Neighborhood Watch (Patreon)

It's not a really fancy area, but the young lads checking out the front door of the house stood out, and not in a good way. All younger than 25, trackies, chains, and the general air of relaxed disregard all shouted misdemeanor. I weighed my options. I wanted to keep my distance. I was outnumbered, but even one on one the outcome probably wouldn't be in my favor. As a postgraduate student I'm too old, too out of shape, and if you corner an animal they find that extra strength to avoid another ASBO. But then again they are probably not looking for assault charges either, just looking for something loose to squeeze some cash out of.

"Hey!" I shout out. They are far enough away I have time to call the police to at least alert them. Assault in progress should put a bit more fire in their pants than a suspicious activity call. The sound is like a dull thud followed by a sharp pain in the back of my head. I'm not even cognizant of being hit as the world starts tilting and fade into darkness.

"too late for that, fucking eejit"

My head hurts and as my vision flutters back I can't focus properly or comprehend what I see. I slowly realize I'm lying on the ground watching someone's shoes. He's talking, but I'm too much in pain to catch what he just said.

"You in luck, mate. You didn't kill him," he continues.
"Yous problem now, bruv," someone behind me responds. Where am I? This isn't where I was before. How long have I been out?
"Oi, you have one on you?" the guy in front of me asks someone. I don't dare to look up at him. The less I know the better.
"Fucking hell. It's my last, mate."
"Should have thought of that before bashing someone in. Do it." The guy in front of me squats down, filling my view with his crotch.

From behind someone puts a damp piece of cloth over my face. It fills my nostrils with a pungent smell of indeterminate trash. Onions, diapers, sweat, rotting garden. I gag and thrash to get away from the horrid smell, but instead I feel myself slipping back into blackness.

I stir in bed feeling somewhere between drunk and hangover. Well, not quite that but content and sluggish. It's hard to put the feeling into words. Slow and horny perhaps. My hand reaches for my dick, but the slick material of the joggers only allows my hand to glide over it. I'm on top of the sheets I realize. Why didn't I go to bed properly? I was walking home I think, and then nothing. I make a frowny face, then decide to drop it. Who cares what happened?

I sit up and swing my legs out of bed, somewhat surprised by how quick and nimble I appear to be. My feet are sliding against the floor. It's the white socks. Why am I wearing white socks? I don't even own a pair of white socks. They are totally devoid of class. Yet I can't stop looking at them and again stroke my dick through the glossy fabric. The idea of wearing what I'm wearing is really turning me on.

I walk over to the free-standing closet in my small one-room apartment. It's completely empty. I look over myself in the mirror and almost cum my joggers. If I could I would make out with myself. I don't recognize anything I see in the mirror. I've never seen those Nike joggers and sweatshirt before in my life. I'm not even sure I am supposed to look like that, but somehow that's not important. There's nothing I'd rather wear or no other way I would rather look, not now, not outside, not to work.

There's a bit of a missed step in my mind as I think of work. I can't for the life of me remember where I work or what I do. Fuck, that is weird. My eyes glance around the room for clues. I'm struck by how barren it is. Like I just moved in. Some shit is thrown around. A bag. A hoodie. A pair of TN Air Max. I can't remember any of it, but whatever should be there instead just slips away when I try to recall it.