Date: Wed, 05 Oct 2005 19:32:03 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 4 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the fourth 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.

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

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Chapter 4 -- The lovers' tiff

What one hopes for is always better than what one has.

(Ethiopian proverb)

  I was back in Dahra after my December monthly trip to London and it was
just as well that I was in a very merciful mood, because that early
morning, three slaves had been brought to me as I was finishing
breakfast.

  A bruise to the eye of one and to the cheek of another attested to a
fight. The third was the youngest of the three and I surmised that the
fight had been over him. I wasn't wrong. The Supervisor, who had split
up the fight, was still having difficulty in keeping the two warring
slaves quiet.

  `You know that fighting is not allowed between slaves. You also know
that I punish fighting severely.'

  There had only been very few cases of inter-slave fighting and a
session of both slaves being sent to the training room in all cases had
left very much chastened and malleable and improved slaves.

  `I am not going to spoil my day and I am not going to punish you...'
there was a brief flicker of a smile on the faces of the fighting
parties, `...he is,' and I pointed to the young slave over whom they had
been warring.

  `Get a camel-cane,' I said to the Supervisor.

  I sat looking at the three as they got more and more uncomfortable by
the second.

  The Supervisor was back quickly with a cane in his hand.

  `Have you ever flogged a slave?' I asked the young slave, knowing
full well that he had not.

  He shook his head in fear of what was being asked of him.

  `No, Master,' was the whispered reply.

  I look at the two recalcitrant slaves.

  `Bend over. Grasp the back of your knees,' I ordered the two.

  They did so and two sets of perfectly rounded buttocks were at angles
to my view. I normally breakfast quickly and alone enjoying whatever new
cactus or succulent Basili and Igor might have left on the table centre
as is their now established custom. Some slaves, like Basili and Igor,
continually give me pleasure with their attitude to their slavedom and
easily rendered service to me with their early morning hunt for an
in-season or flowering cactus. Others, like the two in front of me, can
be temporary irritants.

  `Now, take the cane,' I said to the young slave, the object of the
fight `and give five strokes to each of these two. Then another five,
until you have given twenty five to each. The secret in the stroke is to
try to break the cane. Raise it high and bring it down fast. Can you do
that?'

  The slave was nodding and swallowing hard. I left him to it and
observed his swing as Bob, my head of serving staff served me a further
cup of coffee.

  When the twenty five stokes each had been delivered, I had the two
slaves stand up as straight as they could. The younger slave had
delivered the blows well, but like the amateur that he was in the art and
science of punishment, he had done little damage other than raise some
red stripes and weals.

  `Well, now that you have received your first twenty five strokes, can
you truly say that this slave is worth fighting over and worth a further
twenty five strokes?'

  The two slaves were half at rest, half-touching their backsides where
the strokes had landed. The second slave spoke.

  `No, Master, he is not worth fighting over.'

  I looked at the other slave.

  `Yes, Master, he is worth another twenty five strokes,' and very
gingerly he bent over again showing the raggedy series of weals on his
buttocks, ready and willing to receive another twenty five.

  I looked at the young slave with the cane in his hand, not
understanding what he was supposed to do next.

  `There you have your answer. Do you want this slave as your buddy?'

  `Yes, please, Master.'

  `Stand up straight,' I ordered the bent-over slave, `You now have a
buddy.'

  Looking at the slave who had opted out of the love triangle, still
massaging his backside, `You! Shake hands with these two to show there
is no bad feeling,' I said, and the slave extended a hand to his
victorious opposition in his short-lived attempted love affair.

  The Supervisor was still there with a half-smile on his lips.

  `Take these two over to the dispensary and see that Aloe sap is put on
their backsides,' I said him.

  Before he departed with the two, I beckoned over the slave who had
declined a further twenty five cane strokes and I whispered in his ear,
`Next time, find a buddy really worth fighting over, and if you have not
found one by next week, come to me and I shall assign you one.
Understood?'

  `Yes, Master. No, Master. Thank you, Master,' he whispered back, and
taking my hand, he kissed it. The slave left me confused in his reply. I
thought that it was a case of what one hopes for is always better than
what one has.

  Maybe, just maybe, he had learned a lesson in love that not all love is
reciprocated and that, many a time, it is best to get out of a fading or
unreciprocated relationship as fast as you possibly can.

  Just as the Supervisor, the two new-found lovers and the loser slave
departed for the medical facility, Bryce Sands arrived with the first of
his weekly summaries on Nigel Broaders.

  `He could do better, Boss, a lot better. He is not moving out of the
third compound yet. I am going to have him repeat the full week's
training. He has got to face the fact that he is now a slave, and that is
his problem.'

  `Thank you, Bryce. He stays put until you say he moves on. Keep me
posted.'

  A few slaves fail to rise to the levels I expect of them in their
training in the compounds and these do not progress on after a week in a
particular compound to the next one. Normally, it is the early compounds.

  Being told that they are not getting out of a compound has, in the
past, produced outpourings of grief and frustration from slaves. They
have cried and gone on their knees before training Supervisors. They have
offered their bodies and any and all of its multiple parts to the
Supervisor just to let them walk through the compound gates and on to
their next training level, with the hope that at some point, some day,
their training would be over.

  Both Sunday and Monday morning for me at Deckams are usually quite busy
and a day's work can fly by even when all was generally under control.
The one item I noticed in mid-December was the monthly printout of
vacancies which is circulated among the banking staff. The Dahran branch
featured in this circular as we had lost a Grade IV treasury officer. I
also noticed that, at Grade I level, both Frankfurt and Chicago were
going to need new directors because of retirements. It was merely another
item of information and I filed it away in my brain, not giving it more
than a passing importance.

  That afternoon upon returning home, I indulged one of my great joys --
that of seeing desert lands being reclaimed and becoming productive
fields of crops. The bulk of the land behind the Aloe Palace, the first
Palace I bought and subsequently sold to Gustav Ahlson, but not its
surrounding land, is dedicated to the production of various species of
Aloe plants for the harvesting of the Aloe sap which was the first and
principal foundation of the agricultural fortunes of my first Palace.

  As I now only attend the Bank three days a week, I love to walk among
the slaves as they work in the warm early-morning or late-afternoon sun
cutting and trimming back the plants and bringing the cut leaves on carts
down to our production unit.

  I was looking at a kofila of slaves as they worked away. We use the
word kofila loosely in the sense of a work gang though the slaves are not
chained together as in former and harsher times, nor as in the Alabama or
Mississippi chain-gangs of yore.

  The eye is a curious instrument of one's body. I was looking at the
kofila from a slight distance and could not quite put my finger on what
was different.

  I edged closer so as not to have the slaves disturbed by my presence,
for they would drop to the ground in a first obeisance of the day were
they to see me. But one of them, unfortunately, did see me and they did
and all dropped to the ground, the exception of a single slave. Their
Supervisor shouted `at display' and some seven fine healthy slaves
proudly got to their feet and showed me their bodies which had been
working in my service in the fields that day since just before seven
o'clock.

  They looked well, nicely tanned, and trim with no fat on their bodies
because of the balanced diet they were given to eat. The afternoon sun
was warm for late November but not overly so. There was a slight sheen of
perspiration on their bodies and I noticed some water containers nearby
which they would have availed of, when needed in the heat.

  I noticed two further things. The slave who had not made an obeisance,
he was standing at the end of the kofila with his hands by his side. I
wondered for a second if we had a slave so new and untrained that he did
not know what to do or so stupid that he could not imitate what the
others were doing.

  As I approached him, I noticed something further. He had dark black
hair on his chest and on his lower belly, a thick treasure trail down to
his genitals. It was when I looked at his right ankle and unlike all the
other slaves in the line; I saw that he had no GPS bracelet on his ankle!
How very odd this is, I thought.

  It was only when almost up beside the slave that I actually looked at
his face and realised it was not a slave at all, but Faisal, my Dahran
driver, who just half an hour previously had driven me back from the
bank. Apart from Aziz al-Aziz my Head of Household at the Lime Palace and
the medical staff, he is the only freeman at my Palaces.

  `Faisal?' I queried still half-doubting.

  `Sir Jonathan, good afternoon.'

  `Yes, a good afternoon it is, but what may I ask are you doing here?'

  `When Mansur is finished his duties at my apartment and there are no
duties pending, his instructions from me are to join a kofila. When I
have nothing extra to do from yourself, Sir Jonathan, I come out to the
kofila and join in the work,' and he pointed out the Chechen, Mansur,
who is assigned to him and his rooms. `It is better than a session in
the gym. I hope, Sir Jonathan, you don't mind.'

  I did not. I just thought it a bit strange.

  `Not at all as long as all your other messages are done. I do not mind
and as long as you do not interfere with the Supervisor's duties.'

  Faisal, when not driving me, acts as a messenger for the various
Overseers who have to place order for supplies and who may need things
from outside the Palaces. These items he usually gets the days I am in
the capital city. When I am at the Bank, he then acts as messenger for
the Bank around the capital city.

  `And talking of the Supervisor, who is he and where is he?' I could
not see a Supervisor I recognised.

  One of the slaves stepped forward and said, `Master, the Supervisor is
Bozo and he has gone to the barbers. I am acting in his place as the most
senior slave here until he gets back.'

  I looked more closely at the slave and his perfectly turned-out body,
glinting with perspiration, and I recognised him.

  `It is Diego, is it not?'

  `Yes, Master,' he replied with a happy smile at being recognised.

  `Well, don't just have those slaves standing there, get them back to
work.'

  `Yes, Master,' and with a wave of his hand, he had the slaves resume
their duties.

  `What are you doing in this field?' I asked.

  `As you can see, Master, these Aloe plants are now ready for
harvesting. We put the leaves on the two carts'--and he indicated to
almost full carts with shafts for pulling on foot-high rubber
wheels--`and check that the plants are sound and that there is no
underground leakage of water from the irrigation pipes leading to the
sprinklers.'

  Stan Mercer, my property manager, has every field rigged with a
chessboard-like series of interconnecting pipes whose sprinkling systems
are regulated by one of Jens Johansen's computer programmes.

  `And still after three years, Diego, what almost four years?... you
are still a slave and not a Supervisor?'

  `Yes, Master. I am the Master's most obedient slave.'

  He had the standard phrase off pat.

  `Still a slave, eh?'

  I let the question hang.

  `Yes, Master.'

  He let the reply hang a little and then he said `I am sorry, Master,
for what I did.'

  He had taken a slave's gold necklace and had tried to have the blame
imputed to another slave.

  `It is long forgotten. I have never had a bad report about you
since.'

  `Thank you, Master.'

  The slave was at my side, not really looking at me, and I could feel
the turmoil in those three words of his. If his Master was against him,
he would get nowhere at the Palace or in his work, no matter how much or
how well he worked.

  `Speak with my Head of Stable, Yuriy Obov, this evening. You are now a
Supervisor. He will give you your own kofila.'

  It is difficult to warm to some slaves, and while truthfully Diego's
felony was long since forgotten, he kissed my hand very carefully.

  `Thank you, Master,' he said choking with emotion, `I will be the
Master's best Supervisor.'

  The slaves had by this time moved on a bit to the next batch of plants
which they were harvesting. There was the marvellous smell of Aloe in the
air, and I thought that I had done at least something positive for one
morning.

  I looked at Diego anxiously waiting there to please me. I beckoned him
over to one of the carts and bent him over the nearest shaft, dropped my
trousers and found that I was already hard at the thought to fucking the
willing slave, now promoted to Supervisor.

  I wet my fingers on some of the Aloe sap seeping from the recently
harvested plants, fingered the slave's hole until it was taking two
fingers easily. He was not all that tight. I was now quite hard, I
slipped into him and penetrated him well and truly at will for all of ten
minutes.

  At one stage, I felt the slave trying to respond to my penetrations,
clenching and relaxing his anal muscles, and I thought to myself, well at
least he is trying.

  The sex took over and I could feel my penis swelling with the
anticipation of release. I held back a little on the strength and depth
to the penetration, but I was too far gone, and I flooded the slave's
interior with my semen.

  Diego immediately went on his knees after I had pulled out and lovingly
and carefully cleaned my cock with his tongue and lips.

  As he stood up, he was smiling and half-looking somewhat shyly at me.

  `Thank you, Master. That was my first time with you and thank you for
taking me in front of the kofila.'

  I looked around and the kofila were half-heartedly working on some
plants, but in fact, smiling and looking back at us. I knew what Diego
was saying. His currency among his fellow slaves had increased in leaps
and bounds and once they had heard also of his promotion, it would
increase further. I gave Diego a pat across the shoulders to show my
approbation. It was a field promotion in every sense of the word.

  I thought unappetisingly of the amount of correspondence that needed
attention back with Ben Trant, my secretary, and so as to avoid it albeit
temporarily, I felt that I should continue on my inspection of the fields
where I would see some more fit and healthy slaves, and one never knows
what else and what other pre-dinner appetiser might be found among the
crops being tended and harvested.

  It is always very pleasant to be surprised and I was indeed surprised
pleasantly when Rolf, my Gym Overseer, caught up with me in my
meanderings through the fields and said that if I were free any evening
that he wished to show me something in the gym and that it would take
about fifteen minutes.

  `What about now, Rolf?'

  `Excellent, Boss, excellent,' and I noticed that he nodded to a slave
with him who ran off ahead of us as we walked up towards the pool and gym
area.

  Rolf was not revealing anything as we walked along in the cool evening
air of what had been a hot day, even for Dahra. It was weather that had
been quite unsettled during all of December.

  As we came into the gym area, I was surprised to see over a hundred and
fifty slaves lined up around an area which is normally filled with gym
equipment. They were standing in a square formation around an area which
was covered in training mats.

  Rolf indicated a chair on its own to one side and he and I walked over
to towards it and I sat down. All the slaves were standing `at rest' --
their hands clasped by the wrists behind their backs. None had made an
obeisance as this was the gym where such is not normally required.

  There had been a hum of whispered conversations as we had come through
the gym doors. Now all was a total silence. When Rolf clapped his hands
twice and six slaves moved forward towards me from the side farthest
away, I noticed Komil, my Stables Overseer at the Lemon Palace among
them, but not wearing his shorts. All six looked superbly fit and well
muscled. The first slave in the line took a step forwards and did a head
over heels handstand, to be immediately followed in a cascading motion by
the next, and the next right down the line.

  The slaves were putting on a gymnastics display for me! I smiled up at
Rolf and he beamed. I noticed that the serious faces on some of the
audience had now begun to melt into smiles.

  As the performance started, Rolf knelt down beside the chair, and
started to say, `pirouette, plie, roll, fishtail, arabesque,
assemble...' as each movement occurred. The gymnasts seemed to be around
forty slaves in all doing what appeared to be from simple to difficult
movements, and entering the floor space from three sides of the square.

  I became suddenly aware that a drumbeat was softly reverberating in the
background, more as a foil to the performance that as a rhythm to it, and
then it struck me that the rhythm was that of Ravel's Bolero.

  `Bolero rhythm, Rolf?'

  `Artistic license, Boss.'

  I remembered that Ravel's original Bolero rhythms went on for all of
fifteen or sixteen minutes. I was not counting but remained mesmerised by
the performance of the slaves.

  `How long have they been practising?'

  `Over three months, Boss. It started when one of the slaves was trying
to imitate Komil's floor routine.'

  Komil had been an athlete and a gymnast at high school in Uzbekistan.

  I was sorry to see the performance finish. It was in fact a five minute
performance repeated from three sides of the square, but that I only
realised half-way through it. When it finished there was dead silence,
and I stood up.

  `Komil, come here.'

  My Head of Stables came forward the perspiration dripping off him, not
just from his own performance and his own side of the square, but from
his clear orchestration of the other two sides as well.

  `Well done, Komil,' and I threw my arms around him, staining my
clothes with his dripping sweat, and turned to the grinning gymnasts to
give them a round of applause in which every slave joined.

  When it had died down finally, I turned to Rolf and said, `make sure
that you get bikini slips for the gymnasts. They did very well, but there
are too many flashing genitals and I am going to have these gymnasts
perform for my guests from time to time.'

  `Yes, Boss, thank you,' Rolf said.

  Komil who is quiet at the best of times was just standing there, I
think, a bit embarrassed at having been embraced by his Master.

  `Get your shorts, Komil, and come walk with me back to the Palace.'

  I feel that it is very important that my Overseers are seen to be in my
favour and have my full support and authority. A slave came running over
with his shorts, and Komil slipped them on. I put my arm over his
shoulders and we walked out under the eyes of nigh on a hundred and fifty
slaves. His standing would soar even further in the estimation of the
slaves.

  I walked back to the Lemon Palace with Komil and as I had not dismissed
him, he followed me up to my bedroom suite. The weather since last
November was all wrong, far too clammy for the time of year, and although
the sweat on Komil had been as a result of his gymnastics, as we had
walked back to the Palace, the steam coming off him was like off a
two-year old after a tough steeplechase.

  I told Komil to shower as I undressed. The bedroom slaves were off on
other duties, so I just stepped out of my clothes and left them in a
sweaty pile on the floor. When I walked into the shower, Komil was in a
cloud of steam as I picked up a loofah and started to scrub his back.

  `Should I not be doing that, Boss, for you?'

  `When I'm finished with your back, you will know how to do it
properly.' I said with a grin, as I worked my way down from his muscular
shoulders to his tapered waist and long legs. I turned him round and
started to work the loofah on his perfect pectorals and abdominal
muscles.

  I stopped to look up at him for a moment and said `What do you want,
Komil?'

  He knew the question I was asking. A Master pleased with a slave gives
the slave something. My question was more than that and Komil knew it.

  `Boss...Master, if I may, I'll keep the answer to that until I need
it.'

  I smiled at him and handed him the loofah.

End of Chapter 4

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