Date: Wed, 05 May 2004 16:16:43 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 8 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the eight 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 8--The assumption of loss

The slave was on the floor of the sleeping quarters of one of the Lemon
Palace's outbuildings, his arms tightly about his knees, rocking
forwards and backwards, keening to himself. It had taken the overseer
time and patience, with the aid of a translator, to make out what was
being said. It had also cost the slave three strokes of a camel-cane
across his shoulders--the ugly red welts still visible--strokes which he
had apparently not felt at all.

After the caning, the overseer had called another Spanish slave and the
quiet wailing message, being repeated over and over again, had been
deciphered as `I want to go home'.

Various things mean little or nothing at all to us and are taken for
granted and little appreciated until they are lost. Our freedom and our
eyesight are the two which always spring to mind; hearing for a musician
or composer, taste for a chef, I would suppose. Not only is the loss a
tragedy in its own sense, it can actually be dangerous to the physical or
mental health of the individual. A person who can no longer smell has to
get rid of gas appliances. A person who can no longer feel must get rid
of hot plates. But a slave who no longer recognises slavedom, what must
be got rid of?

The Spanish slave, Juan Luis, had come in the last batch. He had got
through the compounds. He had been made and unmade; he had been broken
and been built up again. He had been trained in the ways of the Lemon
Palace and now after two weeks work on laying irrigation on the farm, he
was to be found on the floor of the sleeping quarters, undergoing what
had yet to be determined. Depression? A breakdown? Melancholy?
Homesickness? Perhaps, a touch of all of them as whatever foundations we
had put down for him crumbled.

Dr. Fournier, our resident Doctor, was contacted and though he stated he
was no psychiatrist, he diagnosed the onset of a breakdown in Juan Luis
and suggested that the slave be changed out of the sleeping quarters and
put on his own, but supervised at arm's length. He gave the slave an
injection to sleep and ordered that he be kept warm. Since Juan Luis had
no buddy as of yet, Komil had three slaves keep an eye on him over the
twenty four hours.

Yves Fournier mentioned Juan Luis's case the following day before I left
for the bank and I asked him to think about it in the long-term. He said
he would read up on it and get back to me.

With Juan Luis Serrano, I had now seen the third type of slave who might
possibly come my way at the Palaces. Many of my slaves were in the first
category of being resigned to being a slave and accepted me willingly as
their Master.

A second category had been physically broken and put back together again
successfully and were now working away on my farms. One day when they
finally accepted me in their hearts and not just in their lives, as their
Master, I would be able to regard them differently.

Juan Luis was the sole occupier of the third category-- those who might
become despondent, melancholic and depressed. It was a question of taking
that depression seriously in hand, not just for his sake, but for the
sake of those who surrounded him.

When Komil Rostov, my Head of Stables at the Lemon Palace, mentioned this
case to me, I found myself surprised that though we had many a physical
breaking, we had not had previously a mental breakdown.

I asked Komil how was the slave doing and he said he was merely sitting
in a cell off one of the compounds.

I know the importance of physical contact, one of the reason why everyone
has a buddy in my Palaces. I called in Georgi Gridov who looks after my
cacti and told him of the problem. After the debacle of the attempted
kidnapping of the baby, the Lemon Palace slaves no longer wander outside
of the Lemon Palace.

As the farm lands of the Lemon Palace were being re-fertilised and having
irrigation put in, apart from the ground work being done on the Palace
itself, work was taking place in creating some gardens to surround the
Palace.

I decided to create myself a new garden of succulents and explained what
I wanted to Georgi Gridov.

`The only thing Georgi this project will mean that I will need an
assistant overseer on the project. Can you recommend me anyone who knows
about cacti?'

Without a second's hesitation, he replied, `Dieter, Master. He would be
a great assistant overseer.'

`Maybe, Georgi, but I can think of an even better one.'

He was looking towards the floor. I leaned across and raised his chin,
until he was forced to look me in the eye.

`Any other ideas, Georgi?'

`Basili, Master.'

`Basili! Georgi he would not know the difference between an aloe and an
agave.'

`Oh, but he would Master, because I told...'

`Yes, indeed, because you told him. Any other great ideas, Georgi? And
don't even think of mentioning Igor.'

`Master, no one has ever asked me to do anything important before,' he
was plaintive as if shying away from the responsibility.

`And what have you been doing for me? Looking after Dieter. You see how
he loves you. You have trained Basili and Igor. Now, I want you for a new
project as assistant overseer.'

`Master...'

Georgi Gridov was going to say something but words failed him and he
threw his arms around my legs and held them tight as he started to cry. I
ran my hand through his peppered hair and said, `Georgi Gridov, you are
going to be a great assistant overseer.'

Georgi sat back on his heels and with the back of his hands, he rubbed
away his tears.

`I said to you once Georgi, that I did not know why I bought you. I am
beginning to find out. I think you have many more gifts than either you
or I realise. So, with all the experience you have of what you have done
to date, I want you to surprise me with this new garden. You do it as you
want to. If you need more help, just say.'

There was a gleam of irrepressible pride in my new assistant overseer's
eyes.

However, I was sure in my own mind that Juan Luis Serrano did not know
which country he was in, let alone in which of my Palaces, so the
following morning I let Georgi sit Juan Luis under one of the palm trees
near to where they were going to do the transplanting and potting.

`What is he to do, Master?'

`Nothing. He is sick at the moment. Just sit him there and every so
often have the others come over to him, give him something to drink or
pat his head. In this way, he will at some stage realise, he is not on
his own and that others care for him. But also, Georgi and this is very
important, he is not to be left on his own at any stage for any reason.
There are four of you to see to that.'

`Sit him down, give him something to drink, pat him on the head and
don't leave him on his own, Master?'

Georgi did not sound convinced.

I gave Georgi a look from under my eyebrows and he replied with more
conviction, `Yes, Master.'

I had Ben Trant, my secretary, pull Juan Luis Serrano's file which
showed the history of a thief with a list of convictions and
imprisonments as long as your arm and finally, the failed attempt at
stealing some museum piece while out on parole. He had no family. He had
always worked alone. He had `died' of a heart attack at the age of
thirty years according to his `death certificate' on file.

`Home' for Juan Luis was some place in his mind, not some place in
Valencia, Spain, where he had been born and lived and thieved his way
through twenty years of his life. There was no evidence of any surviving
family which I though strange due to extended families in Spain. Nor he
had owned any significant personal property in his life. In a word,
`home' for him was the figment of reality he remembered of years
previously.

Patience finally paid off. The cacti team of Georgi and Dieter Schaffer
and the two Byelorussians who `secretly' bring a fresh early morning
cactus to my breakfast table, Igor and Basili, sort of took Juan Luis
under their collective wing and every time they passed him as they went
about their work, they would greet him, touch him, rub some Aloe milk on
his body against the sun and leave some of their work in front of him for
potting.

After about ten days, it was Basili who found that some potting
containers left in front of Juan Luis had been filled with dung compost,
a side product of the dung piles of the Palaces and the scarabaei
coprophaghi or dung-beetle which eats and process human excrement
converting it to fertile compost for cacti growing.

Georgi told me that the four of them made a big fuss of Juan Luis'
comeback to reality and that they had hugged him while he laughed and
cried simultaneously.

Juan Luis was the first, but not the last of those who became depressed
in Dahra as my diaries note. I went to see how he was getting on, so I
paid particular attention to his progress.

He had little English and less Arabic, so I had Diego present. He was the
Spanish slave who had early on misappropriated Ivan's necklace. Since
then, he had worked hard and had rehabilitated himself in my estimation
as a trouble-free worker, so much so that I had Yves Fournier fix the
hole in his penis left by a removed Prince Albert.

`You are feeling better now, Juan Luis.'

`Yes, Master.'

`Your buddies in the cacti gardens are very happy for you.'

`Yes, Master.'

`You realise that you are my slave and will be here for life; that
neither your own government nor anybody else wants you and that, in Spain
you are classified as dead.'

`Dead, Master?'

`Yes, when you were sent here, you were officially declared dead.'

He looked at me silently and he began to tremble. I thought that I was
about to have another breakdown on my hands. I was missing something
here, some piece of the puzzle. I was not getting the full message.

`Juan Luis, here in Dahra, I want you. I want you hale and hearty. I
want you well. What are you good at? What do you like doing?'

He hung his head and did not say anything.

`Stealing things as a career is over. Would you like to learn something
new?'

He nodded his head. I wondered if I was letting myself and the Palace in
for something here. His education level was nothing to write home about.

`So what did you like doing when you weren't working?'

I had almost said `out robbing'.

`I liked making model cars and putting little engines in them.'

We were getting somewhere I thought. But where exactly? A cross-thought
was forming in my mind and I had Stan, my Property Manager for the
Palaces called.

`Stan, who looks after the solar panels?'

We have over two hundred of them on the roofs of the Palaces and the
slave quarters, providing more than twice the electricity we need.

`No one specially, Boss. They need monthly cleaning which I have Jerzy
and his team do. The panels are top of the range and only one or two have
broken down, but you are right, we are going to have more maintenance on
our hands.'

`Stan, meet Juan Luis. I think he may be the answer to your cleaning and
maintenance problems with the solar panels.'

Stan looked at the slave who had not understood the conversation in
English. He did not appear impressed.

`I'll have a further word with Juan Luis and then I shall have him
brought across to you.'

I knew it was a bit of risk. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I explained to Juan Luis the importance of the solar panels and we went
up to the roof of the Lime Palace to look at them. Diego followed to help
in the translation.

The panels were black concave structure like dominoes on their sides,
lined up one after the other across the roof of the Lime Palace. I
pointed out the other ones on the roofs of the slave quarters and the
outbuilding. At my palaces, where there was a roof, there were panels.

`Would you like the job of looking after the panels, Juan Luis?'

`You are asking me, Master?'

`Yes, I am asking you.'

`And if I say no?'

`Then you say no. I will try to find you another job, or another job or
another job, until you are happy.'

`Happy, Master? Why?'

`Because Juan Luis, strange as it may appear to you, you are an
important slave to me. You are here to work for me. I want you to work
your best. You will not work your best if you need to be supervised all
the time. Do you need someone looking over your shoulder? Do you need a
guard over you? Do you need a camera filming you?'

`No, Master. I--I--'

`What?'

`I don't know how to look after the panels.'

`Stop thinking negatively, Juan Luis. You have plenty of time to learn
to be the best maintenance person in all of Dahra.'

`Dahra?'

`Yes, this is the country where you are now.'

Sometimes the most basic pieces of information are missing from the slave
equation.

`So, would you like to give this job a try?'

`Yes, Master.'

A thought struck me. I had been missing a piece of the puzzle because I
had been asking all the questions. Particular, specific questions.

`Okay, Diego, off you go. I want to spend some time with Juan Luis,'
and I dismissed the translator.

Diego went off with himself, leaving Juan Luis and me on the roof of the
Palace. My time with Juan Luis would not need words. The sun was
beginning to set on the desert horizon.

I beckoned Juan Luis over. His short dark hair was mimicked in his pubes,
cut in the style of the Palace. I turned him round to view the descending
sun which is one of the most beautiful natural sights in Dahra. The
pollution free air does something to the rays of the sun, breaking the
light at times into myriads of colours for split seconds, before the
purples and dark reds of the evening set in.

I put my arms over his shoulders and crossed them over his chest. I
believe in touch. He trembled. Silently, I pointed out the changing
colours and again brought my arms close to hug his chest.

I kissed his neck and could see the pimpled gooseflesh on his skin in the
cooling evening air. I let him feel the touch of my hands on his chest
and on his firm nipples. Another close hug. Juan Luis was not resisting
the touch, if anything he was pressing back his naked body against mine
and then the breakthrough came. Juan Luis took one of my hands as it lay
crossed over his chest and bringing it to his mouth, he kissed the back
of my hand and kept his lips pressed to my flesh.

His chest heaved and I thought he was about to cry, but he did not. He
was now breathing more deeply and we stood on the top of the roof looking
towards the horizon and the fast sinking sun.

I turned him round to face me and very slowly said to him, `Juan Luis,
tell me about you,' and I touched his chest.

`Tell me slowly. About you. The prison. Everything.'

He looked at me and slowly began to say, `Me llamo Juan Luis Serrano.
Soy criminal.'

That much I got clearly. He was calling himself a criminal.

Slowly, he told me of the last five years of his life. It was slow
because while his Spanish was clear, my understanding of it was not and
he had to repeat himself and rephrase what he said various times. He said
things that my questions had not addressed, that he would not have said
about his imprisonment in front of Diego. When he had finally finished,
one of my hands at that point was resting on his shoulder, the other on
his chest, feeling the hammering of his heart. It was as near to a
confession that anyone was likely to get from Juan Luis. I had missed
parts of it, but I had got the message, loud and clear. It was a question
of what I would do with that information.

After what seemed an age, Juan Luis took my hand and bringing it down
over his belly, he placed my hand on his semi-hard cock and balls and
kept his hand on top of mine. I could feel the softness of his pubic hair
on my hand. Apart from my hand touching his sex organs, it was not a
sexual act. It was an act which stated his submission to me, his Master
and in stating that, Juan Luis Serrano was saying that, in making his
statement and in finding a new job, he had also found a new home.

Loss is a vacuum. Nature abhors a vacuum. Therefore nature abhors a loss
which, in time, has to be filled with something. It is like a hollow in
the ground which sooner rather than later is filled by its surrounding
environment. We all fill our losses with something. Some we forget. Some
we sublimate. Others we fill with hate--such a poor and soul gnawing
filling--and other losses we fill with a new hope of something better.

Juan Luis Serrano took that last path. It would be wrong to say that his
depression disappeared overnight. It did not, but finding himself being
trained over a number of weeks on disassembling and reassembling the
solar panels and their scheduled cleaning, gave him a sense of purpose
and belonging which at the end of the day is what so many seek in life.

In charge of the cacti gardens where Juan Luis had been assigned to work
were Georgi Gridov, the small Georgian slave and Dieter Schaffer, his
Austrian companion. Because of the way they looked after Juan Luis, there
were in my mind and being in my mind, soon were in my bed.

The sex had been pleasant and enjoyable. Dieter was predictable. As soon
as he came, he quite literally closed his eyes and went to sleep, proving
again at least to me, that good sex helps you sleep.

Georgi was lying half beside me, half resting himself in the crook of my
arm. I felt him give me a kiss on the cheek and he whispered very quietly
in my ear, almost inaudibly, `Thank you, Master.'

It is funny but I whispered back `For what?'

Why was I the Master whispering? We tend to be accustomed to deal with
people as they deal with us. Belligerence with belligerence, gentleness
with gentleness.

`For giving me Dieter, Master.'

`You really like him, don't you?'

`Yes, Master and he tells me that he likes me.'

`But I thought that you had suggested that the sex was not great between
you or something like that.'

`He is not great for sex and I just rim him which he loves, but what I
really like is that he holds me when he goes asleep. I feel the warmth of
his body and I know I am safe. And as for work, Master, he does the work
of two.'

`Is he still giving you half a biscuit?'

`Yes, Master?'

`What are you doing with it?' and I tickled his small fat free body.
`Could Dieter eat another whole biscuit a day himself?'

Georgi nodded.

`See that he gets another biscuit.'

Georgi again kissed my cheek.

`Yes, Master,' and he let his tongue run down to my nipple and started
making little circles around the aureola just as I like it.

I must have drifted off asleep soon after, because my internal clock
alarmed and it was early morning. My arm was dead from Georgi sleeping on
it and having extracted it, I moved down the bed between my two sleeping
slaves and padded into the bathroom.

The heat of the Dahran midday is such that people stay indoors; my slaves
do as well. It is the time when indoor work is done either in the
vegetable processing units at the Aloe Palace or in the kitchens of the
Lime Palace as evening vegetable soup is prepared for over five hundred
slaves and at the Lemon Palace, the slaves are either under awnings or in
classrooms learning either languages or sex techniques.

Staying out of the midday heat and sun is a matter not just of common
sense, it is a matter of health and safety. A lighter skinned slave can
be severely burned after just an hour in the sun; after four hours, it is
a question of sunburn of the nth degree and ugly splits in the lacerated
skin. We tend to forget just how much ordinary gamma rays can burn.

In this sense, the work at the Palaces is not tough--boring at times, but
not tough. Each of the overseers makes sure that the work is rotated and
slaves are given little jobs of responsibility or supervision to test
their abilities and reactions.

Even Abdul, my beautiful but mentally retarded slave, acts as a
supervisor in loading the vegetables on certain mornings and if the truth
be told, he is more attentive and capable at that than many others.
Standing on the back of the lorries being loaded for market, with his
huge appendage and hairless light brown body, he is a large misplaced
fawn from the forests of mythology. As he has not an unkind bone in this
body, he has all the other slaves eating out of his hand as he goes
around afterwards and thanks each with a hug and a kiss on their necks or
ears.

I asked him once why he kissed the slaves on the neck and he smiled and
said with all simplicity, `I kiss them on the neck or on their ears
because they are my friends and work well. But I only kiss you, Master
and Jens on the mouth.'

Jens is his Danish buddy whom he adores.

`And how is Jens, Abdul? I never see him.'

Abdul gave that innocent little smile of his and his cheeks dimpled.

`He is very well, Master. He always works late into the night. He is
working on a secret programme for you and I am helping him.'

`Secret, eh?'

`Yes, Master, it is to be a surprise for you.'

`And you are helping him?'

`Yes, Master, I chose the colour. But it is a secret. You must not say
anything to Jens. I said to him that he should tell you to make you even
happier with him, but he says one day he will be finished and not before
then.'

`You chose the colour?'

`Yes, Master.'

`That, Abdul, sounds very interesting and mysterious,' and he rumbled
his little laugh as I tickled his axilae and made him clutch his arms
close to his body as he tried to avoid my fingers.

Although, the Palaces continued to purchase all the seaweed potash that
Abdul's uncles and brothers produced from the original joint-venture his
father had set with me, I missed the statement of affairs every two
months from his dead father, the simplicity of the father's honest
hand-written account of income and expenditure.

The statement of account still happened. One of Abdul's brothers had a
computer and it looked more sterile and they never came to see me--as if
I was going to ask disturbing questions--though I still owned half the
business and most certainly they had never come to visit Abdul that I
knew of.

Because of all of this I loved Abdul all the more in his simplicity and
old-fashioned Dahran generosity learned from his late father.

Jens Johanssen, Abdul's buddy, was of an intelligence and computer
skills which were not on any I.Q. test. Although, I suspected that left
to his own devices he would have been asexual, in the sense that sex did
not interest him at all, I had found that Abdul's unconditional love had
mellowed his dry, arid, intellectual approach to human relations and
secondly, as Abdul's buddy he had made extraordinary efforts to be a
sexual partner for Abdul, whose sexual apparatus was all of fifteen
inches when erect and `beer-can' thick as our American cousins say.

Jens had stretched himself with dildos and I was told on the quiet by
Greg Logan, my assistant retrainer, that he had even asked Greg's
assistance in inserting and taking out the larger instruments of sexual
pleasure, until he was finally able to have Abdul fuck him three times a
week without too much pain and on the other evenings, he had learned how
to get his lips around a massive cock-head so as not to lose a drop of
Abdul's daily outpouring of semen.

That was what made me love Jens Johanssen--not his intellectual
brilliance, not his hacking skills which had stopped the work of entire
governments, not his computer skills in linking up the Palace systems so
well that I could not remember the last time they had failed. His love
and tenderness towards a mentally handicapped Dahran slave was a joy to
see and a pleasure to behold.

End of Chapter 8

To be continued . . .