The glass-and-steel skyscraper of the Sterling Group loomed over the city like a monument to Alistair’s legacy, but inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was far more suffocating. Alistair Sterling stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his tailored charcoal suit fitting his broad shoulders with lethal precision. He was the image of a man in control—silver-tinged hair, a jawline like granite, and eyes that saw through everyone.

Behind him, Julian, his equally handsome son, sat on the edge of a leather sofa. Julian looked like a younger mirror of his father, but his tie was loosened, and his hands were trembling. The "Board Meeting" was over. Now, the "Home Meeting" was beginning.

"You were distracted today, Julian," Alistair said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that made Julian’s stomach flip. "You were thinking about your own autonomy again. It’s making you anxious. It’s making you… congested."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Julian whispered, the "Sir" already sliding into a softer, more childish tone.

Alistair turned, a cold, handsome smile playing on his lips. "Don't apologize. We have a protocol for this. You’ve outgrown your adult skin for the day, Julian. It’s time to go back to the beginning. It’s time for your inspection."

The transition happened in the "Nursery Suite," a room that looked like a high-end medical clinic decorated by a sadistic interior designer. The walls were a soft, calming blue—Julian's favorite color—but the center of the room featured a padded, stainless steel examination table.

Alistair moved with practiced efficiency. He stripped Julian of his suit, his watch, and his dignity. Piece by piece, the "Executive Vice President" disappeared, replaced by a man-child shivering in nothing but a thick, crinkling diaper and a pacifier clipped to a silk ribbon.

Alistair’s demeanor changed too. He was no longer the CEO; he was the Caretaker. He donned a pair of white latex gloves, the snap of the material echoing in the quiet room.

"Lie back, Little One," Alistair commanded. Julian obeyed instantly, his eyes glazing over as the regression took hold. The weight of the world was gone, replaced by the heavy, looming presence of his Father. To Julian, Alistair was a god—the only one allowed to see him like this, the only one allowed to touch him here.

Alistair leaned over him, his handsome face framed by the harsh surgical light above the table. "We need to make sure you're clean inside and out, Julian. A healthy boy is a happy boy. If you’re going to act like a baby, I’m going to treat you like one. That means no secrets. No hidden places."

Julian whimpered, the pacifier bobbing in his mouth as Alistair lifted his legs, pinning them back against his chest. The vulnerability was absolute.

"Starting with the rectal check," Alistair murmured, his voice sounding like a lullaby and a threat all at once. "You’ve been holding onto too much stress. I can feel it in the way you’re tensing up. Relax for Daddy, or this will take much longer."

As Alistair began the methodical, invasive process of the rectal examination, Julian’s mind fractured further. He wasn't a man. He was a project. He was a possession. The coldness of the lubricant and the clinical precision of his father’s fingers were the only things that felt real.

"Now," Alistair said, shifting his focus as he moved to the vaginal check, his gaze intense and analytical. "Let's see if you've been keeping yourself as pure as I demanded..."

The room was silent, save for the hum of the air filtration system and the rhythmic, wet click of the lubricant dispenser. Alistair stood between Julian’s elevated knees, his expensive silk shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the powerful forearms of a man who worked out his frustrations in a private gym.

"The lower GI tract is the first place your body stores the tension you try to hide from me, Julian," Alistair lectured, his voice sounding like a surgeon’s as he applied a generous amount of clear, medical-grade gel to his gloved fingers.

He didn't move immediately. He let the coldness of the gel settle against Julian’s skin, watching the way his son’s "handsome" features twisted into a mask of regressed helplessness. With a firm, steady pressure, Alistair began the dilation.

"I’m checking for muscle tone," he explained, his fingers moving in slow, circular patterns. "If you’re too tight, it means you’re still holding onto your adult ego. I need you to let go. I need to feel the walls relax until there’s nothing left but your dependency on me."

He pushed deeper, his thumb pressing against the base of Julian’s spine to keep him still. He described every sensation to the regressed man—the way the sphincter resisted and then yielded, the "purity" of the internal tissues, and the necessity of ensuring there was no "blockage" to his son’s submissive development. To Alistair, this wasn't just a check; it was a physical way to reach inside his son and pull out any remaining seeds of rebellion.

Alistair transitioned with a practiced, chillingly calm grace. He changed his gloves—a fresh snap of latex—and adjusted the high-intensity surgical lamp so it focused entirely on Julian’s most private anatomy.

"Now, for the most delicate part of your maintenance," Alistair murmured. He picked up a small, stainless steel speculum. The metal glinted under the LED lights. "Because you are a Sterling, Julian, your body must be kept in a state of absolute 'Pre-Transition' perfection. This area is the core of your vulnerability."

As he carefully inserted the instrument, he began a "Purity Audit." He spoke about the "elasticity" of the canal and the "integrity" of the mucosal lining.

"I’m checking for any signs of external contact," Alistair said, his eyes narrowing as he peered through the scope. "You know the rules, little one. This part of you belongs to the Sterling legacy. It belongs to me. If I find even a microscopic scratch or a hint of 'unauthorized' arousal, your nursery time will be doubled."

He used a long, sterile swab to take "samples," moving with a clinical coldness that made Julian’s brain feel like it was melting into a soft, non-verbal puddle. The contrast was stark: Julian, the handsome heir with a body built for a suit, lay open and "itemized" like a piece of medical equipment, while his Father—the architect of his existence—cataloged his every reaction.

The atmosphere in the nursery shifted from clinical to confrontational in a heartbeat. As Alistair reached for a larger diagnostic probe, a stray spark of "Adult Julian" flickered to life. Perhaps it was the coldness of the steel or a sudden flash of memory from the afternoon’s board meeting, but Julian’s legs snapped shut.

The speculum clattered against the padding of the table. Julian’s eyes, previously glazed and distant, sharpened with a panicked, masculine defiance. "No," he croaked, the word sounding alien in the quiet room. "Dad, please… not that one. I’m… I’m not a baby. I’m a man. I can’t do this tonight."

Alistair didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood up straight, his towering height casting a long, handsome shadow over his son. He slowly peeled off his gloves, the silence in the room becoming heavy enough to breathe.

"A man?" Alistair repeated, his voice a terrifyingly soft purr. "A man who is currently wearing a four-cup capacity diaper? A man who whimpered for his pacifier ten minutes ago?"

Alistair stepped closer, leaning over the table until his face was inches from Julian’s. "You are confused, Julian. That 'man' is a character you play for the public. The person on this table is my property. And when my property resists its necessary maintenance, it requires a recalibration."

He didn't use a belt or a paddle. Instead, Alistair used the "Firm Hand" method. He flipped Julian onto his stomach, the heavy diaper crinkling loudly. With the steady, rhythmic precision of a ticking clock, Alistair delivered a series of sharp, stinging swats to the padded seat of the diaper. It wasn't about causing injury; it was about the sound and the humiliation.

"Every swat is a reminder," Alistair murmured between the rhythmic thwacks. "You are small. You are mine. You are checked because I say so."

Within minutes, the defiance broke. Julian’s broad shoulders began to shake with heavy, infantile sobs. The "man" was gone, replaced by a sobbing, regressed boy who was now begging for the very checks he had just refused. He reached back, desperately trying to grab his father’s hand, seeking the touch he had just tried to avoid.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," Julian blubbered into the table’s padding. "Please... check me. Please make me clean. I'm small. I'm your boy."

Alistair smoothed Julian’s hair back, his touch suddenly tender again. "That’s my good boy. Now, let’s finish. No more secrets."

Once the checks were completed to Alistair’s exacting standards, the "Medical" phase ended, and the "Nurturing" phase began. This was the reward for Julian’s submission.

Alistair carried the limp, emotionally exhausted Julian to the oversized rocking chair. He had prepared a large glass bottle filled with warmed, sweetened milk—thickened just enough to require effort to drink.

"Open up," Alistair commanded gently.

Julian obeyed, his handsome face looking strangely soft and youthful in the dim, green light of the nursery. He latched onto the silicone nipple, his eyes locking onto his Father’s. This was the "Feeding of the Heir." As Julian drank, Alistair spoke to him in a low, hypnotic tone, praising his "perfect internal health" and how "pristine" his checks had been.

"You're so healthy now, Julian. Everything is exactly where it should be. You're my masterpiece," Alistair whispered, his hand gently massaging Julian’s throat to encourage him to swallow.

When the bottle was drained, Alistair burped him with a firm, rhythmic pat against his back, then carried him to the centerpiece of the room: a custom-built, adult-sized crib made of polished mahogany. It looked like a piece of fine furniture, but the bars were reinforced steel, and the mattress was covered in soft, waterproof silk.

Alistair laid him down, tucking a heavy, weighted blanket up to Julian's chin. He placed the pacifier back in Julian’s mouth, watching as his son’s eyes fluttered shut, his thumb curling instinctively around the bars of the crib.

"Sleep, little prince," Alistair said, leaning over to kiss Julian’s forehead. "Tomorrow you’ll be a CEO again. but tonight… tonight you’re just mine. Completely checked, completely safe, and completely small."

Alistair turned off the main lights, leaving only a soft green glow, and sat in the corner of the room, watching his creation sleep.

The sun rose over the city, bleeding a harsh, golden light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Sterling dining room. The "Nursery" was locked behind a hidden door, its soft green lights extinguished. In its place was the smell of expensive espresso and the crisp rustle of the Financial Times.

Alistair sat at the head of the table, looking terrifyingly refreshed. He was back in a bespoke navy suit, his silver-black hair combed back to perfection. He looked like the titan of industry he was—not a trace of the "Caretaker" who had been elbow-deep in medical lubricant and baby powder just hours prior.

Julian sat across from him. To any onlooker, he was the picture of a successful heir: jawline clean-shaven, white shirt starched, and eyes focused. But beneath the table, the reality was different.

Julian could feel the Secret Weight.

Beneath his $3,000 trousers, he was still wearing a fresh, thick diaper Alistair had taped onto him before "waking" him up. Every time Julian shifted in his chair to reach for his coffee, the subtle, muffled crinkle of the plastic echoed in his own ears, a private thunderclap of submission. His body felt different—tender and "hollowed out" from the intensity of the rectal and vaginal checks. The phantom sensation of Alistair’s gloved fingers and the cold steel of the speculum seemed to linger in his nerves, a physical brand of ownership that no suit could hide.

Alistair looked up from his paper, his eyes locking onto Julian’s with a predatory sharpness. He didn't say a word about the night before, but he watched the way Julian winced slightly as he sat down.

"You look sharp today, Julian," Alistair said, his voice back to its corporate, commanding tone. "Ready for the 9:00 AM briefing?"

"Yes, Sir," Julian replied, his voice steady, though he felt a flush of heat creep up his neck.

Alistair leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough so the household staff couldn't hear. "Good. Just remember, Julian... as you’re standing in that boardroom, presenting those figures... I know exactly what you look like underneath that suit. I know how 'clean' you are. I know how you whimpered when I checked your purity. You carry my seal of approval inside you today."

Julian took a slow breath, the sensation of the diaper's padding pressing against his sensitive, "checked" skin. He wasn't just a VP; he was a living extension of his father’s will. The "Handsome Heir" was a facade, a beautiful shell maintained and inspected by the man at the head of the table.

"I won't forget, Daddy," Julian whispered, the slip of the tongue intentional—a small, private offering of the "Little" he still was.

Alistair’s smile was thin and satisfied. He stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and headed for the door. "Let's go then. We have a legacy to run."