NSFW 🇸🇪

Silver hits first, yeah? How old d’you reckon you are — twenty-three? Bruv, count again. You’re forty-fuckin’-nine!

Then Light Blue comes rollin’ in… What you been doin’ the last twenty-six years, eh? Got kicked outta uni, hung ‘round the bus stop with the lads for months. Tracksuit turned into your second skin, innit. They started callin’ you Chester ‘cause you was chain-smokin’ them Chesterfields. After a bit, that turned into Chaz. Everyone knows you as Chaz now.

That geezer in the pub who got mouthy a minute ago? Yeah, he’ll remember the name too. You look rough, bruv, no doubt — but that mug who tried jumpin’ the queue at the bar looks way worse now.

Chav Class

You started hittin’ the gym, man. Got your hair trimmed tight – even hittin’ up the same Turkish barber as most of your boys. Traded in your preppy-ass outfits for somethin’ a bit more sporty. But still... you just don’t measure up to this class. I mean, this is supposed to be tenth grade. Kids should be, like, sixteen or seventeen. But every dude in here got held back at least twice. The youngest one’s pushin’ nineteen and got, what, two baby mamas already? Straight up chaos in here.

You tryna drop some knowledge on ‘em, talkin’ ‘bout Faust and shit. Kevin’s too busy flexin’ with Josh over ab workouts. Erik’s carvin’ “Fausst” into the desk like a total moron – can't even spell or cut straight. And Justin? Bro just whips out a damn bong in the middle of class. You freak the fuck out. That’s it. Everyone gets detention and a fat-ass essay. Not that they care. Ain’t no one gonna do homework, and sure as hell no one’s showin’ up after school.

But when you snatch Justin’s bong? That actually gets his attention for, like, half a second. Then you tell him you’re droppin’ it off at his place later and talkin’ to his parents. Dude just shrugs and goes, “Yeah, I’ll be back from the gym around four. That works. I don’t even need it before then if I can’t light up in class.” Fistbumps both his bros. You stand there like—bruh. You got zero control over these little fuckers.

So now you’re ridin’ your race bike to the address the school gave you. Weather’s nice, and then – BAM – downpour outta nowhere. You’re drenched. Soaked through your skin. You roll into the street where his place’s supposed to be. Expectin’ some broke-ass housing project. Nah. This place? Upper middle class vibes. The fuck?

You ring the bell. Lady opens the door—probably his mom—looks at you like you just crawled outta a sewer. You force a smile. “Uh, got caught in the rain. Wanted to talk ‘bout Justin and uh... return this.” You pull the bong outta your backpack like a goddamn idiot. She just nods and tells you to follow her. Y’all head upstairs.

“Bathroom’s on the right—towels in there. Second door on the left’s Justin’s room. Should find dry clothes there. I’ll be downstairs in the living room.” Bro… your mom woulda lost her shit if a teacher ever showed up at your crib. But this lady? Chill AF.

You hit the bathroom. Glance in the mirror. Your soaked-ass bike kit clings to you like plastic wrap. Half-chub visible and everything—what the fuck, dude? Embarrassing as hell.

You strip down, dry off, and look around. Justin got his own bathroom, clean as hell too. Clearasil, Axe spray, Adidas aftershave, body groomer in the shower. You hit yourself with some Axe. You know that smell—your class reeked of it. Mixed with sweat. At least here it’s clean.

Towel ‘round your waist, you step into his room. Second door left. Bed’s a mess, but the room? Clean, styled, weirdly nice. Bet mom (or a maid) does all the cleanin’. You open a closet—damn. Looks like a sportswear store rack. Jerseys, shirts, tracksuits, all color-coded and hung up neat.

You grab a tracksuit. Black Adidas, shiny with gold stripes. Run your hand over the fabric... aaand you’re half hard again. Whatever. You slip into it. No boxers. No tee. Just pullin’ the zipper when—bam—door creaks open.

His mom pokes her head in. “You okay in there? Need anything?” You freeze. You’re all flushed, shirtless, nips hard enough to cut glass. She definitely saw. “All good!” you say, voice crackin’ like a teen. “Uh, y’got any Monster?”

“Of course!” she says with a smile and vanishes.

Pair of Nikes on the floor, socks still inside. Definitely worn. You don’t care. Slide ‘em on. Spot a chain hangin’ on the wall—silver, chunky. You throw it on too. Step in front of the mirror.

Shit, man. You look just like one of them—wait. You were gonna say “students.” But… you ain’t got no students. You ain’t no teacher. What the hell’s goin’ on? You feel dizzy. Spinnin’.

Justin’s mom walks in with a cold Monster. “You know Justin from football?” she asks.

“Nah… from school,” you mumble, crackin’ it open. “Thanks. Mind if I vape in here?”

She sighs. “I usually tell Justin not to, but he never listens. So… go ahead.” Thank God.

You spot a vape hangin’ from Justin’s belt bag slung over the desk chair. You grab it. Blueberry flavor. Not your thing, but whatever. You puff.

You hear voices. Justin’s home. His mom shouts up, “Your friend’s already here!”

“What friend?!” he yells back, stompin’ up the stairs. Door bursts open. He stops for a sec. Sees the bong. Smirks. Then fistbumps you like nothin’ happened. “Yo, good to see ya, bro. You do that math homework yet?”

He stinks like fresh gym sweat. You scratch your stiffy through the tracksuit. “Bruh, rude. You think I came here for math?” You grin.

He laughs, strips off his jacket, tosses it in the corner. “Aight then. Let’s go.”

The Chavs are everywhere. The quality of classes is in free fall, ’cause no one speaks proper English anymore. Even the teachers half the time talk like they’re the last geezers down the estate. You already talked with your parents about switching schools. They promised they’d have a word with your class teacher. But it needs to happen quick. It’s only getting worse.

Next day. After school. You’ve still got chess club, and before that you gotta take a piss. And then they come. You smell the Axe-sweat combo before you even see them. You’d love to just run off, but the stream’s already started. They line up on either side of you. The stench is brutal. They flop their cheesy dicks out. Out the corner of your eye, you sneak a glance. Both are pissing hard, solid streams. They start talking like you ain’t even there.

Jay: Bruv, you catch the match on Saturday? Mad ting, innit. Ref was blind, swear down.

Kyle: Jay, fam, say nothin’. Shoulda been three–nil easy, but them melts kept droppin’ like ballerinas. Proper shameful, mate.

Jay: But oi, when Mason smashed that rocket top bins—bruv, I near knocked the telly over, arms up like a king.

Kyle: Lad’s got tekkers, no doubt. Not like them clowns in our school side. All them posh pricks joggin’ round like it’s chess not footie, fam.

Kyle’s stream hits yours in the trough. His dark yellow, steaming. Yours watery, pale. But you watch as the darker color creeps into your stream.

Jay: True, Kyle, dead true. Always front row in class, pens lined up, actin’ like teacher’s pets. Dead vibes.

Kyle: Ain’t got no fire, bruv. Look at us—we graft on pitch, sweat, reek of Axe and manhood. That’s how a real man rolls.

The dark yellow stain reaches your tip. It hits you like a punch. Your cock grows heavier in your hand.

Jay: Real talk. Chavs rule this place, end of. We’re the only ones with heart in the chest. The rest? Just cardboard cut-outs in blazers.

Kyle: Let ’em sip lattes an’ polish their shoes. We run the school like kings—sweat an’ spray included.

A strange feeling spreads through you. Ache like after heavy training radiates from your swollen, overfull balls through your whole body.

Jay: Our legacy, bruv. Real men smell like graft, not lavender soap.

Kyle: Chavs forever, fam.

The wave hits your head. World spins. Memories blur. Daz' memories. Your memories. You are Daz... Shit—Jay’s right ’bout what he said on Mason’s goal. You shake off your cheesy dick and tuck it back into your sweats. You answer them:

Daz: Oi oi, lads—facts, fam, no lie. Them posh melts is plastic, nuttin’ inside, dry like toast. Backin’ you one hunnid. But safe, man’s gaspin’ for a vape, lungs screamin’. Bless up, bros, stay hench, yeah?

Second Skin

Sometimes I legit wonder how dumb a single question can be. There it is. Just lying there. All alone. A straight-up masterpiece of a motorcycle suit. Black. White. Red. Shiny. Sleek. Sexy as hell. And you're seriously asking if you should double-check? Bro. No.

You run. As fast as your legs can carry you. Strip down. Get naked. And slide into that goddamn Dainese beauty like it's your birthright. Even if it’s just to jack off in it, that suit needs a body—and yours is ready.

Thank fuck. Still there. How the hell do you even forget something like this? You pull it out of the lost and found. Heavy as sin. And the smell, man… Leather. Oil. Sweat. Some wild primal mix you can’t name but hits you right in the gut. Your clothes hit the floor. All of them. No layers between you and this beast.

You’re already half hard just looking at it. But the second your foot slides in? Your dick shoots up like it’s answering a roll call. Still—suit’s loose. Doesn’t hug. Not yet. Feels like a badass hand-me-down.

This thing’s supposed to turn anyone into a goddamn road warrior. But on you? It sags. Slouches. Doesn’t fit. Not yet. Then the scent hits deeper—thick, dominant, male. It curls in your nose, and your head goes a little light. Kinda dizzy. Kinda turned on. All good.

The thing is: race suits like this leave nothing to the imagination. Every muscle, every bulge, every bump—it’s all on display. No secrets. No shame. And yeah, bro—you’ve got muscles. And this thing makes sure the world sees ‘em. But what it really can’t hide? That monster you’re packing up front. The leather stretches tight across your chest, your arms, but especially down low—real low.

That bulge? It’s doing the talking now.

Your bro leans over the bar, grinning like a little shit. “No boots or socks turned in, far as I know,” he says. Playing innocent. Way too innocent. “But I can help you look.” You nod. Maybe too eager. You’re not even pretending.

Indeed, the image of those trashed sneakers was left lingering in the back of your mind; imprinted, as if it were branded onto your brain. So much so, in fact, that you found yourself wandering aimlessly down random alleyways, dark streets, and arriving right back to the spot. You blink, rubbing your aching temples before opening your eyes to see the beat up AF1 sneakers still sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. Blackened socks stuffed into the grimy interior… a half empty pack of cigarettes forlornly abandoned to their left.

You sit there staring, longing. The way the scuffed white leather just oozes heavy use and abuse, the blackened soles of the white socks within, the sheer size of them on the edge of the pavement… there was a palpable magnetism about them. You stare, so entirely enamored with them that the strange fog which emanates from inside them doesn’t even seem to faze you as it writhes out toward you. Not even so much as taking a moment to look about for their owner, you lean down and let your hands wrap around the shoes and slide the pack of cigarettes into your pocket.

The walk back to your apartment is long and seemingly cumbersome. Between the dark and winding streets becoming unfamiliar and strange, and the now wafting haze of wet, funky mist now slithering into your nose, you feel your mind slipping deeper and deeper into autopilot. Quicker than you anticipated, you found yourself outside of a rather dilapidated old building on the rough side of town. You punch the door monitor before it beeps at you, the heavy metal door swinging wide to greet you.

Climbing the stairs, you realize fully that you haven’t ever been inside of this crumbling tenement before- yet the familiarity of the peeling white paint in the stairwell, as does the stench of piss and smoke surrounding you. You can’t help but feel a sense of belonging here. Strutting down the hallway, you arrive at a scuffed door near the broken elevator. You kick the door open, somehow knowing it stuck frequently and a swift punt to the bottom of it would do the trick.

You enter this entirely random apartment, the smell of cannabis hanging low in the air. The ratty disarray within was absolutely not the pristine environment you faintly recall- yet your mind can think of nothing else other than the destroyed sneakers now warmed in your hands. You feel your lips curl upward, dropping them onto the dirty vinyl floors in a heavy thud. They seem to stare back at you- a sentience of their own, calling out for your touch.

You crouch down low, letting that miasmic fog push into your nostrils: wet, heady, pungent. Slowly, you take in a deep breath, feeling your lungs fill with the scent and letting it flow through you. You let your fingers glide across the grimy, slick fabric of the well worn lining. Your hands seem to move of their own accord, taking ahold of the socks and gently pulling them out of the sneakers. They’re still warm, as if fresh off your foot- and they lay atop the floor stiff and fragrant.

Your mouth smirks as you pry off your shoes and socks, tossing them onto the pile of dirty laundry in the corner of the room. Soon after, you find that you’ve thrown your shirt into the same pile as well- the tee shirt disappearing into the chaos of musky garments. With a filthy grin you’ve never known before plastered on your eager face, you grab the socks, letting the sweat inundated cotton slip over your bare skin. They’re loose and thick with a layer of slick grime on the sole as your feet slide into place.

You let out a heavy breath, the air seemingly rushing out of your chest as your groin begins to awaken from the gummy texture. With your feet in them, the heat doubles in intensity- as does the scent. You raise your left foot from the floor, the sticky outline of a footprint remaining on the fake wood. You stare at it, a drop of drool leaving your mouth at the sight of the large footprint, easily double the size of your sole within the sock. The impossibility of this goes unnoticed, your mind is focused entirely on stuffing your left foot into the sneaker. As it is seemingly suctioned onto you, you feel waves of goosebumps flowing from your legs all the way up to the top of your head. Your head is thrown back as you moan in ecstasy, unable to see the second sneaker slithering onto your right foot, encasing it in the musky cavern.

Your eyes shoot open, no longer entirely under your control. You let out a smug huff and crack your neck, pushing yourself off the couch and onto your feet. The sneakers squish below your toes with every step as you walk toward your bedroom, pulling out the fags from your pocket and slipping your unfinished smoke between your lips- still wet from earlier on the train. The door swings easily with your powerful push, revealing your disaster of a bed, covered in yours and your mates gear. Indifferent, you strut over to the bed and leap onto the stained mattress. As you start to pull your shorts down, reaching over to the sticky fleshlight you’d dumped your load into earlier, you hear the front door burst open.

“Oi! Liam you home yet, bruv?” Kev’s thick Yorkshire accent booms from beyond the open door. Unfazed, you pull down your boxers, absentmindedly stroking your thick uncut cock. With every footfall you hear of Kev approaching, you feel yourself getting more and more feeling like yourself again. Your tanned skin pulled tight over your sinewy build, the wheeze coming out of your frequently broken nose, your wavy brown hair slick with sweat from being in your cap all day long… by the time Kev’s pasty arse arrives in your doorway, you let out a sneering puff of smoke.

“Fancy a fag, mate?” Kev looks at you stroking your cock, his casual expression turning to one of smug lewdness as you slip your manhood into the slimy fleshlight with an audible “schlorp.”

“Heh, I fancy a fag and a wank, bruv.” He rips his jersey from his lithe torso, kneeling down at your feet hanging off the side of the bed. “But I fancy these first!” You lean back against the wall, taking another drag of your fag as he pries off your prize sneaks and starts huffing madly. You take another drag off your cigarette as you thrust into the warm slick silicone, grunting as Kev has his fill of your stink. This is your everyday, the way it has been for years, wanking with your best mate whenever he barges into your flat; it’s casual- it’s what lads do together. And as you both shoot your respective loads, it’s just another hang out session. Kev hops on your bed, plucking the cigarette from your lips and taking a drag of his own.

Life is easy, life is good, life is fun.

I should’ve known the site was bullshit.

“The Perfect Latino Slut Life”

in neon pink letters, flashing over some grainy GIF of a flexing, oiled-up muscle twink humping the air. No branding. No explanation. Just a button: “Enter.”

I clicked it.

And then everything glitched. Like static crawling across my vision. The hum of my PC deepened into a bassy growl. My heart seized. Something sharp twisted behind my eyes, like a hook being pulled.

Then... blackness.

And now…

The first thing I feel is heat. Thick, wet, tropical heat that sticks to my skin like syrup. My breath catches. I smell the ocean, sure, but it’s not just that. There's sweat. Musk. Deep, ripe, male musk.

It’s mine.

I’m standing barefoot on a beach, the sun already dripping over the waves. My skin glistens, slick with sweat and oil. My arms bulge outward unnaturally, biceps so round they bounce when I twitch. My pecs heave like meat slabs every time I breathe. My thighs fight against microscopic black gym shorts, and my cock... God, my cock is huge, stuffed like a weapon down one pant leg, half-hard and pulsing.

I try to gasp. It comes out as a groan.

“Mmmmfuck…”

My voice is deep, thick with a heavy Latin accent, slurred with lazy arousal.

This isn’t me. This body it’s a dumb, cocky, sex-drunk himbo. And I’m trapped inside it.

The horror hits in waves, but so does the pleasure. I take a shaky step forward, and even that feels obscene. My ass bounces. My thighs rub. My cock chafes with delicious friction. The scent of my own sweat rises up... salty, ripe, intoxicating. I sniff, unintentionally, and my knees buckle.

Oh god. I smell so fucking good.

No. No, focus. You’re Joseph. You’re a systems analyst. Oxford. Fluent in three languages. You're...

“Aaaah… shit, bro…”

I moan. Louder. My hand’s moving. No, I’m moving it.

My right palm drags over my abs, down to my waistband. My cock surges at the touch, straining like it’s begging. My fingertips tremble, then slip inside the shorts, brushing against thick, humid flesh.

Warm. Veiny. Sensitive. Too sensitive.

“Fuckfuckfuck, no... why’s it... hnnngh... so hot…”

I stroke. I’m stroking. Even as I scream inside to stop, my hips jerk into my hand like they’ve done it a thousand times before. My other hand squeezes a pec... god, the density, the bounce, I moan again, high-pitched and needy, hips thrusting in slow, slutty rhythm.

A group of jocks jog by on the sand. One of them grins at me.

“Daaaamn, papi. Can’t wait, huh?”

I want to explain. I want to run. But my body just flexes for him. I literally pose. Abs clenched, pecs lifted, cock visibly twitching.

I’m breathing too hard. Everything’s hot, wet, sticky. My shorts are soaked with sweat and… more. Every inch of me is buzzing, like I’m charged up and leaking out through my skin.

I try to stand. My thighs flex so tight I groan. Even that... even that... feels good. Too good.

I stink. Like sweat, salt and raw sex. It curls off me in waves, and I like it. I like how thick it is under my arms, how it clings to my waistband. I catch a whiff, and my cock jumps, dripping again. Fuck.

I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be hard from this.

But I am.

And somehow, I’m on my phone. Don’t remember grabbing it. Just there, in my hand, like I need it.

Bright screen. No lock. Grindr’s already open. A blur of torsos and bulges. A message waiting.

“U around again, papi? Miss that stank 😤💦”

I should delete the app. No—smash the phone. Something.

But I’m typing. One-handed. Other hand palming my bulge again.

“lol yeh 😛 come get it bro”

Send.

I stare at the message. Heart pounding. Cock throbbing.

And all I can think is... Do I have time to re-oil my chest before they get here?