Date: Wed, 21 Dec 2005 20:44:25 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 12 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the twelfth 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 12 -- The strange wants

Return to old watering holes for more than water;

friends and dreams are there to meet you.

(African proverb)

  I went out to meet my guests for pre-dinner drinks. If they did not
need one, I did after all the hard work of the day.

  What is life if there are no problems to be overcome? Where is the
merit if everything in life is given to us on a plate? Where is the
enjoyment of success if there is no effort in its achievement?

  I thought about Mustafa ben-Mustafa's interim report on the third
slave I was trying to acquire. The owner of the slave was not interested
in selling the slave in question. He was too rich, too internationally
well-known, too powerful a prince of an Arab family to be tempted with
mere money, even with the doubling of the fair offer.

  But I have found in banking, that almost everyone wants something, many
of which things being totally unrelated to money and power. It is only a
question of finding out what the person really and truly wants and then
and there you will have the solution to your problem.

  Quite simply put, if you cannot attack from the front, you attack from
the rear, and if you cannot attack from the rear, you try a flank. I
always like to think that there are three hundred sixty points on the
compass, and one or more of them invariably can offer an unintended weak
spot.

  It was time to use an alternate plan, and I had asked Josh Green to get
me a report on the Arab prince in question. As the man is internationally
known, I told Josh to avoid the public material, and to have his
investigators concentrate for a week on his private life.

  The report took eight days and made for very interesting reading. Four
wives and various secondary concubine-wives in his own country, an
alleged mistress in Paris -- though he was never seen in public with her,
a stable of thoroughbreds at Longchamps and one in Kentucky, a collection
of Jaguars--the cars, not the animals--said to number forty, and wealth
off the scale. He didn't have a yacht, but did have a modest Lear Jet,
unlike other members of his family who used Jumbo jets. The small Lear
Jet allowed him to refuse family members and wives to come on trips with
him according to the report.

  What did catch my eye was that he was a member, like myself, of Davos;
though I had never seen him at the conferences in Switzerland. He was
also a member of various bodies and clubs in Europe and North America.
But what really caught my eye was that he had been turned down by the
Zeta Club in London of which, along with two other Clubs of which I am a
member and to which I have religiously paid my overseas  membership for
years and years. Normally, I never visit the Zeta Club, let alone dined
there because of its appalling menus, straight out of the eighteenth
century.

  Of course, the prince had been rejected by the Club committee. Only
Englishmen born and bred were allowed to join the Club, with no women
members whatsoever, and definitely no foreigners, though the Welsh were
allowed join in the time of Lloyd George under an amended Club rule.

  The advantages to Club membership were considerable. The address was
prime for the most discrete poste restante; sports facilities all over
the home counties, shoots in Scotland, sea-fishing rights off the Scilly
Isles and fishing rights in two of the best rivers in Ireland, all of
this because an heirless member at the end of the seventeenth century had
the foresight to leave his entire estates to the Club with no strings
attached.

  The Zeta Club enjoyed rather convenient privileges as far as Clubs went
and an initial membership fee of fifty thousand pounds sterling usually
discouraged the financially faint-hearted. The xenophobic element of the
Club had nothing really to do with foreigners at all, as was always
politely pointed out to anyone who might dare enquire. It had been to
keep out the Scottish second cousins of the original benefactor and in
close on three hundred years the policy had not been changed, except for
the Welsh, of course.

  However, information is power, and I knew from a recent meeting of the
Board of Deckams that the Zeta Club, rich in assets, was now short of
cash, and was seeking a ten-year debenture guaranteed by its property. It
would not even allow the word mortgage be mentioned in attempting to
overcome its cash flow difficulties. Face is so important, and not just
for the Japanese.

  Deckhams was considering the request very favourably. Our esteemed
Chairman was, like myself, a member of the Club anyway and had declared,
as indeed I had done myself, his potential conflict of interest.

  I therefore took it upon myself, during the November trip to London, to
contact the Honorary Treasurer whom I knew professionally.

  Over a fine and balanced 1908 vintage port, in his private chambers,
which were twice as large as an entire comfortable London apartment, I
suggested to the Treasurer as an overseas member who always had the
interests of the Zeta Club at heart, and knowing that he might want to
put his hat in the ring at some stage for Club Chairman, that instead of
a debenture to ease the cash-flow, that the foreigners' rule might be
eased.

  At that suggestion, both he and I took large quaffs of the port to
soften that particular blow and I explained my proposition. There would
be no questions of throwing the doors wide open to all and sundry. No
way! But perhaps, five overseas foreign members might be allowed in per
annum. Look at myself, I pointed out. An Englishman, I am not in town
except on twelve occasions per annum. Even if after twenty years, there
were a hundred overseas members, who might come to London a couple of
times a year, there would never be more than two or three in the Club at
any one time!

  And the fees! The fees which the foreign overseas members could produce
for the Club! If a quarter of a million were to be set as an entrance and
twenty thousand a year renewal as for the rest of us, it would be no
problem for the people the Treasurer could pick and choose from abroad.
Of course, such cash flow would give the Honorary Treasurer an
unassailable position were he ever to seek the chair...  I let comment
hang in the air.

  To give my banker friend and fellow Club member his due, he was
nobody's fool, and when he asked me if I could think of anyone who might
be on that initial list of foreign overseas members, I merely placed an
old copy of Time magazine on the table between us, suggesting someone of
the calibre of the face on its front page.

  `Of course, I would merely make an initial contact to the party in
question suggesting that His Highness' second application would not be
turned down, were he to ask for it to be looked at again.'

  We finished our second glass of port and agreed to stay in touch.

  It was ten days later that I took the call from the Club's Honorary
Treasurer at the Bank to inform me that the Zeta Club was now going to
consider five foreign overseas memberships per annum, if the membership
were to be recommended by two members in good standing, at the level of
fees that we had mentioned en passant.

  The Honorary Treasurer said that he would be delighted to second, if I
were to propose His Highness for membership among the Club's first five
overseas members.

  I said that I would personally make the contact, if the Club had no
misgivings. Should my proposition be turned down, it would not make the
Club committee lose face, whereas if they were to approach His Highness
directly, and he to decline, they would, and such rejections invariably
leaked into the public domain!

  Although I placed the call myself to the number given on the Davos
list, His Highness' secretary said he was away for two days on State
business but that the call would be returned. I stressed that it was a
private call on a private matter.

  Three days later, I received the call at the Bank from His Highness and
after brief pleasantries, played my hand as a Zeta Club member, and how I
had suggested His Highness' name as one of the new foreign overseas
members.

  `Your Highness will be aware that this rule is being set aside after
three hundred years to allow membership only to the most significant of
people world-wide and limited to five a year.'

  His Highness did not quibble at the fee structure and in passing
commented that such fees would eliminate the need of any debenture. His
Highness' sources of information were as up-to-date as my own. We both
chuckled at the comment.

  `My thoughts entirely and precisely what I suggested to the Club. So,
if your Highness would like me to propose you, it would be my honour.'

  `Sir Jonathan, please do. The Club is going to maintain its no-women
on the premises rule, I hope.'

  `Absolutely, Your Highness, absolutely.'

  For a man who loved women so much as to marry four of them and
maintained several more of them in a harem in his Palace, he did like
boltholes where he could be left alone to his own devices.

  `Sir Jonathan, this is good news. Now tell me what can I do for you?
There is little I can think of such is the fame and success of your Bank
in making Dahra a financial centre on the Gulf.'

  `There is nothing really of significance, Your Highness, but maybe I
could have my agent contact your Head of Household at some point. Just a
thought.'

  `My Head of Household? And your agent's name would be?'

  `A Mr. Mustafa ben-Mustafa.'

  `Of the House of Mustafa in Dahra?'

  `Indeed, Your Highness, the same man.'

  There was a momentary silence on the line.

  `Would the House of Mustafa mention the name of some property to my
Head of Household?'

  `If that were appropriate, a single name, Your Highness. Only if it
were appropriate.'

  `You can tell me that name now, if you wish, Sir Jonathan.'

  `Jake Peoples, Your Highness.'

  There was a moment's silence and then His Highness said `...who would
be in your employ in Dahra?'

  `Indeed, Your Highness. Long-term.'

  `Sir Jonathan, I must go now. I am being called. Leave this matter to
me. I look forward to having my membership of the Zeta Club approved. We
should keep in touch. Davos next year, perhaps?'

  `Indeed, Your Highness. A distinct possibility.'

  And the satellite line went dead.

  Two days later, the Zeta Club had its first overseas foreign member and
I read a three line press release in the London Times to that effect.

  Three days later, a cargo plane landed in Dahra's capital city with a
special and urgent delivery for the House of Mustafa. Diplomatic markings
on the container ensured no inspection and express delivery to the deep
sea port.

  Four days later, I took another trip down to al-Mera.

  `Sir Jonathan, I am delighted that the House of Mustafa can be of
service again to you. We are honoured that you would entrust us with a
delivery from His Highness.'

  `Your reputation has preceded you, Mustafa, His Highness did not need
me to tell him of the House of Mustafa.'

  The owner of the slave centre positively beamed and bowed deeply with
pleasure as he indicated an armchair.

  `Some refreshments' he murmured, and before I could say anything,
some savoury sweetmeats and iced-tea were being served together with a
plate of the small dates for which the Dahran foothills are renowned.

  `Your General Manager, Zabian al-Kibbe, bought two good well-built
worker slaves from us last week, just after your last visit. I am sure
they will last you a long time at the opal mine, Sir Jonathan.'

  `I was not aware of the purchase, Mustafa, Zabian has his own shop to
run.'

  `Just like Mr. Jennings in the capital city, who alas has no need of
our services!'

  `Quite so, Mustafa. All his production staff are at the Aloe Palace.
He has only local secretarial and marketing staff at the city office. How
is our most recent arrival?' I said changing the subject to the matter
in hand.

  `A beautiful slave in every way, Sir Jonathan. Quiet, well-trained, a
delight to work with.'

  `The other slave is also doing well?'

  `More than well, Sir Jonathan, very well in fact. Our vet has looked
in on him each day. We have had a number of consignments in recently so
he has been here. There is no extra expense for you in this.'

  `And his surgery? The doctor told me it went very well.'

  `I am told that the various perforations are healing visibly day by
day, and the prosthesis in his throat is actually working quite well even
after these few days. He is learning how to pronounce words again.
Knowing your interest, I have actually spoken with him myself. He is
doing well on all fronts, as you say.'

  `Let me know when he is fully recovered from his operations.'

  `Yes, indeed, Sir Jonathan; that I shall do.'

  I am quite convinced that the Fates do conspire at times to enjoy
themselves at our expense. There are weeks when the most humdrum of life
unfolds with boring regularity and then all of a sudden there are bursts
of activity which keep you on the balls of your feet and the edge of your
seat.

  So it was in December. My old geography schoolteacher at St.
Timothy's, Graham Hodson, a keen amateur gardener, sent me the first of
his reports from Italy on the new product that I was thinking of planting
as a crop on the farms. I read the report a couple of times with its one
page summary and very comprehensive detailed analysis. In essence, where
there were good soil and abundant water, the crop I was envisaging once
planted would last all of thirty years, producing fructiferously every
single year.

  His next report promised from China the second largest producer of the
crop in the world was to give the types or varieties of plant best suited
to the Dahran climate. Graham put in a line saying that he was going `to
the ends of the earth' to get his facts and remembering his exactness in
class, I was assured that he was!

  However, I was still missing two key ingredients for an economic
success to be made of this project; that these were sufficient land and
sufficient slaves. On the question of land, I was already the owner of
various thousands of acres of reclaimed desert land which surround the
Palaces. There is nothing wrong with desert land that water, fertilizer
and good tillage cannot remedy. But the lands I already owned were
already cultivated producing Aloe plants and a variety of crops of
vegetables to almost maximum capacity due to the free labour of a
well-trained slave force.

  If I were to expand into a new line, I would need more of both. This
was at the back of my mind as I read Graham's concise and precise
report. In having met Graham again after all these years, I realised how
important friendship was, and though our original friendship was merely
that of master and pupil, I trusted that it would increase and mature as
we got to know each other better in our new business relationship.

  For the previous number of months, I had one of my Overseer slaves,
Greg Logan, down at my opal mine in the Seventh Desert analysing
production methods, but also to keep close tabs on a bunch of slaves,
former mercenaries who have come into my ownership. The object of this
particular exercise was to see what I could learn from the mine's
production methods and, at the same time, see how the breaking and
work-training of these slaves was getting on. Greg's written reports,
brief and all that they were, and his weekend breakfast-time verbal
reports delivered to me on his knees as I ate my breakfast were always
very enjoyable.

  On the one hand, I did enjoy on occasion making the former commando
sweat as I cross-examined him on the details of his comments, and on the
other hand, it pleased me to keep his substantial penis half-tumescent as
I did so. I tried not to let him forget that I hand personally broken him
into my service, and I thought that now as he served me on this project,
he was all the time trying to improve his performance knowing full well
that if he did not, he would be back on normal farm production here at
the Palace.

  I am reasonably confident that no other slave could produce the results
that he does, and I allowed him the pleasure of the company of a quiet
submissive Spanish slave, Juan Luis, so that he could vent any
unsatisfied urges on the slave each weekend.

  I remember asking Greg if he did not avail of the `comfort slaves' at
the opal mine, and while he said he did, he also said that he preferred
coming back to Juan Luis, whom I think he knew worshipped the ground that
his `Gregorio' walked upon.

  `Have you anything to add to your report, Greg?'

  `No, Boss'.

  `Has Juan Luis not attended to your early morning erection?'

  `Not yet, Boss. He knows that I have to speak with you, and he insists
that I look my best for you. If I don't come here and now, and I can
tell you, Boss, it is not easy holding back the way your toes have been
touching my balls, Juan Luis will definitely look after me when I get
back to our room.'

  It is my rule in the Palaces that each slave must come each morning, by
either being sucked off or jacked off by a buddy, but not by himself, or
if the slave so wishes, he can give his buddy an early morning fuck.

  A slave that has his daily food and work is a slave with a modicum of
dignity, small and all that such may be. A slave that obligatorily gets
his rocks off twice a day is one happy and submissive slave and any level
of aggression in his behaviour soon drops towards the y axis on any
graph.

  Some people make the mistake thinking that I, the Master, know all my
slaves. I do not. Owning over a thousand of them, I would know a hundred
or so by name at my Palaces and a mere handful at the opal mine. This
fact surprised one of my neighbours at whose home I was dining one
evening, reciprocating one of the many dinner invitations I have to meet
socially. I was surprised to hear from him that he did not know more than
eight or ten of his own slaves by name, admittedly he only owned a
hundred or so.

  It made me realise that my own slaves are more than just the mere
property they constitute in Dahran law. Many are important wheels within
the wheels of my Palaces, and its associated farms and my businesses.
However, for the majority of them, they are the labourers who make my
various farms and mine productive, and profitably so.

  I had kept Pal Fejes's file on my desk for some unknown reason. He was
the slave who had found a very large opal bearing rock. I still had not
heard back from the House of Gems as to how their handing of the rock was
going. But all things come to those who stand and wait!

  I was flicking through its pages knowing that I had formerly thought of
something which had then gone out of my mind. Flicking through the pages
would bring it back to me and so it did.

  I tapped twice the side of the glass of water on my desk with a Toledo
blade paperknife.

  Ben Trant, whose call sign it was, was at my side immediately.

  `The file on Habib al-Habib. He is a slave at the opal mine.'

  `Yes, Master, immediately,' and my secretary turned on his heel and
disappeared.

  While I do not keep extensive notes on the opal mine slaves at the
Palace, I do nevertheless have a summary file on each.

  I still had not collected my thoughts fully before my secretary was
kneeling at my side with the file on Habib al-Habib.

  I gave no sign of dismissal to Ben and he stayed kneeling at the side
of my chair. He is the one slave who always loves to be on the inside
track of things -- for my better service, he says, of course.

  Habib's photographs revealed the physical splendour of a thirty-five
year old Moroccan basket-weaver who had been enslaved for car theft. I
could not understand why he had not lost a right hand as might be
expected of local culture and custom, but then again, I am neither an
expert on the intricacies or the simplicity of Dahran criminal law.

  His circumcised male endowment was thick and long, its head a slightly
lighter colour than the rest of the shaft. His oval face appeared serene
and I wondered whether this was before or after his fate as a slave had
been revealed to him.

  I thought his name, Habib, was hardly appropriate meaning `the gift of
the beloved one'.

  `What do you think of this slave, Ben?'

  I know that Ben Trant has read all the dossiers of the slaves I own. At
first, I thought it might have been just out of curiosity, but Ben has
said one day that he needed to know all the contents of the documents at
the Palace if he were to be able to serve me properly as my secretary.
This over time had proven a great advantage. Ben's second great
advantage was that he never told a lie so far in his life.

  `He was a good worker at the mine from what is in the file, Master;
more than that I do not know. He is also the buddy of Pal Fejes who is
now here at the Palace.'

  `Do you know of Zabian al-Kibbe's reward system for those who find a
large opal?'

  `No, Master.'

  `They can have either a day off or extra food. Pal Fejes found an opal
and he asked for extra food. Why do you think?'

  `Because, Master, he could not share a day off with his buddy, but he
could share food,' Ben said.

  `That is what I am thinking as well.'

  `It is what I would have done, Master, in the circumstances.'

  `Circumstances?'

  `If Gianni and I were at the opal mine, Master, I would want to share
any extra food with him.'

  `You love him that much?'

  `Yes, Master. He is the light of my life,' he said softly.

  `What does Gianni say to that?'

  `I don't have to put it into words. Nor does he, Master. We think
alike. He knows how to love me like no one has ever done before. I cannot
love him as much as he loves me. His technique is better than mine. His
words and touch softer; his kisses lighter. You, Master, I serve and I am
grateful to you for giving me Gianni as my buddy. I think I know
precisely what Pal Fejes was doing.'

  `You're grateful because Gianni is gay?'

  `Grateful, Master, because Gianni is Gianni. Gay is only part of it.
He is my other half an orange as the Spanish say. It takes two of us to
be one. Although I am three years younger in age than he is, Master, I am
older than him in many ways.'

  `Is he always afraid?'

  `Yes, Master. Always. He is totally insecure. That's what I saw the
very first day I saw him in your study in the Lime Palace. I think you
may think that I knew he was gay then. I did not. Maybe I suspected it. I
don't know. I only knew that he was terrified and nobody should ever be
that afraid.'

  `What is he afraid of now?'

  `Any number of things, Master; that we will be separated; that he or I
will be sold by you; that he won't please you or me or make some
mistake; that he will be punished so hard that he would not be able to
bear it. You name it, Master, the list goes on and on.'

  `I wonder how he ever was a car salesman,' I half-said to myself.

  `Car salesman? Master. No, he was a fashion model. His good looks sold
cars, and as a joke anytime anyone asked him what he was he used say or
put down `car salesman' as his looks sold cars.'

  `Well, then, update his file; because he's down as a former car
salesman.'

  `Yes, Master. Sorry about that. I should have brought it to your
attention.'

  `Yes, Ben, you should have. Are there any other errors you know of in
the slave files that you haven't told me about?'

  Ben did not have to answer as I could see the blush rising on his face.

  `Bring those files to me tomorrow and tell me what has to be
corrected. Also bring a camel cane and for every mistake in the files
Gianni will get a stroke.'

  `Master, please. Gianni would know nothing of the mistakes in the
files. Give me two strokes for every mistake, but please don't hurt,
Gianni. Please, Master.'

  `You would take a punishment instead of Gianni.'

  `Yes, Master, any day! Any day!'

  Such is love I thought to myself.

  `Okay, bring the files tomorrow and bring a camel-cane as well, just
in case I am in a mood.'

  `Thank you, Master. I will never allow omissions or lack of
corrections to occur again in the files.'

  I looked at Ben Trant and thought to myself how little we can know
those who are around us daily and serve us, and what their lives and
loves truly are. I also thought that most likely he would be up all night
revising the files for errors.

  I penned a handwritten note to Zabian al-Kibee to have Habib al-Habib
transferred to the Lemon Palace. True loves such as Pal Fejes and his
lover should not be separated for too long even as disparate a love
between this Hungarian and his Moroccan.

  It was not yet eight o'clock and the morning was moving well.

  It either takes a great lot or very little to make people happy, and
those who have that great lot, in my experience, are more like to be
unhappy sooner rather than later. It is the very little which makes
people happy that is intriguing for me. Geoff Masters is a case in
point--a millionaire who gave it all away to me, save for some millions
to his children, in order be my slave.

  There are numbers of slaves who just live for their buddies such as
Georgi and Dieter in the cactus gardens; Marko and Flavio in the
kitchens; Randy and Dr. Fournier thought they are in a relationship of
service and not of sex; Ben and Gianni in my office; Basili and Igor in
the gardens who are content with each other; Tony Sert and my second
doctor, Miraldo Coelho, to remember but a few names.

  In my own case, I can say without fear of contradiction that though in
theory all my slaves are there to serve me, I could list on two hands
those who really love me for reasons all their own, my simple Abdul, my
devoted Terry Peoples or Food and Drink who are now Supervisors.

  Other slaves may serve me and others fear me for what I might do to
them, and these I believe in my heart of hearts are the majority of those
whose names I do not even know and many of those whose names I can
remember .

  While some might think that slaves have dull lives that can be true. I
am sure that many slaves find their lives at my Palaces and on my farms
boring, but many are truly interested in what they do, and being
interested, they perform far better than any paid employee. Jens in
charge of the computers springs to mind, as does Diego who looks after
the solar panels, or Al Vine down at the `fertilizer production units'
as he euphemistically refers to them, or Stan Mercer in charge of the
buildings on my lands and the irrigation of the fields.

  However, one thing is certain and that is they have not lost their
sense of humour and frequently jokes do the rounds which invariably end
up being repeated at my dinner table.

  When duty calls,  I go.

  Vitali Belov and his co-trainer Ivan Sorovich from the fourth compound
met me at the gate of their compound. I had been asked to attend. The
reason was clear. Two slaves, with perspiration steaming off them stood
to the side of the compound. They had been put through two five kilometre
runs one after the other. They had been in this particular compound for
two full weeks and they had not broken.

  `Master, I regret to say that these two slaves of Master Gustav's are
still here in the compound and neither Ivan nor I can recommend that they
move to another compound. Neither Bjorn Persson nor Olaf Svensson are
broken as the others have broken. We can increase what we are doing, but
there is the likelihood that we would permanently damage Master Gustav's
property. That is why Ivan and I want your advice. We have spoken with
the trainers of the other compounds and they said the same -- to seek
your advice.'

  Vitali hesitated a moment and then he continued and said, `Ivan and I
are also offering our resignations, Master, as trainers of this compound.
We would ask you to have us do something where we can please you more.'

  I looked at the very talented Russian slave who had spoken and then at
Ivan.

  `There will be no resignations over these two,' I said nodding at the
two slaves who had now fallen to their knees as they recovered their
breath after their forced double run. `You have brought them to the
right point of their training.'

  `We have, Master?' Ivan said questioningly.

  `Have the two slaves come over here.' I said to Vitali.

  Vitali shouted a command and the two slaves rose to their feet
half-supporting each other. They would have been in training since early
morning. On coming over, the two went `on display'.

  `Well, Olaf, Bjorn, I see that you are still here in the compound
after two weeks. Well, it is now over. Neither of you apparently has
offered your loyalty to your Master Gustav. That will soon be behind
you.'

  The two slaves had their eyes boring into my face. I could feel the
wariness behind their gazes.

  `Last night, I spoke with your Master. He does not wish to have you in
his service any more and has agreed to sell you both to me. Tomorrow, you
will start your new life working for me as slaves on two of the
water-wheels in the gardens. Do you understand?'

  There was no immediate reply.

  `Do you understand what I am saying?'

  Olaf answered, `Yes, sir' and Bjorn replied, `Yes, Sir Jonathan' --
always the polite one to the very end it seemed.

  `After tonight, I will not speak to either of you again, but once
every three months, I will go to the water-wheel to which you will be
chained. If you have anything to say to me, that will be alright. I will
be back there every three months to hear if you offer me your loyalty,
but I will not speak to you. So it will be until I hear the words that
recognise me as your new owner and Master, and that you are willing to
serve me in any way I choose.'

  I was about to turn to my Supervisors Vitali and Ivan to give them
instructions about these two annoying slaves whose training had been
dragging on far too much, when Bjorn sank to his knees and said,
`Master, I am sorry; so very sorry for everything. I accept any
punishment you want to give me.'

  I looked at him, his head downcast, his shoulders bunched in dejection,
his hands hanging by his sides. Olaf started to shout something
unintelligible at him in Swedish, but was cut off as Bjorn looked up at
him and in a voice which carried around the courtyard said, `Olaf, for
once, just for once, shut up! The whole issue is lost. Accept that and
accept that Sir Jonathan is now our master' and he pointed to spot on
the courtyard ground beside him. `If you have any respect or love for
me, kneel!'

  I stood transfixed in amazement. I had put a proposition to Gustav and
had offered to buy the two slaves from him. I had planned originally to
leave them in the compounds, particularly if common sense and reason
failed on their part.

  In that situation, two things could have happened, the first being that
they would be broken physically and I could certainly order that. The
physical breaking in the compounds takes two forms, one of not being able
to perform better despite punishment, the frustration arising out of it
and finally, the begging in so many and varied fashions of the
Supervisors to stop. This can happen in any of the compounds, but more
likely in the latter ones.

  The second type of physical breaking was just that. Any body when
stretched beyond its physical limits simply breaks. The one case I
remembered was a twisted ankle which the slave would not acknowledge,
resulting in a serious fall which effectively broke the ankle and which
Dr. Fournier told me would never properly set.

  But more dangerous than the physical breaking of a slave is the mental
breaking of a slave where he goes berserk and attempts to attack a
Supervisor, or at the other end of the scale goes into an inward
depression and melancholy.

  A second aspect of a mental breaking could be a paranoia setting in
against the Master and that is the most dangerous of the lot.

  I now looked at Bjorn and wondered how much was real here and how much
was show. Olaf was standing stock still, clearly shocked by Bjorn's act
of servitude.

  When I had offered to purchase both of them from Gustav, I felt that
Olaf and Bjorn could well be heading for a category of paranoia against
Gustav, their former friend and in the case of Bjorn, his former lover,
if this lack of obedience were allowed to go on. Gustav had closed his
eyes as I made him my offer and he said, `all good things come to an
end. They are yours, Jonathan. Do with them what you wish. I never
thought that I would say such a thing, particularly about Bjorn. If he
does not acknowledge me as his Master at this stage, I do not want him in
my household; the same for Olaf.'

  To seal the deal with Gustav I had ordered Bob bring us a good bottle
of vintage port and offered Gustav a glass.

  `I shall have a cheque dropped up to the Aloe in the morning for the
two of them. It is best to keep this as on a commercial footing.'

  Slowly Olaf also sank to his knees on the precise spot indicated by
Bjorn's finger, half-glancing at the kneeling Swede. His eyes were on
the ground.

  I stepped over to him and put a finger under his chin, until he was
looking me in the eye.

  `I am your new Master from today.'

  I let the words sink in.

  `I said I am your new Master from today.'

  He took my hand from under his chin and brought his lips down and
kissed the back of my hand.

  `Yes, Master. I am your slave.'

  I stepped sideways to Bjorn and repeated the formula once. He too
responded `Yes, Master. I am your slave.'

  I turned to Ivan who was carrying a short camel-cane.

  `Give it to Olaf.'

  `My first order to you, Olaf, is to give Bjorn here ten strokes across
his back. Do it now.'

  I was surprised at how quickly the slave got up and took the cane. I
was just as surprised at the way he steeled himself, closed his eyes,
opened them again, and gave his friend and fellow Swede ten good strokes
of the cane.

  Bjorn's entire frame shuddered as the ten strokes landed on his
shoulders and back, and at one point, I thought that he would pitch
forward in a faint, but he did not.

  Olaf was panting when he had finished delivering the punitive strokes.

  `On your knees.'

  He dropped to the sand and I nodded to Ivan to take the cane back from
him.

  `Bjorn, my first order to you is to give Olaf here, ten strokes,' and
I nodded to Ivan to pass over the camel cane.

  Bjorn did not delay as if all the pent-up anger and frustration at his
friend had spilled over a dam, he quite literally flogged the back of the
head of the Swedish insurrection of slaves. It was the lancing of a boil,
because the eruption of anger happened and then evaporated. There were
tears in his eyes and spittle coming out of the side of his mouth, and
such was the force of the last three strokes that Olaf fell forward and
had had to support himself on his clenched fists.

  I let the punishment hang in air for ten seconds.

  `Up. At rest.'

  When the slaves were standing before me, I said `you will be assigned
work in two of the kofilas and at the end of thirty days I shall see if
you merit a necklace.'

  There was a double `Thank you, Master.'

  Both pain and relief were clearly painted in their faces. Their
capitulation had spared them the misery of being chained indefinitely to
a solitary water-wheel.

  I give a gold necklace to each of my slaves at the end of thirty days'
ownership if they have been working hard and obeying the rules of the
Palace. I felt it best in this circumstance to give the two punished
slaves something to look forward to.

  `Do you know where to find the Head of Stables, Dumi Bod?' I asked
them.

  `Yes, Master,' Olaf said.

  `Well, off you go. You do not need to be led. Get on with your new
lives. Put the past behind you. It does no good to dwell on it. Thirty
days.'

  I thought to myself that it was the best of possible decisions in their
regard. Their knee had been forced in training. It had not been forced to
the utmost point of bending. I was giving them the opportunity of serving
me if not initially willing, then at least well.

  I thanked both Vitali and Ivan for all the work they had done in
bringing both slaves to the point where all I had to do was talk to the
slaves.

  `And no resignations accepted.'

  The two supervisors smiled sheepishly and kissed the back of my hand in
Russian fashion.

  As I started to walk back to the Palace, I bumped into Todd Allen one
of the farm Overseers heading in the opposite direction.

  `Master, what brings you here at this time of afternoon?' he blurted
out. His surprise at seeing me excused the lack of slave protocol.

  `Just a small problem in one of the compounds being sorted out,
Todd.'

  `Ah, the two Swedes?'

  `There are no secrets here it appears.'

  `I believe that they are being very pig-headed about a situation which
Master Gustav cannot change now.'

  `I think that it now has changed, Todd. And what are you doing?'

  He held up a piece of heavy plastic pipe tubing.

  `One of the slaves hit an irrigation angle when digging and it's
leaking. It happens from time to time. The pipes are only eight to ten
inches under the ground.'

  Todd Allen is the Supervisor who looks after the vegetable deliveries
every morning along with Abdul, my most loving of slaves.

  `I see your morning deliveries are running very smoothly.'

  `Yes, Master. Five full trucks every morning. Over twenty five tons of
vegetables every day. It's not bad going.'

  These deliveries of fresh garden produce were producing some two
million euro in the markets of Dahra every month.

  `Is this farm Supervisory work not too much, Todd? What do you need to
improve on the deliveries.'

  `No, Master, the early morning deliveries are relaxation out in the
air. If things have to be done for the next morning's deliveries, I can
always delegate what I am doing in the field.'

  I looked at the former American lorry driver whom the Fates had placed
in my life those years before. Never once had he let me down as my slave
and he had adjusted to life as a slave very well, and I for my part
through the Buddy Foundation had helped his family back home and would
continue to do so.

  As Todd and I approached the two lines of slaves who were working on
some rows of vegetables, one was facing away from us and as we approached
I was spotted and one of the slaves shouted, `Look, the Master,' at
which all dropped to the knees as was proper for an act of obeisance to
their Master on the first time they would see me during the day.

  Two stood at display, obviously having seen me somewhere during the
day, but another with his back to Todd and myself, started to shout at
the others, `I'm not falling for that again. You all fooled me twice,
but not again. Ya-ya-ye-ya-ya!' and he did some sort of little dance
facing his fellow slaves.

  I looked at Todd who was trying hard not to laugh out loud. I was now
just two paces behind the slave and I went and tapped him on the shoulder
and said, `Pray tell me, what foreign language is `Ya-ya-ye-ya-ya'?'

  Even the slaves on the ground in obeisance burst out laughing as the
luckless and unfortunate slave whirled round and saw me not six inches
from his nose.

  `Waaagh!' seemed to be the cry from his lips as he dropped like a
stone to the ground.

  `I think, Todd, that this was a case of someone having cried `wolf'
too often.'

  `Or perhaps, Master, I think a case of the biter being bitten.'

  I poked the slave with my shoe.

  `Up,' and to the others `at display'.

  The slave rose and I could see him trembling. I think he was one of the
Slav slaves which I had bought in a batch at one point.

  `You seem to have time for jokes around here, it would appear?'

  The slave looked at Todd for help.

  `Yes, Master. No, Master.'

  `Well, which is it?'

  The slave appeared even more confused.

  `I think your friends have finally caught you out.'

  By the looks on the faces of the slaves `at display', they were
hugely enjoying their companion's discomfort.

  `Tonight, your friends and workers will sit in the courtyard and you
will bring them their soup. Understood.'

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

  `Now back to work.'

  `Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

  As he resumed his place in the kofila, Todd said to my ear, `Actually,
Master, he is not a bad worker at all. He has like many of the others a
very simple sense of humour.'

  `And good Arabic, I notice as well.'

  `That as well, Master.'

End of Chapter 12

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