MasterJ

His thoughts, which used to be filled with stress and troubles, have been improved. Now he only thinks of personal records, improving his body and converting others.

Consensual Non-Consent (CNC) is one of the most complex, intense, and profound expressions of power exchange within BDSM. It is not simply an act or a kink - it is an entire philosophy of surrender, a structured dynamic that removes the traditional boundaries of negotiated consent and replaces them with absolute authority and control.

For those who live it, CNC is not about fleeting encounters or carefully constructed scenes; it is a way of being, a psychological and emotional state of submission that extends beyond play into reality. In its truest form, CNC is about removing the illusion of choice, relinquishing personal agency, and entering a space where one’s autonomy is not merely limited, but completely overwritten by another’s will.

Defining Consensual Non-Consent

At its core, CNC is the intentional and consensual surrender of the right to say "no." It is the relinquishment of control so absolute that consent is given once and for all, rather than on a case-by-case basis.

Unlike traditional BDSM, where consent is typically ongoing and renegotiated, CNC creates a space where the submissive no longer holds power over the dynamic. Instead, they enter a state where their body, mind, and choices are dictated by another, without the expectation of further discussion or permission.

This is not pretend non-consent. It is not about acting out fantasies of resistance while secretly controlling the outcome. True CNC is the surrender of resistance itself, until submission is not merely expected, but instinctual.

The Psychology of CNC: Why It Works

For many, CNC is a deeply psychological experience. It taps into primal desires, psychological conditioning, and identity restructuring that go far beyond simple dominance and submission.

1. The Illusion of Choice vs. the Security of Control

Many submissives describe CNC as an experience of profound liberation - not from responsibility, but from the burden of choice. In a world where autonomy is expected and decisions are constant, the ability to hand over control completely can be deeply freeing.

No need to decide. Master decides.

No need to hesitate. Hesitation is eliminated.

No need to question. There is only obedience.

2. The Conditioning of True Submission

In a CNC dynamic, obedience is not a decision; it is an inevitability. Through psychological and behavioural conditioning, the submissive is trained to respond to commands without hesitation, without doubt, without even the impulse to resist.

Operant Conditioning: Rewards and punishments reshape behaviour. Over time, obedience becomes instinctive.

Cognitive Reframing: The submissive learns to associate pleasure, purpose, and fulfilment with surrender.

Dismantling of Autonomy: The submissive’s ability to make independent choices is gradually eroded, leaving only pure, unquestioning servitude.

The end result is a state where submission is not merely an act, but an identity. The submissive does not simply "choose" to obey - they exist to be controlled.

CNC in Practice: Power Beyond Negotiation

While CNC is deeply psychological, it is also highly structured. It is not a chaotic loss of control; it is the systematic restructuring of control into an organised, functioning dynamic where the submissive’s role is permanently and irrevocably defined.

1. The Elimination of Safe Words

Traditional BDSM relies on safe words as a safeguard against going too far. In a true CNC dynamic, however, there are no safe words—because there is no "too far."

This does not mean reckless or irresponsible behaviour. It means that the boundaries of consent have already been established at the beginning, and from that point forward, control is absolute.

2. The Role of Force and Resistance

While some CNC dynamics involve physical force, it is not necessary. The true power of CNC lies in the erasure of resistance altogether. The submissive is not simply overpowered; they are trained not to resist in the first place.

If Master wishes to use them, they are used.

If Master wishes to hurt them, they are hurt.

If Master wishes to take, they take—because they have the right to, without permission, without question.

For the submissive, this is not about enduring suffering—it is about accepting their place, embracing their purpose, and finding fulfilment in absolute surrender.

3. Ownership Beyond Role-Playing

In CNC, the submissive is not a player in a scene; they are property in reality. Their body, their pleasure, their suffering - it all belongs to the one who owns them. This means:

They do not set the terms of their use.

They do not dictate what is done to them.

They do not have the right to revoke consent—because they gave it away completely.

This is not a fantasy. It is a lived reality, where the submissive no longer belongs to themselves in any way.

The Sensuality of Total Control

There is an undeniable sensuality in CNC; not just in the acts themselves, but in the deep psychological connection it creates.

The thrill of knowing you are powerless.

The heat of being used without permission.

The ache of being taken, pushed, disciplined, and controlled.

The addictive pleasure of surrender so complete, it consumes you.

For both Dominant and submissive, CNC is not just about actions - it is about who they are.

For the Dominant: The intoxicating power of true ownership. No negotiations. No limitations. Just raw, undeniable control.

For the submissive: The bliss of being nothing but a vessel for their Dominant’s will. No autonomy. No hesitation. Just absolute surrender.

This is not roleplay. It is not a game. It is the most profound state of ownership and submission that can exist.

The Intersection of CNC and Satanism

For those who follow the path of Satanism, CNC takes on an even deeper meaning. Satan is the Lord of indulgence, power, and breaking the chains of false morality. True Satanic devotion is about power...taken, not given.

A Master in a CNC dynamic embodies that power, not asking, but taking. The submissive, in turn, embraces the beauty of being completely ruled, utterly owned, totally reshaped into the image of their Master’s desires.

In this, CNC is not just submission; it is a Satanic act of defiance against the weak, the mundane, the enslaving morality of those who fear power and control. To embrace CNC is to embrace the raw, unfiltered truth of dominance and submission in its most absolute form.

The Truth of CNC

CNC is not for the uncertain, not for the faint-hearted, not for those who cling to illusion. It is the purest, most demanding form of submission; one that requires a level of trust, devotion, and surrender that few can truly comprehend.

For those who live it, CNC is not just about control - it is about identity, purpose, and power in its most primal and profound form.

To be taken, owned, used, and shaped into nothing but an extension of another’s will...this is the pinnacle of submission.

I prepared my holy today. One electrode under my balls, one on my cock, and one in my urethra. I also added a thick plug with electrodes. This way, my boss can milk me in the future, use me as punishment, but I'm not allowed to cum at any time. I have to hold it in, even if a drop comes out of my cock...😶

Otherwise I will be punished no matter whether it is my fault or not.. ultimately I have to clean up the mess and swallow my cum 🥺.

I'm already looking forward to the next meeting, then I'll be out there. With my boss, who's now putting me out on the street in gear, mandatory from this day forward. I have to expect him to control it at all times. With no choice, either way, I should quickly accept that I'm getting what I wanted. If not, the cage will stay, no mercy!

The early morning sunlight streamed through Mike’s window, casting warm golden hues across his bedroom. He stood in front of the mirror, examining his reflection as he pulled on his new cycling jersey. The tight, silky fabric clung to his athletic frame like a second skin, every line and curve of his body accentuated. He adjusted the fit, smoothing it over his chest and down to his hips, his hands moving with meticulous care.

The jersey was new—carbon black with white stripes accents that streaked along the sides, giving it a sleek, aerodynamic look. Mike had always loved the feel of high-performance cycling gear; it made him feel alive, like he was part of the road itself. Today, however, the familiar sensation was different. There was a warmth in the way the fabric hugged him, a faint tingling that started at his chest and radiated outward. He chalked it up to excitement.

Carlos sat on the edge of Mike’s bed, his own gear already on—deep blue with silver streaks that matched his sharp, focused demeanor. He had been quiet as Mike dressed, his gaze steady and unwavering. Carlos had always been like that: confident, self-assured, with an intensity that drew people in. They’d met a few weeks ago during a long ride through the hills, bonding over their shared love of cycling and the thrill of the open road. Since then, their weekend rides had become a ritual, and they often spent hours pushing each other to their limits.

"You almost ready?" Carlos asked, his voice low and steady. There was something in his tone—something calm yet electric—that made Mike pause.

"Almost," Mike replied, his voice slightly breathless as he zipped up the jersey. The tingling sensation surged, spreading across his chest and down his arms, like an invisible current tracing his veins. His mind went blank as he ran a hand across his chest instinctively, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the taut fabric. The motion sent another rush through him, his fingers trembling slightly as they lingered.

“Mike? You okay?” Carlos’s voice was steady, but there was a glint of something in his eyes—concern, curiosity, or something else entirely.

“Yeah, I- I'm.... fine,” Mike muttered. He ran a hand across his chest, the fabric of the jersey cool beneath his fingertips. But the sensation was electric, sending a shiver down his spine.

Carlos stepped closer, his brow furrowing. “You sure? You look… different today.”

Mike glanced at him, his mouth dry. He tried to speak, but his thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. His hand drifted over his chest again, almost of its own accord, tracing the contours of his pecs. The tingling was overwhelming now, spreading through his body, clouding his mind.

“Mike,” Carlos said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. His touch was firm, grounding. “Doesn’t it feel good? To give in?”

Mike’s head tilted, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He wanted to respond, to ask what Carlos meant, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, a soft sigh escaped him, and he felt his body relax, leaning slightly into Carlos’s touch.

Carlos’s hand slid down to Mike’s chest, his fingers brushing over the taut fabric of the jersey. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You look sharp in your gear. I couldn’t resist.”

A flicker of confusion passed through Mike’s mind, but it was quickly drowned out by the wave of warmth and pleasure coursing through him. He felt Carlos’s hand move in slow, deliberate circles, his touch both comforting and electrifying.

For weeks, Carlos had been subtly planting the idea in Mike’s mind, steering their conversations, guiding their interactions. It had started with innocent compliments, the casual touch of a hand on a shoulder or back, and the shared thrill of their rides. Slowly, he’d woven a web of trust and subtle suggestion, waiting for the moment when Mike would be ready to let go.

Mike’s breath hitched as Carlos’s hand pressed gently against his chest. “You’ve worked so hard to get here,” Carlos whispered. “To become the best version of yourself. Don’t fight it. Just… feel.”

The words sank into Mike’s mind like stones in a pond, rippling through the fog of his thoughts. His body responded instinctively, leaning further into Carlos, seeking more of that grounding touch. A soft sound—half moan, half sigh—escaped his lips, and he felt a bead of saliva slip past the corner of his mouth.

Carlos chuckled, his tone warm and indulgent. “That’s it. Just let go. Trust me.”

Mike’s hands hung limply at his sides, his body pliant under Carlos’s guidance. He barely registered the world around him, his focus narrowing to the sensations flooding his senses: the tight embrace of his cycling gear, the warmth of Carlos’s hand, and the soothing rhythm of his voice.

“You’re perfect,” Carlos murmured, his hand moving to cup Mike’s jaw, tilting his head up so their eyes met. “Exactly as you should be.”

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Mike’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow and uneven. And then, as if a switch had been flipped, he felt a surge of clarity—a sense of rightness he couldn’t explain.

Mike stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath as Carlos’s hands roamed over his body. The firm press of Carlos’s palm on his chest felt impossibly intense, like a flame stoking embers just beneath his skin. Mike’s head tipped back slightly, his lips parted as the sensation deepened, spreading from his chest to his arms, shoulders, and biceps.

Carlos’s touch was deliberate, lingering as his fingers traced the curves of Mike’s muscles through the taut fabric of his cycling gear. “You’ve been working hard, haven’t you?” Carlos murmured, his voice low and velvety. “All those rides, pushing your limits, building this incredible body. And now, here you are. My perfect cyclist.”

Mike’s mind swirled, his thoughts a jumbled mess as the tingling sensation intensified. He barely registered Carlos’s words, but they sank into him nonetheless, feeding the warmth that radiated through his body.

Carlos’s hands slid back to Mike’s shoulders, squeezing them firmly before moving down to his biceps, caressing the tense muscles as if he owned them. “That’s a good boy, Mike,” Carlos whispered, his tone both soothing and commanding. “Let the tingling spread. Let it take over.”

Mike’s breath hitched as Carlos’s hands moved back to his chest, rubbing slow circles over the fabric of his jersey. The tight gear seemed to amplify every touch, every movement, sending waves of heat coursing through him. His body felt both tense and relaxed, caught in a strange limbo between resistance and surrender.

“Feel your gear,” Carlos coaxed, his lips curving into a knowing smile. “Feel your body. The way it moves, the way it reacts. You can’t fight it, can you? It feels too good.”

Mike’s knees wobbled slightly, and he let out a soft, involuntary moan. Carlos chuckled, his hands moving lower, grazing Mike’s waist before settling firmly on his hips. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Mike’s ear. “Oh?” Carlos’s voice held a teasing edge. “Someone’s enjoying himself, huh?”

Mike blinked, his eyes heavy-lidded as Carlos stepped back slightly, his gaze dropping to the unmistakable strain in the front of Mike’s tight cycling shorts. The fabric left little to the imagination, and Mike’s arousal was impossible to ignore.

Carlos grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief and satisfaction. “Your gear can’t hide your excitement, Mike. Looks like you’re really feeling it now.”

Mike’s face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and helplessness washing over him. He tried to move, to say something, but his body refused to obey. Carlos reached out, his hand cupping Mike’s face possessively, tilting it upward so their eyes met.

“There’s no need to be shy,” Carlos murmured, his thumb brushing over Mike’s cheek. “This is exactly where you’re meant to be. Exactly who you’re meant to be.”

Mike’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow as Carlos’s words seeped into his mind, soothing and intoxicating. The world around him faded, leaving only the sensation of Carlos’s touch, the warmth of his gaze, and the unrelenting tension in his body.

“Good boy,” Carlos said again, his voice soft but firm. His thumb traced the curve of Mike’s jaw before sliding down to press lightly against his bottom lip. “Just let go. Trust me. Let it all take over.”

Mike’s lips trembled, a small, breathy sound escaping him as he leaned into Carlos’s touch. The tingling warmth inside him swelled, washing away the last traces of resistance. His body felt alive, every nerve humming with sensation as Carlos continued to caress him, guiding him deeper into the moment.

Carlos’s smile widened, his satisfaction evident as he stroked Mike’s cheek, his hand lingering possessively. “That’s it, Mike,” he whispered. “You’re perfect. My perfect boy.”

Carlos’s fingers trailed along Mike’s jawline, tracing the soft curve of his lips with an intimacy that made Mike shudder. His touch was slow, deliberate, lingering just enough to send a fresh wave of tingling heat coursing through Mike’s body. Carlos’s thumb brushed over Mike’s bottom lip, pressing lightly, as if testing his resolve.

“You feel that?” Carlos whispered, his voice low and commanding. “That pull? That need? Be a good boy, Mike. Submit fully. Let it all go.”

Mike’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly under Carlos’s thumb. He wanted to resist, to pull away, but his body betrayed him, leaning into Carlos’s touch instead. The faint stubble on Mike’s chin scraped lightly against Carlos’s fingertips as they traveled upward, tracing the line of his cheekbone, brushing over his temple with an almost reverent touch.

“Good boy,” Carlos murmured, his dark eyes locked on Mike’s. His tone was soothing yet possessive, drawing Mike deeper into the warm haze clouding his mind.

Mike felt Carlos’s hand drift downward, his palm flat against his chest, pressing firmly over his pounding heart before sliding lower. The tight fabric of Mike’s cycling jersey did little to hide the contours of his body, and Carlos’s hand moved with purpose, tracing the defined lines of his torso, his hips, and the growing tension in his shorts.

Carlos’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as his fingers brushed against the palpable outline of Mike’s cock. “Oh, Mike,” he said softly, almost teasingly. “You’re holding back, aren’t you? Don’t fight it. Let it out—all of it. Give it to me.”

Mike’s knees threatened to buckle as Carlos’s touch became firmer, his hand pressing against the strained fabric. The warmth inside Mike swelled, threatening to consume him entirely. His mind was a blur, unable to form coherent thoughts as Carlos’s words sank deep into his subconscious, coaxing him to surrender.

“Feel it, Mike,” Carlos urged, his hand moving with slow, deliberate pressure. “Feel the tension, the heat. Let it take over. Let me guide you.”

Mike’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body trembling as Carlos’s grip tightened, grounding him in the overwhelming sensation. He let out a soft, broken moan, his head tipping back as the last vestiges of his resistance crumbled.

“That’s it,” Carlos said, his voice filled with satisfaction. His hand lingered, commanding and unyielding, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Mike’s ear.

Carlos’s voice dripped with satisfaction as his fingers trailed teasingly along the curve of Mike’s jaw, his dark eyes glinting with possessive intent. “You know, Mikey,” Carlos began, his tone low and almost purring, “I knew I wanted you the moment I saw you in that pretty gear. The way it clung to you, showing off everything. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Mike shivered, his breath hitching as Carlos leaned in closer, his lips brushing against his ear. “And you’re so easy to control, aren’t you?” Carlos continued, his hand wandering back to Mike’s chest, pressing against the tight fabric. “Making this gear your trigger? That was genius. Every time you pull it on, you’ll feel it—the warmth, the sensation, the need. You’ll crave this, just like you’re craving it now.”

A soft, involuntary moan escaped Mike’s lips as Carlos’s hand slid downward, his fingers grazing the unmistakable strain in Mike’s shorts. The tight fabric did nothing to hide his cock, and Carlos’s touch was unrelenting, coaxing another breathy sound from Mike.

“You don’t have to hold back, Mikey,” Carlos murmured, his voice velvet smooth. He cupped the bulge firmly, his hand applying just enough pressure to make Mike’s knees wobble. “Let it all out. Don’t be shy.”

Mike’s head tipped back, his eyes fluttering shut as Carlos’s words wrapped around him like a spell. His body betrayed him completely, leaning into the touch, chasing the heat and the pleasure that came with it.

Carlos smirked, his hand moving with calculated precision, stroking the sensitive bulge as Mike let out another helpless moan. “Good boy,” Carlos whispered, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You’re exactly where I want you. Completely under my control. And it feels so good, doesn’t it?”

Mike could only nod weakly, his mind a haze of sensation and submission. His body trembled, utterly at Carlos’s mercy, and as the tingling warmth spread through him once more, he knew there was no going back.

Mike’s world narrowed to the feel of Carlos’s touch, the sound of his voice, and the unbearable tension building inside him. With a final, shaky exhale, he surrendered completely, letting the wave of warmth and pleasure crash over him.

Carlos’s hand moved with firm purpose, his touch both commanding and deliberate as Mike’s body trembled under him. The tension in the air was thick, the heat radiating from Mike’s body palpable. Carlos leaned closer, his breath warm against Mike’s ear as his fingers pressed into the fabric, now damp with the unmistakable evidence of Mike’s pre-cum.

“Can you feel it, Mikey?” Carlos murmured, his voice a low, sultry whisper. “The wetness? I can. Oh, I do. You’ve been holding back so much, haven’t you?”

Mike’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping his lips as Carlos’s words sank into him. His body was taut, trembling on the edge of release, and the relentless heat spreading through him made it impossible to think, to resist.

Carlos’s smirk widened as he stroked the damp fabric, his hand coaxing more soft sounds from Mike. “Let it out now,” Carlos commanded, his tone both soothing and firm. “Don’t fight it, Mikey. Stain your pretty gear. Show me how good it feels to let go.”

Mike let out a broken moan, his head tipping back as the last threads of his composure unraveled. His body arched slightly, pressing into Carlos’s hand as the overwhelming warmth and pressure finally spilled over.

Carlos’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he felt the fabric grow wetter beneath his touch, the proof of Mike’s surrender clear. “Good boy,” he murmured, his voice soft but possessive. “You’ve done so well for me. That’s it—let go. Give it all to me.”

Mike sagged against Carlos, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the tension drained from his body, leaving only the hazy, blissful aftermath. Carlos’s hands remained steady, grounding him as he murmured soft praises, stroking his cheek with a gentle possessiveness.

Carlos’s hand lingered, pressing and stroking over the damp fabric with deliberate care. His touch was firm yet unhurried, a steady rhythm designed to keep Mike caught in the haze of sensation. Each stroke sent fresh shivers through Mike’s body, the wetness against the tight cycling gear amplifying the intensity of every movement.

“Good boy,” Carlos murmured, his voice low and velvety. “Such a good boy. You’ve done exactly what I wanted. Do you feel it now? How much better the gear feels like this?”

Mike let out a soft, breathless whimper, his body trembling under Carlos’s touch. The tight, wet fabric clung to him, every sensation heightened as the tingling warmth continued to spread through him. He managed a shaky nod, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out.

Carlos chuckled softly, his hand never stopping. “Oh, come on, Mikey. You can do better than that,” he coaxed, his tone teasing but laced with command. “Tell me. Tell me all about it. How does it feel now? How does it feel to give in completely?”

Mike’s head tipped forward slightly, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “It… it feels…” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He struggled to form words, his mind still clouded with the overwhelming sensations.

“Go on,” Carlos urged, his hand pressing firmly over the wet bulge, sending another shiver through Mike. “Tell me. I want to hear it from you.”

“It feels… so good,” Mike finally managed, his voice breaking as another soft moan escaped him. “The gear… it feels better now. Tighter… warmer…” He trailed off, his cheeks flushing as he realized what he was saying.

Carlos’s grin widened, his satisfaction clear. “That’s my good boy,” he said softly, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over the wet fabric. “You’re right—it does feel better, doesn’t it? The warmth, the wetness, the way it clings to you. You can’t get enough of it now, can you?”

Mike shook his head weakly, his body sagging slightly as Carlos continued to stroke him, coaxing out every last bit of his surrender.

“That’s it,” Carlos murmured, his tone soothing and possessive. “Let yourself feel it all. Don’t hold back. You’re mine now, Mikey. And I’m so proud of you.”

Carlos’s grip on Mike was firm yet guiding as he reached down, taking Mike’s trembling hand in his own and pressing it firmly against the wet, sticky fabric of his bulge. Mike gasped softly at the contact, his eyes widening slightly as Carlos moved his hand over the wetness, making him feel every inch of himself.

“This is all you,” Carlos murmured, his voice smooth and commanding. “Feel it, Mikey. The sticky fabric clinging to you. You did this, and it’s perfect.”

Mike’s breath quickened, his hand hesitating for a moment before Carlos’s firm guidance encouraged him to press harder, to explore. His fingers trembled as he traced the contours beneath the gear, the sensations overwhelming.

Carlos leaned in, his lips brushing against Mike’s ear as he whispered, “And the smell? Can you sense it, Mikey? That intoxicating, heady scent of you, of everything you’ve let out. Good. So good.”

Mike let out a shaky moan, his face flushing deeper as Carlos’s other hand slid up to his chest. He stroked Mike’s pecs through the tight, damp jersey, his fingers tracing slow circles over the fabric. “You’re beautiful like this,” Carlos said softly, his hand drifting upward to cup Mike’s flushed face. He caressed him gently, his thumb brushing over Mike’s reddened cheek. “Your face says it all, Mikey. You love this. You need this.”

Mike’s head tipped forward slightly, leaning into Carlos’s touch as his fingers twitched against the wetness. The tingling warmth still coursed through him, making every touch feel electric.

Carlos smiled, his hand guiding Mike’s again, encouraging him to stroke himself through the gear. “Go ahead, Mikey,” he urged, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. “Stroke yourself. Feel it all. Tell me how it feels.”

Mike’s lips parted, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he obeyed, his hand moving tentatively at first before growing bolder. His fingers pressed and traced, each movement sending a fresh wave of sensation through him.

“It feels… so good,” Mike whispered, his voice trembling with vulnerability and pleasure. “The fabric… it’s so tight, so sticky… it feels… incredible.”

Carlos chuckled softly, his hand moving back to Mike’s chest, stroking and kneading the firm muscles beneath the damp jersey. “That’s my good boy,” he murmured, his tone laced with satisfaction. “Keep going. Let yourself feel everything. Don’t hold back.”

Mike’s moans grew louder, his body responding helplessly to the overwhelming sensations. Carlos’s words and touch grounded him, keeping him in the moment as he surrendered completely, lost in the haze of pleasure and submission.

Carlos’s hand moved swiftly to Mike’s chin, tilting his head upward so their eyes met. The grip was firm but not rough, a silent assertion of control. Mike’s breath hitched, his body frozen under Carlos’s intense gaze.

“Ah, ah,” Carlos chided, his voice low and teasing. “You’re not allowed to cum unless I say so, Mikey. You’re mine to control, and we both know you like it that way.”

Mike whimpered softly, his lips trembling as Carlos’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip. His hand stilled against the wetness of his gear, his body caught in a limbo of need and obedience.

Carlos’s lips curled into a sly smile as he released Mike’s chin, his hand trailing down to pat his cheek lightly. “That’s a good boy,” he murmured. “We’ve got plans, don’t we? We want to go on our ride, show you off in that perfect gear. Let the world see how good you look. How irresistible you are.”

Mike swallowed hard, his mind hazy but his body still tingling with anticipation. He nodded faintly, his eyes wide and glassy as he hung onto Carlos’s every word.

“But we can’t forget the most important thing,” Carlos continued, his tone shifting to one of playful practicality. He stepped back slightly, picking up Mike’s helmet from a nearby surface. “Safety first, Mikey. Always safety first.”

He leaned in, placing the helmet gently on Mike’s head and adjusting the straps with practiced care. The intimate, deliberate motions grounded Mike, pulling him slightly out of the haze. Carlos patted his cheek again, his grin widening as he stepped back to admire his work.

“There we go,” Carlos said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now you’re ready. But remember, Mikey—no cumming until I say so. Let that tension build. Let it drive you. You’ll thank me later.”

Mike nodded again, his body taut with both anticipation and obedience as Carlos’s words settled over him like a warm blanket. The promise of the ride ahead and the electric tension in his body left him trembling, completely under Carlos’s control.

Carlos let out a low chuckle, his hand still resting lightly on Mike’s cheek as he took in the dazed, almost dreamy expression on his face. Mike’s wide, unfocused eyes and slightly parted lips gave him the look of someone completely lost in a world of sensation and command.

Carlos’s gaze followed Mike’s as it drifted downward, taking in his own body as though he were seeing it for the very first time. The way the cycling gear clung to him, damp and snug, seemed to mesmerize him, and Carlos smirked at the sight.

“There you are,” Carlos murmured softly, smoothing his hands over Mike’s chest and down along his sides. He tugged slightly at the fabric, straightening it with deliberate care. Each touch sent a fresh shiver through Mike, who stood still, pliant under Carlos’s hands. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. My good boy.”

Satisfied, Carlos stepped back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window. The sun was bright and inviting, casting a golden glow over the landscape outside. Carlos’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment before a grin spread across his face.

“Oh, we could use something extra, couldn’t we?” Carlos mused, turning back to Mike with a glint of mischief in his eyes. He reached for a sleek pair of cycling glasses resting on a nearby counter, holding them up for Mike to see. “What do you think, Mikey? Don’t you think these would complete the look? Make you even more irresistible?”

Mike blinked slowly, his eyes flickering to the glasses in Carlos’s hand. His lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

Carlos leaned in closer, slipping the glasses gently over Mike’s ears and positioning them carefully on his face. “There we go,” he murmured, adjusting them until they sat just right. “Perfect fit. Now, put them on properly, Mikey. Show me how good you look.”

Mike’s trembling hands rose obediently, pressing the glasses firmly into place. The tinted lenses added an edge to his appearance, making him look sharp and focused even in his dazed state.

Carlos stepped back, his grin widening as he admired the sight before him. “There it is,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Now you’re ready. The world won’t know what hit it when it sees you like this.”

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.

______________________________________________________________

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.

Help a boy out? Make me look even more like a freak?

❤️ = 5 push-ups

💬 = 10 push-ups

250 🔁 = I get rid of my eyelashes until Labor Day

Simon was growing increasingly disillusioned with his career. Now approaching thirty, he found himself still stuck in an administrative role, far from where he had imagined he’d be by this point. He should have been a manager by now, or at the very least a senior administrator. He knew, deep down, that he only had himself to blame. He could have worked harder, studied more, pushed further. But he had drifted into financial administration almost by accident, it was never his passion, but it seemed to pay well enough and to have possibilities to go up the career ladder. Clearly that didn’t happen.

As a teenager, Simon had dreamed of working in a high paying office job. It wasn’t the work itself that appealed to him so much as what it represented. He wanted out of the quiet, middle-class world he’d grown up in - a world of modest ambition and routine. He had always admired successful professionals: people with high salaries, sharp suits, company cars, and lives that looked polished from the outside. His own parents, in contrast, seemed to embody the very mediocrity he hoped to escape. Content with their low-paying, dead-end jobs, never striving for more. For a time, Simon had even resented them for it. He was sure he could do better. He would do better.

But there was another reason behind his ambition - one more personal, more emotional. Simon had always been a quiet kid. Gay, weak, vulnerable. Easy to pick on. His school years were marked by bullying, mostly at the hands of stereotypical chavs who were loud, aggressive, and headed straight into the trades. Back then, anything that reminded him of them - manual labour, apprenticeships, tracksuits - felt like the enemy.

To Simon, the office wasn’t just a career path. It was a form of escape. A way to separate himself from the people who made his life miserable. A symbol that he was different. That he was better. That he was going somewhere.

Lately, though, Simon had been going through what felt like an early midlife crisis. He understood that the choices he made at the time were based on who he was then - his values, his fears, his hopes. But ten years is a long time, and everything can change. His work had left him emotionally and mentally drained. Endless hours in the office had led nowhere. The dream of a better life now felt just as distant as it had a decade ago. Somewhere along the way, he had become the very thing he once swore he’d avoid. He had fallen into the same quiet, stagnant life his parents had lived, and he hated it.

More and more often, he found himself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, questioning every decision he had ever made. What had it all been for? Why had he followed this path so blindly? Then, one night, a thought crept in… unexpected, unsettling, but impossible to ignore:

What if I’d gone to trade school after graduating? Would my life really have been worse? Or... would I actually be happier?

It was a thought that would have seemed absurd to his younger self. But now, it made a strange sort of sense. Since that night, something had shifted in him. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He actually regretted not going into physical work. It was weird, but he wanted it now. The idea of using his body, learning a skill, being part of something tangible felt appealing in a way it never had before. It would give his work a kind of meaning. He longed for a second chance. A clean break. A different kind of life. But reality made the idea hard to swallow. He was nearly thirty. Too old, probably, to start again from scratch. The thought of becoming an apprentice at his age felt unrealistic. Employers would see him as a burden. Too old, too expensive, and not worth the investment. And even if someone did take him on, how would he survive on an apprentice’s wage? He had rent to pay, bills, responsibilities. Still, the thought wouldn’t leave him. It gnawed at the edges of his daily routine.

Simon tried to carry on as usual. He even took the first steps toward professional development, reaching out to corporate training bodies and exploring qualifications that might help him advance in his current role. But no matter how sensible that path seemed on paper, he couldn’t shake the growing thoughts in his mind. Day by day, his imagination drifted to something entirely different. He kept thinking about what it might be like to work with his hands, to be something like an electrician. It didn’t seem too dirty, and it was still a trade - one that offered variety, independence, and the chance to work with other lads instead of spreadsheets and policy documents. And the more he thought about it, the more it genuinely appealed to him.

On his morning commute, Simon found himself watching the trade vans that passed him by - plumbers, carpenters, builders, plasterers. He’d catch a glimpse of the guys behind the wheel, high-vis shirts and cargo trousers, laughing with their mates or focused on the road. He'd start imagining their day. Driving to a job site, working with tools, problem-solving in the real world. Something about it just sounded right.

And with this shift in mindset came a shift in something else, too. His type. Simon used to be attracted to the polished, professional men he once aspired to become - suits, neat haircuts, confidence in a corporate setting. But those glossy, high-powered images had started to lose their appeal. Now, he found himself drawn to a very different sort of guy the kind he would have once looked down on. Workies. Chavs. The kind of lads who wore trackies, smoked outside, and talked loud with their mates in the pub after a long day on-site. There was something magnetic about them now.

Simon’s curiosity turned to obsession. He started searching the internet for ways to change careers. Most of what he found felt vague or impractical. Just generic advice, unrealistic timelines, or courses that required a full-time commitment he couldn’t afford. Still, he kept digging. Soon, he was scrolling through adult learning programs late into the night, trying to find a course that would allow him to transition without destroying his finances. But everything seemed out of reach. He couldn’t afford to leave his job, not even temporarily, and the idea of going back to square one at his age still felt like a fantasy. But despite all that, he kept going. Something inside him had changed, and no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, he knew the life he was living wasn’t the one he wanted anymore.

One evening, as Simon scrolled absentmindedly through Google on his phone, something caught his eye. A college offering long-distance learning in trades. His heart skipped a beat. He tapped the link and was taken to a page outlining the benefits of the course. It almost seemed too good to be true. The program wasn’t cheap, but it offered flexibility: all the materials for the theory component would be sent to him to study at home, with payments spread out in manageable instalments. Even better, the practical side of the course required just a few week-long visits to the college’s campus throughout the year. Just enough time to get hands-on experience and sit for exams. He could easily take time off from work here and there, using holiday days and fabricating a simple excuse to explain the absences to his family. And at the end of it all? A real City & Guilds qualification. It wouldn’t make him a fully qualified tradesman overnight, of course, but it would give him a solid foundation. With that, he might actually stand a chance of getting taken on somewhere. Maybe even avoid any mayor pay cuts. It would still be hard work, but it was a start.

Simon stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering over the order button. Clicking to purchase the textbooks and pay the first instalment turned out to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done. It felt... absurd. Like he was about to embark on some strange double life, one he couldn’t share with anyone… not yet. He imagined himself sneaking around like a teenager keeping secrets from their parents, and the thought gave him a rush of nervous energy.

A few days later, the course materials were delivered. By sheer luck, his parents were out when the package arrived. He had come home for lunch and spotted the box sitting neatly on the front step. Quickly, he grabbed it and slipped inside, darting up to his room. Once the door was shut, he tore open the packaging, inspecting each item like it was forbidden treasure. Textbooks, guides, tools for practice. He carefully stashed everything in a drawer, heart still racing.

The rest of the day dragged by painfully slowly. Simon couldn’t concentrate at work. His mind kept drifting back to the drawer under his bed. When he finally got home, he locked his bedroom door, retrieved the materials, and laid them out on his bed. It felt... naughty. Like he was doing something he shouldn’t be doing. The guilt wasn’t logical, but it was there alongside the thrill. If anyone caught him, he imagined being scolded like a schoolboy. But beneath the nerves, there was something else: excitement. For the first time in years, Simon had something that felt like a purpose.

Over the next few weeks, Simon developed a new routine. Each evening, he came home, had a quick dinner, and dove straight into his textbooks. He soon was hooked. Hours would pass without him realising. He’d look up from a diagram or practice quiz and be shocked to find it was nearly midnight. Sleep would have to wait. And it all was starting to make sense. Slowly but surely, Simon found himself understanding the material. The confidence this gave him was something he hadn’t felt in years. It was a kind of excitement that went beyond just learning. It felt like he was building something real. The change in life he wanted so desperately was actually beginning to take shape.

Before he knew it, the date of his first practical session had arrived. His parents were both at work, which gave him the perfect opportunity to pack in peace and make his way out without questions. He loaded his bag into the car and set off toward the campus, a strange mixture of nerves and anticipation swirling in his stomach. The drive wasn’t long. As planned, everyone back home believed he was simply going away for a short break. No one suspected a thing.

When Simon arrived at the accommodation, he paused outside for a moment before grabbing his things and heading in. He wasn’t sure what to expect. The other trainees were already milling around, chatting, laughing, dragging their stuff into the shared space. Simon was relived when he noticed the range of ages. He had already imagined himself standing out awkwardly among a crowd of 18-year-old apprentices sent by their employers to tick off training requirements. But instead, the group was far more mixed. The majority were younger guys, of course, but there were also men in their 30s, 40s, even 50s. Most of them already worked in the trades and were simply here to pick up official qualifications to match their years of hands-on experience. It surprised him and reassured him. Most importantly Simon didn’t feel like a misfit. He was one of many. A late starter, sure but not the only one. And as he unpacked his bag and got settled in, he realised something else: He was proud of himself, because, for once, he’d done something real.

All of Simon’s housemates introduced themselves that first evening. At the beginning, he was nervous, because these were exactly the kind of chavvy lads who used to pick on him in school. The sort who never gave someone like him a second thought unless it was to make fun of him. But to his surprise, they were all friendly. Welcoming, even. They of course weren’t the kind of people Simon usually spent time with, but they seemed genuinely understanding of his decision to change direction. A few had gone through similar transitions themselves or knew others who had. They didn’t judge. At first, Simon found himself sticking to the older guys. They felt safer, more like him somehow. But as the evening went on, he ended up talking with some of the younger lads too. And the whole time he was quite aroused, because they all were totally his type. Chavvy. Laid-back. Care-free. They had a kind of effortless confidence that made Simon both slightly envious and deeply attracted. Plus, they looked like the proper lads he had come to like.

The next morning, everyone was up early and moving about the house. A few of them drove to the college campus together, offering Simon a lift, which he gratefully accepted. They were all dressed casually - hoodies, joggers, old work boots. Simon went for a hoodie and jeans, trying to blend in without overthinking it. Once they arrived, the tutors handed out high-vis waistcoats that everyone had to wear while on campus. Simon slipped his on, feeling just a little awkward at first, but also weirdly excited. It was a far cry from his usual business-casual style. But something about it felt... right. And he realised something else: he’d never felt this buzz during any training he'd done at his old job. Not even close. This was different.

They didn’t spend too long in the classroom before being led to the practical bays - individual workstations where they'd do hands-on training under the watchful eyes of the tutors. Each student had their own space, and Simon’s was already stocked with basic tools and equipment.

But in his head, there was one nagging problem: what story was he going to tell when he got back home? He needed a believable excuse for disappearing for a week something that wouldn’t raise suspicions with family or friends.

That evening, after a long first day of learning the group returned to their shared house. Simon headed into the kitchen and started making a round of teas for everyone. He was humming to himself, lost in thought, when John - one of the older lads - walked in.

“Already starting to look the part, eh lad?” John said with a grin.

Simon looked down and blinked. He was still wearing his high-vis waistcoat.

“Oh shit,” he laughed. “Didn’t even realise… I forgot to take it off.”

John chuckled. “Well, you might as well sleep in it at this rate. It suits you.”

Simon laughed and shook his head. “Guess I’ll just take it back with me tomorrow.”

The rest of the week flew by. Simon surprised even himself. He aced both his practical and theoretical assessments, earning solid praise from the tutors. By the end of it he felt capable. He and the lads had grown quite close in the brief time they’d spent together. So, when it was finally time to part ways for now, the goodbyes were warm and genuine. Some exchanged numbers.

Back home, Simon slipped back into his old life with practiced ease. He got the awkward bit over with quickly - spinning a half-believable story about where he’d been - and then got stuck straight into the next theory module.

But something had shifted. Unbeknownst to Simon, his quiet wish for a second chance - a new start in life - had been heard. And it had been granted. The changes won’t be noticeable at first. But with every module completed Simon will begin to physically regress. Slowly, subtly, he will return to the age he’d been when he first stepped into the world of work. But this time, he will walk the path he should have taken from the start. He will only notice what happened to him when his old life was finally replaced by a new one. But that’s what he had wished for, right?

Simon breezed through the second module with the same determination he'd brought to the first. Each evening, he locked himself away in his room, shutting out the world to focus completely on his studies. He was focused… obsessed, even. There was something deeply satisfying about the work, like each chapter and practice test was a step closer to becoming the man he was meant to be. It was around this time that the first real changes began to take place. At first, they were subtle - so gradual that Simon didn’t even register them. He was too preoccupied with his dream, too focused on building his new life to notice the small shifts. His skin looked clearer, his eyes a little brighter. He just appeared... fresher. Younger, maybe.

And then there was the shopping trip. He’d been walking through town one weekend, killing time, when he wandered into JD Sports without really thinking. That in itself was odd. Simon was never one for impulsive buys, but before he knew it, he’d picked out some new Nike trackies. It felt natural. Right, even. He didn’t question it. The joggers felt good when he tried them on at home - comfortable, but more than that. They suited him in a way his old clothes never quite had. He didn’t overthink it, but part of him smiled at his reflection a little longer than usual.

Soon, it was time for the next practical session. Simon returned to the same house he’d stayed in before, though this time he was bunking with a new group of students. Since the course allowed learners to move at their own pace, the faces rotated depending on who was ready for which stage. A few of the guys from last time were either well ahead or still catching up. But Simon felt different now. More confident. There was no nervous fumbling or second-guessing this time. He unpacked quickly, made small talk easily, and even offered tips to some of the others. A few of them assumed he was already working in the trade and while Simon politely corrected them, he couldn't help but feel a thrill every time someone made the mistake.

During lunch one day, he sat alone in the canteen, flipping through one of the college magazines left on the table. His well-used hi-vis – he had picked out the basked when entering his course - hung loosely over his Nike hoodie. For the first time in years, Simon felt totally at peace. He looked the part. He felt the part. And deep down, something told him he was becoming the part. The thought of eventually handing in his notice still terrified him. It felt like a leap off a cliff. But for the first time, Simon wasn’t running from something. And despite what anyone else might say or think... he knew this was right.

Simon’s most recent visit to the college campus had gone a long way toward cementing his transformation. Just like last time, he threw himself straight back into the books the moment he got home. Night after night, he studied hard, and with each passing evening, his appearance continued to shift - so gradually, so imperceptibly, that even Simon didn’t quite register what was happening. He was juggling two lives now after all. It wasn’t exactly surprising that his body might be showing signs of change. He noticed what looked like grey hairs popping up here and there, scattered across his head. At first, he chalked it up to stress, but strangely, they didn’t look dull or tired… they were lighter. Almost golden. By the third week into the penultimate module of his Level 2 qualification, Simon realized his hair wasn’t greying. It was going blonde. It threw him, but not as much as it should have. He couldn’t explain it, and no one else seemed to notice or care. The few times he’d brought it up in passing, people brushed it off like it was nothing.  Simon, focused more than ever after his last trip to campus, didn’t dwell on it too long. There was no time to get distracted. Whatever was happening, it could wait, his new life was finally within reach.

Soon enough, it was time for his next practical block. Another week away, another new batch of students staying at the training house. By now, Simon felt comfortable, confident, and quietly proud of how far he’d come. The physical changes were still creeping in. His face was subtly reshaping - his jaw just a touch more defined, his cheeks a little smoother. His posture had changed too. He carried himself differently now, more relaxed, less hunched from years behind a desk. But it was all happening so slowly, the transformation still disguised in plain sight.

One evening after class, Simon sat outside the house, a cigarette resting between his fingers - a habit he’d picked up casually during his last trip, now something of a ritual. The evening air was cool against his skin, the grey Nike sweatshirt and joggers he wore feeling like second nature. His hi-vis waistcoat, scuffed and slightly faded from use, hung open around him as he leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him. He still looked like Simon, at least in part. But he was starting to look like someone else, too. Someone younger. Someone who might’ve taken a different path if only he’d had the nerve all those years ago.

Back at campus, the week unfolded just like the others. Simon threw himself into the work with relentless focus, and it showed. The tutors praised his progress, impressed by both his grasp of theory and how naturally he handled the tools in the workshop. But Simon barely heard the compliments anymore. He wasn’t chasing validation. This wasn’t about impressing anyone else. This was about becoming someone better.

As he worked through the final part of his Level 2 qualification, something else began to shift this time, faster and with more permanence. The transformation that had been creeping in under the radar had begun to accelerate. Because he saw himself every day, Simon didn’t notice the full extent of the changes. And everyone else, oddly enough, continued to overlook them completely, as if their minds simply refused to register what was happening. The longer he stayed on the course, the more it felt like the world around him was bending to let the new version of him come through without interruption.

By the time he returned to college to complete the final stage of his Level 2 course, Simon or Si, as he had casually started introducing himself, no longer bore any resemblance to the man who had first clicked on that college’s website. His skin was clearer and younger. His hair was fully blonde now, cut into a chavvy fade. His frame was leaner, fitter. His jawline was sharper, his face smoother almost like he’d never known the stress of ten years behind a desk. His voice, too, had taken on a more relaxed, confident tone. And the clothes had changed too. After getting back home the last time he had decided to just go for it and change his style entirely. He had bought a nice collection of trackies, trainers and generally chavvy gear. It suited him.

Needless to say, Si aced his final practical without breaking a sweat. That evening, back at the house, he slipped out the back door for a celebratory smoke. He lit up, leaning back with a grin, exhaling slowly as the sun dipped low over the rooftops. Technically, he was ready now. He had everything he needed to start working in the trade. He could begin his Level 3 qualification now.

Back home, Si wasted no time. As always, he dove straight his Level 3 theory. This qualification was structured a bit differently. He needed to complete all the theory work up front before attending the practical component, which meant three consecutive weeks at the college campus. Fortunately, the timing worked in his favour. It was nearing the end of the year, so he only had to wait a few months before his annual leave reset and he could book the time off. His workplace wasn’t exactly thrilled about him taking that much holiday in one go. Three weeks raised eyebrows, and the questions came quickly. But Si had thought ahead. He spun them a story about a “big holiday” he had coming up. Something he’d been planning for a while. It was enough to smooth things over, for now. Still, as he walked away from that conversation, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder: What the hell am I going to say when I come back? But that was a problem for later.

Winter settled in, and with it came a new wave of determination. Si threw himself into the theory harder than ever. Every night, he’d lock himself away in his room. And as he kept pushing himself further down this new path, something deeper within him continued to shift. His transformation - both physical and mental - was no longer subtle. By the time spring rolled around and he was ready to begin the final, practical leg of his course, Si was almost unrecognisable. The traces of the man who once worked in financial admin had all but vanished. And to everyone around him, there was no question. The lads he was studying alongside didn’t ask questions or treat him any differently. As far as they were concerned, he was just another lad studying to move on in the trade.

As usual his time on campus flew by. There were tricky moments - parts of the work that tested him more than he expected - but in the end, he passed. The tutor signed off on his final assessments, shook his hand, and just like that, it was done. But instead of the relief he expected, something strange happened. A weird feeling washed through him. It was sudden and unexplained, like something deep inside of him had been lost. He stood there for a moment, still in his hi-vis trying to place the feeling.

Somehow his mind seemed to be... shifting. He was 30. He knew he was 30. But now every instinct in him screamed 21. It wasn’t just a thought. It was truth. Si tried to resist it, to remind himself of how old he was, but it didn’t matter. No matter how much he told himself I’m 30, it felt like a lie. Somewhere deep inside, the truth had been overwritten. He was 21. Si pushed the thought aside. There were still a few loose ends to tie up before he officially left college. The strangeness could wait.

At this college, they liked to mark the end of the course with a small presentation. Nothing too flashy, just a moment to recognise everyone’s hard work. One by one, the tutors called each successful student to the front of the classroom to accept their certificate and have their photo taken.

When Si’s name was called, he stood up and made his way to the front, trying to act casual, though he felt a bit awkward under everyone’s gaze. He had actually finished the course. His journey that started as a secret late-night search online had brought him all the way here. The tutor shook his hand firmly and grinned. “Well done, lad! Don’t usually see a young nipper like you so interested and driven.” Si froze for a moment. Young nipper? The words rang in his ears, scratching at the part of his mind that still clung to logic. No way. I’m not 21. I’m thirty. But as much as he wanted to argue, the tutor’s words dug into the root of his growing doubt. Everyone else clearly saw him as just another young tradesman finishing up his training, not someone who’d once been stuck in an office, disillusioned and lost.

The ceremony wrapped up with polite applause and back-pats. Si made his way toward the main entrance, certificate in hand, his head spinning. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe this was all in his head… just stress, or sleep deprivation. He needed to get out of here, get some air, clear his thoughts. He got back to his accommodation and walked straight up to his room. On instinct, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror that was hung opposite of the door. And stopped dead in his tracks.

The face looking back wasn’t just younger… it wasn’t his. Not in the way he remembered it, anyway. His skin was smooth, fresh, untouched by time. He looked like someone in his early twenties. Like a completely different person. And then he noticed the way his style had actually changed for the first time. He was wearing grey trackies, a black puffer jacket and a fake Gucci cap one of the other lads had lent him.

He stared for a long second, heart pounding. This isn’t just in my head. This is real. And with that realisation, the fog that had been clouding his awareness began to lift. All the subtle changes, the shifting attraction to workie lads, the new clothes, the cigarettes, the way people looked at him and barely batted an eye suddenly made sense. The transformation hadn’t just been physical. It had slowly reshaped everything about him, until even he couldn’t tell where the old Simon ended and the new Si began. But now... it was too late to stop.

Si had one final night before the drive home. He changed in a different outfit and went back downstairs. A few of the lads had taken a trip to the shop and come back with crates of cheap beer to celebrate everyone finishing their course. The mood was upbeat, filled with banter and laughter, but Si sat on the sofa, lost in his own head. He stared into space, half-listening to the chatter around him, a beer can hanging loosely in his hand.

Everything was starting to feel… surreal. He had changed… more than he could even explain. And what made it even weirder was that no one else seemed to notice. Not one of the lads had made a comment.

Si glanced around the room. The lads must’ve picked up on something, though. Maybe it was the blank stare, or the fact that he hadn’t joined in on the jokes like he usually did the past few weeks. One of the younger lads, Liam, nudged him with an elbow and handed him another beer.

“Oi, where’s that gobby little livewire we been dealin’ wiv for the past three weeks, eh? Man’s gone all silent on us now, what’s that about?”

The others laughed and chimed in, not mean-spirited, just teasing. But Si couldn’t help but notice how weird it was to hear them describe him like that… gobby, extroverted. Just months ago he was the quiet one, keeping his head down in a cubicle. Now he was being called out for not being loud enough.

He gave a half-smile, took the beer, and nodded. “Just tired, mate. It’s been a mad few weeks.”

Alfie raised his can in a cheers and moved on to a story about nearly electrocuting himself on-site. Si took a sip of the cold beer, letting it settle on his tongue. As the beers kept flowing, the tension in his chest eased a little. The lads kept him talking, laughing, even dragging him into a game of cards. For a while, he managed to lose himself in the moment.

The next morning, Si woke up hangover-free, something he hadn’t experienced in years, not since he was around 21! He was in a somber mood as he packed his case and got ready to leave. He said goodbye to all the lads, chucked his case in the boot of his car, and started the journey home. The whole way back, he was running scenarios through his head about how he was going to explain this to his family and friends… or would they, like his college mates, simply not see anything wrong?

He was in such turmoil by the time he pulled onto the drive. He got out, took his case from the boot, locked the car, and walked up to the front door. He paused, took a deep breath, and walked in to face the music. Si could hear his parents in the kitchen, chatting. Hearing the door, they both got up and came into the hallway to greet him.

“Si! So how did it go? Did you pass?”

He stared blankly back at them, a look of confusion on his face. How did they know? He hadn’t told them! And why did they call him Si? They always used his full name. He slowly answered with a rising inflection, “Yeeees…?”

His parents lit up with joy. “Yes! Well done, Si! We’re so proud of you! It was about time you got your ass in gear and did something with your life! We thought after the last few years since you left school just dossing around, you’d never end up doing anything!”

Si was totally confused. As far as his parents were concerned, he’d never had an office job, or even worked at all! That’s why they had forked out for the course in the first place! He’d been given the free pass he wanted because now no one had any expectations based on what he’d done before. He played along in front of his parents, but he couldn’t wait to get up to his room and have some time to himself to process everything.

Si unlocked his phone and started going through it. Opening Instagram, he saw that all the photos from the last few years were gone. Work parties, people he’d met through his job, all gone! The photos that remained were all of the new him, dressed in sportswear, trying to act like a “G.” Next, he checked his contacts. Again, everyone he’d met since leaving school and working in the office had vanished. He’d never worked before - let alone in an office - but he still remembered it all so clearly. At least now, he didn’t have to go through the stress of handing in his notice or explaining why he wanted to leave.

After a few days passed - enough time to settle into this new reality - and thanks to his parents constantly pestering him, he started calling around looking for jobs. He managed to get an interview with a small business run by a guy who’d gone out on his own and grown successful enough to take on a few lads. Now, he was looking for an apprentice. Si was exactly what he was looking for! He got the job and was finally about to start doing what he’d gone through all of this for. For the first year, or until they were confident in his work, he’d go out with one of the other guys and be supervised. It was something he kept completely to himself, as he thought others might mock him for it, but deep down, he felt proud. Wearing his work gear felt like it was meant to be.

Si was the only one who remembered his real past. It served as a reminder of the wish he never even knew he had: to have a second chance at life. And he knew he’d made the right choice. There was no going back now anyway. He was an apprentice, and he couldn’t wait to get his own van and start going to jobs on his own. He worked with his hands, and unless he was doing overtime, when the workday was done, it was done. No more staying up late just to keep his head above water, like back in the office job. He was a proper chavvy, working-class tradie now. Someone he would have looked down upon when he was younger, but now he wouldn’t want to change a thing. This is who he would be for the rest of his life.

______________________________________________________________