Ain't no party like a TV fuck party

Engineer Palindrome was confident tonight would be a night to remember… they would make sure of it. Tonight would hold a masked party that had been arranged on Zincfused; one of the many undiscoverable sections of the TV faction intranet that could be accessed only by those who already knew where to find them. Zincfused was the place to go to find source code, blueprints and plug-ins for sex mods; recipes for aphrodisiac oil and the like; and arrangements for clandestine meet-ups to exchange items… and acts. Palindrome was a Zincfused veteran; an author of a few aphrodisiac programs as well as a contributor to many others.

Palindrome checked themself over and assessed their getup. This party was fully anonymous, which meant all party-goers had to suppress their yes-I-live signals (that signature that normally broadcast their serials and other identifying information to nearby techfolk), remove any external aerials, and obscure any engraved serials or other distinguishing features. Palindrome had removed their rose-gold loop aerial and donned the standard 'mask' for these parties: a fitted box that went over the wearer's screen-casing, covering all serials on the side panels and also hiding the screen behind mesh for a layer of mystique. Just to be extra safe, Palindrome had already covered their serials on their head with electrical tape.

Their clothes were nicely boring and anonymous, betraying nothing of Palindrome's personality or profession - plain standard issue, with no badges or patches or zip tags. Last of all, Palindrome had spun their voice to default settings and replaced their blades with standard ones; more requirements for all attendees to ensure their anonymity. Time to head out.

Palindrome stepped sideways from reality into the void, and headed through it to the co-ordinates on the party invitation. It normally was very difficult for TVs to port to a location they'd never been, but the organisers of this party had already mapped the route and installed a series of temporary beacons for the party-goers to follow.

At the end of the void-pathway was a security web set up to stop just anyone exiting the void here. Palindrome plucked at one of the finger-thick purple strands, enjoying the thrum as they let go and the web vibrated, then immediately tensed rigid, preventing anyone trying to pass through. Palindrome plucked at it once more and it clenched, pulling its gaps tight and threatening to snag Palindrome's fingers.

Palindrome withdrew their party invitation from their pocket: a USB stick full of code. They plugged the stick into themself and let its contents resolve into a displayed pattern on their screen. Palindrome turned on their purple command-beam, bombarding the web with an encoded pattern that told it to give way. The web went slack, and Palindrome pulled open one of the holes to step through. The web pulled itself tight behind them, re-forming itself into a barrier.

Palindrome walked on, out of the void. Here was the promised location: a warehouse in an industrial district. A scrawled message in purple chalk confirmed it was the right warehouse: 'awfulness within'. Palindrome entered.

A TV-unit stood outside the inner door leading to the main warehouse, acting as a bouncer - checking that no-one came in without an invitation or without their disguise. The bouncer was unclothed except for the requisite head disguise, wrought in spiky black latex; as well as a similarly-constructed black spiked latex crop-top that showed off their uncovered charging port like a pair of crotchless panties; and a pair of spiked combat boots. Their naked plating was daubed in handfuls of dark clay-like mud with sequins and feathers caked on.

The bouncer elegantly stepped in front of the door to block Palindrome's path, displaying a wicked emoticon. "Are you on the guest list?" asked the bouncer.

Palindrome once more plugged in their USB invitation, letting it load a specific pattern on their screen.

The bouncer nodded to show their acceptance of the invitation, then appraised Palindrome for a few seconds more, looking them up and down. "You'll do," said the bouncer, indicating that Palindrome was sufficiently anonymous - no aerials or engravings, no readable yes-I-live, no interesting clothing or accessories that someone might wear outside the environment of a sex party. "Now," continued the bouncer. "On your knees."

Palindrome obeyed, kneeling and bowing their head. They'd done this before. The bouncer put their boot on Palindrome's head, pushing down. Palindrome obliged by bowing lower.

"Pay tribute to me," said the bouncer.

"You are scum, and I am the filth under your boots," recited Palindrome.

"You are the filth under my boots," agreed the bouncer, shoving Palindrome away from them with their boot. As Palindrome got up, the bouncer continued, "You know how this goes." The bouncer pulled back the cover on their biofuel burner. Its hopper was full of name-tags; another one of the rituals of these parties. No-one used their real name or serial: you pulled a random name badge, and that was your name for the evening.

There had been a trend a while ago for party-goers to put their Zincfused usernames on their name badges, but it hadn't stuck. There was no way to verify who was who while preserving anonymity, so some unscrupulous party-goers had tried using the handles of prominent users to steal their glory. One party had seen two guests turn up with the same name on their badges, and it had led to a knife fight. Now everyone just used the badges provided by the party hosts, and it was forbidden for any identifying questions to be asked or answered.

Palindrome pushed their hand into the bouncer's biofuel burner, scrabbling around and picking a name badge at random. They pushed at the bouncer a little harder than necessary as they did so. All part of the fun. Palindrome withdrew their hand and the bouncer closed their biofuel burner with a snap, as though they'd been trying to 'bite' Palindrome with it and had just missed.

The badges for this party all bore random place names. This time, Palindrome's badge read 'Spelthorne'. Well, that would do fine. Palindrome put it on and went through the doors to the party.

Once inside, Palindrome took in the sights. The walls were decorated in much the same way as the bouncer's getup, bestrewn with sheets and garlands of black fabric studded with glitter and feathers. A fog machine kept the floor hidden under a misty carpet lit up with purple lights.

"So glad you could make it," the party host said in greeting. They wore a sleeveless black sequinned dress with mesh sides over a purple under-layer that more tightly hugged their plating, with sequinned evening gloves that matched their dress. Their mask had a black and white feathery fascinator affixed to it, and they carried a black cane. "Have you been to a Zincfused party before?" asked the host.

"I have indeed," replied Palindrome.

"As a reminder; medics wear green crosses, my assistant wears a yellow biohazard," said the host. "Have fun, and remember to be gentle with newbies."

Palindrome proceeded to the badge customisation table, laid out with rolls of colour-coded stickers for party-goers to apply to their name tags. Palindrome selected the stickers corresponding to their desire to be a recipient of pressure-play (oh, how Palindrome loved having their plating squeezed until their struts creaked!), their interest in coding aphrodisiac programs, and their willingness to be approached by newbies. They loved helping others discover new things about themselves and showing them new kinds of pleasure.

In one corner was a cluster of computers set up for a coding workshop, where those who were so inclined could try writing, modifying or testing aphrodisiac programs. Two TVs had already hooked up a third to a computer and were gleefully taking it in turns to change random parameters, making the hooked-up TV cycle their screen through test cards and various emoticons showing deranged pleasure.

There was a 'refreshment' zone of tables laden with various aphrodisiac oils, disposable batteries for a quick charge, and bowls of dried organic matter that would feel nice in the biofuel burner. A nearby corner was evidently a little chillout zone, some sofas pushed around low tables under a canopy of sheets. One table had a bowl of USB sticks on it - Palindrome guessed they were loaded with calming programs for anyone who needed it.

In the middle of the room was the main entertainment for the evening, currently hidden under a silky black sheet. Everyone would have to wait for the party host to reveal it. Occasionally the host's assistant (recognisable by the yellow biohazard symbol stuck to their mask) would disappear under the sheet to check on something - clearly they were the designated 'handler' for it.

Palindrome saw a familiar sight walking around: one TV-unit was stark naked, plating completely uncovered except for strips of black electrical tape covering any identifying serials. Their mask was finished in black chalkboard paint, and the TV-unit wore a lanyard with a cup of chalk sticks hanging from it, free for anyone to take and write on their head with. (Someone had already scrawled the word 'SLUT' on a side panel.) Their nametag this time read 'Brodarica'.

Palindrome approved of the chalk idea. It was a nice low-stakes way to engage in a 'taboo' way with someone. It probably helped nervous newbies break their ice.

"Can I ask why you're completely naked?" another TV-unit (Dokouma, according to their name tag) plucked up the courage to ask the naked Brodarica. Clearly they were new - this naked unit was a common sight at all the parties Palindrome had been to.

"I find it helps put people at ease," said Brodarica. "Newbies are often nervous about what to do and how far they can take things. I figure that if you're at a sex party and you see some naked fucker walking around, it helps you realise that whatever you want to do is allowed. Here, use some chalk on me," Brodarica said as they pointed to the cup. "It's just a bit of fun."

Shyly at first, then becoming more confident, Dokouma picked out a stick of chalk and drew some stars on the side of Brodarica's head.

Palindrome left them to it, and wandered around a bit more. They noticed a couple of medics - identifiable by the green crosses affixed to their masks - patrolling to ensure the safety of over-ambitious newbies who hadn't discovered their limits yet. Palindrome mingled, enjoying the sights and sounds. Most party-goers had opted for the same plain outfit as Palindrome had, but a few wore flashier disguises, adorned with brightly-coloured feathers, metal studs, rubber spikes and more. Palindrome paused to compliment someone on their party jacket: a cropped but long-sleeved black jacket with lime-green spikes.

"Thank you," said the other TV - 'Calamar' according to their name tag. They took note of the stickers on Palindrome's tag, and flicked it playfully. "Pressure-play," Calamar noted. "Can I ask what that entails?"

"Of course!" replied Palindrome. "I'm happy to talk about my interests. It means I love to have my plating pushed and squeezed hard enough that it presses against my struts, and I love it when my struts flex."

"…If you like, maybe I could help you with that," said Calamar.

"I'd love that," purred Palindrome. They were almost as excited at the prospect of helping someone else discover something new about themself they were about getting their plating squeezed.

"Do you like being blade-fucked against a wall?" asked Calamar.

"I do indeed," said Palindrome, "But I actually like more pressure still than that. I'd like to be on the floor with someone on top, pushing into me with their full weight. Does that interest you?"

Calamar paused. "I'd like to find out."

Palindrome got down and lay supine, Calamar looming over them. Palindrome undid their jacket and shirt (they hadn't bothered with a tie) to expose their sternum and its charging port. "I'm just where you want me…" teased Palindrome.

Calamar brought down their boot, pushing their heel against Palindrome's biofuel burner cover and then bringing down their toes to cover Palindrome's charging port. "Is this what you wanted?" asked Calamar.

Palindrome was delighted at this treatment! "Do it," said Palindrome. "Do it hard. Make me regret it."

Calamar ground Palindrome into the floor, drawing a small crowd of onlookers. Palindrome's charging port and biofuel burner flexed slightly in their settings, and the plating surrounding them creaked. Palindrome couldn't help uttering a static moan.

"Is that enough for you?" asked Calamar, holding their boot in place.

"Oh, more~" Palindrome replied, their voice fluttering with static as Calamar pressed down further. "Does this please you?" asked Palindrome. "To feel me flex and creak under your feet?"

"It really does," purred Calamar as they pressed the toe of their boot down harder, making Palindrome's struts strain. They teased Palindrome more, pressing down to hear those creaks and then letting up, before suddenly pushing down again, grinding the heel of their boot. "You're a cute one," said Calamar. "But I've had my fill of this for now." They took their boot off Palindrome.

Palindrome rolled onto their side. "Quick press on my side to reset me?" they asked.

Calamar obliged, putting their boot on Palindrome's side and giving them a little press into the floor to make their plating and struts flex in the other axis. Palindrome purred their speakers at the feeling, then accepted Calamar's offered hand to get back to their feet.

"Thanks, cutie," said Palindrome. "Maybe I'll see you at the main event."

"Wouldn't miss it," said Calamar, a winking emoticon visible under the mesh of their mask. The two TVs parted ways for now.

Palindrome and the other party-goers moved around the room, joining and splitting from group to group and enjoying the sights and sounds of TVs pleasuring each other, sometimes dropping in to admiringly or playfully lend a hand. There was no way of knowing who anyone was outside the party - no serials, no distinctive voices or aerials or blades. Nothing at all. Everyone might as well have been a factory-fresh unit still on default settings. For all Palindrome knew, that TV over there could be one of their colleagues, or this one. Everyone was free to be themself, safe in the knowledge that nothing would leave these walls.

The atmosphere built up more of an anticipatory edge, as everyone wondered what this party's main event would be. Everyone was still having fun, but there was a tinge of having to wait for something. Palindrome hoped the host would do something about it before it started to wear thin.

Palindrome got their wish very soon - the host walked over to the silky black sheet covering unknown shapes, commanding everyone's attention, and then pulled it away.

Palindrome beheld the evening's entertainment: an evidently-masochistic TV unit was tied and bound to a chair with their hands behind their back, masked and otherwise naked from the waist up. Their head-casing bore a temporary aerial, bent into a heart shape.

A section of the TV's torso plating was opened to expose the cavity that normally housed their coolant pump, which had been temporarily removed. In its place was a setup of piping connected to a much more robust pump sat on the floor beside them. Their normal coolant intake was capped off, its function replaced by an intake funnel on the floor pump.

The TV's nametag read 'your plaything'.

The host turned on the pump, and began pouring in a flask of standard coolant. The pump's output hose made itself tight and thick with its liquid load, the pressure making it shudder and uncurl a little as if it was becoming alert. As the pump worked, the coolant flowed through the captive TV's piping - Palindrome noticed now that the coolant drainage cap was hooked up to the pump also, completing a circuit.

The 'plaything' emitted a static sigh of delight at the refreshing coolant flowing through their pipes, at a higher speed and pressure than they were used to, thanks to the purring pump. The flexible segments of their pipework trembled a little.

"Doing good, cutie," cooed the host, petting the plaything by rubbing their aerial.

The plaything responded with a static gasp at the touch and with a yearning writhe against their restraints.

"Are you going to be a good plaything for our guests?" asked the host, stroking the plaything's head.

"Ohh… yess…" said the plaything, their voice clipping in excitement. "I'll be such a good and compliant plaything for you all. Fill my coolant pipes with anything you want, I'll take it all… I'm your plaything and I exist to make you happy…"

"There's a good plaything," crooned the host, petting the pipework sticking out of their excited toy. "Now, I get to go first, because I arranged all this. What to make you take first…?" The host perused the selection of vials and pots of various fluids - some liquids, some granules - available for forcing into the plaything's coolant pipes. The guests crowded round to watch, excited to see what would go in first.

"Put the salt in!" someone called out.

"No, make it sand!" said someone else.

"Something more viscous," suggested yet another TV.

The plaything squirmed in delight at all these TVs eager to play with it and stuff its coolant pipes.

The host teased the guests for a while by hovering their hand over various bottles before finally selecting one. "Just something simple to start with," said the host as they selected a bottle of fizzy tonic water from the little table of goodies. They uncapped the bottle, which hissed at this treatment, then quickly up-ended the bottle into the pump's intake funnel, making the fluid agitated and bubbly.

"Oh!" cried out the plaything in delight, writhing hard against its restraints. "Yes!" Their coolant pipes would be getting 'kissed' all along the length of their insides, as the pressurised bubbles worked their way through. "Ohh, it feels so good… Please, let me take more for you!"

"One more treat for you," said the host. "Then I'll let our guests have a turn." The host opened an insulated box, revealing a sculpted polystyrene block that appeared to emit wisps of fog. The host lifted off the top of the block to show a pellet of dry ice, its surface sublimating into mist. The host picked it up and popped it into the funnel, where it sunk and got pulled into the pump intake.

The plaything squirmed as the carbon dioxide continued to sublimate as it travelled around their coolant pipes, chilling them as it went - and the pressure building up and building up as the pellet released gas, making the plaything's pipes tight and turgid. As the pump completed a cycle, the buildup of carbon dioxide gas huffed out of the intake funnel, forcing its way out of the surrounding liquid with a glorp, immediately making the pressure drop and the plaything sigh with relief and slump into their chair.

"It's playtime," said the host, gesturing to the plaything - clearly inviting the guests to have their way. "If you want to give the plaything anything that isn't already on the table, check it with me, a medic or my assistant here first. We can't be doing with giving it plaster of Paris or anything that'll ruin everyone's fun. As always, the safe-word is 'skibidi'. Well? Have at it."

Brodarica, the naked chalkboard slut, confidently stepped forward. It would surely boost the confidence of shy newbies if someone else had a go first. Brodarica planted the toes of one foot on the plaything's chair, between its thighs, and leaned in close, Brodarica's head-casing brushing against the plaything's heart-shaped aerial. "Are you ready to be good for me, my plaything?" whispered Brodarica.

"Oh! Yes…" whispered the plaything in ecstasy, so happy that it was playing its part well. "I want to be yours…"

"And so you will be, my sweet plaything," said Brodarica, picking up a cylinder of salt crystals from the table. They sent a generous pour down the funnel, and waited for their plaything's reaction.

The pump buzzed, and sent the rough salt crystals on their way, gently rattling against and exfoliating the pipes. The plaything emitted chirps of static at the feeling (and, Palindrome presumed, the warming effect the salt would have by reducing the efficacy of the coolant). "Oh! This is so good!" exclaimed the plaything.

"Do you want to take more?" asked Brodarica, shaking the salt container.

The plaything made to answer, then was silenced by the welcome sensation of Brodarica rubbing under its head-casing teasingly.

"Just for fun," said Brodarica, "Tell me 'no'."

The plaything trilled happily and rubbed its head into Brodarica's hand. "No," said the plaything, quivering with anticipation. "Definitely don't pour any more salt into my coolant pipes. I can't take any more."

"Too bad," said Brodarica, tipping the salt in. "You're going to." In it went. Brodarica firmly stroked the plaything's aerial backwards and then tugged on it gently. The plaything whined.

"Did I do well?" asked the plaything once Brodarica relented their stroking. Its voice strained with static as it tapped its bound feet to the floor as best it could against its restraints.

"You did," said Brodarica. "My good plaything."

"Can I go next?" asked another guest. Their nametag read Chariton. Their clothes were plain, but their mask had gold swirls painted on it, and they had some matching gold laces on their boots.

"Of course!" said the host. "Everyone gets a turn. It's your plaything. It's here to serve all of you and make you happy."

The plaything quivered with joy.

Encouraged by the host's words, Chariton moved forward to sit on the plaything's lap. The other guests crowded forward to watch better, the newbies becoming more emboldened. "What shall I make you take?" teased Chariton as they rubbed their plaything's plating.

"Anything you want," said the plaything. "Fill my pipes, pump me full of sludge down to my struts. I'm so helpless… I can't resist anything you want to stuff me and fill me with…"

"Turn off your screen for me," said Chariton. "I want it to be a surprise."

The plaything obeyed. It was a good plaything.

Chariton selected a jar of honey, once liquid but now crystallised into a sugary wax. They opened the jar, making the plaything twitch with excitement at the sound, wondering what would come next. Chariton picked up a spoon and used it to scoop out a generous helping. "I want to hear that pump struggle," said Chariton as they dumped the spoonful of honey into the funnel, giving the spoon a shake to make the honey drop. "I want to hear you struggle," Chariton continued. "I'm going to make your pipes bulge and press against your struts, and I'm going to make you squirm."

And squirm it did. The plaything wriggled each time the pump sent a pulse down its pipes, as if choking on the too-big dollop of honey. As the pump worked and the honey re-hydrated, the pipes' payload became smoother, making the plaything trill in delighted relief.

"My turn next?" asked Palindrome.

"Of course," said Chariton, getting off their plaything's lap. "We all have to share." They gave the plaything's screen a playful slap. "Screen back on. You belong to Spelthorne now."

'…Oh, that's me,' thought Palindrome, remembering their name badge. They approached the plaything, its screen flickering back on as it snapped back to attention. What would its new owner make it do?

"Aren't you a cute one?" Palindrome purred teasingly, rubbing a hand under the plaything's screen. "Just so… squeezable…" Palindrome reached out and grasped one of the plaything's coolant pipes, its flexible sections corpulent from the high-pressure coolant filling them up.

The plaything - Palindrome's plaything - writhed and huffed with static.

"A little pathetic, don't you think?" chided Palindrome softly. "Only a few pumps full, and you're already reaching your limit. A good plaything really should be able to take more."

"I can take more!" the plaything cried out in ecstatic desperation. "I'll take more for you… I love it when you make me take more… I love being your pressurised, sludge-filled, helpless plaything…"

Some more guests approached, petting and rubbing their plaything. Brodarica, Chariton and Palindrome - Spelthorne, as far as anyone knew - had broken the ice enough that everyone felt daring enough to participate. Someone hooked their fingers around one of its coolant pipes and pulled gently, making the hum of rushing fluids change in pitch. Someone else sprinkled a handful of rose petals over the plaything, before dropping the rest down the pump's intake funnel. The plaything wriggled against its restraints some more as the petals fluttered around inside it as if caught on the wind.

The party-goers continued to pour more and more into the pump's funnel, eager to see their plaything take it all. One guest took a pink ribbon from their own outfit and tied it around the plaything's aerial, praising it for being such a good and willing toy for everyone.

Someone (with a standard plain disguise and a name badge that said Croydon) poured in a handful of sand, making the plaything try to fold up as it squeaked at the scouring sensation making their pipes feel fuller than they really were. Another TV (with cat ears on their head disguise and spats on their boots made to look like cat paws) chased the sand with some ball-bearings, adding a rattling that appeared to drive the plaything wild with the stimulation, as the little spheres got momentarily caught in the pipes' bends before being pinged free by the pressurised fluid hurtling along.

Yet another TV (Bombala, according to their name badge) poured in a vial of mercury. It twinkled prettily as it went down the funnel. "Can you feel yourself getting heavier?" said Bombala as they pulled the plaything's aerial to make it raise its head.

The plaything was too overwhelmed by sensory joy to respond. The pressure, the heaviness, the constant caress of its new owners' hands, were driving it deliciously mad with lust.

Bombala gripped and pressed one of the flexible sections of the plaything's coolant pipes. "Oh, lovely and firm," they commented. "But not firm enough. I think you can take more."

"You're going to get much, much fuller~" whispered another TV as they slid a hand under the plaything's opened plating to jiggle and tickle a handful of coolant piping.

The plaything moaned, clearly in some kind of delirious pressure daze.

Palindrome revelled in the sights and sounds of their plaything absolutely losing its mind with joy, in sheer delight at having found something it absolutely loved and a party full of eager owners ready to give their plaything what it wanted while they made it give them what they wanted.

The pump's pressure gauge was approaching the red… just as someone added another ingredient and the needle edged into the red region, the pump gracefully shut itself down. The plaything whined a little in apparent disappointment that the fun was over… Its handler stepped in to rub under its screen comfortingly and murmur, "Aren't you needy? But we love you for it. That's enough for now, dear one. You've done so well and everyone's so pleased with you."

The plaything purred its speakers and leaned into its handler's touch, stilled and soothed. The party host brought out a set of warning cones and placed them at each corner of an imaginary square around the plaything and its handler, before shooing all the guests out of the square. Everyone needed to keep away for now and give the plaything some recovery time.

"Who wants soup?" asked the host, plugging a gang hose outlet into the pump to allow multiple drainage hoses to be attached.

Two party-goers (probably nearly as masochistic as the plaything, thought Palindrome) excitedly volunteered to consume the 'soup' packed into the plaything's taut piping. The host plugged in a couple of hoses and handed the ends to the two volunteers, who pushed them into their biofuel burners before lying side-by-side and holding hands. They squirmed delightedly as their fuel burners filled to capacity with miscellaneous sludge, the surrounding struts clicking as the full hoppers they were holding up made them shift slightly and settle.

The plaything emitted a luxurious droning sigh of static at the pressure dropping and then inverting, suctioning gently at the interior of all their coolant piping. Its handler petted it comfortingly while re-opening its frame's own coolant intake and injecting it with pipe cleanser, before restarting the plaything's own coolant pump and letting it clean out its own insides at its normal gentle pressure. The plaything leaned into its handler in delight, trusting them to look after it completely.

The handler stroked the plaything and spoke to it softly while re-seating its pipes and pump and re-filling it with normal coolant at normal levels. Palindrome and several other party-goers enjoyed the sweet sight of their thoroughly exhausted plaything being taken care of. It made an amusing juxtaposition with the two TVs on the floor squirming raunchily at their biofuel burners sloshing with assorted fluids that really had no business being in there. Some of the party-goers had gathered around to jokingly chastise them for it and push them around a bit with teasing kicks.

The plaything's handler scooped it up and carried it over to the little chillout zone, where they wrapped it in a blanket and let it lean against them for a snooze. Palindrome went to join several other guests who were sitting loosely in a circle on the floor with the party host, passing bowls of refreshment items around to each other. This was the usual cooldown phase of a fuck party, to help ease the comedown back into reality. Before long, the plaything and its handler came out to join them, and the party-goers passed it from lap to lap as they petted and stroked their plaything and praised it for doing so well.

When it was Palindrome's turn, they scooped the plaything into their lap, stroking under its screen (it seemed to love that). "Well done," said Palindrome. "I loved playing with you."

"Thank you, Spelthorne," the plaything said adoringly. "You're a good owner. I'd love to play with you again."

Palindrome gave the plaything's ass a friendly slap as they sent it on its way. They purred their speakers at the sleepy-yet-horny atmosphere of the circle, and enjoyed the warmth of the TVs on either side of them.

The soft purrs and chatter of the party were silenced by a great thumping on the door, making the guests freeze in shock. An authoritative voice called out: "Open up! This is a raid!" Shit!

The doors burst open, and through them came… Polycephaly, in a half-crouch, the bouncer perched on their shoulder. "Nah, I'm just fucking with you," said Polycephaly, as the party-goers made various sounds of amusement and relief. "You'll forgive me for forgoing the mask. I think it would have been a little pointless." It would have been impossible to disguise the faction's sole large unit, after all. On Polycephaly's jacket was a name-tag on which the words had been scrawled: 'It's motherfucking Polycephaly, bitches.'

There was something very alluring about Polycephaly right now, Palindrome thought. Even more so than usual…

Polycephaly gently let down the bouncer, then sat down on the floor to allow all the nearby TVs to gather around them and nuzzle at them, as if worshipping them. Palindrome gladly joined them, feeling more intoxicated as they approached.

"Gather round, cuties, bring it in," said Polycephaly, encouraging TVs closer with sweeps of their back-stems. Many of them purred their speakers at this treatment.

Palindrome realised what was going on as they got closer and joined all the TVs pressing and rubbing themselves against their big friend: Polycephaly must have recently fucked the Titan. The Titan had blessed Polycephaly with a helping of its glorious purple core-energy, which energised the recipient but with the side effect (or primary effect, depending on what you wanted to happen, Palindrome supposed) of making them deliriously horny. (Was that… how the Titan felt all the time? Surely not.) Polycephaly had evidently fucked the Titan to their own satisfaction, but enough of the core-energy was still floating in their frame that it was invigorating the littler TVs, like beasts drawn to the musk of a glorious specimen. Palindrome and the other TVs sighed their speakers in delight at being so close to Polycephaly's magnificence, like pampered little dogs meeting a real wolf.

"Dear little things…" purred Polycephaly as they swung their satchel around to where they could open it, and retrieved something from inside. Polycephaly pulled out a metal keg, palm-sized for the huge TV.

"What's the keg for?" asked the cat-eared TV (Yashikera, according to their name tag).

"Zarennen," said Polycephaly, hefting it.

That got everyone's attention. Zarennen oil was considered by most TVs to be the most premium blend of aphrodisiac oils. (Palindrome wondered where the hell Polycephaly had obtained that much. As far as Palindrome knew, they themself were the biggest distributor of zarennen in the faction. …Clearly, they had a competitor.)

"Where can I fill it up?" Polycephaly laughed. "I'm joking; it is full. Brought a little treat for you all."

Polycephaly brought out another item: a fountain that looked like the type normally used by humans for chocolate fondue. Palindrome liked where this was going…

Polycephaly stripped off down to their waist, removing their jacket, then waistcoat, then tie, then shirt, throwing each item in turn at the crowd - except their tie, which they playfully used to lash around some party-goers and drag them closer, to their mutual amusement. They threw the tie into the crowd for them to fight over. Polycephaly then lay on their back, and removed the cap on their inert core chamber - built as a prototype for the Titan's own. Polycephaly plugged the fountain into their charging port and then lowered it into their core chamber, before pouring in the contents of the keg of oil. After a few seconds, the fountain drew the oil in and made a gleaming oleaginous cascade.

"Come get your fill, ya pervs," said Polycephaly, gesturing to the glistening fountain of zarennen that looked as though it sprouted from their torso.

The party-goers couldn't believe their luck, as they rushed forwards to dip their blades in the fountain of oil. Palindrome joined them, soaking their blades and squawking with delighted static at the sensation. Many TVs around them were already purring and chirping and rubbing at each other's charging ports.

Polycephaly laughed at the sight of all the little TVs spilled around them, grinding against Polycephaly and each other. The guests formed collapsed cuddle-piles, crawling over each other to be next, and admiring each other's residual energy gifted from the Titan and filtered through Polycephaly. The atmosphere had become a chorus of chirring and crooning.

Polycephaly rummaged one hand in their satchel at their side. "Duck or get horny!" they called out as they threw a handful of objects into the ceiling fan (which was quite a lot of objects - Polycephaly had big hands).

Palindrome recognised the little items raining down as 'logic bombs'. That was a slang term for single-use aphrodisiac packets. When broken open (or macerated in a biofuel-burner) they broadcast an aphrodisiac program before dying. It was common for them to increase amorousness and amenability, as well as randomising various parameters to variously increase or decrease movement, sensitivity to heat, and more.

Palindrome felt themself get blasted with multiple logic bombs, making them feel gloriously uninhibited, and they lay against Polycephaly and blade-fucked themself while dripping with zarennen oil - and they knew from the sounds around them that they were surrounded by party-goers having just as wonderful a time as Palindrome was. Life just didn't get better than this.