Shore Leave

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW prewar AU (that one where Drift is a prostitute)
Kup/Drift
sticky, that kink I'll call voy, mild flogging/pain play, object insertion, prostitution, fisting

Kup stood in the doorway, giving the mech on the other side of the threshold a once-over with knowing optics. “Pretty high ratings,” he said, blandly. Always a test, that line, always a bit of bait to see how they answer.

This one merely shrugged, as if it didn’t matter.

“Also rated for hard use.”

Another shrug. He didn’t seem proud or ashamed of it. Just…there.  Not bad. Kup never did care for the simpering type the kind that flattered and fluttered.  There was something here that he wanted, more than the usual.  

“Right. Drift, right?” 

The buymech gave a sullen nod. 

“All right. Here’s how we play this.”  Kup pulled out the hundred-credit chit, holding it to let the light shine through it. “Hundred.  This is the grand prize.”

The buymech couldn’t mask the flicker of interest.  “All right.”

“That’s if you go all the way. Three rounds.”

“Three.” A dismissive snort.

Kup snorted. “You know how long I’ve been offering this same chit?” 

“Doesn’t matter.”  The optics flicked to the chit again, as though seeing all the things he could buy with it. “I can handle it.” 

“Anyway,” Kup continued. “Any time you want to stop, you can. Just say, ‘I’m out’. Got it?”

Another snort. “Got it.” 

“I’ll pay you regular rate for what you did, by the clock. Ten per.”

A glint in the optics. “Fifteen.” He shrugged. “Ratings.” As though remembering those.

“Twelve.”

A long moment, and the orange optics flicked back to the chit. “Fine.”  Pretty sure he was going to win, huh? 

“One last question. You overload from valve contact?”

The buymech narrowed his optics, as though trying to figure out Kup’s angle. It was the straightest angle there was: a straight line.  “Yeah.”

Kup nodded. “Good.” He lay the chit back in its box, cocking his head. “Let’s get started then.”

[***]

Drift arched up, as the spike slipped into his valve, pressing open the lining. His dark thighs spread over Kup’s, seated spraddled over the green mech’s kneeling body. The older mech’s green hands wrapped around him, bracing his back. He braced his knees, ready to lift his hips.

Kup shook his head, pulling down on the armor plates under his hands. “You stay there.”

“Here.”

“On me.” Kup gave a little buck of his hips, grinding his baseplate against the other’s valve rim.

Drift frowned. Then again, he’d get charged by the hour, right? Even if he bailed? And this was hardly awful. Just weird.

“Your spike.”

Drift pinched his mouthplates. “What about it?”

“Let’s see it.”

Drift hesitated, then reached between his legs, releasing his spike cover.  The spike jutted out between them, grey and black. He looked up, expectantly. Kup’s optics were fixed on the spike, the slick sheen of lubricant on its length, the slight imperfections of dents and scratches.  Rated for hard use? Apparently. 

He wrapped the buymech’s hand around the spike, feeling his own spike thrill inside Drift’s valve.  He gave an aroused purr, as he pulled Drift’s hand up the spike, showing him what he wanted. The buymech frowned, but obeyed, sliding his hand up and down his spike.  Kup enjoyed,  hearing the slick crackle of lubricant between the black fingers,  watching as Drift put a slight turn on the pull at the head, rubbing over  the head’s sensitized plating. This was a spectacle put on just for him, the other mech’s twitching systems, the stroking of his hand along his spike, the knuckles bumping Kup’s abdominal plating with each pull.

“You want—“

“Yeah.”  He cut the words off: he didn’t want to talk. Just watch.  Watch and feel the delicate ripples of the valve against his erect spike, energy spilling from the spike’s collection circuits, spiraling up the valve.  His optics alternated between the hand on the spike, the flashing of the grey metal between the black fingers, and Drift’s face, the corners of the mouth twitching as he tried to school his expression and failed.

It was hard, what he was doing: jerking his own spike, with a very obvious, very interest observer. It was hard and it made him work for the overload, his vents catching, then speeding up, optics half lidding in concentration.

It was hard, and that’s how Kup wanted it: watching the strain, feeling the slow build of charge.  He rocked his spike minutely in the valve, barely a finger’s width of motion, enough to remind Drift of his presence.

A moan, bitten off quickly, the valve clamping on the spike, stilling it.  Kup couldn’t blame him. And so far, Drift was exactly what he’d asked for—a bit sullen, perhaps, but obedient, and the sullenness was strangely attractive. 

The thighs trembled over his, Drift’s other hand clutching at Kup’s shoulder for balance. He gave a sharp sound, like “Kah!”  just before Kup felt the almost scalding splash of transfluid against his chassis, Drift’s body arching up, scraping the head of Kup’s spike over the valve ceiling. Kup grabbed at the white armor of the shoulders, bracing Drift from falling backwards, before pulling him in, hard, jamming their chestplates together, audio to the other’s shoulder, feeling Drift tremble and quiver in the throes of his overload. Kup hissed with pleasure, clutching the younger mech against him.  This was what he wanted, what he was paying for, power and pleasure, feeling the shivering frame, the spike pinched between them, fitfully stinging against him. 

Drift sagged, hand releasing his spike, resting for a moment on Kup’s shoulder before pushing back. Kup grinned. “That’s one.”

“What’s next?” His voice was still a bit breathy, struggling for control.  Kup twitched his hips, shifting the spike in Drift’s valve just to see the squeak of surprise. 

“Ready for more, are you?”

“Your time you’re wasting.”  Drift rocked his own hips, easing himself out of the embrace, off Kup’s still tumescent spike.

“Mine to waste,” Kup said. 

The buymech slipped his valve off the spike, hissing at the warm flow of spilling fluid, before he slithered back, along Kup’s thighs, his mouth finding the spike’s head, glossa slowly sliding down the length. It was some kind of paradox, how Drift wasn’t one of the simpering mechs Kup had hired before, but was just was eager to please.

The mouth slid down his spike, Drift giving a little hum—not of pleasure, but something that was intended to send vibrations over Kup’s spike.

And that was enough of that.  Kup hooked two fingers under the back of the mech’s helm, hauling up. “Don’t need that.”

“What do you need?”

He felt a quirk of a smile on his mouth. “You sticking around for more?”

The  orange optics blazed, almost offended.

[***]

“Swagger stick,” Kup said, holding it up to Drift’s gaze.  The mech stood, hands raised, curled over the bar above his head.  Obedient, again, the orange optics flat, waiting. “Standard issue, old corps,” Kup continued. “They don’t give these out anymore.”  He had fond memories of this one: long, flexible silver steel cable, with a mesh flap at one end. Solid, but flexible, designed to get attention through pain, without lasting damage. A perfect tool for training young recruits.

“Not here for a history lesson,” Drift said. 

Oh, really.  Kup grinned. “Guessing you think you have a pretty high pain threshold.”

“Guessing it’s irrelevant,” Drift countered.

“Pretty much.” Kup stepped back. “You remember, you’re out any time you want.”

“Not stupid.”

Right.  Oh, this was going to feel really good. He flicked his wrist in a sharp gesture he hadn’t used in ages, the mesh flap striking Drift’s abdomen.  The mech cried out, flinching away. Kup smirked, stepping around Drift, letting the mesh trail a line around the torso, snapping it down against the back of Drift’s knee. Another cry of pain, the joint buckling in surprise. 

Another strike, across the back of the other thigh. Kup knew the pain: white hot, a sharp line gashed across your vision. He heard Drift’s cooling systems rattle on, compensating for the alarms, the pain feedback. “Not quite so cocky, huh?” Kup said, circling around Drift’s back, lingering there, out of the mech’s sight.

“Not quitting,” Drift tossed his head from side to side, spitting the words over his shoulder.

“Yet.”

“Won’t.”

Kup laughed. He was like so many raw recruits Kup had straightened out in his day, attitude and guts, but untamed, uncontrolled. And it had been his job to tame them, break them to something useful, something better. And he knew, at some level, he shouldn’t enjoy this: it was wrong, it was depraved, to get off on power and pain.  But he’d done it for so long, it was like part of himself.

So this was his compromise—only buymechs, who could opt out at any time.  They had the right to refuse, to stop it, something the recruits had never had.  Most did. He expected no less. And there was a dark thrill in that, too, being able to push a mech to his limits, overcome his pride, get him to yield, surrender.

Drift didn’t yield. He cried out, gasped, cursed, moaned, everything but a sound of surrender. Not even begging Kup to stop.  He was magnificent, Kup decided. And the swagger stick loved his dermal plating, leaving small stripes in the paint when he lashed, stroking over those stripes in other moments.  Drift twisted, his hands clenching around the bar to keep his balance, ventilation hissing from him.  He was beautiful, his pain was beautiful, writhing and twisting around itself, helpless and closed off, the stretch of his mouth, the line of his optics that unreadable rictus of pain and desire.

Shame, really. If they’d had the old conscript armies, Kup would have taken this gutter crawler and made a fine soldier out of him: he could see the discipline, the hardness, the lines of survival and cunning etched on Drift.  A good soldier. Exemplary, because he wanted to be.

Instead, he was a buymech, destined to sell his equipment, his pleasureless pleasure, until he finally wore out.  Another shame.

Drift moaned, his head lolling between his shoulders. Kup could feel the heat roiling off him, his limbs trembling on the  brink of exhaustion.  Kup reversed the swagger stick in his grip, letting the knobbed handle slide down the buymech’s back, tapping along the aft armor almost playfully while his free hand groped for the other’s valve cover. Why not give a prelude?

He pinned the narrow waist against his, sliding the handle of the stick between Drift’s thighs, and pushing into the valve.

A different kind of cry this time, Drift tipping his head up, staring almost goggle eyed at the ceiling. Kup pushed in, working the stick’s handle into the valve, turning it slowly.  The hips bucked against him, as though unsure whether to pull away or lean into.

Kup’s own ventilations picked up, thrusting the stick into the valve, rubbing his own spike along the back of one of Drift’s thighs. Not enough to drive himself to overload, just enough to keep charge at that delicious, slightly-heady level. And to mark Drift, to slick him up with Kup’s desire.  He pushed, faster, the stick rocking rhythmically in the valve, holding Drift around the front, his fingers spread around the valve’s rim, feeling the warming metal of the handle, the viscous lubricant hot and wet as the stick worked the valve. The backframe scraped over his chestplate, smearing the transfluid from Drift’s spike overload, between them. Drift writhed from the contact, having no place to go, pinioned by the stick and Kup’s hand.

Until Drift bucked, again, trying to shake Kup off, his aft bumping against Kup’s spike, and he felt the echo of the overload’s charge, a wash of electrons passing through his fingers, and the stick was nearly snatched from his grasp by the overloading valve cinching down on it.

“You done?”  The words were challenging hiss, as Drift sagged, wrung out.  Kup realized he hadn’t struck Drift in a while, just standing, watching. Its own kind of pleasure.

He tilted his head. “With this. You still game?”

“Told you. Not quitting.”  Drift inched his feet closer under him, stretching his fingers slowly from the beam they’d held.  He winced as Kup slipped the stick out of him, turning his head sharply to one side as though trying not to see.

“Got some touch up paint in the maintenance facility.” The least he could do.

“Later.”

“Eager, aren’t you?”

Drift lowered his arms, rolling his shoulders, wincing at the tightened servos.  “You’re right. I should be wanting this to take as long as possible.”

Kup laughed, flipping the stick over his hand, a showy acrobatic flourish. “Lemme get you some energon. You’re going to need it if you keep this up.”

[***]

“Comfortable?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You know,” Kup said, crossing his arms, “Could at least be decent when someone actually pretends to give a scrap about you.”

“I could.”

He almost laughed. Well, kid was committed to the role, at least. Even with his elbows and wrists bound behind him, over the back of the chair, his hips tipped far forward, pelvic armor resting on the very front edge of the seat.  It was pretty hard to play the tough attitude like this, but Primus love him, Drift was trying. 

“I won’t bother asking if you’re ready, then,” Kup smirked, dropping to his knees in front of the other mech.  This was the part he most looked forward to, this is where they all backed out. He pushed Drift’s knees aside, settling in to look.

It was a decent valve: good repair, the rim recently replaced and resealed. Took care of himself as much as he could. Well, this was probably his moneymaker, after all.  And right now it was still slick and glossy from cooling lubricant. Kup leaned over letting the smell of it reach him—the sweetish tang, the slight dark note of oil. He could feel Drift’s optics on him, wary, expectant, hear the cables tightening in the thighs, as though bracing himself.

Kup let a lazy finger circle the valve’s rim, sweeping through the lubricant, then spiraling closer to the inner lining.  He was drawing this out for his own sake as much as Drift’s, even though it had been so long since anyone had gotten this far. 

He pushed one finger into the valve, wriggling it up the narrow passageway, feeling the calipers shift and flutter around him.  Drift’s optics remained level on him, his face set in a scowl. Which Kup figured he’d lose before too long. Let him enjoy it.

His finger pushed in, tickling the top of the valve: Drift’s optic shutters twitched, the calipers clutching around Kup’s finger. And then he withdrew it, twisting his wrist to shift it in Drift’s valve, sliding along the lining.  And then in again, with another finger, this time spreading the lining apart.  Another twitch and a small chuff of air, and Drift rolled his shoulders in their bindings.

And then the third finger, and he splayed the fingers wide, opening the inner lining, feeling it stretch and form around his fingers. Drift was panting, now, optics wide and staring.  

“Think you can take it all?” Kup murmured. He didn’t look up, didn’t wait for an answer. The question was all to put the idea in Drift’s mind: His whole hand in Drift’s taut valve. He felt the calipers spasm in response.  Kup gave his hand an expert little twist, folding it along the palmate hinge, and sliding the other finger in, and then, with a barbed grin, optics seeking Drift’s this time, the thumb.

Drift gave a choked sound, as though there was no air in his systems,  his entire body shuddering as Kup curled his hand into a fist, rotating it in the valve. 

“Look,” he whispered.

Drift groaned, head lolling between the deep spaulders for a long moment, before rocking forward, almost whimpering at the sight of Kup’s wrist, the rest of his hand buried in Drift’s body.   Kup nearly growled with pleasure, before he began rolling his hand, spreading the fingers open to stretch the valve lining to its limit, and then rotating, collapsing his hand.  Then repeating.

Drift…barely breathed, his abdominal servos twitching. His thighs trembled against Kup’s shoulders, one foot curling, scraping at the floor.  Kup could feel the overload building, the charge stirring against his balled fist, and he kneaded it to life, stretching and compressing the valve lining, twisting his hand over the fine sensormesh.

There was no other word for what Drift did than ‘roar’. It wasn’t a cry, or a howl, it was a roar, deep, resonant, almost as if it came from under his spark. And loud. Loud enough that Kup had to damp his audio receptors, as the valve clamped down upon his wrist with the force of a hammer. Fluid gushed over his wrist, a flood of heat and wetness, the valve calipers trembling and spasming against his fingers. 

The roar faded, Drift loosening from the tight arch that had made him almost a buttress against the chair, his ventilation systems buzzing on maximum. Kup could see the lines of his swagger stick in the other’s armor, hear the soft liquid plash of a droplet or two off his elbow, onto the floor, and feel Drift’s heat, squeezing against his hand.

He couldn’t move, for a long time. Just…enjoying. Another reason he hired buymechs. He couldn’t explain this: why this was more gratifying, more satisfying than a simple overload. If he wanted just that simple physical release, frag, he had two hands. They worked fine for that. But this? This was something he needed, something that settled something in the back of his cortex: power and control and transgression and lust. 

Drift stirred, and Kup felt the valve calipers release from their death grip around his wrist.  He waited, for Drift to fail the last test. A few—a rare few—made it this far, and always blew the ending.  They always asked about him, giving him that almost pitying look, like he couldn’t overload, and offering.

He didn’t need pity, and he didn’t want offers. He was done. Sated.  As filled as Drift’s valve was, now.

Nothing. Just the slow returning to regular breathing, and twitching whimper as Kup withdrew his hand. 

The chair was soaked: a puddle of fluids on the floor, dripping off the seat’s edge.  Drift wriggled back from that, lifting his shoulders in an obvious request. Kup leaned over, almost negligently, untying the small length of rope, letting it fall to the ground.

Drift rubbed his wrists together, sitting up. Kup braced himself, waiting.

“Gonna have to pay me, now,” Drift said, and the almost-insolent smile curled over his mouth. “Told you I wouldn’t quit.”

Well. Kup pushed up, hands on his thighs. Time was, he was a young mech himself. Not anymore. And his age showed sometimes. Maybe, he didn’t want to admit, another reason he used buymechs. Who would willingly be with a codger like him?  Much less with his tastes? He crossed over to the box, and tossed the hundred-credit chit. It spun in the air, glittering in the light. Drift caught it, neatly, in one hand, clapping his interface hatch shut.

“Guess you were right.”   

Comments

[eerian_sadow]

oh. oh my. *gets fan* that was incredibly hot.

please ma'am, i would like some more. (especially kinky old Kup, yum!)

[deedeesaurus.livejournal.com]

...Wow. I do adore Drift as a buymech but this? This was glorious.

[hopeofdawn.livejournal.com]

I have to admit, I was a little doubtful of Drift as a buymech/prostitute--but boy, Kup and he just bounce off each other so beautifully that I can't imagine it happening any other way. :) This was amazingly hot, I got to the end and still wanted to see more ...

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

Methinks that maybe Drift just got himself a regular?

and methinks that my ovaries just spontaneously combusted from the hotness. homminahomminahomminaGUH!

[femme4jack.livejournal.com]

*stammer incoherently* That was SO hot. And kinky Kup was just yum!