Overnight in Bay Seven

This erotic story features 'aeromorph' characters, humanoid robots/cyborgs resembling aircraft. But sexy.

"Overnight In Bay Seven"

SHORT STORY

"V-AFB, I'm awaiting clearance for landing."

"Copy that

Incoming Flight,

we have your authorisation coming through now."

"Roger."

G-2 cut through the air without much effort. His streamlined form was built for high speed: perfectly inclined wings, the latest avionics for lightning-fast flight control, and an efficient turbojet engine burning in the core of his body. A dip in acceleration was needed as he turned, tilting to the right before levelling off. His comms were experiencing some static, and the weather wasn't great, so he decided to change heading to see if he could expel some of the interference. Bringing a hand to his cheek, nestling aside his pointed, bird-like head, he felt the rush of cool air slip between his fingers as increased drag came into effect.

"

In

coming Flight,

you are authorised for approach."

"Received, V-AFB. I'm making my approach now," G-2 said over the comm-link.

"Copy

Inco

mi

n

g

F

l

i

g

ht,

welcome to Viktishelm Air Force Base."

Making his descent, G-2 could feel the stream of air through his nasal inlets and the large intakes on his shoulders. It surged through him, as natural as breathing, finding its way into his chest where it mixed with jet fuel and compressed deep inside his core before firing out behind him in a roaring column — lighting up the evening skies. His lower back heated up as his primary exhaust blazed with life. Above his ankles, secondary jets grew from the biometal exterior of his flesh, helping him steer during flight.

Bystanders around the landing zone watched the incoming figure as he began his final approach. Many moved on — another unit dropping by, so what? One or two others hung around, fresh recruits catching their first glimpse of one of his kind for real.

G-2 was an aeromorph; a humanoid aircraft. A creature of machinery and military might.

Cutting through the dwindling light, he twisted and turned, whirred and whirled...

All in all, certainly a sight to see.

The landing-lights stretched out before him. G-2 prepared himself, adjusting his position to direct his jets where he was hurtling. As they burned, he slowed down, allowing the cybernetic being to 'drop' gracefully and land on his two feet. They depressed against the scorched asphalt of the runway, keeping him steady as he reduced his engine output until at last silencing the thunder of his jets. The tinny whine of his fans spinning slower and slower passed as well, and G-2 stood up straight. Brushing his chest, the visiting 'aero' set off to find the nearest ranking officer.

G-2 was confident his affairs at Viktishelm AFB would be short and sweet. A new prototype due for air trials — the hopes and dreams of his brood and future siblings rested on how he performed here and now.

His upright body towered over most buildings on-base, and the human personnel moved like mice around him — shuffling, scurrying, carefully avoiding his footfalls. G-2 glowed with confidence as he strode, his slender frame head-to-toe covered in new, never-before-seen stealth compounds. Radar-dampening materials infused into the very fibre of his being; synthetic skin drizzled in classified tech. He knew he had potential, and no matter how much he hated flying far out into the sticks to attend trials, he could comfort himself with the fact it would only be for a couple of hours.

That is...until he met the base commander and received his orders. Standing stupidly tall in the mess hangar, other aeros giving side-glances to the new arrival, he was told by the tiny creature on the elevated platform before him that the trials had been postponed until tomorrow. Inclement weather, was the reason, but G-2 felt he could still excel in adverse conditions — surely that was part of proving himself?

Alas, he was overruled, and told to find a place to spend the night. Dismissed, he may or may not have stormed off in a huff — giving a certain impression to the denizens of Viktishelm. Fellow aeromorphs, like himself, who may or may not think the 'new guy' was too full of himself.

G-2 paid them no mind, instead retiring to a hangar bay on the far side of the base, away from all the locals. Alone, and quite pleased with the isolation, he tried his best to relax.

* * *

G-2's hangar bay was cramped. Ill-equipped for any morph larger than a reconnaissance unit, a fact he intended to raise with the base commander once his trials were completed. The uncomfortable aero reclined as much as he could, finding small comfort in the tight space. Rain beat down on the metal ceiling, it's incessant

plink-plink-plink

keeping his auditory system busy. Eventually he tuned out the noise, and tried to rest.

Tomorrow,

he told himself,

tomorrow and then I can return to Central.

He half-opened an eye, peeking at the dull sheet metal of the hangar bay door. Rust crept in from every angle, marring the door with orange flakes.

Ugh...tomorrow I'll be rid of this middle-of-nowhere shithole...

An hour or two passed, his systems recharging. G-2 remained still, his cybernetic body propped up against the nearest wall. Arms limp, crossed over his torso. Legs extended, managing to match the bay's dimensions (if only just about). On each limb, hard metallic fuselage flowed, with softer synth-flesh exposed at the joints. His hands and finger followed a similar design — flexible where needed, solid otherwise. His back bent slightly, leaving room for the wing-pack jutting from below his shoulders. Military decals decorated the surface of each, freshly-transferred — you could still smell the paint. Each wing spanned two-thirds of the width of his chest, the pair stretching past his upper arms and terminating in slender, swept-back tips.

G-2's figure gave the impression of balance...of control. Narrowed to improve aerodynamics.

Slim.

Svelte.

Graceful.

The first of a new breed; a new model. G-2's parentage a state secret, he only knew life as an aeromorph — many years of childhood compressed into one, training, indoctrination, moving from base to base with no real place to call home. For a human, this would surely drive one insane. Not G-2. His government-mandated programming kept him from losing himself that way.

A small heated gust escaped his jets as the living war machine inhaled vast gulps of damp air. Relaxing after his yawn, his turbines quickly spooled down. Despite his resting state, part of his consciousness kept on ticking over, keeping an eye on vital systems. Especially energy. He needed the bulk of his strength for tomorrow. No sense going hungry the night before, and having to explain to Central why he filed for extra fuel expenses.

Night-time called. And fatigue cursed his artificial hide, a dismal inheritance from his human creators.

* * *

Sleep came and went, passing the time in bursts of nothingness.

G-2 shifted. One leg bent, he dragged his rubber-soled foot along for the ride. Scraping the dusty floor, occasionally striking something human-portable that made a noise — a workbench, or forklift, he didn't care — it came to rest placed firmly against his thigh, filling the gap left by the curve of his ass. Next to it, and bound tightly in a ballistic fibre jock-strap, were his genitalia. A cock and balls. Well, that's not what the Air Force said on their paperwork — 'data delivery module' (DDM) and 'data nodes' for his unmentionables; and they weren't clad in a skimpy male thong either, it was formally referred to as an 'all-weather uniform transit pouch'. In keeping with the sanitised view of their war assets, no asshole but an 'waste egestion port' — no breasts on females of his kind, just 'long-range reserve fuel tanks'. Such a list of terms went on and on.

Eyes? 'Optical sensor arrays'.

Lips? 'Vulcanised moisture seals'.

The sultry curve of his ass, perched above his sinuous thighs? G-2 had long forgotten the designation...

He let a smile form in his slumber.

The lengths gone to control language itself, to deny to the world the all-to-human nature of their killing machines...

What could anyone say? Bigwigs liked their nomenclature.

G-2's sleep state reverted when he heard a loud clang. Given his size (many tens of feet tall) he knew from the sound that it was something big. Something very big.

Another noise, this time a heavy thud, got his attention. The curious aeromorph rose to his feet, slowly, angling his pointed head in the direction it seemed to come from.

Another, then another...almost like...footsteps...

A towering presence emerged, G-2 glancing upwards to greet it. Shadows cast themselves across the whole of the bay.

"They say you're one of the new prototypes."

Above him, leaning on the wall separating two hangar bays, a large morph stared down G-2.

"Who's they?"

The mottled surface of the stranger and tell-tale welding seams removed any doubt. This was a heavy bomber, and by the looks of his pockmarks and aged, rumbling voice, he had been on active duty for a long, long time...

"Rumour mill is hard at work. I got ears, don't I? So, son, why don't you give me something to work with." The larger male applied his weight to the wall, revelling in the creak and strain of the structure as it tried to support his sheer size. Rivets snapped, popping out and falling away like tiny grains of sand. Thick arms bulged with hydraulic muscles, pushing out against his metal skin. "Extended range? Fuel efficiency? Huh? Or weapons tech we haven't seen before?"

G-2 held his tongue. He'd prefer to be left alone, but if he had to humour one of the local aeros to get some proper rest then there really wasn't a choice. "I'm not at liberty to discuss," he said, puffing his chest.

A deep, resonant bout of laughter came over the heavy bomber. "Oh...shy one are we? Well let me be a gracious host and start things proper. They call me Dambuster."

Dambuster?

"Impressive call-sign."

"Yup. Earned it too, not like some fly-boys stationed here. They think strutting like a princess down the runway at air shows counts as deployment. I say different."

"I don't doubt it."

"Now, son," said the aptly-named Dambuster, his broad frame positively bursting with strength, "why don't you give a little respect to your elders."

"I don't know what you mean by that," G-2 replied, getting defensive.

"Your name?"

"I haven't been assigned one."

"Your serial, then."

"G-2MK114."

"Ahh...see I was right, you're a prototype. Latest and greatest."

"How did you—"

"Have a friend in engineering, one of the ground crew. Clued me into the numbering system for test aeros."

G-2 growled in defiance. "Don't speak a word of this to anyone else, y'hear! That's classified information you're—"

"Oh son," Dambuster interrupted, grinning wildly, "my silence can't be bought so easily."

No sooner had he said that then the large aeromorph disappeared from view, leaving only dents where his bulk warped the very structure they were in. G-2 moved from one side of the bay to the other, as the loud thud of heavy footsteps circled around.

Where are you...?

The handle of the door snapped clean off, startling G-2. A heavy groan followed as the door was pulled from the outside, buckling. Once loose, it swung open to reveal Dambuster.

"Hey! You ain't supposed to—"

Only now did G-2 have time to appreciate his counterpart's form, albeit unwillingly. Muscle-bound arms and legs — titanic pillars that could crush tanks — supported an immense torso. Armoured pecs glistened from faint moisture, wide and perched atop a sweeping chest of square muscle. Motors moaned, pneumatics pumped, and hydraulics heaved with each and every motion. Big, buff shoulders supported a compact but dense wingspan and aggressive, angular air intakes. His face was rounded, chubbier than fighter models like G-2, but no less intimidating. Steel-grey lips pursed and formed into a callous grin. Blue eyes blazed in the darkness of the night, standing out against his physique.

Dambuster took one step inside the hangar bay, humming. G-2 watched his huge foot slam into the solid ground, cracking the concrete as the full weight of this behemoth came to bear upon the crumbling stone. Metal ground and flexed, carbon fibre jostled, and a slab of ridged rubber that could cover a sports field finally came to rest. G-2's nerves, however, had gotten the better of him.

The nervous aero gulped, feeling his empty throat constrict as the intruder hauled himself inside. His hulking form ruled its surroundings. Light reflected off of metal plating in the hangar bay, shimmering and scattering as pale rays bounced everywhere. Halogen rods flickered, soon overshadowed by the visiting morph rising to his full height.

Hanging limp, swinging as he made his way through the door, was the largest DDM he'd ever seen! Massive, slapping against its owner's thighs. Two high-capacity nodes bounced behind it, testicles filled to bursting with nanite data paste. Dambuster's dick dominated the bay, refusing all attempts to be ignored. G-2 couldn't tear himself away. It was just...so big...

A muffled clang rang out, G-2's wingpack having struck the back wall. The aeromorph watched Dambuster, who stood still. Silent...

...until a loud guffaw broke the peace.

"I think you see why they call me Dambuster now, eh?" he chuckled, reaching down and taking his flaccid length in hand. He gave his cock a couple of quick strokes, sliding the dark outer skin to-and-fro, revealing a glimpse of lighter grey at the tip.

He took another step forward. Another chunk of territory surrendered without a fight.

"You young bucks have your stealth capabilities and your manoeuvrability, but there's something to be said for a heavy-duty payload, don'cha think?"

Dambuster lowered his gaze, taking stock of G-2's equipment. Snug in its polymer pouch, it presented a reasonable bulge for his frame, but paled in comparison to the monster that swung between his mighty legs. Exposing his teeth, the larger aero taunted: "I reckon you couldn't take on a whole armoured column with that dinky little shooter."

"Not my role," G-2 replied meekly.

"Nah, it ain't, is it? You're the type for special ops."

"I request that you leave," he said, squaring off with the intruding aero. G-2 suppressed a nervous fight-or-flight reflex as he found he only came up to Dambuster's pecs.

Noticing this, another laugh boomed from above. "I think you've bitten off more than you can chew sonny. But that's okay. I understand the need to keep things under wraps. That's why you can either share some juicy details with me about your lineage, or get me to leave...another way..."

Handling his junk, Dambuster grunted. The forecover pulled back with ease, exposing his mushroom-shaped cock-head, sealant dripping from the giant hunk of biometal.

"There's no female units on-base," he explained, "that leaves guys like me without a lot to do but a lotta needs to fulfil."

G-2 pulled back. "What's your beef with me? I haven't done anything to you!"

"No, you haven't. That's not important, because it's how you look to me that decides my next course of action."

Look? What is he talking abou—

Dambuster squeezed his hardening length. "Funny thing about stealth tech. You can darken your fuselage and paint yourself with radar-scattering compounds like a schoolgirl playing with make-up, but you can't hide one thing..."

G-2 paused. Silence encompassed the cramped bay. His next words came out significantly less defiant: "what's t-that?"

Grumbling, Dambuster rolled his shoulders, letting his cock hang mid-air. Aloft thanks to his raging erection, it pointed menacingly towards G-2. The giant aero chuckled, and answered his compatriot's question in a low growl: "how fuckable you are."

If planes could shiver, G-2 would be a vibrating wreck. Alas, all his body afforded him were simulated sensations. Empty, hollow, non-physical phenomena that he had no way of communicating beyond his inner self. As Dambuster advanced, glowering as he moved, G-2 found himself retreating — creeping backwards, metre by metre.

His intruder enjoyed the slow chase. Evidenced by the twitch of his primed shaft. "Mmmm...guys like me see the new cohort as a buncha sissies — too eager to please the brass. Too ready to bend over come inspection time. Me an' mine? We're real men. Real fighters. Peace has made you soft, but I carry scars from my time in the air." To emphasize his point, strong hands graced unseemly scrapes across his fuselage. Patches where wounds were once inflicted. Every mark a notch above G-2's experience. "Make no mistake, I ain't ready to hand the reins to a generation of pansies if you don't show me what you're good for!"

G-2's hip was first to feel his firm hand. He shut his eyes. Dambuster's voice was impossible to resist...

"Turn around."

G-2 obeyed. He could feel the other aero staring. His gaze intensifying. Boring into the back of his head. Capturing his form. Feeding his lust.

"Bend over."

The next command was followed without complaint too. G-2's lithe frame titled forward, lowering his wing-pack and giving a better view of his rear. From the base of his spinal superstructure, a round jet exhaust protruded — dirtied from his recent flight. Flaps circling the exhaust expanded and contracted, nervously dancing to the tune of their owner's fear. He felt another hand upon his thigh, sliding and touching his ass, fingers stroking between where his exhaust nestled atop bare cheeks.

"Nice. Sleek and slender. Almost feminine, wouldn't you say?"

"I—"

"No, don't answer, you'd only disagree — I'll let your body to the talking for yourself!" With that last remark Dambuster drew out his arm and slapped G-2's rear. Pain, mixed with surprise, shot through the smaller aero's system.

"Eep!"

Dambuster smirked at his submissive squeal. "Oh yeah...we got a girlie here alright!"

"You won't get away with this," G-2 barked, "I'll report you!"

"What?" he snorted, "you don't think the military turns a blind eye to stuff like this? Son...you're naive as hell. My generation has real combat experience; that doesn't just grow on trees, y'know? If top brass wants to keep us sweet and share our lessons with up-and-coming flyers they know right well to look the other way when we want to have some fun."

"Then I'll scream!"

"Hah! Don't make me piss myself laughing! Who's gonna come to your aid? Huh? Vickers? Matador?

Pfft

...Greenbriar!? They're the same as me, unhappy with the latest batch to shoulder the nation's defence."

G-2 knew he was telling the truth. Who did he know on-base? Nobody. He wasn't even supposed to be lodged here — that was a mix-up by his handlers! Fuck Viktishelm AFB, fuck that prick Dambuster...and fuck his stupid-ass trials! They could rot for all he cared.

Still feeling up G-2 ass, Dambuster grunted. Bet he could tell what G-2 was thinking right now...no matter, as he had other designs.

"Oh, but go ahead and scream. Makes it more fun for me!"

Prodding at his crack, Dambuster's fat fingers made their way south, prying apart clenched cheeks to reveal the thin string of G-2's jock-strap. Curling under the jet exhaust, he found room for three fingers, enough to keep the overhanging exhaust from obscuring his true prize.

Do

n

'

t

y

ou dare,

G-2 whispered,

or I'll blast you!

A high-pitched whine filled the room as his take-off procedures kicked in. Suddenly, a rush of superheated air bellowed from his engines — directed away from his ankle-jets and instead pushed through his single central exhaust. Tongues of orange and red streamed forth, causing Dambuster to recoil. Not for long, however, as the massive aeromorph reached down and clamped a hand over the exhaust. Diverting his fury into one last act of resistance, G-2's heart fell when he looked over his shoulder. His tail burned white-hot, but even that didn't deter the mammoth hands gripping him. The intense heat did little damage, and his dominator's bulky palm took the brunt of his jets without a scratch.