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Drift had a busy night ahead of him.
“Ratchet.” He gestured with one hand, summoning Ratchet closer from where he was kneeling in the corner. Ratchet rose and approached. “See this?”
Laid out on the berth before them was Rodimus, bent into an impressive demonstration of flexibility. He was lying on his front with his legs bent double, red ropes crossing his frame in a controlled pattern. His ankles, wrists, and spoilers were bound together in a taut, knotted chain, keeping his thighs spread tightly apart. Only his valve was bared. He watched both of them sidelong, impatient but silent - for now.
Drift pointed to an access panel deep in the joint of Rodimus’s hip. It was popped open to reveal a single port and interface cable.
“Yes,” Ratchet said. “That’s a femoral access port, I’ve rebuilt about two hundred of them.”
Drift generously refrained from responding to that. “Plug him in,” he said, and Ratchet did, pulling out the cable and inserting it into a port from his wrist. Ratchet and Rodimus both shivered a little with the feedback. Drift knew the feeling well, but he had to admit it was a lot easier to keep his head outside of all the input.
“Now kneel down next to me and open your panel,” Drift said, and Ratchet obeyed, though Drift could practically hear his dentae grinding together.
Rodimus snickered. “Not exactly built for following orders, is he?”
“And yet he still takes his punishments better than you, half the time,” Drift said, reaching out to cup Roddy’s valve. Rodimus had disclosed that before he’d taken up with Drift, he’d been almost exclusively a spike mech - all the better, in Drift’s opinion, because it gave him a wonderful point of vulnerability to exploit. Even that brief touch made Rodimus squirm, more so when Drift petted over the apex of his valve. Lubricant welled over the cleft, dripping onto the berth. “Or else I wouldn’t need to tie you down.”
Rodimus gave him a scapegrace grin, only flickering when Drift slid a finger through his unfurling folds. Next to Drift, Ratchet twitched: a barely-there movement, but Drift had been waiting for it.
Rodimus’s restlessness was easily quelled as Drift explored his valve more thoroughly. By the time his valve and the berth below it were fully soaked, Ratchet had his hands braced on the edge of the berth, squeezing tight. Drift rubbed circles across the folds of Rodimus’s valve, watching Rodimus moan into the pillow under his head. More eager, more desperate, until -
He slapped Rodimus. Not even hard, just a light blow against the plush center of his valve, but Rodimus reacted like Drift had jammed a shockprod against him. “Ow!” He wiggled his hips, thighs squeezing together futilely. “Drift, why - ”
Drift slapped him again. Ratchet shuddered against the berth. “I told you what to expect, didn’t I?” Another slap stung Rodimus’s node, just hard enough to emerge from his folds. “I won’t gag you, but don’t expect me to stop until you can demonstrate some better behavior.”
“Ah - ah, Drift - !”
It took Drift another five slaps to pull a moan from Rodimus’s throat.
As Drift laid into Rodimus, his tactics changed from complaining to pleading to begging. When Drift stopped after a few dozen blows to rub over his stinging flesh, Rodimus let out a broken moan. “Please - ah, Drift, please, please, I need it - ”
“Need what?” Drift lowered his fingers to pinch at Rodimus’s node, and a wonderfully pathetic tremor ran through the captain’s legs, aching and desperate as they pushed against his bindings. “Be specific, or I can’t give you what you need.”
“Please,” Rodimus moaned. “I want, wanna overload.”
“Of course,” Drift said, as if Roddy could have asked at any time. Then he pulled his hand back and delivered ten quick blows as Rodimus sobbed, lubricant splashing onto the berth. After the last, he plunged two fingers straight into the tight clench of Rodimus’s valve, hooking them and rubbing hard; Rodimus overloaded so hard he screamed.
As Rodimus sagged in his bonds, panting and gasping, Drift turned his attention to Ratchet. He hadn’t overloaded yet. What a good mech. Instead, his valve had dripped a steady pool of lubricant onto the floor, thin strings and droplets making an audible plash with each stubborn, trembling vent. That was the wonderful thing about one-way interfacing connections: as overwhelming as they could be, they were rarely enough to bring a mech to overload on their own.
Drift reached down and took hold of Ratchet’s chin, tipping it up so that he could look into Ratchet’s hazy optics. “Did you enjoy Rodimus’s punishment?”
Jerkily, Ratchet nodded, words clearly beyond him.
“Good,” Drift purred. He crooked his fingers inside Rodimus, just to hear him moan, and then withdrew and slid them into Ratchet’s yielding mouth instead, rubbing against his glossa. “Do you want an overload too?”
Ratchet nodded harder, mouth sealing around Drift’s fingers. Drift pushed his pede between Ratchet’s thighs, angling the flat of it up, and laughed affectionately as Ratchet ground himself against it with perfect desperation.