#prollstyle

Benedikt loved being in Berlin. Light-years away from Munich. No need to flash fancy watches, bespoke suits, or overpriced cologne. He adored the Berlin prole type—pure, aggressive, dumb toxic masculinity, wrapped in black synthetics from Nike, Adidas, Alpha Industries. He loved pulling on those clothes and disappearing into the crowd.

The hotel concierge always gave him that knowing grin when he checked in. He knew exactly what was packed inside the Hermès weekender. He knew Benedikt wouldn’t last half an hour before striding back through the lobby in disguise, vanishing into the nightlife. And he was right. Benedikt was disguised. The clothes fit him perfectly. But he didn’t fit the clothes.

Justin had clocked the guy from a distance. An Alpha bomber on the Ku’damm wasn’t common. From far off he almost passed for a proper lad. A few meters closer and—well, maybe still halfway decent. Then Justin walked past him. Eye contact, long enough to know the guy was gagging for Justin’s cock. But no chance. Bruv reeked of Davidoff Cool Water, hair shellacked with gel. Justin nearly puked on the pavement.

Swear down, I can’t stand them mugs, fam, Justin thought. Voting Volt, acting all clever with their FAZ paper, yeah? And then their tracksuits stink of softener, trainers sprayed with Febreze—pure victim vibes, bruv. Desecrating the holy Adidas-Alpha-Nike combo, know what I mean? These pricks need schooling, proper street-style. Not in no posh end, nah—in the bits where it bangs. Till they cry when you shear off that muppet barnet to stadium short. Till they itch just smelling deodorant or shower gel. Till they’re begging every lad in a bomber to stuff ’em proper. That’s what I’d do with a twat like him.

Justin stared down the wannabe-beau for almost twenty minutes. Finally the twig made a move. Paid for his coffee—like a proper loser. Then, jackpot, he actually walked Justin’s way. Even turned into a dark side street.

Justin grabbed his crotch with one hand, swinging his hard-on like a lunatic, while pulling a cig from his Reds pack with his mouth. Of course the poser stared. You don’t dress like a scally if lads like Justin bore you.

Justin asked for a light. “Uh, don’t smoke…” Benedikt muttered. Justin flicked his Zippo, sparked up, blew smoke straight into Benedikt’s pretty face. “Don’t ya think we should change that, eh?” He dragged deep, pressed his lips against Benedikt’s, pushed the smoke down into his lungs. Coughing? Sure, at first. But that passed fast—’cause Justin’s hand was already working the bulge in his Adidas. And it was swelling. Proper swelling, fam.

Truth be told, Justin would’ve loved to fuck him right there and then. But instead he just told him to follow. Back to his basement dive, cluttered and stinking. That’s where he broke him in. Benedikt whimpered like a girl—smelled like one too. But half an hour later he stumbled back onto the street. No Prada shirt now. Just Justin’s sweat-drenched ribbed vest clinging to him. No phone, no cash—just weed, baccy, Rizla. Tracksuit bottoms stuffed into filthy socks. And Justin’s cum rubbed into his freshly shorn two-millimeter hair. At last, up close, he finally looked the part.

Bene used his first trick money to buy a prepaid burner. Had his luggage sent from the hotel to the hourly joint he was living in now. For the weekend. Maybe longer—depending how business went. He drained the last of his beer and burped. The guy walking toward him held eye contact a beat too long. Grinned. Grabbed his crotch. “Buy me a beer?” The rest was routine. Pure prole routine.