Date: Fri, 08 Aug 2003 21:06:01 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Kazakh's Story Chapter 1

This is the 1st chapter of The Kazakh's Story, a novel about slavery and
gay sex in modern times.

Key words: authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, re-training,
and submission.

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 your live, please leave this webpage now.

Contact points: eMail: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com
Web: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Erotic_Gay_Stories

The Kazakh's Story

Chapter 1 -- Morning

The Palace is in a turmoil. I can see that.

Since early morning Ahmed whom I know to be a sort of head of the staff
here has been issuing orders left right and centre. Reminds me of an old
Major I used know in the Kazakh Peoples' Army. Not just only orders to
the kitchen staff, order to the household staff, and he has been running
up to the Master's bedroom with files all morning. I presume it is to
the bedroom because at weekends the Master does not rise until around
nine o'clock. Yes, something is definite up and in the wind and its not
just my cock.

My Master, of all of two months, is some sort of government official in
this Gulf state wherever I am. I know it is on the Gulf because, it is
hot, it is desert and I have smelt the sea far away when the wind blows
from the East. I have always had a great sense of smell. And it must be
around the Gulf area because the stars are more or less the same but I
can see more on them on the horizon that I ever saw in my beautiful
Kazakhstan.

I am generally ignored this morning because my usual job is to look after
two of the Master's beautiful prize horses. Though in all my time here
of two months, he has never had the time to come down to ride them. These
beasts are magnificent, one a fine chestnut coloured stallion, the older
a gelded two-year old if my judgement of his teeth are correct. They are
like quiet little mice with me and know the smell now of my naked body.

No slave in this place wears clothes. The only thing on me is a silver
coloured bracelet on my right ankle. It is not aluminium, iron or steel
that I know for sure. It may be an amalgam of metals but is seamless and
impossible to take off. It is the bracelet of a slave.

Uh, uh. Trouble on the horizon. Here comes Ahmed. He has no language I
know, and I do not know Arabic apart from some fifteen commands. He snaps
his fingers at me and clearly I have to follow him. I have never been in
the Palace itself and am soon lost with the number of doors and
passageways we go through, and now up a back stairs.

Now there is marble under my feet instead of the rough stone of the back
stairs. Ahmed stops at a door - one of many - knocks and waits. He has
not to wait long. There is a shout from inside to come in.

The Master is sitting in a dressing robe at a table surrounded by files.
Ahmed bows from the waist and I as a slave prostrate myself in the
obedience position as I call it with my head on the floor, my hands
beside my head.

There is rapid fire Arabic between the two and Ahmed gives me a touch of
his fly-swish to get up. I assume the display position. It is only the
second time that I have seen the Master up close, though I am not looking
directly at him.

He must be in his late thirties, jet black hair and the usual small beard
that Arabs favour. I really do not know him, other than I think his name
is Tariq. It is a problem not to have the language and nobody here speaks
either Kazakh or Russian. I should have learned more English at school,
but who would have thought that I would have needed it in a situation
life this. I would have laughed at the thought.

The Master was now getting up and coming over to me. There were obvious
signs of approval. He looked happy. I am an expert at reading body
language, after all I was in the Kazakh special forces, where the rise
and fall of officers and men was meteoric in our fight against the
incursions of the Taliban. Fail and you were out. Success and it was all
smiles.

The Master was circling me like I was a statue, touching my shoulders and
waist. He comes to the front and lifts my organ, a slight squeeze, a
slight squeeze again, and I can feel myself getting hard. I have not come
in two days, basically because I have not had five minutes, that's all I
would need, to myself.

But the Master is not interested in getting me hard, just to see the
reaction of my organ. He is now on the phone and speaking the English
language. That I do know. He is smiling and he is happy. Out of the
corner of my eye, I see that Ahmed has the beginnings of a smile, the
first one of the day that I have seen on his face.

There are more rapid-fire instructions in Arabic to Ahmed who bows and
with a flick of his fly swish indicates that I have to follow him.

We descend now down the main stairs which is carpeted and tickles the
soles of my bare feet. We stand outside this pair of double doors. Ahmed
put my arms firmly to my sides, pats my backside so I am a bit out to the
front, pushes in my belly. I think he wants me to stand at attention.
Blast this lack of language!

I stand firmly to attention as if on the parade ground of the barracks of
Chimkent. Ahmed smiles as if my posture is of his making, and not of the
merciless drill sergeants who literally ran us into the ground and out of
it again.

Ahmed claps his hands and walks through the doors pushing them open in
front of him. He walks over to an empty throne-like chair and prostrates
himself before it. He stays like this for five or so seconds and then
gets up and goes to his right and again prostrates himself before an
empty divan-sofa of the type they have in these parts. After five seconds
prostrated in the obedience position, he gets up and stands at display as
I call it facing the empty divan-sofa.

His pantomime is over. He comes and sits in the throne-like chair. It is
clearly for my benefit. He points to the floor. I get the message. I do
exactly as he has done. When I get up he has moved to the divan-sofa and
I again I prostate myself and go to display.

I think it is over, but no. He takes me by the cock, such is the way
slaves are frequently led around in this strange Palace and outside the
door again. Turns me round facing the door, goes back inside and closes
the door. Aha, I am getting the message. The first was the pantomime! Now
is the dress-rehearsal, though I am wearing no military dress.

I hear two sharp handclaps. I push open the doors. Ahmed is sitting on
the throne-like chair. I march in as only a Kazakh officer knows how. My
backside is pushed forward, my belly in, my chest out like a duck on Lake
Ozero. I make my prostration. When I get up, again Ahmed has moved and I
move over and prostrate myself again before him on the divan-sofa.

Ahmed is obviously delighted with my quick uptake. He strikes the palm of
his hand with his fly-swish in pleasure and comes over to me, looks me up
and down and actually pats me on the side of my face with his hand.
Again, a quick follow-me sign and we are off downstairs.

I wonder who is now looking after my beautiful horses. They like someone
around when they are having their breakfast oats, and the stallion likes
me to tickles his heavy balls when he is eating.

But I am apparently not to go out to see my horses again today. For over
two hours, I am showered, shit, douched with those things that are pushed
up your rectum.

I am shaven again. I only shaved this morning! My hair is cut. A cream is
put over the light fine hair in the middle my chest and fifteen minutes
later I am hairless. My groin hair is trimmed by the barber as well, and
the hair in my pits is actually being combed. Am I a chicken being fatten
for market as my beloved grandmother used say?

Later in the morning I am handed over to a small man who speaks the
English language and who obviously is in authority as he has a
black-handled fly-swish like Ahmed. I am guessing but I would say from
his bearing and the manner that he looks at me, that he has been in the
military. It takes one to know one, as they say.

He merely glances at my manhood, but appears more interested in my
physique, my arms, my legs, my chest, my neck for some reason. The Master
comes out, now dressed for the day, and they speak in English. As they
speak my beautiful gelding is brought out. The Master is going to go
riding. A slave I do not know is leading the horse, which the Master
mounts and they canter off.

We have a language problem this person in authority and I. He speaks to
me in English, but I do not understand. I say, `Nyet, droog, ia vass
harrashaw ie ponneemaietie -- no, my friend, I do not understand you.'

He understands the word `droog' and smiles, comes over and slaps me
twice on the arm, and says `russki'. I say proudly `Kazakh'. He
points to his tongue and to his head and says `russki' again. He is
pantomiming that I understand and speak Russian. I say `da, yes' and
that is about the limit of what I can remember, well may half a dozen
words more, but our English teacher was a Georgian and we never learned
much.

We move out of the sun to one of the porticos of the courtyard of the
Palace, and this overseer stands back from one of the pillars about a
metre, he is not very tall, but obviously powerful. He stretches forward
with one arm and starts to do one-arm press-ups against the pillar. He
then turns to me and with the both hands in the air pantomimes to me that
I have to do 30 with one arm and then 30 with the other. And he walks
off. Just like that. He is not going to supervise my workout. It is as if
once he has given the order, there is no reason to believe that it will
not be carried out. That man has been in the military!

It is an easy work out. 30 with the left arm. 30 with the right. I am not
even breathing deeply, well maybe a little. So I do another 30 of each.
Then I remember some of the simple on-the-stop exercises which we had
been taught at the academy, invented by our Russian colleagues but copied
by the Canadian Air Force and sold to make millions for the capitalists
warmongers -- well at least that is what the military history teacher
taught us!

I was in the middle of the routine, when the overseer returned with
another slave. I stood at display, more out of respect of one former
officer to another former officer. The overseer spoke and the other slave
now translated.

`You finished the arm exercises?' -- the slave had a strange Russian
accent, but it was understandable.

`Yes, overseer, 30 of each, then repeated again.'

The slave said my words in English.

`What exercises are you doing at the moment?'

`The simple ones of the Kazakh Air Force.'

I thought I saw the overseer begin to smile.

`You were in Air Force?'

`No, overseer, I was a Speznaz Capitan in the Kazakh army.'

`Now you are a slave.'

`Yes, overseer.'

`To-night, our Master Tariq -- so it was his name after all -- `is
having a very special dinner for a very special guest. He is going to
give you as a gift to his guest. The head of household has told you how
to behave?'

`Yes, overseer,' I said with as calm a voice as I could. I was to be
given away as a present. I swallowed hard. I was only here some months.

`Today, I am going to spend with you and put you through some exercises
to make sure you look your best this evening. Do you understand?'

`Yes, overseer.'

`Will it be sufficient for me to show you the exercises, or do you want
this Latvian translating all the time?'

`No, overseer, if you show me. I will do it. May I ask a question,
overseer?'

He furrowed his brow. It was clear in all my time at the Palace that
slaves did not ask questions. The Latvian was looking nervously at the
ground. The overseer breathed in deeply and out again.

`Yes, what is it?'

`Overseer, sir, where am I? Which county?'

He looked at me at hearing the question put to him in English by the
translator and replied quietly, as if exercising his patience.

"You are in the Sheikdom of Dahra on the Persian Gulf' and, with that,
dismissed the Latvian translator slave.

To be continued ...