Date: Tue, 30 Nov 2004 14:14:27 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 7 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the seventh 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
now.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

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



  Chapter 7 -- The experience of centuries



  In early May, I had received an invitation from my old school in
Midminster in the West Counties to attend their end of academic year
celebrations.

  The school was now inviting old boys back after ten, fifteen, twenty
and twenty five years. It hardly seemed possible that I had left its
red-bricked quadrangle twenty five years previously upon taking up a
career in banking. Having been posted around the world as a banker, I had
not been back to my alma mater in the intervening years. It so happened
that the celebrations would be towards the end of June, and I resolved to
go down after the regular monthly Board meeting of the bank to spend the
weekend there.

  I took the train down and, with a single piece of luggage, travelled
light. Though I had brought a novel to read on the journey, the memories
of more than a quarter of a century ago flashed through my mind as
station after half-forgotten station whizzed by. I smiled at the speed of
the express train which had replaced the old puffing steam one I used to
take all those years ago. The novel lay unread on the seat beside me.

  The confirming note from the school signed by the Bursar whose name I
did not recognise stated that I would be lodged at the school itself. An
accompanying list showed some 14 others, only two from my year, who
intended to be present for the weekend or at least part of it.

  It was a splendid day for travelling and I arrived at Midminster in the
early afternoon. The railway station had been given a coat of paint at
some stage years previously, but otherwise it did not appear to have
changed that much. The town is not big being an amalgamation of two
villages, Mid and Minster, some time in the fourteenth century and apart
from a local paint factory, its only other `industry' was St.
Timothy's public school. Being English, the name public school was
quaintly deceiving. It was fee-paying and quite exclusive among the
country's minor public schools with a physical limitation for six
hundred boys, one hundred per year being released into society and the
world at large after suitable grooming. There was a twenty year waiting
list based on who in your family had been a pupil previously.

  All these thoughts flooded back as a slow taxi took me from the station
on the well known `mile-run' as we had called it up to the school
itself.

  The school had not changed at all, apart from a asphalted entrance to
the gravelled one I had remembered. Its red bricks were warm in the
summer sun. The ivy on the walls had not changed, even the two wisterias,
or their descendants, in the outer quadrangle had survived to welcome the
visitor with their lavender colour.

  I was no sooner out of the taxi with my piece of luggage at my feet
than two figures emerged from the front door, one a teacher in billowing
gown, the other a pupil in cricket whites.

  `It's Martin, isn't it?' the teacher said and I recognised my
geography teacher, Mr. Hodson, of a quarter of a century previously.

  `Mr. Hodson?'

  `Thought it was you. Same face, you know. Haven't changed a bit, you
haven't. Call me Graham,' and he extended a hand.

  It is strange but even after that time, one can stand in awe of
teachers who held your life in their hands and moulded you in the
likeness of the unnamed English gentleman and man of the world. I stood
tongue-tied as I once had, unable to name the rivers of France. Mr.
Hodson made up for my lack of elocution.

  `Burrows, don't stand there. Take Sir Jonathan's luggage upstairs to
number 5. We have five old boys staying here with us this weekend and
another ten in the local hotel. I put you in number 5 as it is the
quietest and the largest guest room.'

  The boy, who was standing there beside us, took my luggage, smiled at
me and lugged it up the steps.

  I found my voice.

  `Mr. Ho...Graham, you have not changed that much at all. A little
thinner on top maybe; a little greyer perhaps, but just as I remember
you.'

  `Sir Jonathan...'

  `Jonathan or Martin, if you will, but none of the `sir', please!'

  Graham Hodson smiled and said `Jonathan, welcome back'

  I felt at home as only a public school educated person can and my old
teacher walked me into the school and up to my room `to rest after the
journey' as if I had come by carriage on a trip which had lasted days
instead of four hours on a modern express train.

  I found my room was on the first floor overlooking the quadrangle. Mr.
Hodson had left me at the door and inside, I found that my suitcase was
on the bed and Burrows who had brought it up, was opening a window to let
in some air.

  `Gosh, sir, we have been looking forward to seeing you arrive. I hope
everything is all right for you. I shall be fagging for you while you are
here.'

  The pupil was talking with some enthusiasm and in obvious admiration.
And as for `fagging', now that was a term I had not heard in a quarter
of a century. He would be attending to my needs and doing my messages.

  `What's your name?'

  `Burrows, sir'.

  `First name?'

  `Jeremy, sir. If you need me at any time, just lift the phone and dial
552. If I am not there, there is an automatic answering machine on it and
I'll come immediately when I get the message, sir.'

  `You have a phone in your room?' I asked surprised. Some things had
indeed changed.

  `Yes, sir. All sixth-formers have. It's a privilege. To leave your
phone unplugged or not on the answering machine, sir, is a real no-no.'

  `And why are you in cricket whites?'

  `There's a match against the visitors in an hour's time,' he said
glancing at his watch and rather shyly said, `I'm Captain of the school
team this year, sir. I thought I might not have time to change in case
you arrived late.'

  It was not a statement of boasting or self-praise, but rather one that
the position had been earned and was only temporary in the scheme of
things. It was also a statement of being organised.

  As we were speaking, there was a shout and a stifled cry. The door of
the room was still open and I stepped out into the passage in time to see
another pupil come out of the next room rubbing his chest inside a
half-opened shirt whose top buttons were undone. He took one look at me
and sped down the passage way toward the stairs. I stepped back into my
room.

  `You will be playing, sir?'

  `What?'

  `In the match, sir?'

  `I haven't played cricket in years.'

  `Sir, please, sir. You're a visitor.'

  There was an element of pleading in the voice but also a hint of
wanting to show just how good the school team was against any opposition.

  `I haven't any whites.'

  Jeremy Burrows grinned and went over to a wardrobe where there were
three white pants and a white cricket jersey. He looked at my legs and
chose the middle of the three. He held them up against my hip.

  `You have now, sir, and you're already wearing a white shirt. I can
have it washed immediately afterwards for you if you are short. The
jersey fits all sizes.'

  I laughed.

  `Get out, Burrows. What time did you say?'

  `Four o'clock, sir, at the pavilion.'



  I was there at the pavilion with ten minutes to spare. Nine old boys,
including myself, were milling about, only one of whom was from my year.
Several teachers were present and two would make up the team of eleven.
One of the old boys organised the team quickly and I found myself down as
a fielder.

  The school eleven walked out with purpose led by Jeremy Burrows and I
noticed that the boy behind him was the one who had run down the corridor
earlier on having come out of the room next to mine.

  `They look rather determined for a bunch of six formers,' I commented
to a teacher.

  `Watch out for Smithers,' the teacher said, `he's their secret
weapon. Quite a spin bowler, slow, but dynamite on the pitch.'

  Cricket is not everyone's game, too slow for the Americas, too English
for some countries, too misunderstood by most of the world but
enthusiastically played in various Commonwealth countries. Suffice it to
say that the visitors lost or rather were trounced on that Thursday June
afternoon, as Burrows scored as if there were no tomorrow and Smithers
bowled out five visitors. I got the impression that Burrows, his Captain,
cut short his decimation of the visitors rather than let him bowl us all
out. I noted that when the game was won that it was Smithers who was
lifted shoulder high into the pavilion with his Captain and my fag,
Jeremy Burrows, lending the first shoulder.



  It is awesome when five hundred and fifty boys sit down to evening
meal. I was sitting at top table among the visitors and teachers. The
Headmaster was a man in his late thirties. He introduced himself and came
across as eminently capable.

  Graham Hodson had seated himself beside me with the Headmaster on the
other side, and I noted that the visitors were every second person at
table.

  While the Headmaster commented on my career in banking and
congratulated me on my Knighthood, the only one of my year -- such things
obviously noted in the great scheme of alma mater things - he stuck to
school and educational matters, clearly happier on subjects where he had
mastery.

  I commented that the school had not really changed at all as I
remembered it. This comment allowed the Headmaster to open up on how the
school was performing in national ratings, what the school was doing at
present and wanted to do, particularly to build a science building.

  `You have fundraised?'

  `Indeed, over the past three years. A million raised already with our
target set at five million. Four for the building and one for the lab
equipment.'

  I could see where this was going and was a bit surprised that I had not
been contacted or `touched' for a contribution.

  I mentioned this and the Headmaster replied that their fundraising
committee was small and only getting to grips with things. I glanced at
my old geography teacher who was smiling and I knew why I had been seated
where I was. I smiled back.

  `I would be delighted to make a modest contribution, Headmaster, to
the science building fund. Would a quarter of a million help matters?'

  I helped the Headmaster to some water as he spluttered his and the
school's thanks. It was my turn to grin at Graham Hodson.



  When I arrived back at my room after dinner, Jeremy Burrows was there
in casual clothes, closing a window and he had turned down the quilt of
the bed.

  `I didn't really have time to say congratulations on the game this
evening. You really trounced us, and I think if you had not stopped
Smithers he would have bowled us all out.'

  `You saw that sir?' he said with a smile. `It was a team effort
really, sir, and Jason was great as usual, sir. You can always rely on
him,' Jeremy said with an impish grin.

  `But it takes a Captain to inspire, does it not? And your Jason
Smithers did merit being shouldered off the pitch. He's okay, is he?'

  `Sir?'

  `He seemed upset earlier on when I heard that noise and saw him in the
corridor.'

  Jeremy Burrows blushed.

  `He's okay, sir.'

  He saw my questioning eye.

  `He's okay, sir. The visitor next door pinched his nipple rather hard
and he wasn't expecting it. He's okay. Are you coming to the concert,
sir?'

  `You're changing the subject and yes, I am.'



  The concert was an end of year one in every sense of the word. Parents
were there. It was noisy. It was school-boyish. It was relaxing fun and
when it was over by ten, I was beginning to feel jetlag which was making
my body believe that it was two in the morning in Dahra.

  When I got back to my room, I found Jeremy Burrows sitting there.

  `I've just finished checking your room, sir. And Headmaster said I
was to leave a bottle of sherry on the dresser for you.'

  An expensive bottle of sherry, I thought to myself.

  `Are you eighteen?'

  `Yes, sir. In May.'

  `Then pour two glasses of sherry. I don't want it to be said that I
drink alone or that I am corrupting minors.'

  `Yes, sir. No, sir.'

  `Jeremy, when you are here, drop the `sir' bit. School is now over.
The name is Jonathan.'

  `Sir, I can't call you by your first name.'

  `Have I to ask for a change of fag?'

  `No, si.. No, Jonathan. But it just sounds disrespectful to an
important old boy and an international banker.'

  I pointed to the sherry and he poured out two glasses very carefully.

  `Is that what you think I am?

  `Yes, sir. I know it to be a fact. I even found your name on the
Internet when I was told for whom I was going to be fagging.'

  `Heaven help us. Now tell me who is Jeremy Burrows?' I said looking
at the fair haired teenager before me. `Sit down before your spill that
sherry.'

  `A nobody, si..Jonathan. In two weeks, I will have finished at St.
Timothy's. I have applied for several positions to study accountancy and
am hoping to get a job before September.'

  `I thought the Captain of a school team would have thought of
university or some such further education?'

  `Oh, I did, si..Jonathan, up to earlier this year. My father died in
March and things are not too well at home financially. My mom can keep my
younger brother here--he's going into second form in September--but we
would not be able to afford Bristol--I was thinking of doing Business and
Finance there.'

  `I thought university fees were now fully paid for bright students
like you, Jeremy.'

  `Fees are paid yes, but you still have to pay for accommodation at a
residence and food and..' he breathed deeply `all the other things
which seem to need money. But I have applied to the Big 5 in chartered
accountancy and I trust I will get in somewhere.'

  With that a mobile phone rang and he looked embarrassed as he fished it
out of a pocket, and glanced at its lighted screen.

  `Sorry, si..Jonathan, it's Jason,' he said as he looked at the name
on the screen and said into the phone, `I'm with Sir Jonathan at the
moment. I'll see you in half an hour.'

  The conversation was to the point.

  `And Jason, what's he going to do?'

  `He's going to do architecture at Bristol. He's great at maths and
drawing. We were going to go there together. But we'll stay in touch,
I'm sure.'

  I don't know why but the face of my first slave Yuriy Obov flashed
across my mind--a man who could take the hand of cards life dealt him in
his stride adjusting to every vicissitude with calm and courage.

  `You're not drinking your sherry.'

  `It's a bit strange for my taste, Jonathan, to be honest.'

  `Why did you not get a scholarship to Bristol?'

  `From where?'

  `From any of a number of foundations. From the university itself.'

  `I don't think they have scholarships for students like me from a
public school. Had I been at a grammar school, yes. Well, maybe. I am
bright, Jonathan, but not genius level. You must be tired, sir, after the
day. What time do you want to be called in the morning?'

  `You have a habit of changing subjects you don't want to discuss,
Jeremy, my lad. I don't think I need to be called as I usually wake up
at half five every morning. But maybe you should call me at, let's say,
half-six. I used to go for an early morning run round the school
perimeter wall when I was here. I think I shall do it again.'

  `That's my run, sir. Jason and I run that every morning before we
swim. I'll call you at half-six and wait for you at the hall door and if
you don't mind, I'll jog with you.'



  When Jeremy left, I undressed and got into bed. I closed my eyes and I
slept like a log and then the phone rang.

  `Jonathan, this is your six-thirty alarm call.'

  It took me no time at all to shave and put on singlet and shorts which
my fag had thoughtfully also left out for me.

  When I arrived at the school's hall door, I could see two figures
kitted out for running. They were Jeremy and his friend Jason.

  `Sir Jonathan, this is Jason.'

  `I've seen you in action. Now let's jog.'

  The full run around inside the wall of the school property is just less
than four miles. We did it in just under thirty minutes, though I got the
impression that my companions were holding back.

  `Sir, do you want to go for a swim? We normally do after a run?' It
was Jason who was asking.

  `I've no togs with me.'

  `No problem, Jonathan,' Jeremy replied with a grin. `I have some
rather large Bermuda shorts in my locker.'

  As we took a quick shower before the swim, I could not but help
noticing Jason's nipples. Both were bruised and I thought his left
nipple was actually torn. As he was half-turning away, I did not wish to
look too closely.

  We swam for just over half an hour and as I enjoyed quite a hot shower
afterwards, I did look more closely at my two companions. Both were of a
similar build, though Jason's hair was chestnut brown and his pubic hair
was a thick bush surrounding a nice four inches of a cut penis, which
seemed half-tumescent. He had a few inches of a treasure trail heading
for his navel.

  Jeremy's hair was that much lighter and his pubic hair when wet simply
stuck plastered to his groin area. His penis was slightly smaller and
thinner than his friend's and was totally flaccid.

  As we dressed and as Jason pulled on a sweatshirt, I did get a clear
view of his left nipple and not only was it bruised, it had a cut on it.



  The school had organised a coach trip to two of the local sights for
the morning of the Friday- a sort of trip down memory lane - which was to
culminate in a lunch at a well known public house which had been given
some form of national rosette. My old geography teacher, Graham Hodson,
came with us as did two other teachers who knew the old boys of the other
year groups.

  It is strange that we think of people as old. Graham, it turned out was
only fifty three and was going to retire early in two years after thirty
years service.

  `You've never married, Graham?'

  `Not the marrying type, Jonathan. Teaching has been my companion in
life and I have kept happy and young by teaching almost three thousand
boys. You, yourself, have not married?'

  `No, there are a thousand reasons why I have not that I could name,
and only one really sound reason, of which one does not speak too
publicly.'

  `Ah!' was his understanding reply.

  `But tell me,' I commented, `Headmaster seems keen on his science
building.'

  `Yes, but it will be after my time. The trustees will only allow it
when the money is there. It will take some years for the fund-raising to
be complete.'

  `I would like to help.'

  `Yes, I overheard last night. Poor Headmaster, he almost drowned in
his own glass.'

  `No, that is for public consumption. I would really like to help.
Would you be willing to channel a donation to the trustees?'

  Graham looked at me.

  `Of course. If I can help.'

  `What is your mother's maiden name?'

  `Was. She's dead a number of years. It was Harris.'

  `There will be only one condition attaching to the contribution. The
science building will be called the Harris Science Building.'

  `You're joking, Jonathan.'

  `Never more serious. Do you know any of the trustees?'

  `I know them all to speak to.'

  `Get in touch with their Chairman today and say that you have come
into some money and want to donate four million for the construction of
the Harris Science Building. You will know who the building is named
after, so will I and no one else.'

  `You're not joking, Martin, are you? You never were a joker.'

  `No, Graham, I am not. I see a bank across the way. I'll take a taxi
back to the school. It will take me about an hour to arrange a transfer
and get you a bank draft. I shall see you let's say just before dinner
this evening. Shall we say quarter to six.'



  Graham Hodson was waiting for me in the hallway outside the school
dining room.

  `The trustees will agree to the name on the building,' he said.

  I put my hand in my inside pocket and handed him an envelope with a
bank draft for four million sterling.

  `Not a word as to the source. I now must find Headmaster to give him
the cheque I promised him. Ah, speak of the devil.'

  The Headmaster was making his way with some teachers towards the dining
room.

  `Headmaster, my contribution towards the new science building' and I
handed him over my cheque.

  `Sir Jonathan, this is most generous and will be quite a boost to the
fundraising.'

  `Don't mention it, Headmaster. We all do what we can according to our
means. Now if you will excuse.'

  As I left the group, I heard Graham Hodson say, `Headmaster, a further
bit of good news...'

  It gave me no end of pleasure to hear the announcement made during
dinner that `the school's own geography master, Graham Hodson, had
secured an anonymous donation for four million pounds sterling to pay for
the new Harris Science Building. While my own name was also mentioned in
passing for a most generous contribution, the cheers of the evening and
the table thumping were for `Mr. Hodson! Mr. Hodson!'

  I thought it was a most fitting tribute to a man who was never married
except to his chosen profession and who had spent his life at the service
of others. No one at the time thought to ask who Harris was.



  When dinner was over, I caught Jason Smithers' eye.

  `Can I have a private word with you, Jason? In my room.'

  He looked at me and simply said, `Yes, sir, of course.'

  When we arrived at the room, I indicated a chair.

  `I noticed that your nipples were very bruised this morning when we
were swimming.'

  Jason Smithers blushed deep red and I saw him swallow and I waited
until he had got his composure.

  `I'm looking after the visitor next door and when I went into the
room--I should have knocked, but forgot--he was changing.'

  `Changing?'

  `Well, more than changing, sir, he had taken off his clothes to dress
for dinner. He saw me looking at him. I was surprised. He came over to me
and before I knew it he had undone the buttons on my shirt and squeezed
my nipples really, really hard, sir.'

  `That was when you gave a shout and ran out of his room.'

  `Yes, sir. I think you saw me run.'

  `But when you were looking at him, it wasn't just looking, was it,
Jason. He saw that you were excited by it. Didn't he? That may be part
of the reason he thought he could touch you. But you have no experience
of what he was doing.'

  `No, sir. Definitely not, sir.'

  `And you've never told Jeremy that you're gay? Have you? I saw how
you became excited in the showers today. You were the only one showering
with cold water and yet still had half a boner.'

  `Sir, you're not going to tell Jeremy, sir. He's my best friend. We
had thought of going to go to Bristol together until his dad died.'

  `No, Jason, I'm not going to tell Jeremy. You are. And he's still
going to go to Bristol. He's just won a full scholarship today from the
Buddy Foundation. What's his extension? 552, I think?' I said as I
lifted the phone.



  The phone only rang twice.

  `Yes?'

  `Jeremy, can you come to see me now, please?'

  `Yes, Jonathan. I'm on my way, sir.'



  `Headmaster has kindly sent me a bottle of sherry, Jason. Would you
like a glass before Jeremy arrives?'

  Jason could only nod his head up and down.

  He downed the small sherry in one large gulp and had only swallowed it
when there was a knock on the door and Jeremy walked in.

  If Jeremy was surprised at seeing Jason with me and an empty sherry
glass in his hand, he did not show it and merely looked over at me for
the reason for calling him.

  `Jeremy, Jason has something to tell you. Jason say it now in a single
short sentence.'

  Jason looked at his friend, closed his eyes, opened them and said
`Jeremy, I'm gay'.

  Jeremy looked at his friend and then at me and then back at his friend
smiling as he did so.

  `I know that already, Jason.'

  I now smiled to myself as Jason stuttered, `How? I have never told you
or anybody.'

  `Jason, how many times have you dated a girl in the past six years?
And how many times have you taken cold showers when I take hot ones? I
knew you would tell me one day.'

  `You don't mind?'

  `Why should I mind if you get a boner every time you see me in the
shower? You're my friend and it's kind of nice seeing that your boner
says `I like Jeremy' when that big mouth of yours never did. It
doesn't bother me in the least. You've never made a move on me. Though
at times, I have wanted to hug you a bit more tightly for being such a
great cricketer.'

  The two friends were just a pace away from each other, and for
safety's sake, I took the sherry glass out of Jason's hand before they
locked in an embrace that seemed to go on for ages.

  `And you never told me your secret news either!'

  `What news?' Jeremy said.

  `That you're still going to Bristol?'

  Jeremy furrowed his brow and I thought it was time to intervene.

  `Jason, Jeremy hasn't actually got that bit of news yet. Jeremy, I
applied to a contact in a foundation I know for you for a full residence
scholarship at Bristol and it's yours for the taking. They're posting
you out the notice as we speak.'

   It is one of life's pleasures to see unbounded joy on the face of an
individual. Such was one of life's moments with Jeremy Burrows.  I
thought it best to be a bit vague as to the foundation for security
reasons.

  `I'm going to Bristol! I'm going to Bristol!' and looking at his
friend Jason, he shouted `We're going to Bristol' and together they
did some sort of whooping war dance around my room.



  The third thing of significance which occurred during my weekend at my
old school, St. Timothy's was that I noted down the name of the old boy
in the room next door who was visiting on the tenth of his graduation.
The Sicilians say that revenge is a dish best served cold. I quite agree.
I let all feeling go cold. I let my emotion cool. I would let time pass,
and when the time and temperature were correct, I would act.



  A small incident occurred on my last evening at my old school. After
dinner, I had come up to my room and had started to change for bed;
rather I was changing, when there was a quiet knock on my door.

  I opened the door, still undoing my cufflinks, to espy Jason Smithers
in the corridor. He did not say a thing, just looked at me for about
fifteen seconds.

  `Come in, Jason.'

  Stepping into my room, he suddenly seemed less sure of himself as if
motion had deprived him of whatever determination had brought him to my
door.

  I looked at him in his casual weekend clothes, stylish, without either
being those of an adult or those of a teenager. He was a young man in
between ages.

  I saw him wet his lips and half-bite his lower lip as if steeling
himself for what he wanted to say. It was not for me to interrupt his
inner turmoil.

  `Jonathan,' he finally said in a rush, `I've never been with a man.
I've never slept with a man.'

  `Jason, you will in time. When the time is right.'

  `I think, sir, the time is right and right now.'

  `Are you sure?'

  `As sure as I am of anything. I have not been able to get the thought
of this out of my mind today.'

  I walked over to the door and turned the old-fashioned key, locking it.

  `Undress and get into the bed.'

  He did so quickly and clumsily, pulling at his clothes and using
alternative feet to push his shoes off by the heels. His clothes formed
an untidy heap on a chair.

  I continued to undress, looking at his young body, partly browned by a
sun tan and a clear band of white around his midriff.

  I took a small bottle of the Aloe lotion from my case and put it on the
bedside table. He looked at it and then at me. He was a fast learner as
he took the bottle, sniffed its perfumed scent and putting a dab of the
lotion on his fingers, put his hand under the bedclothes seeking his
backside.

  I brushed my teeth and finished undressing and slipped under the duvet,
and in beside Jason Smithers.

  The heat of his body was like a human furnace, and briefly looking into
his eyes, clear and limpid, I started the seduction of the young man to
which every gay person submits in seeking an expression and an
explanation of his sexuality.

  I let my arm slide under Jason and held his body close. I kissed his
forehead and his eyes, his cheeks and his nose; I kissed his jawbone and
his ear and when I touched my lips to his, he was as relaxed in my arms
as a trusting sexual partner can be.

  His lips did not know what to do other than press against mine and I
let my tongue press against them and after some seconds secure their
separation. When my tongue touched his, his body threw itself against
mine as if a magnetic force had pulled us nearer together. I could feel
his penile hardness against my belly and I could hear and sense his
little groan rising from the back of his throat. His was sensory overload
and he did not know what to do with it, other than ride the wave as it
rose and crested.

  After some minutes, Jason Smithers got the hang of kissing another man
and slowly began to take the lead.

  I raised his right leg over my left hip and let my finger wander over
his back and down the crack of his ass, firmly looking for his most
private of orifices. Having him put his trust in me, I was not about to
let him down and disappoint him in his first man-to-man sexual
experience.

  My middle finger found his tightness. It had been lubricated but only
really on its puckered surface. I could feel a ring of resisting muscle
in the sphincter. I reached over and took the bottle of Aloe lotion.

  `For a first time, we are going to need more of this, Jason, for you
to really and truly enjoy being taken.'

  He just nodded as I applied a liberal dose of the lotion to two
fingers. Having found his orifice again, I pushed one finger firmly in,
pulled it out and then further in than before. I felt it pass all muscle
and whatever Jason's body's intention of gripping my finger, with the
lotion it could not. I started a gentle circular motion with my middle
finger and then pulled it out, only to quickly insert it and the index
finger of my hand into his male tightness.

  Jason's face registered discomfort, so I kissed him deeply so that his
senses would be distracted and they were. After some minutes, I felt the
muscles of his anus relax and I knew he was quickly getting to readiness
for his first fucking.

  `Not hurting?'

  He shook his head, `just different to anything I have ever felt. I've
never been broken.'

  I slipped the duvet back and raised Jason's legs over his head. His
cock looked thicker than I remembered it from the morning shower and its
tip was totally lubricated, oozing precum.

  When dealing with a novice in sexual matters, it is always best to
proceed at a firm pace, quickly, but not too much so. I positioned my
firm cock over the opening of his back passage.

  `Take a deep breath' I ordered, and as he did, I drove in with force.
In less than two seconds, I was embedded to the hilt in the virgin
asshole of Jason Smithers. I let him feel my presence. His eyes were wide
open, his nostrils flared.

  `I'm going to set up a gentle in and out motion,' and I proceeded to
have my cock get to know every square centimetre of his anal passage,
taking it easy, then more urgently, pulling out partially and then more
fully, until I looked down at one point and saw that his anus was not
closing fully after a withdrawal.

  Jason was now ready for a full and sustained fuck and I took his
virginity with power and force as my pubic bones contacted with his
perineum and the firm roundness of his buttocks. Finally, I felt the tip
of my penis touch his prostate. Jason felt it as well as his penis began
to spurt its seed and I could hold on no longer and loosed my seed into
his most intimate orifice.

  I took a convenient towel from the headboard of the bed and wiped up
his abundant seed and having carefully withdrawn, wiped myself and
Jason's perineum and crack. As I put the towel over the side of the bed,
his arms came around me in a boa constrictor hug.

  There are only two types of kissers. Those who kiss hard and almost jar
the teeth out of your head. And there are those who kiss soft and who
ignite the cells of your lips with their passion. Jason's lips met mine.
Maybe they didn't and it was just the static electricity between his and
mine. I could feel his nostril breath as it returned to normal.

  `Jonathan, that didn't hurt at all. Wasn't it supposed to hurt?'

  I shook my head and half laughed and half smiled at him.

  `No, if it is done well, no matter how tight and anxious a virgin
might be, the hurt is minimal. Now, just lie there and in five minutes, I
am going to teach you how to suck cock.'

  Jason's eyes smiled, and his lips went into a grin.

  Teach him, I did, until one o'clock in the morning. When I woke at my
usual five-thirty, he was gone. I dozed until six-thirty and got my alarm
call from my fag.

  I got up quickly to go for my early morning run. Jeremy and Jason were
at the front door doing some warm ups.

  `We were just about to start. We thought you had slept in,' Jeremy
said.

  Jason said nothing, just smiled, and the three of us set off on our
jog.



  Graham Hodson saw me off in my taxi.

  `What are you going to do in your retirement, Graham?'

  `I still have a bit of time to think about that. Sit in the sun and
enjoy life. Write a text book perhaps so that the experience of a life
time won't be entirely lost.'

  `Keep in touch, Graham. I am in London every third Monday of the
month. '

  On the promise that he would and a firm handshake, we bid our adieus.

  Jeremy and Jason were also there.

  Jeremy hugged me, I presumed for the scholarship and promised to write
care of the head office of the bank in London.

  Jason hugged me, I presumed as his first lover and promised likewise.
There was no hint that Jeremy knew yet of what had occurred between the
two of us.

  On leaving St. Timothy's I thought it a memorable weekend in more ways
than one.



  I came back from England quite refreshed. For three days, I had barely
thought of Dahra. England had been very warm after all. Not glaringly so,
but in the West Counties the heat had been at its highest for the year.
The novel I did not read on the train to Midminster, I read on the New
Concorde back to Kuwait and on the shuttle down to Dahra. And July had
arrived.



  The following Thursday saw Faisal drive me down to the slave centres,
first stop being at al-Qatim, as I had promised its owner Ahmed al-Atti.
The object of the visit was to see two incoming slaves that he had
identified might be of interest to me. One certainly; the other, simply
because the computer had thrown up a cross-reference.

  Ahmed was the essence of courtesy as usual - being genuinely nice man
with whom to do business, even in what might be for some an unsavoury
trade. He brought me in to a private showing room, essentially a large
bright room on the upper floor of the establishment with some comfortable
armchairs and a raised dais for the display of the slave or slaves.

  One thing had intrigued me in all of this. How had Ahmed al-Atti known
of a particular slave, which would motivate me to come to see his
offering? The thought struck me again, as a sixteen year old, whose first
name was Luke, was led in by an assistant and put up on the dais.

  I could see the family resemblance immediately. The same nose; the same
eyebrows; even something in the jaw line. He too, was blond like his
brother. The hair on his head was streaked by sun, his light treasure
trail almost invisible and a reddish tint in the blond pubes set off a
nice five inch uncircumcised cock.

  Luke like so many in his circumstances looked lost. His eyes fixed for
a second on Ahmed in his Arab garb and them on me in my western suit.

  Ahmed had not said a word, letting the product sell itself so to speak.
I took up the tan folder on the table. Luke Timas Peoples, 16 years old,
from West Virginia, sold by his parents, like his elder brother. A
younger brother still at home.

  Somewhere at the back of my mind, I remembered that his brother Terry
Peoples' file had said that he had five other brothers. What had become
of the other three who were not at home?

  Normally, I would prod and poke the slave to make sure that he was
okay. This was not the time or place to do so. Putting down the folder, I
got up and walked over to Luke Peoples. He looked apprehensively at my
approach and I could see that his hands instinctively came as if to
protect his bare genitals. Some instruction must have kicked in, because
he put his hands at his back again.

  `Luke, my name is Jonathan Martin.'

  He nodded back but did not speak.

  `You have been sold into slavery by your parents. I am going to buy
you to work at my home.'

  Whatever inner dam had held back the boy's tears failed at that moment
and the teenager's body convulsed with sobs as his weeping racked his
body. I nodded to the assistant who stepped up on the dais and taking
Luke's elbow led him away.



  `How did you know I would be interested? His brother was not through
either centre,' I asked Ahmed.

  `Our computer system, Sir Jonathan, has a full listing of every slave
in Dahra, indexed by owner and over two hundred characteristics from
type, sex, original nationality and so on. When the system printed off a
match between one of your slaves and this teenager, it is our policy now
to inform the Dahran owner.'

  This was all new to me. Ahmed continued.

  `As you own 995 slaves, Sir Jonathan, your name comes up frequently.
We now normally ignore nationality in your case, but we make a note when
other characteristics, which you have requested in the past, match.'

  Ahmed al-Atti knew more about my slaves than I did. I had not known how
many I owned.

  `Other characteristics?' I said.

  Ahmed took up a file and said `gardeners, cooks, several production
categories, Australian footballers...'

  Ahmed broke off as I started to laugh. I could not believe that my
previous requests and a frivolous comment about a favourite type of
slave, were now computerised, categorised, indexed and heavens knows what
else. Ahmed joined in the laughter.

  `At least, Sir Jonathan, your requests are quite straight-forward let
me tell you. We have some requests that we will never fill and if were we
ever to, we would make a fortune on every such request.'

  At that, the side door opened again and a superbly athletic six-foot
figure entered. He was quite bronzed and lanky and this was what first
struck me, apart from a light band of skin around his midriff, which had
not been too exposed to the sun. He was well endowed with a thick cock
whose head was covered by a fine foreskin.

  We had been speaking in Arabic and when the new slave was on the dais,
Ahmed said `talking of Australians, here is the second slave whose
details I put in the folder I sent you.'

  I looked at Jake Carter, a twenty four year old former fireman in front
of me and wondered if he had the slightest idea how his life was about to
change.

  I looked again and smiled to myself. In the heat of the room, Jake's
cock was beginning to rise. From a flaccid state, the purple tip of the
cock was now definitely peering out into the great big world around. Jake
was blushing furiously.

  I went over to him.

  Ahmed said in Arabic from behind me, `Take care, Sir Jonathan, if you
are inspecting him. He has a hair trigger on his releases and he has not
been allowed come since he was tested and we sent the folder to you last
week.'

  I walked round the dais. I had not said a word. Jake Carter was a
superb figure who would have graced any catwalk had he been a model, or
any field of sport had he been a professional athlete.

  When I had completed my circuit around him, I said, `I understand your
name is Jake.'

  He looked down at me in surprise at being addressed in English.

  `Yes, sir.'

  At least, a polite reply.

  `Do you know where you are?'

  `No, sir.'

  `Do you know why you are here?'

  `No, sir.'

  I let that piece of truth sink in. His cock was now fully erect and
hard up against his lower belly. Its head looked ugly and red and was
covered in purplish red spots.

  `Have you a dose of something?' I said nodding in the general
direction of his cock head.

  `No, sir. No way. They have kept a type of tube over my cock and it is
always locked. Whenever I start throwing a boner, which is all the time
in this heat, the head of my cock touches some sort of needles in the
tube and I start to go soft again for about five minutes. I can't stop
thinking about a good wank.'

  Some form of chastity device had worked well, it appeared.

  `And when did you last have a wank as you put it?'

  `Definitely over a week ago. I have been here eight days and before
that it is a bit of a blur. I know I was drugged.'

  `Are you clean?'

  `Yes, sir. I was given a shower today and...and they slipped a thing up
my bum as well.'

  `No, that is not what I meant. Are you clean?'

  He blushed again. There is something to be said for people who can
still be embarrassed and who can blush.

  `Yes, sir. I don't do drugs and I haven't had a dose of the clap
since I was seventeen.'

  `So, you don't have any idea why you are here?'

  `No, sir, I'm afraid to think why.'

  `You were lifted to be sold as a slave.'

  Jake Carter blanched, but he kept quiet. He was clearly not stupid, but
this particular thought was also obviously new to him. I noticed that he
also blinked as his eyes began to water.

  Turning to Ahmed, I said in Arabic, `Has the slave shown any sign of
violence during his time here?'

  `No, Sir Jonathan. None whatsoever.'

  `Can you leave us for five minutes? I wish to examine the slave more
closely and he is still not yet trained to be comfortable with a
Master's examination.'

  `Certainly, Sir Jonathan, just ring that bell when you are finished,'
and he pointed to a button beside the side door as he got up and left the
room.

  Jake Carter was looking at me.

  `Are you capable of following a simple instruction?' I enquired in
English.

  `Yes, sir.'

  `Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you?'

  `Is this a test, sir?'

  `In a way, yes.'

  He reminded me of another Australian in answering one question by
asking another. He closed his eyes.

  `Now put your hands behind the nape of your neck as you may have
learned and don't move.'

  `Yes, sir.'

  I ran a finger up the inside of his leg and let my hand cup his balls.
Jake Carter instinctively went higher on the balls of his feet. His cock
was leaking precum now as it stayed hard up against his flat stomach.
With my other hand, I pulled the cock forwards and took its head in my
mouth.

  Jake Carter groaned a groan that came from the lowest regions of this
throat. Four long and deep sucks down the length of his blue-veined shaft
and Jake was in launch mode. He gave a half-cry and his cock thickened in
my mouth and outpouring after outpouring of semen hit the back of my
throat. Five times, he exploded and each time his balls shook and
tightened and trembled in the palm of my hand.

  When his fifth explosion had subsided, I took a handkerchief from my
pocket and deposited a mouthful of semen in it.

  Jake Carter's cock was still hard and showed no signs of deflation. It
was long and it was beautiful. The saliva of my mouth coupled with
continuous precum he had produced created the best of lubricants. I took
it in my mouth again and started to work on its hardness.

  I slipped a hand in between his legs and back to his pucker which I
felt would be suitably lubricated by the centre's handlers. It was. I
slipped in a finger past the tightness of what was clearly a virginal
sphincter muscle and quickly found his prostate gland, the object of my
search, hard and rough to the touch, much like the feeling of running a
finger over the shell of a walnut.

  `Bugger,' was all that I heard as my finger made contact.

  As I half suspected, it still was hard, indicating that his sexual
release was not yet complete.

  Four minutes of prostate massage and again my mouth was full of his
semen, for which I again used my handkerchief as a depository. Finally,
he was spent.

  `Jake, you can now open your eyes.'

  He did.

  `Nine ejaculations in less than five minutes. Not bad. Not bad, at
all. You have obviously been given a blowjob before?'

  He looked at me part in astonishment, part smiling, part blushing.

  `Not by a bloke, sir.'

  `You did not object?'

  `This is a Borg situation, sir. Resistance is futile. I think, sir, I
would have had a natural explosion before the day was out in any case and
you seemed to know what you were doing, sir.'

  I noted that in his reply he had said `sir' three times. As I went
and pushed the bell, my new slave surprised me by speaking again.

  `Thank you, sir.'

  `Why?'

  `What you did, sir, did not hurt me. I think had you wished you could
have hurt me and in any way you wanted.'

  It was an astute observation and one never made before to me by a
slave.

  `I have just one question, Jake.'

  `Yes, sir.'

   `Do you like footie?'

  `Yes, sir. Footie, running, swimming. I love sports.'

  `I think, Jake, you and I are going to get on very well, to say
nothing of another I know.'

  `Sir?' he queried clearly not understanding me.



  Faisal took me down to al-Mera at a leisurely pace. There was not much
traffic on the road south and we were in plenty of time for the House of
Mustafa celebrating its eight hundred and fifty years in business. From
what I gathered, it was an all-afternoon and evening event and as I
arrived I was shocked at the assembly of limousines in procession to the
entrance and in the nearby car parks. There must have been over two
hundred vehicles. It was as if there was a deliberate collective
statement being made by Dahrans that despite an aborted invasion their
lives were to go on uninterrupted, and particularly, in the continuance
of Dahra's oldest trade for which the House of Mustafa was one of the
country's two leading business lights.

  I have never liked crowds and walking in through the foyer it was like
walking into a festive pre-summer sale, the only difference being that
there was no stock on sale that I could ascertain.

  I fortified myself with a half-decent flute of champagne, though I saw
that most of the other guests were on fruit-juices in the tradition of
the country. I spotted Gus Jennings, my General Manager of the Aloe
companies and made a bee-line for him.

  `Your good health,' I said as I drew near him.

  `Cheers, Jonathan. Have you ever seen such a crowd here for an
afternoon and I understand that it has been like this since midday.'

  `I think it is a social and business reaction to the invasion.'

  `Could be. Maybe. I thought that I would find some house slaves here,
but apparently there are no sales today.'

  They say that birds of a feather flock together, the old pares cum
paribus thing and as Gus and I circled the attendance, I spotted some
ex-pats in confabulation and we nodded our acquaintanceship as we passed
by. I spotted Jalal al-Akhri, the quietest of the al-Akhri brothers and a
farming neighbour who acts as my agent with the other neighbours who buy
my water.

  `Sir Jonathan, what a pleasant surprise!'

  `Jalal, delighted to see you. Do you know Gus Jennings?'

  `Yes, indeed. Gus, I have not seen you in ages since you worked for
Tariq. I only came here at this time because Tariq said he would be
here.'

  Gus nodded and shook hands with Jalal.

  `Maybe he is caught up in the traffic jam outside,' he ventured.

   `Jalal, are the neighbours satisfied with the water deliveries?'

  `More than satisfied, Jonathan. As you can see for yourself, the
estates on the Western Road are now becoming the new vegetable growing
centre of Dahra -- more than ten thousand hectares in all. And talking of
Tariq, here he is.'

  Tariq al-Akhri made his entrance and worked the room like a consummate
politician, though I never considered him as such, ending up beside us
after about ten minutes and lots of greetings in his wake, with our host
of the day Mustafa ben-Mustafa at his side.

  When greetings had been completed and pleasantries exchanged, Tariq
whispered in my ear, `we are very pleased at how the bank handled itself
during the recent events. Abdou mentioned about your backup records to
Madrid and New York. That was very thoughtful, but not necessary,
Jonathan. We have every confidence in Deckhams and in your good self.'

  `I understand you knew about the impending event, Tariq.'

  `Yes, the inner cabinet knew but no one else. It flushed out just one
minister and he is no longer with us.'

  My eye must have blinked because Tariq looked at me and continued, `A
very greedy man, richer than myself, if you can believe that, Jonathan,
but obsessed with power as it turned out. He took his own life when he
saw all was lost.'

  `It does not appear to have affected markets, Tariq.'

  `No, Abdou had press releases ready for fifteen satellite news
companies and over a thousand newspapers around the world. He runs a very
smooth operation in Geneva; even if as his brother I say so myself. There
was only....'

  Tariq stopped, as if thinking about the words he wanted to use.

  `There was only one misstatement as you may have seen, Jonathan, in
the various releases and statements made. We said there were no
survivors. Not one. The media do not know how many invaded and we have
returned the bodies of those who actually died in the attacks. The
rebuilding of the new Dahran Hilton starts next week at the expense of
the Sheikdom and will be half as big again. All of its surviving staff
have been given a year's salary by the Minister of Trade and have been
told to come back in twelve months. So, all will be as it was.'

  `Well almost, Tariq. We have the experience and memory of the invasion
and that should not be wiped out too easily or too quickly.'

  'And you are right, all is not as it was, and there should be no
pretences between friends. My own house has been in mourning in the wake
of the invasion.'

  The bustle of the crowd faded away.

  'What happened, Tariq?'

  'By sheer bad luck two of my wives were at a family function in the
Hilton that night. They had stayed overnight there with some of the
younger children who had become tired. One of my younger sons was killed
when rockets hit the hotel.'

  'Tariq, I am so sorry.'

  'It happened and that was that. However, my wife is taking it very
badly.'

  'Those who were responsible will never be a danger to anyone in the
Sheikdom again.'

   `Thank you, Jonathan, on that last point. There were some politics
involved. While there was a real and present danger in that invasion, we
did have another four full regiments on standby among our allies.'

  I did raise an eyebrow, but Tariq did not elaborate and for my part, I
did not query it further.

End of Chapter 7

To be continued