Date: Wed, 31 Oct 2012 23:40:17 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: Duped   Chapter 1   (Gay Male/Authoritarian and Gay Male/Interracial)

Duped
Chapter 1: Dinner with Anwar

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): October, 2012
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

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Part 1: September 2012

As I wait to mount the auction-block, the irony of my situation isn't lost
on me!

I've been blessed - or cursed - depending on your point of view with a
slave's nature and temperament. I'd recognized it at a very early age and I
had accepted it as who and what I really am.  It had never worried me that
I am this way. In fact, quite the contrary is true. In my wild, erotic
fantasies, I'd always enjoyed "playing" the role of a submissive and
obedient slave.

My early life had been spent fantasizing about belonging as a white slave
to a stern Arab master and yet I understand there is a big difference
between fact and fantasy.

All those nights when I'd sweated in my bed and deliciously jerked off as I
pictured myself kneeling in naked submission before my new master were as
real as I needed them to be.  It is one thing to fantasize about being a
slave; it is quite another to actually live my life as one.

In truth, I would rather savour the dream than live the reality!

And why would I want things to be any different? At twenty-five, I am - or
rather I was - a successful lawyer working for a London-based,
international law firm and my work took me to many places. I travelled
extensively throughout the world and I was equally at home working in
Europe or Asia which were my special areas of operation.

Without being boastful, I am a conscientious worker, I am good at my work
and this was recognized by my former peers and openly acknowledged by the
principals of my firm. Indeed, just recently, I'd been told that I was on
course for a junior partnership in the not too distant future and I would
have seen this as a culmination of my efforts and as a fulfilment of my
dreams.

Sadly, these things are now to be denied me! Rather than a promising future
as an international trade lawyer I am doomed to spend the remainder of my
days as another man's pleasure slave.

I have always been discreet about my lifestyle. I have never hidden the
fact that I am gay - to do otherwise would be a denial of who I am as a
person.  And besides it would be deceitful on my part.  But then, I didn't
openly flaunt my homosexuality and considered it is no more noteworthy than
the sexuality of my former, heterosexual work colleagues and friends. I'd
never bothered to concern myself with how they lived their lives or how
they expressed their sexual preferences. As far as I was concerned - what
happened in the privacy of one's bedroom should remain there and it should
be of no concern to others.

However, as I said, I do have a slave's nature and I can't remember a time
when I didn't. I think it's true to say that I knew I was a "slave" before
I knew I was gay. In my case, both are mutually exclusive and yet, at the
same time, they are complementary to one another.

When I was young, I was often described as a gentle, kind, loving boy with
a sweet nature who had a generous spirit and was always ready to
help. These aren't my words, but I can remember that they were used to
describe me as a child. On reflection, these could have been the early
manifestations of my slave nature beginning to assert itself.

As I grew older this need to "please" became stronger and intensified. Upon
entering into puberty, my fantasies about me being a slave consumed
me. Always I was a slave to a stern Arab Master. And the nature of my
slavery varied with my fantasies.

Sometimes I was an unfortunate seaman captured by the Barbary pirates and
chained to an oar of one of their galleys. Here stripped naked,
half-starved, with my throat and tongue swollen by thirst and my sun
blackened body scourged perpetually by the overseer's lash, I laboured at
the oar. In my erotic imagination, I suffered the unspeakable horrors of
the galley slave and endured my personal "agony at the oars".

At other times, I was an eighteen year old cabin boy or a young European
nobleman captured by the Corsairs and carried away to Algiers, Tripoli or
Tunis and sold as a sex slave to a lecherous Master who added me to his
harem of young, male slaves. How I salivated at that thought?

My imagination was so vivid that I almost lived the moments of my erotic
thoughts. How real it all seemed to me when I imagined that I was paraded
naked before the eager buyers. In my imagination, I could feel their hands
roaming freely over my naked body, hefting my balls and stroking my cock to
an erection. In my fantasies, I burned with shame as I was bent double and
my ass checked for tightness and soundness.

And alone in the solitude of my erotic dreams, I trembled violently as I
was placed on the auction block and sold.

However, the greatest of my fantasies saw me as a young Frankish squire
serving in the Holy Land at the time of the Crusades. Here, after a fierce
battle that saw all of my comrades slain, I alone was captured by the
Saracens and sold to a slave-trader. Stripped naked and tied into a coffle
of other captured Christians, I was driven overland through the scorching
desert sands to the Red Sea. On the journey, I endured much suffering not
the least being semi-starvation, thirst and the whip. During, our trip we
crossed paths with other slavers travelling in the opposite direction
delivering black African slaves to the markets of the Levant. These were
the first black men, I'd ever seen and despite the precariousness of my own
situation, I was impressed by their strange newness.

On arrival at a Red Sea port, I was sold. My new master was a galley
captain who traded along the coasts of the Arabian Peninsula and he put me
to work at his oar. Here I laboured under the lash rowing his cursed galley
from one port to the next, loading and unloading his cargo of exotic good
and on the return trip ferrying black slaves from the African shore into
Arabian ports.

During the non-rowing season - when the seas were too rough for my master's
galley - I was put to work in a quarry hewing large blocks of building
stones and hauling them to construction sites.  Here I laboured naked and
under the cruel whips of the Saracens.  And it all seemed very real to me.

Eventually, this wasn't enough for me; I needed much more from my erotic
dreams.  Whenever my new masters caned or whipped me, I needed to feel the
cane biting into my buttocks or the whip cutting across my exposed back and
I took to self-flagellation. In a sense, this made my imaginary slavery a
little more real to me.

But of course, I wasn't really a slave. These things were just flights of
fancy and just one part of my total persona. Despite my slave feelings and
the need to suffer as one, I never belonged to a master.  Somehow there
were always impediments that prevented me from actively participating in
the Master/slave lifestyle.

At first, it was my studies and then it was my new career. And so my slave
experiences were confined to occasional brief encounters with dominants
none of whom ever had great long term appeal to the extent that I wanted to
permanently submit to them.

In all honesty, I did enjoy the over the knees spankings, the canings and
the other acts of humiliation that these interludes offered me.  But always
uppermost in my imagination was the thought that Arabs are my natural
masters.

However, this was only an erotic dream and for me - and an impossible one!

Or so I thought until three months ago when I'd met Anwar!

                                                                      >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Part 2: June 2012

I first meet Anwar through my work and somehow we gravitate to one
another. In him, I recognize the Arab master I've always craved in my
fantasies and, as I am to find out later, he sees in me the "true slave"
which he is determined to release and nurture to its full potential.

I estimate Anwar's age as being in his mid-thirties and he possesses a
presence that simply overwhelms me at our first meeting. Tall, at slightly
over six feet and weighing approximately eleven and a half stones, his
physicality impresses itself upon me. And he has the Arab's haughty
grandeur and a self-assurance that sees me immediately defer to him. It
just seems so natural for me to do so.

Our meetings are business only affairs that see us maintain the correct
level of respect and politeness which are the hallmarks of doing business
with an Arab client. But my calm exterior belies my inner turmoil. Anwar is
already exerting a disconcerting influence over me and I want to
acknowledge him as my superior. Already, in the silence of my thoughts I
call him - "Master".

But my discretion is called for. I hardly know this man and to date our
only dealings have been on the basis of "strictly business only".
Therefore, I struggle to keep my emotions under control and to treat Anwar
as just another business associate. But it is hard and requires great
willpower on my part.

At either our third or fourth meeting - I'm unsure which - Anwar, to my
surprise, suggests at the close of our discussions that I dine with him. Of
course, I don't need to be asked twice and I readily accept his invitation.

Unbeknown to me, this night is to mark a turning-point in my life and if
I'd had the gift of foresight, I would have politely declined Anwar's
invitation and walked away. But I accept his invitation and in doing so, my
life is irrevocably changed forever.

Anwar takes me to a small but elegant Arab restaurant. Upon entering, Anwar
is warmly greeted by the maŚtre d' and as they speak Arabic to one
another, they embrace. I am ignored but I put this down to Arab reserve and
don't feel slighted in any way.

As we are shown to a table Anwar is enthusiastically greeted by other
diners; it's obvious to me that he is both well-known and popular among his
fellow Arabs. I take my place at the table and watch as a young, male
waiter settles Anwar into his chair and carefully places a gleaming white
napkin on his lap. I wait for the waiter to show me the same courtesy but I
am ignored. Annoyed by the waiter's discourtesy, I nevertheless decide
against embarrassing Anwar by drawing attention to myself.

For the next few minutes, we talk as waiters bring water and bread rolls to
our table. Anwar ignores the waiters but I find myself watching their every
movement. I am fascinated by them; I can't recall when I have seen so many
handsome, young waiters all serving together in the same dining room.
Their near presence arouses me erotically and I feel the first, warm
stirrings in my loins of an impending erection. And as I look at them I
wonder what gay man wouldn't be similarly aroused.

Each waiter is the epitome of white, male perfection. They are remarkably
similar and yet there is a difference between them and it takes several
moments to work out that the difference is in their hair colouring. At one
end of the spectrum are the tousled haired blonds and at the other end are
those with lustrous, thick, black hair. The others fall somewhere between
these two extremes.

All are young - I guess they are aged less than thirty - and without
exception all are in the peak of physical condition. Their uniforms of
tight, black trousers and torso-hugging, white, satin shirts only serve to
draw my attention their impressive physiques.

Quite obviously, they aren't wearing any undergarments as there are no
unsightly seams of any underpants to mar the smooth, rounded contours of
their ass hugging pants. Nor are the suggestive front bulges of their cocks
and balls hidden from my sight; if anything these are emphasised.  The top,
three buttons of their shirts are casually unfastened to reveal their
smooth, hairless chests and I am surprised to see that each of them wears
an identical golden torc around his neck.  I must say they add an air of
exoticism to the Middle Eastern ambience of the restaurant.

I am so engrossed in watching the waiters move among the tables that I
don't see Anwar looking at me. If I'd done so, I would see his smile of
satisfaction at my reaction to the sight of the waiters.

The maŚtre d' takes our orders; well I should say he takes Anwar's order
as he orders for both of us. I think this is strange but shrug it
off. After all, I am Anwar's guest and perhaps this is how wealthy Arab
businessmen treat their dinner guests.  While we wait, Anwar is joined by
an elderly, overweight Arab gentleman who kisses Anwar on both cheeks
before easing himself into a chair next to him. I'm not aware that he is
the owner of the restaurant and I assume he is a friend or business
colleague of Anwar's.  I do notice the perspiration beading on his brow and
I hear the rhythmic clicking of his misbaha beads as he speaks. He looks at
me but doesn't speak. I am a little put out by this apparent rudeness but
once again dismiss it as just another cultural difference between East and
West.

They speak Arabic - which, of course, I don't understand - but I pick up
that the man's name is Mustapha. Suddenly, Mustapha loudly snaps his
fingers and a young, tow haired waiter hurries forward and stands at his
side. Unselfconsciously, Mustapha reaches out and begins to grope the
waiter's ass with one hand while he works the worry beads with the index
finger and thumb of the other. To say I am shocked is an understatement. I
blush from embarrassment and look around to see the reaction of the other
diners. To a person, they are totally disinterested. In fact, I don't think
they are aware of what is happening.

I look at the waiter and wonder why he is allowing this to happen. Surely,
workplace regulations and union rules don't require an employee to suffer
such public humiliation. But to my surprise, the waiter seems unperturbed
and if anything he appears to be completely acquiescent. In fact, as I look
on, he moves his feet apart and suggestively wriggles his ass to better
position it for Mustapha's eager attention. Even as I watch, I see the
indeterminate bulge in his crotch begin to expand until the elongated shape
of his engorged penis is outlined in sharp relief through the tight fabric
of his trousers.

Fortuitously, the table hides my own massive erection from public scrutiny
and I am able to enjoy its throbbing beat without embarrassment.

Anwar and Mustapha continue to speak in Arabic and it is as well that I
can't understand what they are saying. For if I could understand them, I
would know they are speaking about me and of Anwar's plans for my future.

"Tell me Anwar, my old friend, who is this young Franj who dines with you
tonight?"

"He's just a business colleague with whom I must unfortunately do
business."

"He's not a slave? What a pity!"

"No Mustapha, he's not a slave. Well not at the moment but that will
eventually change."

"How is it to change, Anwar?"

"Well! He possesses a slave's nature that yearns to be set free. He's
unaware that I know this but I did recognize that side of him at our first
meeting. And of course, I will assist him in that. I will help him
understand his true nature and guide him into an acceptance of what he
really is."

"He has a pleasing countenance and beneath his clothing I'm sure there's a
body to match. Have you seen him naked?"

"Not yet! But hopefully that will change soon as I nurture him into his
role as a slave. At the moment, I must do business with him and I am using
my meetings with him to 'befriend' him. I must hasten slowly so as not to
scare him away."

"Indeed you must, Anwar. But already I sense the hunt is underway. The prey
is unaware that the hunter is stalking him. Does the prey have a name?"

"And it will remain so for a while yet, old friend. His name is Matthew and
I need to ascertain to what degree he sees himself as a slave. Once I have
discovered that I can formulate my next moves.  Obviously, I need to expose
him to the fact that genuine slavery still exists and flourishes. But I
must do it in a way that doesn't frighten him away. I must whet his
appetite and feed his slave fantasies without unduly alarming him."

"Well Anwar, you are a past master in such matters. I wish you well in the
hunt. It may be a long one but the trophy that awaits you will be
worthwhile. The young infidel will make a worthy slave. Will you keep him
to serve you?"

"No he is too well-known in the City to simply disappear into my home as a
slave. When he is ready, I will take him to Maluchistan on some pretence
and sell him in the slave market. "

"What about your current slave, Anwar?  I believe he's possibly a
Norwegian.  Am I correct in thinking that?"

"Mustapha, I'm unsure of my slave's birthplace - and really does it matter
where a slave comes from - but his name is Sven which does sound
Scandinavian."

"Ahh, yes! I do recall the name now. But to be honest it's his ass I recall
the most. I well remember that night when I was a guest in your home and
you graciously allowed me to use him. He was so eager to please and so
exquisitely tight. That was a night to remember. But surely Sven is ready
to be sold?"

"Eventually, Sven will be sold. He's eminently marketable at the moment and
would fetch a high price in Maluchistan. But he serves me well and he still
pleases me. I will retain his services for a while longer."

"That's makes sense, Anwar. And is this new slave is to be named Matt?"

"Yes, I'll call him Matt. I prefer that a slave has a simple name of one
syllable rather than a more complicated one."

"It's quite amusing isn't it old friend? We are sitting here discussing
Matt's future and he is blissfully unaware of the fact that soon he will be
enslaved. I look forward to hearing more about him."

"Then old friend, I will keep you informed of Matt's progression into
slavery. But tell me Mustapha.  What of your own slaves working here in the
restaurant? Surely you are ready to replace some of them. If I remember you
cull half every twelve months, sell them in Maluchistan and replace them
with new, fresh stock."

"You are correct, Anwar. As you know I have twelve slaves working here in
the restaurant; half serve as waiters in the dining-room and the others
work behind the scenes in the kitchen. Those working as waiters are
scheduled to be sold soon. In fact, I will be taking them to Maluchistan
within the next two to three months where they are to be sold at
auction. Whilst I am there, I will buy new stock to replace the kitchen
hands who will then work as waiters."

"It seems a lot of trouble to go to, Mustapha. I mean you spend so much
time training them and you keep them for such a short period of time."

"That's true, Anwar! But my patrons like to see new, fresh faces serving
them. It's one of the things that I know they appreciate and of course, I
aim to please."

"And you succeed admirably, old friend. One of the delights of dining here
is the sight of your slaves serving us. But what of this slave; is he to be
sold too?"

"Indeed he is and I expect a high price for him." Mustapha emphasises his
comments with a series of playful pats of the waiter's ass.  "He'll please
the most discriminating of masters with his tight ass and deep throat,
won't you boy?"

Smiling broadly, the waiter answers Mustapha's question in Arabic.

"Yes Master! I look forward to serving my new master as happily as I have
served you."

"Well, Mustapha, he looks happy enough and if that stain at the front of
his pants is anything to go by then he is overjoyed."

Both Anwar and Mustapha laugh at the waiter's sticky
predicament. Uncomprehending, I'm not able to laugh with them.

Mustapha suddenly dismisses the waiter with a loud slap on the ass and he
moves away to attend to other diners. Mustapha and Anwar stand and embrace
in farewell before the restaurateur moves to another table to greet its
diners leaving the two of us alone to enjoy our meal.

And I have to say the meal is delicious. I've never before tasted
Middle-Eastern cuisine and I am unfamiliar with its spicy delights. That,
combined with the restaurant's d‚cor - reminiscent of something from a
thousand and one nights - relaxes me and I hear myself talking animatedly
with Anwar. And all the time my eyes are fixed on the young waiters as they
move through the dining- room.  To be more specific however, my attention
is fixed on their shapely asses and ill-concealed genitals.

If I took the time to notice, I would see that Anwar's attention is centred
on me.

"Tell me Matt - may I call you that as Matthew sounds so formal between
friends - are you enjoying your meal?"

Normally, I prefer to be called Matthew. But Anwar's reference to us being
"friends" disarms me and I tell him I'm happy to be called Matt.  Yet it
seems so inappropriate for me to reciprocate and call him Anwar!

"Thank you, Anwar. By all means call me Matt. And yes, I'm enjoying the
meal very much thank you.  It is a first for me. I have never tasted
Middle-Eastern food before."

"And what is your opinion of our Arab cuisine? Do you like it? Or is to too
rich for your refined English tastes?"

"No! Not at all, it's fine. I like it. And I love the feel of this
place. It all seems so authentic."

"My old friend Mustapha, who owns this restaurant, would be flattered by
your kind words, Matt."

"You and he are friends?"

"Yes indeed! We are friends of many years standing. Mustapha is related to
my father so in a sense we are also family.  And family for an Arab is very
important."

"And he operates this restaurant?"

"It is but one of his many business enterprises. But it is the one that
interests him the most. He enjoys playing host to his many Arab
customers. His days are taken up with his business affairs but each night
you'll find him here personally supervising the operations of the
restaurant and its staff.  For him it is truly a labour of love."

"And he's to be complimented on all fronts. The d‚cor sets the mood for
the superb food. And his employees are without doubt among the most
dedicated and polite waiters I have ever come across.  They must be well
trained?"

"Indeed they are Matt! They have a 'special' relationship to Mustapha which
I will tell you about very soon. And I did notice your interest in them."

Anwar's reference to my interest in the waiters causes me to blush with
embarrassment. Was I that obvious? This worries me. In lusting after the
waiters did I betray my gayness to Anwar? I'm not ashamed to admit to being
gay and eventually, if the need to do so arises, I will tell him of my
homosexuality. But for the moment - this is only our third or fourth
meeting - I've taken pains not to show it. I'm not overtly gay and for the
casual observer it would be hard to make a judgement call about my
sexuality.  In all my dealings, I've always respected the sensibilities of
my more traditional minded clients and never given them cause to wonder if
I was gay. Anyway, I'm unsure of Arab attitudes to homosexuality and I've
remained discreet in my dealings with Anwar. But has he guessed?

And I wrestle to find an appropriate answer to his pertinent comment.
However, before one formulates itself in my mind, Anwar looks me in the
face and asks directly.

"Matt, are you homosexual?"

Anwar's question is disconcerting but it requires a truthful answer and I
reply in the affirmative.

"Yes, Anwar! I'm gay and I've never hidden the fact that I am. However, if
that's a problem for you then I can arrange for one of my straight
associates to replace me and to work with you."

"That won't be necessary, Matt. Thank you for your truthful reply. I admire
your honesty and directness in answering. My suspicions were aroused when I
saw you watching Mustapha's waiters.  You seemed most interested in them."

"I'm sorry, Anwar! I didn't know I was so obvious."

"You weren't Matt! But as they say - it takes one to know one. You see, I
too am a gay man."

Anwar's revelation genuinely surprises me. Nothing in his bearing or the
manner of his speech would ever have aroused my suspicions that he is a
fellow homosexual. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I am glad to hear
that he is gay. He's exerted a strange influence over me from the moment we
first met. Perhaps it was an unconscious recognition on my part that he is
gay that had caused me to see him as the Arab master I'd always craved.
This realization excites me and once more my cock springs to life under the
table.

The remainder of our conversation is awkward.  Neither of us broaches the
subject of our mutual homosexuality. Instead, we make idle chatter and talk
about such mundane things as the appalling summer weather and the incessant
rain, the latest stock market reports and football games results.

Eventually, we finish our dinner and two comely, young waiters clear our
table leaving us ready to depart. Because, Anwar is the host, I wait for
him to make the first move. He looks across at the table and smiles warmly
at me. Then he issues me with an unexpected invitation.

"Matt, the night is still young and please don't take this the wrong way.
I live just a short walk from here and I would be honoured to have you come
to my home for a Turkish coffee. We could talk and you could tell me some
more about yourself. I find you most interesting and I'm eager to hear more
about you. Will you come to my home?"

It would be churlish of me to refuse Anwar's gracious invitation. And
besides, I don't really want to say no. Who knows what will develop between
us. The prospect of being alone with Anwar in the privacy of his home both
excites and arouses me. Dare I hope that we will make love together?

I wait inside the entrance to the restaurant as Anwar and Mustapha take
their leave of one another.  As they embrace -and kiss- they talk in Arabic
and so their conversation is lost on me. I don't understand their words.

"Something tells me the hunt is about to begin, Anwar? Am I correct in
thinking this?"

"Indeed you are Mustapha! The unsuspecting prey is to accompany me back to
my home. There, he'll be exposed to the fate that awaits him in Maluchistan
when he sees my slave, Sven for the first time."

"Then Anwar let the hunt begin and I wish you - good sport."

"Thank you, Mustapha. I will keep you informed as to how the hunt is
progressing. Although as I think more on it, I think an analogy with
angling would be more appropriate. Let's just say I've cast my line and he
has taken my bait. Now I must gently play with him until he tires and then
I can reel him in and catch him in my net."



To be continued .........


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