<And the swagger of your hips, big guy. We got time for ‘talking’?>
<Won’t be able to talk much with your mouth full.>
“If you’re gonna make me soap you up, I want to rest after this.”
Hawker reached down and snaked his fingers under Chris’s arms, lifting him up to a spot on his shoulder. There were many ways to grab a human; this was probably the most socially acceptable. “I’ll take your request for R&R into consideration, rook.”
He glanced back at where Colburn stood behind that taped-up glass in the viewing deck. She looked both pleasantly surprised and a little confused, and it was no mystery to him as to why. Hawker turned to the door and left, heading for the freight lift that would take them back to the lower motor pool and its adjacent wash station. They were no longer leaving a bad impression, and that’s all that mattered.
Chris is warm from effort, his heart beats firmly against the thumbs on his chest. He liked behind held, and he did a hip-thrust of his own while he dangled.
<Promises, promises! Don’t get your pilot riled up if you aren’t going to deliver.>
Chris had plenty to hold onto when that high up. It really is amazing how smooth Hawker walked, he didn’t jiggle on a footfall or lean and sway with each step. The ten minutes it took them to make the trip (Wow is the freight elevator slow!) the rookie stayed right where he’d been parked. They talked as well, dual conversations with a shared theme.
“They have markers your size that are safe to shoot me with?” Chris gestured with a hand, the other hanging on. “I’d imagine that it would fire baseball sized rounds. Plus, you would have perfect aim. You could probably write your name on my back. Or initials, at least. Thanks again for giving me a shot in there. I know if you turned on all your sensors, you’d probably know exactly where I was the whole time.”
“Be glad I didn’t have a marker back there,” the mech chuckled as he stepped off the lift. “You’d be covered in welts by now. Especially for that stunt you pulled with the bricks? You’re gettin’ one for that.”
The wash wasn’t an especially private spot, but it was secluded and only way you’d see who was doing what in there was if you were standing in front of the space, which was set off to the side on one of the far ends of the motor pool and tucked around a small corner. It had an automatic wash setting where you could park the squad car or MRAV or whatever and let the sprayers move along the body on a track, or you could pick out one of the spray nozzles from the wall and do it by hand.
Chris was to do it by hand. Preferably with both hands.
Hawker set Chris down, this time with his giant fingers under his rear to give it a good squeeze. <Keep your pants on. I’m not in the mood to get caught,> he ordered.
The wash was not tall enough for him to walk into; it was designed for motor vehicles. So he ducked in and took a seat on the floor with his back to the wall. One leg stretched out, hands behind his head, smile on his lips.
“Channel your inner high school cheerleader at a car wash fundraiser,” he snorted. “There’s a big tip waiting for you.” <Literally.>
He snerked at the idea of a big tip. Yeah, the mech would know all about that. Chris is looking forward to seeing that again. And again!
<Thankfully, the motor pool is warm year-round. If it was summer I could wear just short-shorts and spend hours getting you nice and clean.>
The bay had numerous tools to work with; from high-powered pressure washers, down to scrub brushes. After getting his behind goosed, which he couldn’t help by make an adorable squeak from, he got a bucket of soapy water, hand brushes and sponges. He’d leave the pressure washer for later. It wasn’t like he’d dumped enough rounds that the mech is dripping paint. “I”m going to start up at the bottom and work my way up.”
<Which means I get to start between your legs, and finish with that handsome mug of yours.> After all, he should get to make the big bot wait needily. He was already feeling the growing stiffness in his pants.
A lounging Hawker is.. is just.. <I.. I.. > The way the machine looked with it’s hands back like that! Confident. Amused. HUNGRY! <DAMN! I wish you could flop it out and blast a load on me right now!>
The sweaty greenhorn took his time walking around the boot, before he finally stood at the inside of the knee. Hawker looked like an olympic strong man. One made of metal, but if he were flesh the view Chris had would be of a prime beefcake. THe young pilot savored the vision, parking the bucket inches from that codpiece. One of the paintballs must had hit one of the ‘special’ seams, as it’d left quite a long drip down. he picked up the brush and went to work.
Warm hands, wet and slippery, slide over the heavy metallic armor. The brush’s bristled flicked and swirled, pressing into the grooves. He grunted with effort, the water base paint foaming up with orange bubbles. He picked up the hose, it hung from an on the ceiling, just like in a self-service car wash.
Water sprayed all over the groin plate, removing the orange with a constant pressure. Chris smirked as he worked it up and down, up and down, stroking with the rinse. He held a hand out, fingers tracing up the inner thigh, feeling along the mechanical leg muscles, then he dunked the brush and attacked the spots of remaining orange again, working the brush in deliberately long and heavy strokes.
To say he was feeling the robot up is an understatement.
The second rinse though, actually got the the orange off. Dropping the tools in the bucket, he looped the hose over his shoulder and took the bucket in hand. The exposed mechanised muscles between Hawker’s legs are plenty climbable. Normally covered with armor, in this position they showed off just part of what made the big bot move. Hands and feet, little touches as the pilot clambered up. He stopped and set the bucket down, getting up on his toes as he rubbed at a spot on the robot’s abdominals.
The soapy water trickled down between the abs, flowing down where a belly button would be. He rested his right hand on the strong muscles, grunting as he worked off the paint.
“When I’m done here, pick me up so I can clean off that pretty face of yours, huh?” he teased.
“I’d imagine that it would fire baseball sized rounds. Plus, you would have perfect aim. You could probably write your name on my back. Or initials, at least.”
“100% accuracy at distances under 200 yards under simulation conditions; 94-98% for anything up to a quarter mile away. Out on the street, the numbers are a few points less. I don’t calculate for wind, humidity, or any of that fancier stuff, otherwise I’d be even more accurate.”
“Thanks again for giving me a shot in there. I know if you turned on all your sensors, you’d probably know exactly where I was the whole time.”
A little smile creased at the corner of his optic. “It was a meatspace simulation. Can only account for so many orders of complexity in an artificial environment like that, so I dumbed myself down accordingly. What you’ll come to find out about me is that I always play fair, kid.” Hawker gave his pilot a wink. “Except when I don’t.”
<Which means I get to start between your legs, and finish with that handsome mug of yours.>
“Whatever gets the job done,” he said with wry amusement. Chris still had the collar on, and Hawker could feel the arousal beginning to build in that little body of his. His bright brown eyes took in the sight before him, though – the built landscape of Hawker’s metal body – and the mech saw with his own optics that wonderful familiar sight of tenting in his pants. Short shorts would have been nice – or the jock strap, even, with the way it framed that delicious ass. But another image came to mind: Chris in his pilot suit, skin-tight and expertly tailored, unable to hide his arousal in even that most industrial of garments. Hawker imagined rubbing his thumb over that little bulge as Chris could do nothing but writhe in ecstasy until he exploded inside the suit, with the mech’s name on his lips…
<DAMN! I wish you could flop it out and blast a load on me right now!>
His optics flashed a brighter yellow. <Don’t tempt me.>
The rest was one of the hardest tests of his patience he’d had in recent memory, but holding back his building heat would be well worth the wait. When Chris took up position between his massive thighs, Hawker wanted nothing more than to grab his soft-haired head and shove it hard against his crotch to make him lick him clean instead.
As soon as his small hands, now wet and slick with soap, touched him, Hawker couldn’t help ‘settling’ further into his sitting posture by slightly adjusting the angle of his pelvic block. He rolled that hard, bulging crotch up into Chris’s soapy just enough for the pilot to notice – but not enough for the security camera to pick up.
He did it again – a slightly more obvious buck – when the heavy spray of the power washer hit him. The sensation was fan-fucking-tastic, and Hawker’s bedroom eyes were beginning to turn into something a little more sinister.
<I wish I could feel that directly on my cock. Probably blow a load powerful enough to throw you against the wall.>
Chris continued his sensual scrub-down. He wasn’t using just his arms, but the whole of his still-marbled body. The mech could feel his legs ache with fatigue over their connection, could feel the smarting of the bites that were only just beginning to fade from blue to bright purple. He’d look cute with a bloody nose and a black eye, he idly decided. Too bad his hands were big enough to cave in his skull instead.
Chris climbing him was an erotically precious sight, though. A landscape of a body for sure, with the kid the intrepid explorer. A joke about mountain climbing and altitude sickness came to him and he chuckled to himself.
He hadn’t had this much attention paid to his abdominal armor in a long while. Little fingers deftly cleaned out the seams between the intricately overlaid armor lames, taking little spots of dust and oil along with the obnoxiously colored paint. Hawker thought about turning this into a weekly routine. Surely, his subordinate wouldn’t deny him. Not that he could!
“When I’m done here, pick me up so I can clean off that pretty face of yours, huh?”
Another little thrust that threatened Chris’ balance. Hands still behind his head as he tilted his head to the side. <Only if I get to make a mess of yours later.> Only then did he offer his hand, palm up and ready to receive a very fuckable little rear.
<Don’t think water and your office would work out well. Maybe late some night, you could sit with your back to the doorway of the wash ;and I’ll get your dick soapy and hose it down. If you think we could get away with it.> The kid did enjoy doing naughty things just out of sight. Probably tied in with how he liked sporting the signs of the mech’s lust on his smooth skin.
He wore his combat boots. They did a good job of keeping his feet dry, but soapy water and a bucking mech didn’t make for great traction. He didn’t sit down, that perky butt of his landed into the unyielding titanium palm. “Ow..” he grumbled. <Fuck, practically spanked myself!> From that seated position he picked up the bucket and make sure to run the hose over those abdominals.
“Okay, take me up.”
The big face loomed, then he is brought up to meet it. This close he could talk out loud and its likely no one could overhear.
“Please hold your eye still. Don’t blink. I’ll be gentle.”
He stayed steady, his knees brushing the mech’s chin. He dunked the sponge in the bucket, carefully wiping over the machine’s optics first, carefully spraying down the eye with a mist, then using the sponge again. The machine didn’t have an organic’s sensitivities, but that didn’t stop the fact that this IS Hawker’s eye.
Gentle hands, worked the sponge over the optics a final time. He used the flesh of his thumb to get the last little flecks of orange off the glowing yellow surface. “Okay, close your eyelid.” He worked again, dealing with the soft ‘skin’ of the mech. His hands are warm. Caring. THe feeling over the link with him this close is just of a genuine desire to care for the large machine. He rinsed again. “Okay, blink a few times. Ya good?”
“Allright, I need to brush your teeth. Open wide and say AAAAHHH!”
This.. Chris had been looking forward to. He wished he could pull off his shirt and CRAWL in. He thoroughly hoses off the brush he had, ensuring the bristles were free of suds. “Don’t wanna wash your mouth out with soap.”
<Despite the fact that we’ve been thinking dirty enough stuff. If this takes much longer you’d pin me down and grind until we got off.>
He ran the brush over every tooth, scrubbing along the shining denta. He worked the brush along the roof of the mech’s mouth, down around the area under the tongue, over the molars, around the gums and over the wiggling surface of the tongue itself. When he is satisfied with the oral care, he hosed out the mouth, laughing as Hawker gargled.
It’d be a hell of a way to spend a Sunday, washing the big mech. There’s only one part he wanted to wax though.
“Ya good and clean now? Am I done for th’ day?” If the bot didn’t take him into his office for a rousing ‘discussion’, the pilot was going to be mighty sad.
This was hilarous! And, if he permitted himself to be honest, endearing. The kid genuinely cared, and it showed in the detail he paid mind to as he washed the clear surface of his optic. The vital moving parts were located behind the almond-shaped polymer pane, so he wasn’t so sensitive as a human was regarding the sight organs.
Chris’ servile inclinations… inspired something else in him. A gentler kind of domination, maybe. Not a month went by where the big mech wasn’t maintenanced by a bunch of techs, but this was intimate. Doting. The kid was in service to his giant machine captain. And as a captain, it was Hawker’s inclination to take charge, desire deference, and apparently, relish in the kinder moments of his little human pilot’s expressions of devotion. Interesting how even now, the mech felt the thrill of ownership.
He blinked, pleased at Chris’ job well done.
<If this takes much longer you’d pin me down and grind until we got off.>
Hawker smirked and projected an image of him suspended above the floor like he were doing pushups. Except instead of pushups… Chris was pinned underneath his huge, thick length as the mech thrust down and forward, sliding in and out of the kid’s tiny embrace.
<I’d be fine with this.>
He opened his mouth wide, letting his tongue slide across his denta in a lewd display of oral fixation. It really was too bad he couldn’t fit Chris in there, toss him around on the mass of his tongue, pin him to the roof of his mouth, gently crush him between his teeth…
That’s it. Hawker decided that today was the day he’d finally try eating his goddamn pilot.
The oral detailing job was thrilling and altogether more pleasurable than he was expecting. Every time Chris stuck his arm inside up to the elbow, the mech would close his lips around the limb and give a long, tantalizing lick before letting him go again, optics fixed on Chris’ face to watch his reaction.
At last, he opened wide once again to let the kid fill his mouth with clean water. It sloshed around under his tongue, and he did a bit of gargling for show more than anything before spitting it out. “Ah.”
“Ya good and clean now? Am I done for th’ day?”
As much as they both wanted nothing more than to fuck and be fucked red and raw, it really was his job as superior officer, owner, and sadist to make the kid do a few things that he did not actually want to do. Hawker pretended to hum and haw for a moment before setting Chris down again on the floor and returning his hands to where they’d been behind his head.
“You missed my feet, greenhorn. The crash room’s pretty filthy. I’d rather not drag the outdoors into my office if I can avoid it.” <Careful… better do a good job or I’ll make you lick ’em clean,> he laughed over their connection.
The truth was, none of the other techs would have risked an arm to brush Hawker’s teeth. The mech probably wouldn’t have let them either. Chris felt pride at the sight of his Boss looking clean and proper. And he had a raging boner no thanks to how it’d felt! It had been amazing, to be allowed so close and explore that huge mouth. When he’d made eye contact with the large mech, hole his arm got sucked on..
Chris didn’t know he wanted to be eaten by his superior until that moment.
“Aye Sir. Get the gunk out of your treads.” The kid made his way over to the end of those legs and.. he whistled. “What’d you step IN? Everything?”
When He’d walked away, he’d made sure to walk on his toes, ensuring that his butt danced noticeably as he’d moved. The rookie adjusted the pressure on the hose.
“Hope you aren’t ticklish!” Fuck, Hawker is a sexy man. He could almost imagine that their size difference was a trick of perspective from this angle. His captain had a smirk and biceps. Big fucking guns! Chris shouldered the wand of the pressure washer and blasted the water stream at the left boot.
Standing right infront of where he’d been aiming, the back blast knocked grime onto his shirt, pants and face. “Ack! Psssbpt!” He lifted up his shirt, wiping off his face and spitting. “Pthbpt! UGH!” His smooth stomach had a lovely marbling of blues and greens and red. Lesson learned, he fired at an angle. Big globs of mud and debris fell from the complicated design of the boots. As Hawker flexed his ‘toes’ the treads moved and revealed more junk for the greenhorn to remove. After five minutes he’d finished rinsing. He went looking and found himself a brush on a stick, almost a pushbroom really. With his aching arms, he dunked and scrubbed. And dunked and scrubbed. Another ten before he finished with that, and the rinse took even longer!
Plunking the brush into the soapy bucket, he crouched down into a squat. He rubbed over his arms, hands opening and closing mechanically. The AI could feet the ache in it’s pilot, the sensation of heavy fatigue and the chill from the cold water. The constant abused, the continuous exercise is making the kid burn down. He stayed in that position until a friendly reminder from on high got him pushing on his knees to get back up. Gritting his teeth, he went about the business of cleaning the Boss’s other foot.
<I’m going to die of exhaustion!>
At least he wasn’t pushing out the front of his pants anymore.
While Chris’ arousal dissipated as he went about the much messier task of hosing down the mech’s boots, Hawker’s did not. Making the human do something unpleasant and having him do it without hesitation? It fueled his fission-powered heat just fine. Chris would be rewarded handsomely for his labor in due time, even though he was making him wait a few extra minutes for it.
“Hope you aren’t ticklish!”
Hawker chuckled, splaying the bottom of his foot open to reveal a shapely tread pattern. Truthfully, he hadn’t had them cleaned out in probably two months. It was about time.
Sensation in his feet was dull compared to his hands, but this wasn’t about tactility for him so much as it was about watching his good little pilot, dwarfed by those enormous stompers, scrub away in spite of his fatigue. It was about making him suffer just a tiny bit, and reinforcing their deliciously fucked up relationship.
When Chris was hit with the dirty water, Hawker couldn’t suppress a bark of laughter. The mech wanted to tell him to just take the shirt off entirely, but the splotchy rainbows decorating his smooth, tight skin made him remember the surveillance camera and he stayed silent.
Chris was hurting again soon enough, and for real. He was such a good sport about it!
“Just a little more, kid.” <Be good for me.>
<I’m going to die of exhaustion!>
Hawker cocked a bemused brow at him. <Not until I give you permission, I hope,> he thought wryly.
But part of being a functional sadist was knowing when to let up, so as soon as Chris was done hosing down his right boot, he gently reminded him to put the put his supplies away in an orderly fashion as the mech squeezed unceremoniously outside, finally able to stand.
He would have preferred a few minutes with the blowers as well, but what was a little water? His giant black frame shimmered with moisture and he dripped onto the floor. He snatched up a microfiber cloth from a basket just outside the door – barely the size of a cocktail napkin to him – to at least dry off his face. When he was done he tossed it back where he’d gotten it, and Chris was standing, looking a little worse for wear, beside him.
“I have to carry you again, don’t I?” There was a wink on his voice, and he reached down for him. It took all he had not to broadcast what he had in mind across their connection; Hawker wanted to savor the surprise.
When they returned, now behind closed doors and without surveillance, Hawker deposited the human down onto his desk again and wasted no time covering his face with a pair of forceful lips that pushed him onto his back. With a pleased groan he engaged those hidden seams and let his arousal spring out, stiff and just as huge as the rest of him.
“Hope you’re not too tired to have a little fun…”
Chris needed to get the heck out of the way as hawker scooted out. The open space in the wash bay is perhaps 12 feet tall, but the ceiling is a mess of hoses, automatic brushes and sprayers. He got to see Hawker on his knees, at least for a moment. Most of that great armored black shape had a sheen of wetness to it. Chris hadn’t seen the HLX-9 wet yet, and the dark armor had a depth to its finish he hadn’t noticed before. He’d never even seen the robot outside, for that matter. Hawker looked good.
He didn’t protest when the hand that held him squeezed a little too tightly, he rested his arm over the thumb as it compressed him to the palm. Arms that’d spent the morning punching and the afternoon washing just wanted to flop where they leay, so he felt delightfully pliable.