INITIATION: THE RUBBER AWAKENING
Part III – The Voice Always Finds a Way
Mario had hoped leaving would stop it. The pressure. The staring. That strange electric feeling in the air around his father — as if the walls themselves hummed with expectation. For the first week at Blaine’s place, things felt quiet. Normal. Or at least, they looked that way.
But nothing was normal anymore.
Because what Mario didn’t know was that Blaine’s family had been fully rubberized since Mario was seventeen. And Blaine… Blaine had been raised in it. Trained in silence, programmed through ritual. And when Viktor had reached out, calm and composed in his jet-black suit, the two had agreed on the plan.
Mario would come to him, of course. He just needed the right pressure points triggered.
The scent of Blaine’s sheets — subtly synthetic. The bathroom filled with oddly warm steam, tinged with something sweet and sharp. The hugs that lingered a second longer than before. And Blaine, always shirtless at home, latex shorts hugging his thighs just a little tighter each day, casually normalized as if they were just workout gear.
Mario would wake up sweating, his sheets tangled, confused and flustered. Each dream the same — rubber encasing his arms, slipping up his legs, gloves squeezing tight around his fingers. Men surrounded him, faceless but powerful, whispering the same low, steady rhythm that pulsed behind his eyes long after he’d woken.
Submit. Breathe. Obey. Transform.
He told Blaine once. Half a joke. But Blaine just smiled. “That’s good,” he said simply. “Means you’re getting close.”
Two weeks later, Mario caved.
He packed his things and told Blaine he’d “go back to deal with it.” Blaine gave no reaction — just pulled him into a strong hug, whispering something that made Mario shiver:
“Tell your father he can begin.”
The house felt warmer when he returned. His father met him at the door, perfectly silent, perfectly suited in black. No questions. No tension. Just a simple nod, and one sentence:
That night, Viktor handed him a sleek black headset. “It’s a focus tool,” he said. “Just 15 minutes a day. You’ll sleep better.”
The blue light flickered. A slow pulse. The voice returned. Familiar now. Welcome.
Every night, it dug deeper. He would wake up aroused, tingling, heart pounding. The line between reality and dream blurred. The Voice echoed during the day now — faint but steady. And then came the gloves.
His father gave them to him with no fanfare. Black, seamless, flawless. “Wear them when you’re home,” he said. “They’ll help calm you.”
Mario slipped them on and something clicked.
He could no longer stand the feeling of cotton. Of denim. Of anything that wasn’t rubber. His skin buzzed beneath the gloves. They smelled of arousal. Of surrender. He wore them constantly.
Two days later, the gym clothes he brought back felt unbearable. “You’ll train better in this,” Viktor said, handing him a pair of black latex shorts.
Mario hesitated. Only a second. Then nodded.
They hugged his thighs perfectly. Slick. Powerful. Hot.
He hadn’t even noticed his father behind him until gloved hands settled gently on his shoulders.
“You’re almost there,” Viktor whispered against his ear. “Soon, you’ll understand why I chose this. Why we need it. And why you were always meant to follow.”
And Mario — staring ahead through the soft blue glow of the headset, gloves twitching, chest rising slow — didn’t speak.
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