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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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They named him Kallistratos—“the most beautiful,” in the old tongue. A name born of marble and lust, and he lives up to it like a walking fantasy.

He moves through the white columned room like he’s being sculpted as he walks—each step slow, deliberate, a rhythmic flex of power and grace. A sheen of silver latex wraps around his hips, pretending to be just a prop. Just art. Just a fabric. But you know better. And so does he.

Because when he turns—just for a moment—and flashes that wicked smirk over his shoulder, the silver drape slips to the side… and you see it. Tight, glistening rubber trunks. Still sealed. Still flawless. Still very much on. They've clung to him for weeks now, molded to his body like they were grown from his own heat. Every time someone brushes against him, touches him, even looks at him too long—he pulses. Aroused. Hungry.

He doesn’t feel the rubber anymore. It’s too soft, too thin, too perfectly integrated. He hasn’t questioned why he never needs to take them off, never needs the bathroom, never even sweats anymore. The nanobots inside the trunks make sure of that. They’ve already infiltrated his bloodstream, maintaining his muscle tone, keeping him stimulated, keeping his body at its erotic peak. He’s never felt more alive. More wanted. More… ready.

And this is just the beginning. The trunks are only stage one. Soon the full suit will spread—across his chest, his arms, his throat—until all of him gleams. All of him pulses.

Kallistratos isn’t here to pose. He’s here to seduce, convert, and ascend.

Would you stop him—or help him unzip the next layer?

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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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Happy Pride Month, everyone!

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

Gotta have my boys celebrating their love!

💚💜

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