Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2006 13:55:52 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 12 - Gay - Authoritarian [The Dahran series]

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor
This is the twelfth chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and
present-day slavery.
Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining,
sex, submission
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you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage now.
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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are
now available as full novels in Adobe Acrobat format on
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  Chapter 12--Criticism

  If there was one thing of which I could be critical, it was the green look
on Georgie Deckam's face on the day of his wedding. He looked positively
unwell as if he were going to be asked to say more than `I do' and give his
new bride a peck on the cheek.
  Bethnal Green registry office was the venue for the wedding. It looked
like a civil service office which I supposed is precisely what it was. The
registrar himself officiated at the marriage service and offered his
congratulations very warmly to the new bride and groom.
  From a front row of chairs, I looked on with Lord Deckam at my side. On
the other side of the aisle--the chairs being divided into church style
separation--was Emily Smith, Ryan's wife who was giving the bride away as
both Mary Hind's parents were dead. The friend who had accompanied Mary to
the hotel for her interview was her second witness and Charlie Deckam and I
did the honours on the other side.
  Though it was a strange wedding, Charlie was bursting with pride and from
his many looks at the day's bride--his new daughter-in-law--I would read his
mind as if it were the front page of the Financial Times. He was thinking of
his future grandchild, now legitimised, now with the Deckam name, which I
noted was written in the old thousand-year style of Deschamps on the wedding
register. Well, if your fore-bearer came over the English Channel with
William the Conqueror, it would be historically impolite to forget it!
  As Mary's parents were dead, I had offered to host the wedding breakfast
which turned out, due to the hour, to be more of an early lunch at a private
dining-room in a nearby restaurant.
  I found the new bride to be very quiet, if anything, softly spoken and
polite. She was very much more at her ease than when I had interviewed her
with Emily Smith. In many ways, she was the ideal wife for Georgie in this
strange situation.
  I enquired about her house and her eyes shone with pride as she spoke of
it. Her classes were fine. Her health was `great' and when she said that she
placed her hand on her upper stomach and said `No morning sickness yet' and
smiled with pleasure at the mention of the lack of one of pregnancy's
side-effects.
  But what did endear her to my heart was what she said about the monthly
income which Georgie had allocated her: `I have opened a Post Office account
with what was left out of the last two cheques so that there will be a nest
egg when baby is born.'
  She really did not know the wealth or family into which she had married.
It was not for me to fill her in. But her simplicity was warming.
  `You don't mind that there is no honeymoon? Do you? Georgie is needed back
at the branch.'
  It was the closest I came to telling a lie. Georgie was needed alright,
but not that needed.
  `Not at all, I understand. We are going to take the Eurostar to Paris,'
and she indicated her friend and female bodyguard, `and spend a week at a
big hotel and see the sights. I have never seen Paris.'
  I noticed that there was no suggestion of Georgie being involved. It was
for the best.

  For some reason, weddings always make me horny and this strange wedding
was no exception.
  I could not very well invite Ryan Smith back to the hotel without causing
suspicion to raise its ugly head. So when we rose from lunch and organised
our plans for the afternoon, I rang the agency I have normally used for the
past number of years when in London. When I gave my customer loyalty number,
the voice said, `Yes, indeed, Mr. Martin. Do you want your usual type?
Well-groomed, working class, nice build, polite. For what time, sir?'
  `Six o'clock would be fine.'
  `And the address, please?'
  `The usual address, my hotel on The Strand.'
  `I see that we have three possibilities this afternoon, Mr. Martin. One is
a virgin. Two are not.'
  `Whichever of the two non-virgins answers the call first. I am not looking
for hard work this evening.'
  `Of course not, Mr. Martin. Just a moment, I have the first number
ringing.'
  There was a moment's silence and then the voice said, `A Tom Marsham will
ask for you at reception in your hotel at six o'clock, Mr. Martin. It is a
pleasure doing business again with you. Enjoy your stay in London, and thank
you for your custom.'
  The afternoon was balmy and instead of taking a taxi back towards my
hotel, I started to walk, down towards the Thames and then west back along
the river. The afternoon became more beautiful as I walked, a slight breeze
coming from the east, up along the river. I was taking my time, and having
passed by Blackfriars and navigated the traffic towards the Embankment,
minding my own business as they say, as I was passing by the Underpass a
young man possibly late teens to early twenties stepped out of nowhere and I
found a knife aimed at my throat.
  `Gimme your money!' was the only thing I heard as time ground to a halt
and each movement in the local environment went into slow motion--cars,
noise, the sound of the wind in the trees.
  `Are you a dummy? Gimme your money!'
  I was just in the process of putting my hand in my inside pocket in the
general direction of my wallet, when time sped up again to its normal pace
and a police car screeched to a halt. In what was a running-jump from the
car, an officer was out heading for me and my mugger and a second officer
had appeared from the Underpass still talking into his radio.
  My mugger dropped the knife and made as if he were going to jump on the
bonnet of the police car.
  `Oh no, you don't, Mikey. We got you this time' I heard the officer say as
he grabbed part of a jacket and a dirty T-shirt.
  I simply stood in audience mode with my back to the pavement railings. The
officer who had come up from the Underpass stood over the knife on the
ground and as a second officer got out of the car, I heard the unmistakable
sound of hand-cuffs being ratcheted tight on the mugger's wrists.
  The second officer from the police car approached me and asked `Are you
alright, sir?'
  `Yes. Yes, I am. Just shocked. I have never been mugged before.'
  `It's okay, sir. We have him now. We have been trailing a number of known
muggers this week. A new clean-up the streets of London policy,' he said
with a grin. `Now another one is in the bag.'
  `But if you know who they are, why not arrest them before they do anyone a
damage?'
  The officer looked at me kindly and, upon mature reflection, it was
kindly, because amateur interpretations of the law are best not commented
upon and he merely repeated himself in saying, `don't worry, sir. We have
him. Now may I have your name and address so that we can call you as a
witness.'
  I explained that I was staying in London only for a couple of days at my
hotel, but that my permanent address was in the Middle East.
  `But you can come to the station and sign a statement, sir?'
  `Tomorrow, yes. I am a bit too shaken just now.'
  `Tomorrow, would be fine, sir,' and he handed me a card with his name on
it and the address of the police station which I recognised as not being too
far from the hotel.
  I made my way back to the hotel and was still not quite over the
excitement of the afternoon. I sat in an armchair in my suite of rooms and
closed my eyes and tried to put the whole episode out of my mind. Strangely,
enough with the change in time-zone, the exercise, the air, to say nothing
of the mugging itself, having closed my eyes, I found myself half-dozing off
in the chair and was only awakened from the half-slumber by the ringing of
the telephone.
  Reception was informing me that a Mr. Marsham was enquiring for me.
  `Send him up.'
  It was six o'clock on the dot.

  `Good evening, sir,' was my call guy's first comment on coming into the
suite of rooms. He was slightly over six foot, blond with a well-cut
hairstyle. A little on the short side was the year's current style.
  `I'm not quite awake. I was snoozing when the phone went. Strip while I
splash some water on my face.'
  `Yes, sir,' he said as I indicated a chair where he could leave his
clothes.
  The cold water on my face revived me and I looked at the black rings under
my eyes. Time for an early night after my call guy outside in the bedroom
suite left, I thought.
  Tom Marsham was standing by the chair, his clothes neatly folded on the
seat or draped over the back.
  `Which do you prefer, top or bottom?' I asked.
  `I'm versatile, sir; whichever you want first.'
  It was a hint of this being more than a quick late afternoon fuck.
  `Well, top away. Take the lead,' and that he did for over forty minutes as
he put me through some paces that I had all but forgotten.
  When one is Master of slaves and of Palaces, there is a creeping
subservience which comes into those slaves who share my bed. With Yuriy
Obov, no, but with the others yes. It is as if they trust me in ninety nine
ways, but there is some final barrier which stops them putting the Master at
their mercy when they top me as sometimes they do.
  Here under the unrelenting penetrating prick of Tom Marsham, there was no
let up from his sheathed cock.
  When I saw him begin to tire and twin rivulets of perspiration start to
run from his sideburns, I put my hand on his hairless chest and said, `Relax
now, let's just sixty-nine for a while.'
  He slipped out of me and put the condom in the wastepaper basket beside
the bed, and placed a knee on either side of my head as his face dipped down
towards my pubes and my cock which had remained hard throughout his fucking
without having come once.
  Tom sucked well and slowly, taking the head and shaft of the cock fully
into his mouth and throat. He took his time. I let him, and started to lick
his balls trying to iron out the creases one by one in his scrotum by the
power of my tongue alone.
  I found that he trembled when I took each of his balls in my mouth and
gently washed them with the saliva and spittle on my tongue. When I did
that, he groaned and I concentrated on it until I heard him say, `Oh, fuck,
fuck, fuck,' and he was jetting stream after stream of cum down my chest.
  His hardness of an hour disappeared in seconds and when my tongue touched
the underside of his penis, he literally jumped off me it was so sensitive.
  `Sorry, sir, after I cum, I cannot stand anything touching my cock, and
the only way I really cum hard is when someone sucks my balls.'
  He looked at me half-accusingly as if I had known in advance of his secret
and private erogenous testicle zone.
  `Is that your only sex spot, Tom? If there's one, there's usually more.'
  `There's another spot, sir, but we didn't get around to it.'
  He wasn't revealing his state secret.
  `I'll be back in London in a month. I bet you fifty that I find it then.'
  He smiled at the challenge.
  `Thank you, sir, for saying you'll see me again. That goes down well with
the agency. As for the other spot, you'll just have to wait and find out.
But, sir, some things are worth waiting for,' he said with a cheeky grin.
  `Well, Tom, be prepared to lose a fifty spot. There are only eighty or so
erogenous zones. All I have to do is work my way through them and I have my
bet.'
  `Eighty?'
  `Eighty seven, in fact.'
  `What else would you like, sir, and maybe we can forget about the bet?'
  `What's your best technique?'
  `Licking toes and feet, sir.'
  `They're all yours, Tom,' I said wriggling my toes, `it's going to take an
awful lot of licking to get me to forget fifty quid, don't you think.'
  `You haven't seen me in operation, sir. Just lie back.'
  And I did and for an hour had the best bout of toe sucking and foot
licking that I had in a long time.
  When we finally finished, Tom Marsham and I showered together. I noticed
that for all his bodily beauty, his features were spoiled by a slight cast
in his left eye. It was the flaw that made a divine body human and I thought
how many of my slaves had received that particular simple corrective
treatment from Nacho Cuesta, my ophthalmic surgeon.
  After the shower, I slipped on one of the hotel's white towelling robes
and watched my call guy dress.
  `Finished for the day?'
  `Yes, sir.'
  `I'll ask for you next month.'
  `Thank you, sir.'
  I saw the unspoken question in this eyes.
  `You've more than paid the bet, and I will find that secret spot the next
time, Tom,' and as I said it, I straightened the collar of his shirt and
slipped a hundred for himself into the breast pocket of his jacket; the
agency would share the credit card fee with him.
  He was going to say something, but I merely put a finger to his lips. He
was a nice and handsome guy and a better lover.

  The following morning early after breakfast, I did the dutiful citizen
thing and went to the local police station some four streets away to make my
statement about the attempted mugging. It was a nice morning so I walked.
  As I was entering the station which had double glass doors, I saw a
balding middle-aged man approaching from inside the station with none other
than my would-be mugger at his side.
  The mugger recognised me, obviously said something to the man who grasped
my mugger by the left elbow and frog-marched him past me and out the doors,
but not before the mugger had given me the bird, pointing his middle finger
towards the ceiling. Clearly his presence in the station had not improved
his manners.
  I approached the counter and said to the officer on duty, `My name is
Martin. I'm here to make a statement about an attempted mugging yesterday.
That was the assailant that just walked out the door.'
  The officer seemed unsettled and said, `Just a moment, Mr. Martin, I have
to call the duty-sergeant,' and off he went through a side door.
  I turned to read notices about hazardous chemicals, drivers' licences,
neighbourhood watch, and the dozen or so advice notices which seem to grace
every police station.
  `Mr. Martin?' a voice said behind me. I had not heard the person arrive.
  I turned it was the officer who had been in the squad car the previous
day.
  `Hello, ah yes, officer, Sir Jonathan Martin,' I replied and whatever
response was on the officer's lips dried up in the morning air.
  He regained his composure and said, `Would you come with me, please?' and
indicated a door which said `Interview Room'.
  On going inside, the officer scratched his forehead between his eyebrows,
and said, `I'm afraid, Sir Jonathan, that I must offer you an apology. We
have had to release Mikey Acton, your assailant.'
  `Yes, I saw him walking out of the station.'
  `We're not going to be able to charge and prosecute him, sir. There was a
mix-up and I must apologise for that.'
  There was the slightest of pauses and he continued, obviously embarrassed,
`It was my fault, sir.'
  `How did this happen? Can you tell me?'
  `We brought Mikey Acton back to the station and I personally handed him
over to the duty sergeant for processing. Five minutes later, I was called
back as the duty sergeant was suffering from the vomiting bug which is doing
the rounds and he asked me to take over the processing as he had to make a
run for the toilets. I assumed wrongly, as it turns out, that your mugger
had been cautioned and that he would call or ask for a solicitor. He never
said a word but just had a smirk on his face. This morning as he was being
given breakfast, cheeky as anything he demanded to be released as he had not
been read his rights and had been detained overnight and would like his
solicitor to be present.'
  The look on the officer's face said it all. A legal technicality, an
assumption, the rights of habeas corpus incorporated into modern law, and my
would-be mugger had walked.
  I pursed my lips and smiled.
  `Officer, don't give it another thought. These things happen. I am sure
there are many more, what's his name, Mikey Actons out there waiting to be
caught and duly processed. Thank you for explaining matters to me,' and I
turned to leave.
  `You...you won't be lodging a complaint, sir?'
  `Complaint? Not at all. You saved my bacon arriving as you did. That young
punk offended my pride twice once with his knife and the second time with
his bird,' and I tried to give the one-fingered salute of the educationally
challenged, not too successfully.
  `Thank you, sir. It is appreciated. Cock-ups don't happen too often on my
watch, and it's been years since one like this has happened to me.'
  `Officer, as I said, don't give it a second thought.'
  I walked out of the police station into the morning sunlight, and seeing a
passing taxi flagged it down, and said `New Bond Street'.
  A spot of shopping at Aspreys would definitely improve any morning!
  I had to smile to myself when I went in to the store which is both old
fashioned in its understated luxury and yet most modern in its designs of
jewellery. I was only interested in one type of item, gold necklaces, for
those slaves who had passed the thirty days of good service barrier.
  I thought one of the staff at the counter smiled in recognition, heavens
knows I have been back there enough times in the previous five years!
  `Sir Jonathan,' he said and he had recognised me, `delighted to see you.
How can I be of service?'
  `Some gold necklaces, please.'
  A box of necklaces was put before me in seconds. They were exactly like
the ones I normally order. The thought went through my mind that my slaves
were wearing nigh on a million pounds worth of gold around their necks.
  `How many in this box?'
  `Fifty, Sir Jonathan.'
  `I'll take the lot.'
  `Let me package them for you, Sir Jonathan.'
  I could read plainly the thought of the assistant and I could not help but
tease him by saying `You can never give enough gold to those you love, can
you?'
  `Most definitely not, Sir Jonathan, most definitely not,' the assistant
replied wistfully as he looked at the gold chains. I did in truth wonder if
like so many in shops nowadays he was on commission.

  As I went back to Heathrow just before midday for the first leg of my
return flight to Dahra, it was almost as if I could hear a distant Muse
tapping her foot and waiting for me to make up my mind while another waited
unyieldingly before releasing the strand of fate. I kept neither Terpsicore
nor Melponeme waiting on faraway Mount Ida, and dialled Mustafa ben-Mustafa
from a corner of the VIP passenger lounge, trusting that he would not be too
disturbed from any afternoon siesta he might be taking.

  I feel that it is always proper to take the criticisms of one's betters,
in any field, as an opportunity of learning. So when even a new client at
the Bank appears impatient at my lack of grasp of a new piece of technology
for which the clients needs financing, I take it as a criticism of my own
lack of knowledge of things, and I do try to make the effort to understand
what it is all about. In this sense, the client is the superior in matters
technical.
  It is most important to take the criticism of your equals and particularly
of your friends. Your equals will point out the error of your ways,
particularly in business, and I am never upset at that because it is part of
the cut and thrust of business. Criticism from one's friends is a treasure
to be envied. Your friends will tell you when you have been a fool and when
to stop digging yourself further and deeper into a hole. And if you and they
are true friends, you will accept that as part and parcel of the deal and
bargain of friendship. That is what friends are for.
  But I find that it is quite another matter to be criticised by one's
inferiors. Now, I am not talking about class or its distinctions here. It is
the unacceptable criticism from those who definitely do not know what they
are talking about in a particular field and believe that they have something
to tell you, or more importantly in their minds, they believe that they can
force you into a course of action you do not want to suffer. In wanting you
to be the object of their criticism, they in fact become insufferable
themselves.
  For any Master with an extensive holding in slaves, criticism has to be
carefully handled by those who surround him. Freemen and guests can give
their criticisms with impunity. They are at the level of friends on whom you
can rely.

  Back at the Lime Palace and safely ensconced far from marauding muggers, I
was viewing my guests at dinner the evening of my return from London. At
times, a guest or two may be one's superior in certain areas. Such is the
case, in matters of wine and sport, with Felipe Argüelles who has a tennis
court business in Dahra and who is a friend from years back. As usual, he
would have Ross Wells and Vitali Belov assigned to him as his companions for
the night.
  The new gym and sports complex I was having built at the Lemon Palace had
been brought in on time by Tony Sert, my gym manager, and in doing so, had
come in under budget. Tony had asked me about the possibility of some tennis
courts like those at the Aloe Palace which were now becoming very scruffy
due to their constant use during sports times. Hence, Felipe's presence at
my table.
  As in many things, I really enjoy listening to someone who knows their
topic backwards. I did not really understand the differences between court
surfaces nor the advances that had been made in the previous years for
courts in hot climates. Felipe expounded on this point and that point, until
Yves Fournier rescued the table conversation by asking Felipe for his
opinion on the wine which was also Yves' own private field of expertise.
  Felipe got the message and cried out being slightly tipsily, `I have been
talking too much. Have I criticised somebody or something?'
  To which the entire table replied as one with a resounding `Yes!' to much
good natured laughter.
  As dinner was over, we strolled out towards the water-gardens, and I
noticed that Ross Wells was in hover-mode as I call it.
  `Felipe is here and you and Vitali have been assigned to him. He didn't
ask for you, but according to Ben Trant his eyes lit up when he was told you
were his bed companion for the night. Is that okay with you?'
  `Boss, I'm shocked! Of course, it is! I am your slave after all, but even
if I was not, and you merely hinted at it, I would jump to do what you
want.'
  The others had walked on ahead into the water-gardens and Ross and I
dawdled after them.
  `Are you happy here, Ross?'
  `Boss, what a question! Why do you ask?'
  `Because recently in London, I had a guy from the old agency and it
unleashed a flood of thoughts about my first meeting with you back then,
with your hop, step and jump into the bed.'
  `Boss, that was another life. I am very, very happy here--if that is the
answer you want to hear. I am respected by my pupils in the English classes.
I have Vitali still after all these years and we never tire of each other
either in sex or companionship. And you have helped the family back home.
What more could I want? A holiday in Barbados?'
  `Yes, or other things.'
  `Boss, anything I want is right here in Dahra. That is the truth. Plain,
simple and unvarnished. Now does that answer your questions?' he said with a
laugh.
  `I think it does, Ross,' and I gave him a slap on the back as we continued
our walk through the water-gardens.
End of Chapter 12
===========
Contact:
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The Dahran series -- a fictional adventure story about the life and times of
Sir Jonathan Martin -- comprises the following novels to date:
1. The Changed Life
2. The Reluctant Retrainer
3. The Market Offer
4. The Special Memories
5. The Dahran Way
6. The Dahran Rebuttals
7. The Seventh Desert
8. The Dahran Sands
9. The Time Line
These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on
YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories