Date: Mon, 29 Aug 2005 14:40:38 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The  Dahran Sands - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the first chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about
gay sex and present-day slavery.

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

The Dahran Sands is the eighth novel in the Dahran series

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.

===========

Preface

There are those in life who are blessed with unchanging convictions. They
appear to be born or launched on the seas of humanity with opinions as
immutable and as fixed as the regular ebb and flow of the tides. They are
fortunate in one sense; they need no education. The rest of us, and I
include
myself among the 'us', walk and run and fall, and learn to rise and walk
again
nursing our bruises and licking the wounds of experience.

This is essentially the underlying theme of the eighth volume of the Dahran
series - we all have to learn. The Dahran Sands where I attempt to show
that,
even with the experiences of a lifetime, we are all permanently on a
learning
curve comprise based on previous experiences. If we can do that, then we
will
be unafraid of what the future holds.

This volume, like the previous ones, details some of my own experiences in
the ownership, training and employment of slaves at my properties in the
beautiful Sheikdom of Dahra.

I do apologise. I have not introduced myself. Martin, Sir Jonathan Martin,
at
your service.

I trust you will enjoy this volume as it traces the path of one who still
even
now has a lot more to learn from life.



Dahra,

November 200x


Chapter 1 - The first insight
Wisdom does not come overnight
(Somalian proverb)



The slave came whimpering and crying, dragging himself across the sand to
collapse at my feet. How the mighty and arrogant had fallen! The training
Supervisor looked at me and then at the slave, walked a pace over and landed
a striking blow with his light and pliant three-foot camel-cane across the
slave's buttocks. The slave continued his crawling progress with barely a
reaction to the blow, his yucky nose running and his watering eyes firmly
fixed on my feet.

I raised my hand as the training Supervisor was again about to strike. His
blows would not be hard but would raise weals and, here, the Supervisor was
merely showing that he was trying to ensure that the slave did not
inconvenience me. The creature did not, as he grovelled at my feet.

The slave was now an overall tanned-brown after three week's being naked
in the sun and a schedule of training every day morning and afternoon that
had
exposed him to the ever warm and dry Dahran climate and to its sun's
powerful rays.

I hold myself to be a merciful slave owner and do not expect my slaves to
be out in the noonday sun which could burn a pale skin a rough red in less
than fifteen minutes. I have seen to it, with clear instructions, that my
slaves
always have access both to headgear and water; whatever the circumstances.

My training Supervisors knew this and saw that each slave, whether in
training or not, was properly accommodated. While also giving each slave
adequate slave biscuits for nourishment in and out of training, and a full
eight
hours' sleep at night, the Supervisors demanded with all my authority the
attention of the slave during his every waking moment, as if I myself were
physically present. I say 'his', because there are no female slaves at my
Palaces.

The Supervisors got that attention through the administration of my own
training programme which was a combination of voluntary opportunity,
technique, pain, forced effort, minimal reward, and the repeating of the
cycle
of more of the same so as to draw the slave out of his own old self-serving
mentality, and into a new thought process of serving me directly as the
Master
or, as more often than not the situation would have it, indirectly through
my
Overseers who are either Heads of Household or Heads of Stables. Stables is
the old Dahran term for any service or farming performed outside the Palaces
themselves, of which I own two, the Lime Palace and the Lemon Palace, and
still own the lands of a third - my first and former home, the Aloe Palace.

I had disrupted a training programme by coming into the third compound. I
really should not have, but I wanted to see the progress of this particular
slave;
and to be quite frank about it, I was not too impressed by what I had seen
crawling across the sand toward my feet.

The two training Supervisors who run the third compound for me are Scott
Billins, originally from Iowa and Bryce Sands, formerly from Texas. I would
classify them as patient, untiring, unrelenting trainers who have my
interests
fully to heart and the total subservience of the slave in mind. While there
is
something to be said for not having to force a slave to bend a knee to
secure
his service and loyalty, there is a definite something in securing all of
this
through proper training so that the slave finally and totally accepts being
just
that, my obedient slave. His mind, not just his knee, has to be bent in
servitude.

Bryce was now standing behind the slave as the slave crawled the final yard
of sand and put his forehead on the ground and placed his two hands behind
his head.

The slave said something, but '...have mercy on me, Jonathan,' were the
only words I caught.

I ignored the slave's pleas and looked at the training Supervisor and asked,
'how is this slave progressing?'

'Boss, he has a long way to go yet before he gets out of this compound. A
long way to go.'

I looked down at the former lawyer, a barrister actually, huddled at my
feet.

'You have heard your Supervisor's comments. You have a long way to go
yet in your training. Mercy does not yet come into what is left of your life
in
my service.'

Nodding to Bryce Sands, I said, 'carry on.'

'Okay, Nigel, let's start on those tyres once more,' the Supervisor replied
and the slave started to cry softly.

Part of his training held and this was to be seen as the slave got to his
feet,
the head of a three-inch butt-plug visible between the cheeks of his
buttocks,
and he hobbled back to the thirty or so tyres in the middle of the compound,
lying like unseeing eyes towards the blue desert sky, tyres through which
the
slave would have to run, and run, and run until times were perfected, the
slave's body was toned and exercised, and in time, strengthened through a
continuing loss of surplus fat and its replacement by solid fibre and
muscle.

I remarked on the red weals on his buttocks in rows of threes as only a
camel-cane can raise so perfectly. As the slave went back to his training, I
looked at Bryce and asked, 'So how is he actually coming on?'

'As you can see, Boss, he has come through the first two compounds, he is
only starting. He still does not fully yet recognise or believe that he is a
slave
for ever more, or that he is here to serve you alone or that his future is
what
you determine. As you can also hear even by his referring to you now by your
name, he still does not get it. He still believes that is all a bad dream,
that
he
will wake up and be back in London arguing some case in court, as he has
said
to me. No, Boss, he has a long way to go yet, to being even half a good
slave.
And thanks, Boss.'

'For what?'

'Master, for letting the slave see that his training is in my hands. For
letting
me do my job, Master.'

'Bryce,' I said putting my hand around the sun-warmed shoulders of the
Supervisor, 'would I get between a slave and trainers like yourself or
Scott?'

I felt Bryce's firm shoulder muscles under my fingers, toned and trained as
a clued-in Supervisor of compounds should have his entire body. He is hard
on himself and hard on those whom he trains, but at the same time, I have
seen
that he is eminently fair and equal handed in breaking those slaves sent to
his
and Scott's compound.

I stood a while looking at Nigel Broaders trying to negotiate the tyres
lying
on the sand, stumbling, falling, sweating, rising, running again with
perspiration streaming off him in the mid-morning air. I saw the rictus of a
grimace on his face, heard the gasping of his lungs as he made an effort to
exert his body as it had never been exerted before. On getting up from one
fall, the butt-plug in his anus was plainly visible and I thought to myself
how
uncomfortable even a three-inch one in length, this being the third
compound,
could be.

Large heavy nipple rings were swinging widely on the slave's chest. His
fall had them bouncing against his chest and torso; their weight and size
would be a cause of severe mind-bending pain as well. Nigel Broaders was
unusual in this regard. All my slaves are deprived of all body ornamentation
on coming into my ownership. In his case, I had put three inch stainless
steel
rings through his nipples simply to prove the point to him, and for no other
reason, that I could do anything I like to his body. I did not even
particularly
like the rings themselves, ostentatious and all that they were. When his
training was ever finished, I would order them to be removed.

Ah, yes, this slave, unfortunately on his own in the compound, would be
well-trained by the time he left it and he would never ever forget that
training!
I knew that neither Scott nor Bryce would authorise the 'progression' of
Nigel
Broaders to the next compound until they were perfectly happy with his
progress in their own compound. In my book, the slave had a lot of mental
baggage and attitude to dump and shelve before he got anywhere near meeting
with my approval! Whatever about his mental baggage, his physique was
definitely improving even after the short periods he had been in this and
the
previous compounds. He was dropping surplus fat very fast.

It would all take time. Time was on my side and here at the Lemon Palace,
my home, where I had time in abundance to train my slaves in the manner I
wished so as to secure a perfect service from them for my pleasure,
enjoyment
and use.

Before leaving the compound, I said to Bryce 'keep me informed of this
slave's progress.'

'Weekly, Boss?'

'Weekly.'



The second slave I wanted to see that day was Tony Sert, an English
working class lad, now twenty five years of age, who had come as part of a
batch of EU prisoners who had gotten rough justice from their respective
countries' judicial system.

Tony Sert was one of the prisoners whom the EU states had sacrificed on
the altar of prison budget cuts. Instead of financing the long prison
stretch
that
would yet have lain before him, authorities had chosen a cheaper option by
paying off the Dahran government and myself to make him disappear.

It had taken quite a while for him to adjust to being a slave and an even
longer time to live in the knowledge that he had to be available sexually to
me
at any time. But on the same score, he had quite literally flown through the
training compounds, not even receiving a single stroke of a camel-cane in
any
one of them, an achievement never equalled up to then, or since, among over
seven hundred slaves in my present ownership.

He had simultaneously passed and failed a test I had set him, and when I
had spoken with him one to one, it was as if the over-spilling floodgates of
his
wasted life up to that point could no longer hold back the grief he felt and
laying out his life before me, he showed his trust in me and became a most
valuable asset in my Palaces. Tony Sert now worked in the gym area of the
Palace where every slave and Supervisor had to spend an hour each day in
personal training and fitness techniques.

Tony Sert was heterosexual and for a slave with such a superbly muscled
body, for all intents, a very modest young man. I did not give him time to
offer me his body, but took him to my bed the very first day I saw him. I
took
his body and he neither resisted nor panicked at the time. He had been
trained
to obey by the procedures of five training compounds and he had responded
well to my overtures and erotic touch and expertise. He surrendered his body
to me as is my droit de seigneur. His anal virginity he had lost in the
compounds as he was being trained in preparation for any request from his
Master. It was not rape on my part, because in Dahran law, you cannot rape
property and a slave is property. But man to man, it would have been another
definition, in another place and time.

The day, Tony Sert was presented to me I took him in my bed and his
clenching muscles under me had taken a long time to relax and to accept my
dominion of his body. Indeed, it had taken Tony a while as it does with most
of my slaves to adjust their minds fully to slavedom and to finally and
willingly offer me the services of what I truly wanted, his very talented
mind
and intelligence. His superbly muscled and toned body was a mere bonus in
the scheme of things.

I had put Tony in as an assistant to my gym Overseer, Rolf Hanzer. Many
of the slaves envied his musculature, and made no murmur when he suggested
to them improvements to their weights régime and, at times, 'spotted' them
as
they say in gym parlance or walked them through the more difficult
procedures. Many other slaves, I was told, admired the warmth of his quiet,
even-tempered, ever-patient personality. None of them ever knew that he had
killed two inmates in an English prison as they had attempted to rape him.
After that prison episode, his body building programme had started and no
one
had bothered him further in that prison. Once he had been shipped to Dahra,
however, Tony Sert's training had forced him to accept that, just as any
other
slave's, his body belonged to me, his Master, and was not his own.

I stood at the edge of the gym of the Lime Palace. Some fifty or so slaves
were going through their paces at this mid-morning hour when they take a
break from the heat of the Dahran sun. Rota after rota would have been in
progress from early morning until late at night until all seven hundred plus
of
my slaves at the three Palaces-the Lime and the Lemon, and those from the
farms of the Aloe Palace-would have put in their daily gym hour.

One of Rolf Hanzer's assistants was supervising some slaves. My Dutch
masseur slave, Klaas Oostende, and his assistant were giving two slaves rub-
downs on massage tables; more were swimming in the Olympic sized pool
beyond. It spoke of organisation and endeavour.

For all their proclaimed heterosexual habits, men love the touch of other
men whether it is being given an Aloe massage, the wintergreen rubdown of a
tender muscle, a Swedish massage, or even an undeniably good blowjob by
the unseen mouth of an expert. The slave can always then pretend that it was
sports related, therapeutic or downright accidental in not knowing whose
mouth was on whose cock, and in my Palaces, they cannot be too 'surprised'
that it was a man's mouth and tongue and not a female's. The surprise as to
gender could not be the case in three Palaces comprised entirely of men. But
by all accounts blowjobs were rarely refused.

It intrigued me to see various slaves going over to half a dozen computer
monitors, press the screen and input something, and then sign off,
frequently
being followed by a queuing next slave.

One of the slaves drew Rolf's attention to my presence and he came over to
me all-business. The gym area is of the few locations where slaves continue
on what they are doing when I, the Master, arrive. There are too many
weights
being pressed and running machines working, or slaves in the water, for
slaves
to start dropping things or breaking swim lengths in obéisance to me their
Master.

Rolf Hanzer is one of the first ten slaves I ever owned. Each one of these
over the previous five years had risen to be Heads of function, Overseers or
Assistant Overseers.

I have always believed that every slave in his slavedom, just as every
freeman in his freedom, has unrealised potential which just has to be
unleashed. Rolf was living walking proof of that. A former ski-instructor,
he
was now in charge of a multi-million euro investment in gym, sports and
swimming plant for me in Dahra, including training programmes and a team
of slaves at his orders.

'Boss, is everything okay? I didn't know you were going to visit.'

'Rolf, everything is spot on. Two questions. First, what are all those touch
screen monitors?'

'They are screens where each slave inputs his own times or sets in his own
personal training programme. Linked to the main computers, each screen is
activated with a thumbprint; the slave puts in the data and thumbprints-out
again. Its called TITO.'

'A Jens Johanssen invention, I presume?'

'Yes, Boss. Thumbprint-in and thumbprint-out. Very nifty. It includes the
Personal Bests programme as well.'

Jens Johanssen is the slave genius who runs the computer systems of the
Palaces.

'And the second question, Boss?'

'I'm thinking of building another pool and a second gym at the new Lemon
Palace. The pool here is somewhat overcrowded,' and I waved a hand in the
general direction of the pool. 'I am told your programmes and schedules are
going from seven in the morning. My original wish, for security reasons, was
that slaves from the different Palaces should not mingle but have their own
schedules. But as you can see, Rolf, as we have grown that has not been the
case.'

'Yes, Boss, until nine at night, and that's even excluding the slaves who
might be on the beach programme every week. But it does not include sick or
injured slaves.'

'Yes, of course. You now organise the beach programme as well.'

'Yes, Boss. Rather one of the new assistants runs the beach programme for
me..., I mean, for you.'

'You don't fool me for a minute, Rolf. I am sure that the beach programme
and its schedules were created by you with Jens left only to compute them.'

Rolf's shy smile told me I had hit the nail on the head.

'The question I really want to ask is who should run the new pool and gym
at the Lemon Palace?'

As if on cue, Tony Sert looked up at us from the other side of the gym,
before immediately going back to spot a slave on a bench lifting some
weights.

'I think you have the answer before your very eyes, Boss.'

'I think we have, Rolf. Let's keep it to ourselves for a while, and get Tony
a
pair of shorts as befits a new Assistant Gym Overseer, though it is a bit of
a
shame to put clothes on such a perfectly muscled body. Just look at his
perfect
frame,' I said looking at a musculature that would have done any bodybuilder
proud.

'A pity alright, Boss, but if he is to be the new Gym Overseer at the Lemon
Palace, he'll have to start getting used at least to wearing some clothes
again.'

'I'll have the original plans drawn up for this complex dusted down and
sent over to you. Mark clearly in red what you want changed or laid out
better.'

Rolf looked at me, and said quietly, 'Me, Boss?'

'Yes, you Rolf.'

'Thanks, Boss. Will do!'

I gave his short fair hair a rub, 'Rolf, I trust you like I trust my all my
Overseers, and I respect your judgment.'

Rolf just looked at the floor of the gym, with that little half-smile of his
that
lights up his face when he is pleased. He has this ingratiating habit of
testing
programmes and not telling me about them until they are working one hundred
per cent.

I thought to myself just how callously I could now think of employing and
using slaves, without the slightest qualm or prick of conscience. Me, an
Englishman! Such changes can be effected in the human personality in a mere
fifty five months in a country like Dahra.



That Saturday, Roge Harte, a former Aussie Rules player was in fine form.
He had the DVD of the previous Saturday's match in the machine and I knew
that he would be rearing to go. We usually look at the matches one week late
as it takes time for the DVDs to get to Dahra from Australia.

One of my hobbies is the ownership of the Hobart Gangers, a minor team of
Aussie Rules football players, with a series of junior feeder clubs
throughout
the island of Tasmania and eastern Australia designed by Roge Harte, who
was my slave in overall charge of it. The junior clubs already were
contributing good solid players to the main club.

I find it quite a turn-on to have Roge lying on his belly over a low table
as
we look at the DVD. In Aussie Rules footie, the play is hard and fast for
all of
each quarter's twenty minutes and that for me is a turn-on in itself as one
long,
lanky, freely perspiring and rangy football player after another vies for
the
ball
and the control of the play.

Roge was in place.

'Shall we start, Boss.'

I knew he would have already seen the DVD as he comments on the
highlights and the good plays as we view it. I also knew that he would be
fully
lubed with lots of Aloe sap.

'Switch it on, Roge,' I said as I ran my hands over his perfect and firm
buttocks of solid muscle under splendid and smooth globes of flesh. I was
hard as I unzipped, and taking out my cock, I slipped it into Roge's waiting
hole, already thoroughly lubed as I had surmised.

Roge felt my entrance into his most private part and started to squeeze and
relax against my thrusts, as he had been extensively trained to do, not
loosing
a second of his commentary. The excitement of the sexual act together with
the excitement of the play, where the straining and sweating footballers
flashed across the screen and up and down the pitch, made it difficult for
me
not to ejaculate early. That had happened before, but with exercise and
self-
control and by stimulating carefully the erogenous zones of Roge's
submissive
body prostrate along the table, I was able to keep matters in hand.

Both Roge and I knew that I would not allow a release until the last minute
of the first quarter. It was therefore a question of at least nineteen
minutes
of
continuous gentle entrances and withdrawal. I found Roge to be in superb
physical condition, and after ten or so minutes, his hole was not closing
entirely after my withdrawals, he was able to respond fully to my thrusts
with
a gentle bucking and rotating motion of his hips. I also make a point of
aiming
for Roge's prostate gland as much as I can. He loves that, as the amount of
precum always testify once he gets up off the table.

In the final minutes of the first quarter, I bent forwards and over Roge
until
I was lying flat on my belly over his back. His movements were restricted,
and
I let my tongue run along the back of his neck and just into his hairline. I
blew
into his left ear and he trembled. Roge has very delicate ears and with my
open lips I started to kiss the side of his neck making little biting
gestures
with
my lips alone. He really loves that.

As the play edged closer to the end of the first quarter, I ran my tongue
under his jaw line, his maxilla. It is one of the advantages of me being
taller
than he. My hands had slipped under his armpits and were pulling his
shoulders towards me, as I thrust deep and deeper into him, with increasing
force. I could feel his rising sexual excitement and then, almost as he
expected
it, Roge turned his head to me, raising his chin and exposing his throat to
me,
for the first time unable to see the screen, effectively stopping the
running
commentary on the play. In total submission, his throat was mine and I
nipped
it with my teeth. It was not the leonine bite of a jungle king over one of
his
pride, it was a bite of love for a beloved slave, and that was more
excitement
than his body could take and he shuddered as his release occurred.

Roge's climax triggered my own, and I lay on top of him as the quarter
ended.

'Stop the DVD.'

I picked up a towel from a side table and wiped myself dry as Roge picked
himself up from the table. I handed him the towel and he quickly cleaned
himself of semen and ran it between his buttocks.

'Thanks, Boss.'

'Bring in this assistant mate of yours now and lets see how the Club's
accounts are.'

'Right away, Boss,' he said but stopping to look at me.

'What?'

'Boss, go easy please on Jake. He was barely able to sleep last night
knowing that he was to present the accounts to you on his own for the first
time. He's a good mate. He really is, Boss.'

'I know that, Roge, that is why I got him for you. To give you more time
for the gym,' I said and patted his rock hard abs. 'Go easy on him, is that
it?'

'Please, Boss.'

'Call him in and see if Bob is around with some beer.'

'Rigtheo, Boss.'

Jake Carter was a purchase about eight slaves ago. The slave centre had
cross-referenced my previous purchases and ownership of two Australians,
and gave me first choice. The twenty-four year old former fireman according
to his Dahran data file had developed beautifully in the previous five
months.
Tall and lanky, his uncut cock was a delight to see for its length and
girth,
and
his prominent hip-bones supported a well-trained frame.

I pointed to a spot on the floor beside my armchair. Jake dropped to the
floor, putting some files to one side, and made a full obéisance as he had
not
seen me before that day.

Bob Conrad was at his heels and put down a basin of ice with four cans of
Fosters lager half-floating in it, plus a jug of his famous lime-juice, from
which he poured me a glass, discretely removing the soiled towel on the
other
side of the armchair. I nodded my thanks to him and watched his perfect butt
undulate with inbuilt poise and leave the room.

'I hear you have prepared the Club accounts on your own for the first time?'
I said to the slave kneeling beside me.

'Yes, Bo...yes, Master.'

'Start the second quarter, Roge, and let's see how the Club is doing in this
match.'

I held out my hand for the first file and started to read with Roge's
commentary acting as a foreground to the DVD playing.

The accounts were in fact better prepared than Roge's usual ones. Jake had
good handwriting on the intercalating pages of explanation. There was
nothing
new. The Club was losing money as it normally did each month, and of the
three million euro I had put in the previous January only one million was
left
and that would be well reduced by the end of the year with Christmas bonuses
and such. But it was enjoyable. And what is a hobby, if not enjoyable? The
money lost was less than the profit I made from my neighbours for providing
two weeks' water supply to them.

I looked up and saw Roge looking at me. He had not presumed to take a
beer. I nodded to him and he popped a can for himself.

'Which would you prefer, Jake, a beer or some lime-juice?'

'Whichever you are offering, Master, but a beer, if I have a choice.'

It was a very prudent way of replying. I nodded to Roge, who was grinning,
as if to say 'I told you he was good'. In the previous months, Jake had
watched Roge nurse his two beers and I had not offered him any, nor had
Roge offered to share his. Maybe Fosters is too precious to share.

'See that two point five million euro is transferred to the Club accounts by
the end of the year, Roge, and give Jake his beer.'

As I read the following reports about a new midfielder who did not look at
all shy at being photographed in the nude for his medical, then a further
one of
the junior feeder clubs, and repairs needed for the pitch surface, I let my
hand
rest on Jake's shoulders as he knelt beside me. I let my thumb run up and
down the short hairs on his neck, and I think as he sipped his Fosters that
he
pushed his head back against my fingers.

As Roge continued his commentary, I commented quietly to Jake, 'Are you
looking after Roge each morning and night?'

He looked a little nervously at me and said shyly, 'Yes, Master. I suck him
off morning and night.'

'He doesn't want more?' I asked looking at Roge engrossed as he would
always be in a football match, even one he had seen a number of times.

'No, Master.'

Roge had been partnered by Daniel Saxon, of the two unfortunately
enslaved American missionaries at one point, but that had obviously fizzled
out.

I resumed my stroking of the slave's neck until the second quarter finished.

'Are you happy with the team's performance, Roge?'

'Yes, Boss. Overall, yes. It's costing you money. But it is money well-
spent. They are up there in the league and showing good results.'

Owning an Aussie Rules football team is a long but enjoyable learning
process, and the acquired knowledge resulting from it does not come
overnight.

I enjoyed Roge's opinions and commentaries, and spent the last two
quarters with one arm around Roge's neck on my right and my other around
Jake's on my left, two favourite very sexy Australians.

===========

The Dahran Sands is the eighth novel in the Dahran series.

===========

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

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 enjoy the story-line, do tell your friends to subscribe to the
mailing
list by sending an e-mail to erotic_gay_stories-subscribe@yahoogroups.com