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Shaved and Claimed

(I was feeling horny, so I wrote this story, well, my cock did most of the writing lol.)

I never gave the new tenant much thought until the day he moved in. I’d lived in this quiet, leafy block of flats for six years, solid brick, good neighbours, mostly professional men. The kind of place where solicitors and accountants waved politely in the hallway. Then he arrived. Bald head gleaming under the corridor lights, thick tattoos crawling up his neck, heavy boots thudding on the carpet. I told myself it was none of my business. I was Alexander Thorp, thirty-eight, senior manager at Hargrove & Partners. Suits, spreadsheets, and a glass of Merlot after work. Orderly. Safe. That summed me up.

The first knock came that same evening.

I opened the door, and there he was, two cans of lager in one meaty hand. “Name’s Mal,” he said, voice low and rolling, as distant thunder smoothed with gravel. “Just moved in next door. Thought we should get acquainted.”

“My name is Alexander,” I stuttered, nice to meet you. “Yeah, good to meet you to, Alex.” I hated being called Alex. I tried to tell him that. But he brushed it off.

He offered me a lager, something I don’t usually drink, but something about the way he looked at me made refusing feel rude. We stood in my kitchen.

He cracked open the cans and started talking, nothing special, just about the building, the area, how he liked it here. His voice had this rhythm. Steady. Deep. Each sentence seemed to settle in my chest and loosen something. My shoulders dropped. The usual tension from the office drained away.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmured after a while. “Just two mates having a drink. We’re going to be best of friends, Alex. Real close.”

I laughed, a little hazy. “Yeah… sure.”

He smiled like he knew I’d say it.

He started coming round most evenings. Always with drinks. Always that same calm, rolling voice telling me to relax, to let the day go. I found myself looking forward to the knocks. The flat felt warmer with him in it. One night, he handed me a cigarette without asking. I hadn’t smoked since university, but I took it. The first drag made my head spin pleasantly. Mal nodded approvingly.

“Looks right on you,” he said. “A man should have a smoke at the end of the day. Clears the bullshit out.”

I started keeping a pack in the drawer. When I got home from work, I’d change out of the suit into jeans and a polo shirt, comfortable things I suddenly preferred. Mal would already be on my sofa, boots up on the coffee table, and I’d join him. We’d drink, smoke, talk. Or rather, he’d talk, and I’d listen. It felt… good. Simple.

The changes at work crept in so quietly I barely noticed them at first.

I snapped at a junior solicitor over a minor filing error. Nothing major, just a sharper tone than usual. The satisfaction that followed surprised me. A week later, I caught myself loosening my tie in the lift, impatient with the starched collar.

Once a month, we had dress-down Friday. We paid one hundred pounds, all the money went to charity, that Friday morning I pulled on a pair of black Doc Martens I’d bought on a whim after Mal mentioned them. They looked ridiculous with chinos, so I swapped the chinos for darker jeans. Then I added a crisp Ben Sherman shirt, pale blue, buttoned neatly, and a set of white braces I found tucked in the back of my wardrobe. I don’t remember buying the braces, but they felt correct. Natural.

I looked in the mirror before leaving and felt a low, warm pulse of approval. Stronger. More solid.

Colleagues noticed. Sarah from Accounts raised an eyebrow. “New look, Alexander?” “Comfortable,” I grunted. The old easy smile I used to wear felt like an effort.

When one of the partners questioned a report later that morning, I felt heat rise in my neck. My voice came out harder than intended. “It’s correct. Don’t waste my time.

”The words tasted metallic and sweet.

Mal was waiting when I got home that evening. He looked me up and down and grinned slowly.

“Starting to look the part, mate.”

I should have asked what he meant. Instead, I opened two cans, lit a cigarette, and let that deep voice wash over me again. He told me how much better I looked. How much clearer things were becoming. How weak the old version of me had been, always apologising, always smoothing things over, always soft. His words sank in like warm oil.

“You’re stronger than that, Alex. You feel it, don’t you?”

I did. The anger at work wasn’t a problem; it was honest. The boots felt powerful on the pavement. The braces held me upright. When I walked into meetings, I now saw the little flinches, the way eyes dropped. Respect, finally.

Last night, Mal brought round a razor. He sat me down in the bathroom, clippers buzzing.

“Time to clean it up proper,” he said softly.

I watched in the mirror as my hair fell away. The man staring back looked harder. Clearer. Mal’s hands were firm on my scalp. His voice never stopped murmuring, friends, crew, belonging, strength. When he finished, he rested a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“You’re coming along nicely he whispered.” Taking me out of my trance-like state.

The old Alex, the quiet, careful, soft-handed man, felt like someone I used to know. Distant. Irrelevant. I took a long drag on my cigarette and smiled at my reflection. The boots, the braces, the fresh-shaved head. It all fit.

Mal asked how I felt. My answer surprised me, “About time,” I said, voice lower than it used to be.

Mal clapped me on the back and laughed. I laughed with him deep, easy, certain.

It was Friday night I stood in front of the mirror, running my hand over my freshly shaved head. It still felt strange, smooth, cool, powerful. The old Alexander would have been horrified. The new Alex felt a low, steady thrill every time I caught my reflection.

Mal had been watching me from the doorway, that slow, satisfied grin on his face.

“Looking sharp, mate,” he said, voice low and warm like always. “But we’re stepping it up tonight. My lads are down at The Crown. Proper local pub, none of that poncey wine-bar shit you used to go to. Time you met the crew.”

I nodded without thinking. Of course. Mal was my best mate. The only one who really understood what I needed now.

He disappeared into the hallway for a moment and came back carrying a pair of bleachers. They looked tight, heavily worn. The kind of trousers I would have sneered at six weeks ago.

“Get changed,” he told me. Not a suggestion. A calm instruction.

I trusted him completely. He was the one who had shown me how weak I used to be. I stripped off the dark jeans I’d been wearing and pulled on the bleachers. They hugged my arse and legs tightly. I then laced up my boots after Mal had told me to replace the laces with white laces. I kept the Ben Sherman shirt. Pulled the white braces over my shoulders.

The whole outfit felt locked together now. Complete.

Mal stepped up behind me as I adjusted the braces in the mirror. I felt the heat of his body close, his breath on the back of my newly shaved head. One heavy hand came down on my shoulder and squeezed. “Fuck me, you look the part now, Alex,” he murmured, voice dropping into that hypnotic rhythm that always melted my thoughts. “No more pretending. No more soft little manager hiding behind a suit. This is you. Tonight’s going to seal it. You’ll drink with the lads, you’ll stand tall, and you’ll feel exactly who I have changed you into.”

A shiver ran down my spine, part nerves, part excitement. I met his eyes in the mirror.

“I’m ready,” I said. My voice sounded deeper. Rougher.

Mal clapped me on the back, hard enough to make me straighten up.

“Good lad. Let’s go.”

We walked out of the flat together. The bleachers felt strange at first, tight and obvious, but every step made them feel more natural. The heavy Docs thudded on the stairs. A couple of neighbours glanced at us on the way down, eyes widening before they quickly looked away. I didn’t care. I actually liked it.

Outside, the evening air was cool on my shaved head. Mal walked beside me, shoulder to shoulder, guiding me towards the pub at the end of the road I’d never bothered visiting before. I could already hear the low rumble of voices and music spilling out. I felt my heart beating harder, but not with fear. But with anticipation.

Mal glanced sideways at me and smirked.

“Tonight, you stop being their Alexander,” he said quietly. “Tonight you become Alex and ours.”

I pulled a cigarette from my pack, lit it, and took a long drag as we approached the door. The smoke curled up past my face. I exhaled slowly, feeling the last faint traces of the old me dissolve.

“About time,” I replied.

And I meant it.

The heavy wooden door of The Crown swung open and the noise hit me like a wave: laughter, shouting, the clink of glasses, old Oi! tracks playing low on the speakers. The smell of beer, smoke, and sweat filled the air. For a split second, I hesitated on the threshold in my bleachers, braces, and boots.

Then Mal put his hand reassuringly between my shoulder blades and pushed me inside.

Everything changed the moment I crossed into the pub.

My shoulders squared. My jaw tightened. The nervous middle-manager part of me that still lingered in the background simply switched off. I felt my face settle into a hard, confident sneer as we walked through the pub. Heads turned. A few older lads nodded at Mal, then their eyes moved to me, appraising, measuring.

Mal steered me toward a large table in the corner where five skinheads were already drinking. All shaved, all tattooed, all dressed in similar: tight polos, bleachers, braces, and boots. They looked up.

“This is Alex,” Mal announced, his voice carrying. “The new neighbour. He’s sound. He’s One of us now.”

For a second, they just stared. Then the biggest one, a stocky bloke with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck, grinned and slammed a fresh pint down in front of me.

“Welcome to the crew, Alex. Any mate of Mal’s is welcome here.”

I didn’t smile politely as the old me would have. I grabbed the pint, raised it, and took a long, deep gulp. Beer spilt down my chin. I wiped it with the back of my hand and slammed the glass back on the table.

“Cheers, lads,” I said, my voice loud and rough. “Fucking good to be here.”

They cheered. One of them clapped me hard on the back. Another lit a cigarette and passed it straight to me. I took it naturally, inhaling deep while I eyeballed every one of them. No weakness. No hesitation. I felt powerful. Accepted. Home.

The rest of the night blurred into pints, stories, and aggression. I laughed louder than I ever had. When one of the lads told a story about smashing some posh twat who looked at him funny, I found myself adding my own sharp comments, my temper quick and vicious. They loved it. They accepted me completely. I was no longer the suited middle manager from the nice flats. I was Alex the skinhead.

Mal’s boy.

By closing time, I was buzzing, half-drunk, fully alive.

Mal and I left together, arms slung around each other’s shoulders as we walked back through the quiet streets. My bleachers and boots felt like a second skin now. The shaved head, the braces, the attitude, it all fit perfectly.

“You did well tonight,” Mal said, that deep hypnotic tone back in his voice.

“Proud of you, mate.”

I nodded. “I’m still at the law firm during the day,” I told him, almost amused by the absurdity. “Still closing deals, still wearing the suit. But it’s just a disguise now. The real me is this.”

Mal grinned. “Exactly. And you’re going to help me bring in the rest of the block. Starting with that accountant on the third floor. Soft hands, soft life. He needs fixing. You’ll invite him round for drinks. You’ll talk to him the way I talked to you. Yeah?” “Yeah,” I said without a flicker of doubt. “I know exactly how to do it. He’ll trust me. I used to be like him.”

Mal clapped me on the back again as we reached our building. “Good lad. I’m the boss, but you’re my right hand in that block. We’re going to own it.”

We stopped outside my door. I looked at him, my best mate, my leader and felt nothing but loyalty and pride.

“Fancy a nightcap, Boss,” I said.

We stepped into my flat, wearing our bleachers and braces, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. Hard face. Shaved head. Cold eyes. A proud smile crept across my lips.

I fetched two more lagers and settled on the sofa, our boots resting on the coffee table in front of us.

As I leaned over, something snapped inside of me. I felt a great attraction for this man, who had broken me and remade me in his liking. I kissed him deeply, our cocks sprang to life. I soon found myself on my knees looking up at him as he gave me the nod.

We made our way to the bedroom, where he fucked me hard, dominating me, l knew that this was my place with my skinhead Boss. I might be the one in charge in the workplace, but at home, he was the Boss in every aspect of my life from now on.

The rest of the weekend was spent in bed, or lounging around the flat, both of us knowing our places. We ventured out to The Crown that night. The rest of the crew could see the dynamic had changed between the two of us, but did not say anything.

On Monday morning, I looked at the clock, five-thirty AM. I leaned over, my Boss took me into a passionate kiss, and entered me. I had lost count of how many times over the weekend I had been fucked.

I got dressed for work in my suit, I wore a pair of braces, not my skinhead ones. Also, I was wearing a pair of black DM shoes with black laces.

When I walked into the office, several people looked at me, now with a closely cropped head. My secretary asked me about it, “What have you done with your hair?” she asked. “I did it for charity” I jokingly said. Knowing too well, I would never let it grow any longer, Boss’s orders.

That night, The Boss was waiting for me in my flat; he had full access now. I stripped out of my suit and changed back into my Skin gear. The stress of the day melted instantly. He then handed me a lager, in the same place where it all started six weeks ago.