Date: Wed, 14 Mar 2007 10:26:39 -0500
From: carl_mason@comcast.net
Subject: INDOMITABLE SPIRIT - 8

INDOMITABLE SPIRIT - 8

Copyright 2007 by Carl Mason

All rights reserved.  Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal
enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without
the written permission of the author.  However based on real events and
places, "Indomitable Spirit" is strictly fictional.  Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.  As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold
gradually.  Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to
the author at carl_mason@comcast.net

If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to
the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.

This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both
adults and teenagers.  As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the
personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults.  If you are not of
legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you
trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral
dilemmas in your life, please leave.  Finally, remember that maturity
generally demands safe sex.


CHAPTER 8

(Revisiting Chapter 7)

During the last spring as it passed into summer, the Count developed
pancreatic cancer and died within a few short months.  Inasmuch as he had
never formally adopted the boys - indeed, the only record available said
that he owned them - the Courts threw out his will and assigned everything
to his family.  (During this confused and tragic period, it also came out
that the Count was wanted in most countries of Europe - other than the
Balkans and Russia, of course - for a long list of crimes, including money
laundering, racketeering, fraud, and the manipulation of foreign
currencies.)  The Count's brother decided that Mike and Larry should be
resold and made arrangements in Amsterdam.

(Continuing our Story - An Expatriate on the Persian Gulf)

"Yes, indeed, sir, I'm grateful for your phone call.  Still, I don't quite
understand why the director of 'The Personnel Mart,' the largest slave
dealer in the Sheikhdom, is calling me.  (Pause.)  "The Sheikh himself
requested that you do so?"  (Pause.)  "In that case, I am doubly grateful
that you have called and honored that the Sheikh would mention my name.
How can I be of assistance, sir?"  (Pause.)  "I am still somewhat confused,
sir.  I own no slaves and have no intention of purchasing one.  Indeed, I
probably couldn't afford one if I wished to do so!  Why would anyone think
me interested?"  (Pause.)  "Ah, I see.  You have come into possession of
two youths of Western origin, and the Sheikh believes that I should take a
look at them.  Yes, of course, I shall honor the Sheikh's wishes."
(Pause.)  "Yes, eleven o'clock in the morning will be quite satisfactory."
Closing with Arabic words of courtesy and respect, Dr.  Eli Reynolds
replaced the phone on its stand and stared intently at the view of the Gulf
outside his window.

For nearly fifteen years, Eli Reynolds, a relatively young American
expatriate, had lived happily in the small sheikhdom on the Persian Gulf.
With the discovery of oil, the country had become fabulously rich and set
firmly on the path of development.  Today, it was one of the glories of the
Gulf, demonstrably concerned with the well-being of its citizens, using its
economic and moral influence in the service of peace and humanity.  (This
is not to say, of course, that the Sheikhdom's record was without blemish.
It had its history - and remnants of old social arrangements and even older
attitudes were still observable.  Slavery, for instance, had not been wiped
out, although the conditions in which slaves lived out their sorry lives
had improved.)  Reynolds had been hired as Director of the College of
Medicine in the Sheikh's university.  His work there - as well as among the
general populace - had been so productive that he had been one of only
three foreigners awarded citizenship in the Sheikhdom's history.  Two
diseases, for instance, generally fatal, had been wiped out on the Gulf
Coast.  Understood to be divorced among the good sized, multinational
community, he lived alone, quietly and respectably.  It was commonly said
that he had the ear of the Sheikh, as well as the love of his people.

A few minutes before eleven - Reynolds had never been able to break the
American habit of appearing on time - the University limousine pulled up at
the main entrance of a great complex of sheds and larger buildings in the
dock area of the Old City.  Before he could tell the driver to wait for
him, exit the long black Mercedes, and walk over to the guard cage,
however, a Jeep manned by two guards screeched to a halt.  In accord with
their instructions, the driver followed them through the gate and over to
one of the larger buildings.  There he was greeted by the Director and his
chief assistant as he exited the limousine.  In truth, it was a rare show
of respect that no foreigner - other than one who was also a highly
respected citizen of the Sheikhdom...and, perhaps, a confidant of the
Sheikh - could ever have expected to receive.  Graciously led to a small,
richly decorated and appointed reception room, he resigned himself to at
least a half hour of polite conversation and cool fruit drinks before
anyone would conceivably get down to brass tacks!

The story offered Eli was rather straightforward.  Two American teens -
handsome, intelligent, and reputedly virginal - had been on vacation in
Europe.  Slavers had killed their families before their eyes when they
resisted their abduction outside Prague.  Realizing that they had captured
rare jewels, they had been offered directly to the Sheikh.  (This, of
course, was incorrect.  It appears to have been a "cover story" concocted
in Amsterdam to avoid trouble with the American "Institute's" high-end
business.  We, of course, already know these youths as Mike Curtis and
Larry Allison.)  On arriving in the Sheikhdom, they was receiving basic
instruction in Arabic courtesies and instant obedience at the central slave
facility.  Accidentally receiving heavy blows to the head when they had
violently resisted conditioning, the younger youth had died while the older
slipped into a coma from which he had not yet recovered.  The Sheikh had
personally suggested that Dr. Reynolds be contacted and given opportunity
to inspect the living slave.

(The Smell of Death)

Joining his hosts, the young physician moved to the small hospital within
the walls of the slave facility.  First, he quickly examined the body of
the dead boy.  The moment he entered the ward and observed the second
youth, Dr. Reynolds realized that a major cover-up was taking place.  In
all probability, he thought, someone didn't want the Sheikh to realize how
severely his expensive new acquisitions had been damaged.  (The doctor's
mind jerked in irritation.  How easy it was to fall into language that
treated the slave as nonhuman!)  Though unconscious, the naked lad did not
appear to be in a coma.  Muscles in his chest and neck were quivering; his
lips appeared to be forming unspoken words; the expression on his face was
one of horror and fear; his entire body, tightly restrained and marked by
heavy bruises, dripped with sweat.  Yes, the boy had been cleaned up, but
Reynolds had been in enough slave pens to recognize that the lad had spent
some time lying in his own body waste.  Overall, the scene reeked of death,
and someone would pay a heavy price.

Giving his expensive suit no heed, the doctor sat down on the edge of the
bunk.  Slowly, gently, he examined the boy, ending his probing by running
his fingers softly through the lad's sweaty blond hair.  For just a moment,
the boy relaxed, solitary tears appearing at the corners of his closed
eyes.  "Hold on there, Scout," the man murmured as he stood up.  Looking
down at the teen, his mind added, "The one truth told me was that you were
one gorgeous human being.  That you surely are."  Softly touching the boy's
sunken, feverish cheek, Reynolds turned back towards the Director and his
assistant.

"Is there any problem with my sending one of the University Hospital's
ambulances over to pick up this lad?" the physician inquired.  "No, sir,"
the Director responded - with an almost audible sigh of relief.  "The
Sheikh's office said that your instructions were to be followed."  "Very
well, I'll see to it immediately," Reynolds said as he turned towards the
exit.  Here's the death certificate for the brown-haired boy.  With the
bare minimum of courtesies demanded by the situation, he quickly left the
complex.

(Return from the Brink)

For five days, it was touch and go.  Twenty-four-hour intensive care
finally helped the lad turn the corner.  When Intensive Care reported that
the boy was out of danger...  physically, Reynolds had him moved to a
private room with its own bath, TV, and the like.  About ten that morning,
he stopped by the room personally, only to interrupt the youth's watching a
Winter Olympics snow boarding event from the Transylvanian Alps.  Before he
could say a word, the naked boy stiffly climbed down from his bed.  Easing
himself down onto the floor, he assumed the position of full obeisance...on
his knees, his forehead buried in the thick rug and ritually intoned the
"morning greeting": "Hail, oh Prince of Light, your slave greets his
Master."

Taken aback - actually, caught between bursting out in laughter in a
situation that struck him as absolutely ridiculous and cursing the
efficiency of modern conditioning methods - Reynolds paused for just a
moment before striding over to the prostrate teen.  Helping him to stand,
he threw his arms around the boy, muttering, "Don't want you to catch a
cold down there."  (Recalling that scene ever after, he would writhe in
embarrassment.  "Just the kind of thing you'd expect to hear from a nerd!"
his mind would sneer.)  Stiffening for just a second, the boy quickly
relaxed into Reynolds' embrace.  "Thank you, Master," he whispered.  As the
good doctor helped him to climb back in bed and rearranged his bed clothes,
the lad looked at him inquiringly.  "Might your slave have permission to
ask a question, sir?"  Again suppressing his laughter, Reynolds said that
he might.  "Did you come to visit me several times in Intensive Care,
sir...and, maybe, even before I arrived at the hospital?"  "Many people
have helped to make you feel better, my young friend, but, yes," the
physician responded.  "I have visited you several times during your
recovery."  A cloud seemed to pass over the teen's eyes, momentarily
obscuring their brightness.  "Thank you for thinking of me...and thank you
for calling me your 'young friend'," he whispered.  "What should I call
you?" Reynolds asked.  "You can give me any name you please, Master," the
boy said, returning to his formal voice.  "At the 'earlier place', they
called me 'Shithead'."  "No," the doctor replied, "that won't do.  Haven't
you been called other names?"  The boy paused for a minute or so, obviously
wracking his brain for the answer.  "No, sir, I remember no other names,"
he finally muttered regretfully.  "In fact, I have no firm memory of
anything before Intensive Care.  "How about my calling you 'Tommy'?" the
doctor asked.  "Yes, sir," the boy said positively.  "That's a good name!
Did you ever call anyone else 'Tommy'?" he asked.  "Only in my
imagination," Dr.  Reynolds responded sadly.  "Only in my imagination...
Well now, Tommy.  I've got to get back to work.  May I stop by again and
see how you are doing?"  "Oh, yeah!  That would be great...Master," the
youth answered, his tongue caught in two worlds.

(The Origin of a Gift)

Tommy's stay in the hospital was nearing its end when he heard from the
Sheikh's personal secretary.  The Sheikh wished to see him.  Would 11:00 am
on the morrow at the Palace be satisfactory?  Naturally, this was not a
request, nor did Dr.  Reynolds take it as such.  On arrival, the doctor was
promptly shown into the ruler's office.  Prostrating himself before the
throne, he intoned the traditional morning greeting.  He was immediately
told to get up off his knees and come forward to where he could rest on a
large pillow at the Sheikh's feet.  "Ah, Eli," the absolute ruler murmured.
"We have been friends too long to bother ourselves with these outworn
customs.  All is well?"  "Yes, Sire, all is well," the doctor replied with
a soft smile.  "Within a year, for instance, we shall have added five years
to the life span of the typical woman; three, to that of the male. . ."

"And what of the youths whom you so kindly took under your wing?" the
Sheikh interrupted impatiently.  "The blond lad is much improved, Sire,
although I believe gross mismanagement in the slave facility caused the
death of the other youngster."  With a catch in his voice that even this
experienced professional couldn't control, he added, "Within the week, I
think we shall be able to send him back to the...facility."  "No!" the
Sheikh interrupted emphatically.  That is not what We desire.  Although We
are embarrassed, We must confess something to you.  May We have your
forgiveness in advance?"  "It's yours, Kalil, my friend and Prince," the
doctor responded sincerely, slipping into informal address for the first
time during the conversation.  "What is troubling you?"  "I have done
something that was none of my business," the Ruler responded, also slipping
into informal address.  "Unfortunately, I have interfered in your life.
Let me explain.  For several years, I have felt that your solitary life was
good neither for you nor my people.  Hence, though I had reservations about
the manner in which they were enslaved, I purchased the rare golden-haired
youth and his companion as gifts for you.  The blond is beautiful, yes?
Seventeen or eighteen, I am told..." Eli nodded in agreement as the Sheikh
continued, "The sex of the slave is not a prime factor, you know.  The body
parts are usually interchangeable.  Though a piece of fine art is always
pleasant to look at, it is having someone around who deeply CARES for you
that's really important.  Will you please me, my friend, and accept my
gift?  Take this young slave into your household and, Allah willing, into
your heart."

Reynolds looked at his sovereign with amazement.  In total shock, he
murmured, "But, Kalil, you know that I do not support slavery.  (He
purposefully didn't pick up on the implicit homosexual note.)  What I do,
how I act in my everyday affairs, is my witness to life.  Out of respect
for you...out of love for the Sheikhdom, I do not speak out, but this..."
Abruptly, the doctor asked, "Could I free him?"  "No, good friend, that is
not possible.  Our tradition is 'once a slave, always a slave'.
Still...you would not necessarily have to TREAT him like a slave.  As long
as you never told him, or anyone else, that he was free," the Prince added
quickly.  His face showing his shock and dismay, the doctor rose, bowed
deeply, and said, "Your will is my will, Sire."  Then he grinned and added,
"Thanks for the gift, old friend.  They must have cost you a small
fortune!"  The Prince, his face relaxing, beamed as he said (only
half-jokingly), "They did!"  Laughing, they walked arm in arm towards the
office door.

Back at the hospital, Eli looked in on Tommy.  The rested teen - who looked
ten times better than he had when he was admitted - delighted in his
visits.  Today, he was even more hyper when the good doctor invited him to
don his robe and slippers and join him in the doctors' dining room for
lunch.

The handsome lad looked up from his plate which still contained a sizable
pile of food.  Realizing that he had a question on his mind, Dr.  Reynolds
grinned and said, "Spit it out, youngster!"  Choosing his words very
carefully, Tommy said, "My treatment here is almost finished, isn't it,
sir?  What is to become of me?"  Speaking just as seriously, Reynolds
replied, "Yes.  A couple more days, but that's about it.  How do you feel
about returning to the facility where we met?  I know that 'slave' is a
dirty word, but that company prepares people for service in the homes and
businesses of the Sheikhdom.  I can promise you that you would be better
treated this time."  Trembling slightly and white-faced, Tommy kept an iron
hand on his emotions and spoke up clearly and relatively calmly.  "I would
not find the word 'slave' half as dirty, sir, if I were able to serve a
Master whom I respected...and even liked.  Is there any chance that you
would purchase me?  I can promise you that this place will never have seen
my equal.  I work hard, and I learn fast.  Everything you desired would be
yours...with a smile and with every bit of energy that's in me."  Staring
down at his hands on the table, Doctor Reynolds sat silent and motionless
for a minute or two.  Then he reached out a hand and placed it on top of
Tommy's.  "Is that what you really want, young man?"  His iron control fast
cracking, the boy was only able to gasp, "Yes, Master."  As the tears began
to spill down his face, he managed to add something to the effect that the
doctor would never regret it."  "Then that's the way it's going to be," Eli
said with infinite kindness.  His shoulders shaking, the boy buried his
head in his forearms and quietly wept.  "Did he weep from relief or from
sorrow?" the good doctor wondered.

(Going Home)

On the very next day, Dr. Reynolds again visited the slave center and spoke
personally with the Director.  He explained that by the grace of the
Sheikh, the youth was now his.  He would return him to the slave facility
if he were assured that the boy would be treated firmly, but with kindness
and understanding.  After all, he hadn't grown up in the Middle East.  The
words gushing from his mouth, the Director assured the prominent citizen
and personal friend of the Sheikh that he would be treated with every
consideration.  Further, he hoped he would be the first of many slaves that
the Doctor would send to him for preparation.  Sniffing slightly, Reynolds
asked about his services and their cost.

In addition to covering legal matters, the Director mentioned that his top
trainers and instructors would attend to the youth's physical condition and
provide thorough instruction in his duties as a personal-house slave.
Further, there was a wide array of auxiliary services that he would
perform, as desired by his honored guest.  Reynolds listened without
interruption before speaking.  "I understand," he said finally, "that he
must be marked with his unique slave number, but I do not want it tattooed
on his body.  Rather, place it on a microchip inserted under his skin, as
allowed by law.  As regards body markings, I do not wish an 'S' for slave
tattooed on his back, nor any other tattoos for that matter.  Nor will his
right buttock be branded with my 'crest'.  There will be no piercings,
including your popular 'Prince Albert," Reynolds added with something of a
smirk.  "He will not be castrated nor will his penis or tongue be removed.
The sinews on his legs will not be damaged, nor will decorations dangle
from his pierced nipples.  Cuffs with eye bolts, chains, or collars will
not be fastened to his body.  Let me see...  Have I covered everything you
mentioned?"

Standing in front of the Doctor, wringing his hands behind his back as he
saw several thousand dollars being lost to this...extremist, the Director
paused, ostensibly in deep thought.  "Your memory is exemplary, sir.  I can
think of only one service that you did not cover.  You will remember that
we offer permanent hair removal for household and personal slaves when
appropriate.  In your slave's case, I can only mention that the hair on his
head is magnificent...pure gold.  On the other hand, he is not only quite
hairy for a young man of his age, but his body hair is both coarse and a
very unattractive dirty blond.  I recommend permanent removal of all hair
below the eyes.  If you wish, stubble (that will never grow) can be left in
the arm pits and on the pubic mound.  Today's process is nearly painless.
Your pleasure, sir?"  Already concentrating on the next topic, the new
slave owner muttered offhandedly, "Yes, yes, as you will."  His large
profit assured, the Director smiled and mentioned that if the slave could
be delivered tomorrow, he would endeavor to complete his work within one
week.  And so it happened.

On the appointed day, Reynolds appeared at the slave facility, took the
elevator to the Director's office, paid an immense bill and, over coffee,
listened to brief reports by a trainer (the Head trainer) and two
instructors (one of whom was the training Supervisor).  After they had
departed the room, the Director asked if the Doctor were ready to receive
his slave.  On his assent, the Director (rather ostentatiously) pushed a
button on his desk, whereupon a secretary brought Tommy into the office.
(The adolescent gave no sign whatsoever of embarrassment, even though she
was a relatively young woman and he was as naked as a plucked chicken!)
Despite himself, the Doctor gasped.  The youngster's hair had been cut,
washed, and groomed.  His hairless, slightly tanned, and nicely muscled,
180 lbs., 5'11.5" body literally glowed as the light played on his lightly
oiled skin.  It also played on his prominent cock and the balls that hung
large and low between his legs, sensually swaying to and fro as he
moved. Dropping to his knees, he prostrated himself before his Master with
an attitude that actually seemed to be... joyful.  Proudly, he rose and
stood before the shell-shocked physician.  For a youngster not quite
eighteen-years-old, Reynolds had to admit that his body was exciting.  His
shoulders were already quite wide; the muscles of his arms and upper torso
were both heavy and defined.  While not extreme, his abs were beautifully
defined.  As his torso, seemingly held upright (like the sepals of a
flower) by a classic Apollo's belt, narrowed, it flowed into a muscled,
drum-tight stomach and a penis of good length and marked thickness. "Move
closer so that your Master can appreciate your fine body, the Director
commanded.  When the lad had happily complied, the slightly benumbed new
slave owner did as he was evidently expected to do, i.e., stroked Tommy's
rounded buttocks, cupped his substantial genitals, and slid his hand down
smooth thighs that were long and tightly muscled.  When Eli quietly
complimented him on his appearance and demeanor, the lad's chest swelled
and he literally beamed.  Soon time to leave, the Director asked the boy to
go below and wait by the auto.  Before they went below, the Director
explained the firm's one hundred percent work guarantee, policy on adding
extra services, and the availability of supervised physical conditioning.
He noted that Dr. Reynolds had not been charged for the boy's conditioning
as a personal [i.e., sex] slave, for his previous training had been
thorough.  The boy still accepted the previously conditioned behavior as
positive and resulting from his own will.

Exiting into the open courtyard, Reynolds suddenly noticed that the boy was
still naked!  "Do you want a pair of shorts, Tommy?" he asked.  Almost
jumping around in his excitement, his genitals swelling slightly, the youth
responded, "I want what you want, Master.  If it be your wish, I will
gladly remain naked as do the other slaves.  It's warm.  I'm comfortable
and proud that I'm the slave of such a Master."  Shaking his head, Eli
surrendered to a force that couldn't be resisted and moved towards the
driver's door.  Noticing that the lad continued to stand at attention by
the car trunk, he asked if anything were wrong.  "No, Master," Tommy
responded.  "It's just that I was told that slaves generally travel in the
trunks of cars when they are not being transported in vans.  Do you wish me
to travel somewhere else, Master?"  Noticing that Eli was pointing directly
at the front passenger door, the boy grinned, leapt excitedly into the
automobile, and was soon headed towards his new life.


To Be Continued