“I don’t…this shouldn’t be possible, none of this should be happening.”
“You’re not answering my question, slave.”
“Please, you don’t have to do this. I’m your slave! No one’s going to–”
Walter grabbed Donny by the lock on his collar, and hauled him up to his feet, before grabbing him by his filthy locks, and dragging him over the bed, yanking him so he was face down and bent over. A paddle was in his hand. He had no idea how it had gotten there, but like the boots, like the cigars, it had simply appeared when he’d needed it. He realized, again, that he was changing too, and he hesitated with the paddle, unsure of what he was doing, but after a moment, he swung back, and slammed it into Donny’s ass, enjoying the howl that followed. “I’m not going to be tolerating any back talk. I’m not going to tolerate any disobedience. I own you, and I…will shape you into whatever I need you to become,” Walter said, his own voice unsettling him. It hadn’t sounded like him–it had sounded like that voice in his head earlier…and somehow it had felt like the words had been directed at him, as much as at Donny. “Now count, you fuck. Slaves always count.”
Ten heavy slams with the paddle, enough to raise welts, enough to leave his skin red and angry. Donny was crying–it was clear he’d never experienced anything like this before, and again, Walter wanted to feel sorry for him, wanted to pull back, but the curse shoved him away, climbed up onto the bed, and yanked his slave’s head up by the hair. “There must have been more that he liked about you, fucker. No one would fuck you for your fucking hair. If he liked your hair, I bet he liked your beard, didn’t he? The color, how well trimmed you keep it. Well fuck that shit.”
Donny could feel the hair on his face shifting, his beard parting down the center and pulling back from his mouth until it was just a pair of muttonchops remaining with nothing around his mouth, trimmed at an awkward, uneven line. Then, the hair began to grow, curling and puffing out, the color dulling to the same dingy brown as his hair.
“That’s better–no one in their right mind is going to find something like that sexy. Now, tell me–why the fuck did he want you? Why the fuck did he want to see scum like you three times a month?”
“He liked fucking being with me!” Donny seethed, “He said he always felt stylish when he was with me, fucking hip. He felt like a cool kid. He said I was charming and smart. He said I was funny. Fuck you–sometimes we didn’t even fuck, we just talked for hours. He loved me–he told me that. You sentimental fucks.”
“You’re being disrespectful, slave,” Walter said, and slammed the paddle down on his ass again, making him cry out.
“Please sir, I’m sorry sir, please.”
“Count–from one again.”
Twenty more this time, plus two extra when the slave missed the count. When he was finished, Walter set the paddle back on his chair, and took a long inhale of smoke, thinking, and imagining, and scheming. “Stylish and hip.” he said, walked back over to the bed, and rolled Donny over onto his back, seeing him flinch when his ass touched the sheets. “Charming, smart, and funny.” Walter ran a gloved hand over Donny’s skin, lightly, knowing he’d be the last one to touch it. “Not for too much longer, I don’t think.”
Donny tried to speak, but he felt it, his body…shifting, his mind–it was like a splitting headache, ripping his head apart.
“I don’t think someone who cares so little about their own hygiene could ever be considered stylish. More like slovenly and lazy.”
He could smell himself, suddenly–he reeked. It wasn’t just that he was unwashed, it was everything he’d done to take care of himself, all of his routines–deodorant, cologne, lotion–he couldn’t remember any of it. Why would he ever bother with shit like that? But he’d smelled his own BO before–and this was far worse than anything he’d ever put off in the past. Each time he caught a whiff, he just felt…ashamed that he would let himself stink like that, but knowing with as much certainty that he’d never lift a finger to do anything about it.
“I mean you do have a style. I’d call it dirty labor chic. Wifebeaters, ripped jeans and boots coated with mud and grit. Even when you’re naked, we can all see your tanlines, slave–we know what you are. Lips packed with that nasty tobacco of yours, juice leaking down your chin all the time. Not exactly a look that’ll be featured on magazines anytime soon.”
Donny lifted up his head, feeling his lip bulge out with a wad of tobacco–he tried to spit it out, but only ended up dribbling dark spit down his now bare chin. He did have a tanline–his arms a burnt orange, which his chest and belly were a pale white. It was clear what he wore, day in and day out now, under the sun. But other details too–his broken and cracked nails with dirt packed beneath, making them look black or brown.
“As for charming. As for smart. As for funny. We know the truth, don’t we? That crude language of yours you’ve picked up from being on worksites your whole life. That stutter. Even if that drop-out mind of yours had anything smart to say, you can’t get it out half the time. Plus you’re so dull, you still haven’t realized you’re the butt of every joke on the worksite.”
All Donny could do was shake his head side to side, but he could feel it, his mind collapsing in on itself, sharp edges dulling, the world seeming so…simple all of a sudden. S-Shit M-M-Master. I ain’t got shit in my f-f-f-fuckin’ head. You f-f-f–f…Shit, I’m fuckin’ not a s-stupid f-f-faggot.”
Walter just laughed his head off, and under his mutton chops, Donny’s cheeks flared as red as his heavily tanned shoulders. He was a stupid faggot, but he could also tell that Walter wasn’t satisfied that his third condition had been entirely met just yet.
Bracken's Corner 