Quentin Quick was what the authorities of Greater Cascadia would call a criminal disguised as a criminal disguised as a hero. Others in his line of work would call him a vigilante. He liked to think of himself as the great economic equalizer.

Quentin left the theatrics to the rival gangs of heroes and villains that prowled the streets of Greater Cascadia. He had a penchant for drama, for sure, but he didn’t like to think of the world in such black and white shades as the heroes and villains were wont to do.

In truth, Quentin was less of a force for good or evil. As the hooded vigilante Sable, his mischief caused a lot of chaos in Greater Cascadia for all the myriad factions of the city to deal with. Quentin just liked money. He liked having it. He liked giving it away to people who could use it. Most importantly, he liked giving it away to total fuck-ups who would go on to fuck up even worse given half the chance.

As a force for trouble more than anything else, it was little surprise that Quentin had a lot of enemies on both sides of the good-evil divide.

There was one that rose above the rest, however. One with the guile and the resources to match Quentin step for step. His greatest foe, and his rival from the moment he started making a name for himself, was Mr. Theophilus Arellano, president, director, and sole executive of the Gilded Ring.

The Gilded Ring was a multinational corporation that specialized in the production and sale of high-end goods and services for the social and political elite of the United Earth. Mr. Arellano was an inscrutable man, and even Quentin didn’t have the slightest idea as to his ultimate motivations, but the one thing that he didn’t like was outsiders meddling in his company.

Quentin’s biggest and most sensational successes were hits on the Gilded Ring’s operations. They earned him something of a reputation as a hero of the people, and he loved it. The adoration, especially. He could have done without the hero part.

Tonight was the night of Quentin’s biggest stunt yet, or it would have been if everything had gene according to plan. The day had started off well enough, with news from his man on the inside about the timetable for the Gilded Ring’s shipment of jewels to the East.

In fact, everything had been perfect up until three PM, when a package that Quentin had been waiting for finally arrived at his door.

The problem with being a super was having to look the part while protecting one’s secret identity. His last outing had left his well-worn suit with a pretty big gash down the front which just wouldn’t do, so he’d ordered a replacement.

Quentin’s Sable suit was more self-indulgent than most people realized. He never spent long enough on camera for average folk to figure out what he was wearing, but people who frequented the BDSM scene would have recognized his outfit right away.

Most of the time, Quentin just wore a rubber suit to his outings. It wasn’t anything too fetishy, though. Just a pair of pants, a rubber shirt, and a rubber hoodie that he custom-painted with yellow circuit-lines at his home shop.

Quentin had no reason to suspect that the package he’d ordered and was waiting for would be his downfall. That, however, became quickly apparent once he opened the box and a puff of something hit him in the face.

As much as he would have wanted to move at that point, the fast-acting paralytic had made it impossible for Quentin to so much as move a muscle. He was just grateful that he could breathe. He didn’t have much time to be grateful, however, as what appeared to be a rubber jockstrap shot out of the box and plastered itself across his crotch.

Unable to move from the position he’d been frozen into, Quentin had no idea what was going on. THe only thing he knew for certain was that the jockstrap was moving on its own. It was rearranging itself, splitting the straps before flowing together again to get into the right position around his body.

As the ability to move slowly returned to his body, Quentin felt a strange tingling in his nether regions. He looked down and felt the blood in his veins run cold as he realized that somehow, the rubber had dissolved his pants and underwear.

More alarming, however, was the fact that the pouch of the rubber jock felt strangely hot and tingly against the skin of Quentin’s cock and balls. Although he knew that he needed to be fighting tooth and nail to get the jock off, Quentin’s emotions felt subdued, and he seemed unable to muster the will to resist.

Another piece of rubber clothing slithered out of the box and climbed up Quentin’s legs where it melted around his thighs to form a pair of tight rubber shorts. The rubber flowed down his ass crack and actually stroked his hole, gently teasing him open before entering him with a tendril that slowly fucked in and out of him as it grew thicker.

Quentin stifled a moan as the tip of the tendril brushed repeatedly against his prostate. It felt so good and it was starting to make him hard—though the rubber pouch of the jock, and now the crotch of the pants, made it impossible to do anything but strain against the confines.

A short-sleeved rubber shirt flew out of the box and adhered to Quentin’s chest, melting away what he had been wearing as it reconfigured to wrap around his torso. Once it was settled, its bottom hem merged with the waistband of the shorts forming a single skin-tight suit that highlighted all the curves and definition of Quentin’s muscles.

The tendril in Quentin’s ass was making him feel so good he could scarcely stifle his moans. It was difficult to think with the constant heat against his cock, with the stimulation of his prostate, with the tingling of the rubber against his skin.

Only when confronted with the desperation of his situation, when what appeared to be a rubber gimp hood jumped from the box, did Quentin regain some of his senses. He barely caught the sides of the hood with his hands but the rubber was slippery and had surprising force behind it.

This was Quentin’s last chance to prevent whatever was about to happen to him. He willed all the strength that he could into his limbs to prevent the unthinkable but in the end, it was a fight he’d lost the moment he opened the cardboard box.

Quentin’s extended arms crumpled like cardboard as a wave of relaxation washed over his body, spreading from his chest, down his shoulders, to his arms. His hands were pulled along for the ride, ending up on either side of his face as the hood adhered to his head with a wet smack. He struggled to breathe as the rubber flowed around his head, forming into a smooth, featureless mask over his face.

Quentin swayed as his lungs burned for air. If the hood didn’t create some airholes soon, he was going to pass out. His mind was going fuzzy, thoughts fraying at the edges. A heartbeat later, nose holes appeared on the rubber hood, allowing him to breathe. His first lungful was filled with the intoxicating scent of fresh rubber, and it only served to make his head feel hazier.

The panicked, chaotic thoughts that had been running rampant in the back of Quentin’s mind calmed and slowly faded. He felt like his head was getting stuffed with cotton, leaving little room to actually think.

The fear and anxiety that Quentin felt washed over him one last time before gradually dripping away. The few thoughts that he did have remaining became more rigid, more regimented. He stood ramrod straight, slowly lowering his hands to his sides as the independence he’d once so highly valued slowly drained away.

As the last little bits of the old Quentin melted out of his head, an alien voice spoke in his head. "DRONE GR-Q01 READY FOR PROGRAMMIHNG. PLEASE CONFIRM."

GR-Q01 responded to the designation as if it was the only designation it had known in its life. "AFFIRMATIVE. DRONE GR-Q01 HAS COMPLETED DE-PERSONALIZATION. DRONE GR-Q01 IS READY FOR REPROGRAMMING."

Had he the eyes to see it, GR-Q01 would have seen the old logo of his former self, a golden S made of two half-circles, appear on his rubberized chest surrounded by the golden halo of the Gilded Ring’s company logo.