Date: Mon, 05 Dec 2005 22:44:25 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 10 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

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

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

This novel, 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.

=============

The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series]
are now available as full novels in Acrobat .pdf format on
http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

===========

Chapter 10 -- The level of trust

    A friend is known when needed

    (Arabian proverb)


  When Zabian al-Kibbe, my General Manager of my opal mine, had surprised
me at the Bank with his unexpected visit after the discovery of the large
opal find, I had given him an aide-memoire. The note was an instruction
to have the slave who had discovered the large opal-bearing rock brought
to me to the Lemon Palace. This slave had now arrived with Greg Logan on
the helicopter as Greg returned with his weekly report from the mine.

  Pal Fejes had been cleaned up and as he stood before me, he was
undoubtedly one nervous slave. His naturally fine dark Hungarian features
gave him a clearly dark look so typical of Hungarians but his physique
had obviously deteriorated because of the work in the opal mine. His
upper arms showed the welts of a cane, his back the marks of a beating.
His head of black hair had now been trimmed down by the Palace barbers to
an all over crew-cut. His tanned brown skin was bronzed from constant
exposure to the Dahran sun. With his hands behind his head holding an
`at display' position, I admired his two pits full of tufts of lustrous
raven black hair. The backs of his hands looked marked as I circled him.
He looked healthy, but slightly undernourished, with not an ounce of fat
on him that I could see or feel. The short hair on his head covered no
bumps or cysts.

  The slave's legs were a good two feet apart and his tackle was
prominent in that his depilated ball sack looked freshly pink in the
early morning air, and his hairless limbs and torso set off what remnants
of hair remained on his head and pubic areas, apart from that already
mentioned in his axillae. I noticed that the slave was cut and possessed
a marvellously rounded and large plum coloured head on his cock with a
wide flange dropping to a deep suculus behind the head giving the optical
illusion that his shaft was longer and thinner than, in fact, it was.

  For the half-hour that Greg was beside me giving his report, I had the
slave in my peripheral vision. He did not move a muscle apart from the
autonomic blinking of his eyelids. But for all his quietness and external
obedience, I got the smell of fear. He had been plucked out of his known
environment at the opal mine of whose limitations and rules he would have
been all too well-aware and whose strictures and punishing schedules he
would have known even better. Here at the Lemon Palace, he did not know
the rules and needed to be told everything outside his basic slave centre
training up to that point. I noticed a dribble of sweat coming from his
right pit, edging its way down his side. Yes, a nervous slave, I thought
to myself.

  I had Ben Trant bring me out the slave's dossier. A divorced waiter,
aged thirty one, he had been at the opal mine for two years since Zabian
al-Kibbe himself had purchased him at the slave centre at al-Qatim.

  `What's this sheet?' I asked Greg Logan of a sheet which had dates
and small numbers on it.

  Greg who had been looking into the production and security measures at
the opal mine was more familiar than I with the documentation of the opal
mine.

  `That's the slave's punishment sheet, Master. The mine keeps a date
and stroke list of the number of formal punishments doled out,' taking
the list I had held out, he looked at it and continued `not very much
for two years. Perhaps an average of three stroke of a cane a month. He
was never tasered.'

  `How do you know?'

  `There is no date with a `T' beside it. That punishment is usually
for insubordination or deliberate slowness.'

  `So what you are saying is that the slave obeys and is quick about
it.'

  Greg raised his eyebrows and half-shrugged, and said, `That's about
it, Boss, and nearly got airsick in the helicopter. A first time for him,
I think.'

  `What's this name here? Habib al-Habib?' I asked as the opal mine
dossier had a slightly different to our own at the Palaces.

  `That, Boss, would be his buddy at the mine.'

  `Let's take a look at this Pal. Have him come up.'

  Greg snapped his fingers and Pal Fejes sprang into action and up the
steps of the veranda and took up a position between Greg and myself.

  I beckoned him over and stood up to take a better look at this newest
arrival. He was looking over my shoulder into the middle distance like a
good slave. He had a good all-over tan colour with two small well-pointed
nipples on a chest which had been developed by hard manual work. The lack
of any fat on the slave and his musculature reminded me more of that of a
great cat rather than that of a man.

  I put my hands on the slave's neck on either side of his chin and felt
his shoulder muscles. I worked my way down over his pecs, and let my
thumbs run over his nipples. I always say that the eye can be deceived
but the sense of touch cannot. The skin of the nipples was rough as if
they had been chewed on. When my hand got to the slave's sternum, I
could feel the fast hammering of his heart. Indeed, a frightened slave.
His abs were not well-formed but dipped in a well-formed navel which
perfectly centred on his belly and underneath it down to his
barber-trimmed pubic hair--I noticed the depilation of our two
barbers--at the base of hard stomach muscles.

  It was only when I cupped his genitals that the slave gave a slight
normal male reaction of coming up on the balls of his feet.

  `Easy, boy, easy. I'm just looking at you,' I said, and the sound of
my voice directed at him, seemed to calm his temporary fright. With a
gesture of my hand, I had the slave turn and putting a hand on his back,
I had the slave bend over. He put his feet wide apart himself and clasped
the back of his knees to secure his balance.

  His balls were tight up against his underbody and the ridges of the
skin of his dark coloured scrotum were like those on the back of a conch
shell and surmounting them a thick and heavily veined cock shaft without
any fraenulum at its top crowned by a magnificent rounded mushroom of a
glans head with a deep flange. Even as my thumb passed over the urethra,
I felt the first drop of his precum emerge and bringing a spider-like
filament strand of it to my lips, it tasted sweet. I gave his backside a
smart slap indicating that he should again stand erect, and he
instinctively put his hands behind his neck.

  `So, it's you who found this large opal, is it?' I said to him.

  The slave looked at me at having been addressed and looked quickly
away. He said something unintelligible in what I took to be Hungarian.
His cock was now parallel to the ground and quite stiff. He was
hyperventilating and said something again in mangled English, which
sounded something like `Apolzies not speak well Henglish'.

  I looked at the slave and thought to myself, `Some waiter!'

  The slave's dossier was beside Greg and I said, `Does he speak
anything else?'

  The slave was quick on the uptake, because he immediately said, `Ich
spreche deutsch, mein Herr.'

  At last, we were getting somewhere. I ventured `al-loghah
alaarabiyah?' The slave shook his head. He didn't speak basic Arabic
either which was surprising given that his former buddy was an Arab,
albeit a Moroccan. I was not going to attempt German.

  `Ben!'

  Ben Trant came running. I do believe while I am around particularly at
meal times that Ben is just standing behind doors waiting to be called.

  `Get me either Rolf from the gym or Dieter from the cactus gardens:
whomever you find first. We have a language problem here.'

  Ben Trant sped off in the direction of the nearer cactus gardens.

  It never crossed my mind that any of my slaves at the opal mine might
not have either Arabic or English, the former being the local language
and the latter the international one. Here was a slave who punctured that
pet theory.

  My idea at my Palaces, and it has always worked for me, is that my
slaves speak both languages: English in the morning and Arabic after
midday. If they speak their own native language with another during their
rest time, during sex or in bed, well, that is their own business. But
common working languages in any large Palace and its stables are an
essential.

  `How do they manage at the opal mine, Greg, by way of language?'

  `Fine, Boss. The work requires little or no instruction. Just pointing
on where and what to dig, shovel, shift and move. I have heard
Supervisors there talking languages I have never heard of to slaves who
clearly don't understand the words, but do understand the gestures and
the directions being pointed out. Strange as it may seem, Boss, it does
work in that particular environment.'

  I had sat down again and was watching a bead of precum dangle down from
a strand of seminal fluid emanating from the slave's piss slit.

  Bob Conrad had come out with a pitcher of limejuice and poured me a
glass of it. I motioned to Bob to pour a glass for Greg. Out of the
corner of my eye, I could see the slave looking at the two glasses
two-thirds full of the clouded lime confection already with drops of
condensation forming on the cool glasses.

  Dieter, one of my gardeners, a German, arrived at a canter, with Ben
Trant trailing him fifty metres behind. For a slave so tall and
well-built, Dieter Schaffer moves with balletic grace and with a speed
which belies his size.

  `More exercise needed, eh Ben?'

  `Yes, Master. Dieter runs like a lion.'

  `Dieter, translate for us. This new slave only speaks Hungarian and
German we think. His name is Pal.'

  Dieter positioned himself beside Pal Fejes, and shot off something in
German and got a quick reply.

  `Yes, Master, his name is Pal - Paul in English - and he only speaks
Hungarian and German.'

  `He is a waiter,' I said. `All waiters speak English. Why doesn't
he speak English? Or Arabic, if he has been two years in Dahra?'

  Dieter again spoke to the slave and then, having listened, said
`Master, Paul is from near some place called Sopron on the Austrian
border. His tourists at the restaurant where he worked were Austrian or
German. They only spoke German. He is not sure where Dahra is and he only
knows about twenty words of Arabic.'

  As we were speaking, I noticed something on the slave's left arm and
told him to let me see it.

  Dieter quickly said what I wanted.

  The slave lowered his arm where there were two hearts intertwined on
his forearm. I had not seen the tattoo before until the slave had
slightly shifted position while replying to Dieter.

  `Tell this slave, Dieter, that I am pleased with him for having found
the opal at the mine. He will now work in the vegetable gardens here at
the Lemon Palace.'

  When Dieter was barely finished translating, the slave threw himself at
my feet. Never was an act of proskynesis more quickly and joyously
carried out. I retrieved my hand and the slave went to put my foot on the
back of his neck.

  `Enough. Dieter, tell him enough. Bring him across to the doctors so
that tattoo can be removed and I presume he is going to need dental
care.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  Dieter was about to take the kneeling slave by the elbow, when I said
`Dieter, well done,' and I handed my glass of limejuice to him.

  He looked down at me a second before taking the glass, sipped it and
drank it down in two gulps.

  The slave, Pal, who had been observing this, again dropped to his knees
looked up at Dieter and said something.

  `The slave is asking if he can ask a question, Master.'

  I was looking at the Hungarian slave whose eyes seemed to be focussed
on my ankles. I nodded to Dieter who rumbled off something in three
seconds, and the kneeling slave let fly a stream of softly spoken German.

   `Master, the slave is asking if this is the way of the Palace: you
giving me the lime-juice? That you give a reward for work well done?'

  `Do I, Dieter? What are you going to reply to that, if I don't tell
you an answer?'

  `I will tell the truth, Master. That I have all the food I need for
working hard. Twice the amount, in fact, of everyone else and I sleep in
my Supervisor's bed every night with a blanket to keep warm. And today,
I am drinking from the Master's glass.'

  `He's waiting for that reply,' I said indicating the slave who was
still looking at Dieter, not having understood what he had said.

  Dieter spoke more slowly than before and I got the distinct impression
that the Hungarian slave was about to cry as he said something quickly to
Dieter.

  `He asks, Master, that he be sent back to the opal mine every six
months, so that his buddy there can come and serve you here. I think he
means on some form of rotation. He is not making much sense.'

  `He would go back to let his buddy come here instead of him.'

  `Yes, Master. That is what he is saying.'

  `Tell him that he talks a lot for a slave who is going to be working
in the vegetable gardens.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Rotation? What does he think this Palace is for? For his
convenience?'

  We express our happiness at a performance by applauding and clapping
our hands. It takes two hands to clap and when in love or entwined by the
bonds of friends, two of a kind are needed, two lovers, two buddies, two
partners. This slave was missing his other half.

  The slave obvious heard the tone of the conversation turn in the
veranda air and said something again very quickly to Dieter.

  `Master, he only wishes to serve you. His buddy was with him when he
found whatever he found. He's calling it a stone. He wants to share his
reward with his buddy.'

  I looked at the slave on his knees at my feet. I had not yet made up my
mind fully about him, but I poured out some more limejuice into the glass
that Dieter had just emptied and handed it to the slave whose eyes went
round with the surprise. He took the cut glass crystal from my hand and
closing his eyes for some seconds, he raised the glass to his lips and
drank it in one long draught, carefully putting the glass back on the
table.

  `Over to the medics with him, Dieter.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  As the two departed, I asked Greg, `Well, what do you think?'

  `I think, Boss, you have just found yourself one hard-working
vegetable garden slave.'

  `Amen to that.'



  Masters can and do make mistakes, and I made a mistake, though I did
not realise it at the time. Two of my earliest slaves had been Food and
Drink, two lovable Mehri Arab rogues who had grown up in slavedom in
Dahra and who had never known how sweet the taste of freedom is to free
persons.

  By chance, I had nicknamed them Food and Drink, as one fed me at the
first banquet I attended in Dahra and the other had kept me supplied with
glasses of beverages as needed during the feast. The nick-names were
fortunate because both of them turned out to be cousins of some degree of
consanguinity and both were named Ali.

  In bed and out of it, inside the Palace and outside of it, they were
impish and, if the truth be told, I enjoyed their irreverence to more
formal procedures, their almost constant irritation to Aziz, my then Head
of Household at the Aloe Palace and his formal Palace practices, though
their service and loyalty to me was unquestioned and unquestionable.

  Then I made the mistake some years down the line. I made both of them
Assistant Supervisors to look after different floors of the Lime Palace
when I moved into it. And it really was a big mistake to do so. They were
no longer lovingly impish. They became Supervisory. They became serious.
Deadly serious. Never were duties, apart from those performed by Aziz
al-Aziz, now my Head of Household at the Lime Palace, ever more
diligently and consciously carried out, and without a shred or glimmer of
humour. They seriously supervised, and even chastised, verbally and with
a camel-cane, each and every other slave who was put in their charge for
failing to work up to their high standards learned to their chastised
cost over the years from Aziz.

  I had tried on two occasions to introduce an item of humour when
receiving one of their reports -- they still tended to act in tandem -
only to be looked at as if I were mad. `Duties were duties were duties'
was the clear message from these two poachers turned gamekeepers!



  The nearest I could come now to any sort of impish slave was Terry
Peoples, one of the youngest of my slaves, whom I had purchased from the
al-Shaad boys after they had discovered that he was their late father's
catamite stashed away in a property up north.

  Terry Peoples could brighten a room where electricity or gas would have
failed. His joy was unbounded when I bought his younger brother Luke
whose connection with Terry had been thrown up by the slave centre's
computer at al-Qatim. Luke was happily assigned to the Palace kitchens,
now learning how to make desserts.

  Terry is one of my official body slaves and as he has an absorbent
mind, I assigned him for two days to each of the Overseers so that he
could see what they did and how they served me. Now he was assigned for a
day at a time to each of the Assistant Overseers with a similar brief. In
strictly Banking parlance, he was a `trainee manager'. He just got on
well with so many Overseers and their assistants, all the time taking in
their tasks and duties, that I knew in due course he would be an
invaluable asset as a Supervisor or better in my service.

  When I had bought Luke, I had put in a request for a further special
report from Josh Green, my lawyer and head of investigations based in the
Grand Cayman Island.

  Terry was now always more than attentive. He had been half- following
me around -- always there wherever I turned on my heel to retrace a step.
I had almost upended myself one morning finding him asleep just outside
my bedroom door, waiting for me `just in case'. He was always smiling,
always courteous, always infectiously pleasing. When I smiled at him, he
was deliriously happy. When I addressed a word to him, it was absorbed
like water in the dry desert sand. When I paid him a compliment, he would
blush and not know where to put his hands or how to hold up his head, or
get his coltishly gangling legs to coordinate their step.

  Now as I was reading a report from Greg Logan on the veranda in the
cool of the evening before dinner, Terry was hunkered down beside my
chair. The fingers of my hand were stroking his tanned neck. He was
smiling up at me, pursing his lips, happy at the attention. I stroked the
bottom of his neck's hair line and he tilted his head back against my
fingers. I let my fingers gently massage his scalp. I thought I heard a
purr of contentment.

  `Have you no work to do this evening?'

  `No, Master, all my work is done and now I'm here just to please
you.'

  `Please me?'

  `If you are tired, Master, I can rub your back, or massage your feet,
or lick your toes. Or if you want me to be quiet, I'll be quiet. Or to
go away, I'll go. It's my free time before we all assemble for
dinner.'

  The report across my lap was getting heavier and weightier. I welcomed
the distraction.

  `What did you do today?' I asked.

  `I was with Radek for part of the day, and he assigned me to help the
water guys, and then I swam and did an hour in the gym and then had my
shower. And now, I'm here.'

  `Terry, what am I going to do with you?'

  `Anything you like, Master.'

  `I don't like the sound of that `anything you like' bit. It sounds
too sexy.'

  `It is sexy, Master, and I have eight full years of experience with my
former Master being sexy.'

  `I think I'll settle for a foot massage, Terry.'

  `Okay, Master,' and he settled himself in front of me, slipped off my
sandals, put one foot over the warmth of his young genitals, and my other
foot he put on his thigh which he began to rub in sensuously diminishing
circles.

  All the time, he smiled delicious smiles of pure happiness and
contentment, as he quietly and deftly loosened every foot muscle and
bone, and the soles of my feet conveyed unknown messages to every part of
my body, helped along by many and multiple kisses to the insteps of my
feet. Within the slave's skills as a catamite trained to serve, there
was the joyous gleaming of a genuine grateful disposition. No other slave
could display the truly simply and thankful smiles which came my way any
time I looked at this slave.

  It was an osmosis of empathy. It was a transfer of happiness, so
sensuously done that my eyes were soon closed and the Bank report
forgotten. It is so good to have a slave who knows how to give such a
simple pleasure.

  Greg Logan's assignment at the opal mine was drawing to a close. His
reports were clarity itself. His insights were thoughtful: his
conclusions capable of being defended. I had had Greg look into the use
and deployment of the slaves, and in particular, of those who had been
enslaved after their futilely unsuccessful participation in the
disastrous invasion of Dahra. It was a type of work study or industrial
engineering with its time and motion aspects.

  Greg's insightful comments showed that Zabian al-Kibbe believed in a
reward system. There were small rewards for opals found. He had a reward
for those who avoided any punishment for a month by being put on a
trustee panel of slaves. Getting on the panel was half the problem.
Staying on it was the other half as the trustee, now one step above the
working slave and one step below a Supervisor, ensured that all jobs for
which he was responsible got done and done on time.

  Greg agreed with Zabian's cutting of the work-day by half-an-hour and
the introduction of sex with a buddy of choice as a reward. What Zabian
was doing made sense and improved profits.



  When I finally got my head around the report, I sent Terry to find Greg
for me. Almost reluctantly, he stopped massaging my feet and sped off.
The fountains in the water-gardens were at full play in the later
afternoon sun and I went and I sat under one of the pergolas out of the
burning rays and read aloud one or more of the various brief paragraphs
of Greg's last report from the mine.

  Greg arrived and I pointed to a spot on the bench, and gave him back
the various reports I had finished digesting. I like to think that I read
people well and I could sense that Greg had something on his mind.

  As the last item was finished, I asked, `Now what can I do for you,
Greg?'

  `For me, Boss?'

  `I think you want to ask me for something. It appears that the opal
mine affects people that way.'

  `For me, Boss, I need nothing. But if you allow me to suggest
something which I did not wish to put in the reports, I will.'

  `What suggestion?' I said with a smile.

  `There is a slave there, Boss, a John Finch. He's American and was a
computer programmer. I was just wondering how long he was going to be at
the opal mine?'

  `Do you want him brought here to the Palace?'

  `Yes, Boss, if that is not too inconvenient. He is a good slave.'

  `I know him. He sucks well.'

  `That he does, Boss. Very well.'

  `Does Diego know about him? I thought you mentioned once some Polish
slave.'

  `Yes, Boss, him as well. I told Diego that I had bed companions at the
opal mine while I was there. If John were here, he could find himself a
new buddy, of course.'

  I cocked my head in query.

  `Zabian al-Kibbe assigned me an Overseer's cell to sleep, Boss. And I
am allowed to have one of the comfort slaves after they finish their
service in the staff quarters.'

  `The slaves don't stay with the Supervisors overnight?'

  `No, Boss, never. There are no exceptions to the lockdown rule. They
attend to the mine employees' wishes, sexually and otherwise, and
afterwards each is taken back to the slave section from the employees'
cells.'

  I thought of my own spacious bed on the upper floor of the Lemon
Palace. When was the last time I had slept alone in it? Zabian al-Kibbe
with his small staff of freemen, alone in the Seventh Desert with over
270 slaves, was clearly taking no chances. It was the rigorous
application of security that enabled them to sleep calmly. Trustee slaves
at the mine were delegated authority during the day. At night, everybody
who wore a GPS bracelet, my Overseer Greg Logan included, had to submit
to confinement behind bars.

  `One evening early on it was John Finch who was brought to me,' Greg
continued. `He asked `How may I serve you, sir?' before the manager
had even shut the gate. I was tired and not in the mood for great sexual
feats, so I merely asked `What do you think I need?'

  `John must have seen how tired I was because he offered to give me a
backrub. It was a simple backrub, nothing else. I felt I was being given
one of Klaas's best massages. He would not accept any service from me.
Ever! And no matter how, or how long, he had been used earlier that
evening, every time he was given to me for the night he was eager to do
exactly as I wanted.

  `I asked him once what his greatest wish was and he pointed to the
mine and said "I never want to see that again either when I'm awake or
in my nightmares". He never mentioned it again.'

  'So how long has this John worked at the mine?'

  'Next month it will be three and a half years, Boss. He was chosen to
be a comfort slave after his first year.'

  Greg knows that those of my mine slaves acquired on the open market
work in the heat of the Seventh Desert for five years. If they survive, I
have them transferred to my farm lands. Zabian al-Kibbe, my General
Manager, is in charge of buying newly captured and broken in labour at
al-Mera's and al-Qatim's monthly auctions.

  `Very well Greg. Make a note in this slave's file. He will be
transported to the Palaces with the next batch that Zabian sends up to
me. Then see that he reports to Jens at the computer facility. And
mention it to the General Manager. He might wish to look out for a
replacement pleasure slave among the workforce.'

  `Boss, thank you.'

  `Now, what I really want of you, Greg, is to be my eyes and ears on a
new farm project I'm undertaking. I have a consultant working on it.
David Tuttle will do the design and building. I haven't got the land
yet, but am working on it. You're going to need to have some temporary
help from the slaves here at the three Palaces.'

  `Boss, I'm your man. Whatever you want done, I'm your man.'

  With such enthusiasm, I had not the heart to correct him: for indeed,
he was my slave, and no free man.



  Amin al-Siddih, the eldest son of one of my neighbours, arrived back
for a winter break from his studies in engineering in Cairo. He had
dropped me a very polite note a fortnight prior to his arrival enquiring
if he could come to visit again. I replied that he could and if he wished
that he could overnight. I was expecting guests for a weekend dinner and
would be happy to see Amin among them. For planning purposes, we arranged
that he should drop by prior to his overnight stay so that we could catch
up in private. Among other things, I wanted to sound out his present
range of play and put a suggestion to him.

  When Amin arrived, I invited him to the shade of the veranda, where we
sat enjoying Bob Conrad's lime water. I was curious about his
impressions from Egypt.

  Cairo, where I had headed the Deckams office years previously, had been
my first immersion into Arab culture. As a native of one of the Gulf
states, Amin's experiences were also those of a foreigner so to speak,
but from a different perspective. On the one hand, he loved studying at
his faculty, and in his free time enjoyed the bustling streets of the
metropolis, the Egyptian music scene, the public holidays -- `Cairenes
know how to party!' was his enthusiastic comment. On the other hand, he
was confronted with a city where skyscrapers not unlike Dahra's
architectural trophies alternated with `informal' quarters, dirt poor
and lacking vital infrastructure. The traffic and incessant noise put him
on edge, and the smog depressed him and gave him headaches. `I don't
want our own capital to become like this,' he said.

  Eventually our conversation steered towards the upcoming weekend. I had
once for the benefit of Amin spontaneously converted the Lime Palace
retraining room into a playroom, using its privacy and equipment for a
more or less improvised bout of erotic thrashing. Offering him
hospitality at the Lemon Palace presented interesting possibilities.

  My suggestion arrived in the shape of one Jess Tollman, my American
Overseer and occasional chauffeur whom I had merely instructed to be at
the ready in the vicinity that morning.

  `Remove your clothes and let me take a look at you,' Amin al-Siddih
ordered.

  Jess was out of his shorts in seconds and stood at display before the
young Dahran. Amin eyed his impressive physique and genital endowment
with interest.

  `Yes,' he said with a smile, `I see what you are talking about. May
I ask your slave a few questions?'

  `Please do.'

  `At rest. Your Master tells me that you have a position of trust in
his household. Have you ever broken your Master's confidence? Spoken
about something you were not permitted to speak about?'

  `No, Master,' Jess replied.

  `Have you ever disobeyed Sir Jonathan?'

  Jess's complexion reddened from the shame at the memory. `Yes,
Master, I have.'

  Amin looked at me. `I would need to know about this. Or we can send
the slave away again?'

  `Ask away, Amin. You are a cautious young man and I like that.'

  Amin nodded towards Jess. He listened to Jess's account of his initial
defiance, the breaking of his resistance under my and Greg's
administration of psychological torture, discipline and pain. Then the
tale of Jess's alcohol incident as my driver came to light. Amin heard
the account of his mistake and punishment without making any comment. He
told Jess to get dressed again and to step out of hearing. There was a
silence as Jess stood waiting for further instruction in the courtyard.

  `I can see that you trust this Overseer,' Amin finally said. `And I
trust you. I'm grateful for your idea. But you know that the exploration
of my sexuality makes me vulnerable, in more ways than one. I'll be
happy to accept your Overseer's assistance, under one condition.'

  `And what is that?'

  `I need your promise that if your slave neglects my safety, or
seriously harms me, or speaks to anyone but me or yourself about our
scenes, you will have him muted and sent to your mine for the rest of his
life. If you give me your word and tell your Overseer, I'm game.'

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jess Tollman out in the courtyard
swallow hard.  He had padded into treacherous and dangerous sands.

  Amin al-Siddih is a youth of his times. He has everything a young
Dahran Arab could need. He has looks, intelligence, family, money, and a
good career awaiting him as an engineer when he graduates. His erotic
preferences lean towards masochism and submissiveness, and he is clearly,
if perhaps not exclusively, interested in men. And, unlike me, Amin grew
up in a household with slaves.

  What he lacks in his personal life is the firm hand and presence of a
dominant, knowledgeable, sadistic lover. I do not consider myself totally
capable in that regard. In fact, I was not looking for any long-term
commitment to Amin. But he interested me. I found his curiosity
refreshing, and his smiling offer of sexual submission appealed to me.

  I had previously suggested that he find a dominant whom he could trust.
Apparently, he had found one or two who had occasionally topped him in
private encounters in Cairo but had not entered a long-term relationship
with anyone, or so his notes to me over the university term would seem to
suggest. His experiences had allowed him to get the feel of new toys and
techniques, which he described to me with no mean enthusiasm. Apart from
letting me know that he had been following my advice, my ebullient young
play partner was laying his cards on the table, showing me what lay
within his present limits, so that I could pick and choose ideas for our
next scene.

  I gave Amin the promise he required and having called Jess back in
stated what I had promised. Not without a flicker of trepidation on my
side, because although I do trust Jess, nobody, freeman or slave, is
immune from committing mistakes, Jess's demeanour had been surprisingly
calm.

  `You trust me every time I drive you, Boss. I will do precisely as you
want,' he had pointed out.

  `I see what you mean, Jess. I wasn't thinking of the physical angle
alone though.'

  `I look at it as a service, Boss, just doing what I'm told.'

  `Good. I think we can give Amin a memorable afternoon. You know the
rules. You stay in the room; you are not to leave him unobserved. If my
guest uses his safeword you untie him, find out what's wrong and do as
he says.'

  In a way, Jess was insurance for me. A second pair of eyes and ears in
a situation with which I was unfamiliar, helping me create an enjoyable
experience.



  On Thursday afternoon, Amin, my guest drove into the courtyard. His
overnight bag was taken upstairs by a house slave, and I walked with him
across the courtyard, seemingly in the direction of the water-gardens for
a leisurely stroll. Somehow our steps took us to the door of the
retraining building. We entered its shade. We entered the room from which
no sound ever escapes to the outside, where I found Jess Tollman ready
and waiting.

  `Ah, there you are, Jess. I am giving a small dinner party tonight but
one of my guests has arrived early. I want Amin out of the way for a
while, and maybe he needs some entertainment.'

  `Of course, Boss.'

  `Take off your clothes, Amin. I'll rely on Jess to keep you out of
mischief until I have time for you. You really should have known better
than to disturb me so early in the afternoon.'

  Amin, looking passably contrite, was already shedding his shirt.
Jess's prior instructions from me were clear-cut, to give Amin an enema
as many times as necessary to clean him out and to fix him to the steel
fame. I left the young Dahran to his fate for the present.



  Inaki Ergoitia from the Aloe production facility had prepared his
regular report. Sipping a glass of iced tea, I took my time reviewing the
latest figures and procedures.

  When I had finished reading, I retraced my steps back across the
courtyard. As I opened the door of the retraining room and walked in,
Amin was on the steel frame, his back to me, cuffed wrist and ankle to
its links, arms and legs spread as wide as possible, and his feet firmly
planted on the two sidebar rests. Looking at his skin, so perfectly
smooth and almost translucent in its soft golden sheen, I could see
individual pores and the smallest trail of hairs from the lower middle
back towards the crack in his wide-stretched buttocks. His lack of body
hair, such a feature of youth just out of its teens, gave a vulnerability
to his body.

  I walked around the frame and continued to look at the smoothness of
his skin, a small treasure trail of pure black hair descending to raven
black pubes. I noted with approval the tight black leather cinch around
his balls clearly separating the upper and lower scrotum and forcing
Amin's erection straight out from his body.

  I did not look at his face yet, though I sensed that he craved it. I
raised my right hand and touched Amin's body. He shivered even though
both my hand and the room were warm. It was a shiver of apprehension,
neither of fear nor of climate. I let my hand run down his chest. I had
the impression that he might have been working out in a gym since we had
last met and this skin tone was good and his musculature firm.

  His belly was firm and was sucked in even more than it had been as my
fingers touched its muscled ridges and its navel. I pressed hard on
Amin's navel and he gave a slight grunt. His penis bobbed and I took it
in my hand, feeling his equal hardness and warmth. I let my thumb circle
a number of times under the generous circumcised head and along the raphe
and was rewarded by the sight of the first drop of precum.

  I had used a light multi-tipped leather flogger on the previous
occasion. It was the same instrument I picked up now to deliver a
warm-up. As I stood before him and raised my arm for the first stroke
across his chest, our eyes met. The expression of anticipation, anxiety
and deep desire all wrapped into one gave me the inner confidence to
grant him what he wished. I swung the flogger and struck.

  He graciously took the build-up of lighter, then stronger blows on his
chest and thighs, watching me, sometimes moaning from the impact. I took
care not to brush his genitals, not wishing to send him over the edge
early. With the front of his body slightly glowing, I continued on his
backside; then lay the flogger aside. I felt the black leather cinch and
it was well-buckled on the soft skin of the scrotum between cock and
balls. The assortment of weights I had asked for lay on the sideboard
beside the frame. I slipped the fisheye of the hook on to one of the
small steel rings which circled the leather cinch.

  I looked into his eyes and dropped the weight.

  Although Amin would have seen the weights in plain view on the counter
beside him, laid out before his eyes by Jess, and although he had seen me
take one and felt me attach it to the cinch, as the force of gravity
exercised on the weight and pulled his balls down hard, he gave a
strangled cry.

  We observed for a while, letting Amin come to terms with the pain. He
stared at us, chest heaving, not knowing what was coming next.

  I nodded to Jess. He knelt and released the velcro fastenings on
Amin's ankles. Together we freed his wrists, supporting the armpits on
either side to prevent him from falling in case his legs were too tired
to support him. He made no attempt to reach his aching balls. Slowly, we
eased him down.

  `On your knees. Forearms on the floor.'

  He obeyed, assuming the position on all fours, hands and elbows on the
floor, head lowered. The weight on his scrotum hung at right angles from
his horizontal torso. I selected two long riding crops from the cabinet
of tools and handed one to Jess. I stood behind Amin. Jess walked to the
front.

  `Amin.'

  `Yes?'

  `Look in front of you. What do you see?'

  `Your Overseer's feet.'

  `Kiss them.'

  He hesitated. I swung the crop hard across his buttocks. He cried out
in pain.

  `Kiss them now.'

  He lowered his head and placed a kiss on each of Jess's feet.

  `Again,' I ordered. Another stroke. Another cry. Another kiss.

  `Use your tongue to lave his feet.'

  Again he was slow in obeying. I nodded to Jess. His crop stung across
Amin's shoulders. With a sharp hiss from the impact Amin bent down again
and started licking my slave's right foot.

  `Just keep licking, Amin. Do your best.'

  I tapped my crop between his legs.

  `Knees apart. Wider. I want access to your balls. What you need to
learn, young man, is to pleasure someone with all the gentleness and
skill you can muster while your body screams in pain.'

  The following minutes were no doubt pleasurable for Jess, but agonising
for Amin, whose efforts we rewarded with various more strokes. Jess
targeted his upper back and I used the stingy crop on his upturned bum,
with the occasional detour to his unprotected foot soles.

  `How are you feeling, Amin?' I inquired.

  I tapped his balls, making the weight swing. The answer was an angry
squeal.

  `Well?' I tapped again.

  `Ow! If you must know, I'm feeling horny.'

  `If you come before I allow it, I'll do something really nasty to
you.'

  `Yes... Ow!... may I point out that you are doing something nasty to
me now?'

  `No, you may not. On second thought, Jess, hang another weight on his
balls. You, Amin, stay as you are!'

  Jess crouched down and reached between the young man's thighs. Amin
tensed in anticipation. The muscles on his back showed his struggle to
control himself. The weight dropped and Amin jerked and yelled in pain.

  `Ow! Ow!, why on earth did I say that!'

  `I really have no idea, Amin. I wonder if I could stand listening to
your whining all night.'

  He turned his head and stared at me in outrage.

  `All night? I must be in the hands of a lunatic. I don't know what
jinn hexed me to accept your dinner invitation.'

  I flicked the crop again and watched the weights swing between his
legs, eliciting another squeal.

  `Indeed!'

  Leisurely I swished down on his foot soles a few more times.

  `Do you wish you were back with your friends in Cairo?'

  `Cairo... ah... what? Sorry, I can't think right now...'

  `Never mind.'

  Another stroke with the crop.

  `Raise yourself up on your hands.'

  Another stroke.

  `Good.'

  I struck again.

  `Now lick my Overseer's balls.'

  While Amin did his best to concentrate on the new task, his backside
received more flogging treatment. The weights swung their pendulum arc
between his legs. His balls had changed colour from a light brown
colouring in the scrotum to a dark brown one as the testicles were forced
down by the leather and their blood was caught without ease of full
recirculation.

  Under the circumstances, the young Dahran's performance was
commendable. Encouraged by the tonguing between his legs, Jess's member
firmed up and rose towards the ceiling in all its glory. When I
instructed Amin to stop, he remained in position on his hands and knees.
We stepped away for a moment and deposited the crops. I smiled at Jess
and gave his erection a slight squeeze. He smiled back.

  I stood before my guest. His head was hanging down. His buttocks,
thighs and foot soles were criss-crossed with various reddish lines. His
back, likewise marked with the exception of the kidney area, was rising
and lowering with his heavy breathing.

  I put my hand on his cheek. He raised his head. Sweat beads stood on
his brow.

  `Still okay, Amin?'

  He gazed up at me in silence. And nodded.

  `Say so, and we'll take a breather.'

  I waited. He shook his head and turned slightly to the side to kiss my
palm.

  I took my hand away.

  `Up on your knees. Hands on your back. Higher. Up between your
shoulder blades, and keep them there.'

  I gestured to Jess. He picked up a pair of flat nipple clamps connected
by a thin chain. Amin watched in fascination as Jess approached his
sensitised nipples and slowly, very slowly, opened the first clamp and
released it on its prey. I heard Amin gasp. With deliberate slowness Jess
took hold of the clamp on the other end of the chain, opened it and
captured Amin's other nipple in the biting steel.

  We waited a while letting Amin, as he knelt before us, take in the
pain, the agonising clamps and weights out of his reach merely by chosen
obedience to my command. I went to the sideboard and selected another
weight. This one I hooked to the centre of the nipple chain. Holding
Amin's anxious gaze, I let it fall.

  His face contorted and a groan escaped his lips. He threw his head back
and contracted his shoulders, but his arms remained turned up and away as
ordered. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again, regarding
me with a pleading expression.

  `Now, let me see you bring my slave off, and do it well.'

  On his knees Amin shuffled over to Jess who, hands on his hips,
presented his erect cock. Amin started tonguing and sucking him. I pulled
up a chair and sat down to watch.

  After a while the act turned from a blowjob by one into a facefuck by
the other, because as Jess felt his juices rise, he seized Amin's hair
with both hands and pressed his head down onto his engorged member. Amin
accepted the deep penetrations and swallowed Jess's ejaculations.
Afterwards, still guided by Jess's unyielding grip, he cleaned the
deflated cock with his tongue.

  `Well done,' I applauded from my seated observation post. `Stand up
and turn to me.'

  Slowly Amin lifted himself up from his knees. He balanced awkwardly on
the stinging soles of his feet. The weights still pulled his nipples and
testicles down. His hands remained uncomfortably on his back, as I had
not given permission to take them down. I took my time to survey him from
top to toe.

  Pointing my chin in the direction of the steel frame, I directed `Take
your position in the frame. Jess will strap you in.'

  For several long seconds, Amin merely stared at me in disbelief.

  Then, slowly and slightly bow-legged, the weights painfully dangling,
he walked over. Stood on the footrests, feet spread. Tears welled up in
his eyes as he raised his arms to be bound again in submission to my
will.

  Once he had fixed Amin to the frame, Jess carefully removed all the
weights. Amin moaned as the ball cinch was undone and hissed as the
nipple clamps came off. He did not utter a word, floating in his own
sensations with a dreamy expression on his face.

  I had to be careful not to give him too much now, or I would make him
crash. Having pushed him over the cliff, I needed to guide him to a safe
landing.

  I stood up. I took my instrument of personal choice -- the three-foot
camel cane. As I stood in his line of sight, I took the cane and felt its
balance and movement in my hand as I flicked it up and down making its
tiny whistling sound.

  I came round to his backside and stepped back until the point of the
cane was just over his buttocks. Without further ado, I gave a single
downward stroke to the left buttock. Its oval shape of flesh and muscle
jerked under the impact and Amin screamed. The stroke produced a
pencil-thin weal from the top of the buttock to the top of the left
thigh.

  Standing to one side of the young man, I looked at his penis which was
now fully engorged and leaking precum from its purple head. I positioned
myself again behind Amin and gave the right buttock its stroke. He
screamed in pain again. I added one more on each side. The four weals
appeared beside each other like raked lines in the sand.

  Putting the cane down I motioned Jess over, pointing at Amin's
dripping erection. Jess knelt down and in one fluid movement took the
entire member inside his mouth and down his throat. I stood over the
kneeling slave, embraced Amin with my left arm, grabbed a handful of his
hair in my right, and invaded his mouth with a kiss. Amin trembled as he
gave himself over to the sensations. He let my tongue probe his depths.
He pumped his seed into Jess's offered mouth. The pleasure washed over
him. It was a long and glorious moment.

  When the powerful orgasm had subsided, the hanging figure in my arms
was bathed in perspiration. It was the sweat of full participation in the
sexual act. I held him tight as Jess undid the velcro fastenings that
tied him to the frame.

  Jess washed Amin off in lukewarm water and covered him from neck to toe
in Aloe lotion. We wrapped him in two warm blankets and had him lie down.
He dozed off with his head in my lap. I allowed Jess to put on his shorts
again and go outside to piss. I did not want the disturbance of having
him clean up and stow away the equipment yet, so upon his return he just
remained standing silently at rest by my side.

  Eventually Amin stirred, turned, and opened his eyes. He regarded me
with a beatific smile. The ablutions were repeated and another coat of
soothing lotion was applied. When I suggested that one of the
two-by-three butt-plugs worn during dinner might keep him focussed on
further late-night possibilities, Amin flashed a smile at me again and
opened his legs to let Jess insert the lubricated plug.

  When Amin had dressed and combed his tousled hair, we walked back
across the courtyard. He was reasonably successful in not letting his
gait betray too much of the effect of the crop on his soles, let alone
various other sore parts of his body. He assured me however that a long
promenade around my grounds was not among his plans for the weekend. I
suggested that he go ahead of me into the dining room where my guests
were being offered pre-dinner drinks. I went upstairs to change. I was
looking forward to a drink myself after all that hard work.



  Various other visitors dropped by for dinner. Felipe Arguelles, who had
put in my tennis courts and was making quite a name for himself in sports
installations in Dahra, was a guest, as indeed was Gus Jennings, my
General Manager of the Aloe sunscreen company in the capital city and
David Tuttle, my brother-in-law's nephew, who now works in Dahra
full-time.

  `Where is Alia?' I asked.

  `Gone shopping in Bahrain with her sisters,' Gus said with a grin.

  Gus gets on very well with both Yves and Miraldo on my medical staff
and, when at table, tends to have very long and knowledgeable arguments
about wine with both of them, which to me is surprising for a former
Master Sergeant in the US Army.

  David and Amin were soon engrossed in talking shop and lost me
completely. I did however notice, because I know him well, that my
Canadian maitre d'hotel Bob Conrad seemed to pay particular attention
not only to their needs but also to their conversation. At first this
puzzled me. Then I remembered that Bob had been an engineering student at
the time when he had been lifted and enslaved, cut off from his past and
taken to a future he had no say in any more. What goes on in the minds of
slaves when they recall what slavery has taken from them, I wondered? I
kept my thoughts to myself. Bob kept his thoughts to himself and his eyes
on the serving staff and glasses to fill.

  The dinner was delightful, though Amin fidgeted delightfully to my mind
on his chair somewhat throughout.



  When the last of my guests had retired for the night, I went upstairs
to my suite, Jess Tollman was in attendance again. I sent him to the
bathroom with Amin while I undressed. Coming out again, they immediately
spotted the items I had laid out on the dresser, four pairs of broad
cuffs with two D-rings each and several lengths of chain.

  `So, Amin, ready for the next stage?'

  `Do with me whatever you want,' he offered with an engaging smile.

  I instructed Jess to put cuffs on my guest's wrists and ankles. Jess
knelt behind him and lingeringly worked a large dollop of Aloe cream into
his butt hole. An evening of sitting on a butt-plug and the renewed
stimulation caused Amin's penis to firm up again. Jess, with his legs
apart as he had learned in slave training offered an appealing target. I
fondled, raised and lowered his privates from behind with my foot.

  `Amin, stay where you are. Jess, up and display.'

  He faced me and I laid my fingers into his armpits, feeling his heat
and moisture. Jess smiled as I let my fingers glide over his torso. His
nipples were hard. His chest was smooth and firm.

  The sensations from my play with his genitals, no doubt in combination
with the view of Amin's proffered backside, had worked its arousing
spell on Jess. His circumcised cock rose proudly upwards again, with a
glint of precum from the urethra.

  `Now put those spare cuffs on yourself.'

  Jess's smile wavered and faded, but there was only the slightest hint
of hesitation in his movements as he complied with the order. I placed a
pillow in centre of the bed.

  `Face down.'

  `Yes, Boss.'

  He lay down separating his legs wide and stretching out his arms in
anticipation of my wishes. I chained his ankles and wrists to the bed
frame, and as the last lock clicked shut, I saw a shiver go through his
prostrate body. Amin looked over at Jess, the slave's muscular bulk
spread out on the bed and fastened down, backside raised in the air.

  `Tell me, were you satisfied with Jess today? Or did he do anything
wrong?'

  `Everything was fine. No complaints, quite the contrary.'

  `Come on the bed. You may enter him, but you are not to start fucking
him yet. Then spread your arms and legs.'

  Jess made no sound as Amin gently eased his erection into Jess's back
passage. He lay down very carefully, no doubt trying to avoid pressure on
his sore nipples. As Amin lay on top, darker on fairer, slightly smaller
on taller, I linked their wrist and ankle cuffs together. Amin adjusted
his position. The muscles on his back and thighs played and relaxed as he
settled into the feeling of his bondage. His hole, surrounded by silky
black pubes, lay before me between his opened legs.

  My hand rested on his backside, still marked from the afternoon's
antics.

  `Comfortable?'

  `Mmmm!'

  He tensed as I rubbed his reddish glowing buttocks. I traced the
stripes from the cane and he winced. The chains clinked.

  I ran a finger down the crack and over his butt hole.

  `One stroke on the centre right across your butt hole, Amin, what do
you say?'

  `Please don't! Unless you want to bring me off right now. Please let
me feel you inside me. Look --' he pulled at the restraints, tugging at
Jess's hands and feet, `-- I won't go away until you do!'

  Laughing, I descended onto the pair. Amin's dark well-lubricated
opening bade me welcome, and I delved into its tightness and warmth. The
young man bucked and pressed back against my hips. I put my arms around
the two bodies and dug my hands between Jess's chest and the bed until I
felt his hard nipples between my index and middle fingers. I pressed them
together and heard a soft moan.

  `Jess?'

  `Yes, Boss.'

  `Amin is pleased with you. I am pleased with you. Relax and enjoy.'

  I felt his sigh through Amin's body. Adjusting myself, withdrawing
slightly and pushing in again, I found the angle of Amin's prostate,
making him gasp from the new stimulation. I drew their bodies towards me
in my grip as far as the bonds allowed, withdrew slightly again and
pushed anew. The two fell into the rhythm of my thrusts, Amin accepting
and passing on, Jess accepting and pushing back. Soon we rode the waves
of rising passion together.

  The sensation of physical control sang in my mind and tingled up and
down my spine. Amin's head rested on the back of Jess's neck. His face
was turned sideways, eyes closed, with an expression radiating pleasure.
Eventually, I felt Jess give in to the onslaught and climax, groaning,
followed closely by the young man underneath me. I continued thrusting
hard into Amin, holding onto their prone bodies, until my own point of no
return arrived and I emptied myself into his tightness.

  After resting and relishing their warmth, I untangled myself and rose.
I undid the links that chained them to each other and to the bed, and
told them to remove their cuffs. Jess came to kneel between my legs and
licked my cock clean, then moved over to perform the same service on the
young Dahran.

  `Regretting my dinner invitation, were you?'

  Amin smiled.

  `I can't thank you enough. You have no idea how good it is to know
someone around here who is willing to experiment and does not run away.'

  Jess removed the semen-stained pillow from the bed.

  `Do you mind if Jess sleeps with us?' I asked, wondering briefly
whether Amin al-Siddih's family might have taught him to dismiss body
slaves after use or have them sleep on the floor. He yawned and slipped
underneath the covers next to me.

  `Not at all.'

  I spooned up behind him and relished the feeling of his warm skin
against my skin. He smelled of Aloe lotion.

  Leaning over for a moment, Amin planted a kiss on Jess's lips.

  `You were good,' he said.

  And we slept.

End of Chapter 10

===========

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