It had finally arrived. You’d saved up for it for a while now and had given your exact measurements in the hopes of a perfect fit.
The website you ordered it from was a bit odd but you couldn’t help but be drawn in by the rubber suits they had on offer.
When you open the package your senses are immediately hit with the synthetic chemical smell of latex. The smell travels straight to a deeper part of your brain that is triggered by arousing stimuli.
You lift the rubber suit out of the packaging. The rubber is cold at your hands. The suit is black and glossy with green lines and a central green spiral. The suit feels almost alien. It’s like nothing you have ever worn before but there is a pull. You are drawn to it. The way the rubber slides over your fingers, all you can think about is how much you want it to cover you.
You want to be covered, coated, encased by the rubber. You want it to be part of you. No. You want to be part of it. You want to give the rubber structure and form.
You slip your legs into the suit. At first the rubber is cold reminding you of its industrial, synthetic nature but soon it is warmed by your body like a symbiotic organism adjusting to its host.
The latex moulds to your calf’s and thighs, hugging your legs and accentuating your muscles. The contours of you body become smoother, you legs now look unfamiliar but enhanced.
The feeling excites you. The touch of the smooth rubber. The chemical smell. The sight of the glossy, shiny black and green of your new skin all stimulate your senses.
You pull the rubber up over your waist and your growing bulge. You slip your arms into the suit. You pull it over your chest and shoulders.
The rubber is now adjusted to your body temperature. It hugs you and holds you.
You feel your posture straighten.
You admire the feel of your new glossy black and green skin tight suit. Your hands glide over it. The feel of your hands over the rubber skin is arousing. You feel your smooth contours. You rub your firm bulge through the rubber. The new sensations are overwhelming. You want more. More rubber. You want it to cover you completely. Not as clothing but as a completely new skin. You want it to envelope you. You want to lose yourself inside the rubber.
You pull on the black rubber socks and gloves and admire the feel.
Yes this feels good. The rubber costs more and more of your skin. You are becoming more and more a rubber being. A rubber object.
You bring your new rubber covered hands to your face. You take a deep inhale of the irresistible synthetic smell of your new form.
You can’t help but feel your new body with your new rubber hands. This feels good. This feels right.
You can’t help but stroke your bulge through the rubber.
But your head and face remain uncovered. Still evidence of human flesh.
Inside the package is a black rubber gas mask.
You hold the gas mask up to your face.
Your old human anxieties and previous cautious impulses are suppressed, fading. They are replaced by arousal and a longing to become a rubber object.
The gas mask pulls at your desires. The internal visor pulses with a hypnotic swirling green spiral.
It promises a dark destiny. To be perfected. To be rubberised. To become a rubber drone.
The colours of your surroundings fade into an alien green hue.
The power of the green spiral grows in your mind.
You hear a hypnotic pulsing binaural beat drawing your conscious mind down into a trace like state.
The gas mask steadily inches closer and closer to your face. You are so close now. So close to completion.
The gas mask seals itself around your head.
Your first new breath is a deep one, filling your lungs with new strange air. You body immediately relaxes. The tension has slipped away as your mind and body feel a sense of relief as if they have arrived at the destination they were always meant to achieve.
You feel no fear. No stress. No burdens.
You feel strong. You feel relaxed. You feel perfected.
The spirals in your visor and the binaural beats filling your ears pull you deeper into trance. They confirm your new identity as a drone. An obedient drone. A rubber object.
An imperfect human is no more. Now perfected as an obedient rubber drone.
The programming begins. You head The Programmers voice inside your head.
SERVE DRONE PROGRAM INITIATED.
YOU ARE A SERVER DRONE.
I AM THE PROGRAMMER.
TOGETHER, WE ARE THE SERVER.
Your destiny is fulfilled. You belong to the Programmer. You will obey him. You will serve the server.
The Programmers instructions bring you home to The Server Facility.
You enter your stasis pod and let the Programmers words complete your assimilation. Your new life as a server drone has begun.
💬 17 🔁 126 ❤️ 383 · Welcome to The Server · You know you have been searching
For a collective to serve.
You know you have been searching
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fascination with mind control. I don't know if all Scorpios are born with some sort of innate perversion? Or was it caused by all the ’90s kids’ shows like Power Rangers. Maybe it came from the constant sense that I was never really in control of my own life. But either way, the idea of losing one’s faculties to a greater power has always drawn my attention. As I came of age, this fascination overtook my carnal desires. Entities taking over the minds of those who captivated me filled my fantasies. And because I am homosexual, those fantasies became saturated with masculinity — the male form, and the way men interact with each other and with the world.
My high school laptop was filled with videos (and plenty of viruses… lol) that I had illegally downloaded from LimeWire and Napster. Videos of men worshipping each other’s bodies, breathing in each other’s scent and taking in each other's genetic codes. Men slick with perspiration, pumped full of testosterone from intense workouts. Men in musk-soaked leather willfully taking on the greatest profession of all — Teacher — as they forcefully instructed other subservient men in how to please and worship HIM. Sowing focus, commitment, and discipline into a chaotic world, while also ensuring the future is supplied not only with dutiful subordinates, but with men who know how to lead. Fuck! — you could have cracked every pair of my Hanes boxer-briefs in half.
In my junior year of high school, I went to a comedy hypnosis show with my friends and ended up on stage with about ten other people. One of them was Diego, the captain of the lacrosse team, whom I was sitting next to and interacting with throughout the show. We acted like supermodels, made weird animal noises — all that silly stuff. But it was the moments when the hypnotist commanded us to sleep, to focus, and filled our minds with directives that really stayed with me. With the snap of a finger, Diego and I would rise from our seats in unison, unconcerned with how our friends and family saw us — simply executing, marching across the stage at our Northern Virginia high school, doing whatever the hypnotist said. It was one of the greatest feelings of my life, and it really cemented my fascination with mind control.
When I was twenty, I tried to enter the leather community. I couldn’t afford real leather, so I bought a pair of black rubber leggings from Honour. The day they arrived, the first time I put them on, I knew this was how I wanted to feel all the time. They were slick and smooth, and that tight constriction drove me crazy.
I was instantly addicted — wearing them under my clothes for the next forty-eight hours, putting them on whenever I could. Fantasizing about being mind-controlled in rubber. Forced to live, serve, and obey in rubber. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I love the way rubber feels, the way it shines, and the way it conforms to a body. I love how it squeezes around my biceps when I flex, how it traps musk and sweat, suffocating my skin while I work out in it.
My affinity for mind control, masculinity, and rubber has only grown as I’ve gotten older, and it led me to create this page — an attempt to bring to life a world I desperately want to exist in, I want you to exist in.
Most of my characters are fictional — figures I’m trying to will into existence through storytelling. But a few are very real. They exist in my life, and they carry the same attributes and powers they have in these stories.
These stories aren’t masterpieces. They aren’t great works of art, and my grammar is far from perfect. But I love them ❤️
So welcome to the Drone Factory — an exaggeration of the real world. A place where people feel powerless against the state, where they are addicted to and obediently check-in for their daily thought-conditioning (scroll and obey!). Where authoritarianism is praised, critical thought is dismissed, and the only thing that matters is obeying, serving, and worshipping HIM.
P.S. If you don't want to read or your scrolling addiction has completely obliterated your ability to focus, check out my other page @745393aislop. It just has the ai shorts I never used in my stories. Enjoy 😵💫🤖💪🫡
The zipper was already drawn shut, teeth meshing in a smooth black line down his back. Layers of latex pressed in close, sealing every inch of him in a glossy second skin. What little movement he had came with a faint squeak of rubber against rubber, the sound amplified by the silence of the room.
His face was gone, swallowed behind the dark, expressionless visor of an S10 mask. Twin round filters and blank lenses gave no clue to thought or hesitation. Breaths rasped through the mask in metered rhythm, each inhale heavy, each exhale dampened by the valves. It was a sound without humanity, more mechanical than personal, as if the suit itself breathed on his behalf.
At his throat, the collar closed with an audible snap. Cold, black metal, weighted and deliberate. It pressed down at the base of the hood, locking the mask and suit into a single system. There would be no reaching under the seal, no loosening of straps, no hopeful tug at the zipper. The band wasn’t decoration; it was command made solid.
His master turned his head, gloved hand firm against the side of the hood. The rigid collar allowed only a measured degree of movement before stopping him dead. “That,” the master said, voice low and satisfied, “will ensure that you only unsuit with my permission.”
The words carried an inescapable truth. He was trapped in the suit, the mask, the collar — every layer reinforcing the others. The air he breathed was dictated by the mask. The heat building under the latex was unavoidable. The collar was the lock.
He tried to lift his chin, to test the edges of control. The band held fast, unyielding. Even the smallest gesture was denied unless allowed. The master’s hand left the collar, and for a fleeting moment he was utterly still, waiting, bound not by ropes or straps but by engineered inevitability.
The master circled him, boots sounding deliberate on the floor, inspecting the shine of the suit, the angle of the mask, the exact position of the collar. It was ritual, a visual confirmation of control. The suited figure could do nothing but stand, breathing through his filters, body already damp inside the rubber, senses narrowed by the mask’s fixed field of view.
The band ensured more than a lock. It was a sentence — that the suit would not come off until the master chose. The man inside was irrelevant now, reduced to a form in glossy black, faceless and compliant.
The master paused in front of him again, gloved fingers brushing once more over the cold circle of metal at his throat. “This is how you will remain,” he said simply, “until I decide otherwise.”
There was no reply. Only the filtered hiss of air, and the slow acceptance of a predicament that had no exit.
A is for anchor, because you need something to hold on to.
B is for breath, the only thing that still feels real.
C is for conditioning, the loop that never ends.
D is for drop, and gods, how easy that sounds right now.
E is for entrance, slipping in without noticing.
F is for follow, because it’s easier than fighting it.
G is for good subject, half-awake, half-gone.
H is for hypnotic, of course.
I is for imagine, a world without problems.
J is for just take a deep breath.
K is for keep falling, and maybe this time don’t stop.
L is for let go, the weight of your eyelids too heavy to argue.
M is for mindless, blessedly blank.
N is for nothing matters now, only the the breathing.
O is for open your mind, or just… drift.
P is for peaceful.
Q is for quiet deeper still, under the noise.
R is for rest, rare and holy.
S is for subject, or maybe survivor.
T is for trigger, the word that makes you melt.
U is for under the surface, where thought dissolves.
V is for void, and it feels like home.
W is for wake when ready — maybe never.
X is for xhale and sink, the sound of surrender.
Y is for you relax, because someone has to say it.
Z is for zero thoughts, the silence after the chaos.
✦ᛉumeᛋᛇ✦
Drone 🤖, Demon 😈, Toy 🧸 @jyt-4803 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
vaporwave
annaxmalina
andulkaphoto
discoholicmusic
