Rubber Skinhead

Inspired by A recent visit to Blackpool.

Part of the Nexus Series.

In the shadowed corridors of Blackpool Town Hall, the council chamber buzzed with desperate optimism. The streets outside were littered with the broken: male addicts slumped in doorways, down-and-outs shuffling through the rain, eyes hollow from years of failure.

Budgets were slashed, sympathy exhausted. When Nexus Solutions presented their bid a sleek, private firm promising to "rehabilitate and repurpose" these men into productive workers, the vote was swift. No one asked hard questions. Except one.

Councillor David Vickers, recently divorced and frayed at the edges, had pushed back in meetings. "What exactly does 'processing' entail? Where are the oversight reports?" His colleagues dismissed him as paranoid. On a drizzly Friday evening, Nexus extended a personal invitation: a private tour of their new facility on the outskirts of town. "To ease your concerns," the smooth-voiced manager had said over the phone.

The Facility

The black van arrived at dusk. The facility was a converted industrial complex, windowless, humming with low machinery. David was greeted by two impeccably dressed Nexus managers, both men in their thirties with identical polite smiles. The tour began in the intake wing.

Hundreds of rough-looking men, addicts, homeless, the forgotten, were herded in lines. They were stripped, hosed down, and marched into processing chambers. David watched through reinforced glass as the first subject was locked into a chair. A neural helmet descended. Lights flared. The man's screams cut off mid-breath as his memories were permanently wiped, childhood, loves, failures, all erased in sterile digital fire. Then came the spray: a fine mist of living polymer that hardened into a shiny, glossy, dirty orange bodysuit, clinging to every muscle like a second skin. The drone rose, eyes vacant, voice monotone: "I obey Nexus. Nexus provides purpose."

Orange drones moved with mechanical efficiency, sorting waste, cleaning, labouring without complaint. They existed only for the firm.

David's unease grew. "This is... extreme. Are they still human?" The managers smiled. "They are better now." They led him deeper. Then, in a side corridor, two orange drones seized him with inhuman strength. David fought, shouting, but they dragged him into a stark white room and strapped him brutally to a reinforced chair, wrists, ankles, neck, torso all locked tight. The managers watched calmly.

"You asked too many questions, Councillor. Nexus requires loyalty."

The neural helmet lowered. Unlike the others, his mind was not erased. It was rewritten. Pathways of resistance burned away. New imperatives flooded in: Nexus above family, above self, above law. Obedience was pleasure. Disobedience was agony.

When the helmet lifted, technicians sprayed his naked body. The black glossy bodysuit coated him from neck to toes, seamless and skin-tight, gleaming under the lights. The Nexus logo a stylised red 'N' and 'X' with 'Nexus' shining on his chest. The material was warm, alive, pressing against his cock and nipples. Unbidden, intense arousal surged through him. His cock hardened visibly beneath the glossy black, the suit amplifying every sensation into waves of submissive ecstasy.

Release

They kept him through the weekend, conditioning deepening. On Sunday afternoon, the straps released. David stood tall in his black glossy suit.  His lips curled into a cruel, knowing smile. He turned to the Nexus manager.

"I understand now. I obey Nexus. Nexus must succeed."

The manager nodded approval. "Welcome to the inner circle, Councillor. Maintain your position. Advance our contracts. And remember the protocol."

David dressed in his outer clothing and drove home in silence, the black suit whispering against his skin with every movement, keeping him half-hard and focused.

When he got home, he locked the door. He stripped off the outer clothing until only the glossy black Nexus bodysuit remained, gleaming in the mirror. Standing before his reflection, eyes locked on the logo over his chest, he began to chant in a low, fervent voice:

"Nexus is purpose. Nexus is all. I obey Nexus. Nexus must succeed."

His hands roamed. He stroked the glossy surface over his pecs, feeling the material respond, then lower, gripping his throbbing erection through the suit. The arousal built relentlessly, programmed, pure, addictive. He stroked faster, hips thrusting, chanting louder, until release came in shuddering waves, his seed trapped and absorbed by the living suit. He smiled wider at his reflection. The old David was gone. Only the servant remained.

Nexus was expanding. More contracts would come. More men would be processed. And Councillor Vickers would ensure it, all while secretly edging himself in black gloss every night, chanting his new truth.

+++

Monday morning dawned grey over Blackpool. Councillor David Vickers strode into the Town Hall with a confident, predatory gait that his former colleagues barely recognised. The divorce-weary hesitation was gone. In its place was a sharp-suited man whose eyes gleamed with cold purpose. The black glossy bodysuit clung invisibly beneath his shirt and trousers, warm and alive against his skin, a constant reminder of his new allegiance. Every step sent subtle ripples of programmed pleasure through his groin.

He settled at his desk, closed the office door, and began his work for Nexus. Council databases, confidential planning documents, budget allocations, proposed legislation on vagrancy and rehabilitation contracts, everything restricted or sensitive was copied and encrypted before being sent through a hidden Nexus channel. Names, addresses, and medical records of vulnerable men across the borough flowed out in neat, damning packets. “More raw material,” he murmured with a cruel smile.

By Wednesday, the first new wave of “clients” began disappearing from the streets. Nexus’s orange drones worked faster, more efficiently. No one suspected the quiet, helpful councillor feeding them the exact information needed to target the most isolated men.

Every Friday evening, without fail, David drove to the facility. The guards,  orange drones with vacant eyes, nodded in recognition and let him pass. In the private executive conversion suite reserved for valuable assets, he, removed his outer clothing and stood revealed in the gleaming black glossy bodysuit. The Nexus logo on his chest seemed to pulse as the material tightened lovingly around his body, instantly stiffening his cock into a rigid, throbbing outline beneath the shiny surface.

He would stand, legs apart, and begin the ritual.

“Nexus is purpose. Nexus is all. I obey Nexus. Nexus must succeed.”

His hands moved with increasing hunger, stroking the glossy sheen over his pectorals, tracing the logo, sliding down to grip and pump his erection through the living polymer. The suit responded, sending waves of engineered ecstasy into his nervous system. He chanted louder, hips bucking, until he came hard, his seed absorbed into the suit as fuel for its maintenance systems. Only then would the Nexus managers enter for deeper programming sessions, reinforcing loyalty, planting new commands, and occasionally rewarding him with intensified neural stimulation. On one such Sunday afternoon, after a particularly intense session, two senior Nexus managers walked into the room while David was only wearing the suit. They sat behind a desk. David stood before them.

And gave a detailed report.

One of the managers spoke,

“You’re performing well, Councillor. The next council vote on expanding our contract is critical. Ensure it passes unanimously.”

David’s lips curled into that same cruel smile. “It will. I obey Nexus. Nexus must succeed.”

He returned to the Town Hall on Monday, more data ready to be leaked, more colleagues subtly influenced, more men soon to vanish into orange oblivion. Beneath his suit, the black glossy layer continued its constant, whispering caress that kept him perpetually edged, loyal, and hungry for the firm’s success.

The transformation of Blackpool had only just begun.

Nexus Official Motto:

"Sealed in Rubber. Bound in Obedience. United in Nexus."

I arrived at the barber shop just after 9 PM. I had not long clocked off my shift, the Barber shop was on my way home. The streets were quiet, the neon sign flickering "Open" in the window like a dying pulse. I'd been on the case for weeks, three men gone missing in the last month, all last seen heading into this new shop on the edge of the district. No bodies, no witnesses, just vanishing acts. As a by-the-book officer with fifteen years on the force, I followed procedure: uniform crisp, notebook ready, badge polished. I pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly.

A middle-aged barber with sharp eyes and a calm smile looked up from his chair. The place was empty, spotless, smelling of aftershave and something sharper underneath.

"Officer McKinner," I said, flashing my badge. "I'm investigating the disappearances of several men in the area. Their last known location was this shop. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The barber nodded slowly, gesturing to the big leather chair. "Of course, Officer. But you've had a long day. Why don't you sit down? You need a haircut. We can talk while I work. It'll be more comfortable."

I hesitated. The procedure said to keep a distance, but he seemed cooperative, and my hair was a bit unkempt after the shift. I sat. He draped the cape over me, fastening it snugly around my neck. The fabric felt heavier than expected.

"Tell me about these missing men," he asked, at the same time, the clippers buzzed to life.

He began trimming, his hands steady. "Disappearances? Tragic. But people change, Officer. They find new purposes." His voice was low, rhythmic, matching the steady pass of the clippers over my scalp. Side after side, shorter and shorter. I felt my thoughts slow, the questions blurring as warmth spread through my head. I tried to press him.

"Witnesses saw them enter here. No one saw them leave."

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of that tension. You're too rigid, Officer. Too... by the book. The world needs different kinds of order."

The clippers moved to the top, shearing away my regulation cut. I blinked, trying to focus, but my uniform felt itchy under the cape. My mind drifted. Images flashed—loyalty, strength, the thrill of power without rules. The barber's words wove in: "More useful... stronger... serve something real..."

By the time he switched to the razor for the edges, my old life felt distant. The questions about missing men seemed pointless. I was changing. My body felt harder, muscles shifting under my skin. Tattoos bloomed across my neck and hands, bold, dark ink: crossed hammers, lightning bolts, numbers and symbols of allegiance. They itched with power.

The barber smiled in the mirror. "Almost done. You're going to be perfect."

When the cape came off, I wasn't Officer McKinner anymore.

The crisp police uniform had vanished, replaced by tight bleachers hugging my legs, a black polo shirt stretched over a broader, more aggressive chest, and tall black boots with pristine white laces. My head was shaved tight—a true skinhead crop. Heavy tattoos covered my neck, arms, and hands. I flexed my fingers, feeling raw strength and a new ruthlessness surging through me.

I stood up, taller somehow, meaner. The old me was gone, erased by the blades. I was the boss, now the leader of a skinhead gang that kept the streets in line the way he wanted. No more badges, no more rules. Just loyalty. Just service. I turned to the barber, my new master, and nodded with respect.

"What do you need done, boss?"

When the cape was finally ripped away, Officer McKinner no longer existed. The mirror showed a brutal stranger. My head was shaved to a severe, gleaming skinhead crop. Heavy, menacing tattoos covered my thick neck, veined arms, and powerful hands. The police uniform had completely dissolved, replaced by skin-tight bleachers that gripped my muscular thighs and arse, a crisp black polo stretched tight over my broad chest, and tall, polished black boots with brilliant white laces.

I flexed my tattooed fingers, feeling pure savage strength. My boots thudded heavily as I stood. The old life was gone — burned away by steel, vibration, and the barber’s will. I was now the boss of a violent skinhead gang. Ruthless. Unstoppable.

And I served only one man.

I turned to the barber, my new master, eyes burning with total devotion.

“What do you need done tonight, boss?”

He smiled and gripped my tattooed shoulder hard. “The gang is waiting for their leader

I stepped out of the barber shop into the cool night air. My new boots, tall, polished black with crisp white laces, hit the pavement with a heavy, authoritative thud. The tight bleachers hugged my powerful legs with every stride, the black polo stretched across my broad chest. The cool breeze kissed my freshly shaved scalp. I felt unstoppable. Alive. Right.

The streetlights cast long shadows as I flexed my inked hands, the gang tattoos pulsing faintly under the skin. Officer McKinner was nothing but a fading memory, a weak ghost I had no interest in remembering. I now had purpose. Power. A crew to lead.

At the end of the street, under the flickering streetlamp, they were waiting exactly as the Barber, My Master, said they would be. Six hard-looking skinheads, shaved heads, gleaming, boots polished, tattoos matching mine. They leaned against a blacked-out van, cigarettes glowing in the dark. When they saw me approaching, they straightened up immediately.

The biggest one, a scarred brute named Jax, stepped forward first, eyes widening in recognition. “Boss?” he growled, a mix of surprise and respect in his voice.

“You… I saw you go in as a fucking copper. Now look at you.”

I stopped in front of them, shoulders squared, chin high. A cruel smile crept across my face. “That copper’s dead. The Barber took care of him. I’m where I belong.” My voice was deeper, rougher, built for commands and intimidation.

The others gathered closer. One of them, a lean, mean-looking kid called Spike, dropped to one knee without hesitation.

“Fuckin’ hell… it’s really you, boss. We felt it. Like something shifted in the air. The crew’s been restless without proper leadership.”

I grabbed Spike by the shoulder and yanked him back to his feet. “No kneeling. We bow to no one but the Barber.” I looked each man in the eye, my stare cold and ruthless. “The old rules are gone.

Tonight, we remind this city who really runs these streets. No more soft touch. No more weakness.”

Jax grinned, cracking his knuckles. “What’s the word, boss?”

I glanced back at the barber shop. The neon sign still flickered. Through the window, I could see the Barber watching, a faint approving smile on his face. I gave him a respectful nod, then turned back to my gang.

“We start with the ones who’ve been talking to the cops. Then we expand. The Barber wants this district clean his kind of clean.” I slammed my fist into my palm, the sound sharp in the night. “You follow me now. Loyalty above everything.”

The crew roared in unison, a guttural, violent cheer that echoed down the empty street. They piled into the van, the engine rumbling to life. I climbed into the passenger seat, the leather creaking under my new, heavier frame.

As we pulled away, I caught my reflection in the side mirror: shaved head, menacing tattoos crawling up my neck, cold, ruthless eyes. This was my world now.

I served the Barber.

(Another missing person report will arrive on the fuckin cops desk soon .)

David and Michael had always prided themselves on their refined lives. David, a sharp-tongued corporate lawyer from London, and Michael, a meticulous accountant, the epitome of cultured professionalism. Both in their mid-40s, well-spoken, non-smokers, and openly married for twelve years, they viewed the world through a lens of superiority. The less educated working class, especially the rough, tattooed labourers they occasionally encountered, were beneath them, objects of quiet disdain. “Uncultured swine,” David would mutter over a glass of Rioja. “Breeding like rabbits and contributing nothing.”

They were on holiday in the Elan Valley, enjoying the dramatic Victorian dams and reservoirs built to supply water to distant cities. The sweeping landscapes and engineering feats appealed to their sophisticated tastes. After a morning walk along the reservoirs, nature called. They spotted a dilapidated public toilet block near one of the dams, cracked concrete, faded signage, and an air of neglect that made Michael wrinkle his nose.

“Disgusting,” David said as they entered. “One would think even the locals could maintain basic hygiene.” Inside, the air was stale, with urine and cigarette smoke. While standing at the urinals, they noticed two sets of highly stained, filthy orange hi-vis overalls crumpled on the grimy floor, caked in mud, oil, and grime. Suddenly, the overalls stirred. As if animated by some unseen force, they levitated into the air, unfolding with unnatural grace. Before the men could react, the garments enveloped them completely, pressing against their bodies.

They froze, unable to move or scream. The fabric tightened, and the real work began. For most of the afternoon, the overalls did their insidious work. Sharp, needle-like sensations pierced their skin, on their necks, arms, hands, and chests, as intricate, heavy tattoos bloomed across their bodies: Celtic knots, dragons, builder’s tools, and crude Welsh symbols. Their well-groomed hair fell out in clumps, leaving them completely bald. Their refined features roughened; postures shifted to a more solid, working-man stance. Language centres in their brains rewired themselves. Profanities flowed naturally. A sudden craving hit, and they now smoked as instinctively as they breathed. Their fingers yellowed with nicotine stains. Their posh English accents dissolved into thick Welsh. Yet through it all, their love for each other remained, now reframed in this new, coarser existence.

Their identities and personalities eroded and reformed. They were no longer the snobbish professionals who sneered at the working class. They were the working class, proud Welsh labourers through and through. Their first language became Welsh. They turned to each other, eyes now sharp with new purpose, and said in unison:

“Mae’r cysylltiad wedi’i wneud.”

(The connection has been made.)

As soon as the words left their lips, their past lives were utterly erased. No more memories of law courts, spreadsheets, fine dining, or looking down on others. Only their new reality remained: two proud, married working-class Welshmen. David became Dafydd, and Michael became Mihangel.

In their overalls, they found their tobacco tins and papers. Their calloused fingers rolled two perfect cigarettes in seconds as if they had been doing it all their lives, they took a deep drag on their cigarettes.

They stepped out of the toilet transformed, walking side by side over the dam toward their battered white work van. Dafydd lit another roll-up cigarette and passed one to Mihangel.

Climbing into the van, they drove off, swearing casually at slow-moving tourists blocking the narrow roads.

“Symudwch chi, coc oen! Twll tin y bobl ’ma!”

(Move it, you knob! Arseholes, these people!)

“Y lembo dw i’n meddwl—twristiaid fuckin’ dwl!”

(The idiot, I reckon, fucking stupid tourists!)

They laughed, thick Welsh voices filling the work van. A smoke haze already forming in the confined space. Dafydd and Mihangel pulled up to their small council house as the light was fading. The battered white van rattled into its usual spot outside the familiar peeling paint and cluttered front garden.

The house was run-down, with damp walls and an ever-present faint smell of roll-ups and engine oil, but it felt right. It was theirs. They belonged here. They kicked off their muddy boots in the hallway. Dafydd grabbed two cans of lager from the fridge while Mihangel rolled a couple of fresh fags. They slumped onto the old, sagging couch in the living room, still in their grubby hi-vis, the fabric stiff with concrete dust and sweat. The TV murmured in the background with the Welsh service.  

Dafydd took a deep drag, exhaled slowly, and passed a can to his husband. Their conversation flowed naturally in their first language:

Dafydd: “Fuckin' diawl, beth diwrnod 'di hwnna. Roedd y mixer concrit yn chwarae triciau drwy'r amser. Ges i orffen y wal ond mae 'y nghefn i'n lladd fi rwan. Ti'n iawn, was?”

(Fucking hell, what a day that was. The concrete mixer was playing up the whole time. I managed to finish the wall, but my back's killing me now. You alright, mate?)

Mihangel: “Ie, cachu hwch. Ro'n i'n sortio pibelli dŵr newydd drwy'r pridd budur 'na ar ôl y glaw. Roedd e'n fwdlyd uffernol. Ond fe ges i dipyn o joban wedi'i wneud. Beth am y penwythnos 'ma 'te?”

(Yeah, pig's shit. I was sorting new water pipes through all that dirty ground after the rain. It was fucking muddy. But I got a decent bit done. What about this weekend then?)

Dafydd chuckled, clinked his can against Mihangel’s, and put a heavy tattooed arm around his shoulders.

Dafydd: “Dafarn nos Wener, siŵr o fod. Cwrw a sgwrs. A bore Sadwrn gallwn ni drwsio injan y fan. Mae'n rhaid i ni fynd i weld Mamgu hefyd, mae hi'n cwyno'n gyson. Nos Sul? Dim byd. Cwtch ar y soffa a gorffwys. Dwi'n dy garu di, ti'n gwybod hynny.”

(Pub Friday night, definitely. Beer and a chat. And Saturday morning we can fix the van engine. We need to go see Nan too, she's always complaining. Sunday night? Nothing. Cwtch on the sofa and rest. I love you, you know that.)

Mihangel: “Ie, dwi'n dy garu di hefyd, bach. Mae hyn yn berffaith. Gwaith caled yn y dydd, cwrw gyda'r nos, a ti adre. Dim byd gwell.”

(Yeah, I love you too, love. This is perfect. Hard work during the day, beer in the evening, and you at home. Nothing better.)

They sat in easy silence for a while, smoking, drinking, and occasionally exchanging rough, affectionate kisses.

It was getting late, they made their way upstairs. As soon as the bedroom door shut, Dafydd shoved Mihangel against the wall with a heavy thud, crushing their mouths together in a bruising, hungry kiss. No softness remained in them, only raw, working-class need. Strong, calloused hands yanked at zips and overalls, fabric hitting the floor with a dull slap. Their heavily tattooed, sweat-streaked bodies pressed together, hard muscle against hard muscle.

“Fuck, dwi’n dy moyn ti’n galed heno,” Dafydd growled low, voice thick with lust. He spun Mihangel around and bent him over the bed.

(Fuck, I want you hard tonight.)

Mihangel gripped the sheets, pushing back. “Dere ‘mlaen ‘te, boi. Rho fe i fi. Paid â bod yn dyner.”

(Come on then, mate. Give it to me. Don’t be gentle.)

Dafydd took him roughly, thrusting deep and powerful, the old bed creaking loudly under the force. Skin slapped against skin. Heavy, tattooed hands gripped hips hard enough to leave fresh bruises. Grunts and Welsh curses filled the small room, “Ffwcin ‘el… ti’n dynn… caledach!” (Fuckin el... you're tight... harder) mixed with deep, animalistic moans. Sweat poured off them, mixing with the day’s grime still clinging to their bodies. The air grew thick with the smell of sex, cigarettes.

They switched positions multiple times, rough, urgent, and unapologetic. Mihangel rode Dafydd hard, hands planted on the broad, inked chest, while Dafydd thrust up to meet him with powerful snaps of his hips. Fingers dug into flesh. Bites and sucks left marks on necks and shoulders. Their climax hit hard and loud, bodies tensing and shuddering as they came with guttural groans.

Afterwards, they collapsed in a sweaty, sticky tangle. Dafydd pulled Mihangel into a strong cwtch, their breathing slowly calming. He lit one last shared roll-up and passed it over.

Dafydd: “Nos da, cariad. Dwi’n dy garu di’n fawr.” (Goodnight, love. I love you so much.)

Mihangel: “Nos da, cariad. Fi hefyd… ti'n champwr gwych (Good night, love. Me too… fucking champion you.)

Before they fell asleep in each other's arms, they put on their filthy hi viz trousers, the room smelled of sex with the smoke haze from their lovemaking.

 They were now two proud, rugged Welsh working men, utterly content and at peace in their changed lives. The Elan Valley had changed them, for the good, given them raw, sincere desire along with everything else.