Date: Sat, 24 Jun 2006 17:32:04 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 7 - Gay - Authoritarian - the Dahran series

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

This is the seventh chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and
present-day slavery.

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

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.

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

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  Chapter 7 -- Egotism


  It is part of the human condition to fool ourselves--to fool ourselves
on our strengths, wisdom, intelligence, on our feelings and emotions. We
do it all the time and with the regularity worthy of an old-fashioned
grandfather clock. Indeed, experience is the name everyone gives his
mistakes as the wit said.

  Georgie Deckam was fooling himself if he thought he could avoid his
responsibilities to his family. Before leaving Dahra for London, I told
him quite bluntly that I was in the process of finding him a wife. He
took it quite well, going a little green around the gills, but otherwise,
quite well. Frankly, I don't think he had the balls to take me on.

  I think that he might have tried to fool himself that I had forgotten
all about it. I most certainly had not. Unrequested favours by Charlie
Deckam, my friend and Bank Chairman, I can hear without any need of
words.

  I was feeling reasonably sure of myself since I had got an e-mail at
the branch in Dahra before departing for London from Emily Smith, the
wife of my electrician partner Ryan, that she wished me to meet three
possible candidates when I was next around. I told Georgie that I
expected him to be present at the same time that I met them. It was not a
question of choice. It was a question of being there, full stop! His was
a meek reply of `Yes, Sir Jonathan.'

  Even though I took the New Concorde Friday flight from Bahrain on my
own, my mind was not really on any of the one-page reports which had
arrived in advance of Monday's meeting. The flight was not eased by the
presence of two soccer internationals on the flight returning from a
holiday in the Gulf -- slim, trim, coiffed in a naturally nonchalant
rough way, and both sporting serious packages in their beige slacks. I
noticed that their knees touched frequently during the flight as they
splayed their legs.

  Maybe the heat in their young balls needed ventilation such was the
spread of their legs. Or maybe they just both had big balls, but while
the seats in first class are wide and separated, the two soccer stars
managed to establish knee-contact on a frequent basis.

  They must have been in training as they had nothing stronger than
Sprite or fruit-juices for the duration of the flight, and so were quiet
and softly spoken throughout. I found myself thinking that the world is
full of beautiful young studs, so many in need of finding out about life
and the true borders and boundaries of their own sexuality.

  As soon as I was off the New Concorde at Heathrow, I tried my son
Richard's mobile. I did not expect it to answer but rather again to be
put through to the answering machine and had my message ready in my head,
when a quiet voice said `Hello?'

  `Richard, it's me. I'm in London.'

  `Hello, dad.'

  Those two words went to my very soul and I momentarily closed my eyes.

  `I'm in London early. I thought I could meet up with you. What are
the arrangements?'

  I really knew the arrangements as I had had Henry, the porter at
Deckams head office, fax me the section of the obituary page which had
Caroline's death notice. But it was an extra line in my conversation.

  `Mum had it all arranged long ago. There's to be a service at the
school on Sunday and cremation afterwards, followed by a lunch at the
local hotel. She wanted all her colleagues at work to come to the
lunch.'

  `It looks like she was indeed very organised.'

  `Dad, would....would you come down to Surrey to be with me?'

  I really had never heard doubt in Richard before and I realised that he
was not doubting himself, but rather, he was doubting me.

  `Of course, I would be delighted. Where are you now?'

  `At the house, in Guildford.'

  `Give me the address and I'll come down right away,' I said. If
there was one thing I was going to do, it was to dispel any doubt in
Richard's mind about me.

  I was glad that I had ordered a car and driver from the Bank before I
had left Dahra, and I spotted one of our drivers immediately as I came
through customs and he immediately saw me and came to relieve me of my
bag.

  `I need to get to Guildford.'

  `No problem, Sir Jonathan. About three quarters of an hour at this
time of day.'

  The limousine was nearby and as soon as I was in the back, I put up the
dividing glass and closed my eyes as the car negotiated its way onto the
spur of the M4 as it headed for the M25.

  I had given the driver the address. I don't know how he found out
where it was, but in just over thirty minutes we were exiting off the
national network and taking a series of roads and streets on the
outskirts of Guildford.

  My thoughts had been almost entirely on Richard for the duration of the
journey. Caroline had flashed in and out of them. But it was Richard,
Richard, Richard...time and time again. Having found him, I was not about
to lose him for love or money.

  The intercom beeped once.

  `Sir Jonathan, we are arriving now. Number 12, I think you said,' as
the limousine glided to a halt at the kerb of a detached house on a quiet
road.

  `Wait for me here a moment. If I need you tomorrow Saturday or Sunday,
are you on duty?'

  `Of course, Sir Jonathan. If you know the time now, I will arrange to
be here, otherwise just ring me,' and he handed me a Deckam's card with
`Anthony Biggars' on it and a mobile number under the name. `It will
take me about an hour to get here whenever you need me, Sir Jonathan.'

  `Just wait a moment.'

  Richard must have seen the car pull up, because he met me at the door.

  `Do want to go anywhere today or can I let the car go?' I said.

  `No, dad,' and he shook his head. `You can let it go.'

  The driver retrieved my bag from the boot of the car and carried it to
the door of the house where I took it.

  Richard let me pass through, and I put my bag down at the foot of the
stairs; he motioned with his arm, to go through a door into what was
large kitchen opening up into a conservatory overlooking a lawn and a
garden.

  I turned to look at him and he was just standing in the middle of the
kitchen, looking lost in his own home, and then we both took a step and
he was in my arms, sobbing his heart out.

  That evening, we sat in the conservatory and drank two bottles of wine
before we were finally done. I found my son was not a great one for small
talk with me, a person he really did not know at all, and it was really
only after about his third glass of wine, that he mellowed. I noticed
that on three occasions, he had reached out to hold my hand or to touch
my wrist as if to confirm that I was really there.

  I had said to him `Tell me about the Caroline that I never knew' and
he wandered in and out of family history for over two hours. Caroline had
two sisters, one married, one not. He had two young cousins -- a boy and
a girl - which I supposed made me an uncle by my blood relationship
through my son.

  He returned to the funeral arrangements as if that were on his mind
more than other things.

  `Mum had left it all planned. Even down to the hymns and the menu for
the meal. She had it all paid for two months ago.'

  That was before she had renewed her acquaintanceship with me. At some
point in her life, Caroline had stopped being the utterly carefree spirit
who had milked a son out of my loins while I was semi-comatose on pink
champagne and had become a respectable teacher and deputy head.

  At some point, she had channelled her life early on into nourishing a
child inside her body and rearing it then in the security of a house and
home.

  `And you, dad?', my son said to me, the dried tears streaking his
face and half-hid in the descending dusk and I remembered the Dahran
proverb that tears are a weapon to be feared and a gift to be treasured.

   `Me? Boring banking `on the Gulf' as my sister Elizabeth says. You
have only one aunt, Elizabeth, on my side of the family who is married to
Jock Tuttle, a Scotsman, and you have a cousin Jack, their only son. I
also do some farming in Dahra. There's a lot more, but that's
essentially it.'

  `You know, I lodged your cheque at the Bank,' he said.

  I didn't. I rarely check the few transactions on that account at head-
office.

  `You should have seen the teller's eyes the way they opened up and
two days later the manager rang me to ask if I wanted the money on
deposit. I didn't know what to tell her. So I said I would issue her
with instructions in due course,' and he giggled at the memory.

  I smiled because he was pleased. And if he was pleased, I was pleased.
His was the reaction of a person well used to talking about other
people's money, but never having money of his own to handle.

  I was feeling the effects of the wine on what had been essentially an
empty stomach. I mentioned something about eating and did he want to eat
out?

  Richard shook his head as if not wanting to break the spell that had
settled over the kitchen-cum-conservatory. It was warm but at the same
time airy and cool.

  `There's a roast chicken in the fridge and a couple of dishes of
pâté. I can work up a salad.'

  `Let me help' and I followed him over to some presses and a counter
where there were tomatoes with green and red peppers in a bowl.

  The fridge also produced an old crumbly traditional Wensleydale and
half a round of smelly Stilton. Richard pointed to a box which produced
some water-biscuits.

  I looked at him, self-assured and confident, in preparing the food. As
if reading my mind, he said `whenever I was at home, even in the last
two years at school, we took turns at the dinner. I was always Mondays,
Wednesdays and Fridays. There's cutlery in that drawer and there are
some plates above.'

  I dutifully obliged in their retrieval and a cold buffet of patés and
roast chicken pieces balanced by a salad was soon laid out before us.

  `I think your self-sufficiency and your self-confidence comes from
Caroline.'

  `In a way, yes, she was the only role model I ever knew. She was more
like a big sister to me at times than a mum. But, I think it strange,
dad, that her greatest gift ever to me is you.'

  He looked me in the eyes and held my hand and then looked away as his
fingers wrapped around mine, and more tears were shed.

  The food helped absorb some of the wine and delayed the full alcoholic
content getting into the blood-stream too quickly. It didn't help when
we started on the cheese that Richard produced half a bottle of Croft's
port. Various glasses later the happy buzz of light intoxication saw us
sitting at a table now almost in darkness. We had not even bothered to
turn on a light.

  I cannot really remember what we talked about, but all I heard from
Richard was new to me, and like so many new things, they would have to be
repeated to me in time to gel properly in the structure of his life I was
creating in my mind.

  At about nine, I could not stifle a yawn. I put it down to the wine and
the port. But my internal body clock already said that it was midnight in
Dahra and I had been up with the Dahran sunrise at five fifteen, to say
nothing of a dehydrating flight at a speed of Mach 2.

  Richard carried my bag upstairs and put me in the guest bedroom,
pointing out the en-suite bathroom and turning down the duvet.

  `Good night, dad. Thank you for being here. I'll call you in the
morning,' and with a final hug was out of the bedroom.

  I don't actually remember getting into bed, but I slowly opened my
eyes and it was a new day. My watch said eight o'clock which meant it
was just five in the UK. I listened to the sounds of woods and distant
traffic as the suburb of Guildford roused itself for the first day of the
weekend.

  Two hours later I heard Richard up, so I got up as well. I felt strange
that I knew my son so little after half a day with him yesterday, but the
more that I knew, the more I felt I had to know.

  We met at the top of the stairs and I let Richard go down ahead of me.
A pile of Saturday post lay on the porch mat, the sign of a civilised
society that still remembered to allow to  keep in written contact six
days a week. It looked a lot of post for a Saturday and as Richard picked
up the twenty or so envelopes, I realised that most of them would be
sympathy cards on Caroline's death. People have their own brand of
kindness for such occasions.

  I asked Richard if he needed a car to do anything that day, that I
could order mine back. He shook his head.

  `Everything is organised for tomorrow. It's only a question of
turning up at eleven for the service at the school chapel, and then at
one at the hotel for lunch.'

  After breakfast, I put in some phone calls to Emily Smith and to my
hotel on The Strand. Emily was ready for me. The hotel said it would be
waiting for us. Biggars, my driver, confirmed his availability for that
evening and on the morrow.

  Later in the morning, we walked through Guildford and Richard showed me
his old primary school and pointed in the direction of the public school
where he had received his pre-university education and where we would go
the following morning for the funeral service.

  Two people stopped him in the street to offer their condolences and
give a nod to me. He did not introduce me other than as `Jonathan
Martin'.

  Richard was comfortable in his milieu, his local surroundings, and
looking at the interaction of people with him, even under tragic
circumstances, people were comfortable with him and he was patient and
comfortable with them.

  We lunched cheaply at an Italian restaurant on a bowl of minestrone and
some peasant bread, and shared a plate of tagliatelle which Richard said
were too much for him. Even coffee was too much to order, so we strolled
back to the house.

  `Would you mind, if I did some business up in London. I promise I'll
be back in the evening.'

  `No problem, dad.'

  He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a key.

  `To the house, just in case, I am out. I don't know why I should be.
But just in case...when you get back.'

  My driver was actually waiting outside the house as we arrived. I just
washed my hands inside, embraced Richard and promised a speedy return.

  The drive up to London was not as quick as I thought as there was
clearly a population out doing Saturday shopping. However, we arrived at
the hotel with a couple of minutes to spare before three.

  `I'll see you back here at six, to return to Guildford.'

  `Yes, Sir Jonathan. No problem.'

  `Did you have lunch?'

  `Thank you for asking, sir. I had a sandwich on the run.'

  I put my hand in my pocket, produced a note and gave it to him.

  `Get something more solid. You won't be back in London until seven at
the earliest.'

  `Thank you, sir,' he said with a grin as he saw the fifty.

  Emily Smith was true to her word. She was in the lobby of the hotel
sitting to the right. Also in the lobby was Georgie Deckham, sitting to
the left. They had no reason to know each other and as far as the other
was concerned, each was waiting for guests in the hotel.

  `Emily, it is good to see you again,' I said giving her a peck on the
cheek.

  Georgie had got up as well and had been heading towards me when he
stopped as he saw me greeting Emily.

  `Georgie, may I introduce Emily Smith. She has set up a number of
interviews for us today. Emily, Georgie Deckam, the young man, I spoke
of.'

  Georgie reddened in his blush. Emily smiled and said, `I am very happy
to meet you,' and they both shook hands.

  `Who is looking after the baby today?' I enquired of Emily.

  `It's Saturday,' she said with a smile. `Ryan, of course. When
they're on their own, I don't who is the bigger child, him or Chris'
and in a more serious tone, she took the lead in saying, `shall we go
in? I took the liberty of checking the interview room before you arrived,
and it's fine. The first person is not due to arrive until quarter
past.'

  I smiled to myself at the hotel's small boardroom with its fine
leathers being described as `fine'. Indicating the way to Georgie, I
led the way in.

  `How do you want to conduct this, Jonathan?' Emily said.

  `Just let us make sure that each girl knows what is being asked of
her, and let us find out precisely what her financial and security
expectations are. Okay, Georgie?'

  Georgie had really said nothing since my arrival at the hotel.

  `Do feel free to ask any questions you want to ask, Georgie.'

  I thought for a moment that he looked a bit sickly. In his situation, I
might well be myself, but there was no way, not even by getting sick,
that Georgie Deckam was getting out of this.

  There was a knock on the door and the girl from reception put her head
in, `Sir Jonathan, a Miss Hind to see you.'

  `Send her in, please.'

  The first of our prospective brides had arrived.

  A rather nervous looking young woman of about twenty two or twenty
three, Mary Hind, was shown in and I made the introductions, and
indicated to her to sit down, which she did. She was of medium build,
slender with a nice face and a soft mouth.

  `My friend is waiting for me outside.'

  I looked at her, not understanding.

  `Sorry?'

  `I came with a friend. She is waiting for me outside. This is not
Candid Camera or some joke like that?'

  I looked at Emily and at Georgie, and then at Emily again, before
looking at the young woman.

  `Miss Hind, this is not a joke. There is no camera here. I understand
that you were in contact with Mrs. Smith here about our proposition.'

  `Yes, I saw the ad and I spoke with a woman twice.'

  `Yes, that was me,' Emily said, `and this is a serious proposition.
A young man is looking for a wife who will bear him two sons.'

  `Not daughters or one of each?'

  `With artificial insemination, it is quite easy to ensure the sex of
the child,' Emily patiently replied.

  `Why doesn't he just go and marry someone?'

  `He is very shy. He has never met the right person he wants to
marry.'

  That was the first economy with the truth that I had heard. I was going
to say something, but the young woman seemed to be happy with that
response.

  `What would you say to marrying someone, Miss Hind, who would never
love you, but would be kind to you, look after you financially, and so
on?'

  `How do you know that he and I would not fall in love?'

  `We don't know that. I am just painting the bleakest picture,' I
replied.

  After some seconds silence. I continued by asking, `Why are you
offering to be a wife and a mother to this person's child?'

  `The money, I suppose. I work in a travel agency. I am an assistant to
the manageress. The pay is not great. That's why that's all. Is that
why I had to take the medical?'

  She had lost me. I looked at Emily.

  `I asked each applicant to visit a gynaecologist, paid for by us, to
be absolute sure of the ability to bear a child,' Emily replied.

  `I would want some money in an account of my own and when the child is
to be born a private room at a hospital,' the young lady said firmly.

  She had given the matter some thought, but not a lot. Short-term
thinking, yes! Long-term planning, most definitely not!'

  I looked at a sheet that Emily at passed over to me.

  I opined that it was the shortest CV in the history of CVs: name and
home address. I knew the area but had never heard of the street; mobile
phone number; school to the age of fifteen; a father who had disappeared
soon after she was born and mother who was now dead. No family, other
than her mother's sister with whom she had stayed until moving in with a
friend in the friend's flat.

  What caught my eye was that she neither drank nor smoked. Alcohol made
her sick, and smoking she simply disliked.

  I looked at her much as I might have looked at an Eliza Doolittle and
tried to envisage her with the benefit of education and money, and I
liked what I saw.

  I looked at Georgie out of the corner of my eye and he was looking at
Mary Hind, much as a rabbit looks at a fox, with a sense of distinct
hopelessness. I really, really had to take Georgie in hand and keep him
securely on a tether!

  `Mary, we have to see two other persons today. Would you be free to
come back here tomorrow say about six o'clock, if we called you to a
second interview?'

  I saw hesitation but could not put my finger on the reason.

  `Of course, we wish to pay you for any time you have spent here today
and the trouble that you may have getting back here tomorrow.'

  I took out my wallet and said `Would two hundred cover your
expenses?'

  `Oh, yes, sir, it would.'

  Whatever about Mary Hind being financially minded, she was a pleasant
young woman who might just fit the bill and being poor, not just her body
but her entire future life could be bought.

  I cannot say that the rest of that Saturday afternoon was a success.
The second woman to arrive after the first courtesies of introduction
turned out to be so coarse and vulgar that Georgie Deckam slid me a note
with two words - `No Way' - on it. I sympathised with his summary and
taking out my wallet again, I passed over two hundred in notes with the
comment that we would be in touch.

  The third woman was in her mid-twenties and while presentable in many
ways admitted she was already married but her husband had put her up to
answering the ad to see `what the money was like'. They were agreed in
having a baby and giving it away immediately. This time the two hundred
passed over the table without need of any comment about future contact.

  For one who had barely spoken in three hours, and that merely to give
his name with his handshake, Georgie Deckam looked as if he had been put
through the ringer. He looked totally washed out.

  `Georgie, it's going to be number one. Miss Mary Hind. Emily and I
will see her tomorrow and arrange the details. On Monday, you will visit
a specialist in Harley Street and leave some sperm with him. The
specialist will start inseminating your future wife right away. In May or
June, whenever we are both back at the next board meeting, you will marry
Mary Hind, and then you don't have to see her again.'

  `You mean, you mean, I don't have to...?

  `What, have sex with her?'

  His nod confirmed that he and I were on the same street of thought.

  `No, the doctor will take care of all that.'

  `Oh, thank God! Thank you God!'

  For whatever reasons, and I was not about to waste time in trying to
fathom them, Georgie had a total phobia about having sex with women.

  `All you are going to have to do is pay for a nice apartment, all
bills, a further say thirty thousand sterling per year in the Bank for
your future wife. There will be a pre-nuptial contract. Then we will tell
your dad, and then all you have to do is to turn up for your wedding in a
registry office. How about that?'

  `Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you.'

  `For getting you a wife, or for ensuring that you don't have to have
sex with a woman to father your own son?'

  He didn't answer. Georgie Deckam was a bit of a puzzle alright. Of
that, there was no doubt.

  If Georgie Deckham ever left Dahra, there might be the possibility of
him finding true love with a male partner, and with the changed laws on
same-sex marriage, he would then have to divorced his still future wife.
These things however were best left in the lap of the Gods. For me, at
least, I had satisfied my short-term goals, and I was about to please an
old and dear friend in Charlie Deckham.



  On the dot of six, Anthony Biggars was outside the hotel with the car.

  `Did you eat, Biggars?'

  `Yes, sir, thank you. A pizza and a soft drink. Do you require the
receipt, sir.'

  `No, not at all. Do you have Country and Western on the radio as we
go?'

  `Yes, sir, that we have!' he replied with enthusiasm. `I'll find
you a good station.'

  He reminded me of Jess Tollmann, even down to the tight slacks and
black polo-neck in the casual wear of a Saturday driver. Were I to have
had more time, avenues might have been explored.

  As the M25 flashed by, I thought just how simple life can be with
purpose and a little money. Within the hour, we were pulling up outside
Richard's house and I booked the car for the following morning to take
us to the service just in case.

  It had been a full day, but a day well spent on the future of the
Deckam family and on the solution of a problem of a dear friend and
fellow partner at the Bank, Charlie Deckam.

  I looked at the house and there were lights on. Again, I looked forward
to meeting my son, at home.



End of Chapter 7

===========

Contact:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

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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