Baerental Technology (aka Hunks of a Man)

Male androids (ASFR) / natural body magic (NBM) Home to the Bertech synthetics — detachable gay synthetics with a soul

[bertech]

axel@bertech at twitter

Due to the constraints set by Tumblr on adult content, I have made a Twitter account to put some of my more explicit edits, most of them with brief captions for your enjoyment.

Feel me to give me a follow!

[bertech]

The Arachnid Ascendant

He had conquered every metric of human strength. Powerlifting totals that shattered records. CrossFit Games where he lapped the field like it was a joke. The human body, he declared in the final interview he would ever give, was a evolutionary dead-end—two arms, two legs, one fragile skull full of doubts and second thoughts. “The arachnid form is the future,” he growled into the camera, veins popping across traps the size of dinner plates. “Eight limbs. No head to hesitate. Pure power. No limits.”

But to become it, he had to surrender everything that still anchored him to humanity. A true spider has no brain in its “head” the way mammals do; its nervous system is distributed, decentralized. He understood that the only way to reach the ideal was to remove the last human command center. The head had to go. Self-decapitation wasn’t symbolic—it was structural. The brain would be archived in a nutrient bath, kept alive but disconnected forever. The body, rewired with a spider-like ventral nerve cord grown from his own stem cells, would learn to think and move as one seamless arachnid organism. No more ego. No more limits. Just instinct and muscle.

He walked into my private surgical suite under his own power, stripped naked, and signed the final document with a flourish. It was notarized, ironclad, witnessed by machines: I, the undersigned, hereby declare that what emerges on the other side of this operating table is no longer human. It is a biological organism—arachnid in configuration, built from my own cloned tissue—now the sole and exclusive property of my surgeon. I have transcended. It belongs to you.

Then he lay down, kissed the consent forms one last time, and said, “Cut it off. All of it. Make me what I was meant to be.”

The procedure lasted sixteen hours. Head and original legs were removed cleanly at the first and fourth lumbar vertebrae. The genitalia, however, were preserved—intact, heavy, and deliberately untouched—because even in transcendence, some human glory deserved to remain. Six additional arms were cloned directly from his own muscle biopsies, gene-edited for density and spider-silk tensile strength in the connective tissue. All eight arms—original pair plus the six new ones—were surgically rotated 180 degrees at the shoulder girdles and reattached with reinforced ball-and-socket joints. When the body later rose, the arms would naturally lift the torso so that its ventral surface faced upward, belly and cock and balls dangling freely in the air like the undercarriage of a true arachnid, exposed and proud.

I sealed the last vascular graft, flooded the new circulatory web with growth factors, and stepped back as the monitors sang.

He—he, the organism, the thing that was once a man—woke exactly as the video shows.

At first it simply lay prone on the dark quilt, the massive, hair-matted back rising and falling with new, deeper breaths. The eight powerful arms, thick as most men’s thighs and still glistening from surgical gel, rested heavy against the mattress. The lower pair of cloned arms curled near the preserved pelvis; the middle pair braced at the ribs; the upper pair—twisted and reoriented—spread wide like the front legs of a tarantula. Where the head had been there was now only smooth, powerful trapezius and the gentle rise of the new nerve cord beneath the skin. The buttocks, round and furred, flexed once as the distributed nervous system tested its first signals.

Then the awakening began.

All eight arms moved in perfect synchrony. The rotated shoulders engaged, and the entire torso lifted in a slow, rolling surge. Because every arm had been twisted 180 degrees, the motion flipped the body’s orientation exactly as engineered: the ventral side rose toward the ceiling. The heavy, veined cock and balls swung free beneath the lifted abdomen, dangling visibly between the powerful thighs that had once been human legs but were now just another set of gripping limbs. The original back—broad, striated, glistening with sweat and hair—arched high as the eight arms planted wide and pushed. The creature rose higher, higher, until it balanced on the four rearmost limbs while the four forward arms reached out, testing, claiming space.

It was not a true spider. It was something more beautiful and obscene: an arachnid form forged entirely from peak human parts. Every muscle fiber, every vein, every coarse hair belonged to the champion who had once deadlifted a thousand pounds. The extra arms were clones of his own tissue, grown to identical vascularity and power. The body was still unmistakably his—only perfected, multiplied, liberated.

It moved.

The eight arms coordinated in liquid waves. Two forward arms swept ahead, knuckles dragging, then planted. The middle pair anchored and pulled. The rear pair pushed, scuttling the heavy, pendulous lower body forward across the quilt. The torso—now oriented ventral-up—rocked with each coordinated surge, cock and balls swaying heavily beneath the lifted abdomen like a proud, dangling trophy of the humanity it had left behind. The motion was hypnotic, almost sexual: lats flaring like wings, deltoids bunching into cannonballs, the thick hair across the back catching the bedroom light as every new limb found its rhythm. The bed creaked under the weight of eight gripping hands and feet. The quilt bunched and tore beneath the power.

I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching my new possession explore its inheritance.

“You are perfect,” I whispered.

It could not speak—no mouth, no larynx—but the body answered. One of the upper arms lifted in a slow, deliberate salute, then slammed down again for leverage. The entire organism rose higher, spreading wide like a star made of muscle, then tucked tight, then pushed off once more. The cock swung visibly with every shift, balls heavy and full, a final human signature on an otherwise perfect arachnid machine.

Boredom was extinct. The human ceiling had been decapitated.

The future had eight arms, no head, and a thick, swinging cock that proved it had once been a god among men—before it chose to become something greater.

And it was already learning to love the way its eight powerful limbs moved as one, cock and balls dangling freely beneath the ventral-up torso it now commanded forever.

Text and image generated with Grok

[male-asfr]

Here Sora made of Connor an accidental @bearmachines

#osobot #synth #robot #android #bearbot #asfr #gay #male

[sfde8871]

Mac & Cal 0203

[sfde8871]

More centaurs! Yours are amazing!!

“Oh did I hear @tramrailparis say Centaur?

…who, me?”

[bertech]

His body is waiting for its boss, and no, it’s not its own head.

[bertech]

Oops, dropped himself.

[bertech]

Yes, you are, coach.

[bertech]

Will you help?

[bertech]

“Will it be my turn next?”

[bertech]

GBT

It is told that it would emerge when it was most appropriate and unexpected.

It is told that its presence could only be described as mellow and calming, like a breeze under soft sunlight on a summer day, or an all-encompassing blanket at a winter night.

It is told that it felt so soft, supple, it was as if it could be sunk into, but so firm and strong at the same time it provided unfailing support.

It is told that no one ever knew what nature it was of, but so far it was nothing but pure good.

But it was so bizarre to hear you laughed it off.

———

That night you came off work from the longest day you have ever had. Your watch said 23:25 as you stepped back into your home. You left a trail of your working clothes on the corridor, stumbling your way into the bathroom. You just wanted a quick shower to wash away the sweat and pressure of the day.

As you pulled away the shower curtain, this was what you saw.

It was inches in front of you.

It was tanned and large. Its shoulders were wider than the biggest people you have met in your life. Its round pecs and strong belly were hairy and so touchable. It heaved and shrugged slightly. It had nothing above its shoulders, the steep traps on the two sides tapered off and connected seamlessly at the centre, with no trace of a neck. Below, its belly curved inwards, its form ending on a wooden surface protruding from the tiles behind, which was seemingly brand new, and not originally here.

It raised its arms towards you.

You obliged, and sunk into him.

You pressed your face at the flat surface on top of its clavicles, your arms locked against its lats, and your fingers buried in its back. You could barely reach around. Its biceps squeezed your sides and its large forearms and hands crossed your back, bringing you into contact. Its feverish heat permeated you, and you melted in his embrace. It felt like forever, and you would gladly stay here for that long.

"Rest a bit in me. You deserve this. You are brilliant, remember." A low, soft baritone echoed in your mind.

When you opened your eyes, you were sitting on the floor of the shower. You were naked but did not feel cold at all. You felt warmth circulating within you, and you forgot the last time you felt so at ease, and so confident.

You slowly got up and checked your watch by the sink. 23:30. It had been barely 5 minutes.

After shower, you retired to bed, and you fell asleep in seconds. You had dreams of it for the whole week straight afterwards. Each time, it was the same scene, the exact scene you had experienced that night, but that night was definitely no dream.

It was real, the GBT.

The Great Bear Torso was real, and it continued to heal, one person at a time.

———

Item #: SCP-███

Object Class: Ticonderoga

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-███ by its own very nature is impossible to contain. It is also unnecessary to contain due to its fundamentally benevolent nature.

Description: SCP-███, also known as the "Great Bear Torso", resembles a disembodied headless and legless torso with two arms, of a large ethnically ambiguous humanoid of lightly tanned complexion and a strongman physique. It measures around 55cm from top to bottom and 60cm across its shoulders. It terminates above with the expected location of the neck replaced by a flat skin-covered surface facing the front, while its bilateral trapezius muscles connect to each other in a streamlined fashion. Its base is a rounded flat skin-covered surface with light hair coverage, around 5cm below its navel. Otherwise SCP-███ displays features appropriate to its proportions. It appears to be living with all vital features including normal body temperature, breathing, pulse, and heart beat. However, no structure has so far been noted to allow air to enter or exit, and it has not been observed to perform bodily functions including ingestion, excretion or egestion.

SCP-███ only appears before individuals who are sexually and/or romantically attracted to men, especially ones with a predilection towards the "bear" type of physique. Appearances only occur when the individual is solitary, and within the bathroom of their current abode, in the shower or a tub. A majority of these individuals experience moderate emotional or physical exhaustion before a typical appearance. SCP-███ is often supported by a wooden platform-like structure, which extrudes from the nearest wall, barely wide enough to support SCP-███. Despite its peculiar appearance, individuals who witness SCP-███ overwhelmingly never feel any fear or anxiety, but report an ineffable calmness and feeling of safety. Such individuals invariably fall into a tight embrace with SCP-███, which is described as the "best hug in their whole life". During the embrace, a deep male internal voice is heard with a brief message containing an elicitation to continue hugging and as well as generally positive and encouraging content. The embrace is subjectively experienced as lasting an unspecified long duration, but do not last more than 5 minutes in objective time. After the embrace, SCP-███ would no longer be present at the scene, without any trace of departure. Such individuals often feel healed, loved, and recharged immediately, and typically revisit the experience in their dreams in gradually decreasing frequency for the years to come, and the dreams seem to have a weaker but similar emotionally healing effect on the individuals. Such individuals would occasionally express longing towards SCP-███, but would not suffer from mood disturbance from no longer witnessing SCP-███, and all of them continue with their usual lives without significant anomaly.

[bertech]

Some body is dressing up for a special occasion.

[bertech]

meat is meat is meat

[bertech]

Go to sleep. My body will watch over you.

[bertech]

Late for dinner, kid. Busy at work? I made your favourite, and of course—mfh—your favourite synth meat, but keep the touching for dessert. Yup, cooked all of this without the noggin on this sexy mountain of muscle. It’s your instruction, kid, what can I do, disobey? Heheh, as if.

[bertech]

Don’t handle me gently. Score a strike with me, kid. Make me proud — mhh — yeah scratch my beard like that before you throw me onto the alley—AAAAaaaaaaaaaa a a a… *strike*

[bertech]

Mffh— where am… my body, ugh—shi—the fu—my arms they are—a trophy—we have a tro—our team won, they won—we won mmhh—so shiny mmh—sweet, muscular victory—look at these champion biceps—ha they have made me a trophy cup—I’m a trophy—ahh ahhah hahuh uhh—