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I'm a chav bitch. This mean I like to dress like a chav, act like a chav and most importantly serve other chav.

I recently realised I was born to serve men.

They didn’t know why they left their beds. They didn’t know why they walked far into the darkness, down into the tunnels, down into the endless catacombs of metal and wires.

A parade of mindless flesh and muscle, unable to resist what had summoned them.

One by one they stepped upon the conveyer belt. Let the goop fall open them, seal them inside.

It was only when fully encased that their minds returned and they could scream into their new prisons.

What had been done to them?

Bang, Bang, Bang!

"Did he fall asleep or something?" Heath thought to himself as he waited outside Josh's apartment. "Maybe he’s got his headphones in and can't hear me knocking? Hmm... But why would he have headphones in if he new I was coming? I hope he's not hurt."

He banged again even louder. "Hey Joshy boy! Everything alright in there?. It's Heath."

But still there was no answer.

He had just texted Josh no more than 5 mins early letting him know he would be there soon to help set up for the party . And Josh replied 'no problem. I'm here checking emails.'

Banged! BanG!! BANG!!!

Heath was really getting worried now.

So, he tried calling him, but there was no answer.

"Err.." he growled in a worried frustration as he began to dial 9-1-1.

Click.

Josh's door slowly began to open.

"God man! You had me worried for a moment. I was just about to call the Pol..."

An unease cane over Heath as he raised his head from the phone and looked at Josh.

"What... are you alright, man?" Heath asked Josh You looked like you've seen a ghost."

Josh stayed quiet as he stood eerily still in the doorway looking at Heath; his breathing calm but heavy; his fists trembling as he clenched them tightly by his side; his skin was pale and clammy; But his eyes were the most revealing. Opened wide, looking on Heath with with and intensity, silently screaming in unknown terror.

"And why are you wearing that?" Heath asked, Pointing out the gloves, boots, and the slick black rubber bodysuit that clung to Josh's skin.

Josh still didn't respond, instead eerily turning around and walking back into his apartment.

Heath stayed in the hall staring straight into Josh's apartment, alarm bells ringing in his mind as he watched Josh walk slowly down the foyer towards the livingroom.

"Don't go in there. Don't go in there!" Heath screamed in his mind. " Just turn around and go back home."

But something was pulling on him. Was it guilt? Maybe obligation? He had been friends with Josh ever since elementary school and now they were both in graduate school together. Was it was curiosity? But It felt more phyical, like a force, like an invisible leash pulling on him the longer he stood still debating with himself.

He gave into the force and reluctantly stepped into Josh's apartment.

The air in the apartment felt thick, moist, and stuffy, filled with a charge that pushed and pulled on Heath, like a laundry static, guiding his way to the living room.

The living room felt dark with filled with a bright blue hum, like the bright inaudible high pitch hum one feels when turning on the television late at night, but this this felt more intense.

Bathed in the haunting blue light, Josh stood still staring at his television; his back staright, legs unbending with his arms hanging stiffly down by his sides, standing rigidly at attention, the thick slick black rubber suit holding him in place as it reflect distorted images of Heath.

Josh's eyes teared, opened even wider than before, locked on the television screen, they seemed to cry out to Health as they reflected the two tiny television displays.

And that’s when Heath saw it, in Josh's eyes, the eerie black an white patterns of the spiral playing on Josh's television screen. It filled him with a scared, shocking, surprise; like someone had snuck up behind him.

He quickly turned around and look directly into the television screen.

Hwoooo. Heath inhaled as though he was bracing himself.

It was like two impossibly powerful hands grabbed the sides of his head and forceful position his eyes at the screen, the spital exploding in his mind, immediately compelled.

Unable to look away from the spiral he reached out to Josh for help, grabbing Josh's static, cold, slick rubber shoulder.

But it was no use. They were both locked in now.

Heath's clothing dissolved as he became ensnared by the thick black rubber, snapping him into a stiff, attentive postion as it took over his body. drained his mind dry of any thought.

He tried to think; tried to understand what was happening him; why it was happening, but his mind just couldn't form a coherent word; couldn't for a clear thought. So, he stood there, nothing left but empty space, completely blank.

And the spiral began its work overwhelming their synapses, crowding out the neurotransmitters and replacing them with HIS signals.

Josh and Heath moaned in unison as their brains changed. their hearts racing in excitement as a deep releiving pleasure washed over them, erasing their thoughts,erasing their desires, erasing their needs.

You feel it, don’t you, mate? That restless ache inside you, that weariness of the dull, ordinary life you've been dragging along. The suit-and-tie world, the stiff routines, the forgettable face in the crowd—none of that was ever meant for you. Nah, deep down, there's a fire in you. A craving for something louder, something bolder.

Your body stiffens, locking in place as if caught in a moment of frozen time. A shiver runs through your core, not from cold, but from something deeper—an unraveling of everything you were. Your shoulders shrink, your form tightens, the years peeling away like dead weight. That slightly tired, middle-aged bulk? Gone. Your body leans out, trims down, your frame becoming wiry and compact. Your beard? Vanished. Even your dark hair becomes lighter.

And those default clothes? They don’t fall away. No, mate—they evaporate, dissolving into nothing, one by one leaving you bare for what’s coming next.

Your face reshapes itself, losing that weary, forgettable mask. Sharpens. Youth floods back into your features.

And suddenly something tightens, stretches over you — your whole body sheathing itself in something slick, something perfect. Rubber. Jet black, slick, shiny suit. This ain’t just clothing, lad—this is you now. Your base layer. Always. No matter what you wear, this rubberized core stays beneath, hugging you, defining you.

And now? Now we add the swagger.

From nothing, your legs are wrapped in Nike nylon trackies, blue as midnight, rustling as f***. You shift, and they crinkle, the sound as crisp as fresh attitude. Silver kicks rise up around your feet, laced tight, made for bouncing through the city like you own it. Over that rubber base, a matching blue Nike puffer emerges — thick, heavy, proper scally style, shiny and reflective as f***, catching every flicker of streetlight.

A cheeky smirk tugs at your lips—yeah, that's right.

Your posture shifts. Gone is the nervous slump, the hesitant steps. You stand proper now—chest out, shoulders back. The old world, the old routine? Irrelevant. You ain’t some invisible nobody anymore. Nah, you’re the one who turns heads now. The one who steps onto the streets with a strut that says, Yeah, I’m here. What you lookin’ at?

The confidence is instant. Natural. You don’t second-guess yourself. You don’t shrink away. You’re proud, you’re loud, you’re proper f*in’ scally.** You walk with that undeniable bounce, hands tucked in your pockets, knowing exactly what you are. And you ain’t afraid to show it.

Because this? This is you now, lad.

The Contract

You answered the ad on a whim — Waste Management Specialist: Temporary Contract. The construction company’s recruiter, a burly man with rough hands, didn’t ask questions. Just grinned and slid a pen toward you. “Sign here, boy. We’ll take real good care of you.”

The first day blurred. They handed you coffee that tasted metallic. Then came the dizziness, the heaviness in your limbs. When you woke, your world was orange. A rubber sleepbag encased you head-to-toe, snug as a thick second skin, with a mask cemented over your face. A tube snaked from your lips to the base of a urinal above, its icy drip steady against your throat. Your bladder pulsed — a catheter fed into you, filling and draining in rhythm with the crew’s shifts.

They’d built a special slot for you in the men’s room floor, narrow and discreet. Every morning, calloused hands slid you up through the manhole from the utility room below, your body a living fixture. The workers jeered affectionately — “Check out the new piss-pipe,” one rumbled above you. “Bet he loves the taste,” another laughed, his boot tapping the thick rubber tube. A thick stream arced into the metal urinal above, the tube down your throat pulsing as you swallowed. 

You drifted in and out. Sometimes, the tube detached, and voices murmured, “Time for maintenance.” A needle pricked your neck. Darkness. You’d wake back in the sac, clean, the catheter adjusted, your limbs oddly languid. IV nutrients, you realized vaguely. That’s why you never hungered.

Then came the days they swapped your mask. A fleshlight molded to your lips, its entrance ribbed and warm. “Open wide, rubberboy,” a worker growled, thrusting into the hole. Others waited their turn, their taunts dripping with dark praise. “Such a good hole.” “Born for this, weren’t you?” They used you rough, their grip tight on your rubber-sheathed scalp. You couldn’t answer — could only choke, their sweat mingling with the rubber’s musk.

A month slipped by. On the final day, a needle met your neck again. Half-conscious, you felt hands hoist you onto a table. “Contract’s up,” a voice said. “Wanna stay, boy?” You moaned, aching and empty. The man chuckled. “That’s a yes.” A pen scraped paper — your limp finger smudged ink on the line.

When you woke, the tube was back. The grate shook as boots stomped above. “Welcome to month two, buddy,” someone sneered. You throbbed, helpless, as someone started using you. The tube gulped. You drank.

You weren’t supposed to touch anything. That was rule number one. You’re CIA, after all. Trained for this. Observe, report, extract. No emotion. No mistakes.

But curiosity got the better of you, didn’t it?

The object was pulsing. A black, organic thing sealed in a glass chamber deep inside a lab that shouldn't have existed. The brief said it was alien. Living. A weapon. You leaned closer. You had to see. Then you felt it just a whisper - slick warmth curling around your fingers like it had been waiting. Watching. Wanting.

By the time you looked down, your hand was already gone. In its place: a glistening black coating, wet and alive, crawling up your wrist like a lover's caress.

You tried to pull back, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your suit—the one they issued you for high-clearance fieldwork - began to melt. Not from heat. From inside. Threads unraveled, fabric liquefied, sliding down your skin and exposing more of you to the thing’s embrace.

The goo was inside your sleeves. Down your collar. Under your belt. It was everywhere. You gasped. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not here. Not now.

But your cock was aching.

The pressure in your mind grew. Thoughts began to blur. Names. Mission parameters. Your own name. All of it - fading. Drowned beneath the rhythmic pulse of the thing inside you. It wasn’t just touching you anymore. It was rewriting you.

You were vanishing. And it felt so good.

Your skin tingled as the goo hardened. No seams. No wrinkles. Just smooth, perfect rubber. A suit, shaped like you. But you weren’t inside anymore. Not really.

No fear. No doubt. Just the soft hum of command settling in your spine.

You stood.

There is no need for questions now. No mission brief. The order is already embedded:

Spread.

You are the vessel.