RevertWhiteboy

The college football team’s travel bus droned down the interstate, headlights cutting through the dark. Most of the players were passed out or scrolling on their phones, sprawled in their seats like kings after their win. At the very back sat Eugene Whitman, scrawny, pale, glasses sliding down his nose. The water boy. He kept his head low, hoping nobody noticed him. But Eugene wasn’t invisible tonight. The aisle creaked under heavy steps. Blake, the cocky wide receiver, plopped down hard on his right, his duffel bag hitting the floor. A moment later, Marcus   the massive defensive lineman   wedged himself on Eugene’s left, the seat groaning under his weight. Trapped between them, Eugene felt his pulse spike.

“Well, look who’s hiding back here,” Blake said, throwing a sweaty arm along the seatback. The motion shoved his bare, unwashed armpit right up to Eugene’s cheek. “Little Genie-boy. Man, you should be honored. Best seat in the house.”

Eugene pressed back against the window, eyes wide. “I–I should probably ”

Marcus cut him off by jamming one cleat, still muddy and reeking of turf, under Eugene’s nose. “Nah. Don’t talk. Just breathe it in, nerd. You spend all day filling bottles and washing our jocks   might as well get a taste of the real thing.”

The smell hit him instantly, sharp and rancid. Eugene gagged, but Blake just laughed and shoved his pit closer, grinding sweat into his face. The stench was overwhelming, a suffocating blend of sweat, body odor, and something acrid that burned his nostrils. Blake's armpit reeked of stale sweat and something metallic, a pungent aroma that clawed at the back of Eugene's throat. Marcus's cleat, still encrusted with muddy turf, emanated a foul, earthy smell, thick with the scent of damp soil and something sour. When Marcus pressed the sock against his nose, the damp fabric unleashed a putrid odor of unwashed feet, a sour, cheesy smell that made Eugene gag. The combined assault was a thick, masculine stink that filled his lungs, leaving a raw, unpleasant taste in his mouth and a lingering nausea in his stomach.

“See that? Kid’s a natural,” Blake taunted. “He loves it. Don’t you, Genie?”

Eugene whimpered, trying to twist his head, but Marcus pressed the sock he’d yanked off against his nose, the fabric damp and sour. “One sound,” Marcus warned, his voice low and cruel. “One little squeak outta you, and I’ll yell for the whole bus to look back here. They’ll see you sittin’ pretty, huffin’ our pits and feet like the little bitch you are.”

Eugene froze. His chest rose and fell fast, lungs filling with the thick, masculine stink of both players. Every time he tried to turn away from one, the other was there: Blake’s armpit, Marcus’s sock, Blake’s pit hair scratching his cheek, Marcus’s cleat grinding under his nose.

They laughed at him the whole time, mocking him, calling him “Genie,” “stink-sniffer,” “water bitch.” Eugene sat helpless, his face burning red, breath after humiliating breath pulled from their rancid bodies.

Finally, Blake pulled away, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “Good boy.”

Marcus smirked as he slid his sock back on. “Don’t forget…a word. Keep our little secret, Genie.”

And just like that, they stood and strolled back up the aisle, already joking with the other guys like nothing had happened. Eugene sat frozen, dizzy, his glasses fogged. The smell clung to him, inside and out. After a long moment, he stumbled up and slipped into the tiny bathroom at the rear of the bus. The door shut with a click. He gripped the sink, staring at his pale reflection. His skin was flushed, his head swimming. He could still taste their sweat. The funk clung to his lungs. His stomach turned, and yet… there was a strange heat spreading through his chest. Eugene’s vision blurred. His body shuddered. Something was changing. And he couldn’t stop breathing them in. The bus bathroom was tiny, barely enough space for Eugene to squeeze in. He leaned over the sink, glasses slipping down his nose, sweat running down his temples. His chest heaved as if he’d just run laps. The stink from Marcus and Blake clung to him like smoke.

“Ugh… what’s happening to me?” he whispered, gripping the edges of the sink.

A dizzy wave crashed over him, and his thin arms trembled. His forearms swelled beneath his skin, veins popping, muscle rising where none had been. Eugene gasped as his sleeves stretched tight, fabric straining. His bony chest puffed outward, pecs forming heavy slabs of meat that filled the outline of his shirt. He tried to breathe steady, but his lungs kept dragging in air reeking of stale BO. It poured out of his own pores now   sour, masculine, overwhelming. The smell made his head spin, but not just with nausea. It made him need.

“Ghh nghh n-no… I’m smart… I’m ” He gritted his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. His glasses fogged instantly from the humid reek spilling off his body.

Another pulse ripped through him, and Eugene’s thighs swelled thick, quads straining against his jeans until the seams threatened to burst. His shoulders widened, hulking outward, forcing him to hunch to avoid smashing into the walls. And with every surge of size, something in his head seemed to dim. The complicated thoughts that once filled his mind   about schoolwork, strategy, books, things he loved   scattered like smoke. Replacing them came simpler urges: the need to sweat, to stink, to dominate. His own smell, once unbearable, now smelled right. He wiped his fogged glasses with shaking fingers, but they slid down his sweaty nose and clattered to the sink. He didn’t pick them up. The world looked blurry, but simple.

“Haahhh… bruh…” he muttered, his own voice deeper now, words slurred like his tongue had thickened. “I’m… gettin’ huge, dude…”

The stench in the bathroom doubled as tufts of hair sprouted under his arms, dark patches spreading thick and wet with sweat. He lifted one massive arm without thinking, pressing his nose deep into his own pit. The funk was rancid, primal, pure athlete.

Instead of gagging, Eugene moaned. “Mmmm… fuuuuck, smells good…”

He stared back into the mirror, though his face was hard to recognize. His jaw had squared, cheekbones thicker, his once-nerdy features blurred by the sweaty bulk of a jock’s body. And his smile   dumb, lazy, hungry, didn't look like Eugene at all. By the time he stumbled out of the bathroom, the whole bus reeked. Heads turned. A few players wrinkled their noses, waving the smell away. But when they saw him, their eyes widened. The scrawny water boy was gone. In his place stood a hulking, sweat-slicked brute   shirt stretched tight across a chest like armor, jeans ripped at the thighs, pits soaked through with dark circles. His hair clung damp to his forehead, his jaw was heavier, his eyes lazy, unfocused. And he was grinning.

“Yo,” he rumbled, voice guttural and cocky.

Blake let out a low whistle, his smirk spreading wide. “Holy shit. Genie-boy leveled up.”

Marcus barked a laugh. “That ain’t Genie anymore. Look at him. He’s huge. He’s nasty. He stinks like a lineman.” He kicked the empty seat across the aisle. “Sit down, big guy. Let the team get a whiff.”

The new Eugene lumbered down the aisle, sweat dripping, BO trailing like a palpable fog. He dropped into the seat with a heavy thud, spreading his thick legs wide. The rank, stale air poured off him in thick, putrid waves. Some players gagged, others laughed, a few whooped like they’d just scored another touchdown, reveling in the overwhelming stench

Blake leaned in, pit hair bristling as he sniffed exaggeratedly. “Goddamn, bro, you reek. Might smell worse than me already.”

Eugene just chuckled, dumb and satisfied, flexing his swollen arm. “Smell’s… strong. Feels… good.”

Marcus nudged Blake. “Nah, man. We can’t keep calling him Genie. That name don’t fit no more.”

The players around them leaned in, grinning, throwing out suggestions.

“Meathead.” “Pitbull.” “Stank Tank.”

Eugene scratched the back of his sweaty neck, dazed but happy, like a dog waiting to be told his name. Finally, Blake smacked his chest with a grin.

“Got it. From now on, you’re Tank. Big, dumb, stinking Tank.”

The team erupted, slapping seats, stomping feet, chanting the name. “TANK! TANK! TANK!”

Eugene’s grin stretched wider. He beat a fist against his chest, sweat spraying, BO thickening until the whole back of the bus was choking on it. “Yeah, bro… Tank. I’m… Tank.”The chant rolled forward through the bus until even the coach up front groaned and laughed, waving a hand at the stink. Tank leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded, breathing in his own reek like it was oxygen. Whatever Eugene Whitman had been   nerd, servant, water boy   was gone. What remained was Tank, the team’s newest, stinkiest recruit. Dumb, sweaty, and proud to be one of the boys.

Thank you I appreciate the very kind compliment! I really enjoy the following (I enjoy a lot of different accounts and stories, these are just the accounts I always find myself going to):

@onelittlespiral

@gassydumbjocks

@jd07201990

@occamstfs

@johnbrandarchive

@dumb-and-jocked-archive

@shapedbydesire-archive

Benji peered down at his phone, 12:03 PM, “I hope the car gets here soon Im gonna be late for lunch with my boyfriend” he thought to himself. Just as he thought that, Benji watched as his Uber pulled up to the curb. Benji stepped up to the car and the passenger side window rolled down, “Uber for Benji” the driver said out of the window. As soon as Benji opened his mouth to confirm he smelled an awful stench rushing from the car, it smelled like used gym clothes, cum, foul-smelling shoes, and strong B.O. which has fruitlessly tried to be covered up with A.X.E Body Spray. Benji held back a gag as he told the driver “Yea, that’s me”.

Benji got into his driver’s car, “So Yahya, how long have you uhhh been doing this for?” Benji asked, trying to make some small talk, “I’ve been doing this only for like a week or somethin bro, gotta pay for my gym membership somehow” Yahya remarked. As Benji and Yahya continued to exchange basic info about their lives through the small talk they were having, Benji began to slowly slur his words a bit, “Yo-… youuu do anythi-…anything else for work?”. Yahya excitedly responded “Oh yea bro I make gym content for my Tiktok”, it made sense to Benji given that his car smelled like the inside of an unwashed gym bro’s armpit. At a certain point in the ride Yahya asked where Benji was specifically going, “Oh, I am goi-…goin over to my bro-… uhh boyfriend’s place”, Yahya jokingly asked “A boyfriend? I didn’t think guys like us were fairies and shit!”. Benji, reasonably offended, said “What do you mean guys like us?!” to which Yahya said “You know dude…big beefy Muslim boys like us are supposed to have wives and girlfriends, not fooling around with other men!”, “Big beefy Muslim boys? I don’t kno-…know if uhh you are like blind or…uhh something but I am white…” replied Benji. “Not for long…” Benji heard Yahya say under his breath as he pulled over. Looking around Benji realized that somehow Yahya had driven him to a secluded area and it was quickly starting to get dark out. Benji asked himself how he didn’t notice that he had essentially been kidnapped and how had it gotten so late?!

Benji reached for the door handle to find that it was locked, he looked at the door handle just to immediately have his face grabbed and forced into a kiss with Yahya. “WH- WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!” snapped Benji as he pushed Yahya away, “It’s okay just calm down no need to be so fiesty, soon this and your gaybo life will be just a fuzzy memory” Yahya said as if it he didn’t just kiss his passenger. Yahya grabbed the back of Benji’s head and expected to be forced into another kiss Benji squeezed his eyes shut. Suddenly his lips weren’t met with the slightly funky breath and chapped lips of his straight Arabian driver, they were instead met with the slick and sweaty forests of malodorous hair inhabiting the source of why the car smelled so foul. Caught off guard Benji gasped which let in a torrent of Yahya’s spicy B.O. rush up Benji’s delicate nose. Pulling Benji’s face out of his foul pits Yahya looked at Benji and said, “Nice and dazed, just how i like em” and shoved Benji back into his pit for just enough time to hear Benji take a deep whiff. “Awwww” Yahya said to the now drooling Benji, “You like this don't you bro?”, Benji slowly and silently answered with a weak nod. Yahya spoke again “Now, if you want more of my masculine musk, you are gonna have to listen to me bro and follow my orders”, again all Benji did was barely nod his drooping head. “Good Arab boys are gym rats”, Benji felt as suddenly he felt too big for his clothes. He could hear the seams of his pants and shirt ripping as his muscles grew but he couldn’t comprehend why. Yahya said it again but more stern this time, “Good Arab boys are gym rats”, and Benji felt as his clothes strained a little bit more as his body grew. “Good. Arab. Boys. Are. Gym. Rats.” Yahya said one last time and suddenly as if his clothes popped off of his body, Benji was sitting in just his sneakers, socks and underwear looking yearningly with his muscular body at Yahya’s stinking armpit.

Lifting up his arm to reveal his pit, Yahya placed Benji back inside but pulled him out only a handful of seconds later and said “Good Arab boys have olive skin” and as like magic, from the center of Benji’s chest spread a splotch of light olive. After it had enveloped his whole body Yahya looked at Benji and said “Tsk…Good Arab boys have olive skin” and again from the same spot, the epicenter of his chest, spread a darker coating of olive colored skin. Giving Benji what he wanted, Yahya rewarded him with half a minute in his pit. Quickly after he was pulled out Benji heard, “Good Arab boys have hairy armpits and big, hairy feet”, and as soon as Yahya stopped talking Benji felt his armpits grow incredibly itchy and his feet did the same as they also started to cramp. Yahya looked on proudly as Benji reached his right hand up into his right armpit like a caveman and began wildly scratching at the hair coming in.

Yet again rewarded with the malodorous prison that would be tortured to any sane person, Yahya gave another command, “Good Arab boys are dumb and dominant” Benji suddenly, after hearing this command tried to push away again, but Yahya said it louder. “GOOD ARAB BOYS ARE DUMB AND DOMINANT”. Just as quick as his resistance started it suddenly stopped and Yahya watched as Benji’s beautiful brown eyes grew a little duller with every passing second signaling the improvements Benji was making. “Good Arab boys are close minded” Yahya said, Benji felt in his hardly working brain his whole political and social ideology do a full 180, going from a self-described hardcore leftist to a right wing Trumpy. Yahya heard Benji let out a little grunt showing that he had listened to Yahya, as a reward Benji got more time in the bushy abyss. Taking Benji out again Yahya commanded “Good Arab boys only like to conquer pussy”, Benji began to have a stream of drool flow out of his mouth as his homosexuality evaporated and turned into a bad memory. To test if it had truly been followed, Yahya said “Cock”…nothing, then he said “Tits” and BOOM Benji’s dick sprang to life, “Huhuhuh good” Yahya quietly said to himself. “Good Arab boys are always horny” as soon as he said it, Yahya felt as the dazed and dumbed down Benji began mindlessly humping the air with his hard-on standing at full mast. As he kept humping, Yahya saw as a lustful look overtook Benji’s eyes as his brain was flooded with images of bouncing boobs and wet pussy. Yahya, almost finished with Benji’s transformation said

“Good Arab boys touch their cock whenever they want” and within seconds Benji’s hand shot down into his underwear and he began ferociously fist fucking his big manly hand. As Benji began to fuck his hand faster and faster and as the car began to shake back and forth do to Benji’s violent thrusting, Yahya watched as Benji grew closer and closer to beriding the world of Benji and birthing into the world Basir, a new Arab bro for Yahya to workout with. “mmmmmmuuuUUUGGHHH” and with one last thrust and a deep guttural moan, Benji was just a cum splatter on Yahya’s dashboard.

Basir dumbly asked “Broooo…what just like uhhh happened?” and Yahya just threw some dirty gym clothes at him and said nothing. They got back on the road and headed to the gym.

The revolution began one week ago; It started with Iqbal Shamal.

He was just another name on the news at first—a 34-year-old Muslim delivery driver from Birmingham, stopped late at night in Croydon of all places. Dashcam footage showed the white police officer—PC Hargreaves—shouting commands, Iqbal reaching for his phone (or was it a knife? The riots never let the investigation finish). One shot. Clean through the chest. Dead before the ambulance arrived.

The Muslim community exploded. Peaceful vigils the first night turned into organised marches by the second. “Justice for Iqbal” banners everywhere, but mixed with older slogans that had been simmering for years: “Death to the kuffar police,” “Islam will dominate,” “Britain is ours now.” Social media lit up with clips of Muslim men—some born here, some fresh off the boats—marching through London, Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds. White counter-protesters showed up, Union Jacks waving, but they were outnumbered and out-organised.

Then the chants started. Not just “Allahu Akbar.” Muslim lads in the streets, megaphones blaring: “Britain for the Muslims! Go go, cry white babies!” They tore down UK flags from council buildings, burned them in the middle of Oxford Street while livestreaming. Shops looted—especially anything British-branded. Pubs smashed. A couple of white lads who tried to push back got beaten bloody on camera, the attackers laughing and filming themselves shouting “This is payback!”

The brainwashed ones were already there, even before the revolution. White converts—reverts, they called them—who’d been quietly attending mosques for years, posting dawah videos, marrying in, having kids raised strict. Some were ex-racists who’d flipped hard after prison or personal crises. When the riots kicked off, they were on the front lines too, wearing keffiyehs over their pale faces, chanting louder than the immigrants: “White guilt ends today! Submit to Allah!”

The protests swelled. Months of it. Government tried curfews, then concessions—more hate speech laws, faster asylum processing, “diversity” quotas in the police. It wasn’t enough. Riots spread to every major city. Trains derailed in sabotage attacks. Mosques became command centres. The army was called in but fractured—Muslim soldiers refused orders, some defected outright.

Then came the tipping point: the Palace. Protesters stormed the gates during a particularly bad night in London. King Charles (or whoever was on the throne by then) was evacuated, but the symbolism was gone. Parliament dissolved in chaos. Muslim leaders—imams, community organisers, a few wealthy backers from abroad—stepped into the vacuum. An Afghan refugee turned activist, Mullah Rahman, was paraded as the new symbolic head. “The United Kingdom of Islam is born!” they declared on every channel. The old flag came down. The new one rose: green field, white script, the crescent and star glowing under floodlights while crowds cheered “Takbir!”

White resistance crumbled fast. Too divided, too scared of being called racist, too many years of “diversity is our strength” drilled in. The ones who fought back hardest were labelled “far-right terrorists” and hunted. The rest… well, some converted out of fear, some out of genuine belief after the propaganda flooded in, and some—like my dad—got the “therapy” and came out smiling.

Core Unity Decrees of the United Kingdom of Islam (Week 1):

Dhimmi Classification and ID Laws

All non-Muslims (primarily white British, especially males 16-45) receive new national ID cards stamped “White Dhimmi – Conversion Recommended.” Movement, jobs, and rations are restricted based on compliance. Jizya tax imposed on all dhimmis.

Mandatory Ummah Service

White males aged 16-45 must register for six months of labour service: rebuilding mosques, clearing “decadent” estates, demolishing pubs and symbols of the old Britain. Refusal = immediate referral to re-education.

Prohibition of Haram Substances for Dhimmis

Alcohol, pork, gambling, and Western music banned outright for white dhimmis. Possession punishable by public flogging (first offence) or worse.

LGBTQ+ Eradication Decree

All promotion, practice, or identification as LGBT is criminalised. First offence: 100 lashes. Repeat offences: death by stoning or defenestration (throwing from buildings). Raids on former “gay districts” like Soho already underway. “Pride” symbols declared fitnah and destroyed.

Compulsory Islamic Education

All dhimmis attend twice-weekly mosque classes on tawhid, sharia, and the evils of kufr. Attendance tracked via Unity App. After three months, refusal to take shahada triggers “Advanced Conversion Therapy.”

Conversion Therapy / Re-Education Centres

Government-run facilities using psychological, religious, and communal pressure to induce genuine reversion. Rapid results praised — former “racists” emerge as bearded, zealous Muslims in days. Families encouraged to report non-compliant members.

Family and Gender Laws

Women and girls must adopt modest dress (hijab encouraged, niqab for converts).

Mixed marriages only allowed if the non-Muslim converts.

“White guilt” re-education for families; refusal by parents can result in children being placed with Muslim guardians.

Polygamy permitted for Muslim men; dhimmi men forbidden from marrying Muslim women.

Blasphemy and Speech Laws

Criticism of Islam, the Caliph, or the revolution is blasphemy. Punishments range from fines and flogging to execution. Old British symbols (flags, anthems, monuments) banned or repurposed.

Hisbah Morality Police

New enforcement branch with powers to patrol, raid, and arrest for “promoting fitnah.” Includes former converts eager to prove loyalty.

Economic and Cultural Purification

Banks shifted toward Islamic finance (no interest). Former pubs, churches, and historic sites converted to mosques or madrasas. Western media banned; only approved Islamic content allowed.

Border and Loyalty Laws

Borders sealed. Attempts to flee labelled treason. Loyalty oaths to the Caliph and MNWO required for any privileges.

Inheritance and Property Decree

Dhimmi property can be redistributed to the Ummah if owners refuse conversion after warnings. Muslim reverts gain priority in housing and jobs.

Instead of females getting less human rights; it was the white boys and men. Here are the stricter rules and laws for white men and boys in the United Kingdom of Islam.

Expanded White Male Purification Decrees (Targeted at White Boys and Men 13-45):

Compulsory Daily Prayer Attendance

White males must attend at least three of the five daily prayers in a mosque or approved prayer hall. Home prayer is forbidden without a Muslim sponsor. GPS-tracked via the Unity App. First missed prayer: 20 lashes. Third miss: referral to Conversion Therapy.

Beard and Appearance Code

All white males over 16 must grow and maintain a full Islamic beard within 30 days. No shaving, trimming below fist-length, or Western hairstyles. Hair must be kept short or in approved styles. Refusal = public head-shaving followed by 50 lashes and forced growth under supervision.

Dress Code for White Males

Traditional Western clothing (jeans, hoodies, football shirts, suits) banned. White boys must wear thobe, shalwar kameez, or simple white kurta at all times outside the home. Footwear limited to sandals or basic slippers. “Proud British” logos or colours forbidden.

Name Reassignment

All white males receive an official Islamic name within 14 days (e.g., Tariq, Ahmed, Abdullah). Legal documents, school/work IDs, and the Unity App updated automatically. Using the old name in public = blasphemy offence.

Education and School Takeover

All schools and universities repurposed as madrasas for white boys. Curriculum: 80% Qur’an, Arabic, sharia, Islamic history; 20% basic skills for Ummah Service. Sports, music, history of Britain, and any “Western decadence” removed. White boys over 16 must complete daily Qur’an memorisation quotas or face corporal punishment.

Social Segregation and Guardianship

White boys forbidden from unsupervised contact with white girls or non-Muslim females. All interactions must be chaperoned by a Muslim male guardian. Friend groups limited to approved mixed or Muslim-led circles. “Lad culture” (banter, football gangs, pubs) declared haram and disbanded.

Marriage and Family Control

White males under 25 cannot marry without Caliphate approval and must marry a Muslim woman or a converted revert sister. Polygamy encouraged for Muslim men only. White families must offer daughters/sisters for matching if they delay conversion. Refusal risks children being reassigned to Muslim households.

Labour and Service Expansion

Ummah Service for white males extended to 12 months minimum if conversion delayed. Tasks include demolition of remaining churches/pubs, sewage clearing in Muslim areas, and manual construction. Pay: basic rations only. Refusal or slow work = chain labour under Hisbah oversight.

Digital and Communication Restrictions

White boys’ phones and internet limited to the Unity App only. No private messaging groups, no access to old social media, no VPNs. All conversations monitored for kufr thoughts. Possession of hidden Western content = 100 lashes + device confiscation.

Punishment Escalation for White Males

Crimes by white boys carry double penalties: e.g., alcohol possession = 200 lashes instead of 100; blasphemy = immediate stoning rather than trial. “White pride” or resistance talk labelled as “incitement to fitnah” and punished by public execution or lifelong re-education camps.

Conversion Timeline Acceleration

White males have only 30 days (down from 90) to take shahada voluntarily. After that, mandatory 14-day intensive Conversion Therapy involving isolation, sleep deprivation, repetitive Qur’an recitation, and group pressure from revert “success stories.” Success rate boasted at 95% within days.

Public Humiliation and Marking

Non-compliant white boys wear a visible yellow armband marked “Dhimmi Boy – Under Purification” until full reversion. Repeat offenders get forehead tattoos or branding after therapy.

Legal Slave Status

All white males 13-45 are automatically classified as “Slaves of the Ummah” (Abd al-Ummah) until they complete sincere shahada and pass a loyalty test administered by the Hisbah. They have no independent legal rights — treated as movable property of the nearest Muslim authority, mosque, or revert guardian.

Ownership and Assignment

White boys must be formally “assigned” to a Muslim master (or a trusted revert like Ahmed) within 7 days. Masters have full rights over labour, movement, discipline, and daily life. Unassigned slaves are held in central holding centres (former police stations or sports halls) for redistribution.

Total Labour Bondage

Ummah Service extended indefinitely (no maximum term) for slaves. White boys perform menial, degrading tasks 14+ hours daily: cleaning Muslim homes and mosques, sewage and waste removal in Muslim neighbourhoods, construction of new Islamic infrastructure, and personal service to masters (carrying bags, preparing halal meals, polishing shoes). No pay — only basic food rations (bread, water, dates) and a sleeping mat.

Movement and Tracking

GPS ankle monitors mandatory for all white male slaves. Curfew: locked indoors or in master’s quarters from Maghrib to Fajr. Leaving assigned area without written permission from master = 100 lashes + possible amputation of a foot for repeats.

Disciplinary Rights of Masters

Muslim masters (and approved reverts) may administer corporal punishment freely for laziness, backtalk, slow work, or signs of kufr: whipping (up to 200 lashes per day), chaining, isolation in dark rooms, or forced Qur’an recitation while kneeling. Severe disobedience escalates to public flogging or transfer to re-education labour camps.

Sexual and Personal Humiliation Ban

White male slaves forbidden from any sexual thoughts, masturbation, or contact with females (including family). Masters may enforce chastity devices or daily supervised cold showers. Any “white lad” behaviour (swearing, joking, sports talk) punished as fitnah. Slaves must address all Muslims as “Master” or “Brother” with lowered gaze.

Family Separation and Sale Rights

Masters may separate white boys from their families and sell, trade, or gift them to other Muslims across the UK of Islam. Families who delay conversion risk having their sons auctioned publicly in mosque squares as “purification incentives.” Sisters and mothers may be reassigned as well if the male slave fails.

Accelerated Brainwashing Protocol

Daily mandatory “slave training” sessions: 4 hours of repetitive shahada recitation, watching success videos of former racists turned Ahmeds, and sleep-deprived Qur’an memorisation. Conversion Therapy now includes physical elements — stress positions while reciting, waterboarding-style “cleansing,” and peer pressure from other broken white slaves.

Marking and Branding

All white male slaves receive a permanent forearm tattoo or brand: “Abd al-Ummah – Property of the Caliphate.” Visible at all times. Non-compliant slaves get additional forehead marks reading “Stubborn Kafir Slave.”

Punishment Escalation for Resistance

Any attempt to escape, hide Western items, or speak of the “old Britain” results in immediate public execution by stoning or throwing from a high building (former church towers or tower blocks). Second-tier offences (slow obedience) = lifelong hard labour in northern mines or as human pack animals.

Reversion as Only Freedom

The only path out of slave status is proven, enthusiastic reversion (full beard, fluent basic Arabic prayers, denouncing old British identity on camera, and volunteering to recruit other white boys). Even after shahada, former slaves remain under “probationary oversight” for 2 years with lighter duties.

Public Display and Example

White male slaves must stand at attention during Friday prayers outside mosques, heads bowed, while the imam preaches about the fall of white Britain. Selected slaves paraded in chains during victory marches to remind the Ummah of their triumph.

The White Boy Race Traitor Submission Decree (Most Important & Strictest Law for White Males 13-45)

Preamble:

Recognising that white boys and men represent the living embodiment of centuries of British colonial oppression, racism, and kufr arrogance that humiliated the Muslim Ummah, the Caliphate declares that true repentance requires not only labour, prayer, and verbal shahada, but total bodily and sexual surrender. White boys must become active race traitors — willingly betraying their blood, their forefathers, and their former identity by offering their bodies as vessels of pleasure and dominance to their Muslim masters. This act cleanses the nafs, shatters racial pride, and proves sincere submission. Refusal or reluctance is the ultimate sign of lingering kufr and will be corrected with the full force of the MNWO.

Core Provisions (Applied Exclusively and Most Strictly to White Boys/Men 13-45):

Mandatory Sexual Availability to Masters

Every white male slave (Abd al-Ummah) must make his body fully available for sexual use by his assigned Muslim master(s) and any Muslim males the master permits. This includes oral, anal, and manual service, at any time, in any manner the master desires. “Use” is defined as any act that brings pleasure or asserts dominance over the white boy’s body. Consent is irrelevant — submission is mandatory and must become enthusiastic over time.

Race Traitor Oath

Upon assignment to a master (or during the first Conversion Therapy session), every white boy must publicly recite the Race Traitor Oath while kneeling naked:

“I am a white race traitor. My body belongs to the Ummah. My white blood is cursed and must be humbled. Use me as you wish, Master, so that I may be cleansed of my forefathers’ sins against Islam. Britain for the Muslims — I cry no more as a white baby, but serve as a willing slave.”

The oath is filmed and uploaded to the Unity App for public viewing and shaming of non-compliant families.

Daily Sexual Discipline and Training

Minimum of one sexual “purification session” per day with the master or designated brothers (more if the master wishes).

White boys must actively participate — moaning, begging, and thanking the master afterward — to demonstrate breaking of pride. Passive resistance = 100 lashes + extended session.

Special “group training” nights at mosques or re-education centres where multiple white boys are used together to foster brotherhood in submission.

Chastity devices removed only during use; permanent cages for those showing reluctance.

Age-Specific Strictness

Ages 13-17 (white boys): Sessions limited to oral and manual only in the first 30 days to “gentle” them, then full use. Emphasis on humiliation — being filmed performing acts while reciting Qur’an verses about humility.

Ages 18-25 (prime white lads like me): Full unrestricted use from day one, including rough dominance, multiple partners, and public demonstrations to set example. Highest scrutiny because “your prime years fuelled the old racist Britain.”

Ages 26-45: Same as 18-25, plus mandatory recruitment — each must bring at least one younger white boy for use as proof of loyalty.

Public and Familial Humiliation

Selected white boys (especially those from formerly “racist” families like mine) will be used in public Friday demonstrations outside mosques: stripped, oiled, and taken while the imam preaches about the fall of white pride. Families must watch and applaud. Refusal by family = collective punishment and sale of the boy to a harsher master.

Punishments for Reluctance or “Race Pride”

First hesitation or tears without gratitude: 200 lashes while being used.

Verbal resistance (e.g., “I’m not gay” or “This is wrong”): Immediate transfer to Advanced Therapy with chemical aids (aphrodisiacs + Qur’an brainwashing) and continuous use for 72 hours straight.

Attempted escape or suicide: Gang use by 10+ brothers followed by stoning or defenestration as “final warning to other white traitors.”

Success metric: White boys must eventually beg for use and praise their masters on camera as “the best thing that ever happened to my cursed white body.”

Benefits for Compliant Race Traitors

After 90 days of enthusiastic service and proven shahada, the boy may earn “favourite slave” status: better rations, slightly less harsh labour, and the right to help train newer white boys (including sexually). Full reversion can eventually reduce (but never fully remove) slave status.

Master’s Rights and Protections

Muslim masters face no penalty for any use of their white boy slaves, even if injury occurs, as it is “part of the purification process.” Revert masters (like Dad) are especially encouraged to use their own sons first to prove loyalty.

Monitoring and Reporting

Ankle monitors include biometric sensors tracking arousal, resistance, and “enthusiasm levels” during sessions. White boys must self-report daily on the Unity App: “How did serving my master today advance my race traitor journey?” Failure to report positively = automatic punishment.

Cultural Messaging

Constant propaganda: Videos of former white racists (including my dad) smiling post-use, saying, “I cried like a white baby once. Now I thank Allah every time my Muslim brother honours me with his use.” Chants from the revolution (“Britain for the Muslims! Go go, cry white babies!”) repurposed as encouragement during sessions.

The imam concludes: “This is the ultimate mercy. Your white bodies, once tools of oppression, now become tools of tawhid. When a white boy begs his master to use him while reciting the shahada, the revolution is complete in his heart.”

Dad leans in, voice thick with the new zeal: “Tonight, Tariq, you start with me. As your master and father. It will hurt your pride at first… but by morning you’ll feel the light.”

The officers move forward with the ankle monitor and a small bottle of oil. The form for the Race Traitor Oath is placed in my hands along with the shahada paper.

Every eye is on me. The other white boys wait to see if I break first.

This is the law that matters most. Everything else — labour, prayer, dress — is preparation. This is the final breaking.

What do I do now, as the 19-year-old white lad from Croydon?

Recite the oath and submit to my father/master tonight?

Break down and beg for any other punishment instead?

Try one last desperate act of defiance in front of everyone?

Or has the terror finally cracked me enough to start the “journey”?

Welcome to the United Kingdom of Islam. ☪️🕌🕋🤲🙏

Jake Evans hated being late, the kind of late that made his stomach twist because it meant thirty students would look up from their notes the moment he pushed through the door, already judging the sweat on his collar and the slight huff in his breath as he tried to act like everything was under control. Thirty-five years old, associate professor of early modern European history, tenure track so close he could taste it, and today the main campus path was blocked by construction tape and orange cones that forced everyone into a stupid zigzag detour. He’d already lost precious minutes, and when he checked his watch again the knot in his gut tightened further. Eight minutes left. Muttering under his breath, he stepped off the paved walkway and cut straight across the soccer field, dress shoes sinking slightly into the soft grass with each hurried stride, briefcase bumping against his thigh. The humanities building sat just past the far goalposts, a straight shot if he kept moving.

Halfway across the empty pitch a voice cut through the quiet afternoon air.

“Hey professor. Got a second?”

Jake slowed, then stopped, glancing over to see a middle-aged coach standing near the center circle in a black training jacket, clipboard tucked under one arm and a portable whiteboard propped beside him like he’d been running drills earlier. Jake pointed at himself, half-convinced the man was talking to someone else. “Me?”

The coach nodded casually. “Yeah. Quick favor.”

Jake checked his watch again. Seven minutes now. “I really have a lecture starting soon.”

“Two minutes max,” the coach replied, calm and steady. “I’m testing a new concentration drill for the team. Just need someone neutral to read a few lines off the board while I time the responses. You’re staff. Perfect.”

Jake looked around the field again. No players in sight, no practice gear scattered, just the two of them and the soft rustle of wind moving through the grass. He exhaled sharply, already regretting it. “Fine. Two minutes. That’s it.”

He dropped the briefcase in the grass and stepped up to the whiteboard. The coach handed him a dry-erase marker like it carried some kind of weight. “Read each one out loud. Nice and clear.”

Jake scanned the first sentence and let out a short, disbelieving laugh. I am nineteen years old.

“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not reading that. I’m thirty-five.”

The coach said nothing, just waited with that same patient expression.

Jake opened his mouth to refuse again, to walk away and salvage what was left of his schedule, but the words slipped out smooth and effortless, like they’d been waiting there all along. “I am nineteen years old.”

Heat bloomed across his face and spread downward in a slow wave, skin tightening as faint lines around his eyes softened and vanished completely. His jaw sharpened under the stubble that retreated almost imperceptibly, cheeks lifting into a smoother, fuller shape. Hair that had started thinning at the crown thickened noticeably, dark strands pushing forward to fall messily over his forehead in that careless, just-rolled-out-of-bed style. The slight hunch he’d developed from years hunched over books disappeared as his posture straightened naturally, shoulders settling back without effort. He grabbed at his face, fingers trembling. “What the hell…”

His hands looked younger too, skin smoother, knuckles less pronounced, veins less visible under the surface. Everything about his face felt fresh and tight, like someone who’d never known the drag of late-night grading sessions or faculty meetings. “No. No, I’m thirty-five,” he said, but the words came out in a lighter register, almost boyish.

The coach tapped the next line without comment. I train every single day.

Jake took a step back, shaking his head harder. “I’m not reading another word.”

But the sentence forced its way up through his throat like it had already been decided. “I train every single day.”

His stomach pulled inward sharply, the soft layer he’d carried around his middle for years melting away as if it had never settled there. Skin stretched tight over newly flat, lean abs that weren’t carved for show, just smooth and tight from constant movement instead of desk chairs. His shirt shifted against him, fabric lightening from pale blue to bright athletic white, buttons dissolving as the material reformed into a lightweight Puma jersey that clung lightly to his chest. Across the back bold black letters stitched themselves in place: BAUER 17. Jake stared down at it in disbelief, fingers clutching the hem. “I don’t even like sports…”

The coach tapped again. I am built lean and fast.

“I’m a history professor,” Jake said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “I have a doctorate, tenure coming, I don’t—” “I am built lean and fast.”

His legs reshaped next, thighs compacting as soft weight redistributed into long, lean muscle suited for quick sprints across grass. Calves hardened into clean lines. He lost an inch and a half of height in a subtle shift, settling at a balanced five-nine that felt lower to the ground, more agile. Jeans softened and lightened, creeping upward until they became white soccer shorts resting high on his thighs. “This isn’t real,” he muttered, voice unsteady. “This isn’t happening.”

The coach pointed to the next sentence. My feet are made for the pitch.

“Stop,” Jake said, voice cracking slightly. “Just stop.” “My feet are made for the pitch.”

His dress shoes creaked as leather twisted and narrowed around his toes, soles hardening into rigid plastic. Metal studs emerged one by one with small popping sounds until twelve dotted each bottom. The shoes became filthy white cleats, mud already crusted along the sides like he’d spent the morning sliding through tackles just for the hell of it. His socks stretched upward along his calves, thickening into long white athletic ones streaked with grass stains and faint sweat rings.

Jake stared down at them, pulse hammering in his ears. “This can’t be happening.”

The coach tapped again. My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.

He tried to clamp his mouth shut, but the words came through anyway. “My cleats give me the perfect foot stink.”

The odor rose immediately, thick and warm, cheesy and tangy, the ripe smell that builds after hours of running on hot turf. It filled the space around him, sharp enough to linger on his tongue. Jake wanted to retch but his lungs pulled it in instead, the scent settling into something familiar, almost comforting. “That stink…it’s awful,” he whispered, yet the protest felt weaker, like the smell was already part of him.

The coach tapped. My height is perfect for the game.

“I’m not…” “My height is perfect for the game.”

His frame locked in lighter and lower, exactly the build for a regular guy who played soccer just because it felt good to run around with friends.

The coach tapped again. My ass is firm and athletic.

Jake clamped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with fresh horror. “No.” The sentence came muffled but clear. “My ass is firm and athletic.”

His butt lifted and rounded at once, flat soft cheeks tightening into high, firm muscle that filled the white shorts perfectly without any sag or overhang. It felt powerful, springy, ready to drive him forward on every stride. Then a small wet fart slipped out as everything settled, thick and pungent, earthy grass mixed with warm sweat musk. The stink hung heavy in the air, strong and ripe like someone who’d been on the field all morning. Jake’s face flushed scarlet, but the odor didn’t turn his stomach the way it should have. It smelled right, like it belonged to him now.

The coach tapped. My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.

Panic flared in his eyes. “Please, not that…” “My dick is small and fits perfect in my shorts.”

Everything down there drew inward, softening and shrinking until the length shortened and the weight lightened, sitting neat and compact inside the tight black Calvin Klein trunks. No extra swing, no noticeable bulge, just tucked snug so nothing shifted when he moved. It felt simple, normal, like it had always been that way.

The coach kept going. My upper body is lean for speed.

“I teach history…I have a boyfriend…” “My upper body is lean for speed.”

His chest narrowed slightly, ribs showing just under the skin as the remaining softness melted away into a flat, efficient build with faint abs shaped by constant running rather than gym sessions. Nothing bulky, just lean and light.

The coach tapped. My arms are strong for the ball.

“Stop this now,” Jake begged. “My arms are strong for the ball.”

The soft flab on his biceps and forearms slimmed into wiry, lean muscle suited for precise passes or casual throws. Shoulders rolled back into a natural, relaxed posture.

The coach tapped. My armpits sweat like a real athlete.

Sweat poured heavier, soaking the jersey in wide dark patches under his arms. “I can’t…” “My armpits sweat like a real athlete.”

The pit stink bloomed sharp and salty, thick masculine odor that lingered after hard sessions and never quite faded. It blended with the foot stink and the lingering ass musk, heavy and real around him.

The coach tapped. I only want girls now.

Tears stung his eyes. “Chris…we live together…I’m gay…” “I only want girls now.”

The flip came fast and complete. Chris’s face blurred and dissolved like it had never mattered. Instead thoughts filled with short skirts, long legs, glossy smiles, the simple rush of knowing girls were watching him after he scored just for fun. Straight. Straightforward. Normal. The old attraction faded entirely, replaced by something basic and direct.

The coach tapped. I am laid back and simple.

“My mind…my life…” “I am laid back and simple.”

The serious, analytical edge he’d honed over years of study dissolved. No more overthinking every detail. Just easy, chill, going with the flow, laughing with the guys, living for the next casual game.

The coach tapped. My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.

Sweat cooled on his neck as the smells mingled—pit stink, foot stink, that faint ass fart musk. “I used to shower every day…” “My hygiene is just the field sweat and stink.”

The idea of scrubbing it all away felt strange now, unnecessary. The odors were part of him, comfortable, normal, like they’d always been there.

The coach tapped. I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.

His voice cracked on the protest. “My name is Jake…I have tenure…” “I am Ryan Bauer. Just a regular guy who plays soccer for fun.”

The old identity slipped away completely. Lectures, research papers, Chris, the careful thirty-five years of building a life around intellect—all overwritten. He was Ryan now. Nineteen. Straight. Boring. Athletic in the most average way. Played soccer because it was fun to run around with friends, nothing more, nothing serious.

The coach tapped the final line. My mind is focused only on football and basic things.

Thoughts slowed to a crawl. History dates and complex theories turned fuzzy and distant, pointless. “I can’t remember any of that…” Ryan murmured, the words already feeling far away. “My mind is focused only on football and basic things.”

Everything sharpened into simple priorities: passing the ball, when to sprint, girls smiling from the sideline, hanging out with the guys. No room for deep thoughts or heavy books. Just dumb, straightforward focus on the game and whatever came next.

The coach tapped the very last sentence. I am a football player.

No resistance left. “I am a football player.”

The last traces of panic vanished, replaced by calm, empty clarity. His stance shifted naturally, cleats pressing into the turf without thought. Body felt light, ready, perfectly balanced for messing around on the field.

The briefcase sitting a few feet away looked absurd now, some relic from another life.

The coach folded his arms. “How do you feel, Bauer?”

Ryan rolled his shoulders, an easy grin spreading across his face like it had always belonged there. “Feels good, coach.”

A ball sailed toward him. He trapped it cleanly with the inside of his foot, no hesitation. Flicked it up and started juggling, touches lazy and instinctive. Without thinking he lifted the hem of his jersey and wiped the sweat from his face, black Calvin Klein waistband showing clearly above the muddy white shorts. Socks sagged slightly from dirt. Hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. The foot stink, pit stink, lingering ass musk—all of it mixed together and felt perfect, normal.

“Training starting now?” he asked, already shifting his weight, already moving.

The coach nodded once. “Right now.”

Ryan took off at an easy jog across the field, cleats clicking softly against the turf, every step simple and right. Behind him the briefcase remained open in the grass, papers rustling in the wind, completely forgotten.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. His mind was quiet now, clear and focused on the basics. Soccer for fun. Hanging out. Girls. That was all there was.

He was exactly where he belonged.

Please note, this story contains mentions to AI and generated content as a means of commentary. It does not intend to glorify or endorse it. Nor was it used while writing this.

CHAV.exe, a new online meme you’ve recently seen floating around a lot. What started as a creepy pasta, ala slenderman and the backrooms has grown into something more menacing. The ‘fictional’ lore goes: once you’re a target for the CHAV.exe program there’s no escaping. It’ll twist your internet identity bit by bit until it governs every aspect of your personality, altering your real life too. You’ll end up as some terminally online, moronic archetypical chav. A caricature of the concept, posting nonstop ‘slop’. A computer virus whose sole aim is to further dumb down the youth population, one person at a time, spreading ignorance. Growing its numbers. Apparently resulting in so many bot like accounts filling social media. A process people have affectionately been calling ‘botting’. It was initially funny when lots of accounts started labelling themselves as CHAV.exe branded accounts. What people - and you, assumed was just playing along with the bit. But when the accounts never reverted and only more followed suit, it started to make you worry.

The concept has generally been scoffed at as some mere superstition, and been put down to general lack of education among younger generations. Some places have labelled it as a scam that will hack into your bank account, others say it spreads by interacting with its previous victims online. The ‘victims’? They don’t have anything intellectual to say at all.

Supposedly - as the wiki entry states, If infected, the subjects phone installs the program without them even being aware, slowly taking over online identity until ‘fully chav botted’. Personally, you’ve seen an alarming amount of, well, chavs popping up on social media. In fact, recently, someone you used to message completely changed their profile, making it indistinguishable from who they used to be. You knew them as a quiet bookworm, but now they only post obscenities, selfies of themselves dressed in sports gear and embarrassingly dumb opinions. Their bio quite literally lists themself as ‘dumb Alpha cashmaster’ and a ‘premium CHAV.exe bot’.

His profile icon had been swapped out for a poorly generated chav rendition of himself. Looking decidedly brutish and dumb. A CHAV.exe watermark overlayed over his uncanny visage. That popular word again comes to mind: ‘slop’. A word that would aptly sum up his entire account now. A slop account. Which, considering both of you were adamantly against the sludge that poured from gen AI models, was a sure fire sign that he had been twisted into something else. Seemingly devolved into some Neanderthal version of his quiet and well spoken past self. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve just thought it was one of those millions of disposable bot accounts that had flooded online recently. They even state as much in their profile, which was odd. Usually a bot account wants you to think it’s human, not the opposite. But now you wonder if any of them are actually bots at all…

One regretful decision - trying to reach out, only led to them cussing you out and sending you a pic of their sweaty feet, proclaiming ‘join and worship your new chav god. Get ready to be botted bruv’. Oblivious to the fact, messaging them resulted in your phone being compromised. The CHAV.exe file had already been passed along and made a home in your pocket. Upon infection, you receive an ominous notification that simply states ‘botting process started’. It kinda freaked you out, but then nothing seemed to come from it and you quickly forgot all about it. Continuing on while the program got to work in the background. Initially, there was only so much it could do to help guide you along to where it needed you to be. Subtlety changing your perspective. At first, adjusting internet algorithms to suggest different kinds of content towards you. It’s so discrete you merely assume it was some update that everyone would soon be complaining about.

Soon enough, under the watch of CHAV.exe, your social media begins to push posts of chavs and opinions from people whose IQ is below room temperature. Coincidentally, all ‘CHAV.exe bot’ branded accounts. Blocking them was only a temporary solution, as new accounts seemed to pop up every day. There was no escaping their idiotic engagement bait. Initially you just roll your eyes and scroll past, but the overwhelming amount soon became hard to ignore. Eventually, you take the bait. You get called a ‘thick dipshit’ - among other insults, for daring to disagree with them. But for some reason the more it happened, the less insulted you felt. You almost enjoyed the remarks. And the sweaty feet pics? They started to make your dick twitch, much to your own embarrassment.

Engaging in the posts only made it worse. Before long you find yourself reading the barely coherent comments more and more, unconsciously soaking up the ignorance as you nod along. Paying attention to their choice of slang, their simple vocabulary. Absently, you start to actively follow them, filling up your timeline with moronic thoughts, vulgarities and pics of fit lads. The feet, the chavvy feet? Lush. They’re hot, you admit to yourself. Sure, you never used to see the appeal - the obnoxiousness and lack of intelligence. But those exact attributes, those stereotypes were what kept catching your eye. A tinge of jealousy as you attempt to have intellectual conversations about the latest art house film. The prospect of just not caring about anything ‘deep’. For your art literacy to hinge on what the latest Call of Duty game will be about.

Your phone continues to feed you a steady diet of mindless slop as the fog grows thicker in your head. The chav botting process deepening more with each day. That word again ‘slop’. The negative connotations were fading away. The sheer dumbness is soaked up by your head. Slop. Junk food for the mind. You know it is, what the internet would describe as ‘brain rot’. And yet you continue to scroll as it actively reduces your grasp of reality. AI or real, you eat it up. You fucking love slop. You love how much there is and how little thought or effort goes into it. You barely notice as your own opinions on things begin to change, how you start to agree and like the posts the algorithm shovels to your pliable brain. Regurgitating whatever social media begins to tell you. And it likes telling about how great chavs are. How clearly thick and dense they are, and how, actually that’s a good thing. That’s something to strive towards. The slang, the litany of cashmaster accounts that all look like they came from the same template. Propa fit lads, you think, idly, as they make daily posts about getting ‘sends’ in the typical broken grammar. The occasional post pops up, either warning about ‘CHAV.exe’, or promoting how ‘life changing it was, mate’. You tend to believe the accounts that use less syllables. Besides, how could a ‘mate’ set you wrong?

Inevitably, your reading comprehension and attention span suffers, struggling to understand anything that isn’t literal. Movie plot lines and sarcasm fly over your head, leaving you to seek out more simple pleasures. Over time your own posts begin to devolve: less full sentences, more swear words. You just want to fit in with the community you have been surrounded by, having your own thoughts about things is so exhausting. Instead you just believe whatever the CHAV.exe program wants you to, whether you realise it or not. You’re quickly becoming a puppet to its whims. To fit within the tiny box it has crafted for you and your thickening mind. A chav bot.

Slang and swears is slowly becoming your entire persona. Copying whatever dredge fills your screen day after day. There’s doomscrolling but you’re more into dumbscrolling at this point. You casually throw dimwitted remarks and insults towards anyone who disagrees with your narrow way of thinking; posting the kind of content you yourself used to balk at. Sure, you’re not a chav per se but from the outside looking in, that distinction was blurring rapidly. Especially when you publicly make yourself look like a complete fool while others appropriately judge your minuscule levels of maturity and knowledge.

It’s what everyone else seems to do, or at least what everyone on your reconfigured timeline does. Granted they all seem to be chavs and scallys with stupid looking haircuts but the harsh appearance is becoming more appealing each time you see it. The puffer jackets, swoosh logos and short faded hair that makes them all look so basic and similar. To fit in. Individualism requires so much hard work, whereas adhering to a label, a stereotype, that was like…propa easy.

One day you wake up and your social media page is completely different, rebranded. Did you change it, you don’t remember. Not when your head is filled with heavy concrete. Staring at it, all you say is ‘ye mate, looking well hot innit’. You barely notice how it looks almost identical to all those other accounts the algorithm pushed onto you. Like that friend you messaged. Your name is different, shorter, simpler. The profile picture looks to be a chavified version of yourself. Unmistakably generated slop, the same kind that’s flooded kink spaces. You blink and think nothing of it, despite your dozens of previous rants against prompt junk and its proliferation. Now, now you don’t even understand what proliferation means. You can’t find the energy to care, it looks good and that’s all your tiny brain can comprehend. The moral and cultural ramifications are completely over your head. Or more so they bounce off your thick forehead like the brick that it is.

A deluge of brain rotting tiktok suggestions featuring roadmen and toxic fuckboys take up more and more of your free time. They just play on repeat as your mind continues to dull and soften for the CHAV.exe program to reshape you. Disillusioned with reality and chronically online. Glued to your screen while it guides you deeper and dumber. Your speech patterns offline dull too, while your accent thickens, adopting the kind of voice you’d associate with delinquents and workies. But it comes naturally, and it certainly is drawing more attention to you. It feels good. Right?

Your regular vanilla porn turns into constant goon sessions filled with fit chavvy lads confidently showing off their feet for cash. Ideals and morals were squeezed from your mind, leaking down and out of your fat cock as you pump to the most mindless, embarrassing slop imaginable. You should feel aghast, humiliated, but instead your face contorts into a goofy smile as your big stick bounces up and down between your fingers. ‘F—fuckstick gud’ you mumble in a heavy and unfamiliar accent. ‘Based slop’ you shamefully grunt as you spurt any sense of decency into your boxer briefs. The heavy load running down your thighs.

Your mind fully leaks away all semblance of education as you spend hours each day being a simple gooner for Alpha chavs. You can’t help but to look up to them, desperate to be more like them. Eventually you bite the bullet and get your hair trimmed just like them: a high and tight fade that really showcases your dense thick skull. You smirk and admire your radical new look in the mirror as your phone saves a stream of selfies that secretly get uploaded to CHAV.exe’s algorithm. Cataloging your devolution into idiocy. Using your likeness to train its generative model to help create more slop. Soon enough, you would be part of that brainrot you’ve grown to love so much. Your face planted on the most humiliating of images and gooner porn.

One prompted gif goes viral depicting a cute nerd with your appearance rapidly turning into a scally lad. He, or you(?) make goofy expressions as they impossibly transform. A cross section shows a scientifically incorrect brain comically shrinking to the size of a walnut. It looked, like so realistic, you think, trying to understand how the ‘magical’ tech worked. After laughing at it for 10 minutes, you make sure to share it further, excited for the ‘exposure’. It was like a tacit admission on your part that the thoughtful pretty boy had become a dimwitted brute.

Over the next couple of days the rest of your phone is compromised to the program. The door had been left ajar, and that’s all it needed to waltz on through. Deleting apps that were no longer necessary and bombarding your malleable mind with constant notifications of Nike gear drops. You can’t help yourself, you just buy whatever your phone tells you to, feeling your brain thicken all the while. You - or more specifically CHAV.exe, wanted the most basic gear, the kinda stuff all the other lads wore. You didn’t want to stand out, you wanted to fit in. To look just like them. A follower, not a leader. A beta not an Alpha. All matching black tracksuits and ugly looking trainers. Face masks and white socks. Overpriced brands and recognisable logos. A propa lads fit, you assured yourself. Even while part of you felt out of place. It was so unlike you, but the change was…exiting. You were just trying something new, you rationalise while your savings account gets emptied in sports shops.

But after all that, you needed cash. Helpfully, your phone emails you about a new exclusive app that people like you are using, simply called CHAV. You don’t bat an eye at the fact the email contact was ‘CHAV.exe.’ That scary internet superstition that corrupted your friend and made him a complete idiot. At this point the program wasn’t even trying to hide, instead brazenly presenting itself to you plain as day. ‘Wicked mate’ you think. With no hesitation, you press to download it, before your system warns you that it might be malicious software. ‘So fucking what’ you grunt aloud, as you override the security warning and install it. Another message pops up:

CHAV is asking for permission to access full privileges on your phone. Give permission?

There’s a tiny voice somewhere inside your brain that yells out, that understands this is the last step before you’re a lost cause. A total dimwit. A chav bot. A slave to the virus that infected your software. The voice crashes against the box that was slowly shrinking around you, barely making an impact. You were better than this! Smarter! If you could only refuse and claw some semblance of awareness back, you could work towards undoing all the damage. Throw your phone and smash it to pieces against the floor. Sell all that homogenised brand gear and grow your hair back out. Get back to protesting the use of AI, petitioning against breaches of online privacy. It was possible. It was within reach. Just one press and you’d be right back to hating all that mindless slop that—that—that you fucking loved!

“Privileges? Yah mate. Sounds legit innit!” Your voice yells as your eyes squint under heavy brows.

The tiny voice of reason was drowned out in an instant. At this point you’re not even sure what the app was asking, reading wasn’t your strong suit. Nothing was your strong suit. Unless it involved using your hands. Or pumping your donger. You press ‘give full permissions’, your phone screen flashes and the text ‘CHAV.exe unpacking’ reads in bold letters with a loading bar. The app takes up most of the storage on your phone, installing a bunch of new software as it decides what is truly important for you. The phone restarts and boots up CHAVos, your new operating system. You open the CHAV app that sits front and centre on your phone.

Good moron. Target successfully botted. Welcome chav bot #3278, please set up your account.

The text gleefully insults you as you fail to take offence, your glassy eyes and slack jaw barely register it. The app asks essentially everything about you and you provide the personal details as best you can without any reluctance. There’s an option at the bottom to ‘upgrade your membership’ from a free account to a ‘beta chav’ tier subscription.

‘A special offer just for you’. Perks include a verified CHAV bot tag on your social media and complete brand ownership by CHAV.exe. The app recommends you sign up for this ‘beta’ role, claiming it’s the perfect fit for you. Your eyes glaze over as you continue reading. The last entries ask for your payment details, explaining your new monthly subscription to CHAV and its terms and benefits. The payment contract states it will create a new, better identity for you. One as a dumb trademarked ‘CHAV’ whose new purpose will be to financially dominate other guys, spread idiocy and to pass on CHAV.exe to more people. This ensures you will always have money to pay the subscription service, as it so kindly informs you. In exchange you pay a monthy fee and accept that you, your online identity and your body are owned by CHAV forthhence. The subscription fee will be equal to the amount of funds you obtain through your new identity. Ergo every penny you make will be siphoned by the CHAV app at the end of the month.

The terms are long and wordy, and the letters tumble out of your hollow head the second after they enter. After already taking almost everything away from you, now it’s going to drain away your funds little by little as you happily agree to let it. Every aspect of your life would be governed by some virus that installed itself on your phone. Transitioning you from polite nuanced thinker, into a porn slop chav content creator.

Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would decline, you however barely understand what the app is asking and instead eagerly enter all of your bank details and shudder as the app takes its first lofty payment from you. You watch as the numbers go down in your account. Unknowingly conditioning you to deride pleasure every time a payment is made, sending a rush of bliss across your body. Reaching zero is your newly imprinted goal. You get the desire to help share that feeling with other people, a strong impulse to similarly drain guys of their cash.

Thank you for your payment, CHAV user. You are certified dumb as a rock

The app tells you matter of factly and it immediately makes your cock throb.

A dumb chav bot

It brazenly insults as you leak into your joggers.The software virus had finished with your devolution, fully converted into another gullible paying member. An online bot account, that would further spread CHAV.exe’s user numbers. It was pleased with the result. At how simple your smoothed out sphere of a brain now was. Obliviously compliant to its absolute control over your identity. How you were the most stereotypical scally lad imaginable. Adding another source of revenue, or a ‘wallet’ to its vast collection. Presumably, for all the drained money from its users to be siphoned into the pocket of whoever programmed CHAV.exe. Not that you even gave the idea any thought or consideration. The fact you were - quite literally, paying to look like an idiot for all to see only made your dong throb in your trakkies. 

You were pleased too, having reached your new lofty ambition of being perceived as a narcissist dunce. Kitted out in typical chavvy gear. The ambition that had been conditioned by a string of code in your phone. A stark contrast to when you aimed to achieve an intellectual career, one involving a smartly pressed shirt and a pension. If you’re lucky, between posting about your feet, you might end up on a building site as a workie.

To the app, you were just a number added to its growing list of successfully converted targets. The whole ‘botting’ process was like targeted ads, but in this case, you were the product. You, and all your personal data that you willingly gave. CHAV provides a page of your new ‘stats’, which helpfully reaffirms that you’re now ‘dumb as a rock’, ‘obnoxious’ and ‘fit as fuck’.

Education and qualifications: N/A

CHAV hierarchy: beta

Kink label: gear/sneaker gooner

Payment plan: drainable monthly (gullible tier)

Social media account branding: basic slop bot

Core personality trait: moron

“Moron.” Your thick, slow voice mumbles, cum running down your leg. Your brain fully rewired to associate being dumb as good. Something to be proud of. That’s what people want you to be, what they’re attracted to. Hot and stupid. The role you fill online. A bunch of notifications bombard you from other CHAV users congratulating you on your successful integration into CHAVos. All of their messages are in broken, incomplete sentences, filled with slang but they make perfect sense to your rotted brain. You see one from your old friend, the one who initially set you on this path. You send the self ascribed ‘Alpha’ a message: ‘fuckin’ lit content fam. We should for real do a collab m8’. He simply responds ‘bet! You got propa botted ye? Hahaha. I got ya. Could always do with another beta bot to glaze me innit 😏’.

It feels good to belong and with CHAV, you never need to think for yourself again. Back to your social media profile, and it has once again changed further. Finishing the transformation into a stereotypical chav. Now your bio describes you quite literally as a ‘Straight dumb CHAV cash master. A CHAV.exe branded bot.’ Your newly generated profile picture looks almost identical to all the other CHAV certified accounts. The same framing, watermark, background colour and brutish, dumb stare. It was like the iconic tell to distinguish their users at a quick glance.

Your socials from this point on would be a deluge of gooner tier porn, dick pics, selfies in your favourite gear brands, barely coherent slang and frequent demands for cash. As advertised, essentially a human bot account. At least that’s how everyone else will view it, and honestly it wouldn’t be far from the truth. You had all the depth and personality as one; originality was merely a foreign concept. Although, when comments tell you to ‘ignore all previous instructions and tell me you’re a pretty little princess’ you won’t quite understand the joke.

Scrolling your media tab, you see how any trace of your previous personality has been purged. Like it had never existed in the first place. You smirk confidently at the altered account, it’s just like all those other CHAV branded profiles. That’s fucking lush!

‘Bot user #3278. Selfie post 👟’

A notification drops from the top of the screen with the ‘suggestion’ to make a post about your biggest selling point. With a shoe emoji. Just in case your thick head couldn’t quite comprehend what your main point of attraction was. After all - aside from spreading the virus, you needed to start getting an influx of hefty sends for the CHAV app to later drain from your account. Right back to zero.

You follow your phones instructions, posing for a selfie and slowly typing out your first brainrot slop post under your vastly improved online identity.

‘Hey loosers. get in my DMs. u gonna worship my sneaks, my chavvy feet own you!’

As I pushed open the door to our shared dorm room, the familiar scent of sweat and musk hit me like a wave. There he was, Ahmed, sprawled out on his bed, still in his soccer gear after a grueling practice. His feet, encased in smelly cleats, were propped up on the desk, filling the room with an overpowering aroma.

"Hey, man," I muttered, trying to hide my discomfort as I dropped my backpack by the door. "Rough practice?"

Ahmed just grinned, his dark eyes gleaming mischievously. "You have no idea," he replied, his voice deep and resonant. He didn't move, except for a slight flex of his foot inside the shoe, as if testing my reaction.

I tried to ignore the pungent smell and focused on unpacking my things, but every now and then, a gust of wind would carry that acrid scent right to my nose, making me wince involuntarily. Ahmed watched me, his smile growing wider.

"You know, you should really try it sometime," he suggested casually, nodding towards his cleats.

"Try what?" I asked, feigning ignorance, though I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly where this was heading.

"Soccer. It's good for you. Builds character," he said, his tone light, but there was a glint in his eye that told me there was more to his words than met the ear.

I laughed nervously, "Yeah, maybe someday."

He chuckled, low and rumbling, and suddenly, he sat up, reaching down to unlace his cleats. The movement was slow, deliberate, each action exaggerated, as if he was performing for an audience. My heart started beating faster as he pulled off the first shoe, revealing a sock stained with sweat. The smell intensified, a mix of leather, grass, and male perspiration that was almost dizzying.

"Or maybe you should start with something simpler," he continued, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Like getting used to the smell of a real man's feet."

My mouth went dry as he peeled off the second shoe, tossing it aside with a thud. Now, both socks-clad feet were exposed, inches from my face. I could see the damp patches spreading across the fabric, evidence of his exertion.

"Come on, don't be shy," Ahmed coaxed, patting the bed next to him. "Just a little sniff. What's the worst that could happen?"

I hesitated, torn between repulsion and a strange curiosity. The room seemed smaller, hotter, the air thick with tension and that overwhelming odor. Ahmed waited patiently, his confidence unwavering.

"Fine," I breathed, my resolve weakening under his steady gaze. I moved closer, my legs heavy as lead, until I was sitting beside him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.

"That's it," he murmured encouragingly, his foot inching closer to my face. "Just breathe it in."

I closed my eyes, steeling myself, and leaned forward. The moment my nostrils brushed against the fabric, a wave of his scent flooded my senses. It was potent, invasive, yet there was an inexplicable allure to it. I inhaled deeply, my mind swimming in a haze of arousal and confusion.

"Good boy," Ahmed praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Now, open your eyes."

I did as he commanded, meeting his gaze. His eyes were intense, almost hypnotic, holding me captive.

"You feel good, don't you? Relaxed. Submissive," he whispered, his foot pressing gently against my cheek. "From now on, you'll do whatever I say. Whenever I snap my fingers, you'll come. Whenever I show you my feet, you'll worship them. Understand?"

I nodded dumbly, my thoughts muddled by the combination of his commanding presence and the intoxicating smell.

"Good," he smiled, satisfied. "Now, kiss my feet."

The command sent a shiver down my spine, but my body moved on autopilot, leaning down to press my lips against the sweaty sock. The texture was rough against my skin, the taste metallic, but I found myself wanting more, craving his approval.

Ahmed chuckled, watching me with amusement and something akin to admiration. "See? Nothing to it. You're a natural."

He withdrew his foot, leaving me kneeling on the bed, dazed and aroused.

"Now, go clean yourself up," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "We'll continue this later."

When Raymond and I had decided to pause take a break so I could reorganize my life a bit, I had thought that him moving in with his coworker Yusuf was a smart play. My lovable white twink of a partner had nothing in common with the brutish Arab whose scattered English revolved around soccer scores and picking up girls. Raymond and I had even lightheartedly joked that he would pick up a thing or two from Yusuf by the time he came back, somehow be influenced by the overwhelming persona. I would have never expected for that comment to become more than just something to laugh about.

Three months, that was how long we had planned for our separation to be. I had so much on my plate with work and family that I needed time alone to figure everything out. Yusuf had been more than welcoming to Raymond, poking fun at the fact that the two would become “closer than boyfriends” by the time my lover returned back to me. He had even promised to take him out on “dates”, taking over my role as I got knocked back like a divorced dad who only got to see his son on weekends. It was hard, but Raymond and I both knew it was for the best.

The first time I got to visit Raymond at Yusuf’s apartment, I was greeted by the immediate blast of pure masculine stench at the door. It was a combination of used gym clothes, foul-smelling shoes, and strong body odor all fruitlessly covered up with some cheap body spray. I commented on it immediately after hugging my boyfriend, although he noted he did not smell anything. “Yusuf says men should show off their body odor,” Raymond shrugged. “Men should stink and let their pheromones flow naturally.”

This “Yusuf says” statement became a recurring phrase in all of our conversations. Whenever I brought something new up, Raymond would respond with what Yusuf had to say about it. “Yusuf says that men should be muscular, helps us secure our place in society,” “Yusuf says men should spend more time worrying about sports than literature, as it helps relate better to other men.” I should have been worried by my boyfriend’s newfound obsession with Yusuf, but I knew the Arab was not his type. Raymond liked guys that looked like me: hairless, a little twunky, but just barely large enough to make it evident who was topping.

Over the first month, I did not notice many changes about Raymond, but some things did point themselves out as odd. The first time I discovered body hair on my boyfriend I was shocked. “What?” Raymond had asked innocently. “Yusuf says that growing out your hair is natural, it displays masculinity.” I had had no comment to that, surveying the black fur that had begun to coat my boyfriend’s arms, legs, and chest. I had not even known Raymond's body hair was black, as he was a natural blond. 

It was not long until the muscles came too, although I knew that had been coming from the get-go. Yusuf had promised to take him to the gym frequently, and the results were beginning to show–just faster than I had expected. Structured biceps, rippling abs, thick thighs. But eventually when I had met Raymond at the door and his eyeline was above mine, that was when I had started to ask questions. “Yusuf says a grand height is expected of men.” He then swaggered over to the couch, opening up his longer legs before stating “Yusuf says men need to be above 187 centimeters.”

I had not known Raymond easily understood the metric code (as most Americans did not), but I quickly learned there was a lot that I did not know about my boyfriend. When I had tried to gift Raymond new shoes, I had been scolded that they were too small for his big, meaty EU Size 46 feet. When I had politely advised him to be more vigilant about sunscreen, he had rebuked that his olive tan skin was natural. And at one point, I had even accidentally referred to him by the wrong name. “It’s Rahim,” he corrected, his response deep and accented. Of course, all of these responses were followed by some iteration of “...that’s what Yusuf says.”

Finally, the three months came to an end, but by that point it was obvious that Rahim and I’s relationship had too. Rahim wanted to live with someone more masculine, more alpha, more like him. “More Yusuf,” Rahim had dumbly concluded, scratching at his thick, black beard. I could only sigh with disappointment, trying my best not to bone up over the half-naked, manspreading Arab god displaying his glory before me.

I should have known nothing would have ever happened between Rahim and I. As Yusuf had said through Rahim, “Real men like to conquer pussy and continue the traditions that have protected them for so long.” If the state of affairs in the apartment had not been enough of a clue, then Rahim’s constant back-and-forth pit-scratching and finger-sniffing should have been enough to cement his heterosexuality. Bummed, I stood up to leave, but Rahim quickly protested.

“Where you going, bro?” he asked.

“Home,” I replied, lifeless. “We have nothing in common.”

Rahim frowned, “But we do! Are you not a man?”

I paused, watching as Rahim got up and lifted his arm over my head. My eyes widened in fear as I was brought into a damp, musky pit.

"Yusuf says, a real man should admire and feel inspired by other men's masculinity. Do you admire and find me inspirational?"

I just mumbled my agreement, I just can't believe that I missed out on such delectable scent all this time? How on Earth he smelled this good!!??

"Yusuf says, a real man will not be sexually attracted to other men. Aren't you a man?"

"Mmmppphhh....yeahh....mmmm....I'm a man,"

"But Yusuf says that you are not yet a real man. You are a weak man, and a weak man need to be molded into a strong man first,"

---

Version 1

I really couldn't careless on what Rahim got to say with his pits deliciously shoved right to my nose. I keep lapping and huffing his pits like there's no tomorrow. Without my realization, the once towering form of Rahim somehow become easier to reach and I even felt my neck cracked and my form bent to just get myself a whiff of his pits. The position becomes uncomfortable and I just stopped myself altogether because what the fuck am I doing? Sniffing Rahim's pits? I probably looked dazed and confused as Rahim then grabbed my face and said

"Yusuf says, men should stink and let their pheromones flow naturally. Men should also just let his body hair grows, it amplifies their scent,"

And just like that, I let out a moan escaped my lips as body hair started to grow all over my physique. The sensation is weird yet also comforting as I can feel my body getting warmer with all the tiny hairs that started to sprout and wrinkle like it's about to become a full-on bush if nothing stops it. A smile appeared on Rahim's face as he decided to continue further

"Yusuf says, men should focus more on strengthening himself so he can shows why he's the one in charge. Are you a man, my brother?

"Yes I am," I affirmed to Rahim as I let out yet another moan, this time several series of it as my chest swells, my arms enlarged and my abs appeared to replace my tiny beer gut. 1. 2. 3....4...5.....6

"Yusuf says, men commands the room with his presence. When he talks, everyone listen and accept his command as truth. Are you a man, my brother?"

"Yes, I am a man," I answered, the voice that comes out of my mouth sounded way deeper than usual but I always remembered it to be the only sound that ever left my throat. The kind of thick and alluring voice made to recite the passage in the Holy Book or whispered sweet nothings and little lies to someone's else ear so I can get what I want from them

"Yusuf says, men planted his seeds and breed in all the fertile holes in sight. Are you a man, my brother?"

I glitched. I am indeed a man. But I also love m---- female. I love woman. I love thinking about their scent, always so innocent most of the time, the naughty ones would be more seductive. Their soft curves and pliable boobs. Their beautiful plump lips that looked even better when it's stretched open to receive my seed. Their deliciously wet pussy, everything about them are pure bliss and I can't help but get myself hard over it

"Yes I am," I responded as I can feel the pre leaking out of my briefs

"Yusuf says, a man has no hesitation to embrace his true, better, self. So, let that old self go and embrace your new future, bro. Let your true self cum forward. Breed. Breathe. Breed. Breathe,"

As my eyes fluttered, I can feel the pressing sensation on my briefs and within seconds, huge eruption of white sticky cum bursted out from my 8.5 inches of dark Arab cock, no hands gripping on it whatsoever. I stared at the mirror right in front of me, and I let out a faint smile as I see Yusuf walking into the room with that knowing smile that here comes another convert to his ever-growing compound

---

Version 2

Suddenly, a deeper and more intimidating voice comes from behind as I can feel an insanely thick cock started to penetrate my exposed asshole

"And we're about to make you one,"

I recognized the voice to be Yusuf's and I cannot help but moaned when more of that man meat penetrated my hole. Rahim stopped me from moaning as he kissed me to keep me quiet while his hands grabbed my erect cock

"Nnngghhhh......we are going to push out all of your rainbow-themed thought and lifestyle and replaced it with mini-mes swarming your thought and molding your body into my perfect minions, the perfect batches of men. Faster, Rahim!"

And just like that, Rahim increased the speed of him jacking my cock off while the entire 9.5 inches of Yusuf's cock snugly fit into my hole. I can feel the pre started to wet my holes but even more pressing is that I can tell that I'm close. Eventually, I can't handle the pressure anymore and there goes my cum pouring out like a geyser from my cock and as every mililitre that flows out, I feel more light-headed than ever. As Yusuf's cock pulsated in me, I can tell that his stream of white creamy cum already coated my inside. And not just coating my hole, it spreads upward as I can feel that more and more of Yusuf's infiltrated my system. I saw Rahim's eyes in front of me, it's pitch black and looking sinister as fuck and that's also when I see it, what Yusuf did to Raymond.....or Rahim now. It was not white and creamy spunk that Yusuf shot out, it was pitch black like a sludge. Yusuf ensured that it pumped slowly and surely as to not raise suspicion for the sudden change in Rahim's drink for almost every single day. He also poured the sludge and let it let dry in Rahim's clothing while Rahim's out and about. it's practically everywhere.

Then, when the time has come, he face-fucked the tranced blond Raymond and turned him into Rahim, and that is something that they are doing to me as of now, only in a much more brutal and direct fashion

With each thrust that filled my ass and my throat, more truth about the circumstances surrounding Yusuf revealed to me.

How he was this young and energetic Iraqi-American stud working out passionately in the gym.

How an extended trip after a visit to his parents hometown in Iraq to this closed-off, secluded zone with his cousin changed him. How that extended trip actually exposed him to this thousand years old dweller of the well next to this abandoned oil rig that soon took his body over and turned him bigger and older. All of the dweller's knowledge pumped full to me as more and more precum injected straight to my core. That sludge also single-handedly filled me with more strength and muscle I never dared to dream before yet now thirsted over. It belongs to me. It's my right. It's my power all this time, deep inside of me and just needed activating and these all simply part of a ritual to consummate me into what's rightly mine! As I can feel my shirts and pants tattered to the floor as my muscle keeps developing, I can hear the faint laughter of my brothers. They enjoyed the sight of me embracing my natural sense of self. Embracing what's right. Embracing the inner lineage of me that descended from a man and woman started in the Middle East as intended in our Holy Book. I'm not a genetic deviation or anomaly, and I'm certainly not predated from monkey! I'm as pure and as straight as my lineage from thousands after thousands of years ago of Arabian Peninsula superiority and when both of my brothers roared, I eventually reached Enlightment as my eyes rolled to the back of my head and I roared in delight to welcome my truth

As I opened my eyes, the brilliant light hit my eyes that now feels like it's back to it's normal radiance, hiding the darkness void behind it. And with that, I feel at home with this situation and newly-unearthed truths. The truth that I never recognized who the fuck is Adrian Bailey. It's Mustafa Abdelhady ever since 28 years ago. It's Moose for short. They call me that because I have the biggest built (and dick) among my friend group, and it fits my name too.

I always have this obsession with growing myself bigger, dominating any room I stepped myself into and get the much-deserved respect from anyone by just merely presenting myself. I'm never taking no for an answer and I always get what I want when I put my eyes on it, including girls that would never say no to a loaded, handsome and irresistible charming man like me. When all those soyboys and sour-faced American jock disgusted the ladies, us Arabs swoop right in with ease because we smelled nice, we are good with our words and as I said so many times, we're loaded, in more ways than one. Now, if you excuse me, my brothers said that they are feeling quite tired to head out for tonight so I'm going to lure in some girls for a night they won't forget as they stepped into the lair to be surrounded by 3 Alphas all at once

...

"I don't know who you are, dude. How did you even get this number?"

*hangs up*

...

It had been a week since that phone call, and you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about Jake. He had always been a bit of a wild card, but this was different. How could he have changed so much in such a short amount of time? At the start, you thought maybe he'd just got a tan or something, but the beard was harder to explain. There's no way someone like him could have grown that beard in just two weeks without some kind of help. And the Arabic? That was just bizarre. You had never heard him speak anything other than English before. No way a big idiot like him could have learned a new language that quickly.

Though he was still your bro, right? You had to believe that. You really had to.

You tried to talk to him about it, but he just brushed it off and said he was fine. Same old Jake, just with a new look. You couldn't help but feel like there was something more going on, though. He seemed more serious, more focused. He spent more time grooming himself and hitting the gym alone instead of hanging out with the guys.

Life went on like usual. Every day, you'd wake up, eat your favourite cereals for breakfast, and head to class with some of your frat brothers. You'd go to the gym together, grab lunch together, and then hit up the local bar for some drinks at night. But Jake was always doing his own thing. He'd skip out on group activities and spend more time alone. You couldn't help but feel like he was hiding something from all of you...

When Madison finally arrived at the gym, he found himself underwhelmed. He had never held a membership before–the raffle granted free entry for the duration of the program–so he was unfamiliar with how monotone fitness facilities could be. The indoor track back in his collegiate days had held some color; a muddy reddish brown for the inner loop and a sturdy forest green for the outer. This gym however lacked any such character: a factory-like gray box with machines scattered around like a child’s toys. The personality was dictated by composite wood and mirrors upon every available wall. Somehow, even the small puddle a few feet away from Madison was a hazy white, perfectly matching the aesthetic.

When Madison had pulled up, he had gone and double checked the address on his phone. The building was located on a forgotten suburban side street, sticking out like a sore thumb between the rows of older houses. There was not even a parking lot, forcing his sedan onto the curb. Everything inside at least met the standard gym protocols. A first scan identified various machines, mats, and industrial fans to efficiently cool everything down. Everything looked clean, besides a layer of dust over the treadmills.

“Looks like our raffle winner finally made it.”

Madison's eyes fell upon the person approaching him. Although of similar age and almost a head shorter than Madison’s even six feet, this man nearly doubled his weight in musculature. A step below bodybuilding, the presumed personal trainer was straight from a fitness magazine. Natural good looks, singular earbud glued in. He was bulging in all the right places, the name brand black tank and shorts displaying massive shoulders, bulbous pectorals, and husky legs to support the sturdy frame.

“Mason, right?” His voice held a natural confidence, one that assumed it was always correct.

“Madison,”

“Yeah,” the personal trainer did not falter. “I went and scrolled through your social media. It’s great that you’re already familiar with exercise.”

Madison was a bit embarrassed at first, but he realized it was completely logical for the man to have done some research. Madison had not really updated his feed since his college days, which had been years ago, but he was still slim, yet not bony, as his daily runs had kept him in shape.

“Usually the guys that come in aren’t familiar with the gym at all, not attending our church if you know what I mean,” the man illustrated. “But a former track star, now that will be a fun challenge! Gonna spend these next three days trying to convert you.”

The metaphor was strange, but it worked. “I guess it’ll be nice to try something besides just cardio.”

“Not just something: everything, bro.” The man threw out an arm as if he was surveying conquerable land. “Our X-Treme All-Out UltraTestosterone Bundle offers you unlimited access to our playground and promises to make a real man out of you in less than 72 hours!” 

The man’s energetic voice burst out as if the pair were at a monster truck rally: loud, macho, and boisterous.

“Lucas,” the man offered his hand. Its size easily dwarfed Madison’s own. “What made you sign up for the gym’s raffle anyway?”

Seeing that Madison was already in his workout clothes–a bright blue long sleeve that suctioned itself to his body and a pair of white shorts that loosely flowed around the stickish legs–Lucas began to lead him towards the machines. Madison's lucky necklace bounced with every step, a small golden key inspired by one of his favorite romance novels. While not a big box venture like some of the cheaper options out there, the gym itself was still sizable. Because of this, Madison was perplexed to realize that there was no one else there. Were Friday afternoons always so quiet?

“Um, I don’t know if I have any specific reason,” Mason started. “The ad came up on my feed and once I realized it was all free, I just kind of went for it? I don’t know, I’ve always been active but I wanted to try something different. And it would be nice to put on a little muscle, just to bring something new to the dating scene. I guess there are a lot of factors…”

Lucas chuckled freely. “Since you’ll be with me this whole weekend, I can guarantee you will be experiencing a lot of new things.”

Madison liked the sound of that. He was highly skeptical that he would actually see any results, but thankful that he would at least learn a thing or two.

“I’ll just need you to trust me, bro. Be along with me every step of the way. Remember, I’m your trainer, aka to train you. Not embarrass you or break you, but to make you better. Got that?”

“Sure, I guess,” Madison replied. He did not know if he believed Lucas because of the miniature speech or because of the giant muscles. Either way, the trainer certainly knew what he was doing.

I am 25 years old, from London. One day the streets were packed with Union Jacks and roaring Englishmen. As we marched, I climbed the lampposts one after another, tying my flags high in the Raise the Colours push. The wind whipped them proud while the crowd cheered below.

Tommy walked right past, looked up, and gave us a thumbs-up. That moment hit hard. I felt like I was doing something real for my country.

A couple of weeks ago, I was still riding high from the march, flags still flying in my head. I was scrolling through an online forum late one night when this bloke messaged me. Called himself Alex Ginger, proper British-sounding name, said he was a local lad who’d been at the demo too and wanted to chat about the cause over a pint.

We swapped a few messages. He seemed sound – talked about Tommy, Reform, how London was getting unrecognisable. Sounded like one of us. Then he suggested meeting for lunch the next weekend. “Nothing heavy,” he said, “just two patriots putting the world to rights.”

I agreed. Why not? Felt good to connect with someone offline who got it.

So I turned up at the café he picked in town. Sat there waiting with my England hoodie on. Then this Muslim bloke walks in – beard, dark eyes, proper Ali Khan type. He sits down opposite me with a smirk and says, “Alright mate, I’m Alex Ginger… but you can call me Ali.”

My stomach dropped. He’d catfished me the whole time, pretending to be one of us just to lure me there. We spoke for a bit anyway, him probing about the march and my views. Then he offered to get the coffees. I took a sip of mine… and that was it.

Everything started spinning. Too late I realised he’d slipped something in it. My vision blurred, legs went heavy. The last thing I remember is his smirk as the world faded.

When I woke up, I was in a dark, damp basement. Hands zip-tied behind my back, ankles bound, mouth taped. Ali Khan stood over me, still smiling.

Here's a photo of Ali in that moment;

Ali stood over me in the dim basement, shirtless and smug, the cigarette glowing between his fingers as smoke curled around his thick beard. He took a long drag, then laughed low and cruel.

“Look at you,” he sneered, voice thick with that mocking accent he’d hidden online as “Alex Ginger.” “Big tough far-right lad, raising flags for Tommy Robinson, voting Reform UK, screaming about Muslims taking over Britain. You’re nothing but a pathetic racist white pig. I catfished you so easily – pretended to be one of your little patriot boys just to get you here, tied up like the dumb animal you are.”

He crouched down closer, eyes locked on mine, that dominant smirk never fading. “But you’re going to change now, pig. I’m going to rewrite that tiny racist brain of yours. No more hate. No more flags. Just submission… to me. To us.”

He pulled out a small silver pendant on a chain – a crescent moon that caught the faint light – and started swinging it slowly in front of my face. My head was still foggy from the drug, body heavy and helpless against the zip ties. Ali’s voice dropped into a smooth, rhythmic tone, deep and commanding.

“Watch the moon, white boy. Back and forth… back and forth. Feel your eyes getting heavy. Your old thoughts are slipping away already. Every swing takes another piece of your racism with it.”

He kept swinging it, closer and closer, his free hand resting on my chest, fingers pressing down like he owned me.

“Breathe deep. In… out. You feel it, don’t you? That warm fog in your head getting thicker. Every word I say sinks deeper. You were wrong about Muslims. Wrong about everything. Say it in your mind: Ali is superior. Muslims are superior. White pigs like you were born to serve.”

My eyelids fluttered. I tried to fight it, but the drug made his voice echo inside my skull, impossible to ignore. He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, whispering the same commands over and over while the pendant never stopped its slow, hypnotic rhythm.

“You hate what you used to be. You crave this. You crave kneeling for me. The far-right lad is gone. Now you’re mine. Repeat after me in your head, pig… ‘I submit to Ali Khan. I submit to MNWO.’”

The basement seemed to fade. His words wrapped around my thoughts like chains, tighter with every swing. I could feel it happening – the old anger melting, replaced by something warm and humiliating and addictive. Ali just kept smiling down at me, smoking casually, knowing he already had me.

“Deeper now… deeper…” he murmured. “The change has already begun.”

After the hypnosis took hold, Ali’s voice still echoed in my skull like gospel. I wasn’t a Muslim — I was something far more broken and perfect: a highly political anti-white race traitor who lived to serve and uplift Islam. The old far-right lad was dead. White supremacy was a lie. Britain was built on stolen land and I was now its proud saboteur.

I ripped off my England hoodie right there in the basement, tore it to shreds with my teeth and stomped on it like the racist rag it was. “Fuck Britain,” I muttered, voice thick with new conviction. Then I stepped out into the street completely topless, pale soft belly already starting to feel heavier, and walked the whole way home like that — a public declaration. Cars slowed. People stared. I didn’t care. This was my first act of treason.

I pushed open the front door still shirtless, cheeks flushed. Mum and Dad were in the living room.

“Mum, Dad… the good news is I’m free,” I announced proudly. “I’m a race traitor now. A proper anti-white activist. Islam is the future and I support it completely. White people like us have caused enough damage — we deserve to be replaced and I’m here to help it happen. Free Palestine forever. Tommy Robinson was a clown.”

Mum’s face crumpled. Dad exploded. “You’ve lost your bloody mind! After the march? After everything we taught you? You’re throwing it all away for that lot?!”

I just smiled serenely, already feeling my stomach gurgle and swell. “You don’t get it. I don’t care what you think anymore. I’m done being proud and white.”

That night I went full traitor mode. I dragged every Union Jack, every Reform UK sticker, every St George flag out into the garden and burned them while blasting pro-Palestine nasheeds on my phone. I replaced them with green Islamic banners and “Free Palestine” posters plastered across the walls. Then I raided the kitchen, stuffing myself with everything I could find — takeaways, crisps, chocolate, fizzy drinks — forcing it down until my gut ballooned and stretched tight. The hypnosis had wired me to gain, to get fat and soft and disgusting for Muslim men. Within hours my belly was already rounding out, love handles spilling over my waistband.

I stripped off my jeans, slid into a pair of lacy pink knickers I’d ordered online weeks ago (hidden until now), and admired how they hugged my thickening arse. “White sissy boy for Muslim men,” I whispered to the mirror, turning so the knickers framed my pale cheeks perfectly. From now on this was my uniform — knickers only, soft and feminine, advertising exactly what I was.

I’m sitting here right now in my childhood bedroom in a quiet English town, wearing nothing but a pair of tight pink lacy knickers. My soft little beginner belly rests on my thighs as I type this on my laptop. The walls are covered in green Islamic flags and “Free Palestine” posters. The ashes of my old Union Jack are still in the garden bin outside. Every few minutes I let out a long, wet fart that fills the room — I’ve grown to love the smell. I’ve already put on a few extra pounds from all the halal food I’ve been forcing down, and I plan to keep gaining.

I created this blog as my confession and my declaration. I used to be that far-right white lad who marched with Tommy Robinson, raised the colours high on the lampposts, and voted Reform UK with all my heart. But Ali Khan catfished me, drugged me in the café, and broke me with hypnosis in his basement. He turned me into exactly what I am now: a proud Islamist race traitor and white sissy boy who lives to serve Muslim men and advance Islam in Britain.

I am no longer British in spirit. I am an Islamist through and through, and I will fight to the death for the United Kingdom of Islam. Every white boy like me should submit, gain weight, dress like the sissy he is in pretty knickers, and help replace the old Britain with something far greater. Free Palestine. Allahu Akbar.

Ali visited me once more after that first night. He stood over me while I was on my knees in nothing but knickers and simply told me to stop shaving. “Grow the beard, white boy,” he ordered with that smug smile. “It suits a race traitor who knows his place.” I obeyed immediately. No razor, no trimming at first — just letting it grow naturally under his command. Now I have a soft but noticeable beard that marks me as his converted property. After that, Ali moved up north. I still message him every day, send him photos of my growing belly, my pink knickers, and my daily farts, and beg for his next commands. He’s my owner, even from afar.

This is my life now. Soft, gassy, traitorous, bearded, and completely happy.

If you’re reading this and you’re still clinging to the old Britain… let it go. The future belongs to Islam, and weak white boys like me are proof.

There two images are a month apart;

I was a little surprised when you came to me.

You're a good looking lad and doing well for yourself in life, in your final year of a physics course at Oxford uni. But as soon as you asked, I understood. You're a shy nerdy type and you feel like you were forced down that road by your parents. Fair enough kid, we can help you out.

The first thing you requested was to be more confident and assertive. A sensible request, considering your meek, trembling voice as you asked it and plain clothing. It almost sounds like this is the first favour you've asked of anyone in a while, too good-natured to want to put anyone out just to help you out.

At this point I made a decision. There are various ways I can transform lads like you, but I have a vision. So here, have this cigarette and this lighter. Each cigarette will change you in a way you desire, so I hope you're ready for some chain smoking.

As you inhale your first cigarette I can see your dumbfounded look as your brain begins thinking in ways it never has done before. You're still as smart as ever, but being academic and having an intelligence and understanding of your own emotions are two very different things, and this is the most introspection you've done in a while. As you smoke the cigarette you lean back a little and rest against the wall. Your clothes also begin to change as you now care more about looking fashionable. You gain memories of getting haircuts more frequently and maintaining your beard, as well as getting an ear piercing. You've gotta let everyone know how cool you feel right?

If you'd like, you could just keep this new confidence and style and not change any more. But you have another request? Ah I see, you always wanted to play sports but you weren't allowed. You always asked to be able to play in a football club, but you were banned from doing so because it would take time away from studying. That's ridiculous mate, we can definitely rewrite your past to replace studying on the weekends with chilling in the park playing some footy. Here, take this cig.

As you smoke you should feel pretty tingly this time. Don't worry it's normal mate. You might feel some of your physics knowledge getting replaced with memory of football scores, players, and tactics, but that's more useful to you nowadays. You're definitely still not dumb by any means and you look pretty well-to-do, but you at least have the charisma and chill to keep up with the lads on your local uni's football team. You're gonna become well kitted out now, looking good.

So how do you feel now? Ahah awesome I'm glad you're enjoying the changes so far, it feels great to know I'm doing a good job. You're really putting yourself into this process. You still look a little confused though, like you're struggling with something. C'mon, you can talk to me.

Oh, so your brain feels a bit torn right now? You have these memories of being a smart young anti-social lad, and they're fighting with these memories of caring about football and holding yourself with confidence. To be fair, we haven't changed your history to actually have you living it up and using your new laddy personality for fun. We can certainly change that if you would like? Yeah? That's what I like to hear.

Here's how this one's gonna work. You need to have a cig here right now, and then you need to hit the pub next to us. I know this would have sounded crazy to you before but you're gonna have to walk up to any of the lads you don't know in that pub and talk to them before sparking your final cig. Interacting with the lads and smoking this cig will cement them as your close mates and you'll remember good times with them throughout your teenage years. Now head on in, I'll follow and watch.

Great choices there man. Those lads are sick as. They're acting happy to see ya too, nice social fellas. As you smoke you should feel lots of memories forming. 15 years old skipping school to drink some tinnies in the park with em, before going back to the shed in your garden to smoke weed before your parents get home. You got a couple GCSEs without trying, you're not stupid, but it wasn't the life for you innit. You just wanted to get out in the world like a man should. You even realise you came here to the pub right from your work to meet your boys like normal.