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[dutchghostboy]

[hypnosishypnosis]

Uniformed Guy Hypnotised and triggered to feel waves of pleasure. ;) (sound on) If you want to try genuine hypnosis, are between 18-40ish and are in decent shape then drop me a message with your details.

[fredwkong]

Fucked Silly

You didn’t think much of what he’d said at first. He was just a Grindr hookup, and tops will say literally anything. The message didn’t even crack the top 5 weirdest things you’d been sent. But still:

“Gonna see you fucked silly.”

It was so specific. Okay, maybe you looked like a bit of a dummy, with your sturdy muscles and habitual smile. But you were getting a doctorate! There was nothing silly about a PhD in Historiography.

“Gonna see you fucked silly.”

You looked at the message one last time as you waited rang for him to unlock the door of his building. You rolled your eyes. Bullshit tops.

But as his fat cock penetrated your hole, you started to feel weird. Your thoughts started to slow down and drift away. “What’s… happening?” you groaned as he bottomed out.

“You’re getting fucked silly, like all the other guys I top,” the top told you, and shifted inside you. You felt his cock rub up against your prostate and some of your thoughts popped like shiny, glittery soap bubbles.

“Noooo,” you moaned, shocked at how slutty your voice sounded. “I don’t wanna be a silly boyyyy.” You were smart, right? You were getting a Historo— Histrio— His— a big degree!

“Yeah, you do,” said the top, starting to fuck you harder. “You wanna be a silly bottom boi with big juicy muscles.”

“I’m moooore than a joocy muscle boiiiii,” you moaned, caught between bliss and horror as your whole body lit up from the fucking. More and more of your thoughts, memories, and knowledge slipped out of your grasp and vanished as he kept on fucking. You tried to hold onto things like your high school math class and your favourite show, but they vanished so fast you forgot you’d ever known them.

You felt your brain getting lighter and lighter as everything inside it dissolved and went away. As the top’s rhythm broke down with approaching orgasm, you moaned wantonly and fucked back into him, desperate for stimulation as the last of your smarts vanished.

The top came, and the sensation of him filling you up with his cum ripped away everything that you had left. You spurted all over the bed with an empty-headed groan. The sight of all the globs of cum on the sheets suddenly struck you as hilarious, and you started to laugh. “Huhuhuhu…”

The top pulled out. “Another happy customer,” he said, patting you on your broad back.

You twerked back at him, feeling empty. You flipped over and grinned up at him. “I wanna go dancingggg,” you whined in your new dumb, slutty voice. “Let’s go partyyyyy.” You were just a dumb, airheaded himbo with bouncy muscles and a goofy personality.

You’d been fucked silly.

[greatcombinations]

[hypnotic-siren]

[rubbergimps]

NamelessGimp

[wannabeanotter-deactivated20241]

FUCK STICK (BOTTOM TO TOP; FUCKBOY/JOCK TF)

Fucking tops. It's Friday, nearly midnight and instead of dancing I'm stuck in the washroom at a gay club, hiding from some shithead.

"Tops, right?"

Next to me is a tall guy in a flannel shirt. He's pretty hot, but, urgh, he's the last thing I want to be thinking of right now.

"Yeah," I try to sound chatty, but it's clear I'm pretty annoyed "How did you know?"

He turns to me and crosses his arms, grinning, "Oh, you know. What happened? I bet you have loads of guys chasing after you"

It's true. I mean, look at this ass

"Urgh. This guy grabbed me from behind and started grinding against me. Can you believe it?? He didn't even ask, all I did was wink at him."

"Hmphh, you winked at him? Sounds like he was giving you what you wanted. You know, all you bottoms are the same. Needy. Demanding. Seeing real men as just dumb grunting animals. Maybe that guy was trying to do you a favour?"

I groan and turn around to leave "Oh, fuck you." Just what I need, another smug shithead.

He heckles me from behind. "God, twinks like you are so fucking lame. Maybe we're fed up of being nagged all the time?". He sounds kinda angry, but I ignore him, and roll my eyes.

"You know what, grab your dick."

I freeze, and my eyes go wide with shock. Why am I so shaken? That's not the worst thing I've heard at a club. I try to move but I can't, I just sputter, "Wh- what?? I'm not doing that"

He grins, "I'm not asking"

I feel something pull against my pants, but I look down and see it's my own arm

"WHAT THE FUCK! Are you... you're doing this?" My arm creeps down, playfully running my fingers over my tight stomach, and slips down through my waist band.

"Haha, yeah I am bro. So, bottom bottom bottom. What to do with you. What if I open your eyes a little?"

I, I start to shake. Something in me feels good. Beefy guys start to flash through my mind, and whatever's taken over my hand knows what it's doing down there. Athletes, wrestlers, big bulges in tight clothes...

"Here's the thing. There's enough brats like you around here bro. Someone's gotta do something. Think of it like, uh, giving back to the community."

The images in my mind start to change. The models get smaller, swapping out athletes for tight twinks in tighter shorts. Instead of biceps, I'm thinking of big, curvy asses, and my hand... I can't control myself. I wanna grab someone, anyone, and start grinding.

But then, one of my crushes slides by - Jason, a HUGE wrestler on my college team. Biggest pecs I have seen in my life. Thank fuck, finally, a real man. He looks at me with his big, brown eyes and oh my god, my heart flutters. I look up at him and in my mind I start to walk towards him

The guy in the flannels shirt is egging me on, "Go on, do it." How does he know what I'm thinking? Whatever.

I reach out, and Jason smiles. That big, goofy, handsome grin... and then he turns around. He gets down on the mats, on his hands and knees, raising his big, firm ass into the air. I'm looking right at it.

I squirm. "Oh god. No. No no no no no"

"Uh, actually, yes." The guy in the washroom grins. "I want you to be a dumb, grunting animal, you will do that for me. Are you starting to understand?"

I lean down over the sink, but in my fantasy I fall against Jason. I hold him tight, pinning his big sweaty form down against the mats. At first, there's barely anything I can do to control him - he's WAY bigger than me, but soon I start to feel... bolder. Firmer. He tries to roll me over, but I slip my arm around his shoulder and a vein pops up over my bicep. My legs strain and my glutes start to stretch. Fuck, my whole body is throbbing.

I grunt, and slam him downwards, which gives moment to catch my breathe. Does he feel less sweaty? I wipe my forehead. Wait, am I more sweaty?

"Yeah bro. I know what you're thinking, I know how much you love guys after they've worked out. Damp clothes, that manly smell... it's exactly what every bottom wants these days. Now it's yours"

We twist around each other, and I reach my arms across his body. Wait, all the way around? His shoulders have gotten smaller, thinner... twinkier. And, well, mine are the opposite. He lunges, but I grapple him. All the mass has gone from his legs, meanwhile, my biceps are big enough to crack a skull.

"I want to make you a real fuckboy, you know? Someone who just thinks with his dick. Gym, sex, gym, sex, gym, sex... I want you to always be turned on, I want it to control you, I want you to never get a break."

I've got him, firm between my legs. Jason's tiny now, the same size I was 2 minutes ago, and I start to grind my bulge against his soft, bubbly ass. Fuck. Fuck! It's so good. This is the best fantasy I've ever had in my life. I want to fuck him so bad.

My whole body is throbbing, shaking. Blood is pulsing through my, through my everything. Fuuuuuck. I feel almost dizzy. Everything about this almost feels real. I go to lift up my shirt, but it's gone, and I run my other hand over my stomach. It's like I can really feel the abs

I cum. Oh my god, did I just cum in a... a washroom at a night club? And, I was thinking about topping a guy??

"Ahem". I turn to stare at the guy next to me. He looks pleased with himself. Very pleased.

"There bro! How do you look?"

I look in the mirror, and it hits me like a fucking brick. My body... my clothes. Oh my god, everything's gone. THAT WAS REAL? I look like some stupid fuckboy. Am I a stupid fuckboy? Is that a JOCKSTRAP? My jeans are gone, now just a pair of shorts. Very short shorts. Is that it? Is that all I'm wearing? Over the top of my huge pecs I see my converses are gone too, swapped out for some worn down gym shoes.

This can't be real. If it is, my boyfriend is 100% going to break up with me. How do I even explain this? That I'm like, ripped now? No, wait... that's not it. I try to imagine him topping me but, but, fuck, it feels so gross. A total turnoff

"Of course you don't want to let him top you. You're not a bottom anymore... that's kind of the whole point."

But he would never let me top him. But maybe we don't need to have sex for a while. That wouldn't be so bad, would it...

"AHAHAHA, sorry, with your new sex drive? What part of a fucking animal don't you understand"

There's no way he would want to stay with a horny fuckboy, but, but...

what if I am a stupid fuckboy? I'm already thinking of a nice, tight twink. I'm not that interested in him anyway - he's too tall, too beefy. All the guys I saw earlier are racing through my head. The skinny guy I danced with with the great ass, that cute short one by the bar... urgh, he had those perfect legs, that cute crop top, tight stomach... I bite my lower lip and reach down...

"NO!!"

I start hyperventilating. "This isn't me. I'm not a jock, I am ABSOLUTELY not a top. And," I lift up my arm, "there's no way I actually smell like this"

He laughs, like he's having the fucking time of his life. Maybe he is. "HAHA, sorry dude, yeah you do. And, yeah, you are. Think of that fuck stick like a gift, not just to you, but also to every cute boy you see on grindr. You'll get used to it, trust me"

His words flood my head... I imagine scrolling through the app in bed later, looking at the sea of boys all desperate for me... I reach down again...

"NO! Fuck! Make it stop. Why are you doing this to me?!!"

He pauses for a moment, then sighs and shakes his head. His expression... he's looking at me like he thinks I'm stupid. Does he think I'm stupid? No way - this motherfucker!

"Really? I know I fried a few wires up there dude, but you cannot seriously be asking that. Why do you think I'm doing it?"

"I - I..." I can't find any words. I really don't know. I just don't fucking get it. He's ruining my body, my LIFE, and for what? Fun? Revenge?

But he laughs, and looks at me. I'd think he was being pitiful if he wasn't grinning so fucking hard.

"Bro," he says, "I'm doing this because I think it's hot."

My heart sinks. "You're doing this because, because it fucking turns you on? Don't you give a shit about me at ALL?? I'm going to lose my boyfriend, I'm trapped in this horny, sweaty, disgusting body..."

"Just stop complaining. You know, so what if you don't get in a say in this! Sometimes you just gotta take what life gives you, and right now that's a huge fucking cock"

I feel like I'm about to burst out crying. He grabs my new, boyish face, and pulls it up towards his. "So, yah! Glad I could clear that up," he laughs, "Look, ok, this isn't gonna work if you're gonna be such a fucking loser about it. It's also not gonna work out if you don't work out - you gotta be going to the gym from now on. Those biceps, those pecs... you're chiseled like a statue and I'm not gonna let those new muscles go to waste. You need to be in there DAILY."

He gives my cheeks a squeeze, then lets me go. I clutch my face. It feels different, unfamiliar. Am I crying?

"URGH, bro, will you just quit looking at me like that. Puppy dog eyes, I shouldn't have made you so fucking handsome... Look, I'm gonna give you one last chance, ok: cheer up, right fucking now, or else I'm gonna have to do some rewiring. Right now, all your decisions are being made up there", he flicks my forehead, and then he smirks and grabs my crotch. "But, if I flick the switch, this guy gets to do all the thinking. You'll be so dumb, so horny, HAH, you'll be drooling over your own dick. A real fucking animal. Got it?"

If I don't get a grip, it's over for me. But what do I do? I gulp, and try to swallow my tears. I wash my face a little in the sink. He stares down at me, and the two of us stand in silence. It feels like forever, but it must have been just a minute.

I look up at him, and let out a squeak. "Yeah. You're right. I got it"

"No." he says "I don't think you do."

Damnnnnn, look at these pecs. Fuck, what was I doing? Whatever, I gotta get back out there. See if that blonde guy by the bar is taken. Just thinking of him and his ass makes me wanna... I grab my crotch, and let out a moan.

Wait, is that cum? Yoo how did I not realise. I clean myself up and slide my waistband back over my jockstrap, letting it snap into place against my cum gutters. I flex, and light shines off my glistening, sweaty muscles - if someone were to see me now, they'd think I was a greek statue. These strong, firm thighs, the perfect curve of my glutes... these shoulders look like they were made by fucking Michelangelo.

Nah, I'm way better than that. A statue doesn't have a dick. See you at the club, bro

[jukeboxemcsa]

Cole Is a Sleepy Boy

It started almost as soon as Cole walked into the room, now. He stood in the doorway, a touch perplexed, wondering what had entirely possessed him to walk into his neighbor’s study… and Joe looked up at him from his desk with a warm, paternal smile and said, “Oh, is someone a sleepy boy, then? Did someone need a little nap, mm?” And despite himself, Cole heard those patronizing tones and felt himself bristle with a petulant defiance that he somehow knew Joe would have no trouble overcoming. Because it was true. He was tired… no, not even tired. ‘Tired’ was a word that strong-willed men used, men in control of their own faculties who didn’t find themselves gripped by the tug of instincts they couldn’t possibly resist. Cole wasn’t tired, he was sleepy. And getting sleepier by the minute.

He tried to turn around, to go back to his own house and his own bed and try to work out from there why his eyelids felt so suddenly heavy and his legs so suddenly wobbly… but the moment he began to move, a sense of giddiness swept over him and he had no choice but to cling to the doorframe until it passed. “Awww, someone’s over-tired, aren’t they?” Joe asked, rising from his chair. Cole couldn’t help noticing that the older man was entirely naked. “You’re just fighting sleep now, silly boy. Why don’t you let me help you, and then you can rest and relax and let go of all that resistance, okay?” He crossed the room, putting his hand warmly on Cole’s chest. Cole couldn’t help noticing that he was naked too.

That sparked a vague memory, a memory of walking into his neighbor’s unlocked house through the back door and immediately taking his clothes off, but at the same time it distracted him from the present. And that was something of a mistake. The more Cole paid attention to the fitful recollections flitting through his drowsy brain, the less he noticed Joe’s silky smooth voice in his ears. “…tired legs,” he caught, the end of some thought that the older man had slipped into Cole’s mind without resistance while he was off woolgathering. “It’s okay to let go now, knowing I’ve got you and I’m holding you and you can just gently sink down for me. There. Just like that.” Cole felt his hands and knees touch soft carpet. The texture seemed intimately familiar to him.

Something warm and salty touched his tongue, reminding Cole that his jaw had slackened and his lips had parted into a perfect ‘O’. Instinctively, he leaned forward, seeking more of the flavors of musk and salt, but Joe kept backing away with just enough speed to tantalize Cole into crawling forward. He didn’t know why he wanted that taste so badly, but the craving was irresistible. When Joe finally sat down on the couch by the far wall, Cole was so deeply gripped by his desire that he eagerly engulfed the older man’s entire shaft in a single swallow. “That’s my sleepy boy,” Joe purred. “That’s my good little sleepy cocksucker.”

That sparked a brief, futile moment of defiance in Cole’s sluggish mind–he knew what he was doing all of a sudden, knew he was bobbing his head up and down on another man’s cock in hypnotized rapture. But before he could even begin to translate that defiance into action, Joe’s fingers tangled into his hair and began to guide him faster, and Cole found his brain melting into slick and thoughtless ecstasy. Ecstasy that dribbled and drooled from his own shaft, leaking onto the carpet, making him too horny to think for himself. And Joe was right there to do the job for him. “Good cockslut,” he murmured, and Cole finally stopped fighting and went blank and empty for his owner.

(If you enjoy this fiction and want to make sure it continues, please visit https://www.patreon.com/Jukebox to become a supporter. Or, if you simply want to make a one-time contribution, you can drop me a tip at https://ko-fi.com/jukebox instead. Thank you!)

[dutchghostboy]

[slave0]

[davesbigwhirlwind]

Maturing Fast

The story of a teenage forced to entirely change his look entirely and conform to the style his parents decide for him (it’s my first post of Tumblr, and possibly the first part of a longer story, so all comments welcomed).

As a teenager growing up in the mid-90s, I thought I was invincible - while I wasn’t really bad, I did push boundaries, and would occasionally skip classes with my mates and had had a couple of warnings from the police. Jeans, tracksuits and trainers and my centre parted ‘curtains’ hairstyle hung down to cover the top of my ears and sat full at the back of my head down to my collar - this was my look, and I thought I looked so cool! It was just the start of spring break and I got caught with my mates for fighting another group of kids at the shopping centre, and the police got involved. My parents were furious, and I was instantly told that, as part of my punishment, I was grounded. I’d been given previous warnings about my behaviour, and I was told that things would change to ensure my behaviour improved. After 2 weeks of extreme boredom of not being able to leave the house, other than under the supervision of my parents, it got to the Saturday before school returned, and I was told by my dad we were going into town. They were still angry that I was letting them down, and so I knew better than to question this or push back. We found ourself outside the barber my dad went to - and which I had gone to until about 4 years previous. Many a standard boys short back and sides with a straight fringe had been administered to me here in the years before I was allowed to get a more fashionable haircut from a stylist. My dad turned to me, “right, listen up, you’ll be getting a haircut of my choosing today, as it’s become clear that you can’t make sensible decisions on your own, and you need clearer guidance on what is acceptable, and how a responsible young man should act and look.” I knew I had no really option on this so merely nodded and got directed in through the door to wait. 15 minutes later I was in the barber’s chair. We’d covered the predictables - yes, I’d grown a lot in 4 years, and yes, the barber had never seen my hair so long. I knew better than to make any sarcastic comments, so merely nodded and awaited my fate, with growing nervousness. And here it came, as my dad told the barber “he’s been getting himself into a bit of trouble of late, so me and his mum have decided he needs more direction and clarity to help support him make the right decisions - it’s time for a change of style, I’m thinking something similar to how I wear my hair.” I was horrified. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. My dad was in his forties. I was 15. How could it possibly be considered that his deeply unfashionable dad’s hair style could be considered suitable for me?!? My dad’s hair, peppered with grey, was a short back and sides - maybe half an inch on the back and sides, but then with a side part with the hair swept back to form a small quiff of hair to match with the other dull business men he worked with. Surely he just meant to make the hair a bit shorter, rather than to inflict a style that only a middle aged man could consider wearing - I was surely panicking unnecessarily? The barber nodded, “ok, so if we start with a short back and sides and then we can take it from there. Are we keeping the centre parting?” my dad jumped straight in to kill any hopes that I could retain anything like my current style: “no, he needs a proper mans haircut - side parted, short but with enough to sit nicely.” With that the barber started combing out my hair and wetting it. He brushed it forward then put in a new part about a quarter of the way across my head. “how’s that?” the barber asked. “No, I think a bit further over, just like mine” my dad responded. The barber raised his eyebrows slightly and moved the parting over so it sat over near the temple of my head. My dad nodded. This was looking horrific. The barber was quickly chopping away at hair. He cut tightly around the back and sides of my head, fully exposing my ears and neck. The bulk of my hair was quickly reduced around the sides to less than half an inch, and then getting progressively longer on the crown of my head, through to about 3 inches at the front, which was swept to the side, following a thrashing with the thinning shears. I thought that at least I could try and recreate my centre parted haircut at the front - even though it would be much shorter, I could salvage something of my dignity. The barber killed any hopes of this as he briefly brushed my hair forward, and working from the full length at the side where the part was, he then cut diagonally upwards through my fringe, so that at the other side of my forehead I had almost no fringe at all. I was horrified. This left me with no option at all other than to wear my hair to the side. He then blow-dried my hair, helping to train it to sit flat in the newly inflicted side parting. He then suggested to shave in the side parting to help me to make sure I kept a proper, straight parting, especially while my hair was getting used to it’s new style. My dad readily agreed, further signing my death warrant on having any flexibility on my hairstyle whatsoever. He then used his razor and started to taper the back and sides of my already short hair. I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but he then shaved off my entire sideburns, which were my best feature, having extended fully to the bottom of my ear lobe. I was reduced to the tiniest of tabs at the very top of my ears. I reflected on how ridiculous I looked as he trimmed around the hairline and dusted me off. I looked like a want-to-be junior librarian. “Pomade?” My dad nodded. My hair was suddenly plastered with grease and brushed carefully to either side of the bright white parting, while the front hair was carefully flicked over and brushed backwards. I was then shown the back which just looked like a very bland man’s hairstyle, with my hair now being a dark, shiny brown rather than the dirty blond of my long-haired days. I looked even more stupid now - I looked like a little boy trying to be a business man. I was so upset. How could my dad do this to me? He looked so pleased with himself, he had a massive smile on his face as I went and sat on the row of seats. My dad was now in the chair getting his normal trim and, with pomade applied, had a very similar style to me - though his grey hair made it much less harsh than my dark hair really highlighting the businessman’s hairstyle that now sat on my head. No-one at school had a style like this - yes some boys had shorter hair (especially the nerdy ones), but even they didn’t have a side parting!!! As we left the shop my dad ruffled my hair (which did not move!) and said how proud he was of my behaviour, and that he hoped I would realise that this is just part of him and my mum helping to show me the right way to get ahead in life. I burst into tears. Anger and humiliation surged through my body as I screamed at him. To be fair to him, he was very calm but he explained that things needed to change, and that this was just part of the journey to me becoming a respectable man. He guided me down the road as he said we needed to buy some things for the start of the school term on Monday. In the shoe shop, he asked for a pair of black shoes for me - the man came back with a pair of waxy leather boat shoes. While my mates all wore trainers to school, I also saw that many of the kids wore these shoes, and while it was another frustration if I was made to wear these, it still wasn’t anything bad compared to the haircut. However my dad shook his head and asked for a formal dress shoe. A pair of formal dress oxfords were put on my feet.  They were the shiniest shoes I’d ever seen, and so stiff and creaky, while the leather sole clomped on the floor as I walked down the shop in them. I highlighted they hurt my feet, but my dad was happy that I’d soon break them in, as I’d be wearing them every day - this was as bad as the haircut! We then went on to buy some new smart trousers and blazer to replace the jeans I’d previously worn to school. I was going to look like a junior funeral director. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through school on Monday, but I was hopeful that this punishment would soon pass. But my parent had other ideas, and little did I realise this was just the start of my journey to adulthood.

[davesbigwhirlwind]

Maturing Fast - Part 3

My dad made clear I would be punished for breaking the rules, but I wouldn’t receive the punishment until the weekend - and that the severity of the punishment would depend on me not breaking ANY further rules in the meantime. I had to act - and look - like an angel. Literally. Monday night was awful. I wasn’t allowed to watch TV or even change out of my uniform. Instead my dad showed me how to bull my shoes. 2 hours later and my already ridiculously shiny shoes were now reflecting my face in them. Grim. Tuesday morning and I was watched like a hawk as I was instructed on what to do. More pomade on my hair. slick it further back. Create a bounce in the quiff at the front. Put your glasses on. Make sure your tie is straight…. I sighed my reflection today hadn’t improved any from yesterday. Today my parents were taking no chances - my mum dropped me off right at the school gate much to the delight of my mates. There was no opportunity to try and alter my appearance before anyone saw me, and the derision was so much worse than yesterday. Everyone was loving that this once trendy guy in front of them had been totally transformed into a four-eyed, side-parted, formally attired, nerd, who was without doubt the most conservatively dressed person in the school. Even a couple of the teachers were commenting on my very sudden dramatic change in appearance - and I’m sure I caught at least a couple of them smirking. My form teacher told me that my mum had been in touch - if there was so much as a hair out of place on my head, then this was going to be reported immediately back to my parents and I knew the consequences. The week continued like this, with the kids trying to wind me up more and more - they’d take my glasses or scuff my shoes, or see what they could get to stick in my greasy hair. But each day I was forced to turn up looking like the class joke. It was so clear that no-one in their right mind would choose to look like this, and I was now clearly under the thumb of someone much older and draconian. My appearance was no longer down to me, it was dictated by someone who thought it was a good idea to look like a 1950s throwback. My relationship with my group of mates quickly became more distanced. I wasn’t allowed to hang out with them after school, and even trying to play a proper game of football was difficult in these shoes with the slippery soles and rigid construction - but ultimately, they just didn’t want to hang out with a nerd. And it was clear to all, that, despite all my years of being a normal, relatively trendy guy, now counted for nothing - and my haircut acting as clearly as a light up sign placed on top of my head - I was - suddenly and totally - a nerd. I was trapped in formality. By Friday afternoon I was just looking forward to the break from the humiliation. My dad met me at the school gates and told me we were going to get some weekend clothes for me. This didn’t sound good. At the shops my dad guided me round. First stop was for some check shirts in a variety of shades of creams and blues. Next stop was trousers. Some green twill trousers, blue corduroys and then a pair of fawn trousers were all selected - as if I’d wear any of this stuff? I was so frustrated. Then to cap it all off, a brown tweed jacket was added to the pile. This was like something out of an old-fashioned country magazine photoshoot. No one dressed like this. Despite my protests the items were all bought. Then it was a return to the shoe shop where a pair of very sensible brown brogues were purchased. My grandad owned a very similar pair. As did my dad. That figured.

Back home the bombshell hit me - all my old clothes had been removed. I asked where they’d gone, and was told it didn’t matter - I wouldn’t need them now. The old clothes weren’t appropriate. I went to bed totally dejected, and absolutely exhausted. What would I need to do in order to get back control of how I look? I was woken on the Saturday morning with a call that we were going out shortly, and I was to get ready. The normal routine followed. Shower. Pomade. Comb. It was like a military process, but I did it as I just didn’t want the hassle. I was broken after the week’s taunts, and being haunted by the image of the boy with the slick side parting, goofy clothes and monstrous glasses. Going through to the bedroom my prescribed outfit had been set out. cream check shirt. Blue cords. Brown socks. Brown brogues. I started negotiating. Pleading. What if one of my friends saw me? Surely I’d been through enough? I’d already had to ensure the forced new look at school, surely I deserved a break. And this is the 90s, not the 70s - parents don’t dictate what their children wear. My dad told me that, especially as I had yet to have my punishment I’d better do what I was told or else. I got dressed. It was horrible. The heavy cords made my legs feel weird and hot, and the brogues were really heavy and clumpy, while the shirt was the ugliest, most out-dated thing I’d ever seen. “And why aren’t you wearing your glasses? You must always wear your glasses now. You need them, and they really suit you - they complement your look perfectly. You are now a formally dressed young man, and your hair and your glasses are part of that now. This is who you are. ” No. Just no. Nothing about how I looked suited me. It suited an old age pensioner, not a teenager!!! The tweed jacket was thrust at me. I put it on. Yet again defeated, humiliated and angry. I looked in the mirror. The outfit looked just like one my dad would wear. That was the point, I guess - humiliation, but how long would it go on for? We were soon outside the barber again. “Time to smarten you up again” my dad said. I was bemused, as my hair hadn’t had a chance to grow since the butchering of a week ago. As we went in, the barber was clearly equally bemused - though I wasn’t sure if that was fully because of the lack of time since my last visit or my extreme new look. He commented how mature I looked. Yuck. My dad said that I had had some trouble earlier in the week with keeping my hair in order, so he wanted to sort it out. The barber asked if he was thinking a crewcut - “2 all over is no maintenance” was his suggestion. However my dad said no -“to be honest, if his behaviour doesn’t improve, he’ll be lucky not to be shaved to the bone, but for now, he’s still getting use to having a more formal look, and I’ve made allowances for that - though I’ll tolerate no more rule breaking - but I do think the side parting really suits his new look, and he’ll soon grow to appreciate it. It just needs to be a bit shorter so that he can’t muss it up, but so it still sits smartly and lies down as it should, especially while his hair gets used to growing in a side part.” Tha barber said “ok, well how about we start with a number 2 on the back and sides and see how we go from there?” My dad agreed. How could my hair get any shorter? I already had less than about a fifth of the hair of almost anyone else in the school had. I was soon caped up - and then the barber lifted the heavy glasses off my face. The room went a bit blurry. It was amazing how quickly my eyes had adjusted to needing the glasses. Soon there was vibrating at the side of my face. The blade made its way up my head before the barber flicked outwards as he got near to the front hairline. I could just make out a dark fuzz that was left in the place of the hair. This continued around my head as the barber pushed my head forwards and ran the clippers tight up the back of my head. It was the first time I’d ever had clippers used on my head, and the vibration through my skull wasn’t pleasant. Especially as it made it abundantly clear that this was going to be a really short haircut. “How’s it looking?” the barber asked once he’d completed the other side. “I definitely think shorter at the bottom” my dad answered - “I’m thinking only the merest hint of hair around the hairline and then blending smoothly up to the hair at the top” I’d run out of any disbelief that things couldn’t get any worse. I felt I must surely be in some sort of hellish dream that I would wake up from. The barber nodded and took the guard off the clippers. The bare blade was then run a good half inch up the side of my head. Then at the back I could feel the clippers running much higher. The skin on my head was getting really hot. Different guards and levers were then used as he worked over and over the sides of my head as he inched higher and higher. He then took his comb and started blending the top of my hair with the now skinned sides. Any remaining bulk of hair on the sides of my head had been removed leaving just a like pelt before joining the, now - in comparison - relatively long hair on the top. My dad confirmed the sides were looking much better, so discussion turned as to what to do on the top. “As the part is so far over to the side, I think we just thin it out on that side, as the hair is already much shorter now, and it’s just the right length to lie down. While on the other side, I can take it a bit shorter at the front if you want - maybe down another half inch, though then it won’t be long enough to flip over at the front, but it will just have to lie straight across his head, as I’ll thin it out more as well, so it will have no choice but to follow the part. That was agreed and soon the thinning shears were thrashing through my hair, and then the little hair that was left at the front was brushed down once more and then cut again at the stupid angle, but this time starting about a third of the way up my forehead, rather than at my eye. He then worked around the edges with a straight razor removing the tiny hairs that had replaced the hair that I had been left with the previous week, creating once more a smart freshly-barbered edge around my head. He then once more shaved in the part line on my head, and then placed the razor at the very top of my ear and scraping downwards, removing the small tab of hair that signposted where my once glorious sideburns had been. He explained that it made more sense to remove this hair altogether, given that as I now wear glasses it looks much smarter to have the hair stop at the level of the arm of my glasses. I thought it all looked totally ridiculous. The required dollop of pomade was then vigorously applied and then a comb was used to put everything into place - however, where as last time there had been a flourish where a small wave was created across the top of my head and through the quiff at the front, this time the comb was just dragged tightly across my head creating straight lines running perpendicular from the horrid white part line that was shaved into my skull. The barber handed me my glasses and my head swam into focus. It was much worse than before. My head now looked even smaller. My face looked gaunt, while the little hair that was remaining on the top of my head was plastered down - reminding me of how an old man might have his hair fixed to try and cover his bald spot. Only I was 15 not 75. The glasses on my face now looked even larger, and were the main defining feature now, and were exactly what the balding pensioner who has my haircut would choose to wear. Then I moved my head to the side and gasped. There was a big band of white skin glowing half way up my head with only the lightest stubble which then blended lightly into the little hair that was left on top of my head. No one at school had short hair. Razor cuts were only for people in the military. The barber showed me the back - it was even worse with a sea of pale white scalp rising three quarters of the way up my head before any sort of length of hair was allowed to grow. And now devoid of hair it highlighted the strange shape of my skull that jutted out at the back. It was a freak show. My dad was delighted - “that will be much easier for him to keep, and to be honest, is probably a good cut for him to keep now summer is coming” I shot him evils. The barber commented how nice it was to see a father taking such an interest in making sure his son was properly turned out. The barber suggested that if I wanted to keep this military horror of a haircut, then I should come back every 2 weeks to ensure it didn’t get too bushy and the skinned sides remained visible. My dad enthusiastically nodded. With the shorter, smartest haircut any young guy would hate to wear, and clothes that only an old man could think were wearable, it surely couldn’t get any worse - but would my parent ever listen to compromise?

[suitdup]

[honestlyprettychill]

reblog to save a liFE

[jerkdouglas]

Up to now, I have been drawing random generic suit jackets.

Never again.

[dduane]

cc: @petermorwood

[sweaty-daniel]

[skinheadmal]

Neural Obedience - All Hail to the State

In a dystopian future, where the iron grip of a totalitarian regime tightened its hold on society, the streets echoed with the clatter of jackboots and the hum of surveillance drones. The once-vibrant city now lay shrouded in fear, its citizens mere pawns in a game of power.

Chapter 1: The Arrest

The protest had started innocently enough—a gathering of voices demanding change. But the authorities saw it as a threat. The Special PVC Police, clad in their glossy black uniforms, descended upon the crowd. Their helmets obscured their faces, rendering them anonymous enforcers of the regime.

Among the protesters, a group of men stood defiant. They shouted slogans, their voices rising against the oppressive regime. But the PVC officers moved swiftly, their batons striking with brutal precision. The men were subdued, their hands bound with plastic restraints.

Chapter 2: The Transformation

The arrested men were taken to an undisclosed facility—a place where screams echoed through sterile corridors. Stripped of their identities, they were processed like raw materials. The regime had devised a sinister plan: to convert these rebels into loyal enforcers. In dimly lit rooms, they underwent a harrowing transformation.      

The protesters were strapped by a group of Black PVC Clad Police officers,   to cold metal tables, their eyes wide with defiance. A person who looked like a doctor walked into the room, he was wearing a tight White PVC uniform identical to the ones police unit.

He was the chief neurologist, he moved with clinical precision. His gloved hands cradled a neural extractor—a device that would unravel memories like fragile threads.

“Relax,” he whispered, his voice devoid of warmth. “This will be painless.”

But, he lied, getting satisfaction from the pain the prisoners were being subjected to. Memories surged forth—the taste of rebellion, laughter shared with comrades, whispered secrets in dimly lit alleys. The Doctor captured them all, digitizing their essence.

Chapter 2: The Void

The protesters already in their shiny, constricting PVC uniforms, were moved Into the next chamber, with police guards on either side, they walked like zombies they were placed into chairs where they sat in silence. Their heads were encased in neural helmets, wires snaking from their scalps. The helmets hummed, their screens flickering with coded symbols. The room pulsed with anticipation.

The Doctor initiated the transfer. The memories—their loves, fears, hopes—dissolved. Faces blurred. Names vanished. The void swallowed them whole.

“Repeat after me,” he commanded. “I am Unit 42. My purpose is obedience to the State.”

Their voices echoed in unison, devoid of inflection. “I am Unit 42. My purpose is obedience to the state.”

He repeated this to each prisoner, giving new unit numbers, as with the first. They responded, just like the first subject.

Chapter 3: The Imprint

The regime’s propaganda flooded their minds. Images of a utopian police state—orderly streets, smiling children, unwavering loyalty. The Doctor. adjusted the neural settings, embedding the narratives deep within their neural pathways.

“Your past is irrelevant,” he intoned. “Your duty is to serve The State.”

They nodded, eyes glazed. The protesters were no more. Now, they were Unit 42, Unit 17, and so on—faceless enforcers of the regime.

Chapter 4: The Final Seal

The protesters shed their old lives like snakeskin. Their heads, once filled with fire, now held only obedience. Helmets descended, sealing their fate.

As the neural interfaces connected, a collective consciousness emerged. Thoughts synchronized. Emotions muted. They became the regime’s hounds, patrolling the streets, hunting rebels, and enforcing curfews.  Their memories were erased, replaced by new designations—numbers etched into their minds. They became “Unit 42,” “Unit 17,” and so on. Their past lives dissolved, leaving behind only a void. they mirrored the cold efficiency of the regime. Clad in tight-fitting PVC uniforms, they joined the ranks of the Special Riot Cop Squad—the regime’s shock troops.

Their helmets sealed their fate. Once placed upon their heads, they lost all individuality. Their thoughts were synchronized, their loyalty unwavering. They became mindless extensions of the regime’s will, patrolling the streets, suppressing dissent, and enforcing curfews.

Chapter 5: The Hunt

Their mission was clear: capture other men who dared to resist. The converted enforcers moved silently through the shadows; their footsteps muffled by the same PVC boots that had once trampled their own rights. They hunted down rebels, dragging them to the conversion chambers.

The irony was not lost on them—the very men who had fought for freedom now perpetuated oppression. Yet, they felt no remorse. Their new purpose consumed them, drowning any lingering doubts. They were the ruthless police of the police state, the regime’s loyal hounds.

Hail The State! - We Obey, We Serve, We

are obedient

the State

[hypnopreppy]

Reblog if you want to be hypnotized into a perfect preppy boy

[formaluniform2]

Ideal formal uniform for college boys. They look very smart with the tie knot, short sleeve shirt, shorts, knee high socks and dress shoes. Very good grooming standards as well.