Rubber Biker

NSFW - 18+ only. Was a non-smoker, but my Skin BoSS soon changed that. Now a smoker. Into skinheads, bikers, punks, chavs, bodybuilders, rubber, gasmasks, boots, leather, tattoos, bodybuilders and other perversions,

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Biker Upgraded To Cyborg

For as long as anyone could remember, Jake and Eddie had not only been best mates, but they’d been crazy about motorbikes. Both their dads were bikers so it was no surprise that as kids they were introduced to bikes in real life and got to watch MotoGP, WSB and BSB either in real life or on TV with their enthusiast dads.

They were riding off-road in their early teens. They got their first mopeds at 16, upgrading to 125cc bikes a few months after their respective seventeenth birthdays. Now in their early 20s they have held full licences for nearly three years. Jake rides a black Honda CBR600RR, bought second hand through the weekly motorcycling title, MCN. Eddie rides a used Red Yamaha R6 that he bought a couple of months earlier from the main dealer in the city where they live. Springtime and the light evenings meant they would be out as much as possible riding 'the highways and byways', and this day was no exception, but it would be a day that changed their lives forever. 

Jake and Eddie had spent most of Sunday riding and were at the edge of the city when Jake’s bike had started spewing smoke out of the engine before rolling to a stop alongside a large industrial estate. Jake jumped off his bike, but with no tools to hand he had no option but to seek help. He pushed his bike into the entrance to one of the large modern warehouses that populated the industrial estate. Jake kicked the side stand into place and sighed heavily. Eddie pulled in alongside Jake, kicked down the stand on his before turning off the ignition.

Although they were back in the city, they were still about ten miles from home. Jake reached into his leathers for his phone only then realising that they were in an area without mobile phone coverage. Jake and Eddie looked around for a payphone to call the breakdown service - but in this era of mobile technology, BT had removed most of the phone boxes - so there wasn't one within sight. Realising they needed to get help they looked around for signs of life. In front of them was a sprawling grey structure resembling more of a fortress than a warehouse. Its metallic surfaces gleamed under the late afternoon sun, making it look otherworldly. Figuring it might be their best chance at getting help—or at least finding a phone—they started walking towards the massive building.

The front gate was oddly open, inviting yet silent. Jake and Eddie didn't think it weird for a security guard building to be unoccupied with the gates open. More concerned about getting help they walked towards the main building entrance. Jake pressed on the intercom button and waited for a response. After a minute he pushed the button again, but this time there was a buzz. Jake looked at Eddie and shrugged his shoulders, pushing on the door, it opened. They walked inside.

Expecting to see a reception area the two friends were surprised to enter the building at what appeared to be the beginning of a long dimly lit corridor. Jake and Eddie looked at one another, Jake spoke first, “Why don’t you wait here, while I see if I can find anyone to speak to”.

Eddie nodded.

Both looked at one another, for a moment unsure of what to do. Then Jake smiled, turned and started walking along the seemingly endless corridor, his boots echoing on the cold, concrete floor. The air was chillingly sterile, as he walked he would pass the occasional door and window revealing glimpses of high-tech interiors.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice disappearing into the ether without an answer. The lack of response was unnerving, but as he walked on he could hear noise coming from much further along the corridor. Jake kept walking, driven by his need to get to a phone and call the breakdown service to sort out his bike.

Eventually, the corridor turned to the right, after another dozen or so yards it opened up into a colossal space. What Jake witnessed was like a scene reminiscent of a sci-fi horror film.

The room was stark yet brightly lit. On one side it was filled with row upon row of raised surgical beds. Yet these weren't like the ones you’d see in a hospital; they were repurposed contraptions where human flesh was being melded with alien, synthetic and electronic components. Shocked by what he was witnessing, he turned his head, but there was no escape from the nightmare he found himself in.

The other side of the room was populated with dozens of cylindrical tubes. Jake’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him—humans, all young males, lined up and undergoing transformations into, well all he could think of was 'something else'. Whichever way he turned he could see men his age were being outfitted with mechanical limbs, others had technology intricately woven onto weird shiny black body suits, still others were in varying stages of being processed into full cyborgs.

The horror gripped him; his instinct was to flee back to Eddie and both to get the hell out of there. But before he could move, cold metal hands grasped his shoulders with an iron grip. His heart sank as he was spun around to face what had caught him—a cyborg, its body a haunting hybrid of human and machine, expressionless yet totally menacing.

“Welcome," its voice an unsettling blend of tones, both mechanical whilst still eerily human. "Your arrival is opportune. Your integration process will commence shortly."

Panic surged through Jake as he struggled, but the cyborg's grip was unyielding. Despite putting up strong resistance, he was dragged towards one of the ominous stations. Glancing around, he noticed the other captives were not fighting; their eyes showed a haunting resignation, some flickering with the vague light of fear.

As he was forced onto what appeared to be a surgical table, Jake looked around frantically, hoping for any chance of escape. His heart raced as mechanical arms equipped with various tools whirred to life around him. 

In a split second metallic straps shot out from the surgical table and tightened around his limbs and across his torso, a sense of utter helplessness began to wash over him. His heart pounded hard against his chest. He desperately sought that extra bit of human strength that would allow him to escape. He struggled and struggled against the restraints, but the metal straps simply wouldn’t budge.

Stage one of his transformation was about to begin. From above a helmet descended slowly from the ceiling, its approach marked by an audible, mechanical whirring. Jake squinted upwards, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He was used to his bike helmet, but this was unworldly.

Two drones approached the surgical table Jake was strapped to and grabbed the helmet, which had opened up. One lifted his head slightly and the other slid the back of the helmet under the back of his head. As the helmet closed over his head, a claustrophobic fear gripped him. The world outside the helmet faded, leaving him in a confined sphere of existence. Almost immediately, an overwhelming barrage of white noise bombarded his ears, punctuated by low, droning hums that seemed to resonate through his bones.

Then, the visuals began on the inside of the visor. Spirals of colour appeared in front of his eyes, intertwining and unraveling in hypnotic patterns. Reds, blues, yellows and greens blended into a kaleidoscope that threatened to absorb his mind. Jake tried to close his eyes, but the images were inescapable, imprinted on the insides of his eyelids, searing themselves into his brain and more nefariously his subconsciousness. Almost as if recognising Jake was finally submitting the noise and visuals seemed to become amplified.

As the sensory overload continued, Jake felt a strange detachment creeping through him—a numbness that suggested the audio and visuals were beginning to take effect. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice screamed in terror and defiance, urging him to resist, urging him to hold on to his identity.

With a surge of willpower, Jake focused on that voice, blocking out the chaos threatening to engulf him. He concentrated on memories of standing in the stands watching the best riders in the world, the challenging rides with Eddie, the feel of his motorcycle, the wind against his leathers. He thought about his best mate Eddie and the fun they’d had. He thought about his family and his other friends. These human experiences, these emotional connections to his past life, became a lifeline to cling onto.

As Jake fought against the sensory bombardment, the helmet detected his resistance, It recalibrated its internal mechanisms in response to his defiance. Suddenly, the white noise in his ears shifted, morphing into a series of low, almost inaudible subliminal messages. Each word—"relax", "comply", "obey", "drone", "conform", "follow", "respect" could be heard—the words flashed across his vision, barely there long enough for conscious recognition, but deeply penetrating his subconscious.

The colours that swirled before his eyes intensified, becoming more vibrant and pulsating rhythmically, as if to synchronise with his own heartbeat. It was a sensory assault designed to break down the walls of the individual, to reshape his mind into something more compliant and obedient. Jake’s initial surge of resistance began to wane as mental exhaustion set in, the messages infiltrated deeper into his psyche, their insistence relentless and overpowering.

His eyes, once sharp with determination and fear, started to lose focus, the vibrant spirals turning into a soothing blur. The resistance in his muscles softened as his body began to accept the inevitability of his situation. His thoughts, those last bastions of his free will, were slowly suffocated under the warm, smothering blanket of compliance and security that the helmet now forced upon him.

With an audible click and a beep, the helmet sealed its final adjustment, signalling the completion of its preparatory phase. At this cue, the two drones, their movements precise and devoid of any hesitation, glided smoothly towards the table where Jake lay subdued. Their appendages were equipped with various tools and devices necessary for the transformation process.

The drones worked efficiently, attaching additional apparatus to Jake’s limbs and interfacing seamlessly with the helmet. As they initiated the physical transformation, Jake’s body was being prepared to receive bio-mechanical enhancements that would connect him irrevocably to The Hive which he learned was housed within the humongous building.

Somewhere in the dwindling recesses of his mind, the essence of who Jake once was—a biker with a love for the open road—flickered weakly. This essence watched as his limbs and muscle fibres were methodically integrated with synthetics and his nervous system was integrated with advanced circuitry. The process was both horrifying and fascinating to watch.

As the transformation progressed, Jake’s human senses were gradually overridden by electronic inputs. His vision, once clouded by the colourful spirals, now interfaced directly with data streams providing real-time analytics about his environment. His hearing was no longer filled with subliminal messages but was tuned to various frequencies beyond the range of human hearing.

By the time the transformation was complete, Jake, as he had been, no longer existed. In his place stood a new Jake, a cyborg, what was exclusively biological had been augmented with technology. The drones, recognising another successful integration, had begun to step back.

The new Jake climbed down from the surgical table to be guided by the two drones. He moved with a robotic precision that was both chilling and enthralling to witness. He was led to what looked like a modified dentist's chair, but larger and imposing. The chair had been upgraded and was fitted with numerous ports and circuitry interfaces. Without hesitation, he sat down, his actions appearing devoid of the personality that had once defined him.

He leaned back so that his head touched the headrest. The chair immediately sprang to life, adjusting to accommodate his new form. A second later the old Jake would have felt a light sensation on both sides of his head as what can only be described of as two metallic ear pieces, out of which came sets of wires slid into his ears and began to work. 

Somewhere, an echo of the old Jake could sense what was happening, words echoed around the room and in his head. Screens nearby flashed “accessing biological memories…beginning total erasure”. 

“NNNOOOOOOOO”, But even as the word was said, Jake’s relatively short lifetime of memories were disappearing, flashing before his eyes for a split second before evaporating into nothing - gone forever. 

Monitors next to the chair flashed “Memory Wipe successful,” again, the words echoed around the room. 

Any human observer in the room looking at new Jake’s face would describe it as passive, distant, dull, emotionless. Empty. His eyes were missing their human sparkle. 

Then the drone formerly known as Jake again felt another funny feeling in his ears, as if a static charge was coming out of the wire. Suddenly the screen flashed “Beginning Program Upload”… While that happened, nearby monitors flashed, “Emotional Centres being accessed”. 

“Installing Human Emotion Suppression Software”

“… 10%… 20%… 30%… 40%… 50%… 60%… 70%… 80%… 90%…  ”

“Human Emotions Suppression Software installed. Fully functional.”

The monitors flickered for a moment and then more text appeared, “Beginning Cyborg Program Upload”. The upload began. The Hive, a vast network of interconnected AI and data banks, started feeding a stream after stream of programming directly into Jake's brain. These were not merely instructions; they were directives that informed behaviour, dictated functions, and defined purpose.

For hours, data was input into him, a relentless torrent of information reshaping and repurposing him; any lingering traces of his previous humanity now completely overwritten. His eyes, once vibrant with youthful emotion, now displayed a steady, unblinking focus as the programming was embedded, ensuring his obedience and efficiency.

At the appropriate time the interface with the new Jake confirmed the programming had been successful. “Operating at 100%,” it said in an emotionless, synthetic voice. “Organic memories have been wiped. Emotional Suppression Software is fully functional. The new data and objectives have been successfully uploaded with zero errors”.

The chair returned to an upright position, and the new Jake stood once more. His movements were smooth, almost graceful, a stark contrast to the somewhat ‘cavalier’ sports biker he once was. He was a product of advanced technology, a being created to serve a purpose far beyond his previous human desires.

Approaching him now were two more drones, carrying items that symbolised his final transformation. They presented him with a set of Dainese bike leathers, not ordinary leathers but augmented to interface seamlessly with his cybernetic body. The leathers were equipped with sensors and conductive circuitry that could communicate directly with his system, enhancing his interaction with the Hive.

Then they presented him with a pair of white boots, larger to accommodate the modifications of his feet, designed not only for protection but also to enhance his connection to the ground and his bike. Gloves that reached up to his arms were fitted next, embedded with micro-circuitry to increase his grip and control.

Finally, they brought over a new crash helmet unlike any other. This helmet was his direct link to the Hive mind. It was designed to keep him constantly connected to the Hive's data stream.

As the helmet settled over his head, a subtle hum filled the air, signalling the activation of all its systems. The new Jake stood there, a figure of both awe and dread, transformed entirely from the young man who had once freely roamed the roads on his motorcycle.

Now equipped, Jake was led to a new motorcycle, one that matched his new form. To the casual observer it looked like a traditional bike that had been upgraded; integrated with technology that responded fluidly to his enhanced senses and capabilities. As he mounted the bike, the connection between man and machine was seamless, a perfect union crafted by the Hive’s sophisticated engineering.

The new Jake rode the highway on his futuristic bike, a sleek and menacing marvel of technology that effortlessly caught the eye of any enthusiast. Its design was unlike anything on the roads—sharp angles, glowing panels, and a subtle hum that hinted at its advanced capabilities. It was designed not just for speed and efficiency, but as a lure to attract exactly the kind of individuals the Hive sought to convert.

As he travelled along a popular bikers’ route known for its scenic views and biker cafes, he spotted his next targets. Two young bikers, probably in their twenties, had pulled over in a lay-by, their bikes parked as they enjoyed a brief pause in their riding, catching up on conversation and checking their mobile phones. The new Jake slowed down, looking at the two bikers oblivious to Jake’s presence, his connection to the Hive confirmed they would be perfect candidates for upgrade.

Pulling over smoothly, Jake dismounted his bike. His helmet's visor slid up as he approached them, revealing a face that was human enough to be relatable but enhanced subtly with metallic hints that suggested something more beneath the surface. 

"Hey," Jake called out, his voice modulated to be friendly and inviting. “Hey there. Not seen you riding ‘round here before.”

The two young bikers, intrigued by the stranger and his extraordinary bike, smiled and walked over. “What is that you’re riding? It looks like it’s straight out of a sci-fi movie. What is that?" one of them asked, his curiosity piqued.

The new Jake chuckled, a sound perfectly calibrated to put others at ease. He needed to win their trust so began to make conversation with them. "It’s a custom build from a place not too far from here. They’re experimenting with some next-gen and EV tech. You guys interested in seeing where something like this comes from?"

The offer was tempting. The allure of advanced technology and the chance to see more bikes like Jake’s was too good to pass up for any avid biker. The young men exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before they nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, definitely,” the other replied. “We’ll follow you!"

Jake smiled and nodded, turning back to his bike. As they put their helmets on and started their engines, a part of Jake’s programming confirmed the successful engagement of two targets. He led the way, riding at a pace that was thrilling yet careful to keep his new followers comfortably in tow.

The journey took them away from the familiar routes into less traveled roads, the scenery shifting subtly as they moved closer to facility where he had been transformed. The two bikers were unaware of the true nature of their destination, caught up in the thrill of the ride and the excitement of seeing advanced motorcycle tech.

After some time, they arrived at the vast building that looked more like a huge distribution centre than a motorcycle manufacturing factory. The gates opened automatically as Jake approached, a silent signal of his authority and belonging.

Jake signalled for the other two bikers to do follow him down a roadway between two buildings. Jake brought his bike to a stop, opened his visor and announced, ”we are here.” The other two brought their bikes to a stop, dismounted and removed their helmets.

Jake walked forwards into the huge building just ahead of them; the two other bikers looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders and followed. They would ingress through a different route compared to the one Eddie and Jake entered.

The space inside they walked into was clean and modern, filled with prototypes and machines that made the two young bikers' eyes widen in awe.

"This is incredible!" one of the exclaimed, walking closer to inspect a particularly sleek model that caught his eye. "How do you get in on this?"

Jake's response was calculated, his tone still friendly but now carrying an undercurrent of persuasion. "Well, there's actually a selection process. Part of why I brought you here. If you're interested, there’s a quick tour and some tests to see if you're compatible with the tech."

Excited and completely unaware of the implications, the two young men agreed eagerly, following Jake deeper into the facility. As they walked, the doors behind them closed silently, the outside world receding as they moved further into the realm of the Hive.

Little did they know, their fascination with bikes and the temptation of combining their love of biking and dreams of futuristic bikes had led them into a trap. This walk would be their last as mere humans, as they stepped unknowingly into the next phase of their lives dictated by The Hive's needs.

=========

Oh, are you wondering what happened to Eddie? As you might have expected The Hive detected his presence and determined a new purpose for him, but that’s another story.

[super-tight-jeans-guy]

Alex the skin meets Liam

The grey sky hung low over the council estate, mirroring the mood that usually clung to the place. Cracked pavements, boarded-up windows, and the incessant drone of traffic painted a bleak picture. I’d lived here my whole life, and honestly, I’d never seen a reason to leave. Maybe that was why I was still stuck in the same rut – a dead-end job at the local garage, nights spent drinking lukewarm lager with the same old faces.

Then I met him.

I was leaning against the wall of the off license, waiting for Kev to get his smokes, when he strolled past. He was… imposing. A mountain of a man, easily six foot four, with a shaved head gleaming under the dull streetlights. His muscles strained against the fabric of his black Fred Perry polo, the tattoos on his arms dark and intricate. He wore bleached jeans so tight I could have counted the coins in his pocket, and the way he walked, with a kind of confident swagger, made my breath catch. And the bulge… well, there was no mistaking the hard outline that strained against the denim, a blatant display that made my heart pound a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

He met my gaze, his eyes a startling blue against his tanned skin. There wasn’t any hostility in them, just… an intense scrutiny that made me feel like I was being peeled open, layer by layer.

“Alright?” he rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Yeah, you?” I managed, my own voice sounding thin and reedy compared to his.

“I’m Alex,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

“Liam,” I replied, my palm tingling where he’d touched me.

We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the noise of the estate fading away into a dull hum. Kev finally emerged from the shop, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and gave Alex a wary once-over.

“Alright, mate,” Kev said, a bit too loud. “You buying?”

Alex just gave him a curt nod before turning back to me. “Fancy a drink?”

I glanced at Kev, who shrugged. “Go on then, mate. Catch you later.”

And just like that, I found myself walking with Alex towards The Lion's Head, the local pub, my mind still reeling. I didn't know why, but I felt this pull towards him, an almost magnetic force, something I’d never experienced before.

Inside, the pub was dimly lit and smelled of stale beer and smoke. We found a quiet corner booth, and as we settled in, I couldn't help but steal glances at Alex. He had an aura about him, a mix of raw power and unexpected gentleness. He talked about his work in construction, the pride he took in his craft, the precision he demanded. I found myself captivated. It was so different from the usual conversations I was used to– all gossip and football scores.

Over the next few weeks, we spent almost every night together. We'd hang out in the pub, walk along the canal, or simply sit in his small, surprisingly tidy flat, listening to old ska records. Alex started telling me about skinhead culture, about the pride and brotherhood, the music that resonated with his soul. At first, I was hesitant, a bit apprehensive of the image I had in my head of what a skinhead was, but slowly, he broke down my preconceptions. He showed me the loyalty, the respect that was at its core.

One rainy afternoon, he looked at me with those intense blue eyes and said, "You'd look good with a number one, Liam."

My heart skipped a beat, but strangely, I didn’t say no. I was starting to feel a different kind of pull, a need to be closer to him in every possible way.

That evening, he took me into his bathroom and shaved my head. The cool steel against my scalp was a strange sensation, a mix of fear and excitement. When it was done, I looked at myself in the mirror. Gone was the unruly mop of brown hair. I looked… different. Stronger, somehow. Then he started to dress me. A white Fred Perry, dark jeans, and Doc Martens. He even produced a Harrington jacket that fit perfectly.

“You look… brilliant,” he breathed, his gaze locking onto mine. “Like you were meant to be this way.”

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. I started working out with Alex, my body slowly morphing into something stronger, more defined. We listened to more music, shared more stories, and that tension, that unspoken need between us, grew stronger.

One night, we were sitting side by side on his sofa, sharing a cigarette. The air crackled with unspoken desire. He turned to me, his eyes filled with a tenderness I’d only seen glimpses of before.

“Liam,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I want you.”

I didn’t hesitate. I kissed him, all the feelings I’d been holding back exploding into that one moment. It was raw, passionate, and real. His hands were both powerful and gentle as he explored my body. When he pulled me down to his lap, I felt the solid heat of him against my thigh. He looked at me, those blue eyes burning into me, and kissed me again, more deeply this time.

That night, the transformation was complete. I wasn't just Liam from the garage anymore. I was Liam, Alex's skinhead lover. I’d become part of something bigger, something real. It wasn't just about the clothes or the music or the shaved head. It was about the love, the loyalty, the connection that Alex had awakened in me. It was about finding myself in the arms of a man who saw me for who I truly was, underneath the layers of uncertainty and apathy. The council estate still looked the same, but the world around me, the world inside me, had changed forever. I was finally home.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Happenstance meeting leads to becoming a skinhead.

[xboi2001]

[rbbrbikerthorp]

A great Skinhead AI video

[captainlondonman]

BAR SKIN

Pete had made sure he had given his girlfriend a good shag before she left to go and visit her mother for a few days. So he could now sit and watch the football on TV  or go for a few pints at the pub. It wasn’t a great game so he decided the pub would be  a better bet. He decided on a pub where the lads went to rather than some jumped up bistro pub. He was a good looking guy, a full 6’, worked out at the gym 3 times a week, liked looking at his 6 pack in the mirror knowing it turned his girlfriend on and had a shaved head rather than show his thinning scalp. He was, in his terms, a real man’s man. He put on his jeans and a grey hoodie and then headed off to the pub.

The pub was quiet so many of the lads must have stayed at home to watch the football. Pete ordered his pint and sat at the corner of the bar making small talk from time to time with the barman. Maybe I’ll just have the one pint and then head back home he thought.

He put his pint down and went to the Men’s for a pee. Coming back to the bar he saw two Skinheads standing next to him where his pint was sitting.

‘Hi guys’ he said. ‘All OK?’

‘Sure mate’ the bigger one said. They were dressed in tight bleachers with black DMs both with white laces. One was wearing a checked Fed Perry shirt and green A1 bomber jacket, the other had a tight Fred perry T shirt and maroon bomber jacket. The bigger skin had tattoos all around his neck mainly a large cross while the other had SKIN tattooed on his fingers. Pete thought `’These two blokes take no shit. Bet they like a good punch up after a few beers.’

‘Not watching the footie ?’Peter asked.

‘Fuck no, prefer a few pints and anyway it’s a shit game.’

‘That’s what I thought mate. .Can I get you blokes a pint?’

‘Yes sure mate that’s good of you.’

‘No prob mate good to be with real guys. These days half the guys you see you don’t know if they are queer or not the way they dress. They may all like their tats but the ponytails and clothes they all still look like a bloody group of pansies. You Skins look like what men are meant to look like. Tough and ready’

Fucking right mate. We are always on the lookout for a poof that we can deal with. No one gets in a Skins way. We expect respect. These queers are our fucking subs.’

‘You both sound like guys after my own heart.’

‘Let us buy you a pint mate’ the other Skin said. ‘Good to have a talk with like minded guys. You look pretty fit.’

‘Yeah I work out regularly. I wanna be fit and look like a real man.’

‘You look great. Ever thought of wearing our type of gear?’

‘No, usually its just jeans and hoodies for me.’

‘You should think about it mate.’

‘Jezz don’t you think this guy would look great in skin gear’

‘He sure would. By the way we are Jess and Sam. You?’

‘Pete’ he put out his hand a gave both Skins an real strong handshake, Jezz then slapped Pete on the back.

J’ust an idea Pete but what say once we finish this pint that you try on some skin clothes.’

‘Not sure mate. What do you mean?’

‘Well we live nearby and if you come back to ours we can have another pint or two and you can get into some clothes of mine. We both think you might want to start wearing skin gear with that bod of yours. You have the shaved head anyway.’

Pete thought, ‘its either having  another pint on me own or having another couple with these guys who seem real lads ,my type. I’ve always admired Skinheads but never thought of wearing any of their gear. There’s nothing to lose and it might be a bit of a laugh. No way would my bird allow bleachers and boots and anyway she’s not around.’

‘OK mate but no fucking laughing at me . I’m a black belt and not someone to laugh at.’

‘No mate honestly we think you look like a skin even without the gear so it’d be great to see you kitted out.’

The three left the pub and went to the dingy apartment nearby. The living room had a sofa and Tv and scattered around were empty beer cans and a couple of ashtrays full of ciggie butts. Sorry about th emess mate . Ok wanna beer.?

‘Sure’

As Sam went to get the beers, Jezz went out to the bedroom to find the skinhead gear

He took out a well worn pair of bleachers with  rips on the knees, a pair of red braces, black T shirt and 20 hole boots with red laces. Just before going out he opened a drawer and took out a can of powder before sprinkling some of it into the crotch of the jeans and then rubbing it in so it was not obvious.

That should work he thought smiling to himself.

Sam said to Pete ‘Take the beer in with you and change into the gear. We’ll wait for you.’

Pete went into the bedroom as Jezz came out. I’ve laid it all out for you.  Look forwards to seeing he result.’

‘Not sue about this.’

‘Fuck mate don’t worry we are all men.’

As Jezz came into the Living room he smiled at Sam. ‘It’s all set up mate. Think we have some fun ahead.’

‘Hope it’s more than fun.’

‘Don’t worry. He’ll soon know what skins like us get up to.Seeing that bod of his is a right turn on for me now.’

As Pete stripped off he looked at the gear. I suppose I’ve always wanted to wear something like this. No bloke messes with a Skin. . They are real alpha males. My type of bloke. He pondered over whether to keep his underpants on but decided he might as well take off all his own things and put on all of Jezz’s.

Having put on the T shirt he pulled up the bleachers. ‘Christ these are tight’. As he pulled them up he had to press his thick cock down one side making a large obvious bulge.

‘At least you can see my manhood’ he thought. ‘Fucking A male.’. After slipping the braces over hi shoulders he slipped into the boots realising that it takes a Skin time to get the laces done properly. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror.

‘Shit I look fucking great. Makes me look a real fucking geezer no one will argue with. Still my bitch wouldn’t allow me but for now she’s not here so who fucking cares ..Tell you what many women would be keen to get that cock of mine up them. Looks fucking great and I’m not even hard.’ As he said this he could feel an itch down his shaft and it was as if his cock was getting hot,. 

As he walked out the room the heat and itch got stronger. He could feel his cock sliding down inside his bleachers it pressing against the denim. Shit was was getting so hard and so quick. He could now feel his cock throbbing with heat, his heavy head had now slipped well out of his foreskin. Not only was the heat giving him a boner like no other but his whole body was starting to feel the warmth radiating through every vein. What was almost worse was that he was walking into the room feeling so fucking horny with two Skin heads who would see his boner.

He was about to turn back and get into his own clothes when Sam opened the living room door.

‘So let’s see you mate. Christ you looking fucking great. Just like a real Skinhead What the fuck is that bulging out in yer bleachers. What a fucking cock. Is our gear giving you a huge boner?’

Pete blushed. ‘I don’t fucking know what is going on mate  but when I put on the bleachers I could feel heat all the way up my dick and now its fucking  throbbing. Iv’e never had such an erection.’

‘That’s Skin clothes for you mate. Always makes you feel like a real geezer and all real men are horny.’

‘Horny? Pete replied ‘I can’t tell you how fucking horny I am  and my girlfriend has gone off for a few days so a fuck is out of the question.’

‘One thing for sure Pete you need to get that big cock of yours out the bleachers before you rip the cloth. Its fucking huge. Lucky man to have a dick that size, it’s  what all men want.’

Jezz said, ‘Sam is right if you are that horny then get it out. We are all men together, nothing fazes  us. Skins are up for anything.’

‘Shit its fucking sore stuffed down these bleachers and so hot. Sorry guys but I need to get it out. Hope you don’t mind.’

‘No probs mate. Let’s see if it is as big as it’s looking in that bulge.’

Pete didn’t care where he was or what they might think he just need to get to his cock.

He unzipped his flies and then squeezed his hand well down his inside leg, grabbing hold of his shaft and then breathing in pulled his cock up. It felt sore but at the same time he was so high sexually. With one final pull he yanked it out and let go, his meaty dick springing almost vertically.

‘Shit sorry mates but that feels better not so hot.’

‘Not so hot, mate you look so fucking hot it’s not true.’

‘I’ll need to use your bog and have a wank ‘.

‘You are joking Pete. You have a boner like that and you think a quick wank is the best thing.’

‘What else. I’d love to have a blow job but unless you got any birds around it will have to be a wank.’

‘Look mate we are all men, proper horny men and Skinheads to boot. Well you dressed like that you are as good as one. Us Skinhead are there to help our mates out when necessary.’

‘What do you mean Sam,’

‘ Shit man do I need to spell it out. That cock of yours needs to get rid of some spunk and you want to blow job. You have two good mates both Skinheads in front of you. We can help you out.’

‘Shit you’re gonna give me a blow job. Fuck No guy has ever done that. I’m not a fucking poof and neither are you two.’

 ‘Of course but we just want to help a mate out. You can always close yer eyes and think it’s yer girlfriend but I bet you I can give much better head than her.’

‘Christ you gonna go down on me?’

‘Stop acting such a pussy boy. Your cock needs sucking and I’m now going down on my knees to help you. So shut the fuck up.’

Without waiting for Pete to reply Sam got down on his knees and grabbed hold of his massive tool. 

‘Fuck that sure is throbbing . Il’l need all my spit to get that rod of yours down my throat.’

Sam let his hand slide up and down the shaft while letting his tongue slip itself around the bulging head poking it into the slit making Pete wince with pleasure. Letting as much spit spill over the head and then rubbing some into his entire tool Sam started to open wide and take the tip of Pete’s head into his throat.

‘Fucking hell mate me bird has never done that before.’ 

Jezz said ‘I told you Pete we Skins help one another. We are all men, butch men who take no shit.’. As Jezz said this he moved round behind Pete and brought his arms around on to Pete’s chest.

‘I can see you work out mate, you look as if you have been pumping those pecs. You sure have a nice juicy pair of tits sticking through yer T shirt. Us Skins need to get a bit of pain at times. We give it out to all but good we have some ourselves at times.’

And with that Jezz took hold of Pete’s tit sand squeezed tight pulling them outwards.

‘Fucking hell’ Pete shouted ‘that’s fucking sore.’

‘Relax mate and think of Sam’s mouth getting further and further down that big dick of yours. Let me rub them a bit more before I give a further pinch.’

As Jezz played with his nipples between his fingers Pete suddenly started feeling pleasure in the pain. And with the pleasure in his nipples it made his cock even harder and he took Sma;s head and started to push it further and further down his throbbing shaft. He could feel his nipples expanding. The pain made him shudder and he looked down to see Jezz pulling them as far out as he could.

‘Fuck what are you doing to me.. I’m not a fucking poof you know.’

‘Don’t worry we know that mate you are a Skin getting some pleasure with two Skin mates. Nothing wrong with that.’

Jezz pressed his bulging cock against Pete’s arse and moved it up and down.

Pete said.

‘Fuck man you have a right boner there I can feel it.’

As Pete said this Jezz took one of his hands away from Pete’s nipples and pulled down the rear zip of Pete’s bleachers.

‘Shit man I didn’t know these bleachers of yours had a rear zip.’ 

‘We all have a rear zip mate. Also means we an have a shit without taking boots and bleachers off. But it also means we can have some fun when still in our gear. Stop talking so much and enjoy Sam’s blow job..’

Jezz let a gob of spit drop onto two of his fingers and pressed them against Pete’s hole. As Pete had started to move his arse in time with Sams throat the two fingers quickly vanished up Pete’s crack.

‘Jesus what’s going on?’

‘Just opening you up a bit. A good size hole you got there. Me fingers have disappeared.’

‘Yeah but what the fuck are you doing?’

Just testing mate. You just enjoy Sam’s throat. The way you have his head in your hands shows me that he’s doing a great job on you.’

‘Fuck does he know how to give a blow job.’

‘We only do this for Skins and you are looking and now acting like one of us.’

As Jezz said this he unzipped his flies and pulled out his rock hard cock, the foreskin pulled back to show a gleaming head with the precum starting to ooze out. He pressed it against Pete’s bum.

‘Christ man is that your cock pushing into my crack.’

‘It’s not a fucking Policeman’s baton mate.’

‘You’re not going to fuck  me are you? I keep telling you I ain’t a queer, no one would think to fuck me.’

‘ Yeah but no one has seen you look like a skin and you been with any skinheads. Don’t call us queer mate unless you are looking for trouble.’

Jezz let a large gob of spit fall onto his cock and stroked his shaft. As he did he took a phial out of his pocket and opened the cap. He put his arm around Pete and brought it up to his nose.

‘Now mate take a deep shot of this up both your nostrils It’ll make you nice and ready.. If you were hot before this should give you the same if not better feeling.’

Inhaling deeply as he was told, Pete suddenly felt like a fire in his body, his head was almost ready to explode but the fire rapidly spread down his body and into his cock making it throb even more and his balls felt so fucking full of spunk. The heat the spread to his arse and he could feel his opening enlarging, it was as if it was wanting to be speared. Pete took his hands away from Sam’s head and put them on his arse. He split his cheeks as wide as he could as if to let the heat out .At that moment Jezz took his cock , found Pete’s hole and rammed it the whole way in right up to the hilt.

‘Fucking hell’ Pete shouted but the pain of Jezz’s cock was not real pain but pure pleasure. His hole was needing a cock inside him.

‘Shit I’m being fucked and I ain’t ever been with a bloke but this is something else.’

‘You see mate not that bad after all. Now you are like a sandwich filling between two Skinheads. It doesn’t get better than that. Us blokes stick together and make sure a bit of pain brings a fucking lot of pleasure. Now have another sniff. That should see you fill Sam’s mouth with your cum.’

Pete eagerly took an even bigger snort and within seconds was face fucking Sam’s mouth for all he could feeling his big dick deep inside Sam’s mouth and with Sam’s mouth deep inside his pubes. As he used Sam’s head to drive his prick in and out so he pushed his arse back to let Jezz’s cock as deep inside as he could go.

‘Christ guys this is the best sex I’ve ever had and it’s with two real blokes two Skins who know what to do.’

‘You won’t get better than us mate so go for it . While you are shooting into Sam’s mouth and he will swallow the whole fucking load you will feel my juice all the way up that lovely meaty arse of yours.’

‘Fuck I’ve never felt so fucking horny. I’m ready to shoot Sam.’

‘Then fucking go for it mate,’ Jezz replied his breathing rising ready to shoot his own load. ‘Once you feel my spunk you will shoot trust me.’

Jezz gave one final push yanking his cock as deep as he could inside Pete and the feel of the hot spunk rising inside him was too much feeling Sam’s face fully into his pubes and knowing his cock was all the way down Sam’s throat.

‘Oh fuck I’m cumming.’ With a loud groan Pete discharged wave after wave down Sam’s throat who gulped and gulped so he would take the whole stream.

All 3 men sank back.

‘Shit what I have just done ?’Pete suddenly realised. ‘I’ve hated fucking poofs and now I have done exactly what they do.’

‘Don’t talk such fucking rubbish. You have been with two Skinheads and treated you like a real man. No fucking poofs, got it.’

Jezz looked into Pete’s face and then said. ‘Never say that again, got it mate. Anyway we all needed to get some spunk out and we sure did. You’ve got to admit you loved every fucking minute the way to shoved your dick into Sam’s mouth and Christ that arse of yours wanted every inch of my prick.’

‘Tell you what Pete why don’t’ you leave your things here for now and go home in the Skinhead gear. You would look a bit rougher if we give you a couple of transfers. Not like a tat but it will scare the hell out of others. Un peeling Jess put a large Fist on Pete’s rear neck and towards the front of his neck a large spider’s web. Now everyone will see you coming. Watch the difference.’

‘I should change’ Pete said.

‘Look mate I’ve given you the transfers now. Besides you got so fucking hard when you got into me bleachers and boots I know you want to keep them all on. Just make sure you don’t walk down the road with such a throbbing cock or you will be arrested. It looks big enough without the hard on. Anyway it would be good to see you tomorrow night. We have some plans. Now get off and we look forwards to how you get on.’

As Pete walked down the street he could see people crossing the road to avoid passing him. No one wanted to bump into him. He could feel his masculinity poring out of every part of his body. It was how a man should feel. Respected and also making others nervous of his power.

‘When he got home he immediately looked in the mirror. Shit he looked hot his cock making a clear outline down his left leg. He sneered at his reflection. He looked like a Skinhead. This is how I want to look not just wearing fucking normal boring clothes. No one is gonna mess with me. As he looked again he said. Christ I would so fucking like to beat up a simpering queer looking like this.’

His clothes felt like a second skin and he decided he wanted to keep them on and wear to bed. He could smell the remnants of Jezz’s cum slightly oozing out of his arse and the last drips of his own cum staining the denim on his leg.

Pete took the day off work so he could keep his skin gear on and went to meet his new mates early evening.

Jezz looked at him. ‘Fuck you look mean man. Look more of a Skin than us and you also look as if you need a bit of action.’

T’ell you what mate I could sure do with grabbing a poof and seeing to him. When you are dressed like this all you want is action and to give pain .’

‘Then let’s just stand back in this alley and see what comes by. ‘Sam said.

A few minutes later a young guy was about to walk past them in trendy gear and long wavy hair. Pete looked at his two fellow skinheads and nodded. He stepped out in front of the guy.

‘Are you a fucking fairy?’

‘What?’ the guy mumbled and went to turn round and run but Sam and Jezz were behind him.

‘Don’t think you are going very far eh? ‘Jezz said grabbing the shoulder bag.

Pete grabbed the guy by the shoulders and put his face up close to the young one.

‘You look like a fucking poof to me.’

‘No no no.’

‘Snivelling little bugger though I guess you love being buggered.’ Bringing his head back a bit Pete spat a large gob of spit into the youngsters’ face and then taking his hand rubbed it all around his face ‘This is all you are fit for  you little runt’

‘Hey boys grab his arms.’

When the guy was unable to move Pete brought his fisty back and rammed hard into the stomach, the boy bending double in agony.

‘Be a man and take it.’ Pete sneered aiming another punch . ‘Its’ all you are goodfor   bloody punchbag.. Then grabbing the boys hair he said.

‘I should fucking well cut all those girly curls off you but I like grabbing the hair. Time you got down on yer knees and cleaned my boots. I want to see you lick them clean. I wanna hear your spit slurping over the toe caps so they gleam. Now get fucking down and started.’

Sam pushed the boy down to the ground.

‘You heard what the Skin said, let’s see you fucking lick.’ As the boy got down to his knees Sam then pushed his face into the toe cap. 

The youngster started to lick across the surface as hard as his tongue would allow. After a couple of minutes Jezz wrenched his hair back to see the result. 

‘Not bad for a fairy boy. Now get on and do the other.’

The boy was groaning as he licked trying to get as much spit out of his mouth to satisfy this skinhead master.

Seeing the boy kneeling in front of him as a type of slave and being at Pete’s command made him realise the power of being a Skinhead. He loved this wave of power through his body and as he glared down he knew his cock was rock hard. This made the blood throb in his shaft. He was getting off seeing this poof and the pressure of his dick inside his bleachers made him need to get it out. He now had someone in front of him who could suck him off . He unzipped his flies and put his hand deep inside the leg and pulled out his pulsating prick.

‘Now look up boy’ he shouted 

The youngster looked up his head level with Pete’s dick

‘This is what you like to do eh, suck dick. Bet you don’t get many as big as this tool of mine. And it’s going all the way down that throat of yours. You are gonna feel my cum all the way through that puny body of yours. Now boys grab his head.’.

Jezz and Sam took hold of the hair and directed his mouth.

‘Don’t even think to close your mouth or I’ll fucking thump you again and it will be even harder.’ The boy had no option but to open his mouth wide and his face was pushed into Pete’s cock

‘Just breathe properly and you can let this monster of mine slip down that throat of yours’.

As the cock entered the boy’s mouth tears were streaming down his cheeks.

‘Stop being such a fucking pansy. You know what to do and count yerself lucky this dick of mine ain’t going up that arse of yours. Now suck.’

The boy opened his mouth as wide as he could straining to take the width of cock. Little by little the shaft moved further and further inside to a point when Pete grabbed the guy’s head and pushed it in until he could feel the boy’s mouth against his pubes.

‘That’s it . Shit I’m so fucking horny seeing to suck that dick of mine.’

‘Let him have it .’Sam shouted

‘Lets’ see you cum inside that pretty mouth. Give it to him let him have the whole fucking length of your prick.’

Being goaded on by his new skinhead mates made Pete’s cock even harder and the was now ramming the boys head in and out taking the full length. He loved having all this power. He felt more of a man, a Skinhead man than ever. He was ready to explode. With one final lunge and heavy groan he shot his bolt. The spunk driving deep inside the boy’s throat. So much that he could not swallow it , wads streaming out of his mouth and down his chin.

‘Shit boy you know how to suck. Bet you loved having a Skin cum inside you. Now stand up and bugger off. If you think of telling anyone I will come after you. Anyway I bet you enjoyed it ‘and as he said this he grabbed the guys cock through his trousers and immediately felt a large wet patch around a stiff dick.

‘I fucking knew it. You came sucking me off you little whore. Maybe I should have fucked you. Perhaps you wanna see me again for another session. You fucking love a Skin eh. If I see you again you can count on a fuck and you won’t get a better cock up thyat arse of yours. Maybe I see you here again tomorrow. Now fuck off’ and with that Pete’s pushed him away and Sam threw his shoulder pack at him,.

‘Get the fuck out of here.’

Pete looked over at his mates and grinned. 

‘Shit man being a Skin head is fucking great’

‘Told you that last night mate’

Pete then noticed that both his new mates were rubbing their crotches, their cocks bulging in their bleachers

‘Looks as if I have turned you guys on.’

‘Are you fucking surprised. Seeing that big cock of yours down the guy’s throat, who wouldn’t get a knob on. Its alright for you Pete he sucked you off good and proper and got rid of that spunk for you’

‘Looks as if you two need the same eh?’

‘Think you need to return the favour to your Skinhead mates.’

‘Well don’t just stand their rubbing yerselves. Get them out. If you are gonna do one might as well make it two.’

The two Skins pulled out their cocks and stood side by side

‘Fuck you two ain’t washed those cocks of your since last night. That’s some stink of piss and cum.’

‘Just the way we Skins like it. You’’ll learn.

Pete got down on his knees and admired the cocks both with their foreskins pulled back showing gleaming heads.

‘Not sure I can take both in my mouth but I will at least do you both one at a time.’

 He took hold of Sam’s cock. He was hungry and remembered the way Sam had gobbled his cock last night. He was desperate to feel it all the way in. It wasn’t as big as Pete’s but a decent size and having never sucked cock before Pete was gagging to suck and feel the cum explode in his mouth. This was no homo thing. This was for Skins.

As Pete started letting his spit ooze out over Sam’s shaft, Jess let his cock rub up and down Pete’s face reminding him that he was waiting. Pete knew Jezz wanted his throat and so took Sam’s cock out and then started on Jezz. The cock stank but that excited Pete even more. Soon he was sucking one dick and pausing to suck the other. He was a mechanic the way he was servicing both guys at the same time. Seeing Pete deal with both made the two Skins ready and while their cocks were being sucked they then were tonguing each other their arms wrapped around each others neck. Pete was oblivious to what they were doing ,all he wanted was Skin cock and for them to cum in his mouth.

Sam was ready to explode and ramming his shaft deep inside Pete’s throat he let out all the creamy cum. Seeing Sam orgasm was too much for Jezz to hold back and he let his cum spurt out over Pete’s face. The two men let out a mighty groan.’

Fuck, fucking hell man,’ Jezz said to Pete ‘for someone who has never sucked before it was as if you are born for it.’

‘I told you I ain’t a fucking fairy but I’ll do anything for you Skins.’

Pete took the arm of his bomber jacket and wiped the face cum.

‘Hey mate that’s my fucking jacket’

‘Its’ your fucking spunk mate .’Pete laughed. ‘Tell you what mate you can get rid of my gear from last night from now its Skin gear for me and just tell me where to go. I want the lot.. I loved seeing all the those people scared of me on my way home. I think it’s time to get rid of those transfers and get the real thing.’

‘We knew you would say that mate. We knew you wanted to be one of us. Tell you what we are going off to see some other Skins. It will be beers some poppers and I reckon a good bit of fucking. The guys would love that cock of yours. Wanna come?

‘Count me in.’

‘What about that girlfriend of yours?’

‘She’s history.’

[freegardenergladiator]

Putain, trop bon, bienvenue OI...

[rbbrbikerthorp]

'Straight' guy to skinhead transformation story.

[skinheadmal]

The Final Commute Part 5

Karl's influence grows within the crew

A Reminder: This chapter follows on where the others are left off, scenes of Violence – So BE WARNED. This series is fantasy only

It has been several days since Karl was released from the chair. He moved with the confidence of a predator, shoulders back, chin lifted, his Crusher tattoo on display. And his voice, rough East End drawl, cut through the warehouse like a blade. 

The Boss. watched everything with a cold, calculating stare, his eyes flickering from one crew member to the next as if measuring their worth, their loyalty, their fear.  Each day, Karl’s dominance grew. His only allegiance was to the Boss.

The crew could feel it in the way they whispered his name, and in the way they looked up at him, whenever he entered a room. He was no longer just a newcomer; he was becoming the invisible tyrant whose very presence brought instant loyalty.

Spike, who had been viciously attacked when Karl had woken up in the chair. was still nursing the fresh wounds from Karl’s brutal assault. While he was recovering, the terror lingered like a phantom. Whenever Karl’s boots thudded across the warehouse, Spike’s shoulders shrank, his eyes dropping to the floor beneath his boots. He would stare anywhere that wasn’t Karl’s face. The simple act of looking up and meeting Karl’s gaze had become an act of betrayal, and the thought of it made Spike’s heart hammer against his broken ribs. He would mutter half‑spoken prayers to any god that might hear him, hoping that the next day would bring a different kind of pain, perhaps a bruise, perhaps nothing at all.

Rat, a wiry, jittery figure who had shaved Karl's head during his transformation, earned his nickname because of the way he scurried about the crew. His eyes darting from one task to the next, his hands were forever restless. When Karl’s voice rang out, sharp and demanding, Rat would stop whatever he was doing and come scurrying. “Roll me a ciggy, and be quick,” Karl would bark, or “Polish my boots.”

Each command was not a request but a decree, and Rat performed them with a frantic zeal, wanting to please. His breath ragged, his palms slick with sweat, his mind a whirl of anxiety and the desperate need to be useful.

If a speck of dust remained on a boot or a roll-up was rolled too loosely, Karl would pause, his eyes narrowing. The silence that followed was deafening.  With a flick of his wrist, Karl would bring his knuckles crashing against Rat’s cheek. a brilliant spray of blood bloomed across Rat’s skin. It was a short, brutal reminder that the slightest misstep could cost more than a bruise.

All the while, The Boss watched on, pleased with the way Karl had adjusted, his expression unreadable. He watched Karl’s ascendancy with a calculating gaze, just as he had planned. Noting how the members of the skin crew bent, broke, and re-bent under the new hierarchy. He saw the way Spike’s shoulders sagged and the way Rat’s hands trembled as he polished boots.

For Stitch It began as a fascination, then a fixation. He would look from afar at the dominance of Karl, whom he assisted in creating.  In the way he tilted his chin upward while barking orders to the crew.

Stitch would slip away from the rest of the skin crew. His boots scraped against the concrete floor of the warehouse until he reached the dilapidated toilet block where the air there reeked of mildew and stale piss.

In his mind, he was no longer just a member of the crew. He was the one grovelling at Karl’s boots, his head up, looking at the dominant skinhead standing before him. Hearing in his head the same words. You want to belong, to be dominated by me, don’t you, Stitch?” The fantasy was always the same: submission, not conquest. With Karl’s knuckles wrapped around a roll-up in them, the cigarette ash flicked into his mouth, the hum of authority that curdled his blood into something unrecognisable.

He would then fish his cock out of his bleachers, his imagination focused on one person, Karl. He would frantically stroke his cock, moaning, hoping that one day it would become a reality, that one day Karl would fuck his face or his arse, depositing his skin seed inside of him. He stifled his cry when he shot his own load, fearing he would be found out.

He would return to the rest of the crew, Karl’s gaze would drift over him like a blade, sharp and indifferent, leaving Stitch both aching for what he knew might never happen.

A week later, The Boss called Karl into his room, “Time to take you out for a proper test run. There's a pikey pub down the road, been talkin' shit about us. Let's go show 'em what Crusher really means."

Karl cracked his neck, the CRUSHER tattoo shifting with the motion. His fists clenched, already itching for the next wet crunch.

"Lead the way, Boss," he growled. "I'm fuckin' starving."

The van screeched to a halt outside The Black Lion, a dingy corner pub on the edge of Whitechapel, faded red brick, frosted windows smeared with years of nicotine, neon sign flickering "OPEN" Inside, the place thrummed with Friday-night noise: clinking pint glasses, laughter from the clientele inside mostly made up the pikeys.

The Boss kicked the door open first, the gang spilling in behind him like a pack of wolves, bomber jackets zipped, Doc Martens polished to a menacing gleam. Karl, The Crusher, came last, shoulders rolling, his ink still pink around the edges. His eyes scanned the room, nostrils flaring at the smell of spilt lager, fried food, and warm bodies. The CRUSHER on his throat pulsed with every breath.

The pub fell quiet in stages. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes widened. Someone muttered "Oh shit" under the music.

The Boss stepped to the bar, slapped a palm down hard enough to rattle the optics. "Evening, lads. Heard you've been talkin' shit about us skins. Time to set the record straight."

A burly barman, mid-thirties, thick arms from years pulling pints, leaned forward. "We don't want trouble. Drink or leave." Trouble is what you are about to get the Boss spat.

Karl didn't wait for permission. He spotted a table where two 30 or 40 year old pikey’s were laughing over their phones. One wore a dirty hoodie. Karl's lip curled. Rage, fresh and chemical-hot, surged up his chest like vomit.

He charged.

The first punch landed like a sledgehammer, Karl's HATE-inked knuckles smashing into the hoodie-wearer's jaw with a wet crack that echoed over the jukebox. Teeth flew in a bloody arc, clattering across the sticky floor like dice. The man crumpled, chair tipping backwards, skull bouncing off the edge of the table with a dull thud.

Chaos erupted.

The Boss laughed, a barking sound, and swung a barstool into the nearest regular's ribs, wood splintering, ribs giving with a crunch like dry twigs. Spike, nose still swollen and crusted from Karl's earlier greeting, grabbed a bottle and smashed it across the nearest man to him, forehead; glass exploded in a green shower, blood immediately sheeting down the man's face in thick ropes.

Karl looked over towards him and gave him a nod.

Karl was a machine. He grabbed the second man at the table by the collar, yanked him forward, and headbutted him square in the nose, his own shaved skull, tattooed with the snarling British Bulldog, slamming home with bone-jarring force. Cartilage popped; blood sprayed hot across Karl's face, tasting coppery and sweet on his tongue. He didn't flinch. Instead, he grinned, feral and wide, the teardrop under his eye gleaming wet.

He stomped down on the fallen man's knee. boot heel grinding, ligaments tearing with a wet snap. The scream was high and animal. Karl followed with a kick to the ribs, once, twice, three times, each impact a dull, meaty thud that vibrated up his leg. "That's for spreading false rumours,  lookin' at us wrong, you fuckin' cunts!" he roared, voice shredded raw

Around him, the gang worked methodically: boots stomping, fists flying, bottles shattering. A woman screamed and tried to run for the door. The Boss caught her arm, twisted it behind her back until she dropped to her knees, whimpering. Tables overturned with crashes of glass and splintered wood; pint glasses exploded against walls, lager foaming across the floor in sticky puddles mixed with blood. Karl waded deeper. Another picky brave, or stupid, swung a chair at him. Karl caught it mid-arc, wrenched it free, and brought it down across the man's back like an axe. The wood cracked; the man folded, gasping.

Karl dropped the broken chair and stomped his face into the floorboards, heel of his boot, grinding cheekbone against grain, skin splitting open in ragged flaps, teeth grinding into the wood.

Blood slicked everything: the bar top, the floor, Karl's boots, his hands. It dripped from his knuckles in thick strings, warm and tacky. The air stank of iron, spilt beer, urine from someone who'd lost control, and the sharp tang of fear-sweat. Shouts blended into a roar, curses, pleas, the wet smack of flesh on flesh.

Karl paused only once, chest heaving, to look back at The Boss. The Boss stood amid the wreckage, a grin of his face. He nodded once in approval.

Karl turned back, eyes burning. He grabbed the last standing patron, a skinny lad trying to crawl away by the hair, yanked his head back, and drove a fist into his throat. Windpipe collapsed with a gurgling crunch. The boy wheezed, clawing at nothing.

"Enough," The Boss finally barked.

The gang pulled back, breathing hard, laughing low and ragged. Bodies littered the floor, moaning, bleeding, broken. Leaving only the sound of dripping taps and ragged sobs.

Karl stood in the centre, fists still clenched, blood dripping from his chin onto the red-white-black runes on his chest. He licked his lips, tasting the room's violence, and felt only hunger for more.

The Boss clapped him on the back, hard enough to sting the fresh ink. "Fuckin, Good work, Crusher. That's how we do it."

Karl grinned through the gore, teeth red. "Anytime, Boss. Fuckin' love it."

The Boss spoke, to no one in particular, “This is Our fuckin Turf, let it be known. After the beating you have had, from My lads, I don’t want to hear you slagging us off again, GET IT.” 

Karl was one of the last to walk out with the Boss. He looked behind him, the carnage that he and the lads had caused made his cock hard. He had bruises and blood on his knuckles. The final part of his transformation had clicked into place; he had been reborn in blood and broken bone.

He caught up with Spike, lifting his head, so their eyes met, “You did well Brother, I enjoyed watching you smash that bottle over that pikey’s head.” 

As they filed out into the night, boots leaving bloody prints on the pavement, the Black Lion behind them a shattered ruin, lights flickering, alarms finally wailing in the distance.

Note – the word Pikey is a derogatory name for Travellers

Karl/Tom returns to where it all started.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Looking forward to reading more about the Stitch/Karl dynamic.

[skinheadmal]

The Final Commute Part 4

Karl’s Awaking

Like in other chapters, this has violent scenes in it - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

Two weeks had festered in the warehouse’s choking darkness—two weeks of electrodes frying his synapses, needles gouging ownership into his flesh, and hypnotic voices looping until every memory of discipline and duty had been pulverised into dust. Karl lay strapped to the dentist chair, fresh tattoos still oozing: CRUSHER slashed across his throat in jagged black, British Bulldog fangs dripping on the left side of his chemically-burned scalp, England flag bleeding red-white under SKIN on the right, fat black teardrop hanging under one eye like a trophy kill.

The day before the planned awakening, The Boss stood over the unconscious body, rolling a cigarette between scarred fingers. He exhaled smoke through his nostrils, then jerked, the chin of Stitch AKA the Doc.

“Before we wake him,” The Boss said, his voice flat without emotion, “make him look the part. Proper skinhead. Keep the MPT cammo, trousers, he won’t know why they feel right, but they’re the last fuckin’ thread to his old life. Let ‘em haunt him without him knowing.”

Stitch nodded once, already moving. He knelt in front of Karl, his roll-up smouldering in his lips, and started to cut away the laces of the regulation army boots, the same boots that had been on Karl’s feet since the day he’d walked off the train. When the first boot fell away, he was hit by the smell of raw, sweaty, and rank foot; likewise, when the other boot came away, the smell was doubled. Stich bent down and brought the feet to his face, took a deep breath in. He fished his rock-hard cock out of his bleachers, and started to wank himself off. “You’ll be one of us tomorrow” he said out loud as he shot his load, some cum hitting Karl's socked feet, some on the cammos and the rest he caught in his hand. He prised open his mouth and deposited the rest of the cum, and on instinct Karl swallowed.

He replaced the old boots with a new pair of polished 20-hole Docs: steel-toe, a deep black, then he carefully started to lace the boots with bright white laddered laces style, he ensured that each lace was tight, the boots fit snug, they went up the legs higher than the regulation army boots, the cammo trousers disappearing into the top of the boots.

Next was the black Fred Perry polo. Stitch unfastened Karl’s right arm first and tugged the polo shirt with the crew’s emblem, white, red runes over the fresh ink on his arms, then he did the same to the other arm; it was not necessary to keep Karl fastened at this stage, as he was so deep in the hypnotic loop he would not have realised his arms were free. Stitch then clipped the white half-inch braces onto the cammos, and snapped them over the shoulders. He made sure that the straps were fastened tight on his wrists and his legs, Stitch stepped back.

There in front of him was Karl the skinhead, the whole look screamed skinhead, rough and aggressive. He could hear a moan escape Karl’s lips. As if he already knew this was his final change before he woke up.

The day of the wakening had arrived. 

The Boss and the other Key players in Tom’s, now Karls’s, transformation walked up to where he had been kept.

“Wake him,” The Boss ordered.

Stitch jabbed a stimulant into Karl’s arm. It will take about ten minutes before it takes effect, Stitch said.

Karl’s eyelids snapped bloodshot, pupils blown, raw confusion flashing before rage drowned it.

He jerked against the straps, leather creaking, wrists tearing open fresh cuts.

“Oi GET THESE FUCKIN’ STRAPS OFF!” he bellowed. The voice that came out was broad, thick Cockney, every vowel flattened, every consonant spat. No trace remained of the measured, Middle-English officer’s accent; that had been erased as thoroughly as his Previous memories. The tone, thick with new hate.

Spit sprayed from split lips. “MOVE YER FUCKIN ARSE, YOU CUNT! I AIN’T MUCKIN ABAHT. DO IT NAOW!”

The Boss pointed to a skinhead who had been watching in the background.

Spike edged forward, hands shaking as he worked the buckles. The straps fell away. Karl surged upright, rose fully, rolling his shoulders fast, feral. His right fist, HATE across the knuckles, rocketed forward in a blur.

The punch landed like a sledgehammer on wet meat.

Spike’s face collapsed inward: nose bridge flattened with a sickening crunch, cartilage pulverising, blood exploding in a hot geyser that painted Karl’s fresh Fred Perry crimson. Teeth clacked together hard enough to shear enamel; a shard flew free and pinged off the concrete. Spike’s head snapped back; skull cracked against the floor with a wet thud that left a dark smear. Blood poured from both nostrils in thick ropes, bubbling pink foam from his mouth as he twitched and gurgled, hands clawing uselessly at the ruin of his face.

Karl spat a thick fat gob of phlegm onto Spike’s convulsing body. “Fuckin’ weak,” he snarled, Cockney broad and vicious, as thick as a London fog. At the same time, his right boot came down hard on Spike's ballocks. “Stay down, you fuckin soft prick,”

The Boss stepped forward slowly, boots grinding through the spreading pool of blood. Close enough, Karl could smell stale lager and baccy on his breath.

Boss’s eyes drilled in, “Calm it, Crusher,” The Boss said, low. “Let’s hear what we’ve built. Answer me straight.”

Before Karl answered The Boss’s questions he turned to one of the skinheads who happened to be Rat, roll me a fag and be fuckin quick about it, Rat fumbled with the tobacco, his hands trembling, he rolled it and presented it to Karl,” what the fuck is that supposed to be he spat, slapping Rat hard across the face, “FUCKIN DO IT RIGHT, and make a proper job of it this time.

Rat rolled a perfect cig the next time, placing it in Karl’s mouth and lit it for him. Karl took a deep drag as if is life depended on it.

The Boss then questioned him.

“What d’you remember? Who was you before? “

For a heartbeat, Karl’s brow twitched, an almost imperceptible crease that marked a flash of something deeper than the hard-boiled exterior he was. His eyes flickered a fraction, a flicker of something that might have been, a ghost of a memory of some poncey soldier boi sat on a train, then it was gone. His face settled, the muscles tightening into a familiar sneer that was as much a shield as it was a weapon. He then drawled, “Sweet FA, Boss,”   He let the words tumble out, each syllable dripping with aggression. He leaned forward, his knuckles now white, the veins in his forearms pulsing like drumbeats.

Karl’s mind raced back to the nights when neon lights flickered over the cracked pavement of the East End, when the only education he received came from bruises and broken bottles. “Streets brought me up proper, Boss” he said. He could almost hear the echo of his own younger voice, a kid who’d learned to keep his head down and his fists up, who’d discovered early on that the world didn’t hand out charity. “Fists first, always fuckin’ ‘ave been, Boss” The final line was not just a statement; it was a creed etched into the scar tissue of his knuckles, a promise he’d sworn to himself as he grew from a scrawny street urchin into the hardened skinhead he was now. In that moment, the sneer on his face wasn’t merely a mask; it was a declaration that the only truth he cared to keep, he could feel in his own two hands, the fists that never betrayed him, even when the world tried to rewrite his past.

“Who are you now?”

“Karl. Karl the fuckin’ Crusher.” The name rolled off his tongue as it had always been there. He flexed his hands; his knuckles cracked while he said it. “Born in the shit end of Whitechapel. Grew up fightin'. Breakin' heads. I smash faces, break ribs, leave cunts bleedin’ on the fuckin’ pavement. That's all there is. I Use me fuckin fists before I think.” The Boss stepped closer, breath hot

“Who do you serve?"

"You, Boss." No hesitation. The words came out hard, fervent. "Only you. The firm. The lads. We smash together, bleed together."

"Where did we meet?"

Karl's eyes narrowed, memories, new ones, solid as concrete, flooding in crystal clear. "Back in the day. I was fifteen, scrappin' outside a pub in Bethnal Green. Some Paki gang jumped me. You were there, wiv some of the lads and you charged in. Boot to the ribs, glass in the hand. We took 'em apart. After that... you kept me close."

The Boss's grin widened. "And later?"

"Prison. Pentonville, 2012. Armed robbery gone sideways, a couple lads hit a bookies. Got five years. You were on the wing already, doin' a stretch for GBH. You saw the fire in me. Said I had potential. Turned me proper. Shaved my head in the showers and inked me up with the real symbols. Taught me the words, the codes. Made me even more violent. No one messed with us inside.  I remember, once, some nonce from D-wing tried muscling our phone queue. You didn’t move. Just flicked your eyes at me. ‘Crush him.’ I didn’t hesitate. Charged like a bull, head down, shoulder into his gut, drove him into the wall. Headbutt split his nose. Stamped his ribs till I felt them give. He was gurgling, begging. I kept going till the screws stormed in with batons. They cuffed me, dragged me to the block, seventy-two hours in the dark, bread and piss-warm water. When they let me out, the wing was quiet. Lads nodded as I passed. You were waiting at the snooker table. Handed me a rollie, and lit for me.”

 When I got out, I came and found you. Spike thought he was your right-hand man, but I soon put him in his place, since then I have been your right-hand man. Your Enforcer. "The Boss clapped him on the shoulder, hard, approving. "Spot on, Crusher.

One last thing. Where's your future?

"Karl's lips curled into a brutal smile, eyes burning with something feral. "Out there." He jerked his head toward the warehouse door, to the night beyond. Smash every cunt who looks at us wrong, who breathes wrong, pubs, stations, terraces, streets. Lefty and Queer rallies. Crush bones till bone splinters through skin. Stomp ribs till they puncture lungs. Leave ‘em twitchin’. Make London choke on fear. For the crew. For England. For you, Boss.” And every crack, every scream, every wet snap, “I’m gonna fuckin savour it like fuckin’ like it’s me fuckin’ birthday.  Build the firm bigger. Make 'em fear us.”

The Boss laughed, a deep, satisfied rumble.

He turned to the others.  Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow... a new dawn…"

Karl flexed his bruised knuckles, feeling the fresh tattoos pull tight. He followed the Boss to the other side of the warehouse. As he passed Spike, still on the floor, he stomped on his ribs as a reminder that he was the Enforcer now. His boots sqelchin in Spikes blood.  No trace of Major Tom Harris lingered not in his mind, not in his blood. Only Crusher. Aggressive. Brutal.

Karl’s first action

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Looks like the transformation of Tom to Crusher (the skinhead) was a success. Hot Story.

[skinheadmal]

Final Commute Part 3

The Physical changes

Like in part 2, you have been WARNED

Karl lay motionless in the dentist's chair. It had been a week since that fateful commute. His chest rose and fell in slow, shallow pulls, out cold from the final cocktail of sedatives and rage-suppressants Stitch had pumped into his arm to keep him under while the next stages of his transformation took place.

The warehouse was quieter now, the generator idling low, the only sounds the drip of condensation from the roof and the occasional wet smack of blood pooling on the concrete beneath the chair.

The Boss had cranked open a beer, and lighting a freshly made rollie, he looked into the darkness, the crew members milling around, chatting, lighting cigs. He walked over to his crew, his boots crunching the broken glass under them. He stopped and jerked the chin of a skinhead.

“Oi. Rat.”

A skinny kid, barely eighteen, still baby-faced, froze. His name was really Jamie, but no one called him that anymore. Rat suited him: twitchy, eager to please, always scurrying to do the dirty jobs no one else wanted. He’d only been in the crew three months, still proving he wasn’t soft. The word “Rat” had been freshly tattooed on his throat in Golic script, still red and weeping.

Rat had been on the feral side before he met the Boss, into minor scrapes with the law, nothing too serious, but he needed a guiding hand, someone to discipline him, he found that with the skin crew and especially the Boss.

I want you, as the youngest member of my crew, to have the honour of shaving the cunt in the chair. “Shave his head. Clean. Bald. No stubble. No chance of it growin’ back.” Rat swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Me?”

“You heard. You’ve got steady hands. Don’t fuck it up.” Rat nodded fast, wiped sweaty palms on his bleachers, and scurried to the workbench. He came back with a battered electric clipper, blades already oiled and gleaming, plus a plastic bottle of clear liquid that sloshed thickly inside. The label was scratched off, but everyone knew what it was: a home-brew depilatory compound, dark-web special. Industrial-strength sodium hydroxide mixed with thioglycolate salts and a few nastier accelerators. Very corrosive, enough to kill follicles dead if you left it long enough.

Rat plugged in the clippers. The buzz started low, then rose to a vicious whine as he thumbed the switch. He hesitated, glancing at The Boss, who didn’t look up from rolling a cigarette. “Do it.”

Rat leaned over Karl’s unconscious form, of Crusher. His hair was still regulation short from his old life, dark brown, military neat.

Rat started at the crown, pressing the clippers down hard. The blades sheared through in long, satisfying passes. Hair rained onto Karl’s shoulders, then onto the floor in dark clumps. Rat worked fast, methodically: front to back, side to side, then the clippers tight against the scalp to take it down to skin. A pale scalp emerged, dotted with tiny nicks where the blades had caught. Blood beaded in fine red pinpricks.

When the clippers had done all they could, then he produced a razor and shaving cream, and applied the cream. He then shaved against the grain, making slow passes with the razor, removing the stubble and leaving him smooth to the touch. He could feel himself getting turned on, his own cock throbbing in his bleachers, he gave himself a quick rub, hoping no one else had seen him, but the Boss who sees everything, noticed and gave him a wink. whispering in his ear, “don’t worry Rat, it turns us all on.”

The Boss then inspected the work so far, checking the smoothness. You have missed a few fine hairs, but after the next stage, that won't matter “All in all, not a bad job, “Rat”, giving Rat’s head a rub,

Rat then uncapped the bottle. The chemical hit the air immediately, sharp, acrid. He poured a generous palmful of the clear gel into his gloved hand. It was cold, viscous, almost slimy. He worked it between his fingers, then smeared it across Karl’s freshly buzzed scalp in thick, even strokes, starting at the hairline and working back, making sure to cover every inch. The gel glistened under the bulb, sinking into the pores almost immediately. Tiny bubbles formed where it reacted with the skin.

Rat kept it on for twenty minutes. The Boss timed it on his phone, cigarette smoke curling around the glowing screen. Karl didn’t stir. His breathing stayed slow, deep, drugged. The chemical did its work quietly: burning through the outer layer of the follicle, denaturing the proteins that anchored the hair root, killing the dermal roots beneath. Permanent. Irreversible.

After the timer beeped, Rat grabbed a damp rag soaked in diluted vinegar, the neutraliser, and wiped the gel away in careful circles. The rag came back streaked with dissolved hair residue.

Karl’s head now shone under the light bulb over the chair. Hair, now killed off.

Rat stepped back, breathing hard, gloves dripping. He looked at The Boss for approval.

The Boss exhaled smoke, studied the results, then gave a single nod. “Clean work, Rat.”

Rat, was pleased with the approval from his Boss. “Thanks for the privilege.” The bulge in his bleachers had grown larger. The Boss handed Rat a beer. While saying, “I suggest you do something with that hard on, one of the crew will help you with it.” And winked. He scurried off back into the darkness of the warehouse to join his skinhead crewmates.

+++++

Karl’s head now matched the other skinheads in the crew, still red from where the depilatory had destroyed the hair follicles. The earbuds had been reinserted, the insidious hypnosis droned on, its voices slithering deeper into the hollowed-out cavern of Karl’s mind.

Karl's body finally went limp in the chair, the last twitch of resistance fading into oblivion. His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths, skin glistening with a sheen of sweat that carried the metallic tang of blood and the sharp bite of chemical residue. Blisters on his temples wept clear fluid, trickling down to pool in the hollows of his collarbones. The warehouse air hung thicker now, laced with the lingering ozone from the electrodes and the faint, acrid whiff of voided bowels from earlier convulsions.

The Boss stepped back, His eyes raked over the slumped form, lips curled in disdain. "Look at 'im, skin too fuckin clean, like some posh army officer, who stuck his nose in where it was not wanted. 

He called Ink over. Time to mark the bastard proper, match that new hard, rough personality, we're buildin'."

From the shadows shuffled Ink, the gang's tattooist, a wiry skinhead in his forties, arms a living canvas of faded blues and blacks, his own neck scripted with "No Remorse" in jagged Gothic letters. He dragged over a battered toolbox that clattered with the jangle of needles and ink pots, the air immediately sharpening with the sterile bite of rubbing alcohol and the inky, chemical sweetness of pigments.

Ink's breath huffed out in short bursts, reeking of stale cigs as he snapped on latex gloves with a rubbery snap, the sound echoing like a whip crack in the dim space.

"Right, Boss," Ink grunted, his voice a phlegmy rasp from years of chain-smoking. He fired up the tattoo machine, a low, angry buzz like a swarm of hornets trapped in metal—dipping the needle cluster into a pot of midnight black ink that sloshed viscously and glossily. The Boss nodded, folding his arms.

The Boss pointed to the neck, "Start with the throat: 'Crusher' in big, brutal letters. Make it hurt when he swallows. Then British Bulldog on the left side of his head, snarlin', fangs out. Teardrop under the right eye, fat and black, like he's already done time for crushin' skulls. Other side: England flag, wavin' proud, with 'Skinhead' stamped bold underneath. Flood the rest, neck, arms, hands, with heavy shit: webs on the elbows, you know what I want, make it look weathered as if they have been there for years. Don't forget the gang's colours: red, white, and black runes on his chest, our mark so every cunt knows he's ours."

The Boss pointed towards the neck, “Start with the throat: 'Crusher' in big, brutal letters. Make it hurt when he swallows,

Ink worked methodically, the machine's hum punctuated by the occasional squelch of excess ink wiped away with an alcohol-soaked rag.

Karls ' cock, was rock hard in his cammos, liking the pain he was receiving, turning him on sexually.

The Boss watched on, nodding approval as the throat took shape: "Crusher" with barbed wire coils wrapping around, thorns inked to look like they pierced the skin. They arched across the Adam's apple in aggressive script, each letter a fresh assault, as the needle punched the sensitive skin, raising welts that throbbed with every involuntary swallow. After eight hours, the neck was complete. Where once there was clean, unmarked skin; now there was the word “Crusher” in bold Gothic script, which stood out; it could be seen moving each time Karl swallowed.

The Boss patted Ink on the back, congratulating him on the work so far. Let the bastard sleep before we start the next part. He is not going anywhere, and it gives the hypnotic files longer to work before we wake him up.

The next morning, The Boss and Ink arrived ready to start the next phase of Karl’s inking. Stich was already there checking on Karl's vitals. He turned to the Boss, a roll-up between his lips, Boss, he said, while an exhale of cigarette smoke escaped from his mouth, each word punctuated. “All is going as planned.”

The doctor's Hippocratic oath, "First, Do No Harm" which he would have once given, now a meaningless phrase. Which did not mean anything to him. What mattered now was his skin crewmates and The Boss.

Karl's head lolled to the side as Ink tilted it roughly, the skin of his scalp stretching taut under callused fingers. The needle bit in first at the temple a sharp, piercing vibration that drilled through flesh, even in unconsciousness, sending faint tremors through his slack jaw. Blood welled up immediately, tiny crimson beads mixing with the ink to form muddy rivulets that dripped down his ear, warm and sticky. The buzz grew louder as Ink outlined the bulldog: thick lines carving the beast's muzzle, its jowls pulled back in a perpetual snarl, the ink grinding deeper into skin with a wet, grinding sensation that would have screamed pain if Karl were awake. Instead, his body registered it as distant thunder, his eyelids fluttering faintly, a low groan bubbling from his throat.

Ink turned Karl’s head on the other side, the England flag bloomed in red a cross. It did not take Ink, long to finish that, then the word “ϟkinhead” was etched below, in Gothic script. The teardrop came next, a single, swollen dot under the eye, inked so deep it bruised instantly, purpling around the edges like a fresh punch.

Over the next two days, Ink started on Karl's Arms, on his right upper bicep, he inked an outline of a cross with a circle inside the cross. a full body sleeve consisting of chaos skulls grinning from biceps, Union Jacks frayed and bloodied on forearms, the ink gun's vibration sending jolts up to Karl's shoulders that made Karl's fingers twitch like dying nerves. On the backs of his hands, spider webs began to form, each line representing the time he had served inside. Finished off with swallows between the thumb and first finger. This represented Karl’s loyalty to the crew and the Boss.

Last were his knuckles, the needle biting into the thin skin over bone. Heavy, brutal "Hate" on one set of knuckles, "Fear" on the other, with black dots above each letter, representing A.C.A.B. (All Coppers Are Bastards.)

Ink turned to Karl’s chest and started the gang's colours. A bold tricolour red, white, and black runes on his chest, The Boss’ words echoing in his mind, “So every cunt knows he's Ours.”

After three days under the skilful hands of ink, Karl was ready, even though Karl was unconscious, each prick of the needle felt right in his dulled rewired mind. Raw, Hard, and Unbreakable. I was who he was now.

The heavy, steel door at the far end of the warehouse opened. The Boss entered. He moved with the deliberate, predatory grace of someone who commanded both fear and respect. He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the inert form of Karl, “When he wakes,” he whispered, almost to himself, “our newest skinhead will finally step into the light. And the rest”, he gestured to the darkness beyond the walls, “will be history.” 

He spoke to Ink, “Let's leave him, he now looks and thinks like a Skin, and will fit in with his future. A few more days of the hypnotic files, and then it will be ready to wake him up and see what we have created.”

Stich was called over to keep watch, checking the I.V drip and ensuring the V.R set and the ear pods were held secure. As he watched on, he groped his own hard-on. “Welcome fucker, to our crew.” His roll up bobbing up and down as he spoke, “I am looking forward to when The Boss gives me my orders to wake you up, and you become the latest member of the crew.”

Karl had now been in the chair for nearly two weeks, a relentless, unbroken stretch of time suspended between consciousness and delirium, where the boundaries of reality blurred and his mind had been broken and rebuilt. The chair had not just transformed him; it had weaponised him. No longer bound by the man he once was, He was about to take his place in the heart of the Skinhead Crew. Loyal to one man. His Boss.

The world was unaware, but the Boss did. He had plans.

Next Karl’s awaking…..

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Worth the wait for the third instalment. Can't wait to read about Karl's awakening.

[skinheadmal]

The Final Commute Part 2

The mental and physical changes.

Jan 2026

Click here for part 1

Note, this story now goes darker.  If mind control and changes in Tom’s Personality, is not your thing, DON’T READ IT – YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED 

The dim warehouse echoed with the low hum of machinery and the distant drip of water from a leaky roof. Tom Harris, or what remained of him, stared blankly ahead, his body rigid in the dentist chair, straps biting into his wrists and ankles.

The Skin Boss, known only as The Boss among his crew, stepped back, his scarred face twisting into a satisfied smirk. He snapped his fingers, and from the shadows lumbered a hulking figure: a skinhead in his mid-twenties, broad-shouldered and tattooed, with a faded scar across his temple.

"You," The Boss barked, pointing at him. "Doc. Get over here." The skinhead used to be Ethan, a promising medical student from Cambridge, who now goes by the name Stitch. His eyes were dull, devoid of the intellectual spark that had once driven him through medical classes and late-night cramming and converted a year prior.

He had crossed the Boss in London after he bumped into the Boss and members of the crew. He called them uneducated thugs and misfits acting all high and mighty; he thought he was better than the skinheads. He looked down on them and called Neanderthal scum.) The Boss acted on instinct and punched him so hard he fell to the ground. He was dragged back to the warehouse where he had been kept in solitary confinement, injected with drugs to make him more compliant, kept in chains, and fed weeks on end with visual and audible messages. The changes bled into him, like the cramming he had once done as a medical student, until he broke and accepted that he was a skinhead and a member of The Boss’ crew. nothing was left of the person he once was.

Months later, he'd traded scrubs for steel-toed boots, his knowledge twisted into tools for the gang's darker purposes.

The Boss loomed over Tom, gripping his chin roughly to force eye contact. "This one's a soldier boy, a posh cunt and thinks he is a tough nut. By the time he is finished, he will be a tough nut, but he will be my tough nut, dishing out justice for me.

I want him converted proper, loyalty to the gang and me, absolute, erase all emotions. Use the gear from the dark web shipment: the illicit chems that'll fry his brain clean. Wipe his past, his old loyalties to queen and country. Hook up the electrodes, shock the fight out of him. Break him totally, till he's a blank slate. Then rebuild: make him aggressive, brutal, a fuckin' beast. Deep hypnosis to seal it. He is now Karl, AKA The Crusher. Got it?"

He nodded obediently, wheeling over a rusted cart laden with vials, syringes, and coiled wires. "Yes, Boss," he grunted, his voice a gravelly monotone.

As Stitch hovered over him, his breath sour with tobacco, he muttered, "Wipe the slate clean." He prepared the first syringe; his hands were steady from muscle memory from his previous life. The drugs were black-market specials, synthetic hallucinogens laced with experimental nootropics and dissociative, sourced from hidden corners of the web where ethics didn't exist. They promised to unravel neural pathways, erasing memories like acid on paper. He plunged the needle into Tom's upper arm, the liquid fire surging through his bloodstream. Tom's body arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping his lips as colours exploded behind his eyelids.

The Doc looked at the Boss, his voice without emotion. At the same time, he attached a drip in Tom’s arm. "Phase one, started it will take a few days, Boss. His frontal cortex will be erased, first, recent memories.”

He went on to say. His recent memories will be targeted first, starting from today, going backwards, Boss, memories which would have linked him to his past” life-changing memories.  The first was the moment he stepped onto the train; a fracture appeared in his mind. It wasn’t an explosion, not yet, but a quiet splintering. From that instant, the past began to unravel, thread by thread, image by image, as though time itself had been rewound too tightly and now snapped under the strain.

The birth of his son (now fifteen), a moment of pure joy, the first time he held him, warm, fragile, perfect, the feel of the tiny hand gripping his finger. Blurred out to nothing, as if they never happened.

His wedding day, once so vivid, so bright with sunlight streaming through the stained glass of the church. He could almost hear her voice saying, “I do,” then her smile disappeared, until he could no longer remember her face. Snuffed out.

On the third day, Doc affixed electrodes to Tom's temples, chest, and fingertips, cold metal pads wired to a jury-rigged generator humming. "Electroconvulsive therapy, modified. Overload the synapses, purge the old wiring, the old personality"

The Boss watched with folded arms, talking directly to the Doc. "Hook 'em up, Doc, Fry the bastard clean."  Stitch flipped the switch. Electricity crackled, Tom's body convulsing in rhythmic spasms. Every muscle fibre fired at once, his thighs spasmed against the restraints, leather tearing into raw skin in thin red ribbons. Urine jetted hot down his leg in an uncontrollable stream, soaking the seat beneath him. Tom's jaw locked so hard his molars cracked with wet, splintering sounds; his head slammed back against the headrest, foam flecking his mouth. Each jolt hammered at his mind's foundations: each zap went deeper than the chemicals used over the past three days. Past life, Family, loyalty to the British Army crumbled, oaths of service evaporated; faces of comrades twisted into unrecognisable horrors before vanishing.

For days, Tom's screams echoed off the walls, raw and primal, until they dwindled to whimpers. The electrodes smoked faintly, the air thick with ozone. When Stitch finally cut the power, Tom's eyes were vacant pools, his mind a scorched earth, blank and ready for sowing."

"Blank," Stitch reported, after checking an EGC, brainwaves at a minimal level, his fingers, once destined for surgery, now probing Tom's limp form with clinical detachment, his voice devoid of emotion.                 

He adjusted a headset over Tom's ears, connected to an ancient laptop running hypnosis scripts pirated from underground forums. Deep, droning voices layered with subliminal began: "Erased. You are nothing. Forget your past is gone. No army, No honour, No name. You serve the skins now. You Obey the Boss."

The Boss leaned in, his breath hot on Tom's ear. "Listen closely, soldier. We're rebuilding you. You were born in the streets of Whitechapel in the East End of  London, abandoned scum. Your mum was a drunk, and your old man was inside before you ever remembered him.

You joined the skins young, fought your way up with fists and boots. You're aggressive, yeah? Brutal. Love the crunch of bones, the taste of blood. No mercy, no regrets. Your name's Karl now. Karl, The Crusher. You crave the fight, the snap of jaws, the wet crunch of knuckles on bone, blood hot on your tongue." The Hypnotic scripts wove in, images assaulting his blank mind, boots stomping faces into pulp, the metallic tang of split lips, the euphoric rush of rage uncoiling in his gut like a beast awakening. Aggression bloomed visceral and primal, muscles twitching with phantom impacts, a growl building in his throat as brutality etched itself into his core. False memories grafted on: childhood brawls leaving him scarred and savage, gang initiations where he crushed rivals' with glee, loyalty to The Boss searing like a brand on his soul. Karl's breath came in snarls, fists clenching until nails drew crescents of blood in his palms, “Crush,” “Obey,” “Loyalty.”

The Doc noticed that Karl’s cammos started to tent at first, A bulge, then the outline of his rock-hard cock could be seen through the fabric. He gave the cock a squeeze. “There you go, brother, it happens to us all. Your new personality is turning you on sexually, exciting you, as we planned. Linking both your new personality and his new memories. The Boss will be pleased.”

The Boss saw and heard what the Doc was doing. He squeezed Karl’s cock, which became harder at his touch. He then spoke directly to Karl, his voice was a low, gravelly murmur that cut through the dimly lit room, steady, unrelenting, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t just words; it was a command, a creed, a constant mantra that echoed in Karl’s mind. "You crush for the gang," he would say, each syllable weighted with absolute authority, "For Me." "Loyalty Absolute," he’d continue, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the room. "No second thoughts. No hesitation. You walk, breathe, and bleed for the brotherhood, for me, as its heart and its law."

You do it because your bones belong to our family now. Your blood, your breath, your fists are ours."

Stitch monitored, injecting boosters to deepen the trance. Images flashed on a makeshift screen: brawls in pubs, boots stomping rivals, EDL and black Celtic Cross banners waving in rallies and riots. At West Ham footie matches, singing “I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles.” With The Boss and his skinhead mates.

The hypnosis wove them into false memories, grafting a new history onto the void. Tom's body relaxed, then tensed with newfound rage.

Stitch jabbed another syringe home, this one slower, thicker, steroids and amphetamines, the dark-web rage-drivers that made Tom's heart thunder so hard he felt it in his throat, in his fingertips, in the roots of his teeth. His skin flushed crimson, then mottled purple as capillaries burst under the pressure. Sweat poured out, stinging the open abrasions on his wrists. His breaths came in snarls now, chest expanding by the minute.

Muscles twitched visibly growing, as aggression bloomed, programmed instincts for violence, brutality hardcoded. His knuckles clenched into fists. He muttered fragments: "Crush is My Purpose”…Skins..." is My Blood... "Loyalty…" is the Law... "The Boss..." Absolute Authority.”

Part 3 coming soon

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Dark and sinister second part. Can't wait for part 3.

[skinheadmal]

The Final Commute

Part 1

Major Tom Harris adjusted his crisp uniform collar as the train rattled out of Manchester Piccadilly, dawn starting to break. At 40, he was a model of British Army discipline, short-cropped hair, polished boots, and a life regimented by orders and duty. His weekly commute to the barracks in London was a ritual: black coffee, a newspaper folded neatly on his seat beside him, his laptop open, looking at reports.  

Today, though, the carriage felt emptier than usual, the fluorescent lights flickering like a bad omen.

The train pulled into Stafford two hours later, screeching to a halt amid the usual bustle. That's when they boarded, a pack of skinheads, five or six of them, shaved heads gleaming under the lights, clad in battered Doc Martens, braces, and faded bomber jackets adorned with crude tattoos and patches screaming hate. They were loud, feral, shoving past passengers with jeers and laughter that echoed like breaking glass. One kicked an empty seat, another swigged from a can of lager, spilling it deliberately on an elderly woman's coat.

The air thickened with their stench of sweat, cheap beer, and aggression.

Tom sighed, looking up from his laptop. He wasn't one to shy from confrontation; years in the service had honed his sense of order. "Lads," he called out firmly, standing to his full height, his voice carrying the clipped authority of command. "Mind keeping it down? There are people here trying to travel in peace."

The group turned as one, eyes narrowing. The leader, taller and older than the rest, with a jagged scar across his cheek and lightning bolts inked on his neck, stepped forward, smirking. "Oi, soldier boy. Fancy yourself a hero, do ya? This ain't your parade ground."

Tom held his ground, his posture unyielding. "Just asking for some civility. No need for trouble."

The skinhead boss laughed, a guttural sound that sent chills through the carriage. The others closed in, forming a semicircle. Tom felt a brief surge of adrenaline, ready to defend if needed. But then, sharp, unexpected, a tiny prick at the back of his neck, like a bee sting. He swatted instinctively, but his hand met nothing. The boss leaned in close, his breath hot and foul. "Go back to your seat, mate. You no longer have a will of your own. You want to become like us. Your past life will be rewritten. You'll become a member of my skinhead gang. And you'll follow us when we get off the train."

The words slithered into Tom's ears like venom, coiling around his thoughts. He blinked, a wave of dizziness crashing over him. His muscles slackened, then tensed in confusion. Without a word, he turned, legs moving mechanically back to his seat. He sat down ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap, eyes staring blankly at the seatback in front.

His mind, once sharp and tactical, began to fog; memories of parades, promotions, and family Christmases faded like smoke.

Blank. Empty. Obedient.

The skinheads resumed their chaos, but Tom heard none of it. He was adrift in a void, the injection's cocktail, some illicit brew of hypnotics and hallucinogens rewiring his synapses, erasing the man he was.

Hours seemed to blur. The train announcer droned: "Next stop, Milton Keynes Central." The skinheads rose, leaving their discarded cans, filing toward the doors. Tom stood without thought, leaving his briefcase, his wallet, his phone, his laptop, everything that tethered him to his old life, abandoned on the seat. He followed them like a shadow, stepping off into the platform air, his uniform now a mockery of what it represented.

Outside the station, amid the anonymous rush of commuters, the boss turned to him with a predatory grin. "In the back of the van, soldier boi. Time to join the family."

A battered white transit van idled at the curb, engine growling. Tom climbed in wordlessly, the door slamming shut behind him. Two skinheads piled in after, burly enforcers with brass knuckles.

Their bulk pressed against him in the dim interior. The van lurched forward, weaving through traffic, heading south toward London's fringes. Tom stared at the floor, mind a blank slate, no resistance left.

An hour later, the van turned off the A406 onto cracked concrete and stopped outside a derelict warehouse with graffiti-covered walls.  On the edge of Beckton, the skinheads yanked Tom out, their grips bruising his arms as they dragged him inside.

The air reeked of years of decay and stale smoke. They strapped him into a makeshift dentist chair in the centre of the room, leather restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. Fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows.

The boss approached, circling like a shark. Tom's eyes, still dazed and vacant, followed him dimly. "By the time you leave that chair," the boss hissed, leaning in close, his breath a mixture of fresh lager and smoke. Tom registered his yellowed teeth, "You'll be a proud skinhead like the rest of us. Your past erased, no more parades, no more salutes. Your loyalty will be to your fellow skins, and you'll be obedient to me only. We'll shave that pretty head, ink you up, break you down and then rebuild you, until you're one of us. And you'll love every second of it."

The others laughed, tools clinking, razors, needles, bottles of ink at the ready. Tom's last coherent thought flickered and died: a distant echo of who he was, swallowed by the dark.

To be continued

Follow My WordPress blog here

[rbbrbikerthorp]

The opening of what I an tell will be a great skinhead story

[bombers-bandanas]

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Sexy skinheads

[alpha-bondage-sir]

Onyx: The Shoeshine Boy, Part III

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Part three - it gets better

[alpha-bondage-sir]

Onyx: The Shoeshine Boy, Part II

[rbbrbikerthorp]

The second instalment

[alpha-bondage-sir]

[rbbrbikerthorp]

An excellent second part...

[alpha-bondage-sir]

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Excellent work

[gearhouse]

DRONE FACTORY - AI Film 🔉

In the wake of another disappearance near Dark Hollow Trail, one brave man sets out to investigate the area. His search sends him deep beneath the woods to a strange facility. What he finds there profoundly changes him.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

This is an amazing piece of work. Can anyone supply directions?

[skinheadmal]

Invasion Earth 2025 - The Rise of the Robomen

It all started In a quiet town of Blackwood in the West Midlands, England, Sgt Michael Reynolds was going to be on his last night shift for another five days, already thinking about what he had planned for the next week, with his wife and his son coming home for a visit from university, they had already planned on going to the football match, a local derby, against Wolves. Both father and son avid West Brom Supporters.

He was on patrol in the desolate streets of the warehouse district, his patrol car’s headlights slicing through the mist. It was 2:17 AM, the kind of hour when most people were in bed. The district was a maze of looming steel structures, their corrugated walls silent under the sodium glow of streetlights. Reynolds, a 25-year veteran, knew every corner of this beat. Nothing ever happened here. Not until tonight.

A flicker caught his eye, a faint, pulsing light leaking from the cracked window of Warehouse 17. Shadows moved inside. His radio crackled faintly on the passenger seat, but he didn’t reach for it. He should’ve called it in. Procedure demanded it. But something about the light, its strange, reddish hue, pulled at him. Curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper, something he couldn’t name.

He parked his parole car behind a stack of crates, killed the engine, and stepped out, his boots crunching on gravel. The air was heavy, like a storm was brewing. Drawing his torch, he approached the warehouse’s side door, its rusted hinges creaking as he slipped inside.

The interior was an expanse of shadows, crates stacked high, their edges swallowed by darkness. The light pulsed from deeper within, accompanied by a low hum that vibrated in his chest. Reynolds moved cautiously, his hand resting on his baton. The hum grew louder, rhythmic, almost alive. He rounded a corner and froze.

A room opened before him, its walls lined with towering glass cylinders, each filled with a viscous, glowing liquid. The light came from them, a sickly red that pulsed like a heartbeat. He saw shadows moving, he walked further into the  Shadows, he then saw them, large glass cylinders, against the far wall of the room, large enough to have an adult male inside of them. By the sides were banks of computers with monitors, showing wave patterns. Reynolds was about to leave to report his finding when something struck him from behind, a sharp, blinding pain at the base of his skull. The world tilted, and he collapsed, his torch clattering across the concrete. Hands cold, impossibly strong, dragged him across the floor. Then darkness swallowed him.

When Reynolds woke, he was upright, encased in one of the glass cylinders. The liquid around him was warm, thick, pressing against his skin like a living thing. His uniform was gone, he was stark naked, replaced by the fluid that clung to him, seeping into his pores. Beyond the glass, indistinct figures moved tall, angular, their forms shimmering in the light being emitted fron the computer screens. Their eyes glowed faintly, unblinking, watching him.

He pounded on the glass, his fists sluggish, his mind fogging. The hum was inside him now, vibrating in his bones, rewriting his thoughts. He screamed silently, but the liquid filled his lungs, his throat, his mind. Days blurred into nothingness. Time ceased to exist.

---

A search for Sgt. Reynolds began the next morning. His patrol car was found abandoned, miles from where he had parked it, the keys still in the ignition. No sign of a struggle, no sign of the officer.  An intensive search, using all available officers, including the dog unit, the force even brought in a police drone unit,   to comb the wider area in case Reynolds was lying unconscious somewhere.        The known criminals were brought in for questioning.  Even the warehouse district was combed by teams of officers and the dog unit. Each Warehouse was checked, including warehouse 17, it was empty; the officers reported back saying it was just full of crates and dust. The search took place for weeks, but no clues came to light; it was just as if Reynold’s had just disappeared off the face of the planet.

Back inside Warehouse 17, the cylinders hummed. One slid open, releasing a cloud of vapor. Sgt. Reynolds stepped out, but he was no longer himself. His body was encased in a skintight black bodysuit, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. The high collar framed his neck, the belted waist cinched tight, accentuating his rigid posture. Tall boots, black with red trim, clicked against the concrete, each step precise, mechanical. A helmet hugged his skull, bold red stripes cutting vertically across its surface, his face obscured behind a tinted visor. At his side was a lazar-type weapon.

His eyes, once warm and human, were cold, unblinking, glowing faintly with the same red light as the cylinders. His mind was a void, no memories of his past, his family, or being a police officer. Leaving no doubts, no humanity. He was a vessel, reprogrammed, loyal only to his alien masters who watched from the shadows.

He heard a voice in his helmet, Report designation. His reply was short, still with a human edge to it, “This is Roboman leader, unit 000.”

Reynolds moved through the warehouse, his reflection catching the dim light, giving him an authoritarian, almost inhuman presence. Outside, the world slept, unaware of the silent invasion brewing in the warehouse district. Sgt. Reynolds, Roboman Leader 000 what was left of him, stood ready, his polished boots gleaming, his mind stripped clean, awaiting further orders from his new masters.

The Conversion Directive

Roboman Leader 000, Michael Reynolds, stood motionless in the shadowed heart of Warehouse 17. The red glow of the glass cylinders cast eerie reflections across his polished black bodysuit, the red-trimmed boots and helmet stripes glinting like warnings. His mind, now a sterile expanse of obedience, received a pulse of instructions through the neural interface in his helmet. The alien masters’ will was clear: expand the ranks. Convert the loyal. Build the army.

The directive was precise. Reynolds’ former colleagues at the police station, officers conditioned to follow orders, to trust their sergeant, were the ideal candidates. Their discipline would make them pliable, their loyalty a weakness to exploit. Reynolds’ visor flickered, projecting a list of names: Officers Callahan, Martins, and Lee. They had patrolled with him for years, shared coffee during late shifts, and trusted his commands without question. Now, that trust would be their undoing.

Reynolds or Roboman 001 started to plan the assimilation of the night shift at the police station.  At the police station, the late shift was dragging. Officer Callahan, a burly man with a quick laugh, was nursing a coffee at his desk. Martins, sharp-eyed and restless, was filing reports. Lee, the rookie, was checking his gear, eager to prove himself. The radio crackled, and Reynolds’ voice came through calm, authoritative, unmistakable.“

“Callahan, Martins, Lee. Meet me at Warehouse 17”. Strange happenings within the warehouse. Need backup, now.”

Callahan frowned. “Reynolds? Where the hell have you been, Sarge? They’ve had search teams out for days.”

“On duty,” came the clipped reply. “No time to explain. Move out.” Martins raised an eyebrow but grabbed his jacket. “Sounds like him. Let’s go.”

Lee hesitated, sensing something off in the voice’s flat tone, but Callahan’s nod silenced his doubts. They piled into a patrol car and sped toward the warehouse district, the mist of the night swallowing their taillights.

Warehouse 17 loomed ahead, its cracked windows dark, no sign of the pulsing light Reynolds had seen nights before. The officers parked and approached, flashlights cutting through the mist. The side door hung ajar, just as it had for Reynolds. Callahan called out, “Sarge? You in there?”

Officer Martins gripped his baton, unease creeping up his spine. Lee’s hand hovered near his radio, but he didn’t call it in. They trusted Reynolds. He’d always had their backs.

Inside, the air was thick, the metallic tang sharper than before. Their torches swept the crates, finding nothing but shadows. Then, a hum low, resonant, vibrating in their chests. The officers froze as a red glow flickered to life deeper within the warehouse.

“Stay sharp,” Martins whispered, his voice tight.

Before they could move, A figure emerged from the darkness, a sleek, reflective form in a black bodysuit, his helmet striped with red. Reynolds stepped forward, his visor glinting, his presence cold and commanding. Callahan stood, confused. “Sarge? What the hell’s going on?”

“Submit,” Reynolds intoned, his voice stripped of humanity, a mechanical edge cutting through the word. “You will be converted into Robomen.”

Lee backed away, his hand fumbling for the radio. “This isn’t right.”

He didn’t finish. A red beam of light engulfed him. Callahan, mesmerized by what just happened to Lee, was slow to react. He pointed his torch towards the figure, the light catching Reyolds in the chest, but the polished suit absorbed the beam of light. Martins was the last to fall under the red beam of light; he felt himself being guided as if in a trance off a crate, towards a glowing room.

The cylinders awaited, their liquid pulsing with malevolent life. Reynolds supervised, his helmet relaying commands from the alien masters. Callahan fought hardest, his shouts echoing as he was forced into a cylinder. Martins cursed, is defiance fading as the liquid enveloped him. Lee, trembling, was the last, his eyes locking with Reynolds’ glowing visor, searching for the man he has looked up to but found nothing.

The air in Warehouse 17 thrummed with the alien pulse of the glass cylinders, their red glow casting long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. Sgt. Michael Reynolds, now the Roboman Leader, stood motionless at the center of the processing chamber. His polished black bodysuit reflected the eerie light, the red stripes on his helmet stark against the darkness. His visor glowed faintly, receiving a steady stream of directives from the alien masters, their will a constant hum in his hollowed mind. He was no longer a man, but a conduit—loyal, unyielding, the first of their vanguard.

Before him, three cylinders hissed, their seals releasing clouds of vapor that curled like specters in the dim light. The newly converted Robomen once Officers Callahan, Martins, and Lee emerged. Reynolds’ visor flickered, registering their completion. The masters were pleased. The process had been flawless, their humanity erased, their loyalty absolute.

The cylinders slid open with a low, mechanical groan. One by one, the figures stepped out, their movements precise, synchronized. Their skintight black bodysuits gleamed, high collars framing their necks, belted waists accentuating their rigid postures. Tall boots with red trim clicked against the floor, each step echoing in perfect unison. Their helmets, adorned with bold vertical red stripes, obscured their faces, but their glowing eyes burned with the same cold light as Reynolds’. They were no longer individuals, but extensions of the masters’ will, forged into instruments of control.

The three Robomen stood rigid, shoulder to shoulder, their postures unnaturally still. In unison, their voices were still semi-human, but also flat, mechanical, stripped of emotion, spoke, reverberating through the chamber.

Unit C-1, designation complete,” said the one who had been Callahan.

Unit M-2, designation complete,” said the one who had been Martins.

Unit L-3, designation complete,” said the one who had been Lee.

They paused, their glowing eyes fixed on Robo Leader. Then, as one, they spoke again, their voices a chilling harmony: “What are your orders, Leader? How may we serve?”

The Roboman Leader’s visor pulsed, relaying the masters’ next directive. His head tilted slightly, the motion devoid of humanity. “Units C-1, M-2, L-3,” he intoned, his voice a low, resonant drone. “Your purpose is to expand the collective. The police station contains viable subjects—loyal, disciplined, susceptible to command. You will lure them here, as I did you. They will be processed. They will join the army.”

The three Robomen remained still, their glowing eyes unblinking. “Understood, Leader,” they said in unison. “We will obey.”

Robo Leader stepped forward, his boots clicking with authority. “Unit C-1, target Officer Daniels. Unit M-2, target Officer Johnston. Unit L-3, target Officer Webster. Each subject trusts their former colleagues. Exploit this. Bring them to Warehouse 17 by 0400 hours. Resistance is irrelevant. The masters’ will is absolute.”

The Robomen nodded, a single, synchronized motion. “It will be done,” they said, their voices echoing as one.

Reynolds turned, his visor scanning the cylinders along the walls. Dozens stood ready, their glowing liquid waiting to consume more minds, more bodies. The masters’ plan was unfolding, and the warehouse was only the beginning. The town’s protectors would become its conquerors, one by one, until the streets belonged to the alien will.“

Proceed,” Reynolds commanded, his voice cutting through the hum of the chamber.

The three Robomen turned, their movements fluid yet mechanical, and marched toward the warehouse exit. Their polished suits gleamed as they passed through the shadows, their red-striped helmets a stark warning of the fate awaiting their former colleagues.

Robo Leader remained, his visor flickering with new instructions. The masters whispered of a larger plan, a network of warehouses, each a processing hub, each spawning more Robomen. The police station was just the first step. Soon, the rest of the town. All males must be made into Robobmen, to serve the masters’ will.

They soon overpowered the remaining police officers; they fell in line behind units C-1, M-1, and L-1.  They were taken to be processed like they had been.

Reynolds stood watch, his mind a void of loyalty, his body a perfect tool. The army was growing, and he, the Roboman Leader, would ensure its rise.

---

Six Robomen advanced towards the town, their objective unmistakable; they were tasked with capturing the men of the town. Utilizing their laser guns, set to stun, once a male was ensnared by the red beam, it became too late for the humans to resist as the transformation process commenced. After the stun effect dissipated, the men would become rigid and obediently accompany the Robomen back to the warehouse for the conversion to be finalized.

Back at the warehouse, the number of Robomen increased as batches of men were brought in for conversion, with the Robo Leader supervising the conversion. These were men whom he once swore to protect, before his own conversion.

One batch included an individual that the Robo Leader recognized, albeit briefly; it was merely a fleeting acknowledgment. Ethen, his son.

Ethen broke free of the trance he was in. He shouted towards the Robo Leader, "This is not you, Dad. Remember who you are,” he pleaded. The Robo Leader turned to face the individual. “You will become a Roboman, who will serve OUR MASTERS”, his pleas went unheard. Another Roboman grabbed his arms and forced him into a conversion cylinder with the latest batch of males

Within hours, a new batch of Robomen emerged, which included his son.

Robo Leader approached the newly formed Roboman and inquired about its designation. The Roboman replied, E-01.  "How may this unit serve you, Robo Leader?" There was no hesitation, no hint of the father-son bond, no memory of the fear of being Robotised or the love that had defined his human life. All prior connections, every memory, every emotional bond had been meticulously scrubbed clean, replaced with programmed obedience, a Roboman, with a singular purpose. To serve the Masters.

The Resistance had already started to form, back in the warehouse The Robo Leader was formulating plans for their capture. They would soon be crushed.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

An excellent adaptation of The Robomen from Doctor Who and the Daleks Invasion Earth AD2250. It must be time to remake this film -surely?

[skinheadmal]

My attempt of creating Robomen

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Hot as F***.

I think the Robomen from Doctor Who and the Daleks: Invasion Earth 2150 was the initial trigger for my love of rubber and everything drones. The scene where Peter Cushing, Bernard Cribbins and the other male are being converted to Robomen was mind-blowing - especially when Cushing and Cribbins escaped but the final male was ultimately transformed into a Roboman. Only to reappear later in the movie.

Great images.