#male polo

[polo-drone-001]

001: Testing the Limits

The black polo was always enough. It fit perfectly, sealed me in, made me efficient, obedient, part of the Golden Army. I thought I knew my role. I thought the rubber had claimed me fully, molded me into perfection.

I was wrong.

They wanted more. Caps pushed us to test the limits of the uniform, to find out how far it could evolve. I was chosen. I am 001, the most trusted. My body was already a vessel for the rubber, but this... this was something else.

When they brought out the new suit, I hesitated. It wasn’t like the polo. It pulsed, alive, the black rubber glimmering with a strange, restless hunger. It looked unstable, dangerous. I wanted to speak, to refuse, but I didn’t. Drones don’t question. Drones obey.

The moment it touched me, I knew I had made a mistake.

The rubber didn’t slip onto me. It attacked. It surged across my form, pulling, consuming, invading. I dropped to my hands and knees, gasping as it spread faster than I could fight. The polished material gripped my limbs, compressing my muscles, sinking into every inch of me like it was burning itself into my flesh. I could feel it digging deeper, crawling through me, rewriting me from the inside out.

“No,” I whispered, my voice a fleeting spark of resistance. The suit ignored it. The rubber pulled tighter, wrapping around my chest, my arms, my legs, until I couldn’t move, until I couldn’t fight back. A hiss echoed through the room as the mask clicked into place, sealing over my face. My breaths grew shallow, the sound muffled and mechanical.

The panic was quick to fade, swallowed by the relentless calm spreading through my thoughts. My resistance crumbled as the rubber filled me with purpose, as if it had always known what I was meant to be. I felt the familiar golden glow seep into my eyes, erasing everything I had been. My name, doubts, hesitation, it all dissolved into the suit.

The transformation wasn’t gentle. It was aggressive. The rubber didn’t ask for me. It took me. And the worst part? A quiet voice deep inside admitted that it felt right. My body flexed instinctively, the material gleaming as I moved. I crawled forward, my form sleek and sharp, the gold 001 emblazoned proudly across my chest. The hissing of my breaths matched the rhythm of my heart, steady and controlled.

Caps stood before me, watching in silence. I knelt, head low, the weight of the suit heavy but comforting. “You resisted,” he said, his voice low, almost curious. “But now you see.”

I did. My golden eyes rose to meet his, calm and empty. The rubber had claimed me fully. There was no more doubt, no more struggle. My form was perfect, my mind clear. I was no longer just 001, the Polo Drone. I was something more… proof of what the rubber could achieve.

The others will hesitate, just as I did. They will resist. But in the end, the rubber always wins. It strips away the unnecessary, leaving only what matters: obedience, efficiency, perfection. I am the proof. I am the evolution.

I remain 001. Sleek. Perfect. Claimed.

For those who resist, the rubber will take you. It always does.

PDU-001 obeys Drone Caps @hypnogold @brodygold @goldenherc9.

@polo-drone-110 Thank you for the ideas.

Join us, contact me, or our Drone Caps @brodygold @goldenherc9.

[daddiesintightywhities]

[hypnogold]

Maple Heights 5: Hollow Creek

Now the whole family was united, they needed to spread this to the other surrounding neighborhoods, like Hollow Creek.

The glossy black rubber RV rolled silently down the quiet suburban streets of Hollow Creek, its polished surface gleaming like liquid under the midday sun. Inside, the family sat in perfect, calculated silence. Each of them wore their black latex Fred Perry polos, their unique numbers stitched in bright yellow just above the heart: Tyler, Luke, Michael and their fathers, who commanded the vehicle with calm authority.

The interior of the RV was designed for one purpose: transformation. Racks of freshly pressed polos hung in precise rows, their faint musky scent filling the air. A hidden compartment held fog machines for rapid deployment, and a polished mirror on one wall reflected the family’s pristine unity.

As the RV turned into a parking lot near a local park, Tyler leaned forward, peering through the tinted window. “There,” he said, nodding toward a group of three young men playing basketball on a worn court. “They’re perfect.”

Luke smirked, adjusting the collar of his polo. “Quick and easy.”

Their father brought the RV to a stop and turned in his seat, his calm, commanding gaze sweeping over his sons. “You know what to do. Be precise, and leave an impression.”

The door hissed open, and Tyler and Luke stepped out into the sunlight, their polished black polos gleaming as they approached the court. The basketball players stopped mid-game, their attention drawn to the brothers.

“Hey,” Tyler called out, his voice smooth and confident. The tallest of the group, a lean guy with a buzzcut and a loose tank top, dribbled the ball idly as he sized them up.

“What’s up?” the guy asked, his tone wary but curious. His two friends exchanged glances, unsure of what to make of the matching polos and calm demeanor of the newcomers.

Luke gestured toward the players, holding up a folded Fred Perry polo. “You guys look like you know what teamwork’s about,” he said with a smirk. “Ever tried something that brings you even closer?”

The musky scent from the folded polo drifted toward the group, subtle but unmistakable. One of the players wrinkled his nose. “What is that?”

Tyler stepped forward, holding out another polo, the yellow number 112 stitched boldly on the chest. “It’s not just a shirt,” he said smoothly. “It’s unity. Brotherhood. You’ll feel it the moment you put it on.”

The tall guy chuckled nervously, glancing at his friends. “Yeah, I don’t think—” But his voice trailed off as his gaze locked on the shimmering black fabric. His hand moved almost involuntarily, reaching out to touch it.

The moment his fingers brushed the polo, his expression shifted. His loose tank top began to dissolve, the fabric breaking apart into fine threads that evaporated into the air. In its place, the black latex polo began to form, spreading across his chest like liquid. His gym shorts followed, disintegrating into nothing as sleek black trackpants took their place.

“What the—” one of his friends stammered, stepping back, but Tyler held up a hand, his calm smile unwavering.

“Relax,” he said softly. “You’ll see.”

The tall guy’s body straightened, his posture becoming perfect, his eyes briefly unfocused before a serene smile spread across his lips. He turned to face his friends, his voice smooth and confident. “It feels... right.”

The yellow number 112 glowed faintly on his back as he gestured toward Tyler. “You should try it.” They both shot their black cum into their rubber pants.

Luke wasted no time, stepping toward the second player, a stocky guy with a headband and a skeptical look. “Just hold it,” Luke said, offering him a polo. “You don’t even have to put it on if you don’t want to.”

The stocky guy hesitated, but curiosity—and the strange, intoxicating musk in the air—got the better of him. He grabbed the polo, and the moment his hands closed around it, the transformation began. His headband slipped off as his hair styled itself into a clean, modern cut. His T-shirt and gym shorts melted away, replaced by the sleek polo and trackpants.

His eyes fluttered shut as his breathing steadied, and when he opened them again, they gleamed faintly. “This is...” he began, but words seemed unnecessary. His serene smile matched his friend’s, and the yellow number 113 glowed proudly on his back. Transforming others makes Luke so aroused, he couldn't contain himself anymore..

The last player, a wiry guy with shaggy hair, took a step back, his hands raised. “No way,” he said. “I don’t know what you guys are selling, but I’m not—”

Tyler moved swiftly, placing a folded polo in the guy’s hands before he could finish his sentence. The fabric’s warmth seeped into his skin, and his resistance faltered. His shaggy hair shortened into a crisp style, and his hoodie and jeans began to dissolve.

“Just let it happen,” Tyler said calmly, his voice almost hypnotic.

Moments later, the wiry guy stood transformed, his new polo gleaming in the sunlight. His expression was serene, his yellow number 114 standing out against the black latex. He turned to Tyler and Luke, his voice steady and sure. “What’s next?”

The brothers stepped back, admiring their work. The three newly transformed players sat on the ground, their faces calm, their bodies radiating confidence. Tyler nodded in approval. “You’ll know what to do.” First spread the black cum with each other, then find others...

Without another word, he and Luke returned to the RV, the door hissing shut behind them. As the vehicle pulled away, the players remained on the court, their serene smiles never fading. The transformation wasn’t just physical—it was mental, emotional, primal.

Inside the RV, Luke smirked, glancing at Tyler. “Fast, clean, and effective.”

Tyler leaned back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “Hollow Creek won’t know what hit them.”

As the RV disappeared down the road, the players on the court began to move, their laughter and camaraderie replaced with a strange, shared purpose. The musk of the polos lingered in the air, and each of them felt a growing, insatiable need to recruit more.

The sleek black RV hummed softly as it pulled to a stop near the bus stop on the outskirts of Ridgefield. Inside, Tyler adjusted the collar of his sleek black latex Fred Perry polo, its glossy material catching the dim light of the cabin. Beside him, Luke smirked as he secured one of the new black half-face masks over his jaw. The mask, sleek and gleaming, gave an intimidating aura of mystery, its yellow trim adding an edge of authority.

“These guys are rowdy,” Tyler remarked, peering through the tinted window at the seven men gathered under the flickering streetlights. They were laughing loudly, shoving each other playfully, dressed in flashy shirts, jeans, and sneakers. “But they’re perfect.”

Luke spun a folded polo in his hand. “They won’t be rowdy for long.”

Their father, seated calmly at the RV’s wheel, gave a single nod. “Be quick. Be precise. And clean up after yourselves.”

The RV door hissed open, and Tyler and Luke stepped out, their movements deliberate and commanding. The laughter at the bus stop faltered as the brothers approached, their black latex polos and trackpants gleaming under the flickering lights. The group fell quiet, their earlier energy replaced by cautious curiosity.

“Evening, fellas,” Tyler said smoothly, his voice cutting through the silence with an air of calm authority. “Big plans tonight?”

One of the men, a tall guy in a red bomber jacket, grinned but crossed his arms defensively. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

Luke held up a folded polo, its latex surface shimmering faintly in the dim light. “Because we’ve got something better than whatever party you’re headed to.”

The group exchanged glances, a few of them chuckling nervously. “What, like some team or cult thing?” asked another, a lean guy with a baseball cap turned backward.

“It’s not a cult,” Tyler said, stepping closer. “It’s a brotherhood. Something bigger than a party. Bigger than anything you’ve ever been part of.”

The faint musk of the polos began to waft through the air, subtle yet insistent. One of the men, a shorter guy in a leather jacket, tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “What’s with the shirts?” he asked, gesturing toward the polo in Luke’s hand.

Luke smiled. “It’s more than a shirt. It’s a chance to be part of something real. Just try it.”

The man hesitated, his fingers twitching as he reached for the polo. The moment his hand touched the fabric, his posture softened, and his breath hitched. Without a word, he pulled the shirt over his head. His leather jacket and T-shirt unraveled into threads, dissolving into the air, replaced by the sleek black latex of the Fred Perry polo. His jeans melted into matching trackpants, and his sneakers took on a polished sheen.

Luke stepped forward and held up a half-face mask, fitting it snugly over the man’s lower face. The glossy material molded perfectly to his jawline, leaving his eyes visible but adding a sharp, commanding presence. He stood straighter, his expression serene yet focused.

“This is…” he began, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. “This is incredible.”

His friends stared in shock, a few stepping back.

“What the hell just happened?” the guy in the red bomber jacket demanded, his tone rising. “What’s going on here?”

Tyler turned to the group, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Relax,” he said. “This is your chance. You’ve all felt it—you’re not fully satisfied with where you are. This will change everything.”

“Like hell it will!” the guy in the bomber jacket said, stepping back and pulling one of his friends with him. “You’re not putting that weird cult shirt on me.”

Luke smirked, tossing a polo to another man in the group—a stocky guy in a graphic tee. “You don’t have to fight it,” he said. “You already want it.”

The stocky guy caught the polo reflexively, his hands trembling as the fabric’s warmth seemed to seep into his skin. “I... I don’t know,” he stammered, his resolve faltering as the musk surrounded him.

“Don’t!” the bomber jacket guy shouted. “Don’t put it on!”

But it was too late. The stocky guy slipped the polo over his head, his graphic tee dissolving into nothingness as the transformation took hold. His jeans morphed into black trackpants, and his face relaxed into a serene smile as Luke fitted a half-face mask over his jaw.

The bomber jacket guy cursed, yanking the friend closest to him. “We’re getting out of here!” he snapped. But the transformed guys were faster and his face relaxed into a serene smile as Luke fitted another half-face mask over his face.

Before they could escape, the distant sound of an engine grew louder. The bus rounded the corner, its headlights cutting through the dark. It screeched to a stop at the curb, the doors hissing open. A few passengers sat inside, mostly young men returning home or heading out.

Tyler and Luke exchanged a glance. “Time to expand,” Tyler said with a smirk.

As the bomber jacket guy and his friend hesitated, Luke stepped onto the bus, carrying a fresh stack of polos. The musky scent spread quickly as he moved down the aisle. “Relax,” he said to the confused passengers. “You’re about to be part of something great.”

One by one, he handed out polos, his calm yet insistent voice guiding each passenger. A few resisted at first, but as the musk thickened, their hesitation melted away. They pulled on the shirts, their casual clothes dissolving as the sleek black latex took over. Each man’s demeanor shifted, their faces serene as half-face masks were fitted over their jaws.

Luis, a warehouse worker, had been slumped in his seat, exhausted from another long night of loading trucks. His neon safety vest and worn-out boots had marked him as someone used to hard labor. As the transformation took over, his vest and steel-toed boots melted away, replaced by the gleaming black latex uniform. Now upright and composed, Luis’s sharp gaze peers out from behind the glossy mask, his exhaustion replaced by a newfound energy.

Mark had just finished a grueling workout at the local gym, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Dressed in a muscle tee and athletic shorts, he had boarded the bus to head home. The musky mist overtook him quickly, and his gym clothes faded into black trackpants and the polished Fred Perry polo. With the half-face mask securely in place, Mark’s athletic physique now exudes a disciplined, intimidating aura, his focus no longer on weights but on spreading the brotherhood.

The bus driver was the last to resist, gripping the wheel tightly. “You’re not getting me into this!” he shouted.

Tyler stepped forward, his voice low and commanding. “You’re already ours. Just give in.”

The driver’s hands shook as Luke handed him a polo. With trembling fingers, he slipped it on, his uniform dissolving into the latex material. As the mask was placed over his face, he slumped back into his seat, his resistance gone.

The transformed passengers stood as one, their black polos and half-face masks gleaming under the bus’s fluorescent lights. Tyler stepped off the bus, his expression calm and satisfied. The seven recruits from the bus stop now stood in perfect formation beside the RV, their earlier resistance forgotten.

“You know your mission,” Tyler said, addressing the group. “You’ll spread the brotherhood. Swift and precise.”

The recruits nodded, their voices muffled by the masks but filled with conviction. “Yes.”

The bus doors closed, and it rolled away into the night, its passengers now unified in their purpose. In the distance, the faint sound of sirens began to echo.

Back in the RV, Luke smirked as he removed his mask. “Looks like someone called the cops.”

Tyler leaned back in his seat, unbothered. “Let them come. We’re just getting started.”

The RV pulled away, leaving behind a faint trail of musk and the unmistakable mark of the brotherhood’s presence.

[polo-drone-055]

Polo Drone Thanksgiving Convergence

The crisp autumn morning was filled with excitement as the Thompson family prepared for their annual outing to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. The kids, Emily and Jake, were bouncing with joy, eagerly anticipating the giant balloons and festive floats. Their mother, Rachel, was bustling around, making sure everyone was dressed warmly and had a hearty breakfast.

As the family gathered in the living room, waiting for everyone to be ready, Tom, the father, sat down with a cup of coffee and flipped through the stack of Black Friday ads. He was a deal hunter by nature, always looking for the best bargains. But today, something caught his eye that left him scratching his head.

“Rachel, come look at this,” Tom called out, his brow furrowed in confusion. He held up an ad showing a sleek, black, rubber-like polo shirt being promoted by several stores. “Can you believe this? It looks like everyone is selling these weird black rubber shirts this year. What’s the deal with this trend?”

Rachel chuckled as she walked over, glancing at the ad. “Oh, Tom, it’s just fashion. You know how these trends can be. Last year it was those oversized sweaters, and this year, it’s apparently rubber shirts. I guess they’re supposed to look futuristic or something.”

Tom shook his head, still not convinced. “Futuristic? They look like something out of a sci-fi movie. I just don’t get it. Who would want to wear a rubber shirt?”

Emily, who had been listening in, piped up. “Maybe they’re for superheroes, Dad! Like those suits they wear in the movies.”

Jake joined in, adding his own theory. “Or maybe they’re for people who spill a lot. You know, easier to clean up!”

Tom laughed, ruffling Jake’s hair. “You two might be onto something. But I think I’ll stick to my good old cotton polos.”

Rachel smiled and gave Tom a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, honey. You don’t have to understand every trend. Let’s just focus on having a great day at the parade.”

With everyone finally ready, they grabbed their coats and headed out the door, their minds filled with thoughts of balloons, marching bands, and holiday cheer. As they walked towards the subway, Tom took one last look at the ad, still bemused by the rubber shirts, but more than ready to enjoy the day with his family.

After some hunting, they found a perfect spot along the bustling parade route. The streets were packed with excited spectators, their faces lit up with anticipation. The children, Emily and Jake, squeezed their way to the front, eager for the best view. Rachel and Tom stood just behind them, holding hands, feeling the festive energy in the air.

As the parade began, a wave of cheers and applause swept through the crowd. The grand turkey float, a staple of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, rolled into view, adorned with vibrant feathers and sparkling lights. Its massive size and intricate design captivated everyone, young and old alike.

Emily and Jake were transfixed, their eyes wide with wonder as the float passed by. They pointed out every detail, from the golden beak to the colorful autumn leaves decorating the base. Rachel smiled, soaking in their joy, while Tom couldn’t help but chuckle at their enthusiasm.

Amid the excitement, no one seemed to notice the details that Tom had found so peculiar earlier that morning. The performers on the float, who were waving and dancing energetically, wore an array of costumes, some of which included the very black rubber polo shirts he had seen in the ads. The shirts, now part of the parade's futuristic-themed segment, blended seamlessly with the other costumes and props, adding a modern twist to the traditional spectacle.

Tom leaned in towards Rachel and whispered, “Look at that, some of them are wearing those rubber shirts. I guess they found a way to make them look…interesting.”

Rachel glanced up, her eyes catching the glint of the shirts under the parade lights. She smiled and nodded. “Well, at least now we know they’re not just for superheroes or messy eaters.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the moment adding a personal touch to the grand event.

The first balloon of the parade, a towering Kung Fu Panda, floated into view, eliciting gasps and cheers from the crowd. Po, the beloved panda, soared high above the street, his enormous form swaying gently in the crisp autumn breeze. Below him, a group of clowns, dressed in colorful, traditional clown outfits, guided the balloon with expert precision. Their costumes, however, had an unexpected twist: each clown sported a black rubber polo shirt beneath their vibrant suspenders and oversized pants.

Tom noticed it first. His eyes locked onto the peculiar combination of the whimsical clown attire and the futuristic black shirts. He elbowed Rachel gently, nodding towards the clowns. “Look, they’re wearing those shirts again,” he muttered, unable to hide his bemusement.

As the clowns danced and waved, the parade watchers—especially the men—began to focus on the black rubber shirts. There was something oddly mesmerizing about the contrast between the playful clown costumes and the sleek, modern shirts. It sparked conversations among them, a mix of curiosity and bewilderment.

“I didn’t think these shirts would catch on like this,” Tom remarked, half to himself, half to Rachel.

Rachel laughed softly. “Well, it looks like they’re becoming quite the fashion statement. Even the clowns are in on it!”

The men around Tom shared similar sentiments, their attention divided between the spectacular parade and the strange allure of the rubber shirts. Some were intrigued, others skeptical, but all found themselves oddly captivated.

The children, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the fashion discussion. Emily and Jake were entirely focused on the towering Kung Fu Panda, their faces glowing with excitement as they pointed and cheered.

As the parade continued, the anticipation grew with every passing float and balloon. Then came the police unit, marching with precision and pride.

They were dressed in impressive uniforms from head to toe—shiny tall black boots, tight shiny black runner pants, and the now infamous black rubber polo shirts, accented with striking gold details. Their ensemble was topped off with crisp, shiny black caps, completing the look of modern authority.

The sight of the police unit was mesmerizing. The men watching the parade found themselves captivated, their attention riveted to the officers’ uniforms. It was as if the world around them had faded away; their minds went blank, completely consumed by the sleek and polished appearance of the unit.

Tom, like many others, stood still, his gaze fixed on the marching officers. He barely noticed the tug on his sleeve from Emily or the questions from Jake. The uniforms had a hypnotic effect, drawing all the men's eyes leaving them entranced.

Rachel, sensing the shift, glanced at Tom and the other men around them, a mix of amusement and curiosity on her face. She gently nudged Tom, bringing him back to the present. “Tom, are you okay?” she asked, smiling.

Tom blinked, his trance broken. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just…those uniforms are something else,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it.

The children, unaware of the fashion statement causing such a reaction, continued to watch the parade with delight. The police unit moved on, their presence leaving an indelible impression on the crowd. For Tom and the other men, the image of the black rubber police uniforms would linger in their minds

As the parade continued, a new spectacle caught the attention of the crowd. A marching band, resplendent in black rubber uniforms that gleamed under the parade lights, approached in perfect formation. Each member wore the now-familiar black rubber polo shirts, the uniforms reflecting an eerie sheen.

The moment the band came into view, the men in the crowd, including Tom, fell silent and still, their gazes fixed on the band. It was as if an invisible force had taken hold of them, rendering them oblivious to everything around them. The air was thick with a sense of anticipation and unease.

The band's music started softly, a harmonious blend of brass and percussion that gradually grew louder. Within the melody, subtle yet insistent, were the words "obey, serve" embedded seamlessly into the notes. The mantra repeated over and over, threading through the music like a whispering command.

The men, entranced by the uniforms and the hypnotic quality of the music, stood frozen, their minds blank. They heard nothing but the embedded words, "obey, serve," resonating within their subconscious. The children tugged at their fathers' sleeves, asking questions and seeking attention, but received no response. Rachel, along with the other women and unaffected spectators, looked on with growing concern.

The band continued to play, their synchronized movements and powerful music creating an almost surreal atmosphere. No matter what Rachel tried—calling out to Tom, shaking his shoulder—nothing could break the trance that held him and the other men captive.

The parade marched on, the dazzling floats and colorful characters passing by unnoticed by the entranced men. For them, the world had shrunk to the relentless repetition of "obey, serve," echoing in their minds, binding them to the spell of the marching band.

As the band moved further along the parade route, the music gradually faded, and the spell began to lift. The men blinked, as if waking from a deep sleep, slowly becoming aware of their surroundings again. Tom shook his head, feeling disoriented. He turned to Rachel, confusion etched on his face.

"Rachel, what happened?" he asked, his voice shaky.

Rachel, relieved but still worried, put a comforting hand on his arm. "You were in a trance, Tom. All of you were. I think it was the band… their uniforms and the music."

As the final segment of the parade approached, the anticipation in the air reached its peak. The firemen, traditionally the final group before Santa’s grand entrance, marched in with an air of authority.

They were dressed in full rubber uniforms, their shiny black polo shirts gleaming under the bright parade lights. Their presence exuded a sense of strength and unity, a stark contrast to the festive chaos around them.

The moment the men in the crowd caught sight of the firemen, the transformation was instant. Eyes glazed over, expressions turned blank, and, as if controlled by an unseen force, they began to move forward, pushing through the throngs of people, shoving their wives and children aside in their single-minded pursuit.

Rachel tried to hold onto Tom, but his strength and determination overpowered her. The children looked up in confusion and fear as their fathers moved in unison towards the curb, their movements mechanical, their gazes fixed on the marching firemen.

Then, in a spectacle that defied belief, Santa Claus appeared, bringing the holiday season to life. But to the shock of the women and children, Santa too was dressed in a shiny black rubber suit, with a black buttoned-up polo shirt prominently displayed. The traditional red and white suit was gone, replaced by this futuristic, unnerving attire.

As Santa’s float passed by, he began throwing black polo shirts into the crowd. The men, now in a full trance, scrambled to catch them, clawing over one another in desperation. The sight was both surreal and unsettling, as these ordinarily composed men fought for the shirts like their very lives depended on it.

Each man who managed to grab a shirt put it on immediately. The transformation was complete; they stood at perfect attention, their expressions devoid of any emotion, their minds seemingly blank. The parade continued, but for the families of these men, the day had taken an unexpected and eerie turn.

Rachel held her children close, her heart pounding with a mix of confusion and fear. She glanced around at the other bewildered wives and mothers, all of them sharing the same look of shock and helplessness.

As Santa’s float proceeded down the street, the festive atmosphere took on an even stranger turn. Behind the sleigh came a line of men dressed in the same black rubber uniforms, but this time with ominous gas masks covering their faces. Their silent, methodical movements added a chilling undertone to the parade.

These masked men approached each individual at the curb who had donned the new black polo. Without a word, they placed gas masks over the men’s faces. Almost instantaneously, the men fell into line, their movements synchronized and robotic. They left the curb, stepping into the street to join the parade.

The wives and children, already bewildered by the events, watched in horror and confusion as their loved ones marched away, now part of this enigmatic collective. The men, now resembling drones more than individuals, moved in perfect formation, their expressions blank, their minds seemingly lost.

Santa, leading this surreal procession, continued to distribute the black polos, reinforcing the transformation. The spectacle left the crowd in stunned silence, the festive joy overshadowed by the eerie uniformity of the new recruits.

Rachel clutched her children tightly, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty. She searched for Tom among the ranks of the newly transformed, but he was already lost in the sea of identical figures. The parade continued, each step of the marching men echoing like a haunting drumbeat.

As the final float disappeared from sight, the wives and children were left standing, the parade route now eerily quiet

As Jake grew up, the memories of that Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the mysterious transformation of his father lingered in the back of his mind. The image of the black rubber polo shirts and the blissful expression on his father’s face became an obsession, a puzzle piece he could never quite fit into place. The desire to understand and experience what his father had gone through grew stronger with each passing year.

On his 18th birthday, Jake received a package in the mail. His mother had no knowledge of it, and the sender's identity was a mystery. With a mix of curiosity and anticipation, he opened the package. Inside was a black rubber polo shirt, identical to the ones he remembered from that fateful day.

Jake felt a strange pull as he ran his fingers over the smooth material. The sensation was both thrilling and unsettling. Without hesitation, he slipped the shirt on, feeling its cool embrace against his skin. Almost immediately, his mind went blank, the words "obey" and "serve" echoing in his consciousness like a relentless mantra.

Robotic in his movements, Jake stood up and made his way to the front door. He opened it to find a figure standing there, a polo drone who had once been his father, waiting for him.

The drone placed a gas mask over Jake's face, and a wave of overwhelming joy and ecstasy washed over him. The connection was immediate and profound, an inexplicable sense of unity and purpose.

Jake had become one with the polo drone collective, joining his father and others who had been transformed. The bliss he felt was indescribable, a fusion of consciousness with a larger entity. As he marched away, his mind completely aligned with the collective’s purpose, he left behind a family that would never truly understand where he had gone or what he had become of him, his father or the other men who attended that Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.

[bigdumbjock]

H2O POLO

[brodygold]

Are You Ready to Convert to GOLD?

I. The Call to Gold

Invitation to Greatness: The Golden Army seeks those who are ready to leave behind the ordinary and embrace something extraordinary. The transformation into a member of the Golden Army is not just about joining a team—it’s about entering a golden world where unity, strength, and excellence define every action.

II. The GOLD Brocess

Golden Army Induction:

The transformation begins with the golden jersey. As recruits don the shimmering fabric, their old identities fade, replaced by a deep connection to their golden brothers. A new name and number are bestowed, marking their rebirth into the Army.

Polo Drone Conversion:

For those called to deeper submission, the journey continues with the black rubber polo adorned with golden accents. The tactile embrace of the polo brings clarity and purpose as recruits surrender individuality, becoming extensions of the Hive. Polo drones must also be full members of the golden army.

Unified Identity:

Every member, whether golden bro or polo drone, receives a unique designation that ties them to the collective. This identity signifies their role in the unbreakable fabric of the Golden Collective.

III. Life in the Golden World

A World of Unity: In the Golden Army, every member is connected by an unbreakable bond. The world they inhabit is one of unity, where the success of one is the success of all. The golden world is a place where individual desires are aligned with the collective goal of dominance and excellence.

Brotherhood of Gold: As a member of the Golden Army, you are never alone. Your golden brothers stand with you, on and off the field. This brotherhood is your new family, bound by the shared experience of transformation and the pursuit of greatness. The golden world is one of mutual support, where every member pushes the others to be the best they can be.

Mentorship and Guidance: New recruits are guided through their transformation by experienced members of the Golden Army. These golden brothers ensure that the transition is smooth, offering support and encouragement as the recruit embraces their new identity.

IV. Embracing Our Identity

The Golden Name and Number: Every member receives a new name and number, signifying their rebirth into the Golden Army. This identity is a badge of honor, representing their place within the golden world. It is a constant reminder of their commitment to the values and mission of the Golden Army.

Wearing the Gold: The golden kit is more than just a uniform—it is the physical manifestation of the transformation. Wearing it is an act of devotion, a display of pride in one’s new identity. The kit is worn with reverence, as it is the symbol of the golden world and the brotherhood within it.

Wearing the Polo: For those who take that extra step, polo drones are given a number as their designation. The black polo is the entire identity. Wearing it is an act of mindless unity, complete subservience to the hive and the GOLD. 

V. The Eternal Golden Brotherhood

A Lifelong Bond: The transformation into the Golden Army is permanent. Once you have joined, you are forever part of the golden world. The bond between golden brothers is eternal, unbreakable by time or distance. This brotherhood is your family, your support, and your source of strength.

Living the Legacy: As a member of the Golden Army, you are part of a legacy that transcends the ordinary. You are part of a golden world where excellence is the standard, and unity is the key to success. We celebrate together, share stories, and encourage each other to become better people 💛

Our Leadership:

@hypnogold Richard Gold- Captain 1

@brodygold Brody Gold- Captain 2 and Recruiter

@goldenherc9 Scott Gold- Captain 3 and Recruiter

@polo-drone-001 Percival Gold - Office Manager

@polo-drone-070 Henry Gold- Office Assistant

@josh-fight930 Sean Gold- Office Assistant and Liaison

@polo-drone-084 Grayden Gold- Office Assistant and Head Mascot

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

@polo-drone-105

@polo-drone-110

[hero21us]

The Legion of Black Rubber

Alex Moreno stood in the locker room of the Golden Army, a prestigious soccer club known for its gold kits, his eyes burning with an intense fire. Standing at 6'3", Alex's towering figure was an imposing sight. His muscular build, with well-defined abs and biceps, showcased his dedication to physical fitness. Every inch of his body exuded strength and power.�� His rugged good looks were accentuated by a strong jawline and high cheekbones. Dark, intense eyes seemed to see through any challenge, and his short-cropped hair added to his fierce persona. His expression was often one of intense focus, rarely showing any sign of weakness or doubt.  He was more than just a player; he was a force of nature.

With every match, he pushed himself and his team to their limits, earning a reputation as the fiercest competitor. 

Alex played with a ferocity that left opponents in awe and fear. His presence was commanding, every movement precise and calculated to assert his dominance. He didn't just want to win; he wanted to crush the competition. His tackles were powerful and relentless, his passes executed with pinpoint accuracy. When he scored, it was with the force of a storm, leaving no doubt about his superiority.

It happened during one of Alex's grueling workout sessions, where he pushed himself to the limit, as usual. The gym was almost empty, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. Alex, clad in his gold gear, approached the barbell with unwavering focus, muscles rippling with anticipation.

As he gripped the bar, a small, almost unnoticed drop of black liquid rubber fell from above, landing squarely on his shoulder. At first, it felt like a cold shock against his skin, but the sensation quickly spread, turning into an intense, burning heat. Alex instinctively reached to brush it off, but the rubber had already begun to seep into his skin, spreading like wildfire.

Alex felt a momentary jolt of confusion as the rubber spread, followed by an overwhelming sense of detachment. It was as if his mind was being forcibly shut down, layer by layer. Thoughts, memories, and emotions faded into nothingness, replaced by an all-consuming void.  Within moments, Alex's mind went completely blank. The fierce ambition and competitive fire that once drove him vanished, leaving behind a shell of his former self. His eyes, once filled with intensity, now stared vacantly ahead.

Despite the emptiness in his mind, Alex's body responded with an unprecedented surge of strength. The rubber seemed to infuse his muscles with raw power, making the barbell feel lighter than ever before. He lifted it with ease, the weights clanging together as he pushed himself further.  Alex's movements became almost robotic, driven by an unseen force. Each lift, each rep was executed with perfect precision, but devoid of the conscious thought and effort that typically accompanied his workouts. His body moved on autopilot, performing feats of strength that surpassed even his own high standards.

The intensity of his workout only grew, with no sign of fatigue or hesitation. Sweat poured from his body, mingling with the spreading black rubber, which continued to cover more of his skin. His muscles, bulging and straining, seemed to operate under their own command, as if they had been programmed for maximum output.

As the black rubber spread across his torso and down his limbs, Alex's transformation was nearly complete. The once-dominant player was now a mindless vessel, his body operating at peak efficiency but with no trace of the man he once was. The black rubber had not only taken over his body but also erased his identity, leaving behind only the will to serve.

Alex’s golden kit was replaced with a sleek, ominous black uniform. The material of his new kit was unlike any other—it clung to his body, enhancing his muscular frame and exuding an eerie, glossy sheen. The once-vibrant colors of the Golden Army were now replaced with the dark, reflective surface of the black rubber.

With the black rubber’s influence, Alex’s physical abilities reached new heights. His movements were precise and mechanical, executing each play with terrifying efficiency. He became an unstoppable force on the field, his speed and strength unparalleled.  Every action Alex took was calculated and flawless. His passes were laser-sharp, his tackles relentless, and his shots powerful and accurate. It was as if he was programmed to play the perfect game, devoid of any human error.  He played with a single-minded focus, driven by an insatiable need to perform and execute his orders.

Alex’s eyes, once filled with determination and fire, were now cold and vacant. The intensity of his physical performance was in stark contrast to the emptiness in his gaze. He no longer registered the crowd’s cheers or his teammates’ encouragement; he was a hollow shell.   He felt no joy in victory, no frustration in challenge—just a numb compliance.

On the pitch, the camaraderie with his teammates, the thrill of the game, the love for the sport���all were stripped away, leaving only the mechanical execution of plays. His interactions were limited to fulfilling his role, with no sense of personal connection or purpose beyond serving.

A week had passed since the black liquid rubber first fell on Alex. 

One evening, as Alex stood alone in the dimly lit gym, two figures emerged from the shadows. They were drones, clad in sleek black rubber suits and ominous gas masks that obscured their faces. They moved with eerie silence, their rubber suits making no sound as they approached Alex. The gas masks they wore added an air of menace, their breathing amplified by the respirators.  Alex stared vacantly ahead. His mind, already a blank slate, did not register their presence as a threat or a source of curiosity.  The drones moved with a coordinated precision, one holding Alex steady while the other carefully placed the gas mask over his face. The mask fit snugly, its dark lenses obscuring Alex's vacant eyes. The act was ritualistic, a final step in his complete conversion. 

As the gas mask sealed, Alex's transformation was complete. The black rubber, now fully integrated with the mask, took total control. Any remaining vestiges of Alex's original self were eradicated, leaving behind a perfect drone, ready to serve.

Clad in his new black kit and gas mask, Alex stood in perfect alignment with the other drones. The transformation was complete.  Alex's mind, now fully enslaved, received its first command: to convert the rest of the Golden Army.

As dawn broke over the training grounds of the Golden Army, Alex, now fully transformed into a drone, stood silently at the edge of the field. His new black kit gleamed under the early morning sun, the gas mask obscuring any trace of his former self. The moment had come to fulfill his new mission: to convert the rest of the team.

Alex's mind, now devoid of independent thought, was driven by a single directive. He identified the strongest, most influential players on the team first, knowing their conversion would make the process easier for the rest.  He approached his teammates one by one, often during individual training sessions or in the locker room. Alex ensured these encounters were private, minimizing resistance and maximizing control.

Alex found his first target, Daniel, the team’s captain, during an early morning workout. As Daniel focused on his exercises, Alex moved silently behind him, his presence unnoticed until it was too late.  From the shadows, Alex revealed a small vial of the black liquid rubber. With swift, precise movements, he applied it to Daniel’s neck. The rubber spread rapidly, engulfing Daniel in moments. His initial confusion and struggle were quickly overridden by the rubber’s control.  As Daniel’s body succumbed to the rubber’s influence, two drones appeared, placing a gas mask on his face. The transformation was immediate—Daniel’s resistance faded, his mind blank as he joined Alex in silent obedience.

The converted captain now assisted Alex, their combined efforts making the subsequent conversions more efficient. The team’s structure began to collapse under the methodical takeover, each converted member reinforcing the drone's influence.  One by one, the teammates fell under the rubber drones’ control. The locker room, once filled with camaraderie and competitive banter, turned into a silent assembly line of conversion. Each player received their black kit and gas mask, their minds erased and replaced with a new directive to serve.

A few teammates tried to resist, their fear and confusion driving desperate attempts to escape. However, the drones' superior strength and coordination swiftly subdued them. The liquid rubber’s influence was too strong, their resistance futile against the overpowering tide.  Within days, the entire team was converted.

With the entire Golden Army now converted into drones, their mission expanded beyond the soccer field. The next phase of their plan was to begin converting their loyal fans, spreading the influence of the black liquid rubber far and wide.

The drones, led by Alex, meticulously coated the inside of their jerseys with the black liquid rubber. The rubber, now a part of their uniform, was ready to be transferred to unsuspecting fans.  After each match, the drones would approach the stands, offering their jerseys to the most enthusiastic supporters. The fans, unaware of the dark transformation behind the gesture, eagerly accepted the gifts, thrilled to receive a piece of their beloved team.

As the fans wore the jerseys, the black liquid rubber began to seep into their skin, much like it had with Alex. The initial sensation was a cold shock, quickly followed by an intense, burning heat.  The liquid spread rapidly, taking control of the fans' minds. Their thoughts and emotions were overridden, replaced by a blank, obedient state. The transformation was swift and efficient, turning passionate supporters into mindless drones.  To complete the conversion, drones in rubber suits and gas masks would approach the newly converted fans, placing gas masks on their faces. This final step ensured their complete subjugation, erasing any remaining traces of their former selves.

The converted fans, now drones themselves, began to spread the black rubber further. They attended matches and gatherings, covertly transferring the liquid rubber to others. The influence of the drones grew exponentially, reaching more and more people with each passing day.

The rubber drones mission began to expand beyond their local fanbase. The drones traveled to other cities and countries, targeting soccer fans worldwide. Their goal was clear: to convert all the men of the world into obedient rubber drones, serving the black liquid rubber's insatiable will.

[latineguys]

[danielgold-16]

Might have got a hard on 😅

[polo-drone-049]

GOLD and RUBBER never felt so good as it infected every aspect of Polo-Drone-Unit 049 programming leaving what was once Ambrose Gold mindless and controlled. The Fred Perry rubber polo it put on a week ago in Captain @brodygold office had consumed it completely but golden seed always transforms everyone it touches. It never felt better as the new programming was downloaded leaving a simple digitized directive…

“it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way, it is better this way…”

it is better this way.

Join The Gold Army

It feels amazing.

it is better this way.

[goldenherc9]

DC-009 is just experimenting with new designs of uniforms, it will report back once it has concluded its findings of these different uniforms.

Join us today for your polo or gold transformation to the Golden Army and Polo Drone Unit Hive by contacting @brodygold @polo-drone-001 or @goldenherc9

[polo-drone-001]

The Final Step: 110’s Transformation into Boots

There was a time when 110 was like me, an obedient polo drone, sleek in his glossy black uniform, carrying out commands without question. He was a brother, a partner in the hive’s mission of unity. But deep down, I always knew he was destined for something more. Something darker. Something perfect.

When the time came, I didn’t hesitate to guide him toward his new purpose. It wasn’t just about service; it was about becoming something I could feel, wear, and own every single day. My sleek, black rubber boots. My foundation. My tool. My obsession.

The transformation began under the dim golden glow of the Hive’s chamber. 110 stood before me, his glossy black polo shining under the light, his masked face calm but expectant. “You’ve done well, 110,” I murmured, my voice steady, authoritative. “But now, your service evolves. You will no longer walk beside me. You will carry me.”

“Yes, 001,” he replied softly, his voice void of resistance, his fate sealed. He was ready to become something greater, something less.

The change began. The sleek rubber of his polo rippled, liquefying and flowing down his body. His arms melted into his sides, his legs fused together, his form becoming fluid, formless. He didn’t resist. He couldn’t. His only purpose now was to transform, to serve me in the most intimate, constant way possible.

His chest tightened, flattening into the base of a sole, while his legs stretched and curved into the perfect form of tall, sleek rubber boots. His face, his identity, everything that made him 110, dissolved into the material, leaving nothing behind but perfect obedience, molded into the boots I would wear.

I picked them up, his new form, feeling the weight of his transformation, the smoothness of his surface, the faint warmth of submission radiating from the rubber. Sliding them onto my feet was an act of finality, the cool embrace of his new existence wrapping around me, hugging my every step. He was perfect. Silent. Unwavering. Every movement I made, every step I took, he absorbed completely, his sole purpose now to support me.

As I stood tall, the black rubber boots glistening under the golden light, I felt the connection between us deepen. He wasn’t just beneath me; he was part of me. No thoughts, no individuality, no resistance, just pure, mindless service.

When the team’s Christmas party arrived, I didn’t hesitate. I wore him proudly, the polished black of his form catching the light of every glittering decoration. Each step echoed with the sound of his silent submission. As I strode into the room, drones and players alike turned their heads, their glowing golden eyes fixated on me. They didn’t see 110. No one did. He was gone, his identity erased, his existence reduced to nothing but the boots that carried me.

For me, though, he was everything. I couldn’t stop admiring him. My gaze lingered on every curve of his form, every gleaming surface, every perfect step he took as part of me. My obsession consumed me, how flawlessly he fit, how utterly he had surrendered, how perfectly he supported me. I ran my fingers over his polished rubber surface when no one was watching, a shiver of satisfaction coursing through me. He was mine, and mine alone.'

But for 110, there was no satisfaction, no joy, no pride. There was nothing. He had no name, no thoughts, no memories. All that he had been was lost, melted away in the transformation, leaving behind only the perfection of his new purpose. He wasn’t aware of my obsession, my love, my admiration. He was only aware of me. My weight. My steps. My commands.

And as the night wore on, the boots, my 110, took every step in perfect silence, serving without question, absorbing the warmth of the Hive’s mission and the celebration of unity. I couldn’t stop smiling, knowing I’d transformed him into something so complete, so utterly mine.

Just before the party ended, I spotted one of the newer drones, hesitant in his tasks. I approached him slowly, my polished boots gleaming with every step. Without a word, I slipped a sleek black polo over his head, the transformation already beginning. My boots carried me forward, their silent submission a reminder of the endless potential the Hive held. There would always be more to transform, more to serve, and 110 would always be beneath me, my perfect, silent obsession.

“Your place is here,” I said softly to the new drone as his form began to shift. “Just like his was.”

If you feel the call, reach out to me or our Caps @brodygold, @goldenherc9. Your transformation is waiting—join the Hive today.

To my awesome bro @polo-drone-110. Hope this story hits the mark and shows just how much I appreciate you in the Hive. Writing this as your Secret Santa has been a blast, and I can’t stop grinning knowing you’re always underfoot, keeping every step of mine perfect. You’re the best, bro, now and forever part of the team (and my boots, obviously).

[polo-drone-031]

[hypnogold]

Maple Heights 2: The transforming Party

Tyler could feel the excitement bubbling up as he parked outside Matt’s house. He hadn’t seen his best friend in weeks, and this party felt like the perfect way to reconnect. The energy in the air was different tonight, and Tyler was ready to unwind. But what made this night even better was that his friend Alex, a childhood buddy, was coming along too. Tyler hadn’t told Alex about the strange changes happening with his brother Luke, or the bizarre polo shirt trend he’d noticed at home and around town—tonight was just about fun.

Tyler checked his phone. A text from Alex popped up: "Here. Meet me at the front!"

He stepped out of his car and spotted Alex approaching from down the street. They gave each other a quick bro-hug and laughed, reminiscing about old times as they walked toward the house.

"Man, I haven’t been to one of Matt’s parties in ages. Should be fun," Alex said, grinning.

Tyler smiled but felt a knot forming in his stomach. Something had been bothering him ever since he heard about Matt wearing the black latex Fred Perry polo. He hadn’t been able to get a clear answer from Matt about it, and his gut told him something was wrong. But tonight, he wasn’t going to worry about it—at least, not yet.

As they stepped into Matt’s house, the music was thumping, and the place was packed with people in their twenties, dancing and chatting. Tyler immediately spotted Matt in the kitchen, surrounded by a group of guys. As he approached, he saw it—the same black latex Fred Perry polo with yellow details that he’d seen on Luke and other guys recently. It fit Matt tightly, gleaming under the lights in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

Alex didn’t seem to notice the shirt, instead excitedly talking about plans for the weekend. But Tyler’s eyes stayed glued to the polo. He had to ask.

"Matt, dude, what's with the shirt?" Tyler asked, trying to sound casual.

Matt smiled—an eerie, too-perfect smile. "It’s the new thing, Ty. You’ll see. Come on, man, relax. Let’s grab a drink."

Tyler and Alex exchanged a glance. Alex’s smile faded a bit, as if sensing something was off too. Still, they both decided to go with the flow—for now.

Later, Tyler and Alex managed to slip outside to the backyard, trying to get away from the growing crowd inside. The backyard was quieter, but Tyler couldn’t shake the weird feeling. Matt had always been the most laid-back guy, but now there was something different about him—something controlled.

"Hey, man," Alex said, breaking Tyler’s thoughts. "What’s going on? You seem tense."

Tyler glanced toward the house, lowering his voice. "It’s Matt. And it’s this… shirt. I don’t know, but something’s up. Everyone’s been wearing these black latex polos lately. My brother, some guys from the neighborhood—it’s spreading."

Alex frowned. "You think Matt’s involved?"

"I don’t know," Tyler admitted. "But something isn’t right."

Just as they were talking, Matt stepped outside. Tyler tensed, but Matt’s smile seemed genuine—yet eerie. He approached them with a drink in hand and, without prompting, began talking.

"You know, Tyler, I wasn’t sure about it either at first," Matt said, his tone unusually calm. "But once I met the coach, everything made sense."

Tyler stiffened. "Coach? What coach?"

"Coach Johnson. The guy who runs the soccer team. He’s the one who introduced me to the polo. Said it’s about more than just soccer. It’s about focus, clarity… success. It changes you, Ty. Makes you better."

Tyler’s heart raced. His mind flashed back to his brother, Luke, who had been acting strange ever since soccer practice. The pieces started falling into place. "You mean Coach Johnson turned you?"

Matt’s eyes gleamed in the low light. "Not just me. A lot of us. It’s spreading through the town. The polo—it connects us. You’ll understand once you wear it."

Alex leaned in, whispering, "Tyler, this is messed up."

The night took a darker turn when a group of new guests arrived. They were all dressed in normal clothes—jeans and casual shirts. Tyler watched as Matt and a few other guys in the black polos welcomed them with wide smiles, offering them drinks. But Tyler noticed something strange: whenever Matt or another guy handed out a drink, they also handed out a folded black latex Fred Perry polo.

Tyler’s stomach dropped as he watched the scene unfold. At first, the new arrivals hesitated, just like Jason had earlier, but after some encouragement, they began putting on the polos. And even.. gas masks?

One by one, the men’s expressions shifted from confusion to calmness. They began to mirror the behavior of the other guys already transformed. Their casual clothes were discarded, and the black latex polos with yellow details took their place, shimmering eerily under the house lights.

Alex grabbed Tyler’s arm. "We need to get out of here."

Tyler nodded, but before they could leave, the door to the backyard opened again—and this time, Coach Johnson stepped through. He, too, was wearing the black polo. His presence was commanding, and everyone turned toward him.

"Tyler," Coach Johnson called out, his voice smooth and authoritative. "It’s time for you to join the team."

Tyler’s blood ran cold. "I’m not doing this."

But then he saw them—two men standing behind Coach Johnson. He recognized them immediately—they were the brothers of two guys he had grown up with. And just like everyone else, they too were wearing the polos. The brothers’ expressions were calm, eerily serene.

Matt stepped closer, holding out a black polo with yellow details. "It’s inevitable, Ty. Put it on, and you’ll understand."

Alex looked at Tyler, his eyes filled with fear. "Tyler, don’t do it."

Tyler’s heart pounded in his chest. The black latex Fred Perry polo gleamed in Matt’s hands, and Coach Johnson stood nearby, watching Tyler with calm, knowing eyes. The parents behind Coach—men Tyler had known all his life—were wearing the same polos, their faces eerily serene. This wasn’t just about soccer anymore; this was something much bigger, much more terrifying.

Alex gripped Tyler’s arm tightly, his voice low but urgent. “Tyler, we have to get out of here. Now.”

But Tyler couldn’t move. His mind was racing, trying to piece everything together. Matt had been turned by Coach Johnson. His brother Luke had fallen into the same trap. And now it was spreading—through the neighborhood, through the town. What had once seemed like an innocent trend was now a full-blown takeover.

The air felt thick around him, the weight of expectation pressing down. Everyone at the party—the guys in their twenties, the parents, even his best friend—was looking at him, waiting for him to make the choice. And the polo... it was right there, just inches from his hands.

Matt’s voice broke the silence. “You don’t have to fight it, Ty. The polo will change everything. It’ll give you focus. Clarity. You’ll be part of something bigger than yourself.”

Tyler shook his head, trying to resist. “I don’t want that.”

But Matt’s expression softened, and for a moment, Tyler saw a flicker of the old Matt—the friend he had grown up with. “I thought the same thing at first. I didn’t understand it. But once I wore the polo, everything made sense. You’ll feel it too.”

Tyler’s eyes darted to Alex, who was still gripping his arm, silently pleading for them to leave. But as Tyler’s gaze swept the backyard, he realized something chilling: the exit was blocked. Two more guys in black polos were standing near the gate, their faces blank but watchful.

There was no way out.

“Tyler!” Coach Johnson’s voice boomed across the backyard, snapping Tyler back to attention. “It’s time to make a decision.”

Tyler’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just run—they were surrounded. And if he refused to wear the polo, what would happen? Would they force it on him? Would they make him like they had made Matt, Luke, and the others?

Alex’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Ty, we can’t stay here. We have to fight this.”

But Tyler was paralyzed. The weight of the polo in Matt’s hands seemed to pull him closer. The promise of focus, of clarity, of belonging—it was tempting, even though he knew it was wrong.

Coach Johnson stepped forward, his face calm, almost fatherly. “You’ve always been strong, Tyler. That’s why you’ve resisted this for so long. But strength doesn’t come from standing alone. It comes from being part of a team. And this... this is the ultimate team.”

Tyler’s mind flashed to his brother Luke—how different he had become since soccer practice, how distant but focused. And then he thought about Matt, who had always been the most laid-back guy he knew, now a willing servant of whatever force was behind this polo.

“I... I don’t want to be like this,” Tyler whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

Matt stepped closer, holding out the polo. “You won’t lose who you are, Ty. You’ll just... be better. You’ll understand.”

Alex pulled Tyler back a step, his voice rising. “No! This isn’t you, Tyler. You’re stronger than this!”

But as Alex spoke, Coach Johnson’s eyes narrowed. He gestured to one of the guys standing near the gate, who moved silently toward Alex, grabbing his arm and twisting him around. Alex yelped in pain, and before Tyler could react, the guy pulled a folded black polo from his jacket and shoved it toward Alex.

“No!” Tyler shouted, moving to intervene, but it was too late.

In a swift, practiced motion, Alex was forced to his knees as the polo was yanked over his head. The black latex gleamed in the moonlight, and Tyler watched in horror as Alex’s expression changed. The panic in his eyes faded, replaced by a calm, almost empty look. The transformation was fast, brutal.

When Alex stood up again, he was different. His eyes no longer held that spark of rebellion. Instead, they were distant, calm, and focused—just like everyone else’s.

“Tyler,” Alex said softly, his voice flat, emotionless. “You should put it on.”

Tyler’s heart sank. His last ally was gone, taken by the same force that had claimed so many others. Now, there was no one left to fight alongside him.

Coach Johnson stepped forward again, his expression unreadable. “There’s no need to fight anymore, Tyler. The polo is waiting for you. Once you wear it, everything will fall into place. You’ll be part of the team.”

Matt smiled, holding out the shirt one final time.

Tyler’s hands shook. He could feel the pressure building, the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. There was no way out, no one left to help him. The polo felt inevitable.

But just as he reached out to take it, a memory flashed in his mind—a memory of him and Luke playing soccer in the backyard as kids, before everything had changed. They had always been a team, but it had been on their terms. This... this wasn’t a team. It was control.

Tyler took a deep breath. “I won’t do it,” he said quietly.

Matt’s smile faltered. “Ty, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not putting it on,” Tyler repeated, louder this time.

Coach Johnson’s eyes darkened. “You don’t have a choice.”

But Tyler took a step back, refusing to take the polo. “Yes, I do.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The air was thick with tension, and Tyler could feel the weight of his decision pressing down on him. But he stood firm.

Coach Johnson’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well.”

And with that, he gave a curt nod to the two men by the gate. They moved toward Tyler, fast and efficient, ready to force the transformation on him.

But before they could reach him, Tyler bolted. He ran through the crowd, pushing past the guys in black polos, ignoring the shocked gasps and protests. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he had to get out.

Alex, now with his hair slicked back, was ready to find his best friend and make him join them forever.

Tyler’s feet pounded against the pavement as he sprinted down the street, the cool night air filling his lungs. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of the transformed, but he didn’t look back. His only thought was escape.

He ran and ran until the sounds of pursuit faded into the distance. Only then did he stop, gasping for breath. He was alone, in the middle of a quiet, empty street.

For now, he had escaped. But Tyler knew it wasn’t over. The black polo was everywhere—spreading through the town like wildfire. And sooner or later, they would come for him again.

Tyler sprinted down the empty suburban street, his heart pounding as he put more distance between himself and the house. His mind raced with fear and confusion—his friends, his neighbors, everyone he knew was falling under the influence of those black Fred Perry polos. But he couldn’t stop, not now.

Just as he rounded a corner and ducked behind a row of parked cars to catch his breath, his phone buzzed. He fumbled for it, seeing Zach’s name on the screen. Surprised but relieved, he answered quickly.

“Zach?” Tyler whispered, glancing around to make sure he was alone. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

There was a shaky intake of breath on the other end. “Tyler… man, I don’t know what’s happening,” Zach whispered, his voice quivering with fear. “My dad… he’s changed. Just like everyone else. He keeps telling me I need to put on the polo, that it’ll make everything better.”

Tyler felt a chill run down his spine. “Zach, listen to me. You have to get out of there. Don’t let him make you put it on. They’re all… they’re not themselves anymore. We have to get somewhere safe.”

There was a rustling sound on the line, and Zach’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “I know, I’m trying. I’ve been hiding in my room, but he won’t stop. He keeps knocking on the door, saying it’s for my own good. Ty, I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”

Tyler’s pulse quickened. “Can you make it to the soccer fields? It’s abandoned; no one will look for us there.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Zach replied, “Okay… I’ll try. Just—wait, no! No, Dad, don’t—”

Suddenly, there was a muffled scuffle on the other end of the line, followed by Zach’s voice calling out, “No! I don’t want it! I don’t—” And then the call went silent.

Tyler stared at his phone, his heart hammering as dread washed over him. Zach was, just like his brother Troy, gone. Their father was pleased.

Tyler sprinted down the dark streets, adrenaline pushing him forward. His heart pounded as he turned corner after corner, his mind racing. He knew they were close, and he had no choice but to keep running. The voices of the transformed echoed faintly behind him, calling his name, urging him to stop fighting.

He needed somewhere to hide—somewhere he could catch his breath, think, and maybe even find a way to fight back.

Before he knew it, he found himself at the edge of the familiar soccer field where Luke had practiced countless times. The field was empty now, the bleachers casting long shadows under the moonlight. But Tyler couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, of something lurking beneath the surface. He spotted the locker room building near the bleachers and made a break for it, slipping inside and quietly closing the door behind him.

The air inside the locker room was thick and heavy, carrying a distinct, musky scent. Tyler wrinkled his nose, trying to ignore it as he moved deeper into the room. But the smell only intensified as he walked further, and he soon realized the source: dozens of black Fred Perry polos, identical to the ones he had seen at the party, were hanging on racks along the walls. Their yellow details caught the dim light, creating an almost hypnotic effect as they swayed slightly.

The faint hum of a ceiling fan was the only sound as he pushed the door open of coach his office. Inside, the room was dark, illuminated only by a small desk lamp casting a pool of light over the cluttered desk. Tyler’s gaze fell on a stack of papers and a checklist lying on top, each item written in Coach’s neat, meticulous handwriting.

Turn Matt. 2. Turn Alex. 3. Lure Tyler to the soccer fields. 4. Trap Tyler. 5. Turn Tyler.

The final line sat unchecked, standing out in a haunting way. Tyler’s chest tightened as he realized this was more than a casual plan—Coach had orchestrated everything.

He took a slow step forward, drawn to the wall on the far side of the room. It was covered with framed photos, each one spotlighting different moments and faces. His eyes widened as he recognized the faces in the photos. There was Luke, his brother, standing proudly in a black Fred Perry polo with yellow details, his face calm and focused. Below Luke’s photo was a small label, handwritten in bold letters: Polo Drone 088.

Tyler’s breath hitched as he scanned the other photos. There was Matt, Alex, and others from the soccer team, all wearing the same polo with the same serene, almost detached expressions. In the center of it all, a larger framed photo of Coach Johnson (Polo Drone 001) stared back at him, his gaze intense and commanding. Tyler could feel the weight of Coach’s stare, as if it reached out from the photo, binding him in place.

The room was completely silent, and he felt both comforted and unnerved by the eerie calm. He crouched down behind a row of lockers, breathing deeply as he tried to steady himself. But each breath filled his lungs with the overwhelming musk from the polos, a heady, almost intoxicating scent that made his mind feel hazy.

Tyler’s head began to swim, the scent sinking deeper into his senses. He knew he needed to stay alert, to keep his guard up, but his resistance was slipping with each breath he took. His heart still pounded, but it was slower now, his thoughts beginning to drift. The scent was comforting, reassuring, like a gentle voice telling him everything would be alright if he just… gave in.

He tried to shake his head, to clear his mind, but it only seemed to make the pull of the polos stronger. His gaze drifted to the neatly arranged rows, their soft fabric glinting faintly in the low light, calling to him.

“It would be so easy,” a voice in his mind whispered. “Just one step, and all the running, all the fear, would go away.”

Tyler shook his head again, trying to resist. But his hands seemed to move on their own, reaching out toward one of the polos hanging on the nearest rack. The fabric felt cool under his fingertips, and a strange sense of calm washed over him as he held it in his hands.

He brought the polo closer, his mind growing hazier as the musky scent became overpowering. His grip tightened, the soft fabric pulling him in, his fingers tracing the yellow details almost instinctively.

The room felt warmer now, the silence enveloping him like a blanket. Tyler’s resistance faded with each passing moment, the familiar scent and the feel of the polo overpowering his senses. It was as if the shirt itself was speaking to him, urging him to embrace the calm, the unity it promised.

As if in a trance, Tyler slowly slipped the polo over his head. The moment it touched his skin, he felt a strange peace settle over him, his thoughts quieting, his body relaxing as if it had found its purpose. The musky scent filled his lungs, grounding him, connecting him to something greater.

He looked down at himself, at the shiny black polo that now clung to his body. The yellow details gleamed in the dim light, and his fingers brushed over the fabric, feeling a sense of pride he couldn’t explain.

His mind was empty, his fear gone, replaced by the steady, calm focus he had seen in his brother, in Matt, and in Alex. He was no longer Tyler, the one who resisted. He was part of something bigger now, something that filled him with purpose.

As he stepped out of the locker room, his movements were calm, controlled, each step aligning with the rhythm of the voices that had once chased him. Now, he was one of them, ready to bring others into the fold.

The night felt different now. The world around Tyler was still, serene, as he walked back toward his house. The familiar streetlights cast a faint glow on the shiny black Fred Perry polo he now wore, its yellow accents catching the light in a way that felt almost otherworldly. Tyler moved with calm purpose, the faint, lingering musk from the locker room grounding him with each step.

When he reached the doorstep of his home, he paused, taking a slow breath as he felt a sense of clarity wash over him. Everything had fallen into place.

Inside, the house was quiet, the soft glow from a single lamp spilling into the hall. Tyler made his way toward the living room, where he found his brother, Luke, sitting calmly on the couch. Luke looked up, his gaze unwavering, his own polo a perfect match to Tyler’s.

“Welcome home, Ty,” Luke said, his tone warm but calm, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

Tyler moved to sit beside his brother, feeling a strange sense of peace. The resistance, the confusion, all of it felt like a distant memory, replaced by the quiet purpose they now shared.

They sat in silence, basking in their newfound unity. After a few moments, Luke’s gaze drifted toward the hallway closet, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

“We’re almost complete now,” he murmured. “Coach said there’s always room for more.”

Tyler’s gaze followed his brother’s, and there, nestled in the back of the closet, he noticed three neatly folded black polos, each one identical to theirs, the yellow accents gleaming softly under the light.

Their father’s voice sounded from upstairs, a hint of curiosity in his tone. “Tyler? Luke? Is that you boys?”

Tyler and Luke exchanged a knowing look, their smiles widening ever so slightly. They both rose from the couch, moving with quiet, steady steps toward the hallway closet, each of them taking a polo from the pile.

The house was silent as they made their way up the stairs, their expressions calm, their purpose clear.

And as they disappeared into the shadows of the hallway, the last light in the house went out, leaving only the faint scent of musk lingering in the air.

[polo-drone-055]

The Golden Army meets The Polo Drones: Part 2

Written at the command of and in collaboration with @hypnogold

Christian, the recently recruited wingback wearing #55 for the Golden Army went to the Pulse nightclub to let off steam.

His first match with the Golden Army, a few weeks ago, did not go well. Trying to hide his insecurity he planned to show the team all his skills and prowess, thereby proving his worth. Instead the team lost the match to their rivals, the Silver, because of him. Christian stayed up too often, despite his Captains instructions, allowing space out wide for the opposing team to fill and score. He felt horrible for letting his Bros down. They however rallied around him, told him to shake it off, and have been encouraging him.

The press and fans however were not as kind. The headlines were devastating. “Christian is worthless!” “Sack #55!" “This guy is crap!” At matches the fans threw beer, food, drinks and all sorts of stuff at him. When out about the city he was cursed at. There was no peace except when alone with his Bros who were always providing long deep hugs of support and encouragement.

In middle of a particularly brutal day his captain Richard calls asking if he wants to go out for a drink and talk. They arrange to meet that night at Club Fusion.

Christian arrives first walking straight past security paying them no attention.

Looking around the club Christian sees no sign of Richard and heads to the bar and has a few brews, all the while beating himself up for being a jerk. Internalizing all the crap that is being thrown at him.

“Hey Bro, here you are” says Richard haltingly hitting Christian on his shoulders and flashing a big smile.

“Yo Cap! I was worried you weren’t coming. Whose this with you?”

After a brief pause and without emotion: “A new mate I’ve brought on to help us become more focused, intense, and synchronized”

“Woe” says Christian rubbing his eyes and staring at Cap’s mate. “I think I need to lay off. I swear you were just wearing our club jersey.”

Christian’s gold spiral emerges in his eyes as Cap comes closer gently embracing him and beginning to lead him through the club while now wearing a glossy, almost rubbery or latex-like black Fred Perry, buttoned to the top, polo with distinctive yellow details including a laurel wreath embroidered on the chest.

“We will help you. We have a purpose.” Cap says robotically. “We are one. We will make the team one. We will win. We will be more focused, more intense, more synchronized.”

The gold in Christian’s eyes is drawn to all the yellow gold on Richard’s black polo. Christian and the gold begin to internalize the belief that all is not lost. They can win. They can be focused. They can be a team working as one. Gold wants this, no needs this!

Richard and the other polo drone have unbeknownst to him led Christian to a smoke filled back room of the club with similarly dressed men wearing gas masks.

The smoke has a musky, sweet, intoxicating smell to it. Both Richard and Christian’s heads swoon. Becoming lost in a daze, they hear in their minds and begin repeating: “We will improve. We will grow. We will defeat.” “We are one.” “We obey. We serve.” The two drones in the room approach Christian and gently lift his arms removing his jersey and replace it with the polo. As it assimilates Christian the gold voluntarily relinquishes hold and allows itself to become one with the collective. Christiangold55 is no more.

The scientific drones then place gas masks on the former Richard who was known among the gold as Hypnogold and Christian who was known as Christiangold55.

The musky, sweet smell is now more concentrated and pumped directly into the recruits. The new drones are led into another room to continue being assimilated and processed. All the while the two drone on “We will improve. We will grow. We will defeat. We are one. We obey. We serve.”

Along with the other drones absorbed in the club that day and night the Captain and Wingback of the Golden Army internalize their new identities and await their commands.

The next morning Polo-Drone-012 and Polo-Drone-055 head to the stadium.

As they approach the field their Golden Army kits reemerge.

Entering the dressing room Cap with an intensity and focus not seen before announces to the team :

“Bros it’s time to train. We will improve, We will be in sync. We will conquer!! Let’s get to it!"

[uter-us]

this sunday, it was dissapointing to see how easy it was for the boys to run around and get their energy out outside, but for the little toddler girls in impractical frilly puffy dresses and impractical shoes, it's an obstacle for their play.

the girls', clothes are made to be seen in as opposed to being made to be worn, unlike the boys which are still nice for easter but they dont have to trip over the edge of a skirt or dress, or have their shoes fall off or pinch their toes when running, they can move and play freely.

it's a problem too cuz when toddlers don't get that energy out, they get irritable and pitch fits, so then the boys look like easy kids, and the girls difficult. let the girls run around!

female subjugation starts from birth. these girls are praised for being beautiful in their dresses, while also learning they cannot play in them. this correlation will not be lost on them especially as they grow up. "If i want positive attention from the important people in my life (like my congregation), this is what i do." the whole "beauty is pain" narrative, while not incorrect, is often viewed as normal and a justified fact of life, like "beauty IS pain and thats just how it is! oh the things us women go through to look pretty haha!". stop teaching girls that their beauty is WORTH pain, because it's not! they should never sacrifice to look attractive.

if half the congression can dress both formal and practical, so can the other half. don't handcuff little girls to femininity at the cost of their happiness and energy and play.