Date: Sat, 20 Nov 2004 12:51:56 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 5 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the fifth chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day
slavery and gay sex.

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

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

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
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Contact points:

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w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories



  Chapter 5 - The falseness of identity



  I had instructed Ben Trant my secretary and his assistant Gianni
Centini to input the data of the forty two invader slaves, as I was now
mentally calling them, into the computer system from the tan coloured
dossiers I had been given, each slave having his own separate folder.



   I had been surprised on my second visit to the slave centre when
Mustafa ben-Mustafa - `Jr.' as I always thought in my own mind of the
nephew of the owner of the second slave centre at al-Mera who was helping
out in the training of the invader slaves - approached me and requested
permission to speak with me.

   `Master, I have read the files of the new slaves which we have input
onto our computer system.'

  Mustafa Jr. according to his uncle was something of a whiz kid with
computers in general.

  `Good,' I said. `They all have a SIN number and their ankle bracelet
is on. What is the problem?'

  `I think one of the slaves, Master, is either an impostor or he is
lying as to his identity,' and he carefully placed a set of printouts in
front of me on the table.

  I felt cold as if a cool wind had suddenly blown in through the centre.



  The file was that of a French former paratrooper aged twenty nine years
of age, Maurice Saliege, with a perfect set of abs and very prominent hip
bones. He looked French, with dark rings under his eyes, pronounced cheek
bones, and long ears.

  At least, Maurice Saliege was the name he had given to his captors.
None of the invaders had documents on them when captured and the two
ships which had brought them and their dinghies and equipment, had
disappeared into the Gulf long before daylight.

  I read the file carefully. I looked at the standard photographs of
full- and semi-profile, full body naked front and back -- a tattoo on the
right arm and a fifth photo of the anus, a tightly clenched pucker which
had not been used, at least for sex, as far as I could determine from a
photographic perusal.

  I read the file again. School in Toulouse, into the Army and then into
a paratrooper regiment. An honourable discharge four years earlier and
mercenary work after that. No family other than a brother, a baker in the
home city of Toulouse.

  `I am not seeing something here that you have seen, Mustafa.'

   `Master, we have access to several international databases and there
is no such person. There is however someone very like him.'

  `Why would he have put in wrong details here? Did he believe they
would not be checked? Does this mean that the details of the other new
slaves are not exact either? Is he a mole of some sort?'

  `It could well be the case, Master. It could well be the case that we
have had fictitious identities created by all these mercenaries.'

  `If you are wrong, Mustafa, we have lost nothing. If you are right, I
think several files will be re-written and very fast. Where is this slave
now?'

  `Over there, Master,' and he pointed to the far side of the training
centre.

  `Go back to your duties and I shall look into it. You have done
well.'

  `Yes, Master.'



  Just as I was dismissing Mustafa Jr., I saw the owner of the centre
enter the door and I apprised Ahmed al-Atti of what Mustafa Jr. had told
me.

  'It is not unusual for a slave to invent some new things in his past.
We have had a number of false identities given in the past which have
subsequently come to light. We usually receive correct data from our
suppliers or from the courts, but if the circumstances of acquisition
have been chaotic, at times cargo is delivered without proper papers. We
then have to retrieve data from the slave, and double-check each item.
Mustafa is our man for these checkups, with a number of translators to
help him out when needed. Register offices, tax records, military
records, insurance policies, missing person police files, you name it.'

  The young assistant dealer blushed, and looked pleased with the praise.
I had hitherto believed to know personally only one skilled hacker, Jens
Johanssen, my Danish slave. It seemed that I had been parsimonious.

  'Ahmed, do we know exactly who we have in the centre or have they all
invented names for themselves. It may be a mercenary thing to do.'

  `Sir Jonathan, leave it with me and I shall report back to you, when
the problem is solved.'



  Three days later Ahmed was back to me and asked me to visit him.

  `Sir Jonathan, good news and bad news. Good news in that we have
solved the problem. Bad news in that twenty four `new' or real
identities had been revealed among your forty two former slaves.'

  `How did you achieve that, Ahmed? But first of all, who is this slave
who called himself Maurice? If you don't mind giving me all the details?'

  I was still unsure how many secrets of the trade the Dahran dealer was
ready to disclose to a client.

  `Very simply, Sir Jonathan. This slave in question you mentioned
Maurice Saliege is in fact a Xavier LaGrange. I personally went to his
holding cell and had him taken out and put on one of the training
tables.'

  `I then ordered that all the other slaves be taken out in chains and
made to kneel facing the training table. They were told in English and in
Arabic the reason why the slave was going to be punished.'

  `Did you get the impression at that stage, Ahmed, that there were more
there with false identities.'

  `I did, Sir Jonathan. You can always smell fear. I had this Xavier
pushed face down on the table and his legs kicked apart. His ankles were
velcroed to two of the table-legs. His hands were still cuffed to the
waist restraint. His chin was resting on the table. I could see that the
slave's back showed his musculature devoid of fat and a deep crevice ran
down his back from neck to coccyx, the vertebrae of his spine along the
valley floor of the crevice. The waist restraint ensured that his
shoulder muscles were taut and his hands at his side had nowhere to grip.

  `I ordered my Head of Training to deliver twenty of the best across
that slave's backside. I then ordered the slave to count each stroke and
then say `Master, I am sorry,' after it.

  `Sir Jonathan, the swish of the air being cut by a four foot camel
cane has a noise all of its own. My Head of Training knows how to
administer a punishment and his arm rose and fell and the cane flashed.
Its downward stroke on the rounded buttocks of the former paratrooper had
both the advantage of gravity and the experience of a good trainer behind
it.

  `Every slave reacts differently to a flogging. Everyone. Xavier
LaGrange first gave a strangled cry. I would not know if he had been
trying not to cry out or not, but the suddenness of the stroke had
clearly caught him by surprise before his lungs could take their full
fill of air. His eyes bulged. His body shook and, in turn, it shook the
table itself with its vibration.

  `I am not a cruel dealer, my business is buying and selling, and I am
but a basic trainer of slaves, Sir Jonathan, certainly not as famous as
yourself, but the slave had forgotten to count the stroke, so I raised
the index finger of my left hand before his eyes.

  `The slave took a deep breath and then another one and said `one,
Master, I am sorry.'

  `After the fifth stoke, the slave shuddered violently and was barely
heard counting the stroke. From my vantage point, I could not see where
on the buttocks the cane was landing, but I could see that it was not
landing on either the lower back or on the thighs.

  `At ten strokes, my Head of Training was breathing heavily. The slave
had snot running out of his nostrils and tears down his face. His face
was red with the exertion of shouting, crying out and counting off on
time.

  `When the next ten started to land with all the sharpness of a rifle
shot in the dead of night, the slave cried out something unintelligible
and shuddered again hard on the table. It took me a second or so to
realise that he had sounded off the count in a language I took to be
French. It was as if in his pain he was going back to basics and what was
first learned in education. I don't think that he had even realised that
he had changed languages.

  `At the seventeenth stroke, again the slave gave a strangled cry and
his hands were reaching back toward his backside as if to stop the
punishment.

  `There are those, Sir Jonathan, who would say that a flogging is no
big deal unless done with whips or the like. A flogging is a flogging and
is different for each and every one punished by it. Nerve endings cause
such unexpected and unwanted pain that the body resists and jerks away
from the source of the infliction. Had the slave not been tied by his
ankles to the table-legs, he would have been very and truly across the
table by the time the twentieth stroke had landed and been counted.

  `When the flogging had finished the other slaves kneeling on the floor
of the centre were looking opened-eyed and some open-mouthed at the red
and ugly weals across a six-inch band of flesh on the slave's buttocks.
The weals were ridges of bruised and raised flesh almost a half inch
high.

  `I went over to the prostrate slave and indicated to the trainers to
release him and stand him up. Once he was on his feet, the cause of his
shudders on the table was obvious. Several pools of semen ejaculate
coated the table and his lower belly and pubic hair. The strokes across
the buttocks had indeed landed on the slave's butt-plug many times and
caused it to push again and again against the slave's prostate bringing
him to multiple climaxes. I doubted from his cries that he was a
masochist, but thought rather that very few can resist any prolonged or
serious assault on the prostate gland without spectacular results.

  `When the slave looked at the table and then at his lower body, for
the first time he seemed to realise the state and reason of his and the
table's condition. If his face was previously red, it became even redder
in his embarrassment.

  `A slave has to be totally submissive to direct command and he was
such a one who was just waiting to be ordered. Pointing to the table, I
ordered him to lick the table clean.

  `As the slave set about his instructed task, I turned to the other
slaves and repeated in English and Arabic that this slave was punished
because he gave wrong details about himself; that the trainers will go
over each of the details given to date and then these would be checked. I
also took it upon myself to say--you can, of course, Sir Jonathan,
overrule me on this--that if a slave changed his details there and then,
there would be no punishment.

  `I can assure you, Sir Jonathan, that there was a unified `Yes,
Master' when I asked the kneeling slaves if they had understood.'

  This was quite a speech by way of explanation from the centre's owner.
I felt that Ahmed al-Atti had done a good day's work that day and
subsequently I saw not just one but almost two dozen re-written reports
from slaves who wished to clear the decks of any `mistake' in their
identification details.



  I find it always good to switch off totally from the problems of real
life once the day is done. The problems at the slave training centre had
upset me, I don't know why. But they had, and irritatingly so. Maybe it
is because, in my own way, I do appreciate the truth in those around me.
When a slave comes to me and admits having done something stupid -- which
rarely happens, but it does -- I can never find it in my heart to punish
the slave too severely, if at all. But give me a case of hypocrisy or
downright lying, and that slave or business protagonist had better
beware.

  As I had so enjoyed the presence of both Dmitri and Jan in my bed some
evenings previously, I had them both back that evening, though it did
upset and cause a re-scheduling of my secretary's listing for that
particular evening's enjoyment.

  As I was being undressed for bed, the two slaves where `at display'
in the centre of the bedroom where I could delight in the sight of their
physiognomies before retiring to my large bed. The two blond slaves,
though Jan was more fair than true blond, appeared in excellent
condition. A light coating of Aloe sap would have been applied to their
bodies, totally hairless except for that in their armpits, a small
trimmed area of pubic hair and the closely cut hair on their heads.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dmitri up to his usual trick of
having his penis come to full erection, flat up against his belly. He has
this trick of using the muscle of his pubic, scrotal and pelvic areas to
secure those magnificent erections of his.

  Poor Jan! I saw him glancing down at his companion slave, his own penis
only half-tumescent, but certainly nothing of which to be ashamed.

  My attending slaves having withdrawn, taking with them my clothes of
the day for cleaning and pressing, I beckoned the two slaves `at
display' over to the bed.

  `No duster, this evening then, Jan?'

  `No, Master,' he replied with a grin

  `The other night you and I enjoyed Dmitri. Now tonight, Dmitri and I
are going to enjoy you.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `You are well lubed? There is more in the bedside table if you think
you need it.'

  `No, Master, I am well lubed.'

  `Now follow my lead' I said as I lay down on the bed. `Kneel with
your legs on either side of my hips,' and I patted the bed just where I
wanted his knees.

  Jan straddled my lower body, his beautiful lightly tanned torso rising
above me. I beckoned his face towards mine and put my hand at the nape of
his neck to bring his moist lips down to mine. I let my hands run over
his upper back and shoulders feeling the warmth of his skin. I could feel
the galvanic response of his skin under my fingers and as my tongue went
between his lips, I felt his breath on mine.

  As soon as Jan was comfortably lying on top of me his chest on mine, I
looked past him at Dmitri still erect and still standing at the bottom of
the bed.

  `Come kneel between my legs, Dmitri.'

  I waited until this favourite slave of mine was in position, inching
closer and closer to the spread cheeks of Jan's backside, kneeling as he
now was between my legs and thighs.

  `In your own good time, Dmitri, slowly does it.'

  I saw him take his perpendicular cock in his hand than bring its
swollen head down parallel to the bed, lining it up with Jan's awaiting
anus.

  `Gently, gently now, Dmitri, a gentle motion for the next twenty
minutes. And you are not to ejaculate. A nice gentle motion.'

  I lifted Jan's face from my neck where it had been resting and we
resumed out kissing. With his intake of breath, I knew that Dmitri had
penetrated him, and then with a slight movement through his entire body
as it rested on mine, I felt his fucked by Dmitri begin.

  Letting my nails run up and down Jan's back, letting my fingers wander
over the protruding knobs of his spine, letting the palms of my hands
rest on his scapulae, I let Jan kiss me with ever increasing passion and
intensity. My fingers massaged his scalp and he gave a little moan. Was
that a result of my finger massage or the Dmitri's cock massage of his
prostate? I knew not. He moaned again and I kissed his face and brow and
ears and neck.

  Each of us brings our own intensity to the act of making love, and Jan
Korda brought his by simply lying atop me and responding kiss for kiss,
and where his hands could reach, touch for touch.



  At around the twenty minute mark, I felt that Dmitri had eased up on
his penetrations of Jan's anal passage. Well, he could see digital
figures of the bedside clock for one thing! I looked at him over Jan's
shoulder. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on the side of his
forehead.

  `Getting close, Dmitri?'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Are you ready, Jan?'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `When you are ready, Dmitri.'

  `Ready now, Master,' Dmitri said and I felt Jan's body being thrust
forward up mine with the force of a full, hard and no-holds-barred
penetration.

  Dmitri's member is nicely proportioned and when it is hard, it is
granite hard. Its length is in beautiful proportion to its thickness and
when its foreskin is fully back up its shaft the tender pink under-skin
of the shaft is finely veined.

  For two, three and then four full trusts I felt in empathic reaction to
Dmitri's full penetration of Jan Korda. Three loud gasps for air from
Dmitri and I felt Jan tremble above me as his rectum filled with
Dmitri's seed. I just kept his head on my chest, my arm holding it in
place.

  I looked back and up at Dmitri who was opening his eyes after his
orgasm. I could not but help smile at him, and he reciprocated with a
full grin.

  `Now we change places.'

  Jan slipped off my hips and Dmitri lay down on the bed. Jan quickly
took up the identical position as before but now straddling Dmitri's
hips as he lay down on his fellow slave's torso.

  I went behind Jan, the former hotel porter, and kneeling between
Dmitri's legs, excited and hard, I aimed the head of my penis for the
anal passage which had been so well lubricated with cum in the previous
minutes.

  Slipping into Jan's back passage was like slipping one's fingers into
a pot of warm olive oil. His sphincter muscle was not tight after its
recent fucking and as I pumped his hole with my hardness, I felt him
adjust his body back against mine, squeezing and relaxing his anal
muscles as they milked my hard cock.

  I did not intend to hang about and I did not. Eight, perhaps ten
penetrations and I knew that my seed was rising beyond the point of no
return. I knew my precum was adding to the already lubricated passage.
Its tightness was intoxicating as I started to shudder and effected the
release of my pent-up semen.

  I looked down at Jan below me who was being held in some form of
bear-hug by Dmitri, who was kissing Jan's face and neck in small pecks.

  I shuddered to a halt and for fifteen seconds time stood still as
post-coital blood pressure returned to normal.

  I withdrew out of Jan and looked down at the wetness which went from
the tip of my cock to my pubic hair, and I collapsed onto the bed.

  Jan immediately rolled off Dmitri who sat up and brought his head down
to my groin to take my penis in his mouth and clean the residual fluids
of it and my inguinal area. I saw Jan's eyes widened at the personal
sexual service being given, and I saw from his erection that he had not
come yet. Some slaves get excited at seeing this intimate sexual service
being performed, and I think Jan Korda is one such slave.

  Such was Dmitri's dexterity in the manner of his cleaning me up that
although like many men I have a sensitive penis head after coming, his
laving tongue merely gave the softest of touches without the slightest
irritation to the nerve endings of the tip of my cock and its corona.

  I held open an arm and Jan snuggled up beside me.

  `Okay, Jan?'

  `Yes, Master, more than okay. Very happy to have been able to be of
service to you tonight.'

  Dmitri had finished his gentle sucking and cleaning, and I held open my
other arm, and he too snuggled up beside me. I rewarded him with a kiss
and he smiled in pleasure.

  `Okay, Dmitri?'

  `Yes, indeed, Master. Thank you for Jan,' and he nodded over to the
other slave cuddled in my other arm. `Very nice, very tight,' he added.

  `But loosened up very nicely for me by you. There are times when I
love a buttered bun,' I said and smiled at both the slaves beside me.

  The next thing I remember of that night was that it was not night at
all but an early hour and the first rays of purple were streaking the
morning horizon. The two slaves were either side of me, Dmitri snoring
slightly on every third breath, and Jan solidly asleep, and myself warmly
sandwiched in the middle.

  `Yes, indeed, I love a buttered bun,' I said in the interior calm of
my own thoughts and closed my eyes to catch another hour of sleep.

  Just in case Dmitri might overestimate his importance in my esteem, I
had him report to the Stables Manager after breakfast. A couple of weeks
in the fresh air and under the Dahran sun on the farms would do him well
and tone him up with that natural muscle which honest farm labouring
brings.


End of Chapter 5

To be continued