Chapter 7

When she opened them, she was freezing. Her muscles were stiff, and the semen from the two men had dried between her legs. She struggled to her feet, ignoring the part of her that wanted to lay down and remain numb.

She was still blind.

I need a shower.

She hobbled around the room blindly. She stumbled across her dress and put it on, trying to fend against the cold in her bones.

She found the door soon after. She reached for the handle and was struck by a horrible thought.

What if they left it locked?

Renee almost didn't try it. She didn't want even risk those fears being confirmed.

But the disgust she felt inside- the craving to be clean, compelled her on.

The door opened easily, almost as if it was mocking her first attempt.

She listened, but the hall was silent.

Cautiously, she left the relative safety of the room. With a hand against the wall, she walked until she reached the stairs, then backtracked to her bedroom, to her shower.

The steaming water assuaged the aches, and the revulsion. She laid on her back, and tilted her hips, attempting to be rid of every trace of the two that had defiled her.

The position invoked the memory of Claude, sitting over her- and the sensations that had arisen in her at the water's touch.

Almost unconsciously, she turned her left leg, slightly outward...

A sudden, dazzling jolt of pleasure shot through her spine; Renee immediately brought her legs back together, glancing guiltily at no one.

She stood up and turned off the water. Emptiness gnawed in her stomach. She wanted food.

As she dried off, she realized she could see the towel on her skin. She turned on the light, and the colors jumped out at her- like she was staring through a foggy window.

At least its starting to come back.

She didn't admit, even to herself, that she had been worried about never seeing again.

Renee realized the dining hall, with its tables that had recently been buried under edibles, had been emptied- cleaned up by the bots. She was about to leave when she spotted the shadow on the floor.

She warily moved for a closer look.

When she recognized the figure, she rushed over, heedless of any possible traps.

"Simon," she said. "Hey, Simon."

He was still wearing only his shirt, shivering uncontrollably on the cold floor. He lay on his side, knees pulled up against his chest.

Renee crouched next to him, and patted his shoulder. He curled up more.

"Simon. Hey, it's me, it's Renee."

His green eyes were closed tight. She saw the beginning of a dark bruise around one.

"It's okay, Simon," she whispered. "It's just me."

Her vision was clearing. In a neat circle surrounding him, she saw tiny flecks of red and white fluids.

The bots had cleaned around his body.

She took a deep breath, trying to repel the bile rising in her throat.

"You can't stay here. They'll come back in the morning." She ran her hand through his hair. It was clumping together. "C'mon, Simon, look to me. Talk to me. Please."

She waited, not removing her hand.

The minutes ticked by.

His eyes slowly opened; they met her own, carefully examining her. They were red-rimmed, though dry, and she saw an edge of hysteria in them.

She didn't dare move, didn't breath, afraid he'd retreat back into himself.

"Renee," he finally croaked. "I met you. Earlier."

"Yeah," she said soothingly. "You did. You tried to make me feel less scared. Remember?"

Simon closed his eyes and for a split second she feared he'd gone back to his catatonia.

He opened them again.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "What're you ... doing, here?"

She couldn't say she had been hungry, and had just wandered across him. She had forgotten.

"I want to help you." she said, instead. "Come with me."

His eyes narrowed. "Where?"

"My room. There's a shower, and a bed, and I can probably find you some clothes."

"Who else is there?" he asked.

"No one," she said, raising an eyebrow. "It's my bedroom."

He blinked slowly. "You've got ... your own room?"

"Yes."

"Just yours?"

"Yes," she said again, a bit impatiently. "And you'll be warm and safe there. Come on."

He didn't resist as she helped him to his feet; he more or less collapsed on his first step.

Renee put his arm around her neck, and helped him stagger out of the dining room; she virtually carried him up the stairs.

They reached her bedroom. The relief on Simon's face, presumably because he saw it was empty, nearly made her cry.

He politely declined her offer of assistance, and entered the bathroom alone. He came out nearly an hour later, moving with much less difficulty.

Simon found the nightgown she'd left out. The wardrobe hadn't had any clothing for boys inside- she'd taken the largest, least frilly, thing it had held.

But it was still pink.

She pretended to be asleep. The bed was big enough to easily hold two, and she had left a space for him, with the covers pulled back invitingly. She heard him pause to contemplate his options for a moment, then he gingerly laid down.

She tried to calm her nerves.

He's not Claude. He's a syn- like you.

He's a man.

His name is Simon, and he was nice to me.

That girl warned you about him.

Shut up.

She heard rustling, and risked a quick peek. Simon had rolled onto his side, back facing her, to fall asleep.

Told you, she thought at herself. There was no reply, of course.

She closed her eyes and tried to drift off, and to ignore the nagging needle of fear.

Simon didn't see her leave. Even though he had known this would happen, and though he'd known he couldn't do anything to stop it, he hadn't wanted to look at her. He didn't want to see her watching him.

It didn't matter. His attention- and hair- were viciously yanked from the dilemma. He was staring at a face that held no pity, no compassion. If Simon had half a second, he could probably have remembered who the man was, what syn he owned- and how to keep him happy.

No time. He barely managed to steal a breath before the man shoved the already hard cock into his mouth.

The boy choked, despite Henry's earlier assurance, but that didn't bother the man. He pulled out, still holding Simon by the hair, and said,

"Go on then, slut. Prove your worth."

Foster, thought Simon, as it suddenly came to him. John Foster, owner of Christina and Valerie- no, Valerie's dead ... He likes ... he likes-

He leaned forward, trying to ignore the fear, the disgust, and, god help him, the edge of lust. He didn't want this- he knew that. But he'd been made to please. It was his purpose, and he was fulfilling it.

He leaned forward, and licked the tip of Foster's cock, tasting the bitter fluid leaking out, then passed his tongue along its length, all the way to the hair, and back, and was both gratified and sickened at the sigh of approval that escaped the man's lips.

Simon knew what to do next. He tried to order his face forward- he'd done this all before, hadn't he? Even if he couldn't remember it.

Stop being so squeamish.

Come on! Before he gets angry.

Too late.

A hand seemed to pull his hair from its roots and he gasped. His lips enveloped Foster's solid cock; for a terrifying moment he thought he was going to choke again, but his body seemed to remember the uncountable lessons his mind had forgotten.

His mouth relaxed and the rod slicked into his throat. The muscles automatically began working at it; Foster clenched his hands more tightly in Simon's hair, and began to slowly propel his cock in and out.

Simon wasn't thinking about what he was doing, or how it made him feel. He focused his will on the engorged object in his face, his eyes closed. He was trying to time the pumping, and avoid filling his mouth with the sticky white juice inside.

He didn't get the chance.

Foster pulled out and sprayed the boy's face with his seed, a hand firmly holding Simon in place as he attempted to turn away.

Tears overfilled the boy's eyes and spilled, rinsing some of the semen down. He wasn't sure if he was crying over the humiliation, the way his throat was starting to feel ... or the heat he rising from his groin.

"I'm sorry," said Foster, to someone. "He's a bit messy now."

"It's fine." A rough napkin smeared some of it off of Simon. "See. Good enough."

Another swollen penis was driven in his mouth. Simon didn't know who this one belonged to, nor any of the ones after. He took it in and began rolling his tongue around it.

He was unprepared for the sudden, sharp expansion in his ass. The chair underneath him skid as he bucked once from the surprise.

The man pulled out of his mouth with a yelp.

"Little bastard bit me," he exclaimed.

A fist knocked Simon's head to the side, almost made him fall off the chair.

A blast of pain, one that came from within, exploded through his body, making his vision blur and his stomach turn to glass. He couldn't even scream.