Pairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.
Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.
2) For anyone who's curious, I wrote this before I wrote "Turf Battles."
3) Thanks to gypsyluv for the icon! :D
Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine
[Seven Years Ago]
"Oh, man, I am completely wasted!" Mark Vincent was sprawled in a velvet-upholstered loveseat, upstairs in a private lounge at his flagship club, xXx. He had a golden touch for that sort of entertainment business and by his late twenties he'd made enough money to start looking around for investments. He and Liam had been introduced at a weekend party, and had partnered on some profitable ventures over the years, and eventually become good friends despite their sharply contrasting backgrounds.
Vincent had a loud, raucous personality, but there was a sharp brain in his shaved head and he was a good man to have on one's side in just about any conflict.
There were no conflicts that evening, however. They'd had an excellent dinner with plenty of alcohol and everyone was having a good time relaxing. The music from the main area of the club downstairs was audible but not deafening, and half a dozen dancers -- slaves owned by Vincent's company -- had come up to entertain.
Dinner'd been cleared away a little while ago and the dancing had turned erotic. Vincent would usually have been jumping in to participate, but that night he seemed to have enjoyed a little too much of the vodka -- to say nothing of the wine with dinner and the martinis before -- and was reduced to just watching.
It was a shame; Vincent might not be much to look at above the neck, but he had an impressive body and Liam didn't mind watching him with the slaves every now and then.
Vincent leaned over and whispered something to his own body-slave, Paul, who grinned and walked across to where Liam was sitting, with Orlando at his feet to one side. Paul sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to Liam's boot for a moment, then knelt up and said, "My master has sent me to ask whether Orlando can come and play."
Liam glanced down at Orlando, who was looking up with a "Please-please?" smile on his face. He and Paul got along well and had played together before, and Liam enjoyed watching them. He nodded and tipped Orlando's face up for a long kiss. "Make me hard for you," he murmured.
"Yes, Master!" Orlando gave him a teasing wink, then leaned over and kissed Paul, pushing his hands into the other slave's hair. Paul was as blond as Orlando was dark, and they made a lovely contrast. Paul was ruggedly handsome and more muscular; Orlando was gracefully pretty and more flexible. Together they were beautifully erotic.
The boys shifted over to an open spot in the floor about halfway between their masters, a few feet away from the writhing mass four of the dancers had become. One of the others was lapping delicately under the skirt of a woman associate of Vincent's who wasn't quite successful enough yet to afford a body-slave of her own, and the sixth had just finished sucking off some musician whose name Liam could never remember, while the man's body-slave rimmed him. The newly unoccupied slave gave Liam a suggestive look, but he wasn't interested in anyone else just then and he waved the boy off.
Paul, who was wearing a pair of tight, ragged jeans and nothing else, tugged Orlando's black mesh shirt off over his head and tossed it aside, then ducked down to suck on one dark nipple while his hands worked at the fly of Orlando's leather pants. It took some time and effort to peel him out of them, despite the smooth silk lining, or maybe the boys were just making a good show of it; it was just as likely with either of them. By the time the pants were discarded with the shirt, both slaves were erect and breathing hard.
Liam leaned back in his seat and adjusted his thickening cock in his trousers. He wasn't one for public sex, at least not among people he didn't know, but he could think of any number of things he was going to do to Orlando once they got back to the hotel.
Marton texted a message ahead to the office to let them know it was nearly show time. He'd watched Ben's abortive session with the new slave, Orlando, and it'd been clear that the usual method wasn't going to work. It was a pity; it required fewer hands held out for payment if the target could be philosophical about the situation and just go along. Around half of them, like Ben, were just as happy to get away from their old masters or mistresses and eager to cooperate, preferring a fresh spin on the wheel to whatever Fate had delivered them to before.
Some owners, though, were good at manipulating their slaves' emotions and fostered a strong dependency. Marton could appreciate the skill involved while still feeling annoyed at having to go to Plan B.
And speaking of "B," maybe it was time to replace Ben. He'd done his job well enough for the first few months -- a great little manipulator himself, that one. Lately, though, it seemed his bitterness was getting the better of him. He hadn't made more than a token effort to convince Orlando to accept his fate. Mocking and jeering might have tipped the balance on a slave who was wavering, but any idiot should've been able to predict that someone as strongly attached to his master as this one was would only get angry.
Marton wasn't sorry at all for the bruised cheek and swollen lip Ben had taken before the men had gotten Orlando off him; the little idiot deserved it for indulging himself.
Orlando was the third target in a row Ben had failed to turn on to the benefits of cooperation. If there were a fourth, Ben would be spinning the wheel himself soon.
They pulled into the parking lot and stopped near the rear door of a non-descript commercial building which Anderson, one of Marton's other employees, had leased under an alias created for the purpose. Orlando was cuffed and chained to a bracket on the floor in the back, and wouldn't be able to see that there was no sign on the front of the building, certainly nothing claiming it was the Commerce Processing Center for Bakersfield; the overt deception was all on the inside.
Brendan got out and went around back to fetch the slave. Marton headed to the door with a folder full of documents. They were all falsified, of course, but they were excellent forgeries and would go with Orlando -- or rather, David -- to the real Commerce office when the time came.
Marton pulled the door open and headed in, with Brendan and a stubbornly glaring "David" following close behind. Anderson was seated at a plain, steel-framed desk with a plain sign behind him; an ordinary back-entrance of a government office, good enough to bring the slaves through. Buyers would go around the front where the actual decor was, or would have been if this'd been a real Commerce office.
He marched up to the desk and said, "Debtor to process in." He handed over the loan papers one at a time, and Anderson made a show of examining them. "Since this morning, he's been trying to convince me I have the wrong man. Says he's already a slave."
"That's a new one," Anderson drawled.
"It's the truth," Orlando snapped, as though he'd been cued. Which he had, in a way.
"Sure it is," said Anderson. He hadn't even looked at the slave yet; he was on the computer, tapping away at something. "ID?"
Marton pulled a California driver's license out of the folder. Orlando's eyes went wide and he jerked forward out of Brendan's grip to snatch it up and stare at it. Brendan grabbed his upper arms, but Marton held up a hand and said, "Wait." He let Orlando look.
It was an excellent fake, and the bleary-looking photo they'd taken while he was drugged out of his mind on rohypnol didn't even look too much worse than the "real" DMV photos. Heck, Marton had seen plenty worse on bona fide ID cards.
David Timothy Grant, SEX: M, HAIR: BRN, EYES: BRN, HT: 5-11, WT-165, DOB: 04-19-81.
"This isn't me. I mean, I'm not David Grant, and I'm thirty-one -- even the year is wrong."
Anderson snagged the card and looked it over, then looked at Orlando, then looked back at the card. "Sorry, bud, the picture's not that bad."
"It's not me! It's not!"
Marton sighed heavily. "Could you just scan him and show him he's not chipped? Then I can get my voucher and get out of here and he'll be your problem."
"Sure, sure, if it'll shut him up. Hang on, we don't keep them out here." Anderson stood up and headed through the steel door opposite the entrance.
"You'll see," Orlando said. He was starting to sound a little panicked -- the driver's license had shaken him -- and Marton had to work hard not to smirk. "I understand why you thought I was this Grant guy, though, he looks a lot like me. He's younger, though, and kind of spacey looking."
"Everyone looks spacey on their driver's license," Marton said. "You should see mine."
Anderson came back with the scanner and ran it over the slave's back, taking ostentatious care to hit every bit of him from shoulder to shoulder and neck to waist, since the chip could end up anywhere in the area depending on who did the chipping and which office they worked out of. It stayed silent.
"It's right under my shoulderblade," Orlando insisted. "On the left side. Do it again!" He yanked his T-shirt off, as if that'd make a difference.
Anderson scanned the area, pressing it against Orlando's skin so the guy would know exactly where it was hitting. "Nothing."
Orlando spun around and yanked the scanner over so he could look at it. It was on, the green light was lit, and the read-out said "READY."
"Look, bud," said Anderson, "you're not chipped, you're not branded, you're not in the system. You're not a slave. I'm glad it bothers you that much, though, 'cause we're going to fix it for you right now."
"No!" Orlando ducked away and flattened himself against the wall, staring wide-eyed at the three of them, then he fixed his gaze on the door to the parking lot, as though trying to figure out whether making a break for it would do any good.
Since both Marton and Brendan were between him and the outside it obviously wouldn't, but Marton wasn't sure the guy was in any shape to make a rational decision. He nudged Brendan and cocked his head toward Orlando. Brendan nodded and stepped forward, his arms spread wide just in case. Sure enough, the guy tried to bolt around him. Brendan caught him easily and twisted an arm up behind his back, pressing till he yelped.
Anderson came up and wrapped a cheap steel-chain collar around his neck and locked it with a solid click. Brendan turned him around and slammed him into the wall, then grabbed his other arm so Anderson could handcuff him.
"Let me take him back to a holding cell and then I'll come get you your voucher," Anderson said over his shoulder to Marton.
"No rush," said Marton. "I'm just glad to be rid of him. I need to get back to my business, make sure the staff hasn't burned the place down." He watched Anderson muscle Orlando through the door, then counted to twenty. That was more than time enough for him to have gotten his new guest out of sight. Marton flipped the lock on the door to the parking lot so no one could wander in by mistake and maybe wonder at the sign behind the desk, then headed inside to the small office area.
The place was stark but adequate. It had three computer monitors, all of which were switchable to the CCTV system. They rarely needed all three, since they'd only once had more than two subjects at a time being processed under Plan B. Right then Orlando/David was the only one, and Marton preferred it that way. It was hard enough convincing the slaves they were crazy, or at least that the rest of the world had gone crazy, without taking the chance that two of them might be able to compare notes.
Brendan sat down and pulled out an iPod and a pair of earbuds; he was mainly muscle and his job was done for the day. Marton sat in front of the third monitor, the one generally dedicated to the internal cameras, turned up the volume so he could listen, and watched from the camera's perspective up by the ceiling inside the holding cell, where Anderson had shoved Orlando -- no, David -- onto the floor.
"--good try but it's over and the sooner you straighten up the easier it'll be for you."
"I'm not David Grant! You have to believe me! Please, just call my master!"
Anderson backhanded him across the face with his fist. "Slaves who get a reputation for lying tend to get beaten a lot," he said. "You should remember that."
"I'm not lying!"
Anderson reached down for the snap on David's jeans and David kicked at him.
"Don't! Leave me alone! Call my master!"
Anderson scowled and went over to a cupboard set high on the wall. He grabbed another set of cuffs, knelt down next to David and lay across his legs while he locked the cuffs around his ankles. "If you try kicking me again, I'll get another lock and attach your ankles to your wrists. A back hogtie is usually a punishment, but I'm willing to put you into one just for my convenience if you insist on being a hysterical little shit."
Another trip to the cupboard. He took out a utility knife and went to stand over David. "If you struggle I'm going to cut you," he said. "I don't care one way or the other. You're obviously going to need a lot of training and there'll be plenty of time for a few minor cuts from a very sharp knife to heal up before any buyers get to look at you. Or a lot of minor cuts, same difference."
He bent over and cut off David's jeans and underwear, then pulled off his shoes and socks. The slave glared at him but stayed still until he was naked.
Anderson stuffed the clothes into a slot in the wall and then put the knife away. "Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm Orlando Bloom, and I belong to Lord Neeson and when he finds me he's going to smash you!"
Still listening, Marton cocked his head and wondered at the tone of voice. It'd sounded more like a little boy than a grown man. This might work more quickly than he'd expected.
Anderson turned back to the cupboard and came out with a riding crop. He shoved David over on his stomach and worked over his shoulders and ass and thighs with the crop until they were masses of red lines and David was howling in pain and anger.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Orlando!"
Anderson muscled him over onto his front, planted a foot on his pelvis so he couldn't move (and also to protect the healing patch where the tattoo had been) and thrashed him again, chest and belly and legs.
David was sobbing hard but still wouldn't relent. That was fine; if he had, Marton would have known he was lying. The last thing he wanted was for David to turn sly and decide to bide his time. That could be disastrous, especially if he was telling the truth about his master wanting him back. Time would let David settle into his new life, and let his old master get over whatever annoyance he felt at having to replace his bed-warmer. Time would also let the patches heal enough that a real Commerce slave handler wouldn't notice anything odd.
They had time, and time would solve all their problems.
David was still sobbing his old name and crying for his master when Marton turned and left. Anderson was good at this, and Marton had work to do back at main office.
Next Chapter: Chapter Eleven