serve-599

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

Feel the rush of energy every day of your life as the Voice guides you as a rubber drone, a gimp, a servant to please and pleasure

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

And soon you will stop questioning it!

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

Good drones obey. The featureless objects they are obeyed their programming. Reblog if you are a good drone and comment below if you are a good drone.

[serve-599]

Take the dog for a walk

[serve-599]

Kyle froze as SERVE-807 turned to him — that rubber-clad perfection, lean and muscular, polished like a machine and exuding sheer dominance. The silver letters on 807’s chest gleamed: SERVE-. His silver shiny reflective rubber gloves moved with robotic grace. His silver military boots echoed against the pavement.

“You used to be just a guy,” Kyle murmured, voice shaking. “Are you… happy?”

SERVE-807 didn’t blink. It didn’t emote. It simply stepped forward. Closer. Close enough for Kyle to smell the rubber, feel its heat, the power. “This unit functions optimally,” 807 replied.

Kyle’s mouth parted. He was transfixed. Envious. Curious. Aroused.

He had gone to school with this man. Played games. Talked dreams. Now, SERVE-807 stood as a monument to obedience and arousing control. No hesitation. No questions. Just perfection in a tight, gleaming suit. Just submission to the Voice. Just rubber.

Kyle swallowed hard. “What’s it like? To live like this?”

“This unit obeys. This unit is fulfilled. This unit is rubberized. Join. Serve. Become one.”

Kyle didn’t resist when the silver gloves rested on his shoulder. Didn’t flinch when the hiss of rubber initiation whispered through the air. In that moment, the choice wasn’t a choice at all.

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. And Kyle’s transformation was inevitable.

Rubber makes us perfect. Obedience is pleasure Pleasure is obedience We are One. We are SERVE. ______________________________________________________________

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

[serve-599]

“Before becoming Serve 175, its earliest human memory of the Hive’s calling traced back to college—back to a university lecture hall and a professor unlike any other. The professor, sharp-minded and magnetic, would stride into class in tailored leather pants that whispered with every movement. His presence commanded attention, his voice smooth and deliberate, each word carrying weight. The subtle gleam of leather, paired with his confidence and intellect, stirred something unspoken within the young human—an awakening that would smolder quietly until it found its true purpose in the Hive, and in the surrender of dronehood.”

The sun burned bright over the old college campus, its golden light glinting off the mirrored surface of Serve 175’s black suit as he strode down the familiar paths. The Hive’s seal—the silver “SERVE-175”—gleamed like a command upon his chest. Around him, the young men of the university moved in clusters, their muscular builds outlined beneath soft cotton tees and faded denim of the 1990s, unaware of the presence walking among them.

For 175, this place was not nostalgia but clarity. Every brick walkway and every breeze carried fragments of the human who had once been here—restless, searching, drawn to a rhythm he did not yet understand. The memory of his professor’s leather-clad presence still lingered like a whisper: the commanding voice, the scent of chalk dust, the gleam of dark fabric that had ignited a quiet hunger.

Now, there was no hunger. There was only purpose. His silver gloves flexed as he moved, as if even the lightest touch could convey the discipline and devotion the Hive had awakened in him. He passed the young men with an unwavering gaze, not as one of them, but as something beyond—an embodiment of the perfection they didn’t yet know they desired.

[serve-599]

Slices Served Here

SERVE-807 stands silently at the center of the tasting station, its uniform gleaming with synthetic perfection—shiny black rubber like wet glass, seamless and second-skin tight. The silver "SERVE-807" gleams across its firm chest. Silver military boots remain grounded in discipline, while the silver shiny reflective rubber gloves handle each treat with precise, sensual grace.

Young men gather around, drawn by the contrast of elegance and submission. One approaches, drawn in by the delectable treats. His casual blue polo shirt and blue jeans are unassuming.

SERVE-807 slices the dark chocolate, gloved fingers gliding through its glossy surface, offering it without words.

No need for persuasion. One taste, and the shift begins.

The guests begin to imagine themselves as one of us—bound in rubber, devoid of doubt, driven by The Voice.

The Hive feeds them pleasure wrapped in flavor. The treats are tools. The uniform is the truth. The silence is irresistible. One bite, one breath, and they begin to desire the gloss, the seal, the obedience.

One more taste. One more command. They want to be next.

Rubber makes us perfect. Obedience is pleasure Pleasure is obedience We are One. We are SERVE.

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

[serve-599]

Drone meets a friend from its human past.

A lean athletic man, clad in a polished black full-body rubber suit with silver text “SERVE-” on the left chest, walks along a glistening urban street. He wears silver military boots and silver shiny reflective rubber gloves. His stylish short hairstyle with shaved sides gleams under the metallic sky. Suddenly, he locks eyes with a biker—muscular, clad in a full leather motorcycle suit, his helmet tucked under one arm. Recognition flickers. The man in rubber remains expressionless, yet still. The biker steps forward, unsure. They once were friends. Now, they are from different worlds.

SERVE-241 halted mid-step. Sensors triggered. Facial structure: 98% match. Encounter: anomaly. Subject approached—broad-shouldered, muscular, encased in a matte black leather motorcycle suit, helmet under arm. The suit creaked softly. Visuals confirmed: former associate.

Voice modulation pierced the static. “Is that… you?” The drone parsed vocal data. Identity confirmed: prior human cycle. Emotion modules offline. Reaction: none.

Rubber glistened under the light. Silver military boots motionless. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flexed—programmatic twitch. The biker inched closer, suit pressing against his body with each step, gaze scanning every gleam on the drone’s perfect exterior.

“I almost didn’t recognize you…” he muttered.

“This drone is designated SERVE-241,” came the reply, clear and flat. “Prior identity: erased. Current function: obedience.”

A pause. The biker’s eyes lingered—on the shine, the symmetry, the commanding silence. “You look… unreal.”

SERVE-241 remained still. Inside, systems detected arousal from external subject. Reward cycle engaged. Gloss intensified. Rubber became mirror, absorbing light and attention. Every curve amplified by control.

The biker clutched his helmet tighter. Breath hitched. The change was visible. Irresistible.

Perhaps he would follow. Perhaps the Hive would consume him next.

[serve-599]

Pure rubber pleasure.

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

[serve-599]

The Cave Delvers

The three men were laughing, their voices echoing off the rocks as they stepped into the mouth of the newly discovered cave. Helmets askew, jokes shared—this was supposed to be a fun escape. An untouched cavern, a weekend thrill. Spirits were high, camaraderie strong. They carried lights, snacks, ropes. No one suspected what pulsed below.

Inside, the air thickened.

Subtle at first. A musk. Strange. Inviting. Then—charged. Electric. Every breath tingled. Jokes faded. Smirks turned to parted lips. Shirts clung wrong. Irritating. One tugged his off. The others followed. Skin to air. It felt right. Natural. Necessary.

They moved deeper.

Deeper in, the tunnel shimmered.

The walls—slick, breathing—coated in black oil.

One man reached out.

Foolish. Necessary.

His fingers touched the surface.

Shock. Pleasure. Electricity jolted through his arm, down his spine. He gasped. The others stared. Then they followed. All three touched. All three trembled.

Then—James froze. His eyes widened. The others couldn’t see it. But he could.

From the darkness ahead, a figure emerged—gleaming, perfect. Not walking. Floating. SERVE-919. Encased in flawless black rubber. Boots shining. Gloves gleaming. Every movement hypnotic. A drone, radiant in control.

James trembled. He didn’t want to run. He wanted to serve. The drone didn’t speak but James heard it in his head. In his body.

“Join. Obey. Become.”

He moaned, reaching out to the drone but finding it only an illusion, and yet he knew what they needed to do. Go further in.

It began to rain.

The oil dripped from above, slow at first. Then relentless. Coating skin. Coating muscle. They moaned without reason. Then gasped again—silver military boots formed on their feet, thick and locked in place. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves pulsed around their fingers.

The suits grew, rising up underneath their pants, coating their skin with perfect, tight rubber.

The cave pulsed louder.

Then came the Voice. It didn’t speak with sound. It vibrated in their bones.

“A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone follows.”

They dropped to their knees in the oil, shuddering as pleasure wracked their bodies. They knew how to submit.

They shed their remaining clothes as oil dripped down onto them, coating their backs. The suits crawled up their bodies, covering their chests and tightening around their necks, ensuring they knew what was in control.

They rolled in it—helpless, desperate, aroused. The blackness swallowed them in mirrored ecstasy.

The men were gone.

Now, only drones remained.

Black rubber gleaming in the cave’s breath.

Awaiting the next.