Prologue
A private diary entry for Monday 28th March 2033
I was born Jacob Ellis, and was Jacob Ellis until the spring of 2026, seven years ago. Today, in the eyes of the law, and anyone who knows me, I am a man called Jayden Conner. As far as Marcus is concerned that’s who I am, that’s who I always was. I’m not going to change that. Well, I’m going to change some of it.
This month I turned thirty. I am no longer wanted by the experiment. Nobody wants Jacob now. Jayden is wanted, and by someone in particular. These pages explain, as best I can, how I got here. I can write this because he gave me some old documents, things of Jacob’s. He’d cleaned out my flat, everything erased, but some things were kept back. I am grateful to him for that, for my own sanity. He also justifies himself, in terms. I put that here too. But most of this story is just my memory of what happened and what Marcus tells me. Yes, Marcus. Marcus also had things he wanted me to know. Without Marcus, without him, well, I’d be nothing at all now would I, not even Jayden.
Chapter 1
Jacob’s diary, Thursday 26th March 2026
For all of March now I have been chatting with Dr Zim, as he calls himself. I say calls himself but he’s a real person alright, I checked. He’s a consultant psychiatrist, a serious job. A doctor and an academic. His interest in me, I’m not sure. We have talked about my hidden desires. Deeply. As he puts it, I am an introverted, shy, 23 year old UCL History graduate turned trainee banker in the City of London. My life is a stressful, regimented grind: spreadsheets by day, quiet evenings in this cramped Hackney flat share by night. He tells me that lower middle-class stability has its perks, but he sees how weekend after weekend it leaves me yearning for something more. Something that feels connected to something? Perhaps a submission that strips away the surface? De-classing, we ended up calling it in our exchanges, a fantasy of being reduced, owned, reshaped and dominated by someone who sees through the facade, to the ‘authentic self’ as he describes it. To become a person who realises his hidden desires. I admit, he has a predatory, intelligent curiosity that both thrills and unnerves me, promising to explore it, only if I prove ready.
Tomorrow I meet him.
Chapter 2
Jacob meets him, Dr Zim, for the first time.
I remember it vividly enough, this was the last full day of being Jacob. Later he told me the exact date. Friday 27th March 2026. Jacob Ellis as I was, must have left the underground at Tottenham Court Road at just before 18.00. At 5'4", my then lean, muscular frame cut through the crowd. My mind a mix of excitement and anxiety. Very anxious. I fastened my jacket (‘it will be cold later’), checked, again, the buttons on my blue Oxford shirt, discretely checked the fly on my slim fit chinos and checked, again, my phone: no messages. I’m still an anxious person. I still check everything twice. Careful, that’s what Marcus says I am. He says I’m careful.
The meeting place was about ten minutes walk away, a quiet gastropub called ‘The Queen’s Peace’, expensive and known for its discreet booths and clientele of gay professionals. It’s still there, seven year’s later. I know it is because I went there the other day to look for it. But why I went back there I don’t know. What was I looking for? Perhaps I am superstitious and believe in time-slips? Perhaps I was hoping to suddenly meet my old self, Jacob, walking towards that same door, and me, Jayden, a ghost from the future, bumping into him, warning him to run away. But that’s the big question isn’t it? If I had travelled back in time, told him; if I had magically appeared and told him my story, our story really, would he have run away? Or would he have said yes, and consented to everything that’s happened? Said yes because I, Jayden, am more real, more connected, more authentic than Jacob ever was?
The place was quiet in its way, relaxing. No music. He was in a corner booth: Dr. Zim, maybe early sixties, full of authority. Tall and broad-shouldered, with thick silver hair and a tailored suit, it all felt like ‘old money.’
‘Jacob?. He stands, gestures to the seat opposite. 'Right on time. Thank you for coming all this way Jacob.’
‘No, I should thank you Dr Zim.’ My introverted nature and my social anxiety making my words come out rather formally. I still do that, become formal when I’m anxious, or rather Jayden still does that, in his way. You can’t rewire a nervous system.
I remember ordering a large glass of wine from the app, red, needing something to steady my nerves.
Dr. Zim leant back, sparkling water in front of him. 'Hackney to the West End? It’s a trek after a long week in the City. Tell me, how was your day? Buried in figures, or dreaming of... other things?'
The question. I felt a flush creep up my neck, body tense under the scrutiny. This is it, the start of whatever he has planned. But he is in no rush; his eyes invite confession without demand, building the tension.
'I... it was routine, but yeah, my mind wandered. To this. To talking about it, face to face.’
Dr. Zim nods. ’Good. Fantasies like yours, de-classing, as I think we agreed to call it, aren’t simple urges. They're about power, identity, surrender, connection with something bigger than the self. You've shared fragments online, but here, in person, we can probe deeper. What draws you to it most? The loss of control? Or something more visceral? A need to belong perhaps?’
I drank the wine, the taste grounding me. Dr. Zim's proximity, the distinctive scent of his aftershave, Tom Ford I think, I remember that smell, amplified the psychological pull. This wasn’t just a hookup; it was a consultation, a seduction of the mind. Despite my reservations, I know I felt myself leaning in, ready to bare more.
Perhaps an hour slipped by, me on my third glass while he stuck to sparkling water. He delved into my past, the death of both parents whilst I was at college, the lack of any family, there was nothing to inherit, the absence of money, a sense of rootlessness and insecurity. The history degree, UCL, the job in the bank, the life in the City. Then onto the fantasies, Zim exploring these with clinical precision: the allure of shedding a constructed ego driven identity for something ‘more real’ whatever that was, perhaps the thrill of being shaped by a firmer hand? Dr. Zim listening to me, probing with questions that left me exposed yet oddly exhilarated. No touches, no overt advances, just words. But words, they’re a kind of spell aren’t they. I know that now.
‘Jacob, do you understand that some fantasies, when put into reality, are one way streets? It’s not like having your head shaved, and the hair will grow back, although,’ and I remember he laughed here, ‘you would still have to live with the consequences until it did. What I am describing is an initiation ritual. Once you cross the threshold, you can’t go back as you were, not as exactly the same person. Do you really want that?’
Of course, normally I would have beed cautious, but his presence, the alcohol, my state of mind. The moment. The month of discussing it. ’I understand; and I’m not sure I want to go back.’
‘But you have to be certain Jacob, it’s a rite of passage, from one state to another, from boyhood to manhood for example. Once you become a man, you can’t become a boy again. It’s a serious business. No exit, no way back.’
For some reason that excited me more, no return. I didn’t answer him. Did I silently consent?
Chapter 3
Jacob agrees to take the first steps, and goes back to Dr Zim’s flat.
He set down his sparkling water. 'This place grows stale after a while don’t you think? My flat is nearby, just off The Strand. I know your size, Jacob, from what you've shared. I have an outfit that might work for you. Classic estate boy look. Would you like to see it? Try it on maybe?'
My pulse quickened. A chav outfit, tracksuit, trainers, the uniform of a world far from spreadsheets and client presentations. Perhaps this was a step toward my de-classing fantasy? Or this one way ritual he spoke about so seriously? I nodded, swallowing the last of my wine. 'Yes. I'd like that, thanks.’
The distance was short enough, but it took a long time, almost twenty minutes through streets alive with theatre goers, to get there. I think it was by St Clement Danes where we turned towards the river, onto a quiet side street. Dr. Zim's building, all late Victorian respectability brought up to date, with wrought-iron balconies and a doorman who nodded deferentially.
Inside, a lift to the top floor, a private entry into a hallway lined with abstract art. The apartment itself, spacious, high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, partially overlooking the Thames. Bookshelves, strange objects, antiques; old money, inherited wealth, and power. It felt a long way from my cramped Hackney rental, a contrast that amplified my sense displacement, of somehow not fully belonging either there or here.
'Make yourself at home. ’Water? Or something stronger?'
'Water's fine,' I kept my jacket on.
Dr. Zim poured two glasses from separate bottles, handing one over before disappearing into an adjoining room. He returned moments later with a neatly folded bundle: a grey unbranded tracksuit, second hand white trainers, a flat-brim cap, and a pair of baggy socks. Classic chav gear, now laid out on the coffee table like an anthropologist’s exhibit.
'Go on, the bathroom's through there. Change, and let's see how it fits. No pressure, just an experiment.'
In the bathroom, I stripped down. My boxers off too? Even that suddenly felt too formal, so I dropped them. The tracksuit fitted, albeit too tight, zip half down over my pecs, the bottoms hugging my thighs and glutes just right. The reflection showed it made my arse look good. Then the trainers and the cap, perched low. In the mirror, I barely recognised himself: gone was Jacob Ellis, replaced by something more ‘street’, and somehow more vulnerable.
Emerging, I stood in front of Dr Zim, arms at my sides.
'Turn for me.’
I pivoted slowly. The shift, somehow psychological as much as physical. Dr. Zim circled me.
'It suits you, more than I imagined. How does it feel? The weight of it, the change?'
'Different. Freeing, in a way. Like I'm... stepping down.'
‘That's the point. But we're just beginning. Sit. Tell me what runs through your mind now, dressed like this in my home.'
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