âFor starters, the shirt must always be tucked in.â
I did not dare move as he approached me. My tormentor, my nemesis, the man I had swore to defeat all these years. I could do nothing as he stepped closer and hooked his fingers into the waistband of the briefs and properly folded the shirt in. I remained frozen as he bent over and from my ankles and carried the trousers past my naked legs. They were his briefs that he was tucking the shirt into, his trousers that he was hoisting higher and zipping up.
âThatâs it, son,â Mr. Richardson stepped back. âNow fasten your side adjusters.â
I instinctively followed his command, feeling a pleasurable shiver run along my spine as my hands mechanically obeyed his orders. They pulled at the fabric on my trousers, securing the clasps and the waist tight against the briefs. Mr. Richardson said only briefs could provide both the support and dignity for a proper man.
âGood, make sure itâs tight and rigid,â Mr. Richardson instructed. âThat stiff quality is what makes the traditional man.â
His words made me feel weightless, pliable. It was almost as if my free will had become a clay that Mr. Richardson was able to mold in his own palms.Â
âAnd you wish to be a traditional man, donât you son?â
I could have never, ever expected my answer to have come so quickly. âYes.â
His smirk should have riled the anger residing deep inside of me, but instead all I felt was pleasure. Pleasure from Mr. Richardsonâs approval. Approval of my obedience.
âNow that you are tucked and tidy, letâs find you a tie.â Mr. Richardson searched through a drawer filled with more ties than I could count. And yet out of all the fanciful colors and patterns, he chose a simple black latticed piece to hand to me.
I looped the tie deftly around my collar, not even noticing that the full Windsor I had created was almost identical to his own. He glanced down at the knot before instructing me to tighten it. A puff of ecstasy released from my throat as I drew the fabric tight against my Adamâs apple.
âYouâre beginning to look just like me when I was your age, son.â Mr. Richardsonâs comment brought a pleasant smile to my lips as he squirted an obnoxious amount of clear gel into his hand. He then brutally forced the product into my hair, the harsh parting sporting an undeniable sheen. I said nothing. It felt good to say nothing. It felt good to let Mr. Richardson take control.
âDoesnât it suit you better? To look like me?â He took a seat back behind his desk before handing me his bottle of cologne. âWould you like to smell like me too?â
âI would very much like to, Sir.â Never once had I given this man respect, and now I had bequeathed him with a title where one could hear its capital letter at the front. I took the precious item from him and applied the ostentatious, yet comforting cologne to my pulse points.
The scent I had once reviled now surrounded me, pulsing out my own bloodstream proudly. Mr. Richardsonâs nostrils flared to appreciate his own aphrodisiac. I felt my own nose do the same.
âIf you are to be a traditional man, like you said youâd wished to be,â Mr. Richardson asserted. âThen you ought to be like me too, son. Am I correct?â
My eyes shifted momentarily, falling down over what I had become before retaking it in through an older reflection. I knew Mr. Richardson was mocking me, offering me a way out. All I had to do was take it. Say he was wrong and he would let me free. I would never become what he desired. All I had to do was say no.
âYes Sir, you are always correct. I ought to be like you too.â But why would I say no to Mr. Richardson. I wanted this to be my future. I wanted to be a classic, proper, traditional man. I wanted, no, I had always wanted to be like Mr. Richardson.
âVery good, son.â His low voice held confidence and maturity. âNow, put on your jacket and then we can get started.â
I took his word and secured the final portion of my suit over my shoulders. Mr. Richardsonâs smile was smug with victory. My face quickly came to match his, as it had been both of us who had won.
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