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“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.

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sillyyouthphilosopher · 8 hours ago

Text

The Night that Changed Jas's Life Forever

A Journey into a Rubber Fetish World

The air thrummed with the kind of excitement that only a man on the precipice of marriage could truly understand. Thirty-five years old, handsome, and with a promising future laid out neatly before me, I was Jas, and I was about to get married. My stag do, as any good stag do should be, was a whirlwind of boozy camaraderie and the kind of male banter that only strengthens bonds. My mates, bless their mischievous hearts, had planned an epic night. We started at our usual local, moved on to a bustling city pub, and by the time the clock edged towards midnight, I was a happy, thoroughly buzzed man, ready for whatever absurdity they had in store.

Two of my closest friends, Mark and Dave, had a glint in their eyes that I should have heeded. “Just one more place, Jas,” Mark slurred, clapping me on the back. “A special treat. You won’t forget it.” Dave, equally amused, nodded vigorously. I laughed, my head swimming pleasantly. “Lead the way, lads!”

The walk was a blur, punctuated by more laughter and the occasional stumble. We turned down a less-lit side street, and the music, a heavy, driving beat, grew louder with every step. The place they led me to was unlike anywhere I’d ever been. Neon lights in shades of violet and crimson pulsed from within, casting long, distorted shadows on the street. The sign above the door, barely visible, seemed to whisper, "The Labyrinth." I hesitated, a flicker of disorientation passing through my alcohol-hazed mind. This wasn't a standard pub. This was… different.

Before I could properly process it, Mark and Dave were nudging me inside. The air was thick with the scent of leather and something metallic, a strange, intoxicating mix. Music vibrated through the floor, a deep, primal thrum. It was dark, save for the occasional laser beam slicing through the smoky haze and the glow of strategically placed spotlights. As my eyes adjusted, I realised the clientele all men. What truly dominated was the gleam of rubber. People were encased head-to-toe in shiny, black, form-fitting rubber, their bodies transformed into glossy, sculpted forms that moved with a strange, liquid grace.

“It’s a rubber night!” Dave yelled over the music, grinning. He and Mark were already melting into the crowd, leaving me standing bewildered near the entrance. I tried to call out to them, but they were gone, swallowed by the pulsating mass of bodies. They’d played their trick, and now I was alone in a gay fetish bar on its rubber evening. A wave of mild panic, mixed with a curious sense of intrigue, washed over me. I needed to find them, but the sheer press of bodies made it impossible to move quickly.

Just then, a figure materialised beside me. He was tall, powerfully built, and utterly encased in a sleek, custom-made rubber suit that seemed to flow over his every contour. His face, powerful his eyes had a predatory look to them. There was an aura about him, a quiet power that drew my gaze. He felt… dominant. And he was looking directly at me.

“Lost, are we?” His voice was deep, smooth, and strangely hypnotic, cutting through the din without effort. He offered a small, knowing smile. “Allow me to assist. May I buy you a drink?”

My instincts, usually sharp, were dulled by the alcohol and the overwhelming strangeness of my surroundings. He seemed kind, in a way, and certainly captivating. I nodded, a faint smile touching my lips. “That would be great, thank you.”

He led me to a quieter corner of the bar, a small alcove with plush, albeit dark, seating. He ordered two drinks, and within minutes, we had them in our hands. Mine was a rich, dark concoction, subtly sweet but with a potent kick. I took a thirsty gulp, the liquid warming me from the inside out. We talked, or rather, he talked, his words a soothing balm that seemed to unravel the edges of my consciousness. He spoke of release, of true self, of a different kind of freedom. I listened, mesmerized, my body growing heavier, my thoughts cloudier with each sip. The strange drink was potent, or perhaps I was simply too tired. Before I knew it, the world tilted, then spun, and then everything went black, the last words I remembered was “when you wake up, you will be a different person.”

What I didn’t know, as I slipped into unconsciousness, was that the drink had been spiked. And as I lay there, oblivious, the Rubber Master didn't just walk away. With an intent that transcended the physical, he began to work. He wasn't merely taking advantage; he was planting. Planting a new past, erasing the old. Planting a new future, vibrant and undeniable. For Jas, the handsome 35-year-old on the cusp of marriage, was about to become someone else entirely.

----

My eyes fluttered open slowly, a profound sense of disorientation washing over me. I tried to remember where I was, what I had done yesterday, even my own name. Nothing. My mind was a blank slate, devoid of any personal history, any memories. It was an unnerving void, yet strangely, not frightening. It felt… clean.

I lay still for a moment, letting my senses take in my surroundings. The bed beneath me was cool and strangely yielding, and there was a subtle, almost rubbery scent in the air. I looked down. My body was encased in something I couldn’t quite identify, something sleek, dark, and wonderfully glossy. It felt like a second skin, clinging to every curve and muscle. My limbs flexed, and the material stretched with me, making a soft, sibilant sound.

I pushed myself up. The sheets beneath me were not cotton, but a smooth, black, glistening material that mirrored the surface of my own skin. The pillows were the same, as was the duvet, all in a uniform, deep black rubber. Everything felt luxurious and unbelievably sensual.

Getting out of bed, my movements felt surprisingly fluid, almost effortless. I saw it then – a full-length mirror, floor to ceiling, reflecting my entire form. I walked towards it, drawn by an invisible compulsion.

What stared back was a vision that stopped me dead in my tracks. A man, yes, but not just any man. My body, my form, was sheathed in a custom-fitted, glossy black rubber bodysuit. It shimmered under the soft light of the room, highlighting every defined muscle, every curve of my physique. The material was perfect, erasing any imperfection, presenting a flawless, almost sculptural form. My face, too, was subtly different; my normal hair was gone, it its place I was bald.

And then I saw it. The pure, unadulterated perfection of it. A thrill, deep and primal, shot through me. My breath hitched. This was me. This was exactly how I was meant to be. My hair had gone, but with my new look it was perfect. An overwhelming sense of rightness settled in my chest. Looking at myself, at this new, transformed self, I became totally, utterly turned on. My cock, encased within the rubber, hardened instantly, burgeoning against the material, its length visible as it snaked down inside my rubbered leg. My rubber-gloved hand instinctively reached down, tracing the insistent bulge, feeling the smooth, tight rubber pressing against me. I began to grope myself, unable to resist the powerful desire that consumed me, the desire for this new, perfect form.

The door opened then, and a man walked in. He was tall, powerful, and like me, encased in a magnificent, gleaming rubber suit. His eyes, dark and knowing, met mine in the mirror. And in that instant, without a single word exchanged, I knew. I knew exactly who he was. He was my Rubber Master.

A slow smile spread across his face, a look of profound satisfaction. “You look perfect,” he said, his voice a deep purr that resonated through me, settling into the core of my being.

He walked over to me, his movements fluid and confident. He reached out, his gloved hand tracing the lines of my new form, feeling the smooth, taut rubber over my chest, my stomach, my thighs. His fingers moved down, deliberately, provocatively, until they rested on the insistent bulge at my crotch. He rubbed my cock through the rubber suit, eliciting a low moan from deep within my throat, a sound I didn’t recognise as my own, yet felt utterly natural.

The air between us crackled with an undeniable energy, a magnetic pull. We were meant to be like this. We were meant to be together. And as his touch inflamed me further, a passion ignited, hotter and more intense than anything I could have ever imagined. Our rubber bodies pressed together, slick and exciting, as we began to kiss, a hungry, desperate tangle of mouths and tongues.

We moved, almost as one, towards the rubber bed. The friction of our suits against the rubber sheets was a symphony of slithering sounds, heightening the already overwhelming sensual experience. I lay back, my body arching in anticipation, and instinctively, I lifted my legs, opening myself, inviting him. “Master,” I breathed, looking up at him, my heart pounding with a mixture of desire and absolute devotion. “Master, fuck my arse, take control of me.”

He entered me then, slowly at first, his rubber-clad cock sliding into my arse, a sensation that was both alien and shockingly right. I gasped, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of the feeling, the ultimate surrender. Our bodies moved in a rhythmic dance, the sounds of rubber against rubber, filling the room. Each thrust was a deeper claim, an affirmation of his ownership, of my new reality. The world outside this room, this bed, this moment, ceased to exist. There was only the sensation, the rhythmic claiming, and the exquisite pleasure of being utterly, completely possessed.

And then, as Master climaxed deep inside me, a wave of pure, potent energy surged through my body. The sensation was not just physical; it was transformative. In that instant, every doubt, every shadow of a question about my past, vanished. All the changes became permanent. My new self, my new past, my new future – all were irrevocably sealed. I was his. I was rubber. I was complete.

After Master had claimed me, we lay wrapped in each other's arms, our rubber bodies intertwined, slick with sweat and the residue of our passion. The perfect weight of him against me felt like home. His fingers idly traced patterns on my rubbered chest.

“Do you remember your former life?” he asked, his voice soft, and reassuring.

I paused, reaching for something that wasn’t there. “ No,” I said, I realised the absolute, undeniable truth of it. There was no Jas before him, no Jas before this profound, supple existence. I was not a person who had become something; I simply was. This new form, I was Rubber. There was only this moment, this existence, this absolute contentment. "There is only this," I murmured, pressing closer to him.

In the world I had left behind, frantic searching and agonizing grief had erupted. My fiancée, Beth, her vibrant spirit crushed, spent sleepless nights pacing the cold, empty rooms of what had once been our apartment, her voice hoarse from endless, unanswered calls, her eyes perpetually red-rimmed and swollen. She clung to the fading hope that I was merely lost, a victim of an accident, refusing to acknowledge the gaping, inexplicable hole my disappearance had left. My family, a close-knit unit now frayed at the edges, moved with a disquieting quietness, their faces etched with a deep-seated distress that deepened with each passing, fruitless day. The police, initially treating it as a standard missing person case, found themselves increasingly baffled by the lack of any lead, any trace.

Even my two former mates, Mark and Dave, who had left me at that nondescript bar – a decision that now haunted their every waking moment – found themselves utterly stumped when questioned. Under the harsh glare of police interrogation lights, their initial bluster quickly faded into genuine confusion They could recall the pub crawl, the boisterous laughter, the last few beers, but the specific details of "The Labyrinth" – its exact name, its garish neon sign, its grimy location down a forgotten alley – simply weren't there. It wasn't just a foggy memory; it was a disturbing, active blankness, a void where I should have been found. They scoured the city, distributing flyers with my picture, knocking on doors. But I had vanished without a trace, swallowed up by the night of the city.

In my New World, we were an undeniable fixture at the rubber club, a vision of polished devotion. My Master always firmly guides me, his presence a living extension of my own will. His hand was a constant, reassuring, undeniable presence – sometimes resting gently but possessively against the small of my back, on my arse, a silent declaration of ownership, other times encircling my waist,

steering me through the throng with an unspoken command that I welcomed. We moved as one, a singular, elegant force, our bodies encased in matching, tailored rubber that gleamed under the club lights, reflecting the silent power and perfect harmony between us.

Nobody dared to mess with us. Our bond give off , an aura of an impenetrable connection that commanded respect. Our lives, in the truest sense, revolved around the club, around the intoxicating energy of our shared space. Every moment was a testament to our shared devotion to our rubber existence, a life steeped in the discipline, obedience, and the profound intimacy of our chosen path. I was Jas, the rubber submissive, perfectly, claimed by Mr Rubber Master, the one who understood me more deeply than I had ever dared to hope, perfectly complete in my defined role. And for the very first time in my life. I felt truly, utterly whole.

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