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Ratchet was unceremoniously shoved through his own front door. He barely caught himself on his wall, and had just enough processor power to engage the noise-cancelling for the apartment. Nightlock entered quickly after, shutting and locking the door behind him. Sunlight poured through Ratchet’s windows, midday just passing by.
With no preamble, Ratchet felt the veil tugged off him, followed by the cloak. He had actually forgotten to close his panel after his fragging on the train, so he stood there completely exposed in front of the jet.
Nightlock shoved him a couple of meters back and stared him up and down, appraising his handiwork. Ratchet was still covered in every liquid, from energon to transfluid. He dripped from everywhere, though obviously there was more of the stuff leaking out of his holes. He stood in the center of his living room on shaky legs, still adorned with the messages of the over fifty mechs who fragged him just hours ago. His panting resumed the second he was still.
Nightlock stared at him like he was a cube of energon, and he was a starving mech. He even licked his dermas, dragging his optics up and down. Ratchet knew better than to move, waiting for his owner to decide where he’d have him. The toy’s throat ached from overuse; his cries went unanswered at High Life, and they certainly wouldn’t be answered now.
Finally, Nightlock grabbed his leash and dragged him towards his berthroom. It looked like he was making good on his promise, the whisper in Ratchet’s audial as he sat on the jet’s thick spike.
“The idea of fragging you into your berth where I can see everything that they did to you is even more appealing.”
Ratchet’s valve clenched on nothing as he was tossed onto the covers of his berth. Lying on his back, he felt as though he could’ve slipped into recharge immediately—if Nightlock hadn’t grabbed his collar and dragged him up against the headboard. Taking both his wrists, he activated the magnets once more, forcing them to spread wide and hold him there. Ratchet struggled weakly, unable to voice any protest as Nightlock reached into his subspace and pulled out some rope. He wasted no time tying one to both his ankles and spreading him out, tying the other ends to the corners of the berth.
The restraints were tight enough that Ratchet could just barely fight them, turning and half-sparkedly attempting to break free. But even if he was at full strength, he doubted he had a chance of actually snapping his cuffs or ropes.
“Look at you, plaything,” his owner said, swinging over Ratchet’s waist and settling down in between his legs. He took a digit and pressed it to Ratchet’s derma, before dragging downward until he arrived at his node. He rubbed it, briefly, causing Ratchet to keen. With a smile, he then spread his toy’s folds with two digits, watching as about two dozen strangers’ transfluid poured from him.
“You look like you were forged to be used.”
“N-noo—” Ratchet was interrupted by the digits spreading him open, suddenly entering his open mouth. He could hardly taste himself among the flavors of his buyers.
“Shhhh. Please. You were the perfect meshlight back there—just taking it over and over,” his owner actually trembled at the memory, his optics blown wide with lust. “But why stop there? Why not keep the fun going right here?”
He heard the telltale sound of a panel sliding open too late. Before he realized it, Nightlock had once again shoved his spike into his well-used toy. Ratchet released a muffled cry, and his owner fragged him like a mesh on a mission, rocking the berth and his buymech with it. Freeing his mouth in order to get a better hold on his hips, Ratchet moaned loud enough that the neighbors would have heard him, if not for the noise-cancelling.
“UH! AH! AH! UH! PleASE! OwNER!”
“That’s it! Beg for me—Uh!—Beg for your owner!”
It wasn’t a quick frag like on the train. Nightlook took his time, disregarding the fact that Ratchet overloaded twice before he reached his own completion. He spilled into Ratchet with a shout, digging his digits into his hips so hard there were probably more dents.
Ratchet panted desperately, trying to will his systems to cool themselves. He waited for Nightlock to pull out, for the full he was feeling to lessen as the transfluid inside him spilled out, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed there, fishing for something in his subspace.
When he pulled it out, Ratchet couldn’t help but cry in anticipation.
“W-wait, what are you—”
The false spike wasn’t as large as the one at High Life, but it was bigger than Nightlock. His owner wasn’t gentle about removing his spike and quickly shoving the false one in, drawing a scream from the toy.
“I want you to stay full, doll,” he said, venting heavily and sliding off the berth. Ratchet groaned, tired enough to maybe recharge with the spike in him.
“I’m going to finish some work and edit some items. I’ll return in a bit. Move, and I’ll call over some friends to help punish you.”
He moved towards the door before pausing dramatically, turning to Ratchet with a fake realization.
“Oh! Almost forgot.”
He pulled out a remote and clicked a button. Of course, the spike vibrated.
Ratchet jerked, letting out a yelp, and attempted to twist and turn to get the spike out. With that motion, Nightlock returned to lean over him, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in close.
“Strike one. You only get two.”
Ratchet couldn’t respond. He was too busy panting and overloading.
Nightlock released him and stepped away, leaving the door open but disappearing into the rest of Ratchet’s apartment. Ratchet fought against his own instincts, willing his frame not to shift as the false spike assaulted him. It wasn’t a serious vibration, but he was so overstimmulated it might as well have been cranked to the highest level.
“HAhhh, haH, hAhh, Hahh…”
Ratchet whimpered and whined, left alone once again to overload repeatedly while waiting for his owner to return. The transfluid trapped inside him sloshed and stirred, left rippling by the constant movement of the spike. At some point, a mix of high-grade and transfluid had begun dripping down Ratchet’s face again. That’s when Ratchet realized the new addition to his berthroom.
A full-length mirror, right in front of him. Its intent was clear: Ratchet would see the buymech that everyone else saw. And Primus, did he see it. He was moaning still like a porn-star, every circuit twitching around the spike (which he could now see was a similar purple to Nightlock). The marker had smugged, but you could still easily make out the tally marks and words strewn across his frame—the two phrases Nightlock had written in the best condition. He had at least a dozen arrows pointed at his valve, along with a crudely drawn lock over his spike panel. Even with every liquid tossed over him, his collar and leash still gleamed red and gold, the words Buymech. Return to Nightlock still painfully clear.
“HAH, uH, ah, UhH…”
By the Allspark, those noises really were coming from him. And by the Primes, his optics—so hazed over with lust there was almost no light in them as they flickered. He didn’t just look like a buymech, he looked like proper shareware—free for anyone in some dark alley to use as they walked by. He didn’t look worth a single credit. His mouth hung open and dripped transfluid. He was shocked there was still some in there, with how much had already dripped out of him.
Ratchet didn’t know how long he had been kept in that position. He lost count of his overloads, and his processor was too fragged out to keep time. When Nightlock finally returned, his pleas ended up sounding more like prayers.
“O-owner—owner p-please—”
“Would you like me to replace that thing?” he asked, sitting on the side of the berth and flicking the still-vibrating spike. Ratchet quietly cried out at the movement.
“N-no, please just-just t-take it—”
“Tsk, no can do, toy. You see, you need to stay full, which means something has to plug you up.”
Ratchet couldn’t process words anymore. He just moaned in protest.
“But you know what? I’ll let you sit on my spike instead, as long as you watch yourself in the mirror and don’t try moving. ‘K?”
Ratchet didn’t agree; he just didn’t have the energy to shake his head (is what he told himself).
Facing no resistance, Ratchet’s wrists were freed for a brief moment and brought in front of him before being magnetized together. Nightlock slid under him casually, his spike hard against his aft, and lifted him just enough for a false spike to begin to slide out. With a little additional help and an extra moan from his toy, he swapped the false spike for his own in seconds. Ratchet threw his helm back in a wanton howl and overloaded before remembering his rules. His optics snapped forward, and he stared himself down, paying particular attention to where he was impaled on his owner’s spike. He panted with his glossa out, drooling down onto the covers where his ankles remained tied.
“Good mech,” Nightlock sighed, putting a servo between his helm and the headboard and pulling a datapad out of his subspace. He began reading as Ratchet sat there, twitching furiously, attempting to keep as still as possible.
“If I can finish my datapad without you moving, you’ll get a reward.”
Why do I get a reward? This is what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to be owner’s perfect toy.
But Ratchet didn’t question his orders, no matter what they were. So he stayed there, watching himself be pierced by a purple spike.
The sun had set by the time Nightlock finished. Ratchet didn’t know how many hours it had been, still unable to process time, but it had at least been several. Nightlock had only paused to frag up into him once, so he had managed to remain as still as possible the entire time. His optics had rolled into the back of his helm ages ago, but apparently that still counted. His owner sat up, humming as he sank his dentas into his toy’s shoulder, adding to his litany of marks.
“You did so well~” he mumbled, bringing his servo forward and beginning an assault on Ratchet’s node. Ratchet whimpered as he began to roll his node between two digits, keening and finding nowhere to escape to. His squirming ceased when he overloaded again, and Nightlock released him. Lifting him carefully, he slid his spike out. A gush of transfluid spilled onto the covers, and Ratchet felt lighter than air in moments.
Nightlock moved out from under him, cutting the ropes binding his ankles as he stood up. Ratchet collapsed against the berth, drool pooling onto the fabric as he twitched and trembled.
“I think you’ve done well to earn that reward, plaything.”
Ratchet barely felt his ankles magnatizing before they snapped together. Now with all his limbs bound, Nightlook took him by the wrists and pulled him off the berth, before dragging him on his stomach towards the living room (he couldn’t complain, he doubted he’d be able to walk if he was asked anyway).
He was released in front of the couch, where Nightlock sat next to him. He heard his TV flicker on, but couldn’t find the strength to lift his optics and find out what was on. Thankfully, Nightlock did it for him, lifting his helm and pushing his spike into his mouth.
“All you gotta do is lie there, toy,” he said, caressing the side of his helm.
He wasn’t lying. He didn’t try to face frag him, just let him lie there as long as he kept the spike in place. He was a spike warmer—and frankly, as long as his valve was getting a break, he didn’t give a damn.
They laid in that spot for a few hours more, it seemed, until the images on his TV started to look awfully familiar.
The photos, and apparently videos, from the party.
“P-please ta-take it outtt…” he heard and saw himself beg.
“I-I’m gonna b-break—pleaseeeee…”
The laughter of the crowd was more apparent at this angle. He watched his past self squirm helplessly, panting and dripping and begging. Then the video switched to a close-up of the first couple of hours he spent, tied up on that couch, deep-throating the femme while being eaten out by someone else (Primus, he didn’t even remember that part). Then there were pictures—not just of the part, but before and after it. Him walking the streets in his cloak and veil and collar, him being pulled into an alley for the third time after and fragged on the dirty ground, a back view of him being fragged on the train.
By the Allspark, he really was just shareware.
Another video played, this time showing two strangers who had come in from the main street after seeing him in the alley, fragging his valve and face as he was lying across the dumpster like garbage. When the one fragging his mouth overloaded, his moaning became apparent.
“AH AH AH YE-ES YES UH USE UH ME!”
At that point, the mech buried in his valve had taken his leash and choked the words out of him, leaving his pleas senseless. He remembered this one—it went on for at least twenty more minutes.
“See, plaything?” Nightlock said over past-Ratchet’s shouts. “You were forged for this.”
Ratchet was finally taken off his owner’s spike, just to have his ankles released and have his valve guiding back onto it. Ratchet screamed over himself, optics glued to the screen as the other stranger returned to begin taking the toy’s valve with his friend.
Nightlock was faster than the strangers, and yet somehow held on longer, taking the leash and pulling, causing Ratchet’s back to arch as he was pounded into.
“AH! AH! AH! AH! AH!”
Ratchet wasn’t sure which version of him was making those noises, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they were from him. He was a meshlight, only making sounds when being fragged.
“UH! Whose—uh—fragging you—toy?”
“OW-NER, OWN-ER, OWNE-R!” the toy screamed, broken and used.
“That’s right. You’re—ah—you’re mine!”
“YEsSSSSssss~”
Nightlock stood, pace never wavering, and walked Ratchet closer to the TV, where he watched as his past-self overload on two strangers’ spikes.
“You frag—who I let you frag. UH! You frag—who I—tell you—to frag!” he yelled in between thrusts. “And I—use you—whenever—I want!”
“YES YeS yES YES YeS~” the toy howled.
They overloaded at the same time, suddenly and without warning. Ratchet choked out noises as he was filled, optics still on the screen, which had switched to a picture of his first frag in the alley. Once Nightlock was done with him, he walked back to Ratchet’s berth, still covered in transfluid, and dropped him on it. He yawned and stepped back to admire his toy, face down and leaking.
“I’ll be here when you wake up: might have some friends with me too. You have seven more days off—if you think I’m close to finished, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
The toy barely heard the steps as Nightlock left him, before recharge came for him with a vengeance, and pulled him under.