Date: Thu, 29 Apr 2004 19:28:54 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 7 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the seventh chapter ex twenty two of a novel

-- The Dahran Rebuttals - about present day slavery and gay sex.

The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:

Trilogy one:

The Changed Life

The Reluctant Retrainer

The Market Offer

Trilogy two:

The Special Memories

The Dahran Way

The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)

Keywords:

authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, submission,
gay, sex

This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
now.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

Yahoo! Messenger : gerrytaylor_78

Chapter 7--The assumption of immutability

`Jonathan, how are you?'

Charlie Deckham sounded as if he were in the next room instead of
thousands of miles away in London.

`Charlie, very well and yourself? How is London?'

`I'm well and London's well. I am just checking that you will be at
the Board-meeting next Monday.'

`Yes, indeed, Charlie. Ticket booked. Bag not yet packed, but all things
going well, I shall be there. Is there a problem?'

`No, quite the contrary. I want to invite you and a friend to lunch
after the Board-meeting. That is if you have nothing planned.'

`No, Charlie, nothing scheduled,' but even had I, an invitation from
the Chairman of Deckhams to lunch would have forced its cancellation.

It is never quite possible to second-guess Lord Deckham's intentions as
he has that many business and social contacts. I let the matter rest and
did not give it a second thought.

On each of the following nights for a full week, I had pairs of my
favourite slaves in my bed, not necessarily those who were the best
sexual athletes--no, not that at all. But I have always found that, when
I want to reassure myself, uninhibited sex is one of the greatest
releases in life and, particularly, with the excellent slaves in my
service whose only concern in life was my well-being and welfare, as
their Master.

`Jens, what are you doing this month?'

Jens Johanssen was lying at my side in bed. He is my computer specialist
and is always working on some project or other. Normally, I am lost after
the first sentence of explanation. Now was no exception to that rule.

`Master, it is a new system of automatically configuring hardware,
processing and compacting the existing data to a fraction of the previous
size, and I have integrated it into all the systems we use.'

He stopped.

`You don't understand, Master, what I am doing. I can see it in your
eyes.'

`No, Jens, I don't understand, but I trust and love you, as I trust and
love Abdul here.'

Abdul ben-Azri lying beside on the other side and looked at me with those
soft and brown eyes of his, smiled and my heart melted in the warmth and
charm of his guileless countenance. His limited mental abilities were the
other end of the scale to Jens' brilliance, but in all the Palaces, no
one loved me more and I was a poor second in reciprocating that love to
him.

Abdul started on one of the sex techniques which my trainers had taught
him. I lay back and let him shower his love upon me. At one point, I took
his wrist-thick penis in my fingers and felt the generous precum already
on its tip. He brought his hand down and encompassed mine, touched his
own cock head's precum and brought our entwined fingers to my lips for
me to suck.

When Abdul sixty-nined me, I just looked down at Jens who was at my feet.
Jens is not a good lover, so I normally just let him massage the soles of
my feet and suck my toes. But with Abdul, I have to be careful, for when
he comes, he comes by the half-pint, as I discovered almost to my own
drowning on a first occasion.

Abdul now knows that he has to tell me when he is near explosion time,
for his outpouring is nothing short of a series of explosions. And so it
was.

I, for my part, held off as long as I could on his sucking of my cock,
but he is getting very good at taking my length down to my pubic bone and
then very tightly holding it with his most sensual lips, brings his head
up causing me to shudder each time. When he is at the top of the cock,
his tongue then goes into a whirlpool motion and I usually have to have a
firm grasp on the bedclothes.

Finally, I could hold on no more and I came in three or four bursts in
his mouth.

Abdul un-sixty-nined himself and coming up to my face, he said
`Master?'

`Abdul, that was beautiful, really beautiful.'

Abdul is always very conscious of his own inexperience as a lover and
quietly reminds me that I have to teach him as I promised all that he
needs to learn as my lover. I always make the point of complimenting him
on what he does in bed and the simple joy in his eyes when he hears that
he has pleased me is such a warming experience.

On one of the other evenings, I had Gary and Justie, two of the
water-guys and on a further evening, on his own, Roge Harte.

Roge is a category all of his own for me. A superb athlete and a former
Australian footballer, golden tanned and rangy and quite hetero, he has
discovered a full range of sexual techniques such as massages and nipple
play and two-handed jacking off which has to be experienced to be
believed.

All of these techniques--even the one where he pushes his kneeling thighs
under mine and puts his palms on the calves of my legs, allowing him
unimpeded access to my butt-hole for his very slow penetrations--are to
allow him to keep up a running commentary on Aussie football. Aussie
football, I ask you!

As Roge is my arms-length supervisor of a football team I own in
Tasmania, he gets the weekly video of the practices, games and even of
the junior teams and their training sessions.

I have given up trying to get him to concentrate just on the sex and
after a while, no longer listening to his football references--I am only
interested in the bodies of the players--I notice the perfection of his
sex techniques carefully chosen to allow him to talk and yet perform. And
perform he does usually in four or five furious gasping ejaculations!

I was exhausted after having this Aussie bucking bronco inside me. The
bucking bronco himself was exhausted and collapsed on the bed beside me.

`Boss?'

`Yes, Roge?' I said and as usual never knew where Roge's innocuous
initial questions would lead.

`Boss, you don't think I'm becoming a poofter, do you?

`You a poofter, Roge. No way, mate.'

I saw him smile at that.

`Why do you say that, Roge? You know I think that you a great and
talented Aussie footballer and an even better club organiser.'

`You're not just saying that, Boss?'

`No, Roge, why would I tell you a lie? You have learned to like being
touched and sucked off. You can now give me a lot of pleasure and when
you do, I see a hunk of an Aussie footballer between my legs.'

`And you think I organise things okay?'

`Roge, I don't think it. I know it. Look at all the junior clubs now in
existence, all the kits that have been given out, the stream of new
players coming in. What more do think can be done, that you haven't done
or suggested?'

Roge slid a hand under my head and put an arm over my chest.

`Thanks, Boss, sometimes, I just need to hear it said.'

`Are you not lonely a bit, Roge? You have never taken a permanent buddy
at the Lime Palace.'

`No, Boss, not like Rolf and Frank.'

Rolf Hanzer was his boss at the gym and Frank Kovacs headed up the sex
techniques programme.

I looked at him for a better explanation.

`What you might call a couple of one-night stands, Boss, but I haven't
seen anyone so far who turns my world upside down. Maybe one day. But I
don't want you to think I'm a poofter.'

`No way, Roge. No way!'

I am now finding it more and more difficult to leave Dahra even for some
days each month in London for the regular third Monday of the month
meeting. I forgive the city everything except its climate during nine
months of the year. Gustav came with me to the October meeting--Colin
being quite busy in supervising a rather large placing of bonds, though
he was on video for the duration of the meeting which ended promptly at
midday as usual.

Charlie Deckham excused himself from pre-luncheon drinks and left the
Board in the capable hands of our quiet South African Deputy Chair.
Charlie nodded to me and we decamped for The Pheasants, a new restaurant
off Oxford Street which according to Charlie is specialising in small
luncheons in private dining-rooms with the menu pre-agreed to the last
detail with the host.

`The man I am going to introduce to you is an old friend of mine since
university, Geoff Masters. When I came into the Bank, he went into the
Army and made his career there. Left as a Lieutenant Colonel after
seventeen years. He then set up Group777.'

Bells were beginning to ring--a security company comprised only of
ex-military personnel--something about a takeover in recent months.

Charlie was still talking. `Geoff's business was run like his career.
On trust of those around him. Each new employee had to be vouched for by
two other existing employees. If ever the new guy was sacked for
misbehaving, so too were his two referrers. He tells me it happened six
times in fourteen years. Now he has sold the company lock, stock and
barrel to one of the major players for £92 million cash.'

`Charlie, I don't see where this is going, except in the direction of a
nice lunch.'

`You will, Jonathan, you will and be ready to hold on to your seat.'

The private dining-room at The Pheasants was a medium-sized room with a
circular table set for three persons. Interestingly enough, such a
setting implied no top or head of table to indicate status or position,
but in its circularity all were being deemed equal participants.

Immaculately starched linen, heavy silver cutlery and Ravensdale glass
completed the cover. One of the seats furthest from the door was occupied
and Geoff Masters rose to greet us.

His was a man of military bearing, closely cropped grey hair but
stylishly done, perfect suit and white shirt cuffs with less than an inch
peeking out of tailored sleeves which had been born in Bond Street.
Coming round the table, his polished black shoes shone with a shine found
only in barracks and on parade grounds.

`Geoff, delighted to see you, old boy,' Charlie commented extending a
hand, `This is Sir Jonathan Martin. Jonathan, Geoff Masters.'

`Sir Jonathan, thank you for seeing me and also thank you, Charlo, for
arranging the lunch.'

I looked at Charlie Deckam.

`Charlo?'

`School nickname. Many years ago. Jonathan, do take a seat. Geoff...'

Charlie Deckam was in his element, indicating chairs at the table and we
sat down. As if on cue, side doors opened and three waiters came, one
pushing in a trolley complete with soup tureen, the second prepared to
serve the wine and the third, waiting to serve the soup.

As this was a private lunch, there was no menu. Charlie was offered a
wine to taste and nodded approval having smelled deeply of its bouquet
and taken not more than a sip.

A clear bouillon au cerfeuil gave new definition to the use of chervil
with beef consommé which had been successfully tempted with port, if I
was not mistaken.

A white Fleury was its perfect foil. Thankfully the afternoon was clear
and not required for banking or hard thinking, or so I thought.

Charlie was quite happy to put Geoff Masters at his ease, not that it
seemed necessary, with reminiscences of classmates and teachers, of
schoolboy pranks and the small talk of commonalities in which old school
friends indulge.

I did not feel left out, quite the contrary, I was very much left in, so
to speak, as I realised that Charlie Deckham was giving me the
opportunity to size up Geoff Masters and his history for whatever
reasons.

The small talk turned to business and to the recent, well recent in the
previous six months, takeover or rather sale of Group777 by Geoff
Masters. Some of the facts and figures being mentioned were startling and
I looked across at one of the waiters removing a soup plate in
preparation for the next course.

It was not for me to advise discretion to my own Bank Chairman. However,
nothing is lost on Charlie Deckham, for he had seen my look and read my
thought.

`They can't hear us,' Charlie said. `All the waiters here wear
earplugs if you look carefully and just in case you are worried, the room
is safe. No recording devices can be used in here, or mobiles
activated.'

I automatically pulled out my mobile and saw that I had been switched
off.

`Electronic signal,' Geoff Masters said as he smiled. `On walking over
the threshold, the phone is deactivated. Total privacy. That was one of
the group's products.'

I looked at the two waiters setting down the plates for the main course
and managed to see some form of clear earplug inserted in the ears
nearest me.

As the entrée was served, lamb Charlotte aux aubergines, thin slices of
lamb in eggplant, Charlie said, `I love good English lamb as a main
course. You just can't beat it any day. Now Geoff, will you tell
Jonathan here first of all, what you have done after the sale of
Group777?'

Geoff Masters looked a little nervously at me and I wondered why.

`The sale of the group realised a net £92 million for me personally. I
have given ten million each to my three children, my two married girls
and my son, who has a personnel business. I have sold my home and retired
handsomely the staff who have been with me over the years. I have been
left with just over sixty million. This sum I have wanted to give to you,
Sir Jonathan.'

Geoff Masters' eyes had not left me while he was talking, but I had to
break eye contact with him to look at Charlie Deckam, whose visage was
now poker-faced. Had I been on my own, I would easily have concluded that
Geoff Masters was mad, but then, the Chairman of Deckams, to my
knowledge, does not lunch with the insane.

I had noticed two things by their presence and one by its absence.

Geoff Masters had said that he `had wanted' to give me sixty
million--sterling, I presumed, as we were in London and it being coin of
the realm--but as he had not done so, either he had not been able to do
it yet, or someone had dissuaded him from the idea.

The second thing was the use of `Sir' before my name. We were equals at
a social lunch. There was no need of the `Sir.'

And what was clearly missing by its absence was the unstated reason for
such an action.

I kept my silence. He kept his as did Charlie Deckam. Their respective
silences forced me to break mine.

`Why?'

`Sir Jonathan, I want to be your slave.'

The room was stunningly silent. The waiters had withdrawn by this stage.
I remember looking at the slices of lamb, my knife and fork crossed at
their points.

I looked at Charlie Deckam, wondering if he had told this man anything of
my business which could have put so much into the crosshairs of danger.
The thought was unworthy of me.

Again, Charlie Deckham read my thoughts as easily as he can read upside
down handwriting.

`No, Jonathan, you know that I would never discuss your private business
with anyone. Geoff came to me. I listened to him and said, the easiest
way for this matter to proceed was to arrange this lunch. He wanted to
transfer the balances in his accounts to you and I persuaded him to put
them into escrow at the Bank until this situation is concluded. As of
this moment, he or you can withdraw sixty plus million sterling, if
countersigned with my signature.'

I had not said a word and looked back at Geoff Masters.

`Sir Jonathan, in the course of my business three years ago, we had to
make a special air delivery to Dahra. It was a sealed container. When it
was delivered to our air dispatch depot in Essex, one of the staff
noticed that there was a leak coming from the container and called a
Manager, who in the circumstances, tried to contact the sender, but was
unable to do so.

Knowing that the heavy cargo must be valuable, being sent as it was, by
express air delivery, he cleared the depot and with his assistant opened
the container. There were three unconscious naked men inside it, strapped
into restraints, with IV's in their arms and catheters in their
penises.'

`The leak was a leak in every sense of the word. A catheter was
disconnected from its plastic bag and the urine had spilled out.'

`The Manager called my emergency number immediately and informed me. I
was there within the hour, by which time, the Manager had found a file in
a pouch on the inside wall of the container, giving details of what we
presumed were the three individuals--a Ross Wells, a Mark Tornby and a
Jim Brown. The destination was the Dahra International Airport. The
sender was unknown to us. The consignee, on the face of it a reputable
business man, a Mr. ben-Mustafa with whom we had been dealing on and off
over the years in the Dahran port of al-Mera.'

Geoff Masters was talking of three `lifted' slaves being sent to the
slave-dealer at the auction rooms at al-Mera. He was also talking of Ross
Wells, my slave and former call guy, whom I had bought almost three years
ago when I found him in the auction-rooms quite by chance.

`And what did you do?' I heard myself quietly asking.

`My Manager attached the catheter back onto its plastic bottle-bag and
we resealed the container. We keep a duplicate set of container locks in
the depot. It was not the first time that we had to open a container in
an emergency. The consignee would never know and did not on this
occasion. The container went out on the next direct flight within the
hour and the Manager and his assistant were richer by twenty thousand
each, ensuring their loyal silence.'

`Two things were put in motion as a result of that discovery. I had a
firm of investigators enquire about the consignee, this ben-Mustafa
gentleman. A preliminary report lead on to other reports one of them
being on a Shariff Khan and the last one being on yourself, Sir
Jonathan.'

Geoff Masters was now talking about the slave paraphernalia supermarket
owner in Dahra.

`As a result of those reports, the second thing was that I set in motion
the sale of the business which concluded some six months ago.'

Charlie Deckam interrupted at this stage and said, `Geoff came to see me
and told me first what he had found out, I did not say a word, Jonathan
and I broke no confidence. I just listened to him. Secondly he told me
what he wanted to do. I told him to think about it which brings us up to
today.'

`Again, I ask why?'

`Sir Jonathan, I loved school, its structure and its discipline. I then
went into the Army and again, I loved every minute of it. Always
answering to one above, in a clear line of command and authority. Being
the person I am, I advanced as far as I could go. Without on-going major
military action or an official war, a lot of Lieutenant Colonels never
make General or beyond. I want the simplicity of what I love--authority
and obedience, without any ifs or buts. That is why I want to be your
slave.'

I looked again at Charlie Deckam, who was wearing his non-committal and
inscrutable face. I had heard the words, but I did not care to believe in
their sanity, or that of the person speaking them. While I can accept
slavedom being embraced in the lives of those who have little or nothing
to live for, or little or nothing to go back to in their own world and
life-style, a man of Geoff Masters' wealth and means was another kettle
of fish entirely.

`Even if I were to listen to you, Mr. Masters and to hear what you say,
I will not for one minute accept any of the statements you have just made
about myself, or Dahra. To accept them here in England would be to turn
the world we live in upside down were such statements true.'

`And if, Sir Jonathan, I were to turn up on your doorstep in Dahra,
would you turn me away,' Geoff Master enquired.

`No one is refused hospitality at my homes in Dahra, even if it is only
a bed for the night,' I replied rather coldly and not at all amused at
the idea of uninvited guests arriving at the Palaces. Nor is foreign
tourism practiced to any degree in Dahra.

`How long would that hospitality endure, Sir Jonathan?'

`My hospitality does not have a cut-off date, Mr. Masters, but my guests
never overstay their welcome.'

I had lost my appetite. I was annoyed at Charlie Deckham for allowing
this matter to come to a head the way it had.

`Mr. Masters, please wait outside the door, I wish to speak to Lord
Deckham alone.'

`Yes, sir,' and Geoff Masters got up immediately and went outside the
door of the private dining-room.

`Charlie, is this man for real? If he wants to feel good about giving
away his money, there's the Red Cross, Barnardos, the Salvation Army, a
hundred and one charities. But to buy his slavedom from me as if it were
some form of membership of a club, or of the winner's circle at
Chepstow. This is madness.'

`No, Jonathan, it is not madness. I have met some, not many, Geoff
Masters in my time--persons who love the structures of authority. He has
no dependant family. His wife died of cancer some ten years ago. He is
the same age as myself, fifty two. He has provided for the children, far
more than they need. He has effectively signed away his wealth into an
escrow account at the Bank. You need only sign to have it transferred to
you.'

`Charlie, it is not about the money. If Geoff Masters steps across the
boundaries of my properties, it is for life, until the day he dies. He
looks healthy and that means for the next quarter of a century.'

`He knows that Jonathan and he is willing to take that risk for the rest
of his life which could most likely be as you say for all of twenty five
years.'

`Is his mental health ok? No insanity in his family?'

`No insanity that I know of. He has complained of arthritis and high
blood pressure, no more than myself. But he is healthy and fit and he
tells me that he exercises vigorously at his club every day. He is now
living at the Black and White, since he has sold up everything.'

`Everything?'

`Everything. He is keeping a quarter of a million in his account here to
pay for incidentals, until you decide. If you do, that balance is to be
transferred as well to you.'

`Charlie, I have lost my appetite. Thank you for the lunch. But I shall
have to think about this.'

I folded my napkin, stood up and walked out the dining-room door. Geoff
Masters was standing down the corridor and I walked down to him.

`I shall consider your offer over the next month and let you know.'

`Yes, sir. Thank you.'

I had Josh Green and his investigator in the Grand Cayman do a report on
Group777 and one Geoff Masters for me. All the facts given in the reports
tallied to an iota of the information I had been given.

Two weeks after the aborted lunch Geoff Masters was `lifted' a quarter
of a mile from the Black and White Club, as he returned from a local pub
and woke up in the slave centre at al-Qatim.

His clothes, neatly folded, but no swim towel or bathing items, were
discovered in a cove near Cape Cornwall, an area noted for its
treacherous currents just up from Land's End. Neither family nor friends
could give any idea for his hinted at suicide nor any explanation as to
why he had been in Cornwall.

Geoff Masters' training and breaking was easy for his trainers. It was
not easy for him despite whatever he might have thought or imagined
slavery might be. Slavedom is not a choice of life, but for a very, very
chosen few. Its crudeness is in no way romantic and though in a way
partially prepared for it, Geoff Masters suffered as each slave did in
his kofila.

I deliberately did not meet with him, or his fellow four slaves, three
from Farouq al-Hamdi's opal mine and Terry Peoples, whom I had purchased
from the al-Shaad family. I waited until thirty days had elapsed after
their final day in the fifth compound.

When the five were called forward to receive their gold necklace, I think
that Geoff Masters' eyes shone brightest; that those of the slaves from
the opal mine were the most appreciative of their newfound owner and that
Terry Peoples, whom, after a month at the Lime Palace, I had decided
needed full training after all, had been brought down a number of pegs as
to his own importance in the scheme of things between a Master and a
slave.

To be on the safe side, I put Geoff Masters to work with the slaves of
the Aloe Palace as the overall Farm Manager was Yuriy Obov, a former
Spetnaz Captain in the Kazakh army, whom I trust implicitly. Yuriy was my
first slave and knows how to handle men, as both slaves and workers.

I gave Yuriy no background information on Geoff Masters. Yuriy passed no
comment on that, though such information to the Manager is the norm. Nor
did he comment on the slave's age. His only comment to me one day early
on was `he was military, Boss.'

`Are you sure? I thought Ben Trant told me that he had a security
business.'

Yuriy looked at me and said no more than to repeat himself, `he was
military, Boss.'

As they say, it takes one to know one and while some things change, other
things can never be hidden.

In the lifting and life as a slave of Geoff Masters, the assumption of
immutability was both proven and disproven.

The unchanging nature of a desire to achieve total pleasure was in
serving the structures of school and the military and now in structures
of the Aloe and Lime Palaces.

The changing nature of circumstances to take on a new track and path of
life--the ability to change--was proven by Geoff Masters' choosing to
live out his life in total happiness as a slave at the Aloe Palace, in
loving obedience to my overseers and to me, his Master.

End of Chapter 7

To be continued . . .