Date: Sat, 13 Dec 2003 15:25:58 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Special Memories - 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.

If you are underage to read this kind of material or if this material is
unlawful for you to read where you live, please leave this webpage now.

Contact points:

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The Special Memories by Gerry Taylor

Chapter 16 - The Male Secretary

His cock or rather his balls were resting in the palm of my hand. I say
that because what had first caught my attention was that his cock was in
erection much like the head of a cobra. It was erect, but its glans at
the top was like a cobra's head -- pointing out and parallel to the
ground and what made it particularly appealing was the hood of foreskin
was only partially retracted, revealing the damp pink slit of his
urethra. As my thumb confirmed as I ran it over the acorn of the glans,
it was moist with precum.

Well, as I say, that was what first caught my attention. It was late
September and I was in the slave centre in al-Qatim looking for two
helpers for Stan, my water overseer. It was still his job in the early
morning to see to the dispatch of the vegetables from the Aloe Palace to
the markets in the capital. I had not got around to re-assigning that
position and as Stan did it well, my motto in such matters is 'leave well
enough alone', or as the more mechanically minded tend to say 'if it
works, don't fix it'.

It was not the best of arrangements and I would have to change it in
time, as Stan had to walk the mile each morning from the Lime Palace down
the straight desert road to my previous home, the Aloe Palace, so as to
arrange the daily vegetable dispatches. The market gardens of both
Palaces were flourishing and what had started as a one-slave, then a
two-slave, early morning operation, now required all of six to get the
pallets ready for the dispatch of the vegetables.

I had assigned young Abdul to assist in this and he was delighted walking
proudly and quietly, as he was wont to do at Stan's side. But Stan more
and more had now to grab two or three slaves each morning who were
unassigned for work that day and with them march down the road between
the Palaces as well.

In his own inimitable New Zealand way, he had said enough was enough and
that he need more permanent early morning help. So here was I, catalogue
in hand, looking for two reasonably fit well-built worker-slaves who
might fit the bill.

I had earmarked on the catalogue three or four possibles. It would depend
how the bidding went. And then I saw the young slave with the erection.

I judged him to be mid-twenties. He was Caucasian, as our American
cousins say, with the number 83 on the tag on his arm. The only trouble
was there was no number 83 in the catalogue!

I caught the eye of one of the assistant dealers who came over at a trot
and when, in Arabic, I pointed out the problem, he apologised. Three
further slaves had arrived that morning and the dealership had not had
time to put them into the catalogue. He would get me the actual slave's
file immediately, if I would be good enough to wait a moment. I nodded
agreement and he scurried off. I went back to fondling the balls of the
young man with the erection.

I had not spoken a word to the slave and he, of course, had not said a
word to me. That much training was obviously instilled in him. I gently
felt each of his testicles -- the size of small plums and ran the backs
of my fingers against the grain, so to speak, of the hairs on his inner
thighs. A small strand of precum was beginning to drip from his urethra.

I touched his lower belly and it was warm and firm and there were good
muscles under the skin. I looked up at his face really for the first time
and what struck me about his eyes, not just that they were a slate grey,
but that they were absolutely terrified.

His arms were behind his head held in place by a neck collar, Velcroed to
his wrists, a loose, but effective binding -- the dealer had taken lately
to this collar thing after a slave actually tried to hit another at one
auction. Anyway the collar allows the slave to show off the upper chest,
his axillae and at the same time, give the inspecting client the
security, for what it is, of hands out of the way.

This fine specimen of slavehood could have been from anywhere, from
eighty or so countries. I don't know why I had not spoken to him to
enquire; I just had not.

The assistant dealer was back in a thrice, apologising yet again in
Arabic for the confusion, with the house's tan folder on the slave.
Number 83 was one Ben Trant formerly of Alberta, Canada, but lifted in
Toronto. He was, as I almost rightly guessed, twenty six years old.

'Hello, Ben,' I said and he actually gave a little jump at being spoken
to in English.

If before his look had been of being terrified, now that increased even
more if such were possible, as if being spoken to in a language he knew
would now reveal the fate in store for him.

'Sshhhh! Calm! I am not going to hurt you,' and I let my hand rest on his
chest.

As he was on a raised dais, I had to reach up slightly and within his
chest, I could now feel his heart jack-hammering its pulse.

'My name is Jonathan Martin. What is yours?'

It was the only way to start a conversation that would not scare him
further.

He wet his lips and said, `Ben Trant, sir.'

'What caught my eye was your obvious excitement at being here,' and with
my head I motioned to his erection.

'Some of the others were feeling me up and now it won't go down, sir.'

He was polite if anything.

'It says here, Ben, that you have been working in an office.'

'Yes, sir. I am a male secretary.'

I actually looked up at him rather sharply. I did not know if he was
trying to make some sort of joke, but no, he was serious.

'You take shorthand?'

'No, sir, secretaries don't do that any longer. We would attend and
record meetings, transcribe tapes and type them up, sir.'

'You can type?'

'Yes, sir, better than I can write.'

Very interesting.

'It says you were lifted in Toronto. How did that happen?'

'I am not too sure, sir, I just came out of a club and was grabbed and
pushed into a van.'

I don't know what made me say it, perhaps just to assist my train of
thought or the flow of the conversation, but I said, 'What? A
night-club?'

'No, sir,' he hesitated for a second and then completed the sentence, 'a
gay club.'

Now that was a first I can tell you, in my many visits to the auction
rooms. No one had ever admitted to being gay.

'Are you saying, Ben, that you are gay?'

'Yes, sir.'

That was a definite first in my book.

'So you know all about sex then, Ben, and you've had it up your bum, is
that it?'

'No sir. I don't know all about sex and I have never let anyone up my
backside.'

'But you're gay. Why should I believe any of this?'

And then he stopped me in my auctioneering tracks when he replied, 'Yes,
sir. I am gay', stressed the 'am' bit, 'and I never tell a lie.' And he
stressed the 'never' bit as well.

There are jokes you tell, but this one was out of time and place and not
the type of one you tell a prospective owner that you didn't tell tales,
fibs, lies, or whatever we call them ourselves. Who among us has not told
a lie, a big lie, a whopper, a little lie, a white lie?

I looked at him, or rather up at him, as his face was some inches higher
than mine on the dais and he was not joking.

'How do I know that any of this is the truth? No lies, ever in all of
your what, twenty six years?'

'No lies, sir, whatsoever. I just don't tell lies. And I can't prove that
to you, sir, nor prove anything else to you, other than I have never been
broken and am unused back there.'

I looked at him. He looked at me. And we stood at the crossroad of an
impasse as to what was truth and what was not.

I said, `turn, bend and spread'.

He did. A small tight anus surrounded by a small circle of black hair was
visible between two reasonably hair-free buttocks. If that anus had ever
been entered from the outside, it did not show and from that moment, I
took Ben Trant at his word.

In his auction, I was the only bidder and got him at the one and only
opening bid of twenty four thousand euro.

I picked up two Byelorussians for the vegetable work. The first one
looked fit enough when I inspected him and his name was Igor and when I
had finished looking at him, I said aloud to myself, 'Well, one down. I
suppose he'll do. Now, let me find another.'

This Igor clearly understood English, because he said something, which
sounded rather harshly Slavic under his breath and a slave two from him
now also stuck his chest out a mile. When I walked down to him, his
number indicated that he too was Byelorussian.

I tapped the slave on the chest and finally said, 'Okay, Basili,' - that
was his name according to the catalogue -- 'you can start breathing
again.'

He did not have the same grasp of English as his friend because his chest
stayed stuck out. So I went back to Igor and said to him, 'Okay, Igor.
Igor and Basili. Okay.'

He gave a wide grin. Such lateral thoughts we have at these times -- that
his pearly white teeth would not require much of our resident dentist Cal
Thorsen's time -- and he nodded down the line to his pal, who thankfully
deflated with a smile to Igor and to myself.

Both Byelorussians were knocked down to me for twenty and twenty one
thousand euro each, after a couple of lukewarm counter-bids and Stan the
man had his pallet stackers for the market vegetables in the morning and
I now had a Canadian male secretary, who was gay and who did not tell
lies.

As I had left the auction-rooms immediately after the purchase, I did not
see the new slaves when they were delivered, on the next day, Friday. I
had another engagement in the capital city and was not home until late
around ten o'clock. So it was early after breakfast on the Saturday
morning when I first saw them in the Lime Palace.

Aziz brought them to me after breakfast, with their minders and I saw
that Joćo and Sypros had been allocated to one of the Russians and Niko
and Rob, the Afrikaners, to the other. These two teams always produced
excellent results as 'oxen' -- harnessing the new slaves and instructing
them in the ways of the Lime Palace.

As Food and Drink were always in the Palace, they had been assigned to
Ben Trant -- though I myself thought that they would not have enough
English for the task and he would have little or no Arabic. However, in
this I was proven wrong, as I normally speak to them in Arabic, I had not
realised how much their English had actually improved.

The previous morning, Greg and Jess, the assistant retrainers had put the
three of them through the first five procedures of retraining with
sparkling and effective results and they were booked in with both the
dentist and the eye-doctor, as Dr. Fournier had given all a clean bill of
health.

After breakfast the three were brought to me and Igor and Basili
immediately rushed into an obeisance, to be followed more slowly by Ben,
not that there was a fault in his. The two Byelorussians immediately
edged forward and each put my right foot on the back of their heads, one
after the other and both said 'Thank you, Mister, to buy Igor' and 'Thank
you, Mister, to buy Basili.'

Well, almost perfect, but room for improvement as far as English went.

I looked at Ben Trant still on his knees.

'Well, at least two out of three are grateful. I suppose that is
something, would you not say?'

'Yes, Sir Jonathan, it is and I too am deeply grateful that you have
purchased me,' Ben replied.

'Deeply grateful? That seems a bit of a mouthful of lie for someone who
does not tell lies. You are a slave here and you are going to work hard
and please me and none other. What is there to be 'deeply grateful' about
all that?' I said somewhat sarcastically.

At that point, various slaves were standing round apart from the buddies.
There were Food and Drink. There was Bob, who was looking at Ben Trant
and listening to his fellow Canadian's accent. Stan had come across to
collect his two new vegetable assistants.

'Sir Jonathan, yesterday Food and Drink showed me all over the Lime
Palace and the farms of the Aloe and Lime Palaces. I am looking forward
to working on the farms. I saw various hundreds of slaves working and not
one of them appeared harmed or branded or was being punished in any way.
They all seemed to know what had to be done and were doing it quite
happily.'

Ben Trant was in error and thought he was to work on the land and farms.
I, nor anyone else, had told him otherwise.

I looked over at Stan and raised an eyebrow.

'He actually speaks in full sentences' was Stan's laconic reply.

'Ben tell Stan, my overseer, your sexual orientation and what else you do
not do.'

Stan looked sharply at me.

Ben replied, `I am gay and I do not tell lies.'

Stan's mouth dropped open and various of those present who understood
began to laugh, trustfully I hoped not at the 'gay' bit, but at the 'not
telling lies' bit.

'Fine, Ben, what is your opinion of me?'

The laughter died and every breath was held awaiting the reply of the
serious looking slave on his knees before me.

'Sir Jonathan, I have not yet made up my mind fully. You are strange,
obviously rich. You are well educated, but beyond that I cannot say.'

'Well, Stan, what do you say to all of that?' I mused and glanced over at
the property overseer.

'Boss, let me just say I am glad he did not witness a couple of things at
the loading of the vegetables this morning, for you to ask him about
today's dispatches to the market.'

Bob was holding his hand over his mouth trying not to laugh. I looked at
him and said, 'Have you nothing to do today?'

Gathering up the breakfast dishes, he grinned and said 'Yes, Boss, I have
a pile of things to do, but please, please, don't ask that guy anything
else until I get back. I just can't wait to hear his answers' and he
scuttled off bursting his sides laughing.

I told Stan to take his two new assistants and the others to get on with
their duties. Only Food and Drink remained with Ben Trant.

'That's all for the moment,' I said to Food and Drink and looked as
sternly as I could at the new secretary. I let him see my drumming
fingers on the breakfast table.

'Did you see the rock duty yesterday?'

As the farm slaves clear each patch of new ground, they simply leave the
stones and rock at the edge closest to the nearest intersecting path. A
slave on `rock duty', as it is called comes along, putting the stones
and rocks large and small into a wheelbarrow and then onto the next pile.
A full wheelbarrow load is then dumped in a depression in the land which
we are filling.

'Yes, sir'.

'What did you think of it?'

'It is the hardest job of all I saw.'

'Who do you think should do it for the next month?'

'I have no idea, sir,' and I saw a flicker of uncertainly in the eyes.

'That job awaits you, Ben Trant, like a flower awaits a bee, if you
displease me on one single issue. Do you understand? And the proper mode
of address is 'Master' in this Palace.'

'Yes, Master, Thank you, Master.'

'For the moment however, I want you to work in my office here at the Lime
Palace. I keep some of my private papers here in the study which doubles
as an office and also papers from the Bank where I work when I have to
read them. Come with me and I'll show you where things are.'

He got up off his knees and we went into the study and I pointed out the
six filing cabinets and my desk.

'You have permission to look in everything here in the office. Try to
remember where things are. Don't disturb things too much and you will
find things well filed and in order.'

'Yes, Master.'

It was only late afterwards that I realised that that was the rock on
which I perished.

That Saturday, I had lunch with Tariq al-Akhri, the assistant deputy
Finance Minister, who being asked to invest some family money in a large
computer franchise wanted some advice. After work, I spent some further
time in the capital city, choosing some extra furniture for the Lime
Palace and visiting the slave paraphernalia supermarket and just to see
what new stocks they had in.

So it was just after seven in the evening when I got back to the Lime
Palace. The slaves were assembling for their evening meal and I
immediately went into the study to drop some furniture brochures, which I
had picked up and some documents, which Tariq had given me.

I though for a moment I had gone into the wrong room when I stepped into
the study. Something was wrong! Something was definitely wrong! My files
and folders which had been carefully left around the study were gone. The
correspondence needing answering on my desk was missing! My diary was
nowhere to be seen.

I do not normally raise my voice, but I quite literally shouted, 'Ben
Trant! Ben Trant, where are you? Come here at once!'

The Palace normally has its hum about it. At my shout, there was the most
unearthly quiet, which descended and then a scurrying of feet from the
kitchen.

'Master, you called.'

'What have you done to the study? Where are my papers, my correspondence,
and my diary? The files, the folders?'

I think Ben Trant was afraid of me for that one minute while I was
ranting and that I was going to hit him.

'Master, everything is here and filed away in proper order. I have gone
through the filing cabinets and put everything in proper order. We now
even have a full cabinet free.'

'Where is my diary?'

He pulled open the top right drawer of the desk. The diary was there,
where my hand would have been able to touch it had I been sitting at the
desk.

'My correspondence that needs reply?'

He went to the first filing cabinet and produced a very thick file.

'It is all here, Master, in date order from the most recent to the
oldest,' he replied nervously. `If you tell me each reply, I shall have
it typed out for you immediately.'

My outburst now seemed a bit over the top. My annoyance was beginning to
subside.

'Where are the TGV bond files?'

'Here, Master, second filing cabinet, under Bonds and then under TGV.'

'But this was all properly organised, why have you put it differently?'

'Master, first of all it was not properly organised and secondly, from
now if you need a file, you simply ask me and I shall put it immediately
on your desk.'

'What do you mean it was not properly organised? I knew where everything
was.'

That was the point when I actually lost the argument, if I had one in the
first place, because Ben Trant walked across to the first filing cabinet
and pulled out three files and put the three files side by side on my
desk. The first was an al-Mera catalogue, which I knew I had lost.

'Where was this?' I asked.

'Among some architectural papers about windows, Master.'

I remembered then that it was about the time that Marek and Jerzy had
discovered the faults with the windows on the upstairs floors and I must
have left one file inside the other.

The second file was a Grand Cayman file that I had been missing a while.

'Where was this?'

'Fallen down at the back of the fourth filing cabinet, Master. That is
why the cabinet would not lock properly.'

I did not bother to ask about the third file which was a Bank file that I
just 'knew' I had returned to the Bank, but obviously had not.

I looked at Ben Trant. He was just standing there looking towards me, but
not eye to eye, rather at shoulder level. I put my hand out towards his
flushed face suddenly. He did not flinch. He was brave, I would grant you
that, because had I wished to hit him, I could have done so powerfully as
he had not moved an inch.

With two fingers, I raised his chin until he was looking me in the eye.

'You will always look me in the eye.'

'Yes, Master.'

'How long did it take you to do all of this?'

'Just up to before you arrived, Master'

'Since seven this morning?'

'Yes, Master.'

'Well, then, we have a number of things to do this evening.'

'Yes, Master.'

'Get a pad and write this down.'

'Yes, Master,' and he took a notebook from one of the shelves.

'7.15 pm. Take a shower with the Master.'

Ben's eyes flickered across at me, but wrote down what I had said.

'7.30 pm. Have dinner with the Master seated at his right hand on the
veranda. Got that?'

'Yes, Master,' he said quietly.

'8 pm. Walking with the Master among his slaves, ready to take notes. Got
that?'

'Yes, Master.'

'9 pm. Go to bed with the Master.'

'Yes, Master.

'Any organisational difficulties with all of that?' I asked
sarcastically.

'No, Master, none whatsoever.'

The shower was just a shower. Komil was in attendance and scrubbed down
my back, as I like it. I turned Ben round when he was under the water and
soaped his back. He had not said a word since downstairs.

'A penny for your thoughts.'

'I think, Master, you are trying to say you're sorry for shouting at me.'

'I think you're right, Ben, but don't be too right too often, at least
not without my permission. Now rinse off and dry yourself.'

There was absolute silence in the courtyard when I sat down and Ben sat
on a chair beside me. Slaves do not sit in the presence of their Masters.
While I had my own dinner, he had his two biscuits and a bowl of soup
served by Bob.

When I walked among the slaves afterwards, he followed with his hand-held
micro-recorder, the first of many such occasions and as comments were
made to me, these were noted by him on the machine and where decisions
were required, I would find them next morning neatly typed on an agenda
for the day.

When I went up to bed, Ben followed and stood beside Komil in the bedroom
suite. When I had undressed, I went over to him and said 'for the next
thirty days you will be sleeping with your buddies, who will tell you how
to behave in the Lime Palace. Tonight is your night, Ben, with my
apologies for shouting at you. You were right. Tonight, you can be a top
and make love to me or to Komil, or you can be a bottom and Komil or I
will make love to you. Or you can choose not to have any sex at all, just
to sleep in a comfortable bed.'

'Master, if I could have someone just hold me. No one has held me in a
long time.'

And so it was. Ben Trant missed a night of passion, preferring just to go
asleep tightly held by Komil and sandwiched between my giant personal
slave and myself.

Ben Trant took some getting used to. When I went on my rounds around the
Palaces, if ever I were to take two steps backwards, I would have been
treading on his toes.

I had Ben make a list one evening of what he needed to run my office from
the Lime Palace. The list ran to two pages, I glanced at it, where it ran
from a desk, an office chair, a computer and a whole pile of office
supplies.

`Why have you chosen this computer,' I asked.

`Master, I saw the one in the doctor's office and asked his slave where
it came from. He told me to speak with Jens the Danish slave and Jens
advised me on what would be suitable.'

On that I could not fault him and I gave the list to the head of
stationery at the Bank to have the whole lot purchased and charged to my
personal account.

Ben had access to my diary and he saw my birthday at some point listed on
the 5th March. On that date, the following year, I got an envelope with a
card--merely a sheet of stiff paper folded inside it--with the words 'Sir
Jonathan. Happy birthday with grateful thanks. Ben Trant,' and so it
would arrive on my desk in each of the following years he served at the
Lime Palace.

It is said, Masters train slaves to their whims and their way of life.
Ben Trant trained me to always look life in the eye and always -- well,
almost always -- to tell the truth.

Over the following month of the slave Jean-Pierre's basic training with
the staff of the slave centre at the auction rooms, I returned each ten
days to view his progress.

On the first occasion, I was told that the slave was in the exercise room
and when accompanied there by one of the assistants, he was there on a
treadmill, under the supervision of another slave. Although no one would
have told him yet who his ultimate Master was to be, the fact that a
Master had entered the exercise room was sufficient reason for the
supervising slave to switch off the treadmill and give a sharp command in
Arabic to Jean-Pierre as he stepped off the treadmill, to go to obeisance
-- to go onto his knees and forehead to the floor in the presence of
one's Master.

While the supervising slave did it by the book, quickly and carefully,
Jean-Pierre did not. He made obeisance all right, but at his own pace and
slowly put his head to the floor about a foot from my shoes. I asked
myself what sort of attitude that was?

There was a camel cane on the sidewall of the exercise room together with
two leather straps. I told the assistant who had accompanied me to get
the camel cane which was just a little under four feet in length. He
brought it over to me. Neither of the two slaves on the ground had moved.
One would have understood the fast Arabic. I doubted if Jean-Pierre had.

When I received the camel cane, I went to the side of the slave who had
been supervising Jean-Pierre and said to him, 'It is your duty not just
to exercise the slave, but to show him by your example how to make a
perfect obeisance,' and I gave him a single well placed hard stroke of
the camel cane across his upturned buttocks. The exercise room echoed the
stroke and the air whooshed out of the slave's lung.

'Do you understand now?' I said to him still in Arabic.

'Yes, Master' and he stayed in his position of obeisance.

Going to the far side of Jean-Pierre, I raised his head from the ground
with the end of the camel-cane and had him look me in the eyes. There was
curiosity and as well as a little apprehension. There was a lack of focus
and a seeming unawareness of the punishment that his lack of attention
had caused to the other slave. I did not utter a word. He did not know
who I was from Adam. I put the camel cane to the back of his neck and
pushed his head and neck back towards the position of obeisance on the
floor.

I took the measure of my distance from Jean-Pierre and gave his fleshy
buttock the full force of a single stroke of the camel cane. The result
was instantaneous. He gave a shout and brought a hand back to his caned
backside. He came out of obeisance with his head to one side.

I walked to his side again and again raised his head with the camel cane,
so that he was looking directly into my eyes. Now there was anger. Yes,
anger and also a touch of fear. Was it fear of me or fear of the unknown?
But now there was focus on his pain. Curiosity and apprehension had
disappeared, yes, to be replaced by fear. Again, I put his head back on
the floor with the tip of the camel cane.

'Get this slave to display immediately,' I ordered the supervising slave,
who jumped to his feet and shouted 'display' at Jean-Pierre, it being one
of the basic commands he would have learned.

Jean-Pierre went quickly to 'display'. I walked up to him. His eyes
showed less anger and more fear. I walked around him and saw the red weal
already forming across both cheeks of his backside. I let the camel cane
slide down his back and linger over the weal.

'Now have this slave do a proper obeisance,' I ordered the supervising
slave, who immediate shouted 'obeisance'. This time Jean-Pierre did it in
one-third the previous time. I raised his head again and looked him in
the eyes. I could not quite make out the signals his eyes were sending,
so I put his head back on the floor and took up my measured position
again.

My aim was true. The camel cane blurred in the air and the sound of lathe
meeting skin reverberated in the exercise room. Jean-Pierre gave a
strangled cry, but his hands stayed beside his head. He was learning that
slaves did not move during punishment, nor seek to avoid a blow.

'Have the slave go to display.'

The supervising slave shouted the order, grateful I think he had not been
the object of my further attention, or of the camel cane in my hand.

Jean-Pierre went speedily to 'display'. I stood before him. As he would
have learned, he was looking into the middle distance, a single tear on
his left cheek. I put the camel cane to the side and back of his head and
had him look me in the eyes yet again. He was blinking hard trying to
hold rein on further tears. Now there was focus in his eyes, the focus of
fear, the focus of pain, of humiliation, of obedience, the focus on what
the unknown held for him. All of that and more, in the dilated pupils of
his eyes.

Still looking into his Jean-Pierre's eyes, I said to the supervisor,
`Now tell this slave to made obeisance.'

The supervisor shouted and in a mere fraction of the first time and in
half the second time, the slave Jean-Pierre Fournier made a perfect
obeisance.

I walked out of the exercise room without even looking down at him.

On the second visit, ten days later, Jean-Pierre's obeisance was
instantaneous when I arrived. He required no instruction. Admitted he was
not exercising at the time and in his eyes, there was the focused
apprehension of hope that what he had done was correct and immediate. I
saw him swallow in his nervousness, even a trickle of perspiration on the
side of his head.

By this stage, I would have guessed that he knew I must be his new
Master. As to whom I was, I could not be too sure, though the slave
dealer had said to me, my name was never mentioned in any form or fashion
within his hearing. Even if it had been, I doubted it would have meant
anything. In his precious drug-related life, he would have been too
engrossed in himself to care anything about his father's circumstances,
let alone about his father's employer.

As I had not taken Ben's virginity as my droit de seigneur on the night
he had spent in my bed, Food and Drink did not take him either during his
initial training. At the end of his thirty-day induction into the Lime
Palace, he was my playmate for that particular night and I played his
body like a violin for over three hours.

When he finally lay in my arms, his virginity taken, he moved closer to
me and kissing me on the forehead, he said, 'Thank you, Master, for
tonight and for everything.'

He put his arms around me and promptly fell asleep. So much for a slave
being attentive to the needs of the Master!

However, for each of the following nights for a full week, Ben Trant was
in my bed and I was his lover. He had cried the first time he was broken
and in taking him I was gentle-- at least, I thought so. And on each of
the subsequent nights, he lost his reserve and his inhibitions about
raising the roof with his shouts, when in the throes of being taken, not
just by me, but by Komil. Towards the end of the week, he said to me, one
night when we lay in each others' arms, 'I never ever imagined, Master,
sex could be so beautiful.'

I said to him, 'Is that the truth?' and he laughed.

End of Chapter 16