Preppy Academy

[preppyacademy]

Welcome to the Academy !

The Preppy Academy is a private school for men to learn how to serve others more effectively. Obedience is the key. It's a boarding school, and once you're in, you stay in. You don't leave until you've been totally reformed. The academy has very strict dress code rules. These rules are based on the preppy, ivy league style, the highest form of attire. The faculty and staff of the Academy welcome you if you feel the need, or if you think your son, brother, colleague or friend needs to brush up on his manners.

[itsmaster-emmeron]

For any Preppy boys out there

[hypnoprep]

PREPPY ACADEMY DISCORD

We officially have a preppy academy discord server after a long time of people asking - feel free to join and make sure to read the rules upon joining. https://discord.gg/9MVcxHEPF

[preppyhypnoboy]

"Your new life begins today Vincent, you are now a pristine preppy boy. I've taken the liberty of upgrading your wardrobe. You will only wear collard shirt from now on. Pastel polos always tucked in. Chinos and loafers, your nice belts. It all feels so much better on you, don't you agree?" "Yes Sir" Vincent said, with a wide smile emanating from his face. There wasn't a single thought other than total obedience, and that was so swell, just how he liked it. It was just earlier that day that the rugged boy who went by the name "chaz" had run into a well dressed older man. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, blue tie and jacket all tailored to him. He spotted the boy trying to act tough, trying to be cool. Once the older man, now known as "Master" had hypnotized Chaz on the spot, he began to reprogram him and change his life for the better. His new name was Vincent, it suited him much better. He lived with Master as his obedient servant, nothing but obedience for good preppy boys like him. Of course his wardobe had to change, tracksuits and ripped jeans are not suitable for a good preppy boy. Pink polos now lined his new wardrobe. Beige chinos lay neatly pressed, waiting to have a belt wrapped tightly around them. Oxford shirts, crisp white shirts, all ready to be worn on a different occasion.

But most importantly was masters brainwashing. 3 hours, daily, of course. Nothing less to make Vincent the perfect obedient boy he is suppposed to be. He always wears his preppy uniform now, his favorite is the pink polos, because it makes him feel even more submissive. It matches the pink cage that master put on him to help his training.

His hair is slicked back using the strongest hypno gel. Not a strand is ever out of place, just how master likes it. Vincent is his servant, and toy for when Master invites other dominant men around to use Vincent, and Vincent loves every second of it. It deepens his training, being used while dressed properly and locked up.

At the Gym his polos are tight fitting to show of his muscles, a good preppy boy should be in shape after all. But he always looks formal.

Vincent ran into one of his older friends once, and they were rather confused as to what had happened, but seeing Vincents blissed out face and demanour, they were intrigued. So Vincent invited them back to Masters house, where after examination by master, they were put in a deep trance and made to be just like Vincent. Masters army will continue to grow, if you ever run into a pristine preppy boy, you could be next...

[preppyplace]

Smooth out your free will.

[preppyacademy]

Fraternal Correction :

As Perfect as Them

Alpha Samuel and Alpha Anthony had been waiting for twenty minutes in the Director's office. The room smelled of polished oak and old leather-bound books. Samuel wore a navy blue tropical wool blazer, cream piping outlining the pockets, over pearl-gray flannel trousers with pressed creases. A fine white cotton crewneck sweater partially covered a pale yellow dress shirt whose collar peeked out slightly, and a yellow and navy striped tie was knotted in a half-Windsor at his throat. His black patent leather oxfords gleamed in the dim light.

Anthony, at his side, wore the same composition in complementary tones. Charcoal gray tropical wool blazer with subtle burgundy piping over navy blue flannel trousers. Light gray sweater molding a sage green dress shirt, with a green and burgundy striped tie. Brown aged loafers completed the relaxed yet imperial ensemble.

They had refused a reward as good alpha boys. A private double room, and permission to let their hair grow. Material privileges after seven years of exemplary transformation. The Director had been astonished.

"Why do you refuse?" he had asked.

Samuel had spoken first, his voice calm and measured. They had received letters from their families. Their respective brothers — two for Samuel, aged seventeen and eighteen, one year between them, and Anthony's fraternal twins, both eighteen — seemed lost. Skateboarding, video games, adolescent rebellion, parental disappointments. Samuel and Anthony, since arriving at eighteen, had learned order, discipline, fulfillment through submission. They asked that their brothers be admitted.

The Director had smiled. An agreement had been reached. The letters had been sent, carefully drafted. Samuel and Anthony had described a modern, tolerant academy with exceptional sports facilities, skate ramps. An absolute lie.

The brothers had taken the bait. They would arrive one week after.

On the day, Alpha Samuel and Alpha Anthony waited before the main gate, dressed in their ostentatious new outfits. Samuel wore a pink and white gingham shirt, blue and white striped bowtie, khaki trousers and brown loafers. Anthony wore the inverse version: blue and white gingham shirt, pink and white striped bowtie, same trousers and shoes. Their hair was perfectly styled in a side part, gleaming with pomade.

The dusty van arrived. Four boys in ripped jeans, untied sneakers, backwards caps got out. There was first a stunned silence. Samuel's brothers burst out laughing at this apparition — pink checkered shirt, impeccable bowtie, military-perfect haircut.

"Samuel, seriously?" spat the elder of the two, advancing with a mocking smile.

The other, the younger, imitated Samuel's rigid posture, standing on his heels, hands crossed behind his back. Anthony was greeted with the same sarcasm by his brothers, who looked at each other, exchanging knowing looks of fraternal understanding against this brother become a stranger.

Samuel and Anthony did not flinch. They kept their faces, those closed and polished faces that seven years had shaped.

"Good to see you," said Samuel, his voice without inflection. "We'll show you the academy. The gardens are remarkable."

The tour lasted an hour. The four brothers dragged their sneakers on the symmetrical paths, cast glances at the students they passed — immaculate, silent, determined — and looked at each other with growing unease. The place was clean, certainly, but oppressive. No skate ramp was visible. No teenager lingered with a phone. Just boys in pastel shirts walking straight, without speaking, without laughing.

Arrived in front of a red brick building, the brothers were led to a wooden room, clean, beds lined up and empty open wardrobes. Samuel and Anthony let them settle in, proposing they rest a little before the evening meal. The brothers collapsed on the cots, pulling out their phones, searching in vain for a signal bar. They introduced themselves to each other, two pairs who ignored their common destiny, uniting their complaints against this "rich snobs' academy." They looked through the window for a skate track, a half-pipe. Nothing but perfect lawns and hedges trimmed to a line.

The mockery flew, nervous now, less assured.

The door opened without a knock. The Director entered, tall, gray, imposing in his navy blue blazer. Behind him, six wardens with athletic postures blocked the exit.

"Good evening," he said, his grave voice filling the small room. "I am the Director. I understand you thought you were here for a visit. It was a necessary lie. Your brothers, Samuel and Anthony, suggested your candidacy. Your parents signed the entry papers this morning. You are now students of the Preppy Academy. You will remain here until your perfect transformation."

Chaos erupted. Insults flew, bodies rose. But the wardens were faster, calmer. One seized a boy by the neck and wrist, pinning him to the floor with soft and irresistible pressure, knee in his back. Another blocked a second in a standing armlock, holding him immobile without apparent effort. The third was taken by two wardens who lowered him together, gently, firmly, until his knees touched the ground. The fourth, hysterical, found himself pressed against the wall, arm twisted behind his back, until calm returned by force.

Samuel and Anthony, in the doorframe, had not moved. They watched their brothers on the ground, immobilized, terrified, and their eyes expressed only the quiet certainty that they were doing what had to be done.

The months had elapsed in a fog of transformation. The chastity cages had been placed on the second day, before the screaming and crying brothers, by silent orderlies. The correction wing had welcomed the most recalcitrant, five days of sensory deprivation, repetitive hypnosis, white noise and recorded phrases played on loop in the darkness. Physical punishments had become routine, whippings and imposed positions until muscle and will were exhausted. Psychological reinforcement operated every morning, every inspection, every gaze that demanded perfection. The brothers had learned anew to sleep, to eat, to stand, to speak, to exist under others' gaze. They had forgotten skating, games, laughter without control. They had become pupils.

A year later, the sun entered through the window of the four-bed room. The boys who woke were no longer the same. Their bodies had become lean, muscled by daily exercise, depilated according to standards. Their faces had lost acne and rebellious expressions, become smooth, closed, mastered. Their hair was cut either in a buzzcut or middle part, gleaming with pomade.

They rose in silence. None spoke. They put on the outfits prepared the night before on the chair backs, exactly as in the official photograph they were about to take. The first wore a blue and white checkered shirt, vertical navy and yellow suspenders, tailored light blue shorts and a navy bowtie with yellow stripes. The second donned a solid pink shirt, bright orange suspenders, coral shorts and a blue bowtie with discreet patterns. The third chose a pale yellow shirt, intertwined blue and yellow suspenders, matching yellow shorts and a yellow bowtie with blue stripes. The fourth, on the right, opted for a solid light blue shirt, pale pink suspenders, light blue shorts and a pink and blue striped bowtie.

They sat on their beds, hands on thighs, gaze lowered, waiting.

The warden entered at six twenty. He inspected each bed, each uniform, each posture. He stopped before each of the four, checked the haircut, the cleanliness of the shoes, the bow tie knot. He said nothing. Just a nod, and they understood they were presentable.

Later, in the afternoon, they left the dormitory in single file. They crossed the perfect gardens, walked straight to the administrative building where Samuel and Anthony waited. The two Alphas were dressed in their impeccable outfits, buttoned shirts, visible suspenders, club ties in the Academy colors. They smiled, those closed yet warm smiles.

"Your parents await news," said Samuel. "We're going to take a photo. To show them your progress."

The four brothers positioned themselves against the red brick wall, the same wall against which they had rebelled a year before. They stood straight, shoulders aligned, hands along their bodies, then raised their right arms to pose on the left one's shoulder, perfectly synchronized gesture. The smile came, identical on the four faces, empty of tension, full of that quiet submission which had replaced rebellion.

Samuel took the camera. He framed, checked the light. There were no longer Samuel and Anthony in the doorframe, just the click, just the photo.

Later, the letters went out. In each envelope, the photo and a few lines of careful handwriting, dictated by Samuel, identical in all four cases.

"Dear parents, we are happy to be here, and intend to stay as long as necessary to become as perfect as Samuel and Anthony. Respectfully, your sons."

[preppyplace]

Before and after some time with @hypnoprep

[hypnoprep]

How to make a preppy boy.

[preppyacademy]

Many boys ask me to turn them into preppy boys in life but don't commit. Here is a young man who became my preppy boy and is committed, who upholds the values of the Preppy Academy, obedient, submissive, and disciplined. Who has invested (and it doesn't take much) to be dressed preppy and who wears the chastity cage for me. If you contact me by message for a real transformation, this is what I expect from you.

[hypnoprep]

Here at the preppy academy, we don’t brainwash; we educate!

[hypnoprep]

The Academy chooses its students! There’s no running once you’re chosen! Isn’t that wonderful?

[suitedboi92]

“Sunday Best”

Sunday best isn’t just a saying, it’s a practice. Subtle patterned dress shirt, khakis, blazer. There’s something about Sundays that calls for this level of intention. Dressing this way is my way of showing respect, to the day, to my Master, and to the standard. The structure I’ve committed to. I’m not fighting formality anymore. I’m embracing it. Submitting to the discipline of it. Letting the suit guide me as a submissively suited individual. When you stop seeing formal wear as restrictive and start seeing it as clarity, everything changes. Sunday best, every Sunday.

[preppyacademy]

Once again, a perfect showcase of this boy's commitment to submission and self-discipline.

If you want Preppy Academy to shape you, this is the level of commitment we are looking for.

[suitedboi92]

Blue shirt, striped tie, pleated khakis, loafers.

Still structured. Still intentional. There’s discipline in understanding that dressing well isn’t about rigidity, it’s about consistency. The colors here aren’t random: blue conveys trust and stability, the stripes add visual order, the khakis ground everything in timeless professionalism. Even on a lighter day, the structure remains. The pleats hold their line. The tie stays knotted. The loafers still require polish. This is what I’m learning: the formality might flex, but the standard doesn’t. Every choice reinforces the framework. Every detail feeds the discipline. The structure I crave isn’t found in the suit alone, it’s built into the habit of never settling, even when ‘casual’ would be easier.”

[preppyacademy]

A well-dressed boy, the Academy loves the way he talks about his style. Every preppy boys should follow his example.

[sartorialboy]

[preppyacademy]

That's a good preppy boy for the Preppy Academy !

[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.

[hypnoprep]

Every boy is a happy preppy boy! Forever! And ever!

[hypnoprep]

Just let go, stop thinking, it’s that easy!