Date: Mon, 14 Apr 2003 18:41:58 EDT
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat

MANDRASAT
PREFACE

       Before recorded history began, a fortification had long stood at a
desert crossroads on the Arabian peninsula known as Mandrasat, the
intersection of slave routes from Europe and the Mediterranean to the west
and trade routes from The Indus and Ophir to the east.  Century after
century, the treasures of far-flung empires met and changed hands at
Mandrasat to the cries of despair from slaves captured in battle, torn from
farm and village, or seized by marauders on land or pirates at sea.  There
was never any lack of riches or slaves at Mandrasat.
    In the center of this caravansary stood the auction block, a broad
elevated platform, where slavers from across the known world exhibited their
goods, and though it was not noted for an availability of female slaves, for
they had been divided early on as the first spoils of conquest or capture,
Mandrasat was the terminus for male slaves destined for the galleys and stone
quarries, mines and labor gangs of Arabia and Kush, Biblos and Zeugma.  The
lucky ones, or perhaps more accurately, the less unfortunate ones, were those
taken in battle and offered the choice of fighting in the armies of their new
masters, or the young and handsome ones consigned to their masters' pleasure
halls.
    From stone age monolith to iron age fortress, to Roman bastion to Saracen
castle, the citadel itself fell often over the millennia, serving one
conqueror after another; only the caravans remained constant, as did the
wails of anguish from the slave pens.
    In this present age, the wealth of nations is dispatched in massive
quantities unimagined in ancient times, at speeds measured in hours and days
instead of weeks and months, but slaves, naked and brutalized, surrounded by
the ghosts of slaves from epochs long dead, still mount Mandrasat's auction
block to be sold to the highest bidder.  Human flesh is an eternal commodity.

    MANDRASAT

    INTRODUCTION

       From The New York Daily Globe, February 28, 2002: "The American State
Department is pressing authorities in the Persian Gulf Kingdom of Qassir to
intensify their efforts in locating two American sailors who disappeared in
Qassir City on or about January 17.  The Seamen, Sean Olivier, 22 of
Havensport, Ohio and Jeremy Posten, 21, of Quenosset, Maine, were last seen
leaving their ship, the guided missile destroyer, Everett Ralston, on Friday,
January 15, 2002.  They were due back from shore leave on January 17.  The
men, contenders for the 2004 Summer Olympics, were members of the US Navy
weight lifting and wrestling teams and had participated in an international
lifting competition in Qassir City prior to their disappearance.
    "Mr. Posten and Mr. Olivier had been staying at a local hotel, and
authorities report that when they did not check out as planned on Sunday,
January 17,  their possessions were held in storage by hotel management until
local police impounded them.  A source close to the investigation, speaking
on condition of anonymity, said that although there is no direct evidence of
foul play, "it seems disturbing that these two young men should abandon all
their personal items in a hotel room."
-0-

       American Cable Network Evening News reported on April 27, 2002 that "
...an apparent `rash' of AWOL-itis, commonly known as being `Absent Without
Leave,' seems to have broken out among American and Canadian military
personnel stationed in North Africa and The Persian Gulf.  While there is
nothing new about soldiers going AWOL, the Military in both countries find it
`disturbing' that well over a dozen of their sailors and marines have
disappeared in the region over the past six months. US and Canadian Armed
Services are    working closely with local authorities who have promised a
speedy resolution to the mystery.

MANDRASAT

Book One: My Name Is Shareem

Chapter One:  "January 17, 2002 "

       Seaman Sean Olivier decided that a couple ice cold brews would cap the
day off nicely; he'd strutted his stuff on stage at the day long lifting
competition at the Qassir Sports Palace and walked off with silver in the
middle weight division, and neither he nor his good buddy and shipmate,
Jeremy Posten, who took the bronze, were due back on board ship till late the
next night. They decided to work their way back to their hotel one bar at a
time, maybe picking up a couple of belly dancers along the way.
    The two sailors, Sean the blond and Jeremy the redhead, each standing
four inches over six feet tall and decked out in levis and blatantly red,
white, and blue, `Team US Navy' tee shirts were magnets for every swindler
and pickpocket in the open air souk bazaar. They had a raucous good time
laughing, swatting, and dodging their way through the mob, and whatever the
hell happened to them, happened in a seedy, sweaty, hole-in-the-wall taverna
on a back street in downtown Qassir.
    One minute Sean and Jeremy were downing the horse piss that passes for
beer in those parts, and the next, their faces were flattened against a cold,
hard, stone floor, in total darkness, and Sean's head hurt so badly, that his
teeth, his jaw, and even his Adam's apple throbbed with pain.
    His brain directed his mouth to shout, "What the fuck is going on?"  But
nothing happened.  No sound came out, and just his mind shouted, "What the
fuck is going on?"  His throat was dry; he was choking, and he couldn't
close his mouth.  "What the fuck," his mind roared again in silence.  In the
midst of explosions going off inside his head, Jeremy realized something was
jammed tightly in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, something large,
coarse and bitterly foul tasting.
    Assailed by a torrent of anger, pain, and confusion, he forced himself to
focus on his mouth and body and knew at once that he was gagged, then, just
as quickly, discovered that his hands were tied behind his back and his
ankles and knees were bound tightly together.
    As the curtain of pain slowly began to part, Sean became progressively
more aware of his situation.  He lay face down on a stone or concrete floor;
he could, however, turn his head from side to side, but no matter how hard he
tried to focus his eyes, the black envelope surrounding him was too
impenetrable, too absolute to reveal anything.
    Out of anger and frustration, he growled loudly into his gag and, to his
amazement, received a few muffled growls back from the darkness.
    "Jer!  Fuck!  That's got to be Jer," he thought excitedly.  He growled
louder and longer into his gag and got the same back in response.  He tried
grunting some word sounds, but that didn't work; all he could make were
meaningless noises.  Then he tried raising and lowering the pitch of his
grunts, like grunting with a question mark, and that did work.
    His first grunt-question was, "What the fuck is going on?"
    Jeremy made an up and down double grunt answering, "I don't know."
    "You OK?"
    "Yeah.  You?"
    "Yeah"
    It was hard to think of what and how to communicate with grunts, so Sean
started grunting rhythmically as he inched himself across the floor, then he
stopped and waited for Jeremy, and when he grunted in return, he headed for
that sound.
    "Keep grunting, Jer.  I'm coming."
    "I'm here.  I'm here."  Jeremy also continued grunting into his gag as
he himself slid across the floor, then their whole world exploded.  A door
burst open and overhead lights erupted in the darkness.  They were blinded by
an intense shockwave of light, and the sound of boots slamming against the
floor told them that a large number of people had just charged into the room.
    "Untie them and get them on their feet," a deep, accented voice
commanded.
    A heavy boot crushed the back of Sean's neck and what seemed like a dozen
hands tore the ropes from his wrists, legs, and ankles.  Whoever had his boot
planted on the back of his neck, scraped it off and grabbed him by the hair;
someone else gripped the back of his tee shirt, another ripped the gag out of
his mouth; other hands grabbed the tops of his levis, and he was yanked to
his feet.
    Still dazed by the blinding light and swinging his fists wildly, he
shouted at the top of his voice, "What the fuck...," and was instantly
hurled back down onto the floor screaming, writhing in pain more intense than
he'd ever experienced, as though bolts of lightening were ripping through his
body, as bombs exploded behind his eyes.
    "A cattle prod," the accented voice said after Sean's cries dwindled to
gasps. "And that was just a kiss.  Imagine how you would feel right now if it
were pressed hard into your flesh., into your pink, virgin asshole.  There
would be not a mark on your body just searing, wrenching pain shredding your
flesh from head to foot.  Now, get to your feet!"   Sean struggled to stand,
gasping for air.  He had been hit on the right hip and thigh, and the pain
raking his leg was brutal.
    "You do not speak unless you are told to speak," the voice commanded.
    Sean was trembling from pain and shock and soaked with sweat; every pore
in his body had opened up.  He understood the words just spoken to him, but
his mind demanded an explanation.
    "I...."
    Instantly and explosively, before Sean could finish his thought, the man
hurled himself forward, screaming and thrusting his cattle prod to within an
inch of the his face; someone grabbed the sailor and pinned his arms behind
his back.  With fire balls exploding in his leg, the very thought of that
cattle prod hitting his face paralyzed him..
    "You do not pay attention to orders very well, do you?" the man shouted.
 "I told you not to speak unless you were told to speak.  You will nod your
head in answer to any questions I may ask, but you do not speak."  He was
shaking with anger, glaring at Sean.
    The man was Arabic, tall, but not as tall as either Sean or Jeremy, a bit
over six feet, and slim, dressed in battle fatigues and boots; he wore a
sidearm and gripped the cattle prod with his right hand.  His skin, brown and
weathered; his eyes, jet black; his hair also black, close cropped and
streaked with gray.   He appeared to be in his early forties.
    "This is a cattle prod," he snarled, shaking the instrument under Sean's
nose.  "All I have to do is hit you with it, anywhere I please, and you will
be back rolling on the floor, screaming like a wild animal, so be very
careful what you do next as I am becoming irritated, and when I become
irritated, I go to extremes."  Again he waved the prod slowly back and forth
close to Sean's face.  "Do you understand that you are not to speak unless I
give you permission to speak?"
    Struggling to keep his balance and wincing from the fierce pain in his
leg, Sean dropped his head and nodded that he understood.
    "Good," the man said, then turned and faced Jeremy who had been standing
with his mouth open, dazed beyond belief at what he had just witnessed.  "And
you," he growled, "be careful how you respond. Do you understand that you do
not speak unless I give you permission to speak?"
    Jeremy slowly nodded his head, imitating Sean, but not fully
comprehending what he was doing or what had been said to him.
    "I am glad you two have learned that lesson, because if either of you
break that rule again, I promise you that the pain this prod has inflicted so
far will only be a shadow of what you will experience.  Do you understand?"
Both men, heads bowed and fists clenched, nodded slowly and in silence.
    "My name is Shareem.  These others in the room are members of my personal
guard."
    Sean and Jeremy turned to look at the men surrounding them.
    "Filthy dogs," Shareem roared. "You do not turn away from me when I
speak. "Never. Do you understand?"
    Both captives were stunned at the violence of Shareem's outburst, nor
could they ignore the guards edging closer, cattle prods ready to strike.
    "Do you understand?"  He screamed again.
    They nodded.
    The room was silent for a few moments; Shareem continued to glare at his
two prisoners.  Then, regaining his composure he said, "I will now tell you
what has happened to you.  Listen carefully, for I do not repeat myself.  I
attended your weight lifting competition yesterday."
    The two captives had the same thought simultaneously, but dared not look
at one another, "Yesterday? Yesterday?"  It can't have been a full day since
the competition, but incredibly, it apparently was.
    "Yes, you've been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours."  Shareem
had read the confusion on their faces.  "We tried out a new concoction on you,
" he sneered, "and if I ever give you permission to speak, you must tell me
all about the side effects.
    "I frequently go to your kinds of competitions to shop," he continued
scornfully, "and yesterday at the Sports Palace, I decided that any of you
American or Australian contestants would suite my needs nicely.
    "Some of my associates waited around after the event, and along came the
two of you, heading into the center of town, away from your companions.  It
was only a matter of time and a few dollars to a bartender to drop some of
pills into your beers before you became mine."
    Sean was balling his hands into fists and painfully shifting his weight
from his right foot to his left; he was impatient, agitated, confused, angry.
 Shareem looked directly at him and said, "You have my permission to speak."
    And Sean erupted, "What the fuck is going on here?  Where the fuck are
we?  What the fuck are you talkin about."  He took a menacing step toward
Shareem.
    "I did not give you permission to move"
    "What's this `permission' crap?"
    "Quiet," Shareem shouted back at him.  The guards raised their cattle
prods and moved closer to the sailors.
    "You are my property now, my slaves.  I have taken you and I own you.
The life you knew is over, done with," he hissed.  "The only life you will
have for the rest of your days is the life of  a slave.
    "You are presently in a warehouse I own outside Qassir City from where
you will be transported to a compound I operate for the training of slaves,
and when I decide you are sufficiently well trained in all aspects of your
new life, I will sell the two of you along side Arabian horses, pedigreed
hounds, and vintage automobiles to the highest bidders ."
      The men stood dumbfounded, totally dismayed by Shareem's words.  This
could not be happening, could not be true, but here they were.
       After giving the sailors a few moments to digest what he had revealed
to them, Shareem continued, "As far as your Navy is concerned, you will be
listed as deserters, and that is quite ironic, because by tomorrow, you will
be well into the desert,  more than two hundred miles from where you are now,
and you `deserters' will spend the rest of your lives as slaves in that
desert."  Shareem grinned contemptuously.
    "Pay attention," he snapped, gripping the cattle prod tightly with his
right hand and slapping its shaft repeatedly onto the palm of his left, "we
have business to conduct  You have already learned the first rule of slavery,
`Slaves do not speak without permission,' and the second rule, `Slaves do
not move without permission.'  Here is the third rule, `Slaves do not wear
clothing.' Strip yourselves naked," he commanded. "Now!"
    Neither man moved.  Sean's eyes narrowed with rage, and Jeremy stood in
utter bewilderment, virtually incapable of processing what he was hearing.
    "I said strip."
    The guards again moved closer to the two men.
    "I warn you," Shareem continued threateningly.  "If you do not do as I
command, these guards will rain such agony down upon you with those cattle
prods that you will think you are in the fire pit of hell, and while you are
screaming in agony and writhing on the floor, they will strip your bodies
naked, and I guarantee that will not be an experience you will cherish."
    After several long moments, glaring at his tormentor and ignoring the
pain still coursing down his leg, Sean grabbed the back of his tee shirt,
pulled it over his head, and threw it onto the floor.  Jeremy sagged visibly
and followed his friend's lead.  Balancing themselves awkwardly, and in Sean'
s case, painfully, first on one foot and then the other, the sailors pulled
off their shoes and socks, and as he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly,
Sean stared defiantly into Shareem's face, not breaking eye contact with him
for a second, not even while stooping over and shoving his levis and briefs
down his legs to his feet and stepping out of them.
    The compliance of the two sailors was exactly what Shareem was looking
for, especially from the blond one.  Inspite of his rage, this specimen had
stripped himself naked as he was ordered, while his dazed companion
mindlessly followed suit.  This augers well, Shareem thought, for early
success in their training and for an early place on the auction block.
Whatever resistance remains can readily be excised through flogging, and
drugs.
    "The object now," he continued thinking to himself, "will be to provoke
the blond to the point of striking back, then crushing him instantly."
    He ordered the sailors to pick up their clothes and hand them to a guard
who took them and left the room.  They were surrounded by nine guards all
dressed in battle fatigues and boots and all holding cattle prods.
    "Excellent."  Shareem smirked with satisfaction.  "Now," he continued
derisively "shake out your balls and your cocks; they've been squeezed
inside your underwear and tight jeans too long."
    Sean, his face blazing with rage and humiliation, took hold of his
genitals, stretching and shaking them and clenching his buttocks as he had
done thousands of times after stripping down in locker rooms or before
climbing into his bunk for the night.  Jeremy did the same.
    "Good.  Now clasp your hands behind your heads and spread your legs. I
will inspect you."
    "Go fuck yourself you bucket of shit," Sean exploded, swinging his fist
directly at Shareem's face.  He hadn't taken a step before the first
expertly thrust prod hit him between his right armpit and shoulder blade, and
he collapsed to the floor screaming as one lightening bolt of pain after
another lacerated his flesh.  Jeremy dove to cover his friend with his own
naked body, and in the process, took repeated hits himself.
    Both men were writhing on the floor, screaming in agony  just as Shareem
had predicted, howling and clutching their arms around each other for
protection.  Shareem ordered the guards to yank them apart, hit the prods to
their genitals, and then step back.
    "We should have no more problems with them now," he snarled.
    Their faces were blood red, veins and muscles bulged through their skin,
their high pitched shrieks reverberating through the room, their mouths
stretched back to the limit, teeth bared, limbs and torsos twisted with pain
and soaked with sweat, tears streaming down their faces.  They collapsed
together, huddled in a heap on the floor, howling uncontrollably, as
firebrands exploded throughout their bodies, searing their arms and legs,
and, worst of all, their balls and cocks.
    "Stand them up," Shareem shouted.
    As the two men cried out in pain, guards on either side dragged them to
their feet and held them up.  Shareem slapped Sean across the face
repeatedly.  "Up straight," he roared, punctuating each word he spoke with a
slap across the face.  "That is nothing compared to what you will feel if you
ever, ever again raise your hand to me or to any other master.  Do you
understand?"  He emphasized his question with the hardest blow yet.  Unable
to speak even had he wanted to, Sean could barely nod; he was dazed and
gasping for air, his muscles knotted, spittle running out of the corners of
his mouth.
    Shareem then stepped over to confront Jeremy; the wretched sailor's eyes
were squeezed shut, his mouth twisted into an agonized parody of a smile, his
shoulders heaving.  After staring silently into the boy's face for a few
seconds, Shareem suddenly and without warning, grabbed Jeremy's testicles and
began squeezing them together in his fist.  The boy's eyes and mouth sprang
open, and a scream of anguish and horror tore from his lips.  The guards
holding him up seized his arms to prevent any attempt at defending himself.
    "You two are my slaves," Shareem roared above Jeremy's screams.  "I own
you.  I own your balls, your cocks.  I own your assholes.  Do you understand
what I am telling you?"
    Jeremy's head was thrown back; he writhed, howling, as Shareem pulled
down on his balls, squeezing them tighter.
    "Do you understand what I am telling you?"  He growled each word, baring
his teeth like fangs, but only high pitched, unintelligible screeching
accompanied Jeremy's frantic attempts to nod yes.
    "Good."  Shareem released Jeremy and stepped back, standing in front of
both men like their commanding officer.  He glared at them, first at Jeremy
and then at Sean; there was no pity or sympathy in his eyes as he watched
them choke and whimper like two brutally beaten dogs.
    He then ordered the guards to release the captives and let them stand on
their own.  They sagged momentarily at the knees, grasping for each other,
almost collapsing to the floor as the guards let go of them, then, still
wobbly, they stood on their own, swaying from side to side.
    "Now," Shareem said again in an even and calm voice, the remnant of his
mocking smile lingering on his lips, "clasp your hands behind your heads and
spread your legs.  I am going to inspect you."
    Slowly and painfully, struggling to maintain his balance, Sean raised his
arms, bent them, and clasped his hands behind his head.  Jeremy began to
follow suit but the pain swirling through his body was more than he could
support, and he fell sideways, slamming into Sean, knocking him to the floor
and falling on top of him.
    "For American sailors," Shareem taunted, "you two are surprisingly
uncoordinated.  When your training begins, we will have to pay particular
attention to your sense of balance and self-control."  He motioned with his
head to the guards to assist the captives, and they pulled Jeremy and Sean to
their feet, then a guard stood at arm's length behind each prisoner, clamping
the men's wrists together and holding them in place behind their heads.
    Shareem was fully satisfied by this latest demonstration of compliance;
these two would indeed make excellent, obedient, slaves; they responded
appropriately and predictably to a decisive and violent application of pain.
He continued the exercise by ordering the guards to kick the men's legs
farther apart, and both of them groaned as hard jackboots cracked against
their bare ankles. When their legs had been stretched apart to his
satisfaction, Shareem stepped in front of Jeremy, breathing heavily and
sneering like a predator about to torment its prey.
    "Now I shall appraise your value for my auction block."  he said,
grabbing Jeremy's arms under the elbows, caressing his biceps and slowly
drawing his hands toward  the boy's armpits;  he clenched his teeth and
squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as Shareem's hands reached and began to
stroke his underarms.
    As a redhead, Jeremy did not posses a dark tan like Sean; instead his
face, upper body and legs were bronzed to a reddish glow by the sun, and
Shareem noted this exquisite coloring etched sharply against the sailor's
milk white buttocks and crotch.
    "We usually keep our red headed slave boys out of the sun so their skin
may have the look of cream and the feel of satin," he said mockingly, sliding
his hands over the Jeremy's shoulders and down his sides, "but this
coloration will do excellently.  Keep  your eyes open, slave.  I want you to
watch as I inspect this pitiful mass of flesh.
    With years of sports training and continuous, daily weight lifting
sessions dating back to his early adolescence, Jeremy's body was anything but
a "pitiful mass of flesh," but, with his practiced eye, Shareem could see
where and how to bring it to even greater perfection.  He spread his fingers
and slowly drew them across Jeremy's chest, pausing to inspect his nipples,
pinching and squeezing them, smiling and nodding his head, until his helpless
captive groaned at the pain and dizzying sensations surging through his
body..
    "Ah, my pretty slave.  I predict that you will provide endless delight
for your future master." Shareem slid his hands down over Jeremy's rib cage,
tracing the outline of each rib with his finger tips as his prisoner
squirmed.
    "I said keep your eyes open," Shareem snapped.
    Although Sean could not see what Shareem was doing to Jeremy, he could
hear the man's words and feel the anger raging in his guts at his friend's
humiliation.  Even if there had been no cattle prods in the room, Sean knew
with his arms pinned behind his head and his legs spread to the limit, that
he couldn't possibly move toward let alone defend his friend.
    Shareem started massaging Jeremy's hard, rippled belly, jabbing his
fingers into and around the rim of his navel eliciting deeper groans.
    "Delightful," Shareem chirped.  "Yes, when I finish with you, slave, you
are going to make me very rich."  He slid his fingers into Jeremy's rust
colored fan of wiry pubic hair saying, "And you will look so much more
alluring when we shave off all this hair."  He then encircled the base of
Jeremy's cock with one hand and began lightly stroking it with the other.
    "Let me see you make this beautiful piece of white meat grow long and
hard," but Jeremy was in such a state of shock, trembling  violently, as
though he were naked in a North Atlantic gale instead of in the middle of a
desert, that his cock remained limp in Shareem's hand.
    "All things in good time," Shareem whispered softly into Jeremy's ear,
then wrapped his arms around the boy's waist and, taking hold of  the his
buttocks, began sliding his hands along the warm valley between them, feeling
the boy quiver against his own body as he rubbed a finger across the lips of
his hole.
    "Very good, slave. I hope you enjoy your training as much as I shall,"
and with that, Shareem stepped in front of Sean, his eyes blazing with a
message the sailor had no difficulty translating.  He tensed his body waiting
for Shareem's assault, which came quickly and decisively.  He grabbed Sean
just above the hips, digging his fingers into the prisoner's flanks and
pressing his thumbs into his belly.
    Sean instinctively twisted away, gasping, and was rewarded with Shareem's
powerful backhand across the face, a blow so violent that he staggered back
against the guard who was pinioning him and almost knocked him off balance.
His ears were ringing, tears welling up in his eyes.
    "You do not move without my permission," Shareem shouted.  "Do you
understand that you fucking slave?"
    Clenching his teeth, Sean nodded affirmatively and received a vicious
backhand across the other cheek; blood began to trickle from the corner of
his mouth where he had bitten his lip.  Shareem pressed himself against Sean
and, reaching behind him, began to slide his hands in between his buttocks,
massaging his hole.  Sean's body went rigid, as he struggled to keep his cock
limp, but Shareem knew how to finger fuck the sailor and didn't stop until he
felt the boy's hardening cock press against the front of his battle fatigues,
then he stepped back to take in the sight of the two naked men before him,
totally helpless, totally beaten, and totally in his power.
    Smiling, Shareem nodded toward his guards and said, "Take the one with
the hard on to his stall, and," his smile broadening and eyes glistening, he
continued, "you may keep the red haired one for yourselves tonight ."
    Sean stiffened and tried to twist in Jeremy's direction, but one of the
guards aimed his cattle prod directly at his cock and the other tightened his
grip from behind and began dragging him backwards.  He was spun around and
shoved through an open door and into a long dimly lit corridor.
-0-

MANDRASAT is a 'Work Under Construction,' and I would appreciate hearing your
thoughts and suggestions should you choose to continue reading through the
story.  Please email your comments to Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>