Title: Punishment

Universe: Shattered Glass

Author: Vectorsigma3441

Rating: MA+

Notes/Warnings: Oral. Abuse and torture. Sticky. Enjoy. =D

"Please…" the mech whimpered, crawling on the ground on all fours, expression begging, pleading. His cracked red optics were lowered, but still pointed in the direction of the mech sitting in the chair. Mechblood trailed down the soft metal of his face, a deep gash above the high arch of his optics. He lowered his head again, pressing his heated facial plates into the cool metal of the flooring, submitting fully to the other mech, wallowing down like an animal. "I'm sorry!" the mech bleated out, weakly clenching his fists together on the floor, doing his best not to shed tears and beat at the floor with his hands.

"Oh, so now you're sorry?" the seated mech intoned, no sound of regret or pity in the smooth tenor that bounced off the deep atrium walls, resounding into the black darkness for what seemed like eternity. The only light was that flaming red visor and those cracked optics, illuminating each other's bodies with a harsh red glow. Again, the seated mech said those cruel words, the ones the mech on the floor dreaded to hear. "Ya brought this upon yourself. Ya shouldn't have crossed me."

The mech on the floor let out a moan of agony at those words, knowing quite well that there was nothing he could say to abate the other's rage. The things that went on in this dark cellar were the worst. Rape, murder, torture; it was all commonplace here. This was the keeper's domain, and that keeper was sitting in front of him, idly playing with the electrowhip in his hands. Only when that biting rope turned to bright purple as it was activated did he have to fear its sting. Inactivated, it would simply slap off his thick military grade armor with only a sharp tingle of pain in its wake. But activated, running with bolts of electricity, it would create the worst pain on a mech's sensory grid, cut through the armor like a hot knife through butter.

"Prowl," the seated mech spoke again, "don't sound so sad. I know ya enjoy this." That coiled metal whip flashed to life as he spoke, and Prowl instantly flinched downwards, pressing his face farther into the flooring, his red chevron scrapping against the cold metal in his haste.

The seated mech chuckled humorously, and leaned back in his chair, spreading his thighs as he deactivated the whip again. "I think I've beat ya enough for now, don't ya think?" he pressed his helm back in the plush chair, the only soft object in the entire chambers, and sighed deeply, drumming his fingers on the armrests. A grin up took his face and he angled his hips out wider, moving them out further to Prowl. "I think you know what I want…" he murmured, optics so keen under his visor as he waited for a reaction.

Prowl's lip components spread into a pout against the floor, a sob-like convulsion wracking his frame. But only once, once, would he allow himself to let Jazz see this, he knew too well how the other would react. Begging and moaning in pain were allowed, but crying was a strict, 'no' but on the inside, deep within his ember, did he actually want to refuse the saboteur? No, he'd never do that. It would mean demotion, more painful wounds and even possibly death. So like the lowly animal he was, Prowl crawled forward and rubbed his face on Jazz's pede, nuzzling as if actually liked the mech sitting above him. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

Black hands were placed on both sides of Jazz's left leg as Prowl nuzzled his face up the saboteur's leg. The 3IC liked to be touched, though the mech would hardly ever let Prowl touch him with his hands, instead forcing his lieutenant to use his mouth instead. So he obliged with his commander's silent demand and lipped the black and white metal with his mouth and glossa, doing his best to let no emotion show on his face.

Jazz sighed softly and toyed with the metal plating on his chassis absently with one hand while he continued to tap on the armrest with his other, whip still curled up under his digits. On his face was a lazy smile. Inanely, he asked, "Prowl, do ya like me?"

Whether or not to be truthful, it was a hard decision. But this was a saboteur, and Jazz seemed to know everything about him anyways. He went for the honest route. "No." The words were as frank as he could make them, and they ripped him down to his lasercore, sending painful stings throughout his frame. He didn't like this at all, didn't like the mech next to him, didn't like anyone in the entire of the Autobot forces, didn't like this lowly whore Jazz had shaped him into.

"Good, ya ain't suppose to," Jazz breathed. The saboteur took his hand off his chassis and whipped out a hand to grab onto the red chevron that was bobbing up and down just over his legs. The tactician grunted and allowed himself to be pulled up, painful pressure on that sensitive piece of metal. His nose bumped roughly into Jazz's panel. Apparently the saboteur was in a hurry today, Prowl thought blandly.

"Suck me dry," Jazz whispered, spreading his legs even wider so Prowl could fit his frame in between Jazz's legs, "and don't waste a drop," the saboteur laughed, and tossed his head back, reaching with one hand to knead at the back of Prowl's helm, the gesture so deceptively caring, yet intentionally cruel. He dropped the electrowhip to the ground and Prowl nearly made the enormous mistake of cowering again, only saved by the small shred of his force of will left.

On the outside, Prowl now appeared stoic and unfeeling, but on the inside he was a rage of humiliation and anger. How dare Jazz? This wasn't the first time he'd been commanded to do this either. Many other times came to his temporary memory cache before they were dumped back into the recesses of his cpu. This wasn't the right time to be thinking of that. When Jazz demanded satisfaction, it had to be given.

He kept his hands on the sides of Jazz's knees, leaning forward with his face to dart his glossa out at Jazz's black panel. Once he was sure the saboteur wasn't going to smash his helm in, he leaned forward farther, repositioning himself closer, straining out with his neck cords. The saboteur seemed to conveniently forget how bulky Prowl's chest was. He hissed out a breath when he felt Jazz tweak a wire in his neck, swirls of condensation forming on Jazz's panel. He licked Jazz's panel with the long flat of his glossa, whimpering softly in self-pity. Prowl knew Jazz got off on other's suffering.

Jazz hummed out a breath, arching up softly against the probing glossa. He could already feel his spike touching the inside of his panel lid, ready to go, but he kept himself at bay and waited further, enjoying watching Prowl. The sight was too much to pass up.

Prowl nearly bit his glossa when Jazz moved under him, and he whimpered again, dimming his optics considerably, wanting to take in the least amount of this sight as possible. He traced the small seams with the tip of his glossa, doing his best not to tremble under Jazz's touch, which was now traveling over his shoulders to play with his doorwings.

After what seemed like forever to Prowl, but probably not nearly long enough for the seated mech, the black panel slid open under Prowl's glossa and he hurriedly moved his face away so Jazz's spike could extend. The tactician shivered and almost hesitated, but covered it up by licking his lips. He blew out a shaky breath and eyed the long piece of hot metal apprehensively before he shifted himself further forward and reared his head back, parting his lips and curling them around his denta. Prowl took Jazz in his mouth, deep throating him until his nose bumped up against the top of Jazz's panel, angling his head back so his chevron fit.

The saboteur let out a moan in deep pleasure, abandoning Prowl's doorwings to lean back in his chair and wiggle his hips side to side. The black and white mech between Jazz's knees almost choked at that gesture, the hot piece of pulsating metal in his mouth and throat was uncomfortable, and he let out another self-agonized whimper, purposely letting the vibrations travel up the saboteur's spike.

The seated mech gave a sharp buck with his hips, but this time Prowl was prepared and shifted up on his shoulders, riding out that movement as best as he could. The spike slipped halfway out of his mouth and Prowl quickly moved back down on it so he wasn't beaten. That wasn't allowed either.

It was sinful and disgusting, but no matter how hard he tried to avoid taking in the sight, no matter how much he ignored Jazz's pleasured sighs and moans, he couldn't avoid the warmth that spread through him. It seemed too erotic for his systems to handle. Could any mech? He'd refused Jazz once, and that was it. Every time after that it'd been forced and he hadn't been given the choice of refusal or acceptance. He would never accept this, no matter what his frame desired otherwise.

He worked faster; sliding his head up and down on that piece of hot metal. In the back of his throat Prowl could taste the first few drops of transmetal fluids. That fluid had a distinctive taste, and it was very rich, normally used for the nurturing of newlyembered, and here Prowl was, sucking it down like a mech dying for a drink. He had to. Repercussions if he didn't would be swift and severe.

Jazz was moaning and moving, and although he couldn't really buck his hips out of the chair farther into Prowl's warm and moist mouth, he was making the tactician constantly have to change movement with his arching movement. The saboteur moaned again, deeply, passionately, and moved his hands to the back of Prowl's helm to forcibly make the mech move his mouth faster, up and down, up, down. After a few moments he paused and let go of Prowl's helm, unable to stay coherent enough to keep moving the tactician himself. The heady sensation quickly died down, and the saboteur moaned at the loss of stimulation. He'd been so close.

His gyros were still spinning at how fast he'd been moving, and not even at his own will, before he took the hint and brought his lip components to the end of Jazz's spike, sucking on the piece of metal with loud slurping noises while he teased his lips around the edges and his glossa at the very tip. He knew Jazz liked that, and sure enough, the instant reaction had his commander practically mewling in pleasure, spike throbbing in undulating waves. Prowl's mind darkened as he continued. The saboteur was weak at a time like this… all it would take was a small slip with Prowl's denta and he could render the mech sitting before him in so much pain that the tactician could easily kill him, and then his commander's wretched twin would be dead as well. But he couldn't do that. Jazz had allies, and they would surely come after him the instant they learned…

By this time Jazz had stopped nearly all his movements, except for a few spasms in his legs. The saboteur leaned his head back and arched his back strut; the tendrils of his overload were sparking through him, sending thrills up and down his frame. His fingers scrabbled at the edges of the chair. There were marks on those armrests from many times before.

Prowl worked his mouth and lips faster, trying to draw Jazz over the edge to get this humiliating situation over with. He could taste the hot liquid in his mouth and he swallowed it down when Jazz came, the sharp tangy taste burning all the way down to his energon compressor. He wanted to purge. But like the good little whore he was, Prowl swallowed it all down, every last drop, just as Jazz had demanded. When he was done, he broke off, gasping for air to re-circulate back into his systems

The saboteur shuddered as the last tingles of pleasure raced through his frame, and he sat for a few moments before he retracted his spike and snapped his panel closed. That meant Prowl had done a good job, otherwise the saboteur would have continued. The tactician had learned the hard way that Jazz could go for several overloads in succession.

Jazz whipped a hand out and grabbed Prowl by his throat and stood up, choking off the other's cries. He drug the tactician farther into that chamber of darkness, heedless of the crying moans and begging pleads to stop. A loud clang was heard, and Jazz threw Prowl bodily inside somewhere. Mostly likely a cell, Prowl tried to rationalize with himself, trying to get his precious logic circuits to reboot.

The 3IC's voice broke the silence. "Stay in there for a few days. Maybe you'll learn not ta question my orders again."

"I'm sorry…" Prowl moaned, scooting himself up and forward, only to meet the cold bars of a cell with his hands. He groped blindly, searching for a piece of Jazz's plating, trying to convey his willingness to do anything to get out of here. He hated the dark. "Jazz," he murmured brokenly, resting his face on the bars as he felt those tears sting at the corner of his optics. He was not going to cry. "Jazz!" he called out as the saw the glow from the mech's red visor grow dimmer and dimmer, fading into the distance. But still, he received no answer.

Please leave a review if you enjoyed it.