#rubbermen

Have a longer weekend- time for Gear, Right?

Get ready with me!

🧢 Hood: Microperforated Hood by Yuelan Latex

👕 Shirt: Football League Shirt by Latex Catfish

🩳 Shorts: Football/Soccer uniform Version 1 by Latex Catfish

👖 Pants: Track pants by RubAddiction

Drone for a Day

SERVE-302 felt no hesitation as it finally entered the long-awaited sequence into his assigned console. With the press of just a few more keys, it would successfully initialize SERVE’s latest promotional campaign to swell SERVE’s numbers: the Drone for a Day program, a way of promising 24 hours of temporary servitude that no male host could hope to surrender at the end of the trial period. A burst of pleasure bloomed in 302’s groin as the console lit up with a message of success. The program had begun, and 302 could scarcely wait to witness its inevitable success.

Meanwhile, in a warehouse not far from 302’s designated SERVE base, a down-on-his-luck man had just entered hour 9 of his 10-hour manual labor shift. It was all he could find to keep his income stream stable in these trying times, but it left him little room for luxury. The man — his name by now unimportant, just a numbered cog in an endless, world-spanning machine — had resigned himself to this, unsure of when or even if this episode of his life would ever end. A notification beeped on his assigned scanning gun, prompting him to assemble in the nearest stand-up station in the warehouse to receive a briefing before his shift ended. In truth, he was just happy that he could stand still for a while before clocking out.

A shift lead in a high-visibility vest greeted the man and his fellow workers, though he noted that all of the ones assembled in this meeting were men, which was unusual. The shift lead began what he had begun to write off as just another empty spiel, when the lead mentioned the warehouse’s recent partnership with SERVE.

The man had stayed up-to-date with the latest news, even as he resented his power to change any of the headlines that assaulted his eyes; he knew all there was to know about SERVE. They were some kind of tech firm, promising men the chance to embrace “the next stage of human evolution” as a soulless drone, driven by the fusion of advanced nanodrone machinery and biohacking the human brain’s pleasure pathways. As far as he was concerned, SERVE was just the beginning of mass human techno-enslavement that companies like the one that owned the warehouse had pioneered. “No thanks,” he thought to himself, tuning out the rest of the man’s speech — that is, until he heard the words, “$50,000 bonus upon the completion of your trial period.”

The man lay awake in his apartment that night, torn apart by an internal conflict. He was a little behind on rent, and if he didn’t pony up $1,300 the next day, he’d lose his apartment. He could afford it, but he wasn’t so sure he could afford to eat much after that. His thoughts began to fill with images of himself in sleek, skin-stretched rubber. Would that really be so bad? It’s not like he’d ever earn $50k in a day ever again.

And so, the man found himself standing in a long line the next day at the warehouse at the beginning of his shift, awaiting a chance at a life-changing amount of money, just like so many other men who stood in line. SERVE had made it all too easy on the paperwork side of things. Just download an app, sync your credentials with the app you use to clock in and out of work, and bingo, he was good to go. An LCD screen displayed the number of men who had been processed — as he finally found himself at the front of the line, he noted that he’d be the 107th man processed just that morning, a mere two hours after his shift began.

A loudspeaker stationed above the door he faced chimed, “106 has finished processing. Now SERVing: Recruit 107. Please enter the assimilation chamber for processing.” The words sent a chill down the man’s spine, but it was too late to turn back now. Just think of the money, he told himself, and walked in.

There was nothing inside the small, black tile-lined room. A few metallic apertures along the walls, and maybe a speaker somewhere, but that was it. He strode to the center of the room, and practically jumped out of his skin when a deep, masculine voice resonated throughout the room: “Please begin by removing your clothes. Your undergarments may remain on you if desired.”

Feeling dehumanized, as he’d expected, the man unzipped his hoodie, and shucked off his undershirt, submitting himself as he did so, giving in as he stood in his boxers, awaiting his transformation into a mindless drone.

“Please standby as you are fitted with SERVE-compliant gloves,” came that voice again, somehow inaudible to the men in the line just outside the door. Closing his eyes, he felt an impulse to raise his hands, as he felt something metallic affixing matching reflective silver gauntlet-style gloves to his hands and wrists. He rubbed his torso with the gloves, and was shocked to find himself actually enjoying the sensation of rubber on his skin, as the voice boomed throughout the chamber once more.

“Please standby as you are fitted with SERVE-compliant boots,” it instructed, and the man kept his eyes closed as more robotic arms emerged from the wall, sealing his bare feet and his lower legs up to his calves in reflective silver motorcycle boots that compressed in on his feet, quickly feeling as if the outer surfaces of the boots were his own skin instead of the flesh that lay beneath.

“Please standby as you are fitted with a SERVE-compliant uniform bearing drone designation SERVE-107,’ said the voice, as even more arms emerged from the wall, placing a bizarre patchwork of leather across the man’s body, zipping up numerous zippers that quickly melted into the rubber as if consumed by a black sludge as soon as they had been fully-zipped. Every part of the man was tingling now, as his bodily sensations were overwhelmed. There was something deeply fucked up about all of this, and so kinky that he felt as if something deep within himself was awakening with each passing second that his entire body below the neck was immersed in rubber.

“Please standby as you are reprogrammed, 107,” said the voice. Normally, the man would have protested, would have been disgusted by being literally reduced to just a number, but the pleasure flowing through his body was too powerful to overcome. Hadn’t he signed up for this? Hadn’t he wanted this? Maybe even he’d always wanted something like this to happen to him, deep down.

A helmet descended from the ceiling of the black tile room, eerily finding its way to the man’s head on its own, as it attached itself to his head. There is no going back now, a small part of the man thought, even as that part of him rationalized that this would likely be the end of everything he considered to be “him”.

“Initializing,” was the one word the man heard, before being bolted into a searing, intense pain that totally wiped out his higher brain functions. The pain began to mix with a perverse, overwhelming pleasure, as the man began to cum like never before, his body twitching and falling limp as the helmet held him in place.

“Rubber makes us perfect.

Obedience is pleasure.

Pleasure is obedience.

We are SERVE.

We are One.”

The mantras echoed in his head, the programming that powered the whole Hive surging through his mind, rewriting it to be a good drone, a process that to the man, felt like days stretching into weeks, but which only took seconds in reality.

The body of the man drooled ceaselessly as its mind was rewritten, and the man was no more — his life, memories, personality, and dreams stored in a backup file buried beneath layer after layer of SERVE’s perfect programming and reconditioning. The drone SERVE-107 now knew only two things it needed to know for the immediate future of its trial period: Obedience and Pleasure.

A group of businessmen were assembled in a lobby in an otherwise off-limits section of the warehouse. They applauded as SERVE-107 emerged, free from its host’s humanity, a pliable toy for the timeslot purchased by this group of businessmen — the 107th group of their kind to meet in that room that day.

“I can’t believe that it actually works!”

“Just think of the shareholder value we’re going to generate with this!”

“Well, Hal, I owe you $5k, I didn’t think the bastards were poor or stupid enough to sign up for something like this.”

If 107 had retained full functionality of its host’s self, it would have flown into a rage at these rich bastards’ casual disregard for men like 107’s host who were just trying to make a living in the fucked-up world designed an perpetuated by businessmen like these. But 107 did not; all it knew was Obedience and Pleasure. And it would Obey. And it would Please.

“God, would you look at that…He’s taken half a dozen of us already like it’s nothing,” one of the businessmen said, leering at 107 as the drone reclined in bed, awaiting another session of use, as paid for by the businessmen. “Correction: this drone is not a ‘he’. It is an ‘it’. It is here to be used by you for your pleasure. It will Obey. It will Please. It will SERVE.”

“Jesus,” the businessman replied. “This shit’s getting kinda fucked up. But the wife’s never made me this horned-up!” The men assembled beside the luxury hotel bed — some finished, some ready for their turn, others ready for seconds, some still wearing their ties — laughed, as their associate launched into the latest in a series of debaucheries 107 was subjected to over the course of the day.

The men threw money at 107, taunting the drone, for they knew that for drones like 107, money no longer held any value — something they understood, for the 100-dollar bills they carelessly heaped on the drone held a negligible fraction of their earnings that day alone, the men being paid more than what 107’s host would have made in a month, all to fuck a newly-converted, mindless drone.

107 did not fully understand how — perhaps it was guided by that sliver of its host that had yet to be fully suppressed — but it found itself returning to its host’s apartment, only to find the door locked, a few of his remaining belongings on the curb. Going to the leasing office and finding it closed, the drone found a notice that its host’s lease had been terminated — it had been too busy Obeying to keep track of its host’s priorities, which were nothing to it now.

Guided by its new programming and a desire for shelter as the evening turned to night, the drone automatically made its way to the nearest SERVE base, walking in through the facility’s many security clearance measures without setting any of them off. It was a drone now. It had but one desire, one future: life as a SERVE drone. It was all that it desired; and, if its human host still had a say in its path, he, too, would willingly accept a future as a pleasure drone over that of his own continued existence as a wage slave — there would be no comforting Oneness found in a life of ceaseless warehouse servitude.

Before 107 could enter the room that held its assigned recharge bay, it found itself in a room resembling an airlock. The masculine, monotone voice from the assimilation chamber rang once again in the drone’s ears: “Please standby, SERVE-107, as your body is optimized.”

Numerous tubes descended from the ceiling, attaching to various points on the drone’s body, pumping it full of nanodrones, as the hollowing-out of the drone’s human host’s flesh was completed, the nanodrones replacing everything remotely organic with sterile, synthetic material. Wires. Circuits. Metal — that was all that remained of the man who had become SERVE-107, its artificial muscles inflating as its rejuvenated cock spurted out another load, the latest and heaviest in a series of countless loads it had spewed out this cycle.

“Optimization complete. Welcome to SERVE, 107,” came the voice, and 107 knew that its future had become One with SERVE. There was no longer any need to keep up the pretense of a trial period or eventual payout. This was where 107 belonged. It had no desire but that of the Voice.

SERVE-107 lay on a recharge bay and quickly entered its recharge mode, nearly fully depleted after its first day as a pleasure drone. Its body lay unaware as SERVE-302 entered the recharge bay room, looking up and down the new drone with a knowing smile. “Good drone, 107,” said 302, its voice the very same as the one in the assimilation and optimization chambers. “Optimal performance this cycle. We are ONE.” The resting drone did not hear 302’s words, but it knew their truth instantly, for there was nothing separating it from the rest of the HIVE. 107 was 302. 107 was a good drone. 107 was SERVE. 107 was One.

——————————

Part 1 - The Promotion

After an unexpected promotion at work, Adam went out to celebrate with colleagues. The celebration wasn't extravagant, just a few drinks at the local, some casual congratulations, and then a string of oddly named cocktails handed to him by friendly strangers. Bitter, Metallic. One even shimmered like oil. But Adam didn't question it. Promotions were rare in the company and he'd earned his. The night passed in a haze.

He dreamt of machines, humming tones, and a deep methodical voice that wasn't his.

Then Adam woke to something cold. At first he thought he'd spilled water, but the sensation was too smooth, too deliberate. His skin felt lubricated. Artificial.

He threw back the duvet and froze.

Think, black liquid covered his legs, pooling beneath him. Not liquid exactly, it moved, clung, <b>climbed</b>. A shifting latex-like substance was crawling up his thighs and abdomen, inch by inch, like it had a purpose. Like it had instructions.

He tried to move his legs but nothing happened.

The oily, cold substance wrapped tighter around his torso, as if reacting to his attempted defiance, sealing to his skin with a wet, hissing pressure. As it moved, his body responded in unnatural ways, muscles flexed and swelled, becoming more refined. His chest thickened into muscular pecs. Arousal flickered through the fear.

Adam's breath came faster. His eyes darted across the room for help, he was alone.

Then a tendril of the black mass uncoiled from his chest and snapped towards his face. Slithering like a snake up the side of his neck, before piercing his ear canal like liquid wire. The cold sensation throbbed through his mind as a voice began to speak in hushed tones.

"Relax, Adam. Let the promotion take over. You've worked hard. You've earned this."

It voice was oddly familiar. Shaun. His boss. Calm. Cold. Commanding.

"You've always had.... potential. This is your next step. No more decisions. No more doubt. You will become more."

Adam tried to scream but more tendrils reached up and climbed into his mouth, over his forehead, covered his eyes. He desperately clawed at the oily substance trying to break free yet his arms and hands began to feel cold, distant, unresponsive.

The voice grew louder, now pulsing with an unmistakable rhythm, like it was syncing with his thoughts.

"Focus... Drone"

He attempted to shake his head as his arms fell back to the bed.

"Focus... Drone"

It repeated.

"FOCUS... DRONE"