rbbrbikerthorp

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Amazing work. Excellent use of audio and an blank screen.

THE DRONE FACTORY

AI Video with Audio

Two handsome hikers explore an abandoned factory in the woods. What they find inside changes them forever.

Drone Conversion Tape Source

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If you like what you see, check out my other AI videos:

The Conversion Pool

The Red Singlet

From Prep to Pig

A Gimp is Born

The Drone Factory

The Vampire's Thrall

A Hero Corrupted

And short stories:

The Rubber Dog

Or check out unused concept images from this video.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

This is fantastic! Great AI and an excellently crafted video

Steampunk retrofuturist Amerika 2028.

For the day thats in it.......

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound (Part 2)

Unbeknown to me the skinhead gets up from his seat. He lifts my head, which has fallen forwards. When he’s satisfied I’m unconscious and won’t cause him any trouble, he gets his phone and makes a call. 

“I’ve got one.. [pause] Yeah, he’s out but I took more that two to finish him off. [pause] Yeah, bring the van - you know where to meet us”.

As if in some distant dream I had a vague recollection of an announcement - something about some station, but it wasn't one I'd leave the train at. I sensed the skinhead lifting me out of my seat. I think he said something like “C’mon mate - you had a couple too many. I’ll help you. Yeah, watch yer step. The lads are meeting us so they will give you a lift home”.  I think I 'caught the eye' of one of two other passengers. Hoping they might intervene. I mean, surely it wasn't right for a half-cut smartly dressed office worker to be carried off a train by a skinhead thug?

I imagine they sit passively - not wanting to intervene. He hauls me off the train, leaving behind all my belongings - my coat with my phone and my rucksack with all its contents. It would be the last time anyone who knew me then would see the old me. 

As the train pulls up at the station the skinhead’s mates are waiting on the platform. I feel the train grind to a halt. Then vaguely recall the beeps of the door opening.

I sense the cold evening air and can 'taste' the smell of the diesel fumes emitted from the train. As a result, I become a bit more lucid.

“Is this him?” One of them shouts above the noise of the diesel engine.  

A bit older than we’d normally collect?” says another lad. 

“Give me a hand” says the skinhead from the train.

I feel someone else grab me and help get me down from the train onto the platform. My arms are held firmly. I hear more footsteps getting closer to me. Then I sense warm, smokey breath on my neck.

I lift my head a little and try to focus.

I can see two skinheads near the platform edge. I'm sure one was groping the other. Between snogs I could hear them talking. I listened in as best as I could.

"Nice capture Gav! You've earned this".

"Thanks Mick. It took a 'little encouragement', but I got him in the end.

They snogged again. I'd never seen two men show affection to one another, let alone two skinheads.

Then breaking their embrace, I heard one of the other lads say, "yes I suppose he is a bit older but when we break him, I'm sure he’ll be perfect."

I had to wonder what did they mean, 'he'll be perfect'?

Another one of the skinheads spoke, "yeah, wasn't there a guy from somewhere near Birmingham who asked if we could 'recruit' something more mature"?

I hear them all laugh. I can't be sure but I think it was called Mick who spoke next.

"Now shut the fuck up and let’s get him in the van while there's still no one around.” 

I feel myself lifted by two of the skinheads. I listen to the stomping of their boots. I'm still trying to work out how many of them there are. Three, maybe four - I can't be sure. I hear the sound of a van door sliding.

"Right, get him inside".

I'm hoisted roughly into the van. I hear the familiar sound of a can opening. Then the door slid closed.

"He needs a bit more of our concoction to knock him out for the journey. Sit him up straight."

I'm put into a seated position on the floor, with my back resting against the side of the van.

"Open wide," I think it was the one called Gav this time. He then grabs onto my jaw.

I resisted momentarily. Bad move, you could sense the change in his demeanor.

"I said OPEN. Don't make me hurt you."

Not wanting to face his wrath I did as told and opened. Slowly he tipped the can to my lips. "Urgh" - there was that weird taste again. I tried match my swallowing to the speed he was pouring. I know that quite a lot of the beer was dribbling down my chin.

Then, pow! "Mmm the taste". All of a sudden something inside me triggered a desire for more. As I did earlier on the train, I started glugging the beer.

One of the skins laughing commented on how much I appeared to like their 'special brew'. In no time at all I'd finished the can.

"Need another Gav?"

"Just wait," he replied.

It only took a few moments and I started drifting away. Before I fell unconscious again I heard the door slide open, boots land on the ground and the door close again. I pretty sure I heard a lock turn. The last thing I remember is the van's engine start up.

Sometime later...

“I think the push fucker is coming around”.

I was regaining my awareness. I felt terrible, my head banging and my mouth tasted like a dustbin. I don't know where I am. The room feels cold. The air seems thick with the stench of bodies, mixed with the pungent smell of tobacco...and something else?

I open my eyes, there in front of my face is a heavy duty black boot with white laces. I see a face a sniggering and then a plume of smoke hits me.

I begin a fit of coughing. In a reflex action I try moving but find my arms are restrained, as are my legs. I'm laid on the floor, a few feet from someone I'd normally cross the street to avoid.

I hear more laughter and sense more bodies entering the room.

One of the voices I remember hearing at the station spoke up. I turned to where the sound was coming from.

"Yeah wake up fucker. It's time to begin your new life".

My coughing fit is ending just as more smoke it blown in my face. I turn my head away from the smoke. That's when I figured out what the something else was, it was the smell of leather.

There, just inches from my face were two pairs of those heavy duty black boots with white laces.

What is to become of me?

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Go ahead. Don't wait.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound

[A couple of days ago my BoSS sent me this picture to inspire my story writing]

Here goes...

I'm standing at Victoria Station. It's been another busy, but repetitive day for this office drone - OKRs, appraisals, budgeting and answering more emails than I care to remember. At least I have a week's annual leave to look forward to.

After a ten minute delay the train finally pulls into the platform. I'd not booked a seat so I head for coach 'D' which is always unreserved. After quickly scanning the carriage I can see that while there's only a few seats left unoccupied, midway down there appears to be three available. To be sure of a seat for my fifty minute journey, I rapidly move through the carriage to where the empty ones are located. I throw my coat and bag up on the rack above the seat and sit down. Phew! Another day closer to the weekend, another day close to my break from the mundane.

That's when I notice that someone is sitting opposite me. It then dawns on me why the seats we unoccupied. A gangly looking thirty-something - but also someone you'd cross the street to avoid. Tattoos all the way down his arms, braces, a black T-shirt with foreign language text (I assumed would probably be offensive if translated), army camouflage pants and heavy black boots laced almost up to his knees. Standing out against the black of the leather is the white laces giving the casual observer the impression of a ladder.

I grab my phone trying not to make eye contact, but I can sense him smirking.

"Want a can?"

I look up. Is he talking to me? He must be. It's only the two of us, occupying two of the four seats.

"Sorry", I reply

"Want a beer?" he says, not looking directly at me.

"Oh, no thanks". I decline the offer because I’ve got a twenty minute drive home from the train station.

He turns his head slightly to look me straight in the eyes. “You look stressed - difficult day at work?” His face contorts and then he smiles. Suddenly, I sense a friendly side to this aggressive looking stranger.

With an authoritative voice, he now says, "have a beer". It didn't feel like a request, it felt like an order.

So to shut him up, I agree. Thinking I will just take a few sips and push it aside. I assumed he’d pass me the unopened can that is already on the table, but he grabs one out of the bulging carrier bag by his feet. 

I gingerly take it. I look at the can. The text looks eastern European - I didn't recognise the brand and I couldn't figure out where it was made. I open it and take a sip. The taste hits me like a sledgehammer. "Wow! - it’s got a kick".

He just nodded and turned to look out of the window.

I take another sip. What's with the taste? Then I take a bigger gulp, and another, and eventually I start swigging the beer. Before I know it I’ve necked the whole can. I should also say I now feel a bit light-headed.

Hearing my bang the empty can down on the table, he turns his head in my direction.

"Good stuff". Then he reaches down into the carrier bag once more and hands me another beer. "Open it".

Without hesitating I lift the ring pull.

"Now get it down you. Quicker this time".

I do as I'm told and glug the beer quickly. In no time I've emptied the second can. This stuff is powerful. I've had two cans and I already feel like I've been on an all-night session - no driving home for me!

I'm handed a third by this stranger. The taste of this unknown beer has got to me. I need no encouragement to open the can and start drinking. It's at this point that I start feeling strange. I notice the sinister grin has returned to the skinhead's face. I don't think I'd got even halfway through the can when I started to feel envelope of unconsciousness descending on me. The last thing I remember is hearing the can bang on the carriage floor.

Should I continue?

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Dronify me please. I want to be freed from my mundane life and begin a life of compliant servitude.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Profile Update

I used to be a non-smoker, but my Skin BoSS soon changed that.

P.S. New stories on the way.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Epic story from one of the best writers.

The Man Who Became Another

(Hypnotic Transformation)

Mark Harris had never felt so tired. The past week in Berlin had been a blur of endless meetings, stale hotel air, and mediocre cuisine. All he wanted was to get home to his wife and kids, to sink into the comfort of his own bed, and to finally get some decent sleep. The flight back had been delayed, and as he shuffled through the airport with his luggage in tow, the digital clock above the security checkpoint read 11:47 PM. His eyes were heavy, his tie was loose, and his shoes felt like lead weights attached to his swollen feet.

As he approached the security gate, two bald-headed security guards stepped in front of him. Their matching black uniforms were stark against the gleaming airport floors. "Sir," one of them said firmly, "Could you come with us?" Mark's initial annoyance at the inconvenience was quickly overridden by the unmistakable authority in their voices. He nodded wearily and followed them down a corridor that grew narrower and more sterile with each step.

They stopped at a nondescript door. One guard swiped a card and it clicked open, revealing a small, windowless room. Inside, a desk and chair sat opposite each other, and a TV screen was mounted on the wall. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic. "We need to conduct a brief integration," the other guard explained, his tone devoid of any warmth or apology. Mark's heart skipped a beat. Integration? What did that even mean?

He was instructed to sit in the chair, and as he did, the guards stepped outside, leaving him alone. The TV flickered to life, and a spiral pattern appeared, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm.

Try as he might, Mark couldn't look away. His eyes burned with the effort of trying to focus on anything else, but the spiral held his gaze hostage. The words "You are a skinhead" flashed up on the screen, then disappeared as soon as they appeared, synced perfectly with the spiral's rhythm. He felt his consciousness slipping, his family, try as he might, their faces blurring just like the screen that was in front of him. His thoughts were being rearranged like furniture in a room he no longer recognized.

Hours bled into each other as the spiral spun relentlessly. The phrase grew louder, more insistent, and his identity began to fragment. His past, his family, his life as a successful businessman—it all felt like a distant memory, a fading photograph at the mercy of time and the elements. The spiral filled his vision, his mind, his very essence. The walls of the room seemed to close in, yet the spiral grew larger, more encompassing.

The programming was thorough, digging deep into his psyche. It didn't just change his beliefs; it rewired his thoughts, his emotions, his very core. The room grew cold, and Mark shivered, but not from the temperature. The fear of losing himself was a chilling realization that took hold and wouldn't let go. The words played over and over, a mantra that shaped-shifted his soul. “YOU ARE A SKIHEAD, YOU WILL REPORT TO THE BOSS WHEN YOU GET HOME”

When the spiral finally disappeared, the TV went dark, and the door opened with a soft hiss. The guards returned, their expressions unchanged, as if they had never left. "You can go now," one of them said, gesturing to the exit. Mark stumbled out, his legs unsteady, his mind reeling from the transformation.

Back in the brightly lit airport, everything looked the same yet utterly foreign. His eyes darted around, searching for familiar faces or landmarks, but all he saw were strangers passing by, unaware of the tumultuous shift he had just undergone. He gathered his luggage and headed to security, giving a knowing nod to the two security guards that had detained him. As he walked up the steps of the plane, the words echoed in his head with each step. “I AM NOW A SKINHEAD”

At home, Mark tried to shake off the eerie feeling that clung to him like a second skin. His wife, Cindy, was asleep, her gentle snores a comforting sound in the otherwise silent house. He tiptoed into their bedroom, the soft glow of the moon illuminating her peaceful face. He felt a pang of guilt—his mind now a minefield of hateful ideologies that were as alien to her as they were to him. He lay down beside her, the bed feeling smaller than ever before, and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

But sleep eluded him. The phrase "You are a skinhead" continued to loop in his thoughts, the TV room's coldness seeping into his bones. He tossed and turned, his thoughts racing. How could he tell Cindy? How could he explain the inexplicable? His mind raced with scenarios, each more absurd than the last. By the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, he had made a decision. He would keep his secret, bury it deep, and pray it didn't consume him entirely.

Days turned into weeks, and Mark's nocturnal dreams grew more frequent. Cindy noticed the changes in him—his distant gaze, his sudden bursts of anger, the newfound hatred in his voice when certain topics were broached. She didn't know what to do, or who to turn to. The Mark she knew was slipping away, replaced by a man with shadows in his eyes and a coldness in his touch.

One evening, after Cindy had tucked the kids into bed, she found Mark in the living room, staring at the TV. The news played a story about a racially motivated crime, and Mark's fists clenched at his sides. Cindy's heart sank as she heard him murmur, "You are a skinhead." Her blood ran cold. Was this the man she had married? The man who used to hold her hand and whisper sweet nothings into her ear?

Each night he would leave the house, Mark's absences grew longer, and Cindy's desperation grew with each passing night. She found solace in her work, burying herself in her projects to avoid the dread of what was happening at home. Yet, every time she heard the front door creak open in the early hours of the morning, her heart pounded in her chest. Who was this stranger that slept beside her?

One night, Cindy decided she couldn't take it anymore. She waited up, her eyes glued to the clock, her nerves on edge. When Mark finally walked in, his boots thudding against the floor, she pounced. "Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice trembling. Mark's eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with a coldness that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Out," he said curtly, his voice a stark contrast to the warm, loving tone she had once known. Cindy could see the new tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, symbols of a world she didn't recognize.

"What's happening to you?" she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Mark took a step closer, and she could smell the faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

"I'm becoming who I'm meant to be," he replied, his voice a chilling echo of the mantra that had claimed him. Cindy felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. This wasn't the Mark she knew—the man who had held her hand and promised to love her through thick and thin. This was a stranger, a man twisted by some unknown force.

The weeks stretched into months, and Mark's transformation was complete. His suits were replaced with black boots and bomber jackets, his clean-shaven face with a snarling visage of hate. Cindy watched her husband vanish, his eyes now cold and hard, his smile a grimace of anger. The house grew colder, filled with the oppressive silence of secrets and fear.

One night, Cindy followed Mark, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. She knew she shouldn't, but she had to know. She had to understand. The neighborhood grew darker, the air thick with tension as she trailed him to a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of town. Inside, she saw a gathering of men, all with shaved heads and tattoos, their faces twisted into snarls of rage. Her stomach churned as she recognized her husband among them.

They were skinheads, a group she had only read about in the news, and here was Mark, her Mark, right in the middle of it all. Cindy felt a part of her die right there, hiding in the shadows. She watched as he threw his fist into the air, joining in a chant that she could feel in her very bones. It was a declaration of war, a call to arms against anyone who didn't fit their narrow vision of a skinhead way of life.

Mark had had one hand on the women's tits of a woman and was kissing her passionately, and Cindy's world shattered. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The woman had tattoos all over her body, and Cindy realized that she had lost her husband to this twisted ideology. With tears streaming down her face, she retreated into the night, the coldness of the air a stark contrast to the heat of her anger and pain.

The following days were a blur of despair and confusion. Cindy didn't know what to do. She couldn't bring herself to confront Mark, to tell him she had seen him with another woman. The thought of losing him was unbearable, but the reality of who he had become was even more so.

Mark arrived home and she confronted him, who was that woman you were with she asked. But Mark's eyes were glazed over, the skinhead persona fully in control. He didn't recognize Cindy's pain, only the accusation. "She is my skin bitch"

The words hit Cindy like a sledgehammer. "Get out!" she screamed, her voice shaking with rage and sorrow. Mark stared at her, confusion briefly flickering across his face before it was replaced by cold anger. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows. Cindy collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The house was silent except for the echo of her cries.

Over the next few days, Cindy felt as though she was living in a nightmare. Mark didn't come home at all, and she was torn between hope that he would return to her and fear of what he had become. She threw herself into her work, trying to ignore the emptiness that had taken over their once-loving home. The children picked up on the tension, their laughter muted, their questions unanswered. Cindy's heart felt like a heavy stone in her chest.

One evening, as Cindy was tucking the kids into bed, she heard a knock at the door. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Through the peephole, she saw Mark, his head shaved, his eyes cold and hard. She took a deep breath and opened the door, bracing herself for the worst.

"What do you want?" she spat, her voice trembling with anger and pain. Mark looked at her with a strange mix of arrogance and pity. "You don't understand," he said, his voice low and measured. "I've found something greater than this." He gestured around the house as if their life together was nothing but a prison. Cindy felt the last threads of hope slipping through her fingers.

"Greater than us?" she choked out. "Than our family?"

Mark nodded, his eyes gleaming with a fervour Cindy had never seen before. "The cause," he said simply. "It's all that matters now."

Her heart heavy, Cindy slammed the door in his face, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. She knew then that she had lost him. The Mark she loved was gone, replaced by a monster with her husband's face.

Days turned into weeks, and Cindy found herself in a new routine of single parenthood. The house felt emptier than ever, the silence a constant reminder of the man who had once filled it with laughter and warmth. Cindy focused on her children, determined to shield them from the horror that had consumed their father.

The knock on the door came again, but Cindy didn't flinch. She had learned to ignore it, to push aside the hope that maybe, just maybe, Mark had come to his senses. Instead, she baked cookies with the kids, their small hands covered in flour as they giggled and stirred the dough. She found solace in the mundane, the familiar rhythms of their lives before the spiral had claimed Mark.

One night, Cindy's phone buzzed with an unknown number. She picked it up, her heart racing. "Cindy," a voice said, and she recognized the coldness that had invaded her husband's tone. "We need to talk." Cindy's hand trembled as she gripped the phone. She knew she couldn't ignore this call.

They agreed to meet at a coffee shop on the edge of town, a neutral place where their past lives could mingle with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee. Mark was already there when Cindy arrived, his new look stark under the fluorescent lights. His eyes searched hers, looking for something she wasn't sure she could give anymore—forgiveness, perhaps, or a spark of the love they had once shared. Cindy felt a mix of anger, fear, and sadness.

They sat down across from each other, Mark now sported tattoos down his arm and on his neck, he had bleached jeans a black polo shirt and braces. On his feet, he wore tall black boots with laddered white laces. the space between them feeling like a vast chasm. Mark spoke first, his voice a strange blend of the man she knew and the one he had become. He talked about the cause, the purity of their race, and the necessity of fighting for it. Cindy listened, her heart aching with every word. She had read about this kind of brainwashing, but never thought it could happen to someone she loved.

The conversation was strained, filled with awkward pauses and unanswered questions. Mark spoke with a conviction that was both terrifying and fascinating. Cindy tried to argue, to reason with him, but his beliefs were now a fortress, impenetrable. She saw the spiral's echo in his eyes, the symbol that had become his identity. "What happened to you?" she finally whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion.

Mark leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I was lost, Cindy. Now I've been found. I have found something greater" His words were like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of the gulf that now separated them. Cindy's eyes searched his, desperately seeking a glimmer of the man she had known. But all she found was a stranger, someone who had traded their vows for a twisted ideology.

As they were leaving Mark produced a set of papers These are Divorce papers he announced coldly, Cindy felt like she had been punched in the gut. "What about the kids?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

They no longer matter, my skin bitch is expecting, it’s a boy and he will be brought up as a skinhead from birth, Mark said with a cruel smirk. Cindy's eyes filled with tears, but she didn't let them fall. She knew that she had to be strong for her children. "You can't do this," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mark laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent shivers down Cindy's spine. "I already have," he said, tossing the papers on the table. Cindy stared at them, unable to process the finality of the situation. Her world was falling apart, piece by piece, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

With trembling hands, Cindy gathered the papers and stood up. "Get out of my life," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "You're not welcome here anymore." Mark's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. Gladly he said, we are over, I have my own new family to look after. Cindy's heart shattered into a million pieces, but she held her head high and walked away, her dignity intact.

Mark was lost and did not want to be found.

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[rbbrbikerthorp]

A Tribute To Helmets

I grew up during the Apollo space missions, and whilst I didn't show a particular interest in NASA's exploits, I received a kid's space suit and helmet as a present. I vividly recall how different things sounded when I put the helmet over my head. I think that was the point when my kinky fascination for helmets began.

From my childhood, I remember watching an episode of the early Flash Gordon series (in monochrome) where Ming places a helmet on the head of one of his dissenting subordinates. Once the helmet was strapped on, the man became compliant, passive and drone-like.

At that moment I realised that something designed for safety and protection could also have very nefarious uses. Combined with visual and audio stimulation, the helmet could also contain electronic circuitry that can disrupt the natural processes in the brain. Helmets could also contain syringes, which can deliver chemicals and other substances directly into the head to suppress and indivual's throughts.

So here is my AI tribute to the Helmet, and how, when placed on the head it can strip away emotion, knowledge, purpose and individuality.

This man in his early twenties was just starting out in life. He had dreams of being successful, having the perfect suburban life - wife, kids and the kind of home people dream of. He had just agreed to join a multinational conglomerate, and as part of his induction he was required to take a medical. So on the appropriate day at the specifed time he turns up for what he thought would be a routine appointment.

On arrival, he was taken into a private room. He was asked to disrobe and was given a set of leathers and boots to wear, which, despite all his reservations he put on.

Once the leathers were zipped up and boots were on his feet, he was escorted to a room where a lab assistant placed a full-face helmet onto his head. He was then taken into a room filled with tech and video screens. The technician typed some commands into a computer and the helmet activated.

Isolated wearing the helmet, he was subjected to audio and visual stimulation; stripping away his own throughts and identity. Replacing it with a predetermined 'template', which the company would deploy as necessary. Thoughts of family, kids and friends replaced with absolute loyalty to the company.

'Physical' completed, the company has deployed him 'into the field'. Now a biker, his primary objective is to ride around and recruit candidates to join the company.

Meanwhile...

Some scientists are about to record the disruptive effects of their advanced helmets on three 'volunteers'. Once the helmets are fitted the volunteers will follow instructions and head to drone processing.

Elsewhere, two cyclists have been given new 'aerodynamic' helmets for a week to try.

Affixed to their heads, they will have no desire to ever remove their helmets - ever.

Sticking with a sport theme, the new coach has provided the team with revolutionary and technologically advanced helmets. These not only offer superior protection to the head, but also allow the coach a direct interface into the players' minds. It's going to be a successful season for this team.

There are worried faced amongst this army platoon - and they should be worried.

They will follow the General's orders to place the helmet on their heads. When they do their individual thoughts will become suppressed as they turn into droned soldiers. No more briefings, no reliance on old technology like radio transmissions, which can be hacked into by the enemy. The helmet will ensure all orders issued by the commanders are transmitted directly into their brains.

There are changes afoot in civilian life too. A new force for law and order is being created. One by one members of the police force are invited to undergo a routine medical.

Soon they will all be fitted with helmets; permanently connecting them directly to the company network, with orders transmitted directly into their brains.

There is to be a zero tolerance of crime - even minor misdemeanors. So they begin to 'clean up the streets'.

Chavs and scallies are rounded up and each one is fitted with a helmet...

Once the work of the helmet is done, a new 'drone' is sent out onto the streets as a 'recruiter' for the company.

They're also recruiting in colleges and universities...

And back in the boardroom, the executives are monitoring progress of the company's plan.

Each member of the so-called 'C-suite' has been given a helmet to allow speedier decision making and negate the need for laptops, smartphones and video screens. Directly connected to the company's network through their helmet, they follow the instructions fed directly into their brains - following them to the letter. After all each helmet ensures they are exemplary servants of the company.

Hope you enjoyed my AI tribute to the helmet. Depending on the feedback I might do a second helmet blog.

Oh, in case you were wondering which is my favourite helmet, it's my Arai Corser, pictured below.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Nicely writter short rubber assimilation story

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Rubber TF story by @skinheadmal

🔥

The Police -Now serve Their New Rubber Masters

PC Larry Richardson trudged through the quiet, moonlit streets, the weight of his torch in his hand the only companion to the rhythmic thump of his boots. His eyes, weary from hours of scanning the horizon, searched for anything out of the ordinary. As a night patrol officer in the small English town of Hawkshead, his job was mostly mundane: break up the occasional party, help lost tourists, and keep an eye out for vandals. But tonight felt different. A strange energy hung in the air, a tension that seemed to make the very shadows quiver.

Suddenly, a blinding light split the sky, casting an eerie glow on the treetops. Larry's pulse quickened as he raced towards the woods, the source of the disturbance. The light grew brighter, illuminating the path ahead. As he reached the clearing, the light engulfed him, and he had to shield his eyes. The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the trees, and he could feel the earth tremble beneath his feet.

When the light dimmed, a metallic object lay before him, a spaceship unlike anything he'd ever seen in the flesh. The high-pitched whine grew louder, making his head spin. He stumbled closer, the curiosity burning in his chest overpowering his fear. As he reached out to touch the warm, vibrating metal, a rubbery tentacle shot out from the ship's opening and wrapped around his wrist, pulling him in.

The world around him blurred as he was yanked through the ship's entrance. The interior was cold and sterile, smelling faintly of rubber. The tentacle retracted, and Larry found himself standing before a row of creatures that could only be described as Rubber Aliens. Their bodies were stretchy and pliable, with large, black eyes that stared at him without emotion. One of them, seemingly the leader, approached, and Larry felt a strange sensation in his mind, as if his thoughts were being probed.

"You will be assimilated," it communicated telepathically, its voice echoing in his head.

Panic set in as Larry struggled against his new rubber restraints, but his efforts were futile. The aliens were too strong, too inhuman. With a calmness that seemed almost surgical, they lifted him onto an examination table, his body bending and stretching in ways it never should. The cold, unyielding surface sent shivers down his spine as he felt his skin tingle and begin to change. His vision blurred, and his thoughts grew hazy as his body absorbed the alien DNA. He could feel himself morphing, his cells rearranging, his very essence becoming something else, no longer human.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through his neck, and Larry's eyes snapped open. The aliens had attached a headset to him, a web of wires pulsing with a sickly blue light. Memories of his life began to dissolve, replaced by images of an alien world, of a society where he was a protector, a guardian. His mind was being rewritten, his free will torn away and replaced with a singular purpose: to serve the Rubber Alien collective.

As the last of his old life faded, the headset was removed, and Larry felt a new set of instructions take root. He was no longer Larry, the night patrol officer; he was Rubber-17, the latest addition to the alien's security force. The aliens stepped back, observing him with a detached curiosity. His body now mirrored theirs, sleek and resilient, with a shiny finish that reflected the cold, unfeeling light of the ship's interior.

The leader spoke again, its words now clear and direct in his mind. "You will now undergo training to understand your new capabilities and duties." A door hissed open, revealing a chamber filled with obstacles and what looked like training equipment. The aliens led him inside, their movements fluid and silent.

The training was rigorous, pushing the boundaries of his new rubber body. He learned to manipulate his form, stretching and compressing to fit through tight spaces, to absorb impacts that would have shattered his human bones, and to move with a speed that defied his former limitations. The pain was intense, but the aliens' technology dulled his senses, allowing him to focus solely on his transformation. Each challenge brought with it a new understanding of his abilities and a strange sense of pride in his progress.

As the hours went by,  Rubber-17's existence became a blur of drills and simulations. The aliens' commands grew more complex, and his responses more automatic. He felt no fatigue, no hunger, only a deep-seated need to perform, to be the best he could be for his new masters. His thoughts were theirs, his actions an extension of their will. The human part of him was a distant memory, a ghost that haunted the fringes of his consciousness.

As the dawn of day broke, he was called before the council of aliens. They had a mission for him: infiltrate human society and report any signs of resistance or knowledge of their presence. It was a mission that would require him to navigate the very world he had once called home, to blend in and observe without drawing suspicion.

Rubber-17 felt a pang of something akin to sadness at the thought of returning to the life he could no longer remember. Yet the programming was strong, and he knew his duty was to the collective. The aliens provided him with a device that could transform his new form into a perfect replica of his old human body, a disguise that would allow him to move freely among the people of Hawkshead.

Stepping out of the ship, the cool night air was a stark contrast to the sterile environment he'd grown accustomed to. His heart, or what was left of it, thudded in his chest as he walked the familiar streets. The town looked the same, but everything felt wrong, tainted by the alien presence lurking beneath the surface. The local police station, his former workplace, with a mix of dread and excitement. He was now an imposter in his own life, a sleeper agent for an invading force.

Donning the device, his body shifted and reformed, the rubbery texture retreating to reveal the illusion of his human skin. His mind raced with the new memories of his alien existence, but the programming kept his focus on the mission. As he entered the station, the officers nodded in recognition, not suspecting a thing. Larry's old colleagues had no idea that their comrade had been replaced by one of the very beings they were supposed to protect the town from.

He took his place at the desk, the mundane sounds of the station a stark contrast to the symphony of alien technology that now hummed within him. The radio crackled with the usual complaints of a quiet night, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the simplicity of his former life. Yet, the instructions from his alien masters were clear, and he knew his true purpose was now to serve them.

His first mission was to monitor the local communication channels for any reports of unusual activity. The humans had grown suspicious of late, with whispers of strange lights in the sky and unexplained disappearances. It was essential that their curiosity did not lead them to the ship hidden in the woods. As he tuned in, the chatter grew more frantic. A 911 call had come in from the outskirts of town, a hiker claiming to have seen something "not of this world." His heart raced as he recognized the code phrase the aliens had planted in his mind to alert him to potential threats.

Leaving the station under the guise of a routine patrol, he made his way to the reported location, his rubber legs carrying him swiftly and silently through the night. Upon arrival, he found a young couple huddled together, visibly shaken. They described seeing a creature with a glowing, elastic body moving through the trees. The sight of his former self made him feel a strange kinship with them, a bond that was immediately snuffed out by his programming.

Rubber-17 approached, his voice calm and reassuring. "It's okay, folks. I'm here to help. Did you see anything else?" His questions were met with wide-eyed stares, and the woman began to sob quietly. The man, trying to keep his composure, recounted their encounter with the creature. The alien within him took note of their descriptions, analysing the potential threat to the collective.

As he spoke with the couple, a flicker of doubt pierced the veil of his new programming. The humanity that had been buried deep within him began to stir, questioning the authenticity of his new memories and purpose. He pushed the thoughts aside, reminding himself that he was now a rubber guard, and his duty was to protect the aliens' secrets at all costs. With a nod, he assured the couple that he would investigate further and radioed back to the station, reporting a false lead to keep his colleagues at bay.

Rubber - 17 communicated to his New Masters, I think its time to bring your plan forward, we need to assimilate what the humans call the police, that way, they can round up the towns people of this pathetic town without any suspicion. The Alien Leader responded, Good, proceed with the assimilation of the local authorities, we need more of our kind to spread out and control the population.

With the alien's voice echoing in his head, Larry-now-Rubber-17 started to feel a sense of urgency that was not his own. He knew he had to act quickly to maintain the façade. He approached the Chief of Police, who was sitting in his office, going over some paperwork. The Chief looked up, surprised by the late-night visit. "What's going on, Larry? Something important?"

Rubber-17's voice remained calm, "Just a routine check-in, Chief. I wanted to update you on the reports of strange occurrences in the woods." He saw the Chief's eyes narrow slightly, a hint of suspicion that made his new alien instincts tingle. "You know, the usual stuff. Kids playing pranks, maybe a wild animal or two."

The Chief nodded, his expression relaxing. "Alright, keep me posted if anything changes."

Rubber-17 left the office, his mind racing with the aliens' strategy. He knew he had to tread carefully; one misstep could reveal his true nature. The assimilation of the Chief was critical, but it had to be done subtly. The next few days, he worked tirelessly to gain the Chief's trust, sharing fabricated reports of the dwindling threat and the need for increased patrols around the woods. His colleagues' suspicion grew as the reports remained unverified, but the Chief seemed placated by his diligence.

One evening, the Chief called him into his office again. "Larry," he began, "I've noticed your dedication to this case. You've been putting in some serious overtime. I think you might be onto something. I'm going to join you on patrol tonight."

Rubber-17's heart, or the alien equivalent, skipped a beat. This was it, the opportunity he had been waiting for. The Chief's assimilation would not only strengthen the aliens' control but also serve as a model for the rest of the force. He nodded solemnly, hiding the excitement bubbling beneath the surface of his rubbery skin. "Of course, Chief. I'd be happy to have you with me."

They set out into the night, the Chief's curiosity piqued by the persistent reports. As they approached the woods, the alien within Larry grew more assertive, pushing him to take action. The Chief, oblivious to the impending betrayal, chatted about the town's recent events, unaware he was speaking to a being who had no genuine interest in his words.

The moment they reached the spot where Larry had first encountered the aliens, a group of Rubber Aliens emerged from the shadows. The Chief's eyes widened in shock, and he reached for his gun, but Larry was quicker. He slammed his rubber-coated hand onto the Chief's wrist, bending the metal of the gun as if it were mere putty. "Don't be alarmed," Larry said calmly, his voice now tinged with the alien's coldness. "These are... The Masters."

The aliens surrounded them, and the Chief's struggle grew desperate as they took him into their grasp. The process was swift and painless, a needle-like appendage piercing his neck, injecting him with the transformative DNA. Larry watched as the Chief's body contorted and stretched, his skin taking on the same shiny finish as his own. The Chief's eyes, once filled with terror, now stared back at him with the same lifeless obedience that had taken over Larry's own.

The assimilation complete, the new Chief-now Rubber-18-stood tall, his human form a mere memory. The alien leader communicated its approval, and the two rubber guards made their way back to the station, leaving the ship and its secrets behind. They had work to do, a town to control. The aliens had chosen well; the Chief's respect and authority would make the assimilation of the rest of the force much easier.

Over the following days, Larry-now-Rubber-17 carefully orchestrated the assimilation of his colleagues, one by one. Each night, under the guise of a special training exercise, he would lead them into the woods and to the alien ship. The process was always the same: the blinding light, the tentacles, the transformation. Each time, he felt a twinge of something like regret, but it was quickly drowned out by the aliens' commands. The police station grew quieter, the officers more obedient, their personalities subsumed by the collective will.

The town of Hawkshead carried on, unaware of the silent coup that had taken place. The police force operated with unprecedented efficiency, and crime dropped to an all-time low. The townsfolk whispered their thanks to the heavens, praising their guardians for keeping them safe. Little did they know that their protectors were now the very beings they would fear the most.

Rubber-17 now the leader of the police force, instructed fellow rubberized officers to patrol the streets with an eerie synchronicity, their movements fluid and unnaturally silent. They were a force to be reckoned with, capable of bending the very fabric of reality to their will.

Their first targets were the men of the town, taking them to their rubber alien masters to be converted into mindless drones.

The assimilation of Hawkshead was swift and thorough. The rubber guards patrolled the streets, ensuring that no one escaped the aliens' grasp. The townsfolk, once vibrant and independent, now moved with the same mechanical grace as their new overlords. The aliens had been strategic in their takeover, choosing individuals of influence and authority to convert first. The town council, the school teachers, the doctors and nurses; all were transformed into obedient servants of the collective.

Once the small town was subsumed, the alien's next target was an Amy base close by starting with the commanding officer.

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[rbbrbikerthorp]

As an office drone, working where there is still building construction underway, this story really resonates with me. I'd gladly give up the spreadsheets and slide-shows for a simpler life, but unfortunately there are bills to pay. Maybe one-day?

From office grunt to workie grafta

Mark’s Metamorphosis

This was written with someone in mind - you know who you are

"You're fucking useless, you know that?" Mark's boss, Mr. Peterson, bellowed across the office. Mark felt his cheeks redden as his colleagues stifled their snickers. It was the same old song and dance every time he made a mistake, which was more often than he'd like to admit. The office was a stale prison of cubicles and fluorescent lights, where the most excitement came from the occasional jam in the photocopier.

But every day on his way home, he felt a strange pull as he walked past the building site. The grunts of the workers and the smell of diesel and sweat were all so... primal. And the hi-vis jackets, so stark against the grime, they were like a beacon of freedom to him. One evening, the gate was open a portacabin door ajar. It was like destiny had finally given him the invitation he'd been waiting for.

Inside the cabin, Mark, found a set of dirty orange Hi-Viz, as if it had been set out for him.

Without a second thought, he shed his office attire, tossing it aside like a second skin he no longer needed. First, he found a pair of grubby socks, the smell of the person who had worn them invaded his nostrils, then came the grimy underwear, yellow stains, and brown skid marks. As soon as they enclosed themselves around his cock, he had the hardest and most painful hard-on of his life. As he continued to pull on the grimy work gear, something peculiar began to happen. The fabric clung to him like a second skin, tightening around his muscles, and suddenly he could feel the strength of a man who'd spent his life lifting and carrying. His mind grew hazy, and words like "spanner" and "hardhat" started to replace the jargon of spreadsheets and deadlines.

He looked around the cabin, eyes lighting upon a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The urge to light one was overwhelming, a craving that seemed to come from his very bones. something until now felt foreign to him as he had never smoked in his life.  Feeling it between his fingers, he took a cigarette and put it to his lips. The first drag was like a warm embrace from a long-lost friend, and he exhaled a plume of smoke that seemed to carry away the last vestiges of his old life. He felt alive, more alive than he had in years.

The sound of approaching footsteps brought him back to reality. Panic gripped him as he realized he was caught, half-dressed in stolen gear, smoking in a place he wasn't supposed to be. But when the figure stepped into the cabin, it wasn't a security guard or a furious worker. It was the site foreman, a burly man, arms covered in tattoos with a shiny bald head and a leer that made Mark's stomach churn with a mix of fear and something... else.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the foreman drawled, his eyes raking over Mark's half-bare body. "Been playing dress-up, have we? Those are my spare set of work gear you have on there lad. I’d imagine by now My stink is starting to take over your body and thoughts, a connection is forming to me as their owner”.

Mark tried to explain, the words stumbling out of his mouth, but the foreman  chuckled. "You've got the look of someone wanting to get his hands dirty for a while. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You want to be one of us, you gotta prove it."

The foreman stepped closer, his hand reaching out to stroke Mark's now-erect cock through the fabric of the orange Hi-Viz trousers he was wearing. Mark's eyes widened in shock, but his body betrayed him, responding eagerly to the rough touch. The foreman smirked. "Looks like you're already fitting in."

With a swift motion, the foreman yanked Mark's trousers down, exposing his hard cock to the cool night air. He took a step back, his hand on his belt. "On your knees, boy," he ordered, his voice gruff with lust. Mark's mind was a whirlwind of confusion and excitement, but his body obeyed, dropping to the floor as if it had been waiting for this moment all along.

The foreman unbuckled his belt, the clank of metal on metal echoing through the cabin. He pulled out his thick, veiny cock, already rock hard and glistening with pre-cum. "Suck it," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Mark leaned in, his mouth-watering, and took the foreman's cock into his mouth. It tasted of dried cum and stale piss, and it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

As he sucked, the foreman's grip tightened in his hair, guiding his head up and down. The taste of sweat, cum and piss filled his mouth, and Mark felt a strange thrill at the thought of being used like this. His cock was painfully hard, The foreman's grunts grew louder, his breaths more ragged, until finally, with a roar, he came down Mark's throat. Mark swallowed every drop, his eyes glazed over with lust.

The foreman pulled out, his cock slipping from Mark's mouth with a wet pop. He looked down at the trembling man on his knees, a smug smile playing on his lips. "Good boy," he said, patting Mark's cheek. "Now, let's see if you're really ready to be one of us." He grabbed Mark's shoulder and flipped him onto his back tearing his undies down.

Mark lay there, naked and exposed, his cock rubbing against the table he was on. Hard as a rock. The foreman took a moment to appreciate the view, then climbed on top of him, his heavy boots planted firmly on either side of Mark's waist. He reached down and wrapped his hand around Mark's erection, giving it a firm squeeze. "You like this, don't you?" he sneered. Mark could only nod, his eyes locked on the foreman's, a mix of fear and arousal swirling in their depths.

With a cruel smile, the foreman leaned in and whispered, "From now on, you're mine." And with that, he took hold of Mark's cock and started to stroke it roughly. Mark's eyes rolled back in his head as he moaned, his body trembling with every stroke. The foreman's other hand snaked down to Mark's ass, his calloused fingers teasing at the puckered hole. "This is where the real work starts," he said, and with one swift movement, he plunged two fingers inside Mark, making him yelp.

The pain was intense, but it only seemed to fuel Mark's arousal. He could feel himself being stretched open, his body preparing for what was to come. The foreman's grin widened as he watched the transformation before him. The office worker's clean-cut features had morphed into a mask of raw desire, his mouth open in a silent scream as he was claimed.

"You're going to be a good little workie, aren't you?" the foreman taunted, his voice thick with lust. "You're going to love it when I fill you up with my cock."

Mark could only whimper in response, his body trembling with anticipation. The foreman's rough fingers played with his hole, stretching him further until he could feel the head of the man's cock pressing against his entrance. He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come next. But as the foreman pushed inside, it was more than just pain that he felt. It was a sense of belonging, a primal connection to the life he'd always dreamed of.

With each thrust, the foreman's cock seemed to burrow deeper into Mark's soul, stripping away the layers of his old life and leaving only the raw, animalistic instincts of a man who lived by the sweat of his brow. Mark's moans grew louder, turning into grunts and curses as he lost himself in the sensation. The cabin was filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, the rustle of clothing, and the occasional clink of metal from the foreman's belt buckle hitting the floor.

The foreman's pace was relentless, his hips pistoning into Mark's body, his cock plundering the depths of the once pristine office worker. At that point Mark's mind was a blank slate, erased of all his former worries and responsibilities. All he knew was the feeling of the coarse fabric of the foreman's overalls against his skin, the taste of the man's sweat, and the burning pleasure of being used so thoroughly.

The foreman's strokes grew faster, his breathing more ragged. "You're gonna come for me," he growled, his teeth clenched. "You're gonna shoot your fucking load like the good little workie you are." And as if on cue, Mark felt his balls tighten, his body coil like a spring ready to snap. With a roar that seemed to come from the very core of his being, he climaxed, spurts of cum painting the cabin floor. The intensity of the orgasm was like nothing he'd ever felt before, a release so powerful it seemed to leave him boneless and pliant.

The foreman didn't stop, though. He continued to pound into Mark, his thrusts growing more erratic as he approached his own climax. Mark could feel the man's knot swelling, the pressure building in his ass until it was almost unbearable. But instead of pain, it brought a strange, new kind of pleasure, a feeling of being claimed and owned that sent shivers down his spine.

Finally, with a guttural roar, the foreman emptied himself into Mark, his knot swelling until it was impossible to move. He leaned down, his hot breath on Mark's neck, and whispered, "You're mine now. You're a part of this world, a part of us." Mark felt his mind flicker, the last remnants of his old life slipping away like sand through his fingers. In their place grew a fierce loyalty to the man above him, a need to serve and obey that was more powerful than any he'd ever felt before.

The foreman pulled out, his cock still hard and glistening with cum. He tugged Mark to his feet, his hand never leaving the smaller man's cock. "Get dressed," he said gruffly, tossing the discarded filthy orange Hi-Viz clothing back at him. "You've got work to do."

Mark stumbled into them, his legs still shaky from the intense fucking he'd just received. He pulled on each piece of clothing, feeling the weight of his new identity settle onto him. The fabric was rough and smelled of earth and sweat, but it was a scent that was already becoming as comforting to him as the smell of coffee had been that morning. He reached for the hi-vis jacket, the orange reflective material feeling like a badge of honour.

The foreman watched him with a satisfied grin, lighting another cigarette. "You've got potential, kid," he said, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. "But you've got a lot to learn."

Mark nodded, eager to please. something had snapped in his head, all his education disappeared like the smoke that his Boss had just exhaled he felt his mind become fuzzy, his voice and language now more crude and blunt.

"Yes, Boss, you fucking bet" Mark said, his voice gruff and obedient. The foreman nodded in approval, his eyes never leaving Mark's body.

"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Now, let's get you out there. You've got a job to do." He opened the door, and the cool night air rushed in, carrying with it the sounds of the city that now felt so far away. Mark stepped out, feeling the dirt and grit under his boots, the weight of his new life pressing down on him like the concrete slabs they'd lay tomorrow.

The building site was alive with the noises of the night, the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout from a worker still toiling under floodlights. The foreman led Mark through the labyrinth of scaffolding and machinery, past the silent cranes that loomed over them like sleeping giants. His heart raced with excitement and trepidation, his body humming with the energy of a thousand unfulfilled fantasies.

As they approached a group of men huddled around a makeshift table, playing cards and swapping crude jokes, the foreman called out, "Look what I found, lads!" The men turned, their eyes widening at the sight of Mark in his new attire. Some leered, others jeered, but all of them saw the unmistakable look of a man who'd been claimed by the Boss and site.

"Give him a chance," the foreman said, slapping Mark on the back. "He's got the right spirit." The men grunted in assent, eyeing him up and down. One of them, a beefy man with a shaved head and a thick neck, stepped forward. "What's your name, then?"

"Mark," he murmured, his voice still unsteady.

The beefy man guffawed. "Mark the Marker, ain't got the stomach for it, I reckon."

The foreman chuckled, a hint of menace in his eyes. "Let's just call him 'Spud' for now. He's got a lot to learn before he earns a proper name."

The workers grinned, revealing teeth stained with tobacco. They circled around Mark, who felt their eyes on him like a pack of predators assessing their newest prey. One of them, a lanky guy offered Spud a cigarette, which he took eagerly, feeling the camaraderie of shared filth. The foreman slapped him on the back, his hand lingering a little too long. "You're with us now, Spud. No more offices, no more suits. Just hard work and hard cocks."

Spud took a drag, the harsh smoke filling his lungs, feeling more at home than he had in years. The foreman's words echoed in his mind, a siren's call to a life he never knew he wanted. He watched as the men flexed their muscles, showing off their tattoos, and he knew that this was where he belonged. The night grew colder, but he felt warmth spreading through him, a warmth that had nothing to do with the nearby space heater.

The foreman introduced him to the crew, their names a blur of consonants and vowels that seemed to stick to his tongue like mud. They were a rough bunch, their faces etched with lines of toil and eyes that gleamed with mischief and lust. They sized him up, their gazes lingering on his body, and Spud felt a thrill of excitement. He knew what they wanted, what they expected of him. And he was ready to give it to them.

As the weeks went by, Spud's body grew tougher, his hands calloused from the endless manual labour. He took to his new life with a fervour that surprised even him. He learned to wield a hammer and lay bricks with a skill that seemed to come from deep within his soul. The foreman watched him with a mix of pride and lust, often calling him over at the end of the day for a 'quick debriefing' that would leave Spud's knees trembling his throat and arse raw from screams of pleasure.

after a few months, the foreman called Spud into his office to see if the transformation was complete. his physical appearance had changed he had muscles where he did not before, his arms now full sleeves of ink, and his neck now sported tattoos. His head was as bald as a snooker ball, tanned for all the work outdoors.

"You've come a long way, Spud," the foreman said, his eyes roving over the man's transformed body. A new constant was that Spud always smoking "But there's one last thing we need to do to make sure you're truly now one of my wokies."

The foreman showed Spud some spreadsheets, "do you know what these are" he asked, Spud took a moment before his eyes glazed over and he said "fuck, boss, no, should I? Boss" with a thick new accent. "Tha knaws't sayin, Boss, Yorkshire born and bred, strong in't arm, thick in't head. "I'm reight thick, but got some muscle he said. The foreman smirked, "good, we don't need brains around here, just strong backs and tight arses."

The crew had taken to Spud, showing him the ropes, and often showing him their cocks, which he eagerly sucked and took up his arse. He had become the site's little secret, the office boy turned fuck toy. They'd fuck him in the portacabin during breaks, in the alleyways of the site when the foreman wasn't around, and even sometimes in the cranes high above the ground, the thrill of being caught mixing with the fear of falling to his death.

But it was the foreman who had really claimed him. Every night, after the rest of the crew had gone home, Spud would stay behind, waiting for the foreman's call. He'd clean up the site, his mind racing with thoughts of the punishment he'd receive for any mistakes made that day. And every night, without fail, the foreman would come for him, pushing him to his limits and beyond, filling him with his seed and leaving him a trembling, sweaty mess and wanting more.

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[rbbrbikerthorp]

Great Skinhead TF story.

Haunted Beat

PC Tony Williams was on his last shift of the week, his thoughts drifted to his home, where his wife and his sons would be waiting. Thinking about the warm embrace he would get from his beautiful wife and looking forward to a few days off duty.

Tony had been in the police force coming up to twenty years. His thoughts were interpreted.

"You gotta cigarette and a light?" the gruff voice asked.

The man standing outside the dilapidated convenience store was tall, with a shaved head and a sleeve of tattoos that snaked down his right arm. His eyes, a piercing shade of blue, bore into the person he'd just approached. The fluorescent lights above cast eerie shadows across his weathered face, hinting at a life of hardship and conflict. The cigarette between his fingers trembled slightly as he awaited an answer, a subtle betrayal of his otherwise stoic demeanour.

His heart thudded in his chest as he found the pack of ciggies. "Sure," he said, his voice steady despite the tension coiled in his gut. He pulled one out and handed it over, watching as the man's rough hands took it. The skinhead lit up, the flicker of the lighter briefly illuminating the surrounding area.

The skinhead took a long drag, the ember at the tip of the cigarette glowing like a tiny sun in the dark night. He exhaled a plume of smoke that curled around his head. "Thanks, copper," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Tony’s eyes narrowed. He knew he was being sized up, and tested. He'd seen this game before, the dance of dominance and submission that often played out on the streets. But something about this encounter felt different, more...sinister.

The skinhead leaned in closer, his breath a toxic cloud of smoke. "You know, you ain't like the others," he murmured, his gaze unwavering. "You got a look in your eyes, like you've seen some shit. Like you're lost." Tony’s hand hovered near his gun, but he didn't draw it. Not yet. He had to keep the peace, had to maintain control of the situation. He had a job to do.

But the job took a dark turn when the skinhead's companions emerged from the shadows, their boots scraping against the pavement like the claws of predators. They circled him, their smiles malicious, their eyes gleaming with a hunger that was almost palpable. Tony knew he was outnumbered, knew he was in trouble. He tried to radio for backup, but before he could reach for the radio it was snatched from his hand.

Before he could react, a brutal blow sent him to the ground, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He felt his handcuffs being ripped from his belt, and heard the cold metallic clink as they were snapped around his wrists. The skinheads dragged him into a van, the doors slamming shut with a finality that echoed through his soul. The van lurched forward, the engine rumbling like a beast coming to life. The world outside grew distant, replaced by the stench of stale smoke and fear that filled the confined space.

The journey was a blur of twists and turns, he tried to remember the turns but lost count. The van's tires screeching on the pavement as they sped through the night. Tony's head swam, trying to piece together a plan, but his thoughts were scattered by the pain of his injuries and the relentless pounding of his heart. When the van finally came to a halt, the silence was deafening. They hauled him out, his legs barely able to support his weight, and he stumbled up a set of stairs into what he assumed was their headquarters.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the stench of stale beer and cigarettes. The walls were adorned with graffiti and posters of hateful rhetoric, the floor sticky with a substance he didn't dare to identify. The skinheads shoved him into a chair, the cold metal biting into his skin. He could feel the weight of their gazes on him, the anticipation of their violence like a living thing in the room. One of them, the leader, stepped forward, his boots echoing through the space. He leaned down, his face a twisted mask of rage.

"You're in our world now, pig," he spat. "You and your kind, think you can come into our neighbourhood, our streets, and push us around? You think you're better than us?" The officer's head swam with the pain, but he kept his eyes locked on the man's, refusing to show fear. He knew fear was a currency these men traded in, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

The leader leaned closer, his breath hot and sour on the officer's face. "We're going to show you what it's like to be one of us, and after we have finished with you, you will fit right in " he whispered, a sadistic grin spreading across his lips. "But first, you're going to tell us everything you know." The room around them grew hazy as the skinheads closed in, their fists and boots raining down, each blow a punctuation to their relentless questions.

Tony lost track of time. The beatings were relentless, but it was the psychological torment that truly broke him down. They whispered of an ancient ritual, a way to transfer a fallen comrade's spirit into a new, stronger host. Tony scoffed at first, his training telling him it was just another form of intimidation. But as the days dragged on, as his body grew weaker and his mind more malleable, he couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to their madness.

One night, the skinheads brought him to a damp cellar, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. The walls were lined with candles, their flickering light casting grotesque shadows across the room. At the centre was a table, stained with what looked like dried blood, and upon it lay a dusty leather-bound book, its pages yellowed with age. The leader, his eyes wild with fanaticism, recited incantations in a language Tony didn't understand. The air grew colder, the candlelight dimmer, and a sense of dread filled the space.

Tony was forced to his knees, the cold concrete biting through his torn uniform. His captors chanted in unison, their voices rising and falling in a macabre symphony of hate. He felt a strange energy building around him, a pressure that grew more intense with each passing moment. Suddenly, a gust of wind whipped through the room, extinguishing the candles. The darkness was complete, and with it, the spirit of the dead skinhead descended upon him.

Tony felt a searing pain as the spirit invaded his body, his very essence wrestling for control. He could hear the echoes of the dead man's thoughts, feel the memories of his life, the anger, the violence, the camaraderie of the gang. It was as if a thousand images were flashing before his eyes, but there was no light, only darkness and a deep, gnawing rage. The struggle was fierce, but the spirit was relentless, feeding on his weakening resolve.

As the spirit settled, Tony’s consciousness began to slip away, his last thoughts were of his wife and sons back home. He could feel his mind being reshaped, his thoughts and emotions being replaced with those of the dead skinhead. The hatred, the prejudice, the desire for power, it all seeped into his soul, tainting it with a vile darkness. His body felt different, stronger, more alive than it had in days. He knew that the transformation was nearly complete when he heard the leader's triumphant laugh echo through the cellar.

Tony's eyes snapped open, and he saw the world through the eyes of his new host. The skinheads stared at him with a mix of awe and trepidation, their fists raised in salute. He tried to resist, to scream, to fight back, but his body no longer obeyed his commands. The spirit had taken hold, and with it, the memories of a life of violence and bigotry flooded his mind. He knew the names of these men, knew their fears, their hopes, their darkest secrets. He knew the layout of the headquarters, the location of their weapons, their plans for the next few weeks.

The leader approached his hand outstretched. "Welcome, brother," he said, a hint of awe in his voice. "You have been reborn into this body." The handcuffs were removed, and Tony felt a strange sense of relief. He knew he should be terrified, but the spirit's influence was too strong. He took the hand, feeling the rough calluses and the warmth of the skinhead's grip. He was no longer an enemy; he was one of them.

Tony's outward transformation was complete. He donned the gang's colours, tight bleachers, 20-hole black Ranger Boots, with White laddered laces, black polo shirt with Celtic cross, and braces. His mind was fully entwined with the spirit's memories. He marched alongside the skinheads, patrolling the streets they claimed as their own, meting out their twisted form of justice. The people who had once looked to him for protection now cowered in his presence. The badge he had worn with pride was a distant memory, replaced by hate-filled tattoos that seemed to pulse with malevolent energy.

The former officer's new life was a whirlwind of hate-filled rallies, late-night raids, and brutal fights. He saw the world through the dead skinhead's eyes, his heart swelling with anger at the sight of anyone who didn't fit their narrow mold of purity. The thrill of the violence was addictive, a high that fueled his newfound strength and ferocity. All traces of his former life gone, replaced by the vicious dogma of the gang.

One evening, as they returned to the headquarters, they were met with a surprise. A rival gang had tagged their territory, an act of rebellion that couldn't go unanswered. The leader's eyes gleamed with excitement as he addressed his newest member. "This is your first real test," he said, handing him a bat. "Show us what you're made of."

The police officer, now a skinhead, felt a surge of the spirit's anger and excitement. The urge to fight, to prove his worth, was irresistible. He marched alongside his new brothers, the echo of their boots a war drum in the night. They found the rival gang in an abandoned warehouse, their laughter and jeers taunting them from the shadows. The spirit within him howled for blood, and he didn't hesitate to oblige.

The battle was brutal, a chaos of swinging fists and cracking bones. The former officer's training made him a formidable force, but it was the spirit's rage that truly empowered him. He moved with a ferocity that terrified even his own kind. He felt no pain, no fear, only the burning need to dominate. The spirit reveled in the carnage, whispering tactics and insults that fueled his attacks. The sound of breaking bones and shattering teeth was music to their combined soul.

In the aftermath, Tony stood panting, his knuckles raw and bloodied. The rival gang lay scattered, either unconscious or too beaten to fight back. The skinheads roared their victory, hoisting their newest member onto their shoulders. The spirit reveled in the victory, filling Tony's mind with a sense of belonging that was as foreign as it was intoxicating. It was in that moment that he realized he was truly becoming one of them.

The following days were a blur of indoctrination and violence. The spirit taught him the gang's history, their beliefs, and their ways. Tony's body was a vessel for the dead skinhead's essence, and he found himself craving the power and respect that came with it. He embraced the hatred, the camaraderie, and the fear that he inspired in others. The line between his own identity and that of his host grew thinner with each passing hour.

The Skinhead leader approached him and told him the final rite needed to take place. It was arranged, that night, the gang sat around a bonfire, drinking and sharing stories of their conquests, the leader spoke of a sacred ceremony that would cement his place within the gang. It was a rite of passage, a ritual that would erase the last vestiges of his former life. The thought of it sent a shiver down his spine, but the spirit inside him urged him on, eager to fully claim its new form.

The ceremony was held in a desolate park, the only witnesses were the stars above and the shadows that danced among the trees. The air was thick with the scent of burning sage and the cloying sweetness of alcohol. The gang formed a circle around the fire, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension. The leader spoke in hushed tones, his words a dark incantation that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath them.

Tony, now on the edge of being fully indoctrinated, felt the spirit's anticipation like a vibration in his bones. He knew what was coming, had seen it in the memories that were now his own. The leader handed him a knife, its blade gleaming in the firelight. "To complete the bond," he said, "you must offer a piece of yourself to the fallen skinheads of the past." The other skinheads nodded solemnly, their eyes glinting with a mix of respect and fear.

Tony took the knife, his hand steady despite the tremor in his soul. He knew what he had to do. He sliced his palm, the pain a distant echo of the agony he'd felt when the spirit had first claimed him. He watched as his blood fell into the fire, the flames dancing greedily around the crimson droplets. The spirit within him grew stronger with each beat of his heart, each breath he took. He was no longer just a man; he was a weapon, a vessel for vengeance and destruction.

The skinheads chanted around him, their voices a cacophony of anger and devotion. The leader took a flask from his pocket and handed it to Tony. "Drink," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. The liquid burned as it slid down his throat, setting his insides alight with a power he'd never known. He felt the spirit surge within him, taking full control of his body, his thoughts, his very essence. The transformation was complete. The policeman, the loving husband and father, was no more, totally erased from existence, as if he never existed.

The Skinhead within him took complete control, “I am Victor, I have been reborn he announced, I will take back my rightful place as the Skin Boss of this gang, anyone who tries to get in my way will be severely dealt with”. His eyes now ablaze with rage.

The days that followed were a twisted mirror of his former life. He patrolled the streets with a new purpose, seeking out those who would dare to oppose his gang's rule. The badge he'd once worn was replaced with a patch sewn onto his Green MA1 jacket, a symbol of his new allegiance. The community that had once respected him now feared him, and he reveled in that fear.

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[rbbrbikerthorp]

Now you where to go and what to do to begin your Chav/Scally TF. Amazing Gen AI images.

The hot scally lad you were cruising at the bathroom in the park.

What you saw when you came round after his mates jumped you from behind.

What you saw when they took the duct tape off your eyes and mouth back at their council flat.

You two days later after they’d completed your transformation.

You’re back in the bogs with your new bros. They’re hiding in a cubicle ready to jump their next victim.

Trackies, sneakers, bros. You’re a fukin scally lad now and this is your life now init!

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Excellent History Teacher to Skinhead TF story by @skinheadmal

The Educator gets Re-educated

The rain pattered against the windscreen of Steve Jenkins' old Toyota, blurring the neon lights of the diner's sign into a fuzzy glow. He sighed, watching the droplets dance to the rhythm of the wipers. Another late-night grading papers, and he hadn't even picked up dinner. Steve, a mild-mannered history teacher, was known for his unyielding stance on equality and his gentle demeanor with his students. He often wished the world outside the classroom reflected the tolerance he tried to instill in them.

As he stepped out of the car, the door of the diner swung open, and a gust of warm, greasy air wrapped around him like a warm blanket. The bell above the door jingled cheerfully, a stark contrast to the dark figures huddled in the shadows. Steve's eyes narrowed, and he could make out the shaved heads and bomber jackets of the local skinhead gang. They were a group he'd often discussed in his classes, a sad testament to the intolerance that still festered in society.

They looked up, and their leader, a towering figure with tattoos on his neck, and arms locked eyes with Steve. There was something in his gaze that sent a shiver down Steve's spine. He tried to ignore them, focusing instead on the comforting smell of coffee and sizzling burgers. But as he reached the counter, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder.

"You're the one, ain't ya?" the leader sneered, his breath reeking of stale cigarettes. "Steve Jenkins, the equality-loving pussy who thinks he can change the world with books."

Steve's heart skipped a beat. He'd heard of these thugs before, but never had they dared to confront him in person. He knew better than to argue with them here, not when they were so obviously looking for a fight. He turned slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. "I'm just here for a bite to eat."

The leader's grin grew wider, revealing a set of crooked teeth. "Oh, you'll get more than that tonight, teacher." He gestured to his companions, and they began to circle Steve, their boots thumping ominously on the floor. "We're gonna show you the real world, the one you're too blind to see."

Steve's mind raced, trying to find an escape. He was no fighter, just a man who believed in the power of education and understanding. His eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out or a friendly face, but the other patrons had turned away, pretending not to notice the unfolding drama. The skinheads closed in, their faces twisted with a mix of anger and excitement.

The leader leaned in, his spittle landing on Steve's cheek. "You think you're so smart, but we're going to teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

Steve's throat tightened as the leader's grip on his shoulder grew painful. His eyes widened in fear as the gang tightened their circle around him, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent. He could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The world outside the diner faded away, leaving only the harsh reality of the moment.

Suddenly, the leader yanked Steve towards the back of the diner, where a door leading to the kitchen swung open. The other skinheads followed, pushing and jeering, their laughter echoing off the stainless steel surfaces. Steve stumbled, his feet slipping on the wet floor, but their hands kept him upright, propelling him deeper into the unknown. The kitchen staff, caught off guard, scattered like cockroaches, leaving only the acrid scent of fear and burnt grease in their wake.

The room spun around him as the leader slammed him against a prep table. "You're coming with us," he said, his voice a low growl. Steve felt a cold object press against his neck, and his heart plummeted. A knife. The sharp blade glinted under the flickering fluorescent lights, and he knew this was no idle threat.

The skinheads dragged him out of the kitchen and into a waiting van, the cold metal floor biting through his thin shoes. His vision swam, and the world outside grew distant as the van rumbled to life and peeled away from the curb. They took him to their headquarters on the outskirts of town, a place where the air was thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke, decay, and the whispers of forgotten dreams.

Once there, they bound him to a chair in the centre of a dimly lit room. The walls were plastered with a collage of hateful symbols and propaganda, the edges of the posters curling from moisture and neglect. The leader, who introduced himself as 'Axel', stood before Steve, a syringe glinting in his hand. "You're going to learn the truth," he said, his voice a mix of amusement and menace. "You're going to become one of My followers."

The needle pierced Steve's skin, and a cold liquid surged through his veins. His vision blurred, and a sickly sweet taste filled his mouth. He tried to resist, to cling to his beliefs, but the drug's seductive embrace was overpowering. His mind grew hazy, and the room around him started to wobble like a mirage. The skinheads' voices grew distant, melding into a cacophony of echoes bouncing off the cold concrete walls.

Days, or was it weeks, turned into a blur of pain and confusion. The skinheads, led by Axel, bombarded him with a relentless barrage of their twisted ideology of the world that they saw it. Through drugs and hypnosis, they sought to strip him of his identity, layer by layer, until all that remained was a hollow shell of his former self. They played on his fears, his insecurities, and his desperation to escape the never-ending cycle of torment.

Steve's mind reeled as images of a world corrupted, brutal dominance flooded his thoughts. They showed him videos of violence and destruction, whispering sweet nothings of power and belonging in his ear. The pain was unbearable, but the promise of release was even more terrifying. He felt his resolve wavering, his beliefs slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Axel's voice grew, more aggressive, as he leaned in closer. "You can fight it all you want, but in the end, you'll see the truth. You'll crave the strength we offer." Another syringe was emptied into his arm, and Steve's vision swam with skinheads, causing chaos in the streets. Boota thumping the pavements. His consciousness was a battleground where his principles were no match for the relentless onslaught of their brainwashing.

The process was meticulous and brutal. Every time Steve thought he couldn't take anymore, they'd give him a brief reprieve, just enough to let the fog in his head clear before plunging him back into the abyss. They'd feed him a diet of hate speech and twisted history, forcing him to recite their mantras until his voice was hoarse. The pain grew to be a constant companion, a reminder of his captivity and the transformation they were molding him into.

The room grew hot, and Steve felt his skin prickle with sweat. His eyes, heavy with fatigue, searched for any sign of hope, but all he found was the cold, unwavering stare of his captors. They'd shave his head, dressed him in their gang's uniform, tight bleachers, black polo shirt, braces and tall black boots with white laddered laces. and force him to watch as they destroyed anything that represented his old life. Photographs of his family and friends were torn to shreds, and his favourite books were set ablaze, the flames licking at the pages like hungry tongues.

The hypnosis sessions grew longer, the drugs stronger. Each time they released him from his restraints, Steve felt his body move on autopilot, his mind a foggy haze of their vile teachings. He could feel the hatred seeping into his soul, a cancerous growth that threatened to consume the very essence of who he was. His thoughts grew darker, his emotions more volatile.

One day, as the room spun around him and his stomach heaved from the latest round of injections, Steve caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shard of broken mirror. The man staring back at him was a mere shadow of the teacher he'd once been. His eyes were sunken, his skin pale and clammy. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. They were winning.

A month passed in a blur of indoctrination and agony. Steve's spirit was a flickering candle in a hurricane, but the skinheads hadn't managed to extinguish it completely. They continued their relentless barrage, certain that their methods would eventually break him. And BREAK HIM. THEY DID.

One evening, as Axel leaned in close, his voice a serpent's hiss in Steve's ear, something snapped. The teacher's eyes, once filled with fear, now burned with a cold, detached anger. The man he had been was gone, replaced by a creature of their making.

"Are you with us now," Axel said, a twisted smile playing across his lips. "You're going to help us spread the truth, show those sheep the way."

Steve's head bobbed, Yes boss “I am with you”, his eyes glazed over as the last vestiges of his former self were doused in the toxic sludge of their ideology. The room grew colder, and the shadows danced in a macabre ballet around the edges of his vision. His heart, once a bastion of empathy and compassion, now beat in time with the drum of their hatred.

The skinheads gathered around him, their faces a mosaic of triumph and excitement. They saw in him the promise of a new recruit, a beacon of their twisted beliefs. They didn't know, couldn't know, that the man they thought they'd created was nothing but a facade, a mask hiding the turmoil within. Steve's mind was a war zone, a battleground where the echoes of his past life clashed with the harsh reality of his present. The present winning with every breath he took. Then he felt at peace, this is who he was now. A loyal follower of his Skinhead Boss.

He emerged from the headquarters a different man, a creature of their making. His eyes, once warm and gentle, were now hard and cold and calculating, his smile a mere twitch at the corners of his mouth. The hypnosis had taken hold, reshaping his thoughts, his very essence. He embraced the role they'd cast for him with a zeal that surprised even Axel.

The once mild-mannered teacher now strutted through the streets, a swagger in his step that spoke of a newfound power. His skin, once soft from a life spent indoors, was now taut and scarred, a testament to the beatings he'd endured and the battles he'd fought.

His Skinhead Boss took him to the dinner where he had been captured. The same bell jingled above the door as he stepped in, but this time it was accompanied by the sound of his booted feet stomping in rhythm with his heartbeat. The regulars didn't even look up from their plates; they had seen the change in Steve, the unspoken understanding that he was now part of the pack. The waitress, a young girl named Jenny who had always greeted him with a shy smile, now averted her gaze.

The leader looked at him with a mix of pride and contempt. "You see, this is what you've become," he said, gesturing to the room. "This is where you belong now." now tell me about the books you used to use.

Steve's gaze fell to the floor, his mind racing. He could feel the weight of the books he had once cherished, "The books," he murmured, his voice a mere echo of its former self. "They were... lies."

Axel's eyes gleamed with victory. "That's right," he said, slapping Steve's back. "You're catching on. Now, let's get you some fresh ink to seal the deal."

The tattoo parlor was a grimy hole-in-the-wall, the air thick with the smell of ink and stale cigarette smoke. The artist, a grizzled man with a shaved head and a neck full of tattoos, eyed Steve with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. But the look from Axel was enough to keep his questions to himself.

Steve was led to the chair, his heart racing as the needle buzzed to life. He felt the pain as the ink sank into his skin, but it was nothing compared to the agony of his mind. Each line drawn was a nail in the coffin of his old life, a permanent reminder of his new allegiance. He watched in the mirror as the ink took shape, There was a strange comfort in the pain, a perverse sense of belonging. This was who he was now. A final acceptance that he was never going to go back to his old self, a chance to prove his allegiance to his Skin Boss and his brothers.

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[rbbrbikerthorp]

Generative AI II

Thought I'd share a few more images I've created for forthcoming stories.

"Harnessing"

This was inspired by the TNT Drama "Falling Skies". Unfortunately the writers decided to give the multi-season series a typical "Hollywood" end and the humans won. In my version the alien invaders would have been the victors and humans would all be compliant servants of our new alien masters.

"Harnessing" at scale.

You might want to think twice before you go running through the forest.

I'm not sure how he'll react when he regains conciousness.

When they've finished with him, it will be a compliant humanoid drone.

Part of an invading army, stripped of their "humanity"

The next set were inspired by @skinheadmal

With the courts and prison system creaking, radical action has been taken.

Anyone found to have committed a misdemeanor is now sent to one of those huge warehouses by the motorways. They're not distribution centres - they're processing centres for the penal system.

Instead of being placed in cells, they are placed in phone box like cubicles. It is here that they will be "repurposed" into useful members of society.

Another batch being processed.

When it comes to rubber and gas masks Copilot seems to have throw a "hissy fit", but with a few tweaks to the prompts you can get some decent images.

Waiting for the next bus.

A rubber themed night in town.

Rubbermen on the prowl.

That's it for now!

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Starting out on the right path as a young skin