Rating: M
Chapter 6
There were optics all over him.
Music pulsed and lights flashed
overhead, but Tracks paid them no mind, spinning faster and gyrating
a little harder to the beat. All he wanted to do -all that he felt
that he could do- was continue to dance, drawing in everyone's
attention. In the back of his processor, he knew -or maybe it was
just that he was hoping a little too much- that a bright, red visor
would be watching him as he moved, from the black windows of the
observatory room above the dance floor. Was Soundwave looking down on
him now? Did his visor flash with lust, like it had back at that
party the week before?
Tracks swayed his hips, stepping back a
step before turning on his pede; finishing one last rotation before
the song ended and another one picked up immediately after.
Condensation was beginning to build up on his chassis, and he was
warm enough that his intakes came in heavy, deep bursts now. All the
same, he would dance until his legs could bear to hold his weight no
longer, and only then would he return home.
All the while, thinking of the
innumerable possibilities that stealing the blue kittycon's attention
for a few hours would hold. Hopefully, the persian would respond
soon. And if not..... well, then Soundwave didn't really know what he
was missing out on, and Tracks would quickly move on to his other,
more sensible clients.
After all, moping was time and money
wasted. Neither of which that the pomeranian cared to do.
xxXxXxx
“Sir?”
Soundwave lifted his helm slightly at
the interruption, glancing back at the other mech over his shoulder.
The tan kittycon merely cocked his helm, smile wide on his
cheekplates. “I'm so sorry, sir. Was I disturbing something?”
Soundwave did not reply to the devon
rex, instead turning his gaze to the dance floor below. A speckle of
colours, muted greatly by the black glass, flashed into the
observatory deck; reflecting off shined jewels and fur of the
clubbers just beneath him. Though the persian looked and looked, he
could no longer see the sleek, swaying form of one autodog bopping to
the DJ's fast mix. Tracks must have finally left for the night. Visor
dimming slightly in agitation, the blue mech turned to his guest,
ignoring the rest of the 'bots below.
“Designation: Swindle, correct?
Status of investigation: all necessary information has been
gathered?,” the businessmech asked, his monotonous vocalizer only
touched with the faintest trace of annoyance.
Swindle, amazingly, smiled wider; his
purple optics narrowing into slits on his face. “Why, of course,
Soundwave ol' pal? When you go around looking for the best,
eventually you are gonna find them. And if I do say so myself, I am
the only one truly qualified for such a job,” the kittycon boasted.
Soundwave was not impressed, but didn't
bother to comment on his clear distaste for the private detective.
“File, if you please,” the CEO demanded, holding out his servo.
The devon rex only continued to smile
though, waggling his finger coyly at the persian. “Now, don't be so
hasty,” the shorter kittycon tutted. “There's still the topic of
payment that has yet to be discussed.”
“Payment: will be awarded. Credits
are already being transferred over to your account as we speak.”
“Really now....? And how can I be so
sure that you're not just yanking my tail, hmm? I don't do Pro Bono
cases, you know, not even for up-and-coming business Elites like
yourself.”
The taller mech nearly snarled at the
other kittycon. “Swindle: middle-class private detective. Resident
vagabond and chief informant of underground network. Holds seat of
power in the Black Market; yet to be identified as ring-leader of
illegal arms trade within the greater Iacon region. Characterization:
over-confident, sly, greedy. Said to sell his own creator if it would
ensure a transaction. Continuation: necessary?”
“W-well now....,” Swindle coughed,
his grin fading just a bit in discomfort. “You really do have a
vast communications network, dontcha? I suppose I'm going to have to
keep my helm low for a little while.... Here, then. Your files,”
the devon rex held out the folder for Soundwave to take, grimacing
the whole while. “Everything you wanted to know about the autodog
Tracks, and more, if I dare say so. I'll trust that you're a mech of
your word and will see those credits in my account tomorrow morning.
Until we meet again then, I bid you adieu.”
The persian merely nodded his own helm,
taking firm grasp of the folder. He was glad to see Swindle finally
leave, in silence no less. The larger kittycon did not take well to
threats, and he was content in the knowledge that the other mech
would not dare to cross him again, should he want to remain free of
the stockades and clean of record. Shifting the folder in his servos,
Soundwave stepped across the observatory deck to the desk positioned
along the left wall of the room. Quietly, he sank into his chair,
setting the folder on top of his desk. His visor noted right away how
the file was slightly thicker than that of a regular citizen's, but
did not carry nearly as much bulk as a businessmechs' or convicts'
case file would. That, at least, assured the kittycon some, who
needed certain expectations made if Tracks was to meet his standards.
And he seriously hoped that the
pomeranian was worth it all.
He could already feel his lust raging
for that slim form, that swayed and bent like starlit ribbons caught
in the coyest of breezes; fur so soft and shined that the persian
knew he would never want to untangle his fingers from it. With smiles
so beautiful he longed to keep them all to himself and smouldering
blue optics that seemed to burn into the very core of his being.
Everything about Tracks was like sin
and paradise all rolled into one entity.... and Soundwave wanted to
dominate this mech. Have him scream his name as they interfaced, have
him melt and weaken in his very arms when he simply held him; wanted
to gently pet the autodog and be confident in the fact that no one
else could have such a privilege, as well as to kiss and lull him to
calm sleep within his berth.
Tracks had prompted him to begin the
chase.
Soundwave had happily obliged.
Beneath the cover of this folder lay
some insight into the mech that was Tracks. This was only the
starting point to the autodog's capture.
xxXxXxx
“Alright -I'm up, I'm up!”
A servo scrambled from beneath a pile
of blankets, spreading across every inch of the nightstand until they
closed across a pair of frames. Glasses found,Tracks, grumbling the
entire time, pushed himself out from his berth; tossing aside the
thick, downy covers as he got to his pedes, before slipping a night
robe on as he headed for his door. The obnoxious knocking continued
for what must have been the hundredth time, before pausing again.
Tracks thankfully reached his front door before the annoying sound
could start another repetition, frowning as he opened the door.
“What the slag- Mirage?!” The
curses that had wanted to spew from the pomeranian's mouth at being
disturbed so early in the day faded on the tip of his glossa when his
rude knocker turned out to be none other than his neighbour.
Confused, and more than a little slow still, Tracks sleepily mumbled,
“What seems to be the problem, 'Rajy?”
The blue yorkie pursed his lips in
irritation, propping his servos on his waist. It was then that the
taller Autodog noticed his friend was also dressed in a night robe -a
satin sky blue- and looked as if he had been just as rudely awoken
not but a few breems ago. “Can't you be bothered to charge your
stupid cell!,” Mirage growled.
“What are you....,” Tracks trailed
off, looking over his shoulder to his cellphone sitting on the little
entryway table. Silently he picked the device up, flipping it open.
The screen remained resolutely black, proving that the cell had
actually died and would need to be charged again.
“Oh,” the pomeranian exhaled, “Must
have forgotten to check it after coming home last night....”
“That's very nice and all,” Mirage
snapped irritably, “But you're not the only one who has late night
business. I've been getting calls and texts from the house mother for
the last half a cycle, asking where you are and that she needs to see
you A.S.A.P. Slaggit, Tracks, I am tired as frag!”
“Okay, okay..... I apologize that you
had to be woken up to run around like my messenger 'bot. I promise
that I'll keep my cell charged and won't disturb your beauty rest
again. Do you still love me?”
The other autodog scowled at the
ridiculous apology, lip component curling slightly at Tracks'
question. “I'm not in the mood to play your little games. I'm going
back to my apartment now.... and if this does happen again, Tracks,
rest assured that I won't simply come knocking on your door like a
good little mech. Next time, I'm out for blood.”
“Absolutely chilling....,” Tracks
noted dully as Mirage turned on his pede and stormed across the hall.
Yawning, the pomeranian shut his door, turning and walking back into
the main area of his apartment. He was still very tired himself and
wanted nothing more than to recharge a little longer.... but if the
house mother was calling, then that meant he should hurry along and
head upstairs. First though, he needed a shower.....
xxXxXxx
That night found Tracks sitting at one
of the tables in the downstairs lounge, picking at his dinner.
“Funny to find you here at this time
of night.”
The autodog lifted his optics, a smirk
coming to his face as he looked up at Mirage. “My, my, my.....,”
the multi-coloured mech leered. “Don't you look absolutely
ravishing.”
Typical Mirage blushed at the comment,
scowling somewhat. Self-consciously, he smoothed out the front of his
cashmere top, jangling his silver bangles. “Aren't you the
charmer,” the yorkie replied, trying to regain his composure. “Does
anything but insults and praise come from that silly mouth?”
“I could show you if you'd like.”
Mirage's blush deepened. “You're
incorrigible, I swear,” the blue mech huffed. “I wonder how many
of your clients are aware that you're such a sexual deviant. More so,
I wonder if you even know what the meaning of shame is.”
“Now, why would I need to ashamed
for?,” Tracks smiled good-naturedly. He pushed out the only other
chair at the table, inviting Mirage to take a seat. The autodog did,
sitting rigid against the straight back. “Come now, relax..... I
won't jump you in the lounge. Unless that's what you want.”
The yorkie shot him a nasty look, and
Tracks quickly chuckled in mirth. “No, really. Enough of this
amusing banter. Tell me: how did your date go?”
“.....fine,” Mirage replied slowly.
“He wanted to take me to the theatre. We saw that production about
those strange little creatures without fur, had some energon and a
small bite to eat at the Steel Haven. Then I came home. All in all,
it was an uneventful night.”
Tracks leaned forward, resting his chin
in his servo. “I see.... Would this be the same mech that has been
taking you out for the last decacycle?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, 'Rajy! That's great news! That
mech has actual Duke-status, and his business in clothing materials
is exceptionally prosperous. If you've caught his attention, you just
may be able to climb back up into the inner circle again!!”
Mirage merely turned his helm away,
staring at something uninteresting at one corner of the room.
“Perhaps so....,” the yorkie replied blandly. Even Tracks noticed
the flatness of his tone, but before the pomeranian could remark on
it, the other autodog was speaking again. “And what about you,
Tracks? Even on your off-days, you're not a usual sight to be found
in the lounge before midnight.”
“Yes, well....,” Tracks sighed, “I
don't quite feel up for a night out today.”
“Excuse me?,” Mirage said in
stunned disbelief.
“I had my monthly scan today. They
leave me feeling somewhat drained,” the multi-coloured 'bot added.
“Ah.....,” his companion replied.
In their business, monthly scans were mandatory, as set by their
manager. Because the escorts catered more often than not to their
client's sexual needs, it was essential then that they were checked
regularly and kept on top of their health. A sick escort was
virtually useless, and if they couldn't be repaired within a stellar
cycle's time, then they were usually let go. Having no actual skills
of his own, Mirage did his best to maintain a perfect systems status
at all times and, as a rule of thumb, did not sleep with any of his
clientele. He did not want to end up like one of those unfortunate
'bots who could no longer work, and thus, were forced from their
homes and out onto the cold streets. He knew he wouldn't be able to
survive if that did happen....
Tracks though, did not seem so paranoid
about such a thing happening to him, and slept with a good quarter of
his clients. He had his monthly scans done (sometimes more than once
in a decacycle, if he interfaced often within that period) and he
always seemed just a little more tired than usual afterwards. The
pomeranian's exhaustion did not seem the only thing wearing him down
today though.
“There's something else that's
bothering you, isn't there?,” Mirage asked, in an odd moment of
concern.
Tracks locked optics with the yorkie,
and smiled wryly before exhaling loudly. “Indeed,” the taller
Autodog answered. “I'm sure you've heard of this Soundwave fella by
now, yes?” Mirage nodded his helm.
“Yes, well, I met him at that soiree
last week -the one where I came home with that large, gorgeous
sapphire bracelet, remember? I could tell he was interested in me,
and really, he's a pretty handsome bit of 'bot himself. If it had
been any other night, I would have chatted him up; given him our
business card so we could see each other again. But, I had work to do
and unfortunately soon parted ways with him just after starting
conversation. He boasts about the greatness of his communication
network, but that mech has not even contacted the Agency yet and
arranged for a date. Do you think he might not actually be interested
in me?”
Mirage didn't know what to say. Tracks
and him had only ever retained a shaky sort of camaraderie at best;
this spark-to-spark felt almost invasive, and certainly the yorkie
was lost at how to respond. He didn't even know the pomeranian well
enough to accurately gauge his emotions and give the right advice.
Shifting in his seat almost uncomfortably, the blue mech lowered his
gaze to his lap. “Perhaps he does not have the time or care for our
services. Yes, we are a convenience, but surely that doesn't mean we
are always sought after,” the fallen Noble explained. “Are you
really going to let that lower your spirit though? You, who are so
domineering and in control?”
Tracks quickly regained his grin,
lifting a servo and stroking the other's cheekplates. Mirage allowed
it for the moment, just glad that the awkwardness had finally passed.
“My, my, my....,” the tri-coloured mech breathed, “You
certainly are a tease, aren't you my lovely Mirage? Such beautiful
words coming from an even sweeter mouth.... you have me spell-bound,
and I have to confess I'm quite content being so enraptured by you.”
“Of course you are,” Mirage
drawled, pulling back from the personal touch after a couple more
astroseconds. “C'mon,” he started, rising to his pedes. “You
may be too tired to party tonight, but I know of the most wonderful
little cafe not too far away from here. They're opened late and I
feel like a cup of hot oil and some energon tarts. Care to join me?”
“Ooh, certainly!,” Tracks beamed,
practically leaping to his pedes. He walked around the table, looping
arms with the shorter autodog. “Shall we get going then?”
The yorkie rolled his optics, but fell
into step with the pomeranian; both autodogs heading out into the
night for a little fun and companionship.
xxXxXxx
His back struts hit the wall harshly,
but before he could even contemplate on it further, servos were
yanking at the buttons of his clothes; a hot mouth and hungry glossa
laving at his throat. Tracks moaned into the pleasurable assault,
wriggling against his attacker's hold to get more comfortable. Once
he found a position he liked, he immediately went to assist his
fumbling partner; slacks falling down to his pedes, and shirt opening
to bare his chassis to the other 'bot.
“Y-you're pretty eager to-today,”
the pomeranian choked, shivering as two fingers were thrust into his
valve suddenly. Lubricant trickled down his thighs barely a nanoklik
after, slicking the digits scissoring him and preparing for the spike
that would follow.
“S-so are you,” Sentinel leered. “I
don't t-think I've seen somebody lubricate that fast before.”
“Mmmmmm,” Tracks moaned, grinding
against the large servo. “'Spose I've just been a-anxious fo-for
our n-next ap-apointment.” The slim autodog bit back the yip as the
rottweiler tore his fingers out of his valve; the security guard
fumbling to undo his own belt.
The next few actions on Sentinel's part
were so simple, that Tracks could have reiterated the motions with
his optics shuttered. They had, after all, gone through the same
procedure many times before. First, the thicker mech would undo his
belt, pulling his pants down to about mid-thigh or his ankles, if he
wasn't feeling too lazy. He would undress no further than that, not
particularly concerned about physical appearance as his partner was.
Next, Sentinel would, obviously, enter Tracks; the two of them
writhing together, the pomeranian pinned to whatever available wall,
until they had overloaded as much as they desired.
There was no love exchanged, because
this was a business transaction and the goal at the end was to finish
as satisfactorily as possible. Servos would roam, and mouths would
caress, but not out of romance so much as a need to touch and feel as
they spiralled to oblivion. Tracks found himself licking and nibbling
at the other's neck cables in such a fashion, the rottweiler pushing
his long spike inside the waiting valve. “P-primus.... so good!,”
the pomeranian gasped, fingers digging into Sentinel's shoulder
plating and drawing out a hiss from his partner as several hot spots
were hit with the hard pressure.
“Primus! You're tight!,” Sentinel
growled, losing all restraint and thrusting himself the rest of the
way into the autodog.
Tracks whimpered at the assault, helm
lolling to the side slightly as he fought to regain function of his
intakes. His dazed optics noticed something just beyond his partner.
“Oh, darling.....,” the tri-coloured mech moaned, wriggling about
the throbbing spike inside of him. There was only pleasure at the
feel of that hot cable filling him. “T-there are re-really cameras
a-all over t-this bu-building, h-huh? Th-thinking of making
y-yourself a p-personal tape?”
“W-what the slag a-are you talking
a-about?,” Sentinel asked. He evidently didn't care to hear the
pomeranian's answer, just needed the act of talking to center himself
before he started right off into his quick-paced tempo; pelvic
plating clanging against Tracks' aft as he rapidly thrust in and out
of the escort.
The pomeranian could only shiver and
cry at the stimulating rhythm, lifting one leg at a time until they
were both wrapped tightly around the rottweiler's waist, allowing the
blue mech more access to his partner's leaking valve. Panting, Tracks
grasped the other autodog about the shoulders, pulling him down
enough so he could get a clear view of the security monitor's just
behind Sentinel's back. On one of the television screens was
displayed an image of the security office; showing the presence of
two mechs. Even though it was tiny, Tracks could still tell that it
was him and Sentinel being viewed on the monitor at this moment; the
sight of the rottweiler overshadowing his partner, both frames
writhing almost violently as they rushed towards overload, turning
the tri-coloured mech on even further.
“I-i.... I c-could watch y-you frag
me f-forever,” Tracks smirked into the security guard's ear, being
rewarded with a particularly well-aimed thrust against the sensor
nodes along his valve.
“Sh-shut up,” Sentinel growled
weakly, never breaking his tempo. In fact, it seemed to pick up.
“Say it,” the rottweiler commanded.
His servos came to rest against either side of Tracks' helm, noting
the final stage of their interfacing. From here on out, Sentinel
would frag him as if the world depended on it; pounding into Tracks
until the pomeranian screamed out his overload.
A shiver of anticipation ran down the
slimmer Autodog's spinal struts, and he grinned wickedly.
“D-desperate, hmmm, big boy?,” he teased, tripping to keep his
intakes even, especially with that delicious spike still moving
within him.
A ferocious growl met his question.
Laughing, Tracks watched as Sentinel's
optics shuttered, reaching deeper into his memory files to recall a
certain 'bot. “S-sentinel....,” he finally groaned, in a
near-perfect imitation of Optimus' voice. “O-oh, oh, Sentinel,
p-please! I-i-i n-need you so-oooh! M-much, ple-eease!”
Sentinel reacted positively, thrusting
into Tracks so erratically that the pomeranian soon lost all
coherency; scratching and scrambling for a hand-hold as the world
shifted around on him and glaring white took over his visual pixels.
It was not surprising to find the mech howling out his overload a few
astroseconds later, chassis trembling as energy zinged through his
entire frame.
Sentinel followed a nanoklik after, his
transfluid trickling around his spike still plugged into Tracks and
down his thighs.
“A-again,” the rottweiler mumbled,
glossa heavy from the processor-numbing overload.
Tracks, shifting a little in position,
wrapped his arms more securely about the security guard's neck.
“Whatever you like, sir.”
The rest of the cycle continued much
the same. As they were preparing for one final interface, Tracks this
time bent over the desk in the security office, a ringing started,
tearing through the lustful aura of the room. Frowning as he realized
it was his own cell ringing, the pomeranian slapped away Sentinel's
wandering servos, standing up and strutting across the room
completely naked, to his clothes left in a pile beside the door.
“Hello?,” Tracks asked, flipping
his cell open immediately after digging it out of his pocket. He sat
kneeling on the floor, aft arched enticingly to Sentinel. The
rottweiler rumbled approvingly at the sight, frowning when the
pomeranian caught the sound and turned to grin at him. “Yes, I
understand,” the tri-coloured autodog said into his cell. “I'll
be there shortly.”
Snapping his phone shut, Tracks
gathered up his clothing, rising to his pedes once more. “Bad bit
of news, darling,” the mech explained as he dressed. “It's time
for me to leave.”
“I get you for a cycle though,”
Sentinel huffed, covering his arms over his chassis irritably.
“And a cycle you had me for,”
Tracks grinned. “But your time is up now, and my employer harkens
that I scurry on home. So much to do, so little time and all that
jazz....”
“Fine,” came the responding growl.
Chuckling a little under his intakes,
the pomeranian finished dressing, quickly checking that he appeared
sightly. “Ta-ta love,” the Autodog said, blowing a kiss to the
rottweiler. “Until we meet again.”
And with that, he was out the door,
heading back home.
xxXxXxx
Tracks had practically ran home.
His spark puttered excitedly in his
chestplates as he ran through the condo doors, sprinting for the
elevator lifts. He tapped his pede impatiently, silently willing for
the elevator to come along faster. Since receiving the house mother's
call, the pomeranian had been anxious to get back home.
The reason being?
His employer had called about a new
candidate that wanted to meet him. She never called him about
potential clients while he was away on an appointment. This meant
that the mech or femme visiting was an exceptionally important
figure, which equalled to a nice, fat paycheck if he agreed to go out
on a “test-run” date. And if the client was attractive enough and
Tracks won over their affections.... that could mean a lot more
lovely paychecks in the near future.
As it was though, Tracks was already
running a couple minutes late. Normally, he would head home and wash
up -make himself more presentable before seeing this new client. He
would not have time for that now, but perhaps after the
introductions, he'd be allowed some time to go and freshen up before
heading out. While the pomeranian was mulling this over, the elevator
arrived, the doors dinging as they opened to grant entrance to the
autodog.
Tracks hurried into the lift
immediately, pushing the button for the penthouse suite. The elevator
ride upstairs seemed to take forever before the doors were opening
again, dropping the mech off in front of a frosted, glass door. He
knocked, and waited until he heard his employer's answering reply
before entering.
Flare-up's penthouse suite was
spectacular. Everything was a blend of glass and metal, blazing with
colours of gold, white and fire-red –similar to her own fur colour.
Light from the pot lamps installed in the ceiling glittered on nearly
everything, and the bay windows that made up every wall only brought
in more sunlight; making the entire apartment appear as if it was
radiating light all on its own. The delicate, nearly pure, beauty of
the place appealed to Tracks and he thought that if he ever should
get his own penthouse, he would mirror it in ways after Flare-up's.
Just, better obviously.
Stepping further into the apartment,
the pomeranian rounded the corner coming to the office space set up
in the large living room area. The femme was already sitting behind
her desk, waiting for him. “I see you've finally arrived, Tracks.”
One of her jack russel terrier ears twitched with the greeting.
Smiling, Tracks inclined his helm
slightly to the woman. “Indeed I have. I only hope that I have not
displeased our honoured guest. In which case....,” the mech said,
looking about, “Where have they gone?”
“To the facilities,” Flare-up
answered. She flicked at a speck of invisible dirt along the shoulder
of her pin-strip suit. “In the meantime, take a seat.”
Tracks did so obligingly, not bothering
to add any frivolous or promiscuous comments. Flare-up was much too
serious of a femme to take his banter lightly and in fact would be
more likely to punish him for his words. Though everything about the
jack russel appeared delicate, she was anything but. From her speech
patterns, attitude and clothes.... everything held just an edge of
sharpness that ensured a deep cut to anyone who crossed her. Even her
mechfriends were a sight to behold! Tracks once had the misfortune to
meet the rumored Warpath.....
.....he never wished to run into the
boerboel again.
But, the pomeranian supposed,
Flare-up's tough but smart grasp on life allowed her to run the
Escort system without any glitches. The femme was not one to be
pushed around by either clients or her escorts. She was good at what
she did, and it was something that Tracks respected.
“How did Mr. Sentinel take the
news?,” the jack terrier asked suddenly, interrupting the quiet
that had fallen between the two autodogs.
Tracks smirked. “As well as any mech
who has their interface period cut short can. Though I doubt I left
him without much to complain.”
“As to be expected of you,”
Flare-up grinned slightly in return. “As it is, you're perhaps one
of our top escorts at this time. If you weren't so damn picky, you'd
probably be a lot more popular. But I understand your standards and
am glad to see some sort of restraint within you. I think though,
that you will find this mech in your tastes as well. He seems to have
some former knowledge of you, anyhow.”
“Oh?” That wasn't too surprising,
really. A pleased client was likely to inform his trusted buddies
about his preferred escort. It was how Tracks had plenty of
customers.
“This one has requested for a date
tonight. I've checked your schedule, and you have no clients for the
rest of the evening,” the femme announced, as she began to gather
together her files. “I'll set up an account for our new client,
which should give you plenty of time to clean up.”
“Yes, of course,” Tracks answered.
“Ah, here comes our new customer
now.” Flare-up started to rise to her pedes, and the pomeranian
followed suit. Turning to face his date, Tracks felt his spark leap
in his chassis, heat pooling in his cheekplates.
“Tracks,” Flare-up introduced,
“meet our honoured client, Mr. Soundwave.”
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