assfodel - Tumblr blog

assfodel · 2 months ago

Text

Challenge Accepted

It had all started as a joke between friends… Oliver and Alfie were the golden boys of their quiet, leafy neighbourhood - both from stable, well-off families, living in tidy detached homes a few doors apart. Their lives were clean, predictable, and largely uncomplicated. But beneath the surface, they were fiercely competitive. From whom could get higher marks on a maths test to who could beat who while gaming, everything was a contest. They never really fought, but there was always an edge to their friendship. A constant push to outdo each other.

One Friday night, during one of their classic gaming marathons the conversation turned weird. They had just finished mocking a viral video of some lads brawling outside a kebab shop when Alfie suddenly broke into the thickest, most exaggerated chav accent he could muster.

“Oi bruv, you seen my Air Max? Man’s lookin’ peng tonight!”

Oliver nearly choked on his drink. “What are you doing, mate?”

“Bein’ real, innit,” Alfie said, puffing up his chest and doing a ridiculous head-tilt. “Safe, yeah?”

Oliver burst out laughing and then joined in. Soon, both of them were deep in character, slouching in their chairs, arms flailing as they ranted about “mandem” and “peng tings”. What started as a five-minute joke stretched into the entire night. Every time one of them broke character, the other would taunt them for “slippin’ out the ends.” By the time they crashed on the sofa at 3 AM, they had invented alter-egos, fake street names, and a fully fictional feud with a rival crew from “down the estate.”

The next morning, they just kept it going. They messaged each other in chav slang. They made up new phrases. They even filmed short videos pretending to start beef with each other over who stole whose kebab. It was a full-blown competition now, and they were both playing to win.

As Alfie was heading out the door that afternoon, he turned back with a grin. “Bruv, I bet I could be the more convincing chav, no cap.”

Oliver didn’t hesitate. “Challenge accepted.”

By the next day, things got serious. They each tore through their wardrobes, trying to find anything that screamed "chav." Neither of them really owned the right gear, but they made do with some old tracksuits and beaten-up trainers. Alfie even found an old gold chain from a costume party and wore it over his sweatshirt like it was proper bling. When they met up again, they both burst out laughing.

Oliver had gone for the classic look: black tracksuit, hood up, hands in pockets. Alfie had taken it a step further with a grey Nike tracksuit bottom, white tank top, and a snapback turned sideways. He even sprayed himself with some cheap body spray from a corner shop to “complete the aesthetic.”

“Bro, you look like you’re about to rob a Greggs,” Oliver said.

“Safe, innit,” Alfie replied, dead serious. “Respect my ends, fam.” They couldn’t stop laughing. But beneath the humour, the competition was heating up.

“Tell you what,” Alfie said, eyes gleaming, “we should take this outside. Hit town. See if people buy it.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “In public?”

“Yeah, man. Let’s see who’s more convincing. Winner gets bragging rights and a Nando’s.”

Challenge accepted, again.

The moment they stepped into the local shopping centre, the game changed. They strutted through the entrance like they owned the place. Swagger in their step, mock scowls on their faces. To their surprise, no one really stared. A few sideways glances, sure, but most people just walked by without giving them a second thought.

“Either we’re nailing this, or people in this town have seen way worse,” Oliver muttered.

They hung around the food court, doing their best to blend in. They took selfies, made fake Snapchats pretending they were “on road,” and debated loudly about who had the harder “roadman persona.” Then they spotted JD Sports. It was like a beacon. They both froze for a second, then grinned.

“Go on,” Oliver said, elbowing Alfie. “Bet you won’t go in and try on a full kit.”

Alfie didn’t even blink. “Watch me.”

He walked in like he belonged there. Within minutes, he emerged from the fitting rooms in a full Nike tracksuit. On his feet was a brand-new pair of white Air Max 95s. He looked the part.

Oliver let out a low whistle. “Alright, you’ve committed. But I bet you won’t actually buy that stuff.”

Alfie locked eyes with him. “Bruv, you’re on.”

He walked up to the counter and tapped his card. “You madman,” Oliver said, grinning. “You’re actually doing this.”

“Too late to back out now, fam. Your turn.”

Now it was Oliver’s move. Not to be outdone, he doubled down. He found his own kit and threw down his own cash. They spent the rest of the afternoon in full character - posing in front of shop windows, filming TikTok’s, and rating each other's accents. Strangely, people still didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe they just blended in. The scariest part was that they were starting to enjoy it for real.

A week later, the joke was still going or at least, that was what they kept telling themselves. What had started as a one-off laugh had become a routine. Every time they met, Oliver and Alfie pushed the act further. It wasn’t enough to just talk like chavs anymore they had to live it. Each interaction turned into a new challenge, a new test of commitment. Who could go deeper without blinking?

They started wearing tracksuits every time they hung out. Not just to town, but everywhere: to the cinema, to the corner shop, even to family dinners, much to their parents’ dismay. One evening, Alfie showed up puffing on a disposable vape.

“You serious?” Oliver asked, half-laughing, half-impressed.

Alfie blew a thick cloud of sickly-sweet berry vapour. “Bruv, you gonna talk or you gonna man up?”

The next day, Oliver showed up vaping too. Soon, both lads had clean skin fades. They had completely dropped gaming in favour of spending their time loitering around town, mostly outside the local Tesco or on the benches by the bus stop, daring each other to do increasingly chavvy things - harassing seagulls, shouting random slang at strangers, filming themselves doing ridiculous impressions.

Weirdly enough, they were starting to actually enjoy it. What was once ironic had begun to feel... normal. Vaping, loafing, blasting drill music from a portable speaker… It felt relaxing. Each meetup became the highlight of their week, not because of how absurd it was, but because it made them feel more alive than they had in years.

Then, one night, Alfie said what they had both been thinking. “Bro... we should get more gear. Like proper fits. I’m not gonna lie these trackies are mad comfy.”

Oliver smirked. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

Within days, both of their wardrobes had undergone a full chavvolution. Their once-smart wardrobes - polos, jumpers, chinos - were gone, replaced by an ever-growing collection of branded tracksuits, trainers, bum bags, fake gold chains, and bucket hats. Each new outfit sparked a new mini contest: who could assemble the chavviest look and actually wear it in public?

Then the dares escalated. They started lifting weights in the garage because “mandem don’t skip chest day.” They decorated their rooms to match their new lifestyle - Alfie stuck up drill posters and replaced his old desk lamp with a neon “Boss Man” sign; Oliver hung a Union Jack tapestry and stacked empty Monster cans like trophies. And then came the weed. At first, it was another dare. Alfie rolled it and they passed it back and forth behind the train station, coughing and laughing like kids. But that soon became another habit.

Fast forward a year, and you wouldn’t recognise them. Oliver and Alfie were both twenty now. A year ago, they were college-bound lads with clear futures mapped out, but now they were proper roadmen. They didn’t just dress the part; they were the part. From their creps to their slang, every detail of their lives had been taken over by the aesthetic, the attitude, the culture. They rolled through town like they owned it, always in full kit: branded tracksuits, puffer jackets, bum bags across the chest, and fresh fades.

They spent their days linking up with other lads, kicking about, smoking, blasting drill from a speaker one of them always had tucked in their bag. Nights were for loitering outside the local shops, hitting shisha bars, or riding out in beat-up cars with tinted windows, half-down even when it was freezing.

They didn’t have jobs. Didn’t need them, apparently. They always had cash on hand - no one asked from where, and neither of them volunteered the info. A little side hustle here, a little "man-knows-a-guy" there. Whatever it was, they got by.

Their hands hadn’t touched a textbook in over a year. Their old schedules - revision timetables, weekend gaming marathons, family brunches - had been replaced with late-night linkups, early-morning munchies runs, and full days spent just hanging around.

Their bedrooms now looked like roadman shrines. Alfie had hung a massive Union Jack next to a football poster, and Oliver’s setup had flashing LED strips, a cracked TV playing YouTube freestyles on loop, and rows of trainers lined up like museum pieces. Empty Monster cans and Rizla packets littered every surface.

The way they spoke had fully switched too. “Wagwan, fam,” “man's movin' mad,” “safe, g” that was just how they talked now, to everyone. Teachers, shopkeepers, their mums. It didn’t even feel put-on anymore. It was just how it came out.

Their families had tried. They really had. Oliver’s dad gave him the “future talk” at least three times before giving up. Alfie’s mum cried when he shaved off his fringe for the fade and came home with a neck tattoo. But there was no stopping it now.

They had a new circle of lads from the estates. At first, Oliver and Alfie were side-eyed. No one took two posh boys in fresh creps seriously. But bit by bit, they proved themselves. They knew the music, the lingo, the codes. They backed each other, moved confident, never slipped. Eventually, they got accepted.

There were still moments where they remembered their old lives though. Like when Alfie found a sixth form photo tucked behind his wardrobe mirror, or when Oliver’s little sister asked him why he sounded “like someone off TikTok.” They’d just laugh it off.

“Imagine us back in school, yeah? With our lil' blazers and pencil cases.”

“Bruv, I used to revise. For fun. Dead behaviour.”

By now, if they tried to switch back, it wouldn’t even work. The posh accents, the neat clothes, the clean routines - none of that fit anymore. It was like trying to wear shoes that were two sizes too small. This was them now. And there was no way back…

______________________________________________________________

This is possible my favorite story I have ever written. How did you like it?

187 notes · View notes

assfodel · 9 months ago

Note

I want to turn myself into a twinky fuck toy for a wealthy man. Can chronviac help me with that?

Well, as they say, everything's bigger in Texas… I'm a junior partner in a large New York asset management firm. We take care of the high net worth clients. To get into our client file, you have to have over USD 100 million in free liquidity. Our clients are demanding. But we are the best. And we do everything for our customers. Really EVERYTHING!

When I took over the clients of a colleague who had retired a month ago, I thought Chuck Tex was a stage name. Until I had my first appointment with him. His record was more than impressive. Heir to old oil and cattle nobility. Classic career of the Texas oil barons. School in New England, studied in Paris, Oxford and Zurich, founded his first start-up company at the age of 20. And sold at 25 for USD 500 million. Now in his mid-30s, he had not yet inherited a cent from his family, but thanks to his excellent education and connections, he had already amassed a fortune on a par with that of his old man. I expected… Actually, I had no idea what I was expecting… But I certainly didn't expect this:

Chuck looked like a porn star. Or a marriage fraud. Or just a man who I couldn't expect to throw me on the bed and fuck me mercilessly. His handshake was firm, but finely dosed just before the pain threshold. His gaze could certainly cut through steel plates. But I was a professional, I kept my composure. After I asked him what I could do for him, he got straight to the point. First of all, he needed some cash for his stay in New York. USD 10,000 would be enough. Gladly 100 dollar bills. But hot off the press, please. That was no problem. I sent a short memo to my assistant and she would take care of it. But the real reason for his visit was a project in Greenwich Village. He had bought a few buildings there that he was renovating. His aim was to restore the Village to its former charm. That's why he wanted to create cheap apartments, studios and stores and eliminate expensive office space. The whole thing was not intended as an investment, more as a hobby. A kind of gay and creative Disneyland. I briefly wondered why I wasn't actually a billionaire… And then I asked Chuck what my role was. Whether I could help with the financing or with saving taxes.

Chuck just grinned. No, saving taxes wouldn't fit in with his understanding of patriotism. And he would have financed it all with his last start-up exit. But he would need someone to take care of the real estate. Someone to ensure the right tenant mix. Someone to give his studio apartment the right finishing touches. I briefly went through my network in my mind. I had a gay acquaintance who owned a number of bars and restaurants. And I also knew a good project developer. And one of my school friends was a hip interior designer. I smiled and said I probably had just the people he needed. Chuck smiled back. It made my heart stop. He didn't want anyone from my network. He wanted me. I was about to say that I was flattered, but that I wasn't available for such projects right now. But instead I said "Of course, Daddy". Did I want to accompany him to the construction site? "If I may, Daddy!" At that moment, my assistant came in with a bundle of freshly pressed banknotes. Chuck smiled and said he needed me for the rest of the day. Please cancel all my appointments. I nodded to her and followed Chuck like a dog to its master.

In his limousine, Chuck asked me if I had ever been to Texas. I answered in the negative. But the boots I was wearing looked authentic. Yeah, they were my pride and joy. But I wouldn't have ridden a bull yet. I shook my head and giggled like a schoolgirl. Chuck kneaded the bulge in his pants and said that I would definitely be fucked by a bull today. I only got out a "Thank you, Daddy". Chuck let me sit on his lap. He undid another button of his silk shirt and exposed his right nipple. Like a puppy on its mother's teat, I began to suckle. Chuck kneaded my bump and said that I was a good boy.

The car came to a halt in the second row in front of an old brick building. The walls were covered in high-quality graffiti. There was a closed table dance bar downstairs and some kind of jewelry store upstairs. Some kind of jewelry on display. Made of stainless steel. On closer inspection, piercing jewelry, cock rings and stainless steel dildos. I looked in the shop window like a child in the window of a candy store. Chuck took my hand, pulled me into the stairwell and told me that I could choose something later if I was good. He stroked the long hair on the back of my neck. I love my Mullet. I look a bit like the young cowboys on Daddy's Daddy's farm.

We had just arrived at Chuck's empty apartment when I got down on my knees in front of him and unbuttoned his pants. "First you strip for me, boy," Chuck ordered. He tossed me a cowboy hat that was in a closet. "Everything but your briefs, boots and hat!". Eagerly awaiting the reward, I did everything I was told to do. "And now lube yourself up". He threw me a bottle. And I did as I was told. I could feel my hard-earned muscles disappearing. I felt younger and younger. Although it was hard as steel, my cock was getting smaller and smaller. "I think you need a little more decoration, boy," Chuck said and put a chain on me. Satisfied, he looked at me as I sat on the floor and could hardly wait for my reward.

Chuck took his boner out of his pants. And I leaned back in anticipation. I wanted to be a good houseboy. And today was the housewarming party.

Chuck's pic found @mensuited, yours @hellishin

342 notes · View notes