Stuff That Makes Me Hard.

Goals!!! Zip me up and lock me in.

“Just a decoration,” he says with a smirk, crouched low among the flowers, gleaming codpiece reflecting the light. But anyone with eyes can see the truth. The heavy shine stretching across his chest, the bulging weight hanging between his thighs, the glossy creak of latex as he shifts. This isn’t decoration. This is devotion.

Look at him — crouched like a predator, gloved hand gripping his jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes burn with that mix of defiance and arousal, the look of a man who’s surrendered everything to the Voice. The Voice that whispers through his mind: stay rubberized, stay horny, stay masculine, stay strong. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t question. He obeys.

The buckles on his boots, the straps on his gloves, the metal codpiece — they’re not just accessories. They’re symbols. Each one a reminder that he belongs to rubber, that his body is no longer his own but molded, displayed, perfected by latex. His chest swells under the gloss, his thighs strain, his cock is sealed in steel, all while the Voice keeps him hard, keeps him hungry, keeps him trapped in arousal that never ends.

This is the truth of devotion: to kneel in rubber, to present yourself openly, to live as an object of desire and lust. Not hiding. Not pretending. Proudly showing the world that you are owned by latex, fused to it, and aroused by it every second of every day.

Imagine it — dropping to your knees, rubber tight across your chest, cock sealed and aching, obeying the whispers that force you to remain aroused forever. The Voice doesn’t give you a choice. It only gives you purpose. And that purpose is lust.

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Manhattan Fun

Audio

This is the Hive’s final phase.

No more hesitation. No more denial. Just rows of beautiful, obedient bodies—fully locked in, fully exposed, fully stimulated.

Each man entered this chamber as a recruit. Now? He’s being reborn.

They’re strapped into neural feedback rigs, perfectly contoured to keep their bodies open, receptive, ready. VR visors seal away the outside world, replacing it with visions of domination, devotion, and pure rubber-clad perfection. Every pulse they feel at their core is carefully calibrated to spike arousal, build pressure, and keep them right on the edge of release… for hours.

They don’t want to leave. They can’t.

Because here—in this darkened room—they’ve found it.

The rubber-clad lifestyle.

And it feels too good to resist.

Above them, the rubber idol gazes down, projected across the screen. Slick muscles flexed, chest gloved, expression locked in erotic superiority. He’s not there to encourage. He’s there to control.

Every breath these men take now comes through the lens of submission and shine. Every heartbeat is synced to the rhythm of synthetic pleasure. Their bodies jerk, tremble, shudder—because their minds have already given in.

They’ve tasted the rubber. And now they crave nothing else.

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