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Megatron hadn’t actually seen Skids getting his sheath cleaned, now that he thought about it.
He’d seen the aftermath—the other centaur flopped over the burlap bolster in his stall, blue plating shiny with condensation as he slowly cooled down. The expression on his face, the contentment in those golden optics, it had been… enticing.
Which wasn’t even mentioning the way Skids’ soft spike had lain, spent and shameless, across one of his back thighs. It was hard to miss, with the crimson plating of his spike contrasted against his silver thighs and dark underbelly. The pale scar beneath it where Skids’ transfluid sacks had once hung was almost invisible. Skids wasn’t shy about the fact that he was gelded, and it certainly didn’t seem to stop him enjoying himself in one way or another.
Megatron was still… uncertain, he supposed, about many aspects of captivity. Rung was, so far, the only biped who seemed worth talking to—so much so that their conversations would almost be worth the dramatic shift of open fields to closed stalls on their own, even when one didn’t take into account the benefits of shelter and food.
It had taken him longer to adjust to other things, like the lack of control over his daily routine and the mitts that kept him from using his hands for just about anything practical. … On the other circuit, the mitts did mean that Rung, once assured Megatron wouldn’t grab him, carefully stretched and massaged Megatron’s tensor digit cabling each night, which was quite a reward. He’d honestly had a harder time accepting the uniquely desperate sounds of the facilities where he’d been kept with other newly captured centaurs before Rung had taken such special interest in him. Even still, this smaller barn (required for prospects such as himself, Rung had explained) was rarely as quiet as the nights he’d once kept watch through.
That was one of the many things Megatron appreciated about Rung—his willingness to explain basic parts of his lifestyle that weren’t like anything Megatron had experienced was almost unbelievable, given the way most of his kind treated centaurs as though they were mere mechanimals. Skids, for his part, had been suspicious of Megatron (was, clearly, still suspicious of Megatron), but he seemed by no means as bitter or worn-down as many of the other ‘tamed’ centaurs Megatron had seen. Megatron had not been particularly interested in getting to know any of them, but Skids caught his optic in much the same way Rung did.
He couldn’t help but test the gelding’s boundaries in much the way he’d have done with mares—well, as much as he could when they weren’t yet permitted to be loose in a paddock together. Megatron had reached out of his stall once to bat at Skids’ hindquarters, and got a wall-rattling kick accompanied by a laughing nicker in response, which he had decided to call a win.
Still, it was a gamble whether or not Skids would be willing to answer Megatron’s questions on any given day (especially if, Megatron had figured out, Skids thought it was the sort of question someone trying to escape might ask).
Grooming routines weren’t one of those dangerous topics, but Skids hadn’t been inclined to elaborate on his bliss beyond “Sheath cleaning. Gelding thing.” It wasn’t an irate or offended silence, far from it. Perhaps Megatron shouldn’t have asked right after one of the aforementioned cleanings. He hadn’t been able to see anything Skids had not particularly talkative in the wake of his sheath cleaning. He actually hummed to himself as he gathered his legs beneath him and stood, letting his still-slightly-flared spike hang beneath him while waste oil began trickling free.
Which was distracting in its own right, so Megatron tabled the discussion for the time being.
Rung would likely be able to offer more clarity.
Megatron waited until Skids had been turned out in their paddock and he was secure in the crossties. He’d been as sweet as can be in the prepwork—he didn’t refuse to come up to the front of his stall to let Rung muzzle him or raise his hands up above his head to avoid having the mitts clipped to the harness at his waist.
Look, Megatron had to entertain himself in one way or another, and he never made Rung wait too long for him to behave, even normally.
Today, though… he was too caught up in thoughts of the sheen to Skids’ plating and the drop of clear pre-fluid, free of code-bearing nanites but still an obvious signal of overload, that had hung from the tip of his spike. He was nearly docile as Rung began his work—until he spoke.
“Do only geldings get sheath cleanings?” he’d asked, blunt in a way Rung had encouraged with his answers to all Megatron’s prior questions.
“Well, I definitely don’t think you need one,” Rung blurted, nearly dropping his vectorcomb as his silver cheeks flushed as orange as the rest of him. “I mean—not that I’ve been watching, I don’t wish to pry more than necessary, of course.” He went quiet and still where he stood at Megatron’s side, perched on the mounting block he had to use when grooming anywhere at or above Megatron’s withers. It was an eager, anxious sort of stillness. “If you’re curious, I could lend you a datapad on the subject, or…”
“Or?” Megatron echoed. He couldn’t move much in the crossties, let alone reach out to touch Rung with his cuffed hands. But he did settle his weight sideways, just enough to to let his electromagnetic field brush Rung’s plating directly.
Static crackled between them, sharp and hot.
“I suppose you hadn’t had your array looked at since your initial veterinarian visit,” Rung said slowly. “And it has been muddy out there… it can’t hurt to have a look, at least, see if you could use some tidying there, as long as I’m already grooming you.” Megatron wasn’t sure if Rung was trying to convince himself or Megatron (though he knew he himself needed no convincing). The mere thought of Rung’s delicate hands anywhere near his array was enough to make his spike swell in its sheath.
Megatron huffed a laugh. “I would appreciate your… professional optic.”
Rung giggled, sounding practically giddy with nerves and… something else. Megatron flared his nostrils, tipping his helm to one side. Something else, indeed, something as warm and sweet as hex-honey.
“Alright—would you like me to describe the process in advance or tell you what I’m doing as I go along?”
Rung’s thoughtfulness brought a genuine smile to Megatron’s face, and he didn’t try a bit to hold in an affectionate nicker. “Explain as you go. I’ve always been a hooves-on learner, as it were. Do you need to get any additional supplies?”
“Yes, I’ll be right back,” Rung began, before pausing. “Actually, I’ll be a klik or two—I think you’ll appreciate warmed solvent.”
Megatron chuckled. “I imagine I would.”
The thing about Rung leaving to fetch his additional supplies was that it gave Megatron time to think. Skids could drop his spike, though Megatron was fairly certain it wouldn’t pressurize or flare as his did. Should Megatron attempt to stop his spike from pressurizing? Perhaps he wasn’t supposed to drop it at all until the cleaning was over.
It was called a sheath cleaning, after all, not a spike cleaning.
The image of Rung pressing his fingers to Megatron’s sheath opening, keeping his spike, hot and needy, from extending as it wished, struck his processors like a rampaging byteson bull. Megatron shivered, his armor clattering from crest to coronet, as a breeze coming through the barn caressed the now-exposed tip of his spike.
So much for not dropping his spike till end of the procedure.
It nosed its way further into the chilled air as Megatron imagined Rung coming in to see it flushed and exposed, clicking his tongue disapprovingly. If Megatron started trying to flex his abdominal cables to press his spike against his barrel, maybe Rung would even reach back to grab and squeeze Megatron’s balls the firm way he’d done when Megatron was first brought in and refused to heel for anyone at all.
Suffice to say that by the time Rung returned, Megatron’s spike was fully extended. He wasn’t quite hard, though, so that had to count for something.
Rung smiled to see him, even so… exuberantly exposed, and it was almost more unbearable than a scolding would have been. “Good, that will make this easier.” He seemed to have steeled himself to the task while away, falling into the trained, less intimate manner Megatron frequently noticed he displayed when working with other centaurs. Still, there was a breathlessness to his speech, as if his vocal output couldn’t quite keep up with his internal audio synthesizers. “I’m going to start with a quick solvent rinse of your ports, and—and then your external repositories, before moving on to your sheath and spike itself.”
Megatron hummed an assent and settled with his hind legs a little further apart than usual to ease Rung’s task. He flicked his tail, short as it was, out of the way as well. It took more effort than usual to stay still, arousal urging him to prance and show off for his potential paramor, or… whatever Rung was.
Certainly not one of Megatron’s typical mare or stallion consorts.
One of those deft hands he liked so much rested on the dock joint of his tail. “Would you prefer I clip your tail back?”
Megatron shook his head, unable to resist the urge to paw slightly at the ground as he did so. “No,” he said, a little shorter than he needed to be but unsure he could really make more words happen. He wasn’t usually so aware of his valve and aft, but with them essentially directly in front of Rung’s optics and Rung duty-bound to look at them, well.
It would make any stallion self-conscious, even one as confident as Megatron.
Rung’s hand slid down to brace against Megatron’s thigh armor. His thumb rubbed small circles into the metal. For a moment, Megatron thought he heard a vocalizer click, as if Rung was about to speak. Megatron wondered if Rung was about to compliment the plush mesh of his valve or the furl of his aft; both ports clenched a little at the thought. No, not clenched— winked. At Rung.
Then the solvent spray was on him, warm and wet and nowhere near enough. Megatron stifled a squeal, not wanting Rung to think he should do anything as awful as stop. His spike throbbed with desire. Slick was welling in his valve already. The klik the hose moved from his valve, it was going to start drooling lubricant down over his node and balls.
Between that and his near-dripping spike, there was a non-zero chance this cleaning was going to get very messy indeed.
“That’s—” Rung’s voice crackled with static before he cleared it with a cough. He patted Megatron’s rump gently. “Your ports are all done, darl—Megatron. Now, for your repositories.”
Megatron vented a long exhale, blowing air through his lips in a less-than-dignified assent. In the pause that followed, he guessed what Rung was about to ask and spoke up first. “M’fine, just, uh, words.” He gathered the few logical threads he had available to weave into something more coherent, if a bit overly honest. “I am… quite relaxed, so not as eloquent as usual. This feels… nice.”
It would be even nicer if you’d call me darling, like you so clearly want to, he thought, but saying such a desire aloud would be an irreparable affront to his dignity.
Rung chuckled affectionately. “Okay, I’ll keep going. Let me just get my block so I can sit—”
Megatron was reaching for the block before Rung finished speaking, only for his hands to be caught and yanked back by the limits of his wrist cuffs before he reached it. He snorted and shook his head, field prickling with embarrassment.
So much for his dignity.
“Oh, darling, it’s alright,” Rung soothed. A creak signaled him turning off the solvent before coming around to Megatron’s front, keeping a hand on his side at all times. “If you could see every time Skids has forgotten his wrists are clipped down—would you believe he still does it today? I don’t typically have him wear them that often, you see, so when he must, it’s an easy thing to forget.” He ran his hand up Megatron’s back to slip under his shoulder harness and scratch that seam Megatron could never quite get at himself. “I’d unclip you now, but unfamiliar sensations can make even a sweetspark like you lash out. I wouldn’t blame you, of course, but I prefer my spark window uncracked,” Rung teased.
Megatron smiled despite himself. He knew he should object to being called a sweetspark, and he would… coming from anyone other than Rung. “Of course,” he agreed. With a leg, this time, he nudged the mounting block toward Rung. “All yours.”
Once the block was in place by Megatron’s left thigh, Rung wasted no time getting back to work. This time, the heated solvent was applied with a soft, microfiber rag.
And it was applied to Megatron’s balls, rather than his ports.
Rung was… thorough. To say the least.
He started by wetting down the entirety of the equipment in question, cupping them in one hand as best he could while rubbing the torturously soft rag all over them with the other. Megatron couldn’t see what was happening, but he could absolutely feel every spot where his, ah, generous endowment spilled over Rung’s outstretched fingers.
Once wet, Rung began wiping down the stretchy, sensitive from the root of Megatron’s sacks down to their main heft more thoroughly. Megatron had known they were sensitive (even if regular life hadn’t taught him that, Starscream had nipped him ‘playfully’ more than once), but to have them handled like this was something else entirely.
It was… Megatron didn’t have the words. He had no idea what sort of embarrassing grunts he was making, just that he was, definitively, making them. When Rung paused and began speaking, it took Megatron a truly ridiculous amount of time to comprehend it.
“… so I assume you’d prefer I ask rather than check myself—do you feel any soreness when urinating from your spike?”
As if encouraged by being mentioned, Megatron’s spike dripped a fat bead of pre-fluid. He shuttered his optics in an effort to keep himself under control and not do anything embarrassing like flare and come all over the floor. “No,” he answered. “Nothing of the sort.” Every line of his code was screaming at him to prove he didn’t have any trouble urinating, drenching Rung in his scent, claiming him as Megatron’s and Megatron’s alone.
“That’s good, no need to check for a bean, then. I’m just about done here—then I’ll wet and rub down your shaft, and after that, we’ll be able to put all our focus on the sheath.” Rung spoke quickly, with less articulation than usual. There was a heat to his voice, a throaty burr that no amount of speed could disguise fully.
Megatron was so busy stopping himself from bouncing his spike to the rhythm of Rung’s words that his mouth was moving before he knew what he was saying. “What’s a bean?”
“It’s—well, the centaur geldings I’ve worked with don’t usually drop on their own, let alone come, so there’s occasionally some build-up that hardens in the diverticulum socket just inside the slit at the head of their spike. Usually a finger or two is enough to loosen it, when done gently. For Skids, I clean him frequently enough he doesn’t usually develop one, and I presume you…” Rung trailed off, taking his hands (his warm, warm hands) away from Megatron’s array. When Megatron glanced back over his shoulder, Rung was flushed a vibrant orange and clearly biting the inner mesh of his cheek. Their optics met.
Rung’s tongue darted out to lick his lips, just a flash of silver. “I presume you don’t have any problems with… ejaculation,” he said, so soft Megatron could hardly hear him.
It was then Megatron knew for certain—even if he didn’t overload the moment Rung put his hands on Megatron’s spike, he was going to overload, sooner rather than later.
“I don’t,” he said, helpless to say anything else. “But maybe you should… check.”
“Yes, absolutely, just in case,” Rung agreed, looking equally helpless. He rolled his shoulders back and in-vented, but even after doing that, he still almost tripped as he shuffled the block a little closer to Megatron’s frame. He flashed Megatron a quick, chagrined smile. “See, I’m not even cuffed—I’ll simply trip over myself.”
Megatron had honestly already forgotten about the mild humiliation from earlier. He returned Rung’s smile unhesitatingly. “It’s fine.”
Once Rung’s hands were on his spike, that was all Megatron could think about. Rung’s clever fingers worked him over, from the base of his sheath to the folds at its entrance and down to the as-of-yet unflared head of his spike.
It was all Megatron could do to stop himself from thrusting into Rung’s tender grasp. His hip hydraulics kept twitching, trying to provoke him into driving forward. Heat must have been pouring off him in waves, but it didn’t appear to bother Rung in the least.
“Heading up into your sheath now, darling,” Rung warned. “Then I’ll check for a bean, do one last rinse, and you’ll be all done.”
Megatron probably nodded. He wasn’t actually sure of anything except for each careful, precise motion of Rung’s hands on his array.
Rung kept one hand on the base of Megatron’s shaft (Megatron chose not to think too hard about how Rung was unable to quite wrap his hand around its breadth). With Megatron’s spike steady, Rung could use his other hand to explore the delicate entrance to Megatron’s sheath. First his fingertips slipped in, and Megatron’s vents caught. Then to the first knuckle, then deeper, till most of Rung’s hand was working inside Megatron’s sheath, working the solvent into creases that had never been touched before this moment.
The wash lasted forever and yet a mere few kliks. Megatron was panting, vents heaving, and the air around him shimmered with heat. This was too much, this wasn’t enough, he had to have dripped a puddle from his spike by now and ruined any semblance of clean his valve had been. “Rung,” he managed, and nearly whinnied in surprise at the sheer desperation obvious in his hoarse voice. “I’m, you’re—”
And then Rung, intentionally or not, lightly squeezed Megatron’s shaft, and it was all over. Bliss cascaded through him, lighting up every pleasure sensor in his frame at once. His spike flared and he rocked forward once, twice, letting his overload wring him all but dry as transfluid gushed from his spike.
“Well,” Rung said, more than a little breathless. “I suppose that’s one way to ensure you don’t have a bean.”