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Tracks was testing the limits, seeing how much and how far he could get away with.
Jazz was amused. His intake was pressed into a thin-lined smile as he watched Tracks saunter around him like a predator eyeing their next meal. A chuckle bubbled from Jazz's chassis. He forced the noise down, not wanting to scare away the little rodent who thought he got the cheese.
“If you were to ask my opinion, I don't know how a mech of your stature could possibly pose as a proper leader,” Tracks loudly proclaimed, crossing his arms as he came to loom over Jazz.
The sleek automobile snickered, turning to the bots scattered around the room for confirmation.
Most of the mechs kept quiet, not wanting to catch the ire of Special Ops leader Jazz. Tracks was still new to the Autobot cause and hadn't had prior experience with the Autobot high command, so it was easier to just let the cocky mech learn his lesson than to try and explain anything.
Jazz knew this, but he also knew that there were a few bots in this room who were putting up a faux smile, silently planning how to usurp him from his role. Sure, Jazz was a fun, music-loving bot who loved to shake his frame at the club, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how to get serious when the situation asked for it. Springer still avoided him sometimes after their recent arm wrestling competition and Hound was always pliant when he came to him for weapon upgrades.
What better time to not only put Tracks, but the rest of his competition in this room in their place. Show them that Jazz wasn’t here just to jam out to some tunes.
“Well I don’t know Jazz, you don’t seem to have many supporters here,” Tracks mused, looking around as not a single bot said a word. He grinned down, interpreting the mech’s silence as defeat. “So, Commander, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I have nothing to say.”
Tracks nodded, thinking he cornered Jazz exactly where he wanted him.
“But I do have something else.”
Before Tracks could question him, he was suddenly being spun around, arms held tightly against his spinal strut and face slammed against the wall. “Hey! What are you-!”
“Shh, I think you’d like to start picking your words carefully before things start getting messy.”
Jazz pressed his knee between Tracks’ legs, chuckling as the mech let out a high-pitched whine. He looked around the room, catching the optic of each mech who was either frozen in place or had their servos at their waist, ready to pull out their guns on instinct.
Good, they were taught well by Ironhide to always be ready for action, even while inside the ship that should have been considered a safe haven. Jazz learned from his mistakes once and vowed to never fall for such cheap tricks again. This time, he was going to show these mechs who were still wet behind the audials how things were done on Optimus Prime's base.
“Little Tracks here thinks he can try and start a rebellion against me? My own team, in front of my face?” He twists the left arm, pulling it until the hinges creak and metal violently scrapes against each other.
Tracks screams, pressing his face into the wall. Heavy vents expel from his intake, trying to regulate the energon rushing through his fuel lines.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe remove their servos from their sides, holding them up to show no ill intent. Mirage kept his arms crossed, seated across the table while Inferno remains still behind him, idly tapping at the back of the chair. Blaster can only groan, having attended the meeting as Tracks’ moral support and now finding himself as a voyeur to Jazz's shenanigans. He brought Tracks here because he had high hopes for his longtime friend and even recommended him to the position, but now it's starting to look like his expectations are crumbling away into dust.
“Jazz, let's not do anything hasty here,” Blaster pleads. His brows furrow, swallowing back the oral lubricant that pools inside his intake.
Jazz notices his anxious demeanor and chuckles in response.
“No can do. Sometimes you have to show when you mean business.” He follows this by pressing his knee upwards against Track's panel again, delighting in the pitiful whine from his pretty red lips. “Actually, how about I show you to everyone.”
“What?!” Despite their difference in height, Tracks is surprised by how easily Jazz manhandles his frame. He's picked up off the floor and bent over the table, proudly displayed for all occupants in the room.
Tracks stutters out a curse as his nose is slammed against the flat surface. Sunstreaker laughs but quickly averts his optics when Tracks looks up to glare at him.
“I swear if you mess up my finish or even ruin my hood!” He threatens, albeit not very convincingly while bent over, aft in the air and one arm still held behind his spinal strut. If anything, Tracks just looked like a femme you would find on the cover of raunchy AV datapads back at Cybertron's oilhouses.
No one wanted to inflate Track’s ego anymore than it was, but Primus, Tracks was absolutely beautiful— stunning even. The war has made it difficult to find new recruits who already had military training, so unfortunately, citizens were quickly picked from the masses, especially pompous pretty mechs who liked to flaunt their colors even while getting shot at by Decepticons.
That was Tracks. He knew his ability was useful, he knew both mechs and femmes would stare at him and he knew how to use his curvy hips to get what he wanted.
Too bad Jazz was immune to the bot's swaying hips and lithe waist.
“Where are you touching?!”
Oh, he's immune but that doesn't mean he isn't a pervert.
“Nowhere important,” he said while dragging a rough digit over Tracks’ shaking aft. He snickers, noting how Tracks pushes his lower frame into Jazz’s touch. “Oh, someone seems eager.”
Tracks’ face blooms with a blue hue, energon rising up to his helm and making him dizzy from the heat. “I am not!”
Jazz shakes his helm, like a creator disappointed in their sparkling. “You're not supposed to enjoy it.” He readjusts their position, locking Track's legs together and pressing into him until the blue bot was nearly splayed across the table with his knees uncomfortably pressing against the edge.
Raising his servo, Jazz points at Inferno. “Count for me.”
“What?”
Slap!
“Ouch!”
“Come on, start counting!”
“W-what do you-!”
Slap!
“Ngh! Stop!”
Tracks' cries are muffled by his one usable servo, yet it doesn't do much to hide the rest of his face. His blue optics are covered in a sheen of tears and brows furrowed across his forehelm. Tracks can merely plead for mercy as Jazz assaults his aft with another ferocious slap.
Slap!
He shakes his helm, twisting his legs together. A heat pools below his abdomen and Tracks has to stop himself from whimpering as Jazz's digits rub circles across his hot plating.
“I told you to count Inferno. For every number you miss we start all over again from the beginning. Try to reach the number ten Tracks.” Jazz patted Tracks’ sore bottom, arranging him on the table and releasing his hold of Tracks’ other arm. While this gave the blue mech the perfect opportunity to attempt an escape, he already felt so drained that just twitching his leg consumed an insurmountable amount of energy.
Blinking his optics, he tries to look past the coolant clinging to his lashes and immediately balked when he saw Sunstreaker and Sideswipe retract their array panels, spikes pressurizing to the hot air. The twins grin, noticing Tracks’ attention.
Sunstreaker toys with the tip, using the pre-transfluid as lubricant across his spike. Sideswipe grips the base, keeping himself on edge while watching Tracks with rapt attention.
“You two perverts! Are you pumping your spikes while I get abused!” Tracks growls. He tries to rise from his position but finds an immovable strength pressing over his spinal strut.
“If you try to run away then I’ll start all over again.”
“T-that’s not fair! You didn’t say anything until now!” Tracks complain.
Jazz simply shrugs his shoulders. “I’m in charge, I make up my own rules as I go. Besides, it boosts morale to have a team bonding session. So stay still and enjoy what will happen next.”
This is followed by two consecutive slaps, digits pressing dangerously close over the front of his modesty panel.
Tracks’ hips bounce upward, pedes coming to stand on tippy-toes as Inferno hastens to count in tune with Jazz’s assault. It’s obvious that Tracks is beginning to feel a charge crawl up his processors.
Watching as the sultry mech moans like a piece of shareware causes Inferno to quickly lose track of his counting. He's so focused on the way Track's glossa peeks out over his red lips that he doesn't even realize his spike is pressurizing in his servo.
“S-six,” Inferno stutters, gliding a digit over the bulbous head of his spike and spreading the pre-transfluid down the sensitive nodes trailing under the spike. “Seven.”
“Frag— ah!” The eight slap is more tame compared to the force of the previous slaps, but the way Jazz’ nails scrape over Tracks’ seams has the mech suddenly relieving himself of some sticky fluids.
Jazz whistles, stopping for just a second to rut his fingers over the center of that blue panel. “So wet already, your lubricant is gushing out through the grooves.”
The pink fluid froths out the side of Tracks’ tight plating. It bubbles over before dripping down his curved thighs and settling in the corners of his leg armor. Tracks lets out a whimper, lifting his hips in the air and grinding on the digits that tease just beyond where his anterior node sits.
“Whose fault do you think it is?!” Tracks sobs. He wants to so badly roll over on the desk and present himself like some organic animal in heat. The weight of Jazz's body pressing him against the table is too strong so he easily concedes, letting the last two slaps send him over the edge.
Tracks’ optics flutter, stars shine across his vision and energon oozes from where he was biting the protomesh inside his intake. A fierce wave of euphoria drowns out his sensors and he becomes so lost in the rush of his overload that he doesn’t realize that his protocols retracted his array panel until he’s feeling the cold chill of fresh air hit his weeping lips. Pink lubricant and transfluid cascade down his thighs leaving a viscous, sticky residue over his legs.
Sunstreaker’s voice module stutters from across the room, his servo never once stalling in his attempt to reach his own overload along with the beautiful mech across the table.
“Good, what a good mech, you did so good for me Tracks~!” Jazz chuckles, rubbing a soothing servo over the throbbing protomesh of Track’s aft.
A purr bubbles from Tracks’ chassis, preening as the Commander whose authority he had questioned just a few kliks ago was tenderly taking care of him. Satiated, Tracks had briefly considered giving Jazz a half-hearted apology and maybe an invitation to continue their activities in private. But, it was as if Jazz had read his mind because the mech was soon leaning in, pressing his weight over Tracks’ frame.
“Our little game has only just begun. Time for your next punishment.”
Optics wide, Tracks nearly trips over his own pedes, yelping as Jazz drags him across the other side of the room. He uncaringly throws the mech to the ground, grinning as he rolls to his knees right in front of a flustered Blaster.
“Jazz what are you-”
“Suck him off.”
“W-what?!” Blaster and Tracks scream in unison.
The cassette bot stutters, taking a hesitant step back. He’s heard about Jazz’s strange ways of putting unruly young mechs in their place, but this was simply absurd.
Jazz himself doesn’t budge, maintaining his declaration and crossing his arms over his chassis. “I said what I said. Since you’re an outsider— a guest, sounds more welcoming. Since you’re our esteemed guest, it’s only fair you get first dibs with the Special Ops shareware.”
Tracks gives a dramatic gasp. “Excuse you, I am not some common buybot, and I will not be sucking off Blaster!” He huffs, pouting and turning his nose up like a petulant sparkling.
A pause follows and for a klik Tracks and Blaster think that Jazz may have actually conceded. Unfortunately, that was just wishful thinking.
“I’m going to say this only once, so you better listen closely.” His strides are short, but heavy. The floor feels like it trembles with each step until he comes to tower over the frightened corvette. “You are here because I owe a favor to my good friend Blaster. Thinking you can waltz in here and claim your spot on my team? Not that easy. Unless you want me to kick you out and have Prime demote you to some menial labor bot back on Cybertron, then I suggest you do what I say.”
Tracks gulps, wringing his servos together and trembling as he's locked optics with those terrifying blue gems behind Jazz’s visor.
“Suck off Blaster, show him how grateful you are for this opportunity.”
Jazz’s smile does not reach his optics, but Tracks has realized that complaining is a futile effort. With a nod, he shuffles across the floor, coming to kneel in front of a stuttering Blaster. Tracks tries to reassure his friend with a smile, but finds it impossible to do so when the wet tip of a spike slaps him across the cheek.
Without even realizing it, Blaster had retracted his array panel, spike instantly pressurizing to full mast and standing proudly in front of Tracks’ bulging optics.
“Y-you're big!” Tracks’ voice cracks.
As a cassette bot, he stands taller and wider than most mechs. The large stature is necessary for holding several cassettes and protecting them in his encasing— which of course translates to his spike as well.
While Blaster would have put up more of a fight with Jazz and his extreme indoctrination tactics, he was unfortunately too weak for a pretty face like Tracks. His crush on the flying bot was supposed to have stayed a secret, but those late nights drinking at Macaddams with Jazz back on Cybertron made him too loose-lipped. Now Blaster was rueing his past drunken rambles, but also silently thanking Primus for being able to bask in the sight of Tracks trying to fit Blaster's spike into his intake.
“Freaking cassette bots…” Tracks grumbled.
He tried to wrap his servos around the base of the spike but was quickly pulled back by his helm to stare up at a looming Jazz.
“No servos, just show us what that pretty mouth can do.” The grin across his face was sickening, but Tracks obliged either way.
With all four limbs planted on the floor, Tracks got to work lubricating the thick spike with his drool. He began with kitten-licks, tasting the pre-transfluid oozing from the slit. Slowly, his tentative teasing became more aggressive.
“Ngh T-Tracks…” Blaster moaned.
It felt awkward to keep his arms at his side so Blaster reached out, placing a servo over the hood that covered Tracks’ helm. The corvette raised a brow but didn't argue. Blaster mustered the courage to place his other servo over the mech's tail fin on top of his helm.
This time, Tracks responded with a purr, engines thrumming with content. He became eager, opening his intake wide and easing the thick head of the spike past his lips. The weight settled over his glossa, drool dripping down his chin as the girth increased with each push forward. He soon got into the rhythm of moving his helm back and forth, taking the spike all the way to the back of his throat without even gagging once.
That definitely had Blaster's stereo glitching. A low crackle of music filtered from his speakers. His groans were low, guttural as Tracks increased his pace, making sure to press his glossa over a thick vein along the underside of Blaster's spike.
“Mm ngh…” Tracks’ optics fluttered, once again falling into a headspace of euphoria and lust. He pulled back to suckle on the bulbous tip, swallowing the creamy transfluid that coated his throat as it rolled down to his tanks. “Ahh so big…”
His frame burned, heat oozing like steam from his vents that worked overtime to cool his systems. Tracks could honestly care less about his burning internals, not when Blaster's spike was stretching his intake so wide that the corner of his lips began to sting. He took a brief moment to look around the room, watching as the Special Ops team watched him with rapt attention. His initial doubts were quickly deterred, now preening and puffing up like a bird as the mechs looked at him with such desperate need in their optics.
Tracks chuckled, licking up a dribble of pre-transfluid that rolled down the side of his chin. With renewed vigor he dove back in, sucking Blaster's spike with desperation. His optics were now focused only on the cassette bot, focused only on him.
He wanted Blaster to see, needed Blaster to come undone as Tracks sucked off his thick spike.
Blaster of course was more than pleased. Static crackled from his speakers and the heat in his abdomen burned so intently that he felt himself getting dizzy. He remained strong, servos planted on Tracks’ helm as he gave his cheeks gentle pets. The mech nuzzled into Blaster's touch, fluttering his lashes, looking up with half-lidded optics as the spike breached his esophagus and his lips pressed into Blaster's abdomen. That was all Blaster needed before he was growling like a beast and overloading inside of Tracks' hot intake. The velvety walls were quickly coated in the viscous pink fluids.
“Mm!”
Tracks wanted to pull away, but Blaster's servos over his hood were too strong and kept him in place as he was forced to swallow the transfluid. Maybe with a bit too much eagerness, his throat cables bobbing with each gulp and optics rolling to the back of his helm.
It took several minutes before Blaster finally felt himself finish, flaccid spike wetly sliding out of Tracks’ intake. The girth of the spike had briefly locked his jaw in causing any of the remaining transfluid to drool down his glossa in thick globs over the floor.
“Ah ah…” Tracks wobbles on the floor, deprived of oxygen for a bit too long and having to reset his systems to normal functions.
Blaster on the other hand was harshly venting, looking down at Tracks with this piercing hunger behind his optics. He tried to reach out, grab him by the arm and pull Tracks to his pedes so he could get his spike inside—
“We're not done yet, there's still more fun for our new recruit.” Jazz grabs him by the wrist, gripping him tight until Blaster yanks his arm away. The Wrecker and the Special Ops leader silently stare at each other, faceplates unreadable. The tension is thick and the occupants in the room begin to worry that if things are left as they are then bullet holes will start spreading throughout the meeting room walls.
“Are you okay Tracks?”
“Mm a'right…”
Inferno moves in between, quickly scooping up the exhausted bot into his arms and gently depositing him across the table. Tracks flops over to his spinal strut, legs dangling off the edge. Thankfully, Inferno's safety protocols took over as he rushed to comfort the hurt ‘civilian'— in this case, Tracks.
Blaster and Jazz were quickly snapped from their stupor, turning away from each other and walking to opposite ends of the room. Blaster put his spent spike away as he went to stand by the wall, arms crossed across his chassis, optics focused solely on the venting blue bot.
Jazz on the other hand…
“Inferno, what great timing.”
“I— uh… what?” He was taken aback by the servo across his shoulder.
“You're up next. I think our poor Tracks is feeling a little thirsty after all the work he's been putting in.”
Despite his jovial tone, Inferno knew that there was a secret meaning to Jazz's words.
“Like give him some water from my hose?” Inferno raised his right servo which served as the hose opening. It connected to his water tank hidden behind a small compartment against his spinal strut. “If it's just hydration then maybe we can get some energon—”
“No, I mean down here.” Jazz quickly pressed into Inferno which pushed the mech against the exhausted blue bot.
Tracks could merely scowl from his position, raising his helm only slightly from the table so he could see what was going on between his legs. It didn't take long for him to notice Inferno's looming frame, especially the nozzle of his servo pressing below his valve.
“Oh no,” Tracks muttered.
“Put it in, give him a nice drink,” Jazz said cheerily, clapping his servos as if to begin the third act.
He stepped away from Inferno, walking only a few steps around the perimeter of the table, still within sight so he had a perfect view of the filthy mess that was about to unfold.
“You can't be serious— Inferno, please.”
The firetruck bot swallowed the oral lubricant that pooled in his intake. He looked down, watching with adept attention as the blue mech's valve began to twitch from the attention. The silver lips oozed with creamy transfluid, his anterior node brightly blinking from the excess charge still clogging his sensors. Inferno hesitated, optics hyper-focused on even the slightest movement.
Tracks’ valve was so pretty.
Tracks’ valve lips were very puffy and swollen.
Tracks’ valve had a pretty node peeking from the outer lips, enticing even the most sacred bots.
Tracks was driving Inferno absolutely crazy!
In what could be seen as a lucky twist of fate, Inferno didn't even end up inserting his servo inside of Tracks’ valve. He slipped in his haste to violate the pretty bot and ended up pressing into Tracks’ aft port. It was a pretty painless entrance, but the sudden insertion into the sensitive hole had Tracks’ spinal strut arching off the table as he felt the wet hose lubricate his insides.
“Mm, didn't expect you to use that hole.” Tracks shuddered, sobbing as his tired systems were booted up to full functionality again.
Inferno struggled to stutter out a response, feeling his own processor pulse with a wild charge of energy that urged him to push further. He started with a small squirt of water, testing out the temperature and receiving a startled yelp from the corvette who suddenly sat up with a scowl on his faceplate.
“Too cold!”
“Sorry!” Inferno apologized. “The heat settings take a while to start working at the beginning.”
Tracks frowned. He bent his legs at the knees, pulling them back to the side so he could get a better view of himself stuffed with Inferno's servo. A blue blush dusted his cheeks, optics going glossy as the haze of lust began overriding his systems. Slowly he inched his frame forward, nudging the hose further into his aft and moaning as the tip began to nudge across sensitive protomuscles.
“Frag that's weird… but not bad? It’s almost like a spike.”
Tracks grinded the servo around his aft a couple of times, brushing it over a twitching calliper that had him curling his pedes inwards. The pathetic cry from his red lips also incited a response from Inferno who took the opportunity to squirt more water inside of Tracks. This time the heat settings were finally working and an unfamiliar warmth began to bloom inside of Tracks.
“Oh!”
“Oh?” Preening from the reactions, the firetruck inched further inside, guiding his servo with direct precision so that the tip of the nozzle was assaulting every sensitive spot inside of him.
Hot loads of water continued to spurt, jostling the insides of the blue mech. From this position the liquid only had a short moment of coating his innards before escaping back out the hole it came in. Inferno frowned, not pleased with seeing the water trickle out of the Tracks so hastily. He worked through a slew of ideas, trying to use his brain like Red Alert had always told him and finally choosing the one that seemed the most promising. Rising to his full height, Inferno slowly inched his servo out of Tracks. He quickly turned to Mirage who was sitting across the room and motioned for him to come over.
“Mirage, get over here.”
The bot raised a brow, uncrossing his arms but not making a move to stand.
“W-what do you need me for?"
"Lend me a servo," Inferno said, expecting like that was enough to get Mirage to walk right over.
Well, it was because Mirage stood from his seat with a heavy vent, walking around the table and standing in front of Inferno who began directing the blue bot like they were on a regular mission. Inferno took a step forward, pushing Mirage into the chair closest to them and not even giving him a moment to organize himself before he was hoisting Tracks off the table and depositing him on top of Mirage.
"What are you-!"
"Don't worry, I got an idea," Inferno said with a hint of glee.
He maneuvered Tracks so that his spinal strut was pressed against Mirage's chassis and his legs were then slowly bent at the hip joint, pressed further and further back until he was split neatly in half. Inferno nodded, pleased with his work.
Mirage was forced to grip Tracks' legs at the knee, holding him in this position and reclining back so that Tracks' array was perfectly presented like a piece of animal meat at the butcher. It was an alignment that slowly forced Tracks' helm to press against Mirage's abdomen while his aft port faced upwards. He was now in the right position to accept Inferno's nozzle without spilling a single drop. Mirage immediately felt lost, blushing as he had a perfectly good view of Tracks' leaking valve and winking aft port.
"This is not comfortable at all," Tracks grunted. He didn't enjoy the way energon began to rush to his helm, making him feel dizzy and disoriented.
On the opposite side of the room Jazz had taken the liberty of standing next to Blaster. He grinned, flashing his dentae as he spoke. "Teamwork is an important part of Special Ops."
Blaster's tape deck sounded like it sputtered a bunch of film, but he kept his choice words to himself, opting to keep his focus on Tracks and the way Inferno's nozzle dipped back into his aft port, filling him with another gush of water.
"Ugh, it feels like it's coming up my olfactory sensor…"
Inferno didn't say anything, too focused on the way the protomuscles clung to his hose, cradling the sensitive tip and guiding him further inside.
Mirage bent his helm to look down at Tracks, trying to ease the corvette's worries with an awkward smile.
It worked, a little.
Tracks released an exhale akin to a laugh. He unfolded an arm that was previously attached to Mirage's shoulder for extra leverage and brought it to trace over the bot's flushed cheeks. More colors began to bloom across Mirage's faceplate, unable to stop himself from stuttering as the cool beauty named Tracks touched him like a tender lover.
"You have a very nice color, not as nice as mine, but you can never go wrong with blue."
Maybe it was the energon rushing to his helm or the way that water kept pulsing inside of his walls and extending his abdomen— Tracks felt himself and his vision swimming down a lazy river that only took him in circles until his brain module became disoriented. A dull throb settled across his forehelm but it wasn't anything that hurt, just a weight that made him extra aware of everything that was happening.
And he was extra aware of the way Mirage looked at him with lust behind his optics. He was like a drooling dog, forced to watch as his favorite treat was consumed by his rival.
A lightbulb flashed above Tracks' helm and he started by circling Mirage's lips with a digit before inserting it inside the bot's intake.
"Open up, I want a taste."
Mirage didn't hesitate to open his intake, showing off his sharp canine and dribbling glossa. As if he read the mech's mind, Mirage tapped into his processors, accelerating his salivary output.
Slowly, a dribble of oral lubricant fell from Mirage's glossa. It came down a thin string of clear, viscuous fluids that was then caught by Tracks' waiting glossa.
Tracks laughed, showing off his prize with a gaping intake before retracting his glossa and humming appreciatively.
"Delicious!"
The roar of Mirage's engines was loud, violent even. As a bot with a racecar alt his engines easily reached max capacity within seconds and causing the entire room to tremble with the vibrations. The sudden pulse of energy that collided with Tracks' frame sent a series of shudders all the way down his spinal strut. Down to where Inferno was happily thrusting his nozzle in and out of Tracks' now loose aft port.
"Yer so slutty. You keep sucking me in more, I could put my whole fist inside if I wanted to." Inferno dragged his servo in a circle, nudging around the bundle of callipers that were rarely touched.
Charge began to literally crackle in the air around them. Short bursts of pleasure assaulting Tracks' processor until he was eagerly shaking his hips. His valve drooled with lubricant, lips unfolding as his frame tried to make sense of the sensations consuming him. Ultimately, it decided that this was pleasure and made his valve tingle so desperately to be touched.
"Ah! Can't… Take more…" Tracks let out a shuddered vent. He blinked rapidly, unable to keep his optics open for much longer as everything became overwhelming.
He wanted to let go. His frame and protomuscles were clenching as tightly as he could, which wasn't much because with each second a squirt of water slipped from his aft port. Tracks was exhausted, he couldn't maintain this position for much longer and Inferno knew that.
With a smirk not usually seen on the firetruck, Inferno dragged his nozzle all the out of Tracks' hole, just barely keeping the tip inside. And then thrusted all the way in, hitting his abdomen and sending electrical shocks that made Tracks feel like he was combusting.
The chair Mirage sat on was pushed back eith the force and slammed against the side of the desk. Out of surprise he released Tracks and watched as he unceremoniously fell to the floor with his aft in the air. Then, all bots watched as the sloshing liquid inside of him gushed out like a waterfall. It was like watching a mech void themselves. There was something so erotic about Tracks' pitiful whines as the water escaped out of him until only a trickle remained.
"Ngh ah… please, can't do it anymore ah…" Tracks fell over on his side, venting harshly. His helm ached terribly, finally free of the energon that pooled behind his optics. Frame functions could now run normally and he could only pray to Primus that this was the last of Jazz's game.
"Oh, we're not done yet!"
Jazz pushed himself off the wall, sauntering across the room to look down at the glaring corvette.
"Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have been waiting so patiently this entire time. You wouldn't want to leave them hanging, right?"
Tracks felt like screaming. He closed his legs together tightly, shaking his helm as two ominous figures loomed over him.
Sinstreaker smiled, spike fully erect and dripping with thick globs of transfluid while Sideswipe grinned and was lazily pumping his spike, using his transfluid to lubricate it. The twins were unabashed, uncaring of Tracks' dilemma and easily lifted him in the air. His frame was slotted between the two, legs bent and balanced on Sunstreaker's elbows.
"Tracks, we've been hearing and seeing so much about you," Sunstreaker started.
"We might have snuck a listen during your orientation with Prime, but because of that we got to learn so much about you already!" Sodeswipe was chipper, nuzzling the side of Tracks' helm.
"Telling Optimus he has sweet rims."
"Telling Prowl you're always ready to ease his troubles in any way you can help."
"What a total slut!" They said in unison.
While it was just mere teasing, Tracks couldn't contain his emotions anymore. Coolant clung to his optics, lashes fluttering and another surge of heat rising to the top of his helm. Tracks could barely keep himself focused for long, frame falling limp in the twins' arms.
"You're so pretty when you cry."
He didn't notice as Jazz walked over, placing a tender servo across his cheeks and wiping away the falling tears. Tracks— so desperate for affection— leaned into the touch, practically rubbing his helm into Jazz's palm like some needy cat.
"Compliment me more," Tracks purred.
Like a siren beckoning his prey, Blaster was not immune to Tracks pleading. He moved on instinct, standing on the opposite side and now fully crowding Tracks as one of the many mechs who became enraptured by his beauty and wanted to dote or ferociously consume him.
Tracks smiled, kissing Blaster's palm. The cassette bot shuddered, lost in those beautiful blue optics.
And without warning, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe fucked their spikes into Tracks' valve and aft port with a single push.
"Ah! Y-you slags…"
The twins had a Cheshire cat grin while Blaster glared at them both for ruining his moment.
Jazz strolled around the group, urging Blaster away from the sex-pile. "You'll get your turn again. He seems to be most amicable when you're around." He whispers into Blaster's audial, earning himself a satisfied smile from the boombox.
Blaster kept himself at arms reach, still watching with rapt attention, maybe even pressurizing his erect spike and languidly servicing himself as he tried to imagine the heat of Tracks' intake and pretty lips around his spike.
"Ngh ngh t-too m-much ah~!"
Tracks voice module wavered, with each slap of the twins' spikes inside of him it caused his frame to bounce in the air like some dirty buybot doll. He tried to cling to Sunstreaker's shoulders, digits scrapping along his plating and leaving behind steel gray paint marks.
While Sunstreaker usually cared about his frame getting messed up, his highest priority was now fucking into those velvety walls and carving the shape of his spike inside of Tracks.
Sideswipe himself was enjoying the wet squelching sound as he pistoned into Tracks aft port. Inferno's earlier sexscapade left Tracks gaping and wet. With each thrust of his spike he dug himself deeper, hitting sensitive bundle of callipers that twitched and send electric shocks throughout their arrays.
One twin went in, one out and then they alternated until it became a symphony of slaps and lewd moans.
"Breaking… ah ah Primus please just overload ah!" Tracks begged. His helm rolled backwards, laying across Sideswipe's shoulders. Turning to the side he noticed Mirage's gaze focused on his debauched frame.
Tracks opened his intake, showing off his glossa that dribbled with oral lubricant.
Suddenly as if dissapearing and magically reappearing, Mirage now stood next to the interfacing mechs and dove in to capture Tracks' intake in a filthy kiss.
"Hey I can't see, move it Mirage!" Sunstreaker yelled, but was heard on deaf audials as Mirage pressed deeper, slipping his glossa between Tracks' lips and consuming him like a starved mech.
"Mm…" Tracks groaned, closing his optics, tilting his helm to the side as he parted his lips to allow for Mirage to delve deeper. Mirage kept his optics open, trained on the beautifully lewd bot and watched him as his cheeks flushed blye with energon and wantonly moaned.
Mirage was another victim, lost in Tracks' gravitational pull just like everybot involved. One of the firsts and many more to come who wanted was to satiate their own pleasures and use the unruly, loud-mouth newbie to please themselves.
"Not there! Going to-!"
"Oh, I wondered why it felt so squishy, is that your waste chamber?" Sideswipe snickered.
"Keep hitting it, I want to see him void himself," said Sunstreaker.
Sideswipe adjusted his thrusts, bending his knees and angling his spike so that with each push he was hiting directly into Tracks' waste chamber. The tip assaulted the sensitive tank causing his systems to go haywire and burn with the need to release.
The corvette shook his helm, nearly sobbing. "Don't! Ah ah it's embarrassing..." He looked to Blaster, even briefly glancing at Jazz. "Please?"
Jazz only shrugged, never once wiping the smile from his face.
Blaster couldn't even muster a response. He pumped his spike faster, grunting and biting the bottom of his lip as he considered the thought of Tracks voiding himself.
Oh Primus, that was so fucking hot!
"Yes yes yes…" Blaster mumbled under his breath.
That's all the confirmation the twins needed— not that they needed approval in the first place— to continue their attack against Tracks' insides. Sideswipe hit his waste tank with exact precision. He pushed and pressed, the liquid inside sloshing and traveling down cables. Tracks couldn't hold himself back for much longer before it hit him all at once.
With a single pathetic whimper he lost the strenght he had on his protomuscles and vented in relief as his fluids shot out of him, gushing onto the floor below.
The twins stalled their thrusting, taking a moment to view as Tracks made a mess of himself. The blue mech let out pitiful whines, intake parted as he focused solely in relieving himself. Tracks voided all over the floor, leaving a wet mess and even splashing across Sideswipe's and Sunstreaker's pedes.
"Don't look!" He cried.
Yet no one could look away, enjoying seeing Tracks in his most humiliating moment that would never be forgotten. Pleasure and euphoria seized his frame, making him tremble as a silent overload followed, short-circuited his processors.
Sideswipe was first, returning to his brutal thrusts that aligned with Tracks' waste tank. He pushed out any last dribbles of liquid, smiling as the final spurts left behind a lewd squelching sound.
Sunstreaker was next, already kliks away from overloading. The smell of the heavy musk and his overcharged frame was what he needed to finally fuck his spike into Tracks' poor valve and nestle deep into those soft walls. Sunstreaker grunted, pausing as transfluid shot from his spike and began filling Tracks.
The viscuous fluid clung to his callipers, a heat that made him moan and cry desperately until he could no longer function properly.
"Ah ah wai— ah ngh!" He just babled, staring at the ceiling as a second spike sheathed itself deep inside his aft and shot their transfluid straight into his abdomen.
Each twin closed their optics, taking in the moment and overloading for what seemed like eternity. The load was too thick, seeping from the sides and dribbling in thick globs across Tracks' array and onto the floor that was soaked in his disgusting waste fluids.
Thankfully, it ended not long after and with a pop they each retracted their arrays and watched satisfied as a heavy gush of transfluid cascade from both of Tracks' gaping holes.
With a vent he went falling to the floor, frame now soaked in all of his liquids.
"B-bastards…"
Sideswipe giggled while Sunstreaker wiped any fluids from his chassis.
Despite his exhaustion, Tracks still managed to hold himself up to his knees. His faceplate was covered in streaks of lubricant, frame shimmering with a sheen of different fluids. He glanced across the room, looking at everybot who just had their wicked way with him until he finally landed on Jazz. The Special Ops Commander was still smiling, leaning against the table and looking so nonchalant.
Tracks felt hatred bubble up inside of his chassis, but pushed away his outburst for fear of punishment.
"Good, looks like you learned your lesson." Jazz pushed himself away from the table, sauntering forward. "You actually kept your intake shut and any stupid words to yourself. Good boy."
Tracks grit his dentae, growling at the looming mech.
Raising a servo, Jazz reached out towards Tracks, enjoying how the younger bot flinched away. He didn't stop and placed his servo on top of Tracks' helm, beginning to rub it with a tenderness unfamiliar to Tracks. The blue corvette instantly fell pliant in Jazz's servos, purring when he rubbed behind Tracks' audial.
"Good, I love a mech who learns quick."
"You think you can overload one more time?" Jazz asked.
Immediately Tracks was going stiff, moving away from Jazz's touch and shaking his helm. "N-no no I cannot, it's numb down there!"
He found his voice but was now fearing of losing it again. The constant slapping and touching of his valve had made him feel numb around his lips. He was tired and overexerted and wanted nothing more than to go back to his room and pass out in his berth.
Jazz hummed, placing a digit across his chin before smiling. "Well, you see I'm actually done with you."
There was a vent of relief.
"But that doesn't mean everyone else is."
Tracks shuddered, now sensing a large figure looming over him. Craning his neck back he spotted the glazed look of his best friend, Blaster, now looking down at him with such desperation.
"Blaster?"
"Tracks, please, one more time, let me put it in?" Blaster begged, getting down on his knees. His face was flushed, heat plooming from his vents aand spike once again erect and leaking with transfluid.
Possessiveness took over and he was already pushing Tracks onto the floor, mounting him like an animal in heat. Mirage flanked from their right while Inferno came from the left. Each panting like an animal in heat.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe took a seat at the table, knowing that their turn would come last again but they could still sit here and enjoy the show again.
"Well Tracks, welcome to the Autobots. Happy to have you in Special Ops!"
Tracks gulped, knowing it was going to be a very long day.