My best friend has become a skinhead and wants me to join him, but I’m too in my head to even wear the clothes, let alone get the haircut and tattoos. Can Chronivac help me?

One option could be this package here from the Halloween costume store. Just try it on! At least everything is still neatly clean… That should change soon….

Activate the costume in the app now. And have fun!

Oi mate! Life as a skinhead is cool, isn't it? Fucking, smoking, drinking, partying! And every now and then a good brawl. Yes, the job at the slaughterhouse as a meat cutter is exhausting. But it pays well. It has made you one of the best customers of your piercer and tattoo artist.

You still hesitate to get your neck inked. But believe me, it won't take long until the time has come.

Your costume is activated by default until November 01 at 08:00. If you don't want to wake up as a little bourgeois again after an all-night Halloween party, contact me in time.

I found your hot pic @skinheadlife.

Why tf Walmart playing Black Skinhead rn

why tf skinhead tag is full of power dynamics gay porn i just wanted to look at racists

Skinned for Life

Well, this is the first time I've been ridiculed after being a bald boy. My best friend, Danny, began to laugh at me when he became a bald guy. I wanted to transform my creator @hypnogear to him, but the creator asked me to finish this transformation. So I put out Danniyue.

So, my dear friends, you have changed your mind. Do you want to buy a wig. Danny continued to mockery.

No, Danny, my best friend. You know I've always wanted to be a shit, and now I've done it, and you're starting to laugh at me. You laugh at me as a light head, and now I'm going to let you join us and become a faithful head. I took out a razor and became my bare head, and my strength has been improved. Now I can put Danny on the wall effortlessly, put on shaving cream on his hair and shave his hair.

Oh, Danny, don't struggle.

You'll enjoy the process. Now, if you feel the wind blows over the scalp, you will fall in love with the feeling.

With my razor, his scalp began to show, and Danny began to become obedient.

Oh, Danny, a beautiful light head! You are very good for your head.

I... am bald, yes. Danny said.

Now change to the clothes I prepare for you.

Danny listened to the jackets and boots I had prepared for him·

I unraveled my pants and took my penis out. Let's eat now and eat the energy of your head.

Danny put my penis into his mouth and began to make me happy. He sucked my penis greedily and drank the delicious semen.

Yes, he has obedience to me, and he is not laughing at me, because he has become one of us - a light head! Now I can take him to see my creator and let him know my attitude.

So my best friend André has this weird tendency of just.. VANISHING during parties. It was a bit of a matra in our squad... where the fuck is André?!!! This usually wasn't a huge issue until we all went to this alternative themed party pre-COVID.

Usually, when we lose him, it's pretty easy to find him because he's the most lovable person ever and is just in the middle of a crowd. Either hugging everyone or dancing. But during this alt party, we just.. could not fucking find him. He was gone for hours. Until we did. And guess where tf he was.

A couple of actual skinheads had found him, LOVED HIM, and decided to buy him expensive rounds of whiskey shots. We found him because one of these skinheads was yelling about how André was the best guy ever. Somehow, he was so lovable, that a gang of real skinheads had decided to spend good sums of money on expensive alcohol for him.

Needless to say that after that, we always made sure to keep a very close eye on André.

Why would you send piss porn to minors

okay fine ill bite. the “piss porn” you are referring to is a gif of a black guy peeing on a white skinhead’s face after beating him in a fight, and the “minor” in question (i have literally no idea who tf you are talking about btw) was undoubtedly being racist, because that was the gif i used to respond to racist reblogs on my posts. i also never sent it directly, only reblogged stuff with it as an addition. are you really going to twist “replied to a racist reblog with a flippant reaction gif” as “sending piss porn to a minor”? is that what you woke up this morning and decided to do? get a hobby

grandparents want to catch up with me which is nice but what tf do i say lol hey ive been drinking and smoking a lot of weed and im fucking this 6′2″ skinhead who’s 4 years older than me

#foxnews smh these mf r tripping saying #GQ should have called #colinkaepernick #cowardoftheyear tf these mf call him a #coward 4 using his #1stamendment right 2 #peacefulprotest but didn't say shit when #whitesupremacist etc had there #protest noooooooo they compared #whitesupremacist to #blacklivesmatter but yet #whitesupremacist #neonazis #skinhead #altright #whitenationalist #kkk etc history is disgusting Calling #colinkaepernick #protest #unpatriotic they said this sht Apparently, GQ seems to think that disrespecting our military and spitting on our flag is a symbol of heroism and manliness Hmmmm let's see #takeaknee is bad but #roseannebarr did some dumb sht when she sang the song #madonna did some dumb shit also n that fucker #dylannroof burn the flag N that fucker now in the #whitehouse #trump defending #putin n #russiahack is not #unpatriotic that fucker who disrespects #johnmccain for being captured n making fun of what happened 2 him Foh he was question our #intelligenceagencies that work 4 him the regular ppl can question #governmentagencies but he is supposed 2 be #45 the #commanderandchief if he don't wanna do his job work 4 this country then he needs 2 #resign n #foxnews should tell #trump he is being #unpatriotic n a #coward #congrats2colinkaepernick on his #GQ cover but he needs his job back https://www.google.com/amp/www.foxnews.com/opinion/2017/11/13/gq-shouldve-named-colin-kapernick-its-coward-year.amp.html https://www.google.com/amp/s/m.huffpost.com/us/entry/us_59907720e4b090964297b9d3/amp http://www.cnn.com/2017/11/11/opinions/trump-absolves-putin-in-asia-zelizer/index.html https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.washingtonpost.com/amphtml/blogs/right-turn/wp/2017/11/13/trumps-credulity-about-russia-elicits-a-blowback/ http://www.cnn.com/2017/11/11/politics/john-mccain-donald-trump-russia/index.html https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.cnn.com/cnn/2017/06/21/politics/trump-russia-hacking-statements/index.html http://www.cnn.com/interactive/2017/03/politics/trump-putin-russia-timeline/

I’m so bored of trying to stand out and pursue my own career in art. I’d rather be a cog in the machine at this point. Maybe not explicitly a drone but can I just be any like any other worker? I can’t be bothered to stand out anymore. I’m a twunk in my mid 20s

I'm so tired of trying to stand out and pursue my own art career. Right now, I'd rather be a cog in the machine. Maybe not explicitly a drone, but can't I just be a worker like everyone else? I don't feel like standing out anymore. I'm a twat in my mid-20s

You really can't believe this is your life. That you wanted to make art. That you wanted to talk to collectors, curators and investors at art openings. Licking saliva in the hope that someone would buy a painting from you. Today it's the vernissage of a very distant acquaintance from the art academy. If there were no such events, you would starve. You basically live on champagne and canapés. And apart from black wool pants and black turtlenecks, you don't own a single item of clothing.

You are standing in front of a large painting. Predominantly monochrome pink. With a thin black grid over it. Shit, that's good. It's better than anything you've produced so far. "So, what do you think?" someone asks you. You know the guy. Art critic at the Washington Post. "Nothing I couldn't do with uh paint roller n uh ruler," you reply. You take a big sip of the champagne. Burp!!!!! "Hey, does anyone here have uh beer?" The critic looks at you in horror and a little disgusted. Your curls start to get a little greasy. And then your hair gets shorter. Shorter and shorter. Until there's nothing left but short stubble that feels like sandpaper. Instead, your smooth boyish cheeks are covered with the same hard stubble. And your cheekbones become more angular. Twunk? Not really anymore…

You scratch at your hairy six-pack under your washed-out T-shirt. You shout in the direction of the slimy guy you think is the boss here. "Hey boss, I gotta grab this sick sculpture." The gallery owner rolls his eyes. Where would the normal art logistician be? "Yo boss, me and my squad are totally slaying at this gig. But hey, if you're down, we can totally give it another shot, no biggie.."

Transporting art is a lucrative business. And it's wonderful to snub the narrow-minded busybodies with real masculinity. Okay, you have no idea what "lucrative", "bigoted" and "snubbing" mean. Shit, you love scratching your balls through the pockets of your overalls. And then carrying million-dollar works of art with your greasy hands full of precum. And then going to the pub with the boys. You wouldn't swap places with the idiots in the gallery for any money in the world…

Please more stories with stinky, moist boots, if they’re harness much better. You are such a great writer, once I start reading can’t stop!!!

Thank you man! There might be a skinhead tf in the works

Perfectly Skinned

Makeover

Mortimer not only had a shitty old-fashioned name, he was also simply shitty and old-fashioned. His clothes were actually often inherited from his father and grandfather. His speech was affected. And yet he was nothing but a small and insignificant clerk at the tax office. Totally career-minded. A pedant. A pain in the ass. Like his father. Like his grandfather.

But Mortimer was also a lickspittle and a pussyfoot. He never had the guts to provoke any kind of trouble with big taxpayers. Trouble only meant more work. But with small private individuals and small businesses, he loved to torment them when checking their tax returns. Especially those who didn't have a tax advisor had beads of sweat on their foreheads just holding his letter in their hands. And when they opened it and read it, they turned pale. Mortimer could almost jerk off at the thought. In fact, his little cock got hard at the thought.

The punks from the tattoo parlor were outstanding victims. The tax return was probably largely correct. But it was full of minor formal errors and implausibilities that could have been overlooked. But that was no fun for Mortimer. So he bombarded the owner of the studio with questions and requests to submit additional documents. As I said, the tax authorities would gain no further advantage from this. But Mortimer was able to exercise his little bit of power. But this time he would regret it. Bitterly regret it.

The conversation with his superior had been unpleasant. Pete, the owner of the tattoo studio, had made an official complaint. For arbitrariness, abuse of authority and a few other things. Probably one of the perverts who were his customers was a crooked lawyer, Mortimer thought. He didn't have much to fear from his boss. One crow didn't peck out another crow's eye. Nevertheless, he had been ordered to make a personal appearance at the tattoo parlor to clear up the loose ends. What a humiliation. He would get revenge for that too.

The studio smelled of tobacco smoke, leather, sweat, whiskey and disinfectant. A terrible combination that almost made Mortimer want to vomit. He went through the documents he had in front of him. No chance, everything was correct. Still, there had to be something. And quickly. It was Friday morning, he wanted to have his report written by 2 p.m. at the latest and leave for the weekend. The employees all looked like freaks. He asked Pete for all the employment contracts from the last 20 years. Pete looked at Mortimer… With piercing blue eyes. He took Mortimer's chin very firmly in his tattooed calloused hand, almost stroking Mortimer's face with the other. And then he moved his hand slowly towards his crotch. And then he gripped Mortimer's balls firmly. "Listen, you office boy! Everything is fine here. Got it?" The grip on his balls did not loosen. But his erection became painful. Mortimer nods. The grip loosened. Mortimer packed up his things. At the office, he would report the store to a friend from the health department. Pete had made a big mistake.

It was almost 11:30 when Mortimer arrived at the tax office. Lunchtime. People were running along the corridors and streaming towards the canteen. Mortimer actually wanted to eat straight away. But the call to the health department was more important. He had almost reached his office when his boss stood in his way. "So, all the problems with the tattoo artist sorted?" Mortimer was just about to answer when his boss laughed. "Mortimer, I wouldn't have put it past you. You and a piercing? Did you get that pierced to appease the taxman? Well, because it's Friday. But Monday without it again, please."

Mortimer turned pale. Yes, there had been something on his lower lip. He felt carefully. A cone protruded from his lower lip. One was through his nasal septum. And under the cone was something else under his lower lip. In a panic, Mortimer ran to the washrooms. He looked in the mirror. He looked like a freak! He no longer even noticed that he was unshaven. Mortimer reached for his cell phone and tried to call Pete's tattoo studio. Only an answering machine. Mortimer ran into his office and put on a face mask. He told colleagues who came by that he wasn't feeling well and wanted to protect them. They wished him a speedy recovery. But it didn't get any better. Mortimer nervously drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered what he should do. Then he noticed the tattoos on his knuckles. "Fuck" and "Yeah". In Gothic letters. Mortimer ran back to the washrooms. And threw up.

He didn't actually have to call in sick. He would have finished work in an hour anyway. But he had to get out of here. Immediately. He walked to the bus stop. It was a warm spring day. Nevertheless, Mortimer drove to Oxford Street first thing and bought a pair of gloves in the first store he saw. Should he go to the tattooist? But not now. The streets were full of people. And he looked like a freak. No, off home. And tomorrow at the crack of dawn to see that asshole Pete.

Something was different in his apartment. There was a half-full ashtray on the coffee table. And the fridge was full of beer. Surprisingly, this didn't strike Mortimer as odd at all. He took a beer, lit a cigarette and threw himself onto the sofa. What a terrible day. He began to cry with self-pity. And he fell asleep crying.

It was already dark outside when Mortimer woke up. The beer was warm and stale. But Mortimer finished it. The fag had fallen out of his hand as he fell asleep and had left another burn mark on the shabby old leather sofa. Mortimer burped. He was drunk and stoned. The piercings in his nipples felt good. Mortimer began to wank. He squirted on his Sex Pistol T-shirt. And fell asleep again.

The next morning, Mortimer woke up with an insane hangover. His apartment was a mess. Full ashtrays, empty beer cans, dirty clothes. What the hell had happened here? Mortimer collected the garbage while still half asleep and put the bin bags outside in the hallway. He had to pee. No, he had to piss. He went into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. He ran his tattooed hands through his greasy hair. He urgently needed to go to the hairdresser again. But first he had to piss and then take a shower. He pulled his 20-centimeter cock out of his no longer completely clean underpants. The scrotal ladder clacked as he did so. And the mighty Prince Albert shone in the light of the bathroom lamp. Mortimer felt dizzy.

Yes, the first thing he wanted to do was go and see Pete. But for some reason, his apartment was a mess. Mortimer took a shower first. He had to admit that the feeling of the piercings in his nipples, scrotum and cock was very sensual. But the steel had to come off. And he also had to do something about the tattoos. His fingers and the backs of his hands were covered in tattoos. He hadn't even seen his back and neck yet. When he felt clean again, Mortimer collected the dirty laundry. He made the beds fresh. He wanted to turn on the washing machine. But it was gone. Not just the washing machine, but the whole alcove. His bathroom was somehow smaller. And there was no washing machine or dryer. Mortimer stuffed the washing into an IKEA bag that he didn't know where it had come from. He collected the rest of the garbage. He washed the dirty dishes, because his dishwasher in his much smaller kitchen was also gone. It was almost 4 p.m. when it was finally clean and tidy again. Mortimer was satisfied. All he had been able to find in the way of clean laundry was a shiny red Adidas tracksuit, a pair of white Calvin Klein shorts, a white fine-rib undergarment, white socks and white sneakers. He looked silly. But it should be enough for a visit to the laundrette. He took the dirty laundry and the garbage bags and left the apartment.

The hallway smelled of cold tobacco smoke, beer and piss. The walls were covered in graffiti. From time to time, the roar of violent arguments could be heard from the apartments. Shit, this is a crazy dream, Mortimer thought to himself. This must be a crazy dream. The elevator was broken. So he walked the eight floors to the laundry room. Thank God there was a free machine. Mortimer took a laundry token out of his trouser pocket. He stuffed his dirty laundry into the machine. Damn it, he didn't have any detergent. A skinhead was sitting on one of the rickety plastic chairs under the no-smoking sign, reading a sports magazine and smoking. "Excuse me, could I borrow some washing powder from you?" Mortimer wanted to ask. But he said "Oi, sorry mate, could I nick some washing powder off ya? And a fag while you're at it?" The skinhead looked at Mortimer. He licked his lips. "Got yer tongue pierced too, you dirty pig?" Mortimer stuck out his tongue. And the skinhead took his cock out of his bleached jeans. "Then get on your knees and earn both!"

The skinhead only had a modest PA. Nevertheless, it was a pleasure for Mortimer to work his cheesy boner with his tongue. The skinhead steered his head into his curls with a firm grip. From time to time he pulled Mortimer's head far back into his neck and snotted in his face. Mortimer's cock built a tent in his pants. The skinhead squirted down his throat. Mortimer squirted into his pants. And the washing machine rumbled. ""Oi, cunt, fancy a proper haircut? Can't see any of them sick tattoos on your skull." Mortimer took a quick breath. What was happening here? He was standing in a full-weight tracksuit in the laundry room of a public housing complex, had just swallowed a skinhead's sperm and now wanted to get a haircut from the skinhead? Shit, how had he ended up in this situation? "I'm in 639, got beer and fags. Bring the rest, mate!"

The laundry didn't get really clean in the old washing machines. Mortimer threw everything onto his unmade bed. His apartment was a mess. But it was his home. And he was about to get a free haircut. Mortimer was rolling a cigarette when Liam knocked. He had brought the rest with him. The rest was a long hair clipper, a wet razor, shaving foam. And three buddies who couldn't wait to piss on the freshly shaved bald head.

Monday morning. Pete had asked Mo to take the missing documents to the tax office. Mo had actually worked at the tax office in the past. He knew his way around there. But he had been fired because Pete had allegedly bribed him to be gracious during the tax audit. In return, he had gotten some piercings and tattoos for free. But that was a hell of a long time ago. Now Mo was one of the most talented piercers in town. In the hottest studio in town. Actually, Mo could have afforded something better than the shabby place in the run-down high-rise complex a long time ago. But leaving his mates in the lurch? Not for the life of him!

I wanted my Halloween costume to be special this year. So I bought a bald mask. When I tried it on it looked sooo cheap. So I used the chronivac to make it look more realistic. Something must went wrong because I feel an Aggression rise in me and I can't take off the bald cap/masc. And I need a smoke and tattoos are appearing in my neck and on my knuckles. There are white parts now on my tight jeans and my sneakers turn into black, shiny leather

Oi Mate! Surprised that it's already light outside again, although inside the party is still raging. Halloween is already long over… And you are still a premium skinhead.

Mate, go back inside, it's fucking cold outside. Find your Fred Perry shirt and your bomber jacket. I'd start with the toilets, I mean you had your upper body free when you made yourself available as a piss trough.

And don't worry, you set the transformation as temporary. Precisely, "Until the party is over." That may take some time. So, enjoy it!

CHAVTF: Andy

Andreas had just moved to London. He had worked successfully at an investment bank in Germany and had now received a promising offer as CFO at a FinTech. The salary was low, but for one thing, he had already put quite a bit aside despite his young age. And for another, he was attracted by the chance to join a potential unicorn early on. After the first week in his new job, he was convinced he had made the right decision. A cool team, a cool business idea. Only he looked a bit like he didn't fit in. With the suits that were a bit too classic, with the hairstyle that was styled too perfectly. So he had used Friday evening to do a little shopping. For the office, chinos and polo shirts, for client meetings, a few close-fitting fashionable suits. He was still dressed much more conservatively than most of his colleagues. But he was not the type to wear T-shirts and hoodies. The shop assistant had advised him to combine the suits with Doc Martens instead of Oxfords. This would actually bring Andreas a bit in line with many of his colleagues. So it was worth a try.

Andreas entered a store that had a large selection of the boots in the window. A young man with the very short hair stood in the entrance smoking a cigarette. He greeted Andreas with an "Oi mate, what can I do for you?" Andreas replied that he was interested in the burgundy boots with eight eyelets. "Size 14, I guess," the clerk answered and came with a box. Andreas took off his impressively large shoes. And took the first boot. It was black, though. And had 14 holes in it. "Mate, a fella like you needs real boots. Bald and eight holes don't fit. Andrew ran his hand over the short hair on his head. He loved the feeling of short stubble growing back in the evening on the sides that had been freshly shaved in the morning. "You're damn right right it aint fittin'," he replied. "Yellow laces to match the suspenders?". Andrew nodded. He laced the boots tight and rolled the yellow socks over the edge. "Boi, those pants are pissed as hell," the store clerk said, licking his lips. Andrew's bleached 501 did indeed have a good yellow tint to it. He smelled distinctly of piss. It was the weekend, after all. "You bet your ass, mate," Andrews replied. He squeezed his impressive bulge and let a little piss run through the soiled jockstrap into his jeans. "Mate, don't waste any! I'm sure you can find a cunt for that." Andy grinned. That was the plan. Outside, it was starting to get dark. Time to fill the bladder with a few beers. And then to empty it into some mug or other. "What do I owe you, mate?" asked Andy. And pulled his wallet out of his trouser pocket. "For the gloves? Twenty pounds. But first a question: did you buy these to cover your tattoos?" Andy rubbed his hands, which were inked all over. "Are you out of your mind, Boi? Anyone can see those. But you never know who you're going to meet around the next corner." Andy pulled on the gloves and gestured a few boxing punches. "I wouldn't mess with a fella like you either if you weren't wearing gloves". Andy laughed and pulled his bomber jacket over his well-worked torso.

Boi, did he have to piss now. And even if it was a waste, he stood in the nearest corner. His mighty cock lay well in the leather of the gloves. He was about to jerk off. But that would be a real waste. There was always a better hole for that.

Oi mate, you made me a skinhead not long ago and I can’t lie I fuckin’ love it. But me hair’s already starting to grow back and I can feel me brain slipping back to how it used to be. You said to contact you if I wanted it to be permanent, and I do. Get rid of this annoying stubble on me head, these old thoughts, make me a real proper skin. I’ll even get the neck tattoo you were talkin about. Please mate.

Mate, you're ready to become a skinhead? Completely? Skin, bones and hair? Better said skin, bones and no hair. Because no more hair grows on your skull. Your living room suddenly becomes smaller. Cracks on the walls, the wallpaper nicotine yellow. Your furniture is from the bulky waste. Or from the social department store. Loud ska is blaring from your roommate's room. It stinks of grease, sweat, tobacco and beer.

Fuck, it doesn't matter, you have to sleep it off. Your best buddy on your chest. Yesterday was the first appointment for your neck tattoo. Mate, it will look great!

Mate's pic made by @vanaheim-skin