The end of Donald

by SoxNTies

Dark tale of a privileged banker getting his just desserts.

Donald was naked, lying on his side in the cage that had become his home. If he was truly as suggestible as Craig claimed this would only take a day or two.

I unlocked the cage door. Donald crawled out and stood, hands behind his back, feet spread, head bowed. He was much more muscular than when he'd arrived here. His dark blonde hair had grown too long and shaggy. His cock stood pointing at his chin, surrounded by blond pubic hair. He was quite a specimen. Craig had apparently worked magic with weight-gainers and a workout regimen.

“Good morning, Boxer Boy,” I said.

Donald's breathing changed immediately.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

“Yes,” came the distant reply.

“Listen to my voice. Let it fill your mind. It is taking you over. You cannot resist it—don't even want to resist it. You are surrendering completely to my voice. All your resolve is melting away. You will do anything my voice tells you—anything I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Follow me.”

I climbed the stairs to the first floor, then walked through the house and upstairs to the bathroom. As soon as he stopped walking Donald assumed his feet spread, hands behind his back, head bowed position. A nice touch; I'd have to compliment Craig.

“Step into the shower, Donald.”

He did. Same pose.

“Donald, you cannot move. Your body is frozen in place. Your flesh is becoming stone. Feel it move up your feet, through your legs, up your torso, down your arms, to your hands, through your neck, to your head. The last thing to turn to stone is your rock-hard cock right now. You are a statue of manhood to rival the David. You will not move until I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replied through a clenched jaw.

“Very good.”

I pulled on a pair of gloves. I had laid out all I would need for today before going downstairs. I opened a bottle of sunless tanner and squeezed some into my hand.

I began at Donald's neck, coating his throat, working down over his shoulders, his arms, to his hands. I spread the tanner on his firm pecs, over his flat stomach, around his sides, over his back. I coated his legs liberally, working down the strong thighs, knees, calves, over his feet. I slathered tanner on his ass, then covered his groin—scrotum and hard cock. I stood and smoothed tanner over his face and ears.

I stepped back. Donald was about three shades darker. I repeated the entire process, slathering sunless tanner over his entire body. When I'd finished I turned on the water and hosed him down. I patted him dry with a towel and stood to assess my handiwork.

Donald was now a deep shade of golden brown. His blond hair and pubic hair stood out against the dark background—seeming out of place.

No matter.

I pulled on a new pair of gloves and mixed the hair dye. I coated Donald's head in the thick cream, then knelt down and coated his pubic hair. I set a timer for twenty-five minutes and left my bronzed statue.

When I returned I hosed Donald off again. I picked up a pair of scissors and began trimming his hair. With clippers I shaved the back and sides of his head. I hosed him off a final time, then applied gel to slick his hair back.

He simply stood, feet apart, hands behind his back, head bowed, utterly unable to move, completely at the mercy of my whims.

Pale, blond Irish Donald had undergone a startling physical transformation. I was certain his own mother would pass him without a glance now. His dark skin glowed, setting off his slicked back black hair. His jet black pubic hair created a bush around his erect, dark cock.

Perfect.

…..

I stood in the bathroom staring at him. He was a work of art. But I was in a committed relationship. And no matter how he appeared he was still the same bastard at heart.

“Donald, do you remember the cartoon puppet who wished and wished to be a real boy? Well, much like him you are no longer a statue. The stone has changed to flesh and blood. You're a real boy, Donald. You may step out of the shower.”

Donald stepped into the bathroom and stood, awaiting instructions.

“Follow me, Boxer Boy.”

Back in the basement he assumed his position. His cock had remained at attention the entire time. I reached down and pumped it a few times.

His breathing quickened, but he didn't move. Craig really had done quite a number on him already.

I stopped playing with his cock. Time to play with his mind.

“What is your name?”

“Donald Joseph Sullivan,” he replied by rote.

“That is no longer your name. Donald Joseph Sullivan was a banker. He was a pale, blond Irish man with a nice home and a fancy car. He has left his job, left his home. He has no contact with his former friends or family. He has ceased to exist in this world. His name means nothing to you. You no longer recall the name Donald Joseph Sullivan. You will not answer to that name. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“I—I—”

“I will tell you your name. Once I say it it will become the only name you know. It will be the only name you answer to and the only name you remember having. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Your name is Jose Sanchez. Say it and know that it is your name.”

“My name is Jose Sanchez.”

“Very good, Jose. I understand you speak fluent Spanish. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“That's good. Because at this very moment all of your knowledge of the English language is draining from your mind. Your lips and tongue will no longer be able to form English words. Your hand will no longer write in English. All knowledge of communication in English is being locked away deep in your mind, behind a door that only I can open. Can you see the door in your mind, Jose? Picture the big heavy door. See all your knowledge of the English language being put behind it. Watch as the door slowly swings shut until it slams will a dull thud. The lock turns. You do not have the key to open this door, Jose. You will speak and write only en Espanol. You cannot communicate in English. You will not be able to relearn English. You will be in an English-speaking country as a Spanish-speaking man. You will understand English when it is spoken to you. But you can only respond in Spanish. That will be the ultimate irony in your situation—you will understand perfectly, but be unable to reply. Do you understand?”

“Si.”

“Very good. Donald Joseph Sullivan has been erased. You are Jose Sanchez. You will continue your physical training for boxing. Do you understand?”

“Si.”

“Good. I'll return tomorrow. You will begin your workout once you awaken. 1…2…3.”

Donald/Jose strode to the stationery bike. He donned the shorts, socks, and sneakers that were draped over it and climbed onto the bike.

I walked up the stairs to the main floor of the house. I'd be rid of Donald in a few days…

…..

I ventured down to the basement and found Donald/Jose sleeping in the cage. I unlocked the door.

He crawled out and assumed his submissive stance.

“Good morning, Boxer Boy.”

I circled around him, admiring my creation. It was time to finish him.

“Look how the mighty have fallen, Donald. Excuse me, Jose. Your life will never be the same now. I control you. You will do only what I tell you from now on. It's a shame, too. You had it all—white-collar job, new BMW, an expensive wardrobe, nice home—but you didn't appreciate it. You spent your time inflicting abuse on other men. You even had your own boy to serve you. What you did to him is unspeakable.”

I reached down and tugged on his balls. “No longer will you enjoy the perks of your position as Vice President at First National Bank. You've gone from VIP to nobody. The affluent lifestyle you were so comfortable with is gone, taken from you by force. You will scrape by with barely enough money to cover your necessities. You see, Donald Sullivan will never be found. Jose Sanchez will join the fair circuit as a boxer. A dear friend of mine is coming for you tonight. He's arranged for you to travel with a carnival. In exchange for room and board you will work as a boxer. You'll live your life on the road, sleeping in a tiny trailer rather than your spacious house. You will eat carnival food rather than expensive cuisine. You will speak only Spanish in an English-speaking country. And you will never be able to relearn your native tongue of English.”

I pumped his seemingly permanently hard cock. “Your Irish looks have been replaced with dark skin and dark hair. You will have fulfilled the path of a Mexican journeyman boxer, Jose. Not the life you expected, or were born into, but the life you deserve. Your body will take abuse as you fight; making up for the years of abuse you caused. And as your body becomes more battered with each successive fight you'll remember the life you had and could've continued. Your curse, Donald—Jose, is that you cannot communicate about your former life. You will not be able to form the words to tell anyone that you were Donald. You will not be able to write about it. If you attempt to tell anyone you will speak gibberish; you will write unintelligibly. You've forgotten the name, but you will not forget the life.”

Jose was beginning to sweat all over. I pumped his cock harder. “You cannot escape back to that life. You are driven now by one goal: to box. Every waking moment will revolve around training or fighting. You can do nothing else. Try to tell someone. Try to stop training. Try to run away from the carnival. You can't. It is ingrained in you. You will train and fight until you die.”

Jose's breathing had quickened. Physically he needed to cum. But he was unable to. Good work, Craig.

“Even if you could tell someone of your fate no one would believe you. You are unrecognizable. Gone is the fair-skinned blond man, replaced by a deeply tanned, black-haired Mexican. And you will be forced to maintain this new look. Once a week you will apply two coats of sunless tanning lotion to your entire face and body. Every three weeks you will dye your hair and pubic hair jet black. You must obey. You will use what little money you earn boxing to pay for the tanner and dye that you require. As the years pass your nose will be broken and your brow will calcify from the repeated blows to your head, wiping out the last traces of Donald Joseph Sullivan. Say it and know that it's true. What will you do, Jose?”

“Una vez a la semana aplicaré dos abrigos de loción de curtido sin sol a mi cara entera y cuerpo.”

“And?”

“Cada tres semanas teñiré mi pelo y el motor de pelo pubiano negro,” he gasped.

“Bueno,” I said. “You will train outdoors whenever possible and wear sun amplifier. That will keep you as dark as possible.”

I let go of his cock. “Jose, people will mock you for your poverty and pity your lack of education, never realizing you were a respected, wealthy college graduate. I would pity you, too, but this is justice. You kidnapped, beat, and raped an underage boy. Repeatedly! You will never again be able to hurt a boy. Now you will feel the pain of being battered and bruised. And you will know that I could reverse all of this and give you back Donald's life if I so choose. But you won't be able to escape your constant training to find me.”

I threw the boxer shorts, socks, and sneakers to him. “Put these on.”

He stepped into the clothes and resumed his stance.

“I will count to three and Donald Joseph Sullivan will live only in your mind. The knowledge of who you were and the life you had will haunt you every day of your new, miserable existence. You will live by the programming you have undergone here and follow all of the instructions you have received. You are unable to disobey. In your mind you will remember what has happened to you, even as you are forced to train continually. The outside world will see only Mexican journeyman Jose Sanchez. Do you understand all that I have said?”

“Si.”

“Bueno. 1…2…3.”

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