Date: Mon, 20 Dec 2004 17:35:16 +0000
From: Gerry Taylor <gerrytaylor78@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seventh Desert - Chapter 11 - Gay - Authoritarian

The Seventh Desert by Gerry Taylor

This is the eleventh chapter (ex twenty two) of a novel about present-day
slavery and gay sex.

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

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.

  Chapter 11 -- The wielding of power

  Early the following morning, as I was strolling in the cactus gardens
with the two slaves, Georgi and Dieter, who are my two principal
gardeners in that area, giving some advice but generally that morning
listening to various suggestions they had, I saw a large car pull up in
the courtyard.

  It was my neighbour's teenage son of the night before whose clothes I
had borrowed. Bob Conrad, the slave who acts as my maître d' with the
dining room staff, was down the steps to greet him and to take my clothes
which the young man had promised to have cleaned and which were hanging
in the back of the car. He was also given a folder from what I could see.

  Bob saw me coming and indicated my arrival to the son, who was dressed
in a loose shirt and jeans, a typically dressed teenager, who came across
the courtyard to greet me.

  `You are ahead of me. I do not think I have your clothes ready for you
yet,' I said.

  `Master, it is only a dishdash and some sandals. They are of no
importance. I just wished to bring you back your clothes as soon as they
were ready.'

  `What is your name? I apologise, last night I did not ask you such was
my surprise at things.'

  `Amin al-Siddih, Sir Jonathan, at your service. I also wished to
apologise to you again for last night and to show you that the apology
was sincere.'

  `No apology is needed, Amin, neither from you nor from your father.
What do you mean to show me that your apology is sincere?'

  We were but some paces from the car and Amin went to the boot and
opened it up to reveal the slave of last night lying on his side.

  `Out,' was the single command.

  The slave jumped out. He was naked unlike the previous night. He
dropped to the ground and his forehead touched the ground in obeisance.
His butt was up in the air and across his lower back and buttocks I would
see layer after layer of vicious red weals.

  `I punished him myself, Sir Jonathan, for the insult to you and to our
family's honour.'

  `I asked your father not to punish him.'

  `My father did not. In fact, he told me to bring you the slave as a
gift, to work on your farm or on one of the water-wheels which you have
here, as a gift of atonement. As you did not ask me not to punish the
slave, I punished him as hard as my father would have done, had he been
allowed, for the insult to my father's guest.'

  The slave was still in obeisance at my feet. I felt the logic of the
young man's argument was flawless. His sense of propriety and flexible
ethics however could well be questioned.

  `There was no need for that. You wished to please both your father
indirectly and me directly, by letting me know of the punishment and your
father not.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Do you always try to please?'

  For some reason, a thought flashed through my mind that there was a lot
more than the wish on the part of Amin to bring me back my laundry. Had
he kept a date seeking an encounter possibly involving sex? My arm was
over his shoulder, my hand resting on his upper arm. Amin's deep brown
eyes were smouldering brightly.

  `Yes, Master.'

  `And what happens when you do not please a Master?'

  `The Master would punish me severely, I think.'

  `The Master would without a doubt. Make sure you never displease me,
Amin.'

  `Would you have preferred that I did not punish the slave who
dishonoured you, Master?'

  `I would have preferred that you respected what I had said to your
father.'

  `I have not pleased you, Master. You should punish me,' the young
Dahran said quietly.

  The slave was still kneeling at my feet in the courtyard. I called Bob
over and instructed him to take the slave to be washed and fed and then
to bring him back to me.

  `Come with me,' I said to Amin.

  We walked down between buildings and came to the rooms used for
retraining. I let the two of us in. There was no one there. The air was
cool within as it must always be, due to its soundproofing and lack of
windows.

  `This is where I bring those who displease me and who have to be
punished.'

  Amin's eyes were wide as he looked at the various devices, the bars
and frames for hoisting a body, the horse for spread-eagling a slave for
flogging, the mobile table with its adjustable parts for making every
angle of a slave's body available to the Retrainer.

  I placed my hands on his shoulders and turned him towards me. I could
feel a tremble in his bones. His face exuded sanguinity, exhilaration,
vivid desire. And underneath, a hint of lurking uncertainty, a fear of
rejection maybe.

  `Please, Master, punish me,' he said, his eyes imploring.

  'Amin,' I responded, 'your request honours me and I shall be happy to
find a way to meet it. But you must know this first. I use these
instruments to retrain slaves. I have no experience in giving someone
pleasure with them. If we are to do some exploration here, we need to
agree on a few things and you need to tell me a few things. But first,' I
turned him towards the room again, leaving my hand lightly over his
shoulder, 'I would suggest that you take your time and have a look
around. Let me know what interests you.'

  Amin looked at me with sparkling eyes, and nodded.

  I sat down next to a table used by the Overseers to take notes, and
watched as Amin prowled around the retraining room like Ali Baba
exploring the fabled thieves' treasure cave.

  He stopped before an array of floggers, crops and canes. His hand came
forward, but he caught himself and turned towards me.

  'May I...?'

  'Be my guest.'

  He touched, felt and weighed the instruments, some made from cords,
some made from straps of different thickness and width. He looked at the
canes, but did not touch them. He put back all but one and turned towards
me again, a multi-tailed flogger on his outstretched hands.

  'Just let it lie there for the moment.'

  Amin deposited the flogger and proceeded to inspect the restraint
devices. He walked back and forth between the platform, the flogging
frame, the table and the other paraphernalia, but concluded by opening
his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  'Sit over here.'

  He sat down opposite me. I took his hands in mine.

  'The flogger?'

  'Yes, Master, can we try?'

  'Do you like being restrained?'

  'Please. I just don't know...'

  'Too much to choose from? I will decide, then. Where can I hit you?'

  'Anywhere, Master. Anywhere.'

  He looked down.

  'I understand. Preferential treatment to sensitive places?'

  Amin flashed a smile and responded, 'And if I may service the Master,
in any way?'

  'Maybe. Now tell me what I should not do.'

  He shrugged.

  'I don't like... I don't like being called bad names. When you tell me
what you will do, I like that, but not if you shout, please. Apart from
that... Most of your things here, I don't know how they would work on
me.'

  'That is fine, Amin. What will you say when you want us to stop
something?'

  Our hands were still joined on the table between us. He raised them to
his lips and kissed each of my hands.

  'I will say 'oasis', Master. Thank you.'

  I let go of his hands.

  'Stand up, Amin, and strip.'

  Amin al-Siddih's body was coffee brown, devoid of hair except a fine
bush of pubic hair and ample tufts in his armpits. He must have been of a
shaving age, though no trace of beard showed, not even on his upper lip.
Upon stripping, a thick penis of a darker brown than his body jutted out
and up from the fine bush of hair. Its thick head was of a lighter coffee
colour than the skin of the shaft itself. Veins were clearly identifiable
on it and his balls were lost in an undergrowth of dark shiny pubic hair,
tight up against his underbelly.

  I went round behind him and slipped my armpit under his and my
fingernails found his nipples. They were small and brown with a firm
centre, which firmed up under the touching scrape of my nails. Without
warning, I took each of them between the nails of thumb and the
middle-finger and squeezed as hard as I could.

  The teenager cried out in his pain.

  `How old are you, Amin?'

  `Nineteen years last month, Master.'

  `And you cry like your little brothers?'

  `No, Master. I was surprised, that is all.'

  `When you are with your Master, you should never be surprised' and I
pinched hard again. His cry was in his throat but not on his lips.

  Amin was trying to be comfortable in receiving pain at my hands,
finding the path his masochism offered. He was letting me into his life
as a Master, conferring me a role in our encounter, trusting me with his
gift. I reached forward and took his pulsating member in my hand. It was
begging for release.

  `I am happy Amin at your courtesy in bringing me my clothes and your
father's present of a slave. I am not happy that you punished your
father's slave against my wishes. I shall now chastise you for this
infraction.'

  His warm back was leaning against my chest.

  'I will spread you out before me.'

  I felt Amin's deep inhalations and exhalations, watched them raise and
lower his shoulders.

  'I will make you cry out under my hands.'

  'Yes, Master...'

  'Fetch me the flogger.'

  Amin presented me the flogger on his open palms.

  'Come.'

  He followed me to the retraining table. I told him to get up. I pushed
him back onto the table and one by one fastened the velcro straps tightly
around his wrists and upper arms. His eyes followed my hands intently. I
adjusted the height, so that his hips were at the level of mine. This
would leave his buttocks at just a nice height when I positioned his legs
over his head. When I did I used an adjustable spacer bar so that his
ankles were as wide apart as they could physically go without dislocating
his hipbones. His thighs were apart; their muscles straining at the
unaccustomed angle and his balls looked as if they were actually sitting
on his thick bush of pubic hair. A trail of short black hair came up from
his perineum and circled his hole whose sphincter muscle was striated
purple. It looked tight and moist, but I did not go near it. A further
treasure trail went from under his penis as it lay on his lower belly up
to his navel but no further. Like many of his age, he was hairless above
his waist. Hair would perhaps come in later years. But as for now, his
splayed body showed a chest and torso devoid of hair.

  I looked into Amin's eyes again. Slowly, he tested his bonds,
contracting his muscles, playing his strength against the straps that
held him. Finding them unyielding, he sank back again with a languid
sigh.

  I took the multi-tailed flogger and swished it to get its measure. It
was a light one, but it would serve its purpose well.

  Instead of hitting across the buttock as well Amin might have expected,
I went down on his upturned right thigh. The sound of leather on flesh
reverberated around the training-room.

  His gasp of pain was muffled.

  We proceeded. Light strokes on either thigh. His breath was regular and
deep, his facial muscles relaxed.

  I hit harder now, from above and from the side. The muscled skin of his
legs took on a reddish hue. Amin groaned, closed his fists and opened
them again. His penis was rock hard.

  I let my hands travel over his glowing flesh. He watched me with a
faraway expression. I picked up the flogger again. He closed his eyes and
let his head sink back on the table.

  Several more sharp blows on his buttocks and thighs were delivered in
quick succession. Amin moaned deeply, upper body and neck arching.

  I changed position and took careful aim. I have always believed and
have been rarely wrong, that if you view your objective as the size of a
basketball, you will rarely miss. The flogger flashed down and hit the
open crack between Amin's buttocks touching coccyx, hole and part of the
perineum.

  Amin let out a piercing scream.

  Immediately, I let fly again and again landed on his hole. The result
this time was more than satisfactory. His body trembled and he pulled
hard at the bindings again. His penis went into overload and shot stream
after stream of cum up over his chest and face.

  The trembling ebbed away. He opened his eyes, focused and finally
managed to say `Thank you, Master, thank you.'

  I smiled and put the flogger down. I took a towel from a cupboard and
held it under the hot water tap until it was dripping wet. I wrung it out
and used the warm towel to wipe off Amin's sweat and the outpouring of
his youthful semen. I released the velcro fastenings on his ankles, upper
arms and wrists.

  'You are welcome, Amin. I may continue to punish you at some future
time, if your behaviour warrants it and you behave yourself properly
toward me.'

  I waved toward his clothes.

  Instead, with movements still somewhat unsteady, the young man knelt
down at my feet.

  'If there is anything I can do for the Master?'

  His dark eyes gleamed, as he looked up with a questioning tilt of the
head as he made his offer of sexual submission to me.

  I sat in the chair, Amin on his knees before me and had him take out my
cock. He was by no means an expert, but the hesitating explorations of
his tongue along my shaft soon sent shivers up my spine. He kept his
hands clasped in the small of his back, his eyes attentive on mine.

  At one point, I started stroking his silky hair. Amin laid his hands
over mine and slowly closed them. I took a firm hold. He joined his arms
behind his back again. I started pumping into his warm accommodating
mouth.

  Some time later, he was seated beside me on a bench in the gardens,
fully coifed and dressed.

  'So, in a nutshell, my inexpert advice would be that you seek someone
sharing or rather compatible to your preferences. You need to look for a
sadist, preferably a caring and careful sadist who knows what he is
doing. But also remember, Amin, you do not need pain to enjoy sex. It is
only one of many interesting ways for you to enjoy it.'

  'You would not mind if perhaps I called on you again?'

  'Not in the least, and when you do I want you looking forward to what I
will have up my sleeve for you to ensure that you will be just like you
were today, smiling and sparking in anticipation of what was going to be
done to your body. You are welcome to drop by. But to develop your
potential for such pleasurable exchanges, you need someone who is more
competent than I.'

  Amin nodded.

  'One more thing, if you will excuse this continuous dishing out of
advice. No more elaborate pretexts, please. I doubt that your subtle
seduction skills really warrant carrying out negotiation on the back of a
slave.'

  'Yes, I will try to be more careful in the future.'

  We walked back across the courtyard, Amin still with a tell-tale glow
of satisfaction. Suddenly, he broke out of his reverie and cast a hasty
glance at his gold watch.

  `Sir Jonathan, I must go. I have a plane to catch to Cairo. Maybe I
will see you again during the summer?'

  `Yes, indeed. And again, thank you, Amin, for the clothes. Thank your
father when you contact him for his gracious present. I shall keep the
slave well away from serving desserts.'

  The teenage son got gingerly into the car, sat down on the seat even
more carefully and with a wave was gone.

  On the whole, I thought, he was a little too young for my taste and
secondly, there is a distinct difference between the joy of inflicting
pain on another for the other's enjoyment and the power of holding a
thousand slaves' lives in your hands where you can inflict punishment
for your own enjoyment, simply because you can. Arranging a scene as a
favour to an acquaintance like Amin, who could walk out at the end of a
session was not in the same ball-park. Amin had issued his veiled
invitation by asking me to punish him. In fact, I had done no such thing.
I had used a sex technique -- to enhance pleasure.

  Bob Conrad was holding out a folder toward me.

  `Well, are you going to stay down there all day?' I said, nudging the
slave with my shoe. Upon being returned to me after having been washed
and fed, he was clearly taking no chances and was with his forehead on
the ground for a second time in full and proper obeisance even though he
had done so just an hour earlier.

  The slave got up and stood `at rest', like a well trained slave
should.

  `Vidor Németh?' I murmured looking at his folder.

  `Yes, Master,' he said, in almost a whisper.

  I walked around him. The weals on his buttocks and upper thighs were
ugly and had been inflicted harshly.

  `How many times did he beat you?'

  `Thirty strokes, Master.'

  `You have been given to me.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Do you know who I am?'

  `Yes, Master. Sir Jonathan, the Retrainer who gelds his slaves.'

  I looked at him. How these stories get around is anybody's business!
Criminals I have half-gelded, yes, but waiters tripping over themselves,
definitely not.

  `Bob, drop the shorts.'

  `Yes, Boss.'

  `Bend down and take a good look. How many balls do you see, Vidor?'
The slave did so.

  `Two, Master,' the slave said, from his half-bent position.

  `Now feel them and tell me are they flesh or metal.'

  Vidor put out his hand, as if he were putting it in a fire and gently
squeezed Bob's balls.

  `Slave, I am an assistant Supervisor in this Palace. So if you squeeze
my balls like that again, you will loose yours.'

  The slave jumped. I looked at the normally meek and mild Bob, whose
physical talent lies well and truly in the beauty of his butt and I
smiled at him in admiration. A case of pushing the mouse too far and he
will roar!

  `Well?'

  `They are real balls, Master.'

  `At display. Let me take a look at you.'

  The slave was taller than he looked when I was up beside him, with a
well defined chest and pointed nipples. His skin was that sallow brown of
Hungarians and his hair was lustrously dark, though with no body hair
above the waist and a fuzzy dark treasure trail that led down to a very
small set of balls and a penis a couple of inches long. The whole lot sat
in my hand and left room for more. I rolled back a small foreskin and a
small acorn of pink flesh peeked out at the sunlight.

  `Does it get any bigger?

  `No, Master, not very much. I am very small down there,' the slave
said, with a blush.

  I looked at his folder. Lifted while hitchhiking in Germany two years
previously. A trainee forester. At least, he would know about plants. I
supposed that at least he could work on the farm, if nothing more
suitable arose.

  `Bob, get some Aloe cream. Vidor and I are going to the swimming pool.

  As we entered the swimming pool area, Klaas, my slave masseur, who was
giving another slave a massage, gave him a quick slap on the backside and
the slave dove into the pool.

  `Master, I am just ready for you,' Klaas said wiping down the table
in readiness.

  `Not me, Klaas. Vidor here needs some Aloe cream put on him. You will
see where. Where he does not need it, give him a massage and I am going
to take a swim.'

  Rolf Hanzer, my Gym Manager, saw me shedding my clothes and snapping
his fingers twice, had two slaves in readiness as pacers for my swim. I
noticed that they were Danny and Denny, the Slovak twins. And so, it was.
I beat them easily over twenty five lengths, but they were, in fairness,
improving their technique. I could see they were both relieved that we
had made no bet on winning.

  By the time I had finished and had my clothes given back to me, I went
back over to Klaas who was finishing up on Vidor. I noticed that Vidor's
weals had started to go down.

  `Come, walk with me in the gardens. I have to find work for you.'

  `Yes, Master,' he said and followed me quietly.

  I pointed out some dwarf hedging and said `Buxus sempervivens'.

  The slave, half-bent, let his hand run through the leaf. And stood
still. I had to stop.

  I automatically said `What?' and realised the cleverness of the slave
in forcing me ask the question to which he wished to give an answer.

  `I think, Master, that the Buxus is over there,' he said pointing off
to the left. `This is Ligustrum lucidum.'

  I looked more closely. The slave was looking at the ground afraid to
meet my eyes. The slave was correct in his identification.

  `Name the plants you see in the gardens here, starting here' and I
pointed to a nice Olearia albida, a native New Zealand shrub which Stan
Mercer, my Property Manager, told me was known in that country by its
Maori name of tanguru.

  `It's an olearia, Master. I am not sure which species.'

  For an hour, we walked three of the gardens and Vidor Németh got
everything except a Crassula and a Thelocactus bicolour in the
succulents' garden. I was impressed. Cactus is not every botanist's
field, nor indeed are they that of every trainee forester.

  The slave was gaining in confidence, as he said as part of his
commentary, `The gardens are very beautiful, Master. There is so much
water and so much growth.'

  `You like plants better than fruit salad then?'

  There was a flicker of a smile.

  `I am sorry about last night, Master. I could not say sorry before.'

  `No harm done to me. A good laugh. But some harm done to your
backside,' I said glancing at his buttocks.

  `It no longer hurts, Master, after that Aloe ointment was put on it.
Thank you.'

  Our walk had brought us back round to the far end of the courtyard and
past the re-training room. I walked into it and Vidor, the Hungarian
slave, was obliged to follow as he had not yet been dismissed. I could
see his hesitation upon seeing all the instruments of re-training and
restraint.

   `This is where I re-train those who have forgotten their training as
my slaves.'

  `Yes, Master.'

  `Bend over that table.'

  `Yes, Master,' the slave said as he obediently and quickly lay on top
of the indicated bench table. I could feel his eyes on my back as I went
over and picked up a short camel cane.

  I brought the cane back and put it to his lips.

  `Kiss the cane which punishes you in thanks to your Master who keeps
you properly trained as a slave.'

  The slave kissed the cane and closed his eyes tight, scrunching up his
face in anticipation of a flogging.

  I let the cane trace the contours of his back from his neck to the back
of his thighs, raised it and landed a firm stroke on his already marked
backside.

  The slave counted off `one, Master', as a slave should. He had not
opened his eyes.

  I brought the cane up and put it under his lips.

  `Open your eyes.'

  The slave looked at the cane under his face.

  `Kiss the cane which has punished you,' which Vidor did immediately
somewhat confused.

  He had not moved, so I indicated that he stand up, which he did and
stood `at rest'.

  `Never give me reason to bring you here to be retrained further,
Vidor.'

  `No, Master. Are you...Are you not going to punish me more for what I
did?'

  `Do you need to be punished more?'

  `Oh, no, Master,' the slave said and rushed over to kiss my hand.
`Oh, no, Master, I will serve you any way you wish.'

  I left the slave at Dr. Fournier's surgery to be further processed
there and with the other doctors and dropped the folder off at Ben
Trant's office for the slave's data to be input into our systems. I
mused to myself that I had untangled a number of knots.

  Gus Jennings had come from the capital city for lunch and to give his
quarterly report on the Aloe sap and purgative sales. Sales were doing
very well. He surprised me by inviting me to his wedding. I had not even
known that the former Master-Sergeant in the US Army had even been
engaged.

  `Wedding? To whom? When? Where?'

  He slipped a large white envelope across the lunch table. It was the
printed invitation. Alia and Gus, two weeks hence at the Dahran Diamond.

  `Her family have a dry cleaning service. That's where we met.'

  `Dahran?'

  `Yes, she is. You know, Jonathan, in the Army, I chased every bit of
skirt in a hundred mile radius of wherever I was. For three years with
Tariq al-Akhri as his Head of Stables, not a woman. Two slaves though and
I even thought of having an affair with Yuriy Obov, but it never got off
the ground. Now all of a sudden, I want kids. Loads of kids. It must be
some gene kicking in.

  `I had gone to the cleaner's various times before, and we had talked
about this and that. Once I came in with my weekend clothes full of mud,
and oil from the car, and mentioned that I had been out on a day trip,
wadi-bashing.

  She said she had heard this expression before. 'You take trips to the
wadis, driving on the dry riverbeds?'

  So I invited her to come and see.

  The prerequisite seemed to be to go and have dinner at her house. I
spent an entire evening being asked polite questions and displaying
polite manners. At the end, her father asked casually 'So, Alia, when do
Mr. Jennings and you plan to go wadi-bashing?'

  `On the first occasion, one of her sisters and her brother-in-law
accompanied us, sitting in the back of the four-wheel. At the first fresh
water pool we encountered, they declared it was such a pleasant spot that
they wanted to have a picnic right there, and Alia and I should be off
with ourselves and not bother them for the next four hours.

  `We liked the bumpy rides. Some of the valleys have rocks carved into
weird shapes by the torrents. And there are many more water pools further
up. We really enjoyed the tranquillity of it all and the scenery. After
some more of these trips we concluded that we might also like living
under the same roof. Most likely I will convert so as to avoid any
tensions with the family. '

  `What do you and Alia, the beautiful, want for a wedding present?' I
said, making a pun on the meaning of his fiancée's Arab name.

  `I'll ask and find out. I'm sure we'll need something in the
kitchen.'

  `I was thinking, Gus, of something a little more substantive. You're
living in the al-Adur complex are you not?'

  `Yes, I've a good duplex there and I've enough savings to get
something bigger when the need arises.'

  `You mean when all these children start arriving. Al-Adur is fine for
executives. Not for families. Gus, my present to you is this. Take this
quarter's profit from the firm and buy yourself a nice place outside the
city limits. Something that the two of you will like.'

  `Boss, you're talking almost two million.'

  `Yes and you'll have to pay the new 2% income tax on it.'

  `Boss, that's still leaves near on two million.'

  `Gus, it's yours and Alia's. Spend it well. It's my gift to both of
you. I want you around and happy and in my service for a long, long
time.'

  `Thanks, Boss. Dahra is my home and has been for a long while, and by
the looks of it, will be for the duration.'

  Gus looked troubled. He was pursing his lips and his jaw was going from
side to side.

  `Gus, what's on your mind?'

  `I was going to ask you something, Boss, now with this I can't.'

  `What the keys of the kingdom?'

  `No, Boss. Nothing like that. You know I got my first job here with
Tariq al-Akhri, by answering an ad in a mercenary magazine. Well, I've
kept up the sub over the years. It's a sort of ex-military thing in a
way to keep in touch with some former colleagues, who were in the forces,
in my case the Army and those who are now private contractors.'

  I was looking at Gus, not knowing where this was going. `Private
contractors' is the euphemism now used in the military for mercenaries,
the medieval routiers.

  `Apparently a guy from my old unit has disappeared. There is an ad in
the magazine from a former buddy, who put it in for the guy's wife, at
least that is what is being implied. The ex-Army guy said that he was
going to do a job in the Middle East and then he simply dropped off the
planet. I heard a whisper on a grapevine that has always been accurate
before that his mission somehow involved Dahra. But there has been
nothing here. I don't even know if he was involved in the recent
invasion. So I am at a loss.'

  `What is your interest, Gus?

  `Call it a favour to the old unit, nothing else.'

  I was looking at Gus Jennings. He was talking about one of the
mercenaries who had been captured after the abortive invasion of Dahra.
It had to have been one of the captured mercenaries, now slaves, my
slaves working in the opal mine in the Seventh Desert.

  `Gus, this is all very vague. The guy must surely be dead.'

  `I don't know. I think that the wife simply believes the guy is
alive. I don't know if she believes he has gone off with another woman
or what. As I say, I can't ask you now.'

  `Ask me what?'

  `Boss, you have contacts all over this place, contacts that I never
have had. I was going to ask you to put a feeler out.'

  I knew in my heart of hearts that I did not have to put out a feeler.
Military traditions run deep. It is not just the question of not leaving
a body behind. It is not just the buddy system of getting through
training and preparation. There is a bonding with the fellow soldiers,
seamen or marines, which makes a difference to life from that moment
onward.

  `What is his name?'

  `Albert Vine. Al Vine,' and as Gus was saying the name, he took a
photograph from his wallet.

  The face of one of the slaves at the opal mine peered back at me. My
gut feeling was that this was not good and I thought that any involvement
in the matter could only get worse. I had a bad feeling about this and
just hoped that it would prove unfounded.

  When I ran the facts by Tommy Saunders and Geoff Masters, both said,
their opinion was to let the matter lie and die away.

  `Boss, none of us are here to right the wrongs of the world. For the
families of the slaves here at the Palaces, the Foundation does a power
of good, but there have to be limits. You have to set those limits as the
Master.'

  I thought of Tommy's own daughter, who had been put through university
and was now teaching away happily.

  Turning to Geoff, I asked, `Your own family? Would they not have
wondered about your disappearance and suicide?'

  `Unfortunately, Master, I must admit that they might have wondered,
but it would not have been for long. I know my own two children and they
have a stubborn, even dare I say, a callous streak in them from both
their late mother and from me and they would have very quickly got on
with their own lives.'

  I nodded and thought of a number of executives at the Bank who had in
the past mentioned similar lack of progenylike attitudes.

  `My children have always been focused on themselves, their issues,
their needs. I was the available chequebook and I think little more than
that. In the six months after my wife died, I saw both of the children
just once. Just once. Here in Dahra, Master, I see you daily. I can serve
you and see those who are my responsibility and in my care every day if I
wish.'

  I thought Geoff had a point and I also thought that it is good to be
able to bounce your thoughts, for better or for worse, off others.

  However, I determined to look into the matter further and told Jess
Tollman to have the Rolls ready for a long journey. The opal mine, while
an hour's ride by helicopter the time I went there with Farouq al-Hamdi,
would be nearer three hours by car. I told him not to dress in uniform
but in light clothes. It was the one and only time I went to the opal
mine by car. It took too long. In fact, because of traffic, it took the
three hours going down, and the same back. An entire day in all and I
resolved, as I did subsequently, to always use a helicopter for the
journey in future.

  When I got to the opal mine it was mid-morning and hotter than I ever
remembered. I had flown in once before with the previous owner by
helicopter; it had been a quick arrival and a quick descent. By car, even
with the air conditioning working full-blast, the heat could be felt,
even touching the upholstery where the sun was hitting or the glass of
the closed windows themselves.

  Zabian al-Kibbe was there at the entrance to meet me. How he always
looked cool in this desert heat always amazed me. His pleated slacks and
short-sleeved crisp, white shirt made him look as if he had stepped from
the pages of a fashion magazine and his clothes, as if they had just been
taken off a hanger.

  I had told him in advance that I wanted to see the slave, Al Vine and
to have him ready for inspection. As usual, Zabian was the essence of
Lebanese courtesy taking me into the offices, which I remembered
overlooked the entire complex.

  A number of staff who had been sitting there rose and Zabian took his
time to introduce them. They wanted to meet the owner and particularly
the one who had put them on profit-sharing. Several of them thanked me
for it.

  I spent almost an hour with the staff as they impressed me,
unintentionally in one way, but professionally in another, with their
commitment and the smooth running of the systems. One small highlight was
being brought into a walk-in safe on the ground floor which Zabian told
me weighted over fifty tons. Tray after tray of uncut opals of all sizes
attested to its need and importance.

  `Twice a week, Sir Jonathan, it is full. Twice a week, the safe is
emptied and ready to be filled again.'

  It is good to have wealth such as this. It is better not to be attached
to it, but merely to put it all to better use.

  Finally, I was ready for the real purpose of my visit. I looked at
Zabian's hardcopy file of the slave. There was nothing really new there
that I had not seen already. A good worker, no real problem. Some
incident about pushing an assistant Overseer for which he was disciplined
once.

  Albert `Al' Vine was twenty five years old from Rockville, Utah.
Married to his childhood sweetheart on his eighteenth birthday; she being
older than he by some two months. A son within the first year of the
marriage, another within two years. A five year stint in an infantry
unit. Then out of the Army, which I thought strange for a young married
man, who might want to make a future for himself and his family.

  Even naked in his photographs, Al Vine looked Army. He held himself
with that inner pride of confidence, which came through in the stance. He
had the body of a natural athlete, with two low hanging balls and a full
cock, which curved slightly to his right. He had a well developed chest
and good arms. He was a handsome stud--no doubt about that!

  I walked upstairs with Zabian al-Kibbe to the principal suite of rooms
which the previous owner Farouq had used for himself above the main
offices and which was now mine as the new owner. The air was slightly
cooler, as if the heat of the desert had not penetrated up three floors.

  Al Vine was brought in by an Overseer, who had a taser on his belt. The
Overseer clipped a three-foot chain onto a belt around the slave's waist
and onto a discretely placed hook on the wall at floor level. The
slave's hands were cuffed in front of him. Zabian nodded to me and said,
`I'll be downstairs when you are finished, Sir.'

   I looked at the slave and his glance was military--firm and somewhere
in the middle distance over my left shoulder.

  `Look at me directly.'

  When speaking to my slaves, I prefer to look them in the eye. Body
language, even in the dilation of a pupil can tell a lot unbeknownst to
the slave. Dark brown eyes, others would have said `puppy dog eyes',
looked at me.

  `Can you be trusted to have those cuffs taken off?

  The slave swallowed and said, a `Yes, sir.'

  `You know already that I am your Master?'

  `Yes, sir. The boss told me that I was being cleaned up to meet the
Master.'

  `Take the cuffs off, but leave the belt on,' I said, to the Overseer,
`and wait outside.'

  I could see that the Overseer was going to say something else, thought
better of it and promptly did as ordered. He went out closing the door
quietly behind him.

  `At display'.

  The slave stood `at display' with his hands behind his neck. His
belly was flat and taut. I could see a pulse just under his sternum. I
thought to myself that even in the months at the opal mine, he had lost
some weight. His colour was not yet a deep all-over tan as on his
shoulders and chest.

  `Have you any idea why you are here in this room now?' I said as I
sat down in front of him.

  `No, sir.'

  `Not even a guess?'

  He blinked.

  `The invasion? None of us was ever debriefed.'

   `No. But we can come back to that. I want to find out something not
in your file. Albert Vine, known as Al, formerly married to Cathy, former
children Ben and Bob.'

  `Former, sir?' the slave blurted out quite agitatedly. `Why did you
say `former', sir? Has something happened to them?'

  `No, but something happened to you. You are now officially dead.'

  I let that sink in.

  `You joined the regular Army two weeks after your wedding on your
eighteenth birthday?'

  The question was rhetorical and I had not expected a reply, but the
slave answered.

  `Yes, sir, I enlisted the day after our honeymoon ended.' He was
partly smiling at the memory.

  `Where did you go on honeymoon?' I said as I was lining up mentally
my next question.

  `To bed, sir. We went to Springdale, the next town down from Rockville
and booked into a motel and stayed there, mainly in bed for two full
weeks.'

  `Two weeks in bed?'

  `Cathy and I had always been sweet on each other, sir, and we said
that we would hold off sex until we got married. We used to joke about
it. Rockville is on the Virgin River and we used say that we were two
virgins too many in town. And one day, I said to Cathy that I would make
love to her a hundred times on our honeymoon. And that, sir, is the
wedding present she asked for that is the present she got. One hundred
times. Ben was conceived on our honeymoon.'

  I had underestimated the slave. He just did not look to be a handsome
stud. He clearly was a stud, full stop. His words were not a boast, or a
vaunting of sexual prowess. I got the impression they were a statement of
a promise fulfilled.

  But even in his statement, I was missing something.

  `You signed up into the infantry.'

  `No sir, I signed up for the Army and after basic training, the
infantry was a choice and I took it.'

  `Did you like the Army and army life?'

  `Yes, sir. I loved it. Every minute of it.'

  The slave's enthusiasm for his former career was clear, not only in
his body language, his breathing, and the look in his eyes. Yes, that was
the truth.

  `Then why did you leave a career you loved?'

  For the first time the slave realised that he had let his emotions walk
him into a corner.

  `One day you were in; the next day you were out,' I continued.

  `I thought a career as a mercenary would be better paid.'

  The slave was not looking at me. His eyes had again wandered into the
middle distance. He was lying. I got up and walked up to the slave at the
table and stood eye-balling him. I could feel the heat radiating out of
his body, I was that close.

  With one swift movement, I slapped the slave across the face as hard as
I could with the open palm of my right hand. If the slave was going to be
a danger to me, it was now and I was ready to call out for the Overseer.
I was looking into the slave's eyes all the time. There was
astonishment. There was anger. There was a second of rebellion, and then
back to neutral. The imprint of my hand was on his right cheek.

  `Why did you leave a career that you loved?'

  `I, sir... I, sir...'

  The slave was getting upset and disturbed.

  `No more lies. No more evasions. No more half-truths. A straight
forward answer is what you will give me.'

  The slave was breathing heavily.

  `Sir, I have never said why.'

  I waited.

  `Sir...'

  He took a deep breath and said `Sir, a first lieutenant, a man, fell
in love with me.'

  It was as if a dam had burst, because he continued. I noticed that he
said it was the first lieutenant who fell in love, not vice versa.

  `I never considered myself other than an ordinary guy, sir, though I
knew that I did like looking at good looking pumped-up guys, like
athletes, you know, guys who took care of their bodies and trained and
things. I never did anything about it. Jim, however, saw me and fell in
love with me. He was a first lieutenant and I was a private. I just went
along with it. You have to realise, sir, that the Army doesn't ask and
you don't tell. We were very careful, at least I was. Jim organised his
passes to coincide with mine. But one day, the day it all happened, we
were in his room, when there was a knock on the door and his uncle walked
in. We were in Jim's bunk together. His uncle was a Colonel at a base in
Ohio and just visiting and our own commanding officer was at his elbow.'

  `And?'

  The slave's hands were now gesticulating, moving up and down as he
explained the unravelling of his life.

  `I was given the choice of resigning that day with an honourable
discharge, or facing a court martial. I thought that Jim would stand up
for me. He was the active one in our relationship. He just sat on the
side of the bunk with his hands in his head, while the two Colonels
literally spat venom at me. The rest, sir, is history.'

  `At display, I already said.'

  `Sir'. The slave again went to the `at display' position.

  `So with this lieutenant you were always the bottom.'

  The slave's face grew red, but he answered `Yes, sir.'

  `All the way?'

  Again, a hot flush over the face of the slave.

  `Yes, sir.'

  I stood back from the slave and the table beside me. Pushing it to
within distance of the slave and pointing to it, I said `Up on the
table. Head down.'

  He knew what was what and immediately knelt up on the table, his ankles
over the edge and with his head resting on the table, so that the spread
of his buttock cheeks was as wide as possible. I tapped his legs a little
further apart.

  I ran my hand over his rounded ass cheeks. They were smooth and
hair-free. I put my nose to his most private of private parts and
sniffed. It smelled of soap and perspiration.

  With my hands, I spread further the already separated cheeks of his
butt and let my tongue start to rim his most sensitive of orifices. I
languorously let my tongue wander for some minutes to see the response
time.

  He groaned and groaned, and once I heard a whisper, `Oh Jim, oh Jim.'

  At least, one thing was confirmed.

  He had been used, but not extensively and not in a while. I fingered
him with one and then with two fingers. He was quite clean and had been
given at least a couple of enemas and some lubrication. My simple probing
of his tightness pushed him over the edge and cum splattered the table in
five or six ejaculations.

  `Stand. At rest.'

  The slave came down off the table and went to `at rest'. I brought up
the two fingers I had used on him.

  `Open.'

  There was shock registered on his face, but he opened his mouth. This
is always a moment of complete danger and of complete trust. Why would a
master do something like this I have sometimes asked myself; and the
simple answer is that we all love a little bit of danger, as it adds
spice to our lives. A slave's bite, just like a camel's can be both
dangerous and hurtful. But there was no bite from this slave.

  Al licked my fingers. They were not dirty in the first place, but it
was a test to see his control and his reactions.

  I pointed to the lines of cum on the table.

  `Lick that up. Don't ever waste good protein.'

  Without hesitation, the slave started to lick up his own outpouring of
semen from the shiny surface of the table.

  I took out a clean handkerchief and dried his spittle off my fingers. I
looked at the slave. The slave looked at me and then dropped his eyes.
They were no longer looking in the middle distance. Rather as if he had
let loose something, a secret, which had been part of his life too long.
A secret he could no longer put back in its hidden box.

  `What was the surname of this Jim guy in the Army?'

  `Sir?'

  `His name?'

  `Jim Sterling, sir. First lieutenant Jim Sterling. Sir, you're not
going to get him into trouble are you, Sir?'

  `Trouble, no. Nothing like that. I am just trying to put some pieces
of a puzzle together. Somebody has been looking for you since you
disappeared on that failed mission three months ago.'

  `Cathy, sir?'

  `Slaves do not talk unless told to. Do you understand? Have you
learned nothing in your training?'

  `Sir, sorry, sir.'

  The slave had a habit of using and slipping back into army jargon.

  `Well, no, in answer to your question. Someone from your old unit. Who
else would bother looking for you?'

  `No one, sir. Jim was the only real friend I had. The others were
buddies, but I never shared my secret with them. Never.'

  `Did he know Cathy?'

  `No, sir. They never met. He knew, of course, who Cathy was. He knew I
was married and where I lived near the base.' The slave was silent for a
second and then said `Sir?'

  The slave was insufferable, again asking questions.

  `Thank you, sir, for even talking to me and for answering my
questions. I know I should not have spoken. Thank you, sir.'

  I looked at the former soldier and mercenary by twist of fate and
thought how the world can change for a person on the simple opening of a
door.

  A plan was forming in my mind.

  I looked again at the slave and beckoned him forward. His remaining low
hanging ball was the stuff of Renaissance sculptors, his slim hips the
delight of painters. I reached out and cupped his ball and let it rest in
my hand with his penis, which was firming up again, this time under my
touch.

  The slave did not move. He did not flinch. I commented as much to him.

  `Sir, you did not come here to squeeze my ball. Whatever your reason
was, it was not that. And thank you, again.'

  `Al, your little expeditionary force into Dahra really annoyed some
people. It has really embarrassed others. You and your surviving forty
one former colleagues have dropped off the planet as far as the world is
concerned. Do you know you were this close to be being beheaded?' and I
raised my hand and showed my thumb and forefinger a fraction of an inch
away from each other.

  `I think you got a raw deal.'

  `Here in Dahra, sir?'

  `No, Al. Back in the Army. Now, I have to decide what to do with you.
The one thing of which you can be absolutely sure, Al, is that you will
never, ever be able to leave Dahra. You do realise that. By the way, do
you know who I am?'

  `No, Sir, not really. The owner of the mine. The real boss around here
obviously. And sir, not leave this country? Why not, sir.'

  `Because as I have already said, you are dead. And the dead do not
come back to life, at least not in this century. And two questions also
remain; how much I can trust you and what you will do for me?'

  `Sir, real trust is only between people who know each other. I don't
know you, at least not yet, but if you let me get to know you and you me,
you will be able to trust me. And as for what I can do for you? If you
tell me to do something, I will honestly try to do it to the best of my
ability as if I were a freeman and not a slave that needs to be forced to
do it. And at the very worst, sir, you can use my body.'

  The slave was looking now at the ground.

  `At the worst, slave? You have simply no idea of the training that is
available at my Palace to turn you into a most obedient slave and
accomplished lover for your Master. Do you believe me when I say that?
And when you speak to me, you will address not as `sir' -- you're no
longer in the Army, but as `Master', because that is what I am as your
owner.'

  The slave looked straight at me and said, `Yes, Master.'

  `So will you serve me to the best of your ability?

  `Yes, Master.'

  `By day, and by night when I choose?'

  `Yes, Master, day and night,' he said and his eyes blinked.

  What I now knew or suspected as true almost certainty would take a
while to bring into operation, as I continued to try and unravel the
tangled web of incomplete facts. But then at times, time is the only
thing we have in abundance.

  I felt that my interview was satisfactory. I am not and never have been
good at interviews, though I do know something about talking with slaves.
I have seen John Tunnor back in Personnel in London, reduce prospective,
arrogant, self-assured candidates to blabbering self-contradicting idiots
by the end of thirty minutes.

  Zabian was waiting for me in his office.

  `I shall be taking the slave with me, Zabian. Have his GPS
co-ordinates reset for the trip and I'll have them changed when I get
back to the Lime Palace. I hope it won't disrupt your schedules. Can you
get him a shirt and shorts? I don't want to have his sweat on the
upholstery of the car?'

  Zabian gave the instruction to one of his minions and I held on to the
slave's mine folder for Ben Trant. As a slave came out with a tray of
iced-tea and we sat overlooking the mine -- there is quite an impressive
view from the upper floor of the administration building -- I saw what I
thought was a fuel lorry approaching the complex.

  As I looked at it, Zabian said, `our daily water. Although we recycle
our water, with the evaporation here we still have to get 7,000 gallons
from the desalination plant on the coast.'

  Zabian did not know of my inexhaustible and free supply at the Aloe
Palace.

  `Is that the mine's lorry?'

  It was.

  `Yes, we have two of them actually, Sir Jonathan'

  `Have them come to the Aloe Palace each morning and fill up free. We
have a reservoir there that fills up at night from our own two wells. The
drivers will have a three hour drive up and back each day, but it surely
will be cheaper than buying it.'

  `Jonathan,' he said with a laugh, `you have just saved us
half-a-million euro a year.'

  I thought that at least one cost-saving measure had resulted out of my
visit to the opal mine.

  As I came to leave, Al Vine was standing with his wrists cuffed and his
legs chained at the entrance to the administration building in vest and
shorts. The Rolls coasted up silently. Jess Tollman jumped out to open
the door for me.

  I pointed to the front passenger seat and said to the slave, `get in
there and be quiet'.

  The slave never said a word on the way back to the Palace. I, however,
spent part of the time on the journey back, mulling over the options that
now faced me and thought that it had not been a wasted day. I ignored a
suggestion for some music from Jess Tollman. I sat in silent thought and
meditation and had plenty of time for it during almost three hours on the
return journey. Just as at times we have things to shout about, at other
times, when we have things to think about, it is best to be silent and to
be enveloped in silence. The easy swish of desert air flowing over the
Rolls was the nearest I could get to that envelope of silence.

End of Chapter 11

To be continued...

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