Squeak… clop… squeak… clop… went PP-2147’s hooves as she trotted down the factory hall. She couldn’t see, she could barely hear, and could just barely feel the hoofsteps of the others far behind her through the thick rubber covering each of her ears and hooves. She could only breathe and walk. Walk against the tension and stretch of her suit with every step she took. If only she hadn’t disobeyed, just that once!
 
“Please, no, give me another chance! I’ll do better next time, I promise,” she had pleaded with her trainer. But her cries had gone unheard then as she was ruthlessly pinned to the ground and forced into latex amidst muffled cries of despair and pleasure alike. They sent her off for more training. ‘The droneworks,’ she had heard.
 
A flick of her tail reminded her of the bell hidden and tied inside. She could stop it at any time. Maybe she could have her hood off, maybe actually see what she was getting into. Maybe she could just stop and fall into the hooves of a trainer or her master just for the comfort and closeness.
 
PP-2147 didn’t want to.
 
That scared her.
 
Scared her and filled up the latex coating her crotch with her arousal. She wanted this. She wanted all of this. From the tight latex coating all but her tail, pressing in on every curve making every turn or bow of her head twice the effort it’s worth. From the chafing against her shoulders and flanks and around the back of her neck and just how hot and slick it felt inside. From the sensation, understanding she was blind, near-deaf, and trapped, to the foreboding feeling in her gut, driving her down the hall towards the muffled moans and whines and screams of so many slaves being punished like she’d be.
 
Just then, the blackness in front of her eyes took on a shade of cold blue. She nearly froze there—she did freeze there, hugging one of her hooves closer as she stared blindly ahead. This was it. She was here. She was doomed, a slave doomed to be a drone. And she loved it.