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High Road	By : Hambone Category: Transformers > Transformers: Animated > AU/AR Views: 1105 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or any affiliated media and make no profit off this writing

Chapter List
- 1-High Road
- 1
Note: I cannot believe I am the first person to do this.

He had come across the remote in much the same way he came across everything in his life: through a shady, back alley deal. It wasn’t for the remote itself, of course, but for whatever the bling inside it was. Convenient transport, safe hiding spot. No one was going to look for stolen jewels in an RC toy.
At least, he assumed the crystal was stolen. The guy hawking it had been itchy enough. Really wasn’t the kind of deal he’d go for normally, but he was drunk and he got some quality parts along with it. It was a good story, anyways.
The way he found its true usefulness was almost more stupidly serendipitous than his acquiring the thing in the first place. He had been dicking around with it, in the way one does with their dumb little knick knacks when no one’s around, and the car had just driven up to him. This in itself would have been prize enough. It was one of the sleekest things he’d seen in Detroit, glossy blue finish absolutely gleaming in the highlight of the lampposts lining the bridge he was under.
There was no driver, which was only a little weird in this day and age, but he approached it with caution nonetheless. No reaction, no movement. Even the engine, which had remained on, was a smooth, dull purr, hardly noticeable until he ran one hand, sans glove, along the hood. No one inside, no one outside. The thing had just rolled right into his hands.
This of course left the rather worrying questions of how and why.
“You’re a right beauty, aincha?” he murmured, stepping around the back to check for plates. It was rather unsurprising that there were none. “Where’d you come from, then?”
The car twitched. At least, he thought it did. His hand had still been running along the length of those incredible curves, and he had felt a lurch, almost like a pulse, the car rocking on its tires.
Of course, whether or not it actually moved was irrelevant moments later, because in his momentary surprise, he’d raised a hand, the one still clutching that idiotic remote, to steady himself against the car, and in that motion he slid the dial round against his jacket.
The car definitely moved then. It took him a few seconds to figure out exactly what had happened. Gravel spat against his boots as soon as he shifted his arm and suddenly the blue beam was halfway down the canal. There was a brief shock, near panic, and then the car stopped dead. He stumbled, caught himself, stared slack jawed for a half second, and then, like an angel’s kiss, realization hit him.
Master Disaster wasn’t happy about it; he was godamned thrilled.
There was much toying around with it, that first evening. The controller, though peppered with buttons and toggles, mainly functioned through its singular dial, which was not the most refined technology. It took half the night just to manage a simple dogleg, and weeks to get the perfect hairpin down pat. There was also much bumping and banging, even in the open space, which was cringe inducing at best, pride bruising at worst, but did expose two pleasant truths.
One, the car was near indestructible. Not a scratch on it, even after he managed to scrape it painfully along the concrete walls of the canal. There was a nasty black streak left behind on the ground, probably burn out from the sparks, but little else.
The second discovery was far more immediately obvious: the car was the fastest thing he’d ever seen. Master Disaster had laid his hands on quite a few speedsters in his time but this was simply unprecedented. It made things difficult, at first, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had just happened to run into the most profitable use of an RC remote in the history of illegal street racing.
He was absolutely right.
The first few races had been won, shakily, but without contest. Nothing like a dark horse to hike up viewer ratings. Beyond that, the other participants of his show were off their heads. Everyone wanted to know who their sudden, unbeatable rival was, and everyone wanted a piece of his success. No one suspected a thing.
His little blue car was incredible, yes, but still a curiosity without match. The controller only worked on it; normal cars remained unaffected, try as he might. Some nights, Master Disaster would sit up in his trailer, illuminated by the eerie glow of his televisual console, admiring the things till the wee hours of the morning like a rare treasure. A rare treasure he alone had access to, control over.
Even that only extended so far. The extra buttons, outside a small few, remained a mystery. The car itself, and how it worked, were a bizarre enigma as well. It did not turn off, for starters. While it possessed all the main essentials of a regular vehicle, from a steering wheel to a cup holder, it all seemed somehow superficial. There was no key hole. The pedals worked, but were stiff and resistant no matter how he fiddled with them. There were the usual screens and dials, but they didn’t display any information decipherable by him. Sometimes he caught them flashing, otherworldly teal light filling the interior in the dark of his trailer, but the moment he made to investigate it dimmed to the usual pale glow.
To anyone else, this would probably be a good indicator that messing with inexplicably perfect machines that seem to appear out of the air of the night was probably not the best idea, but Master Disaster took it in stride. All good things come at a price, and he could deal with weird lights and a spooky engine that ran all night. After a point it went so far as to become an ambience to his life and work. The silence when he was away from it rang even louder.
Outside of all this, the car was beautiful. Something about the juxtaposition of smooth curves and sharp angles was undeniably attractive to him, sexy, even. That was something he had said about a lot of cars, really, but this one was different. Sitting in the driver’s seat, feeling the perfectly sculpted chair hugging his back like the body of a willing broad, his skin would ignite with cascading tingles that he didn’t care to question.
The situation only managed to complicate itself one day after a particularly invigorating race, when Master Disaster was done counting the zeroes on his latest broadcast’s pull, and the car sat snugly behind him in its docking bay, the heat of velocity rolling off it in waves. He’d gassed it up, affectionately petting the hood as it hummed the smooth note it only seemed to reach after a good lap ‘round the circuit.
“Great run tonight, sweetheart,” he cooed, half tongue-in-cheek, half sincere fondness. The metal felt hot and alive beneath his gloved fingers, and he decided it was high time to push some more of those little buttons.
He threw himself into his chair, snatching up the remote and ramming his index finger into the first mark it found. As usual, nothing happened, but the thrill of the hunt was in his veins and he was undeterred. He had done this before, of course, and it would be a lie to say he’d never gotten a reaction out of the car. Little things, weird things, tiny jumps and mechanical shifting noises that didn’t seem to actually affect the car in any way.
Still he persisted, positive that if the remote was linked to this car, his car, alone, there must be some use for them. He had been keeping track of which buttons created what effect, if any, and each night he played with them he got greater results. Stronger shudders, a roar of the engine. Whether or not these things would ever be useful was debatable, but it brought him an odd pleasure to watch the car not only race but dance at his command.
Now he was really feeling it, acting almost on instinct, fingers sliding through combination after combination with the assured slickness any truly greasy businessman possessed. The car vibrated, harder and harder, and he knew something was going to happen because the temperature was rising and he was so focused and so sure and then…
And then the car unfolded. It happened so fast he hardly had time to processes it, but one moment there was his perfect winner of a racecar and the next there was a robot in his trailer. Master Disaster jumped right out of his chair, almost dropping the remote. He had seen robots, much like this one, on the news, as surely everyone else had, and their arrival did not generally bode well for businessmen of his caliber.
Despite all the excitement, it made no move towards him. In fact, it made very little movement at all. Its head tilted forward, fingers balling, an expression of surprise to match his own struck across its features.
“Well,” said Master Disaster, trying to catch his breath, “well…” The robots face changed, quickly, to a rather impassive frown. He had expected it to talk, like the ones on TV, heroically leap forward and pin him against his own console, but it remained immobile. In a quick, dumb moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it had been enjoying itself as much as he had been enjoying it. All the long nights polishing and washing, caressing its impossibly tough tires, hand feeding it only the most potent and rich of fuels - and then he realized that it wasn’t being still on his account, it genuinely couldn’t move.
Just as the car didn’t turn a tread without him, the car-robot was under his complete control. Well, almost complete. It was looking at him, silently, rather solemn. It was a bit creepy, how human its big alien eyes seemed, glass and metal aside. Expressive, he supposed the correct term was.
He also supposed that having control meant he didn’t need to be afraid of it. He laughed, a short cough of air that turned up the sides of his mouth in a sneer. Now that the moment had passed, he was able to fully survey the thing. Though it was sitting (which was a very good thing given that his trailer was mighty expensive to fix), he could still tell it was at least twelve feet tall at its fullest height, possibly a little more. Despite that it was thin, very much so, the majority of the car’s structure pushed up into two towering shoulders and down into its feet, awkwardly large, like a pair of boots his high school sweetheart used to wear.
It was a bit of a wonder that the thing held itself up at all, assuming of course that it could. Thin thighs, thin waist, thin neck, impossibly thin upper arms, stuck like twigs into a pair of fairly substantial forearms. Beyond that, it still retained much of the same appearance as the car. The same variation of blues, attractively highlighting the sensuous curves of the frame, and the antenna, rather aptly placed atop is head like the crest of an exotic bird.
“Well look at you!” the power balance was back, and so was the attitude. He swaggered forward, the image of confidence if it weren’t for the remote which he still clutched like an electronic lifeline. The robots head moved, just barely, keeping him fully in its line of vision.
“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, haventcha?” he made a bold move, reaching out a hand and planting it firmly on a black thigh. The robot jolted, as if it was going to make its move, and he nearly dropped everything and bolted but managed, just barely, to at least appear calm. He rubbed his hand up and down the expanse of leg, surprised to feel the mesh like quality the black section had, almost soft. The robot quivered, opening and closing its mouth several times in rapid succession, but no sound manifested.
Now this, this could be exploitable.
It took far long to master controlling him in this form. ‘Master’, in fact, was a bit of a generous term. Driving was one thing. Nothing had prepared Master Disaster for any sort of puppeteering, much less actually handling bipedal movement. Eventually he came to the conclusion that attempting to use this robot for anything other than entertainment was out of the question, but he had few qualms with that. Keeping secrets about the car had been exhilarating, truly, but keeping secrets about his personal robot sent a rush all the way from his ego straight down to his dick.
He could make it raise its arms and wriggle its fingers, kick its legs a bit. It was a bit more unnerving than learning to maneuver the car had been, given that the car hadn’t watched him with a sour expression as he crashed it into the canal walls. Or perhaps it had. One could never be too sure with these robots.
It took a better part of the morning and three cans of beer, hands increasingly unsteady as his nerves rose, to get the robot back into car mode. He smoothed his fingers over the hood, looking into the windshield and wondering if it was looking back.
Racing became more interesting too. Not because he feared losing control of the situation; as long as he had the remote, he had undisputed power. It was more that he became oddly aware of the cars physical presence. He’d watch on his monitor as he bumped a small dragster off the road and wondered if his robot felt pain. The ones on the television seemed to be alive to some degree, it was quite possible. He rammed a souped up truck into the wall and wondered if it felt pleasure.
The aftercare process was a trip as well. It was not uncommon for him to open a one-sided dialogue as he cleaned it before, but now it had a bit of an intensity to it. He’d scrub it to a bright shine, murmuring praise and critique about the nights work, and then stand back and admire his gleaming beauty with a grin that could made skin crawl.
“There we are. Looking right lovely.” Did the robot enjoy this?
One night as he sat, twisting dials and knobs in an attempt to make the robot cross its legs, he noticed that in this form it was fairly dirty. Nothing as severe as the outside of the car after a long drive, but dust coated and dulled its shine in spaces he couldn’t have seen from the outside. Grease had built up too, under joints and in the little seams that crisscrossed its form and split apart during its transformation.
Hosing it off in that form was tricky, because it obviously had to be done outside and in a place that wasn’t under surveillance. Far too heavy to drag, he had gotten the robot to half crawl its way out the back, into the shadows of the warehouse he’d chosen, before sitting upright in the center of the concrete. It looked almost apprehensive, and certainly mad.
“Alright, alright,” he muttered, unwinding the pressure sprayer from its coil against the wall. Stiff and steady, the robot endured. It was difficult to reach certain areas, and he had to switch off between using the remote to pose its limbs and holding the hose steady. In the end, the robot was curled in an awkward crouch, eyes boring holes in the wall as Master Disaster pressed a wet sponge between its shoulders.
“I bet you’d like a good waxing while we're here too, wouldn’t you?” he moved around to the front, sudsing up the angular curve of its breastplate. In this position he was almost at eye level with the thing, its head seeming far too large for such a spindly neck. Maintaining eye contact, he worked the scrubber in hard between the polyglass and metal.
Its mouth pressed in an even thinner line, if that was even possible. Its eyes, however, were looking rather softer than before, wider, with a sort of thrilled fear. Master Disaster decided he liked that. He rubbed harder, slipping down underneath the shelf of its chest. The robot began quivering, as the car often did when he was being rough.
“I bet you like this too, eh? Being scrubbed down like this.” It glared but the fear was still present. Fear, in a robot. Utterly mental. He felt himself stirred, a deep, hot flash of arousal that was both unexpected and terribly empowering. At this range he could feel the warm little puffs of air the robot produced, unnatural breath, forming a halo around his face. It smelled of gasoline and steel, and some other acrid chemical fumes he couldn’t identify, and it reminded him of booze and sex on the asphalt, like when he was a younger man.
Caught up in the moment, he reached out, grapping the robots sharp chin in one hand and forcing it to face him. The air was thick and hot, steam from the suds rising up between them, and the robots eyes blew wide, focusing those thin white lenses on his own. The atmosphere was heavy and, hey, what the hell, he willfully sank beneath its weight, taking advantage of the ‘bots surprise and leaning in to plant a wet kiss on the corner of its tight lips. His mind was enveloped by a smug blankness, the metal against his mouth almost hot enough to burn, hard and smooth.
When the moment ended, he was left with empty warmth in the pit of his stomach. The robot watched his every move and for once its emotions were completely transparent. He stepped back, rinsing it off with the hose again as if nothing had happened, and this time it actually closed it eyes, the light behind them dimming, and turned its head away as the spray beat against its back, angry, demure.
Things began to blur after that. Races would leave him hard in his leather, his firm hand during post-win inspection becoming hungry against the sweeping planes of the doors, the bumpers, the giving wheels. He lay on the hood, laughing as he watched the numbers pile up on his console, blood electric.
One night he was inspecting a window that had been smacked rather badly during the race, and he opened the door and crawled through to the driver’s seat, to get a better look at the damage from inside. Once he was there though, he was suddenly struck with a true sense of it, the robot, alive all around him. he hadn’t been in there since discovering its true nature, other than to dust the seats. Before he knew what was what he had one hand in his pants and the other on the dashboard, thick fingers wrapping around the steering wheel, tickling across pert buttons.
It was the fastest he’d ever come in his life.
He leaned back in his seat, admiring the mess he’d made on the complicated puzzle of screens and dials. One hand lazily stroked down the gear shift, placating. That constant thrum was louder than usual, desperate and energetic, and he knew the robot was just beside itself, wanting. He knew it.
Things came to a head one night when he was again fiddling with the remote. Buttons that had once drawn little to no response to his blue car had proven themselves rather entertaining when used upon his blue robot. Flick one, the lights on its heels flashed. Flick two, the black glass paneling on its chest split, revealing a tangle of interior mechanisms (the same combination pressed again closed them). Flick three, and odd shifting noise came from inside the machine, but apart from a small curling of the fingers and flickering of the eyes, no external reaction was produced.
Flick four, a little panel between its legs slid open, revealing two more underneath. The reaction was almost instantaneous; the robot’s entire body jolted, eyes and mouth going wide. Its legs in particular quivered, as if it was struggling against some invisible force and not its own locked up hydraulics.
“Oh-ho!” crowed Master Disaster, moving in to get a better look. “What’s this, then?” the robot, of course, said nothing, but its mouth flapped open and closed several times in quick succession. He didn’t go near enough to touch, but even from a few feet away he could see it clearly, a figure-eight shaped groove, containing the smaller, hexagonal hatches of disparate sizes, one on top of the other.
“Are these your naughty bits?” he was laughing now, mostly at the idea that a robot would even have ‘naughty bits’, and the thing had the audacity to glare at him, lips pressed in a grimace that showed off its silvery teeth.
It was an attractive look for the robot. Tugging on the collar of his jumpsuit, Master Disaster again raised the remote.
“Let’s see what else you can do.”
Not a lot, at first. Pressing the same combination of buttons only closed and re-opened the hatch, nothing more. Several similar ones resulted in little twitches and noises, and an almost agonizingly embarrassed expression on those shiny faceplates, but nothing useful. Until he pressed the original combination and twisted the dial.
The bottom hexagon split in half and slid apart with a wet pop and suddenly any questions running about in his mind regarding whether or not robots have gentiles screeched to a halt. Master Disaster started, blinked, and stared for a good thirty seconds before he was able to close his gaping jaw.
“So…you’re a female!” the robot was really fighting now, shaking as if brute force alone could free it from its static state, allow it to cross its legs and hide this new discovery.
And what a discovery it was. Female was probably the incorrect word to use, because it was, after all, still a robot, but there was no denying the similarities between the soft cleft now exposed to him and the anatomy of a woman. There was a small bump just above the outer lips, rubbery, mechanical, but inexplicably humanoid. Even the unusual coloring, black as the pelvis around it but slowly fading into turquoise blue near the center, could not deter from its bizarrely Earthy form.
It was wet, too. Dripping.
Swallowing thickly, Master Disaster took a shaking step forward, but dared no further. The robot was trying to keep up its glare and half failing, heat from exertion radiating off its frame as it eyed him, waiting for his next move. For the first time ever, it was vocalizing, although not in words. Soft, breathy whines, almost inaudible, were wheezing between its parted lips as it tried, even still, to somehow escape the situation.
“Alright, calm down,” he held up his hands in a sign of surrender, even though one of them was still wrapped tight around the remote. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.” Looking down he once again noted their rather glaring difference in size. “Don’t think I could if I wanted.”
It stopped struggling, at least mostly. Its body still quaked, but it could have been the usual energetic way it thrummed when excited. Never moving his hands from their raised position, Master Disaster stepped back slowly until his knees met his rolling chair. The robots eyes followed him closely, hands balled into fists at its sides.
From here the whole thing looked even more obscene than before. Cameras and lights, all shut off but still imposing, aimed towards the back of the trailer where it sat, knees spread lewdly to expose itself. It looked like the beginning of a backyard porno, and from his front row seat Master Disaster saw nothing wrong with that.
“I think you knew that already, didn’t you? That I don’t wanna hurt you.” No response, as expected. “After all the care and work I’ve put into you. All the money you’ve made me. I mean, it would just be rude.” He relaxed more in his seat, his own legs comfortably falling open to reveal his rapidly growing erection, trapped tight in leather. Whether or not the robot noticed, perhaps not understanding the significance if it did, was unknown. Still, he continued.
“And look at you. Don’t say you haven’t been enjoying my attention. I know you have. The way you run hot when I bring you in for inspection.” He licked his lips. “Your engine absolutely purrs when I scrub you down.” It met his gaze and held it, furious and embarrassed and grim.
“Even if you want to pretend you haven’t, I can see it’s true. You’re wet for me.” It jolted again, involuntarily trying once more to hide its shame. “No, no, don’t cover it up. You want me to see you like this, all spread out and horny.” The fact was somewhat debatable but he didn’t care at this point.
Turning his attentions back to the remote, he said, “I’d help you out with it too, love, but I doubt there’s much I could do, what with you being giant an all.” Even as he spoke, he manipulated, bringing the right arm up and around until it rested in the robots lap, innocent next to the erotic sight between its legs.
“I think I can help you out in a different way. Help you help yourself, if you know what I mean.” He sniggered nastily, and then, utilizing the finely tuned skills he’d built for the past few months, stroked the robots hand over itself. The first touch was light and exploratory, testing the firmness of a material he had never had contact with himself, but the results were satisfying enough.
Twitching and ventilating, it caressed itself, white fingers dipping barely between the lips and dragging upwards until they reached the exterior lump. The sound of clean metal meeting viscous fluid was nearly enough to make Master Disaster light headed. His lips were dry, but licking them only served to worsen the problem. The hand circled slowly around the bump, clumsy but almost natural, before pushing downwards once more.
The gentle flow of movements satisfied him a while. It was still difficult to control such specific action, and he had absolutely no concept of how hard was too hard and so on, but a pussy was a pussy, and he had this one all to himself. He would have persisted if it had taken days, but reality was much more messy and simple than that, and within the first few minutes it became quite clear that whatever he was doing he was doing correctly and the robot was indeed affected.
Its eyes had moved away from him, down to its own hand, and they were heavy lidded with what could have been anything between mortification and lust. What’s more, the liquid seemed to be flowing thickly now, trickling down the junctions of the robots thighs to pool beneath its ass. Master Disaster began to wonder if it was at all possible to continue manipulating the robot and simultaneously pull his own dick out.
Instead he worked the controls harder, finally slipping a couple of the slim white fingers between the folds and then, after a moment of both technical difficulty and breathless suspense, inside.
“Ah!” That wasn’t him. The sound jolted them both into a wide eyed stillness. The robot refused to make eye contact, instead directing its mounting panic into the flooring as Master Disaster slowly recovered.
He laughed.
“You spend all this time unable to speak, but then you go off moaning for me? I’m so flattered!” Its head snapped up, a sharp, rude look marring its pretty face, but when its mouth opened all that came out was hot air. Whatever it used to speak with was still not working. Apparently involuntary noises were all that were able to somehow get around this hiccup.
“No need to be ashamed, now.” Already he was twisting the dial, and its face screwed up as its own fingers began to push and pull its insides, “I’ll have you squealing nicely in due time.”
After a particularly long stroke, its head fell back anyways, worrying its lower lip between its teeth. The queer whine of its engine increased in pitch and volume, until the entire trailer was filled with it. Master Disaster’s cock was impossibly hard, clearly defined behind the thin layer of his pants, but while it ached for attention he could not bring himself to set aside the controller long enough to attend to it.
He almost didn’t have to. Each and every flick of his fingers over the dial, and the deep corresponding thrusts that followed, were as good as a firm grip on his own dick. The robot’s mouth hung open, even as it turned its head from side to side in an attempt to avoid seeing or being seen in its vulnerable state.
Teasing them both, he pulled the robot’s hand from itself, returning to the slow, sensual touching he had started with, paying particular attention to that pseudo-clit. The clear liquid was flowing like a river, getting the floor of his trailer absolutely filthy, and it was gasping now, or at least looked like it. Each breath was almost a wheeze, carrying just the hint of a moan or whimper. Its voice, rather, the sounds it produced, were high and throaty, like the trill of a bird.
“Look at you, touching yourself for me.” Even his own smooth tone was growing ragged, a deep, lusty growl. “Bet you’ve been wanting to do this for so long. All those races, getting you soaked.” It pinched its lip so hard in its teeth that a small trickle of a different, semi-iridescent liquid sprung forth, but even that was not enough to stifle its thin moan.
He was at the edge of his seat, expertly twisting the controls and barely noticing. The robots fingers smoothed once more over its cut before plunging inside, harder than before, exposing the bright turquoise innards briefly between flashes of white.
“Dirty little bitch, fucking yourself on your fingers like that. You wish they were mine, don’t you, my hand buried inside your cunt.” Even though the words probably meant nothing to it, the robot threw its head back and keened.
Its trembling was so intense now that the entire trailer shuddered. The rattling of camera equipment was drowned out by rapid breaths and increasingly desperate cries, and Master Disaster’s heartbeat was loud in his ears. In his pants, too, his cock was pulsing, each wet slip of the robot fingers drawing him closer. The heat was incredible, steam beginning to rise from droplets of condensation that evaporated as quickly as they formed on its scalding plating.
Then its whole form snapped ridged, back bowing in a display of more voluntary movement than it had shown in the entirety of its time in his care as it positively howled. Unable to stop himself, Master Disaster continued working the controls, pushing it through what must have been one incredible orgasm. Its hole gushed around its fingers, only subsiding as the high wail finally petered to a moan, then a gravelly gasp, and eventually an unsteady pattern of jagged breaths. Spent, it slumped forward again, lights dimming.
His hands stilled, with some difficulty, sore from the repetitive motion and exacerbated by his white-knuckled grip. When he set the remote down, for the first time in what felt like hours, beside him on the video console, he realized he himself was shaking. He felt light headed and possessed, sex still swimming his veins, the realization that he was fucking his car blooming like a spot of black oil in his brain.
It looked up at him, with lubricant all overs its hand, panting like a bitch, those big alien eyes dim and soft and sluttish, and Master Disaster came in his pants.
- 1
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High Road