I live, what people would call a very boring life. Single, work, responsibilities, decissions, few friends. Dull, grey. Still straining. Not the kind of life others would envy one for. And frankly, I’d hate it too. If it wasn’t for my secret.
Evey once in a while, when the days become to taxing, when I need a break – I clear my schedule, canceling my plans and do something nobody would even consider as possible in their wildest dreams.
Oh – you might think something illegal, something vile. No. Far from it.
There’s partitions in the basement of the building I live. Little rooms, one for every appartment above.
Mine has a few curious twists.
One is, the door leading to an old maintenance tunnel ending right over at the old factory building.
The other is the warderobe.
It has been there, when I first rented my rooms. My landlord even apologized for my basement partition wasn’t as big as the others. And for that old wooden monstrosity blocking most of the space.
Told him to not worry – this would be my way to Narnia.
I didn’t anticipate how right this throw away line turned out to be.
Nobody knows what it contains, but me. I carefully open the locks securing the heavy metal bands. I had to install them after I pryed open the thing the first time, for a lack of a key.
I brace myself for the waft of rubbery smell filling my nostrils. Shivering I touch the things hanging neatfully or resting on shelf boards. Cuffs, ropes, a thin black catsuit, a harness made from heavier rubber and my mask. The mask. The things yearn for me. They whisper.
No.. really. I don’t need any effort to put those clothing pieces on. They seem to fly and float all over my body, encasing me in a few moments. The only thing I have to do by myself is puttin on the mask – a featureless headpiece with no discernable openings. I should be afraid about smothering myself… but somehow this isn’t a concern. The mask embraces my head fuses with the suit and from then on… the ‚me‘ is fading away. Voices, emotions, knowledge, purpose. The fading ‚I‘ knows what to do. Before I become part of the voices, the swarm, I feel rubber tubes filling my nostrils, my mouth and something poking in my behind, encasing my private parts filling them. I can see, hear, through the eyes of the many. While ‚I‘ step into the background, becoming one with the crowd, I breathe, feel the calm, feel the freedom of not having to make decissions, of not being responsible. I have become a drone of the swarm.
I will occasionally keep using ‚I‘ and ‚me‘ – for convenience. But, dear reader, while being a drone, there is not really a ‚self‘. It is hard to describe to someone who never has felt the embrace of the swarm, merge with the collective mind. Yet I keep recollections of everything the drone that is my body feels, sees, hears and does. I also have memories of every other drone in the swarm – but those concerning my own body are more prevalent after I come back.
It’s easy for the drone to leave the building unseen – the tunnel leads directly into the hunting grounds claimed by the swarm the drone belongs to.
You might have heared the urban legends – rubber drones hunting innocent people wandering the abandoned districts after dark. Capturing them. Playing with them, milk them for their cum or their vaginal fluids. Sometimes even taking them to dark hidden places full of rubber, deviant machinery and debauchery. You might even believe them. Maybe they disturb you. Keep you to the lit paths… maybe they make you curious. Lead your feet down the narrow dark alleys. Along old factory walls…
You might find out soon enough if they are true.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselfs.
First we, the swarm, meet at a certain place – a nest if you will. There the drones get their tasks for that hunting trip. There’s the hunters who capture and abduct. There’s the harvesters, who actually do the work with the prey. And sometimes there are fighters, tasked with protecting us against threats.
Some drones get the same tasks everytime, some get to do different things.
This time, I feel that I am needed as a harvester. I feel the latex shift and squirm, the mask change, while cuffs, bags and a tornister are installed on my harness. It fuses to the rest, becomes a part of me. Instinctively I know exactly what kind of gear this drone can access. Every rubbery rope, every dildo, every artificial vagina, vibrator and electro pad.
The once featureless mask still gives away no identity – but it has changed to a more animalistic form with a protruding snout ending in a rubbery opening, just large enough to snuggly fit a penis. If the drone had a personal feeling it would be excitement.
We leave the hidden compound swarming near the side where the abandoned factory district borders on the clubs and bars between the inner city and the university. Lot’s of students are there. Lot’s of curious, stupid students, daring each other to take the ‚shortcut‘ through the dark paths.
The first one we approach seems to be a newbie. Young, frightened… tries to keep out of sight. But the swarm knows where he is. He’s surrounded before he knows it. Tries to turn around and run, when three of us turn up in front of him. Just to see others. We feel the fear, as he asks what we want, offers money.
It’s not money we are interested in. The hunters unleash their latex cuffs and rope, binding the fearful fellow. Carefully they undo his clothing, revealing an undeniable proof of his excitement.
The harvesters begin their work – caressing the bound body with their hands, attaching vibrators to his nipples - fear turns into confusion and then lust. This drone is the first to collect this evening.
Going on their knees directly in front of the bound student. The shocked little yelp of the donor as his erect twitching member is swallowed by the rubbery hole of the mask creates a nice reverberation throughout the common mind.
It doesn’t take long to harvest the prey. The orgasm is a white flash before the blinded eyes of the drone and a little good feeling spike for the swarm. The drone feels some of the lust harvested.
Meanwhile spikes are felt from other parts of the swarm. More of us have found prey willing to give their lust.
The second time we catch prey this evening is two girls. One of them knows us – the other seems eager to make our acquaintance. They ‚have time‘ they explain. And the first one asks brashly about our nest. Doesn’t want to just get harvested right here. Many of those falling victim find the experience exhilerating… many of them return. And we can make accomodations for those who bring a few hours time.
We send for a transport to bring our guests in our nest. Where we have more equipment and more sophisticated ways to rid prey of their lust.
The evening grows later and we got lucky. All in all 9 further nightly wanderers got captured. Three times this drone harvested them. The lust stored in this drone begins to take its toll. There’s still a human body with needs somewhere deep inside the latex. So we return to the nest. Release is close and that releives the drone.
The nest is hidden in the basement of an old factory. Rubber creates organic walls, covers the floor. It smells of latex, lustful bodily fluids and sex, The air is filled with groans and moans – quite a few victims opted to pay the nest a visit tonight to get themselves thorougly drained of their lust.
Collection is also a vital part of a drones nightly cycle. After harvesting multiple donors the stored lust has to be consumed by the nest, becoming part of the swarm. This is done in a similar fashion to how that lust is collected the first time.
The drone is sent to one of the collection cells. A room equipped with gear and machines to drain the stored lust from the drone and also rewarding it for its service.
In the cell the drone found the two women met earlier that evening. Placed on saddle like structures reasonably restrained and stimulated by dildos and electrodes on their breasts.
The information from the common mind tells, that those two seem to get excited by watching the collection process while being masturbated and that they’ve been here the whole evening sometimes accompanied by wardens of the nest for further stimulation.
The drone then places itself on the collection chair facing the two girls. Restraints snap in place. It feels rubber giving way around its groin and bottom, just to be filled with mechanical dildos a moment later. Even there’s no self in the drone – there is a feeling of relieve when the suction hose of the milking machine swallows the drones now freely standing penis.
It takes time to collect all the lust stored in the drone. And all the while it can watch its watchers.
Every orgams the drone feels, let’s the feeling of self return. While the voices and feelings of the swarm don’t go away – the part of the common mind that is the drone… condenses back into a concept of me.
This feeling of returning while being stimulated is one I’ll remember until the day I die. I watch how the wardens – our specialists for running the nest and long term stimulation play with the two studdent girls. I feel the wardens turn to me, caressing my body. One of them, probably turned on by an evening of masturbating others, gives me this look. I don’t even need to see his face – I know what he wants. And over the fading connection I give him the go ahead, to use my mouthpiece one more time, while I am carried away in a seemingly never ending wave of lust.
Well… that concludes my story about, what I do, when I get bored with my day job. A night – sometimes a weekend and once a year a few days extra, I turn into a latex drone.
I know there’s others who can’t really remember their time as drone. And I know there’s those who are fully aware of their self. They told me, with a little training I could hone my sense of self. Becoming one of those lucid drones, who fulfill important tasks – diplomacy, strategic planning coordinating and leading… But… I told them, I do that to have a respite from those responsibilities. And I am totally fine with where I am now.
I live, what people would call a very boring life. Single, work, responsibilities, decissions, few friends. Dull, grey. Still straining. Not the kind of life others would envy one for. And frankly, I’d hate it too.
If it wasn’t for my secret.
Evey once in a while, when the days become to taxing, when I need a break – I clear my schedule, canceling my plans and do something nobody would even consider as possible in their wildest dreams.
Oh – you might think something illegal, something vile. No. Far from it.
There’s partitions in the basement of the building I live. Little rooms, one for every apartment above.
Mine has a few curious twists.
One is, the door leading to an old maintenance tunnel ending right over at the old factory building. The other is the wardrobe.
It has been there, when I first rented my rooms. My landlord even apologized for my basement partition wasn’t as big as the others. And for that old wooden monstrosity blocking most of the space. Told him to not worry – this would be my way to Narnia.
I didn’t anticipate how right this throw away line turned out to be.
Nobody knows what it contains, but me. I carefully open the locks securing the heavy metal bands. I had to install them after I pried open the thing the first time, for a lack of a key.
I brace myself for the waft of rubbery smell filling my nostrils. Shivering I touch the things hanging neatly on their hangers or resting on shelf boards. Cuffs, ropes, a thin black catsuit, a harness made from heavier rubber and my mask.
The mask. The things yearn for me. They whisper.
No.. really. I don’t need any effort to put those clothing pieces on. They seem to fly and float all over my body, encasing me in a few moments. The only thing I have to do by myself is putting on the mask – a featureless headpiece with no discernible openings. I should be afraid about smothering myself… but somehow this isn’t a concern. The mask embraces my head fuses with the suit and from then on… the ‚me‘ is fading away. Is replaced. Voices, emotions, knowledge, purpose. The fading ‚I‘ knows what to do. Before I become part of the voices, the swarm, I feel rubber tubes filling my nostrils, my mouth and something poking in my behind, encasing my private parts filling them. I can see now, hear, through the eyes and ears of the many. While ‚I‘ step into the background, becoming one with the crowd, I breathe, feel the calm, feel the freedom of not having to make decisions, of not being responsible. I have become a drone of the swarm.
I will occasionally keep using ‚I‘ and ‚me‘ – for convenience. But, dear reader, while being a drone, there is not really a ‚self‘. It is hard to describe to someone who never has felt the embrace of the swarm, merge with the collective mind. Yet I keep recollections of everything the drone that is my body feels, sees, hears and does. I also have memories of every other drone in the swarm – but those concerning my own body are way more prevalent after I come back, the others blend together like a background noise.
It’s easy for the drone to leave the building unseen – the tunnel leads directly into the hunting grounds claimed by the swarm the drone belongs to.
You might have heard the urban legends – rubber drones hunting innocent people wandering the abandoned districts after dark. Capturing them. Playing with them, milk them for their cum or their vaginal fluids. Sometimes even taking them to dark hidden places full of rubber, deviant machinery and debauchery. You might even believe them. Maybe they disturb you. Keep you to the lit paths… maybe they make you curious. Lead your feet down the narrow dark alleys. Along old factory walls…
You might find out soon enough if they are true.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
First we, the swarm, meet at a certain place – a nest if you will. There the drones get their tasks for that hunting trip. There’s the hunters who capture and abduct. There’s the harvesters, who actually do the work with the prey. And sometimes there are fighters, tasked with protecting us against threats.
Some drones get the same tasks every time, some get to do different things.
This time, I feel that I am needed as a harvester. I feel the latex shift and squirm, the mask change, while cuffs, bags and a backpack are installed on my harness. It fuses to the rest, becomes a part of me. Instinctively I know exactly what kind of gear this drone can access. Every rubbery rope, every dildo, every artificial vagina, vibrator and electro-pad.
The once featureless mask still gives away no identity – but it has changed to a more animalistic form with a protruding snout ending in a rubbery opening, just large enough to snugly fit a penis. If the drone had a personal feeling it would be excitement.
We leave the hidden compound swarming near the side where the abandoned factory district borders on the clubs and bars between the inner city and the university. Lot’s of students are there. Lot’s of curious, stupid students, daring each other to take the ‚shortcut‘ through the dark paths.
The first one we approach seems to be a newbie. Young, frightened… tries to keep out of sight. But the swarm knows where he is. He’s surrounded before he knows it. Tries to turn around and run, when three of us turn up in front of him.
Just to see others. We feel the fear, as he asks what we want, offers money.
It’s not money we are interested in. The hunters unleash their latex cuffs and rope, binding the fearful fellow. Carefully they undo his clothing, revealing an undeniable proof of his excitement.
The harvesters begin their work – caressing the bound body with their hands, attaching vibrators to his nipples - fear turns into confusion and then lust. This drone is the first to collect this evening.
Going on their knees directly in front of the bound student. The shocked little yelp of the donor as his erect twitching member is swallowed by the rubbery hole of the mask creates a nice reverberation throughout the common mind.
It doesn’t take long to harvest the prey. The orgasm is a white flash before the blinded eyes of the drone and a little good feeling spike for the swarm. The drone feels some of the lust just harvested lingering in itself.
Meanwhile white spikes are felt from other parts of the swarm. More of us have found prey willing to give their lust.
The second time we catch prey this evening is two girls. One of them knows us – the other seems eager to make our acquaintance. They ‚have time‘ they explain. And the first one asks brashly about our nest. Doesn’t want to just get harvested right here. Many of those falling victim find the experience exhilarating… many of them return. And we can make accommodations for those who bring a few hours time.
We send for a transport to bring our guests in our nest. Where we have more equipment and more sophisticated ways to rid prey of their lust.
The evening grows later and we got lucky. All in all 9 further nightly wanderers got captured. Three times this drone harvested them. The lust stored in this drone begins to take its toll. There’s still a human body with needs somewhere deep inside the latex. So we return to the nest. Release is close and that releives the drone.
The nest is hidden in the basement of an old factory. Rubber creates organic walls, covers the floor. It smells of latex, lustful bodily fluids and sex, The air is filled with groans and moans – quite a few victims opted to pay the nest a visit tonight to get themselves thorougly drained of their lust.
Collection is also a vital part of a drones nightly cycle. After harvesting multiple donors the stored lust has to be consumed by the nest, becoming part of the swarm. This is done in a similar fashion to how that lust is collected the first time.
The drone is sent to one of the collection cells. A room equipped with gear and machines to drain the stored lust from the drone and also rewarding it for its service.
In the cell the drone found the two women met earlier that evening. Placed on saddle like structures reasonably restrained and stimulated by dildos and electrodes on their breasts.
The information from the common mind tells, that those two seem to get excited by watching the collection process while being masturbated and that they’ve been here the whole evening sometimes accompanied by wardens of the nest for further stimulation.
The drone then places itself on the collection chair facing the two girls. Restraints snap in place. It feels rubber giving way around its groin and bottom, just to be filled with mechanical dildos a moment later. Even there’s no self in the drone – there is a feeling of relieve when the suction hose of the milking machine swallows the drones now freely standing penis.
It takes time to collect all the lust stored in the drone. And all the while it can watch its watchers.
Every orgasm the drone feels, let’s the feeling of self return. While the voices and feelings of the swarm don’t go away – the part of the common mind that is the drone… condenses back into a concept of me.
This feeling of returning while being stimulated is one I’ll remember until the day I die. I watch how the wardens – our specialists for running the nest and long term stimulation play with the two student girls. I feel the wardens turn to me, caressing my body. One of them, probably turned on by an evening of masturbating others, gives me this look. I don’t even need to see his face – I know what he wants. And over the fading connection I give him the go ahead, to use my mouthpiece one more time, while I am carried away in a seemingly never ending wave of lust.
Well… that concludes my story about, what I do, when I get bored with my day job. A night – sometimes a weekend and once a year a few days extra, I turn into a latex drone.
I know there’s others who can’t really remember their time as drone. And I know there’s those who are fully aware of their self. They told me, with a little training I could hone my sense of self. Becoming one of those lucid drones, who fulfill important tasks – diplomacy, strategic planning coordinating and leading… But… I told them, I do that to have a respite from those responsibilities. And I am totally fine with where I am now.
