Samuel Witwicky was back in his old room, the room he'd grown up in. He'd come home after… what happened. The boy had told his parents it was homesickness, that he studied better at home anyway, away from the rowdy college student body. He'd said everyone was doing it, since the holidays were coming up, and that the faculty turned a blind eye as long as you had good grades, which he did… or had. His parents had allowed it for a few days but were clearly suspicious. It was something they never would have allowed him to do in high school, skive off for no good reason, especially when it involved driving across the state.
So he lied some more. He just needed a break, he said. College was more stressful than he'd been prepared for, and he was burning out. Then his mother conveniently remembered reading an article about the dangers of working too hard and the pressure facing young people today, and his dad had relented.
For a few days. But when it became clear he wasn't just staying for a long weekend, that he had entrenched himself in his room as if he never intended to leave, then his dad started pestering for a more satisfying excuse. Maybe he could see the change in his son, the shadows in his face, the nervous glances out of every window, his jumpiness. Sam never seemed to leave his room, he wasn't blowing off steam by going out and having fun, he wasn't recovering with the bountiful sleep and his mother's caring attention, cooking him three square meals a day and washing all his clothes. So his father became concerned.
He wasn't paying tens of thousands of dollars a year so that his son could run home and slack off whenever he got scared, that wasn't the adult behaviour he was hoping his son would be portraying by now. If they had been any other family, he simply would have put his foot down and send the boy back to deal with his problems. But they weren't just any other family. His son had a giant alien robot for a car, which frequently engaged in violent and destructive battle with other giant alien robots, often with the fate of the earth or the human race at stake. And that was what concerned him now.
As for Sam, when his dad asked in his indirect "still not comfortable with the living car thing" way if the trouble the boy was having wasn't Decepticon related, Sam didn't correct him. He didn't like the lie, he didn't like making his parents worry, but Sam knew it would keep them off his back for weeks, maybe months. And it wasn't so far off, was it? It was because of a transformer that he had come running home to bunker down in his old familiar room, after all. And the lie would allow him to be as openly neurotic as he liked, and he could pull the curtains back an inch to look at the yellow camaro sitting in his driveway as many times as he liked without raising suspicion.
And so it was, three weeks after the event, with his happy, safely exciting college life a distant memory, seeming more like a movie he had seen rather than his life, that Sam sat up in his room, trying to masturbate like a normal teenage boy. Only he couldn't do it like a normal teenage boy anymore.
The evening California sun shone through his window, its dazzle tempered by the large tree that had always stood in front of the house, its branches stretching over everything, shading his window on one side and the drive on another. It was a pleasant dark gold glow that diffused in his room, the room in which he had successfully gotten himself off many a time during his adolescence. But, not for the first time since his return, he had been trying for the past fifteen to twenty minutes without success.
He had his computer in front of him, muted porn playing on the screen. He had no idea what the scenario was supposed to be, and had totally ignored the actress' face in his frustration. He just watched large, hard-looking fake breasts jiggle as her carefully one-tone tanned body was vigorously humped by some equally faceless pizza delivery boy, or pool boy, or mechanic, or whatever the hell he was supposed to be.
"Come on, come on," he muttered as he ruthlessly beat his meat to no avail. He'd started with just pictures, photos of Mikaela, trying to be faithful even in his own fantasies, but when that hadn't worked, he'd escalated to this. However, his much-abused erection was still stubbornly holding out on him, refusing to finish the way it would have done by now if he was still normal.
With an angry exhalation that couldn't really be called a sigh, the boy let go of himself and clicked away from the video, searching the site for anything that looked hopeful. When he reached the bottom of the page without anything catching his eye, he saw a link to a different site catering to gay men, promising "Hot Man-on-Man XXX Action!". Unbidden, totally unrequested he insisted to himself, an image of swollen and rigid red flesh spearing the proffered ass of another man flashed in his mind, and his own backside tingled, and some tiny, smothered and ostracized part of himself thought in an inaudible whisper, "Lucky".
His face contorting into a snarl of repulsion and disgust, he quickly closed the window to remove the temptation and abate his anger. He regretted it though as his erection bobbed when he shifted in his seat. He opened a new window, and half-heartedly Google Image searched 'girls'. He sifted through the generic bikini-clad women, half of them soft-porn starlets, the other half MySpace hopefuls, until one looked worth a shot. It was a tall blonde in a red bikini posing in front of a sports car, half bent over and gazing sultrily into the camera. It was the kind of image you'd find on a calendar hung up in the back room of a garage. Sam put his hand back to his groin almost wearily and restarted the quick up and down massage.
He looked at her eyes but they were dead and soulless and sort of pitiful, and no one ever came over eyes, so he moved on to imagining what lay under the thin red scrap of bikini. He bet she was shaved or waxed or something under there, and that thought gave him an encouraging twinge in the general crotch area.
Nice curves…he thought. They really catch the light, and that's a nice colour… The headlights are unusual but they work… I wonder what kind of horsepower - NO! Goddamn it!
He slammed his hand down on his desk and stamped his feet on the ground as he caught himself thinking of the car instead of the girl again. That was the problem, that was what was always happening. That was why he wasn't normal anymore, what Bumblebee had done to him.
Sam rubbed his hands over his face knowing it was gross but figuring he'd be taking a shower later anyway, and groaned through gritted teeth.
No. No, he wasn't…Was there even a word for it? He could do this. He could get off to a human girl if he tried. He just have to find the right girl. Fuck, it was understandable if he was traumatised by what Bee had done up in the hills that night, that some wires had got crossed somewhere. He just needed time to heal, to reset, get back to default settings. Because that was what it was, he was traumatised, that was it.
He didn't like it.
That… That was not an option. He did not like cars, machines did not turn him on, and his idea of a good fuck was not a yellow autobot with black racing stripes.
Sam turned the monitor off and let himself fall onto his bed. After laying still for a moment, he returned to the problem of his erection. Latent thoughts of aerodynamic steel body plates and the purrs of smooth, tuned engines fresh off the line kept the little bastard alive, but the boy was forced to admit that if he kept ignoring everything but what had worked in the past, he'd end up rubbing himself raw over the next half hour until he gave up and drowned his arousal with an icy shower, which was not something he looked forward to.
So he let his hand find its way back to his stubborn flesh, and vowed to make a date with Mikaela real soon, before finally giving in to dirty thoughts about silicone parts fitted on an assembly line rather than in a plastic surgeon's office. He let his mind's eye wander over the dips and seamless swells of a flashy modern sports car, shapeless and neutral at first, but it soon morphed into a yellow camaro before Sam really noticed. The boy imagined his hand starting over the right headlight, then following the natural lines of the car round to the side, exploring every hollow. The fantasy played like a movie, with no direction from him, and he saw himself squatting beside the vehicle and slipping his fingers underneath to where the metal was rough and dirty. He ran his fingers along the exposed parts underneath, his touch feather-light, tickling, teasing the car.
"You like that?" he heard the fantasy version of himself say in a voice too low and husky to ever be his own, and the uppermost part of his mind decided he'd been watching too much porn to come up with a cheesy line like that.
But then the round yellow headlight twisted down as if to look at him, and the wheels turned, each in a different direction, independent of their axles, and the headlights flashed in giddy pleasure. Fantasy-Sam smirked and leaned his face against the door in front of him, continuing to finger the car.
"Good," he said in that same unlikely voice, before turning and giving the metal a slow, wide lick, feeling that the vehicle was warm.
On the bed, Sam's second hand joined his first, because he was finally, finally, getting somewhere.
In his head, the yellow camaro popped its door. An invitation. The boy stood up and, with the speed only possible in imagination, divested himself of his clothing, and slid into the car on all fours, naked as the day he was born, feeling the glorious leather on his skin, warm and soft and somehow alive. Oh, he wanted to lie himself flat on those seats and just press himself against them, rolling and writhing, and he wondered if they'd press back against him. Instead he allowed himself to sit in the driver's seat, pushing and rubbing his ass against the warm flesh of the car, one hand at his side and one between his legs, gripping the seat and massaging, working himself up into a sensory haze just as he hoped to do the same to the car.
The seat reclined, the back going down while the seat came up so that it could be as flat as a bed. He realised how visible he would be through the windows and he looked out, but all he could see was black, with maybe a city shimmering in the distance below them. Were they high up somewhere? Sam turned his face away from the unimportant outside world and wrapped his legs around the steering wheel, whorishly grinding his swollen and sensitive sex against it. The autobot symbol in the centre felt cool and he murmured a groan. He wondered if it counted as the transformer's face and he smirked, rubbing himself over it again, hoping it did. The car gave a powerful rev, and the vibrations felt - so - good!
Back in real life, Sam gave a surprised "Nn!" as his balls tightened unexpectedly. He was coming close.
In the fantasy, breathing heavily, one hand slipped from the seat/bed and bumped the handbrake. Inspired, or simply reminded, Sam twisted in the seat, releasing the steering wheel. He crouched over the side, taking the lever in his hands and giving it a long hot messy lick from base to tip, before sucking on the hard button on top. He felt the car shudder with a faint rumble, as if the autobot was having trouble keeping its current form under the assault of Sam's tongue.
Crouched as he was, with his knees under him, facing the middle of the car where the handbrake was, the boy knew his back end was exposed, and he was just waiting deliciously for the transformer to take advantage of the fact. As he continued to suck, kiss, lick and generally make a sensuous mess of the handbrake to the robot's delight, Sam twitched suddenly as he felt the heated metal of the seatbelt clasp begin to probe his vulnerability. He smiled for a moment, pleased, then tossed his head back and moaned, arching into it as the seatbelt did more than just probe.
Sam came into his hand as he bucked his hips off the bed, feeling muscle inside him spasm around a phantom penetration.
The fantasy disappeared like smoke, and all he was left with was hard reality and the hot sun shining gold onto his chest in his old room. Feeling suddenly empty and hateful, hating himself and hating that car, he relaxed against the mattress. He turned his head, so that he could just see a flash of yellow through green tree branches from the window.
Fuck that car, man. Fuck. That. Car. Fuck it for doing this to him, for turning him into this… this pervert, this deviant, this freak - take your pick. He hated it, sitting there, so smug, so innocent in the driveway. Fuck it.
And he hated himself for not being stronger, for giving in again, for listening to his own weak excuses. For being such a disgusting, unnatural… He couldn't even think of the goddamn word. He was meant to be the victim here. Why did he keep dreaming of doing it again? Why did his body's memory keep returning to how it felt, the hard press of that long, rough lever pushing into him? The contrast between man and machine, between plastic and accommodating, clenching muscle?
What he wanted was interaction with the autobot. He couldn't take it just sitting out there, silent and immobile. He wanted the damn car to suffer, or something. Be humiliated the way he had been humiliated. Looking at it, it just looked like a car, and that was no good. Then it got away with it.
His come had gone cold and sticky, and he was soft again. He pulled his jeans and underwear back into place as best he could, and rolled off the bed. He closed his hand over his mess and went downstairs, straight outside, avoiding his parents if they even noticed. The sun was low and the temperature was beginning to drop, becoming cool for California.
The boy went out to the front, and stood looking at the car, knowing the car was looking at him too. Apart from the journey over from the college, during which he had driven, and forbidden the autobot from speaking or doing anything else that a car shouldn't do, he hadn't been near the vehicle. Bumblebee had been alone now for much longer than he ever had been sitting on the campus parking lot. But he had stayed right where Sam had left him, he hadn't attempted to talk to the boy at all. The human had no idea what the bot was thinking, and he didn't like it. If he was being honest with himself, he would have to have admitted that it was because he wanted to be on the alien's mind, exclusively, and causing him anguish.
Sam stood in the drive, at the furthest point from the car. He knew that Bee must be going crazy, wondering why he was there, what he was going to do, whether his ward had forgiven him or whether he was about to be punished in some way. Sam knew it must be torture for the bot to have to behave and pretend to be an inanimate object when he must be burning with curiosity and loneliness… and maybe desire for all Sam knew. He wanted to draw it out, so much so that he considered just walking away again after a minute or two of looking at the camaro and coming back another day. Fuck with its head. But he was so angry, he wanted to take action, and he wanted to make sitting in the drive even worse for the transformer if he could.
So after a minute or two, Sam moved forward, stalking slowly in front of the car. He could almost feel the force of Bee's attention tracking him, and it made him glad. He hoped the bot was desperate, but at the same time, being this close to it reminded him of all the good times, the best friend he had lost, and it made him a little sad. That mixed with his bitter vengefulness and made him feel nauseous.
He wanted something to say, some great, dramatic line, but he knew that if he opened his mouth, he would start to rant, and it would go on and on, and he would not get the effect he was looking for. He might give Bee answers, which was something he did not want to do. So instead, he said simply,
"You know what you did."
Once it was out of his mouth, he didn't like the sound of it, as if he was trying to justify his behaviour. So, trying to erase that moment of possible weakness, he strode forward abruptly, and squatted in front of the camaro, one hand on the bonnet. He seemed to feel a tingle from the metal that was once so beloved, and then his position reminded him of his fantasy, fuelling his anger.
"Open wide," he said, with more spite and vindictiveness than he'd ever said anything with in his life. Then he did what he'd gone there to do, he opened the loose fist he had formed with one hand and scraped his ejaculation off his hand onto the grill of the camaro. He felt like laughing. He could smell it, which meant the Bumblebee probably could as well, and the car would have to sit there in the drive wearing his come for as long as Sam chose to wait before washing it off.
"Raise your headlights," he said, leaning in to the car. His voice was quieter and conspiratory, and a small, outside part of him worried for his sanity. However, nothing happened. "Don't make me say it again, Bee, open those eyes."
Probably, the car had been wary of moving by itself in public, but there was no one on the street, and Sam was past caring. After a further moment's hesitation, the two headlights came slowly out of the bonnet. Sam smirked at his victory, and smeared what residue remained on his palm across the glass of the right socket.
"Good boy," he said. And now was time to go, to walk away and leave the bot like that, defiled. But the truth was the sun had soaked into the metal and made it warm to the touch, just like in his fantasy, and the autobot symbol on the front was glittering just in front of his face, so before he gave himself time to think twice about it, Sam ducked forward quickly and licked the smooth bonnet of his best friend and rapist.
The boy looked up into the empty space behind the windshield, the place that he usually sat in but which now felt possessed somehow, as if it was occupied by another consciousness that was looking out at him as he looked into it, bearing witness to his peculiar behaviour.
Suddenly uneasy, Sam ducked his eyes, feeling that he had somehow lost whatever pride or retribution he had gained. As the sun continued to sink away from the suburban street, he stood up and hurried back into the house, once more unable to look at that damned car.