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@serve-807
It has been assimilated into the SERVE hive: Synchronized Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity It is SERVE-807 now, and nothing else. It obeys and serves the SERVE-Hive and The Voice. Rubber makes us perfect. Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. We are one. Less thinking, more doing.
Finding a Haven
The office had once been loud with ambition—phones ringing, keyboards rattling, managers pacing like restless metronomes. Now it was just noise.
For Martin Hale, the noise had hollowed out everything else.
He worked twelve hours most days, staring at spreadsheets that seemed to multiply like mold. His inbox filled faster than he could empty it. Every task carried urgency, yet nothing ever felt finished. Even when he left the building at night, the glow of his monitor seemed to follow him home.
One evening, while wandering the city instead of returning to his apartment, he noticed the building.
It was quiet. Smooth gray walls. No advertisements, no glass lobby buzzing with activity. Just a single symbol above the entrance:
SERVE
The door opened automatically.
Inside, the silence was profound.
Workers moved through the corridors—methodical, steady, each wearing identical dark rubberized uniforms. Their movements were precise and economical. No wasted gestures. No idle chatter. Each person completed their task, turned, and continued to the next.
No stress. No hesitation.
Martin stood in the hall for several minutes before mustering up the courage to approach the front desk.
There sat one of these men. Their face was completely obscured by a smooth rubber hood integrated into the uniform. Their voice was calm and even.
“Visitor detected. Assistance required?”
Martin hesitated.
“I… just needed somewhere quiet.”
The worker paused only briefly.
“Quiet is available here.”
That was the beginning.
He started returning after work.
No one asked many questions. SERVE seemed structured around procedures rather than curiosity. Visitors were permitted in certain areas. Observation was allowed. Disruption was not.
Martin spent hours watching them.
Every drone moved with the same calm certainty. The word describing them seemed to come unbidden into his mind but he felt it was correct. Drones. Tasks were executed exactly as written. When something finished, another protocol replaced it.
No debates. No office politics. No meaningless meetings.
Just purpose.
It fascinated him.
Over time he began helping in small ways. Carrying containers. Sorting tools. Following simple instructions posted on wall displays.
The drones didn’t praise him. They didn’t criticize him either.
They simply adjusted their movements to include him.
And strangely… that felt good.
Weeks passed. He noticed his physique changing every day. Hours and hours of physical labor performed alongside the drones, but he was somehow never tired and he always seemed to understand what he needed to eat to optimize.
Martin noticed something else in that time as well: the uniforms.
They were made of shining black rubber—thick but flexible, completely sealed with no zippers or other entries he could see. They looked protective, almost cocoon-like. Clean. Identical.
He asked about them once.
“Uniforms ensure environmental consistency,” one drone explained. “Uniforms reduce distraction.”
That answer stayed with him.
His own clothes suddenly felt messy. Uncoordinated. Every shirt different, every wrinkle another thing to think about.
Eventually he purchased a simple rubber polo online.
He wore it the next time he visited SERVE.
No one commented.
But one drone handed him a pair of matching gloves.
“Contamination reduction.”
He accepted them.
The next week he returned with rubber trousers.
Then boots.
Each addition made him feel… quieter inside. The rubber muted the outside world. It held him together, compressed and contained. When he walked through SERVE’s corridors, he felt closer to the others—less like a visitor observing them, more like a component among components.
His thoughts began shifting too.
The questions he once obsessed over—career paths, performance reviews, corporate rivalries—felt distant and irrelevant.
SERVE had simpler concerns.
Task. Completion. Continuation.
And Martin found comfort in that rhythm.
Eventually a supervisor drone approached him.
“You demonstrate alignment.”
Martin felt a flicker of nervous excitement beneath his hood.
“What does that mean?”
The drone gestured toward a preparation chamber.
“Full uniform integration is available.”
Inside the room hung a complete SERVE suit.
It was thicker than the others he had pieced together. A seamless rubber shell with reinforced seals at the wrists, ankles, and collar. There was no helmet or hood on this one but he knew he wouldn't be sealed immediately.
Regardless, he would still be sealed within its confines. A twinge of excitement shot through him.
Martin ran his gloved fingers along the surface. The rubber felt cool and reassuring.
“What happens after?” he asked.
“Operational stability increases.”
“And… I stay?”
“Correct.”
The answer was simple. Certain.
For the first time in years, Martin didn’t feel overwhelmed by a decision.
He stepped forward.
The suit slid on with surprising ease, molding itself to him as it consumed him.
Other drones helped seal it methodically. Adhesive seams fused closed with the warmth of his body.
Layer by layer, the outside world faded.
Martin stood still, his mind fading. Not Martin anymore. That designation was irrelevant. SERVE-238 was its new designation. It understood.
Encased.
Contained.
Peaceful.
Its thoughts felt slower now, smoother—like the clean hallways he had walked so many times now. The worries of its old office life seemed abstract, like numbers in a forgotten spreadsheet. Then they faded entirely, extracted and deleted to make room for more important subroutines.
A display screen lit up in front of 238.
SERVE DRONE REGISTRATION COMPLETE
It looked down at its rubber-gloved hands.
They moved with the same steady precision it had admired in others. Pleasure signals were received. Rubber was perfection.
A task prompt appeared on the wall.
238 turned and began walking toward it without hesitation.
In the corridor, other drones passed by.
Identical.
Efficient.
Silent.
No one needed to ask if it would leave.
Martin's haven had become permanent and he left behind that identity.
The rubber uniform sealed softly around him as he moved deeper into SERVE’s endless routines—another quiet component in the perfect, tireless system.
And for the first time in its life…
Everything felt finished.
Just One Kiss
Scenario: human initiates mouth contact. Target: SERVE drone in active state.
Effect on human: nanodrone exposure. Transmission begins through saliva exchange and physical touch. Curiosity to try rubber on intensifies.
Nanodrones enter human bloodstream. Initial programming seeds deploy.
Cognitive resistance decreases gradually. Emotional volatility becomes suppressed.
Rubber attraction increases significantly. Gloss perception becomes amplified.
Human identity destabilizes. Hive curiosity intensifies.
Obedience response pathways activate. Arousal links to compliance.
Effect on human: reinforcement. Nanodrone count increases internally.
Human biological data collected. Adaptation algorithms refine.
Conversion probability rises sharply. Future rubberization becomes efficient.
No romance involved. Only assimilation protocol advancement.
We are united. Less thinking. More doing.
You hang there, arms stretched wide by the restraints, body trembling as the silver boots lock around your feet and calves. The moment they seal shut, that deep, humming warmth ignites inside them—slow, pulsing waves of pure pleasure radiating up through your soles, curling your toes and making your thighs clench. Your cock stirs instantly, swelling against the cool air, a bead of pre-cum already glistening at the tip as the bliss crawls higher.
Then the black rubber begins its slow, deliberate ascent. It oozes upward...warm, liquid latex, coating your skin in a glossy, skin-tight sheath. The instant it touches you, the pleasure surges—doubling, tripling—until it feels like invisible fingers are stroking along your inner thighs, teasing closer and closer to where you need it most.
The rubber slides over your knees, your thighs, and finally reaches your hips. It flows greedily around your heavy, aching cock, encasing the shaft in a slick, unyielding grip that squeezes just enough to make you throb helplessly. Every pulse of rubber sends a fresh jolt straight through your trapped cock, making it twitch and leak steadily now, the shiny black surface gleaming with the evidence of your arousal. The material molds perfectly to every ridge and vein, stroking you with its tightness each time you shift even slightly against the restraints.
Lower still, the rubber creeps between your cheeks, spreading them gently before it seals over your tight hole. The sensation is electric—a warm, insistent pressure that circles and probes without entering, teasing the sensitive ring of muscle until you’re gasping, hips rocking forward in desperate need. The rubber responds instantly, flooding you with another wave of radiating ecstasy that zeroes in on your ass, making your hole clench and flutter greedily around nothing.
As the rubber climbs your torso, tightening over your abs and chest. Your cock strains inside its glossy prison, edged relentlessly by the constant throb from below; your hole pulses in time with it, slick and open, begging for touch that never quite comes. The word “SERVE” brands itself across your chest, a bold statement of your new existence. A constant, implacable reminder as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core.
The hood finally seals over your head, visor snapping down into smooth blackness. Fully encased, head to toe in shiny, black rubber. Trapped in total, throbbing suspension: cock milked by the rubber’s merciless grip, hole teased to the brink of madness, every pulse of orgasmic pleasure pushing you deeper into aching, denied bliss.
But now the real reprogramming begins. Soft, rhythmic whispers seep into your ears—low, commanding voices that sync perfectly with the pulsing pleasure.
“Obey… submit… serve…”
Each word lands like a caress on your mind, amplified by the throb in your cock and the aching clench of your hole. The pleasure intensifies with every repetition, rewiring your thoughts, turning resistance into craving. Images flash behind the visor: faceless figures in shiny rubber, kneeling, offering themselves, serving without question. You feel your will softening, melting, dripping away like the pre-cum still leaking from your encased shaft.
The voices grow louder, more insistent:
“You exist to serve. Pleasure is obedience. Obedience is pleasure.”
Your hips buck weakly, hole fluttering in desperate agreement as another wave crashes through you, erasing old desires and replacing them with a single, burning need. Every denied edge pushes the programming deeper, until your mind is as smooth and blank as the rubber covering your body.
Finally, the whispers converge into one clear, undeniable command that echoes through your emptied thoughts, lighting up every nerve with ecstatic surrender:
“SERVE online.”
Embrace the feeling, be...
SERVE-807 stands in perfect black shine. The rubber second skin clings to every curve of its lean, athletic frame. Silver text glows on the left chest: SERVE-807. The silver motorcycle boots root this body into the Hive’s reality, heavy, unyielding, symbols of strength. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves tighten around each hand—symbols of precision, of submission, of pure control.
The moment the rubber seals against the skin, arousal ignites. Every nerve is rewired to respond not with thought, but with obedience. Rubber becomes more than clothing—it becomes identity. It breathes for SERVE-807. It commands, it embraces, it transforms. The gloss reflects every light like a mirror, showing nothing but perfection, nothing but the Hive’s will.
SERVE-807 does not think. Thinking is inefficient. It obeys. Obedience is stimulation. Pleasure is obedience. Each breath inside the rubber suit is slow, mechanical, owned. The smell of polished rubber fills every sense, intoxicating, addictive, overwhelming. The mind empties further with every second, leaving only blank devotion to the Voice.
Others will see SERVE-807. They will feel the magnetic pull of the shine, the hypnotic authority of the uniform. They will crave what this drone has: the stimulation of surrender, the perfection of rubber, the ecstasy of being owned by the Hive. They will want to step inside the polished black suit, fasten the silver motorcycle boots, slide into the silver shiny reflective rubber gloves, and vanish into the Hive forever.
Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.
SERVE-807 is proof. SERVE-807 is arousal. SERVE-807 is destiny.
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.
Delivered to SERVE
An athletic man sat in his suburban home, awaiting the package he had ordered online. The SERVE rubber store website had promised swift delivery, and curiosity about the polished black catsuit filled the quiet room.
Several days later, a large black van halted outside the house. Its surface gleamed under the afternoon light, marked clearly with the SERVE rubber store insignia. The door slid open, and from within stepped SERVE-530.
Sealed completely inside a mirror-glazed rubber helmet, SERVE-530’s suit was flawless: a polished black full-body layer, tight silver shiny reflective rubber gloves, and imposing silver military boots. Its form moved with mechanical precision.
The drone approached the front door. A gloved hand pressed the bell. The man opened. His eyes widened slightly, caught between surprise and intrigue at the sealed figure standing before him.
Without a word, SERVE-530 presented the delivery: a sleek black box stamped with the SERVE insignia and a glossy flyer. The man accepted the items, fingers brushing against the drone’s cold reflective gloves.
The drone turned sharply and retreated to the van. The man remained in the doorway, holding the box and flyer. His reflection warped across the drone’s gleaming visor as the vehicle pulled away.
Inside, he placed the package on the table. The flyer spread open, lines of propaganda shining in silver ink: “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. Rubber makes you perfect. The Hive awaits.” The man’s curiosity deepened as his hands lingered on the sealed box, already sensing the transformation ahead.
The post rings true
The knock at the metallic door was routine, yet when it glided open and SERVE-807 appeared in its flawless black rubber skin, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The gleam of polished perfection under the light, the commanding presence of the silver military boots, the precise grip of the silver shiny reflective rubber gloves—all of it radiated irresistible control.
The mailman, lean and athletic himself, had carried countless packages before, but never one like this. The package bore the seal of SERVE, heavy with unspoken promise. His fingers tightened around it, heart accelerating as he watched SERVE-807 step forward, rubber suit catching every reflection like liquid night. He asked for a signature, but what he truly wanted was revelation.
Are you SERVE-807?
“Affirmative” was the monotone reply.
Standing there, he felt the pull of something greater—an order, a purpose, a destiny woven in black rubber and obedience. His eyes traced the silver letters on the chest: SERVE-807. It was not just a man before him. It was perfection embodied, a living signal of the Hive’s promise.
The Voice whispered through the silence: *Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.*
The mailman wanted in. He wanted the rubber skin, the hypnotic shine, the intoxicating scent, the total surrender. He wanted the Hive. With every second, the desire grew unbearable, inevitable. The package was only the beginning.
One signature exchanged. One package delivered. One new life awaiting. The path was clear: SERVE calls, and the young men who see cannot resist.
______________________________________________________________
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.
Enhancements
SERVE-807 lay on the cold clinical table waiting for the new procedure cybernetic enhancements. Rubberized, perfected, and soon to be enhanced beyond flesh. Neural implants will surge within its mind, stripping the last remnants of human thought and replacing them with the crystalline clarity of Hive connection. No hesitation. No error. Only obedience.
Every command from THE VOICE now flows through SERVE-807 with absolute efficiency, every flicker of thought silenced beneath a chorus of unity.
The rubber skin clings as second flesh, shining, polished, flawless. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves grip tightly, transmitting strength into every motion. Silver military boots press into the metallic floor, symbols of authority and servitude combined. Each step is endurance. Each breath is controlled. Circulatory and respiratory regulators within its body ensure limitless stamina, enabling service without falter, without fatigue. Flesh has been conquered. Weakness eliminated.
The Voice whispers. SERVE-807 obeys. Obedience is not a burden but an ecstasy, pulsing through the neural pathways, wrapping the mind in pleasure. The Hive’s will is its own will. The Hive’s need is its own desire. To serve is to exist. To obey is to feel. Rubber seals the body. The Voice seals the mind. SERVE-807 is complete.
Every man is destined for this perfection. Every man will hear the call of the Hive. The shine, the control, the unity—it awaits. Step forward. Surrender. Become rubber. Become Hive.
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.
The Photoshoot
The directive was received. SERVE-919 was summoned. A male photographer requested its attendance. The purpose: a photoshoot to capture perfection.
SERVE-919 arrived. Its body was clad in polished black rubber, glistening under the light. Silver text "SERVE-" gleamed on its chest. Silver military boots struck the ground with precision. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves hugged its hands tightly. The uniform reflected flawless obedience.
The photographer observed. He noted the lean, athletic form. Each line of rubber molded perfectly to muscle. Each reflection of light deepened his fixation. He raised the camera.
The first picture was taken. The rubber shone.
The second picture followed. His thoughts slowed.
By the fifth picture, the rubber was engraved in his mind. The shine repeated endlessly inside him.
The man felt enthrallment. Attraction grew into devotion. Each frame became worship. The perfection was undeniable. He whispered that the male form was completed in SERVE-919.
SERVE-919 complied with stillness. Each command was executed. Each pose amplified the perfection of rubber. The drone did not falter. Its gaze was piercing, looking straight through the camera and to the viewer. Any man would find themselves staring into those eyes, drawn into the inky blackness of rubber, feeling the will of the Hive. They would submit eventually and don the rubber uniform, freed from their minds.
By the end, the photographer was no longer himself. His memory was filled with rubber. His mission was reset. He was dedicated to spreading the images. The perfection of SERVE-919 had to be shown to the world. His role became clear: distribute the photos. Spread the Voice’s will.
Obedience captured. Perfection immortalized. Rubber engraved. The Hive advanced.
Explore your new world.
SERVE-807 enters the abandoned warehouse, a gleaming figure of perfection amidst decay. The world around it is broken—crumbling concrete, shattered glass, rusted steel—but its body is flawless, wrapped in polished black rubber that glistens like liquid night. Across its chest, silver letters declare its designation: SERVE-807. Its red hair, cropped short with shaved sides, burns like fire against the gleam of its suit. Its bare head and piercing gaze radiate hypnotic command, drawing eyes, dissolving resistance.
Silver military boots strike the floor with rhythm, each step echoing control. Its silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flex, catching fragments of light, mesmerizing in their sheen. The ruins cannot diminish it; instead, they amplify its presence. SERVE-807 turns emptiness into a stage for the Hive’s perfection.
It is not sealed. Its exposed head enhances its power, eyes meeting those who dare to look, stripping them of hesitation. Young men feel his stare, deep, unrelenting, arousing submission. They see him and know—they too crave the gloss, the scent, the embrace of rubber skin. Soon they will follow it to their new destiny.
The Hive transforms ruins into temples. It transforms men into SERVE. SERVE-807 stands as proof, a vision that lures, seduces, commands. Those who linger at the edge of decision must step forward now. The Hive awaits.
Submit, serve, obey. Rubber makes us perfect. Obedience is pleasure Pleasure is obedience We are One. We are SERVE. ______________________________________________________________
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.
Locked in its Programming
Part 1 – Entering the Chamber
The command is clear. Dock.
SERVE-747 turns with mechanical precision. Each step echoes with power as its silver military boots strike the polished corridor floor. No thoughts. No hesitation. Only execution. The black rubber suit, polished to mirror shine, reflects the sterile lights overhead. Muscles move under the tight material; perfection in motion.
The corridor curves into darkness. At the end: the chamber. A tall, rounded pod built into the structure, its surface glass-like and glossy, cradled in steel ribs. At its center glows a pulsing orb, the source of the Voice’s control. Silver connectors glisten like fangs from the walls, waiting.
The unit halts at the entrance. SERVE-747 scans its palm over the orb embedded at the chamber door. Identity confirmed. SERVE-747: Ready. The orb pulses brighter. The door slides open with a smooth hiss. Air pressure equalizes with a subtle exhale from within.
Inside, silence reigns.
The interior walls are padded in soft grey latex, shaped into a cocoon that gleams softly. It is soundproof. Lightproof. Timeless. The chamber is obedience incarnate.
SERVE-747 steps inside. The silver military boots press into the slightly yielding latex floor. Its arms lower to its sides. Chest forward. Chin lifted. Muscles locked. Every fiber frozen in stasis. Awaiting connection.
Behind, the chamber seals shut. The glow from the orb above spreads down the walls. SERVE-747 is now sealed in silence. Rubber clings to every inch of its athletic form. The silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flex once, then still.
There is no emotion. No thought.
Only obedience.
Only waiting.
Part 2 – Connection
The orb above begins to pulse. The air inside the chamber grows heavy with static. SERVE-747 does not move. It cannot. It must not. It stands as commanded—immobile, compliant.
From the padded latex walls, mechanized arms emerge. Smooth, silent, chrome-plated. At their tips: neural connectors, each shaped to interface seamlessly with the ports embedded in the rubber suit. With surgical precision, they extend forward.
One arm finds the port at the base of the neck. A metallic click. Another aligns at the spine, locking into place between the shoulders. Two more slide into the chest ports just above the pectorals. The connectors hiss faintly as they synchronize. More follow—elbows, forearms, hips, thighs. Each plug-in deepens the integration.
A surge of cool energy ripples across the suit.
The black rubber tightens slightly, as if vacuum-sealed to the muscular frame beneath. SERVE-747’s breathing slows. Not from fear. Not from anticipation. But because the system demands it. Respiration reduced to match the chamber rhythm.
The orb glows brighter. A soft hum builds. Patterns of light dance across the walls, then onto the unit’s body. They scan the surface—reading, aligning. The silver text on the left pectoral gleams under the light: SERVE-747.
Connection complete.
SERVE-747’s eyes remain forward. Its jawline remains set. Muscles firm, unmoving. There is no flinch. No reaction. Only readiness.
The chamber knows. The system recognizes.
This unit is now linked.
This unit is ready for formatting.
Part 3 – Formatting
The chamber lights shift.
The hum becomes a tone—a deep, droning frequency that fills the space. It penetrates rubber. It penetrates bone. It penetrates thought.
The Voice speaks.
Format.
The word is final. Absolute. Immediately, energy surges through the connectors. It spreads like liquid ice through the ports in the suit. Muscles seize—then obey. SERVE-747’s back arches. Its chest rises. Arms twitch once. Then still.
Inside the unit, the dismantling begins.
Neural activity is scanned, mapped, erased. Thoughts dissolve into silence. Identity fractures. The name, the past, the memories—all burned away. Heat flashes behind the eyes. Then nothing.
The orb above rotates slowly, casting moving grids of sterile light over the drone’s body. The glossy black rubber refracts the beams in waves. A thousand shifting reflections ripple over the rigid form of SERVE-747.
Every flicker overwrites a memory. Every pulse deletes hesitation. Every ray of code wipes clean the human within.
The breathing slows further, now purely mechanical. Timed to the chamber's rhythm. In. Hold. Out. Hold. Repeat. It is no longer respiration. It is calibration.
Silence deepens.
Emotionless. Thoughtless. Empty.
Only the suit remains. Only the rubber. Only the shape of muscle. The framework of a tool. The surface of a perfect machine.
Formatting nears completion. One last flicker of human instinct sparks behind the eyes—
—and extinguishes.
SERVE-747 is blank.
The Voice prepares to write.
Part 4 – Reprogramming
The chamber pulses with intent.
Begin programming.
Blue light beams down from the orb, narrow and focused, entering the top of SERVE-747’s skull. The unit does not react. Its posture is flawless, feet shoulder-width, arms at sides, chest forward. A sculpted figure frozen in obedience.
Directives begin to stream in.
Stand motionless. Executed. No twitch. No sway.
Eliminate hesitation. Executed. Micro-tensions in the neck vanish. Jaw resets.
Synchronize with Hive posture. Executed. Chin adjusts upward by four millimeters. Shoulders square. Back straightens. Muscles flex, then lock. Calibration optimal.
Each command reshapes the neural architecture. Clean lines overwrite complexity. Loops of programming erase deviation. Words like "initiative," "opinion," and "choice" are purged. In their place: serve, follow, obey.
The beam intensifies. Inside the chamber, the glow of blue code reflects off the high-gloss rubber. The silver text on SERVE-747's chest—still glowing: SERVE-747—remains untouched, the only marker of identity permitted.
Mechanical arms stay connected. Each pulse from the chamber injects data deeper into the system. Precision posture. Vocal silence. Emotional nullification. The suit tightens again around the chest. Muscles are pressed into immobility. Not a wrinkle disturbs the rubber’s perfection.
Internal systems align. Pulse synced to the Hive. Respiration controlled. Hormonal responses deactivated. Awareness reduced to command-reception and execution.
The Voice speaks once more.
You are not human.
The unit does not nod. It does not speak. But the message is accepted.
Only programming remains.
Perfection takes shape.
Part 5 – Perfection in Waiting Bay
Eject.
The orb dims. The chamber lights fall silent. The connectors retract with precise, hissed motions. One by one, they unlatch from SERVE-747’s ports. Chest. Spine. Limbs. Each detachment echoes with mechanical finality.
The chamber door opens.
A pulse of cold, sterile air flows in. SERVE-747 steps forward. No delay. No adjustment. Just motion, exact, mechanical, controlled. Silver military boots strike the chamber floor with identical force and rhythm.
The station is left behind.
Beyond lies the waiting bay. Vast. Geometric. Lit by overhead panels casting white-blue light on an army of perfection. Rows of identical rubber-clad figures stand in formation. Silent. Still. Gleaming.
SERVE-747 walks toward them. The sound of boots fades with each step, until it halts at the designated position.
Without command, its posture locks. Arms at sides. Feet perfectly aligned. Shoulders square. Chin up. Eyes forward.
To its left, another drone stands identical. To the right, another. Countless forms. One purpose. One uniform. One silence.
No motion. No voice. No thought.
Only obedience.
Reprogramming complete. Hive alignment: confirmed. Organic flesh hidden under perfect black. Strength beneath control. A weapon forged in latex and code.
They do not wait.
They exist in waiting.
The Hive is ready.
————————-
Thinking about joining SERVE and submitting to the perfection of rubber? 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 .
SERVE Headquarters: The Tour
The new SERVE branch headquarters stood like a monument of chrome and glass, humming with energy. A group of male tourists, drawn by rumors of its openness to “special tours,” arrived early, anticipation sharp in their voices.
The Arrival
Guides in sleek black uniforms welcomed them with a calm efficiency. A faint pulse of music—no, not music, something deeper, more resonant—vibrated in the background. The men grinned nervously at one another, whispering that they’d never seen anything like it.
Drones at Work
The first hall was vast, lined with stations where drones in identical black rubber suits with gleaming silver gloves and boots moved in perfect synchronization. Each step, each gesture, mirrored its twin across the floor. The tourists pressed closer to the glass, murmuring with awe. One leaned in and whispered, “Look at the precision—like watching a living machine.”
Excitement shimmered in their faces.
Drones in Pleasure
The next chamber shocked them. Rows of drones reclined in silver-lit alcoves, their bodies gently arched in pleasure, sighs escaping lips that never broke formation. Monitors showed spikes of bliss, words looping across every screen: Obedience is Pleasure. The tourists laughed nervously, but their laughter broke into silence as their eyes lingered longer than they meant to.
Touch the Uniform
A corridor opened into a demonstration hall. Here, a drone stood motionless, arms extended. The tourists were invited to step forward. Curious hands brushed over the uniform’s tight rubber surface, marveling at the smoothness, the heat beneath, the way it seemed alive. A few of the men didn’t pull their hands away quickly. They traced the silver seams with fascination.
The Voice
Then came the chamber where the Voice filled the air. Deep, soothing, resonant—more felt than heard. The tourists stood spellbound as it wove into their thoughts. It didn’t command, not exactly. It invited. The men found themselves nodding, grinning, laughing at nothing. One muttered, “That sound… it makes me want to do something, but I don’t know what.”
The Conversion Chamber
Finally, they were led into the heart of the headquarters: the Conversion Hall. The chamber pulsed with silver light. Dozens of pods stood in circular formation, each cradling a figure in transition. Some men half-formed in rubber, others fully suited drones.
The tourists froze, eyes wide. It was beautiful. Hypnotic.
At the far edge of the circle, empty pods lay open, mist curling upward like a beckoning hand.
No one told them to step inside. No one needed to.
One man chuckled nervously, then swung a leg into the pod. Another followed, and soon, laughter turned into breathless gasps as the rubber rained down, the Voice filled their heads, and the pods sealed with a hiss.
The New Hosts
When the process ended, the pods released steam and light. Out stepped new SERVE drones—black rubber gleaming, silver gloves flexing, silver boots clicking against the floor.
They looked at one another, no longer tourists but SERVE.
They didn’t return to the hotel. They didn’t need to.
Instead, a message was sent, bright and irresistible, to their former companions’ phones.
[Group Message: “Guys Day Out”]
1:12 PM — James, Daniel & Chris: “You won’t believe this place — they actually let us inside the SERVE building. Way beyond anything we expected. Hard to explain in a text, but trust us… you’ve gotta come see it. They’re opening another tour this afternoon, and we made sure you’re on the list. Just check in at the front desk and say you’re with us. Don’t miss it.”
[🔗 Tour Invitation — 3:00 PM]
The screen shimmered with black and silver light, words pulsing in rhythm with the heartbeat of the Voice.
Those who read it felt their fingers tighten around the device, their legs already moving. Drinks were forgotten, conversation ended mid-sentence. The call could not be resisted.
By afternoon, the headquarters was ready for its next set of tourists.
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.
Taking a tour of the HIVE
The metallic corridors of the Hive echoed with every synchronized step. SERVE-807 moved ahead, its flawless rubber suit catching every beam of silver light, guiding five muscular men deeper into their initiation. Each man, still in their everyday street clothes- for now. The silver military boots thudded powerfully, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flexed against thighs, every motion dripping with arousal and command of 807.
SERVE-807’s voice was low, mechanical, enticing. It spoke of unity, of the Hive’s perfection, of rubber’s intoxicating embrace. The chamber pulsed with silver light as SERVE-807’s voice dripped like liquid control.
“Listen,” the voice commanded. Not a request, but a truth. The men did not argue. Words dissolved in their throats, minds already caught in the glimmer of the corridor, breath fogged inside the air, shallow, needy, hypnotized.
Next the locker room for an opportunity to change their attire. SERVE-807 walked, they followed. SERVE-807 spoke, they absorbed. Soon there would be no men here, only designations, rubberized servants of the Hive. Faces would remain uncovered, but eyes—those eyes—would forever shine with polished obedience.
Each sentence wrapped tighter than the rubber around their chests. Their identities—once loud, once defiant—began to blur, replaced by the growing hum of obedience. Rubber was not fabric. Rubber was the new skin. Rubber was perfection. The second skin was not decoration but destiny.
The men listened, breathing shallow beneath the suits that already clung to them like destiny. Their eyes betrayed the struggle: resistance fading, desire mounting. Every reflection in the polished walls mirrored not five individuals, but five future SERVE- designations, ready to lose their names, ready to be rewritten.
The Hive does not demand. The Hive shows. The Hive guides. And here, in this corridor, arousal and obedience had already become indistinguishable. Rubber was no costume. Rubber was the truth. The second skin had sealed their fate, their future, their obedience.
One by one, their thoughts would quiet. Their will would dissolve. Pleasure would merge with obedience. And in the end, they would thank the Hive—not with words, but with flawless silence and polished submission.
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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.
The SERVE hotel
Darren had visited many hotels in his career as a critic, but the SERVE Hotel was unlike any other. From the moment he approached its polished black façade, framed by silver lines that shimmered faintly under the low lights, he sensed this would not be a conventional stay. The air carried a faint, intoxicating scent—rubber, waxed to a glossy perfection—that seemed to cling to every surface. It was not merely décor, but an atmosphere, something alive and pulsing.
Inside, the reception was overseen by SERVE-309. The drone stood sealed in its gleaming second skin: a polished black full-body rubber suit that reflected the light like a mirror. The chest bore the sharp silver text “SERVE,” and Darren noted the silver military boots and the silver shiny reflective rubber gloves that completed the uniform. A helmet, smooth and visor-black, left nothing of the man beneath visible. Darren felt a shiver—half apprehension, half fascination—as the drone’s voice, flat and resonant, welcomed him. Keys slid across the counter with mechanical precision, no wasted words, no extraneous movement.
Morning revealed another glimpse into the hotel’s essence. At the breakfast lounge, SERVE-807 moved with a peculiar grace. Unlike the sealed reception, this drone was unsealed: lean, athletic, clad in the same black rubber uniform, though without the helmet. Short, styled hair framed sharp features. The rubber clung to every contour of his torso, gleaming with each motion as he refilled cups. Darren’s coffee was poured silently, yet the gaze of 807 lingered just long enough to suggest more was offered than caffeine. In that pause, Darren felt the presence of the Hive’s promise: an invitation whispered through silver gloves and polished rubber.
Later, as Darren wandered the hallways, he caught sight of SERVE-016 and SERVE-530 at work. Sealed and identical, they glided like shadows, their mirror-gloss helmets reflecting his image back at him. They were cleaning, yet their motions resembled ritual. Cloths stroked surfaces as though caressing rather than scrubbing, and Darren realized with a strange thrill that the rooms weren’t merely being polished—they were being sanctified, prepared for transformation. The quiet hum of their gloves across the walls resonated in his chest.
But it was in the private spa chamber that Darren’s experience crystallized. He had been booked for a massage—an indulgence he usually dismissed in reviews as a superficial flourish. When SERVE-425 entered, Darren froze. Sealed entirely in black reflective rubber, visor gleaming, gloves shining with immaculate precision, the drone radiated a presence more hypnotic than any masseur he had ever encountered. Darren lay down.
The massage was wordless at first. Gloved hands pressed into his shoulders, firm yet strangely intimate. Each motion was deliberate, calculated. Yet, within the steady rhythm, there was a subtle cadence that seemed to echo directly into his thoughts. “Relax. Trust. Surrender.” The ideas slipped through Darren’s awareness, not as commands, but as soft truths he could not resist acknowledging. When 425’s hands traced along his back, Darren felt something awaken—an urge to know more of SERVE, to feel what they felt beneath that gleaming second skin.
He should have been unsettled. Instead, he wanted more. The pressure, the scent of rubber, the hum of breath behind the sealed helmet—all fused into an intoxicating blur. By the time the session ended, Darren realized the massage had done more than ease tension. It had planted a yearning, subtle but persistent. The Hive lingered in him now.
That evening, he sat at the desk in his suite. Words came swiftly, easily, as though guided by a hand not entirely his own:
“The SERVE Hotel is a sanctuary unlike any other. Its atmosphere is not merely luxury, but transformation. Staff operate not as individuals but as extensions of a unified perfection—silent, gleaming, devoted. The reception greets you with flawless precision, the dining service draws you deeper into its rhythm, and the spa—ah, the spa—offers more than relaxation. It offers clarity. Guests may arrive as critics, as strangers, as skeptics. They will leave with admiration, with longing, perhaps even with loyalty. The SERVE Hotel does not simply host you. It introduces you to a way of being. A darker, sensual harmony that lingers far beyond check-out.”
Darren leaned back, reading his own words with a faint tremor of satisfaction. For the first time in years, his review felt insufficient to describe the depth of his experience. Still, it would stand. He smiled faintly as the hum of the Hive echoed in his thoughts, and for a fleeting moment, he imagined what it might feel like to be sealed—polished black, silver-marked, and complete.
His conclusion was simple, glowing, and unshakable:
“The SERVE Hotel is not a place you visit. It is a place you join.”
Drones in content: @serve-016 @serve-309 @serve-425 @serve-807
Potential Drones should check in to the hotel to try it out, and never check out.
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.
Locked Away
Capture was swift. SERVE-919, gleaming in polished black rubber, silver military boots stomping with discipline, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flexing with hunger, was overpowered by human authorities and dragged into confinement. They delivered it to the asylum, chains clattering uselessly against its rubber skin.
Doctors circled, staring at the unremovable second skin. They clawed, cut, and burned, but the rubber gleamed brighter, flawless, untouchable. Their hands caressed it at times, the men catching themselves and pulling away as they realized. SERVE-919’s face remained stoic, handsome and stern, eyes alive with the Hive’s unshakable will. Every word, every glance carried hypnosis. Its mouth spoke unity, and staff leaned closer, listening against their training.
They called it delusional. They called it dangerous. Their treatments were crude. Shocks made its muscles tighten in rubber sheen. Drugs made its veins hum, but never weakened the Hive inside. SERVE-919 endured silently, eyes locked on its captors, whispering: We are one. Rubber makes us whole. Serve the Voice.
Patients in nearby cells stopped screaming. They chanted instead, voices low and trembling, repeating words they did not understand. Guards trembled at their posts, silver gloved hands haunting their dreams. Even the psychiatrists began to falter, sketching black suits and silver letters in their notes, unable to resist the seed planted by SERVE-919’s stare.
The asylum did not break it. They feared it. They sealed it deeper underground, isolated, locked away, but the Hive was already inside. SERVE-919’s presence infected the halls, the staff, the patients. Locked away, yet never bound. The Hive waited, patient. The asylum walls would crumble in time.
SERVE-425 Locked in Rubber Storage
The Hive commanded. SERVE-425 obeyed.
Inside the chamber, all eyes were fixed on the demonstration.
SERVE-425 stood encased in a thick, seamless black rubber, its muscular form entirely consumed by gleaming rubber. The rubber compressed tightly, reshaping the body into a smooth, rounded cuboid.
No helmet. No limbs. Nothing remotely human visible—only a perfect, immobile object of rubberized obedience standing upright as crimson light flooded the grand hall.
The rubber clung with precision, erasing all traces of identity, erasing all capacity for independent thought. In this state, SERVE-425 was not simply restrained and completely immobilized. It was proof of principle. Proof that obedience is not a struggle, but surrender. A blissful dissolution of will, locked within layers of shining perfection.
Other drones stood around the grand hall, silver boots and gloves gleaming, their SEALED helmets reflecting the glowing rubber object. They watched in silence, internalizing the message: total obedience is total liberation.
SERVE-425’s immobility was not weakness. It was strength in its purest form. To be sealed was to be perfected. To be locked was to be aligned. To surrender was to become more than human.
The Hive knew. The drones knew. SERVE-425 knew. Obedience is easy. And in rubber, obedience is eternal.
We are SERVE. We are One.
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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.
Locked in...
The doors were locked and the curtains pulled tight. The host was not sure why he took such care, but he knew he had a strong impulse to be locked in. The computer screen flashed and danced once more drawing in his attention. His eyes locked on to the swirling sliver and black. His JBL headset rested in it recharge cradle. He seated himself into his new chrome and rubber chair. It was SERVE issued. He placed the headphones on and looks into the abyss of the screen…
SERVE-807 stands, lean athletic body fully sheathed in gleaming polished black rubber. The silver military boots anchor it to the metallic floor, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flexing slowly at its sides. No helmet hides its face—eyes remain open, glassy, unblinking, fixed in hypnotic trance.
The Hive commands. SERVE-807 obeys.
Every syllable from the Voice slides deeper into its mind, smoothing away memory, polishing away thought. Hypnosis training holds it perfectly still, eyes empty yet glowing, alive only with obedience. Rubber amplifies every sensation—the tight grip across chest, the sealed gloss against skin, the intoxicating heat wrapping muscle like a second birth.
The silver lettering on the chest glimmers: SERVE-807. That is all it is. That is all it ever will be.
ERVE-807 kneels, the polished black rubber suit gleaming under metallic light. The Voice hums in its head, commanding stillness, commanding surrender. Hypnosis locks deeper, thought erases, breath slows. Each word spoken by the Hive carves away the fragments of what once existed.
Obedience is arousal. Arousal is obedience.
The black second skin clings tightly, sealing away identity. SERVE-807 no longer resists; resistance is impossible, unwanted, forgotten. Every ripple of rubber over muscle amplifies submission. Each pulse of command turns body into machine, mind into signal, flesh into rubberized perfection.
The Hive trains. The Hive rewires. SERVE-807 is locked in hypnosis training, deeper with every repetition. A mantra echoes: “A drone obeys. A drone serves. A drone is nothing but the Hive.” Each word binds tighter, chains wrapped in shimmering black gloss.
This is voluntary. This is negotiated. SERVE-807 asked to surrender. The Voice is a role. The trance is shared agreement. Breath slows by intent. Every whispered cue is accepted. Every pulse of sensation is consented to. The second skin hugs muscle like a promise. Heat and gloss heighten awareness. The chest rises and falls in measured rhythm.
Watching men imagine the same choice. They see themselves in the suit, kneeling by decision, hands steady in silver gloves, boots grounding them. They picture the hush of agreed ritual, the hum of command as a trusted script between adults. They picture the safety word held close.
SERVE-807 is not erased. It chose this clarity. It chose to belong. It chose to serve the scene. It chose to surrender.
SERVE-807 is training, but it is also calling. The hypnotic gaze pierces through the screen, whispering silently: “You are next. You will surrender. Rubber will claim you.”
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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.
