[G1] With Benefits - Part Eight
May. 23rd, 2014 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: Friendly reminder that this series is NSFW. At all. It is also self-beta'd. I was very inspired by ladydragon76's Surprise, it's a Sex Chair! for this part as well. Go read. It's loads of smexy fun.
Title: With Benefits
Universe: G1
Description: Optimus is about to have a very good day; he just doesn't know it yet. Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt.
Part Eight: Batteries Not Included
Characters: SkyfirexPerceptorxBeachcomberxWheeljackxOptimus
Enticements: Oral, Sex toys, Sex chair, Sticky, Tactile
Optimus onlines slowly, his HUD reporting no errors, no glitches, and no warnings. In fact, he's registering a state of calm he hasn't felt in months. It's incredible.
Optimus finishes cycling up and tests his limbs to find them completely responsive. He's clean, fully fueled, and firing on all cylinders.
He's also alone.
A sigh flutters from Optimus' vents. Enjoyable, yes, but sharing a berth is also fun when carried to the next morning.
Perhaps next time.
Optimus sits up, hand sliding to brace himself, and nearly knocks down a datapad. He fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor, finger sliding across the screen and activating it. There's a message for him.
He scans the contents, a smile on his lipplates. The science team has extended an invitation for him to preview their newest design in Perceptor's laboratory. This is a wise decision considering the often volatile nature of Wheeljack's workshop.
Optimus is beginning to see a pattern. He's had his suspicions for awhile now, several overloads ago in fact, but now he's more certain. All of this has Jazz's designation written all over it. And since his third-in-command has gone to so much trouble, Optimus will continue to play along.
After all, it's hardly a burden. Oh, the sacrifices he makes.
Optimus chuckles to himself and slides off the berth, pleased to find his cables nice and relaxed and his frame humming with satisfaction. He feels like a new mech, fresh off the assembly line, and it's a welcome sensation.
He leaves the medbay and makes for Perceptor's laboratory, located opposite the Ark from Wheeljack's. As he walks, he checks the messages he had routed to a queue before his brief nap.
There is only one, another gift from Mirage. Either the spy truly enjoys voyeurism or Jazz has assigned him such a duty for the day. Optimus wouldn't be surprised if it were a combination of both: Jazz had ordered and Mirage had eagerly leapt to comply.
He'll have to thank them both then. His growing collection of videos is a wonderful and useful gift.
Jazz is probably getting copies, too, now that Optimus considers it. Jazz wouldn't be one to miss such an opportunity, devious little saboteur that he is.
Optimus shakes his helm, amusement fluttering through his spark. Whatever Jazz's plan, Optimus is not going to complain. He's enjoying himself immensely.
He arrives at Perceptor's laboratory and finds the main door open in obvious invitation. He hears several voices deep in conversation and when he walks in, finds four of his top scientists crowded around a single table.
Skyfire, by virtue of being the tallest, peers over all their helms at whatever it is that has captivated their attention.
Beachcomber is the first to notice Optimus' arrival. “Optimus,” he greets with a grin and a thumbs up and a bounce of his pedes. “Thanks for joining us.”
He holds up the datapad. “You did extend the invitation,” Optimus replies, attempting to peer around Beachcomber but unable to discern what they are working on.
“That we did,” Perceptor agrees with a twitch of his shoulder-mounted scope. “Can we assume that you are willing to be our test subject?”
Judging by the pink gleam of Wheeljack's indicators, Optimus doesn't know if he should be wary or eager. Though Wheeljack assures him that the only time he causes destruction is when he intends to.
Optimus smiles. “I have been putting myself in the capable hands of my Autobots all day. Why should now be any different?”
“Because Wheeljack is involved,” Skyfire jokes, prompting said engineer to roll his optics.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm dangerous,” Wheeljack drawls, stepping away from the table. “Lucky for all of you, that's not the case today.”
Optimus laughs. “For what it's worth, I trust you.”
“He knows we don't mean any harm by it,” Beachcomber says, patting Wheeljack on the hip. “But enough talk, eh, my mechs? Shall we get down to business?”
Agreement ripples through the room, anticipation rising in several fields and amping the atmosphere. Optimus shivers as it is a near-tangible sensation on his plating.
Skyfire, in a testament of his strength, reaches down and lifts the table up and out of the way, revealing the chair that had been resting beneath it. It looks like an ordinary chair, sized for someone like Optimus, Inferno, or Skyfire. It's a bit bulky as though it has storage space both in the arms and beneath it.
Optimus tilts his helm. “Is that the surprise?” he asks, both confused and curious. Is he meant to sit in the chair?
Judging by the way Wheeljack gestures him to it, apparently so. “Yes. And the experiment, too. Still interested?”
Optimus answers by sitting down, shifting to get comfortable and finding that though the chair looks austere, it's surprisingly comfortable. “Is something else meant to happen?” he asks.
Perceptor chuckles, stepping up behind Optimus and running his fingers over Optimus' shoulders. “Yes. In a moment. As soon as everyone gets in position.”
“I've been ready,” says Skyfire, holding up a datapad and a stylus. Apparently, he has been deemed the observer and note-taker for this endeavor.
Wheeljack holds up a hand-held controller for whatever device Optimus has blindly planted himself upon. “Ready on my end.”
Beachcomber stands in front of Optimus, putting them at optic-level now that Optimus is seated. “Just give me a signal,” he says with an impish tone and a wink of his visor. “I promise you'll enjoy yourself, sir. At least, that is our intention.”
“I have every faith in you,” Optimus says, making optic contact with every one of his scientists to prove his honesty.
“I am happy to hear that,” says Perceptor from behind Optimus, perhaps the director of this venture.
There is a soft click, barely audible, and it's followed by a clunk. Optimus looks around in confusion as the chair begins to thrum beneath him. The arms rattle and the next thing Optimus knows, cuffs emerge from the chair, trapping his wrists and ankles and pinning him to the chair. He tests the strength of them and is even more surprised to find that they are stasis cuffs, making both his arms and legs non-responsive.
“Well,” Skyfire says brightly, his stylus scratching across the datapad. “Stage one is a success.”
Beachcomber lowers himself to his knees in front of Optimus, nudging between Optimus' knees. “You all right?” he asks, patting Optimus' upper thighs.
“Just fine,” Optimus reassures them, curiosity stronger than any apprehension. “What's next?”
“Manual stimulation,” Perceptor answers, his long fingers tickling at the base of Optimus' helm and the sensitive transformation seams in his chassis.
The entire chair vibrates in a rolling rhythm, which is promptly followed by a wave of static that makes Optimus tingle. At the same moment, Beachcomber leans forward and laps at Optimus' spike cover with his glossa.
Optimus jolts, spike surging behind the cover, slowly pressurizing.
The chair continues to vibrate and shower him with static in alternating intervals, activating his sensor net and dragging him toward arousal. Not that he has far to go.
Optimus shivers. “And then?” he asks, forcing out the question whilst attempting to remain clinical but finding it impossible. Beachcomber's glossa leaves a wet stripe in its wake and Optimus' spike throbs impatiently.
“Oral incentive,” Beachcomber answers, looking up at Optimus with a wicked gleam to his visor. He keeps Optimus' gaze, leaving forward to lave a circle around his spike cover.
Optimus jutters in his seat, though his pinned limbs make it impossible for him to move.
The whole experience is kicked up another notch when the back of the chair pulses with magnetics, stimulating every sensor beneath his back plating. It relaxes his cables, spreading a subtle warmth through his frame. He cycles a ventilation as pleasure suffuses his entire sensor net.
“Which is of course followed by verbal encouragement,” Skyfire rumbles, the weight of his gaze as arousing as everything else.
“By which he means, please open your panels so that we may move on to the next stage,” Wheeljack says, holding up the controller, his thumbs hovering over some kind of button.
Optimus eyes it warily but he complies. Fortunately, his spike has no such qualms about Wheeljack's device. It pressurizes eagerly, straining toward the temptation of Beachcomber's mouth.
Beachcomber wastes no time leaning forward and drawing Optimus into his mouth. Optimus moans as the glossa laps the head of his spike, probing at the transfluid channel as though eager to taste his release. Optimus' hips strain forward with as much freedom as the chair will grant him, his spike pulsing with need. Beachcomber's mouth is warm and wet, his glossa mapping every micron of Optimus' spike with unhurried motions.
“I'd say stage two is a success,” Skyfire says from above them, his voice oddly detached but his energy field giving away the arousal that's making his fans spin. “Shall we move on?”
Wheeljack's indicators light up with a bright burst of orange. “Initiating stage three,” he says with an almost mischievous tone, fingers dancing over the controls.
Optimus doesn't have longer than a second to be wary before the entire share gives a shudder. He hears a click and the sound of shifting gears before something nudges against his aft and valve. It's warm and wet; he can feel the slide of lubricant. It pushes gamely against his panel, insistent but not enough to force the issue.
“We're working on something that will allow the system to prompt its users into an automatic retraction,” Perceptor purrs into his audial, hands still exploring the landscape of Optimus' shoulders. “But for now, we must ask that you open for us.”
He needn't have asked, Optimus thinks, the pleasure coursing through his internals more than enough to prompt his valve panel to spring open. Beachcomber takes his spike deeper, the head of it nudging the back of the minibot's intake, just as whatever is beneath Optimus slowly eases into his valve.
It's warm, he realizes. Warm and humming with a subtle vibration. It inches into his valve and grows larger as it does, as though aiming to fill every micron within him, alight every sensor. Optimus sucks in a ventilation, thighs trembling and feeling the rhythmic clenching of his valve as it struggles to both clench and relax around the intruder.
The slow burn of desire in his circuits becomes an outright inferno. His entire frame tingles, that which he can still feel anyway, and there's a sharp coil of need within his internals. He twitches within the bonds of the chair, eager to move but just as eager not to lose the wet swipe of Beachcomber's mouth and the steady pressure of whatever is filling up his valve.
“Is that all?” Optimus asks, trying to sound as though he's not at all affected by the rising charge and the dancing heat and Beachcomber's glossa and the delicious pressure of whatever is filling his valve to maximum capacity and then some.
Perceptor hums a non-committal note into his audial. “Two more stages,” he answers. “Stage four begins as soon as stage three ends.”
His calipers flutter around the mass in his valve, which is both solid but also has some give to it, like a fluid-filled sac. “Ends?” he asks, and then sucks in another ventilation as the item within his valve reaches the apex, putting a solid pressure on his retral node and sending a shock of pleasure through his systems. A moan rises in his chassis, spilling out before he can stop it.
Beachcomber releases his spike with a noisy slurp, looking up at Prime with a cheeky grin. “You'll like this part,” he says, hands kneading a soft pleasure over Optimus' thighs. “It was Wheeljack's idea.”
“Though I came up with the original mechanism,” Perceptor says.
“I designed the housing structure,” Skyfire adds.
“While I calculated the mass and density of the fluid,” Beachcomber finishes for them, and leans forward to swallow Optimus' spike to the hilt.
The sound that comes from Optimus' vocalizer lacks definition. His hips jerk forward, toward Beachcomber's mouth, his spike throbbing in a way distinctive of oncoming overload. Static rises from his substructure, spilling out over his plating, and he hears the click-whirr of something else activating.
“That would be stage four,” Wheeljack says, and this time his indicators are pink, his vocals rough to the same tune as his frenetic energy field. They are, none of them, managing to be completely apathetic.
All four of the scientists are aroused. Optimus can feel it in their fields, the way the mingled energies tingle as they caress his plating and burrow deeper, driving his own need to a higher plateau.
Then stage four kicks in and Optimus gropes for words to describe it, his higher-level processing stuttering to a halt. The item within his valve, a false-spike of some sort, begins to undulate. Whatever fluid within it shifts, moving up and down, in mimicry of a thrust but stimulating every sensor as it pushes on the walls of his valve.
Optimus shouts, writhing in the confines of the chair, his spike pulsing copious amounts of pre-transfluid into Beachcomber's mouth. He can feel the overload rising in him, a tidal wave of pleasure that refuses to be contained. He can't focus on anything but the rhythmic wave of motion in his valve and Beachcomber's glossa swirling round and round the head of his spike.
The item continues to undulate, picking up the rhythm, flicking across his retral node and drawing static from his valve. Optimus all but whimpers, optics shuttering as he throws his helm back, drawing in desperate ventilations. He can feel the lubricant squeezing from his valve around the intrusion, pooling on the chair beneath him. He can feel every flick of Beachcomber's glossa, the barely-there nip of denta against sensitive metal, and the bump of his spike against Beachcomber's intake.
The sound of a half-dozen cooling fans rushes through his audials. Energy fields batter at him from all directions, tingling down to his substructure with outright lust. He writhes within his chair, hips juttering, and when overload strikes, it seems to make him jerk from helm to pede, despite the stasis-like cuffs. He groans, spilling into Beachcomber's mouth and clenching down on the rolling false-spike all at once.
Optimus slumps, fans whirring and sounding a bit stuttered as they've been put to work all day today.
“I think we skipped stage five,” Skyfire says, but he sounds more amused than disappointed.
Optimus forces his optics to unshutter, meeting Beachcomber's visor which gleams with satisfaction. “There are more stages?” he asks, his frame so hot that he can practically see heat mirages rising from it. He doesn't know if he has it in him for more stages.
“Seven, to be precise,” Perceptor answers brightly, his hands landing on Optimus' shoulders and fluttering over the armor panels. “Though we are still speculating on the details of the others. This is only a prototype after all and the first.”
Somehow, he's more than a little amused that his staff of scientists have decided to fill their time by designing a sex toy of sorts. He's pleased, however, not only by the toy, but also that they have the time for frivolous pursuits. He likes to think it means there is more to their existence than this endless war.
“We still have some satisfactory results,” Skyfire says, wings twitching in earnest. “This is all very good data. Thank you, Optimus.”
He manages a tired chuckle. “I get the feeling I should be thanking you,” he says, and squirms in his chair. The item is still within his valve, no longer moving, but still full and pressing on every over-sensitized node.
Beachcomber pats him on the knee. “Jack, you might want to reset the system. I believe Optimus is in some discomfort.”
“Primus! I'm sorry!” Wheeljack's indicators flash an apologetic flurry of colors as his fingers fly over the controller and something within the chair clicks and whirrs.
Immediately, the false-spike begins to depressurize, much faster than it had filled with fluid and Optimus can feel it descending from his valve, more lubricant leaking out around it. The cuffs also disengage and his extremities tingle as his processor starts sending out commands for movement once again.
Optimus wriggles his fingers and his pedes, though a part of him feels the need for another brief nap. Is it because of the day's multiple overloads? Never has he subjected his frame to so much pleasure in such a short period of time. Not that he's complaining! It's been like a vacation and Optimus can't remember the last time he experienced one of those either.
“Thank you, Wheeljack,” Optimus says. “Can I get up now or is there more?”
Beachcomber pushes himself to his pedes and grins. “Eager for another round?”
“It was enjoyable,” Optimus replies, trying to sound pragmatic but he's not entirely unaffected by the lingering desire in the room. Four energy fields are still buzzing with need, and though his scientists hide it well, he can see Skyfire's wings twitching, and Wheeljack's winglets quivering and the bright burn of Beachcomber's optics. He can also hear the soft purr of Perceptor's cooling fans behind him.
He pushes himself up, ignoring the mess he leaves on the chair behind him, his panels sliding shut with a tired whirr. “Though perhaps one of you might partake in your own design. Do you not need a larger sample size?”
Beachcomber laughs. “Aren't they cute when they talk science?”
Wheeljack tilts his helm, looking thoughtful. “Well, he does have a point. Different systems respond in different ways.” His indicators lit up with a bright yellow. “I volunteer to be a test subject.”
“Of course you do,” Perceptor says, humor rich in his tone. “Shall I operate the controller then?”
“If Beachcomber agrees to take notes, then I will happily serve as the oral encouragement,” Skyfire says, optics brightening further.
“So long as I can be the next volunteer than I don't mind,” Beachcomber says, bouncing on his pedes.
“Agreed,” says Perceptor and Optimus watches as they shuffle around, exchanging datapads and positions and equipment and he swears it's as though he's completely forgotten he's there.
Wheeljack starts chattering about adjusting the size of the chair and Beachcomber procures a cloth from somewhere to give it a quick wipe-down and Perceptor fiddles with the controller muttering something about making it more user-friendly and Skyfire hovers over all of them making unhelpful remarks.
Optimus shuffles off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, until Skyfire tumbles a recorder into his hands and Optimus finds himself the unofficial video-taker.
Well.
Optimus grins and fiddles with the recorder, familiarizing himself with the operation of it. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right.
Besides, it's nice to be included in something that isn't a war brief or strategy meeting or post-battle debrief.
Wheeljack hops into the chair with a little wiggle of excitement and Optimus feels his own field flare with the memories of just how good that chair feels.
This is going to be interesting.
****
a/n: Two more parts to go! Coming up next: there's a surprise waiting for Optimus in his quarters. And then a nice epilogue to round it out, including the identification of the mastermind (not that you'll need more than a guess, lol).
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
Title: With Benefits
Universe: G1
Description: Optimus is about to have a very good day; he just doesn't know it yet. Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt.
Part Eight: Batteries Not Included
Characters: SkyfirexPerceptorxBeachcomberxWheeljackxOptimus
Enticements: Oral, Sex toys, Sex chair, Sticky, Tactile
Optimus onlines slowly, his HUD reporting no errors, no glitches, and no warnings. In fact, he's registering a state of calm he hasn't felt in months. It's incredible.
Optimus finishes cycling up and tests his limbs to find them completely responsive. He's clean, fully fueled, and firing on all cylinders.
He's also alone.
A sigh flutters from Optimus' vents. Enjoyable, yes, but sharing a berth is also fun when carried to the next morning.
Perhaps next time.
Optimus sits up, hand sliding to brace himself, and nearly knocks down a datapad. He fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor, finger sliding across the screen and activating it. There's a message for him.
He scans the contents, a smile on his lipplates. The science team has extended an invitation for him to preview their newest design in Perceptor's laboratory. This is a wise decision considering the often volatile nature of Wheeljack's workshop.
Optimus is beginning to see a pattern. He's had his suspicions for awhile now, several overloads ago in fact, but now he's more certain. All of this has Jazz's designation written all over it. And since his third-in-command has gone to so much trouble, Optimus will continue to play along.
After all, it's hardly a burden. Oh, the sacrifices he makes.
Optimus chuckles to himself and slides off the berth, pleased to find his cables nice and relaxed and his frame humming with satisfaction. He feels like a new mech, fresh off the assembly line, and it's a welcome sensation.
He leaves the medbay and makes for Perceptor's laboratory, located opposite the Ark from Wheeljack's. As he walks, he checks the messages he had routed to a queue before his brief nap.
There is only one, another gift from Mirage. Either the spy truly enjoys voyeurism or Jazz has assigned him such a duty for the day. Optimus wouldn't be surprised if it were a combination of both: Jazz had ordered and Mirage had eagerly leapt to comply.
He'll have to thank them both then. His growing collection of videos is a wonderful and useful gift.
Jazz is probably getting copies, too, now that Optimus considers it. Jazz wouldn't be one to miss such an opportunity, devious little saboteur that he is.
Optimus shakes his helm, amusement fluttering through his spark. Whatever Jazz's plan, Optimus is not going to complain. He's enjoying himself immensely.
He arrives at Perceptor's laboratory and finds the main door open in obvious invitation. He hears several voices deep in conversation and when he walks in, finds four of his top scientists crowded around a single table.
Skyfire, by virtue of being the tallest, peers over all their helms at whatever it is that has captivated their attention.
Beachcomber is the first to notice Optimus' arrival. “Optimus,” he greets with a grin and a thumbs up and a bounce of his pedes. “Thanks for joining us.”
He holds up the datapad. “You did extend the invitation,” Optimus replies, attempting to peer around Beachcomber but unable to discern what they are working on.
“That we did,” Perceptor agrees with a twitch of his shoulder-mounted scope. “Can we assume that you are willing to be our test subject?”
Judging by the pink gleam of Wheeljack's indicators, Optimus doesn't know if he should be wary or eager. Though Wheeljack assures him that the only time he causes destruction is when he intends to.
Optimus smiles. “I have been putting myself in the capable hands of my Autobots all day. Why should now be any different?”
“Because Wheeljack is involved,” Skyfire jokes, prompting said engineer to roll his optics.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm dangerous,” Wheeljack drawls, stepping away from the table. “Lucky for all of you, that's not the case today.”
Optimus laughs. “For what it's worth, I trust you.”
“He knows we don't mean any harm by it,” Beachcomber says, patting Wheeljack on the hip. “But enough talk, eh, my mechs? Shall we get down to business?”
Agreement ripples through the room, anticipation rising in several fields and amping the atmosphere. Optimus shivers as it is a near-tangible sensation on his plating.
Skyfire, in a testament of his strength, reaches down and lifts the table up and out of the way, revealing the chair that had been resting beneath it. It looks like an ordinary chair, sized for someone like Optimus, Inferno, or Skyfire. It's a bit bulky as though it has storage space both in the arms and beneath it.
Optimus tilts his helm. “Is that the surprise?” he asks, both confused and curious. Is he meant to sit in the chair?
Judging by the way Wheeljack gestures him to it, apparently so. “Yes. And the experiment, too. Still interested?”
Optimus answers by sitting down, shifting to get comfortable and finding that though the chair looks austere, it's surprisingly comfortable. “Is something else meant to happen?” he asks.
Perceptor chuckles, stepping up behind Optimus and running his fingers over Optimus' shoulders. “Yes. In a moment. As soon as everyone gets in position.”
“I've been ready,” says Skyfire, holding up a datapad and a stylus. Apparently, he has been deemed the observer and note-taker for this endeavor.
Wheeljack holds up a hand-held controller for whatever device Optimus has blindly planted himself upon. “Ready on my end.”
Beachcomber stands in front of Optimus, putting them at optic-level now that Optimus is seated. “Just give me a signal,” he says with an impish tone and a wink of his visor. “I promise you'll enjoy yourself, sir. At least, that is our intention.”
“I have every faith in you,” Optimus says, making optic contact with every one of his scientists to prove his honesty.
“I am happy to hear that,” says Perceptor from behind Optimus, perhaps the director of this venture.
There is a soft click, barely audible, and it's followed by a clunk. Optimus looks around in confusion as the chair begins to thrum beneath him. The arms rattle and the next thing Optimus knows, cuffs emerge from the chair, trapping his wrists and ankles and pinning him to the chair. He tests the strength of them and is even more surprised to find that they are stasis cuffs, making both his arms and legs non-responsive.
“Well,” Skyfire says brightly, his stylus scratching across the datapad. “Stage one is a success.”
Beachcomber lowers himself to his knees in front of Optimus, nudging between Optimus' knees. “You all right?” he asks, patting Optimus' upper thighs.
“Just fine,” Optimus reassures them, curiosity stronger than any apprehension. “What's next?”
“Manual stimulation,” Perceptor answers, his long fingers tickling at the base of Optimus' helm and the sensitive transformation seams in his chassis.
The entire chair vibrates in a rolling rhythm, which is promptly followed by a wave of static that makes Optimus tingle. At the same moment, Beachcomber leans forward and laps at Optimus' spike cover with his glossa.
Optimus jolts, spike surging behind the cover, slowly pressurizing.
The chair continues to vibrate and shower him with static in alternating intervals, activating his sensor net and dragging him toward arousal. Not that he has far to go.
Optimus shivers. “And then?” he asks, forcing out the question whilst attempting to remain clinical but finding it impossible. Beachcomber's glossa leaves a wet stripe in its wake and Optimus' spike throbs impatiently.
“Oral incentive,” Beachcomber answers, looking up at Optimus with a wicked gleam to his visor. He keeps Optimus' gaze, leaving forward to lave a circle around his spike cover.
Optimus jutters in his seat, though his pinned limbs make it impossible for him to move.
The whole experience is kicked up another notch when the back of the chair pulses with magnetics, stimulating every sensor beneath his back plating. It relaxes his cables, spreading a subtle warmth through his frame. He cycles a ventilation as pleasure suffuses his entire sensor net.
“Which is of course followed by verbal encouragement,” Skyfire rumbles, the weight of his gaze as arousing as everything else.
“By which he means, please open your panels so that we may move on to the next stage,” Wheeljack says, holding up the controller, his thumbs hovering over some kind of button.
Optimus eyes it warily but he complies. Fortunately, his spike has no such qualms about Wheeljack's device. It pressurizes eagerly, straining toward the temptation of Beachcomber's mouth.
Beachcomber wastes no time leaning forward and drawing Optimus into his mouth. Optimus moans as the glossa laps the head of his spike, probing at the transfluid channel as though eager to taste his release. Optimus' hips strain forward with as much freedom as the chair will grant him, his spike pulsing with need. Beachcomber's mouth is warm and wet, his glossa mapping every micron of Optimus' spike with unhurried motions.
“I'd say stage two is a success,” Skyfire says from above them, his voice oddly detached but his energy field giving away the arousal that's making his fans spin. “Shall we move on?”
Wheeljack's indicators light up with a bright burst of orange. “Initiating stage three,” he says with an almost mischievous tone, fingers dancing over the controls.
Optimus doesn't have longer than a second to be wary before the entire share gives a shudder. He hears a click and the sound of shifting gears before something nudges against his aft and valve. It's warm and wet; he can feel the slide of lubricant. It pushes gamely against his panel, insistent but not enough to force the issue.
“We're working on something that will allow the system to prompt its users into an automatic retraction,” Perceptor purrs into his audial, hands still exploring the landscape of Optimus' shoulders. “But for now, we must ask that you open for us.”
He needn't have asked, Optimus thinks, the pleasure coursing through his internals more than enough to prompt his valve panel to spring open. Beachcomber takes his spike deeper, the head of it nudging the back of the minibot's intake, just as whatever is beneath Optimus slowly eases into his valve.
It's warm, he realizes. Warm and humming with a subtle vibration. It inches into his valve and grows larger as it does, as though aiming to fill every micron within him, alight every sensor. Optimus sucks in a ventilation, thighs trembling and feeling the rhythmic clenching of his valve as it struggles to both clench and relax around the intruder.
The slow burn of desire in his circuits becomes an outright inferno. His entire frame tingles, that which he can still feel anyway, and there's a sharp coil of need within his internals. He twitches within the bonds of the chair, eager to move but just as eager not to lose the wet swipe of Beachcomber's mouth and the steady pressure of whatever is filling up his valve.
“Is that all?” Optimus asks, trying to sound as though he's not at all affected by the rising charge and the dancing heat and Beachcomber's glossa and the delicious pressure of whatever is filling his valve to maximum capacity and then some.
Perceptor hums a non-committal note into his audial. “Two more stages,” he answers. “Stage four begins as soon as stage three ends.”
His calipers flutter around the mass in his valve, which is both solid but also has some give to it, like a fluid-filled sac. “Ends?” he asks, and then sucks in another ventilation as the item within his valve reaches the apex, putting a solid pressure on his retral node and sending a shock of pleasure through his systems. A moan rises in his chassis, spilling out before he can stop it.
Beachcomber releases his spike with a noisy slurp, looking up at Prime with a cheeky grin. “You'll like this part,” he says, hands kneading a soft pleasure over Optimus' thighs. “It was Wheeljack's idea.”
“Though I came up with the original mechanism,” Perceptor says.
“I designed the housing structure,” Skyfire adds.
“While I calculated the mass and density of the fluid,” Beachcomber finishes for them, and leans forward to swallow Optimus' spike to the hilt.
The sound that comes from Optimus' vocalizer lacks definition. His hips jerk forward, toward Beachcomber's mouth, his spike throbbing in a way distinctive of oncoming overload. Static rises from his substructure, spilling out over his plating, and he hears the click-whirr of something else activating.
“That would be stage four,” Wheeljack says, and this time his indicators are pink, his vocals rough to the same tune as his frenetic energy field. They are, none of them, managing to be completely apathetic.
All four of the scientists are aroused. Optimus can feel it in their fields, the way the mingled energies tingle as they caress his plating and burrow deeper, driving his own need to a higher plateau.
Then stage four kicks in and Optimus gropes for words to describe it, his higher-level processing stuttering to a halt. The item within his valve, a false-spike of some sort, begins to undulate. Whatever fluid within it shifts, moving up and down, in mimicry of a thrust but stimulating every sensor as it pushes on the walls of his valve.
Optimus shouts, writhing in the confines of the chair, his spike pulsing copious amounts of pre-transfluid into Beachcomber's mouth. He can feel the overload rising in him, a tidal wave of pleasure that refuses to be contained. He can't focus on anything but the rhythmic wave of motion in his valve and Beachcomber's glossa swirling round and round the head of his spike.
The item continues to undulate, picking up the rhythm, flicking across his retral node and drawing static from his valve. Optimus all but whimpers, optics shuttering as he throws his helm back, drawing in desperate ventilations. He can feel the lubricant squeezing from his valve around the intrusion, pooling on the chair beneath him. He can feel every flick of Beachcomber's glossa, the barely-there nip of denta against sensitive metal, and the bump of his spike against Beachcomber's intake.
The sound of a half-dozen cooling fans rushes through his audials. Energy fields batter at him from all directions, tingling down to his substructure with outright lust. He writhes within his chair, hips juttering, and when overload strikes, it seems to make him jerk from helm to pede, despite the stasis-like cuffs. He groans, spilling into Beachcomber's mouth and clenching down on the rolling false-spike all at once.
Optimus slumps, fans whirring and sounding a bit stuttered as they've been put to work all day today.
“I think we skipped stage five,” Skyfire says, but he sounds more amused than disappointed.
Optimus forces his optics to unshutter, meeting Beachcomber's visor which gleams with satisfaction. “There are more stages?” he asks, his frame so hot that he can practically see heat mirages rising from it. He doesn't know if he has it in him for more stages.
“Seven, to be precise,” Perceptor answers brightly, his hands landing on Optimus' shoulders and fluttering over the armor panels. “Though we are still speculating on the details of the others. This is only a prototype after all and the first.”
Somehow, he's more than a little amused that his staff of scientists have decided to fill their time by designing a sex toy of sorts. He's pleased, however, not only by the toy, but also that they have the time for frivolous pursuits. He likes to think it means there is more to their existence than this endless war.
“We still have some satisfactory results,” Skyfire says, wings twitching in earnest. “This is all very good data. Thank you, Optimus.”
He manages a tired chuckle. “I get the feeling I should be thanking you,” he says, and squirms in his chair. The item is still within his valve, no longer moving, but still full and pressing on every over-sensitized node.
Beachcomber pats him on the knee. “Jack, you might want to reset the system. I believe Optimus is in some discomfort.”
“Primus! I'm sorry!” Wheeljack's indicators flash an apologetic flurry of colors as his fingers fly over the controller and something within the chair clicks and whirrs.
Immediately, the false-spike begins to depressurize, much faster than it had filled with fluid and Optimus can feel it descending from his valve, more lubricant leaking out around it. The cuffs also disengage and his extremities tingle as his processor starts sending out commands for movement once again.
Optimus wriggles his fingers and his pedes, though a part of him feels the need for another brief nap. Is it because of the day's multiple overloads? Never has he subjected his frame to so much pleasure in such a short period of time. Not that he's complaining! It's been like a vacation and Optimus can't remember the last time he experienced one of those either.
“Thank you, Wheeljack,” Optimus says. “Can I get up now or is there more?”
Beachcomber pushes himself to his pedes and grins. “Eager for another round?”
“It was enjoyable,” Optimus replies, trying to sound pragmatic but he's not entirely unaffected by the lingering desire in the room. Four energy fields are still buzzing with need, and though his scientists hide it well, he can see Skyfire's wings twitching, and Wheeljack's winglets quivering and the bright burn of Beachcomber's optics. He can also hear the soft purr of Perceptor's cooling fans behind him.
He pushes himself up, ignoring the mess he leaves on the chair behind him, his panels sliding shut with a tired whirr. “Though perhaps one of you might partake in your own design. Do you not need a larger sample size?”
Beachcomber laughs. “Aren't they cute when they talk science?”
Wheeljack tilts his helm, looking thoughtful. “Well, he does have a point. Different systems respond in different ways.” His indicators lit up with a bright yellow. “I volunteer to be a test subject.”
“Of course you do,” Perceptor says, humor rich in his tone. “Shall I operate the controller then?”
“If Beachcomber agrees to take notes, then I will happily serve as the oral encouragement,” Skyfire says, optics brightening further.
“So long as I can be the next volunteer than I don't mind,” Beachcomber says, bouncing on his pedes.
“Agreed,” says Perceptor and Optimus watches as they shuffle around, exchanging datapads and positions and equipment and he swears it's as though he's completely forgotten he's there.
Wheeljack starts chattering about adjusting the size of the chair and Beachcomber procures a cloth from somewhere to give it a quick wipe-down and Perceptor fiddles with the controller muttering something about making it more user-friendly and Skyfire hovers over all of them making unhelpful remarks.
Optimus shuffles off to the side, trying to stay out of the way, until Skyfire tumbles a recorder into his hands and Optimus finds himself the unofficial video-taker.
Well.
Optimus grins and fiddles with the recorder, familiarizing himself with the operation of it. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it right.
Besides, it's nice to be included in something that isn't a war brief or strategy meeting or post-battle debrief.
Wheeljack hops into the chair with a little wiggle of excitement and Optimus feels his own field flare with the memories of just how good that chair feels.
This is going to be interesting.
a/n: Two more parts to go! Coming up next: there's a surprise waiting for Optimus in his quarters. And then a nice epilogue to round it out, including the identification of the mastermind (not that you'll need more than a guess, lol).
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
