After that session, Lonnie found himself unable to cope with his new knowledge and memories, and within a day, he’d suffered a complete, emotional breakdown. The doctor had ordered him be committed, but suggested it would be better for Lonnie if he stayed and lived with his therapist, until he was back to his usual self. Lonnie didn’t resist–he couldn’t resist. The doctor had done so much for him, after all. He packed a small bag, and moved in with him that evening, staying in a small room up in the attic.
The therapy didn’t cease, however. Lonnie would have moments of clarity, where he would deny what had happened, deny that he was even sick at all. The shock collar was medically necessary, to control his patient. To remind him, at any moment, that he wasn’t really a man, as he was trying to insist. No, Lonnie was just a pathetic faggot. He would be put into a trance for hours, reliving horrible, violent, humiliating memories, the therapist slowly rewriting his patient’s entire life. Now, every man he’d known had used him–his father and uncles, his two brothers, his friends and bullies. Everyone knew he was a faggot, other than him. When he’d gone off to college, Lonnie had put all that away, he’d been pretending for decades that he was a real man–this is what had caused his anxiety, he learned–only by returning to his proper nature, could he feel at peace once more.
His therapist would make him relive his memories, particularly in the shower. It would trigger violent flashbacks, and Lonnie would helplessly get down in front of his therapist and service him in any way the man demanded, like he had all those boys in his school, and much to his surprise…the feelings of terror and anxiety began to fade away. The therapist encouraged his progress and good behavior. Helped him feel more at home in his new identity. Still, the road to recovery was long. It was two years later, when Lonnie was finally released from his therapist’s care–no longer a man, but just a humble faggot.
He made amends the only way a proper faggot could–my servicing as many men as he possibly could. He would cruise bars and bathhouses every night, worshiping cock, begging for it, and the crueler the top, the happier he found himself. Of course, finding work was difficult for him. He’d quit his previous job after his breakdown, but every time he sat down for an interview, especially with another man, he found himself compelled to explain to them exactly what he was, and why. Occasionally, the man interviewing him would use him, but after three months he was still unemployed. It was Dr. Halvers who found a solution for him.
The only job suitable for a faggot as lowly as Lonnie, was as a complete slave. It turned out, the therapist knew of a…rather unconventional auction, held a couple times a year–and he was happy to sponsor him, of course. Lonnie fetched a fair price, and Dr. Halvers collected the fees himself–Lonnie’s treatment hadn’t been cheap after all. Last he’d heard, Lonnie–or Scum, as he’d been renamed, had never been happier. Four hundred pounds, completely hairless, castrated, kept in a cage for twenty hours a day, brought out only for service. The only future a faggot could ever desire.
Bracken's Corner 