Percival — Executive Perfection

Floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights glittering like a million obedient eyes. Percival stands at the head of the boardroom table in razor-sharp black wool, the golden tie the only splash of colour, knotted tight against his throat like a promise. Under the tailored jacket, every breath strains the buttons; the fabric pulls across shoulders built for worship and a chest that rises slow and deliberate. One hand in pocket, the other resting on the table, he leans forward just enough for the trousers to hug the thick, uncaged length lying heavy down his thigh. A single bead of pre darkens the front seam. No one in the room dares speak. They're too busy leaking into thousand-dollar briefs, cages aching, minds blank while Percival signs contracts with the same hand that could ruin them with one stroke.

Ezan — Thawb of the Emir

Sunlight pours through lattice windows, turning the white thawb translucent. The gold embroidery climbs his chest like vines claiming holy ground, the fabric so fine it outlines every ridge of abs, every vein on his arms, and the long, thick curve of his cock resting regal against his thigh. He stands barefoot on cool marble, the hem brushing ankles, the scent of oud and alpha musk drifting like prayer. One slow breath and the cloth tents forward, heavy and obvious, a royal announcement no one in the hall can ignore. Pre beads at the tip, soaks through the pristine white in a growing golden stain. The Emir doesn't hide. He simply is, and the world kneels.

Freyr — The Norse Radiance

Braziers roar, snow falls through ancient rafters. Freyr manifests in liquid-gold latex that seals over every inch like divine armour: pecs swollen, nipples hard points under the shine, the stag emblem blazing across his heart. The full-body suit leaves nothing to imagination; the thick shaft is moulded perfectly, veiny, heavy, pulsing with each heartbeat. He stands between fire and ice, sweat making the gold gleam wetter, pre leaking in a slow golden river down the inside of one thigh. The gods themselves would drop to their knees. Freyr doesn't notice. He is fertility made flesh, cock dripping life, ready to seed the world.

PDU-001 P — Cybernetic Precision

Cold lab lights, gold data streams scrolling across walls. PDU-001 stands motionless in black latex polo and trousers, gold piping tracing every cut of muscle. The fabric is skin-tight, the laurel crest and "001" stamped over one perfect pec. Beneath the waistband, the thick column of his cock lies trapped, outlined in obscene detail, a single bead of pre glistening at the tip like a system status light. He doesn't move. He doesn't need to. Every drone in the network feels the pulse between his legs sync with their own cages. Efficiency has never been this hard.

PDU-001 E — Final Form

The chamber seals. The full black-and-gold drone suit locks into place, zipper pulled slow from balls to throat. Every contour is moulded: traps, delts, the deep valley between swollen pecs, and the massive, veiny cock sealed in its own glossy sheath, throbbing visibly against the latex. Eyes glow solid gold. Mind empty. Pre leaks in a constant, obedient stream, pooling at his boots like liquid code. He is no longer man, Emir, or god. He is the perfect vessel: sealed, shining, owned, dripping for the Golden Army. Ready for deployment. Ready to breed obedience.

Five suits. One soul. One cock that rules them all.

Gratitude, Golden Army - Polo Drone Hive, for dressing this drone in every form of power. Thank you, bros and drones, for leaking at the sight of whichever version walks in the room.

Wear the suit. Leak for the suit. Become the suit.