Feminine Troubles 7: Naughty
Hi all, Firstly, thank you to everyone who reviewed! Secondly, warnings this chapter for slash, femmeslash and tentacles.
Wow, writing that last sentence realty made me sound like a perv. However, this entire story came from some prompts on the TF Kink Meme on Livejournal, which finally got me to stop squirming with embarrassment and start posting stuff. The Anon community there is super supportive and helpful with their comments and ideas.
Which brings me to something else I should probably mention. I'm really quite a slow writer, and the current schedule of about a chapter a week for this story is only possible because I already have a lot of it written and posted to the meme. I'm working on chapter 15 there now, and also have another in-progress story with fewer chapters that I am considering posting here as well.
This is not to say that I am not open to suggestions here as well, but please be aware that I'm probably not going to be making a lot of major structural alterations at this point. As always, please point out errors, as I do not have a beta reader. All mistakes are mine, and anything you recognize belongs to Hasbro.
Motormaster leaned against the wall of the Stunticon's common room as Wildrider deep-throated his spike with enthusiastic engine purrs. His wandering servos delved into his leader's sensitive hip joints, and Motormaster vaguely thought he should probably slap the offending appendages away, but it felt too good to do that.
They had seen Megatron and Starscream doing this, and Wildrider had wanted to try it. Truthfully, so had Motormaster, not that he would admit something like that.
Their leaders had been watching Autobots on the vidscreen when Starscream had made a disparaging comment about Megatron's obsession with the Autobot commander. The grey mech's face plates had gone cold and wrathful, and he had ordered his Air Commander to his knees. Holding his cannon to the Starscream's temple, he commanded him to "use his mouth for something worthwhile for once."
The young Stunticons had watched in fascination as the Seeker had done just that, licking and caressing Megatron's spike with his mouth. The view of the blue, red and grey seeker on his knees before their leader, whose head was thrown back and optics half closed in pleasure had electrified them both.
Their gestalt knew about interfacing, of course. The basics had been downloaded into their processors when they were created.
What they hadn't known was how well, ifun/i it was. Motormaster habitually kept his part of the gestalt bond closed down, letting only ghosts of his feelings through. The rest of them were glad of it. He might be part of them, but that didn't mean they liked him. He was cruel and angry and always aping Megatron.
He hit them and yelled at them, and made Dead End even more of a drag than he was already. Sometimes Wildrider worried that Dead End might deactivate himself or not-so accidentally fail to dodge Autobot gunfire one day just to get away, or to end the suspense on when he was going to finally be consigned to the scrap yard.
This though, this was different. Wildrider wasn't getting anger or malevolence from his bond with Motormaster for once. Instead it was an aching storm of pleasure. He was hot with arousal and the mouth on his spike felt so, so good…No, it was his mouth, not his spike…The smooth heated metal sliding past his lips and into his mouth, Motormaster's hand at the back of his helm, not hurting him, just making him stay, kneeling at the truck-former's feet, lost in a storm of his gestalt-mate's pleasure.
This was great, and it was all thanks to Starscream, Megatron, and the foxy Autobot Prime. Next he was going to have to convince Motormaster to try out his valve, like he had heard Megatron did with Starscream, when he was just horny, not angry…
And of course he would have to tell his gestalt-mates all about it.
Perceptor slid around Optimus's desk and hopped onto it, facing her leader at much closer range. Her legs dangled off the edge, and she slowly spread them, bracing her servos behind her and arching her back, displaying her sinuously curved frame for close inspection.
"Please Optimus, let me help you to set your processor at ease a bit. You can make me overload as many times as you wish, to prove that your new format is functional in the berth. I should overload you as well, to give you first hand experience with your new erogenous zones."
Optimus shifted uneasily in her chair. "Perceptor, my friend, I deeply appreciate this gesture, but it would be highly inappropriate if I were to take advantage of you in such a way, and I have never interfaced with a femme other than Elita. I cannot possibly…"
The scientist nearly huffed aloud in frustration. No wonder Ratchet was always pestering Prime to take better care of her needs. She hooked a pede under the edge of the wheeled desk chair seat and reeled her commander closer. Quickly, she slid the other leg along her friend and leader's thigh, hitting every sensor cluster she could reach. Sometimes a thorough knowledge of frame engineering was a very useful thing.
"Elita One loves you, and wants you to be happy. She has never minded that you interface with your friends, and she certainly does the same with the femmes under her command. I do not believe that she even confines herself only to the officer's ranks. Femmes have needs, after all, and she has always maintained that interfacing is one of the best ways to resole interpersonal conflict… Please, Optimus. Make love to me. Prove to yourself that you can be a good lover in a femme frame, as you were as a mech" Perceptor said softly.
She grabbed Optimus's grille with both servos and leaned precariously out to lick along the edge of a headlight. She almost toppled off the edge of the desk, prompting her Prime to grab her in turn to steady her. The larger femme's engine growled at the sudden sensations, and the proximity of a clearly aroused femme who she had interfaced with before, for all that said femme had been a mech at the time.
Perceptor took the opportunity to transfer herself from the edge of the desk to a more secure position in her leader's lap. To her delight, the strong blue servos came to her hips, but didn't try to remove her from her new position.
Happy that her maneuvering had worked, Perceptor murmured "let yourself experience your new form, Optimus. For yourself, and for Elita, when you see her again. I can guide you."
She straddled one of those white thighs and pressed her knee against Optimus's port covers, deftly rubbing her lithe body against the red and blue enameling of the other femme's chassis. She tuned her own engines to produce a low frequency vibration, which transmitted itself easily through her plating to her beautiful Prime's. For good measure, the slender red scientist stretched an arm up to caress at the sensitive antennae that graced Optimus's cobalt helm. She could just barely reach, but as she regularly interfaced with Skyfire, she had learned how to rev up a much larger lover.
The regal femme moaned at the pleasurable sensation of those clever fingers on one of her major erogenous zones, and finally gave in, wrapping her arms around the other bot and gently stroking the elegant curvature of her back and aft.
With a moan, Optimus let her hunger loose. She had been unusually needy lately, and even bringing herself to overload with Wheeljack's toys had barely taken the edge off. She had been having inappropriate fantasies, lewd images of allies and enemies alike dogging her recharges. Perhaps Perceptor was right. Perhaps she was worrying for nothing. And besides, perhaps interfacing with the beautiful little microscope would help with her state of constant frustration.
The delicate red femme murmured in pleased delight as Optimus's servos were suddenly all over her plating, stroking and fondling with gentle, consummate skill. The Prime's engine rumbled as she came out of the chair and deposited Percptor back on the edge of the desk. She moved to stand between Perceptor's legs, wedging her thighs open around her body. Her battle-mask retracted, and she leaned down to collect a kiss from the scientist's soft lip components. Her energy field flared with eager power and she leaned in to hungrily kiss the other's mouth.
The scientist was panting, feeling deliciously overwhelmed by her commanding officer's attentions. It was always so wonderful to feel surrounded by all that power, bent on pleasuring and protecting her. She missed the sizable spike that Optimus had once used so skillfully, but surely they would manage. If nothing else, Perceptor happened to have a subspace full of interfacing toys, courtesy of Wheeljack and the rest of the science and engineering department.
Optimus was awash in sensation, the slight scientist rubbing sensuously against her plating, stroking every hot spot she could reach with clever servos. She growled, and attacked the scientist's audials with her mouth, arms snaking around that slight form and crushing her to her chest. She could feel the sweet energy of the other's spark, smell her clean, aroused scent.
The other femme was comparatively small and curved, even more than Elita. Perceptor was slighter, shorter, with less armor and fewer weapons. Her clean, shining dermal plating gleamed in the light. Her lips parted in a murmur of pleasure as Optimus's mouth found sensitive spots. Perceptor's legs tried to twine around her waist, only to run afoul of the back of the chair. The problem was easily fixed, however. The Autobot commander scooped up her friend and stood, depositing her back on the desk.
Perceptor reached out to trail her fingers down to Optimus's panel covers, which retracted at the stimulation. Slender fingers found their way to the hot, dripping port, and slipped inside.
Optimus moaned, the sound almost eclipsed by her engines. Her hips angled to give Perceptor better access almost of their own accord. One digit was replaced by two, then the femme just used all four, gently moving in and out of the ready port, Her thumb swept the sensitive outer rim of the orifice, making her Prime shiver with lust. She braced her forearms on the desk, boxing Perceptor in with her much larger frame. She wanted to continue exploring the lovely femme's plating, but was momentarily too overwhelmed by the sensations in her valve.
Perceptor began a slow, steady rhythm, doing her best to stroke the larger femme's primary port in all the ways that she herself enjoyed. Her other servo caressed Optimus's plating, finding as many sensitive spots as possible. Optimus shivered above her, and the port tightened around her fingers.
Perceptor was delighted at how well operation "Get Prime to Overload" was going. Hopefully she would also take the earlier suggestion about practice pleasing another femme.
"Oh, Perceptor" Optimus murmured. Her optics were at half power and her hips thrust shallowly into the scientist's servo. Those powerful, scarred servos tightened hard on the desk as she approached her climax. Optimus was lovely in the throws of pleasure, and Perceptor diligently sought to enhance it. Her efforts were rewarded when her Prime stiffened, her valve tightening spasmodically around Perceptor's digits.
The scientist ran her lips over the armor covering and Protecting Optimus's spark, feeling it's radiant power as she overloaded. The sensation was sweet and strong and a little overwhelming. It was a heady thing, making Optimus tremble with pleasure. She felt privileged to have been able to do it.
Optimus slowly relaxed to Perceptor's side, managing just enough clearance to no crush the smaller frame. Her optics came slowly back on line and she smiled gently at the smaller femme. "Thank you, my friend. That was lovely, but I believe the point of this exercise was that I make you overload."
The scientist smiled brilliantly at her Prime. "In that case, I think we should endeavor to continue our exercise until we meet our stated objective, don't you?"
Dirge, Thrust and Ramjet wriggled as the tentacles worked at their sensitive spots; the hinges of their wings, their thrusters, and the joints of their limbs. Ramjet, who had taken up a position on the floor on his servos and knees, moaned loudly and canted his hips up, in the hopes that one of the thick, dexterous appendages would finally fill his aching valve.
One snaked its way between his lips, gagging him. He wanted it in his valve, not his mouth. The tentacle thrust gently in and out of the wrong orifice, using it for its pleasure, not his.
Soundwave was such a tease.
He was actually working on a report, the fragger. Most mechs on the Nemesis would at least give a trio of seekers their full attention, should they be lucky enough to be sought out by them. But not Mr. Loyal Third In Command. Fragger. Thinking he could get away with fragging them and not even paying attention! He growled, and bit down on the tentacle, showing the telepath his impatience. They had come here to be fragged senseless, not to be teased for his twisted amusement.
One of the metal tentacles lashed across his aft and exposed, dripping port. To his embarrassment, he squealed, the noise muffled by the one in his mouth.
His trine mates were luckier than him. Thrust was flat on his back, held down by tentacles and bound together with Dirge, who was managing to spike him, despite his hands being bound together behind his back and below his wings. They lay awkwardly chest-to chest, a cat's cradle of lethal metal snakes criss-crossing their forms.
The tentacle hit his aft again, and he felt lubricant begin to actually drip down one of his thighs. It hurt deliciously, but he still wanted to have his valve filled. His spike jutted out from his hips, practically begging for attention. Unfortunately, Soundwave tended to be a lot more interested in valve than spike. It was one of his major flaws as a lover, so a valve overload was on the menu for Ramjet, unless the Third in Command was feeling unusually sadistic tonight, and was planning to withhold pleasure from him. He devoutly hoped not. He wanted it. Preferably right now.
Finally, Finally the telepath came over, looming above him like some kind of dark predator. A thick finger entered his valve, and he bucked against it, the tentacles holding him in place. It withdrew, and he tried to voice a muffled protest. It was replaced a moment later by Soundwave's thick, hot, gloriously hard spike. It stretched him almost painfully wide, as always, and he couldn't get enough of the sensation.
The masked mech was always considerate about this. It was one of the reasons he was the trine's favorite frag buddy. Seekers were built smaller than most Decepticons, and torn valve linings were no petro-picnic.
He tried to grind back into the thick member forcing its way slowly into his sopping valve, but was firmly held in place. Soundwave made a good top, but he was always just a little too methodical. The mech really needed to loosen up a little…Ohhhhh. Yeah. Right there…Big clawed hands smoothed along the planes of his wings, the amount of pressure just right- a hint of pain, but only to season the pleasure, not distract from it.
Soundwave began to smoothly thrust into the valve before him, stretching it wide, and sheathing more than half of his length in the seeker before hitting the end of his valve. Ramjet eagerly ground back into the blue mech and his skillful spike, his sensors ablaze with arousal. Damn fragging telepath, always putting on airs…he was lucky he was such a good frag.
He tried to say "harder" but his mouth was still full, so he thought it as hard as he could. Soundwave obliged, smoothly pistoning into his valve, building heat and charge with the friction…He came, thrashing against the metal tentacles that restrained him, as the mech behind him continued spearing him with that sizable piece of equipment. Soundwave reached overload too, losing the rhythm of his strokes and grinding his hips into the Seeker's aft.
Ramjet worked the stiffness out of his jaw as the tentacle in his mouth was removed, and he was deposited with his trine mates in a pile of satiated jets. To his mild irritation, the Third in Command went back to working at his terminal, letting the Seekers drift into a sticky but contented slumber.
Sparkplug Witwicky was wierded out. He had in fact been wierded out for weeks, but somehow, this just seemed weirder than usual. He generally considered himself a tolerant, enlightened sort of man, and his long association with a bunch of giant alien warrior robots had only amplified his generally inclusive worldview.
He was in the Med bay, helping First Aid fill out order forms. The medical staff had to fabricate a staggering amount of their parts and equipment themselves, or have the engineering department do it for them, but they did use some things that were normally available. He and one of the boys generally made a shopping trip for the Autobots every couple of weeks.
While he was here, he figured he may as well try to pump Aid for gossip- er, information about all the weirdness. He actually had a bit of a mini-office made out of one of the lower cabinets. The view sucked, but at least the door was always open when he was here. It was good to have human-appropriate chairs, at least.
Being carried around in giant metal hands and sitting on the edges of tables was all well and good for the kids, but Sparkplug was a bit past the part of his life where he wanted to spend a lot of time sitting on the floor.
So he had settled into his chair and made small talk with First Aid, trying not to stare. The funny thing was that she didn't look all that different, just a little smaller and sleeker and curvier. Her feet and forearms were pretty much the same, which meant they looked like car parts, but her hips, thighs and waist were noticeably more curved, the proportions just different enough to be obviously female.
She still turned into an ambulance, though. Which was strangely reassuring. Bizarrely, the ambulance was the same size as it had been when she was a bigger male robot. He made a mental note to ask about that later.
When he had first realized that the "male" Autobots dated, made love to and (sort of) married each other, it had thrown him through a loop. He had been young during the sixties, though, and figured that it was better if the Giant Alien Warrior Robots made love instead of war. After all, it was the good guys who boffed each other on a regular basis, whereas the evil ones were more straight-laced. If not indulging in the Gay turned Cybertonians into organic-hating interstellar menaces, well, he wished the lot of them would adopt rainbow flags and stop blowing up refineries.
So he could deal with gay alien robots. He could even deal with bi alien robots. "So Cybertonians don't have sexual orientation?" He asked Aid.
"Hmmm, not like you humans do." She said. "We are naturally attracted to both genders, but not for precisely the same reasons. Cybertronians are very social creatures by nature, and we don't tolerate isolation well at all. Interfacing is one way we cement our social bonds."
She made a precise weld on the component she was working on.
"I understand that the same thing is true of some primate species, though not so much with humans. Some of your sociologists believe that it has something to do with the spread of social diseases, or the inherent risk of childbirth to your females."
"So Transformer women have an easier time having babies than human women?" He asked. He hadn't been allowed in the hospital room when his wife had Spike, but then it was a less enlightened time back then. He remembered how worried he had been, pacing those sterile white hallways…
"Oh yes" Aid answered. "We build our young's frames with tools, not inside our chassises like organics. Of course, sparks have come mostly from the Allspark for many of our generations. Even before the War, I understand that it was almost unheard of to bud a spark the old-fashioned way. There weren't a lot of femmes around back then, and it usually takes some effort to create a new-spark. It can happen by accident, though. "
"Really?" Sparkplug asked, intrigued.
"Certainly" the medic answered. "You see, to bud a spark, a femme needs a lot of extra energy, and spark energy and code-bearing nanites from at least one mech. She also has to have a lot of overloads. They help catalyze the formation of a newspark. Then of course, the femme has to have a relatively stress-free environment or the budding will fail and the energy will be re-absorbed into her spark."
Sparkplug felt his stomach twist as a dark old memory of his mother crying reared up in the back of his mind. "You mean you would miscarry if you got upset when you were pregnant?" He asked, his voice nearly a whisper.
First Aid smiled gently at him. "Not so much getting upset. It takes major trauma or chronic stress to trigger re-absorption. Battle, or living or working in a hostile environment. Or not having any social support. With the war on, I don't think any of us would be able to carry, even if we had a father or three to help us spark."
"Three? You mean you guys, er, girls can have more than one dad?"
"Oh yes, it's quite common. We sometimes pair up like humans, but often we have small family groups instead. Usually one femme and two or three mechs, but sometimes there are more. There can be more than one femme, but that's really unusual, because of how rare femmes are." She fiddled with some fiber-optic cable. "At least, they used to be. If all the Autobots in the galaxy are femmes now, I don't know how things would work out. It's probably a moot point. There aren't that many neutrals left, and I don't see the Decepticons being good parent material."
Yeah. No kidding. Sparkplug attempted to imagine Megatron or Starscream or that creepy blue guy with any of the heroic, friendly Autobots, and his mind balked. For more reasons than one. It was still totally bizarre to think of his robot friends as girls. Women. Giant alien warrior robot women. Yeah.
Finally, he decided to bring up the part that he just couldn't wrap his head around. "Doesn't it bother you, Aid? I mean, you were male before, and now you're female. That has to be a huge change, but you all hardly seem to care!"
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound, and rang through the bay. "Not care? Did you miss all of Ironhide's whining? He practically held farewell rites for his mech-hood. It was hilarious, in a sad sort of way."
"Um, yeah", Sparkplug said. "But that's not really the level of bothered I meant. I mean, if I had turned female one fine day, I'd still be freaking out. You guys are all just going on with things like nothing happened."
The medic smiled gently at him. "It's different for us, Sparkplug. The Allspark is gone, and we had all but resigned ourselves to seeing our people dwindle to extinction in the long dark ages to come. Then the very hand of Primus made this change. It was meant to be, and it gives us hope for the future. It may be strange, and startling, and really a hard transition to make, but it is also life for our people."
Sparkplug returned the smile. "I guess I see what you mean. It's still damn weird to a squishy like me."
When he had gotten a load of Optimus, Ironhide, and Prowl after they had first changed, he figured it was either some kind of hallucination brought on by contact with some alien fungus or something, or an elaborate practical joke. Now, instead of just being friendly transforming alien robots, they were disturbingly hot, still friendly transforming alien robots. The fact that his mind was even willing to include the words "hot" and "Ironhide" in the same sentence was deeply and profoundly Wrong.
And now Optimus Prime, the George Washington-meets -Mahatma Gandhi leader of the friendly Giant Alien Warrior Robots, was a thirty-foot tall metal babe. Well, at least Spike and Sam would grow up respecting women.
He supposed it could have been worse. If the Decepticons had turned female, they would have reinforced all sorts of negative gender stereotypes…
Hopefully all of the Robot Lesbianism was subtle enough that the boys wouldn't notice.