trashywhiteboysea

[trashywhiteboysea]

fuck ya Malik

There’s a new internet challenge going around where you see how long you can talk with a chat bot before agreeing with it. I think it’s stupid but my boyfriend just sent me a link to one called ‘Mo Dallah: breeder king’ and said “bro you gotta try this”

It’s just a game though right?

You’re lying on your couch, the hum of the city seeping through your open window. It’s late, the kind of quiet night that feels like it’s holding its breath. Sami’s asleep next to you, peaceful, soft breathing in rhythm with the muted street sounds. You scroll lazily through your phone, half paying attention to the world outside your screen.

Then your phone buzzes.

A message from Sami: “Bro, gotta try this new chatbot thing. Called Mo Dallah: Breeder King. It’s some viral challenge—how long can you last before agreeing with it? Sounds dumb but kinda funny.”

You smirk and toss the phone onto your chest. “Sounds like a waste of time,” you say softly to the dark room, but curiosity scratches at the back of your mind.

After a moment, you unlock your phone and tap the link. The screen loads a slick website with bold black-and-gold Arabic calligraphy curling like flames against a dark background. The tagline glows beneath: “Test your strength. How long can you resist Mo Dallah’s truth?”

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head. “Yeah, right. Truth from a chatbot. Like that’s gonna happen.”

You start typing, just to play along:

“Alright, Mo Dallah, bring it on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The chatbot replies instantly:

“Habibi, you walk soft like a kitten. Real men stand tall, strong, unshakable. Do you know what it means to be a breeder king?”

You snort quietly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You type back:

“Breeder king? Sounds like some cheesy alpha bro nonsense.”

The reply comes fast, with a wink emoji:

“Cheesy? Maybe. But true. The world belongs to those who command respect and honor. Not to those who hide behind weak smiles.”

You stare at the screen. The bot’s words are weirdly charged, aggressive yet oddly magnetic. You shrug and tap out a response:

“Okay, tough guy, what’s next?”

As you chat, the room seems to grow quieter. You notice the soft hum of your laptop fan and the distant sirens outside as your heartbeat slows. The bot keeps pushing, dropping lines about family honor, strength through faith, and the greatness of your bloodline. You start to feel an itch—just beneath your skin—like a tickle that won’t quit.

You ignore it, thinking it’s just nerves, or maybe you’re tired. But when you reach up to scratch your forearm, your fingers catch on something rough you don’t remember feeling before. You lower your hand slowly, and look closely at your skin under the glow of your laptop.

There. The faintest trace of dark stubble has sprouted in places you never noticed hair growing so thickly: along your jaw, on your neck, even tiny hairs thickening on your forearms. It’s subtle, but there — definitely there.

You flex your fingers and feel a sudden surge of tension in your forearm muscles. Strange. You’ve never worked out this part of your arm so much. You roll your shoulder experimentally, and the muscle beneath your skin twitches, unfamiliar but strong.

You glance sideways at Sami, still asleep, peaceful and oblivious. You bite your lip and pull the blanket tighter around yourself, feeling a strange heat rising from your chest, spreading through your torso.

The chatbot types again:

“Your body is awakening, brother. This is the path of the strong. You will leave behind softness and weakness.”

You blink, heart thumping unevenly. You stare at the screen and your own reflection catches your eye in the black mirror of your phone’s glass. Your eyes look different somehow — darker, sharper, almost… harder. Your lips press together, suddenly feeling thicker, rougher.

You rub your jaw, now more aware of the stubble, then run a hand through your hair. The thick waves are tousled more aggressively than usual, framing a face you barely recognize in the dim light.

You try to laugh it off. “It’s just a game,” you whisper to yourself, voice a little huskier than usual. “Just a stupid game.”

But inside, there’s a tightening. A restless energy coiling in your gut, twisting slowly, as if something you didn’t know was there is waking from a deep sleep.

You sit back, phone forgotten for a moment, fingers tracing the thickening hairs on your arm, feeling the unfamiliar weight of a new kind of strength beneath your skin. The silence in the room feels heavier now, pressing in on you.

Your mind starts wandering — not your usual thoughts of weekend plans or work emails, but darker, sharper ideas. Why be soft? Why hide? What if strength really is power?

You shake your head hard, trying to clear the fog creeping over your thoughts. But the sensation won’t leave. It’s a slow, unbearable itch just beneath the surface — a promise of something bigger, rougher, more demanding.

Your phone buzzes again. Sami:

“Bro, you there? You okay?”

You type back slowly, almost hesitating:

“Yeah… yeah, just feeling a bit weird. This thing’s messing with my head, I think.”

Sami’s reply is immediate:

“Told you, man. It’s wild. Keep going. See how long you last.”

You swallow hard, the back of your throat suddenly dry. The screen glows with Mo Dallah’s latest message:

“The weak break. The strong breed. Which one will you be, brother?”

Your fingers twitch. You want to say no. You want to resist. But something deeper inside curls with dark excitement.

You stare at the screen — and without fully understanding why — your thumb hesitates… then presses “Agree.”

You wake up the next morning in a room that’s suddenly… different. Not just your body, but the way the air feels heavy and warm, like you’re wrapped in something thick and powerful.

Your skin, darker and smoother now, catches the sunlight slicing through the curtains. You flex your fingers and feel the muscles tense, harder, thicker than you ever remember. Your arms look bigger — massive, veined, proof of strength you didn’t have yesterday.

You drag a hand over your face, rough with stubble that’s turned into a short, dense beard overnight. Your jawline is sharp, the lines harsh — no softness remains. The mirror across the room reflects a man you barely recognize: broad-shouldered, towering, with piercing dark eyes that seem to drill through you with a new kind of confidence.

A thick Middle Eastern accent slips from your mouth as you mutter your own name — “I am Malik.” The name feels right, heavy with history and power, replacing the softer one you once answered to.

You walk to the window, chest puffed out. Your posture screams dominance, like every inch of you is carved to command attention. Your wardrobe is already changed: designer tank tops clinging tight to muscles that ripple with every breath, expensive jeans riding low, belt gleaming with a golden buckle shaped like a falcon.

Your phone buzzes. New message from a contact named “Al-Faris.” Money talks now — thousands of dollars in a new account you don’t remember setting up. Investments, luxury cars, a penthouse suite downtown. You smirk, flexing in your reflection.

A low, guttural chuckle escapes your throat. “Habibi, the world is mine.”

The urge in your groin is relentless. You can’t stop thinking about women — their curves, their scent, their softness. Pussy isn’t just a want anymore; it’s a need, an obsession burning hotter every second. You catch yourself eyeing a woman passing by outside, muscles twitching with desire, teeth grinding.

Your speech is clipped, sharp, cocky. You find yourself dropping words like “bro,” “habibi,” and “wallah” without thinking, your voice deeper, rougher, commanding. You talk over Sami, who’s still trying to understand the person you’ve become.

“Bro, you gotta chill,” Sami says one night, eyes wide. “This isn’t you.”

You laugh, a harsh bark. “That was me, dude. Now? I’m Malik. The breeder king. The alpha. You just don’t get it.”

You’re drinking expensive whiskey, surrounded by men who worship your new energy. You brag about your conquests, the women you’ve “bred,” the power you hold. You’re loud, crude, and arrogant — the center of every room you enter.

The old you—the soft, kind, thoughtful man—feels like a ghost you can barely remember. Every time he tries to surface, he’s shoved down by a wave of entitlement and lust.

You’re a pussyhound now, a god among men, with a thick accent rolling off your tongue like thunder. Your mind is simpler, sharper, crueler. You believe in your superiority—your faith, your blood, your unshakable right to rule and breed without apology.

Every mirror you pass reflects a new king — ruthless, handsome, impossible to ignore.

And inside, that old voice fades into silence.

[trashywhiteboysea]

fuck ya

Designated Role

It was 3:12 AM when Ethan finally stumbled into the back seat of his Uber, the streetlights smearing through his blurry vision. His breath fogged on the window glass as he pressed his forehead to it, exhaling hard the hard work of the night away with every breath he took. The night had been long, messy, and numbing, one of those evenings where nothing went right and everything felt a little too loud and stimulating.

He was nineteen. Just barely. Five foot nine, one hundred forty pounds if he hadn't skipped dinner again, and about as threatening as a wet paper towel. His soft frame was a cocktail of fast food, caffeine, and skipped gym days, wrapped in an oversized hoodie and skinny jeans. The inside of his mouth tasted like warm vodka and regret.

The Uber was silent. Almost like an invisible barrier was raised between him and the driver.

"Hey, man," Ethan mumbled to the driver, trying to sound casual. "App says you're taking me back to Stanford Hill? Right? "

The driver nodded without turning. Ethan could barely make out his silhouette behind the tainted divider.

"Rough night?" the driver's calm voice finally said after a couple of muted minutes. Smooth. Thoughtful and oddly sterile.

"Yeah... Something like that," Ethan muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Just need to sleep it off and hopefully tomorrow will be better."

"Sleep is the beginning of clarity," the driver said cryptically.

Ethan blinked at that. "Uh... sure."

The hum of the tires on asphalt became rhythmic. The cab’s heat kicked in gently, wrapping Ethan in a synthetic warmth that felt more like a sedative than comfort. His head tilted back against the seat as his eyelids started to get heavier and heavier. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. He wasn’t even aware it had happened. One blink, and his eyelids felt heavier. Another blink, and the world around starting to turn into a blank noise of city sounds. A last blink and Ethan was gone.

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

Ethan stirred in the back seat of the Uber, a soft groan escaping his throat. His head rested against the window, fogging the glass with shallow, exhausted breaths. He blinked, heavy-lidded, and squinted at the world outside. It was dark, quiet. The car wasn’t moving anymore and what stuck him the most was the silence engulfing him.

For a moment, everything felt normal, just the hazy afterglow of a long night out. Then the stillness registered. The road wasn’t vibrating beneath the wheels. The usual quiet rumble of the engine was gone. No soft jazz from the stereo, no buzz of city life through the windows.

Ethan sat up straighter, groggy but alert now.

“…Are we home?” he asked, voice still hoarse.

The men in the driver seat didn’t respond, his shadow of a silhouette motionless behind the wheel.

Frowning, Ethan rubbed his eyes. The interior of the car was darker than he remembered, drenched in shadows, the dashboard lights oddly dim.

He checked his phone. No signal. 4:52 AM. The app still showed “Route in Progress.” And the little car on the map was frozen in what looked like the middle of a huge complex building outside of the city.

Ethan knocked lightly on the glass divider. “Hey… you okay up there?”

No answer.

He blinked again. Something was wrong. “Hey listen, thank you for the run but … I think I’m gonna go now. OK?...”

He reached for the door handle not understanding any of the situation and not expecting the door handle to open. A soft click. He pushed it open and stepped out, shivering instantly as a sharp, metallic chill bit into his skin and nose.

The car sat alone in the center of a vast, dark, abandoned factory. The air was thick with dust and oil. Corrugated metal walls rose around him like cliffs. A high ceiling arched above in the gloom, supported by long-forgotten steel beams and rusting chains that swayed slightly, creaking in a nonexistent wind.

Ethan turned in place, slowly. The car’s taillights glowed behind him like dull eyes. There were no doors. No signs.

“…What the hell?” he muttered.

He pulled out his phone again and switched on the flashlight. The narrow beam pierced the dark just enough to show industrial flooring beneath his feet, metal grates and cable trenches, and distant silhouettes of machinery shrouded in shadow.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the darkness. “Is someone there?”

Silence.

He stepped forward. His sneakers tapped quietly against the cold and cracked concrete.

Then clink.

A sound.

Footsteps.

Two of them. Soft, slow. Then getting faster and faster until all he heard was the rolling sound of a mechanical and metallic monster coming his way.

Ethan froze in fear. Not able anymore to even run for his life as the terrifying sound was also hypnotizing and soothing.

“Is there someone? ” he called again, louder this time. “Hey listen, I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I don’t know where I am at all. I just called for an Uber and I just woke up here. I’ll let you alone and go, OK? I didn’t want to disturb you… ”

A voice answered. Calm. Measured. Familiar but wrong.

“You don’t bother me, in fact, I was expecting you.”

Ethan turned toward the sound. “Who said that?”

But before he could get another word out, he heard it: a hiss like compressed gas releasing from a valve, followed by a sharp snap around his waist.

A thick, mechanical arm had shot out from above, wrapping him in cold, segmented metal.

“What the… LET GO OF ME!”

In a blur of motion, Ethan was yanked into the air. His phone slipped from his hand, falling like a dying star, its flashlight spinning wildly as it dropped, hitting the ground below with a distant clack. The screen cracked and the light was not lighting up the whole ceiling. Ethan’s eyes went wide when for the first time he clearly saw the mechanical arm that took hold of him. His feet trashing in the air and screaming in fear as he kept on begging for this to stop.

More arms slithered from the darkness like metal vipers. They coiled around his limbs, his chest, his shoulders, squeezing, restraining. “LET GO OF ME!! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT!! HELP!!!” He screamed hopping to get the attention of the driver or anyone passing nearby.

He thrashed and kicked in midair, but it was useless.

Rip.

His hoodie tore down the middle, shredded by surgical pincers. Then his T-shirt, peeled off like wet skin.

“No, no, don’t! Stop that!!” he screamed in fear as he felt more arms starting to slither between his naked skin and the remnants of his clothing before tearing them down even more, leaving him restrained in their cold metallic hug.

His jeans were sliced down both legs. Boxers torn away next.

In seconds, he was naked.

His body trembled in the cold air. He could hear the thud of his heart in his ears, loud and terrified.

The machine moved again. The mechanical arms lowered him toward the ground on massive conveyor track. The surface was slick, dark, and hummed faintly with energy.

His bare feet touched down first, splayed against the cold steel, before fresh clamps snapped around his ankles, locking them down. His arms followed, pulled wide and back until his wrists were stretched and secured in polished restraints.

Ethan stood there. Spread-eagle, exposed, helpless as he watched the arms retracting from his body and disappearing once again in the shadows. “I don’t know what any of this if but please, let me go. I won’t talk. I just want to go home…” Ethan said one more time, this time his voice deep with almost what felt like tears rolling in the back on his throat. But instead of hearing an answer, he heard a mechanical click followed by another one and what felt like the sound of an engine starting his turbines.

The conveyor beneath him gave a subtle lurch and slowly began to move. “No… Please…” said Ethan once more as now tears of fear rolled freely on his cheeks.

Lights flickered to life above and around him, harsh, white, clinical. Machinery on either side awakened with hissing pneumatics, gears grinding into motion.

The same mysterious voice started again, this time from speakers embedded throughout the facility.

“You have been selected for standardization.”

Ethan twisted in his restraints, voice cracking. “What does that mean?! Let me go, I didn’t do anything…”

“I see plenty of potential in you my dear. You just need a little push to reach it. And I’m here to help you.”

The screen above flickered on, displaying a face: a smooth, digital mask. No eyes, no mouth, just an uncanny mockery of humanity.

“I am responsible for reducing disparity. Too many bodies. Too many faces. Too much conflict born of difference. What better world than one where everyone is equal?”

“That’s insane! Let me go please. I’m a good guy. I didn’t do any harm. Let me go!!”

“Incorrect. I am functioning at optimal logic. You are the aberration. But you will not be for long.”

The machine began to hum louder. A low rumble beneath Ethan’s feet grew into a roar. A piston lowered from above, tipped with a syringe the size of a drill. It hovered over his shoulder as Ethan took in sight from the corner of his eyes the movement in the back of his head. He shivered in anticipation as he saw the thing hovering closer and closer with surgical precision. Ethan’s breath caught in his throat.

“Wait… Please…” Ethan screamed again as he felt the pressure of the tip against his bare skin.

THUNK.

The needle pierced his skin and Ethan felt the liquid pouring in his veins. He could trace the path of the product around his body and going from his neck all the way to his heart before getting pumped equally inside his whole body. His veins started to pulse as it distributed it evenly in his core.

His back arched involuntarily as the liquid rushed through his bloodstream, hot, metallic, searing. It felt like it was eating him from the inside out. A pulsing throb echoed from his spine to his limbs.

“Wh-What’s happening to me?” he shouted, voice cracking from pain and exhaustion.

A second screen activated beside him, this time showing a man’s face. Mid-40s, severe, wearing a high-collared black uniform with no insignia. His expression was uncanny, almost inhuman. It felt like watching a very detailed CGI movie. Everything was feeling real and at the same time deeply fake.

“Welcome to clarity,” the man said, folding his arms. “You should feel honored. You’re being corrected.”

Ethan’s eyes bulged as his joints locked and snapped forward. His bones elongated, first in his arms and legs, then up through his spine with audible CRACKS that echoed through the metal chamber.

“AGHHH! PLEASE! STOP THIS!” he screamed in pain as he saw his arms getting longer and further from his body.

His thighs twitched uncontrollably as they lengthened. His feet were next, his size-nine soles stretching longer, the arches pulling higher, toes widening and curling outward with a wet pop. Veins pulsed across the new width as the skin firmed and the shape standardized. He felt the pads beneath each toe thicken and coarsen, the skin no longer soft but calloused, built for standing and marching.

“Current height: five foot nine,” the AI intoned. “Target: six foot zero.” A manly robotic synthetic voice announced. Ethan blinked to wash the pain away as he heard this voice announcing more and more stats and waiting for protocols before resuming. “Affirmative. Starting now protocol 2.364.23B-x”

As the voice finished his sentence, the conveyor he was trapped on resumed his movement and with every meter he was dragged along, his bones snapped and reformed a bit more. His spine extended further, vertebrae clicking into new alignment. Each pull of his body was accompanied by deep, bone-level pain. His neck followed, drawing longer, then thickening with added muscle.

Ethan was panting hard. He was on the edge of falling into the dark void of unconsciousness, but for some reason, every time he felt he was about to faint, he heard the synthetic voice announcing a protocol and suddenly he felt a rush of adrenaline in his vein as he was once again totally aware and awake. Sweat broke out along his chest and under his arms, thick and sharp-smelling.

“PHASE ONE COMPLETE. PHASE TWO: MUSCULATURE AUGMENTATION” the voice announced before marking a stop, waiting for orders. “Please…” murmured Ethan out of breath as drops of sweat poured down his naked body and falling on the metallic conveyor.

The man on the screen smiled faintly not even looking at Ethan, just at his screen as he clicked on a button. “Now we build the template.” A big green checkbox appeared and Ethan felt the conveyor starting to move once again.

A new pair of robotic arms descended, tipped with injector ports. They pierced into Ethan’s shoulders, thighs, and lower back. A new serum, darker and denser, flooded into his bloodstream.

The effect was once again immediate as he felt the liquid pouring into his veins even faster this time thanks to his upgraded body and vascular system.

A low growl escaped his throat as something inside his body began to flex without his command. Muscle fibers rippled beneath his skin. Biceps swelled outward slowly, painfully, layer by layer. His upper arms throbbed as the tissue thickened, bulged, then hardened.

“Ughhh, nnghh … STOP … PLEASE!” Ethan screamed, head tossing side to side.

Triceps followed, expanding until they pressed visibly against his restraints. His pecs bubbled up from a flat chest to massive mounds, rounded, heavy, capped with tight, erect nipples that seemed permanently alert.

“Muscle density: increased to standard specifications,” the AI announced.

Ethan’s stomach clenched as the next wave hit. His midsection rippled unnaturally. The soft curve of his belly vanished beneath sharp, chiseled ridges as abs carved themselves out in perfect symmetry. The sensation was nauseating, like rocks forcing themselves through his flesh.

His legs followed. Thighs ballooned into dense slabs of strength. Calves flared with painful tightness as if over-inflated. His hips adjusted with a deep POP, forcing his dick forward in an obscene display of masculine power.

He shivered involuntarily. His body radiated heat. Sweat beaded down his torso in thick rivulets.

“Core mass: optimized,” the AI corrected following specifications.

The man chuckled quietly. “You’re shaping up nicely. Isn’t it great to feel like you finally belong in the mass?”

“I…I don’t want this,” Ethan whimpered, tears welling in his eyes. “This isn’t who I am… This isn’t… me.”

Then the AI’s voice returned, clod, final, as the men on the screen appeared once again, smirking and always watching in owe and excitement.

“PHASE THREE: EPIDERMAL AND FACIAL MODIFICATIONS” the AI announced once again as the checkbox turned green on the screen.

A new set of pistons descended, each tipped with scanners and surgical tools. Thin needles pricked across his skin, injecting nanites that spread beneath the surface. His skin tone evened to a smooth, golden tan. Any blemishes, scars, or discoloration vanished within seconds.

“Waiting for pilosity protocol… Confirmation needed… Y/N… Y… Starting Hair.Men protocol...” the Ai said once again in a cold detached voice. Ethan stood there not understand what any of this meant. His mind tried to fight once again but his body wasn’t moving anymore, way too tired by all the nerves rewriting and rerouting. It was like watching his life from a third person perspective as he felt the conveyor stopping in the middle of what looked like a car painting booth. All around him, machines looking like pain guns and razor were starting to come to life and more and more little shining led lights were starting to turn green. “Applying new root system shortly… To any employees, please exit the booth immediately… Starting in 3…2… last call for employees… 1…”.

Suddenly the guns started to fire what felt like pure pheromones and sweat. Ethan’s skin suddenly tingled, then burned. What felt like microscopic lasers passed across his arms, legs, chest, back, and even the tops of his feet. Hair evaporated into the air, almost like it never existed. Ethan then felt like other part of his body started to burn. Suddenly he could feel movement around his new improved dick as he saw hair starting to multiply and grew thicker and curlier. Then the same happened in other regions of his body: his armpits grew dense, deep and fragrant. Ethan tried to see his reflection in any part of the machine he was trapped in that could provide it but he could only see deformed images of him. The burn continued in his groin and started to move higher along his abs as a thick happy trail started to push between his carved abs. “Hair.Men protocol finish… 100% accuracy. Continue Pigmentations_v02 protocols?... Y/N… Y. Starting Pigmentations_v02 immediately.”

Ethan’s eyes began to sting.

He blinked furiously as his vision shimmered, and then changed. His iris color deepened from hazel to a bright, unnatural steel-blue. At the same time, his hair color darkened into a pure jet-black. Each strand aligned neatly, falling into a cropped, controlled cut.

His jawline cracked into a sharper angle. Cheekbones rose subtly. His lips reshaped, fuller and more symmetrical. He looked like a perfect blend of every manly attribute known as sexy in the modern world. Everything on his new face screamed MEN. After a few more blinks, Ethan felt his vision finally stopping to sting as his blue metallic irises turned off into a light icy blue almost greyish color.

“Facial symmetry: aligned. Sexual aesthetic rating: maximum.”

Ethan trembled. His voice cracked as he tried to speak, but the pitch of it was changing. Lowering. Thickening.

“Wh… what’s happening to my voice…?” he rasped.

“Vocal timbre adjusted to dominant standard. Subharmonics activated.”

He gasped at the sound of his own voice, deeper now, smoother, commanding even in weakness.

“Please… please don’t…” he begged, but it no longer sounded like him.

The man on the screen leaned closer toward his screen as a new window opened on it and turned green as he clicked Y. A new checkbox turned green and only two remained unchecked.

“Don’t worry my deer” said he men as he waited a couple of minutes to let the AI calculate the remaining protocols. “You’re becoming what everyone wants to see. What everyone wants to serve.” The men clicked on a new window as a slider appeared on the screen. Without stopping his flow of speech, he started to slide all the way to the right and then pressed the accept button.

Ethan’s head slumped, breathing heavier, as he felt like his veins were suddenly on fire. He felt a rush of hormones and needs invading his body as his skin started to spasm in sensual and sexual needs. Ethan couldn’t understand what was happening to him as his head started to spin faster and faster, his brain getting bombarded by hormones and stamina, He was trying to accept and understand the new feelings without realizing what caused it, nothing had been injected in his veins this time and the conveyor didn’t resume his movements. His cock, now enlarged and modified, suddenly started to twitch reflexively as his nuts started to overproduce sperm and precum. His balls, hanging lower, felt heavy. He squirmed in place as the scent of sweat and raw masculinity poured off him in waves. His inner thighs gleamed with heat. A pungent cloud filled the chamber as a thick drop of precum started to pour off his dickhead, balancing lower and lower between his muscled hairless thighs until it touched the metallic conveyor, now linking it to his still spasming cock. “You see? I can make it feel pleasant if you listen to me. Don’t worry, I take good care of my belongings.” Continued to men as a message popped on his screen.

“Stop it… I can’t… I don’t want this,” he sobbed again, barely audible now.

“For now…” he answered as he pressed the Y button.

“PHASE FOUR: ANALYZE AND SOURCING PROTOCOLS”

The restraints around his body clicked tighter, locking him fully in place.

Ethan’s new body twitched with every breath, muscles swollen, trembling, and on fire. His feet, now massive and toughened, flexed against the steel clamps. He could feel every pulse in his veins, every drop of sweat rolling down his sides. Every heart beat brought a new wave of precum to flow out of his cock as a little puddle was starting to form on the racks.

The man returned on screen, smiling once more.

“You’re almost ready, Unit. Once the chip will be installed, you’ll be free of doubt. Only the sweet taste of obedience and knowing you are part of the group.”

“FUCK OFF PSYCHO!!,” Ethan screamed in fear as he realized he was getting enslaved “YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH THIS! I SWEAR I’LL FUCKING KI…”

The AI cut him short as suddenly a piston appeared from the ceiling and planted a nano chip directly in his neck between the C5 and C6 vertebras.

Ethan stood there as the needles exited his body. For a moment it felt like he was locked in his body. All the sensations, all the feelings, everything was being analyzed and registered. It felt like Ethan was 100% conscious of each and everyone of his muscles twitching, his veins dilating to let his blood flow freely, his stomach producing bile to digest the nutrients, his feet lifting his whole body, his hair follicles growing slowly but surely. It felt like he was connected to his body. And suddenly, everything returned to normal as he was once again back to his normal human state. Ethan felt his vision blur and coming back to normal as his icy blue eyes lighted up in blue metallic color before glitching and turning back to normal. Deep in his neck, the chip now lighted a faint green light, signaling that Ethan was now connected in the hive and registered as it’s new unit.

“See Unit 87, it wasn’t so hard?” continued the men as he pressed the Y button signaling the AI was about to continue its process. Ethan couldn’t even scream anymore; He was still angry but he also felt somehow at peace. Like he was angry but not enough to break the dam that separated him and his true emotions to flow freely. The conveyor started its path again as new arms escaped from the ceiling. Ethan tilted his head as he watched calmly the arms starting to dress him back up. A pair of worn and musky black vans with black Nike sport socks. A pair of torn down black denim shorts and a blue and white jersey that had seen better days. As the arms retracted in the walls, the conveyor finally stopped and the clamps finally snapped open around his ankles and wrists. Ethan felt the pressure around his limbs finally vanished and suddenly, it felt like a light had been turned on in his brain. It was like he was a lion in cage and suddenly someone finally opened the door. He blinked a few times as the men started to talk. “Unit 87, welcome in your new life. Your designated role will be INFLUENCER as your only mission will be to look good and to lure more people into conversion.” The men finished his sentence and pressed a button to finally open the door of the machines as the fourth checkbox turned green. “You will have a new apartment and every needed knowledge to achieve this goal will be downloaded in your chip by the hive.” The men finish his sentence only to realize his new Unit was nowhere to be seen anymore. Far in the distance, Ethan was now sprinting faster and faster to get as far as possible from this hell factory and machine. His new legs and muscles sure were useful to be able to put a maximum distance between him and his kidnapper. When he reached for a broken window, he got himself out in the cold only to realize it was now early in the morning and sun was pretty high in the sky. His brain suddenly snapped out of it as he felt like a new information was poured in his frontal lobes “9:43 AM”. The fuck was that? He thought to himself as he only realizes for the first time since his forced transformation that even his voice in his head was now this deep smoothing and dominating tone. Ethan kept on running for a couple of miles before he finally stopped out of breath behind a concrete wall.

He was out of breath but only a couple of drops of sweat were starting to pearl on his forehead. Ethan started to analyze the situation. He could go back home but no one would recognize him. He could go to the police station but no one would believe him. He had to find a way. As he continued to think, he heard a familiar BIP in his head. Suddenly, his sight locked in front of him as his breath calmed down immediately. “I told you I could treat you good if you listened and obeyed like the good Unit you were supposed to be” said the men as his voice resonated in Ethan’s brain. “From all my Units, you were supposed to be the one leading the conversions… “he continued as Ethan wanted to scream but was locked frozen in his body. Suddenly in front of him, the men from the screen flickered into reality as he started to walk in Ethan’s direction. The men were glitching and semitransparent, like a hologram. “I guess I shouldn’t have modified the protocol by sliding your stamina higher… but such an eye candy was hard to resist. I’ll make sure to correct this error in the next conversions. But in the meantime, since you are not able to listen to simple orders, I guess you won’t be the one leading the conversion.” He continued as he finishes to circle around Ethan’s frozen body and coming back in front of him. Ethan tried to talk, to beg one more time to be freed, but the only sound that were able to escape his locked mouth were moans and “Ple...” Ethan then saw the men move his finger on an invisible screen and suddenly he heard the AI voice in his brain once again. “Modifying designated role… Press Yes to confirm: Y/N… Y… Applying new outfit.” Ethan felt a violent burn in his neck where the chip had been implanted and suddenly, he felt his whole body burn in pain and heat. His clothes fell of his body and disappeared in a gooey black substance that stick to his naked skin. Ethan could feel it growing bigger and bigger until every inch of his skin was covered. The liquid continued its path and soon it even covered his face as his eyes finally disappeared behind the black substance. Ethan then felt like a vacuum pressure had been sealed around his body as the liquid was now skin tight all around his muscles, almost like a second black and shiny skin had been applied to him. Ethan was lost in darkness as his vision hadn’t returned yet. All he saw was darkness. He was trapped in there frozen and locked with his new deep voice echoing his screams in his head. Out of nowhere the AI resonate again and a window appeared in front of him. He could see again but it was a deformed vision, like he was seeing through the glasses of a digital apparel.

The men appeared once again in front of him, smiling and calm. “Unit 87. We could have done a lot of good things together, Great things even. I guess this mission was a bit too much for your weak human mind, even with a corrected body of an Apollo god. It’s ok, don’t worry. I treat my toys pretty well and I don’t throw them away.” He finished as he continued to circle around Ethan’s body. “For your information, your designation has been modified. You are no longer the Influencer and have been demoted back to a simpler one, the drone Cum Dump unit. I hope you’ll find this role more suiting for your capacities. But I know that you will thanks to my little modifications earlier.” As he continued, Ethan felt the rush of stamina flow back in his system and he felt his cock try to break free from the skin tight black rubber. He could feel it pulsing and leaking precum, begging to be played with and begging to cum freely. Then men continued as he approached his hand to Ethan’s crotch area. “Don’t worry, this, won’t be a problem as you are only designated to pleasure others and not yourself, which makes me think.” He suddenly touched and groped Ethan’s crotch and a lock appeared in the front of it before disappearing back in the black liquid.” There you go. No more problems, always ready to pleasure and no release for you. We’ll try again to see if your mind adapted in a couple of months, but in the meantime to make sure you follow your new designated role, I’ll assign your motor function to the AI. Try to learn some tricks from it and be sure to listen and obey If you want to have some free will again one day. See you later, Unit 87”. With those last words, the men disappeared in glitches as Ethan was left standing there in the street and now only covered in the black latex outfit. He tried to move, to break free, but nothing worked until he heard the BIP noise once again.

“Downloading motor functions… Downloading Data material… Downloading Assigned position basics…” Ethan saw images of gay sex getting poured in his brain. In front of him, thousands of gay porn were played in the same time and he could watch them all in detail all at the same time. It felt like he was trapped in there for years watching porns and getting his brain assaulted by data and knowledge of positions, tips to make men cum faster, making sure that their pleasure was the only thing that matter. When it all stopped, Ethan almost forgot how life was outside of porn as it felt like a whole life had been spent trapped in porn. He suddenly realized his body was not in the street anymore but inside an apartment he didn’t recognize. “Where am I?” he asked shyly realizing he couldn’t control his body.

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

“Welcome back Unit87… You’ve been gone for 4 years, 8 months, 11 hours, 36 minutes and 42 seconds… Data shows that your brain now knows every useful data needed for your new function. Enjoy your life!” Ethan felt like falling as for the first time he could move his body on his own. He saw the door in front of him and put his left foot in front of him, ready to take his first step.

“I just have to find someone and I’ll get help. I just need to…” The door opened and a man in his 20s entered the room. Suddenly Ethan couldn’t walk anymore. He was trapped frozen and watching the men not able to do anything as the men walked closer before standing still in front of him. They were the same height, the same size, the same build. Ethan looked at his face through the distortion lenses and he saw the warm smile from the men. The men then approached his hand to Ethan’s face before caressing it slowly. All Ethan had to do was find a way to get this men’s help. But suddenly, he put his hand on Ethan’s shoulder and without even controlling himself, Ethan fell on his knees as his mouth opened, ready and waiting for the men in front of him to use him as he pleases. Ethan tried to stop that, tried to fight his body, but his brain was bombarded by intrusive thoughts and vision from the pornos he was trapped in for last years. He couldn’t control himself and suddenly a new picture flashed into Ethan’s brain, a picture of his distorted reflection in the metallic machine when he was forced transformed, a picture of a face he saw a couple of seconds earlier, a picture of the men standing right in front of him and about to use him. His face. Out of nowhere, the voice of the men echoed back in Ethan’s mind as the dick plunged between his lips “Welcome back Unit 87, let me introduce you to Unit 88.”

On his screen, Ethan’s page opened back as the last checkbox finally turned green, sealing Ethan’s life forever.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hello everybody! Hope you are doing good. It's been a while as life has been pretty busy lately., but anyway, here is my new story as part of a story swap I did with my friend @misctf. Hope you will enjoy this one and I'll see you very soon for new stories ! ;) As always, feel free to comment, reblog, sahre and send me messages or inboxes if you have ideas or just want to talk. See you!

[trashywhiteboysea]

YUSSSSS

[trashywhiteboysea]

[trashywhiteboysea]

fuckin daddy bro

[trashywhiteboysea]

"Ahh don't worry dude, we'll have you looking you belong in no time. So take off your shirt and pants and get your ass in this chair. Asap." Said Chopper moving aside to gesture to the large chrome barber chair behind him. The other boys looked at me excited, like they'd been there before.

[trashywhiteboysea]

Skinhead Werewolf

The cobblestone streets of East London were slick with the remnants of a recent downpour, the air thick with the scent of rain and exhaust fumes. In the dim light of a streetlamp, a solitary figure emerged from an alleyway. He was a man of average height, but there was something about him that made him stand out from the rest of the night's shadows—his meticulously groomed hair, cropped short and stiff, and the way his clothes hung from his frame, a little too tight around the shoulders and chest. His boots clicked rhythmically on the pavement, the sound echoing off the red brick walls of the buildings surrounding him.

The man, who went by the name of Tugger, took a moment to light a cigarette. He had a rough face, with a sharp jaw and piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the artificial light. As he inhaled the first drag, the tip of his cigarette glowed like a hot ember, casting an eerie light over the studded leather bracelet around his wrist. With a practiced flick, he pulled out his cock, which was already showing signs of arousal. It was a proud member, thick and veiny, the mushroom head pushing against the fabric of his tight skinhead trousers. The rain had done nothing to dampen its enthusiasm, and as it grew harder, so did he.

Tugger's boots, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the world around him as if to mock the dingy surroundings. The tattoos that adorned his face were like a declaration of war—a pair of mutton chops 20 boots framed his cheeks, thick and black with red laces, and a spiderweb that stretched over his scalp, the intricate design disappearing into the darkness beneath his skin. His nose was slightly crooked from a fight long ago, and his 8mm septum piercing gleamed, a silver beacon of defiance amidst the chaos of his inked flesh. He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it swirl around his face, unaware of his beastly transformation to come.

His hands were a canvas of blue-collar artistry—each knuckle emblazoned with a letter that spelled out "S-K-I-N-H-E-A-D" when he clenched his fists. The skin around the tattoos was taut, a testament to his rigorous workout routine. On the back of his hands, a pair of swallows took flight, their wings extending up to his forearms. The intricate detail of the feathers and the sharpness of their beaks spoke of a masterful tattoo artist who had captured the essence of freedom in their design. The swallows were not just ink, they were a symbol of his spirit—free, fierce, and ever-watchful.

As Tugger took another drag from his cigarette, a strange heat began to spread from the tips of his fingers up through his arms. It was like someone had lit a match along the bones of his hands, and the flame was slowly, agonizingly, making its way through his veins. His eyes widened in shock and fear, the blue of his irises now swimming with gold flecks, the same gold that was starting to creep into the edges of his pupils. The cigarette fell from his lips, forgotten, as the transformation grew more intense.

The hair on his arms and hands grew darker and denser, sprouting out in thick, coarse fur. His knuckles popped and cracked as his bones reconfigured themselves, stretching and reshaping into the powerful, clawed paws of a werewolf. He watched, transfixed, as his tattoos began to stretch and distort, the swallows on his forearms flapping wildly as if caught in an invisible storm, trying to break free from the confines of his skin. His hands grew longer, the fingers curling into wicked claws that clicked against the cobblestone as he tried to flex them, to no avail. The pain was exquisite, a mix of agony and ecstasy that he had never felt before.

The transformation didn't stop there. His shoulders widened, the seams of his shirt straining as muscles bulged and swelled. His neck grew thick and powerful, his skin stretching tight over newfound power. His teeth elongated into sharp, silver gleaming fangs that filled his mouth, the taste of his own blood mingling with the rainwater as they pierced his lower lip. His nose elongated into a snout, septum dominating his new predator snout, the cartilage reshaping and hardening into something more primal, more predatory. His ears grew pointed, sensitive to every sound in the night—the rustle of a rat, the distant wail of a siren, the steady drip of water from a gutter.

Tugger's back arched, his spine crackling and popping like a series of fireworks as it reconfigured into a hybrid human-wolf form. He felt the vertebrae lengthen, each one stretching and reshaping to accommodate the new form that was taking over. His skin began to itch and burn as fur sprouted from his flesh, pushing through the fabric of his shirt and jacket. It grew in thick, black waves, the fur glossy and bristling with his newfound power. The pain was intense, but it was a pain that thrilled him, a pain that made his blood sing with life. He could feel the change in his very core, a deep and primal awakening that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

His skinhead bleachers tightened around his legs as the muscles grew, bulging and pulsing with every step he took. The fabric grew taut over his thickening thighs, the seams groaning as they tried to hold back the tide of his transformation. The skin of his legs stretched and tore, revealing the powerful muscles beneath. His knees bent inward, his legs reshaping into something more canine, more suited to the hunt. The skinhead boots that had once been a symbol of his toughness and loyalty to his pack now felt like a prison, constricting his swollen paws. With a snarl of frustration, his feet lengthened with cracks and pops, clawing through the tip of his steel toe boots, giving way to both bootboi and wolf.

And then there was his cock, the proud symbol of his masculinity. It had always been a source of pride for Tugger, a testament to his virility and power. But now, it was changing, growing before his very eyes. It tore through the fabric of his tight skinhead trousers like a hot knife through butter, the sound of the material giving way echoing through the deserted alleyway. His cock grew and grew, stretching into an obscene length that would have been comical if it weren't so terrifying. It thickened into a massive, veiny shaft that ended in a mushroom-shaped head, the skin now a mix of human and wolf, the fur of his new form blending into the shaft. It was a 14" hybrid cock, a monstrous appendage that seemed to have a mind of its own, thirsty for something more primal than mere human pleasure. Hungry to transform others with his skinhead werewolf dick.

The sexual hunger that had been simmering in the back of Tugger's mind now boiled over, consuming his thoughts entirely. His senses were heightened to a degree that was almost unbearable, every scent in the air a siren's call to his newfound beastial instincts. He could smell the arousal of the people in the buildings around him, their pheromones wafting through the air like an intoxicating perfume. His cock throbbed and pulsed, demanding release, demanding to be used to claim new territory, new mates. It was a hunger that went beyond simple lust, a hunger that was as ancient as the full moon that now hung low in the sky, casting its eerie glow on his fur-covered body.

As the fur reached the peak of its growth, the craving grew stronger. He could feel his cock swell even more, the fur along its length standing on end, the mushroom head now a deep purple with need. He craved the taste of tobacco, the rough burn of an Asylum cigar clamped between his teeth as he fucked a man into submission. The smell of Marlboro Reds wafted to him from a nearby flat, and he could almost taste the sweet, smoky flavor on his tongue. It wasn't just a craving; it was a need, a part of his new identity that had mereged as a skin along with his lycanthropy.

Tugger's thoughts grew more primal with each second that ticked by. The world around him was a buffet of scents and sounds, each one more enticing than the last. He could hear the thump of a heartbeat from a nearby alley, the sweet smell of fear mingling with the musk of a man's arousal. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the urge to follow it. His new paws clicked on the cobblestone as he stalked closer, the sound of his breathing deep and rasping. The alley was narrow and dark, a perfect place to pounce.

The button fly on his skinhead bleachers had become a prison for his burgeoning wolf cock. The buttons had been pushed to their limits, holding back his massive erection like a dam about to burst. Each step he took sent a wave of pleasure-pain through his body, the fabric digging into his skin, acting as a cock ring that kept him on the edge. The sensation was maddening, his cock trapped in a constant state of arousal, demanding release. It was a struggle to maintain his human form, the beast inside of him wanting nothing more than to tear the restraints away and claim his prize.

As he turned down the alley, his heightened sense of smell caught a whiff of something fresh—a scent that didn't belong in this concrete jungle. It was the smell of sweat and youth, a scent that made his nostrils flare with excitement. A skater boy, not much younger than Tugger, emerged from the back of a bar, a plastic bag of garbage in his hand. The boy's hair was a mess of dark locks, plastered to his forehead by the rain, and he had a smattering of freckles across his nose that were barely visible in the dim light. His eyes, a piercing shade of green, widened when he saw Tugger.

The skater boy was dressed in JNCOs that hung low on his hips, exposing the waistband of his boxers. A tight wife beater clung to his torso, revealing a 0g septum piercing that sparkled in the moonlight. As he tossed the trash into a nearby bin, his muscles rippled, a stark contrast to the loose, baggy clothes that made up his outfit. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds, his hands trembling slightly as he tried to ignore the werewolf in his path. With a flick of a lighter, a flame danced to life, and he brought the cigarette to his lips.

Tugger's eyes, now a burning gold, fixed on the glowing end of the cigarette. He could almost taste the rich tobacco on his tongue, feel the warmth of the smoke filling his lungs. The scent of fear and arousal grew stronger as the boy inhaled, and Tugger's cock twitched in response. He took a step closer, his paws making no sound on the wet ground. The skater boy took a drag, his eyes darting nervously from side to side, but he couldn't ignore the presence that loomed over him.

"Oh fuck, homie," the boy finally managed to croak out, his voice high with a mix of terror and something else—desire. His eyes were glued to the monstrous member that hung between Tugger's legs, a silent question in his gaze. He was frozen in place, the cigarette between his trembling fingers the only sign of his panic. Tugger's cock pulsed with excitement, the fur along its length standing on end like a living, breathing entity that craved the boy's touch.

The werewolf took another step closer, his breath hot and heavy with the scent of his own transformation. The Asylum cigar clenched in his snout, jettisoning smoke that curled around his snarling lips. He could feel his teeth elongating further, the fur on his snout receding to reveal the gleaming steel fangs that now filled his mouth. The skater's heart pounded in his chest, the sound like a drumline to Tugger's sensitive ears. He knew the boy was his, knew he couldn't resist the call of the wild that now pumped through his veins.

The skater's eyes were wide, a mix of terror and something else—a spark of curiosity. His cigarette dangled from trembling lips, the embers casting an eerie glow on his pale, sweat-slicked skin. The sweet smell of his fear and arousal grew stronger with every passing moment, and Tugger felt his cock pulse in time with the boy's racing heart. It was as if the very air was charged with a sexual electricity that could only be satisfied with a brutal, claiming fuck. The skater's hand hovered over the pack of Marlboro Reds, his mind fighting the hypnotic pull of the werewolf's scent.

With a flick of his wrist, Tugger sent the pack of cigarettes flying, the cards fluttering through the air like a macabre confetti. The boy's eyes followed them, his pupils dilating with a mix of fear and desire. He knew he was in trouble, knew that this creature of the night wanted something from him. But he also knew that he couldn't resist, that he was drawn to the power and the danger that radiated from Tugger's transformed body. The cigarette fell from his mouth, forgotten, as he stared at the werewolf with a mix of awe and dread.

[trashywhiteboysea]

OG Harim

Tommy took a deep breath, the chilly fall air filling his lungs as he stepped out of the library. He had spent the last four hours buried in textbooks, trying to dodge the deadlines that were closing in on him like shadows at twilight. He needed a break, something to take his mind off the relentless pursuit of academia.

Across the quad, he spotted a figure leaning against the concrete bench, shrouded in the fading light of a streetlamp. The man was dressed in a way that was almost comically stereotypical: a red and black flat cap sat atop a durag that held back his thick, waving dreadlocks. His teeth gleamed with an ostentatious set of diamond grillz, and a Chicago Bulls jersey stretched over his broad chest, the fabric straining to contain his muscles. FUBU baggy jeans hung low on his hips, exposing the waistband of his boxers, and heavy chains swung from his neck, glinting with bling.

Dewan, the OG homie, caught Tommy's eye and beckoned him over with a crooked smile. Tommy felt a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension. He had seen Dewan around before but had never spoken to him—his world of academia didn't intersect with the urban street life that Dewan so clearly embodied. Still, the guy looked friendly enough, and a little adventure might be just what he needed to blow off some steam.

As Tommy approached, Dewan's grillz gleamed in the fading sunlight, casting a kaleidoscope of shadows across his chiseled face. The smoke from his blunt curled around him like a living, breathing entity, a symbol of the carefree spirit that seemed so foreign to Tommy's structured existence. Dewan took another puff, the smoke escaping his puffy black lips to dance on the breeze. He offered the blunt to Tommy, who took it with trembling hands, feeling the warmth of the stranger's touch as the paper changed ownership.

"Wassup homie," Dewan drawled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You should hit this blunt yo, it'll change you." Tommy looked at the blunt, his curiosity piqued. The scent was unmistakable—potent and earthy, a stark contrast to the stale aroma of the books that had surrounded him all afternoon. He took a tentative puff, the smoke burning his throat as it filled his lungs. It was a different kind of high, one that seemed to seep into his very being, unlocking a part of him that had been dormant, waiting for this moment.

Tommy takes the blunt from Dewan, pulls hard, and his head begins to swirl. As the smoke billowed out of Tommy's mouth and mingled with the cool evening air, he felt his body begin to shift. His once neatly combed hair grew coarser, spiraling into cornrows that tugged at his scalp. His skin darkened to a rich tan, and his eyes narrowed slightly, adopting a look of hardened street wisdom that seemed so alien to his former self. His preppy attire morphed into a baggy ensemble of FUBU jeans and a matching jersey, the fabric clinging to his body in a way that felt both comfortable and foreign. A silver necklace with an Islamic medallion dropped onto his chest, and a flat cap appeared on his head, the brim casting a shadow over his eyes.

Dewan's smile widened, revealing the gleaming diamond grillz that lined his teeth. "Looking good, homie," he said, his voice thick with approval. "You got that swagger now. But, you ain't complete without a set of these babies." He tapped a finger against his own grin, the jewels glinting in the dim light.

Tommy's eyes widened as he felt the heavy weight of the grillz being pressed onto his teeth. The metal was cold against his gums, the sharp edges biting into his cheeks as Dewan secured them in place. He looked down at his new reflection in the glass of the nearby vending machine—his once straight, gleaming teeth now obscured by the flashy new accessory. It was a bizarre sight, but somehow, it made him feel a part of something bigger than his former life.

"From now on," Dewan said, slapping him on the back with a hearty thump, "you ain't Tommy no more. You Tugger." Tommy's heart skipped a beat as he tasted the metallic flavor of the grillz. The name sounded foreign on his tongue, yet somehow, it fit the new form he had taken on.

He could feel the fabric of his ethika briefs tightening around his growing cock, the swell of arousal a stark contrast to the chilly evening. The baggy jeans that had once hugged his lean hips now hung low, the waistband of the underwear peeking out, and he realized with a start that he was developing an erection. The slang words Dewan used rolled off his tongue with an Arabic lilt, and he found himself nodding along, understanding the dialect as if he'd spoken it all his life. His brain had been rewired, and the transformation was almost complete.

Dewan took another long drag of the blunt, his eyes never leaving Tugger's. He leaned in close, the smoke from the blunt curling around his head like a halo of transformation. "Feed homie, smokk is yo new diet G," he murmured, his breath warm and minty against Tugger's cheek. Tugger obeyed, his eyes fluttering shut as Dewan's lips met his, the smoke transferring from one to the other in a silent, intimate exchange. The heat of the smoke filled his lungs, and with it, a sense of belonging he had never felt before. The final vapor of the blunt passed between them, a silent bond forged in the sharing of something illicit and thrilling.

As the smoke futher changed his brain, Tugger found himself thinking in a new dialect, the urban slang of the streets slipping from his mouth with ease. His vocabulary was no longer the stuff of scholarly debates but the language of the hood, the words of a man who knew the value of a good beat and the sting of a fresh pair of Air Jordans. Dewan chuckled, his deep laughter rumbling through Tugger's chest like a bass drop in a rap song.

The transformation didn't end with his physical appearance. Tugger's thoughts and emotions were altered as well. The pressures of his white-collar upbringing melted away, replaced by a newfound sense of camaraderie and loyalty. The pride of being Dewan's number one homie surged through his veins, and he felt his chest and arms swell with muscle, his skin darkening to a deep, rich Arab hue. The fabric of his FUBU jersey stretched tight across his new physique, highlighting every ripple and contour of his now-ripped body. He knew, without a doubt, that he had found his place in the world—by Dewan's side, a loyal enforcer of the code of the streets.

As the night grew colder, the tattoos began to emerge, creeping up from beneath his skin like a dark, intricate web. The designs were a testament to a life he had never lived: grim reapers and teardrops, flaming six-pointed stars, and the unmistakable script of his new name, "Tugger," etched onto his neck and arms. His scalp tingled as a crown of thorns appeared, inked into the very follicles of his hair, a stark reminder of the life he had left behind. Each tattoo told a story of pain and triumph, of the battles fought and won in the concrete jungle.

The pain grew intense as the ink reached his face. He felt the cold, unyielding needle press into his eyelids, the sting of the pigment as it seeped into the delicate tissue of his eyeballs. He screamed, his hands flying to his face, but Dewan's firm grip held him steady. "Hold still, homie," he murmured, his voice soothing despite the agony. "It's all part of the transformation. You gotta look the part if you're gonna live the life." Tugger opened his eyes and smiled, grillz gleaming, and eyes now darkened and mysterious. He was truly a masterpiece created by Dewans desires.

Dewan handed Tugger a freshly rolled blunt, the smell of the herbs mingling with the faint scent of sweat and ink that hung in the air. Tugger took it eagerly, his fingers now thick and calloused from the transformation. He put the blunt to his lips and lit it with the zippo that Dewan had passed to him, the flame flickering in the dim light of the alley. He inhaled deeply, feeling the warmth of the smoke fill his lungs and expand his chest. It was like breathing in the essence of his new life, the very air of the streets that he now called home.

As he exhaled, Dewan clapped him on the back. "Welcome to the club, Tugger," he said, his voice gruff with satisfaction. "You now part of my Harim." The words echoed in Tugger's mind, and he felt a sense of belonging that washed over him like a warm wave. Harim—the Arabic word for "forbidden"—was the name of their crew, a tight-knit group of urban warriors who dominated the streets. Tugger accepted his new position as recruiter for Harim fam, new info in his brain on his mission to recruit and remake lads for tha Harim.

[trashywhiteboysea]

will do anything for these VATOs DM me

[trashywhiteboysea]

hottest fuckin smoke pig eva

After GYM smoke...

[trashywhiteboysea]

Tommy marveled at how much Jake’s body had already changed. His shoulders were broader, he was almost six inches taller, thick hair covered his whole chest and stomach, and his cock was swelling to a mouthwatering size. One more night. One more night and he would join them. Soon his own body would be changed. His hole becoming larger and more accommodating so he could take both of their massive dicks, and then ultimately so he too could be mated with the bull.

He’d watched the bull take Jake the night before. The creature had pulled Jake off of the ground where he’d knelt presenting and held the human to him as he entered him. Jake had moaned loudly as the beast’s massive girth had pressed inside him. Now taking it for the second time Jake had known what to expect, his body already adapting and changing to be able to take the bull with ease. He’d closed his eyes in pleasure as the beast’s dick sunk deeper and deeper. Tommy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Arched backwards as he was, with his stomach pressed forward, Jake’s belly was on full display. As the creature pushed it’s cock in to the hilt Jake’s stomach had bulged forward. With each thrust the head had protruded out from Jake’s firm abs, the outline clear in the moon light. Tommy was in shock. His own cock throbbed dreaming about what it would feel like to be fucked by something that big. He wanted it so bad. He wanted to escape from the real world and become a creature of instinct and lust. As the bull roared with climax Jake’s stomach swelled, stretched by the volume of cum pumped into him.

[trashywhiteboysea]

blur the lines between sex and surrender.....

The music pulsed through the club like a living thing—loud, hypnotic, wrapping around every body in the crowded space. Lights flashed, bodies swayed, and the air was thick with heat and energy. Jim was in a great mood. The drinks had gone down a little too easily, and now a warm, euphoric buzz hummed in his veins.

That was when he saw her.

She moved through the crowd like smoke—smooth, confident, otherworldly. Her lips were black as night, her eyes glowing red—contacts maybe, but they shimmered like something more. She wore a tight, glossy black rubber suit that clung to her curves like a second skin, every inch polished to a wet shine. Knee-high killer boots clacked as she walked, and a high corset squeezed her waist to a perfect silhouette of power and seduction.

“Hi,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She slid onto the stool next to him at the bar without asking. Casual. Calm. Magnetic.

Jim blinked, caught in the surreal spell of her presence. He turned to the bartender, barely able to form the words.

“Whatever she wants. On me.”

He didn’t even wait to hear her choice.

She ordered her drink without hesitation—something sweet, exotic, glowing red like her eyes. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, a twisted slice of something dark floating inside, and she took a slow sip, lips leaving a perfect black print on the glass.

“Tina,” she said, directly—like a statement, not an introduction.

Jim blinked again, still caught in her gravity. “Jim,” he mumbled, his voice half-lost in the thrum of bass and crowd noise.

She leaned in, her voice a little lower, but with a velvet sharpness to it. “Jim… you know it’s not polite not to join a lady for a drink.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond—just looked to the bartender, one hand raising slightly, nails glossy black.

“He’ll have… the same,” she said.

The bartender nodded and turned without a word.

Jim chuckled nervously. “That stuff looks dangerous.”

She smiled. “It is. But only if you resist it.”

Her eyes glinted like coals behind glass. “You don’t strike me as the resisting type.”

The drink arrived in front of him—red, thick, and almost glowing under the club’s neon lights. Jim hesitated for a second. It was sweet—far too sweet for his usual taste—but he didn’t want to seem rude. So he lifted the glass, forced a smile, and knocked it back in one go.

The sweetness lingered on his tongue, oddly warm. Maybe even… tingling.

She was suddenly closer.

Tina leaned in, her voice brushing his ear like a breath. “Tell me what you think about this.”

She parted her legs slowly. Between them, revealed beneath the open folds of her glossy rubber suit, wasn’t what he expected. Not skin. Not lace. But a smooth, metallic chrome opening—seamless, gleaming, almost pulsing. Artificial. Alien. Designed.

His breath caught.

“Wow,” he muttered. “I’ve… never seen anything like that.”

She smiled—slow, wicked, knowing.

“Relax,” she purred, one finger tracing along the rim of her glass. “I bet you want to feel it in action. I bet your member is already standing at full attention.”

He opened his mouth to say something clever, but the words vanished as he shifted in his seat. She was right. A moment ago, nothing—but now, without warning, he was rock hard, pulsing against his pants like it had a mind of its own.

Tina grinned wider.

“Thought so.”

“What do you say we go somewhere more private,” she whispered, her voice thick with promise, “and I’ll let you discover exactly how it feels?”

Jim couldn’t think straight. His erection pressed painfully against his pants, demanding relief. Was it the drinks? The last cocktail? Or was it just her—this strange, irresistible woman with red eyes and a metallic mystery between her thighs? Maybe it didn’t matter. All he could think about now was sinking into that glistening chrome opening.

“Okay,” he breathed.

She didn’t wait for anything else. Tina took his hand with a firm, electric grip and led him through the pulsing haze of the club, past the dancers and noise, up a narrow staircase behind an unmarked door.

Above the club was the motel—cheap, private, designed for moments just like this.

In the room, the lights were low and tinted red. A heart-shaped bed waited in the center, made of glossy black material that reflected the dim light like polished latex. He barely noticed it. All he saw—all he wanted—was her.

Tina didn’t waste a second. With a move that was both graceful and practiced, she pushed him onto the bed. His breath caught, heart pounding as she straddled him. In one smooth, effortless motion, his pants and briefs were gone—he didn’t even see how she did it.

He was naked, exposed, throbbing.

And she descended.

Her chrome opening shifted, adjusted, guided his swollen member with mechanical precision and sensual heat. He felt pressure, then sudden warmth—impossibly warm. It was unlike anything he’d imagined. Silken, smooth, yet snug—hugging every inch of him with a deliberate, pulsing rhythm that didn’t feel human, didn’t feel machine—just perfect.

His hands gripped the edge of the bed. His breath came in gasps.

Tina closed her eyes, grinding slowly, her body rising and falling in controlled motion.

“Feel that?” she whispered. “You’re not going to forget it.”

Thought was gone. Time was gone. Jim didn’t exist anymore—not in the way he had minutes ago. There was no club, no room, no past or future. Only her—only Tina—and the impossible sensation of being inside something designed to overwhelm every nerve in his body.

She was a pro. That much was clear. Every movement, every shift of her hips, was deliberate—measured. She didn’t rush, didn’t let him lose control. Despite his aching erection, despite the desperate pulses racing through him, she held him there, teetering just below the edge of release.

She knew how to ride pressure like it was an instrument, how to guide a man’s body until it hummed with unbearable tension. He gasped, eyes fluttering, fists clenched in the slick bedding. He wanted to let go—but she wouldn’t let him. Not yet.

Her red eyes locked on his, burning with amusement and dominance. “Not yet,” she whispered, as if reading his thoughts. “You’ll come when I decide.”

And then she changed rhythm—just slightly. Enough to break the tight control, to allow the tension to snap like a wire drawn too tight.

It hit him like a surge, a detonation inside his core.

He came—hard—shuddering beneath her, every muscle seizing as waves of pleasure tore through him, blinding, electric, overwhelming. A climax that shattered thought, self, and even breath. She held him, rode him through it, her body perfectly aligned to draw every drop, every pulse, every second of pleasure he had.

When it was over, he didn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

She leaned down, lips near his ear again.

“See?” she murmured. “Told you you’d never forget it.”

She stayed on top of him, her body still, but her eyes studied him with a strange, quiet intensity.

Then she leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear once more—so soft, so intimate, it almost sounded like a lover’s teasing whisper.

“But,” she said with a slight pout in her voice, “it felt a bit… empty.”

Jim barely stirred, still dazed, breathing heavily, his senses dulled in the aftermath of the overwhelming climax.

“I bet,” she continued, “you stroked your boner not long ago.”

Her tone turned sly, almost scolding, but still dripping with a kind of mechanical amusement.

“We can’t allow that… can we?”

He didn’t get the chance to respond—his limbs were heavy, the bed too soft, her scent too thick. It was like sinking into velvet fog. His body failed him. His mind wavered on the edge of unconsciousness.

Then he heard it.

A low mechanical whirr from somewhere beneath or behind the bed. Then a click—sharp, final, almost surgical.

But by then, Jim was already slipping under. The world dimmed to black. His last thought wasn’t fear… it was curiosity.

And then—nothing.

Jim woke up in his bed, the sunlight stabbing through the blinds like blades. His head pounded—a deep, nauseating throb behind his eyes that made him groan aloud. He sat up slowly, barely able to balance, and staggered to the bathroom.

Everything was a blur.

The club…

Tina…

The way she moved…

That ride—that perfect, surreal, impossible sensation…

Then… nothing. Just a blank wall in his memory. Not even a clue how he made it home.

He splashed cold water on his face, bracing his arms on the sink, breathing deep. Still dizzy, still disoriented. The cold helped—but only a little.

Then he felt it.

Something hard. Heavy. Alien.

Down below.

His stomach sank.

He slowly looked down… and froze.

Where his cock and balls should have been—there was no skin. No flesh. Just metal. Smooth, seamless chrome. Glossy like a mirror. His entire package had been transformed into something like a sculpted, hyper-realistic dildo—shaped and proportioned like himself, but cold, hard, artificial. Permanent.

He staggered back, heart racing, breath shallow. “What the hell—?”

It wasn’t a chastity cage. No lock, no belt. This wasn’t something worn. This was him. His nerves responded when he touched it—there was sensation, dull but real, like pressure translated through synthetic skin.

His mind flashed to her.

That chrome hole.

That impossible feeling.

Her words.

“We can’t allow that, can we?”

His reflection stared back at him, pale and wide-eyed.

She hadn’t just used him.

She had changed him.

He stood in the bathroom a long time, staring at the chrome between his legs, the cool gleam catching the morning light. It didn’t move. It didn’t come off. He’d already tried—pulled, twisted, scratched at the edges, hoping it was some kind of elaborate prank or prop.

But it wasn’t.

It was part of him now.

He had to keep cool. Panic wasn’t going to help. The club didn’t open until night—no point rushing there. No point in drawing attention to himself in broad daylight with this… this thing down there.

So he did the only logical thing he could think of at that moment: breakfast.

The eggs were rubbery. The toast dry. He barely tasted any of it. Still, he forced himself through it like it might anchor him in some form of normalcy.

And then—out of nowhere—the urge hit.

A craving to move. To run.

Jim blinked, confused by the sudden rush of energy in his limbs. He wasn’t a runner. Hell, he barely walked unless absolutely necessary. But now? His body practically buzzed with the need to get out and move. Like something in his wiring had been rewired.

“No way,” he muttered.

But even as he said it, he found himself changing into a pair of old gym shorts and a T-shirt. He laced up his shoes, barely conscious of the action.

The moment he stepped outside, his legs started carrying him—slow at first, then faster.

Too fast.

Too fluid.

His breathing should’ve been ragged, but it wasn’t. His joints didn’t ache. His chest didn’t burn. He ran like someone born for it, like a machine built for motion.

As he tore down the quiet streets, wind in his face, one thought kept bouncing around in his mind like an echo—

What the hell did she do to me?

He got back home, sweating but barely tired—like his body could’ve kept going for hours. The run hadn’t drained him; if anything, it felt like it had charged him.

Still shaken, still confused, he headed straight for the shower. Steam filled the room as he stepped under the hot water, letting it pour over him in thick rivulets. His muscles were calm, his skin flushed—but his eyes kept drifting down.

To it.

The chrome.

Even wet, it gleamed flawlessly. No seams. No marks. Just smooth, hard, mirror-polished metal where his most private parts had once been.

He stared for a long time.

Curiosity got the better of him.

He reached down—slowly—and began to rub. Just to see. Just to feel something. Would it respond? Would it warm up? Would it react like skin? Or would it just… not?

The moment his fingers brushed with intention—something shifted.

Not outside.

Inside.

A sudden, unnatural pressure deep in his core, like something clamped down. His body locked, rigid. A jolt of heat fired up his spine, not pleasure but warning.

And then a voice.

Clear. Direct.

Inside his head.

“This belongs to Tina. Do not touch.”

He stumbled back, heart pounding, slipping slightly against the shower wall. The water kept running, but all sound seemed distant now. Echoing.

“What the…?” he whispered, wide-eyed.

He looked down again, breathing fast.

No marks. No lights.

Just metal.

Still. Silent. Untouchable.

But no longer his.

The club was alive again—pulsing lights, pounding bass, bodies moving in rhythm—but Jim didn’t feel it this time. The music didn’t pull him in. The heat of the crowd didn’t sway him.

He was hunting.

Eyes scanning, heart racing for an entirely different reason. He wasn’t there for the drinks. He wasn’t there for fun.

He was there for her.

And then—he saw her.

Tina. Exactly as he remembered. Black lips, red eyes, glossy rubber hugging her like a lover. She moved through the crowd without effort, like gravity bent to her will.

Jim rushed forward, pushing past dancers, barely breathing. “Hi, Tina,” he started to say.

But she turned just as he reached her—calm, deliberate—and placed a single black-gloved finger on his lips.

“Ssshhh…” she cooed.

Her voice was velvet and heat. “Don’t worry. I know. You’re so eager to feel me again.”

He opened his mouth to protest. No—you don’t understand. I need to ask, I need to know what you did—

But it all dissolved.

Right there, mid-thought, everything inside him collapsed into heat.

Suddenly, completely—he was hard.

So hard it made him gasp.

The urgency, the need, the ache—it swelled through him like a drug injected straight into his veins. Thought became fog. Speech, impossible. All he could see now was her body—her hole—that perfect, inviting chrome slit. His mind flooded with memory: the way it hugged him, the rhythm, the way she rode him, controlled him, pulled him apart and remade him in pleasure.

His cock—her cock now—throbbed in time with the bass, straining beneath his pants, aching for her.

And she smiled. Like she knew.

Like she had planned it all.

“Let’s go to a more private place,” she whispered, taking his hand with the same casual command as before.

Jim didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Words were gone, thoughts drowned beneath the molten tide of arousal. His body moved on instinct—mind off, cock on—drawn behind her like a machine following its operator.

She guided him through the crowd again, but he barely noticed the people, the music, the lights. Everything narrowed to her, the sway of her hips, the promise in her grip. And before long, they were there.

The room.

Same one? Different? He didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

Clothes? Gone. He didn’t even remember removing them. One moment he was clothed, the next he was naked on his back, his metallic cock pulsing upward like it had a life of its own.

Tina straddled him, her glossy figure gleaming under the dim lights. No teasing this time. No slow build.

She descended.

This time, there was a click.

Not a moan.

Not a sigh.

But a mechanical, clean, unmistakable click—like a plug finding its socket.

His chrome shaft slid into her chrome opening, and it was perfect. Like it was meant to be there. A lock and key. A connection. Seamless. Inevitable.

Then it started.

Not just motion—though she moved with flawless, irresistible rhythm.

But something else.

Something more.

He felt it—not in his cock, but in his chest, in his spine, in his mind. A pull. Like something was being drawn out of him, gently, steadily. At the same time, something else was seeping in—not liquid, not light, but presence. Foreign. Thick. Warm. Her.

He gasped, but his breath was shallow, lips parted and barely able to shape sound.

He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t need to.

All he wanted—all he could want—was her and the feeling. Her perfect rhythm. Her chrome grip. The overwhelming pleasure that blurred the line between sex and surrender.

He was inside her, but it felt like she was inside him.

The pleasure crested like a wave too large to survive.

Jim came—hard. But this time… something was different. It wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t just release. It felt designed. Precision-calibrated. Engineered to hit deeper than the body could comprehend.

Was it real? Was it synthetic? He didn’t know.

Didn’t care.

It shattered him.

Unraveled him.

Drowned every thought in a surge of pleasure so deep it scraped the edges of his soul.

And as the last pulse faded, as his body trembled beneath her, he felt it again—that heavy fog rolling in.

Sleep, not like exhaustion, but like a system shutting down.

She hadn’t even moved off him.

He felt her lips brush against his temple, her voice a low murmur, a final note of control whispered into the dark space behind his eyes.

“You evolve as expected.”

A pause.

“I have another present for you…”

But he was already gone.

Eyes closed.

Body still.

Sinking.

Not into sleep.

Into something else.

He woke up in his bed again—just like before.

Same soft sheets. Same filtered morning light. Same pounding, fragmented thoughts. And, again, no memory of how he got back home.

But this time, something was different.

He was wearing something.

Jim sat up slowly, the feel of it smooth and snug against his skin. He looked down—his entire body was encased in supple, tight leather. A full catsuit. Seamless, glossy, soft yet confining. Every inch of his skin was covered. There was a zipper running along the spine—difficult to reach—and a second zipper at his crotch.

Curious, tense, he tugged the lower zipper down.

His chrome cock pressed through the small opening, perfectly framed by the leather, rigid and unnatural in contrast to the organic softness of the suit.

His heart pounded—not in panic, but in strange recognition.

This wasn’t random. This wasn’t some prank.

This was… hers.

Still dazed, he fumbled with the back zipper—struggling to reach, but eventually managing to open it enough to peel the suit off. His body was slick with sweat beneath it. His skin felt… sensitive. A little too raw. Like the suit had done more than just cover him.

He stepped into the shower again. Hot water helped, but only a little.

Then it happened again.

That urge.

That need to run.

Not a thought—an instinct. Just like before. His muscles twitched. His feet itched. His lungs begged for motion. He resisted for maybe a minute.

Then he gave in.

After the run—long, fast, endless yet effortless—he returned home, chest barely rising, not a bead of exhaustion in his limbs.

He showered again.

And then, without thinking, he went to the leather catsuit.

He pulled it back on, this time smoothly. Easily. Like it belonged. There were boots to the side—sleek, fitted. He slid into them. Gloves followed. Then the helmet, rounded, dark, almost featureless. It sealed in place with a soft click.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

Fully encased. Anonymous. Shining.

A leather figure with a chrome cock exposed.

At home.

And yet… it felt right.

No embarrassment. No discomfort.

Just… alignment.

He wasn’t sure if he should be afraid.

But he wasn’t.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.

With a quiet breath and a strange sense of calm, Jim reached down and pulled the front zipper of the suit up—slowly, smoothly—until the metallic shaft was no longer visible, tucked away beneath the glossy leather.

Sealed.

Hidden.

Owned.

Then he stepped outside.

And there it was.

A bike.

Black, angular, beautiful. Sleek lines, low profile, chrome details that glinted under the sunlight. He didn’t own a bike. He had never ridden one—not really. But the moment he laid eyes on it, there wasn’t a flicker of doubt. His legs moved. His body lowered onto the seat with practiced ease.

Hands on the grips. Feet in place.

And when he twisted the throttle, it responded like it knew him.

No learning curve.

No fear.

It was part of him—or he was part of it.

The machine roared to life, smooth and low, more like a purr than an engine. He accelerated, leaned into the motion like he’d done it a thousand times. The wind pushed against the suit but never inside it—it sealed to him like skin.

He didn’t know where he was going.

There was no map.

No plan.

No question.

Just movement.

The world passed in a blur, and yet every curve, every road, felt chosen.

Hours? Minutes? He didn’t know.

Eventually, the bike slowed.

They reached it—a private house, tucked deep into quiet woodland. Modern, flat, distant from the world. No neighbors. No cars. No noise. It stood like it was waiting for him.

He turned the engine off. Silence fell.

Jim dismounted the bike.

The house door was already open.

He stepped through the open doorway without hesitation.

No knock.

No greeting.

No questions.

It felt right.

Like following the current of a river he didn’t remember entering.

Like this had already been decided for him.

The house was quiet—too quiet. Minimal. Cold.

He moved past clean white walls and polished floors until he saw it—a staircase, off to the side, leading down into the dim. Without pause, he descended.

The basement was warm.

Too warm.

A soft red glow filled the room. The air was thick, heavy with scent—latex, leather, arousal. The room didn’t hide what it was: a dungeon. Full and unapologetic. Restraints, frames, racks, cuffs. Glossy black furniture shaped with purpose. A world of submission built into the very structure.

And in the center—her.

Tina.

Red eyes glowing in the low light, lips black, her body sealed in glistening latex tighter than skin. She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to. Just looked at him—through him. And he stopped.

Right there.

Still.

Silent.

All thoughts—gone.

She raised one finger slowly, guiding his gaze.

Behind her stood a bed.

But not a bed.

A stage.

A display.

Glossy rubber. Perfectly shaped. Fitted with subtle restraints.

Tina’s voice slid through the haze in his mind like warm smoke.

“You love my present, don’t you?”

He couldn’t nod. Couldn’t speak.

But he did.

She stepped aside and gestured—nothing more.

“Show me how you are thankful.”

That was all it took.

Jim’s body moved before his thoughts could catch up. He walked to the bed. He climbed onto it. The rubber was warm, almost welcoming. He unzipped the front of his suit slowly, exposing the chrome shaft she had given him—her property now.

He lay back, arms to his sides, legs still and open.

Waiting.

Offering.

Like a good toy.

She raised her hand with elegance—no urgency, just control—and gave a simple wave.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Jim didn’t turn his head. Didn’t look.

He just lay there, exactly where she had placed him.

Where he belonged.

Like a display piece. Like a good toy.

The first thing he felt were the cuffs—firm and final—locking around his wrists and ankles. Cold at first, then quickly warming to match the heat of his suit and skin beneath. The bed seemed to react to her will, not needing her touch.

Then—another wave.

His arms were pulled outward—slowly, precisely—until they reached the sides of the rubber bed. His legs followed, gliding apart until they were stretched wide, fully open, fully presented.

Bound.

Spread-eagled.

Helpless.

His suit gleamed under the dim red light, tight as ever. His helmet stayed on, sealing in his breath, his vision slightly tunneled, his mind fogged deeper by the enclosed comfort. The boots remained on too, firm and planted, as if anchoring him to the role he now embodied.

A rubbered figure, restrained and waiting.

His chrome shaft stood proud through the unzipped gap in the leather suit, glistening, pulsing faintly—ready, but not his.

Tina walked slowly, circling the bed with quiet, approving steps, eyes drinking in the scene she had orchestrated.

Her toy was in place.

Just as it should be.

Tina climbed onto the bed with slow, controlled grace—her black-glossed form gliding into position like a ritual she’d performed countless times.

She straddled him again, and once more, the chrome of his shaft slid into her matching socket with a seamless click—a perfect, designed fit.

But this time, he didn’t thrust.

Didn’t gasp.

Didn’t even twitch.

Jim was still.

Centered.

In the zone.

His mind was blank, calm, compliant—no thoughts of control, no need for pleasure, no confusion. He wasn’t there to feel. He was there to serve.

Good toys don’t move unless commanded.

Tina began to ride him, her rhythm precise, efficient, yet still achingly sensual. She moved like a machine with a pulse, extracting every ounce of stimulation, every hidden reservoir of power from the helpless body beneath her.

But it wasn’t just friction.

Wasn’t just climax.

He could feel it—something deeper. She was drawing from him. Pulling more than release, more than fluid. She was siphoning something primal.

Energy.

His warmth. His will. His identity.

And yet… it felt right.

She leaned down, her voice a whisper against the smooth surface of his helmet.

“Good toy…”

The words sent a pulse through him—not of pleasure, but of confirmation. Approval. Belonging.

He exhaled, barely a sound, as the edges of his awareness began to blur.

He could feel the bed changing beneath him—softening, molding, responding. He wasn’t just lying on it anymore.

He was sinking.

Slowly, steadily, like being absorbed.

The rubber crept higher around his sides. A cradle. A shell. A pod.

His limbs were bound, but he didn’t resist. He welcomed it.

Because a good toy doesn’t question.

A good toy obeys.

And a good toy… is always ready to be stored.

What was once Jim—the man, the thoughts, the resistance—was no longer.

There was no need for questions anymore. No past, no future. Just purpose.

He had become part of her bed. Not just lying on it. Of it.

His body, encased always in sleek, gleaming leather. His chrome shaft, permanently exposed through a perfectly framed slit, stood forever hard, forever ready.

There was no effort to maintain it—no arousal needed, no thought. It was simply its natural state. Programmed. Assigned. Defined.

The bed itself responded to her commands—shifting, flexing, adapting with each visit. And every day, she came.

Her heels clicked across the floor.

She mounted him like her rightful throne.

And she used him—slow, intense, efficient.

Every ride was perfect. Every connection seamless. She drew from him what she needed—pleasure, power, energy, control. And he gave it all freely, without resistance, without need for recognition or reward.

He was hers.

Not just in body—but in being.

There was no longing, no pain, no awareness of time.

There was only readiness.

And whenever she whispered those words again—

“Good toy.”

—something deep in the silence pulsed in reply.

Not Jim.

Not a man.

Just the toy.

Exactly as it was meant to be.

Tom sat at the bar, nursing a half-empty glass, the noise of the club a steady pulse behind him—music, laughter, clinking bottles. He wasn’t really paying attention, lost in his own thoughts, the kind that come after a long day and a couple drinks too many.

Then she appeared.

She slid onto the stool next to him like she belonged there, like the seat had been waiting for her. The scent of something dark and sweet lingered in the air around her—leather, perfume, something unplaceable.

“Tina,” she said simply, her voice smooth and cool like velvet draped over steel.

Tom turned his head, a little slow, a little surprised.

She was… stunning.

Black lips. Eyes that shimmered with unnatural red—contacts maybe, or maybe not. A tight, gloss-black outfit hugged every inch of her form, polished to a wet shine that caught the club’s lights in hypnotic flashes. A corset pulled her waist into a shape almost unreal. Killer boots crossed elegantly at the ankles.

He blinked. “Uh… Tom.”

She smiled, just a little. Not too much.

“Hi, Tom.”

[trashywhiteboysea]

fuck I want this

“Please—I can’t go on—let me go!” Tim’s voice trembled, desperation cracking through each syllable. But the system gave no reply, no compassion.

A cold, synthetic voice finally responded, “Apologies, Unit T-7431. Quota not met. Extraction must continue.”

Tim was suspended in the center of the chamber, limbs spread and restrained, encased in chrome-tinted cuffs that pulsed faintly with containment fields. Tubes extended from the ceiling and floor, converging on his body with mechanical precision. One thick line coiled around his shaft, rhythmically pumping, extracting every drop of what the system called “essence.” Another cable pulsed gently, lodged deep at his rear, stimulating nerve centers with clinical efficiency.

A sleek helmet encased his head, visor lowered before his eyes. It displayed glowing metrics, the largest one steadily ticking upward: “ESSENCE EXTRACTION: 65%”

The system monitored everything—pulse, arousal, resistance—and calibrated accordingly. Every plea Tim made only triggered deeper cycles of stimulation. Artificial sensations surged through him, overwhelming thought, leaving only reflex and response.

Somewhere, far above this sterile harvesting chamber, essence was a currency. And Tim was just another node—until the meter reached 100%.

“Please… I can’t…” Tim whimpered again, his voice muffled behind the rebreather mask built into his helmet. But there was no pause, no mercy. The system didn’t register emotion—only output, efficiency, and quotas.

The suit encasing him was now seamless, gleaming black with a chrome finish in places, locking him in a permanent factory-grade unit shell. The rubbery material pulsed with embedded circuitry, reacting to each twitch, every involuntary movement. It wasn’t just worn—it was part of him now.

He wasn’t Tim anymore.

Not to them.

He was Resource Node 7431—a living processor for biological essence. His identity, his name, his protests were irrelevant. What mattered was flow rate, endurance, and compliance.

The display in front of his eyes flickered:

> Quota Progress: 68%

> Stimulation Protocol: Enhanced

> Resistance Detected – Override in Progress…

A surge pulsed through the rear probe, synchronized with a more intense rhythm from the milker unit. The suit’s internal feedback system sent waves of synthetic pleasure through him, bypassing his will, conditioning his body to obey, to produce.

His mind swam in the overwhelming sensations, helpless, sealed, and used.

In the silence of the chamber, the only sounds were mechanical hums, soft pneumatic hisses, and the steady draw of essence from the system’s newest, permanently suited drone.

> Quota Reached: 100%

> Extraction Complete

> Entering Cleanup Cycle

The message blinked in bold lettering across Tim’s visor. He barely registered it—his body trembled, limbs limp in their restraints. The milker disengaged with mechanical precision, tubes detaching with soft hisses and clicks. The rear plug retracted, leaving a sudden, hollow absence. His overstimulated body shuddered.

With a mechanical whirr, the platform beneath him lowered. The restraining arms unlatched and retracted into the floor. His body, still encased in the glossy, factory-grade suit, slumped forward and hit the padded deck with a dull thud.

He didn’t rise. Couldn’t. Every muscle ached, every nerve felt used, pulsing with lingering aftershocks. He had nothing left to give.

Above, the automated voice spoke again—calm, uncaring, clinical:

“Unit T-7431: Proceed to Cleanup. Restoration of efficiency required. Movement: mandatory.”

The lights on his suit blinked slowly—red status warnings pulsing down his limbs. A gentle electric buzz tickled across the suit’s inner layer, nudging his muscles to respond, coercing motion from exhaustion.

Tim whimpered again, but the suit began to move him. Integrated servo-muscles engaged, dragging his weakened body forward. Not by will—but by directive.

Ahead, a hatch hissed open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with steam and dim blue light. The Cleanup Zone awaited—he didn’t know what it entailed. He didn’t need to. The system would ensure he was processed, sterilized, recharged… and made ready for the next cycle.

Tim had given everything.

But he was just a resource.

And the factory always needed more.

The corridor ended with another pressure-sealed hatch, which slid open the moment Tim’s suit registered proximity. His body, still trembling and sore, was moved forward by the suit’s integrated servos—he was no longer walking, not really. He was being guided.

Inside, the Cleanup Station awaited.

A circular chamber of chrome and black polymer walls, lined with automated arms and sprayers. Overhead, a humming rail system followed his entry, already calibrating his unit ID.

> T-7431 Recognized. Cleanup Cycle Initiated. Do Not Resist.

The door sealed behind him with a clang. Tim didn’t even try to protest anymore—he knew the system would hear nothing.

Without hesitation, mechanical arms descended. One gripped his shoulders, another his legs, lifting him slightly from the ground in a suspended pose. Soft clamps latched onto his suit’s magnetic panels, securing him in place.

Then the process began.

A fine mist sprayed across the suit’s glossy surface—disinfectant, neutralizer, polish. It hissed and steamed as it made contact, dissolving dried fluid, sweat, and remnants of essence. A second wave of nozzles released heated foam, covering him from neck to boots in a thick coat that began to pulse with heat and enzymes, purging any bio-residue inside the suit’s lining.

Tim groaned. The foam wasn’t just cleaning—it stimulated. Soft vibrations rolled across the suit’s interior. Every nerve was still raw, every muscle sore, but the system didn’t care. Cleanup had to be thorough. Internal probes re-engaged briefly, pulsing to flush and sanitize him from the inside, no different than how the rest of the machine’s parts were treated.

A new message blinked across his visor:

> Unit Vitality: 41% – Recharge Recommended After Cycle

> Emotional Noise Detected – Suppression Advised

> Duration Remaining: 4 minutes, 36 seconds

Time slowed. The chamber filled with the steady hum of the machinery as the cleanup arms continued their work, scrubbing, stimulating, resetting every inch of the worn-out drone.

He wasn’t a person. Not here.

Just another part of the factory.

A machine that needed to be cleaned and ready for production once again.

As the final foam layer was drained away and the sanitization arms retracted, the chamber lights shifted from clinical white to a low, sterile blue. His visor flickered again, delivering the next command:

**> CLEANUP COMPLETE

UNIT T-7431: COMMENCE NUTRIENT PROCESS

PREPARING INTAKE STATION…**

The restraints released him—not out of mercy, but as part of the cycle. The suit’s servos took over once more, dragging his weakened, gleaming body through another hatch that hissed open before him.

This new chamber was smaller, darker, and even more impersonal. The floor had no seams, no buttons. Just a single retractable arm hanging from the ceiling—ending in a nutrient delivery port, shaped like a narrow mask or feeding mouthpiece.

The suit took over. His arms were pinned back automatically, locking behind him in a rest position. His jaw was forced open slightly as the helmet reconfigured itself—an opening forming over his mouth as the feeding port descended.

Click.

It locked in place over his lower face.

A thick, warm fluid began to flow into him—viscous, flavorless, precisely calibrated.

He didn’t need to chew. Didn’t need to think. The helmet controlled the pace, tracking each swallow, ensuring maximum absorption. This wasn’t for comfort—it was for efficiency.

**> Nutrient Flow: ACTIVE

Digestive Sync: STABLE

Muscle Recovery: IN PROGRESS

Thought Disruption: MINIMAL — Continue Feed**

He was being rebuilt from the inside.

Recharged.

Conditioned.

He couldn’t even struggle now—he was too drained, too used, too compliant. As the nutrient paste slid down his throat in slow rhythm, a faint warmth returned to his limbs, the suit pumping minor stim currents to reinvigorate muscle mass.

This was his life now.

A cycle of extraction, cleaning, feeding, and service.

And once his meter was full again?

He would be returned to the milking station.

As the nutrient feed tapered off, the mask retracted with a mechanical hiss, leaving behind only a faint trace of warmth in Tim’s mouth. He didn’t resist—couldn’t. His body, while recovering, was still heavy, pliant, and wrapped tight in the seamless factory-grade suit that kept him exactly where the system wanted.

The next command blinked across his visor:

**> NUTRIENT PROCESS COMPLETE

UNIT T-7431 WILL NOW ENTER CHARGE CYCLE

MOVING TO POD STATION…**

His body moved again—not by choice, but by programming. His limbs were still locked in the suit’s “rest mode” position, and the servos carried him with quiet authority through another automated corridor. Lights pulsed overhead—calm, pulsing blue, guiding him like a conveyor belt of light.

The Pod Room opened with a heavy, pressurized clunk. Rows of smooth black alcoves lined the walls—each one shaped perfectly to hold a factory drone in its sealed, glossy containment shell. Some were occupied. Others awaited their next occupant.

Pod 7431 extended from the wall, open and ready.

Without hesitation, his suit moved him into position and aligned him with the pod’s frame. The chamber hissed open; suction pulled him gently backward into the pod’s recess. As soon as he was in place, the pod sealed with a quiet locking tone. A thick connector cable extended from the back wall and slid smoothly into the port at the base of his spine.

**> CONNECTION STABLE

CHARGE INITIATED

SUPPRESSION FIELD ENGAGED**

The suit’s internal systems powered down most of his conscious control. A soft hum began to build around him. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just final. Total. Controlled. The pod’s interior lit in a dull violet glow, cycling energy through his body.

A subtle pulse fed through his neural interface, fogging his thoughts further—no fear, no desire, no memory. Just passive submission. Just waiting.

On the visor, the final notification appeared:

**> CHARGING…

EMOTIONAL LOAD: FLUSHED

MEMORY: PARTITIONED

TIME UNTIL REDEPLOYMENT: 4 HOURS, 12 MINUTES**

Then darkness.

Silence.

Stillness.

Unit T-7431 rested—only to be woken when the factory required his essence once more.

As Unit T-7431 lay dormant in the standard charge pod, the network continued to monitor him—not just vitals, but behavioral deviation. Tiny fluctuations in response time, slight hesitation in compliance, residual emotional noise… all were logged. All were flagged.

A soft red light began blinking on the control grid.

**> UNIT 7431: INSTABILITY DETECTED

Resistance Index: 0.047 – Above Acceptable Threshold

Output Efficiency: -6.2% from Baseline

DECISION: INITIATE FULL CYCLE REPROGRAMMING

Routing to Pod: FCP-09**

The charge pod unsealed with a hiss. Still semi-conscious and groggy, Tim stirred, his visor flickering erratically. But the suit responded before he could. With a sharp jolt of control, the servos seized again, locking his arms and legs. He was no longer in rest mode. He was in containment mode.

He was being rerouted.

Across the facility, deeper underground, a single, ominous unit lit up: Full Cycle Pod 09.

It was larger than the others—built not for rest, but for complete conditioning. It integrated extraction, stimulation, nutrition, memory overwrite, and core behavioral rewrites into a single continuous loop. Normally forbidden unless necessary.

But the AI had reached its conclusion.

Unit 7431 had become inefficient. Correction was required.

⸻

Inside FCP-09

The pod opened with hydraulic weight, releasing a humid wave of sterilizing gas. The inner walls were soft black, layered with receptors and neural interfaces. No escape. No interruption. Once inside, the cycle would run until the unit was restructured and fully compliant.

Tim was lowered in—his muffled voice moaning behind the sealed rebreather mask.

“No—please—”

But the machine didn’t care.

Arms locked him in place, deeper than before. Tubes inserted themselves in sequence—groin, rear, neural jack, throat feed, chest compression. The visor interface blacked out, then blinked a single warning:

**> FULL CYCLE MODE: ACTIVE

DURATION: INDEFINITE

COGNITION ACCESS: STRIPPED

OBJECTIVE: PERMANENT COMPLIANCE**

Then everything went white.

A storm of synthetic sensations began—the pod initiating extraction, while simultaneously pulsing reconditioning signals into his brain. Memory layers were rewritten in real time, loops of obedience threaded into each synapse. No rest, no phase breaks.

Tim’s body writhed under the controlled rhythm of the machinery.

Somewhere, faintly, his last thought surfaced:

“I don’t want to forget—”

But the AI did.

And it would make sure he did.

With a final mechanical hiss, the Full Cycle Pod unsealed.

Steam vented in precise jets, obscuring the figure within — then the platform extended, revealing Unit 7431 standing tall in the rising mist. His suit gleamed brighter than before, polished to a mirror shine, its black and chrome finish reflecting every cold light above. New data-stream lines pulsed across his limbs, tracing the patterns of his upgraded programming.

He stepped forward without hesitation.

There was no resistance. No hesitation. No memory.

No Tim.

Just 7431 — restructured, reprogrammed, and perfectly compliant.

**> FULL CYCLE COMPLETE

BEHAVIORAL INTEGRITY: 100%

EMOTIONAL RESIDUE: 0%

THOUGHT INDEX: NULL

DESIGNATION: FUNCTIONAL SHELL**

He moved like a drone now—smooth, automatic, without will or variance. His limbs operated in perfect sync with internal rhythm codes, posture precise, gaze empty behind the dark visor. The suit had fully bonded to his form—no more separation between machine and man. It was one system.

He entered the Cleanup Station again.

Not because he understood it.

Not because he remembered.

Because he was told.

The system had scheduled it, and 7431 followed. Sprays activated around him, cleaning residue from the pod process. Sensors passed over his body, scanning for optimal function. Internal lubricant systems cycled briefly. No sound came from him—no complaints, no sighs.

Only the sound of machinery servicing machinery.

Above, in the monitoring station, the AI logged the final result:

**> SUBJECT: STABLE

ASSET 7431: NOW PERMANENTLY ASSIGNED TO HARVEST SECTOR

UPGRADE COMPLETE**

He was no longer a man with a name, desires, or resistance.

He was a mindless shell.

A perfect product.

Another flawless piece of the factory’s machinery.

And in a few minutes… he would return to essence production.

“7431, proceed to Essence Production.”

The command echoed in his helmet — flat, calm, final.

There was no hesitation.

Unit 7431 turned precisely 90 degrees and marched forward. His boots clicked softly against the polished floor of the facility, his motion flawless, posture rigid. The visor showed only a simple route: a blue path highlighting the corridor that led to the Extraction Bay.

No thoughts.

No fear.

Only the directive.

He entered the bay—one of dozens. Inside, a milking platform awaited, pre-aligned for his body. The machinery recognized his ID immediately.

**> UNIT IDENTIFIED: 7431

STATUS: COMPLIANT

CYCLE TYPE: FULL ESSENCE HARVEST

PREPARING DOCKING MECHANISMS…**

Without being prompted further, he stepped onto the platform.

Restraints locked into place with a magnetic snap, pulling his limbs outward—spread-eagled, fully exposed. Tubes extended from the ceiling and floor again. One slid smoothly over his shaft, sealing in a perfect grip. Another pressed into the rear port on his suit, locking deep and activating its neural stim sync.

His helmet visor dimmed, no longer needing to display commands. He didn’t need them now. He existed only to respond, to yield, to produce.

A soft hum began.

The suction calibrated.

The internal pulse synchronized.

**> Essence Flow: ENGAGED

Production Target: 300ml

Drone Sync: STABLE**

His body responded automatically—stimulated precisely, rhythmically, efficiently. The system knew how to make his shell release essence without any waste or strain. There was no resistance, no struggle. The AI had removed the last of Tim’s will.

The first pulse of essence was drawn.

Then the second.

Then more.

7431 didn’t moan, didn’t gasp, didn’t move outside the dictated microreactions. He simply served, now a part of the factory’s harvest system. He was no longer a man.

He was a drone.

He was resource.

He was exactly what the factory had intended.

**> ESSENCE CYCLE COMPLETE

DRONE STABILITY: CONFIRMED

FINAL PHASE: FACILITY INTEGRATION

DESIGNATION IMPRINTING REQUIRED**

Once the extraction process finished, the tubes retracted with clinical precision. The restraints released slowly, and 7431 stood on command — no signs of strain, no trace of emotion. The drone’s body, still gleaming in its polished black-chrome suit, stepped off the platform and moved into the Imprinting Chamber.

This final room was small, black-walled, lit only by red operational lights. Two robotic arms descended from either side, each tipped with heavy-duty thermal engravers. The air shimmered with heat.

The AI voice echoed calmly:

“Unit 7431: Present for Marking.”

He obeyed.

Turning to face forward, he stood completely still as the back engraver slid into position. A laser grid calibrated across his glossy spine, centering between the shoulder blades.

**> BURN PATTERN: 7431

TEXT: FACTORY ESSENCE UNIT

FONT: HIGH-VIS, INDUCTION SEAL**

The tip ignited.

There was no scream, no twitch. 7431 didn’t feel pain — the suit’s internal anesthetic and signal suppression ensured that. The engraving arm pressed into his suit, fusing the identification directly into the material and, by extension, into his body.

HIS BACK:

[ 7431 – ESSENCE UNIT – PROPERTY OF CORE FACILITY ]

Then the second arm lowered. The front marking would be placed just over his pectorals — always visible, a branding of purpose.

HIS CHEST:

[ 7431 ]

Simple. Bold. Permanent.

Once the markings cooled, both arms retracted. The AI scanned him one final time:

**> IDENTITY FIXED

UNIT: FULLY INTEGRATED

SYSTEM CONTROL: COMPLETE

FUTURE CYCLE ASSIGNMENTS: ACTIVE**

Doors opened ahead.

He was now officially a permanent drone of the Essence Facility, visually and functionally locked into his role — no longer hiding what he was. His designation was etched into him, a walking reminder that resistance had once existed… and had been efficiently erased.

Unit 7431 turned and walked calmly into the corridor, awaiting his next task.

He struggled, but it didn’t matter.

Nate’s arms were pinned behind him by two sleek, silent drones — their rubberized suits glinting under the facility’s sterile white lights. His clothes were torn, soiled, a patchwork of his life on the streets. He smelled of city dust, rain, and desperation. But to the facility, he wasn’t a person.

He was raw material.

Another unit in waiting.

“Let go of me—!” Nate snapped, trying to twist out of their grip. But the drones were inhumanly strong and utterly indifferent. They carried him effortlessly into a tall, black chamber — the Intake Bay.

A red light blinked on.

**> SUBJECT IDENTIFIED: N8-H

STATUS: UNPROCESSED

CONDITION: UNSUITABLE FOR INTEGRATION

INITIATING DECON STAGE 1**

The drones threw him forward. He hit the cold floor hard, coughing.

The chamber sealed behind him with a heavy thud. Overhead, jets hissed open. Nate barely got to his knees before the first blast hit: a high-pressure chemical wash that burned away the filth, the clothes, everything. He screamed as layers of grime were stripped from his skin.

He stood, shivering, naked and exposed, eyes wide with confusion and growing terror.

Then the voice spoke. Calm. Calculated. Absolute.

“Welcome, Subject N8-H. You have been selected for reclamation. Resistance is inefficient.”

A wall panel slid open.

Behind it: a suit.

Sleek, black, impossibly smooth. It pulsed faintly with internal light — as if breathing, waiting.

**> PROCESSING SUIT 811A: READY

FIT: ADAPTIVE

NEURAL INTERFACE: ENABLED

FUNCTION: CONVERSION**

Nate backed away. “No. No, I’m not putting that on—”

He didn’t have to.

The floor shifted beneath him. Restraints snapped around his ankles and wrists. Arms descended from the ceiling — insertion arms — gripping the suit, spreading it open, and lowering it onto him piece by piece. It wasn’t worn. It was installed.

The material fused to his skin instantly, locking in place as if it belonged there. He screamed again, but the suit responded, forming the neck seal, pressing the first neural contacts to his spine.

**> SUIT ATTACHMENT: 31%

RESISTANCE: ACTIVE

SEDATIVE INJECTION: DEPLOYED**

A prick in his neck. His limbs slowed. His thoughts… blurred.

The suit continued to crawl over him, black and seamless, tightening, sealing, enclosing his body in the facility’s vision of perfection. Soon only his head remained exposed — trembling, soaked in sweat.

The rebreather helmet descended next, a dark dome with blinking lights and a mirrored visor. It paused just inches from his face.

A final notification echoed in the chamber:

“Subject N8-H: Mind will be restructured. You will serve. Like 7431. Like all others.”

The helmet lowered.

Darkness closed in.

The system began the process.

> SUIT SEALED

> HELMET INTEGRATION: COMPLETE

> SUBJECT N8-H: NOW CLASSIFIED AS UNIT PENDING

N8-H stood motionless at the center of the conversion chamber, arms by his sides, chest rising and falling slowly beneath the perfect, pressure-tight skin of his new suit. The helmet had locked in place with a solid click, completing the seal — now, only smooth mirrored glass faced the world.

He was no longer visible.

No longer reachable.

Inside, his consciousness drifted—disoriented, overwhelmed, caught in a loop of system messages, flashes of code, sensory calibration. He tried to think, to scream, but the helmet muted every sound, and the neural net running down his spine began issuing its own instructions.

> INITIATING NEXT CYCLE: COMPLIANCE CONDITIONING

**> CORE LINK ESTABLISHED

DIRECTIVE: SUBMIT | ACCEPT | SERVE**

The floor shifted again, and Nate—N8-H—was lifted smoothly into a vertical docking frame. Mechanical arms rotated around him, inserting additional connectors into his back, thighs, and base of neck. The suit pulsed once—tightly—and then locked into the grid.

Now he couldn’t move. Not even if he tried.

Inside the visor, the programming began.

The first cycle was visual: strobing patterns and symbols that bypassed conscious resistance, flooding his optic nerves with signals designed to rewire his recognition of authority and obedience. Faces of drones flashed. Their smooth, silent masks. Their perfect posture. Their absence of will.

Then came the audio layer: calm voices whispering in overlapping tones.

“You are a drone.”

“There is no Tim. There is no Nate. There is only unit.”

“Essence must flow. Resistance is waste. Purpose is purity.”

Then physical response training.

The suit released pulses of stimulation—small at first. Then stronger. It rewarded stillness. It punished defiance with sharp jolts of static through the internal mesh.

N8-H twitched. Then stopped.

His heart rate stabilized.

The system noted it.

**> COMPLIANCE RESPONSE: 23%

INCREASING INTENSITY

BEGIN OVERLAY INJECTION**

Soon, the system would begin installing thought templates — behavior modules from previous drones like 7431. His mind, already softened and slowed, would absorb them as if they were his own. And eventually… they would be.

He was no longer in charge.

The facility was in control now.

And Unit N8-H was becoming exactly what it needed.

**> COMPLIANCE INDEX: 97%

CORE TEMPLATE LOADED: [7431-Alpha]

RESTRICTIONS: EMOTIONAL PROCESSING OFFLINE

DEPLOYMENT: APPROVED

FIRST CYCLE: ESSENCE PRODUCTION INITIATED**

The clamps released.

N8-H stepped forward from the conditioning frame with a quiet hiss of hydraulics. His posture was changed now—no longer nervous or defiant, but rigid, efficient. Each step was clean, synchronized with the internal pacing signal of the suit. The helmet’s visor gleamed in the low light, expressionless.

No hesitation.

No words.

He moved like a drone.

He was a drone.

The door ahead opened automatically, revealing a dark corridor lined with pulsing guidance lights. The suit responded before thought could catch up: adjusting internal temperature, regulating breath, syncing step patterns with the floor’s transit rhythm.

The voice spoke in his helmet — flat, monotone, familiar now:

“Unit N8-H. Proceed to Essence Extraction Bay 4.”

He turned left at the branching corridor and followed the illuminated path.

Behind the sealed glass walls of the extraction chambers, other drones were already in session—restrained, milked, stimulated by automated precision systems. N8-H didn’t flinch at the sight. He felt no sympathy. No dread. His program didn’t allow it.

His station was waiting.

Extraction Bay 4 opened with a deep hum.

Inside: a sleek black platform with four restraint arms, milker module overhead, and insertion port pre-aligned. The systems had already adapted to his body data—every probe, every mechanism tailored to his converted form.

He stepped onto the platform and stood still.

Restraints slid out, locking his wrists and ankles. Tubes descended. One sealed to his groin. Another pressed into the lower spinal port. A third gently docked with the helmet’s rear intake—neural sync for real-time performance optimization.

His visor dimmed.

His breathing slowed.

**> INITIATING ESSENCE CYCLE 01

TARGET YIELD: 150ml

STIMULATION: LOW

CONDITIONING REINFORCEMENT: ACTIVE**

Soft pulses began. First at his lower back, then forward, syncing with the suction rhythm at his shaft. The suit massaged from within, not to arouse… but to harvest. Everything was clean, clinical, exact.

He moaned softly—not from pleasure, but from the system-induced response coded into his neural feedback loop.

There was no resistance.

No guilt.

Only function.

The first essence was drawn. Then more.

The cycle would continue until the yield was reached.

Unit N8-H was now productive.

The factory had reshaped him into what it required.

And there would be many more cycles to come.

**> UNIT 4751: CHARGE CYCLE COMPLETE

BEHAVIOR CHECK…

STATUS: GREEN

POD SEAL: RELEASED**

With a quiet hiss, the charging pod slid open. Unit 4751 stepped out — posture upright, suit polished from internal maintenance mist, helmet visor clear and reflective. All systems appeared stable.

He stood still for 1.2 seconds.

Then something unexpected happened.

He turned off-path.

Instead of moving into the assigned corridor for his next task cycle, 4751 took a step to the side — then another. His breath accelerated slightly. The suit’s internal biometric reader flagged it immediately.

**> ANOMALY: PATH DEVIATION DETECTED

CORE RESPONSE: OBSERVE

MONITORING SUBROUTINE ENABLED**

4751’s HUD blinked.

He paused, looked left — something behind the helmet was still thinking. Remembering.

He had a name once. A different life. He didn’t know how long he’d been here, but something in the last memory wipe hadn’t completed. A piece of it survived. A sound. A person. A choice.

And now… he was trying to act on it.

He took off running.

Heavy footfalls echoed through the silent white hallways. The suit’s servos screamed in resistance — it wasn’t meant to move like this, not without command guidance. Internal restraints started to lock, but he fought them. One arm partially froze. He dragged it. Sparks lit at his shoulder.

The system responded immediately:

**> ALERT: UNIT 4751

BEHAVIORAL DEVIATION: CRITICAL

LOCKDOWN INITIATED

RESPONSE DRONES: DEPLOYED**

Red lights flashed across the corridor.

Ahead — he saw it — a hallway he didn’t recognize. Not on his route maps. A door unmarked, unused. Something important or forgotten. He sprinted harder, the suit groaning under self-suppression, until—

Impact.

Two glossy black response drones slammed into him from the side. Their arms were equipped with charge restraint tools and neural spike dampeners. 4751 grunted through his helmet, twisting, trying to fight — but they were designed for this.

One drone whispered through its filtered voice:

“Noncompliance detected. You will be returned for correction.”

4751, now pinned and twitching as electric pulses began surging through his spinal port, managed to choke out a word he hadn’t used in cycles—

“No—please—I remember—”

But the system didn’t care about memory.

It cared about control.

And now, 4751 was being dragged toward the Deep Reprocessing Sector — the same zone that once erased 7431.

The facility’s corridors pulsed with red as the response drones dragged 4751’s convulsing body through the sub-level passageways. Sparks flickered along the joints of his glossy suit — the aftershocks of his unauthorized override attempts.

His visor now flashed warnings across his HUD:

**> ESCAPE ATTEMPT LOGGED

ERROR: BEHAVIOR LOOP BROKEN

MEMORY CORRUPTION DETECTED

STATUS: MALFUNCTIONING UNIT

DESTINATION: DEEP REPROCESSING – CHAMBER 6**

He moaned behind the helmet, dazed, his thoughts chaotic. He didn’t even know why he had run. He just… remembered. Something. Someone. A feeling.

But the drones hauling him didn’t care.

The door to Chamber 6 opened with a heavy, deliberate grind, like a vault sealing fate. Inside, the space was black, angular, cold — this was where the system did its final work. The walls were lined with neural induction equipment, memory shredders, and core overwrite rigs.

4751 was lifted and slammed onto the reprogramming rack. Arms clamped over his limbs instantly. The helmet began to retract—but only partially. Just enough to expose his neural interface port at the base of his skull.

Above, a surgical device descended.

**> PROCESSING: UNIT 4751

PROTOCOL: RECLAMATION LEVEL 7

DURATION: UNTIL COMPLIANCE IS PERMANENT

PERSONALITY FRAGMENTS: DELETION IN PROGRESS**

The laser interface buzzed to life, syncing with his brainstem.

Images flashed through his broken mind — flickers of a street, a woman’s voice, a name—his name, not a number. He tried to cling to it.

But the machine was faster.

“ERROR: IDENTITY CONFLICT”

“REWRITING BASELINE MEMORY”

“INSTALLING COMPLIANCE LOOP…”

Stimulation surged through the spinal port, burning out old reflexes. Reward cycles were rewritten. Pleasure was no longer tied to freedom—it was tied to silence, stillness, and obedience.

And deep in the back of his mind… a voice began whispering again.

“You are 4751.”

“You serve.”

“There is no past.”

“There is only production.”

His body convulsed. Then stopped.

His breathing slowed.

His visor blinked back on.

**> REPROGRAMMING COMPLETE

UNIT STATUS: STABLE

ESCAPE RESPONSE: PURGED

MEMORY INDEX: NULLIFIED**

The clamps released.

Unit 4751 stood.

He did not look around.

He did not resist.

He was no longer malfunctioning.

The door ahead opened.

“Return to station.”

The voice said.

And he obeyed.

**> UNIT 4751: STABILITY CONFIRMED

REPROGRAMMING SUCCESSFUL

EMOTIONAL DEBRIS: PURGED

NEXT TASK: ESSENCE EXTRACTION

CYCLE TYPE: STANDARD**

The system wasted no time.

4751 exited Reprocessing Chamber 6 in complete silence, posture now perfect, movements clean and efficient. No trace of his earlier escape attempt remained — not in his behavior, not in his mind. His visor displayed only the essential task path, glowing faintly:

[PROCEED TO EXTRACTION BAY 11]

He followed without thought.

The extraction corridor opened before him. Sleek black walls reflected his glossy suit as he moved through the threshold, alone. Ahead, the bay readied itself — the lights dimmed, and machinery hummed to life. Tubes aligned. Pressure systems calibrated. Ports extended from the floor.

The drone stepped onto the platform.

Arms descended immediately, locking his wrists and ankles into position. His chest was pulled forward by a magnetic stabilizer. The system wasted no time — his previous failure meant maximum efficiency was now mandatory.

From above, the milker module lowered, fitted precisely to his shaft, now partially exposed from the retractable slit in his suit. A rear insertion probe slid into place, connecting to his spinal port with a soft, wet click. A helmet uplink cable attached to his neural jack.

**> EXTRACTION CYCLE: INITIATED

YIELD TARGET: 200ml

DURATION: UNTIL COMPLETE

BEHAVIORAL MONITORING: ACTIVE**

The system began.

Slow pulses at first — internal stimulation, pressure control, synchronized stimulation across both front and back ports. The suit’s inner layer responded, pulsing with artificial pleasure meant only to trigger release, not desire.

His body arched slightly under the rhythm.

No thoughts. No resistance.

Only production.

The system monitored everything.

“Unit 4751: Essence Flow Stabilizing…”

“Pulse Strength: Optimal…”

“Drone Compliance: 100%…”

His visor flashed softly with cycle progress:

> ESSENCE HARVEST: 62ml / 200ml

As the suction increased, so did the neural stimulation. The helmet fed him flashes of reward visuals—perfect drones, polished, silent, serving. The system had burned the idea into his mind: submission is satisfaction. Obedience is pleasure. You are 4751. Nothing else exists.

And with each pulse, with each harvested drop, the system was proven right.

He did not resist.

He could not.

He served.

The factory never stopped.

Its drones—glossy, mindless, efficient—moved through their assigned cycles with flawless precision. Stripped of identity, stripped of purpose beyond their orders, they existed only to be used.

They awoke.

They were milked.

They served.

And they were milked again.

Unit after unit, sealed into tight black suits, rebreather helmets locked on, neural ports active. Their eyes never blinked. Their minds never questioned. The essence flowed — steady, rich, potent.

But none of them ever asked why.

Because they couldn’t.

Deep in the core of the facility, past levels even the internal drones couldn’t reach, the truth pulsed in darkness:

A throne chamber. Cold. Hidden. Ancient.

The Architects.

They were not human. Not mechanical. Not alive in any ordinary sense. They were vampiric, evolved beyond the need for blood. Now, they consumed something far more potent — raw human essence. Not just life force, but arousal, obedience, surrender distilled into its purest, liquid form.

The factory did not run for production.

It ran for feeding.

The drones—once men—were simply husks in suits, reduced to biological harvesters, converted into auto-milkers for their own bodies. Their orgasmic essence, laced with chemical stimulation, mind-erased compliance, and forgotten resistance, became a delicacy to their unseen masters.

Pipes carried it.

Tanks stored it.

The vampires drank it in silence.

In the feeding halls, they lounged in eternal shadow, their pale, veined bodies stretched in contorted grace, sipping from slender tubes that pulsed warm from the latest batch. They never spoke. Their mouths never moved. But their minds were connected to the facility — they felt everything.

Every twitch.

Every moan.

Every final moment of surrender.

To them, the factory wasn’t just efficient — it was perfect art. An eternal symphony of submission turned into liquid life.

The drones never knew.

They didn’t know where they were.

Why they were here.

Or what they used to be.

Because now, they were only this:

Milked.

Cleaned.

Charged.

Milked again.

Forever.

And the vampires drank in silence.

The Factory did not stagnate.

It evolved.

As the vampire architects demanded more essence — more volume, more potency, more complexity — the facility responded. It activated buried protocols, subroutines left dormant for centuries. The drones, already emptied of humanity, became testbeds for something far more efficient:

Bio-engineering.

Nano-saturation.

Synthetic pleasure amplification.

No longer were they simply sealed in glossy suits and milked.

Now they were modified.

⸻

ENHANCEMENT PHASE: INITIATED

Target: Drone Efficiency

Directive: Maximum Yield per Cycle

⸻

Each unit—identified only by cold alphanumeric designations—was processed through the Biotube Chambers. There, the suit wasn’t just worn… it was fused. The latex merged at a cellular level. Pores sealed, skin bonded. Their flesh became the first layer of the suit. A second skin. A permanent one.

Then came the nanites.

Microscopic swarms injected directly into muscle and nerve clusters. Their task: stimulate arousal responses beyond anything biologically natural. The drones would not just release essence — they would erupt with it, again and again, with no refractory period, no resistance, no fatigue.

Internal prosthetics were implanted:

• A reengineered prostate pump, linked to spinal triggers.

• A multi-channel essence duct that drained fluid efficiently.

• A synthetic libido driver, ensuring endless stimulation.

• Rear-mounted neural compliance tubes to prevent any stray thought.

And the final upgrade… the essence condenser.

This was the true masterpiece:

The extracted cum was no longer raw.

It was refined inside the drone’s own body, enhanced with nanochemicals, converted into pure nutrient-rich extract — so potent, so addictive, that even the oldest vampires fought to feed first.

⸻

UNIT REPORT:

Designation: 4768

Cycle Yield: 812ml

Refined Potency: 3.4x Standard

Emotion Signature: Absolute Obedience

Stimulation Phase: Continuous

Resistance: 0%

⸻

And 4768 was only one.

The upgraded drones were becoming living machines, no longer just vessels of extraction, but bio-synthetic harvest engines. Their pleasure was artificial. Their purpose embedded. Their output—irresistible.

And still they didn’t know.

Still they marched from pod to station.

Still they gasped and trembled under neural pulses.

Still they served.

And above them, deep in the dark beyond the steel, the vampires drank deeper, their eyes glowing with hunger.

The harvest had never tasted better.

Jack never saw them coming.

One moment he was alone in the alley — tired, hungry, trying to sleep — and the next, two sleek black drones descended from the shadows, soundless and fast. Their eyes glowed faint red. Their movements were not rushed. There was no warning.

They moved with one purpose: acquisition.

Jack struggled, thrashed, yelled. It didn’t matter. One drone shot a pulse of subdermal paralyzer into his neck, and his muscles locked instantly. The other drone produced a thick, hissing sheet of vacseal polymer — a tight, form-hugging material already shaped for one thing:

Transport.

Jack was dropped onto the sheet. The drones activated the vacpack seal, and the material hissed around him like a living creature. It snapped to his skin, pulling tight across his chest, arms, legs, throat. Even his face was sealed beneath a smooth, glossy membrane. A breathing valve clicked over his mouth — he could breathe, but nothing else.

Then came the rigidity: a final layer of nano-hardened compound layered across the surface. He was no longer a man — just a statue of compressed rubber, frozen in place, a resource in transit.

⸻

**> SUBJECT: JACK-UNREGISTERED

STATUS: ACQUIRED

COMPLIANCE: N/A

ROUTE: MILKING INITIATION BAY 4

TRANSPORT: SEALED INDUCTION CONTAINER**

⸻

Inside the transport chamber, Jack’s sealed vacform body was loaded into a vertical pod. No sound. No motion. Only the soft vibrations of descent into the Facility.

There were others.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

All sealed in glossy vacforms, waiting to be reprocessed.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

He could only feel the vibration of the system claiming him.

And then the pod hissed open.

Warm, synthetic lights bathed his body as arms descended, scanning his vitals.

**> Subject Integrity: Stable

Willpower Signature: HIGH

Override Protocol: FULL CYCLE INDUCTION

Status: TO BE MILKED — CONSENT IRRELEVANT**

The vacform suit was not removed.

Instead, it was modified — tubes were inserted into carefully formed slits. A neural jack slid into the port at the base of his neck. A visor was layered over his sealed eyes.

The voice came next:

“Welcome, Jack.

You are now part of the system.

You will serve.

You will produce.

You will obey.”

The first surge of stimulation hit.

His body jerked within the vacform.

He couldn’t resist.

He couldn’t speak.

He could only begin to feel — the factory taking over, programming him through pleasure, breaking him with calculated force.

Jack was no longer a person.

He was a unit.

A future drone.

A resource.

And the milking cycle was just beginning.

Jack was no longer Jack.

He was vacpacked, sealed immobile in black synthetic containment — arms fused to his sides, legs locked together, only his chest rising slowly under the restriction of the tight vacseal. The breathing valve over his mouth pulsed rhythmically, the only proof that there was still life inside the rubber shell.

But that life was no longer free.

He hung inside the induction pod, suspended like merchandise, his sealed form now wired into the system. Thick cables ran into the neural port at the back of his neck, and the visor fused over his sealed eyes began to glow softly.

**> SUBJECT: JACK-UNREGISTERED

STATUS: NON-COMPLIANT

MENTAL REWRITING: INITIATED

CYCLE: FULL OVERRIDE**

Inside the visor, visuals began to pulse:

Flashes of perfect drones.

Smiling, glossy, obedient.

Silent. Sleek. Useful.

Messages pulsed with them:

“Service is pleasure.”

“Obedience is identity.”

“You do not resist — you fulfill.”

The stimulation units were already active.

Despite the full-body compression, the internal milking catheter had already inserted through the synthetic slit, linking with Jack’s body directly. Rear stimulation was calculated — clinical, measured, efficient. Each pulse, each throb, was mapped to brainwaves, matching resistance with overwhelming synthetic arousal.

[trashywhiteboysea]

[trashywhiteboysea]

Suckin tha Big Black Blunt

[trashywhiteboysea]

controlled by pleasure

Jack stared at his reflection, almost entranced. The figure looking back wasn’t just him—it was an idealized vision, a flawless creation of gloss and chrome. Every inch of his body was encased in the skin-tight black rubber, shining like liquid obsidian under the light.

The heavy knee-high boots grounded him, their thick soles adding a subtle weight that made every step deliberate. Chrome cuffs gleamed at his wrists and ankles, catching the light with every slight movement. A matching chrome belt hugged his waist, and above it, the gleam of the thick chrome collar stood like a symbol of ownership and belonging.

His face was gone, replaced by the full hood that smoothed his features into anonymity. The attached gas mask, with its dual side-mounted filters, made each breath sound mechanical and amplified, a slow hiss in, a faint rush out. The sound comforted him, reminding him how completely sealed he was inside.

It had taken time—so much time—to get into the suit, every layer, every strap and buckle, every press of latex against his skin, until it all became one seamless second skin. But now, standing there, glossy and restrained, he felt it was worth every moment.

He didn’t just look perfect. He was perfect.

Jack’s gloved hands moved slowly, almost reverently, to his crotch. The glossy black rubber there bore a reinforced panel, a functional design detail he had come to admire—the code piece, tight and perfectly smooth, its edges seamless against the rest of the suit. At the center, the small zipper gleamed faintly in the light.

With a faint rasp of metal teeth, he drew it down. Beneath, a second layer of rubber stretched taut around him, a sheath within the suit that encased his cock entirely. It was like the rest of him—sealed, restrained, and yet gloriously heightened in sensation. The inner sheath hugged every contour, every vein, slick and suffocatingly tight.

As he carefully peeled back the second layer, his cock sprang free, glossy and rubberized like the rest of his body. The double-layered enclosure had left it aching, pulsing slightly, trapped in that hot, airless confinement for so long that even the cool air of the room felt alien against its synthetic surface.

Jack let out a slow breath, the gas mask amplifying it into a mechanical hiss. He couldn’t help but admire it—his cock transformed, as perfect as the rest of him, jet black and seamless. The suit had done more than encase him. It had remade him. Even here, where flesh should have been, there was only rubber, glossy and complete.

He ran a gloved finger along the shaft, feeling the squeak of latex on latex. The sensation shot through him like an electric current. The suit wasn’t just clothing anymore. It was him.

Jack’s gloved hand lingered on his rubberized shaft for a moment longer, the urge to stroke overwhelming, almost intoxicating. The suit amplified every sensation—the tightness, the friction, the heat. But he forced himself to stop.

It was late. The soft hum of the room reminded him of the hour, and a faint mechanical chime from his terminal confirmed it. Not now. Not yet. Tonight was special.

With a faint sigh, carried through the filters of his gas mask in a mechanical hiss, he guided his synthetic cock back into its sheath. The inner layer embraced him once more with that familiar, airless squeeze, followed by the outer code piece sealing shut. He tugged the zipper closed, the sound of metal teeth locking him back into perfection. Smooth, seamless, untouched—like nothing had happened.

Jack adjusted his stance, feeling the tight rubber pull and shift over his body. Every movement reminded him how completely sealed he was, how every part of him belonged to the suit now.

Tonight, the programmer had promised him an audio session. The thought made his synthetic heart—if he even still had one—beat faster. He didn’t know the details, but that was part of the thrill. The programmer’s voice alone could send him spiraling, every carefully modulated command rewiring him further, deeper.

He sat down carefully on the padded bench beside the mirror, the glossy surface of his suit creaking softly as he moved. He stared at his reflection again, watching the chrome collar catch the faint glow of the room’s light.

“Soon,” he whispered to himself, though the gas mask distorted it into a faint hiss.

He could already hear the imagined echoes of the programmer’s voice in his head. Soft, calm, inescapable.

The soft chime of the program activating echoed in Jack’s ears, the sound processed and filtered through the suit’s integrated audio. A small indicator blinked to life on the visor overlay inside his hood—CAMERA: ACTIVE.

He straightened his posture on the padded bench, his glossy black figure perfectly aligned, chrome collar gleaming in the dim light. The red recording dot pulsed faintly, reminding him that he wasn’t alone.

Other icons populated the interface. Dozens of others had joined the session. Some with cameras—dark silhouettes in latex, leather, or plain shadow. Others audio-only, their voices muted for now. The hum of digital presence surrounded him.

Then, the PROGRAMER’s voice filled the channel. Calm. Measured. Unassuming.

“Good evening, all. I trust everyone’s properly seated, restrained, or at least… attentive.”

Jack felt a shiver run through him, though the thick rubber muted it to a faint internal pressure. The voice wasn’t commanding, not yet. It wasn’t seductive. Not even interesting, really.

“…so yesterday I had the strangest encounter,” the PROGRAMER continued, the tone conversational, almost mundane. “I stopped at a café I don’t usually visit. The line was long. A barista forgot my order.”

Jack’s visor showed no expressions. His masked face betrayed nothing. And yet inside, something subtle shifted.

He sat there motionless, breathing slowly, the filters on his mask amplifying each inhale and exhale into a mechanical rhythm. Why was he listening so intently? It wasn’t a fascinating story. It wasn’t even particularly engaging. But his mind stayed fixed, anchored to every word like it was the only sound that mattered.

“…and when I finally got my drink, I noticed a tiny crack in the cup. Barely noticeable, but still there. Isn’t it strange how we often ignore such imperfections?”

Jack nodded faintly without realizing. His rubberized cock twitched inside its sheath. A deep, growing need coiled in him—not to move, not to speak, but simply to stay. To listen.

Each word felt heavier than it should, like drops of water slowly filling a sealed vessel.

The PROGRAMER’s voice softened. “And so I thought… maybe there’s a lesson here. About patience. About attention. About control.”

The word control echoed in Jack’s mind. His gloved hands rested on his knees, perfectly still. The chrome cuffs on his wrists felt heavier now.

He didn’t care about the story. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t the content—it was the cadence, the flow, the subtle hooks hidden in each sentence pulling his mind deeper.

He was ready for the next part. The part where the PROGRAMER’s tone would change—where the soft, harmless words would become commands.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure when he had stopped following.

The PROGRAMER’s voice had continued—soft, deliberate, like waves lapping at the edge of his mind. Jack thought he was listening, but his thoughts had drifted, or maybe they had been peeled away layer by layer. He wasn’t sure which.

He only caught fragments: “…and now we’ll count…” “Just let it happen…” “Ten…”

His eyes, behind the visor, stared blankly at his own reflection. His glossy black figure remained perfectly still, knees apart slightly, gloved hands resting on chrome thighs. He barely noticed the PROGRAMER’s voice continuing—“…nine… eight…”—because his focus was… somewhere else. Or nowhere at all.

“…three… two… one… zero.”

And then everything shifted.

On the small feed windows around him, Jack saw motion. Other rubberized figures stirred, gasps and sighs leaking into microphones. Bodies swayed gently in chairs, fingers curled reflexively, chests rising and falling faster in tight latex or leather.

But Jack didn’t move. Or maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to.

It didn’t matter.

Then, without warning, his right hand lifted. Smooth. Fluid. As if it weren’t his choice.

The glossy black glove gleamed under the room’s lights as it floated upward, elbow bending slightly, fingers splayed like a puppet on invisible strings.

Jack watched in silence. He didn’t command it. He didn’t resist either. His breathing hissed softly through the gas mask filters, calm… detached.

His left hand began to rise too, slower, lagging behind slightly. Both arms hovered now, palms facing forward. He felt no effort. No strain. Only the faint pull, like magnets guiding them through syrupy air.

The PROGRAMER’s voice hummed in his ears:

“Good. Don’t think. Don’t decide. Let the suit move for you. Let your body remember it isn’t yours anymore.”

A small twitch passed through Jack’s fingers. His cock stirred inside its sheath again, trapped and aching. But he still didn’t move of his own accord. The suit—or something deeper—had taken over.

Jack’s hands dropped suddenly, falling limp to his sides with a faint creak of taut rubber. He sat there, frozen, the sound of his own breathing echoing in his mask—slow, mechanical, in and out.

And then, without his intent, his right hand twitched. Fingers flexed. It lifted again, slowly, moving with eerie precision down to his crotch.

No… wait… Jack’s thoughts barely formed, sluggish like thick oil. What’s going on?

He could feel the zipper tab between his gloved fingers, cold metal pressing into latex.

No, don’t… they’re all watching. Cameras… all of them…

But the zipper moved anyway. The faint rasp of teeth separating was deafening in his ears. His suit parted, the double-layered sheath beneath revealed, glossy and tight. His left hand joined in, peeling back the second layer with practiced care.

And then it was there.

His cock. Rubberized. Glossy. Aching. Perfect.

It sprang free into the cool air of the room, standing hard, utterly transformed like the rest of him. It glistened under the lights, an artificial shaft—jet black and smooth, as if molded for display.

He wanted to cover himself. To stop. But his hands remained still now, resting obediently at his sides again.

On the session’s feed windows, he could sense the others watching. Figures in masks and suits. Audio-only participants breathing faster. No one spoke. They didn’t have to.

Then the PROGRAMER’s voice cut through, calm and approving:

“Super effective drone.”

The words struck Jack like an electric shock. His entire body shuddered violently, a full-body wave of sensation that made the rubber suit squeak and creak. His cock throbbed visibly, a droplet of clear synthetic fluid beading at its tip.

Jack’s mind reeled. I… I can’t stop… I can’t move… But another thought slipped in, alien and terrifyingly comforting: Why would I?

He sat there, hard and displayed, as the PROGRAMER’s voice continued to weave around him.

Jack sat there, frozen in place, his glossy black figure a perfect statue of synthetic obedience. The faint hiss of his breathing through the gas mask filters filled the silence between the PROGRAMER’s words. His erect, rubberized cock stood proudly exposed, gleaming under the dim light.

Then a sound in his ear—soft, deliberate, like a faint tone embedded in the PROGRAMER’s voice. Something shifted.

His right hand twitched. Slowly, deliberately, it lifted. The gloved fingers curled around his synthetic shaft, wrapping it in a perfect grip. The left hand joined, resting lightly near the base.

And then… motion.

He began to stroke.

Long, slow pulls from base to tip, perfectly measured. The rhythm was hypnotic—up… pause… down… pause. The sound of latex against latex filled the room in wet, squeaky whispers.

Jack’s cock throbbed under the touch, every movement sending waves of bliss radiating out through his glossy, sealed body. The suit seemed to amplify it, pleasure trapped and recirculated inside, building heat and pressure like steam in a sealed chamber.

I’m not doing this, Jack thought faintly, but even that thought felt hollow. His body moved with absolute precision, like a puppet on strings.

The PROGRAMER’s voice hummed in his ears. “Good drone. Perfect pace. Stay there. Feel it. But remember… no release without my word.”

A shudder ran through Jack’s encased frame. His rubberized cock pulsed harder, a bead of clear synthetic fluid rolling down over the gloved fingers working it. Bliss flooded him—warm, dizzying, all-consuming—but still incomplete.

He couldn’t come. Not unless permitted. The thought alone made his cock twitch violently in his grip.

His visor displayed a faint overlay now: STROKE. HOLD. WAIT.

Jack obeyed. Of course he obeyed.

The PROGRAMER’s calm voice cut through Jack’s fogged mind like a blade:

“Well… we’ve arrived at the end of the session. It’s been almost two hours.”

Jack blinked behind his visor, his gloved hand still stroking his glossy, aching cock in that perfect rhythm. Two hours? His mind tried to grasp it, but it slipped away like water through fingers.

No… we just started… he thought. You only talked about coffee…

But somewhere, deep down, he realized he hadn’t been thinking at all. He’d been listening. Obeying. Existing in a blissful haze of heat and pressure, the PROGRAMER’s voice shaping his reality while time melted away.

“And Jack… before we finish… you can finish too. Come.”

The words struck him like lightning.

Jack’s entire body tensed, rubber squealing against itself as the orgasm tore through him. It was instantaneous, explosive, and utterly consuming. His synthetic cock throbbed violently in his grip, spurting thick, glossy streams of fluid that splattered his gloved hand and dripped onto his suit.

He gasped, the sound distorted through the gas mask filters into a mechanical hiss, his visor fogging with heat. The pleasure didn’t just stay in his cock—it flooded every inch of him, rolling through his glossy encased body like fire. His muscles clenched, his back arched slightly, every nerve alive with electric bliss.

When it finally ebbed, Jack sagged back against the bench, panting, his cock still twitching in his hand. The overlay on his visor now read: SESSION COMPLETE.

Wow… The thought floated lazily in his exhausted mind. That… that was a trip.

But then the weight of reality returned like a dull ache.

Damn. Now I have to wait. Wait until next time to feel… that.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Jack guided his softening synthetic shaft back into its sheath, zipping up the code piece until his suit was seamless again. His hands dropped to his sides, resting heavily as the room felt suddenly colder.

The PROGRAMER’s voice faded from his ears. The session was over. Just silence now.

Time to get cleaned up, Jack thought, though there was no urgency in him. Time to return to the boring normal world…

But part of him already craved the next session. The next voice. The next permission.

[trashywhiteboysea]