Date: Wed, 7 Nov 2012 04:16:21 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Duped" Chapter 2   Gay Male/Authoritarian

Duped
Chapter 2: Sven, the Slave

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

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

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Chapter 2: Sven, the Slave

Beyond doubt, Anwar lives in a most fashionable area!

The short walk from Mustapha's restaurant to Anwar's home traverses the
broad streets which give this part of London its distinctive
character. Built in the mid-nineteenth century on what were once the city's
market gardens, this area is dominated by the gracious three storied
mansions which formerly housed Britain's elite in grandiose
style. Nowadays, it is more cosmopolitan and it is home to an eclectic mix
of financiers and bankers from Europe and the Middle-East. It's an area of
the city that I'm not that overly familiar with; I own a spacious apartment
with water views in a recently redeveloped area of docklands adjacent to
the river.

We make small talk as we walk through the chill, night air. There aren't
too many people out walking; other than the infrequent, local resident
exercising with the family dog, the only other signs of life are from the
occasional car or taxi cab driving past. The light from the ornate street
lamps reflects back from the gleaming white facades of the elegant homes
and the footpaths are bathed in the mellow glow of electric lights shining
through the tall windows of the drawing rooms which look out on to the near
empty streets.

After walking for some five to ten minutes, we turn into a short street
which is dominated at one end by a leafy park. Anwar tells me this where he
lives and that the area is popular with Arabs from the Middle-East and the
Gulf States. His house is half way along the street and as we climb the
marble steps to the colonnaded portico overhanging the front door, I can't
help but be impressed. I have heard mention of the almost obscene wealth of
some Arabs and it's obvious that Anwar falls into this category.

I suddenly realize I know nothing at all about Anwar. Strictly speaking
that's not quite true for he has just told me that he is gay but beyond
that I know nothing of his private life. Now I'm left to wonder if he has a
wife - or wives - and children. I guess for an Arab appearances are all
important and that it's very possible he does have a family.

Foolishly, I'd allowed my imagination to run riot. When Anwar had told me
he is gay and then invited me back to his home for coffee, I'd permitted
myself to hope for sex with him.  Rightly or wrongly, that is the
interpretation I'd put on his invitation and the thought of a torrid sexual
encounter with Anwar had both excited and unsettled me.

Every window of his three storied home shows a light and this suggests that
someone is at home waiting for his return. As he unlocks the front door, I
wonder who is waiting for him on the other side. If it is a wife, then I
must be circumspect. My contact with Arabs is minimal but I do know that
they restrict contact with their women and I decide that I will take my
lead from Anwar. I'm sure that he'll dictate the proper protocols for me to
follow.

Anwar steps through the front door and holds it open for me to enter. As I
do so, I am stopped in my tracks and I can only gaze in slack-mouthed awe
at what confronts me. It is as though I have entered a scene from the
Arabian nights. Immediately, I am reminded of the Moorish architecture of
Spain and North Africa.

Obviously, the interior of the house has been gutted and no expense spared
in recreating this new palace of Oriental splendour. At the centre of the
vast entrance foyer a white marble fountain tinkles musically and is
surrounded by a floor of multi-coloured tiles laid out in geometric
designs. The walls are covered in exquisitely carved friezes of the most
delicate and intricate patterns which remind me of my visit to the Alhambra
in Granada. I know that Arabs don't portray people or animals in their art
and confine their decorations to plants, flowers and the beautiful script
of their language. And I have to say the overall effect of all this in
Anwar's home completely overwhelms me with its sheer beauty, its simplicity
and its exoticism.

Looking beyond the foyer - through the graceful, Moorish arches - I see
rooms of incomparable luxury carpeted with deep-piled, multi-hued Persian
rugs and divans covered in silken brocades and decadently overburdened with
plump cushions.

But all of this pale into insignificance at the spectacle of the naked,
young man crouching at our feet. His presence is unexpected and leaves me
speechless. Even as I look at him, the young man crawls forward on all
fours and kisses Anwar's feet before speaking.

"Welcome home, Master! Your slave is happy to see you and he has missed
your presence in his day."

The reference to himself as a slave takes me by surprise. How many times in
my wildest fantasies have I seen me in a similar situation? But they were
just flights of fancy; the lusty imaginings of my over-active mind. Always
I'd told myself such slavery no longer existed; that it had been consigned
to history's rubbish bin.

And yet, kneeling on the floor before me is one who acknowledges that he is
such a slave.  Not surprisingly, my cock springs into full erection!

Anwar ignores his slave's greeting and stands impatiently as the slave
removes his shoes and replaces them with slippers made of the softest
kidskin. The slave kisses Anwar's slippered feet and then crawls to
me. Leaning forward, he kisses my feet and greets me.

"Sir, this slave welcomes you to my Master's home as his honoured guest. If
my Master permits me, it will be my greatest pleasure to serve you, Sir."

The touch of the slave's lips on my feet is electric. A violent shiver
starts in my toes and tingles upwards through my body. My cock throbs with
desperate, new urgency and I fire off the precursory warning shots of an
impending ejaculation. Desperately, I will myself to stay in control; I
succeed - only just - but I'm acutely aware of the sticky dampness in my
boxers.

As the slave removes my shoes and places slippers on my feet, I gaze down
on his nakedness and appraise him. I watch the erotic play of his back
muscles rippling beneath his flawless skin as he unlaces and removes my
shoes. From what I can see of him, I guess that he is a Scandinavian;
certainly the closely cropped, corn-gold, blond hair suggests he is from
that region.

But it is his ass that attracts my attention. I see the quivering of his
tight, deliciously rounded buttocks and as he leans forward once more to
kiss my feet it is elevated above his head.  Now, I'm afforded a good view
of the deep cleft dividing the perfect orbs of his ass-cheeks and I'm left
to wonder about the hidden delights of his body. Once more he greets me.

"Welcome Sir, to my Master's home!"

The thing that impresses me about the slave is the sincerity of his
words. When he greeted his Master there wasn't any doubting that he meant
what he said. He was genuinely happy to see Anwar. And it is the same with
me. As he welcomes me into his Master's home and offers to serve me - Anwar
permitting - he means every word of his welcome.

"Welcome to my home, Matt!" Anwar ignores the slave kneeling at his feet
and speaks to me. "Let's retire to my den and my slave can serve us
coffee."

Anwar takes me by the elbow and guides me across the foyer, past the softly
splashing fountain and towards an archway in a far wall. Wordlessly, Anwar
snaps his finger at his slave who crawls behind us on all fours maintaining
a respectful distance from his Master's heels.

We enter through an archway into a room of opulent splendour. Its oriental
d£Äor reminds me of the story of Scheherazade and the tales of the
Arabian nights and the sudden appearance of a belly-dancer wouldn't have
altogether surprised me. The subtle scent of jasmine wafts through the air
and standing in a shadowy corner, a golden incense burner diffuses the
perfume of aromatic herbs throughout the room to both sooth the mind and
restore the soul.

Anwar leads me to a sofa and invites me to sit. Then he takes his place at
my side and I wait on his next move. The slave has stopped crawling but
remains doglike on all fours with his head bowed low. Like me he is waiting
for Anwar's next move. I can't take my eyes away from the slave. I still
feel all this is like some erotic dream and that I'll soon awaken to
reality.

But it's not a dream! All this is actually happening; I am a witness to
these extraordinary events and my mind struggles to take it all in.

Then, in an imperious tone, Anwar issues an instruction to his slave.

"On your feet, slave and stand at display!"

Immediately, the slave leaps to his feet and stands less than a metre and a
half in front of our sofa. He moves with incredible speed and it's obvious
that he is well practised in obeying any orders given to him by his Master.
Gracefully, he draws his body to its fullest height and he places his hands
behind his head with his fingers intertwined. This has the effect of
tightening his torso so that his taut musculature is prominently
displayed. He moves his feet apart to better display his
genitals. Lasciviously my eyes roam down over his nude body to his groin
but I am disappointed to see that his penis is concealed in a neoprene cock
cage. My disappointment is keenly felt.

Despite my disappointment, I am impressed with the slave. But then - who
wouldn't be? He is a superb specimen of young manhood and he casts an
erotic spell over me; my long suffering cock is straining to break free
from the straightjacket of my underclothing.

The slave stands at about six feet two inches and I estimate his weight at
somewhere around eleven and a half stones. His head is closely cropped but
as I have already noted it is the tawny colour of sun ripened corn with the
texture of finely spun silken thread. He keeps his eyes respectfully
lowered to the floor and yet I know they'd be the same azure blue colour as
the sun-sparkling sea.

The subdued lighting of the room works it magic on the slave as it
highlights the plains and valleys of his impressive physique. It serves to
erotically accentuate the slave's muscle groups and the subtle play of
light and shadow draws my attention to his nude, hairless body. The light
falls on the highpoints of his musculature such as his prominent pectorals,
the hard, rounded balls of his biceps and the curvaceous mounds of his
shapely ass bathing them in a soft, golden glow while the lower points such
as the division between his thick chest muscles, his ripped abdominals and
his deep ass-cleft are cast in shadow.

The slave's body is without any body hair and even his golden pubes have
been removed.  This only adds to the overall favourable impression I have
of him. The removal of his pubic hair emphasises the low hanging balls -
charmingly one is slightly lower than the other - and although it is partly
hidden by his cock cage, it's obvious that his penis is also noteworthy.
Even from where I sit, I can see that he has been circumcised.

He has a golden collar fastened around his neck - not unlike the ones worn
by Mustapha's waiters at the restaurant - and I see a matching cinch
resting against the wall of his lower belly which thrusts his cock and
balls forward into almost obscene prominence.

"Matt, allow me to present my slave, Sven to you."

So, the slave's name is Sven! At least I'd guessed correctly about him
being Scandinavian.  But how do I respond to Anwar's invitation? I am
simply lost for words. What should I say?  Obviously, Anwar does expect me
to reply.

I'm confused! Questions keep repeating in my head. Is Sven really a slave
or is the relationship between Anwar and him a normal dominant/submissive
one carried to a higher degree of commitment? Yes, surely that is it?

I know of other couples where the relationship is dominated by the stronger
personality while the weaker one serves very much as a servant. Indeed, I
have sometimes craved such a relationship for myself but I'd always drawn
back from making a commitment mainly because I'd not yet met a "master" I'd
wish to serve unequivocally.

But I have to say, this relationship between Anwar and Sven presents
differently; at face value it appears as real. I tell myself each is
playing a role and that each is a superb actor and playing his particular
part to perfection. To all intents and purposes Anwar is a "real" master
and Sven is his devoted slave. But I need confirmation of this. I need to
know the truth and so I blurt out.

"Anwar, is Sven really a slave?"

"Of course he is a slave!" I detect a note of impatience in Anwar's
voice. "He's a slave in every sense of the word and he's my slave."

"How did you come by him, Anwar? Did you met somewhere and arrange for him
to move into your home and act as a slave?"

"Matthew!" Again I sense Anwar's impatience. "Believe me Sven isn't acting
as a slave. Sven IS my slave. How did I come by him? Why, I bought him and
he cost me a small fortune. I paid 27,500 Euros for him. He didn't come
cheaply. But I have to say, as I fuck him, I consider he's worth every euro
cent I paid out for him. He's a great fuck!"

"You bought him - for money?" I'm displaying my naivety.

"Of course; money is the usual method of purchasing a slave." Anwar's
answer is tinged with sarcasm. "That's the customary method of obtaining a
slave unless one receives him as a gift."

"Where did you buy him?"

"I bought Sven at a slave auction in the Middle-East. I regularly attend
these slave sales to acquaint myself with the state of the market. I don't
usually buy; I visit as an interested spectator. But when I saw Sven
standing nude on the display podium I was smitten by him. I examined him
and then decided to bid for him. It was a closely fought battle to own
him. I had strong opposition from a black African oil tycoon who was as
determined as me to own Sven."

"Wow!"

My exclamation is all I can manage.

"You are surprised by all this, Matt? Why is this?"

"I'm shocked, Anwar! I thought slavery no longer existed. That it had been
outlawed by international treaties."

"To all intents and purposes it has been, Matt. But slavery will never
completely disappear.  As long as one man wants to own and control another
man then slavery will continue to exist. It is simply part of man's
nature. It's an immutable fact that some men are born to be masters while
others are born to be their slaves. And of course, slavery is very much a
part of Arab culture and has been for millennia. Once it was practised
openly. Now it is more covert. But believe me when I say that slavery in
certain parts of the world still flourishes but is discreetly practised."

My curiosity is aroused - as is my wayward cock. I want to know more about
Sven, the slave.

"How did Sven become a slave? Where is he from? What about his family - do
they know about his situation?"

My questions just tumble out!

"Those questions might seem important to you Matt. But believe me they are
totally irrelevant. A slave-owner has no interest in his slave's past
life. Why would he? His only concern is that the slave serves him docilely
and obediently. And for the slave, well his past is no longer of any
concern to him. Where he was born, who his parents are or what education he
has no longer matter to him. Slaves are denied any links to their pasts or
their families. All that matters to a slave is the present and the future
spent in servitude to his master."

"So you don't know where Sven comes from? And you don't know anything else
about his background?"

"Of course not! I don't have any interest in such matters.  But looking at
him, I'd say he is from Scandinavia, wouldn't you? Slaves from that region
are eagerly sought after and fetch high prices at auction."

"Why is that, Anwar?"

"Matt, it's their fair skins, golden hair and blue eyes that make them so
popular. It has always been this way for Arabs. Fair-skinned, golden
haired, Frankish, male slaves have always attracted keen bidding at a slave
auction. Arabs have always seen them as 'exotics' to grace our harems and
to be compliant receptacles for our lust and our manly seed. "

"And it was this that attracted you to Sven?"

"Indeed it was, Matt. I have always had a fondness for blond slaves. At
home in Maluchistan my father always had several such slaves and I suppose
it was there as a youngster that I developed my predilection for slaves
with Sven's colouring."

"Anwar, can I ask about your predilection. You mentioned before that you
Ahh .... well you know..."

"What are you trying to say Matt?  Don't be bashful. You're asking if I
fuck my slave. Am I correct?'

"Well yes ... I guess I am but I didn't like to ask. I thought it might be
too personal."

"Of course I do Matt! I fuck him all the time. And why wouldn't I? He has
the tightest asshole of any slave I've ever owned and I take full advantage
of my property. I usually begin and end each day by fucking him. And then
there are our delightful interludes in the shower where he kneels before me
and takes my cock in his mouth. Believe me; he possesses an exquisite mouth
and tongue. And he has a very deep throat."

All this talk about blond-haired, blue eyed slaves disconcerts me. I have
both and I guess in Anwar's opinion that would make me the perfect
candidate for enslavement. My hair can best be described as dirty blond in
colour but it is thick and unruly and I have a fringe that hangs down over
my forehead. I have heard it said that this gives me an appealing 'boyish'
look. And my eyes are the startling, blue colour of wild cornflowers - this
is how my grandmother once described them.

I wonder if I was Anwar's slave would he fuck me too. The thought of that
causes my asshole to squirm and gives me a warm tingling sensation in the
groin area.

"But enough talk for now Matt. I invited you here for coffee." Turning to
Sven, Anwar barks an order.  "Slave, away with you and fetch coffee for
your Master and his guest. And be quick about it or I'll put a cane to your
ass!"

Anwar's mention of putting a cane to Sven's ass arouses me even
further. How many times in my erotic fantasies have I imagined a cane
biting into my own ass? These are too numerous to remember with
accuracy. But the thought of a master caning me is a powerful one and once
again my leakage adds to the cold stickiness in my boxer shorts.

While Sven is away brewing the coffee, Anwar and I continue to talk.

"Matt, no doubt you find this is all very bewildering?"

"Anwar to say I'm bewildered is an understatement. I had no idea that there
are still real slaves in the world until I saw Sven. My senses are reeling
at the thought of that."

"Matt, to be truthful, Sven isn't the first slave you saw. The waiters at
Mustapha's restaurant are all slaves as are those who work behind the
scenes in the kitchens. I'm surprised you didn't pick up on that. You never
noticed their slave collars?"

"You're kidding, surely? And yes, I did see their collars but I thought
they were part of their uniforms."

"Matt, I never jest about such matters. Yes indeed, they are all slaves
belonging to Mustapha. And you are correct. The collar is very much a part
of the slave's uniform. The natural state of the slave is complete nudity
apart from his neck and cock collars or any other adornments his master
decides upon. "

"How is it possible that Mustapha can keep so many slaves and it goes
undetected?"

"It's quite easy, Matt. You see the slaves have been trained to accept
their servitude and they no longer look to be free. In Mustapha's
situation, his slaves live on the premises of his restaurant. There is a
slave dormitory on the top floor of the building where the slaves are
housed. Of course, when they aren't working they are kept naked and in
chains- purely as a precaution against any temptation to escape, you
understand. Mustapha's two adult sons act as his slave-keepers and
guards. They also live above the restaurant and are always there to control
his slaves. But to date, I'm not aware that Mustapha's slaves have ever
given him any cause for concern."

"Anwar, this is all so...  "

"What are you trying to say Matt? This is all so unexpected?"

"I guess so, Anwar. It's just so hard for me to get my head around all of
this."

"Ah! My slave has returned with our coffee."

Suddenly, the delicious aroma of freshly brewed Turkish coffee fills the
room and our conversation about Mustapha's slaves comes to a halt. I hope
the pause is only temporary as there are so many other things I want to
know and so many questions I'd like to ask of Anwar. But he is my host and
I must wait for him to take the lead.

"You may serve my guest first, slave!"

"Yes Master!"

I watch Sven as he pours my coffee into a delicate porcelain cup. He stands
with his back to me and perhaps it's the way the light is shining on his
body but for the first time I see the criss-crossed pattern of fading
stripes running across his bare ass. Some stripes run in parallel lines
which indicate to me that they were very carefully placed there - no doubt
by his Master - while others are more haphazard and are angled over his ass
cheeks. Some of the stripes are barely visible; others are more recent and
show as fading pink against the whiteness of his skin. I wonder what
misdemeanours warranted such harsh punishment.

Sven approaches where I sit and gracefully sinks to his knees before
me. Respectfully, he bows his head and holds my coffee at arms' length
before him almost as an offering and invites me to drink.

"Sir, here is your coffee. I hope it meets with your satisfaction and that
you enjoy it, Sir."

As I take the cup from the slave, I thank him.

"Thank you Sven! I'm sure I'll find it to my liking. It smells delicious."

"Please Matt! Don't thank him. You NEVER thank a slave for obeying an order
or for doing his duty. Thanking slaves only confuses them. And please don't
call him by his name."

Anwar's rebuke stings my pride. After all, I was acting as I would in any
similar situation. But then I remind myself this isn't a normal
situation. I have never been served by a slave before.

"I'm sorry Anwar," I manage to blurt out. "I didn't know that I wasn't
meant to thank Sv..., sorry, I mean your slave. If I can't use his name,
what then should I call him?"

"Refer to him by what he is - 'slave'! Or you can interchange that with the
more humiliating, 'boy' if you prefer it. Either is acceptable in
addressing a slave. Matt, you need to remember that you must never show any
kindness to a slave - whatsoever. It only confuses and unsettles him."

"How does it confuse a slave to show him kindness, Anwar?"

"Matt, a slave only learns through hard training, strict control and stern
discipline. Fear should motivate a slave in all his actions. Fear of his
master's anger at his shortcomings and fear of the harsh punishment he'll
receive for any mistakes he makes. A slave's mind needs to be centred on
those two things.  A slave works best if he knows that he'll be punished
harshly for his mistakes or failures. Showing a slave kindness only
confuses him and you run the risk that the slave will see your kindness to
him as a weakness of which he can take advantage."

Anwar takes the coffee cup proffered to him by his slave and orders him to
his feet and to adopt the modified slave position. I'm unfamiliar with
slave etiquette or the protocols that govern their actions and I watch
intently as Sven obeys his Master's instructions. He stands with his body
erect and his feet about fifteen to eighteen inches apart. His hands are
firmly clasped behind his back and rest on his ass. His appears to be
looking at a particular spot on the wall in front of him but I notice that
his eyes are trained on Anwar and me. Obviously, he is ready to step
forward without prompting from us to refill our coffee cups or to offer us
a tasty morsel to eat. As we eat and drink, I ask Anwar about disciplining
his slave.

"Tell me, Anwar. How often do you discipline your slave?"

"Matt, I punish him as often as is necessary. When I first bought him, I
caned him, on average, twice a day. I'm a firm believer that a new slave
has to suffer the cane at least twice a day until he becomes docile and
obedient and conversant with my needs.  Nowadays, he's very much a tame
slave and I don't need to punish him as often as I did in the past. Which
reminds me - haven't you something to tell me slave?"

"Yes Master! I'm sorry Master but I was waiting for you to give me
permission to speak Master."

"You have my permission! Speak, slave."

"Master, this morning I offended you by laying out the wrong business shirt
and tie for you to wear. Master you were too pressed for time to punish me
then and you instructed me to remind you of my mistake when you returned
home this evening and to beg for my punishment."

"Then do so! Slave, beg to be punished."

Sven falls to his knees and crawls to his Master's and kisses his feet in
abject submission.

"Master, I have failed in my duties to you and I have angered you. Please
Master; your slave begs to be punished."

"Yes slave, you have angered me - grievously - and punishment is called
for. But how will I punish you?"

"In whatever way my Master considers is appropriate, Master."

"A caning is called for I think. Away with you slave and fetch my
canes. And be quick about it or I'll add to your punishment."

"Yes Master!"


To be continued......

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