Overnight in Bay Seven

His spent dick receding, Dambuster jerked it a couple of times for good measure, before turning tail and reopening the hangar bay door.

"Now get some sleep," he said, casting a careless eye over his shoulder, "I hear you got work to do tomorrow."

* * *

As per his orders, the next morning G-2 attended flight trials. Pitted against stealth jet models currently in active service, he was tasked with demonstrating his unique capabilities, and justifying the faith placed in him by the brass. The neighbouring airfield (well...neighbouring in flight terms) was tasked with challenging him. Mock dogfights, high-speed manoeuvres, and a battery of sensor tests filled the itinerary, lasting hours.

Fortunately, after last night's escapades he'd returned to his prior gracefulness. No sign of tampering remained — barring the faintest stretch marks on his armoured fuselage, but few would notice unless performing a full physical inspection.

By the time G-2 had completed the trials, he'd been put through his paces six times over. Relaxed, having performed excellently, he nonetheless felt the aches of constant activity in his frame. Joints creaked — devoid of oil. Motors whirred faintly, their coils brimming with electromagnetic discharge. G-2 jets had darkened from carbon scoring after such a long time in the air. The prototype was altogether wrecked from the day's events.

He did his best. It was done now. He could leave...

"G-2," a comparatively tiny human officer said, addressing the much taller being during debriefing, "you've crushed the competition. These trials have been a resounding success!"

"Thank you sir." G-2 stood upright, dwarfing everyone in the hangar. Again wearing his 'uniform', covering what little shame he had. The previous night's incident with Dambuster long pushed from memory as he saluted the ranking officer.

The human called him forward. G-2 took barely a step before he needed to crouch, kneeling to face him. Small in comparison to the elated aero, only reaching his ankle — just ahead of the last of the articulations between foot and shin. Close by, but ignored, was his bulge...the synthetic package shaking with the occasional movement of his legs. G-2 shifted his hips and seated posture as the officer circled his side, tracking the human.

Returning to the front, the human officer spoke: "report to the base commander for permanent lodgings."

"E-excuse me?"

Zooming in, the aero could see him frown. "You got that, G-2?"

"I thought—"

"You thought nothing airman! Thanks to a change in the duty roster, you've been ordered to deploy to this airbase for the foreseeable future."

No.

"Got something on your mind?"

G-2 rose. Glancing at the officer, he shook his head. "No sir."

"Good, report to hangar bay 34..."

The droning of the human faded as he was left to process his future. G-2 bit the inside of his cheek, shearing his serrated teeth on the tough, stretchy material. I have to stay here!? His mind protested loudly, but not loud enough to escape his disciplined silence.

Here?

With...

...

FUCK!!!

* * *

The eerie grin of Dambuster met him as he entered the hangar, despondent.

"Hey there G-2."

The huge aero turned to face him. Naked. A solid cylinder of steel and concrete in his left hand, pumping the weight like a bodybuilder. G-2 frowned. There was no need to exercise like that — regular servicing sufficed to keep an aeromorph's muscles in shape. No, he was doing that to flex his power...

G-2 train of thought derailed when Dambuster stood up, letting his massive erection show for all around to see. Noticing the other's stare, he smirked. "Always get a little worked up during free time. Nothing that won't be fixed, however."

"They let you out-of-uniform?"

"Well, not so much 'let' as 'tolerate'. Like I said, guys like me are valued. Leeway is to be expected. Speaking of..."

He turned and shouted at the rest of the hangar. Only now did G-2 realised who else was present. Other aeros began to close in, curious and...intrigued.

"Come meet our newest member," Dambuster declared, spreading his arms wide, summoning his wingmen. A small crowd of available aeros formed, blocking any escape. Many colours splashed across his vision. Greys, blues, greens, beiges...accompanying his smooth black. "They were watching your performance today. Gotta say, you impressed everyone."

Impressed was certainly one way to describe their looks. Each new face, new shape, brought a tremble to G-2. He spied names — callsigns — printed in stark lettering on their collars or above their pecs. Markings abounded. Serial numbers, kill counts, and some that were clearly borne of personal flourish. Slowly, G-2 got to learn the names of his new 'friends':

Matador — a six-engined turboprop morph. Red lines traced seams on his body where armour plates joined together. Chest rippled with muscles, forming an impenetrable bulwark of sheer strength, giving Dambuster a run for his money. Notches all along his thigh denoted bombing runs, as he appeared to be another heavy like his compatriot. They ran from the edge of his knee, rows four-wide, continuing up until one's eyes met his massive junk, without cover. G-2 gulped as the large cock flopped into view. Above his waist, on the left-hand side, was a picture of a feminised male human in a cropped blue airman's uniform, bending over in a suggestive posture. No prizes for guessing which side he played for!

Cannonball, the next surly beast to confront G-2, was a gunship. His wingpack was short and squat, but covered in compressors and turbines — enough to send him soaring at Mach 5. For someone his size, that was quite a feat. His shoulders had small protruding mount points, currently unused. Similar points ran along his arms, this time with armaments. Rapid-fire cannons formed an array of aerial artillery capable of smashing fortified positions. He'd surely earned the adage 'Cannonball', proven by G-2's hurried observation of his markings. Hurried, because another giant cock hung from between his broad thighs. Another source of consternation for the smaller aero.

G-2 didn't want to look any more, but wherever he turned, another threatening face made itself known. Vickers. Sarge. Greenbriar. Sledgehammer. Each name filling him with dread. Each bulky form shrinking him, battering down his resistance. Were there no thinner aeromorphs on-base?

"Impressed," Dambuster repeated, catching G-2's frayed attention 'midst the prison of mighty chests suffocating him, "so much so that I had a word with the brass, let them know how much you appreciated learning from an experienced flyer such as myself. Strangely enough, they agreed."

"Oh no!"

Another aero chimed in: "oh yes honey."

Dambuster continued: "so me and the guys got to thinkin': I can't be the only one to teach you the tricks of the trade; now, can I? We share things in this hangar."

G-2 looked around, seeing everyone's erect dicks pointed his way. Big, meaty shafts. Hands stroking. Forecovers sliding back to reveal their tips. Billowing heads poking aggressively at the air. Leaking fluid. Balls wobbling side-to-side as their excitement grew.

Two of the aeros high-fived, no doubt eager to sample the delights on offer.

Dambuster cooed: "you've got your work cut out for ya, son."

That same resignation that came over G-2 last night returned with a vengeance. His head lowered, eyes dipping and closing halfway. He saw his own figure, meek in comparison. Cock and balls tucked neatly into his jock-strap. A goody-two-shoes, by-the-book flyer — following every rule the brass laid down. Every regulation. When he caught glimpses of the burgeoning sausagefest around him, it seemed like it was all a waste. Dambuster won. His way of doing things reigned supreme. He belonged here now...

Reluctantly, he muttered: "wh...who's first."

Another laugh from Dambuster, and guffaws from the assembled crowd, silenced him. "You dumb motherfucker," one of them — Matador — said, "we ain't waiting in line!" The heavy, booming thuds of his feet as he approached sent shivers through G-2. "DB's told us good things 'bout you. How eagerly you raised your exhaust for him...we want a taste of our new brother's...hospitality."

"Yeah," said another, possibly Vickers, "we all heard how much you loved DB's cock. How you screamed for him to fill you with his paste!" Moving quickly, he grabbed hold of G-2's ass cheek. "How you begged him for more!"

"Something our bro didn't get to try yet," came the raspy voice of Sarge, a camo-patterned fighter-bomber who still could go toe-to-toe with heavies like Dambuster or Matador, "is how good your mouth feels...I call dibs on first BJ!"

Dambuster invited all his brothers-in-arms to begin their approach. G-2 shot a desperate look — a confusing blend of fear and desire, his mind losing itself again. The large aero merely shrugged, and patted the two nearest to him on the shoulder. "We did come up with a codename for ya. Somethin' to suit your new position/role in our family. I was right in guessing, based on your attitude when you came here, that you wanted a callsign. Just like one of the big boys?"

G-2 coughed an affirmative.

"Well, we found one..."

"What is it?" he barked, feeling several cocks brush against his hips and thighs. They were closing in! He didn't know where to look, to put his hands. Part of his programming toyed with the aero, calling for him to abandon himself fully, to offer his body to the rest.

"C'mon — tell me!"

Dambuster drew to his full height, and stepped into the ring of bodies. His strong hand fell on Sarge's neck. "Hey...what the—"

In a flash, he tossed aside the hungry aeromorph, taking his place in front of G-2. His own cock twitched triumphantly, having stolen Sarge's dibs. "Mine," he growled, his voice rumbling from the very pit of his core, the word instilling obedience in the others — shifting and competing for a good spot to observe. Lust incensed the crowd, who bayed for action. Dambuster raised his hand and curled his finger, not at G-2 — who remained below eyeline — but Matador. His fellow aero happily took position at G-2's rear, dripping cock nestling between his cheeks.

G-2 could feel the wetness grow. Splashes of liquid lubricant and over-eager emission coated his crack, making the cleft between his buttocks nice and slippery. Checking behind himself, the smaller aero winced as he felt the thick pillar of Matador's cock press against him. Looking ahead, he saw Dambuster's length dance inches from his nose. Broad. Mesmerising. He didn't want to stay; but as the heat of the many bodies pressing together, and the strong pungency of their libidos consumed the atmosphere, left G-2 questioning himself.

"Spit it out," he snarled, "what you think my callsign should be!"

"..."

After a moment's pause, and some stifled sniggering from his partners, Dambuster cleared his throat. His cock pressed at G-2's lips, parting his narrow jaw as he began to slip inside.

"Spitroast."