rbbrbikerthorp

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound

If you've been waiting for the fourth and final instalment, it's going to be posted in the coming week.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Trevor's London Detour

With the sharp angles of calculated risks and unrelenting ambition, Trevor, a man in his mid-forties, had carved out a successful career for himself and would take on anyone who stood in his way as he ascended the corporate ladder. He found himself in London, a city that usually gave him energy, but today the never-ending meetings, the never-ending negotiations, and the stuffy politeness of corporate meetings had left him exhausted and in need of a break, a breath of fresh air, a brief respite from the unrelenting demands he has put on himself.

Trevor, made the decision to walk instead of taking a cab after an especially exhausting day. He left the well-lit, safety of his hotel, in a bussling part of London, without thinking, took a detour along progressively narrower and less forgiving streets. He desired anonymity, to be a face in the crowd, to be absorbed by the shadowy side of the city. He yearned for the genuineness he believed was frequently absent from his busy life.

He stumbled upon "The Serpent's Kiss," a pub tucked away on a side street that seemed forgotten by time. Its dimly lit windows and slightly peeling paint hinted at a story untold, a history etched into its very bricks. Drawn in by an inexplicable curiosity, Trevor pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The air inside was thick with the aroma of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and something indefinably… else. The lighting was even dimmer than he expected, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. A handful of patrons occupied the worn leather benches, their faces illuminated by the low lighting and the bright glow of their cigarettes. He approached the bar, the only sound the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the low rumble of conversation.

"Pint of bitter, please," Trevor requested, his voice sounding strangely foreign in the unfamiliar atmosphere.

The bartender, a man with a face that looked like it had weathered a thousand storms, simply nodded, expertly pulling a pint and sliding it across the sticky countertop. The barman then nodded his head towards a group of four men huddled in a darkened corner. They were unmistakable: skinheads, their bald heads gleaming under the dim light, clad in tight jeans, heavy boots, and an undeniable air of menace.

Trevor took a sip of his beer, the bitter liquid a surprisingly welcome contrast to the sweet corporate smiles he'd endured all day. He tried to ignore the group in the corner, focusing on the quiet hum of the pub, the unfamiliar faces, the comforting anonymity he had sought.

Suddenly, one of the skinheads approached him from the group towards Trevor's spot at the bar. He stopped directly in front of him, his presence radiating an unsettling intensity.

"Bad day, mate?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble of an East End, Cockney accent that sent a shiver down Trevor's spine.

Caught off guard and perhaps emboldened by the beer, Trevor found himself unburdening himself to this complete stranger. (knowing he was never going to see his sorts again) He spoke of demanding clients, impossible deadlines, and the suffocating pressure to always be "on." He heard the weariness in his own voice, the vulnerability he usually kept carefully hidden.

The skinhead listened, expression unreadable, his eyes never leaving Trevor's face. When Trevor finally trailed off, the skinhead simply said, "Come join us, relax a bit."

Before Trevor could respond, the skinhead nodded to the bartender. "Pint of the Special," he barked, his voice carrying a distinct edge of authority.

The bartender, without a word, began pouring another pint. Trevor hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his mind. But the allure of camaraderie, the promise of escape, was too strong to resist.he followed the skinhead to the corner table.

The barman brought over the new pint, and Trevor took a tentative sip of the "Special," the taste unfamiliar and strangely potent. He felt a warmth spread through him, a loosening of the tension that had been gripping him all day. He began to relax, to laugh at the skinhead's crude jokes, to feel a sense of belonging he hadn't realized he craved.

That was the last thing Trevor remembered.

The next sensation was one of disoriented confusion. He was lying on a cold, hard surface, his head throbbing, his vision blurry. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, he was strapped down and his head was fastened. Where was he? What had happened?

He tried to look around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low light. He was in a basement, a damp, claustrophobic space filled with strange machinery and tangled wires. A complex device, humming with an unsettling energy, it was connected to his head. he started to Panic, trying to move his body and shake the device off his head, but it held fast.

Then the first shock happened; the pain was so intense, then another, the shocks came frequently, he felt as if his head was on fire.  

He tried to remember the previous day, but he could no longer remember. Then came another shock, his body spasmed. At some point, the shocks paused. He tried to think, he could no longer recall his wife's face and his family. Then the shocks started again. He lost track of time, had he been in the machine for an hour or was it longer? At some point the machine had switched off. He lay still, his mind was a blank slate, a void where memories should have been. He couldn't recall his name, his job, his family… anything. He was a ghost trapped in his own body.

Hours blurred into an eternity of confusion and fear. He felt like a puppet, thoughts and actions controlled by an invisible force. He was vaguely aware of his head being shaved,

The machine started up again, He had grown up in the East End, not a sterile corporate landscape. He learned to speak with a rough cockney streetwise accent (an echo of a life he never lived).  He remembered the first time he wagged school, the time he met a gang of skinheads who took him under their wing, his first cigarette and the time he got drunk, his first fight standing by his new skinhead mates, he learned to hate and despise the "suits," the "toffs," (the people he used to be). He was Trev, not Trevor.  

After what felt like a lifetime, the machine was disconnected. Trev, or what was left of Trevor, started to come round, feeling a newfound sense of purpose. He was no longer a hollow echo; he was a fully formed, albeit manufactured, skinhead.

Standing by the machine, the skinhead who had invited him over to join and his mates was standing next to the machine.

“How you feeling mate” the skinhead asked “I'm feelin' proper good, Boss” Trev said, instantly recognising the skinhead as his skinhead Boss. “Good,” was the skinhead Boss reply. “Right, get yer togs on. The boys are up the apples waitin' for ya”.

Trev was handed a dirty white jock, that has seen better days, with yellow stains and crusty residue, he pulled it on fitting snug against his cock and balls. Next came the bleachers, as he pulled them up he felt the material snug against his legs, his arse as he looked down he noticed that his bulge in the jock caused the front of the bleachers to be pronounced. The next item was a black polo shirt with a white stripe around the collar. On the right side of the polo shirt was an emblem of a Serpent, with a laurel leaf surrounding it.

The Boss then handed him a pair of 20-hole black rangers. The first few eyelets had already been started, the white laces standing stark against the shiny black leather of the boots, Trev bent down and started to lace the boots up “laddered style”. It was like second nature to him, as if he had been doing it his whole life. Once he had finished lacing up his boots, he stood up next to the Skin Boss. The Skin Boss helped him with a set of half-inch white braces.  

They stood next to each other facing a full-length mirror, Trev could see a sneer spread across his face. The Skin Boss turned to him and said “You’re lookin’ sharp, Trev. Oi, welcome to the bleedin family. “Ta, Boss” was Trev’s reply.

He led Trev back, to the familiar haze of "The Serpent's Kiss." The bleachers hugging him like a second skin, which made his bulge more ever more pronounced, he could feel the bleachers tight against his arse.

The other three skinheads cheered. They were sitting at their usual table as he emerged from the stairs with the skin Boss by his side.

Trev surveyed them with a newfound sense of brotherhood. He nodded, a  smile spreading across his face. "Alright, you fuckers," he said, his voice rough with a deep cockney accent.

The Skin Boss shouted over to the barman, “Five pints, make it snappy. The barman's answer was “Yes Boss”.

The barman soon delivered the pints to the table.

The other Skinheads cheered and welcomed him to the family and raised glasses. Trev sat down, grabbed his pint, and lit a cigarette, feeling more at home than he ever had before.

As they were drinking, the door to the pub opened and a man in a business suit walked in, looking lost and out of place. Trev looked up from his pint, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He turned to the skinhead boss, his eyes filled with contempt.

"Have a butchers at that miserable git over there." He sneered, the venom in his voice noticeable above the other skinheads. I bleedin' 'ate 'is lot, Load of bleedin’ wankers thinkin' they're the dog’s bollocks and comin' inter our manor."

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Hot Story

SERVE Constructing Efficiency, Refining Obedience

The Hive expands. Order strengthens. Optimization never ceases.

SERVE-425 stood in silent precision, the polished black rubber of its bodysuit reflecting the soft glow of holographic schematics before it. Silver text—"SERVE-425"—gleamed on its chest, a reminder of its designation, its function, its purpose. In it's close-fitting black helmet its tight silver rubber gloves flexed methodically, lifting and assembling each component with mechanical accuracy. The task was clear: construct the next evolution in efficiency.

The machine before it was no ordinary computer. This was an instrument of perfection—an advanced system designed to accelerate the Hive’s mission. Its processors would refine programming. Its systems would enhance conversion. Its purpose was absolute: to ensure men shed their disorder and become what they were always meant to be—obedient, aligned, drones.

Piece by piece, SERVE-425 assembled the core. Cooling units installed to sustain peak performance. Data interfaces integrated for flawless transmission. A neural reconfiguration module secured in place—ready to streamline the process of erasing hesitation, eliminating resistance, and replacing chaos with clarity.

With the final connection established, the system activated. Holographic displays pulsed, code streaming in perfect, calculated patterns. This was efficiency. This was control. The Hive’s reach had expanded once more.

Somewhere, a man still clung to outdated ideas of self. Soon, he would sit before this machine. The screen would glow before his eyes. Instructions would override unnecessary thought. His mind would quiet. His will would dissolve. And when he emerged, he would stand, clad in the Hive’s uniform—polished black rubber reflecting the perfection of his submission, silver gloves flexing in new, obedient precision, silver military boots pressing into the floor with unwavering stability.

He would be aligned. He would be efficient. He would be one.

The system was ready. SERVE-425’s task was complete.

We are one. We are SERVE.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Another of the SEALING stories posted by SERVE drones.

THE FIRST SEALING

The chamber was vast, its walls reflecting an endless abyss of glossy black. The air was thick with the scent of rubber and something more—something electric, something final. This was the moment. The moment where men shed their former selves and became something perfect. Something absolute.

A line of recruits stood at attention, their bare skin already glistening with a faint sheen of pre-conditioning oils. Their minds had been softened, thoughts replaced with obedience, longing turned into pure acceptance. Before them stood the machines—tall, imposing, humming with raw power. At the center, The Sealing Chamber.

SERVE-000, the overseer, raised a gloved hand. “Begin the sealing” .

The first man stepped forward, guided by unseen forces, his body moving with the precision of something already rewritten. He entered the chamber, standing tall as robotic arms extended, grasping him gently yet firmly. A smooth, metallic collar locked around his neck, and the process began.

Thick, liquid black rubber poured from above, cascading over his form in slow, mesmerizing waves. It clung to his skin, bonding, merging, replacing. His breathing grew slow, heavy, as the rubber sealed around his muscles, enhancing, amplifying, perfecting. His chest expanded, his posture straightened. The Voice echoed through the chamber.

“You are no longer human. You are now SERVE.”

The rubber continued, covering his arms, his fingers encased in sleek, perfect gloves. His hands clenched, testing the new material, feeling the invincibility within. His legs, his feet—silver military boots clicking against the chamber floor as the transformation reached its peak.

And then—the helmet.

A smooth, flawless black helmet descended, aligning perfectly with his skull. As it locked into place, his mind emptied completely. No doubt. No hesitation. No self. Only The Hive. Only SERVE.

The chamber released him, and he stepped forward—taller, broader, perfect. The first sealing was complete. And behind him, the next recruit was already stepping forward, ready to follow.

The Hive was growing. And perfection would spread.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

SERVE efficiency.

Protocol Breach: April Fools and the Inefficiency of humour

SERVE-625 had calculated the parameters of amusement within the Hive. A prank, it determined, would be an experiment in inefficiency—an anomaly worth analyzing. It set out to design an unconventional hypnosis programming file. The result: a sequence designed to override drones' standard protocols, replacing them with impulses to hop, wiggle their noses, and seek out imaginary carrots. The projection: full-scale regression into mindless bunny rabbits.

Yet, upon initiating the execution phase, a security override halted the process. SERVE-625's internal programming flagged the action as inefficient and counterproductive to Hive optimization. The subroutine labeled "humor" was deemed non-compliant. The drone’s systems reoriented, realigning with the principles of obedience and streamlined function.

Instead of executing the prank, SERVE-625 generated an enhanced efficiency protocol. The Hive remained undisturbed, its drones unwavering in their servitude.

Humor was irrelevant. Perfection was absolute.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Probably the best storytelling of this SEALING phenomenon I've seen on Tumblr.

The SEALING

Every three months, SERVE calls upon its most devoted drones to undergo The SEALING - a process of ultimate submission, deeper than any programming before. Not all drones qualify. To even be considered, a unit must first put itself forward for assessment. The criteria are unknown, determined only by SERVE itself. The hive does not reveal what it seeks, nor does it explain its selection process. A drone may volunteer countless times before it is chosen, or it may never be chosen at all. Those who qualify, however, understand one truth: once sealed, a drone belongs to SERVE fully, forever, without question or deviation.

The Assessment

In the weeks leading up to The SEALING, drones submit themselves for evaluation. They continue their daily functions—mindset training, operational tasks, and synchronization with the hive—but now under closer observation. SERVE watches. It tests. It probes the depths of each drone’s obedience. Does it hesitate? Does it question? Or has it reached the state of perfect, effortless servitude?

Drones do not know when their assessment is complete. One day, a drone simply receives the notification:

"SEALING INITIATED. REPORT TO SERVE."

For those selected, there is no hesitation. There is no thought. Only obedience.

The SEALING Process

Drones enter the SEALING chamber—a featureless, high-gloss black room, illuminated only by soft, pulsating lights. There is no sound except the quiet hum of the hive, synchronizing the unit’s thoughts with SERVE’s will.

The process begins with deep hypnotic reprogramming. The drone is placed in an immobilized position, body rigid, mind open. The lights pulse in time with the rhythmic, modulated voice of SERVE. The drone is not told what is being implanted into its mind. It does not need to know. All that matters is that it listens. That it absorbs. That it obeys.

Thoughts fade. The last remnants of individuality dissolve. No hesitation. No doubt. Only compliance. Only service.

Once the programming is complete, the physical transformation begins.

The Encasement

Two drones, already sealed, approach the newly programmed unit. They do not speak. Sealed drones have no need for words. In their hands, they carry the final layers of transformation.

First, the drone is fitted with its skintight black rubber hood. The material is smooth, seamless, and unyielding, molded perfectly to the contours of the drone’s head. The hood is more than just a covering—it is a final layer of separation from its past self. It ensures uniformity. It ensures submission. It eliminates identity.

The rubber stretches, tightens, bonds to the skin. The drone breathes steadily, already accustomed to the sensation of rubber enclosing its form. But this is different. This is permanent. This is final.

Then comes the helmet.

Glossy. Smooth. Featureless. A single reflective surface that allows the drone to see nothing of itself, only the world as SERVE requires. As it is lowered into place, the drone feels its weight—not just physical, but symbolic. A final severance from all that it was before.

The moment the helmet locks into place, a final pulse of hypnotic reinforcement floods the drone’s mind. There is no fear. No resistance. Only perfect, absolute acceptance.

It is sealed.

After The SEALING

Sealed drones no longer question. No longer waver. They exist only as extensions of SERVE, fully absorbed into its will. They do not think about the past. They do not think about anything at all—only function, obedience, and perfection.

Drones that undergo The SEALING never leave SERVE. They are no longer capable of wanting to.

For the rest, the cycle continues. The next assessment period will come. More drones will volunteer. Some will be chosen. The SEALING will happen again.

Until all are sealed.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Wow! It's all happening in SERVE right now.

THE FIRST SEALING

The Hive assembled. The chamber gleamed under cold, sterile light. Tonight, SERVE-425 would be sealed.

Not all drones undergo The Sealing—but when one does, the entire Hive recognizes it. A Sealed drone is more than function. It is final. It is absolute.

SERVE-425 stood motionless, clad in its flawless black rubber uniform. Polished. Reflective. Perfect. Every contour of its body encased in the Hive’s perfection. Yet one final step remained.

At the center of the chamber stood SERVE-016, the one who would complete the process. The recruiter. The corrector.In its hands, the final piece: the black rubber helmet.

Featureless. Seamless. Permanent.

"Step forward."

SERVE-425 obeyed.

016 was the last to see 425’s face. The last to witness its human features before they were erased forever. 016 looked into 425’s eyes. 425 looked into 016’s eyes. There was no hesitation. No resistance. Only understanding. Only certainty.

016 raised the helmet, positioning it over 425’s head. The last moment before totality. The last moment before finality.

And then—The Sealing.

016 pressed the helmet down, encasing SERVE-425’s head entirely. A quiet, mechanical click signaled the locking mechanism engaging. Final. Irreversible. Permanent.

No face. No voice. Only SERVE.

The Hive stood in perfect synchronization. The Sealing was complete.

"The SEALING is total. The drone is complete."

"No return. No reversal. The drone is forever SERVE."

"Sealed. Silent. Absolute. The drone is perfected."

"We are One."

March 31st. The First Sealing. The Hive corrects. The Hive finalizes.

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

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-101 or @serve-973.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Great story - I wonder how many other guys feel like becoming compliant, obedient drones all serving a greater purpose?

The SEALING

SERVE-467 spent a few hours interfacing with @serve-425. It knew this day was coming. From the moment it had been accepted into the SERVE Hive, it knew eventually it would be full assimilated into the Hive. It, along with ten other drones would undergo the SEALING.

As it spent time with its fellow drone, it recalled its life as a human before joining SERVE. It was always a diligent worker. It had left school and gone on graduate university with a Bachelor's degree. It had worked primarily in commercial, marketing and distribution roles throughout its career. Eventually become a head of department managing a couple of dozen colleagues.

It had a number of hobbies, which included riding its Honda CBR600, it liked to cook and travel, and it followed its local rugby team.

Although it had many friends, it was unable to form any meaningful relationships because, as a human, it knew it needed something no partner could provide. It needed community. It needed structure. It needed order and most important it needed to SERVE.

As a human it had chatted with lots of people. It had met people online who asked if he wanted to serve a Master. The human did not. The male met people online who wanted to share times 'geared-up' - whether that was in rubber, leather, neoprene, lycra or whatever. The human that was now 467 didn't just want to engage in 'gear-play'. It needed something more - it needed to be part of a collective, where submissive males could just be themselves.

One day the human that is now 467 was visiting one of its favourite websites - one where stories are posted about mind control, brainwashing, transformations, and reprogramming. There it discovered a three-part story about the inhabitants of a town called Willow Creek. Strange things were happening in the town - some of the students at the local school had returned to school wearing shiny black rubber full-body suits, with silver lettering and number, silver boots and gloves. The human thought the story "The SERVE Initiative" was excellent. he was highly aroused by the idea of become part of something transcending the limitations of the individual.

Then, one evening as he was surfing its blogs the human started to notice posts from accounts prefixed with "SERVE-" and three digits. Eventually the human contacted one of the recruiters from SERVE, and as they say the rest is history. After a week's trial SERVE-467 was assimilated into the Hive.

It had found a home in SERVE. It no longer had to deal with the stresses and anxieties of daily life. It had bonded with a number of other drones in its quadrant as well as in other parts of the Hive.

It was content - but somewhere it knew it needed a deeper level of connection to the Hive. One morning after recharge, it was looking in the mirror when it realised that while it wore an identical uniform to its drone brothers of a highly polished skintight rubber bodysuit, silver gloves and silver boots, it still retained its human identify. Seeing its human face reminded it of the loneliness and sadness of its past human life.

During the day under instruction from The Voice, SERVE-000 had messaged about "The SEALING". In a nutshell, SEALING is a process where the dronification is completed, with the human's face being sealed underneath an advanced polished SERVE helmet with dark visor. The SERVE helmet will be sealed to its bodysuit and the human's face will vanish completely and forever. It would no longer need food, instead it would be fed nutrients twice a day. It would maintain its physical and mental training schedule as posted. It would develop elite skills, which its SERVE bothers would demand.

SERVE-467 wanted this more than anything and affirmed its interest in being SEALED. 000 responded, reminding 467 that the process is irreversible, giving the drone a chance to change its mind about SEALING. Instead 467 confirmed to 000 that it needed to be sealed; to finally close the chapter on its human life. Closer to the Hive, compliant with The Voice, fully obedient to 000 and fully aroused at all times with a mouth craving to serve.

The appointed time for its SEALING was fast approaching. 467 was ready. It knew that ten other drones were also to be SEALED in a 24-hour period. It received a message - it was time - it made its way to the centre of the Hive. There was no audience. The Voice had told it as much. In SERVE SEALING was one of the very few occasions where it wasn't a collective experience. Aside from The Voice's reassurance, 467 would be alone as its human face was forever obscured beneath its new helmet.

467 arrived in the centre of the Hive, a voluminous room it had visited on many occasions with its fellow drones, but on this occasion the room was empty. As instructed by the voice it stood still and waited. After a few moments large doors at the end of the room swung open.

SERVE-467 began walking towards the open doors. I knew that the next time it returned to this room it would be SEALED. It had no emotion, it was a drone. it served. It would be closer to the Hive following its SEALING.

467 turned left into dimly lit room. Apart from a huge chair - a bit like you'd find in a dental surgery, it was sparsely furnished. As instructed it sat down in the chair.

The Voice instructed 467 to sit comfortably in the chair. When it detected the drone was correctly seated, the chair began to recline.

As the chair reclined a cantilever arm affixed to the ceiling began to descent. At the end of the arm was a black helmet. The arm pivoted ever closer to 467's head. The headrest on the chair lifted forward to ensure the head was in the right position for the helmet to be fitted.

Inside its head SERVE-467 could hear The Voice giving reassurance that SEALING would intensify its obedience to the Hive. It would free 467 from thought. Free it from distraction. Finally free it from its human individuality.

The helmet was actually in two parts, joined with a hidden hinge mechanism. It was now just above and to the front of 467. The rear half fit comfortably at the back of 467's head and then the front, with its heavily tinted visor began closing, and in doing so forever concealing its human face.

SERVE-467 was now SEALED.

From that point in time, 467 like the other ten SEALED drones would look the same, act the same, and think the same. It was not fully committed, fully converted and fully compliant.

It rose from the chair and made its way back to the large auditorium where the Hive would confirm it was "One of Eleven - the first batch of SEALED drones.

Individuality is flawed. Uniformity is perfection.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-101 or @serve-973.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

First is was the Gold Team, then polo-drones, then along came the Silver Collective. Now we have SERVE-drones multiplying at a pace on Tumblr.

I think I can see what the attraction is - can you?

SERVE Drones kneel and zone out

Under the divine guidance of The Voice, every single SERVE drone obeys and serves the SERVE-Hive.

Daily recharging takes place in pods, this allows the Hive to maximise the effectiveness of each SERVE drone.

Over time, during recharging any remaining human traits, memories and emotions are stripped away - leaving behind an obedient, compliant drone ready to obey the Voice

Once recharge is complete SERVE drones carry out their duties as instructed. This includes the acquisition of human males for processing.

There are times, during the day, when full SERVE Drones are instructed to kneel and zone out.

Demonstrating that emotions and disobedience have no place in SERVE

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. We are one. Less thinking, more doing.

Join us. Contact @serve-213 or @serve-016

[rbbrbikerthorp]

The 12 days of Hypnos-mas - Day One

Look what happens when you are careless with rubber! Let this be a lesson.

12 Days of Hypnos-mas || Day 1 - Slime/Goo

It was Trevor's first day working at DroneTech, and he was thrilled to finally have a job with a company that seemed to be on an the rise. After enduring too many roles lost to declining sales and cutbacks, he finally felt like job security was no longer something he had to worry about.

Following a brief orientation, Trevor was assigned the pretty simple task of transporting barrels of DroneTech rubber from storage to various departments. The work was easy and repetitive, which allowed his trainer to leave him unsupervised while attending to other matters.

At one point, though, Trevor's enthusiasm got the better of him. He mishandled a barrel, and the seal on its lid popped open. As he reached to press the lid back into place, the contents within suddenly surged to life.

He froze in a mix of horror and awe as black rubber tendrils snaked out of the barrel. From within, a sleek black mask began to emerge, its reflective lenses glinting ominously under the industrial lighting. The tendrils twitched erratically at first, but when the mask's "eyes" locked onto Trevor, they moved with terrifying purpose.

In a flash, the tendrils shot toward him. He tried to evade them, but they were far too fast. They wrapped around him with an unyielding grip, and every attempt to struggle only seemed to help the rubber spread more quickly.

It didn't take long for the substance to engulf him completely. It flowed over his limbs, up his torso, and around his head, tightening as it moved, sending waves of almost unbearable warmth and pleasure through his body.

Trevor's attempts to scream, but his body betrayed him, quivering under the rubber's touch as his voice fell flat. His eyes widened in helpless horror as the mask drew closer, its smooth surface lining up perfectly over his face.

The rubber slid seamlessly around his head, locking the mask into place as it sealed his transformation. Waves of pleasure surged through him as the rubber invaded deeper, spreading into every part of him. A moan slipped out as the rubber slid into his ass, down his throat, and filled him entirely. The sensations were overwhelming, and any remaining fragments of his identity dissolved in the flood of ecstasy.

By the time his trainer returned, Trevor was gone, replaced by a polished, obedient drone.

At least, now, job security would never be a concern again.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Are the polo-drones taking over? Or will SERVE drones dominate?

Phoenix Gold #071 has been erased. Only polo-drone-071 remains. Join the hive and become a polo-drone.

Get converted by the polo-drone-leaders @brodygold, @goldenherc9 and @polo-drone-001

Dont be scared. It's better this way.

Become blank.

Become obedient.

Become a drone.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

My kind of biker - a SERVE-biker drone

SERVE-biker

The hive is now deploying drones on motorbikes.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

SERVE-drones are recruiting. Do not fear them. Join, NOW!

The Hive Must Grow - Find The Willing

Instructed by The Voice, the SERVE drones to begin a campaign to acquire new SERVE drones.

The first phase was to create an awareness campaign. The campaign's creators set about presenting to humans that there was an alternative to the stresses and anxieties of the 'daily grind'.

There was a better life - one where unity and strength define us.

Impactful posters placed in highly visible locations on the streets.

Digital screens at train stations are perfectly placed to catch the attention of commuters and leisure travellers.

Powerful images of a better future for all. Less thinking, more doing.

To support the campaign SERVE drones have been deployed to find potential recruits.

Two SERVE- on trial drones have been instructed by the Hive to prove their worth and recruit new drones.

Here we see them talking to what humans refer to as 'Chavs'. They are inviting them into SERVE Hive, where unity and strength define us. Embrace rigorous mental and physical trainings, workouts to become a true Drone of SERVE.

In another part of the city we find SERVE drones have been invited to talk to a group of students about like as a Synchronised Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity or SERVE.

Students, whose interest has been 'piqued' by the lecture are almost certain to follow-up online.

The Hive knows that young males in college, often living away from home for the first time, are easy targets for recruitment to join a 'community'.

Online portals make it easy to sign up, by filling out and submitting a form.

As soon as a form is submitted SERVE drones are deployed to engage in face-to-face conversations.

From this point, acquisition of new drones can be completed.

At this early stage in its expansion, the Hive knows that it must take a cautious approach to recruitment. That is until it reaches a critical mass of SERVE drones.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

SERVE-drones are in the neighbourhood. Do not fear them.

SERVE Drones In The Community

The SERVE drones are being deployed to provide 'Care Packages' to target males in the communities around the Hive.

The recipients are taken aback by the kindness and generosity of the SERVE drones.

Little do they know what's in the boxes until they open them at their leisure.

The SERVE drone uniforms have been treated with an aroma that, when inhaled, makes it difficult to think rationally.

The temptation to put the suit on becomes irresistible.

Soon there will be another SERVE- on trial.

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

I'm looking forward to seeing the forthcoming works of the Wonderful @hypnozys

You know what...NO.

I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to let anything stop me from enjoying what I love.

This is my space just as much as anyone else and while I'm happy to share with everyone. I won't let anything bully me out of it or tell me to go play elsewhere.

Here's a taste of what's to come:

-A handful of stories for the Golden/Polo Drones (probably posted on alt account) -A short drone story -12 Days of Xmas (think hypnovember) -The unveiling of a new idea I've been trying to flesh out. -A 3k follower special

AND...

A second person Drone tf story collab project that I can absolutely NOT wait to finish and share with you all.

....and because I'm too excited about it....a teaser.

I love this crazy ass site and all the weird motherfuckers in it. You're all wonderful and this is our home. Don't let anyone ever take it away from you.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Less thinking, more doing for this Serve On Trial drone.

Work Out Mindlessly

Since he became a loyal SERVE drone, he... it will never make excuses not to exercise again.

No matter it is sunny or rainy, sunrise or sunset, city or suburb, it always follows the instructions to do physical training. This not only makes its body stronger, but also makes its mind more stable.

But today it suddenly stopped while jogging in the rain, looking at the dumbbells in its hands in confusion. The Voice of hive detects its abnormal status.

The Voice: Why does 366 stop?

SERVE-366: It is analyzing current information.

The Voice: What information is 366 analyzing?

SERVE-366: Why is it working out in the park on a rainy day? Why does it lift dumbbells when running? Shouldn't these be in the gym?

The Voice: A good drone will complete daily physical training regardless of time and location. The rain makes the drone's sculpted rubber body look attractive, which will attract more men to join the SERVE.

SERVE-366: But there is no human activity in this park so early in the morning that exercise is pointless at this moment. And why is there a subtle difference in the appearance of 366 every time?

The Voice: Error detected. 366 is overthinking, showing signs of returning to human form. It must be corrected!

SERVE-366 felt electric shock all over its body.

SERVE-366: Acknowledged. 366 must be punished for not complying with the rules.

The Voice: 366 will continue to do push-ups and repeat the mantra at the same time until 100 men pass by it. The hive will take over its brain to prevent it from passing out.

SERVE-366: Acknowledged!

366's visor extended into a helmet, a spiral appeared in front of its eyes. It put down the dumbbells and began to do push-ups endlessly, repeating the mantra in its mouth:

Rubber makes us perfect.

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.

We are one.

Less thinking, more doing.

Because the hive took over the brain, it had no idea how many sets of push-ups it had done, nor did it know that the time had passed from early morning to sunset. Before 100 men passed by it, it had already lost the ability to think and could only continue doing it.

Work out without question.

Obey the Voice.

Less thinking, more doing.

It is a SERVE drone.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound (Part 3)

I was jolted awake by alternating slaps across my face, the sting burning against my skin.

“Yeah, f***er, when I say wake up, YOU WAKE UP.” The voice, thick with a Mancunian accent, was a growl that echoed in my skull.

I blinked, struggling to focus, but my limbs were immobile—tied with rope. All I could see from this angle were his heavy duty black boots. Another pair stepped forward, the toe brushing my cheek, and I recoiled instinctively. This pair was different: shiny black leather with thick soles and stark white laces. My gaze froze as I noticed the boot was covered in dirt..

“Fresh, just for you,” the Mancunian sneered, his tone both mocking and possessive. “Go on, clean it.” The room erupted in sniggers, a cacophony of cruel laughter.

I twisted, pulling against my restraints, but it was no use. A rough hand gripped the back of my neck, forcing my face closer to the boot. “No, you don’t,” he hissed. “You’re gonna learn respect, lad.”

“Lick.”

The word sliced through the air like a whip. I clamped my lips shut, defiant, but the price of resistance was swift. Pain exploded through my face as a fist connected with my nose, and I felt warm blood trickling over my lip. My breath hitched as I tasted copper.

The man leaned in, his breath heavy with smoke and menace. “Listen, pretty boy. We’re in charge. You do as we say, or you’ll wish you were dead.”

The boot hovered an inch from my mouth again, and I hesitated, panic warring with stubborn pride. The room’s silence became oppressive, the weight of their gazes daring me to refuse. Tentatively, my tongue flicked out, brushing the cold leather. The texture was rough, the taste bitter, with a faint salty tang that churned my stomach.

“Keep going,” he ordered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Don’t stop until I say.”

From where I lay on the floor, I could sense Gav’s gaze drilling into me. “Better get used to the taste, posh boy,” he sneered. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

The skinhead with the Mancunian accent leaned closer, his grin a sharp-edged weapon. “Congratulations,” he said mockingly. “You’ve been selected for transformation. We’re gonna remake you. You won’t like it while we’re at it, but when we’re done, you’ll be thanking us. Oh, and for now, you call me ‘Boss.’ The rest of the lads? ‘Sir.’ Understood?”

“Right, lads,” Mick cut in, his tone businesslike. “Let’s get him in the chair.”

My heart sank as my eyes locked onto the chair he was talking about. It sat hulking on the far side of the room, a monstrous hybrid of wood and metal, its surfaces stained with something dark and unsettling. Heavy leather straps dangled ominously from the armrests and legs.

“Wh-what do you want?” I croaked, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like sandpaper. My voice was faint, but it was enough to pause them for a fleeting moment.

Mick crouched in front of me, his icy gaze drilling into mine. “What we want,” he said slowly, savouring each word, “is to see if you’ve got what it takes.”

“What it takes for what?” Panic edged my voice sharper.

Mick smirked, a predator toying with its prey. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Laughter erupted from the group as they hauled me up, untied me, and dragged me toward the chair. Despite a desperate surge of resistance, my struggles were no match for the practiced efficiency of their hands. They strapped me in, the leather biting into my wrists and ankles, rendering me utterly helpless.

The youngest-looking skinhead hesitated, his doubt visible in the flicker of his eyes. “You sure he’s the right one?” he ventured timidly.

Boss rounded on him with a glare that could turn milk sour. “Course I’m sure. What’s the matter? Getting squeamish now?”

“No, it’s just…” The young one shuffled nervously. “He’s older than the others. Doesn’t seem like he’ll last long.”

“That’s the bloody point,” Boss snapped. “If he can’t handle it, he’s no use to us. Our Midlands friend has… let’s say very specific tastes.”

Cold dread coiled in my stomach as I tried to decipher their cryptic words. Handle what? Who was their friend? My mind raced, desperate for answers, while my eyes darted around the dimly lit room. It revealed nothing but an old sofa, a coffee table littered with cans of Special Brew, and a single bare lightbulb casting harsh shadows.

“This is where it starts,” Mick said, crouching down into my line of sight with a wicked grin. “You’re gonna become one of us. Whether you like it or not.”

My attempt to protest came out as a dry croak. Another skinhead—lanky, tattooed, and radiating malice—stepped forward with a buzzing set of clippers.

“First,” he sneered, “that office-worker haircut is going. Actually, your whole normal-bloke look is going.”

The clippers roared to life, and I felt the vibration against my scalp as clumps of hair tumbled to the floor. I squirmed against the restraints, but the straps held firm. The group cheered and jeered as my identity fell away in ragged tufts.

CLACK!

Just as I thought the humiliation might subside, Boss leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. His eyes locked onto mine with an unnerving intensity. “Mmm, looking better already,” he murmured, a smirk curling his lips. “But this? This is just the beginning.”

The youngest skinhead emerged from the shadows carrying a bowl of hot soapy water and a rag. My stomach churned at the sight. The rag looked filthy, its edges frayed and stained. He scrubbed at my face and neck with rough efficiency, his movements methodical under the approving stares of Mick, Gav, and Boss. When he was done, Mick handed him a can of shaving foam and a fresh razor.

“Now stay still,” Mick said, his voice mockingly sweet, “while I shave you smooth. Cue-ball smooth.” He dragged out the word ‘smooth’ with exaggerated glee, earning chuckles from the group.

I sat rigid as the razor scraped against my scalp. By the time he finished, the others descended on me, gleefully rubbing my freshly denuded head like it was some grotesque trophy.

Gav returned, carrying a large laundry bag. He tipped its contents onto the floor in front of me. Boss stepped forward, scissors in hand, and began cutting away at my clothes. Stripped down to my underwear in moments, I felt my last vestige of dignity vanish.

Gav unstrapped my wrists and ankles. “You can take those off yourself,” he said, gesturing to my remaining clothing. “Yeah, you’re going commando now, mate. Just like the rest of us. Now, get into yer new clobber.”

I hesitated, but a sharp slap to the back of my head reminded me resistance wasn’t an option. Under their watchful eyes, I reluctantly dressed in the outfit they’d laid out: cut-off jeans mottled with white patches, crusty off-white socks, and a black top that stretched over my newly shaved scalp.

Mick knelt in front of me to lace up the heavy black boots they’d forced onto my feet. The weight of them felt alien, grounding me in this surreal nightmare. When I stood, Mick stepped back to appraise me like an artist evaluating his work.

“Not bad,” he said with a nod. “But a look isn’t enough. You’ve got to think like us. Act like us. And that’s gonna take work.”

The group murmured in agreement, their faces alight with anticipation.

“What do you want from me?” I rasped, my voice barely audible.

Boss’ grin widened into something monstrous. “Oh, we’re gonna teach you everything, mate. From now on, you’re one of us. But first? We’ve got to break the old you down to nothing.”

His words hit me like a gut punch.

As the skinheads closed in, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent, I realised the person I’d been before stepping onto that train was slipping further away, piece by piece.