This story is sexual fantasy fiction, primarily about control and humiliation between adult men and includes destruction of clothes. If you object to any of this then read no further. Any resemblance to persons past or present is purely coincidental.

This I suppose is technically my first 'story'. A killer here pitched the idea and I fleshed it out and created a photo series. I've dusted it down and turned it into a full story. Oh, and it also has a new name - as it obviously inspired 'Teaching the Punk a Lesson' I thought the new name was perfect. Supporters can check out all the remastered photos here.

Teaching the Chav a Lesson

Tuesdays. I hate Tuesdays. I know Mondays get a bad rap but this day was the worst. Any optimism that might have been present at the start of a new week had vanished and the weekend was too far away to provide comfort. Maybe I had been working here in this department store for too long. Sure, it wasn’t bad, but explaining the difference between a 1080i and 1080p or LCD and Plasma televisions did get tedious after about, ooooh, the first week.

The town had changed a lot over the years. It had become rougher, lawless in parts. Occasionally we had groups of lads coming in, shouting abuse and causing havoc around the store. It was low level stuff, really, and usually I could shrug it off, but it really unsettled other people and it made me angry because of that. I left it to the security guards though; best not to get involved . . .

Maybe it was because I was having a bad day, maybe this was the second group of chav lads that had come in that week, or maybe it was just because it was Tuesday, but I finally snapped. That's right, mild mannered old me; someone who has made a skill of not getting involved, ever, full stop, period.

While the rest were shouting abuse at the Suit Department staff, the ringleader was leaning against a pillar smirking and drawing on his cigarette. He was in his early twenties and was in a short sleeve Crosshatch hoodie, blue jeans, Nike trainers and baseball cap. His gear was acceptable but his behaviour was not, in my humble opinion.

I marched towards him, face like thunder, and shouted “Hey!” at him.

"Yeah, what the fuck you want?" he replied menacingly.

I instantly regretted my rash decision to get involved, feeling any adrenaline-fuelled temporary boost in macho-ness drain away as quickly as it came. I shut my eyes briefly, wondering how to extricate myself from this fair pickle I’d landed myself in.

"Look, I just don't want any trouble,” I said, holding up my hands in a pathetic climbdown. “If you leave now and don't come back, I'll make it worth your while."

He cocked his head towards me. "I'm listening . . ."

"There is a warehouse out the back—all the damaged stock goes there. Most of it still works, or at least can be sold on for parts. If you’re interested, follow me, and I'll show you."

He dropped his cigarette on the Suit Department floor and crushed it under his foot. I swallowed hard at the implied menace of it and wondered what I had gotten myself involved in. The chav smirked and nodded towards me. Everyone else was distracted by the chaos elsewhere in the shop so I led him through the 'Staff Only' door into the warehouse.

"Through here—light on the left," I said as I ushered him into a small stock holding room. He opened the door and went in as casually as if he belonged there. Before he could complete the entirely factually correct sentence "But there's nothing in here—" I whacked him on the back of the head with a non-functioning keyboard. Well, if it was functioning before, it probably wasn’t now . . .

He crashed to the floor, lying dazed by the surprise. Luckily the keys were spring loaded so no damage was done, I told myself. I quickly taped up his hands behind his back.

As he started to come back to his senses, I knelt beside him and told him not to shout out or struggle or I'd be posting photos of him on the Internet and anyway this room had very thick walls. I was worried I had overplayed my hand so I took out my cell and started taking photos just to reinforce his situation.

I wasn't really sure what I was doing but it felt really hot. Why do things that are wrong seem so hot? Something inside me had decided I needed to bring him down a bit but this was wrong. Wasn’t it?

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he gasped. “You some sort of queer?”

Well, that was uncalled for, don’t you think? Yes, I was some sort of queer but that was just rude. And it only spurred me on; how dare he make my colleagues’ lives a misery and then abuse me too! With a red mist descending, I impulsively ripped off one of the sleeves from his hoodie.

"Fuck man, get off me!" he yelped.

I repeated my earlier threat, whispered gently in his ear, and then proceeded to rip off the other sleeve. This time there was no response.

"Good,” I said, finding some level of authority I’d never experienced before. “Now you behave and you'll get out of here without a problem, okay? If you make life difficult yours will be too because I've just about had enough of arrogant little fuckers like you."

I grabbed a marker pen on a nearby counter and started marking on the printed logo on his hoodie, obliterating the words with bold black slashes. He defiantly kept staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on mine.

"How do you like your hoodie now?" I barked, breathing hard. There was no answer, just the faintest hint of a scowl. "Tell me you like your hoodie."

Again, there was no answer, so I prodded him with my foot. "I like my hoodie" he finally mumbled.

"Well done,” I retorted. “You've learnt the first lesson—respect. Right . . ." With that I pushed him over. "Now you learn what it feels like to be pushed around and abused, you little shit." I grabbed hold of his arms and started to pull him around the dirty floor.

"Stop!" he squealed as his hoodie started to get roughed up.

"Stop what?" I challenged.

"Stop this!"

Oh dear, not blessed with brains this one! "Try again," I said, dragging him by his leg this time.

"Stop, please!"

"Aha, good! Manners!" I stopped and laid him face down. I noticed his back pocket had started to come loose so I gave it a tug. It came away with an audible rip.

Now that I’d come this far, I couldn't resist seeing what he was wearing underneath his jeans. I lifted the ragged hoodie and spotted a new pair of CKs. I think something must have broken in my brain because I kept getting these evil thoughts! I knelt him up—don't worry, he was okay, just his clothes that weren't. I reached inside the waist of his jeans. He twitched. "Remember what I said about noise," I warned him.

Then, I gave his boxers a firm tug. He yelped as I increased the force.

"Shhh, all over soon . . ." and with that a sweet ripping sound filled the air as the boxers shredded at the crotch. He gulped in air in what sounded like relief.

"That was too easy,” I observed with some disappointment. “Those were fakes, weren't they?"

"Nooo!" he cried out. Hmmm, that was almost too indignant! "I bought them last week!" he pleaded.

"I think you stole them."

"No!"

I was still unconvinced. "Okay, next lesson—” I said, “telling the truth." Before he could respond, I pulled the front of the CK waistband up over his head, increasing the stress on the back part of the fabric.

"Owwww! Oww! Fuckin' hell!” he yelled. “Yeah, okay I stole 'em!"

"Good,” I responded. “Don't do it again. Now, I wonder what lessons I can teach you next . . .?"

Now seems to be a good time to get one thing straight—I'd never done anything like this in my life. My mind was racing on how I would explain this and what sort of exit strategy I could have. Well, half my mind was thinking about that; the other half was having a very good time indeed. Do you think you could have resisted any better?

I spun him around to take some shots of the rear view. His underwear was firmly wedged up where the sun don't shine. Boy, that had to hurt. Seriously, I wouldn't want anyone to do that to me!

Even though I was considering an exit strategy, I wasn’t done teaching this chav a lesson just yet. Hmm . . . What next? I looked around and spotted the spray paint used to mark boxes to return. Too tempting—too many evil thoughts crossed my mind. While I pondered what to do, I ran the cold tin up and down his arm. He shivered.

"This paint is interesting. Well, as interesting as paint gets,” I said, holding out the can. “We use it to mark the boxes of damaged goods. It is specially designed to dry fast, and not come off.” I shot him an evil grin. “Can you imagine how bad it would be if I sprayed your arm—or your . . ." I let my words trail off. He flinched. "Of course, just tell me you'll never do what you did again and I’ll spare your skin. But you better be convincing!

I think I scared him a little too much with that; he started pleading and apologising. It was actually quite pathetic; his green eyes burning a hole in me. For the first time today, I felt sorry for him. Which made what I did next even more surprising. I pushed the nozzle down on the can and let off a spray. He actually whimpered and a wave of guilt washed over me.

He started to turn his head towards his arm. "Oh no, fuck man! What have you done?"

Well actually, nothing. The nozzle was turned ninety degrees, so the paint flew harmlessly through the air and drifted onto the floor. When reality finally struck him, his face was quite a picture, and a very nice picture at that.

"Fuck fuck fuck. Bastard," he hissed.

"Tsk. Language," I replied. And then I used the paint in anger.

After some creative applications of the paint to his clothes, I made a hole in the knee of his jeans as well. He wasn't happy about that either—you'd think he would have realised how this was going to end by now. You do, don't you?

"What's your name?" I asked as he stared in horror at the gaping rip in his jeans.

Silence.

"I could just check your wallet—although I might break your phone in the rush . . ."

"Jay," came the mumbled reply.

"Been in trouble before, James?" Again, silence. "We have pretty good security cameras here but you kept your back to them with your hood up, didn't you? They would have picked up what you were wearing though." I held up my phone and showed him the photos I'd taken of his face. "However, these may help. Well, when I say help, I don’t mean not help you. Not at all. So, I'm doing you a favour—if these photos never get out and your clothes get destroyed, you are free. Nothing to identify you. Do you want me to help you?"

You could almost see and hear the cogs going around in his head as he tried to decide if the deal was worth it.

"Hmmm. Yeh . . ." he finally said, then paused for a while longer and reluctantly added a resentful "Thank you." You could tell that one cost him.

Suddenly I was seeing the real him, shorn of any macho bullshit. I wondered how he got into the gang trouble in the first place. But then I was ripping apart this stranger’s clothes—while they were still on him! Did that make me a terrible person? Maybe, I bow to your better judgement on such matters, but I wasn't going to let a chance like this pass me by!

Without hesitation, I slowly ripped the leg open on his jeans. He now knew what was going to happen and probably hoped to get the humiliation over with as quickly as possible, but I was going to make it as drawn out and enjoyable for myself as I could manage. Once the leg of his jeans was gaping, I moved on to the (sleeveless) hoodie, rending the rest of it to rags.

That done, I lifted him back on to his feet and continued to rip the jeans to tatters. The noise of ripping denim was amazing—I love it—and it distracted me from the pain that was starting in my hands from all the pulling and tearing. I stood back and took in my work. It was as if he was wearing what looked like a very bad pair of shorts. What a state Jay looked, a glorious state, but a state nonetheless.

I finally took pity on him. With a quick yank (and a yelp) I ripped the CKs off him. Next, I grabbed what was left of the hoodie at the neck and pulled it apart. Finally, the jeans. What to do to finish them off? I reached over and flicked open the button at the waist. The force caused the zip to part and the remains of the jeans fell to his ankles, coming to rest on one bare foot and one still safe in his Nike sock and sneaker.

As a finishing touch, I took his cap and, using the ragged hoodie, tied it around his cock. I told him he was free to go and enjoy a life of not picking on people and causing trouble. He looked down at the cap on his cock and all the bare flesh everywhere. “I can’t go out like this!” he moaned in a pathetic voice.

He shot me a pleading glance with those eyes again. I think I might have gasped. I hope it was a gasp, not a squeak. I'm not sure if my reaction was because my actions had suddenly hit home or because the chav was just, well, so beautiful right then. Regardless, I relented and told him to hide behind the boxes and I would get him some clothes from the shop.

I waited until after the shop had shut, then went down with some new clothes. I was greeted with complaints about how long it took and that he was cold. But he changed his tune when he clocked the cans of beer I'd brought with me.

I had chosen a slightly tighter fitting pair of jeans for him and a nice plain white polo shirt. He looked them over and asked about underwear. I mumbled something about security tags and . . . yeah, okay, I’m not fooling anyone, especially not you.

He rolled his eyes—it seems he didn’t buy the explanation either—but began pulling on the jeans and leaving the top to one side; there were no complaints from me. He ran his hand down his chest, and asked whether I had paid for the clothes.

When I hesitated, he smirked. "But that's stealing!"

Well, he had me there . . .

"Turn around—” he barked “you need punishing! Fair’s fair."

How quickly the tide had turned! I couldn’t argue with his logic, could I? So, against my better judgement, I turned around. The next thing I knew (well actually, felt), my Ralph Lauren boxer-briefs were getting ripped over my head. I guess I deserved that . . . And yes, it fucking hurt! So stop laughing!

We ended up just sitting there and chatting for ages—just random stuff—and when I went out to get some more beers, I was fully expecting him to have made his escape. But no, he was still there. That's when he told me about how his father used to beat him. Savagely and for no reason. His mum stood by and did nothing, perhaps fearful of what might happen to her, but still, you'd have stepped in to help if you were there, wouldn't you?

As he told me his story, I felt more and more regret of what I had just put him through. There are levels of damage we all go through in life, but to me this was one of the most egregious. Beaten by one of the people who should have been there to protect him, enabled by the other person. How would you start coming back from that?

I apologised for my earlier behaviour.

"Sometimes only a jerk can show another jerk how much of a twat he's being," he observed.

Ouch. It was hardly Chaucer, but yeah, deserved.

Jay smiled weakly, seemingly distracted and lost in thought. He put his hands down onto his denim-clad thighs and stared directly at me. “Time for me to go, I think.”

I held his gaze for a moment longer, taking the opportunity to drink in those eyes one last time. I had started out the encounter with me not being able to look at them, and now I’d be happy if they were the only things I ever saw again.

I nodded and we both stood up. I showed him to the back door and we both did that kinda awkward shuffle.

"If there is anything I can do, Jay, you know where I am . . ." I said.

"Thanks. I think it’s time to deal with a few things in my life. I'll see you around."

With that he was gone. I had this really strange feeling and I couldn't explain it. I reached down and picked up his cap and felt, well, sad I guess.

“I doubt I will,” I said quietly.

*  *  *

It had been about a month since that day and I still couldn't stop thinking about it. Well, yes, about him—you know me well it seems. Thinking about that encounter was more exciting than explaining that an iPod is just a brand and you could get the same thing much cheaper. Not that anyone actually listened; that’s something I’ve got used to. I’ve had a lot of practice.

One day, I was needlessly rearranging a shelf of superfluous electronic gadgetry when I suddenly sensed a presence behind me.

“Hello. I’m here to cause you trouble,” a voice said quietly, inches from my ear. I wheeled around, shock etched all over my face. It was Jay, sporting a Liverpool football shirt, loose fit Levi jeans, Nike BW trainers—and a menacing look, which quickly melted into a cocky smirk. And those eyes; there was a twinkle there too now. I couldn’t help but smile.

"Look,” I said, holding up my hands, “I just don't want any trouble—there is a warehouse out the back—all the damaged stock goes there. Most of it still works . . ."

He smiled broadly. "Okay, deal. Let’s see what you’ve got. And don't try anything . . ."

I glanced around to make sure no-one was watching us. "What, me? I wouldn't dare. It’s this way—do you want to go first?" Then I added with a smirk, “I believe you know the way.”

Teaching the Chav a Lesson by sneaked666 (from an idea from andrew)
Edited by sz1415sneakers