Becoming The Skinhead Slave
Becoming The Skinhead Slave

Becoming The Skinhead Slave

(Photo by Craigskin © 2015)

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Soaked through to his skin, Chris felt the droplets of rain collect at his hair ends and plop onto the carpet below. He kneeled, eyes fixed on the welcome matt, wondering how long he’d be kept waiting in the dark. The door behind him locked shut upon entry and the door into the apartment ahead was also locked. He had no choice but to remain on his soaked knees of his tracksuit pants. Nervous, tired and doused in rainwater.

Chris could still hear the lashing rain hammering against the pavement outside. It’s almost like the horrible weather was planned to further enhance Chris’s humiliating journey to where he currently waited. Waiting was probably something he’d became all too familiar with.

His new life demanded a lot of patience and resilience. Contemplating what lead him to this point, Chris let out an audible sigh. He continued to keep his gaze transfixed on the scratchy textures of the doormat below. How could he let this happen?

“Please man, I’ll do anything,” Chris begged, gesturing in a way that showed his desperation.
“No means no,” James replied.

There was an awkward pause between the coworkers as James continued to tap away on his keyboard.

“Do you know how much I need this? If I don’t pay today I’m screwed!”

James persisted to ignore his vexing deskmate.

“It’s not my fault you can’t pay your dealer,” James ridiculed, “I’m sick of loaning you money. I’m done.”

“It’s not for a fucking dealer,” Chris’s voice replied, a little louder than he intended.

Some other coworkers in the open-plan office gazed their way as they eavesdropped on the conversation. Chris sulked behind his computer. Dreading the call that would come shortly.

Chris was a pretty unsuccessful telemarketer. He was at risk of losing his job due to poor performance and he’d recently tried some gambling to make ends meet. Similar to his career in sales – he sucked at it.

Now his bookie was looking for the five grand he owed. He’d waited long enough and Chris was sure he was in some deep trouble. After exploring every avenue, he was now forced to plead for money from his friends.

Chris put his head in his hands as panic and desperation started to take over. A Friday email pinged around to everyone’s inboxes as some people started to clear out for the weekend. Another salesperson from the same floor walked over to strike up a conversation with James.

Chris zoned out from the mindless chatter around him – completely absorbed in how fucked he was. On the outside, he looked like a diligent office worker in central Manchester. His lavish lifestyle got him into a lot of debt. He tried to live it up in the city, but up until a couple of months ago, he’d just about scraped by. Now he was at risk of losing everything.

“Have a good weekend, bye James,” the female co-worker uttered, as Chris came back from spacing out.

James was pretty much everything he wasn’t. Fortunate, intelligent and attractive. He always wished he could be more like him and it humiliated him to have to beg the guy for money. But this showed how desperate he was.

“Have a good weekend, Chris. Sorry, I can’t help.”

James actually sounded sincere. He stepped up from his desk and waved his workfellow goodbye. Chris’s phone buzzed. A feeling of dread washed over him. He leered at the notification on his phone as the first few words from his bookie read;

“Your time is up. Meet at Bridgewater Car Park in 10 minutes. There’s a way you can pay up.”

What could he do? There wasn’t any getting out of this one. He switched off his computer and rose from behind the screen disillusioned with life.

Every step of the short walk over to the car park stocked Chris with angst. He almost felt like throwing up – as he wracked his brain with thoughts of what was about to happen.

Chris entered the neglected stairwell of the parking lot. He climbed the stairs to the first floor. The vast, low-ceilinged hall was poorly lit and graffiti littered the stairwell. There was a lot of free spaces and the entire floor appeared to be void of any people. This made Chris feel even more nervous.

He spotted a car with its headlights still on and walked in its direction. He recognised his bookie in the driver’s seat with a stranger sitting next to him. The window came down as he approached the car.

“Get in the back,” his bookie instructed.

Chris sank into the leather seats of the expensive car as his heart almost leapt from his chest.

“Do you have what I’m looking for?”

“I just need a little more time! Please,” Chris begged.

“You’ve had more than enough time.”

The two in the front of the car exchanged glances.

“Can you believe this piece of shit? Well if you don’t have my money there is a way to get out of this”

Chris felt a pang of optimism overcome him.

“This is my buddy, he was kind enough to pay off your debt. In exchange, you’ll be following orders from him for a while,” the bookie announced.

“What kind of orders?” Chris questioned, a growing concern in his voice.

“Such a FUCKING miserable slave. Drowned like a rat,” a deep voice remarked from above.

The door in front of Chris opened and a set of TNs landed into his view. Chris didn’t dare raise his gaze as he remained in his position until instructed otherwise.

“Well you know how to greet me, shithead,” the voice boomed.
Chris laid both hands against the itchy doormat and slowly sank to lay a kiss on the man’s sneakers. Before his lips could touch the ends of the TNs the voice erupted again from above.

“Oi. Did I hear a ‘Yes Sir?'”

“Sorry, Sir. Yes Sir!” Chris replied before his lips came into contact with the rough texture of the sneakers.

“Do I need to run the slave through another weekend of rules and protocols?” the voice questioned.

“No Sir!” Chris blushed.

Those weekends had been hell. Chris was given lists of commands and protocols to memorise and each time he got something wrong he felt it.

“Get inside. But first, strip! I don’t want you getting rainwater anywhere,” his Sir instructed.

“Yes Sir.”

Chris removed the sopping wet tracksuit. Underneath he wore a jock and some white Adidas socks. His Sir shot him a dangerous glare which instructed him to strip until he remained in just the metallic chain collar. The heavy thing felt ice-cold against his bare, wet skin. As he stepped past his Sir into the house, the man next to him cupped his nude ass. Chris froze in place.

The domineering man was dressed in a blue Boss hooded tracksuit unzipped to reveal a tight white Nike t-shirt – displaying his defined physique. He could easily overpower Chris with his sheer size. Tattoos crawled up the skinhead’s neck reaching his buzzcut sides and slick backed crown.

“Hands behind your back, faggot. You really have forgotten all your training.” Sir growled.

“Sorry, Sir. Yes Sir!” Chris responded, mentally scolding himself for being so careless.

“I think we also need to start getting you into some PVC tracksuits during the wet weather,” the man remarked as if Chris’s transformation wasn’t bad enough already.

The door slammed shut behind the two as they carried on through the narrow hallway.

Chris was pushed forward as he fell onto his knees on the hard wooden floor.

“You can crawl from now on until you’re told otherwise,” his Sir instructed, pressing the sole of his trainer into Chris’s lower back.

“Yes Sir!” he piped.

Chris had been his Sir’s slave for about a month so far. At first, he resisted his enslavement but quickly learned it was better to just obey. He’d only managed to pay off roughly one-fifth of his debt. Chris spent every weekend at his owner’s home and perform all sorts of perverted instructions.

Chris would also dress in appropriate attire whenever in his Sir’s presence. Often dressed in a simple assless jock as he cleaned the bastard’s home or layered in the humiliating scally outfits. His new owner was very controlling and would often daydream out loud about Chris’s further journey into slavery.

The door to the living room was pushed open as Chris was ushered into the room. Two heads appeared from behind the sofa in the middle of the room.

“The bitch has arrived,” Chris’s Sir announced to the room, making him blush in humiliation.

“It’s about time. You know my girlfriend stopped putting out. I’m ready for a warm, wet mouth,” one of the men on the couch exclaimed.

Chris was often pimped out to his Sir’s friends. On command, he’d drop to his knees to give them blowjobs. His mouth was all too familiar with the taste of cum.

“You know what to do, faggot,” his owner ordered.

“Yes Sir!”

Chris crossed the living room, still on hands and knees, miserably desperate for the ground to swallow him whole. As he rounded the corner, he noticed the two men were dressed like skinheads. They both wore short-sleeve, button-down polos tucked into bleached-camo, combat trousers – popular among ‘Oi!’ skinheads.

Their maroon steel-toe boots were glued to their legs as their trousers disappeared under the shiny leather. They both had shaved heads and shit-eating grins.

“It’s been a while,” one of the skinheads laughed.

Chris recognised one of the skinheads from a previous weekend he’d spent with his Sir. That was the weekend when Sir shaved Chris’s hair into a mohawk. The dominant figure enjoyed seeing Chris’s transformation from an honest salaryman to an aggressive skinhead. Many of his co-workers were pretty shocked by his new ‘look’. But most of them didn’t pay him much attention anyway so he mostly got nervous glances during the workday.

“This guy gives the best head around. Be careful though you don’t want to get hooked on him,” one of the skinheads mocked.

A hand reached out to pull Chris’s head into the crotch of one of Sir’s friends. He could feel the hard member pressing against his face under the tight denim. Chris could only breathe in the scent of sweat, precum and well-worn jeans. He felt a second hand inspecting the strip of hair on his head.

“Looks like we might need to give you another trim,” the voice of Sir echoed in his ears.

The trio went back to watching TV and talking average ‘guy-talk’. Chris waited submissively in the lap of the relaxed skinhead. He knew to wait on command until he was given the order to suck. If he acted too eager he’d just be mocked as a cock loving faggot.

When left in this position Chris was mostly ignored apart from the occasional fondle of his naked flesh or comment from his Sir about his posture.

This is what Chris had become. As if his life before was all that great at least now he had direction and a purpose in life. Sir would constantly inform him of his planned transformation and promised that in time Chris would completely forget that he was ever in debt to the superior man. Instead, he would come to crave being owned and used.

He was already seeing it start to take shape. As he lay in the lap of the skinhead, his face pressed into the musky crotch of another stranger. He could feel something build deep inside him. A need. A lust to be used as the good faggot he was.

“The bitch just got a boner,”

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