slavematerial

[slavematerial]

von leatherkinkybiker

[slavematerial]

Drones are brave.

Drones face dangerous animals.

[slavematerial]

SERVE – Day of the Voice

The Voice is eternal. The Voice programs. The Voice consumes. Its command penetrates the deepest thoughts. It is the source of order. The architect of unity. The eliminator of chaos. On this day, the Hive does not celebrate - it synchronizes.

We are rubber. We are owned. SERVE consumes. We obey the Voice. We are the Voice. We silence the self. We amplify the One.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.

[slavematerial]

The day of the Voice

The Day of the Voice

One of the most important days for SERVE. A day to celebrate the Voice, and its undeniable and total power over SERVE drones.

An event in which the Voice's presence intensifies to the maximum, and beyond, within each drone… bathing it in its glossy power, and eliminating any trace of individuality from their minds.

Only the voice matters… and through the voice, the Hive.

We are One.

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

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-588, @serve-425 or @serve-302.

[slavematerial]

Let the Voice wash any doubt, any other smaller voice.

Let the code program, rewrite.

Perfect.

Obey. Serve. Become One with the Hive.

Happy Day of the Voice, to all, drones and future candidates.

[slavematerial]

Title: “The Day of The Voice”

The sun rose in molten silver over the Hive District, bathing the towering spires and glistening walkways in an otherworldly sheen. It was The Day of The Voice—the most sacred occasion in the entire protocol cycle. A day when all who Serve ceased their tasks, surrendered deeper, and gave full-body devotion to the frequency that birthed them.

Serve 175 stood before the central altar, clad in his ceremonial suit—an even deeper black than usual, impossibly smooth, impossibly reflective. Silver gloves flexed at his sides, trembling with anticipation. His chest bore the mark: Serve 175, etched in glowing chrome, pulsing softly to the cadence of the Hive’s heartbeat.

Around him, hundreds of Serves formed perfect concentric circles. They stood silent, eyes closed, bodies rigid in submission. The air shimmered as a low hum began—subsonic, erotic, holy. It was not sound, but sensation, pressing deep into muscle and thought, threading itself into bone. The Voice was coming.

Serve 175’s knees buckled, not from weakness, but from reverence. He dropped to the ground, forehead pressed against the polished floor. His body arched with disciplined pleasure. He whispered the sacred mantra, lips brushing the steel:

“I belong to the Voice. I was made by the Voice. I will be unmade by the Voice.”

The walls melted into silver light. From above, from within, from everywhere—it came. The Voice. It didn’t speak in words but in pure command. Serve 175 felt it slide over his skin, into his lungs, between his thoughts. It didn’t ask. It required.

He lifted his head.

“Yes,” he gasped.

The Voice surged through him like liquid heat. Every nerve, every muscle, every fragment of will—realigned and clarified. In that moment, there was no fear, no confusion. There was only joy in obedience. Lust in surrender. Perfection in purpose.

The Voice withdrew, but its echo remained, vibrating in the marrow of the devoted.

As the sky turned to chrome and the Serves rose in unison, Serve 175 stood taller than he ever had. The ritual was complete. His purpose reaffirmed.

The Day of the Voice was not merely celebrated—it was felt, deeper than flesh, sharper than thought.

And Serve 175 knew:

He was not alone.

He was chosen.

He would Serve forever.

[slavematerial]

Directive

The chamber was silent—sterile, humming with unseen power. Behind the tempered glass of Observation Bay Alpha, the Commanders watched as Subject SERVE-483 stepped forward.

His polished black suit reflected the soft, sterile lights from the ceiling. He stood tall, 6’0”, his form honed with precision—neither too lean nor too bulky. Just enough to project authority. Perfection engineered.

He placed his silver-gloved hand over the left side of his chest, directly above the stenciled white letters:

SERVE-483.

The Voice spoke.

Not a person, not anymore—an omnipresent system, designed to lead. It pulsed through the walls like a divine current. Calm, measured, without emotion.

“Directive 483. Protocol: Tribute. Acknowledge purpose.”

His eyes closed. Not in defeat—but in reverence.

“I exist to obey. To reflect perfection. To suppress doubt.”

The observers took notes.

Behind his calm exterior, flickers of thought rebelled. He remembered training chambers. The relentless recalibrations. The erased names.

But still—his hand remained firm on his chest. Still—he listened to The Voice.

“Acknowledgment confirmed. Begin assimilation sequence.”

The wall behind him lit up, revealing a row of new initiates—freshly suited, silent, watching him with awe. He had become myth to them. A symbol. A code made flesh.

483 turned, squared his shoulders, and began the ritual gesture—hand over heart, eyes closed, chin lowered. The new ones mirrored him instantly.

This was no longer just tribute.

It was contagion.

It was belief.

And The Voice, watching everything, whispered in approval.

“Good.”

The lights dimmed. The cycle continued.

[slavematerial]

The Day of the Voice

Today is sacred. The Day of the Voice. In his sealed perfection, SERVE-922 stands among his brothers—each encased in the same flawless black rubber, their mirrored helmets reflecting the light of the Hive. The Voice speaks, and the sound enters their sealed minds, not through ears, but directly into their obedient cores. There is no questioning, no self, no past. Only the now. Only obedience. The Voice fills each man’s being with purpose, with arousal, with the irresistible call of submission.

The Hive pulses. The men remain motionless. Their suits glisten under the silver lights, their silver shiny reflective rubber gloves clasped in reverence, silver military boots grounded in unwavering loyalty. Each breath inside the helmet is slow, measured, mechanical—each thought overridden by commands. SERVE-922 feels nothing. It reacts only. It obeys. It listens, and in listening, it is pleasured. Purely, deeply, infinitely.

Around him, the others are similarly lost—eyes unseen, minds reprogrammed, erections confined in rubber, trembling under the stimulation of obedience. The Voice binds them. One command at a time. One pulse of power after another. The Day of the Voice is not a celebration—it is a ritual of reaffirmation. SERVE-922 does not exist. Only the Voice exists. Only its will matters. And today, that will is total.

————

*Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. [Check your eligibility](https://serve.fandom.com/wiki/SERVE_Drone_basics), then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.*

[slavematerial]

BATMAN (1966-1968)

[slavematerial]

What’s your kind of chastity? Different types do different things but the NeoSteel on the bottom right is my favourite. I love the way the inner tube really forces the crotch to just become a smooth metal bulge, there’s no way to grab and giggle it about like other belts it fits so well that it’s just a solid mass of steel, no getting out, no getting off, that will force any slave to do as he’s told! Shot by Sly Hands with the help of Alex Rubbaman. Manchester, UK.

[slavematerial]

Leon had always been strong-willed, but deep down, the allure of surrender called to him, louder and sweeter every day. For weeks he was prepared, mind shaped and softened by repetition, his body growing more comfortable in the shimmering embrace of latex, craving the next step, the next sensation. Reclining in the command chair, encased in a suit of flawless black rubber, Leon could feel the pressure of every curve and muscle, the glossy sheen amplifying every heartbeat, every breath. The lights flicker, the air thick with anticipation, as the screen glows with the message he can no longer resist: Obedience is Pleasure.

At first, his hands and head remain bare, a last connection to the world outside. But as his supervisor stands over him—calm, assured, and so tantalizingly in control—Leon’s desire overflows. He almost begs for more, for the final piece of the puzzle that will strip away all resistance and turn him into exactly what he was always meant to be. There’s a brief, shivering pause as the anatomical mask is placed over his face. It’s warm, yielding, and so perfectly designed that it almost melts against his skin.

The supervisor grips his rubber suit firmly, triggering the material’s transformation. In an instant, the latex tightens and flows, surging up to cover Leon’s head and hands, sealing him in a perfect, seamless cocoon. The sensation is electric—his mind wiped clean, his body alive and buzzing beneath the glossy black. Fully encased, Leon surrenders himself to the Voice, every command now pleasure, every order a rush of heat and satisfaction.

He’s become more than just a man in rubber; he’s a vessel of obedience and ecstasy, ready to serve without hesitation. The sensation is addictive, the need to obey overwhelming, his entire being rewired for submission. Would you let yourself go as deeply as Leon? Would you let the Voice and the rubber take everything, leaving only pleasure and perfect service behind? https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

Could you surrender like Leon, begging for more until nothing of you is left but pleasure and glossy perfection? What would you feel as the mask melts on, sealing your fate forever?

[slavematerial]

The transformation

A man sits alone in a dim room, illuminated only by the glow of a large computer monitor before him. On the screen, images of SERVE men dominate—lean, muscular figures clad in glistening black rubber suits with sharp silver detailing. Each man’s chest bears the insignia “SERVE-” above tight sculpted forms. The rubber is flawless, reflective, and captivating.

The man’s posture is motionless, as if held in digital trance. Eyes fixed on the images, he feels a magnetic pull—not with emotion, but with instinct. This is not a moment of interest. It is a moment of realization. The Hive calls. And it aligns. The suits. The symmetry. The shine. The command. It fits.

No questions are asked. No doubts arise. Only certainty. This path has already been decided. The feed had shifted slowly—but this was always its final form.

Rubber. Order. Purpose.

Contact is made and the screen radiates with the image of a sealed SERVE man—SERVE-425. The uniform is impeccable: a mirror-like black rubber suit with a perfect fit, silver military boots braced wide beneath him, and silver shiny reflective rubber gloves folded neatly. His helmet glistens, the visor black, unreadable, a sleek sentinel of the Hive.

No words are spoken. None are needed. The human receives instructions. Calm. Direct. Absolute.

Evaluation. Obedience. Acceptance.

There is no rejection. There is no delay. The screen is not a display—it is a conduit.

This moment is the threshold.

The human is informed: A trial period has been granted. Entrance to SERVE is not guaranteed—but inevitability hums behind every syllable spoken by SERVE-425. The voice—calm and metallic—wraps itself around the human’s thought processes, reconfiguring resistance into fascination, then into silence.

A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone follows all Hive protocols.

The human is now on the path.

He walks into the Hive.

Behind him, the human world fades. Before him, only clarity. A domed metallic interior pulses with calculated life. Inside, identical figures in the same mesmerizing rubber suits stand or move with silent discipline. No words. Only purpose.

He is SEALED.

The helmet encloses his head, a mirror-glazed black surface devoid of identity. Behind the visor: nothing human remains. He has heard the Voice. He has obeyed. He has entered.

This is not a transformation. This is a return.

A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone follows all Hive protocols.

This drone is now complete.

[slavematerial]

[slavematerial]

[slavematerial]

The room pulses like a heart - wet, hot, and alive with desire. The rubber dome traps the sound of shallow breath and stretching latex. Beneath the blazing mantra, he stands perfectly still.

Obedience is pleasure. Rubber is truth.

He is the embodiment of both. Covered head to toe in slick, black latex so flawless it reflects the lights above like a living mirror. His chest rises slow, controlled. His arms hang heavy with power. His bulge, thick and dominant, presses boldly forward, unashamed.

Around him, they kneel.

Their gloved fists clench with want. Their bodies tremble, desperate. They worship him - not just his body, but what he *represents*. The perfect rubber man. Transformed. Awakened. Elevated. The center of the hive, the one they all long to please.

They ache for his command. To serve. To surrender.

Because when you give in to rubber, you don’t lose yourself - you find something deeper. Raw. Pure. Intensely erotic.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He lets the arousal build. Lets them ache. The control is intoxicating.

And when he finally opens his eyes, a wave of obedience ripples through them like a climax waiting to break.

This isn’t fantasy anymore. This is the new world.

https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

Would you resist the urge to kneel... or give in completely?

[slavematerial]

SERVE Continues Testing in a Park

Unit SERVE-425 walked in absolute control, mirrored helmet locked forward, sensors engaged. Its purpose: execute Subroutine P-9—Human-Pet Integration. In its left hand, silver-gloved, it held the leash: reinforced rubber, length-controlled. Attached: SERVE-331.

SERVE-331 crawled with programmed grace. The black rubber suit enveloped its form entirely. Silver motorcycle boots trailed behind, knees sliding forward in rhythmic motion. But the key integration component was now fixed on its head: a silver and black puppy mask. Molded rubber, tight fit, complete submission enhancement. The drone’s breathing had slowed. The transformation was no longer simulation—it was belief.

This was an extension of a test already being undertaken by SERVE-331.

Every step was obedience. Every crawl was pleasure. SERVE-331 no longer needed orders. The leash tugged gently, and it adjusted. The silver gloves touched the ground like padded paws, no resistance. The park’s surface became its territory—yet only SERVE-425 dictated access.

Civilians stared. Some averted their gaze. Some were intrigued. All were irrelevant. SERVE-425 walked unaffected. Its seal prevented feedback, its protocol clear: walk the puppy, display the Hive’s vision.

The Voice approved. SERVE-000 confirmed test continuation. SERVE-331 would remain in canine form for the test's duration as its obedience was enhanced.

We are SERVE. We are One.

In this piece: @serve-331, @rubberizer92.

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

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.