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Golden Bind

The locker room hummed with residual heat, post-training haze drifting through golden steam. It smelled of sweat, rubber, spandex, and testosterone exactly as it should. Exactly how Wells liked it. PDU-767 knelt on the tiled floor. Efficient. Silent. Receptive. Ready. Wells stood behind it, stretching rope between both fists, gold-flecked spandex glinting under the locker room lights. He wore his signature kit: shiny metallic gold tights, a matching gold football jersey with “Wells 58” stretched across the back and chest, and his usual gold trainers. His gold baseball cap was worn backwards—crown of a golden jock-god.

Alton leaned against the lockers nearby, arms folded, watching with a smirk. He was geared in tight black and gold nylon track pants that hugged his thighs, gold trainers, and the same jersey cut as Wells’ “Alton 77” bold across his chest. His cap was backwards too, classic. His presence was silent approval, an enforcer in repose. Eyes sharp, always tracking the line between pain and perfection and pleasure. “Make it beautiful,” he said simply. The first loop cinched around PDU-767’s shoulders. Not rough. Not fast. Controlled.

Measured. The rope slid across the drone, dragged across chest, around arms, framing pecs, pinning posture into symmetry. A body molded by training, now sculpted by Wells’ ropework. "Shibari ain’t just ropework," Wells muttered with a grin, leaning in. "It’s programming. Every line’s a command. Every knot’s a shutdown." He yanked once, tight. The drone exhaled audibly. It felt the pull, the command in the cord. The bindings formed patterns across its chest, across its core. The vestiges of identity stripped away, replaced by coils of purpose. A reminder of it's place from it's masters.

Knees parted. Back straightened. Ropes bit into thighs, over calves. Each tie deliberate. Ritualistic. A language spoken without words. Wells walked circles around it, correcting tension, tightening every inconsistency in the flesh. "Damn, 767. You’re looking more like gear than man. And that’s the point, bro. Drones don’t think, they pose. You’re halfway there." Alton stepped forward now, kneeling briefly to inspect a knot at the hip. He nodded once, tight. Clean. Efficient. "Protocol holds. Damn, Wells. You’re sculptin' a trophy. Look at those glutes tied up like a present. You gift-wrapping this one for Hive display, or just keeping it in your locker?" Wells chuckled, not breaking focus. "Might keep it as a footstool. Depends how quiet it stays." Alton smirked wider. "Pose is good. Dumb is better. You droolin’ yet, drone?

Don’t worry. That’s natural. Golden rope’s got that effect." Wells dropped to a knee behind it. The final length of rope slid up the spine, threading into the complex geometry wrapping the torso, finishing in a central knot pressed between the shoulder blades, dead center. The drone trembled. Wells’ palm flattened against the knot. He leaned in, voice low and smug. "Locked down tight. Just how we like it. Rope don’t just hold you, it owns you, like we do." Alton nodded again, approving. "That’s it. Let it cook. Pressure builds muscle. And obedience."

Silence. Breath. Pressure. Then release. The drone’s breath hitched, its system rebooted. The bindings weren’t restraint. They were alignment. The mirror across the locker room showed the image: a perfect drone, sculpted in stillness, bound in gold logic. Wells looked over his work, satisfied. Alton stepped into the reflection behind him, arms crossed, nodding once with clinical pride. "Get used to the feeling, 767," Wells smirked. "Confinement looks good on you. Might leave you tied up all week." Alton grinned wide, slapping the drone once on its bound glutes with a sharp thwack. "Solid. That’s Hive-built right there. Gold-grade meat." The rope didn’t bind. It branded.

Wells and Alton, left PDU-767 tied up in the locker room, and as they walked away Alton asked "So should we leave him there all week, bro?". "Nah" Wells replied "Let's grab a beer or three, then we'll come back and use him as our toy later". "Yes, let's do that bro, it seems to enjoy being used by us" said Alton. In the distance they heard that familiar "Affirmative" from PDU-767. "Sounds like he overheard us Alton" Wells said, "That's cool bro, it knows what it is in for, and it knows, it likes it" As Wells and Alton continued to walk away they faintly heard 767 again in the distance "Affirmative, drone will await your return Masters". Wells and Alton laughed, cause they both knew they weren't finished with their playing with their toy.