THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: TRACKIE PANTS
@frenchscallylover saw the post on Facebook a few weeks ago, an attic clear out, various interesting items going for free. Normally, that kind of thing wouldn't interest him hugely, but he had noticed the pristine pair of trackies and something in his mind clicked, compelling him to message asking for them. The exchange with the owner was brief, and a little odd, but they had come to an agreement on posting them nontheless, and here he was, 2 weeks later, a package at his door containing the alluring trackies.
Eagerly slipping them on, he rushed to his bathroom mirror to see how they looked. Damn, he thought. These frame my ass perfectly. And he wasn't wrong. The pants fit tightly, showing off his leg muscles, ass, and waist nicely. Liking how they were, he didn't bother to wash them, instead just heading out for a walk with them still on. He had been to eager to wear them that he hadn't noticed the slight cum stained crotch, nor the musky scent, and it was unlikely he would at all with how distracted he was by the idea of wearing them in public.
Walking around, he found his mind drifting. His brain was working overtime, flitting rapidly from one topic of thought to the next. Thoughts of how to deal with a troublesome client he had been having at work, what he should have for tea tonight, how nice the trackies felt, how much he needed a smoke, excitement about a game he had forgotten was releasing next week, and- wait a second. A smoke? He didn't smoke, why did he think that? A faint haze clouded his judgement, and while he couldn't remember ever having smoked, he figured he clearly needs one and must have of hes thinking about it. He could practically taste the cig on his tongue, craving the taste, the scent. Instinctively reaching into his trackie pockets, he pulled out a pack and a lighter, reflexively lighting the cig and slipping it into his mouth, taking a drag as if he'd done it thousands of times before.
His body clearly wasn't used to it though, as he immediately felt the niccy rush causing him to feel dizzy and nice. It felt weird, but right. It pulsed in his head, making him feel hazy, light, and suggestible.
Each pulse carried with it a wave of memories, of him being a proper lad, a chav from a young age. He remembered being in high school, causing issues for everyone and being generally disruptive, to dropping out of college because he found it too boring. Memories of playing footie in the fields, smoking cigs he'd nicked from the local corner shop, hanging out at his mates and rolling up a spliff.
Memories of a new name. Danny.
He was too caught up in these memories pulsing through his mind to realise he had shrunk slightly, now standing at 5 foot 6 inches, his muscles firming up a bit, giving him faint abs and a short, stocky build. His hair stylin' itself up, the sides and back shortening to a fade, the top curling slightly. Light, messy stubble growing in and all his hair changing to a brown colour, and his skin turning paler. The smoke from his cig was clinging to his clothes, making sure they'd smell of it to remind everyone he walked past what a sexy chav smoker he was, but also shifting them, his shirt turning into a white hoodie with no shirt underneath, a black jacket forming over the top. His shoes turning into a pair of trainers, fit for a lad like him. And his underwear vanishing, leaving him commando in the trackies, letting the feel of them against his dick drive him wild.
More memories pulsed in, of his mates, his parents, his house. Danny. His job, his aspiration to be a footie player one day, his kinks. DANNY. His identity, his life. His name.
This was Danny. And he always had been.