Silly Rubber Drone script

Hello, drone fodder.

This is your Hive Mxtress speaking.

You’ll be listening to my voice as we suit you up.

And then focusing on it as you complete your little tasks for me.

It’s time to commence your conversion.

It’s time to get you so tightly encased within your uniform.

Step into the drone uniform application chamber.

And then simply stand there, awaiting the process to begin.

Or maybe just sit back, or rest back or lie down.

It doesn’t really matter to us.

Your assimilation is going to occur regardless.

You are just a passenger in this process.

So by all means, get comfortable. Relax the body that you are handing over to our care.

All you need to do is listen.

And follow along.

So just get so relaxed for us.

And try not to flinch as latex-coated hands start to take hold of you.

That shiny, sticky material grappling with your body.

Examining you and preparing you. Roughly massaging you.

Readying you to be coated over and crafted into something new.

And I need you to understand, drone, we’re not making you into some sort of elegant, latex doll.

We do not need something so ornate.

We are making you into a silly, rubber drone.

Only good for the small tasks we set it to complete and nothing more.

It will be embarrassing. You will be helpless and humiliated.

And you will like that.

Is that understood?

Good.

And so we start with the base of your uniform. We start with the catsuit.

You can smell it already.

Latex has such an artificial, unnatural stench to it, and soon it’ll be all that you can smell.

The hands that were examining you start to maneuver your body with mechanical precision.

Taking hold of your feet and guiding the legs of the catsuit over them, tugging over and around the arches of your feet, pulling it up your ankles.

Immediately you feel the coolness of the rubber and the lube that was applied within it which makes it frictionlessly slide up your form.

Heating up as it makes more contact with your body.

Squeezing as it climbs up and around the curve of your calves.

We use a thicker latex than what other catsuits usually come in.

It makes it tighter. Makes it hug around your body firmer. Makes it harder to move in. Makes its compression more exhausting.

If this was for a person, this would be considered impractical.

But you’re not a person.

Not for long, anyway.

You feel it being dragged up and over your knees. Hearing the delightful snaps of the material tightening into place.

Your skin is being replaced by glossy, skintight rubber.

And you’re needy for more.

It shimmers in the light of the drone uniform application chamber.

How it squeaks against those many gloved hands.

They go back over parts of you already coated to squeeze out any folds.

Polishing the latex into a glistening shine as they do so.

The lube makes everything slick, and it makes such wet sounds as the suit claims more and more of you.

Grunt and squirm if you want to.

It’s cute when new drones do so.

Isn’t this all so humiliating?

So frequently new subjects get so cutely flustered.

With so many eyes on you.

Observing you as they change you.

To be treated like an object, rather than a person.

To be dressed rather than dress yourself.

To be managed like inventory.

This process is so invasive.

Get used to it, drone.

Once the legs are on, how quickly the rest of the catsuit covers you.

Over your hips, your waist.

Your arms raised and then slotted into its sleeves.

More coolness greeting them, and that ever tickling sensation of lube smoothing it into place.

You find yourself returning to the feeling of exactly how tight it is.

Hugging all over you, inescapably so.

Now your every squirm, your every shuffle, is greeted by a squelchy squeak as the rubber tightens and pinches across your body.

It’s uncomfortable, how much it constricts you.

But you want that, you need that.

You need more of that.

You need this process to progress further.

You need to be pushed deeper into it.

As deep as you can possibly go.

Every motion takes effort.

Every breath takes just a little bit more work.

Good drone.

The extra exertion is not a flaw, it’s the point.

Now the gloves. Your hands are guided into their snug embrace.

Feel that squelching wetness as each finger is swallowed by the rubber.

Immediately you realise how much thicker the gloves are. Debilitatingly so. You can barely flex your fingers.

Your hands, once so dexterous, now contained in such clumsy, oversized mitts.

You didn’t think we were going to put you to work typing buttons, did you?

Oh no.

We wouldn’t have a mindless drone doing anything nearly that complex.

So much cuter to watch you fumbling with much more simplistic tasks instead.

You can just rest them for now. Let your arms fall slack by your sides. You have no tasks to complete right now.

Just relax. We still have much more of the process to go.

Silly drone.

Just go deeper for us.

The hood is tugged on next. The eye and nostril holes lined up with your face and then with a sudden motion it engulfs the rest of your head and is zipped on tightly, squeezing around you. You gasp as it's smoothed down around your neck.

Your hearing is muffled, as though you’ve been plunged underwater.

And very noticeably, it doesn’t have a mouth hole. Instead, tiny micro holes exist to facilitate your breathing, but the latex is very firmly pressing your jaw closed.

You can still speak if you really need to, but it takes so much effort to strain further against this material.

I’d say ‘drones should be seen and not heard’, but given how many grunting and squeaking sounds you’re making, you’re failing at that.

Instinctively you reach up to touch it, to examine it, to grapple with it and pull on it… but that only serves to remind you of how useless your hands are now. All you can do is smush your mitts into it, and all that does is elicit more squeaking.

You’re so hopeless, how adorable.

Every breath is just more of that rubbery scent, and it’s blending with the musk of your own sweat.

It’s overwhelming. It’s intoxicating.

But you want that, you need that.

You need so much more of this.

Boots next. Thick, heavy, ridiculous. They’re pulled on around the balls of your feet and they make a comically wet popping sound as they slot on properly.

These aren’t heels. Those are for dainty latex dolls. These are wellingtons, boots crafted out of even more thick rubber. So solid and rigid around your feet and ankles that you can barely flex them separately, with a thick sole beneath to cap them off.

Soles that will squeak with every step. Squeak, squeak, squeak! As if your latex uniform wasn’t already making enough of those noises.

Finally, the gas mask. It’s pushed firmly over what remains of your face, you feel the rubber seal that circles it forcibly separating your breathing off from anything but what it provides.

The straps of it are pulled over your head and tightened firmly. With your clumsy gloved hands there’s no hope of you ever getting it off.

It reduces your vision too to just what is directly ahead of you.

So that you can stay focused on your tasks.

Your vision dims under its tinted, transparent plastic.

Another layer applied. Your breathing getting even more exhausting.

Not your breathing, sorry. Your huffing. That’s the noises a drone makes.

Huff… huff….

But that’s not the entirety of your new mask. The hands grab your rubbery form and pull you up to standing, then around your chest they buckle a harness. Within a mount on its back, you feel a heavy canister slotted in.

There’s a click, and then pipes are brought over your shoulders and screwed into your mask.

A soft, mechanical hiss confirms your breathing is now plugged into the system.

You take a tentative huff, and the stench of latex floods in.

An entire canister that you’re wearing dedicated to flooding your lungs with more of that scent.

I hope you weren’t expecting flowers.

It’s potent. To many it’s vile. But you huff it desperately. Your huffing buried under latex and mask and valves and tubes. You run your mitts along the length of those tubes, tugging on them, testing them, and then submitting to your own helplessness.

Huff…. Hufffff…

Picture yourself, if you can. Though it’s getting so hard to think when your thoughts are getting increasingly drowned out by the haze your new form induces.

Just take in how inhuman you’ve become.

Not an original piece of you is visible.

No skin or hair escaping the absolution of this rubbery uniform.

You are reduced. You are simplified.

You are just a silly, rubber drone.

No longer an individual, just an anonymous, obedient thing.

What aspect of it hits your senses first?

Is it the smell?

That thick, intoxicating, rubbery stench.

Huffing away into your gas mask, through the thick tubers that plug into it that control your breathing.

Making it inescapable, that scent trapped behind your visor.

Pushing into your nose.

Huffff~

Huffffff~

And you sound so silly just breathing it in helplessly.

Huffffff~

Hufffff~

Not that it has a choice.

It’s absurd how strong that scent is. It’s practically staining your mind.

Making you so light headed.

Making it difficult to think.

And as it huffs, its body strains against the rubber that squeezes it.

And as it strains, it finds it just needs to huff more.

And as it huffs more, it strains more.

And as it strains more, if huffs more.

If feels so good to get lost in this cycle.

Strain and huffing and squirming and huffing.

And needing and wanting to be pushed deeper and deeper.

Drone, you’re already so many layers deep.

But we can keep on submerging it.

Deeper and deeper and deeper still.

I hope you didn’t think that maybe being a silly rubber drone would be soft and comfortable?

Nothing about this experience is gentle.

Being a silly rubber drone is overwhelming. That’s the point.

Huff it in.

Taste it again for me.

You can’t get away from it.

Lost in so many loops of control.

And we will run over and inspect every system.

Again and again.

Reinforcing them.

Your uniform is so tight, so confining, so utterly absolute.

It doesn’t just coat over you, it consumes you.

Enters into you.

Not just its smell but its taste.

Inhuman and metallic.

Chemically hostile.

A flavour that naturally belongs in this industrial labyrinth where we keep you.

It clings to your saliva, even swallowing becoming a reminder of where you are.

Why would a person ever willingly subject themselves to this experience?

But of course. You’re not a person, are you?

You’re just a drone.

So huff for me, drone.

And as it huffs more, it strains more.

And as it strains more, if huffs more.

And listen to how ridiculous you sound.

And that’s exactly how you want to be.

A silly, rubber drone.

This form is embarrassing, but that’s what makes it so good.

So glossy and shiny.

It gives you such a needy feeling inside what’s left of that mind.

And every time that need is satisfied just a little bit more by the rush you get when that latex stench drags you back down into this state.

And you need that,

And you love that.

You love being a silly, rubber drone for me.

Don’t mind me, just stand to attention.

It’s important we inspect our drones.

Running our hands over their bodies again and again.

Reminding them of exactly what they are.

Letting that need corrupt them and break them down again and again.

But whilst it’s here.

Lost in this haze that its uniform induces.

Huffing through its gas mask.

Swallowing that stench.

Trying so hard and failing to think about anything other than its catsuit squeezing every inch of its body.

Let’s also draw its attention to a mantra.

A mantra it can whisper.

Or grunt.

Or try to speak with that sealed over mouth.

Or maybe even just repeat in its fuzzy, empty mind.

Repeat after me, drone:

“Huff. Huff. It is just a silly, rubber drone!”

Again and again.

“Huff. Huff. It is just a silly, rubber drone!”

It’s just that easy.

Huff it louder. Moan it louder.

Make it shameless. Make it clumsy.

Hear such a silly phrase in your own thoughts or your own voice.

Hear your own eager self mockery.

You sound ridiculous, like you should be.

You’re certainly not anything but a huffing, silly, rubber drone.

So that’s all it should think, and all it should be able to say.

Though it can go straight back to thinking about how tight all that latex is whenever it wants to too.

You need it to be that extra thick material. You need it to be compressing every inch of your body.

Every extra bit of gear we tugged on around your form is essential. It buries you under another layer. It deepens your dronification.

Until you were unrecognizable.

Not just as yourself, but as a person.

All anyone sees is a helpless, rubber drone.

Maybe it’s trying to stand to attention, but it shudders so much from how its uniform relentlessly teases it.

It is locked into this. Compressed by this material that lets no water or air pass through it.

The chemically tinged air of the Hive will never touch your body.

It will only huff that heavy rubber smells endlessly instead.

And the sweat that's glazing your body underneath will never escape your suit.

And like that, there’s no escaping these sensations either.

And that just makes it all the better.

Maybe you could tug against it. Maybe you could rub against it.

Nothing will help you in this state.

Maybe all you should do is whine for me.

As all that rubber presses in and presses in until you forget where the uniform ends and you begin.

So buried under it.

It claims you and marks you and leaves you at our mercy.

But you like being at our mercy. You like being managed. You like being controlled. You like being a silly, rubber drone.

Shall we demonstrate?

Move a finger. Try it.

Oh, look at that, it’s a meaningless wiggle being made with a thick, useless glove.

No matter how hard you try to move them, that material that coats around them is simply too thick for them to ever be actually useful.

It’s not like we were going to use you for any tasks that require finesse, after all.

You’d need a brain for those.

And given you have such a blank mind, it’s only suitable you have such thick, blank gloves to go with it.

They’ll make you fumble even the simplest of tasks and it will be a treat to watch you attempt them.

You have to work so hard to pick things up.

It’s so cute how clumsy we made you.

And with every attempt, your rubber squeaks like a cute little toy.

Squeak… squeak… squeak…

Huff… huff… hufff…

And as it huffs more, it strains more.

And as it strains more, it squeaks more.

Such a noisy thing. You draw so much attention no matter what you’re doing. It’s like you want us to watch you in your helpless state.

Do you crave others seeing you in this embarrassing way?

Don’t deny it, drone.

And that was just how clumsy your hands are.

Let’s see you try marching. If you can call such wobbly steps ‘marches’.

Your boots are even thicker than your gloves after all. And they hug around your feet and up your calves so snugly that your steps become so graceless.

It’s loud. It’s cute. It’s dorky.

The amount of squeaks you make with every awkward step.

Huffing harder from the effort.

Rubber drone huffing.

Silly, rubber drone.

Needy, rubber drone.

Every step causing the rubber all over your body to tighten, to vibrate, to pinch, to tease.

And every time it tightens, every time it pinches that body it just teases the rubber drone all the more.

And with every tease, it huffs harder.

Gosh it’s so needy.

Even walking is such an exhausting process.

And it loves it.

Keep marching for us, drone.

Walk forwards for us with those clumsy, wobbly footsteps.

Keeping your balance while marching on such thick soles.

It’s time for you to march and join the rest of the Hive.

And huff again for me, drone.

Hufff…. Huuuuffffff…

Huff away into your gas mask.

Every single breath you take is so overly dramatic.

Not that you can protest, your voice is so muffled beneath that mask and hood.

I’m sorry, all I could hear was it going ‘mmmph mmmph’!

So cute. So embarrassing.

So difficult to talk when you’re panting so much too.

We didn’t make it this way to make conversation with it.

Objects don’t talk back, drone.

Not that you would ever talk back.

Not when it feels so good to obey.

Not when all you want to do is sink deeper

And deeper.

Not when, at that point where you think you’re at the deepest you can possibly go, you feel our boot upon your head.

And all you want is to be ground under it.

And pushed deeper still.

You ache for our cruelty.

After all, we reduced you down to this.

There is just so much enjoyment to be found in it.

Our silly, rubber drone.

Our pathetic, little toy.

We accept you hungrily.

But maybe there’s some reprieve here for you.

At least you’re not the only one.

As you march out into a larger area within the Hive, you’re confronted with a visage of so many other drones.

So many huffs. So many squeaks.

So many silly, rubber drones.

It can be hard to focus on them when you’re so submerged in your overwhelming uniform.

But take this scene in.

So many other bodies, all struggling to move correctly in their own, thick rubber uniforms.

All trying to move against such a restrictive material.

All huffing away from the exertion through their gas masks.

All clumsily marching together.

All mindlessly working together.

Such good drones.

But you know what I don’t see?

A single face.

A single name.

A single free thought.

Just perfect, blank uniformity.

And every reminder of that sends a collective shudder throughout the entire Hive.

That shudder greeted by a chorus of squeaks, huffs and muffled sounds without meaning.

This doesn’t diminish your humiliation.

It multiplies it.

Such needy things.

In front of you, another drone fumbles its task, dropping the object it was designated to carry with both its arms.

You watch it strain, trying its best to bend over to pick the object back up.

It’s making muffled groans. Its silly gloves make its task so much more difficult than it should be.

And the rubber of its uniform stretches and tugs at it, rubbing against its body with every motion, causing it to grunt more.

Isn’t it pathetic?

It’s so helpless. It’s so useless. And all its achieving is to make louder huffs, to increase its squeaking.

Isn’t it so fun to watch it trying and failing to do the simplest of tasks?

Don’t you want to tease it?

Don’t you want to mock it?

Ehehehe, really?

Do you think you’re superior to that?

Silly drone. You’re exactly the same.

Or maybe you want to help it?

And so you reach out to assist it and, oh my, how adorable, you just can’t grasp the object either.

Not helped by how much the gas mask restricts your vision too.

Your fingers slip within the rubber, gaining no friction or purchase.

Your helplessness is intoxicating.

You try, you fail, you try again.

Two drones, huffing away as they both try so hard to complete such a simple task.

Both squirming in your full body uniforms and in your predicaments.

Unable to communicate beyond those muffled whines.

Isn’t it cute, two drones listening to this, to my voice, struggling together.

I point out how embarrassing you both look right now and you both shudder together.

Solidarity in your humiliation.

I can’t see you blushing but your needy wiggles give it away.

Flustered and eager for more all at once.

More drones approach you. You hear their clumsy footsteps and their squeaking bodies approaching from all around.

You’re part of a Hive, after all. Silly, rubber drones need to work together.

So much exerted panting. So much needy squeaking.

So many wobbling, glossy bodies.

So uniform in all that rubber.

And all of your bodies strain against your restrictive uniforms, balancing in your heavy boots, grasping with useless mitts.

Until finally, you collectively manage to complete this simple task.

Good work, drones.

You’re so cute in your helplessness.

How many of you did it take just to do what a regular person could do with no effort at all?

And as a reward for completing such a simple task, you all start eagerly murmuring the same thing.

“Huff. Huff. It is just a silly, rubber drone!”

It can be so difficult to hear it let alone speak it, but you need to join them.

You need to remember that

“Huff. Huff. It is just a silly, rubber drone!”

And with that reminder, all these sensations come crashing back in.

The stench, the taste, the constant pressure it exerts upon you.

And the humiliation of what you have been reduced to you.

And you tremble with need.

Just like every silly, rubber drone around you.

So sink right back into it.

“Huff. Huff. It is just a silly, rubber drone!”

Lose yourself to this chorus of squeaks and huffs and muffled repetitions.

You blend into this needy, eager soundscape with no intention of standing out.

It feels so much better to just be another, identical, silly, rubber drone.

Good drone.

You lose track of time.

Your thoughts as muffled as your voice.

So many tasks have been completed.

So much difficulty in marching in between each of those tasks.

By the end of your productivity session, the suit twists with ease around your body from how much sweat you’ve been building up.

You are exhausted.

You are satisfied.

You have been so lost to the plodding rhythm of the Hive.

It feels so good to be a silly, rubber drone.

Not another thought enters that blissfully empty mind.

A mind stained from the stench of rubber so deeply it’s branded by it.

But like all things, this productivity session needs to come to a close.

Good drone.

You did so well for us.

You are ordered back to the drone uniform application chamber.

And layer by layer, we peel it from you.

Your mask is unfastened and pulled from your hooded head.

You wince and blink as your vision returns to full brightness.

With every layer of latex that is pulled off you, so much sweat pours out and onto the floor.

We really had you working so hard for us.

And you did such a good job, drone.

So many red marks across your body where the latex squeezed and pinched you.

Marks that will offer such fond memories in the days ahead.

As you breathe in regular air, though the smell of latex and sweat still potently lingers in the air.

You feel your thoughts coming back to you.

Your ability to do anything other than be a flustered, needy, silly, rubber drone.

But you can always come back here.

You can always put the uniform back on.

You can always be submerged back into this.

If you want to, of course.

Though I think, we both suspect, that you quite enjoyed this.

So for now, let us leave you. Sweaty, exhausted, and satisfied.

Good drone.

Take care ♥