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“Hey, baby, I know you're busy but… I think I need some wire maintenance.” Tenna ducked into the office, already feeling the warm buzz of electricity in his chest.
He knew his husband knew what he meant.
And thankfully, Spamton just got off a very important business phone call, so it seemed like he had a second to spare.
“[100% organic honey], feel yourself getting dusty already, huh? I could have sworn we only [rearranged you] the other day.” Spamton puffed from his cigar, his grin wide and smug.
He turned in his office chair towards Tenna, spreading his thighs in his neatly pressed slacks. “You know what to do. Get [comfortable comfort.] Unbutton. Unscrew.”
So, eager for praise, Tenna kneeled between Spamton's legs, the heat behind his screen only growing to a bright, sparking static of electricity.
He was so fucking excited. Spamton could always tell.
Tenna unbuttoned his white shirt, the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, until it sat loose around his body, still tucked into his pants. Spamton just watched with that same knowing look, letting it all happen.
Then, Tenna began to unscrew the panel inside his chest with his fingers. (It sat perfectly below both his speakers and a few of his favorite switches, ports, and dials.) And when he was working on the final two top screws, Spamton traced his fingers around the flat corners of Tenna's VHS slot in his stomach. He couldn't help the pathetic little gasp that escaped him.
“Oh [cathode,] that's nothing compared to what I'll do to you in a minute.” Spamton teased, a playful glint in his eye.
Tenna squirmed his thighs together a little, already so desperate for any kind of pleasure that he couldn't think straight. He loved the attention. He was working as quickly as he could to get his panel open.
“There.” Tenna said, once the thin metal plate was placed on the floor beside the two of them. “Please. Get your hands inside me.”
“Pretty little [hyperlink blocked.] Stay still.”
Tenna arched his back, pretending that it was so Spamton could see all his wires in the light better, and waited.
Spamton took another few puffs of his cigar, and touched the cold metal of Tenna's chest so tenderly, so softly, that you would think they were those kinds of people. The kind of people that could always be sweet to one another. That didn't fight more often than not. That knew how to make time for one another.
Tenna melted into the caress. And when Spamton ducked his thumb inside Tenna's chest cavity, he pulled bright sparks of sensation from where he rubbed against the inside of his smooth metal interior.
It always made Tenna shiver.
Then, Spamton found a thin, delicate black wire, and pulled.
“So sensitive, aren't you?” He teased. “[I love TV.]”
Tenna simply yelped in response. Pleasure that bordered on the edge of pain surged through him. He needed more.
So, he stayed perfectly still, his horizontal blue line of a heartbeat beeping faster and faster as he waited.
Spamton looked so fucking pleased with himself.
He had reached his hand all the way inside to run his fingers along a thick cluster of organized cables that ran through Tenna's whole body. He even slid the zip ties holding everything together up and down the cables, and that impossibly tight friction made Tenna cry out again.
His breath was heaving. His head was light and full of static electricity.
But that bastard black phone on Spamton's desk began to ring again. And without thinking too much about it, he put his cigar out on Tenna to free up his hands.
Tenna gasped a pained breath through his teeth. The melting hurt. Hurt. Hurt. He loved it.
He loved when his husband marked him. Left a sooty round divot in the hard plastic joints of his stomach. Made him feel special—like he was Spamton's own personal TV. And he was. Always.
But the phone just kept ringing.
So, Spamton winked mischievously at Tenna, his hand resting on the phone receiver.
“Be quiet, movie star. [Daddy's working.]”
And when he picked it up, already starting to speak into it, he stepped his perfectly shiny black dress shoe down on Tenna's incredibly overexcited cock—already straining against his slacks.
But Tenna couldn't be quiet. He just wasn't that kind of CRT.
He whined at the slightest suggestion of pressure to his cock. He whined when Spamton started pulling the wires to hang loose outside his chest cavity, just on the cusp of unplugging them. He whined when the back of Spamton's hand brushed against his heart. He whined when Spamton laughed, simply watching Tenna twitch and shudder as he turned the dials on his chest, switching back and forth between channels.
That channel changing got him so lightheaded that he nearly forgot how to keep himself upright. But Spamton's steady, firm pressure on his dick kept him grounded to reality.
Fuck. He was sure he'd leaked a wet spot through his pants already.
One of his hands was on Spamton's leg, but he reached the other one up to play with his antenna. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, his chest heaving with breath, and finally connected the circuit. He shocked the shit out of Spamton and himself.
“Holy [cungadero!]” Spamton's facade cracked for a moment, staring wide-eyed at Tenna, looking nearly impressed. He pat Tenna on the cheek, raising his eyebrows all suggestively at his husband—making Tenna laugh a little—before returning to his phone call.
“No, no, I'm just impressed by all these [sweet deals!] I mean, SIXTY kromer, it’s [practically free!]”
Feeling mildly reassured, knowing Spamton cared more about his husband than his job—than money, Tenna let himself be swept away by the electrical current. Whatever that meant.
He postured a little more, teasing at his own wires, letting them hang a little further from his chest cavity. The ones that connected to his brain felt the best to get tugged on. They hurt the best.
Spamton followed his hand tenderly, unplugging Tenna's white RCA cable. Tenna moaned—only his right audio now functioning. The loose wire hung out of his chest, so fucking erotic when the terminal head clanged against his body.
And while Tenna was still just sort of processing the feeling, he caught Spamton's eyes narrow—plotting something.
Tenna was eager to find out what.
Because Spamton hadn't yet found the only two wires inside his chest that connected to his pelvis.
(He had a panel over his lower back, but that one was harder to get open, and the wires that lived inside—while absolutely electric to get yanked—had to be reached past obstacles and joints and dangerous pinch points.)
But instead of digging around for those beautiful dark blue connective wires, Spamton's hand moved lower. Just below the open panel.
He expertly slid all four of his fingers inside Tenna's VHS slot until he found the textured hard plastic at the back. He had his whole fucking hand inside Tenna's chest.
He dragged his fingers—not rough but certainly not gentle either—across every inch of that receiving dock, even fingering the plastic strip of Tenna's receiving mechanism. It felt so fucking good. The bright white spark of pleasure was overtaking him. Couldn't think about anything else.
The only thing that ran through his mind was a stream of Spamton, Spamton, Spamton, more, more, more.
Tenna rocked his hips up against Spamton's shoe, so desperate it wasn't even funny. The pressure was nowhere near enough, but he was far too gone to ask for a new position. His brain was fried.
God, his white RCA port was empty and absolutely starving for its proper cable.
Holy fuck, he was so— he was so— !
“Please.” Tenna whimpered, his big metal hand coming to rest over Spamton's wrist. “Plug me back in.”
Spamton paused all his yammering about stocks and values and sales for a mere moment to admire the view in front of him, and pressed his foot down more firmly on Tenna's poor, drooling cock.
Tenna sobbed.
Because Spamton was unplugging his red RCA cable to match, jamming it into the white port beside its proper place.
It felt so fucking good. It hurt so bad. It felt so good.
His audio was broken. Fully unplugged. He couldn't make a single noise.
And when Spamton put the phone between his shoulder and his ear, finally able to use both hands, he started plugging and unplugging the white cable into the red port, fucking him with it, yanking hard at the yellow RCA. Tenna nearly started screaming.
He was on fire. He felt the pulse-beats absolutely ravaging him. His brain was being yanked apart. His body only needed more, more, more.
And when Spamton finally unplugged (whether on accident or on purpose) the yellow video cable, Tenna's screen turned to buzzing static.
Kaput.
He was so overwhelmed that all he could do was twitch and buck and arch his back as he came—and just kept coming. Almost perfectly untouched.
He couldn't see, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but pant and jolt and listen to Spamton's loud laugh.
It still hurt. He was still improperly plugged. He was in worse condition than when they started this ‘maintenance.’
And finally, once he caught his breath, Tenna unplugged all his own RCA cables, and that bright aching pinch subsided.
He left them dangling for a minute. He was still a little overwhelmed. He just sat back on his heels—Spamton's foot now gone—and felt his other various loose wires get tucked neatly back inside his body.
But Spamton was still on the goddamn phone. Could he not spare one fucking second of attention to devote only to Tenna?
Did every moment have to sneak in a deal? Did Tenna always have to be the number two most important task at hand?
He knew he was overreacting.
But all he wanted was the man he loved's undivided attention. And was that so much to ask for?
So, while Spamton was still yelling about sending the emails and forwarding kromer, Tenna plugged his own video cable back in, feeling around for the correct port before clicking it back into its proper place.
He didn't even bother buttoning his shirt back up before leaving for a change of pants. Spamton didn't even say goodbye.