Date: Wed, 05 Jul 2006 20:17:12 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 9 - Gay - Authoritaran - Dahran series

The Time Line by Gerry Taylor

This is the ninth 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.

=============

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/

===========

  Chapter 9 -- Absolutism



  There used to be a phrase in the time of the old monarchies that `the
king could do no wrong'. It placed the ruler comfortably above the law
in the divine right of monarchs and princes, and was a most convenient
way of structuring the governing of societies that were small and
localised enough.

  Unfortunately, in the modern world, absolutism has fallen by the
wayside as countries have tried their hand at political systems which
have ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, from the divine to the
working class, from the humanly wise to the outright farcical, and
passing through every shade in between. Some nations have settled on
various forms of democracy as if the people in some form of collective
wisdom could know what is best for themselves. Time has already, and will
show up even more, the cracks in those populist theories.

  In only a few countries in this modern world has the absolute rule of
law remained and Dahra on the Gulf is one of this handful. His Excellency
the Sheik can do no wrong and that absolutism extends down the line and
does not interfere inside the walls and under the roofs of the citizens
and residents of the Sheikdom, where just a mere fraction of that
absolute power resides with each head of household.

  This is particularly important for those who live as freemen within a
household and more importantly for those who live there as slaves at the
service of their Master or Mistress. Political theory is very much
simplified in Dahra where the Master rules and well-trained slaves know
their places.

  I found these thoughts in my mind after my return from London at the
end of April and right into the month of May. I don't know what caused
them other than an accompanying thought as I breezed through Customs
after my return flight that I was now one of Dahra's citizens with my
own brand new Dahran passport, a gift from the Sheik and ruling council,
and a resident of the country for all of five years.

  My fortune had expanded exponentially from a very modest couple of hard
earned million when I had arrived as a banker of unassuming means and now
ranged from holdings of land and slaves within the Sheikdom giving me
considerable Dahran status, to a portfolio of shares and bonds held out
of the Grand Cayman. The precise value in hundreds of millions I am
ashamed to admit I do not know, despite receiving a monthly overview from
Josh Greene, my lawyer and financial adviser there. Or as I have tended
to say cynically, `if you know your wealth, you are poor'.

  In Dahra, wealth is related to a number of factors. For the Sheikdom,
it is oil and gas. For its citizens, it is depends on many things such as
an almost personal tax neutral state which allows wealth to accumulate
easily. Wealth is also based on the ready availability of water or
slaves, essential ingredients in the nation's services, agriculture and
light-manufacturing industries. Of both these mentioned items, I have an
abundance and hence, they form without a shadow of a doubt the basis of
my wealth.

  Two deep wells on my farms had given me a self-replenishing abundance
of water and its extensive use at my Palaces shows how important it is
not just for daily cleanliness, the care of the gardens, but also as a
monthly source of income in its sales to my neighbours.

  All these thoughts engaged my mind upon my return from London and came
back into focus a number of times. There are those who say you cannot be
friends with a slave. I disagree with that statement under a number of
headings. One because it simply is not true. Many Masters are definitely
fond of a slave or two and regard them as friends and confidants. Some
slaves effectively run their Masters' businesses. The loss of the
slave's personal and physical freedom does not mean that the bonds of
human friendship disappear. They simply do not. I am not trying to define
friendship. It is too hard to define.

  Secondly, each and every one of us is a slave to something or other --
to our passions, our work, our family, to the pursuit of wealth or ideals
or power. You name it; there is many a slavedom which has nothing to do
with the loss of personal freedom.

  I recognise the loyalty and servitude my slaves give me and I
reciprocate with a number of measures in my Palaces such as the best of
slave food and medical care to name but two. Admittedly that is in my own
best interest, as a well-maintained slave will give many years of
service, far beyond those of a poorly cared-for slave.

  I also provide each slave with the best of training in obedience to me,
so that once trained there is no need to re-visit the compounds, except
for the very rare re-tuning caused by the forgetfulness of a slave who
has accidentally not remembered to keep me, his Master, as the centre and
focus of his being.

  In all of these thoughts, it is to one group of slaves that my mind
constantly returned and this cluster comprises the first twenty or so
slaves whom I had acquired in Dahra. It was almost a reaffirmation that
old friends are best.

  As there was no common date of their acquisition from May to November
of five years ago, I decided on a common anniversary date in the second
week of May on which I would gather them to me and give them something of
a surprise.

  Most of my slaves, even Overseers and Assistant Overseers, never have
actually the occasion to be inside the Lemon Palace proper except when I
call them. The household slaves are certainly there, but apart from
Flavio Pinelli, my chef, and Bob Conrad, my maître d'hôtel and the
cousins Food and Drink, the other Overseers and Supervisors are rarely
summoned to the Palace and if they are I meet them in the cool of the
veranda.

  As it is quite difficult for a Master to plan things without the key
personnel being informed, I summoned Marko, my ice-cream maker, and
Sevil, my sommelier, to walk with me in the gardens one afternoon to
flesh out the tactics of my strategy.

  `How do I organise a surprise meal without Flavio and Bob knowing?'

  `Master, why would you want to do that?' Marko asked innocently.

  `Because they are going to be the guests with some others at the
meal.'

  Marko smiled at the deception.

  `How many, Master?' Sevil asked politely.

  `Twenty in all. Twenty one, including myself' and I listed off the
names.

  `For slaves, Master, who are Overseers and Assistant Overseers, it
would still have to be a simple meal, Master. Not even Flavio, Master,
eats a Master's food and he is in the kitchens,' Marko said.

  Marko did have a point. My slaves eat slave food which is principally a
large and nutritious, if somewhat bland, slave-biscuit and a daily bowl
of soup made from the vegetables growing that week on the farms. A dinner
could not be in the accepted and traditional sense, but would have to be
adapted to our own parameters. A question of when in Dahra, in the
company of slaves, doing as the Dahrans do.

  `Master, if such a dinner is to be prepared in the Lemon Palace,
Flavio, Bob, and Food and Drink simply cannot be there, if this is to be
a surprise. May I respectfully suggest that from early on in the day they
be sent to the Aloe Palace to prepare for a special dinner for Aziz
al-Aziz's guests,' Sevil proposed.

  `An excellent idea, Sevil, an excellent idea,' I said and so it was
that on that note that the tactics started, `and if anyone asks what you
two were talking about with me, for you, Marko, you were told to prepare
a new ice-cream and you, Sevil, were told I want a stock-taking of the
wine and spirit cellars, which in fact I do.'

  `Yes, Master,' both said smiling at the subterfuge involved.

  Our walk through the gardens had brought us to the far end of one of
them and the noise of a turning water-wheel could be heard. As we came
round a pergola, I stopped - the two slaves beside me having fallen very
quiet.

  The water-wheel was manned inside by the slave on permanent punishment,
Nick Willet. His rapes and assaults on other slaves and on myself had
placed him here.

  I saw Marko take a half-step back. He knew the story well as indeed did
every slave in the Palace. His own rape and torture before being enslaved
must have come flooding back to him. This slave was not about to frighten
him. However, what they did not know was of Willet's attack on myself
and they would never know because I had Willet muted and half-gelded as a
warning not just to him of my anger and power, but also as a warning to
every slave in the Palace who might think of deliberately transgressing
the rules of my establishments.

  I put my hand on Marko's shoulder to reassure him and we walked
forward until about ten paces from the water-wheel. Nick Willet must have
sensed our presence more than hearing any slight noise that we made upon
arrival, because his face was a combined expression of both surprise and
fear on seeing me there.

  He sprang from inside the slowly rotating water-wheel, the steel chain
on his ankle clinking in the afternoon air, and prostrated himself
half-way between the wheel and myself, his forehead touching the ground.

  Turning to Sevil, I said `this is how I punish slaves who displease
me.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  I was looking around the area and noticed that the patch of sand we
were standing on was perfectly raked, as indeed were the flower beds
which were freshly tended to and weeded. In this part of the gardens,
there is a type of Buxus which thrives very well in sandy soils, and it
was acting as a hedging around some of the flowerbeds. It was perfectly
trimmed to a radius of about thirty feet out -- the limit of the steel
chain, I guessed to myself. There is always also an amount of small weeds
in any hot climate where there is also an abundance of water. No weeds
were to be seen.

  I walked over to the water meter beside the wheel, and tapping the
glass, saw that the quota was ninety percent filled for the day. Another
three-quarters of an hour would see the quota completed. At least the
slave had been working all day on his routine.

  I stood over the still prostate slave, `Get up. At display.'

  The slave jumped to his feet and put his wrists behind his head.

  His cock was at half-erection, not quite tumescent, but yet not quite
flaccid. Obviously, even operating on one ball and its production of
testosterone and semen, there was sufficient spunk to cause an erection.

  I walked the few paces over to the low night shelter which was beside
the water-wheel. His blanket was neatly folded on the wide bench which
served as a bed. His drinking cup was upside down on the tin plate on
which his two morning and evening biscuits would be placed by the Palace
slave responsible.

  Hope is the great life-line. Give a person hope, be he free or slave,
and he has something to live for. Nick Willet was doing his best. I gave
him a life-line.

  `I will visit you again and decide where to have you work.'

  Willet dropped to his knees in thanks.



  Getting rid of the four Palace slaves for the specific day was easier
than imagined once Sevil's idea was put into play.

  The medical staff were told that that evening they would be dining
separately in the Aloe Palace as guest's of Aziz al-Aziz, as the Master
would have some twenty guests for dinner at the Lemon Palace, and two of
the assistant chefs and some of Bob's more senior assistants were sent
to the middle Palace to arrange matters. Aziz himself was delighted in an
Arab way with the deception being unfolded. Jon Lundt, the elderly
Swedish slave who acts as Head of Household at the Aloe Palace, informed
my agricultural consultant and guest at the Aloe Palace, Graham Hodson,
of the change, to which Graham replied, I was told, `Ah, that means for
the first time ever I'll be dining at home this evening.'

  My first twenty slaves -- my top Overseers and Assistant Overseers --
looked slightly bemused as they stood in the large salon of the Lemon
Palace. Each had been individually told by Jake, my Palace Mercury to
report for inspection there at seven in the evening, which was the usual
time for the slaves to eat, and to be dressed in shorts, gold necklace
and to carrying the sign of his authority, his opal fly-swish.

  Normally, the slaves assemble in the courtyard of the Palace some
minutes before the hour for their meal as it does take some minutes for
the soup and biscuits to be distributed to hundreds of slaves even on the
best organised of evenings.

  However, Jake told me afterwards that a silence descended on the
courtyard as the Overseers and Assistant Overseers came out of their
quarters. Slaves like children are insatiably curious. It was not that
they were showered and in their shorts as Overseers and Assistant
Overseers would now normally be in my Palaces, but due to two facts --
first that each one was carrying his fly-swish, which they would normally
not do at dinner-time, and second, all seemed to be heading for the
Palace.

  Now in the large salon, they stood more curious than anything else,
bemused at their number being there.

  I came in with Ben Trant at my side.

  I called forward Sérgio Gonçalves, who helps Dr. Coelho in the surgery,
and taking a fly-swish with a handle of white onyx from its case I gave
it to him with the time-honoured command, `Serve me well'.

  He had been the only Assistant Overseer present without his fly-swish.
As he did not really oversee others in the surgery, it had never occurred
to me that I should have given him one. The error was mine. His
supervision was not of slaves but of an entire section of a multi-million
pound surgery and its equipment.

  The former limbo dancer was quite overcome. He had given me four and a
half years good service and I had never really acknowledged his existence
in public.

  I could see Ben Trant withdraw reluctantly from the salon. He always
loves to know what was going on. It was not for him to stay tonight. It
was a night for the Master to be with the first of his own.

  As Ben left, five slaves entered each bearing a silver salver with
small glasses of unseasoned tomato-juice.

  I took one and when all had theirs, I raised mine and gave the toast
`Your health and long life'.

  Pete Downings was the quickest on the uptake and responded `To the
Boss's health and long life,' which was repeated in unison.

  There was a stillness in the room as each of the Overseers and
Assistants quietly sipped the juice.

  `Undoubtedly, you are asking yourselves why you are here this evening.
Well, tonight is the common anniversary of five years ago when the first
ten of you came into my ownership. The others among you arrived a little
later on in the year. But it is five years. Tonight I have invited you to
eat your evening meal with me.'

  Smiles were breaking out among the Overseers, and a couple raised their
glasses again to that idea.

  I saw a look of worry on Flavio's face.

  `Do you not trust your staff, Flavio, to prepare a simple meal? Our
usual medical guests this evening are eating at the Aloe Palace. There
are only us here.'

  Rolf who was beside Flavio gave him a good-natured jab on the arm.

  `And all the fuss at the Aloe Palace today, Boss?' Bob queried.

  `To ensure that four of you were out of the Palace for the day and it
appears to have worked.'

  Food and Drink had big grins on their faces, which I thought were still
a bit flushed. This I put down to the excitement of their involvement.

  `Shall we go in to dinner?' I asked as the slaves waiting with the
salvers took the empty glasses.

  One of the slaves went ahead and opened the double doors into the
dining room.

  The long table was laid out for twenty one, each place marked with a
place-name, each placed marked with a nightlight candle floating in
water, each side plate with its napkin, and three paces back behind each
high-backed chair a slave in a white knee-length chiton with a black
cincture.

  I went to the head of the table and waited as each of my Overseers and
Assistant Overseers found his place-name and seat.

  To my left were Ross, Drink, Radek, Flavio, Vitali, Greg, Randy, Raoul,
Komil and Jerzy. To my right were Yuriy, Food, Rolf, Dumi, Bob, Jess,
Pete, Todd, Stan and Sérgio.

  As I waited I noted the reactions of surprise and astonishment of my
first slaves, as the waiting serving slaves stepped forward in unison at
an almost unseen nod from Sevil, each pulling back a respective chair, so
allowing their guest for the evening to sit down on his chair which was
adjusted in under him.

  Each of the Overseers and Assistant Overseers was relieved of his
fly-swish and this was placed in front of him in the centre of the table
the point towards me to acknowledge my ownership of each of them.

  I was watching Bob in amusement as he scanned the settings of the table
and cast glance after glance at Sevil who I saw on one occasion nodding
back his head at Bob, as if to say `relax'.

  Marko had run a menu by me during the day, as it is quite difficult to
prepare a menu for those whose daily diet of food consists of
slave-biscuits and a bowl of vegetable soup of whatever legumes might be
in the gardens that week.

  I smiled internally as the starter was served, which consisted of two
slivers of slave-biscuit with two thin slices of lusciously ripe avocado
-- plain and simple and without any vinaigrette which might have upset
some stomachs.

  Food and Drink were bursting to tell everyone of their day in the Aloe
Palace and it was not long before they held the floor, talking nineteen
to the dozen, one contradicting the other, the other completing the
comments of the first.

  As a thin vegetable minestrone-style soup was being served with
croûtons of slave-biscuit, I asked Bob how his day was.

  `Marvellous, Boss. I polished more silver more times, enough to shave
in a knife's reflection, if I ever had a beard.'

  The table laughed at his attempt at humour.

  The serving slaves were topping up glasses with some non-alcoholic
wines, as I said, `and you, Flavio?'

  `Strange being in a smaller kitchen and with new staff, but we put
together a great menu for the guests, but not half as good as the soup
here.'

  `But you enjoyed today?'

  `More than you can know, Boss.'

  `Well, let's think about doing it more often, Flavio.'

  The table was strangely quiet when I said that and I could see that
Jess Tollman was bursting to ask something and clearly not knowing if
this was the right moment.

  `Jess?'

  My evening driver looked at me and up and down the table before
speaking.

  `Boss, does this,' and he indicated the table with a flick of his
wrist, `and what you have said to Flavio mean that you are going to
introduce some changes?'

  `I think, Jess, I already have. Simple changes. This meal for instance
once a year I should think.'

  That brought smiles up and down the table. Slaves love the assurance of
things to come.

  The serving slaves had retrieved the empty soup dishes as we had been
speaking and had put a plate finely chopped raw vegetables before each of
us with a half a slave biscuit on each side plate.

  `Sevil,' I said turning to my sommelier who in fact was coordinating
the serving for the evening, `fill up the glasses and then take out the
staff. I'll call you when I need you,' and I lifted up a silver bell
which I had asked to be left on the table.

  The serving slaves quickly filled up glasses with various juices of
choice and retired closing the dining room doors. I waited until I heard
the click of the latch-tongue in the door lock, before continuing on the
line of conversation which Jess had started.

  `Changes, Jess, yes. Some small, like for Sérgio here this evening. A
yearly dinner, yes, if you wish. A long-term change as to the Buddy
Foundation, which as you know will be my legal heir when I die. Some of
you may know that it has three trustees, Josh Greene who is my lawyer,
whom some of you may have seen here some time ago. He has only visited
Dahra once. It is too hot for him. Aziz al-Aziz, whom you know, is the
second trustee and he has only the interests of the Palaces at heart, and
up to last week, my nephew Jack Tuttle as the third. Jack has now been
replaced and I have appointed Richard Martin Black as the third
trustee.'

  `But Boss,' Jess said, `nothing really changes at the Buddy
Foundation, does it? It is there to take care of us and the Palaces years
and years down the line. That's what you said to me one time. Is that
not it?'

  `Yes, Jess, hopefully, years and years down the line as you say.'

  I could perceive that unasked question in the eyes of various of the
more clued-in Overseers. The question was part of their future and I felt
that they deserved the truth.

  `Richard Martin Black, the third trustee is my son.'

  Yuriy was sipping from his glass and he put it down, looking quite
intently at me.

  `Boss, I didn't know that you had been married,' he commented
diplomatically.

  `No, Yuriy, I have never been married. I only discovered to my great
surprise that I was a father less than two months ago. I have been
shocked and delighted all at the one time. I have met my son in London
since on my visits to the Bank for the monthly meeting. He is a fine
young man.'

  Bob Conrad raised his glass and surprised me by saying in a toast `To
the Boss's son, Richard'

  `To Richard,' echoed around the room.

  `I don't know what he wants his future to be. I don't think he has
decided yet. I shall invite him to Dahra one day, I hope.'

  I saw Komil and Todd nodding at that comment.

  `Now can we get on with this meal, as I have a little surprise for you
later on and it may take a bit of time to unfold. So let's press on,
here.'

  I rang the silver bell and Sevil was immediately opening the
dining-room doors behind me.

  `Sevil, fill up these glasses. We have some thirsty diners this
evening.'

  `Yes, Master,' he said, hand-signalling in the serving staff.

  Marko topped off the meal with a brown-bread ice-cream sitting in a
redcurrant coulis. It was delightful and drew quite a smile from Flavio
for his favourite sous-chef.

  After the meal, we went into the large salon again, which had been set
out with a series of divans in a semi-circle facing the large six by
eight foot plasma screen on the far wall.

  Tommy Saunders, who manages my projects with the Buddy Foundation, and
his assistant Geoff Masters where standing `at rest' as we went in.

  `All ready, Tommy? Geoff?'

  `Yes, Master,' were the joint replies.

  `Sevil, leave those fruit juices here. We will serve ourselves.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Now, close the doors and dismiss the staff for the night when all is
cleared up outside. Some of the glasses and the forks on the table were
not lined up properly. Your Overseer will determine your punishment in
the morning,' I said looking down at Bob Conrad.

  `Yes, Master,' he said humbly as he closed the sliding door of the
salon.

  Turning to the assembled Overseers, I said `you all know about the
Buddy Foundation projects I think, with the exception of Jerzy and Sérgio
here. But Tommy and Geoff will give us the latest update.'

  For the next two hours, twenty tapes of six minutes each were played
and shown on the plasma screen, about each of the Overseers families, or
in seven of their cases where they had no family, about the school where
they had attended.

  In each case, the Foundation had been doing something - an unexpected
contract here, a scholarship for a family member there, a new job
becoming available elsewhere. In Stan Mercer's case, he had had no home,
so St. Michael's, the orphanage where he was reared in Dunedin got some
new supplies and a Chair of Geology in his name at the University got its
continuing annual endowment. Six of the other Assistant Overseers had
benches put up in parks or swings in playgrounds or parks near to the
schools they had attended, however briefly. Overall, it cost less than a
three quarters of a million euro when Geoff had showed me the figures.

  Poor Food and Drink who had been enslaved from a nomadic Mehri tribe
somewhere on the Arabian Peninsula and had never really known freedom
hugged each other in the darkened salon as they saw the Rahaman
playground named after them in a primary school in Dahra. A playground I
thought was a most suitable item to commemorate two former roguish imps.

  When it was all over, there were some damp eyes and a number of quietly
murmured `Thanks, Boss.'

  As we were getting up from the divans, Yuriy surprised me by saying, as
others were milling around listening, `Boss, I see that Yurikin is very
happy now with Irina and Sergeiy. There is no need for any further
videos, Boss. My life and my heart is fully here in Dahra and nowhere
else.'

  `Is there any reason, why you say that Yuriy?' I asked, a little
puzzled, as I knew the strong bond of attachment between Yuriy and his
now handsome young son, Yurikin.

  `Did you notice Sergeiy's hand in the video?'

  I shook my head, and Yuriy put his right hand over his heart with the
fingers of the hand separated.

  `His first and second fingers were not crossed, Boss. He is no longer
sending me a message. He's telling me that all is well. I always trusted
Sergeiy Ivanovich's opinion in the Spetnaz and I trust it now. No more
videos, Boss.'

  `Fine, Yuriy, you're absolutely sure? You are my right hand, you know
that. You just have to confirm that to Tommy and there will be no further
update. And if you ever want one, you just have to ask,' and I went over
and put my hand on his shoulder.

  `Absolutely sure, Boss. Absolutely.'

  As the evening drew to a close there were individual thanks from my
first and closest slaves. Food and Drink came up as a pair and each laid
a head on each of my shoulders as they wrapped their arms about me. They
said no words. There were tears in their eyes, and hugging them close, I
rubbed the backs of their necks as they hugged tighter and tighter.

  Of the other slaves, Todd Allen was the most emotional. I had seen him
wiping away the tears as he saw his former wife and three now young
teenage children succeed in her T&R Diner business and in their school
jackets.

  `You have every reason to be proud of them, Todd. They are all a
credit to you.'

  `Rose would not have been able to do everything she has done without
your help, Boss.'

  `She was already on the way to success, Todd. She would have had no
need either of yourself or the Buddy Foundation. We both just helped her.
You fathering the children; the Foundation with some cash -- nothing
more.'

  `Boss, I am genuinely sorry if I have caused you any worry or
trouble.'

  I looked at that most honest and sincere of former truck-drivers and I
knew why some families are great and others are not. Pulling him close, I
held him in my arms.

  `Not for a moment, Todd, not for a moment.'

  I remember the very first evening and dinner with my Supervisor slaves
with fondness.



  The end of Nesim Murat's period of training in the five compounds was
something of an exceptional circumstance. He came through his training
without having lost his virginity. He had gone into the compounds an anal
virgin and had come out the same way. As I had ordered, so had it been
done.

  Both Mirzan and Vaz had come to present the slave to me. That in itself
was an indication of the importance that they attached to the slave or to
the effort that he had put into his training. I did not for a moment
think that it was otherwise, as had happened previously, when both
Supervisors had presented themselves jointly when they were unable to
agree among themselves on a particular slave joining the general slave
population due to lack of success or effort.

  Nesim Murat was standing `at rest' in the slave quarters and as I
entered I heard someone say, `The Master', and Nesim and others snapped
to stand `at display'. He had a perfect back and that was what caught
my eye immediately. It dropped in a perfect isosceles triangle from two
well-muscled shoulders to a tapered waist whose point was his coccyx just
above the crack in his buttocks. His skin glowed with health and his
hands clasped at the back of his head as he awaited my inspection were
gold on the black of his hair. His arms themselves showed biceps of which
any slave could be proud. The perfection of his body dropped from his
buttocks to his ankles. Not a trace of a single hair was to be seen to
spoil the smoothness of his skin.

  I walked around to his front to find that he was at full erection and
his penis was almost vertical to the floor of the slave quarters. His
circumcised mushroom head was full and purple and in the slit of his
urethra gleamed a pearl of precum, the penile sign of anticipation of
better things to come.

  `Well, Vaz, Mirzan, what do you think? Has this slave progressed well
through the training compounds?'

  `Yes, Master. He has been one of the best. Though he is small, what he
lacks in height he makes up for in guts and stamina. He has progressed
well,' Vaz said.

  `Also, Master,' Mirzan interjected, `he is still a virgin. Either
Vaz or I checked him each morning that he was still unbroken and tight
and each morning, we would put a little Aloe sap in his rectum to keep
him nice and soft during his training. That sap, Master, was put in with
no more than a little finger,' and he held up his to indicated the
smallness of the object inserted. `Would you like to inspect his
tightness now, Master.'

  `No, Mirzan, that inspection will be a very private one between just
Nesim and myself tonight. Isn't that right, Nesim?' and I put my
fingers on his chin to adjust his eye level so that they were looking
directly at mine.

  He moistened his lower lip in his nervousness and said, `Yes, Master,
tonight.'

  I noticed that he now understood some English.

  `There is no need to be nervous, Nesim. I have waited for you and this
will be your night more than mine. I may have the right to take your
virginity, but you have earned my respect in keeping yourself for me.'

  I looked at Vaz and Mirzan who signalled their agreement.

  Vaz said, `Have you given any thought, Master, to what Nesim should do
at the Palaces?'

  `No, Vaz, what can you suggest?'

  `In the fourth compound, Master, Vitali is more and more taken up with
the sex technique classes. He is giving a lot of time to each individual
tuition which means that, at times, he is hard pressed for his other
duties with Ivan in the fourth compound. Both Mirzan and I think that
Nesim would be a very good substitute for Vitali.'

  Standing close to Nesim, I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
This was the slave who knew no English or Arabic to speak of a month ago.

  `Let him work with Ivan for a month then, Vaz, and see how he gets on.
He will have to take double the language classes.'

  `Side by side with Ivan for a month, Master, an excellent idea, and
Vitali can do what Nesim can't,' Mirzan chirped in as diplomatic as
ever.

  The drop of precum was glistening on the tip of Nesim's penis. I ran
my finger over it and it was almost viscous it was so thick. Bringing its
moisture to my lips it tasted sweet, and then I put my finger on Nesim's
lips and inserted it into his mouth. I felt the warmth and wetness of his
lips around my finger and then his tongue touched the tip of my finger,
and not more than that, as if he had passed some forbidden boundary and
had immediately drawn back.

  `Tonight, Nesim, you will have your wish,' I said as I withdrew my
finger.

  I had to leave him then as another matter was in need of my attention.



End of Chapter 9

===========

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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
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