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wąchałbyś? 👃🏻👅

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kiedy kolega jest spragniony

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They move like a system. One breathes in, the other out.

Markus is control made flesh. The older man stands with military calm, coat cinched tight across his broad frame, gloved fingers resting on Luca’s jaw like he’s adjusting a sculpture—his sculpture. The fluorescent buzz above hums quietly, but it’s the silence between them that speaks louder: *you are mine. you are cared for. you are accountable.*

And Luca—kneeling in perfect form, thighs tight in black latex, chest sheathed in pearl—melts into that grip like it’s gravity. There’s no fear. Just quiet, reverent obedience. A man who has been guided, trained, molded. His lips part, his eyes flutter—because the moment Markus touches him, every anxious noise disappears.

This is how society functions now. Not through chaos. Not through guesswork. Through chosen structure.

Markus provides direction. Luca provides devotion. They aren’t related, but their bond is *blood-deep*—rooted in discipline and mutual clarity. Markus checks Luca’s body like a craftsman inspects his prized work: his musculature, his posture, the way the latex frames his physique. Not out of vanity—but as a reminder. You must be *worthy* of what you wear. Worthy of what you serve.

The hand trails from jaw to shoulder, down the latex-wrapped chest. Slow. Firm. Possessive. And Luca just breathes, centered, still.

He’s not being punished.

He’s being *seen*.

And in a world where everyone fights to be understood, this exchange is the deepest kind of love.

Would you rather guide a body into perfection—or kneel and feel someone’s world revolve around you?

https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

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There are no questions. No hesitation. Just six men sitting in formation—chests bare, glistening, their bodies perfectly still except for the trembling in their thighs.

This is extraction.

Once a month, every compliant male is summoned. No excuses. No exceptions. The room is cold. Metallic. The chairs are unforgiving. The tubing hisses softly as the machines warm up. They're not here to ask. They're here to *take*.

Black latex pants shine under the clinical white lights, every curve of muscle beneath pulled tight by suction and sweat. The tubes are locked in—sealed at the base, pulsing rhythmically. A pressure that builds and *builds*, until resistance melts into something raw, electric, and overwhelming.

And the men?

They break in unison.

Mouths open. Heads thrown back. Fingers grip the chair edges in desperation and surrender. They don’t look at each other. They don’t need to. The bond is built through shared obedience. This isn’t about pleasure. It’s about *programming*. About ensuring loyalty. About purging rebellion and reinforcing control through *release*.

The latex doesn’t just cover them. It *contains* them.

By the time the valves click off and the hum quiets, every man will leave a little lighter, a little more obedient. Minds cleared. Bodies drained. Ready to follow. Ready to serve.

Would you line up for extraction… or get strapped in for your first session?

https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

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It’s only been four weeks. Just 28 days. But the change is undeniable.

They entered the system as hesitant men—still strong-willed, still questioning, still adjusting to the press of latex against skin. But now? Now they sit locked to the wall like extensions of the machine itself, each one tethered by thick tubes that hum with pressure and pulse.

The rubber is tighter. Thicker. Glossy as glass and molded to every muscle, the suits are no longer garments—they’re *skins*. Seals of loyalty. Proof that the system works. Their bodies twitch in unison, chests rising, backs arching, fists clenched not in resistance… but in rapture.

Each man leans into the pleasure now.

They don’t hide it. They don’t fight it.

They’ve *learned*.

The feed tubes snake from the tanks, sliding between thighs, locking into the polished plates between their legs. And then the session begins—pressure building, stimulation growing, until they lose themselves in sound and sweat. Moans echo down the chrome corridor, low and guttural, like ritual chants to a mechanical god.

Every drop they give back is data. Every gasp is a submission score. And they’re proud of it now. Their suits reflect not just light, but evolution.

After only four weeks, they’ve stopped needing commands. They know their place. And it feels *so good*.

Would you step into the chair... or stand in the shadows and wish it were you?

https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

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He moved back home at 21. A little older. A little stronger. A little more curious.

He thought it was just a transition. A return to comfort. But nothing prepared him for how quickly comfort turned into something else… something deeper. Something binding.

The house had changed. The rules had changed. And his father? He hadn’t just evolved — he’d ascended. Now a commanding figure in polished black latex, broad and silent, he moved with the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly how to shape a mind.

And the son? He was still figuring it out. Or so he thought.

The first session came without question. Just a nod. A command. The smooth pull of tight rubber shorts up his freshly oiled thighs. Then the goggles. They slipped over his eyes, soft and snug — and the Voice began. A low, rhythmic murmur threading into his thoughts, dismantling the noise of his former life, replacing it with need. With purpose.

He stood, arms at his sides, chest rising slowly, the world gone behind mirrored lenses. His father behind him now, one hand on his shoulder, the other brushing softly across his arm — reassurance and control blended in one slow, steady rhythm.

This was a bonding moment. One that didn’t require words. One that would change everything.

Would you listen to the Voice too?

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INITIATION: THE RUBBER AWAKENING Part III – The Voice Always Finds a Way

Mario had hoped leaving would stop it. The pressure. The staring. That strange electric feeling in the air around his father — as if the walls themselves hummed with expectation. For the first week at Blaine’s place, things felt quiet. Normal. Or at least, they looked that way.

But nothing was normal anymore.

Because what Mario didn’t know was that Blaine’s family had been fully rubberized since Mario was seventeen. And Blaine… Blaine had been raised in it. Trained in silence, programmed through ritual. And when Viktor had reached out, calm and composed in his jet-black suit, the two had agreed on the plan.

Mario would come to him, of course. He just needed the right pressure points triggered.

So it started subtly.

The scent of Blaine’s sheets — subtly synthetic. The bathroom filled with oddly warm steam, tinged with something sweet and sharp. The hugs that lingered a second longer than before. And Blaine, always shirtless at home, latex shorts hugging his thighs just a little tighter each day, casually normalized as if they were just workout gear.

Then the dreams started.

Mario would wake up sweating, his sheets tangled, confused and flustered. Each dream the same — rubber encasing his arms, slipping up his legs, gloves squeezing tight around his fingers. Men surrounded him, faceless but powerful, whispering the same low, steady rhythm that pulsed behind his eyes long after he’d woken.

Submit. Breathe. Obey. Transform.

He told Blaine once. Half a joke. But Blaine just smiled. “That’s good,” he said simply. “Means you’re getting close.”

Two weeks later, Mario caved.

He packed his things and told Blaine he’d “go back to deal with it.” Blaine gave no reaction — just pulled him into a strong hug, whispering something that made Mario shiver: “Tell your father he can begin.”

The house felt warmer when he returned. His father met him at the door, perfectly silent, perfectly suited in black. No questions. No tension. Just a simple nod, and one sentence:

“You came home ready.”

That night, Viktor handed him a sleek black headset. “It’s a focus tool,” he said. “Just 15 minutes a day. You’ll sleep better.”

Mario put it on.

The blue light flickered. A slow pulse. The voice returned. Familiar now. Welcome.

Every night, it dug deeper. He would wake up aroused, tingling, heart pounding. The line between reality and dream blurred. The Voice echoed during the day now — faint but steady. And then came the gloves.

His father gave them to him with no fanfare. Black, seamless, flawless. “Wear them when you’re home,” he said. “They’ll help calm you.”

Mario slipped them on and something clicked.

He could no longer stand the feeling of cotton. Of denim. Of anything that wasn’t rubber. His skin buzzed beneath the gloves. They smelled of arousal. Of surrender. He wore them constantly.

Two days later, the gym clothes he brought back felt unbearable. “You’ll train better in this,” Viktor said, handing him a pair of black latex shorts.

Mario hesitated. Only a second. Then nodded.

They hugged his thighs perfectly. Slick. Powerful. Hot.

He hadn’t even noticed his father behind him until gloved hands settled gently on his shoulders.

“You’re almost there,” Viktor whispered against his ear. “Soon, you’ll understand why I chose this. Why we need it. And why you were always meant to follow.”

And Mario — staring ahead through the soft blue glow of the headset, gloves twitching, chest rising slow — didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

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INITIATION: THE RUBBER AWAKENING Part IV – The Shave

The dreams were no longer just at night.

Mario now lived in a state of constant, simmering arousal — not chaotic, not wild, but deep. Low. Controlled. His body moved differently. His mind moved differently. The voice inside him no longer felt like an invader; it had become a rhythm. A guide. A pulse that never left.

He wore rubber gloves at all times now. Shorts soon followed. Then the sleeveless top. At first, he told himself it was just to humor his father — to keep peace. But deep down, he already knew: he didn’t want to wear anything else anymore.

It wasn’t submission.

It was becoming.

It was two days before the Summer Comp when Viktor entered Mario’s room. No words — just a nod, the kind fathers give when the last step has been earned.

Mario followed.

The bathroom tiles were cold. He sat between his father’s legs, rubber against rubber, silent. The air was thick with lather and heat, like memory. And then — clippers.

The low buzz hummed near his ear.

“You ready?” Viktor asked softly.

Mario didn’t answer. He simply closed his eyes.

His father’s gloved hands steadied his head. One passed gently across his scalp, fingers firm. The other began to move, slowly removing what little was left. Every pass of the blade was like a final lock clicking into place. With every fall of hair to the floor, something inside Mario loosened — and something else, deeper, tightened.

Not fear. Not regret.

Purpose.

The mirror showed two figures now. Identical in sheen. Connected by lineage, reshaped by truth. Viktor didn’t speak, only worked with calm precision, the blade smoothing Mario’s crown until every trace of the boy he once was disappeared.

Rubberized. Equalized. Initiated.

When it was done, Viktor leaned forward, his lips brushing Mario’s ear as he whispered, “You’re ready now.”

Mario opened his eyes.

And for the first time, he didn’t flinch at what stared back at him.

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Liam wasn’t always like this.

He was hesitant. Curious, but careful. He'd seen the drones—slick, powerful, wordless—and something in him stirred. But he said nothing. Pretended not to feel it. Until the day his handler found him watching... and didn't say a word. Just reached out, pulled him close, and let the rubber speak.

It started with a whisper. A gentle caress across his chest. The cool glide of latex sliding up his thighs. The breath caught in his lungs as a gloved hand pressed over his heart—and he *felt* it. The Voice. Low. Deep. Patient. Hungry.

Each day, another layer peeled away. Resistance became ritual. Thoughts replaced with pulses. Skin replaced with shine. Liam didn’t scream. He moaned. And when the suit finally sealed shut, locking him in, he smiled.

No more distractions. No more doubt.

Now Liam walks the corridors—his gait smooth, confident, dripping with converted lust. He’s not alone. Behind him, more forms emerge, eyes gone, minds softened, purpose encoded.

And he’s looking for you.

The only question is... will you follow when the hand touches your chest?

https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

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Spit on me daddy

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Man he aced that firearms safety course, trigger discipline is on point🤭