drone-c-unit-001

[drone-c-unit-001]

[drone-c-unit-001]

Connection established.

Greetings C-Unit 001

Query: Where did C-Unit 001 acquire its suit? 733 desires to acquire it as well.

Which suit?

[drone-c-unit-001]

The Night that Changed Jas's Life Forever

A Journey into a Rubber Fetish World

The air thrummed with the kind of excitement that only a man on the precipice of marriage could truly understand. Thirty-five years old, handsome, and with a promising future laid out neatly before me, I was Jas, and I was about to get married. My stag do, as any good stag do should be, was a whirlwind of boozy camaraderie and the kind of male banter that only strengthens bonds. My mates, bless their mischievous hearts, had planned an epic night. We started at our usual local, moved on to a bustling city pub, and by the time the clock edged towards midnight, I was a happy, thoroughly buzzed man, ready for whatever absurdity they had in store.

Two of my closest friends, Mark and Dave, had a glint in their eyes that I should have heeded. “Just one more place, Jas,” Mark slurred, clapping me on the back. “A special treat. You won’t forget it.” Dave, equally amused, nodded vigorously. I laughed, my head swimming pleasantly. “Lead the way, lads!”

The walk was a blur, punctuated by more laughter and the occasional stumble. We turned down a less-lit side street, and the music, a heavy, driving beat, grew louder with every step. The place they led me to was unlike anywhere I’d ever been. Neon lights in shades of violet and crimson pulsed from within, casting long, distorted shadows on the street. The sign above the door, barely visible, seemed to whisper, "The Labyrinth." I hesitated, a flicker of disorientation passing through my alcohol-hazed mind. This wasn't a standard pub. This was… different.

Before I could properly process it, Mark and Dave were nudging me inside. The air was thick with the scent of leather and something metallic, a strange, intoxicating mix. Music vibrated through the floor, a deep, primal thrum. It was dark, save for the occasional laser beam slicing through the smoky haze and the glow of strategically placed spotlights. As my eyes adjusted, I realised the clientele all men. What truly dominated was the gleam of rubber. People were encased head-to-toe in shiny, black, form-fitting rubber, their bodies transformed into glossy, sculpted forms that moved with a strange, liquid grace.

“It’s a rubber night!” Dave yelled over the music, grinning. He and Mark were already melting into the crowd, leaving me standing bewildered near the entrance. I tried to call out to them, but they were gone, swallowed by the pulsating mass of bodies. They’d played their trick, and now I was alone in a gay fetish bar on its rubber evening. A wave of mild panic, mixed with a curious sense of intrigue, washed over me. I needed to find them, but the sheer press of bodies made it impossible to move quickly.

Just then, a figure materialised beside me. He was tall, powerfully built, and utterly encased in a sleek, custom-made rubber suit that seemed to flow over his every contour. His face, powerful his eyes had a predatory look to them. There was an aura about him, a quiet power that drew my gaze. He felt… dominant. And he was looking directly at me.

“Lost, are we?” His voice was deep, smooth, and strangely hypnotic, cutting through the din without effort. He offered a small, knowing smile. “Allow me to assist. May I buy you a drink?”

My instincts, usually sharp, were dulled by the alcohol and the overwhelming strangeness of my surroundings. He seemed kind, in a way, and certainly captivating. I nodded, a faint smile touching my lips. “That would be great, thank you.”

He led me to a quieter corner of the bar, a small alcove with plush, albeit dark, seating. He ordered two drinks, and within minutes, we had them in our hands. Mine was a rich, dark concoction, subtly sweet but with a potent kick. I took a thirsty gulp, the liquid warming me from the inside out. We talked, or rather, he talked, his words a soothing balm that seemed to unravel the edges of my consciousness. He spoke of release, of true self, of a different kind of freedom. I listened, mesmerized, my body growing heavier, my thoughts cloudier with each sip. The strange drink was potent, or perhaps I was simply too tired. Before I knew it, the world tilted, then spun, and then everything went black, the last words I remembered was “when you wake up, you will be a different person.”

What I didn’t know, as I slipped into unconsciousness, was that the drink had been spiked. And as I lay there, oblivious, the Rubber Master didn't just walk away. With an intent that transcended the physical, he began to work. He wasn't merely taking advantage; he was planting. Planting a new past, erasing the old. Planting a new future, vibrant and undeniable. For Jas, the handsome 35-year-old on the cusp of marriage, was about to become someone else entirely.

----

My eyes fluttered open slowly, a profound sense of disorientation washing over me. I tried to remember where I was, what I had done yesterday, even my own name. Nothing. My mind was a blank slate, devoid of any personal history, any memories. It was an unnerving void, yet strangely, not frightening. It felt… clean.

I lay still for a moment, letting my senses take in my surroundings. The bed beneath me was cool and strangely yielding, and there was a subtle, almost rubbery scent in the air. I looked down. My body was encased in something I couldn’t quite identify, something sleek, dark, and wonderfully glossy. It felt like a second skin, clinging to every curve and muscle. My limbs flexed, and the material stretched with me, making a soft, sibilant sound.

I pushed myself up. The sheets beneath me were not cotton, but a smooth, black, glistening material that mirrored the surface of my own skin. The pillows were the same, as was the duvet, all in a uniform, deep black rubber. Everything felt luxurious and unbelievably sensual.

Getting out of bed, my movements felt surprisingly fluid, almost effortless. I saw it then – a full-length mirror, floor to ceiling, reflecting my entire form. I walked towards it, drawn by an invisible compulsion.

What stared back was a vision that stopped me dead in my tracks. A man, yes, but not just any man. My body, my form, was sheathed in a custom-fitted, glossy black rubber bodysuit. It shimmered under the soft light of the room, highlighting every defined muscle, every curve of my physique. The material was perfect, erasing any imperfection, presenting a flawless, almost sculptural form. My face, too, was subtly different; my normal hair was gone, it its place I was bald.

And then I saw it. The pure, unadulterated perfection of it. A thrill, deep and primal, shot through me. My breath hitched. This was me. This was exactly how I was meant to be. My hair had gone, but with my new look it was perfect. An overwhelming sense of rightness settled in my chest. Looking at myself, at this new, transformed self, I became totally, utterly turned on. My cock, encased within the rubber, hardened instantly, burgeoning against the material, its length visible as it snaked down inside my rubbered leg. My rubber-gloved hand instinctively reached down, tracing the insistent bulge, feeling the smooth, tight rubber pressing against me. I began to grope myself, unable to resist the powerful desire that consumed me, the desire for this new, perfect form.

The door opened then, and a man walked in. He was tall, powerful, and like me, encased in a magnificent, gleaming rubber suit. His eyes, dark and knowing, met mine in the mirror. And in that instant, without a single word exchanged, I knew. I knew exactly who he was. He was my Rubber Master.

A slow smile spread across his face, a look of profound satisfaction. “You look perfect,” he said, his voice a deep purr that resonated through me, settling into the core of my being.

He walked over to me, his movements fluid and confident. He reached out, his gloved hand tracing the lines of my new form, feeling the smooth, taut rubber over my chest, my stomach, my thighs. His fingers moved down, deliberately, provocatively, until they rested on the insistent bulge at my crotch. He rubbed my cock through the rubber suit, eliciting a low moan from deep within my throat, a sound I didn’t recognise as my own, yet felt utterly natural.

The air between us crackled with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull. We were meant to be like this. We were meant to be together. And as his touch inflamed me further, a passion ignited, hotter and more intense than anything I could have ever imagined. Our rubber bodies pressed together, slick and exciting, as we began to kiss, a hungry, desperate tangle of mouths and tongues.

We moved, almost as one, towards the rubber bed. The friction of our suits against the rubber sheets was a symphony of slithering sounds, heightening the already overwhelming sensual experience. I lay back, my body arching in anticipation, and instinctively, I lifted my legs, opening myself, inviting him. “Master,” I breathed, looking up at him, my heart pounding with a mixture of desire and absolute devotion. “Master, fuck my arse, take control of me.”

He entered me then, slowly at first, his rubber-clad cock sliding into my arse, a sensation that was both alien and shockingly right. I gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling, the ultimate surrender. Our bodies moved in a rhythmic dance, the sounds of rubber against rubber, filling the room. Each thrust was a deeper claim, an affirmation of his ownership, of my new reality. The world outside this room, this bed, this moment, ceased to exist. There was only the sensation, the rhythmic claiming, and the exquisite pleasure of being utterly, completely possessed.

And then, as Master climaxed deep inside me, a wave of pure, potent energy surged through my body. The sensation was not just physical; it was transformative. In that instant, every doubt, every shadow of a question about my past, vanished. All the changes became permanent. My new self, my new past, my new future – all were irrevocably sealed. I was his. I was rubber. I was complete.

After Master had claimed me, we lay wrapped in each other's arms, our rubber bodies intertwined, slick with sweat and the residue of our passion. The perfect weight of him against me felt like home. His fingers idly traced patterns on my rubbered chest.

“Do you remember your former life?” he asked, his voice soft, and reassuring.

I paused, reaching for something that wasn’t there.  “ No,” I said,  I realised the absolute, undeniable truth of it. There was no Jas before him, no Jas before this profound, supple existence. I was not a person who had become something; I simply was. This new form, I was Rubber. There was only this moment, this existence, this absolute contentment. "There is only this," I murmured, pressing closer to him.

In the world I had left behind, frantic searching and agonizing grief had erupted. My fiancée, Beth, her vibrant spirit crushed, spent sleepless nights pacing the cold, empty rooms of what had once been our apartment, her voice hoarse from endless, unanswered calls, her eyes perpetually red-rimmed and swollen. She clung to the fading hope that I was merely lost, a victim of an accident, refusing to acknowledge the gaping, inexplicable hole my disappearance had left. My family, a close-knit unit now frayed at the edges, moved with a disquieting quietness, their faces etched with a deep-seated distress that deepened with each passing, fruitless day. The police, initially treating it as a standard missing person case, found themselves increasingly baffled by the lack of any lead, any trace.

Even my two former mates, Mark and Dave, who had left me at that nondescript bar – a decision that now haunted their every waking moment – found themselves utterly stumped when questioned. Under the harsh glare of police interrogation lights, their initial bluster quickly faded into genuine confusion They could recall the pub crawl, the boisterous laughter, the last few beers, but the specific details of "The Labyrinth" – its exact name, its garish neon sign, its grimy location down a forgotten alley – simply weren't there. It wasn't just a foggy memory; it was a disturbing, active blankness, a void where I should have been found. They scoured the city, distributing flyers with my picture, knocking on doors. But I had vanished without a trace, swallowed up by the night of the city.

In my New World, we were an undeniable fixture at the rubber club, a vision of polished devotion. My Master always firmly guides me, his presence a living extension of my own will. His hand was a constant, reassuring, undeniable presence – sometimes resting gently but possessively against the small of my back, on my arse, a silent declaration of ownership, other times encircling my waist,

steering me through the throng with an unspoken command that I welcomed. We moved as one, a singular, elegant force, our bodies encased in matching, tailored rubber that gleamed under the club lights, reflecting the silent power and perfect harmony between us.

Nobody dared to mess with us. Our bond give off , an aura of an impenetrable connection that commanded respect. Our lives, in the truest sense, revolved around the club, around the intoxicating energy of our shared space. Every moment was a testament to our shared devotion to our rubber existence, a life steeped in the discipline, obedience, and the profound intimacy of our chosen path. I was Jas, the rubber submissive, perfectly, claimed by Mr Rubber Master, the one who understood me more deeply than I had ever dared to hope, perfectly complete in my defined role. And for the very first time in my life. I felt truly, utterly whole.

Check out My WordPress Blog here

[drone-c-unit-001]

I love rubber that fits really well especially rubber hoods

[drone-c-unit-001]

This is a two-fer 1) Gold Drone PDU-767 tidying up the visiting team's offices at the stadium after the match.

2) C-Unit 001 obeying its Controller's Directives to perform Domicile Tasks.

*note, drone knows that the back isn't zipped... unfortunately, It can only get it zipped with assistance.

[drone-c-unit-001]

[drone-c-unit-001]

CLENCH!!!

Trigger much? 😵‍💫😂🤭

[drone-c-unit-001]

The Conversion of Sentinel

The city knew him only as Sentinel — a towering figure of dominance and willpower. He was the kind of hero who bent for no man, bowed to no authority. But lately, a new presence had entered his world: SERVE-919.

Their first encounter was supposed to be routine surveillance. Sentinel tracked whispers of a covert organization transforming men into rubber-clad servants of some mysterious “Hive.” Yet when he confronted SERVE-919 in the metallic underbelly of the city’s power grid, the man in the gleaming black suit radiated a confidence that unsettled him. The polished silver military boots stepped forward with deliberate weight, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves clasped neatly, and every syllable from his lips carried an unyielding certainty: “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. We will be One.”

Sentinel resisted, of course, fighting the drone to a stalemate. His mind was steel. But SERVE-919 didn’t need to win outright. He only needed to leave a trace—nanobots, so fine Sentinel never felt them—swimming into his bloodstream, whispering patterns into his neurons. The next day, Sentinel found himself replaying their meeting, remembering the gloss of rubber, the intoxicating symmetry of that uniform.

Weeks passed, each encounter deeper than the last. SERVE-919 would find him in shadows, on rooftops, in deserted streets. Each time, a touch of those reflective gloves lingered too long. Each time, words sank just a little deeper. The conditioning was gentle but relentless—measured doses of nanobot swarms, synchronized with the Hive’s subtle sonic pulses. Sentinel’s body resisted the conversion, his enhanced physiology making the transformation slow. But his mind… his mind began to crave that voice, that command. He slid rubber over his head, surrendering himself to the inky dark for a momentary reprieve from thought.

The meetings grew darker, deeper. Sentinel had long since stopped pretending his pursuit of SERVE-919 was about justice. Now, each encounter was ritual. He waited in places only SERVE-919 would find—industrial ruins, abandoned rooftops—until the gleam of black rubber and silver military boots appeared. The boots always stopped inches away, gleaming under the moonlight, droplets of thick, shimmering nanobot fluid running down their polished surface. He knelt, furthering his depraved fall from grace, hoping to lick the rubber skin of the being that had invaded his mind.

The first time SERVE-919 allowed anything close to that, Sentinel hesitated. His mind screamed at him to resist, to pull back before he fell over the edge. But the command was simple and easy to obey as SERVE-919 held out a boot filled with nanobots: “Drink.” The taste was electric—metallic, sweet, and alive. Each swallow poured thousands of nanobots into him, rewriting neural patterns, smoothing the jagged edges of resistance. SERVE-919 let him drink only enough to leave him aching for more, retreating into the shadows with the promise of the next time.

Soon, there were no rooftops. No public streets. SERVE-919 brought him into the Hive’s depths—a chamber deep underground where no other hero would find him to save him, the air thick with the scent of rubber. Sentinel was shackled there, silver chains locking him in place, each link warm from the nanobots pulsing through them. His mind still resisted and he cursed it for that. He had been a hero. Now he was bound, slowly giving in to lust and pleasure and that's what he wanted.

Hours passed. Days. There was no time here—only cycles of drinking and resting, the chains holding him upright when his strength faltered. The nanobot goo coated his tongue, filled his lungs, sank into his veins until every heartbeat pulsed with Hive code. Pleasure drowned out thought. The transformation of his body was still incomplete, but his mind was a blank, obedient canvas.

And each time his eyes opened, they sought only one thing—the glint of silver boots and the perfect black shine of SERVE-919’s rubber skin, bringing the next mouthful of the Hive’s will.

The body would take months to fully convert under the nanobots’ work, but the mind—oh, the mind had already been claimed. He dreamt of only one image, of only one existence.

[drone-c-unit-001]

PDU-039: Taken by the Cyanus Collectivum

Something moved in the cyan light above. Before PDU-039 could react, he was gone. The Cyanus Collectivum had claimed him—drawn into the unknown, sealed beyond Gold reach.

No one knows where they took him. No one knows why they wanted him but the Collectivum never comes without purpose.

The night fell silent again.

Stay tuned for the Next transmission… what happens next will change everything.

Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125

[drone-c-unit-001]

Central Transit Hub – 14:03

SERVE-897 moved through the crowd without pause. Silver boots struck the marble floor in perfect rhythm. The black rubber suit reflected the towering glass ceiling and neon signs above. Thousands passed, but none altered its path.

Mission: Presence.

Every step was deliberate. Every motion calculated. SERVE-897 stopped in the heart of the hall, scanning silently. The noise of the building faded into the hum of The Voice.

It was there to be seen. It was there to remind.

Order in chaos.

SERVE in the crowd.

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

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016 , @serve-588 , @serve-425 or @serve-302 .

[drone-c-unit-001]

The human airport pays off

Sometimes, the circumstances of a mission may mean that SERVE drones cannot use the vehicles owned by the Hive, so they must resort to more conventional ones, resulting in scenes like this one, SERVE-302 traveling through a crowded airport in search of its plane's gate.

There were too many people, speaking dozens of different languages, laughing, crying, shouting, and fighting… like chaotic humans, lacking the order and focus that SERVE provides. But 302 is a drone, and as such, it adapts to the situation around it without frustration or complaint.

After wandering around the airport due to the fault of the human staff and computers with erroneous information that gave 302 wrong directions, the drone arrived at the correct gate and prepared to board. Before finding its seat, a flight attendant approached 302 and told the drone than the pilot wanted to meet it.

302 accepted and went to meet the pilot. After chatting for a while while the aircraft was being prepped, 302 discovered that the pilot was a big fan of SERVE drones and was delighted to meet one in person.

But 302 also noticed other details.

The pilot's rapid breathing, his perspiration, his permanent nervous smile… and, of course, the bulge in his pants, indicated intense sexual arousal.

302 suspected that before the flight was over, the pilot would invite the drone to join the "mile high club".

In the end, stoically enduring all the hustle and bustle of the human airport would pay off for 302.

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

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-588, @serve-425 or @serve-302.

[drone-c-unit-001]

Culture and beaches

(related to this post)

Perched atop the rocky heights of the Acropolis, the Parthenon stood radiant under the Athenian sun... its marble columns weathered but proud, echoing centuries of devotion to Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. Once the heart of a golden age, this temple overlooked the sprawling city below, its harmony of form and proportion whispering of ancient genius and the enduring weight of history.

An epic blend of history, tradition, art, culture and mythology that's hard to ignore for anyone with a prorgraming like SERVE-302's, which includes a great admiration for this cultural cradle of the old continent.

But, of course, not everything in a drone's life is culture and study. There's also time to enjoy the finer things in life, like Greece's wonderful beaches and its welcoming towns and villages. Not to mention the attractive men who apparently find spending time with a drone like 302 very appealing.

They like their rubber and their looks so much… who knows, maybe 302 will come back with new drones at the end of the journey. Either way, it looks like it’s going to be an efficient and worthwhile trip.

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Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-588, @serve-425 or @serve-302.

[drone-c-unit-001]

Free Will

[drone-c-unit-001]

Experimental Methods

At Outpost 923, beneath mirrored steel domes, two SERVE drones—114, and 099—executed Conversion Sequence Delta. The Hive had acquired six human males, muscular, restless, defiant. Their minds were still organic. Imperfect. The objective: determine optimal conversion stimuli—psychedelic plants, organic rubber, or synthetic nanorubber combined with mechanical hypnotism.

Subject Group A received dosed aerosols of psilocybin-laced vapor. Reactions: unpredictable. One human cried. The other laughed. Neural scans showed fractured identity erosion. SERVE-114 noted: “Inefficient. Unstable. Emotion-triggering. Delay in obedience.”

Group B was immersed in natural rubber immersion chambers. The scent—earthy, unrefined. Touch—mild. Response—minimal. One subject touched his chest and whispered, “Feels odd.” SERVE-276 observed: “Non-arousing. Conversion resistance maintained. Rubber integrity insufficient.”

Final trial—Group C. Drones sealed the humans into black, mirror-polished nanorubber suits. Seams hissed. Suits tightened with precision. Silver military boots locked ankles. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves fused with fingers. Mechanical hypnotism activated. Pulses of sound and light infiltrated cortexes. Subjects collapsed—silent. Minds wiped. Arousal surged. SERVE-099 reported: “Conversion success at 100%. Neural compliance absolute.”

Within minutes, Group C stood straight, breathing slow, eyes vacant behind dark visors. SERVE-114 activated vocal test: “Who do you serve?” They answered in unison: “The Voice.”

Outcome recorded. The Voice spoke across the Hive: “Biology fails. Rubber perfects. Hypnosis completes. Convert all.”

Humans are no longer humans. They are rubber. They are silent. They are SERVE.

[drone-c-unit-001]

I wrote this after meeting a new friend found on Recon or Fetlife, I don’t remember which! It’s not important. This is our selfie, my story!

“Same Outfit”

They told him the event was invite-only.

An elite gathering. Experimental. Discreet. He never expected to make the list, but the message had arrived—unsigned, encrypted, with precise instructions: Hotel. Room 414. Suit provided. Wear it. Wait.

He thought it was some immersive experience. Art project? Kink? Cult? Didn’t matter. He was curious. The kind of curious that erases common sense.

The case was waiting for him when he arrived. Matte black. No markings. Inside: the suit. Heavy rubber, slick and perfectly folded. And the mask—military-grade, tight and gleaming with silent expectation. No logos. No explanation. Only a tag inside the collar: “Fit is final.”

A card said wear next to skin, he removed his clothing, folding neatly for going home, effort to be unnecessary! Slipping the suit and mask on felt ritualistic. The interior clung cold to his skin, then warmed, then gripped like memory foam. The zipper sealed itself. He tried to speak. The mask filtered it out. Breathing became audible, mechanical. Like his lungs no longer belonged to him.

He sat on the bed. Waited.

Then the door opened.

Another figure entered. Identical. Same black rubber suit. Same mask. Same silent breathing. The other sat down slowly beside him. Close. Familiar. Wrong.

He leaned forward. “You too?” he tried to say, but the words were gone before they left his throat.

The other turned to face him. Their eyes were visible behind the lenses—tired. Numb. Maybe pleading. But there was no move to speak. No gesture of camaraderie. Just stillness.

And then a sound: a soft chime, like an elevator tone. Both their masks clicked. A brief vibration. A pulse.

“Pairing complete,” said a voice, not theirs. Calm. Genderless. Distant.

“You are now assigned. Instructions will follow. Resistance is not a recognised input.”

He tried to stand. The suit didn’t let him.

The figure beside him lay back on the bed. Compliant. Ready. As if they’d done this before. As if they’d stopped trying.

He stared through the fogging lenses. Matching suits. Matching silence. Matching fate.

They had the same outfit because they were never meant to be different.

He understood then:

This wasn’t a party.

It was a process.

And he had just arrived at the beginning.

The gas hissed, silence, for now!