Date: Thu, 29 Sep 2005 17:44:12 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 3 - Gay - Authoritarian

  The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor


   This is the third chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and
present-day slavery.

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

  This novel `The Dahran Sands' is the eighth novel in the Dahran
series

   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.

  =============

   The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this
series] are now available as full novels in Acrobat .pdf format on my
website at http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

  ===========


  Chapter 3 -- The foggy city

  Instruction in youth is like engraving in stone

  (Moroccan proverb)



   I flew to London for our regular meeting of the Board of Directors on
the third Monday of the month. Deckams is the Bank where I work and am a
partner.

   More precisely, I flew ahead on the previous Saturday and my other two
junior branch partners, Gustav Ahlson and Colin Bowman followed on the
early morning Monday flight. The reason being was that I had an important
meeting with the treasurer of a Club where I am an overseas member.

   I stayed at my usual hotel just off The Strand, arriving as I did in
swirls of fog coming up the Thames estuary. I noted that the poste
restante at Deckhams had been delivered over from the Bank to the
hotel's reception in anticipation of my arrival.

   Three letters were of more interest than others in the pile. The first
was from Jeremy Burrows from my old school, St. Timothy's, for whom I
had secured a scholarship to Bristol. He was bursting with news and
`uni' snippets of information, revelling in study and societies and
`might, just might, have a girlfriend'. He had written to me twice
before care of the Bank's head-office and I felt that I now had an
unrequited bi-monthly pen-pal.

   The second letter was from Jason Smithers who was Jeremy's best
friend and also at Bristol. It was a careful letter about his feelings,
never before expressed to anyone, let alone a man, and how he was coming
to grips with his sexuality. He had joined the Gay Society, but was a
backbencher and backseat passenger rather than a front-line activist. And
between that and the University Cricket Club, it was the only social and
sporting outlets he could afford time-wise, such was the pressure of
study even from the very first term.

   `I am grateful for you-know-what that night' was the only reference
to his one-night stand with me, the loss of his virginity and the start
of the true adult awareness of his own sexuality.

   I hoped in my heart that Jason Smithers' undoubted future academic
brilliance and success would be matched by his success in his personal
and love life.

   The one thing he mentioned which indeed was news to me, as I had not
heard it mentioned yet in any of Josh Green's reports, was that there
had been mention in the Times of the puzzling disappearance of `the
rising barrister Nigel Broaders BL'. Jason knew him as he had fagged for
him in his last year at the school, and that it was feared his
disappearance might from `a case of amnesia' according to colleagues.

   The third letter was, in fact, a letter and a book. My old geography
teacher, Graham Hodson, had taken a surprising early retirement from my
alma mater, declining to go back after the summer having accepted a
golden handshake from the board so as to let some new blood onto the
faculty. In three months, he had put the finishing touches to a book on
his teaching career of thirty years and his methods of `Engraving in
human stone' was a play on the wording of a Moroccan proverb about
teaching young people.

   His letter also said that he really had never thanked me for putting
his mother's name on the donation which I had made through him for the
new Harris Science Building, and that it had, in fact, determined him to
do the things he really wanted to do with the rest of his life, the first
of which was to finish the enclosed book.

   The second thing he was planning was a long holiday and doing some
pruning of his fruit trees, and that the next time I was in London, he
wanted to invite me to dinner; `his treat' as he put it. His phone
number was beside that paragraph, and I looked at it for a while before
finally picking up the phone in the hotel to call him.

   Time-wise, we could not agree dinner, so we settled for lunch and
Graham travelled up by train to London and to my hotel from Midminster in
the West Counties where he lived close by the old school.

   As we sat across from each other in the hotel's restaurant for lunch,
I complimented Graham on his book.

   `Education is not really my field, but I started reading it yesterday
evening and found it compulsive reading. Maybe there were so many
references to things and people I remembered that I could not put it down
until I had finished it just before midnight.'

   Graham looked at me over his glasses and commented with a rue smile,
`the accrued wisdom of a lifetime being read in a day'.

   `I didn't mean it that way, Graham. It's just that I felt at times
you were talking about me.'

   `Yes, Jonathan, you and three thousand other boys. At one level, boys
are all alike. They have minds to be filled. They have to be given values
and purpose. They have curiosity. They have a thousand questions, some
requiring answers, others requiring reassurance. They wish to explore and
understand the world with their hands and minds. They have bodies which
are growing, surprising and confusing them. They have muscles and sinews
to be exercised. They are acquiring values and purpose, looking at what
their surroundings offer. They are constantly observing, scrutinizing,
admiring, copying, and frequently rejecting. Sometimes they weigh and
question; sometimes they unquestioningly absorb what seems convenient at
the time.

   `But at a second level, each and every one of them is different, a
singular challenge each in his own way. I remember so many for differing
things. Many are just a blur at this stage. Perhaps half a dozen stand
out for a particular brilliance.'

   Graham Hodson was polite if anything and did not try to embarrass me
by falsely including me in his half-dozen.

   `What are you going to do with all this free time of yours now that
you have finished your book?'

   `I think, Jonathan, I shall go to Italy to see how they grow
kiwifruit. China is a bit far.'

   I looked at him.

   `Kiwifruit?'

   `Apart from geography which I taught for more years than I care to
remember, I am also a keen grower of soft fruits and have actually
written four papers for a food company on the best types to use for fruit
preserves. Now I have turned my attention to kiwifruit, the fruit
actinidia chinesis also known as the Chinese gooseberry or the monkey
peach. I have almost an acre of several kinds of soft fruit at home, and
as England is now becoming warmer and warmer, all this global warming
thing, I am thinking there may be a variety of kiwifruit which would grow
and crop well here.'

   I looked at my former teacher and thought `to each their own'. For
some minutes, I was filled in by him on the history of the kiwifruit, its
good points, its foibles, how its crops covered no less than two hundred
square miles in China alone and large tracts now also being grown in
Italy and other warm countries.

   `It grows in sand?'

   `Even in sandy soil, if well-fertilised and with lots of water. It is
a greedy plant. But once planted, it lasts thirty years and crops each
year, a minimum two and a half tons to the acre. Not that I would be
growing anything near an acre of it; just an interesting hobby of
combining geography and fruit cultivation.'

   `Graham, I want to hire you as a consultant on a project. Would you
write a paper for me on the kiwifruit? Go to China for me. Go to Italy
for me. I have large farms in Dahra and a large workforce and could
always do with a trouble-free crop.'

   `I thought you were in banking, Jonathan? And me, a consultant no
less in my old age?' Graham said with a chuckle and a smile.

   `Graham, you told me you are fifty five, so none of the old age
thing. And yes, indeed, I am in banking but I have over five thousand
acres where I live which perhaps you might like to visit one day. My home
is large by English standards, comfortable but a bit spartan.'

   `Spartan as in no female touch?'

   `No female touch.'

   `Neither in my life. Never had the time, you know, nor the
inclination and sex has always seemed such a grey area for me. Maybe it
was I did not try or it was because I did not want to, or nobody wanted
me, or both,' he said with a self-reproaching comment.

   After lunch, we walked the Embankment, and the fog lifted as if on
cue, to reveal a newly misted London, old in location, but new in
opportunities and horizons.



   That evening I had one of the better escort agencies send me around a
playmate as a distraction for the evening. All I asked for was that he be
working class and well-behaved. If he was going to be shagged in my
hotel, I certainly did not want a scene.

   Just after eight, having finished a light dinner on my own in the
hotel's restaurant, I was just back up in my room when the phone rang.
It was reception.

   `A Mr. Smith to see you, sir. He says you may be expecting him.'

   `Send Mr. Smith up, please.'

   A minute later there was light knock on the door. On opening it, there
was a man dressed in jeans and a sheepskin jacket, clean shaven and mouse
brown hair, a little taller than myself.

   `Mr. Martin?'

   `Mr. Smith? Do come in. You are very punctual. I had asked for
someone at eight, and it is just that now.'

   The man did not say anything clearly waiting for my lead as he entered
the hotel suite.

   `Call me, Jonathan. Would you like a beer, or something, first?'

   `Not before work, sir...Jonathan. Maybe afterwards, if you allow it,
sir. My name is Ryan. Ryan Smith.'

   The name sounded phoney and invented for the purposes of being an
escort.

   `Why don't you take off that jacket and put it over the chair?' I
said and went over, to one of the arm chairs in the suite, sat down and
faced him as he took off the jacket.

   `Now strip off the rest.'

   There is something in the male psyche about taking orders, about
having to obey, about not having the choice. The one who accepts the
order places himself in a position of obedience, subservience and lower
rank.

   Were I to have pulled the clothes off the young man before me, it
would not have been as effective sexually as him being a male having to
strip off his own clothes at my order and behest. He was placing himself
under my control. He was not resisting my order. He was going to be my
junior in sex, my servant in matters sexual, the minion of my commands.

   Ryan Smith had obviously been told how to undress for a client. He did
it slowly and carefully, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and pulling
it off over his head so that his upper torso was fully stretched and
revealed as he did so. He undid the steel buttons on his jeans, not fast
but certainly not slowly, to reveal blue undies, and standing on one leg
and then on the other, undid his trainers and slipped off his socks.
Finally, standing up straight, he let his jeans fall around his ankles
and then hooked his thumbs under the blue undies which already showed a
nice bulge. They joined the jeans on the floor, as he stepped out of both
jeans and underwear one foot at a time.

   I noticed that he swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking, as he
straightened up and he gave his circumcised cock a passing touch as it
stood straight out from his body.

   His cock was not long, but it was quite thick and its corona flange
was nicely mushroomed. Its piss hole seemed rather large for the cock
head itself.

   `Ryan Smith, you are one good looking man,' I said from the comfort
of my armchair.

   `Thank you...Jonathan. What would you like me to do, sir?'

   `Your accent is East End is it not?'

   `That's right. You know your London, Jonathan. I was born and bred
in Beckton. I have lived there or close to it all my life.'

   `What you do work at? This evening job is not full-time is it?'

   `No, sir. I'm a qualified electrician. I earn good money. I'm
actually on a customer call out at the moment,' he said with a
half-smile.

   I got the joke in his latter statement. But there was something not
quite right with the first part. I could not immediately place my finger
on it.

   `Go in and take a good shower, Ryan. Use the douche as I'm going to
fuck the life out of you. There's lubricant inside in the bathroom.'

   He nodded and headed in the direction of the bathroom which I had been
pointing to.

   As I heard the shower running, I got up from the armchair and
undressed at my leisure. I piled up the pillows on the hotel room bed and
lay back on them in my boxers.

   Some minutes later, a slightly damp Ryan Smith came out of the
bathroom. He looked a little ill at ease as if feeling his way with each
step he took.

   I patted the bed beside me and slipped off the boxers.

   `Ryan, this is going to be a straight fuck. First, on your back and
then, on your knees. Okay? But first put a condom on me,' and I pointed
to some I had left on the bedside table.

   `Okay, sir' and this he did before he lay back on the bed and pulled
his legs up over his head. His body smelled of lemon balm or some such
bathroom soap.

   His was not a body that I would normally allow among my own slaves.
From throat to groin, he was covered in body hair ranging from mouse
brown to dark brown. He had two full pits of dark hairs, still slightly
damp from the shower, or else he was slightly perspiring at the thought
of his own fucking. His groin had a thick bush of lustrous brown hair and
his cock was fully hard, with the smallest drop of precum in the piss
slit.

   I was already hard after the day that was in it and the sight of his
body. Grabbling a pillow, I pushed it under his raised behind to give him
extra elevation and a better angle of entry for myself.

   `Thanks, sir,' was what he said.

   I positioned my cock at the moist entrance of his anus and with one
fluid push pressed in. There was just the hint of resistance and I was
in. I lent forward to adjust my body against his, and said `Now, let's
both enjoy this.'

   For fifteen minutes, I pistoned his back passage with a variety of
techniques, from fast to slow, from andantino to allegro con moto. From
his reactions, I knew he was not as experienced as I, either in years or
in technique. I had found the measure of his prostate gland early on, and
ignored it in the angle of my thrusts when I saw how its being touched
affected him bringing him close to climax.

   However, I did not ignore his prostate in my last four minutes where I
changed the angle of my entry and my every thrust in and my every pull
out was a deliberate contact with that most sensitive of ecstatic
interior spots in the male's sexuality.

   I saw Ryan Smith's eyes finally widen as he realised that he was not
just being fucked, but that he was being fucked majestically. So much so,
that he was first to ejaculate. The fact that he was in the hands of a
sex master struck home after his penis started to seriously lose precum
from its slit and his lower belly was covered with its slickness, and he
realised that cockiness and all as he might have had of assuredness
coming in through the door of my hotel bedroom was no use. Now he was not
in control of his own sexuality; but I, his client, was.

   A further half a dozen or so exactly positioned thrusts and Ryan Smith
gave a gasp and a half-shout and I felt spatter after spatter of his
semen up against my belly in its thrusting action as it covered his body.

   In my mind, I had been going over balance sheets and profit and loss
figures, a great way not to come during sex. I closed the financial files
in my mind and switched on the pleasure files of sweaty armpits, mushroom
headed cocks, twitching coronas, hard nipples, and I felt my juices rise
to the simmer, and then to the boil, and with one pushing thrust which
would have done any birthing mother proud, I shot my load into his
rectum.

   I lay over and in Ryan for the best part of a minute as my pulses and
pressures dropped, and my twitching cock gave up of its last fluids.

   `Ryan, you are one good fuck on your back. I am sure you are going to
be just as good on your knees in half an hour. You okay?' I said as I
disposed of the condom into the basket beside the bed.

   `Yes, sir. I've never been ridden like that before.'

   `You're not long at this game, Ryan, are you?'

   `No, sir, just a month.'

   `Let's rest for half an hour and I'll see just how good you really
are. Would you like a beer, or something?'

   `If there's a soft drink, I'll take that, Jonathan. I'll be
driving later on.'

   I thought that it was a good and diplomatic choice of words. `Not
when I leave you', but rather `later on'.

   `Back to the East End?'

   `Yes, sir.'

   `And who's waiting for you in the East End.'

   He was silent a moment and then said, `Can I get you a drink,
Jonathan, when I get one for myself?'

   `Yes, Ryan, anything soft,' I said propping myself on an elbow as he
slid off the bed and headed for the fridge in the bedroom. `You're
trying to change the topic of conversation.'

   `I'm not used to talking about myself with clients, sir. Usually,
it's over and done with in ten minutes and then the punter can't wait
to be shot of me. And they said at the agency never give out personal
details. No offence, sir.'

   `No offence meant, Ryan, and no offence taken. You're clearly a nice
guy, and in this business, you are one good fuck and I'm going to prove
that again in half an hour.'

   Ryan had come back with two glasses of Sprite and he blushed slightly
at my comment.

   `Electrician?'

   `Yes, sir. Great job. I work with a great firm and it pays very
well.'

   `Then you're not in this evening business for the money.'

   He looked at me and was silent, and merely raised a glass in toast, as
if to say, `here's to your good health but you just heard what I said
about the agency'.

   Something about my comment had not rung true and I mused out loud
`but what if you were in it for the money? Why would a good looking guy,
who can obviously pull both girls and guys, whichever he chooses, with a
great paying job with a good firm, need more money?'

   When I said it from his reaction, I knew that I had hit home -- or at
least, hit some point of truth and reference.

   There are subtle nuances in human reaction and behaviour which only
the human eye can spot, and in his physical reaction, those nuances were
there.

   I took Ryan Smith's cock in my hand and started playing with it. I
could feel it getting hard again almost immediately.

   `Quick turn around time, without a doubt.'

   `Very quick, Jonathan.'

   I looked at his tanned hands and although they were well-muscled with
little fat on them, the hands of a person who used them from physical
jobs every day, I also noted that there was a slight difference in the
colour of the skin on his fourth finger.

   `What time do you have to be home?'

   `Mid...'

   I had caught him off guard. He looked annoyed.

   `I noticed that you had taken off your wedding ring.'

   `Look, Jonathan, I said and I mean it, I am not going to talk about
my personal life or my wife or kid.'

   I looked at him and when he said `kid', there was something in the
way he said it, as he stopped himself very abruptly and having said it,
he regretted its escape into a more public arena than he had ever
intended.

   He was half-off the bed, the glass of Sprite in his hand untouched.

   There are times when words should not be spoken, when they break the
spell, and this was a moment when a single word had woven a spell over
him and over me.

   I took the glass from Ryan's hand and put it on the bedside table. He
was looking half at me, half in the distance as if his evening was
already over.

   I adjusted the pillows for two, fluffed them up a bit, and half-sat,
half-propped myself up against one. I patted the other with my hand, and
Ryan came back fully onto the bed and lay back on the pillow beside me. I
slipped my hand under his neck and around his shoulder.

   `Now tell me what this is all about, and fuck the agency's
guidelines.'

   He was silent for a couple of seconds and then seemingly looking down
the length of his body, he said very quietly, `my kid is sick.'

   I pulled him a little closer and he looked at me, `he's very sick
and I can't do more than I am doing.'

   There was both pride and regret and self-recrimination all rolled up
into one in what he said.

   `Chris is what's called a blue baby,' he continued. `He's got a
hole in his heart. In fact, he has more than one of them. They call it
ASD, atrial septal defect. I know more about it now than most GPs, I can
tell you,' he said with some hollowness in his voice.

   `He's had two operations so far and is going to have to have at
least another two within the next year, and then one every couple of
years until he's a teenager. And I will do everything I can to see that
he gets every operation he needs. He's one terrific kid.'

   `Is all of this not covered by the NHS, public health service?'

   `The first operation, yes, because it was life or death and he was
only six months old. The second operation was necessary but not vital.
"Not vital" they said as his life was not immediately threatened. Chris
could not breathe and was on oxygen every day. Some joke, "not vital".
We asked if it could be done privately. What would it cost? When we heard
the cost of fifteen thousand, there were no ifs or buts from either of
us. That wiped out our savings; with the next operation due in two
months, it will be the same again. Six weeks ago, I heard of the agency.
Four weeks ago, I went with my first client. Are you happy now, sir?'

   There are times when, as I say, words are superfluous. I guessed his
last slightly bitter question was rhetorical because I did not reply to
it.

   `He'll never know, Ryan, just how much you love him will he? It is
quite one thing to tell a kid later on in life how you spent the family
savings on his operations. It would be quite another thing to tell him
that you sold your body for him as well.'

   I could feel Ryan Smith, tense up in my arm.

   `Do you know, Ryan, I think we'll save that second fuck for a second
time? What do you say? Or are you paid by the hour?'

   He looked at me.

   `I've to ring the agency when I leave you. Over two hours, your
credit card is on a different rate, and were it an all-nighter extra
again.'

   `Have you eaten this evening, Ryan?'

   `No, not yet. I had a slice of leftover pizza at the firm before I
left.'

   `I'm starving for some reason. I had a light lunch and an even
lighter dinner. It must be the cold of London. They have a late night
buffet downstairs. Let's clean up and have a bite to eat, that way
you'll make your call in over the two hours mark.'

   `You don't want more sex, Jonathan?'

   `I want a good shower. Come on.'

   For the first time, that evening Ryan Smith smiled a truly genuine
smile.

   In the shower, I washed Ryan down with the detachable shower head, and
I handed him a cloth for him to do my back, which he did slowly and
gently. I actually got another hardon out of it.

   I dressed casually with a pair of slacks and a blazer before going
down to the buffet. It was one of those self-service affairs and we
helped ourselves. There were only three other tables taken in the
restaurant at that hour, so I chose a table off to the side by ourselves.

   As we sat down I said to Ryan looking at my watch, `It's just after
ten, so you are effectively on overtime now with the agency, and clearly
a good fuck doesn't kill your appetite.'

   He looked with a grin at the amount on the plate, `No, it hasn't
killed my appetite at all, Jonathan. I actually ate very little today.
However, I may have trouble staying sitting down, because I can tell you
I have never been fucked that long before. What did you mean up there by
saying you'd save the second fuck for another time? Will there be
another time?'



   `Ryan, I don't work in London, but I am back here on the third
Monday of every month. I always stay at this hotel and you can leave a
note in an envelope for me at reception if you ever need or want to, and
I'll get it when I'm here. Third Monday, remember.'

   He nodded his understanding.

   There was only water on the table, so I took out my wallet and gave
Ryan a tenner and said, `I could kill for a beer. Be a good lad, and get
me one out in the bar. I know you're going to be driving, but you can
get one for yourself, if you want.'

   `What do you drink?'

   `Anything they have on draught.'

   As he left for the bar, I took out my chequebook and wrote a cheque to
`Bearer' for fifteen thousand. There's no fool like an old fool, I
thought to myself. I could quite easily have found out if there was truth
in his story. The agency alone knew me long enough over the years. Hell!
One of their former staff, Ross Wells, was even now my slave, though they
at the agency , of course, did not know that.

   I folded the cheque and put it on Ryan's side plate, and tucked into
the bécasse au fumet de pomerol which for woodcock in a late night buffet
was superb.

   Ryan was back with two pints of beer.

   `You didn't say whether you wanted a glass or a pint, so I got you a
pint,' and he put the change of four pound coins on the table beside me.

   `A pint is fine. Your good health,' I said as I sipped it.

   Ryan had sat down at the table and was adjusting a napkin across his
lap, when he saw the folded cheque on his side plate. I saw him looking
sideways at me as he picked it up and read it.

   `Is this your idea of a fucking joke?' he hissed angrily, but loudly
enough that a couple at a table some distance away heard the sound.

   `No, Ryan. The cheque's for real. I made it out to `Bearer' as I
was not sure if `Ryan Smith' was your, shall we say, professional name
or your real name.'

   He was looking at me as if he had been kicked in the gut.

   `You doubt my name, but you don't doubt the story.'

   `Yes and no, in that order. I don't think that anyone would talk of
a son as you did with such emotion and spin it as a lie. If you did, you
deserve an Oscar for it. I think you have a kid who is sick. The cheque
will help.'

   Ryan took a draught of his beer.

   `Ryan Smith is my real name,' and out of a pocket in the sheepskin
jacket on the seat beside him, he took a small wallet and handed me a
card, `Ryan Smith. Senior Electrical Installer,' it said. The name of
the firm meant nothing.

   `And I have a son, Chris, who is seriously ill and whom my wife and I
love to bits.'

   He was fingering the cheque, looking at it front and back.

   `How do I explain this to anyone?' as he fiddled with his food and
finally took a bite of it on his fork.

   `Don't. Open a second account at your Bank. Call it your overtime
account, if you must. You are on overtime aren't you,' I said between
bites.

   `Some fucking overtime. Or should that be some overtime fucking?'

   `Ryan Smith, watch your language!'

   `It is a real cheque, Jonathan? You're not playing with my head on
this, mate, are you?'

   `Mate?'

   `Sorry, sir. Sorry, Jonathan. It's just a bit much to take in all at
once. You know my wife said to me that all this `overtime', because I
have been out three times each week on `overtime', has been exhausting
me sexwise.'

   `So what does good sex pay in London nowadays, Ryan?'

   `I get half the payment to the agency. They're quite upfront and
honest on that. Usually two hundred or two hundred and fifty a night. I
made just three thousand in the last month. All cash. The agency said I
have so much energy, it is because I am fresh and have a lot of spunk to
get rid of, that after a while I would just settle down to twice a week
or so.'

   He was silent as he took another bite of the meat on his plate and
then he put down his knife and fork.

   `With this, Jonathan,' he was holding the cheque up - `I can just
go back to Becton each night and play with Chris.'

   `Ryan, let me know how things get on. Doctors are good nowadays and
if surgery is done on time, patients live long and happy lives. That will
be the case with Chris. A long and happy life, and he will never have to
know how far or what his father was willing to do for him.'

   `I still owe you a fuck on all fours.'

   `Yes, you still owe me a fuck. Now be quiet and eat up before it all
gets cold; and put that cheque away before you lose it.'


  End of Chapter 3

  ===========

  Contact:

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