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Ratchet was brought back to the present with a harsh tug at the back of his helm. His glossa had rolled out of his mouth, and he was drooling onto the table he was pressed down on.
He loved this feeling. He wasn’t the ‘brilliant scientist and doctor’ everyone had the highest expectation of. Here, underneath one mech and in front of a couple dozen others, he was just the ‘party ambulance.’
The spike pounding into him was divine. Ruthless and brutal, not caring about Ratchet’s comfort or enjoyment. It made the ambulance moan like he was in a two-shanix porno. Primus, he was an addict, following wherever the next high took him. Today, it took him to a speakeasy across town, where no one in his professional circle dared dwell. Dangerous, fast pace, and a great place to lose everything you’ve ever owned. It was one of Ratchet’s favorite places.
He could feel himself slipping away, optics rolling into the back of his helm as he shouted in pleasure. The servo on his helm moved to his neck, wrapping around and pulling him further back onto the mech’s spike.
“Not yet, shareware. You owe us the whole night,” the bot jeered, slamming into him with a force that made Ratchet cry out.
Primus, thank the Allspark he agreed to this. How the frag could he have hesitated?
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet laughed, chugging the last of his high grade. “You want me to what?”
“Come on, Ratty,” Piledrive said, smirking at the doctor. “You’ve already slept with everyone in the damn building. Hardly seems to be much different.”
“I’ve slept with, at most, three at a time. You’re asking for me to present myself like a prize to a couple dozen.”
At this, she leaned in close, lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I know you like it rough, mech. This’ll be that—nothing but a safeword and over twenty horny bots who refuse to wait for a piece of you. You get off on being called names, don’t deny it. They’ll call you all those you like, and so much worse.”
Ratchet, the party ambulance, who had never once been embarrassed or shy about his endeavors, flushed like a virgin. She waited for a couple of moments before speaking again.
“But,” Piledrive stood, grabbing her drink and moving to walk away, “if you’re not interested—”
Ratchet grabbed her servo before she could leave, and her smile changed into a devilish grin.
So here Ratchet was, in the “High Life” in the shadiest part of Iacon there was, getting gangbanged by, to be exact, twenty-seven bots. He was a prize—wrapped up and presented by one of his flings on a silver platter. The second he walked in the door, every optic was on him. The moment his panels were popped, they were on him like a pack of cyber-dogs in heat.
They were everywhere. This was only his first thorough spiking of the evening, and he had already overloaded twice and was losing his mind. And the mech doing it wasn’t even done with him yet. The mech, whose name Ratchet had forgotten almost the second he had bent him over the bar table and became the first to take him.
Ratchet continued to cry out, overstimulated with every drag of the long spike impaling him. The mechs surrounding him continued their onslaught with their servos, grabbing at his aft, his back, his spike: no part of him was safe. He somehow heard through the noise of his own panting someone ask where the cuffs were, and another mech telling them to hold on, that they wanted to use his digits first. Primus, Ratchet was harder than he’d ever been in his life.
The mech’s pace slowed for a moment, and he released Ratchet’s neck to take hold of his hips. The ambulance practically folded over the table, already exhausted. The mech resumed his annihilation of Ratchet’s valve, causing him to howl.
All participants had been informed that Ratchet was using a line of anti-sparking code: meaning they could overload in him all they liked. But this mech had other ideas, quickly sliding out of the medic and pulling him up, spinning him around, and shoving him onto his knees before pushing his spike into his gaping mouth. He only held on for a few seconds after that, before overloading down Ratchet’s throat. He swallowed as much as he could, but he still had to cough after the bot released him, allowing him to slide back against the bar table with his legs out in front of him, twitching with pleasure as everyone took a step back to admire the view before them.
The party ambulance, sitting with his legs wide open, revealing a glowing orange node and a white spike at full attention, optics glazed over, and mouth filled with pink, panting to give his vents a moment to catch up. Ratchet could only imagine the picture he painted, but from the hungry stares of the other mech in the room, he had a feeling it was quite a pretty one.
Only allowed a moment's rest, a femme strutted up with a chuckle and grabbed his helm, pulling him towards her. He groaned at the sudden move, and the other mechs around them laughed. Eventually, the femme applied enough force that Ratchet was being dragged on his aft across the room, towards another, wider glass table. He reached both arms up weakly to try and pry her servo off of him, but couldn’t find the strength. The femme just laughed louder at the attempt.
That was part of the game, he had made it clear. There were moments he would try to resist, to say no. But he also left no room for doubt—unless he said the safeword, or tapped the safe-signal, they had no obligation to stop. He was theirs for the night, to be fragged at their leisure.
They reached the next site of Ratchet’s fragging in record time, and he was almost thrown onto the table on his back. The other bots crowded around, continuing their assault on his, well, everywhere. The femme wasted no time, quickly sliding her spike into the ambulance’s valve with a grunt. Ratchet gasped at the entry, pulling away, but she just grabbed the metal doors on his chest and pulled him right back down. The doctor began moaning rhythmically as the bot started to begin fragging him in earnest.
“We’re feelin’ a little unattended, Ratch,” he heard a voice to his left say. He turned his helm to spot a purple spike right about his servo—a servo which was grabbed and placed on said spike the second he turned. Spurred into action, the ambulance began to pump, at which point he felt two things happen at once.
A, his other servos’ digits were guided into someone’s valve, three at once.
B, someone beginning to swallow down his spike.
Ratchet screamed, which provided ample time for Piledrive to position herself in front of him, hang his helm over the edge of the table, and push her spike in between his dermas.
Shouting now muffled, Ratchet was forced to lie there with every hole filled, and take it. Pulled in each direction, used in every manner.
He couldn’t think through the pleasure. He felt like he was breaking. He overloaded with a jolt, but they just kept fragging him right through it.
Piledrive overloaded first (after what felt like half an hour), filling his mouth with more pink transfluid and slapping him as she stepped back. Ratchet could hardly swallow any of it, causing it to pool down his upside-down face and to the ground. Finally able to produce sound, the ambulance continued his panting and shouting, drawing more amused laughter from the masses. There was moaning all around him, with the bots not actively assaulting him stroking themselves and calling out to him, using names that certainly weren’t his. The spike he was pumping overloaded suddenly, coloring his chest pink, and was speedily replaced with another.
“Look at you, Ratty,” Piledrive knelt, a grin on her face as she grabbed his chin and forced him to meet her gaze. The spike pummeling his valve kept right on going, causing him to push forward into her servo, and his glossa to roll out of his mouth once more.
“See? You’d make a perfect buymech.”
Ratchet overloaded again with a shout, and cheers rang out from his audience. Piledrive joined them, tossing his helm aside and stepping back. It was just then that the femme fragging him overloaded, wrenching both arms from their use (after he brought to completion the one using his digits for their valve, of course), and pumping him full with transfluid.
This time, they didn’t take a second to admire their handiwork. They just picked Ratchet up by the arms and dragged him over to where a mech, a jet, sat on one of the couches, leisurely stroking one of the largest spikes Ratchet had ever seen. When they lifted him, and he realised he wasn’t meant to just be sucking that spike, he began to struggle again. But there were at least six mech holding him up, and he stood no chance.
“Wait, wait! It won’t fit—”
He was unceremoniously dropped onto mech’s lap, skewered by the already hard spike. Ratchet threw his helm back and wailed, and continued wailing as the mech turned him to face the crowd.
There were so many mechs watching him, ogling his frame as they stroked their spikes and rubbed their nodes. For a second, he was in such shock that his screaming ceased. Then the mech currently piercing through his insides grabbed the back of his helm and reminded him exactly where he was.
The bot fragged up into him like a jackhammer, turning his rhythmic moans into shouts in moments. He tried to grab at the mech’s thighs, but he just used his empty servo to push the weak attempt away. His audience was loving it, jeering at the useless effort and reclining like they were watching nothing but a show. Finally, he just left his arms to hang uselessly at his side, allowing the mech to use him like a meshlight.
They all watched with rapt attention as Ratchet howled, the fragging continuously picking up speed. His mind was breaking; he could feel it. He wasn’t an addict, he wasn’t anything at all. He was an object to be used by all of these bots for the rest of his life. Primus, the fact that his mind didn’t immediately object to that was just proof they had fragged the processor out of him.
His optics rolled into the back of his helm as he overloaded. The jet didn’t even slow down, and didn’t seem close to being done with the ambulance. His onlookers continued in their cheering as Ratchet allowed the mech to manhandle him like the sex toy he was, too overstimulated to mount a defense. No one else attempted to approach, however. Whoever was fragging him seemed to be the leader of the pack. Ratchet, the now sobbing mess that he was, was his, right now. The rest would get their turn after he was finished. Three minutes, six minutes, ten minutes. He kept right on fragging him until eventually he stopped counting and just moaned his way through it.
He was too out of his mind to feel the pace slow, so he only noticed the leader was done with him when a burst of transfluid flow into him. There was so much that, despite the fact that he was still plugged up, he felt it spray onto the inside of his thighs. The ambulance choked out a cry, tears running down his cheeks, and began to fall forward. He was only held up by the mech's continuing presence clutching his helm. By the Allspark, his servo could encompass the entire top of the medic’s helm.
The leader sighed and reclined back into the couch, not letting Ratchet go. The medic moaned, any movement sending him twitching and quivering, trying to lift himself off the mech’s lap.
“I don’t think so,” the bot sneered, tightening his grasp. “I’ve been in need of a good spikewarmer.” The crowd snickered at that, even as the doctor tried to pull away. It was too much—it was-it was too good, he just needed—
“Stop struggling already, Primus. I’m not letting you go,” the mech gestured to a couple of other bots, who immediately moved forward and got on their knees under Ratchet. One brought the aforementioned handcuffs to the mech.
“Here you go, Nightlock,” the femme said in a cheerful tone.
Nightlock, huh. Considering all he could think or feel was the spike still stuffing his overstimulated valve, he doubted he’d remember it. What he did remember was the way Nightlock collected his servos behind his back, using the cuffs to clip them together, one servo still on the doctor's helm during the whole act.
“Clean up this mess, would you?” he asked the mechs underneath Ratchet.
Suddenly, there were three glossa licking him up, drawing a weakened cry from him. They licked the inside of his thighs, his valve, his spike. They hungrily sucked every visible ounce of transfluid from him as he squirmed, trying to find relief from the constant assault; Nightlock kept him from making too much progress in his escape attempt, and eventually Ratchet surrendered, allowing himself to slack against his four assailants.
After they were done and had moved back (which felt like hours), the leader released the medic’s helm. But before he could fall forward onto the ground and be free of his spike, he snatched the handcuffs and held him inches from the floor. He groaned. So close to a break.
“Sorry. You really are the perfect spikesleeve,” he tested the waters, pulling Ratchet back further onto his spike and shifting his hips to swirl the transfluid inside him around, but leaving his back level with the codpieces of the viewing party.
“Ah, ha, nooo…” he half-sparkedly moaned in protest, before his glossa, unprompted, fell out of his dermas again.
He barked a laugh before nodding at one of the bots watching, who grinned and walked forward, taking hold of Ratchet’s helm and lining their spike up. He tried to turn, but the jet just pulled him back and began face-fragging him in earnest. Unprepared, the medic choked immediately and kept choking audibly as they kept up their brutal pace. At least Nightlock had stopped moving in him, content to smirk down at the flailing ambulance.
“What was that? You’re not a perfect spikesleeve?” he taunted, wrenching the handcuffs back to elicit a cry.
“Please, listen to yourself! Moaning like a porn-star. You belong here, Ratchet. Under us. Used by us.”
Ratchet overloaded again, causing Nightlock to laugh even harder.
“Look at that! The idea of being nothing but some mesh for us to frag gets you off. Come on, doc. All you gotta do is sit there and take it. You’ll never have to work again if you’ll just be our little plaything.”
Yes yes yes yes yes yes. Ratchet’s processor sang as his optics began to roll again, and the bot rammed their way down his throat and filled his tanks with more transfluid. Ratchet gasped for vents as the bot pulled out, hanging by the handcuffs.
Suddenly, Nightlock put a light arm around his neck and stood, keeping the ambulance on his spike as he walked. Every step he took drew another cry from the doctor, wrecked beyond belief. The mech kept one hand on the handcuffs, pulling Ratchet’s arms taut against his back. He hardly registered being placed on a small high table until he was on his stomach, and Nightlock released his neck to once again tug his helm up to look straight forward.
Into a full-length mirror.
God, he really was a perfect spikesleeve.
Tears ran down his face in rivers, and he hadn’t yet found the energy to pull his glossa back into his mouth. The leader's hand grasped him like he was a ball, his digits long enough to stretch passed his optics and almost into his mouth—his drooling and transfluid-filled mouth, and his rolled optics, glazed over with lust and glitching. His entire frame was painted in pink, where mechs had overloaded all over him without him ever noticing. He had paint transfers everywhere, his dermas, his servos, his chest, and of course his codpiece.
His adoring audience stood behind them, covered in white and orange paint and pink transfluid, grinning devilishly at the sight before them.
Nightlock leaned over him, pushing his spike in deeper. Ratchet saw himself moan and nearly overloaded at the sight.
“You know what?” he whispered, moving the hand on his helm to dig two digits into the medic’s open mouth.
“I think we should keep you.”
His optics widened, and he began his pointless struggle anew, tossing and turning while grunting through the digits, despite what his own processor was telling him.
Yes! Yes, surrender, let them have you, frag you, use you!. You’ll be the perfect buymech for them, they’ll keep you forever, and you’ll feel like this all the time!
“Uh-uh, stop that.”
Another mech came forward, slapping the ambulance’s aft along the way, and pressed Ratchet’s helm back down to the table, rendering him immobile with a snicker.
“Yes, we could, couldn't we?” he proposed, meeting Ratchet’s optics in the mirror and releasing his mouth for a moment. “You could be this crew's permanent piece of shareware. Wouldn’t you like that, toy? All tied up, nice and pretty, for us to use?”
YES!
“Ah, ah, n-no, please—” he panted instead.
“Too bad!” he jeered, driving into Ratchet just once to get him to shout, allowing him to stuff his digits back in between his derma. The crowd let out a roar, calling next and overloading themselves.
“‘Cause I think you do. I mean, you should see yourself while you're getting fragged. A face like that is just begging to be someone’s shareware.”
He cracked a wicked smile.
“The fact that you can still talk means we’re doing a poor job breaking you. Let’s fix that.”
He gestured for the doctor’s helm to be released, and then he started fragging him again, pushing all the way in and stuffing the ambulance full.
“AH!” Ratchet cried through the digits and the cheers, bracing over and over as he stared at his own reflection, his own pleasure-filled face, and the face of his fragger.
He did want it bad. He wanted every one of the mechs in this room to have their way with him—to frag him through his protests, spike, valve, and mouth. He was theirs. Theirs to use when and where they wanted. For a moment, Ratchet knew that if they wanted to carry him through the streets tied to one of their chests, skewered on their spike, he’d let them.
Every thrust into the ambulance left him more and more brainless, and before long, the only thoughts in his helm were spike and his face in the mirror, lewd and unabashed.
Eventually, the jet lifted him by the legs, kicking the table out of the way. He continued fragging Ratchet as he shoved him right up against the mirror, forcing his helm down to stare at the spike impaling him.
“This—is what—you are!” he snarled in between grunts. He bit into Ratchet’s shoulder, drawing energon.
Ratchet couldn’t answer. It was too good, too addicting—if they kept going like this, he was going to break forever, oh Primus—
They overloaded at the same time. Pressed against the glass, the pure bliss on his own face was apparent. As was, of course, the mix of drool and transfluid pouring from his mouth.
When Nightlock was done filling him, he grabbed the handcuff chains and raised Ratchet off of his spike, leaving him hanging like a ragdoll above him. Instantly, a large puddle of the jet’s transfluid spilled from the ambulance's valve and onto the floor. He kept him there for a minute, held up like a prize he had won. Ratchet didn't move, save for a constant tremor racking throughout his frame. But for a moment, he was thinking again.
No, no, please—more spike. Frag me more please.
“P-please—” Ratchet said, voice laced in static.
“Frag you some more?” Nightlock asked, the same smirk plastered on his face. He turned to the spectators, each still eagerly awaiting. “I think that can be arranged.”
Cheers erupted, and Ratchet was literally tossed to the waiting crowd. At this point, he’d gained back just enough strength to wiggle around, pretending to escape. But soon there were a dozen servos on him and in him, and moving was just egging them on further.
He was taken on the ground, on the couches, on the tables, on the walls. Hell, two others took him on the mirror at the same time. They took every hole he had, sometimes multiple in one at once, filled him to the brim, and let him spill just to do it again. Every once in a while, they gave him a break—just enough for him to get enough strength to struggle against them. In one particularly bold moment, they opened a window and stuck his back half out of it, one mech fragging his valve outside and one fragging his mouth inside. Soon, they started fragging him with objects. Sex toys and poles and anything they could get their servos on that would fit. He didn’t remember who broke out the marker, but soon his body was adorned with markings and tallys.
SHAREWARE
FREE USE
[BLANK] WAS HERE :)
SPIKESLEEVE
INSERT HERE ->
FRAG HARD!
And of course—PLAYTHING
Every bot had at least two goes at him, Nightlock taking him the most frequently. Hours upon hours, until Ratchet couldn’t feel his legs, and his mind was so thoroughly broken he wondered if he’d ever go back to being a doctor again. What if they really did take him—whisk him away to be their pet? He wouldn’t even be angry. He might even be grateful.
His voice box must have short-circuited by now; he hadn’t spoken in ages anyway. The only sounds coming from him were those of pure pleasure, as his processor continued to sing with joy.
At one point, when Nightlock was done with his throat, he leaned him back and asked, “You’ll be my little spikesleeve forever, right? I’ll come back—whenever I want you.”
Ratchet stared up at him, vision blurred from the tears, and couldn’t speak anything but static. So he nodded, leaning his helm into the jet’s hand.
So with another of his wicked grins, he took Ratchet’s helm right back onto his spike and picked up where he left off, using him as he pleased, while another mech moved to lay under the medic and began fragging into him, and another stuck his servo onto her spike.
They never let up.
And Ratchet loved every second.
The party ambulance was really fraggin’ glad he took the day off.
Needless to say, Ratchet was not kidnapped and turned into a sex slave by Nightlock and his cohorts. Instead, after they were done with him, well past when the sun had risen, they had left him there. He was nothing but a discarded toy amongst the debris, sitting up on the floor against the side of one of the couches. Twitching and exhausted, his legs spread and mouth open to allow the copious amounts of transfluid that had been overloaded into him to leak out, he sat unmoving and covered in the spill of twenty-seven bots. The handcuffs had been attached to one wrist and fastened around the couch leg. Now, in addition to the scrawling messages on his frame, a sign hung from his neck.
FREE SHAREWARE
USE ME
From an outside perspective, he might not have seemed unconscious, spare the glitching of his optics.
He could see himself in the mirror from where he was abandoned. What he saw was what they called him—shareware, to be used at any time by whoever wanted him, sitting in a puddle of his and everyone else’s fluids. In fact, the owner of the bar had come by right after they had left, fragged him where he was sitting, and then left him on his own.
He must have been there for at least an hour before Piledrive came by and undid the cuffs, cleaning him up a little bit in the process—though not enough that he could walk outside without anyone thinking he was free game.
“So—whadya think?” she beamed, crouching to meet his optics.
He leveled her with a look before reaching out an arm and letting her pull him to shaky pedes. He then handed her a card before moving towards the washrooms. She stared at it quizzically before calling out, “What’s this?”
His voice box clicked three times before choking out, “My address. For Nightlock.”
Stunned, the femme stared at the card and then back at Ratchet, before grinning wildly.
“You really are a freak, aren’t you?”
“What? Don’t tell me he won’t want his favorite spikesleeve by next week.”
Mouth agape, Piledrive nearly dropped the card before bursting out laughing.
Ratchet stumbled into the washroom, a smile on his face the whole way.
I’ve GOT to do this again sometime.