Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2003 23:48:48 EDT
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat: Part Four

MANDRASAT
Book One. Chapter One.
"A Prequel: December 15, 2001."
(cont'd).

-0-

	The airfield had no jetways, so movable stairs were rolled to the
plane's two side exits, one for first class, one for the main cabin, and as
soon as Bret stepped onto the platform at the head of the stairs, the
intense desert heat hit him like the proverbial blast from a furnace.
	"Good Lord," he exclaimed.  "I had no idea about this heat."
	"And do not let anyone fool you by telling you it is just dry
heat," Shareem said as they started down the stairs. "This `dry heat' is
over thirty-five degrees Celsius.  Around a hundred and five degrees or so
Fahrenheit."
	"And that's mighty hot even for one-thirty in the afternoon, " Bret
grinned checking his watch which was still on London time.
	As they stepped onto the tarmac, Shareem said, "Follow me.  I am
sure I will find my friend sitting in his air-conditioned office."
	Even in the late afternoon, the heat was so intense that the hot
paving stung through their shoes.  Halfway to the terminal building, Bret
noticed that the plane and the passengers were surrounded by soldiers, all
in desert fatigues and all carrying automatic weapons, and there were
soldiers around and throughout the gray cinderblock terminal building,
similarly dressed and similarly armed.
	"This place looks like they're expecting an invasion," Bret
whispered.
	"It is just that they do not get much excitement in this remote
place," Shareem answered, "so when something out of the ordinary occurs to
break the monotony, they tend to overcompensate."
	As they entered the nondescript terminal building along with the
other hundred or so passengers, Shareem walked up to a soldier standing at
the entranceway and spoke to him in Arabic.  After the soldier had
responded, Shareem turned to Bret and asked him to wait with the soldier
for a few minutes while he went looking for his friend.
	"It may not be any cooler in here," Shareem said with a smile, "but
it's no hotter, yet."  Then he went off.
	There was no air-conditioning in the building, but all the doors
and windows were kept wide open which Bret guessed reduced the chances of
heat prostration, but not by very much; there were no chairs either, so
many of the passengers, now resembling a group of refugees, squatted or sat
on the floor.
	He set his backpack down and laid his heavy jacket on top of it;
this morning's icy London weather seemed worlds away.  He unbuttoned and
removed his plaid flannel shirt and added it to the pile at his feet, then
pulled his sweat dampened tee shirt out of and over his trousers, holding
it in front of him and shaking it to create a draft over his stomach and
chest.  A cascade of thick, black hair spilled over the shirt's collar.
	In a few minutes, another soldier approached him, and said in
heavily accented English, "Excuse me, sir.  Are you Mr. Hauser?"  Bret
nodded.  "Please then to follow us," he said, picking up Bret's belongings.
	Accompanied by the soldier Shareem had asked him to remain with,
the second soldier led Bret through the crowd to a set of steel doors with
large, green, Arabic characters stenciled above them which he assumed said
something like, "Authorized Personnel Only."  "Or perhaps," he chuckled to
himself, "Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here."
	The two soldiers escorted him in silence down a lengthy corridor,
through several sets of doors and along several side corridors to a door
guarded by another soldier, who turned, knocked, opened the door, then
motioned Bret to enter.  As he stepped into a wonderfully air-conditioned
room and was about to thank Shareem and his friend sitting behind a desk, a
bulldozer slammed full force into his back, hurling him to the floor.
	The explosion of bodies as three powerful soldiers flung themselves
on him, plowing the butts of their rifles into his back, was so violent and
so unexpected that Bret, his breath knocked out of him, had no opportunity
even to think before a thick cloth, saturated with a foul smelling, bitter
tasting solution, was pressed against his nose and mouth.  He had no choice
but to breath in the fumes, and pinned tightly as he was by the soldiers,
he was unable even to struggle.  In a very few moments, amid the roaring of
steam engines in his head, he lost his hold on consciousness, and a thick,
black fog swallowed him, and he was gone.
	Shareem and the army officer sitting at his desk watched
dispassionately as the soldiers had thrown themselves on Bret, much like a
pack of wild dogs onto their prey.  He was too stunned to cry out as they
dragged him to the floor and covered his face with the drug soaked towel.
	After Bret lost consciousness, Shareem turned to his companion and
said in Arabic, "That was very impressive, my friend."
	The officer stood up and leaned over his desk for a better view and
said, "And this one has the look of a thoroughbred."
	"Oh," Shareem continued in their native tongue, "if you only knew."
	"Uh? Slake my curiosity, Shareem."
	"In good time, Mustafa.  In good time" Then gesturing toward Bret,
he called out to the soldiers, "Strip the slave naked."  And in a very few
seconds, they had ripped off all of Bret's clothes and tossed them into a
pile on the floor; then, laughing and joking, they rolled him onto his back
and pulled his legs wide apart for Shareem's inspection.
	"This one will assuredly bring you a tidy profit," Mustafa said
gazing at the unconscious young man lying naked and spread-eagled on the
floor.  "May I have him for an hour or two myself?"
	Shareem laughed out loud.  "Not just yet," he answered good
naturedly.  "I have promised his virgin hole to another, but, after all
that you have done for me today, you will certainly have your pleasure with
him before we leave."
	Feigning disappointment in his voice and on his face, Mustafa
demanded, "And who may I ask have you promised him to ahead of me?"
	"My servant, Tariq," he laughed.
	"Ah ha," Mustafa snorted.  "Your Freeman.  Did you send him out
looking for a specimen like this?"
	"No, not at all," Shareem protested.  "This one fell into our hands
quite by accident.  Tariq saw him in the check-in line at Heathrow this
morning.  I had told him to keep watch for tall, muscular white males, but
neither of us considered the possibility that one would show up today right
under our noses.
	"Tariq had to do a very rapid investigation to find out who he was
and where he came from, and then make all these arrangements to take him,
so, in order to encourage him in future such endeavors, I am allowing him
to be the first to claim the slave."
	"When will you move him?" Mustafa asked with more than a trace of
actually true disappointment in his voice.
	"I am in no hurry.  He needs to experience some of the basic facts
of his new life, and he might as well do it here."  Shareem smiled
maliciously and ordered the soldiers to, "tie the slave's hands behind his
back." Then turning again to Mustafa, he asked, "When can we wake him ?"
	"The drug is quick acting, but not long lasting.  I would say in no
more than fifteen or twenty minutes."  He stepped around his desk and
walked over to watch his soldiers bind Bret's wrists together.
	"Go ahead and inspect him, Mustafa.  He looks well worth the
effort."
	The Colonel grinned and ordered his soldiers to leave the room,
then knelt down between Bret's outstretched legs and began fondling his
genitals as though he were weighing them for purchase; he did not speak
until the door closed behind the last soldier to leave.
	"Nice and firm," he commented, "good for breeding.  Do you intend
to breed from him?"
	"Of course I intend to breed from him," Shareem answered curtly,
"just as I do with all my livestock.  I have over twenty brood females
newly arrived from Russia and the Balkans waiting to be inseminated."
	""So," Mustafa laughed, "you are giving your young slave stud a
herd of Russian beauties to fuck?"
	"Do not speak foolishly." Shareem responded.  "He will never even
see their cunts let alone fuck them.  Why would I waste his cum fucking
females with his cock one at a time when the product of just one milking
will impregnate over half of them all at once?  Each whelp he produces will
be worth many tens of thousands on the black market."
	"Then without a doubt" Mustafa declared, waving Bret's cock back
and forth "this hefty pump will make millions for you."
	"Yes, and be careful," Shareem scolded, "I do not want it damaged
before I am ready to sell it."
	Still laughing, Mustafa ran his hands through the captive's thick
patch of jet black cock hairs and into the abundant swirls of black body
hair on his belly and chest.  "Good muscles here too," he continued, "he
will work well in the fields or quarries, or even as a donkey slave in the
mines."
	"I already have in mind to include a large dose of hard labor in
his retraining program.  After pulling loaded ore carts on his hands and
knees in the copper mines, any thoughts he may have of escape or rescue
will be crushed to dust."
	Mustafa was surprised at the intensity of Shareem's response.  "My
friend, little hints in your words and manner have led me to believe that
there is something unique about this slave you have not yet spoken of.
Please, what is the mystery that surrounds him?"
	"There is no mystery about him," Shareem replied brusquely.  "The
mystery is in your overactive imagination."
	But Mustafa would not be put off so easily.  "Come now, Shareem.
We have known each other far too long for me not to recognize your
evasions. Tell me what you are concealing about this beautiful sleeping
slave of yours."
	Shareem smiled slyly and said in a low, dramatic whisper, "This new
slave of mine was just made a Christian priest of Rome."
	Mustafa's jaw dropped and his eyes widened as he turned, still
cupping the slave's cock and balls, looked at Bret's inert body.  For a few
moments, neither spoke, then, when the full impact of Shareem's words had
sunk into Mustafa's brain, he said with a gasp, "a Roman priest?  You took
one of their priests?"  And he threw his head back and roared with
laughter.
	"You took one of their priests! I cannot believe it," he screamed
and laughed uproariously until tears streamed down his face.  "This is a
Christian priest's cock I have in my hand?" He said, gasping for breath.
"And a Christian priest's balls.  Oh, my friend," he hiccuped and
sputtered.  "You will not just turn a tidy profit on this one," his
laughter choked his words off momentarily, "you will reap a king's ransom.
	"This is a precious jewel," Mustafa continued laughing, "and when
your clients find out this sleek, long-legged stallion was a Roman priest,
they will be bidding in the hundreds of thousands for him.  Oh, to take his
virgin hole would be a delight beyond measure, a glowing moment.  Give him
to me, Shareem.  Please, give him to me now."
	"My friend," Shareem pronounced with mock seriousness, "I promised
his hole as a reward to Tariq first.  It will still be the same Roman
priest's hole when you mount his ass, and the same Roman priest screaming
for mercy when you impale him on that horse cock of yours, and it will
still be the same Roman priest's mouth sucking down all the hot cum you can
muster.  Besides," Shareem concluded with a bemused smile, "a pleasure
deferred is a pleasure twice enjoyed."
	"Bullshit, Shareem.  Bullshit."  Mustafa gazed hungrily at Bret who
looked as though he were peacefully asleep.  "I will wait for you my
beautiful young Roman priest, and then I will fuck your ass off."
	It was now Shareem's turn to throw back his head and laugh.  "The
sooner we rouse the slave, the sooner you can taste the pleasures his holes
have to offer."
	Mustafa rose from his knees and, stepping to the door, opened it
and motioned the soldiers to re-enter the room, then, still shaking with
barely suppressed laughter, he ordered them to raise Bret's legs, bend
them, and press his knees against his chest.
	Mustafa then stooped down over Bret's anus and said, "look at this
beautiful pearl, this pink bud."  He sighed as he began to finger and probe
the opening.  "I look forward to losing myself deep inside its embrace.
However, my friend," he said turning toward Shareem and pursing his lips
with mock distaste, "he is much too hairy for a slave."
	"After Tariq has claimed him," Shareem countered, "he and your
soldiers can take him somewhere and shave him.  I am extremely impressed
with the shape of his head, very rugged.  Completely shaved, it will make
an irresistible attraction, increasing his value on the block immensely,
and with all that body hair gone as well, his muscles will stand out much
better."
	"And his cock will look much bigger," Mustafa laughed curling his
fist around Bret's limp organ.
	"It does not need to look any bigger," Shareem answered abruptly,
surprised at feeling so possessive about his new slave's body.  "It is
already big enough.  And thick."  A sharp knock at the door interrupted
their banter.  "Find out what that is," Mustafa snapped at one of his
soldiers who in turn opened the door and spoke briefly to a soldier on the
other side, then, shutting the door, he turned to Mustafa and said, "Sir,
the plane is ready to take off."
	"Good," he said, standing up and pulling a handkerchief out of his
pants pocket.  "To paraphrase you, my friend, the quicker they are on their
way," he smiled, wiping his fingers on the handkerchief and glancing at
Shareem, "the quicker we can have our way with this beautiful new slave of
yours."  Then he asked, "How are you masking his disappearance?  Surely
someone will notice he is missing."
	"Not according to what he told me," Shareem answered.  "He has no
family and no immediate responsibilities.  His plans were to wander India
for several years, and" he chuckled, "you know how dangerous India can be
for a foreigner."
	"I do indeed," Mustafa laughed.  "I do indeed."
	"Have your soldiers strip to the waist and remove their boots and
socks; when the time arrives, I want them naked also, easily and swiftly
and ready to begin the slave's retraining."
	As Mustafa gave the order to his troops, they could all hear flight
Zero-Zero-One in the distance, roaring down the runway, lighter by three.

-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>