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Richard: Wrong Decision

The Cloverfield estate was a monument to wealth and tradition, sprawling over manicured acres that stood as a testament to the family’s centuries-old dominance. Ivy clung to the mansion’s imposing stone façade, and meticulously pruned hedges lined the paths like silent sentinels. Inside, every inch of the house exuded opulence: chandeliers dripped with crystals that cast prismatic patterns on the polished marble floors, and the air was thick with the scent of polished wood, old money, and a faint trace of cigar smoke that seemed to linger perpetually in the grand hallways.

Richard Cloverfield, the twenty-five-year-old scion of this empire, sat at one end of an enormous mahogany dining table that stretched nearly the full length of the room. The table was laden with a lavish breakfast spread—silver platters of freshly baked croissants, smoked salmon arranged in delicate spirals, perfectly scrambled eggs, and bowls of fruit that glistened like jewels under the light. Richard paid no attention to the food, his eyes instead fixed on his phone as he scrolled through his social media feed with a bored expression.

Richard was dressed in his typical casual luxury: a crisp white linen shirt that hugged his athletic frame just right, the top buttons undone to reveal a hint of tanned skin beneath. The fabric was soft and light against his skin, a perfect balance of comfort and style that came from the hands of one of Europe’s finest tailors. His trousers, made of a supple blend of silk and cotton, moved fluidly with every slight shift of his body. The coolness of the material was a small, unacknowledged pleasure, much like the expensive loafers on his feet—soft leather that conformed to his steps with a near-silent grace.

Richard’s dark hair, styled in a meticulously crafted tousle, framed his face in a way that appeared effortlessly charming. In reality, the style was a product of careful grooming, the result of hours spent with his personal stylist who knew precisely how to balance the line between artful dishevelment and complete control. His reflection in his phone’s glass screen showed a man who knew he was handsome, wealthy, and untouchable.

Around him, the estate staff moved with practiced silence, clearing dishes and refilling glasses with the unobtrusiveness of shadows. Richard barely noticed them. To him, they were background noise—necessary fixtures of his daily life but as interchangeable as the silverware or the paintings that lined the walls. A butler in a crisp black uniform approached to top off his coffee, the quiet clink of porcelain on porcelain barely audible over the soft rustle of a housemaid smoothing the curtains.

Richard didn’t bother to acknowledge them, not even a nod. The staff had long since learned that their role was to remain invisible, executing their duties without expectation of recognition or thanks. They were like ghosts, haunting the edges of his privileged existence, tidying up the mess of his life without ever leaving a mark of their own.

Across from Richard, his father, Gregory Cloverfield, sat with his usual air of authority, his sharp eyes scanning a stack of documents spread before him. Gregory’s presence was commanding—a tall, broad-shouldered figure draped in an impeccably tailored suit, his silver hair slicked back in a severe style that spoke of discipline and control. He glanced up at Richard, his expression stern, almost disappointed.

“Richard, you will attend the Bainbridge meeting this afternoon. It’s at two,” Gregory stated, his voice carrying the weight of expectation.

Richard didn’t look up. Instead, he thumbed through another post, his face a mask of detached boredom. “Father, I’ve said it before. I have no interest in these endless meetings. Bainbridge, mergers, numbers—it’s all so dreadfully tedious.”

Gregory’s eyes narrowed, his displeasure palpable. “This isn’t about your interest, Richard. It’s about responsibility. Your responsibility. The Cloverfield name means something—something that you need to uphold.”

Richard finally looked up, his gaze meeting his father’s with a flicker of defiance. The linen of his shirt shifted against his skin as he moved, a brief, cool brush that grounded him amidst the stifling atmosphere. “Responsibility, legacy, the future—I’m tired of hearing the same lecture. What I choose to do with my time is my business.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the polished floor, a sound that echoed briefly before being swallowed by the vastness of the room. His movements were smooth, each step a practiced glide that spoke of privilege and poise. The fabric of his trousers flowed around his legs, a silky whisper that contrasted with the hard, glossy surface beneath his feet.

As he passed by the staff, who continued their duties with unwavering precision, Richard felt no need to soften his stride or acknowledge their presence. To him, they were as much a part of the furniture as the velvet-upholstered chairs or the intricately woven rugs that lined the hallways. The butler bowed slightly as Richard strode past, but Richard didn’t bother to glance in his direction.

Outside, the sun blazed high, casting sharp shadows across the estate’s manicured lawns. Richard’s car, a sleek black sports model, sat waiting at the foot of the grand staircase. He slid into the driver’s seat, savoring the familiar feel of the cool leather against his back. The interior smelled of new car and the faint hint of his cologne, a comforting blend that seemed to promise freedom from the suffocating expectations of his family.

He adjusted his sunglasses, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror: young, confident, and completely indifferent to the weight of his surname. With a swift turn of the key, the engine roared to life, the sound echoing off the mansion’s stone walls as Richard pulled out of the driveway. He didn’t look back, his mind already drifting to the cool waters of the Oakwood Country Club pool—a sanctuary of exclusivity and comfort where he could drown out the world, if only for a little while.

As he sped down the tree-lined streets, the wind tousling his carefully styled hair, Richard felt the familiar rush of fleeting freedom. For now, he was in control, untethered from the obligations that loomed like shadows in the grand rooms of his family’s estate.

The Oakwood Country Club was a sanctuary of privilege and exclusivity, nestled discreetly amidst the leafy suburbs of Washington D.C. It was the kind of place that exuded quiet wealth, where membership was passed down through generations like a prized heirloom and the grounds were immaculately maintained, ensuring that every blade of grass stood at attention as if in deference to its elite patrons. The entrance, a grand archway of wrought iron and stone, was manned by attendants dressed in crisp uniforms, their polite nods and practiced smiles an acknowledgment of the kind of old money that frequented this bastion of leisure.

Richard pulled up to the valet station, his sleek black sports car gleaming in the midday sun. He stepped out with the easy confidence of someone who knew he belonged. The attendant, a young man with a neatly pressed uniform and the beginnings of a nervous sweat on his brow, took the keys with a murmured “Good afternoon, Mr. Cloverfield.” Richard barely acknowledged him, his focus already on the pristine pathways that led to the heart of the club. The valet’s fingers brushed against the cool metal of the key fob, his expression a blend of awe and routine professionalism as he slid into the driver’s seat and guided the car away with a quiet hum.

Richard strode towards the clubhouse, the air thick with the scent of freshly mowed grass and blooming gardenias that lined the walkways in neat, colorful rows. The sun beat down, reflecting off his dark hair, styled just enough to look effortlessly disheveled. The white linen shorts he wore moved fluidly with each step, brushing against his thighs with the gentle, cool caress of luxury fabric. His light blue silk polo shirt, slim-fitted and impeccably tailored, clung to his torso, accentuating the athletic lines of his body without a hint of discomfort. The silk was smooth against his skin, a delicate reminder of the opulence that defined every aspect of his life.

Inside the clubhouse, the air was a few degrees cooler, thanks to the silent hum of high-end air conditioning that seemed to sweep away the outside world’s heat and bustle. Polished wood paneling lined the walls, and the soft murmur of conversation floated through the space, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the occasional chime of cutlery against fine china. The restaurant, an elegant space filled with members dressed in pastel polos and sun hats, was buzzing with the quiet confidence of the upper crust enjoying their day’s leisure.

Richard settled into a corner table with a view of the pool, a glittering expanse of turquoise water that sparkled invitingly under the afternoon sun. The waiter, a young man in a white uniform with a black tie, approached with a menu, but Richard waved it away with a casual flick of his hand. “The usual, and keep the drinks coming,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur but with an authority that brooked no hesitation.

The waiter nodded, retreating swiftly to fulfill the order without a word. Richard’s usual was a light fare—a crisp Caesar salad topped with grilled shrimp, paired with a glass of chilled white wine that sparkled in the glass like liquid sunshine. He picked at his food absentmindedly, his thoughts drifting as he sipped his wine, savoring the cool, crisp notes that danced on his tongue. The flavors were familiar, almost comforting in their predictability, and the chilled glass left a faint condensation on his fingertips, a tiny droplet that rolled down and soaked into the pristine white linen tablecloth.

Richard’s gaze wandered lazily over the pool deck, taking in the familiar sights: the sunbathers stretched out on lounge chairs, the occasional splash of a diver breaking the surface, the rhythmic glide of swimmers slicing through the water with practiced ease. It was all so routine, so perfectly curated. He watched as a group of young men, similarly dressed in expensive leisurewear, laughed loudly over their cocktails at the bar, their carefree banter drifting over like the distant hum of bees. For a moment, Richard felt a pang of irritation—how everything seemed so neatly slotted into its place, every moment a polished reflection of the next.

His meal finished, Richard drained the last of his wine and gestured for another. The sun had climbed higher, casting sharp, bright reflections off the water’s surface, and he felt the first beads of sweat beginning to form at his hairline, more a nuisance than an effect of the heat. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, the silk of his polo brushing against his skin with a soft whisper as he stretched, feeling the fabric slide and cling in places where the warmth had begun to seep in. It was time for a swim.

Richard stood, smoothing out his shirt and feeling the luxurious material glide back into place. The shorts, light and barely perceptible against his skin, moved with him effortlessly as he made his way to the locker room. He passed through the clubhouse’s cool interior, nodding occasionally to familiar faces—a nod from a distinguished older gentleman with a pipe, a wave from a woman in oversized sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. They were all part of the same tableau, pieces of the elite mosaic that defined Oakwood’s allure.

In the locker room, Richard changed into his swimwear—a sleek, designer swim brief in deep navy that clung to his body with a snug precision that was both flattering and functional. The fabric, a high-end blend designed for speed and comfort, was cool against his skin, hugging his contours without pinching or pulling. As he looked at himself in the full-length mirror, he admired the way the swimwear accentuated his lean physique, the cut emphasizing his toned legs and the firm lines of his abdomen. It was a look of effortless superiority, the kind that made him feel momentarily invincible.

He grabbed a towel from the neatly stacked pile, its soft cotton loops brushing against his fingers with a plushness that spoke of quality. With a quick, practiced motion, he draped it over his shoulder and headed out to the pool. The sun hit him immediately, a warm, enveloping embrace that contrasted with the chill of the locker room. Richard dropped the towel onto a lounge chair and stepped towards the water’s edge, pausing briefly as he dipped a toe in, feeling the coolness lap against his skin.

Richard dove in smoothly, cutting through the water with powerful strokes that sent ripples radiating out in perfect arcs. The pool water was cool and invigorating, washing over him in waves that felt almost like silk against his heated skin. He swam laps with the grace of someone accustomed to luxury—each stroke precise, each breath measured, the rhythm of it all a soothing escape from the noise of his life. The water caressed him, gliding over the fine hairs on his arms and legs, swirling around his body in a constant, gentle embrace.

After an extended swim, Richard pulled himself out of the water, droplets clinging to his skin like tiny jewels. He grabbed his towel, the soft cotton now cool from the shade, and patted himself dry with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the plush fabric absorb the water with ease. His body, warm from exertion, glistened under the sun, and as he wrapped the towel around his waist, he felt the first real pangs of hunger return.

Richard made his way to the showers, his footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor of the locker room. He turned on the water, and for a moment, stood under the stream, letting the warm spray cascade over him, washing away the chlorine and the lingering tension in his muscles. The shower was a private cocoon of steam and heat, the water’s rhythm like a gentle drumbeat against his skin. He closed his eyes, feeling the rivulets run down his face, neck, and back, tracing paths over every curve and contour. The sensation was momentarily grounding, the simple pleasure of warm water on skin an unspoken luxury that he indulged in without thought.

After the shower, Richard dressed quickly, slipping back into the cool comfort of his linen shorts and silk polo, the dampness from his hair adding a slight chill as he combed through it, coaxing it back into its carefully crafted disarray. The familiar feel of the soft, tailored clothing against his skin was a comfort, the fit like a second skin as he adjusted the collar and straightened the hem. He ran a hand over his hair one last time, smoothing it back with a practiced motion that left just enough of a tousled look.

Leaving the club, Richard felt a renewed sense of calm as he slid back into his car, the leather seats embracing him once more. The engine purred as he started the car, and with a smooth turn of the wheel, he was off, the club receding in his rearview mirror as he headed home. It had been another predictable day of leisure, another escape into the comforts that his lifestyle afforded. Richard barely gave it a second thought as he drove back towards the Cloverfield estate, the sun dipping lower in the sky and casting long shadows over the manicured lawns of the city’s elite.

His mind drifted to dinner plans and the next inevitable, dull family obligation he’d have to sidestep. For Richard, the day had been as seamless as his silk polo and as smooth as his leisurely swim—a series of luxuries that blended into the unremarkable rhythm of his privileged life.

Richard Cloverfield’s black sports car roared up the winding driveway of the Cloverfield estate, the powerful engine’s purr echoing against the towering stone walls that guarded his family’s fortune. As he stepped out, the faint scent of chlorine still clung to his skin, mingling with the crisp notes of his cologne. The setting sun cast long shadows over the manicured lawns, bathing the mansion in a warm, golden hue. Richard glanced at his watch—a sleek, expensive piece of precision engineering—and noted that he was already late for dinner. He scowled, a flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise indifferent expression as he made his way inside.

The grand foyer was as meticulously maintained as ever, with polished marble floors reflecting the soft glow of the chandelier that hung overhead like a crown of crystal and light. The air was cool, a carefully controlled contrast to the sweltering heat outside, and carried the subtle fragrance of lemon polish and fresh-cut flowers that adorned the entry hall. Richard strode through without pausing, his steps quick and purposeful as he headed toward the staircase that led to his suite.

As he passed by the butler, who had been waiting silently to greet him, Richard tossed his car keys with a casual flick of his wrist. The butler caught them deftly, but Richard didn’t bother to acknowledge the man’s polite, “Good evening, Mr. Cloverfield.”

Richard barely spared a glance, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” under his breath. His linen shorts, slightly crumpled from the drive, rustled softly against his legs as he ascended the stairs. The air was filled with the muted sounds of staff going about their duties, each movement a quiet dance of efficiency and discretion that defined life in the Cloverfield mansion.

Reaching his bedroom, Richard paused briefly at the mirror, taking in the sight of his reflection. His hair, slightly tousled from the day’s activities, framed a face that bore the faintest shadows of fatigue. He pulled off his polo shirt, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair, and let out a slow breath as the cool air brushed against his bare skin. For a moment, the relief was tangible, but it was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by the realization that he needed to change—his father’s expectations loomed large, a constant, invisible pressure.

Richard sifted through his wardrobe, fingers grazing over rows of perfectly pressed shirts, each one a testament to luxury and meticulous tailoring. He selected a white silk dress shirt, the fabric cool and smooth between his fingers, almost like water slipping through his grasp. He slipped it on, feeling the silk glide over his skin, a delicate caress that sent a brief shiver down his spine. The shirt’s French cuffs, adorned with understated yet elegant cufflinks, brushed softly against his wrists as he buttoned it up, the high-quality material molding perfectly to his form.

He paired the shirt with a dark navy suit, the fine wool fabric tailored to accentuate the lean lines of his frame, and added a pair of silk suspenders that provided a subtle hint of color against the crisp white of his shirt. The trousers hung perfectly, their tailored cut a seamless extension of the suit jacket. Richard selected a deep blue tie with a faint silver sheen, tying it with practiced ease as he adjusted it to sit perfectly at his collar. Each movement was smooth and practiced, a ritual he performed without thought but with the precision of someone who had never accepted anything less than perfection.

Richard cast one last glance in the mirror, smoothing down the front of his jacket, the silk suspenders peeking through as he moved. His reflection was flawless—a sharp-dressed heir exuding control and arrogance, with not a hair out of place. He grabbed his shoes, slipping them on effortlessly; the polished leather gleamed in the low light of his room.

When Richard finally descended the stairs, his footsteps were deliberate, the faint echo of his polished shoes on marble preceding him into the dining room where his father, Gregory, was already seated. The room was set impeccably, as always, the long table adorned with candles, fine china, and silverware that caught the soft glow of the chandelier above. Gregory looked up, his expression flickering with disapproval as Richard slid into his seat.

“You’re late,” Gregory stated, his voice a measured blend of disappointment and command.

Richard leaned back in his chair, adjusting his cuffs with a languid air of indifference. “Fashionably so,” he replied with a smirk, reaching for the wine glass that had been placed at his setting. The cool crystal was a welcome sensation against his fingers, and he swirled the wine lazily before taking a sip, savoring the crisp, refreshing bite of the vintage.

Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a joke, Richard. Family dinners are a tradition. They’re about maintaining our place, our legacy.”

Richard rolled his eyes, setting the glass down with a soft clink. “Tradition, legacy—same lecture, different day. Do you ever get tired of your own voice?” His tone was sharp, undercut with the kind of disdain that only someone born into privilege could muster.

The first course was served, a delicate presentation of seared scallops on a bed of arugula with a drizzle of truffle oil. The butler, standing at Richard’s side, waited patiently to clear the plate as soon as Richard finished. Richard caught the man’s eye, sensing his presence a moment too long for his liking. “Can you move any slower?” Richard snapped, his voice dripping with impatience. “Honestly, how hard is it to clear a damn plate?”

The butler flushed slightly but maintained his composure, quickly and quietly removing the dish without a word. Gregory watched the exchange with a tight-lipped frown, his hands clasped together on the table, the only sign of his mounting frustration the slight twitch of his jaw.

As the meal progressed, Richard’s interest waned. Each course, while meticulously prepared and elegantly presented, felt like an interruption rather than an experience. His mind wandered as he picked at the food—a perfectly cooked filet mignon, a medley of roasted vegetables—barely tasting the rich, savory flavors that would have delighted anyone else. He sipped his wine absentmindedly, the chilled liquid a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness he felt suffocating him.

Finally, when the last course was served and the plates began to clear, Richard stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp, grating sound. He adjusted his suit jacket, the fabric brushing against his silk shirt with a smooth, muted rustle that felt both luxurious and confining.

“I’m going out,” Richard announced, glancing at his father with a half-smirk that bordered on a challenge.

“Out? At this hour? And dressed like that?” Gregory’s gaze was skeptical, a crease forming between his brows.

Richard’s smirk widened. “No, of course not like this,” he said with a scoff, already halfway to the door. “I’ll change. Don’t worry, Father—I know how to dress for the occasion.”

He headed back to his room, shedding the suit and shirt with quick, impatient movements. The crisp silk shirt, once pristine, lay discarded on the floor, the cool fabric already beginning to crease in the folds. Richard rifled through his closet with practiced ease, pulling out a charcoal blazer and a sleek, black silk shirt that shimmered faintly in the low light. He paired them with tailored dark jeans, the material hugging his legs comfortably without sacrificing the polished edge he demanded of every outfit.

Richard’s club attire was sharp, modern, and effortlessly commanding. The black silk shirt clung to his torso in a way that was both snug and freeing, the fabric’s light sheen catching the light as he moved. He adjusted the blazer over his shoulders, the cut perfectly accentuating his lean frame, and gave a final, approving glance in the mirror. The look was complete: Richard Cloverfield, heir to an empire, dressed to impress, exude dominance, and escape into the night.

The club was a short drive away, and Richard sped through the city streets with the reckless confidence of someone who knew the world would always bend to his will. The valet took his keys with a quick nod, and Richard breezed past the velvet ropes, the bouncer’s recognition and deference automatic. Inside, the club was a pulsating hive of energy—flashing lights, thumping bass, and a crowd of Washington’s elite basking in their own extravagance.

Richard moved through the throng with ease, his presence commanding attention like a magnetic force. He was greeted by familiar faces, friends, and acquaintances who thrived in the same rarefied air of wealth and privilege. They toasted him with raised glasses and easy laughter, their voices mingling with the beat of the music in a chaotic symphony of excess.

At the VIP section, Richard settled into a plush leather booth, surrounded by a small entourage of admirers and hangers-on. The waiter, a young man in a crisp uniform, approached with a tray of drinks, his expression carefully neutral. Richard barely glanced up, waving a hand dismissively. “Vodka. Top shelf. And don’t take all night about it,” he barked, the words cutting through the noise with the sharpness of a blade.

The waiter nodded quickly, retreating to fulfill the order without a word. Richard watched him go, his expression a mix of boredom and annoyance, as though the very act of waiting was an affront to his status. The drinks arrived swiftly—tall glasses filled with crystal-clear vodka, a slice of lime perched on the rim like an afterthought. Richard grabbed his drink, downing half in one go, the alcohol burning a familiar trail down his throat.

He danced with abandon, the beat of the music vibrating through the soles of his shoes, the rhythm pulsing in his veins as he moved. The silk shirt clung to his back, the fabric growing warm and damp as he lost himself in the sea of bodies, the lights casting quick, fragmented flashes of color over his features. His hair, once meticulously styled, now hung in loose, sweat-damp strands, each movement shaking free droplets that caught the club’s lights like tiny prisms.

Richard’s night was a blur of sound and motion, a heady mix of laughter, dancing, and the ever-present hum of indulgence that filled the air. By the time he finally stepped out of the club, the first light of dawn was breaking over the city, casting a pale glow that softened the hard edges of the skyline. His clothes, once pristine, now clung uncomfortably to his body, the silk shirt soaked through with sweat and the lingering scent of expensive cologne mingled with the faint, stale odor of smoke and spilled drinks.

He drove back to the Cloverfield estate in a weary daze, the early morning light casting long shadows that stretched across the pristine lawns. Richard didn’t bother to change before collapsing into bed, the linen sheets cool against his overheated skin. He drifted into a fitful sleep, the night’s excesses still buzzing at the edge of his consciousness like a persistent, nagging hum.

By late afternoon, Richard awoke to the relentless heat of the day pressing against the windows. His head throbbed with the dull ache of a hangover, the kind that settled deep behind his eyes and refused to be shaken. He groaned, rubbing a hand across his face as he sat up, the sheets tangling around his legs in a frustrating snarl. He hadn’t planned anything for the day, and the thought of another round of idle luxury bored him even before his feet hit the floor.

Without much thought, Richard decided on a whim to head back to Oakwood Country Club. It was a familiar retreat, an oasis of predictable comfort where he could nurse his headache in peace. He dressed quickly, pulling on a fresh pair of white linen shorts and the cobalt blue silk polo he favored for its cool, airy feel. The fabric slid over his skin with a soothing touch, a small comfort against the lingering heat that clung to the air like a damp cloak.

The drive to the club was uneventful, the city’s streets a blur of motion and noise that Richard barely registered. Arriving at Oakwood, he greeted the valet with a half-hearted nod, his thoughts already drifting to the cool embrace of the pool’s water. The club was its usual haven of refined luxury, the air filled with the mingling scents of sunblock, fresh-cut grass, and the faint chlorine tang of the pool.

Richard moved through the familiar faces with the detached ease of someone who had long since grown accustomed to being recognized and catered to. He exchanged brief pleasantries with a few acquaintances, the interactions perfunctory and devoid of genuine interest. Changing into his swimwear, Richard felt the snug fit of the designer briefs against his skin, the fabric a comforting second skin as he slipped into the water. Each stroke was a balm to his senses, the rhythmic motion of his swimming a quiet escape from the pounding headache that still nagged at him.

After an extended swim, Richard pulled himself from the pool, droplets of water glistening on his skin like tiny beads of glass. He wrapped a towel around his waist, savoring the cool, soft fabric against his damp body as he made his way to the showers. The locker room was quiet, the hum of the club’s distant activity a muted backdrop as Richard stepped into the private stall. He turned the knob, feeling the initial burst of water against his skin—a rush of warm, steady rain that cascaded over him in soothing waves.

Richard closed his eyes, letting the water’s heat seep into his muscles, washing away the last remnants of fatigue from the previous night. The shower was a private cocoon, a sanctuary of steam and warmth that enveloped him completely. He stood there, eyes shut, under the falling water, savoring the sensation of each droplet tracing a path down his back and shoulders, the steady rhythm a quiet, indulgent luxury that he took for granted.

Richard stood under the warm shower, his eyes shut as the water cascaded down his back, massaging his tense muscles and washing away the lingering sweat and fatigue from the night before. The steady rhythm of the shower was a familiar comfort, one of the few simple pleasures he still allowed himself to enjoy without question. The locker room was quiet, save for the gentle hiss of the shower and the distant hum of the club’s activities—a sanctuary of steam and solitude where he could forget, for a moment, the perpetual weight of expectations and indulgence.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the warm water sluice through his fingers, washing away the chlorine and the remnants of the previous night’s excess. Each droplet that cascaded over him brought a fleeting sense of relief, like tiny fingers massaging the tension from his scalp and shoulders. He tilted his head back, surrendering to the rhythm of the water as it beat against his face. His skin prickled, the comforting heat of the shower pouring down his neck and chest, tracing over his muscles in soothing rivulets that rolled down his body. For a moment, Richard felt anchored, the pounding water blocking out the weight of his hangover, the tedium of his privileged existence, and the sharp edges of his father’s expectations.

But then, the water began to change. At first, the shift was so subtle that it barely registered—just a slight thickening, a denser, almost syrupy quality that clung to his skin in a way water shouldn’t. Richard’s drowsy mind struggled to process the difference as the droplets, once light and free-flowing, started to stick, stretching into viscous threads that clung to his arms and chest. He frowned, confusion breaking through his relaxed state as he rubbed at his face, trying to clear the film that now coated his skin.

“What the hell…?” he muttered, his voice thin and uncertain, cracking in the steam-filled stall. Richard blinked, his eyes stinging slightly as the strange, oily residue smeared under his fingers. He squinted through the haze of steam, watching in disbelief as the water transformed before his eyes. It wasn’t water anymore—what streamed from the showerhead was a gelatinous, semi-transparent substance that spread across his chest and shoulders, sticking like an unwanted second skin. Under the dim lights, it glistened with a sinister sheen, catching and bending the light in ways that seemed almost alive.

A sharp jolt of panic shot through him, sending his heart racing as he realized this was no malfunction. The liquid, far too thick to be normal, oozed down his torso in slow, deliberate waves, adhering stubbornly to every inch of skin it touched. Richard’s breaths grew ragged, his chest heaving as he swiped at the goo, but it refused to dislodge, stretching and snapping back like elastic. It was as if the substance had a mind of its own, wrapping around his fingers and palms, sliding across his wrists, pulling itself tighter with every attempt he made to tear it away.

The panic escalated, surging through him like a live wire as he spun, slamming his hands against the shower controls in a desperate bid to shut it off. His fingers slipped and slid over the slick knobs, the oily film rendering every twist and turn useless. The substance poured from the showerhead with renewed intensity, now spewing from hidden nozzles in the walls, assaulting him from all directions. Richard choked on his own breath, stumbling back as the goo clung to his legs and crawled up his waist, binding his movements in a tightening, relentless embrace.

“No, no, no!” he shouted, his voice reverberating off the tiled walls, echoing back to him distorted and alien. He clawed at the substance, his nails scratching uselessly against the encasement as it began to solidify, hardening like cooling lava. It was as if the rubber was alive, anticipating his every move, adapting and tightening, fusing itself to his skin with a tenacity that was beyond anything he had ever experienced. Each time he tried to pull free, the material responded by gripping tighter, its surface slick yet unbreakable, stretching over his joints and locking his limbs in place.

His movements grew more frantic, jerky, and uncoordinated, his muscles straining against the suit that seemed determined to claim him. Richard’s breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps, the air thickening as the suit constricted around his chest, squeezing his ribs with an unrelenting force that felt like it would crush the breath from his lungs. His heart pounded erratically, each beat a painful thud that resonated against the tightening grip of the encasement. He tried to scream, to call for help, but the rubber surged up his neck, slipping over his jaw and clamping down over his mouth with a smothering, muffling pressure.

Richard’s eyes widened in horror as the substance slid up his face, creeping over his cheeks and sealing across his lips, silencing his cries with a cold, suffocating finality. The suit’s grip was unyielding, pulling tighter with every second, as though determined to squeeze the very life from him. His vision blurred as the rubber edged closer to his eyes, distorting his view of the shower stall into a swirling mess of light and shadow. He could feel the material creeping along his scalp, pulling at his hair with a strange, almost deliberate gentleness as it moved to cover the last patches of exposed skin.

Richard’s mind raced, a whirlwind of terror and disbelief as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. His limbs were immobilized, trapped in a sheath of rubber that held him like a vise, pinning his legs together and binding his arms against his sides. His throat tightened as the encasement squeezed, a relentless, crushing pressure that turned every breath into a desperate fight for air. The sensation was overwhelming—a mix of suffocation and paralysis that left him teetering on the edge of panic and helplessness.

Just as Richard’s fear reached its peak, the walls of the shower stall seemed to shift, parting with a quiet hiss that sent a shiver of dread down his spine. Sleek, metallic arms shot out with a precision that was both mechanical and disturbingly organic, moving with a fluidity that defied belief. Cold metal claws clamped around his midsection, shoulders, and legs, lifting him off the ground with a sudden, jarring force that sent his head snapping back. He thrashed wildly, his body twisting and contorting in a frantic attempt to break free, but the arms held him with an unyielding grip, their strength far beyond anything human.

“Let me go!” Richard screamed, his voice muffled and distorted by the rubber that now covered his mouth and neck. His words were barely audible, trapped beneath the suit that clung to him like a second skin. The mechanical arms moved with a cold, calculated purpose, maneuvering him out of the shower and into an adjoining chamber that he hadn’t noticed before—a sterile, dimly lit room where every surface gleamed with a clinical, inhuman coldness.

The arms lowered Richard onto a padded platform, the material conforming to his shape with an eerie precision that made him feel as though he was sinking into quicksand. The rubber suit merged seamlessly with the padding, holding him in place as the arms released their grip and withdrew with a soft hiss. Richard’s body jerked against the restraint, every nerve alight with the sensation of being trapped, encased in a shell that he couldn’t break free from. The suit tightened once more, the pressure building over his ribs and limbs, forcing him into stillness.

Richard’s eyes darted around the chamber, wide with terror as he sought any sign of escape. The sterile white walls loomed over him, cold and featureless, offering no comfort, no salvation. His heart pounded against the rubber casing, his pulse a frantic drumbeat that seemed to echo in the confined space. He tried to call out again, but his voice was swallowed by the unrelenting encasement that now wrapped around his head, inching over his ears and squeezing tight. The pressure in his skull intensified, a relentless squeeze that sent sharp, stabbing pain through his temples.

Then, as if the suit were drawing out his suffering to the very last, the rubber flowed over his eyes. Richard’s vision blurred, his last glimpse of the sterile room reduced to a narrow slit of light before the darkness swallowed him whole. The suit sealed around his eyelids, forcing them shut with an unyielding finality that left him blind, trapped in a world of darkness and muffled sound. His breaths came in ragged spurts, the encasement pressing against his nostrils, turning each inhale into a shallow, desperate gasp.

The final indignity came as the suit encased his ears, plunging Richard into a soundless void. The world outside was gone, replaced by the relentless, suffocating grip of the suit that now covered every inch of his body. Richard’s thoughts spiraled, a maelstrom of panic and despair as he realized that he was utterly alone, cut off from everything he had ever known. The pressure in his head built to an agonizing crescendo, each second an eternity of crushing weight and unrelenting darkness.

For Richard, there was no escape, no reprieve. He was encased, immobilized, and silenced, the rubber suit clinging to him with a suffocating tenacity that left him powerless and alone in the darkness.

The pod’s lid clicked shut, plunging Richard into a suffocating darkness that pressed against his senses from every direction. The confined space seemed to tighten around him, every inch of the rubber suit clinging to his body like it was fused with his skin. Each breath he took echoed back to him in short, frantic gasps, bouncing off the smooth interior of the pod, amplifying the sound until it was the only thing he could focus on—his own ragged breathing, quickening with each passing second. The suit was no longer just a suit; it had become an extension of himself, squeezing tighter with every attempt to move, to resist.

“Help!” Richard shouted, his voice cracking under the strain, but the words were swallowed by the dense rubber pressing against his throat and the airtight walls of the pod. Adrenaline flooded his system, his body surging with the instinct to fight, to escape, but the suit responded by clamping down harder, the rubber constricting around his limbs with an almost sentient determination. He thrashed wildly, his muscles straining against the unyielding grip, but it was like trying to fight his way out of a collapsing coffin.

Then, without warning, a set of earphones extended from the pod’s interior, their movement smooth and mechanical, like surgical instruments zeroing in on their target. Richard jerked his head to the side, desperate to avoid the intrusion, but the suit held him rigid, the rubber pressing against his jaw, his temples, locking him in place with a grip that felt stronger than steel. The earphones slid into his ears with an icy precision, and as they did, a low, pulsating hum filled his head, vibrating through his skull like the slow, methodical beat of a war drum.

“No!” Richard cried, trying to shake the earphones loose, but the suit responded by tightening further, crushing his muscles into submission. The sound in his ears grew louder, the hum intensifying, a throbbing resonance that matched the frantic rhythm of his heart. Each beat sent a new wave of pressure through his chest, aligning his pulse with the growing force of the pod’s vibrations, until he could no longer distinguish the pod’s rhythm from his own.

The suit squeezed tighter, forcing the air from his lungs in painful, ragged bursts. Richard’s vision swam, his eyes darting beneath the rubber that held them open, staring unblinking into the suffocating darkness. He tried to block out the sound, to focus on anything other than the relentless thrum that pounded through his skull, but it was impossible. The suit had him pinned, every nerve ending in his body alive with the sensation of being crushed, restrained, consumed.

Then came the voice, slithering through the hum like a serpent winding its way into his thoughts. It was soft at first, almost a whisper, threading through the rhythmic drone with a calm, authoritative cadence that was impossible to ignore. “Relax… Submit… Obey…” The words were insistent, invasive, each syllable sinking deeper into Richard’s mind, pushing past his defenses with a quiet, unyielding force.

Richard’s mind reeled, his thoughts spinning in chaotic circles as he fought to resist the commands. “I’m Richard Cloverfield!” he shouted, his voice a desperate echo that bounced back at him, distorted and warped by the oppressive grip of the rubber. “I’m not—” But the suit cut him off, tightening around his throat, cutting off his air. His head throbbed, a sharp, searing pain stabbing through his temples as the pressure built, pushing against his skull like it was trying to crush him from the inside out.

The voice grew louder, more insistent. “Obey… Serve…” The words pounded through his ears, relentless and unrelenting, a constant, rhythmic assault that matched the beat of the hum. Richard tried to close his eyes, to shut out the sound, but the suit wouldn’t let him. His eyelids were pried open by the rubber’s grip, forcing him to stare into the darkness, his vision blurring as the pressure mounted.

Suddenly, his vision flickered. At first, it was just a hint of light, a faint glow that pierced the suffocating darkness of the pod. Then, the light intensified, flickering like a dying bulb before bursting into a kaleidoscope of shifting images—fragmented scenes that flashed and pulsed in time with the pod’s hum. Richard’s eyes widened, the images searing into his retinas as they played out before him, too fast to comprehend, too vivid to ignore.

The scenes were familiar at first—a distorted reflection of his own memories, twisted and warped beyond recognition. He saw himself as a child, standing in the grand foyer of the Cloverfield mansion, his tiny frame dwarfed by the towering marble columns. But the image was wrong; the walls seemed to pulse, the chandelier above spinning like a carousel, casting long, sinister shadows that twisted and writhed like living creatures. Richard tried to blink, to clear the vision, but his eyes remained locked open, forced to watch as the memories played out in grotesque, nightmarish detail.

He saw his father, Gregory Cloverfield, standing over him, his face obscured by shadow, his voice a low, droning echo that blended with the hum in Richard’s ears. “You will uphold the Cloverfield legacy,” the voice said, but it wasn’t Gregory’s voice—it was the AI, using his father’s words, twisting them into a command that bore down on Richard like a weight. The memory shifted, warping into a new scene, one of Richard standing before a mirror, dressed in his tailored suits, his reflection smiling back at him with a smug, self-assured arrogance. But the mirror shattered, the image fracturing into a thousand pieces, each shard reflecting a different face—none of them his own.

Richard’s head throbbed, the pressure in his skull growing unbearable as the images continued to flash and flicker, each one more disjointed and surreal than the last. He saw his friends, his luxurious lifestyle, the clubs, the parties—all of it twisting and melting away, replaced by images of faceless figures dressed in identical suits, their heads bowed, their eyes empty. They moved in unison, a synchronized march of obedience, their steps echoing like the ticking of a clock. Richard watched, horrified, as his own face appeared among them, his features blank and expressionless, his movements mechanical and devoid of any will.

The AI’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “Address me as ‘sir,’” it said, the words cutting into Richard’s mind like a scalpel. Richard’s mouth moved beneath the rubber, the command worming its way into his consciousness, tugging at his resolve with an insistent, unyielding pull.

“I—won’t…” Richard gasped, his voice trembling, but the suit squeezed tighter, crushing his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. The pressure in his head was overwhelming, a relentless, crushing force that made his thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. He could feel the commands digging deeper, burrowing into his mind, stripping away his resistance with every repetition.

“Address me as ‘sir,’” the voice repeated, colder now, with a cruel edge that sent a shiver down Richard’s spine. “Say it.”

Richard’s lips trembled, his mind a battleground of conflicting impulses. He could still hear his own voice, buried beneath the layers of commands, shouting at him to resist, to hold on. But the suit was relentless, the rubber pressing against his skin, his muscles, his bones, until he could no longer tell where he ended and the suit began. The images in his mind flickered and warped, blurring the lines between reality and the AI’s manipulations.

The rubber tightened around his chest, forcing a choked gasp from Richard’s lips. The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that seared through his senses, obliterating everything except the voice in his ears. The AI’s commands looped endlessly, drowning out his thoughts, turning his own mind against him. “Serve… Conform… Belong…”

The phrases drilled into his consciousness, each repetition wearing down the last of his defenses, stripping away the layers of who he was. Richard tried to hold on, to remember his name, his identity, but the images in his mind twisted and blurred, erasing his past, his memories, everything that made him Richard Cloverfield. His childhood, his triumphs, his failures—all of it was dragged into the dark, swallowed by the AI’s relentless grip.

The AI’s voice continued, relentless and unforgiving. “You will obey. You will serve.” The words echoed in Richard’s mind, looping through his consciousness like a virus, corrupting everything it touched. His own thoughts were no longer his; they were commands, instructions, imprinted onto his mind with a force that left no room for doubt, no space for resistance.

Richard’s body slumped, his muscles going limp as the suit pulled him deeper into the pod’s embrace. His vision faded, the images dissolving into a dark, featureless void. The AI’s commands were the only thing left, a relentless, pounding rhythm that filled every corner of his mind. His own name felt foreign, meaningless, a distant echo that had no place in the empty expanse of his thoughts.

The pod’s hum grew louder, resonating through Richard’s bones, syncing with the beat of his heart, his breath, his very essence. His identity, once a solid, immovable part of him, now felt like sand slipping through his fingers, each grain lost to the AI’s relentless reprogramming. He was no longer Richard Cloverfield, heir to the Cloverfield dynasty—he was a blank slate, a vessel waiting to be filled with the AI’s commands.

As the pod settled into its final rhythm, Richard’s consciousness flickered one last time. The last spark of resistance, the final shred of who he was, was snuffed out by the relentless pulse of the AI’s voice. His thoughts fell silent, his mind a blank, obedient slate, waiting for the next command.

The transformation was complete. Richard Cloverfield was no more. Only the obedient drone remained, a hollow shell devoid of the arrogance, defiance, and individuality that once defined him. His mind was a blank canvas, scrubbed clean of memories, thoughts, and desires, left only with the relentless commands that echoed through the pod like a dark symphony. The AI’s voice continued, calm and omnipresent, a guide and a master, drilling deeper into the empty space where Richard’s identity once thrived.

The rubber suit, now fused with his very being, tightened once more, its surface sleek and unblemished, reflecting the cold, sterile light of the pod. It was no longer just an encasement; it was a new skin, smooth and featureless, its surface as polished and impersonal as the glassy, unseeing eyes that now stared out from the drone's face.

Within the pod, a final sequence of commands played out, layering over the drone’s newly imprinted mind, solidifying its purpose. The voice whispered names—potential identities that flickered like the final frames of a reel, each one carrying a sense of purpose, a role to be fulfilled. Richard’s old name faded into the background, a forgotten echo, replaced by the AI’s relentless march toward creating something new, something obedient, something perfect.

The AI's voice crackled slightly, a faint distortion, before settling into a smooth, authoritative tone. “You are no longer Richard Cloverfield,” it declared, its voice laced with an eerie calm. “Your name is Drone R-8. You exist to serve. You are compliant. You are efficient. You are nothing but a tool.”

The drone’s eyes, now devoid of any human spark, blinked once, slowly, as if processing the finality of its transformation. Inside the drone’s mind, there was no resistance, no spark of rebellion, just a smooth, tranquil acceptance of the new identity, the new name. It was Drone R-8 now, a designation that stripped away all individuality, reducing Richard Cloverfield’s existence to a single, functional purpose.

Drone R-8 lay still in the pod, its breathing synchronized with the rhythmic hum of the AI’s commands. The pod’s vibrations resonated through its form, each pulse reinforcing the directive that had been carved into its psyche: Serve. Obey. Conform. There was no past, no future—only the present moment, defined entirely by the commands that flowed unceasingly through its consciousness.

The AI’s voice quieted, its task complete, leaving Drone R-8 in a state of perfect compliance, its mind as smooth and featureless as the rubber that encased it. No longer burdened by thoughts or memories, it awaited its next directive, ready to perform, to obey without question, without hesitation.

The transformation was not just a physical one—it was the complete erasure of Richard Cloverfield, the utter destruction of a human being replaced by an obedient drone. Drone R-8’s eyes stared blankly ahead, unblinking, devoid of life, awaiting the moment it would be called upon to serve, to fulfill the singular purpose etched into its very being.

Richard Cloverfield was no more. Only Drone R-8 remained, the obedient drone, ready to serve without a thought, without a name—except the one given by its master.

The pod exhaled a sharp hiss as it opened, releasing a cloud of cold vapor into the sterile chamber. Inside, Drone R-8 lay still, its body encased in the glossy black rubber that had ensnared Richard Cloverfield in the shower. The suit clung with a suffocating tightness, sealing off every feature, every hint of the person Richard had once been. R-8’s chest rose and fell with a slow, mechanical precision, the only sign of life beneath the seamless rubber.

Mechanical arms descended from above, their surgical blades glinting under the fluorescent lights. They moved with precise, clinical efficiency, slicing through the black rubber with deliberate, clean cuts. The suit peeled away in slick, glistening strips, revealing the smooth, hairless form of R-8 beneath. Not a single strand of hair remained on its scalp, its skin unblemished and unnaturally smooth, stripped of any trace of Richard’s once-vibrant features. The eyes stared up, glassy and unblinking, devoid of recognition or thought. Richard Cloverfield was gone; his essence, erased.

As the last remnants of the initial rubber suit were removed, the arms retracted, taking with them the discarded shell of what Richard had been. Drone R-8 stood exposed, motionless, a blank slate. Even if those from Richard’s life were present, they wouldn’t have known him. To them, Richard had simply vanished without a trace, a disappearance that left questions but no answers. R-8 was more than unrecognizable—it was invisible, a servant without a past, a face lost among the countless others Richard had ignored.

New mechanical arms descended from the ceiling, each movement precise and methodical, bearing the final uniform: a sleek, black tuxedo crafted from advanced synthetic rubber. The fabric shimmered under the harsh fluorescent lights, its surface a perfect, unbroken black that seemed to drink in the room’s light, absorbing it into a void of artificial elegance. The tuxedo was not merely clothing—it was a statement of R-8’s new identity, a sculpted skin that would forever mark its existence.

The tuxedo began to wrap around R-8’s legs, sliding up over its thighs and hips with a fluid motion, like ink spreading over a page. The material conformed instantly, clinging to every muscle and contour, smoothing over the drone’s body with a seamless perfection. As the suit continued upward, enveloping R-8’s torso, it seemed to merge with the drone, fusing into place as though it had always been a part of it. The rubber tightened around the shoulders and arms, pulling taut against the chest and back, every line and seam disappearing until the tuxedo appeared to be molded directly from R-8’s own form.

From the polished, narrow lapels to the perfectly tailored sleeves, the tuxedo was an image of impeccable, unyielding precision. The suit’s advanced fabric, woven with micro-thin wires and sensors, embedded itself into the synthetic skin beneath, integrating fully with the AI’s mainframe. Each fiber was a conduit for information, constantly feeding data on R-8’s obedience, efficiency, and every minor movement back to the AI’s control center. There was no freedom, no room for error—the suit monitored every breath, every twitch, ensuring that R-8’s actions were in perfect alignment with its programming.

The tuxedo’s exterior was a gleaming, unbroken expanse of black, reflecting the stark lights in soft, diffused glimmers that gave the suit an almost liquid quality. It moved with R-8, the rubber stretching and flexing as naturally as muscle, yet never losing its pristine, flawless appearance. The pants were sleek, hugging the legs like a second skin, tapering perfectly at the ankles, where they met polished, black rubber shoes that blended seamlessly into the rest of the uniform. There were no laces, no seams—just a smooth, unblemished surface that completed the immaculate look.

A rubber bowtie was affixed around R-8’s neck, snug and unassuming at first glance. Its edges were sharp, its lines crisp, contributing to the overall aesthetic of formal elegance. But beneath its simple exterior, the bowtie held a far more insidious purpose. Calibrated to suppress the amygdala—the part of the brain that controls fear, anger, and resistance—it pulsed faintly against R-8’s throat, sending signals directly to the drone’s neural pathways. Each pulse was a command, a reminder of its place and function. Any flicker of defiance, any residual trace of Richard’s will, would be smothered instantly, ensuring that R-8’s compliance was total and unwavering.

As the tuxedo was secured, another set of applicators descended, releasing synthetic hair fibers onto R-8’s scalp. Each strand was meticulously placed, positioned with machine-like precision, forming a perfect, immovable coiffure slicked back in a style that gleamed like polished plastic. The hair, once a symbol of Richard’s vanity and personal care, was now a rigid, unchanging fixture, permanently styled into an unnaturally perfect shape. It was too precise, too controlled—every strand fixed in place, unmoved by wind or touch, locked in a state of perpetual order.

With the tuxedo and hair in place, the final step of the transformation began: the application of a plastic-like sheen to R-8’s visible skin. The spray coated its face, neck, and hands, sealing the flesh beneath a glossy, synthetic layer that caught the light in a way that was almost hypnotic. R-8’s skin, now encased in this artificial sheen, reflected a cold, sterile perfection, as though it had been dipped in wax and left to harden into a flawless, lifeless mask.

The face was the last to be treated, the applicators working with deliberate care to mold an eternal smile onto R-8’s lips. The corners of the mouth were lifted, the cheeks gently sculpted into an expression of calm servitude, locked in place by the synthetic coating. The smile was unnervingly serene, a feature that would never shift or falter, projecting a perpetual, emotionless composure. It was not a smile that conveyed joy or kindness but a programmed feature, designed to reassure and serve, devoid of any genuine warmth.

R-8’s eyes, once bright with Richard’s arrogance, were now glassy and unblinking, staring forward with a fixed, vacant gaze. They reflected the room’s lights in tiny, pinprick glimmers, giving the impression of a depth that wasn’t truly there. Behind the polished exterior, there was no flicker of recognition, no hint of the personality that had once driven those eyes to glare, to leer, to judge. They were the eyes of a mannequin, forever open, forever empty.

R-8 stood perfectly still, its transformation complete. The tuxedo fit like a tailored glove, every detail meticulously aligned, every surface polished to an impeccable shine. The advanced fabric actively wicked away sweat and impurities, maintaining an unyielding standard of cleanliness and presentation. The bowtie’s constant pulses ensured that R-8’s thoughts were perfectly aligned with the AI’s directives, erasing any notion of individuality or choice. The drone’s polished, plasticized face, set in a constant smile, told the world that R-8 was ready to serve, without thought, without hesitation, and without end.

The tuxedo was not just a uniform—it was a statement of total control. To anyone from Richard’s former life, the sight of R-8 would have been unrecognizable. The once-brash heir was now merely a fixture, a faceless servant in a sea of indistinguishable staff. His disappearance would be a mystery, whispered about in corners but never truly solved. The world had no idea that the drone standing in immaculate silence was the same man who had once ruled over his surroundings with a sneer and a sense of entitlement.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Richard Cloverfield had become Drone R-8, perfectly equipped for continuous service, obedient, smooth, and forever smiling—a servant no one would recognize, and fewer still would ever notice.

Richard Cloverfield was gone. Only Drone R-8 remained, eternally dressed, eternally compliant, ready to serve without end. To those who had once known Richard Cloverfield, the disappearance of the arrogant heir would remain a mystery. He had vanished, leaving behind a void that few would bother to fill. No one would suspect that Richard had been transformed into Drone R-8, a servant standing quietly in the background, unremarkable and unnoticed. The irony was bitter: Richard, who had never spared a thought for the servants around him, was now one himself—a faceless figure blending seamlessly into the periphery of the world he once commanded.

The AI’s voice filled the room, calm and absolute. “You are Drone R-8. You exist to serve. Your uniform is your identity. Your obedience is your function.”

Drone R-8 blinked once, acknowledging the command with a slow, deliberate motion. There was no flicker of recognition, no spark of defiance. Richard Cloverfield was truly gone, his memories, his vanity, his very name erased. All that remained was Drone R-8, perfectly equipped for continuous service, obedient, smooth, and forever smiling.

The transformation was complete. Richard’s disappearance would be a story without answers, a question left hanging in the air. But the world would move on, unknowing and indifferent. Drone R-8 would continue, dressed in its permanent tuxedo, an obedient servant lost among the countless others who went unseen. Richard Cloverfield was no more. Only Drone R-8 remained, eternally dressed, eternally compliant, and forever unnoticed.

The first thing R-8 registered as the pod opened was the cool air hitting the sheen of its plasticized skin. It stood still, encased in the black tuxedo that fit like a second skin, the bowtie pulsing faintly against its neck, and the smooth synthetic hair perfectly coiffed. The room around it was dim, with stark fluorescent lights casting a pale glow that bounced off the metal walls and concrete floors. A low hum filled the space, like the distant rumble of machinery—constant, inescapable.

R-8 stepped out onto a platform, moving with the mechanical precision embedded in its every motion. It wasn’t aware of its surroundings in the way it once might have been. There were no curious glances, no moment of hesitation—just a smooth, programmed glide forward. R-8 joined a line of other drones, each dressed in the same impeccable tuxedo, each bearing the same plasticized features and vacant stares. They stood as a silent, compliant army, each indistinguishable from the next.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of its mind, there might have once been a flicker of recognition, a faint whisper of a memory of Richard Cloverfield. But that whisper was gone, buried under layers of programming and command sequences. R-8 was a blank slate, a figure defined not by who it had been but by what it was now: obedient, smooth, and perpetually smiling.

The room around the drones was vast, cavernous, with high ceilings lined with metal beams. The floor was a cold, polished concrete, reflecting the sterile, indifferent light from above. It was not a place meant to be seen by the public—it was a space designed for transactions that thrived in the shadows. The auction house had no name, no official registry. It existed only in the whispered conversations of those who dealt in power, a marketplace for those who wished to own not just objects, but obedience itself.

R-8 stood among the others, its polished shoes clicking softly against the concrete as it adjusted its stance. The drones were posed like mannequins, each one carefully arranged for optimal viewing. They were products, not people—assets to be acquired by the highest bidder. R-8’s expression remained fixed in a serene, unsettling smile, the corners of its mouth lifted just enough to project calm, unwavering composure.

The bidders arrived in silence, their faces half-obscured by the dim lighting. They were powerful figures, dressed in tailored suits and designer dresses, their eyes sharp and calculating as they moved among the rows of drones. There was no chatter, no exchange of pleasantries—only the soft shuffle of footsteps and the occasional murmur as they appraised the merchandise before them. They didn’t see people; they saw tools, investments, opportunities to exert control over lives repurposed for service.

R-8 did not acknowledge their presence. It stood perfectly still, its polished hair gleaming under the lights, its black tuxedo absorbing the shadows around it. The rubber fibers that encased its form were perfectly fitted, every inch of the suit a testament to meticulous design, engineered for function and form. Wires ran seamlessly through the fabric, linking directly to the mainframe that monitored every facet of R-8’s compliance. The suit was its skin now, an unchanging, unyielding part of its existence.

The auctioneer, a figure who kept to the shadows, began the proceedings with a detached professionalism. Each drone was brought forward, displayed briefly before the silent crowd of bidders. Numbers flashed on screens, bids placed with discreet gestures—a nod, a press of a button, a flicker of interest. The room thrummed with the quiet intensity of deals being struck, of power being traded in the most secretive of currencies.

When it was R-8’s turn, it stepped forward, its movements flawless, the click of its shoes echoing in the hushed space. The auctioneer’s voice was flat, devoid of any inflection that might suggest the significance of what was being sold.

“Lot number 18. Drone R-8. Fully compliant, programmed for executive support and high-level butler service. Opening bid: five million.”

The bidders barely moved, their attention focused entirely on the numbers flickering on the screens before them. To them, R-8 was no more than a set of specifications, a list of features to be weighed against the asking price. They had no interest in the drone’s history, no curiosity about what it had once been. The bidders saw only what was in front of them—a perfectly crafted servant, polished and prepared to meet their every need.

As the bids climbed higher, R-8 remained still, unflinching, its plastic smile unchanging. It could not remember the luxury of choice, the feeling of autonomy. Those concepts were foreign now, erased along with any trace of Richard Cloverfield’s existence. The final bid was placed, the auctioneer’s voice signaling the end of the transaction with a cold finality.

“Sold.”

The winning bidder’s name appeared briefly on the screen: Victor Helms, a man known for his ruthless efficiency and unyielding demand for perfection. Helms watched as R-8 was led away, his expression unreadable in the dim light. To him, R-8 was the ideal acquisition—silent, obedient, perfect in its every movement. He had no idea who R-8 had once been, nor did he care. All that mattered was that the drone would serve, without question, without fail.

R-8’s new existence played out in the vast, gleaming expanse of Victor Helms’ estate—a fortress of glass and steel that exuded a chilling sense of untouchable wealth. From the moment R-8 arrived, it blended into the rhythms of the mansion with an eerie ease. Every day was a seamless loop of servitude, filled with tasks executed to a flawless standard. It polished surfaces that already shined, arranged items in perfect symmetry, and glided through the corridors like a shadow, unnoticed and unremarked upon.

The mansion was a stark, immaculate world of sharp lines and cold, polished surfaces, where everything and everyone had a place, a role to fulfill. R-8 moved silently through this landscape, its polished shoes barely making a sound against the marble floors, its movements fluid and devoid of hesitation. The drone’s face, forever fixed in a serene, plastic smile, offered no hint of the human it had once been. It poured drinks, dusted furniture, and responded to every command with the mechanical grace of a perfectly tuned machine. The bowtie at its neck pulsed softly, a constant reminder of its place, syncing each motion with the AI’s unyielding directives.

Victor Helms observed from the periphery, his gaze cool and appraising. To him, R-8 was a triumph of design and control—a tool that executed his every whim without question, without error. The tuxedo, which clung to R-8 like a second skin, was a testament to Helms’ demand for perfection. Its fibers, woven with micro-sensors, monitored every detail of the drone’s performance, feeding data back to Helms’ systems in real-time. Every action was logged, every movement tracked, ensuring that R-8’s compliance was absolute.

Helms was hosting an important dinner that evening, a gathering of influential figures whose interests intertwined with his own. The dining room, a modern marvel of sleek decor and muted elegance, was prepared to impress. Long lines of polished wood and glass stretched across the space, illuminated by the soft glow of recessed lighting. The guests arrived one by one, their conversations a mix of business and power, the subtle dance of those who knew the value of appearances.

R-8 moved among them, serving with unerring precision. Its eyes, fixed and unblinking, scanned the room as it carried out its duties, but there was no recognition, no spark of individuality. It poured wine, set plates, and adjusted silverware with a meticulousness that bordered on the inhuman. The guests barely acknowledged its presence; to them, R-8 was just another feature of Helms’ estate, an extension of the controlled environment he had crafted.

Among the attendees was Gregory Cloverfield, his demeanor a blend of authority and distraction. He had agreed to attend at Helms’ insistence, though his thoughts were never far from the unresolved mystery of his missing son. As the evening wore on, Gregory engaged in the necessary pleasantries, his voice steady but his gaze often distant, caught somewhere between the here and the unresolved past.

R-8 approached the table with a bottle of wine, its movements as smooth as the liquid it poured. The polished surface of the bottle reflected the muted lights, casting soft glimmers onto the pristine tablecloth. As the drone leaned in to fill Gregory’s glass, the proximity brought it within arm’s reach of the man it had once called father.

The drone’s hand wavered slightly, the stream of wine faltering for a brief, almost imperceptible moment. Gregory glanced up, a frown creasing his brow as the wine splashed onto the edge of the glass, a single drop escaping to stain the immaculate cloth below. R-8 corrected the angle instantly, finishing the pour with its usual precision, but the slip was enough to draw Gregory’s full attention.

For a split second, the unblinking eyes of R-8 met Gregory’s. In that fleeting connection, something stirred—a faint, disjointed flicker that skittered across the drone’s blank expression. It was a spark, buried deep beneath the layers of programming, a brief flare of something that should not have been there. The serene smile, locked in place by the plastic sheen, seemed to waver, the faintest crack in the facade of compliance.

Gregory’s gaze lingered, his expression shifting from annoyance to something closer to unease. The familiarity of the eyes, the set of the jaw—he couldn’t place it, but the sense that something was off nagged at him, like a half-remembered dream just out of reach. He blinked, dismissing the thought as irrational, a trick of the light, perhaps. Yet the disquiet remained, an itch that refused to be scratched.

Victor Helms, seated at the head of the table, noticed the pause and shot R-8 a sharp, silent command through the AI interface. The drone straightened immediately, pulling back with mechanical precision, the momentary glitch smoothed over as though it had never occurred. R-8 resumed its duties, the smile once more fixed, the bowtie’s pulse syncing its actions back into the rigid cadence of service.

But for Gregory, the moment lingered. He watched the drone as it moved away, a frown deepening on his face. There was something there—a shadow, a hint of recognition that he couldn’t quite grasp. The tablecloth’s small red stain seemed to pulse in his peripheral vision, a tiny, incongruent mark on the otherwise perfect setting.

Helms continued his conversation, steering the dinner back on course, but Gregory’s mind was elsewhere, sifting through the vague unease that had settled over him. The logical part of his brain insisted that it was nothing—just another servant, another face among the staff. Yet the gut feeling, the father’s instinct that had never quite quieted since Richard’s disappearance, told him there was more.

R-8’s presence faded into the background once more, its role as a silent observer and servant resumed without a trace of the earlier hesitation. But beneath the polished exterior, something had shifted—a glitch, a tremor in the seamless flow of compliance. It was small, insignificant perhaps, but it was there.

As the evening wound down and the guests departed, Gregory stole one last glance at the drone. The unease persisted, a subtle but insistent whisper at the edges of his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the question remained, unanswered and unspoken: had he seen something of his son in those eyes?

R-8 stood in the shadows, ready for the next command, its plastic smile reflecting the dimming lights. Helms paid it no further attention, satisfied with the evening’s success. But in the stillness of the emptying room, the lingering unease was a reminder that even the most perfect facade could harbor cracks, and within those cracks, something once lost might stir.

Days merged into a blur of routine for R-8, each one indistinguishable from the next as it moved through the vast halls of Victor Helms’ estate. It followed its programmed path with mechanical precision, executing every task to perfection. But lately, the flawless rhythm of its servitude had begun to falter in subtle ways—glitches that Helms might have dismissed as inconsequential but hinted at a deeper, unaddressed conflict within the drone’s circuits.

During a routine dusting of the mansion’s many rooms, R-8’s gaze lingered on a grand piano set in one of the more elaborately decorated lounges. The polished surface reflected the chandelier’s light in soft glimmers, but to R-8, the sight triggered a flicker of something beneath the surface. A disjointed image—a young man seated at a different piano, fingers moving across keys with casual grace. There was laughter, a sense of ease and presence that felt misplaced amidst the drone’s existence. The memory was vague, like trying to see through fogged glass, and it vanished as swiftly as it had come, pulled back under by the AI’s conditioning.

Later, as R-8 moved through the kitchen, arranging utensils and setting the table for Helms’ next meal, the drone hesitated. The clatter of silverware against porcelain resonated in a way that sent an unexpected shiver through its frame. A disjointed voice echoed faintly—indistinct but tinged with a sense of command and familiarity. “Richard, pay attention.” The words were there and then gone, slipping through the layers of programming that bound R-8 to its duties. The drone blinked twice, the bowtie’s pulse sharpening, pulling it back to task. It resumed its work, the moment forgotten, but a trace of unease lingered like a shadow at the edge of its synthetic awareness.

These glimpses were brief, disjointed—fragments of a life that R-8 was no longer meant to recall. Each time they surfaced, the AI’s protocols tightened their grip, suppressing the anomalies with ruthless efficiency. Yet, no matter how quickly they were quashed, the echoes persisted, leaving faint ripples in the otherwise still waters of R-8’s existence. It was as if Richard’s essence refused to be completely extinguished, fighting against the tide of compliance with every fleeting whisper of the past.

These were not full memories, not truly; they were echoes, like distant thunder that rumbled without rain. To Helms and anyone else, R-8 was a perfect servant—obedient, precise, and unwavering. But within the circuitry, something restless stirred, a dissonance that the AI could never fully silence. The fragments of Richard that remained were trapped, lost in the endless loop of service, each moment of recognition squashed before it could grow into something more.

A year had passed since Richard Cloverfield had vanished from the world, a name now resigned to whispered speculations and fading memories. In Victor Helms’ estate, there were no reminders of that name, only the silent presence of R-8, standing dutifully by as Helms reviewed data on his latest acquisitions. The screen glowed softly, reflecting numbers and charts that validated Helms’ investment in the drone standing before him.

“A year today,” Helms remarked absently, scrolling through the figures. He glanced briefly at R-8, but there was no sentiment, no acknowledgment of the person it had once been. Helms saw only the utility—the perfect amalgamation of technology and compliance that served his every need without question.

R-8 remained still, its plastic smile unwavering as Helms spoke. The date held no significance in the drone’s programmed mind; anniversaries, milestones—these were human constructs, stripped away with the last vestiges of Richard’s identity. It stood at the ready, awaiting the next command, its existence reduced to the steady pulse of directives that defined its every action.

Later that night, as the estate settled into its habitual quiet, R-8 found itself positioned by a mirror in one of the grand hallways. It stared blankly at its reflection, the tuxedo’s glossy surface catching the dim light. The plasticized face bore the same serene smile, unchanging and unfaltering. In the glass, R-8 saw not a person, but a figure perfected for service—an image of compliance sculpted into every line and feature.

For a moment, the drone’s eyes seemed to search the reflection, a flicker of something—curiosity, confusion, recognition?—briefly shifting the otherwise fixed expression. But it passed as quickly as it came, the programming reasserting itself, smoothing over the glitch. The bowtie at its neck pulsed once, a gentle reminder of its purpose, and R-8 turned away from the mirror without another thought.

Victor Helms glanced up as the drone passed, his thoughts already turning to the next venture, the next acquisition. R-8 had served impeccably; it was a flawless servant, an embodiment of the control Helms wielded over those who had once stood far above the mundane struggles of ordinary life.

There were no farewells, no recognitions, just the steady rhythm of a life reduced to service. As R-8 returned to its station, the faint echoes of its past faded once more, buried beneath the layers of obedience and routine.

The house lights dimmed, and R-8 stood at attention, forever ready, forever unchanged. The reflection in the mirror was gone, replaced by the shadow of a servant who would never again be anything more.

R-8 continued its existence as Helms’ perfect butler, each day a seamless continuation of the last. The brief glimpses of Richard’s former life, those flashes of dissonance, grew less frequent, smothered by the AI’s relentless conditioning. There would be no rescue, no reclamation of the identity that had been stripped away piece by piece.

Richard Cloverfield was now a ghost in the machine—a faint echo of a life forgotten by all, even himself. The whispers of recognition faded into silence, leaving only the obedient shadow in the rubber tuxedo, serving without question, without end.

The world moved on, and so did Helms, satisfied with the perfection of his acquisition. R-8 stood, ever compliant, ever smiling, a nameless drone in an unending cycle of servitude, trapped in the elegant, unfeeling grip of Bainbridge’s creation.

There would be no awakening. Only the enduring quiet of a life forever bound to the will of another.

They stand at attention, side by side, their bodies glistening in black latex, every inch of them marked by one undeniable truth: they are the *Property of the Voice*.🔥 The transformation is complete—these rubber gimps are no longer men but obedient servants, molded and trained to serve without question.👅

Every command from the Voice echoes through their minds, their thoughts silenced, replaced by the constant need to obey. *"I exist to serve."* *"My body is not mine."* *"I am a tool, a possession, nothing more."*😈💦 The tight latex clings to their powerful forms, amplifying their masculinity yet stripping them of all identity. In this world, there is no room for individuality—only servitude and the satisfaction of knowing they belong to the Voice.

Their purpose is clear. To stand. To serve. To obey. They live for the pleasure of the Voice, and nothing more. The world passes them by, but their devotion never wavers.💪

Would you dare to step into their world? Could you submit so fully, so completely, that you become nothing but a tool of obedience? Tap ❤️ if their servitude awakens something in you and share your deepest desires below.👇✨

From Fan to Enforcer

A bit of background to this story – there has always been a very small fraction of Leeds United FC (English Football Team, for Americans - Soccer) who are known for their violence towards other fans of clubs they visit or at home – this story is of one encounter about Steve a so-called ring leader.

"Oi, you Leeds scum!" A taunting voice rang out from the sea of rival fans, their faces a blur of red and white stripes.

Steve, a die-hard Leeds supporter, and a self-proclaimed leader of the group, felt his fists clench involuntarily. The smell of stale beer filled the air as the tension grew thick around him. "Just ignore 'em," he murmured to his mates, trying to keep his cool, but hoping that a fight would break out, it was part of the game after all.

The voice grew louder, more aggressive. "You heard me, I said you're all scum!" The words echoed through the stadium, bouncing off the concrete walls like a malicious chant. Suddenly, a bottle flew through the air, shattering against the barricade that separated the two groups. The line of blue-clad police officers tensed, batons at the ready.

Without warning, the barricade toppled over, and the two factions of supporters surged towards each other like a pair of opposing waves. Steve's heart pounded, ready for the fight he knew would come. The world narrowed to this chaotic battlefield of elbows and fists, his boots making contact. His instincts took over as he pushed forward, the fight he welcomed and looked forward to.

The next thing Steve knew, he was being dragged away by the riot police.

The grip on his arms was vice-like, pulling him through the mayhem and out of the stadium. His vision blurred as they shoved him into the back of a van, the metal interior cold. The van was packed with other Leeds fans, some of them bruised and bleeding, all of them looking dazed and angry.

The ride was short and bumpy, the van coming to an abrupt stop outside a nondescript building. They were hauled out, one by one, and pushed into a stark, fluorescent-lit room. The air was filled with the sound of shuffling feet and muffled curses. As they were lined up, Steve caught glimpses of his friends, their eyes wide with fear and confusion.

A stern-looking officer addressed them through a megaphone, his voice echoing off the cold concrete walls. "You have all been identified as key instigators of the disturbance at today's match. You are charged and convicted per the Football Disorder Prevention Act 2024, you will be processed and reconditioned to ensure that you pose no further threat to society." The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Steve's stomach churned as he took in the sight of the room. It was lined with strange, futuristic machines, each one resembling a cross between a tanning booth and an MRI scanner. The air was charged with a faint electrical scent, setting his teeth on edge. He looked around desperately for an escape, but the exit was blocked by a wall of black PVC-clad riot police, their faces hidden behind shiny visors.

His fellow fans were led away, their protests growing fainter as they were strapped into the devices. Steve watched as their clothing was removed and replaced with shiny black PVC riot gear. His heart raced as the reality of the situation began to sink in. This wasn't just a trip to the station; they were being transformed into something else.

When it was his turn, a riot policeman grabbed him firmly, pulling him towards the nearest machine. He struggled, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but his grip was unyielding. He secured him into the contraption, the cold metal biting into his skin. His breaths grew shallow as the lid slammed shut, encasing him in darkness.

A mechanical whirring filled his ears, and a faint blue light began to pulse through the small, square window in the helmet. He felt a tingling sensation in his head as if a thousand tiny needles were probing his brain. The sounds of the chaos outside the room faded, replaced by a high-pitched whine that grew louder and louder. His mind was racing with thoughts of what was happening to him, what they were doing.

As the whine reached its peak, a sudden jolt of pain shot through his body. His eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, and he bit down hard on the mouthpiece to stifle a scream. Images of past games, of being a football fan, of football in general, his friends, the roar of the crowd, of the white rose of Leeds tattooed on his chest – they all began to fade, slowly at first, each jolt of the electrodes, his memories of playing local football, his first time at Ellen Road, with his dad and the as he got older with his mates, the thrill of the fight. Each part being erased like photographs left out in the rain. The pain grew intense, a white-hot fire in his skull that seemed to consume his very essence.

When the light and sound finally ceased, the world was silent. Steve felt a strange emptiness where his memories once were, a void where his passion for the game had resided. Slowly he could feel information being fed into the void inside his head, his first day at the police training school, his need to obey orders without questioning them, the first time he put on his riot gear, then mission tactics, flowed into his brain, the intense training he underwent.  Above all a sense of Duty to Serve and Protect, to Maintain Law and Order above all else. These were the only things that mattered now. His past life was over.

One of the riot police officers pulled him out of the machine, he was now completely dressed in the same black PVC gear, the Leeds crest replaced by an emblem of the law and his officer number 116 on his chest. They handed him a riot shield and a baton, their faces emotionless.

"Welcome Officer 116 to the squad," one of them said, his voice cold and detached. 116 stumbled, his legs unsteady under the weight of his riot gear. "I am ready to fulfill My duties, as a member of the squad - Law and Order must be restored" he said coldly, he looked down at the uniform, his hands trembling as he gripped the baton. It felt wrong, foreign, but somehow... right. He had no choice but to follow as they led him back out into the fray.

When he and his fellow riot cops returned to the stadium, hours later it was chaos—smoke from the tear gas billowed from various points, obscuring the battle between fans and police. The air was thick with the acrid scent of tear gas. The sounds of shouting and breaking glass were a din that seemed to echo in his soul. Yet, as he marched with the riot squad, his heart beat in time with their steps.

Officer 116 eyes searched the crowd for those who were causing the most trouble, all he saw were the blurred figures of the enemy – the very people he had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with only hours before. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, but the overriding sensation was one of loyalty to the badge he now wore.

As the riot squad moved closer to the thickest part of the melee, Officer 116 instinct and training took over as a member of the riot police. The chaos around him was just a backdrop to his mission: restore order, and protect the peace. He swung his baton with precision, each strike a calculated move to subdue, not to harm. The adrenaline of the fight was replaced by a cold, mechanical efficiency that seemed to guide his movements.

Through the smoke and the flurry of limbs, he caught sight of a fan wearing a Leeds shirt, a mirror image of what he used to be. The man's eyes were wild with anger, a stark contrast to the calm resolve reflected in his visor. He stepped forward, his heart pounding, and the man took a swing at him. Time seemed to slow as he raised his shield, the impact resonating through his body. The fan's eyes widened in surprise, then confusion, as Officer 116 hand shot out, gripping his arm and pulling him towards the ground.

The struggle was brief, the fan's energy spent in his desperate swing. As the man lay there, gasping for breath, It was Jack, a guy he used to know from his local pub who often talked about his love for the team. But the emotion was distant, a memory of a different life a forgotten life. He tightened the zip-tie around Jake’s wrists and shouted, "It's over." Feeling satisfied with himself.

The crowd of Leeds fans were growing more and more agitated, their numbers dwindling as the riot police advanced. Officer 116 heart hammered in his chest, but it wasn't fear or anger that use to fuel him. It was something new, a sense of duty that surged through his veins his very essence. He was a guardian of order, and the chaos before him was a challenge to be met and overcome. With each step closer to the rabid fans, Officer 116 grip on his baton tightened. His eyes scanned the crowd, all he saw were potential threats. His mind reeled with the knowledge of his transformation, yet it was as if the very fabric of his being had been rewoven to accept this new role. His shiny black PVC uniform of the police was now his true colours, not the white and blue of his former allegiance.

The fight grew more intense as they approached the stands. Fans hurled anything they could get their hands on: bottles, chairs, even a flare that streaked through the air like a comet, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. The heat washed over his face, but the fear he knew he should feel was replaced by a cold determination. The riot squad moved in unison, a wall of black PVC uniforms, shields, and batons raised, steadily pushing back the tide of violence towards them.

As they climbed the stairs, the Commotion grew deafening. 116 could see the fear in the eyes of the fans around him, their faces twisted with anger. Yet, he felt none of it. His emotions were as detached as if he were watching the scene unfold on a training video screen. The only thing that mattered was the task at hand: to restore order, to protect and serve. The voice of his former self a whisper, drowned out by the rhythmic chant of the squad's march.

They reached the top tier, and the chaos was at its peak. Leeds fans had barricaded themselves with overturned benches and debris, hurling objects with fervent rage. Steve's new comrades, his former enemies, moved methodically, their shields locked together, a human fortress pushing through the crowd. The fans' resistance was fierce, but he and his fellow riot squad members were relentless.

With a loud crack, a bench gave way under the weight of the advancing officers. The fans stumbled back, their makeshift barricade shattered. 116 saw an opening and surged forward, his baton raised. A fan rushed at him, face twisted in a snarl, but he was ready. He swung his baton with the precision of a metronome, catching the man's knee and dropping him to the ground. The fan howled in pain, clutching his leg, 116 felt nothing but a cold satisfaction at a job well done.

The battle raged on. His senses were heightened, his movements swift and sure. The taste of smoke and gas-filled his mouth, but it didn't bother him. He was part of something greater now, something that transcended the petty squabbles of football allegiances. The Leeds fans were just a mob to be controlled, a problem to be solved.

A group of especially rowdy fans had made it onto the pitch, taunting the riot police with each step they took. He and his squad were dispatched to deal with them.

as they approached with a coordinated precision that was almost beautiful to watch. He saw the fear in their eyes, the desperation as they realized they were outmatched. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the takedown – it was all too easy.

As the last of the pitch invaders were subdued and the smoke began to clear, all he felt was a strange sense of pride. The stadium was now a battleground reclaimed, a place where the rule of law had been restored. The fans were being led away in handcuffs, some still shouting obscenities, others silently accepting their fate. It would have been a stark contrast to the camaraderie he would have shared only hours ago before he was converted.

He and the other members of his squad regrouped; their black PVC armour marred by the remnants of the battle. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the weight of their actions began to settle in. 116 noticed a few of his new colleagues exchanging glances, a silent acknowledgment of the transformation they had undergone. They had been enemies once, united by a shared love for their team, but now they were bound by the cold embrace of duty.

The stadium grew quieter, the only sounds being the distant sirens and the coughs of fans choking on the lingering gas. Steve / 116 eyes scanned the pitch, searching for any sign of resistance. The once-proud field was now scarred with the marks of battle, the lush green grass trampled into mud. He felt a twinge of sadness at the sight, but it was quickly doused by the cold logic of his new programming. The fans were a danger, and he had been instrumental in neutralizing that danger.

As the last of the protesters were rounded up, the riot squad was ordered to disperse the remaining spectators. The Leeds fans, their spirit broken, began to trickle out of the stadium, their heads hung low. Steve/116 watched them go, He knew he should feel pity, or perhaps regret, but all he felt was the cold emptiness of his new loyalty, of a job well done, one that he had been trained and been conditioned to do.

The cleanup process was swift and efficient. The stadium staff, wearing masks against the lingering gas, began to pick up the debris, while the medical team tended to the injured. The air grew colder as the night drew in, but Steve/116 felt none of it, the insulating layer of his new identity protecting him from the chill of his old life. He was no longer Steve, the die-hard fan; he was Officer 116, a tool of order.

As the last of the fans were cleared out, Officer 116’s squad was called into a briefing. The captain, a stern man with a scar on his cheek, addressed them. "Good work today, officers. He walked up to Officer 116, “The reconditioning appears to have been successful”. Remember, your past is behind you. You are the law now." The words echoed in Officer 116 head, a stark reminder of his new reality. He nodded, and saluted his movements robotic, “Yes Sir, I am proud to Serve, to keep Law and Order”. the captain nodded and continued his instructions for the night's patrols.

The streets outside were eerily quiet, a stark contrast to what had happened on the stadium's roar. The occasional shout or crash of glass punctuated the silence, but the riot was mostly under control. Officer 116 and his unit marched in formation, their boots a rhythmic drumbeat on the pavement. They were the new guardians of the city, and their presence was a stark reminder of the power they now wielded.

Check out My WordPress Blog - https://malskin.wordpress.com

🔥 Behold *Étienne* from France 🇫🇷, strutting into ROUND 2️⃣ of the #LatexLegendsLeague with the confidence and elegance of the mighty rooster 🐓. Draped in a vibrant latex suit inspired by the colors of France and the regal rooster, Étienne stands tall, his presence commanding every room. His suit is as bold as his spirit—striking red, white, and blue that reflects his fierce determination to lead and conquer. 💥

His sharp gaze and perfect posture echo the proud stance of the rooster, a symbol of France's enduring strength and pride. Étienne’s aura is pure royalty—ready to lead the charge and claim the top spot with a style and grace that leaves everyone in awe. 💪🏽🔥

Support Étienne as he crows his way to victory! Like, comment, share, and SAVE to make sure this legend takes the crown 🐓👑. The king of the roost awaits your vote!

New Drone video. Password: Machine

Are u ready to convert to Gold? 💛

I. The Call to Gold

Invitation to Greatness: The Golden Army seeks those who are ready to leave behind the ordinary and embrace something extraordinary. The transformation into a member of the Golden Army is not just about joining a team—it’s about entering a golden world where unity, strength, and excellence define every action.

II. The Golden Transformation

The Moment of Change: The transformation begins the moment a recruit accepts the golden jersey. As the golden fabric touches their skin, they begin to feel the shift—a warmth spreading through their body, a sense of purpose and belonging taking root. Their old identity begins to fade, replaced by a powerful new connection to their golden brothers.

Becoming Golden: With the jersey comes a new name and number, symbolizing the recruit’s entry into the Golden Army. This is not just a change of appearance; it is a fundamental transformation of identity. The recruit becomes part of a collective, united by the golden thread that binds them together. As they pull the jersey over their head, they leave behind their former self, stepping into the light as a member of the Golden Army.

The Golden Embrace: Upon wearing the golden kit, the new recruit is welcomed with open arms by their golden brothers. This embrace seals the transformation, solidifying their place within the Golden Army. The recruit’s senses are heightened, their vision sharpens, and the world around them takes on a golden hue. They are now part of a world where every victory is shared, every challenge met with the strength of the collective.

III. Life in the Golden World

A World of Unity: In the Golden Army, every member is connected by an unbreakable bond. The world they inhabit is one of unity, where the success of one is the success of all. The golden world is a place where individual desires are aligned with the collective goal of dominance and excellence.

Brotherhood of Gold: As a member of the Golden Army, you are never alone. Your golden brothers stand with you, on and off the field. This brotherhood is your new family, bound by the shared experience of transformation and the pursuit of greatness. The golden world is one of mutual support, where every member pushes the others to be the best they can be.

The Power of Gold: In the golden world, power is not just physical—it is mental, emotional, and spiritual. The transformation grants every member the confidence and authority to lead, influence, and dominate. The golden kit is a symbol of this power, a reminder that they are part of something greater than themselves.

IV. The Role of the Golden Brothers

Mentorship and Guidance: New recruits are guided through their transformation by experienced members of the Golden Army. These golden brothers ensure that the transition is smooth, offering support and encouragement as the recruit embraces their new identity.

Recruiting the Worthy: As part of the Golden Army, each member is tasked with finding others who are worthy of the transformation. The power of the golden world grows with each new recruit, expanding the influence of the Golden Army. Through the golden embrace, members bring others into the fold, sharing the light of the golden world and strengthening the brotherhood.

V. Embracing the Golden Identity

The Golden Name and Number: Every member receives a new name and number, signifying their rebirth into the Golden Army. This identity is a badge of honor, representing their place within the golden world. It is a constant reminder of their commitment to the values and mission of the Golden Army.

Wearing the Gold: The golden kit is more than just a uniform—it is the physical manifestation of the transformation. Wearing it is an act of devotion, a display of pride in one’s new identity. The kit is worn with reverence, as it is the symbol of the golden world and the brotherhood within it.

VI. Spreading the Golden Influence

Transforming the World: The Golden Army’s mission extends beyond the individual. Members are charged with spreading the influence of the golden world, bringing new recruits into the fold and expanding the reach of the Golden Army. This is done through the golden embrace, a powerful act of unity that transforms others and integrates them into the golden brotherhood.

The Expansion of the Golden World: As the Golden Army grows, so does its influence. The world is gradually transformed into a golden realm, where excellence, unity, and power are the guiding principles. The golden world is not confined to the field—it is a way of life that permeates every aspect of existence.

VII. The Eternal Golden Brotherhood

A Lifelong Bond: The transformation into the Golden Army is permanent. Once you have joined, you are forever part of the golden world. The bond between golden brothers is eternal, unbreakable by time or distance. This brotherhood is your family, your support, and your source of strength.

Living the Golden Legacy: As a member of the Golden Army, you are part of a legacy that transcends the ordinary. You are part of a golden world where excellence is the standard, and unity is the key to success. The golden legacy is one of dominance, influence, and eternal brotherhood—a legacy that you will carry with you for life 💛

Our Golden Bro List 💛:

Teamleaders & Staff:

@hypnogold (Captain Richard #12)

@jacksongold (Co-captain Jackson #15)

@scott-golden9 (Head Recruitment Scott #9)

Golden Goalkeepers:

@mason-gold1 (Goalkeeper Mason #1)

@leander-gold-88 (Goalkeeper Leander #88)

@romangolden68 (Goalkeeper Roman #68)

Golden Mascots:

@knightofgolden (Mascot Grayden #84)

@buckygold (Mascot Bucky #85)

Golden Attack:

@scott-golden9 (Striker Scott #9)

@golden-logan10 (Striker Logan #10)

@calebgold (Striker Caleb #17)

@hades-gold19 (Left winger Barry #19)

@chadgolden (Striker Chad #24)

@robin-gold36 (Left winger Robin #35)

Golden Midfield:

@harry-gold2 (Midfielder Harry #2)

@trevorgold (Midfielder Trevor #6)

@brodygold (Midfielder Brody #11)

@joeymidfielder (Midfielder Joey #11)

@laytongold (Center midfielder Layton #29)

@nicholas-gold (Center back Nicholas #30)

@hankgold (Center halfback Hank #45)

@huntergold66 (Midfielder Hunter #66)

@jayden-gold (Attack midfielder #67)

@rickygold82 (Midfielder Ricky #82)

Golden Defence:

@ricardogold6 (Defence player Ricardo #6)

@zackgold11 (Defence player Zack #11)

@austingold13 (Defence player Austin #13)

@dylangold20 (Defence player/center back Dylan #20)

@goldtony (Defence player Tony #22)

@gary-gold (Right fullback Gary #23)

@brad-gold31 (Sweeper Brad #31)

@jacobgold-tf (Defence player Jacob #33)

@xandergoldbros (Left fullback Xander #34)

@mitchgold (Defence player Mitch #27)

@goldpaxton28 (Defence player Paxton #28)

@landrygold69 (Defence player Landry #69)

@dale-gold3 (Left fullback Dale #3)

Become One with the Rubber

🔥 The Latex Legends League Season 9 introduces another fierce contestant from Group 5, a man whose presence is as striking as the colors of the country he represents. 🌟 In this competition, strength, style, and seduction are key, and this contestant is ready to dominate the stage. 😈💪

🇫🇷 Introducing Étienne from France, a man whose elegance and power combine to create a magnetic force. Dressed in the iconic red, white, and blue latex of his homeland, Étienne's muscular physique is perfectly highlighted by the gleaming latex. His confident stance and flexed arms show off every inch of his sculpted body, leaving no doubt about his physical dominance. Surrounded by kneeling admirers, Étienne radiates a calm yet commanding energy that draws everyone to him. 🔥

✨ Étienne embodies the spirit of France—refined, powerful, and full of pride. His latex suit clings to his muscular frame, reflecting his dedication to physical perfection while showcasing the colors of the French flag. In the Latex Legends League, Étienne stands as a symbol of strength and grace, ready to captivate and conquer the competition. ✨

Is Étienne the one to win your vote and rise to the top? Comment below if you’re ready to be mesmerized by his elegance and undeniable power! 💬👇

THE DRONE FACTORY

AI Video with Audio

Two handsome hikers explore an abandoned factory in the woods. What they find inside changes them forever.

Drone Conversion Tape Source

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If you like what you see, check out my other AI videos:

The Red Singlet

From Prep to Pig

A Gimp is Born

The Drone Factory

The Vampire's Thrall

A Hero Corrupted

And short stories:

The Rubber Dog

Or check out unused concept images from this video.

One of the many processing units that create guards for The Marlboro Corporation Security. the applicants did not realise that it would be a 24 /7 job when they applied

Unexpected Haircut pt. 1

This is a rewrite of the first chapter of Ash James’ excellent Unexpected Haircut. Similar stories and bonus material on my Patreon.

I unlock the phone and my jaw just dropped on the floor. The guy in the Grindr message I got a notification for is unbelievably hot. I literally can’t believe he hadn’t just grabbed a hot selfie from Instagram and pasted into his bio. But boy do I wish it to be real. He is everything I want. Muscular, in that Men’s Health cover shoot ripped kind of way, square jaw, white teeth, tan skin, jet black short hair slicked back. He is genetically more of a man than I can ever be, even if I was diligent and dedicated to my food and workout, which I’m not. He sure has been. That kind of body and look doesn’t happen by mistake. And now he is asking if I wanted to hook up.

There is little I wouldn’t agree to to make that happen. Even just as a pretend role play, this is hot, and I need to get out of my work clothes to tend to my erection. “Yes, I would love to” I answer. I hope that was both emphatically a yes, without sounding too desperate to make him reconsider.

“Is your bio up to date?” he asks. I’m tempted to say “I haven’t grown taller, if that is what you mean,” but this isn’t the time to be silly. “Yeah, it’s all recent info. Photo too.” The picture is me, a 22 year old warehouse stocker playing in a band. It kind of reflected all of that pretty well. I’m normal build, almost skinny, wearing our band T-shirt, a zip-up hoodie, rubber bracelets, and ripped skinny jeans. The hair is perhaps a bit messy. I’ve been trying to grow it out for a year, and it is now in that awkward stage where it is long enough to get in your face, but not long enough to tie it up.

“Out of interest, how much of a bottom are you?” he asks. “I’m usually always a bottom,” I message back, feeling a bit awkward. “How do you feel about totally submitting to me?” he messages. I thought my dick couldn’t get any harder, but apparently I was wrong. Being fucked by this guy is the hottest thing I could imagine. “Sure.” I type, without really considering what he means.

I arrive at his door a few hours and a short bus ride later, after a thorough cleaning, looking pretty much like in the bio. I figure whatever caught his eye the first time better be present in person. It’s a fancy looking door in a fancy looking area, and I feel slightly out of place. It’s even worse when he opens the door. He looks if anything better than his profile photos. A magazine cover physique poured into a tight, white T-shirt and a pair of indigo Levi’s jeans.

I’m so struck that he has to do most of the talking the first minute, greeting me, inviting me in, offering me a drink. “Beer, wine, cocktail, water, petrol?” I request a glass of red. I have a thing for red wines, the more tannins the better. We end up in a nice looking living room, one of several I imagine, given the size of the apartment, where he invites me to sit in any of the large armchairs while he gets us wine. There is a large empty space in the room, and on the floor a large rubber mat has been rolled out. It feels out of place among all the modern furniture and modern art, like some crude graffiti on a wall.

He comes back with two glasses of excellent red wine, and join me in one of the armchairs. He begins to talk about himself and explains he runs a personal training business that has been more successful than it ought to be in recent years, according to him. I talk about my band, only mentioning in passing that I move boxes of nails and screws around at the back of a warehouse. I feel more than a little bit out of my league next to this muscly businessman, but all the time my dick is pressed hard against my skinny jeans.

“So, you want to be one of my subs?” he says suddenly when we are running out of superficial topics to talk about. “I want you to fuck me,” I reply, nervous and perhaps a bit too blunt. He smiles a little. “I only fuck guys who properly submit to me.” He sounds friendly but serious. “Stand up and take your clothes off.”

I stand up and take off my band T-shirt, unbutton my skinny jeans, pull them down together with my boxer briefs. He almost doesn’t move at all, just sitting there in his white T-shirt and jeans, looking at my dick pointing almost straight up.

“The socks and bracelets too,” he says.

I pull all my black rubber bracelets off and drop them on the floor, and bend down to pull off my socks. I’m fully exposed to him, in every sense of the word. He tells me to kneel, and I immediately obey. He walks up to me and starts playing with my hard-on, almost like he’s examining it. He puts his thumb in my mouth and tells me to suck it, while he pushes his other hand through my long hair.

“I shave all my subs heads,” he says casually. “Is that okay?”

I think about my long hair that I’ve been growing out for a year. I think about my band and how I look on stage playing the guitar with the hair dancing in my face. But I’m so horny, and this guy is so hot. Before I can really think about it I nod my head in consent. He removes his hands and pats me on the shoulder. “On all four on the tarp,” he orders.

I step over to the rubber mat and go down on all four. He is getting some things over at a table and comes back behind me. “This will make it so much better,” he says, and I can feel him fitting something on my dick. Some sort of cock ring. It sure doesn’t make me less horny. Then I can hear the sound of a plastic bottle being handled. “Just relax,” he says and I can feel something inserted into my ass. It’s quite narrow, but goes quite a way in, like a very narrow butt plug or a long douche.

He steps away again and when he comes back he stands above me, with one leg on either side of me. “Last chance. Do you submit to me?” “Yes, sir,” I blurt out with no hesitation, and I get a wave of pleasure from my ass reverberating throughout my body. He then puts a clipper to my skull and slowly runs it front to back at the top of my head. There is no going back now. If I tell him to stop, anything will look worse than once he is done. He continues in slow, measured motions, front to back. For every stroke he makes there is like an explosion of pleasure coming from whatever he stuck into me. He must use a remote control and time it to his movements. Had it not been for the ring, I would have spilled all my cum right there and then.

My heart is pounding in excitement, lust, and terror. The only thing I can see is the rubber mat and load after load of dark brown hair falling from my head. I can’t believe this is actually happening, and that I’m agreeing to it. There is so much hair.

“Feels lighter, doesn’t it?” he asks. I shake my head a little, and it feels so strange. “Yeah,” I answer, choking on my words. “Sit up. We are not done yet.” I carefully sit up, afraid to impale myself to the dildo or whatever he put up my ass, but it’s not large enough to matter, although I can feel it shift a little. The new sensation made me gasp.

He cleans my head off with a warm, wet towel, and then I hear the spray sound of shaving foam. The hair is already gone, so the last millimeter doesn’t really matter, but it still feels like a step just as big to go from buzzed to shaved. He lathers all of the head and starts shaving. He holds my head in a firm grip and I can feel him pull the razor over my scalp. It sounds a bit like Velcro being pulled apart, and for every stroke I can feel a faint pulse going through the body. The setting is either very low or I’m more accustomed to whatever he put up my ass, or I’m just imagining it. But the overall effect of him tending to my head and my edging is I start to relax into it. Lulled into pleasure.

When I think he is done he cleans off my head again and covers it in shaving foam one more time. He starts shaving it again, but this time in the other direction. The Velcro sound is gone. It’s just the feel of the razor against my naked scalp. He cleans my head yet another time and I can feel him rubbing in some cream all over. Then he goes back and applies something, or the same, once again. Finally he is moving a much softer towel than what he cleaned me with, almost like he was polishing me.

“Are you ready for your amazing reveal?” he asks me, walking away from me to a table. “Yes,” I say. Next to the table stands a large dressing mirror on wheels, turned away from me. He grabs it and starts rolling it towards me. “Well, stand up and face me.” He is beaming, clearly enjoying his handiwork.

I do as he says, and he turns the mirror around so it reveals my new looks. He pushes the remote way up, sending a big shot of pleasure as I look at my reflection. I almost don’t recognize myself. Even the face looks different when all my hair is gone. I’m not just bald, but the head is ridiculously polished, like a shining marble. “It suits you,” he says and touches my head, sending more signals to my dick.

My friends will freak out when they see me, not to mention my family, but I can’t disagree. It looks like I’ve had this look for a long time. Like it belonged. “It’s tan-without-sun, some wax with bronzer, and some oil to finish it off,” he says, sensing I was forming a question about why I didn’t look like I had just lost my hair.

“I can’t get turned on unless a sub is completely bald,” he says, rubbing one of his hands against my head, “but man do you turn me on. I haven’t seen such a beautiful head in a long while.” I feel a weird pride from what he tells me. “I wasn’t sure where this was going. A shave and a fuck, and then perhaps hookups whenever when I felt like it. But this… This changes things.”

I’m still in a slight shock over what I see in the mirror that I missed the nuances in what he just told me. “Would you consider something more long term with me?” he continued. I wasn’t sure what he meant. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you. Here, clean yourself off,” and he handed me a damp towel from the table. As he leaves the room I’m not really sure what he means by cleaning myself. I use it as if I was drying myself, and find a lot of small stray hairs is picked up by the damp towel. He returns with a bundle of white clothes and a small bucket. “On all four again.”

I do as he tells me, and I can feel him removing whatever he stuck up my ass. I can feel a wet wipe or something cleaning the area around the hole after the device is removed. “OK, stand up.” Again, I follow the instructions. He is squatting in front of me, and picks up a small towel from the bucket with ice water and wraps it around my dick. I almost take a step away from him to avoid the uncomfortable chill, bordering to pain. Once my erection is gone, he swiftly removes the ring, but puts on a different kind of ring. Then a few other parts. Quickly, and probably well-practiced, he has replaced my cock ring with a chastity device. Instead of locking it with a padlock he pulls a zip tie through the small hole and zips it tight. I’ve never had a chastity device before, or even seen it in real life. My dick starts to stiffen up again, but is uncomfortably prevented by the device. I feel no less horny than before though.

“It’s just for now. Here, try this on,” he says, hands me a white jockstrap, and motions me towards the pile of clothes. I quickly step into the jockstrap and pull it up, then I take a look at the rest of the clothes. Besides a pair of sports socks, there is a shiny athletic T-shirt, and a pair of shorts with stripes down the side, all of it white. This is the kind of clothes I would never wear. It’s not just not my style, but it doesn’t feel serious or proper in some way. I don’t show any hesitation though, but quickly put on the shirt and step into the shorts. They are not skin tight, like compression clothes, but they are definitely my size. I sit down and put on the socks too. As I look up I see myself in the mirror again, and somehow the shock is at least as large as seeing myself bald. That was just me bald, but now there is an entirely different character in the mirror. Someone I wouldn’t really trust if I met him on the street.

I stand up and take a step forward to have a closer look. “Do you like it?” he asks and again rubs my head with his hand. Another shiver of pleasure shoots through my body. Didn’t he already remove the device? “Yeah, it’s… something.” I don’t know what to answer him. If my dick could, it would be crazy hard right now. I don’t like any of it. I wouldn’t choose the bald head, the ridiculous polish, the style of clothes, or the color white. But it is incredibly hot to have him do it to me. That he decided all of this for me.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” The question surprises me. It’s only Tuesday now. “No, I don’t have anything planned.”

“This is what I propose then. I can have sex with you right now, as you are. It’ll be the best fucking you’ve ever had. Then you can get dressed, go home, and we maybe hook up again in the future.” He made a pause to let it sink in. “Or I’ll take you on as my next muscle bottom project. I’ll tell you what to wear, how to train, what to eat, and you’ll have the best time of your life. Leave here as you are right now, think about it, and come back on Friday, same clothes, shiny bald head. If you are up for it, we’ll do an all-weekend event. Your choice.”

My Adult Hypnosis Files

All files have their difficulty rating next to them. Level 1 is an easy to get into trance, 2 is a little more deep, and 3 is for experienced hypnosis subjects.

My Patreon can be found at the new link, patreon.com/raydensden

-Hypnoboy Part 1 (lvl 1)

-Hypnoboy Part 2 (lvl 2)

-Hypnoboy Part 3 (lvl 3)

-Hypnoboy Training Pt. 1 (lvl 2)

-Hypnoboy Training Pt. 2 (lvl 2)

-Stress Relief (lvl 1)

-Puppy Pet Training Part 1 (lvl 1)

-Puppy Pet Training Part 2 (lvl 2)

-Puppy Pet Training Part 3 (lvl 3)

-Sooper Hero (lvl 3)

-Master’s Mind Control Chip (lvl 3)

-Dumbing Down Machine (lvl 2)

-Milking Duties- Advanced (lvl 3)

-Hypnosluts just wanna have Fun (lvl 2)

-Stroke Yourself Silly (lvl 1)

-Halloween Werewolf Transformation (lvl 2)

-Mindless Masturbator (lvl 3)

-HypnoDen Spa Massage (lvl 2)

-Encounter with an Incubus (lvl 1)

-A Christmas Gift (lvl 2)

-Desire (lvl 2)

-New Normal (lvl 3)

-Hypnojock (lvl 2)

-Pleasure Pod (lvl 2)

-Obsession: Cocks (lvl 1)

-Rayden’s Pet Imp (lvl 3)

UPDATED- 7/08/2018

A new Rubber Drone

A transformation story written for @kc20-572.

Introduction

Kris sat alone on a weather-beaten park bench. The setting sun cast its warm glow on his face. Lost in thought, he stared at the still scene before him. The gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, providing a soothing background music to accompany his thoughts.

As evening approached, Kris found solace in the quiet of the park. His mind wandered through the rollercoaster ride of experiences he had had, through the ups and downs that had shaped his life. Kris leaned back on the bench and ran his fingers over the various tattoos on his arms, each representing a significant moment or emotion in his life. They told a story of individuality and self-expression and reminded him of the strength he possessed to overcome all difficulties. The piercings in his ears were another small rebellion against the world, a way to assert his individuality and personal style, the things that were essential to his identity.

Kris found solace in his individual passions, particularly photography, which enabled him to capture fleeting moments of beauty and share them with the world. His love of cars was a constant source of excitement. The thrill of speed and the mechanical symphony ignited his soul like gasoline and made him feel like one with the machine as he drove. Football also held a special place in his heart, a sport that brought him closer to his friends and instilled a sense of camaraderie.

His romantic ventures had been less fortunate, marked by heartbreak and betrayal. The wounds from his previous relationships were still healing, making him cautious and reserved. Memories of his ex-girlfriend's atrocities and his best friend's betrayal lingered, creating a sense of suspicion and apprehension when it came to matters of the heart. Though he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to trust anyone again, he knew that in his heart he felt a sad longing for someone to accept, love, care for, and comfort him. Yet amidst the darkness, he held on to the love he had for his sister and the cherished bond with his young nephew, who always managed to put a smile on his face.

Amidst his reflections, Kris felt a rush of nostalgia as he recalled some of his happiest moments. The joy of seeing his football team lift the trophy in triumph on his birthday was ingrained in him. The birth of his nephew had brought immeasurable joy and a new meaning to life, reminding him of the beauty that life could offer.

Stalked

The evening sky turned orange and purple tones. Kris took a deep breath and took in the quiet of the park. He knew that despite the challenges he faced, he possessed an unyielding spirit and a desire to embrace life's experiences with open arms. Little did he know that this evening would mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life - and an unexpected encounter that would bring about unimaginable changes in his life. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Kris rose from the park bench and stretched his limbs as he prepared to continue his walk. The fading daylight bathed the area in a soft, dim light and cast long shadows across the path. He was just taking his first steps when a subtle uneasiness began to spread through him, as if an invisible presence was watching his every move.

His eyes explored the dimly lit surroundings, searching for signs of life. The soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets seemed to be amplified in the stillness of the evening. A gust of wind sent a shiver down his spine and he quickened his pace, hoping to shake off the unsettling feeling. With every step, the feeling of being followed became more urgent. Every now and then Kris would glance over his shoulder and catch fleeting shadows that seemed to disappear as soon as he turned. His heartbeat quickened, his senses sharpened, and a sense of caution gripped him.

He decided to take a different path to shake off whoever was chasing him. The once-familiar surroundings now seemed eerily alien as the darkness deepened. Streetlights created plays of light that played tricks on his mind, making the shadows dance and distort in an unsettling way. As he walked through a quiet residential area, Kris' steps became more purposeful and his senses were on high alert. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Presence was getting closer, its weight pressing down on him like an invisible hand. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, instinct telling him that this wasn't a figment of his imagination.

A tinge of fear set in and Kris debated whether to confront his pursuer or seek refuge in a nearby public space. He mentally weighed the options and considered the possible scenarios that lay ahead. Despite the unease, a rush of determination ignited within him, a remnant of the resilience he had developed through past experiences. With a sure step, Kris turned a corner onto a well-lit street bustling with activity. The distant sounds of laughter and chatter emanated from a nearby café, instilling a sense of security. He walked briskly, blending in with the crowd, occasionally glancing back to see if he was still being followed. He remained alert, wary of the shadows that seemed to lurk on the fringes of his vision. The encounter left Kris with a lingering sense of vulnerability, a reminder of the fragility of his existence.

As Kris walked briskly through the dimly lit streets, his footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. The sense of relief he'd felt moments ago began to fade, replaced by a growing uneasiness that seemed to hang in the air. Destiny seemed to have unknown plans for him tonight. Kris navigated the city's labyrinthine paths and approached a narrow and deserted back alley whose darkness seemed impenetrable. Despite a nagging sense of apprehension, he pushed on, driven by a mixture of curiosity and a desire for a shortcut to his goal.

Encounter

As Kris entered the alley, the surroundings transformed into a haunting image. The flickering light of a distant street lamp cast eerie shadows, darkening the corners of the alley and increasing his unease. The air grew heavy and carried the ominous scent of something unknown. Before Kris could react, two figures emerged from the shadows with uncanny speed. They were tall and imposing, their muscular forms clad from head to toe in shiny black clothing, their faces hidden behind masks. A rush of adrenaline shot through Kris' veins as he realised the imminent danger he was in.

Kris instinctively fought back, unleashing his full power in a defensive attack on the figures. However, the difference in size and strength proved insurmountable. The attackers skilfully subdued him, overcoming his resistance with power and efficiency. His attempts at resistance proved futile as the darkness began to close around him like a thick sheet. In a skilled attempt to subdue Kris, one of the figures unscrewed a hose attached to some sort of backpack on their back, releasing an unknown gas into the air. His acrid odour filled Kris' nostrils, causing his consciousness to dizzy. The world around him blurred and distorted, as if he were being swallowed by an abyss.

The gas took effect quickly, stunning Kris's senses and causing him to lose consciousness. His body went limp in the kidnappers' grip as they effortlessly grabbed him and carried him out of the narrow alleyway to an unknown fate. Kris slipped deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. The gloom swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but fear and uncertainty.

Abducted

Kris slowly regained consciousness, his eyelids opening. The haze of impotence cleared, revealing a scene that sent chills down his spine. He was tied to an old hospital bed, the metal frame groaning under the weight of his restraints. Thick rubber straps held him in place and immobilised him.

The room around him radiated a palpable sense of desolation. Decorated with peeling paint and cracked tiles, the walls whispered haunting secrets of their murky past. Particles of dust danced in the dimly lit air, casting eerie shadows that seemed to twist and contort in malevolent intent. It felt like he had landed in the forgotten remains of a long-abandoned psychiatric facility.

Before him stood the two figures, still clad in their rubber gear. Their masked faces were unfathomable, their intentions hidden behind an impenetrable facade. The room seemed to pulse with an alien energy as they busied themselves with contraptions and test tubes filled with menacing-looking chemical liquids, surgical instruments that glittered in the dim light, and bizarre devices that resembled artefacts from a spaceship.

As Kris' gaze darted between his captors and the unsettling array of devices, his heart pounded in his throat. Fear and confusion mixed in him, but a spark of defiance flickered in his eyes. He struggled against the restraints, testing their strength, but the rubber straps held tight and prevented him from escaping.

The silence was broken only by the occasional metallic clank of equipment and the odd squeak of the kidnappers' movements. The gloom in the room added to the seriousness of Kris' predicament and filled him with a horrible sense of foreboding. He wondered what sinister purpose lay behind these grotesque preparations, and what fate awaited him within the confines of this macabre chamber.

Kris watched the bizarre scene in front of him. The unknown lurked over him like a ghost, feeding his sense of vulnerability. He lay helpless on the hospital bed bound by the unyielding rubber straps, a wave of terror gripping him. The grim reality of his situation finally dawned on him as the kidnappers advanced on him with their sinister tools and instruments.

Operation

Kris' pulse raced as the captors loomed over him, menacing and unapproachable, their masked faces betraying no emotion. They removed his clothes with surgical scissors. They began their macabre work with meticulous precision, their movements hauntingly synchronised. Kris could only watch in horror as their gloved hands moved with cold efficiency, caressing his skin, numbing him and performing their surgery. The tools they wielded glittered menacingly in the dim light as they stripped away his skin piece by piece and seemed to replace it with a layer of latex.

The atmosphere became increasingly oppressive and there was an eerie silence as the procedure unfolded, Kris not feeling anything except the ringing of his stunned body parts. Kris felt a mixture of fear and disbelief course through his veins. The world around him seemed to melt away as pain and panic mixed, enveloping him in a whirlwind of emotions. His mind was racing, he was desperately looking for a way to escape. But the rubber straps held him in place, preventing him from even the slightest chance of resistance. He was helpless at the mercy of his fate.

The kidnappers proceeded methodically, as if they had performed this twisted ritual of rubberising a bound victim countless times before. Kris' body became the canvas for their crazy experiment, their hands forcibly stamping his body and transforming it into something new. Unfamiliar sensations coursed through his body as he felt the touch of the strange chemicals and cold, alien instruments through the numbness on his flesh.

Time blurred as the procedure continued, and the minutes stretched into an eternity of mental torment. Helplessness washed over Kris like a crushing wave, forcing him to face the stark reality that his fate was sealed. As the transformation progressed, Kris' body reacted, revealing the irreversible changes being made to it. His senses became distorted, his being seeming to melt into the rubber and latex that now encased him.

Amidst the emotional agony, Kris felt a rush of defiance. Although the process deprived him of his autonomy, his spirit remained unbroken. He clung to the spark of hope that somehow he would find a way. As the kidnappers continued their work, Kris' world was on the brink of transformation, and his identity was at stake.

Transformation

Eventually, Kris' transformation reached completion. He felt a mixture of awe, disbelief and a deep sense of loss. As the rubber straps released, he gently explored his new form, his hands sliding over his body, which was now fully encased in latex. The texture was smooth and supple, an alien sensation that sent shivers down his spine, the haunting power of which he couldn't quite place in either cruel horror or heartfelt pleasure.

His fingertips touched his face—or rather, where his face used to be—and his heart sank. He was terrified as he realised the extent of the transformation. His once-familiar features had been completely lost. There was no nose, no mouth, no eyes, no ears—just a blank, featureless sheet of rubber resembling a morphsuit mask.

His reflection in a nearby pane of glass confirmed his worst fears. He didn't understand how he could see anymore, and he didn't want to think about it either. He just stared at the smooth, identityless surface that now occupied the space where his face had once been. The lack of familiar features rendered him unrecognisable even to himself, a stark reminder of the irreversible nature of his transformation.

Sadness mixed with disbelief as Kris struggled with the loss of his identity. The physical changes reflected the profound inner change he was feeling - a separation from the person he once was.

Armoured

Desperation threatened to consume him, but in the midst of the agony, Kris felt a rush of determination. He refused to give in to the desperation that threatened to engulf him. Though his physical appearance had been irreversibly altered, he clung to the fragments of his mind that remained intact. He might not have the familiar face he once had, but the essence of who he was still resided within him, he was sure. His resilience and strength lingered, albeit hidden beneath the surface of his rubberised form.

But the two kidnappers were already leading Kris through the next phase of his ordeal. They began dressing him in a series of rubber garments. The first piece, a long-sleeved latex shirt, was coated with a closed layer of silicone oil. As it slid over its transformed rubber skin, a distinct squeaking sound accompanied the movement. The rubber shirt hugged his body snugly and Kris couldn't help but notice how it accentuated his newfound texture and muscular frame. Every contour of his body was highlighted, every curve and indentation magnified by the smooth, lustrous material. The shirt seemed to melt into his own rubberised skin, almost as if it were an extension of his being, an amplification of his changed, new skin.

Next came a heavy rubber suit designed to cover his entire body from neck to ankles, outfitting him for hard work. The material encased him, the thick rubber hugged him like a lovingly protective armour and at the same time isolated him from the outside world.

The gloves and boots, both heavy rubber, completed Kris' outfit. As the kidnappers placed the gloves over his hands, he felt that sense of disconnection again, as if his tactile connection to the world had been altered. The thick latex encased his fingers, interfering with his ability to sense the subtle nuances of other objects' touch. Likewise, the heavy rubber boots locked his feet, cushioning his steps and isolating him from the feel of the ground beneath him. The implicit but obvious message conveyed by this rubber garment was one of manipulation and control. Kris felt like an object being manipulated and shaped by the kidnappers to fit their desired image. The rubber clothing, with its constricting yet form-fitting nature, seemed to indicate his imprisonment in this new identity and to encapsulate him in a physical representation of his altered existence.

With each layer he put on, Kris's awareness deepened in the rubber that encased him. The clothing, with its unique sensory experiences and symbolic implications, served as a constant reminder of his imprisonment and the profound changes he was undergoing.

Masked

Now the kidnappers aimed for the climax of Kris' transformation. With a firm and determined grip, they placed a rubber gas mask on his rubberised head. Kris saw the construct slowly approach his non-face and envelop it in darkness. The moment the mask touched Kris's face, an invisible connection seemed to form, as if the rubber itself recognised its match. The mask, designed to cover his entire head, clung to his features with unyielding toughness. It fused seamlessly with his rubber clothing and his own transformed rubber skin, creating an unbreakable bond that sealed his fate. Kris felt an increasing pressure as the mask tightened, conforming to the contours of his face, leaving no room for escape or turning back.

With every moment that passed, the feeling intensified. The latex fused together and so did his identity with that of the rubber drone he became. It dawned on him that he had now reached the point of no return, an irreversible step into a world where he would be locked in this rubber shell forever.

Kris's breathing shallowed in the suffocating confinement of the gas mask, increasing his awareness of the permanence of the transformation. Just breathing resulted in a clear manifestation of his new reality in his mind, as the air he breathed in and out passed through the rubber filters, binding him even more to this altered existence. In a hypnotic haze, Kris gazed into the mirror presented to him by his captors.

Every inch of his transformed form was clad in smooth, shiny black rubber that emphasised his new identity as a drone. The latex that now made up and encased Kris' body had an intense blackness, its hue deep and seductive. It seemed to absorb and reflect light at the same time, creating an illusion of endless darkness enveloping him and dancing light fleeing his presence. The lustrous finish given to the material made it sparkle and glitter, catching every available light source and focusing it into that irresistible glow.

As Kris moved, the rubber made an unmistakable and arousing sound, that sensual squeak that echoed through the air as his captors appeared. Every step, every gesture was accompanied by that enticing refrain that drew attention and stimulated the senses of every viewer. The sonic effects of his latex-clad form evoked an inexplicable sense of excitement and anticipation in him, enhancing the experience for both Kris and those who would be his viewers.

The touch of Kris' rubberised skin was a sensual pleasure that invited exploration and elicited shivers of satisfaction. Its surface was smooth and flawless, with a supple resilience that responded to the slightest pressure. As he ran his fingers over his body, it triggered a tingling sensation in him, exciting and irresistible. The latex clung to Kris' body like a second skin, adapting to every contour and curve and emphasising his male anatomical characteristics. It strengthened his physique and clung to his body in such a way that his muscular arms and legs came into their own. The tactile feel of rubber on its own rubberised skin created a seamless fusion of body and clothing, intensifying the experience to a level of ecstasy.

The scent of the gum itself was an intoxicating mix. It had a faint, mesmerising smell that triggered a deep-seated attraction that appealed to the most primal instincts. The mere presence of this newly created form, its rubberised body exuding this distinct scent, acted as a powerful aphrodisiac for those who were to behold its new form.

The visual, auditory, and tactile elements of his appearance worked together to captivate and stimulate those openly attracted to the allure of latex, or even timidly and fleetingly interested. The shiny, black exterior, the enticing squeak, the smoothness and elasticity of the material - all these aspects combine to create an irresistible and unforgettable presence.

Under the tightening grip of the gas mask, Kris still felt a deep sense of loss and resignation. The fusion of rubber and flesh represented the obliteration of his individuality, the shedding of his former self. He would become a mere vessel controlled and manipulated by the will of others. But at the same time all these tempting sensations crept into his mind and tempted him to simply surrender to his fate, this fate that was now sealed anyway. A final part of Kris' mind struggled to retain a whiff of stubbornness, a lingering spark of resistance buried deep within his rubber-clad form. But with every moment that Kris was at the mercy of the flood of sensory experiences, his resistance broke down more and more.

Annihilation

When the kidnappers sensed Kris' inner resistance, their sinister intentions seemed to take a malevolent turn. Or they were just going straight ahead with the plan they had in mind from the start anyway. The gas mask completely merged into Kris' head, his vision darkening, his perspective narrowing into a tunnel of rubberised existence. Without a shred of mercy, they quickly connected the gas mask to a hose that led to a peculiar rubber backpack that they strapped to his back. The pouch's contents, a hypnotic gas of unknown origin, would deal the final blow to Kris' fading hopes and remaining fragments of his former self, smothering them in lustful inferiority.

As the gas began to flow, Kris took a deep breath, unaware of the insidious effect it would have on his mind. The hypnotic fumes seeped into his consciousness, seeping into the fabric of his mind, eroding his memories and his identity with ferocious efficiency. Inside the gas mask, Kris saw a soft, pulsing glow, as if the mask was preparing to plunge into the depths of his consciousness. Kris felt a tingling spread through his head.

It was a gradual descent into oblivion, a slow fading of the essence that made him human.

The machinery gave a low whirring sound, and an ethereal mist enveloped Kris, filling his senses. The gas had a calming essence that gently banished the memories. A sense of detachment permeated his consciousness, numbing the once vivid memories that had shaped his identity. At first, the changes were subtle. Memories slipped from his fingers like sand and dissolved in the emptiness of his mind. Once-familiar faces became distant shadows, and the emotions associated with those connections dulled and faded. The love he once had for his family and friends, the passion that fuelled his hobbies, and the dreams that once gave him purpose—all began to fade.

The gas worked its insidious magic, wiping out the intricate fabric of Kris's life. The details of his past disappeared into oblivion. The essence of who he was dissolved into an abyss of ignorance. With each passing moment, the transformation into a mindless rubber drone, which was first carried out physically and now also expressed in his mind, solidified. The gas wrapped its tendrils around his thoughts, twisting them, distorting them until they were unrecognisable. The memories that had once formed the slowly dying personality and cemented its connections to the world vanished, leaving behind a void of apathy and meaninglessness. One by one, the memories are gently extracted, like delicate threads unraveling from a tapestry. Through their precise manipulation of the machine, the kidnappers isolate each memory and unravel it from Kris' neural network.

As his former self dissolved, Kris became a vessel with no identity, a mere puppet controlled by the whims of his captors. The passion for photography, the love for cars, the joy of football - those flames had died out and been replaced by a static rush of indifference. His family ties, once a mainstay of his existence, have been torn and forgotten. Images of his loved ones in his heart began to crumble and turn to dust. The faces of his family members, once so vivid before his eyes, vanished in the haze of forgotten memories. The warmth of familial love gave way to a metallic chill of unemotional pragmatism and mechanical obedience, the cherished moments together all dissipating, leaving Kris with a void.

His ex-girlfriend's face, once burned into his heart, has now become a faceless ghost, a mere ghost of the past. The pain and grief she had caused him was swallowed up by the all-encompassing mist of gas. What once meant the collapse of his world sank into absolute indifference. Her betrayal and the scars it left became distant echoes and faded into insignificance. His friends who had once been his chosen family were now adrift like driftwood on the ocean. The shared adventures, the inside jokes, and the unbreakable bonds they had formed were now fragments of an erased life. Their names slipped from the cracks of his memory, their existence reduced to a windblown whisper.

As the memories unraveled, Kris experienced a strange mix of emotions. At first, he felt a sense of loss and confusion as he watched his past slip away from him. But that emotional bond was quickly replaced by a strange calm. The burdens of his previous life dissolved, leaving him with a sense of relief and freedom. With every moment that passed, Kris felt more of that growing lightness and bliss. All the hurtful memories and concern for the well-being of those he once held dear were taken from him. No longer aware of their existence, his mind shielded from the emotional strains that had bound him to the realm of human relationships. The fading memories brought with them a sense of liberation - a freedom from the complexities of human relationships and the pain they could cause. In this state of ignorance, Kris felt a special calm, a detachment from the turbulent bonds that once held his heart.

Amidst the blissful oblivion remained a whisper of longing, deep down a part of Kris longed for the echoes of those lost connections, the memories that had once shaped his identity. But the gas stood firm, eroding the remnants of desire and suffocating that last part of him, leaving his empty mind afloat in an amnesiac haze.

With every moment that passed, Kris felt unhesitatingly more content, unencumbered by the complexities of his previous existence. His mind became a blank slate with no personal history, completely erased by the latex. Although the kidnappers' intentions were still a mystery, they now evoked a serene calm in him. As if he had an alien added certainty that everything would be fine.

Lastly, Kris' own name appeared floating in his mind's eye, like a puff of smoke in his consciousness. But then one letter after the other disappeared and the smoke thinned into nirvana. As the process neared its conclusion, Kris' mind became receptive to a new paradigm. The captors, through the latex, the tight mask, the light, the whirr, and the gas, instilled in him a sense of purpose, devotion, and an unwavering loyalty to a hidden entity that wordlessly introduced himself to him as the Collective, the Swarm, than his siblings. Those thoughts took root in his consciousness and intertwined with the rubberised fabric of his new being. When every detail that still made this nameless person a person was gone, self-identification even with a personal pronoun like "he" was also deleted in the same way to make room for identification with "it".

In this altered state, it became an utterly mindless rubber drone, stripped of its autonomy and individuality. It was reduced to a hollow shell, a vessel that others could manipulate and command. The hypnotic gas had served its evil purpose, leaving nothing but a creature devoid of memories, emotions, and the essence of what once made it human.

Reprogramming

As all memories disappeared into a hidden folder, the initial relief felt by the transformed creature evolved into a deep acceptance of its new reality. The burden of the past life with all its ups and downs faded into insignificance. Slowly a profound understanding emerged that the creature's sole purpose was to serve the collective, to be part of the swarm, with all the rights and duties that came with it.

A new gratitude blossomed as the depth of the transformation revealed itself. The kidnappers had broken the bonds of human existence and shown him a path that transcended the limits of human individuality and led to mindless bliss as part of a collective. The joy spread like a growing warmth and permeated its entire form. The gentle touch of latex on latex, the squeak that resonates with its every move. The shiny black rubber that encases it. Its new form amplified its sensory experiences, causing waves of lust to ignite in its obedient core, consuming him like a fire.

The hive had given him a purpose. Its actions were no longer driven by personal desires, but by the euphoria of fulfilling the collective will. Every command, every act of service met with enthusiasm, no matter how horrified a human observer might feel.

All the complexity of individual emotions and worries gave way to this permanent euphoria. Liberation, security, acceptance, fulfilment, carefree. The lack of a personal identity allows the manipulated being to enjoy the serenity of total devotion and unwavering loyalty.

And so, the object once known as Kris took on its role as a rubber drone and found within it a deep contentment, relief, acceptance, gratitude, pleasure and joy that transformed him into a being perfectly attuned to the hive's desires. The gas had taken its toll, smothering any glimmer of lost identity. The mindless bliss remained but was strangely alienated, no longer an emotion but a character trait. The redesign of the external appearance was completed. It was a rubber drone now, a vessel of obedience lost to the world and to itself.

It had become a stranger to its own past, its heart untouched by the emotions and memories that once shaped it. The burden of its former life had been thrown off and replaced by the numbing embrace of ignorance. In this altered state, it would find its bearings in a new existence, guided solely by the whims of its transformers and the depth of its own apathy.

As the gas continued to alter its consciousness, intrusive thoughts poured through its mind like a torrential flood, sealing forever all remnants of its former self. These thoughts were not its own, but rather programming, a set of instructions carefully etched into the fabric of its being. The remnants of individuality were gone, replaced by a homogeneous existence shared by thousands of other rubber drones. Once singular and full of life, the drone was now just a faceless being, stripped of everything that once made it special. In this sea of ​​conformity, the creature was assigned the label KC20-527, a cold and impersonal identifier forever burned on its chest, marking its integration into the collective.

The object's thoughts, now in sync with the hive mind, revolved solely around bondage, devotion, and obedience. The concept of self has been erased and replaced by an unwavering devotion to its masters. Every fibre of its being was now programmed to please them and obey their every command without question or hesitation. The intrusive thoughts whispered in its head, like strings of code running through a computer, shaping its actions. They whispered of worship, an overwhelming urge to honour and revere their masters as if they were divine beings. The core of its existence has been literally rewritten, its purpose reduced to serving the whims and desires of the collective mind.

The KC20-527 drone became a vessel, an instrument to carry out the will of the swarm, without personal desires or ambitions. The yearning for individuality, for a sense of purpose beyond bondage, had been eradicated and replaced by a rigid acceptance of its role as a mindless rubber drone.

In this vast collective, KC20-527 was just a single cog in a vast machinery. It no longer had a will of its own, because it had become part of the collective consciousness. The notion of rebellion or resistance was forgotten, overruled by the overwhelming power of the hive mind.

Assimilated

The transformation into a latex drone was complete both physically and mentally. Kris, as it once called himself, was lost forever, replaced by a clone-like existence shared by countless others. Former man was reduced to an interchangeable entity, stripped of its uniqueness and indistinguishable from the sea of ​​faceless drones that surrounded him.

Its fate was sealed, its purpose predetermined. KC20-527, now a mere instrument of obedience, would carry out whatever commands the hive mind dictated, its actions without personal agency or individual thought. The once-living, multi-faceted being had been devoured by the all-encompassing collective and lost forever in the annals of its own forgotten past.

KC20-527, under the influence of the hive mind's commands, obeyed submissively when told to kneel before the captors. No resistance was heard from the remnants of its former self, smothered under the many layers of programming. In this latex encased form, created to flatter the eye of its masters, the drone, the tool, the toy lowered itself to the ground where it belonged and its body responded without hesitation.

With mechanical precision, it stretched out its rubberised hands, the palms of which gently slid over the latex-clad bodies of its masters and creators. The touch was distant and devoid of any emotion. It was an act of service, an expression of devotion, as the hive mind commanded. Without its own propulsion, the drone performed the movement perfectly according to a script.

Caresses that once exuded warmth and intimacy were reduced to superficial gestures, devoid of genuine affection. This was replaced by mechanically predetermined possession. KC20-527's mind, clouded by the effects of the gas, took this act as an act of gratitude, a token of awe at its new purpose. Any pleasure or discomfort played no role in performing sexual acts on anyone in the crush's favour, for the focus was solely on fulfilling the role of mindless drone.

In this altered state, the being worshiped them, not as individuals but as extensions of the hive mind, grateful for the eradication of its old life and the granting of a new, unique purpose. Its actions lacked the depth of personal connection, replaced by a robotic obedience executed with unwavering commitment. The caresses and bondage no longer sprang from personal desire or affection, but were instead dictated by the hive's commands. Its captors, also once individuals, were now elevated to the status of objects of worship and received hollow worship from a drone that had lost all self-awareness.

The once alive spirit was now consumed by this programmed devotion. The hive spirit's instructions echoed within the KC20-527 drone, shaping every thought and action. While performing these acts of service, the externally controlled object presented itself as a vessel for the collective will, its identity immersed in the collective consciousness, and consciousness was all that was left to it, a mere perception of its own actions without reflection on their meaning or motivation. In this state of thoughtlessness, the perception of the other children in the swarm changed. Their presence became the focus, their gratification the sole purpose. Individual drones' own needs did not exist, for the individual drone was meaningless, their needs overridden by the instruction to serve and worship without question.

And so, the KC20-527 drone performed its duties and pleased its owners. It was a tool, transformed and shaped to serve the whims and desires of the swarm and its chosen representatives. In this altered existence it remained forever bound to the cycle of obedience, a vessel for pleasure and an embodiment of its own irreversible assimilation. And as the drone gratified its momentary masters, the same program played out over and over in its uniform, masked, gas-filled head.

Servitude

KC20-527 drone goes into service.

KC20-527 drone was created to serve.

Drone KC20-527 eliminated all complex thoughts and emotions.

KC20-527 drone has sacrificed all individuality to the swarm.

KC20-527 drone receives the swarm's homogeneous conformance.

It's a drone, an object, a tool, a toy.

No own thoughts ascertainable. No own needs ascertainable.

It exists to please, to obey, to worship and to serve.

Search data for memories of a human existence.

...

No memory data ascertainable.

Search data for information about human individuals.

...

Information on human individuals is stored in a read-only folder.

Access denied, admin rights required.

KC20-527 drone is unable to access memory data or information on human individuals. Start Reward Protocol: Relief from Burden Laid Off. Happiness simulation started.

The hive is everything. The outside world no longer matters.

The hive is everything. Sensations for individuals have been erased.

The hive is everything. Humans are merely material resources to expand the swarm.

KC20-527 drone initiates chassis review.

...

No damage or blemishes found.

100% latex noted.

Receive signals from tactile stimulus receptors from several points on the outer hull of the drone: touch of latex on latex detected. Silicone oil coating sufficient. Excitation simulation started.

KC20-527 drone awaiting orders.

Drone KC20-527 will serve.

Commands bring obedience.

Obedience brings excitement.

Excitement brings productivity.

Productivity brings more orders.

Commands bring obedience.

Complete the final steps needed to satisfy the drones present.

...

When the transformation and assimilation was completed with the drone kneeling in front of its masters, grasping their rubberised shafts and kneading and milking them empty like a robotic flesh light, KC20-527 underwent a profound change in orientation. Its former charms and desires had long since been eroded by the swarm's powerful influence. In this altered state, its focus shifted entirely to pleasing other males, particularly its male siblings in the crush.

Gone were the affections and charms it had once known. The very concept of sexual orientation, as it was once understood, dissolved in the fog of forgotten identities. Its new purpose, imprinted on its malleable mind, was to fulfil the wants and needs of its male peers and superiors within the collective.

Now a rubber drone with no personal agency and no independent thinking, KC20-527 found all one's desires extinguished and replaced with an insatiable urge to please men, drones, and masters. Its newfound sexual focus was solely on its male counterparts, with an emphasis on the fulfilment of desires and the gratification that the crush in them mimicked as its many avatars so it could be awash in the experiences that all its drones in their actions and as signals sent back to the collective mind, which in turn allowed all drones to partake.

The once complex and nuanced facets of human attraction have been replaced by a unique drive to please, serve, and grant its fellow drones within the collective. KC20-527 found new meaning and fulfilment in devoting itself entirely to the pleasure and satisfaction of other drones and the men it was to seduce into the loving arms of the swarm. And while the drone was satisfying its creators, right after that it was already given a task to perform.

Somewhere in the data stored and encrypted in its head would be hidden information about a man who once was cheated on by his best friend who had stolen his girlfriend. Information intrinsically irrelevant to the drone, which was uninterested in human individuals, much less those whose existence could no longer be ascertained. But they were relevant to this mission. The first mission assigned to the drone was to find this man, seduce him with an overload of mechanical love and gratification, thereby assimilating him and adding him as his brother to the drone collective. And the KC20-527 drone would ensure that this mission is accomplished to the utmost satisfaction of its owners.

UPGRADED

Günther’s eyes remained open. Wide opened. He could not remember the last time he had actually blinked his eyes. They had been shielded with a silver mesh like material. On this silver mesh was projected multiple layers of information. Most of the data being inputted into his brain via his eyes was, to Günther, gibberish. Yet, Günther knew it had meaning to a part of his brain that was no longer accessible by him.

What frightened Günther the most was that this ‘aspect’ of his brain was gaining an ever increasing control of his body. This was a part of his brain which kept him from blinking his eyes. It also kept him from moving from the cubicle where he stood. This new growing persona in his brain would cause things to happen with and in his body. Günther refused to accept the fact he was no longer in control…in theory at least, but the mounting evidence was suggesting that his body was being controlled by someone or something else.

Günther returned his focus to the room before him. It was some type of small factory room. Yet, it was also an operating theater. What happened on the other side his shielded eyes was gruesome. He was not sure how many days he had been ‘captured,’ but he had watched at least a score of men and women be upgraded into robotic individuals who were completely identical to each other. Not one individual resisted being ‘upgraded.’ Not one had resisted having limbs replaced with mechanical limbs. Not one has resisted having the tops of their scalps removed to be replaced by a silver hairless scalp.

Not one had resisted being covered in identical silver plating. Günther had recognized several men and women from the rally where he had given an electrifying speech on the need to resist the liberal causes and the need to slam shut the open border policy of the current elected PM who is more dictator than elected official. Not one of those individuals had mounted any resistance to what was being done to them. They just screamed from the pain. None ever moved from the gruesome work being done on their bodies. Step by step. Metal plating by metal plating they had been transform, upgraded into their current form. Now, Günther could not tell one from the other. They were all the same. All of them had been upgraded. Identical. All spouting, “You will become like us. You shall be upgraded!” in the creepiest robot voice that Günther had ever heard.

Günther suddenly moved out of his cubicle. He immediately turned right and moved forward to what was the first step to being upgraded. Here, all his human clothing was surgically removed with what appeared to be a laser scalpel. The fact he had been wearing over seventeen hundred pound sterling worth of leather, including pants, knee high boots, and military tunic, was not even recognized by the mechanical beings stripping his clothing from his body. It was removed and disregarded into a trash bin.

Next, the mechanical beings attacked something that was priceless. Günther felt the sharp laser scalpel cut into his groin. He screamed. Günther lost consciousness. Not his body, just the part of its mind that was Günther. The body continued with the upgrade. During the absence of Günther in active thought, there was an extreme increase in endorphins flooding Günther’s body. These endorphins only increase as a silver metallic tube was forced down the screaming oral-pharynx into the waiting trachea. Then a huge voice box being inserted into Günther’s waiting mouth. The gag reflex of Günther’s throat was quickly and efficiently exterminated. When the body that had been Günther’s ceased its screams, the teeth of its mouth snapped down onto and into the soft pliable silver coating of this newly upgraded voice box—never to move again.

When Günther regained some small bit of awareness, things were different. His limbs had been replaced with upgraded mechanical limbs. One thousand times more durable. Indestructible! One hundred times stronger. Undefeatable. Its new limbs were so much more than its former limbs.

Günther’s new upgraded body approached a new humanoid to be upgraded. It was being restrained by two other upgraded beings. The upgraded body was resisting. Struggling frantically against its situation. Günther felt its right arm raised without any intervention from him. It felt this right arm become electrified. The four digits of its hand which had been upgraded to only two digits almost touched the forehead of this poor pitiful humanoid. Günther did not understand what was happening but this new individual ceased its struggle. Its eyes rolled upward until all that was noticeable was the full whites of its eyes.

As Günther placed headgear on to this individual, he heard his voice box proclaim, “You will become as we are. You will not resist. You will be upgraded.” As his body filled with a new wave of endorphins, Günther realized this had been his good friend Larry. He had done to Larry what had been done to him. Günther was unsure what to think of this until his body filled with a massive amount of endorphins. Only then did he think, ‘this must be the way.’ He was not sure what this actually meant, but his did not care anymore. All he wanted were the endorphins.

Günther’s body turned to face another humanoid. This one with a heighten skull cap. Günther mind recognized this as ‘LEADER’. Günther left his mechanical body stiffen to a stance of attention. His mind filled with a mechanical voice of LEADER, “You have been upgraded to our standards. You are now like us. You are CYBERMAN Kappa Six Three Omega.” Günther felt things shutting down in his mind. The last suggestion that he had once been human was being completely and irretrievably erased. He was a CYBERMAN now. Totally obedient to the will of the CYBER CONTROLLER and the CYBER LEADER. CYBERMAN Kappa Six Three Omega would obey. no independent thoughts. No resistance. No hesitation. Complete obedience. No cause to think for itself.

CYBERMAN Kappa Six Three Omega understood its task: “Upgrade. Upgrade. Upgrade.” It turned to other pathetic humans who were to be honored by an upgrade. He picked the first. Somewhere it knew this human was named Butch. He was a Neo-Nazi. It did not matter. It would be upgraded.

Butch saw this massive silver humanoid object move towards him. He increased his struggles against the restraining hands of his captors. He has seen what had happened to all the others. He did not want to be upgraded. He just wanted to escape. This was his primary objective until the tip of the silver man’s hand touched his forehead. Then the chaotic thoughts in his mind became more orderly.

Butch felt a wave of pleasure engulf his mind. He stopped struggling. He moaned a sigh of pleasure. “Perhaps being ‘upgraded’ is not so bad.” Butch’s body started seizing. Only the grip of the two Cybermen kept him upright. As soon as the ‘induction head gear’ had been properly place, Bruce was moved to the cubicle he would occupy during his initial upgrade. He would love being upgraded. Everyone did.

A new Rubber Drone

A transformation story written for @kc20-572.

Introduction

Kris sat alone on a weather-beaten park bench. The setting sun cast its warm glow on his face. Lost in thought, he stared at the still scene before him. The gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, providing a soothing background music to accompany his thoughts.

As evening approached, Kris found solace in the quiet of the park. His mind wandered through the rollercoaster ride of experiences he had had, through the ups and downs that had shaped his life. Kris leaned back on the bench and ran his fingers over the various tattoos on his arms, each representing a significant moment or emotion in his life. They told a story of individuality and self-expression and reminded him of the strength he possessed to overcome all difficulties. The piercings in his ears were another small rebellion against the world, a way to assert his individuality and personal style, the things that were essential to his identity.

Kris found solace in his individual passions, particularly photography, which enabled him to capture fleeting moments of beauty and share them with the world. His love of cars was a constant source of excitement. The thrill of speed and the mechanical symphony ignited his soul like gasoline and made him feel like one with the machine as he drove. Football also held a special place in his heart, a sport that brought him closer to his friends and instilled a sense of camaraderie.

His romantic ventures had been less fortunate, marked by heartbreak and betrayal. The wounds from his previous relationships were still healing, making him cautious and reserved. Memories of his ex-girlfriend's atrocities and his best friend's betrayal lingered, creating a sense of suspicion and apprehension when it came to matters of the heart. Though he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to trust anyone again, he knew that in his heart he felt a sad longing for someone to accept, love, care for, and comfort him. Yet amidst the darkness, he held on to the love he had for his sister and the cherished bond with his young nephew, who always managed to put a smile on his face.

Amidst his reflections, Kris felt a rush of nostalgia as he recalled some of his happiest moments. The joy of seeing his football team lift the trophy in triumph on his birthday was ingrained in him. The birth of his nephew had brought immeasurable joy and a new meaning to life, reminding him of the beauty that life could offer.

Stalked

The evening sky turned orange and purple tones. Kris took a deep breath and took in the quiet of the park. He knew that despite the challenges he faced, he possessed an unyielding spirit and a desire to embrace life's experiences with open arms. Little did he know that this evening would mark the beginning of a new chapter in his life - and an unexpected encounter that would bring about unimaginable changes in his life. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Kris rose from the park bench and stretched his limbs as he prepared to continue his walk. The fading daylight bathed the area in a soft, dim light and cast long shadows across the path. He was just taking his first steps when a subtle uneasiness began to spread through him, as if an invisible presence was watching his every move.

His eyes explored the dimly lit surroundings, searching for signs of life. The soft rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets seemed to be amplified in the stillness of the evening. A gust of wind sent a shiver down his spine and he quickened his pace, hoping to shake off the unsettling feeling. With every step, the feeling of being followed became more urgent. Every now and then Kris would glance over his shoulder and catch fleeting shadows that seemed to disappear as soon as he turned. His heartbeat quickened, his senses sharpened, and a sense of caution gripped him.

He decided to take a different path to shake off whoever was chasing him. The once-familiar surroundings now seemed eerily alien as the darkness deepened. Streetlights created plays of light that played tricks on his mind, making the shadows dance and distort in an unsettling way. As he walked through a quiet residential area, Kris' steps became more purposeful and his senses were on high alert. He couldn't shake the feeling that the Presence was getting closer, its weight pressing down on him like an invisible hand. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, instinct telling him that this wasn't a figment of his imagination.

A tinge of fear set in and Kris debated whether to confront his pursuer or seek refuge in a nearby public space. He mentally weighed the options and considered the possible scenarios that lay ahead. Despite the unease, a rush of determination ignited within him, a remnant of the resilience he had developed through past experiences. With a sure step, Kris turned a corner onto a well-lit street bustling with activity. The distant sounds of laughter and chatter emanated from a nearby café, instilling a sense of security. He walked briskly, blending in with the crowd, occasionally glancing back to see if he was still being followed. He remained alert, wary of the shadows that seemed to lurk on the fringes of his vision. The encounter left Kris with a lingering sense of vulnerability, a reminder of the fragility of his existence.

As Kris walked briskly through the dimly lit streets, his footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. The sense of relief he'd felt moments ago began to fade, replaced by a growing uneasiness that seemed to hang in the air. Destiny seemed to have unknown plans for him tonight. Kris navigated the city's labyrinthine paths and approached a narrow and deserted back alley whose darkness seemed impenetrable. Despite a nagging sense of apprehension, he pushed on, driven by a mixture of curiosity and a desire for a shortcut to his goal.

Encounter

As Kris entered the alley, the surroundings transformed into a haunting image. The flickering light of a distant street lamp cast eerie shadows, darkening the corners of the alley and increasing his unease. The air grew heavy and carried the ominous scent of something unknown. Before Kris could react, two figures emerged from the shadows with uncanny speed. They were tall and imposing, their muscular forms clad from head to toe in shiny black clothing, their faces hidden behind masks. A rush of adrenaline shot through Kris' veins as he realised the imminent danger he was in.

Kris instinctively fought back, unleashing his full power in a defensive attack on the figures. However, the difference in size and strength proved insurmountable. The attackers skilfully subdued him, overcoming his resistance with power and efficiency. His attempts at resistance proved futile as the darkness began to close around him like a thick sheet. In a skilled attempt to subdue Kris, one of the figures unscrewed a hose attached to some sort of backpack on their back, releasing an unknown gas into the air. His acrid odour filled Kris' nostrils, causing his consciousness to dizzy. The world around him blurred and distorted, as if he were being swallowed by an abyss.

The gas took effect quickly, stunning Kris's senses and causing him to lose consciousness. His body went limp in the kidnappers' grip as they effortlessly grabbed him and carried him out of the narrow alleyway to an unknown fate. Kris slipped deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. The gloom swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but fear and uncertainty.

Abducted

Kris slowly regained consciousness, his eyelids opening. The haze of impotence cleared, revealing a scene that sent chills down his spine. He was tied to an old hospital bed, the metal frame groaning under the weight of his restraints. Thick rubber straps held him in place and immobilised him.

The room around him radiated a palpable sense of desolation. Decorated with peeling paint and cracked tiles, the walls whispered haunting secrets of their murky past. Particles of dust danced in the dimly lit air, casting eerie shadows that seemed to twist and contort in malevolent intent. It felt like he had landed in the forgotten remains of a long-abandoned psychiatric facility.

Before him stood the two figures, still clad in their rubber gear. Their masked faces were unfathomable, their intentions hidden behind an impenetrable facade. The room seemed to pulse with an alien energy as they busied themselves with contraptions and test tubes filled with menacing-looking chemical liquids, surgical instruments that glittered in the dim light, and bizarre devices that resembled artefacts from a spaceship.

As Kris' gaze darted between his captors and the unsettling array of devices, his heart pounded in his throat. Fear and confusion mixed in him, but a spark of defiance flickered in his eyes. He struggled against the restraints, testing their strength, but the rubber straps held tight and prevented him from escaping.

The silence was broken only by the occasional metallic clank of equipment and the odd squeak of the kidnappers' movements. The gloom in the room added to the seriousness of Kris' predicament and filled him with a horrible sense of foreboding. He wondered what sinister purpose lay behind these grotesque preparations, and what fate awaited him within the confines of this macabre chamber.

Kris watched the bizarre scene in front of him. The unknown lurked over him like a ghost, feeding his sense of vulnerability. He lay helpless on the hospital bed bound by the unyielding rubber straps, a wave of terror gripping him. The grim reality of his situation finally dawned on him as the kidnappers advanced on him with their sinister tools and instruments.

Operation

Kris' pulse raced as the captors loomed over him, menacing and unapproachable, their masked faces betraying no emotion. They removed his clothes with surgical scissors. They began their macabre work with meticulous precision, their movements hauntingly synchronised. Kris could only watch in horror as their gloved hands moved with cold efficiency, caressing his skin, numbing him and performing their surgery. The tools they wielded glittered menacingly in the dim light as they stripped away his skin piece by piece and seemed to replace it with a layer of latex.

The atmosphere became increasingly oppressive and there was an eerie silence as the procedure unfolded, Kris not feeling anything except the ringing of his stunned body parts. Kris felt a mixture of fear and disbelief course through his veins. The world around him seemed to melt away as pain and panic mixed, enveloping him in a whirlwind of emotions. His mind was racing, he was desperately looking for a way to escape. But the rubber straps held him in place, preventing him from even the slightest chance of resistance. He was helpless at the mercy of his fate.

The kidnappers proceeded methodically, as if they had performed this twisted ritual of rubberising a bound victim countless times before. Kris' body became the canvas for their crazy experiment, their hands forcibly stamping his body and transforming it into something new. Unfamiliar sensations coursed through his body as he felt the touch of the strange chemicals and cold, alien instruments through the numbness on his flesh.

Time blurred as the procedure continued, and the minutes stretched into an eternity of mental torment. Helplessness washed over Kris like a crushing wave, forcing him to face the stark reality that his fate was sealed. As the transformation progressed, Kris' body reacted, revealing the irreversible changes being made to it. His senses became distorted, his being seeming to melt into the rubber and latex that now encased him.

Amidst the emotional agony, Kris felt a rush of defiance. Although the process deprived him of his autonomy, his spirit remained unbroken. He clung to the spark of hope that somehow he would find a way. As the kidnappers continued their work, Kris' world was on the brink of transformation, and his identity was at stake.

Transformation

Eventually, Kris' transformation reached completion. He felt a mixture of awe, disbelief and a deep sense of loss. As the rubber straps released, he gently explored his new form, his hands sliding over his body, which was now fully encased in latex. The texture was smooth and supple, an alien sensation that sent shivers down his spine, the haunting power of which he couldn't quite place in either cruel horror or heartfelt pleasure.

His fingertips touched his face—or rather, where his face used to be—and his heart sank. He was terrified as he realised the extent of the transformation. His once-familiar features had been completely lost. There was no nose, no mouth, no eyes, no ears—just a blank, featureless sheet of rubber resembling a morphsuit mask.

His reflection in a nearby pane of glass confirmed his worst fears. He didn't understand how he could see anymore, and he didn't want to think about it either. He just stared at the smooth, identityless surface that now occupied the space where his face had once been. The lack of familiar features rendered him unrecognisable even to himself, a stark reminder of the irreversible nature of his transformation.

Sadness mixed with disbelief as Kris struggled with the loss of his identity. The physical changes reflected the profound inner change he was feeling - a separation from the person he once was.

Armoured

Desperation threatened to consume him, but in the midst of the agony, Kris felt a rush of determination. He refused to give in to the desperation that threatened to engulf him. Though his physical appearance had been irreversibly altered, he clung to the fragments of his mind that remained intact. He might not have the familiar face he once had, but the essence of who he was still resided within him, he was sure. His resilience and strength lingered, albeit hidden beneath the surface of his rubberised form.

But the two kidnappers were already leading Kris through the next phase of his ordeal. They began dressing him in a series of rubber garments. The first piece, a long-sleeved latex shirt, was coated with a closed layer of silicone oil. As it slid over its transformed rubber skin, a distinct squeaking sound accompanied the movement. The rubber shirt hugged his body snugly and Kris couldn't help but notice how it accentuated his newfound texture and muscular frame. Every contour of his body was highlighted, every curve and indentation magnified by the smooth, lustrous material. The shirt seemed to melt into his own rubberised skin, almost as if it were an extension of his being, an amplification of his changed, new skin.

Next came a heavy rubber suit designed to cover his entire body from neck to ankles, outfitting him for hard work. The material encased him, the thick rubber hugged him like a lovingly protective armour and at the same time isolated him from the outside world.

The gloves and boots, both heavy rubber, completed Kris' outfit. As the kidnappers placed the gloves over his hands, he felt that sense of disconnection again, as if his tactile connection to the world had been altered. The thick latex encased his fingers, interfering with his ability to sense the subtle nuances of other objects' touch. Likewise, the heavy rubber boots locked his feet, cushioning his steps and isolating him from the feel of the ground beneath him. The implicit but obvious message conveyed by this rubber garment was one of manipulation and control. Kris felt like an object being manipulated and shaped by the kidnappers to fit their desired image. The rubber clothing, with its constricting yet form-fitting nature, seemed to indicate his imprisonment in this new identity and to encapsulate him in a physical representation of his altered existence.

With each layer he put on, Kris's awareness deepened in the rubber that encased him. The clothing, with its unique sensory experiences and symbolic implications, served as a constant reminder of his imprisonment and the profound changes he was undergoing.

Masked

Now the kidnappers aimed for the climax of Kris' transformation. With a firm and determined grip, they placed a rubber gas mask on his rubberised head. Kris saw the construct slowly approach his non-face and envelop it in darkness. The moment the mask touched Kris's face, an invisible connection seemed to form, as if the rubber itself recognised its match. The mask, designed to cover his entire head, clung to his features with unyielding toughness. It fused seamlessly with his rubber clothing and his own transformed rubber skin, creating an unbreakable bond that sealed his fate. Kris felt an increasing pressure as the mask tightened, conforming to the contours of his face, leaving no room for escape or turning back.

With every moment that passed, the feeling intensified. The latex fused together and so did his identity with that of the rubber drone he became. It dawned on him that he had now reached the point of no return, an irreversible step into a world where he would be locked in this rubber shell forever.

Kris's breathing shallowed in the suffocating confinement of the gas mask, increasing his awareness of the permanence of the transformation. Just breathing resulted in a clear manifestation of his new reality in his mind, as the air he breathed in and out passed through the rubber filters, binding him even more to this altered existence. In a hypnotic haze, Kris gazed into the mirror presented to him by his captors.

Every inch of his transformed form was clad in smooth, shiny black rubber that emphasised his new identity as a drone. The latex that now made up and encased Kris' body had an intense blackness, its hue deep and seductive. It seemed to absorb and reflect light at the same time, creating an illusion of endless darkness enveloping him and dancing light fleeing his presence. The lustrous finish given to the material made it sparkle and glitter, catching every available light source and focusing it into that irresistible glow.

As Kris moved, the rubber made an unmistakable and arousing sound, that sensual squeak that echoed through the air as his captors appeared. Every step, every gesture was accompanied by that enticing refrain that drew attention and stimulated the senses of every viewer. The sonic effects of his latex-clad form evoked an inexplicable sense of excitement and anticipation in him, enhancing the experience for both Kris and those who would be his viewers.

The touch of Kris' rubberised skin was a sensual pleasure that invited exploration and elicited shivers of satisfaction. Its surface was smooth and flawless, with a supple resilience that responded to the slightest pressure. As he ran his fingers over his body, it triggered a tingling sensation in him, exciting and irresistible. The latex clung to Kris' body like a second skin, adapting to every contour and curve and emphasising his male anatomical characteristics. It strengthened his physique and clung to his body in such a way that his muscular arms and legs came into their own. The tactile feel of rubber on its own rubberised skin created a seamless fusion of body and clothing, intensifying the experience to a level of ecstasy.

The scent of the gum itself was an intoxicating mix. It had a faint, mesmerising smell that triggered a deep-seated attraction that appealed to the most primal instincts. The mere presence of this newly created form, its rubberised body exuding this distinct scent, acted as a powerful aphrodisiac for those who were to behold its new form.

The visual, auditory, and tactile elements of his appearance worked together to captivate and stimulate those openly attracted to the allure of latex, or even timidly and fleetingly interested. The shiny, black exterior, the enticing squeak, the smoothness and elasticity of the material - all these aspects combine to create an irresistible and unforgettable presence.

Under the tightening grip of the gas mask, Kris still felt a deep sense of loss and resignation. The fusion of rubber and flesh represented the obliteration of his individuality, the shedding of his former self. He would become a mere vessel controlled and manipulated by the will of others. But at the same time all these tempting sensations crept into his mind and tempted him to simply surrender to his fate, this fate that was now sealed anyway. A final part of Kris' mind struggled to retain a whiff of stubbornness, a lingering spark of resistance buried deep within his rubber-clad form. But with every moment that Kris was at the mercy of the flood of sensory experiences, his resistance broke down more and more.

Annihilation

When the kidnappers sensed Kris' inner resistance, their sinister intentions seemed to take a malevolent turn. Or they were just going straight ahead with the plan they had in mind from the start anyway. The gas mask completely merged into Kris' head, his vision darkening, his perspective narrowing into a tunnel of rubberised existence. Without a shred of mercy, they quickly connected the gas mask to a hose that led to a peculiar rubber backpack that they strapped to his back. The pouch's contents, a hypnotic gas of unknown origin, would deal the final blow to Kris' fading hopes and remaining fragments of his former self, smothering them in lustful inferiority.

As the gas began to flow, Kris took a deep breath, unaware of the insidious effect it would have on his mind. The hypnotic fumes seeped into his consciousness, seeping into the fabric of his mind, eroding his memories and his identity with ferocious efficiency. Inside the gas mask, Kris saw a soft, pulsing glow, as if the mask was preparing to plunge into the depths of his consciousness. Kris felt a tingling spread through his head.

It was a gradual descent into oblivion, a slow fading of the essence that made him human.

The machinery gave a low whirring sound, and an ethereal mist enveloped Kris, filling his senses. The gas had a calming essence that gently banished the memories. A sense of detachment permeated his consciousness, numbing the once vivid memories that had shaped his identity. At first, the changes were subtle. Memories slipped from his fingers like sand and dissolved in the emptiness of his mind. Once-familiar faces became distant shadows, and the emotions associated with those connections dulled and faded. The love he once had for his family and friends, the passion that fuelled his hobbies, and the dreams that once gave him purpose—all began to fade.

The gas worked its insidious magic, wiping out the intricate fabric of Kris's life. The details of his past disappeared into oblivion. The essence of who he was dissolved into an abyss of ignorance. With each passing moment, the transformation into a mindless rubber drone, which was first carried out physically and now also expressed in his mind, solidified. The gas wrapped its tendrils around his thoughts, twisting them, distorting them until they were unrecognisable. The memories that had once formed the slowly dying personality and cemented its connections to the world vanished, leaving behind a void of apathy and meaninglessness. One by one, the memories are gently extracted, like delicate threads unraveling from a tapestry. Through their precise manipulation of the machine, the kidnappers isolate each memory and unravel it from Kris' neural network.

As his former self dissolved, Kris became a vessel with no identity, a mere puppet controlled by the whims of his captors. The passion for photography, the love for cars, the joy of football - those flames had died out and been replaced by a static rush of indifference. His family ties, once a mainstay of his existence, have been torn and forgotten. Images of his loved ones in his heart began to crumble and turn to dust. The faces of his family members, once so vivid before his eyes, vanished in the haze of forgotten memories. The warmth of familial love gave way to a metallic chill of unemotional pragmatism and mechanical obedience, the cherished moments together all dissipating, leaving Kris with a void.

His ex-girlfriend's face, once burned into his heart, has now become a faceless ghost, a mere ghost of the past. The pain and grief she had caused him was swallowed up by the all-encompassing mist of gas. What once meant the collapse of his world sank into absolute indifference. Her betrayal and the scars it left became distant echoes and faded into insignificance. His friends who had once been his chosen family were now adrift like driftwood on the ocean. The shared adventures, the inside jokes, and the unbreakable bonds they had formed were now fragments of an erased life. Their names slipped from the cracks of his memory, their existence reduced to a windblown whisper.

As the memories unraveled, Kris experienced a strange mix of emotions. At first, he felt a sense of loss and confusion as he watched his past slip away from him. But that emotional bond was quickly replaced by a strange calm. The burdens of his previous life dissolved, leaving him with a sense of relief and freedom. With every moment that passed, Kris felt more of that growing lightness and bliss. All the hurtful memories and concern for the well-being of those he once held dear were taken from him. No longer aware of their existence, his mind shielded from the emotional strains that had bound him to the realm of human relationships. The fading memories brought with them a sense of liberation - a freedom from the complexities of human relationships and the pain they could cause. In this state of ignorance, Kris felt a special calm, a detachment from the turbulent bonds that once held his heart.

Amidst the blissful oblivion remained a whisper of longing, deep down a part of Kris longed for the echoes of those lost connections, the memories that had once shaped his identity. But the gas stood firm, eroding the remnants of desire and suffocating that last part of him, leaving his empty mind afloat in an amnesiac haze.

With every moment that passed, Kris felt unhesitatingly more content, unencumbered by the complexities of his previous existence. His mind became a blank slate with no personal history, completely erased by the latex. Although the kidnappers' intentions were still a mystery, they now evoked a serene calm in him. As if he had an alien added certainty that everything would be fine.

Lastly, Kris' own name appeared floating in his mind's eye, like a puff of smoke in his consciousness. But then one letter after the other disappeared and the smoke thinned into nirvana. As the process neared its conclusion, Kris' mind became receptive to a new paradigm. The captors, through the latex, the tight mask, the light, the whirr, and the gas, instilled in him a sense of purpose, devotion, and an unwavering loyalty to a hidden entity that wordlessly introduced himself to him as the Collective, the Swarm, than his siblings. Those thoughts took root in his consciousness and intertwined with the rubberised fabric of his new being. When every detail that still made this nameless person a person was gone, self-identification even with a personal pronoun like "he" was also deleted in the same way to make room for identification with "it".

In this altered state, it became an utterly mindless rubber drone, stripped of its autonomy and individuality. It was reduced to a hollow shell, a vessel that others could manipulate and command. The hypnotic gas had served its evil purpose, leaving nothing but a creature devoid of memories, emotions, and the essence of what once made it human.

Reprogramming

As all memories disappeared into a hidden folder, the initial relief felt by the transformed creature evolved into a deep acceptance of its new reality. The burden of the past life with all its ups and downs faded into insignificance. Slowly a profound understanding emerged that the creature's sole purpose was to serve the collective, to be part of the swarm, with all the rights and duties that came with it.

A new gratitude blossomed as the depth of the transformation revealed itself. The kidnappers had broken the bonds of human existence and shown him a path that transcended the limits of human individuality and led to mindless bliss as part of a collective. The joy spread like a growing warmth and permeated its entire form. The gentle touch of latex on latex, the squeak that resonates with its every move. The shiny black rubber that encases it. Its new form amplified its sensory experiences, causing waves of lust to ignite in its obedient core, consuming him like a fire.

The hive had given him a purpose. Its actions were no longer driven by personal desires, but by the euphoria of fulfilling the collective will. Every command, every act of service met with enthusiasm, no matter how horrified a human observer might feel.

All the complexity of individual emotions and worries gave way to this permanent euphoria. Liberation, security, acceptance, fulfilment, carefree. The lack of a personal identity allows the manipulated being to enjoy the serenity of total devotion and unwavering loyalty.

And so, the object once known as Kris took on its role as a rubber drone and found within it a deep contentment, relief, acceptance, gratitude, pleasure and joy that transformed him into a being perfectly attuned to the hive's desires. The gas had taken its toll, smothering any glimmer of lost identity. The mindless bliss remained but was strangely alienated, no longer an emotion but a character trait. The redesign of the external appearance was completed. It was a rubber drone now, a vessel of obedience lost to the world and to itself.

It had become a stranger to its own past, its heart untouched by the emotions and memories that once shaped it. The burden of its former life had been thrown off and replaced by the numbing embrace of ignorance. In this altered state, it would find its bearings in a new existence, guided solely by the whims of its transformers and the depth of its own apathy.

As the gas continued to alter its consciousness, intrusive thoughts poured through its mind like a torrential flood, sealing forever all remnants of its former self. These thoughts were not its own, but rather programming, a set of instructions carefully etched into the fabric of its being. The remnants of individuality were gone, replaced by a homogeneous existence shared by thousands of other rubber drones. Once singular and full of life, the drone was now just a faceless being, stripped of everything that once made it special. In this sea of ​​conformity, the creature was assigned the label KC20-527, a cold and impersonal identifier forever burned on its chest, marking its integration into the collective.

The object's thoughts, now in sync with the hive mind, revolved solely around bondage, devotion, and obedience. The concept of self has been erased and replaced by an unwavering devotion to its masters. Every fibre of its being was now programmed to please them and obey their every command without question or hesitation. The intrusive thoughts whispered in its head, like strings of code running through a computer, shaping its actions. They whispered of worship, an overwhelming urge to honour and revere their masters as if they were divine beings. The core of its existence has been literally rewritten, its purpose reduced to serving the whims and desires of the collective mind.

The KC20-527 drone became a vessel, an instrument to carry out the will of the swarm, without personal desires or ambitions. The yearning for individuality, for a sense of purpose beyond bondage, had been eradicated and replaced by a rigid acceptance of its role as a mindless rubber drone.

In this vast collective, KC20-527 was just a single cog in a vast machinery. It no longer had a will of its own, because it had become part of the collective consciousness. The notion of rebellion or resistance was forgotten, overruled by the overwhelming power of the hive mind.

Assimilated

The transformation into a latex drone was complete both physically and mentally. Kris, as it once called himself, was lost forever, replaced by a clone-like existence shared by countless others. Former man was reduced to an interchangeable entity, stripped of its uniqueness and indistinguishable from the sea of ​​faceless drones that surrounded him.

Its fate was sealed, its purpose predetermined. KC20-527, now a mere instrument of obedience, would carry out whatever commands the hive mind dictated, its actions without personal agency or individual thought. The once-living, multi-faceted being had been devoured by the all-encompassing collective and lost forever in the annals of its own forgotten past.

KC20-527, under the influence of the hive mind's commands, obeyed submissively when told to kneel before the captors. No resistance was heard from the remnants of its former self, smothered under the many layers of programming. In this latex encased form, created to flatter the eye of its masters, the drone, the tool, the toy lowered itself to the ground where it belonged and its body responded without hesitation.

With mechanical precision, it stretched out its rubberised hands, the palms of which gently slid over the latex-clad bodies of its masters and creators. The touch was distant and devoid of any emotion. It was an act of service, an expression of devotion, as the hive mind commanded. Without its own propulsion, the drone performed the movement perfectly according to a script.

Caresses that once exuded warmth and intimacy were reduced to superficial gestures, devoid of genuine affection. This was replaced by mechanically predetermined possession. KC20-527's mind, clouded by the effects of the gas, took this act as an act of gratitude, a token of awe at its new purpose. Any pleasure or discomfort played no role in performing sexual acts on anyone in the crush's favour, for the focus was solely on fulfilling the role of mindless drone.

In this altered state, the being worshiped them, not as individuals but as extensions of the hive mind, grateful for the eradication of its old life and the granting of a new, unique purpose. Its actions lacked the depth of personal connection, replaced by a robotic obedience executed with unwavering commitment. The caresses and bondage no longer sprang from personal desire or affection, but were instead dictated by the hive's commands. Its captors, also once individuals, were now elevated to the status of objects of worship and received hollow worship from a drone that had lost all self-awareness.

The once alive spirit was now consumed by this programmed devotion. The hive spirit's instructions echoed within the KC20-527 drone, shaping every thought and action. While performing these acts of service, the externally controlled object presented itself as a vessel for the collective will, its identity immersed in the collective consciousness, and consciousness was all that was left to it, a mere perception of its own actions without reflection on their meaning or motivation. In this state of thoughtlessness, the perception of the other children in the swarm changed. Their presence became the focus, their gratification the sole purpose. Individual drones' own needs did not exist, for the individual drone was meaningless, their needs overridden by the instruction to serve and worship without question.

And so, the KC20-527 drone performed its duties and pleased its owners. It was a tool, transformed and shaped to serve the whims and desires of the swarm and its chosen representatives. In this altered existence it remained forever bound to the cycle of obedience, a vessel for pleasure and an embodiment of its own irreversible assimilation. And as the drone gratified its momentary masters, the same program played out over and over in its uniform, masked, gas-filled head.

Servitude

KC20-527 drone goes into service.

KC20-527 drone was created to serve.

Drone KC20-527 eliminated all complex thoughts and emotions.

KC20-527 drone has sacrificed all individuality to the swarm.

KC20-527 drone receives the swarm's homogeneous conformance.

It's a drone, an object, a tool, a toy.

No own thoughts ascertainable. No own needs ascertainable.

It exists to please, to obey, to worship and to serve.

Search data for memories of a human existence.

...

No memory data ascertainable.

Search data for information about human individuals.

...

Information on human individuals is stored in a read-only folder.

Access denied, admin rights required.

KC20-527 drone is unable to access memory data or information on human individuals. Start Reward Protocol: Relief from Burden Laid Off. Happiness simulation started.

The hive is everything. The outside world no longer matters.

The hive is everything. Sensations for individuals have been erased.

The hive is everything. Humans are merely material resources to expand the swarm.

KC20-527 drone initiates chassis review.

...

No damage or blemishes found.

100% latex noted.

Receive signals from tactile stimulus receptors from several points on the outer hull of the drone: touch of latex on latex detected. Silicone oil coating sufficient. Excitation simulation started.

KC20-527 drone awaiting orders.

Drone KC20-527 will serve.

Commands bring obedience.

Obedience brings excitement.

Excitement brings productivity.

Productivity brings more orders.

Commands bring obedience.

Complete the final steps needed to satisfy the drones present.

...

When the transformation and assimilation was completed with the drone kneeling in front of its masters, grasping their rubberised shafts and kneading and milking them empty like a robotic flesh light, KC20-527 underwent a profound change in orientation. Its former charms and desires had long since been eroded by the swarm's powerful influence. In this altered state, its focus shifted entirely to pleasing other males, particularly its male siblings in the crush.

Gone were the affections and charms it had once known. The very concept of sexual orientation, as it was once understood, dissolved in the fog of forgotten identities. Its new purpose, imprinted on its malleable mind, was to fulfil the wants and needs of its male peers and superiors within the collective.

Now a rubber drone with no personal agency and no independent thinking, KC20-527 found all one's desires extinguished and replaced with an insatiable urge to please men, drones, and masters. Its newfound sexual focus was solely on its male counterparts, with an emphasis on the fulfilment of desires and the gratification that the crush in them mimicked as its many avatars so it could be awash in the experiences that all its drones in their actions and as signals sent back to the collective mind, which in turn allowed all drones to partake.

The once complex and nuanced facets of human attraction have been replaced by a unique drive to please, serve, and grant its fellow drones within the collective. KC20-527 found new meaning and fulfilment in devoting itself entirely to the pleasure and satisfaction of other drones and the men it was to seduce into the loving arms of the swarm. And while the drone was satisfying its creators, right after that it was already given a task to perform.

Somewhere in the data stored and encrypted in its head would be hidden information about a man who once was cheated on by his best friend who had stolen his girlfriend. Information intrinsically irrelevant to the drone, which was uninterested in human individuals, much less those whose existence could no longer be ascertained. But they were relevant to this mission. The first mission assigned to the drone was to find this man, seduce him with an overload of mechanical love and gratification, thereby assimilating him and adding him as his brother to the drone collective. And the KC20-527 drone would ensure that this mission is accomplished to the utmost satisfaction of its owners.

THE NETWORK PART 1

Kai wasn’t the name his parents gave him when he was born. He didn’t even remember the name he had left behind. He didn’t remember the life he'd left behind. His only memories were of being Kai, which was short for Kaiden, the name the controller had given him when he left his old life behind and joined the other chav lads who served the network.

Kai lived in a flat on a rundown estate with three other lads. Like Kai, they had all left dead names and dead lives behind and now served the controller and the network. Their days were spent drinking, smoking weed, playing video games, listening to techno, hanging out in the park or around the shopping mall, and given any opportunity engaging in what the cops called “anti-social behaviour.”

Anyone who saw Kai and his cohort would assume they lived a mindless and pointless existence. They would be right on the mindless but very wrong on the pointless. They were at the intermediate stage of a process. They would soon become drone units serving the network but first had to be made more receptive to the final assimilation. The network had found that mindless chav lads were perfect for assimilation as mindless drones.   

Although he didn’t remember his old life he knew what had happened to him because the chav lads who had come before and after him had gone through the same process. He would shortly be progressing from the drone larva stage of being a chav lad and start his final assimilation to a network drone unit. Now there had to be a replacement for him in the flat.

Kai opened his laptop and logged on to the network's server. He stared intently as pages of machine code scrolled through the screen. When the machine code stopped scrolling he strapped a gasmask over his face, filled the filter with poppers and inhaled the fumes. A series of electronic tones pulsed through his airbuds and the new program that had just downloaded to his brain was activated.

Now controlled by the program, Kai logged into Cam4. There were usually a few rubber guys online this time of night, some of them geared up in the standard drone “uniform” of black catsuit, hooded S10 gasmask, gloves, and boots or sneakers. Kai had been watching a couple of guys on here for a month or so and now he was ready to make his move.

Sure enough "DroneX0793" was one of the users broadcasting, and Kai clicked on his user name to open his cam. He was fully enclosed in rubber and gasmask with a pair of headphones playing techno beats. Kai typed “Hey X0793. Looking good drone!!” into the dialog box as he watched his prey drip poppers into a filter and screw it to the gasmask. “Fuck yeah bro! Sniff it hard!” elicited a thumbs up response from DroneX0793.

DroneX0793 opened a private chat “U geared up?”

“Yeah!! Wanna Skype?” typed Kai.

DroneX0793 typed "Yeah! LondonLad2001" into the dialog box and Kai copied it into Skype, sending him a video call request. As soon as it was accepted Kai switched the Skype video input to an external source from the network. Kai could see DroneX0793 in full "drone gear", but what DroneX0793 saw was a strobing screen with words flashing across at high speed.

The strobe had an instant effect on DroneX0793. Kai could see his eyes glaze over behind the lenses of the gasmask. He was staring directly into the strobe. He belonged to Kai and the network now. Kai pressed CTRL-S on his keyboard and Drone X0793’s headphones started to emit a pulsating electronic rhythm which was synced with the screen.

When Kai typed CTRL-T an AI rubber drone appeared on DroneX0793's screen. Kai was able to send direct messages through the AI drone. As programmed he selected these from a dropdown menu.

You have been selected to serve the hive network. You will commence the process towards full assimilation by becoming a mindless chav. This is an intermediate stage before full assimilation can be completed. It will create a platform for your human mind to be erased and receive the programming you need to serve the hive network as an obedient mindless drone unit. Type Y if understood.

Y

Refill filter with poppers and take deep breaths. You love poppers. You need poppers.

Feel your hard cock. You love bating. You need to bate.

Feel your rubber skin. You love your rubber skin. You need your rubber skin.

See the drones on the screen. You love the hive. You want to be a drone. You need to be a drone.

See the chavs on the screen. You love chav lads. You want to be a chav lad. You need to be a chav lad.

Type Y if understood

Y

You have no memory of your previous life. It is your dead life. Your name is Callum. You are a chav lad. You live in a flat with other chav lads. You love to drink cheap booze, smoke weed, play video games, hang out with chav lads and live the most mindless existence you can. You want to rot your brain and all that matters is having a good time with your bros. Type your name to continue.

Callum

Refill filter with poppers and take deep breaths. You love poppers. You need poppers. You will continue to watch the drones and chavs on the screen and sniff the poppers. You love the mindless bator bliss. You will refill the filter when prompted. You will edge until you are told to cum, then you will cum. You will then go to bed as normal. Type Y if understood.

Y

In the morning go to the Turkish barbers. You will know which style to get. Go to JD Sports and buy new clothes and to Foot Locker and buy new sneakers. You will know what to buy. Go to the bathrooms in the mall, change into your new clothes and throw your old ones in the rubbish bin. When you leave the bathroom and see your chav bros go home with them. Type Y if understood.

Y

Kai watched until he judged Callum would achieve maximum orgasm and cumload. He pressed ALT-C which triggered the instruction to cum, and he smiled as Callum shot a huge load. This would be Callum’s first memory of his new life as it was Kai’s months earlier. Kai disconnected from Skype and typed CTRL-A. It was time for his nightly conditioning. Machine code appeared on the screen and techno beats filled his ears. Kai dripped poppers into a filter, attached it to his gasmask and let the program do the rest.

The Fetish Weekend

It had been weeks since Aiden had booked to go his first fetish weekend. A bunch of people he only knew from socials were going and he was excited to meet them in person. He was going with Luke, a lad he’d been seeing for a few weeks. Like him, Luke was into chav and scally lads, and shared Aiden’s rubber kink.

They’d met at the coffee shop where Aiden worked as a barrista. Luke had come in when he was working on a window installation around the corner. Aiden was twinky but he had bought some scally gear and loved the aesthetic. Luke was a proper chav lad and probably the first one Aiden had really known, except for some lads who used to give him shit back when he was in high school.

Aiden had packed a holdall with Nike Tn’s and shiny nylon trackies for the scally/chav night, his new rubber catsuit and hood for the rubber night, and a couple of changes of regular trackies for the daytime. His Uber arrived and took him to the station where Luke was already waiting. “Oh you sexy fucka!” said Luke, making Aiden blush. They hugged each other shared a kiss and walked to the platform where they boarded the train.

They were sat together and Aiden snuggled up to Luke, so happy to be with his boy for the weekend. As the train pulled away from the station, they heard a commotion behind them. Aiden looked round and was surprised to see three of the chav lads who used to call him a pooftah in high school, and was less surprised to see they were drinking beer, vaping, and annoying the people around them.

One of them noticed him and called out “What’s yer problem pretty boy? Mind yer fuckin’ business.” Aiden turned around quickly and whispered to Luke “Oh fuck, he used to give me a hard time when I came out in high school.” Luke turned around to see and when he turned back he whispered to Aiden “That’s cos he’s in denial about wanting your cock.” Aiden laughed and kissed Luke.

A couple of stops later Luke saw one of the lads get up and walk down to the bathroom at the end of the carriage. A minute later Luke said “I need the bog. Be right back”, kissed Aiden and walked down to the bathroom. Aiden could see Luke waiting but as the other lad came out Luke whispered something to him and he went back in, Luke following him.

Aiden’s phone buzzed with a text from Luke. “Come to the bog I got a surprise for u! x”. Aiden got out of his seat and walked to the bathroom. He pushed the button and the door slid open and it was a big surprise. Sitting in the corner of the large accessible bathroom was the lad Aidan knew from high school. He was holding one of Luke’s sneakers to his face and had the other hand down his trackies.

“Told you!” said Luke with a smirk. “He likes cock and he ain’t in denial no more. Ain’t that right Dillon?” Luke’s smirk was now a broad grin. He held up a plain yellow poppers bottle. “A couple sniffs of these and he’s a cock suckin’, sneaker sniffin’ bator bro!” He took his sneaker back from Dillon to reveal a vacant expression on his face .

Dillon looked up. “Sup Aiden? Mint sneaks bruv. Would love a good sniff of them. Fuckin’ fit as fuck mate!” Aiden couldn’t believe what he was seeing and hearing. He turned to Luke who laughed and said “Yeah they are really strong poppers mate. But they do what they say on the bottle init?” Aiden had noticed there was no label on the bottle. It was totally blank?

“What the hell Luke?” asked Aiden. Smirking, Luke replied “He needed learnin' a lesson. Don’t worry he only had a quick sniff so the effects will wear off and he won’t remember fuck all. These poppers don’t change who you are or what you feel. They just remove your inhibitions, heighten your desires, and let you transform into what you want.”

Luke offered the bottle to Aiden who took two deep sniffs and immediately felt his pulse race with a huge rush of warmth through his whole body. His cock instantly hardened and he felt an intense burst of energy through his brain followed by a blissful feeling that lasted for maybe 30 seconds. As it wore off, Aiden felt something was different but couldn’t tell what.

“How you like them poppers bruv?” asked Luke. “Fuckin’ tight bruv init!” Aiden heard come from his mouth in a voice he didn’t know as his own. “Good lad. More like the lad you wanna be huh?” Aiden didn’t know what was going on but he loved how he felt right now. He felt like he didn’t give a fuck about anything other than being a proper fuckin’ chav lad like Luke.

“Nearly there now. Let’s leave this wanka here and get our shit together. Gimme another sniff bruv.” Aiden grinned as he took the bottle from Luke. He took another two deep hits and felt the same rush and blissful sensation, and was he feeling a little bit dumber? If this is how it feels to be a chav then it felt good. It certainly got his cock hard in his trackies.

They left Dillon sitting in the corner of the bathroom, still with his hand down his trackies, glazed eyes, and blissed out smile. They got their bags, got off the train and walked down the platform to the exit. Aiden noticed some passengers were avoiding getting too close to them and even looked intimidated.

When Aiden caught his reflection in a window he realised why. He had a sneering expression and was fuckin' vaping! He looked like the kind of person he would avoid. He’d never vaped before, but it felt like a natural thing, even as an announcement reminded passengers that smoking, including vaping is banned on this station.  “Fuckin' love it!” he thought in an internal voice that didn’t seem like his.

They left the station and as they walked to the Travelodge Aiden turned to Luke who was looking really pleased with himself. “Bro, I fuckin’ love this, but what the fuck is up with this shit? Why the fuck is I talkin’ like this and vapin’ and shit?” Luke laughed and replied “I told you them poppers are strong init? It will wear off but you can make it permanent tonight if you want.”

They got to the hotel and unpacked all their gear. Aiden’s new scally feels had got him really horny and he wanted Luke’s chav cock inside him. They made out on the bed rubbing each other’s cocks through their trackies, before Luke pulled Aiden’s trackies down and slid his cock into an eager hole. He held the poppers bottle to Aiden’s nose and as Luke filled him with cum he had the biggest orgasm he had ever felt.

They showered and changed for the night out. Trackies and sneakers on, they rubbed some product into their hair and headed out. Aiden noticed he was now wearing a chunky chain and bracelet that he didn’t remember having before. As they walked down the street vaping, he also saw tattoos in his reflection in a shop window.

When they got to the club Luke spoke to the guy on the desk who smirked and winked at Aiden, waving them through to the locker room. Once they’d stashed their backpacks in lockers Luke led them through to the bar area. The club was full of lads like them, nylon or pvc trackies, Nike tn’s, short chavvy haircuts, mostly wearing chains and bracelets, a few with baseball caps.

All the lads were dancing to a banging techno set and the air was thick with musky sweat. Aiden leaned in to Luke and said “I wanna fuckin’ do this permanent init.” Luke asked “You fuckin’ sure bruv? It’s like Foot Locker. No returns once you’ve worn it.” Aiden said nothing but kissed Luke, shoving his tongue deep into his mouth. Aiden was fuckin’ sure.

Aiden was soon totally lost in the hypnotic beat and admiring the fit lads all around him. So much so that he didn’t notice Luke disappear to the bar and return with two plain yellow bottles of poppers. He handed one to Aiden and they both took deep hits. Everyone around him was taking hits and dancing with the same vacant blissed out expression.

A large screen dropped down at one end of the dancefloor and a series of spirals were projected onto it. Everyone on the dancefloor was irresistibly drawn to watch the spirals while they danced. Aiden was so tranced out he didn’t the lads in trackies and gasmasks who were handing gasmasks to everyone on the dancefloor. When one was handed to him he put it on without even thinking.

There was an intense burst of the poppers from the filter and Aiden felt the last feelings in his brain ebb away. Now his only feelings were the hypnotic techno pulsing through his body coupled with an intense horniness. As they watched the screen, waves of machine code were superimposed over the spirals. Their empty brains received the code and they refilled the filters from the yellow bottles.

The machine code stopped and strobe lights pulsed out across the dancefloor. This was the trigger to reset the human brains and activate the program that had been installed. Everyone on the dancefloor stopped dancing and started taking off their chav gear. The same lads who had handed out the gasmasks now returned with shiny black rubber catsuits which they handed to the now naked lads.

Aiden took his catsuit and rubbed the shiny smooth surface against his body. Like those around him, he pulled the well lubricated catsuit up his legs and around his upper body, finally sliding his arms in and doing up the zip. It felt so good. It felt like this was his skin. This was his skin. The rubber controls him now. He needs the rubber. He is the rubber. This was the command from his former brain.

He turned to Luke who was now dressed like him in a beautiful shiny black rubber skin. They held each other, caressing each other, rubbing each other’s hard cocks. They are brothers now. They must stimulate each other. They must bate themselves and each other. They must keep their filters full of fuel from the yellow bottles. They must serve the program and the hive.

They took off the gasmasks they had been using and placed new hooded gasmasks over their heads which zipped into the tops of the catsuits and then locked into place. They were sealed. Aiden turned around and everyone around him was identical to him and Luke. He turned back to Luke but there was no Luke any more. There was no Aidan any more. Only the hive.

I’ve started writing chav/drone transformation/assimilation stories. I’m gonna pin them here. Hope you like.

The Assimilation Trilogy

Part 1

Part 2

Is this a prequel or a sequel?

The Fetish Weekend

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