Date: Wed, 16 Apr 2003 00:45:47 EDT
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: MANDRASAT: Part Three

MANDRASAT

Book One: My Name Is Shareem

(cont'd)


Chapter Two: "A Prequel: December 15, 2001"


	"Good morning ladies and gentlemen."  The PA crackled to life over
the hubbub of passengers chatting among themselves, moving up and down the
aisles, and squeezing luggage into overhead compartments.  "Welcome aboard
Pan Emirate Airways flight Zero-Zero-One, non-stop service from London's
Heathrow Airport to Abu Dhabi with continuing service to Delhi, Bangkok,
and Hong Kong."

	The cabin attendant's voice was sultry, faintly accented, and
professionally soothing. "The captain has informed us," she continued,
"that we will depart on time at 0700, arriving in Abu Dhabi at 1830 hours
local time.  We are expecting a full flight this morning, so we ask that
all carry-on luggage be stored in the overhead compartments or under the
seat in front of you.  If you need any assistance, please press the call
button located in your arm rest.  Thank you."  She repeated the message in
Arabic.

	Bret always enjoyed the last minute hustle-and-bustle of these
pre-takeoff activities, even on unbearably early morning flights like this
one, the half dozen languages being spoken around him, the flight
attendants maneuvering through the confusion of milling passengers, call
button chimes reverberating throughout the cabin, all very exciting.  He
felt that the seven and a half hour flight would afford him time for a
reasonably restful sleep.  He'd arrived at Heathrow at 5:25am, having
departed Paddington Station at five-ten, having gotten up at a quarter to
four, wondering why in God's name he had even bothered going to bed the
night before.  He'd arranged for a taxi to pick him up at his hotel in
Bayswater for the two minute ride to Paddington, as he had no intention of
trudging up Praed Street in the bitter cold of this dark winter morning.
He knew he was over-tipping the driver, but felt it somehow made up for
such a short trip at such an unholy hour.

	As he had expected, the airline terminal was packed, and it took
him the better part of an hour to get through check-in and close to half an
hour to get through security.  He arrived at the gate just as the boarding
process was ending, and once onboard, he breathed a sigh of sincere relief
as he sank into his seat.

	Bret had learned long ago that the engineers who design the seating
configurations on modern jetliners are not overly concerned about six foot
four inch frames like his, so, resigned to feeling cramped, he sat wedged
against the seat in front of him and waited for the final announcements and
flight attendant cross check preceding take-off.

	Since the two adjacent seats between him and the window were still
unoccupied, and desperately hoping they would remain so for the long
flight, he decided to wait for two possibly late arrivals to get settled
before buckling his own seat belt.  He checked out the contents of the seat
pocket in front of him and found the airline magazine, a barf bag, and an
inflight duty-free catalogue.

	He had just begun leafing through the magazine when one of the
cabin stewards, a dark, strikingly handsome young Arab, approached his
seat, bent down and asked, "Mr. Hauser, would you mind terribly changing
seats so that a family of three might occupy this row?"

	Surprised that the steward knew his name, he stood up and
responded, "Of course.  No problem at all."

	The man's jet black eyes, framed as they were by the rich caramel
shading of his skin captivated Bret's attention.  He had always seen
himself as hiking boots, flannel shirt, backpack, backwoods good-looking,
but even to his way of thinking, this steward looked as though he'd been
finely sculpted from warm honey colored amber by Michelangelo himself.  The
name on the steward's silver ID badge was `Tariq.'

	Maybe sensing Bret's thoughts, or merely responding to his
willingness to exchange seats, the steward rewarded him with a spectacular
smile and said, "Thank you, Mr. Houser."

	His curiosity piqued, Bret asked, "How did you know my name?"

	"From the passenger manifest," Tariq answered with a smile that
sent an unexpected chill deep into Bret's guts; he then retrieved Bret's
backpack from the overhead compartment and led the way up the aisle and
into first class.

	"We appreciate very much your willingness to allow that family to
take the entire row," the steward said in a clipped and faintly accented
voice as he led Bret to the front of the compartment.

	"Believe me," Bret responded, wide-eyed and impressed with the
quiet elegance of this practically empty first class cabin, "It's I who
appreciate your generosity."  This would be his first experience at this
level of travel, and even though he would never dream of spending the kind
of money it would take to fly first class, he was nevertheless delighted at
the prospect of having it thrust upon him.

	He did however regret that he hadn't had the time or taken the time
to shave off close to the week's growth of facial hair he sprouted, and he
suddenly realized his excessively casual and rumpled clothes and his mod,
deliberately disheveled hair style were definitely not the norm for this
cabin, but still, here he was, being led into first class, wild hair,
overgrown beard, and all.

	At the second row from the front, the steward turned, smiled at
Bret again, then bent down and whispered a few words in Arabic to the
middle-eastern gentleman who occupied the aisle seat.  The man turned to
look at Bret, nodded, smiled, got out of his seat, bowed and said, "Would
you care for the aisle seat or the window?"

	"Please," Bret answered, "I'll take whichever one you don't want."

	"In that case...," the man said motioning toward the window and
stepping back to allow Bret to pass in front of him.

	`This is great, " Bret thought, "plenty of room, and no need to
scrunch over."

	After he'd gotten settled and had buckled his seat belt, he turned
to his row mate, and said smiling, "Thanks for letting me take this seat
next to you."

	"I understand from the steward," the man said with a deep voice and
pronounced accent, "that you gladly surrendered your seat to accommodate a
small family.  That was very gracious of you."

	Bret felt a blush of embarrassment rise up his neck and spread over
his face.

	The man smiled warmly at Bret's obvious self-consciousness.  "I
hope I didn't embarrass you because of your kind gesture.  That was never
my intent."

	"Oh, of course not," Bret returned the man's smile, but the edges
of his cheeks still burned.

	"And what takes you to Abu Dhabi this morning?"  The man asked
pleasantly.

"Business or pleasure?"

	"Actually," Bret responded, "I'm continuing on to Delhi."

	"Ah, yes, Delhi; and what business are you in if I may ask?"

	Brent's hesitancy allowed the gentleman at his elbow time to raise
his hand and say, "Again I apologize; I certainly do no wish to pry into
your affairs."

	"Not at all," Bret replied, "I'm not really in business as such.
Actually, I `ve just recently become a Catholic priest, and I guess I'm not
used to introducing myself that way yet."

	"Well, my friend," the man said, his eyes widening in astonishment,
"of all the occupations you could have identified as yours, the last one I
would have expected you to say was Catholic priest.  Has no one yet told
you," he said with humor and a wave of his hand, "that you are much too
young and much too handsome to spend the rest of your life as a priest?
You should be a Hollywood movie star, or a cowboy."

	Bret laughed wholeheartedly, but felt the blush of embarrassment
flaming once more over his face."

	"I did it again, did I not?" the man chuckled.  "Embarrassed you.
I do apologize.  My name is Shareem."

	"I'm Bret Hauser, and I'm pleased to meet you."  The man did not
extend his hand to receive Bret's, so he judged that shaking hands was
probably not proper protocol in his culture, but his warm smile and
friendly manner belayed any doubt in Bret's mind that he had inadvertently
committed a faux pas.

	"And I was serious when I said you were too young and too good
looking to spend the rest of your life locked away as a Catholic priest."

	"Well," Bret grinned, "I guess you could say I'm a little young to
be ordained." Catching Shareem's quizzical look, he quickly added, "
`Ordained' is what the Church calls making someone a priest. Usually we're
ordained around 26, but I'd been in school for so long, that I guess they
figured I knew everything I needed to know.  I'm just about half way
between twenty-three and twenty-four. "

	Shareem nodded and asked how long Bret had been a priest.

	"Counting today," he laughed, "two weeks.  My class was ordained at
St. Peter's in Rome on December First."

	"I hope you do not mind my asking these questions," Shareem said,
"but I have never had the opportunity to speak with a Catholic priest
before."

	"Not at all.  I'm still not used to it myself."

	"How shall I address you?" Shareem asked.

	"Please, Mr. Shareem.  Call me Bret.  I think it's going to take me
a long time to get used to using my `official' title."  He made the
quotation marks gesture with his fingers at the word `official.'

	Shareem smiled knowingly.  "You said you had been studying for a
long time.  Why was that?"

	"I didn't have anything else to do," Bret answered with an amused
shrug.

	At that moment, Tariq, the cabin steward, approached them and asked
if they would care for something to drink before take-off.

	"Yes," Shareem answered.  "I will have some mineral water."

	"Sounds good," Bret agreed looking up.  "I'll have the same."

	The steward paused for a moment, making eye contact with Bret
before turning and heading toward the galley for their drinks.  In that
brief second, Bret caught his breath and felt a tightening in the pit of
his stomach, akin to a feeling of excitement or anticipation, or fear.

	"Now there's a fellow who should be in Hollywood," Bret whispered.
"He has got to be one of the best looking guys I've seen in a long time."

	"You find the steward handsome?" A raised eyebrow accompanied
Shareem's question.

	"Oh, absolutely," Bret continued unaware of Shareem's curious
facial expression.  "That guy could make a fortune in the movies or on a
soap."

	"Perhaps," Shareem smiled.  "Maybe one day his travels will take
him to Hollywood.  Now, Bret, you were going to tell me about your
education to be a Catholic priest.  You said you had nothing else to do but
study.  That is a strange thing to say."

	"I guess it does sound kind of funny, but, you see I was raised by
a maiden aunt; she was my only family and really heavy into education.  She
was obsessed with sending me to the best private schools back home in the
US and in Europe, and as far back as I can remember, she hired all kinds of
tutors and coaches for me, so I was always a couple of years ahead of my
age group; when they were in sixth grade, I was in tenth, and so on."

	"That must have made you feel proud. Ah, here is our mineral water,
" Shareem commented as Tariq approached.  He took the glasses from Tariq
and passed one to Bret, then said to the steward, "You should hear what
this young man has to say about you."  Bret felt his cheeks flame once
again and his stomach muscles tighten as the steward turned his head and
looked directly into his eyes.  "It is his considered opinion," Shareem
continued dramatically, "that you are handsome enough to make a fortune as
a Hollywood movie star."

	Bret felt his entire body blush and sweat glistened on his forehead
and around his mouth.  He smiled, embarrassed, glancing away from the
steward's gaze and looking intently into his glass of iced mineral water.

	The steward chuckled and bowed his head slightly in Bret's
direction, acknowledging the compliment.  "I think Mr. Hauser himself would
do very well in that arena," he smiled, nodded again, and returned to the
galley.

	"Ah!" Shareem sighed apologetically, "I have embarrassed you yet
again.  Please forgive me and do continue with your story," he said and
began sipping his mineral water.

	"OK.  Well it really wasn't a bed of roses for me.  I was a gawky
kid; you know, a bean pole, all elbows and sharp angles, and pretty much
the prize geek, always getting picked on or beat up. Typical private school
stuff."

	Shareem nodded sympathetically, "You should have experienced the
hell of the English public school system as I did; it is no wonder they are
a race of paranoid schizophrenics."

	Bret laughed out loud.  "There's always a hell worse than the one
you're in, I guess.  Well to make a really long and boring story on that
point as short as possible, I got into early adolescent body building out
of a sense of self-preservation, plus I did a lot of running and swimming."

	"Those are all highly individual pastimes," Shareem observed
thoughtfully.  "Were you old enough to realize that at the time?"

	"I guess I always preferred my own company," Bret answered, "and
besides, I wasn't too interested in becoming friends with the guys who'd
been persecuting me.  I just wanted them think I could mop up the floor
with them."

	"And," Shareem asked, "did you?  Mop up the floor with them?"

	"A couple of times," he grinned.  "I guess that's when becoming a
priest started looking good to me.  It's sort of a highly individual
occupation.  My aunt had just passed away, so I was on my own, and I
finally picked up her passion for learning.  I figured if you're going into
academics and scholarship, there's no place like the Catholic Church.

	"Anyway, I graduated from high school at 15, from college at 18;
went into the seminary and completed basic theology at 21, and finished my
masters last summer.  That's when the powers that be decided it would be OK
to ordain me a priest."

	"I find it amazing, Bret, that over the short span of your life,
you acquired not only all that education but maintained your body in such
an obvious state of fitness as well."

	"Thank you, Mr. Shareem.  I appreciate that very much."

	"But what do you do for enjoyment?" Shareem asked.

	"As I said, running and swimming, scuba diving, too; cross-country
skiing when I get a chance, but," he continued emphasizing his words
enthusiastically, "I really like competing in triathlons.  I've been doing
that since I was eighteen, and I try to enter at least one a year.  I love
running and I've done the Rome Marathon and Barcelona Marathon for the past
four years, and," he chuckled, "I like to keep up with the latest video
games, and that's about all I've had time for."

	"And that sounds like more than enough to keep anyone busy,"
Shareem remarked, "especially training for those triathlons and marathons.
That must take an enormous amount of time."

	The steward approached Shareem again, bowed and said, "Master
Shareem, we will be preparing for take-off in a very few moments."

	"Thank you, Tariq." He turned and said to Bret, "If you will excuse
me, Bret.  I have a few phone calls to make before we take-off," then
reaching into the seat pocket in front of him, he retrieved a cell phone
and began punching in numbers.

	Bret wondered about the steward's form of address, 'Master
Shareem.'  "That's a pretty formal sign of respect," he thought.  "He must
be a VIP in Abu Dhabi or Riyadh, maybe even a member of a royal family."
Bret continued sipping his mineral water as Shareem spoke softly in Arabic
into his phone and began absent-mindedly appraising him.  His row mate was
well dressed, obviously a man of flawless and very expensive taste.

	Bret guessed he had a military background because he sensed that
kind of presence he'd seen in the officers from his own days in military
school.  He was tall and slim, and his suit was cut to show off his own
well developed physique; obviously he was no stranger to physical training;
he was probably in his early forties, not really a handsome man, but
ruggedly attractive, dark olive skin, deep black eyes, black and gray hair
cut short; in a word, a well groomed and physically impressive individual.

	After a few moments, Shareem snapped the cell phone shut, dropped
it back into the seat pocket, smiled at Bret, raised his glass in a toast,
and downed the contents.  "Ah," he sighed, "I'm anxious to get started."

	"Ladies and Gentlemen," again that enchanting and sultry voice
flowed out of the PA, "the cabin door has been closed and we will shortly
be backing away from the gate.  Please be sure your seat belts are securely
fastened and your tray tables are in their upright and locked position."
As the announcement switched into Arabic, the plane separated from the
jetway, rocked gently, like a cork bobbing in a pond, and began moving back
from the gate.

	  "The adventure begins," Bret thought.


				    -0-


	Shortly after Flight Zero-Zero-One reached its cruising altitude of
thirty-seven thousand feet, the pilot came on the PA, introduced himself
and indicated that he expected a smooth and comfortable flight, with
arrival in Abu Dhabi on time if not a few minutes early.  He outlined the
flight plan which would take them across central France and northern Italy,
down the Baltic coast and Greek peninsula, across the Mediterranean, over
Egypt and Saudi Arabia, on to the United Arab Emirates and into Abu Dhabi.
He then assured the passengers that their comfort was the flight crew's
paramount concern, and to be sure to ask for anything they needed.  The
flight attendant with the mellifluous voice repeated the pilot's words in
Arabic.

	Tariq had apparently adopted Shareem and Bret as his personal
guests.  He brought Shareem a fresh glass of mineral water, and, at
Shareem's insistence, a glass of Cliquot Club Veuve for Bret "To celebrate
his ordination at St. Peter's in Rome."

	After a few sips of champagne, Bret took a set of earphones out of
the seat pocket, removed them from their plastic envelope, put them on,
plugged them in, and began accessing the audio channels displayed on his
armrest.  Having found a selection he liked, he fully reclined his seat,
discovering as he did, its retractable footrest, enabling him to stretch
out full length, which he luxuriated in doing.  He closed his eyes and was
quickly drifting between sleep and semi-consciousness.

	Shareem pulled a briefcase from under the seat in front of him,
removed some papers, put the case back on the floor, and began making
notations in the margins of the papers, glancing occasionally at his
sleeping companion.  What he saw was a singularly attractive, fair skinned,
dark haired young man, disheveled and unshaven, but with sharp, well
defined facial features, a square jaw, cleft chin, high cheek bones, firm,
straight mouth.  He judged him to be three, but, more than likely, four
inches taller than he, slim at probably a hundred and eighty pounds, as he
would expect a marathon runner to be.

	Shareem's quick assessment of Bret's physical features brought
forth a grunt of satisfaction as he continued working at his notes.

	One hour of flight eased into two, and the only sound in the first
class compartment was the murmur of the massive jet engines on either side
of the plane's fuselage.  Tariq came and knelt on one knee at Shareem's
feet.

	"What have you discovered," Shareem whispered to the steward in
their native tongue.

	Tariq, responding also in Arabic, said, "This one was made a
Christian priest two weeks ago in Rome.  He has a visa to enter India as a
student which must be renewed every three years.  It will take time to
discover what connections he may have in America"

	"I see no reason to doubt what he told me about having no
connections where he came from," Shareem commented, "but have it
investigated anyway," then frowning intently, he asked, "Have you made
arrangements at Qassir?"

	"Yes, Master.  In three hours, as we are about to pass out of Saudi
airspace, and on your command, the pilot will announce an unscheduled
emergency landing at an unnamed military base in Qassir, and once we are on
the ground, you will find that Colonel Mustafa has everything waiting for
you.  After the slave has been separated from the other passengers, a team
of the colonel's troops will effect the capture."

	"I will interview him further to make sure no obstacles are in the
way, but I feel strongly we can take him with little or not risk. He is,
however, strong, Tariq," Shareem continued, "and may well struggle against
Mustafa's troops, so to avoid any possibility of permanent injury, I want
the Colonel's strongest and most proficient guards to seize him."

	"I will see to their selection personally," Tariq affirmed

	"Excellent," Shareem nodded and continued, "I have been making some
notes here on how best to deal with this new slave of mine after we
transport him to Mandrasat."

	"What have you in mind, Master?" Tariq whispered.

	 "The first thing I would want done immediately upon our arrival,
is to have the veterinarians give him a thorough physical examination,
inside and out, all over, including blood and all bodily fluids.  I want
his reflexes tested, and I want his body and every part of his body
measured accurately."

	"Yes, Master Shareem," Tariq responded.  "He appears in perfect
health, but precautions are always well advised.  What other plans have you
for him?"

	"When he was freely telling me his life story, he mentioned that he
likes to run ten or twelve, sometimes even fifteen miles a day.  He claims
to accomplish this in two hours, or less.  If true, such a feat should be
no problem for our Nubian slaves, should it?"

	"Not at all," Tariq responded.  "I am sure they could run twice
that distance with no difficulty."

	"Good."  Shareem said, continuing to write in his notes.  "Then we
will have three Nubians run with him every morning, carrying whips of
knotted cords to urge him on, and one overseer on horseback with a whip of
his own to make sure the Nubians do not apply theirs too enthusiastically
to my new slave's naked buttocks."

	Tariq chuckled softly and said, "If it is agreeable with you,
Master, in addition to his daily runs, shall we also have him spend several
hours a day in the exercise pit?"

	"Yes.  Very good, Tariq," Shareem concurred. "I want to see his
muscle bulk increased by at least thirty pounds, so that when I put him on
the auction block, he will be the very image of Western physical
perfection," then with a wry grin he added, "which will assuredly stimulate
our buyers to bid ever higher for him.  Have the veterinarians notify the
kennels to prepare a diet with the appropriate hormones and steroids "

	Tariq smiled in agreement, then asked, "What about the slave's
retraining program?"

	"Apparently his entire life has been lived in one command structure
after another, first, under the control of his aunt, then of his continuous
schooling, and now of his Catholic Church.  He was born and bred to do what
he was directed to, and that convinces me he will make an excellent slave,
but there are also years of conditioning and learning that must be
expunged."

	Tariq frowned thoughtfully, then commented, "Even though there may
be a high degree of resistance, Master, you have proven many times over
that there is no substitute for the use of pain in overcoming it."

	Continuing to write in his notes, Shareem replied absently,
"Correct.  No doubt he will need to be put under the lash and also humbled
on a daily basis until no fragment of opposition is left in him."

	"Collar and rings?" Tariq asked.

	"Of course," Shareem responded, " the collar around his neck and
heavy gauge steel rings through his nipples and ear lobes should keep him
ever mindful of his state in life, then, after I inspect him, I will decide
on the best size and shape for his genital cinch.  And, obviously, if needs
be, I will have him circumcised."

	"I have heard, Master Shareem, that in America, his kind of
Christians usually circumcise their males as infants."

	"If he is already circumcised, and depending on how I choose to
display him for auction," Shareem replied, "we may notch him all the way
round anyway.  That is a particularly good way of demonstrating to a slave
his absolute helplessness, especially if there are also other slaves to be
in fact circumcised at the same time."

	Flipping his notes to a blank sheet, Shareem continued, "I want you
to direct his retraining program, Tariq; your goal will be to bring him
past the point of submission, but I do not want to rush this project.

	"Have you an overseer in mind for him, Master," Tariq asked.

	"I think Zarak would be ideal for the task."

	"Oh, excellent, Master," Tariq responded enthusiastically.
"Excellent."

	"I believe," Shareem smiled cheerfully, "he was your overseer."

	"Yes, Master," Tariq replied with a theatrical sigh, remembering
the long hours spent in Zarak's bed.  "I was his first charge after he
received his gold rings, and, believe me, Master, he will teach this slave
to do things in ways he has never dreamed of."

	Shareem grinned and said, "I know, Tariq.  I have watched the
tapes."

	Shareem closed his eyes momentarily and smiled at the images of the
Zarak his overseer's expertise at simultaneously eliciting sexual pain and
ecstasy, then shaking his head to clear his mind, he continued, "In
addition to this slave's daily runs and his sessions in the exercise pit, I
want him trained for combat.  Classic wrestling to begin with, then perhaps
Asian kick boxing later."

	"Of course, Master," Tariq agreed.  "He will provide years of
excitement at his future master's entertainments, and, from what I have
observed of him, even fully clothed as he is" he chuckled slyly, "I wager
he will also provide handsome winnings for his master's coffers."

	Both men gazed upon the sleeping youth, each in his own mind
picturing the young man naked, in a combat ring, his body oiled and
gleaming under a bank of spotlights, clenched in a fierce contest with an
equally impressive specimen, fighting to the fuck.  Icy fingers of
excitement tickled their genitals, when abruptly and with no warning, the
jet encountered a split-second of jarring air turbulence which immediately
brought them back to their senses.

	Bret opened his eyes momentarily as the jet shook and rattled; he
shuddered reflexively in his reclining seat and was back asleep before the
last vibration died away.  Nor was he conscious for the pilot's reassuring
words over the PA that everything was fine.

	"Just a slight bump, Ladies and Gentlemen."

	"Have you a buyer in mind, Master Shareem." Tariq whispered
distractedly, anticipating a deluge of call button chimes.

	With the silence of the cabin uninterrupted, Shareem continued
sharing his thoughts and said in a low voice, "It is still much too early
to decide whether I will want to display him for private auction or at an
open one. However, with the perfection to which his already noteworthy
attributes will be brought through your retraining program, Tariq, my first
inclination is to put him up for private sale, and I know half a dozen
connoisseurs I could invite to bid on him."

	"Everything will converge as you have planned, Master."

	"Yes," Shareem agreed. "Now, I think it is time to awaken my young
companion."


				    -0-


	Within his cocoon of sleep and soft music, Bret felt himself being
rocked gently, as though he were in a hammock on a warm summer's day;
drowsily he opened his eyes and was stunned to be gazing directly into
Tariq's own deep, dark, liquid eyes.

	"Excuse me, Mr. Hauser," Tariq smiled, his hand firmly on Bret's
shoulder, slowly rotating his thumb along the collar bone. "We will begin
serving breakfast in a few minutes.  May I refill your champagne?"

	"Yes.  Yes, please. Thank you.  Tariq."  Bret stuttered, still
disoriented from his sleep and from staring into Tariq's face so close to
his own.  He looked out the window to catch his breath and to control an
unexpected tightening in his crotch.  He saw that they were flying over
water.

	"The Mediterranean," Shareem said.  "We passed over Athens just a
few moments ago"

	"Athens!?  Jeeze!  How long have I been out?"

	"You obviously didn't get much sleep last night," Shareem commented
solicitously.  "You've been asleep since just after take-off, almost three
hours."

	Astonished, Bret stammered, "I do apologize, Mr. Shareem.  I
normally don't fall asleep on people.  I hope I didn't snore."

	Shareem laughed, "Believe me, Bret, you were no bother at all;
besides, I had some paperwork I needed to finish before we land."

	More to make conversation than to acquire information, Bret asked
if Shareem lived in the Emirates.  "At present," he answered, "I reside in
several countries, Egypt, England, sometimes Hong Kong, but yes, I'd say
Abu Dhabi is my principle residence."

	"Your business keeps you traveling quite a bit then?"

	"Sometimes more than I would prefer."

	Tariq returned with a fresh glass of champagne for Bret and handed
it to him, letting his fingertips lightly caress Bret's hand.  A tingling,
hair raising chill raced up Bret's spine and his lower gut muscles
tightened once again Droplets of sweat began to form on his forehead and in
his armpits, and he felt a passing light headiness.

	"I need a little more champagne," he thought, "right now," then,
glancing out the window, he took a quick swallow and a few moments to
compose himself.  Continuing the conversation he asked, "I hope I'm not
being too forward in asking this, Mr. Shareem, but what business are you
in?"

	Tariq reappeared at that moment with breakfast paraphernalia and
utensils.  He laid crisp white napery over the men's tray tables, and set
out heavy sterling flatware and Waterford crystal.  Bret was astounded at
the array of finery Tariq arranged before them.  Grinning, he whispered to
Shareem, "The only thing that's missing, is a bud vase with one perfect
rose."

	"I have a feeling" Shareem chuckled, "that if you asked him
personally, Bret, Tariq would find one perfect rose somewhere and bring it
to you."  Not commenting this time on Bret's flaming cheeks, Shareem
continued, "While we are waiting for breakfast, I will tell you a little
bit about my business.

	"I am an importer of expensive and exotic commodities.  My clients
tell me what they want or what they think they want, and I scour the globe
to procure it for them.  I and my agents around the world also acquire
merchandise that I think my clients will appreciate, and I hold gala
auctions of these items from time to time for their pleasure."

	"That sounds fascinating," Bret said.  "Have you ever gotten any
really outrageous requests?"

	"I do not know that I would call any of them outrageous; some are
more difficult to find than others, but some," he said smiling broadly,
"fall quite literally into my lap.  I would say my clients are primarily
interested in adding to their unique collections, as well as acquiring new
luxury items for their estates.  Sometimes a commission can be as simple as
an addition to a client's entertainment system.

	"It is the distinctive characteristics they request that sometimes
send me scurrying from continent to continent.  They may want something
found only in Asia or Africa or on the Steppes of Russia, and such requests
take much investigation."

	Bret was about to ask for some specific examples of the kinds of
objects Shareem imports, when Tariq appeared with their breakfasts and all
thoughts of business fled Bret's mind.  He gazed in awe at the magnificent
smoked salmon and caviar omelet the steward placed before him.  It was
beautifully garnished and accompanied by a petite filet mignon so tender, a
knife would not be needed.

	A small silver basket filled with tiny breakfast pastries was
placed beside the omelet dish. Tariq refilled Bret's champagne glass, and
both men continued conversing through breakfast.  Bret had grown as
effervescent as his beverage and did not notice the Mediterranean
thirty-seven thousand feet below speed by.

	"You said you were continuing on to Delhi today, Bret; are you
taking up an assignment of some sort there?"

	"Not really," he answered.  "My master's degree is in contemporary
religious thought, and I want to continue my studies in that field, so I'm
taking a couple of years to study Hindu spirituality:."

	"You will be at university in Delhi?" Shareem asked, deciding he
had finished his breakfast.

	"No.  This is going to be strictly a personalized study.  I'm going
to move around the country and search out and attach myself to different
teachers as I find them and study whatever they have to teach."

	"And," Shareem asked with some degree of astonishment, "this is
something your Catholic Church approves of?  Studying other religions?"

	"Oh, sure," Bret answered.  He had finished his breakfast
completely, as well as his third glass of champagne, and was folding his
napkin when Tariq arrived to take their trays away.

	"It's been a couple of years since I've been back in the States,"
he continued, "and the man who was my bishop...uh, my `boss,' has retired,
and I haven't yet met his replacement who seems perfectly happy to let me
follow my own interests.  I got a short note and a big check from him the
day before I was ordained; he said if I wanted at any time in the future to
take an assignment back home just to inform his office, and they'd take
care of me."

	Tariq returned with coffee and asked if either desired cream or
sugar.  "Black," both men replied.

	"That all sounds somewhat cavalier to me," Shareem observed taking
a sip of his coffee.  "I should think a man with your training and
education would be in high demand."

	"Actually," Bret grinned self-consciously, "I do have a couple of
job offers.  One from the Gregorian University in Rome and the other from
Union Theological in New York.  But they want me to get my doctorate first.
So I'm pretty much on my own till I decide to hit the books again, but I'm
in no hurry and neither are they."

	"That all sounds very interesting, Bret, and I can see why you
would prefer to be on your own.  There's so much for you to learn, to
experience.  Now, if you will excuse me again, my friend, I need to do some
more paper work."

	"No problem, Mr. Shareem.  I haven't had a chance to read the
inflight magazine yet."  Shareem pressed the call button, and Tariq
appeared instantly at his side.

	"Wow!" Bret gasped, "it's like he popped out of a brass bottle."

	"Tariq is an excellent cabin steward," Shareem commented glancing
into Tariq's eyes, "and we appreciate his thoroughness."

	"That is for sure, Tariq," Bret said emphatically.  "You're
fantastic."

	"Thank you, gentlemen," Tariq replied.  "It is my pleasure. Would
either of you care for more coffee."  Both declined.  Tariq retrieved
Shareem's case from under the seat in front of him, smiled, and placed it
on his tray table.  Shareem nodded in appreciation and to signal his
decision to make the emergency landing; the steward nodded then removed the
cups, saucers and miscellaneous debris left from breakfast.

	The lovely voice again flowed from the plane's PA and announced
that the in-flight movie would begin in a few minutes and requested that
passengers in window seats lower their shades. She then announced on which
channel the film's audio could be found.

	As the cabin dimmed, Bret put his ear phones on, stayed with his
music selection, closed his eyes, and, with his seat again fully reclined,
was asleep before the film's opening credits began to roll.

	In what seemed to him like an instant later, he awoke with a start
to a bright sunlit cabin with passengers going to and from the lavatories,
putting things into or retrieving them from the overhead bins.  Totally
confused, it took him a moment to connect with were he was.  He slowly
raised his seat, turned his head, and saw Shareem shuffle some papers, and
place them into his briefcase.

	Shareem glanced over at Bret and smiled quietly at his look of
bewilderment.  "Quel Dommage," he chuckled to himself.  "The poor fool
missed watching the last film he will ever see," then with a hearty laugh,
he said, "Well, my friend, did you enjoy the movie?"

	Before Bret could respond, the PA system crackled to life again.
"Uh...Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.  I want to let
you know that we have a warning light flashing up here on the flight deck,
and while I don't think it's serious, we are obliged to land at the nearest
airfield, so, even though we are close to our final destination, we will
have to make an unscheduled stop first.  I do apologize for this
inconvenience.

	"We will do our best to expedite the inspection of the aircraft
after we land and be on our way again as quickly as possible.  We will be
landing at a military airstrip in Qassir in about ten minutes; in the
meantime, please fasten your seat belts and follow any instructions from
the cabin crew.  Thank you for your patience and understanding."

	Shareem rolled his eyes while the announcement was repeated in
Arabic, and said, "I knew something would come up to delay me.  Well, that
is fate, is it not?  We are one hour out of Abu Dhabi, and we have to make
an `unscheduled' landing."  He imitated Bret's earlier "quotation marks"
gesture at the word, `unscheduled.'

	"It's an adventure," Bret laughed.  "We probably won't be on the
ground that long anyway."

	"I know how these things work," Shareem groaned.  "Airlines say ten
minutes and that means an hour; they say half an hour, that means two hours
minimum; they say a couple of hours, and that means overnight at the
airport.  Mark my words."

	Bret laughed and said, "Well that'll give us a chance to talk a
little more, won't it?."

	Again the PA came alive. but with a different and not as pleasant a
female voice. "Ladies and Gentlemen.  We will be landing at a Qassir
military airfield in a few moments; the authorities there have requested
that all passengers deplane and pass through security again before
reboarding the aircraft.  You will need to take all your belongings with
you as you leave.  We will try to be on the ground as briefly as possible.
Thank you."  Once more, the announcement was repeated in Arabic.

	Tariq came to their seats leaned over and said very apologetically,
"I am sorry, gentlemen, that I will not be able to offer you any more
refreshments at this time, but as soon as the plane is airborne again, I
will be at your service. Is there anything I can do for you at the moment?"

	"Thank you, Tariq," Shareem said. "Would it be possible for me to
use my cell phone or have a message sent by one of the pilots?"

	"I shall find out for you right away," he said and hurried away to
the cockpit.

	Shareem leaned across Bret's chest, brushing the full length of his
forearm lightly across the young man's lap as he peered out the window and
said, "If we are where I think we are, I may know the man who is in charge
of this airfield.  And if that is the case, he will offer us," Shareem
pointed to himself and Bret, "hospitality while his mechanics do to the
airplane whatever mechanics do to airplanes."

	"That's really very kind of you, Mr. Shareem.  Thank you.  I
imagine a military airfield in the middle of the desert doesn't have much
in the way of comfortable accommodations."

	"Certainly not for stranded airplane passengers," Shareem responded
smiling and easing himself back into his seat, his experienced, passing
caress over Bret's more than ample genitals assured him they would
definitely be a bidding incentive when this new slave of his stands naked
on Mandrasat's auction block.

	Tariq reappeared at Shareem's elbow and said, "Our pilot said there
would be no problem if you wished to use your cell phone now.  We will be
on the ground very shortly."

	"Thank you Tariq," Shareem said as he pulled the phone from the
seat pocket.  "Please excuse me, Bret," he said, "I have some loose ends to
take care of."

	Bret nodded and, clasping his hands firmly behind his head and
arching his back and grunting, he stretched and held his legs taut under
the seat in front of him as Shareem, quietly speaking Arabic into his
phone, eyed with eager anticipation the young man's impressive bulge
against the crotch of his tightly stretched trousers.

	Passengers were instructed to store personal articles underneath
the seat in front of them, stow their tray tops, and fasten their seat
belts.  The jet landed smoothly on the desert airstip without so much as a
bump.


				    -0-


MANDRASAT is very much 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>