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Part One
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“Those things are terribly inaccurate,” Prowl commented, sitting down across from him in the lunch room of Iacon’s new admin and justice building. “There might have been nobles who did things that extreme, of course, but largely entertainers were too expensive for all but the most moneyed to waste them on practices that might leave them disfigured. Especially newly built ones whose debts were factory fresh.”
Optimus Prime hurriedly pressed the button for the screensaver on his e-reader, even if it was already too late. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tried anyway.
Prowl just tilted his head and scoffed in disbelief. “It’s uninhibited trash,” he continued, still talking about the novella, “but not exactly a new genre. I’m just surprised to see you, of all mechs, reading torture porn, given the laws you put in place regarding both indenture – especially of entertainers – and torture.”
“And I believe every word in those laws. They grant long overdue protections to an abused class.” What entertainers had been subject to, whether they experienced the reality or the threat, was tantamount to torture. “This has no bearing on any of that, especially when it’s not even…”
Optimus saw Prowl’s tiny, reserved smirk and knew his advisor was amused by his discomfiture. “Accurate?”
“I’m hardly reading it for its historical value.” He wasn’t even reading it for the lurid descriptions of abused mechs being further abused. It was the scenes between the torture, where the author lingered on the details of the heavily modified frames while the harem members slept, recovered, and tended to the wounds in their almost bare, armorless protoform.
“I’d very much hope not. There are much better sources for it closer at hand.” Prowl snorted.
Closer at hand? Who– “Perhaps we could change the subject,” Optimus said, not wanting to pursue that thought. It was bad enough Prowl had caught him reading the novella in the first place.
Of course, Prowl was far too amused by the situation to let him go that easily. “So, since we’ve established that that,” he nodded at the e-reader, “has no historical value, what about it attracts the attention of our Prime? Should I invite the author to your next banquet?”
Optimus hung his head and groaned. “Please, Prowl. This is embarrassing enough.”
“You don’t want his books to have the Prime’s official seal of approval?” Prowl needled. “It’ll definitely boost sales…” Optimus groaned again and with a final snicker, Prowl backed off. Somewhat. “I actually am curious,” he said, in a tone of voice that was much closer to his normal, even one. “The ones who actually want to do that stuff are… it’s easy to see why they’d read it. But there were decent people who read that trash, who wouldn’t have touched an entertainer even during the caste’s heyday. I never understood it, so I’m curious.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Optimus said again, debating the merits of trying to get out of the conversation. He might be able to succeed… but Prowl wasn’t the type to back down when something piqued his interest. If it was going to come out sooner or later, maybe sooner was better. Conceding that might earn back at least a modicum of the respect he was about to lose by admitting, “The appeal is… aesthetic. It’s not about the acts themselves, not at all,” he denied firmly, because the thought of injuring a mech like that, of violating their frame and their consent, was abhorrent to him, “but… the visual of an entertainer so completely embodying that level of indulgence…” That was the fantasy; there was no mistaking what a noble’s pet was for, no pretense that they weren’t entirely sexual in every way imaginable. It was wrong to want it, but, “It’s a fiction.”
Prowl tilted his head. “The aesthetic? I can see that. It was very carefully calculated to turn us into objects of fantasy. The novels just always seemed to focus on the torture porn.”
“I usually skip those parts,” Optimus said without thinking, because he suddenly couldn’t think. Had Prowl just said– “Us?”
Prowl’s doors flared a bit. “You didn’t know? Did HR never actually dig deeper into my employment history than my previous job or did you just never look at their file? I was entertainment caste until your dissolution laws went into effect. I just was also a corporate fixer, and those laws let me drop that ‘plaything’ aesthetic from my public image.”
Did HR know that? If they did, no one had flagged it as relevant, and Optimus certainly hadn’t seen it. “I didn’t need to chase down your background all the way to your creation to know you could do the job I was asking you to do,” he said. “I had no idea…”
“None of the former entertainers go out of their way to advertise it,” Prowl said, toying with the string of prayer beads wrapped around his wrist. “Especially the nobles’ pets. What you did was an unmitigated good, but it also means there’s plenty of mechs who think that means they’re allowed to be… grabby now that former entertainers aren’t under their owners’ protection.”
“That ‘protection’ was conditional,” Optimus pointed out, “and it was as much, if not more, for protecting said owners than the entertainers themselves. But I take your meaning.”
“I know all about the conditions imposed on indentured entertainers.” Prowl’s voice was, given the topic, surprisingly un-bitter about it. “I had a good contract and, ultimately, a good master, but my situation was fairly unique. I don’t wish for those days to return – my freemech’s contract is much better now – I was simply stating why the former entertainers tend not to advertise.”
“I’m not surprised I didn’t know as much as I am by the revelation.” Prowl didn’t look like an entertainer, but then again, why would he? It was in his past.
My freemech’s contract is much better now.
Optimus suddenly found himself trying very, very hard not to stare at Prowl.
“Because I don’t look like an entertainer.” Prowl raised his eye-ridge as he (partially) read Optimus’ mind. Then he snorted. “Believe me, it was about a thousand times more difficult to work as a fixer with my valve on display, even if no one dared touch me. I am very glad my caste doesn’t dictate my appearance so much anymore.”
A coughing fit was a poor cover for an engine choke; Optimus attempted it anyway. “It, ah, might affect the effectiveness of your role as an advisor,” he said weakly when he recovered.
“Oh?” Prowl’s optics flickered to the e-reader, the novella still obscured by the screensaver. “How… scandalous,” now his voice lilted, imitating the intrigued and mocking tone of the noble caste perfectly, so different from his usual, military bluntness. “The aesthetic, you say?”
“Please,” Optimus said, clinging to the tenuous hold he had on his imagination. “If I was embarrassed before, it’s considerably worse now. I’m sorry.”
Prowl snorted again and dropped his spoiled-noble impression utterly, reverting to the slight crispness of a military mech’s version of informality. “Everything about an entertainer’s appearance was calculated to arouse. I’m not going to be offended if it worked.”
It was a small mercy, but Optimus was grateful for it. “I worry more that you’ll think less of me.” Offended would have been the reaction he’d expected, even before learning of Prowl’s full history. There was a reason he’d tried to keep his choice of fiction private. “I hope you know this in no way changes my respect for you.”
“I know,” Prowl said seriously. “I received a lot of practice telling the difference between those who both respected and lusted for me, and those who just lusted.”
“I guess you would have, wouldn’t you?” Which meant it would be disingenuous to pretend he felt no lust at all, but Optimus had every intention of not letting it become obtrusive. His curiosity, on the other hand… No. No, it was none of his business!
“I was a very pretty little slave,” Prowl said wickedly, once again teasing.
“I’ve no doubt.” And he wasn’t going to speculate about the specifics. “I may not know each of the noble houses as well as some, but I do know none of them would have spared any expense.”
Prowl laughed. It was a small, reserved thing, but all the more precious for how rare it could sometimes be. “No. Especially not Mirage,” his voice turned rueful and affectionate.
Mirage. Prowl had been indentured to Mirage?! It was just as well Optimus wasn’t imagining things right now, because he genuinely couldn’t picture it. He knew the mech only by his carefully cultivated facade and political maneuvering, which to date had both been appreciably modern and forward thinking. Optimus refused to count any of the noble caste as allies, but Mirage hadn’t fought the reforms like some of his peers had. He was also extremely condescending whenever he thought he could get away with it, which was more often than other nobles could in Optimus’ presence, given the sheer scope of his influence outside of the Prime’s overt political allies. Prowl was one of the most confident, outspoken, unslavelike mechs he knew. How had he… while Mirage…? “He was good to you, you said?”
“Mirage is complicated,” Prowl said fondly. “He’s possessive and controlling and quite literally got off on the power of having us, but he… he also paid us well, and didn’t charge us to sleep in his bed and eat his food, and took care of my medical bills without complaint. He never passed us around, for favors or profit. We were his and his alone, you see? And… I was still indentured when he started training me as a fixer. His business associates soon knew me well, and knew I could make their problems go away, for the right price. Mirage didn’t even take a cut. I was free,” he held his hand up and snapped his fingers. “Then he offered me a freemech contract to stay as his entertainer and. Well. That was still before the new laws, and I had more than enough experience with contracts by that point to know it was the best I could legally be offered. And… I wanted to stay. Want to stay.”
“Then… he’s still your…” What even was the appropriate word?
“Under your reforms, he’s a customer and I’m a contractor now.”
Customer. Yes. “Of course.” But that customer was his former owner, his former master, and that wasn’t a role a noble was likely to surrender, whatever the paperwork. And yet, by Prowl’s own account, Mirage had precipitated his freedom, long before the law had required him to. “Complicated, indeed.”
“I’m not the only entertainer who stayed with his master after your laws were passed,” Prowl said softly. “There are certainly cases where that’s because the master is refusing to let them go, but… I’ve seen the senate debates, how your allies are calling for everyone who still has an entertainer living in their house to be put in spark stasis. My advice is caution there, Prime. Some of those relationships really are… complicated.”
It wasn’t an area where Optimus had anticipated Prowl being able to advise him, but the unexpected insight was welcome. “Thank you,” he said. “I would be happy to hear your thoughts on the matter in more detail at some point in the near future.”
Prowl nodded. “Enjoy your book,” he said, his tone so dry it could be used as a desiccant. He stood from his seat and started weaving around the tables to get to the door of the commissary. Optimus watched him go. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining how Prowl sashayed when he walked, or if he was only just noticing a quirk of his gait that had always been there. He was too busy trying not to imagine what Prowl’s aft might look like without any of its armor to be sure.
The dark screen of the e-reader practically laughed at him when he glanced at it. As if it would be appropriate to keep reading that now! But it was either that, or spend the rest of his lunch trying not to imagine Prowl as… as… as! Without a distraction. Sure he didn’t have the willpower, he switched on the book.
It opened on the description he’d been reading of the newly built protagonist being tended to by an older harem member after a hard night in his master’s bed. He breathed heavily as he tried not to moan while the salve was spread… Optimus was suddenly struck with a vivid image of Prowl laying across his own lap, stripped of his armor and trying to breathe through pleasure and pain while he massaged the white mech’s bare, armorless valve with his very large fingers…
Primus. Heat flooded through his systems and there was no stopping it. The fantasy was enticing enough when it had centered around a wholly fictional mech, but now… Now Optimus’ processor was taking the descriptions he’d read and building out around them, adding and subtracting from the image of Prowl in his mind to give him the pearlescent enamel finish burnished with scented oil from the harem members in Chasing Affection, the delicate jewelry and inescapable cuffs described in Servant of the Night, and nothing remaining to suggest an alt mode of any kind; the bolted on transformation inhibitors locked him into a single shape, a single function, and he pictured one perfectly positioned to hold onto to simultaneously pin and steady Prowl as he–
“Erk,” he almost moaned when his spike panel tried to slide open and he had to slam his hand down over it to keep it closed. Frag!
Deep breaths, he told himself. Deep, slow breaths, not heavy, desperate panting…
It took forever to get the… physical effects… of the fantasy to fade, and even longer to control his thoughts enough to stand without immediately summoning… the problem… again. He was definitely late for his after lunch meeting.
Utterly embarrassed, he did his best to slink unnoticed into the back of the conference room where Prowl was presenting… something. Optimus honestly didn’t remember the details afterwards. Listening to what he was saying should have been a way to take his mind off… other things, but listening to him talk meant watching him talk, which meant noticing the curve of his lips and what couldn’t possibly be (but what if it was?) the subtle flash of incongruous metal on his tongue. A piercing? If so it was a small, subtle one, but it was very easy to watch for that tiny flash and imagine a bigger one, a ball of smooth and hard metal, perfect for adding a bit of extra stimulation while he laved his tongue across–
Urk.
Optimus was torn between wanting to get up the first second it was feasible and fleeing the room, and wondering whether that was actually a good idea. While he felt like he had a glowing neon sign hovering over him, announcing his perverted thoughts to everyone present, it was much more likely that no one would notice unless he did something to draw attention to himself. Also, it was easy enough to hide his frame’s attempts to betray him under the table; not so much if he stood up.
Too soon, Prowl finished his presentation and Optimus dismissed the other members of the meeting. He’d hoped that Prowl would go as well, give him a chance to get control of himself, but Prowl lingered, his gaze trailing over the visible parts of Optimus’ frame knowingly.
He should have fled when he had the chance.
“Something tells me,” Prowl drawled in his lilting noble-impersonation voice, “that my position as advisor just became difficult.”
“That’s unfair to you,” much as it might have been nice to blame someone else, “when I’m the one making things difficult.”
“Hmm… but which one of us is making things hard?” Prowl mused, flashing a small, absolutely wicked smile when his choice of words made Optimus go urk! He licked his lips, and yeah that definitely was a small piercing on his tongue. “I’m,” back to his teasing-noble voice, “curious just which parts of that aesthetic have affected you so, my Prime?”
“It’s really not important,” Optimus deflected, unable to tell Prowl to stop being so– so sexy! It would sound utterly ridiculous, and in a way he rather deserved to be called out like this.
“Perhaps not.” Prowl leaned into Optimus’ personal space, careful not to touch. “But I’m curious. Would you go through with it if you could? What would you want to see me be if you did?”
“I would never take advantage of an unwilling mech.” He wouldn’t, and had no desire to. “Which is why the whole thing is ridiculous, because a noble’s pet would never be in a position to consent to my… my use of them.”
“You’re rather dense sometimes.” Prowl rolled his optics and stepped back. “I’m not a pet. I’m a contractor. I have a contract right now and I’m not about to violate it, but if you were ever in a position to ‘use’ me, I wouldn’t be unwilling. So, would you go through with it if you could?”
Primus help him. “Hypothetically? Yes. If consent of both parties was assured, and I had the opportunity to… indulge, in a noble’s plaything…” It sounded terrible, put like that, but, “There would be no mistaking who you belonged to and what you were for, and I would. Enjoy.”
Like… art. Interactive art. The pets were extremely pretty. Pretty art that was sexual in every way imaginable. Art that was about turning a mech into a sex toy. Everything about them just begged to be pushed down onto the nearest surface and enjoyed. It was wrong to want that, and usually Optimus was good about keeping his desires focused on mechs that only existed as words, but right here, right now, with Prowl standing next to him and asking if Optimus wanted him like that, assuring him that the one sticking point – the plaything’s consent – wasn’t an insurmountable obstacle… It was torture, and somewhere in the hazy depths of his processor, Optimus thought that Prowl had the right to torture him. Prowl was smart and confident and politically astute and valuable in ways that had nothing to do with his body, his past, and here was Optimus, less than two joors after finding out he’d been an entertainer and a pet at one point, imagining him as nothing more than a toy. It was unfair, and he was ashamed of himself for it. But… Yes. Optimus would go through with that if it was offered. Yes, he wanted it. Wanted to have sex with a noble’s plaything. Wanted Prowl.
His frame was trying to betray him again and Optimus gripped the edge of the table like Prowl would rip it away at any moment to reveal just how aroused this line of thinking was making him. Instead, Prowl moved so he was sitting on the table, which put them almost optic-to-optic, and he licked his lips again, showing off the almost invisible stud in his tongue. “Inhibitors are a given then, and so is reduced armor coverage, but…How reduced are you imagining? And what else, my Prime?” His voice went breathy and teasing again and it was all Optimus could do not to moan as he imagined Prowl saying “my Prime” while he– “What sets a plaything apart from a courtesan for you?”
Well… “Reduced armor to the point of physical vulnerability,” because a noble’s prized plaything never went anywhere unescorted. “The inhibitors, yes, but also… personalization.”
“Want me to belong to you, my Prime?” Prowl purred.
Optimus shivered, but shook his head. “I have no desire to ever own another mech, even in a fantasy. No, I would… find you after, just after your master finished with you for the day, so that I could…”
“Rescue me?” Prowl whispered, and Optimus finally noticed that the mech’s optics were so bright they were almost white, a clear sign of heightened emotion. He might have assumed it to be anger, or disgust, except Prowl was otherwise calm. He even had a small, teasing smile flirting across his lips as he licked them again… distracting the Prime from his thought with the brief glimpse of the piercing there. It was all he could do not to moan. “Or admire his handiwork?”
“Explore it,” Optimus said, imagining his fingers gently tracing each mark left behind by an indifferent master. “I would acknowledge what he had done and soothe the stings from pain into pleasure…”
“A rescue from pain, if not from ownership,” Prowl acknowledged, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Prowl had always been extraordinarily flexible, with a frame and armor class that wasn’t known for flexibility. Optimus stared, finally noticing how what he’d always assumed to be Enforcer armor, stripped of the uniform paint, lightbar, and other police-only kibble, was actually high quality and custom. And flexible. “What kind of stings? What do you imagine my owner has done to me?”
“Whipped you; perhaps bitten you,” and there Optimus paused, both because the next thing he imagined was significantly more extreme and permanent, and because the soft hiss of breath Prowl drew in surprised him.
This time he took in the other mech’s overbright optics and saw also the way he focused on Optimus intently, hungrily. His chest moved, almost imperceptively but quickly, taking shallow, panting breaths, even if nothing else about his posture or frame gave away any emotion. It wasn’t disgust or anger or disappointment he was hiding.
Prowl was aroused.
“What else?” he insisted quietly.
Hands still gripping the table, this time to keep them from drifting lower as want! surged through him, Optimus continued. “He would have stripped you all but bare, granting you only the most essential armor to function, but it would be thin. Delicate. Easy to dent and with a sparkling finish that shows off the smallest scratch. Your collar would bear his sigil, and you… you would bear his brand.”
Prowl closed his optics, just for a moment, to focus on holding his composure.
“Not all the playthings bore brands,” Prowl said when he’d opened them again, still showing those very small, utterly precious signs of arousal, though his voice was even and did not hitch on the words. “Only those with particularly cruel masters, or those who were very often traded for favors. Which is it here, my Prime? Is my master cruel, or have you agreed to a favor?”
“I suppose an unplanned encounter would suggest the former,” Optimus said slowly, realizing that the prominence of the brands in stories must be another of their inaccuracies. As much as he felt drawn to it in the fantasy, it was a relief to learn that fewer mechs than he’d suspected had suffered them in reality. “The appeal for me, however, is essentially aesthetic.”
“The sight of a mech owned and stripped of everything but sex for his master.” Prowl started to reach out, but Optimus heard the buzz of an alarm go off from the miniature datapad on his wrist and he drew back with a curse to check it. “Frag.” Sensuality and arousal both dropped from his demeanor and he hopped down from the table. “As much as I’d like to continue discussing this, I have a minor emergency to deal with, it seems.”
Frustrated and grateful in equal measure, Optimus nodded. “I hope it proves relatively easy to resolve.”
Prowl nodded curtly, every trace of an entertainer’s body language now gone like it had never existed. He looked, he acted, completely like a former military mech, the Enforcer-turned-political advisor Optimus had always, always seen. There was relief in seeing it. Optimus still wanted him, stripped down to a sexual toy, but this was still a mech he respected and trusted. The fantasy didn’t affect his competence, or Optimus’ perception of it. “It’s hard to tell from a text message, but it didn’t sound too serious. Simply urgent. Sir.” He nodded again, and left without waiting for a dismissal.
Alone again, Optimus attempted to set aside his own arousal. He failed miserably, but this time he was able to make his escape back to his private office without interruption.
Two breems later he was fumbling through his desk, looking for something he could use to clean up the (small!) mess he’d made on his lap and one hand. He groaned. Had he just… with Prowl? The fact that Prowl had pulled the fantasy from his lips and been aroused by it did not, in the end, make Optimus feel less embarrassed. Less guilty, less ashamed, but not less mortified. Prowl might be alright with being fantasized about, but that did not make it alright for Optimus to actually do so, much less in public.
And yet… He paused his search to stroke his spike again, shivering. The image of Prowl as an entertainer, stripped of all protection, used and then cast aside for Optimus to… use again… It didn’t leave him. He couldn’t banish it, not with the tantalizing promise that if it happened, Prowl would be willing… willing where none of his fictional, fantasy playthings could consent, even in his imagination… Optimus moaned. Frag.
Another fast, furtive overload later, Optimus finally managed to find a polishing cloth. It was supposed to buff out smudges in his paint before important meetings, but he needed to clean up his mess before someone came looking for him.
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Part Two
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Over the next few orns, Optimus managed to fall into a holding pattern where he managed not to fantasize about Prowl in public, where he didn’t even stare too much at the mech’s tongue piercing, but then after he returned to the palace and retired to his rooms for the night, he would duck under the covers with one of his erotica novels. He’d read the descriptions, imagining Prowl, Prowl, Prowl as the slave-protagonists and at some point he’d enter the scene and push the mech down on the nearest surface and… He yanked the sheets off his bed in the mornings and sent them down the chute to the laundry rather than force the servants to try and make the bed around his mess.
Then, finishing up the last meeting of the orn – the latest round of the neverending arrangements for the upcoming Festival of Lights – Prowl asked him to stay for a klik and speak privately.
“What did you want to talk about?” Optimus asked once they were alone.
Prowl’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips as if he was nervous, giving Optimus a clear view of the piercing, which was still a simple ball of metal but a silver one that did not blend so well with the surrounding protoform. “Regarding what we discussed a few orns ago, in the conference room…?”
Optimus’ train of thought turned so sharply there was no putting the brakes on it even if he’d wanted to. “I remember,” he said carefully.
Prowl drew a square of flimsy from his subspace and held it out to the Prime. “Please call Mirage. This is his personal office line.”
His fingers closed around the flimsy on autopilot. “Call… what?”
“Mirage,” Prowl repeated. “He’s expecting the call. That line is unlisted and bypasses his secretary.”
Mirage. Was expecting a call from him. Regarding what he and Prowl had discussed. “You told him?!”
Prowl only tilted his head curiously in the face of Optimus’ mortified squeak. “I told you: I have a contract, and My Lord Mirage pays very well for fidelity. If we wish to move forward, it will have to be after you’ve discussed it with him.”
If we wish to move forward. Meaning Prowl did, in fact, wish to move forward. Meaning he was more than willing, he wanted… Optimus strategically chose a seat at the conference table. “Is he expecting my call at any particular time?”
“Tonight, or perhaps tomorrow,” Prowl said, still speaking calmly, as if they weren’t talking about… about… about! “You are the Prime, of course, but he will be more open to negotiation if you don’t keep him waiting.”
“Of course,” Optimus echoed, only waiting now because Prowl was in the room. “Is there anything you would prefer I not discuss with him?”
“Not for my sake,” Prowl said, almost fondly. “But try not to be offended by how he occasionally talks about me. It’s just… “ he shrugged. “How he is.”
“You said he was possessive.” Possessive, controlling, and “got off” on the power he had over his pets. “As long as you’re not offended by it…?”
Prowl just gave him a Look. “Any more than I’m offended by what you’ll be negotiating over?”
Optimus shook his head, feeling a bit foolish. They were already talking about an encounter where Optimus would be taking advantage of an already-hurt slave. “Nevermind, of course it doesn’t bother you.” If it did, he would have done something about it. Prowl wasn’t one of those former slaves being held captive by a master who refused to relinquish them. He could have left Mirage. Since he hadn’t, he must enjoy… “Was that all then?”
“Yes. Thank you for your time, my Prime.” Prowl gave him a shallow bow and let himself out of the room.
Leaving Optimus alone with the phone number.
Since it really wouldn’t be an appropriate call to make in the conference room, he made sure he was decent before venturing out into the hall and quickly disappearing into his private office. He was halfway through inputting the number before the door even finished locking.
It picked up on the second ring. “My Lord Prime, Heritor and Holder of the Matrix of Leadership, Giver of Life, Guardian of the Gateway to the Allspark,” the voice drawled out the litany of official titles almost mockingly. “How might this humble member of a disgraced caste help our Living God this orn?”
Well. That certainly didn’t make things less awkward. Still, it wasn’t like he could hang up now and pretend he’d never called. “Nothing so grand as to require such formalities,” Optimus began. “A mutual acquaintance told me I should speak with you concerning a proposal I had for him.”
“Ah. Yes.” There was a pause. Someone else said something the receiver didn’t pick up well enough for Optimus to hear. Then Mirage spoke again. “Would you prefer to discuss this in person? I have reservations for a private table at the Fire and Ice Teahouse tonight. I would be delighted to be graced with your presence, My Lord Prime.”
Would it be easier? Joining Mirage for the evening wouldn’t be a casual endeavor; it would involve a security detail and there would be no leaving early, no matter how the conversation went. On the other hand, while Optimus was alone and had no immediate demands on his time, the same clearly couldn’t be said for Mirage. He didn’t want whoever was in Mirage’s office with him hearing anything… specific. And the Fire and Ice Teahouse was one of the best places to hold a private conversation. “Allow me to join you then.” It would give him a chance to get a better impression of the mech himself.
“Lovely. My reservation is in two joors’ time. I’ll call them and tell them to expect a guest.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you there.” Optimus ended the call, then paused to take a deep breath. What was he thinking?! But he’d known, as Prowl had known, that if given the opportunity… He kept his hands firmly above the desk as he called his security team to let them know about his change of plans for the evening.
Two joors later, he idled outside the extremely expensive tea garden while Ironhide and the rest of his security swept through the artfully planted crystals, the pavilions, and the kitchens.
Eventually everything was pronounced safe, and Optimus entered the garden. Flustered and bowing, the maître d' led him through the looping pathways to where Mirage still stood, watching amusedly while three security mechs finished searching him for weapons. At the end of a low bridge, a pavilion jutted out of the water and inside a fourth security mech was overseeing while a waiter smoothed a cloth over the table. Optimus could see mechs at other tables, far enough away to keep conversations private, but not out of sight in the gardens, watching the unexpected spectacle.
The noble was pronounced free of dangerous objects and substances literally as the Prime approached.
“My Lord Prime,” Mirage greeted with a shallow (too shallow) bow. “I took the liberty of ordering a diamond and quartz blend for our ceremony, and then cordials for after, before your arrival.”
“How thoughtful, Mirage.” Optimus left the lord’s title off with a raised brow ridge in return for the bow, but didn’t countermand his presumption to order. Truthfully, the Prime would have had trouble knowing what was appropriate to order had the choice been left to him. He took his seat at the table, and his security withdrew to give them their privacy and oversee the food preparations.
Mirage sat as well. His optics gleamed like a turbofox’s in the candlelight. He waited for a curtain of white noise to descend from the restaurant’s noise blockers and the eavesdropper deterrents to come on before he spoke again. “I hope the drive was pleasant, Optimus.”
“It was. I hadn’t yet had the opportunity to come out this way.”
“Absolutely lovely. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the view from the Cliffside Esplanade out over the edge of the city? Only a few of the manors there can boast the same view as from the road.” Mirage’s gaze flickered up right as one of the waiters crossed the bridge to the pavilion. “Exquisite timing.” He picked up his napkin and admired the folded crystal flower for a moment, then shook it out to drape it over his lap right as the tea service… and the first course… was placed on the table. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Optimus echoed, trying to copy the motions with the napkin. He didn’t like small talk, but he didn’t exactly want to bring up the real topic of conversation until the waiter was gone. He had caught the implication that Mirage’s manor was one he considered to have a comparable view to the Esplanade, but he didn’t know how to respond to it. He let the silence stretch, awkwardly, while the tea was poured. Mirage took his with a splash of lightly colored oil and a spoonful of gold flakes. At a loss, Optimus asked for the same.
Then the waiter left and Mirage turned his turbofox-optics back onto Optimus. “If you were anyone less than the Lord Prime,” he said pleasantly, “I wouldn’t even be considering this. I don’t share.”
“So Prowl tells me.” And so Prowl liked, apart from the part where he’d gone and said something about their apparently shared fantasy. “Allow me to assure you, I was unaware he intended to pursue any actualization of our discussion.”
“If I thought you were intentionally stealing my pet, we most definitely would not be discussing this.” Mirage’s voice was lilting and casual, not angry at all if you went by his tone. “My Prowler, however, has made several convincing arguments as to why I should listen. So here I am. Why do you want my pet? I understand why a Prime of your political inclinations wouldn’t want to acquire a pet of your own, but there are others.”
Prowler? The pet name was enough to distract Optimus from Mirage’s extremely possessive language long enough to remember Prowl’s request. There was no need to get offended on his behalf. “There are,” Optimus said, acknowledging that fact for the first time, “but Prowl is… He has expressed a willingness, even a desire, for this that is essential for me. Finding another might be possible, but they would never perfectly satisfy my curiosity about what it would be like with him.”
Mirage considered that. He took one of the tiny sandwiches and nibbled on it until it was gone, then sipped delicately from his teacup. Then he took another sandwich. “There are rules,” he said with finality. “Even for a Prime.”
“I would expect no less.” Honestly, he would prefer not to trade on being a Prime at all in the matter, but at the same time, he didn’t want Mirage to refuse. His consent mattered as much as Prowl’s, because his consent mattered to Prowl. “I’m aware he is under contract with you, and any encounter I might have with him is subject to that contract. I have no intention of taking him,” apart from in a purely physical sense; Optimus picked up a sandwich as if he could hide behind it, “from you. I simply want to… borrow him.”
Mirage nodded. “And should we receive a fair price for that borrowing, I believe I will consent to it. Once.” He smiled over his tea. “That is the crux of your laws regarding professional entertainers, is it not? That they should be fairly compensated for that work?”
“They should indeed.” The sandwich was actually quite good. Optimus took another, dwarfing it with his hands. “What would Prowl,” because it was Prowl who deserved compensation, not Mirage, though the noble obviously wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to get something out of the situation for himself, “consider fair compensation? I would ask his rates, but at his level I wonder if something else might be more appropriate?”
Mirage’s answering smile was pleasant. “You’re attending the premiere of Gods and Warriors 7 next month, correct? My pets have been looking forward to seeing it. I believe three tickets – all three in the row below yours, for your personal guests, though only two need to be next to each other – and a single place on the carpet for arrivals will suffice.”
This time Optimus used the tea as an excuse to think. What, beyond the surface of it, was Mirage asking for? Assuming Prowl really did want to see the film – and he had no reason to believe Mirage was lying about that – then it would genuinely be compensating him, and whoever his fellow pet (friend?) was. Mirage, though; he would benefit more from the publicity of attending the premier than viewing the movie itself. As a favor in return for him allowing the Prime to live out a fantasy he’d never dreamed of realizing… was it a reasonable exchange? Or was he asking too much?
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to greet you in person at the event beforehand,” he said, well aware that photos of the two of them together on the carpet would suggest a relationship far more significant than the one he wanted to advertise (especially when they hadn’t talked about any actual business!).
“I understand. By now your time has been scheduled right down to the nanoklik, no doubt, and wedging me in would be too much to ask.” Still, Mirage seemed extremely pleased with the concession. “Now, on to actual arrangements. Given that the exact nature of your fantasy would be much more damaging to your reputation than simply being caught having an affair with a subordinate who is still registered as an entertainer, I assume discretion is more important than merely hiding who you were with. The palace, then, seems like the most secure place. During the Festival of Lights celebration?” Mirage paused, and poured himself another measure of tea, doctoring it with the oil and gold as he had the previous cup. “It will hardly be noticed if a few attendees slip upstairs to a guest suite instead of leaving at the end of the party.”
Arrangements. Primus. It was really going to happen. And the Festival celebration was an excellent suggestion. “You and Prowl already have invitations, even.”
“My Prowler’s will need to be updated to include a guest of his own,” Mirage said. “But yes. There are considerations for the encounter itself.”
Another guest? The other pet? It didn’t matter; Optimus nodded. “Please, elaborate.”
Mirage placed his cup in front of him and leaned forward, his body language changing to something entirely serious. “We need a suite, not a pair of adjacent rooms. You’re aware of my Prowler’s medical condition? I will not let my property be damaged because I couldn’t interfere if it was needed.”
Optimus did know about Prowl’s medical condition. He hadn’t thought about it in connection with his fantasy, but now that he was, “Absolutely. Whatever he needs on hand, I will see to it that it is provided.”
A necklace appeared in Mirage’s hand from his subspace. Optimus jerked when it opened like a large locket, but it had to have been cleared by security… and indeed. It proved empty. “This one isn’t his. He has two. The one worn closest to his collar contains medications he may need to take at a moment’s notice. His comm system will be shut down, but he has an auxiliary that sends out an unmistakable short range blast of noise. If he does so, everything stops immediately, no matter how inconvenient the timing. He needs the medication right away, and he needs rest, and I will come to ensure it.”
“Understood,” Optimus said seriously. “Are there certain things I should avoid doing to help ensure such action doesn’t become necessary?”
“As you will not be the one hurting him, no,” Mirage said frankly. “Pain and confusion increase the likelihood of a crash, but avoiding pain has never decreased it to the point where we found any value in forgoing it.”
“Ah.” Well. Optimus wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he didn’t.
“My Prowler was an Enforcer before he was sold to me. Warframes do have some unfortunate… combat protocols that have been very difficult to train out of him.” Mirage picked his tea back up, sipped it, wrinkled his nose at it, and warmed it with a splash from the pot. “I assure you, should he growl or attempt to bite, it does not reflect negatively on you or his enjoyment of your attentions; it’s simply a hard-coded response to pain. Even pain he enjoys.” He stirred in another spoon of gold dust, stirred it, and sipped from the cup. “I’ll take precautions against his attempts to maul you, but it does mean that when you ‘rescue’ him, you do need to keep his hands bound and his mouth covered.”
So he hadn’t been wrong to equate Prowl’s frame and some of his mannerisms to those of an Enforcer. Having to account for ingrained reflexes wasn’t something Optimus was unfamiliar with, though it usually didn’t involve restraints. “If that’s his preferred method for handling them.”
“It is. Stunning him is dangerous.”
Optimus winced. “I suppose it would be.” With Prowl’s condition, stunning him was definitely not a good idea. He was sure there had to be more options than restraints and stunning him, but he didn’t know any, and it wasn’t his place to interfere as long as Prowl was consenting. Avoiding pain probably should have been their course of action, but… he hadn’t been imagining it. Prowl had been aroused by the thought of pain. “I will not interfere with the restraints you leave on him.”
“And you will stay through the morning,” Mirage said firmly. “Perhaps for several joors past waking. My Prowler needs… comfort after such experiences. There is a physiological reaction to submitting, and it often is stronger the more a pet enjoys himself. Crying, confusion, and a resurgence of combat protocols – and the accompanying biting – are not uncommon. Ignore that. He needs darkness, silence, and to be held.”
Really? One of the conditions of getting to have Prowl was getting to stay with him after? That Optimus would do, and gladly. “It sounds like it would be wise to make sure my morning is clear then, so no one comes looking for me if it takes a while.”
Mirage’s optics narrowed suspiciously, distrusting the eagerness with which Optimus had accepted that condition. “Quite.”
“Did I say something wrong?”
The noble glared a little suspiciously a moment longer, then shook his head and sipped his tea. “Not at all.” He glanced at the path and Optimus looked over to see the waiter coming with a refill for their pot and a second course of food, energon scones.
They waited for everything to be refilled, for the plates to be exchanged, for the little jellies to be set out to spread on the scones, and both thanked the server.
“Do you have any questions, My Lord Prime?” Mirage asked mildly once they were alone again.
They fell silent and Mirage let that silence stretch, awkwardly, for nearly a breem, until Optimus was nearly ready to ask him the most annoyingly inane question he could think of about the weather just to break it.
“I don’t suppose you’d be open to discussing any other business tonight,” the noble interrupted the impending smalltalk smoothly.
Optimus hid his relief by spreading a spoonful of jelly on one of the energon scones. Relief quickly transformed into amusement. Of course Mirage was going to try to make a pitch. He was obviously trying to make it appear like he was ingratiating himself with the new regime by appearing publicly at the premiere and being seated with the rest of the Prime’s personal guests, but it would prove a hollow effort unless he made an effort to actually ingratiate himself… and they still had two more courses of tea and cordials after before Optimus could gracefully escape his company.
And this was the part of his new role as Prime that Optimus was much more comfortable with. “I didn’t come prepared to make any additional agreements tonight, but a discussion is always welcome.”
“Excellent.”
“And I’m not interested in engaging in backroom deals and supporting the corruption that was rampant under the previous administration.” Which meant that he needed to avoid Prowl’s input on whatever proposal Mirage was about to offer. That was frustrating, because before he’d known that Prowl and Mirage were connected – both in the past and present – legally and sexually, this was exactly the sort of thing Prime would have consulted Prowl on.
If anything, that assertion only amused Mirage more. “It’s only corruption if I offer you an incentive or attempt to threaten you. Pitching the merits of my companies as the best to fulfill government contracts over dinner is hardly corruption.”
“A fair point.”
Mirage smiled. “So when you’re ready to end the moratorium on creating new mechs and are offering government contracts–”
“Government contracts for new mechs are still under discussion,” Optimus interrupted. “A mentorship program–”
Mirage scoffed, interrupting in turn. “If your goal is to end indenture-slavery, the mentorship program is hardly the way to do it. Instead of members of higher castes owning members of lower ones, it will be the richest members of a caste owning the rest. To create free mechs without debt, the cost will have to be absorbed by society as a whole, rather than by individuals, and that means government programs funded by taxes.”
Optimus frowned, unable to see the flaws in that logic right now. “As long as you know that the subject is still under debate and any agreements will have to wait for multiple decisions to be made first.”
“Naturally. Further, your dream of full caste mobility means that all mechs, from the lowest laborers to the scientists, will need high quality – and utterly flawless,” Mirage hissed the word, almost angrily before switching back to his smooth business pitch, “processor circuits so that they can do whatever jobs they end up in, rather than being constructed for specific tasks. Coincidentally, Phoenixscape Electronics specializes in such processor-grade circuitry.”
“Not cheaply,” Optimus guessed. He wasn’t familiar with Phoenixscape, except as the maker of very high-end personal computers.
“No. But this is not the sort of thing you want to go to the lowest bidder if you want functional mechs and not drones.”
A legitimate point.
They spent the rest of the tea discussing business (other than sex!) and Optimus found himself relaxing. Mirage was shrewd and arrogant, but he wasn’t wrong on any of the points he brought up. Nevertheless, Optimus refrained from making any sort of agreements – about Phoenixscape or the three other business endeavors he suggested – except to keep these companies in mind, and investigate further when those contracts (if they ever materialized) were being drawn up.
All four of Mirage’s proposals were refreshingly in line with Optimus’ political goals. That put him a step ahead of similar business pitches he’d heard, even if they meshed oddly with the noble’s continued insistence on referring to “his Prowler” as his property whenever Optimus’ advisor was mentioned. A bit like his arrogance was at odds with his minimal condescension. Optimus was unfortunately familiar with being spoken to like he was an idiot – oh, but always with the best of intentions, they just wanted to help him – and while Mirage had probably never been (or admitted to being) wrong in his life, he hadn’t talked down to him.
They finished up their tea and cordials, and Optimus left feeling alright with the encounter. He still didn’t like that Mirage referred to Prowl and his mysterious other entertainer as “his”, but he could live with it. He and Prowl were going to… to… that! And Mirage was proving to be a tentative ally…
As the Festival of Lights drew closer, Optimus found it harder and harder not to stare at Prowl. By contrast, Prowl hardly seemed to be affected, though he must know that Mirage had agreed to letting them… them!
It was incredibly unfair that only one of them kept needing to excuse themselves after meetings.
.
.
.
Part Three
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Finally the Festival did come around. It was a full orn of celebrations in the street, with feasts and parades that culminated in a public Releasing of the Lights. As the lanterns floated up into the sky, Optimus knew the parties would continue in the streets until morning. Part of him wished he still could go and mingle there, but there was a ball he had to attend.
At first he hadn’t wanted to hold the stuffy party at all, or invite any of the nobles who traditionally attended. He’d been soundly voted down. Mirage had already stopped by to give him an arrogantly friendly greeting before making the rounds among his peers. Optimus had managed to add his own guests to the list of attendees, which was why Prowl (and his plus one!) were here. His friends – his actual friends – were making the party less stuffy and more lively and Optimus couldn’t be happier to see them all.
“My Lord Prime,” Prowl greeted formally with a bow. Optimus tried to not obviously examine his armor to figure out which pieces would be coming off for… later. “My companion, Jazz,” he introduced the slighter white and blue mech hanging off his arm.
“Welcome, Prowl, Jazz. Are you just arriving now, or am I only now seeing you?”
“We’ve been here for about a joor,” Prowl answered. “Jazz wanted to see the concert floor first.”
“Pfft,” Jazz scoffed playfully. He had a bright smile that said he was enjoying the party. “You’re just a really big mech. Wasn’t gonna miss the tail end of an Electronic Melody concert to see you.”
Prowl’s doors flicked low in embarrassment and then back high in fond pride. Definitely friends. It made Optimus happy to see. “I won’t fault you for that. What I saw of their performance was spectacular.”
“I wanted to introduce you two before we all became too busy with everything that’s going on.” Prowl looked at Jazz with a small, hidden smile. More than friends then. Optimus recognized a smitten mech when he saw one.
“We’re headed to the buffet table next,” Jazz said happily, almost bouncing. “Gotta grab some stuff before the best treats run out.”
“Would you like to join us?”
“I doubt I’ll be able to stay long, but yes. I’m curious,” Optimus said, walking together with them, “what you consider to be the best.”
“Ooh… you’re going to make me pick?” Jazz clutched at his spark dramatically.
“Anything with platinum and carbon,” Prowl said, poking him. “And if they have silver dusted bismuth bon bons, we’re going to need to roll you out at the end of the night.”
“Ouch, Prowler!”
If Optimus hadn’t known the full context of that name, he might not have even noticed Jazz’s use of it. As it was, he hurriedly forced his thoughts away from… from! And focused them on the buffet table. “You may be in trouble then, because I believe I saw bismuth of some sort earlier this evening. Personally, I’ll admit to having a preference for copper.”
“Don’t,” Prowl scolded before Jazz could say anything.
Jazz just snickered
It was hard to stay with them while they collected up their food. There just was no hiding Prime from the vulturebots other guests. Prowl was patient, and kept waiting for Optimus to be able to ditch the most recent sycophant, but eventually Optimus had no choice but to make his apologies and leave him and Jazz talking excitedly with the director for the upcoming Gods and Warriors movie.
Prowl did, in fact, have a rather keen interest in the franchise.
They hadn’t set a specific time to slip away from the party; Optimus spotted Prowl and Jazz again at one point, and was pretty sure that was Mirage all the way across the grand hall, but there were so many mechs present. It was impossible to know when they decided to withdraw, though as the time ticked closer for him to start making his excuses, Optimus knew they must have started.
It was agony waiting. Even now there was an impulse to go and truly rescue Prowl from what was happening to him, to spare him the pain, but this was what they both wanted. And Optimus did want the fantasy, to happen upon a noble’s plaything, quivering and in pain, and to soothe him as he indulged himself…
Ack.
He took a cool drink from a passing server in the hopes that he could drop his temperature and make his fans stop.
He really wasn’t sure how he managed to make it until he could start extricating himself. When it was finally time, the maneuvering required to make his escape without making a scene was at least enough of a distraction that he was able to get himself back under control, if only briefly. He was the picture of composure as he bid goodnight to the last conversationalist and nodded to his security as he crossed the perimeter and left the party behind.
His bodyguards dropped away, switching from close-in guards to longer-range surveillance as he entered the residential wing of the palace. There would be absolutely no hiding from them that he was about to spend the night in a guest suite, and enough gossip among the servants might put together who was supposed to be in that suite eventually, but it shouldn’t be obvious. Even if someone did go through that much trouble to ferret out the Prime’s Festival of Lights affair, everything that was about to happen inside was private. Discreet, as Mirage had suggested.
When he reached the door, it was locked but keyed open on his command and he entered the darkened room. Shadows clung to the low table and couch, the small kitchenette, and to the two bedroom doors. One of them had been left open, the interior even darker still.
A low, pained whimper drifted out.
The sound, by itself, sparked more concern than arousal. Optimus crossed the room carefully, foregoing any lights until he could reach for the dimmer switch inside the bedroom–
What the low light revealed was so breathtaking it made his engine stutter. At first he didn’t even recognize Prowl, no, Prowler in the glittering black, nearly armorless mech curled up on the large bed that dominated the room. He saw the transformation inhibitors on the mech’s legs first, gleaming and multicolored against his dark protoform. It wasn’t until he drifted closer and he saw delicate, armorless doorwings reach out to try and sense him, until the mech struggled to look around and he saw the tips of a familiar red chevron above the thin, barely there helm, that he recognized the mech he’d been expecting to see.
This mech had been branded. The puckered, burned lines curved over the plaything’s aft and down his exposed thigh: Hic servus ad Mirage pertinet. This slave belongs to Mirage.
Prowler, laid back down and whimpered again. “Please… please…”
“Primus,” Optimus whispered, gently letting his weight settle on the edge of the bed. One hand reached out, his fingers drawn to the painful words barely beginning to heal. “Are you alright?”
Prowl just whined… which turned into a growl when his wiggling brought the brand in contact with Optimus’ hesitant fingers. The protoform was warm, inflamed, but… not oozing. Not fresh. And not old. This had been done orns ago. Not tonight. Not vorns ago.
This had already been on him down at the party.
“It must have been hurting you,” Optimus said softly, brushing his thumb alongside the lettering. He’d been wearing armor over it, sure, but even covered, it would have stung to move… and there was no way for him to so much as walk without disturbing the brand.
Prowl growled, but leaned into the touch, pressing the partially-healed letters into Optimus’ fingers. Optimus found himself tracing the lines themselves before he quite realized what he was doing, the stark, irrefutable reality of them and they meant burning into his processor like they were burned into Prowl’s protoform. He hadn’t been branded before, when he’d been indentured. He’d done it, or rather, had it done, for this. For tonight. For him.
Prowl’s growl trailed off into a whine which turned back into a growl as he squirmed. He wore cuffs on his hands and his ankles, but only his hands seemed to be bound. Still, he seemed reluctant to move too much. He twisted, tried to look at Optimus without moving away from his touch. He was blindfolded though, and his mouth and nose covered in a plastic form, like a muzzle. It did nothing to inhibit the sounds he was making, but it put a barrier between his teeth and anything he might otherwise try to sink them into.
“Shh,” Optimus soothed, continuing to stroke him, pet him. “I won’t hurt you. Let me take care of you.”
Prowl– Prowler whined again.
Primus… there was so much hurt to soothe. There were welts across his shoulders and if Optimus let his fingers wander up his back from the brand, on either side of his spinal assembly where his rear pelvic plating should be, he found a pair of piercings. Little metal balls sticking out of his protoform and begging to be pressed or played with. Optimus gave in to the curiosity and–
Prowler yelped.
“Oh, dear. I didn’t realize these were so sensitive.” What were they for? Even light touches to them made Prowler twitch, which suggested that maybe that was the point. “Have you been wearing these all night too?” Prowler didn’t answer in words, but he pressed the piercing into Optimus’ fingers, even though the motion made him yelp again.
The area around both piercings was cool. Or, well, they matched Prowler’s aroused temperature, but weren’t feverish. These were not recent. He had to have been wearing something here, even if the jewelry wasn’t as large when confined under his armor… at work. Every orn.
Habit had Optimus attempting to stop the thought and his fans briefly. It was hopeless, and finally – finally! – unnecessary. With a wonderful feeling of freedom and indulgence, Optimus let his lust have free rein, and the temperature of the air around them both increased.
“Are you hiding any others?” he asked, already imagining where else Prowler might be pierced.
Prowler whined and curled up tighter, and clenched and crossed his legs, as if trying to hide his chest and his…
His valve.
“There’s no need to hide,” Optimus told him, moving closer on the bed so he was in a better position to pull Prowler out of his protective ball. He couldn’t help pausing and touching the brand again, making both of them shiver for entirely different reasons. “Show me. What else has he done to you?”
Prowler growled, the sound surprisingly loud in the hush of the empty bedroom, and curled up tighter. Now determined, Optimus loomed over him to reach in and pull his legs apart. Prowler was strong. His frame was as strong as any military mech his size, but the lack of armor made him feel delicate, even helpless while Optimus forced his way in to see–
Prowler thrashed, and Optimus had to push him down into the sheets to keep him still, pinning him. Only afterwards, with his spark thumping, did he realize that in his focus on Prowler’s legs, he’d turned so his own leg was close to Prowler’s head and that had been an attempt to bite him.
“I’m afraid this will need to stay on,” Optimus “apologized” to the struggling pet, finding the edge of the muzzle beneath the blindfold before removing his hand, leaving the straps in place. He’d already promised not to undo any of Prowler’s bindings, and now he could see the practical wisdom beyond the psychological allure they represented. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you can’t help yourself, can you?”
Prowler growled loudly, whipping his head around to snap at Optimus’ fingers. The muzzle kept him from connecting, but Optimus pulled his hand away regardless, moving them both so that he could pin Prowler with one knee and use both his hands for other things.
“It’s alright.” Gently but firmly, Optimus pushed Prowler’s legs apart to reveal his valve. There were welts along his inner thighs, evidence of some sort of flogger or whip that stopped just shy of his array. “How cruel,” he whispered, ignoring how Prowler squirmed. He wasn’t sure if the mech was squirming to press the welts into his touches, as he had with the brand, or squirming to escape and hide whatever had been done–
Optimus touched the entrance to his valve and felt the hard, solid ornaments that had been pierced into the wet protoform, just like they had on his back. Breathing heavily, he rubbed, examining this newest development and found… a lot of piercings. Three on each side of his valve entrance, each with a sphere-like ornament on either end of the piercing. Prowler growled when Optimus pressed one, but didn’t yelp. They must have hurt when they went in, but now didn’t seem any more sensitive than the rest of the mesh around his valve. In fact, they seemed more like they were intended to provide extra stimulation on a penetrating spike.
His spike, in this case.
Optimus groaned as his spike panel retracted, unable to take himself in hand without compromising his hold on Prowler. Would he even fit though, without doing any damage? Prowler was significantly smaller than him, but his valve was open, ready and waiting after his last frag for something new to fill him…
He had to shift his hold, pinning Prowler more firmly, and making him hiss and growl when he couldn’t help but put pressure on some welts while he lined up his spike and pushed himself in.
Prowler’s growl turned to a high moan of mingled pain and pleasure.
It was a tight fit. Prowler was already stretched and wet, but his master wasn’t a large mech and Optimus was. It was a tight fit… but he did fit. And the ornaments on the piercings felt… Optimus moaned at the novel, unexpectedly intense sensation of hard points of stimulation sliding up his shaft as he sank into the warmwet heat. Prowler’s cry crescendoed, but the Prime barely noticed, pushing himself into the much smaller mech until he hilted.
Fraaaag.
Looking down at the unarmored mech beneath him, Optimus knew he’d be replaying this moment in his mind dozens of times. Prowler was truly a thing of beauty. His whole body heaved as he panted, whimpering even as Optimus heard the telltale pops from within his frame that indicated a mech who was very close to overload.
Optimus couldn’t get over how delicate he looked. The only bit of armor on his back was a small hexagon of it between his doorwings that was obviously just there to anchor the physical transformation inhibitors bolted there. His doorwings had small bits of armor, enough that the iridescent black paint made them sparkle-flash in the low light against his protoform, but it was obviously purely decorative. The rest of him was exposed to his master’s whip… and had the welts, the piercings, the brand to prove it.
So delicate, and so tight on his spike.
He tried to resist the temptation to just let loose and frag the mech. Prowler squeezed the piercings into the base of his spike and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling out, then pushing back in, to feel the spheres slide against his spike again, and this time the sound Prowler made as he hilted was all pleasure.
“You were made for sex.” That was the core of the fantasy, wasn’t it? That a plaything had no other purpose but to please his master and to suffer at his master’s whim? With so little armor, and no kibble, Prowler certainly wouldn’t be transforming into anything, even without the inhibitors on his legs, his back. He had no other purpose than his master’s pleasure. Mirage had taken his pleasure and left his marks tonight and now Optimus had found him in the aftermath to explore that damage and to take his own pleasure from it.
Made for sex, and already squirming on Optimus’ spike, close to overloading. Why was he holding back?
The last of his inhibitions fell away, and Optimus began to frag Prowler in earnest. The pace he set wasn’t a punishing one – he could use Prowler without damaging or breaking him! – but use him he did, and Prowler only encouraged him. Not with words, though there was nothing physically stopping him from speaking freely, but with sounds, with movements, with the way every part of him was on display–
How he shrieked when he overloaded, like a dam he’d been holding back had broken.
Optimus wasn’t quite there yet himself, but his own pleasure leapt to new heights as Prowler tightened and twisted around him, chasing sensation but at the Prime’s mercy whether or not he received it. There was only one reasonable response to that, and that was more. Prowler overloaded again, twisting, shrieking and clawing at the bed with his bound hands. It was beautiful. Especially when he overloaded a third, then fourth time as Optimus’ thrusts sped up and his own overload drew near.
It was a good thing he’d stopped trying to attack him, because Optimus realized right as he reached the precipice that he needed to change his grip on Prowler so he wouldn’t dent or crush him. Shifting one hand to the bed to take his weight and twist his fingers in the sheets, Optimus thrust one more time and rocked against those piercings–
Prowler’s screech almost drowned out Optimus’ shout as filling him triggered yet another overload, fast and furious and over before Optimus had finished, leaving a satiated and strutless plaything impaled on his spike.
“Primus…” Optimus braced himself in place, not wanting to pull out right away. He wished he could see Prowler’s face, to compare his expression with the way he had all but melted into the blankets. Even without seeing it though, Optimus knew he wasn’t in pain. He looked more like he was in bliss. Every so often he made a full-frame, uncontrolled twitch, clenching down on Optimus’ spike, but otherwise… complete, utter relaxation. He barely mewed when Optimus pressed on one of the piercings on his back experimentally.
Every other lover Optimus had ever had, even as a dockworker, had tried pulling off his spike quickly. Optimus was unoffended by that, and expected it. He was uncomfortably large, even for mechs who were slightly closer to his own size than Prowl was. He wasn’t fully aware he’d been waiting for Prowler to do the same until he realized that Prowler wasn’t pulling away. He just twitched, and mewed, and waited while Optimus explored the welts that striped the protoform across his shoulders and doorwings.
Would he stay that way if Optimus didn’t pull out? If he stayed until he was ready to frag him again? The very idea had him thinking of the prospect of round two sooner rather than later.
“Your master trained you well,” Optimus murmured, petting the lines of the brand declaring Prowler to be a slave, to belong completely and utterly to Mirage. Prowler mewed, twitching more, but didn’t move or struggle. Optimus rocked, moving his only somewhat-extended spike inside of Prowler’s valve without withdrawing, and only got a sigh in response. Yes, it seemed like Prowler would stay. “Very well trained.”
Optimus wasn’t ready to really start thrusting again yet, but that was okay. It meant he had ample opportunity to finish cataloging the marks across his back, rocking occasionally and every so often returning to the brand on Prowler’s thigh. He could practically feel the heat of it transfering through his fingers, burning up his arms and into his core to feed the reawakening flame of desire in his spark.
He wasn’t entirely sure when he went from rocking to encourage his spike to stiffen again as soon as it was ready to fragging Prowler slowly, thrusting deeply into his valve, reaching in through their mingled fluids to caress him inside. Prowler didn’t react, save to let out a little gasp with each thrust, lax, and limp, and too tired to participate in what was being done to him. Only a plaything for Optimus to use. A plaything that was, nonetheless, enjoying being used, not merely tolerating it. If it hadn’t been clear in his relaxed, unresisting frame, the whine he let out when Optimus paused and reached for one of the pillows was unmistakable.
Don’t stop!
So Optimus didn’t.
This time, with Prowler simply laying there and enjoying Optimus’ attentions, the only sign of impending overload was a quickening of breaths and then Prowler let out a moan and tensed while lightning played once again over his frame. His valve tightened on Optimus’ spike, making the piercings temporarily more pronounced. Made for sex, so that even his own pleasure heightened his master’s. Optimus drew in a hissed breath of his own and kept going, wanting him to do it again…
Prowler whined and panted and fell limp. It wasn’t until Optimus was ready to overload again despite the lack of that very interesting sensation that pleasure peaked in Prowler again, drawing another, sudden overload from his frame.
The pressure of Prowler’s clenching valve and his own transfluid in the overfull space was exquisite nearly to the point of agony, and Optimus pulled out to collapse beside his spent toy on the bed.
Prowler growled softly, tiredly, and against his inclinations to take such a sound as a demand to be left alone, Optimus schooched closer, pulling the mech flush against him.
“What else are you hiding, pet?” he whispered, not ready to give up the fantasy yet but too tired himself for another round. He needed a breem of rest before he could mechhandle the growly plaything and continue his explorations, but he would finish. “In what other ways has he made you a better plaything?”
Prowler didn’t answer, breathing tiredly and whimpering. Optimus thought it might be pain, except the mech was trying, in his own exhausted way, to hump against his leg. He was whimpering at the emptiness.
“Hmm. I can do something about that,” Optimus told him, pressing not just one, but two fingers inside. He already knew about the piercings there, but it was still incredible to feel how open he was. Prowler sighed and relaxed on his fingers, mewing softly as he cuddled into Optimus’ chest.
It still amazed him how Prowler was content to just sit there with something so large inside his valve. He didn’t try to overload on Optimus’ hand; just took advantage of being filled to relax while the mech playing with him was in an indulgent mood.
Eventually though, Optimus’ curiosity overcame both his exhaustion and his indulgence. “Now, I want to see what was on your belly, pet,” he said, prepared for Prowler to curl up and hide the whatever-it-is again. It seemed, though, that Prowler was done with that game, because he only groaned in disappointment when he pulled his fingers from the pet’s valve to roll him over onto his back.
A movement that looked automatic had Prowler putting his bound hands over his head, getting them out of the way and resting them on the bed’s headboard. Part of Optimus would have liked to bind his hands there, but he hadn’t been given control of Prowler’s restraints. He was only a thief, stealing Mirage’s pet for a night.
Optimus already knew Prowler was blindfolded and muzzled, and that was still the most optic-catching of what Prowler was enduring, but that was hardly all. His collar was silver, a smooth band of metal with a single black dot where hardlight restraints would be projected when activated. Hanging from a temporary D-ring was a small, metal charm, with Mirage’s coat of arms etched on it.
“He makes it abundantly clear who you belong to, doesn’t he?” Optimus reached up to touch the charm, turning it this way and that in his fingers. The name Prowler was etched on the back. The material and the craftsmanship were both top tier, befitting the pet who wore it and the noble who owned him. “But right now, it’s just me and you.”
Prowler moaned, every line of his frame speaking of relaxation and bliss, even if he still wasn’t saying anything.
Optimus let his optics wander downward. Directly below the collar was a pair of necklaces. Neither were exactly like the one Mirage had shown him at the tea house, but both were the same style: large lockets. One held Prowl’s medications, but Optimus didn’t know what was inside the second one. He was tempted to check, but unlike the other temptations of the night, this one was easily dismissed. These necklaces were pretty enough not to break the fantasy of Prowler-the-pet, but they weren’t there for Optimus’ enjoyment, and he didn’t need to pry where he hadn’t been invited. Especially since there was so much left of Prowler he had been invited to explore.
Prowler’s chestplate was, like his backplate, the absolute minimum needed to anchor his frame together. There were no headlights, no bumper, no sign of any vehicle form at all. Just a thin piece of iridescent metal that already bore unmistakable tooth marks on one edge. Someone with fangs had had some fun here. A pair of colored inhibitors was bolted on either side of the minimalist chestplate, just in case Prowler had a thought about transforming, no matter how useless.
Below his chestplate, there was a line of eight, silvery spheres. A line of piercings tracing down over his bare abdomen and to his tiny pelvic plate, itself just barely enough to cover his spike and already dented from someone’s fingers gripping him while they fragged him.
“And just think how much smaller you both are,” Optimus murmured, glad he hadn’t made those dents worse. Prowler was so exposed, so vulnerable, unprotected… “Does your master have fangs?” He didn’t remember seeing any in Mirage’s smile, but he hadn’t been looking either. In any case, Prowler reacted to him touching the bite marks almost as urgently as he did when Optimus brushed the brand. “You like them, I see.”
A moan and a tiny crackle of electricity said yes, Prowler very much liked the bites.
“They’re almost strategically placed, aren’t they?” Moreso than the marks from the whip were, anyway. They were more like the piercings in that respect, and the comparison drew a chuckle from the Prime. “Temporary piercings.”
Prowler whined while Optimus paused to finger each bite, examining them and the pet’s reactions. So much pleasure. Optimus couldn’t imagine himself taking pleasure in having his armor bitten so hard it dented, but his armor was thick, utilitarian, if also prettily polished. It would take a beastformer’s weaponized bite to penetrate the Prime’s armor. Prowler’s, though, was so very, very thin. He was enjoying them so much, maybe Optimus should…
Ultimately, the logistics of it won out over his curiosity. He didn’t exactly have a lot of practice biting mechs, and he didn’t want Prowler to suffer for his lack of experience. Not when it would be so easy to press just a little bit too hard. Besides, while he wasn’t as bothered by Prowl’s pain as he’d thought he might be, he didn’t feel the need to add his own marks to his plating. His real interest was the pleasure Prowler took in the pain, which inspired him to bring one hand to the squirming plaything’s barely concealed spike as the other moved back to his thigh. He wrapped his hand around Prowler’s leg to touch the brand and reveled in the yelp.
His spike, though, proved to be a bit of a challenge. The armor didn’t spiral or swing open at Optimus’ touch, even when caressing it made Prowler push his pelvic plating into his fingers like he was thrusting upwards. Eventually, Optimus found the latches, and it took some delicate manipulation with both of his hands to get it open.
The spike that greeted him, pressurizing quickly under his attentions, was a fully customized “fantasy” model: a thin, rounded head atop a rod that had been polished to a mirror-smooth finish and got wider in steps until it joined to Prowler with a small, knot-like structure at the base. It was perfectly proportioned for Prowler himself, and might be a bit large for Mirage, but would be rather small for Optimus.
And he was pierced here, too. There were two rows of four spheres along the underside of his spike.
“All your jewelry matches,” Optimus said idly, running a finger down the path created by the piercings.
Prowler squirmed. Optimus couldn’t tell if these were like the ones on his back and on his abdomen – there to make Prowler twitch in pain or pleasure or both if they were touched – or like the ones on his valve – there for the partner’s pleasure. But they did match.
Their size difference, combined with Prowler’s bound hands, had Optimus discarding the idea of having him try spiking. There was enough working against him being able to pleasure Optimus that way that Optimus simply continued with his initial plan: pleasurable strokes of his spike with one hand, and painful strokes on and around the brand with the other.
At first, it seemed like it wouldn’t take long at all. Prowler’s pleasure climbed rapidly and easily, crying out with each stroke until his frame was practically glowing with sparks. But then he stopped squirming to hold himself tense and still, save for his thrusts into Optimus’ hand, and his cries turned to gasping sobs.
“You’re waiting for me,” Optimus finally realized, stilling his motions briefly as a wave of desire shuddered through him. “Oh, you beautiful thing.” This kind of stamina, willpower, training, whatever it was, had always struck Optimus as the sort of thing that got exaggerated in the stories, but, “You’re incredible, aren’t you? Not just built for this, but sparked for it.”
Prowler shuddered, close, so close, but held himself back with a sob. Would he beg? Could he beg? He hadn’t said anything since Optimus had entered the room.
“Tell me,” Optimus whispered, withholding permission. “What do you want?”
Prowler twisted and tensed. His mew turned to a cry turned to a whimper, and he immediately made another of those lovely, almost distressed sounds.
He really was beyond speech. Optimus’ engine let out a satisfied growl. “Good enough,” he told the straining pet. “Go ahead. I want to see your pleasure before I take mine – let go.”
It wasn’t the instantaneous explosion of pleasure the novels often described. Even sitting on the precipice, there was a moment of buildup where the words registered, and Prowler relaxed and then started thrusting hard into his hand until–
He shrieked.
It was beautiful.
There was less transfluid than Optimus had expected. Much less. That didn’t seem to lessen Prowl’s climax any. He pressed his spike into Optimus’ fingers, hard and long like there was more ‘fluid inside him that he was trying to expel. He twisted and shouted and though Optimus couldn’t see his expression, he could imagine the ecstasy from the way his frame arched while lightning played over his form.
Then Prowler collapsed into the sheets, strutless and exhausted and breathing heavily. His spike was still hard in Optimus’ hand.
“So you won’t leave your master wanting.” Optimus let him go, moving his hands to less sensitive parts of his frame. “It’s a clever design.”
Prowler just sighed, then made a sleepy, inquisitive noise that Optimus interpreted as a beyond-words inquiry if he was done, if he could sleep. He was tired…
“Soon,” Optimus promised him, not ready to lie down and sleep just yet. He’d worked himself up in working Prowler up, and he had yet to overload. “I will have you one more time before tonight is over.” Prowler mewed, making a purring sound of assent.
How long would Prowler stay hard? Leaving it alone didn’t seem to make it soften or retreat, but Prowler seemed rather firmly in the afterglow of his overload, not trying to stimulate himself for a second. It was definitely a custom-made spike, staying hard so that his master could continue to pleasure himself. As much a toy, a fancy dildo, as Prowler himself was.
Absently, Optimus toyed with one of the piercings in the line down his abdomen. It drew a soft squeak from Prowler, but no further reaction from his exhausted frame. “You’ve had a very busy night, haven’t you?” With any other partner in such a state, Optimus would have stopped, foregoing his final pleasure, but Prowler was a pet. A plaything. This was his purpose. “It won’t be much longer.” Optimus was more than ready, in no small part because he could.
There was no fight, no resistance – no hesitation – this time when he pushed Prowler’s legs apart and lifted them to sink once again to his waiting valve.
He put his fingers into the dents on his pelvic plating, knowing they wouldn’t fit but wondering… They were all wrong for this direction. Prowl’s master had taken him from behind, as Optimus had the first time.
Prowler was still tight on his spike. Taking Optimus must be at the very limits of his capacity, and it made the smooth, round nubs of his piercings dig into him deliciously. This time he didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop and rethink; he started thrusting into Prowl, using his exhausted frame for his own pleasure again. Tired as he was, the sounds he made still weren’t ones of protest, but encouragement–
Lost in his fantasy, in Prowler, Optimus found his way to the peak of forbidden pleasure… and got lost in that, too. He barely noticed even when Prowler tensed under him and overloaded, the piercings pressing suddenly into his spike only heightening his own enjoyment of the frame. The entertainer’s pleasure didn’t matter, except that it fed his own and Optimus thrust harder, faster and came with a shout of his own when it happened again.
He had less transfluid this time too, though that was by virtue of how much he’d already spent. Fortunately the bed was more than large enough to roll to the opposite side and bring Prowler with him after he pulled out.
At least he still knew to do this much, Optimus thought to himself, pulling Prowler’s back against his chest, arranging his limp limbs into something that looked more comfortable and less sprawled wherever they happened to land, and listening to the mech sigh in pleasure and relief. He’d… lost himself for a moment there, but it hadn’t occurred to him to leave and abandon Prowler after, as Mirage had abandoned him at the beginning of the fantasy.
He almost removed the blindfold, the muzzle. Wanted to. But he remembered that Prowler would be bitey again in the morning and left it. For his part, Prowler didn’t seem to mind. He wiggled a bit and pressed his aft, the entrance to his valve tirely into Optimus’ crotch. So tired, so exhausted; he could barely move, but he still offered…
Or maybe he just wanted something to soothe the ache of emptiness, as he had the first time. “Alright,” Optimus breathed, feeling the exhaustion of the night catching up with him too. He wrapped his arm around Prowler and put his hand between his legs to push two fingers into him. Prowler relaxed further onto the intrusion. “You’ve been such a good pet, a wonderful plaything, and your reward is to sleep.” He stroked Prowler’s side, and smiled because the pet was already drifting off to sleep. “I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Would be, even if Mirage hadn’t demanded it.
Until then, they could both use the rest.
.
.
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Part Four
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Not unexpectedly, Optimus’s dreams were sensual and arousing, combining bits and pieces of this experience with other, related things, to make entirely new erotic scenarios.
There was Prowler, chained and delicate, at work while Optimus thrust into his valve over a desk, a conference table, a lectern. There was Prowl, in his gleaming white military-grade armor, laying in his bed while Optimus explored the things he knew lay beneath that armor.
There was a plaything, nameless and stripped of identity, just a thing for him to own and use…
It was a little jarring, coming out of sleep with that thought at the front of his mind, especially when the frame in his arms fully registered. He wasn’t holding a toy, he was holding mech. He was holding Prowl, who was also beginning to stir. He didn’t seem to have noticed that Optimus was awake yet. He curled up as best as he could with large arms holding him against a large chestplate. His engine hitched in a sob, of pain, of confusion, of utter, devastating loss.
Optimus’ first reaction, embarrassingly, was panic. What was wrong? Had he hurt him? Was Prowl regretting what they’d done? Fortunately, he remembered Mirage’s warning about what the morning would bring before he could work himself up too much: crying, confusion, and a resurgence of combat protocols are not uncommon. It wasn’t a sign that Prowl was injured, just that he was reacting to intensely submitting.
He needs darkness, silence, and to be held.
Optimus could do that.
Prowl growled loudly when Optimus moved, the sound building in intensity until it was a yowl of animal warning. He jerked in his arms, the muzzle knocking against plating as made an attempt to bite that was more serious than any of his attempts during the night. Optimus could feel his protoform flex, and knew if his hands weren’t bound, he’d be struggling and clawing too.
“Silence” suggested that verbally soothing him wouldn’t be very successful, so Optimus refrained from doing more than a gentle purr of his engine. Disadvantaged as he was, there was no chance of Prowl escaping him, so that was holding covered, but they’d fallen asleep with the light on and the sky was no longer black beyond the windows. Optimus didn’t know how effective Prowl’s blindfold was, but surely an extra layer of blanket (or two) couldn’t hurt.
The bed had been stripped down to just the sheets (by Mirage and Prowl, or by the staff, Optimus didn’t know which) so that they wouldn’t get tangled up in them while they played, but now that light revealed that they had been stacked neatly next to the bed, on the side furthest from the door: another sheet and a thin but warm layer of felt (both white), and a large, quilted comforter (black and gold, to match the rest of the room).
Optimus waited for a pause in Prowl’s struggles to reach for them. He wound up having to shift Prowl with him a little bit (the bed really was huge) but stopped as soon as he was able to snag the comforter in his fingers.
Prowl’s attempts to twist and bite stilled as soon as they were covered. Optimus had focused on covering Prowl, not himself, so he wasn’t sure how much darker it was under there (especially given how Prowl was still blindfolded), but the blanket was heavy and soft and warm and something about it seemed to calm him. He lay there, breathing heavily and only growling when Optimus moved. He was only attempting to get the blanket more evenly spread out, so he stopped in favor of letting Prowl lay quietly under a lopsided quilt.
After a breem, Prowl moved and Optimus felt one of the large lockets being pressed into one hand. He made a soft sound, one that started out questioning, but turned to a snarl when Optimus’ fingers automatically closed around the object. It was awkward, not being able to see it – the locket was still around Prowl’s neck, and the chain wasn’t long enough to pull it out from under the blanket – but they were important. Did he need his medication? Optimus fumbled with the unseen clasp until the locket opened.
By feel, he recognized a pair of audial clamps, of the sort sometimes used to privately listen to music by… by entertainers, mostly, since almost everyone else used their internal comsuites to tune into public radio channels for that. But there had been entire product lines that catered to entertainers, allowing them to do what other mechs could with what should always be standard equipment they had lacked before Optimus’ laws had passed. What did Prowl need with these, now?
It didn’t matter. He wanted them, and that was enough. Optimus turned them out into his hand, then closed the locket back up. “Do you need help putting them on?” he asked softly.
Prowl flinched, then growled threateningly.
Oookay. Optimus decided to take that as a yes. It made sense; putting the things on with bound hands probably wasn’t any easier than getting them out of the locket would have been. He endured several more loud growls and attempts to bite, wiggle free, and otherwise hinder the entire process while he got the clamps firmly attached to Prowl’s exposed audial sensors.
The effort was rewarded, though, because Prowl almost immediately settled down once they were on, relaxing almost as if he’d fallen back to sleep, only growling softly (and not trying to bite) if Optimus moved or stroked his bare protoform.
Growly, bitey, uncommunicative… how was he still so adorable?
Now that the growls didn’t sound like genuine distress, Optimus felt better about continuing to hold him tightly and pet him gently. Each growl actually made him smile. And he felt much, much better about last night than he had when Prowl had woken up sobbing. That hadn’t been a good feeling at all! Cuddling like this was good for both of them.
Optimus let himself fall into a sort of alert doze, where he was attentive to every movement or sound Prowl made, but otherwise just let himself drift and enjoy. He had always liked the morning after, as long as they were lazy, comfortable mornings spent cuddling with his lover, and it had been something he had believed Mirage would deny him with Prowl, taking away his contractor as quickly as possible once he’d fulfilled the agreement.
“I’m… alright, my lord Prime,” Prowl said softly some indeterminate time later. He moved, and Optimus automatically tensed to hold him still, which – unlike his thrashing and attempts to claw him – he responded to by stilling obediently. “I would like to take off the blindfold now.”
“Do you need help taking it off?” Optimus felt a bit silly for asking, but it slipped out before he could help it. He moved the comforter aside to uncover Prowl’s head.
Prowl paused, thought. “I would like help, my lord Prime,” he finally said.
Optimus smiled. “Okay.” As evidenced by the fact that it had stayed in place throughout the night’s activities, he found the blindfold to be well secured. The knots weren’t complicated, but they were efficient, and it took Optimus a klik to undo them and unwind the fabric.
Prowl flinched from the light at first, but then blinked owlishly around as he adjusted. He moved, and this time Optimus let him, pushing himself up with a well-practiced motion of his bound hands so that he was kneeling on the bed, the blanket puddling around him. He hissed in pain as he sat up, but otherwise appeared fine.
It was wonderful being able to see his optics at last. Optimus reached a hand toward his face. Prowl ducked slightly so that the touch landed on his chevron. “My lord Prime?”
“Forgive me.” Optimus withdrew his hand. “I was just… You’re lovely.”
Prowl’s doorwings fanned then lowered, a gesture of pleased embarrassment, Optimus knew from other interactions with him, though now it was a much more submissive gesture than he was used to seeing. It left him a bit unsure how to interact with him just now.
“Thank you,” Optimus finally said after an awkward moment of silence. “I hope you’re alright, that I didn’t…”
Prowl paused, waiting for Optimus to finish then spoke when it was clear that he wouldn’t finish. “You did not harm me, my lord Prime. Things proceeded much as I had thought they would. I found the experience thoroughly enjoyable.”
He was so composed and formal… Optimus tried to organize his thoughts so he could communicate what he wanted to effectively. “Living out my fantasy like that was even better than I’d anticipated.” So, so much better. He glanced down at Prowl’s thigh where the brand was mostly hidden by the bedding. “I was not expecting that, and when I saw it…” So much for coherent words.
His doors repeated the gesture of pleased embarrassment, this time accompanied by a shy smile and a shiver of pleasure. “It was difficult not telling you about it, my lord Prime.”
“I can only imagine.” Much like he could only imagine how Prowl walked around every day with those piercings under his armor. “I admire how well you’re able to keep your composure.”
“My master trained me well, my lord Prime” Prowl murmured. His fingers flexed against the sheets and blankets where he knelt. “May I ask, where is my lord Mirage?”
“Waiting for us, I expect.” They had adjoining suites, after all, though Optimus wondered if perhaps the noble wasn’t right on the other side of the bedroom door. If Prowl was asking, maybe it was a good idea to find out. Prowl still had the muzzle on, along with his bound hands, and Optimus wasn’t sure how to approach those when he flinched back every time he caught the Prime looking at him. “Shall we? He offered, holding out a hand to Prowl just in case. At first it looked like Prowl wouldn’t take it, climbing out of the bed on his own, but then with a hiss he stumbled and caught Optimus’ arm.
Prowl looked down and Optimus felt his frame heat in embarrassment, but he didn’t let go. “My apologies, my lord.”
“No apologies necessary,” Optimus assured him. “Please, lean on me if it helps.”
He didn’t quite do so, but he didn’t let go of Optimus’ arm either, not until the bedroom door opened. Prowl flinched from the light, but then hurried forward when he saw Mirage on the couch, lounging with an e-reader. He didn’t stumble again, but dropped to his knees in time to climb up on the couch on all fours. “Master?”
Mirage looked him over coolly. “Good morning, pet,” he said pointedly.
Prowl ducked his head, refusing to meet the noble’s optics. “Good morning, master.”
“‘Morning, Prowler,” another mech in next-to-nonexistent glistening white armor greeted from his spot on the floor, opposite the low table from Mirage. Prowl looked his way, flicked a doorwing in greeting, but turned his focus back to Mirage.
“Did you enjoy your Festival gift, my Prowler?” Mirage inquired.
Prowl’s doorwings flicked up and down happily. “I did, master. Thank you.”
That was how they were framing it? As a gift for Prowl, using Optimus? Real as the fantasy had been last night, the Prime was glad of the reaffirmed consent and desire now. “Good morning,” he said, nodding to Mirage as he searched his memory to place the other mech. He looked familiar, but Optimus hadn’t ever been introduced with an actively serving noble’s pet, before Prowl. Prowler.
“Good morning, my Prime,” Mirage returned without bothering to introduce the other pet. Most of his attention was still on Prowl as he set aside his e-reader and removed the muzzle, then fiddled with the collar until the charm came off. “Hands,” he said, and unhesitantly Prowl lifted his hands. The hardlight restraints disappeared, leaving behind only the silver cuffs. Mirage drew a string of beads from his subspace, which Optimus recognized as Prowl’s prayer beads, and wound them around one of Prowl’s wrists. Finally, he turned Prowl’s hands so that they were cupped and placed several pills in them, which Prowl immediately took. “You appear fine. You may either lay on the couch with me, or sit with Jazzy.”
Prowl tilted his head while he thought about that, then climbed off the couch to crawl around the table to the other mech.
Who pounced. “Did he bruise you?” A leash appeared between his hand and Prowl’s collar and he yanked the mech forward to sprawl across his lap.
“Yes, Jazzy.” Prowl squirmed as he was poked, until he managed to twist around and clutch Jazzy around the waist.
Jazzy hissed. “I’m the only one allowed to bruise you.”
“He didn’t mean to,” Prowl insisted, still squirming. Optimus watched Jazzy trace out what were apparently imprints of his hands, moments of inattention while he’d been too distracted by his own pleasure to remember that Prowler had no armor. “Jazzy, it’s fine. I like bruises.”
“I know you like bruises, you masochist,” Jazzy snapped back, effortlessly pushing Prowl down when he made an aborted attempt to push himself up. “They’re supposed to be my bruises.”
“You can put more bruises on me when I give you your Festival gift?” Prowl cajoled, and Jazzy’s engine revved.
“After Prowler’s healed up,” Mirage cut in firmly. “Rules.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the rules.” Jazzy scoffed and stuck his fingers into Prowl’s valve. “Did he overload inside you?” he screeched.
“Mm-hmm,” Prowl hummed, burying his face in Jazzy’s abdomen.
Optimus, at a loss for what to do while the two of them reunited headed to the sideboard to pour a glass for himself. His appearance was as drastically changed as Prowl’s, but between his mannerisms and the way Prowl looked at him, it was obvious that Jazzy– Jazz was the mech Prowl had come to the party with. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked politely.
“My Jazzy and I have already eaten,” Mirage said, “but if you could bring over something that my Jazzy can feed my Prowler while he molests him, it would be much appreciated.”
“I’m not molesting him,” Jazzy retorted, cleaning up the dried mess Optimus had left around Prowl’s equipment with a brush. “Molesting implies he objects.”
Prowl just clung to Jazzy, definitely not objecting to so rough and presumptive a cleaning to his interfacing array. Not even when Jazzy suddenly thrust the brush into his valve to scrub him out. He clung harder with a moan, but didn’t object.
Optimus coughed as delicately as he could manage. “Not objecting is good.” He felt like he should be looking away, but it was really hard not to watch. A plate of assorted bite-size morsels joined his energon as he made his way over to join Mirage on the couch.
Mirage nodded to him. Then snapped his fingers at the two pets on the floor. “Sit pretty for our guest, you two.”
Immediately, they detangled from each other and sat back, chastely kneeling on the floor next to each other with their hands behind their backs. Prowl’s expression was glassy-eyed with arousal and he was panting slightly. Jazzy just looked sheepish, still holding Prowl on a holographic leash.
Primus. This really was a scene right out of one of his harem novels.
Mirage only glanced over at Optimus, then turned his focus back onto the two pets. “Prowler,” Prowl looked up, his expression clearing a bit. “Prayers while you eat. Jazzy, be useful.”
“Yes, master.”
“Yes, Mirage.”
Prowl unwound the beads from his wrist partially so that he could start fingering through them, praying silently, every once in a while taking one of the treats to eat. Jazzy stood and went to the bedroom where he and Mirage had stayed the previous night and came back with a clay pot. Optimus almost expected the pungeant aroma of a salve the slaves had improvised from garden ingredients, but when Jazzy opened it, it proved to just be a comercial wound-salve in a custom pot, which he started spreading on Prowl’s doorwings.
A soft whine earned him a short snarl from Jazzy. “Stop that,” he scolded, holding Prowl’s door so he couldn’t pull it away while he treated the bite marks there; bite marks Optimus suddenly realized that he had put there. Mirage did not, in fact, have fangs, but Jazzy did.
Prowl settled and resumed clicking through his beads to pray.
It had to be from focusing on those scenes in the harem novels where the pets and playthings tended to each other between the scenes of abuse and sex, but Optimus really could not look away from them. It was inappropriate, but his frame was heating up. Jazzy was brash and loud and confident and sexual where the fictional harem pets were always meek and hushed, hoping not to be noticed by their master. And even though Prowl may have fit the mold better, being quiet and submissive and formal, the way he was also so obviously happy … They made the scene so much better, more enticing, by not being the fictional playthings he’d always read about.
“My Prime,” Mirage said, getting his attention and Optimus blinked, suddenly remembering that that was the other difference between now and those scenes. Those scenes of furtive recovery in the harem had never happened under the master’s watchful gaze. Mirage, though, was not interfering in his pets caring for each other. He was holding something out to Optimus in his hand. “A souvenir of the night.”
The charm from Prowler’s collar.
Surprised but greatly appreciative, Optimus accepted the memento. The prevalence of tags on the collars, like the brands, must also be exaggerated in the erotica novels, if Mirage didn't need it. Jazzy’s collar didn’t have one either. “It was an exceptional night. What you have here,” in Prowl, in Jazzy, in the way they all somehow respected and cared for each other despite circumstances designed for and built on anything but, “is truly special.”
“There is a reason I still have my toys,” Mirage pointed out haughtily, then glared down at Prowl and Jazzy, who both pretended they hadn’t been snickering at him.
Optimus hid his own smile behind his glass as he drank.
He stayed only until he finished his glass, watching Jazzy move from tending Prowl’s bite marks, bruises, and welts to feeding him bites of gel-and-pastry. There were plenty more on the plate, but Optimus stood and turned toward the door rather than getting a refill. “You have the rooms for the day,” he told Mirage, knowing that they would be gone by the time the palace servants came around in the evening, then looked at Prowl. “Enjoy the remainder of the Festival.”
“Thank you, my lord Prime,” Prowl responded, still overly formal, but after watching Mirage take the change in stride and Jazzy blaze through it with his own brashness, it no longer seemed so out of character or awkward simply because it wasn’t the Prowl Optimus knew at work.
Nodding a final goodbye, Optimus couldn’t quite bring himself to say see you at the office before leaving the suite and closing the door behind him. He might have wiped off the worst of the mess from his own plating, but it was definitely time for a nice, long bath of his own before he had to start saying his goodbyes to those others who’d stayed at the palace so they wouldn’t have to make the trip back to their own cities right after the ball.
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Part Five
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Embarrassingly, actually fulfilling his fantasy of having a noble’s pet for a night didn’t get rid of it. The desperate drumbeat of desire that had been beating in the back of his mind faded, but he relived the night over and over in his dreams and idle moments. The affectionate, sexual interactions of Mirage’s harem played out over and over behind his optic lenses. He kept the charm from Prowler’s collar in his subspace and pulled it out to trace the etchings and felt himself heat up when he recalled that Prowl had branded himself for him.
He was grateful, though, when he did return to the office and had his first meeting with Prowl, watching him give a presentation to a conference room of Optimus’ other advisors. The memory of just what was hidden under his military-grade armor made his breath quicken and he itched to play with those piercings again, but it wasn’t so overpowering that he ignored what the mech was saying.
This time it was Optimus who asked if Prowl could stay. “The senate is pushing the issue of noncompliance with the dissolution laws again,” he said as Prowl cleaned up the lecture materials from the previous meeting. “The entertainers need to be freed, and their former owners punished… but under their proposed restrictions you and your trio would be targeted.”
Prowl snorted. “They won’t be able to make it stick. My current contract is in complete compliance with the dissolution laws.”
“But not everyone’s is. I’m going to push for thorough investigations, and a policy of least harm, but I’d like some help writing criteria to tell the difference between the truly unwilling and… mechs like you.”
“Ah.”
Prowl subspaced the stack of notes and finally came over to where Optimus waited. He couldn’t help but let his gaze linger on the hidden line of piercings that went up his abdomen, then forced his gaze up to Prowl’s optics without letting himself stop and ponder the tongue piercing.
Two tiny crystals sparkled on the bridge of his nose, between his optics. A piercing. Right in plain view.
“…That looks new.”
Prowl looked away, but it was placed so that it would be visible unless he turned fully away, and so Optimus continued to be transfixed by the sparkling dots. Such a visible, vivid reminder of– “Jazz,” Prowl said. “It was part of his Festival gift.” He paused, and the quiet burr of both their fans filled the silence. “It amused him that you’d see it,” he finally admitted.
“Ah.” That did sound like him. “‘Controlling and possessive’ aren’t traits exclusive to Mirage.”
“They aren’t… different things… to me,” Prowl tried to explain haltingly. He made an aborted motion to touch the new piercing and then forced his hand back to his side. “Mirage bought me for Jazzy, so that’s… always been there.”
Optimus frowned. He’d already figured out that Jazz was actually the one who had worked Prowl over before he’d “found” him during the Festival, but, “Why isn’t your contract now with him then?”
“Because, we don’t just play with each other; Mirage plays with us too.” Prowl shrugged. “We both belong to Mirage. We’re both entertainers. We could sign contracts with each other, now, but Jazzy has no self control with his playthings and he wants an owner as much as I do. And I can’t have one without the other. Mirage is the one who cares for us and makes caring for each other possible. I was commissioned as an Enforcer, which I thought was better, but I… We weren’t people until he decided he wanted mechs and not just… debts.”
And that was why Optimus had done away with indentured slavery. “Then help me work out how to identify the masters who are still withholding that opportunity, and not just for entertainers. Even the ‘good ones’,” Mirage included, “were hardly being altruistic, but you and Jazz are proof that a noble’s self-interest isn’t always detrimental.”
“I know.” Prowl took a deep breath and faced Optimus again. “What do you need, my Prime?”
Optimus absolutely refused to let his spike have a vote on that question. It put its opinion in anyway.
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