Taking my life over

Beginnings

I suppose so much has happened that it is difficult to think back to the time before it all started and to imagine myself then. I had left uni the previous year and I had started what promised to be a worthwhile career in publishing and making something of my degree in English, unlike most of my year. What was I like then? I was a very self-contained and assured person. I was not particularly popular but the friends I made became close friends. I was articulate, sometimes witty and at times condescending to those who were not apparently as stylish or as clever as me. I was not particularly good looking: just normal with a fair skin, light brown hair and blue eyes. I was of medium height and had a slender but unathletic build. Perhaps what might have struck you at first was that I was always smartly and fashionably dressed. Clothes looked good on me as they often do on thin people. What salary I had after essential outgoings tended to be spent on my appearance. But beneath the self-assured exterior was a more restless, unfulfilled person who knew in part he was living a lie and had urges and passions that he had not been able to satisfy to any meaningful extent.

On the surface most people probably regarded me as straight, even though I had never had a steady girlfriend. I found I enjoyed the company of woman but I was not particularly attracted to them sexually. But then I had not really been attracted to men either after an occasional teenage crush on a younger boy when I was at school. In my heart I knew that I was gay, as gay as you get, if there are degrees in gayness, but I had not progressed in that direction at all. What made me feel unfulfilled was a strange urge to be socially humiliated or stigmatised. While I wore what made me look worldly and sophisticated and my deportment radiated confidence, there was another me who would like to be all the things I was apparently not: nerdy, dorkish, unfashionably dressed, unsophisticated, vulnerable and dependent. In short, I wanted to be the person who was stigmatised and despised: an obvious loser. Being humiliated held a particular attraction to me. Why you may ask? I have no idea. It is the way I have been made; I had no choice in the matter.

What to do about it? I did not have a clue. This was not something in which I felt I could confide with anyone I knew. It was a secret yearning which gnawed within me. There is no obvious place on the internet to turn to understand the particular dysmorphia, if that is the correct word, that I had inherited. But I did discover many other things. My exploration convinced me, if I needed convincing, that I was definitely gay. It also introduced me to all sorts of fetishes involving humiliation, subordination and other practices. These certainly fascinated me to read about them but I knew that I was not looking for a typical slave master type relationship. It needed to be a little bit more nuanced than that. But where to find it? I searched for possible candidates and had extensive conversations with a number but I always felt it was going to lead to a rough assault on me and this was not exactly what I thought I was looking for.

As a publishing house we were frequent arrangers of social functions to promote our book launches and various authors in our catalogue. Although I was still a comparatively new employee, I had become quite accomplished at handling these social events; working the room, networking and making small talk. It was at one of these events that I started up a conversation with Scott. He must have been a few years older than me and had an air of authority that comes with being rich and well connected. His father is a successful agent, handling a stable of internationally renowned authors, and Scott is being groomed to take it over. He was a handsome, well-built man, with strong chiselled features and a mane of dark wavy hair. Unlike me he was much more conventionally dressed, more for the City than a creative business like ours. He wore pinstriped suits with waistcoats and always sported a silk handkerchief which spilled out of his top pocket of his suit. I had met him before but this was the first time I had ever spoken to him for more than a few minutes. He had an easy way with him and a sly humour which made me laugh. Although it was coming to the end of the function, as members of staff, we obviously had to say until the last of our guests had left. Scott must have appreciated this so he turned around and asked me whether I wanted to have a bite to eat after the party. Without hesitation I accepted so he said that he would wait for me in the lobby of our offices until I had finished my work.

It must have been fifteen minutes later when we wrapped everything up which allowed me to leave. Sure enough Scott was waiting for me and suggested we go to an Italian restaurant he frequented which was a couple of streets away. When we arrived and were seated at the table, he asked me whether I would like a cocktail. Perhaps I was not as sophisticated as I thought I was as I had never ordered a cocktail in my life. In fact, I seldom drink and, having had at least two glasses of wine, I was already feeling quite relaxed. To cover up my lack of experience, I just nodded.

"A martini cocktail? Gin with a twist of lemon?" he asked.

"Sounds fine to me", I replied. So he ordered two.

As we settled in to our meal, we talked about all sorts of things. While we talked, Scott stared intensely at me and, in doing so, seemed to draw me in, completely captivating me. He must have known he was doing it, as he must have appreciated that he was creating within me a strong sexual response from me. I simply could not resist his advances. The more the evening progressed, the more strongly I felt my attachment to him. He was just magnetic.

Towards the end of the meal, when we had finished eating, and were enjoying the last of the wine, he quietly placed his hand on my thigh. I did not move but looked at him and smiled. Nobody had ever done this to me before. Slowly his hand moved up my thigh towards my groin and, as he did so, I became absolutely erect. He must have realised this as it made a prominent tent in my trousers. I continued smiling, feeling a deep sense of contentment. I have never had had this physical response to anyone before. I was completely captivated. Scott leaned closer to me.

"Kevin, what are your particular kinks?, he asked. For me the question was unexpected, although Scott must have been setting me up for this all along.

"What do you mean by kinks?," I asked. Yes, I really was an innocent.

"What turns you on?" he replied smiling, moving even closer, well into my personal space, and giving my leg a squeeze. “What arouses this fellow?” He continues, brushing his hand over my erection. My body twisting in response.

At first my mind went blank. I didn't know what to say. "Well, I think I'm gay so I'm attracted to...". He did not give me time to finish.

"Of course, you are. I knew that from the day I first met you. That's patently obvious. It takes one to know one. So what are your kinks?" He was firmer now.

I hesitated again. Could I really open up to someone I barely knew about something I really did not understand? Something I have never mentioned to anyone else. Maybe it was the alcohol which gave me the courage, I was feeling quite mellow by now. Maybe it was the feeling that he really cared about me and my answer so I started to try to explain to him the strong arousal I experienced when I thought of the ways I could be belittled and humiliated and my self-esteem and self-confidence undermined. I told him I had fantasised about this even before my teens. Once I had reached puberty, I had jacked off thinking about it again and again. I had tried to imagine what it was like to be totally subjugated and transformed by someone and to be forced permanently to be in a subordinate position; someone others would despise because of what you did, how you looked and dressed, where you lived and everything other action you took or were forced to take. I knew it sounded mad and that he could not possibly understand. I did not understand it myself.

"I think I do understand", he responded in a kind and affectionate tone. "I think that I understand completely. Maybe I can help. Let me think about it." As he said this, his hand moved further up my groin, his fingers gently fondling the tip of my penis through the fabric of my trousers. I was rock hard. A few seconds later I came. It was enough to just try to keep still so that other people in the restaurant did not know what was happening as I ejaculated surge after surge of cum thoroughly creaming the inside of my trousers. The frustrations and inhibitions of all those years seemed to convulse out of me.

"Sorry about that", he said as he smiled at me.

"Sorry about what?" I asked laughing.

"Sorry about the mess I helped you make in your pants. It must be pretty sticky mess in there."

"Yes, but it was worth it. Thank you for being so understanding. It has really helped, I think".

We sat for a few minutes, saying very little to each other but holding hands. I had never done this either with a man. By now all my inhibitions had evaporated. I think we were both reflecting on the possible implications of what I had divulged. He then called for the bill and a taxi to drive me home.

As he closed the taxi door, he looked intently at me and said, "Kevin, you will be hearing form me. I think I have a plan. Thanks, I really enjoyed our evening together". With that he turned around as the taxi picked up speed and drove towards its destination: my small studio flat in the attic of a converted house in an undistinguished suburb.

I had expected Scott to have contacted me within a day or so of our dinner but there was complete silence. As each day went by, I became more despondent. Clearly it was just a momentary flirtation and nothing was to come of it. Scott could have the pick of any man he wanted, so why would he find anything interesting in me? Then after about ten days to my relief I received a WhatsApp from him. The message read: "Hi Kev! Sorry I have been absolutely snowed under at the office. Haven't stopped thinking about our little project. My thoughts are attached. Love. Scott".

On opening the attachment, there was a document headed "Instructions", which read as follows: " Hi! I have been thinking about what you talked about at the restaurant. It really made me feel randy as hell. I think you will be too.

First, I think you should really give time to think things through. Once we start on this journey there will be no turning back, so I don't want you to do something on a whim. If you decide to proceed, we will start in three months' time or later if I think you have not yet fully committed yourself; that is the point of no return and I will leave you in no doubt when that time comes.

But there are things that you can do to prepare but none of them are irreversible. First, I want you to get an Albert piercing. This is essential. I have booked for you to have it at the address and time given below. It takes time to heal and I want it to be able to accommodate a 4 to 6g barbell or slave ring when we start in earnest.

Also, immediately, I want you to remove all your bodily hair below your neck. I think it is better to use a depilatory cream and I am sending you some. Check it on a small patch of skin to see if you have any adverse reaction to it. If not, you can then start right away. I want you to send me a photo when you are completely hairless and you must then stay that way. Understood? Hairless. Totally.

I want you to have a haircut. I have arranged that at the hairdresser given below: ask for Dennis and be there at ten o'clock on Saturday. It is quite close to the tattoo studio where you will be pierced so you can go there after your haircut.

I want to tell me what you plan to do each day so I know where you are.

I want you to give me measurements of your neck, chest, waist hips, inside arm, inside leg and shoe size.

I want you to send me a copy of the keys to your flat. There will be no privacy from the start.

Throw all your underwear away: all of it. You will be going commando from now on.

Please also clip your finger nails as short as you can and keep them clipped.

You may have read stories about slave master relationships where the master insists on being called "Master" or "Sir" and to be spoken to only when he gives permission. I am not into that kind of coercion. However, what I say goes. During this trial period you will do what you are told without question or delay. If you sign on full time in three months' time or whenever I decide, you will have no option but to obey. Before that, if you want to stop, you can. The only proviso is that if you stop, you can never start again with me.

All understood? Enjoy Saturday!"

I shot off a reply: "Understood. OK".

Well, the instruction was clear enough. I was shaking with excitement and as hard as a rock. I could hardly contain myself. Slipping out of my office, I walked down to the men's toilets. Finding an empty cubicle, I closed the door and unzipped by trousers. Closing my eyes and imaging all the type of degradation I was letting myself in for, I jerked myself off. When I was back in my office, I could not concentrate on my work. My mind kept on drifting to thought of how Scott intended to remould my life and to pull me rung by rung down the social ladder.

Back at home, I did what I had been ordered to do. I removed my underpants and put my trousers back on. Taking a black plastic bag, I emptied my drawers of underpants and threw all of them away. I was able to send another text: "No underpants here. Gone commando".

Within a minute, the reply came back: "Good boy".

Afterwards I sat down and pared my finger nails to the quick. I could not cut them shorter. Once I had finished, I sent another text with a photo of my left hand.

"That's better. Keep them like that", came the reply.

"No worries. I'll do what I'm told".

"That's the deal. You know the rules. Just obey them". Scott sounded rather firmer but then I knew that he was not playing around; he was dead serious.

On the next Saturday, I set off early to the hairdressers. It was in an area of the city that I did not know very well. Dennis was certainly expecting me and told me that Scott had told him exactly how he wanted my hair cut. The style was very short, without it being a buzz cut. There was no parting to speak of and the hair was cut clear of my ears and the nape of your neck. In fact, it looked like a conventional schoolboy cut; practical, not smart. Actually, I did not mind the style at all. It was neat but it did make me look much younger than my years. I could have still been at school. Maybe that was Scott's intention. What the people at work would think, I was less sure. It would jar slightly with the more fashionable look of my clothes. As I left the shop I took a selfie and sent it off to Scott with the message: "Like the style?"

The response was immediate: "Much better, little boy".

I was rather more apprehensive about the piercing. I had never done anything like this in my life. I had never been in a tattoo studio before as I had never had any desire to be pierced or inked. The studio looked rather more clinical than I had imagined. I suppose Scott had been quite fastidious in his choice. He did not want me to have sepsis at the beginning of the project. The man who was going to pierce me was straight out of central casting. He had a long grey pony tail and was covered from the neck downwards in intricate tattoo patterns. Nothing had been left uncovered. Since it must be difficult to tattoo yourself, he was a living advertisement for someone else's skills. After I entered, he asked me to pull my trousers down and then he sat me down on a dentist style chair. He disinfected around the glans of my penis and then held it with a ring forceps. "You don't have to look, if you don't want to", he muttered. "Breathe in and out deeply". I did what I was told and then I felt a sharp pain. Looking down I could see the needle had pierced me and part of a barbell had been inserted in the hole it had made and the hollow needle removed. Quickly he screwed the ball onto the other end of the barbell. It was all over or so I thought. He then leant over to get the dressing and some cotton to dab away the blood that had started to ooze from the piercing. I could not miss the moment, I asked to photograph my penis with a shiny ball protruding from its slit. He dressed the wound and it was time for me to leave. The whole procedure had only lasted a few minutes.

Outside in the street, I texted another message with the photo: "Pierced little boy".

"You have done well, Kev", came the reply.

Even as I was leaving the studio, I could feel my penis throbbing a bit and it continued to throb and hurt the whole of the weekend. It was only on the Monday morning that the pain and swelling started to subside but it was still tender and swinging around unprotected by underpants seemed to make it worse. What was clear is that I could not use a urinal or pee standing. With the barbell in the way, urine went everywhere. As predicted after six weeks the wound completely healed and I returned to the studio and started the process of stretching the hole so it could take an increasingly wide barbell.

The next week after my piercing a package arrived containing a dozen bottles of depilatory cream. Clearly Scott wanted me to apply this regularly. However, I thought that I would wait until my piercing had healed sufficiently so that I no longer needed a dressing on it. Once that had happened, I tested a little of the cream on my forearm. I have to say that I am not very hairy and what hair I have is fairly fine. The cream did what it was supposed to and, once I had washed it off, left a clean patch with no hair on it at all. There was no change the next day to the clear patch of skin suggesting I had no allergic reaction to the product. So, I then trimmed my pubic hair with scissors and then started applying the cream everywhere that showed any hair at all. I waited awhile and then showered to get rid of it all. I then repeated the process where any hair showed and showered again. Looking at the mirror I saw a reflection of a much more boyish figure: thin, pale and hairless. My penis stiffened in response. I felt completely naked and slightly vulnerable. Before I changed, I took a photo of me with the message: "Not a hair left. I hope I pass the test".

A few minutes later, Scott confirmed that I had indeed passed: "Much better, little boy. Keep it that way always".

Nothing much happened in the weeks that followed until one Friday evening when I returned home, I found a note had been left on the floor by the entrance. I opened it and started to read the message. "Hi my little chav. Your weekend kit is on the bed. Wear it from now until Monday morning. There is more in the wardrobe for other weekends. Scott."

On entering my bedroom, neatly displayed on the bed was what Scott had planned for me to wear. No wonder he had called me a chav. Looking from the top down, was an Adidas baseball cap, a blue Chelsea FC replica shirt, grey hoodie with 'Converse' emblazed on the front, Adidas tracksuit bottoms the typical ones black with white stripes down the sides, white no-show socks and a pair of Reebok classic trainers. They were all quite well worn so I guessed that Scott had bought them from eBay. Opening my wardrobe, I could see all my casual clothes had been removed and had been replaced with sports style polyester clothing: tracksuits, football training gear, windbreakers, beaten-up trainers and the like. Everything looked rough and unloved. Everything reeked of stale tobacco so they cannot have been acquired from a smoke free home. Typical, no detail had been overlooked. But there they were and I had little option but to undress and put on what he had selected.

Looking at the mirror I hardly recognised myself. I looked if I had come out of the local council estate. "What if anyone sees me in this stuff? I think I will die of embarrassment." Yet the clothes felt really good. The trackies were slightly shiny and smooth and felt good against my hardening dick and hairless legs. I liked the way they made a slight swishing sound when I moved in them. I curled the brim of the cap and pulled it to the back of my head. "That's the look", I thought. As I stroked the silky fabric of my shirt and pants, I was increasingly aroused. "This looks really great. Scott obviously understood exactly what my kink involved and he had only just started". With my hand in my pocket, I grasped my dick through the smooth fabric and started to jerk off. This is the person I wanted to be, the antithesis of an authority figure. Once I had cum I lay back on the bed, now a little less certain that this was the look I wanted to cultivate from now on. I felt a little sheepish when I again went to the mirror to see this stranger who had invaded my home. He was chavvy alright.

I picked up my phone and took another photo. "I wonder how Scott will react?" I thought. Then I sent it to him with the message: "How do you like your chavvy lad?"

The reply came soon enough: "HI Chav! You look great. Remember wear it all weekend and don't change what you had planned to do." I felt the noose tighten just a little.

Later that evening I thought I would take a stroll. Coming down the stairs of my building, I passed a neighbour. Out of habit I said "Evenin'". She looked up and said nothing. She clearly did not recognise me or associate the person passing her with me. "That's good", I thought.

Once out in the street, I thought that I should buy a packet of cigarettes. I was the most occasional smoker but it just felt the right thing to do at the time. When entered the Asian corner shop I went to the counter and asked for a packet of fags and a box of matches.

"Are you eighteen?" the shopkeeper asked.

"Of course, I fuckin' am", I replied in my best Essex accent. "I'm tweny fuckin' two". The disguise seemed to be effective. There was little of the Kevin, the smart up and coming publisher, about me now.

"Well, you don't look it", he said as thankfully he served me as I had nothing that would prove my age on me..

Leaving the shop I lit up and swaggered down the street. I could see passers-by looking a little disapprovingly as I approached and stepping aside. This was encouraging. At the end of the street was a pub I sometimes frequented. It was pretty full and some of its customers had spilled on to the pavement outside. I pushed passed them and into the pub itself.

"No smoking, mate" came a voice from the bar.

"Sorry, guv", I replied putting the fag out by grinding it into the carpet. I was finding my new persona was quite easy to assume. At the bar there was a scrum of customers trying to by a drink. I tried hard to catch the barman's eye but he ignored me, making me increasingly irritated. Then it dawned on me. Nobody was going to give priority to the lad who had just walked in. It is unlikely anyone wanted him as a regular customer and the sooner he left the better. Eventually I was served without having my age questioned and found a corner to quietly enjoy the beer and take in the scene. Looking around there were faces I recognised but they didn't seem to recognise me. A couple of pints later, I decided to go back home and buy a Chinese takeaway on the way. As I left the pub, without thinking, I lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. It felt good. When I arrived at the takeaway, I saw that there were familiar faces in the queue there too; people I knew well enough to greet but not much more. Without exception they looked past me. Before I reached home there was a ping on my phone. It was a message from Scott. "When you get home, jizz on your trackies and let it dry."

"Delighted. I'm real horny now", I shot back

"That's my boy" he answered immediately. As I lay back on my bed, I felt as horny as hell. I had been erect or semi-erect all evening. Somehow rubbing against the smooth fabric of my trackers heightened the sensation. I liked being the person I could see reflected in the shop windows as I walked home. Pushing my hand under the elasticated top of my track pants I grasped my cock gently in my hand. The end was already wet with precum. I started moving my hand slowly up and down. It felt so good, I closed my eyes to concentrate on the sensation. If only this could last. It didn't. Within a minute I could feel myself coming. Quickly I pulled my dick out of my pants just as I started to ejaculate spraying ribbons of creamy spunk down my pants. Life was good. Unthinkingly I took another cigarette out of the packet, lit it and drew on it deeply. A smoke seemed to round things off. Little did I realise I had unthinkingly started a habit which I have never been able to stop. But that was a problem for another day. I slipped off my clothes leaving them in a heap on the floor and climbed into bed, falling almost immediately into a deep and contented sleep. I had enjoyed this evening.

The next morning as I put on the same clothes as I had worn the previous evening, I inspected my tracksuit bottoms. There was no doubt that the pale stains down the front was dried spunk; it couldn't be anything else.

Later in the morning, I sauntered down to the high street. There was nothing I really needed to buy apart from some junk food to keep me going. In fact I didn't know what to buy as this was an area of my life that was being gradually taken over by Scott. I went to the sort of shops in which you would expect to find selling sports clothing, electronic products and booze. I thought that I would do a bit of shoplifting as well but then what to steal, if I hadn't been given the go ahead by Scott, so I ended up with two cans of beer and some packets of crisps from Sainsbury's Local. Not much of a haul but a start. which I consumed sitting on a bench at the bus station. It was like being invisible man. I had disappeared and there was someone quite different in my place.

Sunday was going to be altogether more difficult. I had planned to meet some friends at a riverside pub where we intended to have a few drinks and lunch. How would they react to me? Badly, I suspected. However, there was no avoiding it. I thought of all kinds of excuses as to why I was kitted out the way I was but they all sounded lame so as the dreaded hour approached, I became more and more anxious. I was also acutely aware that my polyester clothing, the football shirt in particular, was starting to smell of stale perspiration. It is one of their short-comings; sweat seems to become trapped in the fabric.. So I was becoming less agreeable to be around, as if I could smell it, others must be able to do so too. The only thing I could not do was chicken out because Scott knew where I was going and told me he would check it out. If I failed now, the project would be over. He had made this absolutely clear. So around mid-day I arrived at the pub to find that several of the gang had already arrived. They were incredulous about how I looked and could not help teasing me about it. I tried to explain that I just felt like slouching around as it was Sunday but they never really brought it. Throughout the two and a half hours or so we were together I was continually ribbed about my appearance and referred to as 'the yob', 'tracky', 'bruv' 'pikey' or 'scally'. On one level it was deeply shaming. I was being humiliated in front of my best and closest friends. I had no answer to it. I must have looked ridiculous. On another level, I was secretly enjoying it. I was being lessened in their eyes but I found the experience exhilarating at the same time. I liked who I was becoming and not being in control of how it was being done. I was being put into situations that I would never have dared to do on my own, however much I might fantasise about them.

When we parted company, I did not want to go home directly, as there was nothing really to go back home for, so I decided to walk part of the way back. As I left the river and walked south, the areas I passed through became less and less affluent and my dress much less out of place. For the balance of the journey, I took the bus and I found that I blended in completely. Maybe I just wasn't cut out to be middle class. I could still hear in my mind their guffaws when I left and they thought I was out of earshot but I felt quite comfortable here.

Then I heard the familiar 'ping' on my phone. It was another message from Scott: "Mission accomplished. You looked great chavvy boy."