I woke up already reaching for control.

That’s how I knew something was wrong. I rolled onto my back, stretched—expected resistance, weight, the familiar pull of muscle—and nearly flung my arm off the bed.

“What the fuck?”

The words came out fast and sharp. Except—They didn’t sound right.I froze. The voice was thinner. Not higher exactly—just tighter. Like it had been pulled inward, wrapped in caution. The edges were gone. No gravel. No confidence riding underneath it. I swallowed and tried again.

“What the fuck.”

Same voice. My stomach dropped. That wasn’t how I sounded. I knew my voice. It filled rooms without trying. It carried weight even when I wasn’t saying anything important. This one didn’t. This one sounded like it was asking permission.

I pushed myself upright, irritation spiking into something hotter. The room was wrong—too clean, too quiet—but I barely registered it. All I could think about was the sound that had come out of my mouth. I cleared my throat. Tried to force depth into it. Tried to claim it.

“Okay,” I said.

The word came out controlled. Polite. Jesus Christ.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, immediately thrown off by how light I felt. No drag. No gravity. Like my body had forgotten how to anchor itself. Instinctively, I grabbed a set of glasses without thought and crossed the room and stopped short at the mirror.

The guy staring back at me wasn’t a man who’d lived. Young. Clean. Careful. Hair parted just so. Glasses perched on a face that looked like it spent more time listening than speaking.

“No,” I said.

The voice cracked—not emotionally, but structurally. It bent around the word instead of punching through it. I leaned closer, searching for me. The scar. The wear. Anything earned. Nothing.

Pressure built behind my eyes. I opened my mouth again, ready to swear, to bark, to demand—And hesitated. Why did I hesitate? The thought startled me more than the body ever could. Then the memories started.

Not mine. Lecture halls. Rules. The low hum of expectation. A father’s voice—measured, disappointed without ever raising it. I shook my head hard.

“Get out of my head.”

The sentence came out softer than I meant it to. Almost embarrassed by its own volume. I felt something slip. Just a little. The memories didn’t rush. They settled. Sliding into place like furniture that had always been there. Fear, not sharp but constant. The instinct to scan before speaking. To edit. To weigh.

My chest tightened. Why was my heart racing? Why did I suddenly feel like I’d already said too much? I tried to remember the sound of my real voice—the way it rumbled when I laughed, the way men leaned in when I spoke low. It felt… exaggerated now. Almost theatrical.

I paced the room, barefoot, too light on the floor, jaw tight.

This isn’t me. This isn’t real. I don’t want this.

But the objections sounded louder inside my head than they ever had out loud. My voice—this voice—didn’t seem built for shouting. It folded inward when I tried to force it. I stopped in front of the closet. I don’t know why I opened it.

Rows of clothes stared back at me, all order and intention. Blazers in muted blues and grays. Button-downs ironed within an inch of their lives. Everything chosen to communicate seriousness without inviting scrutiny.

I felt a flash of irritation. Jesus. Who dresses like this? But my hand was already reaching out.

I caught myself and pulled back like I’d touched something hot.

No. I don’t want this. This isn’t strength—this is hiding.

Except… it wasn’t hiding, was it? That thought slipped in gently, like it didn’t want to startle me.

This is respectability. This is discipline. This is how you build a future.

My chest tightened—not fear this time, but something closer to longing.

I shook my head, hard. “Stop it,” I said.

The words came out calm. Almost embarrassed. Why was I fighting something so… sensible?

Then, I reached for a shirt —white, crisp, folded with care. When I slipped it on, the fabric brushed my skin lightly, unfamiliar and almost too clean. I hesitated with the buttons, fingers hovering.

Why am I nervous?

Buttoning it felt good. That surprised me. Each button closed with a small, precise motion, calming in a way I couldn’t quite explain. By the time I reached the collar, my breathing had slowed.

I stepped into sensible slacks next—tailored, modest, falling straight instead of clinging. They made my legs look longer, cleaner. Less… exposed. I tugged them into place and immediately felt more contained.

Suspenders hung waiting. I slipped my arms through them and felt the gentle pull as they settled into place, holding everything exactly where it belonged. Upright. Restrained. Proper.

I spotted the bow tie next. Pastel. Tasteful. Ridiculous. I picked it up anyway.

As I tied it, my reflection watched me with careful focus, brows slightly furrowed—not confused, just intent. When it sat neatly at my throat, I adjusted it once, then again, until it was perfectly centered.

Better, I thought. The word didn’t scare me anymore.

More appropriate. The socks came next. Long. Black. Sheer enough to be intentional.

I rolled them up carefully, smoothing them along my calves, feeling oddly precise about it. There was something comforting in the ritual—no rush, no show. Just correctness.

I stood there for a moment, hands at my sides.

This feels right, a thought whispered.

I almost argued. Instead, I reached for the blazer. That was the last thing. I hesitated before putting it on—not out of resistance this time, but reverence. When I slid my arms into the sleeves and settled it onto my shoulders, something finished aligning.

There it is. I straightened automatically. Smoothed the lapels. Checked the line of the shoulders. The mirror showed someone composed. Polished. Someone whose future made sense. I didn’t look smaller anymore. I looked… prepared.

I adjusted the bow tie one final time, then the suspenders beneath the jacket, ensuring nothing pulled or drew the eye unnecessarily.

Yes. This was exactly right.

The thought of brunch surfaced easily—quiet conversation, polite laughter, my father’s approving nod as his eyes took me in.

He’ll be proud, I thought. The warmth that followed wasn’t sharp or overwhelming. It was steady. Earned. I was a good son. A conservative Christian just like my father, and I knew that if I tried hard enough, i could be jut like him.

I took one last look, picked up my phone, and glanced at the time. I shouldn’t be late. And as I headed toward the door, composed and careful and entirely myself, it no longer felt like I had lost anything at all.

For the past while I've been undergoing a beneficial transformation through hypnosis and conditioning. I am embracing my future as a smartly dressed preppy boy. Since my training has started to take over in a way I never thought it could. I've started feeling addicted to polos and khakis, needing to wear s collar buttoned up fully. It feels so much better being dressed up smartly. I've been buying so many polos recently and I can't wait until my entire wardrobe is replaced. But today one of my fellow preps forced me to go outside dressed like a dork and I totally obeyed without resistance or hesitation. I went outside dressed like this for the first time and it felt so good. A smiling zoinked out prep.

I look forward to being made to post more, humiliated by dressing like this until it's all I can think about and do. And I can't wait for more training and hypnosis. Daily prepification posts will follow as I become more and more brainwashed into prepification :))

Normalise werewolves dressing in basic, preppy and non-alt styles

Normalise ocean creatures being afraid of the sea

Normalise cats loving water

Normalise being a small dog

Normalise vampires who like sunshine

Who said contrasts were just for dramatic exits at family dinners?!

Mix your navy blazer with cream chinos, or dare to pair that earthy green with pristine whites. It's not just styling, it's a power move 😎