mieberoc

[mieberoc]

The image was captured covertly on a rainy Thursday morning at Arsenal Station — one of many such moments that commuters had grown used to ignoring. At first glance, it looked like a social experiment, or perhaps an elaborate art piece. A figure dressed entirely in matte black rubber, face concealed beneath a sealed gas mask, stood silently by a small folding table near the platform wall. In his gloved hands, he held a clipboard bearing a stark message in bold: “VOLUNTEERS sign up for DRONE SERVICE.”

Most passersby dismissed it. Just another bit of London weirdness. A few took photos. A suited man glanced curiously but didn’t stop. A teenager smirked and muttered something to his mate. But others lingered. Not many. But enough.

The man in the suit — if one could even confirm he was a man — never spoke. He didn’t move, didn’t gesture. He simply stood there, an unmoving sentinel beside the poster for a sunlit Greek beach, as if to mock the contrast.

What most people didn’t realise was that the Drone Service wasn’t a stunt. It had started quietly, years back, when climate threats and economic collapse had begun to gnaw at the edges of urban society. Volunteers — or those desperate enough to disappear — were recruited to serve indefinitely. The term ‘drone’ wasn’t figurative. Recruits were stripped of identity, suit-sealed, and put to work underground, in maintenance, environmental reclamation, and crowd monitoring. No one saw them again in civilian life.

Rumour had it those suits weren’t just rubber. They were permanent. A second skin, with neural inputs and filters embedded, oxygen-fed, mind-wiped over time. The clipboard wasn’t a joke — it was a contract. Signing your name wasn’t joining a club. It was the last act of autonomy you’d ever take.

They rotated these ‘recruiters’ through stations — always during peak flow, never the same face twice. You could track the pattern if you tried. But few did.

One young man stopped that morning. He didn’t look homeless. He looked worn down — the type of worn that doesn’t show on your clothes but lives behind the eyes. He didn’t ask questions. He signed. The drone nodded once, slowly, and then reached into the bag at his feet.

By the time the next train arrived, he was gone. Not on the CCTV. Not in the crowd. Just another name on a clipboard no one ever collected.

And the drone stood silently once more. Waiting. Watching.

[mieberoc]

Tried it on but can’t get it off!

mirror selfie — full suit, sealed, no way out

ok this wasn’t supposed to be serious. someone i’ve been chatting with for a while—nothing weird, just gear convos—asked if i’d ever tried a full seal. said they had a vintage suit, gas mask, boots, everything. “just try it on,” they said. “see how it feels.” it felt… intense. warm. weirdly comforting at first. like being wrapped up and erased at the same time. then they zipped me up. thick black rubber from toe to chin. mask on. gloves tight. seal clicked shut at the collar. i joked—“you’ve done this before, haven’t you?” they just smiled and said, “you’ll get used to it.” but then they left. just… left me standing in front of the mirror. no instructions. no release zipper. no way to undo anything. i’ve tried pulling at the seams, checking the mask. it’s real. like, industrial real. bonded seams. internal locking. whatever this suit was built for, it wasn’t casual cosplay. and now i’m alone. it’s quiet in here. every breath hisses back at me through the filters. i can feel my heartbeat inside the rubber. i tried calling someone but hung up the second it rang. what am i even supposed to say? “hey, can you come peel me out of this post-apocalyptic bondage suit someone locked me in?” i don’t want to post this but i don’t know what else to do. maybe someone here recognises the suit. maybe someone’s been here too. please—if there’s a trick to getting out, message me. anything. just don’t ask why i’m still standing here in front of the mirror. still taking photos. still not trying that hard to escape.

[mieberoc]

Someone contacted me on here and we realised we had a lot in common! They asked me if I could write a story about friends becoming drones so with some imagination and a little bit of AI here it is -

Callum and Reiss had been friends since their first days in the regiment. From Sandhurst to the Syrian border, they’d shared bunks, battlefield rations, and a deepening bond that outlasted everything else. But war had changed. It wasn’t rifles and trenches anymore—it was drones, containment, environmental control. Men were no longer useful in flesh alone. They first heard of Project Helix in a sealed briefing room beneath the MoD. The idea was simple: elite volunteers would surrender their humanity—willingly—to become permanently sealed operational drones. No more fatigue. No more fear. Just unwavering obedience encased in synthetic perfection. The room had been quiet after the pitch. The technician had even cracked a joke: “Think of it like forever wearing your NBC suit—except it’s your skin now.” Nobody laughed. Back in their quarters, Reiss tossed a black rubber brochure onto Callum’s bunk. “You thinking about it?” he asked. Callum looked at him. “Yeah. You?” Reiss nodded. “They said we could go together.” And that was it. The induction centre was cold, sterile. Medical staff didn’t speak much—just guided the pair through checks and final paperwork. They were asked to sign their names, then give one last verbal consent. No reversals. No second chances. No coming back. The last thing Callum felt was the cold of the anaesthetic syringe. When they awoke, they weren’t in beds. They were standing. Suspended. Encased. The rubber was seamless—shiny, pressure-tight, and bonded to every contour. Tubing ran into their backs and necks; a rebreather system fed silently through their gas masks, now fused to what used to be their faces. Voice stripped. Identity stripped. Rank stripped. Just two black forms, identical. Uniformed in silence. A voice buzzed in their ears—synthetic, internal: “Designation confirmed. Units DR-204 and DR-205. Awaiting deployment.” Callum felt it then—not fear, not loss. Just calm. Reiss turned his head slightly, the only movement they had. A subtle gesture. A shared understanding. They were still brothers. Still together. But now they belonged to the mission. And the mission had no end.

[mieberoc]

The Army Orderly Corps were employed to run those parts of the regimes lethal gas facility that wasn’t for civilians or even DOC employees. Its sterile corridors were a one way ticket to the afterlife. Army orderly corps members drilled in contamination containment, Cbrn survival and cleaning up after each cycle. Just occasionally one of the corps members didn’t make the mark. Private Edward’s! He’d stumbled through three consecutive CBRN drills—mask fumbled, timing off, composure cracked. That was enough. The Army Orderly Corps didn’t tolerate such lapses. Privates who could not respond to contamination under pressure were deemed liabilities. And liabilities didn’t stay free. Reassignment orders were issued before sundown.

Now, silenced and sealed, he stood as a fresh unit in the Rubber Slave Drone Contingent.

The drone suit wasn’t uniform—it was enclosure. Industrial latex, impermeable and weighty. The external respirator unit gave no choice in breath, only allowance. The gas mask’s lenses were fog-resistant not for comfort, but for surveillance: handlers needed to see the eyes as they faded from fear to nothing. A steel collar locked below the mask, its ring symbolic—he was leashed to command now, even if the leash was invisible.

The AOC handlers never called it punishment. They called it correction. Correction in polymer and vacuum-sealed silence.

Inside the rubber, identity softened. Speech was not possible, not permitted. The mask fed him air as sanctioned by the unit commander—regulated flows, filtered with intention. Infractions or failures meant a slower intake. Silence and obedience were the only currencies left.

Drone-73B, as his chest now read, would serve in hazardous zones and obedience demonstrations. A walking cautionary tale. Not punished. Processed.

[mieberoc]

Once the gimp puts his phone down and you secure his wrists his hands are restrained, he’s at your mercy! What would you do to him!

[mieberoc]

Ciao da dove scrivi?io italia

I’m in the UK

[mieberoc]

Drone getting in some much needed squeeze to breathe training!

[mieberoc]

Drone getting in some much needed squeeze to breathe training!

[mieberoc]

I have posted this picture before but have a different story after putting the picture into ChatGPT and asking it for its thoughts!

He stood in front of the sterile white background, the hum of negative-pressure filters barely audible beneath the thick, rhythmic pulse of his own regulated breathing. Encased head to toe in a high-gloss black containment suit, the man was no longer a civilian—at least not in the way that mattered. The mirrored lenses of his respirator reflected only the shape of the phone in his gloved hands. Everything else—identity, expression, name—had been sealed away. This was Day Zero. The induction protocol had been swift. A signature. A strip-down. A final breath of unfiltered air. Then the handlers arrived, silent and gloved, guiding him into the isolation unit and slipping the suit onto his skin with ritualistic precision. The gas mask was sealed last, pressing into his face like a cold kiss goodbye. The thick rubber hood tugged into place, the voice of the outside world disappearing in a vacuum of synthetic silence. They said the hoses connected to the chest unit weren’t just for filtration. They delivered behavioural stabilisers, too—traces of aerosolised compliance compounds, just enough to take the edge off resistance. The black bulb at his waist expanded and deflated with each breath, a grotesque echo of life clinging to him by rubber tubes. A red tab hung from the bottom of the rebreather assembly. It was the emergency override. Or so they said. He took the photo because they told him to—“For records,” one of the handlers had whispered through their suit, eyes unreadable behind mirrored lenses. But the truth was simpler: this was the last image of who he used to be. Before they began conditioning. Before his memories would blur and all that remained would be protocol, routine, and obedience. He tapped the screen and captured the moment. Then he waited. And the hiss of gas began.

[mieberoc]

Hey, I saw you posted about a new silicone gag you got, with a slot for your tongue. I'm curious how you like it, and where you got it if you're willing to share!

Yes sure, I got it from Moanspeak. I went for their Ernie gag which fills up the whole mouth and there is a channel for the lounge to go in. Best wishes with your search...

[mieberoc]

With the help of some lovely messages and AI here is a story.

Beneath the lowest sub-level of Fort Resolute’s bio-sealed annex, six men of CBRN Task Force Theta—Hauptmann Friedrich Adler, Oberfeldwebel Lukas Krüger, Stabsunteroffizier Wilhelm Stein, Unteroffizier Markus Vogel, Gefreiter Erik Weiß, and Gefreiter Johann Köhler—sat in regulation combats, boots planted on the metallic floor, awaiting the irreversible. Each had been hand-picked: Adler, the only commander in Europe to log three consecutive zero-casualty extractions from nerve-agent zones; Krüger, a demolitions savant whose calm pulse under fire never rose above fifty; Stein, an endurance record-holder able to remain conscious through fifteen minutes of hypoxic gas testing; Vogel, a virological prodigy with natural resistance markers to mutagenic particulates; Weiß, a former Olympic triathlete whose cardiovascular efficiency bordered on superhuman; and Köhler, confirmed by military psychiatrists as possessing the rarest trait of all—complete affective detachment in the face of mass casualties. Doctor Karczek, architect of the Permanent Protective Integument Programme, activated holoscreens that unfurled a vivid breakdown of the six-phase metamorphosis awaiting them. Phase One: Exfoliative Etch—their outer epidermis would be misted away by enzymatic solvent as pink rivulets dripped into drains, an agonising itch muted only by intravenous analgesia. Phase Two: Polymer Suspension Bath—each man would float in black, mercury-like fluid while nanoscale carriers welded synthetic latticework to raw dermis, sliding between toes, beneath nails, even along gumlines, twitching muscles like marionettes. Phase Three: Fusion Cure—immobilised in induction sarcophagi, electromagnetic pulses would shrink-wrap the polymer deeper, flash-hardening every molecule; Karczek likened it to the T-1000 poured over living flesh. Phase Four: Respirator Integration—a seamless mask, sculpted from sister polymer, would be pressed to their bared facial bones, microspikes rooting into maxilla and mandible in under thirty seconds; speech would emerge through a sub-glottal vocoder, accents flattened into submarine basso. Phase Five: Sensory Calibration—the sealed figures would be bathed in chlorine vapour, VX simulant, and neutron-irradiated dust, sensors confirming zero uptake while phantom itches flared across fingertips soon to be fingerprint-less. Phase Six: Psychological Lock-In—EEG-guided neurofeedback would teach their brains that the suit was self, every recollection of old flesh punished by cascading migraines, cementing loyalty to the integument for life. Krüger asked the final question: what becomes of them when wars end? Karczek answered with clinical certainty: they would return, but so would the suit; children might hold their hands yet feel only polymer, their eyes forever staring through respirator lenses. Tablets slid across the desk, black screens awaiting fingerprints soon to dissolve; one by one the men pressed, committing skin, name, and future. Cradle doors hissed, releasing a metallic scent like rain on scorched iron. Boots struck concrete in perfect cadence as six elite soldiers marched towards dissolution and rebirth, destined never again to wear protection but to become it—living weapons forged from fear and rubber, able to tread where no unsealed man could follow.

[mieberoc]

Gimp is ready! Anyone got a leash for it?

[mieberoc]

Gagged! Moanspeak gag showing just the front. It’s like an iceberg, small bit showing but huge behind!

[mieberoc]

The irony of the mask used to save but here to terminate!

The ring around his throat gleamed—polished steel, affixed with purpose. It wasn’t decoration. It was designation. Marked. Chosen. Not for service. Not for salvation. For termination. The gas mask swallowed his face, tight and seamless, rubber sealing away identity. Twin hoses coiled out from the front, feeding him what he thought was air. He had failed compliance. Not once. Repeatedly. Quiet refusal. Hesitation. Humanity. The system had no space for that.

Now the mask did the final work. Inside the hoses, the hiss had changed pitch. Something thicker, colder flowed in. Knockout grade. Designed to pacify quickly—efficiently. His eyes, the only exposed part of the man he once was, widened. That last window of soul—of fear—visible behind fogged glass. A flicker of terror, as if he’d only just realised this wasn’t another warning. There would be no more warnings.

They always hoped the mask was for transformation. That the facility would reassign them. Cleanse the disobedience. Reinstruct. But the ring said otherwise. It told the drones and the watchers he was past saving. He would be subdued. Rendered unconscious. And quietly removed. There would be no process for him. No correction. Just silence, hissed through ribbed hoses. The facility didn’t need broken things. The facility erased them.

The rebreather setup is from Kinky Rubber Doc.

[mieberoc]

New boots!

[mieberoc]

Simply time in a rubber suit and rebreather bag!

[mieberoc]