Date: Thu, 12 Feb 2004 16:18:17 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Way - Chapter 16 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the sixteenth chapter ex twenty two of a novel about slavery and
gay sex.

Keywords: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training,
submission, gay, sex

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

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The Dahran Way

Chapter 16      The importance of reward and punishment

                Niko Ziel

 Upon the arrival of a new batch of slaves at the Lemon Palace, I give my
little speech. I am well-known for it and I know it off now by heart. I
can actually remember the first time I gave it.

 We were standing in the first compound. The five slaves had arrived and
were about to be settled into a ritual of training.

 They had had their waist-handcuffs restraints removed and under the
direction of their minders had been shit, showered, douched and had their
hair trimmed in the style of the Palace. They had been cleaned up,
watered, fed and liberally coated with Aloe milk-sap against the Dahran
sun.

 Rob Kuiper and Niko Ziel, the overall joint-trainers in charge of the
compounds, had the five slaves lined up. Niko looked over at me and I
took my cue.

 `Today is the first day of your life in my service and of your
training. You are here to please me, nothing else, and in time, strange
as it may seem to you now, you will please me, doing useful work -- work,
which you will get to like.'

 At this point, I paused to let my words sink in and the translators
catch up.

 `I have seen your criminal histories and they do not interest me. Here
in my hand' -- and I held up a sheet of paper -- `is a blank sheet of
paper. That goes on top of your criminal record. Your record will never
be referred to again.'

 `You now have a clean sheet in this Palace. If you wish you can even
change your name and whatever name you chose, will be your new name.'

 `Serve me. Serve me well, Keep your sheet clean and you will enjoy my
pleasure. If you do not serve me well, you still have each one ball left
to offer me.'

 I waited again for the translators to get the speech across. They too
would soon know it off by heart.

 It is very difficult to be silent. It is very difficult to keep silent.
Slaves are no different. In starting the techniques, they are told to
keep silent, once. Just once.

 Invariably, someone says something. It has never been otherwise. There
is always either someone, who is wilful or a wise guy.

 The very first day I gave what, in time, would be my set speech was no
different. One of the slaves, the Serb, said something. It could have
been a swear word, a curse; whatever; it was heard clearly.

 I could see from my angle that the Serb slave was surprised when Rob
Kuiper walked over and beckoned him out of line to follow to a
low-trestled vaulting-horse type apparatus in the centre of the compound.

 The proverbial pin could be heard to drop.

 Rob pointed to a spot beside the vaulting horse. Niko went to the other
side of the vaulting horse and indicated to the Serb to come forward to
the apparatus. Holding his index and middle fingers aloof for all to see,
something akin to a victory signal, Niko reached forward over the
apparatus and putting these two fingers on the Serb's right shoulder,
pulled him forward over the apparatus, his bum facing his comrades, his
arms half supporting himself on the apparatus.

 The inferences were clear. The overseer did not need to use more than
two fingers -- minimal force -to get the slave to obey and secondly, the
Serb, had he wished or dared, had the freedom not to comply at all. He
chose to comply.

 In the meantime, Niko had walked over to one of the walls of the
compound and took down a four- foot camel-cane, a vicious instrument on a
good day. A bloodily cruel one, on a bad day.

 Niko held up his left hand to the four remaining slaves displaying five
spread fingers. He stood to one side of the vaulting horse and when the
Serb slave looked at him, he repeated the five finger gesture and before
the eye could follow, had delivered the first of a full-blooded cut of
the camel-cane across the Serb exposed buttocks.

 The Serb roared with the pain and roared a further four times in quick
succession though the last two were more strangled than full bodied roars
-- to be left breathing very heavily over the apparatus as the pain of
the caning was absorbed by his body. It was to the credit of the Serb
that he did not try to move off the vaulting horse. Had he done so, the
punishment would have been repeated from the start every time he would
move off it.

 What was evident to myself and the trainers was that my five new slaves
had been introduced by expert hands at al-Qatim to the basics of slave
punishment as applied in Dahra. They had learned during their initial
stay at the seaport to take up a required position when commanded and to
endure punishment without attempting to avoid it -- and probably learned
it at the cost of many a stroke. Above all, they had learned the painful
lesson that any violent resistance on their sides would be met with the
harshest punishment. And like the sword of Damocles, I had the threat of
total castration hanging over their heads. I was grateful to Ahmed
al-Atti and his assistants for their initial breaking of the prisoner
slaves, which saved my trainers many a headache and let them concentrate
on turning stunned and passive slaves into able-bodied, hard-working and
submissive slaves..

 Rob walked back to the wall and replaced the camel-cane and returning to
the Serb slave, ran his hand down the perspiring back of the slave and
over the five red zebra-like weals on the slave's buttocks. He held up
his hand again in silence and smacked it down hard on the Serb's
buttocks. The Serb bounced up straight.

 A punishment had been carried out when an infringement had occurred. Its
meaning was not lost on any of the other slaves. No nonsense, or else!

 The first day of training had begun well. The heavy breathing of the
Serb slave was the loudest noise in absolute silence reigning in the
compound.

 Niko then motioned the five slaves over to a large table in the centre
of the compound. Standing upright on top of it were several of the
smallest size of butt-plugs I had purchased at Shariff Khan's
establishment and a jar of lubricant. Also, rather ominous to behold, one
very large and thick butt-plug next to its lesser counterparts.

 Niko pointed at the first slave in row, the Italian and indicated for
him to stand next to the table. Then he slapped the surface and waved at
the slave, who slowly lowered his upper body on the table. Niko went
behind him and tapped his legs apart, until the other slaves were greeted
by the sight of a very tight and clenched anus.

 The Italian's eyes were riveted on the plugs and when Niko seized one
of the smaller ones and put on lubrication, a small sigh of relief
escaped from his lips. Even well-lubricated and only two centimetres wide
and ten long, the first butt-plug took all of two minutes for Niko to
insert into the slave's back passage. When told to rise and step back,
the Italian's gait showed the decidedly uncomfortable feeling from a
place that had never been previously stretched, or plugged, or tested
with more than possibly his own finger, let alone a hard rubber
contraption.

 As all five slaves complied with the order to bend down and accept the
first -- though by no means the last -- butt-plugs in their lives, the
larger specimen did not need to be put to use that day.

 Niko had them all lined up and next to the compound wall.

 `Now, five rounds of jogging round the compound,' he said. He jogged a
few paces in front of them, stopped, turned, held up five fingers and
then indicated the circumference with a wave. While not daring to utter a
sound of complaint, his five candidates' faces showed clearly what they
thought about their upcoming ordeal.

 Niko held his cane at the ready, said `One, two, three, go!' and hit
it on the wall with a resounding crack. The slaves started moving on
their four kilometre course -- a sight to see, as they struggled with the
pain of the unfamiliar insertion.

 The Bosnian slave in the first batch was making heavy weather of the
jog. He was evidently not accustomed to being exercised, though did not
look overly over-weight. But I will admit, as I looked at him, he was
struggling round the compound for the fifth time, straggling and lagging
behind the Austrian, who was in fourth position so to speak -- had it
been a race.

 Just as punishment was meted out for disobedience, I made a point of
going to a slave, who had made a genuine effort.

 I thought that the Bosnian was making that effort particularly as I
could see that his awkward gait was definitely connected to the small
butt-plug, which had been inserted.

 I ran my hand over the Bosnian's perspiring body when he had finished.
My hand was slippery with his sweat. He was trying to catch his breath.

 My hand touched his chest, his belly and down to his now cut penis and
sole ball. He stood very still when I touched him between his legs, but
made no move to draw away. I came around to his back and ran my hand up
his back, up to his neck and over his damp short hair. He was rapidly
recovering his breath.

 I took a container of water from Niko and went over with its ladle to
those, who had come in first after what was little more than a jog.

 The Italian and Catalan slaves had come in first and I gave each a ladle
of water. The Catalan was breathing heavily his hand half down on his
muscled thighs. I would have said that both had exercised at some point
in their past lives, as neither was very much overweight and looked
reasonably fit.

 I saw what I wanted to see in the Catalan's eyes -- resignation. He
would train well. The Italian's eyes were not yet committed, but I
thought to myself that he would be in time.

 The third in was the Serb, who was gasping for air. The Austrian and the
Bosnian slaves were distressed after even a relatively short run of four
kilometres.

 To the remaining slaves I gave a ladle of water in silence. As the Serb
drank his, I ran my hand down his back and over the welts on his
backside. He instinctively flinched.

 I said, `Shhhh.' He did not move further. The weals were now bright
red and about a quarter of an inch high.

 Niko was looking at me so I asked him to get me some Aloe milk-sap , as
it has not only sun-blocking properties, but a mild anaesthetic capacity
as well. When he came back, I applied a liberal amount over the Serb's
hairless backside. The depilatory cream had previously worked its magic
with its applications at the processing centre.

 Having finished on his buttocks, I put a large blob of it on my hand and
at his back, I rubbed it over his head. He stood stock still until I
finished.

 When I did, I pinched the band of fat around his belly and shook my
head. The message to him was clear. Training and exercise!

 I went over to the Austrian and Bosnian slaves and did their heads as
well and also shook my head at the inches of fat around the waist of the
Austrian.

 When I asked Rob and Niko afterwards as to, who would break first, we
were all agreed. It was not that we were making a bet, but rather a
professional assessment of the strengths and weaknesses of the new
slaves.

 Rolf Hanzer, my gym manager at the Lime Palace, has put together a
series of exercises for a thirty-day period. They are designed to leave
the slave physically exhausted, but not broken, at the end of the day,
which starts at six in the morning by being risen shortly after sunrise
and after ablutions, they are then given their ten minute breakfast of
two slave biscuits and water.

 The majority of slaves, who arrive are physically quite out-of-shape.
They have not been seriously or properly exercised. A minority come as
pumped-up bodies from prison gyms, but these are definitely a minority
and again, it is one thing to be muscularly pumped-up and quite another
thing to be fit.

 When the jogs increase in length, as each compound is a two hundred
meter square, ten times round is eight kilometres or five miles. The last
slave in each race receives five strokes of the camel cane, the second
last four and the third last three. The places therefore to come are
first or second, if punishment is to be avoided.

 On the first day, when no time was set or indicated, the pace was a nice
canter and all came in close to forty minutes. However, when the
punishment for arriving after the first two places is introduced, the
pace heats up.

 Apart from simple running for lung and leg development, the slaves are
then put through combinations of a series of press-ups, chin-ups --which
very few can initially do at all -- and simple, but effective, sit-ups.

 Chin-ups are a great opportunity for the overseer to assist the slave
through physical contact, holding the slave around the waist, or even a
helping hand between and under the slaves' buttocks.

 On my second visit to the first compound, I saw that the Italian slave
had difficulty in coordinating his passage along the hanging bars and had
dropped a number of times. Rob went to help him, as the slave has to run
back to the beginning to start all over again. I walked over to Rob and
nodded to him. He stepped aside and let me spot the Italian.

 `Go slow and gently. No rush. Nice and gentle.'

 It may have been the mere extra support of my hand up between his legs,
letting him half sit on my palm and wrist, but he went through the
procedure without dropping and stepped onto the platform at the other
end.

 He turned to me and said `grazie.'

 I looked at him and said, `You say -- thank you, Master.'

 He blinked a number of times. The perspiration was running down his face
and into his eyes.

 `Thank you, Master.'

 I expected that he would be a good slave given time.

 After a ten-minute rest between gym exercises, chin-ups with now
released arms appear to the slave to be a positive indulgence. As the new
slaves are put through their press-ups and sit-ups, in particular, the
small but highly effective butt-plugs work their expanding magic the
trainers see to it that the numbers are done and then the attempt made at
improving the times.

 At the end of the first six days, no slave has ever lost less than three
kilos in weight and there is always a remarkable improvement in
personality, attitude, deference and obedience. I personally also put
that down to the loss of testosterone from the gelding of one ball, but
Dr. Yves Fournier disagrees with me on that issue, saying that it perhaps
too soon for a positive scientific confirmation to be given.

 I know that Dr. Fournier is running a series of research tests on this
issue and on a fertility issue. When I have asked him about his research,
he always says "In time. In time, it is too early yet to say.'

 By day, the slaves continually have the butt-plug inserted and before
their evening cold shower each buddy has to extract his buddy's
butt-plug, which then has to be carefully washed by him and stood on the
shelf for next morning's use.

 `Butt-plug week' itself got its name early on when Niko heard one
slave murmur, `Oh fuck, not again. This fucking butt-plug is killing
me' as his buddy attempted to insert the butt-plug one morning.

 The training overseer thought the phrase so good that he did not punish
the slave for speaking, but rather went and got the buddy more lubricant.

 What the trainees did not know yet was that in compounds two to five,
the diameter size of the butt-plugs would increase progressively to two,
three, four and then five centimetres. The statement of this technique
was that the Master can do anything he likes to his slave's body; that
the slave when instructed must apply the technique himself or have his
buddy do it; that the work of the day, whether training or otherwise,
must be done despite a physical discomfort. And, lastly, that the
slave's butt-hole may at some stage be used by the Master or by any
person the Master chooses.

 But what is extremely clear is that the levels of aggressive behaviour
seen in the slaves upon their arrival, towards both overseers and, at
times, toward their own assigned buddies, has certainly lowered by the
end of the sixth day in the first compound and most clearly from day five
onwards.

 At the end of their first six days in this training and breaking down of
resistances procedure, if all trainers are not fully happy with the
performance of the slave, the slave is told that he will be kept back for
a further period of training, which starts immediately with thirty
strokes of a camel-cane and is told that his end-times have now become
his start-times for the extra period he is in the compound.

 Normally such slaves, after the initial shock of their punishment and
their distress at not having risen with their group, then become really
and truly motivated to improve their performance. The slave at this stage
never knows how long he will be in the compound, nor indeed how many more
compounds there for him. At this stage, nothing short of the mental or
physical collapse of the slave will stop the training.

 I had said to Jack wife's Fiona that I would do something for Jess
Tollman, in the aftermath of him saving her in the episode of the store
fire stampede.

 My gift to Jess Tollman was not an actual gift at all, but an act of
retribution for his own enslavement. Two so-called `friends' of his had
invited him out when back in Michigan, got him slightly drunk and had him
lifted for the sum of five thousand dollars. This was on Jess' file.
Their names were not on file, but I had Josh Green in the Grand Cayman
put his investigators on it and within the week, I had their names --
still on an open missing person's file as those, who had last seen Jess
Tollman.

 A lunch-time trip to the slave auction-rooms at al-Qatim, the payment of
ten thousand dollars for the lifting of the two `friends,' and the die
was cast.

 Normally, Faisal drives me in the Bank's Rolls but I said I would
needed Jess Tollman to drive me for one day and to show Jess the running
of the car.

 It was two month's after the store incident. Jess' back had healed
very well. There were still two visible scars. I had said to Jess that I
would have a plastic surgeon repair them at the University Hospital.

 `No way, Boss! Greg looks at those scars every night and kisses them
and say I'm a hero. Who am I to say no to all of that?'

 `So, no plastic surgery?'

 `No, Boss, no plastic surgery.'

 I asked him did he know how to drive a Rolls and he looked at me.

 `Yes, Boss, I can manage a Rolls.'

 `Faisal will take you out for a spin to get familiar with the car. I
want you to drive me in uniform one day this week.'

 `Yes, Boss,' he said sort of looking at me, dying to ask a question
but like a good slave not giving in to the impulse.

 It was not difficult to have Zabian al-Kibbe, general manager of the
opal mine owned by my old friend Farouk al-Hamdi present at the al-Qatim
auction-rooms for the Thursday auction. I told him there were two slaves
there that he might consider purchasing and when they had finished their
useful working life at the mine, that I would then purchase them from
him.

 Jess Tollman was standing beside me while I was speaking with Zabian.

 `Did you follow that, Jess? You worked at the mine.'

 `Yes, Boss. I did. I remember seeing this gentleman there. But I never
spoke to him. I don't understand what's up'

 Zabian al-Kibbe had gone off to inspect some of the slaves before the
auction.

 `You did not come through al-Qatim, number 473724?

 Jess actually blanched as I said his SIN number.

 He swallowed before he answered, `No, Boss, I came through al-Mera.
Boss, you're not...you're not...?'

 The question was only half formed.

 `No, Jess, I am not going to sell you. I am about to sell two other
slaves. When you see them, I am going to ask you a question and you can
give me the answer of your choosing.'

 `You're going to ask me a question, Boss? And I've to answer you?'

 `Yes, Jess, as simple as that. Do you know how you arrived in
al-Mera?'

 `No, Boss, I woke up in chains in a van with a splitting headache and
the rest is a blur. There was a ride in a plane and then the heat of
Dahra.'

 `Yes, you had been given some knockout drops by two of your friends,
who sold you for five thousand dollars.'

 `Friends, who sold me? Boss, I don't understand what you're saying.'

 `Do you remember the names of the two friends you were with that night,
Jess?'

 `Not Paulie and Shawnie, Boss? They wouldn't have done something like
that to me.'

 `Remember, Jess, what I said. Not a word until I ask you a question.'

 `Yes, Boss.'

 Jess Tollman standing there in his grey driver's suit did not look a
happy camper, his cap under his arm. I beckoned to him to follow me.

 Slaves do not normally mingle with the clients, who are bidding unless
they are serving food or drink. I nodded to one of the assistant
auctioneers and Jess was allowed follow me in to the raised client area.

 I sat beside Zabian al-Kibbe, who said to me that he would use the
occasion to buy a total of four slaves for the mine.

 Jess was standing beside me.

 `You okay, Jess?' I said looking up at him.

 `Yes, Boss, it brings back memories. I was so frightened.'

 `Just stand there until it is over.'

 `Yes, Boss.'

 When you are unaccustomed to slave-auctions and everything is new, the
whole procedure can appear drawn out and utter confusing. But looking at
the efficiency of the auctioneer as he sped through the catalogue, I
thought to myself some things are definitely best left to professionals.

 Zabian got two workers that he had seen before the auction at a good
price and then it was numbers 81 and 82 being sold as a pair.

 I heard Jess Tollman suck in his breath as he saw his former friends
Paulie and Shawnie being led in. I just patted his leg beside me and he
calmed down. The way the lights are directed at the stage and display
area means that the slaves can being displayed can only see blurred
figures beyond the lights, in half shadow, but not clearly, unless the
clients are very much to the side of the arena. We were not.

 Unless pairs have something in common, they are not popular. Clients may
look for two athletes, or two twins, or two similar looking blonds with
some form of skill. But two out shape semi-skilled workers, who looked
totally lost and, who did not even know how to stand at `display'
properly, attracted no great interest. Three lukewarm bids topped by a
counter-bid of thirty nine thousand euro and Zabian al-Kibbe had his
third and fourth slaves of the day. Paulie and Shawnie were led away
still as lost as ever.

 My business was almost over. Zabian's was also. Jess had still to be
brought into the frame. We walked over to the settlements desk. Zabian
paid for his first two slaves to the house and a second cheque to me for
the second two slaves. As I had paid for the lifting of the second two,
there were no house fees, merely the payment of thirty nine thousand euro
to me the seller. Zabian was handed then four tan folders with his new
slaves' details.

 Putting the folders in his brief-case, he looked at me and said, `Well,
shall we?'

 `After you,' I said and we walked over to and into the holding areas.

 Zabian's four new slaves were to one side of the largest holding
awaiting dispatch instructions. We made our way over to them, approaching
them from the side and they stood up straight when an assistant slapped
one firmly with a camel-cane on the legs. I indicated to Jess to stay to
the side. His eyes were glued to two of the slaves.

 `Now, Zabian,' I said in English, `we have to decide on these two'
looking at the last two he had purchased.

 The two slaves were looking directly at me hearing English being spoken.
Neither said a word. The other two slaves did not understand English as
they looked uncomprehendingly at us.

 I returned the stare at the two slaves. They did not even know that you
did not stare at a Master. They would learn. They would learn to their
cost. And how!

 `You two have been bought to work as slaves in an open-cast mine in the
desert. It's a twelve hour-a-day job, seven days a week, fifty two weeks
a year. The average slave lives, if that is the word, for seven years
working in those conditions.'

 The two were looking at me, their eyes wide with horror.

 `The question I have to ask is how long you two should work in that
mine.'

 The two slaves were beginning to sweat even in the air-conditioned
holding room and one was beginning to hyperventilate.

 Turning towards Jess, I beckoned him into their line of vision.

 `Jess, you have worked in that mine. How many years do you think Paulie
and Shawnie here should work there? Take your time. There is no hurry.'

 Paulie and Shawnie had gone totally pale. I thought that one of them was
about to vomit and stepped back a pace. It was more than a ghost they
were seeing. They were looking at the dead friendship, the dead
comradeship, the dead fellowship of former drinking buddies and good-time
companions. They were looking at a now mortal enemy whom they had sold
into slavery.

 Jess walked up to both of them in a perfectly tailored suit and tie,
starched shirt and gleaming shoes.

 The two slaves did not know what was what, other than their former
friend was deciding on their fate and their future lives.

 `Jess, man, oh shit. I'm sorry,' one said.

 The other was crying now and sank to his knees and covered his head with
his hands, mumbling `sorry, sorry,' between his sobs.

 If there are moment when time stand still, this was certainly one of
them and then the silence of the afternoon was broken against the
background whoosh of the air-conditioning.

 `Four years, Boss.'

 `Four years, it is. That is if they survive that long, Jess.'

 Turning to the mine's general manager, I said in Arabic, `Are you okay
with four years, Zabian? I'll take them off your hands at that stage.
I'll still have some water-wheels waiting for them for a couple of years
after that.'

 We shook hands on it.

 `Jess, let's get out of here.'

 Without a further look at the two condemned slaves, we walked out of the
auction-rooms and into the sunlight. It was good to be in the fresh air.
I took Zabian's cheque out of my pocket and showed it to Jess.

 `They fetched thirty nine thousand euro, just over fifty thousand
dollars. I'll see that you wife gets it for the kids' education. Is
that okay, Jess?'

 Jess' eyes were wet and he was making strange shapes with his lips and
biting his lower lip.

 He finally managed, `Thanks, Boss. And if you ever want someone dead,
just say so.'

 I looked up sharply at him, thinking there was some joke in what he
said. The look on his face convinced me of my error.

 `Are you okay for driving back to the Palace?'

 `Boss, I have never felt better and feeling better by the minute.'

 The last bit he said with a smile as he put his cap on his head and
fixed the peak in place at an angle. The drive back to the Lime Palace
was in silence. But then, a good slave would drive in silence, wouldn't
he?

End of chapter 16

To be continued...