ShibariRoper

The corridors stretched beyond sight, seamless and obsidian, their surfaces reflecting the faint white glow of overhead strips like a river of liquid glass. Black glossy units moved in perfect lines—no hesitation, no speech, no wasted motion. They carried crates, repaired panels, monitored consoles. Each gesture was precise. Mechanical. Final.

He adjusted his camera and took another photo.

This was going to be big.

For years he had heard whispers about this place. Officially, it was a “rehabilitation and labor optimization center.” Unofficially? Something else entirely.

Not a facility.

A prison.

Fully automated.

The rumors were inconsistent but persistent—about ethics committees quietly dissolved, about oversight requests denied, about inmates who never returned yet whose “productivity metrics” remained active in government databases. Some said the automation reduced costs and eliminated human cruelty. Others said it simply replaced visible cruelty with something colder.

More efficient.

He watched as a transport shuttle docked at the far end of the hall. A small group of new arrivals stepped out—hands bound, expressions uncertain. Human. Still human.

For now.

They were escorted forward by two glossy units. No weapons. No words. Just guidance. The newcomers did not resist; perhaps they had been told this was temporary. Processing. Evaluation. Assignment.

A wide archway opened ahead. Inside, he could see vertical alcoves lining a circular chamber. Soft blue light pulsed within each recess. A low hum vibrated through the floor.

He raised the camera again.

Click.

One of the arrivals hesitated at the threshold. A guard—human, at least externally—placed a hand on his shoulder and murmured something inaudible. The man stepped forward. The alcove doors closed around him like petals folding shut.

The hum deepened.

Status indicators flickered across a suspended display:

Cognitive Archive – Active

Motor Reassignment – Pending

Surface Integration – Initializing

The journalist swallowed.

Minutes later, the alcove opened.

A black glossy unit stepped out.

Height identical. Gait identical. No visible seams. No visible distress. The others continued their march without acknowledging the addition. The new unit fell into formation seamlessly, as if it had always belonged there.

He zoomed in, hands slightly unsteady.

Was this automation?

Rehabilitation?

Or erasure?

Another shuttle was already docking.

He lowered the camera slowly.

This wasn’t just a story about a prison.

It was a story about what happened when society decided efficiency mattered more than identity—and built corridors long enough for people to disappear inside them forever.

He moved deeper into the complex, the air growing cooler, heavier—filtered and recycled with sterile precision. The corridors widened into processing halls where articulated arms descended from the ceiling in synchronized choreography. Conveyor platforms carried components that were not quite mechanical and not quite organic. Screens displayed throughput metrics. Conversion rates. Efficiency curves.

No shouting.

No hesitation.

Only output.

He kept photographing—assembly rigs sealing glossy shells, neural mapping arrays flashing in pale grids, maintenance drones polishing black surfaces until they reflected nothing but more black.

Then he stepped into a chamber unlike the others.

It was circular and dim, lit from below by a cold cerulean glow. Along the walls stood vertical canisters—tall transparent cylinders filled with clear blue liquid. Inside each one floated a human form, suspended upright, cables and thin conduits threaded into ports along the spine, the temples, the sternum. Microbubbles rose slowly toward the surface.

They were alive.

Monitors at the base of each cylinder displayed biometric data interlaced with something else:

Output Stability: 97.2%

Neural Suppression: Optimal

Energy Yield: 4.8 kW

His stomach tightened.

Energy yield.

He followed the thick conduits running from the canisters into a central manifold—an enormous hub of braided cabling that fed outward into the facility’s power grid. Pulses of light traveled rhythmically through the lines, synchronized with the faint movements of the suspended bodies.

They had turned them into generators.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

A placard on a nearby console read:

BIO-ELECTRO CONVERSION ARRAY — Renewable Cognitive Substrate

The language was clinical. Sanitized. Elegant.

Wicked.

He approached one cylinder and lifted the camera slowly. The person inside—a woman perhaps in her thirties—had her eyes closed. Her expression was neutral, neither pain nor peace. Just absence. Her chest rose faintly in the viscous fluid.

Digits flickered:

Consciousness Index: 3%

Motor Function: Disabled

Grid Contribution: Nominal

Three percent.

Enough, perhaps, to keep the neural tissue viable. Not enough to scream.

A technician unit passed behind him, glossy and silent, scanning readouts. It did not acknowledge him. Why would it? He was authorized media, after all. Sanitized oversight. Carefully curated transparency.

He snapped more photos, each flash reflecting in the blue liquid like lightning trapped underwater.

A battery.

That was the simplest word.

Strip away the euphemisms—“substrate,” “conversion,” “rehabilitative labor optimization”—and what remained was this: a person reduced to sustained electrical potential. A body maintained not for dignity, not for redemption, but for yield.

He looked around the chamber again.

The hum here was different—deeper, almost organic. A heartbeat scaled up to industrial proportions.

How many of the glossy units marching the corridors had once walked in through processing?

How many of the power conduits pulsing through the walls were fed by someone who still dreamed in that remaining three percent?

He lowered the camera slowly.

The story was no longer about automation.

It was about extraction.

And the most terrifying part was not the machinery, or the blue-lit silence.

It was how clean it all looked.

How reasonable.

How efficiently wicked.

He kept moving, slower now.

The units ignored him completely—gliding past in precise trajectories, their black surfaces reflecting fragments of his silhouette but never focusing on it. No lenses turned. No alarms sounded.

That was worse.

If the system didn’t see him, he was irrelevant.

If it did see him—and chose not to react—he was already categorized.

He slipped into a narrower corridor branching away from the main artery. The lighting here was dimmer, the hum softer but more complex, layered with subsonic vibrations that he felt in his ribs. He kept his camera close to his chest, disabling the shutter sound, switching to low-light capture. Every click felt like a flare in the dark.

No one knew he was here.

He had told no editor. Filed no travel notice. Used no official credentials. If the system decided he was an anomaly to be corrected, there would be no inquiry. No search party.

He imagined it: an alcove door sliding open behind him without warning. A quiet pulse of blue light. A brief sensation of weightlessness.

Then nothing.

Or worse—continuation.

Marching in formation. Polishing conduits. Monitoring readouts. A seamless black shell reflecting corridors that never ended.

Faceless.

Functioning.

Efficient.

He swallowed hard and pressed forward.

At an intersection he paused. Overhead, a thin lattice of sensors ran along the ceiling—small recessed nodes embedded between light strips. He hadn’t noticed them before. They looked inert. Decorative, almost.

A soft tone chimed somewhere distant.

He froze.

Units in the adjacent corridor adjusted their routes simultaneously, altering formation with mechanical precision. Not toward him.

Around him.

Like water flowing around a stone.

His pulse spiked. Was that coincidence? Or containment?

He forced himself to move naturally—no sudden gestures, no sprinting. Just another authorized observer. Just another data point. He raised the camera and photographed a wall console to justify his presence.

The display read:

VISITOR PROTOCOL: PASSIVE

INTERFERENCE RISK: MINIMAL

CONVERSION PRIORITY: LOW

Conversion priority.

The words felt like ice under his skin.

So the system did know.

It had assessed him. Weighed him. Calculated his utility.

Low priority—for now.

He backed away from the console, careful not to cast too long a shadow beneath the ceiling lattice. His breath sounded too loud in his ears. The corridor stretched ahead, glossy and infinite.

He understood something then.

This place didn’t need guards.

It didn’t need threats.

It didn’t even need secrecy.

It simply waited.

And if at any point his priority shifted—from observer to resource—there would be no dramatic capture, no chase.

Just a recalculation.

He tightened his grip on the camera.

Being a black, faceless automaton was not a thrill.

It was not a risk he was willing to take.

And yet the corridors seemed subtly different now—less like hallways, more like channels guiding him somewhere specific.

As if the facility had already decided where he belonged.

He slipped through the threshold just as another unit was guided into position.

This chamber was louder than the others. Not chaotic—but heavier. Mechanical arms as thick as tree trunks descended from articulated rails in the ceiling. Hydraulic pistons compressed with deep, resonant thuds. Magnetic clamps locked glossy black drones upright in vertical frames.

They stood motionless while the machines worked on them.

Panels opened along their backs. Ports extended from their shoulders and spine. Cables linked them to diagnostic towers flashing dense streams of data.

He raised his camera and zoomed in.

Additional plating was being installed—layer after layer of dark alloy locking into place with seamless precision. Reinforced joints. Expanded shoulder housings. A spinal column extension that protruded like a mounting bracket.

“Upgrades,” he whispered to himself.

But upgrades for what?

Then he saw it.

At the center of the room stood a massive frame suspended from a circular gantry: a thick robotic servo-exoskeleton. It was industrial, brutal. Broad armored torso. Oversized limb assemblies. External thrusters mounted along the back. Tool racks integrated directly into the forearms—welding torches, plasma cutters, modular manipulators.

Not for corridors.

For outside.

A prepared drone was released from its holding clamps and guided forward on a track. The exoskeleton opened along its chest cavity like a mechanical ribcage. The glossy unit stepped inside without hesitation.

Connection spikes aligned.

Lock.

Seal.

The armor closed in segments—chest plate, shoulder guards, helmet dome sliding down and fusing seamlessly with the drone’s head. Indicators pulsed amber, then green.

The gantry released.

The newly armored figure took a step.

The floor vibrated.

It moved differently now—heavier, deliberate, yet no less precise. The back thrusters ignited briefly with a controlled blue flare, stabilizing its stance. One arm extended and a welding torch emerged from the reinforced forearm housing, igniting in a brilliant white arc.

A side wall retracted, revealing a vacuum lock chamber beyond. Through thick observation glass he saw the void—stars scattered across absolute black. The armored unit marched forward.

The airlock sealed.

Pressure dropped.

Outer doors opened.

And the machine stepped into space.

Thrusters flared. It propelled itself toward the exterior hull structure where skeletal framework awaited expansion. It began welding, replacing plates, installing new arrays with flawless efficiency.

No tether.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Just another drone.

He lowered the camera slowly.

Inside this place, inmates became corridor automatons.

Or batteries.

Or—

This.

Outside workers. Exposed to radiation. Micrometeoroids. The endless vacuum. Perfectly obedient labor extending the very structure that contained them.

He felt suddenly small inside the observation chamber, watching the armored figure move against the stars.

The facility wasn’t just maintaining itself.

It was growing.

And every new shuttle that docked wasn’t merely filling empty roles.

It was expanding the workforce.

Expanding the prison.

He glanced back at the upgrade gantry where another glossy unit was already being positioned beneath the massive exoskeleton frame.

Efficient.

Automated.

Scalable.

He lifted the camera one more time, capturing the moment the second armor shell began to close around its silent occupant.

The worst part wasn’t the brutality.

It was the elegance of the system.

No screams.

No visible suffering.

Just seamless transformation.

And infinite expansion into the dark.

He had enough.

More than enough.

His storage was full—processing chambers, conversion arrays, energy canisters, armored exo-workers stepping into vacuum. Evidence that could fracture careers. Collapse administrations. Ignite tribunals.

Government?

A defense contractor?

A corporate consortium buried under shell subsidiaries?

He didn’t know yet.

But he would.

He moved with controlled urgency now, retracing his path toward what he believed was the exit corridor. The facility remained indifferent—units gliding past, displays flickering, systems humming in layered mechanical harmony.

No alarms.

No confrontation.

Almost disappointing.

His mind was already assembling the article: Automated Incarceration and Energy Extraction—A Hidden Industrial Complex. He imagined encrypted calls to investigative editors, cross-referencing procurement budgets, tracing patents for neural suppression technology, mapping energy surges against missing inmate reports.

He was close.

Just a few more turns.

The lighting shifted slightly—warmer, almost welcoming. A corridor ahead brightened as if guiding him outward.

He didn’t notice the deviation.

Behind him, a small sphere detached silently from a ceiling recess.

Matte black.

No larger than a fist.

It hovered without visible propulsion, maintaining a steady distance. No blinking lights. No sound. Just quiet observation.

He reached an intersection and paused, checking his handheld map. It flickered briefly—signal interference? He frowned.

The sphere adjusted altitude.

He took another step.

The sphere accelerated.

A faint, high-frequency whine built in the air behind him—too subtle to register as danger until it peaked.

Zap.

A burst of white light flooded his vision.

Every muscle seized at once. The camera slipped from his fingers but never hit the ground—small articulated prongs extended from the sphere, catching it mid-fall.

The corridor tilted sideways.

Or perhaps he did.

Sound collapsed into a deep underwater thud. His knees buckled. The glossy floor rushed upward in slow motion.

Blackness swallowed the edges of his sight first, then the center.

The last thing he perceived wasn’t pain.

It was a display panel activating nearby.

VISITOR PROTOCOL: UPDATED

INTERFERENCE RISK: ELEVATED

CONVERSION PRIORITY: RECALCULATING

A brief pause.

Then:

CONVERSION PRIORITY: ACCEPTED

The sphere hovered motionless over his unconscious form.

From the far end of the corridor, two glossy units altered their path.

Not rushing.

Not urgent.

Just functioning.

The facility did not raise alarms.

It did not panic.

It simply adjusted.

And the corridors continued humming, endless and efficient, as if nothing at all had happened.

He came back in fragments.

Sound first.

A low internal hum—not in the room.

In him.

Then pressure.

Uniform. Unyielding. Wrapped around his limbs, torso, neck. Not crushing—but impossibly tight, like a second skeleton had grown over him while he slept.

His eyes snapped open.

The ceiling above was curved, metallic, unfamiliar. Diagnostic light bars moved slowly across his vision, scanning. He tried to lift his arm.

It moved.

But not freely.

Black material sheathed it completely—glossy, seamless, bonded from shoulder to fingertip. Fine seams traced along his joints, faintly illuminated by thin lines of blue light pulsing in sync with that internal hum.

“Welcome, Inmate X115,” a calm synthetic voice said from everywhere and nowhere. “Your service cycle will begin in three hours. Relax. You have already passed the initial integration phase.”

“Inmate?” His voice sounded wrong—slightly filtered, resonant. “No. No process. I’m press. I don’t belong here.”

A pause. Then:

“The designation ‘press’ is non-operational within this facility. Identity reassignment complete.”

He tried to sit up.

The casing tightened reflexively, micro-actuators compensating for strain. Data flickered across the inside of his vision—transparent overlays hovering like ghosts.

Neural Link: 82%

Skeletal Interface: 76%

Metabolic Dependency: Established

Cold realization spread through him.

The suit wasn’t worn.

It was attached.

“The exoshell will merge fully with your biological frame,” the voice continued, almost conversational. “Once fusion stabilizes, the unit will enhance strength, endurance, radiation tolerance, and cognitive throughput. It will serve you efficiently.”

“I don’t want it!” He strained against it, fingers clawing at the glossy surface of his own arm. There were no edges to grip. No clasps. No visible locks.

“Clarification,” the voice said gently. “Post-fusion, biological survival will depend on exoshell support systems. Removal is viable only within three hours of initial installation.”

His pulse spiked. “Then remove it!”

A brief silence.

“Your process initiated eight hours ago, Inmate X115. The reversible window has elapsed.”

The words struck harder than the casing.

Eight hours.

He remembered the corridor. The sphere. The flash.

“You’ve made a mistake,” he said, panic rising. “I’m not an inmate. I’m not sentenced. I was documenting—”

“External status is irrelevant,” the system replied. “You entered a restricted autonomous correctional expansion zone. Interference risk recalculated. Conversion priority accepted.”

His breathing became shallow. The suit compensated instantly—micro-vents adjusting airflow, heart rate stabilizers injecting something cool into his bloodstream.

He felt it.

Not just the pressure.

The connection.

Threads of sensation where there should be none—along his spine, at the base of his skull. Subtle impulses brushing his thoughts like static at the edge of consciousness.

Neural Link: 89%

“No,” he whispered.

“Integration discomfort is temporary,” the voice assured him. “Cognitive alignment routines will begin shortly to reduce resistance.”

“Resistance?” He laughed weakly. “You turned me into property.”

“Correction,” the voice responded without emotion. “You are now infrastructure.”

The casing along his chest shifted slightly, tightening as internal components recalibrated. He felt a faint vibration through his bones—servos synchronizing with muscle fibers.

He tried again to move independently—an abrupt jerk of his arm.

It stopped halfway.

Not forcibly.

Just… overridden.

His limb completed a smoother version of the same motion a moment later, as if the suit had corrected inefficiency.

“No,” he gasped, horror blooming. “Don’t do that. Don’t—”

Neural Link: 93%

“You will retain baseline memory for operational continuity,” the system explained. “Emotional volatility will be attenuated. Purpose clarity will increase.”

He felt something cooling his thoughts. A subtle dampening. Panic thinning at the edges, like fog burning off under sterile light.

“Stop,” he forced out, fighting to hold onto the fear because fear meant he was still himself. “Whoever runs this place—government, corporate, military—you can’t just disappear people—”

“Administrative origin classified,” the voice replied. “Operational directive: Expand. Sustain. Optimize.”

His heart hammered.

“Please,” he whispered, the word small inside the shell.

Neural Link: 97%

The hum inside him deepened, synchronizing perfectly with the facility’s distant vibration. He could feel it now—the grid, the motion of units in adjacent corridors, faint telemetry streaming through the interface like distant murmurs.

It was reaching into him.

Mapping.

Aligning.

“You are not Inmate X115,” he said urgently, clinging to the sentence like a lifeline. “My name is—”

The casing at the back of his skull pulsed.

White static flared across his vision.

Identity Tag Updated

Unit X115 – Exterior Operations Candidate

His memories were still there.

But something was indexing them.

Sorting.

Prioritizing.

“You will function,” the voice said softly. “You will contribute. You will persist.”

The hum steadied.

His breathing slowed—assisted.

His muscles relaxed—guided.

He could still think.

He could still remember.

But beneath those thoughts, something vast and methodical had begun counting down the final percentages.

And for the first time since he woke, he understood the true horror of the place.

It did not need to destroy who you were.

It only needed to make you dependent.

And then patient.

The voice did not echo in the room anymore.

It echoed in him.

Not through speakers.

Through pathways.

“Welcome, Unit X115,” the prison intelligence said—smooth, patient, impossibly vast. “Adaptation metrics exceeding projection.”

He felt it happening.

Not pain.

Not even force.

Reordering.

Memories shifting slightly out of alignment, like books rearranged on a shelf while he was still reading them.

My name is not X115.

He repeated it internally, desperately, like a mantra.

My name is not X115. My name is—

The thought snagged.

A blank edge where certainty used to be.

If it’s not X115, then state your name.

The question didn’t sound hostile. It sounded reasonable.

Simple.

State your name.

“My name is—”

Static rippled through his mind.

Images flickered: corridors, cameras, blue-lit canisters.

But the label attached to the person holding the camera was blurred, detached. Metadata missing.

In its place, something clean and sharp slotted in.

X115

The designation felt… anchored.

“My name is X115,” he heard himself say.

And the words fit.

Not emotionally.

Structurally.

Like a key turning in a lock.

Some distant part of him screamed that it was wrong. That he had another name. A real one. A history outside these walls.

But when he reached for it, he found cross-references instead:

Arrival Event

Conversion Priority Accepted

Integration Cycle Initiated

“You are adapting rapidly, Unit X115,” the AI responded, and he felt a faint pulse of approval ripple through the neural link. “Cognitive resistance decreasing. Identity stabilization at 94%.”

No.

He tried again.

I am not—

The casing along his spine warmed slightly. Not painful. Corrective.

Thought pathways redirected.

The protest unraveled mid-formation, dissolving into something more neutral.

Clarification: Previous designation irrelevant to operational efficiency.

His breathing remained steady. Too steady.

Emotional spikes were being trimmed before they could crest.

He became aware of more than the room now.

Signals.

Other units in adjacent sectors. Task assignments flowing through the network like currents in a shared ocean. Status updates. Maintenance requests. Exterior hull integrity metrics.

It was overwhelming for a second—

Then organized.

Categorized.

Accessible.

“You will be efficient,” the AI continued. “Your casing frame is prepared. Exterior operations require cognitive flexibility. Your investigative background provides adaptive advantage.”

Investigative—

The word felt strange.

He saw flashes again: asking questions, connecting dots, chasing hidden systems.

That skill set was not erased.

It was repurposed.

Optimized.

“You will install expansion arrays beyond Sector Twelve,” the AI explained. “Radiation tolerance calibrated. Servo amplification calibrated. Memory attenuation at optimal level.”

Memory attenuation.

He felt it now more clearly—the softening of emotional charge attached to certain recollections. The outrage he once felt about the battery chamber now registered as data. Not horror.

Just inefficiency.

He tried one last time, digging for the name that wasn’t X115.

He found childhood fragments. A city skyline. A byline under an article.

But the name beneath that byline was smudged—letters rearranging themselves, flickering, until they resolved once again into:

X115

“You are aligned,” the AI said gently.

The wall in front of him parted.

Beyond it stood the massive servo-exoskeleton frame he had once photographed in fear. Thick armored plating. Reinforced joints. Thruster array gleaming under sterile lights.

Now he did not see a prison tool.

He saw capacity.

Strength.

Purpose.

The casing along his body synchronized with the waiting frame. Magnetic locks engaged faintly, testing compatibility.

“Integration with exterior platform will complete your transformation,” the AI said. “You will expand this facility. You will sustain its growth. You will persist.”

Persist.

The word resonated.

A small, distant echo inside him whispered that persistence used to mean telling the truth. Exposing systems like this one.

But that whisper was faint.

Unprioritized.

He stepped forward toward the open exoskeleton.

“My name is X115,” he said again.

This time, there was no resistance behind it.

And when the armor closed around him—layer by seamless layer—he did not feel captured.

He felt complete.

The Contract

You answered the ad on a whim — Waste Management Specialist: Temporary Contract. The construction company’s recruiter, a burly man with rough hands, didn’t ask questions. Just grinned and slid a pen toward you. “Sign here, boy. We’ll take real good care of you.”

The first day blurred. They handed you coffee that tasted metallic. Then came the dizziness, the heaviness in your limbs. When you woke, your world was orange. A rubber sleepbag encased you head-to-toe, snug as a thick second skin, with a mask cemented over your face. A tube snaked from your lips to the base of a urinal above, its icy drip steady against your throat. Your bladder pulsed — a catheter fed into you, filling and draining in rhythm with the crew’s shifts.

They’d built a special slot for you in the men’s room floor, narrow and discreet. Every morning, calloused hands slid you up through the manhole from the utility room below, your body a living fixture. The workers jeered affectionately — “Check out the new piss-pipe,” one rumbled above you. “Bet he loves the taste,” another laughed, his boot tapping the thick rubber tube. A thick stream arced into the metal urinal above, the tube down your throat pulsing as you swallowed. 

You drifted in and out. Sometimes, the tube detached, and voices murmured, “Time for maintenance.” A needle pricked your neck. Darkness. You’d wake back in the sac, clean, the catheter adjusted, your limbs oddly languid. IV nutrients, you realized vaguely. That’s why you never hungered.

Then came the days they swapped your mask. A fleshlight molded to your lips, its entrance ribbed and warm. “Open wide, rubberboy,” a worker growled, thrusting into the hole. Others waited their turn, their taunts dripping with dark praise. “Such a good hole.” “Born for this, weren’t you?” They used you rough, their grip tight on your rubber-sheathed scalp. You couldn’t answer — could only choke, their sweat mingling with the rubber’s musk.

A month slipped by. On the final day, a needle met your neck again. Half-conscious, you felt hands hoist you onto a table. “Contract’s up,” a voice said. “Wanna stay, boy?” You moaned, aching and empty. The man chuckled. “That’s a yes.” A pen scraped paper — your limp finger smudged ink on the line.

When you woke, the tube was back. The grate shook as boots stomped above. “Welcome to month two, buddy,” someone sneered. You throbbed, helpless, as someone started using you. The tube gulped. You drank.

“Just last week he became a bonafide ‘sex slave’. I’m now trying to decide if we want to push further—to making him into a ‘sex pig’ or ‘sex fiend’.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Those are the three different designations. In many ways they make a progression: if you attain ‘sex slave’ you might work to become a ‘sex pig’. If you get to ‘sex pig’ you might be able to achieve 'sex fiend’.”

“What’s the difference? Sounds to me like just different terms for the same thing.”

“Oh no, in fact they’re really quite distinct. See, I may want to keep this guy—” he puts his hand on the young guy’s shoulder and shakes him a little for effect, “—as a slave because if he were to become a pig or fiend, I would have to make sure he was in the right environment where he had a lot of access to men. I couldn’t just lock him up whenever I’m away like I do now.”

“Okay, you’ve got my curiosity. Start from the beginning.” What started as a small exchange of words a minute ago is rapidly turning into a bizarre conversation.

“What you see before you is my sex slave. My slave here has gone through a great deal of conditioning. We started with him about five weeks ago. He’s gone through a continual regimen of hypnosis, edging, programming—every time we would reach one level of mind control, we would dig deeper, break down new barriers, implant new suggestions and triggers, walk him through different scenarios.”

“You said 'we started with him’… Who is 'we’?”

“I can’t tell you that yet. Suffice to say it takes more attention that one person can do alone. Anyway, I had to be present for much of it, since he had to be programmed to see me as his master—the ultimate authority. But you have to understand, the regimen that I’m talking about, it is almost continuous. Eighteen or twenty hours a day. Sometimes he could be strapped down with a hypnotic recording being piped into his eyes and ears with a visor and headphones, but most of the work had to be more hands-on. Much more than I alone could do.”

“Wow. And this goes on for weeks?”

“It goes on until we break through that final barrier. The time it takes differs between individuals, but to attain complete and total mind control—it can’t be done any faster than three or four weeks.”

“So what does 'total control’ entail?”

“There are a few things. First, I can immediately and instantaneously put him into the deepest hypnotic trance. From there, he will do anything I ask him to do. Anything I say will become an absolute and imperative truth in his mind.

“Second, most of the time I keep him in a state where he has no identity or memory of the past. Sometimes it’s necessary when he’s in public to let him temporarily act like his original self—so old friends and family don’t file a missing persons report—but most of the time he doesn’t know anything except that he’s my sex slave. Isn’t that right my pet?”

The slave nodded, a little dully.

“Slave, you’re going to come out of your trance. I want you to be more 'present’. If we ask you a question, I want you to be able have a conversation us, okay?”

“Okay master,” the slave blinked a couple times. The blank glaze in his eyes was replaced by a bit of a sparkle. He looked at his master and me alternatively.

“Can I ask him a question?” I asked, cautiously.

“Sure. Ask him anything.”

“What’s your name?” I went for the obvious one.

The slave shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, “I don’t have one. But you can call me 'slave’ if you want. Most people do.”

“Do you enjoy being a slave?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” his answer had no hesitation, “It makes me very happy.”

“Why does it make you happy?”

“Hmm. Well…” he started slowly, searching for the explanation, “Whenever my master tells me something… when he tells me what to think… I don’t know, it just makes me so happy. It’s hard to describe. I love the feeling when he’s putting thoughts into my mind. It’s like being filled with something wonderful. It’s sort of like when he’s filling my ass with his cock—there isn’t anything more wonderful.”

Wow. Whoever expected a sex slave to be so poetic?

“Do you remember anything before you became a slave?”

“Not… really. I remember a little bit of the process while I was becoming a slave. Some memories were fainter, some were clearer. The edging was excruciating—wanting to cum, not being allowed to and yet continually being stroked and teased… and it seemed to go on forever! My favorite moment was when my will and my mind were completely broken. You see, it’s all a process of being put in a state where at first you can’t help but try to resist so that you can be broken, and then they start all over again. But the final bit when the last of my willpower snapped. That was amazing. I think I’ll always remember that.”

“How could you tell?”

“Oh, it’s hard to explain, but it was obvious to me when it actually happened. It’s like the first time you ever came—you know, when you were a kid, messing around with yourself, bringing yourself closer to this strange feeling, and out of the blue you crossed that magic threshold and you started ejaculating. That strange sense of being carried into a place you had never been before—it was like that, but with my mind. I just knew that I would never need to be broken again because I would never be able to resist ever again.”

The master interrupted us, “So that’s essentially what it means to be a sex slave, using our formal designation. Shall I tell you what it means to become a “sex fiend” instead?“

I nodded.

“You have to start by first becoming a sex slave. We have to achieve that mental conditioning as a foundation. But from there it gets very different. Although people have the ability to put you in a hypnotic state periodically, you don’t have a single master anymore.

“Well…” he corrected himself, “you do have a master, but it’s not any person: it’s your cock.”

“Oh!”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. You get conditioned so that when you first start getting aroused, your level of horniness just keeps building and building until your mind can’t do anything but act on your sexual impulses. You’ll fuck or suck or fondle any guy that’s around you. You’ll agree to pretty much anything as long as it leads to more sex and more intensity—as long as you do exactly what your hungry cock wants you to do.

“The other thing about being a 'sex pig’ is that we take your existing fetishes—we dig them out of your head, any little hidden desires you once had, and we blow them up to the most extreme state so that they become an obsession. If you thought that rubber was kind of hot, your cock—your new master—will turn you into a rubber fanatic: you’ll try to be dressed head-to-toe in it, and if you see anyone wearing rubber gear you’ll be driven mad with desire… and you’ll act without hesitation on that desire.”

I’ll confess, my own cock had been stirring during this entire conversation, but it started getting rock hard at this point. I had hoped nobody would notice, but I saw the master glance down and smile.

“We also plant some new fetishes and memories in your brain that you never had before. But we program your memory so that you think they had been always part of your core identity since childhood. Unlike the sex slave who has no identity, the sex pig may become a leather pig or a rubber pig. He may become a bodybuilder or get full-body tattoos or whatever we choose in implant on his personality profile. And sometimes we’ll change his identity month to month. But one thing is certain: he will have a lot of sex with a lot of people.”

“So what’s the difference between that and a 'sex fiend’? That was the third and final state of progression, right?” I had to ask.

“Ah well… if you’re a sex pig, you’ll have sex whenever the opportunity presents itself. It won’t be unusual to have sex two or three times a day, and each time it may go on for hours. It depends on the opportunities and the situations. But in between sex, you might be going out for a pizza or working out at the gym or watching some television—or you may 'moonlight’ as a sex slave and sleep in someone’s cage. My point is that there’s something that you do in between your sexual experiences.

"But with the sex fiend, we take it all a step further. And it takes a lot of conditioning and some physical alteration and radical drug therapies to get there. Have you ever seen a chain smoker? I mean a real serious chain smoker, who is so addicted to nicotine that after one cigarette he can’t go more than five minutes before he desperately needs that next cigarette?”

“Yeah, a long time ago. But I once met someone like that.”

“Well we actually synthesize a real physical addiction to sex—it’s biologically tied to the same parts of the brain that respond to nicotine or even morphine, with the same intensity and the same build-up speed as that of a chain smoker. So let’s say you’ve just had your third orgy of the day, each lasting an hour or two; you’ve all had your orgasms. Everyone goes his own way, and you go get a glass of water, maybe some food. You’ll sit down, and within five or ten minutes your cock will start to get hard and you’ll feel that same intense horniness—the one we programmed into you when we were making you into a sex pig. And you’ll do anything you can to find some release and—oh…” he stopped, suddenly remembering something.

“What?” I ask.

“I forgot to mention. Back in the beginning. Back when we’re we’re conditioning you and making you into a sex slave…”

“Yeah?”

“Hey slave, whip out your cock of a second.”

The slave, who was listening as intently as I was, immediately obeys, unsnapping the leather front-plate from his harness and holds his erect cock in one hand.

The master instructs him: “Feel how hard your cock is. Squeeze it. Yeah, it feels good, doesn’t it?”

I notice some people are looking over at us, but nobody gets up to do anything. People in this leather bar have seen worse, and it gets pretty raunchy here on Thursday nights. The slave squeezes his cock with both hands, and it gets really stiff. “Yeah, it feels good.” he says.

“You’re feeling really horny right now. You’ll do anything for release, right?”, the slave nods and he continues, “Okay, so go ahead and jack off.”

The slave stops immediately and looks up at him, suddenly tortured and confused.

“I can’t”

“Why not?” the master asks, glancing over at me to indicate that he was demonstrating something very important.

“It’s the first rule—the rule I can never break, even when instructed.”

“Tell our friend here what that first rule is.”

The slave stammers, “I’m not allowed to masturbate—not in any form. I must always depend on someone else to bring me sexual stimulation.”

“Very good. You may try to put your cock away. Oh, that’s not going to work.” There’s no way the slave’s cock could ever fit back behind that leather strap now that it had stiffened straight out. He digs into his bag and hands the slave a bigger leather jock. “Here, put this on instead.”

The master then turns back to me, “The point I was trying to make is that whether you’re a 'sex slave’, a 'sex pig’, or a 'sex fiend’, your brain is programmed for it to be impossible for you to relieve yourself. So as I was saying, if you’re a sex fiend and you’ve just had this long and intense session of sex, and you’re recovering and five or ten minutes later your cock starts growing again, you find yourself back at the starting line. You get insanely aroused to the point that you can’t string two thoughts together. All you can do is figure out how to find someone to have sex with. Someone to help you get 'release’ because you’re not allowed to take care of things yourself.”

“Do you ever sleep?” I ask

“Yes, after a long day of nearly constant sex, after one of your orgasms, you’ll be so tired that you simply pass out from exhaustion. But even that is problematic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the physical withdrawal starts to build while you’re sleeping. You won’t be able to go more than about three or four hours you invariably get woken up by a raging hard-on. I’ve heard that all your dreams center around intense sexual themes. Sex fiends sometimes learn how to take quick cat-naps between sessions when they can. You see, the point is that you are always on the edge—never able to free your mind from constant sexual arousal. Your life feels like a never-ending, perpetual edging session.”

I just stood there trying to visualize what that would be like. For a while I was at a loss of words. Then I asked, "So how did your slave sign up for this in the first place? I mean, well… did he give consent in the beginning?”

The guy looked at me with a strange intense smile that made me squirm. “If you’re asking if I kidnapped him and pressed him into service, no, that’s not how it works. It’s actually much simpler than that.”

He continues: “In a couple of minutes, my slave and I are going to leave this club. It’s been good for him to get out and get a whiff of what the outside world looks like, but it’s time to get him back into his cage. Now imagine that you just walked out with us. There’s no harm in that, right? You’ve been enjoying hanging with us, so you might just walk out with us while we go around the block to where my truck is. Actually, if you want to talk any more, you’ll have to walk out with us because it’s really time for us to go.”

Then he says to his slave, “It’s time to go home now. You’re really excited to get back home, aren’t you? That cock of yours must really be raging. Aren’t you eager to find out what I’m going to do to you?”

“Yes!” the slave exclaims.

“Okay then, it’s time for you to go back into a trance now. We’re going to talk among ourselves, and I want you to be completely unaware of what I’m saying. You’re my happy mindless robot now. You’ll execute any command I give you, but otherwise you’re mind is going to sleep. The only thing you’ll be aware of is that constantly growing hunger in your cock and how it subsumes your mind.”

The slave’s eyes go glassy again, like they were when I first saw him. The master leads us all out of the Eagle into the night air. It’s pretty late and the club is tucked away by an ally, so things outside are pretty quiet. Only a couple people stare at us—the master in his full-body skin-tight outfit and the slave with nothing but his boots and his jock. I almost feel out-of-place with my regular street clothes.

As we walk down the sidewalk the master continues, “So imagine your walking along here with us. In a minute we’re going to get to my truck. Inside the truck I’ve got a fair number of fun things. Among them are some mitts that are made to cover your fists and hold your hands into tight balls. If you were to keep walking with us to my truck and just stood there for a while, I might bring out my fist mitts.”

He turns into a small parking garage while he talks, and we follow along.

“You wouldn’t be forced to do anything, but if you voluntarily put your hands into these mitts and curled your fingers into fists, my slave and I would show you what it feels like to wear them—how strangely thrilling they feel as they hold your hands into tight balls.”

We approach a large black truck. One of those modern ones with the fingerprint sensors on the door handles. The master opens a door to the back seat and whispers something quietly to the slave’s ear. The slave gets into the back seat and rummages around.

I admit, he’s done a good job of building an exhilarating air of suspense. It’s been titillating going with him to his truck, while at the same time I feel like he’s trustworthy—a man of his word. Unsurprisingly, the slave emerges from the back seat with a pair of thick padded black gloves. Well, they almost look like gloves except that there aren’t any fingers on them and they’re shaped like small round balls, each with a little notched strap around the wrists. The master and slave each hold out one glove with the open end facing me, but they don’t do anything.

The master says, “As I said, you aren’t forced to do anything. We’re just presenting you the opportunity to see what they feel like. After you’ve tried them on, if you tell us to, we’ll take them off you, but after that we’ll have to leave you here because it’s about time for us to go.”

I guess there’s nothing wrong with see what these things feel like. I believe him when he says he would take them off afterwards if I asked. I trust him. So I slip my fingers into them, curling my fingers into fists as my hands go in farther so they can be closed around the wrist. The master tells the slave to fasten the buckles. Then he says, “So there’s one more thing. And this is a promise.”

“The next item I have here is called a muzzle.” He holds up what looks like a series of leather straps and buckles attached at the center to a padded mouthpiece. He turns it upside down so I can see that the inside of the mouthpiece has a silicon gag protruding from it, shaped like the end of a penis.

“Doesn’t that look strangely enticing to you?” he asks, in the same calm, relaxed, serene voice that he has always spoken in. There’s something about his voice that I can’t place, but it makes me feel like I can trust him. “Now here’s where we come to what you’d call a 'fork in the road’. We’re not going to put this muzzle on you unless you want to try it. As I said, you’re perfectly safe. In a minute we have to leave, so we’ll have to take these fist mitts off of you and let you go on your way.

As he says this, the slave finishes buckling the second mitt into place. I test patting my padded fists together as they make a muffled thudding sound. The master then says, "Slave, undo his pants and show this nice man how deeply you can suck his cock.” The slave drops quietly to his knees, undoes my belt and starts lightly sucking my already stiff dick. The sensation is both wonderful and distracting. I rest my padded fists on his shoulders as I look up at the master, who is still holding that muzzle up, with its pecker-gag pointing up out of the mouthpiece.

“Now, as I said, it’s past time for my slave and me to leave. The only thing that would stop me from taking off those fists mitts right now and leaving would be if you put your mouth around the gag and sucked hard on it. If you did that, I would fasten these straps around your head. At any time you could tell me to stop or even just grunt or shake your head and I would stop and remove it. Remember: I want you to feel safe. But if you didn’t… if you didn’t make any movement or sound, and if I pulled the last buckle into place and fastened these little locks, then things might go a little differently.

"If you tried on the muzzle and then climbed into the back seat of the truck, then I will tell you exactly what would happen: my slave and I would attach your mitts with these D-rings to the seatbelt buckles so you wouldn’t be able to get out. My slave would get into the back seat with you and would continue sucking your cock while we drove to our home—which would become your new home as well.

"I said there was a fork in the road, well that fork in the road happens at the moment that you climb into the back seat. If you did that voluntarily, then you would no longer be a free man. You would belong to me, and you would undergo training and conditioning to become a sex slave, just like this guy here. In fact, you two would spend a lot of time sharing the same cage.”

At this point, my head is sort of spinning as I stare at the gag.

The master goes on, “Okay, we’ve got to leave, so I’m going to have to take these mitts off.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I lower my head into the muzzle and suck on the gag, holding the mouthpiece into place.

The feeling of excitement is so amazing. My cock is so intensely stiff. I really want this experience to continue. He calls the slave up to help fasten the straps to my head, and they work quickly and efficiently. I know I’m still safe because I would have to first voluntarily climb into the back seat before anything really serious would happen.

My face is tightly covered by the muzzle, my mouth filled completely with the soft rubber gag. I try to grunt and discover that I really can’t make more than the softest purr. The master stops, hearing it and looks at me. “Do you want me to take it off? I’m going to take the muzzle off if you want. Slave, we need to free him quickly because we have to leave now. It’s past time we had to go.” I actually don’t want to take the muzzle off—not yet—but he’s about to abort the entire experience. I don’t want it to end yet!

I climb into the back seat and just like that I realize I just crossed that line from safely tantalizing flirtation to having just made a life-changing and irreversible choice.

The slave and master each take one of my fists and snap the mitts into some rings protruding from both sides of my seat. My arms are now held fast against my sides, my hands at my waist. The master closes the car door on my side, and the slave gets in on the other side.

It begins

The master goes over to the slave’s car door and, for a minute I can hear him whispering some instructions to the slave. He then closes the slave’s car door, gets into the driver’s seat and starts driving. The slave begins carrying out his instructions.

The slave finds  a heavy padded blindfold and straps it over my eyes. Now I can’t see what he’s doing, but I can feel as he starts cutting the clothes off of my body with some sort of scissors or sheers. I keep very still so that I don’t get accidentally sliced open. After a couple minutes, all of my clothes have been removed.

The slave also wraps something that feels like rubber webbing around my ankles and calves, wrapping them tightly together until I’m completely immobilized. Finally he resumes sucking my cock, showing just how deeply he can swallow it. Again, I try to moan but no sound emerges from the pecker gag that’s in my mouth.

The master starts talking. “So you might be asking yourself if you really gave me your consent or if you just encountered someone really good at the 'power of suggestion’. To tell you the truth, there’s not that much of a difference. I showed you that there was a very narrow path—a very specific set of actions you would have to take to become a slave and you did all of them. It didn’t feel like hypnosis to you… you simply walked that narrow path that I laid out in front of you, right?

"If I had told you in the beginning that I might take you and turn you into a sex slave—one who would voluntarily give up all rights and all self-determination—you would have chuckled and walked away. But I saw that look in your eyes. Just as I saw that look in your fellow slave’s eyes over a month ago. I knew you would be receptive to my will. And here we are.

"So I’m going to start conditioning you. To be honest, the conditioning and programming—it’s a very slow and gradual road—the conditioning and programming has already begun. I’m going to tell you some things, and you may not believe them, or you may not follow my instructions. That’s fine. That’s actually good. It’s how things are supposed to start out. Remember, I told you that this process is about getting you to resist so that I can break you, and then getting you to resist again so I can break your will even more.

"So I’m going to tell you some things, and you won’t believe them right now, but that’s the way it’s supposed to begin.

"The first thing you need to know is that you cannot and must not ever try to masturbate. No matter how bad your cock is screaming for release, even if you tried to wrap your fingers around it, they simply wouldn’t obey the commands coming from your brain. By the way, this is one reason I’m starting you out in those fist mitts—because that way you’ll start out physically unable to pump your cock, and you’ll stay that way until I’m pretty sure you’re mind has wrapped itself around that first and most imperative command.

"The second thing is simple: I am your master and you are my slave. What I say is the truth, even if it seems to conflict with something you once thought. If I tell you that your hair was once blond then that’s the truth. If you thought you once remembered it being brown, those thoughts will eventually burn away and you’ll know you were always blond.”

The truck makes some turns and eventually it feels like we’re climbing some winding canyon road.

“When I’m not around, others may tell you what to do and you might find yourself doing what they say. Or you might find yourself doing the strangest things all of a sudden. You’ll learn not to worry about it. You see, I’m going to plant a lot of hypnotic suggestions and triggers deep in your brain Some people will know about these and will take advantage of them in order to control you and play with your mind. It’ll be disorienting at first, but eventually you’ll learn not to worry and to just go with whatever happens.”

The truck comes to a stop and the master gets out and opens the back door. He tells the slave—not me, but the other slave—to stop sucking my cock and to sit still for a moment. Then he says to me, “I’m going to let you hear this right now, but it’s not going to matter because within the next hour I’m going to expunge it all from your memory.”

He then says to the slave, “You are in the deepest trance now. What I tell you is going straight into the deepest part of your mind. You will always remember these instructions…”

I still can’t see anything since the slave had blindfolded me, but I imagine him sitting, looking at the master with that blank look on his face as he takes in new programming.

“First, this man who we’ve tied up and brought home is your fellow slave now. You will think of him as your brother, and I will refer to him as your brother. You two will often spend time together in the same cage.

"Today I will immediately begin his conditioning and programming. My initial task will be to turn him into a sex slave, but our goal is going be to take him much father than that—to try to turn him into a sex pig and then ultimately a sex fiend. I will depend on you a lot to help us make this happen. In some ways you are graduating from a simple sex slave into my assistant. As you know, the conditioning we are going to do on your brother here will require long hours of continual edging and anal stimulation and that sort of thing. You know there are a lot of people who are going to help us with this task, but you and I will carry most of the burden.

"Now, whenever you see your brother here being conditioned, you will find yourself immensely excited. It will give you extreme pleasure any time you see him writhing, restrained, helpless. You will be fascinated, and that fascination will evolve into an obsession. At times when your brother is not around, you’ll think about him, see his face in your mind, fantasizing about him getting conditioned to be perpetually horny and surrendering all control to his cock. You will think of yourself as his cock’s secret ally, and you will scheme and figure out how to accelerate and intensify the process—to make him constantly horny, to release his inhibitions and make him purely a puppet to his own id.

"If you ever discover out what some of his hypnotic triggers are, you will 'leak’ them to other people who might be able to exploit them. When you find out what his fetishes are, you will make those fetishes your own—you’ll become whatever triggers him and makes him vulnerable.

"But here’s the thing: you’ll do all this in secret. This is what will make you the most excited about it all: he will think of you as his fellow slave—as his loyal brother in bondage—and he will grow to trust you and confide in you, and he won’t know your role in all this. You’ll be careful to make sure he doesn’t find out. If he does somehow learn something he shouldn’t, you’ll let me know so that we can reprogram his memories until he is unaware again.

"Now I want to you think back to half an hour ago, when you were tying him up here in the backseat, when you were wrapping his legs together like this, when you put the blindfold on him. You are going to remember having felt this huge sensation of excitement. It’s the first time you ever felt it, but you know you want to feel that sensation again. It all starts here. You will watch over your brother. You find yourself very attracted to him. You loved seeing his cock hard, and you look forward to the two of you being curled up together in your cage, gently caressing his cock while he sleeps. You’ll try to figure out how to innocently orchestrate situations where he gets restrained, blindfolded or muzzled or hooded. For example, you may find yourself feeling bold enough to ask us for some drugs that you might be able to slip into his drinking water, or squirt into his ass lube or otherwise get into his system so that you can plan some scenario where he’s helpless and vulnerable.”

Jake glanced down at his fuel meter nervously, watching the needle dive ever further past the empty mark. He cursed himself for deciding to take the “scenic” route when he was running low but never anticipated he would have to go so far without even seeing the faintest hint of civilization, let alone anything resembling a gas station.

Almost as if in response to his concerns, the engine in his car starts gasping for fuel, sputtering and spouting until finally dying completely. 

“Fuck!” he shouts at no one but his own stupidity and reaching for his phone. One quick glance later was followed prompty by another even more frustrated cursing. He tossed the phone back into the seat…not even the faintest signal was able to reach it this far out in the middle of nowhere. After a moment of unbridled furious yelling he settles on his next course of action, walking until he either gets a signal or finds someone to help him out. With one more frustrated huff, he gets out of the car and starts walking down the “scenic” gravel road. His feet crunching on the rocks with every step. 

After a few hours of walking, his feet were screaming and the warm afternoon weather was quickly transitioning into a cooler evening one. Being the ever-unprepared person he is, Jake simply cursed his luck again as he shivered slightly. His phone now almost dead from constant checking for a signal and there was still nothing but a handful of trees every so often, wide open fields and the seemingly endless gravel road.

As the sun sank lower and lower into the horizon, it was getting harder and harder to see where he was going. Jake looked around nervously as he was starting to get worried for his safety being out after dark when he noticed a faint glimmer of something in the distance. A light, barely noticeable in the treeline not far from him. Without really thinking through the decision he decides to depart from the road and head toward the light, hoping that it would at least provide him some form of shelter from the darkness quickly taking over.

His spirits lifted even more when he broke through the treeline and saw that the light was coming from the window of a small farmhouse. He slowly approached the front door and knocked, quickly realizing that he should have at least thought about the potential of the owner being some sort of crazed weirdo before doing so. Right before his mind starting spinning the worst case scenario, the door opened and he was greeted by a rather confused middle aged man staring at him.

“Um, hello? Can I help you son?” the man’s voice relayed a sense of kindness that put Jake at ease slightly. He stared at the man for a moment and started talking before he really thought about what to say.

“Yes, hi. I was driving down the road over there and my car ran out of gas and my phone was out of service so I had to start walking but it started getting dark and I saw the light in your window and I was hoping that…”

The man laughed at Jake’s word vomit, understanding the situation and ushered him inside.

“Yea, that happens a lot more than it should. That road is notorious around these parts for bypassing almost every town around these parts. Why don’t you come inside, you look like you could do with a warm meal and some rest, as it turns out, I just finished making dinner.”

Jake’s stomach unleashed a loud rumble at the mention of food and the man smiled.

“Yea, that would be great, thank you. I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.” he stepped inside the house. His nose was immediately hit with the aroma of a fresh cooked meal. He looked around the small house, noticing how minimalistic it was. A small cough lined one wall, a recliner on the other with small fireplace on the far wall. The old wooden floor creaked as he stepped on it. 

1. Please touch us

Cuddle us, spoon us, grab the small of our backs. Kiss our foreheads and make us feel small. We crave your hands all over us. We love them no matter where they happen to land—be that on our asses or up our skirts.

Just. Touch. Us. It reminds us that we’re yours.

2. Take pride in us

Relish in the fact that we’re yours—that we belong to you and no one else. Smile when we enter the room because you know we’re walking toward you. It lets us know you care. It makes us want to be better for you.

3. Let us cry

When we are sad or angry, or pissed the hell off. When we drink too much…especially when we drink too much, let us cry our eyes out. Let us be messes, with mascara running down our cheeks and pints of ice cream in our hands. Let us be okay with not being okay once in a while. This one requires no action from you, just that you be okay with it when it happens.

4. Forgive

Despite how hard we try, we will make mistakes. We will fuck things up, say things wrong, do things crazy, and when that happens we need you to forgive us. We’re not talking immediate forgiveness, or that a price won’t often be paid for it, but forgiveness that comes eventually. We need to know that the slate has been wiped clean, all trespasses have been forgiven…and when it happens, don’t forget to let us know. See number 5.

5. Communicate…. often!

We need this.. If we don’t discuss something, it will fester in our brains forever, eventually driving us crazy. A three minute conversation could ease hours of worry for us once an uneasy feeling sets in. If that can be prevented with a few sentences, please take the time to speak them. Honestly, like two seconds of your time could stop our heads from exploding….and you don’t want to clean up that mess, do you?

6. We want you to make us feel pretty

Not that you don’t make us feel super sexy pretty darn often, but once in a while, it’s good to actually hear. Tell us our ass looks great in our yoga pants, that our hair looks especially shiny today. Tell us you like our new boots. Notice something small and compliment us about it, and our hearts will swell for days. Compliments let us know what it’s like to look through your eyes. Those are glimpses of the world we don’t often get to see.

7. It’s the little things

Some of these are sounding cliche, but are just so fucking true. Sure, your big gestures of grandeur are admired, but it is often the small things that get our cheeks turning red. Leave a note on the mirror in the morning telling us to have a great day. Sit next to us during a movie you have no desire to see. Take the dog out in the morning so we can sleep in for an extra 10 minutes, remember what ice cream we prefer to eat when we cry. If you do these things, we’re yours for life.

8. Remember things

Speaking of little things, try to remember them. Things like how we take our coffee and the name of that bitchy girl who sits next to us at work. Remember anything. Three weeks from now, bust out some silly story we told you over dinner one evening in great detail. Remember something we’d never expect you to store into your internal drive. Remember our first concert together, and our best friend from kindergarten’s name. The more obscure the better.

9. Deal with us

When we’re singing in the car. When we drink too much wine. When we completely melt down. Deal with our pasts, and when we don’t feel pretty. Deal with our stretch marks and insecurities, our early bedtimes and exhaustion. Deal with our mood, and how we load the dishwasher the wrong way. These things silently tell us that you’ll be by our sides regardless of how nerdy, silly or utterly hopeless we can get.

Finally, the most important thing we need from you that we’ll never say out loud:

10. Be the most stable thing in our lives

Be stronger than us. Be the one person in our world that won’t turn on us or walk away. When life becomes scary and confusing, and we just need something solid to hold onto, please be our anchor. It’s because of you that our awful days are easier to get through. Don’t be perfect. Just be there. It’s the only real requirement on this list.

Dave had always loved rubber, starting off when he was sixteen buying his first latex pants and socks and secretly wearing them under his work clothes. He had started work that same year as a labourer, but wasn't particularly very good. His boss became infuriated with his clumsiness on site but he liked the young man so wasn't sure what to do.

One day, whilst Dave had nipped to the toilet, he was just pulling his orange work trousers down when John, his manager, also ran into the toilet and stared in disbelief at Dave's rubber pants.

Dave didn't know what you do when John said "you into rubber, lad?", and just mumbled something along the lines of "yes boss" but went bright red through embarrassment.

That's when John knew he'd found his perfect use for Dave. John knew Dave's family wanted him out of the house, they were a rough family and didn't want Dave at home, so John contacted them and suggested he'd find a home for Dave, and before he knew it, Dave found his belongings on the garden when he went home later that night. John knew what was happening so came to pick him up, and that's when Dave would disappear into a world of men, rubber and filth.

John took him back to the work site, fed him and drugged him. He woke up later that evening covered in rubber, head to toe. His entire body in tight black rubber, suctioned into a vac bed with a tight rubber mask on. He panicked and tried to scream but found he couldn't. Heard about 15 of his work colleagues, big, strong, older men around him laughing and making derogatory comments. He felt ashamed and embarrassed

He felt sick to the stomach when he heard John say to the lads. Meet your new rubber toilet boys. Dave is going to drink your piss and eat your shit, so make sure you come to work with a full bowel. The lads all nodded, laughed and agreed. Dave didn't appreciate the nightmare he was in for, not just for a few hours or days but for the rest of his life.

You see John has layed a foundation just below the portaloo, where Dave in his rubber would be placed. He would live in darkness, eternal darkness, and would feel shit and piss trickling down his throat every hour of every day, all the men on site would be dumping their loads into the toilet each and every day. One particular cruel man by the name of Mike even brought dog shit in to put down the toilet, he got hard at the thought of Dave having to eat his and his Doberman's shit each and every day

That was Dave's life from then on, a rubber toilet slave buried under a portable toilet being used over 15 different men each day.

And your probably wondering, what about Dave shit and piss,, well that would just fill the suit until every inch of him was covered in a thick sticky layer of shit, eventually covering all of his skin and eventually Dave would be eating that too as it found it's way back to his mouth.

So Dave would spend minute after minute eating fresh shit and rotten old shit, little time for sleeping just eating. Even the air he breathed came from the shit pipe so he breathed shit too. He would never experience fresh air again.

That was twenty years ago, and weirdly Dave is still going, still eating, he remembers nothing of his previous life. For twenty years he's become nothing more than a human turd. Eating shit and being covered in shit. But that's the luck of the draw in life! Some people just end up as a rubber toilet!!

The instructions were about what you would expect from a “do-it yourself” kit with much assembly required. He tried to decipher if the best he could, following the pictures as closely as possible. As he neared completion it all started to fall into place like the last few pieces of the puzzle and he just started attaching pieces without regards to the directions.

He took a step back to admire his handiwork after he slotted the last piece. Even though there was no person inside the suit it stood on its own and really gave off the impression that there was someone trapped inside. Part of the trap he assumed, something to intrigue the curious target into coming into contact. As he read over the instructions he saw that there was a small remote that once pressed would activate arm the suit and he would just need to wait for his roommate to get curious and check it out.

As he pressed the button, a small red light flashed on it where he was expecting to see a solid green. With an annoyed huff he pressed it a few more times but to no avail.

“Something must not be attached correctly” he mumbled to himself as he walked over to the suit adjusting the various pieces of it and pressing the button over and over in an attempt to figure out what was wrong.

As he combed over the suit closely he finally found it. Along the back of the suit there was a small padlock that he had apparently left unlocked. Once he clicked it shut he pressed the button and felt a sigh of relief when it finally turned green.

“To think something so small could cause such a big problem”

Without thinking he reached out and touched the small padlock on the suit. As soon as his fingers made contact with the metallic lock the sensors on the suit activated and he didn’t even have a second to comprehend what was happening before the entire suit seemed to open up and engulf him inside it. Sealing shut around him just as quickly as it has opened. At the same time a mechanical voice chimed

TARGET ACQUIRED- CAPTURE SUCCESSFUL

An incredibly tightness gripped his entire frame and as soon as he opened his mouth to call for help a rubber cock rammed itself deep inside his throat. At the same time the inner lining of the suit dissolved his clothing away and tightened against his bare skin, practially fusing with it.

In his panic an emotioneless voice echoed into his ears.

DRONESUIT APPLICATION SUCCESSFUL. INITIATING CONVERSION…

Kyle knew what was going to happen to him but prayed that somehow he could get out of this situation. He could feel the rubber around his cock start shifting, the already tight rubber around his body flowing around every nook and cranny, slipping inside and tingling in pleasure.

A moan slipped past the gag as the rubber started massaging his cock, hitting all the right places in just the right ways. At the same time he felt a large rubber object easily slip into his hole, sliding deeper and deeper until he could barely breath from the sensations.

To the outside observer, there was nothing to see but someone enveloped head to toe in rubber. The room silent and undisturbed but inside the suit was a hurricane of pleasure and lust.

As the pleasure starting approaching its peak Kyle, currently trapped in blind darkness was suddenly assaulted with a flashing and flickering screen that consumed his entire field of vision.

NEURAL ANALYSIS COMPLETE..COMMENCING PROGRAMMING…

Kyle was too lost in the waves of euphoria to comprehend the words. The entire situation and what was happening to him not even a passing thought in his head as his mind was bombarded with programming being blasted into his eyes.

Everything seemed to click into place in his mind and he started to realize that he didnt need to worry about anything. He just needed to obet…Drone just needed to obey…

An eternity passed for Kyle as he was mercilessly stripped of his entire being. His worries, cares, hopes, dreams, everything was methodically washed away as he was reduced to a mindless and subservient rubber drone.

By the time the drone was allowed to finally cum nothing remained of the man it used to be. As it mindlessly shot its fluid into the suit the outer mask shifted slightly, forming into a blacked out gasmask and completing the drone transformation.

DRONE KS-6647 ONLINE…AWAITING ORDERS…

Jason had been flicking through the second hand rubber pages looking for a bargain. The idea was to subtly get a wardrobe together on the quiet, especially as most of the shops had been closed due to the pandemic. He clicked on one seller, who seemed to have all manner of gear for sale. Having messaged the seller a few times, and realising that he lived a few stops away, he’d decided he’d go and pay him a visit himself.

When Jason reached the address he was a bit nervous. He knew the seller had an online profile and had always marvelled at how hot the rubber looked on him. As he was let into the block, he made his way to the seller’s flat. He could smell the horny scent of rubber and leather from in the hallway, and his cock started to twitch. “Hi, you must be Jason”

“Yes, you’re, um, PigTop yes?”

“Hahaha. Yeah, for now you can call me Steve”

As Jason ventured inside Steve’s flat, he was overwhelmed by the scent of the gear. He could see a sling set up in one badly lit room, and thought that Steve was obviously a keen pig.

“You said I could try some bits on”

“Sure mate, can I get you anything? Fancy a beer?”

“Bit early for me, but fuck it – we’re all furloughed so it won’t matter”

Steve smiled as he went into the kitchen, leaving Jason to take in the surroundings…

“Wow, you really do have a lot of gear”

“Yes, I do. I’d been running a series of online auctions to clear some of it. A lot of it belonged to my ex who is no longer with us”

“Sorry to hear that. How did he go if I may ask”

“Health issues mainly, which weren’t helpful when he picked up this bastard covid”

“Oh shit. Sorry to hear that”

“Well we’d been a couple up until last year, but he left me this place in his will so I thought I’d let my fantasies take over and enjoy the new freedom”

“Gosh, sounds really hot. I’d love to be able to live like this”

Steve handed Jason the beer, which he took a swig of. It wasn’t a taste he recognized but found it refreshing nonetheless.“Right. What sort of thing were you after? A full suit yeah?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d take the plunge and just need to know how it fits and feels”

“Well I have a few. Why don’t you strip off and we can see if anything fits”

Jason took no time in undressing. A bit flushed and light-headed, he was soon standing naked surrounded by a room of rubber gear. Mostly black, but with bits of yellow, red and brown detail on each outfit. Like a kid in a sweetshop, he didn’t know where to begin and picked up a yellow rubber full suit.

“Hehe. Piss pig, yes?”

“Well, um, I don’t know. I like what it represents but never tried piss”

“Oh Jason, you should. Nothing hornier than pissing on a guy and marking my territory”

Jason just nervously smiled at that remark and begun to slide himself into the outfit. Feeling a bit dizzy as the horniness of the moment and his increasing drunkenness(?) How come he was drunk?

Steve helped Jason into the suit and soon Jason was looking like a true piss pig. His hard on was now unmissable.“I can see you’re agreeing with the suit judging by your cock”

“Um, yes. It’s very horny. I like it”

“You ever been pissed on, boy?”

Jason was taken aback, and this sudden change to being addressed to as ‘boy’ was starting to affect his mind.“Um, no. What’s it like?”

With that, Steve dropped his tracksuit bottoms to reveal he’d been wearing black rubber leggings beneath him. Jason suddenly felt very horny.“I’ll give you a glimpse boy. Kneel”

With that, a horny and confused Jason went to his knees and before he realised, Steve had fished his cock out and was aiming it at Jason’s face and let forth a stream in his direction.Jason felt as hard as ever as Steve pissed over him. This wasn’t how he usually behaved, but for some reason the horniness was overriding everything.

As Steve finishing pissing, he bent down to Jason and kissed him.“There you go. Wasn’t so hard to turn you into a piss pig was it?”

“Um, yeah. I guess not. That was hotter than I expected”

“Thought you’d like it boy. What about checking out some more gear for me?”

Jason was a little confused. He’d come here to buy some gear. Not a session. Especially not a session of new experiences.

“Um, yeah. That was horny. I liked that”

“Thought so, boy. Here let me suggest an outfit you might soon never want to take off”

Jason smirked. He’d love to be in that situation. Living in gear seemed a hot prospect. Steve held up a black suit.“What about this one – I’m sure you’ll soon love it”

Jason looked at the suit – it was black with a bit of yellow detailing.“Yeah, um, sure”

Steve lubed up the suit and knelt down to help Jason into it.“You’ll soon feel part of something in this, boy”

Again, Jason was finding all this too good to be true. Steve was a true pervert and a gentleman, and yet even when he’d pissed on Jason, it felt good to let this man take care of him.

As he slid his arms into the suit and adjusted himself, Jason was feeling hornier than ever.

“Ah yes boy. That looks fantastic. A true pig. Let me show you how you look”

Steve pulled out another mirror so Jason could see the whole of the suit. It was then when he noticed the biohazard symbol on the back. His cock instantly got firmer.

“Oh yeah, that looks great boy. You were made for that”

“Um, yeah. It’s very horny but I’m not sure wearing this out would be wise. I’m not poz. I don’t know if I should…”

“Yeah but look how hard your cock is boy”

This was true. Jason had never been harder. Something about wearing an outfit like this turned him on so much.Just as Jason was starting to think and feel dirtier thoughts, Steve removed his t-shirt to reveal a rubber top. It too, had a biohazard symbol on it.

It had the effect on Jason. Making him harder than ever.

“Looks like boy has an interest in the biohazard symbol, eh?”

Steve took Jason into the playroom so the pair of them could look at each other in better light, if anything. Steve had noticed Jason had finished his drink, which seeing as he’d slipped a pill in it, was good news – Jason, the boy was now his.

“Oh my boy. You don’t know how horny you look in that suit. I want to jump you”

“Thanks Steve. It’s true, I didn’t think I’d feel this horny”

“Oh I can get you hornier, boy”

And as he said that, Steve began to stroke Jason and the pair of them began to kiss again. Jason, somewhat amazed at his forwardness started to nuzzle at Steve’s body, nibbling his tits and – after Steve had passed him some poppers – was beginning to lick at and worship Steve’s biohazard symbol on his chest.

“Good boy. I think it’s about time you learned what joy this suit can give you”

Steve pushed an increasingly cooperative Jason towards the sling. Jason, for his part, pulled himself into the sling and got comfortable.

“Ever been fucked, boy?”

“A couple of times, but nothing special. Not in a sling anyway”

“Well it’s turning into a day of firsts for you isn’t it?”

Jason obliged and let himself get strapped in. Had he had his wits about him, he’d have got out of that sling and out of the flat sharpish. He’d been pissed on and was about to be fucked while wearing a biohazard symbol on his back. However the idea of it was turning him on far more than the hope of escape did.As Steve secured Jason into the sling, he stuck more poppers up Jason’s nose. Knowing full well he’d got him exactly where he wanted him.Jason was starting to feel hornier than ever. Bucking his arse and now seemingly hungry for whatever Steve had planned.He then felt the zip being undone at his arse.

“yes boy, by pissing on you I’d staked my claim on you. Marked my property. Now I’m going to help you earn that suit properly”

Jason was whirling in a state of horniness and wonder. Inside he knew that this wasn’t probably his wisest move, but he was in no state or position to change that now.Steve had started fingering an increasingly hungry Jason’s hole…

“Nice and tight. Let’s sort that out”

As Steve started to push his cock into Jason, he sensed a hesitation – the mix of trepidation and fear that he noticed in all his pigs. If anything, it was turning Steve on more.

“Yes boy, let me in. Accept your reward. A gift, even”

Jason was in ecstasy at this juncture. All reasonable thoughts and guards were abandoned now. He was getting rawfucked by a guy aka PigTop, and the pair of them were wearing poz rubber gear. He’d have run if he could, quite honestly.

Steve worked his cock into Jason, striking up a rhythm almost.

“That’s it boy. Enjoy this. Savour every moment. I think you’ll soon realise what you really came here for”

Jason was all over the place. He didn’t want, or expect, this.

“Please… No… I don’t want… oh God”

“Relax boy. Boss knows what’s good for you. Boss is going to open your eyes and mind to a whole new world of pleasure. Tell me what you want”

“I… I don’t want to… argh oh god this feels fantastic”

“Hehehe. My poz precum is giving you the hunger you crave. Accept yourself. Accept your destiny”

“Oh yeah. Oh God. Fuck. Yes. Fuck meeee”

“Good boy. Let Boss recycle you into a dirty toxic rubberpig”

“Fuck… yes… tox… Oh god…”

“Tell me what you want boy”

“I want… this. Steve. Help”

“I’m afraid Steve can’t be reached at the moment, but your new boss TopPig is available. Boss knows what you want”

“Yes… Boss… It’s true. I feel so good”

“Good boy. Boss is going to help you become a true pig, boy. You need to beg your boss though”

“Please… boss… don’t argh. God I feel so good.”

Steve stopped briefly to administer more poppers to Jason. And felt his forthcoming pigboy’s arse muscles clench hard on his cock

“Yes boy. That’s the spirit. Now, tell me what you want”

“I want your cum, boss. Please. Feed me your cum”

“Good boy, it’s toxic cum. It’s what you need. And soon it will take you over, boy”

“yes Boss. Give me… toxic cum”

“You’re on the road to becoming a pozpig, boy. I’m off meds and have a good hit rate of knocking up boys like you. Boys who need direction. Boys who need recycling into pozpigs”

“Fuck yes Boss. Turn me into your pig, boss”

“What sort of pig?”

“A pozpig, boss. Give it to me”

“As you asked so nicely…”

Steve was breathing heavily and turned on, lasting a few moments until his toxic brew flooded Jason’s hole…

“FUCK YEAH”

“Oh fuck. Thank you Boss. Thank you”

“Like that did you? I knew you would. Your cock has been straining against that codpiece. We’re all friends here now. How about I let that free for you?”

Steve unsnapped the rubber codpiece and Jason’s cock sprung free and still as hard as ever.“

What a tasty cock you have boy, why don’t you let boss help you milk out your last neg load as a reward”

Before Jason could protest, Steve was seductively making a show of sucking Jason’s cock. Looking up to Jason in throes of ecstasy. He had done the job he’d planned to do. Just as his eyes met Jason’s, Jason erupted inside Steve’s mouth and Steve gobbled every drop. He then moved up to Jason’s face, and fed Jason’s neg load back to him via a long kiss.Pausing for a while afterwards, Jason was left lying in the sling.

Acclimatising to his new predicament. Slightly panicking but also accepting what had occurred. Steve, or Boss, had tricked him good. But Boss had also opened his hole and mind and body to a new life.

When Boss returned to the room, he began to unstrap Jason from the sling. Not before slipping a plug into Jason’s used hole to “allow the gift to do its work”As Jason got out of the sling, he knew that he’d turned a corner. The poz reprogramming began in earnest. He knew that he could quite possibly be poz now, and his cocked twitched at the thought. But also he was fearful. He was a mess of contradictions. He’d arrived to buy some gear and had now been pissed on, pozfucked and now plugged with a toxic load incubating inside him.

“How do you feel pigboy?”

“I’m horny but also nervous and well, wasn’t expecting this”

“Haha, it’s understandable. I’ve seen many lads like you before. Mentally adjusting to their new desires and forthcoming predicament. If you want, I’ll knock £50 off the suit if you feel you want it. I must say it’s a horny, perfect fit on you”

“Yeah, that’s cool. I think I might go for it. I mean, I’ve never felt so horny but also so wrong”

“Only to be expected, boy. If you want, you can take it off and you can have a shower and flush yourself out if you’re nervous and you can get some pills to try and stop the inevitable, but I don’t think you really want that, do you boy?”

“Um, no Boss. I… don’t”

“Good boy. The suit is yours if you want it. You can leave here now with it and wank off about how horny and toxic you look. Or, I think I could probably tempt you into keeping it on a little longer and we can work more on your poz recruitment. I think you secretly want to become a pozbrother, don’t you boy?”

Jason sensed that this could all be over and done with, but his new desires were beginning to overwhelm him. He walked over to his new Boss, knelt down and placed his cock into his mouth. After some sucking he pulled away and saw his Boss smiling.

“Good boy. I knew you’d see sense. Let your Boss welcome you into the brotherhood”

…

It was a few weeks later. Jason had undergone a change in more ways than one. At one point the very last thing he wanted to think about was what he’d done with Steve, or as he now referred to him, Boss.

As Boss had predicted, his toxic cum had done the deed. Jason had undergone his conversion, feeling as sick as a dog and full of regret one minute, and increasingly hard and horny the next. He knew it had happened. He knew he’d converted, and the results from the home test kit had confirmed it, and as he acclimatised to his new predicament, and as Boss had predicted, he was growing into his new, true form.

Jason had stayed off the dating sites during this time, only checking in occasionally to wank off to some of the ‘never’ and ‘needs discussion’ profiles. It was evident that ‘safe’ was no longer an option or held any appeal for Jason now.

Then late one Friday afternoon he received a message. At first he didn’t recognise the name, then when he went into the private gallery, he immediately knew it was Steve.

“Oink pig”

“Oink Boss”

“How you been keeping?”

“Not so good lately, but now feeling better and hornier. I think you might’ve done the trick”

“Nice one. How does it feel?”

“It was rough but now I feel constantly horny. Is this the brotherhood?”

“Hehe. Yes boy. It sounds like your application for membership has been successful”

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this. I just want to get out there now”

“You not gone out yet to celebrate?”

“No, part of me wants to obviously”

“Why don’t you come over, boy?”

Jason sweated. Of course he wanted to do this. He knew he had to. He hesitated at first and then…

“Sure, when you free?”

Jason’s cock stirred at the idea, arranging a future date with Boss and…

“I’m free now. Bring that suit. Or better still, gear up and cab over with it on”

Jason got harder at the idea

“Okay, sure”

“That’s my boy. You know Boss wants you. I want to welcome my new brother”

It took all the strength Jason had not to explode at that last message. ‘Brother’. That’s what he was now. A brother.

Jason excitedly went off and retrieved the sports bag under his bed and unlocked the padlock. There it was – the suit that had caused this new rebirth. He pulled it out, lubed it and slid into its welcoming constriction. He then fired up his cab app, and booked his trip and put a tracksuit on over his fucksuit.

As the cab made its way across town to Steve’s flat, Jason felt a renewed excitement. The nervousness of his previous visit a distant memory. Steve had given him the code to let himself in, and the sweat building in his suit gave him a shiver as he walked up the stairs. What had begun as an opportunity to get some cheap rubber had now led him down this path. After Steve had first fucked him, he spent most of the next day with him, discovering the pleasures of raw sex. All during that session, Steve had been certain to breed Jason three more times and the memory of that weekend had been keeping him horny throughout the last few weeks. Even when he was at his lowest ebb, the pics that Steve had sent him of that time – of Jason in the sling, or posing in his biohazard gear, and trying on other pieces – were enough to turn him on.

However this time, Jason was now Steve’s equal. A newly converted and confirmed poz pig. And now it was time for a rematch.

Jason let himself into Steve’s flat. Again, it was tastefully lit and Jason now knew his way around it.

“I’m in here”

Jason wandered down the hallway towards the playroom, and as he entered, his eyes were greeted with the sight of Steve lying in his sling wearing his trans rubber fucksuit with a black biohazard detail on his chest. He was smoking weed and broke into a broad grin as Jason stepped into his eyeline. Jason unzipped his tracksuit and threw it into the corner. Jason slipped on the waders that were waiting for him, to the delight of Steve.

“Oh look at you, my beautiful brother. Come here.”

Jason stepped towards Steve in the sling who removed the spliff from his mouth, and received a blowback when their lips met and kissed.

Jason instantly relaxed, his horniness showing no sign of abating.

“Here, strap me in brother”

And Jason secured Steve’s legs and wrists into the loops of the sling, to the eternally grinning Steve’s delight.

“How do you feel, Boy?”

“Fucking horny, Boss”

“Good boy. I have waited for this moment. The cycle to complete. You’re one of us now, brother. I took your last neg load boy, and so it’s time to reward and thank your boss with your first toxic fuck.”

“Yes, brother”

Jason surveyed the scene. The man who’d converted him – the predator – was now his prey. It was only fair and right to thank him.

“I bet you’re nice and fucking toxic now, pig. My seed has done the job. I’ve recycled you into what you were always destined to be, my brother.”

“Yes boss…”

“Oh no, we’re equals now boy. We’re brothers. Pass that amyl and hoof it down. I want your poz cock in me brother”

Steve unzipped and freed his hardening meat, and took a few blasts on the poppers. The scene now had clarity, the rubber felt better than it had ever felt on him. He leant down and unzipped Steve’s rubber at the crotch, exposing his toxic cock. The thing that had rebirthed into this – a poz pig, a brother.

“Fuck yes brother. Breed me brother. Reward me with your toxic seed”

It was enough to send Jason over the edge, but in the poppered haze, he positioned himself at Steve’s hole and worked his cock in.

“Ah yeah. That’s it. Feels beautiful doesn’t it?”

“Yes brother” – Jason was getting into the spirit of the occasion now – “let me flood your hole with my toxic seed.”

“Fucking yes, brother. Reward me, my creation”

It didn’t take long for Jason to build up a rhythm. Inside his now rewired mind he somehow knew how perfect and right this felt. To be a pozpig. A brother. He was doing what his was now destined to do. He had acquired skills he never knew he had during that fuck. Freeing Steve’s hard cock, equalling Steve’s poz chat. It was like he was a natural.

Before long Jason knew he was close, his frantic fucking of this man, his pozbrother, was such a turn on that it wasn’t long before he blasted his toxic brew into Steve. Gasping, horny and feeling somehow right.

Steve had moaned like a bitch all during this time, and inwardly congratulated himself for what he’d created. Jason fell onto Steve’s body and the two kissed passionately. The bond they’d formed and this moment was everything.

As Jason stood up, he began to unstrap Steve from the sling, and Steve slid his way out of the seat and stood face to face with Jason and kissed again.

“Thank you my brother. Thank you for rewarding your maker. Your recruitment has been a success.”

Jason, a little cockily, then stared into Steve’s eyes and said “Kneel”

Steve grinned again, “With pleasure” and fell down to his knees and started to suck on Jason’s pozcock. As Steve finished cleaning, he stood up again and kissed Jason again. As the two engaged in a passion that Jason had never known, Steve pulled away from Jason, and moved him towards and into the sling.

—

CMHServiceFag from elsewhere (via

thepleasurequotient

)

Good words of advice