[center][b]Picking Up Some Gas[/b][/center]

[center]By Kaydrien Iceclaw[/center]



“None?”

“Nope. We’re out.”

Sanji let out a synthesized groan, rubbing at his head. That still felt odd, for the simple reason that it hadn’t been his head for very long. Or his hand he was rubbing with, for that matter; to Sanji’s eternal annoyance consciousness uploading was a well-explored technology, whereas no one had worked out a practical faster than light drive yet. So when he had finally decided that he had to tour Mars, the only means of transport available were a weeks-long commercial flight through meatspace, or riding a tight-beam laser transmission to the red planet.

Reluctantly he’d chosen the cheaper, faster option. Reluctantly because no matter what they said, he had still wondered [i]just a little[/i] if he was technically still the person who had left, or a copy. But he’d had to admit that the continuity of consciousness package seemed to have solved that issue. Felt weird as hell to be spread across two brains, three light-minutes away from each other, but it was hard to argue that you weren’t the same person when there wasn’t even as much disconnect between now and then as there was during a good night’s sleep.

So now he was in a rental body. Synthetic, mostly machine, but with the full package of different senses. It had a thick tail- the tail he tried not to think about too much, because it spazzed out when he thought about it- and a muzzle. The whole thing was vaguely lizard-like. A better model than he could have gotten for his money if he’d held out for something more like his original human body (availability issues, apparently). He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, other than being glad for the chance to experience a new planet.

He hadn’t expected skimping on his other rental to be the issue. The rover buggy had run out of gas, directly contradicting the piece-of-shit fuel gauge. He’d been stranded in the quasi-terraformed dust flats an hour’s walk from the nearest refueling station. And while the digitrade legs of his temporary body had the admirable stamina of a machine it had still been a boring, dusty trudge.

Now that he was here at the glorified martian gas station, they didn’t have any fuel canisters available to carry back.

“They’re on back order.” The splicer manning the cash register explained sheepishly. She was some sort of canine biped, not uncommon nowadays. “And, well, we could try calling someone to run some out to your transport, but with the phase three terraforming project up north all the service vehicles are booked. So it could take a few days.”

“How many is ‘a few’?” Sanji marveled at the buzzing quality of his voice again, and suppressed the urge to beat-box a little for the sheer fun of it. That was one thing he liked about this body. He could do out-and-out techno with no equipment. “I was hoping to get to Olympus Mons in time for the big rock concert.”

“Could be a week.” Her ears drooped, sorrowful enough to make him feel bad for asking. “I mean, I can try, but…”

He sighed, one of the few sounds he made with his lungs. “No. I… Maybe. Let me think.”

Okay. So… no fuel cans. Maybe he could get creative. 

Sanji spent the next few minutes strolling the aisles. Like any truck stop on earth there were knickknacks, book chips, potato chips, and a few randomly-selected necessities. But to his annoyance, nothing like a reasonably sized liquid-proof container. There were some nice ‘native’ pottery bowls that might have worked, but a glance outside killed that plan dead. Gusts of wind blew clouds of dust past here and there. If he tried to carry fuel in an open container, he didn’t want to think what the grit would do to the engine block.

The currently-not-human was just about to give up on the idea and resign himself to either trying to hitch hike the rest of the way or miss out on the event, when an idea came to him.

“Hey, do you have an information terminal I can use?”

The attendant pointed him over to the uplink, and sure enough, his memory hadn’t played him false. He scrolled through the virtual pages of the owner’s manual for his body, reading through the relevant sections three times to be sure he had it right.

Well. It ought to work.

Sanji didn’t entirely trust his ability with the funky ‘imaginary settings menu’ he could bring up in his head yet. He flipped a panel on his arm, and tapped away with his other three fingers on the input board there. When he had everything loaded, he locked the panel closed again, and strode outside.

The fuel pumps were decidedly retro. He picked one of the vacant ones, the third from the left, and swiped his credit card before punching in the standard grade fuel. Sanji took one glance around to make sure nobody was looking, and lifted the nozzle to his reptiloid muzzle.

Taking the hard tube in his borrowed mouth had to be one of the weirdest things he had ever done, right up until he pulled the lever to start the torrent of hydrocarbons down his gullet. 

[i]Huh. I guess I don’t have a gag reflex.[/i]

It wasn’t even all that unpleasant really. The fuel poured through his throat, barely grazing his tongue which didn’t seem to know how to process it. Like the burn of distilled spirits mixed with oil and a taste that was too intense to classify. He opened wider, pushing the nozzle past the base of his tongue so that the bizarre flavor wouldn’t distract him as much while he kept an eye on the counter.

That number flicked upward, too slow it felt like. He urged it onward, hoping to get this over with before anyone saw. A gallon ought to do it. Half a gallon, even. That was what, two liters?

Why was this pump so damn [i]slow?[/i]

It counted upward. 0.25 liters. 0.5 liters. 0.75 L. 1.00 L.

He felt increasingly full, like he had eaten a good meal. Then like he was overeating. And then he felt the stretch hit.

A bizarre sensation, past full, where his synthetic stomach was pressing out beyond the limit of the natural human organ.

[i]I can deal with it.[/i]

Still the meter counted upward. The snails pace had to be his imagination. Self-consciousness.

1.25 L

1.50 L

1.75 L

[i]A-almost there. I can do two liters. Just have to walk it back to the car.[/i]

The pull against his innards intensified, growing enough to begin to bulge out the synth-skin of his belly. Unconsciously he reached down with a hand to feel it swelling out, the unnaturally regular scale-pattern imprinted on the surface stretching into something more like biological imperfection over the hydrocarbon-filled stomach.

And, ever so slowly, something else built in the back of Sanji’s mind. 

2.00 L

That couldn’t be arousal, could it? It felt kind of like arousal, like a need.	He knew in theory that the lizard-android body was capable of sex, but at the time he hadn’t payed very much attention. Having sex in a body that wasn’t his would have been… weird. Maybe the swelling stomach was pressing against something else inside him, like his prostate. If he had one of those.

3.00 L

[i]What?[/i] Sanji had lost a few moments in the unexpected sensations of being fuller than would have been biologically plausible. Now, of course, he wasn’t beholden to mere biology. [i]…I could get a little more. Make it a gallon and a half just to be on the safe side? That would come out to about six liters. Why can’t we just settle on one set of measurements, anyway?[/i]

His belly continued to grow and stretch under his hand. Pressing at it made it slosh around inside him and drew an involuntary groan out of his subconscious that made it all the way to his speaker. It felt unreasonably good to have the artificial tissues pull at each other like that. Tough, stretchy, far beyond the elasticity of meat.

It kept coming. Filling him to a capacity that expanded to keep pace with the fluid influx. The startled realization came to him that he was sucking on the metal as if he could draw out the fuel faster. He made himself stop.

5.25 L

[i]Just a little more. Then...[/i] Sanji paused, uncertain. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end that thought. Almost certainly, he had intended to finish with ‘Then I can stop’. But that idea was unappetizing, and not because he was fuller than full already. [i]…The more I bring to the car, the less likely I’ll run out before getting back here…[/i]

He squashed the traitorous internal voice that told him he had enough to make the trip five times over. Viciously. Like running over a mosquito with a tanker truck.

The rest of him was busy with the wonder of being pumped full by the nozzle he had wrapped his lips around, a pleasant hard tube in his mouth to contrast the soft rush of fluid. His throat seemed to choke it down effortlessly with no need for excessive attention on his part, leaving him free to enjoy it. Both hands had left the handle now to grope at his belly. 

It was firmer now with the fluid pressure, but with plenty of give. He entertained himself by pressing the bulge to one side, then the other, stomach pressing against his other mechanorganic organs inside himself. [i]I bet I look almost pregnant, there’s so much. But I still want more.[/i]

The six liter mark came and went without his noticing, then seven, then eight. He was so full now that his over-inflated stomach had ceased to have the give that let him squish it properly, taught with energy-rich liquid meant to power rapid transportation. Instead, he switched to drumming on the tight skin of his abdomen.

He noticed the eleven liter mark only because the flow had slowed noticeably, and he bemoaned the loss. This time he let himself suck on the metal piping, wanting as much as he could get.

11.25 L

[i]More.[/i]

11.50 L

[i]MORE.[/i]

11.75 L

Sanji grapped the handle of the nozzle, shoving the whole thing further into his face as if that would coax more fuel into his gullet. The fullness almost hurt now, [i]would[/i] hurt if he pushed it much farther, but right up until the second it did that worry was outweighed by sheer need.

11.90 L

[i]Please.[/i] He begged the dispenser in his mind, as if it might pump liquid energy into him until he burst out of some fellow feeling for another built thing. He hauled on the nozzle, sucking as best his mechanical innards could. [i]Just a little more. Anything.[/i]

12.00 L

[i]Ding.[/i]

“Capacity limit reached.” It was his own voice, or rather the mechanical tones of his current body speaking directly into the inputs he associated with his ears, in perfect time with the auto-shutoff chime of the fuel pump.

He felt… perfect. Exactly as full as he could be.

And for a glorious moment, enabled by a body that wasn’t properly his, he felt he had reached something like nirvana.

…Then he realized that a half-dozen people of various species were staring at him. Watching him enthusiastically deepthroat a fueling nozzle. Seeing him look sixteen earth-months pregnant, belly ballooned out to hold slightly more than three whole gallons of fluid.

With that clarity which sometimes comes with being pushed, in the same instant, into embarrassment and all the way out the other side beyond humiliation, he slowly plucked the nozzle out of his unfamiliar muzzled mouth and hung it delicately in its slot.

“This pump is kind of sluggish.” 

“…Yeah. That one is a little busted.” Answered one of the people, an attendant of some feline-flavored genemod variety, a windshield wiper hanging in his numb clutches.

“That explains it.” It was a bluff of gargantuan proportions. In Sanji’s overloaded calm, walking away from the pump, he wondered if nobody was questioning it because of its sheer audacity. “You’re spilling gas everywhere, ma’am.”

The cyborg he passed blushed, averted her eyes, and put the fuel nozzle she had been gripping into the inlet on her buggy. Good. It would be a shame to waste fuel.

Sanji picked up his pace (as much as the bulk at his middle would allow) toward the dust flats, hoping against hope that none of them had seen the hard-on he felt pressing against the underside of his swelled belly.

[center]***[/center]

The trek back took easily twice as long as getting to the refueling station in the first place. On top of the extra weight, Sanji kept getting distracted.

His stomach, while easily too full to have much give to it, wobbled against the rest of his insides. It was nearly as bizarre, as pleasurable, as filling it up in the first place. For the most part. The points where it contacted his metal hips and ribs rubbed uncomfortably if he didn’t take a certain minimum of care with his gait.

Even that was bizarrely enticing. 

He’d had time to do a lot of thinking, and most of it revolved around the glorious feeling of getting filled up… and the associated circumstances. About a thousand steps away from the pumps it had finally hit him that all those people had watched him, and he’d nearly collapsed under the belated weight of their gaze. Which, unexpectedly, added to the tingle between his legs. Having something long and hard in his mouth was a pleasant thing to dwell on as well.

“Either one of the designers for this thing was a total perv.” He said out loud. “Or I have some [i]really weird fetishes[/i] I didn’t know about.”

He found the idea didn’t really bother him. More things to enjoy, right? Sanji even let himself daydream a bit about the possibilities. Maybe later he could, well, find a glory hole frequented by those genital-mod freaks who gave themselves impossible proportions and (more to the point) improbable outputs and just suck for a few days. Or he could find a garden hose, ram it under his tail, and fill his innards that way. Could he bloat up on solids? Eat and eat and eat? See if these jaws could unhinge enough to pull in a basket ball, perhaps? 

Overall, dreaming up stranger and stranger ways to stretch his synthetic insides out passed the time admirably. By the time he made it to his stranded dune buggy, they had been replaced by a different idea.

About the halfway mark, he had stopped to give the myomer in his legs a break, and on a lust-fueled hunch searched through himself for the owner’s manual he had known existed in this body’s circuits, but hadn’t before bothered to locate. Only the unyielding, unreasonable horniness of his situation (what with his belly rubbing with every step against the top of the cock he had previously ignored) could drive him to such a ridiculous idea. Only a designer with, at a minimum, the awareness that what he was making might be used for unspeakably lewd things would have built something like that in.

Exactly what he was looking for was built in.

Hand shaking with anticipation- and why the hell did they bother to include that?- he unscrewed the fuel cap on the rented buggy. With some maneuvering, made difficult by the bulge of his belly, he pressed his hard-on into the fuel port, and flicked the mental switch that would release all his jealously stored liquid into it.

The stream of gas started immediately, and he humped into opening mindlessly. Not at all a tight fit, the port was about two inches in diameter, but his tip bumped into some smooth metal at the side of the inlet with each thrust. Just enough, in his overwrought state, to be bliss.

“You’re a loose fucking bitch. Rental. A whore.”

…Okay, to be fair, dirty talk was already one of his kinks, and he was too horny to think straight. [i]Not like there’s anyone out here to call me on being a freak anyway.[/i]

The unending flow of fuel wasn’t exactly an orgasm. And it wasn’t like taking a leak. But it was fucking wonderful; the sensation of his belly slowly emptying through his cock was nearly as good as filling up in the first place. The pressure of the stuff pouring out of his urethra was its own sort of friction, endless.

And he had regular orgasms on top of it too, the flow becoming irregular and pulsing when the wonder of it all overwhelmed him and tipped him over the edge.

“Like that, whore? I should put a fucking pocket pussy in your hole so you’re tight enough for me while I gas you up, slut.”

Later, he was just going to blame that one on his libido being piped right into this body’s speakers. He filed the onahole idea away for later, though, just in case he ever felt like fucking a car’s gas tank full again.

When that orgasm was done, the stream just kept on. And before he knew it he was humping away again, throbbing and calling the vehicle dirty names.

The whole process took twenty minutes and three orgasms before he ran out. Unwilling to let go of the sex high he was riding, he humped against it lazily for a while after. When the weirdness of it caught up with him, the sun was setting over the red horizon. Sanji couldn’t have said how long that made the total, and didn’t care enough to do the math all the way back to when his ‘whore’s’ engine had starved to a halt in the first place.

“Fucking hell.” He slumped back off the side of the buggy, looking down and realizing this was, technically, the first time he’d seen the cock he had so recently refueled his ride with. Snazzy ebony black, a slick tapering shaft with a dozen soft ridges down the front, emerging from a tidy genital slit in which it had hidden up until now. Cool. He might need to look into some clothes as a backup to the slit, after this.

On shaky legs- thank god the myomer fibers were self-repairing if you gave them enough time, he had worked the back-bent limbs hard- he came around to the driver’s side and slumped into his seat, closing his digital eyes for a moment to let himself settle. He’d need to plug himself into a charger in a couple hours, or else wait for the sun to come back and blaze into the solar panels built into his back.

“I’m moving out of my meat.” It was an admission of plain and simple fact, and not at all tinged with regret. “I am buying this freaking body, or one just like it, because that was…”

…Maybe he’d come up with some adjectives later. The only one that stuck right now was ‘full’. 

Sanji turned the key to rev the engine to life, and got back on the road. He probably had enough in the tank to get to a fueling station other than the one he’d just given an eyeful.



[center]The End[/center]