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blahblah63t · 18 days ago

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Jack’s Plan

Sam stood in the doorway to his bathroom, brushing his teeth. He was best described as a skater kid. He snapped a photo of himself to keep track of his progress. Sam had recently got a membership for a gym nearby; it was perfect because it was on his way home from college, so he could easily drop by on his skateboard or BMX, depending on how he felt that day.

Sam didn’t hate being skinny, but he envied some guys from his school. They were skinny too, but they were toned, and when they would get changed for sports, he would find himself admiring them. It was difficult because he hadn’t come out yet, not wanting to risk his friendship with the lads he went skating with in most of his spare time.

The lads Sam found himself admiring just so happened to be some of the more chavvy ones. Not all of them, but most came from the local council estate, which had a reputation for being pretty rough. He really had to watch himself, because if any of those lads picked up on him staring at them, who knew what they would do? They had quite a persona about them; they wanted to be seen as tough guys, and anything that questioned their masculinity was a big no-no.

What didn’t help was that Sam’s school had your stereotypical social divide between various groups. It sounded a little cliché, like something out of an American high school film, but you had your skater kids, jocks, geeks and nerds, popular kids, and of course, being from the UK, the chavvy kids. Just interacting with someone outside of your circle could end up with embarrassing consequences or just getting beaten up by some of the tougher groups.

Sam was nervous the first time he went to the gym. His worst nightmare was seeing anyone from school. College finished at 3 p.m., and Sam hesitantly made his way straight to the gym. When he arrived, he was met at reception by a woman who looked after both sides of the business, as it was also a spa. Sam signed in and collected his membership card. The woman told him to take a seat while she got Glynn, who would be doing his instructions.

He sat there looking around. He couldn’t see into the gym from reception, there were just two corridors: one leading off to the spa, and the other into the changing rooms and gym. The front was a big glass wall that looked out into the car park and, beyond that, the road he used every day on his route to and from school.

It must have only been five or ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Eventually, Glynn strolled into reception in his semi-tight matching set of shorts and a shirt, showing off his body and the fact that he clearly worked in a gym. All of it was branded in the gym’s colours, with a small logo to the left of his chest and a bigger one across his back with his name written underneath. He seemed like a bit of a cheeky chap, with a nice friendly smile and an inviting personality.

“Hello mate, nice to meet you! I’ll be taking you for your introduction today. It should only take thirty minutes, then we can get you started off with something simple to break you in.”

Sam actually felt quite at ease now. Glynn being really nice and enthusiastic, and not judging Sam at all, was a huge relief. Glynn led Sam through to the changing rooms, giving him five minutes to quickly get changed out of his uniform and start the introduction.

Walking into the gym, Sam looked around, eyeing the place up. It was quiet because most people hadn’t finished work yet - that was one perk of coming straight after college - and he couldn’t see anyone he recognised. Sam sighed with relief, now able to focus on what Glynn was showing him, not worrying about feeling self-conscious in front of anyone he knew. The induction was over in no time and Glynn had left Sam working his chest on one of the machines.

Sam, in his focus, trying to make sure he was doing it right and keeping count of his reps, hadn’t noticed Jack walking in. Jack was one of the chavvy lads from college. Reaching his limit, Sam’s eyes were screwed shut, forcing out every last bit of effort he had within him, before letting out a rush of air and relaxing. He opened his eyes to see Jack standing in front of him, smiling and holding out his hand, expecting Sam to join him in a biker-style handshake.

Sam was initially shocked to see Jack appear out of nowhere, but that was quickly overridden by the thought: what was he going to be like? Much to Sam’s amazement, he expected Jack to be like he was at school - rude, insensitive, and trying to undermine him in front of everyone for a laugh - but instead, he seemed genuinely friendly. Jack could see the confused expression on Sam’s face. Reassuring him, Jack said, “It’s alright bruv, I ain’t here to take the piss. Didn’t even realise yous came here. While we’re here, we’re just two lads with similar goals, innit!”

Sam once again felt a weight lift off his chest. He didn’t expect anything more than their first exchange, thinking Jack would just go off again and leave him to it, but Jack seemed genuinely interested in helping him. He helped Sam make a simple routine to get started and watched over him to help with his technique and keep him motivated. He knew how much it helped having someone there to keep you going, and it would mean Sam was more likely to keep coming and not give up.

By the end of his time there, Sam was pleasantly surprised. He felt like he had actually made a friend in Jack. Jack was clear, though… whilst they were here, it was cool, but at school, it would be business as usual, and they would keep their distance.

Over the next couple of weeks, Sam kept coming to the gym every day after school and kept training with Jack. It was like he almost had his own personal trainer. Sam also liked the fact that none of his friends were interested in the gym, and Jack’s friends who did go to the gym all went to other places. That meant they were able to get along, and there was very little tension or social expectation between them.

They had ended up forging quite an unlikely but close friendship, which had started to show through at college. It was little things like smiling at one another in passing and if there were any cross encounters between their groups, Jack wouldn’t do anything to Sam, directing his comments and actions at others instead. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. It wasn’t so bad for Sam, but Jack, being part of the tougher group, got a little stick for it. He did his best to keep it a secret how they knew one another and just dismissed their comments, but he knew it was only a matter of time until they found out, now that suspicions had been raised.

Jack had also been keeping a big secret of his own. He had his suspicions about himself before, but now more than ever, as he grew closer to Sam, he couldn’t ignore it. He knew what he felt for Sam was more than just friendship. Ironically, Sam had grown to feel the same about Jack, but both of them, being so caught up in their own minds about what the other would think and how their respective friends might treat them, missed each other’s signals.

Jack’s feelings had grown to such a level that he had begun to harbour an irrational fear of losing their friendship. All of his spare time, he had been thinking of ways he could make it work. Jack wasn’t spiritual or anything like that, but in his desperation, he found himself one Saturday afternoon standing in the local magic shop. Jack made his way through the cluttered aisles and stood in front of the counter in the centre of the shop at the back. “DING!” Jack rang the bell, and quickly out walked an older-looking gentleman through the bead blind hanging over the doorway. Jack managed to hide his amusement, but the guy did look a little like what you would expect a wizard to look, just without the full cloak and hat.

“And what can I do for a lad like you?”

Jack explained his situation. How he had fallen for this guy, and it was not possible for them to be together due to their social groups, and so on. The old man pondered for a moment, looking through the index of a big, dusty, very old leather-bound book he had on the desk, before going “Ahhh,” and flicking to a page about two-thirds of the way through the book.

He looked deeply into Jack’s eyes as he let out a small sigh, then proceeded to explain: “Hmm, this is a difficult one… it sounds like an issue you may have with yourself. However, I can see the pain in your eyes… You do not want to lose either! I should not really indulge your desires. However, it has been a while since I have used some proper magic, and I am sure there is something we can do to remedy your situation.”

The old man smiled sweetly, stepping away from the counter and going back through the blind. Jack stood there, waiting patiently, listening to the old man rummaging through stuff in the back and muttering to himself.

Eventually, he came back through the blind with a large jar filled with a baby blue powder. It kind of looked like sherbet. “Now, this should do the trick!” he said, decanting 32 scoops of the powder into a smaller jar for Jack to take away.

“You will need to make sure the object of your affection takes one scoop a day for the next 30 days. This could be mixed with food or water or just eaten on its own. This will make him acceptable to your peers and should alleviate the issue you speak of.”

Jack nodded intently, trying to take it all in.

“Now I must warn you… the effects are irreversible. You can stop them taking it at any time, but anything that has changed up to that point will not change back. Also, you must consider the consequences it will have for them. This may alienate them from their own peers and could cause them to resent you. Are you definitely sure this is what you want? Now is the time to speak up, and I will sort you out with something simpler to ease your own anxieties.”

Jack closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering the old man: “No, I’m sure. This is what I want.” The old man nodded as he placed the jar in a box for Jack to take home.

Jack knew exactly how he was going to go about this. Luckily for him, it was a sherbet-like powder, which gave him the perfect idea. Jack emptied one of his tubs of protein powder and replaced the contents with the baby blue powder from the shop. He kept a close guard on the tub until he arrived at the gym on Monday, placing it in his locker as he didn’t want it getting into the wrong hands.

Sam was pleased to see Jack walk into the gym. He had been waiting all day for this moment. The pair set about their usual routine, helping one another, laughing and joking as if they had been friends for years. Once they finished, they both went to the changing rooms together. Jack pulled the tub out from his locker, looking at Sam.

“Mate, you wanna try some of this? It’ll help yous recover quicker and boost your progress, bruv.”

Sam trusted Jack and his advice, accepting the pint of water with one scoop mixed in that Jack handed him.

“Mmm, raspberry!”

Jack smiled at Sam, secretly filled with a warm glow at the prospect they could soon spend more time together and not be separated if and when they got found out by their friend groups.

The next morning, Sam woke up to the sound of his alarm. It was time to get ready for college. Getting out of bed, he noticed how refreshed he felt. He had so much more energy. But what he saw when he looked in the mirror really made his day.

“Wow! That shit is good!” Sam exclaimed to himself. As if by magic, overnight his body appeared noticeably toned, his face seemed fresher and fuller, his hair neater, and above all the bulge struggling to remain contained within his boxers was the cherry on top! It hadn’t even dawned on him that his tattoos had vanished.

Sam had an extra spring in his step today; so much so that his friends couldn’t help but notice how well he had been doing at the gym. Sam was being complimented left, right, and centre today. He walked into the social area with his friends and their skateboards, setting them all down in a pile because they weren’t allowed to take them to class.

Jack was standing with his mates when he noticed Sam enter with his friends and his new glow. To Jack, everything went into slow motion. Everything else faded into darkness… no one else in the room but Jack and Sam. Sam noticed Jack on the other side of the room, offering up a cheeky wink that sent Jack into euphoria.

“Oi!.. Oi! Earth to Jack!”

The room became bright again as Jack shook his head, coming back to reality.

“Sorry mate, was miles away.”

Thankfully, Jack’s mates hadn’t noticed who he was staring at.

The bell went and everyone started filtering out of the social area to their classes. Jack and his mates hung around as usual, drawing it out as long as they could. One of the other lads had clocked Sam’s friends leaving their skateboards piled up in the corner.

“I’ve got a sick idea, lads!”

Jack felt his heart sink when he heard what he had planned. He didn’t want to do anything to upset Sam, but he couldn’t risk being caught by his mates, who would call him out for going soft or brand him a traitor. So, he had to play along. They each grabbed a board and snuck out of the social area, heading for the pond around the back of the school. It was the perfect place as it was out of sight, and it had a small island in the middle. They would be able to easily throw the boards on the island, but in order to get them back, someone would be getting wet!

Later that day, Jack was at the gym as usual. He kept looking at his watch, keeping track of the time. Usually, Sam would be here by now. Then, out the corner of his eye, he saw Sam walking in, looking like a drowned rat, heading for the changing rooms… Fuck!

Jack felt really bad knowing what he had done. He made his way straight into the changing rooms to find Sam. Sam looked over to Jack as soon as he walked in.

“Mate! You’ll never guess what I had to do!”

Jack noticed straight away… Sam never used to say mate before! However, quickly brushing his excitement aside, he confessed to Sam. He really didn’t want to do it, but he couldn’t risk their friendship being uncovered. Much to his shock, Sam didn’t take it too badly at all. Instead, Sam confessed to Jack that he had been going off the whole skating and BMXing scene recently. It just didn’t seem so interesting anymore. Jack still felt bad and offered his spare pair of matching Nike joggers and sweat top for Sam to wear home after the gym.

Both Jack and Sam worked out together as usual. Once they finished, Jack handed Sam his spare clothes. Sam hesitated as he took the neatly folded pile. He had never worn anything like this before - these were chavvy clothes! He always wore ripped jeans and baggy t-shirts. But unless he wanted to go home wearing his sweaty gym kit, he had no other option. Jack watched intently, admiring Sam’s body as he dressed himself. Sam tried not to look too happy; however, he couldn’t help but notice the smell as he pulled the sweat top over his head. It smelt of Jack. For some reason, he found this comforting, like he had a part of Jack with him. He didn’t dare let that on in fear of Jack thinking he was some kind of gay weirdo. A lad like Jack couldn’t possibly feel the same way as he did. Jack mixed the next shake for Sam, and they both parted ways until tomorrow.

Sam got home from the gym to a surprised look from his parents. They had never known him to wear anything like this before. Sam usually would have been a little shy about it, but he just felt a new kind of confidence within himself that forced him, almost totally involuntarily, to come back with a response.

“Yeah, they’re from a mate at the gym. I got wet at school getting my skateboard from the pond. I actually quite like these… I might buy some of my own, innit!

Sam’s parents were a little taken aback by his response but didn’t want to knock the newfound confidence their son had acquired. Sam was pretty tired from his busy day, so he took himself straight to his room to chill out, watching some films in bed. Sam lay there wearing Jack’s clothes, occasionally taking a comforting sniff of the sleeve. He was curled up, snuggling into himself and Jack’s scent, and before he knew it, he was being woken up by his alarm.

Sam opened his eyes, a little disoriented by the fact he hadn’t undressed and got under his duvet. He noticed the TV and his bedside light were still on before looking over to his curtains to see the light shining through, confirming he had in fact slept right through. It didn’t take very long for the boost of energy to kick in again, making it easy to pull himself straight out of bed to get ready. Passing his mirror, he stopped and stepped back, taking a second glance at himself. He was a little shocked to see his reflection. He didn’t remember getting his hair cut, but it did look good!

“I dunno what I was thinking with my messy hair anyway,” Sam thought to himself.

He stood there admiring this quite chavvy-looking version of himself. At one stage, that would have repulsed him looking like one of the skanky dickheads from school, but whether it was just the fact he was growing out of his skater style, or Jack had been rubbing off on him, Sam was actually growing to like the style.

After Sam had finished admiring his changed look, he got ready and went to school. It was quite easy to hide his shifting opinion on his style at school, thanks to the uniform, but he couldn’t hide his new haircut. Sam’s friends picked up on it straight away, making fun of him and likening him to some of the chavvy lads at school with their typical hairstyles.

“Looks like you’re turning into one of them!”

Most of Sam’s friends looked like he used to with longer and messy hair. Sam was hurt by their remarks. They had known him for so long, yet they could turn on him so quickly. He didn’t want to make a fuss, so he let it drop this time, but something had shifted. The path of their friendship had been laid down.

Throughout the day, Sam found that he wasn’t as into the usual conversations about skating or BMXing as much as he used to be. In fact, he felt a little bored by it.

“Earth to Sam!” one of his mates joked in a sarcastic tone.

Sam snapped out of his daydream… He had been thinking about going to the gym later with Jack, excited to be spending more time with him.

“Sorry, guys, I was miles away!”

Sam continued as normal over the next few days, going to the gym, training with Jack, and taking the protein powder. He noticed his interests continued to wane, and the wedge between him and his old friends was growing. It really became apparent when he found out they had been arranging things behind his back, purposely not inviting him.

To top it off, puberty seemed to be hitting Sam hard. He thought that part of his life was over. He had accepted his shorter stature and come to terms with the idea that this was just how he was. But over the last few days, he had been hit by a second wave. He was growing again, easily a few inches taller. His face was slowly changing too, and most noticeably, his hair had begun to grow at an alarming rate. He had to get it cut regularly to maintain his new style. But weirdly, the roots were coming in lighter… like he was becoming blonde. He had never heard of anything like it, but with several close relatives who were blonde, he figured maybe it was just in his genes.

Sam had also drifted away from his friends pretty quickly and found himself on his own, a little lost and pretty damn lonely during school hours. He found himself longing for the end of each day, just to be back at the gym.

About two weeks later, if you hadn’t seen Sam for a while, you wouldn’t have recognised him. The taller, toned, blonde lad he had become was a far cry from the Sam of just a fortnight ago.

He was feeling pretty low when he got to the gym that day. The last couple of days at school, he had spent mostly alone. However, he did have some classes with Jack’s friends, and his changes hadn’t gone unnoticed. Sam had found a new voice in class - chipping in with sarky comments and banter with other students. Jack’s mates couldn’t believe they hadn’t noticed him before. He wouldn’t be out of place hanging out with them at all.

Jack did his best to raise Sam’s spirit that day.

“Wanna come back to mine after the gym?” he asked casually.

Sam’s face lit up instantly, beaming from ear to ear. Jack smiled, raising his eyebrows at Sam’s reaction. Sam accepted the invite without question.

“Oh mate, while I remember, I got your clothes in my bag,” Sam said, starting to pull them out.

Jack stopped him, gently pushing his hand back into the bag.

“Nah, mate. You keep ‘em, init. You look good in ‘em, lad.”

Jack and Sam finished up at the gym, and Sam took his next protein shake. The lads left together, walking back to Jack’s place. Sam was pretty nervous. He had become quite extroverted recently, but this moment made him feel on edge.

As they arrived at Jack’s, they went straight to his room and chilled out playing Jack’s music – which Sam had to admit was better than what he still had in his library. They were gaming for a bit, and eventually lying next to each other on the bed watching a film. Everything felt perfect. Both lads had been building up to this moment, they both felt the same, but until now, neither had managed to muster the courage to say it.

Suddenly, Jack blurted out, “Bruv, I like you.”

Sam smiled. “I like you too, init.”

Jack looked even more sheepish and continued, “Nah mate… like I like you like you, yeah? You get me?”

Sam was over the moon, barely able to control his excitement.

“Ahhh mate! You don’t even know how much I wanted you to say that, bruv. Ever since I met you at the gym, I’ve felt the same, init!”

The couple shared an intimate embrace, and for the first time, they kissed. Now that Sam had gone through his growth spurt, he was taller than Jack. Jack grabbed Sam’s hands, rolled over to face away, and pulled Sam’s arms around him encouraging him to spoon him.

Sam’s heart was fluttering. He nestled his head against Jack’s as they continued to watch the film. Nothing more needed to be said. They were just completely content being that close to one another.

Later that night, Sam sat on the stairs at home, wearing just his gym shorts. He snapped a photo of himself and sent it to Jack with a message: “Really enjoyed tonight. This is all yours now!”

It had been a few hours since he had taken his shake at the gym, and it was starting to kick in. Sam felt something shift inside him. It was like an awakening. Everything suddenly made sense. His chavvy personality was taking a firmer grip, and he couldn’t do anything about it, becoming more chavvy by the minute. Feeling lightheaded, Sam crawled upstairs to bed and passed out.

The next morning, Sam woke up feeling like a new man. It was a strange feeling, but all the negative emotions he had been building up over losing his old friends had just… vanished. His new extroverted personality was fully on display now. The filter was gone. Cheeky comments came out without much thought for consequences or others’ feelings.

Striding to school with a new swagger in his step, Sam had tweaked his uniform to match what the chavvy kids wore. His school shoes were in his bag, swapped for trainers on his feet. Over his shirt and tie, he wore a grey hoodie, blazer on top, and a baseball cap. Walking through the front gates felt like another slow-mo moment for Jack. Sam looked up, spotted him, and smiled, giving a nod as he approached. Jack’s heart skipped a beat.

Sam was totally in tune with the vibe today. Walking straight up to Jack, he gave him a fist bump.

“All right, bruv? How’s it goin’?”

Jack’s mates all turned to face Sam. They were stunned by how much he had changed. That shock was short-lived though, because they liked what they saw. He looked like one of them.

One of the lads spoke up. “Yous know this lad, Jack?”

Jack stood his ground, half-expecting some pushback from his mates. “Yeah mate, we go gym together. He’s sound, init.”

The same lad nodded. “Ight. He’s cool. Yous can hang with us if you like.”

Sam cracked a cheeky grin and offered up a fist bump. “Sound, bruv. That’ll be sick like!”

The bell rang, and they all turned to walk inside for registration, with Jack and Sam falling behind the group. Sam reached out, cheekily squeezed Jack’s butt, and gave him a grin.

Jack smiled but quickly raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh.” He had only just got Sam accepted into the group and they didn’t want to give too much away just yet.

In registration class, Sam was seated with Jack and some of his friends who happened to be in the same form group. Sam joined in on their banter, laughing and joking like he had always been part of the crew.

At the far end of the room sat two of his old friends from before everything changed. They were glaring over at Sam shocked not just by how different he looked, but who he was with. Sam’s gaze locked with theirs. He couldn’t help himself.

“What yous starin’ at? You scruffy hobos. Problem?”

His old mates didn’t reply and just looked away awkwardly, trying to ignore him.

“Yeah, thought so, init!” Sam snapped, while Jack’s mates cracked up laughing.

Things had changed for Sam so quickly over the past months. He had met Jack, lost his old friends, his outlook had shifted, and his style had transformed beyond recognition. Now, he was tight with a bunch of lads he wouldn’t have even given a second glance a few weeks ago.

Through the next two weeks of his transformation, he kept up his routine with Jack - hitting the gym hard. That second wave of puberty, as Sam saw it, hadn’t let up. Day by day, it continued to reshape him - physically and mentally - strengthening and reinforcing this new version of himself.

His wardrobe had undergone a complete overhaul too. The old stuff was long gone. Replaced with Nike, Adidas, Stone Island, and even some slick EA7 gear. If his parents hadn’t seen him every day and gotten used to the gradual changes, they would hardly have recognised him. Sam looked seriously good in his new gear. One of his favourite fits was a crisp white long-sleeve Nike tee, black trackies, and black-and-white Air Max 95s. Jack was over the moon. Not only had he fallen for Sam, but now Sam looked fitter than ever - confident, stylish, and totally fitting in with Jack’s world.

It was Friday night - nearly the end of the 30-day transformation period - and the lads were heading out drinking. Someone was throwing a house party in the posh part of town, and pretty much everyone from college had heard about it. Sam was buzzing. It was his first proper night out drinking with his new mates, and he had gone all out rocking his new grey Puma hoodie and matching joggers. He stood outside, drink in one hand, a smoke in the other, waiting for Jack to arrive. They were planning to have a few drinks at Sam’s first before heading over to meet the others at the party.

Jack finally showed up, opening the garden gate and stepping into Sam’s yard. Without saying a word, he grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him in for a kiss. Sam melted into it. That warm, glowing feeling he’d come to associate with Jack washed over him again. It was like a joy he never wanted to end. He kissed Jack back, smiling into it.

“SAM!”

The boys jumped out of their skin. Sam spun around, eyes wide. He had thought his parents were out. He hadn’t heard them come in through the front door and now they were standing there, having just witnessed him and Jack mid-kiss. Even though the new Sam wasn’t shy, he stood frozen, completely speechless, his face turning red with embarrassment.

His mum, seeing the look on his face, rushed over and wrapped him in a big hug and then hugged Jack too.

“Don’t worry! You didn’t have to hide it from us. But I might have known some of your recent changes had something to do with meeting someone!” she added, giving Sam a knowing wink.

Sam’s eyes widened in horror. “MUM… seriously!” he groaned.

She just laughed. “Alright, alright… I won’t embarrass you anymore! I’ll leave you toooo have some alooone time...” she teased, singing the words as she turned and bolted inside before Sam could find something to throw at her.

Jack chuckled at Sam. He knew the real reason behind his transformation, but Sam’s mum had unintentionally given Jack a cover story.

The two started drinking and then headed off to meet the lads at the house party. It was packed when they arrived. Anything valuable had clearly been stashed away, but that didn’t stop the place from getting trashed: drinks spilling everywhere, muddy trainers grinding grime into carpets.

Everyone from college was there. Even Sam’s old skater mates had showed up, though he hadn’t noticed them. He was too caught up in the chaos, laughing with his new crew, doing shot after shot and getting as wasted as he could.

The skater group, though, were stunned. They barely recognised him. Had it not been for one of the lads calling Sam over right in front of them, they might not have even realised it was him.

“How the hell had he changed so much?” they wondered. The personality shift was one thing, but the physical transformation, the way he walked, dressed, even held himself was something else entirely. Something had to be up… They agreed: they were going to get to the bottom of it. But they would have to play it smart. If Sam suspected anything, they might lose their chance.

It wasn’t until Tuesday that two of the skater lads decided to tail Sam and Jack after college. They followed them all the way to the gym. They were careful, silent, ducking behind hedges, parked cars. As far as they could tell, they were invisible, but Jack had clocked them almost straight away.

He knew what day it was. The final day. Sam only had to take one more scoop of the special shake. After that, the transformation would be complete. Sam would be 100% chavvy just like Jack and his crew. Whatever fragments of his old skater self still lingered would be wiped away for good., but now Jack was worried. With Sam’s old mates sniffing around, he couldn’t afford to wait another day. Normally, Jack gave Sam the shake after their workout, but today, he insisted Sam drink it during their session.

He pushed Sam hard. They stayed an hour longer than usual. Jack was hoping the skater lads would get bored and leave. No such luck. As soon as they stepped outside, they were ambushed. Two guys stepped out in front of them; two more blocked the path from behind. Even with his new cocky edge, Sam could tell this wasn’t worth a fight. They were outnumbered. Zach - his closest old friend - stepped forward.

“What’s up with you, Sam? Ever since you started hitting the gym, you’ve turned into someone else. We don’t even recognise you anymore. You’ve become a proper chav, hangin’ with these scummy rats.”

Jack tensed and leaned forward, ready to go for Zach.

“Oi!” Sam stopped him with an arm.

“Yeah? Well, you lot dropped me like a stone, innit, bruv? Least these lads got my back. Now do one!”

Zach looked hurt but didn’t back off.

“Come on, man. I’m sure we can work it out. Maybe we weren’t perfect mates, but we cared. Let us make it up to you. Come with us and we can catch up, like old times.”

But Jack’s plan had worked. The last scoop of the shake had kicked in. Sam’s mind reeled, but the changes locked into place. His old self was being erased once and for all. He looked at Zach with cold indifference.

“Sorry, bruv. Whatever we had? That don’t mean shit now, innit. So jog on. Me and my boy got lives to live, yeah?”

Zach finally understood. There was no getting through. He and the others backed off. As they walked away, Zach heard Sam mutter, “Who do they think they are? Fuckin' weirdos, init, bruv!”

Jack laughed, “I know, man. Fucked up, innit like!”

By the time they reached Sam’s house, the confrontation was a distant memory. At the gate, Sam paused and pulled Jack in for a kiss before letting him head off home.

Zach, who was still secretly following, froze behind a parked car. His jaw dropped. Everything made sense now.

The next day, the lunch bell rang. Sam and Jack were having a kickabout with the lads on the field when they saw the skater group approaching. Jack’s mates clocked them and started closing in, forming a loose wall of support around Sam and Jack. Zach pushed forward.

“I bet you lot would love to know a little secret these two have been keeping,” he said, loud enough for the whole field to hear.

Sam and Jack froze. Zach’s voice was venomous.

“These two… they’re a couple. Like, properly. Boyfriends.”

The group went quiet. Sam’s face flushed red. Jack looked down. This could be it… But before the silence could stretch too long, Aaron stepped forward. He moved in front of Jack and Sam, spreading his arms protectively, staring Zach down.

“And what? You jealous or summat?” he spat. “You wish it was you, innit? You wish Sam was your man, yeah?”

Zach’s bravado crumbled. Aaron stepped closer, pushing into Zach’s space.

“Why don’t you just fuck off and get your own boyfriend? Sam’s one of us now whether you like it or not. We got his back, ight? Prick.”

Zach and the skater lads slunk off, defeated.

Jack turned to Aaron. “Cheers, mate. That meant a lot.”

Aaron grinned.

“It’s cool, bruv. What you two get up to, that’s your business. As long as you one of us, no one’s gonna give you shit. You get me, fam?”

From that moment on, Sam didn’t need the magic anymore. Zach had burned every bridge. The choice was clear. He belonged with the lads now. The next day, Aaron invited Sam to hang out, just the two of them. It was the first time Sam had spent time with one of the lads without Jack. They hung out in town, drinking, laughing, kicking about. Sat on a bench, Aaron lit up a smoke and passed it over.

“You alright, fam? Forget them twats you used to hang with. You one of us now, yeah? We got you.”

Sam nodded, taking a drag.

“Cheers, bruv. I ain’t ever goin’ back, init.”

Later that night, Sam went over to Jack’s house with a couple of the lads to pre-drink before heading out. They all posed for a photo, arms around each other, beers in hand. Sam stood just behind Jack, who was wearing his new Silk Silk hoodie, grinning beside Olly in his camo-sleeved tee. Looking at them, you would never guess Sam had been anything but one of the lads.

Sometimes he would pass his old mates in town, barely even acknowledging them. To them, he was just another chav now. They would stare after him, baffled, wondering how the transformation had been so total. And deep down, some of them probably wondered whether they could have done something to stop it, to not lose the friend they used to know. But it was too late now. Jack’s plan had worked. He had changed Sam completely. And no one had ever figured it out. He felt a quiet sense of pride every time he looked at Sam now - knowing exactly what he had done. And knowing Sam was all his.

One afternoon, while passing through town, Jack decided to drop into the magic shop to thank the old, wizard-like man who had helped start it all. The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. Jack made his way to the counter where a young woman stood, arranging crystals in a display case.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a friendly smile.

“Yeah, mate,” Jack said casually. “Where’s the old guy who works here?”

The woman tilted her head, clearly confused. “Old guy? What do you mean?”

“You know,” Jack continued, eyebrows furrowing, “the one who looks a bit like a wizard, proper mystical vibes yeah?”

She gave a small laugh but shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve owned this place for a few years now. There’s never been anyone like that working here.”

Jack stared at her, unsure whether she was winding him up.

“But… nah, seriously,” he pressed, “I came in here not long ago... he gave me this shake stuff, said it would help someone.”

The woman gave a polite but firm smile. “I think you must be mistaken. Maybe it was another shop?”

Jack slowly backed away from the counter, his expression shifting from confusion to unease. He stepped outside into the street, the door swinging shut behind him with another quiet chime. Standing there, Jack looked back at the window, his reflection faint against the glass. Everything that had happened with Sam was real - he knew it was. So, who was that man? Where did he come from? Where did he go? It was as if the mysterious old figure had appeared just when Jack needed him most. And then vanished, never meant to be seen again…

______________________________________________________________

This story was originally posted by @scallylad89 on Tumblr. I have improved it a little. It’s one of my favourite stories he wrote, so it deserves to be on Tumblr again.

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blahblah63t · 22 days ago

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Adrian’s Fate

I took great pleasure in this guy’s transformation. He had been messaging me for ages, wanting me to transform him. I had my fingers burnt in the past, so naturally, I’m hesitant about these things, plus I can’t risk changing people left, right, and centre or I might blow my cover, and people could discover my gift… if that’s what you want to call it.

None of my warnings put him off: “You do realise I can’t undo it… there is no going back! Your whole life will change forever! Reality will change around you, and any opportunities in life you had will have gone forever!” He was relentless. Day after day, he would message me, at one point begging: “Mate, please! I beg you! This is what I really want!” But he wasn’t going to get it that easily, so I let him stew for a few more days.

I knew from when we had chatted in the past that he wanted to be thrust into it, like just wake up and everything was different. But the constant nagging had wound me up. I was going to give him what he wanted, but not exactly how he wanted it.

It was quite late when I messaged him: “Get some sleep tonight, mate. You’re gonna need it because you’re in for a bumpy ride tomorrow.” I just didn’t tell him how long that ride would be…

He sent me a picture wearing nothing but a pair of trainers, football socks, and briefs. “I’m ready, mate! I can’t wait!” He was expecting to wake up and everything would have changed, ready to start his new life fully transformed. But for my entertainment, I was going to draw this out and humiliate him a bit before I fully altered the reality surrounding his life.

Adrian was happy when he woke up to see he was already dressed in some chavvy gear. Lying there on his bed, he was wearing a yellow North Face hoody, navy trackies, and blue 95’s. However, his joy was short-lived. He quickly realised when he saw his reflection that he hadn’t changed as much as he had hoped. Sure, he looked a little younger, but he was still largely recognisable as himself.

He messaged me, a little disappointed. I reassured him it wouldn’t be long; he would just have to try and carry on as normal for a bit. I had replaced all of his clothes with chavvy stuff, nothing remotely smart in sight. I had also changed his accent, so he sounded like he grew up on a council estate.

Adrian still had his office job. Lucky for him, it was a mufti day, and he would be able to pull off some of his stuff. It was difficult, but he managed to get by by saying as little as he could and watching what he said, with only a few slips. But that wasn’t his biggest issue. He was struggling to do his job now. He found it hard to read his emails, and the more he tried to write responses, the harder it became. Eventually, his boss called him into his office.

“Adrian, what on earth is going on with you today? Your work today has been off. And some of these emails… is there something going on? Can I help?”

Adrian forgot himself in the embarrassment, allowing himself to revert to his new natural voice.

“Nah, bruv, is sound, innit! What tha fuck yous sayin’ bout us? I ain’t good enough, like?”

His boss was shocked at the outburst. “Are you joking?”

Adrian continued to dig his own grave. “Jokin’? Are you dizzy, bruv? Fuck this noise, fam! You know what? Yous can stick your job right up yer arse, innit!”

Before he stood up and stormed out of the office. I forgot to mention I had also shortened his temper and given him a bit of an inferiority complex, because a proper lad should feel like he needs to assert himself as an alpha!

Well, the first step was complete without me having to do it for him… I had led him into taking the leap himself, walking out of his job. The next step I pushed him into was a little more humiliating. After discovering he didn’t own a car anymore and having to get the bus home, his key didn’t fit the lock to his flat!

I received quite an angry text: “Mate, what the fuck is going on, like? Why can’t I get into my flat?”

I smugly responded: “Flat? What flat? You still live at home with your parents!”

All I got back was: “R u fucking serious, mate?! I’m 35 and I still live with my parents?”

It wasn’t so bad, though. By the time he walked the rest of the way back home, he was already only 30. But he still had to stand in front of them in the living room and explain to them how he had lost his job using his chavvy voice.

The next morning, I decided to be a little kinder to him. When he woke up, he went straight to the bathroom to use the toilet. He was pleasantly surprised to see his better-looking reflection admiring his toned body.

“Aidan, stop hogging the bathroom! Also, you best start looking for another job if you want to stay here!” his mum called from the landing.

Aidan? Who the fuck was Aidan? Well, there was no Adrian anymore. I had changed his name to be a little more fitting.

After his parents had left for work, leaving him on his own, he started to look for jobs. But to his surprise, when he found his CV, it looked a little different from the last time he saw it! There was no job history! And where was his college? It said he had never done A-levels, and come to think of it, he was sure he had more GCSEs than that and higher grades! Looking through some job adds, he found one that I had circled:

“Scaffolder, no previous experience needed, all training on the job.”

He didn’t want to be a scaffolder! But right now, it was the only thing he could find. He managed to get himself an interview for tomorrow. Now that the job was sorted, he couldn’t help but notice how badly he was craving a cigarette! It started to drive him mad! Eventually, he had to give up and go to the shop.

Aidan went for a walk around to try and clear his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about his interview tomorrow. He had started to walk with an involuntary swagger he didn’t have before. He could already tell people were starting to look at him differently, like the woman in the shop who kept her eyes on him to make sure he wasn’t going to nick anything.

That would have all been fine, but despite the personality changes I mentioned before, he was still very self-aware. He was stuck in his changing body, unable to hide the chav taking over.

Aidan took some time to himself, overlooking the lake, for the first time starting to question if he had made the right choice… this was what I was waiting for! For pestering me so much, I wanted him to almost resist and change his mind. But he already looked so good, and I did promise him I would take his transformation the whole way, so that’s what he’s gonna get!

The next morning, Aidan woke up feeling a little different. He was going to need some more confidence to deal with the world of real work. I had also removed a little more worldly knowledge and given him a bit more strength. Aidan was finally starting to get a little more pleased with his daily changing appearance, admiring himself in the mirror after he had showered. He showed up at the address he had been given. It was their yard where they kept all of the scaffolding. Making his way into the cabin at the side of the yard, he saw the man sat inside.

“Excuse me, mate! Are yous Mark?”

The man looked up from his paperwork. “Alright, mate, you must be the new lad I spoke to yesterday! Aidan?”

Aidan answered, “Yes mate, that’s me, innit.”

Mark stood up and led Aidan out of the cabin. “Alright, lad, you’re on trial today! If you can handle it, you got the job!”

Mark already had two other employees, both in their twenties. Aidan wasn’t quite as young as them yet, but soon he would fit in perfectly with the lads. Mark handed Aidan some hi-vis gear. Mark jumped in one truck with one of the lads; Aidan jumped in the other with the other lad.

When they arrived at the job, Aidan was filled with fear. He didn’t expect this… the job was to put scaffolding up around his old office! I had been quite merciful on him recently, so a little bit more humiliation was overdue. I had made sure that even though his appearance had already changed quite drastically, his old work colleagues would still recognise him!

The first floor was fine. Aidan was just following orders, carrying poles from the truck and watching the lads as they showed him which joints he had to use. It was heavy work, but now his mind was starting to work differently. He was beginning to get a great deal of satisfaction from using his physique and strength over his brain. It didn’t take too long to get the first level up and put the boards in place. Aidan was hanging off the bars like a monkey and climbing up. It made him feel so good, almost primal!

Just getting into the job, he was walking along the first level when he heard a knock on the window. Up until now, he was certain no one would recognise him, but standing there was Hollie, the office assistant and the biggest gossip going! She looked him straight in the eyes before her face lit up and she called behind her into the office. Aidan saw loads of heads begin to pop up and look over. He couldn’t quite believe they all still recognised him.

Everyone was shocked to see Aidan looking scruffy and lumping scaffolding poles about. His leaving the company had come as quite a shock to everyone; no one saw it coming until that day when it was like a switch had been flicked. This was gold for them. He could see his old colleagues beginning to point and laugh at him, mocking the fact he now seemingly had a very basic physical job almost as if he had failed at life. Aidan couldn’t hide the fact he was clearly embarrassed. Luckily, none of the lads noticed!

I was kind of expecting it when he called me. I was greeted by the face of this lad on my phone. “Wow, you’ve come along nicely, haven’t you?”

Aidan didn’t share the same feeling. “Mate, I love the job! The lads are sick, and I’d never thought I’d enjoy this kind of work, innit… but what the fuck, like? Why do people from my old work recognise us? Proper fucking embarrassing, innit bruv!”

I couldn’t help myself and smirked. “Sorry, lad. Like I said, I’m not 100% at the moment, so it’s taking a bit longer than it would normally for everything to fall into place. Give it another couple of days and it’ll be fine. You’ll be a proper lad, and everyone will see you as one!”

Aidan was still angry at being made fun of. “You fuckin’ better, mate, you know what I mean, like!”

I cut him off. “Remember, I can stop this at any point! I don’t have to finish your transformation, and you’ll be stuck in this limbo!”

Aidan’s tone instantly changed. “Eerr… sorry, mate. Don’t stop it, like! I’ll deal with it, innit.”

“Ok then, it won’t be too much longer!” Then I hung up on him.

For now, at least, Aidan was going to have to deal with the disjointed and slow changes. By the time they had run out of poles and boards, it was lunchtime. On the way back to the yard, they stopped past a supermarket.

Aidan was about to get the next wave of his transformation. Jumping down from the truck, shocks shot up his legs as if he had landed badly. They ran all the way up through his body to his head, making his hairs stand on end.

Walking into the shop, his whole body felt tight and achy from the tension. Each step, months and months of his age washed away, quickly making him look visibly younger, like he was in his mid-twenties again. He could see how different he looked in the glass as he walked past, but his workmates didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong, so he silently dealt with it.

After lunch, Aidan - now the same age as the lads - found his friendship with them building up. He began to fit in like a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that had finally been found. Mark tapped Aidan on the shoulder,

“Alright lad, I’m happy with what I’ve seen! Once today is done, enjoy your weekend and I’ll see ya on Monday, alright?”

Aidan’s face lit up. He was actually over the moon that he had this job, one that only a couple of days ago would have made his toes curl at the thought!

“Sound mate! That’s sick! Proper looking forward to it, innit like!”

As it was Friday and Aidan had successfully passed his trial, the lads invited him out for some celebratory drinks down their local. Adrian was never a big drinker, and he certainly didn’t go to places like that, but here Aidan was planning to go to a proper working-class pub and get smashed with the lads. For the first time, he was starting to realise how far he had come.

The next morning, he woke up with one hell of a hangover.

“Fuck mate, I think I overdid it a bit last night, init,” he thought to himself.

Opening his eyes and lifting his head from the pillow, he looked around his bedroom.

“Shit! Where the fuck am I?”

Aidan panicked. He had no idea where he was. This wasn’t his room! How did he end up here? Unless he had somehow managed to break into someone else’s house, which was entirely possible with how drunk he was last night, or he had to have gone back and crashed in one of the lads' spare rooms.

Then, from the landing, he heard a familiar voice. It sounded like his mum, but she sounded rougher, with the huskier voice of someone who had smoked at least 20 a day for God knows how many years! The door opened and in walked his mum, except she was different! She had always dressed smartly; Aidan had never seen her not looking like she was ready to face the world. But here she was, wearing comfy clothes with no make-up on, looking a bit rough and tired.

“What time did you call that when yous got home last night? You fucking woke us up banging and crashing about. You best not make a fucking habit of it now yous got ya self a job!” She slammed the door and walked off.

Aidan wasn’t expecting that! He stood up and looked out of his window. The familiar view of their driveway with their cars and borders full of plants and bushes he was expecting to see had been replaced by a small, unkempt front garden with patchy grass and a small pathway from the front door to a gate. Cars were parked on the street instead, and as he continued to look further around, they were surrounded by loads of the same terraced red brick houses.

It began to dawn on Aidan: if he was to be a proper lad, it made sense that he came from a humbler background. But it was going to take some getting used to. He sat back down on the bed, clearly able to smell the lingering smell of stale smoke and took that as it was okay to light up in his room. He sat there on his bed, taking it all in, still wearing the Adidas sweat top and joggers he had worn out last night and fallen asleep in.

Exploring his pretty empty new room, Aidan opened his wardrobe to find a mirror on the inside of the door. “Wow!”

Aidan realised how much younger he looked. His pleasure was short-lived as the door flung open again! This time, a lad who looked quite similar to him walked in. Aidan had been an only child, but now he had an older brother, Rhys, and a little sister, Tanisha.

Rhys asked Aidan, “Yous gonna need a lift with us to footy?”

Aidan once again froze at yet another surprise. He had never played any sport in his life before! In that instant, his mind flooded with past memories of all the matches he had played.

“Yes mate! That’d be sick like!”

Rhys gave him a thumbs up. “Sound, grab ya kit lad and meet us downstairs in 10!”

Everything had started to move so fast, Aidan was struggling to keep up with the pace at which things were changing. Saturday was a bit of a blur. Playing football was weird because, even though he had never played before, his memories said otherwise, and he just seemed to know what he was doing.

The rest of the day he spent adjusting to his new family life. The fact that he had siblings and his family were all working class and life was now a far cry from the sheltered upbringing he had originally had.

Sunday was D-Day. Today I was going to finalise his transformation. Aidan woke up again to discover he had changed even more, now looking like a proper lad. He was 19 years old now, which made him the nipper at work. Sure, he would still be mates with the lads, but he would look up to them from now on rather than being one of their equals.

I made my final adjustments to his mind. I removed any remaining aspirations, leaving him with just enough drive to get up and want to earn a basic wage doing his scaffolding job. His knowledge of the world and basic things that most people should know were replaced with useless information all about football and boxing.

I filled his head with all the memories he needed from his new past, but I left enough from his old life so he would have a constant reminder of the choice he made. Finally, to protect my identity, I removed any memory he had of me. He would know he chose to be this way and that someone had made it happen, but who would always remain a mystery.

Aidan would live the rest of his life never progressing, just getting by. By the time he was in his 40s, the fit chavvy looks I had bestowed upon him had long since faded, worn away by years of hard work, drinking, and smoking. But that’s part of the trade-off: a hard life takes its toll.

As the years passed, the memories of his old life remained. After the honeymoon period ended and the novelty wore off, the reality set in. This was it now, for the rest of his life. Over time, he grew to the conclusion that he had made a bad choice, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

______________________________________________________________

This story was originally posted by @scallylad89 on Tumblr. I have i kept it mostly original and also didn't change the pictures. They’re definitely older pics of chavs, as you can probably tell. ;)

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blahblah63t · 1 month ago

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remix

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blahblah63t · 2 months ago

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spiral&chill 2

Ben stared at his phone screen, the message glowing back at him.

“Hey mate, England game this Saturday. Want to come over? Got a big screen, beers, and good company. 😉”

It was from Charles.

Ben’s heart thudded a little faster than usual, and not just because he loved watching the England national team. Charles — the man he’d met online weeks ago — had become a sort of fascination for him. They’d met under what some might call unusual circumstances. What had started as a playful “Netflix and chill” invitation had spiraled into something Ben couldn’t fully explain.

That night, weeks ago, Charles had invited him over with casual promises of drinks and movies. But Ben remembered something else, something undefinable.

A feeling of being claimed, owned.

When he left Charles’s apartment that night, Ben remembered feeling a little foggy. Things had seemed a bit… hazy, but good. He’d laughed it off, assuming it was the drinks. But as the weeks passed, he found himself checking his phone, waiting for Charles’s messages, feeling a little buzz of anticipation each time they appeared.

So when Charles invited him over to watch England play, Ben didn’t hesitate.

Saturday arrived, and Ben got ready.

He stood in front of the mirror, tugging the hem of his tight England jersey down over his torso. His short athletic shorts hugged his thighs snugly, and the white sneakers completed the look. His heart raced a little, but he told himself it was just excitement for the game.

He grabbed his keys and headed out.

Charles’s apartment door opened with a wide, welcoming grin.

“Benny, mate! You made it!” Charles stepped back, gesturing him in.

Charles was dressed similarly: England jersey, but instead of shorts, he wore black Adidas joggers. Ben’s eyes flicked down briefly, then up again, feeling a strange little tingle ripple down his spine.

“Come in, come in,” Charles said warmly, clapping him on the back.

Inside, the apartment was cozy — the big-screen TV already tuned to the pre-game coverage. The living room smelled faintly of cologne, beer, and something Ben couldn’t quite place — a musky undertone that seemed… familiar.

They settled on the couch, beers in hand.

They chatted casually at first.

“Reckon Kane’s gonna score tonight?” Charles asked, smirking.

“Hope so,” Ben grinned. “They need the points.”

The first whistle blew, and the match began.

Ben leaned forward, eyes on the screen.

Everything felt normal. He sipped his beer, laughing with Charles, yelling when England got close to a goal.

But about ten minutes in, Ben noticed something.

Charles’s voice was murmuring softly beside him, almost too low to hear, but not quite.

“Watch them closely, Benny…”

Ben blinked.

“Huh?” he muttered, half-turning.

But Charles just smiled and pointed to the screen.

“Look how they move, mate. The players. Their focus, their energy. Watch them.”

Ben turned back to the screen, frowning slightly. He watched.

The players sprinted up and down the pitch, sweat glistening on their foreheads, jerseys clinging to their bodies, legs pumping under their shorts.

“Yeah,” Charles murmured again, “watch them… so strong… so focused… every muscle working…”

Ben shifted slightly on the couch. His beer bottle rested on his knee, forgotten. He could feel a strange warmth rising in his chest, a fog drifting across his mind.

Charles’s voice drifted closer, velvety, smooth.

“You like watching, don’t you, Benny? You like how they look. Watch them. Watch their bodies move… feel how easy it is to let your mind drift…”

Ben’s eyes softened. His shoulders relaxed. The noise of the crowd on the TV faded a little, replaced by the steady rhythm of Charles’s voice.

Ben sat, shoulders slightly slouched, beer bottle balanced loosely in his hand and knee, eyes locked on the screen.

“Good, Ben…” Charles’s voice slid into his ear, smooth as silk. “Just relax. You’re doing great, mate. Just… keep watching.”

Ben’s fingers twitched slightly, and he blinked hard, trying to clear his head.

His muscles felt strange — a kind of buzzing tension humming through his arms, his legs. His skin tingled, heat rising along his neck and down his chest under the tight England jersey. His thighs flexed involuntarily, the short shorts feeling suddenly too snug.

He swallowed, forcing himself to sit up straighter, trying to focus.

“It’s just the game,” he mumbled under his breath. “Just the game, just the—”

But Charles was already leaning in closer, his voice sliding deeper into Ben’s mind.

“You want to watch them, Ben. You can’t help it. Look how they move… so fast, so strong… their sweat dripping, their muscles working under those jerseys, their legs pumping in those shorts…”

Ben clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away, down at the beer bottle in his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Stop it,” he whispered.

But Charles chuckled softly, and Ben felt a shiver ripple down his spine.

“Oh Ben… you don’t really want me to stop.”

Ben shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away.

But the more he resisted, the stronger the pull became.

The players on screen seemed sharper now.

The camera zoomed in on a midfielder, his jersey plastered to his back, sweat darkening the fabric. His legs pumped hard, calves flexing, glistening. Ben’s mouth went dry.

Another close-up: a forward wiping his face with his sleeve, jaw tight, eyes fierce. The camera lingered on his thighs as he sprinted forward, shorts riding high.

Ben felt his pulse hammer in his chest.

Charles’s hand rested lightly on Ben’s shoulder.

“Let it in, mate… you don’t have to fight it. You’re safe here. Just let yourself watch… let yourself feel it…”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

But it was no good.

His skin tingled. His breathing grew shallow. His muscles ached faintly, like they were straining against something invisible. His thoughts swirled like smoke, curling around Charles’s voice, sinking deeper and deeper.

He tried to speak, to protest — but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out.

Charles’s fingers brushed down his arm, light and casual.

“I see it, Ben,” he murmured. “I see how hard you’re trying to resist. But why fight, hmm? Why make it so hard on yourself? You like watching. You like the way it feels. Just give in, mate… just watch…”

Ben’s chest heaved once, twice. His eyes fluttered open.

The players on the screen blurred slightly — their bodies shining, muscles flexing, breathless, intense.

Ben’s lips parted. His shoulders sagged. His grip on the beer loosened until the bottle tilted, clinking softly against the side table.Charles leaned in close, his voice a warm whisper right against Ben’s ear.

“That’s it, Benny… you’re doing so well. Just let it happen. You remember how good it feels, don’t you? Like last time. That lovely, warm, heavy feeling… sinking down… slipping away…”

Ben’s mind swam. His thoughts tangled. His body tingled all over, heat flooding through him.

And even as some small part of him tried desperately to hold on, to stay upright, to stay aware —Charles smiled softly, watching him slide.

Ben floated.

That’s the only word he could think of. He was there — on Charles’s couch, the match on the big screen, the noise of the crowd roaring faintly in the background — but at the same time, he was somewhere else.

Somewhere soft.

Somewhere warm.

Charles’s voice guided him, smooth and honeyed, a thread of sound weaving through his drifting thoughts.

“That’s it, Benny… doing so well, mate. Just relax. Let your eyes watch… let your mind soak it all in…”

Ben’s eyes flickered, barely focusing on the screen.

The camera zoomed in on a defender’s back — the white England jersey clinging tight to the curve of his shoulders, the damp fabric stretched across the ridges of muscle. The player turned, and the camera followed, sliding down his body, over his shorts, tight and bulging as he sprinted forward.

Ben let out a slow, shaky breath.

He felt it.

A tightening in his chest, a curl of heat in his belly, a tingle across his skin.

Charles chuckled softly beside him.

“You feel it too, don’t you, Benny…?”

Ben’s lips parted slightly, and his fingers twitched.

Charles leaned in, whispering right next to his ear.

“Look how tight their gear is, mate. Look at the way it hugs their bodies. The way the fabric stretches over their muscles, the way their shorts press against them… it’s hard not to watch, isn’t it? Hard not to feel it…”

Ben’s breath hitched.

On screen, the camera panned to a close-up of the striker — his jersey plastered to his chest, dark with sweat, rising and falling as he caught his breath. His shorts rode high on his thighs, every movement pulling the fabric tight, outlining everything underneath.

Ben’s eyes glazed, his jaw slackening slightly.

Charles’s hand rested lightly on his knee now, warm and steady.

“You feel it too, Ben… don’t you…”

Ben swallowed hard, a tremble running through him.

He wanted to shake his head, to deny it, to pull away — but instead, a tiny, helpless whisper slipped from his lips.

“… yeah…”

Charles smiled.

“That’s it, mate… good boy. Just let yourself feel it. No need to fight, no need to hold back. Just watch… just sink… just let go…”

Ben’s body sagged further, muscles softening, mind dissolving.

The match blurred on.

Every close-up pulled Ben deeper — the stretch of jerseys, the flex of thighs, the glisten of sweat, the intensity in the players’ faces.

Charles’s voice wove through it all, wrapping Ben up in warmth and suggestion.

“Such strong bodies, mate… such power… such focus… and you can feel it, can’t you… right there, in your chest, in your belly, in your skin…”

Ben whimpered softly, his thighs pressing together slightly, his fingers clenching and unclenching in his lap.

Charles squeezed his knee gently, reassuring, coaxing.

“Good, Ben… that’s a good lad. Just let it happen… let yourself drift… let yourself sink deeper…”

Ben shivered, his thoughts barely coherent now, his body humming with sensation.

And all the while, the game played on — and Charles kept whispering, gently, persistently, wrapping Ben’s mind tighter and tighter in his words.

Ben was helpless.

The world was the screen — the close-ups, the tight shots of the players sprinting, sweating, gritting their teeth. The flexing muscles, the damp clinging shirts, the shorts pulled tight across firm thighs.

And Charles’s voice. Always Charles’s voice.

“That’s it, Ben… good lad…” Charles murmured beside him, voice like velvet, fingers light on Ben’s knee.

Ben shivered.

His whole body was tense now — muscles tight, chest heaving slightly, thighs pressed together. His shorts felt too tight, his skin too hot. His cock coiled and throbbed, pressing insistently at the front of his shorts, a growing, unavoidable presence.

Charles noticed, of course.

Ben felt it the moment Charles’s hand slid a little higher, resting just above his knee, the fingertips lightly grazing the trembling muscle there.

“Mmm… look at you, mate,” Charles purred, low and amused. “Getting so worked up… all from watching them play… such a good boy, Ben.”

Ben let out a tiny, helpless whimper.

His eyes were glassy, fixed on the screen, watching another close-up — a midfielder tugging at his damp jersey, adjusting his shorts, muscles rippling.

Ben squirmed faintly, trying to shift without really thinking, but Charles’s hand pressed lightly on his thigh, holding him in place.

“Shh… no need to move, Ben. Just stay still. Just watch…”

Ben trembled.

He could feel himself stiffening, length tenting hard against his shorts, the fabric stretched tight and unforgiving. His hands clenched into the couch cushions, his breathing shallow and quick.

Charles leaned in, his breath warm against Ben’s ear.

“I can feel how hard you’re trying to hold still… how much you’re feeling right now… good lad… just let it happen… let those little sounds come out, hmm? You don’t have to hide them…”

A shaky, needy little moan slipped past Ben’s lips before he could stop it.

Charles’s smile widened.

“That’s it… that’s my good boy…”

Ben’s whole body was strung tight, tense and desperate, heat coursing through him as he watched the players on screen — every flex, every movement feeding the ache inside him. And Charles knew exactly how to play him, how to coax out every shiver, every needy sound, every helpless pulse of need.

While the match went on.

Ben barely registered the score, the cheers, the whistles. All he could feel was Charles’s hand, Charles’s voice, and the burning, aching need inside him — growing, coiling, pressing, demanding.

And still, Charles whispered, calm and commanding:

“Good boy, Ben… just keep watching… keep feeling… don’t hold back…”

Charles’s hand still rested on his thigh, warm and steady, fingers occasionally grazing just slightly upward, the touch electric every time.

“Easy, Ben… you’re doing so well,” Charles murmured, voice smooth as silk. “Just keep watching, mate. Just let it all sink in…”

Ben’s breath hitched again, chest tight.

On the screen, the referee blew his whistle. A free kick.

The camera panned to the defensive wall — five players lined up, side by side, shifting slightly on their feet, adjusting their stances.

And — like always — their hands slid instinctively down, cupping in front of their groins, protecting themselves.

Ben’s eyes went wide.The close-up was sharp: thighs tight, shorts stretched, hands pressed over the obvious bulges beneath.He let out a shaky, choked breath, his legs tensing even tighter on the couch.

Charles’s fingers pressed lightly on his thigh, coaxing.

“Look at them, Ben…” Charles murmured, low and warm. “Look how natural it is for them… hands right there… covering themselves… just like this…”

Ben barely had time to process the words before he felt it:

Charles’s other hand sliding lightly across the front of his shorts, palm grazing over the straining, needy tent pressing forward.

Ben whimpered — a soft, broken sound, his hips twitching, his whole body shuddering.

“Ohhh, good lad…” Charles whispered with a chuckle. “You’re feeling it now, aren’t you… can’t help it… leaking already, I bet…”

Ben let out another helpless, shaky sound — because it was true.

He could feel it.

The damp, sticky warmth soaking into his underwear, the ache and throb pushing against the tight fabric of his shorts. His body was on fire, his mind a dizzy fog, everything tuned to Charles’s voice, Charles’s touch, and the images flashing on screen.

A player adjusting himself casually after the kick, shorts riding up, bulge obvious, sweat glistening.

Ben’s hips bucked faintly before he could stop himself.

Charles’s hand stayed firm, gently holding him down.

“Easy, Ben… stay still… let yourself feel it… let it build…”

Ben gasped softly, clenching his fists, his body trembling, his mind drowning.

And Charles smiled — knowing exactly how far he could push, how to tease every last little reaction out of Ben.

Ben was trembling.

Every inch of his body was taut, straining, aching — the heat in his chest, the tightness in his belly, the unbearable throb between his legs. His shorts were damp now, a sticky patch spreading where his length pressed desperately against the fabric, every little twitch making him gasp softly, helplessly.

Charles’s hand still rested there — warm, steady, teasingly light. Just enough contact to remind Ben he was there. Just enough to make Ben squirm.

“Mmm, good boy…” Charles murmured softly beside him. “You’re doing so well, Ben… so obedient… so ready to let go…”

Ben let out a shaky little moan, his hips twitching, his fists clenched hard in the couch cushions. His eyes flickered back to the screen, catching another sharp, vivid close-up — the players shifting, adjusting their shorts, the sweat glistening on their skin, the powerful flex of their legs.

It sent another rush of need through him, another helpless tremor shaking his body.

And Charles saw it all.

Charles’s hand pressed just a little firmer, just a tiny bit of pressure right over Ben’s soaked, straining tent.

Ben gasped, his whole body jerking faintly, his thighs trembling.

“Ohhh, you’re right there, aren’t you…” Charles murmured, his voice warm and deep, sliding right into Ben’s mind. “So close… so needy… you can feel it building, can’t you… feel how close you are…”

Ben whimpered — a broken, desperate little sound, his head falling back against the couch, his breath coming fast and shallow.

Charles chuckled softly.

Ben let out a strangled sound, half-protest, half-plea. His hips tried to lift again, but Charles’s hand held him firmly in place, pinning him down, keeping him teetering right on that trembling edge.

“You’re mine now, Ben… you know that, don’t you…”

Ben’s lips parted, and a tiny, wrecked whisper slipped out:

“… yes…”

Charles leaned in, his mouth brushing Ben’s ear.

“Good lad… such a good, obedient boy. You don’t get to let go until I say. You hold it. You stay right here, on the edge, for me.”

Ben shuddered, a broken moan bubbling up from his throat, his body shaking under the strain, his need pulsing so hard it almost hurt.

And still, Charles coaxed, teased, controlled.

“Watch them, Ben… keep watching… feel every flex, every shift, every little movement on that screen… let it feed you, let it build… but you hold it, understand?”

Ben whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut, his whole body a trembling, desperate mess.

Ben’s whole world had narrowed to three things:

the screen,

the burning throb of need between his legs,

and Charles.

The match blurred in front of his eyes — shapes moving, muscles flexing, jerseys clinging, shorts riding up — every moment feeding the desperate ache that had been growing inside him for what felt like forever.

And beside him, Charles moved closer.

Ben barely noticed at first — his mind was fogged, dizzy, every thought tangled up in the tight heat coiling in his belly.

But then he felt it.

The soft shift of the couch.

The warmth of Charles’s breath at his ear.

The slow, deliberate pressure of Charles’s hand sliding higher, fingers brushing lightly across the front of his straining, soaked shorts.

Ben gasped, hips jerking helplessly, a trembling, wrecked moan slipping from his throat.

“Mmm… look at you, Ben…” Charles murmured, voice deep and rich, mouth so close Ben could feel every word against his skin. “Such a good boy… watching so well… feeling everything I want you to feel…”

Ben whimpered, his eyes flicking wildly across the screen — another close-up, another flexing player, another bulging pair of shorts, another rush of heat stabbing through him.

And Charles’s hand — warm and sure — cupped him fully now, pressing through the damp fabric, teasing little strokes, soft squeezes that made Ben’s whole body tremble.

“Shhh… stay right here, Ben… right on the edge for me…”

Ben let out a broken sob, hips twitching, thighs shaking.

Charles leaned down, nuzzling lightly at Ben’s ear, his hand never stopping.

“You want it so badly, don’t you, mate…” he whispered. “You can feel it — the need, the ache, the heat… but you’re going to hold it. For me.”

Ben whimpered again, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles went white, his breath coming in shaky gasps.

“Such a good boy, Ben… watching the players, feeling your body pulse, leaking into your shorts, and still… holding on…”

Charles’s hand gave one slow, firm squeeze, and Ben cried out, his body arching, his thighs trembling violently, his whole being teetering on the absolute edge.

But he held.

Because Charles told him to.

Charles’s fingers paused their teasing strokes for just a heartbeat—enough time for Ben’s body to clamp down on anticipation like a vise. The wetness in Ben’s shorts glistened under the living room’s warm glow, a silent invitation.

Without warning, Charles dipped his head lower. His tongue flicked out, pressing through the damp fabric at the very tip of Ben’s length. Ben’s eyes flew open, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat as every nerve screamed. Charles held himself there, tongue pressed firm against the soaked barrier, letting Ben’s slick seep into his mouth through the thin fabric.

Ben’s hands clutched the cushions, knuckles white, his hips lifting into the contact even as he tried to stay rooted on the couch. Charles’s mouth followed, lips parting to suck gently through the shorts—careful, deliberate, claiming that earnest heat with every wet, muffled pull.

“Mmm, look at you,” Charles murmured around the fabric, voice husky. He straightened slightly, jaw flexing as he nibbled and licked across the damp material. “So taste-soaked… so perfectly needy…”

Ben’s breath hitched, every muscle trembling. Charles’s hands rejoined the dance—one steady at his hip, the other sliding under the waistband, fingertips brushing across sensitive skin now slick with desire. All the while, Charles’s mouth worked in tandem: licking, sucking, pressing his tongue and lips against Ben’s throbbing tip.

Ben’s body quivered uncontrollably, hips bucking into each soft, muffled suction. A helpless whimper broke free, echoing Charles’s name. And as Charles deepened the rhythm—pressing his mouth flush through the shorts—Ben felt himself teeter once more, riding that razor-sharp edge between exquisite pleasure and total abandon.

“Such a good lad…” Charles whispered through the barrier, every word a velvet command.

Ben’s head rolled back, eyes fluttering.

His vision blurred between the stadium lights on screen and the shining swirl of pleasure coursing through him. His body trembled under Charles’s mouth, hips bucking ever so slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on the match—on the defenders lining up for yet another free kick, hands pressed firmly over their hips, shorts clinging tight, muscles braced in anticipation.

Charles’s tongue and lips worked in perfect rhythm, pressing through the damp barrier of Ben’s soaked shorts. Each slow, deliberate suck sent fresh jolts of electricity through Ben’s core, coiling his need tighter and tighter. And all the while, the players on screen shifted, strained, and hyped the tension of the game—echoing Ben’s own building climax.

“Look at them, Ben,” Charles murmured against the fabric, breath warm and urgent. “Just like you—tense, ready, so perfectly primed.”

Ben’s hand pressed against the couch, knuckles whitening, but he fought to keep his gaze fixed on the screen. The defender tensed as the whistle blew; his body weight shifted, shorts pulling taut across those thighs. The camera zoomed in—a perfect mirror to every sensation flooding Ben’s body.

Charles paused at the exact moment the whistle echoed through the TV’s speakers. His warm mouth sealed around Ben’s tip, holding him there as the player on screen swung his leg back for the kick. Ben’s breath caught, chest heaving, and then Charles swallowed, gentle but complete, drawing Ben over the edge.

A shattered moan tore from Ben’s throat. His legs shook, thighs clamping instinctively, the last rush of release pulsing through him in waves. Charles held him firmly, lips sliding through the soaked fabric with each spurt, tasting the full intensity of Ben’s surrender.

As Ben’s vision darkened at the edges, he saw the player’s foot connect with the ball—a perfect strike that flew toward the goal. In that instant, Ben’s own release echoed the roar of the on-screen crowd.

The wetness spread fast, soaking through his already damp shorts, heat spilling out in desperate, pulsing waves, the fabric clinging, darkening, sticking to his trembling skin.

When it was over, Charles rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Ben sagged back against the couch, breathless, shorts still damp, heart pounding as the match continued unfolding before him.

“Mmm… tastes good,” Charles murmured softly, voice low and possessive. He brushed a stray lock of hair from Ben’s forehead, fingertips lingering on his damp skin.

Ben’s breath was still shaky, body trembling, but he met Charles’s gaze with a mix of awe and surrender.

“You’re my little toy, Ben,” Charles said, his tone gentle but full of ownership. “So obedient, so perfect for me…”

Ben whimpered softly, heat flooding his cheeks.

Charles leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to Ben’s temple.

“I’m going to take such good care of you,” he whispered.

The game on screen kept unfolding — players sprinting, tackling, jerseys sticking to sweat-slicked skin. But Ben was only half-watching now, his senses still buzzing from the rush he’d just surrendered to.

A warm, sticky dampness slowly dripped down the inside of his thighs, evidence of the mess still lingering, soaking his shorts more than he’d realized.

Charles settled beside him on the couch, close enough that Ben could feel the heat radiating off his body. Without a word, Charles’s hand slid casually over Ben’s thigh, fingers brushing the wet patch with a slow, teasing drag.

Ben’s breath hitched.

Then Charles’s fingers drifted upward, tracing the outline of Ben’s bulge through the soaked fabric — slow, deliberate, playful.

“You’re still dripping for me,” Charles murmured, voice low and teasing. “Can’t get enough, huh?”

Ben swallowed hard, cheeks burning.

Charles’s hand moved higher, fingertips skimming over the damp cotton of Ben’s shirt, grazing the sensitive peaks of his nipples. A gentle pinch, just enough to make Ben shiver.

“Look at you,” Charles whispered, fingers now trailing lightly across Ben’s chest, tracing the contours of his muscles. “So worked up, and we're just watching the match…”

Charles watched Ben with a gentle smile, the soft glow of the TV casting flickering shadows across his face. The peaceful, blank expression on Ben’s face stirred something protective deep within him. This wasn’t just control anymore — this was trust, surrender in its purest form.

He reached out slowly, brushing his fingers through Ben’s hair with a tenderness that was almost reverent. “You’re my favourite, Ben,” he said quietly, voice low and warm. “No one else gets to have you like this.”

Ben’s whole body trembled under the slow, teasing touch — caught between wanting and restraint, between the heat of the moment and the pull of Charles’s control.

Charles smiled, eyes dark with promise.

“Relax, mate,” he said softly. “We’ve got time. I’m going to play with you all night.”

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blahblah63t · 2 months ago

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Hey man, with all the new budget cuts my PhD program is losing funding and I might have to drop out. Idk what to do next my entire identity is built up in my intelligence and the only job postings I see are for like manual labor and I’m not cut out for that. My friend suggested an OF but I don’t have the confidence or body for that either. Any advice?

Proper Job

I can’t cum unless he tells me I can.

That’s the part that really fucks me up. I still remember how to write a dissertation on semiotic decay, how to parse ancient Greek, how to explain the difference between epistemology and ontology. But none of it matters now... not when I’m squatting in hi-vis joggers that stink of old sweat and concrete dust, cock hard and drooling into my waistband, waiting for some chav to grunt out the words that’ll let me finish.

And even when he does... even when some real lad with a cigarette behind his ear and paint-stained trainers tells me, “Go on then, bruv, bust for me”… it’s never enough. It’s never clean. It comes with this awful, trembling relief and a deeper kind of shame that soaks into me just like the potent male scent I can’t stop inhaling.

I’m still in here.

Somewhere.

---------------------------------------------------

I didn’t come to therapy to be fixed. I came because I thought I was breaking.

The grant was gone. The research assistantship had evaporated with the latest round of departmental cuts. I was halfway through my dissertation, with no money, no fallback, and a gnawing panic that everything I’d built my identity on was paper-thin. Intelligence. Language. Precision. All of it meaningless without a title or a stipend to make it real.

Dr. Elliot came recommended. He was professional, methodical, unthreatening. Glasses, quiet voice, practical shoes. His office was spare. Clean lines. No judgment.

He never made big suggestions. He just listened. Reflected. Asked things like, “Have you ever imagined what it might be like to live differently? Without pressure? Without expectation?”

I thought I was clever. I thought I was engaging in metaphor. He introduced guided visualizations. Not hypnosis, he insisted. Just focus. Just breath. Just a space to experiment with letting go.

“Try picturing yourself in a more physical role,” he said. “Not academic. Something with your hands. Something simple.”

It felt harmless. Even helpful. I imagined scaffolds. Dust. Heat. Rough gloves. The feeling of sun on bare shoulders and sweat running down my back.

I didn’t realise how often he was repeating certain phrases. Certain words.

“You don’t need to think.” “You feel better this way.” “This is who you really are when the pressure’s gone.”

The fantasy sessions blurred into real life. He asked me to wear different clothes. Something looser. Something “you don’t mind sweating in.” I laughed and brought an old tank. It smelled like detergent at first. By the end of the session, a faint, unfamiliar bloom of my own body heat and a musk I didn't know I had clung to the fabric.

I started slouching. My posture shifted, becoming relaxed, almost lazy. The way I sat in his office changed. He noticed. Smiled.

“You’re getting comfortable,” he said.

My language drifted next. Just small phrases, picked up from the fantasy. “Bruv.” “S’all good.” “On the graft.”

It became a joke between us. But I felt something every time I said it: a little high, a little buzz. Sometimes I’d feel it between my legs. I told myself it was a weird association. An outlet. Nothing more.

It wasn’t nothing.

---------------------------------------

The turning point came fast.

I was out walking, sweaty from the gym, still wearing the joggers I’d bought on a whim. Hi-vis stripes. Loose. Cheap. I saw a group of lads on the corner: trackies, hoodies, cig smoke curling through the air like a signal to me.

One of them looked at me. Right at me. Smirked.

“Look at this bruv,” he muttered to his mate. “Tryna look hard. You even graft, fam?”

It hit me so hard I nearly stumbled.

My cock throbbed. Like full-body static.

I muttered something (I don’t remember what) and walked faster. But it was too late. I was rock hard the whole way home. I didn’t touch myself. Couldn’t. I stood in the shower, sweat and gym musk still clinging to me, hand on the tile, panting.

I can't cum.

The next therapy session, Dr. Elliot didn’t say anything. Just smiled when I sat down, still in the same joggers and vest, still unwashed.

“You look more settled,” he said.

I just nodded. I didn’t mention the chav. I didn’t mention the boner that wouldn’t go away.

He didn’t need me to.

He already knew.

---------------------------------

The first real hookup happened by accident. Or maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was inevitable.

I met him outside the off-license. Black tracksuit, scuffed trainers, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Cap low over his brow. He looked like trouble, a proper scally, rough and sharp-edged, the kind who spits on the pavement and expects you to thank him for it. When he brushed past me, his smoke hit me first, stale and sharp.

I dropped my bag. He looked down at it like it was beneath him, then kicked it gently toward me.

"Oi, you good or what?" he said, voice thick with scorn and smoke.

I nodded. Too fast. My mouth was dry. My cock was already stirring.

"You good, bruv?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You on somethin'?"

I shook my head.

"Nah, just... been graftin', innit."

He laughed, short and sharp. "Yeah? You don’t look it. Come on then. You local?"

I followed him. Didn’t ask where. Didn’t speak.

His flat smelled like smoke, weed, and stale musk. The air was hot and thick, humid with body heat and grime. He didn’t bother to clean. He didn’t need to. I was already on my knees before he even said anything.

“Fuckin’ eager, huh?”

I nodded. Tried to speak, but he was already grabbing the back of my head. Shoved my face into his armpit. It was wet, pungent, a thick wave of earthy musk enveloped me. The rough fabric of his tracksuit sleeve scuffing my cheek as I pressed in. I moaned. Licked. The taste was bitter, earthy, real. My cock pulsed, untouched, dripping into my joggers.

He laughed again. “You proper into this, innit?”

I could only whimper. Lick again.

“Didn’t say stop, bruv.”

That command made something snap. My brain melted. I kept going: pit, chest, down his stomach. I mouthed over his trackies until he pulled them down.

His cock slapped my face. It was thick, uncut, veiny, and heavy with a sheen of sweat that carried its own special scent. A brutal musk of sour piss, old cum, and filth. It smelled like days of sweat and cum, like spit. I froze for a second. My thoughts spiraled. I’m not even gay… am I? But my mouth opened anyway.

The heat of it pressed against my lips. The taste hit me first, bitter salt, pissy slickness, a smear of grime across my tongue. It was invasive and impossible to ignore. He didn’t ease in. He shoved. His hand gripped the back of my head and pushed.

I gagged, then adjusted. Took more. His scent, filled my nose, my throat, my head. Each thrust painting my mouth with more of him.

His hips bucked with a force that jolted my head, and I could hear his harsh, ragged breaths right above me, almost a growl, vibrating through my skull. My cock pulsed untouched, precum soaking into my joggers. I wasn’t in control anymore. My body had surrendered completely.

He used me. Fucked my face like it wasn’t mine. Like I was just a toy for him to unload into. I moaned around him, needy, broken, the taste now addictive. When he groaned, a deep, low sound, I didn’t expect it.

He came without warning.

Hot, sharp pulses of cum firing down my throat. I swallowed on instinct, desperate for it, for every drop. I didn’t let any spill.

I wanted it.

Needed it.

I licked him clean, tongue tracing the base, the slit, savoring the aftertaste of filth and finality.

“Say ‘thank you,’ cunt.”

“Thank you, bruv.”

He spat. Right on my tongue.

I would've shot right there. My whole body seized, but nothing came out; just pain, heat, intense, throbbing pressure.

He noticed.

“Aww, you close, yeah?” He grinned, cruel. “But you didn’t ask, bruv.”

I was panting, tongue out, cock twitching.

“Please… bruv, please let me cum… can’t… can’t take it no more…”

He looked down at me like I was dirt. Then he smirked.

“Go on then, bruv. Bust for me.”

The world exploded.

I didn’t touch myself. Didn’t need to. My whole body locked, spasmed. Cum soaked my joggers, pulse after pulse, hot and humiliating. Days of arousal, pent up loads, all forcing their way out, shot after shot.

I cried out around his cock. He just held my head there, still leaking as he filled my throat. I didn’t gag. I swallowed. Licked him clean. When I finally slumped back, a puddle soaking into my waistband and thighs, he lit a cigarette and shook his head.

“Fucked in the head, you are.”

I nodded.

I was.

Something had sealed, locked into place deep within my core. The smell, the taste, that voice… it wasn’t just a memory. It felt like a brand on my soul, a change in the very way my nerves fired.

A cold, decisive click seemed to resonate through my bones, as if a final switch had been thrown, fusing this new reality into me. The ghost of his scent clung to me, a phantom limb I could no longer distinguish from my own. I still heard his commands, felt the pressure, even when alone. Every time I closed my eyes, his image, his smell, his power, were there.

EPILOGUE: Case Note #0193C, Subject: [REDACTED]

Patient exhibits full-spectrum response to fantasy conditioning. Behavioral and linguistic shifts have stabilised. All critical identifiers of prior academic self-image have been effectively suppressed or inverted.

Subject now seeks out degradation scenarios involving chav-coded male figures, typically in digital exposure settings. Displays high arousal response to scent-based triggers (notably: sweat, urine, nicotine, and worn synthetic fibers). Orgasm dependency fully tethered to external verbal commands, particularly from perceived working-class dom figures.

Recent encounter (inferred via behavioral shift and wardrobe state at next session) confirms lock-in event involving in-person verbal command and humiliation ritual. Subject’s self-initiated reporting included phrase: “I did it. He told me. I came.”

Cognitive dissonance remains (internal awareness intact), but obedience outweighs resistance.

Conclusion: Identity fracture complete. Behavioral lock-in achieved. Recommend no further intervention.

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