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Domineering.
Authoritative.
Commanding.
Ratchet asked Optimus to be assertive and dominant to him today, to make him submit. Had told him what he had tried throughout his life, what he liked, what he did not like. He gave Optimus the freedom to try new things, find where his comfort zones are, explore a new dynamic together.
Optimus was eager to please. When he asked Ratchet about restraints, his medic had given him a captivating, excited look, and approved without hesitation.
And so, the Prime ordered his lover onto his hands and knees under his desk, sat down, and pulled his chair in. He put his spike in Ratchet’s mouth and tied his hands, leaving enough slack between them so they could be fastened towards the back of the chair, leaving him unable to withdraw.
Ratchet leaned against the restraints, straightening his arms, but even tilting his helm back, the tip was heavy on his tongue. There was no direction he could move in to free his mouth. His optics flicked up to Optimus’ face.
“My spike will stay in our mouth until I untie you.” Optimus explained coolly. “And it very well could be a while, I have work to do.”
“Unnmmph-!” Ratchet mewled. His digits flexed at either side of Optimus’ hips.
“You will keep still and quiet, refrain from distracting me.” The Prime let a hand fall to his lap and hold the base of his spike, stroking his length up to where it disappeared behind Ratchet's lips. “Take more of me. I want your throat full of me while I work. Surely, you will not make me tighten your restraints? Force your helm into my lap?”
Ratchet shook his helm the few inches that he could, optics on him, suckling on what he had on his glossa. “N-Nn… Nuh-gh…” His lips twitched with the effort of forming the ‘oh’ in ‘no’.
“Will you be good for me?”
“Uhh- huh!” Obediently, Ratchet lowered his mouth down, widening to accommodate the girth, flattening and stretching his glossa. His top lip tucked over his dentae to keep from scraping his Prime. He hesitated before swallowing, watching his Prime's expression. His optics widened as Optimus’ hand moved to the back of his helm, and he stared up, fighting the natural instinct to pull away.
“Need some help?” Optimus asked him gently. Ratchet moaned out a response that made Optimus sigh in content, the vibrations tickling his sensors and biolights. His servo pushed, and Ratchet’s optics fluttered closed as the head of the thick, throbbing member nestled in his throat. “That's it… Good, that's good, Sweetness. That is where you stay. And when I glance down, your optics had better be on me. You know how I love your beautiful optics.” His medic's eyes shot open and met his. “And your perfect lips, wrapped around my spike. Keep them there.”
No work would actually be done. Optimus counted down the minutes, keeping a tally for each one. He doodled, jotted down short poems that he could remember, made a list of all the things he had done that day. He was patient. He could feel Ratchet trying not to squirm, the build up of oral fluid, the pre-come dribbling down Ratchet's throat. Rolling his hips into his handsome face would feel spectacular, better yet, watching Ratchet work and play, use all of his little tricks and teases, and love every second of it, would feel intoxicating as it always did.
Oh but this… this splendidly errotic scene. Ratchet fastened to him, holding him in his mouth, ordered to be still, awaiting for Optimus’ attention to return to him. No hint of how long it would be. As time ticked by, Optimus would lose gusto, soften between Ratchet’s lips as his attention wandered, only to perk back up because Ratchet’s tongue involuntarily shifted or Optimus remembered just how sexy he looked down there. The medic’s fingers flexed at Optimus’ sides, working through pinching exercises to distract himself from the pressure of his gag reflex fighting to win.
Optimus found himself jotting down dirty phrases he could use while they cavorted. This bedroom dynamic required more creativity from him, had him saying things he had never said. New petnames, new ways to order Ratchet around, new positions they had yet to try- or old positions that could be spiced up with restraints. Optimus brainstormed and scribbled away. At some point, he would admit to Ratchet that he had done some after hours research, in the spirit of exploration. Earth peoples had a variety of petnames and phrases that were hopelessly ridiculous. The nearest opportunity, given that it would not ruin the moment, Optimus intended to call Ratchet his ‘Sweetiekins’ and enjoy the flabbergasted expression it would earn him.
The threshold of how much he could take was right around fifty minutes. He could not take this anymore, his spike wanted more than to be held between Ratchet’s lips. Optimus pushed his chair back just enough to draw a muffled yelp as Ratchet was dragged with him. As he had commanded, his medic’s optics were on him, lidded, his face flushed. The build up of oral fluid was… obscene. Ratchet was drooling all over him.
“Look at you…” Optimus murmured, petting his helm. “My pretty little angel." Ratchet gave him a hollow-cheeked suck, pleased to be acknowledged again. “You must have been bored down there.” Ratchet gave him a little nod. He was playing dirty by putting his glossa to work before he was given permission, making it more challenging for Optimus to keep up with the script. “How eager you are. I am going to untie you, but you are not allowed an empty mouth until you have made me overload.”
It would not take long. The mess of drool made for a rather loud and sloppy performance. Ratchet cradled the base of his spike and dragged his mouth up and down, tilting his helm so his glossa could reach ridges and biolights that would make Optimus’ joints lock up. And then his lover moaned with his lips stretched wide near the base, his throat full, voice tickling the shaft with heavenly vibrations. Ratchet knew every way to pluck his Prime’s strings.
“Do not spill.”
And he gave Ratchet a generous helping to choke down and swallow. He had a lot to get down, all of the accumulated spit and pre-fluid on top of a heavy load. When Ratchet lifted his helm off of his lover’s spike, he was coughing and clearing his throat, wiping his face off.
Electric aftershocks gripped at Optimus, refusing to leave him to recover, the blissful fog heavy in his head. He had floated away, right out of his chair, levitating amongst fireworks and stars. Frag that was good. Ratchet was good. For a long time, Orion, and then Optimus, would have a hard time asking for something like oral, that he knew was primarily for his benefit. He would have a guilty, embarrassed feeling if he did as much as vaguely hint about it. And then one day Ratchet shoved him into a chair, dropped to his knees, and ordered him to release his spike from its housing. Ratchet enjoyed bringing him here, up in the clouds, seeing his face when he lost himself in a blinding overload. After that day, Optimus grew comfortable enough to shyly ask, “Would you do that again?”
Oh, how far they had come.
When he came down, Ratchet was leaning his helm in his palm, elbow on one of Optimus’ knees. Smiling. Waiting patiently. A little smug about it.
“You look a little too proud.” The Prime rumbled. “Do not forget, you are not done serving me.” He hooked digits under armor on Ratchet’s chassis and hauled him up, drawing their faces close. “And I am hungry.”
Ratchet’s breath hitched. “How may I service you?”
Optimus nodded towards his desk. “Clear it off. That is where you will be going.” With fiercely captivated optics, he watched Ratchet stand and start piling everything on the desktop in one spot. He glanced at Optimus, just in time to see the restraints be gathered up, ready to be in use again, and his servos trembled in excitement. His twitchy grasp knocked over a couple items, and he caught them before they rolled off, wincing. “Careful now. I do not recall telling you to be clumsy about it.” The Prime warned. His voice was rolling thunder that made magma pulse in Ratchet’s core.
“Sorry,” the medic mumbled.
Neatly, Ratchet stacked Optimus’ datapads, writing utensils, notes, everything, and moved them off to the side on the floor. When he turned back, Optimus had scooted his chair back in, and was watching him expectantly, tapping his digits against the arms of his chair. The medic was slow in his approach, climbing onto the desktop, unsure how exactly he was meant to be positioned. Optimus was pulled in enough that it seemed bending Ratchet over was not the intent. “Aft here. Legs spread. Pedes on the arms of the chair.” Optimus instructed clearly.
The position would feel clinical if it was not a desk, if Ratchet’s ankles were not tied, if his panel was not on display, open to his lover. He was lying flat on his back, aft nearly at the edge of the desk, a pede on each arm of Optimus’ chair, fastened there. Optimus sat comfortably in his seat, a feast laid out before him.
“Yes, this is gorgeous. This…” The Prime’s fingers dragged up Ratchet’s leg, to his knee, to his thigh. “This is a lovely sight. More stunning than starlight, more than sunshine. You make an exquisite thrall.” His large hands massaged the wide open thighs, thumbs tickling the protoform hidden under pearly white armor. There was so much to grab and squeeze and feel. So much to kiss and bite.
Ratchet made the sweetest whines for him as he enjoyed those thick, well sculpted legs. He was quivering for more, Optimus had not even looked at his valve or spike, but he did not dare to disrupt Optimus’ indulgence. His optics fluttered shut, his helm flopped back, fingers clenching and unclenching. So many waiting games today. So many tortures.
When he did not feel teeth or lips on him anymore, he lifted his helm. Optimus was staring at him with powerful appetence. Ratchet stifled a little snort when he spat out white paint peelings. “Tell me what has happened here.” He gestured to the valve offered to him with his optics.
His medic chewed on his bottom lip, cheeks burning. “I got wet and hard for you when I sucked your spike.” He whispered.
He jumped when there was a startlingly loud rev of Optimus’ engine, gasping. “You are a little temptor, with a body like this, with a hard spike and a wet valve. You are making me ravenous. Famished. You are starving me, my sweet little temptation.”
“Who is the thrall now?” Ratchet smirked. He could not help himself. He could not help pushing Optimus’ buttons.
The Prime clicked his glossa, shaking his helm. “That is not how you speak to me. You must not want an overload.” His lover huffed and whined as he pulled a datapad out of a drawer, propped it up right in front of Ratchet’s exposed array, completely blocking his view of it. Optimus read in silence, as if Ratchet was not fastened down before him, as if his need for him was not throbbing on display.
Cruelty at its finest.
“You might like this one.” Optimus muttered, optics sweeping back and forth across the script. “Themes you will identify with, but you may find the flow of consciousness too disjointed to enjoy. The technique serves no purpose other than to be complicated, unfortunately, but I value the discourse.”
“Optimus, please, I’m sorry.”
“Shh, I am reading.”
Ratchet wriggled his hips, gripping at the doors on his chassis, shifting just enough to get his lover’s attention. His pout was all it took to win affections back. Optimus could not hold back from him. The datapad was tossed over the desk and onto the berth, and Ratchet sang his delight as Optimus finally started eating.
Soft lips molding to his swollen folds, glossa tracing the outlines of his intimate anatomy, nibbling on his delicate minora petals, teeth gently brushing his anterior node-!
“Ha-ah, Optimus, yes, yes-yes-yes,” the medic babbled. He was fiercely sensitive, his arousal had been climbing while he was teased, he was so desperate for this, now that he had it, he was set to melt. His back bowed to drive his hips against Optimus’ face as much as he could, unashamed. He had found in their long history of romps that the Prime loved it when he ground his vulva against his mouth and face. Optimus was a maniac for oral. How did Ratchet become so lucky?
One of his servos was collected and lifted. “Hold this hand up. Keep it closed. You will hold up a digit for every overload. Keep track.”
Keeping his hand up above him proved difficult. It wavered, he wanted to grip at the desk, grip at Optimus’ audials and ride his face like a motorcycle, he could not focus on keeping it steady.
“Good little starlight. My perfect treasure. My delectable meal.”
Ratchet could never gather enough wind in him to scoff at Optimus’ sentimental, sappy petnames. At some previous time, they were cringe-inducing. But now, tied wide open for the Prime, submitting to his every will, loving every moment he belonged to Optimus, the terms of endearment were the sexiest of all the things Ratchet had been called.
“Please, please-please!”
The world stopped spinning for his first long awaited overload. There had been a tightly wound coil in his center, his core rippling for its release, when it did, it would be explosive, it would leave trails of fire and lightning all through him. Optimus licked him right up to the edge, and right over, eating up every twitch, every shudder.
Ratchet’s shaking hand raised one finger. His chest heaved, body jerking, head lost in static.
“Mmmph, my sweetness, your valve is ambrosial. You taste splendid when you lose yourself for me.”
“A-Aah! Primus!” The medic yelped when Optimus dove right back in. He was offered little recovery time before he was being devoured whole once again. The slick twirl of Optimus’ glossa inside him had his thighs bracing against his ties, had him bucking and writhing for more. His node taken inside a ferocious mouth and sucked like there was venom in him that needed to come out. Fingers speared him and curled, and his vision exploded. His senses were fuzzy, buried in white noise, there was only heat, there was only hot lava and Optimus’ power over him. “Frag, frag, fr- OH! Do that again!”
Optimus alternating between fucking him with his tongue and fucking him with his fingers had him panting like an animal in heat, optics fluttering, helm lolled to the side. His free servo was propping up the raised arm, and it was hardly enough. There was no control over his body, no control of his jolts, clenches, carnal howls. His mind was splintered, there was no chance of forming anything coherent, a velvety blanket of haze was heavy over him, in his helm, in his limbs, in between his legs.
There was no way for Ratchet to tell how long Optimus had been feasting, but his scattered ability to piece syllables together found enough harmony when the sensation changed from ecstasy to a sharper soreness.
“No- No more!” Ratchet gasped, jerking involuntarily. “Primus, I can't… take any more..! Too sensitive…” The throbbing in his raw node was bordering on agony, and when Optimus’ lips brushed it, the harsh shudder of overstimulation wracked his already trembling body. Any more touch hurt.
Optimus’ helm lifted, and he sat up, finally showing Ratchet his drenched, smeared face. He ran his glossa over his lips, optics lidded, tracking the streaks and ropes of transfluid that marked his medic's chest and grill. “You are delectable, my Ratchet. Perfect against my mouth, sweet and wet for me. What do you say?”
“H-Hah… Thank you,” the medic rasped. “Thank you for taking care of me.” His hand, three digits held up, shook a final time before he let his arm collapse against his chest. He had actually overloaded four times, his count had been lost.
“Say that again,” Optimus’ engines thundered, rattling the desk. “Tell me what I have done to you.” After untying him, he collected Ratchet's legs, crossed his ankles, and rested them on one of his shoulders. He stood, spike brushing Ratchet, and the medic's panel snapped shut to protect his node from friction. He knew where that erection was going.
Ratchet watched his Prime press his spike in between his thighs, and squeezed them shut tight. Optimus moaned. He was painfully hard. “You made me overload until I couldn't take it anymore.” He murmured, watching the head move as Optimus’ hips began to roll. “You've drained me, I've never been so wet…”
His Prime leaned, a hand on either side of Ratchet's helm, folding his legs towards his shoulder, bending him nearly in half. Kind optics fierce and hazy with bliss. “Ratchet…” He huffed. “These thighs tight around my face, around my spike, my hips, spread as you are bent over…”
“However you want them, however you want me.”
“Unph, your voice… your body… Close already, you have driven me feral…” Optimus’ measured thrusts turned into a rut that was shaking the desk. He pressed down on Ratchet, pinning him, having his way with no abandon.
“Optimus,” Ratchet smiled, straining to lean up to kiss him. It was a brief touch, and then Optimus was pushing down harder, capturing his mouth, uncoordinated, desperate. “Come on me, please,” Ratchet murmured against him. “Optimus… So good between my legs… Overload for me, all over me, please.”
Optimus moaned into his mouth as he came, seizing as it shot all over Ratchet's chassis. He shuddered, clinging to his medic, letting Ratchet swallow his mewls and whimpers.
The greatest feeling in Optimus’ world was recovering from an overload, face nestled against his medic, hands stroking his helm. The wonderful glow, the comfort, the affection. Ratchet held him in his daze, kissing his face, telling him how handsome he was, how well he had done. So sweet for his lover, even pinned in a position that had to be killing him, had to be punishing his old joints. “That was a big one.” The medic whispered. “You were locked up for a long time.” Optimus had a feeling that Ratchet had been speaking for a while now, but he had been too drunk and dizzy to hear.
The initial plan was to have penetrative sex, but Optimus may have eaten up all of Ratchet’s stamina, literally. His node was rubbed and sucked raw, there would be no more touching that. He overloaded double the amount that Optimus had as well, could he manage? There were no complaints from the Prime, he was more than happy to end their romp here.
Sensing his thoughts, as he always seemed to do, Ratchet purred, “Please use my valve to overload. Please let me finish serving you.” His dentae grazed Optimus’ jaw and audial. “My service is not complete until your spike is inside me.”
Oh frag.
The Prime fell back into his chair, vents screeching, putting the reins in Ratchet’s hands while he got his strength back. The medic sat up, stretched his arms and legs, twisted to stretch his back, and then slid off of the desk.
“You must fill me up, my Prime.”
Ratchet lowered to the ground, onto his knees, legs spread, aft to Optimus. He dropped onto his elbows. His panel opened once again.
Now that was a sight.
Optimus made it all the more better by taking his arms and pinning his wrists behind his back, pushing his shoulders and face into the floor. Ratchet gasped, trying at his grasp once before falling slack and wriggling his aft against Optimus. “Yes, Optimus, frag me like this.”
“And how is that?”
“With…” Ratchet gulped, unable to glance behind him with his cheek against the ground. His vents stuttered as Optimus sank into him. “From behind, with my face to the floor and my aft in the air.”
And so, as he wished, Optimus fucked him into the floor until he was moaning and drooling, knees and face scraping back and forth with powerful thrusts. He dragged Ratchet by the wrists and aft back into his spike hard, just to knock him forward again, rough, unyielding. The filthy dialogue was tossed overboard, there were no more words, just ragged groans as Optimus had his medic, took him and took him.
When his thighs locked, his hips stuttered, knees shook, and finally buried himself as deep as he possibly could in Ratchet’s perfect heat, all Ratchet could muster was a long, drawn out whine. The last of what Optimus had to give pooled inside of him, his valve gorging itself on his lover and milking him dry.
Even after Optimus flopped to the floor beside him, Ratchet stayed slumped where he was, aft in the air, spent, depleted.
“I… huff… Love you.”
Ratchet mumbled out, “-ove you too.” When his lover moved closer, arm extending to draw him in, he rolled onto his back, groaning. “Don’t touch, just… Give me a minute. I just want to lay here.” He added with a smile, “It was amazing, Optimus. I just need a minute. I’m not a young ‘bot.”
“Could have fooled me.” Optimus laid back and closed his optics, following his example. “We will lie here as long as you need, Old Friend.”
“If I haven’t moved for more than five minutes, it means I’m dead.”
“I shall keep an eye.”