
Never underestimate how enticing a cute little giggle can be, my mech, Jazz had advised. He was probably glowing with pride right now, listening in as he was. He and the rest of Getaway’s back-up team.
“He couldn’t keep up. So I’m looking for someone with a bit more rev to their engine,” Getaway purred and looked the mark up and down. “Think that someone is you?”
The mech circled in front of Getaway, and his glossa flicked over his lips. “Oh, I do.” He popped a hatch on his right forearm and withdrew a cred-chip, platinum-plating catching a sparkle of sunlight. “Consider this a down-payment.”
He leaned forward, chip pinched between two fingers, before he slid it right into the seam of Getaway’s cleavage, his fingertips copping a light caress as they withdrew.
Getaway tipped his head, coy and offering. “Well, sweetspark. Looks to me like you’re well on your way to a nice night.” He leaned in close, walking his fingertips down the length of the mech’s arm. “My place or yours, hot shot?”
“Mine.” Fingers flirted at the curve of Getaway’s waist. “And you can call me Fallout. Or master.”
Getaway giggled again. Master? Really? How cliché.
“Sounds good to me.” He ex-vented warm and wet into the slightly taller mech’s intake. “The name’s Joyride. And it’s my pleasure to meet you.”
“His place” turned out to be a nearby hotel. Either Fallout couldn’t wait to get his hands on his new procurement, if he were a legit customer and not the mark Getaway suspected him to be. Or this local hotel was a front for their illegal dealings, as Prowl had hypothesized some weeks back.
Everything in their research had pointed to the Nuts and Bolts as being a legitimate business. No casual inspections had turned up anything untoward. The structure matched the schematics. The owners passed a very in-depth background check. And yet, mechs had gone missing in the area nearby, often seen going into the hotel but never emerging again, and not seen on the surveillance cameras either.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Getaway ran an internal double-check, making sure both his tracking beacon and two-way internal transmitters were both running smooth as engex.
It was a nice hotel, despite its shady reputation. The door closed and locked behind Getaway’s customer, Fallout. Getaway sent a ping to his team, letting them to know to keep an optic on his tracker, and cocked his hip at his customer.
“So, what can I get you first?” he asked with a flirty lilt to his voice. He dragged his fingers over the seam of his chest armor, where the energon sacs pushed at the edges of his armor. “Full show?”
Fallout rubbed the heel of his palm over his panel. “Actually, I want a taste of that sweet mouth of yours first. Assuming you have one.”
Ah, yes, the mouthguard. Jazz had said it would create a sense of mystery, as if he were giving his customer something special every time he revealed it.
“All the better to swallow you down, master,” Getaway purred and disengaged the locks, setting his mouthplate aside. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling bare and vulnerable. “Shall I drop to my knees?”
Fallout backtracked to the berth and perched on the edge of it, his knees spreading to make room between them as he continued stroking his panel. “Yeah. But where you are now. Crawl to me.”
Getaway would have rolled his optics if that wasn’t a guarantee to break his character. “Oh, an adventurous one I see,” he said as he sank to his knees and crawled forward, putting an extra sway into his aft, aware that it made his energon sacs extra-appealing.
Fallout leaned back on one hand as his panel snicked aside, and his spike emerged, glossy with pre-fluid already, and nothing extravagant to speak of. Blue with a gray twist and a head that had a bit of a hood on it. “We’re just getting started, sweetplate.”
“Yes, we are.” Getaway nudged between Fallout’s knees and ex-vented over the tip of Fallout’s spike. More pre-fluid welled up, dribbling down the side.
A hand rested on the back of his head as Fallout’s other hand held the base of his spike, aiming it toward Getaway’s mouth. Getaway rested his fingers on Fallout’s thighs and leaned in, lapping up the pre-fluid.
It was just oral sex. Nothing he hadn’t done for a job before. So he let his processor wander elsewhere while his mouth performed on auto-pilot.
Lick, lick, suck. A spike was a spike was a spike. Getaway hummed a little as he took Fallout’s spike into his mouth, and Fallout exerted a tiny bit of pressure to the back of his head, urging him even deeper. More pre-fluid slicked his glossa.
Fallout’s hips rocked, fragging into Getaway’s mouth in sharp, quick bursts. He cycled fast ventilations, his fingers kneading the back of Getaway’s head. He felt optics on him and glanced up to see Fallout watching him intently, lips parted, visor a little glazed over.
Hm. Maybe he was just a customer and not a mark after all.
Fallout hissed an expletive, denta gritted and lips pulled back after them. “Damn, you’re good,” he said as he pushed back on Getaway’s head, his spike sliding free of Getaway’s mouth and bobbing against his lips. “But I want to rub over those pretty sacs of yours.”
Getaway licked his lips. “I thought you might.” He rose up on his knees, further loosening the armor half-concealing his energon sacs, letting the heavy orbs spill a little freer.
He leaned forward, and Fallout shivered with a little moan as his spike rubbed over the top of Getaway’s sacs, gliding across the smooth protomesh. He left streaks of pre-fluid behind.
“Oh, those are nice,” Fallout hummed and grabbed the back of Getaway’s head again, directing his mouth downward. “Give it a little lick, won’t you, sweetplate?”
Getaway let his sacs swell a bit more and rose up higher on his knees, making it easier for Fallout to thrust and rock against them. He tilted his head down, glossa extending, and caught the tip of Fallout’s spike as it rutted over the mounds of his sacs.
Fallout moaned again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he said, hips rocking harder, more pre-fluid leaving trails of it trickling over Getaway’s chest.
Fallout’s grip on Getaway’s head tightened as his free hand tangled in the berthcovers. His thighs pitched inward, trapping Getaway’s shoulders as he thrust harder against Getaway’s sacs.
Getaway tried not to roll his optics, instead licking at the tip of Fallout’s spike as it bobbed against his lips. He arched his backstrut, pushing his chest against the thrust of Fallout’s spike. Judging by the quickening of the mech’s ventilations, he was about to spill.
And Getaway was right.
Fallout groaned as he shoved Getaway’s head forward, and his spike twitched, hot splashes of transfluid painting Getaway’s chest, intake, and the bottom half of his face. It smeared over the top of his energon sacs, sticky and hot.
“Mmm, you’re the real deal, sweetplate,” Fallout said with a lazy grin, his hand sliding down Getaway’s face to lazily trail fingers through the spill painting Getaway’s energon sacs. “Makes me almost feel bad about this.”
Getaway’s optics widened as he jerked his head up. “What do you mean?” he asked, putting a quaver in his voice as he tensed his hydraulics, sending an alarmed ping to his team.
Fallout smirked at him.
It was the last thing Getaway saw before something struck him in the back of his head, striking right against a reset relay with enough force to send him into a hard reboot.
Getaway onlined in a haze, a stale taste on his glossa, and his processor spinning dizzily. Static rang through his audials, the buzz of voices a distant noise. His GPS reported back nothing except that it was offline, as was his comm system.
He frantically double-checked the link to his team and nearly sighed in relief. It remained active, transmitting his audio and visual feed to Prowl and the others. But when he tried to tap into it, to contact them, Getaway received only static. Somehow, they’d managed to block it. Wherever they’d taken him, they must have had a communication dampener.
Clarity returned slowly, more details trickling in. His mouthplate was completely gone, as were the panels over his valve, secondary port, and spike, though the last remained fully retracted. The brassiere plate protecting his energon sacs had also been removed, leaving them completely exposed and his feeders extended, a chilly airflow teasing the nozzled tips.
He was lying on his side, possibly on a berth, his hands cuffed behind his back. Peripheral sensors detected four – no, five – other Cybertronian signatures around him, one of which resembled the mech who had been his customer.
So. He’d found his way into the gang’s clutches after all. Prowl would be delighted. Which meant he and the rest of Getaway’s team better be on their way right the frag now. Because waking up without any of his protective plating was not a sign Getaway’s day was about to get any better.
“I know you’re awake, sweetplate,” someone crooned at him from above Getaway’s head. He felt a hand stroke the back of his neck, fingers teasing around the cephalic port which he only belatedly realized was no longer shielded by the protective plate.
“This’ll be a lot more fun with you conscious,” another voice claimed and Getaway followed the voice to an obnoxiously orange and white mech crouching toward the end of the berth, his hand creeping toward one of Getaway’s knees.
Getaway worked his intake. “Wha-what’s going on?” he asked, injecting fear and confusion into his voice. “If all you wanted was a freebie, we could have worked something out.”
The hand stroked over his head, and its owner chuckled. “This ain’t about creds, sweetplate. Or well, it is. But not about the creds you’re going to earn.”
The orange mech crouching near Getaway’s knees pawed at Getaway’s thighs, one hand slipping between them and upward, toward his bared valve. “Fallout already gave ya a trial run, but the rest of us like a little hands on experience ourselves.” Fingers tickled over the lips of Getaway’s valve.
Laughter echoed around him, and Getaway picked out no less than five distinct voices, only one of which he recognized as the mech who had originally purchased his services. He glanced around the room, seeing a bright purple and black mech perched behind an expensive camera. There was another mech, blinding in all white, leaning against the wall near the door. He couldn’t see Fallout and assumed that the mech was somewhere behind Getaway.
Fingers flicked at the panel covering his cephalic port. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you have a good time, too,” the mech above him purred, his voice sickly sweet and enough to make Getaway’s plating crawl.
“Oh, I always have a good time, sir,” Getaway tried to purr, injecting anxiety into his voice. Not that it was hard.
Hurry up, Prowl.
“I’m sure you do.” The mech above him chortled.
Getaway felt the cold touch of a plug against his port, connectors buzzing where they brushed against one another before someone plugged into him. The alien sensation of a foreign mind slithering into his own made Getaway shudder and his tank roil. He’d not been prepared for this! Nothing in the intel suggested one of the kidnappers was a mneumospecialist.
“You… you don’t have to do that!” Getaway cried, squirming on the berth, trying to twist his frame away from the mech below him, inching between his thighs.
Said orange mech licked his lips, his hands sliding up the length of his thighs, thumbs bracketing Getaway’s valve.
“I promise I’ll behave!” Getaway whimpered as the foreign presence tiptoed all around his processor, slicing through his firewalls and defenses as though they were cheap chips bought on the street and not spec ops grade.
“I’m sure you will. This just makes sure of– oh, what do we have here?” The rifling in Getaway’s processor paused, and the grip on his head tightened. “Cork, don’t get started just yet.”
Cork, the orange mech between Getaway’s legs, looked up with a flash of anger. “What? Why? You’re such a fragging tease, Lore. Why do you always gotta make me wait?”
“Because I know the taste of a spy when I’m inside one, slagger,” Lore replied as a chill swept through Getaway’s internals. “And what we got here, mechs, is not the sweetplate he appears to be.”
“I thought he was a little too clean to be a street-walker,” came Fallout’s familiar voice from somewhere behind Getaway.
“I’m not a spy!” Getaway said with what he hoped was an enticing squirm and smile. “I swear. I was just looking for some quick creds.”
Lore chuckled, and his grip on Getaway’s head turned into something more like a caress. “I just tore through seven layers of elite firewalls, sweetplate. I know what you are.”
“I figured somebody was going to be on us sooner or later. Didn’t think it’d be this soon,” Fallout said.
Cork frowned and whined. The pads of his fingers stroked along the insides of Getaway’s thighs, making his armor crawl with revulsion. “So what? I don’t get to play with ‘im cause he’s a spy?”
“It just means we can’t sell him,” said the camera-mech. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still make some good creds off him.”
The mech leaning against the wall near the door frowned, his visor reflecting harsh angles of light. “We should just kill him,” he suggested. “The creds aren’t worth the trouble.”
“And waste this opportunity?” Lore almost purred. “Why Equalizer, you have no imagination. Or generosity. Little Joyride came here to do a job, didn’t he? As Playback said, it would be a shame to let him fail.”
“A big shame,” Cork agreed with a bob of his head and a hungry look at Getaway’s array. He licked his lips as he caressed Getaway’s valve, which twitched at the soft touch. “He’s eager for it, even. Ya should see how much he’s dripping.”
It was a program, idiots! Getaway seethed behind clenched denta. It was pointless to argue with criminals. They would only taunt him more, if they believed him to be the slightest bit ashamed.
Equalizer shifted his weight, from one foot to the other, white paint flashing in the bright flood lights. “Then we kill him later.”
“When we’re done,” the camera mech – Playback — agreed, sounding distracted and barely interested in the proceedings. “Vids like this are always a big seller.”
Vids? Fantastic. Getaway’s newly altered frame was going to be splashed all over the darknet, self-servicing fodder for all of the weirdly twisted. His team better get here sooner rather than later. Weren’t they tracking him by now? How far could Fallout have taken him?
Movement in his peripheral vision alerted Getaway to Fallout crouching down next to the berth. “Snuff is a big, big seller,” he said and grinned as he patted Getaway on the cheek. “Now we can’t go killin’ all of our pets so each vid is a hot commodity. That means you’re going to make us a fortune, Joyride.”
“You won’t be free long enough to make that fortune,” Getaway ground out, his plating crawling at Fallout’s touch, and the way Lore above him kept stroking his head and lingering in his port. His presence was poisonous. “My team–”
“Your team?” Lore’s tone was mild and amused as he cut Getaway off. “Oh, you mean the tracker embedded in your system? I took the liberty of removing that. They won’t find you.” His field became a nauseating press, bearing down on Getaway like a physical restraint.
Getaway worked his intake. He didn’t believe Lore for a second. Yes, the slagger had his fingers deep in Getaway’s system, but he wasn’t Jazz, and Jazz had been the one to program all of Getaway’s protocols. No way Lore found all of the tricks and hidden caches.
Maybe he delayed Prowl and the others, but they were coming. Getaway was sure of it.
Lore chuckled, and he pinched at the port where he’d plugged into Getaway. “Trust me, little spy. We’ve been at this too long to get caught now.”
“Wouldn’t it be a waste to kill him?” Playback asked, sounding bored from behind the camera. “You could always rewire him like the others. Sell him afterward.”
“Nah. Sometimes, it doesn’t take. And then we’d have a spy who knows too much wandering around alive. This is the best way to get our money’s worth,” Equalizer said with a smirk, his optics dark and hungry as he watched Getaway on the berth.
He had the look of a predator, Equalizer did. One who liked tearing up his prey and leaving its innards out for the carrion-eaters, while only consuming the tastiest bits for itself. Of the five mechs in the room, Getaway wanted Equalizer to touch him the least.
“I’m not for sale!” Getaway hissed, squirming in his bonds, though his motions were dull and sluggish, like he didn’t have complete control of his frame. Probably due to Lore rifling through his processor, getting sticky metaphorical fingers in all of Getaway’s components.
Fallout barked a laugh. “Is that right, sweetplate? Well, the cred stick in your subspace says otherwise. Don’t it?”
Cork’s hands slid up Getaway’s thighs toward his bared array, fingers stroking his rim. “Who cares?,” he whined, and traced a circle around Getaway’s mostly hidden anterior node. To his relief, it didn’t provoke so much as a stir of pleasure. “Can we get started now? You’re wasting all this time talking.”
Behind them, Fallout snickered. “Go ahead, Cork.”
“The camera’s ready,” Playback added.
Cork’s engine growled and lust flashed in his optics. “Finally,” he said and snatched Getaway by the hips, twisting him onto his back, his bound arms pinned beneath him, energon sacs bouncing and swaying on his chest.
Cork wedged himself between Getaway’s legs, shoved his thighs wide, and smirked over Getaway’s valve. “This poor thing looks hardly used,” he said.
Another bark of laughter spilled from Fallout. “We’ll change that soon enough.”
Getaway clenched his denta. Endure, he told himself. He’d been trained for this. He knew it was a possibility. It wasn’t the worst thing. It was just interfacing.
Cork laughed and leaned closer, ex-venting warm and wet over Getaway’s valve. He licked his lips again before his glossa found Getaway’s rim and gave it a long taste. He hummed in his intake and licked some more, mouth discovering Getaway’s node to treat it to a lingering suck.
It felt… good. Sensation drizzled through Getaway’s array. He swallowed down a strangled moan and dimmed his optics. His hips moved of their own accord, canting toward Cork’s mouth, demanding more. He hated, in that moment, the small programming thread he’d installed to make it easier to play the part of buymech.
That was when Lore stopped fiddling with his port, the sensation of his presence inside Getaway still lingering, like an infection, but his hands wandered. They slid over Getaway’s shoulders, to his energon sacs, and Lore started to grope them, fingers squeezing and sliding over the smooth protomesh. He found Getaway’s fuel nozzles and pinched them, causing a shock of pleasure to burst through Getaway’s sensor net.
An unwanted moan escaped his mouth, his backstrut arching, pushing his sacs into Lore’s hands. They were supposed to feel good. That was how the programming worked, but now Getaway despised that fact. Between Lore’s pinching, and Cork’s determined licking, arousal pulsed a steady beat through his systems.
His spike started to thicken in its sheath. Lubricant gathered in his valve, until Cork was able to lap up the first drop with a pleased hum.
“It’s nice when they squirm,” he said, conversationally against Getaway’s valve. “But it’s better when they enjoy it.”
“It makes for a better video,” Playback commented. If it was possible to sound bored while filming a fragging vid, Playback had perfected the art.
Lore chuckled and gave Getaway’s energon sacs a squeeze. “And their shame sweetens the flavor.”
Getaway growled, his engine revving with a mixture of arousal and fury. “You’re sick,” he seethed through clenched denta as his lower half twitched and rocked against Cork’s mouth, eager for every lick and suckle.
“It’s a mad, mad world.” Lore pinched Getaway’s nozzles and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger.
Getaway gasped before he could swallow it down, pleasure arcing through the entirety of his frame. His plating juddered and more lubricant dripped out of his valve as Cork licked into him, nasal ridge applying a nice pressure to Getaway’s anterior nub. Cork was enthusiastic, determined, and he made sloppy, wet noises as he licked and sucked until Getaway’s spike emerged with a snick, and his vents came in sharp pants.
Cork made a sound of outright glee and briefly abandoned Getaway’s valve, his glossa laving a long lick up the length of Getaway’s spike. He suckled at the tip, glossa prodding at his transfluid slit.
“Mmm, Joyride here’s a wet one,” Cork said around his mouthful, oral lubricant dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. “Tasty.”
“You’re disgusting,” Fallout said with a laugh.
“To each his own.” Cork smirked and closed his mouth around the tip of Getaway’s spike, laving the sensitive crown with several sweeps of his glossa.
Getaway gasped, his spike throbbing, and he thrust into empty space as Cork abandoned his spike in favor of messily lapping at his valve again. Arousal crackled in Getaway’s array like a hot fire.
He didn’t want to overload. Not like this. Not with the camera pointed at him, the five pairs of optics devouring his frame, with Cork’s mouth on his valve, and Lore’s fingers on his sac, the energon-filled mesh bouncing and bobbing on his chest. He didn’t want the noises clawing out of his intake, like whimpers and moans.
But overload he did, tasting energon as he bit his glossa in a desperate attempt to swallow the pathetic sounds in his vocalizer. He bucked against Cork’s lips, riding the eager mouth, his spike bobbing as his valve rippled with pleasure.
Lore chuckled and cupped Getaway’s sacs. He moved his hips, thrusting a little against Getaway’s back, the slide of his damp spike leaving streaks behind.
Cork purred against Getaway’s valve and rose to his feet, one hand working furiously at his spike, pumping himself with eager abandon. He licked his lips as if savoring Getaway’s taste, optics bright and hungry. His face was smeared with Getaway’s lubricant and he made no effort to wipe it away.
“You’re sweet,” he murmured, something in his gaze too wild for Getaway’s comfort. Unhinged even. “I like the way you squirm,” he breathed and then he overloaded, spike spurting all over Getaway’s twitching valve, his pressurized spike, the insides of his thighs and his pelvic array.
Transfluid didn’t burn. But Getaway felt the sear of it splashing on his armor anyway. It felt like being marked, treated as less than, and he despised it.
“Get out of the way, freak.” Equalizer surged into view, rudely elbowing Cork away as the orange and white mech stood there dazed, hand around his depressurizing spike.
Cork stumbled with an outraged hiss, but obediently moved aside as Equalizer pushed his way between Getaway’s thighs, his fingers shoving into Getaway’s valve, three at a time, without any preamble. They burned, and Getaway flinched, and Equalizer laughed, husky and cruel.
“My turn,” he said.
Getaway groaned, fruitlessly trying to squirm away. Equalizer’s grip was hard and unyielding, the press of his field equally so. He was a mech who wanted to hurt, and Getaway had no illusions about how much pain he’d cause.
Lore chuckled and rolled his hips, thrusting harder against Getaway’s back, his spike leaving trails on Getaway’s shoulders. Lore’s hands squeezed Getaway’s sacs, making the energon shift and gurgle and the dermal mesh ache.
Equalizer’s fingers vanished, and Getaway had a moment of relief before they returned, this time prodding at Getaway’s aft port. The smaller entrance would have resisted, were Equalizer any gentler, but two fingers coated in a smear of lubricant and transfluid pushed into Getaway’s aft with a stretching burn that made Getaway hiss.
His legs trembled. A sound escaped him before he could swallow it. A whimper, a whine, pain that burbled up and spilled free.
“Let’s see if we can’t change your perspective, shall we?” Lore purred as Equalizer’s fingers kept fragging a burning stretch into Getaway’s aft. He supposed he should be grateful Equalizer bothered to try and stretch and lube him up even a little.
Something started wriggling about inside Getaway, in his neural pathways and his processor. The painful burn shifted to a liquid warmth. The tension in his hydraulics and cables eased. Pleasure, false as it was, washed through his thoughts, turning them dull.
He felt sick. Nauseous. And no amount of processor-washing could change that. His tanks lurched, even as the desire started to build inside of him.
“There. That’s better.” One of Lore’s hands stroked Getaway’s head. “Isn’t it nicer when you can relax?”
Getaway clenched his denta around the moan pushing at his glossa. His optical shutters clattered as he shivered. His hips rocked against the push of Equalizer’s fingers.
Where the frag was his team? Shouldn’t they be here by now? He’d have checked his chronometer, if only it wasn’t spinning nonsensical numbers at him. Time no longer had definition.
The berth rattled, dipped beside Getaway. He looked, through a haze crowding the edge of his vision, as Fallout clambered onto the berth. As he straddled Getaway’s belly, spike thick and visible, already dripping pre-fluid.
“Can’t let an opportunity like this pass me by,” he said, a breathless need in his vocals, his lips peeled back over his denta as he fondled Getaway’s sacs. “I’ve been dying to have more fun with these since I saw your sweet aft on the street.”
Getaway’s processor spun. It was dizzying, to fight the fake lust and the sensations in his frame.
“Frag you,” he gritted out.
Fallout rolled his hips forward, spike poking at Getaway’s energon sacs, rutting over and against them, leaving smears of fluid behind. “No thanks. I’d rather enjoy these instead.”
Getaway squirmed, vents coming in eager pants, both horror and lust. He felt Equalizer’s hands on his hips, too tight, too hard, too willing to dent. He felt the width of Equalizer between his thighs, and the blunt head of Equalizer’s spike against his aft port, prodding and prodding, threatening to impale.
Fallout was hot and heavy above him, eager and sloppy as he squeezed and fondled, as he thrust between the valley of Getaway’s sacs and squeezed his spike between them. His thumbs swept over the peaked nozzles, and a wave of pleasure made Getaway’s head spin. It was almost enough to distract him from the sudden burn in his aft as Equalizer plunged into him, spike a spear that filled him in a single thrust.
Getaway grunted, backstrut arching as little as he was able with Fallout on top of him. His shoulders ached, wrists strained.
Equalizer pumped into him, a steady, quick pace. His hands slid to Getaway’s thighs, urging his legs around Equalizer’s waist as he leaned forward, higher and higher, until Getaway was tilted and Fallout found it easier to frag his energon sacs. Fallout’s spike plunged between them, tip painting Getaway’s lips with pre-fluid again and again.
Lore seemed content to observe, while the disgusting-oil of his presence continued to manipulate Getaway’s processor, pushing more and more arousal at him, until his valve clenched on nothing, his spike throbbed, and his aft tightened around Equalizer’s spike. Even more so when Equalizer shifted one hand to molesting Getaway’s valve, stroking his rim and his external nodes, making heat blossom in Getaway’s groin.
Getaway’s frame moved, twitching and rolling with the stimulation. He began to meet Equalizer’s thrusts. He rocked up against Fallout’s spike, and the squeeze of Fallout’s hands, and the occasional pinch of his nozzles by Lore’s fingertips. Each touch was another shock of pleasure, another buzz of need in his lines.
He overloaded again, with a bitten off sound, lubricant spilling from his valve, his vents roaring. Purge threatened to rise, until Lore forced it down, smoothing over the disgust and chasing it away with waves of extended ecstasy.
Someone laughed. In the haze, Getaway wasn’t sure who.
“Little spy is made for fragging, isn’t he?”
“He’s overloaded twice already.”
“Probably bends over for anyone even without the creds.”
Laughter surrounded him. Getaway tried to growl, but all that came out of his intake was a moan, one desperate and needy, the result of Lore’s manipulation and entirely false.
A sharp burst of pain radiated through his groin. It took Getaway too long to realize it was because Equalizer had slapped his spike, and then roughly pinched the tip of it. There was no gentleness in that mech, only the urge to cause pain.
“Here.” Movement in his peripheral vision and a greedy voice forced Getaway to sharpen his senses.
Cork moved into view, a contraption of straps and metal dangling from his fingers. He grinned, all denta, as he handed it over to Lore.
“Put this on ‘im,” Cork said with a lascivious look down at Getaway. “Every pretty pet needs a pretty accessory, eh?”
Lore laughed. Equalizer paused in his fragging and even Fallout stilled as they watched the tangle of straps hover over Getaway’s face. Lore’s fingers untangled it, loops and coils of metal mesh unrecognizable.
At least, until Lore started to fit it over Getaway’s face. He recognized it for what it was then, as the wide, metal ring was forced into his mouth and lodged behind his denta. The straps wound around his face, cinching tight at the back of his head. He tried to turn his head, to make it difficult, but there were more hands to keep him still than he could fight and soon his mouth was stretched wide by the gag.
“Better,” Fallout purred as he started to thrust again, hands squeezing Getaway’s sacs, his spike prodding between them, bumping against the stretch of Getaway’s lips around the gag.
Equalizer started to move again, shoving hard and deep into Getaway’s aft, the slap of metal on metal harsh and obscene. He muttered curses, occasionally pausing to smack Getaway’s valve and anterior node with the flat of his palm, making Getaway jolt. It should have been painful, startling, enough to wilt his arousal. But Lore’s lingering infestation turned it all into liquid pleasure, until Getaway was moaning, unable to conceal the noises with his mouth forced open.
Fallout panted, mouth slack, optics glazed. He squeezed Getaway’s energon sacs until the metalmesh threatened to split. He rode them harder and faster, spike spearing between them, jabbing at Getaway’s mouth, until he abruptly curled inward and overloaded, transfluid splattering everywhere. It painted Getaway’s sacs in thick stripes, and coated his face, stray drops landing in his open mouth and on his glossa.
Where was his damn team? Getaway raged inwardly, shame and disgust spilling together as Fallout humped the last of his arousal against Getaway’s sacs. As he rose up, depressurizing spike hanging limp, free hand gathering up globs of his transfluid and smearing it over Getaway’s mouth and cheeks.
Getaway tried to tune it out. He focused inward, on the tenuous connection to his team, still transmitting. By Primus it was still transmitting. Sights. Sounds. Sensations. They could see and hear everything. They were witness to this humiliation as much as that camera was, recording it for prosecution’s sake.
Nausea roiled in Getaway’s tanks. He groaned.
“Someone take over so I can have a turn,” a dull voice said through the haze. Playback maybe. The only one who managed to sound bored while filming a gang rape.
“Wait until I’m done,” Equalizer grunted before he pulled out and gripped Getaway’s hips. “Flip him over, Lore. I want to pound his aft.”
“And I want his mouth,” someone else whined. Cork, Getaway thought.
Did it really matter?
Hands snatched Getaway’s frame. His processor spun as he was lifted, turned over onto his belly without a care for his comfort, sacs squished against the berth, hands still bound behind him. Staticky vision gave him a brief look at the mech still cabled to him – Lore was solid blue with garish green and gold stripes highlighting the blocky angles of his frame. He looked familiar, though Getaway couldn’t place where, and the lack of identifiable kibble suggested he was a monoformer.
Then orange and white moved back into his field of vision, directly in front of him. Cork knelt on the berth, his hand around the base of his spike – garishly orange with thin white swirls that made Getaway dizzy just to look at. Cork moved closer, eagerly clumsy, one hand gripping Getaway’s head, the other guiding his spike to Getaway’s mouth.
“This is my favorite part,” Cork panted as the head of his spike slipped through the ring of the gag and he released his grip on the length, revealing that there was an odd roundness to the base of his spike. It swelled outward, not so much that it wouldn’t get through the ring gag, but enough to be noticeable.
Getaway hoped that bump wasn’t what he thought it was. He’d heard of those mods, but he’d never seen anyone with one.
Cork probably meant to fill Getaway’s mouth slowly, but Equalizer suddenly started to frag him in earnest, plunging into Getaway’s aft with quick, deep strokes. He fragged Getaway like he was desperate for overload, his hands clenching tight enough to leave dents, his hips banging against Getaway’s aft, and shoving him forward, onto Cork’s spike.
Cork gripped Getaway’s head with both hands. “Frag him softer, damn it,” he whined as he eased back, trying to keep to his own pace. “You’re messing up my plans.”
“Shut it, Cork,” Equalizer panted and slammed into Getaway, hard enough for the clang of metal on metal to echo. “I’m doing this… my way.”
Equalizer grunted, spike rasping a searing path through Getaway’s port, scraping over his nodes, and then he slammed against Getaway’s aft seconds before he felt the hot flood of transfluid inside his port. A strangled noise, the bastard sparkling of a moan and a gurgle, escaped Equalizer as he pumped his hips, spurt after spurt of transfluid filling Getaway’s aft, until Equalizer abruptly jerked back and out. The last spray painted Getaway’s aft, and Equalizer’s palm slapped over it.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said.
“Damn it, Equalizer, take over for me,” someone else snapped.
Equalizer grumbled, but the rest of the conversation was lost as Getaway’s attention was tugged back toward Cork and the orange spike invading his mouth. Cork thrust into him deeper now, the head of his spike nudging the back of Getaway’s intake. He rocked slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, filling Getaway’s mouth with the taste of him.
“Playback’s gentler at least,” Cork said, his optics dazed, fingers stroking Getaway’s head in a parody of affection. “Means I can take my time with ya.”
Getaway would have offered a snarky comment, had his mouth been unoccupied, but all he managed was a terrible moan as Lore ramped up the false pleasure and a spike suddenly pushed into his valve, much thicker than all the others, but smooth at least. This, he assumed, was Playback, who filled every inch of Getaway, grinding over nodes with ease.
Playback set up a quick, efficient pace, like he only wanted to overload because he was aroused and it was troublesome. His vents came in sharp, stuttered bursts, his grip on Getaway’s hips perfunctory.
Cork chuckled and started fragging Getaway’s mouth slowly, spikehead brushing the back of Getaway’s intake opposite of the rhythm of Playback grinding on Getaway’s ceiling node. There was never a moment Getaway wasn’t filled, and this parody of a lover’s embrace made nausea roil in his tanks, for all that pleasure seared through his lines and made his valve throb.
“Let’s see if we can’t ramp up the tension, shall we?” Lore purred from somewhere in Getaway’s peripheral vision, and then those ghostly fingers slipped through Getaway’s processor, tugging on command lines.
Getaway groaned as his spike throbbed harder at Lore’s command, spilling more pre-fluid until it came in a steady trickle. It bobbed at the apex of his thighs, swaying to the rhythm of Cork and Playback fragging him. He was desperate, in that moment, for someone to touch his spike, and he started to hump the berth, eager for stimulation.
“Nice work,” Playback said as he ground against Getaway’s aft, and then hands circled Getaway’s spike, pumping him in long squeezes that forced out beads of transfluid.
His frame trembled. Cork pumped harder into his mouth, one hand curling around the back of Getaway’s head to push him against Cork’s groin, until his nasal ridge brushed bright orange armor. Cork’s spike slid down his intake, forcing Getaway to shift to secondary venting.
“This is going… to be… so good,” Cork panted as he ground against Getaway’s face, little jerks of his hips that barely counted as thrusts.
His spike throbbed, and Getaway’s internal sensors registered spurts of transfluid sliding down his intake. He dared think of relief, that Cork was done now and would leave him in peace. Surely his team would be here soon. Surely.
But then the base of Cork’s spike started to swell. Slow and barely noticeable at first, until Getaway’s glossa felt the pressure against it. His mouth opened wider, jaw aching, as the base of the spike swelled and swelled, forming a ball-like knot which prevented Cork from pulling out.
Cork laughed and held Getaway’s head tightly, jerking it against his groin one last time, fully seating his spike in Getaway’s mouth. It hurt. It was humiliating. It was exactly the mod Getaway feared Cork had.
The swelling – the knot – continued, pinning his glossa inside his mouth, straining the limits of his jaw, choking him. The spike remained in his intake, purge protocols rippling in struggle to remove it, and beeping obnoxiously as they failed. His jaw hinge stung, then ached, then sent lancing waves of pain through his mouth, until Lore’s ghostly fingers wisped them away, tangling them into the false pleasure.
His tormentors laughed.
Cork released his hold on Getaway’s head, now that Getaway couldn’t pull back. He reached down, pinched Getaway’s nose, cutting off what little air supply he could gulp down, forcing him to rely on his lateral vents. Playback fragged into him harder, tugging him back and dragging Cork’s spike with him. His intake ached, scraped raw.
Dizziness attacked from all angles. Pleasure spun through his lines, wild with charge. The hand on his spike was the best sensation of it all, fingers teasing his transfluid slid and pumping him expertly, drawing out the first vestige of real pleasure, to go with the false ecstasy Lore fed him.
More transfluid spurted into his mouth. It slid down his intake, into his tanks. He couldn’t taste it, a small favor, but he could feel it seeping through his intake. His tanks roiled with disgust. Cork laughed, his amusement flavored with lust, his spike pulsing against Getaway’s glossa.
Pleasure built inside of him nonetheless. His valve rippled around Playback’s spike, siphoning charge from the mech’s nodes. His spike throbbed eagerly, pre-fluid making for a slick stroke.
Overload struck him like an attack, it hurt as much as it felt good. It sent static over his armor, made his valve clamp tight, and his spike spurt a load into the fist of whoever was stroking him. Lore’s manipulations ramped up the pleasure, making Getaway’s armor gape, his engines rev, his field scream need, but they couldn’t completely hide the disgust in his field either.
“Oh, that’s delicious,” Lore purred.
Cork’s hand stroked around Getaway’s head as he circled his hips, venting bursts of heat down against Getaway’s face. “You’ve a talent for breakin’ ‘em, Lore.”
“That I do.”
Playback grunted and slammed into Getaway, hips making little jerks as he abruptly overloaded, spilling his load inside of Getaway’s valve, joining the mess his companions left behind. Like all else, Playback was perfunctory. He didn’t linger, withdrawing as soon as the pleasure had passed.
He pulled out, presumably to go back to his camera. Getaway’s bared components twitched at the brush of cooler air against his raw and exposed array. His valve lips twitched. His aft rim contracted around nothing. He felt hot and sticky, dirty.
Someone was quick to take his place, their hand smacking across Getaway’s aft in a harsh meet of metal on metal. The strike was jarring, and it stung. Getaway jerked, his mouth tugging on Cork’s spike, and to his relief, the knot which seemed to have shrank just a little.
They struck him again, open-handed palms, first one aft plate and then the other. Whoever it was vented hotly and loudly. Getaway’s frame jolted. To move backward would tug on Cork’s spike and put him closer to the pain. To move forward would have him crawling into Cork’s lap.
There was nowhere to go.
He checked, again, the link to his team. It held dead air – they couldn’t contact him. But it was active. Transmitting. How long had it been? He didn’t even know.
Where were they?
The mech behind him smacked his ass again, hard enough to leave a dent, for a cry of pain to be muffled by Cork’s spike before it abruptly slipped free. The knot popped past the gag ring, and Getaway’s lips, leaving a trail of transfluid in its wake.
Getaway’s intake immediately rebelled, sending him into a coughing fit, his tanks squeezing as they sought to purge, but Lore’s manipulations refused to initiate the protocols. Getaway coughed, flecks of transfluid dribbling from the corner of his mouth, a low and broken moan wreathed in static surrounding it.
“That’s a good look for you, spy.” Cork flicked Getaway’s forehead and sat back on his heels, spike hanging limp, knot still partially inflated. “Make sure you get a close up, Playback. You know they like to pay big money for coppers like this getting it good.”
Getaway dredged up a glare, but his vocalizer only spat static. His shoulders ached; his hands formed fists behind his back. His processor spun.
No, that was the room. The berth? No, they’d flipped him onto his back, his strut arched, energon sacs swaying and bobbing on his chest. It was Fallout between his legs, pushing into his aft without abandon, a look of crazed desire on his face. He licked his lips as he thrust, and his hands found Getaway’s sacs, giving them a squeeze, hard enough to force a squeak of pain.
Getaway squirmed, tried to wriggle backward on the berth, but Cork leaned over him, putting his hands on Getaway’s shoulders. He grinned as his half-pressurized spike kept slapping the side of Getaway’s face.
There was no getting away from Fallout’s vicious fragging. He plunged into Getaway’s aft with abandon, his hands squeezing and gripping Getaway’s sacs without pause. But that wasn’t enough for him, because he started slapping them, watching them jiggle. His fingers found Getaway’s nozzles and pinched them hard, as if he intended to rip them off.
Pain lanced through Getaway’s frame. His back arched in a soundless scream, an icy fire racing outward from the point of contact. Fallout pinched and tugged, and it was if someone had taken a branding iron to the nozzles.
Until the lancing pain turned to liquid pleasure. Until the ebb of Lore’s connection to him turned into a blinding wave all over again. Getaway stopped trying to twist away from the slaps. He started wriggling toward them, angling his frame to be better struck, all without his permission. He whined like a mechanimal desperate to breed. His valve clenched on nothing, and wept lubricant out of desperation. His spike thickened again, seeping pre-fluid, throbbing for touch.
Fallout overloaded quickly, his transfluid searing over Getaway’s bruised sensors. Or maybe he overloaded slowly, and he’d been fragging forever. Getaway wasn’t sure anymore. Awareness started to dim, fluctuating wildly between pain and pleasure, another overload whiting out sensation until he crashed back into the swollen, hot, aching thing that was his frame.
Fallout pulled out and someone else took his place. Someone who flipped Getaway back onto his belly, face and energon sacs smashed into the berth.
“My turn,” Lore growled, and shoved into Getaway’s valve, his spike modded with ridges and bumps and nubs that rasped over Getaway’s lining despite the mixture of fluids inside of him. It burned and tore and Getaway gasped, going limp.
Or maybe he went limp because Lore still had fingers in his processor and was still turning his thoughts to mush. He wanted to fight, wanted to scream and curse and squirm. But he kept melting and pushing back toward Lore, demanding more of the agony.
Lore laughed, something dark and rasping. He slid a hand around Getaway’s frame, up his body, fingers wrapping around Getaway’s intake. The other arm curled around Getaway’s waist, pulling him back and up. The pressure on his intake made his processor glitch, and he swore he tasted Cork’s transfluid again.
Overload hovered on the edge. His energon sacs swayed and bobbed from the force of Lore’s thrusts. He felt the heaviness of the others watching. The weight of the camera recording. Lore’s spike dragged over his nodes, demanding Getaway’s pleasure, as did the heavy touch on his processor, fingers deep in his pleasure center.
Ecstasy struck him with a garbled, pained sound. A dying noise. Getaway’s vision spun, his fans roaring to dispel heat and useless for it.
Lore laughed again, menacing this time, the tips of his fingers pressing in on Getaway’s intake. “And now,” he murmured against Getaway’s audial. “I really get to have my fun.”
Cold, icier than space, scraped down Getaway’s spinal strut. His spark dropped into his belly as every spark of pleasure in his frame abruptly turned to fear. Dark, drowning terror. He screamed as if someone held a blade to his spark, as if he stood on the precipice of a smelter’s pit, as if someone held his brain module in their teeth.
It wasn’t until he tasted smoke on his glossa that he realized he was screaming and shouting for them to “stop, stop, stop” and “help, help, help” and they were laughing and Lore was fragging him, his fingers getting tighter and tighter. Getaway felt like he were falling into an abyss, no berth beneath him, nothing but the hot, stinging burn of Lore’s spike in his valve, and the threat of a grip on his intake.
Snuff is worth everything on the black market, a small part of Getaway’s conscious reminded him. The logical part that tracked all of these horrible threats to society and made sure they were ended. The work that he did with his team was important for this very reason.
They must have forgotten him. They couldn’t find him. They wouldn’t find him. It was late. Too late.
Getaway moaned, and there was nothing of pleasure in it. His world was spinning, a sea of agony.
Lore fragged him harder, pounding into him, as though he sought to drive Getaway through the berth. His grip on Getaway’s neck tightened, and the cable connecting them spilled Lore’s commands faster and faster. Pain, pleasure, terror, Getaway couldn’t distinguish any of it. His processor floated, and he felt removed from it all, unable to gasp for a ventilation or notice anything beyond the sensation.
White-hot agony burst through Getaway’s head. He shrieked, thrashing, as Lore’s connection abruptly disengaged, leaving him staggering with control of his frame suddenly his again. His senses exploded: sight, sound, sensation.
His valve burned, his aft port on fire. His shoulders screamed for mercy. His energon sacs throbbed. He heard shouting, the discharge of weaponry, felt the startled bursts of multiple fields, and somewhere in the mess, something familiar. The warming touch of his partner.
Relief struck. Getaway dropped onto the berth, face-first, and didn’t have the energy to roll over onto his side.
“Getaway!” That was Jazz, shouting his name. “Slaggit, grab him!”
Hands on his frame, turning him. The world a blur of colors and agony and shame. He tasted energon, realizing he’d bit his glossa.
“Damn, partner. Look at you.” Skids’ voice, his face a blur to Getaway’s optics. “Can you hear me? Getaway? Getaway!”
He snapped out of the memory with a little shudder, one he was too slow to hide. He thanked Primus he’d decided to make his mouthplate permanent after that disaster of a mission. It meant he didn’t have a grimace to conceal.
“Sorry, mechs, got a little lost in thought.” Getaway rolled his shoulders, projecting ease toward his companions. “What was the question?”
Skids gave him a look, like he was trying to piece something together, but given his limited memories, only had a few snippets of it. Lucky for him. Lucky he didn’t have to remember that mission gone horribly wrong. It should have never come to that, the video which still made it onto the darknet, no matter how vigorously they tried tracking it.
Keystroke, however, just laughed and leaned forward, the garish orange highlights of his frame hearkening back to a memory Getaway would have rather soon forgot. “We asked if you were interested in joining us tonight. For a little wet and wild fun.” He winked, mouth stretched wide in a grin.
Beside him, Atomizer leaned back in his chair, one foot braced against the table’s edge. “I don’t know about the wild part, but fun is definitely on the table.” Lust radiated off him in waves.
It made Getaway’s tanks churn. Keystroke’s propensity for group bouts of interfacing, interconnecting cables and nights spent drowning in ecstasy, were starting to become something of a weekly occurrence on the Lost Light. He propositioned anyone and everyone and while they were perfect for letting off steam without worrying about unnecessary attachments… Getaway wanted nothing to do with being bared like that in a room with more than one mech.
“Fun,” Getaway echoed, and lifted his shoulders in what he hoped was a shrug. “Appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”
“Awww, that’s too bad. I hear your kind has all the best moves.” Keystroke grinned and winked, lascivious as always. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
‘Your kind.’ Getaway knew what Keystroke meant, but his processor drifted to that disaster of a mission nevertheless. He still had the mounts for the energon sacs built into his frame, though the mesh pouches were not attached.
He hadn’t worn them since. He’d outright refused. And for once, Prowl had not pushed. The next mission of similar design had been Jazz’s. He’d been lucky. It had gone off without a hitch. No humiliating vids on the darknet to ruin him.
Getaway fidgeted with his engex, straw bobbing up in the glass. “Yeah. I do.”
Keystroke and Atomizer got up from the table, jostling each other as they moved to join another couple of mechs, presumably for the wild orgy they intended to have. In their absence, Skids slid closer to Getaway, a small frown on his lips.
Getaway flashed calm into his field. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, and took a sip of his engex through the intake valve, something no spike would ever enter again. It wasn’t like Skids could remember why he’d be uncomfortable anyway.
Or that Getaway had confessed to him once, months after the mission, that he still felt Lore inside him sometimes, turning pain to pleasure, making him aroused when he was afraid, and he loathed it so much. Like an itch he couldn’t scratch, an infection he couldn’t cure.
“Everything’s just fine,” Getaway lied.
It was getting easier every day.