Date: Sat, 05 Nov 2005 15:10:42 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dahran Sands - Chapter 7 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Dahran Sands by Gerry Taylor

This is the seventh 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
http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/

===========

Chapter 7 -- The frame of mind

Do not shoot the arrow which will return against you.

(Kurdish proverb)

  Mirzan came to me at midday to tell me that the last of the Swedish
slaves, bar the two problematic ones, had broken, each recognising that
he was and would be forevermore a slave to his Master and that he was
willing to obey Gustav, his Master, and to serve him in any and every way
a slave should.

  When Mirzan had asked what those ways were, each Swede had replied to
him with the compound honoured formula, `You will tell me now, sir, and
my Master will tell me when he wants to, sir.'

  `Mirzan, did you apply the full compound-four techniques on each and
everyone of these slaves?'

  `No, Master, if I were to tell you the truth and nothing else, I have
been taking it slowly and gently with these slaves. They are in
sufficient shock that their Master has sent them to be trained. I have
merely been trying with Vaz to keep that shock alive and before their
eyes.

  `One particular slave, Eric, had been going through the motions of
what was ordered. I had given him a flogging and he had taken it, just as
others had taken it. But when I saw that he had not put his heart into a
run I had ordered him to do, I told him to raise his arms and with only
the tip of the camel-cane, I started to flog his armpits. He started to
move, and I told him not to. It was not a hard stroke of the cane, but he
moved again and I told him that the punishment would start all over
again.'

  I was looking engrossed at Mirzan as he detailed the slave's
punishment.

  `Now, Master, I could not understand why this slave was reacting so
physically. Then, it came to me in a flash, he had been educated in
Sweden where he had never known physical punishment. No one would ever
have hit him before his initial slave training for doing wrong or even to
correct him. It was not a question of force or heaviness of stroke; it
was a question of the stroke itself. So, I told him he was going to
receive another three strokes in each of his pits for moving and then on
the soles of his feet and then on his cock head.'

  `And were you going to beat his cock head with a camel-cane?' I asked
surprised, `and did you punish him further?'

  Mirzan looked taken aback.

  `Master, we use the cock whips on a slave's genitals. Always. Believe
me, I would never risk doing permanent damage to Master Gustav's
property. Master Gustav has not told us whether he wishes the slaves
trained for his personal service or for sale. Our job is to teach them
again obedience and good behaviour. We would never do anything that
diminishes their value.'

  `Good, Mirzan. That is precisely what is expected of you. How did the
slave react?'

  `The slave was crying, Master, as I gave him his last stroke in his
armpits and then I told him to lie on the ground on his belly with the
soles of his feet in the air and not to move a muscle. I delivered five
reasonable strokes on each of the soles of his feet and I whispered to
him `You have never been beaten like this before, Eric, have you? This
is only the start,' and I ordered him to get up and lie back over the
table in the centre of the compound with his arms behind his head as if
on display.

  `The slave, Master, was shaking at this point and sobbing. He placed
himself on the table with his arms out of the way. I ordered him to
spread his legs and retract his foreskin behind the glans. I showed him
the cock whip. I said that he was not to move away or his punishment
would start all over again.

  `I delivered one firm stroke on the tip of his cock, and the slave
cried out loud and his leg muscles contracted. Then, Master, it happened.
The slave visibly shook and instead of attempting to protect himself from
the next stroke, he spread his legs further apart. His training before
the auction many years ago had caught up with him again. He had accepted
that as a slave he had to remain in any position ordered to assume, and
take anything that was coming. But at the same time, he begged me not to
punish him any further; that he would do his best; more than his best;
not to hurt him again; that he would be a good slave to Master Gustav.'

  `There was no need for further punishment training, Master. I told him
to get up and I called over Vaz with all the slaves he was training and
told my slave to repeat what he had said. He did. Then I told him to show
them his armpits and the soles of his feet and again to repeat what he
had said.'

  `He did all this?'

  `Yes, Master, immediately as ordered, and then one, then two of the
other slaves went on their knees and repeated what the slave Eric had
said. It was the beginning of the breaking of that group of slaves.'

  In my way of thinking, there are two things which can paralyse us --
the cold and fear. Cold does not exist in Dahra, not as we know it in
more northern climes. On many a night, a light blanket is too much, and
with a warm slave on either side, or with a slave cushioned up against
your feet, cold is not a factor, whether you are the Master or the slave
in one of my Palaces.

  The other thing which paralyses us all is fear, a vicious icy hand
around heart or head or mind, freezing us in our ability to desire, to
think or to act. Thankfully, fear and I have not met too often, and I do
not wish to renew the acquaintanceship.

  A revelation about one of my slaves was such a case of fear for me.

  The investigative reports which Josh Green had done for me separately
on each of the forty two invading mercenary slaves who had been given to
me by the Sheikdom of Dahra were as usual very, very good. They are
expensive, but at the end of the day what I always need is solid factual
information. I am constantly in amazement of his sources and the accuracy
of the reports. I do believe that factual information is essential in
running any business. If I were a cynic sneering at the professionalism
of the investigators I could say that I pay enough for them, but if the
truth be told information is power, and power, unless you want it to
wither, must be exercised just like the body's muscles.

  Sometimes, however, one of Josh Green's reports is merely confirmatory
rather than revelatory and such was one which caused me some serious
concern.

  With the secure placing of the forty one mercenary invaders in my opal
mine in almost the centre of Dahra's seventh desert, I had sent down
Greg Logan, one of my most trusted and talented Supervisors, to observe
and report on the mine's management structures, essentially an
industrial engineering project of time and motion, in two words a work
study. Greg was a former Navy commando and knew a substantial amount
about authority, men and their management.

  As one of my first slaves, I had broken Greg with a simple act of
impersonal rape, not physically violent, but rape none the less,  and I
had never had to repeat his rape or threaten anything close to it. It was
as if he had then realised resistance to the irresistible and the
immovable was futile, and he had surrendered to me. I did my utmost not
to betray that surrender and his subsequent trust in me as his owner and
Master.

  Now, he sat opposite me giving his latest and most welcome weekly
report.

  Always serious in his approach to work, Greg Logan had recently taken
an updated photo of every slave and had a full `at display' photo of
each of the former mercenaries. They now looked quite different to the
five original standard slave photos in each of their tan files which
showed them in profile, face on, back, full body and anus, as were taken
when they first arrived at the slave centre in Dahra.

  Although Greg had taken only one full body photo of each, one photo,
telling a thousand words, was enough. He had given the rolls of film for
development to Donnie Timmins, the `official' photographer slave of the
Palace who would wait for them at the helipad as Greg arrived each
weekend.

  The photographs told their own story. Each slave had clearly lost body
fat and all were now deeply tanned. However, it was to each slave's eyes
that my gaze was drawn. It was the not crow's feet at the side of each
eye caused by squinting almost continuously in the sun that I had found
myself doing on my visits to the opal mine that caught my attention. No,
it was the acceptance of fate, the resignation, the lack of defiance in
the eyes which struck me forcibly.

  Each of the former mercenaries wore an ankle to ankle plastic covered
chain of thin stainless steel links. I remember having asked how this
dovetailed with the mine's policy of no metals being in contact with
skin such as nipple, penis or scrotum rings due to burns which the sun
would cause on heating the metal.

  Zabian, the mine manager, had informed me that a clear liquid plastic
also had been sprayed over each ankle cuff as indeed with the wrist cuffs
that were on each slave. It effectively meant that each of the slaves
could be quickly incapacitated by clicking the ankle and cuffs together
and if necessary they could be hoisted into the air by any hook on the
ankle chain itself.

  I asked Greg if that had ever needed to be done to any of mercenary
slaves.

  `Only once, Boss, to one slave who was about to hit another slave. And
that was all that was needed. The slave in question was bound hand and
foot in seconds as each of the bracelets were clicked together. When the
slave had calmed down enough to be safely approached by his Supervisor,
he was simply made to kneel as he got, six strokes of a cane there and
then at the bottom of the mine. It was quick and effective, Boss.'

  Now, Greg Logan was in my study with forty one folders stacked neatly
in front of him prepared for the task in hand of discussing the progress
of each of the newly tasked slaves and former mercenaries.

  Greg's photos lacked the more `professional' touch of those of the
slave centres. They were however more interesting, as each of the slaves
was photographed either with a wall of the opal mine or some piece of
machinery as a background. The other difference was that body hair was
still a feature of the mine slaves, unlike the slaves of my Palaces.

  I had a neatly printed-out three pages of management suggestions taken
from procedures he had seen at the opal mine as possibilities for
implementation at my Palaces. These I would circulate to my senior
Overseers and Supervisors for most likely implementation.

  `How was the trip up?'

  `Fast, trouble-free, Boss. Thank you for asking and for having the
helicopter collect me. The week has sped by and has been productive.'

  `Well, a promise is a promise, and your buddy Juan Luis looks forward
to seeing you each weekend. How is he?'

  `Always delighted to see me, Boss; warm, caring. He loves his work on
the solar panels. Really loves it. While Donnie was developing the photos
and I was waiting for you to get back to the Palace, I spent two hours in
bed with Juan Luis after a long shower after landing. Sex-wise, he just
wishes to please me and is becoming very adept with his mouth and tongue.
When I try to do anything, Boss, he just pushes me back and says
`Gregorio, let me do the work now. You have been working all week'. As
I say, Boss, he is very attentive. He doubts himself a lot and is always
putting himself down. I think that is what caused his depression the
first time.'

  I smiled to myself as I reflected on a very sad Spanish slave who had
taken time to come out of his melancholy and become a valuable service
engineer on the Palaces' and the outbuildings' solar panels.

  What Greg had not mentioned, and probably preferred not to dwell upon,
was that a factor to kick off Juan Luis' depression had been the trauma
of enslavement itself. It was one of those instances where communication
between Master and slave is subject to implicit taboos. When I had first
embarked upon my slave-owning career, I had hardly ever ventured beneath
the surface. Generally, conversations with my human possessions had been
as I liked them, and I had never wondered why. Now, I was slowly
developing a sense of the routine auto-censorship in a trained slave's
mind.

  `And how is your own work progressing, Greg?'

  As I was speaking Marko, who helps my chef, Flavio, in the kitchens,
came into the study, stood waiting for my attention. I glanced up at him,
and he said, `Master, Flavio wants to know if you or Overseer Greg need
anything. Bob is down in the gardens.'

  It was mid-afternoon and the slaves were just returning to work after
their midday break out of the burning heat of the Dahran sun. I looked at
Greg and said `Some iced-tea perhaps, Greg? It's a bit early for
beer.'

  `A pitcher of cold water first, Boss, and then some iced-tea would be
great.'

  I nodded to Marko who departed in the direction of the kitchens.

  We started to look at the various dossiers and Greg commented one by
one on the various former mercenaries and how in his opinion they were
performing and working at the opal mine.

  My main concern here was not their work, but rather their security as
this was my promise to the Courts of Dahra and I did not want to fall
foul of any of the judges and particularly not of Judge Khalila bint Omar
who was due to visit me at some stage. I felt it in my bones that she
would raise the question of security with me, one way or another.

  I liked Greg's approach to the task I had given him. His dossiers all
started with a single page report, at times not even that, in a summary
explanation of what he was commenting on and analysing. I found that it
was a structured approach, one that had obviously been imparted early on
to him in his Navy and commando training.

  There was a series of `worst' and `best' jobs on which the slaves
of the opal mine were deployed. All fresh `meat', as newbies were
unflatteringly described, was put on the heavier back-breaking work of
excavating and moving earth disturbed in the search for the rough opals.
The new `meat' always worked in pairs, not physically chained to each
other, but never to be out of the other's line of sight. In finding one,
a Supervisor would thus automatically find the other.

  Again, a sort of buddy system was in operation, though not of an always
or overtly sexual nature. The mine Supervisors allow pairs who step
forward together to work together.

  I asked Greg, `was that not dangerous?'

  `Dangerous how, Master? They choose a buddy whom they know will work.
No one is going to choose a lazy buddy who will leave his half of the
work undone, for the other to do. Also there is a type of buddy
punishment scheme in operation. If one of a team of two is punished, the
other is punished as well even if totally innocent of whatever the other
has or has not done.'

  Greg must have seen an upraised eyebrow or something on my face,
because he continued his explanation by saying, `the mine Supervisors
think that punishment is generally evened out that way. A slave would not
get four strokes of a whip, but just two and the buddy two.'

  `Whip?'

  `The crop-whip, Boss. You know the one with the riding-crop handle
with the thin ten inch leather attached. As you know, it bites without
permanently injuring and most definitely at the bottom of the mine pit,
where you cannot all the time wield a long cane or whip, it is most
effective.'

  `I thought I saw tasers there?'

  `Not in the opencast itself, Boss, just at ground level. If a slave
goes "postal" as they say, all the other slaves and Supervisors just
pull back on the pit floor, and let the slave simmer down while
reinforcements with the tasers are called. The slave is then told to go
to the punishment frame with his buddy. The buddy has to attach his
partner's wrists and ankles, and once he has strapped him to the frame,
he is to take up position in the frame beside him. Nobody goes near them
until they do. And they are punished accordingly. On page 35 of the
report, you can see the list of punishments and the number of strokes,
and so on. It is a very sophisticated and enlightened approach, Master.'

  `Punishment as sophisticated and enlightened?'

  `Yes, Master. If the slave steps out of line, he and the buddy are
punished without any danger. No one else. The Supervisors don't endanger
themselves by trying to subdue a slave. They let the slave simmer down
and at the bottom of the pit. Without water for an hour, the heat is not
something to be suffered for very long.'

  `Without water?'

  `The slaves at the opal mine are never ever denied water, Master. It
is just too dangerously hot. They can stop to sip water at any time, with
the one exception when they are cooling down after an incident. You
don't take long drinks of water in that heat. Also, in the sun, without
some form of head-gear whether keffiya or straw hat you will not last an
hour without sunstroke or being seriously burned. And I mean seriously,
Master. One of my recommendations on page 48 is for the Aloe sap which
does not pass quality control here to be sent to the opal mine slaves.'

  `What else have you analysed, Greg?'

  `Zabian al-Kibbe has a very good JIT series of services working for
him.'

  `JIT?'

  ` "Just-in-time production" techniques based on the automobile
production industry - delivery of water, replacement tools, machinery
parts, the surfacing of the rough opals. `Surfacing' is what they call
bringing the rough opals from the bottom of the mine to the grading
building. It's the only time that the slave and his buddy are allowed to
leave the mine pit during production time when they discover a rock with
a rough opal in it. The slaves in question get a `cool' bonus as the
slaves call it of a cold can of fruit juice each with their dinner chow
that evening, and there is also the reward a Supervisor can give. Very
effective, I can tell you, Master.'

  `You make it sound very efficient, Greg.'

  `Believe you me, Master, it is. Work ends at seven in the evening.
Biscuits and water for half-an-hour and mixing with other slaves. Then
lockdown two to a cell at half-seven until six the following morning,
when they get up, shit, shower and shave with electric razors and have a
breakfast biscuit. This is followed by five hours work, a break of an
hour for sex if they want it and their lunch biscuit and water, and then
six hours work until seven again. There are no days off.'

  I had seen the sex at lunchtime bit on one inspection of the mine.
Greg's description was putting flesh on the bones of my scant knowledge
of the actual workings of the mine.

  `What happens to the trustees, the Supervisors and the Overseers such
as yourself?'

  `The trustees, Master, are just trusted slaves and sleep with their
buddies in the slave lockdown quarters. The Supervisors and Overseers
such as myself are locked down by one of the mine managers.'

  `You are locked down for the night?'

  `Yes, Master. It is the rule for all slaves at the mine of whatever
rank or status, no exceptions ever. I am also permitted to choose a
comfort slave as a buddy for the week.'

  `Does Juan Luis know about the comfort slave?'

  `Yes, Master, he does. I told him myself that the comfort slave keeps
me warm until I get back each week to him. I would never hurt Juan Luis,
Master. Psychologically, he is fragile and I think still inclined to
despair. I have to tell him how much he means to me, and I truly mean
that. He does mean a lot to me. While a couple of nights I fuck the
living daylights out of the comfort slave at the mine, he is nothing more
than that, a warm body to be used. Well, if the truth be told, he is also
a quiet hard-working Polish slave. I won't take that from him.'

   `Leave the full reports here, Greg. I'll read them at my leisure and
let you know if I have any queries. How doesow Juan Luis like to be
pleasured?'

  `He loves a lot of tongue on his hole followed by some gentle
penetration before the all-out `ride of the Valkyries' as he calls
it.'

  Marko had come back in from the kitchens with the drinks we had
ordered. I could only smile at Greg's honesty as Marko placed the iced
teas on the table beside us and Greg's eyes fixed on the water
condensation on the outside of his.

  `Your health, Greg.'

  `Cheers, Boss.'

  Greg Logan's reports make for interesting bedtime reading. The
playmate slave of that particular night was gently lowering himself on my
erect cock, squeezing the penile tissue three times with the trained
muscles of his anus, and then rising off the cock, to repeat the
performance again for up to an hour as I completed my reading. It was
good exercise for the slave and an erotic way for me to get through
reading reports, of which I seemed to be doing more and more of late.

  `The General Manager has introduced a midday sex break and it makes
sense. Those who are active enough can have sex in the shade with a
buddy. Not all do. When the work is done each evening, they are all given
an enema to hose out any possibility of an opal having been put into
their anus. It has never happened there in my time, but has happened in
the past, or so I'm told. Although I have not seen the doctor there yet,
he is supposed to come on a regular schedule for two days a month, unless
called out on medical emergencies of which there have been none since I
arrived.'

  At one point during Greg's continued debriefing the following morning,
Marko came by with a re-fill pitcher of iced-tea on a tray. As Marko put
down the tray on a side table beside us, he seemed to freeze, his eyes
flew wide open, and giving a half-strangled cry, he ran out of the study.

  I looked at him as he dashed through the door quite amazed at his
behaviour. This was followed by a crash from the kitchens as something
metallic hit the floor. Indicating to Greg to stay put, I went out to the
kitchens.

  Marko was lying on the floor as were three saucepans indicating the
source of the crash. Flavio was kneeling beside him, and looked up at me
as I stood in the doorway.

  `You okay, Boss?' Flavio said.

  `Yes, I am. What's the matter with Marko?'

  `He ran in saying you were in danger and then fainted, upending some
pots as he hit the floor.'

  `Get him over to the doctor, Flavio. Find out what's the matter.'

  `Yes, Boss,' and Flavio indicated to two of his helpers to get Marko
up, propping him up between them.

  I went back to business.

  Some time later, there was a knock on the study door and there was
Flavio with a protective arm around Marko who continued to look very
upset. It concerned me that he was, because when I first got him as a
slave he did not speak for ages due to the trauma of his previous life.
He is the most sensitive of slaves who had been sexually abused in both
anus and throat and terrified into silence and complete passivity by a
series of militants in the Balkans before he was enslaved.

  `Boss, he would not let the doctor give him anything. He keeps saying
you are in danger and insisted on coming back to warn you.'

  I beckoned them in. Glanced over at Greg, who appeared equally puzzled
as I.

  Marko came across to me and threw his arms around me. He is the
gentlest of creatures as slaves go, and even in bed with him, his gentle
ministrations with that perfect mouth of his are the foundation of a
night to be remembered.

  `Master,' he finally managed to say. `Master, don't buy that slave.
Please don't buy him.'

  I was trying to think. I wasn't about to buy any slave. Then the penny
dropped. Marko had seen the tan folders of the mercenary slaves now at
the opal mine and, being tan folders similar to those of slaves at the
slave markets, had presumed that I was about to, or had purchased them.

  `Who, Marko? And why not?'

  `The butcher, Master. Gjon Vlorju the butcher.'

  He said it as if it explained all which it did not.

  `A slave in one of these files?' I said indicated the by now
scattered pile on the desk in front of us.

  `Yes, Master. Please don't buy him. He will kill us all. He will kill
you, Master.'

  Marko's trembling tanned body banished any possibility of thought that
what he was saying was anything but the full, total and unadorned truth
as he knew it.

  I brought Marko around the desk and sat him on a stool beside Greg.
Even in distress, Marko Sqeppa was a beautiful slave with his dark good
looks and curved buttocks.

  `Greg, show Marko here the most recent photograph in each file.'

  The sixth file was the one and again Marko became visibly distressed
even when Flavio himself put another arm around his naked shoulders.

  `Master, that's him. Please don't buy Gjon Vlorju.'

  The name was not the one in the folder. I looked at Greg who began to
study its details with greater attention. It was the original dossier.
Even after the discovery of the false identities of over twenty of the
slaves among the original forty two, the changes to this file were
minimal.

  `Marko, I am not going to buy him now or ever. But tell me about this
slave.'

  In this statement, I was economical with the truth for Marko's sake at
that moment. The slave was already my slave and secure in the opal mine
production facility eighty miles to the south of us.

  `Master, he was a captain of one of the militias and he killed all the
people in Vlorju, his own village. His name is the same as his village.
And he killed many others in another village. They called him the Butcher
of Vlorju. Master, he will kill you.'

  I thought that it was best to trust Marko with the facts and so I did.

  `Marko, he is far away. He is in chains. He will never get out of a
mine I own and if he does, he will die in a desert that no one can walk
across such is the heat. He will not harm me or you or anyone else.'

  Marko had his arms around Flavio's waist at this point. I nodded to
Flavio and he took the still trembling Marko out of the study.

  I looked at Greg Logan and he at me.

  `This Vlorju slave needs further investigation.'

  `He most certainly does, Boss.'

  `Let's finish these reports, Greg, and later on I will dictate a
letter to have a deeper investigation carried out.'

  Josh Green would have a new name to research, I thought, wondering what
his informants would unearth about the Butcher of Vlorju.

  The mercenary slaves at the opal mine had to be just that -- slaves in
my service not projectiles that could come back to injure me or mine in
any way.

End of Chapter 7

===========

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