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The war had ended years ago, leaving Cybertron in a golden age of reconstruction and fragile peace. Cities gleamed under twin suns, rebuilt with crystalline spires. In one of the quiet residential districts on the outskirts of Iacon, a spacious hab-suite was a life of domestic bliss.
Optimus Prime was away again, this time on a diplomatic summit to Vos, negotiating trade routes with the Seeker triumvirate. Three weeks without his mate. Three weeks without that massive, perfect spike that ruined Predaking for every other pleasure in the universe. The Predacon’s frame ached with a need that no amount of self-service had managed to sate.
Tonight, he decided, would be different.
Predaking stood before the full-length mirror in their shared berthroom, admiring the way the midnight-blue lace lingerie hugged his curves. The set had been a gift from Optimus last anniversary (delicate, scandalous, and utterly revealing in design). Sheer panels of translucent mesh revealed the colour of his energon nozzles, stif , and the generous swell of his breasts visible. The top was little more than a suggestion of support, pushing his chest up into proud, heaving mounds that quivered with every vent cycle.
Lower down, the matching panties were even more obscene. A high-cut lace framed the plush lips of his valve, the mesh soaked through and clinging to every fold. His anterior node throbbed visibly beneath the fabric, a eager node begging for attention. Predaking turned sideways, arching his back to admire how the lingerie accentuated the flare of his hips and his aft. His thighs twitched, opening in arousal.
He looked like sin incarnate. Perfect.
With a low growl of approval, Predaking activated the holo-recorder drone. It hovered silently, red recording light blinking as it centered on him. He had programmed it to auto-edit and encrypt the file for Optimus’s optics only, scheduled to arrive tomorrow morning just as the Prime woke alone in his diplomatic suite.
“Optimus,” Predaking purred, voice a velvet rumble that vibrated through his chest. He ran clawed servos down his sides, cupping his breasts and pinching both nozzles until he gasped. “My beloved. I know you’re suffering without me as much as I’m suffering without you. Three weeks is too long to be separated from you.”
He stepped closer to the berth, the camera following smoothly. On the nightstand sat the toy he had commissioned from a discreet artisan in Kaon (an absolute monster of a spike, molded from pliable silicone-alloy and affixed with vibrating circuits). It was modeled after Optimus’s own equipment, but even then, it fell short. Thirty inches of ridged, long blue girth, thick as a mechs forearm, with a indecent tip. Still not enough.
Predaking crawled onto the berth on all fours, presenting himself to the camera. His aft lifted high, as he flustered blue. The panties stretched taut across his thighs as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slowly, deliberately dragged them down. The fabric peeled away from his valve with a wet sound, lubricant dripping down. His entrance clenched hungrily on nothing, outer lips puffy and glistening, inner folds a pretty shade.
“Look what you do to me,” he whispered, reaching back to spread himself open. Two thick digits parted his valve, revealing the slick channel that wept for its mate. “I’m so empty, Optimus. So aching. I leak for you constantly. My frame recognizes it's been empty for too long.”
A low, broken growl rumbled in his chest as he pushed those two digits inside himself without warning. The intrusion was nothing compared to Optimus, but the stretch still burned sweetly, his calipers fluttering around the digits like they were starving. He scissored them slowly, dragging the blunt tips along his anterior wall until he found the cluster of nodes that left his thighs trembling.
“Still not enough,” he hissed through clenched fangs, optics narrowed to glowing slits. He added a third digit, then a fourth, forcing his valve to yield. The stretch was obscene, his valve lips pulled taut and shiny, inner folds clinging to every ridge of his knuckles. Lubricant squirted around his servo with every thrust, running down his wrist in thick rivulets that cooled against his plating.
Predaking curled his digits, pressing hard against his ceiling node while his thumb ground over the fat pearl of his anterior node. His hips jerked involuntarily, lashing hard enough to slap the berth. He spread his knees wider, angling the camera so it could see exactly how deep he was reaching , how his valve lips stretched thin and white around his servo, how the slick channel fluttered and tried to drag him in deeper.
“I can take my whole fist when I try,” he confessed breathlessly, voice trembling with strain. “I’ve done it before, just to feel something close to you. Four digits isn’t even half of what you give me, Optimus. When you knot me, when you lock inside and flood my forge—” His voice cracked. He twisted his wrist, folding his thumb in and pushing.
The widest part of his servo breached him with a wet pop.
Predaking’s entire frame seized as his valve swallowed his fist to the wrist. His back arched so violently the berth groaned. He held himself there, impaled on his own servo, valve spasming wildly around the intrusion.
“Like this,” he panted, optics rolling back. “This is how open you leave me. This is how wrecked I stay for days after you’ve had me. I can feel myself gaping even when you’re gone—feel the air on nodes you’ve exposed—feel my forge fluttering like it’s begging for your spike to come back and finish what it started.”
Slowly, agonizingly, he began to move. Shallow thrusts at first, just enough to make his calipers ripple and clutch. Then deeper, harder, the sounds were filthy—wet squelches and the rhythmic slap of his fist against his valve lips, lubricant dripping around his wrist.
His breasts bounced heavily with every thrust, nozzles so stiff they ached. He reached up with his free servo to pinch one viciously, imagining Optimus’s mouth instead—those perfect lips sealing around the leaking tip, sucking hard . A broken moan tore from his throat.
“I stretch myself every night,” he rasped, voice fracturing into static. “Three weeks, Optimus. Three weeks of this. My valve remembers your shape better than my own spark does."
He sped up, fist pumping relentlessly now, the bulge in his abdomen obscene as it shifted with every thrust. His valve made greedy, sucking noises, trying to keep him inside even as he pulled out to the wrist before slamming back in.
His entire frame trembled on the precipice—valve spasming, nodes throbbing, forge entrance kissing the heel of his servo with every thrust. But he held back, optics blazing as he stared into the lens.
He slowly, carefully withdrew his fist. His valve clung obscenely, inner walls fluttering as they tried to follow. When he was finally free, the camera zoomed in on the aftermath: his entrance a wrecked, fluttering wreck, lips swollen and dark, channel clenching around nothing but air. A steady drip of lubricant poured out, pooling beneath him in a shimmering puddle.
Predaking collapsed forward, wings shuddering, but didn’t let himself overload. Not yet.
He grabbed the toy spike with both servos (it took both to lift the damn thing) and brought the head to his entrance. The camera zoomed in as he pressed forward. The flared crown caught on his valve lips, stretching him obscenely. Predaking’s breath hitched, optics flickering as he bore down.
“Nngh—Primus—still too tight,” he groaned, voice cracking. His valve lips stretched thin around the toy, struggling to accommodate even the first few inches. He rocked back slowly, wings trembling, tail lashing. “You’re so much bigger, love. When you claim me, I feel you in my spark chamber. This—ah!—this pathetic imitation barely kisses my ceiling node.”
With a snarl, he slammed his hips backward. Thirty inches speared into him in one brutal thrust, forcing a roar from his vocalizer. His breasts bounced heavily, valve spurting lubricant that painted the sheets. The toy’s ridges dragged along his sensitive inner walls, lighting up every node and sensor cluster, but it still wasn’t enough. His valve clenched greedily around the intrusion, calipers rippling in desperate attempts to pull it deeper.
“More,” Predaking hissed, energon tears gathering at the corners of his optics. “I need more of you.”
He fragged himself slowly at first, rolling his hips in languid circles that made the toy grind against his ceiling node. Each thrust forced a wet squelch from his overtaxed valve, lubricant gushing down his thighs in rivulets. His breasts swayed with the motion, heavy and aching, nozzles so hard they hurt. He reached up to twist them viciously, imagining Optimus’s servo's instead.
“You’d be rough with me at first,” he narrated breathlessly, staring directly into the camera. “You always are when you’ve been deprived. You’d pin me down with one servo between my—force my legs apart with your knee. That massive spike of yours—unforgiving. You’d breed me in one thrust, no preparation, just—nngh—just split me open on your girth until I scream your name.”
His pace quickened. The toy slammed in and out now, bottoming out against his forge entrance with each brutal stroke. His valve made obscene noises, overfilled and sloppy, but still he craved more. The toy’s vibrations hadn’t even been activated yet.
Predaking’s clawed servo scrabbled across the nightstand, finding the small remote he’d hidden beneath a pillow. He held it up to the camera with a wicked grin, fangs glinting.
“Surprise, Optimus,” he crooned. “This isn’t just a dildo. It’s a vibrator. Ten settings. And I’ve been saving the highest for when I imagine you.”
He clicked the button.
The toy roared to life inside him, vibrations so intense his entire pelvic array seized up. Predaking’s back arched violently, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as the toy buzzed against every node , every sensor, every cluster of nerves it could reach. His valve clamped down hard, but he bore down, riding the edge of overload.
“Optimus—Optimus—yes—!”
He flipped through settings like a mech possessed. Setting three pulsed in waves that mimicked a thrusting spike. Setting five focused on the head, making it swell and throb inside him. Setting seven—Primus, setting seven—sent electric shocks through the ridges that lit up his calipers like the Matrix itself.
“I imagine you using this on me,” he gasped, voice fracturing into static. “You’d start rough—pin my fame, hold me down, fragging me with this toy until I beg. Until I cry and plead for your real spike. Then—ah—then you’d slow down. You’d be gentle. You’d kiss my tears away and whisper how beautiful I am when I fall apart.”
His free servo moved to his node, circling the swollen nub in tight, frantic motions. The camera caught everything: the way his breasts heaved, nozzles sore now, the obscene bulge in his abdomen where the toy distorted his plating. His valve lips were pleasingly sore, stretched to their limit, fluttering around the vibrating spike inside him.
“You’d turn it to this setting,” he whimpered, clicking to setting nine. The toy began a pattern: three short buzzes, one long, directly against his forge entrance. “You’d hold it there—right there—until I overload so hard I black out. You’d stimulate my valve, my node, my nozzles—everywhere at once. You’d tease my breasts while this toy frags me open. Then add your spike once i was stretched enough and have it frag my forge~”
Predaking was losing coherence now. His hips pistoned back against the toy with wet, desperate slaps. The berth creaked beneath his weight, sheets soaked through with lubricant and energon. His tail coiled around his own thigh, holding himself open as he chased release.
“Come home,” he begged the camera, optics blown wide and glowing. “Come home and replace this toy with the real thing. I need you to ruin me. I could take two of these toys if I tried, but it wouldn’t matter. Nothing fills me like you do. Nothing ruins me like you do. Need you to breed me until my forge swells with your sparklets. Need—need—Optimus!”
The overload hit like a supernova.
Predaking screamed, entire frame locking up as his valve spasmed wildly around the toy. Energon jetted from his nozzles in powerful streams, painting the headboard and dripping down his chest in sticky rivulets. His node pulsed so hard it hurt, calipers rippling in waves that forced the toy out inch by inch until it popped free with a flood of lubricant. He collapsed forward, wings shuddering, valve gaping and twitching in aftershocks.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of his ragged venting and the low hum of the still-vibrating toy.
Eventually, Predaking rolled onto his back, spreading his thighs for the camera one last time. His valve was a wrecked, fluttering mess, lips swollen and dark, entrance clenching around nothing, lubricant pooled beneath him. He reached down to spread himself again, showing off the damage.
“Look what I’ve done to myself for you,” he whispered hoarsely. “This is how empty I am without you. Hurry home. Your conjux is waiting… and next time, I’ll be wearing the red set. The one that leaves nothing to the imagination.”
Then he reached forward and ended the recording.
The drone powered down. The file encrypted itself with Optimus’s personal key and scheduled for delivery at 0600 Vos time.
Predaking curled up in the center of their berth, surrounded by the scent of his own desperation, and fell into recharge dreaming of the moment his mate would finally return and make the fantasy reality.
Far away in Vos, Optimus Prime would wake to a notification that would shatter his composure in front of three startled Seeker lords.
But that was a problem for tomorrow.
Tonight, Predaking slept the sleep of the thoroughly wrecked, valve still twitching in memory of a spike that hadn’t been there, breasts aching beautifully, and spark humming with anticipation.