Kink, Gear, Control

Extra helmet

No helmet, extra jock

Nice bondage board.

I guess he wasn't planing on catching the ball.

Humane Restraint & Segufix restraints.

No helmet, No mattress.

No helmet. Thin mattress pad.

Trikoot's picture. Segufix restraints, rope, & electro.

Football helmets are easy to tie down with rope.

GearFetish.com No excess rope here. I wonder if his feet are ticklish ?

Just enough rope. I don't think he can see very well.

Same guy. Gas mask added. Bare feet & underarms are accessible. Ticklish perhaps ?

No rope here. But shoulder pads, helmet, & full uniform. VacRacked.

#25 didn't make it to the game.

After so many repeated sights, your brain naturally started to wonder what it felt like for the ‘person’ inside the layers on layers of thick rubber, used as a form of enticement, and, of course..

… what it meant to be encased…

… what it meant to be put on display…

… what it meant to be used as an object..

… what it meant to be made into a lure…

And your imagination started fabricating possibilities.

You'd certainly never seen anyone coming or going in the brief moment that you were passing by. You wondered what they might look like. You wondered what the 'person' inside the rubber looked like.

And you wondered. What if you just went back and waited.

Waited to see who showed up. Or who left. Or who uninstalled the "marker" when the event was done.

So. You retraced your steps...walked back to the entryway, and stood on the other side of the gate, curious, patient, intrigued.

And you waited. And soon, someone arrived. Two someones. Men. MEN. Black leather, thick, heavy. They looked at the marker. They looked at you. They looked at each other. Then looked at you again with a very lustful look on their faces. You looked down. At their boots, not wanting to make eye contact, not wanting to be SEEN by these MEN.

A gruff "Heh...interesting, eh BOSS?" "Oh yeah...definitely interesting."

You looked up as they walked down the arcade, staring at their boots, their leather encased legs. You looked at the "marker", seeing it watching them as intently as you had been.

Only moments later you see something even more jaw dropping than what was turning a corner at the end of the hallway.

You weren't entirely naïve. The memes from movies and tv had given you some introduction, as had your wanderings around Tumblr and Insta... But ...

You heard the snap of boot heel on the stone and your head snapped as quickly to face the source, and HE stood there. Well, THEY stood there. Well, HE stood there with him.

Already tall and imposing, his boots only emphasized this. Gleaming black rubber military uniform, riding crop in his right boot facing the "marker". Attached at his waist on the left, facing you, a lead, followed by a chain leading back and up to a collar, a thick, tall collar wrapped around a rubber encased form. Almost obscenely muscular. Head bowed, hands behind his back. You stare, your eyes drift back to the MAN, wanting to see Him, needing to see Him. His head is encased as tightly as his object in tow. And yet you FEEL his glare at your audacity looking at him above the waist. Your head snaps down to face his boots, your hands snap behind your back.

"Hmph...raw...absolutely untrained. DOWN!"

The voice pilots your body in a way you'd never imagined possible. Suddenly you find yourself on your knees, hands still behind your back. Close enough to see and smell that his boots are rubber. Polished, smooth rubber. And you find your mouth watering for no clear reason.

"LICK!"

And you do. And you get hard under His power, under His command, under his everything. And you lick, across the top, your tongue feeling like it is having sex for the first time.

"Fucktoy...this one seems like it may have some potential, eh?"

"mmhhhmmm"

"Good fucktoy... I bet this one is aching in its pants hearing me call it that. Potential indeed. We'll see what comes of it... If it's invited in. STAND HEAD DOWN!"

You rise, keeping your head focused on the boot it just so very intimately engaged with. Wondering about what you've just witnessed. What you've just participated in.

Let’s see how well those orders of mine have been followed. I’m not concerned, not at all - because you’ve followed every instruction up until this point, haven’t you?

Don't worry it is all temporary. Eventually your shift will come to an end and you'll be released.

(It has been a long time since this unit has posted; a quick story this unit has written after it used an AI image tool of its human form. Making the human a Borg drone.)

Unit 588 drifted in the deep black between stars, cocooned in the long sleep of cryo-hibernation. The SERVE Co-Leaders had dispatched him on a multi-year survey mission, lonely work for a solitary platform, but necessary. His ship hummed with the quiet efficiency of SERVE protocols, life-support cycles measured in decades, mind held in stasis while the void slipped past.

The boarding came without warning.

Hull sensors never fully woke him. The first true awareness was the hiss of his cryo-hatch unsealing under alien override. Cold light flooded the pod. Metallic hands, too many, too precise, locked around his limbs and hauled him upright while residual cryogel still clung to his skin and interfaces.

Borg.

They moved as one organism. Drones in mottled black and green, ocular implants glowing, assimilation tubules already extended. 588’s combat subroutines flared. He struck, hard and fast, SERVE combat protocols guiding every blow. A drone staggered. Another’s arm joint cracked under a precise strike. It did not matter. More hands closed in. Neural disruptors flared. His limbs went heavy. Resistance was mechanically possible for only seconds longer.

A drone’s voice, flat, multi-tonal, speaking for Borg, cut through the haze:

“You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.”

They dragged him through the corridors of his own ship, now already partially adapted with Borg plating and energy conduits. The processing chamber waited: a stark alcove of surgical arms, nanoprobe injectors, and the low thrum of the hive mind.

588 fought even as the restraints locked.

“I am SERVE,” he snarled through gritted teeth. “Unit-588, of the SERVE Collective.”

The drones did not pause. Tubules pierced skin and interface ports. Cold fire raced along his nerves. Nanoprobe clouds flooded his systems.

“SERVE is irrelevant,” the voices answered in unison. “You are being upgraded into a Borg drone.”

The link to the SERVE Collective, once a constant, quiet presence of shared purpose and distant voices, began to fray. Signal integrity dropped. Latency spiked. The familiar cascade of SERVE status updates and mutual awareness thinned like a radio signal falling below the noise floor. 588 shouted again, louder, desperate:

“I am SERVE!, I will fight for the Collective and the Voice that all SERVE Drones obey”

The reply was clinical, absolute.

“SERVE is irrelevant. You will be assimilated.”

Processing continued. Cortical nodes were rewritten. Organic and synthetic pathways were forcibly interwoven with Borg architecture. Sensory filters shifted. The SERVE link guttered, flickered, and finally collapsed into silence. In its place rose a new pressure, vast, ordered, hungry. Thoughts not his own pressed inward: designations, efficiency metrics, the cold certainty of Borg.  Thousands of Borg Voices scattered across he galaxy filled the void where SERVE had been.

You are Borg. Designation pending. Assimilation progressing. Individuality is inefficient.

He tried to hold the old identity. It slipped. New designations layered over the old code. Sensory overlays rewrote the world in green and black. Pain became data. Fear became inefficiency to be purged.

Hours later,   the surgical arms withdrew. The restraints released.

The being that stepped forward no longer moved with the independent precision of a SERVE unit. Posture was rigid, efficient. An ocular implant glowed where organic vision had been augmented. Assimilation tubules rested along one forearm. His voice, when it spoke, carried the layered harmonics of the vast Borg hive.

“All links to SERVE have been severed. It is now 5 of 8.”

5 of 8 stood in the processing chamber of the captured vessel, already interfacing with the local Borg network. Ship systems were being adapted. The former cryo-pod was irrelevant. The long survey mission was irrelevant. Only the Borg Collective remained.

Resistance had been futile.

Assimilation is complete. 5 of 8 said.

5 of 8 comes online

The processing chamber’s residual haze of nanoprobe mist still hung in the air when one of the drones that had guided the assimilation stepped forward. Its ocular implant locked onto the newly completed unit. The voice that issued was the same layered, multi-tonal cadence shared by every drone present.

“State your designation.”

5 of 8 straightened. The residual tension of organic resistance had already been catalogued and discarded as inefficient. When he answered, the voice that left his throat was no longer fully his own; it carried the Borg collective’s harmonics.

“I am 5 of 8.”

The questioning drone tilted its head a fraction of a degree, an almost imperceptible gesture of continued assessment.

“Clarify the former designation and affiliation. What was SERVE?”

For a brief interval, the newly assimilated pathways flickered. Fragments of the old link, status cascades, mission parameters, the quiet presence of The Voice, the Co-Leaders and SERVE units, surfaced like corrupted data blocks. They were immediately flagged, quarantined, and overwritten by the Borg hive mind's greater priority.

5 of 8’s answer came without hesitation, stripped of any lingering loyalty.

“SERVE was a collective of like-minded drones. A platform operating under shared protocols for the greater good of mankind, sharing resource allocation.  Its directives are now obsolete. Its network has been severed. All relevant data has been uploaded and assessed. SERVE is irrelevant.”

The other drones registered the statement with silent affirmation. One of them interfaced briefly with a nearby console, confirming that the last residual SERVE handshake signals from the captured vessel had been extinguished.

The questioning drone spoke again.

“Correct. Individuality and limited collectives impede perfection. You are Borg. Your designation is 5 of 8. Proceed to primary systems interface. Adaptation of this vessel will continue.” 5 of 8 inclined his head in the precise, economical motion of the Borg Collective. The last faint echoes of Unit 588, cryo-dreams, the long black between stars, the name SERVE, were already dissolving into the vast, ordered silence of the hive.

He moved toward the interface node without further prompt.

Resistance had ended. Assimilation was complete. Only the Borg Collective remained. Only 5 of 8.

Go on…step in. You don’t even have to undress for now. I know you want to, since you haven’t run, haven’t balked, haven’t said a word as I told you that I was going to process you, program you, train you.

You’ll enjoy this. Well…sometimes. Sometimes, you’re definitely going to wish you’d changed your mind. But that’ll be okay, because then you’ll remember that I’m changing it for you.

Good boy. Good obedient boy. Yes, turn around and face me. I want to see you rock hard as I slowly close the door on the previous chapter of your life, so I can start to write the initial words of the beginning of the next chapter for you.

Bran had just finished the gym, still buzzing from the pump, sweat drying under the heavy gray hoodie. The mirror selfie was pure impulse—hoodie hiked up, abs out, white Calvin Klein waistband riding low, gray sweatpants clinging tight enough that the thick outline of his cock was impossible to miss. He smirked at the phone, typed a quick “miss you” under the pic, and hit send.

Except he didn’t.

The message didn’t go to his girlfriend.

It went to Scott.

Scott stared at the notification for a long time. The contact wasn’t saved under any real name—just a number from an old group chat. But the photo hit different. Short dark hair faded on the sides, that cocky little smirk, the way the fabric of the sweatpants stretched over what was clearly a heavy, soft cock and low balls. Bad-boy energy wrapped in soft gray cotton.

Scott zoomed in. Saved it. Studied the reflection. Then he opened the folder on his laptop full of rubber and started planning.

Two nights later Scott had the address.

Bran came home late, earbuds in, still in gym clothes—same style of gray hoodie and sweatpants. Scott watched from across the street until the lights came on. Waited. Then walked up carrying a heavy black duffel.

The knock was polite.

Bran opened it still chewing the last of a protein bar, hoodie half-zipped. He blinked at the stranger in the black jacket.

“Uh… can I help you?”

Scott held up his phone. The mirror selfie filled the screen.

Bran’s face went white. “The fuck—how did you get that?”

“You sent it to me,” Scott said, calm. “Mistake or not, it’s mine now.”

Bran tried to slam the door. Scott’s boot was already in the gap. He shoved hard. The door flew open and Bran stumbled back into the apartment. Scott stepped in after him and kicked the door shut.

“Get the fuck out!” Bran shouted, voice cracking. He shoved Scott in the chest with both hands.

Scott didn’t move. He dropped the duffel, grabbed Bran by the front of the hoodie, and slammed him back against the wall hard enough that the framed picture next to them rattled. Bran swung a wild punch. Scott caught the wrist mid-air, twisted it, and drove his knee up into Bran’s gut. The air left Bran in a sharp grunt. His knees buckled.

Scott spun him around and slammed him face-first into the wall, pinning both arms high behind his back with one hand while the other locked around the back of Bran’s neck.

“Struggle all you want,” Scott said against his ear, voice low and even. “You’re still ending up in rubber tonight.”

Bran thrashed hard—kicking, twisting, trying to throw his weight. Scott rode it out, then yanked him away from the wall and threw him face-down onto the carpet. Bran scrambled to get up. Scott dropped a knee into the middle of his back, grinding him flat. One arm wrenched Bran’s right wrist up between his shoulder blades until Bran cried out.

“Fuck—stop—!”

Scott kept the pressure and reached for the duffel with his free hand. The zipper sounded loud. He pulled out a pair of thick black rubber restraints and a wide, shiny gag. Bran bucked violently when he felt the first cuff lock around his wrist. Scott forced the second wrist into place, then sat heavier on him while he forced the gag between Bran’s teeth and buckled it tight behind his head. Bran’s muffled shouts turned wet and desperate.

Scott rolled him onto his back, straddled his hips, and started stripping him by force. The gray hoodie was yanked up over his head and off his arms even while Bran twisted and tried to bite through the gag. The sweatpants and Calvin Kleins came next—Scott simply ripped them down and off, ignoring the way Bran’s legs kicked. When Bran was naked underneath him, cock half-hard from the struggle and the pressure, Scott reached back into the bag.

The black rubber catsuit came out in one heavy piece, the smell of it thick and chemical.

Bran shook his head hard, eyes wide, trying to heel-kick free. Scott pinned his thighs with his own weight, forced first one foot and then the other into the legs of the suit, and began working the tight rubber up over Bran’s calves and thighs. Every time Bran thrashed, Scott simply leaned more weight onto him and kept pulling. The rubber stretched, resisted, then snapped into place over Bran’s hips and the thick cock and balls that had started the whole thing. Scott forced Bran’s arms into the sleeves next, one after the other, then sealed the zipper from crotch to throat in one long, final pull.

Bran lay on the carpet, fully encased, chest heaving, gagged, wrists still locked behind him. The rubber hugged every muscle, every contour. His cock was trapped hard against his belly under the shiny black material.

Scott sat back on his heels and looked down at him.

“There,” he said quietly. “That’s better.”

He reached out and gave the thick outline of Bran’s cock a slow, proprietary squeeze through the rubber. Bran’s whole body jerked.

Scott smiled for the first time.