Not today Justin

oozey mess
One Nice Bug Per Day

Product Placement

shark vs the universe
Claire Keane
hello vonnie
almost home

pixel skylines
todays bird
Sade Olutola

PR's Tumblrdome
d e v o n

Love Begins
$LAYYYTER
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

Kiana Khansmith
i don't do bad sauce passes
No title available
Xuebing Du
seen from United States

seen from Greece
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
seen from Iceland

seen from China
seen from Switzerland
seen from Iceland

seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands
seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Portugal

seen from United States
@suitedsubmissive
Take it all off daddy
Why are you late for work?
The Rise and Fall of Vincent Hargrove
Vincent Hargrove was the prototype of a careerist in the renowned law firm "Blackstone & Associates." With his sharp intellect, ruthless ambition, and a dash of unscrupulousness, he had worked his way up in just five years from a simple associate to the top candidate for the next partnership. He walked over corpses – figuratively speaking, of course. Colleagues who stood in his way were cleared out with fabricated errors in reports or subtle acts of sabotage. "The end justifies the means" was his motto, which he liked to quote in meetings while stealing others' ideas and presenting himself as a genius. His colleagues secretly hated him, but no one dared to say anything. Vincent was simply too good at impressing the bosses.
Vincent had to go. On that, three of his colleagues—Tom, Mike, and Chris—were in complete agreement. Maybe he wouldn't even be bad for the firm as a partner. But it would be unbearable if that smug asshole became their boss too. They hatched a plan…
Vincent suspected nothing when the three colleagues invited him to lunch at an old diner called "Joe's Grill." It was a classic joint with red leather booths, a high density of consultants and lawyers, and the best burgers in town. "Vincent, old buddy," said Tom with a fake smile as they sat down. "We all know you're next. The next partner! You've earned it. Let's toast—to you!" Mike nodded eagerly and poured Vincent a glass of cola. "Exactly, you're the best. We'd be lost without you. Tell us how you cracked that last case—it was brilliant!" Chris slathered on even more flattery: "You're our role model, Vincent. We want to get on your good side before you become the boss."
Vincent, taking the flattery at face value, swallowed the last bite of his burger, leaned back, and grinned smugly. "Well, guys, it's tough, but someone has to do the dirty work. And I'm the only one who can do it right." While he basked in the praise, he turned his gaze away to call a waitress and order another cola. That was the moment the three had been waiting for. Tom discreetly pulled a small bottle from his pocket—a homemade "sauce" they had found in a dubious online forum. It was a brew of chemicals that supposedly caused "changes." They quickly drizzled it onto Vincent's burger while Mike chatted distractingly.
Vincent took another hearty bite, oblivious. At first, everything was normal. But after a few bites, he felt a pressure in his chest. Suddenly, a loud, booming belch escaped him, echoing through the entire diner—so loud that the woman at the next table dropped her fork and looked up in horror. "Sorry, guys," he muttered, embarrassed, "must be the food." The colleagues exchanged glances, suppressing grins. Tom whispered barely audibly: "It's starting." Vincent shook his head as if to shake off the dizziness and took a sip of cola that the waitress had just placed in front of him. But the pressure moved lower. His stomach rumbled audibly, and then came the fart—a long, trumpeting sound that startled the surrounding guests and spread a foul odor reminiscent of spoiled food. Vincent's face turned red as a tomato; he laughed it off nervously: "Haha, too much stress, right? It happens." But uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The colleagues giggled quietly, holding their napkins over their mouths to avoid bursting out.
But that was just the beginning. His mind began to fog, as if mist was creeping into his head. He stared at his plate and stammered: "Uh, what was I just saying? The case… uh… with the thingamajig? Wait, the client was named… Bob? Or was it Bill?" His thoughts frayed; complex legal arguments he had at his fingertips just minutes ago dissolved like sugar in hot coffee. Suddenly, his hair grew—not just a little, but explosively. His groomed business haircut turned into a wild mullet, long in the back, short on top, like a redneck from the 80s. Strands fell into his face, greasy and untamed, and he ran his hand through it, feeling the change. "Hey, guys, does my head feel weird? Like it's getting longer or something?" His voice had changed: deep, drawling accent, as if he came straight from the deep South, with a hint of gravel in his throat. "Y'all, this food's spicy, ain't it? Makes me all… uh… thirsty. Get me a beer instead of this fancy stuff here."
His muscles began to bulge, a pulsating growth that he could feel physically. Under his tailored shirt, his biceps and shoulders tensed, straining the seams to the breaking point. His chest puffed up, two buttons popped off and rolled across the table. "Damn, what's happening here? My shirt… it's bursting!" He stared at his arms, which now looked like those of a bodybuilder, veins protruding, muscles twitching uncontrollably. At the same time, sweat broke out—not just a light film, but torrents that soaked his shirt and created dark stains. The smell was overwhelming: a biting, animalistic sweat stench, mixed with the scent of earth and hard labor, enveloping the entire booth. "Phew, it's hot in here, or what? Smells like a construction site. Hey, y'all, do I stink? Haha, gotta go shower."
The colleagues were horrified at first—"Oh God, what have we done?" whispered Chris, his face pale with shock as Vincent's transformation unfolded before their eyes. Mike stared with his mouth open, unable to say anything, while Tom slapped his hands over his face. But when they saw Vincent's arrogant grin turn into a dumb, gap-toothed smile—a broad, simple-minded grin that showed nothing of his former cleverness—the shock gave way to pure schadenfreude. They burst into laughter, holding their noses while laughing, tears in their eyes. "It's working! Look at him—the great Vincent, now a hillbilly musclehead!" Tom snorted, waving his hand in front of his nose. Mike laughed so hard he had to hold onto the table edge: "The smell! Oh man, that's epic!" Chris gasped for air: "And the mullet—perfect! He looks like he's stepped out of an old movie."
Vincent, now a walking muscle mountain with a mullet and redneck dialect, grinned dumbly back, without understanding what was going on. He belched again, this time with a satisfied sigh, and scratched his head. "Hey, y'all, did I do something wrong? It was cool hangin' with you suit-wearers. But now I gotta get back to work, right? Got a lot to do… uh… haulin' cement bags or somethin'. My head feels empty, but strong, y'know?" He stood up, wobbling slightly, his new muscles uncoordinated, and left the diner without paying. The colleagues laughed themselves silly, leaning back and enjoying the sight—just like in that old photo that later circulated in the office: Three lawyers in a booth, laughing, while their rival disappeared.
Vincent didn't drive back to the office. Instead, as if guided by some primal instinct buried deep in his newly rewired brain, he steered his sleek luxury sedan toward the outskirts of town, where the skyline gave way to dusty lots and skeletal frameworks of half-built structures. The car's GPS beeped futilely, suggesting a U-turn back to the gleaming high-rise of Blackstone & Associates, but Vincent—now thinking of himself as "Vinnie"—ignored it completely. His massive hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white, as beads of sweat continued to drip from his forehead, soaking into his already ruined shirt. The air inside the car grew thick with his pungent odor, a mix of unwashed labor and raw masculinity that made him chuckle dumbly to himself. "Dang, I smell like a real man now," he muttered, his drawl thickening with every mile.
Pulling up to the bustling construction site, Vinnie slammed on the brakes, kicking up a cloud of gravel and dust that billowed around the vehicle like a welcoming fog. Workers in hard hats and fluorescent vests paused mid-task, eyeing the incongruous sight of a high-end car amid the tractors and cement mixers. Vinnie stepped out, his polished loafers sinking into the mud, and immediately felt a surge of belonging. Without a second thought, he began stripping off his tailored suit—first the tie, flung into the dirt like a useless snake; then the shirt, torn open to reveal his rippling, sweat-glistened torso; and finally the pants, kicked aside in a heap. Standing there in nothing but his boxers, his mullet fluttering in the breeze, he scanned the site with a vacant grin, spotting a pile of spare helmets near a toolbox.
Grabbing one and plopping it on his head—it fit perfectly over his wild hair—Vinnie lumbered toward the foreman, a grizzled man barking orders into a walkie-talkie. "Hey, boss!" Vinnie bellowed, his voice booming across the site like a jackhammer. Heads turned; a few workers smirked at the newcomer who looked like he'd just escaped from a bad 80s action flick. Vinnie scratched his crotch absentmindedly, shifting his weight from one massive leg to the other, waiting nervously but eagerly for the response. The foreman sized him up, noting the bulging muscles and the dumb, earnest expression. "You look like you can handle things and don't ask smart questions," the foreman said, crossing his arms with a nod of approval.
"You can bet on that," Vinnie grunted back, flexing his biceps involuntarily as a wave of simple pride washed over him. His old life—the boardrooms, the power lunches, the cunning maneuvers—had evaporated like morning dew under the hot sun. All that mattered now was the weight of a cement bag on his shoulder, the satisfying thud of bricks stacking up, and the camaraderie of grunts and backslaps from his new crew. From that day forward, Vinnie hauled sacks of cement up rickety scaffolds, mixed mortar with a rhythmic churn that matched his steady heartbeat, and pulled up walls brick by brick, his sweat-soaked body glistening under the relentless sun. He laughed at crude jokes during smoke breaks, chugged cheap beer after shifts, and never once wondered about the fancy car he'd left parked haphazardly by the fence—it was towed away eventually, a forgotten relic.
Back at the firm, the partners announced the new promotion with champagne toasts, oblivious to the whispers and knowing smirks among Tom, Mike, and Chris. Vincent Hargrove was gone, erased from their world, and in his place thrived Vinnie the laborer, content in his brute simplicity. The end justified the means, after all—or so the three colleagues told themselves, raising their glasses one last time.
A new skinhead in the making.
It's a dream. Would love to be placed in stocks and shaved smooth by my dominant top.
From the first tier to the docks
Once upon a time in the glittering heart of the city, two young men named Elias and Theo emerged from the grand opera house, their faces flushed with the ecstasy of Puccini's arias. They were the epitome of refined upbringing—twinks from affluent families, with manicured nails, fluffy coiffed hair, and impeccable tuxedos that screamed old money. Elias, with his sharp cheekbones and delicate features, linked arms with Theo, whose eyes sparkled like polished sapphires under the streetlights. They chatted animatedly about the soprano's performance as they strolled home, but in their post-cultural haze, they took a wrong turn down a dimly lit alley, wandering deeper into the industrial underbelly of the docks.
As the elegant boulevards gave way to gritty warehouses and the distant hum of cranes, Elias shifted uncomfortably. "Oh dear, Theo," he said in his most cultured tone, "I find myself in quite the predicament. My bladder is protesting most vehemently—I simply cannot endure it a moment longer. Look, there's an establishment over there. I shall inquire within."
The "establishment" was anything but. It was a dingy dive bar called The Rusty Anchor, where the air was thick with cigarette smoke, the clamor of rough laughter, and the clink of beer mugs. Inside, burly dockworkers and truck drivers hunched over the bar, nursing pints and hurling darts at a battered board. Elias and Theo, in their pristine tuxedos, stuck out like diamonds in a coal mine—total aliens in this world of callused hands and grease-stained overalls.
Elias approached the grizzled bartender, his posture straight as a symphony conductor's baton. But in his urgency, something slipped. "Excuse me, sir," he began politely, then blurted, "I need to piss—where can I do that?" His eyes widened in horror, and he clapped a manicured hand over his mouth. "Oh heavens, forgive my vulgarity! I meant to say, where might one find the lavatory?" Blushing furiously, he darted toward the back as the bartender grunted and pointed.
Theo, left alone at the bar, fidgeted with his cufflinks, feeling eyes on him. The patrons' stares turned hostile. A massive hulk of a man in a garbage collector's jumpsuit lumbered over, his beard flecked with foam from his beer. "Hey, pretty boy," he sneered, towering over Theo. "You a man or a girl? Can't tell with that fluffy hair and fancy suit. This here's a spot for real men." His cronies erupted in booming laughter, slapping their knees.
Theo's cheeks burned, but something inside him snapped—a spark of defiance he'd never known. Though he'd never thrown a punch in his life, he cocked his fist and delivered a perfectly executed left hook, catching the giant square on the jaw. The man staggered back, and chaos erupted. Fists flew, chairs toppled, and the bar devolved into a full-blown brawl. Theo dodged a swing from a dockworker, landing a surprisingly agile uppercut on another.
In the midst of the melee, a strong hand gripped Theo's shoulder from behind. He whirled, fist raised—only to freeze. It was Elias, but… not Elias. The tuxedo was torn and bloodied, his fluffy hair matted with sweat, and his once-delicate face now bore a rugged scowl. Only his eyes hinted at the twink he used to be. "Let's go, mate," Elias growled in a voice rough as gravel.
Theo grinned fiercely. "Right on." Together, they dove back in, trading blows with the patrons like seasoned fighters. Punches landed, bottles shattered, and the air filled with grunts and cheers.
An hour later, the dust settled. The bar was a wreck, but the mood had shifted to begrudging respect. Elias and Theo, bruised and exhilarated, downed a few rounds of beer with their new "friends." To cover the damages and settle the tabs, they pawned off their expensive watches—gold Rolexes that could have bought the whole dive twice over. As they stumbled out into the night, Elias slapped Theo on the back. "Oi, fancy hittin' another joint like this?"
Theo chuckled, wiping blood from his lip. "Is the sky blue, ya git?" They roared with laughter, arm in arm, vanishing into the fog-shrouded streets for more mischief.
The next morning, sunlight filtered through the grimy window of a cramped social housing apartment. Elias groaned awake, tangled in sheets beside Theo. Their bodies ached from the night before—or was it? They dressed in worn work pants and heavy boots, grabbing hard hats for their shift at the docks. As dock workers now, they hauled crates under the cranes, the sea air whipping around them.
During a smoke break, sitting on overturned crates amid the shipping containers, Elias lit a cigarette and stared at the horizon. "Hey, Theo," he muttered, exhaling a plume. "You ever been to the opera?"
Theo snorted, flicking ash from his glove. "Opera? Nah, mate. What kinda daft question is that?"
Elias shrugged, a faint flicker of confusion in his eyes. "Dunno. Just… popped in me head." They sat in silence, the memory fading like a dream, as the cranes groaned back to life.
He used to be an important man. Now he's just my servant. And he doesn't regret the change.
Before and After: Humbled
Before his humbling, the suitedsubmissive occupied a gilded perch. The young, high flying executive appeared to have the world in his hands. From his corner office in a sleek tower, he looked down upon a city filled with working grunts, scurrying to their menial jobs in order to earn their meager pay. The suitedsubmissive, by virtue of his wealth, birth, and good fortune, was insulated from the cares of every day life. Making the rent, being able to afford groceries, praying that you would get that third part time job; such concepts were completely alien to him. His dilemmas consisted of trivialities, sheer frivolity; should he wear the navy Brioni or the grey Canali for a partners meeting, was it worth eating at a restaurant with just one Michelin star, would Sotheby's have anything worthwhile at their wine auction next week? But beneath his well-tailored veneer of sophistication and arrogance, there existed an urge, a gnawing hunger, for a different life. The suitedsubmissive knew the he had neither earned, not deserved, this lifestyle of ease. He recognized his natural inferiority. He yearned for a day when someone else would see these hidden desires and push him toward a new path in life.
A Friday night, nearly 11pm, and the suitedsubmissive still had hours of work ahead of him. Who would have thought the polished marble floors of an office lobby could get so dirty. Not long ago, he used to strut across this same floor, confident, vain, the soles of his custom made brogues clicking on the tiles. No longer. The suitedsubmissive had finally taken the plunge, embraced his innate inferiority, learned to be humble and meek, to respect his betters. Gone was the posh office and outrageous salary. His mop and bucket were now all he needed, and he learned to subsist on $7.15 an hour. Gone were the designer suits, those emblems of power and arrogance. He had chosen every stitch he owned to local homeless shelters and charity shops. He learned to give back what he had unfairly taken. The suitedsubmissiv was completely unsuited at last. His wardrobe consisted of three boiler suits and a pair of boots for work, and a pair of Dickie's canvas pants, a few tshirts, and a flannel jacket...all scrounged from his local Goodwill. Gone was his immaculate apartment and its carefully curated contents. He had simply walked out the door one day and never looked back, letting the bank and his creditors fight over the scraps. The suitedsubmissive now lived in a basement apartment, shared with two other men, his "room" was a matress on the floor, with old sheets as a makeshift wall. Gone was his cherished BMW, signed over to a particularly persuasive Sir he met on the internet. The city bus and his own two feet were now his only modes of transportation. And every night, as he labored in his new position, "Janitorial Support," no business cards needed for this job, his tiny dick hardened beneath his sweat soaked work clothes. You see, the suitedsubmissive reveled in this downfall...this reversal of fortune he had brought on himself...and he took his arousal as a sign that he had finally found his proper place in life.
“Cheer up bitch and carry on scrubbing”.
2 weeks in to its month long punishment of being the company toilet cleaner, the young executive was regretting complaining about the Chief Executives constant groping and intimidation.
Little does he know that his humiliating demotion is to be permanent.
Revenge of the Blue Collars !
(personal creation of the day: image generated by AI)