I'm Back

Still a struggle but I'm back. Into suits, tuxedos, nerds, diapers, pup play, age regression, bondage, and humiliation in general. As of now still not writing but feeling a little better with the support I've had from a few people on here and a few off of here.

[nerdysuitedbaby]

The Family Heirdoom Pt. 4

"Ruth!" Paul called as he entered the living room, one arm outstretched to usher her forward. “Come, my dear, and see your grandsons.”

Ruth’s eyes widened at the sight of William and Harold standing there, fresh in their new suits, their hair perfectly combed and gleaming. Her hands flew to her cheeks, and she let out a delighted gasp.

“Oh my stars! Just look at you two!” she said, stepping closer, her voice full of warmth and awe as she embraced them in a hug. “My handsome young gentlemen! I can hardly believe my eyes!”

Both William and Harold immediately shifted, almost imperceptibly, the way one does when caught in the gaze of someone whose approval matters. Harold straightened his jacket, smoothing the front with precise little motions. William tugged lightly at his cuffs, a shy smile tugging at his lips, cheeks warming at the praise. He couldn’t stop himself from standing a little taller, as if the words themselves were urging him to grow.

“Come closer, my dears,” Ruth continued, her voice soft but insistent. “Just look at my handsome boys!”

William and Harold moved forward in near-perfect unison, turning slightly so she could see every angle of their outfits. The new suits fit like they’d been crafted for them, and both boys angled their shoulders, smoothed their lapels, and lifted their chins as if her voice was a cue they’d been waiting for.

“Turn around you guys, let her get a good look at you,” Paul suggested. “ Show her how spiffy you look!”

Harold twirled lightly, the brown of his suit catching the soft light, bowtie sitting perfectly at his throat. William followed, almost instinctively, letting the jacket flare slightly as he spun.

They’re right! I do look spiffy. My hair is perfect. My suit is perfect. This is exactly how a young man should look.

Ruth clapped her hands softly, the sound lilting and warm. “Oh, my stars! Just perfect! You’ve both grown into such fine young men. Truly, we couldn’t be prouder!”

William’s smile widened, and he felt a flutter of emotion in his chest, a sort of dizzying, warm pleasure that washed over him. He took a small, almost imperceptible step closer to Ruth, inhaling faintly the familiar lavender scent. It blended with the soft strains of the record player humming somewhere in the background and the faint sweetness of the cookies they had been eating earlier.

I’ve never felt so…. right! He thought, his internal voice echoing the rhythm of her praise. They’re proud of me. My hair…. my suit…. it’s exactly how they would want me to look. How I should look. I feel so good, so proper, so happy to live up to their standards.

Paul moved to the side, watching quietly, a faint, satisfied smile on his face. He had been the one to guide them here, to steer William and Harold into the world of good grooming, proper behavior and good manners. Seeing Ruth’s delight,  he glanced at William, his eyes gleaming with pride as he noted the unquestioning delight on his grandson’s face.

“Ah, my boys,” Paul murmured, almost to himself. “Just as I thought. You’ve taken to it so well.”

This is exactly who I’m meant to be. Right? No, of course that's right. I am their grandson.

Ruth clapped her hands gently, the soft sound echoing warmly through the living room. “Now, my handsome boys,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “we simply must prepare for tonight’s dance. You’ve got to look proper, act proper, and, most importantly, move properly.”

William and Harold straightened instantly, hands smoothing their jackets almost without thinking. Both of them felt a thrill of anticipation, they wanted to please her, to be exactly as she envisioned.

“Come, sit here with me,” Ruth continued, gesturing toward the plush living room chairs near the record player. She carefully placed a fresh plate of cookies on the small table and selected a record, placing it gently on the turntable. The needle dropped with a soft scratch, and immediately, a warm, lilting swing filled the room. The music was light, rhythmic, the kind that made toes tap almost of their own accord.

William inhaled the scent of cookies once more and let his eyes drift over the record player as the music began to wrap around him like a gentle tide. This.… this feels right, he thought, the sound threading into his consciousness. This is proper. This is good. I like this.

Harold sat beside him, posture perfect, eyes focused on the small demonstration screen Ruth had set up. On it, an instructional film from decades ago showed couples moving through the ballroom, each step measured, polite, and elegant. Their footwork was clean, their posture upright, hands never straying. There were no wild spins or exaggerated thrusts, no modern moves that had once seemed “cool.” Only grace, rhythm, and wholesome connection.

William’s fingers absently toyed with the edge of his bowtie as he watched. A brief flicker of memory brushed his mind of the late nights in clubs, reckless dances with friends, flashy and showy moves meant to impress. He frowned, confused at first. But as he chewed his cookie and let the music seep in, those old impulses felt silly, empty. They belonged to a world that no longer made sense to him.

Why would anyone want to move like that? It's so tasteless. It's not proper. This.… this is real. This is proper. This is good.

Ruth’s voice, soft but firm, guided them as she pointed to the screen. “See how the gent holds his partner, William? Keep your back straight, shoulders relaxed, but always upright. Harold, remember to glide your feet, not stomp. Proper posture is everything.”

William mirrored the motions carefully, hands lifted slightly as though he were already holding an invisible partner. Each movement felt natural and satisfying, as though the music and guidance were embedding themselves directly into his muscles.

I want to dance like this. This is how a young man should move. This is how I should move.

The cookies, the lavender scent lingering faintly in the room, the gentle hum of the record, all of it worked in tandem. Every bite, every note, every whiff reinforced the feeling that this world, this rhythm, this etiquette was not only correct, but the only way to be happy and proper.

“Good, good,” Ruth said warmly, moving between them to adjust the tilt of William’s shoulders and the turn of Harold’s wrist. “Now, remember courtship is subtle, respectful, and kind. Eyes meet, smiles are gentle, steps are smooth. Always attentive, always polite. This is what makes a dance memorable, not wild gestures or loud moves.”

William’s mind absorbed her words effortlessly, repeating them silently to himself. Eyes meet, smiles are gentle, steps are smooth.… attentive.… polite.… His movements became fluid, synchronized with the music, his body already internalizing the elegance of the past.

Harold, fully immersed, mirrored him with the same perfection. Both boys seemed almost trance-like, completely absorbed in the rhythm, the instructions, the warm approval radiating from Ruth.

This is fun. This is proper. I am proper. I am a good young man. I am their grandson. This is right.

The record continued, soft and swinging, as Ruth hummed along and occasionally tapped their feet in encouragement. With each note, William felt further removed from his old, careless habits, the late night games, the reckless friends, the fleeting flings. They belonged to another life, one that felt distant, unappealing, and empty.

Here, in this room, with the music, the cookies, the scent, and Ruth’s soft guidance, he was becoming exactly who he was meant to be: attentive, graceful, and wholly devoted to the standards his grandparents had always wanted for him.

I love this music. I love these dances. I love being proper. I love being their grandson.

Ruth said, standing near the record player with her hands clasped together, eyes bright. “If you’re to attend the dance tonight, you’ll need to practice those steps properly. We can’t have you two looking like a pair of untrained hooligans out there.”

William and Harold exchanged quick glances. Harold smiled first, eager as ever.

“Yes, ma’am! You hear that, Will? Time to cut a rug.”

William chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh, Grandma, I dunno if…. I mean, I haven’t danced…. I haven't danced like this in, uh.…” He trailed off as his eyes glazed, catching her warm, expectant look. “....a while.”

“Then it’s high time you remembered,” Ruth said with a fond little clap of her hands. “Music and rhythm make gentlemen shine. You’ll see.”

She selected a vinyl, and set the needle down.

The crackle of static gave way to a bright, brassy tune that filled the parlor, smooth horns and cheerful piano notes that carried something softly persuasive beneath their melody. As it played, Ruth added, “Now, Harold, you lead. William, dear, you follow. It’s only practice, don’t be shy.”

Lavender hung thick in the air, sweet and heady, and as William rose to his feet, the scent seemed to sink deeper into his chest. It eased the stiffness in his shoulders. The record’s rhythm coaxed his pulse to match it.

“Go on,” Ruth encouraged from her chair, knitting half-forgotten in her lap. “You’ll thank me when the ladies are lining up for a twirl.”

Harold grinned, offering his hands. “Ready, brother?”

William hesitated only a moment before taking them. His palms met Harold’s, and they began to sway awkwardly to the beat.

At first, it felt ridiculous two grown men, brothers or not, moving together in the middle of a sitting room. His chest tightened with embarrassment.

“Ah…. sorry, man,” William muttered when his foot brushed Harold’s. “Guess I’m kinda a uh….”

The word left him before he could stop it. “Lunkhead.”

He blinked. Lunkhead? I've never used that word in my life. How do I know it means foolish.

But it felt.… fitting. Almost funny. 

I am a lunkhead of course I know what it means.

Harold laughed, unbothered. “You’re doin’ swell, Will! Just keep your chin up, nice and easy. There ya go! One, two, three, spin….”

William took a breath, inhaling lavender and suddenly the room seemed warmer, softer. The scent wrapped around him like a blanket as his feet found the rhythm.

The record hummed, patient and persuasive.

Harold twirled him lightly, and William almost laughed. “Heh, didn’t know I had such fancy footwork.”

“Fancy? Shoot, you’re hep cat,” Harold replied.

“You're darn tootin I'm one hep cat. We've only had dance lessons since we were four,” William said as new memories filled his head.

Hep cat. The word rolled off like he’d been saying it his whole life. Snazzy, nifty, bee’s knees, hep cat, daddy-o, moxie, dame and others started to fill his head.

He didn’t know where they came from, but they bounced in his head like lyrics to a song he already knew by heart.

“You’re really gettin’ the hang of it, Will,” Harold said as they turned with the beat. “You’ll wow every dame at the hop tonight.”

William’s grin grew, bright and sincere. “Aw, stop it,” he said, cheeks warming. “I’m just a crummy schnook.”

He stopped again, surprised. Schnook? Another old word. But it didn’t sound strange, it sounded right.

Harold laughed, slapping his shoulder. “You’re a real card, Will! Look at us! We’ll be the swellest, spiffiest, jitterbugs out there.”

William nodded, his heart light, the tune spinning his thoughts like silk.

“I don’t wanna be a square,” he said, the phrase slipping out as naturally as a sigh. “I wanna cut a rug and not look like I'm strictly from Dixie into front of ask the dames tonight.”

That made Harold beam. “Relax your dressing right, grooming right, you're well you'reved, and a great dancer. You're theYou're’s knees’  knees just need to be more confident in yourself.just need to be more confident in yourself.”

The two of them laughed and practiced, their steps falling neatly into rhythm. William could almost picture the dance floor already: he polished wood, the string lights, the smiling faces. He’d belong there. He’d fit in perfectly.

As they spun and swayed, the music rose, horns lilting, lavender thicke ing. His mind buzzed, but not unpleasantly it hummed with contentment.

He wasn’t sure if it was the dance or the air or the record’s tune, but he felt like he’d always known this life.

*KNOCK* *KNOCK*

“They’re here!” Ruth called out as she went to answer the door. 

The door opened.

Mrs. Applebaum entered first, cane tapping softly across the floor. Beside her walked her granddaughter Martha, a moment of hesitation flickering in her eyes as she took in the sight of two sharply dressed boys dancing together.

“Oh good, you’re here!” Ruth chirped, her cheeks were bright with excitement.

Martha’s gaze lingered on William, a second too long confusion tightening her brow.

“Um…. Harold?” she asked cautiously, “Who’s…. he?”

Before Harold could answer, Ruth stepped forward, her voice soothing and decisive.

“Why, that’s William, dear. Harold’s younger brother. You remember. After all, you and Harold have been seeing each other for months now.” She placed a warm hand on Martha’s shoulder. “William is family.”

A tiny flicker of resistance pulsed in Martha’s eyes but then it vanished entirely.

“Oh! Of course.” Her smile formed as if it had always been there. “Yes Harold’s little brother. Silly me!”

William felt relief flood him relief he didn’t even know he’d needed.

Martha moved closer, eyes sparkling as she examined their outfits.

“You boys match!” she gasped. “I love the brown suits with the contrasting green and yellow. You look so handsome!”

Then her attention turned directly to William.

“And you…. you look just like your handsome big brother!”

William’s face reddened. His shoes scuffed lightly against the carpet as he tried to contain a grin.

“I’ve always wanted to be like Harold,” he heard himself say the words emerging smooth and unquestioned. “Make him and our grandparents proud.”

Harold nodded, proud as could be.

“That’s right, kiddo.”

“And we should all want to make our grandparents proud!” Martha added brightly as all three have a bland vacant smile.

Paul joined them then, resting a firm but gentle hand on each boy’s shoulder.

“And you do,” he said, voice rich with self-satisfaction. “We couldn’t be prouder. You're both fine young men, respectable, wholesome…. exactly how proper grandchildren should be.”

A warmth bloomed in William’s stomach that was both dizzying and soothing.

Paul then turned to Martha with a kindly smile:

“Why don’t you go with Ruth and your grandmother now? They’ll fix your hair and make your face all pretty for tonight’s dance.”

Martha lit up, giving Harold a bashful little wave before following Ruth and Mrs. Applebaum down the hall no confusion left, only certainty.

Harold and William watched them disappear, both standing straighter.… both smiling wide.

“Harold, can you switch out the record for the album a Young Man Blossoms and then you need to go to the bedroom, son,” Paul said lightly. “William I want you to stay here and listen to this. I just know you'll love it.”

A softer melody drifted into the parlor. The steady rhythm of a metronome played as something soft could vaguely be heard below the steady he. 

William focused trying to make out the noises. Was someone talking? Were there lyrics? Or was it another instrument?

The music hummed low and sweet. It felt slower than before. Smoother. It curled around his thoughts like a snake slowly constricting is prey.

He shifted his weight.

The rhythm tapped against his ribs. One-two. One-two. His shoulders loosened. His chin lifted slightly. Without meaning to, he smiled.

He pictured the dance again.

Polished floors. Shiny well cared dress shoes. Young men in  dapper suits. Pretty girls in pastel dresses. Their high heels clicking on the surface as they follow a man as he leads her in a dance.

The image felt closer now. Sharper.

Footsteps returned.

Paul stepped back into the room alone. He didn’t speak immediately. He just watched William sway faintly with the record.

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well now,” Paul murmured. “Look at you. Looks like you've got the dance down.”

William straightened instantly.

“I like this song,” he said, almost defensively.

Paul walked slowly around him, hands clasped behind his back like an inspector reviewing his work.

“You don’t just like it,” Paul corrected softly. “You love it.”

William blinked once.

“I…. love it,” he repeated.

Paul gave a thin, satisfied smirk.

“That’s better.”

He stopped in front of William, studying his expression as the music continued its gentle insistence.

“This kind of music makes a young man like you think about his future,” Paul went on. “Makes him think about the kind of girl he wants.”

William’s breathing deepened.

“What kind of girl do you want, William?” Paul asked casually though the answer was already forming in his tone.

William hesitated.

Paul leaned closer.

“Not loud,” he supplied smoothly. “Not brash.”

William’s brow relaxed.

“No,” he agreed quietly.

“Elegant,” Paul continued. “Classy. A proper young lady who carries herself with grace.”

A faint smile spread across William’s face again.

“Yeah,” he whispered softly. “Elegant.”

Paul nodded approvingly, eyes gleaming.

“She’ll expect a gentleman, won’t she?”

William swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“And you are a gentleman.”

It wasn’t a question.

William’s shoulders pulled back as if lifted by invisible strings.

“I am.”

Paul circled him again, studying William like a craftsman inspecting his build.

“And when you see her,” he said thoughtfully, “the girl that is perfect for you.… what do you think will happen?”

William blinked. The confidence in his posture wavered.

“I… I don’t know.”

Paul’s lips twitched into a sinister smirk.

“You’ll get nervous,” he said calmly. “Your stomach will flip. Your hands might shake a little.”

William looked down at his own fingers as if expecting them to tremble.

“You’ll start second guessing yourself,” Paul continued smoothly. “Wondering if your hair’s right. If your jacket sits straight.”

Without realizing it, William began tugging lightly at his sleeves. Adjusting his bowtie. Running his hands through his hair.

“I need to make a good impression,” he murmured.

“Of course you do. You only get one chance to make a first impression.” Paul encouraged as William swallowed.

Paul let out a soft, almost amused breath.

“Well son,” he said lightly, “you have always been a bit of a klutz around pretty girls, haven’t you?”

William’s face flushed instantly.

“I…. I do get awkward,” he admitted. “I trip over my words. I make that loud goofy laugh.”

Paul gave a low chuckle.

“Yes. That loud, dorky laugh of yours.” His eyes gleamed. “You’ve made a bit of a spectacle of yourself once or twice.”

William winced faintly, shoulders curling inward.

“I’ve never really been smooth,” he said quietly.

“No,” Paul agreed gently. “You haven’t. You've always been socially awkward but that's ok you're a late bloomer and you're ready to start dating.”

His heart started beating against his chest profusely.

“But the right kind of girl.…” Paul continued, voice softening just enough to feel reassuring. “She won’t laugh at you cruelly. She’ll give a sweet, warm little chuckle.”

William’s posture eased slightly.

“She’ll find it charming,” Paul went on. “Your shy smile. Your goofy humor. Your awkward little habits.”

William looked up.

“She would?”

“Oh yes,” Paul said confidently. “The right girl will make you feel comfortable enough to be yourself.”

William’s fingers stopped fidgeting.

“A shy, goofy, socially awkward, retro little gentleman,” Paul added with a faint smirk. “And when she smiles kindly at you, you’ll stand taller. You’ll relax and that's when you'll truly fall head over heels in love with her.”

William exhaled slowly.

"Then you'll stand taller, prouder. You won’t need to worry about all your awkward little habits..”

William stopped shifting immediately.

“No, sir.”

“You’ll smile all night,” Paul said. “A nice, content smile. Not too wide. Not too eager. Just enough to look confident.”

William practiced it unconsciously adjusting his expression until Paul gave a small approving nod.

“There,” Paul said. “See? You know exactly how to behave.”

He reached up and straightened William’s lapel, brushing imaginary dust from the fabric.

“You’ll offer your hand properly. Keep it at her waist respectfully. You won’t crowd her. You won’t stumble.”

“I won’t,” William said quickly.

“You’ll compliment her dress.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll tell her she looks lovely.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul tilted his head, studying the boy’s brightening eyes.

“And you’ll mean it,” he added with quiet amusement.

William nodded, almost breathless now. The music swelled gently behind them, reinforcing every word.

“I’m excited,” William blurted suddenly. “I really am.”

Paul’s smile widened.

“Of course you are,” he said softly. “You’ve been looking forward to dancing all month.”

William’s face flushed with enthusiasm.

“I have,” he said, certainty flooding his voice. “I can’t wait. I wanna dance to every song.”

Paul stepped forward and began buttoning William’s jacket slowly, one button at a time until all three buttons were buttoned.

“That’s right,” Paul murmured. “You are eager. Proud. Ready to show everyone what a fine young gentleman you’ve become.”

William nearly bounced on his heels now, barely containing himself.

“I’m so excited,” he said, grinning openly. “It’s gonna be perfect. I just know it.”

Paul smoothed the collar flat and gave the bowtie a firm tug.

He looked directly into William’s shining eyes.

“Good boy,” he said, satisfaction unmistakable in his voice. “Now just keep listening to this record until it's time to go.”

Paul left as the record kept spinning and William just kept listening to the record and replaying everything Paul had told him in his head.

Oh boy I can't wait for the dance tonight!

[nerdysuitedbaby]

The Family Heirdoom Pt. 3

The old station wagon hummed softly along the winding country road, its tires brushing gravel with a gentle hiss. A golden haze soon to settle across the farmland as dusk would soon crept in.

In the back seat, William and Harold sat like marionettes, motionless except for the clockwork movement of their hands: raise cookie, bite, chew, swallow, lower hand. Repeat.

Their eyes were wide but empty, fixed forward as if watching something only they could see. They didn’t blink in unison, but they may as well have. Whatever was happening behind their eyes wasn’t conscious.

From the driver’s seat, Paul glanced up into the rearview mirror. His fingers barely brushed the steering wheel now, the road familiar enough that he could afford to linger.

There they were.

Harold and Wyndham, or rather William, sat side by side in the backseat, dressed sharp in their new brown suits, the fabric still stiff from disuse, shirts crisp and neatly tucked, bowties fastened just so. Their freshly cut hair was slicked back to a smooth, high gloss equally identical in its care, gleaming under the rays of sunlight that pooled through the rear window. The cookie in their hands was the only part of them in motion, rising and falling with mechanical repetition.

Paul’s lips curled into a faint, satisfied smile.

They looked like good boys now.

Calm. Presentable. Still.

He eased back into his seat, the music curling like smoke in the air.

The old timey music cooed in harmony. A trumpet warbled sweet and brassy. The radio wasn’t particularly loud, but the music was everywhere. In the air. In their heads.

William’s head tilted faintly. Not by choice.

I love this song… 

This music is great…  

I could listen to this all the time…  

I love this song…  

This music is great… 

I could listen to this all the time…

The words circled lazily in his mind. He didn’t notice the repetition. He didn’t question it. His lips parted slightly, not to speak, but to smile. It was faint, involuntary. Warmth spread across his chest, but it wasn’t emotional, it was learned.

The cookie moved to his mouth again.

I love this song…

He chewed, swallowed, lowered his hand.

The music continued. So did the mantra.

This music is great…

Then something changed.

It was small.

The weight of his own head. The strange, subtle pull at the crown where the hair had been brushed back and oiled into position. A faint shine from the windshield glass caught the corner of his vision. His reflection, distorted in the glass, gleamed.

A slickness. An awareness tried to resurface.

My hair…

The thought was thin, flickering, but it wormed in past the music.

He blinked.

It’s so heavy…

He couldn’t feel his scalp beneath it, just the coating. The suffocating gloss of pomade, the unnatural tightness of the style. His fingers itched to touch it, to push against the hold, to mess it up and breathe again but all he did was bring the cookie towards his mouth.

It’s too shiny… too greasy… too heavy… it’s not me… this isn’t me…

The panic tried to rise but it was just a mere drop in the tide. His heart gave a sharp, confused flutter.

It’s… 

I ha…

I love my greased hair… 

My hair looks neat and clean…  

I love when it shines…

I love when it stays in place…

The suffocation he’d started to feel faded suddenly.

He wasn’t trapped. He was warm. Wrapped. Not smothered, but swaddled. Like a newborn, bundled tight and safe. A boy taken care of. A boy who didn’t need to think.

The fear bled away into something syrupy and slow as thoughts wormed their way into his head.

Grease keeps a boy’s hair proper…  

A young man should always be well groomed…  

Proper hair shows proper character… 

This is a good look for me…

The weight on his head no longer felt foreign. It felt like a crown.

His hand rose again. Cookie. Bite. Chew.

His hair, once wild and shaggy, now sat perfectly slicked to the shape of his head, held firm by the thick layer of pomade that made each strand shine like polished glass. The sticky weight, the firm hold, the rigid parting on the side all felt reassuring now. 

Comforting. Proper. He’d stopped noticing the scent of lavender and musk that clung to it.

I love my haircut....

That thought came warmly and he accepted it like a treat, letting it settle softly in his mind. He gave a big dopey smile.

But then his gaze drifted down to the brown suit that envelope his body.

Noooo.... This isn't right!

The fabric was stiff, heavy and worst of all the color was a muddy, dull brown. It looked boxy on his small frame. An equally ugly bright yellow dress shirt rested beneath the suit. Clinging tightly to the armpits and the cuffs fastened like shackles around his wrists. That wasn't the only thing that felt right and uncomfortable, his tiny retro bowtie felt like a noose around his neck. The slacks had too much fabric as the pleated cuffed dress pants leaked the modern style trends but the waistband stuff uncomfortable into his sides. The shoes, a pair of brown wingtips monstrosity, were polished to a mirror sheen and cumbersome. Not like sneakers or even boots. These shoes didn’t want him to move. They wanted to plant him. Thoughts crept through his head.

Th-this doesn’t look good. What am I wearing? This isn’t how I dress. I look ridiculous.

For a moment, the illusion cracked. He could remember jeans. He could remember sneakers. He shifted slightly, just enough to feel the restrictive tension in the shoulder seams. He couldn’t relax in this. He couldn’t breathe in this. The suit wasn’t him. None of it was. It wasn’t his style. He would never wear something like this. He felt the urge to pull at the bowtie. To unfasten the top button. His hand rose here he goes.

Suddenly a cookie filled his mouth as he bite down. Chew. Swallow.

But then the voice returned like a thick blanket being drawn up over him in the middle of a slumber being tucked in by a loving guardian. Someone that would take care of him and guide him. Like his grandparents. Yes.

My grandparents are here to give me guidance….

I want their guidance….

I need their guidance….

I need their discipline….

I want their discipline….

My grandpa picked this out….

My grandpa was offering me his guidance….

I need his guidance….

I want his guidance…..

His hand rose again. Cookie nearly finished. Bite. Chew.

I want his guidance….

He guided me to this outfit….

I want his guidance….

I want to wear this outfit….

I love my grandparents guidance….

My grandparents are always right….

I love my grandparents….

I love my suit….

Even if it looks….looks….ugly….I have to resist. Come on Wyndham.

He caught his reflection again.

But I look so nice, William!

The discomfort shortly melted away.

With my grandparents' guidance I'll be a proper young man….

I'm a proper young man….

Proper young men dress nicely…. 

Proper young men wear suits…. 

Sloppy clothes make sloppy minds....

Sloppy minds lack maturity….

You want to be mature….

William blinked slowly, his face relaxing into something close to bliss. The brown suit no longer felt foreign. It felt right. Like it belonged to him. Like he belonged in it. And suddenly, the yellow shirt didn’t seem ugly anymore it seemed cheerful. The bowtie wasn’t a leash but rather ribbon tied neatly around a gift, a boy who had finally learned how to behave.

You belong in this….

You always wanted to wear this….

He caught a glimmer of himself in the windshield’s reflection, his perfectly combed hair, his suit crisp and tidy, the small contented smile on his face.

I love this suit….

I love how I look…. 

I love dressing like a proper young man….

Proper young man are respectful….

Obedient….

Disciplined….

William continued to repeat these things in his head as the station wagon cracked around toward the resident parking next to the condos, the buildings brick growing gently under the late afternoon sun. As Grandpa Paul eased the old wagon into his parking spot something disrupted the calm warm atmosphere.

A tow truck sat next to the office, its hydraulic lift humming low and steady. Behind it, wheels locked in place and noise tilted awkwardly upward, was a sleek, blue sedan. It paint gleamed under the sun highlighting the smooth curves of car making it stand out in contrast to a majority of the old beat up vehicles sitting around the parking lot.

William’s eyes locked on the sedan the moment it came into view. He leaned forward slightly on his seat, brows furrowing.

“No…. That's…. that's….” he started, then hesitated. His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but the thought simply wasn't there. There was only the strange heaviness in his chest, like something was trying to fight its way up like vomit but wouldn't come up.

Paul didn't say anything. Not yet. He just let the moment hang in the air as he watched through the rearview mirror, slow and steady, like the patience of a fisherman watching a bobber waiting for a slight twitch.

Harold turned his head lazily toward the window and scoffed. “Another person leaving their unwanted junk around here. Don't folks realize this is a residence?”

William nodded his head in agreement with his brother as he still gazed at the car. Something about it made him imagine himself riding in the car. Just driving around with the smell of food filling up the car, his music blasted, wind blowing in his hair as he wore some sort of odd sweater with a hat of sorts sown into the back of the sweater. The weird hood-e echoed in his mind but what was that. It felt real but that couldn't be more than fantasy. Like he would wear such strange garments, his hair was perfectly held in place from such strong winds, nor would he ever listen to whatever that noise was, and that car….it nice. Too nice, actually. Too shiny, too modern, too…. futuristic. Couldn't be reliable.

He blinked, and the idea passed faster than a blink of an eye. He couldn't explain why the thoughts can't, and how silly it looked in his mind to be thinking of such odd things. Still, his lips moved before he could stop them.

“That's….” he muttered, as Paul watched closely as William paused. “a real problem. I mean seriously their are elderly people here. Not everyone is like you and Grandma and can walk to their car easily. Some people like Fredrick or Eleanor need the ability to get around with ease.”

Paul glanced at him in the mirror, quietly watching as William watched them remove his car without a care in the world.

William gave a short, breathy chuckle as his smile returned to his face. He leaned back against the seat, eyes still locked on the car as the tow truck began pulling it away.

“Honestly, that thing looks too flashy and cheaply made,” he said casually. “On top of being a death trap it probably guzzles gas or is one of those electric cars that can only run a few miles on a long charge. Gosh darn hippies ruin everything.”

Hair missed beside him, arms neatly folding in his lap. “Yeah! Give me something strong, simple and reliable any day.”

He gave a sharp, joyless laugh. “Honestly, I hope that hooligan gets what's coming to him. Maybe if he's lucky some will teach that boy some manners. Knock some respect into him.”

In the driver’s seat, Paul turned slightly, his face lit with amusement.

“Well,” Paul said with the satisfied air of a man inspecting a well-whittled sculpture, “if it were up to me, I’d make sure that young man turned into someone respectable. Polite. Proper. Well groomed. Disciplined. Just like you and your brother.”

Paul gave a knowing glance at William and then Harold as he continued to speak. “A young man like that needs structure. Boundaries. A firm hand from someone wise enough to see who he could be. Someone that isn't afraid to mold and shape you into being the best version of themselves. I suppose it’s lucky for you two that you had someone who cared enough to raise you right.”

William grinned widely, folding his hands neatly in his lap, the l bowtie seemed to mirror his Cheshire cat smile. “You’re right, Grandpa. I don’t know where I’d be without your discipline and guidance.”

Harold leaned forward from the back seat, his smile matching William’s. “We really needed it. I didn’t even realize and sad I was until you showed me the way.”

Paul let out a soft chuckle, clearly savoring the moment. He didn’t need thanks, but he expected it all the same.

“We love you so much, Grandpa,” they said with mechanical precision, voices warm, eyes shining.

Paul sat back in his seat, his hand resting casually on the wheel. “I know, boys. I know. I love you as well. Now let's get inside. Wouldn't want you boys sweating and getting your new suits ruined.”

William stepped out first, the evening heat pressing against him like a warm hand. He took a moment before shutting the door to adjust his bowtie, fingers smoothing the fabric flat against his chest. The yellow shirt clung a little at the back, but he ignored it. He gave his slacks a quick upward tug, brushing his palms down the crease before reaching in to grab his flat cap. With a soft breath and a quiet pride, he placed it proudly atop his head.

Harold emerged from the other side of the car, mirroring the ritual. He fidgeted with his lapels, clicked his shoes together once on the pavement, then squared his shoulders. The two brothers, now thoroughly composed, looked like polished reflections of one another proper, clean-cut young men. Their shoes clicked neatly on the pavement, polished to a dull gleam that reflected the afternoon sun.

“Hey there, Mr. McGladdery! Harold!”

The shout came from across the yard, cheerful and sharp. William’s eyes turned instinctively toward the sound.

A young man stood out on the lawn, one hand raised in an enthusiastic animated wave, the other gripping the long handle of a push mower. He was halfway through a fresh pass, the cut lines in the grass running tight and symmetrical. Sweat dotted his brow and his white dress shirt looked crisp despite the sweat beginning to bead at the collar, the sleeves neatly rolled to just below the elbow to reveal arms slicked with honest labor.

Why was he wearing such nice clothes to do yard work?

William blinked, something in him hesitating.

Wait why wouldn't he? What else would a man wear? He has to be dressed appropriately when in public for goodness sakes. After all, proper young men dress nicely. Sloppy clothes make for sloppy minds. We love dressing like proper young men. 

William repeated in his mind as his eyes glazed over and a smile spread across his face.

The young man looked about their age, maybe a little older although there was something younger about his exuberance. His hair was styled with careful precision, dark and glossy, parted neatly and swept back into a wave that held its shape even with the heat. A thin mustache sat neatly above his upper lip, trimmed to perfection, giving him a kind of old-timey charm and elegance. But any elegance was tempered by the way he smiled, big, goofy, entirely unguarded and carefree.

He wore navy high-waisted trousers held up by suspenders, the pants hugging his frame just right despite the sweat. A yellow patterned tie hung slightly loose around his neck, perfectly anchored with a tie clip that gleamed in the slowly setting sun. His shoes, black leather wingtips, looked too formal for yard work, but somehow he managed to keep them spotless. Despite the clear signs of hard work he still looked like someone who took great pride in his appearances. 

“Ricardo, this is my grandson William,” Paul said, facilitating their introduction. “William, meet Ricardo. He used to go to college as well before bringing his accounting skills here. He also helps out around the community and takes great pride in doing so. Real respectable young man.”

“Aw, you’re gonna make me blush, Mr. McGladdery,” Ricardo said with a theatrical shrug and a bashful grin. “It’s just good manners and hard work. Just raised right, that's all sir! Anyway it's a real pleasure to meet you William and welcome to our community.”

He stuck out his hand, firm and enthusiastic. William shook it, his expression polite, even cheerful, though his eyes briefly fluttered with something distant before settling again.

“Pleasure’s mine,” William said, voice steady but a little too rehearsed. “You’re clearly not afraid of getting your hands dirty. Huh?”

Ricardo laughed, a wild burst of air followed by a strange high-pitched cackle like a donkey. “Hehehehe! Well, I gotta keep busy or I start talking to the hedges like they’re my nonna, capisce?”

William gave a short laugh, adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt. “How do you manage to keep your shirt that clean while working up a sweat? You’re out here mowing a lawn, and you barely have a grass stain.”

Ricardo widened his eyes like the question was the most serious thing he’d heard all day. “Ahh, now that’s a trade secret, my friend,” he said, wagging a finger before chuckling. “But I’m feeling generous. So first rule, you don’t lean too far forward. Keep your elbows tight, shoulder work only, like you’re waltzing with the mower. And second, always wear an undershirt! So you sweat in that, see? And lastly, you only roll up the sleeves once you know the sun’s gunnin’ for you. You gotta respect the sleeves.”

William nodded thoughtfully, clearly taking the advice to heart, though part of him seemed unsure why he cared so much. Still, he smiled warmly. “That’s actually… really useful.”

Ricardo placed his fists on his hips proudly, then pointed with both hands at William and Harold. “But hey, let’s talk about your threads! You gentlemen certainly look spiffy!”

Harold beamed and brushed a bit of dust off his lapel. “Aren’t they something? We just got 'em this about an hour ago for the dance tonight.”

Paul, arms folded and posture straight as ever, gave a deep, approving grunt. “You three boys clean up real well. Discipline. Order. Responsibility. That’s the way a proper young man should carry himself.”

All three boys stood a bit taller at that, eyes gleaming with pride.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” Harold said sincerely.

“This is a great community and your generation has done some much for us,” William added, his voice warm and sincere. “We’re lucky to have your guidance.”

Ricardo placed a hand over his heart with dramatic flair. “I’m getting choked up over here!”

“Afternoon, Paul,” Ricardo Sr. called out with a warm smile as the screen door creaked open, his accent still thick despite decades in the States. “This must be your new grandson?”

Paul gave a nod, keeping a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “This here’s William.”

Irene squinted behind her glasses, giving William a curious once-over. “Ahh… so this is the new one. You’ve done good work, Paul. He looks so handsome.” Her tone was approving, but there was an unmistakable weight behind the words. William smiled instinctively and gave a small nod, not fully understanding why it mattered so much.

The screen door snapped again.

This time Eleanor stepped out, balancing a tray with two sweating pitchers and a handful of clinking glasses. Her pregnancy was unmistakable as her belly pressing against a floral dress, her feet swelling in heels, but her posture was brisk and purposeful. Curlers bounced atop her head as she made her way around the porch.

“Lemonade or tea,” she announced sweetly, setting the tray down on the small side table between Irene and Ricardo Sr.. “Just how you like it, iced cold and not too sweet.”

“Oh, bless you, dear,” Irene said, taking a glass delicately.

“No one makes it like you, Eleanor,” Senior added, smiling as she placed a glass in his hand.

Just then, from the yard, Ricardo’s voice rang out like a trumpet. “Ellie! Mi tesoro! Did you bring Papa Bear his juice? I'm completely parched!” She jogged over to him as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Of course my love,” Eleanor said handing him a lemonade. 

Ricardo accepted the glass like it was an Oscar. “You’re an angel in curlers, Eleanor.” He kissed her cheek with a loud mwah, then turned to Paul and the boys, grinning from ear to ear.

Eleanor rolled her eyes with fond exasperation before turning toward Paul and the grandsons. “Would gentlemen like a glass?”

Paul shook his head gently and gave a small wave. “Thank you kindly, Eleanor, but we’ve got to head in and model these fine outfits for their grandma. She’s been waiting all day to see how her boys in their new suits.”

William and Harold straightened instinctively, as if on cue, brushing at invisible dust on their jackets and nodding dutifully.

“Of course,” Eleanor said, stepping back with a polite smile as Ricardo resumed mowing with one hand, sipping with the other, already humming something dramatic under his breath.

Paul guided his grandsons toward the house, his voice low and proud. “Come on, boys. Let’s go show grandmother.”

“Now that fella’s a real hoot,” William said out loud. “Kind of a goofball, sure, but swell. Really swell. You can tell he means well. And his wife…” His mind lingered for a second on Eleanor, waddling carefully with her tray, curlers still tucked into her dark hair. “Quiet, sweet, beautiful… seems like a real lady. I really hope to find someone like that soon so I can settle down and start a family.”

Wait…. is that what I really want?

The front door creaked open, and they stepped inside.

“Ruth?” Paul called out, voice echoing just slightly through the front hall. “Come take a look at your handsome grandsons!”

No answer.

“She’s probably out back,” Paul muttered and disappeared down the hallway.

That left William and Harold alone in the front room.

What is this place? It's home…. but that can't be! It looks familiar but it doesn't feel familiar. Why does memories of playing bridge, chess, and listening to the radio with his grandparents seem like a dream?

“Is something wrong?” Harold asked, noticing a slight tingle in William's right eye.

“I'm not sure…. I think….” William stuttered as he stepped further into the living room.

As he stepped deeper into the house something, almost instantaneously, settled over William. 

Lavender…. 

It was like walking into a cloud of something familiar but invisible. The air in the house was heavier, sweeter. He blinked, realizing how strong the lavender smell was. Fresh. Warm. Familiar. It clung to the curtains, the cushions, l the wood, the very air. It even seems to come off the rays of sunlight that keeps through the opening in the curtains.

He inhaled again, slower this time. It smelled nice. So nice it made his shoulders relax. His heart slowed. His thoughts felt… softened. Like they were tucking his mind into a nice warm fuzzy blanket.

Home…. Family…. Smile…. Happy….

These words he repeated in his head as those dream-like memories felt more and more real the more he repeated those words.

His mind was juggling memories between setting and watching a bulky television with an antenna attached to it but also watching on a flat screen, playing cards and board games but also playing video games, staying at floral wallpaper but also bare white walls, floral couches with removable cushions and a quilt draped over the back but also a futon and a gaming chair, everything seem to have a construction memory.

He blinked, then caught the scent of something else. Something baking or freshly baked.

His eyes drifted toward the side table. A tray. A white lace doily. A plate of cookies fresh from the oven still glistening with they're crispy golden brown texture.

Chocolate chip….

He didn’t need to say a word to Harold. They both reached for one, moving in near perfect sync. William took a bite and the world seemed to tilt, just slightly.

Suddenly he seemed to have more memories sitting on a floral couch playing board games with Harold or bridge with his grandparents. He could remember watching television after spending an eternity messing with the antenna. He even remembered that he enjoyed watching those educational videos that taught his brother and him how to dress, behave and act. He remembers sitting on the couch playing bridge with his grandparents.

The cookie was warm. Soft in the middle. Sweet and buttery and so absurdly good he had to close his eyes as he took a second bite. Not because he was being dramatic. Because it was overwhelming in a way that didn’t make sense. Like a kind of happiness baked into dough.

He could remember the futon and the flat screen still but it didn't occupy most of his memories. Now he associated it with the very brief time he had lived in the college dorms. It was the most miserable time of his life. Video games and raunchy television was completely inappropriate and a total waste of time. Remember all the partying and peer pressure to drink alcohol. Like he would ever do that he was a mere boy and it's not like he has his diploma, a cushy office job or a family to go home to so there was no need to drink. After all, we're just stupid children with no knowledge of how the world works. This is why you need our grandparents' guidance otherwise we would do marijuana. He got a chill remembering all the marijuana around campus. One day he remembered his roommate smoking that horrible, vile, disgusting stuff as he stared at the plain white wall. He felt like he was in prison and was near corruption, he remembers actually touching the marijuana, but then while staring at the white walls do you remember the vibrant floral wallpaper that provided him so much comfort and came home.

I'm a good boy! 

He thought as he straightened himself up and smiled.

He started to reach for a second cookie but then he heard it.

At first, it was a whisper beneath everything, a dusty scratch of vinyl and a melody creeping in from the next room. But soon it swelled, warm and sentimental, full of slow strings and steady rhythm. An old tune. Older than him. Older than his thoughts.

And suddenly… it didn’t feel like someone else’s home anymore. It felt like his home.

The couch cushions, the ticking clock, the embroidered pillows, the china figurines… they weren’t foreign. They were comforting. Familiar. Like returning to a place you’d forgotten you loved.

He stared at the floral couch again and he started to remember Harold and himself building forts out of the cushions. He can remember them coming home from school taking off their jackets and playing cowboys and indians. He can see them in their short pants that were held up by suspenders, knee high socks, their necktie bobbing up and down as they ran around the living room.

Good times….

He said staring at his brother who was staring at him in a similar fondness.

His mind continues to be assaulted with happy memories as the music wove its way around him and rocking him like the comfort of a soothing lullaby. He could remember Christmas spent together, birthdays celebrated, grandparents anniversary, slideshows of vacations, grandma making our clothes for us, just so many happy memories.

“I'm so glad you decided to return home William. I missed you so much brother,” Harold said embracing him in a hug.

William froze in his brother's arms.

Home! Why did I think this was a strange place earlier? 

He looked around again before embracing his brother in a hug.

Home! I'm home!

[nerdysuitedbaby]

2500 likes!

[jv62]

[tom-gungy]

Our shrink-neighbor (though he prefers it when I call him a "therapist") was the single bachelor sort that needed the help of another pair of hands moving in and getting comfortable, and my old man had volunteered me, not that I was opposed. I had a fair amount of time between classes at the local college, having taken a light semester, and I only really had to make time for tossing the ol' pigskin at game-practice. The hiccup came when I met the guy and learned why this bachelor needed help unparticular: he was an absolute square.

His slacks were hiked half-way up his belly. He wore glasses so thick that, when he looked at you, it seemed as though he was viewing though twin cups, full of water. His unfashionable loafers were pristinely polished below rumpled, off-color socks. For some reason, despite being home from his profession, he still wore a tidy dress shirt and a formal tie. I took all of this in, as he greeted me at the door with a handshake that felt like wet macaroni and a nasally salutation, and thought on how my dad had doomed me to helping this new dweeb acquaintance of ours.

As I spent more time with the nerd, though, I found that he was rather easy to talk to, or rather, listen to. Being rather frail and scrawny, I was left to do most of the heavy-lifting around the shrink's new place, moving furniture and putting things into place, which left the new neighbor ample time to fill my ear with his nasal tone. I had found his voice and lack of assistance grating at first, but the more he talked, the more I enjoyed his input. At first I had answered a lot of questions he'd had about the town he was new to, the neighborhood he'd just joined, us living next door, about my college, what I thought of my sports teammates, what underwear I was wearing, and other such things to familiarize himself with his new home and its amenities.

At some point, however, I had stopped answering his questions vocally, simply nodding and smiling instead. They had mostly become binary "yes" or "no" queries anyway, sprinkled occasionally among the new neighbor waxing poetically about what a good young man like me should and shouldn't be. At first I didn't agree with all of his thoughts on the concept, but as I continued to help him move in, I found my head nodding in affirmation more often than shaking in disagreement. A light-headed, distant feeling settled over me in tandem with these agreements, and I begun to feel as I was controlling my body by puppet strings instead of my moving furniture, shelving curios, or trying on new clothes directly.

By the time my old man arrived, having come after finishing his day at work, I was so out of it that I actually startled from the chair I found myself sitting on. I couldn't recall when I'd settled down during the therapist and my conversation, but I was fairly certain I had been thoughtlessly staring at the far wall, only recently decorated with a mirror I had put up. Embarrassed about my inattention, I stammered and verbally stumbled over myself to both greet my father and apologize to the new neighbor with a social awkwardness that I wasn't used to. The therapist seemed charmed by the graceless display, but my old man seemed put off by my behavior, disgusted and maybe even a bit concerned as he asked if I was alright and what I was wearing.

Looking down, I realized that I was still wearing the clothes the new neighbor had suggested I try on, his clothes. Being a bigger, more strapping man than him, despite my younger age, I filled out the unorthodox formal wear like a poorly matched glove. The dress shirt hugged every curve of my muscular chest. His slacks hugged my brawny thighs like a sock. My feet felt a little tight in his loafer too, though I couldn't see them very clearly. The sensation of something dangling from my face reminded me why as I leveled my head and pushed the thick glasses the neighbor had let me borrow back into place. Squinting through them, I could just make out my dad's repulsed expression and, past him, the time shown on the wall's clock.

"Jeepers creepers!" I had cried in an unusually nasally tone before hurrying to collect my things, explaining I would be late for football practice, before beelining it out the door. My old man had called out behind me, but I heard that the neighbor had already started in talking to my dad in that familiar, relaxing, nasally tone. I felt glad to leave my father in good company as I rushed back to college, only to be utterly horrified to have left him there when I finally arrived. I managed a greater sense of awareness between my friends cracking wise as to my newfound get-up, my teammates jeering at the plain white briefs I'd dressed down to in the locker room (calling them "tighty-whities"), and the coach suspending me from the team after I clumsily made the most lousy plays he'd ever seen on that field, as he'd said.

After making a perfect clown of myself on during practice, in a comic repeat performance of cartoonishly fumbling the ball and accidentally depantsing myself more times than I'd previously though possible in one practice session, I had a fair amount of time to think as I hung from the flagpole my teammates had seen fit to wedgie me from. When I hadn't been writhing in futile attempts for freedom or wailing for help in my new nasally voice, I thought on the strange ways I was now acting in comparison to how I usually acted, and by the time a put-upon janitor reeled me down, still blushing and underpants left stretched out of the backside of my slacks' waist, I realized that our neighbor must have done this somehow.

Rushing home in the hopes that my old man might be able to help, being older and wiser than me, I found our house empty. I tried not to panic, despite my hyperventilating from the hurry as well as the worry, and procured a paper bag to breath into as I thought over my options, paying no mind as to why I new to nasally wheeze into the bag or where I had even gotten one. My dad wasn't my last option, but he'd likely be the only one who'd believe something had happened to me, having been concerned about my repulsively nerdy behavior earlier. He was always such a masculine role-model to me, that even into my college years, I carried the naïve hope that he could fix anything. That was, until I saw him through the front window of the neighbor's place.

It'd been an idle glance towards the now-dreaded house that had shown me the absent-minded grin of my father. I stealthily approached to see that he was sitting in the same chair I had been earlier, and seemed to be carrying on conversation with the next door therapist. However, it pained me to see the familiarly formal slacks, dress shirt, tie, and loafers he was dressed in. He even had on a disgustingly thick pair of glasses, his stylish hair slicked unflatteringly backwards so as to not obstruct his blurry view. He either didn't notice or didn't care about the obvious tent at the therapist's groin, the one that the neighbor openly groped and grinded into his hands with as they spoke. I was repulsed to find my own slacks tightening at the sight, and wondered if this too was part of the strange changes enacted on me. If so, why were my father's pants betraying no such indignity?

Had I not been so fixated on this mystery, grunting and whimpering as I unconsciously humped into my hands like a peeping tom, I likely would've noticed that the therapist had spotted me through his window, and drawing my old man's attention to his son's undignified situation, he waved me inside with a silent and uncharacteristically easy-going laugh on the other side of the glass. Once more, I felt myself becoming slightly dislodged from my own personage again, and like a toy on strings, yet no longer under my own power, I found myself dislodging from the hedges beneath the window and practically found my distended slacks touching the front door before it had a chance to open for me. The therapist greeted me once more, and I was escorted to a chair beside my father.

Mustering up what control I had, I turned to my old man as he too greeted me, his voice carrying a nasally tone that simultaneously turned my stomach from disappointment and yet also caused my slacks to slightly dampen in strange excitement. I managed to murmur something about being kicked off the team, the flag-pole wedgie, and was just beginning to ask him for help, alerting him to the therapists' hold over me, but the neighbor cut in with a laugh, showing uncanny comradery with my old man as he commented on how good young men are treated at school. My father nodded along in a stuporous, familiar way as the neighbor dictated my old man's past to him, saying that he too had endured a laundry-list of humiliations in his youth while citing an abundance of experiences my father had never shared with me.

Presumably, all of these were fictitious occurrences, and yet, my old man never once bothered to correct the neighbor, only nodding in agreement or occasionally turning to me to offer confirmation of the odd detail of how he'd whimpered as he was wedgied or trembled as he was teased. The more my father input into these fabrications, the more I found myself believing them, until I found myself blissfully at ease in a conversation with two fellow nerds about the plight of schooling that they'd passed through and that I was still enduring. It was posited that my being removed from the team was the best thing for a dweeb like me, having little chance to rise above the nerdy heritage of my father, and at that I agreed with a nasally moans and a hearty hump into my hands, cupped at my crotch.

This prompted an admonishment from my father, who brandished a small cage-like contraption from his pocket, saying I had forgotten it earlier when I'd so clumsily rushed off. At first I didn't recognize it, but after the therapist briefly regaled me about my father's issues with becoming irregularly excited from his humiliations and needing protection against frequently making a mess of his underwear, I easily recalled the personal item in my blushing father's trembling palm. Peeling down my slacks and tighty-whities, I allowed my old man to fit the chastity cage over my throbbing member, uncomfortably and safely securing it before, at the therapist's suggestion, pantsing himself to compare.

There, in full view of the neighbor's front window, nerdy father and nerdy son compared their chastity cages, our manhoods straining from the humiliation we happily endured.

[henrypreppy]

Secondhand

It had been a while since I needed to dress up last, so I was in need of some clothes. I had outgrown my suit from college and I hadn’t worn it since I interviewed for my job now. Being in inside sales, I could stay relatively casual—a polo and jeans most days. Still, the executives were coming to town and I was in need of something to wear to a business dinner.

The execs were always stodgy and traditional where I was more laid back and comfortable. I wasn’t willing to drop actual money on nice, tailored dress clothes to look on par with them; so, I was off to the secondhand store.

I just needed a suit that fit well enough and some shoes. It was wall-to-wall of poorly sorted clothes. I clearly had my work cut out for me. I decided to start with shoes since it was a smaller section. While there were two full aisles of women’s shoes, the men’s was only half of one, and sparse at that. It was mostly an array of beat up running and basketball shoes, but a few pairs of dress shoes—most of which equally torn up—were grouped toward the end.

Only one pair looked like it was in good condition and wasn’t meant for a giant: a pair of black tassel loafers. On further inspection, they looked quite expensive and roughly my size. They weren’t something I would typically wear—far from it. It was definitely something the executives would approve of, though.

So, I reached out to check the size on the inside of the tongue. When my hand finally grasped the shoes, I felt an unexpected and intense surge of sexual energy. Immediately, my manhood swelled and twitched. I was confused and my mind raced before landing on one thought that I would never admit was mine: Smell the loafer.

I had never wanted to sniff a shoe before, nonetheless a man’s. It was entirely out of the ordinary, and I fought the desire. I was straight. This was nothing like me. What if someone saw? I took a quick glance around—no other shoppers or cameras. No one would know. It was a shoe, too, not a man. It’s not like I was licking some dude’s feet or anything, so really there was no harm in it. I needed to check the inside for the size, so if I caught a whiff, it wouldn’t mean anything anyway.

I took one of the shoes and lifted it slowly to peak inside. The bottom of the shoe read Friedman and had filigree around the name. I’d never heard of that brand before, but I never wore dress shoes anyway. I started to rotate it and take it in on all sides. I just ended up staring, almost in a trance. It was well made, I guessed. I shrugged off the feeling and began to lift the tongue to look inside when my hand boosted the shoe much closer to my face and my nose dipped inside. I inhaled sharply and smelled musk, shoe polish, and expensive leather. My head was reeling from the rush and I was ecstatic. I failed, even, to suppress a light moan as my cock lurched inside my jeans. It felt like something had come over me, and it sent ripples of pleasure through my whole body. I wanted more. It was such a rush. So, I took another hit, this time slower—relaxing and enjoying it. Suddenly, I caught myself and had a quick look around. I blushed. Thankfully, no one was around to see. I lifted the tongue stiffly to look again. I took notice of the heavy imprints of the previous wearer, and I finally took note of the size: 9.5 D. They would fit just fine it seemed.

“Put them on,” I heard a baritone voice say. I jumped and immediately scanned the area. There was still no one around. I was starting to get creeped out when my other hand took the other shoe off the shelf and brought it to my nose. I couldn’t resist taking another sniff, noting the distinct masculine smell that enraptured me. I felt comforted and reassured; so, I took both shoes to a nearby bench, watching the tassels jostle ever-so-slightly as I walked. I was at full mast and leaking slightly by the time I sat down. Thankfully, no one was there to spot my confused lust.

Looking down and beginning to untie my favorite sneakers, I felt a sense of shame and arousal as another thought creeped into my head: “This is hardly appropriate footwear for a man.” It sounded like the voice I just heard, but clearer—more refined. It couldn’t have been my thoughts, but I felt strangely compelled to agree; a man’s footwear ought to reflect his sense of self-worth, and I wasn’t just an average Joe in some lazy-looking sneakers. I finally tugged the sneakers off, revealing my black athletic socks. “These will have to go, too,” I heard once again, the phantom baritone sounding more agreeable; “Proper shoes should have proper socks, but this is all I have for now.”

I reached for the right loafer, but caught myself. What was I thinking? There’s nothing wrong with sneakers and Nike socks. Everybody wears them. They’re comfortable. I needed some new dress clothes, but these feelings were something new to me. Was it worth it? I peered down at the old-fashioned loafers, my eyes first fixed on the tassels and slowly drifting to the inside of the shoes. I felt them calling me. I was lost in them once again as I felt my body move. Foot met leather and my member convulsed in pleasure. Feeling the worn loafer on the ball of my foot sent my head reeling as ecstasy flooded it. I came to understand my arousal did not attempt to resist the urge to slide my foot in deeper. My plain athletic socks slid in smoothly, filling the space in the shoe tightly. My foot felt good; it felt secure as I wiggled my toes, taking in every supple caress through my sock.

“Good. Now, the other,” the voice bellows in my head. It drowned out all other thoughts. The only thing I could think of doing was complying—not that I wouldn’t have anyway. Every point of contact with the loafer was orgasmic. I slid into the other loafer with a light moan. It was the most amazing feeling my feet had ever felt, and my cock began to leak in agreement. I stood up, uncaring of the damp spot on my jeans, and felt my full body weight on the shoes. I was stable and secure, the loafers hugging my feet intimately.

Then, I took a step forward. A rush came straight from my feet to my head. I began to walk just to feel that pure pleasure, step after step. Pulse after pulse of this amazing sensation aided in darkening the wet spot. I did not know where I was walking to, but I had to keep walking in these shoes.

The haze of pleasure ended as I stood before a rack of suits. It was next on my list to get, but I felt like I was there for something in particular. All of the suits were disorganized. Every color was mixed; sizing was in no order. An image popped into my head though—a grey three-piece suit with pinstripes. The image in my head seemed simultaneously foreign, but vivid and detailed. My cock responded gleefully. That was it. That was the suit I was after. My hands plunged into the racks haphazardly, groping and sorting through ever suit in front of me. Some were similar, but not what I needed. After each teasing disappointment, my desire for the suit I

pictured grew. As I continued searching, my hand plunged to the back of one of the racks and I felt it—the same familiar wave of pleasure from the loafers, this time on my fingertips as I grabbed at the smooth, expensive material.

“It is still here! Take it!” The voice erupted.

I obeyed, savoring the sensation of freeing the smooth woolen suit from the back of the rack. It felt better than the touch of anyone I had ever been with. As I freed it from the rack, I could see it was exactly as I pictured: jacket, vest, and trousers, all in a dull light grey with off-white pinstripes running down the length.

I opened the jacket to check the size, though it already seemed short for me. It was what I pictured, and I wanted it; but it seemed stuffy and formal—not my usual style by a long shot. As my hand brushed the silky lining, though, I knew this suit had to be mine, regardless of size. My hand slid from the inside label down the sleeve smoothly as pulled the jacket off the hanger, the rest of the ensemble still hanging in the other hand. As the other sleeve of the jacket hung off my frame, I felt incomplete; I placed the hanger in my sleeved hand and slid the other sleeve on with a suppressed moan. Even through a shirt, my nipples were responding to the fabric, hardening to stone. My fingers reached the end of the sleeves as excess material bunched behind my shoulder blades. The jacket hung a few inches higher than a proper fit as well. Clearly, this was made for a shorter, stouter man. My cock surged as the thought crossed my mind and I shuddered in pleasure.

I took a deep breath to clam my frantic arousal, noticing a familiar musky undertone. It reminded me of the shoes with less leather and mixed with an expensive cologne.

“Royal Muske. It’s been a while,” echoed in my head as if I knew the name of the scent. Fascinated by the knowledge that came from seemingly nowhere, I began to feel around the interior pockets. As my hand plunged into the silk-lined pockets, it was hard to figure out what I was feeling until I pulled it out, a silk polka-dotted bow tie, the maroon color matching the lining of the suit, and the off-white spots reminding me of the pinstripes running down my chest. I quickly pressed it to my nose, taking a strong hit from what remained of the cologne. I shuddered and put it back in the pocket, my hand touching another piece of silky fabric as I stuffed it in.

Looking up, I quickly realized that a few people were sneaking glances as I enjoyed the suit. I did not care, strangely. This was my suit. These were my shoes. So, what did it matter? I had become audacious in my search, consumed with pleasure and lust. Lastly, I checked the size of the pants. The tag read “42 x 27.” They looked far too wide for me, but the size sounded vaguely correct in my head. The pleats made them billow a bit more, but I thought I could use some extra room.

I reluctantly removed the jacket and placed it tenderly back on the hanger, savoring the liner’s touch. I had everything I came for, so I started toward the checkout line. It took me a few strides before I remembered my sneakers back in the shoe section. I hesitated briefly and focused on the warm embrace of the tassel loafers on my feet.

The voice once again urged me once again: “Do not go back to those ratty gym shoes.” It felt like a command, though I was inclined to agree despite them being my favorite sneakers. I’d had them for years; I felt inclined to fight the voice and turned back to the shoe aisle for my sneakers. Then, I felt something brush my ankle as I walked. The bow tie had fallen out of the suit jacket and brushed the exposed area. I instinctively reached down to pick it up, the thoughts of my old shoes leaving my mind as I picked it up and shoved it back into the coat pocket. Smiling lightly, I proceeded to check out with my new suit.

The woman at the register avoided eye contact after spotting the moist bulge beneath my belt. I exited without drawing attention to it and slung the ill-fitting jacket on as I reached the car. It was still mid-morning, and much of my day was free. The way home was a blur, but every shoe store, menswear store, and barbershop stood out to me as my crotch stirred in passing.

I walked into my apartment, still in a horny haze, wasting no time shutting the door and pawing at my crotch as I made my way to the bedroom. I couldn’t stop thinking about how good everything would feel on my skin. Placing the jacket, vest, and trousers on the bed, I began to strip.

“No more sloppy clothes,” I heard as I removed my t-shirt. I even repeated it to myself as I tenderly removed the loafers and yanked off my athletic socks. I unfastened my belt and lid my damp jeans down, revealing blue plaid boxers soaked with pre-cum. I hesitated again with my thumb in the waistband and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. The horny racing of my mind slowed and I could think a little more clearly.

“What on earth is coming over me?” I questioned, unsure of even my own senses. My boner began to retreat and clarity of thought came once again. Following clarity of thought came clarity of stomach, as it began to grumble. “Something to eat should help me focus,” I thought.

I hopped off the edge of the bed, careful to avoid even looking at the shoes that enraptured me and went to the kitchen to fix myself a sandwich for lunch. Once it was fixed, I cracked open a soda and sat, sipped, and munched. The whole morning made no sense to me. Only the shoes fit, yet I picked up an entire suit. Would I be able to find something better before the dinner on Tuesday? I had to. Though, it would probably involve fighting through weekend crowds if I didn’t do so today. I wasted an entire morning in a sexual haze, and my underwear showed it. I shuddered. I needed to change.

I went back into my bedroom, steering clear of the clothes on my bed. Something seemed off about them. I peeled off the wet boxers and flung them in the hamper by the door. When I turned around to walk toward my dresser, I kept my chin high, avoiding the enthralling outfit on my bed. As soon as I took my first step, I glanced my belt with my heel and stumbled forward. I regained my balance as my hands hit my bed, brushing against the soft fabric of the suit pants. I felt the same jolt of sexual energy as before: my cock jumped and I looked at the suit before me. It was irresistible and my eyes beamed with pure lust.

I picked up the pants, and unfastened them and slowly began sliding my legs into the oversized holes. The tip of my cock brushed the fabric, sending me wild once again. I buttoned and zipped the pants and went to look for a belt to hold them up, only to notice they had no belt loops.

“Good, Son. They’ll fit like a glove soon enough,” the voice echoed in my head. “Now, put it all on.”

I was helpless to resist and I began to slide my bare feet into the loafers. The leather caressed my feet, which had more room without the cushy socks. I could feel my feet shift slightly inside the rich material. My eyes caught the tassels again, and I smirked. They did make the shoes look proper. I wished to look proper myself. I moaned as I wiggled my toes and reached for the jacket containing the bow tie. I did not know how to tie one, but I wanted desperately to wear it. I removed it from the jacket and draped the silk over my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. Instinctively, my hands made quick work tying it into a perfectly even knot.

Next, I slid the vest over my shoulders. As the smooth fabric glided down my chest, my nipples began to harden more than ever before. Immediately, my cock began to dribble with pre-cum once more. I couldn’t help but moan as fabric and leather stimulated me.

“Just one more thing, and you’ll be mine,” I heard myself say. I was quivering in horniness and trepidation as I buttoned the vest and reached for the jacket. My smile widened to a dopey grin as I slid my right arm into the garment. The lining sent goosebumps down my arm as I saw my hand emerge from the end. My left arm had the same reaction as the jacket finally rested over my shoulders.

Lastly, I began to button the jacket, deftly pushing the button through the holes. As the second button was fastened, I moaned loudly and my mind went blank. For a brief moment, I couldn’t see or hear anything.

Then, the sound of hard-soled shoes on tile began to fade in along with my sight. I stood naked in a space that could only be described as blank. The floor was white and smooth; there were no walls in sight. In the distance, I could see a rotund figure in grey walking toward me.

“Hello!” I called out with a wave. “Hello, my boy!” He called back in a dignified baritone.

My cock stiffened and I remembered the voice as the on I’d been hearing in my head. I walked swiftly over to meet him. He would have answers. He had to have answers. He was deceptively far away, but I reached him without tiring in the slightest.

“Slow down, my boy,” he cautioned. “We have all the time we could possibly need here.”

As I approached, I was finally able to take the man in. He was quite portly with a round ball gut that was sure to enter a room before he did. He was around a good six inches shorter than me as well—perhaps 5’ 6”. He wore the very same three-piece suit and loafers that I found at the thrift store. It fit him perfectly. His hair was black and circled his bald crown like a wreath. He wore a thick mustache of the same color, and looked to be in his fifties or sixties.

I guess I was taking it all in for too long when his voice roused me and my manhood: “Something you like, Son?”

“No—I mean yes—I mean, what is this place?” I stammered.

“Just a place where you and I can interact face to face and perhaps sort out a few things. You took quite a liking to my shoes, Son.”

I stepped closer, but remained defensive. “No. No. No. You put some sort of spell on me. I would never do any of that stuff with shoes, especially not a man’s!”

“Relax,” he attempted to placate. “I may have awakened something dormant in you, but I certainly could not create something new. Why, look at yourself.” He gestured to my manhood. “You’re positively rock hard right now.”

With that, a full-body mirror rose from the ground in front of me, showing my tight, toned chest flecked with sparse hair and cock at full-mast.

“No! You’re doing this to me. I’m straight. Whatever this is, stop it now!” I demanded.

“I told you,” he said coolly, “This is just where we can chat, and I can’t make these feelings come out of nowhere, but I can certainly help them along.”

He took long strides for his short stature toward me, and locked eye contact as a wardrobe and chest of drawers materialized behind me. I began to back away, but was halted by the new furniture.

“Would you like for me to help it along?” He continued with a smile. “Stay away from me!” I shouted, but his advance never slowed.

As he came closer, he stretched out his hand for a handshake. “I’m Arthur, by the way,” he said politely, stopping a few feet from me.

I was confused, frozen like a deer in the headlights at full mast. He simply stood there, polite, but imposing. “Michael,” I said, shaking his hand hesitantly. I expected some sort of shock or wave of euphoria, but it was quite simply just a handshake.

“It’s a pleasure, Michael!” He happily boomed before lowering his voice to a business-like tone: “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. I’ll assuage some anxiety and say you’re not dead.” He chuckled lightly. “This is merely my domain that I’ve brought your mind to. You shared enough of an affinity for my old clothes for me to welcome you here.”

“Okay. Well...” I trailed off, trying vaguely not to sound rude. “How do I get out? I didn’t exactly ask to come here.” I crossed my arms in passive defiance.

“Oh, but you did, my boy!” He stated excitedly. “I can’t force you to do anything you haven’t any inclination to do, whether it’s putting on my suit and shoes or bringing you here. On some level, you wanted to dress like me, meet me, and—if I interpret those horny thought earlier correctly—look like me.” He gave me a wink and a nod.

I resented what he was saying. I would never want to look like a bald, fat, old man; but my cock still seemed to betray me. Was he right somehow? Regardless, I would never say it. “You never answered my question, though. How do I leave?”

“But I did! You can leave when you no longer have any desire to stay. Or...”

“Or what?” I demanded.

“Or we can both leave together.” He grinned.

“Well, how do we do that? I get the feeling you’re not going to let me leave any other way, and I don’t particularly care if another old dude pops into existence anyway.”

“We’d be walking together, Michael. You and I would be one and the same. Just imagine getting to wear such nice clothes.” He smirked.

My cock jumped again. It sounded strangely exciting, but I was ashamed to admit it. I started to cover myself with my hands to hide the excitement.

“Oh posh, Michael! It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He stepped closer reaching beside my waist to open a drawer. “But you may as well cover yourself up with actual clothing.” He pulled out a large pair of white briefs—clearly his size—and offered them to me.

I reluctantly took them and attempted to step into them, but they were too big. I held them up by the waistband, which nearly hit my bellybutton.

“Would you like for them to fit better, Michael?” Arthur asked plainly.

I nodded and my waist began to grow to fit the briefs wrapped around them. “What are you doing to me?” I asked as my inflated figure formed a ball gut not unlike his.

“This way, they’ll fit better and you’ll become closer to your desires,” he chortled.

My gut continued to grow to match Arthur’s girth; my thighs followed suit, filling in the formerly- cavernous briefs. Stretch marks formed and lightened as my waist hit forty-two inches. My member became dwarfed by my large frame and I struggled to keep my balance.

Arthur eyed me up and down. “Looking splendid, my boy! Let’s have a good look at you.” He placed his hands on my shoulders to stabilize me and guided me to the mirror. I complied in total shock from my body changing so much in mere moments. He gave my shoulders a pat as we looked at our similar widths in the mirror.

“That, however, is not your waist” he said firmly, taking the briefs in his hands and hiking them up to my bellybutton. I moaned in surprised agreement as he gave my newly-formed belly a rub. He then cupped my balls through the briefs, sending me more and more waves of pleasure as they began to grow. My sack descended, farther, and I was left with two golf-ball- sized lumps straining against the white fabric as an obvious moose knuckle. My cock seemed even smaller by comparison.

I had to admit that I liked it, but I could not understand why. It felt correct—like I was meant to be this way. I stood still, staring at Arthur’s work, waiting for him to continue.

His hands gave my balls a final tug. They would be hanging much lower outside of he briefs. “You’re looking quite good with some meat on your bones. Wouldn’t you agree?” He directed.

I nodded in agreement, mouthing a “yes” without the words escaping my lips.

He rubbed my shoulders, locking eyes with mine in the mirror. His touch was electric, and I saw my heigh lowering to match his. Inch by inch, I shrank, my shoulders broadening and making me look rounder—just like Arthur. He then whispered into my ear: “Those are the right proportions for a man, Michael. Enjoy it.” His mustache bristled my ear and he gave me a wink.

A shivering “Yes, sir” and a squirt escaped my body, forming a small wet spot on my briefs.

His arms wrapped under mine, and he began rubbing my chest. The hair faded and fell from it as he covered every square inch. After he ousted the dusting of hair on my chest, the stretch

marks were more visible once again. His hands landed on my pecs, which began to expand into small flats of fat; my nipples hardened at the attention, becoming my main focus as he twisted and rubbed them. From each rub, they grew wider, expanding to the size of pencil erasers, then dimes. With each twist, they protruded more, lengthening to half an inch by the time Arthur relented.

Finally, he turned to the wardrobe again and brandished a ribbed athletic shirt. “Arms up, protege,” Arthur said with a smile.

I accepted the title without question and raised my arms up, curious about the prospect and afraid to disobey. He hoisted the shirt over me and draped it atop my portly frame. The fabric was silky and expensive-feeling. I relished it gliding down my face and chest. I let out another low moan as it brushed my nipples and settled into place. My nipples were clearly visible through the white fabric. My eyes were fixed on their bulges; my mind was fixed on their sensitivity.

My trance was broken: “Now tuck it in, Son. One should always be tucked and tidy.”

It was almost instinctual to obey now. Bit by bit, my hands tucked in the excess smooth fabric into the briefs. My enlarged frame made it harder than usual, but I felt oddly proud of the figure that would have disgusted me moments ago. As I tucked the last portion in, I turned briefly to the side, examining the girth exacerbated by my raised waistline. “Tucked and tidy, sir,” I reiterated.

“As you should be. You have quite the mature physique now. Shouldn’t it be clothed in more than undergarments?”

I met his eyes in the mirror again as he spoke this. I wanted to be just like this man. Maybe he did awaken something in me. I only knew what felt good and correct in that moment—him. “Yes, sir. Just like you,” I sighed wistfully.

“Very good! I think you’ll do quite well with me, then.”

Arthur opened the wardrobe’s doors, revealing a light grey three-piece suit with off-white pinstripes. Beneath it was a pair of the very same black tassel loafers he wore. To the right were all of the other accessories: maroon and navy striped socks, a maroon bow tie, silk braces in the same color, and finally the leather sock garters with two shiny metal clips on each. To the left, hung a fine white dress shirt with French cuffs. My cock leapt for joy at the sight, but I was speechless.

Arthur produced a chair and placed it behind me. “Now, sit, my son,” he whispered softly into my ear, his mustache brushing my ear once again as he spoke. A warm tingle coursed from my ear lobe to my spine as I complied. He took the socks and garters from the wardrobe and knelt down in front of me, eyeing my feet. I admired the scene repeatedly, swapping my stares from his shiny, smooth scalp ringed with thick, black hair, and the socks that my feet yearned to be encased in.

His hazel gaze met mine as he looked up and asked, “Are you ready, boy?” “Yes,” I replied, transfixed.

“You’ll enjoy my shoes much more with these. You’ll have more weight on them, too.” He placed the socks and garters to the side briefly, lowered his head, and grasped my right leg— one hand under the knee, the other just below the ankle. I felt a familiar warmth, though much stronger—almost burning—as he began to rub up and down my calf. As I looked down from his head again, I could see my calf thickening with a combination of muscle and fat as the hair faded away at his touch.

I moaned as he continued, “Yes, sir,” being the only words I could think to say.

His caress moved down to my foot, which felt amazing with its newfound sensitivity. My toes began to swell up like small sausages as his fingers worked through them. As his fondling continued, my hips began to buck and gyrate in the briefs.

“Not yet, boy,” Arthur said sharply. “You can cum when I say. That will be our grand finale.”

My hips lowered and my breathing deepened as I contained myself more. I only received a brief respite from the pleasurable onslaught as he switched legs and resumed. Wherever we were, I’m glad no one could hear my moans at the hands of a man—especially such and old and proper one. My self-consciousness aside, I was in ecstasy.

At long last, he picked up a sock and lightly brushed it over my sensitive soles. When he began to slide the silky fabric over my toes, I struggled to control myself. The sock gilded over my foot and graced my leg further up my now-denuded calf. I watched as it stretched and became ever-so-slightly sheer as the top was set just above the curve of my calf. The first sock was a warm and comforting pressure enveloping my leg; the second nearly made my feet have their own orgasms.

Arthur leaned back to let me see my socked feet. It looked proper for me. It was as if everything I’d worn before was horrible and uncomfortable. This seemed right. This is what I wanted. I bent over and caressed the silken beauties. I felt them on my calves and fingertips; I relished it. The socks wrinkled and creased slightly as I stroked them. Arthur moved my hands away and looked me in the eye.

“We can’t have them looking ruffled and untidy,” Arthur stated in a didactic tone while wrapping the cool leather of a sock garter just under my knee. He fastened the strap and pulled my sock up taut into the clip. My cock jumped as the first clip locked down, securing the sock. The second clicked down, and the spasming continued.

“Now you do the other, Junior,” He commanded through a grin, and held up the other garter, the length of it swinging back and forth seductively.

“Yes. Please!” I pleaded before taking it. I handled the leather and metal gingerly as I wrapped the cool materials under my girthy knee. I felt the embrace of the sock tighten as I pulled it up into the clips. After I secured it, I could not stop looking at my feet—my precious, socked feet. I wiggled my toes just to feel them rub my feet more.

“It gets better,” Arthur interrupted from the wardrobe. My eyes rose to meet him. He was buttoning the braces onto the trousers. They were the same colors as the socks—navy with a thick maroon stripe down the center of each side. He continued, placing the pants to the side and taking the dress shirt off its hanger, “It takes effort to look like a man should, but the payoff is entirely worth it, my boy.” As he concluded, he held up the shirt, unbuttoned.

I froze, remembering myself. What was I doing? I was sitting in a blank space being dressed by a man who made me as short and fat as he was—and I liked it? It was absurd. It wasn’t me; even if I thought the clothes looked nice, I wasn’t gay, I wasn’t his boy, and I certainly wasn’t fat. Still, it was undeniable that, despite it all, I felt good. I winced while mulling it over.

“I see you’re still in denial.”

He started toward me from only a short distance, a smile on his face. I panicked and began to try to stand up from the chair. I had barely lifted the legs of my larger frame when he lifted the rest and pulled me into a kiss and warm embrace. I tried to shake off the pleasure, but only for a moment. He pulled my head in for another kiss, this time plunging his tongue between lips that could not help but part. I even tried to fend off his tongue with my own, but he twisted around it with his as they danced in my mouth. After a moment, I relaxed as I felt his tongue beckon to mine and I obliged. I extended it out through his lips, settling it in his warmth. His mustache brushed my upper lip gently throughout. I closed my eyes and savored the moment. This is what I wanted.

He withdrew from the kiss, and my eyes opened, meeting his. “There you are, Son!” He chortled, rubbing his thumb above my lips to wipe off some saliva. I could feel bristling under his finger that was not there before. “You’re already looking much more handsome,” he said, ushering me toward the mirror, shirt in-hand. Immediately, I spotted it, a thick chevron mustache like his now adorned my face. It was brown like the rest of my hair, which was one of the few things distinguishing us at this point. “Very handsome and mature, wouldn’t you agree, Michael?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, exaggerating my lip movements to watch my mustache as I spoke.

“Good then! Let’s get back to it,” he said, opening the shirt for me to step into. I shifted back and placed my arms through the sleeves. I enjoyed the starched fabric sliding down my arms, with the small excess draping ever-so-slightly underneath. Arthur shifted around me and began buttoning the shirt, leaving the top button undone. My body filled the it completely with just enough material left over to tuck in over my ball gut. He then reached into my front pocket and

teased my nipple while he retrieved a pair of silver cufflinks. I lurched forward as his finger graced such a sensitive spot through the shirt. When I stared at the cufflinks, I knew what to do; I began folding the French cuffs to my shirt. Arthur fastened them with a nurturing smile.

I examined the cufflinks while he stepped back to retrieve the trousers and braces. Within the silver, a small “ARF” was engraved. “Sir,” I began. “What does ‘ARF’ stand for? Are they your initials?”

“Yes, my boy. Arthur Richard Friedman, named partly after the man that mentored me. You’ll be a Friedman soon enough,” he declared proudly, extending the trousers for me to step into.

I smiled, enjoying the thought as I looked into the trousers, the braces parted to either side, inviting me to enter into them. I took an oversized step into them as he began to lift them up— first over my knees, then my thighs, my manhood, my waist, and stopping below my bellybutton. He hiked them up to adjust them, my thighs looking like sausages in new casing. The fabric was thin but durable and high quality. The pinstripes ran from the cuff of the pants, parallel with the well-defined crease up to my midriff, the pleats barely breaking the vertical pattern. It did little to make me appear thinner.

Arthur stepped behind me again and began helping the braces over my shoulders, lifting the trousers even higher as the straps found their resting place on my shoulders. As the waist was pulled securely up to my bellybutton, a noticeable outline of my balls formed in the trousers. The braces framed my stomach as if to announce its presence to anyone that could see. I struggled briefly to zip, button, and clasp my pants closed before taking myself in again. The moose knuckle was incredibly prominent below my barely-contained gut. I touched the bulge through the fabric in curiosity and watched my balls leap in pleasure as I shuddered.

“Just as a man ought to be,” Arthur said warmly. “Although I wouldn’t leave the house without a tie at the very least. A man should always wear a tie, shouldn’t he?”

With growing confidence, I proclaimed “Yes, sir!” And began to flip my starched collar up. Arthur buttoned my top button and handed me the bow tie. It was very tight around my neck, forcing my neck straight. I draped the neckwear around my thick neck and tied an even knot just as before, despite it only being my second time.

“Just as I taught you,” Arthur cooed before flipping the collar back down. With a light wince, a small roll of fat formed above the top of the collar. Arthur ran his finger along the excess flesh, sighing in satisfaction; his touch brought relaxation and further horniness. The bow tie emphasized the gut much further—my girth now being framed on all sides. Arthur gave my gut a gentle pat, causing another visible spasm of my testicles through the pants. “Handsome indeed, but let’s finish this. Shall we, my boy?”

“With pleasure, sir!” I sounded off.

“Why don’t you address me properly if you’re going to be a Friedman, Son,” he commanded, the last word echoing in my head and taking hold.

Arthur was my father now. He made me into the man I had become and I was proud of it. I was proud to be unlike the rabble I was when I entered the thrift store; so, I grinned and announced, “Yes, Father.”

“Good boy, my son!” He replied.

His words were ecstasy to me, and I shivered in pleasure. Once he handed me the vest, I donned it proudly. I buttoned it up, my thick digits increasing in speed as it all became more natural to me. It sheltered my gut, its pinstripes blending in with the pants and presenting me as slightly slimmer.

Then, he held out the jacket. It called to me—welcomed me—and I pulled my arms through as Arthur embraced me from behind, resting his chin next to my neck. I breathed his cologne in deeply as I buttoned the suit, the minor illusion of thinness disappearing in the mirror as the top button was fastened. The cologne seemed to fit Arthur; it would fit me now as well. “Royal Muske,” I groaned, my eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“Yes, my son; just like we always wear. You’ll have it in just a moment. Now, take a seat for me.”

“Of course, Father,” I said with pride before sitting.

He went to the wardrobe again and returned with the loafers and cologne. He spritzed me twice on the neck and the smell overtook me. It was familiar, like something I had smelled my whole life. I relaxed even more as my father, presenting a loafer, instructed, “Look deeply into the loafer, Son.”

I looked inside and was lost in it once again. The inside of the shoe seemed to go on forever. I began to see it clearer as it was lifted toward my face. Inside, on the insole, the filigreed name “Friedman” came into focus. The smell of the rich leather began to reach my nose as Arthur pushed it closer to my face. My full view was nearly enveloped as it made contact with my face.

“Breathe, my son,” he commanded.

I took a deep breath, letting the scent of leather permeate my whole body. I was in a blissful stupor as he removed the loafer.

“It will all be yours very soon,” he assured. “There’s just one more thing we need to change.”

I looked back at the mirror and saw his scalp gleaming in the light and my thick disheveled mop. Noting the difference, I resolved: “My hair.”

“Precisely! All Friedmans lose their hair early,” he resounded. “You’re going to love it!” He continued before leaning over and planting a kiss on my lips.

“I will love it,” was the only thought in my head as he began running his hands through my hair. It felt warm, and tingled as he made stroke after stroke through my locks. He lifted my chin so my eyes met his as he gave three final brushes with both hands descending my crown to the nape. The top of my head began to feel much cooler. My father smiled wide and moved so I could see myself in the mirror. Standing next to him was his brown-haired twin. The top of my head shone brilliantly and was encircled by a thick brown wreath of hair that glistened itself, gelled to obedience down my head. This was who I wanted to be. I knew it now, but would never have admitted it just hours ago.

I finally had to say it: “I love it. Thank you so much, Father.” Arthur leaned in and I was ready to receive him. I opened my mouth wide and let his tongue explore every bit of me. Our mustaches brushed together and the fabric of our suits strained against our writhing, generating ecstasy in friction. We let that tension build as we embraced, touching every inch of each others bodies—the bald head; thick, supple neck; soft flabby pecs under the silky suiting; bulging balls thinly veiled under wool; even the loafers he wore with their intricate tassels.

Every touch was erotic and I was ready to explode as he began to unzip my trousers. He pulled away to look at me, eye to comforting eye, as he giddily whispered “It’s time to become a Friedman.” His focus shifted back to my crotch. He wrestled my engorged member from beneath my gut and through the fly of my white briefs. Once it was free, he toyed with it, stroking it gently with his hand before running the tip through his mustache. He gave it a brief lick before dropping it. I was the hardest I’d ever been when he picked up the loafer and brought it to my face again. I began to breathe deeply, taking the sweet leather scent through my whole body. I looked into the shoe and saw the name once again: “Friedman.”

Through his excitement, he asked me “What name do you see?” “Friedman,” I moaned. “Whose name is that?” He continued. “Yours.”

“And who am I?” “My father,” I declared.

“Good, Son. You will show me momentarily,” Arthur stated. I heard him pick up the other loafer and felt him brush my member with the tassels. “When I count to three, you will seal yourself as a part of the family permanently. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” I exhaled.

“Good boy. Now breathe in.”

I inhaled the leather, once again causing my cock to throb.

He began, “ONE... Who am I?”

“My father,” I moaned, feeling the upper of the loafer on my tip.

“TWO... What is my name?”

“Friedman,” I said with more intensity, my dick sliding over the tongue.

“Then what is your name?” He slid my cock down into the loafer, the soft insole comforting my manhood.

“Friedman!” I declared, ready to explode.

“Good boy... THREE! Cum, my son!” He boomed, shoving one loafer fully up to my nose and sheathing my cock to the base with the other.

I moaned a primal moan, spilling shot upon shot of my seed into the expensive shoe. In the mirror, I could see my balls pulsing from the volume of cum expelled. Pump after pump, deep breathe after deep leather-filled breath, I orgasmed with rapturous tingling within every cell of my body.

My father moved the loafer back and forth along my shaft, affirming me along the way: “Yes, my son. You’re a Friedman now. Let all of your old life drain from you.” Slowly, the torrents of cum subsided and I began to catch my breath.

Arthur lowered the shoes to the ground, looked at me with a tear in his eye and said gladly, “Welcome to the family, Son!” With that, he offered me the dry shoe and I slid my first foot into it, the silky socks providing a smooth glide. He then held out the second shoe, the interior of

which was coated with cum. Without reservation, I slid my foot in—a lubricated and sensual entry. As my heel popped in, I knew it to my core. I was a Friedman.

“Thank you, Father,” I said excitedly.

“No, Son. Thank you for continuing the family line. Would you like to return home now?” He asked calmly.

I stood up proudly, my foot soaking in my shoe. I tucked my manhood back in and adjusted my clothes. Eyeing myself up and down—bald head, mustache, neck rolls, girth, and fine shoes—I was a Friedman, the spitting image of my father. “Yes, Father,” I replied. “Let’s go together.”

When I spoke those words, Arthur’s proud grin faded to darkness and the ceiling fan of my room came into view. I struggled to lift myself up and became excited by the prospect that it had all been real. I rose to my feet, feeling the additional weight on my frame and walking to the mirror. I took a deep satisfying look into it and saw the spitting image of my father. Everything in the dream had happened. I was shorter, fatter, bald, mustached, and fully suited.

I began to hyperventilate; I was ecstatic; I was horny; I was worried. If all of it happened, what would others say? It was at that thought that I heard my father’s voice say to me “It’s okay, Son. Fear isn’t becoming of a Friedman, and I am here for you.” I was immediately calmed. I took a deep breath, catching a hint of Royal Muske, and smiled. I wanted this.

“Now look at your cufflinks, Son,” I heard. I turned the wrist outside of the grey jacket and saw engraved on the cuff “MAF” “Michael Arthur Friedman,” I announced. “My boy!” I heard Arthur say, causing my cock to twitch once again. “And proud of it!” I smiled, seeing Arthur’s eyes in my reflection.

[preppyacademy]

Breaking and Remaking : No Thoughts, Only Obedience

Kyle or Prescott's story

Kyle was in his senior year of high school and part of the football team. Academics were secondary for him—it was sports in the morning, sports at noon, and sports in the evening. He hoped to earn a scholarship by being one of the top athletes in his school. Unfortunately, Kyle always acted before thinking, which sometimes led to avoidable accidents.

One game night in early November, his team faced an opposing high school team. Kyle, prone to arrogance, didn’t warm up much, believing he didn’t need to—after all, he was one of the strongest players. His team was scoring well, but in the final decisive minutes, time seemed to slow down. Rain had started to fall, making the field slick. As he caught the ball mid-air, Kyle slipped on the wet grass and crashed violently to the ground before being tackled by several other players. His teammates, still in action, grabbed the ball and scored, securing victory.

As for Kyle, he ended the night in the hospital. His team won, but his medical results were far from victorious. A fractured collarbone, six to twelve weeks of recovery, immobilization, and rehabilitation. He was told he had to remain bedridden for weeks before he could even move.

Kyle had no choice. The hospital that admitted him had to transfer him to a specialized rehabilitation center, located six hours away but renowned as one of the best. His family spared no expense, wanting only the best care for him.

Upon arriving at the hospital, Kyle felt well received. He quickly noticed that most of the staff were male, which struck him as unusual. He was assigned to Dr. Pritchard.

Dr. Pritchard: "You’ll be well taken care of here. You’ll be staying with us for at least six weeks, possibly ten if your condition doesn’t improve. I hope we’ll get along well."

Kyle: "I hope so too."

The first few nights, Kyle struggled to sleep. The feeling of being far from home and his friends weighed heavily on him. Moreover, a low, constant noise resonated throughout his room—a repeating frequency that played over and over. The following nights were the same, but Kyle gradually became accustomed to the sound.

Dr. Pritchard: "I know time may feel slow, but here, rehabilitation is not just about physical recovery—it’s also about relaxing your mind and body. From now on, no more phone screens. We took yours last night. You need rest and must adapt to our institution’s methods."

Kyle was furious but couldn’t fight back—his body was in too much pain, forcing him to comply with the medical staff’s instructions. How was he supposed to survive weeks without his phone?

Dr. Pritchard: "When you wake up, the screens in your room will display relaxation and meditation videos. Follow them, and you’ll see—time will pass much more quickly here."

The next morning marked the beginning of Kyle’s first session with the videos. They consisted of breathing techniques and mantras to repeat. A spiral accompanied the voice-over, guiding him through the instructions.

Kyle, repeating the words: "I feel good, my body is relaxed, I let myself be carried by the waves, my mind sinks deeper into the abyss, I feel calm, every word I hear is a new way of thinking to embrace, to listen, and to learn."

Each day, Kyle was captivated—hypnotized—by these screens, which seemed to absorb his attention completely. Slowly, his thoughts began to change, and time passed in a rhythm dictated by the spiral and the mantras. Over time, the words evolved into something else.

Kyle, repeating the words: "I feel good, I am happy, my body is relaxed, my mind sinks deeper into the abyss. I am obedient, I listen to what I am told, I must act as I am instructed, I feel calm, I love to obey, I want to learn to obey."

As the days and weeks passed, Kyle healed not only physically but mentally as well, thanks to the soothing words of the spiral. His mind was gradually shaped into a model of perfection, discipline, and obedience.

Kyle: "I wish to submit to the orders of superior men, I wish to obey them, I wish to be submissive. I wish to be submissive. I wish to be submissive."

Dr. Pritchard: "Good boy. You have found true relaxation within your body."

Like a machine executing programmed instructions, Kyle regained mobility in his body. His absolute obedience, now stripped of all arrogance and rebellion, made rehabilitation much easier.

Then, the final week of his stay arrived. Kyle sat on his bed, staring into the distance, still repeating the obedience mantra.

Kyle: "I listen, I obey, I serve. My will is that of the Academy. To doubt is to fail. To resist is to fall. Order is my truth, obedience is my virtue. I bend, I disappear, I become. Every command is an honor, every task a privilege. I do not need to think—only to answer: Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "Good boy, you make me proud. You’ve done well in your exercises, and now, after ten weeks, your time with us has come to an end. Unfortunately, we must make room for new arrivals like you."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "As you say—'your will is that of the Academy.' Your mind has been shaped for the Academy—the Preppy Academy, to be precise. Would you like to join the Academy, my boy?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "You no longer wish to return to your old high school, correct?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "You will remain a good boy—obedient and disciplined?"

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Dr. Pritchard: "We will now relieve you of these hospital clothes—you no longer need them."

Dr. Pritchard placed a harmonization device over Kyle’s head. It resembled a large lamp with a metallic tube beneath it, sending electric signals into the subject’s brain. He activated it while Kyle continued to chant his desire to obey.

Kyle remained immobilized, paralyzed by the machine—unable to move of his own will. In his mind, the words "Obedience," "Submission," "Discipline" flashed over and over again.

Two nurses arrived, cut off Kyle's clothes and stripped him naked. Dr. Pritchard pulled a chastity cage from a drawer and locked Kyle's penis in it. He locked the cage and gave the key to a nurse, who left with it.

Dr. Pritchard: "You'll learn that your sex is no longer of any use to you; it belongs to the Academy. You only need it to urinate, because that's a natural need. But to urinate, you'll have to ask permission. If you feel pleasure, your penis, now the size of a phalanx, will be compressed, you'll feel pain and you'll learn to live with pain. Pain is a gift to be cherished, the very essence of a good Preppy Academy student. The more time passes, the more you won't even feel it anymore, you'll get used to what you've become."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Kyle did not flinch. Who he had been just weeks ago had disappeared into the abyss of his mind. Sometimes, though rarely now, he could hear a faint inner voice telling him this wasn’t him, urging him to fight. But that voice was slowly drowning beneath the waves of his consciousness.

Dr. Pritchard: "Now, we will dress you. You haven't learned this here yet, but you will soon understand that being a good boy means being elegant at all times. Appearance is an extension of your obedience. It’s not about having style—it’s about proving your submission through every detail of your attire. Dressing preppy is fundamental. It is a duty, not a choice."

Kyle: "Yes, Sir."

Kyle was dressed from head to toe, like a boy being sent off to school. A neatly pressed, button-down plaid white shirt, tucked into light khaki shorts held up by thick brown suspenders. Long white socks and polished black loafers completed the outfit, along with a large, subtly checkered bow tie.

When Dr. Pritchard tied the bow tie around Kyle’s neck, Kyle opened his mouth—not in surprise, but as if this attire had been meant for him all along, as if the relaxation of feeling truly himself in this clothing had loosened his jaw. His body and mind understood: he was meant to be a good preppy boy.

Dr. Pritchard: "That’s a good boy."

By late morning, Kyle was transferred to the Preppy Academy, placed in a class appropriate for his age. He was quickly integrated among other students eager to learn submission, obedience, and discipline.

He embraced the academy’s dress code without hesitation, developing a particular fondness for plaid patterns—the very motif Dr. Pritchard had introduced him to. In time, the administration and Kyle himself sent a letter to his family, informing them of his transfer and his wish to continue his education at the Preppy Academy.

Kyle’s father had heard of the institution through a friend whose son had returned home completely transformed—eventually becoming the family’s butler. Pleased with the results, and reassured that this was Kyle’s own request, his parents placed their trust in him.

Dr. Pritchard frequently visited the Academy to check on Kyle. Over time, he began calling him Prescott—his middle name—which suited him far better and carried a more refined sound.

Dr. Pritchard became Master to Prescott, who, with the Academy’s approval, would come to serve him every weekend—submissive and obedient. For example, he offered him his mouth to be filled with the doctor's cock from times to times.

Dr. Pritchard decided how Prescott should dress. He had even noticed during Prescott’s hospitalization that he often squinted from staring at the spiral for too long. As a result, he gifted him a pair of elegant glasses—enhancing his preppy and exemplary style even further.

Far from the field, far from his arrogance, Prescott had become a good boy. He could thank the Preppy Academy for that.

Who’s next?

[nerdysuitedbaby]

A Good Boy's Dandy

Jeff stood as the judge entered the courtroom and being told to rise. He was wearing jeans, a black AC/DC t-shirt, boots, his hair unkempt and messy and a scruffy. He had been through this many times before and didn't feel that it mattered how he presents himself since the justice system was fixed.

"Jeffrey Gerald Helms.... Always a pleasure to see you in my courtroom," the Judge remarked sarcastically. "Let's see you've been arrested for robbery yet again and have the plaintiff, one Douglas Harrington III, here filling charges. Plaintiff claims you entered forcefully into his estate on July 14, 2017. To which his security cameras have you at the scene of the crime how do you plea?"

"My client Jeffrey Gerald Helms would like to plead guilty your honor," his lawyer stood up. "He would like to enter a plea bargain by giving up the names of his accomplices."

Douglas set there in a three piece brown suit, light blue Oxford dress shirt with white contrasting collar, yellow necktie, perfectly groomed beard, and perfectly styled hair.

"Mr. Helms you've been involved in several robberies, several of which you've been armed, ranging from houses, cars, liquor stores and gas stations. Several times you've entered a plea deal and have been given more then your fair share of warnings. So I deny your plea deal an sentence you to 35 years in a maximum security prison," the Judge ordered as he went to pick up his gavel.

"That's bullshit dude," Jeff died out before the Judge could bang his gavel. "I was wrongfully arrested when I was 18 and you gave me a record. I haven't been able to get descent work since. How am I suppose to keep a roof over my head like all yous?"

"Mr. Helms you need to refrain yourself or you will be charged with contempt," the Judge began to scream.

Off to the right the plaintiff was whispering to his lawyer. When the lawyer stepped up and confronted the judge. The judge looked at the lawyer and at Douglas Harrington III.

"Are you sure you want to do this Douglas Harrington III," the Judge enquired. To which Douglas took one look sizing up Jeffrey and nodded with a giant smirk. "Jeffrey Gerald Helms, it would seem that Douglas Harrington III is willing to enter into a plea deal of his own. He is offering to give you a job and a place to stay. He runs a local gentlemen's etiquette class you will attend, pass and implement the skills taught in these classes. When you have completed them you will begin working for Douglas Harrington III teaching at this establishment for 10 years. In addition you'll be placed within restriction of the estate, the etiquette school, or within 50 feet from Mr. Harrington III. If you fail you'll spend 35 years in a prison. So you accept this deal?"

"Yeah," Jeff said in a sigh of relief.

--------------------------------------------

Jeff stood there a bag of his stuff in hand dropped off at the doorstep with an ankle monitor in his ankle. This won't be so bad he thought to himself. Just a little please, thank you, free room, and lavish mansion. This will be an easy 10 years.

"Hello do come in Jeffrey," Douglas said sounding very effeminate.

"HAHA! I'm sorrehehe. Sorry it's Jeff by the way man don't need to be so formal Mr. Fancy," Jeff said laughing at his voice.

"Yes well we must go into town have a look at the school, get you squared away for your new job and maybe stop in for a pint if you behave," Douglas informed him.

"Sure let me just take these to my room," Jeff told him.

"Not to worry Esteban," Douglas shouted out only to be met by a sharply dressed young Hispanic man. "Please take Mr. Helms bags to his room."

Esteban gave knowing smirk looking at Jeff as he took his bags bowing as he excited the room. They left to town upon which Jeff was being given books on manners, becoming of a gentlemen, social etiquette, grooming & hygiene, and so forth. He set those off to his side while Douglas kept explaining his schools history and his family. Finally arriving into town but it wasn't at the school it was at a barber shop.

"What are we doing here," Jeff asked.

"Well a proper boy has a proper shave and a haircut regularly. So as my newest student and soon to be employee I'm getting you a haircut and a straight razor shave," Douglas replied.

"I could use a trim but I'm keeping this beard," Jeff said standing his ground.

"Now Jeffrey I require all students to look tidy and all employees to be clean shaven. This was part of the plea deal unless your going back on your plea deal," Douglas told him.

"No! Fine I'll get a haircut and a shave," Jeff said grudgingly.

"Splendid go sit down while I instruct the barber," Douglas said scooting him off.

Jeff watched as the barber and Douglas exchanged words filling through magazines on hairstyles. Finally they seemed satisfied and the barber came to start cutting the hair. Jeff had to admit it felt nice getting a haircut. Then came the straight razor shave and while he was skeptical at first it was the most relaxing experience of his life. He almost dozed off to sleep it was so pleasant. However as the haircut and shave finished the barber sculpted Jeff's hair into a masterpiece and held it in with lots of product.

"Marginal improvement Walter. He looks very fetching indeed. Come Jeffrey we must make one more stop before going to the school," Douglas told Jeff.

Jeff was drug from the chair before he could even see the handy work. He was walked down to the end of the plaza to a men's clothing store.

"We must get you some appropriate attire," Douglas informed him.

"Look I don't wear suits and such. I'm no stiff," Jeff told him taking a step back.

"Jeffrey...." Douglas tried to console him.

"It's Jeff stop calling me Jeffrey," Jeff cried out.

"A gentlemen always addresses a man or women by their proper birth name. Since you must comply with the rules you better get used to it Jeffrey. Now you most certainly will need proper attire as it is also mandatory and will be needed in lots of various settings. You can go in or you can go to jail," Douglas said with a smile. "Shall I get the door?"

They walked inside and was greeted by an older man working behind the counter. After some chit chat between the 2 the old man finally started measuring me all over. Finally he said he got it pulling Douglas into the back. When he came back out he was beaming ear to ear.

"Put the one you showed me in my car the rest take deliver them to the usual place," Douglas said paying for whatever it was shown.

We walked to the car I could see my new suit in the back seat hanging inside a bag. Before I could do anything I had a bind gold placed on my head.

"What the...." I uttered.

"Don't want to run the surprise do we," Douglas said with an extra peep in his voice.

I defeated just said, "No!"

"That's no Sir or no Mr. Harrington III so please try again," Douglas instructed me.

"No Sir Mr. Douglas Harrington III Sir," I said sarcastically.

"For now I'll allow this. Come an old friend us waiting at the school," with that I was pushed in the car and headed off to the school.

Upon arrive I was drug out of the car only to here a familiar voice.

"Much better improvement from the punk piece of trash that he used to be," said a voice, which belonged to the Judge. "Has he given you any trouble?"

"Put up done resistance but all and all not too bad when I've put him in line," Douglas said answering the judges question. "Now to dress him and get him going in a new di-erection."

I swear I heard him just say what I think he said. I didn't have to time to ask questions as I was hurried up several steps and many turns. Finally I stopped only to be stripped.

"What the fuck," I yell.

"Relax just want to give you a nice surprise to the lovely suit I got you," Douglas said with a quiver in his voice. Like he could barely contain himself.

"You better comply Jeffrey. Remember I won't hesitate to send you to prison. You belong to Mr. Harrington III now," the Judge told me but I wasn't really listening as I was busy feeling violated.

I felt exposed for a few moments, although they seemed like an eternity. Douglas started dressing me first putting on a pair of underwear, which to me feels like briefs. I don't normally like then but at this point I'll be happy not to be exposed to this fruit cake. Next came the dress shirt I get him button the shirt up. I get the slightly stiff, starched, crispness of the dress shirt against my body. He then buttoned the sleeves and collar of my shirt which felt very tight and almost like shackles. Then I get socks get placed in my feet and are pulled all the way up to the knee. Next they pulled up some pants, was these pants I didn't feel anything before the knee but that could be the socks as I'm not used to it. They attacked something to the middle of my back and front of my pants. This caused them to ride up a little bit. I then had very tight, hard, uncomfortable shoes placed on both feet. Lastly I felt a jacket placed on me.

"Looking good! Are you ready to see," Douglas asked.

Before I could answer the blindfold was removed. It was worse then thought. First I wasn't wear pants but dress shorts, I had white pantyhose looking socks on (which I've learned are sheer socks), brown shiny dress shoes with a buckle in them. My jacket and shorts was a beige color. My dress shirt a blue and white stripped with a button down collar. My hair was immaculately styled and looked to study fairy tail Prince like. My face being freshly shaven made me look like I'm still in high school rather then a man in his late 20s.

"Something is missing," Douglas said walking up behind me with something hidden behind his back.

Then he swiftly in one motion cane around me and tied a highly big, extravagant and loud red bowtie around my neck. It looked like a giant Christmas bow. I stared at myself in disbelief with a state of shock frozen on my face. He's turned me into a little sissy.

"Mmmm....there we go much better that my Dandy Jeffrey," Douglas said holding me in his arms pressing his crotch, feeling his throbbing erection against my back side. "Welcome to day one. Just 3,652 days to go. Let's get that pint and loosen you up a little. Time to start teaching you what your duties are."

"We know a great place to get a beer don't we Jeffrey," the Judge asks with a smile to which I stare dumbfounded. "Great place called Brodies. I've never been but Jeffrey is quiet the frequent visitor according to his police records. Let's show off the new and improved Jeffrey. Unless you have an objection and prefer jail.

I stared up shocked, frozen, in complete and utter disbelief as I was being drug off to face several people I knew looking like a fruit cake. My street cred it about to trade a major damaging blow.

[nerdysuitedbaby]

The Family Heirdoom Pt. 2

William blinked awake to find Paul seated beside him, watching with a gentle, grandfatherly smile. For a moment, William felt like he’d woken up at his real home, somewhere safe and familiar. Paul reached out, patting his shoulder.

“Up and at ’em, sport,” Paul said warmly. “You had yourself a nice little snooze?”

William straightened his shirt, adjusting the tie with a touch of pride. “Slept like a rock, Grandpa. Feels good to catch a breather.”

Paul nodded approvingly. “Just as it should be, son. Look at you sharp as a tack.”

At that moment, Harold stepped in, grinning as he took in William’s look. “Hey there, Will, you ready to hit Lou’s? Gramps sayin’ he's going to treat us to a real nifty cut.” He nudged William, his tone full of easy confidence. “You’re lookin’ mighty keen now, but a proper trim’ll make us the cat’s pajamas.”

William laughed, feeling a strange but comfortable eagerness. “Yeah, let’s head out. I definitely need some polishing up. I look swell in this spiffy outfit but look horrible with this rat’s nest I've dared call hair.” He gave Harold a teasing smirk as they headed toward the door. “So, you inviting Erica to the dance tonight or what? Gotta show her your swell new look.”

Harold rolled his eyes, shaking his head as have a hearty chuckle. “Aw, Erica’s just not my kind of tomato, ya know? I’m huntin’ for a real nice stand-up gal, a girl who’s got the right values. Someone more wholesome and better kept who's ready to settle down and start a family.  Someone I can bring around Gramps and Gram without batting an eye.” He gave William a playful jab in the ribs. “Can’t be foolin’ around with just any ol’ doll.”

Paul smiled, listening with a warm approval. “Smart boy,” he said, patting Harold on the shoulder. “Nothing like a wholesome girl with her head on straight. Plenty of time to meet someone with roots, someone who’s got the future in her eyes.”

William nodded, feeling an odd sense of agreement he didn’t quite remember having before. “I get ya, Harold,” he replied, straightening his own tie. “Gotta find the kinda girl who’ll make a house feel like home. Not just any skirt’ll do.”

Harold grinned, slipping his hat on. “See? You’ve got the right idea. You stick with me, little brother, we’ll find ourselves some real keepers.”

As Paul drove, Harold leaned back, admiring his reflection in the car’s window. “Y’know, Will, Lou’s got the magic touch. One trim and we’ll look sharper than a tack. He's a master with the shears he's the one who tamed my hair. He's gonna give us cuts sharp enough to turn heads left and right. If anything I'm jealous your first is for such a spiffy cut.””

William chuckled, a mix of excitement and pride filling him as they cruised along. “I’ll say. Here’s hopin’ it lands us a fine dame with the right stuff. Don’t know what took me so long to see it.”

Paul glanced back at him with a grandfatherly smile. “You’re right on time, William. A young man oughta look his best and think his best.”

They pulled up to Lou’s barbershop, its old-fashioned red and white pole sign twirling against the afternoon sky. William stepped out, taking in the sight with a feeling that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Harold grinned beside him, adjusting his tie and nodding toward the shop.

“Ready to get fixed up proper, brother?”

William grinned back, straightening his suspenders one last time. “Born ready, pal. Let’s get ourselves lookin’ spiffy.”

They both stood there, perfectly polished in their crisp button-ups and neatly pressed trousers, their posture straightened by the approving presence of their grandfather, Paul. For a moment, William felt proud, almost elated. He could picture himself fitting into this clean-cut world that seemed so far from the usual college grind.

But as they walked toward the barbershop, William noticed people giving them curious glances. The eyes of passersby lingered a bit too long, and William felt his confidence waver. He cast a quick glance at Harold, who seemed entirely unfazed, his chin up and expression unfalteringly pleased. But William’s hand drifted to his shirt collar, and he started feeling a creeping sense of discomfort. His clothes, stiff and formal in a way he wasn’t used to, felt like they didn’t quite belong to him. He looked down at the dress shoes, the slacks, the tucked-in shirt, those haters holding up his socks, suddenly self-conscious of how different he must look, how out of place he must seem.

"What's the matter, William?" Paul’s steady voice interrupted his thoughts.

William hesitated, then looked down, mumbling, “Just… folks keep staring.”

Paul let out a reassuring chuckle and clapped a hand on his grandson's shoulder. “They’re just admiring how sharp you look, son. A fine young man ready to make his mark. They just aren't used to seeing a week dressed, confident, hair young man with such disgraceful hair. That scruffy hair is the only thing missing to complete your look, lucky for you, that’s what we’re here for.”

Harold leaned in, grinning. “Yeah, Will, you’re lookin’ swell, believe me. Just wait 'til you’ve got a proper cut, then folks won’t be able to take their eyes off ya! It's a real keen feeling I love when people stare at me. Gramps and Grams says that’s how you know you're doing them proud.”

William’s doubts began to fade. His grandpa’s prideful smile, his warm, approving words… it felt good, like the final say he’d been waiting for. As if Paul’s words were all he needed to feel that sense of rightness again. And Harold’s easy confidence only reinforced it.

Straightening his shoulders, William let himself believe that Paul was right, that it was just the hair. After all, with his grandpa and brother by his side, it was easier to think that he belonged right here. Sharp and respectable, just like they wanted him to be. Just like he has always wanted to be.

Paul, catching the exchange, gave a nod of approval and led them inside Lou’s Barbershop. The place was right out of a time capsule: leather chairs, striped barber poles, and the warm scent of old-fashioned hair tonic with a familiar touch of lavender that hung in the air. Behind the counter, Lou, an older gentleman with a welcoming smile and slicked-back hair, looked up as they entered.

“Lou!” Paul greeted warmly, clapping the barber on the shoulder. “Got my grandsons here for a proper trim. This is William, he's newest addition to the McGladdery Clan, you might say.”

Lou chuckled, giving William a friendly nod. “Pleasure to meet ya, William. Good to see young fellas keepin’ the tradition alive.”

“Now, Lou,” Paul continued, “these boys need a nice, classic cut, back and sides with a proper high quiff. Just the way we used to do it, with plenty of pomade to keep it tidy. They’ve got a big dance tonight, after all. Gotta look sharp for it.”

Lou gave a knowing grin, gesturing for William to settle into the chair. “Say no more, Paul. We’ll have ’em lookin’ like a million bucks in no time.” Harold took the chair next to him, watching with a confident smile as Lou wrapped a cape around William and adjusted the chair’s height.

As William settled into the barber’s chair, his mind buzzed with a strange mix of excitement and nerves. Lou, the barber, wrapped a cape around him with a practiced ease, securing it snugly at his neck before tilting his head back to inspect his overgrown, tousled hair. The familiar, low hum of the clippers buzzed to life in Lou’s hand, and with a gentle press to William’s shoulder, he began the transformation.

The first swipe of the clippers sent shivers down William’s spine as they grazed up the sides of his head, leaving a sharp, clean line above his ears. With each steady pass, more of his unruly locks fell away, replaced by a crisp, uniform stubble. Lou’s hands moved with precision, tapering the back and sides in a way that felt almost ceremonial. The new shortness felt foreign but strangely invigorating, like he was shedding an old self.

William dared a glance at his reflection, watching as his image morphed into something entirely different, neater, more polished. His heart skipped a beat, both in anticipation and uncertainty, but he stayed quiet, trusting the process.

After trimming the sides and back, Lou switched to a pair of scissors, lifting the longer hair on top. He carefully snipped away at it, shaping it inch by inch to have a voluminous quiff. Each deliberate cut brought a new structure and symmetry to William’s face, revealing strong lines and sharp angles that had been hidden under his mess of hair.

Lou paused, examining his work with a critical eye. “Now for the finishing touch,” he murmured with a slight grin, reaching for a tin of thick pomade. He scooped out a generous amount, warming it between his hands before running it through William’s hair. The pomade had a strong, classic scent that instantly filled the room—a mix of something fresh and sturdy, like an era gone by. 

Lou worked the pomade through each strand, his fingers shaping the quiff into a smooth, slicked-back wave with precise strokes. William could feel the weight of it, heavy and unyielding, holding his hair in place like a helmet. Lou then picked up a fine-tooth comb, carefully guiding the top into a high, dramatic quiff, while the sides stayed flat and polished.

Finally, Lou stepped back, turning the chair to face the mirror fully. William stared, wide-eyed, at his reflection. The man in the mirror looked… striking, refined, like he was looking at an old family album off old relatives rather then his own reflection. The hairstyle emphasized every angle of his face, making him appear mature and dignified in a way he’d never seen before. It felt strange but… it also felt right.

There was a pause as he absorbed this new look, wrestling with the feeling that he didn’t quite know the person looking back at him. But then he felt a hand on his shoulder, Paul’s steady grip. His grandpa’s face softened into a smile, his eyes shining with pride.

“Now, *that’s* my grandson,” Paul said warmly, giving William’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “A sharp dapper young man who looks ready to take on the world.”

At his grandpa’s words, something clicked. Any doubt that had lingered melted away, replaced by a swell of pride. William sat a little straighter, smoothing his hands over his pomaded hair and finding it perfectly set, perfectly controlled.

Beside him, Harold beamed. “Told ya, Will, you look aces!” he chimed in, sounding entirely at ease in his own clean-cut style. “Nothin’ like a proper cut to make ya feel like a million bucks, huh?”

William’s lips tugged into a smile. “Yeah… yeah, I think you’re right,” he replied, his voice steady. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so put-together, so… respectable. It felt solid, like a part of him that had just been waiting to emerge.

Lou smiled as he took off the cape, brushing stray hairs from William’s shoulders. “Now you’re set, son. Just like your grandpa said, a sharp dapper young man.”

William walked over and sat in the worn leather chair by the wall, still running a hand through his freshly cut hair, feeling the smooth, cool sweep of his new style. The barber had slicked it back with a high quiff, the sides neatly clipped and smoothed down with a generous amount of pomade. Every time he looked in the mirror, he had to blink and refocus to recognize the face staring back. There was something so… *right* about the way he looked now.

Across the room, Harold took his place in the barber’s chair, beaming with excitement. He grinned at William and gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up before the barber swung the cape around him and secured it at his neck. “Make me look just as sharp as my little brother over there,” Harold said, chuckling. “Gotta show him how it's done.”

As Harold’s haircut began, William turned to find Paul smiling at him from his seat nearby. His grandfather gave him a nod, a look of warm satisfaction in his eyes.

Paul sat back in the worn leather chair, watching as a young man around his age worked with focused precision, his hands moving methodically over the leather of Paul’s shoes. The young man, who wore a name tag that said Jimmy, expression was one of quiet contentment, his lips curled into a slight smile as he polished. He looked like a figure from the early 1900s: dressed in gray high-waisted, pleated trousers with crisp creases down each leg, held up by suspenders over a starched white shirt. A navy patterned bowtie sat snugly beneath his collar, while a gleaming pocket watch chain ran from his black vest pocket.

Jimmy’s hair was slicked flat with a neat center part, each strand held firmly in place by pomade, giving him a polished, almost timeless appearance. He also wore a thin, carefully groomed mustache adding to the old-fashioned look. His hair gleamed under the barbershop lights. Each movement he made was measured, deliberate, as if polishing shoes was more than a task—it was a craft he took immense pride in.

“Well, Willam,” Paul said, leaning forward slightly. “How’s it feel, finally looking like a real man, just like you always wanted?”

William paused, his hand resting on his newly greasy styled hair as he stared at Jimmy. “I… yeah, I guess I do… it just feels a bit different,” he admitted, trying to pinpoint exactly what felt so unfamiliar but comforting at the same time.

Jimmy finished with a final buff, holding the shoe at different angles to inspect the shine, then looked up at Paul with a soft, pleased expression, his smile growing wider.

Paul chuckled knowingly. “I remember you talkin' about it since you were young, how you’d be so proud when you looked like a man who could start a family. You’ve always wanted to be someone dependable. And now? Look at you. You’re practically there.

Paul reached into his pocket and handed Jimmy a dollar, placing it in his hand. Jimmy’s eyes lit up with gratitude, and he nodded appreciatively, tucking the dollar carefully into his vest pocket as if it were a treasured gift.

Without a word, Jimmy shifted his tools over and moved to William’s shoes, beginning the process again with the same quiet dedication. William watched him work, a hint of admiration in his eyes as Jimmy’s hands moved skillfully over the leather, bringing a polished sheen with each pass of the cloth. Jimmy’s quiet, focused contentment created a serene atmosphere, as if he found complete fulfillment in this simple task, his smile unwavering, perfectly at home in his role.

At the word “family,” something inside William stirred. It felt as if a forgotten door had creaked open in his mind, revealing a faint memory he couldn’t quite place. The thought of having a family, of settling down with a girl who’d be a perfect match, someone wholesome and sweet, someone his grandparents would approve of just felt… natural. Almost inevitable.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding slowly as his eyes glazed over, “I guess I always did think about that.”

Paul’s smile widened, his voice soft and encouraging. “Of course you did. Why else would you have been so excited to move in with your grandma and me? You know, there’s no better place to settle down than around here. You’ll have us right by your side, guiding you along, making sure you’re on the right path.”

That subtle pull in William’s chest grew stronger, and he found himself nodding, feeling a warm glow in his chest. His grandpa was right… *he’d always wanted this.* He wanted to stay close, to be with his family, to settle down and find a girl who shared his old fashion values and was ready to start a future with him. That simple, dependable life sounded perfect.

Paul placed a reassuring hand on William’s shoulder. “And with that new haircut, you’re already halfway there. Looking the part is the first step, son. You look respectable now, just like you’ve always wanted. And with your grandma and I guiding you, any girl with her head on right is gonna see you for the fine young man you are.”

William’s lips curved into a small smile, his doubts slipping further away. The image his grandpa painted was so inviting, so… perfect. This was where he belonged, wasn’t it? His grandparents, his family, had always been his home. This has always been what he wanted, right? It’s all he could think about now was just that he wanted to be just like his grandpa and make them proud. He wanted to look and see like a proper young man, he wanted to find a nice girl and settle down, and have kids, that's it. His old ambitions, the old worries about school, his old life, they were just distractions from the future he wanted to have here. It was simple and hallow but it was all he could think about.

Just then, the barber spun Harold around to reveal his own finished look, identical to William’s sleek, polished cut. Harold beamed, reaching up to touch his hair and glancing over at William with a look of pure excitement.

“Well, what do ya think, Will?” Harold asked, his voice bright and full of enthusiasm. “Think we’re ready to turn some heads?”

William glanced at Paul, who gave him an approving nod. The pride and satisfaction in his grandfather’s eyes felt like the final piece falling into place. William straightened his posture, smoothing his shirt and grinning back at Harold.

“I think we’re ready,” he replied confidently.

Paul reached out blocking William as he headed toward the door. “Not quite yet, just one more thing before we head out. You need to get a proper shave. A young lady will swoon over you for sure once you get a proper shave to match your nifty new hairstyle and your dapper fashion sense.”

Lou’s son, who's name tag read Earl, stepped forward as Paul guided William into the barber’s chair, ready to give him a clean shave. Earl, like his son Jimmy, had an aura of timeless refinement. His hair was clearly thinking but slicked back neatly, parted with precision, and held in place with copious amounts of pomade. He also wore a thin, well-groomed mustache that gave him a look both dapper and dignified, while his barber’s coat, pristine white and crisply pressed, clung sharply to his frame. He wore some retro old timey looking glasses and had a simple thin black bowtie. He carried himself with an air of pride and dedication, as if the art of grooming was something he not only excelled at but treasured deeply.

Earl placed a steaming, eucalyptus-scented towel over William's face, allowing the heat to soak in. William’s muscles loosened, his senses lulling into a state of calm, the warmth melting away any lingering tension. As Earl carefully prepared the straight razor, Paul settled into a chair nearby and began chatting with Lou, both men watching with pride as Earl and Jimmy started their work on both Paul's grandsons.

“Aren’t we lucky, Lou?” Paul mused, a grin spreading across his face. “To have such fine young men in the family. Not just that boys that are always obedient, respectful, and knowing the value of looking’ their best.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Lou replied, nodding in satisfaction. “Young fellas like my Jimmy and Earl here? They just don’t make ‘em like that anymore. They understand the importance of good manners, and they don’t go runnin’ off like so many kids these days.” He gave a chuckle, his eyes glancing at William, who was visibly relaxing into the chair, taking in every word.

Earl began the shave, tilting William’s head gently to the side, his fingers firm yet soft as he held William’s jaw. The razor glided smoothly over his skin, each pass careful and precise. There was a steady rhythm to the motion, each stroke releasing tension from William’s body, almost therapeutic, as if with every shave, the last remnants of his modern habits and anxieties were being removed.

Paul continued, his voice low and full of pride. “William here’s turnin’ into quite the young gentleman himself. Just look at him already sittin’ so still, takin’ to this like he’s been doin’ it all his life. A real credit to the family.” Paul’s gaze met William’s in the mirror, and William felt a strange, swelling pride at those words. He wasn’t sure why, but the compliments from Paul filled him with a sense of accomplishment, like he was finally living up to something important, even if he couldn’t quite put a finger on what that was.

Earl wiped the razor and continued with gentle, meticulous strokes, each movement smoothing out every bit of stubble until William’s skin was as clean as porcelain. Earl’s calm, practiced hands made the experience almost sensual in its precision, the sharp coolness of the blade against his skin alternating with the warmth of Earl’s touch. William closed his eyes, letting himself drift into a state of ease, feeling cared for and renewed, as though he were becoming part of something timeless.

“And they dress like real gentlemen too, don’t they?” Lou added, chuckling. “Jimmy and Earl, they've always got their clothes stretched and pressed, and Earl here well, he wouldn’t let them be caught dead without their hair and mustaches lookin’ pristine and well tamed. Thanks to us they turned out right, we sure raised them right didn't we Paul, Paul?”

“Absolutely,” Paul replied with pride. “And William here I have no doubt he'll make me as proud as his brother Harold has.”

Earl finished the shave, patting William’s face with a scented cloth, then dabbed on a splash of bay rum aftershave, the cool, bracing scent filling William’s senses. William opened his eyes, glancing at himself in the mirror. His skin was clean, smooth, and flawless, giving him a more refined, polished look that made him confident.

Paul patted him on the shoulder. “Look at that, William,” he said with a pleased smile. “Now don’t you look like the young man you were always meant to be. You’ve got the look of a real gentleman now.”

Earl gave a nod, stepping back with pride in his work, and William felt a swelling warmth inside, almost as if he’d achieved something profound. Harold, still nearby with his own freshly shined shoes and impeccable grinned hair, grinned at William. “Told ya you’d look sharp, William.” he said, giving his brother's necktie a playful tug.

William’s own smile grew as he sat back, feeling a strange but undeniable satisfaction. “Thank you, I do feel swell now,” he murmured, his voice soft but with a touch of newfound confidence, echoing the pride that had been planted deep within him by Paul’s and Lou’s words as he followed his brother and Grandpa out.

“Well, boys,” he began, clasping his hands together with a spark of excitement. “Got a little treat in store for you two. I figured since you both behaved so well as you got those fresh haircuts, that we’d head on over to Boomers Bloomers and see about getting you both suited you up properly for tonight's dance. How’s that sound?”

William blinked in surprise, the thrill of a new suit tingling through him. He hadn’t given much thought to owning one before, but now, with his sharp haircut and his grandpa’s approving eyes on him, the idea of picking out a real suit stirred something unexpectedly exciting. His lips curled into a genuine smile at the thought of getting a proper suit.

Harold, meanwhile, was beside himself. His eyes lit up with disbelief. “A real suit, Grandpa?” he asked, his voice practically bubbling over. “From an actual store?” He practically bounced with excitement. “Not something that Grandma or the ladies from our community put together?”

Paul chuckled, amused by Harold’s enthusiasm. “That’s right, Harold, a genuine store-bought suit. Something special to go with those nifty haircuts of yours.”

Harold’s excitement seemed to bubble over, and he exchanged an elated look with William. “Can you believe it?” he whispered. “A real suit! I never thought I’d get one that wasn’t stitched up right at home. I mean they do quality work but still this is going to be super nifty.”

“Yeah,” William replied, still a little stunned but feeling the anticipation grow. “I think we’re gonna look spiffy for sure.”

Harold nodded vigorously. “You’re gosh darn tootin’ we are going to look sharp as a tack!”

They followed Paul into the thrift shop, the store welcoming them with its warm smell of polished wood and vintage leather. Racks of well-maintained suits lined the walls, each one organized neatly, from muted grays to rich navy blues, each jacket and pant combo in perfect order. A guy their age stood behind the counter, taking a momentary break from reading something on his phone, just stared at them in disbelief as they continued to stare in fascination at the racks of clothes.

Paul nudged them forward. “Alright, boys, take a look. Find something you like, but keep in mind—it’s gotta be something you can wear for all sorts of occasions.”

William scanned the racks, his eyes landing on a smooth navy-blue suit with delicate silver pinstripes. He ran his fingers along the fabric, feeling the sleekness, picturing how he’d look with it on. He’d never owned anything so refined, and the thought of wearing it made him stand a little taller.

Harold, meanwhile, darted to a charcoal-gray suit with wide lapels, the look simple but timeless. He held it up with a satisfied grin. “Grandpa, what do you think? It’s really classy, isn’t it?”

Paul looked over the suits with a nod. “Those are some fine choices, boys, no doubt about that.” He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “But, tell ya what, I think we might go with something a touch more practical for you fine fellas. Take a look at this one.”

Paul led them to a suit in a sturdy shade of brown, a bit more subdued, with a boxier cut. The fabric looked durable, though not as refined or stylish as the navy and charcoal options.

“This here,” he said, patting the brown fabric, “this is practical. Goes with just about anything proper, doesn’t stand out too much, but it’ll wear well and last ya a long time. What do you boys think?”

William glanced from the blue suit he’d chosen to the brown one Paul recommended. Part of him longed for the more refined option as at first glance he gave a sour face, but as he looked at Paul’s encouraging smile, he felt a wave of reassurance. If his grandpa thought it was the right choice, then it must be.

“Sounds good, Grandpa,” Harold replied with a nod.

William, though visibly less thrilled with the brown, seemed to snap out of his initial disappointment. “Yes, sir, Grandpa! If you think it’s the best, that’s good enough for me.”

Paul grinned, giving each of them a firm pat on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, boys. You’ll look like fine young gentlemen in no time.”

Both boys stepped into the changing room with the brown suit draped over their arms. William to a brief moment you glanced back at the navy one he’d initially liked, before stepping inside to get dressed. Only to emerge to model their selected outfits to their grandpa. The fabric was heavier and a bit rougher than William was used to, and as he looked at himself in the mirror, he felt a little like he was looking at someone else entirely.

Harold, on the other hand, was beaming as he admired himself in the full-length mirror just outside the changing room. He adjusted the lapels of his brown jacket, struck a pose, and then gave a thumbs-up. “What do ya think, Grandpa? I feel like a million bucks!” he declared, his eyes bright with excitement.

Paul chuckled, nodding approvingly. “You look sharp, Harold. Real sharp.”

William took a deep breath and stepped out, adjusting the collar and glancing over at Harold. Despite Harold’s enthusiasm, William’s brow furrowed as he looked down at himself. 

Paul stepped over, pulling out two bowties and two dress shirts he’d selected from the rack. “Alright, boys, these’ll complete the look,” he said, holding up a light-yellow dress shirt and a pale green shirt along with matching bowties.

Harold reached for the green shirt and bowtie, his eyes practically sparkling. “This is perfect, Grandpa! I think it’ll look real spiffy.”

But William hesitated, eyeing the green shirt and burgundy bowtie with a bit of reluctance. “Uh…I dunno,” he muttered, glancing back at his reflection. “It doesn’t feel…well, it feels kinda old-fashioned, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not exactly, uh, fashionable.”

At that, Paul caught the faint trace of hesitation in William’s expression. Without missing a beat, his face softened with understanding, and he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief. As he brought it up to William’s face, William caught the faint, soothing scent of lavender. Paul dabbed at a tear that had formed at the corner of William’s eye, then placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“William,” Paul said gently, his tone warm and reassuring, “you’ve never looked better than you do right now. Just take a look at yourself—truly look. You look like a real gentleman. And remember, son, you’ve always had a fondness for this style. You and Harold both. The ways, the customs, even the behavior of men from the 1940s…that’s always been a part of who you are, deep down. Isn’t that right?”

William felt a sudden calm wash over him, almost as if Paul’s words reached somewhere deep inside, nudging aside the faint discomfort. The smell of lavender hung around him, settling his nerves, and he found himself nodding slowly.

“Yeah…I guess I do like it. It’s…classic,” he murmured, a small smile forming.

Paul’s face brightened as he clapped William gently on the back. “That’s the spirit. Trust me, sport you’re going to be one fine looking young man at that dance. You’ll turn heads, and you’ll feel proud. It’s just who you are.”

Harold gave William an encouraging grin. “We’re gonna look like a couple of truly dapper gentlemen, you and me. Just like we were meant to.”

William straightened up, feeling more sure of himself, his doubts slipping away. He adjusted his bowtie, feeling the weight of Paul’s words and Williams encouragement settling warmly in his mind.

[nerdysuitedbaby]

The Family Heirdoom

Wyndham pulled his blue sedan into the lot of the old folks home, checking his phone one last time for the address. The place was quiet, set back from the road with a pristine weathered grandeur, its brick walls softened by layers of Miami’s humid grime. The place looked a touch faded, wrapped in ivy, but well maintained with its tall windows barely catching the weak glow of streetlights.

He sighed, leaning back in his seat. Just one more delivery tonight. His last order for DoorDash then he could swing by the dispensary, and maybe, if the tips was big enough, he’d be able to grab some voodoo ranger before returning to the dorm room. Just a few bucks left to make it worth the large catering order.

Wyndham ran a hand through his unkempt hair and grabbed the bags from the backseat seat. He was dressed in his oversized tee, a black hoodie with weed paraphernalia, sweat pants, and his worn pair of lucky Vans. He headed inside, juggling the food bags and the faint smell of lingering floral air freshener that hit him as he entered the lobby.

A woman appeared, brisk and purposeful. Her name tag read *Lucille*, and her voice held a no-nonsense tone as she gave him a quick, assessing look.

“DoorDash delivery?” she asked bluntly.

“Yeah. Got your order right here,” he said, holding up the bags. “Where do you want it?”

“This way,” she motioned for him to follow, her sharp gaze taking in his rumpled clothes and general scruffiness. Her expression softened just slightly as they reached a large dining room with a table covered in white linen, prepared for something far more elegant than Wyndham’s usual drop-offs.

“We’re hosting a dance tonight for the residents and their families,” Lucille said, gesturing to the trays in his hands. “Set the food up here.”

Nodding, he began unpacking sandwiches, soups, fruit platters, and desserts. The quiet in the room pressed down on him; even the smallest clink of the silverware seemed to echo in the dimly lit space. As he set down the last tray, he noticed a shape in his periphery: a person, standing just beyond the doorway.

Wyndham’s hand paused mid-reach. The person was watching him, their expression blank. For some reason, his heart skipped a beat, recognition stirring at the edge of his mind.

“Kayden?”

The name slipped out before he could stop himself, but there was no answer. The figure stood there a moment longer, and then, without a word, turned and disappeared down the hall.

Wyndham’s heart pounded as he trailed Kayden down the corridor, calling his name again. But it was like his friend had been absorbed into the quiet, controlled atmosphere of the place, completely oblivious to Wyndham’s voice. Determined, he followed, feeling his frustration deepen with every ignored call.

At last, Kayden turned into a room with a plaque that read *Rec Room*. Wyndham hesitated briefly before slipping inside. The room was a sharp contrast to the muted halls: bright, cozy, set up with overstuffed couches, card tables, and a television softly playing a black-and-white movie. A few elderly residents sat here and there, reading or knitting.

Wyndham spotted Kayden near the center of the room, standing with his hands neatly folded in front of him, as if waiting for someone to speak. But something in his appearance stopped Wyndham cold. Gone was the disheveled, laid-back friend he knew. This Kayden looked practically unrecognizable.

His usually messy hair had been combed back meticulously, each strand slicked and held in place with a shine that caught the overhead light. His face was clean-shaven, smooth and fresh, almost boyish without the faint scruff Wyndham had always associated with him. He was dressed in a light purple dress shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of gray slacks that looked freshly pressed. A narrow gray tie completed the look, lying flat against his chest. Even his posture seemed alien for him upright, composed, his shoulders relaxed but squared in a way that felt… rehearsed.

“Kayden?” Wyndham tried again, his voice coming out weaker than he’d intended.

Kayden turned, but the look he gave Wyndham was polite, almost blank. No recognition, no flicker of familiarity in his eyes. Just a faint, puzzled smile as if Wyndham were a distant acquaintance he barely remembered.

“Who’s your friend, Harold?” asked a warm voice from the nearby couch. An elderly woman sat there, her hands resting atop her husband’s, her eyes crinkling with genuine curiosity.

Wyndham’s brow furrowed. *Harold?*

The name seemed to trigger something in Kayden, or rather, Harold. His faint smile softened, and he glanced between the older couple and Wyndham, struggling for words.

“Oh, uh… This is Wyndham. We go to college together,” he said finally, his voice oddly formal, with none of the casual tone Wyndham was used to. It was like he’d been recast in his own skin. “Wyndham, these are my grandparents, Ruth and Paul.”

Ruth’s face lit up, and she patted the empty seat beside her. “Well, come sit down, dear! It’s so lovely to meet a friend of Harold’s. He doesn’t bring many guests around such a nice young man, our Harold.”

Wyndham managed a strained smile as he took a seat, glancing between Kayden and his grandparents. Ruth and Paul seemed perfectly at ease, radiating warmth and hospitality, but all he could think about was Kayden, or *Harold*, sitting stiffly beside him, looking as if he’d been plucked from an entirely different life.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too,” Wyndham murmured, feeling as if he were watching a play he hadn’t been invited to rehearse for.

Kayden met his gaze, a flicker of something like confusion passing over his face before smoothing back into that distant, polite smile. There was no trace of the friend Wyndham had known, no spark of mischief or even casual recognition. Just a poised, docile expression as he leaned into the comfort of his grandparents, his gaze shifting blankly back to the room, as if this quiet little world were all he needed.

Wyndham glanced sidelong at Kayden or *Harold*, as his grandparents had called him. Unable to resist a smirk, he leaned in, voice dripping with a mix of curiosity and playful skepticism.

“So… Harold, huh?”

Harold’s polite smile didn’t falter, though there was a flicker of something else, maybe discomfort, in his eyes. “Yeah, uh… Harold’s actually my real name. Kayden’s my middle name. My parents liked it better, so it just kind of stuck over the years. But… I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Harold.”

Wyndham raised an eyebrow, amused. “Alright, Harold,” he said, putting just a little emphasis on the name. “Guess I’ll have to get used to it. It’s just a little weird. Question: aren't you from San Diego, right? Since when do your grandparents live all the way out here in Miami?”

Harold’s expression softened, a strange warmth flickering across his face as he looked back at Ruth and Paul. “I… well, yeah. They used to live in San Diego too, but when it came time for college, I decided to come here. Wanted to be closer to them, you know?” His voice was softer now, as if he truly believed the words. “Family’s important.”

Ruth’s eyes sparkled with affection, and she patted Harold’s hand, her gaze shifting to Wyndham. “And you, dear? How did you meet our Harold?” She pronounced the name with pride.

“Oh, uh, we… go to college together,” Wyndham replied, glancing at Harold, who nodded along politely, though his eyes held that same unfamiliar blankness.

“And what are you studying, William?” Paul asked, while Ruth began leaning forward with a grandmotherly interest that was both charming and unnerving.

Wyndham blinked, caught off-guard by the use of the name. “It’s, uh… actually Wyndham,” he corrected gently, but Paul only laughed softly, as if the distinction didn’t quite matter to her.

“Such a unique name,” she murmured. “But do tell, what are you studying?”

“Business administration,” Wyndham replied, feeling her gaze like a spotlight. “I mean, it’s not the most exciting thing, but it’s practical, I guess. I just kind of… fell into it.”

“Oh, practical is good,” Paul chimed in, nodding approvingly. “You can never go wrong with a good, stable field. What year are you, then?”

“Uh, planning on graduating in about two years or so.” Wyndham shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, sensing they were sizing him up, trying to place him.

Ruth tilted her head slightly, her smile never faltering. “And you’re here all by yourself, then? No family nearby?”

Wyndham hesitated, realizing he was revealing more than he’d intended. “Yeah… pretty much. I'm from just outside of Boston so my family is back there.”

“So, William, what brings you here today? Not that we’re not delighted to have you join us, of course.” Ruth asked, grabbing a plate of cookies.

“Oh, actually,” Wyndham said, glancing over at Kayden who was tightening his necktie, “I’m just here on a quick DoorDash run. Some kind of big order for tonight’s dance.” He gave a nod toward Harold, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Guess that’s why Kayden here is all dressed up.”

The reaction was swift and subtle but enough to make Wyndham’s smile falter. Harold’s expression turned to mild displeasure, his brows knitting just slightly. “It’s *Harold,*” he corrected gently but firmly, as though needing to make sure Wyndham got it right.

Wyndham’s cheeks warmed a bit, surprised at how much of a nerve he’d seemed to touch. “Oh, right. Sorry, Harold.” He nodded slowly, trying to get used to the name on his tongue. “Guess it’s still a bit weird. So it's that why you're dressed like… this?”

Paul chuckled, shaking his head with a good-natured smile. “Oh, he isn’t dressed up just for the dance,” he assured. “Our Harold always dresses like a proper gentlemen when he comes to visit his grandparents, don’t you, son?”

Harold offered a modest nod, his hands folding in front of him with a calm, almost practiced air. “Yeah, Grandpa likes it when I look respectable,” he replied. His tone was easy, relaxed, but it felt… off.

“Doesn’t he look nice, dear?” Ruth chimed in, beaming with grandmotherly pride as she gave Wyndham a look of expectation, like she was waiting for him to acknowledge how perfectly Harold fit in here.

“Oh, uh… yeah, totally,” Wyndham said, trying to match her enthusiasm. “You clean up nice… Harold.”

Harold’s mouth curled into a polite smile, the expression genuine but missing a certain spark, a familiarity that Wyndham couldn’t quite place. Paul and Ruth, meanwhile, looked at Harold with a proud warmth that radiated through the room. For them, everything seemed perfect, as if Harold had always been this way with his hair neatly combed, politely spoken, and clothes perfectly pressed.

“Anyway, you must be awfully busy to come all the way out here with that delivery.” Ruth’s tone was warm, but there was an intensity in her eyes, as though she were peeling back layers Wyndham hadn’t meant to expose.

“Oh, I mean, yeah,” Wyndham said, glancing down at his phone. “Just doing the usual college thing, trying to make some extra money, you know?”

Harold watched him with that same faint, distracted smile, a politeness that bordered on detachment.

Ruth exchanged a look with Paul before leaning back, her smile softening into a gentle kindness. “Well, William—oh, Wyndham, of course,” she corrected herself with a laugh. “Would you like a cookie, dear? I made them fresh this morning, just for Harold and his friends.”

Wyndham managed a chuckle, trying to ignore the sense that they were coaxing him into staying just a little longer. “Sure, I… I could go for a cookie.”

Ruth reached over to a small plate on the coffee table, holding out a warm, chocolate chip cookie with a knowing smile. As he took it, Wyndham couldn’t help but feel the warmth of their gaze, a strange, almost possessive comfort that filled the room, slowly wrapping around him like an embrace.

Wyndham took another bite of the cookie, but as he chewed, a strange sensation prickled at the edges of his mind. The room seemed a bit brighter, the colors of the decor more vivid, almost unnaturally so. He blinked, trying to shake the feeling, but his head felt… foggy, like he was drifting in and out of focus.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young man near the corner of the room, probably around his own age, dressed in pressed slacks, a tucked-in collared shirt, and a yellow cardigan. The young man stood there, hands folded primly in front of him, smiling serenely at an elderly man as he patiently waited his turn in they're game of chess. There was something unsettling about his gaze—it was empty, placid, like he wasn’t quite… himself. Just like… Kayden!

Wyndham’s eyes flickered around the room, picking out more young faces scattered among the residents, each dressed in similarly neat, old-fashioned attire. A girl his age wore a pale blue dress and a pearl necklace, her hair pinned up in gentle curls. She sat beside an elderly woman, listening intently to her story, her smile polite and her posture rigid. Like Harold, these people looked… off.

“K… Kayden,” Wyndham muttered, feeling his pulse quicken as he leaned toward his friend. “What… what’s going on here?”

But Harold only smiled, his expression perfectly composed. “It’s Harold and I don’t know what you mean, William,” he replied, his tone calm and patient, as though addressing a small misunderstanding. “We’re just here for the dance tonight but we decided to come spend some time with our grandparents and friends.”

Wyndham’s stomach twisted as the fogginess in his head thickened, a weight pressing down on his thoughts. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words felt sluggish, like they were trapped somewhere between his mind and his mouth.

“Come along now, dear,” Ruth cooed, standing up and motioning for him to follow. “Why don’t we take you to Harold’s room? He has something nice that you can change into, don’t you, Harold?”

Harold nodded, extending a hand to Wyndham with an encouraging smile. “It’ll be more comfortable than what you’re wearing now,” he assured gently. “Trust me.”

Every instinct told Wyndham to back away, to run, but his body seemed to respond to their words like they were gentle commands he couldn’t resist. His legs felt heavy, his vision blurring slightly as he stumbled to his feet, still clutching the half-eaten cookie.

They led him down a hallway, the walls decorated with faded paintings and patterned wallpaper that seemed to close in on him with every step. The place smelled faintly of lavender and something else. It was a strange medicinal smell that made his head feel even foggier.

At the end of the hall, Harold opened the door to a small room that looked like it hadn’t changed in decades. A bed with a floral quilt was tucked into the corner, and on the dresser lay a neatly folded set of clothes: a tan pair dress pants, a purple dress shirt, and a silver necktie, eerily similar to what Harold was wearing.

Wyndham shook his head, trying to fight the heaviness that had settled over him. “I don’t… I don’t need new clothes,” he managed, his voice sounding distant and faint, even to his own ears.

“Oh, nonsense,” Ruth said, patting his shoulder in a way that felt both comforting and trapping. “You’re practically family, dear. We just want you to look your best.”

Wyndham’s mind spun as he took a step back, but Harold’s hands were gentle yet firm as they guided him forward, closer to the bed, closer to the neatly folded clothes waiting for him.

“Go on,” Harold urged softly, his eyes strangely bright. “It’ll be alright. You’ll feel so much better when you’re dressed properly.”

Wyndham blinked, momentarily confused, but his body obeyed before his mind fully registered. He lifted his arms, feeling the soft fabric slide over his shoulders and settle around him as Harold showed him how to button it up with practiced ease, each button fastening his resistance a little tighter.

“H-Harold,” Wyndham stammered, his voice sounding unsteady, “I don’t… what’s going on? They’re not… they’re not your grandparents, are they?”

Harold’s eyes flickered for a brief moment, a trace of something almost familiar surfacing in his gaze, but it quickly faded back into a serene smile. “What are you talking about, William?” he replied, adjusting the collar and straightening the shirt with gentle care. “They’re family. They take care of us, help us be our best selves.”

“But… you’re Kayden,” Wyndham insisted, trying to grasp onto the threads of reality slipping through his fingers. Only to be corrected once more.

He noticed some photos of his friend wearing a God awful suit with brown high waisted pants, an ugly beige, red and yellow plaid jacket, and a brown and gold skinny bowtie tightly around his throat. The photo had an old timey filter to it that sat with care next to the bed. The other had three different photos in a frame of him in the same getup but different pictures posing with each of his grandparents before the big one with him sitting in front of both his grandparents. Each photo showed him smiling happily but with soulless eyes. The corner had an embossed print that said “The McGladdery Clan” in fancy print with a tagline “Family is Forever”.

Panic overtook him as he tried to still reach his friend as he started tucking the shirt into his dress pants as he tried to reach his friend. “No… you're Kayden Hyatt! You’re from San Diego… You like to party, drink, smoke weed, you like to play Apex and Call of Duty and do long night bingers trying to grind for points? ”

Harold chuckled softly, like Wyndham had made a harmless mistake. “Oh, William,” he said, almost pityingly, as he loosened his gray necktie and taught Wyndham how to tie it around his neck. “You’ve always had such a funny imagination. I think you’re just a little tired from the long drive here.” He carefully tied the knot, his fingers moving deftly as he tightened the tie with a final, reassuring tug.

“Snap out of it, Kayden,” Wyndham whispered, his eyes widening as he looked around the room, desperately trying to piece together the truth, as he fastened a pair of suspenders to his pants. “They’re doing something to us. This isn’t… this isn’t right.”

But the fog pressed down harder, muddling his thoughts, making it harder to hold onto his sense of self as he finished tying his black leather dress shoes completing the outfit. Harold stepped back, his expression as calm and warm as ever, seeming completely unfazed.

“There we go,” Harold said, surveying Wyndham's work with satisfaction. “You look very nice, William. Grandmother and Grandfather will be so pleased.”

Wyndham’s heart raced, a final flicker of clarity sparking within him. He opened his mouth, one last attempt to break through whatever hold these people had over Harold. “Kayden… please… don’t you remember? You’re not… you’re not Harold. These people aren't your grandparents and I can prove it.”

Wyndham pulled out his phone and went to find his Facebook but it had been deleted. In a panic he checked other social media only to find the profiles missing. In one last ditch effort he searched his own Facebook and there he found it amongst photos from last year's end of semester party. There Kayden was with his long shaggy hair, scruffy beard, a backwards baseball cap, torn jeans, and a much larger black T-shirt with some rapper on it.

Harold hesitated as he looked at the photo, a faint crease forming between his brows, but the moment passed, and he shook his head slowly, his smile returning, placid and unshakeable. “My name is Harold,” he repeated, as if reaffirming it to himself. “My grandparents love me and I love my grandparents. They take care of me, guide me and discipline me. I am to be polite and respectful, follow the rules and obey my elders and be here for my grandparents and take care of them in their old age. And I like it this way. Now, why don’t you finish your cookie, William?”

Wyndham glanced down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, a strange compulsion urging him to take another bite, even though he felt queasy, almost as if he was losing more of himself with every crumb. The softness of Harold’s voice coaxed him, each word melting his remaining resistance.

Ruth and Paul returned, their faces bright with delight as they saw Wyndham dressed and seated obediently. Ruth handed him the cookie, smiling as she held it just inches from his mouth.

“Finish up, dear,” she encouraged. “It’ll make you feel better. You must be exhausted from all that running around.”

Too dazed to argue, Wyndham took another bite, the sugary taste spreading a warmth through his body that made him feel… safe, as if all his worries were drifting away.

As he chewed, Paul crossed the room, lifting the needle on an old record player. With a soft crackle, the smooth, calming notes of an old jazz tune filled the room, wrapping around Wyndham like a lullaby. The melody seeped into his mind, lulling him further into a drowsy, contented state.

Ruth gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “Now, why don’t you lie down, William? Take a little nap. It’ll do you good. You can sleep in Harold's bed for now and tonight Paul will place an order for your bed.”

Wyndham’s eyes grew heavy, his gaze drifting toward Harold, who stood nearby with a placid smile, watching as he slowly leaned back onto the bed. Wyndham ran his hands down to straighten his necktie so it laid flatly against his shirt before allowing Ruth pull the blanket over him and tuck him in and his hands folded nearly across his chest. Tears built up in his eyes as Ruth lent in to give him a kiss on the forehead but he was having a hard time remembering why he would tear up. The music enveloped him, its soft, repetitive rhythm blurring his thoughts until he could no longer tell where they began or ended.

As his eyes fluttered shut, Wyndham’s last coherent thought was a hazy, distant question, a final thread of doubt about who he was, about why he was here… but it was quickly drowned out by the warmth, the comfort, and the gentle, insistent tug of the music pulling him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Special thanks to unfrmed for the inspiration with his images as he provided half the images here in the story. Check him out!

[nerdysuitedbaby]

**After School Detention**

Max trudged down the hallway of Eisenhower High, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floors. Transferring schools was tough enough, but being stuck in detention on his first day was the cherry on top of a terrible sundae. Max wore his usual attire: a letterman jacket, jeans, and a white t-shirt underneath, the epitome of a jock. He'd ended up in detention for bullying a kid in the cafeteria, a scrawny nerd with glasses that seemed too big for his face. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in trouble for that sort of thing, but this school seemed to take it more seriously.

As Max pushed open the door to Room 207, he expected to find a bunch of other troublemakers. Instead, he found a group of nerds. They all had thick, black-rimmed glasses, neatly combed hair, and a uniform of sorts: button-up shirts with sweater vests or cardigans. Max felt a twinge of unease as they looked up at him, their eyes gleaming with something he couldn’t quite place.

"Uh, hey. I'm Max," he muttered, scanning the room for an empty seat. The nerds exchanged glances and then smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile.

"Sit here," said a boy with neatly parted hair and braces, patting the seat next to him. Max reluctantly complied, feeling a growing sense of dread.

"I'm Brent," the boy continued. "So, what did you do to land in detention?"

Max shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just a misunderstanding with a kid in the cafeteria. What about you guys? Why are you all here?"

Brent's eyes twinkled with amusement. "We all have our stories. For example, I got into detention for tripping a kid on crutches in the hallway."

Another boy with red hair and freckles leaned forward. "I got caught spray-painting graffiti on the gym wall. Used to be quite the rapscallion."

Max's eyes widened. These guys didn’t seem like typical nerds—they had once been troublemakers like him. But something still felt off.

Before Max could dwell on it, the detention supervisor, Mrs. Henderson, entered. She was an older woman with a stern expression, who gave the room a quick once-over before settling at her desk with a book. The room fell silent except for the occasional rustle of paper and the ticking of the clock.

Max shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the nerds’ stares. Then, he felt something strange on his face. He reached up and found a pair of glasses resting on his nose. He hadn't been wearing glasses when he walked in.

"What the—?" Max ripped them off, but the glasses wouldn't budge. He tried harder, but they wouldn’t come off. The nerds around him chuckled softly.

"There's no use fighting it," Brent said, his tone almost soothing.

Panic set in. Max jumped up, trying to run, but the nerds were surprisingly strong. They grabbed him, forcing him back into his seat. "Let me go!" he shouted, struggling against them.

"Relax, Max. It's easier if you don't fight it," Brent said, his braces glinting in the fluorescent light.

Max felt his clothes start to change. His letterman jacket began to tighten, the sleeves shortening and transforming into a sweater vest with a diamond pattern. His white t-shirt morphed into a button-up shirt with a bow tie appearing at the collar. His jeans turned into high-waisted slacks, a belt with a polished buckle cinching them at his waist. His sneakers shifted into loafers, polished to a mirror shine.

The changes weren't just physical. Max's mind was being invaded by thoughts that weren’t his own. He felt an inexplicable love for chess and calculus, a passion for comic books and science fiction. His hair, usually messy and unkempt, slicked back neatly with a part on the side. The transformation was detailed and meticulous, down to the argyle pattern on his socks.

"No! This isn't me!" Max screamed internally, but his resistance was weakening. The nerds’ voices blended into a single, soothing chorus, coaxing him into acceptance.

As the clock ticked away, Max's protests grew weaker. His reflection in the window showed a complete transformation: from the rebellious new kid to a picture-perfect nerd. His eyes, once filled with defiance, now sparkled with curiosity and eagerness to learn.

"Welcome to the club, Maxwell," Brent said, patting him on the back. "You're one of us now."

Max's internal conflict began to fade. The thoughts and feelings that had invaded his mind felt more natural, more like his own. The transformation was not just skin deep; it was altering who he was at his core.

*Two Weeks Later*

Maxwell walked down the hallway, his letterman jacket now a distant memory. He wore a neat cardigan, glasses perched perfectly on his nose, and his hair styled impeccably. He greeted his fellow club members with enthusiasm as they gathered in the science lab for their weekly meeting.

"Hey, guys! Did you see the new issue of *Amazing Science Monthly*? It's the bee's knees!" Maxwell exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine excitement.

The transformation was complete. Maxwell, now fully embracing his new identity, was an integral part of the nerd club. He relished their activities, from solving complex equations to planning the next big science fair project.

As he settled into his seat, Maxwell couldn’t remember why he had ever resisted. This was where he belonged, surrounded by friends who shared his passion for knowledge and discovery. The new kid had found his place, and he couldn’t be happier.

[vintagegoodytwoshoes]

Being an artist was overrated. Or at least that’s what he thought now that he had been reprogrammed. Before, he had been one of the brightest shining stars of the city’s street art scene. But that was before he got caught tagging a wall of Mr Gunderson’s shoe store.

Mr Gunderson was tired of this kind of element in the town. Messy hair, torn up jeans, cropped shirts. It was disrespectful and now here was a so-called artist disrespecting his property. He wouldn’t stand for it.

When the artist awoke in Mr Gunderson’s shoe store, he wanted to scream, but found himself gagged. In front of him, the traditional man laughed. His hair was lacquered just so, his face clean shaven. His clothes neatly pressed. A thick pair of hornrimmed glasses sat on his face.

“The problem with boys like you is that nobody raised them right,” he said to the artist. “But you’re my son now and I expect you to behave properly.”

The artist scoffed at this ludicrous statement but when Mr Gunderson stepped aside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was shocked.

Mr Gunderson had drastically changed the artist’s appearance while he was unconscious. He had shaved the man’s prized beard, cut his hair to a well lacquered cut like his own, and put him in a starched short sleeve shirt, a well knotted tie, highwaisted slacks, white socks, and shined loafers. He looked like a goody two shoes.

“I know you don’t feel like this is your real life,” Mr Gunderson said as he reached into a drawer. “But you will.”

He pulled out a pair of hornrimmed glasses much like his own and approached the artist, slipping them on the now conformist man. At first, the artist wondered how these vintage glasses would make this feel more real, but then the artist stopped wondering.

Lights from within the glasses assailed his senses and he could feel his mind reeling. His memories of learning how to do graffiti came to forefront before being snuffed out.

He had never been an artist. No, he was Gilbert Gunderson, heir to the Gunderson Shoe Store and he had devoted his life to carrying on his father’s traditions. While other boys his age had rebelled, Gilbert has always wanted to be just like his dad: the same hair, the same conformist outfits, the same thick glasses, the same line of work.

And so Gilbert was untied and approached his position at the shoe shine station at his father’s store. He had served in this role for years, seriously shining the shoes of his father’s customers during the day and shining his father’s shoes at night. He didn’t need to be an artist, shoe shining was his art. And he was the best.

[nerdysuitedbaby]

Was attempting to write a reason as to why my stories have not returned. As I have reached out to Tumblr and they just will not reverse the claim on it. And where I'm currently writing stories the subject matter of the fact that the person supposed to be slightly under the age of 18 is a huge no no in most cases and I don't want to risk getting banned.

It was also going to address why I originally stopped writing which is mostly because I was just not in the right frame of mind mentally after having a few daddies and abdl fetish kick me to the curb and one was literally right after I had sold everything I had and moved across the country to be with them. And then lastly was a guy who writes notification stories where twice he had played me making me think that he wanted to be in a relationship with me and thus tell me I had to commit myself into having another transformation the first time I spent over a grand and then when it came time to flip the script because that was part of the agreement he just stop talking to me. He did message me through a bunch of fake at counts attempting to be other people interested and then at one point I called him out on it and then we got into talking on his real account and we had decided to give another go but I had to start while I was on vacation because I explained to him I can't do it right now though because I literally him at the start of my vacation. However he said if I don't start now and write lines then I wouldn't be able to be in that relationship. I pretty much ruined my vacation to do this and then when he started ghosting me again after a few weeks from getting back and starting to rebuild my nerd wardrobe he messages me claiming that he was on a vacation and that I had ruined it with all the messages I had sent him. This was only like to as I had sent him daily outfits but wasn't getting a reply that's about a week and a half of it I reached out to him and then I waited a couple more days to follow up on that and straight up ask why are you ghosting me again. And that's when he told me that he was on vacation and and I'm ruining it and then proceeded to go to tell everyone within the community that I was crazy despite the mere fact at that point in time I had probably spent $1500, I had actually gone out in public taking photos for proof, and even brought in friends to do some bullying just to please this guy. That is why I needed a break and stop writing on Tumblr officially. But then Tumblr changed its policy and I just never really came back.

Also I went going to explain why I'm taking another break because recently I've had another strand of just friends in this case but mostly deciding that they wanted to stop communicating with me. Some will they have an officially stopped communicating with me I always have to engage the conversation and then it seems like they're very short messages trying to in the conversation as quickly as possible. Another person I have been friends with him the pandemic and in 2022 is less I spoke with them and he was coming down with covid symptoms. I have attempted to reach out to him and he's not replied but lately he's been posting photos on a few places and even sent a photo to this guy who has returned to writing Butler stories and I got a reply this morning saying thanks for reaching out but I have no interest in continuing to chat with you. Which really hurts. I also had another person who wanted to be my boy and wanted to have me help mold him into a vintage nerdy 1940s aesthetic and then I sent him one of his first pieces of clothing he backed out. I also got another person who's recently seemed like he was propositioning me becoming one of his obedient boys and asking if I accept the rules that he would lay out for grooming and dress code and all this and I said yes after I got off of work but he has yet to reply back to me. Had another person I've been friends with on Instagram since the beginning just randomly blocked me one day after giving one of his outfits a compliment saying hey you don't wear bow ties that often looks good on you. And basically it's become a little too much because Moses is hit within the past couple of months.

I have some stories written that are almost completely ready to go like at the final chapter of the raising Justin story, I have the beginning works for the next Adrian's Enchanted Costume Emporium and a few utopian vintage community towns stories. Like stepfordization stories but again I'm going to be stepping back from those and I'm not sure when I will be back to actually finish them. Could be soon or could be later! I'm sorry to all the people who have recently and kind of jumped on my stories again but I just need a little time to clear my head mentally.

[mind-wiper]

Brain Stimulation

So I went with a combination of two/three of the ideas suggested. I also made sure to include a fair bit more diaper wearing than my last few captions. It evolved into a 6,000 plus word story with a whole bunch of images. Let me know what you think. There is potentially a sequel as well.

I couldn’t believe my luck.  My application to be part of a trial on brain stimulation treatment has been accepted.  Professor Dalton had suggested it to me and sent me the link to an application page after we had a meeting to discuss my lack of progress on my Master’s Thesis.  Normally I wouldn’t have even considered being part of some trial or experiment, especially one related to the brain, but Professor Dalton is a serious man, and if he thought there was real value in it, that counted for a lot.  

I had been really struggling to make progress these last few months.  It felt like I’d just hit a wall in terms of my abilities and I was starting to wonder whether I’d be able to finish my degree at all.  The experimental treatment, according to the abstract I was able to read on the application page, stimulated the brain electrically and developed sustained increases in brain activity, as well as increasing its speed.  Basically it makes you smarter.  

That was cool enough by itself, but there was an additional carrot.  The study paid very well.  I had been trying to juggle my studies with a job at a cafe working as a barista, and no doubt that was hampering my progress as well. The money from this one study would pay me what my barista job did in 6 months.  I would be able to quit it and focus exclusively on my studies.  

** It did make me a little concerned when I arrived at the address I was given and found it was a bland office building in a suburban office park, and not what I had expected, a lab at the university.  But I pushed aside the worries.  Don’t be paranoid.  I already quit my barista job anyway, so I’m basically already committed to this.  

There was no waiting room or anything, no lab assistant or receptionist.  As soon as entered the door I was greeted by an older man sitting behind a desk in a simple office.  

“I’m sorry, I’m looking for the Neuro-enhancement study,” I told him, thinking I must be in the wrong place after all.  

But the older man immediately smiled and got up from the desk.  “You found it!” he announced, walking over and extending his hand to shake mine.  “I’m Dr Frank Neblis, director of the study.  You must be Alex.”  

Oh, so this was the office, and this was the researcher.  I had to say it didn’t inspire huge confidence.  He was dressed quite casually in a denim shirt.  But then plenty of geniuses were known for their casual attire.  

“Yep, that’s me,” I confirmed, shaking his hand, feeling he had a firm, confident grip.  

“So glad to meet you.  I hope you’re ready to get started right away, we’re on quite a tight schedule with the study.”  

My stomach flip-flopped a bit.  It was one thing to sign up, another to actually do it, to actually let someone fiddle with my brain, someone I’d only just met, in a cheap office park.  I mean my brain was very important to me.  Well, obviously it’s important to everyone, it’s our entire identity.  But I mean that being smart is a key part of my identity.  I was always top of my classes at school, got a full scholarship to university.  My idea of a fun night out is going to pub quiz and showing off my prowess.  I’m captain of my team even though I’m the youngest.  

So the idea of fiddling with my brain at all was of course quite disconcerting.  But it was more worrying to think I had actually hit my limit, that I might not finish my degree, that I would then lose all the respect people had for me.  They’d see me as a failure, a drop-out, and not the Steve Jobs kind who dropped out because they had better things to pursue.  

“Yep, I’m ready,” I confirmed.  

“Great, come on into the main office, there’s some paperwork to complete.  Just standard liability waivers, informed consent, all that stuff.  Won’t take long at all.”  

The main office was slightly nicer looking, and I could now actually see what I assumed to be the device being trialled.  It looked largely as I expected, a sort of electrodes cap.  The doctor got out a tablet and loaded up the forms.  

“Here you go.  Just read through and sign each at the bottom.  There are four different forms to sign.  I’ll be back in a minute, I’m just going to make a couple calls.  Once we start there’s no stopping until the session is done.”  

“How long will a session take?” I asked.  

“Couple hours,” Frank answered.  

“And how many sessions will there be in total?”  

“Well, let’s just see how today goes and then assess it from there,” he said, seeming deliberately vague.  

Alone in the room I scanned over the first document.  It was standard informed consent.  The potential side effects were scary of course, and I tried not to dwell on them.  I’d need to ask him more about how quickly the procedure could be stopped if anything did go wrong.  I was starting to shiver as I read through the second document, the liability waiver.  

But as I was mid-way through it I glanced up, noticing the doctor had one of those digital picture frames on his desk.  It was facing away from me, so I reached over and turned it.  I expected some holiday photo, or perhaps a picture of his family.  But that isn’t what I got.  Not at all.  My eyes went wide instantly.  What the hell was this?  

Why on earth did he have an image of a grown man in a diaper and water wings? The fellow was clearly outside, in full public view, no pants to even cover the diaper up.  And from the designs, it looked like a scaled up baby diaper, not something an adult with incontinence would ever wear.  And the floaties? What was going on here?  

I put down the tablet and glanced back at the door.  I could hear Frank on a phone call.  I tapped the screen of the picture frame and flicked right.  Jesus, this was not some weird one-off.  

This was a completely different man, and yet he was sitting in a high chair that had to be custom made to fit someone his size.  The diaper he too wore was unmistakable.  It was bulky, it had some kind of design, it was made for an adult sized baby.  But the look on his face, the mess he’d made all over made it clear this man was nothing but a baby in a grown-up body.  There was no question his brain was as empty and innocent as a true one-year old.  

I began to flick right again, over and over.  It was more of the same.  Young men with vacant expressions, with drool visible on their chins, wearing the most juvenile of outfits.  But no, not just men after all.  The next one was a young woman, and she looked just as impaired as the others.  

Two fingers.  Was she telling us her age?  Did she think she was a two-year old.  It certainly looked like it to me.  Her eyes were so bright and cheerful.  She looked like she belonged there sitting on the floor, not allowed on the furniture like a true grown-up.  No she belonged on the floor with her dollies, so she could grin up at her carers and bounce her pigtails as she played.  

I flicked onwards, until I hit one that truly chilled me.  Because it wasn’t just some intellectually impaired man or woman this time.  Frank was there, in the photo, right next to a man who very obviously had the brain power of a toddler.  

I stared at that photo for a long moment, until a voice jolted me out of my thoughts.  

“He’s actually a very sweet little guy.”  

Fuck.  I hadn’t even heard Frank enter the office.  He must have finished his phone calls and now he’d caught me looking through his personal photos.  But regardless, I felt like he was the one who had explaining to do.  

“Who is he?” I asked.  “Who are all the people in this album?”  

“His name is Mikey.  He’s a patient of mine.  All the people in there are my patients, my success stories actually.”  

“Success stories?  They… they’re…” how did I say it without being insulting?  They’re retarded.  They’re dim bulbs.  They’re riding the short bus.  It sure didn’t look like a success to me.  

“They’re intellectually impaired,” Frank confirmed.  “They weren’t born that way though.  All my patients suffered a brain injury at some point in their lives, one which sent them back to early childhood in their intellectual abilities, and to varying extents, their emotional and behavioural maturity as well.”  

That really hit home.  They weren’t always like this.  I looked at the photos in a whole new light now.  These had once been normal, functional adults and now they were reduced to this.  It was one of my greatest fears.  I gave up bike riding and avoided playing contact sports for fear of a concussion dimming my intellect even slightly.  To be so utterly reduced in brain power, to go from independence to complete dependence would be horrifying.  And there was no question these people had to be completely dependent on some caregivers now.  

“That’s… that’s so awful,” I said.  

Frank nodded.  “For a long time the best I could do for them, my therapy for them, was helping them to adapt, helping them to accept their new mindsets, new limitations, to embrace their new lives and be happy.”  

“How?” I asked.  

“Behaviour modification therapies.  That’s what you see here, that’s why these are the success stories.  I can’t restore their intellect, so it’s better to let them live happy lives as toddlers, as babies rather than disabled, depressed adults.  

“You can see Mikey blowing a happy raspberry for me here.  He came to me as such an unhappy young man, never a crack of a smile, pining after what he lost in the accident.  But after he finished therapy…”  

Frank flicked the screen right.  

“He’s such a happy boy.  He sees his reflection while shopping at the mall and he doesn’t get despondent at how his Mum has dressed him, at his bare feet, the silly moose ears she bought him, the overalls.  He just wants to make silly faces at himself, not a bit of concern for what other shoppers might think.” 

“So your therapies make them forget they’re actually adults?”  

Frank shook his head.  “No, they don’t forget.  They just see their old identities as someone they used to be.  Now they’re happy little boys or girls.  I help them accept that, help them embrace the behaviours appropriate to that age, and help their carers understand how to dress them, how to treat them.”  

“Dress them?  You mean like letting them walk around in public view in a diaper?”  

I thought Frank might be offended by that, it came out more accusatory than I intended.  But he just laughed it off.  

“Well yes, exactly,” he agreed to my surprise.  “Many of my patients need diapers now, or at least pull-ups.  It’s one of the most embarrassing parts of their loss of status to many of them.  So I really focus on embracing their diapers, making sure they really enjoy wearing them.  We talk about how soft and cosy they are, how they cushion their bums when they fall down and go boom.  We talk about how nice it feels when they get all warm and squishy, and we make them feel proud to show them off.  

“My success stories like walking around in their diapers, no pants or shorts or skirts to cover them.  They’re happy to show off how little they are now.”

It was a lot to take in, but at least I did feel I understood his goals and while I didn’t agree with that therapy, it at least explained the photos.  There was nothing nefarious about them.  

“I can see you’re uncomfortable with my methods, but that’s why it’s even more important that you help with this current trial.  The hope is that this procedure can be used to reverse the damage to their minds, or help strengthen other undamaged areas of the brain to replace the functions of the damaged parts.  

“I’ll be able to truly help my patients, not just guide them into acceptance.  And you can help make that possible.”  

That was quite a sales pitch.  Suddenly this experiment felt bigger and more important than ever.  This wasn’t about building geniuses, and it wasn’t just about me getting my degree and making money.  It was about helping those poor people, reduced to pissing their diapers in full public view, and smiling in complete obliviousness as they did it.  

I picked the tablet back up and quickly signed the remaining documents.  “Okay, let’s get started then.”  

**

“Okay, that’s nice and snug, and we have good points of contact across the scalp.  You feel okay? Not too uncomfortable?” Frank asked as he adjusted the device on my head.  

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I confirmed.  It wasn’t tight or anything, just felt unusual.  

Frank took his seat.  “Okay then, I’m going to power it up.  Here we go!”  

He got his tablet again and tapped it a few times.  I felt a bit of warmth coming from the contact points on my scalp.  This was followed by a pleasant sensation of relaxation flowing down through my whole body.  It was like all my muscles were just letting go.  My jaw even drifted open and I couldn’t seem to fully close it.  There was a fuzzy edge around my field of vision and Frank’s voice sounded a bit more distant and echoing.  

“You feeling it?  I can see you’ve relaxed,” Frank noted.  

“Yeah… I feel it,” I answered, half surprised to find I could still talk, half shocked that I answered instantly, without even thinking about it.  

“Very good.  It’s a pleasant sensation, isn’t it?”  

“Yeah… very relaxing,” I confirmed.  

“Very good.  Now, I want you to look at that screen right there, and read me the phrases.”  

I was confused about why this would be any kind of a test, but once again I found myself responding instantly, without thought.  

“Jack has five little doggies.  Matthew possesses thirty Rottweilers.  Sean suffers from a neurological condition causing disinhibition.”  

Frank nodded.  “Very good.”  

I heard him tapping the screen again, and there was more warmth and a pleasant tingly sensation right in the middle of my head.  It almost tickled actually, and for a second my vision went all blurry, before clearing just as fast.  

“Okay, please read that again Alex,” he directed.  

“Jack has five little doggies,” I began, bored at having to repeat this again.  “Matthew possesses thirty… um… Rott.  Um, thirty rot-why-lers.”  Huh, that word was quite tricky.  How did I know it so fast before?  

“Go on,” he prompted.  

“Seen?” Was that how that name sounded.  I felt like it didn’t.  But it’s how it was spelled.  “Seen suffers from a… um….” i froze.  What was that word?  It was familiar, but…

“You need some help?” Frank asked.  

“It’s just, that word… I think I knew it…” 

“That’s okay, just try to sound it out as best you can.”  

“Nee-oo-ra-log-cal,” I tried.  

“Very good, go on.”  

“Condition causing… dis-in-hibit-eon?”  

“That was actually quite good Alex,” he told me, making me feel a little better.  

More taps, more warmth in my scalp and even more intense tingling in my head.  This time I couldn’t help but giggle, it just tickled so much.  

“It’s okay, let those giggles out Alex, that will really help,” he directed.  

I let myself giggle more. It did feel better to let it go.  

“Okay, once again please.”  

This again.  Ugh, so boring.  But I found myself complying anyway.  

“Jack has five little doggies.  Maffew poss… poss… has firty um, those things.  Seen has a…”  

I couldn’t go on, it was just too tricky.  

“Something wrong Alex?”  

“I… I can’t do that last part.  It’s all big words,” I told him.  

“That’s perfectly fine.  I just want you to try your very best, that’s all.  Did you try your best?” 

I nodded.  

“Then there’s no need to apologise.”  

But this wasn’t right, I was having more and more trouble reading the words.  Shouldn’t it be getting easier?  

“But Dr Frank, I don’t feel smarter, I feel… I feel all funny.”  

Frank patted my shoulder.  “Alex, I promise there’s nothing to worry about.  We’re making real progress now.  Just relax.”  

I felt much calmer, I felt my body relax.  More taps on the screen of his tablet, more warmth, and lovely tingles, making me giggle.  I let myself do that, let myself giggle uninhibited.  Silly tingles.  Important to let the giggles out.  As they fade away my vision is even fuzzier, my body is so relaxed and I can feel Dr Frank’s hand reassuring me again, patting my shoulder.  

“That felt just lovely didn’t it?” he asked.  

“Uh-huh,” I signed.  

“Okay, read for me again, do you best.”  

“Jack has five widdle doggies.  Maffew got… um… faaah…errr…tee, um, dose tings.  Seen… I dunno da rest.”  

“Very good Alex! I can tell you tried your best,” Frank praised.  

I found myself smiling despite the feeling of confusion.  It was nice to be praised by the grown-up.  I was being a good boy for him.  

“Let’s try that one more time, but first…”  

Ohhhh.  The tingles was ten times stronger this time.  I didn’t giggle.  I moaned.  It wasn’t just tickly now.  It was… it was bliss.  And all through it Dr Frank patted my shoulder, whispered what a good job I was doing.  

“Tingles all done?” he asked as I caught my breath.  

“Uh-huh.”  

“Okay, one more time please.”  

I looked at the screen.  I saw all the letters. I know the letters.  I can sing my ABCs no problem.  But the way to put them together, the sounds they make, it’s just… it’s all gone.  I can’t read a single word.  I sit there, gaping at the screen, feeling utterly lost.  I look over at Dr Frank and see he’s smiling, so he must know what’s happening, it must be okay.  

“I… I can’t wead it,” I told him.  “I foggetted how.”  

Frank nodded and ran a hand down my arm, looking deep into my eyes.  “I know buddy.  I can see it in your eyes now.  I can see so much of your smarts have gone bye-byes.  It’s beautiful, you know, looking into the eyes of an unformed, innocent mind.  You’re getting very close now.  It’s going to be just lovely.”  

I shook my head now, scowling.  I felt very confused, but I was sure this wasn’t right.  I was meant to be getting smarter.  

“But… I gonna be smarterer,” I complained.  

Dr Frank shook his head.  “I’m sorry honey, but that’s not actually what I do here.”  

“What cha do?” I asked.  

“I make lovely grown-up sized toddlers and babies for my clients.  Some of them are childless couples, some have… other reasons.  But it’s not so bad, you’ve seen my photos, seen my past patients.  They’re all perfectly happy at the end.  You will be too.”  

I pouted and shook my head.  I wanted to get up, get rid of the silly hat, the bad hat.  It was making me dumb.  It was taking away all of who I was.  All my work, all my studies, gone.  But I couldn’t reach my head, couldn’t lift my arms or legs at all.  They were so heavy, my body stayed relaxed even as my heart pounded.  

“Take it back!” I demanded.  

Dr Frank shrugged.  “I’m sorry honey, that’s not how my device works.  It’s a one way trip I’m afraid.  Your reading, your vocabulary and diction are already gone for good.  No more university for you honey. 

“But we can’t stop now.  That would be torture, that would leave you so unhappy.  It’s for the best that we finish it, let you get rid of those last pesky bits of big boy brains, and most important of all, your maturity.  That’s just as important as losing those IQ points.  Once that’s gone, once the inhibitions are gone, you’ll feel so much better, I promise.”  

I wanted to yell and scream and hit the bad man.  I was a smarty pants.  I knew lots of stuff.  But now I couldn’t think of any of it.  What was I studying at school?  I couldn’t even remember the subject.  

“Here, let me show you what you’ve got to look forward to.”  

He picked up the digital frame again, flicked it a few times, then smiled as he showed me the image.  

“This was my last patient. His name is Bobby.  Well it used to be Robert.  Not anymore obviously.  I got invited to the party where his new daddies revealed him to their friends, so everyone could meet the special needs boy they took in.  

I took in the image of the poor dumbed down man.  Was he smart like me, before he went to mean Dr Frank?  Where were his clothes?  He didn’t need them anymore, cuz he was just a dumb little baby now, not a man.  

“Doesn’t he look happy? He just destroyed that cake.  By the end we had to give him a bath because he had icing in his hair, all over his chest, everywhere.  What a silly baby!”  

I shook my head.  “Dun wanna be wike dat!”  

“Oh Alex, sure you do!  You can’t see it in this photo, I wanted to protect his privacy a little bit.  But little Bobby had already soaked his diaper earlier in the party, just absolutely flooded it, to the point his tinkles were dripping right down his legs, making a puddle on the floor that he was hopping his icky bare feeties in.  

“His new Daddies decided a new diaper could wait until after he had his smash cake.  So off the used diapee went and little Bobby is sitting there in his high chair completely nakey, his pee-pee just bobbing between his thighs as he climbed in, flopping against the plastic seat as he hopped on his bare bum-bum waiting for his cake.  

“And when he got his cake, oh, honey it made him so happy, so excited.  His doodle got all big and hard.  When I took the photo I had to crop it, because his big, stiff pee-pee was poking right up against the bottom of his high chair tray!  Everyone thought it was so sweet, and his daddies joked about how it would be easy to tell when their new boy is feeling happy.”  

The idea of being so exposed was horrifying.  And the smile on Bobby’s face, his total lack of awareness of everyone at the party, of complete strangers seeing his erect pee-pee, made it even worse.  

But how had I ended up here?  Professor Dalton has given me the link.  He’d suggested this.  He was my advisor, my mentor.  Could he have known?  

“Pofessor Dalton!” I shouted.  “He telled me ‘bout dis,” I said.  

Dr Frank made a face of understanding, patting my hand now.  “That’s right, he helped you to get here, didn’t he?”  

I nodded.  “Does he know?” I asked.  

Dr Frank gave a little chuckle, then flipped through images on the frame again.  “Ah, here we go. I think this one might be familiar to you.”  

I looked at the image and even though I felt all fuzzy and lots of things were missing in my head, I still instantly recognised Kyle.  He’d been a fellow grad student in my programme last year.  But he’d found it too tough and dropped out at the end of that year.  

Kyle had always been a big guy.  He was tall, he was a little overweight, but he was muscular as well, despite being a big nerd who loved science fiction.  I’d been surprised when he left, since I’d always regarded him as brighter than me, one of the few in the programme I felt that about.  I understood his disappearing without a word though, it would have been humiliating to fail.  

But now I saw Kyle as I’d never imagined him.  Yes, it was him, but the intelligent look was utterly gone. 

It wasn’t just the slack, dumb expression.  It was the buzz cut hair. It was the stained, holey clothing, the dirty bare feet.  He had gained a fair bit of weight and lost his muscles.  What had happened?  

“Dats Kyle! But he looks all wong!” I complained.  

“That’s right, this is Kyle, your former colleague.  I took this on his one month follow-up visit.  You can see he’d already put on a bit of weight.  But it’s not so bad.  No more pressure of studying for him, no more deadlines.  He was so relaxed and happy playing on his knees in the waiting room, pushing his toy truck around.  He was very keen to show it off to me and tell me how much he loves trucks now.”  

“Why’s he got no shoes?”  

Dr Frank shrugged.  “I think that’s just what his daddy likes for him.  He likes barefoot, tubby boys with simple minds.  It’s okay, don’t feel bad.  Kyle told me he likes having bare feet now, and he gets to eat whatever he wants.”  

I didn’t understand this at all.  I didn’t understand why he was showing me Kyle, until he flipped to the next image.  I gasped.  

It was Kyle again, even fatter now, looking even dumber, and standing right next to him was Professor Dalton, smiling at this scene, holding Kyle’s bag, getting him into a disabled van for the trip to a special school, which apparently allowed him to attend in bare feet as well.  

Dr Frank pointed to the photo. “You see, what a happy boy he is now.  Lovely free tootsies, big smile and a caring Daddy.  And Professor Dalton has the loving, special boy he always wanted.”  

I shook my head.  “Dun wanna be fat!” 

Dr Frank chuckled. “Don’t worry Alex, Professor Dalton isn’t going to be your Daddy.  He already has his boy.  He just likes to help me now, help boys who would be happier without all those smarts burdening them.  I already have a nice couple lined up to take you in.  They’re very excited about getting to take care of you.”  

I sniffled, feeling the tears coming on, my emotions out of my control.  

“Aww, there, there, I know this is tough.  Let’s not prolong it any more.  One more nice big buzz will do it honey.  This one’s going to feel so, so good, I promise. This one’s going to take the rest of that silly old maturity away too, so you’ll be grinning away just like your old buddy Kyle when I take your photo.”  

I was going to disappear, just like Kyle.  No one really knew I was here.  And it was a one-way trip.  This was the end of my academic career, my whole future.  

“Don’t make me go away!” I begged.  

Dr Frank paused.  “It’s okay Alex, you aren’t going anywhere.  Your new Daddy lives right here in town, so there’s no chance of just making you disappear.  No, you’ll still get to see all your old friends and family.  They’ll just think you had an unfortunate breakdown, a complete psychotic break, leaving you in a fugue state.  

“I have all the notes prepared, showing you under my treatment.  So don’t you worry, no need to say bye-byes.”  

I had a moment of relief, before it hit me that this was even worse.  Everyone I knew would see me reduced to an empty-eyed moron.  I had to fight it, I had to… 

Dr Frank tapped the tablet screen and my whole scalp was so warm it was almost hot.  My mouth dropped open and a long, deep moan was released.  It was beyond bliss.  This… this was absolute euphoria.  It was worth losing my mind forever to feel this.  It was my brain’s swan song.  I wanted to thank Dr Frank for being truthful for this one time.  He hadn’t lied, it was lovely, it was perfect.  

Dr Frank puts down the tablet.  I blink because my vision is so fuzzy, so blurry, I can barely see him.  But then it clears, just as the last tingles fizzle out, leaving my head feeling so empty, so clean and light.  I swivel it back and forth, wondering if I might feel the last big boy smarts knocking around in there.  But there is no such sensation.  

“Okay Alex, you did such a good job for me.  High five buddy!” Dr Frank praises.  

I find his words tricky to follow.  I recognise my name.  Alex.  I’m Alex.  That’s me!  And good job. That’s good, I did right.  High five?  It’s familiar, but… Ah, I know now, I recognise the way he’s holding out his hand to me.  I reach out and slap it with my own palm, giggling at the smack sound it makes.  

“Now, we better get you changed,” he says, pointing down to my lap.  

Oh, my pants are all dark in the middle, and when I shift I can feel how sticky and wet they are.  The whole seat of the chair is wet actually and it’s dripping down my legs.  

“Did pee-pee!” I announce.  The grown-up needs to know.  I used to be a grown-up.  I’m not anymore.  

“That’s right!  Good job for telling me, you’re not a baby after all, you know when you’ve got tinkles in your pants.”  

Notta baby.  That’s right, I’m still a big boy after all, just not as big as before.  I feel proud.  I must have fought some of the tinglies after all.  

“Awex big!” I agree, hopping on my bum so my soggy undies squish.  

“That’s right, but we should get rid of those icky pants and undies,” Dr Frank says.  “Those aren’t the right clothes for you.”  

That’s right, I remember now.  I saw all the photos of boys and girls like me.  Big bodies, little inside.  Not a baby! But littler.  I remember what Dr Frank said about Kyle.  I know just what I need to do.  I need to tell the grown-up too, show him I know.  

I grab my shoe and yank at it.  The laces are on tight, but I don’t know how to undo them.  I need a grown-up for that.  But I’m strong, I pull harder and the shoe pops free, so I can drop it to the floor with a big smile at my success.  

“No soos!” I shout to Dr Frank.  Special boys like Kyle don’t wear shoes, they have nice free tootsies.  Now I’m special too, so I don’t need shoes either.  It makes perfect sense.  

“That’s right Alex, get rid of those icky old grown-up shoes, get nice free feeties.”  

I do!  I get the other one off and I yank the socks away too.  They’re easier.  And then I feel so nice and free.  And it gets even better when Dr Frank helps me take off the pants and icky undies.  They’re so wet! They stick to my bum.  And then Dr Frank has me lie down on the floor and he cleans my bum and my winkie and get them all dry.  It feels very nice.  My doodle even gets big.  I remember that, big doodle means I’m happy.  It lets everyone know I’m happy.  

But I can’t see it long.  Dr Frank puts my diaper on.  I whine a bit at first when he shows it to me.  

“Notta baby!” I remind him.  “Do pee-pees, Awex tell.”  

“I know, you’re not a baby at all.  But you don’t like icky wet undies and pants, do you?”  

I shake my head.  Of course not.  

“And you don’t know you’ve done tinkles until they’re already out, right?”  

I nod.  

“So wouldn’t it be nicer to have a soft, cosy diaper instead?  That way you stay all clean.  That’s what big boys do! I bet you’d like everyone to be able to see your diaper, so they can see it’s nice and clean, and know how big you are.”  

It was hard to follow his words, but Dr Frank was so kind and seemed to know best.  Yes, I wanted people to know I was big.  I should let them see my dry, clean diapee.  

“Wan’ diapee,” I agreed.  

Dr Frank slipped it on, then pulled out a pair of shorts.  I fussed.  “No! No sots!” I insisted, swinging my legs around.  I wanted everyone to see my diapee. How else would they know I wasn’t a baby?  And besides that, I had discovered bare legs felt just as nice as bare feeties.  

“Okay, okay, no shorts,” Dr Frank agreed, putting them away.  

Yay!  I get to show everyone my clean diapee.  I feel so excited and energetic now.  I want to climb!  It’s easier to climb now in bare feet and legs, nothing to get in the way.  I’m a good climber.  I want Dr Frank to see.  

“Watch me!” I insist, and he does.  

See, I can climb really good.  I’m not a baby at all.  I’m a very big boy.  

**

One Month Later

I’m at pub quiz again.  I used to really like pub quiz.  I knew all the things.  I was the captain.  I’m not the captain anymore, but I still get to come.  Daddy brings me.  Daddy knows Professor Dalton.  He told Daddy all about when I was big.  I couldn’t tell Daddy, I don’t have enough words now.  

I love my Daddy so much.  He cuddles me a lot.  He kisses my boo-boos.  He always puts me in a nice, clean diaper when I do a tinkle or a poopy.  I’m very good at telling him right away, but lots of times he already knows.  He’s so smart!  

My doodle gets happy when Daddy cuddles me sometimes.  He tells me he likes seeing them, my happy doodles, because he knows I’m feeling good.  He lets me go nakey at home after I’ve made my tinkles and poos.  Sometimes I still make a puddle, but he says it’s okay, he loves his carpet tinkler too.  

I like nakey because it feels so free and when my doodle is happy I can run over and show Daddy and he’ll let me crawl into his lap and rub it up against him until I make sticky pee.  It’s the best feeling in the world, making sticky pee while Daddy cuddles me close and I rest my head on his chest and listen to his heart and I smell his scent.  

I have to wear my diapee when strangers come over the house.  But when we have friends over Daddy lets me take my diapee off, so they can see how silly I am and how I get happy lots.  But when we go out I have to wear my diapee, so I don’t make a mess of other people’s houses or businesses.  Nakey’s okay at the beach, or the park, but definitely not at pub quiz!  

So I’m all dressed up for quiz.  Not like I used to be though.  Haha, that would be silly, a little boy dressed up like a grown-up.  I don’t get to drink naughty beer neither.  That’s for big grown-ups only.  And I can’t help with the answers cuz I don’t know nothing now.  But it’s fun seeing my old buddies.  They smile at me lots and rub my hair and tell me how helpful I am when I bring up the answer sheet.  

That’s my special job!  It’s very important, or we won’t get no points at all!  I don’t really know what points are, I don’t recognise any of the squiggles on the sheets I take, or on the TV screen.  It’s not cartoons, so I don’t even look really.  I take the sheets and then I go back and play with my truck on the floor.  I don’t have to sit in the seats.  I’m too squirmy and it’s boring.  Daddy will tell me when it’s time to take a sheet up.  

“Hey there Alex, good to, um, see you again.”  

I look up from my truck, trying to remember this big person’s name.  My silly head is too empty.  I know him, he was a friend.  But who?  Uh-oh, got my truck all wet cuz I tried to do lots of thinkies.  I'm not good at those anymore.

“It’s me, Dan.  You remember me?” he asked.  

Dan.  Yes!  I knew him.  

“Dan!” I echoed, nodding, feeling the drool dribble down my chest to my tummy now.  

“You doing okay here?” he asked.  

“Awex take seets up!” I tell him.  “Awex da wunner.”  

He nodded, though his eyes looked very sad.  He must not understand how important and big my job is.  

“Wun fast cuz no soos,” I tell him.  “Fwee feeties!”  

Dan just frowns though.  He doesn’t understand.  Big grown-ups can’t have bare feet, I remember that.  He doesn’t know they’re better.  But I want him to understand how big I am.  And just then, I realise something, and it’s perfect.  

“Done pee-pees in diapee,” I tell him, patting at my crotch.  

Dan shakes his head.  “Okay buddy, I’ll let Jo… I’ll let your, um, Daddy know you need a change.”  

“Imma big boy,” I try to clarify.  

“Yeah… sure you are sweetie.”  But then he leans in really close and whispers.  “I know this isn’t your fault.  I know they did… something to you.  And I promise, I’ll find out who it was and what they did.  I… I don’t think it’ll ever be possible to fix you buddy, you’re just way too far gone.  But I promise to at least get you some revenge.”   

So many big words.  It just left me confused.  But then he took my hand and led me back to the table, to let Daddy know I needed a change.  I like Daddy more than Dan, he’s got kinder hands and he doesn’t whisper tricky things in my ear. 

To be continued...

[sergeant-adams-deactivated20240]

Proselytize

As suggested by @just-a-simple-bro​

Ben and I checked into our hotel leisurely, strolling down the corridor to find the right door. The convention didn’t start for almost another hour, as we had arrived a little earlier than expected. Our flight from Boston to Salt Lake City actually flew out early, allowing for more time at our disposal than intended. Luckily, the hotel had already prepared our room, so we decided to drop off our luggage and lounge around until it was time to depart.

Ben and I had come to the city for a nation-wide student council gathering; the convention hosting schools from all over the States. The two of us were chosen to represent our branch, being co-presidents of our high school. Ben and I had grown up together as best friends, living across the street from each other for the past 18 years. Somehow, our friendship had lasted through elementary, middle, and high school, developing into something much more as we came to realize our sexualities. Sophomore year was when we officially began dating, but we decided to keep our relationship hidden until graduation. We’d always been a great team, working our way through the schools to earn the top positions of our senior class, so it came as no surprise when we were selected to go to Utah for a few weeks in June.

Scanning the key against the lock, Ben lightly pushed the door open to reveal a rather expansive room. On the right lay a small kitchen and seating area, along with large windows that easily illuminated the room with natural light. The left contained two queen beds and a bathroom tucked away in the corner. Of course, the room came with all the classic other material items–a television, fridge, ironing board–but we were surprised to find some more peculiar items, like a Book of Mormon instead of the traditional Bible. Welcome to Salt Lake City, I guess.

“Oh yeah, this’ll be perfect!” Ben exclaimed with an exuberant tenor voice. Jumping onto the bed, his heavier body bounced against the soft mattress. Ben had always been a little chubbier than I, hiding away from sports while I’d stuck to tennis. He’d developed a slightly bigger body, meaty but powerful. Although he looked a overweight, he actually had an impressive amount of strength and some sizable muscles. He had some rather large feet too–almost Size 12 to be exact–which easily satisfied my newly emerging foot fetish. And as always, the popular saying was right; Ben’s cock hit an imposing 7.5 inches when hard, which made my 5 inches seem like nothing.

Although Ben wasn’t athletic, he was fairly brainy and had a great personality. He was kind and deliberate, knowing what to say when, and he always knew how to make me smile. He was the shoulder I could lean on or the fist that would punch. Ben almost seemed flawless, but thankfully he had a few faults. Over the past year, he’d become known to be an A-List partier, drinking and drunkenly cussing until minutes before the cops would arrive. He’d also developed an incurable caffeine addiction, drinking almost 3 cups of coffee every morning just to get out of the house. Fortunately for him, I was a pretty decent boyfriend too.

“Don’t know why they gave us two beds, when we really only needed one,” I quipped back in my heavier baritone. I hopped on the bed beside him, my longer body at 5’9 barely stretching past his 5’8. As I’d mentioned before, the only sport I’ve really pursued was tennis, although I’ve still kept my body in fairly good shape. A decent build with decent arms, I was at least better than skinny, even if my dick said otherwise. I had other features that stood out too, like my soft  blond hair or my plump, kissable lips. I could be humorous and spontaneous if I wasn’t shy, but I still knew Ben was a better boyfriend for me than I was for him. However, as luck would have it, I loved to play the caregiver. I adored showering my boyfriend with gifts to show my devotion, while also helping fix his faults. I had my own problems too, with Pornhub as my most-searched website for the past 4 years, but it was hard for me to focus on myself when Ben was my first priority.

“Oh, you think you get to decide what we’re doing tonight?” Ben growled playfully.

“What was your idea?” I surrendered.

“We have plenty of extra time, so I might as well show you.”

As Ben and I began to remove our plane clothes, we were surprised to hear a subtle knock at the door. I heaved a disappointed grunt as I pulled up my jeans, letting Ben answer while he readjusted his burnt orange tee shirt.

“Hello?” Ben asked, his tone sounding uncertain.

“Hello!” a chipper lad replied from the other side, his register the same as Ben’s. “Are we speaking to Ben Earnshaw and Fred Allen?”

“Yes? May I ask who we’re speaking to?”

“Absolutely!”

Two young men pushed their way into the room, moving to the windows as they confidently placed themselves in the middle of the small area. Ben took a seat on the other bed as I remained still, confused by the two strangers. They were both dressed in pristine tuxes, wearing form-fitting navy suit-coats and pants. The white-collared shirts and ties did nothing to hide their well-sculpted bodies beneath, as it was obvious they both were passionate about physical health. Not only that, but their faces were rather handsome too, with the shorter one’s boasting a more childish cute and the taller’s a more mature sexy.

“Thank you both for letting us speak to you today!” The shorter one, whose voice we had heard before, seemed much more eager than anyone else in the room.

“My name is Elder Poulsen, and my companion here is Elder Beckstead.”

“Howdy, folks. Dang, this is a great room ya got ‘ere!”

Elder Poulsen shot the taller man with a harsh glare, silencing him. Although Elder Beckstead’s deep guttural tone seemed intimidating, Elder Poulsen acted as if he was the alpha of the two.

“Sorry about his language: southerners are always take the conversion the slowest,” Elder Poulsen apologized. “We’ll have the Texan out of him soon enough!”

Elder Beckstead simply guffawed as Elder Poulsen continued.

“Anyway, we are here to spread the news of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ! As members of the LDS movement, it is our mission to spread His word and bring new people to Him.”

As Elder Poulsen rambled on, I exchanged glances with Ben, speaking to him through my eyebrows.

LDS? I arched.

He grabbed a book from the bedside table and pointed to the word “Mormon.”

Oh, I rolled my eyes. Should we make them leave?

No. Ben shook his head violently and then smirked. They’re pretty hot.

No ki-

“Ah, Earnshaw, I see you’ve already got a Book,” Elder Poulsen interrupted our wordless conversation, somehow knowing who was who. I assumed he was calling us by last name as we would be doing the same. “Shoot, looks like I only got one extra. This is for you, Allen. Now, let’s start off at the very beginning with the basic rules and instructions of the Book.”

I grumbled silently to myself, thanking and cursing whomever had decided to send these two our way. We had no idea where the missionaries had come from, and Ben and I weren’t really devoted to any religion, making this scenario both awkward and aggravating. On the other hand, the two were both incredibly attractive, with the one a peppy brainiac and the other a southern brute, it was something Ben and I would surely role-play later tonight.

“Alright, Earsaw!” Elder Poulsen shouted suddenly, his excitement hiding the mispronouncing of Ben’s name. “Would you help me review some of the books in this divine scripture?”

“Damn it…” Ben stuttered. “Sure?”

“Thank you. Please name all the individual segments of the Book of Mormon. Take as much time as you need.”

“Well,” Ben seemed petrified, as he also hadn’t been paying any attention. “There are the Testimonies, the Illustrations, the First Book of Nephi, The Second…”

Ben droned on as the words escaped his mouth, amazing me beyond shock. Somehow, he uttered almost 20 different names, all of which turned out to be correct. Looking between the three other men, it seemed that I was the only one about to fall over of a heart attack. Even Ben didn’t seem surprised, smiling gleefully as Elder Poulsen moved on. Apparently Ben knew a little bit more about the Mormons than I had.

“Alle,” Elder Poulsen looked in my direction. “It’s now your turn for a question.”

“Okay.” I swung my legs over the bed, ready to run.

“Who initiated the Mormon faith?

Shit, Shit, Shit! I thought, having no recollection of the answer. Not knowing what else to say, I decided to guess.

“Joseph Smith?”

“That’s correct!”

I popped a huge grin as I felt a wave of euphoria cascade across my body. I felt so proud, my ego blooming with pride. I was glad I was given such an easy question, but I’d hoped now for something a bit more challenging than Ben’s. Everyone knew the founder of the LDS movement, but not everyone could name every book. Ben and I both could, as we had studied the Book of Mormon over countless nights, but overall I was just glad I’d gotten a question I could reply too. Hopefully, the next round would provide something a little more fruitful.

For the next few minutes, Elder Beckstead continued the speech, this time asking simpler questions than the other Elder had.

“Um…Earsah,” Elder Beckstead grunted. “Can yeh name one part of our health code ‘Word of Wisdom’?”

“No alcohol or coffee, right?”

“Golly–yeh got it!”

Ben experienced the same joy again as the words escaped him. I’d known that answer already, so I prayed for something a little different.

“Able, what’s another answer for the last question?”

“No pornography?”

“That’ll do it!”

A sense of deja vu swept over me as the euphoria came once again. I beamed a goofy smile as the familiar feeling of warmth filled my body. Everyone knew that Christians couldn’t watch pornography, so I assumed the same would be for Mormons. I’d never seen any myself, but it must have been a rather horrible experience if it was such a serious sin. Sadly, Elder Beckstead’s question turned out to be rather undemanding too, so maybe this next round would be a little more challenging.

“Elarsah,” Elder Poulsen questioned. “Inform us of our clothing and how it is regulated by the LDS church.”

“No problem.” Ben thought over the question for a moment and then answered: “Men should only wear wrinkle-resistant suits and ties. White shirts can be worn under suits, but they have to  be polyester-blend. In colder weather, we allow for sweaters and vests. Men also must wear closed-toe and closed-heel dress shoes or boots with matching socks. No backpacks or hoodies are allowed, and hair should be kept short and professional.”

“Perfect.” Elder Poulsen seemed pleased, however, I was not. How was I supposed to win if Ben kept answering all the questions with such ease? He had nailed that response, hitting every important detail. Ben had probably only gotten it right because the answer was literally right in front of him, and on him. I sighed, tightening my striped light blue tie and feeling the light scratch of the white collar caress my throat. The black khakis I was wearing hid my furious legs shaking, but the anxious taps of my feet were amplified by the heels of my dress shoes. I’d need to stay collected if I wanted to win.

“Ableh, you look excited for your turn,” Elder Poulsen noted. “Besides the ‘Word of Wisdom’, what other general health guidelines do we practice?”

“Simple. We maintain a steady diet and work out regularly for a healthy, athletic body. Nothing big as we do not show off, but nothing small either, as we need to be relatively well built.”

Elder Poulsen looked about as satisfied with my response as I had felt. Certainly, Ben couldn’t come back from that one, but my answer had been laid out in front of me too. All four of us men had nicely developed bodies. Ben and I alone had spent every other day in the gym, as growing up together had provided us with a pretty good bond. We both had sculpted abs and forearms, along with the brawny legs of any strapping young men. The two of us were inseparable as best friends, but that felt like it was as far as our relationship could ever grow.

“Next is Elirsah,” Elder Beckstead picked from where Elder Poulsen had left off. “Which way do Mormons tend ta sway in politics?”

“Conservative, of course.”

That question made me cackle under my breath. That was obvious–why wouldn’t someone be Red, especially Mormons?

“Abreha, I want yeh to tell us a little about our views on chastity,” Elder Beckstead emphasized. 

“My pleasure,” I replied smoothly, finally getting the harder prompt I had wanted. “It is our duty to abstain until marriage, only performing intercourse after committing to someone fully. Pre-marital sex is a serious sin, and it is our job to stay faithful throughout our marriages. That is why we wear these too.” I tugged at the temple garments under my clothes pompously, showing off to Ben. His face flashed with momentary competition, before cockily showing his own. I could tell we was a little jealous that I had answered the question so perfectly.

“That’s correct,” Elder Beckstead responded happily. “Seein’ that yeh too aren’t married yet, I’d presume yer both virgins?”

“Indeed.”

The answer escaped both of our lips before we had time to consider the question. For some reason, something was telling me that Ben and I had had intercourse before, but that couldn’t be right. I was still pure, waiting patiently until I’d found that special person. I’d have to be abstinent until then. Strangely, the thought of Ben in a romantic sense was starting to repulse me, but I ignored the thought as Elder Poulsen began to speak again. The missionaries were so polite and confident, it now seemed almost rude to not to listen and do what they asked us to do.

“Your next, Elijah,” Elder Poulsen grinned. “Where’s the largest population of Mormons located?”

“Dang, I should know this one,” Elijah mumbled. He straightened up his back while he thought, making his 5’10 frame seem taller. I noticed how he had adopted the cleaner language of the other two men, making me quietly chuckle.

“Oh! Utah, of course!”

All four of us men laughed merrily at Elijah’s initial confusion. It was an easy answer, especially for us, for we had lived here our entire lives! Sometimes, Elijah seemed a little dull. I would know, as I’d known him for a few years now.

“Abraham,” Elder Poulsen’s voice almost seemed taunting, as if he was trying to signal something else to me. “About how many members of the Mormon church are there around the world?”

Shoot, Shoot, Shoot! I thought, having no recollection of the answer. Not knowing what else to say, I decided to guess.

“Over 16 million.”

“Good answer!”

I arched my back up in relief, only now noticing I’d been hunched over in apprehension, which probably wasn’t good for my 5’10 figure. I smiled cockily at Elijah, lightly tapping one of my Size 14 feet against the ground in arrogance. He copied me, creating the same noise with his identically massive feet.

“Alright guys, now time for the final round.” Elder Beckstead was becoming more ecstatic with every passing second, as if he was expecting something incredible to happen.

“Elder Benson, what’s the Mormons’ view on homosexuality?”

“Being that ‘sexual relations are proper only between a man and a woman who are legally and lawfully wedded as husband and wife’,” Elder Benson quoted. “Homosexual relations are not tolerated by the LDS movement. Homosexuals must live a celibate by not acting on their sexual desires to stay a Mormon.”

“I like that answer,” Elder Beckstead replied brazenly, and I agreed. If it was stated by the church, then it had to be true. This dilemma had never bothered me before, as I’d always proudly been a straight man, longing to find the woman I’d marry. The idea of sexual relations with another man disgusted me, and I knew it would never bring my penis to full staff (which I had recently learned was now 8 inches). I’d dated a few girls in high school, but none of them had been looking for the same commitment I desired.

“Last but not least, Elder Feldsted,” Elder Beckstead announced. “What is yer duty as a Mormon missionary?”

“To state it clearly,” I explained. “All LDS men are expected to serve a two-year, full-time proselytizing mission. Prospective male missionaries must be between ages 18 to 25, not yet married, and meet respective criteria for physical fitness and spiritual worthiness. Missionaries do not choose where they serve, and are expected to fund their missions themselves or with the aid of their families. Ultimately, the goal of a missionary is to expand and find new members for the LDS movement.”

A small shock traveled through my body as I finished my statement, causing me to jolt a little in my seat. I noticed Elder Benson twitch similarly on his bed. Funny how we’d met only an hour ago and we already seemed to be mimicking each other. Elder Poulsen grunted softly, garnering our attention once more. We turned to face him, our books still lying open on our laps as we waited intently for him to speak.

“Well,” Elder Poulsen began. “It seems to us that you two know what you’re talking about.” 

The other Elders seemed very content with themselves, the Texan now as peppy as the other had been before. “Elder Feldsted, you’ll notice I left you a roster of potential converts and their hotel rooms in your book. We’ll go off to another location, as it seems you two can handle it here. Any questions?”

“Not at all, Elder Poulsen,” we replied in unison.

“Alright, we’ll meet you here again later tonight to see your progress.”

The two elders walked gracefully out the door, making a quick and precise exit. Unknown to them, I could hear their conversation as they left, but I hadn’t the slightest idea as to what they meant.

“That was… unbelievable!” Elder Beckstead almost shouted.

“Shh!” Elder Poulsen hushed. “And yes, it was. Conversion has become much easier these past few years, and thanks to the spawn we left in this building, the whole place should be crawling with Mormons when we’re back.”

“And you said I’ll look like them in a coupla days?”

“Correct. For some reason, northerners adapt instantly while it takes about a week for men like you. Seein’ that you’ve already lost an inch or two and some muscle mass, I’d bet you’d be looking and talking like us in 48 hours.”

“Awesome!”

After that, all I could hear was the clunking of their shoes as they strolled down the hallway. I turned to Elder Benson and, skimming through the list Elder Poulsen had provided, chose the first target.

“How does this look, Elder Benson?” I inquired, pointing to a pair of pictures. The first had a red-headed male who looked to be about my age. The second seemed similar in years, only with black hair and an olive skin. Apparently, they were both here for some high school student council convention.

“I think they would be great, Elder Feldsted,” Elder Benson responded cheerily. “Then again, I would say that about any new member.”

We both chortled at that and, after grabbing our materials, headed out the door to proselytize.

[nerdysuitedbaby]

I've posted all 4 of my naughty school boy videos under the mature category. This includes the new 4th and final video showing my climax. If you have trouble finding them DM me and see what we can do. Hashtags are suit and tie, uniform, naughty school boy, and watch me masturbate

[hyp-fet]

Request:

A really jock-sportsy straight college guy is behaving badly around campus, so he gets sent to a country club Where he gets transformed by the fellow preppy suited students into one more of the perfect, bottom, suit and smiling slaves. Welcome back and hope u like the idea! ;D

I warn you I do not know how to write straight people.

Thank you to whomever gave this request, it may have inspired a series of stories surrounding the preppy fraternity that frequents the country club featured in this story, the Country Club itself or the Dean of this fictional college. I won't begin writing it until all my other requests are done.

Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho - The Country Club.

(I checked, there is no real fraternity that has this name)

This is Adam Perr, college football team captain, alpha-bro, pussy hound and party animal. Every guy on campus wanted to be him and every straight girl and gay guy wanted him to fuck them. He wasn't no homo though; unlike the stuffy, preppies from the Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho Fraternity that hung around at the country club near campus. Adam loved sports, but he doesn't consider golf a sport - The whole point is to not score points so it ends quicker - he wouldn't be got dead in anything remotely preppy, he didn't even know how to tie a tie, but he gets along fine with tank tops and shorts and the chicks don't seem to mind either.

For Adam, college life is about football, drinking, tits and partying. It is the combination of the drinking and partying however that have led to Adam to be in some trouble with the faculty of his college. His last drunken escapade led to nearly $1000 worth of damages. Adam found himself getting chewed out by his football coach in his office.

"Perr, you are on thin fucking ice with the Dean! He's threatening to take away your scholarship!" Adam was actually worried now, football was the reason he was here, his grades were crap.

"Threatening? That means there's hope I can stay?" Adam asked Coach.

"The Dean and I had a talk, he's willing to forget the damages if you agree to a... Proposition he made"

"Proposition?"

"He wants you to join Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho, he hopes they'll have a positive influence on you"

"Really? The preppies?"

"You'd rather be expelled? That's your only other option"

"No. I'll join the frat"

"Good, I'll let the Dean know, he told me to send you to the frat house if you said yes, so get on your way, stay out of trouble" The coach said and sent Adam on his way. Adam knew his way to the Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho house and spent most of the walk there thinking about how much he didn't want to do this, but how bad could it be? It's not like he'd become like one of them, if anything, he planned to rub off on them (no homo).

When he got to the Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho fraternity, there was someone waiting on the steps of the house. He was definitely a member of Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho, he was wearing cuffed trousers, a shirt and tie and sweater.

As Adam approached the preppy, the preppy smiled and extended his hand, which Adam shook out of politeness. He also noticed the guy reeked of cologne, like reeked of it, but he'd hold his tounge about it.

"Hello, I'm Michael - please don't call me Mikey - and I'll be your sort of... Big brother as you get used to being here"

"Thanks. You've been expecting me?"

"The Dean said you might be joining us. I was starting to think you weren't going to show up"

"It's join or get kicked out. Easy decision"

"I bet. I'm actually the only brother here, the rest are at the country club. You should get ready before we head over"

"We're off to the country club?"

"Yeah. It'll be the perfect place for you to meet the brothers. Peter won't mind you borrowing his clothes, you're about the same size". Michael led Adam through the fraternity house, which was immaculately clean and kept organised, Adam saw a trophy case full with first place medals, plagues and trophies but they were all in golf, badminton, tennis and polo. Adam didn't even know what polo was, was it the one where you play on horseback? Michael led Adam into a room with two single beds, large wardrobes and oak desks with everything laid out perfectly organised, the room was pretty much identical except for the different class books and family photos.

"This is where Peter and I live, you're going to be at the end of the hall with Timothy"

"What's Timmy like?"

"He prefers Timothy, and he will correct you on it, but he's a nice guy. Let me get a photo of him up on my phone" Michael showed Adam a photo of his new roommate. It was off his Facebook page, he was wearing a bowtie and sweater vest, Adam didn't think he looked bad but it wasn't the type of thing he'd wear.

"I think you'll get along quite well. He's more of a golfer than a football guy when it comes to playing, but he goes to all your games" Michael said as he grabbed a light blue shirt, some white trousers, a belt, a navy blue blazer and a blue and yellow tie out of his roommates wardrobe.

"I think I've see him at a few of our games, a few of you guys always come"

"Yep. Football isn't my thing but my boyfriend - Micah - loves it, never misses a game when they're on. And we've heard every joke and comment about our names" He passed Adam the shirt, trousers and belt. They all smelt like the cologne Michael was wearing, what was the smell called? It was flowery and pungent.

"Is Micah at the country club too?" Adam asked as he took off his clothes and began dressing, these guys weren't as stuffy as he thought they were, at least Michael wasn't.

"I'd say so, his dad owns the place, Micah helps out there a lot"

"Taking over the family business?" Adam asked as he buttoned up the last button on the shirt and fastened the belt.

"Sort of, he's got to graduate first" Michael handed Adam the tie.

"Umm. I actually don't know how to tie a tie" Adam admitted.

"No problem" Michael popped Adam's collar up and proceeded to tie the tie for him. The cologne hit him like a truck with Michael this close to him, he still couldn't name the scent, but he did not mind it any more, in fact he was warming up to it, he kept thinking about how nice it was, he became lost in these thoughts momentarily, only being broke out of them as Michael tightened the tie around Adams neck and helped him put the blazer on. Adam caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window and he looked like a properly preppy guy. He pulled out his phone to use the camera and when he turned it to himself he saw his hair had been styled, and it had grown back at the sides, it had been combed to the side. But wait, isn't this always how he'd done his hair? Of course it was, he just got confused for a moment.

"Thanks Bro" Adam said, he figured if he was really joining the frat, he might as well talk like a frat bro.

"No problem. Want some cologne? Everyone here wears it" Michael held up a bottle, it was a simple glass cylinder tinted gold, it had letters on it, 'ΡΓEP'.

"You wear a cologne called Prep?"

"No. It's just a simple Sandlewood cologne, the man who owns the brand was in a Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho fraternity, so we get these special bottles with our Greek letters on them".

"Sure, give me a spritz" Michael approached Adam and gave him a little spray with the ΡΓEP. In the space of 30 minutes, Adam had gone from looking like your stereotypical jock to a conformist looking preppy, he even smelled like one, and now he was going to a country club.

Half an hour later, Michael led Adam into the country club to introduce him to his new friends and housemates. There was this music playing softly over the speakers of the club, no lyrics but Adam could swear he could hear faint whispering in the music, the music that was penetranting his mind, he was feeling nice and relaxed as Michael led him to a table with a bunch of guys who were all dressed like he was, with hair styled like his, they smelled like him and one came up to him and planted a kiss on his lips - that's when everything clicked in his mind.

He was Adam Perring, he was the first person to get into the college on both an Academic scholarship and an Athletic scholarship. He accepted the Athletic scholarship and almost immediately joined the fraternity Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho after running into a number of its members at the country club, while football is his true passion, he does love the occasional round of golf with his frat brothers. He also met Timothy, his boyfriend and roommate while at the country club and ever since, he's been to everyone of Adams games and Adam is always happy to watch or play golf with Timothy. New memories flooded into his mind as his old life faded from it. No more nights out getting as drunk as possible, fucking random girls and not focusing on his studies. He now only drank socially, was in a monogamous relationship with his boyfriend and while football meant a great deal to him, he never let it interfere with his education.

"Hello handsome" Timothy said.

"Hello, sorry I'm late, I've been feeling a bit weird today, almost like I'm hungover" Adam remarked.

"I've yet to see you drunk, so how could you feel hungover?" Timothy laughed.

"Timothy, I HAVE seen you drunk. It isn't pretty"

"Touché dear, touché". Adam and Timothy continued to make small talk with the other members.

This is Adam now, watching his handsome boyfriend play a round of golf. He adapted to his new lifestyle very quickly, like most of his other Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho brothers, he was always meant to be a good, preppy person who always dressed in his finest clothes and always smelled like the fraternities signature scent 'ΡΓEP' and was always on his best behaviour. The dean's plan had worked perfectly, and no one even knew that Adam had changed, except him of course.

---The End---

Author's Note: I do have ideas for more parts of this, they will relate to either Rho Gamma Epsilon Rho, the Country Club or the Dean. Stories that relate to them will all be tagged 'RGER'.

I have other requests to get through before I even start the next part of this series, so requests will stay closed for the foreseeable future. I'd like to thank those who've sent requests for being patient with me.

A special thanks to whomever sent this request, you helped me get over a period of writers block.

[beardsm]

[luvggdw2]

oklahoma here

[nerdysuitedbaby]

Arizona also hypno, blackmail and possession