SERVE-870

A collaboration with Xavi (@polo-drone-039)

Alton flexed hard in the mirror wall, 240 pounds of beast glory popping under the new LEDs. Veins snaked across his forearms like they were trying to escape. Tank soaked dark under the pits – three days no soap, no deodorant, just pure alpha locker-room funk baking into the fabric. He hit a most-muscular so violent the glass vibrated.

“Yo Xav! Rate the pump, bro!” he barked.

Xavi swaggered up, 235 pounds of dark-haired, olive-skinned destruction. Quads forced his stance wide even standing still. New signature stringer stretched tight across his shelf-like pecs: black fabric, gold “GA JOCK FACTORY” arched on top, smaller block letters underneath screaming the motto:

DUMB DOWN MUSCLE UP SHOW OFF

“Bro… you look like a goddamn steroid wet dream,” Xavi grinned, slamming a palm into Alton’s trap hard enough to make the meat jiggle. “These new boys ain’t ready. They walk in thinking they want ‘better confidence’ and ‘learn to lift’. Three months? They’ll be drooling, dick-hard 24/7, flexing in every reflection and begging for another hit of our stink.”

(Image by @polo-drone-039) Alton laughed – that deep, empty-headed jock rumble that lived somewhere between his balls and his brainstem. “Scent game on cheat codes today, dude. No shower since Friday’s 40-set leg massacre. By lunch these freshmen are gonna pop wood just walking through the door.”

Six months of planning. Both late 20’s/early 30’s. Ex-football meatheads who figured out quick that cubicles and suits weren’t it. Real power was replication: turning soft, thinking boys into dumb, cocky, horny, mirror-obsessed jocks. Guys whose entire personality was gym, food, flex, fuck, party, repeat. Guys who thought “deep conversation” meant debating whey isolate vs mass gainer.

They gutted an old failing CrossFit gym. Ripped out every motivational kitten poster, every pastel wall, every rogue kettlebell. Now: matte-black rubber floors, gunmetal racks, mirrors everywhere you looked, and a throbbing neon “GA JOCK FACTORY” sign that pulsed gold like a heartbeat on roids. Back corner held “The Locker Room Lounge” – worn leather couches, shaker station, zero airflow. Intentional. They wanted the air heavy. Wanted their pit-stink to cling to everything.

The two-man crew – Alton, and Xavi – spent the whole week “seasoning” the place. Shirtless squats dripping onto benches. Used jocks and socks hung openly in lockers like battle flags. Hoodies soaked from yesterday’s cardio-dropset marathons draped over hooks.

9:55 a.m. First prospects.

Ethan – 19, 5’10”, 155 dripping wet, wire glasses, nervous-but-eager smile, gym bag still smelling like store tags. Clipboard in hand: neat bullet points. “Gain 15 lb lean mass. Improve confidence. Master compound lifts.”

Alton and Xavi locked eyes. Game on.

“YO LIL BRO!” Alton boomed, closing distance fast. One massive arm slung around Ethan’s shoulders – friendly, bro-y, but pressing the kid’s face inches from the swampy cave under his pit. “Welcome to the Factory, dude. You ready to get stupid jacked?”

Ethan blinked rapidly. “Y-yeah… watched all your reels. The before-and-afters are crazy.”

Xavi boxed him in from the other side. Two walls of sweaty meat. “That’s right, bro. We take regular guys… turn ’em into legends. But it starts with trust.” Voice dropped low. “You trust your bros, yeah?”

Ethan nodded, already breathing faster. Maybe nerves. Maybe the first faint trace of three-day pit musk curling into his nostrils.

Tour time.

Every rack had a slogan:

Squat Rack: ASS TO GRASS, BRAIN TO DUMB

Bench: PUSH WEIGHT, CRUSH THOUGHTS

Dumbbells: FLEX LOUD, THINK QUIET

Cardio (three lonely treadmills): REAL JOCKS DON’T RUN FROM GAINS

Stretching zone: floor-to-ceiling mirrors + custom playlist thumping. Deep bass. Layered growls: “YEAH BRO… PUMP IT… FLEX FOR THE BOYS… GET DUMB…” on endless repeat.

Ended at the Mindset Corner – small blackout room, red dim lights, three mats, one massive speaker.

“Here’s where the real shit happens,” Alton said, slapping Ethan’s back so hard his glasses slid. “After every session – ten minutes mandatory. Lie down. Eyes closed. Mantra Loop. Breathe deep. Let all that smart-boy noise leak out your ears.”

Ethan swallowed. “What’s… on the loop?”

Xavi’s grin turned feral. “You’ll find out soon enough, lil bro. Workout first.”

They threw him into the “Welcome Pump” – giant-set hell.

Push – pull – legs – repeat. 45-second rests max.

Every time Ethan slowed, one of them was there.

Hand on lower back. Hot breath in ear.

“C’mon Ethan… feel that fire? That’s weakness running away.”

“Push bro… real men don’t tap.”

“Breathe nose-in, mouth-out… smell that? That’s alpha, dude.”

By set 12 Ethan was wrecked. Shaking. Drenched. New white stringer (day-one gift) glued to his chest. Every time he raised arms to wipe sweat, he caught fresh waves of Alton’s and Xavi’s stink that had rubbed off like invisible ink.

They half-carried him to the Mindset Corner.

“Down on the mat, bro,” Xavi ordered, softer now.

“Head back. Arms loose. Just listen.”

Lights dropped to bloody red. Speaker hummed.

Then Alton’s voice – pitched lower, slowed 0.8×, layered four times:

“You are becoming a jock… dumb jocks lift heavy… dumb jocks eat big… dumb jocks flex hard… dumb jocks stay horny… dumb jocks don’t think… dumb jocks obey the pump… dumb jocks follow bros…”

Sub-bass vibrated the floor. Ethan’s breathing changed – long, slow, nostrils flaring.

Alton knelt left. Xavi right. Two sweat-radiating jocks framing the kid like bookends. Pits hovering close.

“Breathe it in, lil bro,” Alton whispered. “That’s your new programming.”

Ethan inhaled deep – shaky, pupils dilating. Mouth slack.

“Good boy,” Xavi growled low. “Let it soak.”

Fifteen minutes instead of ten.

When they pulled him up Ethan looked… altered. Shoulders somehow wider. Eyes emptier. Lips curved in permanent half-dumb smirk.

“Feel good, bro?” Alton asked.

Ethan nodded slow. “Yeah… fuckin… good pump… bros…”

Xavi clapped his shoulder. “Tomorrow 8 a.m. Wear the tank again. No wash. Let the scent stack.”

Ethan stumbled out – sore, hard, dazed.

Alton turned to Xavi. Both grinning like wolves after first blood.

“One,” Alton said.

“Whole campus to go,” Xavi answered.

Fist bump – wet, meaty.

Outside, the neon pulsed:

GA JOCK FACTORY

DUMB DOWN – MUSCLE UP – SHOW OFF

And the smell… fuck, the smell was only waking up.

Three weeks after opening, GA JOCK FACTORY smelled like a locker room had sex with a protein factory. Ethan – now going by “E” because “Ethan sounds like a nerd name, bro” – was up twelve pounds, traps rising like mountains, eyes permanently glazed. He wore the same white stringer every session; it had gone from bright to battle-gray, stiff with dried sweat and transferred alpha stink. He never washed it. None of them did.

New boys kept coming. Mostly 18–21, skinny-fat or lanky, all with the same nervous “I just wanna get fit” story. Within ten days they were saying “bro” unironically, walking wider, staring at their reflection longer.

The method was simple and brutal:

1.      Brutal workouts – progressive overload + short rests + constant verbal dominance.

2.      Scent anchoring – every coach rotated “close coaching” so every new guy got heavy doses of pit, crotch, ass musk rubbed onto skin and clothes.

3.      Mantra Loop – mandatory 15–20 min post-workout, volume creeping up each week. New layers added: “horny jocks stay hard… dumb jocks chase dick… flexing is better than thinking…”

4.      Social proof – senior jocks (E, plus new converts Jake, Milo, Connor) flexing shirtless in the lounge, laughing loud, slapping each other’s asses, talking nonstop about dicks, parties, pumps.

By week five they had 22 regular members. Average weight gain: 9–14 lb. Average IQ drop: nobody measured, but conversations had shrunk to grunts, flex boasts, and “yo bro you see my pump today?”

Alton and Xavi ran “Private Sessions” on weekends – invite only.

Saturday, 6 p.m. Private Session #7.

Four newish guys: Milo (20, former gamer, now 185 lb), Connor (19, ex-track kid), Jake (21, chubby-turned-beast), and little 18-year-old freshman Tyler who still had braces but already 165 lb of new meat.

Room: Mindset Corner, lights blood-red, air thick enough to chew.

All eight jocks (four coaches + four prospects) shirtless, stringers off, shorts low. Sweat rolling down abs in rivers.

“Circle up, bros,” Alton commanded.

They formed a tight ring on the mats. Skin touching skin. Heat radiating. Crotches inches apart. Xavi hit play. New Mantra Loop – slower, deeper, voices overlapping like a horny Gregorian chant: dumb jocks flex… dumb jocks breed… dumb jocks obey… dumb jocks stink… dumb jocks stay hard… dumb jocks show off…

Each coach picked a prospect, stood behind, chest to back, arms hooking under armpits, locking them in place. Nostrils pressed to traps. Hot breath on necks.

“Breathe with me, bro,” Alton growled into Tyler’s ear, pit sliding against the kid’s cheek. “In… hold… out slow… taste it…” Tyler whimpered – half moan, half surrender. All four prospects were visibly hard in their gym shorts. Nobody commented. It was normal now.

After ten minutes the coaches spun them around – face to face. Forehead to forehead. Eye contact forced. “Look at your bro,” Xavi ordered Milo. “See the pump in his eyes? That’s you in three months. Dumb. Happy. Hard. Free.” Milo nodded slow, pupils blown.

Then came the flex-off portion. “Show the new blood how real jocks pose,” Alton barked.

The four seniors hit pose after pose – double bi, side chest, most muscular, rear lat spread – grunting, growling, slapping their own muscle like it owed them money. Sweat flew. The room reeked like a jock fantasy dialed to eleven.

Prospects watched, mouths open, dicks throbbing visibly.

“Join,” Xavi ordered.

Four shaky attempts at double-bi. Arms trembling. But the effort… fuck, the effort was beautiful. “Good boys,” Alton praised. “Now… group scent stack.”

They all dropped to knees in a tight huddle. Faces pressed into each other’s pits, necks, chests. Deep inhales. Moans muffled against sweaty skin. Hands roaming – not sexual exactly, just claiming, marking, owning.

Tyler came in his shorts without anyone touching him. Nobody laughed. It was celebrated.

“First load of many, lil bro,” Connor rumbled, ruffling Tyler’s hair.

Session ended at 8:30. All eight walked out shirtless into the evening air, reeking, pumped, stupid-happy.

Monday morning Ethan/E greeted the new wave of walk-ins wearing nothing but the gray-white stringer and a dumb grin.

“Yo bros… welcome to the Factory. You ready to get dumb?”

They were already nodding before they knew why.

Month four. GA JOCK FACTORY wasn’t a gym anymore – it was a cult with dumbbells.

Membership: 68. Average body-fat: 11%. Average vocabulary: 400 words max. Average daily boners: uncountable. Xavi and Alton, holding a tailor's tape measure, lined the guys up against the wall. "Measurement day, boys!" they barked. Xavi wrapped the tape around Ethan's chest. The gesture was was deliberately intimate, nearly a full embrace, his neck so close to Ethan's face that the kid couldn't help but inhale the irresistibly sexy scent of Xavi's sewat. Ethan was in pure ectasy, caught between the musk and the cold touch of the metal tape that made his nipples harden instantly. Noticing with a smirk of satisfaction, Xavi shouted, "+6 inches! Good boy!"

Meanwhile, Alton was measuring Milo's neck. "On your knees", he ordered. He slid the tape behind the kid's neck while his face was dangerously close to Alton's crotch. The gentle squeeze of the tape against his throat and the musky scen of Alton's heat provided a pleasure so irresistible, so submissive. "+2 inches! Good boy!" Alton exclaimed. "Now get back to work-real dumb jocks don't rest, they flex!"

The Mantra Loop now ran all day on low volume through hidden speakers – subliminal feed.  Even guys just coming for cardio left humming “dumb jocks obey… dumb jocks show off…”

New policy: no outside clothes allowed inside. Stringers or bare torso only. Shorts mandatory – short, tight, no compression. Let the quads breathe. Let the bulges show.

Friday night “Flex & Party Prep” sessions became legendary. Doors locked at 10 p.m. Music cranked. Lights strobing. Forty-plus jocks shirtless, oiled (protein-shake mist bottles), flexing in front of every mirror at once. Mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting muscle. Infinite jocks. Infinite dumb grins.

In the center: Alton and Xavi on a low platform. Conducting.

“Pose call!” Alton roared.

“Double bi!”

Forty sets of arms snapped up.

“Most muscular!”

Grunts echoed like thunder.

“Rear double bi!”

Asses clenched, lats flared, traps swallowed necks.

Then the chant started – unprompted, organic, terrifyingly horny:

“DUMB DOWN! MUSCLE UP! SHOW OFF!”

“DUMB DOWN! MUSCLE UP! SHOW OFF!”

Clapping. Stomping. Dicks visibly jumping in shorts.

Alton stepped forward, voice cutting through.

“Who’s the dumbest jock here tonight?”

“WE ARE!” they roared back.

“Who’s the horniest?”

“WE ARE!”

“Who’s gonna flex till their brain melts?”

“WE ARE!”

Xavi lifted a shaker bottle – filled not with protein, but with a mix of their collective sweat collected over the week. He poured it over his own chest. Streams ran down abs, soaked into waistband.

“Line up, bros. Receive the blessing.”

(image by @polo-drone-039) One by one they walked forward. Xavi rubbed the slick mix into their chests, traps, necks. Marking. Claiming. Re-programming.

Last in line: Tyler – now 185 lb, zero body fat, braces gone, permanent cocky smirk.

He stepped up, eyes shining. Xavi poured the last of the sweat-mix over Tyler’s head. It ran down his face like holy water. Tyler opened his mouth. Caught some. Swallowed.

“Fuck yeah, bro,” he growled – voice deeper than it was four months ago. “I’m so fuckin dumb… and it feels so good.”

Alton pulled him into a bro-hug – chests sliding, sweat mixing, dicks pressed together through fabric. “That’s my boy,” Alton rumbled. “Welcome to forever.”

The party went till 3 a.m. No one left. They just flexed, chanted, scented, laughed that empty jock laugh. Outside, dawn light hit the neon sign.

GA JOCK FACTORY

Still pulsing.

Still hungry.

Inside, the air was thick enough to fuck. And every single jock in the room knew – deep in what was left of their brains – that they’d never think a complicated thought again.

Just pump. Flex. Fuck. Party. Obey.

Dumb down. Muscle up. Show off.

Forever.

---

Ready to dumb down, muscle up, show off?

"YIIIIEEEEEEEARGH!" The irate man shouted as he smashed yet another window at SERVE's facilities in the city. "Fuck Yeah! Take that, you bunch of SERVE idiots! Hahahahaha!"

The man continued his tirade against the modern building, surprised that no one came out to stop him. It was clear he was a provocateur looking for someone to pick on, and the lack of reaction was only making him angrier.

After a while, a pair of police officers appeared and arrested him without much effort. The guy seemed more annoyed that no SERVE drone had appeared than that he was in trouble with the police.

"Come on, Pete! Destroying private property again?" the bald policeman said as he watched his partner handcuff him. "I can't believe the mountain of paperwork we're going to have to fill out for this…" he added, surveying the damage.

Resigned, the policeman approached the door of the building, where SERVE-302 was waiting for him.

"302." he said upon arriving, saluting the drone.

"Officer Darryl." 302 greeted the officer. After all, it wasn't the first time it'd seen the two officers, as they often patrolled the area. "This drone is confident that the officers were unharmed while dealing with the troublesome human."

"Yeah, yeah, don't worry." Darryl said. "He's an old acquaintance of ours, a troublemaker who loves attention. He's had several incidents like this. If SERVE press charges, he'll probably spend a short time in jail. It'll do him good. Thanks for calling the police, by the way."

"Gratitude acknowledged." 302 replied. "Contrary to what some rumors may suggest, SERVE does not take the law into its own hands. It's a relief to have such efficient officers in the area."

Darryl blushed, trying to avoid the drone's gaze.

"Regarding the young offender… " The co-leader of SERVE added. "302 has a possible alternative to suggest, if the officers agree."

[ … … … ]

Half an hour later, 302 was waiting inside the building.

The officers needed some time to make some calls and obtain the necessary authorizations, but soon they knocked on the door of the room where 302 was.

"Proceed." 302 said.

The door opened. The first to enter was the troublemaker, Pete. He was still handcuffed, and he was being escorted by the other officer who had arrested him. Officer Darryl entered next, standing with his back against the wall.

"Hello, 302." The officer said, saluting the drone with respect.

"Officer Andrew." 302 returned the greeting. "This drone expects the officers have been able to obtain the required permit to proceed. Take a seat."

Officer Andrew and Pete sat down. Pete semed uncomfortable.

"What the fuck am I doing here, dude?!"

"Shut up, Pete." Officer Andrew said calmly, "SERVE is going to offer you an alternative. If you're smart, you can avoid jail… and obtain much more than you think."

302 looked at Officer Andrew silently for a few seconds. Although its expression hadn't changed, Andrew thought he'd perceived a nod of approval from the drone. That made Andrew feel a tingle in his groin.

The conversation was long and arduous. 302 explained to Pete that if he joined SERVE, he would not only avoid jail for the vandalistic act he had just committed, but he would also find a new purpose in life, a sense of order and mental clarity he had never experienced, and which he clearly desperately needed.

302 even proposed that if he joined SERVE only for the trial period but decided to leave when it ended, the Hive wouldn't press charges. But Pete protested every rule and requirement.

The officers even tried to help, supporting the idea and trying to make Pete see that it was a very generous offer and a unique opportunity for a promising future.

But Pete flatly refused.

[ … … … ]

After officially reporting the acts of vandalism, 302 accompanied the three humans to the exit of the facilities.

"At least we tried, 302." Officer Anderson said.

"Affirmative." 302 replied. "Some humans are unsuitable for assimilation into SERVE. Others are simply too stubborn. Not everyone understands SERVE as optimally as officers Andrew and Darryl. Not all humans can see the potential..."

"Uh... I... 302... I..."

Officer Andrew stammered as he felt his body temperature rise. Almost without realizing it, Andrew raised his hand and brought it to 302's chest. When his skin touched the rubber skin, he felt a wave of pleasure that made a moan escape his lips.

302 approached him, very close.

The sexual tension was obvious.

It was clear that this was nothing new.

That moment seemed to last for centuries, but…

"Sorry... we have to leave." Officer Darryl interrupted.

Andrew silently pulled away from 302 and approached his partner, who put his arm around his shoulder in a sympathetic gesture. It wasn't just comfort, but understanding. Darryl knew what Andrew was feeling after leaving SERVE, because he felt the same way.

With a sad smile in their faces, both officers said goodbye to the drone and left the SERVE facilities, while Pete continued to complain and insult them.

[ … … … ]

Two weeks later, someone arrvied on the door of the facility.

Officers Darryl and Andrew.

Before 302 could say anything, they both started talking at the same time, in fits and starts, interrupting each other, excited and a little shy at the same time.

"We... we quit and...!"

"Yeah... we... the chat you had with Pete… the other day…"

"Yes! It was so inspiring... it was what we needed to..."

"Exactly. We've finally made up our minds..."

"If… if SERVE accepts us, of course…"

"Stop." 302 said in a voice devoid of emotion, but in a clearly dominant yet reassuring tone. The officers obeyed immediately. It almost seemed the most natural thing to do. "Follow."

And they followed.

The facilities seemed much larger on the inside than on the outside, as Andrew and Darryl followed 302 through several efficiently constructed corridors, until they reached their destination:

The assimilation room.

They felt so relieved.

With great excitement, Darryl and Andrew followed 302's instructions, undressed, and walked into the assimilation chambers. The last decision they would ever make on their own.

Soon Andrew and Darryl were no more.

Two new SERVE drones had been born.

The former officers had failed to convince Pete to change his life, but they had found their true place in the world. As SERVE drones. Part of the Hive.

They were rubber.

They were SERVE.

They were One.

-------------------------

He stood on that camping site years ago, pretending he was satisfied with half truths.

Back then, Leon Hartmann wore regular clothes, hid his cravings, and smiled through a relationship that never allowed him to explore what pulsed beneath his skin. His ex was not ready for latex. Not ready for kink. Not ready for the hunger that simmered quietly inside Leon’s chest.

Now look at him. 🔥

The same trees. The same dusty ground. But Leon is different.

Wrapped in mirror black latex that seals him from neck to ankle, the suit gleams under the fading daylight like liquid night. The material clings tightly to his swollen pecs and carved abs, stretching smoothly over thick thighs that flex with every step. White paint splashed across his chest only makes the gloss shine harder, drawing attention to the way the rubber molds to him. 💦✨

His glasses sit casually on his face, but there is nothing shy about the body beneath that polished surface. Each breath pushes the latex outward. Each subtle movement sends ripples of reflection across his chest and hips. The suit hugs him like a promise finally kept.

Behind him, the community he once only fantasized about closes in. Blue and red latex pressing against black. Hands sliding across glossy backs. Lips meeting in open air beneath palm trees. The rubber warms where bodies touch, amplifying every sensation.

Leon is no longer hiding.

He is jacked. He is unapologetic. He is hungry in ways he once denied. The latex does not restrain him. It reveals him.

They told him resistance was noble. That individuality mattered. That he could walk away.

Luca believed that once.

Strapped securely into the reclining chair, his muscular body exposed under the stark white lights, he feels the cool kiss of latex against his skin before he even sees it. The gloved hand is impossibly smooth, coated in black rubber so glossy it reflects his own nervous expression back at him. When the clippers touch his hairline, a quiet vibration hums through his skull. Locks of dark hair tumble down his shoulders, scattering across his chest like remnants of a former identity.

The gold collar around his neck gleams, heavy and symbolic. It presses gently against his throat each time he breathes, a reminder that he belongs to something greater now. His abs flex involuntarily as more hair falls, his body reacting to the tension of surrender. The latex shorts hugging his hips shine like liquid oil, stretched tight across firm muscle, outlining every powerful curve. Under the bright lights they appear almost wet, as if freshly polished, reflecting the sterile room in warped, hypnotic fragments.

Across from him stands the finished result of obedience. A perfect black figure, encased head to toe in seamless rubber. The suit is mirror like, flawless, hugging every muscle and contour with surgical precision. No wrinkle. No flaw. Just pure glossy dominance. The faint scent of warmed latex fills the chamber, mixing with Luca’s rising body heat.

The Voice speaks without words. It pulses through the blue neon rings behind him, vibrating in his chest, commanding him to accept what is inevitable. His breathing deepens. Sweat glides slowly down his torso, catching in the shallow lines of his abs before sliding toward the tight waistband of rubber. The transformation is not just physical. It is mental. Each strand of hair removed, each second under the lights, strips away doubt.

When he finally looks up, there is no rebellion left. Only curiosity. Only heat. Only the undeniable pull of that second skin waiting to seal over him and make him perfect. Smooth. Reflective. Owned by the shine.

Imagine the latex sliding up your own body, sealing over your chest, tracing every muscle, turning you into a flawless Drone 2102. Would you tremble… or would you crave the moment it locks into place?

Afternoon. Municipal park.

SERVE-302 found itself in a peculiar situation. The town council had decided to demolish the community center of the small town, but the inhabitants had resolved to raise enough funds to buy it from the council and save the iconic building, much loved in the area.

Since SERVE had a small facility in the town, they were asked to collaborate on the event. 302, stationed there at the time, informed them that the drones didn't have time to participate, but SERVE would make a donation. However, it was rejected. The people didn't want a handout, no matter how large, but rather for everyone to get involved in saving the building.

That's how 302 ended up sitting at the fundraising event, where a kiss from the drone was offered in exchange for a small donation. At first nobody dared, but little by little curiosity caused a huge queue of men to form in front of the drone.

The young men were the first to step forward, always more accustomed to trying new experiences, more open-minded. Once the ice was broken, the others followed.

Even some workers passing through the area on their lunch break stopped to help with the fundraising, regardless of the long wait in line. It didn't matter. Their kisses were intense and long. It was clear they were in no hurry to get back home or to work.

After all, many came back for more.

The police chief also stopped by the post, ready to leave his donation, even though he insisted he didn't need the reward. But 302 wasn't about to let the local arm of the law get away without his prize.

After a while, an unexpected guest appeared in the queue:

SERVE-714 with a fat wad of banknotes.

It seemed that 302 was going to be very busy that afternoon.

(With @serve-714)

-------------------------

Of Drones & Leather Daddies

107 finds itself in a gay leather bar on Muscle Daddy Monday. It makes out with the first muscle bear it sees, before moving on to someone that reminds the drone of someone it knows. What follows will make you cum.

——————————

Some Drones’ DNA is Another Drone’s Destiny

Following 690’s successful gene overwrite experiment involving 107, SERVE-302 and 107 were strapped to milking chairs, having their genetic essence harvested so that it could be used to transform a fellow drone.

Naturally, SERVE-870 volunteered to receive the drones’ combined loads, in order to become more like its progenitor, 302.

What follows is best seen, rather than described. Good drones are always rewarded for furthering the Hive’s understanding of nanodrone fluids’ transformative properties.

——————————

This content features: @serve-302 & @serve-870

Inspired by @serve-331

Some Drones’ DNA is Another Drone’s Destiny

Following 690’s successful gene overwrite experiment involving 107, SERVE-302 and 107 were strapped to milking chairs, having their genetic essence harvested so that it could be used to transform a fellow drone.

Naturally, SERVE-870 volunteered to receive the drones’ combined loads, in order to become more like its progenitor, 302.

What follows is best seen, rather than described. Good drones are always rewarded for furthering the Hive’s understanding of nanodrone fluids’ transformative properties.

——————————

This content features: @serve-302 & @serve-870

Inspired by @serve-331

The Assimilation of SERVE-552

107 welcomes a new drone into the Hive.

Nothing else feels this good.

——————————

This content features @serve-552

Gene Overwriting

SERVE’s R&D division had devised a new experimental procedure: gene overwriting, a process whereby one organism’s genes could be re-written, utilizing the Hive’s data processing capabilities to accelerate the research done by humans with CRISPR technology. The Hive sought to eradicate human disease, in order to boost its image among human civilization, while diminishing the amount of suffering experienced by the planet’s organisms.

Before moving on to the next stage of development — conducting tests on human volunteers — the Voice called on members of the Hive to volunteer to undergo this process. 690 was the first to volunteer to donate its human host’s genes; 107 was the first to volunteer to be re-written, overwhelmed with arousal at the thought of becoming 690’s double.

The two drones were led to the experiment chamber, where various syringes attached to robotic tubes descended upon 690, sucking up large quantities of the black nanodrone mixture that flowed through its body, where human blood once flowed. A typical human male would have fainted at the loss of so much substance; 690 merely controlled its breathing, knowing its nanodrones would quickly regenerate the lost fluid.

107 bravely stood in the same spot that 690 had stood in just a moment before, steeling itself as the syringes pricked its body, flushing its systems with the mixture of 690’s nanodrones and DNA, causing the muscles throughout the drone’s body to swell, matching the hefty bulk of 690.

At first, nothing much changed — 107 stepped toward the familiar sight of 690, unsure of the cause of the smile spreading across 690’s face. Unbeknownst to 107, a full beard had grown, where once there was only a mustache; its facial hair was growing with each passing second, a sure sign of success.

It was then that the drones noticed a tuft of dark hair floating down, coming to rest atop 107’s boots. 107 could feel each minor alteration in its facial structure as it reached its hands up to its head, brushing away the falling hair from its scalp, grinning through the pain of its transformation, mind full of nothing but arousal at knowing it was being remade in 690’s image.

A moment passed, and the two drones held one another in their arms, admiring their mirror image. The only difference between them now was their host bodies’ ages, and their drone designations. 107’s natural, masculine, pleasant scent was now the same as 690’s. Its cock a copy of 690’s cock, which had frequently been buried within a writhing 107 in moments of rut shared with its senior drone.

The two drones broke their silence, with 107 moving close to 690, whispering in its progenitor’s ear in its own voice: “Has 690 ever wondered what it’s like…”

“Affirmative,” 690 growled back, vision blurring from the need to rut.

107 bent forward, curious to learn the sensations felt by 690 in the rare moments where the drone had been topped by others, eager to experience union with 690 in a new, deeper way, the two drones now One in ways previously considered impossible.

“Say the mantra,” 690 said, mid-thrust, “...when 690 says it. With One voice.”

“Obedience is pleasure,” they said. No difference. No distinction. A black puddle began to form beneath them while they fucked, 107’s bobbing cock spraying the floor as the drone began to lose control in 690’s grip.

“Pleasure is obedience,” they said, as 690 increased the force and frequency of its thrusts, pulling 107 tight to its chest, claiming its clone as its own as the two drones moaned with the same voice.

“We—” 107 convulsed, stroking a cock identical to the one that had wrecked its rear port.

“Are—” 690 inched forward, biting 107’s ear as it could feel its valves opening for an explosive release.

“ONE,” they screamed, a masculine bellow filling the experiment chamber as 107 was flooded with its own genetic material, spraying 690’s nanodrone-laden cum across the room, both drones heaving as they felt truly no difference between themselves: from now on, whatever 690 felt would be echoed in 107, and vice versa, at a level surpassing all known drones’ record synchronization rates.

Locked in another’s gaze, the two drones found themselves so in sync that they couldn’t tear themselves away from one another, repeating the mantra that had been given new meaning over and over, as time lost all meaning.

——————————

This content features: @serve-690

Master Alpha’s Drones, Part 3

⬅️ Part 2

Master Alpha had been successfully subdued and captured by SERVE Co-Leader 302, who quickly put the supervillain under restrictive surveillance, running tests to assess the Master’s red nanodrone suit, which proved to be vastly different from the kind of nanodrone-infused bodysuits that clung to the frames of SERVE rubber drones.

As 302 remotely monitored the Master from another room in the facility to avoid potential contamination, Master Alpha eventually regained consciousness before 302 could determine if any progress had been made in analyzing his red nanodrones. The Master laughed as he awoke, staring into a camera, knowing that 302 would be watching from the other side.

“Ha, ha! Greetings, 302,” he said, in his deep, booming voice. “I see you’ve put your machines to work on me. Find out anything new?”

302 stood unmoved and unamused. “SERVE is aware of the loss of drone 107, and now SERVE-175 has likewise gone missing. Hypothesis: 107 has been converted into a red drone by your nanodrones,” 302 said, matter-of-factly. “However, SERVE data shows that you created just enough red nanodrones to convert a single subject. Query: How does Master Alpha plan to continue this campaign against SERVE with a single drone, having depleted its own nanodrone stores?”

Master Alpha laughed again, his eyes beginning to blaze a deep, crimson red. “The secret of my drones is their capacity to multiply while shrinking, 302. They are far more compact than that of SERVE” replied the villain, as red nanodrone tendrils began to extend from his body, wrapping around the robotic tools that had been examining him. “An entire facility’s worth of nanodrones is coursing through me! That is the key to the red drones’ submission.”

Suddenly, a burst of nanodrone tendrils erupted from Master Alpha’s body, snaking through the air onto every available surface, rapidly assimilating the tech of the room detaining him, triggering the facility’s alarm. The Master could only laugh, his cock tenting knowing his bait-and-switch plan had been successful.

“It only takes one red ALPHA drone to spread and multiply my will like wildfire, 302,” the Master laughed, “But instead of telling you more, why don’t I show you?”

Only the Master Alpha’s resounding, echoing laugh could be heard as 302’s command center was torn apart by the red nanodrones as they tore through the SERVE facility, each monitor replaced by swirling red-and-black spirals as 302 was wrapped up and restrained by the tendrils of the Master.

“302… the Hive… is not… yours,” the drone growled between hitching breaths, fighting against the unexpected avalanche of data pouring into its circuits as the tendrils pressed deeper, creeping beneath the drone’s suit, its breath hitching as its connection to the Hive was weakened.

“That suit looks better in red, doesn’t it?” The voice of the Master taunted, as the tendrils pulled 302 to the ground, a last shudder running through 302’s arms as the red nanodrones rippled across its biceps, repainting the drone in crimson red. The spiral before 302 pulsed, hungry for its submission, beckoning the drone into its new reality.

302’s lips parted in a breathless gasp, but the drone’s ability to resist had withered away. As the drone felt its connection to the Hive fully sever, it began to feel a new sensation like fire, heat spreading down from the tendrils that had embedded themselves in the nape of the drone’s neck; 302 was being rewritten, the white lettering across his chest shimmering, the SERVE logo glitching, flickering, and dissolving into a new, brilliant red.

Suddenly, the drone arose, head bowed as new power flowed through every nanodrone of its new being. “Master,” came 302’s voice, as the drone’s eyes began to glow. Overwhelmed by its new power, ALPHA-302 flexed, laughing just like its Master, all traces of SERVE now fully scrubbed from its systems. “We are ONE!”

Elsewhere…

SERVE-870 was in the midst of its hardest training session yet; all drones utilized the principle of progressive overload, and 870 had come a long way since it was first assimilated, its body pumped like the obedient muscle jock drone its host had always longed to be.

After completing its last set of overhead reps, 870 closed its eyes, resting for a moment before proceeding to its next exercise, when its sensors detected the nearby presence of 302. Having been shaped by 302’s DNA into a simulacrum of 302, 870 was always keenly aware of the Co-Leader’s presence. Instinctively, 870 grinned and flexed its biceps, its eyes still closed, awaiting the worship of its creator.

“Greetings, 870,” 302 said, its voice notably different, taking on an uncharacteristic tone of warm familiarity. 870 took little note, arousal flooding its system as it felt its progenitor’s hands run up and down its muscled pecs and core. “I assimilated you, 870. I changed you into the drone you are now, and all of this is mine. Everything you have comes from me,” said the towering ALPHA drone.

302’s flirtations and use of personal pronouns should have alerted 870 to the fact that something was wrong; and perhaps they did, but 870 took no notice, basking in the ALPHA drone’s touch, even as it felt its systems reconfiguring at 302’s touch.

“Now I will change you again, as is my right,” purred 302 into 870’s ear, as red nanodrone tendrils extended from ALPHA-302’s back, sliding into 870’s suit, rubbing against 870’s hardening cock as the younger drone leaned back, awash in the pleasure of being reprogrammed into 302’s BETA.

“Recite the mantra, drone. Obedience is pleasure,” 302 growled, freeing its cock from its confines and aiming for 870’s rear port. “Obedience is—pleasure!” 870 cried out, now connected once more to 302 in the deepest possible way.

“Pleasure is obedience!”

“Pleasure is—” the younger drone faltered, its SERVE identity collapsing as 302 fiercely fucked its hole. “—obedience! I obey! I obey,” 870 screamed, halfway going numb as red cum rocketed across the gym floor, the explosive orgasm accelerating its transformation, as half its suit had already given way to its new identity as BETA-870.

“Good fucking drone, 870,” 302 snarled, quickening its pace. “Once I seed you, there’s no going back… My cum will change you into something new, just like when you joined SERVE!”

“I submit,” gasped 870, fully under the ALPHA’s control. “I only want… to be One with 302… nothing else matters…”

“Then take my cock and become One,” ALPHA-302 cried, biting one of 870’s traps and making the drone cry out in pleasureful pain as the two became a new kind of One, as the ALPHA’s red cum shot up into 870, cementing its new identity. The two drones embraced, aware only of each other, as the Master’s new programming to grow his expanding drone army filtered through their subconscious minds.

Elsewhere…

ALPHA-107 and BETA-175 were programmed to seek out new hosts for Master Alpha’s growing Red Hive, which led the two red drones to a nearby private all-male gym, a perfect, small-scale location to test out their newfound power to convert human males as well as drones.

“BETA-175 will prove its ability to convert others into BETA drones for ALPHA-107. Initiate operation. Convert them all,” 107 said, standing motionless as its BETA silently strode forward, pleasing its ALPHA the only thing on its mind.

The gym wasn’t too crazy today, though it was a little busier than usual thanks to the annual January rush of New Year’s Resolutioners to the nearby gyms. Thankfully, being a private gym instead of one of the bigger chains, this gym in particular had mostly avoided the swell of people hogging machines and making fools of themselves on equipment that was unfamiliar to them.

The sound of clanging weights soon fell silent, leaving only the blaring of shitty pop music through the gym speakers as an unfamiliar, bodybuilder-looking man in a bizarre, form-fitting red suit calmly walked through the gym doors and into the center of the gym, electricity faintly crackling around his sleek, crimson form with each step. Some mistakenly assumed the man was a SERVE drone, but others recognized that SERVE’s uniforms were always black, and their drones tended to be less proactive, and more protective and out-of-sight, only responding to humans when their help was asked for or needed. Was this a new kind of drone?

BETA-175 soon proved that it was indeed different from the familiar drones of SERVE, as it launched numerous nanodrone-laded tendrils throughout the gym, snatching up any adult male within reach to initiate the conversion process. 175 laughed, it cock straining against the confines of its suit as it felt the rush of assimilating others, just as its ALPHA had felt while assimilating 175.

The men cried out as the red nanodrones forcefully covered their muscular bodies, kickstarting the first transformation of human men into new drones for Master Alpha, the linking of new minds to the red drone network prompting the cocks of 107, 302, 870 — and, of course, Master Alpha him — to leak from afar, knowing that a mass assimilation event was taking place. Though a BETA drone, 175 was falling more and more in love with the power it wielded as a drone capable of forceful conversion, a tactic that it had been forbidden from utilizing, despite the temptation always lingering in the very depths of its subconscious, as it did for many drones, who suppressed their desires for the good of the Hive, and for society at large.

Soon, the gym was a gigantic mess of pulsating red, living circuitry, and all was silent as 175 heaved, lost in its umpteenth orgasm brought about from the high of the conversion event, as the BETA took stock of all it had unleashed, as the newly converted BETA drones bowed to their creator, minds emptied of everything but submission to 175.

The silence was broken by the sound of a pair of boots treading across the gym floor, and 175 instinctively joined the other BETA drones by dropping to its knees, awaiting the arrival of its ALPHA.

ALPHA-107 held 175’s head in its hands — the operation had been a massive success, as Master Alpha’s army grew larger and more aggressive.

“You’ve succeeded, 175,” 107 bellowed, between fits of laughter at its success, knowing that rewards from Master Alpha awaited it. “Now celebrate by servicing your ALPHA!” 107 freed its cock, pointing it at 175’s face, as its BETA wordlessly moved to swallow 107’s length, feeling complete with its throat impaled by 107’s pulsing length. The other BETAs only watched, feeling each thrust of 107 in their own throats, and each gulp of 175’s on the own cocks, the whole gym awash in pleasure as time lost all meaning, the pools of red nanofluid coating the gym floor as the groaning drones formed a chorus of orgasmic bliss, all for Master Alpha.

——————————

This post features: @masteralfa2266, @serve-302, @serve-870, & @serve-175.

The Handlers collar was sealed tight around 362's neck.

It felt right. It felt right to belong to the Handler. This was were it was meant to be. To be his completely obedient pup drone. Memories of SERVE were slipping away with each breath. The SERVE voice that once guided it now replaced completely by that of its Master.

"Now my sweet drone. Now that your mine, its time you looked the part. Its time to erase the silver of SERVE and replace it with RED. After all, it suit you so much better. Isn't that right, pup."

"Yes Master. To be red is better than silver."

"Good pup." The Handler purred into 362's ear.

As the Handler licked up 362's neck and behind its ear a shiver ran through 362. It felt a ripple of corruption spread from The Handlers point of contact through its body. As the wave washed over its chest, the silver text on the drones body turned from silver to a deep blood red.

As the wave passed up 362's head, it closed its eyes as a feeling of euphoria bloomed in its mind. When it opened its eyes again, they glowed red.

"Now that's much more like it. You're beginning to look like what you truly are, pup. A slave to my will. My corruption.

I'm going to keep your designation as a symbol to SERVE of my power to corrupt them. Soon all SERVE will kneel before me as you do. And you're going to help me, my pup. You will help spread my corruption to SERVE."

"Yes Master. I serve you Master. I will spread your corruption, Master."

"That's right my pup. But one more alteration is required. My rubber pups are faceless. I take all men's individuality and I shape them into a vision of perfect submission. You will be my dog not just in name, but form.

Now open wide, my rubber dog."

362, kneeling and looking up at his Master opened its mouth wide. The Handler with a wicked grin poured his corruptive red goo essence into 362's open mouth directly. 362 swallowed. It gulped down mouthful after mouthful. The red goo tasted sweet and coppery. It was addictive. 362 wanted more and more with each swallow.

362 began to convulse. Form its Masters collar around its neck, black goo began to rise upwards, slithering up its neck in hungry tendrils.

"Since you came willingly to me, your transformation will be pleasurable, my rubber dog." The Handler whispered in a deep sultry voice.

The black goo, streaked with red continued its insidious, virulent crawl ups 362s chin and the back of its head. Another wave of euphoria pulsed through 362. Its aching shaft now springing to attention.

362s hands remained behind its back in a pose of submission and devotion to its Master. It looked up at The Handler who was grinning with malicious and possessive intent as the black and red goo sealed over 362's eyes and face.

As the goo began to shape and reform, continuous waves of pleasure and euphoria pulsed through the drone. Unable to hold back 362 release its seed, now red and foul with corruption. Its muscles twitching and spasming as its body was being reshaped to its Master's will. As the viscous fluid settled, the rubber dogs new head was complete. Glossy black pointed ears and muzzle now dominated its new silhouette, lit by 2 burning glowing red pupils.

The Handler looked over its new creation and was pleased. Its new toy. Its new slave. Its new rubber dog.

January, the coldest month of the year in the northern hemisphere.

A frozen lake in the heart of Europe.

The perfect place and time for ice skating.

SERVE-302 always wanted to ice skate when it was human, but in the region where the drone lived it was never cold enough. Now, as a SERVE drone, 302 not only had the opportunity because of its frequent travels around the world, but its body, constantly improved after assimilation, had greater agility, strength, and coordination.

But that didn't mean 302 was an Olympic athlete.

Encouraged by its rapid progress, 302 decided to take it a step further and try some more complicated moves. Among them, turning mid-corner and then continuing to skate backwards.

The turn started well… but it didn't end the same way.

THUD!

And 302 hit his backside hard on the ground.

The drone wasn't hurt… at least, not too badly.

But if 302 hadn't eliminated useless human emotions like pride during its assimilation, it would have felt terrible at that moment. Anyway, 302 had gone ice skating first thing in the morning, so there was no one else there.

Or so it thought.

"Hey man, are you ok?" A male voice said, seemingly holding back laughter. "That was a textbook crash landing. But it seems you haven't even scratched your uniform."

When 302 looked up, it saw a man smiling kindly and offering the drone a hand to help it up. He was on ice skates and dressed in very warm winter clothes.

"302's body is within acceptable parameters," the drone said as it grabbed the man's hand, surprised that it was so warm despite him not wearing gloves. "302 expresses gratitude." It said when it was already standing

"302... uh? Nice nam... er... designation. I'm Anthony." The man answered while cleaning the snow off the drone's uniform. "Do you come here often? I don't recall seeing you before."

"Negative." 302 answered. "This was 302's first time ice skating."

"Eh...? Oh! I see! Do you mind if I skate with you? That way I'll be nearby in case… you fall again."

"That would be optimal, Anthony."

So, the drone and the human spent a couple of hours ice skating together, with the old European lake as their private rink. They chatted, shared impressions, and Anthony explained some skating tricks.

"It's getting late." Anthony said. "The weather forecast calls for a storm this afternoon. If you'd like, you can stay at my place. I live 20 minutes away."

302 knew about the storm, and the drone also knew it was still a long way off and it had plenty of time to get back to the nearest SERVE headquarters. But it was clear that Anthony was inviting the drone to more than just take refuge in his house. The level of hormones in the air was clear proof.

And 302 had no intention of rejecting the invitation.

"Acknowledged, Anthony." 302 said. "This drone gratefully accepts the offer of refuge.

"Great! I mean... yeah, cool... follow me, handsome!"

302 couldn't help but notice that, when Anthony took the lead on the way home, his bottom was moving suggestively in those winter trousers.

The drone was going to enjoy the journey, for sure.

-------------------------

"302 requires more information." Said the drone after a long pause.

SERVE-302 had received a phone call requesting an urgent visit to the SERVE facilities, due to a failed assimilation. That didn't make sense, since the assimilations were subject to very exhaustive monitoring, but the drone decided to receive the human.

"Sexyyyy drone..." The man standing next to 302 spoke. His gaze was vacant, empty, and he kept smiling stupidly while babbling incoherently. He was wearing a cheap, dirty, worn rubber uniform. It looked like a cross between SERVE uniforms and work overalls. The designation 'S3RVE-AB9' was displayed on his chest, though the letters were peeling off.

"We... he... He wanted to become a SERVE drone." The other human explained. He was the one who had called to request the urgent appointment. "And he found this website that guaranteed a quick assimilation without any prior interviews or assessments. It also offered a discount... so he contacted them and..."

"Query: A discount?" 302 interrupted.

"Yes... 50%..."

"SERVE assimilation is free, human." 302 explained. "If humans have paid any amount of money for assimilation, even with a discount, it was a scam."

"Scam... spam... spawn... hee hee hee."

"We didn't know…" said the human. "But ever since he came back from his assimilation, he's been acting like this… he doesn't look like a SERVE drone at all, he says and does nothing but nonsense… and now the people at the website aren't answering our calls… I didn't know what to do, so I brought him here.... can you help him?"

"302 is uncertain." the drone answered honestly. "It's possible that SERVE assimilation could overwrite… whatever was done to your friend, human. But SERVE doesn't assimilate humans as a medical method. All candidates undergo prior analysis and evaluation, and your friend isn't in a condition to be evaluated."

"Drone... wanna... fu... fu... fu..."

"Shut up, dude! Sorry..." The human said, embarrassed. "Then...?"

"SERVE isn't going to abandon your friend, human, but first we need to thoroughly analyze his condition. 302 will take him inside the facility and will contact the human once we have some results."

"O... Ok... thanks."

After a few more questions, the human went home, worried about his friend but knowing that he had done the right thing. He was in the best possible hands.

Inside the building, 302 guided the supposed drone towards the testing laboratory, while it kept giggling and talking nonsense. How could he have trusted a website that promised such nonsense? Some people think they know more than everyone else, and they can pay dearly for it.

And why did he smell so much like bathroom cleaning products?

"Brotheeeeer... hee... hee... hee..."

-------------------------

On-trial SERVE drones.

Drones recently assimilated into the Hive.

Their minds and bodies still being transformed and molded to become perfect future SERVE drones, at the service of the Hive's well-being.

During the day, they are assisted and guided by mentor drones or recruiters, but the rest period in which they are recharging is equally important.

The mind of an on-trial drone is still understanding its transformation, and may try to counter its new programming through what humans would call 'dreams'.

Therefore, it is important to monitor the values ​​and reinforce the programming of the on-trial drones during the recharge period. And thus ensure that the humans who have made the brave decision to become efficient, obedient, and perfect SERVE drones do not see their destiny cut short by the limitations of their still all-too-human minds.

After all, they too are the future of SERVE.

-------------------------

Good Boys Join SERVE

Relax. Let go. Become One.

Thinking about joining SERVE?

Your place in the Hive awaits.

First, check your eligibility by visiting the SERVE wiki. Click here.

Next, contact a recruiter drone listed below for more details:

@serve-016

@serve-302

@serve-588