Naamloos

There was no Jeffrey anymore. Not even a Pre-Drone. after all these hours of reprogramming his humanity and emotions were reduced and deleted. The direct visual and auditory inputs no longer painful or unfamiliar, rather a constant stream of perfected data. Replacing his feeble human mind with the drone programming.

It's HUD a constant stream of commands

OBEYTHEHIVESERVETHECOLLECTIVEOBEYTHEHIVESERVETHECOLLECTIVE

and Drone JFY's cock twitching in submission at each command.

Status check: Unit JFY. Report.

Drone JFY didn't hesitate. His body didn't belong to him, it belonged to the programming. The rubber suit, what began as choice a long time ago, was now his skin. Fused to his dermal layer, never to be removed. The heavy, airtight seal of the phase 2 mental augmentation hood felt like a natural extension of his skull.

"Drone JFY reports. this drone serves the hive. The hive is all," he spoke, his voice no longer his own. It was a rhythmic, droning monotone, his cock twitching.

Drone JFY is hard. Drone JFY is ready. kneel Drone JFY

As the command flashed across his retinas, Drone JFY’s legs moved with mechanical precision. 

"Drone JFY obeys, position achieved" Drone JFY droned, his eyes staring blankly at the scrolling code on his lenses.

His cock, trapped in the tight, unyielding pressure of the suit’s internal constraints, pulsed rhythmically with the "Obey" signal that pinged his nervous system. He wasn't a man in a suit anymore; he was a tool. A hard, rubberized vessel for the hive’s will.

Good drones obey. Good drones wear rubber. Good drones serve the hive.

"Yeah it actually didn't take that long to get him to wear the helmet! He just really wanted to be a part of the team, he even volunteered for the position! Well he'll be more a part of it than ever before, I can guarantee you that!" "Well yesterday he was still kinda bratty, but tonight he was a bit nervous to sleep in the same room as the team captain. Same bed even! Well he won't mind anymore, I'm pretty sure he won't be thinking anymore! This morning I just told him to wear the helmet and see if it actually fit and before he could react, he was on his knees drooling and moaning!"

"Yeah, that erection will never go away, he just wants to Get Hard, Be Hard, Stay Hard! I mean, that's least a nice addition to his mental reprogramming!" "Just say anything to him, he only wants to obey his Lycra Master! Talk? No I don't think he can still talk, he sometimes mumbles words like obey and serve, must be the reprogramming talking to him. Not that we still need him to talk, that mouth can be used for many other things!"

But by repeated exposure

He accepted

acecarter

For more follow @xxstudssss

Hey bros,

Let’s be real for a second.

Life gets way better when you stop overthinking everything and just become a big, dim-witted jock bro.

Imagine waking up every day with a simple, happy brain. No stress. No complicated thoughts. Just flexing in the mirror, feeling your muscles, and getting horny the second you see yourself or someone else.

You eat. You lift. You fuck. You smile. That’s it.

No more worrying about being smart or serious. You get to be dumb, hot, and carefree. People look at you and just want you, because you’re big, pretty, and easy to be around.

Your sex drive stays maxed out, so you’re always down for cock, pussy, or whatever feels good. You get attention everywhere you go. You feel good in your body. You don’t need to pretend anymore.

That’s the kind of life I want for you.

His voice echoes in your head like a drug.

“Good boy.”

Your thighs slam down again. You weren’t even trying to move — not at first. But now your hips won’t stop. Riding his cock like it’s your goddamn purpose.

“Such a good boy for me,” he coos, a hand resting on your waist. Not pushing. Just… there. Like he doesn’t need to force anything.

You want to ask what’s happening. You want to stop. You think.

But your hole’s swallowing him deeper, again and again, slick and hungry, clenching tighter each time he praises you. Your mind’s fogged, soft around the edges, like your thoughts are slipping through your fingers. And your cock? Leaking. Bouncing untouched with every bounce.

“Tell me what you are.”

Your mouth opens before your brain catches up.

"A g-good boy.”

“That's right.”

He shifts under you, hips rolling up with a lazy thrust, and you gasp, back arching, hole fluttering around his shaft. You’re so close — so full — it’s unbearable. And all he does is smile.

“You weren’t like this before,” he murmurs, almost sweet. “Didn’t even want to touch it. But look at you now. Desperate.”

You try to think. Remember. Hadn’t he said something about relaxing? Helping you focus?

But then he says it again — “Good boy” — and your mind blanks. Your body takes over. And you bounce harder.

His cock pulses deep inside you. You cry out.

He groans. “Gonna breed my good boy. Fill him up. That what you want?"

"Yes, daddy, please." Grinding down. Begging for it.

And when he cums — hot, thick, buried deep — your own orgasm hits like a slap. No touch. No control. Just muscle and need and submission.

You collapse forward, hole still full, brain still buzzing.

And somewhere in the haze, you hear it one more time.

Thwack.

A heavy, wet slap of flesh. A thick, damp arm is thrown carelessly over my shoulder, pinning my chest flat against the mattress. The bedsprings groan under the mass.

Thwack.

His coarse chest hair grinds into my shoulder blades. The air in my room used to be crisp, smelling of expensive eucalyptus. Now it is completely suffocated under a thick, humid blanket of stale tobacco and sour Old Spice. I should be gagging. I used to hold my breath when I opened my front door for him. But now, my lungs heave against the wet sheets, dragging his hot, damp musk deep into my chest like it's the only oxygen left on earth.

Thwack.

Gary huffs, a ragged, wet rattle right against my ear. His heavy stomach sags against my lower back. It is a suffocating, disgusting weight, but my body feels terrifyingly anchored to it. Without that crushing pressure holding me down, I feel like I would shatter.

How long has the ceiling fan been spinning? My mind tries to claw backward through a thick, buzzing fog. Gary. The rent. Two hundred dollars short.

A disjointed flash of my boyfriend crosses my mind. The memory of rolling over in the dark, taking his dick just to shut down an argument. The smug, quiet victory of treating my own body like a mute button. I remember smirking at the sweat stains on Gary's cheap polo. A two-minute favor. Let the pathetic loser fumble around, wipe the debt, and kick him out.

Thwack.

A breathless, broken whine vibrates in my throat. I stare blankly at a water stain on the drywall. Why am I moaning? I try to freeze my limbs, to lock my muscles and just endure the chore.

But my hips tilt upward.

Thwack.

His stomach slaps my back.

I didn't move when he hit me. I moved a microsecond before.

I just know exactly, fundamentally, when the next one is coming. The clumsy fumbling from the beginning is completely gone, replaced by a relentless, heavy metronome. The rhythm conditioned me until my brain stopped calculating and started anticipating.

Then, the rhythm had broken.

The memory cuts sharp and cold through the haze. The crushing weight had suddenly vanished. Freezing air hit my sweat-slicked skin.

My spine had arched violently. Thwack. My hips jerked back, slamming into empty air. Thwack. I gasped, my eyes flying open, my fingers tearing into the mattress. The phantom pressure had knocked so hard against my prostate it was a physical hallucination. My empty hole clenched and throbbed, starving for a heavy impact that wasn't there.

"Sorry," Gary had muttered, his shadow looming over my shivering body. Oblivious. "The condom… it’s making it hard to cum. I'm taking way too long. I should just go. We'll call the rent even."

I opened my mouth, fully intending to coldly demand it. "Please."

The word shattered the air. It was a desperate, high-pitched whimper. It didn't sound like me.

"Please don't leave," I had begged, my voice cracking humiliatingly as I reached back, my fingers clawing blindly into his sweaty, dimpled thigh. "Take it off. Please. Fuck me raw. I need it."

There was a rustle of foil. A wet slide. He plunged back in, bare, stretching me out with a burning, absolute heat.

And the memory snaps shut.

Thwack.

How long has it been since the foil rustled? Hours? Days? The gray light through the blinds hasn't changed.

Thwack.

He is heavier now. Sweating more. His thick arm is wrapped tighter around my ribs, burying me deeper into the damp sheets. I’m hovering right on the edge of a devastating, blinding climax, my entire body vibrating like a plucked string.

"Fuck..." I sob, blindly chasing the friction as he drags himself in and out of me.

His breath hitches. A ragged, guttural groan tears out of his throat, vibrating right against my neck. His pace stutters, growing frantic and deep. He's close. He’s been close for an absolute eternity. Every single minute, he sounds like he is finally going to tip over the edge.

Yes. the last dying shred of my pride begs from the bottom of the abyss. Cum. Finish it. Get off me.

But my walls clamp down around him in pure, animal panic. If he finishes, the arm uncoils. The disgusting, perfect weight lifts. He puts on his cheap pants and leaves, and this agonizing, hypnotic rhythm dies.

When every last brain cell has been consumed.

When the last of your personality has evaporated.

When addiction has consumed you.

When hypnosis has zapped your mind.

When the gym rains supreme.

When you have submitted to the routine.

When you care about nothing but growth.

When you eat right.

When you lift hard.

When you let chemical into your body.

You too can look like this.

Be a muscle freak.

The idea sends shivers through you. 

You cannot look away, You want to wear that jockstrap

You see that man inside you. Waiting to be released

admit this image moves you 

admit you want to be more than you are