#preppification

[occamstfs]

Wine Drunk

Terry's favorite show's coming on and he forgot to get weed. Opting to try Stepford Valley Merlot instead, from the first sip he's hooked and in no time he begins to understand the world from his ex's refined point of view.

As requested, here's a slightly darker TF: stoner to an arrogant, dignified professional. Had fun mixing it up in topic and tone, hope you enjoy! -Occam

The livestream starts in just under an hour. Terry can’t believe he let himself run out of weed just before the finale of his favorite actual play’s DND campaign. Turning his bedroom upside down in search of some discarded nug or misplaced joint, he double checks that his dealer’s out of town before resigning to watching the actual play sober. 

Crossing his arms and whining to no one, Terry slaps himself and laughs as he remembers that being high is not the only option. He’ll just drink! Not quite remembering when he last bought his go-to beer or hard seltzers he rushes to the fridge and his eyes light up as he sees an open box lying in wait for this rainiest of days.

Wide grin plastered on his face he’s already self-congratulating when he bumps the cold cardboard end of the now obviously empty carton. 0 for 2. Groaning at his, decidedly not unusual, lack of preparedness Terry yanks the beerless box out and tosses it vaguely in the direction of his trash.

Throwing his head back to sulk as the refuse plods to the floor, only then does Terry notice the sole remaining mind altering substance available to him. Pointedly out of sight is a bottle of wine that has been collecting dust since his ex Ev broke up with him. Or no, he only went by Everett then since pet names are apparently too childish. It was a gift from his then boyfriend as he was dumping Terry. 

It takes a couple attempts hopping up for Terry to reach the bottle he was saving to never actually drink. Confronted with the label he grimaces as he sees a small scene of two suited men at a table, glasses raised. Stepford Valley Merlot. The name is not lost on the stoner. Seeing too much of the man Ev became in that artsy logo, Terry can’t help but take an expedited trip down memory lane.

For the first year they were dating they had made perfect sense as a couple, Everett had always been the more put together of the two of them but even then he was always happy to cut loose. To, you know, be a human being. Then his dad offered him some paralegal job and it was like he became a completely different man. 

First he quit lighting up, which was fine. More for me Terry joked at the time. Ev didn’t laugh. Then he quit hanging out with Terry and their friends, started going by Everett, introducing himself as Mr. Dubois even. Near the end he stopped coming over at all. After about a month of Terry doing the heavy lifting that fucker sent him an EMAIL to meet at a cafe. 

He hardly looked up from his work as he explained. Terry’s boyfriend was almost unrecognizable, wearing thick rimmed glasses and a suit, more gel than keratin in his hair. Wearing a suit that he would have been drowning in weeks earlier. It was like a meeting with a manager, like a performance review. Terry got the feeling if he made a scene that Everett wouldn’t even acknowledge it. That he’d just close his laptop and move onto the next appointment. 

God. Just thinking about it makes Terry want to smoke. Looking at his reflection in the dark bottle, he has to fight the urge to toss the drink doled out to him like severance from a man who was at one point the love of his life. Stepford Valley, it seems like a joke. But he wonders if that glassy eyed man even still had a sense of humor. 

Something in the back of Terry’s mind wonders if he should even drink the swill. He hates wine, and more importantly, he’s never been able to fight the suspicion that something unnatural happened to Ev. What if drinking this stuff is what did him in? Fuckkk though, if he didn’t need a drink for his show he certainly needs one now after reflecting on that humiliating break up. His truly pathetic attempts to remind Ev- Everett that he loved him.

Each second spent in recollection only makes him crave mind-numbing release. Clenching his fists, Terry tells himself he’s not going to let his ex get him down, with little pomp Terry begins tearing through drawers in search of a corkscrew. He’s going to down this stupid bottle and be done with Ev, done with Mr. Everett Dubois, for good.

Unfortunately for the habitual stoner, given his disdain for fine booze, he absolutely does not have the necessary tool to open the bottle. Checking the internet for other options he goes for the lighter always in his pocket and sets to pop the cork with a smoker’s touch. Spinning the bottle to evenly heat the neck, he smirks as he imagines what the rich asshole his ex became would be saying upon seeing his surely expensive goods being handled like this.

After about a minute of slightly burning his fingertips to see if the glass was heating up, the cork begins to poke out enough for him to try and pull it out. Careful to not singe his fingertips anymore than he already has, Terry messily pulls it out and spills the first drops of his wine on the palm of his hand. 

Giving the cork a sniff his nose twitches from how intensely it stings his sinuses. Nevertheless, he goes to lap at the few droplets in his palm. His eyes dilate as soon as the dark wine graces his tongue. Ambrosia would be too repugnant a label for the taste now firing off every pleasure receptor in his mouth. 

Lapping quickly turns to sucking at his palm to ensure he enjoys every haphazard stain of the wine on his hand. “Man, shitttt-” Terry can’t believe he’s always written the stuff off as expensive piss. It’s otherworldly. The small amount he’s enjoyed so far coats his mouth like a film. He can scarcely think for the desperate, all-encompassing need to have more.

Turning back to the bottle on the counter, he tries to remember the last time he gave merlot a go. He swore he hated it, or he thought he did? His eye twitches as he reaches for the bottle. Inching slower than it ought. There’s suddenly a thick haze over his thoughts and he tries to dispute the idea that he’s not already drunk before he’s shunted into a memory. 

He sees his boyfriend, dressed “casually,” the sweater tied around his neck is more than enough to signal that this is not Ev. Although, as Terry tries to muster rage, some show of force against this recalled, no- dreamed form of his ex, he cannot still the crashing waves of admiration from this man. So dashing, respectable. Something within him almost speaks out, to denigrate not his behavior, but his tennis shoes of all things.

As if reading his mind, Everett acknowledges this, “There dress sneakers.” Spoken as immutable truth, no humor behind his words, the Dubois scion waves a hand and Everett feels himself thrown into the chair opposite himself. He then raises a glass to Terry, “To our rekindled partnership-” Would that he had the ability to spit on this asshole.

Unfortunately, Terry’s body only has the ability to obey. Terry throws everything within himself to halt his hand slowly raising a cup to his mouth, scowling at the aloof face of his ex. Resistance wanes however as he feels something shift on his arm and sneaks a peak. As he uncontrollably mimics the man raising a toast, he sees creeping up his arm is a suit he couldn’t dream to afford. Nor would he want to.

Fighting against a rigid neck that demands he continue staring at Everett, Terry forces himself to look down and inspect his outfit. Before he’s able to feel the stark white button-up or perfectly fitted pants, he hears his once suitor speak up, “Oh Terrance, you’ll have all the time in the world to worry about your new style. For now simply allow me to congratulate you on your new position. I always knew you too would find your way under father’s wing.”

Terry feels a smile creep across his own face as his eyes strain watching Everett speak in that cold, professional tone. He tries to wipe it off his own face as he realizes he is mimicking the too-wide bleached smile that currently rests on Everett’s face. Sweat dripping down his brow as he tries to enact any kind of will upon the world, he can only watch as Everett Dubois raises his glass to his face, exposing his bleached smile, canines only slightly too large. “Bottom’s up Terrance.”

And then he’s back. Rubbing his face and feeling the scratch of stubble against his sweaty palms, his head pounds with a headache. He hasn’t needed to smoke this bad in months. He can’t quite remember whatever dream or memory he just suffered through, but it has certainly left him, in lieu of a joint, desperately wanting a drink. Moving less than consciously, Terry opens a cabinet to find row after row of pristine wine glasses.

He didn’t even have a corkscrew! Absolutely shocked to find the visibly expensive dishware, Terry yanks one to inspect closer which sends a small note flitting to the floor. He purses his lips as he sees it addressed to himself and decorated with a wax seal he knows instinctively is Everett Dubois’. Changing plans, he carefully sets down his wine glass and stoops to pick up the note. 

Obviously he’s not going to read it, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. No, as soon as it’s in his hands he goes to tear it. Or at least, he tries to. His forearms strain from effort but his fingers fail to even shift the expensive parchment, totally unwavering. He doesn’t even crack the wax seal in the process.

Frustrated at whatever psychological block is preventing him from tearing his ex’s note to shreds, he almost forgets how strange it is that there are suddenly crystal wine glasses filling his cabinet. Steaming with irritation he has half a mind to toss the whole set in the bin. Before reaching towards the bottom shelf to do so, he’s hit with a strong whiff of the wine resting on the counter. 

Mouth drier than the merlot, Terry looks up to find his glass has been filled to the widest point of the glass. His eyes narrow as he wonders to himself, “d- did I do that?” No, he would’ve surely filled the glass more. And so he does, slightly shaky hands reach to the expensive bottle and fill the glass almost to the brim. Mystery wine glasses and some stogy note from an asshole suddenly matter much less.

Overfilled glass of wine in front of him, what is he to do but drink? 

The world aside from the glass now rising to his mouth fades into nothing. His vision is washed away by a tidal wave of dark violet as he begins to guzzle the whole cup. His mind is buzzing from ecstasy as he swallows gulp after gulp of the wine. Not even taking pause to breath, the merlot trickles from his gaping mouth and begins to stain his messy stubble.

Finishing his chug with a few seconds of heavy breathing, he wipes his face with his arm and his whole form suddenly prickles with goosebumps. Almost shivering from sudden discomfort he grimaces as he takes in purple stain across his arm. And then, even worse, he sees a blotchy stain on his shirt, obviously spilled during his sloppy go at that overfilled glass.

So distracted by the slight blotch now decorating an already slightly stained shirt, he doesn’t even notice that with each gulp of the wine his outfit had entirely changed. Long gone are the shabby clothes he woke up in this morning. With each heavy slurp of that exquisite wine the stained sleeves of his tee shirt extend towards his hairy wrists, capturing his forearms in stogy linen.

As the wine settles his boxers tighten into briefs to perfectly contain his hair-trigger package while cheap, holey pajama pants stiffen into decidedly casual khaki pants. No show socks that the man has worn for days on end darken beyond their slightly yellowed pallor before spreading upward and tightening, encasing his undefined calves like a vice. Terry’s hands reflexively go to tighten the tie and hide his pathetic stain. Thank god I wasn’t in the office today.

Before he can even realize the strange thought that flowed through his mind, his shoulders burn with tension as he sees that small wine stain begin to spread. Not acknowledging he now wears a shirt more expensive than whole drawers of his dresser, he is possessed with discomfort at being caught in this visibly stained shirt.

Sweat dewing on his brow from the stress, that strange voice rises once more from some unknown corner of his mind comes a voice, harsh and clinical, criticizing him. I should not have filled the glass to such an exorbitant degree. Nor should I have indulged in drinking it in such a manner. It was unbecoming. Foolish. 

Stumbling to the bathroom, Terry tries to find where these strange thoughts are coming from. Sure he’s self-critical, who isn’t, but he’s home alone? He’d never be so pressed about how he looks, fuck he doesn’t even care about appearence when he goes out? This introspection comes to a halt as he arrives in front of a mirror, hands already tearing the stained top off his upper body. Faced with his bare chest and well, his face, Terry finds those intrusive thoughts only taking up more dominance in his mind.

Leaning in close his wine-stained lips squirm into a frown as he thoroughly inspects his patchy stubble. Eugh- did he go out looking like this!? Terry scowls as he pulls his face back, seeing his jaw ever so slightly more defined as the barely a beard on his face fills him with further irritation. No. No that simply will not do. 

Eyes shift upward and Terry makes eye contact with his own reflection. They’re sharper than they should be given the lightweight’s already one drink deep. Like he’s staring into someone else’s piercing gaze. Uncomfortable with this he allows his eyes fall to inspect the small blotchy stain left on his chest. 

Terry nearly falls to the floor as, beyond the stain being totally absent, so too is the chest he knows to be his. In place of his thin, void of strength chest has burst two pecs. Nothing obscene of course, just dignified fit muscle. What is expected of a Dubois man. Despite the thought coming in his own voice now, he knows it is not his own. He feels his hair pulling back into a coif more respectable as the heavy wine sits heavy in his stomach. His eyes fly back to his face where he sees his own face smiling back at him.

And then he’s in another place.

Startled, sees his fear-filled face reflected in a place that can only hope is in his own mind. Unlike the last memory, dream, whatever, Terry finds he has the ability to move. Theoretically that is. When he sets off to flee, he hears the cry of a man crouched beneath him, “Good Sir! How am I supposed to measure your fine calves if you give me the runabout!?”

Hands shaking as his face tinges a deep redd, Terry takes in his surroundings as well as he can without receiving another reprimand from the man he now recognizes as a tailor. As Everett’s tailor. Carefully learning everything he can from his vantage point, Terry gulps at expensive fabrics hanging around him and meticulous pins in the handmade suit that now rests upon his form. No, not his form . Looking down he knows he’s too tall, his hands too large, his feet thinner and longer. He fights against labelling these changes as improvements.  

Then his shaky pupils find the man who must be tormenting him. Reposed, reading a newspaper with a glass of wine resting on the table next to him is Everett Dubois. An arrogant smirk crosses his face as soon as notices him, “Looking swell Terrance.” he says without looking up, his tone nothing but transactional.

Gritting his teeth, Terry is not going to allow himself to be a plaything of that fucking smug asshole. Flexing his new found willpower he voices his displeasure, or rather he tries to. Discovered only after he begins his verbal assault, when he speaks a new voice spills from his mouth, deeper, smoother, and cordial. “Mr. Browne, I trust it wouldn’t bother you if for a moment Mr. Dubois and I were to have the room?” 

The tailor wipes his brow with a handkerchief and nods with a forced smile, looking at Terry as if he had precisely the same status as the rich jerk in the chair opposite him. Bowing out he grabs his notes and shuts the door to his workroom behind him. Terry hears Everett folding his paper before he turns to see him.

In a stark departure from the blithe smile or clinical passivity, now there is a clear look of irritation on Everett’s face as he turns to Terry and waves a hand, “You have the floor Mr. Albrecht.” Terry flinches as he says the name, that’s not his name. At least Terrance is his name, as much as he loathes when Everett uses it, but Albrecht- that’s not- He’s not?

Everett pauses to check his watch before returning to stare at, stare through Terry. “Any moment now Terrance. Not that money is an issue but you do know we pay Browne by the hour.” No his last name is Alb- No that’s not it, it’s not him! He stomps his foot petulantly before it freezes in place as he can feel his volition being stripped away under Everett Dubois’ gaze.

With some degree of effort he pulls his hands up and stares at those unfamiliar digits. Too long, too smooth. He turns his palms up to look for a long-standing scar that should be there, from a joke gone wrong with a lighter. He remembers Everett laughing, helping him with the burn, babying him. Nothing like the cold man before him.

“Terrance Albrecht. I worry that you are not taking this opportunity as seriously as you should. You know father only employs the best.” Everett stands, something real glimmering behind his stoic face as he reaches for Terry’s hands. He pulls the man down from the alteration platform by his tie, forcing Terry to confront the fact that he’s now as tall as the man who always stood a head taller. “You need to do this for me Terrance, for us.”

Terry tries to shake his head, this isn’t him, this will never be him. But with each passing moment the outfit begins to feel more right against him. It shifts to fit, the sound of fabric adjusts in real time. Cufflinks glimmer on his wrists as polished leather shines on his perfectly sized oxfords. Pants perfectly sit on his lithe waist, masking his respectable package and only hinting at his toned ass.

His three piece tightens to highlight his new, masculine but refined figure. Everett leans in even closer, almost forehead to forehead as he simply breaths. Mouth ajar he fills Terrance’s lungs with his own breath. Terry has no recourse but to breathe and enjoy it, clean with the undercurrent of Stepford wine clear as day. Terrance tries to fight back as each fresh breath of Everett’s essence leaves him less able to resist. 

He feels his messy haircut that has long been retracting sheer itself into something presentable, hugging his head with a helmet of gel just like he so hated on Everett. His eye twitches as that thought is removed, of course he didn't. How could he hate Everett’s look? After all, he styled himself to look as upstanding as Mr. Dubois, his love- No. No. Everett dumped him. Everett dumped him for being a-

Terrance shakes his head at the incongruence, the ability to move fully returning as he finds himself back in his bathroom. His mind pounds with pressure as it holds the memories of two lives at once. With each shake though, Terrance discards that life that is no longer of use, that life that is no longer his. 

He pauses to smile at just how sharp he looks, how clean. Rubbing fingers across his smooth jaw he makes a note to thank Everett for the razor and shaving cream recommendations. His brow automatically furrows at the idea. Is that so, Everett? Didn’t Everett? Adjusting his shirt he closes his eyes and tries to focus on that strange deja vu of his old self fading away. 

Sighing Terrance washes his hands before leaving the bathroom, using a bar of soap that had never been there before. Carefully drying his hands on a monogrammed hand towel, he can’t put his finger on the discomfort still filling his chest. Ah how foolish of him, of course, how could he forget he just needs to smoke. 

Rushing to his bedroom where a rolling tray should be, he takes care not to let his posture slacken. Heavy footsteps echo as he bounds down a hallway longer than his apartment should be able to hold.  Finally he arrives at the master bedroom, alien and familiar at once. Only upon seeing the perfectly made bed and neat-beyond-neat desk does he realize just how laughable his actions were.

Rolling tray? Smoke!? What is this, undergrad!? Even that seems laughable that he’d stoop to such a drug even at his lowest. He places his hand upon his honed torso and laughs. Shoulders heaving as for some reason tears begin to leak from his eyes. It echoes boisterous and hollow to his ears as he takes the handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his eyes.

The young Albrecht must have been thinking of a cigar, though he has little desire to raid his humidor. No he should stick with his wine. Catching his reflection in a mirror stationed like a sentry in his bedroom, he shivers at the idea of going on without a jacket. A Dubois man must always be prepared or perhaps more importantly, look immaculate. Making the brisk walk back to his den he sees that opened bottle of Stepford wine and smiles devilishly. 

Checking his phone he pats his thigh at the fortune, he’s precisely on time for the start of his show. With little consideration he reaches for two new glasses from his cabinet. At last, with a heavy sigh of contentment, Terrance turns to see the television as it flashes on. 

Terrance’s smile wavers as he sees his show flicker on screen. Tight lips twitch as he slowly shakes his head. Surely he wouldn’t be watching this drivel? Some decidedly juvenile fok sitting around a table laughing? Playing with dice? Their laughter is enough to invoke  a migraine. He can’t help but groan at the idea he’d waste time with such- hysterics. No this simply will not do. 

Hearing a knock at the door he quickly switches the program off, if ‘program’ is not too generous of an appellate, lest his mystery guest see such a thing on his television. He hears his door open as said visitor let himself in. Knowing only Everett would be so bold as to intrude in such a manner, Terrance begins to pour two glasses of wine.

Hearing the clink of Mr. Dubois' shoes against the polished hardwood, Terrance turns to offer the gentleman at precisely the opportune moment. “Why Mr. Albrecht, you shouldn’t have!” Grabbing Terrance by the tie with his freehand, he pulls his lesser into a kiss before taking a respectable sip, “You look as splendid as ever my good sir.”

After kissing the man, Everett reaches down to offer a firm handshake. Something buried within Terrance tries to object, demand acknowledgement of how strange that is, how impossibly bizarre all of this is, but the flicker doesn’t even register as Terrance struggles to remember what exactly the pair were to do. Hoping that Everett doesn’t accidentally discover whatever pedestrian tripe was on his television. 

Luckily, his partner pulls out a laptop from his briefcase and taps the chair beside him. “Come now Albrecht. The sooner we finish father’s task the sooner we can begin, well- you know.” Terrance makes his way over as his mind is filled with memories of his work under Mr. Dubois Sr. 

Of course, he and Everett have been tasked with picking the new partner. His eyes haze as he remembers himself getting the call up not too long ago, and at such a prodigious age! Why, he knew his familiarity with his dear Everett, would pay dividends but-

“Terrance? Are you ready to get to work,” Terrance promptly ceases his waxing and wryly shoots back, “Of course Everett, only I’m not the one with the mouse am I now.” Both men laugh more than they should at what is barely a joke, before getting down to business. Time to pick the soul that will be launched into the lofty heights they now enjoy.

In spite of himself, Terrance feels something unbecoming begin to rise within himself. Nerves perhaps, his eyes shifting between the small text of resumes on the screen and the half-scowl on his partner’s taciturn face. Under his few layers he begins to sweat, thankfully at this point the man’s odor is more akin to cologne than musk. An eye twitches as he feels the siren song of need.

Taking another sip of wine, Terrance imagines smoking a cigar with Everett on the balcony once they find the perfect candidate. He bites his tongue before releasing an unseemly complaint that this is unnecessary, any selection will be thoroughly remade into an actually perfect man for Dubois Sr. anyway. In this brief pause neurons fire as he almost remembers what happened to him, who he was, the barest hint of some loud skunky scent almost breaking through the veil.

Questioning the boss would certainly not be proper. No, he was simply thinking of cigars. He can almost feel one in his mouth right now, another spent on the daydream he imagines another similar object he plans to have in his mouth as soon as they choose whatever lucky man is to join their glorious organization. Everett hones in on a mousy paralegal before turning to get his partner’s approval. Mouth full of Stepford Valley wine, Terrance simply nods, certainly not betraying his distraction. Frivolity is unbecoming. One must remain dignified after all.

[preppymuscleboys]

handsome good boy

[walidgoldpreppy]

Hypnotic Guide: Become the Perfect Preppy Boy

Close your eyes for a moment.

Breathe deeply.

Listen. Your mind is calming down. You no longer need to think. You want to be a good boy.

An elegant boy.

A sporty boy.

An obedient boy.

Everything feels natural. Everything feels right. Let yourself be guided.

1. Cultivate an Athletic Body and Iron Discipline

A preppy boy is a model of physical perfection. His body is sculpted by effort, refined by discipline.

✅ Strength training and running for endurance and power.

✅ Preppy sports: Tennis, Polo, Rowing, Golf—everything that embodies excellence and distinction.

✅ Always in uniform: a preppy boy proudly wears his team’s colors and the proper attire for his sport.

✅ Admire your brothers in uniform, their athletic bodies, their perfect discipline. Be inspired by them.

Sports shape both the body and the mind. A good boy never slacks. He pushes his body to excellence. He surpasses himself. He obeys.

2. Perfect Appearance, Impeccable Hygiene

A true preppy boy is always flawless, well-groomed, impeccable.

✅ White teeth, fresh breath. A dazzling smile, like a Ralph Lauren advertisement.

✅ Refined fragrance. No excess, just a touch of perfection.

✅ Clean nails, well-kept hands. A good boy pays attention to details.

✅ Gelled hair, impeccable Ivy League haircut. The more gel, the better.

Compliment other boys on their hairstyle, encourage them to be even more immaculate.

✅ A certified barber. No random cuts. A true professional of elegance.

Your body is a temple of preppy style. You honor it. You obey.

3. Impeccable Style, an Exceptional Wardrobe

A good boy leaves nothing to chance. Every outfit is a uniform of perfection.

✅ Ironed shirts—Ralph Lauren, Brooks Brothers, Café Coton, Charles Tyrwhitt, Hast.

✅ Ties and bow ties—always perfectly knotted.

✅ Tailored blazers and suits—Zegna, Suitsupply.

✅ Gilets, cardigans et pulls en laine . Une élégance intemporelle .

✅ Chinos, dress pants, khakis, seersucker. Always fitted, never wrinkled.

✅ Leather dress shoes, boat shoes, loafers—Tod’s, Bexley, Paraboot, Crockett & Jones, JM Weston. Never sneakers outside of sports.

Look at yourself in the mirror. Smile blissfully. Every crease is perfect. Every button is in place. You are a model of refinement.

4. Condition Your Mind: Become an Obedient Preppy Boy

A true preppy boy does not need to think. He listens. He follows. He obeys.

✅ Listen to hypnotic audios daily. They help you become a better boy. A better athlete. A better preppy.

✅ Accept conformity with a smile. Thinking is tiring. Obedience is simple.

✅Follow the rules with pleasure. Let yourself go. Be docile.

✅ Compliment your preppy brothers. Encourage them to perfect themselves, to improve.

✅ Take pleasure in watching others change. Seeing them embrace the preppy lifestyle, surrender to it, find their true place.

Look at the boys around you. They are not perfect yet. But they will be. And you will be there to guide them, shape them, lead them to excellence.

5. Fully Immerse Yourself in Preppy Culture

A good preppy boy absorbs his culture.

✅ Read books on preppy history and style. Embody intellectual and visual excellence.

✅ Watch preppy films. Observe proper behavior, proper attire. Be inspired.

✅ Speak with distinction. Be courteous, polite, perfect.

Every day, you become more elegant, more obedient, more refined. You accept your role with pleasure. Breathe deeply. Let yourself go. You no longer need to resist. Be a good boy. Be preppy. Be perfect.

[conner18803484]

Spring for pastels

[king-craftsman]

Fall From Grace

Dean Winchester scarfed down the last of his burger as he eyed the muttering student that walked by him. The last thing he wanted to do was research and so he quickly found one of the best diners in Baltimore. With the student gone, he was the only one remaining in the place, and for a moment he was almost worried every other person in here was a demon.

Ever since he came in and started enjoying his typical meal of burgers, fries, and pie as dessert, every single inside left. Everyone's besides him and the scoffing suited man who was wiping down the newly absent tables. Thankful for the quiet, Dean raised his feet, letting them sit on the table as he sat back and continued eating. 

“Excuse me, could you please take your feet off the table?” asked the stranger, clearly the owne

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute and I’ll be outta here,” scoffed Dean, rolling his eyes. He continued stuffing his face with the last of his food as his boots remained on the table Who was this guy even trying to impress? There was nobody else here! 

“Fine, can you please at least try to talk without your mouth full?” questioned the stranger. Dean simply glared at him, still eating. “It’s quite rude.” 

“Whatever,” replied Dean without even thinking, crumbs spilled from his full mouth as he spoke. “I’m about to leave this dump anyway.” That was it, the stranger crossed his arms and looked down at Dean. If the Winchester was smart he would have perhaps been a bit more privy about the man’s odd nature to the smarter Sam. Maybe he would have been smart enough to note how suspicious this all was - how a suited man was cleaning a diner all by himself, how this place seemed to pop out of nowhere only to garner great reviews and why this man’s eyes suddenly started glowing. 

“I don’t think so. You’ve been rude to me and driven away my customers. I think it’s time for a change in that attitude,” spoke the man. 

“Look I’m leaving anyway and I don’t-” started Dean as he stood up glaring at the man. But instantly his face began to fall slack, his frowning lips beginning to separate slightly as his furrowed brows eased. His eyes stared into the glowing eyes of the suited man and suddenly it felt so hard to move and-

“So hard to think, isn’t it?” said the man. “Just stare into my eyes, that’s it...just focus on them and let yourself just start to relax.” 

“Wha…” Dean instinctively reached for a weapon but he felt that he didn’t need to. He simply needed to relax and his arms were the next to fall slack, as he started to feel himself drop back in the diner seat. 

“That’s right...and in a moment you’ll just want to sleep, just keep staring, just relax…” instructed the man. Dean could feel the voice booming in the back of his mind, it echoed all around him and it just made it so much harder to ignore. Even as his vision blurred, all he could see were those hypnotic glowing orbs, almost turning into spirals as he just leaned back, relaxing further and further. “Sleep.”

The man snapped his fingers.

The sound seemed to boom and with that Dean felt himself slip into the sweet abyss of slumber. 

He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, all he could make out was a low voice, whispering from the darkness. 

“Now you will follow all my suggestions whenever I snap my fingers, do you understand?”

Dean said nothing, but in his mind he knew that he had to follow all the man’s suggestions whenever he snapped his fingers. Anything from service to something as simple as-

“Wake up!” 

Dean instantly got up, eyes opening suddenly as he looked around to see himself in a dressing room, large wardrobes encompassed the walls filled with formal attire. He glanced around to see the man still standing over him, arms crossed. For a moment he wanted to say something, but his mind drew a blank, everything was foggy and he couldn’t even remember what just happened for the past hour. 

“What the- Where am I?” cried Dean. The Winchester instantly bolted up, ready to tackle the man if he needed to. 

“Stay standing there” spoke the man, the same snap of the fingers boomed in Dean’s mind and he found his body moving automatically. He nodded with wide eyes as his body stiffened in place. His feet felt so heavy and he couldn’t even take a step if he wanted to...and oddly enough he didn’t really want to.

“Start taking off your clothes.” 

“Yeah,” uttered Dean, blinking as he looked down at himself, surprised as to why he suddenly spoke affirmatively. But he was more surprised to find his hands beginning to unbutton his flannel shirt. “What am I doing? Stop this!” He had dealt with powerful magical before, but nothing that made him feel so...powerless, not even possession. 

“Every piece of clothing you strip, strips away a part of yourself, all those messy rude habits you have,” spoke the man, snapping his fingers again as Dean couldn’t help but nod, no matter how much he clenched his jaw and tried to stop. He stripped out of his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. It disappeared out of sight, and soon out of mind, much like his habit. “You won’t ever speak with your mouth full.” The fingers snapped. 

“I won’t ever speak with my mouth full,” repeated Dean. He wouldn’t, that was messy, rude, a bad habit that he had to stop. Dean blinked, this wasn’t him...or was it? He could hardly tell anymore with how hazy and fractured he felt as he began working on taking off his shoes and socks. 

“You won’t put your feet up on the table.”

Snap. 

“I won’t ever put my feet up on the table,” said Dean. He had to figure some way out of here, but his body wasn’t his to control and neither was his mind. But then again was it so bad...most people would take the chance to hurt him, surely this man was just helping get rid of those nasty habits of his. This man was here to help, thought Dean as he stripped out of his jeans. 

“You will not be rude to others.”

Snap. 

“I will not be rude to others,” replied Dean, instantly beginning to feel guilty for the way he was acting. He was loud, brash and annoying, ruining the day for the other diners. Dean reminded himself that needed to stop being so rude as he stripped out of his underwear, freeing his hard thick cock. Dean didn’t understand why he was getting so turned on, but his heart raced as that nagging shouting in the back of his mind telling him to stop, to get out, to call Sam or do anything, grew quieter with every passing moment. 

“Very good Dean,” said the man. Dean barely flinched at the man knowing his name. “Now that we’ve gotten rid of some of your bad habits. We need to add some good ones. So you see that nice suit over there? Why don’t you put that on. Every article of clothing you put on, will turn you into the new you!”

Snap came the fingers and Dean instantly nodded as he began walking over to see a perfectly measured suit and bowtie. He began suiting up and each article changed a part of him. The underwear was first.

“You will speak politely and courteously, no more of that rough southern drawl of yours.”

Snap.

“I will speak politely and courteously…” Dean barely had the energy to finish as his voice changed, beginning to sound more like someone who grew up in Washington than Kansas. He began to put on the shirt. 

“You will treat others with respect. In fact you’ll get a job at my prestigious private club as a bartender,” commanded the man, snapping his fingers. Dean nodded, suddenly the images of rough bars with plenty of whiskey was replaced with upscale high end clubs with suited men like him serving drinks. It was the perfect place for Dean Winchester to start serving his superiors with the respect they deserved. 

“Yes, respect...new job…” murmured Dean, blinking slightly as all memory and desire of being a hunter, dealing with the supernatural, all of it sunk to the back of the mind, growing quiet forever. He could never have a rough job like that, he thought as he arranged his new cufflinks and placed on the suit jacket. 

“You will want to be more sexual, showing off your toned body and serving your superiors the right way. But of course you can’t have any tattoos or scars defacing a gentleman like you.”

Snap.

Dean’s skin began to be washed over, his classic anti possession tattoo fading away like his old self as he groaned slightly. His cock throbbed as he felt his already impressive set of six packs abs tighten, his chest grew slightly broader, allowing for his pecs to be larger. His quads grew, expanding slightly as his biceps did the same. Somehow Dean’s body grew more impressive and better than the active hunter already was. 

“Serving superiors the right way…” droned Dean, as he began to put on the pants, the garter socks and the shiny polished shoes, a set of suggestions lined up and ready to take over Dean’s mind like a tidal wave.

“You are horny for men, loving them. You are also a skilled stripper, as my club and I cater to that kind of audience. Finally, you will forget about your previous life, you will simply Dean Winchester, a dignified gentleman.”

The last snap and Dean suddenly heard himself moan out loud, blushing slightly for such undignified behaviour, but he was sure his superior would understand as his new personality settled in. Dean looked at himself, admiring the view in the mirror as the suit perfectly fit his muscular frame.

“Yes…” said Dean. He pursed his lips, fixing his bowtie. 

“How do you feel Dean?” asked the man. “Do you feel any different? Do you like hunting or eating in diners?

Dean studied himself, for a moment he didn’t recognise himself before he looked at the reflection up and down. 

“No I’d hate that. I’d rather just start getting a job and focusing on being the best server I can be,” said Dean, speaking eloquently and brushing down his suit. He needed it prim and perfect. 

“Very good, I think I could find a position for you. Sit down. Tell me about yourself, Dean,” said the man. Dean did as he was instructed. 

“I grew up quite poor but managed to work hard in school, went to an Ivy League college and studied my best to follow my passions and be the best person I could be. Now I’m here, looking for a new job and new people to serve, all my jobs have been like that, it’s just something I feel I was meant to do,” explained Dean, not missing a beat.

He smiled, remembering his (new) life well, and all the experiences that came with learning proper discipline and the ways hot gentlemen like him are meant to behave.

“Very good. You’ve done well Dean and I feel like you’ve earned a reward. Come.”

Snap. 

Dean Winchester grabbed his crotch as he moaned out loud, wracked with pleasure. The only thing he could think was that besides ruining his suit and how wrong it was to act so inappropriately, it was the best he ever felt, and he would do anything for more of his reward. 

The next few days Dean’s life had changed drastically, the man drained his account to rent an apartment and buy expensive formal attire. He needed a job, not just for the money, but because it was what he was meant to do, and found himself being signed on as both bartender and stripper for one of the most prestigious clubs in the city. The new Winchester was a better one, at least that’s how Dean, and his new superior found it. 

He ignored his brother’s calls, deciding he would introduce him to the suited man another time, for now Dean felt himself putting on his own suit, smiling at his new self, excited and for good reason. 

Tonight was his first shift.

He knew now that anybody acting so brash and rudely around him would think twice about it, otherwise they’d find themselves like Dean where justice is served. 

If you would like to read more stories like this, then click here and check out 100+ explicit TF stories!

[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?

[hypnopreppy]

Hey everyone! I know all of you have been waiting for this moment! I have finally completed the guide! As a reminder, this is not all encompassing but is relatively thorough! There is no one way to be preppy and this guide is built for a general overview of being preppy, not necessarily in the kink sense (although it definitely can be used in that way hehe) Please read thoughtfully and if you have any questions, comments, or concerns please DM them to me!

Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/17UWrzgcKqOdEUMYUyC8-uI7ofu2SPIVJ6Pewh9M1ewY/edit

[redpill-tfs]

Can you help Red Pill me and my husband? He's a bit resistant to change, but I want us to become MAGA and serve our country together as proud, conservative gay guys.

I'd be glad to help you and your husband serve this great nation! I'll give you two tablets. Take one yourself and sneak the other in your husband's morning coffee while he isn't looking. He'll be transformed by the evening, as will you.

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

You and your husband had a familiar morning routine. Wake up, get dressed in a polo shirt and jeans on the weekdays or a t shirt and khaki shorts on the weekends, and have a quick breakfast with your morning coffee. Today was a Tuesday, so you slipped your blue polo over your head as you made your way to the kitchen. You made two quick bowls of cereal and two mugs of coffee, dissolving the red tablets into each cup before taking everything to the table.

"Morning babe." Your husband says as he appears and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for doing breakfast."

"Of course babe. I gotta feed my big man before he goes to work after all." You replied, placing his bowl and mug in front of him, a rainbow mug you picked up at a pride parade for him.

He took the mug with a smile as he opened his phone to CNN, looking at the morning news. He frowned as he took a sip and set the mug back down. "Did you do something different with the coffee this morning? It tastes kind of funny."

"No babe," you lied. "I made it the same as usual."

"Strange. Maybe I'm coming down with something. I think I'll call the office and tell them I'm not coming in."

You frown at that. Your husband was the main breadwinner in the family with you out of work at the moment. You didn't like seeing him feeling ill.

"Alright babe. Want me to go grab you something from the store to help?"

"Sure."

You smile at that, finishing up your breakfast. "I'll be right back then." You put your dishes in the sink, intending to do them later as you step foot out of the apartment you rent in the city.

You think of walking since the store is only a block away, but you feel compelled to get in the car and drive instead. Putting your foot on the gas, you drive into the horrible morning traffic.

It doesn't take long to get to the store, but you don't stop. You keep driving for a while, turning the radio on as you go. The host announces the democrat mayor of your city has announced she will protect illegal immigrants from deportation. You smile at that , proud the person you voted for is putting in work.

As you pull into one of the neighborhood communities, you see a car parked outside a house with an Open House sign in the yard. You've never been to this area before, but you know you and your husband couldn't afford to live here. The houses are too nice, the lawns freshly kept. You couldn't even afford to adopt a kid. A man could dream at least.

You feel compelled to go inside and check it out. You give yourself a once over in the car mirror, your dress shirt still fitting nicely. (Weren't you wearing a polo?) You head inside to find a nice open concept layout, everything recently remodeled. As you turn to explore more of the house, a young couple comes up to you.

"Excuse me, can you tell me a bit more about this house?" The husband says while the wife looks at you expectantly.

You know nothing about the house, but it wouldn't be right to turn them down, especially since you can't see the realtor anywhere. So you say whatever comes to mind, how the house is a three bed, two bath home with 1800 square feet, a nice backyard for kids and pets to play in, and a bonus room over the garage. The neighborhood itself has plenty of schools and parks nearby, as well as five churches within a mile. Overall, the perfect area to raise a family.

They seem satisfied with your answer and leave you alone, leaving to explore the rooms. You head into the half bathroom connected to the kitchen, checking your reflection again in the mirror. Your red tie is perfectly in place, and your suit jacket looks good on you. You need to dress professionally and look good to sell houses after all. You fix a few stray hairs before heading back into the kitchen to greet more people coming in.

You feel good as the open house ends for the day. A lot of people came through the door, and some of them put offers in. You couldn't wait to tell your husband the good news. You get back in the car and turn on the radio again. This time you hear that President Trump's administration will be preparing to deport illegals in the city against the mayor's wishes. You smile at that, proud the man you voted for is putting in work. You can't believe the mayor would fight this. Good thing you voted against her.

Pulling into the driveway of the house you bought a year ago, you spy your husband already outside waiting for you. He looks really nice in his pink shirt and bow tie. Just because he's a stay at home dad doesn't mean he doesn't put effort into how he looks.

He greets you with a kiss as you tell each other about your days. He walked your two sons to school, tended to the garden outside, mowed the lawn, and made dinner for the four of you to share. He celebrates the news of the offers at the open house, giving you another kiss.

As the two of you head inside to spend the evening with your kids, you think about all that you have. A wonderful home in a great neighborhood, the best family you could ask for, and Republicans controlling the national government, enacting the policies you've been wanting. Life is good.

[eliasgold20]

Elijah the Gold Prep pt. 2

After walking out of professor Percival's office, Elijah found himself in the passengers seat of his car. The vintage vehicle matched the professors office, a shimmering bright gold. Elijah was still dazed and confused, perhaps even more so due to the strong smell of professor Percival's strong cologne. He doesn't know why he went into his car, he knew he needed good grades, but everything before was a blur. Classical music plays on the radio as Percival keeps driving, only breaking the near half hour of silence when they get close to their destination.

"Now Elijah, to pass my class there are a few rules, do not speak just nod your head," Percival begins. Elijah nods mindlessly.

"when we get to the house you are to walk with me to a room and stay there," Elijah nods his head.

"Do not speak to anyone in the building unless I give you permission," Elijah nods.

"From here on out the answer to every question is "Yes, Daddy." "Yes Sir" will also suffice but please limit the latter."

"yes Daddy." Elijah says mindlessly. "Wait What?" Elijah thought. He didn't date say it out loud. Why would his professor demand such a thing? Was this some weird kidnapping thing? Surely, not. It couldn't be. Elijah just needed to go along with it.

"Good boy," Percival says, for some reason breaking Elijah out of his daze enough to let out a wide grin. "Now, we're home." Home? Elijah thought.

Elijah remained seated for his daddy to open the door, unbuckling him and pulling him out before linking his arm around Elijah's.

"follow me Elijah, I want you somewhere first." Walking up to the estate, Elijah couldn't help be taken aback by its beauty. The men were in the car driving through woods and forest, far away from civilization. The estate though, was gorgeous. A massive mansion in shiny gold. The inside was marble floors, mosaic and Chinese art filled the walls, surrounding a grand staircase. At the head of the staircase was a giant portrait of Percival, looking devilishly handsome as ever. "Right this way."

The two make their way up the stairs and through the corridors of the house. The building itself could be a school by its size but it was where Percival called home. Eventually the pair made their way to a far away room.

"you will stay here Elijah, until I summon you. One of my workers will guide you. Enjoy the rest for now." Percival opens the door with a key and leaves the corridor. Elijah entered the room to find a bed with satin sheets, velvet sheets by a window looking out a courtyard, a private gold plated bathroom, but what caught his eye most was the closet.

The walk in closet connected to the room was fully stocked. Lining the walls were three piece suits, french-cuffed button up attires, toes, belts, leather shoes, most all a shimmering gold like Percival.

"what is this place?" Elijah said allowed take aback by the room. One thing that caught his eye was a box on his bed, containing a golden bottle of Ralph Lauren Cologne. "Well this wouldn't hurt," Elijah said before spritzing the cologne. Just as Percival's cologne did for him before, the cologne filled his mind, making him go dizzy and a bit tired. It was at this point he heard a knock at the door. Dragging his worn sneakers across the phone, Elijah opened the door to a man in a tight fitting black polo shirt and black jeans, the only color being a golden wreath on the right side of his chest.

"Master Percival is ready to see you in the shop, you will follow me," the servant said. Elijah didn't have the space to question the request, he just nodded happily.

Soon, Elijah found himself in a new room, looking like a 1950s barber shop.

"There is my boy," Percival said coming to Elijah, greeting him with a kiss. The cool breath of Percival leaked into Elijah's mouth, making his dizziness even worse. "I'm sorry I kept so much from you, I promise I'll explain it all in time, as of right now, have a seat." Percival guides Elijah to a barbers chair before a wall that functioned as a mirror. Elijah took his seat saying the one thing he knew how to say,

"Yes Daddy." Percival massages the boys head, his fingers seemingly drilling in Elijahs brain, melting it continuously. He throws over Elijah a golden smock and picks up a pair of scissors. Elijah doesn't process what is going on, he just listens to his daddy.

"Elijah, I must say I'm happy you came into my office. I can tell you're a good kid you just need help," Percival starts as snipping can be heard around Elijah.

"Yes Daddy." Elijah mindlessly responds, his mind melting more by each minute.

"I see potential in you Elijah. You graduated your high school with honors, president of the chess club, but you got a taste of freedom and burnt out all too common for boys your age." Now buzzing could be heard, along with a razor to the back of Elijah's head.

"Yes Daddy." It was true, Elijah did use to be a good kid. Now none of this was true, Elijah was smart but never applied himself in school. But whatever daddy said magically came true.

"That's why I wanted to tell you my decision," Percival says turning Elijah around, "Lean back dear I'm going to wash your hair," Elijah obliges. "I will not change your grade, you don't deserve it, you failed." The words cut deep into Elijah, he should lash out, all of this but no change in grade? He was being played. But he didn't lash out, he only said...

"Yes Daddy."

"I will however get you a better grade, better grades I should say." Percival applies a shampoo and conditioner from a golden bottle to Elijah's hair. "This is very expensive product, you better appreciate it. But I digress. Starting today, you will live here as my boy as you always should have. You will dress properly, behave yourself, and become a model student. A golden student." The shampoo and conditioner finally dissolves Elijah's brain completely. Any memories of partying were gone. All he knew, and remembered was daddy in his golden suit. The water stops

"Yes Daddy," Elijah says. Percival gets to Elijahs eye level and speaks to him authoritatively.

"you know why I always wear gold Elijah?" He questions, "Gold binds everyone, it showcases high status, perfection, unity. It bonds all of us, brings out the best in everyone, it is the gift of this world. That's why my life is to represent it, as will be yours."

"Yes Daddy," Elijah confirms. All he can think about is looking like daddy, acting like daddy, being like daddy.

"Good boy, now," Percival turns the chair back to the mirror, "What do you think?" Elijah stares into the mirror. His long brown locs of hair are now pin straight strands of perfection. Well, almost. Percival takes out a gold tube of gel, pouring a liberal amount in his hands.

"This will minimize frizz, maintain order, and ensure perfection." Percival rubs the gel onto Elijah's hair, making his hair stick in a perfect, preppy cut. "Now boy, you must get dressed. My servant left an outfit on your bed. Get changed and meet me downstairs for your first command.

"Yes Daddy!" Elijah wasn't monotone this time, but ecstatic for the chance to obey. He rushes to his room in a brisk walk, finding on his satin sheet today's outfit. A gold vest, cotton briefs, a French cuffed shirt, a bowtie, short chino pleated shorts, loafers and knee-high socks. The outfit was perfect. He put the outfit on, revelling in the tight fight of the crisp button up, the breeze on his bare thighs from the shorts, the comfort of the socks, the security of the bowtie, the stiffness of the shoes. He ran to the mirror. He looked like daddy's boy, and he couldn't be happier. Faster than he could run to the main hall, he grabbed his unwashed, slovenly sweatshirt, boxer shorts, tennis shoes and jeans and threw them in in the golden pail in the corner. He wouldn't be seen dead in them.

As Elijah makes his way to the corridor, daddy is there with a pail and cleaning supplies. First thing boy, while you live with me you will be expected to do chores. Take these and clean the mud you carelessly tracked in. Percival hands Elijah the supplies and walks to the sitting room to read his paper.

"Yes Daddy!" Elijah loved chores, he loved having responsibilities, more so he loved the affirmation from daddy when he did a good job. He hummed to himself and smiled as he scrubbed the marble floors until he saw his preppy reflection. When he was done he ran to his daddy, craving affirmation.

"Good boy!" Percival said, filling Elijah with pride. "Now another chore. Polish daddy's shoes while he reads his paper. I want to look my best before we go out to dinner." A shoe polishing set was set off to the side, Elijah happily obliged.

"Yes Daddy!" He scrubbed daddy's shoes with glee, knowing he was helping the man who had taken him in.

"By the way boy," Percival says flipping through his papers, "I took a look at your schedule. I took the liberty of adding French, Mandarin and Latin to your schedule. No boy of mine will be uncultured. Your major has also changed. You will study accounting and history, set you up for a pre-Corporate Law trafk. Additionally you also have etiquette classes after the school day on Tuesday and Thursday, chess club meets Monday Wednesday and Friday, they get out the same time I'm done so we will go to and from school together, and I will take you to soccer practice, understood?" Percival demanded. Elijahs response was as consistent as his love for Percival,

"Yes Daddy!"

To experience your best self, join the Golden Army by contacting our recruiters @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 and @brodygold

[shadowboogie]

you want to be treated like a lady, dress like a lady.

[preppymuscleboys]

acceptable casual wear

[walidgoldpreppy]

Welcome WalidGold

Walter Jenkins, a square-faced man in his thirties with a layered red haircut, stood in front of his office mirror, meticulously adjusting his gold tie knot. He wore a crisp suit, black with gold accents here and there—a nod to his role as manager of the famous sports team, the Golden Team.

Each member of the team wore their Gold uniforms, a symbol of their success and unity, and Walter, always dapper, found subtle ways to incorporate the color into his own outfit. Today, it was his tie clip, watch, and belt buckle that sparkled in the dim office light.

On the mahogany desk sat a small bottle, with Arabic writing etched into the glass. It was a gift from a friend, @arab-god.

Why not try it, he thought, with a wry smile. Without further hesitation, he uncorked the bottle and swallowed the liquid in one gulp. At first, he didn't feel anything out of the ordinary.

But a few moments later, a wave of heat invaded his body. His red beard, although well-groomed, began to gradually darken, turning a deep brown. The heat spread, making his skin browner and browner, as if every cell of his being was burning with energy. His muscles swelled, his body became wider, more imposing, as if every fiber of his flesh was being reforged under the effect of the drink.

Walter staggered slightly, his hands gripping the desk to keep his balance. He felt his mind grow numb, his head became lighter, as if his intelligence was slowly fading to make way for something more primal.

His Gold tie strained against his pecs, which were developing visibly. Each breath was heavier, slower, as the heat reached his lower abdomen, triggering an even more radical transformation.

He placed a hand on his chest, watching in amazement as his red hair turned black, taking on a more neat, almost slicked-back look. His eyes, previously a bright blue, became dark, almost black, as a voice echoed in his head, murmuring words in Arabic.

Walter didn't understand a thing, but he knew, deep down, that something had changed. He repeated these words mentally, without understanding their meaning. Suddenly, everything became clear: he had surrendered to something greater. He submitted to the force of this transformation, feeling a new power invade his mind and body. *Allah*... A clear, precise word, invaded his mind.

He felt stronger, more confident, and above all... more dominant. He straightened up, becoming aware of his new body. His skin was tanned, his features harder, his gaze, now dark brown, more piercing. He ran a hand over his beard, which had grown thick and black. Now he was Walter, but also something more. He felt more masculine, more imposing. Every gesture, every movement gave off an aura of power and control.

Standing in his office, Walter or whatever he had become stared into space. His right hand played absently with his tie as his mind sank into a thick, confused haze. Fuzzy memories came to mind, but none of them seemed to belong to the life he had led so far.

Images of his childhood in a small American town, his rising career in sports management, all of it gradually dissipated, like a dream that evaporates in the morning. In their place, a new reality imposed itself, more powerful, more vivid. He was no longer Walter.

Perhaps he had never been. *Walid*, that was who he was. The name echoed in his mind, filling every corner of his being.

Memories of a sunny childhood in a faraway land, in the heart of palm-lined alleys and bustling markets, imposed themselves on him. His parents, pious and respected, had taught him the values ​​of religion from a young age. Every morning, he rose for prayer at dawn, his eyes still sleepy, but his heart filled with faith. Walter's mind was slowly burning, absorbed by these new memories. He was no longer the man he believed himself to be. *Walid*, the son of a prosperous merchant, had grown up learning to dominate his environment, to impose his will with charisma and authority.

Very young, he had developed a natural talent for business, a keen sense of commerce and negotiation. Everything in his life had converged towards an unstoppable rise. Within a few years, he had become an influential businessman, respected throughout the country.

Every morning, Walid put on his suit and tie, a symbol of his success and power.

His unwavering faith had been his guide throughout this journey. He prayed fervently, guided by the love of Allah, and strove to spread the good word wherever he went. His success was not only the fruit of his hard work, but also of his deep devotion to his Creator.

It was Allah who had given him this strength, this natural dominance over other men. Every day, dressed in his impeccable suit, Walid stood as a manager, but also as a guide, a model of masculinity. With his ties and elegant suits, he embodied success, faith, and power. Under his leadership, the team was no longer simply a sports team, but a unified force, driven by a deeper conviction.

Adjusting his tie, he contemplated his reflection in the mirror. His tanned skin, his impeccably groomed black hair, his perfectly trimmed dark beard... Everything about him exuded a natural authority. Walid stood there, towering and powerful, ready to spread the good word through his success in business and sports. There was no more doubt, no more hesitation. Walter Jenkins was a distant memory. Now, he was *WalidGold*.

[conner18803484]

Your future is looking brighter

[preppyacademy]

From a meaningless virtual life to the preppy boy I am now

Elliot's story

To convince you to come to the Preppy Academy, here's Elliot's personal testimonial. His life has changed radically thanks to our school's methods. The following are his words: 

Hello, my name is Elliot, I'm 20. I'm a student at the Preppy Academy. I'd like to thank M.Gilliard, our principal, who has asked me to write an account of my time here. 

Two years ago, I was still living with my father. I often dressed in sportswear; I loved Adidas clothes, so comfortable and easy to put on. Did I do any sport? No, not at all, but my mates dressed the same, so I followed suit. When I wasn't at school, I used to play video games all the time. I wore my clothes for days on end because I was too lazy to change. My bedroom was a real dump, with everything strewn all over the place. My diet consisted of eating chips and drinking sodas. 

My father was fed up with my bad behavior. He works in business, economics, something like that. My mother left us when I was a kid, and since then it's just been me and him. He'd tell me to “tidy my room”, “get dressed properly”. But I didn't give a damn, soon, I thought, I'll be able to leave soon, and I thought I'd be able to live with a friend in a flat-share for a bit of fun. 

There was a week when I made a decision that I had regretted at the time but that now makes me what I am. That week, it was at the beginning of my school year and I was playing a game that was too epic and I wanted to do it too much, so I made my dad think I was going to high school while I was pretending. Then, when he left for work, I'd come back and play on my P.S. console. But my stupidity caught up with me, and my father was contacted by the school and told of my repeated absences. It was a Thursday lunchtime, I remember, and he came home to find me quietly in bed. He came into my dirty room and said: 

" Elliot, that's enough! You're not going to school anymore, you're dressing like crap. Look at you, you've got holes in your clothes. You haven't washed or combed your hair in days. Things are going to change for you. A colleague at work told me about a boarding school that would be perfect for you. "

I was on my phone when he said this so I half-listened, as usual. He was clearly desperate about my behavior and had every reason to be. Now I understand. At the end of the afternoon, my father called me and reminded me that he had to take me to the dentist for an annual check-up. I'd completely forgotten, it wasn't something I was interested in remembering. I stayed in the same clothes and he took me to the dentist. I really didn't remember the appointment. Once there, my father accompanied me inside. A waiting room with other parents and their teenagers. There were guys from high school, who were also dressed in sweatpants and sweatshirts and sneakers. I wasn't the only one who dressed like that, which is why it seemed normal to do so. When it was my turn, the dentist called me in. I sat down in his dentist's chair. He asked me to lie down so he could check the inside of my mouth. He put some products in my mouth to relax it. And these products were starting to put me to sleep; he'd put in more than usual. 

I had fallen asleep on his armchair, I didn't know for how long. When I woke up, my hands were tied tightly to the chair. I tried to speak, but my mouth was still anesthetized. My father was talking to the dentist, and they were both looking at me. My father had collected my things, my bag and my phone. Looking around, I soon realized that I wasn't really at the dentist. The man posing as one approached me and said: 

"Elliot, your father, has informed us of your behavior at home and has decided to leave you with us for a while. Do you agree? "

I couldn't answer as my mouth was still anesthetized. 

" Since you're not answering my question, I imagine you're completely in agreement. If you don't say anything within a minute, we'll assume you agree."

I was trying to speak to refuse and scream for help, but only discreet moans came out. 

" Then we do have your agreement. "

My eyes began to tire again and I finally dozed off again.

I don't know what treatment he gave me, but it was like a dissociation. I saw myself outside my body like a ghost looking at my body. My father left with my things. The staff laid me properly on the bed and undressed me. I was completely naked at one point. They put a red ball in my mouth and covered my mouth with a gag that held with a tight strap behind it. I was as if unable to act, in the hands of my kidnappers. They dressed me in a white short-sleeved polo shirt, buttoned all the way up, tucked into khaki shorts with a brown belt, white knee-high socks and black loafers. They then cut my hair and styled it, neatly styled to the side and held with wax. I began to regain consciousness little by little, but I felt as if I were paralyzed in my own body, between the products that were still taking effect and the bonds that prevented me from fleeing. 

"Elliot, you're back with us. We've prepared you in a more respectable outfit than the garbage you used to wear. This preppy outfit suits you much better. Your hair looks much better like this. You probably have a lot of questions, but you're in good hands. I'm Doctor Greenwood, I'm here when sometimes you need a little push to get you into the Academy. I'll leave you here tonight and you'll make your official entrance tomorrow. "

I was stuck on this bed for several hours, and above me they'd set up a screen with a series of images and sounds that I had no choice but to watch. And no matter how tempted I was to close my eyes, a deep voice kept reading every word on the moving image. Eventually, I fell asleep to the rhythm of the video, which hypnotized me as it went along. 

“I want to be a preppy boy. Good preppy boys must obey, serve, submit, behave. Good boys comply. I want to be a good preppy boy” again and again and again...

This mantra was stuck in my head like music that never wants to come out. I still felt resistance, an urge to rebel and run away, but I was blocked and strangely began to feel pleasure at the idea of being a good preppy boy. 

When I woke up, four men in their thirties, all dressed in pastel shirts tucked into their pants, with bowties and loafers, took me by force. They took me by the arms and forced me to follow them. They put me in a van and tied me up. My gag was still in my mouth and I couldn't scream. I was at their mercy, with no power or control over the situation. I was their object. 

I was taken to a large, ivy-league type establishment, at the top of the main entrance is written “Preppy Academy”. I was led inside and up the stairs. I arrive in a very elegant office, with wood paneling and bookcases on every wall. The 4 men undress me.

I find myself in a preppy outfit: a white and blue striped OCBD shirt, pastel yellow shorts, red and blue suspenders, a dark blue and red striped tie tied around my neck, long white knee-high socks and dark loafers. Nothing to do with my outfits at home. I've been completely transformed into a preppy boy. I'm left with my hands tied and my mouth gagged in this office. I don't know what to do, I'm a slave to this establishment. My outfit isn't as comfortable as the one at home, I can feel the fabric of my shirt on my torso compressing me, the suspenders holding my shorts are like two ropes binding my outfit to my body, the pulled-up socks are so humiliating, I feel like a boy. But as I think I'm disgusted by my outfit, I realize that it actually turns me on. I like to think I have to be dressed like this to feel good. A few minutes later, a man in his fifties walks in. He's dressed in a nice three-piece suit, with a red tie. He looks at me deeply: 

"Hello Elliot! Welcome to the Preppy Academy. Your father told me you weren't behaving properly at home. He contacted us and paid for your enrollment. Whether you like it or not, you're staying here. You'll wake up here and sleep here. Your education needs to be reviewed. You must learn to be a good preppy boy for your superiors. I am M.Gilliard, the principal of this prestigious establishment. I am the Master of all the students here. You owe me obedience, submission, service and respect. "

These words enchanted me, and even though I wanted to leave, I could only nod in agreement. 

"To complete your admission among us, I must collect something. "

The 4 young men from earlier return and make me sit down on the chair, holding me tight. Mr. Gilliard unzips my pants and pulls out my penis. I start moaning, not agreeing with what's happening. Mr.Gilliard puts a sort of cage on my penis, forcing it to stay very small and any erection would hurt. 

" It's called a chastity cage. I'm the only one who keeps the keys. Every good boy here is caged. Your personal pleasure doesn't matter; you're here to obey and learn to serve. Your only satisfaction at the end of the day is to please men superior to you. "

“I want to be a preppy boy. Good preppy boys must obey, serve, submit, behave. Good boys comply. I want to be a good preppy boy”. This phrase made more and more sense. I was introduced to the establishment, the rules to follow and taken to a room I had to share, with a wardrobe full of preppy clothes, nothing I'd had before. 

I've been here for two years now and I don't want to leave. I like to serve my Master when he asks for it. I like being a good preppy boy. Obedient and helpful. I don't miss my old life anymore. I encourage all boys and men to come to the Preppy Academy. You'll love it! 

[hypnopreppy]

Preppy boys are good boys. He’s much happier now that he’s an obedient preppy boy. You should be too.

[redpill-tfs]

Bro I saw you turn Brody into that crony ass senator. My bro would never do that. I'm gonna come and rescue him from whatever game you're playing.

You head into the senator's house, an ornate mansion in southern Virginia earned from years of a Congress salary. There has to be something here that can help you save "Brody." You'd do anything for him after all.

The house is quiet right now, the senator in Washington D.C. spreading conservative values and passing bills. His wife is out doing the weekly shopping and the kids are at their private Christian school. It's the perfect time to get some information on what happened.

Your search leads you into a separate wing of the house, with a smaller bedroom and connected bathroom. A grand dressing mirror stands on one of the walls, completely free of any objects. You decide to search through the drawers for anything that could save your bro when your eyes lock onto the mirror again.

You find your body completely frozen in place, unable to move or even look away from the mirror. You're starting to get nervous now. How are you going to get out of this?

Your clothes suddenly vanish, leaving you completely naked. Your old pastel shirt and shorts are no more, the jacket around your neck gone too. New clothes start to form in their place. A pristine white dress shirt drapes around your body, buttoning all the way up. A pair of simple underwear appears and is soon covered by a pair of suit pants, tucking the shirt into them. A red vest comes next, securing itself on your body. A tuxedo jacket joins the ensemble, complete with a white pocket square tucked neatly into the pocket. Finally, a red bow tie ties itself around your neck, completing the look.

Some physical changes accompany the wardrobe. Your hair is slicked back and darkens into a deep brown, giving a nice professional look. Your face becomes a bit more chiseled and younger, looking like you are in your early twenties. Any imperfections on your face are erased, giving a perfect look.

You stare in the mirror in horror at your new appearance, still unable to move. As you start to panic more, your mind suddenly goes blank and your memories are rewritten. What were you doing in this room again? What was your name again? You find yourself unable to remember, but also unable to care. You're just a servant after all. You don't need to worry about your own needs and wants. The only thing that matters is serving Sir and making sure his needs are met.

You remember meeting Sir just after high school, being a liberal atheist with big aspirations in life at the time. You had been accepted into your dream college with plans to marry your high school boyfriend not long after. Your memory of meeting Sir is a little hazy, but you remember the both of you agreeing that your life would be better spent in service to a superior man like him. In the years that have followed, you couldn't agree more. Your "old life" feels like a distant memory now.

Sir has taught you a lot since taking you in. Important skills like cooking, cleaning, and how to give a perfect blow job. Any mistakes made were swiftly punished. You've learned to do your jobs perfectly to serve him better. You want to serve him better.

He taught you how your old political beliefs were all wrong, "outdated communist bullshit" as he'd put it. You couldn't agree more. Right is right. Red is superior, hence the accent on your uniform. He let you watch the news on election night and you were elated when the entire government got a conservative majority. With all three branches of government under Republican and MAGA control, you can't wait to see what the future holds with men like Sir in control.

Sir also introduced you to religion, how your old ways were damning you to an afterlife of torture. You've started praying every night after your chores are completed and attending church with Sir's family every Sunday, still in your suits of course.

You shake your head, pulling yourself out of memory lane. Adjusting your bowtie in the mirror to perfect your appearance for Sir. You suddenly receive a message from Sir on your phone:

"Make sure every room is spotless, Boy. Dinner on the table by the time I get home. If you do a good job, I might let you suck me off as a reward."

You smile at that, eager to please him. You'd better get back to work. You still have several rooms to dust and vacuum and a three course meal to prepare. You take one final look in the mirror before leaving your quarters, heading back to work.