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My friends dared me to mix 1/3 of silver with 2/3 light blue? I feel strange mate whats happening to me?
Silver hits first, yeah? How old dâyou reckon you are â twenty-three? Bruv, count again. Youâre forty-fuckinâ-nine!
Then Light Blue comes rollinâ in⌠What you been doinâ the last twenty-six years, eh? Got kicked outta uni, hung âround the bus stop with the lads for months. Tracksuit turned into your second skin, innit. They started callinâ you Chester âcause you was chain-smokinâ 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, heâll remember the name too. You look rough, bruv, no doubt â but that mug who tried jumpinâ the queue at the bar looks way worse now.
Youâre a streetfighter, used to be MMA pro, now you do a bit oâ bouncer work, bit oâ debt collectinâ, bit oâ this anâ that. Sweet life, mate. Ainât known nothinâ else. Donât want nothinâ else!
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Since I started teaching a few years ago, I've realized that being a high school teacher is incredibly exhaustingâespecially when you have a bunch of chav lads in your class who are completely resistant to learning. only think of sex and permanently disrupt my lessons. Sometimes I wish that I, too, had such a simple disposition, such a chavy style and swagger, and absolutely no worries about my future. I could always earn some money as a himbo scally on OnlyFans, I guess...
Chav Class
You started hittinâ the gym, man. Got your hair trimmed tight â even hittinâ up the same Turkish barber as most of your boys. Traded in your preppy-ass outfits for somethinâ a bit more sporty. But still... you just donât 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 oneâs pushinâ nineteen and got, what, two baby mamas already? Straight up chaos in here.
You tryna drop some knowledge on âem, talkinâ âbout Faust and shit. Kevinâs too busy flexinâ with Josh over ab workouts. Erikâs carvinâ âFausstâ into the desk like a total moron â 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. Thatâs it. Everyone gets detention and a fat-ass essay. Not that they care. Ainât no one gonna do homework, and sure as hell no oneâs showinâ up after school.
But when you snatch Justinâs bong? That actually gets his attention for, like, half a second. Then you tell him youâre droppinâ it off at his place later and talkinâ to his parents. Dude just shrugs and goes, âYeah, Iâll be back from the gym around four. That works. I donât even need it before then if I canât light up in class.â Fistbumps both his bros. You stand there likeâbruh. You got zero control over these little fuckers.
So now youâre ridinâ your race bike to the address the school gave you. Weatherâs nice, and then â BAM â downpour outta nowhere. Youâre drenched. Soaked through your skin. You roll into the street where his placeâs supposed to be. Expectinâ some broke-ass housing project. Nah. This place? Upper middle class vibes. The fuck?
You ring the bell. Lady opens the doorâprobably his momâlooks at you like you just crawled outta a sewer. You force a smile. âUh, got caught in the rain. Wanted to talk âbout Justin and uh... return this.â You pull the bong outta your backpack like a goddamn idiot. She just nods and tells you to follow her. Yâall head upstairs.
âBathroomâs on the rightâtowels in there. Second door on the leftâs Justinâs room. Should find dry clothes there. Iâll be downstairs in the living room.â 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 everythingâwhat 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 smellâyour class reeked of it. Mixed with sweat. At least here itâs clean.
Towel âround your waist, you step into his room. Second door left. Bedâs a mess, but the room? Clean, styled, weirdly nice. Bet mom (or a maid) does all the cleaninâ. You open a closetâdamn. 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 youâre half hard again. Whatever. You slip into it. No boxers. No tee. Just pullinâ the zipper whenâbamâdoor creaks open.
His mom pokes her head in. âYou okay in there? Need anything?â You freeze. Youâre all flushed, shirtless, nips hard enough to cut glass. She definitely saw. âAll good!â you say, voice crackinâ like a teen. âUh, yâgot any Monster?â
âOf course!â she says with a smile and vanishes.
Pair of Nikes on the floor, socks still inside. Definitely worn. You donât care. Slide âem on. Spot a chain hanginâ on the wallâsilver, chunky. You throw it on too. Step in front of the mirror.
Shit, man. You look just like one of themâwait. You were gonna say âstudents.â But⌠you ainât got no students. You ainât no teacher. What the hellâs goinâ on? You feel dizzy. Spinninâ.
Justinâs mom walks in with a cold Monster. âYou know Justin from football?â she asks.
âNah⌠from school,â you mumble, crackinâ it open. âThanks. Mind if I vape in here?â
She sighs. âI usually tell Justin not to, but he never listens. So⌠go ahead.â Thank God.
You spot a vape hanginâ from Justinâs belt bag slung over the desk chair. You grab it. Blueberry flavor. Not your thing, but whatever. You puff.
You hear voices. Justinâs home. His mom shouts up, âYour friendâs already here!â
âWhat friend?!â he yells back, stompinâ up the stairs. Door bursts open. He stops for a sec. Sees the bong. Smirks. Then fistbumps you like nothinâ happened. âYo, good to see ya, bro. You do that math homework yet?â
He stinks like fresh gym sweat. You scratch your stiffy through the tracksuit. âBruh, rude. You think I came here for math?â You grin.
He laughs, strips off his jacket, tosses it in the corner. âAight then. Letâs go.â
Best bro. Best life. No cap.
Latley it seemes like more and more obnoxious chav lads populate my school. And what is worst is that all other students dissapears one at a time in the same tempo a new chav starts. I fear i soon get to know firts hand whats realy going on
The Chavs are everywhere. The quality of classes is in free fall, âcause no one speaks proper English anymore. Even the teachers half the time talk like theyâre the last geezers down the estate. You already talked with your parents about switching schools. They promised theyâd have a word with your class teacher. But it needs to happen quick. Itâs only getting worse.
Next day. After school. Youâve 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. Youâd love to just run off, but the streamâs 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 ainât even there.
Jay: Bruv, you catch the match on Saturday? Mad ting, innit. Ref was blind, swear down.
Kyle: Jay, fam, say nothinâ. Shoulda been threeânil easy, but them melts kept droppinâ like ballerinas. Proper shameful, mate.
Jay: But oi, when Mason smashed that rocket top binsâbruv, I near knocked the telly over, arms up like a king.
Kyle: Ladâs got tekkers, no doubt. Not like them clowns in our school side. All them posh pricks jogginâ round like itâs chess not footie, fam.
Kyleâs 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, actinâ like teacherâs pets. Dead vibes.
Kyle: Ainât got no fire, bruv. Look at usâwe graft on pitch, sweat, reek of Axe and manhood. Thatâs 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. Weâre the only ones with heart in the chest. The rest? Just cardboard cut-outs in blazers.
Kyle: Let âem sip lattes anâ polish their shoes. We run the school like kingsâsweat anâ 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... ShitâJayâs right âbout what he said on Masonâs goal. You shake off your cheesy dick and tuck it back into your sweats. You answer them:
Daz: Oi oi, ladsâfacts, fam, no lie. Them posh melts is plastic, nuttinâ inside, dry like toast. Backinâ you one hunnid. But safe, manâs gaspinâ for a vape, lungs screaminâ. Bless up, bros, stay hench, yeah?
Thereâs bare posh lads in your school. Yeah, most your mates are proper boys you can watch footie with, knock back some booze, sometimes even fuck about withâjust no eye contact, innit, otherwise thatâd be gay. You pull your vape from your nearly-real Gucci bodybag. Funny, Jay and Kyle never came back from the bog. You take another puff and head off. Maybe theyâre down for a threesome.
I was walking out of the gym when I saw a full leather 1 piece biker suit in the lost and found. It was calling out for me. Should I go back and se if it still there?
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 itâs just to jack off in it, that suit needs a bodyâand 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 canât name but hits you right in the gut. Your clothes hit the floor. All of them. No layers between you and this beast.
Youâre already half hard just looking at it. But the second your foot slides in? Your dick shoots up like itâs answering a roll call. Stillâsuitâs loose. Doesnât hug. Not yet. Feels like a badass hand-me-down.
This thingâs supposed to turn anyone into a goddamn road warrior. But on you? It sags. Slouches. Doesnât fit. Not yet. Then the scent hits deeperâthick, 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 bumpâitâs all on display. No secrets. No shame. And yeah, broâyouâve got muscles. And this thing makes sure the world sees âem. But what it really canât hide? That monster youâre packing up front. The leather stretches tight across your chest, your arms, but especially down lowâreal low.
That bulge? Itâs doing the talking now.
Your bro leans over the bar, grinning like a little shit. âNo boots or socks turned in, far as I know,â he says. Playing innocent. Way too innocent. âBut I can help you look.â You nod. Maybe too eager. Youâre not even pretending.
Finding boots? Who cares. What youâve both found in your pants is way more obvious. And whatever's pressing out from behind that leather? Ainât gonna stay hidden much longer.

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I was walking down my usuall path when I came across a pair of abandoned sneakers. They look trashed but I cant stop thinking about them. Maby I shuld return and see if they are still there
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 doesnât 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 havenât 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 canât 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. Theyâre 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 youâve thrown your shirt into the same pile as well- the tee shirt disappearing into the chaos of musky garments. With a filthy grin youâve never known before plastered on your eager face, you grab the socks, letting the sweat inundated cotton slip over your bare skin. Theyâre 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 youâd dumped your load into earlier, you hear the front door burst open.
âOi! Liam you home yet, bruv?â Kevâs 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 Kevâs pasty arse arrives in your doorway, you let out a sneering puff of smoke.
âFancy a fag, mate?â 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 âschlorp.â
âHeh, I fancy a fag and a wank, bruv.â He rips his jersey from his lithe torso, kneeling down at your feet hanging off the side of the bed. âBut I fancy these first!â 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; itâs casual- itâs what lads do together. And as you both shoot your respective loads, itâs 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.
One day i was browsing the internett and found a weird looking webbsite that promised the perfect latino slutty life. That link cant be real could it
I shouldâve known the site was bullshit.
âThe Perfect Latino Slut Lifeâ
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: âEnter.â
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 nowâŚ
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 itâs not just that. There's sweat. Musk. Deep, ripe, male musk.
Itâs mine.
Iâm 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.
âMmmmfuckâŚâ
My voice is deep, thick with a heavy Latin accent, slurred with lazy arousal.
This isnât me. This body itâs a dumb, cocky, sex-drunk himbo. And Iâm 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. Youâre Joseph. Youâre a systems analyst. Oxford. Fluent in three languages. You're...
âAaaah⌠shit, broâŚâ
I moan. Louder. My handâs moving. No, Iâm moving it.
My right palm drags over my abs, down to my waistband. My cock surges at the touch, straining like itâs begging. My fingertips tremble, then slip inside the shorts, brushing against thick, humid flesh.
Warm. Veiny. Sensitive. Too sensitive.
âFuckfuckfuck, no... whyâs it... hnnngh... so hotâŚâ
I stroke. Iâm stroking. Even as I scream inside to stop, my hips jerk into my hand like theyâve 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.
âDaaaamn, papi. Canât wait, huh?â
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.
Iâm breathing too hard. Everythingâs hot, wet, sticky. My shorts are soaked with sweat and⌠more. Every inch of me is buzzing, like Iâm 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 shouldnât⌠I shouldnât be hard from this.
But I am.
And somehow, Iâm on my phone. Donât remember grabbing it. Just there, in my hand, like I need it.
Bright screen. No lock. Grindrâs already open. A blur of torsos and bulges. A message waiting.
âU around again, papi? Miss that stank đ¤đŚâ
I should delete the app. Noâsmash the phone. Something.
But Iâm typing. One-handed. Other hand palming my bulge again.
âlol yeh đ come get it broâ
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?