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Kyle wasn't sure about going to the hypnotist his boyfriend suggested. But why not? His boyfriend thought it could help him be a better man.

Kyle doesn't think that the hypnotist did anything. But, he needs to get home to make dinner for his master immediately.

gooduniformedguy-14

Today is one of those days when I'm glad I was under a strict and rigorous regime of discipline, accepting it like a good boy in uniform.

A few weeks ago, I wouldn't have believed in or wanted this change. But it's not about what I wanted, it's about what I needed

preppy-bro

it was a baseline, a standard: if you were in the frat, or even just rushing—if you were to even cross the house's threshold without being stopped—you had to look the part, and this was the bare minimum. khakis. a tucked-in button-down. a belt. leather shoes. a haircut and a clean shave.

the brothers of sigma nu groaned and complained they looked like dorky, old-fashioned clones, but the frat's president had seen enough t-shirts and basketball shorts. enough sneakers and slides. enough mop tops and mullets and fades. it was time for tradition, a classic style, the masculinity that real brotherhood can foster with proper encouragement, structure, and discipline.

they'd be new men by the fall.

suitsandties

Nobody understood, at first, that the real change had nothing to do with taste.

That was what made it so difficult to identify while it was happening. If the fraternity had announced something theatrical—an oath, a ceremony, a visible humiliation, a locked room—someone would have named it for what it was. Someone would have resisted properly. But that was not how Sigma Nu worked. The rule about appearance came wrapped in the ordinary language of standards, house pride, presentation, discipline. The new boys complained, rolled their eyes, copied the president’s tone behind his back, and assumed the whole thing would remain superficial.

They were wrong.

The food was the first part of it. The house meals improved the same week the dress standard was enforced. Breakfast stopped being whatever could be scraped together before class and became abundant, deliberate, almost old-fashioned in its generosity: eggs, ham, biscuits, sausage, thick coffee, orange juice, buttered toast, pancakes, late trays left out for those who slept in. Lunches were heavier. Dinners were larger. Dessert appeared more often. There was always more on the table than anyone needed, and the older brothers pushed second helpings with a kind of smiling insistence that never quite sounded like pressure and never quite sounded like kindness either. They all ate. Every one of them.

At first the extra food only seemed like part of the house’s new seriousness, the same way the pressed shirts and leather shoes did. A more polished chapter. Better-funded. Better run. Better supplied. But after a couple of weeks their bodies began to change in quiet, undeniable ways. The hardness went out of them. The wiry, restless campus leanness softened. Faces rounded slightly. Midsections thickened. Thighs pressed a little more heavily against fabric. Shoulders stayed broad enough under jackets, but the sharpness of boys who lived on energy drinks and late pizza and pickup games gave way to something more upholstered, more sedentary, more house-fed. By October, none of the five looked like athletes anymore. They looked cared for in the most sinister sense of the word: overfed, regulated, maintained.

That alone would have been unsettling. It was nothing compared to the clothing.

The earliest sign was not desire. It was aversion. A loose t-shirt started to feel wrong against the skin. A pair of old gym shorts looked juvenile draped over a chair. Untucked hems became difficult to ignore. Sneakers began to appear swollen and graceless, too loud, too soft, too casual, as if they belonged to a previous stage of life that ought already to have been abandoned. None of the boys would have described it as compulsion yet. They would have called it embarrassment. Maturity. Influence. A phase. But each of them began having the same small private moments: standing in front of the closet longer than necessary, holding an old familiar garment and feeling a strange inward recoil, as though the object itself no longer matched the body that was supposed to wear it.

That was the first real warning. The second came in the mornings.

It always began before dawn. One of them would wake abruptly in the dark, not from a nightmare but from a sensation of wrongness so strong it did not feel mental at all. It lived in the body. In the skin. In the scalp. In the chest. He would lie there for a few seconds with his heart thudding and feel, with horrible clarity, that what he had slept in was intolerable. The waistband sat badly. The loose fabric twisted around the thighs. The soft shirt dragged in all the wrong places. His own body, still half warm from sleep, felt undercontained, understructured, embarrassingly unfinished.

And there would always be, for a few seconds, a second awareness beneath the compulsion.

This is not what I would choose. That was the awful part. They knew it. Each of them knew it.

There remained some buried, lucid part of the mind that recognized the desire as foreign, planted, imposed. But it had no power. It could witness. That was all. It could not overrule the stronger mechanism rising through nerves and habit and appetite.

The first of the five to go all the way through the process sat up in bed at 4:12 with his pulse hammering in his throat. His room was dark except for the pale slit of moonlight at the curtains. He could feel every inch of his sleep clothes on his body, and suddenly every inch of them disgusted him. The thought came fast and complete: take them off. Dress properly. Now.

He tried to stay where he was. He could not. It was not that someone dragged him out of bed. It was worse than that. He dragged himself. His own body rose under orders he knew were not truly his. His feet touched the floorboards. He crossed the room. He opened the closet.

And the outfit was there waiting, no longer experimental, no longer separate pieces. Exact. Complete. Final. He stripped quickly, almost frantically, standing in the half-dark with the old clothes pooled around his feet like something contaminated. Then came the first layer: high-waisted white briefs, plain and conservative, riding higher on the waist than anything he would once have bought for himself. He stepped into them and pulled them up, and with that simple motion came the first wave of relief so immediate it made his stomach turn. The body wanted containment. That was what horrified him. The briefs held him firmly, flattening casualness out of the lower body, making anything lower-slung, softer, or more modern seem suddenly indecent by comparison.

Next came the stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirt. He dragged it down over himself and felt the ribbed fabric grip his torso in clean vertical lines. It was not fashionable. It was not comfortable in any luxurious sense. It was plain, practical, severe, the kind of underlayer chosen for discipline and propriety rather than ease. Once it was on, it felt indispensable. He hated that. He hated the instant sense that this, too, was now correct.

Then the knee-high socks. He sat on the edge of the bed and drew them up carefully, one after the other, over calves no longer lean and hard but slightly fuller now from the fraternity’s endless feeding. The fabric climbed high and close, covering the lower leg completely, erasing the thought of bare skin below the knee. The argyle pattern had to sit straight. The height had to match. He smoothed both with his palms, and the gesture felt practiced even though he had only begun doing it recently. Only then came the knickerbockers.

Heavy. Shaped. Unforgiving.

He stepped into them and felt at once how thoroughly they dictated the line of the body. These were not trousers that adapted themselves to a man. They informed him what shape he was now required to present. The rise came high. The seat and thigh held his now better-fed body with a close, old-fashioned certainty. The fullness through the upper leg did not read as athletic strength anymore. It read as house abundance, house softness, house ownership. When he buttoned the fabric below the knee over the socks, the sensation was final. The leg no longer belonged to modern ease. It had been sectioned, formalized, enclosed.

And underneath the growing panic there came, again, that terrible answering sensation from the body itself: yes. This. Right. He stood there trembling. The small sane part of him was still awake enough to know he should stop.

He reached for the next garment anyway. The heavily starched dress shirt went on over the undershirt with a dry rustle that sounded almost papery in the stillness. It was so stiff it forced his torso into correctness. The collar rose high and close around the neck. The cuffs sat firm at the wrists. Once buttoned, it did not drape. It imposed. Then the gray layer over it. Then the jacket. Then the bow tie, pulled tight and centered. Then the polished loafers. Then the glasses placed on the face like a final adjustment to identity itself.

That left the hair. He went to the mirror and stared at his own reflection under the bathroom light. The face looking back at him was still recognizably his, but it was already being framed by a new logic. He wet his hands, pushed the hair back, found the part, and watched with a rising coldness as the strands fell into alignment far too easily. He tried roughing it up again, just to prove the old options still existed. They did not last.

Again and again the front settled into the same disciplined sweep, the sides lying flatter, the part sharpening, the whole style looking more correct each time he resisted it.

By breakfast he was dressed and groomed exactly as the house wanted. And he was not the only one.

Another came down wearing the same jacket and bow tie, the same glasses, the same hair, but the wrong socks. They were plain navy instead of patterned. He made it halfway to the table, looked down once, and stopped dead. His face emptied. He went pale right in front of the coffee urn. Nobody said a word. Nobody needed to. He turned, almost stumbling in his haste, and went back upstairs. Six minutes later he returned wearing the correct argyle pair, breath still unsteady, bow tie retied, hair recombed.

From then on breakfast became quiet. The mornings continued.

One after another. One boy discovered he could no longer bear low-waisted underwear. The sensation of it sitting too low on the hips made him feel exposed, unfinished, faintly obscene. He stood in front of his drawer one morning with a clean pair in his hand and found he physically could not put them on. His fingers opened. The garment dropped back into the drawer. He reached instead, helplessly and efficiently, for the high-waisted white briefs the house standard had normalized, and the relief when they settled onto his body was so intense that he braced himself against the dresser in disgust at his own gratitude.

Another tried to keep sleeping shirtless for a while, just to preserve some fragment of his old habits. That stopped after three dawns in a row of waking with a clammy sense that his bare torso was unacceptable, exposed to the sheets in a way that felt not erotic but improper, disorderly, nearly shameful. On the fourth morning he pulled on the stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirt before he was fully awake and then sat on the edge of the bed, face in his hands, knowing he had just obeyed a rule no one had spoken aloud.

The hair changed them worst of all because it was visible even when the rest was hidden.

At first they tried compromise. A little more looseness. A bit of softness at the sides. Less product. Less shine. It never held. By midday it would draw itself back toward house precision. By evening the part was more visible than before. By morning it was exact again, as though the scalp itself had learned the required arrangement. They bought pomade. They bought combs. They bought barber scissors. They bought better razors. One by one they went to the barber earlier and earlier, until sunrise appointments became common.

The barber spoke almost not at all. That silence was its own form of knowledge. He seemed to understand that this was not fashion. It was completion.

The second boy to submit to the chair watched the process in the mirror with sweat standing out along his upper lip. First the sides were taken down into obedience. Then the top was shortened, shaped, coaxed into the same smooth directional sweep. Product was worked in and distributed with precise strokes. The comb cut in the part. The hair lay down, dark and glossy. The young face in the mirror no longer belonged to a student improvising himself from day to day. It looked older. More controlled. More conservative. More standardized. And beneath the horror of losing it came the deeper horror of feeling how right it now seemed to the body wearing it.

By October their rooms no longer looked like the rooms of college boys. The visual noise disappeared. The old sneakers vanished first. Then hoodies, graphic shirts, athletic socks, bright boxers, caps, running shorts, denim, jerseys, cheap sweatpants. Some things were thrown away. Some hidden. Some folded into boxes and pushed to the backs of closets as if they might infect the rest. What replaced them was repetition. Rows of heavily starched shirts. Extra pairs of high-waisted white briefs. Clean stacks of stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirts. More knee-high patterned socks. Additional knickerbockers. Duplicate jackets brushed and hung carefully. Spare bow ties. Shoe trees in polished loafers. Combs laid beside tins of pomade. Razors, shaving cream, nail brushes. The tools of maintenance. The equipment of permanence.

Their bodies continued to change under the regime. Too many house meals. Too much sitting in the chapter room. Too much eating because the body had learned to trust the house table as the source of both comfort and correction. Their waists thickened. Their faces lost the angular look of boys who still ran everywhere. Their thighs filled out inside the knickerbockers. The clothes adapted to that new fullness with unnerving ease, almost as if the feeding had been calculated to make the final silhouette more convincing. By late fall not one of the five looked athletic. They looked prosperous in the old-fashioned sense. Solid. Well-fed. Curated. Their bodies no longer hinted at spontaneity. They looked like they had been furnished by the house.

And always, in some lower chamber of the mind, the truth remained alive. This is not what I signed up for. That sentence never disappeared. It only lost all practical force.

Because this was the genius of what had been done to them: they were never emptied out, never made blank, never granted the mercy of simple ignorance. The original self remained present enough to understand the trap. Present enough to remember old habits, old clothes, old freedoms. Present enough to recognize that they had come to the fraternity expecting noise, loyalty, drinking, status, belonging, the ordinary mythology of college brotherhood. They had not come expecting their appetites to be retrained. They had not agreed to lose authority over how their own bodies were clothed. They had not consented to craving exactness. Yet there they were, living inside that craving day after day, unable to outvote it.

That was the horror. Not that they had been told what to wear. That, eventually, they needed it. Needed the high-waisted white briefs. Needed the stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirt. Needed the heavily starched dress shirt. Needed the socks drawn high before the knickerbockers. Needed the constriction at the knee. Needed the jacket on the shoulders. Needed the bow tie centered. Needed the glasses.

Needed the hair parted and smoothed into the same exact severe sweep. Needed all of it with an urgency that had been manufactured inside them and that now felt, at the surface level of the body, more convincing than choice. By the time the cold set in properly, all five had reached the same endpoint.

The final morning came bright and mercilessly clear.

The white columns of the house caught the early light. The brick steps held the chill. Upstairs, five bodies woke before their alarms, because alarms were unnecessary now. The conditioning was complete. They did not decide to dress. They answered the need to do so.

In five separate rooms the same process unfolded. The old self woke first, briefly, with its usual dart of trapped recognition. Then the stronger layer took over. The high-waisted white briefs went on. The stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirt followed, pulled down flat against the torso. Then the knee-high socks, drawn carefully up the fuller lower legs and smoothed until the diamond pattern sat perfectly. Then the knickerbockers, stepped into and drawn upward over no longer athletic thighs, buckled beneath the knee in the only configuration the body would now accept. Then the heavily starched dress shirt, crisp over the undershirt, collar high and firm. Then the gray layer. Then the jacket. Then the bow tie, tied and centered with minute adjustments until it was exact. Then the loafers, polished again although they did not need it.vThen the glasses.

Then the hair: parted, combed, smoothed, fixed into the same obedient side-swept architecture, every strand placed where the house had taught it to belong. No variation. No rebellion. No remaining private style.

Only repetition. Only compliance that no longer needed an order.

When they came downstairs, they did not look like five friends. They looked like five finished copies of the same instruction. The house had fed them, softened them, standardized them, dressed them, and left them unable to want anything else. The old selves were still inside, buried alive beneath habit and craving, aware enough to know they were trapped forever in a presentation they had not chosen and would now protect as if it were their own idea.

They moved toward the steps with unconscious symmetry. The central one took the front without being told. Two settled behind him. Two more flanked them. Their bodies already knew the composition. Shoulders back. Hands controlled. Feet placed. Faces composed. Hair identical. Glasses identical. Bow ties identical. Jackets identical. The hidden layers beneath all that formality identical too: high-waisted white briefs, stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirts, the same enclosed progression from skin to sock to knickerbocker to shirt to jacket.

No one spoke. Nothing remained to discuss.

The president stood somewhere behind the camera, silent, watching what the house had made.

The central figure lifted his hand. The others held perfectly still.

And in that final instant before the shutter opened, all five knew the full shape of their fate. They were not temporarily dressed. They were sealed. Whatever had been fed into them had done its work too thoroughly. The fraternity had moved beyond rules and become appetite. It had taught their nerves what was correct, taught their flesh what to reject, taught their minds to hunger for the exact old-fashioned uniform that now enclosed them from the high-waisted white briefs and stiff white cotton ribbed sleeveless undershirts outward to the knickerbockers, the socks, the shirt, the jacket, the bow tie, the glasses, the same exact hair. They had no choice. And worse, from now on they would always want this. Always wake toward it. Always dress for it. Always feel the old buried selves recoil and lose.

Then the camera flashed.

And there they were on the steps at last: five well-fed young men, no longer athletic, no longer individual, dressed alike down to the hidden first layers, fixed forever inside the same exact standard, each one conscious enough to understand the trap and powerless enough to keep craving it anyway.

unfrmed

What is your role?

suitandcollar

Young man who knows what to wear…… Beautiful stylish ❤️

bdsmaistories

He was just a beta, so he couldn't stay friends with the alpha. However, the alpha grew attached to the boy, so he made him his butler and servant.

bdsmaistories

He's been serving his master for almost two years now. He doesn't regret for a second the moment he let himself be enslaved. He's never been this happy.

bdsmaistories

That is how an alpha should be treated.

cathotradi2

Winter holidays with a friend in grandfather’s castle

cathotradi2

Sunday morning, getting ready to go to Mass

manudos

vintagebarbershop

slick-inspection

He thought this time would be different. The lines were sharp, the style controlled and a lot of grease was put on his head — surely, Sir would approve.

But Sir’s hand slid over his head, pushing the hair back with quiet control. His eyes landed on the sideburns — still intact. He said nothing. Just silence, steady and cold. Tomorrow, he’d be back in the chair. And this time, more skin would be shown.

It wasn’t the first time Sir was dissatisfied with him — but after what awaits him, he hopes it will be the last.

preppyacademy

The Bad Seed

From Grit to Groomed (A Preppy Academy Side Story)

I. Dispossession

The gravel of the driveway crunched under the worn soles of Matthew's sneakers. The nineteen-year-old stopped in front of the imposing oak door of Blackwood Hill Manor, his heart pounding not from exertion, but from a dull rage. He wore his usual armor: baggy grey sweatpants, a faded t-shirt featuring a thrash metal band, and that aura of aggression that had always protected him on the track.

But here, the silence was heavy. Not a bird, not a breath of wind. Just order.

The door opened before he even knocked. His uncle Silas stood there. Tall, slender, dressed in a cream cashmere cardigan and impeccably cut flannel trousers. He surveyed his nephew not with disgust, but with the clinical coldness of an architect observing a ruin to be razed.

Uncle Silas : "Come in, Matthew."

Matthew crossed the threshold, dragging his gym bag.

Matthew : "Thanks for... paying for the court, Uncle Silas. My parents..."

Uncle Silas : "Your parents are ruined,"

Silas cut in with a voice that was soft yet terrible.

Uncle Silas : "The fine for the damage you caused at the stadium, the legal fees, the public scandal... They lost everything to save you from prison. I am the only creditor you have left. You do not belong to me legally, Matthew, but morally, you are my property until I deem your debt cleared."

Matthew clenched his fists, his sprinter's muscles contracting under the cheap cotton.

Matthew : "I'll work. I'll pay you back."

Uncle Silas : "Oh, you will work,"

Silas assured him.

Uncle Silas : "But first, get rid of that."

He held out an open hand.

Uncle Silas : "Your phone. And those rags."

Matthew : "What? These are my clothes, I..."

Uncle Silas : "They are the costumes of your failure. You ran like a wild beast, you screamed, you smashed everything. Here, we rebuild. Give them to me."

Matthew hesitated. He felt the trap closing, but the alternative was the streets and shame for his parents. Trembling with contained anger, he placed his smartphone in Silas's hand. Then, he removed his sneakers. The smell of travel sweat suddenly seemed vulgar in this hall that smelled of wax and lavender.

When he finished undressing, only his underwear remained: a simple white tank top and matching boxer briefs. Stripped of his urban armor, he suddenly felt smaller, more exposed. Silas picked up the clothes with his fingertips, like toxic waste.

Uncle Silas : "Let us burn all this. Follow me."

Silas guided him towards the grand staircase. As he climbed the steps, Matthew discovered the interior of the manor: dark woodwork, thick Persian rugs that stifled footsteps, an atmosphere frozen in a time he had never known, an era of silence and absolute restraint.

Silas led him to a vast bathroom with grey checkerboard tiling. The air was cool.

Uncle Silas : "On your knees,"

The uncle ordered softly. Matthew froze. His pride revolted one last time, but Silas's imperious gaze and the weight of the debt crushed him. He complied without conviction, knees against the cold tiles, looking up at his guardian.

Silas opened a lacquered drawer and took out a sleek metal chastity cage, its intricate design featuring a secure locking mechanism. He held the device up, his gaze fixed on Matthew's lower abdomen.

Uncle Silas : "To signify that you are under my responsibility and absolute authority, I want you to be locked with this."

He clicked the lock, a sharp sound in the quiet room.

Uncle Silas : "You will keep it on you constantly for the time being. Its cold weight against your skin will serve as a perpetual anchor, reminding you of your subordinate condition here. It is a physical boundary for a spirit that is too wild. It will channel your chaotic impulses and allow you to focus solely on your tasks, reminding you with every movement that you are no longer free to roam."

Matthew hesitated, his eyes flashing with defiance.

Matthew : "No, I won't wear it. I won't be your puppet!"

Silas's hand shot out, delivering a sharp, stinging slap across Matthew's face.

Uncle Silas : "You will do as I say, or face the consequences. There is no room for rebellion here."

Matthew gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. It was a leash, nothing less—a collar for a domesticated animal. He glanced desperately at the door, but the crushing reality of his debt barred the way better than any iron bars. There was no escape; he was trapped. Silas approached him, his movements deliberate and commanding. He took Matthew's member firmly in his hand, securing the chastity cage around it with practiced ease. The metal clicked into place, a final and resounding lock that echoed in the room. Silas held up the small, ornate key, his fingers closing around it possessively.

Uncle Silas : "This key is mine, and so is your pleasure. You will wear this cage and remember your place with every step you take."

The metal was biting, ice-cold against his skin, sending a shock through him that felt like a brand. It felt heavy, permanent. The sharp click of the lock resonated in the tiled room like a prison lock slamming shut, sealing his fate.

Silas stepped closer, his voice low and commanding.

Uncle Silas : "This cage will limit your wild, untamed desires. You no longer have need of your penis. Any excitement you feel belongs to me now. Your pleasure is mine to control, and it will be brided by this cage. Remember, every impulse, every thought of pleasure, is now under my command. You exist to serve, and your body is a tool for my pleasure, not yours."

Satisfied, Silas issued a cold command.

Uncle Silas : "Now, crawl. Show me how a proper apprentice moves on all fours."

Matthew, with a mix of humiliation and resignation, lowered himself to the floor. His hands and knees touched the grey checkerboard tiling, and he began to crawl, his movements slow and deliberate. Silas walked behind him, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room, guiding him to the room assigned to him.

Silas opened the doors of a huge walnut wardrobe. The interior was an explosion of pastels and geometric patterns. Rows of perfectly ironed Oxford shirts, strictly cut shorts, piles of argyle socks, tweed jackets, ties and bowties...

Uncle Silas : "Henceforth, this is your reality,"

Silas declared, stroking the shoulder of a blazer.

Uncle Silas : "You will wear only what is found here. Do not mistake this for a luxury of choice. As long as your subjugation is not complete, I will decide your outfits, every morning. This is the uniform of a good boy, the attire of those who serve their Master with dignity and obedience. Preppy style, crisp and refined, will be your constant reminder of your role. You will dress as I see fit, reflecting the image I have chosen for you."

Matthew lowered his eyes to the waxed floor, his shoulders slumping slightly. He said nothing. Silence was his only form of signature at the bottom of this contract he hadn't read. He was resigned. He no longer had a choice.

II. Taming by the Earth

The first week was a hushed hell. Silas didn't have a gardener. He had Matthew.

The estate was a masterpiece of symmetry: boxwoods trimmed to the millimeter, white gravel paths without the slightest unevenness, rosebushes constrained on rigid trellises.

Uncle Silas : "Nature is vulgar when it runs wild,"

Silas explained from the terrace, sipping an iced tea while Matthew sweated in the sun.

Uncle Silas : "It is like you. It has too much energy, too much useless sap. It must be pruned, constrained, guided to become pleasing to the eye."

Matthew was on his knees in the dirt. But he wasn't wearing work clothes. That was Silas's perversion. Every morning, a "transition" outfit was laid out at the foot of his bed.

One day, it was a short-sleeved pink gingham shirt and sky-blue shorts. Then another day, a short-sleeved yellow plaid shirt with a repp bowtie tucked into mint-green bermuda shorts. The next, a Fair Isle sweater vest over a shirt buttoned all the way to the top, despite the heat, and so on.

The clothes were always a little too fitted. The shorts, cut very short, exposed his powerful runner's legs but enclosed them in an aesthetic he had always despised. And there were those socks. Knee-high socks, pulled up to the knees, which made him feel like a giant, ridiculous schoolboy.

Uncle Silas : "Stand up straight!"

Silas's voice snapped.

Matthew had hunched over to pull out a stubborn root.

Matthew : "I'm working, Sir!"

Matthew grumbled.

Uncle Silas : "A gentleman keeps his posture in all circumstances. You walk like a thug, Matthew. You attack the ground. Here, we glide. Straighten up."

For every infraction—a rounded back, a slang word, an abrupt gesture—Silas extended the gardening session by an hour, and in addition, Matthew received twenty spankings across his bare ass skin each evening, the number of infractions multiplied by this harsh discipline. The routine was brutal and unforgiving, ensuring that every mistake was etched into his memory, both through the physical exhaustion of prolonged labor and the searing pain of the spankings.

Each evening, as the sun set, the garden became a place of penance, where Matthew's body bore the weight of his transgressions, and his mind was molded into perfect obedience. The leather loafers, stiff and worn without invisible socks (or with those high socks), gave him blisters, preventing him from running even if he had wanted to. His body, accustomed to the explosiveness of sprinting, was forced into slowness, repetition, submission.

The physical breaking point came on the tenth day. Silas made Matthew sit on a stool in the bathroom.

Uncle Silas : "Your hair. It is a disaster. A barbarian's mane."

Armed with scissors and a fine comb, Silas took charge of Matthew's hair. He didn't cut everything off. He sculpted. He flooded the rebellious strands with a thick, heavy gel, plastering them against the skull until they hardened into an immobile, shiny helmet. Then, he traced a part down the exact middle—a severe, geometric line dividing Matthew's skull into two well-behaved hemispheres. To Matthew, it was the dorky hairstyle of an outdated schoolboy, a humiliating look he would have once mocked mercilessly. But to Silas, this rigid middle part was the ultimate seal of discipline, a visual proof that the chaos of the mind had been tamed and plastered into submission. Silas also made sure to remove any hint of facial hair, ensuring that no beard or mustache remained. There was no place for such masculine traits on a boy like Matthew. His face was now as smooth and bare as a child's, a blank canvas ready for his Master's command.

Matthew saw himself in the bathroom mirror.

With his gingham shirt, his sweater vest, and this strict hairstyle framing his now smooth face, he no longer recognized the enraged metalhead. He saw a doll. A docile doll.

III. The Metronome

Physical fatigue was Silas's ally, but it was at night, in the dark study, that the true transformation took place.

Uncle Silas : "Sit down, Matthew. You worked well today. Your hedges were... acceptable."

Matthew collapsed into the Chesterfield leather armchair. He was exhausted. His muscles burned, not from the healthy exertion of sport, but from the permanent tension of having to "hold" himself.

On the desk, a mahogany metronome beat time.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Uncle Silas : "Close your eyes,"

Silas ordered softly.

Matthew obeyed. The sound was hypnotic.

Uncle Silas : "Do you remember the noise of the stadium, Matthew?"

Matthew : "Yes Sir..."

Uncle Silas whispered.

Uncle Silas : "It is chaos, it is noise. Scrap metal. Like your music. It gives you a headache, doesn't it?"

The metronome slowed slightly.

Uncle Silas : "Rock, anger, running... It is dirty. You are covered in sweat. You are ashamed. You are alone."

Matthew grimaced. In his semi-conscious state, memories of his disqualification mingled with saturated guitar riffs, creating an unbearable cacophony that made him nauseous.

Uncle Silas : "Now, breathe,"

Silas guided, his voice sinking deeper into Matthew's psyche.

Uncle Silas : "Feel the fabric of your shirt against your skin."

Matthew : "It's... tight... it restricts me..."

Uncle Silas : "No. It is resculpting you,"

Silas corrected smoothly.

Uncle Silas : "The starch in the cotton is your new spine, stiff and upright. The buttoned collar that grips your throat is holding your head high, preventing you from looking down at the dirt. The high socks bind your calves, turning wild muscle into civilized elegance. These clothes are a mold, Matthew. You are being poured into a vessel of perfection. Without them, you are spilling over with chaos. Within them, you are solid. You are safe."

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Uncle Silas : "And there, around your groin, the chastity cage. Feel its unyielding metal against your flesh. It is the anchor of your submission, the focus of your devotion. Every movement, every thought, is centered on this restraint. It is the key to your pleasure, the source of your discipline. If you feel yourself stir, if you dare to harden, the pain will be your reminder. It will be your reward. Embrace it, Matthew. The discomfort, the denial—it is all a testament to your devotion for your Master. Your body is mine to command, and this cage ensures your obedience. It is the ultimate symbol of your submission, the only thing that truly makes you whole."

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Uncle Silas : "You crave this constriction. You need the tightness to feel real. You love being a handsome, obedient object for me."

Matthew’s head lolled, his resistance dissolving into the rhythm.

Matthew : "I... I need the tightness..."

He murmured, a vacant smile touching his lips as the idea took root.

Matthew : "I am chaos without it. I want to be held... I want to be an object. I want to serve you, Sir, with every fiber of my being. The cage... it focuses me. It reminds me of my place. It is my pleasure and my pain, and I accept both with gratitude."

The former athlete's voice was nothing more than a trickle. The mental resistance, eroded by days of meticulous gardening and sensory deprivation, was collapsing. The image of himself running suddenly seemed grotesque, animalistic. The image of himself, static, perfectly dressed, brought him a wave of artificial dopamine.

Uncle Silas : "A good boy,"

Silas concluded, stopping the metronome.

Uncle Silas : "Go to sleep now. Tomorrow, the old you will be gone forever."

IV. The Final Molt

Three weeks after his arrival, Matthew woke before dawn. There was no more anger. Just a feverish haste. On the valet stand, another outfit awaited him. It was no longer a suggestion; it was a consecration.

He began with his grooming. He shaved his already smooth cheeks, then combed his hair, tracing the middle part with geometric precision, fixing it with a heavy, shiny pomade.

Then, the dressing. He slid his feet into the white socks with brown argyle patterns . He pulled them up slowly, carefully, until they perfectly hugged the curve of his calves, stopping just below the knee. He put on the shorts. A brown model, high-waisted, vintage cut. The fabric was stiff. He pulled it high on his waist, well above the hips, and the very short cut revealed a length of thigh he would once have found ridiculous. Today, he found it aerodynamic. Elegant.

Came the white shirt. Cotton of absolute purity. The collar was a club collar, its rounded points offering a deceptive softness to the uniform's rigidity. He fastened the top button, enclosing his neck. Then, he tied the bowtie—a yellow and brown repp tie. As he pulled the knot tight against his Adam's apple, he gasped. The silk dug into his throat with constant, authoritative pressure. It felt like Master's grip, a beautiful, suffocating reminder that he was no longer allowed to speak freely. The tightness made him swallow hard, forcing his chin up in a permanent gesture of attentive submission. Finally, he attached the burgundy suspenders.

Snap. Snap.

They snapped onto the waistband, pulling the high-waisted shorts taut against his torso. The tension was immediate; he could not slouch without the straps digging into his shoulders, forcing him into a rigid, upright posture. It was a mechanism of control woven into the fabric itself, locking him into the perpetual, unthreatening silhouette of a "good boy." Lastly, he slipped his feet into the brown leather Oxford shoes. He knew they were stiff, slippery, and utterly unsuited for gardening—they would offer no grip in the dirt. But practicality was irrelevant. It was Silas's decision. To wear them was to walk in his Master’s will, regardless of pain or logic. He laced them tight, binding his feet into beautiful, impractical cages of obedience.

He turned to the full-length mirror. The rebel athlete had vanished. In his place stood a neat young man, frozen in an outdated aesthetic, a mix of an elite student from the 50s and a collector's doll. Matthew stroked his flat stomach, highlighted by the high waist of the shorts.

Matthew : "Perfect."

He whispered. He felt protected. He felt in his place.

V. The Exemplar

The midday sun flooded the garden of Blackwood Hill. The air was still, warm, scented by the docile rosebushes.

Uncle Silas was seated in his rattan chair, in the shade of the great oak. He was reading the Financial Times, a steaming porcelain cup within reach. He wasn't really looking at the newspaper. He was looking at his work.

A few meters away, at the edge of the immaculate path, Matthew was on all fours in the grass.

He was being careful. Oh, he was being terribly careful. He knelt directly on the grass, his white argyle socks unprotected against the soil. He required no cushion; he was an object, and objects do not need protection—they simply exist where they are placed, on all fours on the ground, serving their purpose. His movements were of surgical delicacy. With a small silver trowel, he extracted a one last remaining weed that had dared to grow in the middle of the English lawn.

The position made his high-waisted shorts ride up, exposing his muscular thighs, but they were now totally harmless, domesticated by fabric and convention. His burgundy suspenders stretched over his immaculate white shirt as he leaned forward.

He grabbed the weed, uprooted it, and placed it in a wicker basket.

Silas rustled his newspaper slightly. The noise made Matthew react instantly. The young man straightened up on his knees, dusted his clean hands against each other, and turned towards his guardian.

The club collar held his chin high, locked in place by the suffocating tightness of the bowtie. His middle part hadn't moved a millimeter. Matthew offered his uncle a smile. It wasn't a forced smile. It was an empty, blissful smile, of absolute serenity. The smile of a spirit that has stopped running to learn how to sit still.

Matthew : "The garden is perfect, Sir."

Matthew said in a poised voice, devoid of any roughness.

Uncle Silas : "You too, Matthew. You too"

Uncle Silas replied turning the page.

VI. Eternal

Time passed, indifferent to the metamorphosis, but the order established by Silas never wavered.

One icy autumn afternoon, Silas set up his armchair directly in the garden, protected by a large black umbrella, while the rain drowned the garden. Matthew was busy planting vegetables. He was not cold, for his Master's presence was enough to warm him. Raising his eyes toward the shelter that was not offered to him, he addressed his uncle with an obedient smile, dripping with rain but pure of any rebellion. Happy to get wet so that the view remained beautiful, he was, forever, fully obedient—a good preppy boy for Uncle Silas, his Master.