A pup can be a Drone

Imagine a Master who put you in rubber that can never be removed. Rubber that is to tight that every touch makes your cock so hard it feels like it going to explode. Rubber that had no zips and no way out. Rubber so strong, it can’t be cut or ripped. Rubber that’s been on for so long you can’t even remember what your face looks like or what colour your skin is. Rubber that’s been on now for years and had become glued to your skin.

Then imagine, your only purpose in life is to take endless pictures for your master, in whatever poses he wants.

Imagine, having never come for years. Imagine forgetting what coming even feels like.

You said you wanted to see what he enjoys

My brother and his buddy, Jax, took off to grab beers, leaving Jax’s pride and joy sitting in our driveway. It’s a beast of a machine, matte black, aggressive angles, totally terrifying. But it’s the helmet sitting on the seat that draws me in.

It’s one of those high-end ones I see all over my For You page. You know the ones. Videos of faceless, jacked guys with veins popping out of their arms, revving their engines, looking like dangerous, sexy robots. I’ve probably watched a thousand of those clips, just… curious. Wondering what it feels like to be that anonymous. To be that powerful.

I reach out, my skinny, pale hand trembling a little. The helmet is heavy. It smells like leather, gasoline, and him. It smells like Jax. That thick, musky scent of sweat and expensive cologne hits me, and for some reason, my dick twitches in my jeans.

"Just a second," I whisper to the empty garage. "Just to see."

I pull it over my head.

It’s a tight squeeze. My ears burn as they scrape past the padding. But once it settles? Silence. The world outside is muffled. It’s just me and the smell of Jax wrapping around my face. It feels claustrophobic and incredibly, undeniably hot.

CLICK.

The strap locks under my chin. I didn’t touch it.

Before I can panic, the visor slams down. A blue HUD flickers to life right in front of my eyes, glowing neon against the darkness.

SYSTEM INITIALIZED. USER: UNAUTHORIZED. CALIBRATING PHYSIQUE…

"What the fu..."

My voice is cut off by a sudden, searing heat in my chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s pressure. Like someone hooked an air compressor to my bloodstream.

Zzzzzzt.

A shock jolts down my spine, and my arms jerk outward. I watch through the tinted glass, helpless, as my forearms begin to bubble. The skin pulls tight, tanning instantly from pale ivory to a deep, sun-baked bronze. Thick, blue ropes of veins snake their way up from my wrist, pulsing in time with the thudding bass now blasting in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Oh god," I groan, but the voice that comes out is deeper. Rougher. "F-fuck..."

My t-shirt shreds. It literally explodes off my body as my pecs slab onto my chest, blowing up like airbags. My shoulders widen with a sickening crunch, forcing my arms out to the sides. I feel like a biological machine, being upgraded in real-time.

My vision blurs. The text on the HUD is scrolling faster now.

TESTOSTERONE LEVELS: CRITICAL. SEXUALITY: RECONFIGURING. INTELLIGENCE: PURGING...

My head is swimming. I try to remember my major. I try to remember why I was scared. But it’s getting harder to think. The vibration in the helmet is scrambling my brains, turning my gray matter into mush.

Why was I worried? Muscles feel good. Tight feels good.

My jeans are the next casualty. My thighs balloon outward, thick as tree trunks, ripping the denim at the seams. My cock is agonising. It swells up thick and heavy. It pushes against the zipper of my jeans until the metal teeth pop open. I can feel the head of my dick rubbing raw against the coarse denim. It is leaking pre cum like a faucet. Sticky hot fluid soaks my underwear. I am throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur.

I’m not me anymore. I’m just a body. A host for the helmet.

CALIBRATION COMPLETE. MODE: STUD. OBJECTIVE: SERVICE.

The panic is gone. It’s replaced by a dull, throbbing need. My mind is empty, smooth, and quiet. There are no thoughts, only directives.

1. Be big. 2. Be dumb. 3. Fuck Jax.

I swing a massive leg over the bike. The suspension groans under my new weight, 240 pounds of dense, fuck-meat. I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t me. He’s a monster. Massive traps, striated shoulders, veins pulsing with lust. I’m faceless. Anonymous. Just a piece of ass in a tank top and a helmet, waiting for orders.

I grab the handlebars. My hands are huge, swallowing the grips. I look back over my shoulder, striking the pose. The exact pose from the videos. Ass out, biceps flexed, visor reflecting the world I’m about to conquer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, my brother asking where I am. I don't even look at it.

The HUD flashes a new command.

DESTINATION: JAX'S APARTMENT. OBJECTIVE: DRAIN BALLS.

A drooling grin spreads across my face. I look like such a stud in the mirror. Huge arms. Veiny hands. A massive bulking package leaking inside my pants.

I swing my leg over the bike. The suspension sinks under my new weight. I feel powerful. I feel sexy. I feel like a total slut for Jax.

I start the engine. The vibration travels right up into my crotch and makes me groan.

He could make no sounds but grunts. His begging to be let out sounded like "ugh ugh" instead of "let me go". Brice's dick is held in a ultra tiny chastity cage, and he has a catheter in his bladder that Derek closes off with a clip. Derek is fond of keeping Brice's urine from coming out, to the point where Brice forgets every thought but the need to pee. Unknown to Brice, it is part of his "thing" training.