Jake Jobbs stood at the base of the indoor climbing wall like he owned the damn thing. Twenty eight years old, broad shouldered and thick with muscle earned from years of hauling himself up sheer faces across Snowdonia and the Brecon Beacons, he cut a figure that turned heads. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw sharp, and his blue eyes carried the lazy confidence of a man who had always been the best looking lad in any room. The small town of Pontypridd, just outside the Welsh valleys proper, still talked about him. The girls certainly did—whispers at the pub, lingering stares at the climbing centre where he worked part time as an instructor and demo climber. Married three years to Sian, a quiet primary school teacher who adored him, Jake still basked in the attention. He told himself it was harmless. A man like him deserved to be looked at.
He wore his usual kit: a tight black climbing shirt that clung to the ridges of his chest and abs, harness snug around his waist, and beneath it, a pair of Tom Ford boxer briefs in deep navy with a subtle silver waistband trim. Expensive taste for a lad from the valleys, but Jake had splashed out after a sponsorship deal with a gear brand. The fabric was soft, supportive, and just tight enough to outline the heavy curve of his cock and the firm swell of his arse when he moved. He liked how they felt—luxurious against his skin, a secret reminder of his status even when no one else could see.
“Alright, watch closely,” Jake called out to the small crowd gathered for the Saturday demonstration. His voice carried that cocky lilt, the one that said he was doing them a favour. “This route’s a V6, nothing fancy for me, but it’ll show you proper footwork.”
He chalked his hands and started up the wall, muscles flexing under the bright lights. The crowd murmured appreciatively mostly women, a few blokes. Jake grinned to himself as he dyno’d to a higher hold, his body stretching long and powerful.
That was when the voice cut through the air.
“Stop.”
It wasn’t loud, but it sank into Jake’s bones like a hook. His limbs locked mid reach. He hung there, frozen, heart hammering. What the fuck?
A man stepped forward from the back of the crowd. Tall, lean, dressed in a long dark coat that seemed too heavy for the indoor centre. His face was sharp, eyes like polished obsidian. A weird sorcerer looking bastard, Jake thought wildly, but the thought dissolved as the man spoke again.
“Come down. Slowly. Show them how obedient you can be.”
Jake’s body moved without his permission. His fingers released, his feet found holds on the way down with unnatural grace. The crowd thought it was part of the show. Applause rippled. Jake’s face burned with humiliation, but his mouth stayed silent. Inside, he screamed.
The sorcerer leo, though Jake didn’t know the name yet smiled thinly. “Good lad.”
From that moment, everything changed.
Jake woke the next morning in his terraced house on the edge of town, Sian’s arm draped over his chest. His body ached in strange ways, not from climbing, but from whatever invisible force had gripped him yesterday. He remembered the rest of the demo in fragments: leo’s quiet commands woven into the performance, making Jake linger on certain holds, arch his back, present his body to the crowd. The Tom Ford boxers had ridden up slightly under his harness, the expensive fabric hugging the tight, hairy cleft of his arse. No one should have noticed, but leo had commented on it in a low voice that only Jake could hear.
“Virgin territory, that. We’ll fix it.”
Jake had tried to confront the man after, but his legs had carried him straight to the car park instead, driving home in a daze. Sian had asked how the demo went. He’d lied and said fine.
Now, in the shower, Jake tried to shake it off. He soaped his muscled body, fingers brushing over the dense hair that trailed down his stomach and thickened around his cock and between his cheeks. He was straight, married, cocky as they came. No weird shit was going to stick.
But when he dressed for another demo that afternoon
management had loved the “charisma” he’d shown he found himself selecting a different pair of Tom Ford boxers. These were charcoal grey, silk trimmed, the waistband riding low on his hips. He caught himself adjusting them in the mirror, turning to check how the fabric cupped his firm, rounded arse. The hair there was dark and wiry, framing the tight pink pucker that had never known anything but his own curious finger on rare drunk nights. He felt a flush of unwanted heat.
At the centre, leo was waiting.
The commands began lightly at first. “Demonstrate the route again, Jake. But this time, make it sensual. Let them see what you’re made of.”
Jake’s body obeyed. He climbed slower, hips rolling, arse pushing out on each move. The crowd grew. Whispers spread. The girls still stared, but now some of the men did too, openly. leo’s voice threaded through his mind: *You like this. The eyes on you. Your cock is getting hard in those pretty Tom Ford boxers.*
It was true. Shame and arousal twisted together as Jake felt himself thicken against the soft, expensive fabric.
By the end of the week, the changes had deepened. leo met him after hours in the empty centre. No crowd this time. Just the two of them under the harsh lights.
“Strip the harness,” leo ordered.
Jake did, hands moving on autopilot. His climbing trousers came down next, revealing the Tom Ford boxers today a burgundy pair with a sleek black waistband, the material stretched taut over his muscular thighs and the growing bulge. leo circled him like a sculptor inspecting marble.
“Beautiful. Cocky little straight boy from the valleys, married and everything. And yet here you are, presenting that tight hairy virgin arse like it was made for me.”
Jake’s voice finally broke through. “Fuck you. I’m not—”
leo touched his shoulder, and the protest died. Pleasure flooded Jake’s nerves instead. His cock hardened fully, tenting the Tom Ford fabric obscenely. leo’s fingers traced the waistband, dipping inside to brush the dense hair at the base of Jake’s spine.
“Bend forward. Hands on the wall.”
Jake assumed the position against the climbing wall, legs spread, back arched. The sorcerer’s fingers, slick with something cool and magical, pulled the boxers down just enough to expose his arse. The cool air hit the hairy cleft. Jake shuddered.
“Relax.”
One finger circled his hole, teasing the tight ring of muscle. Jake’s breath hitched. He’d never felt anything like it the invasive, electric pleasure. The finger pushed in slowly, stretching him. Jake moaned, his cock leaking into the Tom Ford boxers still bunched around his thighs. leo worked him open with patient skill, crooking his finger to brush that spot inside that made Jake’s knees buckle.
“You’re going to love this, Jake. You’re going to crave being a submissive bottom. Showing off. Taking whatever I give you.”
The finger became two, then three, pumping steadily while Jake’s face pressed against the cool wall. His expensive boxers were ruined with precum. When leo finally pulled out, Jake whimpered at the loss, his hole clenching on nothing, hairy and slick.
The middle phase of Jake’s transformation played out over the following weeks in public and private. leo’s hold tightened like a harness. Jake still went home to Sian, but their sex life dwindled. He found excuses—tired from training while secretly meeting leo at the centre after dark or during private “special demonstrations.”
The crowds grew larger. Management noticed the spike in attendance and let Jake do more demos. leo ensured the shows evolved.
One afternoon, Jake climbed in a pair of small, cheap white briefs instead of his usual kit. The contrast was stark—his powerful, muscled body in something so basic and revealing. The briefs clung to his cock and hugged the hairy curves of his arse, the fabric slightly sheer under the lights. leo had commanded it: *Show them how low you’ve fallen. From Tom Ford to this.*
Jake demonstrated the route, but every few holds, leo’s voice would compel him to pause, flex, push his arse out toward the crowd. People filmed on their phones. Jake’s face was flushed with humiliation and dark excitement. His cock strained against the cheap cotton.
After the demo, leo took him on the wall itself.
“Legs apart. Higher.”
Jake clung to a difficult overhang, body suspended. leo approached from below, pulling the cheap briefs aside. His cock thick, veined, and insistent—pressed against Jake’s now familiar hole. The magic made the stretch easy, pleasurable. Jake gasped as leo sank in deep, fucking him against the wall in steady, powerful thrusts. The cheap briefs framed the scene obscenely, bunched under his balls.
“Say it,” leo growled.
“I’m... your submissive bottom,” Jake panted, voice breaking as pleasure built. His own cock rubbed against the wall through the briefs. He came hard, soaking the fabric, while leo filled him.
Different underwear marked different fucks. One night it was Jake’s favourite remaining Tom Ford pair emerald green with gold detailing pulled down just enough for leo to pound him senseless on a ledge midway up the wall. The luxurious fabric whispered against Jake’s skin with every thrust, a reminder of who he used to be. Another time, plain black athletic briefs, stretched and torn at the seam from the force. leo fucked him face to face, Jake’s legs wrapped around him, the wall at his back, while magic held them both in place.
Jake’s character shifted. The arrogance cracked. The cocky lad who strutted for the girls now found himself craving the exposure, the submission. He started shaving less, letting the hair on his arse and body grow thicker, as leo preferred. In quiet moments alone, Jake would catch himself admiring his reflection—muscled, hairy, altered his hole twitching at the memory of being used. Sian sensed something wrong but couldn’t name it. Jake felt guilt, but the magic and the pleasure overwhelmed it. He was developing into someone new: still strong, still handsome, but wired for surrender.
The climax came on a rainy Thursday evening. The centre was closed, but leo had arranged a final private “performance.” Jake arrived in his best remaining Tom Ford boxers—deep black with a crimson waistband, the material buttery soft and expensive against his skin. He knew what was coming.
leo had him climb high, nearly to the top of the tallest wall. There, suspended and exposed, Jake was commanded to push his arse out. leo fingered him roughly first, then slid in bare, fucking him with deep, claiming strokes. Jake moaned openly now, no resistance left. His body had learned to love it—the stretch, the fullness, the way his hairy hole gripped leo’s cock.
Then the escalation. leo pulled out and aimed lower. A hot stream of piss hit Jake’s arse, soaking the Tom Ford boxers, running down his thighs. Jake shuddered in humiliated ecstasy, his own cock spurting hands free.
Finally, the taser. leo produced the small device, its electric hum filling the air. “This will mark you properly.”
The first shock landed on the hairy, virgin no longer pucker. Jake cried out, a mix of pain and blinding pleasure that made his vision white out. His hole clenched and fluttered. Another shock, then another, timed with leo stroking him. Jake came again, harder than ever, body convulsing against the wall, piss and cum mixing on the cheap briefs he’d changed into midway through.
When it ended, Jake slid down the wall into leo’s arms, spent and trembling. The sorcerer kissed his forehead almost tenderly.
“You’re mine now, Jake Jobbs. The cocky climber is gone. This is who you are.”
In the weeks that followed, Jake didn’t fight it anymore. He left the demos behind, taking a quieter role at the centre. Sian and he separated amicably Jake confessed enough to let her go without full truth. He moved into a small flat closer to the climbing wall. leo visited often.
Jake still climbed, but now his body told a different story. The muscle remained, the good looks too, but there was a new softness in his eyes, a willingness to submit. He wore what leo chose—sometimes the tattered remnants of his Tom Ford collection, sometimes cheap briefs that showed everything. The girls still looked, but Jake no longer cared. His pleasure came from the wall, from the commands, from being the submissive bottom with the tight hairy arse that loved to be used, fingered, fucked, marked, and shocked.
One evening, climbing alone under leo’s watchful eye, Jake paused on a high hold. He looked down at the man who had broken and remade him. A small, genuine smile crossed his face.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The arrogance was gone. In its place was something deeper acceptance, desire, a new kind of strength forged in surrender. The lad from Pontypridd had found his true route, and it led straight into the grip of the veil he could no longer escape.
Hello, my name is Ricky rousing I write stories about cocky arrogant men who become submissive. Follow me on x for updates rickyrouse (@rickyrouse83511) on X.
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