Date: Sat, 10 Jul 2004 19:12:21 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Rebuttals - Chapter 21 - Gay - Authoritarian

This is the twenty first chapter ex twenty two of a novel about present
day slavery and gay sex.


The Dahran trilogies are composed to date of 6 novels:


Trilogy one:

The Changed Life

The Reluctant Retrainer

The Market Offer


Trilogy two:

The Special Memories

The Dahran Way

The Dahran Rebuttals (this novel)


Keywords:

authority, control, loyalty, slavery, punishment, retraining, submission,
gay, sex


This story is entirely a work of fiction and all rights to it and its
characters are copyright, and private to and reserved by the author. No
reproduction by anyone for any reason whatsoever is permitted.


If you are underage to read this kind of material or if it is unlawful
for you to read such material where you live, please leave this webpage
now.

Contact points:

e: gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com

w: http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

w: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories

Yahoo! Messenger : gerrytaylor_78



Chapter 21 -- The assumption of family

Be warned! On good taste, there is no argument. You either have it, or
you don't. You either recognise it, or you don't, and even in
recognising it, there is simply no guarantee whatsoever that it will be
matched in the appreciative minds of others. However, be also warned, you
may well be overwhelmed by the good taste of others. But on taste, we
make the most extraordinary assumptions in real-time and have to wait for
future times, until our assumptions are proven to be true or false.

David Tuttle flew with me up to Bahrain and then on to Kuwait, where we
`did' the arts galleries. I felt uncomfortable in the galleries. The
Middle East offers beautiful and intricate design in its buildings, and
in-built decoration in their interior. If you are finely tuned into such
matters you will be able to appreciate the differences in Arab art as it
stretches from Morocco and the Atlantic to Pakistan and the Arabian Sea,
and all parts in between.

In a word, I was not impressed with what the galleries had to offer, and
kept my chequebook like my gunpowder reasonably dry. What I did however
find in a small gallery in Kuwait were two Egyptian sculptures, a head
and shoulders, not quite a bust, and a sitting figure in the style of
Egypt's fifth dynasty. They were described as an overseer and scribe,
and for some reason, they clicked with me.

By pure chance, as I was leaving the gallery, I spotted a sculpture being
unpacked of a most striking seated figure. It was a work in granite of
Senui, which the gallery owner told me was based on a sculpture in the
Boston Museum of Fine Arts, the consort of the ruler of Siut in ancient
Nubia. The face showed serenity, wisdom and strength, and for some
reason, I could already see those qualities place in those of us who
would live in the new Lemon Palace. The three qualities embodied all that
was needed for the running of my new and future home.

Even though David was enthusiastic about other items, I felt that every
single piece, like every single slave, should be at home in its location
and not out of place.

We had booked into a single suite at a four diamond hotel in Kuwait. On
reaching our quarters, I told David to undress and meet me in the bath
where I was going to have a long soak and more.

When he arrived suitably prepared, as I found his lubed back passage to
be, I had him sit down on my half-submerged erection in the bath.

`Remember Scotland?'

`I shall never forget Scotland, Jonathan.'

I let my hands play double-bass up and down his chest and he raised and
lowered himself on my hardness. When I felt him come close to his
tension, I soaped my hands and with my left cupping his balls, my right
conducted a symphony of moans and gasps until an arc of semen splattered
the end of the tub and David fell back against me.

We both slept soundly afterwards.

I came home quite exhausted after two days of shopping with little to
show for it, apart from half a dozen pieces, including my new sculptures.
I asked Aziz what he thought of them when they had been unpacked and he
ignored the paintings, but stood before the sculptures and finally said,
`Jonathan, you have chosen well,' and simply walked off. I took that to
be approval of the sculptures. I looked at the pictures, some desert and
mountain scenes, and thought to myself that I had a better view out of
any of the windows of the Palace -- at far less a cost.

I went over to the swimming pool and Klaas who was massaging the back of
a slave, smacked the slave on the backside to get him off the table, and
made ready to give me a session. Klaas was still a little quiet as a
masseur. Vitali used keep up a patter. Klaas would just let his fingers
and hands and the odd elbow do their work.

I liked the whole swimming pool area at the Lime Palace. Rolf had both it
and the gym area well organised and slaves were coming and going all the
time, ticking off items on two large green chalkboards.

`What are they doing, Klaas?'

`They are marking that they have done their swim times, Master. Each of
us has our own programme from Rolf, which we follow for at least an hour
a day. We swim. We train in the gym, or vice versa, to be beautiful in
your eyes.'

`And what is your programme?'

`This month, Master, I am running five kilometres each day in the gym
and I am learning the backstroke in the pool. It is hard.'

Two of the slaves had finished swimming and were doing press-ups on the
side of the pool. I looked closely and saw that they were Igor and
Basili, the two Byelorussians, who help looking after the cactus gardens.
They were really working hard at the press-ups, and various of the other
slaves had stopped to watch.

`They are showing off, Master, because you are here,' Klaas whispered
into my ear.

I beckoned the two over, as Klaas elbowed his way down my spine.

`Are all those press-ups in your gym programme, Igor?' I asked, when
the two were kneeling in front of my face, as I lay on the massage table,
my fingers interlocked under my chin. They had adopted the kneeling
position with legs wide apart, their genitals gently sloping out and
down, and their hands behind their necks. It was the position of
submission to a Master -- a position which allowed their bodies to be
seen at best advantage.

`Yes, Master. We are trying to improve our bodies to be able to please
you better in bed.'

`And not just your body, Igor, your Arabic is improving as well.'

`Basili's as well, Master.'

It has always struck me that the path of life is sweetest when shared.
Igor and Basili had been lifted together. They had themselves sold
together to me, by Igor's conniving. They worked together in the cactus
gardens, got up before the rest of humanity, to find a flowering cactus
for me each morning, and clearly enjoyed each other's company.

`Okay, let me see some more of your gymnastics and training.'

The two grinned at each other and then went through a five minute session
of moves which ended up with Basili doing press-ups on Igor's back,
which drew a round of applause and laughter from everyone who had stopped
to watch the sport.

But enough was enough, I had things to do, so I beckoned the two over and
said `Well done. Now walk back with me to the Palace. You can show me
what you have been doing in the gardens.'

I had forgotten just how much a moment of attention from a Master can be
of such importance to a slave. The two slaves quite literally bounced
along at my sides chatting about this and that, about the other slaves,
their work and the small things that made up their daily lives.

I had actually seen their section of the gardens various times, having
walked there in the evenings on occasions, but for their benefit, it was
as if it were my first visit. What pleased me most was that they knew
their agaves from their aloes, their cacti from their more simple
succulents. Neither had a report done for him by the Buddy Foundation and
I resolved to find out where they were in the pipeline.

Igor's and Basili's buddyship was not sexual, but of companionship. I
asked them what language they spoke when they were alone together,
knowing full well that it was Byelorussian, and it was like talking to
little children, as Igor used his foot to scratch an imaginary line on
the pathway -- `Our native language, Master. Are you angry?'

`Not in the least. We speak English before midday and Arabic after
midday with others, but among our own, we can speak and do speak our own
languages, do we not?'

`Yes, Master,' was chorused with a type of relief.

`So, your gymnastics are to help you to be better in bed with me?'

`Yes, Master.'

`Tell Ben that you will be with me tonight.'

`Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.'

I was beginning to wonder if the Police Captain's warning had been over
the top. More than a week had gone by since he had warned me outside the
Bank. Each night the Palaces were locked down and all-night vigil
sentries put on the roofs, with the water cannons at the ready. And yet,
nothing happened.

Deep down, I trusted the Police Captain. He had always turned up trumps
before and certainly, had never let me down. So, we waited and waited.

Each day our `defence committee', as I was coming to regard it, met
briefly after breakfast and the weeks since the warning I had only spent
two days at the Bank, letting my partners, for once, take the brunt of
the daily action.

I find that so many actions, like juggled oranges, can be up in the air
at any one time, and then all of a sudden, a single week can see the
resolution of any number of issues.

Josh Green stayed only his minimum three days at the Lime Palace and
reversed his flight footsteps to London, Atlanta and Georgetown on the
New Concorde and connecting flights. He was as discreet in his personal
life at the Palace, as he had been in his dealings with me over the phone
and by fax over the previous years, and I liked that in a lawyer.

He swam in the pool -- with togs -- `Maybe, I'll be a bit more
adventurous next time,' he said. He availed of a massage and a sauna,
but what intrigued him most were the colours of the desert and the Dahran
skies, particularly in the evenings. I have always said, the colouring is
spectacular. Josh confirmed my view.

Josh Green had just departed when Iņaki and Donnie, the two slaves who
had done the photography and text for The Cacti of Dahra came to me
saying they had an idea.

`So what's next on your agenda, Donnie,' I said, half in joking to him
and Iņaki, not expecting a reply.

I burst out laughing when he replied immediately, `Master, I want to
record the three Palaces, in black and white and also in colour.'

Even Iņaki Ergoitia smiled at Donnie's earnestness and enthusiasm, so
much so that I gave them the go-ahead on their project.

It was a week of surprises as the Palace's Doctor, Yves Fournier,
delayed one of the evenings after dinner, as he usually does, when he
wanted a private word.

`Jonathan, I may have some good news, which may also be some bad news.'

I looked at him quizzically. Scientists in general, and medical Doctors,
in particular, can rarely state a fact without shrouding it in caveats
and lots of throat-clearing.

`You know I have been conducting some research into the fertility of the
slaves for almost four years now, since those first slaves who were
infertile on arrival here, became fertile after some time.'

`Yes, I remember. You said you could not understand it.'

`I think I may have found the cause. I thought it might be the food, or
lack of modern foodstuffs rather. I even thought it might be the fact
that the slaves are well exercised, naturally heated in the sun and naked
with unclothed genitals. I looked at each factor and now I have concluded
that it is our water. Or rather, what is in the water.'

I was looking at Yves in amazement: first and foremost, at the fact that
he had so single-mindedly pursued his study of a minor problem for over
three years. Secondly, that he modestly claimed a possible cause, and
three, that the cause might be in the water which we get out of our two
wells at such enormous pressure. I had regarded the problem as minor in
that were he ever to have discovered any solution, it would do nothing
for the slaves' reproductive capacities.

`Do you know, Jonathan, that 4% of ordinary men are infertile -- either
dead sperm, or little or no sperm? Our slaves are no different. We had 33
slaves, slightly above the international average, to date who are or have
been infertile. Some twenty one of these, who were infertile, are now
fertile. These now prolific slaves have been here over a year and I will
bet a bottle of good Bordeaux that the eleven who arrived in the past
year and who are sterile now, will be fertile with the next twelve
months.'

`So what miraculous thing is in the water, Yves?'

`Not a thing, Jonathan, things -- plural. There are minute traces of a
series of four trace elements in the water -- selenium, bromine, terbium
and gadolinium, along with four very ordinary other elements oxygen,
fluorine, sulphur and chlorine.'

`Yves, you're losing me. The first four I never heard of and the last
four are very common, if I remember my schoolboy chemistry.'

`The ones you heard of, Jonathan, oxygen, fluorine, sulphur and chlorine
are essential for life. The others affect our metabolism. There has never
been proof what terbium does, but I think there now is a case for it. I
think the eight of these elements together -- the ordinary ones and the
trace ones, putting it quite simply, are making the slaves and all of us
very healthy. I just happened to notice it with the fertility issue. A
thousand litres of Palace water and you're fertile. I have also done
tests on water from the capital city, and the trace elements are not
there.'

`And why would this be bad news for us, Yves?'

`If the news gets out, Dahra could, at the very least, be the new spa
centre of the world. Four per cent of men in the world are almost a
quarter of a billion men. I think Dahra would get a little crowded. And
just a point of interest, when were you last sick in the past four years,
Jonathan.'

I looked at Yves Fournier. Dahra is a small country. The sort of health
tourism such a discovery would create would destroy the very nature of
Dahra and create a business as large as its gas industry.

`Are you going to publish, Yves?'

`Most likely not. Even if it did, it most certainly not with any hint of
location. But it's nice to know that, in at least one matter of
medicine, I may have contributed something.'

`You say that fertility returns after about a year.'

`Ten months has been the earliest, sixteen months the latest.'

`You tell the slaves?'

`Yes.'

`And what do they say?'

`They say little. I have never said more than it's the good and healthy
lifestyle.'

`Does the fertility disappear?'

`Not so far.'

`It is fine if you tell them, Yves, but don't expect them to share your
scientific enthusiasm. Some may be glad to hear the news, but please
remember what you are effectively telling them: they are now able to have
children, but they never will.'

`Yes, I know, I try not to get carried away. Perhaps, in a way, I have
become so fond of this project because I know that I will never have a
grandchild.'

I did not know what to say. What do you say to a man, to a friend and
employee, whose only son is your slave?

`Do not worry about it, Jonathan. It is better this way. If Jean-Pierre
had fathered a child in France, what sort of father would he have made?
He thought about nothing but his drugs, and how to get the next dose.
Even worse, imagine if the mother had been an addict, too, who might have
poisoned her child during pregnancy and neglected it afterwards. It would
have been a disaster from the beginning. My son is here, he is alive, and
by the looks of it he is very healthy, too.

`So, really what you're saying, Yves, is drinking up to a thousand
litres of our water over a period of time and you're back on the road to
health.'

`In summary, yes.'

`Yves, it's up to you.'

`There is something else you should know. Jonathan. Cal spoke to me
privately that night I had mentioned my project after dinner. Maybe he
was sorry for attacking me from this unexpected angle. Anyway, I had
attacked him too, and we finally got around to talking about our
situations.

Cal told me he has accepted now that he is, in fact, a stranger to his
children. If he did not receive an envelope with their photographs every
few months, he would possibly not even recognise them, not in their first
years at any rate.

He said that it was the only feasible way, to acknowledge that this
family was not his family, because he is not interested in spending time
with them beyond those yearly visits. His wife welcomes him as a lover
every year. She enjoys her time with him, as she does with other lovers,
and when he leaves, she waves him goodbye. She has never asked him to
stay. She does not need him. His brother-in-law does not need him. The
children do not need him. They all welcome him as a loved guest.

Cal explained that once he had accepted his status as an interesting
visitor from far away, with tales about sand dunes and camels, and
stopped imagining himself a `father' with the responsibility it
implied, it worked for them all. Maybe I should not pass all this on to
you, Jonathan, but it helped me realise where I stand myself.'

There was a deep melancholy in Yves Fournier's expression. He looked at
me and made a brave effort to smile. The smile did not reach his eyes
though, which were overshadowed by an expression of profound regret.

`Please understand this, Jonathan. I know that the life of Jean-Pierre
rests in your hands now. Children grow up, and we have no control over
the choices they make. We can only stand by their side, and do our best.
I failed to do my best for my son. I see now that not only did
Jean-Pierre abandon me to seek artificial happiness. I abandoned him,
too.'

`You can't really believe that, Yves. I remember how you were worried
sick about your son when you first mentioned him to me. You went to visit
him in prison. And as for making him a slave to save him from his road to
self-destruction, it was my decision alone. You did not even know about
it until you found him here.'

`That is what I kept telling myself, Jonathan. But not any more. I need
to look back at what I did, and what I did not do. I can not bear it if I
keep lying to myself.

When I spoke to him in prison, the only thing I thought about was to get
him to acknowledge me, to make some kind of commitment to me because I
was his father and he my only son. I am a doctor, yes, but beyond the
neurological basics I know nothing about the drugs he took and the effect
they had on him. I should have gone where the competence is, spoken to
colleagues and social workers who know about addictions. I was too proud.
I thought: `I am a doctor, I am his father. If I don't know what is
best for him, and he does not even listen to me, no one can help him.'
If I had arranged a stay at a therapy centre, he might have cooperated.
He might not have cooperated, or gone back to drugs afterwards, and
eventually died. But I did not even try. Instead of going where the
competence was, I went where the power was. You.'

`You did not ask anything from me, Yves. You only told me about
Jean-Pierre because I inquired what you were so worried about. You did
not even know that I spoke to the Minister of Justice. And much good that
did, in the long run! As soon as he was out of prison, he was on his way
to his dealer. Not what I would call gratitude.'

`Please don't be unreasonable, Jonathan. It only makes it more
difficult for me. How can you expect anyone to be grateful for an act
they are not aware of? But I am not talking about Jean-Pierre, I am
talking about myself. Why wasn't I there on the day when he got out of
prison? And if I was afraid that he would just walk past me, why did I
not even ask one of my friends in Lyon to wait for him at the gates? I
did nothing, because I had taken his indifference as a personal insult.
He probably meant to insult me. I did not want to risk rejection again,
so I abandoned him. He came out of prison, and he was alone. So he
decided to seek solace where he had sought it before, in drugs.'

My memory went back to the al-Qatim slave centre. A flash of bright new
titanium on Jean-Pierre's right ankle. His body spread-eagled over a
table, ready to receive his first flogging. The nauseating smell of camel
and human piss. Just from thinking of it, my stomach turned again.

`If you had not intervened, Jean-Pierre might be dead now, therapy or no
therapy. I did not know what you were going to do, but I knew what lay
within your power. Maybe, in my heart of hearts, I hoped that you might
do what you did, remove the weight from my shoulders, and remove my last
vestiges of responsibility. I was a coward, and in a way as narrow-minded
and as self-absorbed as he. When he rejected me, I convinced myself that
he would reject everyone. Now I don't know if he would have accepted
someone else's help. Maybe yes, maybe no. I will never find out.'

`I told you that I saw myself as a caretaker, Yves. I will listen to
your advice, and we can both protect your son. He will see how much you
love him, and love you in return.'

`It is nice of you to say so, but I think it is not possible. I can not
be a father to him, because he is a slave. How then could he love me as a
father? He seems to be fond of, perhaps even love, this slave Fernand who
is his buddy. No, I should say `this other slave, Fernand.' It is still
difficult for me, Jonathan. Sometimes I imagine I still have a son in
France. But insofar as being my son, it is as if he died.

The only thing I can hope for is that one day Jean-Pierre may love you,
as a slave loves his Master. I do not know it is possible, because he
knows that you deliberately took away his freedom. I can only hope that
he will.'

`Yves, please tell me honestly. Do you think I should not have made your
son a slave?'

`The only thing I am sure of in this matter, Jonathan, is that what I
think is of no consequence. In this respect I am like all relatives of
all slaves, of all Masters I have worked for as a doctor here in Dahra.
The difference is that I know what has happened to him.

When he spent all his money on drugs, he financed warlords, farmers who
cultivate drugs instead of foodstuffs, criminal chemists and businessmen,
petty criminals like himself. Now his work contributes to your income,
and indirectly, to mine. Isn't it ironic? I am profiting from my own
son's enslavement.

Jean-Pierre has a new life now. You own him, and I do not make any
difference in his life any more. There will be no more choices for him,
beyond the ones you grant him. And for me, there will be no family.'

I thought about Jean-Pierre and Fernand standing before me, seeking
closeness and friendship in someone who spoke their native language. My
slaves give each other human warmth and sexual happiness. They have a new
family now at my Palaces. Because they are slaves, it is a family of one
generation.

`This is what Cal told me, Jonathan, he said: `You know how easily it
happens that we try to compensate for private difficulties in our work.
For a dentist, it is not so dangerous. But you should face the danger you
are in yourself. Please continue and finish your project, but look at it
as research alone. Investigating fertility will not give you your family
back. You can not compensate for your private loss, neither
scientifically, nor symbolically. If you love and care for Randy, treat
him as your valued assistant. Don't try to make him the surrogate son he
can never be. Don't torment yourself, and please don't torment the
slaves, with chimaeras about fertility. If you want to be kind to
yourself, and to them, you have to look reality in the eye.' I think I
have found the courage now to follow Cal's advice. My project is
finished. I am proud of the results. And I know that their fertility will
not make any difference, neither for your slaves, nor for myself.

That is all I wanted to tell you, Jonathan, so that you know where we
stand now. Good night.'

I bid him a good night as well, and Yves Fournier left me, to maybe put
his scientific and private reflections aside for the night.

Biological parenthood happens easily to those who are fertile, have
heterosexual intercourse, and don't use any contraceptives. For a
father, there is no pregnancy, no biological tie beyond the transference
of genes. If he wants to, he can disappear from the scene before the
child is even born, and never be a father in the social sense. Mothers
and fathers can desert their children, or in grave difficulties
deliberately give up their children for adoption in the hope that someone
else may take better care of them. Filial affections may grow from
interaction with a parent who is present and attentive. It is in social
parenthood where the true test lies.

My slaves have no freedom, no children, no social responsibility. For
those of my slaves who had children prior to their capture, it lies
within my power to make a contribution to their former families'
economic standing. My slaves have no influence on the lives of those who
biologically are their children. I allow them to have news of them with
the help of my overseers Tommy and Geoff. Any activities of the Buddy
Foundation are my decision as Master, and mine alone.

Regardless of their physical health, which is of great importance to me,
all my slaves are de facto infertile in the biological and in the social
sense. Their status has removed the happiness, the responsibility, and
the worries of social fatherhood from their reach. They may find
happiness in the companionship and love of a buddy. My wishes and my
pleasure are their sole responsibility.

I retired to seek my own happiness, with Dmitri Soliduk, my new Russian
gift-slave.

End of Chapter 21

To be continued . . .