Poor Simon Ch. 10

*This story is a little shorter then the others, but I want to let you guys get the action as it comes. I am out of the material that I lost, and everything you see now has seared from my mind and into cyberspace. If anyone notices anything about my editing, or thinks the stories are getting sloppy, just tell me and I'll slow down a little.

All characters are 18+

WARNING This story has no erotic bits, it is pretty much for plot.

Please enjoy!*

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They drugged me after that. The pills they gave me didn't make me feel sleepy. They made me fragmented and dazed. I found myself staring blankly at the carpet under my cheek. Nothing really mattered after the drugs came in. Who honestly gave a shit that my parents were dead? Not me. I no longer cared about my Master, or what was going to happen to me, or that my eyes were slowly swelling shut, and that my breath was whistling laboriously through my bruised and swollen throat.

There was no pain with the drug. I was able to calmly lay there as Hanson decided he wanted another round. I wondered vaguely why he hadn't drugged me first, and then maybe I wouldn't have caused such a fuss.

As my cheek rubbed against the carpet, and Hanson let out low animal-like grunts, I felt nothing but the sensation of being thrown back and forth. It was unpleasant yes, but nothing to raise a fuss over.

I eventually grayed out.

---

I was still doped to the gills when we landed in a commercial airport in Calcutta. They dressed me clumsily. I tried to help, honestly. But my hands kept trying to go through the wrong hole and my feet were clumsy and dead. Hanson kept hitting me. I barely felt the blows, but they made me weaker and disoriented.

When they were done, I felt hot and stifled and uncomfortable in a suit. Cotton work pants, a white cotton shirt, a blue tie and a jacket. The Doctor was wedging my feet into black shoes that fitted poorly.

The last touch were a pair of large ridiculous black sunglasses, to hide the bruising I thought dully.

They walked me through the airport, and never once did anyone stop us. The dingy terminals were filled with brown-skinned men in business suits, international executives babbling into cell phones, women in colorful Saris, and stalls in the middle of a modern terminal that sold fruit and pastries. No one stopped us.

We reached terminal fifteen and we sat in a trio of cracked faux-leather chairs. Them on either side of me. I just sat listlessly. Unable to struggle, or think, or think of struggling. Even calling for help was beyond me, so I sat.

We were loaded onto a plane with stenciled red blossoms on the tail. Air China. We sat with me in the middle. I saw myself in the black surface of a small television screen.

The sunglasses did a shitty job of covering my bruises. They radiated out, covering my cheekbones. My lower lip was swollen and purple and smeared with dried blood. I lapped at it tenderly and tasted the metallic-salt taint of blood.

I grayed in and out, never really passing out, but not really awake either.

The flight attendant had said (in heavily accented English) that the trip would be around four hours. With my lack of time perception (or really any perception at all) it seemed like days.

My head was starting to clear, but when a pretty round-faced stewardess asked us if we wanted drinks in broken French, the Doctor ordered me some water and dissolved another pill in it. He held it to my mouth.

"No!" I stage-whispered. "I'll be good... please don't... please don't drug me..."

I started to cry when Hanson took a firm grip on my thumb and started to bend it backwards in an unnatural position. With my cleared head, pain was also coming back. My entire body throbbed dully and my ass felt like someone had sodomized me with a butcher's knife.

"Take the fuckin' water Sweetheart. He don't care if you have a broken finger or two... He was the one who told us to break you in for him."

I whimpered as he bent my thumb back further and I slurped the drugged water when the Doctor held it to my mouth. Hanson released my hand and I just sat there and cried quietly. Then the drug took over and I wondered vaguely why I had been crying in the first place.

---

Four hours and half a century later, the plane landed. My bodyguards waited for the passengers to flood out before dragging me to my feet.

"Drunk as a lord." The Doctor confided in a smiling stewardess whom I guessed didn't speak a word of English.

We walked, and once in the terminal we went through a small door into a conference room. A bodyguard closed the door behind us and locked it. I saw my new Master, and though nothing had been said, I was dully certain that this was the man who had bought Raine.

He was a heavy man in a tailored grey suit. His face was one of those heavily wrinkled mask-like faces. His eyes were small and black and piggish. He had two bodyguards; both were lean muscular Asian men. One had a scruffy beard, and the other had a scar on his cheek.

I tried to flinch away as he walked closer, but Hanson took a tight grip on my elbow and wouldn't let go.

He took off my glasses, and I stared blearily into his eyes.

"Really doped him up, didn't you?"

His voice was surprisingly low and pleasant, the voice of a baritone in a choir. "A very tasty little Fish. Your job is done Allgood; I have two tickets to get you back to Calcutta where you can meet up with your jet. The money has been wired to your accounts."

They left, and then I was flanked by one of his bodyguards as he led me outside through a system of narrow hallways. I glimpsed the smoggy skyline of Beijing before getting crammed into the back seat of a limousine. My new Master was already there.

"Get on the floor." He said in that soft pleasant voice, his piggish eyes glittering.

Even through the drug, I was feeling the first pangs of fear and panic. I slowly got on the floor. He methodically began taking off the constricting tightness of my ill-fitting clothes. He thrust a finger into the sore bloody pucker of my asshole and I whimpered a little.

"Slick." He murmured, pleased.

I screamed as suddenly he plunged four fingers into my asshole. I writhed and moaned feebly as he jabbed his fingers in and out, chuckling the whole time.

"No..." I begged. "No more... no more... please."

I squealed as he tried to shove his thumb in there too. My ass was too tight. I could feel scabs breaking and when I looked back my thighs were covered in trickles of blood. He roughly felt my limp genitals and gave them a squeeze. I wailed in torment.

The bodyguards watched. One was stone-faced. The other was slowly squeezing his crotch. I could expect no pity there.

My new Master mounted me, and that was almost a relief, because his cock wasn't as big as his hand. It still hurt.

I was relieved when I passed out. At least then there was no more pain.

---

Twelve hours later a security guard was on his break, drinking cold tea from a bottle and shoveling mouthfuls of noodles in his mouth between sips. Suddenly his light was blocked out by a foreigner. He was about to stand up and politely tell the man to go away, and if the problem was too much for this foreign asshole to understand, then he could find another guard who spoke his language. The security guard then caught sight of the man blocking his view.

The man was tall, and muscular. He was wearing an unusual uniform that the guard had never seen, solid black with a shirt that buttoned at the side. The uniform had no logos or initials or badges, but it was obviously a uniform. His face was unshaven and haggard. Brown eyes glared with nearly crazed intensity from sockets that were red and sunken with either exhaustion or weeping. Maybe both.

The guard nearly choked on his last mouthful of noodles. Those were the eyes of a man about to do murder. Another oddity, there was a sliver of bright blue in one of them. Though his face was contorted with a crazy rictus of rage, his voice was perfectly calm, and in flawless Mandarin.

"Did you see three men? One was a large brute, another was an intellectual, the last... the last was very young, slender. The other two may have been leading him, he may have been acting drunk, or limping."

The guard's mind raced, heedless of the broth that was dribbling on his pristine uniform from the bowl that was loosely clenched in his hand. He had seen the men. His higher-ups had specifically warned everyone in this terminal to ignore them, and they had. Things like that happened sometimes. The guard would never have given away information like that, but something in this man's two-colored eyes made him speak.

"On my last shift. Sometime between nine and ten. I know where the man lives."

Anthony Christopher Rogan, sleep deprived and very nearly out of his mind, leaned in.

"Tell me."

*Thank you one and all, the end is coming.*