Date: Thu, 3 May 2012 20:08:48 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Bezistan Chronicles" Chapter 13  Gay Male/Authoritarian

THE BEZISTAN CHRONICLES
Chapter 13
MIKE'S ARRIVAL

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

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

The ideas and characters contained in this story are the writer's and
shouldn't be used without his permission. Please respect the integrity of
the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

Chapter 13: MIKE'S ARRIVAL

My torment begins the moment my cage is unloaded from the cargo
plane. Placed at he side of the tarmac with the other new arrivals, I now
wait to be hauled naked from the security of my cage and loaded onto a
transporter.

Peering through the bars of my cage, I watch as the other new slaves are
pulled, one by one, from their cages, shackled and dragged to the waiting
transports. Soon it is to be my turn, and I begin to hyperventilate from
the horror of what is happening to me. My shocked mind isn't able to deal
with the cruel betrayal by my friends, Brett and Craig; a betrayal that
sees me delivered into brutal slavery. Never mind that I had condemned so
many other young men to the same fate that now awaits me. In my miserable
self-pity, I don't spare them a second thought.

In my insatiable greed for riches, my need for social acceptance and my
self-centredness, I'd never considered the consequences of my actions. In
my immaturity, I'd romanticised the notion that me being a 'recruiter' of
slaves for Prince Rashid was some exotic adventure. Callously, I never gave
any thought to what happened to my recruits once they reached Prince
Rashid.

I had a Hollywood style view of Middle Eastern slavery - of opulent
palaces, masters reclining on silk pillows and of contented slaves with
naked, oiled bodies covered by nothing more than the skimpiest of
loin-cloths slowly fanning their masters and offering them refreshments
from golden platters. I had never visited Prince Rashid in the
Middle-East-in fact, I'd never been invited to-and I was oblivious to the
true horrors of the fate that awaited my unfortunate victims.

My love of money and my self-indulgence had blinded me to the reality of my
crimes.

Bitterly, I ask myself. What has brought me here? What had I done to
deserve this? Even now, lost in my self- pity, it doesn't occur to me that
these same questions would have been asked by all the enslaved young men
who preceded me here to this blisteringly hot hell-hole on earth.

Foolishly, I had considered I had a 'special' relationship and friendship
with Prince Rashid. I had taken him for granted and I had treated him as I
would any of my close friends. That was my mistake. I had presumed too much
and I had slighted his dignity. For this insult I'm to pay a high price. I
have been brought here to serve him as a slave-not in his palace but rather
in his fields as a beast-of burden. The thought of this is too much for
me. My muffled roar of anguish reverberates through the scorching desert
air and attracts the attention of the slave handlers. They walk towards me
and fearfully I curl up into a tight ball on the floor of my cage.

I'm manhandled out of my cage by two enormous African slaves and fitted
with shackles around my wrists and ankles. Uselessly, I struggle in their
firm grip; futilely I dig my feet into the hot, yielding sand and I scream
out my defiance and outrage as they drag me to one of two waiting
transports.

Roughly thrust into the cage-like conveyance, I'm forced to the front by
the pressure of bodies from behind me as other slaves are loaded into the
transport. Packed tightly, we now share our sweaty nakedness with one
another. From my position, at the front of the cage, I'm able to gaze down
at the miserable, filthy wretches who obviously provide the pulling power
for the transport.

What I see fills me with horror, for I know from Prince Rashid's earlier
comments on the plane that this is to be my fate. Below me I see five rows
each of four naked slaves yoked together in pairs.  Their heads are
obscured by heavy, wooden yokes and their bodies are bent forward over
`timber pushing bars' to which their hands are manacled. Their strong backs
and legs bulge with overdeveloped muscles and their asses are exposed to
full view. I look in disgust at the dreadful state of these wretched
creatures.

Unwashed, their bodies are coated with a patina of dust which has been
turned to mud by their sweat and then baked hard in the fierce, desert
heat. Their powerful buttocks are spread wide and their cinched cocks and
balls hang low on prominent display between their muscular legs. They stand
docilely as biting, stinging insects feast on their bodies and swarms of
flies hover over them.  They shake their bodies and stamp their feet in a
futile attempt to rid themselves of these pests.  Forbidden to speak, the
only sounds they make are a series of grunts and snorts. Their backs and
rumps wear the crisscross pattern of the whip; some of their stripes are
evidently fresh wounds and are still bleeding.

The stench from their bodies is nauseating and it churns my stomach.

As I look out in dismay, two overseers climb onto a seat at the front of
the transport and begin shouting in a language I don't understand. Four
naked, black slaves take up position; two on either side of the team of
draft slaves who have suddenly become agitated. These draft slaves know
their rest period is over and that they are now required to haul the
transport and its load of new slaves back to the quarantine building; a
slow, laborious trip of an hour's duration. The overseers shout
instructions at their African helpers who uncoil long, vicious whips and
begin to lash the draft slaves into action.

Then, as the two overseers shout "HYUP! HYUP! HYUP!" the slaves begin to
pull as one; their bodies straining under the heavy load. I watch their
muscles tense as the wagon begins it journey. As the transport rolls
forward the Africans eagerly and enthusiastically apply their whips to the
straining backs of the slaves. The Africans, although they too are slaves,
attack their task with enthusiastic vigour. Eager to ingratiate themselves
with their masters they enjoy the small measure of authority they have been
given over their fellow slaves. Therefore, they apply their whips to the
straining backs of the draft slaves with all the strength their powerful
arms can muster.

The slaves respond by pulling even harder. The two overseers quickly bring
into play their own long whips which are capable of reaching even the
slaves in the front row. These whips are 'cracked' over the heads of the
draft slaves to further encourage them in their labours. Inevitably these
whips too are applied to the slaves' bodies. Lashed from above and from the
side the unhappy slaves respond by lurching forward in their yokes and
harnesses and pull with all their strength. I can see that the slaves'
bodies are under enormous strain and that they have no other choice but to
comply with the shouted commands of their drivers.

Still not satisfied with the slaves' efforts, a driver exhorts them to,

"PULL! You lazy animals. PULL! Put your backs into it."

And to add emphasis to this exhortation he viciously lashes the bodies of
the four slaves immediately below him. These miserable wretches grunt out
their pain but respond by thrusting their bodies forward in the vain hope
of avoiding the lash.

Slowly our transport lurches forward and falls in behind the other
transport as we begin our lumbering journey to the reception area for newly
arrived slaves. Pulling their heavy loads, the sweating, straining slaves
grunt, groan and fart with the exertion of their labours.

Our two transports slowly move away from the bleak desert landscape
surrounding the airstrip into an area of lush, green market-gardens and
orchards. These are irrigated by an intricate system of water channels and
spaced strategically along these are water-wheels driven by
treadmills. Chained to these treadmills are yet more slaves whose only
purpose in life is to mindlessly and endlessly walk on the treadmills in a
Sisyphean effort to ensure a constant supply of water flows through the
gardens and orchards. The original source of this water is ground water and
two teams of slaves work around the clock in alternating shifts of twelve
hours driving huge, back-breaking pumps to ensure a non-stop supply of
water flows through to the channels. Everywhere I look there are naked
slaves toiling under the lash of their impatient overseers.

These gardens and orchards are important contributors to the wealth of the
al-Bahr business empire. The vegetables, fruits, grapes and olives grown
here are exported to the nearby, wealthy markets of Europe and South-east
Asia. Prince Rashid takes great pride in the fact that this produce is
quickly and freshly harvested each day and taken to the packaging sheds for
immediate processing. There, yet more slaves ceaselessly toil through both
day and night packaging this produce ready to be shipped out in
refrigerated cargo planes.

Rashid is proud of the fact that his crops are environmentally friendly and
are hand grown without either mechanical help or the use of chemical
fertilisers or insecticides; only organic manures and sprays are employed
here. The reputation of his products is second to none and the demand for
his fruit and vegetables is high. Any produce bearing the al-Bahr brand is
eagerly sought out by discerning buyers in the supermarkets of both Europe
and South-east Asia.

These buyers appreciate the freshness and high quality of the al-Bahr
produce but give no thought to the misery and suffering of the slaves who
toil relentlessly to put it on their tables. For them it is simply a case
of 'out of sight; out of mind.'

Travelling down the road, we pass convoys of slave-drawn flat-top drays
moving in both directions.  Those moving in one direction are loaded with
freshly harvested fruit and vegetables and are on their way to the
processing buildings. Others, returning from the opposite direction are
empty and are on their way back to the fields to pick up another load. Each
of these drays is drawn by a team of draft slaves under the direction and
whips of a slave-driver and his naked, African, slave assistants.

The heavily laden drays move slowly as the sweating draft slaves pull and
strain to the limits of their physical endurance. To encourage them in
their efforts they are continually lashed by the Africans.  By contrast,
the empty drays move quickly and it is evident that the slaves drawing
these are enjoying a brief respite from the heavy pulling. They know,
however, that this won't last and that shortly they too will be straining
in their yokes and harnesses hauling yet another heavy load back to the
packaging buildings.

As the drays pass us, I see that the dray slaves' vision is restricted to
the road ahead by leather blinkers. Adding to my horror, I note they all
have large snout- rings inserted through their nostrils.  These are made of
heavy metal and rest over their top lips and I'm soon to learn from bitter,
personal experience that these snout-rings are used by the slave-drivers as
a means of controlling the slaves in their charge.

The crops growing in the fields are at various stages of
development. Everywhere, slaves labour under the harsh supervision of their
overseers picking tomatoes, capsicums, melons of all varieties and
beans. In other fields slaves are digging up potatoes, onions and other
root vegetables or cutting lettuces, broccoli, cabbages and
cauliflowers. Yet more slaves are busy loading all these onto the drays for
transport to the processing sheds.

In those fields where the crops are not yet ready for harvesting, still
more slaves are toiling, under the lash, hoeing between the rows of growing
vegetables or crawling on their hands and knees pulling weeds. In adjoining
fields other slaves are busy preparing the ground for planting. These
miserable wretches, working in pairs, wear heavy wooden yokes across their
shoulders that also encircle their necks and are they harnessed by chains
to primitive, single furrow ploughs made of wood. Bent forward in their
harness, they strain their bodies to the utmost of their strength to pull
the heavy ploughshare through the resisting earth. Guiding the ploughs are
African drivers armed with a long, hippopotamus hide whips.

These field slaves, like their draft slave brothers wear snout rings
through their noses. Their naked, filthy and deeply tanned bodies are
unwashed and unkempt. They wear heavy metal collars around their necks and
their genitals are encircled with metal cinch rings that force their
penises and scrotums into prominent display. These field slaves work in
chains and have shackles on their wrists and ankles. Their backs, without
exception, exhibit the all too familiar crisscross pattern of the whip.

As our journey continues I notice low, cage-like buildings spaced at
regular intervals along the road and adjacent to the fields. The walls of
these buildings consist of strong metal bars open to the elements on all
four sides. The roof is made of heavy, corrugated sheeting as a protection
against the infrequent rain and the concrete floor is covered with
straw. These provide the sleeping quarters for the field slaves. With his
usual business acumen, Rashid has worked out that it is more time efficient
to have the slaves housed `in situ' rather than move them back and forth to
the central slave barracks at the Bezistan. This way, no time is lost in
getting the slaves into the fields. He estimates that with this saving in
time the slaves have at least an extra hour each day to toil in the fields.

Next to each of these buildings are several composting pits which deal with
all extraneous plant material left over after harvesting and other
wastes. There, these slowly rot down into rich compost which is then used
as fertiliser for the vegetable crops. Slaves are busily working up to
their knees and waists in these pits `turning over' this material to allow
for quicker composting. The pungent odour of rotting organic matter
permeates the whole area.

These scenes are terrifying for me - and my fellow slaves- and travelling
down this road we perhaps catch a glimpse our own slavery. The thought that
we could soon join the pitiful slaves toiling in the fields is too awful to
contemplate and many of us are openly weeping.

My fellow slaves are unaware that the slavery awaiting them is of a more
benign form. Fortunately for them they will be spared the horrors of living
and working as beasts-of-burdens; labouring under the lash in the al-Bahr
fields, mines, quarries or saltpans. They are prime, young slaves
especially chosen by Prince Rashid to be trained as pleasure slaves skilled
in the use of their bodies to give sexual pleasure to their new
masters. They will however, be subject to the same harsh disciplines and
punishments as all other al-Bahr slaves as they undertake this training.

The exception to this is me. As I look down on the draft slaves, I see with
gut wrenching clarity the awful reality of my future life. For my temerity
in thinking we were friends, Prince Rashid has condemned me to a life of
unspeakable horror and indescribable suffering. I'm doomed to spend the
rest of my day toiling as a beast-of-burden like the poor wretches
straining in their harness before me. I'm to pay an awful price for my
foolishness.

Suddenly, ahead of us, emerging out of the heat haze, we see a huge, stone
building. Its grim, fortress-like bulk looms large over the surrounding
terrain and is surrounded by other lesser buildings. This is the infamous
Bezistan and here we are to be inducted into our slavery.

Here also, when they have finished their training as pleasure slaves, my
more fortunate companions will be examined and appraised by prospective
buyers before mounting the auction block and bought by their new masters.

How I am envy them in their new lives. They will live lives of comparative
ease and luxury while I toil as a naked beast-of-burden for the remainder
of my days.



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

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