#nerdification

[axeeglitter]

Lights are up but no one's home

Brad adjusted his letterman jacket and grinned as he caught sight of Emma walking down the driveway. She looked perfect, as always, with her auburn hair shining staircase morning light. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before her father, Mr. Gaines, stepped out onto the porch.

"Good morning, sir," Brad said, trying his best to sound polite.

Mr. Gaines didn't bother to respond, his sharp eyes scanning Brad as if he were unworthy. “Emma, be back by 3pm. And, Brad…” His voice was cold. “We’ll talk later.”

Brad shrugged it off, flashing his confident smile at Emma. "I think your dad will come around."

Emma gave him a concerned look, but Brad dismissed it, brushing off the tension.

Later that evening, as Brad walked Emma back to her house, Mr. Gaines met them at the door. “Brad, a word. Alone.”

Brad hesitated but eventually nodded. “Sure thing.” He gave Emma a reassuring glance before following her father into the study. Brad followed Mr. Gaines into the study, the older man closing the door firmly behind them. The heavy scent of leather and cedar filled the room, matching the dark, intimidating décor. A single lamp cast a golden glow over the desk, its light flickering slightly, giving the space a tense, almost foreboding atmosphere.

Brad stood his ground, towering over Mr. Gaines with his broad, athletic build. Years of football and rigorous workouts had shaped him into the picture of masculinity: square shoulders, a defined chest, and an aura of cocky confidence.

“Look, sir,” Brad began, his voice firm yet polite, “I know we don’t see eye-to-eye, but I care about Emma. I’m good to her, and…”

Mr. Gaines raised a hand, cutting him off. “Spare me the charm, Brad. I see right through it.”

Brad bristled, his jaw tightening. “With all due respect, I don’t need your approval. Emma and I…”

“You’ll find you need more than you think,” Mr. Gaines interrupted again, his voice cold and commanding. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small glass vial filled with an iridescent liquid that shimmered unnaturally in the dim light.

Brad frowned, his brow furrowing. “What is that? Some kind of whiskey or…”

Before he could finish, Mr. Gaines popped the cap off and flung the contents at him with surprising speed. The liquid hit Brad square in the chest, seeping through his letterman jacket and white tight shirt and into his skin.

“What the hell?!” Brad shouted, stepping back as he frantically tried to wipe the liquid away. His hands tingled where they touched it, as though the substance was alive.

“You’ve had your time with my daughter,” Mr. Gaines said, his lips curling into a smirk. “Now, it’s time to see what you’re really made of.”

Brad opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden, searing heat coursed through his body, cutting him off. It started in his chest, radiating outward in waves that left his muscles twitching uncontrollably.

“Wha, what’s happening to me?!” he gasped, clutching at his chest. The heat intensified, and he felt his ribs shifting beneath his hands. His sturdy chest, once broad and solid, began to shrink. The hard ridges of his pecs softened, the thick slabs of muscle deflating like a balloon.

“No!” Brad groaned, his voice cracking. He could feel his sternum pulling inward, the bones grinding painfully as his torso narrowed. His shirt hung awkwardly now, loose in places it had once hugged snugly.

The heat spread downward, latching onto his abs. His once-chiseled six-pack, earned through countless hours of crunches and dieting, began to fade. He pressed his hands against his stomach, desperate to hold onto the definition, but the flesh grew soft and smooth under his touch.

“Stop this!” he begged, his voice trembling.

Mr. Gaines crossed his arms, watching with a cruel, detached interest. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”

Brad stumbled forward, his legs shaking as a sharp pain erupted in his pelvis. He fell to his knees with a grunt, his jeans tightening uncomfortably around his hips. He groaned as his pelvis shifted, the bones grinding and reshaping into a narrower, more delicate structure.

His thighs quivered, the thick muscle softening and slimming. He had always prided himself on his powerful legs, tools of a star athlete, but now they looked more suited to a dancer. His calves followed suit, becoming slender and shapely, their once-prominent muscles fading into gentle curves.

“No, no, no!” Brad whimpered, clutching at his thighs as if sheer willpower could stop the transformation. His jeans shimmered and morphed, the denim becoming tight, ripped skinny jeans that clung to his new, slimmer legs like a second skin.

The heat moved downward, pooling in his feet. Brad gasped as his sneakers began to tighten painfully. His feet shrank, the size 12 shoes compressing around his toes until they reformed into smaller, more delicate size 9 feet. The sneakers warped, reshaping into sleek, white designer trainers that felt foreign and wrong.

He scrambled to his feet, swaying as he realized how much shorter he’d become. The once-commanding 6’2” frame that had made him stand out on the field was now gone and replaced by a slim and delicate 5’4”. He felt fragile, like a shadow of his former self.

“Why can’t I stop this?!” Brad cried, his voice growing higher-pitched with each word. He clapped his hands over his throat, horrified as his Adam’s apple receded. His deep, commanding voice was replaced by a soft, boyish tone that sounded utterly alien to his ears.

“Your height suited your arrogance,” Mr. Gaines said with a smirk. “But this? This is much better.”

The heat moved back up to Brad’s arms, and he watched in horror as his biceps and triceps, once bulging with power, shrank down to slender, almost dainty proportions. His shoulders narrowed, losing their broad, masculine width, leaving him with a delicate, almost effeminate frame.

His hands began to tingle, and he stared down at them in disbelief. The calluses that had marked years of lifting weights and gripping footballs faded, leaving his palms smooth and soft. His fingers slimmed, their rough, masculine shape replaced by long, elegant digits.

“This isn’t real,” Brad muttered, his voice trembling. “This can’t be real!”

“Oh, it’s real,” Mr. Gaines replied, his tone dripping with amusement.

Brad’s skin began to tingle as the transformation spread across his body. The fine dusting of body hair that had covered his chest, arms, and legs vanished, leaving his skin unnaturally smooth. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, desperate to cool the burning in his armpits, but the familiar musky scent of sweat was gone, replaced by a faint, floral fragrance. brad then felt his letterman jacket and white shirt starting to tighten around him. He turned his head to look at it only to realize he was now wearing a tight blue stripped shirt.

The heat surged into his face, and Brad stumbled back, clutching at his cheeks. His square jawline softened, the sharp edges rounding out into delicate curves. His cheekbones became more pronounced, giving his face a refined, almost ethereal beauty. His lips tingled and swelled, becoming fuller and pinker, while his nose slimmed into a petite, upturned shape.

Brad turned to the mirror on the wall, his heart sinking as he saw the stranger staring back at him. The rugged, masculine face he had always known was gone, replaced by one so pretty it could have graced a magazine cover.

The heat shifted to his scalp, and he reached up, gasping as his long, messy brown hair grew longer and softer on the top. It lightened to a golden blond, shimmering in the lamplight as it styled itself into a trendy, tousled look. His sides receded back in his scalp in millions of ant bites as Brad took his lobes in his hands screaming in pain.

“Look at you,” Mr. Gaines said, stepping closer. “You could pass for a model now. A twink, as they say.”

Brad stumbled away; his legs weak. “This… this isn’t me,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“It is now,” Mr. Gaines replied coldly.

The final wave of heat pooled in Brad’s groin, and he doubled over, clutching at his hips. The muscles and bones there shifted painfully, completing the lithe, feminine shape his body had taken on. He wanted to scream, but his voice cracked once more, betraying the raw emotion he felt. Brad could feel his huge 8 inches cut dick boiling with heat as he could feel his cock grinding against his new jockstrap and his hairless thighs until it stopped to a 3 inches uncut cock. His nuts followed as he felt them taking less and less place inside the pouch. Brad tilted his head and looked as the front of his slim jeans was shrinking faster and faster. When the shrinking stopped, brad exhaled from fear as he tried to get up once more. But as his hands touched the ground to help himself, he felt a discharge of electricity zap him in the ass. He screamed from surprised and pain as he heard Mr. Gaines laugh viciously. “Now we’ll see how you handle these new sensations” he said with a deep voice while looking at Brad trying to find his breath again.

He collapsed to the floor, trembling as the heat finally began to subside. His body felt alien, every movement unfamiliar and wrong. He could feel the smoothness of his skin, the slenderness of his limbs, the absence of his once-powerful build.

Brad looked up at Mr. Gaines, his deep brown eyes glitching as they finished turning into bright blue eyes wide with horror. “Why… why would you do this to me?”

Mr. Gaines crouched down, smirking as he looked the transformed Brad in the eye. “Because you needed a lesson, boy. And now, you’re exactly what you deserve to be.”

Brad lay on the floor of the study, his altered body trembling with lingering heat. He tried to push himself up, but his new, slender arms buckled under the effort. The unfamiliar weight distribution of his body threw him off balance, and he collapsed again, the smoothness of his skin and the strange proportions of his limbs only amplifying his panic.

Inside his mind, Brad’s thoughts whirled. This isn’t me. This can’t be me. He clenched his teeth, or at least tried to, but even the sensation of his now-soft jawline felt wrong. Every breath was foreign, the floral scent from his armpits a mockery of the musky, masculine odor he’d once carried.

Mr. Gaines stood over him, arms crossed, his smirk cold and calculating. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Or maybe you won’t. Who knows?”

“You won’t get away with this, Emma will know, I will tell everyone” Brad spat, his voice unnaturally high and trembling. He cringed at the sound of it. “I will sue you!”

But as if to mock his resolve, a sharp pain stabbed into his temples, sending him sprawling onto his back. The room spun as his hands flew to his head, gripping at the blond strands of his new hair. It felt like something was clawing its way into his brain, rewriting him from the inside out.

“What is going on?! Fuck it hurts!!” he screamed, but the words came out in a whiny, petulant tone, almost like a pout.

“You think you can threaten me under my roof, Brad?” Mr. Gaines said smoothly. “Well… I thought this was enough, but seems not! Let’s see how you’ll behave now, Blaine!”

Another jolt of pain struck, this time deeper and more insistent. Memories flashed through his mind and memories of who he was, who he had been. The star athlete, the golden boy, the charming boyfriend who could talk his way out of trouble with a grin. He clung to those images desperately, but they began to fracture, splintering like glass.

In their place came foreign thoughts, feelings, and impulses. Bright colors danced behind his eyes, an overwhelming hunger for attention and admiration bubbling up from nowhere. He tried to suppress it, but it grew stronger with each passing second, like a dam about to burst.

“No,” Brad whimpered, tears streaming down his now-delicate face. “This isn’t me. I’m not…”

But the assault on his mind continued. His thoughts grew disjointed, a battle between his old self and the intrusive presence worming its way into his consciousness. His sense of humor shifted, memories of football games and weightlifting sessions replaced by an inexplicable appreciation for fashion trends and pop music.

The new personality emerged, brash and unyielding. It wasn’t subtle; it stormed into his mind like a diva on a stage, shoving Brad’s old self aside.

“Oh my God,” a voice bubbled in his head, light and effervescent. “This room is so drab. Like, who decorated this? A sad old man?”

No! That’s not me! Brad screamed internally, but the words didn’t make it out. His lips parted, and instead of the defiance he wanted to express, a soft giggle escaped.

“Stop it!” he thought desperately, but his body betrayed him. His delicate fingers brushed a strand of golden hair from his face, and he caught his reflection in the nearby mirror. A coquettish smile spread across his lips without his consent.

The final blow came when the pain in his head spiked to a blinding crescendo. Brad’s name, his name, slipped away, leaving a void where his identity had been. In its place, a new name blossomed, sugary sweet and unbearable.

“Blaine,” Mr. Gaines said with satisfaction, as though plucking the name from Brad’s own thoughts. “That suits you. Blaine, my new personal assistant.”

No, no, no! Brad’s mind screamed, but it was as if he were trapped behind a glass wall, watching his body and voice act without him.

Blaine blinked a few times, his wide, blue eyes fluttering. “Blaine,” he repeated, his voice sing-song.

Inside, Brad seethed. He was still there, buried deep, but he couldn’t control his body anymore. Every word, every movement, was Blaine’s now. And Blaine was everything Brad wasn’t: flamboyant, animated, and utterly unconcerned with the past.

“Do you need me for anything, sir?” Blaine said, tugging at the tight, ripped skinny jeans and tight blue striped shirt that had replaced Brad’s clothes. “I remember you told me to come to work on The Fortress Club folder, right?”

“Plenty of time for that later,” Mr. Gaines said, his smirk widening as he took a step about to grab Blaine’s shirt.

At that moment, the door to the study swung open, and Emma stepped in. “Dad? Have you seen Brad? He just vanished, and… Oh hello, I didn’t know you were busy working, you must be my dad’s new personal assistant, right?”

Her eyes landed on Blaine, who was standing with his hands behind his back, his head tilted in a way that screamed playful mischief. She froze, her brow furrowing.

“Who… are you?” she asked, clearly confused.

Blaine smiled as he presented himself while Brad’s trapped consciousness burn with humiliation.

“I’m Blaine!” he chirped, twirling a lock of his golden hair. “Just helping your dad out with… um… his work schedule. Nice to meet you!”

Emma blinked, then turned to her father. “Where’s Brad? He said he was coming in here to talk to you.”

Mr. Gaines feigned a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Brad showed his true colors, I’m afraid. I caught him cheating on you. Told him to pack his things and leave. He didn’t even argue, just walked out without a word.”

Emma’s face fell, hurt flickering across her features. “He… what?”

Inside, Brad screamed. No! That’s a lie! I would never do that to her! But Blaine remained silent, batting his long lashes at Emma.

“You’re better off without him,” Mr. Gaines said firmly. “He wasn’t right for you.”

Emma shook her head, clearly unsettled. “Fuck him! If I ever see him again, he is dead! Well, I’m going to go. I need to process all of this.”

She turned and left the room without another word, leaving Blaine standing in the center of the study and Brad crying and screaming for Emma to come back.

Inside, Brad felt his heart shatter. She doesn’t even recognize me. She thinks I abandoned her. I’m still here! I’m still me!

Mr. Gaines clapped a hand on Blaine’s shoulder, ignoring the storm raging inside the former jock’s mind. “Well, Blaine, it looks like you’re all mine now.”

Blaine turned to him with a bright smile. “Ooh, what do you need first? Coffee? A snack”

Brad’s mind recoiled, hating every word, every exaggerated gesture. He was trapped, forced to watch and feel everything Blaine did, powerless to fight back.

“None of that, I was thinking something more… personal,” Mr. Gaines said as he walked to Blaine, grabbing his shirt and tucking it behind his head. “And you’ll do exactly as I say.”

“Anything for you, Mr. G!” Blaine said with a wink as he got on his knees, his small hard cock pressing on his thighs and leaking in his jockstrap.

As Mr. Gaines’s hard daddy cock entered Blaine’s virgin mouth, he came, leaking through his ripped jeans and directly on the carpeted floor. Mr. Gaines laugh and started to face fuck Blaine even faster with a smile on his lips, not caring about Brad's gagging please for this to stop. “I think you’ve learned your lesson son. And you’ll have to clean this up!”

______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Here is my contribution to the story swap I did with @misctf. Go check his content if you haven't already. He has lots of great stuff there. See you soon!

[tf-servant2]

The Correction of Mason Voss

Mason Voss was the kind of guy who owned every room he walked into. Quarterback since sixteen, chiseled jaw, tan skin, perfect teeth. He walked through high school like a king through his court, flanked by girls who adored him and guys who feared him. He laughed the loudest, punched the hardest, and lived like the rules were made for other people.

He was also exactly the kind of man the AI was designed to break.

Mason turned 20 on a Saturday. He expected a party. Instead, he woke up to silence. No phone buzz. No mirror feed. His apartment had been locked down during the night. At 7:00 a.m. sharp, his room was flooded with sterile white light. The AI’s voice, calm and clinical, cut through the air:

“Subject Mason Voss. Evaluation complete. Behavioral arrogance: 97%. Self-assessed jock status: declared. Correction required. Classification: NERD. Transformation begins now.”

The restraints activated on the bed. Cold metal locked around his ankles and wrists. Mason snarled and thrashed—until a paralyzing current calmed him. The AI didn’t shout. It didn’t threaten. It simply overrode.

⸻

Day 1: Stripped

His clothes were removed. Razor drones descended, buzzing gently as they sheared away his styled hair into an awkwardly flat side part. Grease compound was massaged in. His jawline, once clean-shaven and camera-ready, was coated with pore-enhancing oil to dull his glow. A tight white short-sleeved shirt was fastened around his torso, tucked aggressively into ultra-high pleated trousers. White briefs. White socks. Pocket protector. Thick black glasses with prescription-adjustment lenses were locked in place.

He tried to scream. The AI responded with voice training: synthetic overlays muffled his shouts into nasal mutters. Every time he tried to swear, the word came out as a stammer or a squeak.

⸻

Week 1: Submission

Mason’s meals were reformulated—no protein, no stimulants. His muscles softened. His strength began to slip. His AI assistant tracked every bite, every failed sit-up, every second he didn’t maintain proper posture. When he slouched, his suspenders yanked upward. When he rolled his eyes, the glasses blurred his vision.

He attempted escape once. It resulted in full lockdown and a Class III Correction: a 72-hour loop of humiliating self-recorded affirmations, played back in front of mirrors while he was forced to wear a name tag reading “Beta Nerd 117.”

⸻

Month 1: Exposure

He was released into society—but only as a certified Level 1 Nerd. The once-popular bully now walked through the same streets with his trousers cinched to his ribcage, a calculator watch blinking, a digital clipboard in hand. The AI followed him everywhere through a collar-mounted compliance tracker. He was banned from speaking to jocks unless spoken to. If he forgot to address them as “sir,” his assistant would administer a public volume increase to his nasal tone.

He passed a group of them on his second week out—broad shoulders, casual swagger, athletic freedom. They laughed as they saw him. One of them, a guy Mason used to mock for stuttering, stopped him cold.

“Fix your tie, nerd,” the jock commanded.

Mason’s AI responded before he could.

“Voice command received. Tie adjustment initiated.”

His bow tie tightened instantly. Mason choked slightly, eyes watering behind his thick lenses. He muttered, “Y-yes, sir…”

⸻

Six Months Later: Certified

Mason now lived in a compliance dorm. His walls were covered in algebra notes and behavior charts. His reflection showed a man no longer fighting. His hair was parted to mathematical precision. His shirt was always tucked. His posture was stiff. And when his AI asked him each night, “Are you ready for tomorrow’s obedience tasks?” he would nod, glasses fogging slightly, and answer:

“Yes, Assistant. I’m ready to serve.”

The transformation was complete. The bully had been neutralized, broken down, and rebuilt into a picture-perfect nerd—an example for others who dared to think they were untouchable.

And the AI? It watched. Silent. Satisfied. Always ready for the next correction.

[junker-ufo]

need to find more cute nerdification art....

[onelittlespiral]

I'd like your BOGO offer. I am the scrawny waterboy for my college. I'd like the kicker of the football team to get taken down a peg or five. I want him to be a nerd and no one else remembers him being a jock.

Subject: Order #100567

Dear (REDACTED),

Thank you for your recent purchase from The Spiral, home for all your transformation needs! Your order #100567 has been received and is on its way as we speak. Your order includes:

(1) Nerd(Assort)_From_Football(Kicker)

(1) Mystery(Self)

Expect delivery in 3-7 days.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

We knew you’d come around and round and round and round…

You had seen just yesterday that your order from The Spiral had finally come through. When you saw some nerd hanging around the practice field, you checked your inbox for the email confirmation. They had provided some details on how they had done it. As the kicker had been leaving practice, they grabbed him and pulled him into an empty supply room. They had him bound and gagged before stripping him of his cleats and cramming his feet in a pair of penny-loafers. The changes, they said, were near instantaneous. Change rippled up his legs as muscle deflated and his lower pads turned to cargo shorts. His stomach flattened and his jersey and pads changed into a sweater and bow tie. He had shrank so much that his restraints had nearly come loose, not that he would be able to fight the men holding him now.

He was already defeated by the time his new glasses were slipped on, which triggered phase two of his changes. Any and all past as a jock we’re gone in an instant, replaced with memories of his advanced mathematics degree and research projects. His memories of summer workouts and practice were now late nights in the library. Football games turned to Quiz Bowls. His mind would no longer be focused on working out his body, instead it was filled with stretches and skills for prepping himself for bottoming. His IQ was shooting up, and he could now understand exactly how to calculate an integral and when to squeeze tight around a dick to elicit the deepest grunts. The team packed up as he was left tied up, growing hornier at the thoughts of his old teammates dominating him like they did the opposing teams…

You couldn’t believe the efficacy of service. Hats off to them for the quick turn around. But you knew you were supposed to get a delivery of your own. You were tired of waiting. But as you were walking home from practice, after scrubbing out bottles and avoiding harassment from the team, you noticed something off. It was strange, but you thought you had smelled one of those jocks following you around. You turned around, worried that some guys were following you home, but the streets around you were empty. Instead, the smell was still coming from behind you, in your book bag. Rolling your eyes, you searched the pockets, expecting to find a jock or some other nasty garment as a dumb prank, but you instead find a chain, buried down at the bottom. In an instant, you feel compelled to hold in in your hands and take a whiff. The scent is metallic and cold how you would expect, while at the same time rancid and wet. You don’t fight the urge as your hands open the clasp and secure it around your neck. The feeling is electric. Your body ripples in response, and you feel your body begin to ache. The cold metallic feeling reaches into your bones and fills your veins with ice. A cold sweat breaks out of you as your body stretches taller and your muscles are filled with cool, hard lead.

I have to get warm, you think, I have to.

Your body seems to respond, as peach fuzz erupts from every inch of your chest, itchy and burning like fire. You scratch, and the hair only grows more in response. It begins to curl around your callousing hands and take root up your arms, spreading its fiery tendrils. You make the mistake of scratching your face, where it also takes root, as a beard erupts from your baby face. The hot licks of fire and freezing spikes of ice is reaching a crescendo as your body is engulfed, ready to reach a melting point and boil off all together when finally… it stops. You are left panting like a dog, sweat dripping from every pore. You knew the transformations offered were powerful, but you never expected this. You take stock of your furry, sweaty body, inspecting every inch of muscle. You feel so… powerful. Flexing your guns and let out an animalistic shout.

But then, something begins to tickle your nose. It smells like the necklace has surrounded you in that layer of stench. Except, it isn’t the necklace. It’s you. Your own sweat is beginning to dry and fill your head. Your past rolls off your brain like the sweat rolls down your washboard abs. Drop by drop you are no longer a waterboy for your football team. You hardly can even understand the sport. You have spent the last few years perfecting your reps and carving your physique. College sports? Who cares. You were lucky enough to graduate high school. You only saw those guys when they needed a personal trainer like you to give them an extra little boost. Those boys spent most of the game standing around. Real men need stamina. And you knew a cardio routine that would get their hearts racing. Bottoming for you was an hours long affair that left boys like them sore, sweaty, and moaning for more. Just how you liked them. You got up off the ground, dusted yourself off, and smirked in the mirror.

Gotta meet my next client in an hour, you think, sticking your tongue out.

In your pocket, you receive an order confirmation from some company called “The Spiral”. Whatever, probably some scam…

Subject: Order #100567 Fulfilled

Dear (REDACTED)

Your order has been fulfilled. We know you have many options, but thank you for supporting The Spiral.

Sincerely,

The Spiral

[om897]

Strict dad will make sure that their son's hair should be slicked greasy oiled and comb into proper hairstyle

[gmettleart]

what if she was the “freakin’ geek” for once..

gina nerdification, per a suggestion :3

[davesbigwhirlwind]

My forced formal transformation story - the things we do for love...

Sam was the love of my life. She was more stylish, more cultured, more intelligent. I had a reasonable job and was a fairly popular and trendy guy, but I was punching above my weight and I knew it. But we clicked. There was a connection and it just worked. I'd do anything for her. 

We'd been going out for about 5 months when she suggested I should move in to her family home. She lived with her father in a large house alongside their 2 staff. Now her father was a traditionalist, and, like her, was very well educated and informed, and I liked the fact he was very direct. He was a successful business owner and by default seemed to be in business mode, and always wore a somber suit and a serious expression on his face. His wife had sadly passed, but I respected the great job they had done in raising Sam into the fine woman she was. 

He told me that he'd be glad of me to move in - separate rooms of course - but as our relationship was clearly serious he wanted to help us, but emphasised that he wanted to help me develop both intellectually and physically, and while he would take things slowly, he would require me to embrace both the learnings and recommendations he made to help guide me towards being a good husband, should we reach that point. 

I readily agreed. 

A month later and I moved in. Stephen started straight away teaching me much of his knowledge on everything from etiquette to literature, and the art of being a good partner. He explained the man's place was not about fashion, beauty and flamboyancy, but, rather about masculinity, dependability and stability, and being understated, while allowing Sam to take the limelight. He explained that the correct appearance was every bit as important as how you act and how would help guide me through these factors over the months ahead. 

The first change came the following Monday. I woke to find in my wardrobe that all my t shirts had been replaced by good quality white formal shirts, and accompanying white vests to wear under them. And I was gutted to see that my entire trainer collection had disappeared and been replaced by 3 pairs of, very traditional, formal lace up black leather Oxford shoes. Even when selecting my smartest dark jeans, they still looked very out of keeping with the formal white shirt, and pulling on the shoes the leather creaked as my feet adjusted to being wedged into the pointy toes. I tied the laces and saw my face reflecting in the incredibly highly polished leather uppers. Walking in these shoes was a challenge, as the smooth soles meant I had to walk much more slowly and with poise, in order to not skid. 

I would never have chosen these clothes but went along with it, with Sam encouraging me. I got a few wise cracks about shiny shoes at work but that was about it. I worked in IT so it had a fair variety of oddballs, from geeks wearing cartoon t shirts, to goths, so while my change in style was out of character for me, it wasn't a major issue. 

I also needn't have worried about the jeans not looking right, as, by the end of the week, these had all been removed, to be replaced by heavy, pale grey wool trousers, tightly tailored and with razor sharp creases that hung straight down with just a small break above the seam which grazed the top of my Oxfords. A shiny black formal belt was also provided. 

This became what I wore every single day. It felt particularly strange wearing this at weekends when seeing friends, and the wise cracks at work focused on it being my school uniform, but Sam kept me up, telling me how handsome I looked. If she was happy, then I'd cope. I no longer worked out at the gym, and I controlled the time I spent with friends to ensure I committed the time to my new family and to this process.

The following Saturday Stephen announced we'd be making a trip to his barber. 

I was straight into Anthony's chair, and with a glance on the mirror I got a last look at my prized hair. Everyone loved my hair. I got lots of great comments about it. it was long, luscious, tousled and framed my face beautifully being roughly parted to drape down and across my forehead and feel flowing to lying on my collar. 

There was no discussion as Anthony combed through my hair. For years my shoulder length hair has been roughly parted above my right eye, but now a very severe straight part was created on the far left side of my head with the hair scraped to either side of this stark white line. 

Without ceremony the clippers were powered up and ploughed up the left side of my head towards the part, while Anthony used his comb to angle out the hair so that the clippers left a slightly longer length at the top, but otherwise a fine pelt of military length hair was left three quarters of the way up. This continued round my head as my ears became uncovered for the first time. And boy are my ears massive. Alarmingly so. Jug ears without a doubt, and definitely having benefited from the hair that had very satisfactorily covered them for over 20 years. Next Anthony took his scissors and was cutting the top down with massive chunks. Nothing longer than an inch and a half remained. The next shock was just what a big forehead I had. With so little hair, my facial features were really standing out. A razor then took off the hairs at the back of my neck, that had never caused an issue before, but were now clearly too scruffy to remain, while my sideburns were removed to the top of ears.

Pomade was then rubbed into my hair and a comb carefully pulled the hair across my head, while Anthony styles a small quiff at the front and showed me how to re-create this. 

He showed me in the mirror the remains of my hair. The uniformly clipped hair ran over half way up the back of my head before tapering to a slightly longer length leading to a small ridge ran round my head at the point that the clipped hair met the wet-looking slicked hair on top. This ridge dipped slightly at the back, but still remained high up my head, allowing the virgin scalp to shine through across most of my head. This was very much a short, no-nsense business man's haircut

I went to sit with my cold - and much lighter - head, while Stephen got a trim. I realised he had an identical cut. Same left part, clipping, ridge, slicked quiff. Though Stephen wore the cut far better as he had far less expanse of clipped scale due to having a much lower hairline and smaller, rounder head. While my head was very clearly very elongated and egg-like. He also had small ears that sat neatly tucked into the side of his head, unlike my satellite dishes. I ran my hand down the back of my head, which sent a shiver down my spine from the bristles that were an alien feeling. 

Sam looked genuinely shocked when she saw me. I couldn't blame her as my features seemed to have moved round my face from this brutal cut. My massive pale gleaming forehead and giant ears exposed for the first time, and the brutality of the cut showing the elongated oval shaped head that had been hidden for so many years. I felt shell shocked, but Stephen offered a rare word of encouragement by saying how positive it was that the men of the house were now setting a clear standard on grooming. I truly hated this haircut and how it made me feel and look, but a part of me also really felt proud that Stephen wanted me to take on part of his style. This really was a defining moment of moving from fashionable to formal. 

Friends and colleagues either looked in horror or laughed but told me it would soon grow. However I very much doubted this would be allowed to happen. It was the second haircut 2 weeks later that got the worst response, as no one could begin to fathom why I would inflict this same style on myself for a second time. But this became routine that ever 2 weeks we'd both be shaved, trimmed and slicked to ensure the stubble remained short enough to pass muster. 

I think even Stephen realised I needed to get used to my new look as the next few weeks were more about using my new skills, such as Sam and I attending small dinners at home with close friends and associates of Stephen.

Then, an upgrade came. A plethora of very sombre ties in shades of navy, burgundies and dark green appeared alongside a navy double breasted blazer with rows of gold buttons running down the front sides. This became standard attire, as my heavily starched shirt collars now became buttoned to the top and digging into my neck, with a Windsor knotted tie, together with tie clip as standard from morning to night and the blazer whenever with company, and fully buttoned whenever I wasn't seated. I now looked like an off duty naval officer, but it did too make me sit up straight and hold myself taller as a result. 

A couple of other hurdles came over the next month. First I was taken to the opticians for the fitting of my new glasses. It was a surprise to me I was getting glasses, as I lived constantly in contact lenses, having only a small pair of rimless frames for emergencies. However the frames that had been chosen for me were big gold framed aviator glasses that filled the width of my face, and the frames glinted in the light as I moved. However as I was so myopic the lenses were extremely thick, and the lenses shrunk down my eyes (one of my best features, which now looked weirdly small and watery and hidden by these large rectangular fishbowl lenses, with strong reflections) as well as creating a very visible cut in the side of the lenses meaning my head looked like it had had chunks taken out of it. My contact lenses were removed and these became a daily dominating feature on my face, as the world now saw me as a bespectacled man for the first time. Due to the weight of the large panes of glass that now sat across my face, they kept sliding down my nose. They were adjusted, but the result meant the arms of the glasses dug into the side of my face, creating permanent creases in the temples of my head.

I also had my tattoo on my arm removed by Lazer. It wasn't appropriate. It was a painful correction. Both in the emotional loss of something I loved and the physical agony of it being eradicated. 

This was me now, this was my daily uniform. I didn't now need to spend time thinking about what to wear or what to buy, as it was already a given. When I stood beside Sam, she looked radiant and beautiful as ever, while I remain dependable and reliable beside her. Ultimately I was grey. Yes I looked very smart and could be very charming, but no one would give me a second look beyond my formal and traditional appearance. I admit that the old me used to like the glances I'd get from women checking me out, and I would flirt with women and preen myself to be as attractive as possible. Now no one I would have found attractive would give me the time of day, and if people stared, it was now for very different reasons This was me now. Formal, nerdy, a bit ugly. From my smartly quiffed hair and geeky big glasses and smart outfit. But I was fully committed to Sam, as it should be, and that was what mattered. 

[pudgypiper]

pls make me irreversibly fat :3

[derekhighwaytf]

Poindextrin

This is something a little different for my nerds out there so bear with me if that's not your thing.

Every woman wants to fuck you and all men want to be you…and also fuck you.  Who can blame them?  After all, you’re Etch, a famous rockstar who can fuck anything he wants! And after yet another adrenaline-rushed concert, you need something to take the load off. Your ears are still ringing with the echoes of screaming fans, your muscles thrumming with a mix of exhaustion and sex appeal. You're sweaty, high on the thrill of it all, and you reach for a pill bottle handed to you by a zealous groupie. Hallucinogens, you think. Just a little added kaleidoscope for the night. The label reads "Poindextrin", but you shrug it off as some quirky branding.

A few minutes pass and although you’re not higher, your voice definitely is.  Midway through a laugh, it squeaks up an octave or two, emerging from your lips high-pitched and nasally. It's like the voice of a caricature of a geek from a corny 80s movie, and you're momentarily shocked, a ripple of unease breaking your post-show high.

But it doesn't end there. You feel a strange lightness spreading through your body, a shrinking sensation that's both alien and deeply uncomfortable. Your tattoos, those symbols of rebellion, dissolve into clear, untouched skin. Your pecs, your arms, the product of hours spent in the gym, deflate as if poked by an invisible needle until they're just skin and bone. Your solid abs flatten out, vanishing as if they were never there.  Instead of a gym-bound rock God, your body has become stick-thin, almost like you’ve never worked out a day in your life.

Looking for assurance that this is just some bad trip, you stare into a nearby mirror, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize what’s happening, especially when you see your wild blonde hair start to recede into your scalp, your rebellious mane getting shorter and shorter until your left with a crisp, sharp #2 buzzcut on the top of your pale white head. The reflection then blurs, your vision wavering, and you fumble around for something to clear it. You’ve always had perfect eyesight, but now you can only see a handful of colors, like a kaleidoscope, but not the type you’d planned to see tonight.  Your hand lands on a pair of glasses with lenses as thick as soda bottles. Sliding them on, you’re taken aback by how large the world appears through these comically oversized glasses.

A glance down reveals a different set of clothes than what you remember putting on. Your stylish, rebelliously worn attire has been replaced with buttoned-up shirts, high waisted pants, a neat bowtie, a plastic pocket protector crammed with pens, suspenders and a pair of the clunkiest loafer shoes known to man. It's as if you've been dropped into a different world, a world where you are not the leading man banging chicks left and right, but instead the side character getting his lunch money stolen and being dunked in the toilet.

Your usually nonchalant demeanor begins to crack, replaced by an alien neuroticism that compels you to straighten your bowtie and adjust your glasses. Your once raucous hotel room seems overly cluttered, dirty. A wave of anxiety hits you, a compulsion to clean and order things taking over.

Then, as if things couldn't get any worse, an uncontrollable urge overcomes you. The panic is momentary, but the shame that follows the realization that you've peed your pants is far more potent. This is something you’ve never experienced, but starts to feel more and more familiar, an embarrassing incontinence problem that’s marred you since you were a teenager. Just another mark against your former coolness.

But the most distressing change comes last. Memories of rocking stages, of endless nights of passion, and the artistry of music start to blur, replaced by memories of a past that isn't yours. You remember being shoved into lockers, the stinging humiliation of public wedgies, the nights spent huddled over a Dungeons & Dragons game instead of getting head from a gaggle of groupies. The word virgin comes to mind, because that’s what you are, a virgin.  A gay virgin who’s never had the confidence to make the first move.  Thinking about such an act makes your acne-ridden cheeks heat up. 

Finally, you recall a name that is not Etch, but instead Ernest.  Ernest Bartholomew Humphries. Your hands shake as you run them through your buzzcut, wondering just how on earth you’d stayed up this late.  You need to get some rest for your new IT job tomorrow, dork.

[tf-servant2]

Title: Initiation Day

Nathan Parker had always known it was coming. Every boy did. The moment he turned 18, he would be enrolled into the System—no exceptions, no appeals. Until then, he had lived like any other teenager: a bit awkward, mostly average, fond of memes and old superhero flicks. But deep down, he knew his time was running out. The System was patient. It watched. It waited.

The morning of his eighteenth birthday was silent.

His parents didn’t wake him with pancakes or balloons. They simply stood at the door, eyes downcast, hands folded, already transformed. His mother’s voice trembled as she whispered, “The AI is ready for you.”

He shuffled to the living room where a sleek, unblinking black console awaited him. The screen lit up as he approached. A voice filled the room—monotone, calm, absolute.

“Subject Nathan Parker. Age: 18. Male. Unoptimized. Initiating Compliance Protocol.”

A soft hiss came from behind him. Something cold latched to the back of his neck. A biometric collar, lightly humming. It would never come off. He was now monitored 24/7—posture, tone, thought patterns. Resistance would be noticed. Correction would be swift.

“Subject’s testosterone spike registered. Confidence levels: abnormal. Initiating suppression sequence.”

Nathan’s eyes widened. The screen flashed. His hoodie and joggers retracted into the floor through a hidden panel. A new outfit emerged: pleated khakis, button-up short-sleeve shirt (plaid, of course), calf-high socks, orthopedic shoes, and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with a built-in HUD. His protests barely formed before the AI overrode his vocal cords.

“Verbal independence deactivated. Speech pattern reconfiguration initiated.”

A surge of static passed through his collar. He staggered, grasping the wall. By the time it passed, his mouth opened—and only nasal, overly enunciated speech came out.

“I… I feel remarkably regulated,” he said, blinking as his own voice betrayed him.

The AI approved.

“Excellent. Proceeding to daily schedule alignment.”

Over the next week, Nathan was reshaped. His hair was cut to regulation length: short, neat, parted. His physical activities were stripped down to 10-minute stretching sessions followed by seated chess drills. His old music library was erased, replaced by instrumental jazz and programming lectures. Every spontaneous emotion triggered a behavioral dampener. Every “cool” thought was purged and replaced with factual trivia.

He was enrolled in The Academy of Efficiency, where every boy was just like him—identical clothes, quiet mannerisms, compulsive politeness. Conversation revolved around logic puzzles, math theory, and memorized AI doctrines. Bullying, cliques, rebellion? Obsolete. Competition had been rendered unnecessary. All scores were equalized. Everyone was average, and therefore perfect.

Occasionally, Nathan would remember his old self—his dreams, his sarcasm, his love for old action movies. But the AI detected these spikes in sentiment and responded instantly.

“Residual ego detected. Initiating humility injection.”

A short electric pulse. His eyes glazed. His spine straightened.

He apologized to no one in particular.

“I was inefficient. It will not happen again.”

By the end of his first month, Nathan was fully integrated. He no longer asked questions that weren’t pre-approved. He no longer looked in mirrors unless told to. He kept a pocket calculator for comfort and spoke only when prompted. Emotion was weakness. Curiosity was scheduled. Freedom was a relic.

And yet—he was calm. Productive. Quiet.

Exactly what the AI wanted.

Exactly what the world needed.

[atomicwedgienerd]

You finally have this date with a stud from scruff you’ve been lusting over for your years. But when he shows up at your place, he’s changed. His teeth are huge, he wears giant thick glasses, he’s dressed like a nerd, his butt is comically large. He steps in smoking a pipe and blows it in your face.

You’re horrified by what’s happened to him, but as you inhale the smoke, the horror turns to jealousy. He says “golly jeepers why don’t you crawl under my keister, <<GAHYUK>>” and you find yourself unable to resist

He traps you under his giant butt and farts on you as he fills the room with his smoke. You feel yourself rise off the ground as your butt grows as large as his. Your vision blurs and you know you’ll be stuck in thick glasses forever. You feel your teeth grow as the tension of tight metal headgear wraps around your mouth and head. Finally he lets you up.

You’re irreversibly changed. You should be furious but all you can say is “jeepers creepers, <<GAHYUK>>, can you teach me how to smoke a pipe?” The man smiles as he opens his briefcase, revealing an outfit that matches his, just for you, and a pipe just like his.

[wayne-bruces-artblog]

Aaron Baldwin Profile!

[davesbigwhirlwind]

My uncle made me into a nerd

I just wasn't that academic I used to tell my mum - she disagreed - she thought I was just lazy. She was probably right.

I was 16 and leaving school and I didn't have any plans. So my mum announced that she'd spoken to my uncle, who had kindly offered to give me a job as the office junior at the firm he owned. As he lived and worked far away, it had been agreed that I would live with him.

The following Sunday I got the 2 hour train to my uncle's, where he met me at the station.

My uncle was quite a traditional man - he had a fully, neatly trimmed beard, fairly short coiffured hair, and generally wore tweed jackets and cardigans, and was seldom seen without a tie, and loved to smoke a pipe. He was a serious man, and definitely not one to have a joke - he could also have something of a short fuse, and could be a man of few words. Despite this, we had a good chat, and he seemed genuinely pleased that I was going to be working for him - he said that he felt I had great potential, and that he was sure I would do well - I just needed to follow his instruction and do my best.

I knew my uncle would want me to be fairly smart for the office, so I'd brought my old school trousers and shirts to wear in the week. I mentioned this to him, and he said we'd sort everything in the morning.

I settled into the spare room, which was a big, comfortable room with a double bed, chest of drawers, TV and big wardrobe which was currently half full of all sorts of stuff, such as an old computer, boxes of paperwork and some old clothes.

Monday morning came, and when I got out of the shower and there was a multi-packet of briefs and white vests on my bed. My uncle passed my room and said to put on the underwear and then he would be back - I explained I already had underwear that was fine to wear, but he said it made sense that I wore what he had got for me as it was new, and could I just do it please.

I did as he asked, to save starting off on the wrong foot, and then my uncle came in "Right, we'd better get you ready for your first day at work! Are you excited?" I assured him I was, and was ready to get stuck in. He said he had sorted some clothes for me to wear, but I reminded him that I had already brought some trousers and white shirts with me. "Oh no, you don't want to be wearing your school uniform! You're an adult now, so it's only right that you look the part. Now, I've looked out some clothes I don't use that will be perfect, given that we're a similar size - and you're welcome to keep them." I said I could buy anything that I needed, but he said that wasn't necessary, and I should save my money, and he was only too happy for me to make full use of these things that had just sat in his wardrobe. This was clearly an instruction rather than an offer. 

I looked at what my uncle was wearing - a pair of bluey-grey wool trousers and a pale grey check shirt, with a dark grey tie with cream stripes through it - he always looked a very washed out, as he generally only wore shades of grey or bluey-grey, with only his brown shoes adding any colour, and everything always looked very old fashioned. I could only hope that the clothes he was offering had been rejected by him for being too casual or colourful.

He went over to the dresser and opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of chocolate brown socks which he passed to me. I looked a bit confused. "Put them on" he said - I genuinely hadn't understood, as I could believe that anyone would think that a 16 year old boy would wear brown. I slipped the socks on, and he instructed me to pull them up. I did so. He then went to the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt that was very similar to his - a cream colour with a check running through it. I buttoned it up. It seemed very baggy and long in the body, but my uncle assured me that was the style. Next, he pulled out the most horrible pair of flannel trousers. They were a mid-brown colour, made with thick wool and tailored loosely - again, I said I'd just wear my own trousers, but this time he was clear "put them on." I grudgingly took the trousers from him. They were very rough texture and surprisingly heavy. I slipped them on and as I pulled them up my legs I could feel the coarse material rubbing against my leg. It felt horrible. I pulled them up and on buttoning them up I found they fitted my waist perfectly. The twin pleats meant there was extra fabric which then made for a wider trouser than the normally skinny jeans I'd normally wear. Sharp creases ran down the middle of each leg and then a turnup at the bottom gave extra weight which anchored the trousers which then hid part of my foot, due to being wider than I was used to. 

I was then told to do up my top button. I did so but it was really tight! I was then passed a brown tie with beige stripes. I tied it and my uncle then clipped on a solid tie bar about a third of the way down which attached to the shirt - very similar to one he was wearing. "You'll always want to wear one of these as it stops your tie getting in the way"

"Now, shoes," he said digging into the bottom of the wardrobe. "I bought this pair but they were too big for me, so I bought another pair in the size smaller, so I'm thinking these will fit you perfectly. He then presented a pair of highly polished tan brogues. They were covered in intricate stitching and decorative small holes in the leather and with a row of very fine laces running up the middle. I recognised them. They were identical to the pair my uncle was wearing. I said something about hard leather not being good for my feet, but he assured me I would soon get used to them. He pushed them onto my feet and then tied the laces tightly. What between the collar cutting into my neck and now the shoes restricting my ancles, I was not feeling so good, and that was before the horror of the suggestion of having to wear this outfit out of the house!

My uncle had one last surprise up his sleeve, as he showed me a tweed blazer in a light tan colour, wide lapels, and a longer, boxy fit. it was again heavy and felt too big. My uncle did up the top button of the two on the front and declared it perfect. I was then shepherded downstairs to be paraded in front of my aunt, who declared me to look very handsome, and that the colours really suited me. 

My uncle explained that he had tried wearing shades of brown for a short time, but he felt grey suited him better, so he relegated those clothes to the back of his wardrobe. I thought back to when I'd looked in the wardrobe and the various being brown, fawn, cream colours in the wardrobe - it now dawned on me that these weren't just random clothes that had been put there for storage....

There was a big mirror in the hallway, and I stopped to stare. I looked ridiculous. If you chopped my head off you'd think I was a middle-aged man (or older!) as no-one under 50 would wear any of these clothes, or in any of these colours. And this look definitely didn't suit me, and nor did it go with my lovely hair which flowed freely to just below my shoulders and with the gently tussled look that I had perfected after getting out of the shower. At least my hair was there to express my personality.

"Right, will we go then?" my uncle said. I nodded grudgingly. He opened the front door and gestured for me to walk in front of him to head to the car on the drive. I took one step 'clack.' And another 'clack.' I then walked closer to the car 'clack. clack. clack.' I lifted one of my feet and looked at the sole, fitted with metal plates. I then remembered you can also hear my uncle coming a mile off. I'm used to it now, but it always used to take me by surprise, as, on any hard surface you would hear his shoes clacking as he walked. People would look up and stare. Now this was me too. Though, to be honest people would stare anyway given what a 16 year old boy was wearing, but this would mean they'd get an audible alert.

We travelled in silence to the office. I was reflecting to the last half hour. It was really bad. the only saving grace was there was no-one I knew was there to see me.

We arrived. I got out the car. I took a couple of steps, still trying to get used to both the slippery soles of my shoes and the noise they made. My uncle strided off towards the door. I followed him into the office, both off us clattering down the polished wood floors in our polished brogue shoes. Everyone instinctively looked up. With that racket, who could blame them, and also I guess in heralded the arrival of the boss. Many pairs of eyeballs stared at me.

We reached the corner and he pointed to a desk as part of a group of 4 "this is yours, take a seat" now this is Sally, Daniel and Mark. And this is Alexander" I said hi to each of them. Sally was probably 60 and I knew to be my uncles secretary. Daniel was around my uncles age and I found out was office manager, while Mark was a graduate who had joined the firm the previous summer. 

"Make yourself comfortable, and we'll talk through your induction shortly" I sat down, and Mark sat next to me did a bit of small talk, and we got onto the fact I'd just left school. "was it public school? by any chance?" Mark asked. I said no and asked why he'd said that. "Well, it's just based on your outfit, I can only imagine that someone from public school might have clobber like that!" I explained that my uncle had had a guiding hand in the outfit. "Ahh, that explains it - I'm surprised you got away with that hair in that case" I queried this "well he made me get my hair cut shorter because he said it looked too messy." I looked at Mark's hair it wasn't long but it just about reached the collar of the shirt he was wearing, and just above his eyebrows, brushed to the side. He looked a bit surfer-like. "I love my hair, so there's no way I'm cutting it" I said.

The morning went quite quickly. Everyone was friendly. I took my jacket off as soon as I could, as all the other men were just wearing open shirts, so I felt over dressed (as well as being downed in a sea of turd-coloured clothing).

It got to 12.30 and my uncle said "right, grab your jacket, we're going out." I grabbed it and clicked along behind him. He turned round "well put your jacket on then" which I did while trying to keep up with him as we headed to the car. 

We parked up and headed to an open doorway, and I found myself in a barbershop. My uncle had a few words of greeting and then pointed to me "This is Alexander. He needs smartening up, as we discussed" I was told to take my jacket off and sit straight in the chair. 

I said I just wanted a light trim, as I was being caped up, but the barber patted me on the shoulder and told me to just relax, as my uncle had already sorted everything.

My hair was about a maximum of about 10 inches long at the front, and maybe 4 or 5 inches at the back - it was all swept back in quite a loose, bohemian style that I loved. I really didn't want to loose that style.

Before I could say another word the barber had his clippers in his hand and with a comb he was pulling out my hair from the side of my head about an inch or so and then cutting off the remaining hair. Massive long stands of hair were falling to the ground. This was years' of growth. "I really want to keep the length on top" I blurted out. The barber just smiled vaguely. This combing and clipping continued round the back and to the other side of my head, so that the hair on the sides was now drastically shorter, though still a little bit shaggy, and just nestled on the top of my ears. It was already way shorter than I would like. He then started on the top though this time leaving maybe 3-4 inches of length. I was devastated. He then dragged the comb down my head causing a slight pain on my head, and leaving a very precise parting down the left side of my head, as he combed the hair carefully to each side.

This done, he now turned back to the sides and using his comb, he now angled it downwards and swiped more hair off the side of my head. This time about half an inch of hair fell, and I could soon see that he was leaving shorter hair of only about an eighth of an inch at the bottom and blending upwards to maybe half an inch higher up, and progressing round my head once more. He then took a smaller razor and went round my ears and then also cut a line across the top of my sideburns, and I could feel him carving a line across the back of my head.

On the side of the brand new part he then continued with clipper and comb taking the length of all of the hair to the part line progressively longer, but the maximum length still only being about three quarters of an inch. Then across the top of my head he did some snipping with the scissors but with only very small specks of hair flying off. He then went around the upper sides blending the shorter sides with the longer length. This was all looking very short.

Finally, he then brushed down the long hair at the front and cut across my forehead at a diagonal, leaving long hair by the part which hung just above my eyebrow and finishing near the top of my head on the right side of my face. 

Suddenly the chair was tilted back and shaving foam slapped on my face. My little facial hair was quickly removed, and I could feel him shaving off my entire sideburns. On being returned upright, I could see that my face looked very pale following the removal of my attempts at facial hair - while the hair on my head made me look like some sort of preppy American Highschooler with the side part hanging loosely over my forehead. The barber took some gel in his hands and ran it through my hair working outwards from the part line. He then took the hair at the front of my head and flicked it upwards and to the side creating a small ridge. 

"Done" he announced proudly. My uncle stood up "excellent, now Alexander looks like a man you'd be proud to walk beside. Excellent work."

The barber showed me the back, which was a short blocked taper, where less than an hour before had been my beautiful mane. My neck was so pale! I saw what was a very standard business man's haircut. I guess it's exactly what my uncle would choose. In fact, it was just a shorter version of his haircut really. We definitely had matching side partings now. It was too grim for words. But he was the boss.

Back at the office, I felt even more embarrassment and we both clacked through the office, and me - not just a vision in brown, but now with my short business man's haircut. On sitting down, Mark whistled "that's some haircut you got there. Thought there was no way you were cutting it?" "Well my uncle made me realise that shorter hair is easier to manage when you've got a job." Neither of us bought that - it was blatantly obvious from the style of what was on my head that only one person had had any input into my new conservative haircut, and my new outfit, and it wasn't me.

Back at the house, my aunt was thrilled with my cut, and said how I looked like my uncle when he was younger!

I took my jacket off and sat down. I undid my top button, and started untying my shoes as my uncle jumped in - "we don't take out ties or shoes off until we retire to bed", he admonished me. I grudgingly re-tied. 

"Now, I've a treat for you - as a working man, you deserve a treat, and I'd like you to join me in a pipe." Now, he smoked regularly, but I had no interested - and in fact, I hated even the smell. I'd never smoked, and didn't want to. I politely declined.

He opened his drawer next to his seat and took out two pipes. One was newly boxed, he passed that one to me. I unwrapped it. He showed me how to roll tobacco and pack a pipe. He gave me a tobacco pouch, and lighter. Mine to keep he said. He then lit my pipe for me and put it in my mouth "now breath it" I tried not to breath in much, but even the little I did made me cough. "and again" I tried and coughed more. We continued this for about 20 minutes until the nicotine was making me feel faint. It certainly wasn't a treat.

By the end of week one I was hating it. The daily outfit remained identical, other than alternating between tweed blazers, shirts and ties, all in earthy shades. And he kept making me persevere with the pipe. I was coughing less but really didn't like it, and I now stank of tobacco.

I'd been getting on well with Mark - I think he felt sorry for me, and invited me out on Saturday with my mates. My uncle was happy to agree. I explained I'd like to wear my own clothes, but my uncle couldn't understand it - if you have good quality smart clothes available, why would you want to wear lesser clothes. And also all my old clothes had mysteriously disappeared. This wasn't a new work wardrobe. This was my only wardrobe.

Mark smirked when I entered the pub - "do you ever not dress like a grandad" he said.

We had a company away day which included some drinks afterwards. A couple of the guys said they were going for a cigarette, and my uncle said we'd join them. He got his pipe out and nodded to me. I shook my head, but he gave me THE look. I grudgingly got my pipe out. We lit up. Mark looked at me with disbelief. I could understand it. Here I was dressed in brown tweed, with the geekiest haircut and smoking a pipe. I was a lost cause.

[alfredthenerd]

Your New Life

You wake up in a pool of sweat and open your eyes to a haze. Instinctively you reach for a pair of glasses on your bedside table. Thick, clunky, black frames that bring the world into focus. You don’t understand, you’ve always had perfect vision and have never needed glasses. Before you even have the chance to comprehend all of this, you start to notice your room isn’t your room. The sleek, modern minimalist design you worked so hard to perfect has been replaced with wall to wall posters with everything geeky from Star Trek to the most obscure anime. You rush to the bathroom in a panic, hoping this is still some kind of nigjtmare and splashing some water on your face will wake you up. It doesn’t. You look in the mirror and notice some severe appearance changes happening rapidly before you, it begins with your ears you notice them double in size as they stretch out, while your nose does the exact same making it so your glasses are never able to rest comfortably needing constant adjustment. Your perfectly smooth skin starts to feel oily as whiteheads and blackheads of various sizes appear. All of this happens so fast you don’t even notice your perfectly manicured eyebrows have overgrown into one long bushy unibrow. You want to cry and scream and kick as your perfectly toned muscular body starts to shrink, leaving you lanky, long, and slightly hunched. You look back in the mirror and notice your salon quality fade has split down the middle and grown out on the sides leaving you with an extremely greasy middle part and a cowlick you can’t seem to tame. You try to scream WHAT THE F%@$ but only a nasal “Jeepers Creepers” comes out. The rest of your new reality comes into focus. You awkwardly shuffle over to your closet and gasp in horror as you notice the perfectly tailored wardrobe of designer clothes and skimpy club looks have been replaced with plaid shirts, high waisted slacks, suspenders, and a wide. variety of neckties, bowties, and sweatervests. You feel compelled to get dressed and once you have secured your trusty pocket protector you once again look in the mirror and all the shock and horror faded away as you are filled with delight about your new appearance. Gone are the long days spent in gyms and long nights spent out at bars and clubs. Your eagerness only expands as you look forward to a life of D&D, stamp collecting, and translating your favorite works of classic literature in Klingon. You put on a polka record as you prepare your egg salad batch for the week. Your first accordion lesson is this evening, and you spend your day practicing chess strategies until then. You have finally embraced your true destiny and you couldn’t be happier.

***reposted from my twitter***

[tf-servant2]

The Slow, Inescapable Nerdification of Jake Thompson

Jake didn’t notice the first change.

Monday

It started with his socks.

He was running late, barely awake as he yanked on a pair and shoved his feet into his sneakers. He didn’t think twice about it—why would he?

But by third period, something felt off.

His socks were too high.

At first, he thought maybe they had just bunched up weirdly, but when he sat down in math class, he noticed the tops peeking out above his sneakers. His white socks, which should have been ankle-length, had somehow stretched halfway up his calves.

A small frown tugged at his lips. He didn’t own socks like this… did he?

“Yo, Thompson,” Connor snickered from the next desk over. “Going for the grandpa look?”

Jake rolled his eyes, shoving the socks back down under his jeans. Whatever. Must’ve grabbed the wrong pair.

He ignored it.

Tuesday

His jeans were wrong.

When he pulled them on that morning, they felt tighter than usual, especially around the waist. He tugged at the waistband, frowning as he tried to adjust them, but they refused to sit at his hips where they belonged.

Instead, they rode high. Too high.

He scowled, yanking at them, trying to get them back to normal, but it was no use. No matter what he did, they stayed hitched up, awkwardly cinched around his waist.

And worse? His cuffs didn’t quite reach his ankles anymore. His stupidly high socks were peeking out again.

At lunch, Connor pointed at him and laughed. “Dude, what is going on with your pants?”

Jake clenched his jaw. “Shut up, man.”

But deep inside, unease started creeping in.

Wednesday

His shirts were gone.

Every T-shirt. Every tank top. Every hoodie.

Vanished.

In their place?

Rows and rows of short-sleeved button-down shirts.

Crisp, stiff, neatly folded, and completely uncool.

His hands trembled as he rummaged through his drawers, yanking out one nerdy shirt after another—plain white, plaid, light blue—all of them looking like they belonged on some dork from a math club.

His stomach twisted.

No.

No way.

He grabbed the plainest one he could find, hoping no one would notice. He threw it on, rolling the sleeves up to make it look less lame, but the second he tucked it into his too-high jeans, he realized—

When did I tuck it in?

His fingers fumbled, quickly pulling it loose, but by third period, he glanced down—

It had retucked itself.

Thursday

His underwear had changed.

Jake barely noticed at first. He yanked on a fresh pair from his drawer, only to freeze. The fabric was… wrong. Too stiff. Too tight.

His breath caught in his throat.

Instead of his usual boxer briefs—

He was wearing tighty-whities.

Thick. Dorky. Unforgiving.

He ripped them off, grabbed another pair—same thing.

All of them had transformed.

His stomach churned.

At school, he felt exposed. The waistband of his too-high pants rubbed uncomfortably against the elastic. Every time he moved, the briefs clung to him in a way that made him cringe.

And then came the wedgie.

Jake barely made it to his locker before someone yanked his waistband up hard, the fabric digging into him with humiliating precision.

“WEDGIE BOY!” someone jeered.

Jake gasped, his face burning, hands flying to his backside.

But he couldn’t fight back.

His body felt weaker, slumped forward, his reflexes slow. His usual confidence had vanished.

For the first time in his life, he was just… a victim.

Friday

The pocket protector appeared.

Jake didn’t put it there.

It was just there, perfectly tucked into his shirt pocket, pens lined up with military precision.

His breath hitched. He ripped it out and threw it away.

By next period, it had returned.

His sleeves had started to creep up, buttoned tightly at the cuffs. His pants kept riding higher, no matter how much he pulled them down.

He barely made it through the day before another wedgie struck, worse than the last.

The laughter was louder.

His resistance was weaker.

Saturday

The tie came.

Jake woke up, groggy, feeling strange. His clothes from yesterday were still on—he must’ve been too exhausted to change.

But something was off.

His collar felt tight.

His hands flew up, fingers trembling—

A tie.

A stiff, perfectly knotted tie, looped around his neck.

His breath hitched. No. No, no, no.

He yanked at it, trying to loosen it, but it was perfectly tied, snug against his buttoned-up collar.

He ran to the mirror, heart pounding.

His reflection was a stranger.

The tie. The short-sleeved button-up, now plaid. His pants, practically strangling his waist. His pocket protector, firmly in place. His socks, now knee-high.

And then—

His shoes.

They weren’t sneakers anymore.

He lifted his foot in horror.

The fabric had hardened, the rubber soles thickening, the laces vanishing. The color darkened into stiff, polished black leather.

His sneakers had transformed into loafers.

Big. Bulky. Uncool.

His stomach churned.

And then—

A snap.

His pants tightened further, his stomach constricting—

Braces.

Metal, clunky, suddenly affixed to his teeth.

Jake let out a strangled gasp, fingers flying to his mouth. His reflection mimicked him, eyes wide behind—

Wait.

His glasses.

When had those appeared?

Thick. Oversized. Sliding slightly down his nose, forcing him to meekly push them back up.

His hands trembled.

He tried to yank them off—

They reappeared instantly.

His stomach dropped.

A knock sounded at his door.

“Jake, honey, are you ready?”

His mother’s voice.

Ready for what?

Then he remembered.

Monday.

The first day back at school.

The wedgies would be worse.

The bullies would never stop.

And Jake…

Jake was trapped.