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.
Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine
He remembered being taken from the parking lot, fighting against the hands holding him down, and then losing his grip on the world. He remembered waking up with the men who called him "David," remembered being taken to a Commerce office to be sold, to be trained, remembered being so sure his master would come for him, that it was all a mistake.
Having had time to think about it -- and a clear head, because the fuzzy memories and weird experiences convinced him that he'd been drugged at some point -- he was sure there was some kind of fraud going on. He'd been stolen out of that parking lot, stolen from his master, by thieving asswipes who just wanted to resell him like any other stolen property, like a car or a computer or a watch.
Except they must've gone to a lot more trouble than it'd take to steal and sell a watch because you couldn't just resell a slave out of the trunk of your car.
Orlando was even pretty sure that the first Commerce center had been in on the scam. Maybe the people who worked in that tiny office had come up with it themselves and that Csokas guy and his friend were Commerce employees. They could slip stolen slaves right in with the others and who'd ever know?
Or maybe that whole Center had been fake. He was wondering because what he'd gone through there had been nothing like what'd happened to him since arriving at the Santa Ana Center. Not only had the routines and the training been completely different, but the very first thing they'd done the morning after he'd been "transferred" was to chip and brand him. If the other Center had been real, why hadn't they done that there?
But the most important thing he'd remembered was his master. He knew -- knew -- that Master Liam would tear through anything and anyone to find him and get him back.
Except he hadn't, had he?
Orlando still didn't know exactly how long it'd been since he'd been stolen, since no one thought any of the slaves needed to know the date, but he was sure it'd been a long time. More than a month, maybe more than two. It'd definitely been six days since he'd remembered who he was.
Nothing had changed since then, except that they were coming to the end of their basic training and evaluation period, when most of them would be put up for sale and some would be sent for body-slave training.
The idea of getting body-slave training terrified him. He'd gotten used to Mr. Travers, when Master Liam had hired the man to train him at home, but he knew that sex training from Commerce would mean getting fucked by whole crowds of strangers, and that he'd be forced to learn things Master Liam had never wanted from him, things he'd heard about from other body-slaves. Just the thought of it made his cock try to retreat up into his body, and his stomach twist and heave.
And he was still there, and his master hadn't found him, hadn't come for him. Was he even looking?
Orlando had never felt so alone before, ever, not even when his master had left him behind and gone to Turkey with only Johnny.
So, all right, he was on his own. He couldn't just sit there and wait -- like a car or a computer or a watch -- for his owner to find him and reclaim him. If he was ever going to find his way home, he'd have to do it himself.
The staffer who'd thought he was lying about being a slave already, the one who'd said it was a stupid whine and had shocked him, had been keeping an eye on him. She was always there whenever he was eating or exercising, was always one of the guards in the corners of the room during training. His record said he was a liar and a troublemaker and that had to have been something the men who'd sold him had set up, to keep anyone from believing him if he tried to tell, but there had to be some person who'd believe him, or at least check. Someone free, someone on staff, someone higher up than the low-level staffers with the shock batons, who were really just gofers who did whatever grunt-level work was needed. Orlando knew from experience that the lowest employees in the trenches were often the least likely to want to even hear about serious problems; anything outside their routine made them confused or hostile.
No, to solve the real problems you needed someone higher up. Orlando was willing to wait and watch for the right person.
Neeson had gone hostile when Thewlis proposed the plan, because it would take longer than the two days Orlando might have before being sold, but Thewlis persuaded him that doing a good job and having to pressure someone into reselling him later was better than going in half-assed and fucking up completely. Neeson obviously didn't like it, but he'd eventually agreed with a curt nod.
Thewlis found out which of the intake clerks at the Santa Ana office was Parker, then followed him home several days in a row. He always took the same route, the idiot, and always stopped in the same bar for drinks after work. So on Friday, Thewlis was waiting in the bar, dressed as a hot-shot businessman (in a suit borrowed from Lord Neeson, actually, which was the first time in his adult life Thewlis had run into another man the same height and almost exactly the same build) in town to make money in the daytime and spend it in the evenings.
"Sure, you should come!" he said with more enthusiasm than enunciation. He leaned against his new buddy Parker, bumping shoulders. "It'll be a great party! My boss is a lord, you know? Always the best, nothing cheap or stingy. An' you should see his body-slave -- gorgeous, beautiful, and can suck your brains out through your prick! Come with me, I'll introduce you, we'll have fun!"
Parker had been all for that, and had followed with panting eagerness to the hotel, where he was impressed by the lobby, then even more impressed when Thewlis swiped his card in the elevator to access the top floor. "Presidential suite," Thewlis bragged, leaning just a little cockeyed against the wall.
He slung an arm around Parker's shoulders and steered him down the hall to the room, which he'd swept for bugs as well as he could that afternoon. Another pass of the card and he ushered Parker into the elegant entryway. Thewlis pulled the door closed behind them and made sure the lock clicked.
Parker was still craning his neck like a tourist when Thewlis led him into the living room with a strong grip on his arm. "My Lord, this is Mr. Parker."
"Mr. Parker." Lord Neeson stayed seated in a throne-like armchair. The man knew how to make an impression, and Thewlis smirked from behind Parker's shoulder.
"My Lord." Parker made an awkward bow and lost his balance halfway down. Thewlis caught him and hauled him back upright. "Thanks!" Parker looked around and asked, "So where's the party? We didn't miss it, did we?"
"No, Mr. Parker, you haven't missed anything. We're going to have a private party, just the three of us." He stood up, suddenly looming over Parker, who was only of average height. Parker tried to take a quick step back, but bumped into Thewlis. Neeson turned away and headed out of the living room, into the main bedroom, and on through to a large and sumptuous bathroom.
While Thewlis was frog-marching Parker in, Neeson went over to the already-filled hot tub and turned on the water full blast, then the jets and then the bubbles. He flipped the drain switch so the thing wouldn't overflow.
The noise from the rushing spigot, and the gurgling drain, and the jets, and the bubbles would hopefully provide enough random noise to mask what was going to happen from any bugs Thewlis might have missed. They were hoping, at any rate. Betting their freedom, in fact.
"Wait, uhh...? What?" Parker was trying to step back toward the door but he was nowhere near strong enough even sober to take on Thewlis, much less drunk. "I mean, you're a good-looking guy and all but I don't know--"
"Shut up," said Neeson. He turned back toward Parker and Thewlis and punctuated the order with a fist to Parker's gut. Parker doubled over gasping, then vomited, then gasped again, then started choking. Thewlis, who'd worked over one or two drunks in the pursuit of his profession, wrapped both arms around Parker and did a quick Heimlich jerk, without being too terribly worried about cracking ribs or anything similar.
Parker coughed up the last of his martinis and a few semi-digested bar snacks, then knelt on the carpet sucking in air, letting each breath out with a pained whine.
"Just as well," said Neeson, his voice perfectly cold and clinical. "Maybe he'll even be sober enough to remember in the morning."
"Please!" Parker coughed again. "Please, don't hurt me, don't do-- I don't have anything, I haven't done anything!"
"You're lying, Mr. Parker. You've been consorting with thieves, illegal slave traffickers. They stole something of mine and you helped them sell my slave to Commerce. He's out of my reach and in deadly danger and it's your fault." Neeson reached down and grabbed a handful of Parker's hair, right at the scalp where pulling was most painful, and yanked the man's head back to look into his eyes. "You took something of mine. Now you're going to help me get it back."
Parker babbled half-coherent pleas and denials but Neeson just slapped him back to silence. A long stream of bloody spit dripped from Parker's mouth and joined the mess already pooled on the rug.
"So, this is what you're going to do for me. Commerce won't let owners search for a particular slave by name, but there must be internal tracking of individual slaves. You're going to find this one for me." Neeson paused while Thewlis got Orlando's picture out of his jacket pocket and held it in front of Parker's face.
"He's in the system under the name of David Grant," Neeson went on. "You're going to find him, and find out what happened to him. If he's been sold, you'll tell me who owns him. If he's in body-slave training, you'll tell me that too, and you'll let me know when he's due to be sold after that. Is that clear enough?"
"Uhh, what?" Parker tried to shake his head but Neeson still had a grip on his hair. "Wait, I can't! It's against the rules, I'll be enslaved for it!"
"You didn't mind breaking the rules to line your own pocket, and you'll be just as enslaved if I let your superiors know what you've already done. And I will if you don't do this for me. I'll also strongly suggest you be sold to the mines, or to a drug company, assuming your superiors would need any such suggestion from me to set an example."
"I will! I will, I'll do it! Please don't tell anyone!" Parker reached out to clutch at Neeson's trouser leg, but Neeson stepped back, his mouth twisted in disgust.
"I expect to hear from you on Monday, letting me know where David is now. If he's been sold I want a full name and contact information. If he's in body-slave training, I want to know that for certain, and when he'll be through, and you'll let me know again, twenty-four hours before he's put up for sale."
"I will, I will! Let me write--!" Parker scrabbled through his pockets.
Thewlis guessed he was hunting for a pen but he gave the man a hard tap on the shoulder and handed him an envelope. "Your instructions are in here, along with an e-mail address," he said. "Remember that we already know where to find you. I suggest you don't upset my employer any further," he added. "This is what he looks like when he's restraining himself. You don't want to get him really angry."
"No! I mean, yes! I mean, I will, I'll do it, it'll be fine!" Parker shook his head, then nodded, while babbling assurances of performance. He tried to stuff the envelope into his pocket; Thewlis did it for him after watching him miss a few times.
Neeson nodded to Thewlis and left the bathroom. Thewlis imagined he was going to get Johnny, who'd been waiting downstairs in the restaurant; Neeson hadn't wanted him anywhere near the interrogation for whatever reason. After that, Thewlis imagine he was going to get very drunk, but Neeson had certainly surprised him before. Thewlis, at least, would be getting very drunk when the night was finished, because it'd been a long, rough few days.
"All right, then, up you get." He hauled Parker to his feet and scrubbed spattered vomit off him with a damp towel -- enough that he wouldn't attract any attention on their way back down and out through the lobby -- then walked him out of the bathroom and toward the front door. He'd get the man home and into bed and reinforce his instructions verbally one more time. He'd also make sure the envelope, which besides a repeat of his instructions contained a blind e-mail address and no identifiable names except that of David Grant (dangerous but necessary), was propped up somewhere so that it'd be one of the first things Parker saw when he woke up the next day.
That was two down. Now all they had to do was wait, hope Orlando was going through body-slave training, and in the mean time, take care of Marty.
Five and a half weeks, best-case scenario. Thewlis couldn't wait to be done with this mess.
Next Chapter: Chapter Thirty-One