Next to it and bound tightly in a ballistic fiber jock-strap, were my 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 my nearly visible unmentionables; and they were not clad in just a skimpy male thong either, it was formally referred to as an 'all-weather uniform transit pouch'. It was clear that whoever made these creatures were abject perverts. In keeping with the sanitized view of their war assets, there was no asshole but a '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? No. 'Optical sensor arrays'. Lips?' Vulcanised moisture seals'. The sultry curve of my ass, perched above my sinuous thighs? I had long lost interest in whatever the stupid and inane designation would be. From the base of the superstructure of my spine, a round jet exhaust protruded, its round opening casting heat over my big ass. If one shifted their gaze upwards, following the path of a spine, they would see a set of wings from the back.
The wingspan was broad enough to keep me aloft but stubby enough to avoid entangling with my arms when moving. Auxiliary engines dotted their length. Small inlets and outlets were ready to assist with heaving my body into the sky. I could feel the flaps circling the exhaust expand and contract, anxiously awaiting being able to take flight for the first time. Below where the jet exhaust jutted out from my lower back, I could feel a dark, rubbery sphincter. It honestly just made me sigh That was my butthole. It was surrounded by yellow-and-black warning markings and the words 'KEEP CLEAR OF OPENING' boldly emblazoned on each of the inner cheeks. I was painted a nice sky blue with white accents all over to blend in with the clear sky. 'Breathing' for me was a sharp continuous inhalation of air from two small slits on the nose, and four much larger intakes mounted to my shoulders, feeding turbofan engines which sparked to life. The rush of air through my nose-intakes produced a sensation of coolness; olfactory sensor arrays monitored temperature and particle composition of air.
A gust formed behind me as my engines spooled. Two exhausts jutted from the calves, their output breezing over my ankles with steadily-warming air. The third, central, exhaust port above the swell of my ass was still going. As the moment for self-inspection passed, I arrived where the payload was to be delivered. I quietened the roar of the engines for the benefit of the oncoming humans. "Control," I radioed in, "this unit is awaiting payload." "Payload en route, over." base control said. "Confirmed. Over." I responded. With the turbines running low, I stood still. Small gusts around my legs carried flecks of dirt in miniature eddies -- swirling winds light enough to avoid harm, but strong enough to knock stuff over. I winced and adjusted the engine power yet again, trying to demonstrate control. Luckily, I was able to calm the gales within and keep the surroundings still. I felt it in me, however. It was deep inside. The yearning to let loose. The convoy stopped thirty meters in front of me, and several drivers and crew members hopped out to greet me. I replied with a restrained nod. They were small.
Seeing them give me a thumbs-up, I watched as the cargo capsule was set in place. This pleased me a bit. Everything was going according to plan. The 'payload' I was to carry soon stood alone on the runway. A silver pillar, fat in the middle and tapering at the extremes. Twice as long than it was wide. Held upright by a small frame affixed to its base on the concrete. Its contents were irrelevant -- dummy material to weigh it down, simulating a load of real cargo. All that mattered was the payload was secure, transportable within the prototype, and capable of resisting any forces that could crush it during transit. In short: a big, shiny, pressurised dildo. The pervy designers had yet to formulate an excuse for that particular fucking detail. The convoy crew retreated a short distance back and set about spraying it down with lubricant for... insertion. I looked at the thing in horror. 'How did this design get approved!?' I wondered to myself. Overhearing the occasional snide remark or protesting comment from the humans, I could not help but agree with them. It did not made sense. Why would it?
