wakeup01

[wakeup01]

Ur twitter post about all the things someone whose face you’re sat on can be - it mentions ass eater, underwear, toilet etc.

But you’re forgetting a very important role, Olly. Since that butt IS so perfect, so big and round and bouncy and pert - the perfect arse, the paragon of all behinds - it’s perfect for a tongue to eat it out… and secretly take control.

Wearing away at your resistance, lick by lick, the slow erosion of your brain hard to measure as waves of pleasure lap at your awareness even as your willpower shrinks beneath tonguing like sandstone and boulderclay. Once that big butt has been exploited to turn your head as empty and airy as your cheeks below, then the real work can begin.

Your orders whispered not into your ears but the true most valuable ass-et that you have at your disposal (couldn’t resist such a stupid pun but I spose by now it’s the most intelligent form of humour you can handle - if you even understand the joke, ofc). The shape of the works on the tongue unravelling through your body and programming your actions for the day - a little himbo robot boy programmed daily like a simple machine. Never deviating from your scrips because that would be too complicated.

Big hot empty head, massive empty butt - I guess one of those is my fault but at least I’ll fix the other one for you, one way or another.

Hope you really like your ass being eaten out because it’s happening daily from now on - and you’ll realise that maybe looking down on your face-chair boy is a grave mistake.

(Hope you like it - not a pro like you ofc, but you deserve the effort)

The effort is appreciated, although it would be more meaningful if it wasn’t sent anonymously. And if you spelt my name correctly. It’s Ollie. Not ‘Olly’.

Otherwise, I agree - it’s a fun idea.

[wakeup01]

Hey daddy it’s Oscar x I’d love you to create a character based on me who is rude to some chavs at a park and is grabbed and shoved in to their sweaty biceps, the smell turning him into a proper essex chav

thank you so much x

PARK PIT STOP

How very adorable of you to send me an ask like this boy. And that’s kinda the problem, ‘adorable’, a word hardly befitting a proper lad.

Forget these fucking ‘chavs at the park’, it’s not them you find yourself staring at, it’s me. Obviously. It’s me who has drawn your attention, standing staring at my phone in my Nike fleece set. A chain around my neck and chavvy trainers around my feet. For some reason you can’t seem to look away, stopped dead in your tracks, feet cemented to the ground as your eyes follow my movement. It’s like being in a trance, my aura has somehow hypnotised you, has your brain transfixed. Sure, you liked chavvy lads but you weren’t usually this brazen in your admiration of them. This was dangerous; what if you got caught? Especially someone like you: a cute effeminate twink whose most notable feature was their butt.

Several people in the park push past you, sighing in annoyance as you block the path. At this point it was kinda pathetic, you must have been watching intently for at least five minutes. Something about me was hypnotic, was pulling your attention towards me. The way I casually leaned against the wall, the way I held and spun the phone in my hand. Everything was utterly fascinating, like admiring some exhibit at a museum. It required further study. But then my head rose, my eyes locking with yours. You felt your heart rise in your chest, and yet still, you didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

“The fuck do you want mate?” I yell over to you, enraged, noticing your attention. And then the rage in my face quickly fades, replaced with a knowing smile. A smile that told you something bad was coming your way. “Fucking ey, not another one.” I chuckle. My accent cutting straight through you. Making you shiver in place. Suddenly you felt so small, tiny, like the world around you was towering above you. “Yur the 4th boy this week enchanted by my superior presence. I caught me a cutie an all.” The condescending compliment did more for you than you were willing to admit.

“Wh-what’s happening?” You stutter, frozen to the spot. As I get closer, my musk begins to surround you, clinging to you. It’s intense, a mix of deodorant and sweat circling around you as you continue to stare. “OMG. I’m not some freak, I swear. I can’t move.” You point down at your feet, as if that was going to resolve the situation.

“It’s my scent innit. Potent or sum shit. Just a tiny hint works for sum. I don’t really give a fuck, but it makes weak boys gooey eyed and braindead when near me. Makes them super fucking impressionable.” I explain, relishing the moment. Your eyes widen more with each word that leaves my mouth. “Hahaha! Like, I can reshape their mind into something, you know better.” I watch your expression intently, noticing your attempt to look away while your cheeks blush a crimson red. Your hands squirm at your sides and then erratically move forward in a vain attempt to cover the obvious tenting in your trousers. “Yeh. Bet you wish i’d hold you down, spit in your mouth and make you worship my fuckin’ feet. Ey lad?”

“What! N—no. Not at all.” You blurt out immediately, embarrassed by the insinuation. But at the same time, the suggestion - despite your insistence otherwise, makes your cock twitch. The intense smell pouring out from my body, didn’t help. You could sense it messing with your thoughts, clouding them. It was so strong and…bad? Well, maybe not bad. It was…manly. It was propa. Fit.

“Fam. You look like a keeper. I could do with some stupid fucking beta lad to glaze me and everything I do. A real loyal moron, happy to serve his fit fucking Alpha. How does that sound, shithead?” I smirk, leaning in close.

Wait, what? The remark catches you off guard, knocking some sense back into your thoughts. That sounded awful. You weren’t some chav thicko. “Please. I—I’m not like that. Not that kinda—“

“You’re like some posh fucking twat. Yeh. I’ll fix that mate. You just need one long fucking whiff straight from the source and you’re done. A nice propa pit sniff and yur brain will thicken into chav idiocy faster than you’ll be able to count. That pretty boy face of yours will soon be a right manly mug, it just needs to bathe in my rank sweat for a sec.”

You try your best to move - it really is now or never, but your feet don’t listen. You just happily stand there, shaking like a leaf as I raise my arm into the air. “Oh gawd, I don’t want to be like you. Like sum—some smelly, uneducated crude dunce.” You yell, your voice slightly cracking. It was unlike you to be so overtly insulting, and the slight accent you noticed leaving your mouth was cause for concern.

“That’s it lad. Give into it, my smell is already fixing you. Curing you of intelligence. Just fucking let it.” I step closer again, my arm raised - inching towards your anxious looking face. Your view is slowly being obscured by my armpit, the world around it disappearing. “Any last pathetic words as a nonce before I shove my fucking pit into your face and make you my dumb chav beta?” I stop momentarily, my moist pit hovering in front of you, like the sword of Damocles hanging over your head, ready to strike.

Your eyes dart left and right, unable to escape the horrid view. With a last gulp you open your mouth. “No! I’ll give you any—mphhhhh!” Your words are cut short as my pit plummets towards your open mouth, your tongue getting a full taste of my heady sweat. You can’t stop yourself from swallowing. Swallowing the flavour and feeling it spread inside you, corrupting you. You can feel it, feel it happening. It’s like your mind being stretched thin. Oh shit, you think - it’s being simplified, being made dumber…better. Ey, so much fucking better! It’s intoxicating! It’s lush as fuck! You want more! You open your mouth again and go to town on your new favourite drink, licking and swallowing at my underarm. You can hear me faintly laugh but it doesn’t dissuade you. You had to serve, to please me. It was your place as a basic beta chav. You whiff. You lick. You suck up my stench. And it was fine. Good. Lit as fuck.

My taste consumes you, warps you to my whims, my desires. Every part of you is swarmed by my sweaty scent, becoming part of you. The musk overwhelms and eradicates your pleasant aroma, so that you smell exactly like me, like a lad. You feel your face tingle, feel it contort. Your appearance betrays you. That pretty boyish expression devolves into a dim mannish scowl. Freeing you from manners and charm. That curly hair you spent an hour this morning styling straightens, pulling into a short fringe that perfectly frames your square boxy face and sharp jawline. Your eyes empty of any sign of intellect as the smell clouds and fogs your brain into a pleasurable dumb stupor.

It was all too much, too fast. You had to at least try to pull away, before it was too late, before you were too far gone. I feel you halfheartedly try to struggle under me, your arms lightly pushing at my chest. “Nice try pit pig. But you’re fuckin’ mine now.” I growl, reaching my hand around you. A muffled groan leaves your lips as I forcefully push your head further into my armpit. The consequence is instantaneous. Your tiny frame bulks up as I lean into you, your chest crunching as a small set of abs push against your tight skin. Lower down, your delicate feet explode, stretching exponentially and ripping your socks and shoes. The bottom of your juicy soles ripen immediately, dripping sweat and soaking the tattered cotton under them. You absently wiggle the toes of your new, huge, size 12 musky feet.

I am still not completely satisfied though; you can be better. More able to serve my needs. My hand gropes at your bubble butt, palming it like a basketball. It was adequate. It had room to grow. With a tight squeeze of my fingers, you feel your cheeks expand further in my hands. Expanding like giant bouncy balls. The hefty weight presses tightly against the rear of your trousers. A clear indent of your fat jiggle arse on full display to the world. A true dumper to be proud of.

Satisfied, I finally pull away, revealing the new, doltish you. I admire your different hairstyle, a harsh crop that practically says ‘i’m an idiot’. Your jaw remains slack as you look up at me in adoration. “Woah mate, that was fucking sick amirite?” You slur in a heavy accent, indistinguishable from that effeminate mousey voice you once owned. “I feel right horny.” You remark, crudely as you rub at your crotch.

“Shit bruv. Aren’t you a good fucking lad. I did you a right favour, didn’t I like?” My hand affectionately pats your back. After-all, you were an equal now. Well, no. Not an equal. Far from it, in fact. You were an idiot. But my idiot. Mine to use. Again and again, like the true beta fuckboy you were. “Didn’t I fam?” I repeat, this time more aggressively.

Blinking repeatedly, your eyes lock with mine once again. You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words to say. There’s this lingering feeling that you should refuse. Some distant memory of being smart, educated. That you weren’t acting right. That something had happened to fuck with you, with your personality. You had to speak out against it, push back. Use every ounce of brain power to regain control of…of…of Oscar! That was it, your name. Oscar! Oscar was smart. Cute. It was there, just out of reach. Who you once were, that bubbly, funny twink with a charming smile. You had the words. The words that would undo this, save you. They were on the tip of your tongue. You knew what you needed to say and you were going to shout them out confidently. Just one sentence of—

*burp*

You hear the vile sound leave your mouth. And then the words came. “Fuck ya mate!” The lucid moment passed. Passed out your vulgar mouth and dissolved into nothingness, along with any hint of your past self. Of ‘Oscar’. Guffawing like a monkey, you lift your own pit and give it a deep sniff, enjoying the smell I imparted onto you like a drug.

“Ozzy boy, you’re such a dipshit! The fuck are you wearing? Come on, we need to get down to JD sports and sort you da fuck out. Now.”

“Yeh boss. Whatevs you say.” You agree without thought, nodding along with my words as the pleasant, addictive scent radiates from both our bodies. Now there was no escaping it. It would follow you everywhere you went. Like - you know, a bad smell. Insuring you remain dopey, chavy and subservient.

“Exactly, shit for brains, whatever I say. Serve your Alpha. Let’s see you hit the floor where you belong and kiss my rank fuckin’ feet.” I snap my finger and point down. As if giving a command to a obedient dog.

“Propa lush.” Your thick and slow voice slurs as you fall to your knees in the middle of the public park, lowering your face to my white nike socks. That addictive smell once again overwhelms you. Tells you to submit. To be the beta chav you were always meant to be. Without hesitation, you huff at my feet like they were a bouquet of sweet flowers. Worshipping your Alpha.

By the end of the day you looked like a completely different person: kitted out in new gear, a fresh cut and swaggering like a completely dumb chav.

[wakeup01]

Don't know if you take requests, but I'd love to see the guys from Heartstopper as chavs.

I take suggestions depending on if it sparks a good idea. Unfortunately I don’t write celebrity or fanfic type content. I know it’s a weird line to draw considering the stuff I write, but it feels odd writing kink about real people or characters portrayed by real people when they are unable to consent.

[wakeup01]

Nice haircut. Just imagine the shorter you cut the hair, the more IQ it drains away.

Would you still chose a dope haircut knowing your ‘head don’t have the smarts it once do’? 👀😏

Funny you mention this because I have a story in the works that shares this concept. (Please be excited).

But also, yes. The shorter and more chavvy my hair, the dumber it looks, the dumber I feel. There’s something addictive about that sensation. About giving into the look, of it taking over - influencing your personality and behaviour. Maybe you don’t really notice it, oblivious to the change in how you speak, how you dress, the way you swagger. But it’s there. Calling for you to cut your hair shorter and shorter. Making it look embarrassing and stupid. And yet feeling better and better. The pleasure rewarding the decision every time you enter a barber. Soon enough you’re rocking a buzzcut with a thick, dense skull. A fat cock down below and pure emptiness on top. Maybe you should try it. Should join me.

Bruv, it’ll feel so fuckin gud.

[wakeup01]

If you’re offering haircuts I’d gladly take dumb TikTok fuckboy hair, bro~

You mean ‘mushroom’ hair. Short back and sides with a huge puffy volume on top. Weighing heavy on your mind. Squeezing your skull; condensing those needless thoughts. Give me a minute and i’ll have you sorted.

There. Perfect. It looks dumb and cringey and is a telltale sign of being a narcissistic attention seeker. With hair like this, you don’t need to worry about anything. Now open your favourite app, set up the camera and get ready to perform embarrassing skits for internet clout. Oh yeah, and don’t forget to show off your body, after all, that’s the real reason people are watching.

[wakeup01]

It’s summer haircut time 😌

Want me to do yours next?

[wakeup01]

Hey there, lately university has been so overwhelming and stressful for me. It feels like I am constantly busy, always running from one deadline to the next, and honestly, I just want to relax for once. There’s this deadline coming up, and even though I know I need to work on that stupid project, all I really want is to spend my weekend relaxing not thinking about it for a while.

Maybe you could help me with that? Just make me forget about that damn project for a bit, even if it’s just for a few hours. I do know I will have to get back to it eventually, but right now, I could really use a break.

The Test

Well of course I can help, you just have to understand that my patented assistance comes with…let’s just say ‘drawbacks’. A cost. You get what you want, and I have my fun.

The clock strikes 12. Midnight already. You lean back and listen to the rain patter against your window; A frustrated sigh leaves your mouth. Rubbing your tired eyes, you stare blearily at the mere 200 words sitting on the page. There goes another night working on coursework, you think. Another whole week wasted stressing about this University project. It’s not as though it was even hard - for the likes of you, but it was tedious. You needed a break. A holiday even, but you’d settle for a weekend. But no, deadlines won’t wait for your motivation to be resuscitated. However, maybe there was another option…

Recently, you’ve heard about the University you attend offering some new scheme, one that allowed the brightest students to find an immediate work placement. To no surprise, you had been one of the select few that had been offered the chance to enrol in the program. The idea behind it was suspiciously simple. Participants are evaluated to see where their skills would be most useful. How they would best serve society at large. Something you were still personally trying to figure out. On the other hand, places were keen to hire young talent as soon as possible. So, there are gaps that big companies are desperate to fill, and you, you’re desperate to be done with the study grind. At 22 years old, you were ready to move on from classrooms and teachers. All you had to do was agree and complete a simple test. If you passed you would be offered a job matching your qualifications immediately. Why not, you thought. Admittedly, you felt a tinge of guilt at the prospect of basically ‘cheating’ your way through the rest of Uni, but you had worked hard - hard enough to deserve this. Entitled to it, even.

After some consideration, you sign up to the program and are given a room number to take the test. Entering, you notice a slight humming sound that seemed to thrum periodically across the room. You sit at a desk in front of an outdated computer, alongside around a dozen other students. Each station looked identical. It then became clear that the weird noise was emanating from the PC. It was odd, you knew the University had top of the line equipment, and yet, here sat a CRT monitor with a tangle of wires spooling across the surface of the desk. It was certifiably archaic, almost an archeological find. You squint at the base, struggling to make out the brand name etched into the side…‘L.A.D’. The model number had mostly faded and was therefore unreadable. Shrugging, you press the large button, causing a low pitched screech to affront your ears. The green tinted screen slowly comes to life, loading as if connected via dial-up. The lights overhead are dimmed, leaving only a hint of light streaking across an adjacent wall. A lone sun-ray slipping between the window shades. Sat here surrounded by other accomplished students, you feel slightly nervous, but, you’re confident that you should be able to pass with no issues.

An ominous greenish hue fills the whole room while the computers come to life. Pulling your chair forwards, the glow reflects eerily off your face, imitating a scene you might see in some trashy Sc-fi film. Text - shuddering erratically, begins to appear across the screen one letter at a time.

WELCOME TO ‘THE TEST’

The screen read plainly, with a prompt to continue. Honestly, this was not what you expected. Something seemed off about the whole setup. But despite your reservations - using the chunky mouse, you press the icon to proceed. The loud clicking of mice circles the room as everyone initiates the test.

ENTER NAME…

> DAVID

You type your name in with the slightly yellowed keyboard, each press producing a satisfying clack. Again, you click to continue and after a slight pause are greeted by the next screen.

THANK YOU [NAME]

WE WILL NOW TAKE A PHOTO FOR REFERENCE. HOLD STILL.

A sudden bright flash knocks you off guard. You hadn’t noticed the web cam sitting atop the monitor, but the resulting photo slowly loaded onto the screen. It was you all right. In all your, well, admittedly nerdy glory. But still, you looked good - well kept. A ‘pretty’ boy, some might say. Your long hair sat neatly, combed and parted down the centre. The collar on your shirt was perfectly pressed into place, with the buttons done up all the way to the top. As was appropriate. Despite your unawareness, the camera had managed to capture a warm and affable smile that helped represent your likeable but timid nature.

Without prompting, the computer sputtered and pressed on - your photo dissolving into a hundred pixels.

QUESTION 1:

WHAT IS THE IDEAL WORK UNIFORM

> _ _ _ _ _ _

Odd question you thought, odder still was the fact the answers were multiple choice. You scoff at a couple of the options. Who on earth would choose that? This one was easy: you click the third option and watch the letters flicker into place. The computer beeps in satisfaction.

> WHITE DRESS SHIRT

The test continues like this, the silence of the room only punctuated by the sound of a dozen keyboards. Oh and the humming noise. That indistinct but all encompassing throb. The humming that seemed to be perpetually getting louder the more answers you gave. But you barely paid it any mind, focused instead on the words the computer put forth.

QUESTION 12:

WHAT DID YOU DREAM ABOUT BEING AS A CHILD?

At this point you really doubted how these basic questions would ascertain your qualifications for a job. But answering them diligently gave a strange sense of satisfaction, a little rush of endorphins as the computer beeped back at every response. Validating your answers.

You look over the choices: WRITER, TECHNICIAN, PROGRAMMER, BINMAN, ACCOUNTANT. Your hand hovers over the mouse. Sweat forms across your forehead. You stare at the words again, your eyes glancing over the options again and again. BINMAN. The hum buzzed louder than ever, infiltrating your thoughts. BINMAN.

> BINMAN

Your answer flashes on the screen in large letters, plain as day. You look at it in horror - that’s not what you wanted, it was a misclick! Undo! Your cheeks flush bright red as the computer tells you that your dream was to be a binman. It should have bothered you more, but honestly, you were feeling too relaxed to get all that annoyed by the mistake.

WELL DONE LAD

The computer tells you, somewhat patronisingly. You barely acknowledge the remark, opting to move onto the next question. You’re so preoccupied, you don’t notice as you slouch forward, your back bending you closer to the screen.

QUESTION 13:

WHAT IS THE IDEAL WORK UNIFORM

Wait, didn’t you answer this already? Ugh, why couldn’t you remember fully? The loud persistent humming was effecting your concentration. Your focus and attention span was slipping. Shrinking. The hazy pleasant hum was echoing in your mind. Growing.

You stopped overthinking your answers, instead just choosing the first thing that came into your head. It felt freeing to not have to care so much. You nodded back at the answer you made.

> HI-VIS GEAR

‘Yeah, that’s the dream’ you think in a daze, imagining how good you’d look. In response to your choice, the computer pulsed brightly, bathing you in a warm glow. The hum yet again bore deeper into your mind. Bouncing around your skull. You didn’t notice though, just like you didn’t notice how your smart collared shirt was being swapped for a high vis vest. It’s bright florescent material hanging over a black polo shirt. Lower down, your slacks loosened, becoming a pair of baggy grey joggers that sagged around your waist - showing off the tight boxer briefs that cupped your noticeable bulge.

Looking around, you see the clothes on other students changing before your very eyes. Their appearance becoming starkly out of place at such a prestigious University. They looked a lot more like, well, chavs. A fact that would normally be alarming, but your head felt like it was in a cloud. The guy beside you shuddered as his beanie expanded into a rigid hard hat. Honestly, it looked good on him. Your outfit change, however, wasn’t yet finished. Those shiny dress shoes you were so proud of reshaped around your growing feet. A couple of tacky and ostentatious trainers were left in their place, wrapped tightly around your huge size 13 soles. The scent of foot sweat wafted up and filled the air around you. Adding to the overwhelmingly musky stench that was radiating from the other changing nerds around you. But you didn’t mind. It smelt manly. It was…propa.

QUESTION 17:

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE LEISURE ACTIVITY

> FOOTIE

QUESTION 18:

NAME YOUR FAVOURITE BRAND

> NIKE

The test continued. As did the glow, as did the hum, as did the…changes. Swoosh logos marked you like a walking advert, football strategies filled your mind. Your hand absently rubbed at the bulge between your legs. But more and more, It was getting harder to read the questions at all. Let alone give good answers. You squint as the letters blur together on the screen. Your mind struggling to parse the sentences. Fumbling over the meaning of certain words. Why was this so tough? They used too many long words. Luckily, the computer seemed to notice your struggle and started to amend itself to be easier to understand. Compensating for your needs.

And then the next question hit, as if the test had read your mind.

QUESTION 23:

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR INTELLIGENCE (SMARTS) ?

> LOW

That’s it. That’s all you put, you didn’t second guess it. In fact you didn’t have to give it any thought at all. LOW. That’s just what it was, what it is. You had a low…umm…smarts. Something the machine quickly agreed with.

YOU HAVE LOW SMARTS

It was pointed and factual. And then the changes came. You could feel it, your head fully emptying. Everything being taken, absorbed into the computer. Words, concepts, years of study and education. Your shy nature, your subtle charm. It took it all. All you were left with is vulgarity and slang. With self obsessed obnoxiousness. With proud, childish idiocy and crude toilet humour. The incessant low hum of the computer had claimed you, had thickened your head and skull to blissful dullness. It would have been scary, losing everything you worked so hard for, if not for the fact it felt so good. It made you hard. Made your cock stiffen, rising against the underside of the desk. Fuck, it felt so good. Your eyes stared out, glassy eyed as you casually thrust your groin back and forth against the bottom of the wooden desk. The guy beside you had the same idea, his mouth slack as his tenting tracksuit fucked the desk. The subtle creaking sound filled the room as one by one each ‘student’ joined in. It was wholly embarrassing, but not enough for you to dare stop the intense pleasure.

QUESTION 24:

WORK OUT YOUR NEW IQ - WHAT IS 23 TIMES 12 DIVIDED BY 3

“Uh wot?” You say out loud, before remembering the test was not in fact oral, and that you had to find the letters to convey your stupidity. ‘Oral’, you repeat, snickering to yourself. You attempt to read the question several times, to no avail. You just didn’t know. You didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter.

> DONT NO

You slowly type, not noticing the glaring typo. The computer beeps, accepting it as a valid answer. A shiver of pleasure rewards you. Even still, you were getting bored of the questions, they made your head feel heavy. At this point you couldn’t even remember what the test was for. Why was a dolt like you even taking a stupid fucking exam?

QUESTION 25:

WHAT ONE WORD WOULD PEOPLE USE TO DESCRIBE YOUR APPEARANCE?

> CHAVVY

You sit and smirk, happy with your answer as the computer makes its final adjustments. Your flat stomach crunches, compressing as if 1,000 press-ups had occurred in the span of 5 seconds. Lean, fit muscle pushed out from your flesh. Your heavily neglected physique compacted into a walking thirst trap. A body for selfies, for narcissistic indulgence. It existed for ‘aesthetics’, to show off at anyone who would afford a glance. Without even a chance to react, your cock thickens - pushing out against your joggers. Blood rushing as its length expands, girth widens. Heavy balls drop between your legs, making you push your legs apart.

Nothing about you was spared as the changes rose; your neck cracking - thickening like a drainpipe. That kind-hearted face your friends recognised distorted, squaring out your facial features as you take on a more brutish appearance. A wide nose sitting under heavy brows, with a dim expression that betrayed no sense of humility or intellect. Your hair followed suit; the long locks pulling back into your thick skull; your scalp tingling at the strange sensation. Each strand receded until a tiny pathetic fringe sat at the top of your wide forehead, with the back and sides completely shaved. It made your head appear so much larger, like it was bulging at the top. Ironic considering how empty your head actually was. Similarly, your ears stuck out way more with your sides smooth, with thick tacky diamonds pierced into each lobe. Simply put, the trim looked awful - like it had been cut by some amateur, and yet, it perfectly suited you. Perfectly suited a basic chav.

Like bruv. There was something about it, looking this way. Like a walking stereotype. A chav. A scally. And not one of those fake influencer chavs that were actually rich. Fucking posers. But a classic, no nonsense, council estate - ‘u wot m8’, type of lad. The ones you used to avoid in the street. A part of you knew that you should hate this. That it was humiliating looking like what the old you would have called a ‘moron’. Having shit for brains innit. With a face that looked like a talking cockhead. But instead, it just turned you on more. You wanted people to think of you that way, to see you as an obnoxious chav. To be annoying. Untalented, unskilled. With zero fucks to give. To be able to say and do what you like. For people to judge you based on appearance. Fuck, it made you so fucking horny.

You felt complete. Whole. It didn’t matter to you that the computer had stolen away your nerdy identity, siphoned your education and intelligence for some unknown reason. Twenty two years of your life condensed and easily extracted by a bunch of spaghetti code in a machine. Its internal system was now far smarter because of you, far smarter than you were, at the very least. ‘Machine learning’ is what people called it. The only cost was everything your overflowing brain had to give. However, your head was now far too dense to even begin to worry - or comprehend, such things. Besides, it could take all that useless shit. You didn’t want it. Didn’t want the baggage that came with knowledge and ambitions. Frankly, it had done you a huge favour leaving you like this. Dimming you like a light bulb. Drawing away your energy. Leaving the whole class of students as fit as fuck lads. You were all better off this way. Stripped of the illusion that you were someone of importance. That you would make something of your life. That you were intellectually superior. Jesus, you were so horny. A propa wank was what you needed right now. To shoot a fat load.

WELL DONE [L.A.D SUBJECT 1064].

YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED THE TEST.

NEW NAME FOUND. NOW REGISTERING [KIERAN] INTO JOB DATABASE.

The camera flashed again, but this time you didn’t so much as flinch. Your mind was too sluggish to react. And there it appeared, the new you, plain as day across the screen. Superimposed over the old pretty boy picture that was taken at the start, and then enlarged to fill your whole view. Scan-lines flicker over your distinctly dim looking visage. Your vacant eyes staring back at you through a grid of fuzzy pixels. ‘Pretty’ or ‘cute’ would be the last words used to describe you now. ‘Doltish’ was a more appropriate term. Doltish. Slow. Dimwitted.

CONGRATULATIONS [KIERAN]. YOU ARE ELIGIBLE FOR JOB [BINMAN].

PLEASE USE THE MOUSE TO SIGN THIS WORK PLACE AGREEMENT.

There was a scroll of text that flew by on the screen. You didn’t attempt to read a word. You couldn’t. It was too much, seeing your new name, what you now looked like; you quickly scribble your signature and immediately cum into your boxers. Eyes rolling back. Your hefty balls ejecting what was left of ‘David’. Grunting loudly to the rest of the room. Hearing your colleagues occasionally make the same dull noise, as they too become nothing more than a chav moron. That was what you were after all, you accepted. Being dumb suited you. It was fun. Much more so than studying at least. After all, you worked with your hands, not your head. Mucking in and getting filthy was part of the new job. Thoughts were merely a distraction. You smirked as your cum soaked into your joggers and dripped onto the floor.

“Mate! Binman! That’s fuckin sick innit! Propa sound! I must be well smart to pass this dumb fucking thing.” You yell like some neanderthal, while a smug expression plasters your face.

WELL DONE [INTELLECTUALLY CHALLENGED CHAV]

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE TO HELP IMPROVE OUR SYSTEM.

YOUR DATA WILL BE PUT TO GOOD USE.

YOUR EMPLOYER IS WAITING FOR YOU OUTSIDE.

PLEASE LEAVE AND REPORT FOR YOUR FIRST DAY AT YOUR NEW LIFE. ENJOY.

“Yea.” You merely grunt in affirmation and give a cheeky middle finger to the screen. Getting up you switch the computer off, fist bump your mate next to you and swagger out of the room. And yet, the hum in your thickened head persisted. It just stayed there - stuck inside your thoughts. Whatevs, you think - adjusting your joggers as they barely cling to your hips, a clear wet patch staining the front. Time to get to work, innit!

Now, I know you said you only wanted a short break, Kieran. But I think you’re better staying this way. Dumb. Chavvy. Your personality as sophisticated as a horny bull. And your only talent being emptying bins. At least now you won’t have to worry about that project again. The only ‘project’ you might have to be concerned with is emptying the works porta potty. And even then you’ll probably enjoy getting your hands dirty. Isn’t that right you filthy smelly chav lad?

[wakeup01]

Mmm. Gosh I feel so submissive and…like, agreeable. I hope me and my big bubble butt please Josh and the boys. It feels great to be used and told what to do! So much easier than when I had to be in charge and make decisions. That was like super boring, being fucked repeatedly is far more fun. Hehe.

(First pic is really me, but unfortunately the second is not)

I’ve always taken on the role as a dominant Alpha; had a bunch of beta lads follow my lead. But my other chavvy mates have implied that they’ve had enough of me thinking i’m better than them. Had enough of serving my every whim. They seem to suggest that they can take me down a peg. Make me even more of a beta than they are, if that’s even possible. I overhead some remark about giving me a ‘tight bubble butt’ and a ‘change of clothing’.

Not that i’m too worried mind, those dipshits with all their brain power combined wouldn’t be able to organise a thing. And besides i’m far more assertive than those basic chav lads, there’s no chance in fucking hell I’d end up serving them. It’s proper hilarious they think they can try though, right?

You shouldn’t have been so arrogant. Maybe if you hadn’t strutted around like you owned the place, if you hadn’t sneered at the lads every time they cracked a joke, if you hadn’t acted like you were better than them, maybe then they wouldn’t have felt the need to put you in your place. But it is too late for regrets now.

The invitation had seemed normal. Josh had texted you in the evening: "Come over, mate. Just a few drinks. The lads are here." Nothing unusual. You had done this a hundred times before - drinks, banter, maybe a bit of fun with the lads.

At first, everything was normal. You cracked a few jokes, took a few swigs, but something felt… off. Your vision blurred faster than it should have. Your limbs grew heavy, your thoughts sluggish. Had you really drunk that much already? You tried to shake the fog from your mind, but your body wasn’t listening. The room tilted. The last thing you saw before the darkness swallowed you was the lads closing in their hands pulling at your clothes.

You woke up disoriented. The first thing that hit you was the smell. It clung to your skin. It was sweet and fruity. Not the musky cologne you always wore, not the faint sweat of a night out. This was something delicate, feminine.

You were in bed. The sheets were soft. You reckoned they must have brought you to a guest room after you had passed out. Panic flared as you tried to sit up, only to feel the cold bite of metal around your wrists. Handcuffs. Your breath came in ragged gasps as you thrashed, kicking the blanket away. Your body was different. Your arms, once lean but strong, were now slender, dainty. Your skin was smooth, hairless, almost glowing in the dim light. And to your shock there was a cage on your dick. A scream tore from your throat. It was high-pitched and not your voice at all.

The door creaked open. Josh stood there, arms crossed, grinning. "Not feelin’ so cocky now, are ya, princess?"

Your blood ran cold.

"Me an’ the lads reckoned you needed teachin’ a lesson," he continued, stepping closer. His fingers trailed along your bare leg, making your skin crawl. "So we made you into somethin’ a bit more… fun."

"W-what did you do to me?!"

Josh chuckled, pulling a small vial from his pocket. Liquid swirled inside, pink and shimmering. "Just a little serum. Made you more agreeable." He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Don’t stress, bruv… by the time we’re done, you won’t even wanna kick off."

You screamed again, thrashing wildly, but he grabbed you and held you down while he emptied the serum into your mouth. Darkness swallowed you once more. But next time you woke up… You wouldn’t resist.

The golden light of evening spilled through the curtains as consciousness crept back in. You blinked slowly, your mind hazy, your body warm and pliant. You looked down at yourself. You were dressed in an oversized pink tee and some briefs. The realization of what you were wearing should have sent you into a panic. But instead, a different kind of feeling was low in your stomach. You shifted on the couch, thighs pressing together and God, you were so fucking horny.

Your fingers twitched, craving touch, craving a man to please. The lads would be here soon. Josh had promised. And they would use you, just like they always did. The thought made your pulse skip, your breath hitching in anticipation.

Wait… Always? A flicker of confusion cut through the fog. You tried to grasp at it, to remember… but your mind felt slippery. There were flashes - laughter, sneers, your voice, loud and arrogant - but they didn’t feel like yours anymore. Just distant echoes of someone else.

Now you knew you had never been the leader. You had never been one of the lads at all. You were Josh’s. His toy. His good little thing to share with his mates when they fancied a fuck. The knowledge settled into your bones, warm and right, like it had always been that way.

A mirror hung on the opposite wall. You caught your reflection - pouty lips, wide eyes, a delicate frame. Your hair was softer now, fluffier, and lighter in colour. You looked cute.

You squirmed, biting your lip. The fabric of your briefs was damp already from your precum. You couldn’t wait for them to get here. Couldn’t wait for Josh to grab you by the hips and remind you what you were for.

"Look who’s finally awake," Josh grinned, stepping inside with the others behind him. His gaze raked over you, lingering where your thighs squeezed together. "Missed us, princess?"

You nodded, breathless and started to undress for them.

______________________________________________________________

I hope you enjoy your new life as a twinky toy for your new owner. That nice bubble butt will definitely be used tonight, and I think your new clothes fit you way better anyways…

[wakeup01]

What are your thoughts on pup play and being someone's dumb pup/caring for a dumb pup?

While I probably wouldn’t be able to commit to either side, pups are fun. So happy and eager to please their owner, without a single thought of their own.

I don’t write that much of it, but I do enjoy a decent amount of furry kinks. The idea of being turned into someone’s dumb obedient dog is pretty hot. Your body forcing you down onto all fours, the humiliation of looking up at what used to be your human equal. Only able to bark your frustrations as your human mind simplifies. Thoughts turning to base instincts. Being marked as property when a collar is fastened around your neck, with a cute little tag showing your new doggy name. Your owner showing you your place by getting you to sit and beg on command. And then of course, being rewarded, getting called a ‘good boy’.

Wouldn’t you want to be a good boy? A good obedient dog?

[wakeup01]

Just read your post on Twitter and I figured you could me out? I’m a Cambridge student and I moved into this new flat but somehow my neighbours turned out to be these rowdy chavvy lads! It’s so inconvenient for studying but I figured you could help make them quieter with your transforming powers? Maybe a suit and tie out of former dumb chavs? I can’t see any way that coming to you could possibly backfire!

I would help, but your idea is a tired and overdone trope that anyone could see coming. Let me guess, you complain to your neighbours and you end up joining them as obnoxious morons. The end. Are you sure you’re a Cambridge student? If so, you’re certainly not taking creative writing.

No, see, I have a better idea. I think you underestimated these lads, assuming they must be dumb. Let’s be honest, it’s very judgemental of you. After all, they’re students too. Something they make very clear to you when they come to your flat to introduce themselves. They’re alarmingly…polite? Kind and welcoming. You feel bad for judging them so harshly, maybe you’ll get along better than you initially thought.

But as they talk and talk you start to feel odd, inadequate. They’re explaining all these complicated concepts to you and the words are just sounds to your ears. You realise you don’t understand what they mean. You know you should, you’re smart too, right? At the least you have to be smarter than these footballer wannabes. What could they possibly teach you other than how to score a goal from a free kick. And yet on and on they go, using words you’ve never even heard before. Are they even real words? And you just nod along, pretending to understand what they’re talking about. Feeling like a child in a room surrounded by adults.

Your mind starts to wander while they ramble on to themselves, looking down at a pair of sporty sneakers adorning your feet. They were not usually your style, but when you saw them on the shelf you just had to pick them up. You admire them, noting the big brand logo on both sides. They were really hot. Same with the shiny tracksuit brushing against your legs and body. They were the perfect match. You couldn’t leave the store without the whole fit. You look back up, a slight smirk on your face as your annoying neighbours narrow their eyes at you. They quickly return to talking about…about…about something. Honestly you didn’t really care. You feel a slight breeze against the back of your head and sides. You rub your hands over your recently shaved head, enjoying the sensation.

Eventually they just stop talking. Staring at you like they’re expecting some kind of response - an answer to a question you didn’t hear, or understand. You had to say something. Something…smart. “Yeah mate. Sounds fucking good innit.” You say, in an unfamiliar voice. The words naturally flowing from your mouth without thought. “I getcha bruvs.” You add, with a slow intonation; your harsh accent filling the flat. The flat that smelled overwhelmingly of sweaty socks and cheap aftershave. Not that it bothered you.

Your neighbours just look at you with a barely disguised expression of pity and judgement. “Well, just keep the noise down ‘mate’, we’ve got studying to do.” They remark, snickering amongst themselves as they close the door behind them.

‘Studying?’, you think. Who’s got time for that shit? Besides you just landed a cushy job down at the rubbish tip. You didn’t need to study or nuthin. Those guys were morons.

[wakeup01]

IDOL

“Babe, I’m horny. Is your mouth busy right now?”

Mike was your average 23 year old football jock. The type of vapid fuckboy that peaks in high school and whose bigotry was worn as a personality trait. His current target of ridicule was Koreans, or specifically the rise and popularity of K-pop. A source of frequent frustration when the topic arose with his girlfriend. The petty insults and flagrant xenophobia made him feel bigger, helped hide his insecurities. He was a ‘man’. Something he hoped was proved by his broad shoulders and large dick. Korean men challenged that conceit. The attention they garnered from girls was like an affront to his existence. Any opportunity to insult them and the music was one he took; ‘they all looked the same’, ‘kpoop,’ ‘is that a guy or a girl?’

“Not this shit again. What the fuck are they even saying? How do you even understand that nonsense babe?” Mike yelled, while his girlfriend Jen watched a music video of her favourite boy group. She attempted to ignore his comments but he just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. “Jesus, how do you find these twigs attractive, they’re obviously all flaming homos.” He claimed, as the group gyrated their hips at the screen. A joke he thought was original and funny enough to laugh at himself.

“God, I’ve had enough of your small dick energy!” Jen exasperated through gritted teeth as she went to pause the video.

“Bro, don’t be gay…” Mike began to say before a bright light enveloped the room.

It was a remark he would come to regret a bit too late. With a flash Mike was transported to the other side of the screen, standing alone within the set he had just seen playing in the music video. Jen was nowhere in sight. It defied explanation, particularly to someone who failed college. Or ‘failing upwards’ as he called it. It was if time had stood still around him. Looking down gave a bigger shock. Mike’s once muscled body impossibly slimmed before his very eyes; his biceps deflating like a balloon, pecs flattening, tan whitening. Within seconds his body had morphed into that of a lithe 20 year old twinky Korean idol. Indistinguishable from the ones he routinely made fun of. The stereotype he had formed.

It was nothing short of a nightmare. The hundreds of hours spent in the gym to bulk up was akin to a myth. This was a body made for fashion magazine covers and social media appeal. A diet and workout regime laser focused on being slim, unassuming and feminine. His unfamiliar face had turned cute and innocent looking, freckled with smooth, porcelain skin. Large quantities of makeup covered up any hint of a blemish. Colourful and bright clothes popped out from the greys and blacks he was accustomed to. A far cry from his rather brutish appearance as a jock.

Mike shuddered at a more shameful revelation; his ass was now alarmingly large, and his tiny waist would have made his girlfriend Jen jealous. He lowered a hand to cup and feel the heft of his right butt cheek, shuddering as the warm fullness jiggled within his palm. The feeling made him feel good in a way he didn’t want to admit, like the nerves on his body had been rewired. He had never even considered his rear as something he could deride pleasure from, the idea alone disturbed his conservative nature.

Mike looked up, peering through long dark hair that pulled down and covered his eyes seductively. His tiny button nose twitched. A scent of lavender wafted up from his skinny chest. Every part of him felt manufactured to be beautiful and flawless, like a plastic doll.

“Fuck me. What the hell bro!” He shouted out, to no response. “Babe! Jen! This ain’t funny!” Mike said with uncertainty, hoping this was all some prank, or at least a nightmare. Maybe Jen was just getting her own back somehow.

The shock of his new form was short lived, as his mind began to shift, the universe course correcting in light of his altered Asian appearance. It felt like his personality was splitting in two. Mike and…someone else. There was a new voice in his head and it was getting louder with each passing second. Unlike Mike, it was peppy and enthusiastic. It sounded like him, but also not. Perverted. It made him recoil. Mike’s mind started to fill with lyrics, and not ones in English. It was the voice, it had to be; it was just there, occupying the back of his head, like a barely heard whisper. ‘바꾸자!’ 바꾸자!’ It said. Sang. To Mike’s horror, the words that should have been nothing but gibberish were making perfect sense.

“The f…f…frick? This, this…uhh strange.” Mike stuttered, his English fragmenting.

“B…babe?” The usual swears and slang he used felt inappropriate, crude. It was unbecoming of someone like him. Like him? He second guessed, before that voice - that sickeningly positive voice, agreed. Like him. Yes. Besides, English was such a tough language to speak. Wait, was that true? Wasn’t he fluent? Kinda fluent? Well, maybe his pronunciation was a bit off. But it was cute, charming. He liked to play up the ‘Engrish’ and the confusion. People liked ‘the ditz’ and his lower intelligence was honestly a selling point.

‘바꾸자!’ The lyrics pressed upon him again, this time accompanied by a beat that looped around his skull like a record. A ritual. ‘바꾸자!’ Instinctually he started to hum along to the music playing over and over in his head, the melody was immediately catchy, it was as though he knew it off by heart. ‘바꾸자!’ It was stuck to his brain like chewing gum. Appropriately, the flavour seemed artificial, short-lived. The song was expertly produced, but soulless. Crafted to an exact science. Intended only to be played until the taste was gone. Content to consume and then dispose of when something new comes around. But that was the Kpop industry, that was his role. A short sell by date with a ticking clock. Capitalise on the looks, youth and popularity while you can. Michael attempted to argue, to fight back against the notion that he had anything to with it. That he was some meaningless cog in the Kpop music machine. That he existed to just look pretty, to drain easily swayed fans to make execs money. He was a true American, the greatest nation in the world. But the other side of him was getting stronger. The voice. They wanted the fame. The silly dances, the impersonal songs with no meaning. The weird infantilising and fetishising by fans. Impressionable, optimistic and swept up with the promise of popularity. The naive belief of his group ‘making it big’. Even though in reality, they were just one of dozens of new groups debuting each year. Unremarkable.

Mike felt himself slip, naively thinking about the attention he would get. The idea wormed itself in and gained leverage on his weakening psyche. Girls would be into it, wouldn’t they. Go all gooey at the sight of him. What’s worse, dance moves and strict choreography was starting to ingrain itself into his mind - overtaking all his knowledge and dedication to workouts and sports. Those topics were unimportant, useless to his future as a perfectly engineered Kpop boy. The facade of looking cool and confident took priority. Girls like the swagger though, he reasoned, as his cock shrank. They like the fakeness of it all. His hefty balls shrivelled.

A losing battle ensued inside Mike, he was quickly losing control. He cringed slightly as his lean body naturally moved and bounced to the song running through his head. His butt had a life of its own too, jiggling hypnotically to the beat. After all, his rear was his most notable feature, everyone understood it was the thing that set him apart in the group. He had ‘the ass’ as they said. The movements were immensely embarrassing to a ‘man’ like Mike, who prided himself on being as straight and masculine as humanly possible. This was ‘girly shit’, ‘gay ass’ behaviour. And yet he couldn’t stop himself in indulging his new Korean body. A body expertly trained for one thing. To entertain thirsty girls and gay boys. Whose worth would be measured against the other members and groups. To be ‘stanned’ - a culture Michael abhorred.

As his groin shrank, his dull and deep voice rose numerous octaves; higher and higher - with a noticeable lilt, until it was an appropriate high pitched squeak that would have people hyperventilating online. The sort of voice and accent that would facilitate shallow comments such as ‘omigosh’ ‘he serving’ and ‘high pitched fem king’. And of course comments speculating about his sexuality, his manhood. Not that there was anything to speculate about of course, Mike was as gay as a shiny rainbow with sprinkles on top. And his cock was barely worthy of mention. That much was obvious when wardrobe dressed him in those tight little shorts. Mike was…sorry, not Mike - that ugly name just didn’t fit him anymore. He was 민준 or Minjun. A gay Korean bottom. The worst kept secret among the boy group he was contracted to. A frequent point of teasing from the other members, but something they were keen to take advantage of whenever possible.

‘Mike’ internally screamed as a dreamy smile grew across his pretty manicured face, images of other men flashing across his mind. The idea of a ‘girlfriend’ - of being dominant, flittered from his memories. Servility, obedience and an eagerness to please ruled his new personality, one perfectly suited to fulfilling contractual obligations. And…other obligations, ones his more experienced group members expected from him. Huge, long, throbbing ‘obligations’. He pushed out his big bubble butt, a new feeling growing down below. Centering his whole body around his rear. A feeling of… emptiness. It elicited a whiny, girlish moan from his plump, pursed lips. A stark contrast to the low timbre voices from the groups rap line, the ones that would grunt loudly while using Minjun’s hole.

The infectious melody was getting louder, taking over his thoughts, his identity. The sound couldn’t be drowned out, it was an extension of him, his body. His PURPOSE. Minjun could feel a bubbly sense of joy rising in his chest. Unadulterated happiness. The feeling needed to escape, he needed to purge who he used to be. That foul mannish thing languishing deep inside him- like some disease. There was only one way he knew how. His eyes gleamed with youthful energy. The lights of the set flashed, cameras rolled. Music faded in from speakers. His mouth opened. Opened wide and sang. “바꾸자! 바꾸자 스위치를 켜다!” The words flowed effortlessly. Any trace of ‘Mike’ was expelled. Minjun sang and danced like there was no tomorrow. Time seemingly unfroze, the other members of the boy group jumping into the scene beside him, dancing in unison. Vocals harmonised. The kpop music video continued - with him in the centre. God he was stunning. Beautiful. An idol! He was ready for the stage, ready for the publicity, the fans, the outfits, the photoshoots, the collectable photocards with his face on them, the…the…cock. The big hard cocks that would fill him up after the filming. Excited to please the rest of the group. They all had such good…rhythm. Oh gosh, he was ready for all of it.

He shot a cheeky wink directly at the camera, no doubt setting millions of girls hearts a flutter. Including Mike’s ex girlfriend, Jen, who was happily watching her new favourite member on the screen. Enjoying their new track, titled ‘바꾸자!’ or ‘Let’s Change!’. ‘Wow, he has such a nice butt’ she thought, biting her lip, as the group did a somewhat humiliatingly suggestive twerk.

Backstage, after the cameras had stopped rolling and the horde of choreographers had all left, Minjun had another performance to ace. One that equally involved the use of his high pitched vocals and rhythmic timing. His unfocused eyes flittered and stared out across the room dimly, his lips pursed. Smiling while his back was leaned over and his feet spread into position. The other members laughed amongst themselves as Minjun felt a pressure grow behind him. Their deep voices made his spine tingle and his brain fuzzy. A pair of hands landed on his rear, kneading his bubble butt like a ball of dough. The first cock slowly lodged its way into his pillowy cheeks, before a more upbeat pace took over. A queue formed behind him, waiting to prove why they were ‘Idols’. Minjin moaned, eager to please every single member of the group.

‘Ya! The fuckable one, that’s me!’ He thought, enthusiastically while his brain melted to idiotic bliss.

[wakeup01]

Y’all understand those accounts posting like 5 stories a day are all AI generated right? I know people’s brains turn to mush when horny but try and have some level of fucking dignity and get off to something made by a person.

[wakeup01]

Happy birthday!

How kind. I’m pleased that you guys are giving me the attention I deserve. I would expect nothing less than being worshipped and served as a birthday present to me. Maybe to entertain myself I’d turn you into something. Man, the possibilities are truly endless. But a nice footstool would suffice, so that I can relax and you can ensure my big smelly feet are propped up.

That or a nice stretchy pair of new boxers - your face pulled taut over my rear. My bubbly ass is pretty sweaty this time of year, but I’m certain you’d do an adequate job of soaking all that up, isn’t that right?

Or maybe something else, equally humiliating. It’s okay, just think of it as a gift to me.

[wakeup01]

Oh shit, guess I’m just a smelly sock now. Can’t…resist…my purpose. Need to be wrapped around big…feet. Absorb…sweat 😵‍💫

A birthday gift for one of my followers @wakeup01 who wished to be transformed into a sock for his birthday. I think he meant to say "for the DURATION of my birthday" but oh well. I'm sure he's learned a valuable lesson about the importance of phrasing... which he will probably forget along with everything else over the next year of absorbing foot smells. It's fine though, he'll still be a very good sock for a long time and that's all it needs to be.

[wakeup01]

It’s my birthday this week 😌

[wakeup01]

Your confidence and you yourself are HOT

I appreciate that some of y’all just want to fucking glaze me. People still get surprised that the selfies are mine, like yes, tf writers can be hot lol. I’d post a pic now, but you know, I’m not that eager to please you guys 😘

[wakeup01]

Just wanted to say that you're an excellent writer and ask if there's another story like "Theft of a Bro" on the horizon. It is one of my all time favorites!

Thanks, glad you enjoy my work.

Maybe. I have a backlog of unfinished and unpublished stuff. I know people enjoy jock tfs a lot, and it’s pretty much the go to if you want to get engagement on here. And i’m also aware a lot of people probably follow me because of some of the ones I’ve written. I can find it fun writing jock stories on occasion but also, it can be pretty boring too. I think a lot of the appeal for people is imagining being confident and hot. And i’m already plenty confident in real life, and frankly, rather attractive too. So for me, the dumbing down aspect is what appeals to me the most. Theft of a bro was enjoyable to write because It included the perspective of someone losing their bro nature.

(Also, I don’t want to get too into it but there are probably a few dozen ‘Bro’ stories getting posted every week on here. I’d wager more than half of them are AI generated or AI assisted sludge. So my motivation to even bother with being in that space atm is rather low.)

Long story short; the answer is maybe. I never make any guarantees, but there’ll probably be similar stuff at some point.