Date: Wed, 5 May 2004 13:34:37 +0200
From: eu901577 <cager@tele2.fr>
Subject: Skinhead and Yuppie 1

Skinhead and yuppie

by Cager

 Every one who saw me at work used to think I was Mr. Clean,
Mr. Respectable.  I work in advertising and I used to model my appearance
on the sort of guys you find between the pages of GQ. Very American, very
preppy. I was a nice middle-class boy with a nice expensive haircut and a
nice expensive suit. I went to an up market health club to keep my body in
peak condition. I'd even dated a nice girl from time to time. So you'd be
right in thinking that I was a bit of a closet case. I used to pass a gay
bar on my way home from work; in the summer the faggots would spill out
over the pavement and ogle me as I jogged past. I wanted nothing to do with
them and no way did I feel part of them. Don't get me wrong -- they didn't
bother me and I wouldn't badmouth them; I just didn't feel that I could
relate to them. So I guess you could say I was an arrogant son of a bitch.

 Well, I've changed now. Sure as fuck I've moved on and you wouldn't
recognise me. And I don't just mean my appearance though God knows that has
changed, too. No I'm talking about the real me, the me inside that was
always there but needed a real tough skinhead master to bring it out.

 It's a giveaway, isn't it, speaking so contemptuously about 'faggots'? I
thought I was not just Mr. Clean but also Mr. Macho. So perhaps if that bar
had been a leather bar, I would have changed sooner. I also used to jog
past a building site and I sure slowed down a lot as I went past. A dozen
or so workmen were always hanging around, smoking and chatting rather than
working, and although some of these were the usual overweight, slack-jeaned
type, there were a number of tough young hard-bodied lads as well. Of
course, my arrogance meant that I imagined that I acted subtly, that I was
able to size up the workmen without them noticing me doing so. Until one
evening, arms working like pistons, breathing heavily, my blond hair
flopping sexily over one eye, I heard a voice say, "Here comes the faggot
again." I flushed red, a mixture of anger and embarrassment, and turned to
look at the speaker as I speeded up a little. Not too much - I didn't want
the creep to think that he had got to me in any way. I had little more than
a glimpse of a street tough, a guy at least four inches shorter than me, a
number one crop, and a cheeky grin plastered across his face, before I
rounded the corner and was gone. I changed my route home from then on.

 After that experience, I often found myself studying my face in a mirror
for signs of faggotry. I couldn't see them. I thought I looked pretty
hot. But I was haunted by that glimpse of working class rough who felt that
I wasn't the man that he was. He was right and I had a lesson still to
learn.

 And so the fateful day came when I worked late at the office and was
pressed for time and decided to go past the building site for the first
time in weeks. It was after seven so I imagined there would be no one
there. Almost from force of habit I slowed down as I neared it and there he
was...sitting on a low wall, smoking a cigarette and watching me
approach. I stared resolutely ahead and prepared to sail past him. The next
thing the ground was coming racing to meet me as I went sprawling over his
outstretched leg.

 "Sorry, mate," said a voice that didn't sound remotely contrite. I looked
up at him standing over me, stretching out a hand to help me up. I was
winded and couldn't say anything for a few seconds. He was clearly enjoying
my discomfiture.

 "You bastard!" I finally managed to get out, ignoring his hand and
standing up. "You did that on purpose!"

 "Yeah. I wanted to see what a faggot looked like up close." I clenched my
fist and swung for him. He stepped back and I almost fell over again.

 "Hey. No hard feelings, mate. If you want it rough, we don't have to do it
here." I blinked foolishly at this statement. "C'mon. Just follow me."

 Right. I should have turned and headed in the opposite direction. I should
have landed a kick on the fucker and got going. I could have outrun him -
he looked fit but my legs were longer. I should have... But I didn't. What
I did do was look furtively over my shoulder to see if anyone had seen this
meeting and walk lamely behind him into the abandoned building where he had
been working. He locked the door behind me which caused me a few anxious
moments. He might have been a psychopath but I don't suppose psychos kiss
which is what he did as soon as we were safe from the outside world.

 It was a rundown warehouse with lots of smaller rooms leading off a big
deserted store room. He unlocked one of the smaller rooms and, taking me by
the hand, led me inside. He picked up a six pack of beer from a table and
passed one to me. As we both pulled on the tabs he looked at me and said,
"Do you trust me?" I thought at first I had misheard him and looked
quizzically at him. He repeated what he had said and I thought for a moment
before replying that I did. And in fact I did trust him. In spite of him
calling me a faggot, I think I sensed that this guy had planned this
meeting because he fancied me. Certainly I fancied him - manual labour had
given him a body that I worked artificially for, the skinhead haircut
accentuated the strong chiselled features of his face and the unexpected
turn the evening had taken excited me. The hint of danger was a turn on
too. But, yes, fundamentally I trusted him and told him so.

 "Good," he said. "Don't go away." And he left the room. I felt that I had
reached the point of no return now in any case and that I didn't have a
clue how I'd get out of the building even if I had wanted to, so I sipped
my beer and waited.

 I don't know where he went - presumably to one of the other rooms; I don't
think I wondered what he was up to; but I was genuinely surprised when he
returned, dressed in full leather, jacket, jeans and boots, a pair of
handcuffs dangling from the left hand side of his belt, and a glint of
steel at his chest where his nipples had been pierced catching the light
from the naked bulb above my head. Over his shoulder swung a back pack
which weighed ominously heavy.

 "Trust me," he said again, looking steadily at me. I stared back as if
mesmerised, neither acquiescing nor rejecting and he moved towards me,
unfastening the cuffs from his belt. He stopped directly in front of me and
looked up at me. Then he said softly but in a tone which allowed no
dissent, "Strip." Hurriedly, I pulled off my singlet and shorts, then
hesitated.

 "Everything," he said in the same voice. Off came the socks and trainers
and then, with a final slight hesitation, my jockstrap to reveal my cock
standing to attention. He turned me round, rather gently as if to reassure
me, and fastened the handcuffs on my wrists.

 I was trembling slightly. I had not had many gay experiences and usually
only when I had drunk a fair bit. Half a can of lager had not relaxed me
much now and I was apprehensive. He stroked me gently as if he were calming
a nervous colt and kissed me again, his tongue forcing open my mouth and
pressing between my teeth. I relaxed into him as he held my face between
his hands, now really turned on by the feel and smell of his leathers, and
the hardness of his body. I had been kissed twice and already I felt that
it was the most exciting sex I had ever experienced! He hadn't even
begun. Pushing me away, more roughly, he pulled open his back pack and
rummaged inside it before producing a broad leather dog collar which he
buckled around my neck.

 "Hang on," I said anxiously. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

 "You like it rough," he said. It was a statement, not a question. "And
you're lucky, cos so do I." He fastened a chain to the collar and pulled me
after him, back into the large store room. I followed meekly behind him as
he led me to one end of the room. Delving into his bag again, he produced a
set of leather ankle restraints and bending down he fastened them on me. He
then said, "On your knees" and when I obeyed he padlocked the restraints to
a couple of heavy rings set in the floor. Had he set them there or had he
chosen this place because of them? In any case, the difference in our
heights had ceased to matter.

 "Right, pretty boy. Now it's time for a little training. And time you
learnt your place. This date's been a long time coming and I'm gonna make
sure you remember it. So, for a start, a few rules. You're gonna keep your
mouth shut until I give you permission to speak and when you do speak you
call me Sir. Understand?"

 "Yes, Sir."

 "And the first thing I'm gonna do is make you look like less of a faggot
and more like a man." His hand went into the bag again and came out with a
set of electric hairdressing shears which he plugged in to the wall.

 "Now just keep nice and still, slave, and it'll be easier for you." He
started on my chest hair. I put up with that as I was reckoning that I
could still get away with it at the gym - after all, many guys shaved their
chests to show off the definition of their worked-out chests. When he
started on my groin, I dared to protest.

 "Hey, come on, man. I've got to show myself in the changing rooms." He
slapped me across my face and said, "Shut the fuck up, slave. And you'll
regret not addressing me as 'Sir'."

 "Please, Sir, please stop, Sir. You can do anything else, Sir but not
that." I should have saved my breath.

 "I'll finish it off with soap and a razor later," he went on, as if I had
not said anything, "but this should teach you your position in life." I was
pretty mad at all this but there was not much I could do and by the time he
had finished removing the hair from around my balls and cock (which was
still betraying me by sticking up in his face as he worked), I had decided
that a few weeks of discretion in the changing room would see me
through. That's when he went straight on to my head. As the first clump of
blond hair fell to the floor, I really started to struggle.

 "No, you bastard, you can't do that. I've got a job, my boss'll sack me if
he sees me like this." He grabbed hold of my head and rammed it into his
leather encased crotch, silencing my pleas, and continued to shear me
calmly and methodically. By the time he had finished I was blubbing like a
baby and all the fight had gone out of me.

 "Now at least you look like a man slave and not a fucking faggot. I'll
just hose you down and get rid of all that fur sticking to you." And
opening his fly, he pulled out his cock and let loose a stream of piss over
my naked body. I knelt there and took it.

 "What do you say, slave? Let's hear you."

 Brokenly I replied, "Thank you, Sir."

 "Lick my boots, slave." Obediently I bent my shaved head to his dusty
boots and started licking the leather. And that effectively ended the first
stage of my training.

 And that was the easy part. Next out of the bag (and I was beginning to
get worried about the contents of that bag) came a set of tit clamps
connected by a chain. Had he set them on me when we started I believe I
would have moaned and groaned because I was simply not used to such
things. It's amazing what a little humiliation does to the brain. I was in
a mental state beyond resisting as the teeth bit into the virgin nipples
and little more than a slight intake of breath escaped me. A hit of popper
helped too and made me eager for what was to come.

 "I'll build these tits of yours up a bit, slave, and in a month or so I'll
get them pierced so you'll know that you are owned. You want to be owned,
don't you, slave?"

 "Yes, Sir!" I said, firmly. At that moment I wanted it more than anything
I could think of.

 "Now, slave, it's time to punish you for resisting me. In future, you'll
do what your Master says without question, won't you?"

 "Yes, Sir."

 "O.K. slave. Now let's have you on your knees with your arse in the air."
I hurriedly complied. He stuck the popper under my nose and I took a big
hit as he continued, "I'm going to beat you now for your disobedience and
you are going to count the strokes and thank me for each one. Understand?"

 "Yes, Sir."

 I was a wimp before I met him. I had gone to a liberal school where caning
was not allowed so I wasn't into reliving my school days or anything like
that. The first stroke of his belt seemed to me then like the worst pain
I'd ever felt but it wasn't severe. I gasped with shock, nonetheless. And
three blows had descended before I remembered that I was supposed to count
them.

 Or rather he reminded me. He stopped and said, "Right, slave. We'll start
again. And this time, you'll count and thank me."

 "Yes, Sir... One, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

 Waiting for the blow is worse than the blow itself I soon discovered. He
did not beat me with a regular rhythm, nor did his belt always land on the
same spot. And while I dreaded each blow, and my mind continued to worry
about such things as whether my body would be marked or not, I found that
the pain was greater. But then I discovered that, if I stopped anticipating
where and when the belt would land, and simply accepted what was happening
to me, when I reached that point of total submission, it just didn't
hurt. And a voice that didn't sound like mine began to repeat over and over
again like a mantra, "Beat me, Master. Beat me, Sir," between counting and
thanking him, of course.

 I reached fifty before he dropped the belt. The bag again and I felt him
lubing my arse which burned fiercely after the beating. Then his cock was
pressing into my sphincter. I was amazed how easily it slipped in and then
he was pumping me hard while he whispered in my ear, "Yeah, slave, you love
it, don't you? You love having a skinhead Master fucking your slave
arse. Yeah, feel that cock up your slave hole. I'm gonna train you up real
good, boy. You're gonna beg for it, boy, you're gonna beg your Master to
whip you and fuck you and use you..."

 He came with a roar. I shot seconds later as he collapsed on top of
me. Gently he withdrew and knelt in front of me. He raised my head and
looked into my eyes which must have been glazed and focussing on something
far distant and said, "You did well for a beginner, faggot." The word
seemed full of affection. Then he kissed me again and the kiss sealed it. I
was his.

 That was only the beginning of my transformation...