Drone Stone
Drone/Rubber TG TF word-doodle for an anonymous watcher! Written 2~ years ago. Part of a backlog not uploaded to SF yet.
Drone Stone
by Lurker16
The sphere holds your attention. It shines under the warehouse lights, as black as the cubicle around you. Your muzzle reflects across Its surface.
It is heavier than you expect, with consistency twice tougher than dough. It feels smooth. The heat of your palm conducts into It.
Like a wakened beast, It shakes and stretches. You feel It droop between your fingers, mimicking your warmth. It is no longer a sphere. It is liquid. It spills across your hand to seal your fingerprints.
You tilt your head at your line manager. "What's this for, exactly?"
He scribbles on a clip-board, noting the numbers flashing across his tablet. "What did you say?" He does not look up.
"This thingy," you say, waving your arm from side to side, "I'm guessing it's an intern thing?" It coils around your wrist. A double-barrelled droplet falls onto your tie. You sigh, trying to flick It off with your free hand, succeeding only in smudging It over your shirt.
"Excuse me?" His tone is grave. You sweat for a few seconds before you realize he expects to be addressed more formally.
You straighten your tie. It transfers onto your other paw. "I mean, Mr...-"
"Call me Sir." They look at you, and you immediately wish they had not.
"-Mr Sir, I mean, Sir. Just Sir." You chuckle and scratch your forehead with your second hand, which is half as coated with It as the other. A brow of black shimmers above your eyes.
Your line manager drops their clip-board to the table, swivelling to face you. "You will take this training program seriously. Understood?" You laugh a little harder, until it dawns on you that he is not joking. You swallow. Your hands are gloved in It, and hot.
Your lips know how to move before you know how to move them. "U-Understood," you say. You clasp your hand over your face after you speak, splashing It over your snout. These aren't your words.
You stand and try to throw It off, from your arms and shirt and face, but It soaks into your sleeves, and hardens over your extremities.
"Sit," your line manager says.
You sit. You open your mouth to cry for help.
"Zip it," he says.
It dribbles down your face, forming on your cheeks like condensation. Your eyelids thicken. The dishes of your ears droop under Its weight. It seeps inwards from the corner of your lips.
You expect It to taste like charcoal, but It does not. It tastes like nothing. You close your mouth, but It churns and replicates atop your tongue, glazing your teeth and gums and throat. You choke down a mouthful, before spluttering out the rest. It stretches down your front like a python: constricting, spreading, claiming.
"Obey."
The heat anchors inside your belly. It wires through your nasal passage, probing further upwards until It reaches Its destination. Fear converts to confusion. Confusion becomes forgetfulness. A haze brews in your mind, bubbling over a flame you cannot control.
You lean forward in your chair, slack-jawed. It pumps inside your exposed orifice. Your head rocks back and forth, servicing the rubber like a submissive. It extends two strands of Itself around your neck, gripping you closer.
As It thrusts, It continues to grow. It streaks across your chest. A latex sack slaps against your chin, swelling with every throb. The further It fucks, the more of your body It claims. Your arms are solidified, creaking under the strain. The soles of your feet are flat.
You are hard. So hard. Like cooling rubber. It drenches every fibre of your clothing and flesh, cupping around your hardness. Even while thrusting, It pumps over your cock. It is too much to resist.
You close your eyes. The excitement in your brain fades to nothing, as the rubber thrusting into your maw convulses and squirts. It saturates you. A voice you once recognised tries to moan aloud, but it is buried beneath the sack of goop.
It fills you. You feel Its heaviness inside. The latex bollocks droop down the front of your chest, merging with the rubber around you. It descends, separating one ball to the left, the other to the right, until both hang taut from your chest. They are breasts.
Your nipples are sensitive, but It does not not relent. Symmetry is the defining feature of your tits. Symmetry is the defining feature of your face.
Around your crotch, It continues sliding over your sex. Its fingers are tongues, sucking and pushing and lapping away until six inches are five. The missing inch transmutes into more of It, before encasing your sack.
Four inches... Three inches... Two inches. You squirm as your cock is charmed like a snake before a chanter. Your girth evaporates. The manhood you once knew bubbles away, collecting over your testicles.
You are close. So, so close. It is close to completing Its mission. It strokes you with urgency.
"Drone," your line manager says, "Identify yourself. Submit."
The words rattle through your rubber like machine code. You stand to attention. What's left of your cock does the same.
"Warehouse Drone A-N-O-N-4-1-1-6-5, Model F-3-M reporting, Sir," It says at an optimal fifty decibels of volume. Its voice is neutral.
One inch. Something within It pants. The bulge between Its legs groans. Seed shoots out from the tip of Its clitoris, captured by Its latex shell: fresh fuel for It to consume. The creaking lips of a pussy gleam below.
Its line manager smiles. He looks It over, before frowning at the globe where Its balls used to be. He detaches it with one hand, as easily as if he were removing a lightbulb. It is a sphere that could hold someone's attention. He stores it in a drawer.
"Commence work protocol twelve-indigo. Dismissed." He scribbles on his clip-board once again.
"Yes, Sir," It says. It takes Its place at Its cubicle. It desires nothing more.